James Burke - Feast Day of Fools

“Throw your piece out on the sand. Throw your cuffs out, too.”

“You’re a public fool, Collins. You’re not a religious warrior or an existentialist hero. You’re a basket case who probably killed his mother. You murder young girls and pose as a political assassin. Let me tell you a story. You know what the Feast Day of Fools was in medieval times? It was a day when all the lower-level dysfunctional people in the church were allowed to do whatever they wanted. They got sodden drunk, fist-fought in front of the altar, farted to hymnal music, buggered each other and each other’s wives and sodomized animals or anything with a heartbeat, and had a glorious time. They got it out of their system, and the next day they all came to church hungover and were forgiven.

“Five hundred years ago there was a place for a pitiful fuck like you, but now there isn’t. So you trail your BO around the desert and terrorize unarmed people and pretend you’re the scourge of God. You need to sew bells on your suit, Collins. Maybe you can get a job as a jester in a medieval reenactment.”

Ethan waited for Collins’s response. The only sound he heard was the wind.

“I rumpled your feelings?” Ethan said. “Hypersensitivity usually goes back to a person’s problems with his mother. Sexual abuse or constant criticism, that kind of thing. If so, we’ve got a special titty-baby unit we can get you into.”

Ethan waited, his palm perspiring on the grips of his semiauto. A gust of wind blew a cloud of alkali dust into his face. He wiped his eyes clear and tried to see above the top of the alcove without exposing himself to a burst of submachine-gun fire. He stepped back into the shade, letting his eyes readjust. Then he knew something was wrong. The alkali dust had not dissipated but had grown thicker. Above, he heard footsteps inside dry brush and the sound of tree branches being broken and dragged over a stone surface. He smelled an odor like greasewood burning and realized he had not been looking at alkali dust but at smoke from a fire, one that was being stoked into a blaze that was so hot, it immediately consumed whatever was dropped into it.

“You burn a man out of his house and excuse yourself by calling it a shack?” Collins said. “Now it’s your turn, Agent Riser. See how you like it.”

A rain of burning grass and tree limbs and trash scraped out of a deadfall showered down on the opening to the alcove, filling the air with smoke and soot and red-hot cinders. Then Collins pushed another load of dry fuel down on top of it.

“I can keep doing it all day, Mr. Riser,” Collins said. “Or you can throw your weapon on the far side of the fire and walk out after it. I won’t shoot.”

“You were the right age for Vietnam. Where were you when the rest of us went?” Ethan said.

“Those were your enemies, not mine. I never injured a man who didn’t ask for it.”

“How about Caleb?”

“Maybe he’s still breathing. Come out of your hiding place and we’ll go see.”

Ethan charged through the flames, his clothes catching fire, his eyebrows and hair singeing. He whirled about, raising his semiauto, hoping for a clear shot at Preacher Jack. But the black silhouette he saw imprinted against the sky was armed with a magic wand that burst with light brighter than the sun, brighter than the fire eating Ethan’s skin, even brighter than the untarnished shield to which he had dedicated most of his adult life. The Thompson seemed to make no sound, but its bullets struck his body with the impact of an entire hillside falling on top of him.

Jack Collins climbed down the slope, careful not to scrape the wood or the steel surfaces of his submachine gun on the rocks, and removed the semiautomatic from Ethan’s hand and the cell phone from the pocket of his khakis. He flipped open the phone and idly reviewed the most recently dialed numbers. The first name to appear on the list was not one he was expecting to see.

Riser had been in touch with her only that morning. Why?

He tossed the cell phone into the fire, and for just a moment he thought he saw the face of the Chinese woman called La Magdalena rise from the flames.

Six hours later, Hackberry Holland sat numbly in his office chair, his forehead propped on his fingers, and listened to the sheriff of Brewster County read from the notes he had made at the crime scene. As in all crime-scene reports, the factual nature of the language served only to further depersonalize and degrade the humanity of the victims: The bodies had been discovered by the friends of the missing dirt biker; Ethan Riser was DOA; Riser’s companion on the trail, Caleb Fry, was in a coma and barely alive; the dirt biker had died of either a broken neck or massive head trauma; the wounds to Ethan Riser indicated that he had been shot many times after mortality had occurred, to the degree that he had to be identified by his possessions.

“Are there any witnesses at all?” Hackberry asked. “Did anyone see Collins in the vicinity?”

“No, we’ve got no visuals on anything,” the sheriff in Brewster County said.

“Have you talked to the other bikers?”

“Yeah, they say their bud saw somebody flashing something at them from the rocks. Their bud was a lone wolf and liked to get into it with other people. By the way, we found his vest not far from where the agent died. Collins is here, isn’t he? In my county?”

“That’d be my guess. Is the FBI there yet?”

“Like flies on shit. There’s another detail I ought to pass on. There was a melted cell phone in the ashes of the fire. I suspect it was the FBI agent’s. It was too deep inside the burn ring to have fallen there. Why would the shooter throw the guy’s cell phone in the fire?”

“Fingerprints?”

“Maybe, but he didn’t bother to pick up the brass.”

“The day you understand Jack Collins is the day you check yourself in to rehab for the rest of your life,” Hackberry said.

“Where do you think he’s hid out?”

“The Unabomber lived in Lincoln, Montana, for ten years. He had no plumbing or electricity in his cabin. Forest Service personnel think he shot at their planes. The locals considered him a regular guy. Maybe Collins isn’t hiding. Maybe he’s out there in full view. It’s a sign of the times. The standards for normalcy find a new low with each passing day.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Who said it was?”

After Hackberry hung up, he called R. C. Bevins and Pam Tibbs into his office and told them of the conversation he’d just had.

“I’m sorry, Hack,” Pam said.

“There is nothing for us to feel sorry about. We honor Ethan’s memory by nailing the bastard who killed him,” Hackberry said. “R.C., I want you to go up to Brewster and get a topography map and look up the land records of every piece of property within five miles of the crime scene.”

“What am I looking for?” R.C. asked.

“Collins likes to take on the personae of obscure writers. Google the names on the land titles and see what pops up. Pam, you and I need to do something about Josef Sholokoff. For two years his name has been coming up in our investigation of Collins’s background. Sholokoff used Collins as a hit man, and he was also the business partner of Temple Dowling. Plus, Anton Ling says Sholokoff was mixed up with shipping arms to the Contras in the 1980s. He’s gotten a free pass for over twenty years, I think in part because he was a useful tool for some guys in the government.”

“What do you want to do about him?” she asked.

“He’s a Russian criminal. Maybe he needs a reminder of what life in Russia can be like,” Hackberry said.

After Pam and R.C. had left his office, he felt no better for his rhetoric and could not rid himself of the words the sheriff in Brewster had used to describe the wounds to Ethan Riser’s body. What had Ethan said to Collins that had filled him with such animus? Collins had always been cold-blooded and methodical when he killed, not driven by emotion or impetuosity. Before dying, Ethan had gotten to him. A remark about his mother? Maybe, but not likely. Collins had no illusions about the woman who had raised him. It was something else. Something that had to do with his image of himself. What greater bane was there for a narcissist than deflation of his ego? In his mind, Collins believed himself a Titan, a warrior-angel with a wingspan that could blot out the moon. Ethan had been well read, intelligent, and con-wise and had thought of Collins as a noisy, misogynistic nuisance who would eventually be greased off the planet. Somehow, before he died, he told Collins that in the great scheme of things, Collins had the wingspan of a moth and was hardly worth the effort of swatting with a rolled magazine. With luck, Hackberry might have a chance to deliver the same insult.