“That’s what you’re going to be, Jack Gene,” a strange voice said. “Very dead.”
Jesse was already in the firing position, and he swiveled his head to the left to see what was going on. Phil Partain, his face very red, stood ten yards beyond Coldwater, a heavy revolver in his hand. It was pointed at the pastor’s middle.
“I’ve had enough,” Partain said. “You won’t give me any responsibility; you give me shit work to do, and there’s no respect for me in this crowd.” He thumbed the hammer back.
Jesse realized he was the only other person with a firearm. Without moving his feet, he turned his upper body toward Partain and put a round into the man’s right shoulder. Partain’s weapon fired wild, but he held onto it; he spun around and fell face-down, the pistol still in his hand. He began struggling to get up.
Coldwater reached out and took Jesse’s pistol. He walked the few paces to where Partain lay and stepped on his gun hand. “Well, Phil, you’ve made a big mistake, haven’t you?”
“Please, Jack Gene,” Partain squealed, “don’t hurt me. I’ll do good, I’ll do right by you. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I want you to die, Phil,” Coldwater said, then fired one round into the back of the man’s head. Partain convulsed, then lay still.
“Jesus,” Jesse said. He had shot to wound, but Coldwater had simply executed the man.
“That was a nice shot, Jesse,” Coldwater said calmly, turning away from Partain’s corpse. “Where were you aiming?”
“At his bellybutton, I think,” Jesse replied. “I hardly thought about it, I just fired.”
“You were high and to the left, but of course, you weren’t in position, and you didn’t have much time. I thank you.” He clapped Jesse on the back.
“Is he dead?” Jesse asked.
Casey walked over to the body and looked at it. “You bet he is.” He bent over, picked up Partain’s pistol and wiped the dirt from it. “It’s just as well; Phil was at the end of his usefulness.”
“Well, I guess we don’t have to call the cops,” Jesse said.
Coldwater laughed aloud. “I guess not. Pat, get rid of that,” he said, nodding at Partain’s body.
“Toss me that blanket, Jesse,” Casey said.
Jesse picked up the blanket he’d been firing from and took it to Casey.
“Open the trunk, there, will you?”
Jesse opened the trunk, then watched as Casey rolled Partain’s body into the blanket.
“Give me a hand?”
He helped Casey lift the corpse into the trunk of Casey’s car.
Casey closed the lid and turned to Jesse. “No need to mention this to anybody,” he said.
“Just forget it happened,” Coldwater chimed in. “You’ve removed a nuisance from our midst, not to mention saving our lives, and I’m grateful to you, Jesse.”
Jesse couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Well, I think that’s enough shooting for one morning,” Coldwater said, stretching and yawning. “You fellows want some lunch?”
“Sure, Jack Gene,” Casey said. “You hungry, Jesse?”
“I’m not sure,” Jesse replied.
He and Casey got into Casey’s car and followed Coldwater up the mountain to his house.
It was as if they had been expected; the kitchen table was set, and food prepared. Jesse sat down with the two men and had some soup, while they talked of hunting, but he could not forget that Phil Partain’s dead body was outside, in the trunk of Pat Casey’s car. It came home to Jesse, as never before, that if he made a mistake with these people he would be dead very quickly.
On the way home he could not get over the feeling that the incident had been orchestrated to test him and that he had passed.
Chapter 33
Jesse had been regularly attending Sunday morning services at the First Church, and Jack Gene Coldwater’s sermons had become more and more apocalyptic. He noticed, too, that outsiders never heard these sermons, because guards, in the person of ushers, were posted at the doors and around the building. On one occasion he had seen a man using electronic debugging equipment around the pulpit before a service.
Coldwater’s references were, increasingly, indicating a siege mentality, along with a strong suspicion of any stranger in town. Nobody that Jesse knew of had come to live in the town from outside since his own arrival. The plant had not employed any new people, though he was quite certain that Coldwater had had nothing to do with that — Herman Muller was far too independent to let anyone dictate any policy to him.
On the Sunday before Christmas Coldwater seemed very disturbed during his sermon, and he made repeated references to “last days” and quoted extensively from Revelations. His audience was more than rapt; they were, literally, on the edge of their seats, and Jesse tried to exhibit the same concentration.
When the service ended, Pat Casey approached him. “Jesse, Jack Gene would like you to have Sunday lunch with him.” He turned to Jenny. “You and the girl go on home; I’ll bring Jesse later.”
Jesse turned to see if that was all right with Jenny, but she had already headed toward her car, Carey in tow. “Sure, Pat, I’d be honored,” he said. He followed Casey around the corner of the building and found Coldwater waiting for them in his Mercedes.
Lunch was roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, fresh vegetables and apple pie, accompanied by a bottle of California red wine that Jesse reckoned was expensive, called Opus One. He enjoyed the food, but only the most perfunctory conversation took place, with Coldwater rambling on about the weather and Casey trying, unsuccessfully, to start a conversation about college football.
When they had finished lunch, Coldwater stood. “Jesse, you’re one of us, now, and it’s time you knew some things. Come with me.” The three men got back into the Mercedes, and Coldwater drove to the top of the mountain.
It was the first time Jesse had been there, and he was surprised at what he saw. They passed through solid-looking gates and a maze of concrete forms that required a car to make three ninety-degree turns before entering what turned out to be a sort of compound at the mountaintop. There were a number of small buildings scattered about four or five acres of quite flat land, and several pieces of heavy construction equipment were scattered about. One very large stone building had an official air about it, like a government building. Coldwater parked in front of this building and motioned for Jesse to follow him.
Jesse got out of the car and took in the facade. It was built of rectangular slabs of cut stone and had high, narrow windows along its front and sides.
Coldwater spoke up. “What you see here is the last refuge of my people and me,” he said solemnly. “The world is against us, we know that; our activities are commissioned by God himself, but the government of this country is opposed to our beliefs. Government money, raised from exorbitant taxes, is spent on abortions for our African-American and Hispanic friends.” His descriptions of these groups were sarcastic. “They send agents to spy on us, to try and learn the source of our funds and our various activities. We have dealt with these people before, and, no doubt, we will again. Of course, we mean to survive, but should we have to fight we will make a stand like no one has ever seen in this country.” He turned to Jesse. “You were in the construction business, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Jesse replied.
“Then I think you will find this structure interesting. Come inside.” Coldwater led the way to the front doors and let them inside with a large key, then went to a switchbox and flipped several switches.
Jesse found himself in an entrance hall, oddly narrow and ending only a few feet away in a concrete wall. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he put a hand on the wall next to him. It was made of long blocks of concrete, and he suddenly understood that what he had thought was an exterior of cut stone was really the ends of these blocks. He was stunned. This meant that the walls of this building consisted of an eight-foot thickness of reinforced concrete.