by Rhona Weaver
Win walked to the front of the small sanctuary and looked at the gleaming brass cross, open Bible, and twin candlesticks on the altar. It wasn’t an ornate church by any means.
He turned and faced her.
“Hey, Ellie, I appreciate you coming. How’s Abby and Ethan?” He said it as casually as if he’d just run into an old friend in the produce aisle in Kroger.
She smiled at his question and stopped in front of the chancel where he stood. They talked about the weather and the children for a minute. Then she turned her head to the side, watched his deep-blue eyes a moment, and shook her head. “You’re waiting for me to decide what to do, aren’t you, Win Tyler? Is that how you people do these things?”
“Naw, that’s not the way it usually goes, but I’ve never done this before. You’re an intelligent, resourceful woman. You tell me what you need me to know and we’ll go from there. Did you test the spirits like I asked you to?”
SAC Lomax shook his head and looked at Strickland. “Where did you get this guy!”
Randall’s annoyance showed. “Be quiet and watch how he works. He’s honest with her. . . . Paying attention to how she’s feeling. He let her know she’s calling the shots, then asked a question. He’s smart.”
She sat down on the front row of pews across from where he stood, and looked down at her hands. “Some of the men are evil, but some are just grasping for anything that makes them feel a part of something bigger than themselves.”
“I’m most interested in the evil ones, Ellie. Luke’s one of the other ones, isn’t he?”
“You know that. I . . . I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you saw who he is. Only he’s been going to Prophet Shepherd’s church for a couple more months than I have—he’s spending more of his time with the men at the church now. He’s let four men move into the mobile homes on our place. They moved in the day after you came by. We used to use the trailers for Luke’s hunting clients, but business has fallen off.” She looked up at him and paused. “They’re paying rent, cash we need, and Luke says I’m silly to worry about them influencing him to be too extreme. But they’re not good men.”
“Well, here’s the downside you and I both know right well: You sleep with dogs, you’re liable to get fleas.”
“And Luke knows that too. But it’s like he’s being brainwashed at the church. The Prophet’s sermon today . . . he said a few truths, but then he twisted the truth to hate. Talked about reclaiming America, about bringing the government down, taking over the park. Preached hate! Luke can’t see it. I’m afraid he’s letting the bitterness he feels consume him. It’s clouding his mind!” She started crying softly.
Win sat down beside her and handed her a Kleenex from the pew rack. “Well, renting the mobile homes right next to you and the kids to a bunch of lowlifes certainly isn’t sound thinking.” He waited a moment and then asked softly, “Well then, Ellie, what’s the Lord telling you to do about it?”
The folks in the Dispatch Office exchanged glances. Where was Agent Tyler going with this?
“I’ve been praying about it, and I think the Lord has sent you to us as a deliverer. You came to our house just as I’d come to realize something awful was fixing to happen. I don’t have proof . . . ah, it’s more a feeling . . . but there’s meanness brewing. At first Luke thought they were just trooping around like soldiers, maybe reliving old times. No real harm done. But he knows something is going on now—he isn’t sure what—and he’s too proud to get out.” She wiped away more tears. “Are you going to ask me their names?”
“You’ll tell me if you want to. . . . I trust you to know what you should do.”
“I think the men at our place have been living in South Dakota and Nebraska somewhere. When they first showed up, they all had fresh haircuts, brand-new clothes, boots, everything. And it was like they’d been schooled in the Prophet’s doctrine. Not taught truth, just schooled in what to say, you know? I don’t even think they use their real names.”
“Any idea on the real names?”
“Sometimes I’ll hear one of them slip up and call someone by a different name. . . . They actually do that pretty often.”
“Not the sharpest knives in the drawer then?”
She laughed softly. “Luke said almost the same thing the other night.” She paused for a moment and studied the wadded tissue in her hand. “Do you want me to write this down for you?”
“No, the FBI is recording us, so just tell it to me.”
“Someone’s recording this now?” Her eyes darted around the sanctuary. “That makes me a little anxious. . . .”
