Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 31

Oth.e.l.lo turned to him. "You mean with me in jail and you moved on to the next case? And the next case and the next? Not to mention the next piece of p.u.s.s.y."

Raider let his head drop behind him. "Oth.e.l.lo, don't do this. You've opened my eyes in so many ways."

"But apparently not wide enough." Oth.e.l.lo moved toward his rolling carrier next to the sofa and dug his hand into one of the interior compartments. "Not wide enough to mean a d.a.m.ned thing."

"What am I supposed to do?" Raider said somewhat harshly. "I am who I am and what I am."

A straight FBI man whose mission was and is to bust the celebrity, Oth.e.l.lo thought. It hadn't been love for Raider; it was s.e.x, l.u.s.t, curiosity, maybe a tinge of sentiment, but nothing resembling the watershed of emotions Oth.e.l.lo had felt, so much emotion he had actually convinced himself they could be lovers, forget this whole FBI thing and start anew together, somewhere, somehow, some way.

When are you going to stop dreaming, Oth.e.l.lo? When are you going to stand up and face the truth about yourself and your life?

"Things are a little complicated now," Raider said, leaning forward and burying his head in his hands.

"Then perhaps we ought to un-complicate them."

Oth.e.l.lo found what he was searching for in the rolling carrier: a syringe, just like the ones used on Jasper and Deon and what would have been used on Bruce had he been at the South Carolina hotel waiting for Freedom. Oth.e.l.lo had brought it along on this trip just in case Freedom had been right about his boyfriend not being his boyfriend and he needed time to escape. As if, in the back of his mind, he had always known.

He's going to arrest me and send me away forever, Oth.e.l.lo thought. All I have left is one last goal.

Without hesitating and allowing for time to change his mind, he plunged the syringe into Raider's arm.

Raider got one quick look at Oth.e.l.lo before he went under, his eyes ripe with shock and betrayal. Now you know how I feel, Oth.e.l.lo thought. Raider's eyelids narrowed, then shut entirely as he slumped back on the sofa and slipped into unconsciousness. Oth.e.l.lo nudged Raider's shoulder a couple of times, then opened his right eyelid, exposing a bloodshot cornea. Out cold.

Working quickly, he retrieved what he was going to wear from his rolling carrier and went to the bathroom to change. It took a while, but with that accomplished, he closed up the carrier and searched for a pen and paper. He found them in the desk in Brian, Jr.'s bedroom, then wrote a note, which he placed on the coffee table in front of the man from Nantucket: Sorry, Raider, but I have to go out my way. In Los Angeles, where I can arrange my affairs before you send me away and become a hero to your kid, replacing me and Deon Anthony, the f.a.gs. Come and get me at the Big House when you wake up. I'll go peacefully. I promise. No O.J. circus.

That should buy me enough time, he thought. He looked at Raider one last time, so serene yet obviously so troubled by what he allowed himself to do last night.

Good-bye, my sweet heartbreaker.

He headed for the door, dressed as Old Man Joe for one final performance. Once outside, he inhaled the fresh DC morning, put his faded green fisherman's hat over his gray-tinted, nappy-haired wig, then got in the black Ford Taurus he had used to drive here from the private airport in Virginia. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, he took off, not for National or Dulles airport, but for the long drive to Columbia, South Carolina, home of the Jimmy Herman Museum of American Decency.

NINETEEN.

T HE SILVER SOUTH CAROLINA Highway Patrol car pulled into the rest stop and crept toward the only other vehicle in the parking lot, a black Ford Taurus parked next to the restrooms. The officer was a gray-haired man with a pockmarked face, most of which was hidden behind a pair of dark sungla.s.ses. When he reached the Taurus, he put the car in park and killed the headlights, the sun having come up half an hour ago. He got out and circled the Taurus, his black boots stepping heavy against the concrete, mixing strangely with the early morning sounds of birds chirping.

An elderly black man was sleeping against the driver's side window. Using his nightstick, the officer tapped on the gla.s.s. The man jolted awake, then, seeing it was the law, collected himself and rolled down the window.

"Sorry to scare you, sir," the officer said with a thick Southern drawl, "but you might not want to be sleeping in these parts. Things aren't as safe as they used to be. Black man your age was robbed and murdered not long ago around here. I'm advising you to move on."

