The skinheads escorted Marty and the others into what must have been an administrator’s office—probably the school Principal—with the Führer sitting on the only chair in the office behind his desk.
No one took off their cuffs, and the skinheads forced them to stand on the left wall, opposite the Führer’s desk in the right back corner. It was a small room, crowded for seven people. Both McNulty and Brien stopped in front of the desk at attention and gave a “Sieg Heil!” and the Führer stood up and gave the same salute back.
“At ease,” the Führer said. “So, what have you brought me, Captain?” He spoke eloquently. It wouldn’t surprise Marty to hear he’d had a college education.
“Four slaves, mein Führer.”
“And how did you acquire these men, woman, and . . . child?” His tone of voice made it clear he was not happy with having a child. “And I want all the details. Take as much time as you need.”
McNulty spent a good five minutes explaining all that went down with the ambush through bringing their captives here. The Führer waited in silence throughout the story. After McNulty finished, he nodded his head. “I see, I see . . . Corporal Brien, is this account accurate?”
“Yes, mein Führer.”
“Good.” Remaining behind his desk, the Führer took a handgun out of a holster on his belt, clicked off the safety, and pointed it right at Marty’s head.
This is it. This is where I die. At least I don’t have to live in this world any longer.
The Führer swept his gun over to McNulty and fired, the noise deafening Marty’s ears. Emily let out a muffled scream. McNulty cried out and collapsed down on his right knee, clutching his left kneecap. He looked up at the Führer with the wide eyes of surprise, alarm, and terror.
“That is for not bringing the van back,” the Führer said calmly.
Marty suppressed his fight-or-flight response. The administrator’s room seemed to shrink to half its size.
McNulty grimaced and gasped in obvious pain. “Mein Führer . . . as I said . . . there was no one to drive it. And it may . . . be . . . damaged.”
Another shot rang out, this time hitting McNulty in the gut—a difficult feat as McNulty was bent over in pain. Now he collapsed to the floor and then looked up to the Führer with tears in his eyes and down his cheeks. Marty couldn’t tell if they were tears caused by anguish, sadness, or pain. Maybe all three. Emily was whimpering, her face still buried in Janice’s chest. Janice was letting out a gentle “shh” while holding her tight.
“That is for wasting so much ammunition.” He sighed. “And this is for not making sure they were dead.”
The Führer shot McNulty in the skull. This time he collapsed for good.
Marty dared not move, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brien go two shades whiter.
“Brien, you are now captain of the patrol unit. While an ambush was clever, these people would have arrived in town anyway, their van intact. We could have acquired all of them, plus their van, had you simply let them go. Do you understand me, Captain?”
“Yes . . . yes.” Brien stammered, shaking. “Yes, mein Führer.”
The Führer scrunched his face. “That’s disgusting.” Then his face softened and said, “But understandable.”
Marty couldn’t help another peek back at Brien. A dark stain grew at his crotch and ran down his leg.
“McNulty is lucky I didn’t shoot him once more for that mistake, and he’s certainly lucky that I put him out of any misery. Don’t you agree, Captain?”
“Yes, Mein Führer.” Brien’s voice was shaky.
“Good. See that you do a better job than Captain McNulty.”
“I will, Mein Führer.”
“Good.” The Führer turned to address the captives. “Now that that’s settled. Who may I address as your leader?”
Alexander looked over at Marty, who nodded. “That would be me, Marty Scoggins, mein Führer” he said, his voice as shaky as Brien’s. Marty thought it was good not to be too calm in the presence of the Führer. He didn’t want to give the impression he had training in remaining calm in these situations. By calling himself “Scoggins,” Marty was reducing the chance of being recognized as the Beaver County Sheriff. He prayed Emily either didn’t pick up the lie, or was too afraid to contradict him. Emily said nothing, continuing her muffled whimpering.
Alexander was shaking, probably from adrenaline, though perhaps out of sheer fear.
If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. He wants something from us, and we’d better give it to him.
“I am in charge north of the river.”
Marty glanced at a map of Bullhead City on the desk. North of the river “Aryan Syndicate” was written. Below the river on the west side was written a racial epithet referring to Hispanics, and on the east side was written a racial epithet referring to African-Americans. Marty wondered which area held the Hispanic blacks.
“I am the Führer, and you will address me as Führer or mein Führer, but it seems you have been instructed as such already. When you talk with others, you will refer to me as ‘the Führer.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes, mein Führer,” Marty answered.
“Good. And how may you be of use to me?” the Führer asked.
“My friend Alexander Williams, here, mein Führer, is a pharmacist, and I am his assistant.”
Alexander let out a tiny gasp. Marty hoped Alexander could bluff his way as a pharmacist, as Alexander had boasted earlier of his pre-med education and internship.
“My other friend, mein Führer, Janice Fernley, holding the child, is a nurse. We could all be very useful to you.”
“You need only address me as Führer once at the start of the conversation, though I am happy to be called this at any later time . . . As to your skills, that’s very fortunate for me. Tell me, Slave Williams, what would you prescribe for chronic back pain?”
Alexander took
