Chapter 7

Willamette Freemen Compound, Oregon, June 9 1:30 AM

The car halted at the bottom of the hill, flashed its brights twice in rapid succession, and then once more before proceeding up.  When the window slid down, the only mildly curious guard leaned down to check in the returnee.  A hand grabbed his tunic and pulled him forward as a knife neatly slid into his exposed neck.  A flick of the wrist, and Paget released his hold.  Mutely, the sentry dropped his flashlight and fell gurgling to the ground.  Paget turned off the lights, but left the motor running.  He grabbed the feebly moving man's ankles and dragged him behind the guardhouse where he took the key ring and went back to his car, pausing only long enough to kick dirt over the dark pool of blood.  Within two minutes of arriving he was inside the compound with gate locked behind him.

Satisfied that no one had seen him arrive, he followed the road up to the headquarters building by the light of the moon.  Driving past a cluster of buildings at the top of the hill, he pulled up to the open door of the equipment shed.  A quick flick of headlights revealed plenty of room, so he pulled into the pitch-black shadows and turned off the ignition.  He got out and eased the door shut.  It seemed to take forever for the interior of the car to darken.

Only HQ was lit.  He went toward it thinking that a real military installation would never have only two people awake at night, but then again he these were play soldiers.  He peeked through the window, almost laughing aloud when he saw see who was pulling CQ.  He rapped out three solid taps on the doorframe, SOP at the compound.  Footsteps approached and then the door opened to reveal the bur-headed silhouette of Beuler was framed in the light like a shadow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he blurted in surprise.

"Just this," said Paget, thrusting as his blade entered just below the rib cage, its tip seeking the man's heart.

Beuler deflated comically.  Paget pushed the weakly struggling man backward, and followed him inside.

"Of all nights for you to be pull CQ, huh?" he said as he let Beuler fall to the concrete floor.

Paget took two quick steps and kicked him in the face. 

"You strutting little prick," he said softly.  "You want to play soldier?  How do you like the real game---the one where you end up KIA?"

He delivered a second and final kick, laughing as he remembering Beuler's ridiculous lectures to the collection of flabby dimwits who fancied themselves soldiers.

"All that crap about facing down the government.  Last stand, Captain?"  He nudged the body with his boot.  "No blaze of glory for you.  Too bad the stuff you took from Umatilla has to go to waste."

He bent to look into the dead man's staring eyes.  He and Beuler had been polar opposites.  The Captain was way less than he tried to appear.  Paget let people misjudge him on purpose.  He loved the look in their eyes when they realized their mistake.

"Even if you were serious, you were an idiot.  You don't die to make a point.  You make other people die."

Not until that moment did the idea occur to him.  It should have.  Fantasizing about it would have made the drive shorter and a lot more enjoyable.  He had planned a quick in and out, just long enough to establish his presence in the northwest.  Now he saw something bigger---way bigger and hell of lot more satisfying.

If it's still where it was, he thought as he impatiently yanked out the middle drawer of the desk.

It came all the way out, spilling its contents onto the floor.  Cursing, he rummaged around for the keys.  Nothing.  Next he tried the top right hand drawer, but found it locked.  He considered using his knife to jimmy it, but the heavy wooden desk looked too well made, and he didn't want to risk breaking the blade.

"Come on.  Where did you put key?" he said as he kicked the body again.  "Minute men got to be able to get their guns in a hurry when Uncle Sam comes calling."

Paget stared at the wall, trying to imagine the workings of Beuler's military mind.  Two wild-eyed portraits stared back at him from framed pictures draped with black bunting.  One was some confederate general, the other, an intense, curly-haired man with an unkempt short beard and dark-rimmed glasses.

"You're his hero," he said to the more contemporary photo.  "Where the hell would he put the key?"

As soon as he voiced the question, it came to him.  "Of course," he said, kneeling to rip open Beuler's shirt.

He ripped away the key, and dropped the broken chain on the dead man's chest.  Inside the right hand drawer, he found a neatly fitted plywood board with a labeled grid of keys arranged on a schematic of the compound.  He took Ordinance key and slipped outside.  Flattened against the wall in the deep shadow cast by a full moon, he counted slowly to thirty, keeping his eyes moving so as to pick up any surreptitious movement before setting off.

