All the Demons Are Here

by Jake Tapper

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of The Devil May Dance and The Hellfire Club comes a breathtaking thriller that explores the chaotic underworlds of the 1970's after an AWOL US Marine returns home to a strange and dangerous country.

It's 1977. Ike and Lucy, Senator Charlie and Margaret Marder's kids, are grown up—and in trouble. US Marine Ike has gone somewhat off the grid, working on Evel Knievel's pit crew in Montana, when—after a bar fight—he has to flee a neo-Nazi gang and seek refuge in the woods with a group of Vietnam veterans. Lucy, a reporter, has become the star of the brand new Washington DC tabloid, the Sentinel, and is breaking all sorts of stories about a serial killer and falling in with the Lyons, the wealthy family that owns the newspaper, British immigrants with quite a different view of journalism than Lucy's heroes Woodward and Bernstein.

As their lives spiral out of control, Ike goes on the road with Evel Knievel, the Vietnam veterans, and other societal outcasts, first heading to Graceland to mourn Elvis Presley, then going to confront politicians—for grievances real and perceived—on an island in Georgia. Lucy, too, is at that retreat with both her parents and the Lyon family, attendees at this retreat where the future of the post-Nixon Republican party will be decided. The confrontation turns violent and both Ike and Lucy have to make decisions that will affect them for the rest of their lives.  

Release date: July 11, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

Butte, Montana

June 1977

So I slept in the hobo jungles

Roamed a thousand miles of track

—Elvis Presley, “Guitar Man”

The toughest tavern in Big Sky Country wasn’t the legendary Jimtown Bar near Lame Deer, with its acre of spent beer cans under which a corpse or two were likely buried. It wasn’t Al’s Tavern near the Billings sugar plant, with its buckshot-scarred front door and concrete floor stained with blood and brains.

No, that honor belonged to the Dead Canary, a dive outside Butte where the shot glasses once used to throw whiskey down the coal-dusted throats of dying miners were now clasped by Hells Angels and truck-stop hookers, poachers, and drug dealers from the Flathead Indian Reservation. Plus the gang of circus freaks more formally known as the pit crew of legendary daredevil Evel Knievel.

I was one of those freaks.

That Saturday night, I was hanging out at the bar staring down the dozens of elk-head trophy mounts hung without rhyme or reason, as if customers paid their bar tabs with taxidermy. The effect was bizarre, like the beasts were stampeding right at me.

I was sitting beneath a sign that announced POWDER: NO CANDLES OR LIGHTED PIPES ALLOWED IN THIS DRIFT PER ORDER, a relic from the Montana Mining Company’s hunt for silver and gold and a warning that seemed a little too on the nose—for the bar and for me. This place was always one lit match away from disaster; it was squat and dim, with no windows for an easy escape. A cover band jammed in the far corner. Drunks crashed into each other on the makeshift dance floor.

I was tossing back whiskey and trying to make the bartender, Rachel Two Bears, laugh. She was tall and lean and hailed from the Crow Rez at the Wyoming border, though now she lived above this bar. She told me she was just there to help out a friend and planned to leave once Labor Day came around, but it seemed like she’d made herself at home, and I was glad about that. I wasn’t sure if we liked each other or just hated the same people. Okay, I’m full of shit—I was crazy about her.

“Big push to spring Patty Hearst for good,” I said, reading the front page of the Montana Standard. The kidnapped heiress turned bank robber was out on bail while she appealed her conviction, and newspaper columnists fed us daily dollops of details about how hard life had been for her when she was criming.

“Carter’s going to commute her sentence, mark my words,” she practically spat.

“You really think so?”

“The best ‘justice’ system money can buy,” she said. She mockingly assumed the voice of a bleeding heart: “Oh, poor girl, she was only nineteen when it started.”

“The Marines got me when I was seventeen. Where’s my sympathy?”

“Right here,” she said and refilled my shot glass.

Rachel’s politics were interesting; she seemed to have sympathy for Native American and other civil rights causes, but generally speaking, she was pretty hard-core law-and-order. Especially when it came to rich white folks gaming the system.

