Walter Williams - The Rift

“Right. They kill perfect strangers. There’s nothing to link the killers and their victims.”

“Uh-huh.” Omar said again. He narrowed his eyes, tried to think his way out of this. Cocksucker set me up, he thought.

“Just apply that principle to the revolution,” Knox said. “That’s all the Crusaders National are doing. You don’t do anything in your own area, or to anyone who knows you.” He looked up. “Say, did you ever read Hunter ?” Knox said.

“Heard about it,” Omar said, still thinking. He carefully put his beer down on the side table.

“ Hunter’s a great book. Tells exactly how to do it,” Knox said. “Exactly how to overthrow ZOG and put Aryans back in charge again. It’s just about this one guy … and all he does is travel around, and he kills nigger leaders and kike politicians and queers and black men who fuck white women. And he’s so inspirational, see, that soon other people follow his example.”

Set me up, Omar thought. That fucking bondsman bastard.

Knox’s face glowed with enthusiasm. “ZOG doesn’t know how to fight them. Because they’re not organized, they’re just people doing what’s right. If they catch one, he can’t help them, ’cause he doesn’t know the others. Now the Crusaders National are a little more organized than that, but not much. We use codes to communicate, and the Internet. And we meet only to plan our actions and carry them out, see … you know, find a bank in some little town-”

Omar moved. He lunged off the couch and slammed Knox in the breastbone with the palm of his hand. Knox’s eyes widened in shock as he went over on his back. Coke splashed over the floor.

“Down!” Omar shouted. “Down on your face!”

Ice skiddered across the wooden floor. Knox was on his back with his legs still half-locked in the crosslegged position. Fabric tore as Omar grabbed his shirt and rolled him over onto his face.

“Arms straight out!” Omar said. He could feel sweat popping out on his face. He straddled Knox and slammed him in between the shoulder blades to keep him on the floor.

“What-?” Knox began.

“Just shut up!” Omar said. “Put your arms straight out!”

Knox obeyed. “I didn’t do nothing, man,” he said. Omar began patting him down. He found a knife in a sheath inside Knox’s jeans on the right side, so that it would be invisible till he drew it, and a little snubnosed.38 special in an ankle holster. Omar stood up, looked at the five bullets in the cylinder. Knox was carrying it loaded. Omar cocked the pistol and pointed it at the back of Knox’s head.

“Take your pants off,” he said.

Knox twisted his head to stare at Omar in alarm. “Hey!” he said. “You think I’m queer or something?” Fear made his voice crack. “I’m not a queer! I hate queers!”

“I want to find out if you’re wearing a wire,” Omar said. “Do it or I blow your fucking head off.” Knox put his hands on his belt, then hesitated.

Sweat slid off Omar’s nose, pattered on the floor. “This is my parish,” he reminded, “and you can disappear into the bayou real easy.”

Knox squirmed on the floor as he drew his jeans as far down as his boots would permit. Beneath the jeans were worn boxer shorts. Omar knelt and carefully felt Knox’s crotch. Knox straightened and gave a little gasp at the touch, but did not protest. Omar could detect no electronics.

“Right,” he said, stepping back and raising the pistol again. “Now I want you to crawl toward the bedroom.”

“I’m not an informer,” Knox gasped. “I’m not a race-traitor. I don’t know who told you different, but-”

Omar swiped with his sleeve at the sweat that poured down his face. “Shut up and do as I say,” he said.

Still aiming the pistol, he walked behind Knox as Knox crawled into David’s room. The boy’s jeans were still down around his knees. Omar had Knox lie facedown in the corner while he dumped out Knox’s duffel on the bed. He found some clothing, a zipped case of toiletries, a laptop computer in its original foam packing held together by duct tape, some books and magazines, including well-worn copies of Hunter, Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and The Turner Diaries, ammunition, a 9mm Beretta, and a pump shotgun with a folding stock and pistol grip-disassembled, but it could have been put in working order in seconds.

“I can explain, you know?” Knox said.

Omar sat on the bed and contemplated the weapons laid out before him. The Grand Wizard, he thought, had set him up. He’d got jealous of Omar’s prominence in the organization, was afraid that Omar might set up his own Klan. It had been the Grand Wizard who had sent this kid to Spottswood Parish to talk about bank robbery and sedition. Maybe even rob the bank and claim Omar as an accomplice.

Well, Omar thought. The Grand Wizard’s plan just got derailed.

Omar looked up at Knox. The redheaded man had turned partly onto his side and was watching Omar with those strange eyes.

“Let me tell you how it’s going to be,” Omar said. “So far as I know, these weapons belong to you and have not been used in the commission of any crime.”

“That’s true,” Knox said. “They’re clean. I bought ’em at a gun show. You can-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Omar said. Knox closed his mouth with an audible snap.

“Just listen,” Omar said. “Now- you’re a colleague, and you’re here in Spottswood Parish to talk to my people, and you can do that. But -” He pointed the pistol. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I am not going to let you fuck up my work by preaching anything illegal. There are going to be people at the meeting tonight who are peace officers, and who are sworn to uphold the law. You are not going to compromise us in any way. You are not going to advocate killing people, or robbing banks, or committing crimes.”

“I won’t,” Knox said quickly. “You can trust me. I didn’t understand your situation, that’s all.”

“Because,” Omar said, continuing as if he hadn’t heard, “if you do that, if you advocate illegalities, you are just going to disappear. And don’t think I can’t make that happen, because everybody you’re going to meet tonight are people I grew up with, and I know them all very well, and I can trust every single one of them to do what’s necessary.” He wiped sweat from his face. “You understand what I’m saying, podna?”

“Yes.” Knox nodded. “I understand.”

“I’m going to tape-record the meeting tonight.” Omar said, “so there’s a record of what you say. Just in case someone later alleges that you came here preaching sedition or something.”

Just in case the Grand Wizard sics the fucking FBI on me, he thought.

Knox nodded again. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

They both froze at the sound of the front door opening, at the sound of heels on the wood flooring.

“Oh, my God in this world!” Wilona’s voice. “What happened here?”

“Just a little accident,” Omar called. He was surprised to find that his voice was steady. “I’ll help you clean it up in just a second.”

Omar stood and opened the gun and dropped the bullets out of the cylinder. He tossed the pistol back on the bed. He unzipped the bag of toiletries, dumped its contents on the bed- shaving cream, bag of disposable razors, and a huge economy-sized bottle of aspirin- and then Omar gathered up all of Knox’s ammunition and zipped it into the toiletries case. Knox watched in silence from the floor.

Omar paused in the door, looked down at Knox for a long second, then closed the door behind him as he left the room. He walked through Wilona’s sewing room into the living room and found Wilona cleaning up the spilled Coke with a roll of paper towels. She wore heels, her new frock, and Aunt Clover’s pearls.