Nothing
of it appears above the surface; but there's
an immense underworld peopled with a thousand
forms of revolutionary passion and devotion.
The manner in which it's organized is what
astonished me...and on top of it all society
lives. People go and come, and buy and sell,
and drink and dance, and make money and make
love, and seem to know nothing and suspect
nothing and think nothing; and iniquities
flourish, and the misery of half the world
is prated about as a "necessary evil,"
and generations rot away and starve in the
midst of it, and day follows day, and everything
is for the best in the best of possible worlds.
All that's one half of it; the other half
is that everything's doomed! In silence, in
darkness, but under the feet of each one of
us, the revolution lives and works.
-- Henry James, The Princess Casamassima
Chapter
One
Murder
most natural
The
bomb blast blew the fingers off his left hand
in a random pattern, leaving the middle finger
stiffened and erect, the shredded stump of a thumb
hanging limp and useless over the lacerated meat
of the palm. The force of the explosion shattered
his office window into a rainbow spray of glass
and pushed his chair over the anti-static mat
and across the office, flipping it backwards and
sending him skidding across the carpeting into
the lowest level of the walnut-colored built-in
bookcases. Books dropped from above him like paper
swans, plaster dust settling over his hair and
shoulders. A copy of the Bible landed next to
him, spine first, and flipped open to Romans 12:2.
He moaned weakly, nearly unconscious from the
shock and the pain, a chill shuddering through
his left shoulder and upper chest, the ice-cold
touch of a forbidden lover moving across his body.
The vague awareness of becoming just another statistic
illustrating the law of thousandfold failure and
ruin was his last thought before he slid into
overwhelming blackness.
Special
Agent Heat and his partner Special Agent O'Neal
pulled into the parking lot of the Pueblo Bank
on Rio Grande. Heat's stomach still burned from
the El Modelo green chile burrito he'd had for
lunch. He belched and O'Neal, who had only been
his partner for five days, gave him a look containing
what he hoped was mock disgust. It wasn't. Heat
groaned in a last chance bid for sympathy, didn't
receive any, then shrugged, reached into the glove
box and pulled out a roll of antacid tablets and
an envelope.
"I'll be back in a minute."
O'Neal stared him down for another two seconds,
then her eyes went blank. "Why don't you
just get direct deposit? It is the twenty-first
century, you know."
Heat looked back at her, her raven hair pulled
tight into a small ponytail, her compact, muscular
body filling out the two-piece gray suit she wore,
her black eyes still striking to him in their
density and coldness, like obsidian shards. Even
though she was a rookie, twenty-five years old,
fresh out of Quantico, he knew she'd have no problem
dropping a suspect if she ever had to. And as
he knew only too well, that time would come sooner
rather than later.
He tossed two of the tablets into his mouth, chewed,
the lemon creme flavor coating his mouth and teeth
like old classroom chalk, stifled another belch,
and felt his stomach burn again in protest. "I
don't trust computers."
"A Luddite," she smiled. "How refreshing."
Heat opened the passenger door and stepped out
into the cool January twilight. He shut the door
of the nondescript brown, government-issued sedan,
catching his reflection in the passenger window.
He had recently turned forty, short brown hair
silvered at the temples, face lean and handsome
but cut with stress lines and wrinkles, nose banked
slightly to the right from a boxing match during
his college days, eyes deep- set and penetrating,
interrogator's eyes, eyes that could burn the
truth out of a suspect. He ran his left hand through
his hair, the gold band on his third finger flashing
briefly in the reflection. Forty. He took a deep
breath, then checked his watch; the bank would
be closing in ten minutes, so he moved quickly
across the parking lot. As the sun set through
pregnant gray clouds he slowed and watched the
Sandias turn from a brief flash of gold to shadow
blue, then to watermelon red, blending with the
beacon lights glimmering from the tops of the
radio antennas on the peak, the guidelines of
the tramway barely visible in the coming darkness,
the shadows of barren trees spreading across the
diagonal parking spaces like skeleton fingers.
Snow would be coming soon.
He entered the bank through the glass door, his
palm sticking to the cold door handle, then moved
into line behind two other customers. There was
a single teller on duty; everyone else was busy
working at closing the bank down. Heat mentally
catalogued each person's features, a habit he'd
given up trying to switch off, even when running
mundane errands. The teller had long dark hair,
dark eyes, but pale skin, New Mexican Spanish
blood, her ancestor a conquistador who'd ransacked
the pueblos or perhaps some missionary priest
who'd brought Christianity and disease to the
region. A silver name tag pinned to her gray chemise
blouse identified her as "Laura." The
manager, a fat man in a tight-fitting, blue pin-striped
suit, a ketchup stain in the the middle of his
yellow power tie, stood next to the large silver
vault door, checking his watch, then patting at
his neck with a handkerchief. The woman at the
head of the line was dressed in pink sweats, her
brown hair held up with a tortise-shell clip;
she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet,
no doubt trying to keep her heart rate up as she
paused from her evening jog to make a quick transaction;
the man in front of him was at least five inches
shorter than Heat's six feet, dressed in jeans
and a torn army peacoat that had seen better days,
his ragged hair slicked back with grease, his
face unshaven, his hands thrust deep into the
coat pockets. Heat felt his body tingle with suspicion,
then his stomach started to rumble. He covered
his mouth with the envelope.