“It keeps you from being here too long, and it keeps others from saying you said something you didn’t say.” Not to mention it allows us to use everything you say against you and the people you love, he thought to himself.
She accepted that and spent the next several minutes giving him a tremendous amount of information on the four men living on their place.
“Who’s their leader? Who’s running the show?”
“Luke says everyone’s a follower of the Prophet, but these four seem to answer to a man named Ron King. I heard someone call him Chandler once. He turned on the guy like he was gonna hit him when that name slipped out. He came here with the Prophet to establish the church several months ago. He really is an evil one—you can see it in his eyes. He was over at our place all morning yesterday. I picked up a pen he’d been writing with and put it in a ziplock bag, like I’ve seen them do on the police shows. Maybe y’all can get fingerprints on him.” She pulled the baggie from her pocket and laid it on the pew.
“You’re afraid of him?” He already knew the answer to that question, and before she could answer, he asked her if she and the kids could go back to her mother’s for a while till this all blew over. She said she’d been trying to arrange for the children to go back, but she was now convinced that whatever the men were up to was happening soon. She’d heard them refer to a mission in May several times.
“Yesterday I was behind the trailers, rehanging the clothesline that fell down in the snow. They didn’t know I was out there, and I overheard some things I probably wasn’t supposed to hear. Ron King said something about,”—she glanced back down at her hands—“about a ‘hit,’ about a ‘target.’ They were talking about explosives . . . and . . . ‘bringing in the big guns.’ Whatever that means.” She looked away, then tried to smile. “Maybe I’ve been watching too many CSI reruns on TV.”
Win shook his head. “No, no I don’t think so. . . . Anything you can tell me is helpful.”
Then her nerves got the best of her. She stood quickly. “I’ve got to go get the kids.” He walked behind her to the foyer door, where she stopped and turned to him. “Has it occurred to you that Luke would want to kill you if he knew you’d met me?”
“Well, if he just wants to kill me, that’s okay by me—if he decides to do something about it, then I’ve got a problem.” He smiled down at her. “Okay, seriously, it did cross my mind. Why do you think I suggested we meet in a church?” He tried to sound reassuring. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to tell Luke we met, and I’m glad you didn’t call me from your cell phone. But if you need help, you call any way you can, you hear? Don’t put yourself in harm’s way to get information, but if you learn anything interesting, I’d like to hear about it.” He gave her a small white card with a phone number and told her that it would be answered 24/7. That she should ask for him or tell whoever answers that she needs help.
“You need a code word to use if there’s ever a situation where you or the children are in real danger and I need to get you out fast. Pick a word or a phrase you would never say in conversation. Something you would never think of saying.”
She lowered her head and thought for only a second or two, then replied, “Roll Tide!” No one from Louisiana would ever say the University of Alabama’s battle cry.
“Per
fect!” He grinned. “I like your style, Ellie.”
“Do y’all have a plan?” Her eyes were fearful. Her eyes were on his.
“The FBI? Probably not yet, but you need to remember the Lord does. Jeremiah 29:11 says that the Lord knows His plans for us. And His plans are for good and not for evil, to give us a future and a hope. You’ve got to have faith, Ellie.”
“I’m trying to hold on to that, Win.” She looked down and then asked, “Is there any way to keep Luke out of trouble in this?”
He knew that would be the central question. He knew that was coming.
“Ellie, he can talk to me and we can work something out, maybe even get the poaching charges dropped. I’ve talked to him about it. Maybe he’s thinkin’ on it. I hope so.”
They walked into the small foyer and he held the heavy outer door open for her.
“Remember, Ellie, He has a plan.”
“Thank you, Win Tyler.” Then she walked out into the spitting rain.
* * *
The brass and their entourages had moved from the Dispatch Office to Chief Randall’s conference room by the time Win made the short walk from the chapel.
“You hit it out of the park! That was one of the best informant contacts I’ve taped in years. Really creative!” The lead FBI wire technician was obviously impressed. Win figured the guy needed to get a life.
