STEVEN KIRKLAND—OR STEVEN of Kirkland (Way-cross), as he billed himself at the seminar—was one of those men who had probably looked middle-aged by his late twenties, Brass thought. Now that he was in his sixties, he looked positively ancient. Deep canyons carved his face. His thin white hair showed patches of pale pink scalp. Brown spots mottled his lean, wrinkled hands, arms, and neck. He wore a baggy, short-sleeved white shirt that fit as if he had lost a lot of weight recently, but hadn’t had a chance to go shopping. His brown pants were cinched up by his belt, and his brown loafers were scuffed and worn. For a guy who made plenty of money—and Brass couldn’t help suspecting that was the underlying reason for starting and running the Free Citizens of the Republic, despite the group’s protestations to the contrary—he didn’t dress like it.
His son, on the other hand, displayed his wealth. Troy of Kirkland (Waycross) wore a cream-colored silk suit, a violet shirt, a striped tie, and shoes that matched the suit and had probably set him back five bills, minimum. He was sturdier than his father, though similarities were apparent in the closeness of his eyes, the thrust of his nose, and the almost absolute lack of discernible lips. When the Kirklands closed their mouths, they effectively disappeared, giving the impression that their faces were featureless in the shadows of their substantial beaks. When they spoke, they looked like Muppets.
The younger Kirkland’s brown hair was thick and swept back off his face, and though his father rarely left his stool during the seminar, Troy paced the stage, strutting and squatting and waving his hands to make his points. He reminded Brass of an evangelist at a tent revival. That was not, as far as Brass was concerned, a favorable comparison.
If there were any Mrs. Kirklands, they were not in evidence. The audience crowding the Orpheus Hotel ballroom was a varied cross-section of Las Vegas residents, if by varied one could mean almost exclusively white males. They were of different ages, from a few kids of seven or eight, up to men in their seventies or eighties. A handful of women were scattered throughout the hotel ballroom, but none seemed to be there alone—they accompanied men, and a few of them had apparently been brought along just to keep an eye on the kids. The Free Citizens were not, Brass decided, the most socially progressive group of people he had ever seen.
Financially, more of them appeared to be of the class that the elder Kirkland seemingly represented more than the younger one. Brass saw a lot of blue collars and plenty of plaid, but not many suits and ties. The event was free, though Brass was certain a hat would be passed at some point, literally or metaphorically. Still, in Vegas not much came for free, and this seminar included bad coffee and dry cookies, to boot.
He and Lou Vartann had entered with the other attendees, most of them arriving in groups of two or three. They had mingled for a few minutes, helped themselves to the complimentary snacks, then secured chairs near the back of the room, where they could watch the audience, the dais, and the door. Two bodyguards flanked the stage, walls of muscle with short-cropped hair and dark suits.
“The day is coming,” Troy Kirkland said. His tone was ominous, despite a shrill reediness in his voice. “And it’s coming soon. On that day, long-established plans by the federal government in Washington will be revealed. But by the time they’re made explicit, it will be too late to complain, too late to protest, too late to write your senators and congressmen. The White House switchboard will not, my friends, be taking calls on that day.”
Troy paused, looked at his father, then turned dramatically to the audience. “The only response available on that day will be the same one that created this country, where there once was none.” Another pause, for effect. “Revolution.”
The father took over the spiel at that point, his voice ragged and phlegmy. “You might think we’re exaggeratin’ things,” he said. “But we’re not. If any-thin’, we’re downplayin’ ’em so we don’t alarm folks too much. Make no mistake, though—if you’re not alarmed right now, you’re not payin’ attention.”
Steven took a sip from a plastic water bottle. Troy watched, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture one of respectful attention. When he was finished, Steven wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “When that day comes, it’ll mean soldiers in the streets. Not American soldiers, either, but North American soldiers, and there’s a big difference. It’ll mean wholesale confiscation of our guns, and wholesale abridgement of our rights. That’ll be the day that the Mexico/U.S./Canada superhighway opens up, connecting all three formerly sovereign nations with no border checkpoints. It’ll be the day the new currency, the North American merit, comes into use and our dollars become worthless.
“On that day you’ll either be prepared or you won’t. You’ll be ready to fight, or ready to surrender, to roll over like some damned rabbit, showin’ the wolf your belly and tellin’ it to go ahead and rip you open, eat out your heart.”
“But they can be ready, can’t they, Dad?” Troy Kirkland said, taking up the narrative once again. Brass was impressed with how well they had choreographed the give-and-take, probably over hundreds of similar presentations. “The good folks in this room can be prepared for that day. That’s what the Free Citizens of the Republic is all about, isn’t it? Fighting back, making sure that day never comes—or if it does, if all our efforts are for naught, that we’re not taken by surprise.”
“That’s right,” Steven said. Instead of addressing his son, he gazed out toward the audience. “You can be ready. You must be ready. And here’s how. You need to get you some guns. Stockpile what you can, and ammo, and learn to shoot. Learn to hit your damn targets. Stock up on food, too, canned goods, stuff that won’t spoil. It’ll be some time before grocery stores reopen, those that survive the change, and when they do they’ll only accept merits.”
“Merits and diamonds, Dad.”
“That’s right,” Steven said again. “Even under the new North American order, diamonds and precious stones will be accepted for goods and services. See, the United States never should have abandoned the gold standard. When we did, that was the beginning of the end right there, and that’s the reason I don’t recommend gold. The federal government is sitting on huge stockpiles of it—if they decided to release it all at once, they’d depress the value for years to come. But diamonds will serve you well. And maybe I shouldn’t say this, since our stock is gettin’ lower than I like to see, but—”
Troy whirled toward his father with the easy grace of someone who had done it a hundred times. “Dad, no!”
