"So you see," droned that worthy, Harold Forsythe, Yale Law '66 and a long-time crony of both Wilhelmina and her ex-husband, "you have got to stop seeing yourselves as separate states. We are all one country and we are all in this together. We can't have Texas going its own way anymore. Take abortion. You have placed some restrictions here that are just intolerable. And so, until those are lifted, Texas can forget about seeing one red cent in federal aid for Medicare or Medicaid. Nor will we permit you to stop funding them at your level. Same for your schools. Nearly half of them have failed Federal certification and no more educational aid is going to them until their entire staff has been reviewed and approved for retention or fired."

"You mean reviewed for political leaning, of course, don't you?" demanded Juanita. "Your entire test was a thinly disguised check of political correctness."

"Well, we can't have unenlightened teachers polluting the minds of America's youth now, can we?" Forsythe smiled smugly.

"And you had better do something about getting a handle on the guns in private hands in this state too. And soon. You are not going to be permitted to give people the right to the implements of death or to deny women the right to do what they choose with their own bodies."

How did we ever let it get this far? wondered Juanita. Then she supplied her own answer. We let it get this far by letting the federal government take the burden of taxing for us. And now they have more-a lot more-power than the states do because they have so much more money than the states do.

Dallas, Texas

Guns holstered and concealed, the federal agents poured over the smoking ruins of an abortion clinic torched by fanatics in the night. No note or sign claimed credit for the arson. Nor had anyone been hurt in the blaze.

Special Agent Ron Musashi pondered the lack of evidence. To one of his men he said, "Get me the files on the six leading antiabortion groups in this part of the state."

"Already did it, Chief."

"Good," Musashi complimented. "Who's the most likely candidate?"

"Catholics for Children," came the instant reply. "We suspect them of having torched two other clinics. Never a shred of proof, though. Professional, you know? Their headquarters is over in Fort Worth."

Fort Worth, Texas

In another life, Ron Musashi would have been happy enough pouring Zyclon B crystals into gas chambers full of Jews. The Rape of Nanking would have been a wonderful vacation. Bayoneting stragglers on the Bataan Death March? Just a pleasant walk in the woods. But for being short of stature-and having the wrong shape of eye- Musashi would have fit right into Himmler's Waffen SS.

Not that he would have enjoyed the killing. All Musashi ever felt from killing was recoil. Though he did did derive considerable personal satisfaction from a job well done. derive considerable personal satisfaction from a job well done.

This job was made for him. The orders were simple, amazingly so considering they came to him from Washington, DC: "a.s.sume that the occupants found at the headquarters of that terrorist organization known as 'Catholics for Children' are armed and dangerous. Kill or capture them all."

Returning from lunch, Father Flores turned the corner to see an even dozen plain-clothed men-police of some kind, so he a.s.sumed, based on the drawn pistols and locked and loaded machine guns-crouching by the main door to his organization.

Unseen by the agents, themselves intent on their mission, Flores ducked back behind the building corner, one eye only watching the event. His heart began pounding wildly as he saw four of the agents draw back a large battering ram then smash it once, twice, three times against the front door.

He heard m.u.f.fled screams.

The door collapsed inwards, torn off its hinges. Musashi ordered, "Go! Go! Go!" and the first team of four burst over the shattered door and through the empty frame. Inside a woman screamed with fear and shock. Automatically, she reached for her purse.

A gun? The agent who saw her could not take the chance. A burst of submachine-gun fire punched through the woman's body, spinning her in her desk chair while inertia made her head do an imitation of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The Exorcist. The woman fell, b.l.o.o.d.y and torn, to the floor. The woman fell, b.l.o.o.d.y and torn, to the floor.

As if the initial shots were a signal, the other three agents in the first rush likewise opened fire on the office workers, cutting them down in a welter of gore. Fired. Fired. Fired again. There were no survivors.

When Musashi looked into the woman's purse, he found a cell phone. He left the phone, but added to the purse's contents one small-caliber pistol.

Unseen, Father Flores, olive complexion turning pale, turned and ran; ran for his car, for his life.

Chapter Three.

From the transcript at trial: Commonwealth of Virginia v. Alvin Scheer DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUEDBY MR. STENNINGS:.

Q. So tell the court how it was for you, Alvin, how it became?

A. Like I said before, life was hard. And it kind of hurt, you know; me-a man that worked all his life-having to take welfare parcels and charity just to feed his family. But pride didn't count for much. And besides, near everybody in that part a town was in the same boat, mostly.

Always remember something my daddy used to say, "Ain't no such thing as a free lunch." The breakfasts and dinners weren't free neither. They come with a "social worker"...and she done come every d.a.m.n week.

First time she come around she stuck her pointed up little nose into every little nook and cranny in the house. She told my wife-yeah, she'd started feeling poorly again-that if she didn't clean house better she was going to lose her children. Talked down to us, you know, like we were some kind of lower life form. I confess, I kinda lost my temper.

That was a mistake too, no two ways about it. Next week, week after too, we found that our food allotment's been cut. Got cut again the week after that, then again.

Like I said before, I ain't no educated man. Don't mean I'm a dummy though. I swallowed my pride; made my apologies so my family wouldn't starve.

But I never could see the justice in giving that woman that kind a power over us. For a long time, I couldn't see what I could do about it, neither.