"Yes, officer, sorry."

"Think you're alert enough to keep going?"

"I am now."

"Well, get along then, sir."

"Thanks for the warning."

Oth.e.l.lo waited until the officer had driven away before getting out and heading for the restroom. So Raider wasn't on to him yet, he thought. Or at least he hadn't issued an APB in Dixieland. He looked at his watch. 6:30 a.m. The knockout injection was almost twenty-four hours ago, meaning Raider must have awakened sometime late last night. Too late for a flight to LA in all probability. Perhaps that was what the man from Nantucket was preparing to do now. Taking a leak, Oth.e.l.lo imagined Raider at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in DC, mobilizing the troops for the siege of the Big House.

Not before I complete my mission, he promised, heading back to the car.

Traffic was spa.r.s.e along the highway. To avoid anymore cops, he kept his speed below the limit, thinking about what was in store less than twenty-five miles up the road. Shortly, he would be caught, that much was certain. And no matter how it happened, the papers were going to have a field day and his a.s.s was going to fry. There was no reason now not to put a bullet in Jimmy Herman's head and really give them something to cream in their pants over. But he'd decided not to implicate anyone else, not Jasper, nor Deon, nor anyone from ACTNOW. There was no point. He didn't know what all Raider had on them, but he'd take the fall himself. It was his battle plan, his vision. The others were just foils, people he used because he didn't have the guts to come out of the closet or kill another man. Now, he was on the verge of being outed whether he liked it or not. What else was left but to finish the job?

The signs on the highway began to announce the exit for the museum. Much to his surprise, his heart was steady, his breathing calm, his mind focused. The hysterics could come later, he figured, when they dove on him the way they did John Hinckley after he shot President Reagan.

He was still centered when he made the long circular turn off the highway and headed east on the two-lane road, which, according to the map sprawled over the pa.s.senger seat, led straight to the museum. Even though Columbia was only a few miles away, the area seemed very rural. Wavy fields of gra.s.s dotted the landscape, interrupted every now and then by billboards promoting cheap family motels and cheesy ALL-U-CAN-EAT restaurants. There were also a few gas stations and coffee shops, havens for truckers no doubt. And signs for the museum.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE DECENT PEOPLE GONE? TO THE JIMMY HERMAN MUSEUM. FOUR MILES AHEAD.

FAMILY VALUES HAVE A NEW HOME: THE JIMMY HERMAN MUSEUM. TWO MILES AHEAD.

AMERICA THE WAY OUR FOREFATHERS INTENDED IT: THE JIMMY HERMAN MUSEUM. NEXT LEFT.

The white stone edifice was set back off the road, surrounded by lush gardens and woods. Barricades were everywhere, funneling traffic through two gates leading to the parking lots on either side of the museum. At both entrances there were orange cones blocking the way and security guards in red blazers and black pants. Minor obstacle, Oth.e.l.lo thought, pa.s.sing the museum and making note of the one pedestrian entrance.

He kept driving until he reached the Sunny Side Up Eatery, a pancake house a quarter of a mile down. Once there, he ditched the Taurus in the back of the building and set out for the museum on foot, walking slowly and deliberately like an old man.

At the pedestrian entrance was a guard's booth. A young white man in a red blazer was inside.

"Morning, sir," Oth.e.l.lo said in his scratchy geriatric voice. He ambled through the entrance without hesitation, noting the metal detectors on either side.

"I need to see your pa.s.s, mister." The guard hurried out of his booth and caught up with Oth.e.l.lo, who was already past the gate.

"Pa.s.s? Never needed no pa.s.s before. I works here."

"All employees were issued pa.s.ses seven days ago. No one is allowed on the grounds without a pa.s.s. I can't let you in."

"Can't let me in to do my job? Son, I gots toilets to clean and sinks to scrub. You think all the folks here today want dirty restrooms?"

"Look, Mr...."

"Kincaide. Brian Kincaide." It was the only name to come to mind. "Been working here for a while now. What's the problem?"

"We issued pa.s.ses to make sure the opening wouldn't be ruined by those opposed to the senator. If you don't have a pa.s.sa""

"When did you say they were issued?"

"Seven days ago."

"That last Monday?"

"Yes, sir."

"The day I buried my wife." Oth.e.l.lo bowed his head. "That's why I haven't been around. The boss brought over some flowers and some kind of badge, but I didn't pay it no mind."

