The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) (44 page)

And he said to them, ‘This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer.’

He couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and prayed, again, for strength. He gulped for air, but his stomach muscles wouldn’t push out.

He tried to roll over. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t move at all.

He opened his eyes and saw that John Milton was on top of him, his knee pushed into his chest and his arm braced across his throat.

He tried to free himself.

Milton was too strong.

Lundquist looked up into his face, about to beg him for mercy, but he saw his cold blue eyes, and the words died on his lips.

Milton grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and hauled him further out into the stream. It was shallow at the edges, but a narrow channel in the centre was deep enough to reach up to Milton’s knees as he tugged him out with him. Lundquist started to float, no longer able to feel the pebbles against his back. The water splashed over his throat and onto his face, into his mouth and nostrils.

He closed his eyes for the last time as Milton shoved his head below the surface. The water was icy cold, and Lundquist’s skin prickled with it. He felt, finally, shockingly alive just as he opened his mouth and drank it all in.

SIX-THIRTY AT NIGHT, a snowstorm kicking eddies against the windows, and the restaurant was emptying out. It was on Lombardi Avenue, close to Lambeau Field, and the Packers were home against the 49ers. There were groups of stragglers at several of the tables, fans in Packers gear finishing their meals before bundling themselves up in their winter gear and heading out for the short walk to the stadium. The restaurant was a local destination, that was what Ellie had heard, a popular stop on the way to the stadium. There were signed pictures on the wall: Bart Starr, Brett Favre, Aaron Rodgers. A large portrait of Vince Lombardi had pride of place behind the bar, above the racks of bottles and the cash register. A sign above the portrait read TITLETOWN. Half a dozen TVs were tuned to the local FOX affiliate, the pregame shows well underway.

She went to the bar and sat down.

Green Bay. What the fuck.

The five men at the nearest table to her were loud and irritating. She gathered from their conversation that they were in town for the game, a corporate box, a chance to shake hands with an old Packers alumnus in return for some astronomical payment. Lawyers or accountants, she guessed, cutting loose now that they had managed a night away from their wives. She’d noticed that they had stopped talking as she had walked past the table, and then, when they started up again, their tone was a little lower, conspiratorial, snide little chuckles and guffaws as they looked over at her.

Like she wouldn’t figure out they were talking about her, or couldn’t guess what was coming next.

She almost got up again and left. She wasn’t in the mood. But she decided to stay. She needed a drink and a change of scenery. She’d been staring at the same four walls for hours, the same bland conference room in the same bland federal building, and she was about to lose her mind.

She had been practically breathing the case all week. The National Guard had found Lundquist’s body face down in a stream that ran through the woods. Drowned. An animal had started to make a meal of the soft tissue on his face. She had seen the autopsy photographs. Pretty grisly, his eyes gone, half of his nose, cheeks burrowed out. No definitive evidence of foul play, the pathologist said; he could easily have fallen into the stream and drowned.

Ellie knew better than that.

John Milton had been picked up on the road walking back in the direction of Truth.

Orville had been predictable. He had done exactly what she had thought he would do: he swooped into town, flashed his badge like he was the director, made the calls, and started to look so busy with it all that people who didn’t know any better might have thought it was his bust rather than hers. He had made a ham-fisted attempt at a reconciliation, but his heart wasn’t really in it, not enough to give him the backbone to push on when it became obvious that she hadn’t changed her mind about what she’d said, and after she blew him off when he had suggested dinner so that they could “talk,” he had punished her by sending her to Siberia, otherwise known as Green fucking Bay.

It happened fast. There had been no opportunity for her to speak to Milton.

The media had the story by the time she arrived in Wisconsin. It was a big deal. The director went on the air and laid down the edict that the militia was going to be completely squashed. The US attorney lost no time filing charges against the twenty men and women they picked up in the forest, plus Morris Finch and another ten who were involved. They were looking at trials for attempted bombing, plus conspiracy and weapons offences.

Milton was key to the case.

Orville had decided to do the interview himself. Ellie would have loved to have been in the room for that. She had been given the play-by-play by another agent with whom she was friendly. Orville had put Milton through two solid days of interviews. Word was, he had tried to turn him into a cooperating witness, tried to persuade him that he had to testify. He hinted that charges against him were being stayed on the basis that he cooperated. It sounded like a threat, and she guessed that threatening Milton was not likely to be productive. And so it had proved. His answers became clipped and then monosyllabic, much to Orville’s evident irritation. Eventually, he just stopped answering, saying he would only speak to her. When Orville refused that, Milton had insisted on a phone call.

What happened next had been plain bizarre.

Whoever it was Milton had called, it had blown things up. The director had scurried to meet with him personally. There had been the suggestion of a medal, which Milton had rejected outright, and then a fulsome apology from Orville for the way in which he had been treated. The suggestion was that Milton had agreed to cooperate with the investigation on the condition that he was made a confidential informant. He wouldn’t be asked to testify, but he would share his knowledge of the militia without any risk of being charged. Ellie had even heard that the bureau and the attorney’s office were working on creating the fiction that Milton was working for them as an informer all along.

After that, he was told he could go.

He was last seen walking out of town, his pack and his rifle slung over his shoulder.

And then, it got even weirder.

Ellie had been called by the director. He told her that she was in line for a nice bump in salary. She said great. He said you’ve done well, but this is on two conditions.

First, she had to play ball with the big media campaign they were planning. It was hazy, the details all to be confirmed, but it sounded like they wanted to make her into a heroine. Magazine interviews, morning television, the whole nine yards.

The second condition?

Milton’s involvement in the affair was not to be mentioned, under any circumstances.

