Fagin looked up at the ceiling and nodded. He knew full well what the hell their job there was. What he was doing now was cutting down the odds.
The Indian sheriff spoke up behind him. “What if he’s baiting us?” he said. “What if he’s playing possum? We’re out here doing a number on him, how do we know he’s not in there doing the same on us?”
Banish shook his head at it all. “We wait,” he said. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”
He also seemed to be convincing himself. This was crunch time and it was all they could do to keep from climbing the walls. Banish went off and moved toward the other side of the crowded van, bumping elbows with Perkins and pulling back in anger.
There was a crackling in Fagin’s ear. He put his finger to the wire, then tapped on his radio. “He’ll be right there,” he said.
Banish glanced across at him. Fagin grinned wide. “You’re gonna love this,” he said.
Banish turned and studied the black-and-white monitors. Then he and the sheriff left. The rest of them stood there trying not to look at each other. Fagin smiled and shook his head, pacing slowly back and forth.
Bridge
Blood got out of the government Jeep after Banish, halfway between the bottom of the road and the iron bridge. They faced a sea of protesters jammed in shoulder-to-shoulder, filling out the wide area beyond the bridge and extending out in both directions of the access road as far as the trees allowed Blood to see — all standing quiet and still. No speeches, no milling about. Standing silently in the dimness of the setting sun and watching the mountain, and waiting.
The only figures breaking rank were a dozen or more skinheads squatting shirtless on the jagged rocks to the right of the bridge. Large black swastika tattoos showed on their white skin, as did the yellow laces crisscrossing up their black boots. They were shaving their heads in the muddy creek. They crouched there in defiance, running disposable razors in clean strokes across the tops of their skulls and ladling out water and washing it over their smoothed heads.
A bridge marshal came up and gave his name as Orton. He reported to Banish that there had been a bomb scare earlier and the marshals had gone through and shaken down the crowd, and since then, this.
Banish instructed Orton and the roughly forty other marshals around the bridge to ready their riot equipment. He then reiterated his order that no civilians be fired upon under any circumstances.
Blood sensed heads turning. The gathered faithful were recognizing Banish, and the scandal of their discovery rippled, like a whisper, throughout the vast crowd.
Banish stood facing them. “We won’t win here,” he said quietly.
Blood turned and looked at him. “What?”
“We won’t win here,” Banish said, looking out over the mob. “It will not end well.”
“What do you mean?”
Banish did not answer. A few voices rose out of the horde then, hecklers, their voices growing louder. Banish listened as they taunted and cursed him. He remained there a while longer, seemingly accepting their vilification. Then he turned and climbed into the Jeep and they headed one last time back up the mountain.
Sound Truck
Banish was floating in the black realm behind his closed eyes. He was waiting. His fevered brain had finally cooled. Peaceful there in the darkness, his eyes relaxed and still, soaked black.
He opened them. He was seated on the step of the side door of the van, head down, forehead held lightly in his hands, shoes planted flat on the weedy ground. He looked up. Kearney was standing in the twilight before him. Banish started to get to his feet.
“No answer,” Kearney said quickly, stopping him. “Still no answer. I just wanted to let you know I was still trying. I’ve been dialing nonstop.”
Banish sat back down on the metal step.
Kearney said, “They must be out somewhere.”
Banish nodded, tired. Kearney was looking at him.
“I’ll be getting right back to it,” Kearney said. “I just thought I should reassure you...” His words trailed off. “I’ll get back,” he said.
“I just need to speak to them,” said Banish.
Kearney nodded quickly. “I understand that.”
“I’m better now,” Banish said. “I need to get through to them to tell them that.”
Kearney nodded. “I understand families, sir.”
They looked at each other, then Kearney’s eyes fell to the dirt and he turned to start away.
“I—” Banish said, rather than “Hold on,” not imploringly but with the same effect. Kearney stopped and turned uncertainly, then came back a few steps. Banish shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t have many friends left. But I still know a few names at the Bureau. Some people there I could call.”
Kearney’s expression flattened out in gradual realization. His mouth opened and he came closer.
“It might not even help you,” Banish said.
“Sir, I—” Kearney looked to the ground with a blinking expression. He shook his head slightly. “Sir — that means the world to me.”
Banish shook his head.
Kearney went on haltingly. “When all this happened,” he said, “I was excited to be here for it, I was just — just ready. I was ready. I watched you. Throughout this whole thing, whenever I could, sir — Agent Banish. And I feel that I have a sense for it now. For what it is to do what you do here, and to be what you are. And you giving me a chance, in the command tent—” He stopped himself and looked down at Banish. “But when I think of Leslie — Leslie is my wife. And the baby we’re having.”
Banish saw him with clearer eyes then. He watched the expression on Kearney’s face. He realized he was being turned down.
Kearney said, “I see what this job can take out of someone. What this life can do to a man. And I think we’ve got to get our start together first, Leslie and me. I can’t let go of that, sir. I’ve got to think of her at this point. Which is why I’m thinking maybe I’m not quite cut out for this, at least not right now. I don’t really know, I guess.”
Banish nodded. Kearney came closer still.
“But sir,” he said. Kearney raised his arm and extended his open hand out toward Banish. Banish looked at the palm, creased but unscarred, young, then up at Kearney standing there behind it and the expression on the kid’s face. He grasped Kearney’s hand and shook it firmly.
“Thank you, sir,” Kearney said. “Thank you.”
He went off then. Banish did not watch him walk away. Another pair of eyes he had opened and then plucked out. Banish smiled bitterly at the dirt. How many years was he removed from Kearney? Was it thirty? Christ. He wondered what it would take to have it all over again. To have the chance, to not make the mistakes. How many chances do you get, he wondered, beyond the one you’re issued? And how many had he already wasted? And exactly how many did he have left?
“Watson.”
Banish’s heart fell with the breathy voice calling to him from behind. He stood and went back into the van, past Fagin, to his chair.
“Mr. Ables,” Banish said. “Are you coming down now?”
“Where do you find God, Watson?”
Banish stopped. “Mr. Ables,” he said, “there is no time for that now. Are you coming down?”
“Where do you find God, Watson?”
“What?”
“Where you tremble. That is where you find Him, Watson. That is where He finds you. Where your flesh crawls and the hairs on the back of your neck sting. Where you go slack. Where you howl and are struck to your knees.”
“Mr. Ables,” Banish said, rubbing his face. “Mr. Ables, you do not sound well at all. I am being honest with you here.”