The woman in sweats finished her transaction and
lightly jogged toward the exit. The man in front
of Heat moved up to the teller window and pulled
his right hand out, the fingers holding a sawed-off
.410 with three shells rubber-banded around the
short barrel.
"This is a robbery!" he shouted. The
jogging woman froze as the man turned back toward
the bank lobby and waved the shotgun in her direction.
Then he pointed it at Heat's stomach. Heat felt
his stomach gurgle again, then showed him the
deposit envelope. The man thought for a moment,
his right index finger caressing the shotgun trigger,
once, twice, three times, then he grunted and
turned back to the teller, who stood frozen, her
eyes wide, her face the color of ash.
"Don't even think about it, fat man!"
The manager, who had moved behind the teller's
left shoulder, stopped and nodded his head up
and down, then clamped his teeth tightly down
on the handkerchief.
"Now, like I said, this is a robbery--"
"No it isn't," Heat whispered, sliding
the nose of his Smith and Wesson 9mm into the
right side of the man's jawbone, just under the
ear lobe. "FBI. This is an arrest for robbery.
Drop the weapon, scumbag, or I scatter your brains.
Do it. Now."
The man hesitated. Heat pulled back the slide
on the 9mm with a loud click; the man still hesitated;
Heat felt his stomach cramp and he belched loudly
in the man's ear. The man quickly brought his
right arm down from the counter, dropped the .410
between his feet and covered his face with both
hands.
"Jesus, what did you have for lunch, man?"
he said between his fingers. "You oughta
see a doctor about that. Could be something serious."
Heat kicked the shotgun away, the breach popping
open. Empty, of course. Criminals figured it wasn't
armed robbery if the weapon wasn't loaded, a good
point for their defense attorneys to plea bargain
with. Heat reset the hammer and withdrew his own
piece, reached behind him, holstered it and pulled
out a set of handcuffs. He cuffed the man, kicked
his feet out from under him, said "sit there,"
then reached into his pocket and pulled out the
roll of antacid tablets.
"I--I hit the alarm," the teller said,
her face still showing residual fear. "The
police should be here any minute."
Heat popped two more tablets in his mouth, then
pulled his badge holder off his belt while he
chewed, the gold FBI badge flashing in the fluorescent
light. He showed it to her. "Good. While
I'm here I might as well take care of this."
He reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled
out the deposit envelope. The teller took it from
him, tried to smile, opened the envelope, looked
at the check, then handed it back.
"I'm grateful for your saving us and all,
but we can't take this check."
Heat stepped back from the counter. "What?"
"Nothing personal. It's the government shut-down.
As of four p.m. we're not allowed to accept any
government checks until the current budget battle
is resolved." She managed a weak smile. "I'm
sorry."
The would-be robber at Heat's feet giggled. "Hey,
bro, I'll cut you in for a third if you let me
go," he said. "Looks like you could
use the cash."
Heat drew back his right leg to kick him in the
ribs, but then figured why give a savvy defense
attorney another point he or she could use to
turn the criminal into the victim in this situation.
Defense attorney these days offered a multitude
of excuses for violently antisocial behavior,
excuses ranging from child abuse to unhealthy
dietary habits. No doubt the robbery was the bank's
fault--for offering monetary temptation to someone
with obsessive-compulsive-spending disorder. Heat
had been with the bureau fifteen years and still
couldn't understand public sympathy for predators.
He squatted down until he was face-to-face with
the handcuffed crook, then stifled another belch
behind the back of his right hand.
"Be nice...or else." Heat said.
The man wrinkled his nose in olfactory remembrance.
"I'm cool," he replied.
"Here's the police," the teller said
and Heat turned around to find two uniformed officers,
guns drawn, moving rapidly into the bank lobby.
The frozen jogger looked from Heat to the police
then back. Heat stood up and moved forward, badge
in hand. "FBI. Right place, right time."
Both officers stared at the gold badge, glittering
with reflected fluorescent light, then holstered
their weapons. "It's the fucking FBI,"
one of the officers said as they moved forward
to pick up the suspect. "Fart, Belch and
Investigate."
"You're telling me," the crook said
as they lifted him off the floor and headed toward
the front door.
Heat turned to follow them, his fists clenched
tight, but O'Neal came running in, cradling the
pump-action shotgun from the Bucar trunk. She
watched as the officers and the suspect walked
past her; the suspect winked at her and one of
the cops whistled, adding "nice legs, babe."
