by C. J. Sears
“I did.”
Finch stood up, slung the bag over his shoulder. “Then there’s nothing else to say. I don’t believe you have anything to do with Jane’s murder. I don’t think you’re a member of the cult. I don’t know what you are beyond a man with a lot of words swirling in his head and spewing out of his mouth. That said, I do have one last question: finding God, what did it change for you?”
The waitress arrived with the food. Rhinehold bit into the muffin before he answered. “It made me a better man. I go through my day knowing that what I sing, what I preach, what I do is cast in the light of the Lord.”
Finch smiled. “Glad to hear it. Enjoy your meal.” He turned to walk out.
“Wait!”
He spun back around. “Yeah?”
Wiping his mouth with napkin, Rhinehold said, “I’ve got a question for you, if you permit.”
Finch humored him. “Sure.”
“What on earth made you think I was part of a cult? Why did you seek me out?”
He explained the connection between the capitalized letters in the message and his works of fiction. Rhinehold let loose a boisterous laugh that caused a few of the other patrons to twist in their seats. They glared at him with disgust.
“Finch,” the singer said, “that’s absurd. I like it.”
When he left, he heard the unmistakable rhythm of Rhinehold’s fingers hammering across his tablet.
* * *
The station bustled with activity when he arrived. Officers paced up and down the corridor as if on high alert. The one K9 unit barked with dismay beside his companion. He found Mason in the conference room scrutinizing a map of Lone Oak. The deputy had pinpointed locations on the map with a red marker. Finch saw a dotted line that connected the tunnel they had crawled out of earlier that morning with Jane’s house and then further on to the quarry. The words “where is the cult now?” were written above the line.
Finch asked him if anything new had turned up regarding Jane Harley or Susan Edwick. He said that Harley had been working part-time at a lumber mill in the next town over and her family hadn’t seen her in months. They claimed not to know of any extracurricular activities she might have been involved in. As far as they were concerned, their daughter had been shy and unassuming. He guessed that the news hit them hard.
Mason told him that Susan’s death hadn’t been high on their priority list thanks to worrying about him and the sheriff. He offered that the bullet had been dusted for prints. Nothing incriminating. As for the make of the gun, he said that it was a standard issue for law enforcement based on the caliber of the bullet. Beyond that, he couldn’t say.
Perfect. Finch had nothing to work with on either front. He informed Mason about the possibility of the Bradford house as a point of interest.
“Doesn’t sound that promising,” the deputy said. “Words in a religious text in the Mormon section match up with words on the walls of a Mormon estate. Not much of a lead.”
At Finch’s urging, he added it to the map. It was farther from the ritual chamber than the quarry was, but still within a comfortable driving distance. He kept it in mind.
“Any word on the bootleggers? Has the sheriff met up with them for the drop?”
“None,” Mason said, concern in his voice, “and I don’t like it. Usually these things are over before you can scream moonshine, but this is taking longer than I had anticipated.”
Finch reassured him. “I’m sure the sheriff will turn up with a couple of them ripe for questioning at any moment.” She was a tough woman, even if the past few days had taken a toll on her psyche.
He continued to pour over the map alongside the deputy, struggling to understand why the cult had chosen to operate out of this small town. What did those words mean? Why were they written in such disparate places?
Knowing that the bootleggers had some kind of agreement with the cult, perhaps were the cult, Finch wasn’t convinced that their practices aligned with their beliefs in a rational way. They suffocated their victims with drugs, burned the bodies. The parasite and the man who killed Susan figured into this, but these were pieces teetering on the edge of the board.
Laying the index cards on the table, Finch attempted to integrate what he knew into his inspection. The parasite specimen was at the lab and he doubted the results of any test would be forthcoming. They had the map and the riddles. They possessed an assortment of information that didn’t blend. He knew the answers were here, even if it felt like he was forgetting something every time he put his mind to the task.
