| |
Reverend Jimmy powered on his cordless mike. Riley flinched at the high-pitched feedback. The preacher grinned in the spotlight’s flared, yellow beam. Not flattering. His teeth looked like he’d been eating field corn and hadn’t flossed.
Her head throbbed. She felt testy—with good reason. Some pervert had shredded her underwear and smothered it in ketchup. Fear of right-wing condemnation had prompted BRU to bend over for Jimmy. Her injured shoulder and ribs begged for a narcotic deadening.
Mostly, she was irritated at herself. She’d let emotions evaporate her cool. If a task force leader other than Gary had blessed this campus invasion, would she be equally peeved? She had to let go of old hurts, depersonalize the interaction.
Then there was Wolf. When she spied him kissing the well-endowed coach—a dead ringer for his novel’s Kayla—Riley wanted to bop both of them.
Forget it. Get to work.
A piece of paper fluttered against her leg. She picked up a color brochure promoting the reverend’s ministry. Jimmy’s hooded eyes made her shiver. The flyer pricked at her memory. Why?
She folded the flyer, thrust it in a pocket, and posted herself near the stage. Given the haste in planning tonight’s security, her officers were performing admirably. She spotted Gary and walked over to meet him.
Nice and easy.
“I hear you have over a dozen agents here. Any potential suspects or problems?”
“No. It’s quiet. Your officers took screening seriously. Searched every backpack and handbag coming through the gates. They turned away anyone trying to slip through the woods.”
She nodded, uncertain whether Gary was issuing a compliment or complaint. He’d wanted bad guys to appear so he could net them for questioning.
“Excuse me.” Gary turned, pressed a finger to his earpiece. He started talking, and she fled. Nothing more to say.
The preening reverend deserved only cursory attention. He wouldn’t overtly condone violence though his presence invited a riot. The faces of students telegraphed their anger. They’d been hammered with Amanda’s unsolved murder, the pressure of finals, Onward’s threat, and Rosie’s attack. Nerves were stretched thin. She prayed the reverend wouldn’t blast them as godless, fornicating sinners who deserved hell’s punishments.
When Professor Marick materialized, Riley sensed the students’ rage build into an almost tangible force. Crap.
The reverend cleared his throat. “Dear Lord, we gather in your name. Let your cleansing light shine down. Evil is holding Blue Ridge University hostage. We ask you to intervene.”
Jimmy spread his arms to encompass the assembly. “These students—confused and tormented souls—can be saved. We beseech you, Lord, spare them. Our Onward brethren believe they must wage war to capture eternal peace for this tortured campus. Counsel your fervent foot soldiers to lay down their swords. Command them to exchange Godly wrath for your Son’s forgiveness.”
Riley could almost hear the grinding of student teeth. Her ears picked up a muted undercurrent of “Screw you.”
Keep it short. Make your sales pitch and leave.
Jimmy’s nostrils flared. “We know Satan lectures here.” His voice boomed. “He teaches it’s no sin to murder unborn babies . . . that sex with a stranger has less meaning than a sneeze . . . that homosexuals can enter into holy matrimony. The Devil claims that You, Lord, are not our Creator . . . that mankind was begotten by slime—”
“Hey, you’re slime!” a female voice broke in. “Theory proved.”
A titter of laughter helped Riley locate the verbal poacher, a red-haired spitfire.
The reverend spoke even louder. “The Devil is here. Braying. No wonder Onward set its sights on BRU. It ached to purify and purge, if necessary, by fire.”
His lips curled in a sneer. “Lord, I understand. You used Onward as our wake-up call. You sent a lightning bolt to jolt us from sinful slumber. We must stand up to the abortionists and the gays.”
He beat his fist on the podium. “Time to say no to the feminists and Islam boot lickers.” Another fist slam. “Time to shout down the atheists who want to strip ‘God’ from our pledge of allegiance.”
His fist crashed down so hard Riley expected the podium to splinter. Her stomach somersaulted as she felt the audience’s agitation climb.
Jimmy’s followers shouted “Hallelujah” and “You tell ’em!” Outraged students began a different chant: “Reverend Jimmy sucks; we don’t give a fuck! Reverend Jimmy sucks; we don’t give a fuck!”
A sheen of sweat coated Jimmy’s forehead. Was it the spotlight’s heat, or did he realize matters were getting out of hand?
“Before a final prayer, Professor Marick, one of BRU’s few God-fearing faculty members, has a few words to say. Like me, Dr. Marick abhors violence but understands why Onward lashed out at Blue Ridge University. He bears testimony to the frustration of dealing with educators who turn their backs on our Christian roots.”
