CHAPTER 22

.....Wolfe paced the small motel room as the televangelist nattered on in the background.
.....“...but without your help, the Final Battle could be LOST! Imagine, the world in ruins, your children dismembered, DISEMBOWELLED by Satan’s minions...”
.....Wolfe blinked at the television and sat down on the bed. The dude was either touched by God, or just plain touched. The super beneath his image identified him as the right reverend Rev. Lamb. United States Air Force. Retired. He was still wearing his old uniform, insignia removed to meet federal laws.
.....Wolfe had heard about him at some point, most likely from a profile in one of the Time or Newsweek magazines left on the coffee table in the teacher’s lounge back in the day. The man was one of those End Time fundamentalists that took everything bad that occurred in the world as a Good Omen of the coming apocalypse.
.....What Wolfe had found most disturbing in the profile was the sidenote that Lamb maintained his own militia within the headquarters of his Florida-based media empire, all with the blessings and encouragement of the governor of the state.
.....“... hurled shrieking into the ABYSS, into the molten pits of HELL, their eternal howls of anguish an accusation: "Why did you not love me — LOVE CHRIST — enough to save me from this?”
.....He sighed. And this is the man that has the ear of the President of the United States? He imagined them huddled in an Oval Office prayer group, and the whispered calculations as to which current hot spots could be stoked into a conflagration, and fueled until the fire raged for the advent of Armageddon.
.....He shivered: he was giving himself the existential willies. The dufflebag was parked like a faithful dog beside him, packed and waiting to go for a walk. He wondered if there was really any point in going anywhere else, especially if the Rapture occurred and he and everyone else that was Left Behind were so left in a sea of suddenly vacated polyester.
.....He eyed the bag and considered unpacking it. Then he considered the scratches on his back, and left it packed. Reconsidered how he got those scratches and...
.....He remembered the roach of the joint he’d tucked in his pocket after Doc had left. It was a pleasant mix of tobacco and pot, and he had enjoyed the light buzz it had given him. The buzz was fading off so he pulled out his Zippo and lit it. He damn near singed his eyebrows off lighting the stub, but he got it going. Inhaling deep, the smoke went down wrong and he doubled over coughing.
.....Gagging, he fumbled the Zippo, which dropped from his hand to bounce off of the toe of his Doc Marten and careen under the bed.
.....“Fuck,” he exhaled, the smoke curling from his nose.
.....He dropped to a knee, lifted the blanket and looked under: a giant, organic-looking pod was wedged between the springs and the ratty carpet. It looked very unhealthy where it was.
.....He bolted upright: What the...?
.....There was a knock at the door. It was an official sounding knock.
.....He backed away from the bed and opened the door without turning to look through the peephole. He fumbled for the knob and turned it, swinging around as the door opened. A sneak peak wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as the sunlight was blocked by a very large silhouette that loomed on the threshold. The cop-shaped silhouette opened his mouth to speak, then sniffed.
.....A hand shot out, grabbed Wolfe by the collar and yanked him out of the room...

.....The wheels of the skateboard chewed up sidewalk as Mike kicked it along towards the school. Face pinched and shoulders hunched, he shivered against the early morning nip. His chill was more a reaction to the discomfort of going out without his ubiquitous trenchcoat than the actual balmy temperature. As he had prepped for getting ready to exit his room, he had found that some of the ballast from the beer bottle projectile had spilled across the green shoulder of the coat. The last thing he needed was a teacher sniffing him out for smelling of beer.
.....There was nothing he could do about the red half crescent tattoo the base of the bottle had left high on his cheek.
.....Wheeling a hard right into the parking lot of the school, he dismounted from the board and kicked it up, tucking it under his arm. He winnowed his way through the sparse parked cars...
........ and found his path abruptly blocked by Pierce. The rest of the Wrecking Crew flowed in behind him.
.....Pierce eyed the mark on Mike's face and the corner of his mouth curled into what might have been a grin, that is, if the boy had a sense of humor. He didn't.
....."Where's your blanky?" he asked, taking in Mike's exposed shirtsleeves.
.....Mike sighed. "My what?" He eyed the sanctuary of the school over Pierce and crew's shoulders. It was one long span and he knew that he wasn't going to make the distance in one piece. Again.
....."Your security blanket."
.....Mike wasn't in the mood for dancing. "Hey, Pierce... how many Iraqis did it take to bring down the towers?"
.....Pierce blinked, eyes narrowing at the non sequitur. "Nineteen. Why the...?"
.....Mike nodded at the answer. "You know, I take it back...you will make a good soldier."
.....If nothing else, he figured he'd get in the first blow, even if it were only verbal.
.....Still, he didn't see the fist coming. His world went red.

