WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (14 page)

The crowd moaned and chattered among themselves for a moment, then cheered and applauded.

Pruitt chuckled. “Are there any questions, gentlemen?” He checked with each contestant. “If not, we’ll prepare to start the competition.”

The three men stepped up close behind the tables. The tables were covered with a white cloth and each held an Austrian-built semi-automatic pistol, ten rounds of .40 caliber ammunition, a pair of shooter’s safety glasses, foam ear plugs as well as shooter’s noise reduction earmuffs. Each of the three contestants was assigned a judge to time their performance as well as confirm disassembly and proper re-assembly of their weapon.

“Gentlemen, if you will put on your safety equipment and place your hands flat on the table before you, we’ll be ready to begin.”

The shooters did as they were asked.

“Judges, are your stopwatches ready?”

The three judges lifted their stopwatches in acknowledgement.

Pruitt counted off, “Ready ... set ... go.”

The three judges started their clocks as the contestants grabbed their pistols and began disassembly. It was obvious; this was no one’s first field stripping.

Brad pressed the magazine release and allowed the mag to fall from the grip and onto the table. Next he grasped the rear of the Glock’s slide in his right hand and depressed the slide releases on each side of the pistol with the index finger and thumb on his left. As the gun’s slide moved forward, Brad inverted the gun and caught the slide as it fell from the frame. He pulled the recoil spring from its seated position and slipped the barrel from the slide dropping all three pieces on to the cloth covered table. Brad looked up at the judge who nodded his head.

Brad replaced the barrel in the slide, tucked the end of the recoil spring in place and seated the other end at the front of the slide. He grabbed the frame and pushed the slide into position over the frame and pulled it to the rear and placed the gun on the table. Ready to load the magazine, he grabbed it in his left hand and gathered about half the loose bullets in his right.

As he began pushing the bullets down onto the magazine’s follower, he wondered which stage of the contest the other two men were on. He’d heard no shots. That’s all that mattered. He collected the rest of the bullets and continued loading the magazine. All ten cartridges in the magazine, he shoved the mag into the grip, grasped the serrated sides of the pistol’s slide and pulled, cocking the action. That’s when he heard gunfire from another table.

Brad brought the pistol into firing position and caught the heel of his right hand in the palm of his left. He assumed the Isosceles shooting stance and began punching holes in his target. He didn’t bother counting his shots. When the pistol’s slide locked back, it confirmed what he already knew.

As he lowered his pistol, Brad heard the three last reports from Miles’s gun before the range fell quiet, and the applause erupted. He looked down range, but couldn’t tell, from his angle, how well the other shooters had done, but he was confident.

“Weapons on the tables, please and step back.”

The smell of pork barbeque smoke that had dominated the air since Brad arrived at the lodge was now mixed with the smell of burned gun powder, two of Brad’s favorite aromas.

The judges retrieved their shooters’ targets and returned to the announcer’s table. The three competitors removed their safety equipment and stood quiet, waiting for the results.

The judges remained huddled for no more than three minutes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Pruitt spoke into his microphone. “In second place with nine out of ten shots inside the target, and a time of one minute and four seconds, our own Glen Prater.”

The crowd applauded. Brad relaxed and gave Prater a satisfied smile.

“With a time of one minute and five seconds, and with all ten rounds inside the target—Brad Evans.”

Arnie cheered, whistled and clapped his hands. Applause from the crowd began with less vigor than for Prater, but as they saw Arnie stand, applaud, and continue to shout his approval, their response grew into more worthy praise.

Brad smiled as he accepted two crisp hundred dollar bills and shoved them into his front pocket with the other bills. He nodded to the crowd wishing he could see Julie there smiling and cheering for him. He mouthed the words thank you as the people acknowledged his winning performance.

“Brad,” Arnie yelled as he stepped toward Brad. “Great job, buddy. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

The two friends returned the guns to Brad’s truck and Arnie kidded Brad about his success on the target range. “You could have had the decency to let someone else win a little.” Arnie laughed.

“What do you mean,” Brad asked, “I missed ten percent of the clay targets on purpose.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Of course, I’m kidding. I ain’t throwing a cash prize shooting match for anybody, much less somebody I don’t even know yet.”

“By yet, I assume you mean you might like to get to know these folks?”

“Maybe.” Brad shrugged his shoulders.

“Great. I can’t wait for you to meet Carl.”

“Who?”

“Carl Garrison. He’s our leader. His grandfather started TARPA back in the thirties.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go. I need to show you our assembly hall. It’s full of our history. It’s in this building behind the old house.”

They walked through a side door into a large meeting room that resembled a modern church on the inside. There were at least thirty rows of pews facing a small stage with an oak podium. The large room had been added onto the back of the old antebellum home.

The first thing to catch Brad’s eye was a large black and white profile photograph of President Theodore Roosevelt under which was printed a quote.

There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn’t an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag ... We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language ... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people.

- Theodore Roosevelt, 1907

“Wise man,” Brad said.

“He didn’t mince words, did he?” Arnie added.

“Spoke softly—carried a big stick.” Brad held up his fists as if clutching a baseball bat.

Both men laughed like a couple of teenagers.

As they walked into the auditorium, Arnie said, “The main residence was built in 1884 by Reverend Garrison’s great-great granddaddy, Captain Jefferson C. Garrison. Here is a picture of him in his Confederate dress grays taken during the Civil War.”

With his thick black beard resting on the gray chest of his frock coat, his left hand on the hilt guard of his battle sword and his right hand on the grip of his cap and ball revolver, Captain Garrison was indeed a proud and impressive looking soldier.

“A striking man, huh?” Arnie asked.

“That he was.”

“He was a real hero. He led a company of Confederate soldiers at the battle of Forrestown where they annihilated over two hundred Union bluecoats.”