The ordinance building was nothing more than an army shipping crate sized to fit the bed of a deuce and a half, the military's two and half ton truck.  Its large padlock worked easily, but its rusty hinges creaked loudly.  No one responded with challenge and no lights came on, so Paget slipped inside the pitch-black container.  Cursing at his failure to bring a flashlight, he lit his lighter.  Flickering light reflected from the well-oiled surfaces of row upon row of semi-automatic rifles standing in wooden racks along the sides.  That the weapons were of various design and manufacture revealed that it was no real military arsenal.

"Not one mini-14," he said aloud.  "You got rid of all the stuff we took down in Arkansas."

He laughed at the thought of the ferocious militiamen, spoiling for a fight with the government, should worry about getting caught with stolen property.  What he had come for was in the back corner secured by a chain welded to the sides of the connex.

A backbreaking trip lugging it up the hill left winded him and cursing.  He paused a moment to catch his breath.

"Damn!  This commando crap is hard work, Beuler," he whispered.  "You didn't tell us that."

By four o'clock he was back on the highway.  Making sure to travel exactly at the speed limit he took 207 toward Mitchell.  He'd had no sleep since Canaan so he decided to spend the day in Eugene before heading back.  He wondered with some amusement how long the freemen would sit on it before they reported the murders.  His fingerprints were all over the place, so an Oregon manhunt should be just a matter of time.  Then a terrible thought struck him.  What if the fools decided not to report the murders?  It would be just like the idiots not to.  The whole trip would be for nothing.  He checked into a motel and went to sleep worrying about it.

Cottage Grove, Oregon, June 10

Paget finally rolled out of bed at noon and turned on the TV to see if he had made the news yet.  He turned up the volume while he shaved, but there wasn't a word.  He cursed the militia idiots.  After leaving without checking out, he went to a bar where he spent the remainder of the day nursing beers and watching local sports programming, his frustration growing as the time continued to pass without the expected newsbreak.  He should have known that they would be too afraid to report the murders.  Delaying his return was dangerous.  Things at Canaan could be falling apart on him.

Blue Creek, 4:30 PM

A day of serving summons made Richard appreciate the night shift.  Whether he encountered outrage boiling near the threshold of violence, shocked indignation bordering on disbelief, or dull acceptance engendered by familiarity, he found it dismal duty.  He quickly adopted an impersonal but informative manner and tried to get each encounter over as soon as possible.  It depressed him to realize that most were habitual losers for whom the court system and jail time was no great shakes, just part of their lives.

He trudged into the cool gloom of the office with three undelivered subpoenas.

"Got a dental match for your girl, Carter," said Shug grimly as he walked to the counter where the log sheets were kept.

"Local?"

"No, a college kid from Fayetteville---name of Jacqueline Benson.  Her mother reported her as missing on May 20^th."

Shug held the report up to the light and squinted through his bifocals.

"Her mother, Irma Hanford of Lexington, Missouri, became worried when her daughter failed to arrive for an expected visit."

He put the report down and continued from memory.  "The Fayetteville police are questioning her boyfriend.  Seems the two of them planned to hitchhike to her mother's so she could introduce him.  He says they got into an argument and he went back to campus leaving her at a gas station on 112.  Claims he hasn't seen her since.  Folks down there aren't real satisfied with his explanation, but he doesn't have ready access to a car, and has no connection with this area as far as anyone can tell."

Richard nodded.

"And the chances of him killing two women and leaving their bodies here too aren't remotely likely," he said.

"You wouldn't think so, but anything's possible," said the sheriff.  "The only reason they're interested in him is he's all they got."  He shook his head wearily.  "She went on without him, I imagine.  Why would a girl smart enough to go to college decide hitchhiking alone was a good idea?"

"Fayetteville and here," mused Richard.  "Paget did it.  He killed two people there just before she disappeared.  And bringing her body here means he's staying here."

"Why not?" said Shug.  "He did everything else.  I tell you what, Carter.  When you find him, you arrest him for it.  I'm not faulting your logic, but where could he be staying and where did he get his transportation?"

"I'm leaning toward a vacation cabin.  He could have killed an outsider or be holding one the way he held the woman over at Elsinore.  He's probably got their vehicle.  Where would I get a list of property owned by non-residents of the county?"

"County records won't have that in any neat list.  Wait.  Yeah.  Go to the Assessor.  Look at the addresses where property tax assessments are sent."

Richard wondered how much time it would take to check each place out once he got the list.