There were bikers in the house, big, ugly, hairy dudes. Some of those guys were freedom-loving rebels; others were actual fascists. There were also cowboys and Indians, students and farmers—and I wondered which way the night would go.

As if she’d read my mind, Rachel said, “Cantina scene tonight.” A few days before, Rachel and I had gone to see Star Wars.

“Lotta weirdos,” I agreed. “Not sure this means we’re at the start of an epic adventure, though.”

She smiled. “You’re not getting Leia’ed, if that’s what you mean.”

“Solo again,” I grumbled.

She winked at me, then went down the bar to pour a shot for a short, stocky biker in a black leather jacket.

Rachel was an enigma, a conundrum, a paradox—all those vocab words Mom made me study (for naught, since I bypassed college for the Marines). Anytime I tried to find out more about her—about life on the rez or where her family was or how she’d ended up here, of all places, in this rotten saloon in Butte—I hit a wall. She wasn’t a good liar, didn’t have a prepared story about who she was. Anytime I pried, she just closed up, flicked her attention past my shoulder, and waited for the conversation to move on. I had secrets too, of course, and sometimes I wondered who had more to hide.

The biker grunted his thanks. He was about as wide as a refrigerator, and on the back of his leather jacket, a German iron cross was painted in red. He downed his drink and signaled for another. Rachel told him to pay for the first two. He dug into the pocket of his jeans, dropped the change on the bar, and slowly counted his pennies and dimes.

Behind him, a smelly, greasy-haired cowboy mocked the biker in a dumb-guy voice: “One nickel…two nickels…der…I lost count.”

The biker turned to the grinning cowboy. “Why don’t you fuck off and—”

Rachel interrupted. “Kindly excuse Bitch Cassidy here,” she said, referring to the cowboy. “He’s just stoned. Fact is, he’s gonna pay for your drinks as compensation for his rudeness as long as you walk away and don’t cause no trouble. Okay, handsome?”

The biker stared into her dark eyes, possibly getting lost in them the way I frequently did. Cowboy started to complain, but Rachel’s scowl shut him down. The biker scraped up his change and walked back over to the corner where his buddies were emptying pitchers.

“All right, Midnight Cowpie,” Rachel said. “What are you buying other than two shots for the fifth column?”

The cowboy wasn’t happy, and Rachel’s quickness didn’t endear her to him. Not that he was going to do anything about it. Rachel had a shotgun behind the bar and a Model 19 Combat Magnum handgun on her hip, and if her little show-and-tell didn’t keep him in line, I was ready to. I had a couple years in the Corps and forty pounds on him and would’ve been happy to shut his mouth.

Wild Turkey on the rocks, he said. Rachel obliged, and as he walked off, she poured me one too. Wild Turkey was what my boss drank. If Evel caught you with anything else, he’d give you shit for being disloyal or soft, depending on the beverage.

“Motley crew,” she said.

“Motleyest in a while,” I said.

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“Maybe not. Woulda been had Webster ever visited Montana.”

“Bikers and miners and drunks, oh my!” she said.

“And he’s talkin’ with Davy, who’s still in the navy and probably will be for life,” I sang.

She spritzed carbonated water from the soda gun into a glass and raised it. “May we be who our dogs think we are.” Mac, her black-and-white mutt behind the bar, grunted.

I racked my brain for a decent toast that wouldn’t offend her, but nothing I’d picked up in prep school or the Marines qualified. Not that she was paying attention. She, along with a couple of the bar creeps, had turned toward the door. So I looked too.

A young blond woman wearing the kind of gray tailored suit you’d see on the streets of Manhattan—not in rural Montana—had just entered. I must have been drunker than I thought, because she looked exactly like my sister. But she couldn’t be my sister. My sister had no idea where I was. My sister was in DC, and I was hiding here, where she’d never find me. I squinted, and the woman locked eyes with me and gave me my sister’s goofy grin.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said.

“Ike!” She ran across the room, flung herself into my arms, and squeezed the breath out of me. I hugged her too, pretending I was happy she was here. I was, in a way.

She leaned back to get a better look at me and tugged at the beard I’d grown. “Not Marine Corps regulation.”

“How the fuck did you find me?”

Her nose wrinkled at the curse, then she smiled. “I’m a reporter, stupid.”

