The Fiery Cross Read online

  Bolan double-checked his chosen weapons, locked the surplus in the rental's trunk and engaged antitamper devices. A first attempt to open doors, trunk or hood would produce an earsplitting shriek of ten seconds' duration. Further intrusion, including any contact whatsoever with the interior of the trunk or engine compartment, would immediately detonate a plastic charge suspended from the gas tank, wiping out the vehicle and frying any would-be thief before he had a chance to cut and run. It was overkill, perhaps, but Bolan could not contemplate the horror of his weapons and explosives falling into hostile hands. Klansman, street gang member or collector for a chop shop, they would gain no contributions to their private caches of weapons from the Executioner.

  At 7:50 he stepped outside, bought an evening paper from the sidewalk dispenser and sat down at the bus stop to read it while he waited. Theo's funeral got a mention on page three, together with a recap of the murder and some background on the farmers' union. Bolan thought the coverage fair enough, although it lacked the slightest trace of sympathy. The author clearly had no love for midnight vigilantes, but he saw no need for unions, either. The editor expressed himself on the opinions page, denouncing "rabble-rousers" in the same breath with the rabble that was roused. "We need no Klan to keep the peace in Arkansas," the editorial declared. "We need no outside 'unions' to manipulate our farmers and deplete their small amount of cash on hand with wasted 'dues.'"

  He heard the car before he saw it idling at the curb. He made a point of browsing through the paper until Sheiton had his driver tap the horn. It was the same sedan that had been waiting at the jail last night.

  "You ready?"

  "As I'll ever be."

  "Get in."

  Bolan climbed in back with Sheiton, scarcely glancing at the wheelman or the stranger who was riding shotgun.

  "Guess you checked out fine."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  Sheiton grinned. "You should be. Mason doesn't care for being conned. He might've had us put you through the beltline."

  "Thanks, I'll pass."

  "You wouldn't have much say-so in the matter." Shelton tried for an apologetic face and missed it by a mile. "I hate! to do this, but I've got to pat you down for hardware, Mike. You understand?"

  The soldier feigned resentment. "What's the deal? You told me I was in."

  "You're almost in. You passed the background check, all right, but you still have to be initiated. No one but initiated members are allowed to carry iron inside the klavern."

  "That makes sense, I guess."

  "Okay. We'll make this nice and easy."

  Shelton ran a hand inside his jacket, found the Browning and removed it from its holster, passing it to the shotgun rider. A cursory pat of Bolan's jacket pockets finished the routine.

  "You'll get it back as soon as you're initiated," Shelton said. "Now there's just one other little thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You'll have to put this on." The Klansman drew a blindfold from his pocket with a flourish, handing it to Bolan. "The location of our den is confidential, get it? New; recruits don't see the outside of the place until they leave."

  "I wasn't counting on this kind of hocus-pocus," Bolan growled.

  "Security, you know? We've had a few guys come this far and get cold feet before they took the oath. This way, the losers don't know where they've been, and they can't give us any trouble down the line."

  "Okay."

  With obvious reluctance, Bolan slipped the blindfold on, adjusting the elastic straps for comfort. Shelton watched him, made a small adjustment of his own and asked, "How many fingers?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Fair enough. Let's roll."

  They drove for fifteen minutes before the driver parked and killed the engine. Bolan let himself be trundled from the car and led across a field of broken-asphalt like a blind man, one arm linked with Bobby Shelton's.

  "Three steps here. Be careful."

  Bolan heard a heavy door swing open, close again behind them. Footsteps on a concrete floor reverberated from the ceiling overhead, conveying an impression of size, lie counted twenty-seven steps before his guide brought him up short. Shelton released his arm and moved away, leaving Bolan alone. Around him, rustling cloth informed him that the members of the Klan were suiting up.

  "Remove the blindfold." Ritter's voice, muffled but unmistakable.

