Chapter 12
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Downtown Mesa Verde was quiet under the morning sun, already hot enough that
most people preferred to be inside an air-conditioned building or at least in
the shade. The heat did not seem to bother the old man who had parked his truck
near the town square. Normally there were not many people in the square, a large
mostly paved area about an acre in size. It was surrounded on all sides by
shops, restaurants, and other businesses, and most of the pedestrian traffic was
around the edges.
There were parking spaces around the sides, and the old man had parked his truck
in one of them. He had the windows down and was smoking a cigarette as he
watched a group of people setting up some equipment near the center of the
square, near a large fountain surrounded by a small group of palm trees. A
lectern with some microphones, some rope barriers, and some chairs. Workers
were bringing more chairs, and he saw a van roll up and park across the square
from him. The decals on the side indicated it was associated with MVR News, a
local television station. One of only two in Mesa Verde, he knew.
He had lived in area most of his life, with a brief interruption for a war on
the other side of the world. One of the lucky ones, he had made it through
without a scratch, and returned to his home in Arizona to a relatively happy
life. A good job, a nice ranch house on a few acres just outside of town. His
retirement savings were good, and he could expect them to be supplemented by a
modest pension funded by deductions from his paycheck.
But as he aged, he saw the world in which he had expected to live out a
comfortable and peaceful retirement. The money in the bank was worth less with
each passing year, and the amount of money the government would return to him
when he retired diminished as well. And the medical insurance provided for his
retirement was worse. He quickly learned that getting sick was not a good idea.
Especially really sick, as with the cancer that was gnawing at him like a
starving rat. There's nothing more to be done, he was told - at his age a
treatment that might extend his life for a few years would not be paid for. He
had looked at the young woman across the desk as she spoke. He could see that
to her he was just a part of the day's work to be processed.
It was little comfort to know that she would end up the same way one day. She
didn't think so - as a part of the bureaucracy, even a small one, she could look
forward to a much better retirement, better medical care, at the expense of
taxpayers like him. Or, he thought, maybe not. Things were falling apart fast,
and he doubted that the minions of the state, with the exception of the ones
very high up, would do much better than him. He had walked out of the office,
ignoring her insistence that he must sign some forms.
I won't go alone, he thought. He needed something for the pain, and he couldn't
even get that. Not legally, anyway. He had been getting the powerful
pain-killers from street dealers, using them only much as necessary - he needed
a clear head as often as possible. The small supply he had would do, he
thought, until the end.
The previous day he had dispatched several small packages to his younger brother
out in Grand Vista. He had a wife and a couple of kids, grown up now but still
he thought of them as his brother's kids. Having converted most of his
remaining cash into gold and silver coins, he had sent them to his brother. By
the time they arrived he would no longer be among the living.
The incendiary devices in the house would be activated in less than three hours,
before anyone could identify him and find where he lived. It would be funny,
though, if they went off while the investigators were in the house. Nothing
would be left for others to take. He watched as the work continued, and lit
another cigarette.
Rolley James parked his patrol car in the space provided for the security
detail. The governor would be speaking at the event, and extra security was
ordered. He didn't mind getting off the road for a while, dealing with
accidents and the belligerent citizens which he seemed to encounter with
increasing frequency. He joined several other state cops and a handful of local
police as they assembled for a briefing.
The event was ostensibly to celebrate the opening of a new hospital, built with
considerable funding from the state and federal governments. With an election
coming up, the governor was there to associate himself with it, and of course to
make a speech.
Rolley and another state cop were assigned to a section behind the speaker's
dais. That was fine with him - they would be away from the crowd and in a
rather inconsequential position. Not much would be going on back here, he
thought. He didn't like the governor much, and didn't know anyone who did.
Pompous and officious, he seemed not to know that he was almost universally
despised, even by his supporters. Some may have wondered if he knew he was a
tool, but few cared. The elections were predetermined, he carried out his
orders, and those in charge were happy.