“Forget something?” The deputy handed him his Desert Eagle. Finch gave it the once-over and holstered it. The Browning remained in his belt loop. The case had made him uneasy. Carrying around both of his firearms proved comforting.
A knock on the conference room door got their attention. Finch opened the door, jumped out of the way before he was trampled by one of the officers whose name he didn’t know. He looked at Mason, hoping he could tell him what was going on. The deputy mouthed back that it was one of the officers the sheriff took as backup.
The man collapsed in a chair. Finch could see from the dirt on his shoes and the sweat on his brow that the officer neglected to catch his breath before he got to the station. He glimpsed the cuts on the man’s forearms; he must have run through thick brush or thorny bushes. Given that, and his labored breathing, Finch had the inkling that the drop had gone south.
“What happened? Where’s the sheriff?”
“She’s still there.” He gasped, chest thrusting in and out. “The informant chickened out at the last second, told them where she was hiding.” He cleared his throat. “They had guns.”
“Did you leave her by herself?” Deputy Mason surprised Finch with his restraint. In his position, he might not have done the same.
“No, the other three officers stayed behind. I tried to use the radio in the car, but they shot it. I drove as fast as I could.”
“Can you take us to her?”
GLITCH IN THE SYSTEM
Gunfire echoed through the woods as Finch and Deputy Mason followed Officer Plinkett to the drop location. He said that the deal had been set up at an abandoned train yard. It had been prosperous back when Farspit Quarry was still in operation. The line crossed through Lone Oak into Fairvale but lack of tourism and the decline in railway usage led to its demise. Over time, the yard became a haven for animals, miscreants, and now bootleggers.
The three of them crouched low as they approached. A rusty hunk of junk in the form of an old truck provided cover. Finch peered over the hood, took in as much of the yard as he could. Two empty train cars were parked on the line which disappeared into a nearby tunnel on the right. On the left, the track curved upward, broken and useless. Stationed on either side of the train, old offices jutted out from the ground. One of them was wooden, its foundations rotting. Part of it had collapsed into a heap of lumber on the ground.
Shots continued to fly as he watched, but there was no way of knowing which was friend from foe. He looked for a clearer vantage point. The hill sloped downward to the yard. There had to be an overlook he could use to identify where the sheriff was hiding. Beside him, the deputy had his gun drawn, eager to move. Finch hoped he wouldn’t rush headlong into the fray without knowing where the sheriff was.
Plinkett whispered that when he left her she’d been on the north end holed up behind the intact building. Glancing in that direction he thought he saw a muzzle flash. He heard a man cry out in pain. For the moment, the shooting stopped. Finch crept past the truck, figured it was his best chance to find another position without catching a bullet in the head. He spotted a downed tree poking out of the grass. He climbed onto it, lay prone. It held firm.
Black uniforms rose out of the brush where the officer indicated Donahue had been. He watched two officers led by Donahue advance toward the train cars, closing in on the bootleggers. Even at this distance, the flare of her hair was unmistakable.
Based on the path they
chose, Finch guessed the moonshiners had sought refuge in the crumbling building. Bad move. They had no idea they were pinched in between two groups of law enforcement. He beckoned Plinkett and Mason over, told them to flank from the right. He’d take left, figured the sheriff and her men could drive up the center.
Concerned that the trapped men might get frantic and attempt a suicidal charge, Finch approached with caution. Boxed in, surrounded, there was no telling what these people were capable of. Desperate men were dangerous and foolhardy. Death by cop wasn’t acceptable; taking these men alive was the only option.
Whatever happened, the siege would be short. If crap hit the fan, Finch had the Browning ready to go. He’d rather have more rounds than firepower in a situation like this. He kept the Desert Eagle holstered in case he was wrong.
Muffling their footsteps, the three of them snuck down the hill toward the building, careful to avoid being in line of sight of the windows. They split up. Finch pressed himself against the building, scooted around to the side as Plinkett and Mason did the same. He stopped beside the screen door and drew his weapon.