  

I guided Lucy to a corner table between the bar and the door, away from everybody, then went back and got her a beer and myself a whiskey rocks. “You can’t leave a military hospital in the middle of the night and expect no one to worry,” she said when I came back. “I thought Mom and Dad were overreacting, but seeing you now, I’m not so sure.”

“The Marines know where I am,” I said. This wasn’t exactly true, but I hadn’t been officially declared AWOL.

“That’s not what the Corps told Dad. He and Mom are freaking out.”

Lucy didn’t know the whole story, and I wasn’t about to burden her with it. She was only two years older than me, but you’d think she was my mom. “How are they?”

“Worried about you,” Lucy said, “but keeping busy.” She looked down at her beer, caressing the lip of the glass. “Mom’s been dragging Dad to every Shakespeare play at the Folger. Last week was The Tempest.”

“Dad must fucking hate it.”

“He’s fine. Okay, he’s not totally fine. He’s drinking again.” She looked pointedly at the glass in my hand.

I glanced away. Her eyes always were a little too sharp. “And how’s he dealing with the new administration?” Dad was a moderate Republican senator from New York; his respect for Carter, shall we say, knew bounds. Vice President Rockefeller had been a mentor of his, and he’d adored President Ford. I didn’t give a damn about any of this, but Lucy loved talking politics, and it got her out of my grille.

“He feels guilty, I think,” Lucy said. “By coming out against Nixon so early, he worries he undermined Ford and set the stage for his defeat.”

“How’s work at the paper?” The previous summer, right out of Yale, Lucy had been hired as an intern at the national desk of the Washington Evening Star.

“I left the Star, I quit,” she said. “I have a new job. Long story, but I’d rather hear about you. How did you end up…” She looked around the room as if she smelled something foul. Lucy had been a protective older sister—always looking out for me, comforting me when I got suspended for fighting in high school, supportive when I enlisted before graduation. “Like, what do you talk about with this…gathering of the Cro-Magnon Society?”

“Work,” I said. “Bikes. Trucks. I’ve heard you and your friends yammering, and that’s not exactly the fucking Algonquin.”

“That’s true,” she said, laughing. She raised her glass to me. “Do you still watch TV? Back home, everyone’s talking about Roots.”

“I don’t have a TV.” My digs consisted of a bed in a room the size of a closet in what was essentially a flophouse for the pit crew. “But I read the book. And a lot of other stuff. Don’t really miss TV, except Carson.”

The band took a break. Rachel stepped out from behind the bar—cowboy boots, tight blue jeans, black sleeveless top. I liked watching her move. She went over to the jukebox. The first guitar bursts of Led Zeppelin’s “All the Demons Are Here” ricocheted around the room.

Ev’ryone gettin’ crazy

Desperation in the air

The storm made the trip and crashed the ship

We were all in deep despair

Ferdinand saw the evil

Knew from whence it came

The cursed love, the gods above,

The ship consumed by flame

Hellllllllllll is emmmmmmpty

And all the demons are here

Hellllllllllll is emmmmmmpty

And all the demons are here

Somewhere in the midst of one of Robert Plant’s more orgasmic vocals, the bar door opened and a whiff of gasoline from a motorcycle that was obviously jetting way too rich punched me in the face. A man by the door lit a cigarette, and in the lighter’s flare, his facial features were sharp, hawklike. When I blinked, the man’s face filled out, became chubby. To those who haven’t had them, flashbacks are difficult to explain, especially when they’re from combat, but for a moment in time, the sensory overload of rhythm and odor and harsh sounds pushed me out and away from Lucy and into a sweaty heart-pounding oblivion.

Lucy reined me in. “I didn’t know Zeppelin had made it to the wilds of Montana.”

It took me a second to get my bearings. “Oh, sure. We have the wheel now too.”

She shrugged. “I figured your jukes would be chock-full o’ Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.”