.....Clyde threw Wolfe in a holding cell. The door clanged shut, the sound echoing throughout the County lockup.
.....In the next cell, a still form laying on a bench woke up and removed the Field and Stream magazine that was tenting his face. The former clerk from the former convenience store sat up and rubbed his face to life, eyeing the sudden activity with interest.
.....It had been a very long and boring night. The cameras had watched him, but they had given him nothing to watch in return. The blinking red light beneath the lens had grown old and fast. The magazine was even more boring. He had given up on it after ten pages of gun ads. At least it had been good for blocking off most of the light.
.....The Sheriff sidled up and eyed the new resident, then turned his head to Clyde.
.....“Did you read him his rights?”
.....His fingers fluttering in disdain, Clyde frowned. “You know I can’t remember...”
.....“Did he say anything?”
.....The deputy shook his head. “Anytime he opened his mouth, I tol’ him to shut it.”
.....The sheriff turned back to Wolfe. “You have the right to remain silent, that is to say nothing at all.”
.....“It was just...” Wolfe protested.
.....From his cell, Cody piped up: “You might wanna say nothing at all.”
.....“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” He seemed bored as he recited the Miranda Rights, the words coming easily off his tongue. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you at no cost...”
.....“Hah!” Cody scoffed.
.....Clyde glared at the clerk in the next cell and after a night of trying, the clerk finally found something interesting in the hunting magazine in his lap.
.....Apparently, Paris Hilton had recently taken up hunting Kodiak bears in the Great White North, and the centerfold spread offered a pose of her straddling the corpse of a bear with a head the size of large disco ball, her saggy breasts dangling in the shadow of her gaping camouflage blouse. The photographer had caught her as she leaned towards the camera, finger on the trigger of the Winchester 30-06 cradled across her scrawny cervix couch.
.....Her eyes were as vacant as those of the dead bear.
.....Colby looked at the breasts and wished that he had found the photo fifteen minutes earlier. Cameras be damned.
.....The legal obligations recited, the sheriff set about closing the deal: “Do you understand your rights?”
.....“Why am I here?” Wolfe demanded.
.....“Do you understand your rights?” Crawford insisted.
.....“Yeah.”
.....“Yes or no?”
.....Wolfe rolled his eyes and exhaled deeply. “Yes.”
.....“Where’d you get the weed?”
.....Wolfe gave it some thought, then looked the sheriff in the eyes: “I brought it with me.”
.....“Uh, uh,” Clyde countered. “I checked your car, and then checked your room while you were out.”
.....Wolfe blinked up at the sheriff. “That’s... that's kinda unconstitutional,” he finally managed.
.....The sheriff shrugged. "Yeah. Kinda."
.....Wolfe was trying to figure out whether he was more disturbed that they had tossed his room, or that The Man was so unconcerned about accountability that he would freely admit it.
.....Clyde laughed, and Wolfe turned to eye him coldly. “Why do you hate America?”
.....The cop bristled. “Fuck you, man.”
.....“He’s being ironic,” Roy sighed.
.....“Irony’s dead,” Clyde responded. “I saw it on the news.”
.....Crawford turned his attention back to Wolfe.
.....“Where’d you get the joint?”
.....“It’s prescription,” Wolfe countered, and then realized that he may have given the sheriff a little bit of too much information. Damn, he didn’t like the look in The Man’s eyes.
.....A smile struggling to get out twitched at the corner of the Sheriff’s mouth.
.....“Thank you,” he acknowledged.
.....Wolfe’s eyes went wide as he realized what was about to go down. “Hey... that doesn’t mean...”
.....Roy threw a set of keys to the deputy.
.....“You know what to do...”
.....“I’m on it, Chief.”
.....“And leave the fucking SAM where it is.”
.....Clyde gave the sheriff a two-fingered salute off the brim of his hat and rolled.
.....“Damn it, Crawford!” Wolfe grabbed the bars of the cell, glaring out at the sheriff. “If there’s anything going down between you and me, let’s keep it that way. There’s no need to drag anyone else into this...”

.....On the roof in a cinder block shed set off from the landing pad, a small group of men bustled through a locker room, slim steel doors slamming shut and the heels of tightly-laced combat boots pounding the tiled floor.
.....Black jumpsuits were zipped up...
........ flack jackets were donned...
........ hands grabbed from a row of state-of-the-art assault weapons...
........ banana clips were slapped in, rounds jacked...
.....Boo-yah.

.....Crawford pulled up a chair. “Now... let’s talk some about Tanya...”