“I’m sorry, son, but these are good folks here. They’ve come of their own free will because they care about America, and we got to help ’em if we can. Thing is, we got some gem-quality diamonds, out in the truck. Around the time we’re wrappin’ up here, some of our security folks will bring ’em in. If you all would like to convert some of your dollars to diamonds, right here, tonight, why, we’d give you a favorable exchange rate on ’em.”
At that announcement, the crowd broke into hushed conversations, creating an overall buzz. “There it is,” Brass whispered. “I’d like to test some of those diamonds, see if they’re glass. Or plastic.”
“How many laws do you figure they’ve broken so far?” Vartann asked. “Inciting armed rebellion against the government . . .”
“It’d go down as free speech,” Brass replied. “They didn’t call for an immediate taking up of arms, but for a theoretical one at some point in the future. Can’t bust them on that one.”
“They’ve got some pretty wild ideas.”
“I wouldn’t have them over for a barbecue,” Brass said. “But so far I don’t think they’ve crossed the line.”
“All right, Dad,” Troy Kirkland said, throwing his hands up with an exaggerated flair. “They’re your diamonds. If you want to let them go for less than the going rate, that’s up to you.” He returned his attention to the audience. “But not quite yet. We’ll do that when we’ve finished telling you what our research has taught us, these last few years.
“Republicans, Democrats, they’re all the same. They’ve been bought and sold by those who are selling our country out from underneath us. They’re powerful business interests, most of them based in New York, although they have their hands in Washington and Hollywood and everyplace else you see ugly high-rise office buildings full of drones. When they look upon this great land, all they see is a captive population of consumers for whatever made-in-China crap they want to sell us. They see Canada and Mexico the same way, and they see that it would be easier to sell more of it, if we were all one big country with a single currency.
“Now, I have nothing against the free market. Capitalism made this country great. But it was our country, and if they get their way, it won’t be anymore. It’ll be the country of North America, owned lock, stock, and barrel by those bankers and billionaires I’m talking about. We the people, we won’t count anymore. If it’s easier to steamroller us, that’s what they’ll do. If it’s easier to take away our guns and move us into camps, that’s what they’ll do. As long as they can keep a population of sheep ready to shell out dollars—excuse me, merits—for their crap, they’ll be glad to do it.”
“They keep taxing us to death,” Steven said. “But do you see where that tax money’s goin’? There are potholes in every road, bridges fallin’ down. We aren’t winnin’ wars, our schools are failin’, and our borders are wide open. So where’s the money goin’? It’s goin’ to outfit a secret army made up of American, Canadian, and Mexican troops, and it’s goin’ to build that secret highway and infrastructure, that’s where.”
Steven Kirkland came off his stool, for the first time since climbing onto the dais. “But we’re not going to let them get away with that, are we?”
A couple of audience members shouted out their opposition, but it wasn’t good enough for Steven. “Are we?” he shouted.
“No!” the audience responded.
“We’re going to call them out, aren’t we?”
“Yes!”
“We’re going to protest the selling of our country, aren’t we?”
“And if we have to, we’ll get our guns and go hunting for those who would do us harm, won’t we?”
“Yes!” The crowd was into it now, stomping and clapping, whistling and shrieking.
Troy started making downward motions with his hands. When the audience finally quieted, he said, “That’s what we like to hear. The Free Citizens of the Republic was formed, and exists today, to save our country from those people. We want America back—the United States of America that was founded in 1776, that adhered to a Constitution, and that promises all people life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That America. We thank you for your enthusiastic support. In the lobby when you go out, there’ll be tables at which you can sign up for membership. For the low, low price of fifty dollars—that’s nothing, pocket change for a couple of weeks—for only fifty American dollars you’ll get an embossed membership card and a subscription to all of our publications, so you can stay up to date on the threats facing America and how we can combat them. There’ll also be a table set up where you can exchange some of those dollars—while they’re still worth something—for diamonds, which will never lose their value no matter what. Our supplies are limited, so act today. Thank you all for coming, and God bless the USA!”
Once more, the room erupted. The Kirklands exited through a door behind the dais, and the audience started filing out into the lobby area.
“Sounds like a pretty good racket,” Brass said.
“For the Kirklands,” Vartann agreed. “What do you want to bet those Free Citizens publications are just full of ads for more things to spend your money on? Things benefiting old Steven and Troy, of course.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet, Lou. I’ve got nothing against con men fleecing suckers as long as it’s legal, and in this case it looks like the suckers are lining up to be fleeced. What bothers me is the rhetoric. They’re stirring these folks up. When you’ve got a lot of loaded guns around and a lot of fearful people, sooner or later there’s going to be trouble.”
“I hear you,” Vartann said.
“You want to try to catch the Kirklands, put some pressure on them to call their dogs off Catherine?” Everybody knew Lou and Catherine were dating, and he didn’t blame the detective for wanting to look after her. Brass did, too—he and the CSI team had had each other’s backs for years.
“I think I sent that message pretty clearly this afternoon,” Vartann said. “And that’s a local deal, anyway—the Kirklands just got into town, from what I hear.”
“Okay,” Brass said. “I still think we’d better keep an eye on them while they’re here, and stay on top of the situation with Catherine. Last thing I want is for law enforcement to be afraid that doing our jobs will make us into targets for harassment. But if you want to get out of here, I’m okay with that. I don’t think we’re exactly popular in this crowd.”
“Definitely not,” Vartann said with a grin. “Let’s go pull our shift on that superhighway and earn some North American merits for our retirement. . . .”