A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller by Charles W. Sasser Page A

with barely-legible handwriting. Sharon read it with Nail.
    Det. Nail. I seen you at McDonald’s when the feds kilt Greg Morris so I thought you a straight arrow. One of the cops told me who you was when they arrested me. I don’t got much time. They coming for me cause I know some things, like how the Defenders didn’t kill Ron Sparks and who did. I know it sounds crazy, but it ain’t. Ron was what you call a double agent who knowed things from somebody he knew in Washington, D.C. He was supposed to infiltrate the militia cause the militia is the only ones standing up to fight. Understand what I’m saying? He was working for Homeland, but he was really with us. Det. Nail, the commies ain’t going to let me live either, sure as God made little green apples they ain't. Not much time left. I hear them coming for me…
    The letter ended abruptly. Nail took it to mean Logan had had only enough time to slip the envelope to Deputy Johnson before Homeland Security took him away.
    “Anybody else read this?” Nail asked Johnson.
    “I put it in my pocket so the Homies wouldn’t see it.”
    “Much obliged.”
    “Nail, I’m real sorry about...your daughter and all.”
     

Chapter Twelve
     
    Tulsa
     
    Sharon suggested Nail return to the hospital to complete his treatment. He shook his head.
    “I’m apt to run into Kimbrell and take his head off. Drop me at my apartment. You have a place to stay?”
    “I took a room at the Kensington.”
    He thought about it. “Is Baer’s security still in Tulsa?”
    “Ernest was sent home to Iowa to be buried. Herb, the other bodyguard, escorted Jerry’s casket back to New York. They were good friends. Do I need security?”
    “Whoever these people are may have intended to kill you too,” he said bluntly.
    They went quiet, she in sober reflection, he in dark and revengeful thought.
    The route to Nail’s apartment led past the ORU campus, which Sharon had avoided earlier on the drive downtown. Both glanced at the dome-topped stadium where so much blood had been spilled and where their lives had been suddenly changed forever. The stadium and parking lot were still roped off with yellow tape bearing warnings every few feet along its length: Homeland Security. Restricted Area. Tears filled Sharon’s eyes. Nail’s jaw hardened and his eyes narrowed.
    “Do you think they’ll try again? To kill me, I mean?” Sharon asked when they reached his apartment building, a red-brick, four-story structure left over from forty years ago when the area was known as The Restless Ribbon.
    He got out of the car, but his equilibrium faded. He staggered against the open door for support. Sharon rushed around and slipped underneath his free arm.
    “Lean on me.”
    “I’m all right.”
    “Don’t be stubborn, Nail.”
    He relented. He fished in his pocket for the key to his apartment and handed it to her. She opened the door and locked it behind them before letting him down on the sofa.
    “You don’t have a cat or dog? Maybe a parakeet?”
    “Mice.”
    “Yuk! Is it too late for breakfast?”
    “There’s a Burger King down the block.”
    “You’re in no condition. I’ll fix us something here. If you have something?”
    “There are some cans of tamales and beans in the cupboard. Above the sink.”
    She smiled when she looked. The cupboard was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s except for the can of tamales, one of pork and beans and a Campbell’s chicken noodles.
    “As long as I have a can opener, we eat,” he said. “It’s in the drawer by the stove.”
    She removed cans, employed the can opener on them, turned on two burners and found some pots below the oven.
    “Jamie...” The catch in his throat made him pause. “She wasn’t much for cooking either.”
    Sharon looked around the cramped apartment. “I can’t believe she stayed with you.”
    “She had her own apartment over by TU. If you think this is bad, you should have seen hers. Just like her mama.”
    He watched her at the