I looked at her. I’d been mad at Lucy. Growing up, I was closer to her than anyone, then she went off to college and lived her life and created a vacuum in mine and everything changed. I began spinning out of control; I got in trouble at school, and by the time I enlisted, I’d been drinking and fighting for so long, I figured I might as well get paid for it. Of course, Mom and Dad begged me not to do it, but that just made me want to get away more. I knew it wasn’t logical to blame any of this on Lucy, but I did anyway. I also wanted to tell her everything, like what had happened to me in Lebanon. But I couldn’t talk about it. Not even to her.

“Bathroom,” I said, standing. “Be right back.”

  

Swaying at the urinal, I read for the five hundredth time the September 9, 1974, New York Daily News front page that someone had tacked on the wall years before. Although the headline read “Nixon Gets Full Pardon,” most of the page was about my boss: “Evel Fails, Chutes into Canyon; He Is Unhurt in 600-Ft. Drop.” It was the story of Knievel’s ill-fated but spectacular jump over Snake River Canyon in a rocket that looked like something Wile E. Coyote had ordered from the Acme Corporation. That crazy stunt shared billing with a moment of actual historic import. I couldn’t help smiling, thinking of that crazy daredevil. Standing there looking at the photo of his broken rocket slowed everything down in my mind and calmed me, got me out of my fight-or-flight zone and gave me back some perspective. Evel Knievel! People couldn’t get enough.

I’d joined his pit crew seven months before. Evel had seen me on a TV news segment about my so-called heroics in Lebanon, an urban battle and urban legend in which I’d taken part, and it included some stunts I’d pulled on the back of an old motorcycle. The Pentagon was only too excited to sell to the American public via 60 Minutes its (redacted) version of my story to cloak the more important narrative of our disastrous mission and the larger problem of the dying American empire flailing and failing abroad.

If you’re lookin’ for trouble, Elvis sang from the jukebox out in the bar, you came to the right place. The King’s words relaxed me.

After seeing the 60 Minutes segment, Evel had sent a message to me at the Bethesda Naval Hospital via the Montana grapevine to look him up if I ever made it to Butte. When I got out here, he was impressed with my work ethic and the way I handled a motorcycle; he hired me to work on V-twin engines and ride like I had nothing to lose. A world-famous celebrity was shining his affection on me, and I got to bask in it—for a while, anyway. He was a moody guy, and he was currently blaming me for his latest near-fatal crash, which placed me atop a short list of people he wanted to murder. I was hoping to make my way off that list and back to the light.

I felt calmer now. The bathroom was spinning less, and my heart rate had returned to normal. I would go out there and show Lucy that everything was okay, that I was doing just great, so she could get on that plane to DC and tell the folks to stop worrying. I’d go home when I was ready.

That was the plan, anyway.

  

Back out at the bar, I nudged past some low-level pot dealers from the Flathead Reservation (Damon, Adam, and Paul Yellowmountain; cousins, they said) and asked Rachel for another round of drinks. “The beer’s for my sister.”

She glanced over, and one eyebrow went up. “That’s the famous Lucy?”

“Come say hi when you get a minute.”

“Corporal,” Paul said to me.

“Lance corporal,” Damon said.

“Lance boil,” said Adam; his giggle and pink eyes revealed how stoned he was.

“I’m a lowly sergeant,” I said. “How’s business, gentlemen?”

Adam tucked his long dark locks behind his ears. “We’re all good, kemo sabe.”

“Yo, man, that ain’t cool,” Damon said. Damon was always trying to stir up shit. “Kemo sabe means ‘idiot’ in Apache.”

“No, no, it just means ‘white boy,’” Adam told him.

The three—obviously smoking away their profits—giggled hysterically.

As I headed back to my table, I noticed a big biker guy leaning over Lucy, his right boot propped up on my chair—a run-of-the-mill Montana dirtbag. I went over, handed Lucy her beer, and pulled my chair out from under his foot. He almost fell but caught himself.

“I was handling this,” Lucy said calmly.

“I thought you were with the redskin slut,” the guy said.

This guy wasn’t worth breaking my hand on. Bar fights were stupid, and it’d be even stupider to fight in front of Lucy, who was there to ensure I wasn’t beating up dirtbags in a bar in Montana. I told myself all these things, but I was drunk and riled up. I took a breath. Maybe this would resolve itself.

Then he gestured to Lucy and said, “Or is this your slut?” and I punched him in the face.