At least I won't have to look at him, Rolley thought. The square was beginning
to fill, but most of the people coming in were politicians, some local business
types, and the news crews. A dozen or so vans now lined the sides of the
square, satellite uplinks deployed, cameras positioned around the area facing
the speaker's position. Rolley thought these affairs a farce that anyone
involved should be embarrassed by, and wondered why they bothered. Whatever
resistance they were worried about wasn't going to be fooled by these
productions. Still, it was possible that the mindless masses were affected, as
long as they were not yet starving. There were a lot of those people, he
thought, and they would feed and entertain them for as long as they could.
Gordon Williams had arrived before the square began filling, visiting a contact
a couple of streets beyond, and was walking back to his car. There were now
some people on the dais, microphones and cameras were being adjusted, and it
seemed the event was about to get underway. He decided to watch for a while
before leaving. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment before deciding where to
go, beside an old but well-preserved truck. An old man, not so well-preserved,
was getting out as he approached and he stopped to wait until the man closed the
door before continuing.
Something about the man intrigued him, and he decided to follow him. Perhaps he
knew a good spot to watch from. The man walked around to one side of the dais,
as near as the audience could approach, and sat down in one of the folding
chairs. Gordon sat down as well, just behind him and to his left, and waited.
Eventually the show began. Gordon had seen enough of them to last a lifetime or
two, and gave minimal attention the the performers, looking the over to reassure
himself that nothing had changed - expensive suits, expensive haircuts on the
men, more expensive ones on the women - he sometimes wondered why anyone would
want to look completely unnatural. But then, he thought, there was nothing
natural about them. Their dress, their speech, their attitude towards their
fellow beings was completely abnormal. What is wrong with people, he asked
himself, that makes them submit to these twisted, sociopathic people.
A woman representing the local Chamber of Commerce spoke first, pretentious as
usual but mercifully short as she was only introducing the mayor. The mayor's
speech was longer but still bearable if one's mind was sufficiently numbed.
Then it was time for the governor. Gordon had seen him on television a few
times but never in person, and was no more impressed now than he had ever been -
he usually changed the channel when politicians came on.
As the governor took his place at the lectern, Gordon's peripheral vision caught
a slight movement. Most of the audience was sitting quietly, and most of the
chairs in the area where he was sitting were empty, so his battlefield senses
instantly registered the movement as the old man he had been watching moved. He
had been sitting with one foot on the floor and the other leg crossed over the
knee of the other - a common enough pose for men to sit in but difficult for
some to maintain, and he appeared to be reversing the position. Gordon was
about to return his attention to the governor when the old man suddenly stood up
and grabbed the back of his chair, in one motion swinging it around and
throwing it.
Two cops were standing at the edge of the dais, where a small stair gave access
from the ground. They instinctively ducked, and the old man, with incredible
speed and agility, ran between then and onto the dais, a revolver in each hand.
Two other men standing behind the governor reacted by reaching for weapons, but
too late. The first two shots took them down and the old man, now behind the
governor, rapidly fired five shots into his back from a few feet away.
The two cops had by now rushed up the stairs, guns drawn, firing at the old man.
He got off three more shots as he fell and lay without moving. One of the cops
was down, and the other bent over him as the dais filled with security
personnel. Not knowing why he did it, Gordon leaped up the stairs and knelt
beside the downed cop. The khaki uniform was darkened by blood just under the
sternum - the bullet hadn't missed his heart by much. He looked at the name
tag. James. Name tags normally had the last name, Gordon thought - why are his
eyes closed? He had seen plenty of wounded men, and rarely did they close their
eyes.
"Officer James, can you hear me?" he asked. The other cop watched, having to
deferred to the older man, perhaps thinking he was a doctor.
"I can hear you," Rolley replied. He realized he has closed his eyes, and
perhaps they thought he was dead. He opened his eyes. "How bad is it?"
"It doesn't look like a bad hit," Gordon replied. "What's your first name?"
"Rolley" he replied. Personnel was crowding the area now, cops and paramedics.
The governor was being carried down the steps on the other side. He was probably
done for.
