Chapter 10: An Exhalation of Larks

The Houston hit list was scary. And smart, so far as The Restoration’s goals were concerned.

The FBI was the lead federal agency for all real and suspected terrorist cases in the country. In this instance, The Restoration was now categorized as a potential domestic terrorist organization.

The FBI office in Oklahoma City had obtained a search warrant based on a ‘reliable informant with information that had national security implications’. Playing the Homeland Security card usually worked with local magistrates. Especially these days with all the mass shootings.

My name wasn’t mentioned nor, of course, were the secret Hardmore recordings.

The car that Larry Horton would use to drive to Houston was a 2017 GMC Sierra. Newer than Pewtie’s, with current plates from Texas. It was leased by a Houston holding company — Hastings Security Services — registered in Wilmington. The green eyeshade boys — girls too, I should hope — were in the process of trying to unravel the shell companies, trying to track down the parent corporation. I’d bet a little, although not a lot, that the trail would eventually lead to one Meriwether company or another.

The FBI was in and out of the Hardmore facility in under 20 minutes. Left everything looking undisturbed.

The list of targets was found in the glovebox, neatly typed. The FBI would be able to identify the brand of typewriter. And the individual machine used if they got that far.

Five blacks, two Latinos. All men. The Restoration was racist, that was a given. They were also gender-biased. Women, too, have every right to be assassinated.

Clint’s FBI contacts were deeper, and higher, than mine. He was out of the Bureau now, but friends like Ash Collins still respected him, still kept him in the loop.

Clint told me, “Horton and Grimes both spent seven weeks in Northern Idaho — at a Nazi compound called Cupid’s Creek. They were supposedly there for survivalist training. More like a terrorist school. Lots of target practice, knife work, indoctrination videos. The Boise office is checking all of Hardmore’s other drivers to see if any of them are pulling double-duty as well.”

“What about Pewtie?”

“No record of him being up that way. No trace of the Hardmores either. Pewtie could have done some training back in Texas, there’s plenty of camps down there. And maybe Hardmore isn’t a field guy. More of an executive.”

“That hit list, Clint. It’s ... terrifying.”

“Even by itself, it is that. But imagine a nationwide network of assassins. Knocking off African-American and Hispanic leaders one-by-one.”

The Houston Seven, as I now thought of them, included:

> A black City Controller.
> A black City Councilman.
> A black pastor with one of the largest Baptist congregations in town.
> A black version of Bulldog Bannerman. A behind-the-scenes city fixer.
> A black real estate developer with holdings all over Harris County.
> A Latino City Councilman.
> A Latino pastor noted for fiery pro-immigrant sermons.

Clint said, “Who would you pick?”

“Not the Bulldog guy. That’s inside baseball; he’s not visible enough.”

“Who would you pick?”

“Maybe the black pastor. Be a bigger splash than a politician or a businessman. And every church in town would be talking about it on Sunday.”

“Hmm.”

“No, definitely the preacher man. Remember the opening lines in “Mud People”? ‘First kill all the Martin Lucifer Coons’.”

“I’m glad you’re not on their side.”

“Too sexist.”

The packet that Larry Horton would pick up also contained a brief bio on each of the targets. Along with his photo and home and work addresses, known hangouts, family members, close associates, friends. All were listed in detail. In addition, there was a complete medical workup for each of the seven.

Everything was paper, no digital data, no electronic connections.

Old school, all the way.

The FBI hid a tracker on Horton’s GMC. They would also follow him from Oklahoma City to Houston the old fashioned way. The problem was twofold — obviously they had to prevent an assassination. But at the same time, they didn’t want to tip off The Restoration that they were onto one of its field offices.

The truck bed of Horton’s GMC had lockers, just like Pewtie’s ride. Instead of white pride material, those lockers held two weapons cases.

A McMillan TAC-50 A1-R2 bolt-action sniper rifle. The gun case also housed a bipod and a telescopic sight — a Nightforce NXS 8-32x56. And ammo in a detachable box, the magazines holding five rounds each.

A second locker hid a gun case with a Dan Wesson TCP pistol with .45 ammo. The FBI photos, showed it had a one-piece magwell, square hammer, and a flat K-style trigger.

Clint told me, “Someone spent some money.”

“How much?”

“Brand new, neither one had been fired. Over ten thousand for the rifle by itself. Another couple of thou for the telescopic sight. The pistol? Probably not that much under two thousand.”