"That was probably your pa.s.s."

"You bury your wife and then try to remember some pa.s.s. I just wanted to be here today for Mr. Herman, do my job, take my mind offa"oh, Lord have mercy, even forgot my uniform, I was so caught up in grieving."

"Let me just calla""

"Who you gonna call this early? Everybody who's in charge needs their sleep to do their job today. By the time I get back on the bus to get my pa.s.s and my uniform, I'll be all tuckered out, the ceremony half over." He turned toward the museum in the distance, his voice growing more and more woeful. "I'm sorry, Mr. Herman, just wanted to do my job. Never knew that pa.s.s were so important. Just wanted to do right by you. You been such a good man for this state."

"Okay, look, sir: just go ahead. But don't tell anybody, you hear me now?"

"You're a good boy, boy." Oth.e.l.lo patted him on the cheek, taking pleasure from the sight of the guard wincing at the touch of the old man's wrinkled hand. "Now let me go do my job and make those toilets sparkling clean."

He turned and walked away, muttering to himself as an old man might until he was out of earshot of the gate. Then his attention slowly segued to the three-story white building that stood before him.

"Welcome to the Hall of Hate."

Once inside, he stood underneath the atrium and couldn't help marveling at the grandiose nature of the place, its marble floors, its long graceful white columns. Everything seemed so new and pristine. Oh, course it is, he chided, what did you expect?

He tried to imagine where the custodial equipment might be, hoping to find a place to hide for a few hours. To the left, a sign indicated The Jimmy Herman Room.

This he had to see.

He found himself inside what must have been a replica of the senator's office, surrounded by Jimmy Herman memorabilia, and had an impulse to want to set the room on fire, forever destroying all that was Herman. He walked over to the far wall, surveying the many photos of Senator Evil with various historical figures: Nixon, Eisenhower, Billy Graham. Where's the shot of him pulling the lever to the gas chamber? Oth.e.l.lo wondered. Then a man's voice bellowed from behind: "You must be Mr. Kincaide."

Slowly, he turned around, only remembering at the last second that he was Mr. Kincaide. Standing there was a tall thin man with a six o'clock shadow and Jimmy Herman himself, shorter in person, but still fat with those chipmunk cheeks and c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Herman," Oth.e.l.lo said without so much as a pause. "Pleased to finally meet you and thank you personally for this job and the job you've done upholding the morals of this state and the whole country."

"Why, thank you much, kind sir." Herman marched forward and extended his hand. They shook; their eyes locked.

"The guard told us of your wife's pa.s.sing," said the six o'clock shadow. "We're so sorry, but very touched you would want to be here today."

Oth.e.l.lo and Herman stopped shaking hands, but Herman held onto Oth.e.l.lo's out of sympathy. "Isabella would want me to be here," Oth.e.l.lo said, "to serve you any way I can." His brain was on overdrive: this is the demon of hate? He looks so useless. I could stomp him to the ground in ten seconds. "We both have always been big supporters of yours, voting-wise if not in money."

"Well, voting is d.a.m.n near as important as giving money," Herman said with a laugh as he finally released Oth.e.l.lo's hand.

"Uh, Jimmy," said the six o'clock shadow, tapping at his watch.

"Before you go, Mr. Herman," began Oth.e.l.lo, "I got a question. My sona"he's got a teenage kid who tried to commit suicide earlier this year on the count of being h.o.m.os.e.xual."

"Oh, dear Lord in heaven."

"Yes." Oth.e.l.lo clasped his hands together and looked toward the ceiling. "Well, they did save hima"from suicidea"and since then they've tried everything, gay-to-straight programs, baptism, church counseling, hypnosis. But the boy insists he cannot give up the desire to be loved by another mana"in that way, if you know what I mean. His mother wants to accept him as gay now to keep him from another suicide try, but the rest of us are unsure what to do. Any ideas, Senator, sir?"

Herman and the six o'clock shadow eyed one another, then both bowed their heads. "You may not like my views on this," said Herman, "seeing as how he's your grandson and all."

"Oh, I respect whatever advice a man of your stature has to offer."

"Well, Mr. Kincaide, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid G.o.d can't save every sinner."

"You mean, maybe he's better off...you know what?"