“We have you surrounded,” he said. Low curses and heavy boots reverberated through the building as the bootleggers scrambled inside. “Come out with your hands up. You don’t have to die today.”
Glass burst behind him, sending shards airborne. The spread of the pellets was wide; they were armed with shotguns. Getting in close quarters was out of the question. He ducked, rolled past the door. The screen mesh and decaying wood wouldn’t hold up under that kind of fire.
Donahue took the blast as her cue to storm the building. She rounded the corner, fired three shots into the busted window. The men inside returned fire as she ran to Finch. She hunkered next to him as her men took positions on the far end. He saw no sign of the deputy or Plinkett. He prayed that they stuck to the plan.
“So, this is going well,” she said, high on adrenaline. “Makes a nice change of pace from all that cave diving.” She pulled out the magazine in her gun, counted the rounds. “I’m running out of ammo. There’s at least three of them in there. I plugged one of them in the arm but they’re holding an officer hostage.”
Grim tidings. With one of her men on the inside, the siege would have to be reworked. Barging in would result in the man’s death, and they didn’t have a negotiator on hand. “Got a plan or are we just going to wing it?” he asked her.
“That depends,” she said, “on who you brought along.” He told her about her brother and Plinkett. Other officers were coming too, but the chances of them making it before this wrapped up were slim. She smiled at the news. “Good. Listen, I need you to provide cover fire so I can get to Rick.”
“Can do.” He popped up and fired. The Browning bucked in his hand four times as the sheriff sprinted around to the other side of the building. He dropped as the boom of a shotgun sounded above him, spraying shells that splintered the wood where his head had been. He crawled to the corner, braced against the edge of the building, heart beating fast in his chest.
Finch checked to see if the sheriff had found her brother. There was no one on that side of the building, not even Plinkett. They had vanished. The remaining officers exchanged gunfire with the suspects through the fractured window. He inched closer to the door, readying himself to surprise the bootleggers whenever the sheriff gave him the cue.
Boots scraped against the floor, intensifying by the second. A large man kicked open the screen door, swept the area in front of him with his gun. He had one arm wrapped around the throat of a Lone Oak police officer. His peripheral vision must have been terrible. The bootlegger didn’t see Finch hunched down with his weapon trained on him.
A well-placed shot in the leg caused the man to stumble, but his grip on the hostage didn’t break. He fired again. A hole blew open in the side of his arm. The shotgun fell from his hands. The officer elbowed him in the gut, managed to get away.
The bootlegger reached for his shotgun.
He tackled him to the ground. He wrestled with the man who proved capable despite his injuries. A fist slammed into his face, knocking him silly. Head ringing, Finch returned the favor. The punch landed square on the man’s jaw. He cursed, reared back for another blow.
The officer cut him off, sending a kick careening into the man’s head. The boot connected with a sickening crack, broke his nose. He screamed. Together they held him down, binding him with cuffs. He instructed the officer to call for an ambulance as he jogged back to the building. The sheriff’s men met him, said that Donahue might have gotten inside before the man with the hostage escaped. He told them to keep their eyes on the suspect while he investigated.
Dizzy and nursing a busted lip, Finch entered the dilapidated office. The room was a mess. Overturned chairs and desks littered the floor. A fridge that must have been expensive for its time had no door. In the dim lighting he noticed that some liquid had exploded, coated the interior with purple stains. An aging typewriter seemed to be the only relic intact.
A flimsy cardboard panel obstructed the other half of the room. He listened for movement. It was silent. Finch slid the divider aside, pointed his Browning at the corners of the room. Empty. Either the other bootleggers had escaped, or they were blending into the walls like a chameleon. There was no sign of the sheriff or the other officers.
Lowering his gun, he walked over to the window. Nobody was waiting outside. He scanned the room. The room was bare, devoid of cover. They couldn’t have hid here forever. He saw several pairs of boot prints in the dust. One led to the front door. Another set ran back and forth across the room, stopping at the partition. The final pair was erratic, zigzagging and moving in circles, like they were searching for something.