“Mr. Strickland said to tell you they’ll be back over to your office after they finish the wrap-up with the Park and Secret Service folks.” Win handed off the ziplock bag containing the pen to another technician. The last thing he wanted to do was get ready for a conference with his superiors. He’d been so focused on the meeting with Ellie that he hadn’t spoken to any of them except for the initial formalities hours ago.
He walked over to the FBI office and made a fresh pot of coffee. He was sure glad little Jason and his crew had gotten the bulk of the remodeling finished. The renovated courtroom actually looked like a first-class conference room—not junk storage space. It wasn’t large, but it would easily accommodate ten to twelve people. Jason had come through with an American flag and large Bureau seal for the back wall. The room’s historic artwork was jaw-dropping. He sat down at the long oak table and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He didn’t want to relive the meeting with Ellie . . . not yet. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was using her. Well, it wasn’t just a feeling. It was a fact. On the other hand, Luke was the one who’d gotten his family in this mess by becoming involved with those yahoos and allowing some of them to move onto their land. Maybe the intel would show this bunch was just a group of misfit wannabes and the FBI could go out and scold them and everyone could go back to their normal lives. He knew there were a lot of possible outcomes. He knew that wasn’t one of them.
Chapter Ten
Hey, buddy! You ready to pack it up and c’mon down and practice a little law with me? Got ya a big-dollar client all lined up!” It was Tucker Moses’s upbeat voice on Win’s personal phone at 5:00 in the morning.
“What are you doin’ up at this hour? It ain’t even hunting season! Let me guess, you aren’t up, you just haven’t been down yet.”
“You think I stay up and party all night every night?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Damn straight I do! But it’s Wednesday morning, six o’clock here, and I drug myself up early so’s I could catch you before you got off nabbin’ criminals. Hadn’t really talked since you got out West. Texting don’t count for much. . . . You thinking ’bout my offer?”
Win yawned and grunted into the phone. He’d detoured to spend four days at Tucker’s family home on the Moriah Plantation in Louisiana when he drove from Charlotte to Arkansas last month. He and Tucker had shared an apartment for their three years of law school at the University of Arkansas. He didn’t have a closer friend in the world. After school, Tucker had joined his uncle’s law firm in Oxford, Mississippi; it was a perfect fit for him. He’d been the kicker for the Ole Miss Rebels for his four years of undergraduate school, and the name recognition from his college football career propelled his law practice in the university town. Tucker was doing real well for himself.
“I’m not kidding, Win! Got a Boston pension fund owns pert near half of Chicot County needing a sharp agricultural lawyer. You’re the man! Can get you a $20,000 retainer today! That’s just one client. Hell, they’ll be thicker’n ticks when folks hear you’re hangin’ out your shingle.”
“Un-huh. First off, I’m not an agricultural lawyer. . . .” Win yawned again.
“Close enough! You grew up on a farm. Hell, you kin even ride a horse. Those Yankees won’t ask too many questions; besides, you sure got the sharp lawyer part down pat! C’mon, quit hangin’ back on me. What with your brains and good looks and my astute business and marketing sense, we’ll be the hottest little law firm in the Mid-South fore you kin bat an eye!”
“Reckon that’d be right, but I’m not feelin’ it just yet, you know. . . . Maybe I need a few more weeks to get myself back running between the ditches fore I start making big decisions.”
Tucker eased back on his sales pitch. “Well, I reckon I can spend this twenty grand. . . . But you still think on it, you hear. Besides, seeing as you’re single again and I haven’t had a take-her-to-meet-mama girlfriend in a coon’s age, I could use a few of your castoffs.”
“For real, Tucker?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly been beating off the women lately. Hit a bit of a dry spell.” He paused, then his voice took on a serious tone. “Don’t suppose you and Shelby have talked?”
“No, no . . . haven’t called. Haven’t heard from her. . . . No.”