She knew how the game was played, and she didn’t know how she felt about it. Her dad would have told the director to shove his media plan up his ass, but Ellie was more practical. He had been jaded, plus he was a man. Ellie was still fresh and keen, and she had found not having a dick was an impediment to quick advancement. She could see the benefits in playing nice.

One phone call from Milton had done all of this?

Who did he
know?

She told the director she would think about it.

SHE LOOKED out of the window. She could see her reflection in the glass, the smart suit and the sensible shoes, and staring at herself, she remembered the trek up through the wilderness to get to the Lake of the Clouds.

It felt like another world.

A man detached from the table of five and came over.

“Excuse me. Mind if I sit down?”

Ellie waved her hand absently. “Free country.”

She was distracted. Orville and one of the bureau’s rising young stars, this fresh-faced ingénue flown over from Quantico, had spent several days shouting at the suspects. They had extracted leads, most likely wild goose chases, but they all had to be followed up anyway, just in case there was a grain of truth to them, some other wacko waiting in the shadows with a truck full of fertiliser and racing fuel. They had been told that there was another militia in Wisconsin, brave Christian soldiers waiting for the first sign of the Second Coming, ready to start the war. Ellie had been told to find them.

These people who almost certainly didn’t exist.

In Green fucking Bay.

“Get you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” she said.

“I’m Frank.”

He was wearing a Packers jersey with FRANK across the back. It was brand new, and he had forgotten to take the tags off.

The barman passed her a bottle of beer.

“Put that on our bill.”

“No,” Ellie said. “I’ll buy my own drinks.”

The man shuffled a little awkwardly, but Ellie could see that his friends were watching the show, and she knew that he wouldn’t give up after the first brush-off.

“You here for the game?”

“No.”

“Business, then?”

“Something like that.”

“What kind of business?”

“This and that.”

“Mysterious.” He laughed.

She ignored him.

“You going to ask what I’m doing here?”

“No.”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “There was a charity auction, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, my law firm bid for a box. I’m a partner there. It wasn’t cheap, never is, but we figured it was for a good cause, so why not, right?”

“Right.”

She noticed the small details: expensive shoes, designer denim, Rolex that probably cost the same as a small family car. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re around tonight and you’ve got nothing planned, we’ve got a spare seat. We’d be delighted to have your company.”

Ellie was about to tell him to take a hike when she paused, the words dying on her lips. She saw the indistinct outline of a man standing outside the entrance. He was peering in through the glass, maybe looking at the menu they had there to tempt diners inside, maybe looking into the restaurant, she couldn’t be sure. There was a lattice of frost across the glass, and it was difficult to make out the details, but something about the man said that she knew who he was.

“So?”

She realised he had continued to speak. She hadn’t heard a word of it.

“What do you say?”

She stood quickly, her stool clattering back against the bar.

Frank rested his hand on her elbow, blocking her way forward. “So, you gonna come and have a good time with us?”

The man at the window turned and faded away into the falling snow.

“Excuse me, Frank.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

“I’m not interested in your company. It’d be best for everyone if you just took your drink and went back to your table, okay?”

He still didn’t get the hint.

“What’s your name, honey?”

She reached into her pocket, took out the leather wallet that she used to carry her badge, flipped it open and held it up so that he could see it. “Special Agent Ellie Flowers,” she said, angling her torso a little so that her jacket fell back enough that he could see the glint of the Glock 22 on her belt.

He looked down at the badge, wide-eyed. “You’re FBI?”

“That’s right. And I’ve had a hell of a week, and I’m not feeling all that sociable, so go on, go back to your buddies and enjoy the game. Give me a fucking break, okay?”

The man did as she asked and went back to the table.

She hurried to the door and threw it open, the cold air rushing in to embrace her. The snow fell softly, the cars crunching across compacted ice. The road was busy as fans meandered towards the stadium and two blocks over the big floodlights threw up a corona of golden light that reached up into the dark, snowy night.

There were too many people. The man she had seen had been absorbed into the crowd.

She went back inside. Frank’s friends welcomed him back with amused expressions on their faces that said his pride had taken a bit of a slap.

She finished her beer and decided to have another, taking it to a table next to a window. She looked out at the snow again, whipping up against the window, and, beyond it, a cityscape carpeted in white.

JOHN MILTON adjusted his pack across his shoulders so that it was more comfortable and trudged on through the snow. The sidewalk was busy with people in Packers’ green and 49ers’ red and white, crowds of fans enjoying good-natured banter, their expectation for the game buzzing in the air. The convivial atmosphere was different from the equivalent back home, he thought. It was better than it had once been, but you could still get a fat lip for wearing the wrong colours on the wrong street.

He paused at a crosswalk, just one man within the crowd. Faceless and anonymous, just how he liked it. The traffic hurried ahead under the green light. The light went to red, and a mounted cop edged forwards, marshalling the crowd.

He had been in town for three days. He had located Ellie on the first day without too much difficulty: a call to the Detroit field office under a pretext provided the information that she had been sent to Green Bay. A brief stop in an Internet café revealed a host of stories about how the FBI was investigating reports of copycat militias in Wisconsin. It had been trivial to find the bureau office and stake it out until he saw her. He had watched her. She was staying in the Marriott, room two-twelve. On the second day, he watched her eat breakfast at six, saw her take a cab across town to the office, and then it picked her up again at eight when she finally finished for the day. He had been close to going over to her, asking her out, seeing if she wanted that dinner. It was cheesy, but he knew it would work.

So why had he backed out? What had stopped him?

He had waited outside her office again today. It was six o’clock when she had finished, stepping out into the cold with a thick winter coat wrapped around her. She had deviated from her routine, and he had followed fifty feet behind her as she had walked, alone, to the restaurant.