"Oh. Too bad. I wanted to play with him. Cute little critter."
He looked at Elpidia and said, "You're a good mom." Then he asked, shyly, "Do you think I might make a good father someday? Before he was hurt Padre Jorge told me he had been talking to his friend, Jack, about maybe finding me a decent job with the Guard once I turn eighteen."
"That would be so good for you, Miguel. How is Father?" A tear escaped the girl's eye.
Miguel shook his head angrily. "The same. He can barely walk. But did you see him fight them? It took fifteen of them to beat him to the ground. Fifteen! What a man!" exclaimed Miguel, who had himself once made the mistake of fighting the father. That was the last mistake he had ever made—or wanted to make—where the priest was concerned.
* * *
Austin, Texas
What kind of man is this? My very first instance of "hate at first sight," thought the governor of her state's new "Federal Commissioner."
"So you see," droned that worthy, Harold Forsythe, Yale Law '66 and a long-time crony of both Wilhelmina and her ex-husband, "you have got to stop seeing yourselves as separate states. We are all one country and we are all in this together. We can't have Texas going its own way anymore. Take abortion. You have placed some restrictions here that are just intolerable. And so, until those are lifted, Texas can forget about seeing one red cent in federal aid for Medicare or Medicaid. Nor will we permit you to stop funding them at your level. Same for your schools. Nearly half of them have failed Federal certification and no more educational aid is going to them until their entire staff has been reviewed and approved for retention or fired."
"You mean reviewed for political leaning, of course, don't you?" demanded Juanita. "Your entire test was a thinly disguised check of political correctness."
"Well, we can't have unenlightened teachers polluting the minds of America's youth now, can we?" Forsythe smiled smugly.
"And you had better do something about getting a handle on the guns in private hands in this state too. And soon. You are not going to be permitted to give people the right to the implements of death or to deny women the right to do what they choose with their own bodies."
How did we ever let it get this far? wondered Juanita. Then she supplied her own answer. We let it get this far by letting the federal government take the burden of taxing for us. And now they have more—a lot more—power than the states do because they have so much more money than the states do.
* * *
Dallas, Texas
Guns holstered and concealed, the federal agents poured over the smoking ruins of an abortion clinic torched by fanatics in the night. No note or sign claimed credit for the arson. Nor had anyone been hurt in the blaze.
Special Agent Ron Musashi pondered the lack of evidence. To one of his men he said, "Get me the files on the six leading antiabortion groups in this part of the state."
"Already did it, Chief."
"Good," Musashi complimented. "Who's the most likely candidate?"
"Catholics for Children," came the instant reply. "We suspect them of having torched two other clinics. Never a shred of proof, though. Professional, you know? Their headquarters is over in Fort Worth."
* * *
Fort Worth, Texas
In another life, Ron Musashi would have been happy enough pouring Zyclon B crystals into gas chambers full of Jews. The Rape of Nanking would have been a wonderful vacation. Bayoneting stragglers on the Bataan Death March? Just a pleasant walk in the woods. But for being short of stature—and having the wrong shape of eye— Musashi would have fit right into Himmler's Waffen SS.
Not that he would have enjoyed the killing. All Musashi ever felt from killing was recoil. Though he did derive considerable personal satisfaction from a job well done.
This job was made for him. The orders were simple, amazingly so considering they came to him from Washington, DC: "Assume that the occupants found at the headquarters of that terrorist organization known as 'Catholics for Children' are armed and dangerous. Kill or capture them all."
* * *
Returning from lunch, Father Flores turned the corner to see an even dozen plain-clothed men—police of some kind, so he assumed, based on the drawn pistols and locked and loaded machine guns—crouching by the main door to his organization.
Unseen by the agents, themselves intent on their mission, Flores ducked back behind the building corner, one eye only watching the event. His heart began pounding wildly as he saw four of the agents draw back a large battering ram then smash it once, twice, three times against the front door.
He heard muffled screams.
* * *
The door collapsed inwards, torn off its hinges. Musashi ordered, "Go! Go! Go!" and the first team of four burst over the shattered door and through the empty frame. Inside a woman screamed with fear and shock. Automatically, she reached for her purse.
A gun? The agent who saw her could not take the chance. A burst of submachine-gun fire punched through the woman's body, spinning her in her desk chair while inertia made her head do an imitation of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The woman fell, bloody and torn, to the floor.
As if the initial shots were a signal, the other three agents in the first rush likewise opened fire on the office workers, cutting them down in a welter of gore. Fired. Fired. Fired again. There were no survivors.
When Musashi looked into the woman's purse, he found a cell phone. He left the phone, but added to the purse's contents one small-caliber pistol.
* * *
Unseen, Father Flores, olive complexion turning pale, turned and ran; ran for his car, for his life.
Chapter Three
From the transcript at triaclass="underline" Commonwealth of
Virginia v. Alvin Scheer
DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. So tell the court how it was for you, Alvin, how it became?
A. Like I said before, life was hard. And it kind of hurt, you know; me—a man that worked all his life—having to take welfare parcels and charity just to feed his family. But pride didn't count for much. And besides, near everybody in that part a town was in the same boat, mostly.
Always remember something my daddy used to say, "Ain't no such thing as a free lunch." The breakfasts and dinners weren't free neither. They come with a "social worker" . . . and she done come every damn week.
First time she come around she stuck her pointed up little nose into every little nook and cranny in the house. She told my wife—yeah, she'd started feeling poorly again—that if she didn't clean house better she was going to lose her children. Talked down to us, you know, like we were some kind of lower life form. I confess, I kinda lost my temper.
That was a mistake too, no two ways about it. Next week, week after too, we found that our food allotment's been cut. Got cut again the week after that, then again.
Like I said before, I ain't no educated man. Don't mean I'm a dummy though. I swallowed my pride; made my apologies so my family wouldn't starve.
But I never could see the justice in giving that woman that kind a power over us. For a long time, I couldn't see what I could do about it, neither.
* * *
Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas
In the dimly lit cloister, Miguel strained to hear the reclined priest's weakly spoken words. Mostly they had to do with things the mission needed done, but that Montoya lacked the strength, in his current condition, to do anything about. " . . . and I want you to do something about the rabbits in the garden, Miguel. I was able to walk—a little—earlier today and I noticed they had been at the new shoots."