“Clint, could you talk slower, so I can take notes.”

Cheerfully, “Fuck you.”

“So, serious people, The Restoration.”

“They seem to be. Know what an eukaryotic cell is?”

“Of course.”

He didn’t call me on the little fib. Okay, big fat lie.

“I ran into something like The Restoration’s organization outside of Brighton Beach. The Ukrainian Mafia. Actually, the Odessa subset. They mapped out neighborhoods all over Brooklyn and parts of Queens and The Bronx. Each cell was independent of all the others. In theory, they didn’t even know each other. Most of the foot soldiers were fresh off the boat. Only the guys at the very top knew the players, the assignments, the overall strategies for dope and prostitution, loan sharking and home invasions.”

“And you think Kansas City and Houston are like that?”

“Maybe. Too early to tell. But it wouldn’t surprise me — it’s asymmetric warfare in a way. The Restoration guerrillas against the weight and majesty of the hated United States government.”

“And compartmentalization works how?”

“Remember, it’s just our theory at this stage. But let’s make some assumptions. Someone in Houston supplied the hit list. Now why would Kansas City send a soldier down to Texas when there are plenty of local targets right at home?”

“Anonymity. So Kansas City doesn’t know who drew up the list. And Houston doesn’t know any of the KC players.”

“More than that, Winter. Houston won’t even know where the killer came from. Remember, they used Oklahoma City as a cutout.”

I thought about that. Creepy. And scary. “So there could be, say, five cells, each independent of the others. No, more than just independent. They don’t even know about the others, where they’re located, how many there are. Just that there are Restoration comrades somewhere out there.”

“Yeah. But don’t forget that someone, somewhere, knows everything. This has the feel of a long build. A patient construct. J. Edgar is frantically going over all prominent black and Latino deaths over the past five years.”

“That sounds like an arbitrary date.”

“It is, but they had to start somewhere. And five years is probably three or four too many. I don’t think The Restoration could have been operating more than a year or two without something leaking. A whisper, a snitch, a bust, something.”

“Or Houston could be the very first target.”

SABBATH LOUISE ARMSTRONG

My duplex was just three blocks from the shelter and I started making daily visits to hang with the girls. Gloria gave me her blessing — I not only wasn’t expecting any compensation for my time, I had been a regular donor to the shelter. And I might become a more significant one someday down the road.

It took a couple of weeks but two muchachas, then three, started visiting with me after dinner. I didn’t conduct religious studies, certainly didn’t preach. But over time I created a safe space in a corner of the cafeteria for the girls to talk about anything and everything. Soon, there would be ten or twelve or fifteen of them. Sitting crosslegged on the floor, wary, curious, interested in spite of themselves.

They could already talk with Gloria and Sheree, but those conversations were mostly practical day-to-day concerns. A school bully. A missed test. Stolen sneakers. A madre up for a parole hearing.

And those discussions were absolutely more immediate than the talks I had with them. I’d learned from dorm room bull sessions, from Leisurely Lane strategy meetings, from just visiting with friends, that the most important thing I could do was to listen.

It could be silly stuff — Janey has a crush on Roberto. LaToya is so pissed. Or serious stuff. Trust issues, abuse issues, abandonment issues.

Here, I did have some street creds. Everyone knew I’d been left at that church in a cardboard box. Knew I’d been through the same destabilizing foster homes cycle that many of them had. And they knew that I’d lived full time in that very same shelter.

But more than all of that, those little girls knew I’d somehow made something of myself. Had become comparatively successful. And if I could do it...

So as our conversations became less focused on details, they became concentrated on life possibilities. Even though I still hoped to build a more formal structure someday, the faith I preached in the shelter was definitely not heavenly.

Earthbound things like believe in yourself; you’re better than most adults have told you.

As I thought about those evening conversations, I came to realize that in a way I had been subconsciously practicing to become a pastor. Rather than faith, I was giving those little muchachas hope. Maybe there’s not all that much difference.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

After Gene Austin had dropped his Wrigley bombshell, we held a family meeting to discuss selling our beloved loft and moving up to the sixth floor, the top floor.

I already knew how I’d vote; had known the instant that Gene made his breakfast proposal to us. Hell yes! I was already beginning to think of it as the penthouse floor.

Weighing against the move ... this was the only home Walker had known. Well, the only one he could remember.

