About Waking Up (Added From: What Follows the Storm)

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What Follows the Storm: A Novel (Added Content)

                                                       Part One: October 10th

Chapter 1: The Man Upstairs

            A woman in her thirties sat awkward in the dark brown dirt of the road that ran below, mindless of a delicate white skirt at some point much prized. She was one of a cluster going through a somber two-part motion, looking down at a small framed picture of Paulson James and then back up to a curtained window where he was standing. Again and again, their heads moving vertically, all with so much longing. He watched sideways with one trembling eye through a tiny break of thin fabric.

            “We need to leave this place. Start packing, Lydia.” He closed the employed eye and then the other, unable to look at what he’d set in motion.

            “Don’t you say that. We can’t go back to the beginning. I won’t let us.”

            “I’m serious. Come have a look. There’s reverential fire in those eyes. I told them not to carry around my picture. Didn’t I make that a rule?”

She bit at her bottom lip and snuck a glance at her watch “It was a strong suggestion, if I remember. You don’t really do rules. If you want a particular sort of obeisance, stop smiling so much when you talk to them.”

“One of my many mistakes.”

“Come on. They’re waiting is all. And they’re scared.”

“Waiting for answers I can’t give. Imagine what everybody else out there is saying. TV, internet, skywriters. You can bet the whole world is having a good laugh. Yeah. The scathing takes are piling up as we speak. It’ll be amazing, how all of sudden people with no imagination get clever.”

“Don’t spin out, PJ. You just passed judgment on humanity, if you weren’t listening to yourself.” She shut her eyes a little longer than a blink, as if she was resetting was the goal. “The sun’s not even all the way up.”

“Sorry. You’re right. I’m terrified to turn on a television or look at a phone. I didn’t know much I feared being the fool until now.”

            “It could happen any second. Give it more time. You never said it would be first thing in the morning.”  

            “Guess I just assumed. How could I forget to ask?”

“It was an oversight. Oversights can happen. I know it’s hard to hear but you’re not perfect.”

He wanted to run away from the obviously loaded criticism. “An oversight? God. I used to do normal things. Remember normal things?” He clenched his eyelids closed, picturing a morning like they used to have. Cereal and shaving before work. Nothing special or particular. Something average. “When you could tell people, ‘My husband was a soldier. My husband’s a psychologist. He’s a good guy. The money’s good, but he helps people. We have a house on a hill in a gated community. A beach place in Malibu.’”

            “Stop.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just hard not for me to wish Ida Jean was dead.”

“Hey.”

“God. Another sorry. Too much honesty.”

“Everyone assumed it would be the morning. Everyone.”

            “Weird how that works. People thinking the same thing.” He dragged in a few uncomfortable breaths. The converted barn serving as the couple’s home for the last six months seemed to be shrinking. There was an ominous weight to the air, he thought, probably akin to the atmosphere that hovered over and around those huddled inside the Bastille or the Alamo, just before tragedy amplified anonymous crappy old buildings into symbols of sad transcendence.

            Something imminent was rounding the corner.

            Just not the thing he predicted.

            He hazarded another cautious peek through the curtain. She put her strong slender arms around his waist, rubbing his stomach with calloused hands, pressing a pensive kiss to the back of his neck. She felt little hairs standing up against her lips. Her concern was that of the passenger’s and arguably more burdensome. “Have you heard a message?” she asked, not wanting to, voice soft and trembling and tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? Anything would be helpful.”

            He resented the implication that he would secret away something so important. Flinching from the question almost pulled him away, but desperate self-preservation owned the moment. He was beyond exhausted and totally in need. It was supposed to be over, yet there they were.

            Still they were.

            Compelling as running might seem, the fortitude of her embrace wasn’t something to be abandoned or lightly taken. It was the only thing holding him up, physically and spiritually. Not the first time for her to keep him cinched together. Lydia could be a human engine of implacable love and will.  

            “You know what’s funny?” he asked, tilting his head back take in more of her smell.

            “I’m surprised you’re finding anything funny just now. Quite a turnaround from wishing your geriatric aunt dead.”

            “I’m hungry.”

            “Got to say, not the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” She patted his stomach. It was flatter. The layer of adipose common to men in their late thirties had withered away recently. The opposite of most men living on the property. They’d let themselves go. Under the circumstances, it made sense. Sort of a reverse asceticism. The privilege of the passenger.

            “You know what I mean. Never expected to be hungry again. Thought that particular worry was relegated to the dustbin.”

            “It’s still early,” she said, checking her watch as an alternative to looking outside. It was becoming her only line of defense. The more she said it, the more she was unable to ignore the acidic desperation rising up through her insides.   

            A floor below and directly under their feet they could hear the heavy door slowly opening and closing. The deliberate, creaking nature of the entry made the arrival’s identity obvious.

            “Are you up here, Paulson? Lydia? Did you get taken? The Storm get y’all gone?”

            She could feel her husband’s wide shoulders slump. He patted her hands and freed himself from her grasp, turning to face the stairs that led up to their home. “Still here, Rhett.”

            “Are y’all in a decent way?”

            “C’mon up, little brother.” His voice was characteristically calm, signaling nothing of the nervous domestic exchange that had just transpired.

            Rhett plodded up the stairs and walked carefully into their living space. There was no door to the loft; hence his apprehension. He’d walked in on Lydia in a state of undress some months back. It scared her half dead and managed to add a new trauma to his already scarred psyche. “Boy, I don’t know,” Rhett said, fretfully moving his burrowed hands somewhere between his white t-shirt and overalls. “The Storm not coming’s got most everyone gripping things tight as all get out. I said no carrying around Paulson pictures but they carry the dang things anyhow.”

            “It’s still early, damn you.” The snap of her voice caused his brother’s pale face to flush. He closed his full blue eyes, shaking his head.

            Paulson tried to avoid flashing Lydia a chastising look. He quickly covered the distance Rhett and rubbed his golden buzz cut, kissing a spot over his left ear where hair would never again grow. “Everything’s going to be all right, buddy. I’ll go out and talk to them. Say something reassuring.”

            “Boy, I don’t know,” Rhett whispered, tears in his eyes. He was still smarting from Lydia’s hot tone. Emotional stress tended to manifest in the physical. One of many strange crosses Rhett was forced to bear since returning from the war and the hospital.

            “Hey, pal,” Paulson said, holding the faltering head level with both his hands. “Give me a sit-rep. Cut the crap and soldier up, yeah?”

            “Okay.”

            “How about Andy Hood and his family?”

            “Stirred up. Confused-acting but not crazy. They’ve never been cool folk, said it from the start. Probably need watching. I’ll get on it.”

            “Take it easy, now. What about Ida Jean?”

            “Didn’t get eyes on Aunt Ida. Everyone else is out there, save her. Maybe in her cabin, or maybe she got lucky and the Storm took her. You know Auntie Da better than anyone, except maybe me. On her own ain’t a way to even begin describing her.”

            The report was delivered evenly. Rhett drove home every sentence home in his unique way. Given a thing to do, his brother was his old sturdy incarnation. Straight down the middle. The one who’d followed Paulson to Afghanistan fighting for code and country, before the fight had taken such distinct and dramatic portions.   

            “What about Elson?”

            Rhett seemed confused by the inquiry but forged ahead. “Normal, I’d say. Smoking his pipe like always, looking like always. Walked by him just now. Drawing in that journal. He’s a hard one to read when it’s status quo. Towing that girl with him. The super pretty foreign one.”

            “Understood. How about the rest?”

            “I don’t really have a word for it. You know my mind isn’t so good like yours.”

            “Your mind isn’t the problem.” Paulson turned momentarily and sighed at Lydia, still holding his brother’s face. “You don’t have a problem, except maybe being too good-looking.”

Rhett put his head down and Paulson wrapped his arm around his neck, knowing he’d embarrassed him. “Just pointing out the obvious. And you’re right, pal, about there not being a word for it. I’m having trouble with that myself… but we can’t be jumping to anything yet. Could be any second now.”

            “Yeah. Just the waiting. Boy, I don’t know.”

            “Thanks,” Paulson said, offering another quick hug. “Proud of you. You’re a good man. My favorite brother. Don’t forget it.”

             Rhett’s full face again went red again, this time a healthier hue. “I’m your only brother, PJ.”

            “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

            “What are you going to do?” Rhett asked, entirely jumping over his brother’s smile and attempt at diffusive levity.       

            “Go on down. Say I’ll be out there in a few. Don’t be bossy about it but try telling the folks to get up and on their feet. Get to doing normal things, hard as that might be. Watching the clock will drive a person crazy, especially when they don’t know they’re punching out. Most important, no worrying. Things are gonna be just fine.”

            It was obvious that Rhett wanted to throw out another Boy I don’t know, but one last look at Lydia had him lumbering for the stairs, tongue jammed tight against the back of his teeth.

            Paulson walked over to the bed and grabbed a flannel shirt hanging off the footboard. Lydia was standing rigidly in the center of the room, hands atop her head, looking ready to burst. If her state of mind was any sort of barometer for what he was going to have to face below, things weren’t looking good.

            And then.

            He wanted to fight it, but there was no stopping the thing to come. The second his left eye started to twitch, he unsnapped his shirt almost to the bottom and wrestled his feet inside his boots, desperate to avoid looking at his wife. When he collapsed onto his back, she almost didn’t notice. There wasn’t the usual violent crash associated with one of his “spells.” No knocked over lamps or cracked knees. Just a soft landing and a few muted convulsions underneath a light poof of dust. ----

            Paulson James. My one and only. How are things in Crazytown, Texas?

            “Where are we?”

            Complicated question, but you know that. Anyway—where does it look like?

            “Looks like the mountains,” James chattered, feeling a chill on his arms, wondering if the place or the sensation was really real. As many times as this happened, it was always the first thing he thought. Paulson could feel a bit of his being on a bed in Texas. The rest was here, wherever here was. “And the fishing poles?” he asked, teeth still rapping together.

            I thought you might enjoy the sensation of catching something. It’s like spiritual virtual reality if you think about it. Figuring to add something more physically interactive. Just an idea. You used to like a little angling, I was told. I could see it, you and Rhett with your little haircuts. I can see it right now, actually. You’re a cute kid. Eh. Or were. Are? Look at me trying to relate. Let’s not get bogged down in space and time. One of my pet peeves with you people. Linear is so not cool. Don’t know how you manage.

            Paulson glanced at his stream-of-consciousness interlocutor with a disdainful smirk before scanning his surroundings. His feet were dangling off an old wooden bridge. There were snowcapped peaks on either side. Twenty feet below an icy stream ran deep and steady, singing out a consistent low note. “You told me today was the day, Levi. What are we doing here?” Paulson figured on seeing his Messenger again, but not like this. Their next encounter was supposed to take place in the Great Beyond, burdens gone. Maybe God at the end of the table, offering a toast so profound only He could come up with it. Perhaps a few of the Saints and Martyrs, sharing war stories.

            Don’t let your line run too far out.

            “Levi? Seriously. And what’s with the accent?”

            Biloxi, Mississippi. 1930s. Wanted to try it out. Sort of a redneck musicality to it.

            “So weird.”

            Why? Oh, because of the face? I’ll have you know that this is a composite of fourteen different Japanese action stars. Whipped it up myself. All very handsome men.

            “Not saying otherwise.” Paulson rubbed his gray eyes with his free hand, feeling a headache coming on that was real in any dimension.

            Look, there’s been a delay. This kind of stuff happens. Things you need to do yet.

            “A delay? Nobody’s going to listen to me back home. You can only predict our last day on the planet once. People start losing faith in the batter after strike one.”

            Levi scratched his ragged coal black goatee and whipped his pole around like a paintbrush, attempting to goad a fish toward the lure. He was dressed as he always was. A corduroy sport jacket under a grimy camo t-shirt and board shorts. On his feet he wore military combat boots with no socks or laces. He was the homeless guy who all the other homeless guys felt sorry for.

            You get more than one strike, Mr. James. Consult a history book. Or a baseball game. People have a capacity for gullibility that you fail to grasp.

            Paulson braced at the sound of Levi using the word gullibility. It made him feel like the charlatan he promised his people he wasn’t—the total lunatic he prayed he hadn’t become.

            You’re getting mad. Easy, big guy. Integral or expendable as you are, I still have a pretty big checkmark in the seniority column. Hundreds of millennia. Don’t want to pull rank. Just a reminder.

            “What am I supposed to do? Is it ever going to actually happen? What do I say to my people?”

            They’re not yours. Ever think back on your life before? Saying things to people was pretty much your whole act.

            “So, is that the reason? The reason it has to be me?”

            Levi tossed his rod down into the river and turned squarely to Paulson.

            Just once. Just once I’d like for you to consider my feelings.

            “I’m supposed to feel sorry for an Emissary of God? You have powers. You get to hang out in Heaven. All the secrets are at your fingertips.”

            I can see in your soul. We’ve been over this. It’s almost automatic, my vision, but it’s not an automatic blessing, if you can follow. Just now, I had a good look. Dark. You are a classic narcissist. Projection. Deflection. It’s dawning on me. Kind of a jerk, Paulson James.

            “I don’t even know if you have feelings to hurt.”

            See that right there. You think because we operate on separate metaphysical planes of existence, you get to treat me like the “other.” It’s like talking to a Republican. Or a Democrat.

            “Enough, Levi. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

            No idea. I mean it. This isn’t me messing with you. Believe it or not, your disquiet isn’t the apotheosis of my career.

            Paulson’s face remained unchanged. Like he was waiting for the actual answer.

            I’m serious. You have to go back. That’s all I was told. Probably some unfinished business you need tending. Or not. Could just be a scheduling thing.

            Paulson took a swing at Levi. He hadn’t made an aggressive move since coming home from the war. Now here he was, fishing in an ontologically iffy setting, having a go at a supernatural being.

            I’m gonna let you have that one. Just one.

            Levi disappeared and then reformed on Paulson’s other side, quick as Biblical Mercury.

            You need to get your emotions in check, man.

            “Sorry.” The apology came fast and humble. Levi’s little show of otherworldly power wasn’t done idly. Crazy as the thrift store ambassador was, he was also packing fire and brimstone in his toolkit. “Please. Just give me something I can tell them.”

            We’re gonna let you work it out for the next little bit. Think of it as good for your character. Advice time. Get things on track with Lydia. Happy wife, happy life. Tad simplistic, maybe, but can’t hurt. You’re going to want to keep overthinking now but let me stop you.

            Levi smiled and lit up a cigarette. After an overemphasized drag, he blew the smoke skyward and gave James the side of a playful look, slicking back his greased black hair.

            Paulson’s hands went stiff. Strangling hands. He shook them out and did his best not to roll his eyes. “Okay. I just wish—”

            It was warm in his ear. He could feel his eye still twitching but couldn’t see anything. Not long and he realized Lydia was whispering something soothing to him as he struggled between states of being. He hated that she had to watch. No matter how many times she tried to reassure him that it was a part of their reality and therefore normal, he imagined it was like viewing a bad actor being possessed in some movie not as good as the original Exorcist.

            The eye went back to stasis. His vision was tuned to seeing the here and now. “How long?” he asked, throat cracking dry.

            “Ten. Maybe twenty seconds. I barely had time to get over here.”

            “So weird.”

            His wife got off the bed and yanked him up to a sitting position. They’d gone through the routine enough times for her to be versed. She placed a hand between his legs.

            “Damn.”

            “It’s okay,” she returned, getting up to fetch something to clean. “You managed to get your shirt off. Improvement. What’d he say?”

            Paulson held out his hand for a towel. Debriefing was hard enough and being covered in piss was just a little too much. “Said that we’re going to be here a little longer. Said that everyone would understand. I make people understand.”

            Lydia answered by smacking her husband across in the face with a pair of boxer briefs.  

            “Ouch.”

            “Sorry if I’m not your biggest fan at the moment. We could have a riot on our hands.”

            “It’ll be fine.”

            “What if your brother had seen?”

            “I’m not sure. We would’ve handled it.”

            She wasn’t calming down. “We get little pieces. All these times, and how often have I really let you have it? Don’t put limits on my feelings. It’s gross.”

            “Well—”

            “Paulson,” she said, squaring up next to the bed, arms crossed like a chastising drill instructor.

            “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, stepping up to take off his spoiled jeans. Levi’s. It was a reminder that he couldn’t tell her everything. Those were the rules. Whatever was happening, there were rules. “You’ve been strong for me. Stronger than me. Always have been.” James wasn’t just telling her what she wanted to hear to make the moment easier. Lydia had always been the rudder, even before all this. They’d been a power couple, on the rise in Texas business and society, but it was her will and positivity that had carried them along. She was forged hard against life, clawing her way to prominence at a leading commercial real estate concern, managing a path through the old boys’ club, dignity intact. With her unflagging encouragement, he’d broken through his life as an average therapist to become famous as a motivational speaker, sought by everyone with enough money to pay for his time; high-end corporations to national high school football conferences to international sales conventions. He could work a room. Managing different mindsets and doing it quickly was a skill he’d honed in battle without fully realizing it. Thousands would sit enthralled, listening to practical advice like it had come from a stone tablet. Now his audience was less than a hundred—they listened to spiritual revelations more or less like it was what one did to better their day-to-day.

            Irony.

Chapter 2: Sentinels

            “Guess it didn’t quite work out how you wanted. That about sum it up?” Agent Jordy Phelps from the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Explosives hurled the question through the wind in a high-pitched, mocking tone, sweating through the backside of his skin-tight Wranglers. “I mean it’s getting damn near noon time. If I’m the Lord, I’m not waiting half the day to lift off my chosen people. Just don’t seem to compute.” Phelps squinted at the cresting Texas sun, pulling the brim of his cowboy hat to sit on the roof of his thick black eyebrows. “You ever gonna get to talking? Hell, man. Ain’t part of you happy to still be around? Or don’t you get those type feelings?”

            The subject of the agent’s criticism was a man in his fifties named Theodore Brigham, one of the Membership everybody at the Fort Worth ATF field office called “The Lookout.” The sinewy, bearded figure sat or stood in a wooden tower near the gate to the compound, watching the road and the edge of the property, loose-necked shirt hanging off his old body like something left on a hanger in the back of the closet. He never spoke, save one word: “Blessings.” Other than that, you weren’t getting anything out of old Theo. He was a sentinel. He was one of those silly soldiers standing guard outside the Queen’s house. He was Idris Elba from Thor. Phelps was proud to have come up with that one. And so he called Theodore Hamdoll, because that’s how it came out of Phelps’ weathered lips.

            A car door slammed closed behind and the young ATF man turned to see his boss getting off a call. Agent Wolf Becker nodded at the junior agent and then up at the tower. “Has he said anything?” Becker asked, flat and authoritatively. He was the senior man at the field office. That put this problem square in his lap, but if any fed was built for it, he was the guy. Wolf Becker was known as having the equanimity of a cup of water, at least to the casual observer. Whatever Phelps was, Becker came off as the opposite.

            “No, sir. Nothing after ‘Blessings.’ Hamdoll’s doing his usual bit.” Becker tilted his head, watching Phelps as he talked. The young agent made strange movements with his right hand when he spoke. Pointing, waving, but generally having nothing to do with what he was saying. A tick, perhaps. Becker had learned to ignore it. Mostly.  

            “What are you going on about then? Becker inquired. “I could hear you from inside the car.”

            “I was trying to establish something. Get a vibe working. Just two guys shooting it. The old rapport bit.”

            “Wow, Phelps. It’s as if you lifted procedure straight from the training manual.”

            Phelps pulled his hat down another inch and wiggled his free hand. “Well.”

            “In half a year that man has shown no crack in his will. A man that spent an entire lifetime becoming one of the most successful tech developers in the world.”

“I get it.”

“Will. He had it before. It made him rich. Now it makes him stand up there, not so much as a hairline fracture. He’s impervious on a microscopic level. What’s your reasoning for starting in today?”

            “Come on, Becker. I know you like thinking all next-level and whatnot, and I know you think I’m a little bit stupid. You’re way off on this one though.”

            “Okay. Pretend I’m stupid and explain why you’re carrying on with Mr. Brigham.”

            “Today’s the day.”

            “Keep going.”

            “If any of these folks are going to become pervious, figured on it being right about now.”

            Becker didn’t know what to think about Phelps. He didn’t fit the profile of a born hotshot, hiding resentment at being placed under the command of a black academic. It was a political reality of the office. Most agents were ex-service or former local law enforcement, but Wolf Becker had taken a different path. He did a stint as a criminology professor before joining the bureau. It was an unusual road, but despite it or because of it, he was a highly effective investigator and one of the most level-headed brains in the ATF.

Phelps wasn’t holding grudges, and he wasn’t exactly level-headed. He was… weird.

All that said, Becker didn’t wholly disagree with the kid. If the dam was going to break, today would be the one you’d probably have marked on your calendar.

            “It’s not inevitable,” whispered the head agent.

            “What’s that?” Phelps asked, spitting onto the gravel road and adopting a bemused look.

            Becker walked toward the gate, away from his subordinate, staring at “The Lookout.”

            “Guess I’ll leave you with your thoughts then,” Phelps said, overemphasizing his accent and kicking rocks as he made a way back to the car. “Taxpayers don’t pay me enough to be mindreading in this heat. Frigging October with this shit. I’ll be cranking the A/C while you and the freak play the silent game.”

            It’s not inevitable, Becker thought, resting his arms on one of the rusty gate’s bars.

Inevitability was what everyone was thinking. The situation was primed. Tragedy written all over it. A big piece of private property in Texas with a herd of toe-the-line acolytes made anyone with a pulse go to one place: Waco. The head of the ATF in Washington was soiling himself on an hourly basis, afraid of another public relations catastrophe that would leave an indelible mark on the collective American conscience for all of time. The FBI was breathing down everybody’s throats. No surprise there. The Texas Rangers and local police knew the property and a lot of the people living on the compound. For the hometown badges, the investment was personal; they weren’t too keen on letting another group of folks go up in smoke. Blame would go to Becker and the federal task force, and at that point he wouldn’t be in any position to argue. He’d resign in shame and failure. A life dedicated to stopping bad things from happening would be forgotten by everyone he’d ever met, until the point where he’d forget it himself. God would be a refuge, but what if Dana left? His faith might dissipate. The drinking. Harder this time. It was all laid out, those dark possibilities. To an outside observer, perhaps it appeared the die was cast.

            Screw the die. He could work this out. Wherever his mind was, Becker knew he needed at least as much resolve as the man in the tower. Calm. Peace under fire. A sentinel. Easier said than done, but he was absent choice.

            The ATF man felt a vibration in his pocket and let out a sigh as he answered the call. “Hey there, Paulson,” he said, turning away from Theodore and the watchtower. “What do we do now, old friend?”

Chapter 3: MRI

            The Membership was gathered in the mess hall. It was the largest building on the property, right in the center, with all the surrounding structures forming a tidy grid, all connected by narrow gray gravel roads. Paulson James was smoking near the back wall, standing alone under the shade of a thick oak. He could hear the clamor emanating from inside. The sound of discontented hearts. The sound of his Lydia trying to quell their uncertainties using a temperamental, feedback-prone PA system. A bit like a crowd that’s been waiting in the rain all day after you tell them their favorite band isn’t showing up. The change was frightening. To Paulson, The Membership was comprised of some of the most docile and benevolent people he had ever met, save a few outliers that could occasionally tend toward surly. Currently, they sounded like the Hell’s Angels riding a particularly strong crank high.

            Understandable. Their band didn’t show up. God being the band.

            “I don’t know what to do now. This isn’t the best time, Wolf. The day’s not even over yet.” James lit up another cigarette and smoked it down like it was his last, listening to uninspired advice from his buddy from the old neighborhood. Frankly, he expected better. “How long have we known each other?” Paulson asked, turning away from the cafeteria. His eye started twitching. Standing in front of him, going in and out of focus, was Levi the Messenger. He was wearing shorts and had swapped his combat boots for the cowboy kind. The ensemble was topped off by an oversized Hawaiian shirt. Despite being clownish, Paulson couldn’t help but feel dread at the sight.

            You shouldn’t be talking to the ATF guy. More important things to do.

            The Messenger’s words sounded squelched, like they were coming through an old car radio. Paulson was frozen in place, cigarette hanging by the little bit of wet on the inside of his lip. Before he could respond, Levi was gone. “What the hell?” he finally managed.

            “What’s wrong?” Agent Becker asked, voice full of genuine worry, fearing the worst.

            “He never comes here. I always go to him. Or he takes me. Or whatever.”

            “Are you seeing the guy—the emissary character—is that what you’re talking about?”

            “Yeah. He just... right here. On the grounds.”

            “So he’s there?”

            “Yeah. No. Came and went. I don’t understand.”

            “That’s okay, PJ. Things get a little out of hand sometimes. What’ve we been talking about lately?”

            Things get a little out of hand. “We’ve been talking about a lot of things lately, Wolf.” The Membership’s leader was taking fretful little steps in random patterns through the unmanaged Texas scrub brush under the tree. Little figure eights. Flattened circles. Eccentric squares.

            “Do you trust me?” asked the agent.

            James turned around and was startled once again. “Mother—!”

            “What?” Becker asked.

            “Everything’s fine. Keep the jackboots back. I’ll ring later.”

            Paulson ended the call and gathered up an exasperated breath. He tried to light up another smoke but couldn’t stop shaking.

            “I’ll get that,” said Dr. Davis Dade, taking two steps forward to grab the lighter out of James’ tremulous hand. “Seems like you’re about to burst. And you shouldn’t be smoking.”

            “Don’t know if you noticed, Doc. Things—little are a bit crazy around here. Our folks are ready to tear me to pieces. Feds could be on the march. I’m seeing things, I think. Then there’s the whole not being in Heaven thing.”

            “Yeah,” the doctor said, putting his head down. Paulson could see the gaping bald spot toward the back of Dade’s scalp. The skin was red and looked irritated. Too much time in the sun for such pale, freckled skin. It made Paulson feel sad. Poor Davis. Lifted from a beautiful life of country clubs and never having to be outside for more than an hour. Now this; rashes and unfulfilled prophesies. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about,” the doctor said, gathering himself up to face his leader. Paulson studied Dade for the thousandth time. The doc was a weird little fella, inside and out. His head was too big for his shoulders and his face was too small for his head. He once told Paulson that his incongruous looks helped spur him to great heights in the medical field. He figured money and success would make up for his aesthetic inadequacies. Something like a blind man being able to hear the notes better than someone with sight. Turned out, he was right. Dade’s wife Julie was a knockout. “Not that women go for money and security,” the doctor once joked with James.

            Paulson liked Dr. Davis Dade. He was mostly a self-aware type. A rich man able who in the end was able to assess his boundaries and weaknesses with honesty. His short, slight build was kind of annoying; you couldn’t hear him when he was sneaking up—but that was hardly something that merited castigation.  

            “So what’s up?” Paulson asked, looking over Dade’s shoulder to the cafeteria. There was still that lion’s den to contend with. “Why aren’t you back in there with the natives?”

            “Remember a couple months ago?” the doctor asked. His red face up red as he started kicking at the brush.

            “You’ll have to be more specific.” Paulson said it with a snap Dade had never heard. He sucked his cigarette and scratched his dampening hair. The nerves and the driving sun were beginning to take their toll. “What about two months ago, Doc? Exactly what are we talking about here?”

            “C’mon, PJ. The MRI.”

            “I don’t want to talk about that.”

            “Of course,” said the doctor, eyes still pointed down. “That’s to say, nobody wants to talk about their MRI.”

            “No—I mean—we already talked about it.” Paulson blew a stream of smoke over Dade’s patchy head. It was hard to shift focus from the red spot. It looked like a rash that would only spread. James conjured a trite mental metaphor; the irritation that was already spreading through the camp, caused by his inability to make good on the prediction. It made him long for loneliness in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.

            Dade cocked his chin up and crossed his arms, skinny legs stiff with newfound resolve. “I wasn’t honest.”

            “About what?”

            “About the MRI.”

            “We’re still talking about the dang scan? Move on, Davis.”

            “I can’t.” The little doctor took a deep breath, walking through a cloud of Paulson’s smoke without flinching. “It wasn’t clean.”

            “What’s that mean—not clean?”       

            “You have a tumor. Pretty big one, actually.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “I’m not, actually.”

            “Start making sense, Dade. Quick would be nice.”

            “Before you get too upset, try to understand.”

            Paulson took a half step back and made like he was going to walk away, but he couldn’t let the conversation end there. “Let me understand. We snuck out of here in the middle of the night to get my noggin looked at—”

            “You wouldn’t stop about the headaches.”

            “To get my noggin looked at, just so you could lie to me about the results?”

            “You make it sound so simple.”

            “Sorry if my summation doesn’t square with your fragile sense of decorum.”

            “I can see you’re losing it. Are you still having the headaches? We should probably continue this later.”

            “Don’t lecture me about my temper, Doc.” James placed a hand on the little physician’s shoulder and gave enough of a squeeze to demonstrate his ire. “You know, I never used to have a temper. Not at all. Turns out, might be the giant brain tumor eating away at my gray matter.”

            “That’s not impossible.” Dade was bending from the pull of Paulson’s grip.

            “And everything that’s happened—all of this—could just be the hallucinations of a madman with a damn medical condition.”

            The doctor ripped himself away from Paulson and turned to face the gym. The crowd was only growing louder. “I figured it didn’t matter, PJ.”

            “Explain the sense of that.”

            “I knew it might kill you, but we were supposed to be gone by then.”

            “Symptoms, Doc. You know dang well a brain tumor can cause people to act weird. It’s a frigging brain tumor. Hell. You wouldn’t have come out here to tell me unless you were feeling guilty.”

            “I’ve always felt guilty, but I’ve always had faith. Still do. God could’ve put it there. The tumor is like an instrument.”

            “Well, there is that.” Paulson pulled his cigarette pack from his front pocket and chain-lit the next. “You sound crazy, Davis. You’re the kind that makes it easy for the people out there to call us a cult. I’m supposedly nutcase number one, yet you’re giving me the creeps.”

            “I know this is a lot to take in.”

            “Sure you do,” James smiled, trying not to cry bitter tears. He felt around his scalp, wanting to know where the malignancy was located but not wanting to hear Dade speak again. “Anyway, we all have tough mornings.” Paulson barely finished the sentence. He imagined burying his fist into the physician’s soft stomach and shoving him down into the wild grass like he was nothing at all. “Doc,” he whispered, walking away while Dade held out his hands for absolution, grasping for oxygen with terrible, grating gasps. “Doc,” James repeated. “Doc. You look worse than I do. Calm on down. Take a breath.”

            You reward the doctor’s faith in God’s mysterious nature by having violent fantasies. Nice.  

            “What!?” Paulson called out.

            Outstanding leadership. Maybe we picked the wrong guy after all.

            Holding the doctor up, James whipped around, expecting to see Levi. There was no one.

            “What?” Dade asked, confused by the sudden change in orientation.

            “Nothing,” Paulson said, pulling grass from his friend and doctor’s head. “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. Wait. For what?”

            The leader wasn’t about to go into the details of his daydream. “No, it’s not okay. You’re a faithful guy, Davis. I’m sure your heart was in the right place. Still,” he said, putting his muscular arms around Dade’s bony back, “you’re going to have to explain to me exactly why a lie on that level seemed a good idea.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “That’s great. But seriously. The finer points. Good soul as I know you to be, it was a weird decision.”

            “The main reason? The tumor doesn’t explain everything else that’s happened. Everything else that you did.”

            Paulson took a second to try to remember the entirety of the last six months and other strange flashpoints in the history of his life. Davis had a point. A tumor didn’t explain the rest. Didn’t even come close. The doctor’s logic suddenly became less ridiculous, though still hard to understand.

            “The Storm’s still coming,” Dade said. “I know it is. Forgive me, PJ. Please forgive me.”

            “Enough of that,” James said, steadying his physician and follower. “The Storm’s coming.”

Chapter Four: Last Year’s Lydia

            Lydia James sat behind her husband on the little mobile stage, watching him quell the Membership. He’d entered through the back with a literal cloud over his head, smelling like a derelict pool hall, projecting little to none of his normal casual, handsome cool. Nevertheless, after a bumpy start, he was once again doing his thing, in rhythm with the rest of the world. The crowd had been close to riotous. Not now. She slipped away, picking up a few words here and there, mostly lost in herself.

            “The day ain’t over yet. And it’s no time to panic. That’s not what we do here. I’m not looking out at a bunch of weirdoes. You guys and gals are some of the most accomplished and wonderful people I’ve ever met. Don’t go freaking out.”

            Lydia heard them chuckle. Paulson had probably flashed one of his self-effacing smiles their way. She couldn’t see. Instead, she looked down at her hands. They were covered with wear; blisters and callouses in the bends of her fingers. Layers of dirt underneath her trimmed fingernails. What would last year’s Lydia James say to the present-day version? Last year’s Lydia. She almost laughed out loud at the thought.

            “We aren’t the same people that came here six months ago, but that doesn’t mean we’ve devolved. Am I right!?”

            Last year’s Lydia would’ve snuck out the backdoor. She’d have never set foot in this strange place on the outskirts of Fort Worth, surrounded by clutches of wide-eyed faithful. But last year’s Lydia hadn’t seen the things she’d seen. The things that her husband had done. A strong dose of belief coursed through her veins, mixed in with the pragmatism that made her so successful in her own career. The fresh belief wasn’t necessarily welcome, but it was there and there was no denying it.

            Though she still tried.

            Another look at her hands. God, what have I been doing?

            “Y’all can call me names. Go ahead and do it. Out loud and now, if you’re feeling it. Heck, I bet there’s nothing you haven’t called me that I haven’t called myself ten times a day and twenty on Sundays! Haha! Twenty on Sundays. That’s not even a thing, but here I am, facing the fire, facing the light in each and every one of your eyes.”

            They were laughing now. She put her head down, impressed but not surprised, yawning as her thoughts drifted to six or seven hours prior. Lydia had been crawling around down by the creek, through dirt and burrs and mud, looking for a bear, armed with an Alaskan Winchester Model 70. Being her last night, she was determined to find the animal. I’m going crazy, she thought, clapping mindlessly after the applause had already died down. She never told Paulson about the bear, mostly because she thought it might not be real. Bears weren’t a thing in North Texas, especially this close to the city. There was no way it would just be wandering through the property, and yet, Lydia had seen it at least ten times.

            Or she was barking mad.

            “One thing I know. We’re not crazy. Not one single solitary person here is anything but a good old-fashioned red-blooded American of sound mind and body. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.”

            Lydia had never found the bear, despite her many attempts to stalk it in the night. It felt more like the bear was stalking her. I’m barking mad. Last year’s Lydia would call for the orderlies and the padded room if she could see what had become of her.

            “Doubts are natural. Let’s take a good lunch and breathe. Talk to one another like you know how. Don’t make everything about us and the Storm. Let’s just be friends for a little bit before we get all riled up again. And no, Chester. That’s not me using women words. You old dog.”

            Lydia crossed her hands in her lap and smiled as the Membership rose and applauded. She rose too, but as the crowd smiled and hugged she found herself on the verge of tears. It was the bear. She wanted to see it and know that it was real.

            “You okay, Lyds?” Paulson asked, walking up to give her a hug.

            “I’m fine,” she said, blinking away. “That message—really something, Husband.”

            He kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks. I love it when you call me Husband, by the way. It’s like you’re in the supporting cast of Witness. Maybe one of those bonnet things…”

            “I don’t want to hear a segue into another one of your Harrison Ford fantasies.”

            He laughed. She could always make him laugh, but right now it was easy. He was coming off a speech. A time when he was Teflon to the hardness and a welcome mat for any positivity that might be coming his way, regardless of circumstances future or previous.

            Despite her knowing that he was merely basking in afterglow, she was genuinely relieved. Hours ago they thought this might be the tar and feather show; now at least he’d bought them some time.

            “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, taking her hands. “I can’t believe gardening does this to you. It’s like a contact sport.”

            “I’m fine,” she said, slipping his grip and kissing him on the cheek. “Think I’ll talk to Janie. See how she’s doing.”

            Lydia hopped off the stage and took a labored breath, Glad as she was to not be lambasted by the Membership, she wanted to be taken in the Storm as much as anyone. More than anyone. If the delay lasted much longer, present day forty three-year-old Lydia was going to have to break a serious slice of news to her husband: on the doorstep to the afterlife, she was at last pregnant with their first child.  

Chapter 5: Bored with the Board

            At the ATF field office in West Fort Worth, things were abuzz. Wolf Becker didn’t have an exact number, but there was more or less a legion of overdressed FBI agents milling about, looking busy on their cell phones. He always wondered who they were talking to with their concerned, scrunched faces.

            One could never tell with the FBI. Good agents for the most part, forgetting the odd simpleton dispersed randomly throughout any collection or herd. There were so many and they seemed able to replicate by spontaneous mitosis; whatever vetting process was in place, nature and the law of averages were bound to let a few clunkers pass muster unchecked. The ATF was a mom and pop operation by comparison and therefore a much harder place to hide ineptitude.

