The Truth Against the World by David Corbett

Author:David Corbett [Corbett, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Square Tire Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

—35—

An uneasy silence descends. Gently, I say, “Getting back to Rollestone . . .”

Agnes shoots me a wincing glance. “Yeah. Him.” Another search of her pocket for a mint. It enters her mouth like a dart. “We left off where?”

“Live ammunition,” I respond.

“So yeah, he says let’s do it right this time. Draw blood, send a message, start the revolution. Militias all across the country, they’ll answer the call. The uprising will commence.”

And so it has. “Your husband went along with that?”

“Hell no. He thought Old Roll-Stone was utterly batshit.”

“Why didn’t he—your husband, I mean—report all this to the authorities?”

“You don’t do that out here. Nothing on earth folks hate more than a stoolie.”

Georgie and I share a glance—once again, the woman hanging from her lamppost materializes in our shared remembrance. And what do the Irish hate more than an informer?

“Besides, Goodwin has this confidence in himself, that if he just takes the time, hangs in there, he can get his point across, make a difference.”

“That’s admirable,” I respond, “in its own way. But I take it he didn’t succeed.”

Agnes, staring straight ahead at the ribbon of asphalt winding through the Blue Ridge foothills, shakes her head slowly, as though she still finds the truth dismaying. “Turns out Rollestone was the stoolie.”

Georgie lets out a low soft whistle. “That’s sick.”

“Yeah.”

Agnes reaches up absently, begins twining a pigtail around her index finger.

“He operated a salvage yard down in Maryland. That’s important—you cross state lines, the whole thing turns federal. Hadn’t paid taxes in damn near ten years, the liens had piled up, he was due to lose everything to the IRS. He’d been involved somehow with the ATF way back when, acting as a middleman to the Pagans for some military hardware.”

Anticipating a question from Georgie, I tell her, “The Pagans are a motorcycle gang.”

“I was in the bughouse,” she says, “not a time capsule.”

“So he went to his ATF handler,” Agnes continues, “said he knew this group of nimrods eager to arm up and make a stand at the Gettysburg reenactment. He made a deal: I reel them in, you get the IRS off my neck.”

“Wait, wait.” Georgie winces in disbelief. “Didn’t the government see how, I dunno, stupid this whole thing sounds?”

“What does that have to do with anything? Whole point’s to put people in jail. Lay off the stupid and crazy, prisons are empty. Besides, give Rollestone some credit. He could spin a tale.”

A stab of sunlight through the low-lying clouds flares across the windshield. Agnes lets go of her pigtail, reaches up to flip down her visor.

“I know it sounds dumb. But like I said, Goodwin’s got this belief in himself. Just kept trying, over and over, hoping he might get through, talk ’em all out of it, knock some sense into their heads. Then come one morning, six AM—boom—door busts open, agents in SWAT gear swarm on in like ants on roadkill, drag Goodwin outta bed, me sitting there hollering, ‘Leave him be, what the hell

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