Now, with a few years' experience in not sleeping, he knew when his night was over. Instead of fighting it, he often used the time to work out, catch up on reports or read one.
Tonight he knew exactly what he could do.
He got up, already dressed, and washed his face, cringing slightly at the bruising around his right eye caused by his ride on the door.
He took his gun from the small safe in the closet and strapped the Glock on his right hip. Tonight it was slightly cooler, so he slid a light tan windbreaker over his shoulders to cover the gun.
Within a few minutes, he was on his way out to Biloxi, Mississippi, to the home of Forrest Jessup, president of the National Army of White Americans.
The trip east on I-10 was quick on a weeknight near eleven o'clock. It was dark, and he got little sense of the damage from hurricane Katrina on the trip east. He found his exit and then the three turns that took him to a nearly deserted street with two houses at the front of the block and Jessup's lone, clapboard house on a good rise at the end of the street. There were several cars parked along the dark street as Duarte eased the rented Ford toward the house.
He parked directly in front in a deep shadow. As soon as he stepped from the small car, it seemed to disappear. He hesitated. The late hour and the distinct possibility that Jessup had moved from the house because of Katrina made Duarte pause.
Then he noticed a single light coming from what he would guess was the kitchen off the long, twisting driveway to the street.
He felt for his pistol out of habit and started up the long driveway.
Pelly looked in the mirror of his room at the Napoleon Arms hotel in New Orleans. The older, family-run motel fit his needs perfectly. It wasn't fancy like the colonel's chain resort in the Quarter, but it was clean, he could park directly in front of his room and he knew all the escape routes. Just like he had been taught in the academy.
In the mirror, he saw his skin. He had shaved, then used the lady's hair removal system on his face like a doctor back home had shown him. His skin was clear and normal for a change. He smiled as he ran his hand over it, and then his severely trimmed eyebrows. He looked completely human. His teeth were a little pronounced and ears too wide on his head, but that wasn't unusual. It was these features combined with his hair that made people scared and wary of the man who looked like the missing link. Or a gorilla.
He intended to go out on the town tonight. He had nothing to celebrate. He had seen his little grenade and propane bomb go off and the ATF man fly across the parking lot, only to get up, apparently unscathed and quick as ever. He had fled from his vantage point across the street and knew he'd have to deal with the ATF man again. But that was his job. He didn't let it bother him.
Right now all he cared about was his lack of facial hair. He had two hours until he looked like the Wolfman again. He lifted his shirt and saw the long tufts of hair from his chest. He'd worry about that if he got a girl back to his room. Right now he had a clean face, and he was going to use it.
37
ALEX DUARTE CREPT ALONG THE WALL OF THE DETACHED garage, keeping his eyes on the front door. He had noticed the great number of abandoned houses on the street and wondered if anyone would even hear him if he ran into problems. Or caused them.
He tried the knob of the front door. It was open. Now he had to make a choice. Knock as ATF agent Alex Duarte or just use terror tactics. As a federal employee, he could explain that he was investigating Gastlin's death and the activity around the container. Perhaps say that the dead Cal Linley had given him Jessup's name. Convince or trick the man into spilling what he knew. The other choice was to skip all pretense and slip into the house and just scare the man into talking.
Somehow, although the first choice was the proper one, Duarte knew how much easier and effective the second choice was. He hoped it wasn't because he knew that this man led a group of racists who thought that blacks and Hispanics were lower forms of life and that Jews were evil. He hoped he was willing to use his special methods because he had grown increasingly troubled by what was in that cargo container or what Gastlin knew that would lead to so many murders in the United States. Either way President Jessup was in for a shock during this interview.
Duarte slipped into the small entryway and stood in the dark for a few seconds. He could see the light from the TV and a small lamp coming from the next room. In addition to the television, he heard voices. He took a few quiet steps down a short hallway. On the walls he noticed the same kind of photos he had seen in Linley's house and the clubhouse in Omaha: photos of men in white robes or Nazi uniforms, one photo showing a black man hanging from a tree with the year 1963 scrawled in faded ink in the corner.
Duarte shuddered. He had seen ethnic violence in Bosnia, but somehow the old history books didn't get across the horror or the violence here in the U.S. over racial issues. Now, in the house, with a man who might have participated in such acts, he understood that it wasn't limited to Serbs, Croats and Muslims.
He leaned into the TV room and blinked to make sure of what he was seeing.
An older man, whom he assumed was Jessup, was bound in a chair and another man stood over him with a pistol. The gunman stood back slightly, his face obstructed by shadow. He was lean, with dark hair. His movements from side to side showed his agitation.
Duarte couldn't hear what was being said, but knew he had his killer caught in the act. His heart raced at the thought of solving this case. His mind hummed with the questions he had for both these men.
As Duarte drew his Glock and eased into the room, the killer's head snapped up. The pistol he pointed at Jessup's head fired, blowing blood and brain matter toward Duarte. Without any hesitation, the killer raised the gun and fired two more shots in the ATF man's direction, forcing him to retreat into the next room.
Duarte controlled his breathing, then realized he had blood on his face. He touched it with his fingers. Had he been hit? He felt for a wound, then realized it was Jessup's blood. He heard the killer scramble through the next room. Duarte darted toward the front door and fired as the figure passed by the hallway. It was unaimed, but it looked like he might have struck the assailant.
Duarte raced to the door and then took a quick peek to make sure it was safe. When he was able to look out safely, he saw the figure running, apparently not wounded in the legs. The man almost ran into the rental car parked in the shadows. As he slowed, the killer casually aimed his pistol and blew out one of the car's tires, then fired twice toward the house, causing Duarte to instinctively duck back into the house.
Duarte felt something by the door and touched it with his left forefinger. Blood. He had hit the assailant. As he heard a car down the street race off, he knew he might have another lead. He walked back into the TV room just to make sure Jessup was dead. It was obvious the way the man's head lolled to one side, but if that wasn't enough, he had a gaping hole which had leaked out all possible brain and fluid into a sickening little pile on the floor.
Duarte moved on to the kitchen. He found a baggie and napkin in the kitchen. As he left the house undisturbed, the only thing he took was a sample of blood from the front door.
This was a scene he wouldn't tell the cops about. No one would believe him. Now he had to find out what was in that cargo container.
Pelly stopped at a bar very close to Colonel Staub's hotel-wouldn't it be a kick if his boss were in there and didn't recognize him? The big Marriott would have cast a shadow over the little club at the right time of the day. He nodded at the bouncer as he entered, detecting no scorn or jokes from the thick man. If he had to, Pelly knew he could make the power lifter regret he had such big, slow muscles, but he didn't have to. The large man didn't say anything but "ten-dollar cover."