"Remo? Are you there?"
"I'll take care of it, Smitty," he said, and hung
up.
As he looked back over the body of General Arlington Montgomery, he felt a twinge of guilt coming from deep inside him. He had been with a woman when the massacre had taken place.
There were two places he had to go before leaving for Texas. The first was locked, and Remo knew instinctively as he tried the door to her house that Randy Nooner was gone for good. He forced his fingers into the lock and shattered it from inside, then walked immediately to her bedroom closet. It was
empty.
He returned to the base and followed the heavily worn trail to find the other place, the location of the evangelist Randy Nooner had mentioned.
It was deserted. In the center of the worn area
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was a large space, excessively used, which Remo assumed had been the site for the services. He combed the area carefully with his feet, feeling with his toes for anything that may have been left behind.
There was nothing. Whoever had been at the spot had been careful to clean up before leaving. Too careful. Then he found it. He didn't see it at first, hidden under some sawdust shavings, but he could smell it. The odor of human blood was as potent to him as the scent of heavy perfume in a small room.
He scratched away the top layer of sawdust and found the dried brown smear beneath.
In the desert hundreds of miles away, a photograph of the massacre shimmied to clarity in a darkroom developing pan.
"Beautiful," a heavily accented voice said. "His Highness will like this very much. Very much indeed."
The woman developing the pictures dried her hands and turned on the light. "And Vadassar is át last a reality," said Randy Nooner.
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Six
In the back of the customized sky-blue Airstream trailer, which was painted with fluffy white clouds, Samantha counted money.
"A hundred eighty-six thousand and change," she said, planting a noisy kiss on the wad of bills. "Three months out of Pontusket, and we're rich as thieves. How about that, Artie, honey?"
"It's all right, I guess," Artemis Thwill said. He gulped down a martini.
"Can't you work up any more enthusiasm than
that?"
Artemis poured himself another drink.
"Quit swilling those things. This is the greatest thing that's ever happened to us, and you're turning into a lush. What kind of god are you, anyhow?"
"Get off my back," Thwill said. He tossed down the contents of the glass. "It's not easy being God."
"I just can't figure you out, Artemis," Samantha said. "Back in Iowa, when we were stomping around those one-horse towns, living on beans and mugging bums, you were happy as a pig in shit."
Artemis thought back to those early days before their marriage, when he and Samantha had set up their tent in sleepy Iowa towns and not many people
69
'-"¦a
had come to hear him speak. The people who did come were loose-in-the-head fanatics without a cause, mostly, or drifters looking for a place to spend a few hours out of the noonday heat.
It had been easy then. Sometimes the victims virtually offered themselves up to Artemis, hanging around in the tent after the services were over to have a private word with him. And even if they didn't, it was a simple matter to ask a few townies to linger after the rest had gone. Then he would ask them some questions about themselves, nice and neighborly, and sooner or later he'd find someone who didn't have a wife or kids or girlfriend waiting for him back home, someone who wouldn't be missed right away, and Artemis would single that person out as his special friend. Samantha would cook dinner in the Airstream for Artemis and his new special friend, and they'd all enjoy a little dinner chitchat. On these occasions Artemis's appetite would be boundless, his charm devastating, his humor infectious. Then for dessert, right along with the coffee, Artemis would land a flying right hook into his special friend's throat, or bounce his special friend's skull against a rock, or instigate an impromptu game of mumblety-peg on his special Mend's torso.
Artemis sighed in remembrance. No, they didn't have two nickels to rub together back then, but those were the happiest days of Artemis Thwill's life. "Money isn't everything," he said quietly. Oh, for just one more special friend to kill. He poured himself another drink, emptying the gin bottle.
Samantha chattered on, oblivious to his reverie. "Well, don't say you didn't jump at the chance to take on this opportunity with the military."
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"Opportunity. Crap. This army nonsense is a pile
of crap."
"It's not crap. It's a splendid opportunity," Samantha pouted.
"Quit trying to sound like Randy Nooner."
"If it wasn't for Randy giving us this chance, we'd still be starving in Iowa. And you'd be heading for the hoosegow before long. Murders get to be traceable after a while, if it turns into a constant thing like it did with you. You're an addict."
"I was just having a little fun."
"You were doing in three and four guys a day,
Artie."
"Nag, nag, nag," Artemis said, waving his glass in front of him. "Marry a woman and she turns into a bitch. I'll tell you what's wrong. It's that Nooner bitch, that's what. Ever since she came into the picture, all the good times went poof. Now it's just gripe, nag, moan—"
"This is a business, Artemis. And for the first time since we started, this business is making money." Her eyes were pinched and hard.
"But what about me?" Artemis yelled. "What about my feelings'} How do you think I feel not even being allowed to write my own speeches anymore? And that pap I have to say, all that morbid stuff about carrying on after I'm with the dear departed. It gives me the willies."
"All saviors have to be martyrs, stupid," Samantha said. "That's just so that when you kick off, we can make a big deal out of it."
"For your information, Samantha, I do not intend to die just so Randy Nooner can get some good press." He drained his glass with a shudder.
"You could get hit by a bus," Samantha offered.
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"And that's another thing. All the killing. It bothers me."
Samantha laughed. "Changed your tune, I guess. You used to love it."
"Yeah, before you and Randy Nooner decided to take over my life. Now I just stand around twiddling my thumbs while those dunderheaded soldiers get in all the good shots."
"Oh, Artie. They were only a few dippy chaplains who never put up much of a fight anyway. Besides," she said, imitating Randy Nooner, "it's good P.R. once the recruits are in on a kill, they're with us all the way."
"I don't give a hot shit if they're with us or not," Artemis said. "All I ever wanted was to push somebody off a bridge once in a while, or to blow some nobody's brains out." His eyes grew watery with sentiment, remembering the good old times. "I never asked for much, Samantha. A dislocated jaw here, a snapped neck there. Now what do I get for all the hours of hard work I put in, all the traveling and missed meals? A fat nothing, that's what. I can't even punch out a drunk anymore, because, according to Randy Nooner, God doesn't do that." Artemis blew his nose with a pitiful roar.
In a few minutes the Airstream and the flatbed truck behind it, which was carrying the tent and supplies, pulled off on the side of the road.
"Come on," Samantha said, stuffing the bills back into the strongbox and locking it. "Here's where we make our connection."
Artemis shambled to his feet, weaving slightly. "Just another town along the highway, another crowd of strangers," he lamented, holding back his tears.
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'"Quiet down," Samantha said, gingerly picking up the strongbox. "Here comes somebody."
A short, swarthy man sausaged into a lieutenant's uniform entered the trailer.