Liberty's Last Stand (54 page)

“Now see here—”

“If that is what I need to do, please excuse me.” Colonel Holly stood. “I must be about it. I have my orders.”

“Sit, Colonel, sit. Please.” Arlen Kirkpatrick knew when he was beaten. He pushed his unfinished dinner out of the way. “What can I do to help?”

“Bring your senior staffers in, tell them you have been relieved, and go home.”

“Only the night guards are here. We are finishing the dinner hour, then the prisoners will be locked down for the night.”

“That will do.”

“What do you intend to do, Colonel?”

“That isn't your problem. As I said, I have my orders. I suggest you make a copy of that letter, keep the original, and let me have the copy.”

Arlen Kirkpatrick rose from behind his desk, made the copy on a machine in the outer office, called in the senior people on the night shift, and introduced Holly. The warden shook hands all around, the guards wished him well, and then he departed, leaving his half-eaten dinner on the desk.

Holly called for the records. His armed staff found seats in the outer office while the night shift, mostly guards, carried in the records in alphabetical order.

Holly read for several hours as darkness fell and made notes. He sent the captain and the senior NCO, a staff sergeant, to ensure the prisoners were indeed locked in their cells. Then he sat in the warden's office and watched the security monitor high on the wall shift automatically around the security doors and corridors. About midnight, the guards were called in. “Gentlemen, we are sending all of you home for the evening.”

“You can't do that,” one of the guards said curtly. “Regulations require—”

“The military is now in charge of this facility. With the prisoners locked up, I have enough men to see that they remain behind bars through the night. Report tomorrow at your usual shift time.”

The guards didn't want to go, but Ezekiel Holly looked stern and every inch a senior military officer used to being obeyed. They went by the armory, turned in their weapons, which were locked up, and filed to the courtyard in front of the prison for their cars. One of the soldiers closed the gate behind them. Soldiers replaced guards at key checkpoints throughout the prison.

The colonel nodded at the security monitor. “Get all the tapes, or if the feed goes on a computer, the hard drive.”

When that was done, the colonel led a half-dozen soldiers, all that remained after the guard positions within the prison and at the gate were manned, to the security checkpoint outside Cell Block A. When they got there, the colonel consulted a list he had made from examining the files.

“James Abbott,” the colonel said. “Bring him here.” Two soldiers left their weapons on the desk and went through the checkpoint. Another manned the panel that opened the cell doors in the block.

In a few minutes, Abbott appeared. He was a pasty-faced man of medium height with a prominent spare tire. His hands were cuffed into a wide leather belt that encircled his waist, and he had cuffs on his ankles that were held together with about fifteen inches of chain. He had lively eyes and a semipermanent smile upon his lips. One of the Texas Guard soldiers that had accompanied Holly to the prison stood behind him.

“Mr. Abbott, according to your file, you were convicted of raping and murdering four girls. The Texas Rangers believed you raped and murdered at least six other girls over a period of nine years, but you refused to admit the crimes or tell where the bodies were buried.”

Abbott said nothing, merely looked from face to face with nervous eyes, wearing that smirk.

“You were sentenced to life in prison without parole.”

The smirk didn't change.

“Do you want to tell us now how many other young women you murdered?”

“You're shitting me, right?”

In the silence that followed, Ezekiel Holly looked at his list. When he looked up, Abbott had said nothing and was still wearing that semipermanent smirk.

Holly nodded at two of the guards who were still wearing sidearms.

The soldiers grasped Abbott, one on each arm, and started leading him to the corridor that led to the courtyard one story below.

“Hey,” Abbott said, trying to resist. “Where are you taking me?” That is when he really looked at the face of the soldier on his left side. “I know you,” he shrieked. “You are the brother of—”

He refused to walk, so the soldiers dragged him along, supporting his weight.

A minute later a young man was brought in, also wearing shackles and manacles.