The professor shot out of his chair. His Adam’s apple bobbled a few times before he spoke. “I am not a racist.” His first words arrived as an amplified squeak, a dramatic contrast to the pastor’s commanding bass.
An alto yell interrupted. “Right, as long as us Spics mow your lawn and clean your toilets!”
Riley’s gaze swept over the students and locked on the protestor.
“Bet you’d pay us to abort!” added the man’s date, shaking her fist. “No problemo murdering the babies of mud people.”
Students cheered. Marick’s nose wrinkled as if he smelled rotten eggs. His thin voice droned on. “A tide of illegal aliens pollutes our nation, bringing drugs and prostitution. They steal jobs and commit crimes. They corrupt family values and visit a plague of violence—”
“What about Onward’s violence, you little Nazi?” someone shouted.
Riley zeroed in. Anger turned the tall blond heckler’s face blotchy. He draped an arm around a pretty black coed, who yelled, “What about our friend Rosie, you goddamn racist?”
A jumbo-sized white man in a flannel shirt and a Braves baseball cap muscled nearer the girl. The veins on his neck bulged in bas-relief. “Shut up, you foul-mouthed little bitch, or I’ll shut you up!”
His friends cheered him. “Give ’em what-for, Ernie!”
Wolf wedged between the hecklers and the blue-collar bubbas. Judging by his look of fury, he didn’t plan to play diplomat. He spoiled for a fight.
Time to separate the combatants and evict the agitators. She nodded toward the potential powder keg, sending a three-hundred-pound officer to play peacemaker. Come on, Wolf. Hustle the kids clear. We don’t need a bare knuckle free-for-all.
She spoke quietly into her radio, signaling officers on the fringes to move in. She told one of her techno-gifted officers to silence the proceedings. Time for a final “Amen.”
A quick movement caught her eye. A gangly young man wearing an Old West-style duster bent with his back to her, then spun to face her. A long white barrel materialized out of his coat’s swirling folds.
Don’t overreact. Riley tasted bile. She knew what an FBI agent might do if he thought a nut was about to empty a gun into this crowd.
She ran at the shooter. Adrenaline charged her speed. She frantically waved her good arm to distract the boy’s aim. She knew his weapon. A spud gun. Kids used them to blast potatoes—or other fruits and veggies—at short-range targets. Junior engineers fashioned them out of PVC pipe, hairspray, and fireplace lighters. The kids didn’t think of their creations as “real” weapons. But like B-B guns, the homemade artillery could wreak havoc and harm.
Her heart thudded. A puff of white smoke preceded a thunderclap of electronic noise. A series of ear-splitting booms rolled over the green. The potato missile decimated the preacher’s sound system. People screamed and stampeded.
She dived for the shooter’s legs, sent him ass over teakettle. A second later, an officer hauled the kid upright and cuffed him. His science project gun lay discarded in the grass.
“Take him to my office.” Riley panted as she sat in the wet grass, cradling her arm. Her shoulder felt as if a crazed band member had mistaken it for a snare drum.
She staggered upright. Jimmy, Marick and Doris remained prone, hands shielding heads. She thumbed on her radio. “Pete, put me on air. Now!”
A second later her voice floated from loudspeakers. “This is the security director. Do not panic. The only people with guns are law enforcement. The blast was a prank. The ammunition was a potato. Proceed calmly to your vehicles—or your dorm rooms. This gathering is over. The situation’s under control.”
“Under control” was a gross exaggeration. Angry shouts ricocheted as the opposing camps rubbed shoulders in their exodus. When she saw flying fists, she hustled toward the brawlers. A uniformed officer had joined the plainclothesman she’d dispatched.
She was ten feet from the action when Plaid Shirt punched a student. Wolf yanked the bully’s arm, turning him 180 degrees. A second later, Gary waded into the mix.
Oh, no!
Gary targeted Wolf, twisted his arm behind his back.
“It’s Smitty. He’s here!” Wolf yelled. “Let me go, you moron. The guy who attacked Rosie Perez is over there. Let go!”
Riley searched for a would-be Smitty in the crowd. She couldn’t see. She glanced back, saw Wolf lower his shoulder and shove Gary to get free. Her ex retaliated. He tripped Wolf, who landed flat on his face.
Smitty—if he’d been here—was long gone.
A TV cameraman jumped in front of her. She elbowed him. “Out of my way.” The newsman swayed, then steadied his camera as she stormed ahead.
Great, live feed from BRU! Who needs Wrestlemania?