When she looked at Bunker, a string of words formed on her tongue, then flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. “How many have you . . . uh, well . . . you know?”
“Too many,” he said in a downtrodden tone. His eyes moved away and focused into a long stare, not looking at anything in particular. “So many, in fact, it’s a miracle I can sleep at night.”
Bunker’s face turned a few shades whiter than before. Even in the flickering light from the fire outside, it was obvious she’d struck a nerve with him.
Daisy touched his hand, feeling compelled to return the favor of support. “But it was war, right? You did what you had to do.”
“At first, yes. That’s what I kept telling myself. But somewhere along the way, someone changed the rules of engagement when I wasn’t looking. All of a sudden, I found myself in the middle of an unacceptable situation—a situation that I helped create. Like you, I wanted to throw up. There were so many bodies. Bodies of innocents. I hated myself for what I’d helped them do. At that moment, I knew I couldn’t continue to lie to myself, so I walked away.”
“What the hell happened?”
Bunker hesitated, then brought his eyes back to the corpse before resuming his search again, this time with the shooter’s back left pocket. “It’s a long story,” he said in a breathy voice, sounding like he wanted to talk about something else.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s really none of my business.”
“It’s okay. I know you’re just trying to make sense of all this. But killing never makes sense. It’s just something that happens in the line of duty. And as it turns out, it needed to. You just gotta push it aside and move on. Otherwise, if you dwell on it, the ghosts will never stop haunting you. Trust me, you can never let your guard down. Not for a moment. If that kind of guilt ever gains a foothold inside your soul, it will never leave. It’ll change you in ways you never imagined. I’m not sure if that makes any sense—”
“—I think I know what you mean,” she said, looking down at the man she’d killed. She let Bunker’s words sink in and fester for a bit, until they resonated with her logic. “We all have something inside us that we can’t stand. You know, that part of us that makes us sick to our stomach when it comes out. The Sheriff calls it our inner demon.”
“Exactly. But that same part—the part we can’t stand—also keeps us safe in situations like this. It’s who we are as humans, whether we like it or not. We all have a primal beast inside. It’s part of our DNA and has been since we first crawled out of the oceans and walked upright. The trick is to not let it take over. It’s a tool, nothing more. And every tool has its place. When you’re done with it, you put it away so it doesn’t—”
“—consume you.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what happened to me. The guilt took over and turned me into something worse, sending me off the deep end. It almost killed me inside and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even my worst enemy.”
She nodded but didn’t respond. She couldn’t find the words.
Bunker continued, “Nobody should ever have to walk the path of shame like I did. And do it twice. Those who do almost never recover. They spiral completely out of control. In the end, you either eat your own bullet or spend the rest of your days in jail. Somehow, I managed to crawl out of it, but the beast is still there, inside me. Fighting to gain control. I’m gonna have to live with it for the rest of my life, and I’d never want that for you. So please, give yourself time. You’ll get through it, but you can’t dwell on it. You did the right thing here. This man was going to kill both of us, like he did Tuttle. He had to be stopped.”
Before she could respond, Bunker ended his hand search. “What’s this?” he said while digging around the inside of the man’s waistband. His fingers pulled out a pouch that had been hidden inside the pants.
He opened it and pulled out a thin card. It was the size of a cigarette pack and shaped like a playing card, except its corners were dual tapered, giving it eight sides instead of four. Bunker held the item up. Its purple and yellow cartoon characters were frozen in some kind of action scene.
Daisy recognized it. “A Pokemon card?”
“That’s a first,” he answered, looking like he was about to start laughing. He turned the card over and examined it closely.
“Why would an assassin have a Pokemon card?” she asked, the tone of her voice a few octaves higher.
“He wouldn’t. It has to mean something.”
“But what?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll have to figure it out later,” Bunker answered before tucking it into his pocket. His fingers went into the pouch again, this time pulling out a pair of thin metal pins.
“Now that’s more like it,” she said in a steady tone. “A lock pick set.”
“This is how he got the jump on Tuttle. He snuck in through the door and then went down the hall to Tuttle’s bedroom. How many meth-heads do you know who walk around with a lock pick set?”
“There’s no doubt now,” she answered, feeling a tiny lump inside the man’s hoodie. “Hey, I think I found something. Hand me your knife.”
Bunker gave it to her. It only took a few seconds to insert the tip into the black cotton material and cut around the bulge she’d found.
Her fingers pried the material open and dug out something flat and hard. It was about the size of a flake of instant oatmeal and perfectly square. She held it up for Bunker to see. “What the hell is this?”
Bunker took it from her and studied it. After a short pause, he announced, “I think it’s a micro tracker.”
“As in GPS?”
He nodded, tucking in his lower lip. “I’ve never seen one this small before.”
“Military issue?”
“Probably. But where’s the power source?”
She fished around the shooter’s hoodie for another item, but didn’t find anything. “Could it be powered by his body somehow?”
“Maybe, but microelectronics is really not my thing. Plus, I’ve been out of the game for a while now. Who knows what they’ve developed since then?”
“So it’s one of ours?”
“Can’t tell for sure, but that would be my guess.”
