Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

A trio of nuns walked past arm in arm, delicately eating individual kernels of kettle corn they plucked from small paper bags. The youngest nun blushed as she licked her fingers and Rakkim smiled, imagining the exquisite conflict her pleasure must give her. The young nun turned back, glanced at Rakkim, held his eyes for a moment. He watched her hurry away, tiny feet kicking up dust, and Rakkim thought of the devout women back home, faces circled by head scarves, some masked behind veils, hair tucked out of sight…he felt again the erotic charge of those women not completely of this world.

Leo stood entranced before a holographic info panel detailing the attack and siege of Mount Carmel by federal authorities that began on Sunday, February 28, 1993. The panel blended actual news footage with re-creations that showed the Feds pounding on the door of the compound attempting to serve David Koresh with a subpoena for illegal weapons. In the shootout that followed, four federal officers were killed and David Koresh wounded. The siege began with approximately one hundred Davidians holed up inside Mount Carmel, surrounded by FBI, ATF, and army National Guard units. Rakkim dragged Leo away from the panel as a beatific Koresh lay bleeding, attended by white-robed children.

Leo tugged at his Ident collar. The narrow titanium collar wasn’t tight-it was the idea of it that chafed. Rakkim didn’t blame him. The collar was necessary, though. Only way for an outlander like Leo to escape notice was to hide in plain sight.

Who’s ever going to believe I’m a retard? Leo had asked as Rakkim slipped the collar around his neck.

You haven’t got the skills to pull that off, kid. I’m just asking you to look like a loser. Rakkim’s hand had darted out, lightly brushed across Leo’s scalp. Clumps of hair drifted down until Rakkim slid his knife back, admiring his handiwork. Leo’s hair was gouged, as though cut by someone either indifferent or incompetent. That’s better.

Plenty of Idents in the Belt. Indentured servants-the poor, the slow-witted, the unlucky, all of them trading years of their lives to learn a trade or pay off a debt. Idents always looked out of place. Even more important, Idents didn’t draw attention. Between Leo’s baby fat, bad haircut, and the too-small T-shirt Rakkim had bought for him, Leo might as well be invisible.

Rakkim saw another Ident following a family of four, the Ident huffing and puffing as he lugged bags of souvenirs in one hand, holding an umbrella over the mother with the other. The Ident was white, the family black. Sarah said one of the few good things about the second civil war was that race was now irrelevant. Nobody lost a job or a house because he was the wrong color. Things like that only happened because of important differences. Like being the wrong religion. Christians were tolerated in the Islamic Republic, but they were second-class citizens, passed over for promotion, kept out of the choicest real estate. In the Belt, all Christians were equal, but in many places, Catholics were still treated with suspicion. A young man from All Saints High School looking for a college scholarship would do well to start attending the Power in the Blood Tabernacle.

The Ident stumbled, almost dropped a package, apologizing, head lowered. Rakkim spotted a couple of stolid Texas Rangers, a black and white team, each well over six feet tall, their oversize Stetsons seeming to float above the crowd. During the war, the Rangers became a law unto themselves, keeping the peace by any means necessary. The story went that there wasn’t a white oak in Texas that hadn’t been a hanging tree, but while most of the Belt had been wracked with riots and looting, the streets of Texas stayed safe. Almost thirty years after the truce between the Belt and the Islamic Republic, the Rangers still operated as judge, jury, and executioner.

A group of young Louisiana National Guardsmen emerged from a tattoo parlor, fleshette rifles slung casually over their shoulders, rolled sleeves showing off their new ink. The usual gung-ho tats: flags and screaming eagles, the stone rolled away from the tomb, and Mecca’s Kaaba with a mushroom cloud. A muscular Guardsman launched a toy helicopter, guided it around a corn dog stand, then lost control, the helicopter swooping low, knocking the white Ranger’s hat askew before cartwheeling into the dirt. The Guardsmen laughed, and the muscular one ambled over, mumbled an apology. As the Guardsman bent to retrieve the helicopter, the Ranger drew his stainless-steel revolver in one quick, fluid movement and whipped the barrel across the Guardsman’s head, laid him out. The others shouted, hands sliding along the slings of their rifles. The white Ranger slowly crushed the chopper under his boot while the black Ranger watched the Guardsmen, a toothpick migrating across his mouth.

The crowd gave the Rangers and Guardsmen room, but Rakkim stayed put.

The Guardsmen hesitated, then quickly dragged their comrade away.

“I…I don’t like it here,” Leo whispered to Rakkim.

“I do,” said Rakkim, the words escaping him before he was even aware of the thought.

Stevenson’s store was in the same spot as the last time Rakkim had seen it, but it was even bigger now, the cross on top state-of-the-art, shimmering with color and so realistic you could see the grain in the wood. SOUVENIRS, ARCANA, RELICS flashed from the wallscreens. A steady stream of dusty pilgrims flowed in and out of the line of revolving doors, air-conditioning leaking out into the heat. A Crusader stood outside in full mock-armor, visor up, sweat streaming down his face, handing out lollypops to the children.

Rakkim pushed Leo ahead of him, into the revolving door. The interior of the shop smelled faintly of frankincense, the smoldering incense barely covering the scent of spilled soda and popcorn. Portraits of David Koresh stared from every wall, including a black velvet painting of Koresh facing Elvis priced at $1,999. Steer horns laser-etched with Bible verses, a bargain at $159.99. Miniatures of the Mount Carmel compound made of everything from cooked macaroni to beaten silver. A Janet Reno voodoo doll with her fangs painted red. Rocks and bits of charred wood from the original compound in bulletproof glass cases with certificates of authenticity. A little girl tugged at her mother’s dress, pointed at one of the many kites dangling from the ceiling: Jesus in the clouds overlooking the firestorm, reaching out to welcome Koresh into the heavens, the clouds around them bloodred in the glow.

Leo fingered a display of toy U.S. Army tanks, ignoring the PLEASE, NO TOUCHING sign. He tapped a command into the underside, the tank clanking noisily, treads spinning as hot sparks flashed from the pivoting barrel of the tank cannon. Smoke wafted through the cool air, rippling the small devil’s pentagram flag atop the tank.

Stevenson himself barreled over in faded jeans, spangled cowboy shirt, and cowboy boots, scrawny as ever, a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. “You buying that, melonhead?” He noticed Rakkim. Stared. “That you?”

Rakkim looked back at him. Leo still hung on to the tank.

“It is you.” A bit of ash fell from the tip of Stevenson’s cigarette, drifted toward the floor. “You look different.” He peered at Rakkim, his tiny eyes hard as river rock.

“Must be the new Swedish night cream I’ve been using,” said Rakkim. “Tightens the pores.”

Stevenson waved back an approaching security guard. He flicked the photo button on Rakkim’s chest. “You could have bought that cheaper here. Three ninety-nine apiece and half off a grandstand ticket to the reenactment. You got taken, son.”

“That’s what vacation is all about,” said Rakkim.

Stevenson snorted. “You ain’t never been on vacation your whole life. Same as me.” He watched Leo tapping commands into the tank. “Let’s adjourn to my office,” he said, starting down the aisle. A press of his hand against the wall plate and the heavy door slid open. A tattered American flag was mounted on one wall, its edges singed. Stevenson sat in an over-stuffed leather command chair behind a heavy oak desk. He was creased and cracked from the sun, somewhere around fifty, his gray hair buzzed short, a tough, ugly banty rooster, more gristle than meat.