Oregon, June 11, 12:04 AM

A little after midnight, Paget stopped for gas and a leak.  As he headed for the bathroom, a slender girl blocked the aisle as she bent to examine a selection of gum placed below knee height.  She shot him a challenging glance when she noticed his stare.  He felt like slapping her upside the head with Beuler's forty-five, but brushed by without reacting.

"Like I got no right to look," he muttered as he stood at the urinal thinking about her.

Are they born like that, or do their moms teach them to treat guys that way?  The better they look, the more they throw in your face.  Try to take ‘em up on what they're offering, and they slam the door in a guys face.

"Bends over like that, and then shoots me that look."

The bitch was flashing a smile at some geek kid at the register when he came back out.  A big black guy stood just behind her.  To Paget's amazement, the two of them left together.  When they got to the car they actually kissed.

And she gives me that look! he fumed, shuddering in revulsion.

When the car started, the booming base of a rap song shook the quick stop windows.  Paget's hand found the .45 beneath his jacket, and he started toward the door, picturing himself firing through the windshield.

"Sir," called out the clerk.  "I think you forgot to pay."

"What?" said Paget turning.

The pimply-faced kid stood uncertainly behind the register, obviously uncomfortable with having to assert himself.

"You forgot to pay for your gas, I think."

Paget, reached for his wallet as squalling tires drew his attention back outside.  The car had bulled into heavy traffic.

"No sense at all," he muttered, handing over a twenty.

"Kristin's kind of in a bad mood tonight, but she's really nice once you get to know her.  So is Tyrone."

"Tyrone?" said Paget sarcastically.  "Now would that be the coon she was letting suck on her face?"

"Here's your change, Sir," said the clerk, trying to extricate himself from the unpleasant situation.

Paget snatched the money and turned to go.

That's exactly what's wrong with this country, he said to himself disgustedly.  Women and niggers run everything while white men act like that damned wimp behind the counter.  Just like the damned freemen not telling the police.  White men are all getting lily-livered anymore!

"Calm down, Bobby Lee," he told himself.  "Can't sweat the small stuff.  You got bigger problems."

The sudden certainty that the freemen wouldn't go to the authorities was too much for him.  He threw back the car door and reentered the store.  The kid stared at him wide-eyed.  Paget glanced at the surveillance monitor cycling through shots until he saw his own face.  Then he took the pistol out, and in one motion, swung it around and put a round directly into the clerk's chest.  The stunned boy gaped uncomprehendingly and then collapsed.  Paget went around the counter and put two more into him.  Then he opened the register and scooped out the bills.

Blue Creek, June 12

Richard sat on the porch intermittently sipping at his cold coffee and reading.  Tanner's profile began with a disclaimer:  the victim profile was incomplete because the second victim had yet to be identified.  Furthermore the poor condition of Jacqueline Benson's body precluded reconstruction of her murder.  That aside, Tanner postulated that the perp was an organized, experienced white male in his late twenties or early thirties (the generic serial killer of young white women.)  But he also thought that if the second (unidentified) victim turned out not to be a high-risk victim, then the killer was (probably) socially adept, with considerable persuasive powers.  He would be respectable in appearance, well groomed, neatly clothed, and would be driving a well-maintained, perhaps conservative vehicle.

That fits with what we know about Benson, he thought, putting aside the profile and picking up the copy of the Fayetteville report Tanner had sent them.

She may have hitched a ride with an unknown man, but she wasn't in the habit.  She didn't have a particularly high-risk lifestyle for a college girl---just the opposite.  She was discriminating in her social contacts and didn't frequent " wrong" places.  She drank only moderately.  Until she had gone with the killer (if she had) accounts were that she had demonstrated uncommon good sense.

She had been a perhaps naive, but not reckless, coed.

"You are up early this morning."

Jill stood barefooted and dressed only in her terry cloth robe.  He nodded perfunctorily and turned back to the file.

"When did you come home?" she asked.

"What?  Oh, around one or so," he said distractedly.

"I went to the doctor yesterday," she said.

"Uh huh," he replied absently as he turned a page to check something he didn't quite understand.

Jill placed her hands on his shoulders, kneading at the tension.  "He says everything is normal . . . just fine."

"Good," he said, placing his hand over hers in a token gesture while he continued thinking about Benson, trying to divine what must had taken place between her and Paget at the service station.

