Free The Devil's Highway by Timothy C. Phillips Page B

me that his movement was all about Redemption for the USA, collapse of the government and the dollar, the Wrath of God. A return to a simpler way of life, which I guess is what they think they’re doing out there at the compound, playing soldier.”
    “”I’ve heard it all before, believe me. What did you think about Cushman’s spiel?”
    “If there’s a God, I don’t think he’s a politician.”
    Garrett laughed. “In my church, no one owns an assault rifle, that’s for sure.”
    He thought for a second. “Well, at least, as far as I know, they don’t.”
    I thought about Kiker’s black eyes, and his black Glock, both equally without human kindness.
    “He’s got some hard-liners out there, too.”
    “Yes, he does,” Garrett agreed. “I’ve often had to consider what I’d do if we ever had to go up against them.”
    “Whatever this Cushman is doing out there aside, I’m focusing on Brad.” I said to him. “ I think they are keeping him under guard, out on the compound.”
    “They are, I’m sure. Did they give you a reason?”
    “They’re saying he’s sick, and they also gave me some kind of song and dance about a visitation list.”
    Sheriff Garrett smiled bitterly. “Sounds like they’re making it up as they go long, but that doesn’t surprise me. Sorry to say there’s next to nothing that I can do about it, though. That compound isn’t even in my jurisdiction. It’s on land they rented from the Tigua Reservation, on a 99-year lease. Unless some kind of Federal crime is being committed, and the FBI or DHS comes in, the only law out there is Cushman, and his hired guns.”
    “They’re holding Brad Caldwell out there against his will. They also murdered Mendoza.”
    “But can you prove any of that?” he asked, his tone ironic.
    “You know they won’t let me see him.” I shrugged in response.  
    Garrett nodded, and thought for a second. Then his head came up. “Surely you’re working for Caldwell’s parents, though, right?”
    “I am.”
    “Why not give them a call? Maybe they’d be willing to come out here, put pressure on Cushman to see their son.”
    “I considered it, but the father’s pretty ill, and I don’t want to add to the family’s troubles. Mr. Caldwell may be dying, and the mother’s the main care giver. That’s pretty much the reason they hired me. I get the idea the mother would have come out here, guns blazing, otherwise, if she’d had any idea where to look.”
    “Ah. Well, there is one other option, then—you could always go to the press.”
    “Tell me how to get them interested, and I’ll go straight to them. If we had Mendoza’s proof, that’s one thing. But they’d look at we have now and think we were the nutcases, making unsubstantiated accusations.”
    “True enough. Nothing newsworthy in a college kid going gonzo and joining a cult. Or a militia, if you want to call it that. But, mark my words, if your boy Brad was a pretty blond girl, all the channels would be out here with everything they had. They call it Missing White Woman Syndrome. No doubt, on the surface, it looks like Brad is where he wants to be. It all looks kind of normal to an outsider.”
    He fell silent for a second, then said, “Come with me, Longville. There’s a place I want to show you.”
    We walked to Garrett’s squad car and got in. Garrett drove back out the way I’d gone, towards the Redemption Army compound, but he pulled off the left shoulder of the road and followed a barely visible path around some rock outcroppings, until we were on a bluff about two hundred yards away from the compound.
    We both got out and walked around to the front of the car.
    “I come out here a lot, sometimes just to see what they’re up to,” Garrett said.
    “I came here after they killed Fernando Mendoza, and at other times, when there were fights between our people and theirs. They know I watch them, I’m sure. They know that we don’t want them here, complicating our lives.