“Jason Brodski. Apparently you opened fire with an assault rifle in a movie theater and killed a dozen people and wounded thirty-three more. Your attorneys argued that you were insane, and the jury rejected that defense. They convicted you but couldn't agree on the death penalty, so you were sentenced to life without parole. Is that correct?”

A sneer crossed Brodski's lips. He was a slightly built white man with a mop of unruly black hair and pimples. “Yeah,” he said.

“Mr. Brodski, the world has turned. The Republic of Texas is not going to force taxpayers to pay for your maintenance and medical care, nor for the guards to watch you. You will be executed tonight.”

“What the fuck! You can't do that! Goddamn, I know my rights. I want my lawyer. I—”

Holly nodded to the two armed soldiers near Brodski, who grabbed his upper arms and removed him through the open security door along the corridor. The smell of feces was in the air. Holly glanced down the corridor and saw a dark stain spreading on the seat of Brodski's pants.

The next prisoner was standing in front of Holly when the muffled sound of a shot could be heard through the window overlooking the interior basketball court.

“What was that?” the prisoner, a Latino, asked nervously. “What the fuck is going on here?” He had a thick accent, glowered, and shifted from foot to foot.

“Alfredo Mendez, citizen of Mexico. Apparently you were an assassin for a Mexican drug syndicate, and you were convicted of murdering six men with an automatic weapon as they sat in a Del Rio beer joint.”

Mendez merely glared. “What the hell is this, anyway?”

Another muffled shot could be heard from the basketball court.

Alfredo Mendez looked around wildly as the first two soldiers returned carrying the empty shackles and manacles. They handed them to the unarmed soldiers and grabbed Mendez.

“
Madre de Dios
! No! I can pay. My
patron
swore—”

The soldiers took Mendez down the corridor, still swearing and shouting.

The next man was a hulking black with scars on his face and tattoos on his knuckles and forehead. He had apparently been spending a lot of time in the weight room, because he was heavily bulked up.

“James Elvin Dallas,” Colonel Holly said. He looked Dallas straight in the eyes as he recited, “You were convicted of raping three women. Then, while in prison, you beat a man to death, apparently because he refused to be your butt-boy. It is thought you killed another with a homemade shiv, but you were never charged due to lack of evidence.”

“So?”

“Did you ever wonder what became of your victims?” Holly's eyes scrutinized Dallas' face.

Dallas' eyes were roaming, measuring the men in the room.

Another shot was heard from the courtyard.

James Elvin Dallas went nuts. He lunged sideways and tried for the rifle on the table. Four of the soldiers tried to subdue him. That task was only accomplished when one of the soldiers struck him repeatedly on the head with a rifle butt. As Dallas lay immobilized upon the floor, Holly pulled his service pistol and, from a distance of one foot, shot him between the eyes. Brains and blood splattered across the concrete floor.

“Take him to the courtyard,” Holly ordered, “and shoot him again.”

The next prisoner was large and sloppy, with greasy, curly black hair springing from his head and his chest. He had a full beard too—something that had been banned in Texas until last year. “Muzzaffan Mehsud. You were convicted of throwing acid in your wife's face because she went shopping without your permission. You were sentenced to twenty years.”

The man spat at Holly, who merely nodded to the soldiers. They took Mehsud away as he shouted, over and over, “
Allahu Akbar
.”

After three more men were removed from Cell Block A, the colonel led his soldiers to Cell Block B.

“Francisco Colon, you are a serial rapist. At least six girls, none older than fourteen.”

“You fuck! I know my rights. You can't revisit a sentence.”

“Did you ever wonder what happened to the girls you raped?”

“Everyone heard the shots from the courtyard. You can't get away with this.”

“One of the girls, Judy Martinez, committed suicide six months ago. She had been in psychiatric care for four years. Apparently she could never come to grips with the fact that animals like you roam the streets. Her father paid ten thousand dollars to hear that you were dead.”