Plus, any move, even just one floor away, would be a major hassle. And, Vanessa and I had worked so hard on the loft, tweaking it with major and minor alterations.

But, fuck me, the penthouse.

Those Hardmore conversations, creepy as they were, generated some respect from me. Begrudging respect, but when compared with the Gunthers and those other likeminded Nazi thugs ... well, this was high tea at the Algonquin.

There was no sense of a white power fraternity like Identity Evropa that had become so leak-riddled it was forced to rebrand itself as the American Identity Movement. Still popular in Discord chatrooms.

One Sunday I listened as Maeve presented the female perspective to the backyard boys.

“The Restoration is just the opposite of White Sharia. No burning books in suburbia. Certainly no THOTS.”

Mike Grimes said, “Thoughts? Thinking?”

“T-H-O-T. Stands for a hip-hop term — ‘that ho over there’. A lot of the good ole boys believe that white women are at fault in this country. Not just blacks and browns. They believe we’re ruining Western civilization through our promiscuity and liberal leanings. They want to impose Sharia law and treat us like property.”

Warren spoke softly, “A complete waste of resources. Financial and intellectual.”

Maeve, I could picture her nodding enthusiastically, said “You know what? In almost 70% of those old time Nazi compounds, it’s the women who earn the money. And it’s the men who are doing all those podcasts. About how women shouldn’t have jobs, should just stay home and crank out babies.”

Warren said, “A classic formula for failure. That’s one of the reasons The Restoration was born.”

Maeve was gathering momentum, her voice rising a little, “They want us to wear a hajib at all times. We’d be repositories for gallons of Nazi semen. ‘The Day of the Rope’ is the old movement’s catechism.”

Warren said, “Their intentions were good, it’s just that their methods were clumsy, heavy-handed. Shortsighted. But, we can learn from their mistakes. And retain the tactics that were successful.”

Joe-Harlan said, “Like what?”

“The basic desire to retain, to preserve our racial and cultural selfhood. The Identitarian movement has been particularly successful in certain arenas. For instance, the white power digital messaging draws a huge percentage of student attention on college campuses all across the country.”

Now that’s scary.

Because I know it’s not all about me, I decided not to talk with Clint about my growing concern — re-concern — that the Meriwethers, probably led by Sarah, might be the driving force for The Restoration.

Because I’m not a complete ninny, I changed my mind. Just in case I was right. It was a rather oblique idea; it was possible that J. Edgar wouldn’t have considered it.

“Phillip Montgomery and I were convinced that Sarah Meriwether was behind the Foundation lawsuit. Then we began questioning ourselves. Now we’re still not sure.”

Clint said, “Is he counter-suing? You should learn something then.”

“He hasn’t decided. But put the lawsuit aside. I mentioned it just because it got me thinking about the Meriwethers again.”

“Okay.”

“I remembered how the Meriwethers teamed up with the Gunther clan. On all that white supremacy stuff with Dixie Wexler.”

“And David and Charles are now in prison.”

“Yeah, but their money isn’t. And neither is their ideology.”

“If you’re trying to tie them to The Restoration, Ash already has his people looking into it.”

I nodded firmly, “Of course. I assumed that.”

Clint told me, “That Horton guy will have to find somewhere to practice. He’ll need to zero his rifle, become comfortable with the Dan Wesson.”

“Hardmore told him to take his time, do it right. So he’ll need a place to stay. I wonder if he has fake ID?”

“Almost certainly. There can’t be any tie-ins back to Kansas City.”

For some reason, I decided to keep Sabbath’s Carol Sue Parker identity current. No immediate, practical reason. Other than we’d spent $30,000 on it and it seemed a shame to just toss away that much money.

“Clint, I’m having second thoughts about how The Restoration is operating.”

“Oh?”

“I assumed, you and I assumed, that the Houston hit list came from Houston.”

“Huh!”

He got there right away. Matt had been like that too. Quick.

Clint said, “You’re right, it absolutely didn’t have to come from Houston. Probably didn’t, now that I’m looking at it from another angle.”

“It might make more sense for the ... I don’t know what to call the leadership ... the Central Committee, to pick the targets in every city. It wouldn’t be that difficult. Just monitor the local media and see who the most prominent minority leaders are.”

Clint was quiet for a while, going through the permutations. Matt had done that too. Maybe I should consider it; although quiet is ... challenging.