"Would you rather him live a few more years only to disgrace the family with an agonizing, financially draining death by AIDS? That is, after all, G.o.d's punishment for perversion."

"I hate to admit it, but I wonder that myself, Senator, sir."

"You're a good African American, Mr. Kincaide." Herman reached out and they shook again.

"If only my wife were alive to hear you say that."

The six o'clock shadow approached Oth.e.l.lo. "Take this pa.s.s to replace the one you forgot. And enjoy the day. I'll tell Willie Jefferson to go easy on you today."

"No, no." Oth.e.l.lo took hold of the pa.s.s. ALL ACCESS, it read. "Don't want to make no fuss. No special treatment, please. If I need to rest, I'll tell Mr. Jefferson myself. I'm here to do a job."

"G.o.d Bless you," Herman said. Satisfied that he had a good darkie in his corner, he left the replica of his office with his disciple.

When he was alone again, Oth.e.l.lo stood in the middle of the room and studied the images of the senator through the years.

Any man filled with enough hate to believe a young boy deserved to die for being gay needed to die himself. If there still existed a shred of doubt, it had just been snuffed out. Yes, Oth.e.l.lo could kill a man. With his bare hands if necessary. He could stomach the bloodshed, the gore, the ripping apart of flesh. He could even live with the knowledge of his actions for the rest of his life. It was simple: Jimmy Herman and those like him were wasted s.p.a.ce on the planet. End of story, as Jasper would say.

He exited the room, went through the atrium and made his way down the Hall of Greats. As he pa.s.sed the animatronic politicians lining the walls, he imagined them spouting more rhetoric like, "G.o.d can't save every sinner."

At the end of the hall, he came to the restroom marked: STAFF ONLY. He checked the door. Unlocked. He went inside. Empty. Thank G.o.d, Herman's or whoever's, it didn't matter.

He paused and thought of Deon in this very same room a couple of weeks ago, then went into the lone stall and locked himself in. From the inner pocket of his golf jacket, he removed a small brown baga"his lunch, if anybody asked. He reached inside for the miniature screwdriver. His hand started to shake and a layer of sweat invaded his forehead. Okay, so he was still nervous. Who wouldn't be? Just finish the job, he told himself. Live at least one of your visions as a gay man before the Nantucket brigade comes calling.

He used a toilet seat cover to pat-dry his forehead. Then, back to work, he unscrewed the one screw on the square metal plate on the wall over the toilet and lifted it up, exposing the foot-deep hole. The gun was still there in its plastic package, duct-taped to the underside. Full of antic.i.p.ation, he ripped the package freea"just as the bathroom door swung open with a loud creak. In the next second, he let go of the metal plate, plopped down on the toilet seat and dropped the gun into his supposed lunch bag, all in one continuous, not to mention loud, motion.

"Oh, sorry!" pleaded a young female's voice. "Didn't know it was occupied."

"All right!" he stammered, cursing himself for only locking the stall door.

There was no response to his "all right." Maybe the girl was gone. He peered through the small vertical slits on the stall door. Nothing.

"I'm coming out now," he said. Still no response. Deciding he was alone, he stood up and screwed the metal plate shut.

When he exited the restroom, a teenage girl was standing next to the door. She was a pet.i.te blonde wearing a khaki skirt and a blue polo s.h.i.+rt with the museum logo on it. "Sorry," she reiterated, her cheeks still flush.

"Forget it," Oth.e.l.lo said, barely making eye contact before hurrying down the Hall of Greats in search of a breath of fresh air.

The grounds surrounding the museum were starting to buzz with television crews and a few early arrivals to the ceremonies. To calm his nerves, Oth.e.l.lo decided to move to one of the small clearings in the gardens forty yards away. Once there, he sat on a stone bench facing the museum and made a mental note of everything he saw. A long stage was set up in front of the steps to the main entrance and the sea of folding chairs lay between the stage and the gardens. Below the stage, a small cl.u.s.ter of VIP-looking visitors in their Sunday best chatted and sipped on drinks. On stage, a man in an orange workman's jumpsuit began testing the microphone on the podium. "Can y'all hear me out there in Hermanland?" he joked, his voice reverberating over the grounds.

To pa.s.s the time, Oth.e.l.lo pictured himself on the podium, surrounded by hordes of reporters fighting to record his every utterance.