He hit the floor but quickly got up, rubbing his chin and smiling.

“Ike, stop!” Lucy said.

The band had come back from break and was blasting a cover of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Rachel shucking her pump-action shotgun. Usually, that sound was enough to stop anyone in his tracks. And in this part of the world, few would judge her for the bullet.

This guy must have figured she was bluffing and pulled a knife. A dirty, rusty switchblade. He lunged at me. I felt a sting as the knife nicked me under the rib. He came at me again and I lifted him like a duffel and slammed him into the wall. A two-top and a pitcher of beer crashed to the floor. I grabbed his wrist and twisted it, and the blade fell. He went for it and I got on top of him and pummeled his face with my fist.

I can’t pretend I didn’t know what I was doing. I was venting frustrations that had nothing to do with this miscreant. I was enjoying beating him up. Hell yes, it was fun. Facts I couldn’t acknowledge to Mom and Dad and Lucy: Fighting was fun, and winning was immensely satisfying.

He covered his face with his bloody hands, but I kept hitting him. Even after his hands dropped and he lay there, not moving, I kept hitting him.

The Yellowmountain boys dragged me off him. Rachel checked for a pulse. I realized the band had stopped playing, and Lucy was watching everything, terrified. I thought it was just a typical Saturday-night bar fight in Butte, but then I realized she’d never seen me fight and was horrified by what I’d done to the man now unconscious on the floor. Shame crawled up my neck. I felt like I was breaking my sister’s heart. I could see that she was revolted by me.

Rachel pulled up the guy’s bloodied T-shirt, looking for any wounds, as they teach in first aid. The band resumed playing. Folks picked up the tables and put them back in place. The rumble of conversations started up again. Rachel got up from the unconscious guy and came my way.

Lucy glared at me. “Ike, what the hell—”

“Listen, both of you,” Rachel interrupted. “He’s covered with prison tats—swastikas. SS. Hitler. He’s an Idaho Nazi. The sheriff’s in with them.”

“The sheriff?” Lucy went pale. “What does that mean?”

“You need to go right now, both of you, before you get killed.”

Chapter Two

Washington, DC

May 1977

Two Washington Post reporters were regaling Dad with a tale about Barry Goldwater. I was fifteen minutes late to our lunch, and somehow the dashing super-journos had managed to talk their way into the Senate Dining Room and sidle up to Pop. I took them in from a few feet away, Woodward and Bernstein, two journalism gods, in all their rumpled chic. The film version of their Pulitzer Prize–earning, history-making Watergate reportage, in which they were played by heartthrobs Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, had come out the previous spring, enhancing the legend of their work exposing Tricky Dick. Since then, they had not slowed down; their bestselling follow-up, The Final Days, had recently been published to critical acclaim and commercial success.

They were at my dad’s corner table, out of the way but with a good view of the room, which was elegant and expansive, with golden wallpaper, burgundy curtains, and a regal chandelier. Only senators and their guests—and celebrity journalists, apparently—were permitted in the dining room. Dad had been coming here since he’d left the House and been elected to the Senate in 1974.

My pop cut quite the figure with his swanky tweed suit (which Mom bought) and tousled mop of graying hair. These days he also had bags under his eyes like Walter Matthau, but all my girlfriends still loved him. However, it was the glow of the two dashing, ink-stained saviors of our democracy that drew the room’s attention. Bernstein was shorter, with a feathered bouffant that could rival that of any of Charlie’s Angels; Woodward was tall and lanky with a chiseled jaw and dimples you could lose your purse in.

I braced myself and walked up to the table. They both smiled at me as Dad patted the seat beside him.

Woodward went on. “So Goldwater invites us up to his apartment to read his diary—”

“And pours himself a big tumbler of whiskey,” Bernstein continued. “And a big tumbler for each of us. Reaches into a cabinet and pulls out his diary of the last days of Nixon’s presidency and says, ‘I’m going to read this to you.’”

Bernstein was the duo’s primary raconteur, and Woodward seemed to be enjoying himself. Dad was smiling too, but his feelings about Watergate were deep and conflicted.