A paramedic joined them, and then another. Gordon stood up and let them take
over.
"Are you a doctor, sir?" one asked.
"Just an citizen," replied Gordon. "Looks like you guys have it under control."
He looked at the old man as one of the cops laid what looked like some sort of
blanket over him. The governor had been carried down the front steps on a
gurney. Gordon merged with the crowd, and with sufficient confusion remaining
he was able to get outside the area that would soon be cordoned off and everyone
inside it, no matter how insignificant their presence might be, would be
interrogated. He knew he would appear in various videos, but with any luck his
sunglasses and baseball cap, along with his non-descript attire, would make him
hard to find.
If anyone looked. They had the perpetrator, and while a dead man could tell
them nothing it was not an unsolved crime. There would probably be a search for
conspirators, but the matter was largely over. Gordon returned to his car and
drove away. Police cars were everywhere, usually with lights and sirens on, but
there were no signs of checkpoints yet. He would be clear of the city shortly,
and home before dark.
He thought about the old man as he drove. The age of the assassin, along with
the five shots, interested him. Sir Walter had mentioned the dead-enders
earlier, old men with bad health and no hope, carrying out one last act of
vengeance against the predatory political class. Gordon had seen one of the two
guns he used, a small revolver, a 'pocket hammer' as some called it - the spur
on the hammer reshaped to prevent snagging when being drawn from a pocket. And
five-shot revolvers were not all that common. He would need to talk to Sir
Walter soon.
Gordon was home in plenty of time to clean up and dress in fresh clothes,
consigning the outfit he had been wearing to a burn bag. Tomorrow he would
take it out into a field where he had several brush piles to burn, and it would
cease to exist. There was probably no danger, but it was no longer possible to
be too careful, and in any case he was not sure he would ever want to wear them
again. He prepared a light meal and accompanied it with a light, crisp beer
from a small local brewery he had become fond of, then went into his office to
watch the official version of the day's events on what passed for news these
days.
The first broadcast that looked interesting was an interview with a young
blonde woman, late twenties from her appearance. He turned the volume up and
listened.
"...was in the hospital" she was saying, "about three weeks ago. I'm a patient
counselor, and he was being dismissed. He got up and left in the middle of the
session."
"Is it true that he had untreatable cancer?" asked the equally young, blonde,
vapid reporter.
"That's not something I can talk about" said the hospital worker. "I just
remembered him when they showed his picture, and called the police. They were
looking for information about him."
Sure, thought Gordon. As soon as they had identified him they would have all
his recent activities, at least any that involved matters of record like
medical treatment. Likely her job included telling people they were being
sent home to die because it would cost too much to keep them alive any longer.
She wants to be on television, tell her friends about it. People should have
more purpose to their lives than that. In the end, that old man did.
The cancer part fit, though. He moved through several channels, finding one
with a house fire in progress. Actually, just about over, it seemed. The
firemen were no longer hosing down the smoking structure, and not much was
left. The ubiquitous attractive young woman appeared.
"We can confirm this is the last known address of Leo Tucker, who was shot and
killed by police in Mesa Verde earlier today, after apparently killing Governor
Philip Murphy. By the time the police identified the killer and arrived here,
the house was already in flames. It appears to be completely destroyed, so it
is unclear whether any useful evidence will be found here."
There didn't seem to be much more to it than that, he thought, but the prospect
of a lot of dying old men killing off politicians as their last act - at least
with such frequency - was nevertheless strange. Or maybe not. He wondered if
there was more behind it.
He thought of the wounded cop. Like most of his comrades-in-arms, he had
little respect for police these days. They knew, or should know, that
continuing their employment after they had become enforcers for a tyrannical
state, and thus merited no sympathy. And if they threatened an operation, or
the life or liberty of any of his people, they would receive none. But
something about Rolley James had intrigued him, much as the old man had, and he
wanted to make contact with him once he was out of the hospital.
The next day Gordon contacted Mike Charlie and found that both Sir Walter and
Myles were available, and had some time to talk. They discussed the killing he
had witnessed, and whether the old man was part of any organized group or
whether he had acted independently.