They both breathed a deep sigh. During their visit last month, he and Tucker had talked over his breakup with Shelby with their typical depth of emotion: Tucker had told him he was real sorry and Win had replied that he’d make it. Then they’d gone out and shot five rounds of skeet at Tucker’s daddy’s hunting club. Afterward they’d sat on the club’s big wooden deck overlooking the cypress swamp on Bayou Cocodrie. They’d drunk a couple of beers and discussed next fall’s football season. Nothing else had been said of Win’s broken engagement or his broken heart.
Tucker ended the somber mood. “Gotta go get ready for the reading of a will—can you imagine how thrillin’ my morning’s gonna be! Anything exciting going on in Yellowstone?”
“Well, a guy held an assault rifle on me the other evening, then pulled a Beretta on me a week ago Saturday, and I nearly got into a shoot-’em-up my first day out here. ’Cepting for that, it’s been pretty slow.”
“Hot damn! Told you it wasn’t gonna be any fun out there! Hey, did you ever wonder why we morph into talking like rednecks when we get with each other?”
“Maybe ’cause we are rednecks?” They both laughed at their foolishness and punched off the call. Win smiled at the phone as he pulled on his sweatpants. He’d done a few things right in his life—being best friends with Tucker Moses was one of them.
* * *
After he’d finished his early-morning routine, and done a few extra stretches against the wall of the old garage, he was setting a pretty good clip up the winding trail behind his house. The lousy weather had moved out on Sunday night; it had been clear and cool ever since. He’d made the run up Beaver Ponds Trail the last two mornings to the top of a remote overlook that gave him a great view of the hot springs’ terraces and the mountains to the south and east. He didn’t know where the trail went, but exploring it in earnest would have to wait for more snow to melt. He could jog about one and a half miles steadily upward to a level bench area before he hit the snowpack—that would do for the time being.
The guy at the gas station had suggested the “hike” but warned Win to carry bear spray, which they conveniently had for sale for forty-five dollars a canister. Win hadn’t seen a bear yet, but the trail signs all carried sobering warnings, so he paid his m
oney, took the one-minute “how to use the stuff” lecture from the filling-station guy, and wore it clipped to a web belt with his water bottle. It was a hassle running with the stuff, but at least he was running again.
It woulda been nice to focus on the sounds of the small stream, the birds, or an occasional interrupted squirrel on those early-morning runs, but his mind was filled with details of the False Prophet case, as they were calling it now. It’d been three days since his meeting with Ellie and two weeks since he’d driven to the Bordeaux house. At the debrief on Sunday afternoon, SAC Strickland told him they’d gotten enough credible intel from Ellie to open a domestic terrorism case, and then shocked him by naming him the case agent. Win’s bosses had been lavish in their praise of him, not only for the informant interview with Ellie, but also for his other actions on the case. And all the men seemed blown away by the satellite office’s dramatic makeover. As they’d left Sunday afternoon, ASAC Givens had told him how pleased they were to have him as a part of the Denver Field Office. Win was still trying to get his head around the unexpected elevation in his status within the Bureau.
The False Prophet case—my case—was ramping up big-time. Analysts in several federal agencies were grinding out the background information on any possible suspect who could match the information Ellie had given him. The fingerprints on Ron Chandler, or Ron King, as he was calling himself, turned out to be a real winner. Chandler had been dishonorably discharged from the Army for two vicious assaults in Iraq and had spent considerable time in the military prison in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Since his last release from prison, he’d become the prime suspect in several bank robberies and at least four murders. The man was smart and ruthless—there was strong suspicion of heinous crimes, but not enough evidence to arrest him.
Specialized teams of armed FBI surveillance agents, or MST-As, from Minneapolis and Salt Lake City had arrived, and the eight surveillance folks from Denver had reappeared. With eighteen agents now in the field, their coverage of the Arm of the Lord Church had intensified considerably. Denver had flown in a supervisor on Monday to coordinate the surveillance effort. Watching suspects in the sparsely populated backcountry was far more challenging than anticipated, even with the surveillance teams’ three airplanes in periodic use.