            Turning by a series of cubicles toward his corner office, he bumped into a red-cheeked young officer with the Texas Rangers named May Dukes. She was carrying a stack of files and managed to adjust her grip before they scattered to the floor.

            “Nice save,” Becker said, holding his hands out in case anything spilled from her grasp.

            “Thank you, sir,” she said, now fully confident in her payload. “Sorry about that. Was just on my way to see you.”

            “Really?” Becker asked. “Where exactly?”

            “Your office. For the. The meeting.”

            “I’m heading to my office right now,” he said, slowly raising a long finger to point it over her shoulder.

            “Of course,” she said, cheeks reddening more. “This whole thing isn’t what it looks like.”

            “That you don’t know where the hell you are or what the hell is going on?”

            “Exactly,” she said, looking like she wanted to melt into the lifeless gray government-issue carpet.

            Becker took half of the files out of her hands. “Take it easy on yourself, Dukes. This is my operation and I can barely find my feet these days. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

            Ranger Dukes turned and followed Wolf Becker, biting her lip in frustration. Of all the people running around there that day, he was the one person she was interested in impressing. So far not so good.

            “Do these task force soirées get you pumped, Dukes?” he asked flatly, stopping in front of the glass door. “They get me pumped.”

            She hid a muted smile and nodded quick and short, meeting his eyes with a strange mix of apprehension and eagerness. “Not sure how to answer, sir.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Your relaxed shoulders and the fact that your hands are in your pockets. Indicators leading me to believe this isn’t something you take all that seriously.”

            He made no great attempt to change his bearing. Just tilted his head back slightly and sharpened his eyes; she inferred he was waiting for more.

            “On the other hand, as a less experienced member of the law enforcement community and dogged member of this task force, I’m almost inclined to disagree with you.”

            “I see.”

            “But I would never do that—disagree with you—sir.”

            Becker showed a rare, unfettered smile. Dukes returned with the slightest of winks. “Yeah. You’re gonna be fine.”

            “Thank you, sir. I really like my job.” She looked down and was fifteen again. She’d never seen a flash of teeth or portion of charm from Becker. He was winning when he wanted to be; handsome if one was to ever really consider it.

            “I can tell you got a nose for the hunt. Few improvements with your directional abilities and you’ll probably make a first-rate cop.”

            She smiled at the rapport they seemed to be building, but quickly forced her face back to serious, nodding her little nods and blinking away a layer of tension as they entered the office.

            “Guess you guys couldn’t wait to get going today,” Agent Becker said, smiling tacitly as he maneuvered behind his desk in the corner. He stood there, hands on his hips, looking over today’s players. Mostly old faces. One new one. He said a quick hello to Brad and Phil, his point guys on the Paulson case. They were mustached and in their forties, physically strong but in great shape. Typical, experienced agents with years on the job. They appeared calm but ready for anything, trying to mirror their boss.

            The FBI liaison offered a curt wave and “howdy” toward Becker, laboring in vain to seem local. The U.S. attorney didn’t get up—her face was buried in the case file—she was a sharp but overworked Latina woman who had seen a wider range of cases than anyone else in the room. “Governor,” he said, shaking the big hand of the man standing like a statue on the other side of his desk. The politician was doing a poor job of hiding his displeasure; it was obvious to everyone in the room that he was put out—to not be the first addressed was a breach of protocol or at the very least, proper decorum. “Hey Dukes,” Becker said, holding a stare on the politician. “Come meet Governor Biggs.”

            Everyone adjusted in the limited space, allowing Ranger Dukes the opportunity to shake the hand of Texas’ chief politician. She smiled and nodded six or seven times before speaking; short bursts of dutiful word groupings—something about it being an honor. Her head was cocked back, like a front row movie patron.  The governor was a massive figure and had something of a presence, but Becker imagined the spry Ranger Dukes would see through the façade posthaste. Biggs was a dolt during sunshine and a led vest in stormy seas.

            “I know you don’t like me being down here, Wolf,” began the governor, talking too much with his hairy hands, “but maybe it’s good to have reminders. We all need reminders—am I right?” Everyone in the room muttered in the affirmative, unsure if the question was rhetorical. Tiggs was given to loose banalities, making it difficult to conclude when he was looking for a real answer.

            “It’s not about what I like or don’t like,” Becker said, standing tall with his arms behind his back. He wanted to appear deferential, if only to expedite the meeting.

            “Today’s the day,” the governor said. “Am I right?”

            Another oblique inquiry, but less than usual. It gave the ATF agent a moment’s pause. He picked up a ballpoint pen and dropped it with a thud on his day planner. “It’s another day, if that’s what you mean.”

            “I think you know what I mean. Paulson’s people—still here. At least they didn’t kill themselves like those other dumb bastards.”

            “They never said they were going to kill themselves. Can I ask where you got that notion, Governor?”

            “Don’t get your blood up, Wolf. I don’t need people giving me notions. I come by them all on my own.”

            God knows that’s true, Becker thought. And God help us.

            “As far as we can tell, the situation is stable and contained. Nobody’s hurt, and to this point no laws have been broken. I’d like to dissolve this task force and send all these people back to where they can do something productive. This isn’t a standoff.”

            “Not yet,” said Governor Tiggs.

            “Despite your trepidations, you seem insistent on turning this into something bad. Snakes can be avoided. I suggest we don’t go kicking over rocks.”

            Governor Tiggs let out a heavy breath. It smelled like the results of a gallon of coffee and a carton of cigarettes. Everyone in the office reeled as much as they could without being rude. “Can we bring in the board?” Tiggs asked, snapping his fingers and turning toward the door. “Young lady,” he rasped, snapping again in May Dukes’ direction, “do us a solid and get the board with all the pictures.”

            Wolf Becker craned his head around and threw a glance with widened eyes at his boys Brad and Phil. They could read the simmering impatience just under their boss’ visage as they waited for Dukes to return with the board.

            Becker hated the board.

            It was industrial-sized and made of cork, for hanging up pictures and little notecards with thumbtacks. Little strings were occasionally tied from one tack to another to indicate a connection between two objects or points on the board. There was also a map and a piece of paper that reminded everyone in the office how many days they had until “Loony Liftoff.” It was the large circle in the top right corner that Becker spotted as Dukes struggled to push it through the door.

            “There she is,” said Tiggs, opening his jacket and placing his fat red thumbs in the little pockets of the gray vest his mistress had picked out for the day. “She looks like some fine work. Wheel her all the way in here, honey.”

            “Governor,” Ranger Dukes managed, enlisting the help of Brad and Phil to properly position it in the middle of the room.

            This frigging thing, Becker thought, finally slumping into his chair.

            Becker hated the board. They only had it in the office at the insistence of Governor Tiggs. The politician apparently took in more than his share of crime shows—shows where a big visual aid was requisitioned to show all the conspirators and all people sitting on their asses at home who and what was going on with the case.

            The Resident Agent in Charge took a breath, releasing the tight fists that he’d unconsciously clenched. Every time a superior came in, they wanted to see the board as well. It wasn’t just Biggs. But that look of glee on his big frying pan face—

            “Have you made contact today?” asked Susana Rogelio, the U.S. attorney. She knew the facts and didn’t need the pictures and the map.

            “I have,” Becker said. “Our boy seems a little surprised, but he’s holding it together. With a little time, this thing peters out.”

            “I know you grew up with this wackjob, Wolf, but by God—it’s like you’re on his side all the time. This deal—she’s a big’n. Gotta get her reeled in.”

            “I’m not on anyone’s side, Governor. A safe and peaceful resolution is my only aim, and until I think that Paulson James or anyone else on that property is a danger to themselves or anyone else, I’m going to cling tenaciously to that end.” There was enough volume and bite in Becker’s speech to genuinely shock Governor Tiggs.

            Rogelio snuck a little smile toward the ATF agent. Everyone else tucked smaller, like waiting on a shelling from the enemy.

            Tiggs’ shifted focus to Dukes. The ranger’s breath was finally calming after bringing in the board. “What do you think, honey?”

            “I think that Agent Becker is well-equipped and well-informed to handle the situation.”

            “That so?”

            “It is, Governor. And every bit of insight and intelligence we have on the membership says that they are peaceful, law-abiding citizens that simply have beliefs outside the range of normality.”

            “Well,” Tiggs said, puffing out his already prominent chest with a face full of condescension, “little lady. When somebody winds you up, you let loose pretty good.”

            The U.S. attorney decided to step between the lines before Tiggs could go full nuclear with his sexism. “What about our guy inside? You get a chance to talk to him today. Oh… shit.”

            “Anyway,” Becker said, standing up and pulling out his phone. “Have to take this. Governor if you don’t mind, I’m going to step into the next room.” He was already moving as he motioned for Dukes and Rogelio to follow him into the adjoining office. It was unoccupied except for stacks of banker boxes.

            He held the phone up to his ear until closing the door. The ranger and attorney wore puzzlement on their faces. “Do you realize what you just did in there?”

            “Sir, if you want me to apologize—”

            “Oh I want you to, but not just yet. I’m talking to you, Susana.”

            She already knew what she’d done. The lawyer couldn’t bring herself to raise her head. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said. “I was. There’s nothing I can say, Wolf. It was a mistake.”

            “Oh no,” Dukes whispered, turning to Rogelio. “Oh no.”

            Becker wanted to scream, but the entire conversation had to be restrained for the governor’s sake. “Let me see if I get what just happened in there,” he whispered with all the force his nature would allow. “You decide to make yourself proud and your presence felt, and Rogelio steps in to defend. By talking about the one damn thing we don’t talk about.”

            “I’ll take myself off the case,” Rogelio said, covering her mouth. She was on the verge of a breakdown, reeling from a cascade of embarrassment and shame. “Get reassigned. It’s the right thing to do.” Her voice was quiet and quivering. Becker leaned against the door and shut his eyes. Dukes crossed her arms and sat on a stack of boxes.

            “No. Run and hide another day, Susana. Tiggs and that FBI lackey have our one secret. Now you’re going to convince them to keep it.”

            “How do I know they can be trusted?”

            “We trusted you, Rogelio.”

            As accomplished and successful as she was, Becker’s retort was a final straw. The lawyer started crying silently into her hand.

            “Maybe we pull him out. It may not even matter. It’s not like he’s a plant inside the mob.”

            “I’d rather not hear from you for a good bit, Dukes.”

            “Affirmative, sir.”

            “Go back in there and tell them we’ll be right in. Brad and Phil are probably about to soil themselves. Just say I’ll be back and explain everything.”

            “Of course.” Dukes was nodding and blinking at a fierce clip as she walked out.

            “I can’t believe it,” Rogelio said, making a noble effort to gather herself. “I can’t believe what just happened.”

            “We deal with it, Susana.”

            “How do I even go there? To get loose with a source is fucking first day bush-league bullshit.”

            Becker wasn’t much for listening to self-loathing, but Rogelio was getting mad. He preferred mad to defeated. “The man’s a moron and he had my blood boiling. It’s some sort of an idiot-savant thing. Gets people off their game. You don’t get elected by a large majority of the state on big oil and big bank contributions alone.”

            “Still.”

            “Hell, I was already blowing a gasket. The kid—running her mouth—it’s like we’re all in panic mode.”

            “You think it’s that big zero on the board? Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

            Becker let a half a minute go by, thinking about the stupid board and the big zero. Mostly, he was thinking about their guy on the inside. He was pretty good about checking in, but nothing so far.

            The Agent in Charge met the pacing attorney and steadied her with a firm hand on each shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Susana. Hell, maybe we can make this work to our advantage.”

            “How’d that even work?”

            “Trying to be optimistic.”

            “Sunny isn’t exactly your style, Wolf.”

            “Saying I’m grumpy?”

            “No. Just. You’re you, is all.”

            “I sound on the bland side.”

            “God. This is the greatest day in foot-in-mouth history.”

            “Well, go on and get it together. Convince Tiggs and the Feebs that the inside source was a planned disclosure, but don’t tell him the name. We still have that, for now. You can do this, Susana.”

            “What are you going to do?”

            “I’m going to try to get a hold of the son of a bitch. Day zero isn’t the one you take off.”

Chapter Six: Gone

            Elson Cantrell sat cross-legged in a circle, drawing into a little journal as the talk swirled about him. It was nearing sundown, and people were expectant. He was quiet, and nobody questioned him about it. He didn’t like making his thoughts known in groups if it could be avoided. Elson’s pipe hung from the side of his mouth; he was down to smoking once a day, but the familiarity of the instrument helped satiate his oral fixation.

            Cutting back. Planning ahead. It’s what made him the loneliest soul in the Membership. And then there was Sofia Ivrea. She was talking now, sharing her innermost thoughts with the group. Elson didn’t know if it was love, and even if it was, she’d never overlook his grand deceit. Since joining the Membership, he’d become closer and closer with her, but it was all predicated on his truthful intent in being there. Elson didn’t know if that colored everything a lie or not, but not finding his deceptions to be forgivable himself, he doubted Sofia would either.

            “I think that maybe this is a test to humble our hearts,” Sofia said to the others. Her voice was so pure in its pleading. An honest voice, from one who actually expected the world to honestly listen. It was like medicine and music. Cantrell drew her face as she talked. Bunched underneath a big oak tree, he sketched as the branches swayed, lighting her beauty different with every caprice of the wind. There was nothing nature could do to tamper with the loveliness of her features. He listened on, feeling the urge to shed a tear. Forty years of living and hardly a single cry to remember, but those forty years hadn’t included Sofia. “We’ve all seen,” she continued. An extended interval of sunlight threw extra notice on her dark brown eyes, big and open as the heart that guided them. “What we’ve seen we didn’t ask for. None of us asked for this. I think we owe it to God and to Paulson—we owe it to ourselves to steady our resolve.”

            She placed her soft white hand around the arm that was steadying his journal and gave a gentle squeeze. They touched heads gently as he added the final strokes to his sketch. She smiled as he held it up for her to see.

            “Flatterer,” she whispered, not wanting to interrupt the next to speak.

            He leaned close. “If there’s any justice in the rendering, you’re the flatterer.”

            She pushed him away playfully but he held his posture, getting closer still. “I’ll be back, young lady. Need to stretch my legs and—see to a few things.”

            “Gross.”

            “I didn’t say that. You went there on your own.”

            “Just go,” she whispered, tapping his knee with the end of her slender fingers as he slipped away. It wasn’t a difficult escape. Everyone was in a state that he was having a hard time putting words to. Was there a word that fully covered a shared belief that every second might be your last on Earth?

            “Real life,” he said to himself. “Heightened.” He made his way to back to center of the camp. Looking in all directions, he entered his cabin and pulled out his cell phone. After placing the chip back in, he waited for it to boot up.

            There were no messages. Never were. He pressed on the only saved number.        

            “You had me anxious.”

            “Sorry. I get it, but there hasn’t been a second of alone time today. Think you can understand, Wolf.”

            “I talked to him this morning,” Becker said. “He seemed—well, hell if I know how he seemed.”

            “I’m going to find him. He’s a creature of habit—right now he’s shooting hoops in the little indoor court out here.”

            “Don’t push it. Can’t have you blown.”

            “He trusts me, Wolf. Much as anyone right now. I’ll be cool about it. The guy probably needs someone to talk to. He was pretty amped up at the big meeting today.”

            “How so?”

            “Nothing insane, but clear enough, he’s facing the fire.”

            “He’s right about that. And it’s coming from all directions.”

            “Thinking I maybe start easing my way there.”

            “You mean there? Maybe you didn’t hear. I want your cover intact.”

            “It’ll be a shock, but telling him I’m ATF won’t send this guy over the edge. I’m the one on the ground. For a person under this pressure, he’s pretty damn poised.”

            “Put that out of your mind. I just want to get through the day.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Any rumblings? Dissent?”   

            “There’s a few playing fast and loose with their emotions, but that’s to be expected. I’ll report anything seriously troubling. You know I will.”

            “I don’t like waiting all day to hear from you. Be better about it. We’ve got a lot of worried people here.”

            “As long as nothing crazy happens, we should be fine.”

            “Nothing crazy,” Becker repeated, taking his time with the words. “I just want this thing over with.”

            “And telling him who I am might be step one. Well—you know what I think.”

            “Of course, Elson. You haven’t shut up through this whole thing, except when I need you make a damn call.”

            “All right. I’m gonna try for a chat. I’ll touch back tonight.”

            “Good.”

            As soon as the line went dead the SIM card was out and the phone was securely in his pocket. Cantrell took off his boots and replaced them with high-tops, stuffing his jeans under the tongue.

            He kept his head down as he walked around a line of cabins identical to his own, keeping a brisk pace. Nothing hinged on it, but he’d feel better if his encounter with James was private.  

            The door stuck a bit as he stepped inside. Paulson had a rack of balls next to him on the opposite end of the court, shooting threes. Elson let him finish out his set before saying anything. “Hey, PJ. Mind if I join in?”

            Paulson turned, surprised but not irritated. “Come on then, Cantrell. Help me gather up these balls. Maybe you can offer some pointers.”

            “Being black doesn’t mean I know everything about basketball,” Elson said, smiling as he passed the half court line. He didn’t know if the joke was appropriate today or any other day, but he’d never been cautious with Paulson. It didn’t feel right to start now. “They say it has something to do with the wrist. Backspin, bro.”

            The two men finished shagging and shook hands next to the rack. “Seriously though,” James said, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a towel that looked unwashed. “You didn’t play?”

            Cantrell took a ball from the rack and stepped behind the line, tossing up a perfect shot and flipping his wrist after the ball dropped through the net. “Of course I played. I’m tall. Athletic. From the street. It’s compulsory. Otherwise people would’ve talked.”

            “Talked about what?”

            “You know.”

            “Don’t say you don’t know. You know everything, PJ. Uncomfortable or not.”

            James held a funny smile, tilting his head at Elson. “You’re just messing with me now, aren’t you?”

            Cantrell broke from his stern expression and smiled warmly. “I am, sort of. Totally, actually. Completely messing with you. Except for the wrist thing. That’s serious.”

            James put up a shot that rimmed in and out. “You’re a funny guy, Cantrell. Where’s the pipe?”

            “My back pocket.”

            “You must really want to talk, coming in here with an unencumbered mouth.”

            “That’s a giveaway, huh?”

            “I don’t blame you. Sitting around in circles is probably getting old. Especially today.”

            “Think I just wanted to check on you.” Cantrell was good at using whatever language the situation called for, but it was always ideal to stick as close to the truth as possible. Saying he wanted to get a fix on Paulson’s state of mind was damn near nail on the head.

            “What time is it?” Paulson asked. The change of direction and tone wasn’t desperate, but it was enough of a drift to make Elson a little uneasy. He looked at his watch and felt soft. Not long ago he’d spent two years undercover with a perpetually unhinged crew of cranked-up psychos running drugs and guns back and forth across the Rio Grande. The idea of being nervous around a nutty white guy shooting baskets in jeans was almost laughable.

            “It’s—uh—almost six.”

            “You nervous?” asked the leader, bouncing the ball with a snarky sort of confidence.

            “Are you?”

            The bouncing stopped. The agent meant to overstep. He didn’t like being called out on his own temperament. Lashing back a bit seemed the thing to do. It was instinct. Uncomfortable or not, he wouldn’t sweat. Something years undercover had taught him. The other guy was always first to break. He knew it to be true; if it wasn’t, he would’ve been buried in a shallow grave years ago.

            James threw up a shot with one hand, not even bothering to look at the goal. He peered into Cantrell’s eyes. They were almost exactly the same height, just over six feet. “I’m not sure where to go from here,” Paulson said, words absent any affectation.

            “Well,” Cantrell replied evenly, “the day’s not over yet.”

            “I wish to God it was.”

            Elson took his hand away slowly and nodded, trying to figure out what was underneath Paulson’s last statement.

            “I can see the wheels turning, Mr. Cantrell. More than anyone here, I’ve got you pegged as the busiest brain here.”

            “Maybe, PJ, but busy doesn’t mean productive. Be lying if I said it wasn’t mostly white noise. Coming from who knows where.”

            “I can relate.”

            After that, there was a lengthy pause. Cantrell rubbed the stubble on his face while James stood straight, looking up at the exposed insulation attached to the high ceiling. For a few moments they were the only two men on the planet, locked in limbo. Paulson had a renegade thought that maybe they’d been taken by the Storm and a big empty building was God’s version of purgation.

            “It’ll work out. I know I’m not the one usually handing out advice, but we’ll get by.”

            “You think?” James didn’t sound incredulous. It was almost like he was suddenly and strangely apathetic.

            “I gotta think,” Elson said, moving toward the rack of basketballs.

            “Nobody’s going anywhere today.”

            The ATF man stopped dead. “How can you be sure?”

            James was red-faced and dimpled. “Sure as I can be sure of anything, I’m sure.”

            “Well—”

            Cantrell was interrupted by the harsh clapping of the door coming open at the other end of the gym. Two robust Indian-American men came running in, heaving and sweaty like they’d just crossed the finish line at a marathon. Hart and Rye, just twenty and twenty-one.

            “What’s wrong?” Paulson asked.

            “Charlie and Danielle Hood,” said Hart, the oldest. Looked everywhere. They’re gone.”

Chapter Seven: Searching

            Elson was behind Paulson James, following him step for step on the way to the fire pit. It was near dusk. The Membership had reassembled once word had spread of Charlie and Danielle’s disappearances and a feverish search of the eighty acres had been conducted. Cantrell could see the agitation climbing on the back of James’ muscled shoulders as they bobbed up and down over the unleveled terrain. The undercover agent took special notice of James’ hands. He kept shaking them out, only to clench them again. Elson didn’t think asking the leader for his thoughts was too smart an idea, but then, surprisingly, he didn’t have to.

            James did a quick turn and reached for the cigarettes in his front pocket, forcing a skidding stop from Cantrell. “I’m going to advise everyone to leave.”

            Elson might’ve been unconsciously anticipating a thousand things, but this wasn’t one of them. He looked around and saw nothing but tall grass leaning lazy in the warm wind and a few intractable mesquite trees on either side of the makeshift trail. Leaning in he whispered, “You think that’s a good idea?”

            “It’s what you’ve been hoping for since the day you got here, isn’t it?”

            Elson struggled to conjure an adequate reply. He watched James light a cigarette. “I’m not sure I understand.”

            “Which part? My telling everyone to get out, or me accusing you of wanting this whole thing to just sort of go away.”

            “I think—”

            “I know you’re ATF, Elson. Maybe it’s never been made official. I guess you’re like the Fed’s little experiment. Whatever arrangement you have, I know enough.”

            Cantrell had the frame of a sprinter. Powerful arms and even more powerful legs. He thought to make use of his physique, either to subdue Paulson James or to take off running and never look back. An overwhelming wave of adrenaline swept from his brain down to the rest of his body. With fight and flight at loggerheads, he was rendered absolutely motionless. “Let me explain.”

            “It’s pretty obvious,” James said, “you’re here to keep watch on things. Make sure Becker stays in the know. He obviously doesn’t trust me. That’s what he’s always saying; how he trusts me. All this time, having a plant right here in the Membership. People,” he said, taking a final drag from his Marlboro. “People, Elson. It’s one of the reasons I was looking forward to pulling up stakes.”

            Even in the failing light, Cantrell knew he must’ve looked like a whipped dog. “You’ve been wise to me a long time?”

            “Since about the day you got here. I had a lot of money and resources before all this. Still do, actually.”

            “We figured.”

            “And in your figuring, I guess you didn’t figure on me having a guy on the outside who could dig deep enough to find out about your storied career.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Don’t feel bad. Ain’t like it was a Google search. Should be proud—it took my guy almost a whole day to send me your dossier. Is that the word for it? Dossier?”

            “You didn’t tell Agent Becker that you knew. Why?”

            “Because it didn’t make any difference to me, and if it gave him piece of mind, figured it couldn’t do all that much damage. You weren’t mounting any insurrections.” James started laughing. Cantrell thought it sounded strange. Sarcastic. Sad maybe. It was hard to say; his powers of discernment had fled. “We were going away, so I figured, you’d wake up and see the rest of us gone. Maybe your punishment would be that you missed out.” He stopped laughing and lit another cigarette. It was his second pack of the day and almost half were gone. “Would you believe me if I said you weren’t the first thing on my mind morning noon and night?”

            “I’d believe you.”
            “So what do you think?”

            “About telling everyone to leave?” Cantrell asked. He felt naked and ashamed, but somehow a little bit safer than a few minutes before.

            “Yeah. I think it’s a juicier topic at the moment, all things considered.”

            “It’s a good idea. But we need to find those kids. They’re bound to be somewhere. No way they slipped out in the middle of the day.”

            Paulson looked away. Not much of a tell, but enough for the agent to notice. The leader was calculating. Hedging. It was a gut feeling, but Elson’s guts generally ruled proceedings. “This isn’t the ranch from Giant. Not small, either. The lookouts can’t see every inch of fence.”

            “I suppose,” Elson said. He was still shaking from having his cover blown. He wasn’t likely to lay out any theories with a tone of absolute certainty.

            “Plus, they could’ve…”

            “What?”

            James held up his finger and leaned into the wind. “They’re singing. We’ll finish this later.”

            Cantrell reached for the pipe in his back pocket and resumed following Paulson. His head was heavy from worry and humiliation. He tried loading a bowl of tobacco as he walked, but he stubbed the toe of his boot on a rock and spilled the lion’s share. “Goddammit,” he said.

            James glanced back over his shoulder but continued without a hitch in his gait.

            “Yep. Sorry.”

            The trail descended into a depression where they’d cleared out the trees and high grass to create small little amphitheater. There was a rock wall on the far side from where James and Cantrell were coming from. A large, flat slab of granite sat at the base of the wall. Paulson could remember one of the members calling it nature’s stage. Another one called it God’s altar.

            The membership stopped singing when Sofia spotted James and Elson and held up her hand as they hurried down the little dirt slope. Everyone else went silent and turned around.

            “Don’t stop on account of me,” the leader said, stepping through the crowd like traversing minefield. A few were standing against the rock walls, but most were sitting cross-legged.

            Elson stayed at the base of the trail. Sofia smiled and waved, but he didn’t return it the gesture. The pipe was lit now. He took in an uncomfortably large drag and inhaled it without thinking, standing there with no eye to where any of this was going. Sofia looked down and then turned her attention to James as he stood up on the big rock and gave her hand a gentle shake. This is exactly like a normal service, accepting that it’s exactly the opposite of a normal service, Cantrell thought, inhaling until his pipe glowed a deep red.

            “I know we’re all worried about Charlie and Danielle. I’m not here to make any speeches, but I think there’s something y’all need to hear. We keep searching, of course, and we find the kids. After, it’s time we think about heading ho—”  

            “Paulson, you mind if I say something?” The sandpaper voice of Andy Hood was unmistakable. He shot up with both his puffy hands raised. James had never seen the paunchy ex-banker move so fast in all the time they’d been acquainted. Andy’s wife Darlene stood at his side, head proud and high. Something about their solidarity and bearing struck Paulson strange, but he wasn’t about to stop a worried mother and father from saying their piece.

            “Of course,” James said gently, holding out his hands.

            “We know where they are,” said Andy.

            “Sure we know,” said Darlene, clapping her hands together and intertwining her fingers. The smacking sound bounced off the rocks encircling the Membership.  “They went on ahead of us. My boy and his wife are with God right now.”

            James couldn’t respond. Usually when someone hit him with something unexpected, he was able to reel something off out of instinct. That was one of his talents. This time though, he stood there, withering in front of a group of people desperately needing leadership. “They never lost faith,” Andy said, turning left and right. He was actually smiling. Paulson tried to remember when Andy wasn’t wearing that inveterate, jowly look of irritation. “They never lost faith in the Storm. Maybe we’re the problem. We just need to have more patience. Endurance. Stick together. No matter what.”

            The Membership seemed to be in agreement, though James’ senses were so hampered with surprise, he was still mostly atrophied. Elson had skirted his way around the rim of the depression, and after giving Sofia a quick kiss, he tapped Lydia on the shoulder, whispering, “I think you should go up there.”

            The leader’s wife seemed to be put off by Elson’s presence, even more than the fact that her husband was full deer in the proverbial headlights.

            Elson repeated: “It’d be a good idea.”

            She was blinking a lot, sitting with her legs pulled up close. Cantrell didn’t know what the blinking signaled. He hadn’t really focused on Lydia. His attentions were mostly reserved for the loudest and biggest presences. Folks like Paulson. And now, the irascible Andrew Jarrett Hood.

            Lydia was over her surprise at Elson’s unsolicited advice. The Membership was growing loud. Some were excited. A few were genuinely upset. It was an unwieldy bunch. She popped to her feet and gained the stage, hooking Paulson’s right arm with hers. “You were going to tell them we should go home,” she muttered, kissing him on the shoulder.

            He tipped his head to the right and did his best not to move his lips. “Yep.”

            “You think maybe we should’ve talked about that first?”

            “Yep.”

            “Say something,” she said, burying her face against his arm.

            Finally, he broke out of his stupor. “Y’all might be right about the kids. You may be right about everything you just said. But I’m going to be out searching all night, anyhow. Hopefully you will too. Just in case. Tomorrow morning we’ll meet for breakfast, Charlie and Danielle included. If not. Well, we can talk about it.”

            The Hoods looked like Paulson had ripped out their hearts, but he didn’t let it linger. “Go on, now. Get out there and make sure the search is exhausted, twice or three times over.”

            As the crowd scattered, Andy waddled his way up to the base of the rock. Elson leaned an ear toward the proceedings, despite being pulled in the opposite direction by Sofia. Paulson caught a glimpse of Ida Jean Florence, unflappably at work knitting a blanket from her usual spot. Rhett James came roughly through the crowd, sensing unrest. Paulson pointed at his brother and put up a stop sign. “Hey there, Andy.”

            “They wouldn’t just run away.”

            “I’m not saying they did. But we have to make sure they’re not hiding or something. I’m sure it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing right now. You know?”

            “What’s that even supposed to mean?” Darlene asked, hands pressed to her bony little hips.

            “I’m going to go have another look.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if it was the only thing that could be said. He nodded at Ida Jean and hopped off the rock. Paulson thought he caught a hint of a smile from the veiny old woman as he moved his way through the crowd, greeting every member with his usual genial enthusiasm.

            “I guess we get going,” Sofia said. Her voice was gentle and sonorous. A complete turn from the braying of the Hoods. “Are you coming, Lydia?”

            The leader’s wife stood on the rock with her hand over her stomach.

            “Are you sick?” Sofia asked.

            “Fine. I’ll head out with Paulson.” She nodded at the Hoods as politely as she could fake and made for the trail back to the central compound. “Just fine.”

Chapter 8: Hatch

            It was dark when Paulson reached the house of Bobby Delray. It was on a property that ran adjacent to the Membership’s compound. The house and barn were set on a slight hill, under the cover of enough trees to make finding them a tough proposition. Bobby shared a good amount of fence with James. They’d come to certain arrangements when the Membership started construction on the compound. Mr. Delray wasn’t naturally friendly, but he hated the government and was more than happy to take Paulson’s money, seeing as how the government seemed to hate Paulson.  

            “You in there, Bob? Paulson here.” He stepped back from the door. Delray wasn’t the most predictable of men, except his proclivity for defending property. He was an aging Texan living alone in a self-built cabin. One wouldn’t be jumping to conclusions to ascribe to him an affinity for privacy.

            The door opened sharply. Bobby Delray lurched through. He was holding a shotgun in one hand and a bottle of Jim Beam in the other. His wore no shirt or shoes, though he’d been generous enough to put on a pair of dirty jeans before answering his caller. Random puffs of white hair decorated his dark chest and paunch. “Kind of a cliché look, Bobby. You drunk?”

            “What time is it?” Delray asked, using the bottom of the bottle to scratch one of his bushy eyebrows.  

            “Almost nine.”

            “Just about, then. Self-awareness is harder in isolation, so the time gives me a pretty decent gauge on my inebriation.” 

            “Smart. Or not. Hard to reckon if that makes any sense. Your old man voice might be giving undue gravity to a line of bull.”

            “Yeah. What the hell am I ever goin’ to know?”

            “Mind if I have a swig?”

            He looked a little bewildered, but mostly apathetic. “Have at it, Reverend.” Delray was an old black man, raised Southern Baptist. He didn’t have a care for Paulson’s proper title or even if he had one. If a man went around talking about anything related to the Bible, that man was a reverend. “I suppose you’re looking for the two that ran off.”

            The “reverend” James handed back the bottle after one more lengthy swallow.

            “Did you talk to them?”

            “They weren’t in the best of moods, if that’s what you’re wondering. They came right across the clearing, holding hands, looking half-scared, half-pissed. I hollered for ‘em,” Delray said, pausing to wiggle his chin and straighten out his tongue. His mouth appeared to be tensing up. He wasn’t used to so much jawing. “Like I said, I came out and gave a holler. They walked on over, stood where you’re standing. I gave them the whole deal.”

            “You saw them leave?” asked James.

            “Now dammit, I done exactly as you said. Any of your minions come through looking for transport knowing my name, I show them the road.”

            In something like a dozen encounters, it wasn’t uncommon for Bobby to get riled. James took him for a decent enough guy, but he had a limited endurance for people. Paulson understood this and thought he’d learned the ropes; that’s why it stunned him when the old soldier picked up the shotgun and jacked a shell with a snap that cut through the damp of night.

            “Sorry, Bob. I’ll back off.”

            “Ain’t you I’m racking for, Rev. Who’s out there?”

            Paulson turned so he was standing just off Delray’s right shoulder.

            “Sorry. I was looking for my husband. He’s sort of tall. Friendly sort. Yeah,” she said, turning on a heavy-duty flashlight. “That’s him.”

            “She done tracked you, Rev,” Delray whispered, lowering his weapon.

            “Thank you, Bobby.” James wondered if the veteran’s crooked little porch light provided enough illumination for Lydia to see his chagrin.

            She walked the across the little white rocks of Delray’s drive and turned off the flashlight when she got close enough. “Hello there,” she said, overemphasizing a polite affectation. “We haven’t met. My name’s Lydia James.”

            “Robert Lawrence Delray,” said Bobby, standing up straight. “It’s nice to meet you. Seen your face of course,” he added, putting across his bare chest. “On the TV and whatnot. “Rev here says you’re a fine type woman. Had me one of those, once.”

            “That’s nice of him.”

            The exchange between Bobby and his wife wasn’t particularly long or tense, but for Paulson it seemed otherworldly. Time was slower. He was separated from it, something like being a self-aware statue, an exhibit talked about and to but not with.

            This is quite a situation, Mr. James.

            PJ swept his head back and to the right. Sitting in Bobby’s rocking chair was Levi, wearing the original Air Jordan’s and long jean shorts. An oversized Tommy Bahama shirt drooped down his little frame like a flag on a windless night.

            “What—” James started. Bobby and Lydia stopped their introductions, at once annoyed and grateful. This wasn’t a hotel convention with nametags and anonymous people wearing bad suits. This was Texas country, and the world was bearing down. The world was coming to an end.

            Was this your plan when you came out here? I thought you were a scout sniper or a sniper scout or whichever. Didn’t the world’s latest and most boring empire offer a class on avoiding being tracked through the woods by your wife? Better sharpen up, buddy. Lots riding on those big boy shoulders of yours.

            Paulson didn’t look back. He might attack Levi, and thus appear to the others as attacking the air. Instead, he kept his eyes forward and fixed on Lydia, Remembering and reminding himself that they couldn’t see or hear Levi. To them, the Messenger wasn’t reality. Not in this time or place. Where does that put me? the leader thought.

            “You want to start giving me answers?” Lydia asked, arms crossed. “Why not tell me you built an escape hatch into the plan?” She laughed mockingly and jabbed him between the pectorals. “Sorry. God’s plan.”

            You can’t tell her. She’ll be a problem.

            “Piss off.”

            The fact that James had mumbled it didn’t matter a jot. Lydia’s eyes went wide. Bobby Delray stepped away and bent his dusty knees slightly, appearing intent on blasting Paulson’s head from his shoulders.

            Whoops.

            “What in hell is that?” Delray said, pointing his shotgun out to where the clearing met the tree line.

            Despite her reluctance, Lydia ducked down and gained the steps next to her husband, out of the way of the barrel. Not long and she saw it as well. Two lights, coming their way. A young voice calling out across the night.

            As the lights got bigger, Lydia recognized strain in the voice. Soon they could make out the figures of the young couple: Danielle and Charlie Hood.

            “He’s hurt,” Danielle said, trying desperately to hold up her husband. “Hurt bad. Help, Mr. James.” Lydia used her flashlight to scan over the bodies and faces of the young twenty-somethings. A long knife was sticking from Charlie’s ribs. His head was dangling. Even in the scant light, it was obvious the kid’s color was almost gone.  

            This might end up being the best thing.

            “Let me take him,” Paulson said, hardly hearing Levi as he hopped down the creaky cabin steps. “Give him over.” As he took Charlie’s weight, Danielle just about went to her knees. Lydia offered steady hands on the girl’s waist and back. She was soaked through with sweat.

