I backed away, jumped in the car. No lights went on in the neighboring houses— they'd probably heard all this before.
136
WE GAVE IT fifteen minutes. The dog was lying in the front yard. He didn't stir as we approached. Virgil worked the bolt cutters and the padlocked chain gave way. We were inside. I watched the dog with my pistol. He didn't watch back.
The Nazi had a lock on his back door even I could open. Door chain lasted one snip of the bolt cutters.
We reached inside our navy watch caps, pulled down the pantyhose masks, adjusted our eyes to the gloom. No carpet on the floor, but our rubber-soled shoes didn't send a warning.
Downstairs: a kitchen, dirty dishes in the sink; a living room with a console TV, staircase.
No basement.
Up the stairs, linoleum runner down the middle. Bathroom at the top, door standing open. Another room with file cabinets, desk, telephone with an answering machine next to it.
He was sleeping on his side in the other room, snoring softly. We stepped inside, Virgil across from his face, covering him with my pistol. I took the heavy gym sock filled with hard-packed sand from my jacket pocket, wrapped my fist around the knotted end, swung it back and forth for balance, nodded to Virgil.
Virgil prodded Matson in the chest with the pistol. The Nazi stirred, said 'Wha…' and propped himself on one elbow just as I slammed the sock into the top of his head. I spun back for another shot, but he was down.
I handed Virgil the sock, pulled out my flashlight, and went into his office.
It didn't take long. There wasn't much. Stacks of magazines. Guns and girls. Loose piles of hate sheets on cheap newsprint: swastikas, drawings of blacks, Negroid features exaggerated to make them apelike, Christian crosses and devil-lyrics to racist songs. Three rifles on wood pegs stood ready on the wall.
The file cabinets were mostly empty. Except for some personnel folders he must have brought home from his job. One for each freak. Writing on the front in thick black Magic Marker. One folder had two stars. I popped a green plastic garbage bag from my jacket, snapped it open, threw in the files.
One look around before I left. Nothing else worth taking. I found his Magic Marker. Picked a clean piece of wall. Wrote: We Know Where You Live.
I threw the bag over my shoulder, checked on Virgil. He was still holding the gun on Matson's body.
We went past the dog, closed the gate gently. Stepped into the Chevy and Lloyd motored away.
Virgil looked back over his shoulder. 'I hope that dog's gonna be all right,' he said.
137
IT WAS ON the news in the morning. He hit again. Just on the other side of the dunes. Three couples were parked, a little past midnight. Shots zipped out of the night, puncturing the last car in the row. The girl was dead, the boy wounded, on the critical list.
Nothing about Matson.
138
I CALLED SHERWOOD from the Lincoln. Met him in the Illiana Raceway parking lot. The place was quiet— they only run on Saturdays. If he was wasted from working all night, he didn't show it.
'We're going to shut him down, put him in a box,' the big detective said.
'You want to talk to Lloyd? About the shootings last night?' I asked the big man, watching his face.
'No. He's got an alibi for last night, doesn't he?'
I met his eyes. 'Probably does. How you gonna shut this freak down?'
'We close the parks. Should of done it before, after the first ones. Have squad cars cruise the lovers' lanes, all the parking spots. Chase the kids away. No parking after dark, period. Stupid fucking kids, you think we wouldn't need to be telling them.'
'Hormones.'
'Yeah. I ain't
'Yeah.'
'You think about sex while you were getting shot at?'
'Okay, I get it.'
'We got nothing else to do. We must of rousted every ex-con with a sex sheet in the county. Blank. I'm beginning to think, maybe your idea wasn't so fucked up.'
I raised my eyebrows.
'Some gun-freak degenerate motherfucker. One of those Nazi-boys. You know, I'd
'Me too.'
He lit a cigarette. 'Notice you haven't been smoking, last couple of times.'
'You don't miss much.'
'I'm missing something here. Someone.'
'I got an idea. Maybe not much of one. Something. You can really shut the parking places down?'
'Oh yeah. Cold fucking turkey.'
'I got to take a look at something. I'll call you soon.'
139
I WANTED to look at Matson's files, but I'd bolted out of Blossom's house as soon as I'd heard the news. One stop to make first.
The phone picked up in the junkyard.
'Mole,' I said, 'I need a shark cage.'
140
MATSON was one selective Nazi. His files showed nine 'actives,' seventeen 'affiliates,' three 'candidates,' and thirty-four 'rejects.'
I looked closer. The 'actives' were listed by 'MOS.' Rifleman, Communications, Infiltration. Every military occupation except Intelligence. Between the arcane symbols and the lavish praise for the 'warriors,' a collection of life's losers lurked, waiting for their flabby Armageddon.
The 'affiliates' were members of other groups who occasionally came to meetings or corresponded. About half lived in southern Illinois or Indiana, the others were scattered throughout the country.
'Candidates' turned out to be humans who Matson thought had potential. One human's credential was a news clipping saying he had been arrested for spray-painting filth on a synagogue.
And the 'rejects' were a clump of former 'candidates' whose hostility wasn't exclusively confined to blacks. One was rejected after he fractured the jaw of one of Matson's boys in a bar. In his black Magic Marker, Matson neatly printed Unsuitable for Service across the file. Most of his other reject-reasons weren't so sweetly phrased: Jew! Suspected Homosexual. Suspected Government Agent.
I went through them again. Carefully.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Blossom came into the kitchen, face glowing from her shower. Dark purplish band across her throat. My fingerprints drew my eyes.
'It's okay, baby. I'll be pretty as a prom queen in a few days.' Her voice was a sugar-edged rasp.
'Yeah.'
'