The whole purpose of a profile was to know why something happened so that you could know who your perp was.  Even though he was sure he already knew who it was, Richard found himself still wanting to learn the why.  What possessed you to get in the car with him?  What did he say to overcome your good sense?  When did you realize what was happening? he wondered, barely taking notice of the fact that Jill was no longer massaging his shoulders.  Richard gulped the last of the cold coffee, feeling the gritty grounds gather on the back of his tongue.  He chewed them thoughtfully before ejecting them the way a smoker rids his lips of unwanted tobacco shreds.

It didn't feel right.  The different ways he killed them indicated that Paget had a more complicated view of women than he first suspected.  Richard tried to imagine how Paget felt about women in general, and how he differentiated them.

You think some are worthless, and that makes you angry.  You see others as innocent which . . . makes you angrier?  That's it.  They're the ones that really enrage you.  That's why you spend so much time with them.  You want to totally destroy them---but not before you make them pay.  The others are just throwaways.  They don't matter.

He thought about Paget's "preferred victim," as Tanner phrased it.  Riepe and Benson were both young and pretty.  Remembering the yearbook citation for the Riepe girl, he picked up the information on Benson.  Both girls had been popular, athletic, and smart.  Riepe had belonged to the National Honor Society, and Benson carried a four-point average.  Both were the complete package:  beautiful, athletic, popular, and smart.  Completely intimidating?

"I think that's it, Jill," he said turning back, eager to hear her opinion of his theory.

She was no longer on the porch.  Going inside to find her, he noticed the unnatural silence.  Before he got to the front door he knew that he would find her car gone.

Angry again, he said to himself, mildly annoyed.  It's probably the hormone changes.  She's strong.  She'll be able to take everything in stride once she adjusted.  I guess I can put up with a little crankiness until then.

"Maybe picking her up for lunch would improve her mood," he said.

But his mind had already returned to Paget, and by the time he got to the courthouse he had forgotten about taking Jill to lunch.

Willamette County, June 11, 8:10 AM

Rookie deputy Wayne Parsons parked on the wrong side of Dodd's Spring Road, nose to nose with the plateless, flatbed truck the crank call had taken him from breakfast to check out.  A tarpaulin covered something in the back just as the call had said it would.  He got out and threw aside the tarp, eager to get the joke over with.  Dull eyes stared through him.  A crusty brown stain discolored the man's neck and shirt.

After throwing up, he pulled the tarp back into place and called it in.  He was glad that police procedure spared him the necessity of examining the scene more minutely before trained help arrived.  He sat in his cruiser and turned on the air conditioning, but he could neither rid himself of the smell or the sight.

Sheriff Bob Holland stopped twenty feet back and across the road from the truck, wincing at the hot pain low on his left side, his ulcer acting up again.  He hobbled stiffly across the road, trying to loosen up his arthritis.

"Knee acting up again, Sheriff?" asked the department's criminalist, coming forward to meet him.

He grunted in confirmation.  "What have we got?"

"Two vics.  Lividity and rigor give us a twenty-four to thirty-six hour window for the killings.  Both were left for several hours on their backs.  The one with the slit throat was dragged through dirt by his feet.  The other has a single, deep stab wound under the left side of the rib cage.  The slashed one bled out, but not on the truck."

The sheriff nodded impatiently.  "Where's the note?"

The deputy ducked into the crime scene van, and emerged a moment later with a clear plastic bag.  Inside was a single sheet of typing paper.  Holland donned wire-rimmed glasses and tilted back his head, centering the note in fish scale lenses.

TO THE COUNTY SHERIFF:

THE WILLAMETTE FREEMEN HEREBY TURN OVER EVIDENCE OF A CRIME COMMITTED ON OUR SOVEREIGN NATION BY ROBERT LEE PAGET.   THESE TWO CITIZENS WERE MURDERED BY SAID INFILTRATOR.  WE ARE NOT REQUIRED BY COMMON LAW TO REPORT THIS INCIDENT AND NOTHING CONTAINED IN THIS COMMUNIQUÉ SHOULD BE CONSTRUED AS EITHER DE JURE OR DE FACTO RECOGNITION OF THE ILLEGITIMATE GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OR THAT OF OREGON.  WE ALSO ASSERT OUR RIGHT TO HUNT DOWN AND BRING TO JUSTICE THIS MURDERER WHEREVER HE MAY BE.

