loblolly pine, bluejack oak, tupelo and sundew. I breathed in and got a distinct blast of nature in the raw-swelling, burgeoning and slightly rotten. Again, just the place for Rothmann and his Nazi Satanists.
I sprayed on some insect repellent and buttoned my cuffs. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the humidity was heavy-duty. Fortunately, the Mercedes had a great aircon system. As I drove through the town, I wondered what the locals did when they weren’t working. There was no shortage of churches and I remembered I was in the heartland of the Southern Baptists. Some of them believed in the reality of Satan as much as the Antichurch did, but they expected the faithful to be taken up in the so-called Rapture, while the rest of us stayed on ground level to wait for Armageddon. It struck me that the Antichurch would have found more followers down south than in sparsely populated Maine. Could that be why the annual gathering was happening here?
Then again, where was ‘here’? I found access road 1943 and set off down it slowly, looking from side to side. None of the buildings looked likely candidates. Soon I came to signs on the right for the Turkey Creek Trail. According to the pamphlet, walkers would traverse a pine-hardwood forest cut with sandy knolls, then forests of loblolly and short-leaf pines, white and red oak, and others. Paradise for a nature lover, but the numerous unnumbered gravel tracks made it hell to check out thoroughly. The calls of strange birds filled the woods and I began to wonder if my boots were thick enough to repel snake bites. I was as lost for clues as Hansel and Gretel. Then it struck me that Antichurch members like Nora Jacobsen would be coming from far away and would need help to identify the hidden premises. I continued on 1943, swiveling my head until my neck began to ache. Unshaven guys with disintegrating baseball caps and dented pickups honked at me and I waved at them like a dumb tourist. Maybe I should just have asked where the devil worshippers hung out.
And then, without immediately understanding what it meant, I saw the mark on the left side of the road. It was about six feet up the thick trunk of a tree I couldn’t identify. The bark had been scraped away and in the foot- square space a red cross had been painted, the upper part of the vertical much longer than the lower. The Antichurch’s upturned cross. Eureka.
I got down from the SUV and took out my cell phone to send a text to Quincy.
No signal. That was hardly surprising, given the tree cover. He would be able to track me with the responder, as long as it functioned in this environment. Too bad-I wasn’t going to wait. My heart rate had accelerated. I was going to find the bastard Rothmann and tear his head off. I got back into the car and drove down a narrow track. As soon as I saw a gap in the trees, I turned in and got the Mercedes as far out of the way as I could. When I opened the door, I noticed a fleshy plant where I was going to put my feet. A putrid smell rose from it, attracting flies and other insects.
It seemed I was close to the rotting heart of darkness.
Putting the pistol and knife in my pockets, I struck off through the woods, keeping the track to my right. I took cover behind a tree when I heard a vehicle approach and watched as a pair of worryingly severe guys in a pristine pickup negotiated the track. The vehicle soon vanished behind the foliage. I headed after it.
The first rustle in the bushes ahead didn’t bother me. The following ones did-they got louder and shook the leaves. I stopped and pulled out the Glock. A bundle of bristles with two wickedly curved tusks on the front pelted toward me, swerving at the last moment. I found myself on my backside, breathing heavily. That must have been one of the feral hogs mentioned in the pamphlet. I laughed out loud, having not come across heavily armed suckling pig before.
I should have kept quiet. That way I might have heard what came up behind me. As it was, I turned too late and caught only a glimpse of a demon’s face with fangs much bigger than the hog’s.
Then I lost the light.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our most generous sponsor, Mr. Rudi Crane!’
The toastmaster gave the small man to his right on the raised table a wide and disingenuous smile. Crane did not return it. One of the many blessings that the Lord had conferred upon him was the ability to detect insincerity instantly. That had been a useful tool in his rise to the upper echelons of American business, as well as in his church. He knew exactly which senior Southern Baptists were worthy. Unfortunately, there were very few.
