by Scott Pratt
“I can’t believe you’re calling me,” she said when she picked up the phone. “I put your cell number in my contacts and when I looked at my phone and saw your name, my heart almost jumped out of my chest.”
“I’m no longer engaged,” I said, “but I’m still old.”
“Men are in their prime at your age,” she said. “At least that’s what I’ve heard. Are you in your prime?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to see about that. Would you like to get together?”
“Absolutely. When?”
“How about around five o’clock? I have to do some last-minute shopping and could use a little help. It’s Christmas Eve, so I’ll understand completely if you’re already booked.”
“I have a family thing at my parents’ house at eight,” she said. “Would you like to come along?”
“Thanks, but I think I’d be pretty uncomfortable. Not to mention your parents.”
“My parents are easygoing,” she said.
“Thanks again, but I think I’ll pass. Another time, maybe.”
“No, no, come and pick me up at five. We’ll do your shopping, and you can drop me back at my place before eight.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see in a few hours.”
I wasn’t enough of a psychopath to forget the promise I’d made to myself about Julius Antone, the linebacker on our championship football team. On Christmas Eve around seven o’clock, Katherine and I walked up to the door of a duplex in a government-subsidized housing project in East Knoxville. I was carrying a large box that contained a turkey, a ham, several different kinds of vegetables, bread, desserts, butter, and a couple of gallons of milk. Katherine had her arms full of gifts for Julius, his ten-year-old brother, his eight-year-old brother, his six-year-old sister, his mother, and her boyfriend. I’d bought gift cards for the mother and the boyfriend, but I’d bought gifts for the kids and had them wrapped. I bought one card, signed it “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus,” and put it on top of the box containing the food. My car was running, parked by the curb on the street. As we stood outside the door, I could hear voices and a television inside, so I knew they were home.
We set the boxes down, I knocked on the door, and then we turned and ran to my car. It was already dark, and in that part of town there weren’t many streetlights. Julius had no idea what kind of car I was driving since I hadn’t seen him since my mother’s house was bombed and my car was destroyed. Katherine and I sat in my car with the lights off and watched as Julius’s mother opened the door, looked down, and saw the boxes. Gradually, the doorway filled with members of the family. They looked at my car, but they couldn’t see who was inside.
“Merry Christmas, buddy,” I said out loud as I put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.
“That was sweet,” Katherine said as we rode back toward her apartment. I’d filled her in on Julius and his family’s situation while we were driving to the grocery store. “Are you always this kind?”
“I try to do what I think is right whenever I can,” I said.
“Well, that was one of the nicest things I’ve ever seen anyone do,” she said. “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of it.”
“Thanks for helping me out,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about what happened to my mother when you were in the office? And you haven’t mentioned it this evening. I know you know about it. Everybody knows about it.”
“I just didn’t think it was appropriate,” she said. “I came to your office for help on my DUI charge. I had no idea anything personal would come of it. I mean, I had no idea I’d be so attracted to you. And from what I read in the paper, what happened to her was such a horrible thing. I didn’t think it was my place to bring it up. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, no, it’s not that,” I said as I turned into the parking lot of her apartment complex. “It just seems like everybody brings it up. I was a little surprised when you didn’t.”
“It’s none of my business,” she said, “unless you want it to be. If you ever want to talk about it, all you have to do is start talking. I’m a good listener.”
I pulled into a parking space near where I’d picked her up and put the car in park. I didn’t want to leave her because she smelled like lemon musk, she looked like a Victoria’s Secret model, and she touched me a lot. They were just little pats on the arm and thigh, but they were electric. She also laughed a lot—light and airy laughter that filled the inside of the car and made me smile. The thought of going back to the motel alone was becoming more and more unsavory.
“One more question,” I said. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend or a husband? As pretty and as smart as you are, I can’t believe someone hasn’t snapped you up.”
She smiled at me and winked. “I’m picky,” she said. “Haven’t found the right guy up to this point, but things seem to be looking up.”
“Have a nice Christmas,” I said.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
I looked down at the dashboard. “My mom’s gone, and she was the only family I had except my son. My ex-wife moved to Hawaii and took him with her a couple of weeks ago. Since my fiancée broke up with me, I guess I’ll be on my own. I know that sounds pitiful, but I’m okay about it. I’ll be fine.”
“Where are you staying, Darren?” she said.
“At the Days Inn at Exit 388. I’m looking for an apartment.”
“I can’t stand the thought of you being alone on Christmas,” she said. “My family always has a big meal together at lunchtime, but I can break free tomorrow around six. Would you like to have dinner together somewhere?”
“That would be nice,” I said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon. Merry Christmas, Darren.”
She got out of the car, and I watched her walk up the steps toward her apartment. The time we’d spent together made me want to spend more time with her, and I realized that probably wasn’t such a good thing. Still, there was chemistry there. A lot of chemistry. If she was a rat for the cops, she was damned good at it.
I drove slowly back to the motel. I’d bought a bottle of bourbon the day before, figuring I would be spending Christmas Eve alone. It was sitting on the nightstand by the bed in my room. I opened it as soon as I walked in, turned on the television, and drank until I passed out.
