Myrmidon

CHAPTER EIGHT

“If it’s all the same, Mr. Belcher, I’d just as soon stay out here in the open,” Chapel said. He looked up at the sky and the drone that circled overhead.

“You don’t trust me,” Belcher said with a laugh.

“I’m afraid that feeling is mutual. And I doubt there’s much either of us can do to change it though I hope we can come to some kind of understanding.”

Belcher laughed again. “Andre, go get Charlie out of that truck. Looks like Agent Chapel here isn’t going to be sampling our hospitality today.”

Andre ran back to the pickup, which was parked in front of a house across the way. Its previously unseen occupant jumped down even before Andre could summon him. Charlie, who had been driving the pickup since they left the gate, was older than Andre but not much. He was, however, nearly twice the size of the boy with the mustache tattoo. He was as broad through the shoulders as a wrestler and as tall as a basketball player. His head was shaved, all the better to show the ink inscribed on every square inch of his scalp. Charlie had an image of his own skull tattooed on his face and head and neck, the ink disappearing down into the collar of the polo shirt he wore, then reappearing to cover both his arms down to the tips of his fingers. The sleeves didn’t show his skeleton, though—instead they were crowded with dozens of swastikas, eagles, daggers, and roses with bloody thorns. Both of his elbows were covered in elaborate spiderwebs, and his hands were inscribed with words Chapel couldn’t quite read from that distance. Only his eyes, his teeth, and the wedding ring he wore broke the pattern of ink.

Charlie didn’t seem to be armed. Maybe his appearance was supposed to be intimidating enough.

“In Illinois, about twelve years ago, Charlie there broke a man’s pelvis with his bare hands. You know how hard it is to break a healthy man’s pelvis?” Belcher asked, leaning close to almost whisper in Chapel’s ear.

Chapel did know, actually. He’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat techniques and knew all about such things. He did not answer Belcher’s question, though.

“Did his bit in a federal prison. No time off for good behavior, either. Look at him. An ex-con with that amount of ink. Anywhere else in the country, Charlie would have been on a very short road. He would have been despised every place he went, spat on, probably gotten into one fight too many and killed somebody if he weren’t killed himself.”

Chapel turned to look at Belcher’s face.

“Here, though,” Belcher went on, “here you should see him, with his family. He’s got a pretty little wife he could probably pick up with one hand. She’d giggle if he did that, not scream. They have two of the cutest babies. You see him with them, and he’s the gentlest, most loving thing in God’s creation. You’ve seen Andre’s tattoo. He’s still got some kind of anger in him, that boy. A fire that’s never going to go out. Here, he has a chance to do meaningful work. Maybe make something of himself.”

“You took them in,” Chapel said. “Gave them another chance.”

“That’s right,” Belcher said, nodding.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t write to the Pope and nominate you for canonization,” Chapel said because he couldn’t stop himself. “But—oh—you wouldn’t want that anyway. The Pope’s Catholic, after all. One of the many kinds of people in the world you hate.”

Belcher grinned, but it was a very strange kind of grin. It didn’t reach his eyes, for one thing. Chapel had been trained to read body language and facial gestures, and he knew the grin was strictly for his benefit—a performance, an act. He expected to read anger in Belcher’s eyes, but it wasn’t there. The man was hiding something, not just from Chapel, not just from anyone else who might be watching, but from himself. Chapel couldn’t get a good read on the man. Maybe that was intentional.

“I didn’t come here to convert to your cause,” Chapel said. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak plainly.”

“Out here in the West, we consider that a virtue,” Belcher replied.

Chapel nodded. “Okay, then. I need to speak to you, out of earshot of your soldiers there. I need to talk to you about Ygor Favorov. And the—give or take—three thousand assault rifles he sold you over the last ten years.”

“I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Belcher said. Chapel opened his mouth to speak again, but Belcher held up his free hand for silence. “But I’m happy to talk about anything you like. No harm in jawing, as my father used to say.”