The revelation took her by surprise. She ran it through her mind for a bit, then asked, “Why would our military break into Tuttle’s place and execute him?”
“That’s the million dollar question. And let’s not forget, it happened immediately after an EMP blackout and a plane going down.”
“What does it all mean?”
“It means we’ve stumbled onto something big here.”
She agreed. “Something we weren’t supposed to see.”
“What I really need is a magnifying glass,” he said in a matter-of-fact way before standing up.
Daisy did as well, then followed Bunker down the hall to Tuttle’s room.
The overhead light was on when Bunker sat on the edge of the bed and reached over for a magnifying glass sitting next to a yellow marker. He snatched it, then held it over the micro tracker lying flat in the palm of his hand.
Daisy sat next to him, waiting for the results of the man’s investigation.
Ten seconds later, Bunker finally spoke, his voice energized. “I’ve seen some impressive tactical gear in my days, but this thing is off the charts. The circuitry is absolutely microscopic and I think it even has an onboard battery unit. Plus, there are two antenna wires on the end.”
The words antenna wires brought a new idea into her brain. “Bunker? I need to ask you something.”
“Yeah, shoot.”
“If this man was being tracked, who was doing the tracking?”
Bunker stopped his examination immediately. His eyes shot wide and all the color drained from his face. He grabbed her arm. “We gotta get out of here. Right now!”
The two of them ran out of the bedroom and tore down the hallway. After a quick left and a few more strides, they bolted through the front doo
r of Tuttle’s home, with Bunker leading the way.
The instant Daisy’s feet landed in the dirt outside, she caught a glimpse of at least a dozen silhouettes standing just beyond the old Ford trucks. Before she could redirect her focus, someone with an automatic rifle opened up on their position from the right, strafing the ground in front of their feet.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
Bunker stopped and ducked his head. So did Daisy, just as a bank of vehicle lights snapped on, stinging her vision with beams of powerful energy.
“On your knees with your hands up,” a commanding male voice said from the darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dustin Brown rolled out of bed and planted his feet on the chilly wood floor. It took a second for his vision to clear before he remembered where he was—a spare bedroom in a country home belonging to Albert’s mom.
He hadn’t planned to spend the night at his new friend’s house, but Albert talked him into it after they’d acquired the items from the high school’s chemistry lab.
The room was maybe ten feet square and sparsely decorated, with a three-drawer vertical dresser directly in front of him. Its top was smothered with loose stacks of faded baseball hats, plus a glass jar sitting next to the edge, half full of coins.
The single bed under his rear end had a thin white sheet, ergonomic pillow, and pastel-colored comforter that smelled dank and musty. The walls, painted an off-white color, were barren except for a three-foot-wide mirror with a flock of fingerprints dotting the bottom.
The strangest item in the room was the lamp next to the bed. It featured a howling dog’s head as the base. Dustin wasn’t sure if it was homemade, but the intricacy of the carving was impressive. The lampshade, not so much. It was faded yellow, with a fist-sized hole along the back.
The closet to his right was empty and missing a door. The hinges were there, hanging, but the rest of the frame had been orphaned. He counted eleven hangers dangling from the rod across the middle. The metal kind.
The antique hardware on the bedroom door matched the gaudy crown molding encircling the room. So did the amenities in the hall bathroom he’d used the night before. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a seashell-shaped sink, or used a toilet with an overhead tank and pull chain.
Right then, a tickle rose up in his nose. He tried to quell it but couldn’t. He sneezed, sending the tiny dust particles on the lampshade spewing into the air. They floated through the air in random patterns, swirling around each other like a swarm of bees.
Everywhere he looked, it was more of the same—dust covered everything. It was clear Albert wasn’t much of a housekeeper. But Dustin wasn’t surprised. His new pal and fellow deputy didn’t take very good care of himself, so why should his deceased mother’s home be any different?
Dustin stood up and stretched out his back. It creaked and popped, thanks to the mattress he’d slept on. It was beyond uncomfortable, especially the lumpy middle, leaving his rail-thin physique begging for an eight-hour do-over.
When he went to the bedroom door and pulled it open, a slip of white notepaper smacked him in the face. Albert must have taped it to the door while Dustin was sleeping, and done so precisely at eye level.
Dustin took the note and read it. The handwritten message contained a single sentence scribbled in blue ink: Meet me in the basement when you get up, Amigo.
He crumpled the note and tossed it into the corner, adding to a pile of empty plastic bottles and torn candy wrappers. The last person to stay in this room must have had a serious fetish for Ensure protein drinks and Almond Joy bars.
Dustin walked past the kitchen and found the door to the basement. He ducked under an overhead beam just inside the threshold, then started down the stairs.
The instant his foot landed on the fourth step a pungent odor punched him in the nose. It smelled of cleaning chemicals, making his eyes water. He covered his face. “Jesus, what the hell is that?”
Albert turned around and gave him an abrupt hand wave, revealing a dual respirator mask and a lab apron lashed around his generous middle.
Dustin couldn’t see much of the man’s face, but he thought Albert was smiling. The blue cleaning gloves on his hands were a new addition, but the rest of his ensemble was the same as the night before: jeans and an oversized shirt.
