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The fall of had been relatively mild in central Illinois, but on this night of Oct. The kids first noticed something was going on outside when the picture on the Sylvania Halo Light TV began being lashed with static, the droning voices of Kennedy and Nixon occasionally being drowned out. Then a powerful gust of wind hit the old house and slammed the front door open at the same instant thunder crashed and the lights and TV went off.

The boys rushed to the front door to look out through the screen at the approaching storm. With the porchlight out, the whole town looked dark. Then lightning would strike somewhere to the south or west and all the trees surrounding the empty school block across the street would stand out in black silhouette.

Or to the tavern next door, Dale thought. Both brothers hated it when their mother had a few beers, either at home with friends or when she went out after bowling.

Dale always got a stomach ache when he heard his mother slurring words even the slightest bit. It had been a dim, overcast day and neither boy had volunteered to go to the kitchen to check it out. But the front door was locked and they were too afraid to go around to the unlocked backdoor that opened to the kitchen. Their mother had come home from shopping twenty minutes later to find them still there on the porch, huddled and shivering.

And Lawrence had been stupid enough to tell their friend Mike what had happened. Within a week, every kid in Elm Haven had laughed at Dale and Larry and the mummy in their kitchen.

At that second, the entire sky lit up with multiple lightning strikes which backlit the quickly baring trees and seemed to freeze the blizzard of leaves in place as they flew.

The school that had been the source of so much of their terror in the summer just past. The school that had burned down that summer. The boys looked at each other, mouths still open and eyes wide. The lightning flashed again.

The school was no longer there, the center of the wide city block that had once housed the old structure now empty except for its sentinel lines of almost bare elm trees and the forlorn playground equipment on the south side of where Old Central had once risen. They closed and bolted the front door and shakily went back in to the small living room to watch what was left of the debate.

Dale trottted to the kitchen, switching lights on in the dining room and hallway as he went, and came back with the flashlight. Nixon to tell me about what my responsibilities are as a citizen. What I downgrade, Mr. Nixon, is the leadership the country is getting, not the country. I believe the Soviet Union is first in outer space.

We have — may have made more shots but the size of their rocket thrust and all the rest. All the boys were pale.

No one mentioned the school they had all seen exposed by the lightning, the three stories and belfry and dead windows of the thing standing out clearly against the night and bare trees behind it. Dale looked at his friends and wondered if the other three — he knew his brother did — had the same dreams that he had most nights: Now he shook his head and tried to listen to some of the stupid debate, realizing as he did so that his little brother Lawrence had moved over to sit next to him on the arm of the chair so that their shoulders were touching.

The younger Stewart boy will have just turned 17 when his mother dies after months battling the disease, then his father seven months later. They had no other family in the area. A week after their father was buried and Dale had returned to college, Lawrence dropped out of high school and went to enlist in the Marines.

He wanted to go to Vietnam and fight. First of all, he was seriously underweight. Secondly, during the physical exams, they discovered that Lawrence had a serious case of diabetes. This discovery shook the adventurous young man almost as much as had the deaths of his parents. So he returned to finish high school and begin the lifelong regimen of insulin shots that would keep him alive. He wanted to be a police officer or perhaps even a lawyer. The studies were difficult and Lawrence would be distracted both by his illness — the diabetes was not yet under control and his weight dropped to 97 pounds that freshman year and he was always fatigued — and by a girl named Susan.

He also took up skydiving and rock climbing that year. In the autumn of his sophomore year, he married Susan — the first of five marriages over the next seventeen years, the last one being the one that took — and dropped out of the university with the intention of becoming a Pinkerton agent.

Lawrence enjoyed being a Pinkerton detective for fourteen months, but left that work shortly after he left the marriage with Susan. Trudy, who officially owned their adjustors company being the wife, the suburbs of San Diego being the home, and private adjusting and advanced accident investigation being the work. Besides being hired by insurance companies and firms to investigate accidents and accident fraud — a work that Lawrence found totally challenging — he also was in demand as an expert witness in trials related to accidents and lawsuits resulting from accidents.

