happened, he went to prison?"
"Came out pissing and moaning," Art said, " 'cause we quit in Vietnam 'stead of getting it done. He bought a truck and went to work hauling timber for the mines. Ten years never paid his income tax, refused to, claiming he was a sovereign citizen. The U.S. attorney sent him to Alderson. That's where he got into what they call the patriot movement. You read his sheet?"
"I've only had time to skim it so far," Raylan said. "He's been busy, huh? Has his own army now, bunch of serious morons sieg-heilin' each other?"
"More serious'n you think," Art said. "Boyd's got 'em making horseshit bombs, fertilizer and fuel oil. They drive to a town like Somerset, blow up somebody's car to get the police busy and go rob a bank."
Raylan was nodding. "I saw it in a Steve McQueen movie."
"Well, these people aren't movie actors." Art leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "Lemme tell you about this guy they found at the Cincinnati airport, sitting in his new Chevy Blazer shot through the back of the head. This is Jared, on file with the Bureau as some kind of Aryan knight. Oklahoma driver's license and registration."
"You put him with Boyd?"
"Lemme get to it," Art said. "This is good. Just the night before, a black church in Cincinnati—they called it a street mission in the paper—was blown up."
Raylan was frowning. "It was a church? I caught only part of it on the news."
Art held up one hand. "Listen to me. Four witnesses say a guy got out of the Blazer with what looked like a bazooka and fired it into the church. But right before, you know what he said, yelled it out? 'Fire in the hole.' "
Raylan straightened. He said, "Come on . . ." his interest picking up.
"All four witnesses heard it. So now evidence techs go through the Blazer. They find this little cardboard cylinder you hook onto the back of an RPG rocket. It holds the juice, the propellant. One he must've missed."
"So you got the dead guy with Boyd."
"It would seem, huh? But first," Art said, "we want to put Boyd and the dead guy at the church. What's interesting, it's only kind of a church. The pastor, it turns out, Israel Fandi, is one of the witnesses. Only at first he won't admit who he is till people start pointing at him. Israel wears an African outfit, a dashiki and a little pillbox hat and talks like he's Rasta-farian. You know what I mean?"
"Ethiopian," Raylan said. "By way of Jamaica. I remember now on the news they said it was believed the people smoked ganja as part of the service."
"They smoked it, they sold it—the place was a dope store passing as a church. It blew," Art said, "there was free grass all over the block. This was three days ago. Since then we got the Cincinnati police to loan us Israel Fandi. He's in a holding cell downstairs, but claims he didn't see the man's face had the bazooka. I said to him, 'Israel, you see him in a lineup, the man we know blew up your church, you might change your mind.'"
"The power of suggestion," Raylan said. "Without holding the marijuana over his head. We'll save it. Next thing is to pick up Boyd, if he's still around."
"What've you got on him otherwise?"
"The U.S. attorney wants to collect indictments under a charge of sedition. That he did willfully and knowingly et cetera conspire to overthrow, put down and destroy by force the government of the United States."
"But what've you got you can take to court?"
"Only bits and pieces of evidence."
"Then he's most likely still around," Raylan said.
"Well, he's got sympathizers. Half the people living up in the hollers around here," Art said, "are on welfare but still don't trust the government, won't talk to census takers. Boyd's mother and his ex-wife are in Evarts. His skinheads train at a place up on Sukey Ridge, what he calls his Christian Aggression Church. Signs on the trees say you approach at your own risk, as the road's been mined."
"You let him get away with that?"
"ATF swept it. There aren't any mines. Another
"Came out pissing and moaning," Art said, " 'cause we quit in Vietnam 'stead of getting it done. He bought a truck and went to work hauling timber for the mines. Ten years never paid his income tax, refused to, claiming he was a sovereign citizen. The U.S. attorney sent him to Alderson. That's where he got into what they call the patriot movement. You read his sheet?"
"I've only had time to skim it so far," Raylan said. "He's been busy, huh? Has his own army now, bunch of serious morons sieg-heilin' each other?"
"More serious'n you think," Art said. "Boyd's got 'em making horseshit bombs, fertilizer and fuel oil. They drive to a town like Somerset, blow up somebody's car to get the police busy and go rob a bank."
Raylan was nodding. "I saw it in a Steve McQueen movie."
"Well, these people aren't movie actors." Art leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "Lemme tell you about this guy they found at the Cincinnati airport, sitting in his new Chevy Blazer shot through the back of the head. This is Jared, on file with the Bureau as some kind of Aryan knight. Oklahoma driver's license and registration."
"You put him with Boyd?"
"Lemme get to it," Art said. "This is good. Just the night before, a black church in Cincinnati—they called it a street mission in the paper—was blown up."
Raylan was frowning. "It was a church? I caught only part of it on the news."
Art held up one hand. "Listen to me. Four witnesses say a guy got out of the Blazer with what looked like a bazooka and fired it into the church. But right before, you know what he said, yelled it out? 'Fire in the hole.' "
Raylan straightened. He said, "Come on . . ." his interest picking up.
"All four witnesses heard it. So now evidence techs go through the Blazer. They find this little cardboard cylinder you hook onto the back of an RPG rocket. It holds the juice, the propellant. One he must've missed."
"So you got the dead guy with Boyd."
"It would seem, huh? But first," Art said, "we want to put Boyd and the dead guy at the church. What's interesting, it's only kind of a church. The pastor, it turns out, Israel Fandi, is one of the witnesses. Only at first he won't admit who he is till people start pointing at him. Israel wears an African outfit, a dashiki and a little pillbox hat and talks like he's Rasta-farian. You know what I mean?"
"Ethiopian," Raylan said. "By way of Jamaica. I remember now on the news they said it was believed the people smoked ganja as part of the service."
"They smoked it, they sold it—the place was a dope store passing as a church. It blew," Art said, "there was free grass all over the block. This was three days ago. Since then we got the Cincinnati police to loan us Israel Fandi. He's in a holding cell downstairs, but claims he didn't see the man's face had the bazooka. I said to him, 'Israel, you see him in a lineup, the man we know blew up your church, you might change your mind.'"
"The power of suggestion," Raylan said. "Without holding the marijuana over his head. We'll save it. Next thing is to pick up Boyd, if he's still around."
"What've you got on him otherwise?"
"The U.S. attorney wants to collect indictments under a charge of sedition. That he did willfully and knowingly et cetera conspire to overthrow, put down and destroy by force the government of the United States."
"But what've you got you can take to court?"
"Only bits and pieces of evidence."
"Then he's most likely still around," Raylan said.
"Well, he's got sympathizers. Half the people living up in the hollers around here," Art said, "are on welfare but still don't trust the government, won't talk to census takers. Boyd's mother and his ex-wife are in Evarts. His skinheads train at a place up on Sukey Ridge, what he calls his Christian Aggression Church. Signs on the trees say you approach at your own risk, as the road's been mined."
"You let him get away with that?"
"ATF swept it. There aren't any mines. Another
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