  When he could see again, the soldier spent a moment letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. He stood before a folding table draped in satin to create a makeshift altar. On the table sat a sword, an open Bible and a pitcher filled with water. He was flanked by two Klansmen robed in white with pointed hoods, masks lowered to conceal their faces. Three more stood behind the altar, dressed in robes of purple, red and black respectively.

  "What is your name, sir?" Ritter's voice again, behind the purple mask, at center stage.

  "Mike Bowers."

  "The Teutonic Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, a great and essentially a patriotic, fraternal, benevolent order, does not discriminate against a man on account of his religious or political creed when same does not conflict with or antagonize the sacred rights and privileges guaranteed by our civil government and Christian ideals and institutions.

  "Therefore, to avoid any misunderstanding and as evidence that we do not seek to impose unjustly the requirements of this order upon anyone who cannot, on account of his religious or political scruples, voluntarily meet our requirements and faithfully practice our principles, and as proof that we respect all honest men in their sacred convictions, whether same are agreeable with our requirements or not, we require as an absolute necessity on the part of each of you an affirmative answer to each of the following questions."

  Ritter hesitated for a moment, eyeing Bolan closely before he continued.

  "Each of the following questions must be answered by you with an emphatic yes. First: Is the motive prompting your ambition to be a Klansman serious and unselfish?"

  "Yes."

  "Second: Are you a native-born, white, gentile American citizen?"

  "Yes."

  "Third: Are you absolutely opposed to and free of any allegiance of any nature to any cause, government, people, sect or ruler that is foreign to the United States of America?"

  "Yes"

  "Fourth: Do you believe in the tenets of the Christian religion?"

  "Yes."

  "Fifth: Do you esteem the United States of America and its institutions above any other government, civil, political or ecclesiastical, in the whole world?"

  "Yes."

  "Sixth: Will you, without mental reservation, take a solemn oath to defend, preserve and enforce same?"

  "Yes."

  "Seventh: Do you believe in clannishness, and will you faithfully practice same toward Klansmen?"

  "Yes."

  ''Eighth: Do you believe in and will you faithfully strive for the eternal maintenance of white supremacy?"

  "Yes."

  "Ninth: Will you faithfully obey our constitution and laws and conform willingly to all our usages, requirement and regulations?"

  "Yes."

  "Tenth: Can you always be depended on?"

  "Yes."

  Ritter cleared his throat before continuing. "The distinguishing marks of a Klansman are not found in the fiber of his garments or his social and financial standing, but are: spiritual: namely, a chivalric head, a compassionate heart, a prudent tongue and a courageous will. All devoted to our country, our Klan, our homes and each other: these are the distinguishing marks of a Klansman, and this man claims the marks. What if he should prove himself a traitor?"

  On cue, Bob Shelton answered. "He would be immediately banished in disgrace from the invisible empire without fear or favor, conscience would tenaciously torment him, remorse would repeatedly revile him, and direful things would befall him."

  "Does he know all this?"

  "All this he knows," Shelton replied. "He has heard, and he must heed."
r />   "A Klansman speaks the truth in and from his heart," Ritter growled. "A lying scoundrel may wrap his disgraceful frame within the sacred folds of a Klansman's robe and deceive the very elect, but only a Klansman has a Klansman's heart and a Klansman's soul. Let us pray."

  The man in red stepped forward as their heads were lowered, offering the invocation in a voice like velvet-covered steel.

  "God give us men! The invisible empire demands strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands. Men whom the lust of office does not kill; men whom the spoils of office cannot buy; men who possess opinions and a will; men who have honor; men who will not lie; men who can stand before a demagogue and damn his treacherous flatteries without winking! Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog in public duty and in private thinking. For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, their large professions and their little deeds, mingle in strife, lo! Freedom weeps. Wrong rules the land, and waiting justice sleeps. God give us men! Men who serve not for selfish booty, but real men, courageous, who flinch not at duty; men of dependable character; men of sterling worth. Then wrongs will be redressed, and right will rule the earth. God give us men!"

  "Amen."

  "Amen!"