By this time Lawrence had amassed more than three hundred hours of advanced instruction in accident reconstruction and forensics. He continued to race almost every weekend his wife serving as his only pit crew and had now taken up piloting sailplanes and Motocross as well.

Between the two of them, Lawrence and Trudy owned two company cars, three private cars, two race cars, and three motorcycles — one for Motocross and two huge touring bikes for serious cross-country travel. Both eschewed Harleys as loud, stupid machines. Part of what formed Lawrence politically was his work. It was how they made their livings — sometimes to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars per year. In his early years in California with wives two, three, and four this annoyance at Spanish-speaking illegal immigrants was a minor thing, a common affliction shared with the other few conservative Republicans Lawrence had met.

During his years living and working in Los Angeles County, Lawrence was fairly sanguine about the changes in the city, saying to his wife that Los Angeles was now the second foreign city in America the first being Miami, which had been run for years by industrious Cubans.

There was the absurdity of the permanent roadblocks on the I-5 — searching for vans full of illegals — and the constant fleet of abandoned vehicles in the parking area nearby where the drivers and riders in those clapped-out old vans had abandoned the vehicles and run away. There was the absurdity of the warning signs along the highways — a silhouette of a running woman tugging a child into the air while other silhouetted children ran behind them.

Watch Out for People Crossing the Highway. Every morning when Lawrence drove down his surface street to the freeway from his suburb in the hills, there would be the group of Hispanic men at various turnouts and shopping malls, waiting to be chosen that day for gardening work and other menial labor.

None of it seemed right to Lawrence. By now Lawrence Stewart could have taught a university class like his pointy-headed intellectual left-wing college professor older brother in Montana! Back then, he knew, it used to be Germans and Italians and Irish fresh from Ellis Island who were brought into criminal insurance fraud claims, now it was mostly Hispanics from Mexico and Guatemala and El Salvador and elsewhere.

The organization was called Helpers of the Helpless and was set up to provide translation and counseling services to poor non-English-speakers in hospitals. Except the entire Helpers of the Helpless thing was part of a giant insurance scam. Much more disturbing to Lawrence was the fact that many of these illegal immigrants were recruited — many right there in the hospital emergency rooms — to be active participants in highway accident fraud. Lawrence and Dar had testified before Organized Crime insurance-fraud hearings that helped to break up the Helpers of the Helpless scam, but the same accident fraud groups — here run by Vietnamese, there by incoming Russian mafia in the nineties — simply regrouped and reorganized and carried on.

By the time Lawrence turned 50, he was a big man physically as well as in his profession — six foot two, lbs. An Hispanic girl incapable of getting an order right at a fast-food drive-thru would send Lawrence driving away at high speed.

It had been better when Dar Minor worked with Lawrence and his wife. But around the millennium, Dar had fallen in love with an ex-FBI agent turned state insurance-fraud investigator named Sydney Olson and immediately after , both Syd and Dar had headed back east, she to return to the FBI where she was assigned to a position under her hated special agent ex-husband and Dar somewhere into the dark folds of Homeland Security.

He was sure of that. Border Patrol in when the younger Hernandez had fired at a Mexican drug dealer who was retreating across the border after knifing two people near San Diego and aiming a gun at Hernandez and his partner during a pursuit.

The shooting incident — the drug dealer had not been hit but he and the Mexican consulate made a huge issue of it — cost Rafael Hernandez his job. Outraged, former Border Patrolman Hernandez joined the newly created Minutemen organization. As Lawrence and Rafael Hernandez watched, Netkin's car was surrounded and a mob of some screaming demonstrators rocked the vehicle and banged on it, some throwing themselves under the front wheels of the car to feign injury.

Lawrence witnessed the drug dealings, met corrupt cops and federal police officers, saw how the Mexican army was actively involved with the drug trade, and even traveled to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, with Rafael to see the drug wars firsthand. Hernandez told Lawrence that more than 1, people had been killed in the cartel wars there in the past two years, in the past six months alone,, about the same number as American soldiers killed in Iraq during the same two-year period.

