I walked in and the desk was directly in front of me. The computer that Styles had hacked into was sitting, totally exposed, on top of the desk, and to the right was a set of filing cabinets. No safe. Because the money was picked up as soon as it was collected. My bank took five days to process and cash a check I deposited. Cashdollar could get an instant credit. James often said it. You’ve got to have money to make money.
Styles was pulling open drawers and clawing through files. “We’re going to find something. Start looking.”
I had no idea what I was looking for.
“Skipper, go into the other room. See what you can find. I’m going to hack the computer.”
A narrow entrance led to the second half of the trailer. It appeared to be more of the living quarters, and as I walked in I saw two vinyl recliners, a flat-screen television, a bar, and two bookshelves. There must have been thirty or forty bottles of booze behind the laminated wood bar. I felt like pouring myself a drink. Or two or three. And again, I didn’t have a clue as to what I should look for.
I walked behind the bar, a narrow area with a sink. I shot a quick look over my shoulder, imagining what would happen if we got caught.
The crowd noise from the big tent outside was muffled but loud, and I caught myself listening, straining to hear any sound that wasn’t contained in that tent. At the first sign of anyone discovering us, I wanted to be ready to bolt. A large cabinet was beneath the wall-mounted flat-screen television and I opened the right door. There were dozens of DVDs. The titles that caught my eye were several movies that James and I considered our favorites. Dumb and Dumber, Bill amp; Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Midnight Cowboy, and Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. The second shelf contained more of the same, but a couple titles I’d only heard about. Star Whores, Laying Private Ryan, and some others I couldn’t believe had been invented.
From the muffled cheering, I was sure that Cashdollar had been announced, and had probably taken the stage. I looked behind the furniture, still not sure what I was looking for. A three-tiered bookshelf was set into the rear wall, and I glanced at several of the titles. Most of them were what I would consider religious works. The Record of Christian Work, Paul: A Work In Progress, Institution of the Christian Religion, and others.
I scanned the three shelves and turned to the outer room. I can’t say what caused me to look back at the shelves, but there, on the top shelf, was a gold book. A Bible. I slowly walked back and, stretching, I reached as high as I could and pulled down the large volume. It felt surprisingly light in my hand. The roar of the congregation grabbed my attention.
“Daron.”
“Skipper.” I walked to the other room.
“Daron, you’ve got to see -”
He didn’t even look up. “Here, on the computer. Man, the other night I didn’t look deep enough. Listen to this -” He looked up for just a brief moment. “LeRoy writes this shit. I can’t believe he keeps this on record.”
“What? What did he write?”
“Listen. You’re not going to believe it.”
I listened.
“The crusade has led us to this. Fred Long. Enemy combatant killed in the war. Michael Bland, enemy combatant. Killed in the war. Barry Romans, enemy combatant, killed in the war. Walter and Stan, trusted sacrificed soldiers.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus. Anyone could copy this. Download this. The man is crazy. I can’t believe it. I fucking cannot believe it.”
I shuddered and my hands were shaking. We both looked at each other, realizing the implications.
“Skip, we need some more evidence.”
“Christ, you’ve almost got a signed confession. Daron, we’ve got to get out of here. This is bullshit.”
“Give me something else.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Try to find something. We need to nail these guys.”
“Why?”
Styles ignored me. “Look, here.” I tenatively walked behind the desk. There on the screen was a short paragraph, a note that LeRoy had written to himself.
Daron Styles. Reason for Bland’s overdose. $800 in cash that came up missing. Styles killed Bland for the money. When feds start getting warm, give them information on Styles.
“That’s why.”
And if they thought we were spying on them, they’d find a way to turn over information on us. James, Em, and me. Em had possibly killed Bruce Crayer with a frying pan and, if they had a clue about that, we could be in big trouble. So, like a dumb-ass, I decided to listen to Styles and look for whatever I could find.
Walking back into the living area, I listened carefully. Every quiet moment from the tent made my heart jump. Every eruption of applause caused me to catch my breath. My hand caressed the cover of the golden Bible. I hoped it would calm me a little, but it didn’t. The cover on the book was leather and it had been dyed a deep gold. The letters on the front were raised and simply read, T HE H OLY B IBLE. Was it Cashdollar’s book? It was beautiful, almost awe inspiring, but our brief conversations about the book and its importance as to what had happened to us seemed insignificant. This was the real deal.
“Hey, Daron.” I shouted in a coarse whisper. He needed to see this.
No answer. It occurred to me that he’d left. I wouldn’t put it past him to leave me, if he thought there was the least bit of trouble. And he’d just uncovered a boatload of trouble. I glanced at the doorway. There was no sign of him.
Running my hand over the gilt-edged pages, I realized I was holding something of true beauty.
“Hey, Daron.” Nothing. Then a sound outside the trailer. Maybe footsteps or a shovel turning over dirt.
I flipped open the first couple of pages and rested on Genesis. Chapter 45, verse 18 should have been one of Cashdollar’s slogans. Ye shall eat the fat of the land. I opened the book partway and I swear my heart stopped. I coughed to start it again. The hollow shape of a handgun was cut into the pages. The shape was there. The gun was not.