The Language Of Cannibals Part 6

"Chief, I didn't come here to investigate you. What about the vandalism and the threats to the leftist groups around here? I'm told that business started at about the same time as these execution-style killings."

"Those are being investigated too. The letters are almost impossible to trace, since they're mailed from outside the county. As far as the vandalism is concerned, we can't be everywhere at once. The place the Community of Conciliation owns covers four acres, much of it wooded, and with river frontage. It's easy to get at. We suggested that they hire private security guards, but so far they haven't done it." He paused, laughed without humor. "I think they're afraid that employing a security force will hurt their pacifist image."

"But what about the link a" if there is a link a" between the killings and the threats? Why would warring drug dealers concern themselves with a group like the Community of Conciliation?"

Mosely looked down at his hands. "I don't have an answer for that, Frederickson. I don't think there is an easy answer."

"What about a guess?"

"Okay, I'll give you a guess. There's been a change in the political makeup of Cairn and the other river towns, a rightward shift. Personally, I don't think there is a link between the deaths and the threats, at least not a direct one. There are some types around here who actually like the idea of a death squad to carry out political killings, even if there isn't such a group. They like the idea that drug dealers and child molesters are being taken care of without a lot of judicial fuss, and they'd like to see the same thing happen to people they consider communists or communist sympathizers. They weren't prepared to actually start killing people, of course, but they thought it was a neat idea, if you will, to kind of climb on the bandwagon and piggyback vandalism and heavy threats on top of the actual murders; they wanted a" want a" the Community and similar leftist groups to think there may be a death squad on their case. In short, the vandals and letter-writers are being opportunistic. They want the Community of Conciliation to set up headquarters someplace else, and they're trying to scare them out of town."

"Some people might trace the rightward shift and the start of a lot of these troubles to the arrival of Elysius Culhane," I said carefully, watching his face.

Mosely made a derisive gesture with his right hand. "That's Mary Tree talking again. You think Culhane's a fool, Frederick-son? You think he'd risk his reputation, career, and maybe a fine or jail sentence by getting involved in a nasty letter-writing campaign?"

"The man's mind and real motivations are a mystery to me," I said even more carefully, "so I don't have the slightest idea what he would or wouldn't do. Some people think you might; some people think Elysius Culhane is the reason you're chief of police in Cairn."

He didn't like that at all. His jaw muscles clenched, and the acne scars ringing his neck stood out as blood rushed to his face. His head snapped around, and his gray eyes glinted with anger. He started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He took a deep breath, turned away again. "Did that woman tell you I was in Culhane's pocket?" he asked in an even tone.

"No. But it was suggested that you might be a bit more sensitive to his views of law and order than to other points of view because you owe your job to him."

"I was appointed by the mayor after a vote of the town board and trustees."

"Sure," I said easily. "That's how democracy works."

He sighed again, studied the backs of his sinewy hands. "Look, Frederickson, I'm not going to try to bulls.h.i.t you. You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right I pay attention to Culhane's opinions, the same as I pay attention to the opinions and views of the mayor, the trustees, the board, and the owners of all those mansions on the north side of town. They're the power structure in this town, and if I don't perform this job to their satisfaction, they'll get somebody else in here who will. I have to consider politics, yes, but that doesn't mean I don't enforce the laws in an evenhanded manner. There are politics involved in any job like this. In that sense Cairn is no different from New York City or East Podunk. It doesn't make me a crooked cop."

"A good, honest answer, Chief," I said, then paused to clear my throat. "But then, the question would remain as to why Elysius Culhane chose to sponsor you, and not someone else who was also honest and equally sensitive to the political dynamics of law enforcement."

"Now you're pushing it, Frederickson."

"You opened the subject when you insisted on hearing my version of the town gossip. Did you and Elysius Culhane know each other before you came here?"

Again, the man's jaw muscles clenched, but his tone remained even. "I'd never met the man before, Frederickson. I have to a.s.sume I was hired because I was the best candidate. Now, do you have anything else to tell me?"

"Nope."

"You have any more stops in Cairn?"

"No, Chief, I don't have any more stops in Cairn."

"Then, may I a.s.sume you'll be leaving town?" He paused, looked at me. His smile was thin, but not without warmth. "Before Gregory Trex gets out of the hospital, and before a '60 Minutes' crew shows up on the steps of Town Hall?"

"I'll be leaving town forthwith."

"I will be in touch, Frederickson."

"So you told me."

He nodded curtly, slid off the table onto the ground. "If you don't mind, there's somebody else who'd like to talk to you."

"Who?"

"Trex."

"Gregory Trex wants to talk to me, and you want me to talk to him?"

"Not the son, the father. Jack Trex."

