Cause of Death

16

I don’t exactly wake up because I haven’t been asleep, as such.

I suppose the significant wattage or amperage or voltage — whatever a Taser uses to wallop you — has to produce confusion and drowse. In addition to sticking a smoking poker directly into your kidneys. The pain continues to prowl.

I have a vague memory of being force marched inside one of the residences and then the rest is a blank. I now find myself seated in a folding chair. I blink and look around the room, wood paneled, set up like a small meeting hall, à la the Lions Club. There are about ten people or so present, mostly men, along with two extremely pregnant women. The men wear casual clothing, work shirts or sweaters and jeans, slacks or jogging pants. The women are in dark-colored, high-neck dresses. Their hairstyles are identical: pulled back and elaborately braided. One is blond, the other brunette. Two men have assault rifles, slung muzzle down. Their arms are wrapped around them the way a toddler cuddles his stuffed bunny.

A long table sits in the front — I think of The Last Supper — and at it are three men. In the center is Skinny Santa. The reverend is at the table too, along with another man, gaunt, with a beard like Abraham Lincoln’s.

As the reverend whispers to him, Santa studies me like he might a raccoon that could be rabid. In front of him are my wallet, my phone and the policeman’s gun.

I’m flanked by two very large, unsmiling men, both of whom resemble hunters or war-seasoned soldiers. My impression is that they would very much like for me to try to escape.

I look around the room again. The light is dim but as I focus I begin to make out what’s on the wall.

It’s a map of the United States, a large one, and in a dozen places are pinned news articles.

Some of the headlines are:

With shock, I realize that two of the tragedies — the cleric’s murder and the school shooting — were the events Terry Garner cited as examples of “normal” killings.

There also are framed photographs of Santa and the other men at the table. Their names are printed on the frames. Santa is Brother Cyrus. The man of the cloth is Reverend Mike. The Abe Lincoln character is Brother Zeke.

Cyrus seems nearly amused. “What brings you out here, Talbot?”

Is Wexler part of this outfit?

Or am I just the victim of extremely bad luck?

“I was following someone down the dirt road by the service gate. I thought he might’ve come here. Who are you?”

“Just a group of concerned citizens.”

His sincerity is chilling.

I scoff. “Concerned citizens... A white supremacist militia?”

Cyrus sighs. “Labels, labels, labels...”

I nod at the map. “You’re responsible for all of these?”

Zeke says, “In a way. We’d prefer to do the work ourselves but... you get caught, you go to jail. The law’s too smart now. We’ve refined a new approach. The internet.”

Cyrus takes over. “There are so many lost souls out there and, no surprise, many of ’em aren’t the sharpest. You post on some of the underground platforms, suggest somebody should shoot up a mosque, throw the idea out on the water. Eventually there’ll be some fool who’ll do it. You post about the virtues of blowing up a homosexual center, and the seed is planted. And then you close down your account and open up a new one, with proxies in Bulgaria. Or wherever.

“So,” he goes on, “looking for someone who scraped your car? That wasn’t exactly the truth?”

“He murdered my wife.”

Because whatever Detective Bragg or anyone else might think, I did not.

The men at the Last Supper table share glances. Cyrus asks, “And who is he?”

“His name’s Marcus Wexler. He lives or’s staying near here.”

Cyrus regards the room. Heads shake in the negative. “Don’t know any Wexler. And I can guarantee he didn’t kill Patience.”

He knows her name? What on earth is going on?

“That was me,” Reverend Mike says, somewhat proudly.

“He’s the best rifle shot we’ve got,” Zeke says, “and we have got some good ones among us, you should believe that.”

I spring forward, lunging toward the reverend. I get only two feet before I am returned to my seat instantly. The pain swells then diminishes, as I think: I got it so appallingly wrong. Wexler was her lover — that’s why he came to the funeral: to mourn, just like I was doing. But he didn’t murder her.

“Why?” I whisper.

Cyrus mutters, “Patience turned Rose Anne against us.”

“Rose Anne?”

“My third wife.”

She may have been third in number, but I didn’t doubt that the other two were not divorced spouses. They might have been the braided women present in this very room.

His face grows dark. He’s a man with a temper, not far below the surface. “Your wife met Rose Anne and they became friendly. Rose Anne talked about some of what we’re up to, and that was most unwise of her. Your wife was trying to convince her to leave the community and talk to the police. That’s punishable by death. We had to send Rose Anne to the river.”