“Winter, think how insidious this campaign could be. Like your poster thefts — different cities, different times. A hit job in San Jose, one in Atlanta, another in Milwaukee. No one would think to link random killings into one cohesive conspiracy.”

“Yeah, but also think of the next step. Word gets out, or maybe The Restoration purposely leaks it. Then you could have a quiet panic. Community leaders afraid to go out in public. They might not be silenced, but they’d be weakened.”

“As would immigration reform, background checks on gun buyers, voting rights, climate change, gay rights ... fuck.”

“And Clint, just think how emboldened the other America Nazi groups would be.”

“Fuck.”

“But if there is one central commander, and maybe it is Sarah Meriwether, why is Hardmore having to raise money? Like Joe-Harlan Pewtie chipped in $12,000.”

“Good question.”

Walker and Pilar, and often Gregory, had taken over the provisioning chores. Grocery shopping, ordering delivery meals, bringing home restaurant takeouts. And prepping and cooking and cleaning up too.

But sometimes Vanessa and I found ourselves doing a little shopping of our own.

We both liked Consetino’s Brookside Market. It’s a step up in quality — especially in terms of prepared meals — from PriceChopper and other regular supermarkets. One Friday around noon, Vanessa and I came to the same realization at the same time. A square peg in a round hole type of conclusion.

A white-haired woman, the slowest checker on staff, was once again behind the register at the Express Lane. Didn’t bother either of us; we weren’t in any particular hurry. In fact, we sort of appreciated the irony — slow gal in the fast lane.

However, the guy in front of us had a large grocery cart packed to the brim. He was portly, bald, officious looking — busy scrolling through his phone. The cashier didn’t say anything to him; the Brookside employees were trained to be especially courteous to customers. The downtown Consentino’s ... well, that staff was a little more in your face. Here, Ms. Poky just regarded him calmly.

Not me, though.

I tapped the guy on the shoulder, “You know, these days the adult literacy courses really work.”

“Huh?”

I pointed to the sign, “15 items or less.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to be discourteous to all of us waiting behind you. It’s not your fault you can’t read.”

Back in Matt’s Audi, Vanessa grinned, “That was priceless.”

I used my schoolmarm voice, “Should be ‘15 items or fewer’.”

Daddy consulted with the FBI more often than I did; his Vanguard affiliation didn’t seem to affect his relationship with the Feds. Not negatively, not so far as we could tell.

I’m sure Sandra Fleming, SAC here at the local office, would have asked for my own expert participation more often. But she no doubt understood, and appreciated, how busy I was; how vital my work was. It wasn’t like Daddy was a more valued professional, not at all.

In any case, I was still invited to the KC office when a visiting expert — an authority on handwriting or DNA or profiling — came through town.

This morning, the subject was long-range shooting. Daddy and I, along with about twenty agents, settled into the large conference room at 1300 Summit. A soft-looking woman, blonde, in her mid-40s, stood at the head of the table and welcomed everyone.

“Thank y’all for stopping by. And, thank you, Sandra, for inviting me.” A syrupy accent.

“I’m Teresa Tuscumbia, posted to Quantico these days.” She smiled a toothy grin, “Yes, I am called Mother Teresa. And some other ‘mother’ names as well.”

She was a little plump, stood in a relaxed posture, but there was something hard, and maybe even intelligent, in her deep blue eyes.

“I grew up on what Papa called a plantation. You Yankees would ... well, I can’t imagine you even finding our little farm in northwest Alabama. In any case, we plowed dirt, we fished, we hunted. My three older brothers and I provided the food — all of the food — for our extended family.”

I admired the way Teresa drew us into the narrative. Some personal background, no hurry to rush into ballistics. Although Daddy crossed his legs a couple of times. He liked details.

“Turned out I had a natural talent with guns.” Another smile. “Was a better hunter than my brothers, started winning some NRA competitive shooting contests. Someone in Birmingham noticed and invited me to meet the regional champ. One thing led to another and that’s how I came to be in the FBI.”

Her seminar was a fascinating glimpse into a mostly unknown world for me. I was okay with my .38. And could hardly miss with my Mossberg shotgun. But these days, I didn’t have much chance to practice with the hand-built E. F. Huntington rifle that Matt Striker had given me years ago. Before he ... years ago.

Teresa said, “The shooting culture began, in this country anyway, when repeating arms suddenly appeared all over the Old West. And when modern gunpowder replaced black powder.”