Armageddon Crazy Read online

  It was over a year before the situation touched Stone personally. Reality, the magazine for which he wrote, was closed down, and the editors were charged with sedition. After that, no other publication seemed willing to hire a left-of-centre columnist with his kind of track record. He went to work as a copywriter for Mandell, Jenkins, and Howard, the advertising agency. The money was okay, better in fact than he had been making at Reality. He kept his head down and tried to pretend that everyone would eventually come to their senses. Things were going okay, if one did not count his inability to sleep well, until they landed the TLC account. As the biggest of the booming evangelical conglomerates, TLC was able to swing a lot of muscle. All employees of the agency were expected to sign something called the 'Six Minimal Articles of Faith'. When Stone started muttering about McCarthyism, he was immediately fired. He wound up flipping burgers and working with a small group that put out a Xeroxed samzat. Then the Young Crusaders had come around and smashed their copying equipment.

  The mask had come off during the summer of 2004, "The Summer of the Three Crises." In those three months of manufactured panic, Faithful and his gang had made their moves. A terrified Congress had suspended the Constitution and then dissolved itself. With nothing to stop them, the administration had started rewriting the rules. The Heresy and Blasphemy Laws were enacted, and the deacons were formed. The redemption centers, concentration camps by any other name, were under construction. By the fall, the country was as fully fledged a religious police state as Iran had been under the Ayatollahs. It had taken Hitler some five years to change the face of Germany. Faithful had done it to America in just three. Of course, he had had some heavy hitters helping him. The Orange County Ring had been behind him from the start and the multinationals had at least used him as natural cover while they transferred their U.S. operations to Brazil or Australia. Stone often wondered if those passive, corporate collaborators should not have been the real targets for his hate and anger.

  After the start of 2005, there was no pretending. All over, people were leaving for Canada and Europe. Stone had applied for a passport, but he had been turned down. His record at Mandell, Jenkins, and Howard was given as the reason. Even then, he thought that he could make it through the system. Instead of going on the run, he filed an appeal. The major waves of mass arrests did not start until the spring of that year. Whole neighborhoods were sealed as accused heretics were dragged to the black windowless deacon buses. When Shea Stadium was full they had started taking the detainees across the river to the Meadowlands. There were horror stories on the streets about beatings and summary executions. Finally Stone did run, heading for Canada. He did quite well for an amateur. He made it to Buffalo before they caught him. After two and a half months on Rikers Island, he was shipped to Joshua. He had never had a trial, and his sentence was indeterminate. He wore the green patch of a second-degree heretic on his striped uniform.

  The light from the south gun tower was starting to hypnotize him. It was getting difficult to think. They had to have started putting hexapan in the food again. A dull and far from comforting insulation was wrapping itself around the hunger, the aches, and the anger. He felt himself slipping. He only hoped that the drug would suppress the nightmares.

  Carlisle

  Harry Carlisle came out of the elevator on the rear ground floor and ran straight into the riot squad. They were moving out in force, loading onto the armored trucks. The Pharaohs were already lumbering up from the underground motorpool, belching diesel smoke. The uniforms were loaded for bear with body armor, full helmets, gas masks, and squat black riot guns, over and under, Remington Controllers, with the new forearm clamp that made it possible to use the weapon with one hand. One in every five had been issued with a pepper fog generator. A water cannon came up the ramp between the Pharaohs.

  Carlisle grabbed the nearest patrolman. "What the hell is all this? World War III?"

  The armored patrolman, anonymous behind his visor, glanced briefly at the lieutenant. "Big 9-79 up on Twentieth."

  "It don't rain but it pours."

  "Don't it just."

  The patrolman was gone, scrambling into the dark interior of a Pharaoh. Harry Carlisle was on the rear ground floor only because that was where one had to change elevators to get to sub-basement four, the restricted-access area where the deacons conducted their depth interrogations. Normally, Carlisle would not have gone anywhere near sub-basement four. The deacons' idea of depth was more than enough to turn his stomach. Nevertheless, despite his stomach, he had hurried on down after hearing that the headcase – the one who had been dragged from the prayer parlor shouting for Jesus just before the bomb exploded-had been taken down there. Carlisle wanted to talk to him before they beat him stupid. There was always a chance that he had seen the bomber.

  Carlisle eased his way through the milling riot squad, making for the single elevator door that would take him down to Sb4. Their excitement was infectious. He could feel their adrenaline rising. They were working themselves up to bust heads. A food riot inevitably turned ugly.

  The elevator was guarded by a junior deacon in black combat fatigues. He carried an Uzi slung under his right arm, and his face wore an expression of blank, all-encompassing hostility. "There's no admission."

  Carlisle was not going to stand for that attitude. "There is for me, sonny boy."

  "You think so?"

  Harry took out his ID plate. "Run by this."

  The deacon took the card, making clear his obvious contempt for the ordinary police department ID. He stuck it into the slot. The green light immediately came on. The deacon shrugged. "It looks like you can go on in."

  Harry Carlisle gave the young man a hard look. "You should watch those manners of yours, kid. I seriously outrank you."

