Heart of the Assassin

CHAPTER 37

"Look, Mama, Elvis is shaking," said Steve, mimicking the King's movements.

Betty Grassley looked up and Steve was right, the cloud sculpture of Elvis was moving his hips, a cloud sculpture of the young Elvis, slim and sexy in rolled blue jeans and a dark shirt, floating five thousand feet above Graceland, the light breeze animating him.

Steve shook his hips like Elvis, the fake sideburns he had bought in the gift shop curling slightly from his pink cheeks. The black pompadour was his own. He wore his favorite jumpsuit, the red, white and blue bicentennial version that Elvis had worn for the first time at the Charlotte Coliseum, March 26, 1976. Steve had been born on March 26, and Betty considered it a sign from God.

Two blue-haired ladies beamed as Steve shimmied. "He's got the moves," one said.

"He's nine years old and consecrated in the blood," said Betty. "Elvis lullabies were the only thing that put him right to sleep."

"Amen," said the two ladies.

Betty sat down on one of the many benches in the Meditation Garden while Steve stared up at the sculpture in the clear blue Memphis sky. Her feet hurt. She waitressed six days a week, and on the seventh day she went to Graceland. There was a beautiful limestone chapel on the grounds, but that was booked up for years with weddings. No, she considered the whole thirteen-acre site to be one big church, and the Meditation Garden was where she liked to pray. Steve liked the Jungle Room and the two lions beside the main gate, but there was nothing like sitting here in the open air, smelling the blooming jasmine. Most of the tourists stayed in the Heartbreak Hotel across the street; they congregated around the crypts where Elvis's mama and daddy, Gladys and Vernon, were buried, but she preferred this spot, the most tranquil place in the garden.

She quietly slipped off her shoes, massaged her arches as she listened to Elvis singing "How Great Thou Art," one of her favorite hymns.

Presidente Argusto guided his JX light bomber into a vast, puffy white cumulus cloud over southern Tennessee. He glanced at the display on his windscreen, noted his precise position, accelerating now, leaving his two wingmen behind. This was to be his mission, and his alone. Mano a mano, a killing stroke to avenge the insults visited on him and Aztlan, a harsh lesson but a necessary one. The murder of his oil minister had been bad enough, but now these Belt peons had blown apart an Aztlan cruise ship, killing almost everyone on board. The Aztlan people demanded vengeance and Argusto was more than happy to oblige.

He delighted at the centrifugal pressure as he banked sharply-even in his G-suit he could feel his chest pressing toward his spine as the JX surged forward. Magnificent aircraft. Chinese stealth design, Swiss avionics, Aztlan laser-guided missiles. Invisible, fast and deadly.

They had left from the El Paso airfield, he and his wingmen, headed off across the Gulf as though on a normal training mission. Fifty miles off New Orleans they had dropped into stealth mode, depending on the mission control center outside Tenochtitlan to take the helm and zigzag them through the overlapping maze of Belt radar installations. If he wanted, the digital display on his windscreen would reveal the current position of every plane in the Aztlan air armada, and mission control could deploy each of them as needed.

The integrated control system was a force multiplier-Argusto's tactics against the Central American Union had been brilliant, but it had been the Nigerian integrated system that allowed him to destroy the enemy's air defenses within the first twenty minutes of the war. Not that Argusto feared being intercepted by the decrepit Belt fighters, or even the new Russian antiaircraft missile systems President Raynaud had installed around key sites. The JX could take care of itself. It was the surprise that mattered to Argusto. Let the Belt peons realize that at any moment, day or night, their world could be set ablaze. Let them understand their position in the new world order.

Argusto blasted out of the cottony cumulus cloud, the cockpit nearly silent, only the faint whoosh of air rushing past as he headed into the deep blue sky. From the ground the plane would be a flash of light, a flare of sunlight.

Morales had been appalled when Argusto informed him what he intended. The secretary of state begged him to reconsider, saying the attack would inflame the Belt beyond all reason. What did he call it? "A gross overreaction," mio presidente. Por favor, por favor. Argusto had expected such a reaction from Morales; it was the response of his air marshal, Bettencourt, that had surprised him. Bettencourt counseled against the presidente himself leading the attack, arguing that he was too valuable to the empire, his loss in combat disastrous to the nation. Argusto had heard the marshal out, then asked him a simple question: Do you doubt the superiority of your aircraft, or do you doubt the skill of your presidente? Bettencourt had stepped back from the precipice and saluted.