Cardenas,who -- Hernandez said -- had been in jail on drug charges in Mexico since , reportedly was overseeing his narco-trafficking organization from prison. However, in recent years, Guzman had made inroads into the Nuevo Laredo market by waging a bloody street war against the Cardenas organization and the Zetas. The death toll was growing daily and just that year more than 30 Americans had disappeared or been killed in Nuevo Laredo, a few steps away from Laredo, Texas.

More than 6, trucks carrying 40 percent of all Mexican exports come through Laredo every day. The cartels use the trucks, the warehouses and the interstate to move most of the cocaine, marijuana and methamphetamine that reaches the United States.

About 92 percent of the cocaine coming into the U. Can you blame the poor bastards for heading north for work? Otherwise they should stay here and fix their own damned country. Faced with the knowledge of several Title 8 United States Code section prosecutions in the United States against such illegal alien support groups as No More Deaths and the fact that thousands of California Minutemen patrolled vast sections of the American border lands around the clock, Humane Borders and the Mexican government decided to suspend the program.

A spokesman for Mexico's National Human Rights Commission said "This would be practically like telling the Minutemen where the migrants are going to be" and therefore the Mexican government handing out the maps would have to "rethink this".

Around Christmas of that year, Rafael Hernandez, his lawsuit to be reinstated in the U. He disappeared in February of When Dale Stewart visits his brother in the Oregon ghost town — named Lonerock — during the Christmas of , Lawrence who has lost weight and looks much healthier takes him out for a walk down the half-block Main Street of the abandoned town.

A guy from the Apollo program. He walked on the moon. Muldorff and his wife lived in Salem but he used to fly his own private helicopter out to their house here — my house now — for weekends and holidays. The two of them renovated the old house themselves. Helens in a storm. Neither talked about it, but they both had nightmares about the place. On this winter day a thin layer of snow covered everything.

It was very cold. Dale could see how the cliff to the south and west of the ghost town would shut off the daylight by three p. We stay there a week or more when we have a case.

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Faced with the knowledge of several Title 8 United States Code section prosecutions in the United States against such illegal alien support groups as No More Deaths and the fact that thousands of California Minutemen patrolled vast sections of the American border lands around the clock, Humane Borders and the Mexican government decided to suspend the program.

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Around Christmas of that year, Rafael Hernandez, his lawsuit to be reinstated in the U. He disappeared in February of When Dale Stewart visits his brother in the Oregon ghost town — named Lonerock — during the Christmas of , Lawrence who has lost weight and looks much healthier takes him out for a walk down the half-block Main Street of the abandoned town.

A guy from the Apollo program. He walked on the moon. Muldorff and his wife lived in Salem but he used to fly his own private helicopter out to their house here — my house now — for weekends and holidays. The two of them renovated the old house themselves. Helens in a storm. Neither talked about it, but they both had nightmares about the place. On this winter day a thin layer of snow covered everything. It was very cold. Dale could see how the cliff to the south and west of the ghost town would shut off the daylight by three p.

We stay there a week or more when we have a case. Dale looked around the ghost town. The shadow from the cliff was already creeping closer. After years of being a Californian, Lawrence was going Wild West. The only car, other than a race car in storage, that the couple owned now was the beefed-up Jeep Wrangler parked out in front of the house here.

Lawrence laughed then and it was his old, little-brother laugh that Dale remembered. They just stay around and sulk. For several more minutes they stood there as the line of shadow and light moved toward them down the empty, snow-rippled main street of the abandoned little town. Lights came on in the little cottage and the brothers walked back that way slowly, still not speaking.

The wind had died down and there was static on the TV — and the lights stayed on — but the rain continued to pour down outside, ripping most of the leaves from the trees and pounding them into the cold grass and tarmac.

Edwards for the Vice President. Nixon, carrying forward this business about a timetable; as you know, the pressures are increasing for a summit conference. Now, both you and Senator Kennedy have said that there are certain conditions which must be met before you would meet with Khrushchev. Will you be more specific about these conditions? Uh — first of all. Mike would also never tell the other boys that his only real interest in the presidential race that year was that Kennedy was a Catholic.