A commotion in the building caused him to raise his gun. He pointed it at the barrier that separated the two halves of the room. Preparing for the worst, his finger hovered over the trigger. He heard the noise again, followed by gunshots. It was coming from below.
His eyes retraced the irregular boot prints. The unconventional spiral finished at a patch of disturbed dust. Getting closer, he saw the handle of a door. The shots stopped, but he could hear voices. He yanked the handle.
Stairs descended into a cellar. He followed them down, uneasy in his steps. The voices grew louder, but he wasn’t sure if it was the bootleggers or the sheriff. Afternoon sun splashed color through thin floorboards. Finch was relieved to see that the room wasn’t pitch black. He’d grown sick of fumbling in the dark.
Two bodies on the ground diverted his attention. He recognized neither of the men. The bootleggers, he wagered; they had been riddled with pistol rounds. Finch glanced in front of him, saw more sunlight pouring in through a set of double doors elevated atop the ground. Three black shapes morphed into the familiar attire of the sheriff, Mason, and Plinkett.
“Looks like we won’t be taking them in for questioning. Didn’t leave us much choice,” said the sheriff as Finch strode over to them.
He informed them about his tango with the large man. Grateful that at least one suspect had survived as well as the officer, she thanked him. Finch waved it off, saying he was glad it hadn’t gone as far south as he’d expected. Curious as to how she got in, he asked her. Donahue explained that she and Mason had played cops and robbers here as kids, knew about the back door into the cellar from those days.
“Now that’s a sight I’d like to see,” he said.
Sirens blared in the distance; the ambulance had arrived. The sheriff got on her radio, told them to send another for the two stiffs. Topside, Finch stretched his arms and yawned. A nap would’ve felt fantastic, but he was needed elsewhere.
Circumstances permitting, he could get some shut eye after he paid a visit to the hospital.
* * *
Even a man as massive as the one he’d shot and fought appeared diminutive and weak when strapped to a hospital bed. Doctors assured Finch that blood loss had been minimal, and the rounds had gone clean through. He asked if the man was co
herent enough to talk. They confirmed that the suspect was lucid. In fact, they claimed that other patients complained about his behavior.
The bootlegger was thus the sole occupant of this room. His arm was bandaged from the wound to his armpit. The doctors wrapped his leg as well though Finch saw that they had neglected to do their best. Encased in a cast, the man’s nose was being prepped for realignment.
“You look like you could use a lollipop to make it all better,” Finch said as he scooted a chair over to the bed and seated himself. The sheriff and deputy lingered outside the door, filling in paperwork and standing guard. That suited him; he wanted first crack anyhow.
“If you’d like to breathe through a straw, I’ve still got one hand available. Come closer, unbuckle this shackle.” His voice lacked the oomph Finch had expected, distorted by the broken nose.
“Touchy subject,” he replied. “What is your name, for the record?”
“Screw you.”
Finch smiled. “No thanks, I don’t swing that way. Is your name Jeb?”
The man coughed. “Yeah, it is. It’s also Billy Joe. And John Boy. And Jesse James.”
“Oh, very clever,” he quipped, “but I’d say by your tone that you are, in fact, Jeb. Or at least that’s your code name.”
Jeb laughed, though it came out more as a sputter of indignation. “Code name? What do you think this is? Some spy movie? Ain’t no need for code names when you’re supplying the good stuff.”
Smiling again, Finch said, “So you admit to bootlegging moonshine laced with spores from the Farspit Quarry?”
Jeb raised his bandaged arm in a mocking gesture. “Guilty as charged. It’s not like you can do anything about it. You take me down, it’s not even a glitch in the system. Just a dead pixel.”
Interesting lingo. “So what would it take to bring this whole setup crashing to the ground? You’re the middle man. Who’s your boss?”
“Goldfinger,” he answered with another laugh. “No wait, it’s the Pope.”