            “I’ll go clear the kitchen table,” said Bobby, turning with a quickness foreign to most his age.

            “What in the world is going on?” Lydia asked. She’d thought she’d been carrying secrets. Looking at her husband, the wounded kid, and the strange old man, it was clear she wasn’t the only one holding out. A charge of shivers ran through the thickest muscles of her legs to the tiny bones in her fingers. She hazarded a glance back at the dark, toward the trees. She had to look. She felt like she was there.

            And she was not alone.  

Chapter 9: Yes

            “You’re trying to stall,” Charlie said, careful only to help and not pull her along, much as he might want to. They took it slow, negotiating a path between gnarly trunks and mean stumps of the live oaks and cedar elms surrounding them. Going slow was probably best; a random tug from a mesquite tree’s thorns could tear a lasting hole in a person’s flesh. The Texas woods were a long way from forgiving. He warned his wife to avoid touching pretty leaves as much as she could. Charlie spent two entire weeks suffering from poison sumac when he was a kid. He’d labored from skin problems ever since and wouldn’t wish the unceasing annoyance on another soul—especially his new wife. The affection was still fresh; he loved and liked her in equal portion. Currently though, he couldn’t tell if those feelings were reciprocated.

            “I’m not trying to stall,” Danielle said. “I just don’t know where we’re going. I’m talking long term. Every hope he had was back with the others.”

            “We have money. Paulson gave me account numbers. We can go anywhere. Another country. No one will remember this in a year.”

            “I doubt that.”

            Charlie turned and aimed his flashlight at her little feet. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but don’t pretend this is a shock.”

            “What if it’s happening now? Or—now? See that,” she said, snapping her fingers, “there they go. And we’re here. We should all be together. How is this not selfish?”

            Charlie tucked the flashlight into his pants and used both hands to kiss her soft lips. “You’re thinking we’re going to screw it up for everyone?”

            “Paulson said we’re supposed to be in one place for the Storm.”

            “The Storm didn’t come, baby. It was never going to.”

            She put her head down and he pulled it to his chest.

            “Besides,” he continued, “that’s not what he told me.”

            “What did he tell you?”

            “Account numbers, Dani. Account numbers and the best beaches in South America. I figure we work on our Spanish and write a memoir. Or not. Don’t you feel better, even now?”

            She looked around. Charlie wasn’t making sense, and it was almost completely dark. They were standing in the midst of thick, unknown woods. It reminded her of a gothic book cover from the 1800s. She expected a sense of dread, the same as any bird leaving a nest, but there was something extra. Something she didn’t want to bring up.

            “The locale isn’t important,” Charlie said, picking up on her reticence. “It’s the freedom.” Look around, not one person droning about the Storm or prepping our fragile little hearts for this or that. We’re out of jail, love.”

            “I guess,” she said, trying to will herself into trusting him. Danielle was twenty-two and had proclivity for going back and forth on a thing. It’s why the last six months had been so wonderful—doubt had been lifted. Now it was back, firmly weighing her down.

            “You’re still blinking a lot,” he said, adding another kiss to her soft lips.

            Her answer came quick and caused her to laugh: “I know.”

            “Let’s keep moving,” Charlie said, lifting her chin. “Maybe another half mile to

the car.”

            They walked on, slowly gaining on their destination. Stepping slowly down into a dry creek bed, she heard the same noise again. Crushed leaves. Something grunting. “Don’t you hear that?” she asked, tugging on his backpack.

            “Probably a deer. Nothing else out here.”

            “It didn’t sound like a deer, Charlie.”

            He didn’t know how to respond. As much as he wanted to chalk his wife’s trepidation up to little girl scared of woods syndrome, he was hearing the same thing. It was no deer.

            They continued stepping over the jagged rocks, aiming their flashlights to guide the way. A branch snapped somewhere close, but it was hard to fix the source. A gust of wind blew down the depression, just enough to drown out their hearing. “Charlie—”

            He turned his body halfway and shined his light at Dani’s chest, enough to see her eyes without blinding them. They were wide, looking past him. “What?”

            “Charlie.”

            Turning back, Charlie found himself facing a large figure covered in foliage, face painted black. The figure lunged forward and shoved a knife into the young man’s ribs. Danielle dropped her flashlight and fell down on top of her husband, shaking and unable to scream. Her head was down. She could tell he was standing there, breathing short and heavy. Another branch cracked, somewhere beyond the opposite side of the bank. When she finally looked up, the attacker was gone. “Oh my God,” she said. It could’ve been a hundred times. She tried a few times to wrest the knife free, but Charlie’s screaming stopped her. He was talking, but it wasn’t much good. The only thing he could say was “yes,” and only when she asked.

            “Charlie, do you know the rest of the way?”

            “Yes.”

            “Can you tell me how to get there? We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

            “Yes.”

            “Which way?”

            “Yes.”

            Her shaking was rabid.

            “Yes.”

            “We’ve got to go back, then.”

            “Yes.”

            As time turned into a hazy nothing, she managed to calm down. It was like there was nothing left to terrify her. Whenever they stopped to rest, she imagined she was in shock. The grunting in the woods didn’t cease. It seemed to be following them as they retraced their steps. Charlie weight was almost twice hers, but they managed to push on, both wrestling the limits of their bodies and their own particular brands of shock. They fell more than once, and each time Dani assumed it was where her husband would die. Each time she managed to get him back to his feet. When they came to the clearing leading up to the cabin, she thought it was a mirage.

            “I’m—not sure—but I think we’re gonna make it,” she grimaced. The pain in her neck and shoulder was excruciating. Her face was cut bleeding and cut from all the branches they’d tumbled through. Each second was another chance to fall down, but each second she reminded herself that her husband had a knife sticking out of his side.

            “Yes.”

            “Keep moving.”

            “Yes.”

            “Come on, Charlie. I love you, Charlie.”

            “Yes.”

            “What in hell is that?” she heard someone say. She saw the old black man standing on his porch, aiming a shotgun with purpose, straight in their direction. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. Either way, a break was in the offing. Maybe Bobby Delray had an old couch she could sit on for the next year. Maybe he’d shoot the two of them down right there in front of his porch. That’d be better than their present circumstances. Maybe God would make good on his promise and take them up with the Storm.

            “We’re going to be fine, Charlie.”

            “Yes.”

Chapter 10: Home

            Wolf Becker ended his call with a sigh and gave his wife a squeeze. She was leaning on his shoulder, watching the show they always watched at that time on that day of the week. For a man with a job trafficking in emergency calls and unsuspected trips, he was remarkably strict about his schedule when it involved what mattered. His was a short list and she was at the top.

            “Was that Mr. Inside?” she asked, gently rubbing his chest.

            “Did the guy make it to the next round?” he asked, pointing at the TV then spreading his fingers in a bewildered manner.

            “He didn’t. They didn’t like him. Something about not having it.”

            “I liked him. He had it. Don’t you think I’d know?”

            “Of course. Years of lecturing. More years solving crimes. The last word in vocal performance.”

            He gave her another little squeeze. She rubbed his chest once again.

            “You’re doing what they just did. Judging off the wrong criteria. It takes a big person to look past the obvious.”

            “Is this going to be a whole thing about big people?”

            He offered a controlled little laugh and gave her another squeeze. She rubbed his chest. “What’s Mr. Inside have to say? Everyone still residing on this plane?”

            “You know I can’t talk about it, Hazel.”

            “Yet you always do.”

            “That’s true.”

            “So. Go on.”

            “Paulson knows about Mr. Inside. He’s known all along.”

            “Oh my God.”

            “That’s what I thought, but it doesn’t sound bad as it might. In fact, our guy says it’s probably a good thing. James wants out, but there are other complications. Some missing kids.”

            “Missing like—missing?”

            “I don’t think so. He’s going to check back in with me later. Nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid.”

            “How many people knew it was supposed to be today? This Storm thing?”

            “Just the people expecting to get caught up in it. And the people involved in the investigation.” He rubbed his eyes. “And a few higher ups.”

            “I can’t believe you’ve managed to keep a lid on it.”
            “My shit is tight. My shit has always been tight.”

            “Ugh. When you talk like the streets…”

            “What?”

            “I think you mean to sound formidable. Creepy and sad is more how it comes off.”

            He offered a muted laugh and gave her a squeeze. She rubbed his chest.

“I’ll go back to impervious and academic. Apologies for drifting lanes.”

            “You can make it up to me.”

            He kissed the top of her head. “I can’t wait,” he whispered, looking back at the show. “Have a look at this guy. Good God is he ugly. Looks like an alien.”

            “He’ll make it.”

            “What are you talking about? He hasn’t even sung yet.”

            “I’ve got a feeling. My feelings are pretty much right.”

            “I’ve got eyes and ears.”

            “Yeah. Mine beat yours.”

            Becker hated the show. She was right. He never picked the right people. It was the last thing he would’ve wanted to watch, except that she wanted to. That meant it was okay by him.

            “You need to get Paulson out of this,” she said. The change of tone wasn’t drastic, but enough for him sit up a little against the back of the couch.

            “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

            “I get it. Really. I do, honey.”

            “Since the beginning.”

            “I wouldn’t be here without him.”

            “Why would you say that? Like I don’t understand?”

            “Lord knows you try. But for me, there’s no trying. It’s straightforward.”

            “That’s good enough for me.”

            “Is it?”

            He was desperate to pivot. “Governor Tiggs worries me. He’s an idiot.”

            “So, it’s not just an act.”

            “But nobody can be as stupid as he seems. It’s like he’s got information I don’t. Something doesn’t feel right.”

            “Besides everything else, you mean?”

            “Exactly. I’ve been losing sleep. I don’t talk about it enough. My lifelong love of sleep.”

            “Well. I guess I’ll have to tire you out, then.” She clicked the TV off and stood up, holding her hand out for him to grab. “Let’s go upstairs, Special Agent Becker.”

            With that, his thoughts were suspended. There’d be no more talk of Paulson James and the Membership that night.

                                                The Second Day: October 17th

Chapter 11: Jonah and Lazarus

            Time. Time. Time.

“It’s worse than ever down there.”

            Ida Jean Florence was in the corner of the loft, knitting slow and deliberate with her age-spotted, translucent hands. The Texas heat had broken all the way; now a brutally cold draft swept uninterrupted through the room. Her thin-lipped smile was unwavering as she kept to her task, head barely rising over the back of the chair. “You worry too much, my boy. Always have. Always have.”

            “Don’t start. Not right now—and how many blankets can you make? Is repetition some sort of special section of your religion?”

            “This one is special,” she nodded at her work. “For protection. You should get away from that window.”

            He mumbled something caustic under his breath.

            “You’ve always been troubled by your duty, but that’s the way of things. My reluctant prophet. Would you like me to tell you the story of Jonah?”

            “Please don’t. Not again. Never again. I’m not—not feeling right.”

            “I’ve heard that before. You’ll be fine in the end. Don’t forget what you did for your mama.”

            “I didn’t do anything. I’ve never done anything.”

            “You saved her.”

            “Ida Jean, I love you, but you’re a crazy old woman. I can’t help but think you were a crazy old woman even when you were young. I saved her? Look around. She’s gone.”

            “Gave her time is what you did. Time. Time. Time. That’s the most we can get. A little more time. And that’s what you gave. Argue if you want, makes no matter. No matter at all.”

            “I’m going to scream. It’s all wrong.”

            “Well go ahead then. Scream at me. Scream at the brother you saved. Scream at all those strangers you saved. Scream at God, if makes you feel better. I think He’s faced tougher adversaries.”

            “Bobby’s,” Paulson said, snapping his fingers. “I can slip out through Bobby’s. Ells will help. Becker will help. I’ll take Rhett and Lydia and never look back.”

            “Mr. Delray’s is no longer an option. Even if it was, are you sure Lydia would want to go?”

            “She’d follow me.”

            “Now you’re sure of things. Tell you this. Your little brother isn’t going anywhere.”

            “He made a mistake.”

            “Are you sure? Did you ask the Messenger?”

            “How do you know about him?”

            Come back. Paulson! Come back.

            “Did you hear that, Ida?”       

            “You shouldn’t worry about me and what I hear. It’s the others and what they know. Guide your spirit towards that.”

            “I’ll walk out the front gate. Nobody can stop me.”

            “A thousand things can stop you. Forces you don’t know about. Faith is key. Let me tell you Jonah’s story again, like when you were a boy and things were just starting. It’ll be a good reminder.”

            Come back, Paulson!

            “There it is again.”

            “You’re about the wrong things, boy. Let me remind you. The things you’ve done.”

            “I don’t want a reminder. Something’s not right. I’m so hot.” His voice was desperate, like a child’s.

            “Strange, seeing how the weather’s turned so drastic. I wonder what that’s about?”

            “Something’s not right.”

            Paulson! Come back!

            He opened his eyes. He was still in the barn, but the perspective had changed. The shade of the room. He was looking up. Lydia was shaking his shoulders. The tips of her dark hair were dancing on his face. It had been her calling him back. Ells was staring down at him from the other side of the bed, hands on his smooth head. It was cold in the loft, and Paulson was sweating. “No stories. No stories.”

            “Imagine you’re talking at me.”

            James blinked away the sleep and sweat impeding his vision and saw Ida Jean sitting in the corner, just where he’d left her. “What is it? What’s happening?”

            “You’re sick, baby. The doc’s got you on antibiotics. It was just a fever dream. Everything’s going to be okay.” Lydia placed a cold washcloth on her husband’s head, stifling tears. Paulson’s hearty complexion was gone; his eyes danced wild as his body continued to shake from the rushes of cold strangling his bones.

            “The Hood kid.”

            “He’s fine, man,” Elson said, stepping forward with a sense Lydia needed a break. “Better than you, actually.”

            “Hospital?”

            “No, brother. No need. He’s already back on his feet. Won’t shut up.”

            Cantrell stopped himself from saying more as he watched James curl his body tight. It could wait. The agent figured Paulson would get his recollection back once the sickness abated.

            It was a strange enough story to tell under the best of circumstances.

            He was lying in his cabin enjoying Sofia when Lydia came knocking the night of the 10th. She was gasping. Blood on her shirt. Told him to come to the barn and to keep it quiet. When he asked why, she said no time. Paulson had asked for him and Doc Dade. Only them. When he arrived at the barn, the kid was barely breathing. Dade was already there, shaking, saying the Hood kid had lost too much blood. There was no time for a hospital. Nothing to be done. Something about being a specialist, not an ER lackey. Lydia was frantic but managed to relay the details. A stabbing in the woods. Nobody saw the attacker. Paulson forced the doctor to keep trying, then pulled Elson aside, still out of breath. Said he’d cleaned the wound and sewed it with up with an old first aid kit.

            “Whose first aid kid?” Cantrell asked, trying to stay calm. The kid’s young wife was crying out to God and muttering about something lurking in the trees. Lydia was imploring the doctor to do something. Anything. “Whose first aid kit?” he asked. “Look at me, PJ. Focus, now. Whose first aid kit?”

            “It doesn’t matter. This is what matters.” James turned him away and showed him a military-style knife caked in blood. “It’s Rhett’s. Rhett did this.”

            “Give it here,” Cantrell said, taking it without another word. “I’ll hang on to it. Come on.”

            By then, Charlie Hood was beginning to breathe dangerously shallow. Paulson left the knife with Elson and pushed Doc Dade aside: “What’s wrong with you?”

            After ordering Cantrell to keep the doctor in the barn, James steadied his voice and asked Lydia to grab their medical bag from upstairs. Inside five minutes, he managed to rig up a transfusion line from his arm to Charlie Hood’s.
            Lydia held Dani as the blood started pumping. Cantrell gave the leader’s wife a wondering look. She told him that Paulson was O negative.

            “I’ve done this before,” James said, squeezing his fist white. “More than once.”

            “I’m starting to figure,” Cantrell said, watching on with his hand firm to the doctor’s shoulder, pinning the physician against any attempts to wriggle free.  

            “Take Dade to the storeroom. Grab fresh bandages and something strong for infections, best antibiotics we’ve.” The commands ceased momentarily as the leader went slightly lightheaded. “And. Anything else he forgot to bring the first time.”

            By the time they returned, Charlie was awake. Paulson was passed out in a chair next to the cot, needle still in his arm.

            “What happened?” Ells asked, watching Lydia trying to wake up her husband.

            “It worked.”

            “Holy shit.”

            Dani was holding her husband’s hand, thanking God for Charlie’s miraculous survival.

            “Thinking maybe you should thank Paulson,” he said.

            “It wasn’t the transfusion,” she said, euphoria making her blue eyes float. “He was gone.”

            “What are you saying?”

            “You know what she’s saying,” Charlie whispered. “He did it. Like before.”

            “You’re saying he healed you?”

            “He was gone,” Dani repeated. “Paulson said a prayer and put his hands on the wound. Then. It was like he went somewhere else. I thought he passed out, but it was more than that.”

            “Wow.” Elson didn’t want to flash too much incredulity at the young bride. It would betray him and do her no good.

            She continued on with a radiant smile. “God worked through him and brought Charlie back. It was like Lazarus.”

            “Wow. Your boy gonna be okay, Lydia?”

            “He’s breathing. I think he overdid the transfusion.”

            With a push, Cantrell implored Dade to make himself useful.

            He didn’t have to convince anyone of anything. They all pledged to keep the events of the night a secret.

            Charlie had an accident, right?

            Yes.

            Yes.

            Of course.

            Right.

            That was that. Or so he told himself. A little lie to gain a moment’s peace. The bloody knife shoved through his belt loop reminded him there was a lot more that needed doing.

            A mountain more.

Chapter 12: Underneath

            “So what’s your deal, Dukes?” asked Special Agent Jordy Phelps. They were humming down I-20 toward the Membership property west of town. Phelps was at the wheel, sneaking not-so-subtle peeks over at the young Texas Ranger with a tight, crooked smile. “C’mon, now. You can tell Jordy.”

            Holding her gaze straight ahead, she returned with a question. “By my deal, you mean what, Phelps?”

            “Okay,” he said, getting a strong whiff of agitation. “Don’t have to tell me. I’m a modern man, though.”

            “A modern man?” she asked, unable to resist. If he was a modern man, she ached for a time machine. Past. Future. No need to be choosy, considering the present.

            “That’s right. We’re both professionals. Just trying some conversation. We are fellow members of the law enforcement community.”

            “Yeah. I’m sorry. What was the original question?”

            “Damnation, Ranger May. I was seeing if you were seeing anybody.”

            “Not really,” Dukes said. “I’m just over a year with the state. Trying to make it my focus.”

            “I see,” said Phelps, spitting tobacco juice into over the lip of a little Styrofoam 7-11 coffee cup, managing to maintain his smile. “I get it. Same way for me when I started in ATF. Plus, finding girls ain’t as easy as it was. You know what I’m talking about.”

            Dukes let a moment pass before deigning to answer. “Girls.”

            “Yeah. I know.”

            “No. You said girls.”

            “Surely did.”

            “Implicating that I, like you, am interested in girls.”

            “I thought that’s what we were talking about.”

            “You have a way of turning chit-chat into a full-blown mystery.”

            “So, you’re about them dudes?”

            “Is this how you always talk? Yes, I like men.”

            “Ok then.”

            “Lanky ones,” she continued, lowering the pitch in her voice. “Cowboy types. Tight jeans. Thin, searching eyes. Tall, but not too tall. Dark eyebrows get me going. Oh. I really like scruffy hair. Good for grabbing. Well. You know what I’m talking about.”

            The junior ATF man thought over himself and nodded at the rearview mirror. “I’d say you got good taste. And I got that last part, you turning on me with my own words. Not as dumb as you’re thinking.”

            “I never said you were dumb. Maybe a little too into playing the part.”

            Phelps looked over again and slowed down the car. “You ain’t got to be mean, all’s I’m after. Admit it. Lot of women in this line go for other women—maybe I put too much weight on that limb. Sorry for intruding. Didn’t mean to offend.”

            His embarrassment was genuine. So were the looks he’d been giving her since they got in the car. Dukes wasn’t mad. She’d taken and given a lot worse. Thin skins need not apply in her work environment. Phelps could be creepy, but it was more accidental than anything. “Take it easy. We’re good.”

            “Good.” Jordy cleared his throat and focused on the road. You try to be nice. “Anyway, why’s the boss got you running out here?”

            “Not sure.”

            “You’re sure. You just don’t want tell me because you’re a girl.”

            Dukes rubbed her eyes and adjusted in her seat, wishing she’d let him go on thinking lesbian. Less bullshit. “Seriously?”

            “Take a joke. For real, though. It’s because Becker likes you. That’s the reason.”

            “He doesn’t like me.”

            “Not like that. Dude’s got ten pictures of his wife in his office. But he thinks you’ve got something. Why else would I be on taxi duty?”

            She pulled her sunglasses down and looked out the passenger window at an endless sea of yellow grass. The land was rarely green, save a few spring months; something she was still adjusting to since her move from Kentucky three years ago. “Not so sure the boss thinks enough about me to have formed an opinion.”

            “Whatever you say.” Phelps took a seldom-used exit and turned south at a rusty stop sign. No traffic lights. “Yeah. Not much going on out here.”

            “That’s why Paulson James picked it.”

            “Suppose so. What do you think of him?”

            “We’ve never had dinner.”

            “Come on. For real.”

            “I can’t say for sure, Phelps. That worries me, maybe more than it should. Doesn’t mean all that much. I’m a worrier.”

            “Comes with the job.”

            “Yep,” she said, holding a lot back. Phelps again slowed down the SUV as they came up to a crossroads. “Lot of open acreage out here. Thought there’d be more cows.”

            “Texas space,” he replied. Dukes noted a poorly-hidden tinge of pride in his voice. No big surprise. The born and raised all carried around reverence for their homeland. It was endearing at times. Other times, nails on a chalkboard. “Here’s the place.” Phelps came to a stop in front of a side road that she would’ve certainly missed. The gate was brown from rust and almost blended in with the rest of the scenery. Trees and high grass threatened to completely overtake the property’s entrance.

            “It’s not even marked,” she said. “This guy isn’t the type that has Amazon delivering on the reg.”

            “Over there,” Phelps said, pointing to the opposite side of the road. “If you’re ever alone, I marked that tree with a white rag. Think to start looking for it about five hundred yards after that last crossroads.”

            “Good idea,” she nodded.

            “I have the odd moment.”

            “Maybe you do.”

            “You want a minute before we make our way? Take another look at that file’s been sitting in your lap the whole ride?”

            “No. I’m ready. I memorized it.”

            “Huh. Okay then. Good enough for me. Rather get this over with and hunt a good breakfast down.”

            She watched him jump out and do a little trot to the gate, dragging it to a stop against a row of wild bushes lining the hardened mud of the entry road. As he slipped back in, he rubbed his hands in front of the heater vents. “Whew. Freezing shitballs out there.”

            “That’s what I keep hearing.”

            “Kentucky ain’t Canada, Ranger May. Don’t act like this is normal.”

            “You’re right.” She smiled and casually nodded ahead.

            “Yes, ma’am.” He started up the road. It was rougher than the one they’d just left. The suspension of the big vehicle was put to the test, lumbering along. “You like mornings?”

            “If I’ve slept.”

            “Yeah, me neither,” Phelps answered, voice going up and down with the SUV. “I’ll take you to a place after, get you chewing on something warm. Just enough grease.”

            “There’s the house. He’s sitting right out on the porch.”

            “Ain’t exactly cause for concern. Folks sit on porches.”

            The car barely stopped before she got out. The exchange with Agent Phelps had thrown her a bit; he wasn’t exactly what she was told. The word likeable crossed her mind as she tucked the thick file under her arm and waited for the ATF man to catch up. She’d just about agreed to breakfast.

            “Mr. Delray,” said Dukes, smiling through the bitter cold wind as they approached the porch.

            “You can call me Robert or Bobby. I ain’t about to hear Mister Delray. Bad enough y’all are even on my property. I’m suing my lawyer for incompetence.”

            “Might make it harder to get a new one,” Phelps said, looking over the old house. It was well-maintained, as was the rest surrounding property. The grounds were full of things serving a purpose. He saw a tidy, dormant garden and a large propane tank near the side of house; typical amenities for the doomsday types. He’d seen plenty in just a short time with the bureau.

            Delray looked at the lanky agent and then back at the smiling blonde. He leaned forward in his rocking chair and said, “I’m thinking I’d rather talk to her if it’s all the same.”

            “No offense taken,” said Phelps, holding out his hands in surrender. All movements slow.

            “Now that you’re trespassing, might as well come out the cold. More questions about the folks next place over, supposing. The big black G-man was already here at length. Told him everything I know.” Delray was slightly hunched as he stood up and opened the front door.

            “After you, sir,” Dukes said, still smiling.

            “Yeah,” he said, returning the expression. Despite lacking a few lower teeth, Delray was in full possession of an old man’s wily charm. “Not inclined to showing strangers your back.” He went ahead inside and said, “She’s the smart one.”

            “That’s what I keep hearing,” Jordy mumbled, closing the door behind, following his colleague and the old vet into a den area. He took a seat in a worn leather chair near the fire without asking as Dukes and Delray traded banter.

            “We don’t think it’s out of bounds to be concerned,” he heard Dukes say. “Your history of antigovernment action is well documented.”

            “How well documented?” asked Delray, seemingly bored.

            “Your ties to domestic militia groups in 87 and 94. You were suspected of running guns down in Central America. Late 90s. Working with the late G. Ernesto Llano.”

            “I’ve already had Big Brother take a good hard run at me. Nothing. This guy told that guy, heard something from another guy, but nothing. I hold my individual sovereignty to heart, but that ain’t a crime. Yet. Got anything else?” he asked, hands behind his head.

            “And then you show back up in Texas. Got married for the first time in February of 2002 to a lovely lady, Tara Sunhill. Her first time to tie the knot as well. You guys buy this place and check off the grid, build your own piece of paradise.”

            “You should write biographies, little ranger,” looking off the younger interrogator to give Phelps a disdainful smirk. “Does he do anything?”

            Before the ATF man could bite back, Dukes resumed her story with a voice colored with greater intensity. “You and Tara must’ve had some good years out here. It probably felt deserved. The wound you sustained in Vietnam, the friends that died. The country that turned its nose up at you for being black, even after all that. If anyone deserved a little of the sweet life.”

            “Where you from, young sister?”

            “Kentucky, sir. Eastern parts.”

            “Used to be a lot of mining in those parts. You see a lot that growing up?”

            “I didn’t see a lot of anything growing up besides the two or three steps in front of me. It wasn’t easy.”

            “Didn’t have much?”

            “That’d be fair to say.”

            “You come at this hard. You come at everything like that.”

            “I’d say you’re about two steps in front of me, Mr. Delray. I see you.”

            “Ooh,” said Bobby, scratching his mostly gray head of hair. “She ain’t fooling around, son.”

            “That’s what I keep hearing,” Jordy repeated. He was close to reining her in. Delray was a crotchety old bastard, but they didn’t have much on him. Nothing, really. The concern was that he might be holding a cache of weapons somewhere on his property for the Membership’s use, but overhead drone passes by the FBI had shown no activity. No one going from one property to the other. He was just a sad old man that hated the government. Phelps was actually starting to feel a tinge of sympathy for Delray; two bracings by law enforcement, essentially for nothing. He leaned toward the fire and looked up to the mantelpiece. It was a picture of Delray and his wife, smiling, enjoying those golden years Dukes had described.

            “Tara passed last year, around this time?”

            “That’s right, Miss Ranger. Did three tough rounds with cancer. Last one was a little too much.”

            “Sorry to hear about that, sir. Are we about done?” Phelps asked, turning sternly toward Dukes. “I’d like to walk around a little, if you don’t mind. I saw that grill around the side. That’s a serious setup.”

            “Walk around. How’s this. Roam to you’re blue in the face, but I’ve got things to do. Had a doctor’s appointment for this morning.”

            “I’m not quite done,” May said, “but I suppose that’ll have to do. After you, Mr. Delray.”

            “Still want your man out in front of ya.”

            “You already know me too well, sir.”

            As they started for the door, Dukes gave the floor two sturdy stomps. Delray’s fist tightened for a second and his shoulders went high before he continued on.

            “We’ll take a quick turn and be off,” Agent Phelps said, pushing his cowboy hat back on. He was still feeling apologetic after Dukes’ hard line, but he thought better than to take sides.

            They door closed behind and they walked around the back of the refurbished house. Phelps explained that it was built in 20s. He pointed to the roof and explained how the solar panels and cistern water collection system worked to make the home self-sufficient. “He’s also got a few wind turbines for extra power supplies, and I’m guessing by the rest of the it, a couple badass generators and redundant heavy-duty battery backups.”

            “What about sewage?”

            “Probably a standard septic tank, somewhere away from the water. He’s done a good job with this property,” Phelps said, pointing to the other end of the house and where the large propane tank sat bolted to a square piece of concrete.

            A gust of wind reemphasized the cold. The thickest jacket issued by the rangers wasn’t enough to combat the chill. Teeth chattering, she said, “You sound just about smitten, Jordy.”

            “Back to the car. I’ve already seen the aerial pictures of this stuff. Just wanted to set eyes on the upkeep.”

            Ranger Dukes wasn’t about to put up a fight. She hurried back to the SUV and rubbed her body as the heater did its work.

            After a minute or two she stopped shaking. Phelps was sitting still behind the wheel, hand over his mouth.

            “What’d you think?” she asked. “About the property?”

            Phelps cleared his throat. “The old man is devoted. Doesn’t let a day go by idle. There wasn’t flake of rust on that tank. I’ve been to a lot of places like this, but most people that want to stay off the grid are just assholes you find out later are running guns or cooking meth.”

            “Different shit, same shit,” Dukes said.

            “Right. But this dude’s not like that. And he’s a vet.”

            “So?”

            “So, I’m a vet. Contrary to popular bullshit, most of us aren’t pill-addled losers.”

            “I never said that.”

            “No. You didn’t.”

            “You don’t like the way I went after the old guy.”

            Agent Phelps turned and showed Dukes a hard expression. “The thing about his wife? I know there’s a file on the guy, but Jesus. Got evidence, I’d love to be let in the circle.”

            “Circle?”

            “Call it whatever, but you know what I’m talking about. Pretending I can’t see y’all going to those little corner office get-togethers?”

            May Dukes wasn’t about to disclose the fact that they had someone inside the compound, though she had a surprising desire to do so. Jordy Phelps possessed a certain depth behind his thin eyes. Most likely, he deserved to know the full story. She’d ask the boss. For now, a morsel. “The floor. Did you notice?”

            “I saw you stomp your feet. What about it?”

            “The entranceway was the only place we walked over not covered in rugs. The wood looked freshly sanded and treated.”

            “So, he’s looking after the place. Guess you didn’t hear what I just said.”

            “Or maybe there was a stain.”

            “Maybe anything.”

            “Did you see how he reacted but didn’t?”

            “Yeah, but I did the same thing.”

            “It was a weird thing to do, me stomping like that, out of nowhere.”

            “I’m aware.”

            “But you just wanted to get out of there, right? That’s why you didn’t say or do anything?”

            “I suppose.”

            “But why didn’t he ask? Delray got nervous and looked down, just for a second. Like a poker player’s tell.”

            “You think he’s got something in the basement besides big-ass batteries and a generator?”

            “Maybe. Mainly, guns are my concern. I think he’s got a cache buried somewhere on this property, and the fact that it’s sharing a good stretch of fence with the Membership tract is disquieting.”

            “Jesus. Guns is your worry? Everyone’s got Waco on the brain.” Phelps was a typical ATF man; he knew a large portion of the public and even others in law enforcement blamed the 1993 disaster at the Branch-Davidian Compound on a few overzealous hayseeds from his bureau. Like most things, it was a little more complicated than the regurgitated narrative. “Paulson James isn’t in cahoots with Bobby Delray. He’s not that type of off-the-rails.”

            “Why’d he look down?” she asked. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

            “Could be a million reasons.”

            “You’re right, mostly likely, but we’re D-Day plus seven. The walls are closing in. I need to rundown everything. That’s why we’re out here.”

            Phelps nodded and wound his way around the smooth gravel of the circular drive in front of the Delray home. “Your memory,” he started. “Is it one of those photographic deals?”

            “No,” she said, finally setting the file at her feet as while she wiggled her toes. “But it’s pretty damn good.”

            “No shit.”

            As they neared the entrance to the property, the ride reverted back to one of drastic bumps and shifts. May Dukes gripped the handles above her window and the one next to her left leg. “You seem pretty sure about James.”

            They finally reached the main road. “I’ve met the guy more than once. Used to go his self-improvement seminars. The whole deal.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “He used to do limited events for ex-military. Seemed a cool dude. Hell of a soldier, no doubt that’s for real. Maybe he’s nuts now, but he helped me get my shit together after coming home.”

            Ranger Dukes wanted to poke holes but decided instead to say nothing at all. The idea of Jordy Phelps having an eye toward any type of self-improvement would’ve struck her as preposterous, but that was an hour ago. He was someone else now. 

            “I get it,” he said, passing through the crossroads without a full stop.

            “What?” she asked, trying to deflect any awkwardness.

            “I never told anybody.”

            “Personal business.”

            “More like a secret I thought I had to keep. Thought I’d let you have that one, so you didn’t feel like you the only one holding back.”

            Dukes coughed awkwardly into her gloves, embarrassed by her transparency.

            “Eh, don’t make a thing out of it. Let’s see about that breakfast.”

Chapter 13: The Good Doctor

            The conference room at the ATF field office was too small for the table. It made negotiating a way around the chairs a tad tricky. Wolf Becker felt weak and exhausted as he sat in the chair farthest from the door, tapping his wedding ring on the table. It was his fifth ring; having to take them on and off made the probability of misplacement high, but it bothered him in his bones. He’d never lose another one. It was a promise that he made to himself. Hazel didn’t deserve disappointment, big or small. Not after the things she’d come through.

            Becker was surprised when she walked in. He stood up sharply, causing his chair to smack into the back wall. “Dr. Jordan Akeso, I presume?”

            She smiled and pulled her rolling suitcase through the door before answering. It was obvious that she was thinking how best to get around the table.

            “We can shake hands later, Doctor.”

            “Right.” She stood up straight and rubbed her hands over her jacket pockets. “Should I sit?”        

            “Of course,” Becker said, reclaiming his own chair. “You must be tired. I hate flying commercial.”

            She smiled exactly as she had when entering the room. “I know you have questions, Special Agent. And I’m probably the last person you want to see.”

            “That would imply that I could’ve anticipated you. Afraid that simply wasn’t possible.”

            “People coming in from the outside probably tell you that they’re only here to help.”

            “How’d you guess?” He tapped his ring loud on the glossy wooden table. A small sign of frustration he was more than happy to let her pick on. “Tell me what you think you’re doing here.”

            “Hopefully the same thing as you. I want to stop the situation from getting out of control.”

            “Comforting.”

            “From what I’ve heard, I assumed a bit more courtesy on your part. Even fake courtesy.” She was still smiling.

            “From what I’ve heard… well, let’s see. Haven’t heard much, I guess would be the most honest take. Besides what I read on the internet. You have no accessible government file.”

            “So what?”

            “What what?”

            “What did you read on the internet?”

            “Dr. Jordan Tia Akeso. Age thirty. Doctorate in religious studies. PhD’s in abnormal psychology and neurochemistry from top programs. Unmarried, no kids. You live somewhere outside the D.C. area, and you come from money. Parents William and Lucinda Gera died overseas in an embassy bombing when you were three. Adopted by best friends of your late parents, Essa and Deena Akeso. Raised in about a dozen countries. You took their name when you were old enough to do so, either for convenience or a sense of obligation, but I wouldn’t guess.”

            “You have a good memory.”

            “Not inherently, but I work at it. I tell younger folks to do the same. Recall can’t be overvalued in this profession. Anywhere, really.”

            “That’s hard to argue.” The young doctor bent over and pulled out a stack of files from her case, arranging them at right angles on the table. “Shall we get on with it?”

            Becker pulled back his shirt and looked at the time. “Whenever you’re ready.” Whether he liked it or not, the meeting was hers to spur along. He’d received a call from Governor Tiggs about the arrival of Dr. Akeso, but the politician had been cagey and nervous, providing few details. It was clear that the decision to bring her in had been made by someone higher up the ladder of authority.

            “I’ve taken a look at all the work you’ve been doing,” she started, flipping open the thickest file, “and I’m impressed. The decision to keep you on as lead seems to have kept things fairly stable.”

            “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

            “It may be that we need to speed things up, however. Some new things have come to light which might complicate the situation.”

            “What things. Exactly?”

            “How soon can I talk to Paulson James?” she asked, looking up from the table. Silence took over as they swapped expressions. Her smile evaporated. Becker flashed an incredulous, condescending grin.

            “What is your specialty, Dr. Akeso?”

            After a quiet, measured breath, she said, “Specialty is the right word.”

            “Is it?”

            “For a situation as unique as this, there probably isn’t a person on the planet one might call perfectly qualified. That being said, it’s possible I’m the closest thing to it. My experience is quite specialized.”