There were enough Catholics in Elm Haven and the surrounding farm areas to keep little St. The Elm Haven priests hated it when that happened — Mike was the oldest and most dependable altar boy the succession of priests had and they depended on him — but Mike loved worshiping in the huge cathedral. It was what he thought a church should be. And even during the High Mass, which droned on for hours, he lost himself in a vertical mural above the smaller altar to the right side of the main altar — a mural in which doves, one of them surely the Holy Spirit, nested in and flew among spiraling and intertwining branches of what he finally realized must be an olive tree.

This, through summer school in junior high and high school and an amazing amount of work to succeed despite what he would later learn was his dyslexia, he succeeded in doing, graduating in December of His friends Kevin and Dale and presumably Harlen, although Jim had moved to Chicago before this had graduated in May of the same year. Truth be told, Mike hated violence. Mike did very well in training and arrived in Vietnam in July of as a rifleman in Alpha Company of the 4th Battalion of the rd Infantry of the st Airborne Division.

The st had not yet, quite, been officially labeled as Airmobile , but they would be before Mike left Vietnam three years later as a high-priority casualty in a C Hercules flight. This surprised him a lot. Much more hated than the dinks, dicks, slopes and gooks.

Partially because of those quiet, life-saving corrections, Mike was relieved of his Prick after four months in-country and given the job of tunnel rat. But it worked out all right because Mike, although taller than most tunnel rats, was thin and extremely flexible — something that helped him in sports as a kid and which now helped keep him alive. It was not a job for anyone who was claustrophobic, afraid of the dark, or afraid of sudden hand-to-hand combat. Mike was all three of these things, but he surprised everyone, himself most of all, by being an excellent tunnel rat.

He seemed to have a sixth sense as he wriggled his way through collapsing dirt and roots and VC or NVA dried shit and past rotting corpses and tripwires and claymores and punji stakes and more elaborate boobytraps down there in the black, sightless, grave-smelling earth. Mike also discovered, to his surprise, that unlike most other grunts in the st Airborne soon to be Airmobile , he actually enjoyed being in the air.

After training, he never parachuted into anyplace, of course — that was a different war — but they were moved around by Slicks — the UH-1 Huey helicopters that later became the symbol of the Vietnam War. He loved being up there above the jungle canopy or in the bright sunlight over rice paddies reflecting the sun in a thousand places and even over or inside the clouds of what seemed to be steam that were always rising from the jungle.

Mike had extraordinarily good luck in his first combat tour in Vietnam. Returning after volunteering for his second tour after more advanced training in late , he had even better luck.

Many of his friends died around him that year. Except for one shrapnel nick that got infected and meant a brief forced return to a rear echelon hospital just long enough for Mike to miss a firefight that killed five of the seven men in his squad, Mike went untouched during his second tour. The rule crawling through those miles of black, stinking tunnels was — touch nothing. Trying to hold his breath, Mike got his head and shoulders past the bloated, gas-emitting thing, but then the tunnel curved abruptly upward, he had to scramble to get handholds and footholds to keep moving, and his left foot, just out of sight beneath him now, inadvertently joggled the corpse.

The enemy had hollowed the guts out of their own dead officer, packed his belly and empty abdominal cavity with stolen American C-4 explosives, and rigged the corpse with trip wires. As it was, his flashlight was blown out of his hand and destroyed and Mike had to rig a tourniquet from his web belt and laces from his shredded right boot and then crawl up and through absolute darkness for another twelve minutes, leaving most of his blood behind as he did so, retracing his path through the maze.

He also had other worries at the time, since for weeks after his arrival back Stateside, it seemed probable that his other leg — the right one — would also have to come off, due to shrapnel and other wounds from the explosion. Mike had been secreting away 8 out of 10 of his oral painkillers to take at once in case they did decide on such surgery. He refused to go through life legless. Chico and his crew-chief brother Kink had opened a private helicopter service at a field near Palo Alto.

So between those agonizing weeks and then months of physical therapy, Mike headed to the field on the weekends and went up with Chico and also with Kink, who could — he said — fly choppers better than his brother could, but who preferred fixing them to flying them , first in a variety of the kind of H Hiller trainer that the army had used to train Chico, and then — eventually -- Mike stayed in the area for four months after the end of his VA time just for the lessons in a real, war-surplus Huey and finally in a beautiful Bell Ranger that Chico used to ferry executives around.