CHAPTER 45
Will Grimes was microwaving a bag of popcorn, getting ready to watch It’s a Wonderful Life on television in his small house in Elkins.
Grimes’s father, William “Billy” Grimes, had also been a West Virginia state trooper. He’d been gunned down during what he thought was a routine traffic stop near the family’s home in Ranger, West Virginia, when Will was eight years old. The shooter turned out to be a parole violator who didn’t want to go back to jail. Will’s father managed to kill the man before he died.
Will believed his father was as fine a man as had ever lived, and he’d resolved to follow in his father’s footsteps. Will’s mother, who had loved her husband deeply, was unable to handle his death. She’d gone into a deep depression that had lasted for years, and she’d begun to drink heavily. Will and his sister had become more parents than children when they were in high school and college. Eventually, when Will was twenty-five and after he had become a trooper, his mother got drunk and drove her car across the center line of a state highway within a mile of the spot where her husband was killed and hit another car head-on. She died instantly. Two people in the other car, a woman and her fourteen-year-old daughter, were also killed.
After seeing the effect of his father’s death on his mother, Will decided he would never marry. He didn’t want to subject a woman or children to the same kind of devastation he and his sister and mother had endured if he was killed in the line of duty. He’d met a few women during his life that he felt he could love and marry, but he’d always turned away from them.
He w
as thinking about the differences between himself and Darren Street as the microwave buzzed and the popcorn crackled. Will had suffered terrible losses, both his father and his mother, but he hadn’t turned to the dark side. He hadn’t begun murdering people. There was no one for him to murder, of course, since his father had shot and killed the man who had mortally wounded him, but he could have just as easily become bitter and angry and turned to violence as a way to vent his anger and frustration. But he’d chosen another path. He chose to enforce the laws drafted by the duly elected representatives of the state of West Virginia and the United States of America. He believed in law and order. He eschewed the anarchy and vigilantism that Street had embraced. Grimes was certain Street had killed Frazier and Beane, but he still couldn’t prove it. He would, though. Eventually, he would gather enough evidence and find enough witnesses to put Street behind bars for the rest of his life.
Grimes was accustomed to being alone on Christmas Eve. His sister had moved to Wisconsin with her husband years ago. They kept in touch, but neither of them felt the need to get together during the holidays. Grimes wasn’t maudlin or depressed. He actually enjoyed the solitude.
The microwave beeped, indicating his popcorn was finished, and he retrieved it and let it vent. He pulled a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator and filled a glass with ice. Just as he was about to walk into his den and turn on the television, his cell phone rang. The caller ID indicated Sergeant Eric Young, the detective from the Special Enforcement Unit in Charleston, was calling.
“Merry Christmas, Sergeant Young,” Grimes said when he answered the phone.
“I have a gift for you,” Young said.
“Is that right?”
“We popped your boy Rex Fairchild about an hour ago as soon as he left his dealer. He had an ounce of powder on him. It’s resale weight, so you should be able to lean on him.”
“That’s the best gift I could have hoped for,” Grimes said. “You have what, seventy-two hours to get him arraigned?”
“Right. We’ll do it on the twenty-seventh.”
“What’s the judge like? Is he tough on drug offenders?”
“Not really. They’ve loosened up a lot in the past couple of years. I mean, Fairchild has a previous conviction and has done some time, and you can come in and testify that he’s a suspect in a murder conspiracy, but I don’t think the bond will be something he can’t make. His old man is loaded.”
“Maybe Daddy won’t be so hot to make this bond since Sonny Boy has been popped for cocaine again,” Grimes said.
“Maybe,” Young said, “but you know how parents are. They stick their heads in the sand.”
“I think I’ll come on down and see him in the morning,” Grimes said.
“In the morning? Tomorrow is Christmas.”
“Yeah, well, this case is important to me. Tell the guys at the jail I’ll be there midmorning, okay?”
“I’ll do it,” Young said. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER 46
Rex Fairchild was craving cocaine and worrying about what was going to happen to him when a guard came and knocked on his cell door on Christmas morning.
“Back up to the pie hole and give me your hands,” the guard said.
Fairchild had been through the routine many times, and he backed up to the slit in the steel door and put his hands behind his back. He felt the cold steel of the handcuffs wrap around his wrist as the guard clicked them on tightly.
“Step back into the cell,” the guard said.
Fairchild complied, and a moment later the door opened. Two guards were standing there in black uniforms. They walked in carrying a waist chain and shackles and went through the process of hooking him up.
“Let’s go,” one of them said.
Fairchild felt a sense of relief. Was he going to be arraigned by a magistrate—maybe by video—and get a bond set? He hadn’t expected to be arraigned since it was Christmas, but he figured stranger things had happened. If the magistrate set him a reasonable bond, his dad would have him out in a few hours.
The guards led him down three separate hallways of concrete floors and block walls, through two steel doors, to a small room. Inside the room was a steel table.
“Sit,” one of the guards demanded.