A string of foldout banquet tables stood behind Albert, stretching from one side of the basement to the other. They were sprinkled with lab equipment and supplies, looking as though they’d been meticulously placed and arranged, not like the junk scattered throughout the rest of the home.
Dustin wanted to continue down the stairs, but the fumes convinced him otherwise. He went to turn around, but Albert stopped him by pulling the mask off to speak.
“Grab some gloves. We got a lot of cleaning to do,” he said, snatching a second gas mask sitting on the table next to him. He tossed it like a saucer, spinning it into Dustin’s hands. “Be sure to tighten the straps on the back. Wouldn’t want you passing out before we get the lab up and running.”
Dustin put the mask on and secured it, then caught a white apron launched his way. He found the front of it, put it on, and tied the straps around the back of his waist.
The spread of items on the tables was impressive: beakers, flasks, two large glass bowls, three stainless steel containers, measuring scale, tube furnace, some kind of filtering apparatus, and an overhead stainless steel hood, much like those installed over a cooking station in a commercial restaurant.
Wait, why does a basement have an exhaust hood?
Dustin thought about it for a moment before the answer came to him: Albert had been planning this for a while, having gone through the time and expense to have it installed.
“Everything must be spotless before we start our cook,” Albert said in a muffled voice, sounding like he was trapped in an underground bunker. “I can’t wait to show you my secret voodoo. I’m sure you’ve heard of Clearwater Red, right?”
“Ah, no. Not exactly.”
“Trust me, it’s legendary. Every tweaker on both coasts is completely hooked on this blend. With me here, instead of in LA, inventory will be running low soon. We need to get busy and ramp up production. It’s time to start raking in some fat-stacks while everyone else is busy trying to deal with the power failure.”
“So I take it this is your recipe?”
“Yep. Finally found a way to put my chemistry skills to good use. Couldn’t see myself working 9 to 5 for some pharmaceutical company, making them rich off of all my hard work. And genius.”
* * *
Sheriff Gus Apollo cut across the street and headed toward the outdoor grill in front of the café. The tantalizing aroma of maple-smoked bacon and sizzling eggs locked on to his nose and pulled him forward.
His stomach had been growling all morning and so had his heart, with thoughts of Allison Rainey. She was the chef slinging food on the wood-fired cooktop roughly thirty feet ahead. Even from a distance, he could see her hands working the spatula with precision, reminiscent of a brain surgeon trying to reconnect nerve endings in a dying patient.
Apollo smiled when Allison turned her head and looked up for a moment, catching his gaze. Perfect timing, he thought as she smiled at him.
His day was off to a wonderful start. Next up, an impending surge of high cholesterol and an elevated heart rate, one delivered by the food and the other by the chef who was about to prepare it.
Apollo knew it was a deadly combination on multiple levels, but he didn’t care. He needed this moment of bliss before the remainder of the day took over—a day destined to be filled with second-guessed decisions and endless challenges.
When he arrived, he noticed four hands tending the grill, not two. Allison’s son, Victor, was helping her.
The tall, lanky kid had his hair tied back into a single ponytail, matching his mom’s. It was clear the youngster had slung breakfast before, working in near-perfect concert with his mother. Apollo was impressed. The
boy wasn’t a complete slacker after all.
“Hey Sheriff,” Victor said, only glancing up for the briefest of seconds.
Allison brought her eyes to Apollo again, this time with a look that was all business. “How do you want your eggs, Sheriff?”
He’d hoped for a friendly conversation, but he didn’t want to press it. She was busy earning a living and so was her son. “Over easy is fine. Plus some of that bacon, if it’s ready. It smells amazing.”
“My secret recipe. Hope you like it.”
“I didn’t know you cooked, too,” he said, thinking about all the hours he’d spent sitting at the service counter in the restaurant. She’d only ever waited on him, never venturing into the kitchen during the hours he’d spent on his favorite stool.
“Our regular cook never showed up for his shift. I guess Craig thinks people don’t have to eat now that the power is out,” she said before grabbing another log from the stack behind her. She put it into the firebox under the cooktop. “Luckily, Billy Jack had this old grill in the basement. Not sure what we’d do without it.”
“Sometimes being a packrat has its advantages. I know I’ve got my share of junk. Haven’t been able to pull my truck into the garage for a couple years now.”
“It happens to the best of us,” she said, handing him a plate with three eggs and four slices of bacon. “Sorry we don’t have toast.”
“This is more than plenty. Thank you,” he said, holding his tongue from releasing the rest of the words in his mind. He wanted to ask her out, but with Victor standing next to her, now wasn’t the time.
Hell, it never seemed to be the right time. Something always seemed to rise up and block him. Sure, some of it was because he was a gutless old man. But perhaps it was more. Perhaps the universe was trying to tell him something—or stop him from making a complete ass out of himself.
If she said no, or took offense to his unsolicited advances, then the rest of the town would soon know about it. Small communities are famous for their fast-moving rumor mills, and Clearwater was no exception. As Sheriff, he certainly didn’t need to make himself the target of gossip or innuendo. Not with his reputation already paper thin at best. But regardless, his heart wanted what it wanted and he couldn’t stop it.
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