Radar confirmed Graceland seventeen miles away. What Morales hadn't appreciated was that it was precisely because of Graceland's spiritual and cultural significance that it had to be taken out. Kill the heroes and you kill the soul of a nation. Twelve miles. The vibration surrounding him was pure music, a symphony of power overwhelming everything in its path. Five miles. He shot directly into a rockabilly Elvis cloud sculpture floating above the shrine, slightly roiling the interior. Two miles. He burst into the sunlight, bathed in glory, the tears of Huitzilopochtli, god of the sun, god of war. At the peak of his acceleration, Argusto released the bomb…the egg of death.

Steve arched his back slightly, the nine-year-old a little confused as he watched the cloud sculpture. "Mama?"

Last week Betty's best customer had given her two tickets to the special prayer service that Pastor Malcolm Crews led on the south lawn. She and Steve had shown up at dawn, shown up in their Sunday best, and the line stretched for a half mile. Even Jinx Raynaud, the first lady, was there. Although she didn't have to wait in line, of course. It even looked to Betty like the first lady had spotted Steve's white jumpsuit and smiled, but she couldn't be sure.

The service, on the anniversary of Elvis's death, was focused on resurrection and renewal. Pastor Crews stalked the stage, white suit gleaming in the August sunshine. He said Elvis wasn't dead, but was seated at the right hand of God, up there with all the saints, a Tennessee boy made good. One of God's favorites. God loves us all, Pastor Crews said, but who could blame him for loving Elvis just a little bit more than the rest of us? The crowd laughed, applauded so hard it sounded like a thunderstorm on Judgment Day. He had preached for five hours straight, people fainting, people talking in tongues, people jerk-dancing in the aisles while the ushers tried to calm them down.

Betty had bought Steve a Hawaiian Punch snow cone; he made a mess of it on his white jumpsuit, but she didn't care. The stains would wash out, that's what she always told herself. Pastor Crews said this was a time of great tribulation, the big show, brothers and sisters, the moment when the chosen will be separated. God's lambs will enter into heaven and the goats will be slaughtered… There's gonna be barbecue in heaven, Crews had shouted, best barbecue you ever ate, and the crowd roared with laughter.

Steve swiveled his hips, the white cape of his jumpsuit swaying with him as he played an invisible guitar. Sometimes, when she looked at him, Betty could see the King himself, reborn. He suddenly stopped playing, his hands falling to his sides as he looked up.

Today is August sixteen, brothers and sisters, Crews had said at the sermon last week. The unbelievers will tell you that Elvis died on this day, but we know better, don't we? Shouts of agreement. Testifying. Elvis could no more die than you or I, said Crews. He's merely gone ahead, to set a place at the table for us. The band kicked in with "Are You Lonesome Tonight" and the whole crowd sang along, Pastor Crews too. Resurrection Day, he kept saying, it's a comin', can't you feel it, brothers and sisters?

Betty could certainly feel a change coming, and not a minute too soon. She was tired. Not just tired of working the long hours, and hardly enough time for Steve, she was tired of the news, bad news added to bad news, layoffs and payoffs, and damn Aztlan beating at the door, heathens demanding land that God gave to the Belt. Those Muslims in the Republic were looking less like the Antichrist, and more like kinfolk all the time. Just like Pastor Crews said.

A group of tourists stood staring at the sky, Atlanta people from the fancy-pants look of them. One of them pointed, jabbing his finger. You'd think they had never seen a cloud sculpture before. Not that Graceland's Elvis wasn't better than anything they had in the big city, but still, they should have some respect. This wasn't some tourist trap. This was where Elvis had lived and died, where he rested his weary head when the world got too heavy for him. This was hallowed ground.

Betty tried to slip her shoes back on, but her feet had swollen. She wiggled her toes in the cool grass, enjoying the sensation. She liked to imagine Elvis walking on this grass, this very same grass, barefoot, just like her, 'cause Lord knows, he carried his own burdens, that man did. She wiped her eyes, grateful to be here in this blessed spot, thanking God for this moment.

"Mama?" Steve pointed at the sky. "Mama, what's happening?"

Something…something had busted out of Elvis's chest, stirring the cloud sculpture beyond its ability to maintain itself. Betty shielded her eyes with her hand.

Steve scampered beside her, held on to her hip. "What…what is it?"

Betty squinted up at the sky. Yes…she could make it out now. An airplane. Someone was going to be in big trouble for disturbing Elvis… She sucked in a breath as the plane released a silvery egg. No, not an egg.

People walked quickly from the Meditation Garden, started running.

"Mama?"

"Hush, now." Betty picked Steve up in her arms, felt him warm against her, hair smelling sweet with his boy sweat. "It's all right. Everything's fine."

Steve craned his head, trying to get a better look at the plane, but Betty kept him turned away, gently bouncing him like she did when he was a baby. Lord, that boy could eat.

He put his arms around her neck. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She ran her hand through his hair, the bomb hurtling right toward them, so close now she could practically read the serial number on the devilish thing. "I just love you, child, that's all."