The shiny black limousine with the Stand Tall, America vanity license plate ground to a halt before the high metal fence of the Truth Church ranch.
The place looked like a Second World War prisoner-of-war camp. Through the tinted rear windows, Moss Monroe could see a pair of concrete towers on either side of the main gate. High above, beneath slanting corrugated-steel roofs, snipers peered down suspiciously at the new arrival, sunlight reflecting brilliantly off matching black sunglasses.
About a hundred yards away in either direction, another pair of sentry posts squatted amid the Wyoming brush.
Moss Monroe understood that some denigrated the Truth Church as a cult, but those were probably the same individuals who labled him a crackpot, and so when the gates creaked open to swallow him, he didn't hesitate to order his chauffeur to drive on in.
There was a perfectly ordinary-looking ranch house
about a half mile up the packed dirt drive within the Ragnarok compound. Behind the ranch, Monroe could see a series of low-lying, interconnected concrete structures obviously built for function rather than style. On these, fatigue-clad men strolled back and forth with high-powered rifles hanging in the crooks of their arms.
Monroe's limo circled around, ghosting to a stop alongside the long, rough-hewn porch running the length of the split-log ranch house.
A robust woman with long coal black hair stood at the top of the rickety wooden staircase, waiting to greet the perennial odd man out of U.S. politics.
"You have come to acquire spiritual enlightenment," Esther Clear-Seer announced as Moss Monroe's slight, four-foot-six-inch frame climbed down out of the limo.
"Now, hold on there, missy," Moss Monroe said. His nasal twang sounded peeved as the red Wyoming dust settled atop his hand-tooled ostrich-skin cowboy boots. "I got one thing to say to you and one thing only—where's the feller what can tell me the future?"
Her face sunk. "You want to see Kaspar," she said glumly.
"Yeah. Kaspar. That's the jasper's name. I hear he can tell a feller when he's next gonna get paid, laid or made," Monroe whanged. "Trot him on out."
Esther Clear-Seer composed her crestfallen face. Lately fewer and fewer supplicants came to the ranch willing to cede their wills to her. The money from Kaspar's venture was good, but Esther felt she was losing control over the crucial aspect of the Truth
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Church ranch-the need to manipulate the drones. The acolyte pool was stagnating.
Esther nodded to Moss Monroe. "Very well," she said resignedly. "I'll take you around back."
A new voice cut the air.
"Don't bother."
Esther turned. Stepping out of the door behind her was Mark Kaspar. He must have taken the newly completed tunnel that connected the Pythia Pit to her ranch, she knew. Esther was surprised. Rarely these days did Kaspar venture from the Pythia Pit.
"Are you the feller I came here to see?" Moss Monroe demanded, clomping up on four-inch heels.
"The question is irrelevant," Kaspar replied calmly. "There will be no oracles for you. Please leave."
"What are you doing?" Esther asked out of the side of her mouth. "Do you know who this little martinet is?"
"Now, looky here, son," Moss Monroe protested. "I don't think you unnerstand who you're talkin' to."
Kaspar smiled. "On the contrary. I know all too well."
He clapped his hands twice, sharply. Instantly squads of Truth Church disciples appeared from coigns of vantage around and atop the surrounding buildings, all training high-powered weapons on the diminutive but unmissable target that was Moss Monroe.
"Are you out of your mind?" Esther hissed. "This is Moss Monroe. The guy blows his nose on thousand-dollar bills. Take his damn money."
Moss Monroe tilted back a ten-gallon hat that sat
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atop his head like a pelican about to lay eggs on a rock. His eyes got beadier, if possible.
"Son, I am prepared to offer you one hundred million out of my own personal savings account if you'll get your little future teller to do some predictin' for me."
Kaspar ignored Monroe. He gestured to the poised snipers above.
"Granted, they are not the feared Black Panthers, who I'm told are fond of performing calisthenics on your front lawn, but they are still quite effective."
"This is crazy." Cupping her beringed hands before her mouth, Esther Clear-Seer barked, ' 'Everyone, back off!"
The Truth Church squads didn't move.
Esther's eyes flew wide.
"Back off!" she shouted once more. Still nothing. "This is Yogi Mom speaking. As the Beatific Head and Prophetess of your church, I command you to return to normal sentry stations."
But her acolytes refused to budge. When Esther turned to face Mark Kaspar, her pale face was a marble mask of pure hate.
"The power of the Pythia's prophecies is great," Kaspar intoned with a broad, knowing smile.
Despite public impressions to the contrary, Moss Monroe was a man who knew which way the wind blew. When he saw that the woman had failed to order back the throng of armed zealots, he beat a hasty retreat to the rear his limousine and hightailed it from Ranch Ragnarok. Pronto.
He watched out the rear window as the twin watch-towers of Ragnarok's front gates slipped below a hill
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in the road behind him, and silently vowed to make it his mission on earth to destroy everyone who promised that pack of crazies could tell him at all about his future. From now on, for Moss Monroe, it would be nothing but tea leaves, tarot cards and an occasional seance.
"What did you do to my acolytes?" Esther Clear-Seer demanded. They were in her ranch house, away from prying ears. Kaspar had dismissed his troops, and they had obeyed.
Now he dismissed Esther Clear-Seer's concerns.
"It is irrelevant. There are more pressing matters at hand."
"Pressing, my ass. You've corrupted them. You've turned them against me. Do you have any idea how long it takes to break their will? Some of them have been here for years."
"They will still obey you," Kaspar intoned.
"But they obey you first."
"Irrelevant," Kaspar repeated with a wave of his hand. "We must prepare."