Mercy

Chapter 60

Peter Buckley slowly walked around the grounds as powerful recollections flooded over him. This was the land of his birth, literally. His mother, with the aid of a midwife, had delivered him on the second floor of their home here, a building that had been gutted by fire from an incendiary round fired by federal agents during their attack against the compound, but mostly against his father.

Buckley had only partially reconstructed the site. There was a large barn and the jail and the house where he had lived and a couple other buildings. And he had erected the high perimeter fence and the gate and a single guard tower.

When his parents had operated it, and hundreds of people lived there, the compound had multiple barns, cabins for the families, and a three-story bunkhouse for the singles. And there was the ever-important church where his father would preach his version of the Gospel, which was unlike any that one would hear in other houses of worship around the country. There was a small, spring-fed lake on the western edge of the property, a source of swimming and pleasure, and also used for drinking water.

They had crop fields and marijuana fields, and they raised cattle and hogs for slaughter and bred horses and mules for purposes of transportation and farming. And there was the facility where drugs were manufactured and then distributed through a carefully built and cultivated network.

Buckley had learned about that when he was eight and had snuck into the place; he’d been amazed at its illicit efficiency.

Back then the entire compound had been fenced in, with strategically placed guard towers. That was to keep outsiders out, and some of the Faithful, who had lost their way and their faith, from leaving until they could be reindoctrinated by other members who were expert at doing so.

And there was the graveyard, for the Faithful did indeed die, despite its leader proclaiming eternal life for all of them. The deaths were explained as the dead’s not being faithful enough, which terrified the rest into recommitting themselves ever more fiercely to Buckley’s father.

It was a brilliant setup, Buckley had to concede. And it would have continued unabated except for that fateful day, which he would never forget.

The federal agents had broadcast at them over their PA system for ten hours nonstop, ordering the Faithful to give up and come outside the compound. Buckley’s father had stood at the front gates and fiercely condemned this assault on their religious freedom, along with every other freedom granted by the Constitution — although Buckley Sr. had for years also proclaimed that the Faithful was its own country and the land under his feet no longer belonged to America. But when it suited him, he was more than happy to claim the benefits of U.S. law.

Then the armored vehicles had assembled at the gates, with the federal agents, in full riot gear and carrying assault weapons, arrayed behind them.

Buckley remembered the panic inside the compound that night, the young mothers with children screaming for his father to surrender. In the melee and confusion, Buckley had seen his father drag one young woman, who had been leading this effort, behind a building. He had not seen what had happened next but he had heard the gunshot. Then his father reappeared a few seconds later without the woman, and carried on leading his people against this government assault.

The next moment, the gates had been rammed and came down. And then several hells had broken loose. In the darkness the gunshots roared for hours. Explosions rocked the sky, flames and smoke and the screams of both terrified and dying people punctured the darkness as the chaos continued to play out.

Buckley, all of twelve years old, had grabbed a rifle and taken up his position in the barn’s hayloft. He had sighted through his scope and fired on the federal agents, hitting two but killing neither because he had aimed for their armored torsos and not their heads.

When it was all over, more than two dozen of the Faithful lay dead, and his father had suffered multiple gunshot wounds. They arrested the bleeding Buckley Sr., who was still clutching empty pistols in each of his hands. It was a heroic sight, Buckley thought, the leader fighting with everything he had right to the last.

Only three federal agents lay dead, a product of their superior training, weaponry, and body armor, and the Faithful’s inability to shoot straight. Buckley had always assumed that his father had killed all three. He was an excellent shot. Buckley had always felt shame that he had failed to kill a single one of them.

The Faithful had either been arrested or, in the case of the mothers and their children, dispersed around the country to begin new lives without the faith. Buckley and his siblings had been placed with family members who had never subscribed to the doctrine of their parents. The time with his parents had been the best of Buckley’s life. The time right after, the worst. When he had turned eighteen, Buckley had worked hard to scrape together enough money to bring his siblings to live with him. He had leased a house not too distant from here, and Buckley took it upon himself to raise them in a way that was reflective of their parents’ beliefs. But, to no avail. The moment his sisters had turned eighteen, they had fled, never to be seen again. His brothers had grown up to be petty and unsuccessful criminals, slaves to the booze and the drugs and the women who exploited them.

And then only Buckley had been left. Freed of his familial obligations, he had set out building his personal empire. He had done it with a single-minded focus that allowed him to outsmart even those smarter than himself because he simply wanted it more. He outworked everyone because he knew what it was like to lose everything. And that fear burned through him every minute of every day and powered him like a nuclear core did an aircraft carrier.

And now he was here. For something truly monumental. This had gone far beyond merely avenging his sad sack brother’s death. This was taking on the federal government and finally holding them to account for destroying his family.

An eye for an eye was a remnant of a savage culture, though it was espoused in pretty much every book of religion there was. But it fit his situation perfectly. What he would accomplish here would not change the world, he knew. But it would make the unjust death of his father and his way of life feel suitably avenged.

Buckley was dressed in jeans, a sweater, a tan hunter’s jacket, and Wellington boots, for the ground was muddy after recent rains. He walked the perimeter of the new fencing, nodding to the guards in the tower who were armed with AR-15s and watched the land out to the horizon for threats. The place was not thriving with hundreds of people as it had in the past. Other than himself and some select associates, the only other people here were Britt Spector and one other person. Perhaps, for his plan to work, the most critical person of all.

Buckley opened the door to one building that had a sign out front reading, simply, JAIL. Even among the Faithful you had those who needed to be punished, and this was where they had performed their penance. His father had been a stickler on that. Rule violators needed to be made examples of. That was one reason Buckley had rebuilt it, as just a symbol. However, he had never expected to actually use it.

But now, this building housed Carol Blum.