Authors: J. A. Kerley
Harry said, “When was the last time you took that shit?”
“I got tired of drinking perfume tea and eating healthy things that tasted like hay two days ago. Dropped the vites, too.”
Harry grinned. “Saved by fried chicken and gravy. That’s my boy. You been feeling any different?”
I looked out the window, saw a gurney being pushed from Baker’s backyard toward the ambulance out front. They’d found the body. It was
draped with a sheet, the sheet soaked with sea water dripping from the corpse.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m suddenly feeling a lot better.”
Harry and I were in the swing state between adrenalin rush and total burnout. We headed homeward to try and bag some recovery time before tomorrow renewed the hunt for Noelle.
I fell asleep without Fossie’s pills, but it only lasted four hours. I was up before dawn, on the deck, drinking coffee and shoveling cheese grits and bacon into my food hole. My mind felt clear and charged full, and I paced the deck for an hour, unraveling a timeline intermingled with the cast of characters. The timeline was almost four decades long.
I sat at my computer. Did a Google search. Found what I’d half-expected. I called Harry as I was driving to work, said we were running up to the SLDP’s offices, I needed to ask a couple more questions.
Harry hadn’t slept much either, and was still ragged from the previous night’s search of the ’net. I drove to Montgomery and let him bag out in
the back seat for a change. He made a whistling sound when he snored. I awakened him at a gasoline stop outside of Montgomery. He headed into the station and brushed his teeth, splashed on some after-shave. Got in the front seat and away we flew.
“So you think Ben Belker has something we could use?” Harry asked.
“Worth a shot,” was all I said.
We entered Ben’s office. He gestured toward seats but I preferred to stand.
I said, “I looked up a few things on the internet, Ben. Your father died eight months ago. I’m sorry.”
He pushed up his black glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Thanks, Carson. I appreciate that.”
“Why didn’t you mention anything?”
“I don’t like to talk about it. Dad spent his life in pain. Growing up, I had to watch him try and walk, doing his best to hide his misery so we could all live something like a real life. He was legally blind from blows to his eyes. His whole life was torn away from him.”
“All in the span of a horrific beating,” I said.
Ben said, “I hope whoever who did it pays by burning in hell.”
I leaned against a bookcase filled with hate literature. “They’re paying now, Ben. Scaler, Tutweiler, Meltzer, Custis. Maybe Fossie and Carleton. Paying it all back, right?”
A beat. Ben Belker’s eyes flickered, then affected
perplexed. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Carson.”
“Your father came to the South to fight for the poor. He went to town one night, stopped at a diner. He was abducted by racists. They took him to a field and crippled him for life.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Harry, saw a frown. I turned back to Ben.
“Is that how it really was, Ben?”
“Of course. Everyone knows it. My father was a legend.”
I pulled a chair up close to Ben and sat it backwards, arms crossed on the back, looking straight into my friend’s face.
“I think something else happened that night, Ben. I think a woman came on to your father. Her name was Patti Selmot. Plain in the face but with a body that’d give a corpse a hard-on. Your father went trotting after her with his tongue hanging to his knees.”
Ben leapt to his feet. “You’re
lying.
”
I pointed to his computer. “Your father’s death sent you on the trail of his attackers. Years of gathering information all came together and you discovered what really happened that night.”
Ben pointed a quivering finger at me, his face red. His eyes closed. He turned away, fists clenched, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat.
“Luring men to beatings was a hobby to that crazy bitch,” Ben hissed.
“The truth was a blow to your father’s legacy,” I said, my voice low and reasonable. “Thomas Belker beaten not over human rights, but over a hick drugstore bimbo.”
Ben collapsed into his chair, dry-washed his face.
“When Meltzer discovered my father was Jewish, he went crazy with a ball bat, getting the others to join in the fun. All the time she was laughing, urging them on.”
“What was Scaler’s part in all this?”
“There was a big manhunt when Dad was found, the FBI was involved. It scared hell out of the attackers. They went to their ideological twin, Richard Scaler, and told him they’d been trying to send a do-gooder Jewboy back to New York, but things got a bit out of hand.”
Harry said, “Scaler helped them with their alibi.”
Ben nodded. “He swore they were members of a night bible study and had all been in attendance.”