ON THIS TRUCK ARE THE BODIES OF THESE BRAVE MEN, PRIVATE JEREMY C. GREEN AND CAPTAIN CHARLES R. BEULER.  THEY WERE KILLED IN ACTION ON THE NIGHT OF JUNE 9-10 BETWEEN TEN PM AND FOUR AM THEIR BODIES ARE ALL THE EVIDENCE YOU NEED TO PROSECUTE THE CASE.  OUR ACTIONS IN SUPPLYING THIS EVIDENCE SHOULD IN NO WAY BE CONSTRUED AS ANYTHING OTHER THAN A COURTESY TO THE LOCALLY ELECTED AND LEGALLY CONSTITUTED AUTHORITY OF THE COUNTY.  IT IS GIVEN BY OUR FREE WILL IN CONSIDERATION FOR THE SAFETY OF THE LOCAL INHABITANTS.  THIS MESSAGE IS SENT MERELY AS A COURTESY.  IT IS IN YOUR INTEREST AND IN THE INTEREST OF THE CITIZENS YOU WERE ELECTED TO SERVE AS WELL AS OUR OWN THAT THIS MAN BE APPREHENDED. 

BE ADVISED THAT NO ONE WILL BE ALLOWED ON OUR SOVEREIGN TERRITORY AND ANY ATTEMPT TO FORCE ENTRY WILL BE MET WITH DEADLY FORCE AS IS OUR RIGHT. 

FURTHER COMMUNICATION IS UNNECESSARY.

END OF COMMUNIQUÉ

COLONEL FRANKLIN TREECE

COMMANDANT AND PRESIDENT

WILLAMETTE FREE NATION

"What are we going to do?" asked the deputy when he was sure his boss had finished the "communiqué."

"Although it may upset Commandant and President Treece, we're going to contact representatives of the illegitimate governments."

FBI Field Office, Little Rock, Arkansas, 11:30 PM

The frame froze.

"That's definitely Paget.  Right after this, he killed the clerk, but that's just off camera.  This killing spree---what's the motive for this one?  Or does motive even figure into it with spree killers?"

"Always a motive," said Tanner distractedly.  "Just sometimes not even the killer knows what it is.  Maybe he was just short of money and ticked off.  Maybe it didn't go the way he wanted at the militia compound."

"Well, this confirms that he was out there---that the freemen didn't just pull his name out of the air.  How long do you think he's been in Oregon?" asked his colleague.

"Maybe since Fayetteville," said Tanner.

"We need the militia to talk to us which is not too likely since they're the clowns who pulled off the Marked Tree gun robbery and we won't get into their compound until they're rid of the stolen weapons.  There's not a chance that they're still hiding him, is there?  I mean, it doesn't make any sense, but it is a possibility I guess."

"No," said Tanner.  "They're too shook up.  They're doing handstands to convince themselves that they're not really cooperating the federal government, but they're screaming for help."

"They're still lying like dogs.  Before they cut their phone line, Treece told the sheriff up there that Paget had never been a member of the militia.  But we have an informant who says Paget was a member."

Tanner picked up a large folder containing all that was known about the Willamette Freemen.  He'd studied it from cover to cover.  He weighed it in his hand tentatively.

"Despite the size of this thing, what we really know is pretty thin," he said.

"Up until now, they were just your run of the mill secessionist group, hardly anything to get to worked up about.  We monitored their arms purchases.  So far they've been scrupulous about obeying the laws.  If there were illegal purchases, we didn't get a whiff.  There were just a lot more potentially interesting groups to concentrate on."

"Maybe Marked Tree was their first out of channels requisition," suggested Tanner.

"Maybe not.  The reason I flew down was to get your take on what Paget might do---what his potential for violence is."

"He's a psychopath who likes to kill women, but doesn't blink an eye at killing men," said Tanner, sensing there was more to the question than he knew about.  "Why are you more interested in Paget than the freemen?"

"Because Beuler was actually Daniel Tyler."

Tanner's head came up.  "You're sure?"

"Unless he had a finger transplant."

Tanner shook his head in disgust.

"How long have you guys known that Tyler was a member of that militia group?"

"We didn't.  The militia kept him out of sight---for good reason."

"What's it been?  Five years since he disappeared from Umatilla?  Gary, that's just not that far away from the Freemen compound.  Didn't someone think to look there at the time?  I mean, I remember how hot everyone was to get their hands on him.  And tell me how that all just fades away after only a few years."

"The thing everyone got worked up about was not that he disappeared, but he was a civilian contract employee, not military, so he wasn't AWOL or a deserter.  Later they discovered that a couple of artillery rounds were missing, which caused a real scramble until it was determined that they'd already been defused and the nerve agent drained away."