Rudi Crane looked out over the elite of Chicago and tried not to blink. He had started wearing contact lenses a few months earlier, and his eyes still rebelled on occasion. He knew how important it was to maintain a steady gaze, so he had disciplined himself not to react to the prompting of his nerves. As usual, his mind prevailed over his body, for which he gave silent thanks. He started out on the address he had memorized-he didn’t like to refer to notes when speaking in public, nor did he allow himself to extemporize. As often happened, the words came out without conscious effort, allowing him to spend the time on more profitable conjectures. Over the years, he had come up with many important ideas while speaking, most frequently when he preached at the church he had built near the family mansion outside Birmingham. He wished he was there now, taking in the winter sun of Alabama, far away from the high society of Chicago, hypocrites all. He only contributed to their ridiculous charitable foundation because it raised his profile in the North and was essential for his business.
Rudi Crane’s thoughts ran parallel to his speech for several seconds. He was explaining how Hercules Solutions had an integrated approach to every contract, and how much the company valued the work it carried out for the U.S.A. Integration was the key. The word had been misused for so many years, he reflected. Racial integration wasn’t important in the modern world. What really mattered was full control of everything. Religion based on the words of great men directed the minds and souls of the people; relationships between great men led to mutually beneficial business activities; great men organized the world according to their desires and rights. He had never had the slightest doubt that he was a great man.
‘My friends,’ he said, moving into the section of his speech that people came to hear, ‘I have been fortunate enough in my time to know many leaders, in many different fields. I have paid homage at the feet of religious leaders, I have had dealings with the kings of industry, I have known the most powerful of statesmen. When I saw the secretary of defense last weekend, he said to me, “Rudi, how do you do it? Hercules Solutions offers the best service with the best personnel for the best price. It’s a miracle.” I took it upon myself to correct the secretary, as only the Lord our God can bring about miracles. But it is true that Hercules Solutions takes its work very seriously, not least because we are responsible for American lives in the most dangerous parts of the world.’
As he let his voice convey the joyous message of faith-based profit and success tempered by financial and moral accountability, Rudi Crane allowed himself to revel in what he had achieved. In ten years, Hercules Solutions had become the largest private military contractor in the world, providing experienced personnel to support U.S. forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and numerous other countries. The company trained armies and police forces on every continent, as well as undertaking private security work for the world’s wealthiest people. True, there had recently been legal problems in Iraq and the company had been forced to restrict its operations to nongovernment work. But in the U.S. it still trained hundreds of law enforcement officers every year. The world was one country now-wasn’t that the point of globalization? It didn’t matter where the profits were made.
He took a sip of water and raised his glass to his listeners, the majority of whom were drinking vintage champagne. He liked to end speeches with the emotional surge he employed in the pulpit. He exhorted them to be true to the Lord in all their thoughts and deeds. That way, their efforts would prosper and their lives would be full of joy. It always amazed him how people took his words, their expressions rapt, their eyes closed. No one was ever concerned that Hercules Solutions employed professional killers by the thousand. The Company was protected by the Lord.
Quincy Jerome had parked in a narrow space between two buildings on the eastern edge of Warren. He was watching the junction with 1943. According to the tracking device, Matt had turned off that road roughly five miles ahead and was now moving northward. The plan was that Quincy would get a text when he was to move up. He checked his cell and saw that the signal was at medium strength. If nothing had come in two hours from the time Matt turned off the road, he would go ahead regardless. A lot could happen in two hours.
A rattling Volkswagen Beetle came up to the crossroads, driven by an elderly man with a white beard. Quincy took a photograph of it, as he had with all vehicles that passed. He might as well use the time profitably. He looked at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Another hour to wait. He looked around, breathing in the air. What he’d grown up with in Mobile was different-the taste of pomegranates and pecans had never left him-but, still, this place smelled of the South, made him think he was home. He swallowed a laugh. What kind of home could a black Jew have expected to make in Dixie? He’d have been better off relocating to New York, but he’d had nothing to relocate with. When his mother died, he had sold the house and contents and taken a single bag of family mementoes back to camp.
Quincy was keeping watch on the junction, so he didn’t notice the slim figure in blue denim slip up the lane behind him and take cover behind the SUV. But he did see the woman with bright yellow dreads who drove a blue