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

In the dimly lit cloister, Miguel strained to hear the reclined priest's weakly spoken words. Mostly they had to do with things the mission needed done, but that Montoya lacked the strength, in his current condition, to do anything about. "...and I want you to do something about the rabbits in the garden, Miguel. I was able to walk-a little-earlier today and I noticed they had been at the new shoots."

Montoya had taught Miguel to shoot-and well well-a year earlier. He had, in fact, begun teaching him shortly after having administered Miguel a fairly painful and quite salutary drubbing over a no-longer-to-be-mentioned breach of mission rules. At the time Miguel had thought, He whips my a.s.s...then teaches me how to kill him. What a man! He whips my a.s.s...then teaches me how to kill him. What a man!

Miguel, too, was now rapidly approaching manhood; just as Elpidia had long since reached practical womanhood.

"Father," he asked, hesitantly, "would it be all right if I took Elpidia along, taught her to use the rifle?"

Montoya smiled, knowingly-he had stood in as "Father" of the bride on more than one occasion since opening his mission doors. Miguel's interest was plain and, on more than one occasion since opening his mission doors. Miguel's interest was plain and, frankly it would be a good match frankly it would be a good match. He thought about it briefly and answered, "I think that might be a good thing Miguel. She's had little enough control over her own life so far. Maybe giving her a little...what's that word the politicians like to use? Oh, yes, give her a little 'empowerment.' It might be good for her. Yes...I think so. Do it."

Miguel felt a little surge of...of something. He wasn't quite sure. But this was something he knew how to do-the priest had taught him well-and also something that would give him an excuse to be alone with Elpidia. "Si, Padre. I'll teach her the .22."

"Fine, but you take along the shotgun. Snakes look for rabbit too."

Said Miguel, "Si, Padre. Thank you, Padre," as he took the keys to the father's-which is to say the mission's-meagerly stocked (it held no more than the shotgun, two .22s, and one scoped hunting rifle often used to supplement the mission's food stores) gun rack from Montoya's pale, weak and trembling hand.

Interstate 35, Texas

Musashi still smarted from the intense down-dressing he had suffered at the hands of the United States Attorney General, Jesse Vega, for his failure to get "that d.a.m.ned Catholic fanatic priest, Flores." Vega had not cared in the slightest about the office workers ma.s.sacred in the Catholics for Children offices, as Musashi had known she would not. But the possibility of someone escaping to tell a story in any way different from the official truth was intolerable. Musashi had no doubts that his orders were to kill the priest, even though Vega had not used the word, nor any that could be construed like it. So he intended to do that.

While one of his agents drove, Musashi studied the map, compared the files on anti-abortion activists, noted the prominence of Father Montoya...and came up with "Dei Gloria." He finagled a bit with the GPS c.u.m map display in the car. Finagled some more. A bit more. Then Musashi smiled broadly, the satisfaction and antic.i.p.ation he felt beaming on his face.

"I think I know where to find our arsonist priest, boys."

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

"Father Flores? Can that be you?" asked a startled Sister Sofia of the unkempt-now collarless-Dallas priest. The priest bore the look of a hunted animal.

Breathlessly, Flores demanded, "I've got to see Father Jorge. I must see him, now. now."

"Father Montoya is still very badly injured," Sister Sofia announced, not at all sure but that seeing the condition of his colleague wouldn't hurt the good father's recovery.

"He will see me." Desperately, "He must must see me." see me."

"Well...I don't know..."

"What is it, sister?" called a weak voice. A limping and bandaged Father Montoya turned a corner to enter the small Mission vestibule.

"Father Flores?"

Relaxing ever so slightly-he had faith that in a world turned hostile Montoya would never cast him out-Flores sighed and forced a slight grin. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Then, more seriously, he said, "I need sanctuary, Jorge. They're after me. They killed all my staff and they want to kill me."

"Killed? Who killed? Sanctuary?" Father Montoya had not yet recovered his full senses from the beating he had received from the riot control police.

"I don't know who it was. But they went into my offices and shot down everyone there like they were dogs." Tears sprung to Flores' eyes. "Jorge, they just ma.s.sacred everybody."

Montoya forced himself to think clearly; as clearly as he could. "Why?" he asked.

Taking in a deep breath then exhaling forcefully, Flores admitted, "Probably over that abortion clinic that burned down."

"It didn't just burn, did it, Father?"

"You wouldn't ask me to violate the sanct.i.ty of the confessional, would you, Father?"

"Sight carefully...squeeze the trigger," murmured Miguel to little Elpidia. In her sights the unsuspecting rabbit continued placidly munching cabbage from the mission's neatly kept vegetable garden.

Miguel himself cradled the mission's sole shotgun, a semi-auto 12 gauge that looked older that the Priest, not beaten up but rather aged with dignity. There were were snakes on the Mission grounds, though they were not visible. snakes on the Mission grounds, though they were not visible.

Elpidia sighted down the barrel of the other firearm, a much newer Ruger 10/22-22 for the caliber, 10 for the number of shots the magazine held when full, which it was. In this case, the magazine held hollow points, much deadlier to a rabbit than round-nosed bullets.

The rabbit looked her way with large innocent eyes. Elpidia closed her own eyes. Her head slumped. "I can't do it," she whispered.

"Yes, you can. You must. He's eating our food."