"Yeah, and presumably incinerated.  I remember how relieved everyone was about that.  Please tell me that wasn't just misinformation to avoid a panic."

"We think that if he took anything at all, it was just the metal casings."

"Think?"

"There were discrepancies in the inventory records.  The serial numbers of the missing projectiles were on two different lists, one for weapons scheduled for decommissioning and another for those already decommissioned."

"So which list was correct?"

"We're not sure."

"If those were fully operational rounds what could someone who knew what he was doing do with them?" asked Tanner.

"If he could lay his hands on a 105 howitzer and had the training, he could lob a couple of nasty surprises about anywhere he wanted to.  Failing that, he could rig booby traps to disperse the stuff."

"How about removing the nerve agent and releasing it more quietly, like the Japanese subway thing?"

"The people who should know say that's a long shot.  They say it would take some very expensive equipment to transfer the stuff safely.  Anyone who tried handling Sarin with jerry-rigged equipment would probably be committing suicide.  At the very least, they would need a HAZMAT suit and an isolated place to attempt the transfer.  The stuff's so volatile that if any escaped it would kill anyone in the vicinity.  Remember the sheep kill when the stuff drifted off the proving grounds at Dugway?"

Tanner nodded.  The incident was basic grist for the anti-CBR people, and with good reason.  There were tons of nerve agents and even pre-World War II mustard gas squirreled away in various government storage facilities awaiting incineration.  Leaks (always termed small and no danger to the public) had occurred all too often.

"Even if he got it safely transferred, he still wouldn't be out of the woods.  This particular batch was pretty old.  After awhile it starts to degrade and creates a caustic substance that eats away at the container.  That's why just storing the old stuff isn't an option.  Chemical weapons treaty or not, we had to start destroying older stocks anyway."

"So do they or don't they have that stuff in their compound?"

"We have to assume they do.  And we have to assume that Tyler knew what the hell he was doing."

"That's probable cause.  Go in there and get it."

"Washington doesn't want another Waco.  They want us to just keep the place surrounded, and wait them out.  It's a siege, but we're not going in with guns blazing.  If they kill themselves they're not going to do it with our help."

"At least the place is pretty isolated.  There shouldn't be any danger of collateral damage."

Tanner shifted in his chair as an uncomfortable idea came to him.  "The storage facilities also have nerve gas in containers, don't they?  Could some of those be missing too?"

"That we don't have to worry about.  Those containers are called one-ton containers for an obvious reason:  they're big---and, no, none of them have been misplaced---on the inventory sheets or otherwise."

"I just had this picture in my mind of someone wheeling a gas bottle into a federal office building or maybe Congress.  If some nut were willing to commit suicide, it could happen.  But you think we've got it covered?"

"They're not going anywhere, and Washington doesn't want us to provoke them, but pressure's building for us to solve it as soon as possible.  The smart thing to do is sit tight, which is what our man in charge, Grossette is advising.  But the state boys want to go in to investigate the homicides, we'd like to inventory their weapons and get the Sarin if it's there.  I'm sure the militia is feeling the heat too.  Which brings me to the reason I came out here:  in your opinion, what are the chances that they'll use the nerve gas on themselves?"

"Mass suicide?  If you had a messianic leader, there'd be a chance, especially if you push him," said Tanner carefully.  "But---and I'm just speaking in generalities here---I'd need an in-depth psych profile to even make a good guess.  I don't think these guys would off themselves just to make a point.  Militias are into the here and now, not the hereafter like the nut in Waco.  The problem is, we don't want to guess."

The phone rang.  Tanner's ATF colleague listened, nodded, and then muttered his agreement before hanging up.

"They're still refusing to let us in," he said.

"Surprise, surprise."

"They say we should find Paget---that we have no authority on their sovereign territory."

"Is the media on it yet?"

"Only the juicy murder spree part.  Great prime time ratings fodder."

"I know everybody wants this ended, but we can't take the chance by provoking them and have a release kill a bunch of unsuspecting civilians."

"Tanner, if I had my way we'd just put razor wire around the place, and rename it the Willamette Federal Penitentiary."

"Fine unless someone in Washington gets a case of let's-see-some-results."

"I think they've got better sense.  Anyway, it looks like maybe we caught a break on this one.  Paget may have actually helped us recover the nerve gas."