O'Neal's face turned hard as granite, then she
pumped a shell into the shotgun. The cop laughed,
then the suspect laughed, then the cop pushed
the suspect out the door. O'Neal shook her head
and walked over to Heat. "Pricks," she
said, her mouth tight. She looked at the envelope
in Heat's hand. "I told you to get direct
deposit. If you're done playing around, we've
got work to do."
"In a minute," Heat replied. He turned
to the bank manager. "Mind if I use your
bathroom?"
O'Neal rolled her eyes. "I can't believe
this is happening. Make it quick, will you? We
have to roll. The boss just called. Lightborn's
struck again. This time he´s blown up some
Literature professor at UNM."
As they drove down Rio Grande toward Central Avenue
and Albuquerque General Hospital, Heat closed
his eyes. After New York, after Waco, after Oklahoma
City, after the World Trade Center attack, the
war on terrorism had become the national priority
program target, from the White House to the military
and down through the layered ranks of the intelligence
community. From the bombings to the record number
of attempts on the President's life to the insane
agendas of any number of international and domestic
paramilitary groups convinced the United States
government was out to get them, terrorism was
the FBI's biggest headache. While most of the
government's efforts were focused overseas, a
small number of law enforcement agents tracked
threats from inside the country. Was there a domestic
conspiracy as well to overthrow the United States
government through a series of outrages and terrorist
activities? Were these seemingly random occurrences
actually linked together into a giant web of evil?
And if so, who sat at the center of that web?
Was it Lightborn? Was he the mastermind hidden
behind the veil of chaos? This was the question
foremost in Heat's mind.
Heat opened his eyes as O'Neal turned left on
Central. The last case he'd worked from the San
Francisco field office before being transferred
to Albuquerque to continue his ten-year-long search
for Lightborn had involved a group calling itself
"The Fathers of Kaos." They'd managed
to purchase several leftover Stinger missiles
from a splinter group of Chechnian rebels and
blown two Gulfstream Vs and a new Gulfstream VII
out of the flightpath of San Francisco International
Airport, sending a wave of panic through the ranks
of the wealthy--those who before felt no fear
by being able to avoid flying on the nation's
vulnerable commercial carriers. Heat had found
little evidence other than the empty shells of
the launchers and a few smudged prints. The Fathers
disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving
behind no statement of political grievances, or
an identifiable political agenda or any further
clues connecting them to the cells of international
terrorism.
In addition to the anthrax mailings, pipe bombs
and the exploding teddy bears on Valentine's Day,
another group calling itself "The Nauvoo
Legion" had tried to detonate a Savior Machine,
a computerized explosive device meant to eradicate
the evil beliefs out of unbelievers' minds. Unbelievers
in what, Heat was never quite sure. The only victim
of the Savior Machine was its inventor, who also
ran a crystal meth lab in the basement of his
house in Blackhole, Idaho; he'd blown himself
and the Savior Machine into the pale blue winter
sky, destroying any evidence and saving Heat the
trouble of being transferred to the bleak outpost
of the Idaho Falls resident agency.
Heat had recently been a guest on CNN trying to
explain to the American public why groups like
the Fathers and the Legion existed in America's
heartland, with their singular dedication to murder
and mayhem as the principal agent of historical
change. The only concrete explanation he had was
Lightborn's manifesto. In its thirty thousand
words, Lightborn claimed that the "Truth
of America" had fled from the godless cities,
from the godless centers of learning, from the
disrespect of godless liberals and godless intellectuals
and especially godless feminists, and hidden itself
back in Nature, among the mountains, the trees,
the rivers, the streams, the animals, the dark
forests of primeval time that had so far been
spared the developers' sword and the destructive
policy of cheap government grazing rights. True
Americans, believers in the Constitution and the
Christian God, were being urged to rise up against
the tyranny of corrupt politicians and their equally
corrupt social policies and reestablish Jerusalem
in the heartland. Heat had quoted liberally from
the document in his half-hour appearance, and
the hosts had shaken their heads in agreement,
but Heat doubted that the manifesto explained
anything, especially how killing innocent citizens
would bring down the triple-pillared foundation
of the federal government.
Like the suicidal cowards of international terrorism,
it sickened him to see these devils believing
they spoke the truth.
Heat ran his hands over his stomach, the burning
and bubbling disappearing just as O'Neal pulled
into the Emergency entrance of Albuquerque General.
FBI psychologists and a special unit of profilers
at Quantico, lead by the world-famous forensic
scientist Dr. William E. Grim, had concluded that
what these domestic terrorists craved was a sense
of purpose, structure, pattern, a sense of belonging
to something larger, a unified vision of the world
in a world composed of chaos and disorder. So
they used chaos, disorder and terror as weapons
in their quest to eliminate disorder, terror and
chaos from their lives. Heat secretly doubted
these explanations as well. He was beginning to
believe that the only purpose of terrorism was
terror, the unleashing of violence and death.
If these psychopaths wanted to belong to something
larger, he thought, leaving the car and moving
through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency
room, he'd be more than happy to send them all
to join Satan's minions.
To
Be Continued...
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