  The deacon came to approximation of attention. "I'm sorry, sir. It's hard to tell."

  Carlisle shot him a bleak look as the elevator door opened. At the bottom of the shaft there was another guard.

  "Can I help you?"

  "The man they brought in after the Eighth Street bombing, where have they got him?"

  "ID?"

  Carlisle handed over his card for a second ID check. The deacons were very particular about whom they let into their torture chamber. Again the light flashed green. The card was handed back.

  "Interrogation room five. Along to your right. You can't miss it."

  The headcase was doubled over with his arms pulled up hard behind him. His manacled wrists were secured to an overhead pipe by a short length of chain. Blood was dripping from the tip of his nose, creating a spattered puddle on the floor. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the interrogation room were covered with hard, washable plastic, so the place could be hosed down after use. The prisoner was surrounded by three deacons in gray sweatsuits that were also spattered with blood. The word 'Zealots', along with a clenched-fist symbol, was silkscreened across the back of each sweat top. The Zealots were the New York deacons football team. They had won the interdepartmental championship for four years running. They also turned football into a bloodsport.

  One of the interrogators lifted the prisoner's head by the hair so he could look into his face. "Shall we try that again?"

  The headcase spluttered. Blood ran down his chin. "The Devil was in me. The Devil was in this body."

  "And how did you recognize the Devil?"

  A second interrogator joined in. "Confess it all and save your soul."

  Carlisle looked on in disgust. "What exactly do you three expect to achieve by torturing a loony?" he asked.

  "This is none of your concern, Carlisle. This is a devotional matter. It's moved from the temporal to the spiritual."

  "Yeah, sure. That old-time religion."

  The loony's head was allowed to drop. The three interrogators turned to face Carlisle. He knew all three of them. Baum, Bickerton, and Kinney. The trio had a reputation throughout the CCC for extreme brutality. Although they all held the same rating, Bickerton was the apparent le
ader of the holy trio. He was also the Zealots' quarterback.

  "You just stepped out onto very thin ice, Carlisle."

  Baum joined in. The linebacker, he tended to be the blunt one. "Your own state of grace could be investigated."

  Kinney brought up the rear. He played tight end. "What do you want here, Carlisle?"

  "I was hoping that I could question this witness about the bombing. There was just a chance he might have seen something." Carlisle looked around coldly. "I can see that I'm wasting my time. You've made him altogether too spiritual."

  "I'm glad you recognize you're wasting your time."

  Baum was holding a short, leather-covered billy. He prodded the prisoner with it and grinned. "A soul that has become so complex in its sin requires a great deal of saving."

  Carlisle shook his head. "I hope you manage it."

  "All it takes is a comprehensive confession and an acceptance of Jesus."

  The loony's bloody mouth was moving slackly. "Jesus… Jesus…"

  Harry Carlisle turned on his heel and left. The guard at the bottom of the elevator shaft called after him as he passed.

  "See enough, did you, Lieutenant?"

  Carlisle had to contain his fury until he was in the privacy of his own office. The bastards thought what they were doing was amusing. They tortured a harmless mental case and thought that they were funny. When he reached his cubicle on the tenth floor, he roared in like an express train, slamming the door as hard as he could. There was a pint of Wild Turkey with an inch left in it in the bottom drawer of his desk. He swallowed the bourbon in three angry gulps and then hurled the bottle into the waste-basket with enough force to shatter it. Then he stood and glared up into the watching lens of the surveillance camera.

  It was only when his anger had subsided a little that he realized what he had missed. And then he was mad at himself.

  He opened the door and yelled. "McNeil, I want the bomb-squad audio from this afternoon. The last dialogue between Vargas and Massey, immediately before the bomb went off."

  Winters

  Winters' phone startled him. He grabbed for it as if it were dangerous. "Winters," he said abruptly.

  "This is Lieutenant Carlisle. Will you come up to ten, please, Winters? I think I may have found something."

  "Perhaps you could tell me over the phone."

  "Just get your ass up here."

  Winters swallowed. He wanted to tell the flatfoot to take a jump, but once again he reminded himself that, in his position, he could not afford a conflict with the PD. Carlisle could easily make him look bad at a progress inquiry. He hung up the phone and logged himself out to the tenth floor. When he arrived at Carlisle's office, the lieutenant had a small audioplayer on the desk in front of him.

  Carlisle hit the play button. "I want you to listen to this."

  His voice was soft, but there was a certain built-in menace. Winters noted that the PD had not invited him to sit down. The tape was from earlier in the afternoon. Vargas, the bomb-squad coordinator, was talking on the radio with one of his men, Massey, the one who had blown himself up trying to down the bomb.

  "Give me the bomb location."

  "It's under the seat in one of the booths."

  "Which one?"

  "Hang on, I can't read the number… it's seven. Booth number seven."

  "Just look in the bag. Don't touch a thing."

  "I'm looking."

  Carlisle cut it off. "Notice anything?"

  "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

  "The bomb was in booth number seven."

  "Right."

  "So what does that tell us?"