“And he reads this scene,” Bernstein continued, “where he and the leaders of the House and Senate, the Republican leaders, marched to the Oval Office and met with Richard Nixon. By then Nixon knew he was going to be impeached by the House, but he thought he would be acquitted in the Senate trial. And the president looked at Goldwater and said, ‘Barry, how many votes do I have?’—fully expecting Goldwater to tell him, You have enough to prevail, Mr. President. And Goldwater is reading this to us. ‘How many votes, Barry?’ And Goldwater looks him in the eye and says, ‘Mr. President, right now you may have half a dozen votes—and you don’t have mine.’”

Woodward laughed. “And Nixon announced his resignation the next day.”

My dad smiled politely, but I knew the subject was painful. For years, he’d been the lone voice among his Republican colleagues in the Senate arguing that Nixon had no regard for the Constitution or the law or common decency, that he was unsuited for the presidency and was a dangerous man. Dad was happy that Goldwater and the others ultimately landed back in the land of basic civility and principle, but he’d been there by himself for a while and he’d been quite lonely.

“I don’t know that what Goldwater said—to you or to the president—was true,” my dad said. “But it’s a great story.”

The jovial expressions of the brash young reporters lost a glint of sparkle with my dad’s comments, but their smiles remained.

“Well,” said Woodward, though nothing followed.

“In any case, gentlemen, this is my daughter, Lucy, a journalist herself, at the Star, and I’m sure you’ll excuse us.”

“The Star?” said Woodward, feigning offense. “Why not the Post?”

I shrugged. “I sent your editors my clips from the Yale Daily News.” I knew Woodward had gone to Yale, so I’d also sent my résumé and clips directly to him, but I knew better than to bring that up. His inbox no doubt looked like Santa’s.

“Wouldn’t be the first time our editors screwed up!” Bernstein said with characteristic bombast. “I started at the Star, was a copyboy there! At fifteen! Rose quickly through the ranks!”

“But he didn’t stay, since the Star requires its reporters to have a college degree,” Woodward said. Bernstein raised an eyebrow, and Woodward added: “Much to the paper’s eternal regret, I’m certain!”

“We’ll get you to the Post before you know it!” Bernstein told me with a smile. And with that, they excused themselves and moved on. (Later I saw them at Senator Church’s table, and when our lunch ended, they were still working the room.)

Before I could look at the menu, Dad asked whether I’d heard from Ike. I hadn’t. Then he asked whether I knew how to reach him, and I said no. I wasn’t lying exactly, but I couldn’t tell Dad all I knew, which made me feel a vicious pang of guilt. He seemed so vulnerable in his concern.

There was nothing more important than truth, no virtue I found more compelling than honesty, and I loved my parents more than I loved anyone on earth. Except one person: my baby brother, who couldn’t bring himself to tell me what had happened to him in Lebanon. Whatever it was, I suspected it was why he had flown the coop.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” I said. “Last time I saw him, in the hospital, he was vaguely contemplating how nice it would be to hit the road for a bit. I’m sure he’ll call soon.”

The truth was that I’d been worried for a while.

“Okay, Cindy-Lou,”1 he said. “It’s just that your mother and I are kind of in the bell jar about this.”

“Yes, but you know how he gets when he wants to be alone with his motorcycle.”

Fact: My brother loved his bike the way some guys loved women. Another fact: I wouldn’t have minded being adored by a guy even half as much as Ike loved his motorcycle. Third fact: The last guy I dated, Skylar—a White House speechwriter—fell short on the cherish-and-love scale. I hadn’t admitted this to anyone, especially Ike. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, since early on, he’d called Skylar a snake in an alligator shirt.

“I just wish,” Dad said sadly, “that he and I had the kind of relationship you and I have.”

I felt sad too. “He loves you a lot.”

Ike had never belonged in a four-story town house on Dent Place NW in Georgetown. He liked to ride his bike to the gas station on the way to Dupont Circle and ask the guys to teach him how to work on cars. He fixed his minibikes in our garage, almost killed himself a few times popping wheelies, hung out with smelly wrench heads, and sat down to dinner smeared in grease and reeking of oil. He was in trouble a lot and got suspended for fighting; he was smarter than anyone but he hated school. He was more like G. . .