government people, is that you put an innocent man in a box and make him do things he doesn’t want to do, isn’t required to do either legally or morally. It’s like the sixties with the draft. Government fights an immoral, unnecessary war in Vietnam, that all the politicians knew was wrong and unwinnable, fifty-eight thousand boys get killed, and what happens if you don’t want to go? You get your ass slammed in prison and your life ruined. I hate it. I hate every goddamned inch of it.”
“So hate it,” Lucas said. “But do your ‘ask’ anyway.”
The old man stroked his beard, once, and said, “Shit.” And, a moment later, “Goddamnit, I’ll send out your ask.”
“Thank you.”
“You better be on your way,” Oxford said. “If Marty finishes her mowing and comes in here and finds out who you are, she’ll tear a strip off your back.”
But the lawnmower was still going, so Lucas said, “I read the papers from your PR lady. You don’t seem nuts, but how the hell do you think the world would run without governments?”
Oxford shrugged. “We don’t. We do think the government should be a lot smaller. Maybe . . . ten percent of what it is. We’ve got two million people in the military, counting the reserves. You really think we need two million soldiers? When we’ve got missiles and hydrogen bombs? Who’s going to invade us? We’ve got all those soldiers because we’re poking our noses into other people’s business. Let them take care of themselves. There are almost a million cops. You think we need a million cops? There are one-point-three-million lawyers, all sucking on the government tit in one way or another. You think we oughta need one-point-three-million lawyers to get through our lives? We have no problem with a government that builds roads and bridges and sewers and water plants and such. But two million soldiers and a million cops? More than a million lawyers? And listen—I could go on a while. Don’t get me started on how all our tax money gets pissed away.”
Lucas: “From our point of view, us deep-state people, it looks like it might help your cause if you had some leverage over the people who run the government, who pass the bills that do all the things you don’t like. Leverage you could get from a site like 1919, if a kid gets shot.”
“Bullshit. How in the hell would we keep track of that?” Oxford asked. “We’d need a hundred over-ground people in Washington to figure out what’s going on in Congress and who’s voting for what, and when. We’re not that kind of group. What we are, is, we’ve got an idea and we’re pushing it. We’re growing, slow but steady. We’ve got more people with us than anybody knows. Smart people, too. Not crazy.”
“All right, but you’ve still got those alt-right contacts,” Lucas said. “John: call me.”
They talked for a few more minutes, and John pushed Lucas into admitting that he thought that government was often overbearing and wasteful, and that maybe there were too many cops and soldiers and lawyers.
“See,” John said, “You’ve got some potential to think for yourself. Maybe already been doing it.”
Outside, the lawnmower shut down and Lucas said, “I guess I better run.”
“Guess you better.” Oxford pushed himself up from the chair and followed Lucas to the door. He said, “You’ll soon enough find out what you’ve done here and it really gets me down, as a personal thing. Really bums me out, as us old hippies used to say.”
Lucas stopped and turned: “What have I done?”
“You’ll find out.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Elias Dunn had been so shocked by his murder of Rachel and Randy Stokes that he called in sick the next day and the day after that and spent most of his time lying facedown on his bed with a killer headache crawling up the back of his head, a headache that neither Advil nor Aleve could touch.
He couldn’t eat, couldn’t hold anything down. He lived on tap water. It all had been too close, too personal, much more bloody than he’d expected. He hadn’t done it efficiently—he’d even shot himself.
That shot had traveled between