“Fuck you!” Colon lowered his head and launched himself at Holly. He didn't get there. The men on either side dropped him on his face on the concrete floor, smashing his nose and releasing a torrent of blood. Semiconscious from the impact, he was carried to the courtyard.

The next man was a white man, medium-sized, with a full head of hair. He could even be called handsome. He was calm. “We heard shots. Are you executing people?”

“Robert Winston Carrington. You were convicted of running a Ponzi scheme that took in over twelve million dollars, most of which you squandered to pay for an extravagant lifestyle.”

Carrington glanced at the bloodstain on the floor from Colon's nose, then his eyes came back to Holly. “I didn't kill anybody,” he said.

“Did it ever occur to you,” Ezekiel Holly said conversationally, “that prisons exist for two reasons? The first of course is to keep the guilty in, and the second is to keep the victims out.”

“They were all greedy bastards and got what they deserved.”

“As we all shall, rest assured. Two of your victims committed suicide. Many were reduced to penury after a lifetime of work because they believed in you, trusted you. We are here tonight as surrogates for your victims.”

Holly nodded at the soldiers, and they took Robert Winston Carrington away. He walked with his head high. Maybe, thought Colonel Holly, he doesn't believe he will really be executed. Or, perhaps, he doesn't care.

Three minutes later another shot was heard.

When Colonel Holly and his soldiers left the prison at three that morning, thirty-two corpses were laid out side by side on the prison basketball court, where they were found by the day shift.

Warden Arlen Kirkpatrick was summoned, and he sent a man to Austin. When the man returned two days later, he reported that no one at the Bureau of Prisons, in the governor's office, or at Texas Guard headquarters had ever heard of Ezekiel Holly. The governor's signature on the letter was a forgery.

Perhaps fingerprints might have identified Colonel Holly, but all the other soldiers wore tactical gloves. When the Texas Rangers finally sent a man around to hunt for prints, more than a week had passed and the task was hopeless.

TWENTY-NINE

“W
e leave tomorrow,” Jake Grafton said on Sunday morning.

Boy, that was good news to me!

Sarah Houston was carrying the little girl around, everywhere, and gave me The Look every time she passed me, as if it were my fault the kid got raped. She didn't even say anything about my neck wound. Mrs. Johnson was a nurse and bandaged me up after she had smeared some sort of antiseptic on it. My neck was so sore I couldn't turn my head.

Willie Varner said, “Goddamn, Tommy. You keep lettin' these sons of bitches shoot at you. It's just a matter of time, dude.”

“Hey, Willie, I—”

“Don't want to hear it. I done tol' ya. Just a matter of time. Ain't goin' to cry at your funeral, Tommy. Sarah might, or Mizz Grafton, but I ain't a gonna. See you in Hell, dude, and we'll catch up then.”

“I can hardly wait. Thanks, asshole.”

“You're welcome.”

I was fed up to here. I broke out the two sniper rifles from FEMA's Walmart stash and took them down to the meadow. Put a target out at two hundred yards—measured with one of the laser rangefinders the military had thoughtfully included in the box—and laid down by the hangar. Used a box of MREs as a rest and commenced shooting. The rifles were .308 caliber, actual designation 7.62×51 NATO, and we had
plenty of ammo. I played with them a while and got them zeroed. Just in case.

I am not a sniper: I am not good enough with a rifle, and I don't have the patience for it. However, the concept of whacking bad guys from beyond the effective range of their weapons strongly appeals to me. I have no sporting instinct whatsoever and am a disciple of W. C. Fields: Never give a sucker an even break, and its corollary, do it unto others before they do it unto you.

When I got back to the safe house, the sun was down. In the twilight everyone was sitting around outside eating venison that I had shot, Molina and Yocke had butchered, and Jake Grafton had cooked on the outdoor fire. Burned on the outside, pink in the middle. Everyone but me complimented him on his outdoor culinary skills. To accompany the venison we also had Mrs. Price's green beans and baked potatoes with margarine and ketchup, for those so inclined. With the smell of wood smoke in the delightful evening air and plenty of good, wholesome food, some of the folks around the fire looked like they were dumping some stress. The meal was filling and a nice change from MREs, but I wasn't ready to sing Kumbaya.