Mosely drove me back through the center of town, and then south into an area of Cairn where the old, clapboard houses were undoubtedly worth much less than the land they sat on. He stopped the car at the side of the road, pointed to a dirt driveway that led in the direction of the river. I got out, and he drove away without a word. I limped down the tree-lined driveway, went around a corner, and found myself on a lawn beside a ramshackle, weather-beaten house sitting high on a stone foundation only two or three yards from the high-tide mark of the river. Two goats inside a large wire enclosure munched contentedly on the gra.s.s a" cheap, perpetual lawn mowers. It seemed Jack Trex was a working fisherman; there was a battered dinghy and a Boston Whaler tied up at a floating dock that was missing half its planks. Nets for catching shad hung on drying racks, and there were a half dozen crab pots.

The goats brayed at me. I brayed back, went up to the front door, and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by Jack Trex, who was leaning on crutches. The veteran was wearing baggy brown corduroy trousers and a faded green T-shirt that almost matched the color of his eyes, and which emphasized the bulge of muscle in his chest, arms, and shoulders. He was not wearing his artificial limb, and the pants cuff where his left leg should have been was hanging loose and empty. His thinning black hair was unkempt, but he was clean-shaven, except for his gray mustache, and his pale green eyes were clear, reflecting no trace of hostility.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Frederickson," Trex said warmly. He shifted his weight on his crutches in order to free his right arm, then extended a large, thickly callused hand, which I shook. "I appreciate it very much. How about some coffee?"

"Sure," I said in a somewhat tentative tone. I hadn't known quite what to expect from the father of the disturbed young man I'd twice beaten on and humiliated, and the genuine warmth and sincerity of his greeting took me by surprise.

Trex stood to one side and held the door open for me. I stepped into an enormous kitchen; judging from what I'd seen of the exterior, it had to be the largest room in the house. Trex stroked his gray mustache, studied me. There seemed to be a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in his limpid, expressive eyes, and perhaps other things that I couldn't read.

"I don't wear the prosthesis around the house," he said in his deep, raspy voice. "It chafes. Does the sight of an amputee bother you?"

"No."

"It does some people."

"Well, Mr. Trex, there's no doubt in my mind that it bothers the amputee a lot more."

Jack Trex chuckled. "You've got that right." He pointed to a round wooden table ringed with wooden chairs in the center of the room. "Have yourself a seat. The coffee will be ready in a minute."

I sat down while Trex propelled himself across the kitchen to a counter where a coffee grinder was situated. He poured beans into the canister of the machine, turned it on, then busied himself preparing the pot and filter. Still not knowing what to expect, I contented myself with looking around the kitchen while the other man prepared the coffee.

To my left were two gas ranges and ceiling racks with an a.s.sortment of pots and pans hanging from them. There was an overriding odor of fried fish; since shad, the only Hudson catch that could be commercially sold, only ran in the spring, I suspected that Jack Trex ate a good deal of what he caught during the rest of the year.

There was an easel in one corner, but there was nothing on it. Behind me, a scarred rolltop desk was set against the wall next to an open door that looked as if it led into a gloomy, poorly lit living room. The desk and the rickety card table set up next to it were overflowing with magazines, newspapers, clippings, books, jars of pens and pencils, and notepads. Hanging on the wall over the desk were two framed quotes. One was from George Orwell, referring to his definition of political language as the use of words to defend the indefensible. The second quote was from Lenin: "The fastest way to destroy a society is to corrupt language."

It had struck me when I viewed his painting that Jack Trex was not your average Vietnam veteran, or average anything, and nothing that I was seeing served to disabuse me of that notion.

The big man at the kitchen counter must have seen me looking at his work s.p.a.ce. He leaned back on his crutches, c.o.c.ked his head slightly, said, "This is a nation built on, and held together by, illusions."

"Aren't they all?" I replied in a neutral tone.

I waited for more, but it seemed there wasn't going to be any a" at least not at the moment. Almost five minutes pa.s.sed before the coffee finished brewing. I rose, helped Trex put the pot of coffee on a tray, along with mugs, cream, and sugar. I brought it back to the table, and we both sat down. Trex poured for both of us. The coffee was strong, good.

"But I believe that the United States is a" or was a" truly unique," he said, picking up the thread of conversation as though no time had pa.s.sed. "How's your history, Frederickson?"

"a.s.suredly not as good as yours."

"Somehow I tend to doubt that."

"I have a revisionist mentality; I'm skeptical of any account of any event that happened more recently than five hundred years ago."

He smiled, nodded. "Still, I think you'd agree that this nation of ours emerged from the Second World War indisputably the greatest economic and military power that had ever existed."

"No illusion there, Mr. Trex."

"The illusion was that our transcendent power as a nation meant that we were the greatest people.'"

Resisting the impulse to shrug, still wondering what Jack Trex wanted with me and what I was doing there, I said, "A not uncommon trait of most people in most nations, Mr. Trex. American chauvinism pales in comparison to that of at least a half dozen nations I could mention."

