Chapter 17

 

“Afternoon, Okie,” Buck heard someone say.

Through blurry eyes, he stared at Humpback's ruined face, the man's sour breath almost causing him to heave. Deacon John kicked him in the ribs, and he did throw up.

“You moron,” Humpback said. “Now we gotta clean him up before we take him to the Judge.

“Shut up, you little sawed-off shit. You breathed on him, not me.”

Humpback glared at his partner, responding to his anger by delivering another boot to Buck's ribs. The attack seemed to momentarily relieve his tension.

“You got your rocks yet?” Deacon John said. “Let's take him down the hall before the Judge gets pissed at both of us.”

They dragged him to a private study at the far end of the large house and shoved him through the door. He landed on his face, on a colorful Persian rug. The ceiling was fully twenty feet above polished oak floors. Law books filled massive shelves lining two walls. What hung behind the oak desk in the center of the room was what disturbed Buck—a large swastika, black, white and red, draped the wall for all to see. Judge Jefferson Travis was seated behind the desk.

“Bring him in here,” Travis said. Humpback and Deacon John dropped him into an antique chair, and waited until the Judge began shouting. “Now get out. I’ll talk to McDivit alone.”

Humpback and Deacon John padded out of the study. As Buck gazed around the large room, he quickly saw the Nazi flag wasn't the only right wing epitaph blemishing the walls. There were also framed photos of hanging, torture and castration victims. Horror imprinted their faces. The photos also depicted white-cloaked, cone-headed men. Old photos that had a timely relevance. The images riveted Buck's attention.

“Don't look so surprised,” Judge Travis said. “It's only a display. Like the museum you visited before Clayton's party.”

“I'm out of here,” Buck said.

Travis half stood, arms outstretched on the desk, shaking his head. “You got something to learn about our local customs first. I'm here to teach you. Sinking back into his leather chair, he lit his cigar, the acrid odor of burned sulfur remaining long after he blew out the match. “I modeled this room after my father's study. My foster father. As you can see, he had very specific ideas about separation of the races.”

“Then he's no different than anyone else around here, far as I can see.”

Travis drained his brandy, slapped the empty snifter down on the desk top and rested his head in his palms. “I recognize your type. Bleeding heart liberal. Holier than thou. Look at me straight and tell me you've never once called one of them a nigger.”

“You make me want to puke, Travis. You tell me what it is you want before the stench in here causes me to do just that.”

The door opened, suppressing Travis’ reply. It was Deacon John. “Everything all right, Judge?”

“Don't you think I'd let you know if it wasn't? Get the hell out of here until I call you.”

Travis poured another shot of brandy from the decanter on his desk, not bothering to offer one to Buck. “Deak and Hump caught you coming out of the project. What we're you doing over there?”

“I go where I want.”

“You didn't answer my question. We have very specific laws here in Deception. Whites are not allowed to visit the project.”

“You must be in a time warp,” Buck said.

“You and everyone else in this county obey me because I represent the law.”

“Whose law?”

“The almighty law of the New Southern Right, and by God you'll abide by it or live to regret it.”

“You're insane,” Buck said, his words hitting a nerve.

Judge Jefferson Travis rose out of his chair, grabbing the brandy carafe and hurling it across the desk. The projectile just missed Buck's head and crashed into the wall behind him. Humpback and Deacon John came hurdling through the door as the broken carafe spilled its last drops of antique liquor on the burnished hardwood floor. Humpback throttled Buck's neck as Deacon John yanked his arms hard enough to wrench them from their sockets. Travis paced around the chair and slapped him hard across the mouth.

“You will follow the law,” he said, his forehead beading with sweat.

Buck's lower lip felt mushy, his saliva metallic. “Your law, not mine.”

The Judge regained his composure but continued pacing, his hands clasped tightly behind his neck. “Someday it will be everyone's law,” he said. “Right now it's yours. Bring him to the window.” Humpback and Deacon John manhandled him to the window overlooking the large backyard. “See for yourself,”

A dozen men in camouflaged uniforms were performing close order drills. “They're looking real good, Judge,” Humpback said.

