“Jesus, no,” Knox muttered. He slumped low in his seat, just letting his eyes peer above the level of the door.
“I think most of them went home,” Omar said. “They got a short attention span, you know, Madonna farts in Hollywood and they’ve got to go cover it.”
The road was empty of any living thing except for a couple of cur dogs panting in the shade of some forsythia. Omar parked in his carport. Knox seemed spooked by the idea that reporters might be lurking around, and he continued to slump in the passenger seat until he got out, and then kept his head down as he left the car and collected his duffel from the trunk.
Wilona wasn’t home, and Omar remembered that this was the date for her afternoon tea with Ms. LaGrande. Omar showed Knox through Wilona’s sewing room to the bedroom that Omar’s son David had occupied until he left for LSU. “Thanks, Sheriff,” he said. “This’ll do fine.”
“Would you like a beer?” Omar asked. “Co-Cola? Lemonade?”
“Coke would be good,” Knox said. He stowed his duffel under David’s narrow bed. Omar got Knox a Coke and himself a beer. He sat on the sofa in the living room, and Knox sat crosslegged on the floor in front of him. He looked down the length of the building, through Wilona’s sewing room to his own bedroom.
“Why do they build ’em like this?” he asked. “Long and narrow, all the rooms in a row?”
“Ventilation,” Omar said. “A shotgun home was built so that any breeze would blow through all the rooms.”
“But now you’ve got air-conditioning.”
“Yep.” Omar sipped his Silver Bullet. Knox fidgeted with his Coke, making a continuous ring of ice against the glass.
“I’m curious,” Omar said. “The Grand Wizard didn’t really have a chance to tell me where your outfit is based.”
Knox turned his staring green eyes on Omar. “My action group formed in Detroit,” Knox said. “Most of us are in the West, I guess. Montana, Oregon, Washington State. But there’s no particular place we meet—we all travel a lot, and we only get together on special occasions.”
“A traveling Klan?” Omar smiled thinly to cover his unease.
He was beginning to feel a degree of anxiety about his guest. “You all salesmen or something?” he asked. Knox shook his head. “Not like you mean. I mean we all recruit, yeah, but we travel because we’re all warriors in the cause. See, I don’t know many other Crusaders—I’ve only met a handful. I only know the ones in my action group—that’s my cell. That way if one of us is an informer, he can only betray so many.”
“Uh-huh,” Omar said. He sipped his beer while alarms clattered through his mind. He didn’t like what he was hearing.
“You’re a police officer, right?” Knox said. “So you know how it is that serial killers get away with what they do.”
Omar thought about it. “You mean that there’s no connection—” he began.
“Right. They kill perfect strangers. There’s nothing to link the killers and their victims.” 154 Walter J. Williams
“Uh-huh.” Omar said again. He narrowed his eyes, tried to think his way out of this. Cocksucker set me up, he thought.
“Just apply that principle to the revolution,” Knox said. “That’s all the Crusaders National are doing. You don’t do anything in your own area, or to anyone who knows you.” He looked up. “Say, did you ever read Hunter!” Knox said.
“Heard about it,” Omar said, still thinking. He carefully put his beer down on the side table.
“Hunter’s a great book. Tells exactly how to do it,” Knox said. “Exactly how to overthrow ZOG and put Aryans back in charge again. It’s just about this one guy… and all he does is travel around, and he kills nigger leaders and kike politicians and queers and black men who fuck white women. And he’s so inspirational, see, that soon other people follow his example.” Set me up, Omar thought. That fucking bondsman bastard.
Knox’s face glowed with enthusiasm. “ZOG doesn’t know how to fight them. Because they’re not organized, they’re just people doing what’s right. If they catch one, he can’t help them, ’cause he doesn’t know the others. Now the Crusaders National are a little more organized than that, but not much. We use codes to communicate, and the Internet. And we meet only to plan our actions and carry them out, see… you know, find a bank in some little town—”
Omar moved. He lunged off the couch and slammed Knox in the breastbone with the palm of his hand. Knox’s eyes widened in shock as he went over on his back. Coke splashed over the floor.
“Down!” Omar shouted. “Down on your face!”
Ice skiddered across the wooden floor. Knox was on his back with his legs still half-locked in the crosslegged position. Fabric tore as Omar grabbed his shirt and rolled him over onto his face.
“Arms straight out!” Omar said. He could feel sweat popping out on his face. He straddled Knox and slammed him in between the shoulder blades to keep him on the floor.
“What—?” Knox began.
“Just shut up!” Omar said. “Put your arms straight out!”
Knox obeyed. “I didn’t do nothing, man,” he said. Omar began patting him down. He found a knife in a sheath inside Knox’s jeans on the right side, so that it would be invisible till he drew it, and a little snubnosed .38 special in an ankle holster. Omar stood up, looked at the five bullets in the cylinder. Knox was carrying it loaded. Omar cocked the pistol and pointed it at the back of Knox’s head.
“Take your pants off,” he said.
Knox twisted his head to stare at Omar in alarm. “Hey!” he said. “You think I’m queer or something?” Fear made his voice crack. “I’m not a queer! I hate queers!”
“I want to find out if you’re wearing a wire,” Omar said. “Do it or I blow your fucking head off.” Knox put his hands on his belt, then hesitated.
Sweat slid off Omar’s nose, pattered on the floor. “This is my parish,” he reminded, “and you can disappear into the bayou real easy.”
Knox squirmed on the floor as he drew his jeans as far down as his boots would permit. Beneath the jeans were worn boxer shorts. Omar knelt and carefully felt Knox’s crotch. Knox straightened and gave a little gasp at the touch, but did not protest. Omar could detect no electronics.
“Right,” he said, stepping back and raising the pistol again. “Now I want you to crawl toward the bedroom.”
“I’m not an informer,” Knox gasped. “I’m not a race-traitor. I don’t know who told you different, but—” Omar swiped with his sleeve at the sweat that poured down his face. “Shut up and do as I say,” he said. Still aiming the pistol, he walked behind Knox as Knox crawled into David’s room. The boy’s jeans were still down around his knees. Omar had Knox lie facedown in the corner while he dumped out Knox’s duffel on the bed. He found some clothing, a zipped case of toiletries, a laptop computer in its original foam packing held together by duct tape, some books and magazines, including well-worn copies of Hunter, Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and The Turner Diaries, ammunition, a 9mm Beretta, and a pump shotgun with a folding stock and pistol grip—disassembled, but it could have been put in working order in seconds.
“I can explain, you know?” Knox said.
Omar sat on the bed and contemplated the weapons laid out before him. The Grand Wizard, he thought, had set him up. He’d got jealous of Omar’s prominence in the organization, was afraid that Omar might set up his own Klan. It had been the Grand Wizard who had sent this kid to Spottswood Parish to talk about bank robbery and sedition. Maybe even rob the bank and claim Omar as an accomplice. Well, Omar thought. The Grand Wizard’s plan just got derailed.