            Becker sat back in his chair, trying to fight the confined atmosphere. He was considering everything she’d said and manner in which she’d said it. “You don’t work for the FBI.”

            No answer. In her silence, she seemed to be studying him.

            “You don’t work for anybody. That would be your answer, if you were at liberty to give it.”

            “I work for a lot of people. And I try to help.”

            “I’ve got a guess.”

            “Okay.”

            “My guess is, the government’s got you on a big fat open-ended retainer. CIA. Homeland. They bring you some real hard asses. Religious people doing crazy shit in the name of whatever God. Crazy people doing shit and saying it’s for God because it’s a nice excuse to do unthinkable things.”

            “Interesting.”

            “Maybe your specialty is that you believe in science and religion. Some bureaucrat in Washington thinks of you as a useful pet, someone to burrow into the brains of captured Islamists and militant backcountry Christians. You can understand, maybe, but you’re able to maintain a clinical approach.”

            “You’re a perceptive man, Agent Becker.”

            He started to rise from the chair. Dukes and Phelps were somewhere in the office, waiting to report on their encounter with Bobby Delray. Elson Cantrell was set to check in within the hour. There was a surveillance briefing scheduled for noon. State and local would be there, along with his people and the FBI. Things to do. There was no time to sit about, playing guessing games with some overeducated circumspect upstart.

            As he buttoned his suit jacket, Dr. Akeso started sliding the files across the table. “You’ve got a lot going on. It’s not lost on me.”

            “What all this?” he asked, looking down at the folders. There were four. He stood over them, interested but unwilling to look until she conveyed an answer.

            “Those files contain most of the relevant intelligence we have on four compounds around the country.”

            “What’s that got to do with the Membership?”

            “Quite a lot. That’s the interesting part. They all vary in size and the locations are spread out across the country, but they all claim that they were supposed to be taken on October 10th.”

            Wolf Becker drifted back in his chair in something like a trancelike state. “That’s not possible.”

            “Take a look for yourself,” said Akeso. “There are dozens of explanations, though none render a complete picture.”

            “Why wasn’t I told about this sooner?”

            “You probably should’ve been, but a lot of the information is new. There were a few people that slipped away from compounds in Oregon and Virginia. Four people in all. Strangely…”

            “Go on.”

            “They were young married couples. And they left family behind. Just about the same age. Got away the night of the 10th. A lot of coincidences. They provided much of the information we have, but it doesn’t amount to a lot going forward.”

            “What’s the theory?”

            “You’ll have to be a little more specific, Agent Becker.”

            “At these other camps. What are they still doing there?”

            Dr. Akeso leaned over the table, trying to connect with Becker’s hollow gaze. “I suspect they’re doing the same thing Paulson’s people are doing. Waiting for it to happen.”

            “Oh my God,” Becker said, unable to hide the dread in his voice. The phone in his jacket pocket started to vibrate. He barely noticed.

            “Yes. Anyhow, do you think I might be able to talk to Paulson James?”

            “Of course,” he said, composure slowly creeping back into his voice. Doctor Akeso clasped her hands together and resumed perfect posture. “I’ve got a call,” he said, smiling and looking toward the door. “One of my agents.”

            “Oh. Sorry. I’ll go see where they’re making coffee.”

            “Appreciate it. Won’t take long.”

            The door closed and he answered. “You got anything that can’t wait for an hour or so, Elson?”

            “You told me to check in. This is me doing that.”

            “I’ll call you back.” Becker set the phone down and started working his way through the first file with half of his mind occupied on the person who had brought them. He needed to know a lot more about Dr. Jordan Akeso and the bombshell of information she had suddenly produced. He thought back on the last few minutes and his reactions. He’d gone from surly to shocked and then agreeable. He’d leave it there, letting the young upstart believe she had his full and total cooperation. Maybe this new information was completely legit. Maybe not. He’d make no assumptions about the girl or anything else.

            Becker closed his eyes, wishing for a nap. The pace of the world was unsustainable. More variables kept coming his way, along with the sense that time was running out.

Chapter 14: Poker

            Elson Cantrell hung up the phone and locked the door to his cabin behind him. The air was a merciless shock to the system. High winds gusted through the small buildings, making it hard to see. Despite the heaviness of his boots, he started running the quarter mile toward the center of the compound. He needed to check on Paulson. It had been a trying morning, but it looked like the leader’s body was finally beginning to put up a fight.

            Halfway to his destination, he squinted through the wind to see a group of twenty or so members hurriedly moving in the direction of the rec center. He was well behind but decided to follow. It was only wise to continue to act as one of the Membership, no better or worse than anyone else. “Wait up!” he shouted, but it was like yelling into oblivion.

            When at last he was able to yank the door closed, he saw that group was cloistered around the fire. After shaking off the cold, it was immediately apparent that something was wrong. People were shouting over each other, and it was all directed at one person. Freddie Sandusky, a mild-tempered former pilot stood with the hearth at his back, wearing an expression of terror. Pushing through the group, Elson yelled, “What in the world!?”

            “We caught him, Elson.”

            Cantrell found himself a measure of space and saw Janie Nelson, the gray-haired widow from Dallas, poised close to Freddie. Elson didn’t know Janie very well, except that he’d seen her many times casually walking with Lydia James around the compound, always with a sweet smile on her colorless face. He hardly recognized her. Janie was standing straight and strong, red-cheeked with menace in her eyes. She was holding a hot poker next to Freddie’s torso and appeared intent on using it.

            “Burn him,” somebody said.

            “Do it!” yelled another. “It’s for his own good.”

            Elson took a step toward Janie but stopped short. He decided not to argue with the mob. Instead, he addressed Freddie. “What’d you do, Freddie? Why’s everyone so riled at you?”

            “Help me, Elson. Please.”

            “Don’t listen to him. Roger went into his cabin to say hello. Found him packing. He was trying to leave. To leave us behind. Not even a care for what that might do the rest of us. It will ruin everything.”

            Cantrell had his hands out, trying to calm down the group. It was useless.

            “Make him understand!” Roger screamed. He was a big, thick-boned man with a voice that matched his physique.

            The rest followed: Make him understand.

            Elson felt no choice but to take a measured chance. “Maybe we should wait. See what Paulson says. I was with him earlier and he’s coming around.”

            The mention of the leader’s name had some effect. The room quieted enough to hear Freddie’s sobbing.

            “He’s pathetic,” Janie sneered, casting a dark look at the other members. “We can’t wait. It’s our duty to make him understand.” She raised the poker a little higher. It was only inches away from Freddie’s fleshy cheek.

            “You meaning to kill him?” Elson asked.

            “Of course not. We can’t. But we can mark him. So everyone knows and makes sure to remember. It’s an act of love.”

            Cantrell thought he had more time to appease the situation, but it was a gross miscalculation. Janie thrust the end of the poker against Freddie’s cheek, holding it until burning flesh was the only smell in the room. The undercover agent was motionless, forced to watch as the group cheered the act on. Once applied, Janie could hardly tear the metal away. It had more or less fused with the skin. Freddie fell to the rug alongside the poker. He was trying to scream, but the wound partially muted the sound, making it all the more disturbing. Elson stood with the group and listened to Janie tell Sandusky that he was forgiven. He wanted to pick up the poker and drive it through the old woman’s guts. He’d enjoy watching her bleed out slow, making sure she stayed conscious as he held her feet against the fire. He’d do the same to everyone who stood by and watched.

As he had.

            “Serves you right, Freddie,” Elson said, pointing down with a look of disappointment. The act was making him sick to his stomach.

            “Elson,” Sandusky managed, still in the horrible phase where one has to touch the wound but can’t.

            Cantrell sat down and rubbed the middle-aged man’s back as he stayed clenched in a fetal position. The tears and agony continued while the Membership finally left them alone. When the door finally closed them off from the whipping weather, the only noise in the rec center was the crackling of the fire and Freddie Sandusky, whimpering into a rug. “Let me get you up, Freddie.”

            “What’s the oint?”

            “C’mon, bro. The doc needs to have a look at that.”

            “Is it orrible?” The more he talked, the more it became obvious that Sandusky’s speech might be irreparably affected by the burn.

            “No, Fred. Everything’s gonna be alright. I got ya. Up now.”

            “Aren’ you mah ah me?”

            Elson almost dropped the skinny little man back down to the floor. He felt nothing but pity, but he was in one of the specialized weird spaces his job tended to put him, wills warring inside. As he took more of Sandusky’s weight to set him on a couch angled a little way from the fire, of course he wanted to unleash, denouncing what he’d just seen as one of the most needlessly vicious things he’d ever been forced to endure. Instead, he chose to deflect. “You hang here and I’ll call on the doc. I don’t want that wind hitting the burn. Bitter balls out there, my friend. Never seen the like.”

            As he flopped on the sofa cushions, Freddie pulled his tongue away from the burned side of his face and asked, “Ur yuu mah?”

            “You heard Janie, Fred. Forgiveness.”

            Sandusky slumped and held his jaw underneath the wound, looking up at Cantrell through blood-red eyes. Elson started to feel angry at the little man for getting caught, then sick at himself for getting so twisted. Similar cycles would continue until he stopped thinking and started doing. First thing, get the doc to come around. “Be back quick as I can.”

            Cantrell took the door through the small kitchen and cinched up his heavy coat. The grass was frozen, cracking underneath his quick steps. The wind had slackened, at least, allowing him a little quiet to think. As he cut around a utility shed toward Dr. Dade’s cabin, Sofia was heavy on his mind. There was certainty about his feelings for her, even in all this craziness. He had no handier word for it than love. Don’t be stupid, he thought, but good sense wasn’t going to win the moment. He walked by Dade’s and down a row of identical little buildings until he found Sofia’s. She cracked the door and smiled in spite of the frigid blast of air, beckoning him inside.

            “That’s the face I needed to see,” she said, rising to her toes to kiss him firmly. “Good grief, Elson. You need to grow some hair. Your head is freezing.”

            He stepped away from her embrace and looked at his feet. “What would you do if someone tried to leave?”

            “What’s this about?” she asked, pulling her thick knit cardigan tight at the buttons.

            “I need you to answer the question, Sofia. I know it sucks, coming at you like this.”

            “Something’s wrong. You’re not yourself.”

            Understatement of the century right there.

            “Please.”

            “What could I do?” she asked, sitting on the end of her bed as he stared straight into her wavering eyes. “I guess I might talk to Lydia. Or Paulson, if he was up to it.”

            “Okay.”

            “No,” she shook her head.

            “No, what?”

            “I’d tell you about it. I trust you, Elson.”

            It wasn’t the worst thing to hear, but it didn’t supply relief. Just more confusion about what to do next.

            “There’s obviously something going on. Will you please tell me?”

            Nothing stupid. Not yet, anyway. “We need to find Dade.”

            “He’s trying to leave? I never would’ve expected. Feels like that man would follow Paulson anywhere.”

            “No, it’s not—we need him to fix up Fred Sandusky.”

            “What happened to Freddie?”

            “Freddie got fucked up by Janie.”

            Sofia reeled back at the harsh language. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just so messed up. Someone caught Fred picking up stumps. Damn posse out there about lynched the little guy.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “I didn’t either. Not until I saw it. That crazy old bat just about burned Freddie’s face off. Then after, she absolves him. Like that’s not the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. That could be me,” he said, looking at the beautiful woman before him. She was more than that. Sofia was something to lose.

            Sofia was already putting on her coat. “Let’s go help him.”

            Elson was looking down again, rubbing his forehead raw. “This isn’t good.”

            “Whatever you’re thinking, it can wait. Dade, then to Freddie. We make sure he’s okay. Then, I think it’s probably best you talk to Paulson. He needs to know.”

            In her life before the Membership, Sofia had built a small venture capital firm into a seriously heavy hitter. She’d told Elson the story, but it never made sense. He always pictured that world to be full of hard-nosed assholes that would sell their mothers down the road for a chance at the next thing. She would laugh and say that she had her own way of operating. She made it sound like purposeful kindness. He was seeing it now. She’d made a list of things to do and was standing there, ready and waiting for him to get it together.

            “Okay,” he said, guiding her out the door. He was proud of her. Glad that she was with him. But the fact that she hadn’t answered the question still had him worried.

Chapter 15: Interrupted

            Lydia was on her knees near the end of the bed, tightly grasping her husband’s sweaty hands. “You need to rest. Why are we doing this?”

            Despite his weakened state, Paulson was relentless about getting roused to meet the day. “On three,” he grunted, gripping down on her hands with equal force.

            It took all she had to raise him to a sitting position, but once she did, she watched him move like he was on rationed momentum, swinging his feet to the floor and rising up on wobbly legs.

            Lydia bit her lip as he staggered to the closet, arms at the ready in case his will faltered. It was slow going, but eventually he managed some equilibrium.  

            “I’m a glorious sight,” he said, smiling before a short fit of coughing seized his attempt at levity.

            “You’re the beautiful man I married,” she said, unable to hide vulnerability in her delivery.

            “Nice try. Beautiful man. Wearing long johns under his pants and two ugly sweaters. If you had an inclination to have your way with me, it would take a good chunk of resolve.”

            “That’s true,” she said, almost able to let a laugh escape through nascent tears. “But you’ve talked your way into things before.” The comment was supposed to be funny, but it didn’t land.

            Considering.

            He looked around the loft and raised his hands like he was showing off a display called This Horrible Situation. “Don’t worry, Lyds. Misplaced humor is funny in its own way, if you think about it.”

            “Sorry, PJ. Not my best.”

            He walked gingerly toward his petite, pretty wife, looking gaunt despite the extra layers of thick clothing. “I never much liked the word stupid, but I’ll admit to having seen it in the flesh. You, my love, are the furthest thing from.” He wiped the beads of sweat off his shaky hands and placed them on her delicate cheeks. They were warm and wonderfully red, begging to be touched. “I’d kiss you, but I’m gross. Probably shouldn’t even be touching.”

            Lydia countered with an assertive move, forward and up. Their lips met with firm familiarity, but there was something extra and necessary in it. The week had left them with things undone and unsaid; things they could only talk about and share alone. Now that the chance had come, words seemed a waste of time. Their lips grew slick with wet as the kissing went on, turning more passionate as their tongues did the dance of new lovers. Paulson moved across the bottom of Lydia’s jaw and down her neck, sure to leave no surface untouched. “Were you setting this up?” she asked, eyes closed as he continued. “The thing. Me having my way.”

            As she reached down the front of his jeans and under the thermals and regular underwear, James pulled her close. “It’s weird,” he breathed. “I feel. So much better. Just happened, can’t explain.”

            “You’re still lightheaded, aren’t you?”

            “I only think ten or twenty percent of my body is actually online.”

            “This guy is.”

            “Yeah,” he laughed. “He’s in the game.” Paulson pulled up her sweater just above her bra but didn’t have the strength or didn’t feel like he had enough time to pull it all the way off. He was getting two or three steps ahead with every perfect bungle and miscalculation hardwired into the male species over epochs of evolution.

            “This is crazy,” Lydia whispered.

            “Sanest thing I can remember.”

As he unbuttoned her jeans, she pulled away slightly and held the two uncinched flaps in one hand, still rubbing his body with the other, letting him kiss her chest with teenage abandon. “That’s okay,” she said, kneeling down. “Just let me. I want to.”

“Are you serious? I’m thinking we’re ready.”

            He probably wouldn’t notice the little bump in her belly, but even the slightest risk of him finding out in such a fashion was too high a price. God it’d be so good though.

            “You’re really staying down there? I’m not one… to… sure…”

            No more talking for a spell. He leaned up against one of the bed’s thick bannisters and let things run their course. The only thought James had was an ephemeral one, quickly evaporated; that he wasn’t thinking at all.

            And then reality, calling out to chop his moment to bits. “Lydia! Is it okay to come up? Is he feeling better!?”

            Lydia shot to her feet and hustled with heavy feet to the bathroom sink. Paulson watched her rinsing, buttoned his pants with some trouble, then moved to the loft’s rail. He saw Janie Nelson downstairs in the living room area and waved weakly down to her.

            “Oh, praise God. It’s true. We knew you were feeling better. Do you think it was another test?”

            “Another?” said Paulson, instantly deciding to leave it. “How are you, Mrs. Nelson? You look different, somehow, and I don’t think it’s just my changed vantage.” He smiled white and wide, blinking through the dizziness. He couldn’t help it, even after all that had transpired. It was as much a reflex as trying to catch a falling object from a table, his need to perform the duty of charming caretaker and mostly inaccessible friend. These were terms he used to define what was already so, and he never used them, except around Lydia. They weren’t self-effacing or self-aggrandizing. It was who he was to people; performance, innate traits and characteristics, learned social skills, everyone was doing a bit for other people, no matter how genuine the article. He once told Lydia that some bits get booed off the stage. Some get cheers. It was that simple, his meteoric success. She’d ask if there was something God given about it. He used to say maybe, but usually he’d leave God out of it. Up until the day God became all of it.

            “Hey, Janie,” Lydia smiled, placing half her hand on the rail and the other hand on top of her husband’s.

            “I was saying Janie looks different,” Paulson said, trying not to cough or linger in wishing to be thirty seconds ago. “Don’t you think so?”

            Taking a robust assessment, Lydia said she agreed. “What is it with you, young lady?”

            “It’s just faith. Faith that soon we will be with God, as long as we stay together.”

            “You wear it well, Janie.” Paulson expected to see the little widow put her head down in humility after the compliment. She was one of the Membership that fawned over him too much, making him uncomfortable in one situation over the years. Everyone called Janie a widow, but that was a generous appellation. Her husband died a decade or so ago after leaving her for another, better-looking version. Childless and alone, Janie carried on a façade that Greer (the deceased adulterer) was a devoted and loving partner right down to the end. A breakthrough came at a small group session, before the night everything started to change. She was a big contributor to Paulson’s motivational organization; Greer had been a wealthy man and the divorce papers were never filed before he died. James would’ve consented in any case, but she felt it earned her the right for a few private minutes away from the rest of the small group. She shook and trembled as she admitted what only her and God and the young girl her husband was sleeping with knew. After a protracted cry and intensive therapy with Paulson, Janie went from a shut-in to someone that could function in a seemingly normal way, though to those close they knew her limitations.

            Those limitations were what James was referring to. She wasn’t trampling herself in any noticeable fashion. No nervous hand wringing. No shuffling around. Janie was looking up at them with such pride that it almost felt like they were at her feet.

            “Anything else going on?” Lydia asked. She knew and liked Janie more than Paulson ever had chance to. Knew her as someone to confide in, a person without miles of ego to trip over when seeking out a path to an honest opinion.

            “Nothing, really,” she answered, posing with her hands akimbo. “There was a little problem, but God turned it into something glorious. He always does. Everything will be perfection and glory, any moment now. Seeing Paulson,” she stopped, overcome by the high she was riding. “Seeing Paulson back on his feet tells me everything I need to know.”

            James shivered as she spoke, wondering if it was the frigid room or the fact that he was being spoken to in vagaries by a person he didn’t recognize.

            “How did you know to come?” Paulson asked flatly. “That I was feeling better?”

            Before she could answer, the stiff door was wrenched open and a fresh blast of cold rushed up from the bottom floor of the barn house. Elson Cantrell and Sofia Ivrea entered like they were closing themselves off from the leaky part of a ship.

            Tiny Janie almost fell over from the atmospheric rush when she turned around to see the new arrivals. “There he is,” she said, regaining her new gravitas, “Elson told us. Over at the rec center.”

            “You know what happened, then?” Cantrell checked the latch on the door and walked by Janie to stand just under Paulson and Lydia.

            “We’re having a slow go at gleaning specifics,” said Lydia, clutching her husband’s hand tighter against the railing.

            The undercover agent didn’t turn back toward the older woman. He adopted a hard aspect and kept his eyes resolved on the leader. “Go ahead and give him the specifics, Janie.”

            The agent’s phone shook in his jacket. He took it out and looked at the new text. Three numbers, from Wolf Becker. 666. What now? “Do the, Janie. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

            “You’re only supposed to make calls in an emergency,” brayed the Widow Nelson.

            Cantrell took a breath and clenched his rugged jaw before releasing it to answer. “I apologize. App notification. I forgot I had it on me.”

            “Tell us what happened, Janie,” Lydia said.

            “Mr. Sandusky was caught trying to leave.” There was pride and defiance in her voice. “We found out. But it’s no problem. Nothing to worry about. He’d forgotten about the glory to come. Now he’ll remember.”

            Paulson was weary of watching from the rafters. Lydia steadied him as they made a careful journey around the railing and down the stairs. Breathing was hard. Memories of a middle school pneumonia and a more sane Ida Jean flooded back as he struggled for air. “He’ll remember?”

            Janie was just a few feet away, looking less confident in Paulson’s immediate space. Even hunched and sickly, he was a foot taller than her. “We marked him.”

            “We marked him,” Elson repeated, unable to hide a dose of flippant contempt in the delivery. “Doc’s over there now, all the good it’ll do.”

            “He doesn’t seem to be a very confident doctor,” Sofia added. Her politeness was out of place set amongst the rising tensions, though Elson recognized it as an earnest moment in an otherwise spiraling situation.   

            “Burned half his face off with a fireplace poker for packing a bag.”

            “You did this to Fred Sandpiper?” Paulson said, boring a hole through little Janie. She was all over the place with her reactions, bouncing back and forth between the needy loner and the self-righteous zealot. “Freddie’s one of the sweetest people on the planet. He’s been with us—with me. Since the very beginning.”

            “And he was trying to leave. If he hadn’t been spotted he could’ve gotten to that little plane. No one could’ve stopped him. Everything would be ruined.”

            Paulson was trying to imagine what he could’ve missed during his convalescence. Entire personality changes.

            Tectonic shifts in morale.

            “You thought that hurting him was the only way?” James asked, inching closer to Janie. Elson was a loaded gun. Sofia was wide-eyed and overwhelmed. Lydia looked over at Cantrell and then back to her husband, trying to figure out what he was going to do next.

            “We talked about it. The Hoods agreed. Everyone agreed.”

            “I understand,” Paulson said, wrapping her up in his arms. “Convictions can force our hands.”

            “Exactly,” Janie said, rubbing her wrinkly cheek against her leader’s chest. There was no greater feeling then his embrace.

            “Lydia, could you go make sure the door is locked?”

            She looked at her husband as he rocked the little widow back and forth. His eyes were full of intensity.

            “Elson,” Paulson said, watching his wife checking the locks, “you need to catch me up.”

            “How you feeling?” asked the agent.

            “Doesn’t look like I have time to be sick.”

            “Nah, man. Love to say otherwise, but nope.”

            “What do we do here?”

            “Why are you asking him all the questions?” Janie snapped. “Does the pregnancy have you worried?”

            Shit. Cantrell was done with words. He walked up and snatched Janie from Paulson’s arms. She couldn’t cry out or put up a fight. His choke hold would do no lasting damage, but she’d be out for a decent spell. Though he’d never admit to enjoying the use of force on another person, this was an episode in which he couldn’t help but take a bit of satisfaction. There was something fresh and uniquely corrupt about Janie Nelson. If the malignancy had always been there, he hadn’t noticed. As a cop it nagged him, but analyzing her pathology could have to be set aside for later. Right now, she needed to be neutralized.

            As she wheezed her way slower and slower until fully unconscious, Cantrell dropped her on the couch. The agent looked hard; his eyes and mouth, usually so relaxed, were now taut and severe. He looked over his shoulder at three distinct expressions. Paulson was stoic, but Elson could tell his mind was going a billion miles an hour. Lydia was concerned but focused, mostly on the shaking Sofia.

            “Was that the best move?” James asked, stifling a cough.

            “Bitch is lucky. I had a mind to kill her.”

            “Okay,” the leader said offhandedly and looking down, like he was trying to delete the agent’s previous statement from history. “What’s next?”

            “This needs to be over. Before things get really out of hand. I need to call my boss.” Elson fished out his phone and tapped the plastic. “Something isn’t right on his end. That was no app update.”

            “I didn’t figure.”

            Sofia’s olive skin had turned sour and sallow. Her expression was hard to define, as were her feelings. Elson, who are you?”

            “We’ll give you guys a minute,” Lydia said.

            “We might need a few minutes ourselves,” James added, fixing on his wife’s stomach. “Pregnant?”

            “Give me a minute,” Cantrell said, taking out his phone and pulling away from Sofia’s arms as she tried desperately to grip him in one place. “This is sort of important.”

Chapter 16: Reminders

            Rye and Hart Dartford were brothers, the youngest of the Membership. They’d been strongly encouraged to watch over Freddy Sandpiper at the rec center by the Hoods and the inner circle that had coalesced around them over the last week. Rye, the youngest by eleven months, eagerly spoke up for the both of them, wanting to be involved.   

            “We made you some soup,” Hart said, emerging from the little kitchen with an orderly tray. Rye sat on the couch next to Sandpiper, remote control in his hand. “It’s getting to be about lunchtime.”

            “I ca heet.”

            “He says he can’t eat,” Rye translated.

            “I got it,” Hart said, setting the food down on a metal folding chair next to the couch. “But maybe give it a shot.”

            Sandpiper moaned and dropped his head. “Come on, Fredster. You think the face thing is going to matter when the deal is done? How long could it be? Ants in the pants, dog.”

“Ans en eh ands?”

“You came down with a case. It’s all good.”

            Hart smiled awkwardly as his little brother tried to encourage the disconsolate little pilot. “What’s with the setup?” he asked.

            Rye stood up and brandished the remote. “Yeah. I moved some stuff around so we could watch the TV.”

            “I see that. What for?”

            “I brought the video I edited. The one of Paulson doing his thing. You remember, I made a video?”

“I remember,” Hart said.

“Thought maybe it’d get Freddie back on track. Like a reminder.”

            Sandpiper made an indiscernible noise and sank into the cushions.  

            “Think maybe Freddie’s full up on reminders for one day?”

            “Oh,” Rye answered, scratching his head and looking disappointed. He was idealistic and ever eager, bursting with good intentions that sometimes needed to be reined in. His tendency to let emotion override logic was admirable and understandable, especially considering his age. “Sorry, man. I guess you’re probably right.” He scratched his smooth chin, reflecting on his straightforward ways. “Dang. My bad, Fredster.”

            “Can I talk to you for a second?” Hart asked waving his brother over.

            “Be right back, Fredster.”

            They walked to a decent remove before the elder sibling started. “We’re not supposed to watch those without the rest of the Membership. You shouldn’t even have a copy.”

            “Which never made sense to me. It’s not like we weren’t there.”

            “Paulson has his reasons. You think you know better than him?”    

            “No. And that’s not fair.”

            Perhaps it wasn’t. After all, Hart was the reason they were there. After the sudden death of their parents three years ago, he became the ostensible head of the family. “It could get you in trouble, Rye. Hey. Look at me. We need to be careful right now. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

            “About what?”

            “I don’t like what’s happening around here.”

            “Dude.”

            “I’m not jumping to conclusions, little brother. It’s just with Paulson out of commission, we need to keep it tight. No rocking the boat.”

            “You heard them talking. Paulson’s going to be fine. You don’t always have to worry about everything. There’s a big boy standing here.”

            “It’s not me busting your balls for the fun. Just—”

            Hart’s sentence was cut short. Freddie had gotten to his feet. The video file from Rye’s laptop was playing on the TV screen.

            “Guess he wanted the reminder.”

            “Seems so.” Hart sighed and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. They walked back to Freddie and the TV. Rye resumed his place next to Sandpiper while Hart paced back and forth, trying in vain to ignore the footage.

            It was just over a year ago, taken at one of Paulson James’ “small” seminars for people that were longtime veterans of the self-knowledge program. James was giving an impassioned speech about enduring pain and how to bravely face the inevitabilities of life. As the video zoomed in, you could see his face. He was pale and hunched at the shoulders, sweating into his eyes. His wife was in her usual spot, sitting just behind and off to the side. The speech seemed to become harder to deliver with every passing minute. Paulson’s style was to use of every inch of the stage, but here he was welded to the podium, using it to keep himself up. Lydia rushed over and whispered something into his ear. She could see that there was obviously something wrong. He smiled and wiped his brow before kissing her on the forehead. She returned to her seat slowly wearing an understandably reluctant face.

            “Ere eh chums,” Freddie said. Rye sat up. Hart stopped pacing.

            The camera panned left and the image went fuzzy before finding focus on a woman being helped to the stage. She was African-American and had an attractive face, despite being underweight and obviously overrun with sickness. One of the two men helping her along had a chair that he placed next to the podium. They gently lowered her down. Paulson thanked the helpers and knelt next to her, placing her hands in his. He thanked her and fought through a steady cascade of tears, eventually managing to explain the unusual situation. This was not his idea, he said, but she was not to be stopped. He’d tried to dissuade her, he said, then went on to warn the crowd against similar action. There wasn’t enough bravery in the world to face her down. Bravery could be talked about, but here was the real thing, more real than any collection of words.

            The crowd, around a thousand people, stood up and gave an ovation that lasted at least five minutes. Whenever it seemed they’d exhausted their hands, the applause would rise again. They were looking at a woman who had spent years battling a rare form of cancer. Doctors had given her months, but that wouldn’t do. No amount of debilitating radiation treatment dampened her spirit, despite the fact that even the best-case scenarios could only mean a short period of remission. Protracted hospital stays couldn’t break her will. Needle after needle, transfusion after transfusion. Unending nights spent on cold bathroom floors. The broken looks of loved ones staring back at her. Wave after wave of misery crashing down upon her, knowing the waves would keep on coming. All that, and still she felt a duty to be there that night, to offer herself as a humble example to those in the audience feeling unable to fight on through whatever struggle lay before them. She was one of Paulson’s first patients, he said, when he was just a veteran with a diploma on the wall that hadn’t had time to dry. Years before the cancer. Years before anyone knew who he was or had any reason to care.

            He asked her if there was anything she wanted to say. The crowd noise was swallowed up in a vacuum. She took the mic, barely able to manage the weight, and said that she was thankful for all of it. He asked if there was anything else. She explained that any more words would be too much. The stage couldn’t handle another who lacked the ability to shut the hell up.

            The crowd erupted again, a three-part mixture of laughter, tears and applause. The woman started to work her way to standing, waving James’ attempts to help. When she finally managed to rise, he asked for the honor of a hug. Lydia was standing close, crying into cupped hands. Despite the noise and all the onlookers, the embrace somehow managed to come off as private. They were in their own universe, crying for each other and saying things no one else would ever hear. When the moment couldn’t get any more emotional, Paulson began to waver on his feet. He took a step away and tried to recapture his balance, but it wasn’t to be. James fell away, crashing into the podium before thumping down on the stage. They were trying to stop the blood coming from Paulson’s head. The crowd began to scream. The camera gyrated as fuzzy figures rushed about and the image went to black.

            “You were there, right amigo?” Rye asked.

            Freddie nodded slightly.

            “I’ve heard you talk about it,” Rye went on. “Two weeks later she was given a clean bill of health. Medically impossible and all that, according to the doctors.”

            Again, Freddie nodded.

            “Do you know why she’s not here with us?” Hart asked from the behind the couch.

            Freddie shrugged his shoulders.

            The next clip was lower quality, filmed on a phone. It was Rhett, telling a story to a circle of ten or fifteen people. He was showing them the scar on his head, how it ran from his right eyebrow back behind his left ear. He did his best to describe it. A firefight in Afghanistan. Somehow his unit commander had fouled up; they were off grid and exposed. Just so happened to be where Paulson and three or four guys were set up, scouting for a special ops mission. One chance in a million that he runs into his little brother in the middle of nowhere like that. A happy reunion and introductions all around until an RPG hits and they start taking fire from an overwhelming enemy force. Not much to remember after that, until he woke up in a hospital hundreds of miles away. A corpsman came by, the one that was there that day. The Navy boy can’t believe he ain’t talking to a corpse. Swears Rhett was dead after a piece of shrapnel damn near ripped his head off. Couldn’t have made it. They were pinned down. Paulson and a few of his guys slipped behind and did some Rambo crap, called in an airstrike. Paulson basically taped his brother’s head together and carried him ten miles to the LZ, nursing an AK wound that missed his femoral by millimeter type shit. People keep asking him how this and how that. He keeps answering, boy I don’t know. Hard to remember things now. Used to be a lot smarter. Small price, though, considering he was dead. Rhett’s commanding officers told him it was just one of those things that happens in the chaos of war. No it wasn’t. Knowing what they now know about Paulson. Something happened. He did something out there.

            It was impossible for the three in the rec center to do anything but watch. There were three more stories, one completely different than the next, all compelling and otherworldly in their own way. The last came from Ida Jean. It was an interview on network news, back when the rumors about a group of believers started forming around Paulson. She admitted to the incredulous interviewer that Paulson was responsible for saving his mother’s life, though she’d kept it a secret all these years. He was just a little boy, she explained, at his dying mom’s bedside. Young Paulson fell into a sleep, slumped on her withered frame. It was almost impossible to revive him, but when they finally did, she was on the mend. He had no memory. Ida Jean kept it to herself, like her best friend had, but she couldn’t any longer.

That interview, perhaps more than anything else, changed the Paulson James Betterment Strategies empire into the Membership.

Hart’s body tingled from the emotional scenes playing out on the compilation. He’d dragged his little brother to this ridiculous place to be around these ridiculous people, because these fairy tales weren’t fairy tales. They couldn’t be. Not so many. That’s not how the world worked. He fought it at first, like any rational person would, but he was there when some of the stuff described in the video happened. Things any rational person would have a hard time turning their back on.

            “How you doing, Freddie?” Rye asked, getting up to close his laptop. The wounded man was obviously in a different state of mind after watching the compilation. The doubts that had compelled him to leave the Membership seemed to have doubts of their own.

            “Aye dough noh whas appenin.” Sandpiper closed his eyes, reacting to the pain in his face and the confusion taking residence in his brain.

            Hart leaned against the couch and looked at his little brother. That makes two of us, Freddie.

Chapter 17: Lady and the Chair

            “How long have you known about Elson? What he really is?”

            Paulson sat on his bed covered in one of Ida Jean’s blankets, watching as Lydia did her best to handle a barrage of questions from Sofia Ivrea.

            “We’ve known for a long while. Around the time the Membership moved out here. We couldn’t tell you. He didn’t even know that we’d checked him out until the 10th, when things were… delayed.”

            “You watched me falling in love with him, Lydia. You watched and it didn’t even occur to you to say something. Don’t you think that’s sick?”

            Paulson was picking up about half of Lydia’s conversation. He had another portion of attention devoted to Cantrell; the agent was downstairs, talking heatedly into his phone. It didn’t sound like things were going so well. Every so often the sickly leader would hear shit or that doesn’t make any sense or you’re killing me, Becker.

            There was a lot going on. He also had to keep an eye on bony little Janie Nelson. His enemy. A long time since he’d thought of any person living that way. Not since the service, when the term made sense. His enemies used to live in different countries and carry machine guns, wagging their tongues about the evil Americans. Now they were little old ladies who had no compunction about maiming innocent men’s faces. It was a fact, but not one easy to stomach.

            Her arms and legs were tied to a desk chair five or six feet away from the bed, close to the middle of the loft space. She was mumbling something against the duct tape Cantrell had slapped on her unconscious mouth. Now that she was coming to, Paulson thought about calling out to Lydia or Elson.

            They were busy.

            He got himself up and shook from the cold, leaning close to her pale face. “You’re just waking up, Janie.”

            Mumbles. Lydia looked over as Sofia continued with her grilling, but Paulson waved gently to indicate he could handle it. The illness that overtook him after the transfusion had to run its course, but he couldn’t allow it to reign his spirit. “I’ll take it off,” Paulson continued, “but do me a favor and don’t call out.”

            As he peeled the tape the widow thrashed her head wildly. “Why is this happening?” she brayed, saliva dripping from her thin, irritated lips.

            He did his best to be gentle, steadying the captive’s head with his hands. “It’s happening because you hurt Freddie. Why in God’s name, Janie?”

            “God’s name,” she answered, wild in her eyes. “It was done in God’s name. In your name.”

            Though Janie was still fighting to find full lucidity, it was obvious that her core convictions were intact. “Did Levi tell you to do this?”

            The question put him on his heels. “What are you talking about?”

            “We found your journal, Paulson. Everyone knows about the Messenger. We know everything.”

            He rubbed his eyes, trying to see all the implications to come. His bedrock ability to say the right thing at the right time had taken flight. A fragmented response was all he could summon. “Why? My personal things. That wasn’t. It wasn’t right.”

            “Doc Dade found it your jacket pocket when you fell sick. What difference does it make? You could’ve told us. Should’ve told us. It’s more proof that God is directing everything.”

            “What does that have to do with Freddie and what you did to him?”

            Janie’s face turned strangely placid. “The Storm is still coming. It’s right there in your journal. When you saved the boy, it was obvious. Our purpose was to keep everyone together.”

            “If you read my journal, you should know there’s nothing in there about keeping people prisoner. My God, Janie, since this started we’ve never talked about forcing anything on anyone. That’s what crazy people do. It’s crazy to hurt the innocent. Freddie is our friend.”