“Send her to... That was the girl who was drowned.”

“She had to pay. And your wife too. But we couldn’t have two drownings. That’d be suspicious. So we arranged the accident on Palmer Mountain.”

I look over to the reverend. “You broke her neck. She didn’t die in the crash.”

The man shrugs, as if saying: I had to. Obviously.

“And Todd Stoltz?”

“Oh, now, that sad sack of a boy? He wanted into the community. And we needed a deer for the accident. But, fact is, he turned out to be a particularly unpleasant human being. Didn’t truly subscribe to our values, you might say. And not too bright. We were afraid he’d talk when he shouldn’t. Better off he’s gone.”

“And you’re trying to frame me for it. You broke into my house, saw my father’s rifle and planted those cartridges in my garage — the same caliber. You stole the pipe from my backyard, the one you used to kill Stoltz... But your whole point was to make it look like an accident.”

Cyrus sneers. “Was the plan. Until that asshole from the Public Safety Office — Bragg — started poking around. In case he decided it wasn’t so accidental after all, we needed insurance, and that was you.”

“The police’ll find the bullet. They’ll know it didn’t come from my rifle.”

“Naw,” Reverend Mike said dismissingly. “We already got it. Metal detector.”

They must wonder why I close my eyes and laugh. Then I shake my head. “How am I supposed to kill myself?”

Cyrus smiles, maybe surprised I’ve already deduced what he has in store for me — though what other possible fate would there be for me? Another “accident” or a straight murder would draw far too much attention.

Cyrus and Zeke confer. I can’t hear them. “Think you’ll go back to Palmer Mountain and...” He nods down to the revolver on the table in front of him.

Zeke says, “Me and Evan and—” He looks over the crowd. “You, Charles.”

“Yessir.” A bulky man in overalls sits to attention.

Cyrus: “I want this over and done as—”

It’s then that the house is shaken by a series of huge explosions from upstairs. We are in the cellar, it seems. Everyone cringes and ducks, including me.

“They’re coming!” The voice is in the hallway.

Cyrus shouts, “Defense!”

Pistols appear in many hands. Both pregnant women are armed, and the men with the assault rifles unsling them, then pull back slides or work levers with loud snaps.

Cyrus leads most of the others out the door. He calls over his shoulder to Reverend Mike and one of my minders. “Stay with him. We might need a hostage.”

Gunshots sound overhead. Shouts, screams. I can detect an acrid chemical smoke.

There is then a loud bang in the hallway outside the meeting room and my minder pulls a gun and turns. As he does, he offers me an unobstructed view of his throat. Using every leaf-raking, branch-sawing, wallboard-hefting muscle in my body, I drive my fist directly into that soft flesh.

He sags, choking, scrabbling backward. I pick up the gun he’s dropped but since it’s complicated — a semiautomatic — I shove it in my pocket and leap for the Last Supper table, where the simpler police revolver sits. Reverend Mike does the same.

I win.

As I lift the gun he kicks a chair my way. It bangs painfully against my shin. He turns and pushes through a small door behind the table. I go after him and burst into what turns out to be a long, dim tunnel. Apparently, an escape route. Ignoring the Taser pain, I run fast after him. It occurs to me that he might have a gun too — maybe he went after Detective Nichols’s pistol solely to keep it out of my hands — but if he is armed, I don’t care. I was dead five minutes ago. Every moment is now a gift and even if he shoots me I’ll finish him. Pax’s murderer will die.

He is older and heavier and I am gaining. Finally he turns right and sprints, gasping, down a straightaway toward a door to the outside. I can see, through a small glass window, brush and trees. He reaches it and goes for the latch.

“Stop!” I order.

He does, lifting his arms. He turns, and I walk close to him. I point the gun at his head.

The reverend’s dark eyes scan me. His hands lower slowly. A scoffing laugh trips from his lips. “You shoot me! I’m unarmed. That’s murder. You’ll go away for life, and I don’t think you’re the sort that’d do very well in prison. I’m going out that door and I know for God’s fact that you’re not going to kill me in cold blood.”

He turns his back to me and reaches for the latch again.

I cock the gun as I practiced and pull the trigger. The sound is astonishing.

But because I’ve been partially deafened by the first shot the second one is considerably quieter.