The rest of the fuselage simply follows along suspended from the disk by the mast. It increased or feathered the pitch of the rotors and caused the machine to bank or dive or climb in the direction he shifted the stick. In his left hand would be the collective — a stick that controlled the pitch angle of the main rotor blades in a way that caused the helicopter to rise or descend. The twist grip that controlled the throttle was on the collective.

Unusual even for fixed-wing pilots, Chico said. This was, said Chico, what washed out most would-be chopper pilots early on. Torque, it turned out, was the force that was always trying to fling the helicopter into a deadly counterspin to the rotors.

Torque was controlled by the antitorque rotor — the all-important tail rotor — and that was done by the two pedals: This is what almost washed Mike out — still in severe pain from his first crude plastic prosthetic leg fitted just beneath the knee — the lack of pressure feedback from the left pedal.

Chico urged him to apply for a license, but Mike thought that was absurd. Who was going to hire a one-legged helicopter pilot? He never had nightmares about the corpses in the tunnel in Vietnam, he realized, but every week he awoke sweating from yet another nightmare about the rotting rooms, hallways, stairways, and tunnels of Old Central School.

There were the drugs on campus and everywhere now, of course although Mike had seen enough of them even in Vietnam, especially during his third and final tour , but Mike had also missed the Summer of Love, the common sight of long hair on men, the love beads, the Peace signs, the student protests and sit-ins, much of the music — everything that seemed important to almost all of his fellow undergraduates. Mike, at age 22, realized that he was an old man compared to the children all around him.

Love he would have welcomed in the form of almost any pretty girl. Rock and roll he enjoyed although an earlier, more primitive sort than his dorm-mates blasted all night long.

He graduated in three years — a year ahead of his fellow freshmen — with a BA in History. The CTU was new — it had been founded in , just five years earlier — but already it was producing a large number of priests. Mike, although he was still not certain that he believed in God what he had always considered a terminal affliction for someone wanting to be a priest but which he now discovered to be the condition for the majority of young men around him going in the seminary found his two and a half years at CTU intellectually rewarding, socially satisfying, and spiritually exciting.

He emerged in late with a Master of Divinity degree and as a member of the Society of Jesus. His first effort — being a parish priest in his old hometown of Elm Haven where priests, for one reason or the other, rarely stayed long — was a disaster. Cody was a cardinal of the old sort — gruff, dogmatic,autocratic, and little interested in the reforms and psychology of Vatican II — and Cardinal Cody was also in constant controversy, ranging from his unorthodox financial practices through his support of Catholic inner-city schools for black kids and his insistence on bussing some of those kids to Catholic schools in the all-white suburbs to persistent rumors that Cardinal Cody had a mistress.

Mike finally told his boss that he was on the verge of leaving the priesthood, despite help from his confessor and some of his peers. When Mike did so and returned, the cardinal had poured two glasses of Scotch. Mike had smiled at that. Save them from hunger and from orphanages and from people who hurt them. Perhaps, he thought, it was the damned Scotch. He knew nothing about the country, the population, the climate, or the Catholic orphanages there he was supposed to serve.

He turned out to be a bit of all three. He cut through red tape for Catholic-sponsored and non-Catholic-sponsored orphanages and relief agencies in Zaire, South Africa, Nigeria, Angola, and Rhodesia. That was his training ground. The fad for socially committed priests there was Liberation Theology, but — while he liked and respected some of its adherents — Mike totally rejected it as an answer that was eight parts politics and one part intellectual masturbation to one part faith, as well as one that would just generate more murders in the long run.

Within five years south of the border, Mike had death warrants on his head from governments in El Salvador and Nicaragua, more death warrants from drug cartels in Mexico and Colombia, and a slightly less urgent persona non grata designation from the CIA. Edgar Hoover building in Washington.