.....Dark-clad forms scurried towards the prototype RAH-66 Comanche helicopter, their shoulders hunched against the backwash as it fired up. The SWAT team hurried in, boarded. With a whine of two turbines fighting to lift over ten thousand pounds of metal, the matte black helicopter lifted up and hung a few feet above the landing pad, the sound of its ascent suppressed by the unique five-rotor design.
.....Added to the lift was the combined weight of six fully-equipped deputies in full SWAT fetish gear clinging wide-eyed to the side rails the motor pool had welded to the sides of the machine. The Comanche was designed for two crew members only, but that was of little use to the Sheriff’s Department, and so the after market addition.
.....Rotors a nearly invisible blur against the cloudless blue sky, the helicopter leaned to the side as it swung around over the side of the building and thudded its way over a few blocks of rooftops, drew up and hovered.

.....Doc paused in the middle of a bong rip as he heard the roar of the helicopter near. He looked up as the sound paused overhead. The CHUP of blades continued.
.....The center pane of his stained glass bay window shattered as a canister burst through, rolled to his feet, emitting tear gas. He dropped the bong and lurched up out of his easy chair, gagging as he fumbled towards the front door. He threw it open and staggered out, choking and gasping for air.
.....A SWAT team member rushed up and tackled him. The old man’s arms were pulled roughly behind him as his face ground into the lawn, forcing him to eat grass. As a cop slapped on the handcuffs, Doc yelped in pain. Old bones weren’t meant to be treated that way.
.....More cops rushed into his house and the sounds of a rhubarb began, as they would have said back in the day.

.....Wolfe listened as Roy listed what was wrong with Tanya. Colby the former mini-mart clerk listened in without seeming obvious about it.
.....“... she’s bipolar, you know,” The sheriff noted, nodding as he gauged Wolfe’s reaction.
.....“You don’t say...”
.....“Takes her medication, but still likes her booze... not a good mix.”
.....“Is there something going on between you two?”
.....Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “She’s my brother’s widow, you ass.”
.....“You just seem a little obsessed.”
.....“I’m just looking out for Pierce.”
.....“Who the hell is Pierce?”
.....“She didn’t tell you?”
.....“Apparently not.” Wolfe shook his head ruefully. "Seems like there's a whole lot of things we haven't talked about yet..."
.....“Pierce is my brother’s son. Her son.” Crawford looked at Wolfe without seeing him. “Although she’s never acted like it. Still, he’s a good boy... even though I ended up raising him myself. Someone had to teach the boy to be a man.”

.....Mike blinked, wobbly on his feet. There was a coppery taste in his mouth. He didn't get much time to think about it. Another fist thudded into his face and he hit the ground. A gathering crowd of the summer school attendees stood around, some silent, some shouting encouragement. The smell of blood was in the air, and it smelled good.
.....Pierce stepped back, shaking his fist in pain.

.....“Bryce felt his calling during the first Gulf War, went off and joined the Army. Must’ve liked it, or at least liked it more than here, ’cause he never came back ’til they shipped his casket in.”
.....The sheriff paused, a far-away look in his gaze.
.....When the flag-draped casket had been smuggled through Dover Air Force Base and dropped off by a DHL van at the Elysian Fields Funeral Chapel, he had at his mother’s request asked that the casket be opened. Unable to leave the homestead, she had charged her remaining son with a velvet-wrapped heirloom to place in Bryce’s casket. In the time-faded cloth rested his grandfather’s Bronze Star and Purple Heart, paid for at deadly cost in The War to End All Wars.
.....Quite a few official and unofficial wars later, Bryce’s casket had been opened to reveal the sun-bloated body of a young black woman.
.....What was left of some suddenly anonymous Staff Sergeant. They hadn’t even bothered to tidy her up.
.....Wolfe watched as Crawford wandered off into his own little world, the silence building to a degree that was starting to unnerve him.
.....He cleared his throat, and the sheriff blinked back at him.
.....Nodded.
.....“Tanya now, Tanya felt her calling too,” the sheriff finally continued. “It was pretty obvious that she sorta resented getting knocked up straight outta high school and settling into the whole Harding dead end. So, right after Bryce shipped out, she dropped Pierce off on me, set off to make her fortune in Hollywood.”
.....Wolfe began to wonder why he had cleared his throat.