Sir Walter indicated they were unlikely to find out - investigators might find
some clues in his recent communications, but even that would be difficult as
his house had been burned shortly after the affair. In any case, they
government would not release any such information unless it fit into their
propaganda program.
Gordon has suspected as much. He told them about the wounded cop and his
desire to check on him after he recovered, and possibly meet him. Sir Walter
told him they would probably have the information he needed in the next day or
so.
Gordon was able to contact Rolley James a couple of weeks later, and he agreed
to meet him when he was off duty. In a coffee shop in a small town along
Interstate 68, not far from where he lived. He suggest the place, having no
idea that Gordon knew where he lived and considerably more.
"How are you feeling?" asked Gordon, after the waiter delivered their coffee.
"Not bad" Rolley replied. "Apparently they had to stitch up my colon in a
couple of places, a couple of weeks of antibiotics after I got out of the
hospital. Why are you interested in me?"
"Do you remember the old guy, just before the paramedics arrived?" asked
Gordon.
"Vaguely" replied Rolley. "He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Why
were you there?"
"I was sitting beside the shooter" replied Gordon. "When I saw what he was
doing I followed you and your partner up the steps, just in time to see you go
down. I decided to look you up and see how you were doing. I'm retired and
have nothing else to do."
"Must be nice" said Rolley. "Guys my age have nothing to look forward to. It
seems like everything is worthless today. I tried starting a business, a
couple of times, after I got out of the Army. Just the bureaucratic mess would
break you before you could even open. Tried working in sales a couple of
times, but the economy was getting so bad by then - one of my employers went
out of business a couple of months after I started. I tried another, they
weren't doing well either - never made a sale. Sorry, didn't mean to bore you
with my personal problems."
"That's all right" said Gordon. "Not many people are happy these days, except
the government types. Which makes me curious - you almost got killed
protecting a man who not only treats ordinary people like dirt, but is enjoying
a life of luxury at their expense, and is thoroughly corrupt. Or was, anyway."
Rolley looked at the table for a few moments, then back at Gordon. His
expression was at once of dark fury and helpless dejection. That was the way
millions of people were feeling now.
"I know" Rolley said at last. "I had made up my mind to quit, but I have no
idea what I'll do. There aren't any jobs. Except the police seem to be hiring
a lot these days, which seems strange. Gordon, I'm scared. More that I was
when looking down the barrel of that gun from about six feet away. Dying, if
it happens and there's nothing you can do about it, is something I could
accept. Living with no hope, that seems worse than death. I'm a young man,
and spending the next thirty or forty years, having to live the way some people
do these days - that scares me."
"You must be aware that there is a lot of underground activity these days" said
Gordon. "Anti-government, they call it in the news. You hear it constantly."
"Are you kidding?" Rolley laughed - a laugh seemingly born equally of mirth
and cynicism. "That's all we hear about. Treat everyone as a suspect, we're
told. The cameras on our cars - and there are a lot of them - record
everything around us, wherever we go. I suppose the assassination of the
governor was part of that."
"Maybe, maybe not." said Gordon. "There are rumors of desperate citizens
acting on their own, a lot of them, outside of any organization. And of
course, you probably hear about the militias, as they call them, constantly.
And hints of even more sophisticated operations. The point is though, and you
must have seen these notices that have been distributed all over the country.
Military and police are now targets of many, if not most, of these people. Not
that I need to tell you of the danger. But getting out of police work, getting
as far away from that uniform and patrol car as you can, would probably be a
good idea.
"If you don't mind - I know some people around here, business people. Is it
all right if I have one or two of them contact you? Your military and police
experience would be useful to some of them. Corporate security stuff."
"Sure," said Rolley. "I'd really appreciate it. You must know I'm suspicious,
though."
Gordon grinned. "You looked like someone worth saving, and I have some
connections. This is all legitimate, though. Nothing illegal or otherwise
dangerous. Good luck. As I said, I'm retired and get around a lot - we'll
probably meet again at some point."