"But I bought it," Trex said in a low voice that seemed to be growing even raspier as he spoke, as if he had a cold. "I believed America was not only the mightiest but the greatest and finest nation, and that we were the finest, most n.o.ble people in all the world. It really made me very angry when people in this country, and even people who were citizens of other countries, didn't acknowledge this. I mean, it just seemed so obvious to me."

He paused and raised his eyebrows, obviously extending an invitation to respond. My response was to sip at my coffee as I met his gaze over the rim of my mug. His pale green eyes had begun to glow, and it struck me that Mr. Jack Trex had caught himself an obsession. He'd experienced an epiphany of sorts and was still struggling to come to terms with the brightness of his vision.

"I grew up Roman Catholic, Frederickson," the other man continued when he saw that I had nothing to say. "I remember sitting in Sunday school cla.s.ses and listening to tapes of various sermons by American priests, bishops, and cardinals informing us not only that Roman Catholicism was the one true faith but that America was the nation finally chosen by G.o.d to be His headquarters. We Americans were to show the correct path to other nations and individuals that didn't see the absolute correctness of Christ and capitalism a" and not necessarily in that order. We were the Redeemer Nation, and communism was the great enemy of man and G.o.d. We had been given permission by G.o.d, we were expected by G.o.d, to impose our beliefs and our way of life on the rest of the world. We knew best, and it was for their benefit. We were the Messiah of Nations, the defender of the oppressed. That was our illusion, Frederickson; but that image of ourselves went down the tubes in Vietnam. That's where and when first the soldiers fighting over there, and then the people back home, learned that so much of what we'd been led to believe about ourselves and our government is a lie, conjured up with smoke and mirrors. This government lies, Frederickson!"

"Don't they all?" I said quietly. "Except that governments don't lie; people lie. The more powerful the person, the more people his or her lies affect. I'm getting the impression, Mr. Trex, that somewhere along the line you discovered that American political, business, and religious leaders can lie with the best of them, and that this came as somewhat of a shock to you."

He stared at me for some time, stroking his mustache with a hand that had begun to tremble slightly. He noticed the trembling, abruptly gripped his mug with both hands. "Some men find a kind of state of grace in war, Frederickson; they can kill, maim, rape, and brutalize, and still feel good about themselves a" sometimes better than they've ever felt about themselves. Not me. I lost both my leg and my faith over there. And it was my own fault, because I never realized that the weapons my own countrymen, our leaders, were using against me were more deadly than bombs, hand grenades, or bullets."

"Words," I said. "Lies. It's the language of cannibals."

Trex bowed his head, nodded slightly, and grunted with approval, as if I was a particularly bright student. "Yeah, that's right. Their G.o.dd.a.m.n lies swallowed the lives of more than fifty thousand American servicemen, G.o.d knows how many Vietnamese, Cambodians, and Laotians, and they ate away my leg."

"Mr. Trex, you must be some politician to have managed to get yourself elected commander of the local chapter of Vietnam Veterans of America."

He looked up quickly, and color rose in his cheeks. "Are you mocking me, Frederickson?"

"No, sir, I am not. I'm saying that people who attend the same school don't always receive the same lesson."

He ran a hand through his thinning, unkempt hair, shook his head. "Up until a little more than a year ago, most of the men in our chapter agreed with me. Like me, they'd never much thought about it before. When they did, when they listened to what I had to say, a lot of them came around to see what I meant."

"And then Elysius Culhane came to town with a brand-new smoke machine and more mirrors," I said in a flat voice.

Jack Trex leaned back in his chair, blinked slowly as he stared at me. I suspected that my status as star pupil was rapidly deteriorating. "Am I boring you, Frederickson?"

"No."

"You don't seem all that interested. Or maybe you disagree. Maybe I misread you."

"I don't know what you read."

"But you understood what my picture meant."

"I knew what I thought your picture meant. It was a nice way of visualizing an idea, Mr. Trex, but it's not exactly a new idea. It wasn't new with Orwell, and it wasn't new with Lenin. It probably started with some caveman who finally came to realize that his shaman was bulls.h.i.tting him, and went looking for a new cave."

"It was new to me!"

"I understand that, Mr. Trex, and I respect that. For you, this realization that so-called leaders in all walks of life have been blowing smoke up your a.s.s, trying to manipulate you all your life, astonished you. You're still astonished. You're still trying to come to terms with the fact that people you trusted have been trying to jerk you around with the language of cannibals, mesmerizing you with symbols a" things like flags and music. I even suspect you still can't really believe the depths of that deception; maybe you feel like a fool." I paused, used my thumb to point to the overflowing desk and card table behind me. "It looks to me like you're really getting into the subject. Are you collecting samples of doublespeak, phrases like Department of Defense, Peacekeeper missile, and preemptive counterattack?"

"Yes," he said softly.