  Ritter raised his eyes to Bolan's once again. "Will you, by your daily life as a Klansman, earnestly endeavor to be a living answer to that prayer?"

  "I will."

  "It is indeed refreshing to meet face-to-face with a man like you, who, actuated by manly motives, aspires to all things noble for yourself and for humanity. The luster of the holy light of chivalry has lost its former glory and is sadly dimmed by the choking dust of selfish, sordid gain. Pass on.

  On cue, the red-robed chaplain took up the ritual where the wizard had left off. "Real fraternity, by shameful neglect, has been starved until, so weak, her voice is lost in the courts of her own castle, and she passes unnoticed by her sworn subjects as she moves along the crowded streets and through the din of the marketplace. Man's valuation of man is by the standard of wealth and not worth; selfishness is the festive queen among humankind, and multitudes forget honor, justice, love, and God and every religious conviction to do homage to her. And yet, with the cruel heart of Jezebel, she slaughters the souls of thousands of her devotees daily. Pass on!"

  For the first time, the anonymous black-robed Klansman had something to say. "The unsatiated thirst for gain is dethroning reason and judgment in the citadel of the human soul, and men maddened thereby forget their patriotic, domestic and social obligations and duties and fiendishly fight for a place in the favor of the goddess of glittering gold. They starve their own souls and make sport of spiritual development. Pass on!"

  Back to Ritter. "Sir, we congratulate you on your manly decision to forsake the world of selfishness and fraternal alienation and emigrate to the delectable bounds of the invisible empire and become a loyal citizen of the same. The prime purpose of this great order is to develop character, to practice clannishness, to protect the home and the chastity of womanhood and to exemplify a pure patriotism toward our glorious country.

  "You, as a citizen of the invisible empire, must be actively patriotic toward our country, and constantly clannish toward Klansmen socially, physically, morally and vocationally. Will you assume this obligation of citizenship?"

  "I will."

  "You must unflinchingly conform to our requirements regulations and usages in every detail and prove yourself worthy to have and to hold the honors we bestow. Do you freely and faithfully promise to do this?"

  "I do."

  "Sir, if you have any doubt as to your ability to qualify, either in body or character, as a citizen of the invisible empire, you now have an opportunity to retire from this place with the goodwill of the Klan to attend you. For I warn you now, if you falter or fail at this time or in the future as a Klansman, you will be banished without fear or favor from citizenship in the invisible empire.

  "This is a serious undertaking. We are not here to make sport of you nor indulge in the silly frivolity of circus clowns. Be you well assured that he that puts his hands to the plow and looks back is not fit for the kingdom of heaven or worthy of the high honor of citizenship in the invisible empire or the fervent fellowship of Klansmen. Do not deceive yourself; you cannot deceive us, and we will not be mocked. Do you wish to retire?"

  "I do not."

  "Sir, have you assumed without mental reservation your oath of allegiance to the invisible empire?"

  "I have."

  "Mortal man cannot assume a more binding oath. Character and courage alone will enable you to keep it. Always remember that to keep this oath means to you honor, happiness and life; but to violate it means disgrace, dishonor and death. May honor, happiness and life be yours."

  Ritter lifted the pitcher of water from the makeshift altar, holding it at arm's length without a tremor in his hand.

  "With this transparent, life-giving, powerful, God-given fluid, more precious and far more significant than all the sacred oils of the ancients, I set you apart from the men of your daily association to the great and honorable task you have voluntarily allotted yourself as a citizen of the Invisible Empire of the Teutonic Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.

  "As a Klansman may your character be as transparent, your life's purpose as powerful, your motive in all things as magnanimous and as pure and your clannishness as real and as faithful as the manifold drops herein, and you a vital being as useful to humanity as is pure water to mankind.

  "You will kneel upon your right knee."

  Bolan did as he was told, head bent before the altar. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Mason Ritter dipped the fingers of his free hand in the water, flinging droplets over Bolan's head and shoulders in a sort of mock baptism.

