“Where the hell he been?” Alim demanded. “FBI, every pig outfit in the country wanted him.”
Jackie shrugged. “Hidin’ out, not far from here, valley up near Porterville. Hid out with a hippie commune.”
“And now he’s with the preacher man?” Hooker demanded. “He believe that stuff?”
Jackie shrugged again. “He say he do. Course, he always was into environmentalism. Maybe he just thinks he’s found a good thing, ’cause the Reverend Henry Armitage has got hisself a big followin’ that do believe. A big followin’. And — he’s a white man, and he preaches that blood don’t matter, and those believers of his, they believe that too. You think about that, Sergeant Hooker. You think about that real good. I don’t know if Henry Armitage is the prophet of God or crazy as a hoot owl, but I tell you this, there ain’t going to be many big outfits left that’ll let us be leaders.”
“And Armitage—”
“Says you are the chief angel of the Lord,” Jackie said. “He say your sins are forgiven, you and all of us, we’re forgiven and we got to do God’s work, with you as Chief Angel.”
Sergeant Hooker stared at them, wondering if they were falling under the spell of that ranting preacher, wondering if the preacher meant what he was saying. Hooker had never been a superstitious man, but he knew Captain Hora used to take the chaplains seriously. So did some of the other officers, ones that Hooker had admired. And… dammit, Hooker thought, dammit, I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t know what we ought to do, and I do wonder if there’s any reason for anything, if there’s a reason we stayed alive.
He thought of the people they’d killed and eaten, and thought there had to be a purpose to it all. There had to be a reason. Armitage said there was a reason, that it was all right, all the things they’d done to stay alive…
That was attractive. To think there’d been a purpose to it all.
“And he say I’m his chief angel?” Hooker demanded.
“Yeah, Sarge,” Jackie said. “Didn’t you listen to him?”
“Not really.” Hooker stood. “But I’m sure as hell going to listen to him now.”
Sixth Week: The High Justice
No proposition is likelier to scandalise our contemporaries than this one: it is impossible to establish a just social order.
Alvin Hardy made a final check. Everything was ready. The library, the great book-lined room where the Senator held court, had been arranged and everything was in its place. Al went to tell the Senator.
Jellison was in the front room. He didn’t look well. There was nothing Al could put his finger on, but the boss looked tired, overworked. Of course he was. Everyone worked too hard. But the Senator had kept long hours in Washington, and he’d never looked this bad.
“All set,” Hardy said.
“Right. Start,” Jellison ordered.
Al went outside. It wasn’t raining. There was bright sunshine. Sometimes there were two hours of sunshine a day. The air was clear, and Hardy could see the snow on the peaks of the High Sierra. Snow in August. It seemed to be down to the six-thousand-foot level yesterday; today it was lower, after last night’s storm. The snow was inexorably creeping toward the Stronghold.
But we’re getting ready for it, Hardy thought. From the porch of the big house he could see a dozen greenhouses, wood frames covered with plastic drop cloths found in a hardware store, each greenhouse covered with a web of nylon cord to keep the thin plastic from billowing in the wind. They wouldn’t last more than one season, Al thought, but it’s one season we’re worried about.
The area around the house was a beehive of activity. Men pushed wheelbarrows of manure which was shoveled into pits in the greenhouses. As it rotted it would give off heat, keeping the greenhouses warm in winter — they hoped. People would sleep in them, too, adding their own body heat to the rotting manure and grass clippings, anything to keep the growing plants warm enough, which seemed silly today, in bright August sunshine — except that already there was a tinge of cold to the air, as breezes came down from the mountains.
And a lot of it was going to be wasted effort. They weren’t used to hurricanes and tornadoes here in the valley, and no matter how hard they tried to place the greenhouses where they’d be sheltered from high winds, yet get enough sunshine, some of them would be blown down. “We’re doing all we can,” Hardy muttered. There was always more to do, and there were always things they hadn’t thought of until too late, but it might be enough. It would be close, but they were going to live.
“That’s the good news,” Hardy said to himself. “Now for the bad.”
A ragged group stood near the porch. Farmers with petitions. Refugees who’d managed to get inside the Stronghold and wanted to plead for permanent status and had managed to talk Al — or Maureen, or Charlotte — into getting them an appointment with the Senator. Another group stood well apart from the petitioners. Armed farmhands, guarding prisoners. Only two prisoners today.
Al Hardy waved them all inside. They took their places in chairs set well away from the Senator’s desk. They left their weapons outside the room, all but Al Hardy and the ranchers Al knew were trustworthy. Al would have liked to search everyone who came to see the Senator, and one day he’d do that. It would cause too much trouble just now. Which meant that two men with rifles, men Al completely trusted, stood in the next room and stared through small holes hidden among the bookshelves, rifles ready. Waste of good manpower, Al thought. And for what? Who cared what the others thought? Anybody in his right mind would know it was important to protect the Senator.
When they were all seated, Al went back to the living room. “Okay,” he said. Then he went quickly to the kitchen.
It was George Christopher himself today. One of the Christopher clan always attended. The others would go in and take the seat reserved for the Christopher representative, and stand when the Senator came into the room, but not George. George went in with the Senator. Not quite as an equal, but not as someone who’d stand up when the Senator came in…
Al Hardy didn’t speak to George. He didn’t have to. The ritual was well established now. George followed Al out into the hall, his bull neck flaming red… well, not really, Al admitted, but it ought to have been. George fell in with the Senator and they walked in together, just after Al. Everyone stood; Al didn’t have to say anything, which pleased him. He liked things to run the way they ought to, precisely, smoothly, without it seeming that Al Hardy had to do anything at all.
Al went to his own desk. The papers were spread there. Across from Al’s desk was an empty seat. It was reserved for the Mayor, but he never came anymore. Got tired of the farce, Al thought. Hardy couldn’t blame the man. At first these trials were held in City Hall, which lent credibility to the pretense that the Mayor and the Chief of Police were important, but now that the Senator had given up wasting time going into town…
“You may begin,” Jellison said.
The first part was easy. Rewards first. Two of Stretch Tallifsen’s kids had devised a new kind of rat trap and caught three dozen of the little marauders, as well as a dozen ground squirrels. There were weekly prizes for the best rat catchers: some of the last candy bars in the world.
Hardy looked at his papers. Then he grimaced. The next case was going to be tougher. “Peter Bonar. Hoarding,” Al said.
Bonar stood. He was about thirty, maybe a little older. Thin blond beard. Bonar’s eyes were dulled. Hunger, probably.