.....Scot T shrugged off his school jacket. He threw it on the hood of Pierce’s monster truck and waded in. He pulled Mike halfway up, drew back a fist, and let fly: CRUNCH! A tooth spun through the air, hit the asphalt. Everyone paused, Scot T with his arm jacked back to deliver a second blow, frozen in tableau as they looked down at the bloody shard of white glistening on the blacktop among the pebbles. It definitely stood out.
.....Even through his pain, Mike was impressed.
.....The crowd sighed in appreciation. One of the onlookers called out a caution: “Hey, Dude... watch out. You might get the AIDS.”
.....Scot T blinked at his fist thoughtfully and dropped Mike, then stepped back. He was pushed aside by Pierce.
.....Pierce stepped up and smiled a smile wholly lacking in humor, then hauled back a pointy-toed cowboy boot and let fly, delivering a solid blow Mike’s side. The crowd sighed in a sound that could almost be taken for empathy, if the sound hadn’t have been exhaled through smiles.
.....Mike grunted as he felt something give in his side, with a muffled sound not unlike a No. 2 pencil being snapped in a deep bowl of water.
.....The school bell rang and heads turned to consider the school in resentment. They didn’t get to see a good ass kicking every day, and now the moment had to go and be over.
.....The crowd began to disperse, reluctantly. As the future of America headed off to class, a Mexican dude bumped shoulders with one of the Anglos. They stared each down, short hairs bristling.
.....The bell rang last call, and they parted to move on towards the school in two separate packs.
.....The resentment lingered after them.

.....As the sheriff droned on, Wolfe was aware of activity of the drug raid that could be heard squawking over the radio at the front desk. Wolfe tried to ignore it, but then that meant listening to the sheriff’s continued character assassination of Tanya. Issues, the dude has some serious fucking issues, Wolfe mused.
.....“She finally came back when her old man died,” Crawford finally finished. “Tail between her legs. I guess there’s not much room down there for aging former cheerleaders with stretch marks.”
.....The two men sat across from each other, the silence sharing space with the bars between them.
.....“You know, I don’t recall a big red hourglass tattooed on her stomach,” Wolfe finally responded. “Why are you telling me this? Trying to scare me off?”
.....Roy offered him the open pack of Marlboros. Wolfe shook his head. Roy batted one out for himself and lit it. He exhaled smoke from his nose and leaned back, unblinking as he considered Wolfe.
.....Wolfe met his gaze. “It won’t work... this has been a long time coming and...”
.....“What did you think of Bring It On?”
.....“Say what?” Wolfe blinked at the abrupt change of topic. He gave it some thought, anyhow. “I think that it was an irresponsible thing for the president to…”
.....“I mean the movie, the cheerleader movie. With Lindsay Lohan? Cute, wasn’t she?”
.....“It was Hillary Duff,” Wolfe corrected. “What’s your point?”
....He found he didn't like the sheriff's point. Wasn't much argument over it, either.

.....Over the sound of the hovering ’copter, the sound of smashing glass and the thud of overturned furniture came from the house as it was being ransacked...um, searched. Doc was on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back. Two SWAT members stood over the desperado, automatic weapons at the ready in case he tried to do something silly.
.....Doc was of no mind to try anything of the sort.
.....A SWAT member swaggered from around the side of the house. In one hand he held up his trophy, a half-assed pot plant. The clump of dirt surrounding the roots outweighed the thin plant itself. One of the SWAT members turned around so that his backpack could be rifled, and finally a scale was withdrawn. The plant dropped on the scale and the LED bars fluttered about distractedly until they finally settled upon a number: 4.5 pounds.
.....Including the dirt and roots.
.....Clyde smiled. “Looks like we have a solid case of Felony Cultivation here...”
.....The two cops who stood by Doc’s shiny Lexus looked at each other, nodded, then Rochambeau'd for the spoils.
.....The loser tossed the other the keys.

.....At the Front Desk, Roy gave Wolfe back his possessions, belt and shoelaces.
.....“Can you call me a cab back to the motel?” Wolfe asked wearily.
.....“No cabs ‘round here.”
.....“Can someone here give me a ride?”
.....All Roy gave him was a stony look.
.....Wolfe started walking, his silhouette framed on the threshold briefly before the heavy oak door sighed closed behind him.
.....Julia didn’t meet his gaze as Crawford passed the dispatch desk. Her face was blank.
.....“What?”
.....She looked up at him finally, eyes wide beneath the blue eyeshadow. “Sheriff, I know it’s not my place...”
.....“Yeah? Spill it.”
.....“What we did today,” she explained. “With the Doc, and even that Wolfe guy... it was, well...”
.....“Well, what?”
.....“Fucked up.” she finally managed. “It was really fucked up.”
.....Crawford nodded. “You’re right.”
.....Her face softened. “I am?”
.....“Yeah,” the sheriff agreed. “It’s not your place.”
.....He turned and headed back down the stairs. He climbed into the Humvee and slammed the door shut behind him. He almost screamed aloud at the sudden pain that speared into his eyes.
.....The hangover was back with a vengeance.