"I don't know," he said grumpily. "I'm not their accountant."
"Give me a check."
Now his mood brightened. He looked at me accusingly. "So you do want money!"
"No, I said I wanted a check. In fact, give me the whole checkbook."
He hesitated, and Garth pointed toward the telephone. Finally he withdrew a book of checks issued by a bank in Arizona. I took it from his hand, put it in my pocket, continued, "Why did Piggott pick you for this errand?"
"He never said. I'm the public relations spokesman for our organization, and I guess maybe Paul figured this was a public relations problem."
I glanced at Garth, who rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," he said. "We're dealing with a bunch of imbeciles."
"What, is that supposed to be a news bulletin?"
Garth leaned over the chair Mackintosh was sitting in, put his mouth close to the other man's ear. "Where can we find this Paul Piggott? Give us an address and phone number."
The old man looked plaintively at his toupee, which I still held in my hand. I gave it to him, and he quickly mashed it on top of his head. It was off by about ninety degrees, but actually looked better than the way he normally wore it. "He doesn't have an address or phone number. He lives off the grid in Idaho."
"Off the grid?"
"He's in a survivalist compound, getting ready for the upcoming race war with the niggers and other mud people. They don't have electricity or telephones. When he wants to contact me, he goes into town."
"You use the word 'nigger' again, old man, and I'm going to wash out your mouth with soap. How does he get his mail?"
"A post office box in town." I asked, "Have you ever been to this compound?" He nodded.
Garth retrieved a pad and pencil from Francisco's desk and dropped them in Mackintosh's lap. "Draw us a map, old man. Make sure it's a good one."
Chapter 12
Well, well," Garth said. "Check out the action over in the clearing at two o'clock. Are those your poster boys?"
I trained my own pair of powerful binoculars in the direction where Garth was pointing, and nodded. "That's them."
We were squatting down just inside a copse of fir trees on the crest of a mountain top in north-central Idaho, with the horses we had ridden in on tethered in the trees behind us; they were blowing and munching contentedly on a mound of oats we had spread out over the ground. Below us, at the foot of the mountain, sprawled a kind of ramshackle shanty town of tents and lean-tos scattered about among towering cords of stacked firewood. The only structure in the compound that looked even semipermanent was a crudely built log cabin set off from the tents and lean-tos in its own clearing an eighth of a mile or so to the south, and we assumed this was the lair of the Maximum Leader. To the north, where a rutted dirt road snaked into the compound, there was a wart of shiny black metal that was a motorcycle parking lot. We'd hoped to find Guy Fournier taking some rest and relaxation at the isolated compound, despite Mackintosh's description of the group, but from the moment we'd trained our binoculars on the site we'd realized this would not be a particularly hospitable spa for a Haitian, no matter how light-skinned. This was the neo-Nazi chapter of Gingivitis, biker division, with a scurvy band of long- and short-haired, greasy-looking, leather-clad young to middle-aged wannabe storm troopers wandering about, all armed to their swastikas with everything from enormous Magnums sticking out of their waistbands to Uzis slung over their shoulders. Some of the men wore bandoliers stuffed with ammunition, most of it not of a caliber that would fit the assorted automatic weapons they carried-whether this was just stupidity, ora bizarre form of costuming, we didn't know. There were perhaps a half-dozen women, all standing around smoking cigarettes and looking bored. Nazi regalia was everywhere, from the crude swastikas painted on the tents and lean-tos to the helmets some of the men wore.
The sartorial standouts in this motley crew were the two young men off in the clearing taking target practice under the watchful eye of a man wearing a leather jacket, despite the heat, wrap-around sunglasses, and a black fedora pulled low over his forehead. The shooters were clean-shaven, wore crew cuts, were untattooed, and wearing Oxford shirts with button-down collars. They could have come to the compound straight from church choir practice, and they were the same antiabortion protesters whose heads had been circled in the photograph I had found in Guy Fournier's office.
The target practice the two young men were taking was specialized, obviously in preparation for some special occasion. There were two straight-backed chairs placed a few feet apart in which the men sat stiffly, as if at attention. A crude wooden platform was set up about twenty-five feet in front of them, and above the platform were strung a number of paper targets, two of them painted red. At a signal from their trainer, the men would, in unison, quickly reach under their chairs and retrieve two handguns fashioned from some kind of clear material that was probably a type of acrylic. Then they would rise to their feet, take precisely five steps forward, raise their guns, and fire one round each at the red targets. Then the targets would be torn down and carefully examined for placement of the bullets. The targets would be replaced, the guns returned to the mountings beneath the chairs, and they would start all over again. They could be getting ready for the upcoming convention, assuming the shooters had been seeded into a state delegation sitting in the first few rows of the recently converted convention hall at the Jacob Javits Center in New York, but the exercise could just as well be suited for any of the dozens of barnstorming or fund-raising events at which the president and vice president would be appearing within the weeks following the convention.