“You said he was
Reverend
Garrison’s great-great granddaddy?” Brad said.

“Oh, yeah. Carl is not an ordained minister. One of his followers nicknamed him “Reverend” a few years ago and it stuck. Carl liked the moniker. He thought it suited him, so he encouraged its use.”

As they ambled past a wall covered with pictorial tributes to the Civil War and other American conflicts since, Brad noticed a distinctive document framed and hung prominently on the front wall of the meeting room near a modern portrait of a man in a navy blue suit. The document and the large portrait were hung on either side of an intact but old and tattered American Flag framed in a thick shadowbox and hung as the front wall’s centerpiece. Brad could read the short inscription beneath the flag from across the room.

“The Commitments of Our Fathers are Ours to Keep.”

George W. Bush, 9/12/2001

Arnie smiled as he watched Brad viewing the treasures displayed throughout the room. He could tell the keepsakes were appealing to his patriotic pride.

Brad walked up to the large framed document and began to read:

“The Alliance for the Racial Purification of America”

Founded January 1st, 1938

Hubbard County, Tennessee

This Declaration issued by The Alliance for the Racial

Purification of America,

Tennessee Chapter, hereby bestows upon the undersigned

Gentlemen,

the Title, Liberties and Privileges of Membership.

On assuming the Rule of Dominion over the Glorious Empire to them Assigned, which shall henceforth continue to be theirs regardless of dispute, they shall be Saluted and Honored with the Symbols of Dignity, and Acknowledged within the Grand National Governance and Lawful Authority of this Reputed Alliance. This Declaration executed in the Supreme City of National Law, Forrestown, County of Hubbard, State of Tennessee, United States of North America, on this 1st day of January, 1938 Confirmed with the Eternal Seal.

Grand Sovereign - Col. Carl W. Garrison, Sr.

The formal declaration was followed by signatures totaling sixty-eight names. Brad was reminded of America’s Declaration of Independence. As he read the list, many of the legible surnames were familiar to Brad, including Arnie’s.

People began to enter the auditorium and take seats. Arnie looked at his watch.

“We’d better get a seat. It’s almost time for Carl.”

“He’s going to speak?” Brad asked.

“Yes, he said he’s got something special he wants to talk about today.”

“Where’s Sheila?” Brad asked, looking around the room.

“She’s in the mess hall with the other women cleaning up, but they’ll all be in here soon.”

The room was filled by the time Arnie introduced Brad to a half dozen of his friends. Each one commented on his marksmanship.

Brad and Arnie took their seats in time to see a dapper gentleman in his early fifties, with an abundance of charisma, step into the hall to a roar of shouts and applause. Carl Garrison’s navy blue suit was no doubt tailored for him, and his shirt was whiter than white. The tri-color striped tie communicated his patriotism. He was waving and shaking hands like a political candidate as he made his way onto the elevated platform. He crossed the front of the stage toward the podium, still shaking hands and talking with admirers. With a broad smile, a few finger points and head nods, Garrison continued to savor the admiration from the crowd of over three hundred. He held his hands in the air attempting to quiet the group. It was obvious; this man was comfortably in power.

He began to speak with an embroidered southern drawl.

“My fellow Americans—welcome to White Tail Lodge once again.” The people applauded until Garrison raised his hand.

“I want you all to know. I admire you—I respect you—and I value your dedicated involvement in our efforts to return America to the racial purity intended for her by our founding Christian fathers.”

Primed for his stirring words, the group offered up loud cheers and applause.

“However,” he waited for the crowd to calm, “I want you all to understand—our past endeavors and our devotion to TARPA’s goals, while admirable and for a time effective, will no longer be enough to achieve the change we seek for our beloved country.”

Moans and exchanged questioning mumbles came from the crowd.

Garrison nodded his head and raised a hand in the air.

“The people of the United States—your friends and neighbors,” he pointed, moving his finger across the crowd, “are not embracing the significance of our objectives.”

There were more mumbled groans and negative remarks throughout the room.

Someone sitting behind Brad shouted, “Wake up, people!”

After a moment, Garrison held up his hands to quiet the crowd again.

“Our fellow Americans are proving daily, they would rather stick their heads in the sand and deny the truth than to awaken and see through clear eyes the devastation being brought upon our nation by the inconspicuous invasion of our country’s borders by alien trespassers who are attempting to hybridize our Anglo blood.”

The entire gathering stood in unison shouting forceful “Amens” and offering loud applause. Garrison gazed across the room nodding a furrowed forehead.

Brad hesitated, then stood with the crowd in order to see. He looked around at all the excited folk clapping and yelling their support. He was impressed by Garrison’s command over the gathering.

Garrison again raised his hands. The crowd calmed and finally sat.

“The foreign influx of beggars and heathens from our so called allies and the alien influence being exerted on our country’s leadership continues to increase.” He paused. “Beware. Pressure is increasing; attempting to convince us to give up our God-given right to live free, segregated and protected by the principles established by our white Christian forefathers centuries ago.”

“Yes,” shouted several of the men and women. The crowd stood again, cheered and applauded.

Garrison took the microphone from the pulpit and walked to center stage. He allowed their consensus to build before calming them with his hands once more.

“My fellow Americans—we have got to close the door. This unbridled immigration from every nation on Earth is perverting our freedoms, robbing us of both our money, and what’s left of our racial purity.” He walked back to the pulpit and paused. “We have to shut the door ... now.” As he said
now,
he slapped the oak podium with his open right hand causing a thunderous roar throughout the room.

“Shut the door now.” His followers began to chant. “Shut the door now. Shut the door now.”

Garrison maintained his solemn expression. He held up his hand until the people began to settle down.

“We must stand together,” Garrison shouted over the microphone.

The crowd remained standing and applauded again.