            The placidity was gone. “He wasn’t innocent. And friends don’t pack up and leave their friends behind.”

            “Think about what you’re saying, Janie.”

            “I have. We all have. For the last week we’ve been devoted, thinking and praying. Besides, we marked him.”

            “What?”

            “You called it hurting the innocent. We marked him. It was an act of love, for Fred’s own good.”

            Paulson knelt down and dropped his head. The urge to vomit was starting to take hold. Only one person was responsible for what was happening here. One man’s hubris. When it all started, the stories and the adulation, he should’ve fought it harder. He’d told himself that he resisted, but it was a lie. A sane man wouldn’t have bought into his own legend. That he couldn’t explain much of what had happened was no excuse.

            “It’s okay, Paulson,” Janie said. It barely registered. “You have a great burden. A great calling.”

            When he raised his head to answer, he saw Cantrell standing behind Janie’s chair. The weight of his thoughts had kept him from noticing the agent’s return from downstairs.

            “I think this bitch has had enough say.” Same as before, the ATF man wrapped his arm around her frail neck until she fell unconscious. It was quick. James wasn’t allowed time to lodge a protest. As Elson replaced the tape over her mouth, he handed the phone to Paulson.

            “They have my journal,” James muttered.

            “I don’t know what that means, but we’ll deal with it after.”

            “After what?”

            “Gonna need you to make a call. How you feeling, brother?”

            “Feeling like the nature of reality keeps getting flipped on its head. I feel like we’re tying up and brutalizing old women and that I might be the biggest charlatan in modern-day history. Ultimately this might be a case of old-fashioned insanity.” but that almost seems an insult to the mentally ill.”

“Jesus,” Elson sighed. “A lot, then. We’ll deal with it. Some way or another.”

James pressed forward, eyes vacant, like he was dictating into a machine that hadn’t and could never answer back. “There’s also the question of my wife’s pregnancy. Haven’t had a chance to hear what’s going on there. Sort of important.”

            Elson nodded his head and took a short look over his shoulder at Sofia and Lydia. They were on hold, silenced by Cantrell’s abrupt return and the rough and sudden treatment of Janie. “Yeah,” he said, focusing back on Paulson, “that sounds like a bear. Mentally I’ve seen you deal with worse. Physically, I need you to bite down. It’s going to be a long day.”

            “Suppose I’ll manage.”

            The agent handed him the phone and took a deep breath. “There’s someone out there you need to talk to, for you to convince her that everything here is completely fine. Nothing to report. The usual shit.”

            James snuck a look at Janie Nelson and raised his eyebrows at Cantrell. “Doesn’t seem very accurate.”

            “Well, needing you to jumpstart that famous charm. I’ll explain the necessaries, but then it’s got to be done. Getting murky out there. Critical mass type stuff.”

            “Nice to know we don’t have a monopoly on hard times,” James said.

            Elson asked the women over, saying they might as well hear what he was about to tell Paulson.

Chapter 18: Who the Hell Riles?

            Dr. Jordan Tia Akeso seemed to be unremittingly turned up to the highest setting. That was clear enough to Dukes, Phelps and Becker. While they sat at the conference room table, she leaned over it, talking into one cell phone, texting into another, stopping only to scribble notes furiously in a yellow pad.

            She ended her phone conversation and stood straight, setting the pen down and placing her other device on silent. “Special Agent Phelps, it’s very good to meet you. From what I’ve read, you’re a credit to yourself and those around you.”

            “Thank you kindly. Good meeting you too, Doc,” he smiled casually and quietly spit tobacco juice into a little paper cup, leaning back in his seat as much as the claustrophobic space allowed.

            She nodded at May Dukes, seated directly opposite Phelps. “Ranger Dukes.”

            “Doctor Akeso.” Dukes wore a calm face while she took stock of the young Washington import. She was about the same height as the ranger, just as pretty, though in a completely different way. Akeso had an exotic face, Dukes thought, probably the product of two people from opposite sides of the globe. Her makeup had been flawlessly applied and she didn’t have a hair out of place, despite the frenzied way she carried about her business.

            “You just getting off with Tiggs?” asked Wolf Becker. He was the last to arrive and took a spot at the far end of the table, as he had in their first encounter.

            The young PhD smiled at the head agent in a manner far too warm to be genuine.

            “Indeed.”

            “Guess the big boys thought it was time to throw another hat in,” Phelps said, smiling crooked and acting odd enough to notice but not to call out. “Thinking you can give us a hand toward resolving all this?”

            “I would like to be an aid, however I can.” Akeso was punctilious with every word. Phelps’ unregulated manner offered a contrast that made it all the more obvious. “And again, thank you two for joining us here. You’re sure you don’t mind, Special Agent Becker?”

            “Not at all. Whatever you need.” He leaned forward and pointed to the phone at the center of the table. “Should be ringing any second.”

            “If it’s all right, I’d like to do the talking. If the dialogue seems strange, please try not to interrupt.”

            They nodded in assent, waiting for the call. Becker checked his watch and looked down at his phone to make sure the voice recorder was running.

            Around a minute of drumming fingers and throat clearing, finally it rang. Dr. Akeso took her time, leaning slowly over the table to press the talk button. “Am I speaking to Paulson James?”

            “You are.”

            “My name is Dr. Jordan Tia Akeso. I want to thank you for taking the time. Obviously, you’re a very busy person.”

            “Quite all right. It’s nice to speak with you, Doc. I hope you’re staying warm. Sorry,” he said, laughing slightly. “Insipid weather talk. Though, in my defense, today is aberrant. Could argue it’s worth taking note.”

            “I won’t disagree,” continuing to fill up pages, “would it be preferable to call you Dr. James?”

            “I dropped the title quite a long time ago. Seemed like an unnecessary ornament, but whatever you prefer, Doctor.”      

            “Okay. We’ll just talk as Jordan and Paulson.”

            Ranger Dukes bit down on a smile, but her dimples betrayed her. James was relaxed, controlling the tone of the conversation from the outset. The doctor thing was an intentional jab, light but nonetheless intended. She took a deep, silent breath. It was her first time hearing him, other than TV or video clips. The subject of so many dry investigatory manhours sounded like a cute guy, grounded but not too much to be without hope. His voice was youthful, she thought, less worn than his thirty-eight years might suggest.

            “So, you must be the smart one,” James said. “Sort of like, big time. The ringer. Excuse me if I don’t have the G-man nomenclature on lockdown. No offense intended.”

            “None taken,” responded Akeso. She was hunched stiff over her notes. Her business suit jacket was hiked up in the back. Dukes might not have noticed, but the doctor’s normally fastidious appearance allowed for the smallest of things to stick out. “Have you checked up on me? I know you had a few minutes before making the call.”

            “You know, Jordan, I’d have liked to. Busy though. As you said.”

            “I thought you might be busy.”

            “Again, as you said. But it’s nothing like that.”

            Akeso squinted her eyes and stopped writing. “I’m not sure I understand.”

            “There’s nothing going on, Doc. Nothing for you to worry about. I wasn’t a crazy person yesterday, and today, same guy. Sober and sane as the next.”

            “You think my intention is to label you mentally unfit, Paulson?”

            “Say it’s better than an educated guess. It’s no secret the authorities want this whole thing to go away. Important people are here, whatever that means in the grand scheme. Probably it’s an embarrassment, but I don’t know how you guys roll. I’ve been doing okay with Special Agent Becker.”

            Akeso looked over the phone at the agent running the case. He was stolid, sitting with his arms crossed and back straight. “You two get along pretty well,” she said, keeping her eyes on Becker.  

            “Always have. You know all this, though. So…”

            “Sorry, Paulson. I can tell you’re about to ask about the real purpose of this call.”

            “Thought we might get there. Heck, try me. I might even believe you.”

            “I was wondering if you could explain the other compounds to me. Three more. As far as we can tell, almost carbon copies of the Membership setup. Around a hundred followers each.”

            “I won’t lie and say Becker didn’t just tell me about this. It’s certainly news to us. Doesn’t sound right. Are you in communication with these other camps?”

            “They say they’re taking orders from the people down in Texas.”

            “They’re not. They’re just not. Let me be explicit and absolutely transparent about this: Paulson James and the Membership have nothing to do with any of these other groups. No contact. No knowledge whatsoever of their existence. Apologies for referring to myself in the third person.”

            Dukes scanned the table. Becker was maintaining his rock-like demeanor. Jordy looked a little too relaxed, nursing his lip tobacco, spitting into his cup. Dr. Akeso was intense as ever. A pale green vein was starting to show through the makeup on her forehead. “How do you explain it?” asked the PhD.

            “Obviously, I can’t. It’d be great if I could convince you, Doc, but you’re just gonna have to take my word for it until you get down to some more investigating. All I can say right now is that we’re calm and cool. Status normal. That goes for anyone who’s listening to this now or later. No need. To rock. The boat.” It was obvious that James was struggling to force out the end of his sentence. When he finally did, they could hear and eruption of protracted coughing.

            “Are you all right?”

            “Sorry. Never did like the cold. What were we on?”

“I was going to ask if you honestly think I’ll believe you when you deny knowledge of the other camps.”

            Dukes almost jumped in. Akeso was getting hostile. She looked again at Becker. Still a pillar.

            “The insinuation being that I’m a practiced and proficient liar, lacking normal empathic drives while concurrently tending toward several sociopathic variances.”

            “Would that insinuation be misguided?”

            “You have a right to your opinion, Dr. Akeso. Just make sure your opinions and your agendas don’t get people hurt.”

            “Is that one of your famous mantras?”

            “I wouldn’t know. Never did mantras. Anyway, ask around. I’m not in the business of hurting folks. Is there anything else?”

            Akeso scribbled some more notes, looking satisfied with herself. The young ranger was clenching a fist under the table in frustration. She couldn’t see the game the mysterious doctor from D.C. was playing. Maybe Becker was right.

            “You used to be in the hurting business.”

            “Not sure I understand. Unless we’re talking about soldiering.”

            “We are. You have a high confirmed kill count, according to the military records. Certainly, taking lives is a type of hurt. It extends outward. To others. To other times.”

            Paulson wasn’t slow to respond. “I still contemplate those days, just like any sane person that’s seen war.”

            “And?”

            “And I think we’ll need a lot more time if we’re going to debate the philosophical and moral attached to armed conflict.”

            “Well, I think that’s all for now.”

            “Good enough,” Paulson said, maintaining a relaxed but personable air. “Feel free to get back with us later today. I’m only interested in everyone staying safe. Hopefully that’s clear.”

            “We will be in touch. Thank you for speaking with me, Paulson. It was really nice to finally have a dialogue.”

            “Sure thing. Look forward to the next one.”

            As soon as the line went dead, Akeso was out of her chair and out the door, clutching her notepad awkwardly against her blouse.

            “Guess her mood for chatting only extends so far,” Jordy said.

            “I don’t like her,” Dukes said.

            “Well, that’s to be suspected,” Phelps returned, face twisting against some oncoming heartburn. “Two pretty ladies, both smart, occupying the same space and time. Natural law just don’t allow for it.”

            “That’s enough, Agent Phelps,” Becker said.

            “Affirmative, sir. Trying to lighten the mood.”

            “Don’t.”

            “Roger. Mood heavy and holding.”

            Dukes threw her hands down on the table. “I can’t believe I just got done vouching for you.”

            “Don’t need any favors. And if you ever take the stick out, I was going to say that I agree with you about Akeso. She’s trying to rile. Who the hell riles?”

            “It’s not stupidity, is it?” Becker asked, holding out his hands toward his subordinates, palms up.

            “Doesn’t seem likely,” Jordy answered, straightening his posture and mouthing I’m sorry to Dukes. “The way that lass bolted out of here makes me wonder if she harbors proper respect for the members of this team and what we’ve been doing.”

            “At some point I’m going to get a handle on your personality,” Becker said, standing up. “But it won’t be today. Here,” he said, sliding a piece of paper to Phelps and Dukes. As soon as they could start reading, the agent in charge had a finger over his mouth. The notes had different instructions, except for a few things. The beginning, for instance, read Don’t react to this note. Don’t say anything about this note. Say goodbye and call me from the road. Use new phones. Go.

            Phelps spit out his wad of tobacco and stood up. “Sorry, sir. I’ll work on the personality thing. Be around the office if you need me.”

            “What we were talking about before, about the old man’s property,” Dukes said, watching Phelps walk depart the room, “we should probably follow up.”

            “Get to it then, Ranger Dukes.”

            Becker returned to his seat, thinking about what he’d just done. Phelps and Dukes were relatively young on the job, but he trusted them as much as anyone to see to his task. They were in for long flights to separate destinations, to find out about the camps described by Dr. Akeso. He needed every bit of intelligence he could get, and he didn’t want to bother asking permission. Using junior people made things easier, because no one expected much either way from younger personnel. The handwritten notes were in case the conference room was bugged; Becker had a feeling the whole office was. His phone. His house. They were pushing. Ascertaining the size and nature of they was his primary concern now.

            They were pushing.

            Phelps’ question about Akeso was the one worth asking more than any other: Who the hell riles?

Chapter 19: Me Neither

            Lydia wanted time away from Paulson, but total isolation probably wasn’t the best choice, either. She was more than grateful to have Sofia along the way. Her sense of trust had been rocked by Janie Nelson’s malicious behavior; Sofia Ivrea’s gentle nature was the perfect counterweight. When the wind died down even to maintain a straight line, the pair donned heavy coats and wool caps and headed out for a walk. It was still ridiculously cold, but the younger Italian woman didn’t offer any complaints when asked to join. “Where I grew up,” she said, “it was cold much of the time. People don’t think that about my country, but it’s true. Some places, at least. I lived near the mountains.”

            “I didn’t know that,” Lydia said, stuffing her gloved hands inside the pockets of her puffy jacket. “I imagined you in Rome or Florence. Somewhere picturesque enough to compete with your looks. Everyone knows you modeled.”

            “For a time. But no. I am a proud Northerner all the way. Much of my blood is French and Swiss, but who really knows such things. I always wanted to be in America, so my background was never that important to me. Only the future. The future was never going to be met in the shadow of the Alps.”

            “You’re the sweetest ass-kicker in this group,” Lydia said. “Your firm and that world.” She didn’t seem to understand. “I mean, it’s cutthroat stuff. You don’t seem cutthroat.”

            Sofia interlocked her arm with Lydia’s as they continued walking away from the center of the compound, out into the high brown grass and rougher terrain. She didn’t answer the inquiry about her personality. She didn’t know how to answer.

            “I’m sorry,” Lydia said, wiping at her runny nose. “Afraid you’ve caught me more than a little off today.”

            “It isn’t going the way might’ve hoped.” The former CEO snuck a look back, trying to gauge how much time it would take to make their return to shelter. The wind had abated, yes, but they didn’t want to be caught out for too long. Blessed Virgin, it’s cold. “And now Elson is another person. A few words, someone different. Just like that.”

            Lydia stopped and grabbed Sofia’s hands, looking into her wide brown eyes. “How are you doing with it?”

            “I knew he wasn’t telling me something. No one is completely forthright. Your husband used to say in therapy, “The best you can hope for from other people is an honest attempt at honesty.”

            “I’ve heard that one a few times. Some of those sayings. He used to say they were cheesy but useful. I’d find him rearranging the words to make the sentiments catchier.”

            “I’m sorry. Of course, you have heard these things so much.”

            “Don’t. Whatever I think, the guy could occasionally mine some truth.”

            “I think so. And… the best of people hide things.” Sofia looked down at their connected hands, down by Lydia’s belly. “I didn’t mean to say you were hiding the baby. It was Elson I was talking about.”

            “Don’t apologize. I should’ve told him. It’s shameful.”

            “You are a very wonderful person, Lydia. I’ve admired you from afar for so long. You and Paulson, both so much. This whole crazy thing is built around your goodness. He saved my life. Most of our lives. I wonder if he thinks about that when he’s thinking about everything else. I wonder if you do.”

            “Apparently you’ve thought of it quite a bit.”

            Sofia laughed. “Quite so. An overactive brain, always. Too much of the past, still living in that mountain shadow. Why I’m here.”

            Lydia wouldn’t venture deeper into her companion’s darkness. Everyone in the Membership had something tearing at them. People on cruise control weren’t likely to find themselves in places like this. The argument was, and always had been, those on cruise control were allowing themselves to be torn without a fight. Not a new thought, but it obviously struck enough people true. Paulson was the expert at helping people confront that darkness. She didn’t feel like assuming his mantle. Instead, she turned it back on herself.

            “You shouldn’t take off your gloves,” Sofia said, watching the wife of her leader ignore her and set off ahead.

            “Want to show you something.”

            “Okay. But we really should get back.”

            Lydia walked ahead down a rocky depression, imploring Sofia to be careful as she followed. The wind gusted through, slapping Lydia with a cold burn to her hands. “There’s a bear.” Her darkness. It needed talking about. Like the baby, she thought that it would never be something to deal with. The Storm would take care of all conversations, all the problems yet to be addressed.

            “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

            “Ever since I got here, there’s a big black bear that comes out at night. Walks around the camp. I swear it looks up at me in the loft sometimes. Stares, breathing heavy. At first, I thought I was dreaming. It’s not exactly common in this part of the country. Maybe not unprecedented, but come on. This is North Texas.

            Sofia looked baffled, putting her hands out. “So, what happened to it?”

            “I started going out. With everything going on, I got it into my head that I needed to put the bear down. Someone might get attacked.”

            “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

            “I mentioned it. No one else saw it, so I just let it go. Nothing disturbing for the Membership. Nothing unpeaceable. Really, the whole thing became something over and around any sense of my own logic.” She held out her hands. “This is from tracking it, one night after another, crawling over the terrain with a rifle. A lot of long nights, after Paulson and everyone else has gone to bed.”

            “You’re still trying? To hunt it?”

            “No. I watch now. Followed to just over there.” She pointed out ahead. “Just under the trees hanging off that little rock face, that’s where it goes with its cub. A little cave.”

            “This is an interesting story,” Sofia said, aiming intently for politeness, “though the meaning might be getting lost on me. Are you still worried about the bear?”

            Lydia sighed and put her gloves back on. She wasn’t upset with Ivrea’s lack of understanding. Speaking aloud the things pent up for so long was having a piling effect that she couldn’t keep to herself. “This is going to sound crazy.”

            “Okay.”

            Lydia smiled. “Crazier, I mean.”

            Sofia returned the gesture. “It’s like I’m the only one that can see it.”

            “The bear?”

            “And the cub. Although that was only recently.”

            “Your own Levi? The Messenger they were talking about in the barn.”      

            Sofia was an honest listener. She’d managed to put it together. With a lesser light, it might’ve taken ages to explain… whatever it was she was trying to explain.

            “We should start heading back. It’s freezing out here. The wind is picking back up.”

            “Sure this isn’t you wanting to run away from the crazy woman?”

            Sofia smiled and shivered from another blast of cold. “Turn on the news. Pull up the internet. We’re all crazy. A group of the highly successful people—”

            “Tied to each other by an unprecedented mass delusion and shared affection for their nefarious and insidious leader, possibly the most dangerous man in the country.” Lydia laughed as she finished the sentence. It was up on a banner in the rec room; a quote from one of the nation’s late-night personalities punching up hacky news headlines for audiences seeking low-hanging fruit. Paulson used it as a good reminder that they weren’t that important and that their detractors weren’t all that clever, even though it rubbed a few in the Membership raw.

            “Seriously, Sofia. Did I just freak you out with all that?”

            “This is not something that would freak me out. I will not pretend to have it all measured, but it will take more than a few bear stories to dislodge me.” She looked to the sky, smiling at the sun as it tried to find a brief path through the heavy cloud cover. “Much could’ve dislodged me, already. But I stay faithful.”

            “You’re sort of an amazing person.”

            “Like I said, before I met Paulson, there wasn’t much left.”

            They were familiar words. Words the wife of a helper gets used to. Numb to, despite best efforts to the contrary.

            “We can start back,” Lydia said, watching Sofia stomp her feet to generate blood flow. “There was one more thing. The cub. Remember how I said that was recent?”

            “Yes.”

            “The day I saw the it was the day I found out I was pregnant.”

            Sofia started to reply but held her tongue until she at least tried to put herself in Lydia’s place. “You had tried for so many years, correct?”

            “So many. We’d given up. When Paulson’s seminars started getting worldwide attention, we figured it was a sign. Like we had enough people to take care of.”

            “And then you see your bear with a young one. And you have a young one growing inside. And the Storm. And now everything else. Am I missing anything?”

            “That’s not a bad summary.”

            “I was always good at lists.”

            “What do you think?”

            “I think it’s strange and amazing.” Sofia stopped and held a hand over her dark eyebrows. “Who is that?”

            Even through the wind and the distance, Lydia knew immediately. “That’s my brother-in-law.”

            “Is he naked? He couldn’t be.”

            He was. Rhett was heading their way in hurry, moving his arms wildly. “Take off your jacket, Sofia,” she said, holding up her arms. “We need to slow him down. Don’t get too close and try not to say anything.”

            He pointed at her and charged on, apparently oblivious to the rocks and burrs tearing at his feet or the bitter cold lashing his bare skin. Sofia tried not to be obtrusive with her attention but it was impossible. Rhett had always scared her, but seeing his body gave his erratic behavior more context. Most of his right side was covered with burn marks.

“Hold up there, RJ.” Lydia was holding Sofia’s jacket in the air like a white flag, placing herself in his path as he slapped his face and repeated something furious under his breath. “You’re walking out into the cold. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, big man.”

            “Get on out of the way,” he growled. Sofia was surprised when she didn’t move.

            “You want me breaking this to Paulson? So be it, soldier.”

            She must’ve known that would work, Sofia thought. Or maybe she’s a good guesser.

            “I’m heading out there for Paulson,” he said, voice full of tears and exasperation. “They gave a marking to that poor little pilot fella, and I told Charlie and Darlene Hood they could shove it good. They’re out of control, them, saying they know the best for Paulson.”

            “Put this jacket around your legs, Rhett,” hoping the conveyance was motherly. There’s ladies present.”

            “They said they were gonna mark me, too.”

            “Who did?” Sofia asked. She got a look from Lydia but shrugged it away. She was a part of… whatever this was. And there was no wearing that jacket again.

            “Assholes,” Lydia said, removing her coat and wrapping it around his shoulders.

            “I wasn’t taking another burn. Said if they wanted me punished, I’d take the cold. Die by it.”

            “Awful bastards,” Sofia said, instantly covering her mouth. To threaten a man scarred by fire with more of the same caused the word to escape whatever barriers propriety she worked hard to maintain. “I’m sorry.”

            “Motherfuckers,” Rhett said, laughing just a little. “I said I’m tougher than the whole bunch together, and I’ll freeze my balls off out here long as needs doing. But I’m not burning. No sir, motherfuckers!”

            Now Sofia and Lydia were smiling along with RJ. They’d managed to calm him down to something nearing manageable, and he’d found a certain comfortable confidence in the reacquisition of his soldier’s tongue. It had brought him back from the brink.

            They walked back carefully until they found a trail, clutching each other as the wind picked back. “Y’all cold?”

            “You’re not?” Sofia asked.

            “No, ma’am. I just don’t want to burn.”

            Me neither, thought Lydia, guiding them the long way around back to the barn. Me neither.

Chapter 20: Bathroom Break

            When Paulson heard the door downstairs open and the sound of his brother with Sofia and Lydia, he nodded at Elson, an indicator to have the ATF agent keep a close eye on their brittle captive.

            “I’ll watch Ms. Nelson,” Cantrell said. The symmetry of his face was abandoned for twisted contempt as he returned his gaze toward the old woman. “Don’t you worry about that.”

            “I’m just going to be in the bathroom.”

            “You okay, man?”

            James didn’t wait to offer a response. He closed and latched the door and sat down on the toilet, shivering and spinning. The sickness that had forced him abed for a week was trying to regain some of the ground that it had conceded. He gritted his teeth, fully aware that further time to convalesce was out of the question.

            His eye began to twitch. No. He slumped back and to the left against the wall. No. His feet were gyrating though they were more or less held in check by the pants around his ankles. No.

            Looks like the secrets are getting out, my friend.

            “There’s a lot of explaining to do, Levi.” Paulson looked around, eyes wide and startled. They weren’t in the mountains.

            It was a field. The grass was magically green, naturally short. Definitely not the weeds and brush of Texas. There was nothing in the foreground or behind, save an old, lonely stone tower ahead. It had no windows and looked odd sitting out in the middle of nowhere. Paulson could hear a faint sound coming from somewhere far, but it was hard to place.

            Ireland. In case you’re wondering. I didn’t make this place up. Just plagiarized the scene. The tower’s mine, though. We’ll get to that if there’s time.

            “What do you mean, if there’s time? You’re supposed to be infinite, spanning epochs in a single thought. Maybe you’ve forgotten the glorious picture you’ve painted of yourself.”

            They’re knocking on the bathroom door. Right now. They heard the collapse. I bet it’s confusing, why a flimsy little lock is holding them at bay. Funny, what people think.

            “Funny. There’s a word.”

            Yes. It is, Paulson.

            A wind blew across the slight bow of the field. It played cool on James’ cheek. “I think I’ve imagined Heaven to be like this. Why would anyone go anywhere else?”

            Opportunity. Invasion. Potato famines. Just to name a few.

            “Same old Levi.”

            Nope. The nice version is gone. No more handholding.

            “Right. It’s been a true pleasure cruise up until now.”

            This field was kind of like your life. The one you had before.

            “Beautiful, awesome or both? Afraid my faculties aren’t what they once were, pal.”

            Remember when we talked about writing our conversations down? I recall a strict no-tolerance policy on quill and parchment.

            “You want to punish me? Punish me, Levi. Strike me down or whatever. I’m not up for this. It’s nothing but uncertainty. Week ago, Doc Dade tells me about a giant growth in my head. Then there’s the attempted murder coverup. Pardon my apprehension, but it’s enough to make a guy question the part he’s playing. Get somebody else.”

            Levi pointed ahead to the tower. It was suddenly closer, more imposing but less impressive. Deep cracks covered its stony skin in random patterns. Large chunks had fallen away.

            “Am I supposed to be the tower?” Paulson asked, awaiting a reprimand from Levi.

            Uncertainty is the way the of the world, my mortal friend. Things crack, or get cracked, no real predicting it.

            “I don’t understand.”

            You’ve never understood. I can see pretty much everything, and still I have a hard time. Don’t judge your cracks too harshly. A decision was made. Something needed to happen in the world. Your number came up. The Heavens don’t declare a thing for no reason. The race starts and you don’t slow down for a second, let alone look back.

            “Still vague, Levi. Still tossing scraps from the table when I need to understand. It’s a whole thing out there, and none of them are with me. I wrote down our encounters—”

            Famously stupid, that was.  

            “I did it because it’s always scraps. Nothing is ever clear cut. Makes a guy want to get it set down on paper, piece things together. You could’ve rapped my knuckles about it sooner, by the way.”

            Well, we all have our orders.

            James looked at his Messenger. He was incongruously adorned as ever, sporting saggy camouflage pants stuffed into ragged hiking boots, along with a paper-thin t-shirt that read, I Went to Bulgaria and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt. He had several new tattoos. One of them appeared to be a poor rendering of Dave Grohl’s bearded face.

            They’re outside, so desperate to get the door open. Your faithful wife. That Cantrell fella. He’s a weird addition to the story. Hard to figure how he’s going to play into the drama.

            James noted that Levi was looking down at the carpet-like grass.

            Something about it.

            “Why didn’t you call me out earlier about the notebook, Levi? I’d like to hear a real answer.”

            This isn’t a job, buckaroo. Some guy flipping burgers or doing tax audits. It ain’t getting up on stage and handing out advice to people that need a hell of a lot more than words.

            “That’s a long way from a real answer. Even for you.”

            Boiling down this thing ain’t easy. Think of it more as a highly complex dance. If it seems like we’re a step off the music, maybe it’s for a reason. I take it up to the Top. He tells me how to let it play out.

            James shook his head, attempting to meet Levi in the eyes while the Messenger turned in circles away from his charge’s glare. If theirs was its own temporary plane of existence, this was all there was: A confused man trying to lock down an angel’s attention in an endless field, round and round in the shadow of an old tower.

            “You didn’t know.”

            Didn’t know what, exactly?

            “Oh. Sorry. Hard to carry on a conversation when it’s lacking specificity. Stop moving around, dammit.”

            Levi finally ceased his evasive maneuvering. Easy how you go, buddy.

            “You didn’t know about my journal, because you’re not real. You never were.”

            Don’t be ridiculous. Get it together, pal. I’m not your friend. Questioning me will only make things worse.

            “I’m not questioning. I’m denying your existence. God, I’ve been so stupid.”

            Enough.

            “No, we’re done. You’ve never told me a thing I didn’t know already. Whatever’s wrong with me, all this is a projection. My own stupid subconscious playing games against itself.”

            Levi rolled up his sleeves and touched James’ chest with a flat palm. The force was enough to drive him into the ground, gasping for air. 

            You’re not going to be able to speak, so just stay down. You’ve got seven days to get these people ready. Seven days, Paulson James. That’s what the Top says. Until then, I strongly advise that you keep this flock together. The world needs signs and wonders, and it needs a story that works from beginning to the end. When they bust in, probably best you mind yourself.

            “Paulson!” Cantrell rocked the door of its hinges with a brutal shoulder charge. Shoving it against the bathroom wall, he called for Lydia and Sofia to come help. “He’s on the floor.”

            “Make room,” Lydia said. “Let’s get him on the bed.”

            “Is it always this bad?” Elson asked, squatting over the leader’s body and lifting him up by the armpits, teeth grinding. “He’s breathing, right?”

            Lydia ordered Sofia to help Cantrell with some of the weight while she pulled her husband’s pants up. She held a hand to his throat. “He’s breathing. His pulse is going wild.”

            As they moved him out into the main room of the loft, they passed by Janie Nelson and Rhett. They had different reasons, but both wore expressions of intense concern.

“Jesus, he’s sweating,” Cantrell groaned. “I’ve got him.” The agent took the entirety of the weight and set Paulson’s long frame on the bed as gently as he could.

Lydia propped up his head and whispered into his ear. He had a nasty gash on his forehead, presumably from falling forward off the toilet. “It’s okay, now. Come back, Paulson. We need you to come back.” Her hand was wet with sickly sweat and blood as she stroked her ailing husband’s head.

“What should we do, Lydia?” Sofia asked, now holding tightly to Cantrell.

“Nothing. But…”

“But what?” asked Elson.

            “He usually snaps back.” She wiped blood from around his eyes, hands trembling as much as her voice. “He’ll snap back. Sofia, help me find the bandages and the sowing needle. He’s going to need stitches.”

            Rhett had the look of a scared kid as the women rushed by. He sat on the end of the bed and put a hand on his brother’s leg. “Is he gonna be okay, Elson?”

            Cantrell answered the only way he could. “Course he will. You know your brother. Guy’s frigging indestructible.”

            His tone must’ve been less than convincing. Rhett stood up and walked over to the window on the other side of the loft, crying into his hands. Elson knelt over Paulson’s face to examine the wound. Lydia’s assessment was right. It was a big damn cut.

            “Hey, bro. You’re fine. It’ll be all good.” He peered over his shoulder and saw Janie Nelson still struggling against her restraints. The old broad was damn relentless. 

            “Seven days. We’ve got seven days.”

            Elson turned back around. James’ eyes were wide and bulging, looking up at nothing in particular. “What was that, PJ? Seven days for what?”

            Cantrell grabbed James’ hand and went in close to try to get a more robust answer. “You said seven days. For what, man?”

            “Seven… days.”

            Paulson’s eyes slammed shut and his body slackened. “Hey, PJ. Hey. Time to wake back up now, brother.”

            Lydia and Sofia came back and took opposite sides of the bed. While they worked, Cantrell backed away, trying his best to stay in the moment. This wasn’t the first strange situation he’d been in, but damn if it wasn’t the strangest. He wanted to call Becker right there, tell him to send in the damn cavalry. Slow down, Elson. Nothing rattles you, remember?

            “He woke up for a second,” he said, desperate to escape his own agenda.

            The statement wasn’t enough to stop Lydia from her task. She asked Cantrell if he’d said anything.

            “Something about seven days. Said it a few times, then went back out. I doubt it meant anything.”

            As Lydia injected Novocain around the gash, Sofia said, “Seven days. Perhaps it was just words. I’ve heard that head injuries can cause confusion.”

            “It wasn’t confusion.” Janie Nelson declared, stomping her little feet against the floorboards. “You know what he meant.” She smiled and closed her eyes. “That’s what we’ve got left. He means we’re finally going away.”

Chapter 21: Tractor

            Bobby Delray had spent many years in isolation, but he never felt alone. He always had his sweet Tara to talk to. As he fought off the cold and removed the tarp from his firewood bundle behind the house, the conversation continued. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, darlin’, but when we move on from here, think maybe it’ll be to some place warmer.” He gathered a bundle at his feet and replaced the tarp, strapping it down securely with bungee cables. “You’re telling me. Texas ain’t supposed to feel like frigging Siberia.” As he picked up the wood, his back tugged with pain. “I know. Your old man’s getting older all the damn time. Hey. We wasn’t spring chickens when we got together. Don’t be getting one of them selective memories on me.”

            As he rounded the house, his eyes were down. Little patches of ice had formed on the wraparound porch. The last thing he needed was to slip. “Wouldn’t that be great, Tara? You’re laughing, but I’m likely to bust a hip if I go down. Nasty business. They say that’s the beginning of the end. Not sure if it’s true, but they say it enough to make it stick.”

            “Who are you talking to?” The question startled the old veteran enough to make him lose his grip on the bundle. Standing next to the front door was Andy Hood.

            Delray muttered something under his breath before making himself audible. “Sneaking up like that’s a good way to get blasted, damn you.”

            “Take it easy, Delray.”

            Bobby sighed and cast a look of annoyance at the former big shot banker. He looked even smaller and round than usual, standing in a shiny, puffy coat next to the big man that followed him around from time to time. “Roger, isn’t it?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Yessir. That’s it, I guess. Not much of a conversationalist. Wanna gather up this wood so we can get inside, Roger?”

            “Go ahead and do what the man asks,” Hood said. A few moments later, Bobby and his surprise guests were in the living room, standing around the now resurgent fire.

            “You know, I never noticed how comfy this place was.” Hood smiled, taking off his ridiculous coat and holding his hands near the flames.

            “Anything’s comfy next to a damned arctic blast.”

            “You got any coffee?”

            “Always keep a pot going.”

            “Would you mind terribly if Roger went into the kitchen and brought us back some?”

            Delray nodded. “If he makes sure to stick to the kitchen. There’s some clean mugs in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

            “Well, now.” Andy said softly, like there was some hidden message inside the two syllables.

            “Well, what?”

            “I don’t like to bring up the weather, but it’s got to make a person think.”

            “I’m not following, little fella.” Delray had taken to calling Andy little fella earlier on in their interactions; he knew it nagged the former CEO on multiple levels. “What are we supposed to think?”

            “That it has something to do with what’s coming. It was five degrees on the walk over here. Before that, the record low was something like forty. More than an aberration. Even a man as skeptical as yourself would have to admit.”

            Delray raised his patchy eyebrows and fixed his eyes on Andrew Jarrett Hood. He rarely looked at the man directly. There were uglier little white men running wild all over the world, but Bobby found Hood’s pale, freckled face particularly displeasing. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to be moving his tongue around inside his mouth, or the dark spots on his head that he tried in vain to cover with the remains of his stringy red hair. Delray looked back at the fire. A few seconds was all he could stand.

            “You want to say something, Robert?”

            “Trying to get the measure of you, is all.”

            “Did you accomplish your goal?”

            “Nah. Think I just decided to throw in the towel. You folks will never make no damn sense to me.”

            “You still doubt our sincerity, I imagine. Our last visit was unpleasant enough to alert me to that fact.”

            Delray took out a can of budget smokeless tobacco and put a pinch between his lower teeth and gums. There was a picture of him and his Tara on the mantel. He never saw himself when he looked at it. Her smile and light took up too much of the frame. She believed in things. God. The afterlife. He made fun of her at first, but when things turned serious and she got sick, he cut that bullshit right out. It wasn’t his place to judge. What the hell did he know about it, anyhow? That said, something told him to take the belief and the believer as one package deal. With Paulson James, he could tell the guy was into something, or at least trying to be. Andy Hood, on the other hand, always seemed to have his mind fastened to affairs more worldly. Then again, what the hell did he know about it?

            “You say you’re sincere with all this shit, guess I have to take you at your word. Doesn’t make a difference to me in the end.”

            “Well, maybe that’s the best I can hope for from you,” Andy said, softly as his raspy voice would allow.

            “Well,” Bobby said, throat catching as he turned away from the image of Tara, “now that we’ve managed to navigate pleasantries, what the hell brings you out here?”

            “Just came to check on my stuff. If it’s all the same, I think perhaps later tonight we’ll be making a full withdrawal.”