I figured that there was a lot of shooting and dying coming up in the days ahead. Going to Washington to clean up the government wasn't on my bucket list.

But what the hell! A man can only die once. That's a good thing, by the way. We've all gotta go sometime, and, truth be told, the sooner you check out, the more shit you miss. That's the gospel according to Reverend Carmellini. Amen.

The girl spent the evening sitting by Sarah Houston. Armanti was sitting with Mrs. Price. The Johnsons were huddled together, the parents taking care of the kids. Yocke and Molina sat engaged in earnest conversation, solving the nation's problems, probably. The warriors kept by themselves, although they had included Willie Varner in their little group. They liked Willie's brand of pessimism, I suspected: I certainly did.

After the fire died down to glowing coals, Sarah Houston picked up the kid and carried her into the house. I waited a moment, then tagged along. I found them upstairs in the bedroom we had been using, and the door was open a crack. I eavesdropped. It's one of my failings. But, to paraphrase that great American philosopher Yogi Berra, you can learn a lot by listening.

“My name is Sarah too,” the girl said.

“We have a lot in common,” Sarah Houston said warmly.

“I saw that man shoot my parents. He was really mean. He hurt me terrible down there. Then Mister Tommy shot him and his whole head came off. After what he did to me, I was glad.” I knew that Mrs. Johnson, the nurse, gave the kid a vaginal exam and had to do some stitches, after she had numbed her.

“I suppose so,” Sarah Houston said. “Tommy is a good man. Was your father a good man?”

“Oh yes. He wasn't tall, and he was sort of heavy, not a bit like Mister Tommy. But he loved me very much. So did Mommy.”

After a bit I heard Sarah Houston say, “I am sure you will miss them very much.”

“Mommy and Daddy loved me.”

“I am sure they did.”

“I like Mister Armanti too. He's a real nice man. Sort of like a bear.”

The two sat in silence for a while, then the big Sarah said, “You and I are going to sleep right here. If you have a nightmare, you wake me up. Will you do that?”

“Daddy always read me a book before bed.”

“I don't have any books. Maybe I can tell you a story, after you get in bed.”

Five minutes later Sarah began, “Once upon a time . . .”

A half hour later, Sarah came out. I was sitting on the top of the stairs. She sat down beside me.

“That kid has been through a hell of a lot.”

“I guess.”

“She's in denial right now. Sooner or later the implications of the murder of her parents, rape, all that is going to hit her hard. She is only eight years old and she saw all that mayhem.”

“God help her,” I murmured.

“You can sleep on the couch downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, Tommy. What a disaster . . . for all of us.”

“Yes.”

I put my arm around her. After a while she said, “I'm staying here when you leave tomorrow. Someone has to take care of this child.”

“Okay.”

“Will you come back? Afterward?”

“You can bet your life on it.”

Sunday evening two Muslim male refugees from Syria, ages nineteen and twenty, raped a thirteen-year-old black girl in St. Louis. She screamed and they beat her. Despite the perilous state of law enforcement in St. Louis after a week of rioting in the black neighborhoods, the police apprehended the pair. They were taken to a police lockup.

That night a crowd of almost eight hundred people, mostly black, surrounded the police station. These were not ghetto dwellers, but middle-class suburbanites, and many were armed. They held the police at gunpoint and removed the two rapists from the cells. The two were taken outside and hanged by their necks from a nearby tree with ropes some members of the crowd had thoughtfully brought along.

Then the crowd, now containing about 1,500 people, walked in a body to the downtown mosque that the imam had made infamous by preaching jihad from the pulpit; the mosque, incidentally, where the two rapists had worshiped. The crowd found the cleric cowering in a closet in a nearby house, dragged him outside, and hanged him too. The mosque was set on fire.