I watched target practice for a while, then set aside my binoculars, lay back on a bed of pine needles, closed my eyes, and listened to the munching and blowing of the horses behind me. I was bone tired, suffering a fatigue that was more than a little exacerbated by the fact that I was more than a little anxious about the constant headache I was enduring and the fact that I had awoken the past two mornings to find my pillow soaked with saliva.
It was our second day in Idaho, and I was also more than a bit concerned about things in general in the United States of America-or at least in this particular section of America. On the morning we had arrived we had rented a car at the airport, driven to this area indicated on the map Mackintosh had drawn for us, then checked into the nearest motel, which was about twenty miles to the east. From there we had set out on a series of preliminary sorties to get the lay of the land, as it were, and its populace. As far as I was concerned, the majority of the people we'd talked to could have come in on the last UFO shuttle, and they obviously regarded me in the same way, treating me not so much with curiosity, to which I was accustomed outside of New York, but with thinly veiled hostility and suspicion, as if I might have been cursed by God. Garth, on the other hand, with the rustic Nebraska air he had never lost and his natural reticence, fit right in; he could have been one of them, to all outward appearances, and the people took to him, forgiving him his odd dwarf companion. There seemed to be an inordinate number of retired L.A. cops.
This part of Idaho seemed to me a kind of Loonyland, an open-air asylum for mild-mannered crackpots. There were no black, brown, yellow, or red faces-at least none that I had glimpsed during that first day, and it was startling to hear people who looked like they could have stepped out of some Norman Rockwell painting calmly expounding viciousness, paranoia, and hatred to an extent that made even William P. Kranes sound like a moderate in comparison. In country stores and gas stations and restaurants we-or Garth-were told harrowing tales about an impending United Nations takeover, menacing black helicopters with inverted Vs painted on their sides, and ZOG, which everyone in the countryside called the government, which they maintained was controlled by a mysterious Zionist organization masterminded by a man called Rothschild. The Holocaust was a myth perpetuated by ZOG-and even if a few thousand Jews had been killed by the Germans, the victims had deserved it. A large number of people living here against a magnificent backdrop of snow-covered mountains were patiently waiting for the End Times, Armageddon, the Rapture, and the Second Coming, events they confidently expected to transpire any day. We, meaning Garth, heard lurid tales of identification chips being implanted in people's skulls, and before long, ZOG was going to announce that every man, woman, and child would have to be tattooed on the forehead with the Mark of the Beast. These people didn't really want the government to change; what they truly lusted for was the end of the world, with rebirth in a Kingdom of God, under the benevolent dictatorship of Jesus Christ, entirely populated with people who looked and thought just like them. Through all this mad palaver over coffee, or beers, or lunch counters, Garth just kept on grunting and nodding. I kept looking away in embarrassment and anger. Certainly not every soul expressed these views, nor did everyone appear to be racist and anti-Semitic, but there were enough in the region to make me feel most uncomfortable, slightly disoriented, and almost totally alienated from the country of my birth. The insanity in the atmosphere had nothing to do with education, or birth rates, or school lunches, or the National Endowment for the Arts; these people's ignorance was willed, their superstitions and hatreds carefully cultivated and nurtured, and as far as I was concerned they deserved William P. Kranes and his dedication to make them even poorer and more ignorant, and he deserved a nation filled with them. They might represent the buttocks end of his constituency, but he shamelessly pandered to them. Thanks to people like Kranes, the sickness of these people was poisoning the country, spread through the veins and arteries and capillaries of America by rabid and irresponsible radio talk-show hosts who, for rating points and money, both fed and manipulated these people's ignorance and hatred. Perhaps in the end our efforts were senseless, and it did not make any difference whether or not the assassinations took place right on schedule, nor whether or not the CIA had its way with all of them. In the end, a democracy got the democracy it deserved, and the people had certainly spoken loud and clear in the last election. I was beginning to seriously consider the notion that, basically, America was a nation of nitwits.