“The Feds bought Scaler’s story?” I asked.
“It was almost forty years ago, Carson. Every fourth male in the county would’ve beaten up a Yankee organizer. The Feds had a suspect list fifteen pages long. The case went nowhere.”
I put the missing links in the chain. “The perpetrators stayed free and helped one another through the years, bound by criminality and mutual silence. Three months ago, Scaler began re-thinking his life, having doubts, the great crippler of ideologues. Scaler hired Matthias for verification that Scaler’s
superior-white-folks concepts were correct. But this time, Matthias had the full story.”
Ben said, “It shook Scaler to his core. He felt his soul was in danger. He was starting his amends through a major announcement, that the tribes of the earth were coming together.”
“How did you discover Scaler’s change of heart?” I asked. “Through your contacts?”
Harry stepped up. “Mrs Herdez, right?”
“Close, Detective,” Ben said. “Luna Martinez was picking up her aunt after work one day when Scaler asked for help with his computer. It had frozen while he was writing his journal. He knew Ms Martinez was a programmer. He didn’t know she was a long-time sympathizer with the SLDP.” He paused. “That’s all I’ll say.”
“It’s enough.” I imagined when opportunity presented Ms Martinez continued to check on what Scaler’d been writing. Or planted a worm in his computer that piped his writings to her.
“Is Carleton in on this? We had him scared to death.”
“Carleton knew Reverend Scaler was changing his corporation and holdings in major ways, liquidating some, restructuring others. And that he was being left out. The bottom line is that Kingdom College was dissolving, the money quietly moving to genetic research. Carleton didn’t know the why behind the move, and not knowing had him spooked. He’s not part of the overall nastiness.”
“What do you know about Meltzer trying to steal the kid?”
“Meltzer is sick and twisted. He made enough money running drugs to do anything he wants. But what he needs is the adoration of his squirmy little followers. He looks at his greasy pamphlets and sees
Mein Kampf.
He looks out at two hundred people at a rally and sees fifty thousand.”
“Noelle threatened all that,” Harry said.
Ben nodded. “She was a dagger poised at the heart of his organization.”
Harry crossed the room, head angled in thought. He sat on the desk beside Ben, studied him.
“I’m hearing individual stories,” Harry said. “Mama Scaler losing her hold on hubby, Meltzer losing his reason for existence, Tutweiler losing a high-paying position at Kingdom College, putting his high-priced habit in jeopardy. Custis would lose the political support of Richard Scaler, dooming him in the next election. All your father’s assailant’s are being set up to fall down.”
Ben looked up at my partner.
“And?”
Harry said, “I’m not hearing the pivotal moment from you, buddy.”
“Pivotal moment? You lost me, Detective.”
“How did the others discover Scaler’s plan? These separate stories had to reach critical mass somehow. Otherwise Scaler goes on TV, makes big news about his conversion to science and genetics. There’d be too much media light on him
and the story for the others to get away with foul play.”
Ben shrugged. “I saw conditions were right for a fire, so I, uh, threw a match.”
“Explain,” Harry said.
“Scaler left town on business and I created a bogus file that showed communiqués with Matthias, aspects of Matthias’s research, the young couple and the baby. The file…Ms Martinez left it for Patricia Scaler to find. It suggested what Scaler was planning.”
“Which crazy Patti takes to her psycho buddy Meltzer, saying we gotta cut hubby down and tar him thick. Turn anything that might ever come to light in hidden Scaler writings or tapes into the ramblings of a twisted, lying pervert by smearing him in the media. Destroying any credibility he had or would ever have.”
Ben nodded. “Plus I, uh, maybe wrote things a bit sensationally for added effect.”
“The couple and the baby,” Harry said. “You sensationalized that?”
“A little.”
“How?” Harry’s voice was a whisper.
“Maybe I used the words ‘clone’ and ‘superbaby’ and a few other words to suggest that…”
“YOU ASSHOLE!” Harry roared.
Ben Belker levitated from his chair, whirled in the air with Harry’s hands at his collar, slammed high against the wall, papers flying, monitor crashing to the floor.
“YOU LIGHT DYNAMITE AND THROW IT RIGHT WHERE THE KID IS?”