Tanner wasn't so optimistic.  In his experience things went unexpectedly wrong more than unexpectedly right.  The universe was perverse that way.  Momentarily he worried that Paget may have taken the Sarin with him.

 No, not his thing, he decided.  He likes things up close and personal.

"At least now you know where your boy's been the last month and a half," said the ATF agent.  "But right now he's back burner.  When it's all over out there, we can concentrate on him again.

"Yeah," said Tanner sarcastically.  "Can't be wasting our time trying to track down a guy who's only killed seven people this month."

Canaan Camp, June 12, 7:05 AM

Neurochemicals from his fatigued brain finally overcame the caffeine and adrenaline just as Paget crossed the Hawthorn County line.  He awoke to a blaring horn and tires slewing through loose gravel.  Fighting to regain control, he applied steady brake pressure and tried not to oversteer.  Still he slid into the shallow ditch.  Fortunately, the stretch of road was one of the few relatively straight ones in the county.  When his speed dropped to thirty, he released the brakes and eased back onto the pavement.  That he had been lucky never entered his mind.  Instead, he cursed the highway department for being too cheap to pave the shoulders.

"I could have been killed!" he said aloud to the only audience that mattered to him.

Momentarily he worried that the jostling about might have damaged the canisters, but quickly discounted the possibility.  He had barely been able to wedge them into the trunk.  They couldn't have moved much, and heavy metal collars protected the gate valves from getting knocked open.  So there was nothing to worry about.  Still, the near wreck shot another dose of adrenaline into his veins, and almost immediately his brain responded with a different set of neurotransmitters.  By the time he pulled to the camp entrance, he was wide-awake, the residual fatigue only making him surly.

An old geezer from the sawmill made his way slowly to the gate and struggled with arthritis knobbed fingers at the lock while Paget fidgeted impatiently.

"Someone ought to put the old bastard out of his misery," he muttered before sliding down the window to hurry the old man along.

The gate finally swung open, and the old man turned to motion him through.

"Welcome home, Brother.  I'll bet you're glad to be back."

"I'll say.  There's not much out there for us, is there?" he responded as he imagined a church member would normally do.

A weary smile revealed age-lengthened teeth that made Paget sick

"Home," said the old man.  "At least for a while.  Reckon I'll go on down the road shortly."

"You're leaving?" asked Paget in surprise.  None of the fools ever left the camp.

"To my long home.  If it wasn't for my wife I'd be ready to go on.  Why I'm still here, only the Lord knows."

"Then I hope the Lord calls you home right quick," said Paget, enjoying the startled look on the old man's face.

As he topped the hill the gleaming white assembly hall came into view.  The location was chosen to impress, but the theater had been wasted on Paget until now.  It's alabaster columns stood framed in his windshield.  He stopped, cocked his head, picturing its stage and rising tiers of pews strewn with sprawled figures.  He imagined a curious visitor opening the doors days or even weeks afterward.  To pull that off would be a monumental task because some of them would miss service and he'd have to hunt them down.  Shooting the stragglers seemed like an inelegant solution.  They all needed to be gassed.  Then there was the technical problem:  how to release the gas without gassing himself.

Too tired to work out the details, he said to himself as he started up the road again.

Shane met him on the porch.  "Am I ever glad you're back.  Father Joshua's been asking for you for days," he said.

"Is he better?" asked Paget, fearing the kid had messed up the doping.

"He acts more like himself and seems more alert, but he's got stomach cramps and he's real fidgety---shakes like he has a chill, only he doesn't have a fever."

Paget frowned.  The withdrawal symptoms from the PCP didn't worry him, but he didn't like the idea of the old man acting more like himself.

"Have you been giving him his medicine on time?"

Shane looked hurt.  "I gave him the sedative twice a day, just like you said."

"Sorry.  I knew I could count on you.  Has anyone been here to see him?"

"John came up twice.  The last time, when I told him Joshua was sleeping, he asked where you were.  I told him that you had taken a trip."

"But you didn't let him talk to the---to Joshua?"

"No."

"You did good, Shane," said Paget, clapping him on the shoulder.  "You really came through when Joshua and I needed you.  But you look tired.  Haven't gotten much sleep yourself, have you?  You go on back to the barracks and rest, soldier.  I think you've earned a day or two off."