  Winters was aware that he was being tested, but he could not imagine what Carlisle was driving at. The detective had hard, tired blue eyes with lines fanning out from the corners as if he had spent too much of his time squinting at things that did not please him. They were eyes that could produce the illusion that they were looking directly into his soul. Winters had heard that there was some kind of scandal in Carlisle's past, but he had never been able to access the details. Sweet Jesus, if only he could prove that the man was an agent of Satan.

  "I don't know. What does it tell us?"

  "That the bomber must have activated the booth in order to get into it and plant the bomb. He would have had to act like any other confessee."

  Carlisle's tone indicated that he believed he was talking to a simpleton. Winters again reminded himself that one day he would get the man. "So?"

  "So the bomber must have used either cash or plastic to get into the booth, and there's an outside chance that he may have said something while he was in there. Every prayer booth in the country is wired into deacon central. There must be a record of it somewhere in the Virginia Beach facility, and I want you to access it."

  "I don't know."

  Carlisle looked at him coldly. "What don't you know?"

  "I'd need an AC-19."

  "So get one. There's the terminal."

  Access to the Virginia Beach data banks was one of the deacons' most jealously guarded secrets. The Virginia Beach computers contained the files of God. With great reluctance, he sat down in front of the lieutenant's terminal. He did not have to be told that this tenuous lead was all they had, but it still went against the grain to have to access into Virginia Beach for a mere PD. He menued up an AC-19 application and started to respond to the lengthy questionnaire. When it was complete, the computer considered it for about fifteen seconds and then let him in. While Carlisle watched him, Winters went after the data. Finally he had it. It was less than enlightening.

  He slowly shook his head. "Booth seven could be cash activated."

  "Go further. He or she must have been the last person to use the booth before the explosion."

  "You think it might be a woman?"

  "It's a fifty-fifty chance. There's plenty of broads with no cause to love the regime."

  "How do you know the bomber was the last one to use the booth?"

  "He would have had to have been. He couldn't risk anyone finding the bomb. The placing of it must have been coordinated with the phone call and an intelligent guess at our response time."

  "Or he just listened for the sirens."

  "Maybe. It's still a pretty slick setup."

  "You think so?"

  "This ain't no bunch of pinhead Satanists. These people are classic terrorists. If they weren't pretty slick, we'd know something about them by now."

  "They do keep themselves well hidden."

  "What we want to do now is to get the tape of the last session in the booth. If it was a cash payment our bomber would still have at least to enter some kind of name. Can you do that?"

  "Sure."

  Winters went further in.

  "I've got it," he said a short time later. "I'll run it on audio."

  There was the sound of the booth cover closing. Then there was a voice. It was that of a robot.

  Carlisle and Winters looked at each other.

  "He's talking through one of those kid's toys," Winters said. "They completely distort the voice print."

  "Shut up and listen."

  "… and by the time you hear this, you'll know all about why we were here. We are the Lefthand Path and we will not cease our actions until the Faithful tyranny is overthrown. You're probably wondering where we will strike next. I can't exactly tell you that but keep watching the skies."

  Carlisle was half smiling. "Definitely slick."

  Winters looked carefully at the lieutenant. It was almost as if Carlisle admired those sinners.

  TWO

  Mansard

  Charlie Mansard had a killer hangover. The cigarette was all but burning his fingers, and he was on his third cup of coffee. He glowered at his secretary. "I've got to have some speed. I can't do Arlen Proverb at the Garden without speed."

  Rita Webb shook her head. "I told you after the last time. I don't get drugs for you anymore."

  "I could fire you."

  "You won
't fire me. I'm the only one who'll tolerate you."

  "Damn it, woman, I'm dying here. I need medication."

  "The last thing you need is an amphetamine. It turns you into a psychotic, and you're quite likely to have a heart attack."

  "How am I supposed to work when everyone is against me?"

  "Just go to work. You always feel better once you get started, and anyway, Jimmy Gadd is waiting to talk to you. Proverb's people have sent over a preliminary script, and he wants to go through it with you."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him you'd be ready for him once you'd stopped groaning about your hangover."

  "Thanks for covering for me."

  "Jimmy knows you as well as I do. What do I need to lie to him for?"

  "Seems like everybody knows about me."

  "You adhere to a pretty repetitive pattern."

  Mansard regarded his secretary with bleary venom. "You don't take any prisoners, do you?"

  "Shall I tell Jimmy to come on in?"

  Charlie Mansard sighed. "Yeah, wheel him in. Don't worry about my pain."

  Jimmy Gadd was Mansard's strong right arm and, along with Rita, he bore the brunt of his boss's erratic and generally self-destructive behavior. In the old days, he had worked for a major rock-and-roll act. Indeed, most of the older technical staff at Miraco Productions had come out of rock and roll. They had the experience of arena special effects, and since rock and roll had been replaced by pop acts that sang about Jesus in stupid chipmunk voices, the technicians had to find work wherever they could. Jimmy Gadd was a short, wiry man with a full beard and unfashionably long hair. The worn blue jeans and nylon bomber jacket were something straight out of the '70s or '80s. He had a bulky, bound printout under his arm.