The work was rewarding but never fully successful. Children continued to be abandoned by parents, murdered by idiots with guns, brutalized by governments and orphanages, and let down by people in positions to feed and help and educate them. Early in , Mike went to Romania because of the orphanage situation there. The war on children in Romania went back much further than the so-called revolution. Couples who had fewer than five children were not only heavily taxed but were actively fined.

They were left there to die. Most of this blood had been obtained from street donors in Bucharest and other major cities. In other words, from needle addicts and prostitutes. This is what Mike had come to fight between and Her name was Kate Neuman and she was a doctor — a hematologist and immunologist from the Boulder regional center for the Centers for Disease Control, to be precise. She was there to get information on not to try to stop the plague of hepatitis and HIV in the orphanages that could not be stopped at this point at any rate.

Kate had found an anomalous survivor in one of the worst orphanages — an abandoned, nameless nine-month-old who could not have survived the multiple problems and diseases which ravaged him, but who had — and she went through the incredible red tape of adopting the infant. After that phone call, Kate and the baby — whom she had named Joshua — were able to get out of the country.

But one of the oldest and most evil families in Romania then decided that the abandoned baby now named Joshua belonged to them. They went to America and reclaimed him, leaving two people closest to Dr. He and Kate were married the next month. They were happy together — happier than most couples. Three years later, they had a second child, a girl they named Julia. Mike loved the idea of a large family and would have welcomed more kids, but Kate — Dr.

Neuman — was still working as a hematologist in California at the time and immunology researcher, putting in long hours in Class V containment labs, and Mike knew when to quit. Finally, she realized, her four-year-old son could continue being a part-time guinea pig looking at a lifetime of needles and MRIs and blood draws and more esoteric and invasive procedures, or he could be a kid. But he also had a former army tunnel-rat and Jesuit kick-ass missionary as a father and a take-no-prisoners epidemiologist for a mother.

Josh was never allowed to cross the behavior or attitude line so far that he and his parents or siblings were permanently estranged from one another, and by the time he was sixteen, Josh began to mellow while his teenaged friends got weirder and weirder. The O'Rourkes' income was solid and they liked their jobs. They did so not through the courts, but by sending kidnappers and killers in the night. The first time this happened, Mike was lucky.

Caught completely offguard except for old instincts from his priest-in-the-jungle as well as Vietnam days , Mike somehow managed to hear, intercept, and overcome the two men — both armed — who had entered his California home in the middle of the night. He turned the men over to the Santa Barbara police but they were released on bail and disappeared. Two months later, four men tried to snatch Josh from the middle school he was attending. Mike was there in eight minutes. She knew how to hide.

Their new life was on the remote part of the island of Maui, as far as the Hana Highway could go and then further, to a tiny non-place called Kipahulu. The kids went to school in Hana. Kate worked at Science City far up on the dormant volcano of Haleakala. There were well-publicized astronomical and meteorological science compounds up near the rim of the crater and one high-security, fenced and guard-protected Air Force installation where word was , there were special telescopes and cameras that could read the fine print not only on the wings of the American shuttle in orbit but on a Russian satellite 6, miles up.

And a small and totally unheralded part of that high-security Air Force compound was a government Class VII immunology lab where Kate worked. Mike now worked part-time for the Air Force and Science City, ferrying scientists and cargo up 11, feet above sea level when needed and his wife most mornings just after breakfast in a beautiful Bell Ranger that he owned, and almost full-time as a history teacher at the Hana High School right next to the new elementary school.

He was never further than three minutes from his kids. Mike and Kate missed the mainland and what was left of his family there but loved Hawaii. Both Kilauea and Mauna Loa volcanoes on the Big Island were very active that year — an unusual situation, for Kilauea frequently had lava flows but Mauna Loa seemed more quiescent each year — and Mike now showed the spectacle to his family at night.

He approached the Big Island at 7, feet, sweeping around the curve of the larger Mauna Lea just after dusk, revealing the lava flows from both cones running south to the southernmost cost of the island and to the sea. The view and effect were amazing. Rivers of throbbing, pulsing red lava twenty miles long. Steam, from where the lava pulsed and flowed over the new coastal lava crust edge into the sea, rising to 30, feet.

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