            “Something going on?”

            “A few wayward souls, perhaps. Like I’ve said from the beginning, it’s all precaution. Just thinking it might be time to batten down the hatches if this thing’s ever going to come off.”

            “The whole load you want to take?”

            “We’ve got the manpower. You won’t have to do a thing.”

            Roger returned with the coffee. He handed a cup to Bobby and Andy and stood back with the formality of an old-timey servant.

            “What time is it?” Bobby asked.

            “Just past three. The drones won’t make a pass for another thirty minutes. I’d like to have a look at the stock if it’s all the same. See how many people we’ll need to get it out in one haul.”

            “Well, we better go on. Put on your damn Mount Everest jacket.”

            Bobby squinted as the wind picked up, walking as fast as he could down to the fence line. An old rusty tractor sat next to the tree line, looking like it hadn’t been moved since the Great Depression. He bent over and felt for a chain, snatching it up and pulling with surprising ease. It was a clever hiding place. The tractor was actually sitting on a metal plate that was completely obscured by high grass and broken limbs. The plate itself was connected to a track of rollers, allowing the whole apparatus to be shifted quickly and quietly.

            Hood smiled. “I love that. It never gets old.”

            “Have at it,” Delray said, watching Andy and Roger make their way down six solidly constructed steps. The door at the bottom looked like something out of a vault, and for good reason. It was the make and model that Andy Hood chose for all of his banks, made with Swiss precision and absolutely impenetrable. The little man removed his glove and typed in the code while Roger stood at his back and Bobby waited above.

            With the code entered, they could hear a series of mechanisms firing off and releasing. Roger helped him push aside the steel door.

            About a second later, Delray was looking at an apoplectic Andrew Hood and a grimacing Roger. “Where are my guns!?” Hood screamed, actually stomping in childlike anger.

            “Close that back up for me, will you.” Delray said politely, just to be an ass. “Cover it all nice and right. I’m going to get a fresh coffee and warm up. See you boys back there.”

            Hood was still screaming when he reentered Delray’s house. Bobby was sitting down by the fire in an easy chair with a proper line of sight to the door, scattergun placed diagonally from armrest to armrest. It had a silencing effect on the little man. “Before you go getting yourself worked up some place you can’t come back from,” Bobby said, watching Roger enter with the grace and subtlety of a water buffalo, “best listen.” He could tell Andy was fixing to start in with that scratchy voice, but he held back. Bobby was surprised. Maybe even a touch impressed. “Figure we got about ten minutes to say a lot of things. First off, your guns and ammo and your damn military-grade hardware is safe and sound. I didn’t go selling it to a higher bidder. Couldn’t find one, if I’m being honest.”

            “Honest,” Andy said, looking furious but somewhat comical in his puffy coat. “You say that, after betraying me.”

            “I didn’t betray you. I moved the merchandise to a place I was more comfortable with. Right here on the property. Again, safe and sound.”

            “What’s the game, Robert?”

            “The game is money, but I’d like a helping of understanding. None of this shit makes sense to me.”

            “We have faith, Delray. Can’t you leave us to our faith?”

            “That ain’t specifically what I’m talking about, but yeah, we’ll get to that to. And ask Roger to go back in the kitchen. Tell him to make me a coffee, no poison this time.”

            “Poison? You’re a ridiculous, crazy old man.”

            “Aha. I might just be, but besides being crazy and old, I’m also a soldier and former gun and arms trafficker. That’s why you chose this land, so you could be next to mine. Get my help with your little side plan.”

            Andy stood idle. The less he said, the more Delray began to respect him. Giving it a moment’s thought, it made sense; Hood didn’t come to own all those banks by being stupid. The man knew when he was in the midst of a negotiation.

            “Tara darlin’, we got a live situation, here.”

            “What?”

            “Honesty’s what I’m asking for here, banker. Why the guns?”

            “Besides the fact that every day on the news they talk about storming us like we’re a medieval castle? One of the reasons I came to you, I figured you’d be sympathetic to our plight with an oppressive government.”

            “I am, Mr. Hood, far as it goes. But here’s the deal. I didn’t know Paulson James at the time. He was just some grinning bastard on television and book jackets. Turns out, I like the guy. Surprising that after all these years I can be surprised. There it is, anyhow.”

            “Wonderful, Delray. You’ve got a crush, meanwhile, I’d do anything for Paulson James. He saved my marriage. My life. I had wealth and power. Everything. Nothing. One day, that is. It all became nothing. Darlene…”

            “That’s your missus?”

            “She tried to take her own life about five years ago. Darlene never blamed me, but it was my fault. My absence. Wealth. Power. Nothing. Last ditch, we go to see this guy everyone’s talking about. He’s making some sense, but it’s mostly going over my head or around it. There was a fog,” he said, trailing off for a second and tapping his head, “but then I see my wife start to turn around. Really turn around. I’m good with numbers, not words, but when you see a person you love basically come back from the dead, it changes you. I started listening. The fog lifted. My boy Charlie got involved. Met a girl and got married. We saw some crazy things. Paulson James is not just some guy. He needs to be protected.”

            There were tears falling steady from Hood’s slender eyes. Bobby had been in more than one situation where reading the truth off someone was essential. So far, Andy Hood was passing muster. It was damn awkward. Still, he needed more.

            “Were you supposing to plug me after you got the weapons?”

            “No. What purpose would it serve? We won’t be here much longer.”

            “I figured you showed up here at least halfway for revenge. I did let your boy and young wife through last week. Could’ve stopped them but I didn’t. That must’ve hacked you off a mite.”

            “I knew he was running. And that he’d be back, one way or another. Paulson shouldn’t have given people an out. You shouldn’t have helped.”

            “There you go. See why I’m so touchy.”

            Andy stepped closer and tossed his jacket on the floor. “I saw them leaving. When the Storm didn’t take us, it was obvious. I sent someone to stop them. Someone I knew would do anything for the Membership. Things obviously got out of control.”

            Bobby stood up and pointed toward the kitchen. “That boy. Your boy almost bled out in my damn kitchen.”

            The tears were flowing again as Andy fell to the couch near the front window. “And what happened?”   

            “Paulson hauled the kid’s ass out of here. It’s a damn miracle he survived.” As soon as the sentence was over, Delray regretted it, but using miracle wasn’t a flub of the mind or some simple slip of the tongue. Fact was, Charlie Hood truly looked a goner, and he’d seen more of his share of that kind of deal over the years. He’d poisoned his eyes fighting off emotions over the years, watching brothers draw their last in jungles they had no claim to.

            “I’m guessing no one knows about this whole thing. Your part, I mean.”

            “I just want to finish our business, Mr. Delray. You have half the money. Do you want the other half or not?”

            “Get moving. You’ll have from six to seven to get your stuff and get out. I’ll be making sure that payment gets received before a damn thing gets hauled yonder.”

            “Thank you.”

            Delray watched them round the house back toward the property line. He needed to chew on what he’d just heard. “Seems like a lot of drama, Tara darlin’. Even for a bunch of religious wackos.”

Chapter 22: Just People (Part One)

            Jordy Phelps listened intently as the GPS directed his path. The young agent was driving slowly down a seldom-used Virginia country road, untouched land for miles in every direction. It wasn’t all that different from the area outside Fort Worth where the Membership had pitched their tent, he thought, save the green and the occasional hill.

            The speaker blasted a computerized phrase he’d been dreading for the last three hours: You have arrived at your destination.

            It was just another turnoff to another dirt road. He gripped the steering wheel tight as he pulled the car into the grass off to the side, trying to gauge the sponginess of the ground. There’d been a recent rain; the last thing he needed to do was get stuck in the mud. He took a second to imagine the chiding he’d receive from Becker and the condescension he’d be forced to endure from Dukes.

No thanks.   

Looking through the gate, he could that the rental he was in wouldn’t be able to make the drive. The drainage on the property wasn’t great. He could see pools of standing water all the way up to the house. Not that it would matter. The corrugated metal gate that served as the entrance to the property had three padlocks too stern for the bolt cutters he had in his kit. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” Jordy said aloud, checking the time. He bent down and clenched his eyes. The large old farmhouse was visible out the passenger side window, but it was a long way off. Trees lined the drive up to the house, but other than that there was no real cover between the road and the residence.

            His phone buzzed. He looked down to see a text from Wolf Becker. Well?

            It was typical of the boss. Becker wasn’t unfair, but he could be extremely short on patience if results weren’t swift. Phelps imagined the case with the Membership was driving the agent in charge particularly crazy, tedious waiting game that it had devolved into. Ultimately, Phelps trusted his superior, even if their personalities clashed more times than not. Mostly, because a measure of trust had been given. Maybe it was calculated man-management, or maybe the guy simply possessed an instinct for how to run a unit without getting bogged down by bullshit. He’d served under enough morons in the military and the bureau to know that righteous leadership was nothing to scoff at.

            I’m outside the property. Check back in ten.

            He opened the door and went to the trunk, looking around before placing his service Glock and backup in the little hole for the jack. As he closed it, a feeling of nakedness came over him. Being in the field and unarmed wasn’t a singular event, but it was rare enough to take note.

Phelps had another look up and down the road. Again, nothing for miles. He called the number that Becker had left on the note. If someone was home, they weren’t answering; hadn’t been for the last hour. “Here’s to violating the damn Constitution,” Phelps muttered, stepping over the slats of the little wooden fence that ran parallel to the road. The house was about a quarter mile up a slight incline. He decided to make his approach up the muddy road. It was slimy, slippery stuff, especially for someone in cowboy boots. A feeling like he was being watched rolled over him, but he knew that it might be something in his head. As a soldier, he learned that the whole sixth sense thing was mostly bullshit. Guys either got killed or they didn’t.

            He thought about trying the number to the house one more time, but instead he took off his t-shirt. Not exactly in the manual. As one careful step followed the next, he kept his hands raised.

            Then came a sound he’d heard too many times before. The snap of a round being chambered, from somewhere he couldn’t see. A singularly horrifying thing to experience. It was almost impossible fight the instinct to close your eyes and wait for impending doom as your senses washed over everything. That primordial rage that cried for life had to have its time. If you were good and trained like Phelps, it took two or three seconds.

            “Not another step.” The voice was female, calm but stern.

            The ATF agent did as he was told, looking forward despite the fact that the command was coming from behind the trees on the right side of the drive.

            As the voice’s owner stepped out, Phelps smiled sheepish and remained silent, head angled down to signal deference. He had a lot of explaining to do, obviously, but there’d be no forcing the issue on this one.  

            “You look like a damn idiot, but I doubt you’re illiterate,” she said, keeping her rifle raised tight in a firing position, legs bent slightly at the knees. “In which case I’ll assume it was a choice to ignore the private property signs. Not that the laws of nature and common damn sense aren’t enough to keep someone from climbing another’s fence.”

            He raised his eyes, holding his hands above his shirt. The woman was African American, in her thirties, dressed in a flannel shirt with jeans tucked into her hiking boots. She was pretty enough for him to notice, even with the large caliber weapon poised to put a hole clean through him. This wasn’t some backwoods nut living off the land; her teeth were straight and white. Clothes clean.

            “Turn in a circle, cowboy. Do it slow for me, now.”

            While Phelps heeded the command, he wondered how to begin explaining. If he got the chance.

            “Best you start marching back to the road. I don’t have time for shirtless wandering assholes.”

            If only that were an option, he thought. Here goes. “Ma’am, it’s not right for me to be on your property. I’m well aware of that.”

            “Funny how you show it. And I don’t recall asking you to speak.”

            “No choice. Are you part of a religious group? Folks that thought they were going away a week ago?” He abandoned his slow southern drawl as he fired the questions, afraid of being cut off.

            She tilted her head a bit off the sightline of the rifle and cast an incredulous glare. “Is that what your business is about? If that’s it, think maybe you got lost by about a thousand miles. Texas is where you want to be. Paulson James and that bunch of loons. Turn on a TV, cowboy.”

            Phelps took a big breath. “There’s something else I need to say. I’m really hoping you don’t shoot me until I’ve said my piece. I’m not lost.”

            She shrugged and reset her feet to the ground and her gun against her shoulder. “Clock’s ticking. Thirty seconds, then things get less cordial.”

            “My name’s Jordy Phelps. Agent Jordy Phelps, with the ATF.”

            The woman had the quickest of looks back toward the house and then turned her attention back, gripping the rifle tighter and with sterner purpose. “Start moving. This ain’t the sort of place your kind is going to receive a warm welcome.”

            He could tell she didn’t want to shoot him, but it was plain enough that she would if it came down to necessity. “Just think,” he said, calm as he could manage. “What in the world would an ATF agent be doing without a weapon on someone else’s property with no shirt and no backup?”

            “Could be dozens of you assholes out here.”

            “And what’s my part in this supposed operation? The eye-candy? You’re a soldier. Use your head. Recon doesn’t include walking straight down the driveway.”

            She held her posture and looked back at the house once again. “How’d you know I was a soldier?”

            “Same way you’d know the same about me. If you saw me drawing down.”

            “What’s the story then, Agent Phelps?”

            “This place isn’t safe.” He gave her the finer points. How Akeso’s files were all they had on the property, save a few bits of intel Becker pulled major favors to obtain. That the new and improved “official” story said they were supposedly a branch or faction of the Membership, dancing to a religious tune that was spreading at a rate alarming enough to cause people in the government to want rid of them. “The people I work with are trying to stop anything bad from happening.”

            “Sounds like the people you work with are the ones trying to make the shit happen.”

Phelps couldn’t begin to argue against her point. And he wasn’t exactly working with wiggle room. That, and he didn’t have all the answers. The agent was armed with nothing but conjectures and a few safe assumptions. “I didn’t even know if there would be anyone here. Took a fancy private plane, rented a crappy car. I’m off book and outside my usual beat. Now that I’ve confirmed the property is being used, it’s important that I get a sense for it. Just asking to get a sense, ma’am.”

            “So, you want to come up and meet everyone? Shake hands and shit, break bread?”

            “I don’t want to interfere with anything you got going on. This may be hard as all hell to believe, but believing it could save your life and the life of anyone you else you got here.”

            “We’ve got nothing to hide. This is a place for soldiers. Somewhere people can get their heads right without the shrinks and the bullshit.”

            “I’m sure that’s true.”

“My name’s Greer, she said. After asking to see his badge and commanding that he put his shirt back on, she lowered the gun just below level and motioned for him to start up the road. The walk was quiet and tense, but he clung to the notion that he was lucky to be upright. Twenty minutes later, he was standing in the remodeled food prep area of the farmhouse, surrounded by several of the residents. They were soldiers, no doubt. The place was lousy with big tattooed arms and thick, unruly beards. He moved slow and steady, dialing his boss’ number and setting it to speaker before placing it on a handcrafted wooden kitchen island.

            “You had me worried,” Becker answered. “Talk.”

            “Sorry, sir. Hey, just so you know, we’re on speaker with the folks up here. I’ve been getting to know them, uh, hanging out a bit. Figured they had a right to listen in.”

            “What’d you find?”

            Phelps smiled nervously as he looked over the faces in the crowded kitchen. “Akeso’s story is bullshit. All we’ve got here is what your boy in the State Department said. Just some ex-military trying to live quiet and private.”

            “Son of a bitch,” said the lead agent. A pause long pause followed.

            Phelps stared at the phone and waved his hand dismissively so everyone could see. “That’s just him thinking. Any second now.”

            “You sure you’re okay?”

            “Right as rain. I’ll call you from the road.”

            “You make sure and tell those people that they need to find somewhere else to lay their heads until this blows over. Tell them we’re very sorry. Don’t do anything to piss them off, Phelps.”

            “Will do, boss. Hey, is it still balls cold down there?”

“Call me on the road, Phelps.”

“Sure thing. “Get back to you in a few.” He ended the phone and looked around the room. “Seriously, no way y’all get how cold it is down there.”

            After some nods and a few handshakes with the others, Tessa moved up beside Jordy. “Guess it’s probably good I didn’t shoot you.”

            “Agreed, ma’am,” he said with a wink, pointing to a spot high on his chest. “Already been shot. No sense dancing the same tune twice.”

Chapter 23: Just People (Part Two)

Wolf Becker checked a new message on his phone and returned it to his pocket in stride, knocking and entering the conference room at the same time. “Mind if I join you for a second?” he asked.

His arrival caused an instant change in Dr. Jordan Akeso’s demeanor. She stopped writing in her notepad and smiled like it was something practiced as she sat up in her chair, pulling down on the bottom of her suit jacket to straighten out any bunches. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. Please take a seat, Agent Becker.”

            “I think I will. It’s been a busy day. There hasn’t been a great deal of time to talk like people.”

            “That would be nice,” she said, interlocking her fingers on the table. “Just to be people.”

            As he settled into a chair and tried to get a read on the young doctor, one of his agents slapped a hand against one of the glass panes separating the room from the office, mouthing, can I get you for a question? The noise was uncomfortably loud, arresting enough to startle him. He reeled off a good ten seconds of some of the worst language he’d ever said in front of anyone, let alone a woman he’d just met. “Sorry about that.” After pointing for his guy to go away, he rolled himself back to the table.

            “It’s quite all right, Agent Becker. It rattled me as well.”

            “Yeah, easy to get on edge around here. Maybe I don’t help things.”

            “How do you hurt?”

            “Thinking out loud, it’s possible that I run too tight a ship around here. There’s a fine line between keeping people on their toes and making them so wound up they go around slamming on windows.”

            “There hasn’t been much time, as you said, but I don’t think you’re running things too tightly.” She smiled and held her perfectly erect pose. Wolf nodded his head and curled his bottom lip, trying to size her up. Akeso’s smile should’ve been something to behold. She was perfect looking. Without blemish. A petite, perfectly symmetrical being. But that’s all he got from her. A being. It all came off as a bit; her smile. Her everything.

            “So, I’m running things too loose?” he asked, matching her smile with a fake one of his own. He made sure the mockery that it signaled wasn’t well disguised. “Shaking things up, are you Doc? You come into my office and call up the guy who holds all the cards. That thing with Paulson earlier. Maybe I don’t have as many degrees as you, but it’s not in any playbook I’ve ever read to go out of your way to piss off your subject.”

            Akeso removed her smile and opened and slid a large blue binder across the table. “It’s thick, I know, but there are tabs. You can go to the one about your wife. No? I can wait a few seconds. Of course,” she sighed, “this was going to happen eventually, but it’s so tedious. Emotions are such a waste of energy.”

            “Emotions?” Becker had always considered himself level-headed. Stern, maybe, but never out of control. She was calling him out for letting his heart rule, trying to make it worse by bringing up his wife. Akeso was clever, he could tell, but he didn’t want to help by playing back into her hand. Voice calm, he said, “When you say emotions are wasteful, is that all the time? If there’s a bad guy, for instance—apologies if you’ve never had to go after one yourself—anyway, if a bad guy’s got a little girl tied up in a house, doing all kinds of evil, is it a waste to be a little angry when you break down the door and try to stop him from one more act of rape? Is it frivolous to carry a little indignation into the room as you fight to the death with your bare hands, because going in shooting could’ve jeopardized the girl’s life? Is fervency appropriate when you strangle out that last breath, knowing if you don’t he’ll do the same to you and then, holy shit, the girl’s getting another round of that horror, and maybe this time it’s even worse because now he’s even more pissed and crazy and you’re dead and can’t do a thing about it?”

            “You saved a girl,” Akeso said, not bothering to act affected. “Your career has been exemplary, far as it goes. I’m not here to take that away from you. But emotion wasn’t the reason you found her. Not the reason for a great career. Despite what I’ve seen here, you’re a fairly intelligent man, Becker. Brains. Logic. They made you and saved the girl.”

            “Maybe it’s the age,” he mumbled.

            “What was that?”

            “I was thinking, maybe it’s your age. The thing that’s keeping you from understanding that things aren’t one or the other. Used to be, people valued age. Wisdom was currency and hard earned. Tough to find anyone that gives a damn about wisdom these days.”

            The young doctor started to speak, but he lifted up his hands. “That’s okay. I get it. Brains and logic. We can get into a real dialectic over drinks sometime.”

            Akeso stood up and unbuttoned her coat, cracking her neck to one side and the other. With fewer layers, Becker could see that she was in shape in a way that went beyond maintaining her looks. “The memory exercises you have your agents do. I like that. I have some of my own. It’s why I can tell you chapter and verse what’s in the file on Hazel Becker.”

            The ATF man was tempted to look, but there was no need. It was nothing he didn’t already know.

            “Four different doctors confirmed it. The cancer responded to treatment. Four different doctors. MD Anderson in Houston, Johns Hopkins, some of the top people in all the world. I looked at their educational backgrounds, malpractice histories, patient success rates. All very neat and tidy. Brilliant physicians.”

            “I was there.”

            “Exactly. You were there. You were also there when she went home from that Paulson James rally on an emotional high. Probably with a kiss on the cheek from her faithful husband. The good days started piling up. It was a miracle.” Akeso stopped to smirk. “But that wasn’t enough for you. Brains and logic had you dragging her around the state from doctor to doctor and they told you the same thing. Healing happens. People get better. The treatment was aggressive, cutting edge, this that and the other, slim chance, but score one for the good guys. Hazel listened, I bet, but I wager you actually heard. And that’s why I don’t understand your hesitancy to end this thing. Is it purely for her sake?”

            There was so much to be angry at. The little shit from Washington wasn’t as clever as she thought. That was the worst part. No, the worst part was that he couldn’t show it. The comment about getting emotional had him trapped. He took up another collection of calm and proceeded. “Now that we’ve discussed my wife, I don’t see how this situation doesn’t just resolve itself. Perhaps it’s best I tell everyone at the office to go home, issue a press statement?”

            “That’s very good, Agent Becker,” she said, giving him a little wink. The woman was stiff as a bored, that is, until she was fucking with someone’s head. “Very good for an agent who’s been friends with Paulson James since high school to be running point on this case. Wonderful for that agent’s wife to be a believer in his bullshit superpowers. If our government wasn’t run by so many idiots and this state wasn’t presided over by one of the most empty-headed buffoons in the history of mankind, this never would’ve been allowed.”

            “You know my kids have been to your so-called camps. It’s all bullshit. Why are you doing this?”

            “Was that Ranger Dukes or Agent Phelps texting when you walked in? Doesn’t matter.”

            He could only make educated guesses, but it seemed she was determined to play all of her cards. Dr. Akeso was a gambler to accuse a respected agent of dereliction. Someone with a record of levelheadedness, an agent that didn’t deny his emotions but used them, enough to get the job done and no more. No, he thought, unwilling to really give in. Even now. She’s no gambler. Someone with power is backing her play. She’s a little girl in a sandbox. That’s why everything appears so neat and tidy. She’s playing dirty, laughing on the inside while she does it.

            “Are you going to take them off the case? Dukes and Nelson? They’re good people.”

            “Thinking of others already? I’m glad you’re not fighting your own removal. The governor and director wanted me to convey gratitude and all the usual banalities before asking that you take an extended vacation.” Akeso smiled her special, condescending crimson smile. “With pay.”

            “That’s something.”

            “You should’ve never been on this, Becker.”

            He wasn’t in the mood for a protracted argument, except for the sense of disaster coming down the line. “What happens when you want to talk to Paulson? I’m your connection to him.”

            “He’ll talk to me,” Akeso said. “Or he won’t. I’m ready for any and all scenarios. Besides, the time for dialogue might be over. Our country has tolerated this farce long enough.”

            “Our country?”          

            Becker was shaken again. The same agent was slapping the other side of the glass. It was one of his best investigators, an affable, pudgy agent in his forties named Lawrence. He wasn’t the type to go undercover or run down a perp, but he was the kind that could find things out from a cubicle with inexplicable ingenuity.

            “Boss, you need to see this. Take it.”

            Akeso shouted a protest to Becker as he pressed play on a video file pulled up on Lawrence’s tablet. Akeso clutched her radio, ordering security to take him into custody.

            “Are this real?” he asked. “This time stamp right, Lawrence?”

            “It’s from a half hour ago. They’re moving something back to the Membership compound.”

            “Not another word,” Akeso said.

            “You think it’s guns?”

            “Yes, sir. Heavy shit, too. I don’t know how we missed it.”

            Becker handed back the tablet. “Get out of here, Lawrence. And thanks. Just come in, next time.” He smiled brief and with meaning. “It’s loud as hell when you hit the glass like that.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Alone again, Becker asked how certain they were about the contraband being moved across the property line.

            “It’s a question you could’ve answered if you hadn’t been so credulous and stupid. I’ve been here one day and changed the drone flyover schedules immediately. You had them flying the same routes for weeks. It’s ridiculously bad work, Becker. Exactly what I knew I’d find here.”

            “Got it all figured, then.”

            “More than you.”

            “I’ll be going. Vacation and all. You did give me orders.”

            Three men with better physiques and boxier haircuts than any of his people came into the office, forming a semi-circle around the agent. “An escort to my car?”

            Akeso nodded at the biggest man, and Becker’s felt a forceful hand on his back. The agent knew he wasn’t going on vacation. Akeso wasn’t as smart as she believed herself to be, but she was still smarter than most. There was no way she could simply let him go. They’d keep him there, at least for a little while. They might move him at the end of the day, be he figured they’d want him around, even if it was for optics in the aftermath. We had all hands on deck. The bullshit things that are said so everyone involved feels like their asses are covered, no matter the outcome.  

            He cycled through a series of thoughts and concerns as the three men forced his hands up, removed his weapon, and stripped him of all effects. The cell phone he used to contact Elson Cantrell was not among them. The location of that item was on the note he had just slipped to Simon Lawrence. The note was intended for Dukes and Phelps, apprising them of the situation and passing off responsibilities that he hoped they were ready for. He needed them to be smart and brave in the face of a situation he himself didn’t fully understand. He needed them to be something more than just people.

Chapter 24: Bed and Silence

            Paulson could see and understand everything around him, but his ability to speak had gone. It was just like Levi had said. Levi. There is no Levi. Only a manifestation of the subconscious. Say it, if only to yourself. You’re crazy. Say it again, so it’s loud and clamors and bounces off the walls of your head. You’re crazy. Maybe it’s a result of the tumor, or maybe not. Enough. Now, once more. You’re crazy. Crazy Paulson, and now that you have something to say, here you are. Cursed. Only yourself for an audience.

He had all but abandoned notions of supernatural forces at work, but here he was, struck dumb like a character in the Bible, watching and listening as people whispered and wondered all around his bed with faces twisted up with varying degrees of worry.

            Paulson imagined the tumor growing over his eyes. Forming new cells, indifferent to the damage it was causing. Doc Dade. How could he? How could Ida Jean stir these people up? If anyone had power, it was her. He wanted to get up and strangle the woman with one of her own half-finished blankets, but he doubted it would do much good. While his wife, Cantrell and Sofia Ivrea swirled about, he decided it was best to use the time for thinking. Certainly, there were ways out of this. For now, he would answer simple questions and reflect. A way out of this. He’d find it—had to find it. Lydia was carrying their baby. A true miracle, beyond doubting. A miracle without dread or uneasiness attached. Responsibility, of course, but nothing like the burden he’d been saddled with for too long now.

            “I’m getting a text, Paulson,” Cantrell said. Sofia was standing near him but not like before. The revelation of his actual identity wasn’t without effect, Paulson could see. “It’s not from Becker’s burner. Someone named Dukes. Texas Ranger. She says that they’re trying to get out him out of there. He’s been relieved from duty by that doctor you talked to earlier. It also says to turn on a damn TV.”

            James was only half laying down. Though the covers were wrapped just under his chin, he was partially propped up against the headboard. I must look ridiculous. He glanced softly at Lydia, tightly gripping his left hand as she sat on the bed opposite Cantrell and Sofia. Paulson smiled and turned his attention back to the undercover agent before nodding.

            Sofia found the remote and turned it to the local news. A reporter was talking over live images being taken from a helicopter. “Why are they doing such things?” she asked. “Should I turn the sound higher then?”

            Again, Paulson nodded. He felt the grip on his hand tighten.

            Multiple reports say that military-style weapons have been smuggled onto the property in the last few hours. We also have news that several other satellite compounds around the country, all mimicking the beliefs of James’ Membership, are building up caches of armaments in a similar fashion. This of course runs counter to Paulson James’ ongoing narrative, an insistence that he and his followers were pacifistic above all else, only wishing to live out their beliefs in privacy. By the looks of these shots it appears that an increased police presence is forming around the two main country roads leading up to the property. Obviously, the agreed-upon boundary is no longer in effect. It also appears that they’ve brought in armored vehicles. I’m not sure what they are specifically called. For you folks back at the studio and the people at home, I’d have to call them tanks.

            Cantrell looked at his phone and a fresh text from the person calling themselves Dukes. “You or Paulson need to call me or Jordy Phelps. This thing could spiral.”

            He closed the phone and said, “No shit.”

            “You said this could happen the first day,” his wife trembled. “When the Storm didn’t come. You always said they’d never let us go back to the world.”

            “Might’ve said something similar to me. When you could talk,” Ells bit his lip and squinted at the television, bending slightly at the knees in his familiar athletic pose. The authorities weren’t playing around. They had armored personnel carriers, tactical teams, at least three helicopters. Not to mention local and state, all chomping at it to insert themselves in the biggest story in America.

            Paulson shrugged.

            “Who are we thinking brought in the weapons?” Cantrell asked, bending over to lace his boots tight. “Assuming it’s not all bullshit, that is.”

            Paulson shrugged again.

            “Come on, man. I got to find out who’s making moves. Maybe I hit up Ida Jean?”

            Paulson shook his head. It would be a waste of time. His surrogate mother was involved, but she wouldn’t talk to Ells. And mad as he was, Cantrell wouldn’t put the screws to a revered old woman.

            “What about your brother? He skulks around enough. Stabs people. Bet he knows something.”

            “I’ll go with him,” Lydia said, rising from the bed and turning to address the undercover agent. “You have a better chance of getting Rhett to talk if I’m there.”

            “Whatever works,” Cantrell said. “Sofia, stay here and don’t let anyone in.” Cantrell tossed his burner phone to James, receiving a shake of the head in return.

            “I know. But you can still use your hands. Keep texting back, see if you can figure out how they’re planning to get us out of this. Assuming they’ve got a plan.”

            Paulson nodded.

            Lydia and Sofia each took abrupt steps back as Cantrell pulled a pistol from his backside waistline, checking to make sure it was ready to fire. “Just in case,” he said, smirking at James. “And do me a favor, pal. This whole silent thing… fix it.”

Chapter 25: At the End of the Day

            Freddie Sandpiper got up from the couch gently as possible and went to the nearest window of the rec center. There wasn’t much to look at. The glass was mostly coated with frost and seemed ready to give out from the high winds and relentlessly thick snow. The Dartford brothers had passed out on either side of him, watching reruns while he sat there stewing in his pain.

            As a pilot, Freddie was naturally good with directions. He knew his way to the gate. To freedom. He took Rye’s jacket and scarf and wrapped up ailing face, then walked out into the blizzard. The rocky road was covered with ice, but the fresh snow made it a bit easier to hold decent footing. Freddie increased his pace to a steady jog, shifting left and right as the wind buffeted his little body. The oversized jacket needed to be clutched firmly or it would act as a parachute, throwing Sandpiper off course. Five minutes. Stick to the road. Five minutes. No one will see you. He held up his hand in front of his face. Only parts were visible. Five minutes. No one will see you.

            The weather was enough to draw his attention away from the “mark” on his face. Doc Dade had done a perfunctory job with it and not much more, sure that it wouldn’t matter after they went away. The physician must’ve mumbled The Storm a hundred times throughout the crude administration of treatment.

            Sandpiper didn’t know if he was doing the right thing, but he’d been having doubts right up to moment he tried to run. If they thought branding would make him come around, they were sadly mistaken. Freddy did feel bad for Paulson and a few of the others. James had taken a personal interest in him when no one else would. They’d laughed over beers many times. After a run of very bad luck, it was hard to believe that someone as charismatic and famous as Paulson James would take an interest in a social loser like him. Still jogging, he turned his head to look back. “Sorry, Pau—”

            It was an impressive shot, but Theodore Brigham was a dedicated and seasoned expert with a rifle. In his former life, he’d owned and operated the world’s most exclusive outdoor hunting expedition operation. There wasn’t an animal worth killing that he hadn’t tracked and shot down. As soon as he caught a faint glimpse of Freddy turning the white a shade darker, he employed the weapon that had become an extension of his anatomy over the last six months. The wind and snow made it all the more difficult, but Sandpiper was closer to the makeshift tower than he probably realized. The bullet entered the back of his head and blew most of his face away as it exited. Freddie’s corpse shook in the snow, the spray of brains and blood already beginning to disappear under the powder.

            Though they’d made their line of military and law enforcement vehicles at about fifty yards from the gate, the sound of the shot was barely audible. The senior FBI man on the scene, Special Agent Bill Dorchester, almost spilled his coffee when the call came through the radio. He’d been sitting comfortably in his armored black SUV, taking full advantage of the heated seats.

            “Sir! We’ve got shots fired.”

            “What!” Anyone hit?”

            “Uh… it looks like the guy in the tower took down one of the nutjobs. Johnson says he about blew his head right off.”

            “Are you sure? How can you be sure, dammit? Who the hell’s Johnson?” He looked out the window. Nothing but white.

            “Johnson’s one of our snipers. He had his fancy scope on them. What do we do?”

            Dorchester was blinking uncontrollably and started to pant. “What’s happening now?”

            “Uh… nothing. Should we shoot the guy?”

            The senior agent was sitting on a powder keg that needed diffusion, scores of armed personnel menacing loaded weapons at the compound property. “What’s happening now?”

            “The old man’s just standing there.”

            “Is he pointing his gun at us?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Shit. Hold one. Nobody do a damn thing until I say so.” He set down the radio and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He had to appeal to a more robust authority. There was no way he was going be the one to send the battering ram of government smashing through the gates. Too much pressure. Too big a story.

            Dorchester had another thought. Perhaps the near whiteout conditions provided the perfect scenario to breach. They could go in and round up the Membership without media eyes bearing down. Luckily his timidity won out in the end. Impetuousness would’ve been met with more than empty-handed zealots. Sweating now, he turned down the heat pulsing out of his seat and put in a call to Dr. Akeso.

                                    ____________________________________

            “I had me a feeling, Tara. You always said to stick to my guts. Didn’t do it, and lookie here what happens.” He let out a breath that went on and on, emptying out his belly. “Had me a feeling.”

            Bobby Delray could see the red and blue lights a little bit brighter now. The snowfall was coming down with less aggression, but the trucks in his drive were still hard to make out. They were in another dimension, his visitors. He was looking through a vail to an otherworldly combination of sight and sound, dark and haze trading places, men’s frothy screams arriving at barely a whisper.

            Bobby was in his favorite recliner with a bottle of Jim Beam wedged between his corduroy-clad legs. The fireplace raged to his left. Tara’s picture from the mantel was propped up against one of the tattered armrests so he could keep a steady gaze on it. “Went against my better judgment,” he said. “But you were the one with the sense.” Delray closed his glassy eyes. “Maybe I was looking for a way out.”

            More screams. They were keeping to a decent perimeter. He raised himself from the lumpy chair and neatly placed the picture back in its regular place. “Only one thing left to decide.”

By the time he’d drained the last lick from the bottle of Jim Beam, he’d made his decision. The next time he talked to Tara, they’d be in the same place. He picked up the classic bolt action .308 rifle leaning next to the door and pulled the knob. Before the long weapon could be shouldered to a firing position, his chest and thighs were shot through. The veteran soldier pitched forward on his porch one piece at a time, falling crooked as his parts shut down at different stages. Delray’s blood froze before it could leak through the cracks in the wood. Helmeted men surrounded the body in smoky silence, squinting through foggy goggles as they fixed their weapons downward at his blown-out backside. Snow was already filling in the holes and covering the red-soaked flannel. The leader stepped away and removed his helmet, squinting from the merciless bite of the wind before pressing a button on his chest. “Dr. Akeso. Yes, ma’am. The old man’s dead. It was like you said. He wasn’t going to be taken. That’s right. Sure as I’m talking, all the way gone. All kinds of holes where there wasn’t.”

The leader looked over his shoulder and watched as a member of his team casually discharged another round into the back of Delray’s head. “So what’s next, ma’am?”

Day Three: October 24th

Chapter 26: Serious Crazy

            Day was breaking on the plains outside Fort Worth, Texas, though the normal feelings and effects of morning were far away; a heavy, unceasing rain had commenced sometime in the early hours. Sheets from the downpour swept over the dented bodies of police cruisers and lashed the darkened windows of federal vans and SUV’s. Five armored personnel carriers and two tanks sat at odd angles facing the compound, water pinging off their sinking metal treads as smelly men and women tried not to nap inside, another watch outside the Paulson James’ compound complete. Soon the dayshift. They all hoped it would be their last time but like anything tedious they didn’t want to put too much hope to it.