  "Beneath the fiery cross, which by its holy light looks down upon you to bless with its scared traditions of the past, I dedicate you in body, in mind, in spirit and in life to the holy service of our country, our Klan, our homes, one another and humanity. Rise, Klansman, and be recognized!"

  Bolan rose as the surrounding Klansmen peeled their masks back and removed their pointed hoods. He recognized the men in white as Bobby Shelton and his shotgun rider. Ritter, in his regal purple robe, appeared to be the man in charge. The others, dressed in red and black, were strangers.

  "Welcome to the Knights," said Mason Ritter, wringing Bolan's hand as if to test his strength. "I want to introduce the brothers to you."

  Turning to the man in red, whose graying hair and double chins placed him somewhere in his middle forties, Ritter said, "Our kludd — the chaplain, that is — Reverend Jacob Halsey."

  "Pleased to meet you, Reverend."

  "Likewise, son."

  The pastor's grip was firm and dry. Incredibly, despite his garb, despite all that had been said, there appeared to be no meanness in his face.

  "And our klaliff — that's equivalent to the vice president," Ritter continued, turning toward the man in black, "is Jerome Freeman, esteemed chairman of the Aryan Vanguard."

  "A pleasure, Mr. Bowers."

  "Sir, the pleasure's mine."

  He did not recognize the blond man, would have sworn that he had never seen the face before, but there was something about the Klansman's hands. So small, so delicate, his fingers like the digits of a child. As if in line with Bolan's train of thought, the klaliff disengaged himself and busied his tiny hands with the mechanics of disrobing. The other Klansmen were doing likewise, stripping down to their street clothes.

  "Time to share a toast of celebration, son. This way."

  He followed Ritter and the others across the floor of what appeared to be an empty warehouse, through a doorway leading to a narrow corridor with offices on either side. The wizard chose the first door on his left.

  Inside, a fair-size conference room had been converted to a smallish dining hall. In the center of the room was a single folding table, and a smaller one stood against the wall, supporting a coffee machine, several mugs and boxes of mixed past
ries. A slender dark-haired woman was testing the coffee as they entered, and she turned to greet them with a smile.

  "Mike Bowers," the chaplain rumbled, "may I introduce my niece, Lynn Halsey?"

  "By all means."

  "A pleasure, Mr. Bowers."

  "Call me Mike."

  A warning flash lit up the pastor's solemn eyes. "We must be going, Lynn," he said. "These gentlemen have business to discuss."

  "Of course."

  Was there a hint of disappointment in her voice, Bolan wondered, or was he letting his imagination run away with him? Her uncle guided her protectively in the direction of the door. So much for clannishness, he thought as Bobby Shelton dug an elbow in his ribs.

  "The reverend is a holy man, but some of us are just a bit more human. Would you like a little something extra in your coffee, Mike?" As Ritter spoke, he pulled a whiskey bottle from a cupboard overhead.

  "I wouldn't turn it down."

  "Good man." A liberal shot of whiskey disappeared into Bolan's mug. "We'll have you fitted for a robe and whatnot in a day or two. Right now, we need to talk about your new profession."

  "What profession's that?"

  "Why, you're a teacher, son. I thought you understood that going in. You're going to teach your brother Klansmen how to kill."

  9

  Jerome Freeman parked his Lincoln near the entrance to the banking complex, killed the heavy engine, locked it up. His preference ran more toward the Mercedes-Benz, but his position as a mouthpiece for the nativists compelled him to insist upon domestic transportation for himself. It was a stricture he could live with. For the moment.

  Through revolving doors, across the air-conditioned lobby. Right turn for the bank, left turn for the loan department. Freeman held his course, proceeding straight ahead until he reached the bank of elevators, found one waiting for him, stepped inside and punched the button marked Exec. The executive offices were on the top floor of the complex, and Freeman had been there only once before. His summons was in striking contrast to the usual routine of covert phone calls taken late at night. An audience with Michael Andrews ranked somewhere just below a meeting with the President.