After the kid was gone, Paget peeked into the bedroom.  On the way back it had occurred to him that the old man might have build up a tolerance and was somehow playing him.  Unaware of his presence, the Joshua man plucked nervously at his blanket with trembling fingers.  The old man huddled in the darkness with a blanket over his shoulders.  A sheen of sweat covered his face and his lank hair was matted with stale perspiration.  The contrast with the way he had been when Paget first met him made him smile.  It was time for another roofie.  Closing the door softly Paget went to the kitchen to concoct a dose.  As he watched the rohypnol dissolve into the wine, he wondered what it was like to crave something that you didn't even know you craved.

"How you feel, Joshua?" he asked as he entered the bedroom.

"Caleb?" said the old man in a quavering, almost desperate voice.  "Is that you?  Where have you been?"

"I just got back from my mission, Father Joshua.  Shane tells me that you haven't been feeling well."

"I think I got the flu."

Paget watched with amusement as the old man's feverish eyes darted toward him, failed to hold contact, and quickly shifted to focus momentarily on first one object in the room and then another.

"This will make you feel better."

Joshua took the glass with trembling hands and drained it.  When he looked back up, a thin trickle of the wine ran down his chin to stain his pajama top.

"You're David and I'm Saul," he said soberly.

A twinge of apprehension shot through Paget.  Before the drugs had silenced him, Joshua had subjected him to nightly lectures.  He remembered Saul as the old king who tried to knock off David to keep from being replaced.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Only David's music could drive away the evil spirit.  Some evil spirit is on me, Brother Caleb, but it goes away when you're here."

"Oh.  Yeah," he said as he took the empty glass from the old man's quivering hand.  "Well I'm right here where I belong and that old evil spirit will be gone in no time."

Willamette Freemen Compound, June 12

Grossette wrinkled his brow in concentration as he reread the note:

GIVE ME LIBERTY, OR GIVE ME DEATH.

"Give me a break," he muttered.  "Patrick Henry, no less!  Why does every clown who hates the speed limit and paying taxes have to start spouting off like he's some kind of super patriot?"

"I suppose the psychological justification would be that---"

"It was rhetorical question, Ford.  Spare me the psychobabble."

He was sorry as soon as he said it, but agent Ford was one of those theoretical book junkies Grossette called "street dumb."  When frustrated, he didn't tolerate them gladly, and the siege was pure frustration.  Over twenty-four hours and the extent of their communication was something a junior high student might think of.

"Is this good news or bad news, Ford?" he asked, handing the young agent the note as a token apology.

"Both, I think.  It probably means that the stuff is still in the compound, which is good, but if we push them they intend to use it."

"And if that's not the bad news, I don't think I want to hear it," said Grossette sourly.  "So we are not going to provoke them.  If that idiot, Treece goes out in a blaze of glory, we're not handing him the match.  My God!  How do people get so screwed up?"

"Too much refined sugar?"

Grossette laughed despite the situation.  "There may be hope for you yet, Ford."

"Does that mean I get to do something besides fetch the coffee?"

"You could scare up some donuts."

As bad as it was, Grossette needed the humor.  He felt like he had as a teenager on the "search and destroy" missions some idiots had decided was the correct way to fight the Viet Cong.  That "long ago" now belonged to the history books.  Maybe he did too.

"Too old, Ford," he muttered.

Canaan Camp, 8:45 PM

The magic dust had Joshua flying high.  He paced rapidly, careening through the cluttered living room, and rambling incessantly in barely comprehensible sentence fragments.  The verbal garbage tumbled from his mind and filled the air.  The tremors had gone the way of the old man's dismal expression.  Bits of grandiose plans for Canaan Camp and the Wilderness Church spewed forth, alternating with calls for divine wrath to be visited upon his enemies.  Joshua was ready to take on all Hell.

"You should hear what John Campbell has been saying about you," said Paget.

Joshua stopped in mid rant and whirled around.

"John!  He's a Judas!  All the time---like a dog in the manger---a mangy dog that bites the hand that feeds him---betraying me for thirty pieces---Salome!  She danced for the head of John and---but John is---the name---he took that name---in vain, because he has the name of a number and it is six-six-six."

"Right.  And he's trying to take the church from you."

"Take the church from me---because he is---he wishes to destroy---a lamb in wolf's clothing---to scatter the flock."

"And kill the shepherd?" suggested Paget.

"And kill the shepherd," confirmed Joshua, solemnly.

Joshua immediately launched into his word salad jag again.  Paget worried, wondering if anything he had just said would stick in the old man's cracked brain.