            A quarter mile south, a line of news vans was aligned on a farm road connected to the one taken up by law enforcement, just as they had been the day the story Paulson James story broke. The fervor of the public was back, now high as ever, but no one could see clearly how it would end. Uncertainty always helped to make a good story. The bodies bullet-torn bodies of Freddie Sandpiper and Bobby Delray didn’t hurt, either.

Reporting for a local affiliate, one on-the-scene journalist captured the moment best while addressing the early morning news watchers as they readied themselves for the day: Another morning outside the compound of the Membership, this one marked by weather more violent than any I can remember. On the ground, nothing is certain. Quite the opposite. Since the confirmed death of the famed pilot and aeronautics entrepreneur Frederick Sandpiper and the shootout involving the gun trafficker Robert Delray, tension has been high amongst the members of law enforcement. News that Paulson James’ message is spreading has many in the country concerned, worried that similar compounds might sprout up in their own communities. The people of North Texas are divided on how this taut situation should unfold, but most can agree that it has gone on long enough. Federal and local law enforcement have fallen silent on the subject, but just last night we learned from Governor Tiggs that the authorities are still talking to Paulson James, doing their utmost to come to a peaceful resolution. It is still unclear why Frederick Sandpiper was shot, but authorities have confirmed that Mr. Delray was a known drugs and weapons trafficker who fired on federal agents trying to serve a warrant just seven days ago. You’ll remember that Governor Tiggs said in a prior speech that Delray helped smuggle a large cache of weapons onto the Membership property. What the weapons are for, we can only speculate. If you’ve spent any time at all on the internet you’ve seen the theories. Everything from simple self-defense to an armed insurrection against the government has been proposed. What started out as an eccentric community of fringe believers has turned into something far darker, leaving this reporter no way to wager with any degree of certainty how the story will end. Back to you in the studio.

            The reporter, a young but seasoned woman named Avy Tarleton, waited for her camera’s light to go off and then rushed toward the back of the news van. Her only pair of knee-high leather boots were getting swamped. She could feel the creeping wet on her heels and toes. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” It was laughable, attempting to appear professional in a tempest; she told the producer to get the mirror away from her as she took off her rain jacket. “It keeps coming,” she said to anyone listening. “They better just stick with Chuck and the other weather guys for the rest of the broadcast. We’ve never had hurricanes up this far north before.”

            “They can’t just do weather,” the producer said. He was excited. Avy could tell because he was rubbing his mustache with an old pen at a faster rate than normal. “Besides,” he went on, “it’s not as bad as the cold blast from last week. That was way freakier.”

            “Says you,” Avy answered, a bit on her high horse. She’d lived in Fort Worth her whole life and knew the climate’s capricious nature. The producer was a Bostonian or some such. If she wanted to hear about snow or off-putting New England racist pride, she’d ask him.

Damn mustachioed carpetbaggers. They were all over the place covering this story, making her feel claustrophobic in the middle of slow-rolling Texas ranch land. Not easy to do. “And why not stick to the weather?” she continued. “Nothing’s going to happen today. The cops won’t even be able to see through this wind and rain.”

            “There’s always the chance they’re gone,” said the producer. “This might be The Storm, after all.”

            They all laughed tacitly at the worn-out joke and passed a towel around. Avy Tarleton secretly hoped the weather would subside and the feds would go bursting onto the property, ending it one way or the other. As a preacher’s reactionary daughter, she had little patience for hocus pocus and otherworldly prognostications. So of course, she was drafted by the station to cover Paulson James, the biggest loon of the decade.

            It wasn’t the worst thing for her career. Her fluid and likeable screen style was getting a lot of traction on the internet. She had one of the most recognizable faces in the journo pool covering the Membership. Tons of hits on social media. She leaned back against the inside of the van, watching her coat drip dry onto the floor not far away from a clump of cables.

            The straight-toothed cameraman smiled at her across the limited space after checking his equipment for water damage. He was a few years younger than her; she put him between twenty-four and twenty-seven. While the weather beat down atop the van and she felt her arms and chest start to warm up, a tiny fantasy flash came and went in her brain. It would be nice. Send the carpetbagger out into the deluge. Order the dirty blonde camera stud with the oversized biceps to ravage her over and over.

            Something to pass the time. Anyway, she deserved some fun. Avy had done good work reporting on Paulson James and his merry band of entitled assholes, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do, even when there was nothing to report.

            As a journalist, Avy always tried for a level of objectivity. It was still early in her career and she was still harboring a strange notion that integrity might mean something in the years to come. The biased press was going to eat itself in the end, she theorized. (Keeping a casual eye on the big vein popping out of the cameraman’s left arm)

In the end, she thought, the reporters that simply called balls and strikes would be who the people turned to. Truth was her propellent, but in the case of the Membership, it was impossible not to root for the feds. She was no fan of tanks and men with machine guns skulking around, but Paulson James was giving her hometown a bad name that might never go away. When she wasn’t sloshing around in the mud or trying to come up with another string of words that described the insanity happening just a mile or two away, Avy would close her eyes and picture some Japanese people watching her report as they took a train in Tokyo. She’d picture a bunch of guys in track suits in the Balkans smoking cigarettes in track suits talking pointing at the TV, commenting with their hiked-up chins about her red hair, commenting about the freaks in Texas. Fort Worth, Texas, home of the nutjobs. They were saying it in Caracas and Moscow and places she’d never think of.

            Avy wanted to give the citizens of the world a new story to half-listen to. She was desperate to do good work and horny for the cameraman. God, get me out of here. Anything to stop sullying the name of the last small-town big city in America. God, get me—”

            The phone in her vest pocket stalled out her mental digression. She answered it without looking at the number; she no longer screened. It was a habit formed by countless days there was little to no time. Days unlike that day.

            “Avy Tarleton, sitting in the rain,” she answered, winking at the cameraman.

            “I’m sorry you have to do that. It must be frustrating.”

            She looked at the screen. The number was blocked. “Okay, guy. Who is this?”

            “It’s Paulson James.”

            Avy smirked and wiggled her toes. Yep. Completely soaked. “Sure it is. Seriously. Give me a name or I hang up in five seconds.”

            “I could tell you who I am all day, but you won’t believe me. It doesn’t matter. Do you have a pen?”

            “I need something worth writing down first,” she said, pulling a chewed-up Bic from the same pocket she’d kept her phone. “And I usually like to get my information from sane people.”

            “I understand.”

            “I doubt that,” she smirked. “You’re a guy so crazy that he’s pretending to be another crazy guy. That’s a lot crazy.”

            “You’ve interviewed Wolf Becker from the ATF in the past.”

            “So what?”

            “Have you noticed his conspicuous absence lately? Try to get in touch with him. Ask yourself why the onsite leadership has switched to the FBI and this Dorchester guy. No offense to the man, but not exactly a top pedigree.”

            Avy had noticed. More than that, she’d doggedly sought out Agent Becker for comments after the shooting of Frederick Sandpiper. The reporter was met by one roadblock after another. Obviously, it was strange for the supposed head of the government operation to vanish and become totally unavailable for reaction. “What’s Becker going to tell me that I don’t already know?”

            She didn’t get an answer. Instead, a phone number. “Call that. You’ll get all the answers you want. I remember Wolf saying you were a straight shooter.”

            “C’mon,” she said incredulously, ready to hang up. She was wet and tired and she could only indulge this charlatan for so long.

            “Call the number, Ms. Tarleton. Please.”

            “Who was that?” asked the carpetbagger. He was sitting up near the front of the van, forced to hunch over because of his extraordinarily long and graceless Yankee form.

“I love my job,” she sighed, dialing the number given to her by the mystery caller.

Before it could ring twice, a female with a slight country drawl answered.

            “We were wondering if you’d call.”

            “Who am I speaking with?” Avy asked, sitting up a little and listening for anything in the background. The woman said we. Even if this whole thing was total bullshit, she couldn’t simply set aside years of ingrained training as a journalist.

            “I can hear the annoyance in your voice. Personally, I don’t feel all that great having to talk to you either.”

            “Do I have to beg?”

            “Texas Ranger May Dukes. I was working closely with Agent Becker before the doctor put her little foot down.”

            “The doctor?”

            “We’ve got a lot to catch you up on. Can you meet us, or do you want to sit out there waiting to float away or get struck by lightning?”

            “Who’s us?”

            “Me and another guy. You’ll probably not like him at first.”

            “Why should I trust any of this?”

            “You shouldn’t. I’ll give you ten minutes to check me out. If you’re worth a dang that’s more than enough time. If I don’t hear anything after that, I’ll assume you’re meeting us. I’ll text you an address. Come alone. Help us for your own sake. That name of yours probably gets a whole lot bigger. I imagine that doesn’t sound bad.”

            Ten minutes later she was in the hot cameraman’s pickup truck, moving slowly along the highway back toward the city. The rain made progress difficult, but there was virtually no one else on the road. Avy stole a look at herself in the rearview mirror and then at the clock. She had to be back in three hours to do another live update from outside the compound. The reporter’s spirits were high, but she didn’t know if the lift was caused by optimism about her new contact or simply the fact that she was moving.

            “Focus,” she said, hunching over the massive steering wheel to get her face close to the windshield. “Get too excited and you’ll end up killing yourself on the way there.”

Chapter 27: Emperor Meets with the Pope

            Paulson James had sat across all kinds of tables from all kinds. Captains of industry. Tribal warlords. World leaders. The proud, pleading and pitiful. Each presented certain challenges to read, but no personality was inscrutable. He liked to think he’d never met an uncrackable safe, but looking at the rotund, scraggly-haired Andrew Hood, James felt his record might be broken. There had to be more to the man than the straightforward zealotry he projected. He’d come from nothing to be one of the most successful men in the country. There were layers Paulson simply couldn’t see.

Or maybe not.

            “It’s an interesting spot for a talk,” said Andy, trying to brush the water from his remaining locks. “Though I shouldn’t complain. We haven’t had a personal session since the old days. What a mess I was.”

            Paulson rotated his gaze to catch most of the empty surroundings. They were sitting at center court in the brightly lit basketball gym, separated by an old card table brought over from the rec center. “I like it in here,” the leader said, trying to bring the conversation to the present in every way. “It’s was always a bit of a refuge for me. Still is.”

            “In that case, I’m honored. Though, I’d be honored no matter what.”

            Paulson looked up and listened as rain battered the roof. They could hear the whoosh of gutters doing their best to handle the weather. “It’s still coming down.”

            “Yes, it is,” Andy smiled again, deliberately clasping his fat little hands on the table. “The wind just about lifted me off the ground on the way over.”

            Each man understood. Some small talk as prologue. Paulson could see the obvious, that Andy was playing deferential. He decided to lean into the space provided by the former banking mogul. “How is Janie doing? Your family?”         

            It had to be the first thing Paulson asked. After two days of confinement in the barn, Elson, James and Lydia decided that they had to release Janie Nelson back into the dark bosom of her friends and allies. A few of the Membership had been around during that precarious twenty-four-hour period, asking if they’d seen the widow. They came with strange demeanors, perforated solemnity, almost but not quite demanding answers from the one they still venerated above all. Paulson explained that she was feeling under the weather and being taken care of, but with each visit, he knew the charade couldn’t hold. It wasn’t a very good charade, after all. Ells was the only decent liar left in the barn and it seemed he’d lost the will for prevarication right around the time of Freddy’s slaying.

            “Janie’s fine,” Andy said with the poorly hidden smile of someone unpracticed in subterfuge. “She’s as good as her word, as is the rest of my family. We won’t say a thing to the others about her—captivity.”

            Andy seemed to set his ample weight further down into the cheap folding chair. He was visibly comfortable and getting more so, apparently settled in the knowledge that the leader’s torch had passed at least in some ways from Paulson’s hands to his.

            “We still love you, Paulson. I’d die for you. Anybody out there would still die for you.”

            James drew a considerable breath while he gave Andy’s last statement a thought. He peered down at his boots and scratched near the little spot of gray that grew on the right side of his chin. “I’m not looking for anyone else to die, Andy. That’s what matters.”

“Sure, Paulson.”

“I’m serious.”

            “We know that. And what happened with Freddy Sandpiper was a tragedy. It wasn’t supposed to go that way.” Hood’s soft delivery somehow made the statement harder for James to stomach. There was an obdurate disconnect between the two men. Every attempt at finding a way through was met with another wall of foggy misunderstanding. (Too much)

            “You told Theo to shoot anyone trying to leave. You had my brother hunt down your own son. Your own son was an inch from dying, Andy.”

            “But you were there. You saved him, just like we’ve seen before. And Rhett—we know he went way too far. I had my doubts, but when I saw the journal. The Messenger told you that we all had to stay together. Those are your words, Paulson. His words, I mean.

            “You didn’t know about the journal when your kid flew the coop.” James almost stood up. It was proving harder than he anticipated to share space with Andy. “You can’t control this,” Paulson said, now leaning forward slightly while keeping a straight back. Every movement was a bit of a test; his physical state had just about returned to normal after the seizure. He was feeling better and better every day, as strong as he could remember. “And Ida Jean’s controlling you. I don’t say it to be scolding. That woman’s been controlling me my whole life. Controlling Rhett. Pretty much everyone that gets near her.”

            “Ida Jean is a saint,” Andy said, clenching his sharp little teeth in a relapse back to his default setting. “And you should be more grateful. She’s the one who steadies the ship.”

            “She doesn’t know anything or see anything special. Like I said, you’re not the first to fall for it.”

            Andy closed his protruding eyes and slowly opened them again, like he’d successfully bottled up a fusillade of emotions and spared James their manifestation. “As I said, we still love you, Paulson. And they’ll all be incredibly encouraged to know you’re healthy and strong again. You should leave this world as your best self.”

            “Andy…” It was a false start. James was caught in a cul-de-sac.

            “Do you think we should all get together one more time before it happens?” Hood asked. “It would be nice to fellowship as a whole unit again, just like before.”

            Paulson nodded and swallowed his contempt, thinking of Freddie Sandpiper bleeding out in the snow for no reason close to good enough. “That’s probably the right idea.”

            Andy seemed to perk up. “Okay. Around lunch? Assuming we’re not already gone.”

            Paulson stood up quickly and held out a hand for Hood to shake. Awkwardness meant the need to move around. “You want to shoot around for a little? Maybe play H.O.R.S.E. or something… it’s a chance to stay dry for a few more minutes.”

            “I was never very good,” Andy said, eager to extricate his pudgy fingers from James’ grip. “I better get back. They’ll want to hear the good news about today’s fellowship. A fitting way to leave this behind.”

            “Suppose it is.”

            “Paulson,” he said, taking a few steps back from the table, “you can have your doubts. That’s what we’re here for. Me. Ida Jean. The whole group. You can have your doubts, but we’ll keep you strong, the way you saved us and kept us strong, time and time again. It’s going to be all right. Remember when you used to tell me that?”

            “I’ll see you soon,” Paulson said, waving as he watched Andy waddle and squeak across the gym floor.

James sat back down and used the flat of his thumb to feel around his scalp, wondering for the thousandth time about the size and shape of the thing taking up residence inside. Two weeks ago, Doc Dade had dropped the news about the brain abnormality. Just two damn weeks and his impossibly crazy world had gotten a hundred times crazier. Andy Hood and just about everyone else in the Membership was locked and loaded, ready for the Storm. Again. He started to cry. Maybe it was the big empty space. More likely, it was the damnable situation he was finding himself in. Stop. Stop.

            It kept coming all the same. He wanted to live. Had to live. Lydia had to stay safe. The baby. The Membership. It was all in his mind and just too much to power through. He’d cry into his hands like a child and then get on with the morning. Like a man.

Chapter 28: What Now?

            Ida Jean’s long life had been comprised of two parts, and now it was time to finally move on to the luminescent epilogue.

The first half lasted almost forty years and had been a wholly dark proceeding. She’d watched nothing come her way or turn out, no matter the plans or how much she tried. The undeserving fools all around her seem to prosper and climb as she sunk lower and lower with each year’s passing. Friends turned into acquaintances who dissipated into strangers who wouldn’t recognize her passing on the street.

            Her depression was reaching new lows and the drinking and drugs new heights the day she met Minnie James and life split from one half to the other. It was at a group meeting. Ida was toe-tapping and fidgety, sponging the miseries of the other participants, mining for excuses not to kill herself underneath dancing, red eyes. When asked to speak she refused, as usual, choosing instead to retreat back into the dark of her cornered and tortured mind. If reasons were images in her psyche, they were starting to fade away to the point where she couldn’t see them at all.

“No more,” she said to herself. No more losing and meetings and shame and being so desperately pathetic. As the others went on with their pathetic stories of hope or pathetic stories of pain, she planned out her demise. Something quick, of course. She had a rope back at her little apartment. Cutting never made much sense. Why go through any pain when it could be sudden? She was going to kill herself right. She hadn’t lived well. Dying well—even adequately—that was the least she could do. Jump you worthless nothing. Fling yourself down and exit the world. This place doesn’t want you and never did. Jump. Your parents didn’t want you and disappeared the second they could. Jump. Eight stories. Jump you useless whore. There’s no way to survive that. From up on top of the shitbox apartment building you’ve been living in for ten years because no decent job ever wanted to take a chance. You probably won’t be the first person from that shitbox to finally say enough. There’s probably been dozens. Oh well. You were never special anyhow. Ha.

            Her pupils continued to dance as the meeting came to a close, only stopping when Minnie James called her name across the parking lot. Ida turned toward the beckoning and away from her shitbox car’s door handle with lethargy, like her legs were in half-dried concrete. She focused through the psychedelic Texas air bubbling supercharged particles of asphalt skyward. “Do I know you?” Ida asked, pulling her hairy homemade purse to the side, beginning to light a cheap long cigarette with a fuel-deficient Zippo.

            “Hi!”

“What?”

“Okay, no point in beating around the bush. I see you in there every so often. My name’s Minnie. Wilhemina, actually, but don’t tell anyone.”

            “Your secret’s safe.” Ida blew smoke and offered contempt. “Don’t bother, girlie. If I wanted to talk, I’d be doing the talking in there. You people. Fixing themselves.” Ida stopped and tried to spit a nagging bit of wet cigarette paper from her thin lips. “Never going to be any fixing whatever’s wrong with me.”

            “Why come then?”

            Ida Jean just about turned around and drove off without another word. The atmosphere was end-of-August oppressive, over a hundred degrees and still humid. A perfectly regular miserable Texas summer day. Sweat was getting heavier and starting to fall down the back of her long neck. She didn’t care about the cute barely adult camp counselor and her dimpled do-gooder approach. It might’ve worked on her at one point. Sometime before the ledger got overrun with red. “I won’t be coming back, so don’t worry yourself about it.”

            “Gotcha. Sorry to bother. Just don’t do it, okay.”

            “What’s that?” said Ida.

            “Maybe I’m wrong.”

            “Wrong about what?”

            “I’ve got a sense about things, is all.” The camp counselor wasn’t bragging. Ida could tell that from the way she whispered and kept her eyes directed downward.

            “Got a sense? What are you—I don’t need some debutante talking her shit. That’s about enough to push anyone past the brink. Don’t think you’re too good get knocked on your bony ass.”

            “I’ll leave you alone. Just, don’t.”

            “Got a sense,” Ida mumbled on top of her wet cigarette filter, trying with wild fingers for her keys somewhere at the bottom of her stupid saggy purse and coming up with everything but. She was too distracted by the camp counselor. “What was it? Winnie?”

            “Minnie.”

            Two minutes later they were in Ida Jean’s shitbox, closing their eyes against the euphoric torrent of cold blasting loud through rusty metallic vents. “It’s the one good thing about this car. Damn unbelievable air conditioning. It doesn’t even make sense how good it is.”

            Minnie laughed and leaned against the passenger door with her elbow, smiling freely and raising her chin to let her chest receive the succor of airflow. “A little good makes sense.”

Ida was intoxicated in a snap, suddenly thinking about things in the world and not just how to get out of it. Minnie wasn’t a camp counselor or debutante. In mere moments she’d become a beauty outside and in, a woman that had more than something. All sorts of things. An angelic afterglow was there to behold, radiating her heart-shaped face and filling the blue violet of her eyes with special shine. Ida Jean was almost sure she was in love, or at least in the vicinity of it. Hard to know. It was the first time ever. The fact that it was a woman was only slightly surprising. It explained a lot, actually. No man had done anything but add red to the ledger.

            “Seriously, though. What did you mean back there about me not doing it?”

            “It’s like I heard something. Felt it. You were sitting across from me in the circle, and it wouldn’t go away.”

            “What wouldn’t go away?”

            “Like something bad was going to happen.” Minnie put her hands up to the vents and let her fingers dance. “Like maybe you were going to kill yourself.”

            “What the hell?” Ida said with it an awkward tone, partially mad and partially astonished.

            “Was I right?”

            She was, of course, but Ida Jean wasn’t ready to concede. “What kind of broad are you? You’re not the type that goes down our type hole. Pretty as a picture and you don’t look rode hard.”

            “Psssh,” she laughed. “You’re wrong about that. Just about the time things started getting bad with my husband, I went down the hole, sure as we’re sitting here. That’s why we’re sitting here, in fact.”

            Even knowing her for a few minutes, Ida Jean was jealous to hear Minnie talking about another person existing in her life. She wanted to be the only one. “Did he beat you a lot?”

            “Why do girls have to be so stupid? I mean, why is it so cliché? A doe-eyed little lady getting the boots from a former prince is so common it makes me want to puke. Or drink and get high.”

            “I don’t think…”

            “What?” Minnie asked with a turn toward Ida that made her want to hide. She’d never been pretty enough to enjoy being seen.

            “I don’t think you’re supposed to be blaming yourself for what some jerk did.”

Minnie closed her eyes. It looked like she was pretending, like the air was really some pure Alpine breeze. “They say that. You say it and I say it, but why not blame myself? I’m the one that decided to be with him. Had two of his kids. Screw that. They’re my kids.”

            “Two kids?”

            “Boys,” Minnie said, moving her petite frame around in the old but rarely-used synthetic material covering the passenger seat. She was smiling. Ida Jean figured she was picturing the kids right then. “Anyway, blaming myself is why I come here. When it becomes this thing in my head, like I could’ve predicted him turning into a monster. All I want to do is drink and get my hands on any bad thing with anyone I can.”

            “You’re not what I thought you’d be,” said Ida Jean. “Though it’s not the first time I’ve gotten things wrong. I usually do.”

            They sat in Ida’s shitbox until the air was bearable. Minnie asked if Ida would come over for dinner. She’d just about forgotten about the eight story fall so planned out and exigent.

            Ida hadn’t really been around kids all that much, but the James boys were funny and polite; hard company to resist. The little one, Rhett, had a wise sort of sweetness that didn’t make sense for someone so young. The oldest, Paulson, was sharp as a tack and already carried himself like the protector of the house; brave-faced and watching over all, despite being shy of his tenth birthday.

            “I had Paulson at seventeen,” Minnie said as they washed the dishes.

            “Figured you must’ve been young. He’s something else. Both of them. Clear now where you get your spark. Never been around kids like these.”

            “He saved my life. It’s so funny. When I first got pregnant, it was doomsday. I thought, ‘This baby will be the death of me’.”

            “So, you were dead wrong.”

            “Haha. Very good.”

            Ida Jean looked at her funny at first, until she realized the accidental play on words. “I wasn’t trying to be cute. Sorry, Minnie.”

            “You say sorry too much, Ida Jean. We’ve all got apologies to make to the world, granted, but you’ve never done me wrong. Do me a favor and swallow the next one you feel coming up.”

            “Maybe you’re right. After the run of hell I’ve had, maybe things I say are out of habit. Stands to reason. Everything else I do’s to do it.”

            A few minutes went by. With the sink running and the dishes getting done, the sound of healthy children in the background of the tidy economy apartment—they were some of the first moments of happy domesticity Ida had ever known. Her childhood had been anything but happy. It seemed designed by experts to prevent anything resembling joy.  

            “I’ve got cancer. It’s bad.”

            Ida Jean squinted at Minnie in disbelief. The sink ran over her hand until she pulled it away too late. The burn would heal over, but the scar would always remain. “What are you talking about? Why’d you say that?”

            “It’s true. And I need you to watch my boys.”

            “Why me? There’s no one less suited.”

            “I saw it. Okay,” she stopped, clearly wanting to choose her next words with more care. Like before, I got a sense. You’re supposed to do it. The way I saw what you were going to do tonight.”

            “I’m sorry—this is crazy.”

            “You say sorry too much.”

            “Shit. Sorry. It’s a lot. What now?”

Chapter 29: The Guy Watching TV

            “This is Avy Tarleton. You want to open the gate?” Just ten words and her face was battered by sideways blasts of rain. She was trying to gain entrance to a small ranch house set on twenty or so acres just south of the city limits. The land was still fairly cheap, she knew, a place where two or three-hundred-grand could get you a pretty decent set up. There were catches. Upkeep on the land and brutal traffic running north up into the heart of commercial heart of Fort Worth, to start.

            The reporter didn’t know if anyone had spoken back through the intercom. No way she was going to lower the window and endure another pounding from the weather. She was relieved to see the iron gate opening through the thwapping and squeaking of the truck’s overworked windshield wipers. They were fighting the good fight, but it was still hard to see more than a few feet beyond the hood.  

            As she drove up to the long one-story brick house, Avy was grateful to see a covered portico. A sun-dried young man in modern Texan regalia was standing by the door, long thumbs hooked through his belt near a busy silver buckle. “Look at this piece of work,” she said out loud, grateful to be relieved from the constant battering that had been the soundtrack of her forty-five-minute drive.

            “Ms. Avy,” he said, bowing his head slightly as she rounded the front of the pickup. She realized the need to slow down and blink away the stress of the commute. “You okay there, ma’am?”

            She put a hand on the hood of the vehicle, warm and nearly the height of her shoulder. “It sucks ass out there, Rusty. There better be good reasons for dragging me down to—wherever we are.”

            “This is my casa,” said Jordy Phelps. He was sizing her up, slight smile and slight eyes.

            “I’m wonderfully impressed. Can we get to the point?”

            “Yes ma’am. No fun screaming out here ‘gainst the squall.” He held out a burn-scarred hand for her to enter the open door. The house was fairly new, she observed, basically a track model on a slightly grander scale. Nothing fancy but respectable enough for a man as young as Phelps.

            “You make pretty good money working for the ATF,” she said as he took her still wet coat and hung it on the narrow entranceway wall. “More than my gig puts out, anyway.”

            “So, you checked up on me. Figures you know my name ain’t Rusty, then.”

            “That’s what I call all you guys. Get some looser jeans if you want to move the needle to Mike or Steve.”

            As Avy flattened her clothes against her body and took a few breaths, she asked for a glass of water.

            “Why don’t you come down and take a seat. Jordy will get you fixed up.”

            She looked up to see a cute and compact little blond thing looking poised for battle. Ranger May Dukes, the one who had summoned her away from the compound. “Hey there, May,” Avy said, taking the single step to a room filled with all that odd charm resulting in a mixture of a bad taste in furniture and the male need for meaningful reminders. She saw a Phelps in a group picture with a group of camouflaged men looking like the walking dead, high desert sun so blue above them. She saw an encased folded flag and a noble large-mouth bass and a fourteen-point buck on the wall. It gave her a sense of comfort and the familiar, though she wasn’t about to cop to it. Not until she knew what the hell was really going on. Sitting down on a lumpy brown couch, Avy figured brash and bold would be the way to go. Badges were always usually tougher nuts to crack then normal rubes and it was a safe bet that they’d try to control the entirety of the situation. “How long you been sleeping with him?” she asked the young Texas Ranger. “No blame. He’s pretty cute. Bet he grows on you. Trust me, I know how that goes.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” May retreated, hoping her fair cheeks weren’t flushing.

            “It’s obvious you’ve been staying here. It smells like a woman. Maybe you two are just buds, but I’d lay money that you feel like you underestimated him. He’s deeper than you thought. Now he’s wise, even.”

            “I’m not sure what—”
            “Look, it’s not a big deal. Just that I’ve been with all kinds of Texas boys. A lot of them are as dumb as they come across, but the ones that aren’t, we give a lot of credit. It’s a low expectations game. They talk funny and are a little too showy about their courtesies. Their eyes don’t seem to dart around like the rest of us mere mortals. And when we find out there’s a motor running at all, we tend to fall into their leathery hands maybe a little too easily.”

            “That was quite a dose of Freud,” said Phelps, entering the room with a tall glass of ice water. “There you go.” Avy took it with a little play of the shoulders and a flirty thanks. May did her best not to react. “Though I’m afraid you’re not in the ballpark, ma’am.”

            “Fine,” said the reporter, abandoning her theory like it didn’t matter and never had. “Tell me what happened with your task force. Where’s Wolf Becker?”

            “Wolf Becker’s why you’re here,” Dukes said with obviously intentional force. “For whatever reason, he likes you. Says you tend to report what you see and hear and not much else.”

            “That’s the job,” she said lightly. Her affectation almost demanded a curtsy. “I’ve got a card that says reporter and everything.”

            “Maybe it used to be your job. Though I don’t buy into the good-old-days bull. Lying’s been around since they had words. Before, probably.”

            “Lying, you say? Call me an idealist then, Ranger Dukes. A cynical idealist who gets really cranky when her time is wasted.”  

            Phelps was mere spectator to the growing tension between the reporter and the lawwoman; he figured it was time to push in and get on with it. “We’ve got a home movie to show you, Ms. Avy. Kind of thing a person in your line of work would fancy.”

            “A little vague, cowboy.”

            “Is that Tarleton?” The question arrived thin and harsh, yelled from the other side of the house.

            “Was that…?”

            “The boss man,” Phelps cut in.

            “We got him last night,” May followed, turning to look down the hall in the direction of the caller. “Or, they did.”

            Avy’s heart was near bursting. So many questions. What made the cute ranger trail off there at the end? Who did she mean by “they?” Was she going to actually get to go to tape with a real story? Something the other paycheck-collecting assholes standing out in the rain hadn’t already told and retold the public? First thing’s first, she tried talking herself down. “Is that really Wolf Becker back there? Where the hell has he been?”

            “You probably wouldn’t believe us.”

            “May’s right about that,” Phelps said, holding an arm out toward the hall as an invite. “That’s why I mentioned the movie. See that, the story might be a little easier to chew. Let’s go talk to the boss though, before any of the other.”

            The reporter rubbed her arms as she followed Phelps and Dukes. Honest-to-God goosebumps; a sensation she’d had only once or twice when following a story.

            It was weird, whatever this was, but she didn’t want it to end.

            The sound of a familiar TV show grew louder as they turned left and descended three steep steps into a sparsely decorated media/game room that looked out into the big back yard. The weather hadn’t slowed. Water was slashing at the glass of a big sliding glass door, like mindless horror film monster desperate to get it. Sitting on a sectional sofa with a bandaged foot on the coffee table was Wolf Becker. “Hey Tarleton,” he said, struggling to move left as the trio entered the room, hampered by a slung right arm and a padded neck brace.

            “Special Agent,” Avy answered, stopping sharply. She was still having a hard time reconciling all things empirical. “Didn’t figure you for a Sopranos fan.”

            “Me with my brains beat halfway to hell and you’re the one saying ridiculous things. Everyone likes the Sopranos.”

            “Even feds,” she said, putting down her purse and walking out into the room to get a full view of Becker. He wasn’t kidding. Halfway to hell was being generous. Both eyes were swollen, one nearly closed but for a sliver. His lips were fattened by repeated blows, cracked and covered with something shiny for much needed moisture and pain relief. It was hard to believe this was the same stoically squared-away man she’d hounded and been avoided by so many times in the past. “Why haven’t you taken him to the hospital?” She looked angrily over at the ranger and agent but got nothing in return; crossed arms from Dukes and Phelps’s typical inexplicable flittering hand. “What’s a matter with you people?”

            “You can wind them up later, Tarleton. Let me interrupt.”

            The wounded man’s words and mounting weight of confusion were enough to still her natural inclination to plunge forward headlong. “Sure.”

            “Did you talk to my wife?”

            “We went over this, boss,” Jordy answered. He looked older and sleep-deprived under the room’s brighter lights. “We’re coming up with a way to get to her. But they’ve got a car and a surveillance team on the house. If we call, they’re gonna be listening. That puts you and us and her and everyone right back in the shithouse.”

            “I remember,” he grumbled, cursing himself as he struggled to pull a worn fleece blanket tight to his body. Dukes walked over and pulled the drooping side over his injured arm with a gentleness that had a practiced, deliberative style to it. “Get it done. God knows what she’s going through. What’s she’s thinking.”

            “We did talk to Paulson James,” Dukes said, making sure the blanket stayed put over Becker’s sling. “Your boy Cantrell, too.”

            “How’s that going?”

            Dukes cast heavy eyes toward Phelps and motioned over her shoulder at the reporter with a smirk. It was clear the young ranger wasn’t comfortable diving deeper with someone so new to the game. “It’s going fine, Becker. We’ll get out of this.”

            Tarleton couldn’t help herself. “You’re going to have to give me something. Otherwise, I’m calling an ambulance. What am I doing here?”

            “You can’t call ambulance,” Phelps said, stepping close enough to Tarleton to add severity to his words. She saw a wound on the side of his neck that looked more severe as she focused on it. “I’ll show you the tape,” he continued. “We’ll go from there. C’mon, it’s on my computer in the kitchen. Could use another cup of coffee, too. Bet we all could.”

            Dukes and Becker watched them leave the room. Becker sank into the sofa. “You’re pretty rattled, kid. That’s normal.”

            “I was useless on the raid. Froze up like it was my first day on the job. Someone could’ve been killed.”

            “You learn.”

            “Thought I had,” she said, trying to smile. It was ridiculous, complaining to a man in his state.

            “The way Phelps tells it, I wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t figured out where they were keeping me.”

            May wiped her hands on her jeans and pulled her back. “Just got lucky, sir. We searched traffic cams in the area, found out the direction they were taking you. Then it was a process of elimination, checking every government safehouse along that route. Still, I was playing a hunch. You could’ve been anywhere.”

            “But I wasn’t.”

            “About the last place we looked.”

            “Isn’t that how it works?”

            “Very funny, sir.”

            “Just in time, too.”

            “Not sure. We could’ve used you days ago.”

            “Maybe, but today’s the day, kid. Today’s the day.”

            “Whatever you say, sir.”

            Becker took out his good arm from underneath the blanket and ran his hand over her head. “You’re here for a reason. Me and you. God help us, even Phelps.”

            She put her head down and smiled shyly. It was the first time she’d let herself feel susceptible to fatherly affection since the early death of her dad. “What happened in there, boss?”

            He looked up and down his body, fighting the stiff neck brace. “Isn’t it obvious?”

            “Something else, though.”

            Becker found the remote and turned off the TV. “My wife likes the singing shows.”

            “Oh yeah. A lot of people do.”

            “Not me. Can’t stand them. But I love watching with her. When they were beating on me, asking me what I knew about James, all I could think about was getting back to her. I thought in there, if eternity was nothing more than watching those shows with her… okay then. Stupid thoughts. Point is, when the worst thing is the best thing because of who you’re with, that’s the real deal.”

            “She must be a wonderful lady.”

            He was on his way to offering personal advice but stopped short of going fully invasive. “Yeah, you’d get along with the wife. Anyway,” he said, eyes filling up, “we better get some of that coffee. Today’s the day.”

Chapter 30: Starting the War

            Lydia clamped her laptop shut and balled up her fingers. She couldn’t stand it anymore, the Membership once again trending number one around the world. Paulson and Ells were arguing their next move upstairs in the loft while Sofia whistled softly in the kitchen area, swishing her supermodel hips and drying the breakfast dishes as if existence wasn’t on the verge of imploding. Lydia shook out her hands and was off the couch and out the door, fighting to stay upright as she took a direct line against the menacing gale-force winds and driving rain and unflagging rainfall. It was better to feel the sting of the elements than to sit around waiting for something unreal to happen. Maybe that was driving her out into the field, a hundred yards beyond the last row of cabins. (Stories about her)

            That’s what Lydia told herself the first few minutes, but that was all the denial she could manage. She’d had her fill of telling herself one thing and believing another. Getting pelted by the rain, soaked through to the bones, she was looking for it. For them.

            “Lydia! What are you doing out here!?”

            Paulson was no more than ten feet away, but she could barely hear him. The weather seemed to come from every angle, beads of water even lifted up and swirling from the tops of the high grass.

            “Leave me alone!”

            He came closer and held out a jacket that twisted and flipped in the wind. “Are you crazy, Lyds? Take this!”

            “What’s the difference?”

            “You’re having a moment. It’s understandable, considering.”

            “None of this is understandable. You asked if I was going crazy. Yes. Crazy.”

            “That was a figure of speech, love. You know what I meant. Just put the jacket on. I’m begging now.”

            The wind let up for a minute, allowing them to feel the heavy drops direct and fat on the tops of their heads and shoulders. Lydia reached out and Paulson grabbed her forearm, pulling her body against his. “You’re not the crazy one, Lyds. One of us already has that title.”

            “You don’t get why I’m out here, PJ.”