Fairchild sat. There was no television, no computer. It didn’t appear there would be a video arraignment. Maybe the magistrate would come in and arraign him face-to-face. After a few minutes, the door opened again, and Fairchild felt sick to his stomach. It was the state cop, Grimes.
“Merry Christmas, Rex,” Grimes said cheerfully. “I hear you had a little problem last night.”
Fairchild stared at the table, determined to keep his mouth shut.
“Remember the last time we spoke and you told me to fuck off?” Grimes said. “Well, sir, I did it. I fucked off right to the Charleston Police Department’s narcotics squad and asked them if they’d keep an eye on you for me. I don’t know whether you’re aware or not, but it’s real obvious you’ve got a drug problem. I figured it would be cocaine or meth. Turns out it’s cocaine. That’s a bad drug, Rex. Ruins your teeth. Makes you skinny. Just breaks you down physically over time. So I figured it wouldn’t be long at all before you went to see your dealer, and I was right. Drug addicts are so easy to predict. They’re just so damned stupid. My friends in the Charleston PD followed you, and now here you sit with a felony resale charge against you and a prior federal conviction. I have friends at the DEA, too, and I’m going to be talking to them about you. See if I can’t get you back in the federal system. You have the right to remain silent, by the way. But I think it’s time you talk to me before this gets away from you to the point where nobody will be able to help you.”
“It was an ounce,” Fairchild said. “The feds won’t touch it.”
“I think maybe they will after I tell them about your involvement in two murders. With your prior, you’ll get at least five years in the federal system plus whatever I can manage to get you on the conspiracy charge.”
“You don’t have a conspiracy charge against me,” Fairchild said. “If you did, you would have arrested me.”
“You asked Rocky Skidmore to gather information for you about Donnie Frazier. You didn’t know it, but Rocky Skidmore is too feeble to get out and do much of anything, so he put his stepson, Jimmy Baker, on it. Baker got what you wanted and passed it on to Skidmore, who passed it on to you. You passed it on to Big Pappy Donovan, and he passed it on to Darren Street. As a result, two men were murdered in a bar in Cowen. That’s a conspiracy if ever there was one.”
Fairchild’s stomach knotted even tighter. He’d received a call from Rocky Skidmore and was told that there was a paid informant named Lester Routh in Cowen who had told Grimes everything because Skidmore’s loose-lipped, drunken stepson had bragged about his involvement to Routh.
“Let’s say you know what you’re talking about, and I’m not admitting for one second that you do,” Fairchild said. “You still can’t prove I knew anything about the murders before they happened.”
“You go ahead and try that on in front of a jury if you like,” Grimes said. “You go ahead and admit you gathered information for Pappy, but you didn’t have any idea what he was going to do with the information. Good luck with that.”
“I’m not ratting anybody out,” Fairchild said. “You can forget it. Go ahead and put me back inside. I know how it works. I’ll do the time standing on my head.”
“There’s another way I can play this,” Grimes said. “It’d be real easy for me to get the word out that you got popped on a felony drug case and started flapping your jaws to make a deal. How about I make sure you get released on bond and then put out the word that you’ve agreed to testify against Big Pappy and Skidmore and Jimmy Baker? How long do you think you’ll last?”
“You can’t do that!” Fairchild yelled. “That’d be the same as killing me yourself. It would make you a murderer.”
“I don’t see it that way at all,” Gr
imes said. “You’ve done what you’ve done, and you’re going to have to face the consequences one way or another. Either you talk to me, agree to testify, and I’ll protect you and make sure you don’t go back to prison, or you get put back out on the street with a big ole bull’s-eye on your back. It’s up to you.”
“You can’t do this, man,” Fairchild said. “It ain’t fair. It ain’t legal!”
“I don’t think you’re really one to be talking about what’s legal,” Grimes said. “But you’re right about one thing. Life isn’t fair sometimes. You’re about to experience it firsthand.”
CHAPTER 47
I got through Christmas morning by not acknowledging to myself that it was Christmas morning. I was getting better and better at that kind of thing—not allowing certain emotions to be a part of my life. The gesture at Julius Antone’s house on Christmas Eve may have been emotional to some extent, but I looked at it as simply fulfilling a promise I’d made to myself before my mom was murdered. I’d also felt some closeness to Katherine during our brief time together on Christmas Eve, but for the most part, my intention of protecting myself from emotional trauma by not allowing myself to become emotionally involved with anyone or anything seemed to be working.
I was driving through the deserted streets of Knoxville, looking for a suitable apartment, when my burner phone started ringing around 1:00 p.m. on Christmas day. It was Pappy, of course. Nobody else called me on that phone.
“We’ve got a mess to clean up in West Virginia,” he said. “There’s a cop up there that won’t let this thing go. He’s pushing people, and I’m afraid somebody will crack. If somebody cracks, the whole thing will come crashing down on you and me, and we’ll wind up spending the rest of our lives in some shithole West Virginia state penitentiary.”
I sighed and felt my stomach tighten just a bit. What had Pappy done? How many people had he involved in gathering information for me in West Virginia? Were they typical criminals, too damned dumb to live?