“It was dumb,” Ben croaked, trying to push Harry’s hands from his throat. “I wanted to start…something, anything. To get the bastards…who broke my father.”
I jumped to Harry, put my hand on his arm. “Let him down, bro. It’s in the past.”
“You self-centered idiot!” Harry spat as Ben’s feet regained the floor. “You…you…”
Harry couldn’t think of anything bad enough to call Ben. He walked to Ben’s desk, slammed his hand down. It sounded like a bomb. Ben righted the fallen chair and sat rubbing his throat. He took a deep breath, collected himself. His face went blank.
“I realized my error in planning,” Ben said without emotion, his tone as mechanical as a robot. “I discovered my mistake and made corrections. Me and me alone. No one else assisted in anything and it was all my doing.”
I stared at Ben. It was worded like a prepared statement.
“What the hell does that mean?” Harry snarled. “You sound like a lawyer.”
“Everyone has alibis,” Ben said quietly. “And they’re damn good ones.”
“What are you talking about, Ben?” I said.
Ben closed his eyes like the recording was over. Harry grabbed my elbow, pulled me toward the door.
“Let’s got outta here before I strangle the guy, Carson.”
We went out and climbed into the car, Harry still upset.
“Tossing gas on a fire.” Harry shook his head. “No freaking idea which way it would burn, only that flames would shoot everywhere. First it burns the Rev. to the ground, then Lady MacScaler figures Custis can now ascend to Washington and they’ll be the new Bill and Hill or whatever. Meanwhile, Meltzer’s fuck-up bikers draw him into the suspect picture and he tries to move his stash.” He put the car in gear.
“Just a minute,” I said. The wide-shouldered redneck in the truck was still there. I jogged to the truck. The guy pulled his gray cowboy hat way down, turned away. I rapped my knuckles on the door.
“Whattya want?” the mouth grunted.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?”
“For telling me to go right at the rally.”
Almost imperceptibly, the hat nodded.
Harry and I got back to the department at eleven a.m. The sun was high and bright. White gulls keened in the air. We stood on Government Street for a few minutes to shake off our morning with Ben Belker, let the sun bake it from our clothes. After that we’d go sit our desks and wait for something to happen, hoping best, thinking worst.
I looked south. There was little pedestrian traffic, a few businessmen types, a clot of tourists with Hawaiian shirts and neck-slung cameras, typical.
A half-block away I saw a man and a woman in their early twenties walking toward the department. The man looked like an escapee from the Wild West: tall, wide-shouldered, bearded, wearing mud-encrusted denim. The woman was petite, wearing a long white dress over her slender form, the dress also smeared with dirt and mud. She had a white dressing taped to her forehead. The couple looked worn but joyful, the only people to crawl unscathed from a plane crash.
The man was carrying a bundle, held tight to his wide chest. The woman touched at the bundle like it held a magic potion.
I pulled Harry’s sleeve, pointed. We ran to the pair, our hearts wild with hope.
It was Anak and Rebecca. And their child. The couple told a fantastic tale of being sent to the small house near the Gulf, waiting for more permanent lodging. A group of attackers had arrived from the front. Rebecca ran out the back with her baby in her arms. The man remained inside to fight, wielding a rusty harpoon from the corner. The door had exploded open and a man had jumped in firing a shotgun.
Anak’s harpoon had connected.
Out back, Rebecca saw a shadowy vessel closing in on the house. She placed the baby in a boat, slipped the boat beneath the pier. When she turned and ran, a gunshot grazed her forehead and knocked her unconscious.
Tumult. Pandemonium. The smell of fire. Anak found himself with a sack over his head and a gun at his back, rushed into a watercraft, tossed beside Rebecca.
Someone yelled,
“There’s no child. The others must have taken her.”
Curses of anger. The watercraft sped away.
The couple found themselves in an earthen room, probably a hurricane shelter. Food and drink were plentiful. Their captors never spoke, save for a disguised voice that said simply, “Have hope.”
This morning the couple had been gently bound and gagged, heads enshrouded, guided into a vehicle. They had traveled for at least an hour and been dropped off a block from where Harry and I saw them. Pulling flour sacks from their heads they saw a baby on the sidewalk, wrapped in a clean blanket.