"You know what I think, Mr. Trex? I think the reason you find all this smoke and mirrors business so deeply disturbing is that you still, in your own way, buy into the notion that America is somehow unique among nations. You were terribly hurt by this betrayal by your leaders and the country's inst.i.tutions. You're still hurt. You should stop. You've identified the dog that bit you, and it's enough; it's a mean dog, so you should stop worrying it and get on with things."

"Aren't you proud to be an American?"

"I feel lucky to be an American, because being an American means that I have greater freedom than many to do things that I'm proud of. Sometimes I'm proud of what our elected leaders do, sometimes not. There are a lot of dogs in the world a h.e.l.l of a lot meaner than the one that bit you. There are no equivalents in politics to the painter, writer, musician, or sculptor, Mr. Trex. What motivates people to try to gain power over other people is the same thing that drives them to use the language of cannibals. Understanding that won't bring your leg back, but it could ease your sense of betrayal and hurt."

Jack Trex picked up the coffeepot with a hand that continued to tremble slightly, refilled both our mugs. "I got married the month before I went to Vietnam, Frederickson," he said in a low voice. "My wife was an alcoholic a" h.e.l.l, I was probably an alcoholic, too, but just wouldn't admit to it. My son Gregory was born with what the doctors call infant alcohol syndrome."

"I'm familiar with it," I said evenly, watching pain and shame march across the other man's face.

"Gregory was diagnosed as being mildly r.e.t.a.r.ded, Frederick-son. I found out about it when I got back. He was only a little more than a year old at the time. I think he might have been all right under other circ.u.mstances, but what really messed him up were his messed-up parents. I didn't know it yet, because the term hadn't been invented, but I was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. I was really f.u.c.ked up, feeling terror one moment and rage the next. I couldn't work, couldn't sleep a" couldn't do much of anything. I sure as h.e.l.l couldn't manage to be any kind of father. I was drunk most of the time, and I did a lot of drugs. You know what? It was the meetings at the Community of Conciliation that first helped me start get myself together. That's when I began to get it clear in my head what had happened. I laid off the booze and drugs, but it was too late. My wife died of a drug overdose when Gregory was only four years old."

He paused and turned away, but not before I had seen tears glisten in his pale eyes. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, averted my gaze.

"Gregory was eventually taken away from me," he finally continued. "They put him in a home not far from here. They said he was emotionally disturbed as well as r.e.t.a.r.ded. I vowed I was always going to stand by him, to help him in any way I could. I'd lost, or helped to destroy, everything else; I wasn't going to throw away my son."

"Mr. Trex," I said quietly, studying the wall to my right, "I'm no mental health expert, but in my opinion your son needs professional help badly. He needs intensive therapy, maybe medication, and maybe even hospitalization for a time."

"I know that, Frederickson," Trex said in a strong, flat voice.

I looked back at him, found him looking at me. Tears glistened on his cheeks, but his eyes were now dry. "Then why don't you do something about it?"

"I . . . can't. He's of age. He refuses to even talk about going to a therapist or taking medication again. In order to hospitalize him I'd have to get a court order, and there's no guarantee I'd succeed."

"You could try."

"Gregory would never forgive me if I did that, Frederickson. Somehow, I have to find some other way to bring him around. You see, he doesn't think there's anything wrong with him, and he's surrounded by people who don't think there's anything wrong with him. He thinks there's something wrong with me. The people he hangs around with all feed into his fantasies. Their words are going to . . ."

"Does Gregory live at home, Mr. Trex?"

Jack Trex slowly shook his head. "He did a" up until a few months ago. Now he lives in an apartment that's subsidized by Elysius Culhane."

"Does he work?"

"Odd jobs for Culhane a" mowing the lawn, raking leaves, that kind of thing. That's another reason I don't think I could get a court order for Gregory's hospitalization; Culhane would have it quashed. I just don't dare try."

"Mr. Trex," I said evenly, pushing my coffee mug away, "I don't understand why you're telling me all this. Just why did you want to see me?"

Trex pushed his mug across the table until it clicked up against mine. He wiped at his mustache, met my gaze. "I want to ask you please not to kill my son."

The words caught me so completely by surprise that I could do nothing but stare back dumbfounded into the anguished face of the man sitting across from me.

"I've found out some things about you, Frederickson," Trex continued quickly, his words now tumbling over one another. "I know about your reputation. People like my son who don't know you and don't take you seriously because you're a dwarf make a big mistake. Sometimes a fatal mistake. I know you've killed men; I think you've killed more men than I have, and I was in a combat unit. I know you could have killed Gregory last night. I can see that you're hurting, and I know Gregory did that to you. Maybe it would have served him right if you had killed him, but you didn't, and I thank you for that."

"Mr. Trex," I said when I finally managed to collect my thoughts and find my voice, "I don't plan on killing anybody."