Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

Half-plank logs had been used for siding on the buildings, which had all the earmarks of a small, crudely constructed village in the middle of nowhere. She kept expecting to see teams of horses pulling lumbering wooden wagons. Instead, ATVs, pickups, and Jeeps lined what passed for streets, parked in front of a motor pool and maintenance shed, a first-aid station, food and supply storage, a guard post, and several residence buildings.

Wooden shakes covered the roofs; piles of split wood were stacked under exterior windows and close to entry doors, which were open like the windows to take advantage of the slight breeze.

At the far end of the town’s center was a huge communal garden plot. Chickens wandered around free, pecking between the rows and at the garden’s edge while women and young girls wearing long dark skirts, blouses, and what looked like prairie bonnets bent over hoes or knelt between rows tending spinach, radishes, onions, and lettuce, along with immature tomato, corn, and squash plants. One girl, so young she could barely be in her teens, carried a toddler on her hip. The sight gave Eva a sinking sensation in her stomach. Please let that be her little sister.

The sick feeling increased as she watched the women and girls, all moving with purpose, eyes down, faces somber, always working, rarely resting or even taking time out to take a drink of water under the hot sun. It was as if they were afraid to be idle. Their heads down, subservient, they appeared to be little more than slaves.

Everything she’d read on the UWD movement downplayed that aspect of the culture. But these were the kind of women that men in these movements preyed on. Low self-esteem. Gargantuan need to please and be accepted. Most likely abused, either as children or by a boyfriend or a spouse. It made them weak, yes, but mostly it made them victims. And it made her physically ill.

The boys were an entirely different story. Even though they were also dressed uniformly—jeans, solid-colored T-shirts, and ball caps—the boys were clearly encouraged to be boys. They wandered around kicking rocks down the dirt street, carrying BB guns or fishing poles, or fooling around in a playground that consisted of rope swings, a rope-webbed climbing wall, targets stuck to straw bales, and a wooden teeter-totter.

Holy God. It was Opie Taylor meets the frontier Stepford wives.

Shoulders back, head high, Mike followed the men into what was clearly Lawson’s office. From the bank of computers, the camera monitors, and the whiteboard outlining the duty roster and work schedule, this was also UWD command central. Taking it all in, he stood at attention as Lawson rounded a military surplus gray metal desk and sat down, a man confident of his power. The desk was a behemoth: utilitarian, expansive, rusted in spots, dented in others. Not one item on its surface was out of place. It was as clean and organized as the room, as orderly as Lawson himself, who carried himself like a little general lording it over his troops. A pennant that Mike recognized as the UWD banner—a solid red background showcasing a closed white fist—hung on the wall behind the desk.

A straight-backed wooden chair faced the desk but Mike didn’t take it. Simmons and Wagoner flanked him on either side, cradling their weapons. He stood military straight, hands at his side, legs planted wide, eyes fixed on the banner, not Lawson… the posture of a man who respected his superiors.

He could not wait to bring this bastard down.

“Walker, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why are you here, Mr. Walker?”

“Only one reason. To join the movement and help the cause.”

Lawson leaned back, clasped his hands over his lean midsection, and regarded Mike with a somber expression. “You’ll understand if I’m skeptical.”

Now it got dicey. “Yes, sir. I do. You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me or my motives.”

Lawson continued to watch him with interest. “So what am I supposed to think? That you’re brave, or stupid—or a little bit of both?”

“I’m a devotee, sir. I only want to join the movement.”

Lawson lifted a hand. “And yet you show up here, no advance word, no letter of recommendation.”

“Barry Hill’s my recommendation.”

“Says he knew him in stir.” Simmons was clearly not a believer.

Mike turned to Simmons. “I don’t need you to do any talking for me.”

As he’d hoped, this amused Lawson. Not so much Simmons; the big man’s face turned blood red. Mike figured that was a good thing. Let Lawson know he had Simmons’s number—big, dumb muscle—and Dan Walker was a little higher on the evolution ladder.

He turned back to Lawson.

“I was in the pen in California with Hill. But we go back further than that. We were both in the Navy at the same time. San Diego. We were of like minds even back then.”

“Like minds? What the fuck does that mean?” Simmons growled.

Knowing he was making an enemy, but calculating that it might play well for him to stand up to the big man in the long run, he ignored Simmons again. “When our hitches were up, Hill ended up going one way, I went another. My way didn’t work out. Did six of an eight-year stretch. I was three months from release when Hill showed up. I saw it as a sign, that we crossed paths again, you know? And I still liked what he had to say. He told me to come find you. That you’d have a place for me.”

“Convenient that there’s no way to verify it.” Simmons again.

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Mike said very quietly but with deadly intent, then turned back to Lawson, who lifted a hand motioning Simmons to settle himself down.

Like a good little toy soldier, Simmons backed off.

“With due respect, sir,” Mike went on, “knowing what I do about the sophistication of your organization, I would be very surprised if that was the case.” He nodded toward Simmons.

The subtext in that statement could fill a football field. One, he’d thrown a gauntlet and basically invited Lawson to check out his story. It showed that he had nothing to hide. Two, he’d let Lawson know he was privy to some inside information—which invited the assumption that Hill had confided in him. And three, it cemented the notion in Simmons’s and Lawson’s minds that he was not intimidated by loudmouths like Simmons.

If the slight glimmer of interest in Lawson’s beady eyes was any indication, he’d scored major points on all counts. He hoped to hell that Gabe and the BOIs had gotten Hill to play along. The chances of Lawson not following up and checking with Hill were slim.

Mike forced himself to hold Lawson’s measuring gaze. He was so thin he looked emaciated. His features were so sharp edged and severe they were almost cartoonish. Only there was nothing remotely laughable about this man.

Mike schooled his expression to remain impassive while he played out a mental fantasy of launching himself over the desk and choking the life out of the bastard.

“Explain the woman.” Lawson jarred Mike back to the room.

“Maria Gomez. Sorry. Maria Walker. We got married a month ago… right after I was released. Maria was my attorney. She can be an asset to the movement.”

Lawson tilted his head, interested. “An attorney. One would also assume, then, that she is a strong-willed woman.”

“An intelligent woman. Who bows to my will.” His slight smile was genuine; he was thinking of Eva’s reaction if she heard this exchange.

“And what if she is asked to bow to my will? To the will of the movement?”

Mike knew where this was going. “Maria has no allegiance to the current government. She has her reasons. She’s prepared to contribute what is asked of her.”