that could have resulted in the death penalty. For his cooperation, he got life without the possibility of parole. Boone’s case was more difficult, even though Wannamaker rolled on him, and he wound up pleading to conspiracy to commit murder with a negotiated fifteen-year sentence, to avoid a trial on first-degree murder.
* * *
—
Old John Oxford of the American National Militia called in October.
“I see you killed the killer,” he said.
“And?”
“He got what was coming to him. I wanted to let you know that after you talked to David Aline, we had some members keeping an eye on him—he knew about it in advance, we weren’t spying. And sure enough, they picked up some FBI attention. I don’t know exactly how you identified him and I’m not very interested in finding out. What happened, though, is that it created a change in our whole organization.”
“Do tell.”
“Yes. We’re going to follow the model of the Irish Sinn Féin party. Do you know about them?
Lucas said, “I can Wiki it.”
“They were closely tied to the IRA, but they were a legal aboveground party, while the IRA stayed underground. We’re going to create an aboveground, open party and begin aboveground advocacy, while we also continue with the underground movement. Since you somehow figured out David, he and his cell will be joining me and my cell in the over-ground group.”
“I have to tell you, John, I don’t think you’ll get a warm reception. People may cut up the government, but basically, they like it. They support it. And you essentially want to get rid of it. Try getting rid of Social Security and Medicare and you’ll get your heads handed to you.”
“Watch,” Oxford said. “We’ve got too many idiots in high office, spending money that we don’t have. The new culture is exposing them. Americans can only accept so much cynicism before they rebel.”
“You might be right in the long run, but we live in the short run,” Lucas said. “Right now, it’s all very bleak. Frankly, I don’t think you’re the group to change that.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Oxford said. “When you were here, I thought I detected a bit of sympathy for the ANM. We thought you might be interested in involving yourself.”
“I’m not political, John. I work with politicians, because that’s the way the cards got cut, in my life anyway,” Lucas said. “But I’m not political. I just don’t think that way.”
“Everything’s political . . .”
“No. I don’t believe that.”
“Then what are you going to do, Davenport?” Oxford asked. “Sit on your hands as the country disintegrates?”
“I’m going to hunt,” Lucas said. “That’s what I do, John. I hunt.”
* * *
—
HENDERSON CALLED A THIRD time and said, “God help me, you’re the only guy I can talk to. If Porter heard about this, he’d soil his Depends.” Then he broke into a near-obscene cackle.
“Jesus, Elmer, that sounds really bad, whatever it is you’re gonna say.”
“Roberta Coil comes up for reelection in two years and from the outside, it looks grim.”
“I thought it was worse than that: I thought she was doomed.”
“Over in that direction, for sure. But! But! The Republicans down there line up to take shots at various political offices, and the Ag Commissioner has been guaranteed a shot at her seat. Name of Eric Gabriel. He’s already got some TV spots out there, paid for with dark money, of course, light shining on his head, and they call him the Angel Gabriel.”
Another cackle.
“Go ahead and tell me. I’m pre-disgusted.”
“A good ol’ boy down there snuck out of the Gwinnett County courthouse with a sealed juvenile court record that involves the Angel. Turns out, when Mr. Gabriel was seventeen, he got caught diddling ten-year-old twin sisters.”
“Ah, God,” Lucas said.
“We’re gonna unload that particular document about, mmm, three weeks before the election. Give it some time to settle in with the voters. Bob is going back to the Senate for another six years.”
“Everything about that is disgusting,” Lucas said.
“Hey. That’s where we’re at,” Henderson said.
* * *
—
LUCAS TOLD WEATHER about Henderson’s call and she said, “We really need to keep Coil in the Senate.”
“No liberal disgust?”
“Well, Roberta Coil didn’t do anything.”
“C’mon, Weather.”
“C’mon yourself,” she said.
“How come everybody in politics is a snake?” Lucas asked.
“It’s like your friend Elmer said—that’s where we’re at.” She shook her head and asked, “How’s the Coast Guard file coming?”
“Interesting,” Lucas said. They were in the living room and he picked up a fat manila folder full of computer printouts, that had been sitting on a coffee table.
“You look happy,” she said.
“Well, they’ve got some bad boys running around in Lauderdale. Bad boys.”