            “Not really, but I figure it’s related to those nocturnal trips you’ve been taking.”

            “You knew and didn’t say anything?”

            “Come here,” he said, holding out the jacket for her to slip into. They walked slowly toward the nearest cabin, arm in arm as the wind began to rile up once again.

            “How long have you known?” she asked. They were underneath the front porch overhang, mostly sheltered from rain.

            “A few months. Maybe more. I thought you were sleepwalking at first, but you told me to go back to bed. Told me to leave it alone. I’ll be danged if you weren’t all there when you said it.”

            “I don’t remember that.”

            “It’s not like any sleepwalking I’ve heard of. You put your foot down and went about your business, like I said. Pretty much the way you did just now.”

            “That didn’t strike you as odd?”

            Paulson held out his hands and smiled wryly as water poured off the tip of his chin. She knew what he was pointing out. Everything. From the Membership and the property to the weather to the fact that they were besieged by a strange faction of the government determined to see their demise. Their marriage was symbiotic enough to convey it all with a basic gesture and expression.

            “I was following a bear and her cub.”

            “Okay,” Paulson answered, taking an extra beat to process. “Even after everything, I can say I wasn’t expecting that one.”

            “One night I got up and went to the window. I’d never even seen a bear. There was this feeling, like a connection.”

            “You and the bear?”

            Lydia heard stifled judgment in his tone but chose to leap over it. “And then the next day I found out I was pregnant.”

            “Okay,” Paulson said, trying to look straight and soft into his wife’s eyes. Not an easy combination, practiced as he was in the art of sympathy.

            “They’re more than urges.”

            “What is?”

            “This pull, that I have to watch.”

            “The bear?”

            “So, did I screw it up, coming after you?”

            Lydia sat on the windowsill of the little cabin and shook her head as rain slid down her the little cracks in her cheeks. “I feel old. Tired.”

            “You’re not o—”

            “I feel scared, mostly. And you didn’t screw anything up.”

            “Besides turn a nice business into an enemy the powers that be want destroyed.”

            “Well, I didn’t want to pile on,” she said, rushing over to hug him. They kissed like tightly like old lovers and rested their foreheads together. She rubbed his hair and watched the water dance up into the air. It was the shortest cut he’d had since the military days, made necessary by the gash she stitched up last week. “How’s Wolf doing, anyway?”

            “Apparently he’s pretty banged up. Still in the fight, though. Best part, nobody got permanently hurt when they raided the house last night.”

            “What are the odds of that?”

            “This kid from the ATF. Phelps. He’s former special forces. Get this, with my old unit. Used some vets and contractors to do an extract. I knew the kid, actually. Not over there, but here. He was in my PTSD thing, years ago. Good guy from the little I can remember.”

            Lydia ran her hand over his furry head and put her cheek to his damp chest. “Unbelievable,” she said, meaning the opposite. It was the strange sort of coincidence that seemed to follow her husband around at every turn. What were the odds of Becker being on the case, someone close to Paulson since childhood? Now this Phelps guy. Too strange. But really, par for the course. Back and forth it bounced in her head, but that was the way things were. The way they’d been since she’d met her husband. Small things at first, and rare. Not anymore. It was part of the reason she’d softened into clay, to a point where following dangerous animals based on feelings was something to do.

            “You guys are sticking to the plan?” she asked, rubbing her head into the little space between the muscles on his chest. He turned to shield her from the rain as the wind changed and it made her smile to point where she almost cried.

            “As much as there is a plan. We found out…”

            “What?”

            “It’s what we already knew. The old man’s not coming back.”

            “I don’t get it. They can’t just kill people. Bobby was a harmless vet.”

            Lydia could feel him setting his chin on her head as she watched the deluge raging on. “Not sure how harmless he was, but he wasn’t a bad guy. It’s on me he’s dead. Got to say, Lydia.”

            “Don’t you do that.” She couldn’t tell if Paulson was carelessly venting dark thoughts or if he actually believed the words. “I shouldn’t have said harmless. It makes him sound like a bystander. That’s not fair to you.” She squeezed her husband tighter. “He didn’t make things easy for himself.”

            “If I don’t exist, Freddy and Bobby are still living and breathing. I can’t come up with another way of looking at it.”

            She wanted to scream and beat him until he saw what she saw. “You didn’t kill Freddy. You didn’t kill Delray.”

            “You learn a few things in war, Lyds.” He hated bringing up his time overseas, but it was the only way to get across the feelings. “Killing sometimes—it has nothing to do with pulling the trigger. None of this happens without me. None of it. I started the war, plain as day.”

Chapter 31: This Is Weird

            Two distinct cracks rang out through the downpour, muted but unmistakable. “What now?” Paulson said, jumping the steps of the porch and running as fast as the softening mud would allow. He found himself back in the field, near the spot where he’d found his wife. Young Charlie Hood was standing stiff with a camouflage hunting rifle pointed at the ground. Smoke rose faintly from the end of the barrel, sizzling from the rain.

            Paulson raised his hands and stood still, trying to present a calm front. He knew Lydia was on his heels. What in the world.

            “I got them,” Charlie said, lowering the rifle next to his hip. The two men were standing on either side of a black bear and her cub. Paulson was lost. The world was more make-believe than ever. “I got them, Mr. James.”

            “You got them,” Paulson said, not sure if he was loud enough for Charlie to hear. He took a few slow heavy steps around the bodies of the slain animals, closing the distance to Charlie. The young man’s eyes were closed. His breaths were long and visible through the wet air. “How you been doing, kid? Are you okay?”

            Lydia was screaming at the young man as she approached frantically from Paulson’s rear. It didn’t seem to register. Charlie’s eyes remained shut. His breathing was heavy, like he was expelling something that had taken residence in his guts.

            James tried to stop his wife from falling next to the bodies but she through his hands. Shut up, Lyds. “Mind if I see that rifle, Charlie?” He said it slow and found something peaceful inside himself to do it right. The way he’d talked that kid from blowing himself up in Iraq. The way he’d talked so many into stepping away from the ledge.

            The young man gripped the gun halfway down and kept it safely pointed down, ignoring Lydia’s cries and handing it off to Paulson without ceremony or fight.

            “I heard them, the night I tried to leave. They followed me. We would’ve got out I think, but they were a distraction. She couldn’t hear, but I could.”

            “Hear the bears?” Paulson asked, feeling like he was speaking an alien language. “I’m trying here, kid. What do you mean? My brother was the one trailing you two. We’ve gone over this.”

            “They’ve been in my mind. On my mind, ever since.”

            Why did you do this!?” Lydia screamed, still on her knees, pants soaking up the blood leaking out and mixing with the standing water in the field.

            Charlie was spookily calm, unaffected by the weather or the shouting. He held out the rifle for Paulson to take. “I’m sorry.”

            “I don’t know, Charlie. This is weird, man.”

            “I’m not sorry about this, Mr. James. I’m sorry I never thanked you for saving me the other night. I love you, sir. We all do, so much. Trust in that.” Though his face was almost void of expression, tears were streaming down his hollow cheeks. The image was disturbing.  

            Charlie nodded at Paulson and put his hands in pockets, walking back past the lifeless animals and Lydia as she screamed through the storm.

Chapter 32: Helping Hand

            Ida Jean was knitting in the corner of the mess hall, sitting cross-legged and peeking up every minute or so to scan the group scattered around the large space. She’d catch them looking back at her, wondering eyes watching her fingers work with perfect rote proficiency. The mess hall was where the Membership spent most of their time, chosen by Andy Hood. It was a sensible enough spot considering the size, but Ida figured the selection was as symbolic as it was sensible. It was the center of the compound and the highest point on the property. There were lines of sight from every approach. Andy hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He kissed his wife on the head after they said a prayer and stood up from the concrete floor and took two short steps on a little platform on the side opposite the kitchen, designed for mid-meal announcements and toasts. “Paulson and I had a good talk. Let me start by saying that.”

            The crowd separated slightly and went silent. Each soul was gripped by messy combinations. Some were nervous but scared. Some wore beatific faces and tried in vain to control tremulous eyes. Each soul was its own, united as they were.

            “Why won’t he come? What’s he waiting for?” The question came from one of the young brothers. And couldn’t tell which one, but the accent was unmistakably theirs.

            “He’s coming for lunch,” Andy said, pulling Paulson’s journal out from the backside of his waistband. “Probably the whole day, or however long this day lasts.” Whispers flooded the hall. “And until then, I thought we should hear more about the Messenger. Andy cleared his throat and squinted to find a suitable section. Though the print was tiny and always made as if in haste, he was getting used to it. “I think I’m understanding Levi a little better, though it’s still clear that I’m a mere mortal. All of us have roles to play, he says. His strange otherworldly nature, the way he dresses—I feel like it’s all a test, trying to unlock spaces in my head that have never been opened. Like parts of my head have rusted shut and only God and his Messenger can fix me.”

            “He’s so humble,” a woman called out tearfully. Andy recognized the voice of Diane Dade, wife of the doctor and once prominent event promoter.

            “Yes, he is,” Andy responded, flipping the page before reading the last bit, written with and bolder hand. Of course, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I wonder if I should just get up and leave this place. Is that even possible? Why am I so afraid? I’m afraid for Rhett. For Lydia. For everyone. I want this to be over. THE HATE OF THE WORLD. THE HATE OF THE WORLD. THE HATE OF THE WORLD. THE HATE OF THE WORLD.

            “Don’t read any more, Andy.” He looked to his left and saw Ida Jean with her slim frame, slightly bent. She rarely stood, though for someone her age she got around better than average. “Don’t read any more of my boy’s journal. Today we all move on together. It’s best we reflect.”

            It was strange, Andy thought, Ida Jean basically ordering him and others what to do. He tilted his thick neck and saw her nodding toward the kitchen. “Quiet reflection, everyone,” he said, walking around one side of the group while Ida Jean took the other.

            Once they were both in the kitchen and alone Ida Jean said, “Be a good kid and lock the door.”

            “You shouldn’t issue commands in front of the others. We have to stick together.”

            “I have to go see to my boy.”

            “Better you just leave well enough alone. We had a good talk. He said he’d be here for lunch. I thought we’d do barbeque and mustard potato salad. I’ve never seen a person wallop more brisket than that man.”

            Ida Jean smiled and wrapped the almost-finished blanket tight around her slight frame. “You talk and talk and talk, Mr. Hood.”

            “I’ve done a lot more than talk,” he answered, red face growing redder by the second. A refrigeration compressor flipped on. Andy jumped.

            “You say his words from that little book, but there’s no understanding. It does terrible things to my stomach. Honestly Andrew, a parrot has more dignity.”

            “You want to talk about understanding, old woman? No one understands you. Even Paulson says you’ve been spinning him around his whole life. That’s right. The poor man just told me. What did you do to him?”

            “Shut your little mouth, Andrew Hood. You are a man of the world. Little more than that. I see my boy the way no one else can. As he is. From the day I came into his life, there was a light that followed over and around him.”

            She sat down on a cold metallic stool next to a shiny preparation table and gave herself a moment to forget the irritable little figure standing angry in front of her. She thought of Minnie James’ last day. Ida Jean knew that the boys—especially Paulson, would be the center of the rest of her life, and it was time to get on with it. The passing of the torch, so to speak. Wilhemina was holding on despite impossible disease and pain. Paulson and Rhett left the room that morning to go get groceries. She did what she had to do. It was mercy. Minnie never said it, but she wanted to move on to the next life. The boys couldn’t do it. Ida Jean was their new protector. Their shepherd for the remainder.

            She opened her eyes and squeezed her hand, remembering the heat from Minnie’s gasping mouth as she was ushered along the way. That perfect little mouth as it sent one last desperate breath against her skin.

            “What’s got you so riled up, Ida? Everything’s fine.”

            “It has to be today.”

            “It will be. Paulson said it out loud when he was overtaken. Just like Janie said. It seems like Paulson believes the same.”

            Ida Jean snapped her thin dry fingers and held out one of her translucent white arms. “I want that journal.”

            “I was going to read some more to the Membership.”

            “No more, Andy.” She snapped her fingers again. “C’mon, son.” She approached and patted him on the head. “I’m sorry. Only, it’s such a big day.”

            Andy put the journal in her hand and lowered his head. Ida Jean kissed him on the cheek and walked over to a bank of industrial stoves and took off one of the grates before igniting one of the front cookers. She placed the corner of the journal on top of the flame and watched as it began to cook the weathered leather and thin pages.

            “What are you doing!?” Andy cried. “Are you insane?”

            “It won’t matter, will it?” she asked, acting as a stalwart between the man and the burning book.

            “But, it’s the Messenger.”

            “We’re about to meet the Creator. The Messenger will pale in comparison. It has to be today. No matter what.”

            “It is today,” Andy said, rubbing up and down against the deep lines of his spotted forehead. He watched her walk out with the journal, absolutely sure there was more in Ida Jean’s words than he could understand.

Chapter 33: The Shed

            Paulson offered his wife a towel as they both stood dripping in the kitchen. Her hands were trembling, caked in bear blood. Ells and Sofia were watching their counterparts tensely on the other side of the little wooden island, waiting for answers. The way the James’ looked, there had to be answers.

            As Lydia robotically took Paulson’s offering, he turned to the other couple. “I get it… but now may not be the best time.” He knew they deserved more information, but there wasn’t a great deal that could be stated with certainty. After sobbing over the bodies of the dead animals, she’d gotten up and walked back to the barn as if she were on autopilot. Paulson begged her for more of an explanation the entire time, pleading ineffectually through the thunder and wind. Her usually expressive face had fallen to full stop and was still locked against any influence from the outside.

            Ells decided to override the stall by setting a chrome automatic pistol on the island with a thud. “Time to get things moving, PJ. The reporter’s with Becker at Agent Phelps’ place. They’re raring and ready. The rumors are all pointing toward nightfall.”

            Paulson offered enough attention for his doubt about Wolf Becker’s fitness to be sufficiently expressed. His childhood friend on the other side of the law had been detained by some sinister forces. Akeso and her people were determined and without compunction, though Paulson still couldn’t piece together the reasons.

            “Becker’s in the fight,” Elson said, standing up straight to face James’ incredulity. “Whatever they did to him, it wasn’t enough to put him on the sidelines.”

            Sofia held Cantrell’s other hand and wouldn’t let go. She was growing increasingly tense over the last week as Elson shed layers of his cover for the sake of the mission. He wasn’t cold, but he smiled less and offered decreased affection; with all that was coming it was inevitable, but her efforts to understand his mindset were coming up short. When he finally shook her hand from his grip, she came close to crying out loud.

            James took the gun in his wet right hand and felt an immediate sense of historical dread. He turned away from his ailing wife and played the grip with his palm. All the missions and lives he’d taken or saved came rushing back. “So, the Dartford boys will meet us there?” Paulson asked Cantrell.

            “Yeah. I just got a text from Rye. Everyone but Tracy Edwin is at the mess hall. Apparently, they don’t think guarding the guns is a big priority. They don’t know what’s coming.”

            “They think they know exactly what’s coming,” Paulson said, making sure his body was turned to the women while he checked the clip and chamber of the automatic pistol. “Just the revolver for you?” he asked Cantrell.

            “Don’t knock it, Captain,” Ells said, pulling out a snub-nosed 357 magnum from a clip-on holster over his right hip. Besides, after we take their cache, I’ll have my pick.”

            “We don’t even know what they’ve got.”

            Cantrell had spent countless hours reading news reports about the investigation following Bobby Delray’s death. Sifting through the varying accounts and talking with Phelps on the outside, he was guessing they’d be coming across some heavy firepower. He was confident they could wrest Andy Hood’s stash away and secret it somewhere safe, but it might not be that easy. Nothing had been so far. He tried to wipe away the sweat from his brow as nonchalantly as possible. “It’s damn hot in here.”

            They were standing at the door, just about to venture out under the low, coal black canopy emptying onto the compound with angry resolve. “Go say something nice to Sofia.”

            “Now’s not the time, Paulson. Come on. Saddle up, man.”

            James shook his head. “That cowboy thing in you will wear off one day. We’ll talk about it later. For now, go on.” His eyes went from Elson to Sofia and then back. He smiled. “Go on, man. She’s nervous.”

            Paulson kept his chin near his chest and tried not look at Lydia. Pride was staying his gaze; he knew she was anything but interested in his attentions.

            After Cantrell exchanged an awkward goodbye with Sofia, the pair slid out into the rain around to the backside of the barn. With the mess hall between them and the shed where the weapons were being stored, they’d have to move around most of the camp in order to stay out of sight. Cantrell cursed the tempest as they moved from cabin to cabin, keeping his head low. As they neared the shed and stopped to properly take stock of the situation, Ells wiped his eyes momentarily free of moisture. He noticed James was wearing a wry smile while they improved their position behind one of the cabin’s exterior a/c units. The sharp rain was tinging of the sheet metal and was rocking on its mounts from the wind.

            “What’s with the face?” Elson asked. “Not exactly time for a good mood, is it?”

            “Just thankful for the weather,” James answered, squinting toward the shed. It was between two cabins on the outer rim of the compound, about twenty yards away. Paulson could hardly make out the figure of Tracy Edwin near the front door, hunched over by the weather.

            “Thankful,” said Elson.

            “What?”

            “You said you were thankful.”

            “I did.

            “When we were doing recon back in the day, I’d plead God’s intervention to give me this type monsoon. Though, we won’t need stealth in this case.”

            “Right.” Despite knowing James’ history and seeing his physical power up close, it was still hard to picture him stalking and killing enemies. “So how do you want to do this?”

            “You’re the fed.”

            “Come on. Seriously.”

            “Do you see anyone besides Tracy?” Paulson asked.

            “No one. I could snoop around a little more and make sure. Hey—”

            James had moved from cover and was sloshing his way to the shed in the middle of the road. “What the hell?” Ells called out, almost sure he wasn’t heard.

            With about twenty feet to go, Tracy Edwin noticed the visitor trudging his way. “Who’s that?” he asked, straightening his back and holding his cowboy hat out at a down angle to block the angling blasts of rain.

            “It’s me, Trace,” Paulson said, waving his hands.

            “Mr. James?” he said. “What in the world are you doing here?”

            He expected confusion and deference, but Paulson still found it strange that a man ten years his elder and as accomplished as Tracy Edwin called him Mr. James. “I could ask you the same thing.” He held out his palms the side, cupping them to catch a fresh helping of the downpour and throwing the water against his face with a playful smile.

            “Oh, I don’t mind,” said the former lawyer and sports and agent. He was disarmed by Paulson’s strange behavior, grasping to find a more resolute texture in his voice.  

            James snuck a look at the rifle leaning next to the door under the insufficient cover of a small overhang. “It sure looks like you mind,” he said, grabbing each of Edwin’s big arms high near the shoulders and rubbing them hard. “You’re shaking pretty good, there.”

            “I have to hold my ground.” Tracy said, avoiding Paulson’s eyes. “But I don’t want to make this bad. Don’t make this go bad.”

            “I understand you have to hold your ground… and that you don’t want it to go bad.” In that moment, perhaps for the first time he really did understand. James had been absent. The reasons for his absence were ultimately inconsequential. Tracy and the rest of the Membership had been left at the mercy of Andy Hood and Ida Jean and whatever other zealots were feeling the fire of faith. Despite the imposition of new forces and strains on Tracy, he was good person and a searcher, fighting himself. He was standing up to the leader and founder of the Membership; the person who embodied the promise for which he’d abandoned the greatest client list in professional athletics. The promise that meant saying goodbye to the world and the never-ending climb to the mythic top in exchange for the promise of something higher and better. No one in the Membership could just let it go; they’d already let go of everything. Tracy Edwin’s deterministic eyes did more to inform Paulson than days of prayer and discussion about what to do with his followers.

            “I don’t think you’re here for a good reason,” Tracy said, gritting his straight white teeth. He was a formerly handsome man, thick and rugged-legged with cowboy-thin eyes. He was one of the few natives to the DFW area there with the Membership. James liked to say he admired everyone the same, but he couldn’t help but have favorites. Edwin was one of them. A solid man, down to earth despite his heady past. Tracy was the kind that had carried him along at one point or another, someone to look at to convince himself he wasn’t crazy. After all, if someone as charming as Tracy listened to what he said, maybe he wasn’t just a nut with visions and delusions of grandeur.  

            “Just go,” Paulson said. “This thing… none of it is going to happen, Trace.”

            “It’s understandable that your faith is wavering. She warned us that might happen. All the stress. All that you’ve had to endure.”

            James could hear Cantrell’s waterlogged footsteps coming up behind him. He watched Tracy’s eyes leave his and follow the agent’s path. “Easy, Trace.”

            “I don’t understand, Mr. James. Why would you pick him? It’s not right that he’s by your side. Anyone but him. I heard her tell me. It came from your journal. From the Messenger.”

            “We don’t have time for a therapy session,” Ells hollered hard through a gust. “The walls are coming down, PJ.”

            Tracy’s rifle was only a step away, but Paulson wouldn’t let him get near it. As soon as he sensed intentions toward backwards movement, he threw a menacing shot to Edwin’s solar plexus, apologizing profusely and helping control the big man as he collapsed gasping into the mud. “Don’t try to talk.”

            Cantrell went around and grabbed the rifle leaning on the shed, using the butt to smash the padlock protecting the door. He went inside for about half a minute before emerging at the threshold. “Looks like we hit pay dirt. I texted Dartford to come help us move this stuff. He’s running over.”

            Tracy still couldn’t talk. Paulson was on one knee trying to calm him down to catching his air.  

            I think you hit the guy too hard.

            James wheeled around. It was Levi, standing stern in the center of the sodden road.

            “What is it?” Cantrell asked, trying to see what had James spooked. He reached behind for his revolver but didn’t pull.

            The man might be suffocating. Blood into the lungs, even. A man that loves you. The way you hit, that rage. That practice. Can you remember how many have died by your bear hands?

            “You’re not here,” Paulson said, forgetting for a second about the situation; the monsoon, the weapons, Cantrell and poor Tracy.

            Elson stepped out from the doorway and put a hand on his shoulder meant to stir a response. James grabbed the agent’s wrist and thumb and stood up in one motion, forcing Cantrell’s arm behind his back before running him face-first into the side of the shed. Paulson looked back into the road, heaving spent breaths visibly into the rain. Levi was in his usual casual posture as little rivulets of water ran around his unlaced combat boots.

            “You’re not here,” Paulson repeated.

            No delays this time, pal. The Storm is today. He held out a cupped hand and let it fill and drip over with water. In case you haven’t noticed. Seems like you’re keeping busy beating on folks.

            James closed his eyes to force his Messenger away.

            Really? That won’t work. Fine. See you when I see you.

            “Never again.”

            Sure, because you know everything. Oh yeah. Don’t take the guns. It’ll do more harm than good.

            “Tell me that was the tumor,” Cantrell said, hiking himself against the shed and shaking out the cobwebs. Blood was leaking down the side of his face from a cut near his temple.

            “I’m so sorry,” Paulson said, offering a hand. “I was startled.”

            Rising slowly to his feet, Elson said, “This might be too much.”

            “I said I’m sorry.”

            “I’m sure you are. Point is I need you sharp if we’re going to have any chance, PJ. I can’t carry this thing all the way through.”

            “It’s my burden. None of this would be… I have to make it right.”

            Cantrell offered nothing more than a fuming smirk as he walked back into the shed. Paulson could see Tracy attempting to rise from the muck and offered another hand of assistance. “Are you starting to get your breath?” he asked Edwin, steadying the slightly taller man. “That was wrong of me, Trace. I beg your forgiveness.”

            “I think one of my ribs is broken.” Tracy forced the words. He was wheezing heavily from the punch and appeared three shades whiter.

            James asked his follower to spit into his hand to check for blood. Tracy held it out, still fragile on his feet. “It looks clear, pal. Just hurts like a son of a gun when you take it there.” Paulson pointed to the corresponding area on his own body. “Try a chunk of shrapnel there.”

            Tracy didn’t look in the mood for war stories, understandably. He was hurt and confused, feeling useless. He had a job to do and he’d failed. “I just want to go.”

            “I do too, Trace.” Paulson put a wrapped a hand around Edwin’s neck and pulled him in. “I want us all to go. Make sure you’re caught up on breath, then take a seat,” he said, releasing the failed guard from his embrace and pointing to the little metal stool next to the door of the shed. “Go on now, buddy.”

            Rye Dartford was making a dash through from a cluster of trees about halfway between the outer row and inner section of buildings. Streams of water were pouring down from the tips of his long hair. He looked nervous but excited, just about in accordance with his youth. Paulson noted a look of angry disappointment from Edwin. The two were almost perfect opposites in that moment, suddenly irreconcilable.

            James held out a hand for Rye to shake. They didn’t know each other as well he would’ve liked. He would never say it but when the Membership first came to the compound, he was discomposed by having someone so young in the group. His mind is too malleable, Paulson remembered telling Lydia. She listened and respectfully disagreed, talking about what impressive young men the Dartford brothers were—almost all of their inherited wealth had been invested into sustainable businesses in rough areas of the world. They didn’t just hand people checks and say bye like so many with money tend to do, Lydia told him. Paulson smiled, remembering how he ended the conversation with a smile of acquiescence to her wisdom. Please don’t say the thing about teaching a man to fish.

            “Mr. James,” Rye said. He appeared almost placid. His big dark eyes were open wide despite the weather, ready to accept anything his leader might say. “What do you need, sir?”

            “Just go with Paulson or PJ,” James replied, finally letting go of their extended handshake.

            “Hey kid,” Cantrell interjected from the door, “what we need is for you to come take a look at this stash.”

            Paulson smiled in agreement and patted the young man on the shoulder, turning his attention back to Tracy Edwin. He was twisting and turning on the little stool, attempting to find comfort for the obdurate pain high on his midsection. “Moving will be hard for a couple of days, Trace. Again, I’m very sorry.”

            “It doesn’t matter. There’s not going to be a couple of days.”

            “Don’t you find it strange to be arguing with the very person that got us in to all of this in the first place?”

            “We’re not idiots, Paulson. We’re not blind to the strangeness of everything that has happened, but we can’t pretend it’s all just some weird example of groupthink. The Membership has seen.” Tracy crossed his legs and hung his hat on the toe of his boot, apparently content to soldier through the pain from Paulson’s blow. “Maybe it’s harder for because you’re the guy. Judging yourself isn’t always the way to get the most accurate read.”

            Edwin seemed content with his analysis. Paulson imagined that every person in the Membership had their own psychological formula for going on with this.

“You think it’s all made up, right?” asked Tracy. “And how’d you get Rye to go along with is?”

“He got turned off somewhere between the torture and execution of Freddy Sandpiper.”

“That.”

            “And It’s not made up,” PJ answered, rubbing the water and the tired from his eyes. “It’s just not real. There’s something wrong with my brain. A tumor. I’ve been seeing things that aren’t there.”

            “What’s really real comes down to faith. Always has. Everything I had. All that success—I could drive fancy cars and sleep with beautiful women. All those things existed, but it’s generous to say that any of it was real.”

            “This is all wrong, Trace. There’s still time to go back. People will understand in the end. You said it yourself, you weren’t brainwashed.”

            Elson emerged from the darkness of the shed and hoisted Tracy up, delivering two more punches to his already injured abdomen. “Where’s the rest of the stuff?”

            Trace laughed through coughing caused by Cantrell’s blows. “I can’t tell you. Do whatever you want.”

            “Rye,” Cantrell barked. “Help me get this guy back in the shed. We’ll see how much pain he can take.”

            “How much is missing?” Paulson asked.

            “A lot,” Cantrell answered, powerful hand gripping Tracy’s throat. “The kid says maybe half. They must’ve moved it before dawn.”

            “You can’t beat him, Elson.” James grabbed the agent’s forearm and pulled it away from Edwin.

            “Sure I can.” Cantrell slipped out of James’ grasp and threw a roundhouse that landed flush and knocked him cold. He fell sideways at the shed’s threshold. Paulson and Elson were stopped from doing anything for a moment; as big and robust as Tracy appeared, he couldn’t stand up to much at all. “Dammit.”

            “That’s why you shouldn’t hit people,” James said. “The point of this entire thing is to avoid violence.”

            “Unbelievable.”

            “What?”

            “You realize you nearly caved in his ribs and broke my arm a minute ago, right?”

            “What do we do?” Rye said. “I’m really sorry. We screwed up.”

            Paulson shook his head. “Things don’t ever go the way we want. Let’s take this load somewhere they can’t use it.”

            “And Tracy?” Elson asked.

            “We’ll take him with us until I can think of something,” Paulson said, blowing out a gust of frustration.

            “They’re going to know about this sooner than later,” Cantrell said.

            “I’m not worried about them knowing,” Paulson answered, biting his lip as he looked through the shed door wondering where the rest of the cache could be. “I’m worried about them still being armed to the teeth when the cavalry rides in. Things could get very bloody.”

Chapter 34: Oblique

            The barn bent and creaked from its floorboards to the rafters high in the loft. Lydia and Sofia sat cross-legged on the couch downstairs, necks and backs stiffened stoically for conquering the innumerable fears they shared and the ones they were keeping for themselves.

            Paulson’s disposable rang again, spasming around the top of the coffee table. “I’m going to answer it.” Lydia said, avoiding Sofia’s doubting eyes. “No, that’s the fourth time in the last half hour.” She checked her watch, bit her lip and said the time in her head like she had the previous minute and the minute before that. It was coming up on lunch.

            As Sofia began to offer a thoughtful objection Lydia grabbed the phone and held up a hand. “He shouldn’t have left it behind. That leaves me.” Clearing her throat, she answered with a dry hello.

            “Who am I speaking with? Is this Lydia James?”

            Lydia knew who was on the other line. The voice was female, young but commanding and stripped of artifice. “Dr. Akeso,” she said. “Nice we finally get a chance to speak.”

            “Hello, Lydia. It is Nice. Is everything okay there? We know—I know it’s a big day.”

            The doctor was looking to hide her need for omnipotence with a just doing my job matter-of-factness, Lydia decided. The non-ploy-ploy was too obvious and decided to cut her off at the knees. “From what I’ve heard about you, Doctor, you know a lot. That’s much of what you are. A knower.”

            A short pause. “By your bile I’ll assume my knowing hasn’t received glowing reviews.”

            “No reviews required, Doctor. You killed our neighbor and had an old friend locked away. Do you have something against black men or is it just humanity in general?”

            Sofia was still sunk into the couch, still cross-legged like a child at story time riveted more by the villain’s reintroduction to a scene. Lydia took a second to offer a smile of disarmament to Sofia. She didn’t want to force her friend and ally to watch on helpless. Lydia’s natural aversion to control could be circumvented by credentials or reputation, but nobody knew much about Akeso, someone apparently endowed with the power to pull all the strings.

            “I feel the doctor being lectured,” the PhD finally responded. “Expected, though, coming from you.”

            “So you had expectations.”

            “You wouldn’t want someone with qualifications and degrees to get the best of you. Not again.”

            Before Lydia could answer back, she was interrupted by four hard raps on the door. Sofia mouthed I’ll get it, sensing Lydia needed to quickly refocus. “I don’t lecture.” Akeso was trying to test her psyche. At the peak of Paulson’s popularity there were stories about the imperious wife behind the scenes. Articles and blogs speculated about Lydia’s abusive treatment of other women at self-betterment workshops. They were scanty and baseless, speculation and utterly without merit. “Is that all you’ve got, Doc? Pretty weak stuff. I expected more.”

She felt an abrupt change in the room’s atmosphere and saw that Sofia had opened the door to Ida Jean. The Italian patiently helped the old woman with her wet things and was busy toweling rainwater from the remains of her gray hair. Lydia slipped the phone into her pocket and stood up from the couch. “Hi there, Ida Jean,” she said, moving to the foot of the stairs, not waiting for a response before ascending. “I just remembered something, but I’ll be right back. Start us up some tea.”

            Lydia cursed herself as she took out the phone and sat on the commode after closing the newly replaced bathroom door. “Are you still there?” she asked quietly.

            “You’re back. Thought I’d lost you for a second.”

            “Just had to move to another room.”

            “It must be awkward, Lydia. God, I can only imagine how tired you are of all this. When was the moment you realized the ticking clock was just some figment of your husband’s imagination?”

            “Do you really want to waste time trying to get under my skin?”

            “It’s just so sad. I think about the potential that’s being wasted out there on that stupid compound. Your husband has done this world a disservice. I think you know that.”

            “Are you married?”

            “It’s never been quite right.”

            “That doesn’t shock me.”

            “Tell your lovely husband to call me, Lydia. It’s pretty urgent. And I’d be careful around that Ida Jean.”

            “What?”

            “Ida Jean Florence. That’s who you snuck off to avoid, right?”

            “Wait…”

            “Tell Paulson to call me in the next thirty minutes. If he doesn’t, well, maybe it’s better if the women just take over at both ends.”

            “Wait,” Lydia said. Akeso’s warning about Ida Jean had her off balance. “What did you mean by be careful?”

            “I’ll let you two work it out. This problem has the feeling of family. If we don’t speak again Ms. Paulson, goodbye.”

            “Wait,” Lydia tried again before the line went dead. She stood up from the toilet and held the phone against her cheek, trying to decipher what to do with Akeso’s words. Paulson had warned her that the young doctor was clever and cunning, making it hard to know for sure. However Akeso’s parting words were meant to be taken, they added an extra dose of foreboding to the most ominous of days. Lydia slipped the phone back into her pocket and put both hands on her belly to stop them from shaking. It was either go downstairs or start crying. “Nope,” she said, opening the door offering an apology to Ida Jean as she took the steps down from the loft.

            “I was telling Ms. Ida that she should not have come through all that weather,” Sofia said, back to them as she finished with the tea. Ida was watching Lydia step by step with unwavering commitment. “You are such a dear,” Ida said. “Really, Sofia, we’re all just so blessed to have you here.” The way the old woman was staying fixed on Lydia as she spoke was unnerving. Sofia turned with two steaming mugs waiting for Ida Jean and Lydia to disengage.

            “Ms. Ida,” Sofia said softly, “this should warm you.”

            She turned to take the offering and for a moment the tension was lifted. “Thank you. My goodness you are something beautiful.”

            Sofia handed off the other mug to Lydia and smiled nervously. “You are too kind.”

            “This might sound strange, but you remind me of Paulson’s mother.”

            “No.”

            “She was the most wonderful thing, inside, outside. The most wonderful thing.” Ida was holding the mug to her thin lips. Lydia could see that a portion of her was off somewhere else. “I see you have that same spirit, so much loveliness and heart.”

            Sofia blushed at the comparison and gave an emotional thanks. Lydia did her best not grind her teeth to cracking. She knew the compliment was intended to hurt, placing her in Sofia’s shadow. There was a smugness attached to almost every word Ida spoke and only someone experienced in dealing with her would notice.

            Ida set down the mug and walked over to the sink. The bloody towel Lydia used to clean her hands was still out. “What happened here?” she asked.

            Sofia flashed a concerned look at Lydia and tightened her lips.

            “Is there something you two aren’t telling me?”

            “I cut myself,” Sofia said.

            “No, my love,” Ida Jean answered as a mother might. “You did no such thing. And don’t lie. Not on the day we get taken. It’s important to stay pure.”

            “What brings you here?” Lydia asked flatly.

            “I know you’re concerned about the baby.”

            Lydia stood motionless, insides scorched with anger and confusion. She wasn’t showing and hadn’t told anyone but Sofia and Paulson about the pregnancy.

            “The blood is from those animals that Charlie shot,” Ida continued, “well, we should be glad that he took care of them. Dangerous creatures have to be dealt with.”

            “You’re right about that,” Lydia said, almost choking on the words. She finally knew the extent of Ida Jean’s insidious resolve. Perhaps the old woman was still holding wholeheartedly to the idea that the Storm was upon them any moment now; either way, she was doing everything in her power to make sure this was their last day on earth.

            “You were the one that made the call,” Lydia said, breathing in and closing her eyes.       

            “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Ida answered, hugging Sofia and adding a kiss on her cheek. “I just came by to see my boy. Oh well. Sure am glad I got the chance to talk to you though, Lydia. Today is the day.” She separated from Sofia and turned her head sharply to Lydia. “Today is the day.”

Chapter 35: Couples

            Becker was deep in the middle of an hour nap. The couch in Jordy Phelps’ man cave was too heavenly a change for him not to take a brief respite; the man’s backside hadn’t touched anything as forgiving as a cushion for a week.

            “I don’t understand why they made him stay in this room.” Avy Tarleton had her long hair pulled back and up, pointing at Phelps’ laptop screen with a chewed pen. Jordy came back slowly, trying not to spill three full cups of fresh coffee. The agent took his seat between the reporter and Dukes after handing the piping refills off cautiously to each woman.

            “What don’t you understand about it?” he asked, observing that Dukes had switched off since they started going through the roughly edited video of the raid on the house where they’d been keeping Becker. The images were taken from various headset cameras of the team Phelps had assembled. The quality was grainy, but he’d used the best bits from different men to paint a picture reasonably easy to understand.