While the imam dangled and strangled, a few people in the crowd fired some shots in the air and shouted catcalls, but mainly the crowd was quiet. Some police officers sat on the hoods of their cruisers, watching and smoking. An intrepid television cameraman filmed the holy man swinging in the wind for broadcast whenever. An hour or so later, the crowd began to dissipate and trudge away into the night.

Amazingly, the energy seemed to go out of the rioters in other sections of town, many of whom actually went home. For the first time since Barry Soetoro declared martial law, the hours from midnight to dawn on Labor Day were quiet in St. Louis.

At nine o'clock that Labor Day morning, a convoy of two companies of Marines from Quantico arrived at the Pentagon. A colonel was there to meet the company commanders, both captains. After a short conversation, the troops set up machine guns inside sandbagged positions at the entrances to the Pentagon, other Marines were sent to guard the Metro station downstairs (even though it wasn't running) and to guard the entrances to the parking lots. They set up a bivouac on an empty section of the vast parking lot on the western side of the massive building, a lot that looked relatively empty because, despite the crisis engulfing the nation, many of the civilians had Labor Day off.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Martin Wynette, knew nothing about the Marines' arrival. He was upstairs in his office on the E-Ring going over readiness reports from the U.S. armed forces around the world, with special attention to those units in the United States. The United States armed forces were in full mutiny, he said to his staff after a quick perusal of the reports. People in uniform willing to fight for Barry Soetoro against Americans were a rare commodity. The only bright spot was the Marines in Southern California, who had strapped on the Mexican military as though they were God's gift to starving men. At last, an enemy to shoot at. The crews of the navy's two carriers now cruising off the coast of San Diego were apparently happy as pigs in slop launching strikes at the Mexican invaders. They had achieved complete control of the air, left Mexican armor burned-out wrecks, destroyed Mexican staging areas on the American side of the border, and flown support missions for the Marines. It was a proverbial turkey shoot.

The rioting Mexicans in the slums of LA weren't the military's problem. What the civil authorities were going to do about them was up to Barry Soetoro and the politicians in LA and Sacramento who wanted those Hispanic votes more than they wanted salvation. If they wanted salvation, which was doubtful.

Martin Wynette was trying to figure out what he was going to tell the president and his disciples when he went over to the White House to brief them at eleven o'clock when a group of flag officers led by CNO Admiral Cart McKiernan came into his office unannounced and closed the door. The commandant of the Marine Corps was there, as well as the deputy chiefs of staff of the army and air force. The four officers stood in front of the desk looking down on Wynette.

“Marty,” said the commandant, Morton Runyon, “tell us why you threw Sugar Ray, Jack Williams (the army chief of staff), and Harry Miller (the air force chief) to the wolves.”

Wynette stood up. “You don't know what you are talking about.”

“We've talked to Major General Stout, who was there at the White House with you. Remember?”

“Now, listen, people. Someone told Soetoro that a coup was being planned over here in the Pentagon. He already knew. What could I say?”

“He didn't know shit, Marty. Schanck tried a shot in the dark and you spilled your guts. You pulled the trigger on Sugar, Jack, and Harry.”

“Well, Jesus, they
were
planning a coup! Talking about it, anyway. For Christ's sake, he's the
commander-in-chief
. He's the
president
!”

“And you took an oath
to support and defend the Constitution of the United States
. Soetoro has become a dictator. He's ripped up the Constitution.”

“These are perilous times,” Wynette explained. “The president has a right to do whatever is required to maintain the government. You know that.”

“He doesn't have the right to convert the country into a dictatorship,” Cart McKiernan said, and made an angry gesture. “But we aren't here to debate politics. This has gone too damned far. Three senior officers were executed without a trial in the courtyard downstairs. This isn't Nazi Germany or Soviet Russia. Get your head out of your ass, Marty.”