Travis ignored the comment, motioning Humpback and Deacon John to follow him. Deacon John spun Buck toward the hallway, Humpback kicking his backside. The attack sent him sprawling across the floor.

“Get off your face, you stupid Okie,” Deacon John said, yanking Buck up by the neck.

Travis slammed his fist on the door. “Quit clowning and bring him along.”

Deacon John and Humpback herded him down the hall to a room where a skinhead instructor was demonstrating how to break down an automatic weapon to a group of men. Camouflage fatigues seemed the common uniform. Travis continued on to two more rooms to show Buck explosives and subversion classes. The tour ended back at Travis' office.

“A glimpse into the future,” he said, reseating himself behind his desk. “The army of the New Southern Right.”

Buck was hurt but not cowed. “Your army's just a cluster of skin-headed throwbacks.”

Whap, went the back of Deacon John's hand. “Shut up, Cowpoke. Those men are part of a powerful militia forming all over the country. We're arming and training ourselves to attack and destroy the growing cancer in our society.”

“You mean like the women and children murdered in Oklahoma City, and those in the Twin Towers?”

Buck's remark earned him another vicious slap to the back of the head. The rear window was open and he became aware of troops counting cadence in the backyard.

“Innocents die in war,” Travis said. “And we weren’t responsible for 911.”

“Bull shit. It all amounts to terrorism, your so called army no better than Al Qaida.”

Buck’s analogy seemed to please Travis rather than anger him.

“We both practice a means to an end. Until we're strong enough to confront the Government directly, we must satisfy ourselves with cleansing the dregs of society, and ridding ourselves of abortionists, homosexuals and the liberal press that persecutes us. Not to mention the black scourge threatening to overrun this country.”

“So you're going to kill me for visiting the project?”

“Not kill, only educate you.”

“Sorry,” Buck said. “I don't like the curriculum you're offering and I doubt the Sheriff will either.”

He took a chance invoking Wright's name, not knowing the Sheriff's political beliefs. Travis didn't seem to know either because he motioned Humpback to deliver another slap to his cheek. Humpback had gripped his neck again as the Judge began to rant. Deacon John pinned his arms behind the back of the chair. His lips were broken, his nose bloody and his splitting headache made him think he might have a concussion. Despite the pain, the Judge's words continued to incite his anger. Lashing forward with his right leg, he smashed Deacon John's shin with the toe of his boot. His attack resulted in a quick reprisal.

“You're a piece of liberal dog shit,” the Judge said.

“You're wrong,” Buck said. “I'm conservative, and a republican, but there's another word for you—Nazi.”

Buck's words had barely exited his mouth before someone lowered the boom on his fleeting consciousness.

***

An hour had passed since Wiley finished loading the groceries on the boat. Now he glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Buck was an hour late, and he’d started to worry. He let another half hour before heading toward the project and the house of Ezra Johnson.

“Look what the cat drug in,” Ezra said.

Wiley had two large grocery bags in his arm and another on the porch outside the door. “Mind if I stow my groceries in your refrigerator awhile?”

“Bring them in this house,” Ezra said, grabbing the bag on the porch.

Once the groceries were stuffed inside the refrigerator, Wiley grabbed Ezra's hand, pumping it vigorously. “How you doing, Ezra? You seen Buck McDivit?”

“He left here a few hours ago.”

“Did he say where he was headed?”

“Back to the island is what he told me. Something wrong?”

“Don't know,” Wiley said. “He was supposed to meet me at the boat and didn’t show up. I'm worried.”

Ezra went to the window and peered out. “His truck's still in the parking lot.”

“Maybe he left it on purpose and decided to walk down to the lake.”

“He wouldn't have done that,” Ezra said. “I fussed at him for parking there in the first place.”

Wiley started for the door. “Better round up some of the boys and look for him. I'm going for the Sheriff.”