by Chris Bauer
“Try telling ol’ Norma that.”
“I needn’t tell her anything. Her place in judicial history as Jane Roe is solidified. Her newest incarnation will keep the pot stirred and the flash pan primed. And yet I do wish only good things for her, as valiant as she’s been, and as a fellow Native American, and that includes a calm mind, an unburdened heart, and a long life in which to enjoy both.”
Naomi raised her tumbler of Balcones and downed the rest of it without a blink. She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This discussion, Senator, needs to close. Thank you for a wonderful dinner. I really must go.”
“As must I, Madam Justice. I am in desperate need of a cigarette. But just one more moment, please. Someone else here would like to congratulate you on your appointment.” She beckoned a distant diner with a raised hand and a curling finger.
A man rose from the far side of the dining room, someone Naomi recognized instantly. Wide shoulders, trim waist, tall, with a gray mustache and a bolo tie. Texas televangelist Higby Hunt crossed the room.
The man made Naomi’s skin crawl. Be polite, she told herself. She stood to greet him.
“Madam Justice Coolsummer! An honor to meet you.” A handshake. “And congratulations on your confirmation.” The reverend’s dental veneers glistened as he pumped her arm.
“Likewise, and thank you, Reverend. But this is poor timing. I’m leaving. I have an early breakfast tomorrow.”
“What, no dessert?” His wide-mouthed smile continued to sparkle but it wasn’t quite as impressive in person, without TV studio lighting. He added, “You must have dessert. I hear the chocolate mousse bombe is heavenly.”
“Reverend,” Senator Folsom interjected. She gestured with her cocktail glass. “Madam Justice was already kind enough to drink her dessert with me. I called you over so you could meet her before she left, maybe make her feel a little more at home. And perhaps have her receive a blessing from you to start the new judicial term.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Naomi said. “I’m glad to make Reverend Hunt’s acquaintance, but the blessing’s not necessary.”
“Nonsense,” the reverend said. “It will be my pleasure.” He retrieved a pocket-sized Bible from his dinner jacket, found a marked page, and raised his chin. “This is a reading…”
“Please. That’s enough,” Naomi said. “No prayers on my behalf. None to start the term, none to end it, either inside the Supreme Court building or out. I really do have to go. So nice to meet you, Reverend Higby.”
Senator Folsom got to her feet. “But of course, Your Honor. What was I thinking? I’m glad we had some time together tonight. Wishing you great success. And please say hello to the president for me tomorrow.”
Naomi squinted while shaking the senator’s hand goodbye, trying to read her. “How is it you know?”
“There aren’t many secrets here in D.C., Your Honor,” she said, winking at Naomi and the reverend both. “Oh, one last thing. I wonder if you see the significance here, what we all have in common, you, the president and I? The humblest of beginnings for each of us. Three abandoned children who matured into pretty darned good, successful adults.”
“I never considered myself abandoned, Senator. My adoptive parents are wonderful. I owe everything to them.”
“As do I to my adoptive parents, may they rest in peace, Madam Justice. Go, make yourself and your adoptive parents proud. God knows our natural parents, whoever they were, might well have been proud too, if they knew who we became.”
FIFTEEN
The electric gate emerged from behind the monastery’s brick wall and rumbled past the idling van’s rear, the monastery on the other side. It clicked shut when it met up with more iron. Judge eased the van into a left turn onto Mt. Carmel Drive as soon as traffic allowed. He checked his watch; seven-twenty p.m. They were searching for a particular motel.
Owen was less than enamored about the monastery visit. “You told me nuns scare you.”
“Yeah, well, you were monopolizing the whole conversation and were really a pain in the ass in there. Besides, she wasn’t a nun.”
“Whatever. Short Mexican chick with big tits. She was hot, and you treated me like I was a kid. She coulda been a contender, Judge.”
“For what?”
“For my next ex-girlfriend.”
“Christ, Owen, back home in Philly if you act like that, someone punches you out for being a porch dick. All mouth, no manhood. Not a chance that was going to happen. It’s a monastery.”
Owen cursed. Judge told him to go find a penguin to fuck, then informed him their little experiment with Owen as a ride-along was winding down. The discussion turned heated until Maeby bolted upright between them, jolted by something. Judge checked his other deputy in the rear view, a force of habit whenever Maeby went on alert. J.D. was at attention as well, growling and yipping. Maeby shoved her nose into the van carpet like a pig rooting for truffles, pushing at it. The last time something like this had happened, Maeby and he were on duty outside a Kabul hospital. An IED had gone off, distant, on the other side of the city. It blew up a cab, the driver and his passengers, yet Maeby had felt it miles away.
Judge screeched the van to a halt on the shoulder. Both dogs lay down but kept their heads raised, their eyes open, assuming their sphinx poses. Maeby’s nostrils constricted. She nosed the tight pile of the carpet repeatedly, checking for a scent under it.
“Out of the van, Chigger, now!”
Judge directed Maeby with his hand, had her sniff each of the van’s wheel wells while J.D. sat at attention next to Owen fifty feet off the shoulder, in the weeds. Maeby circled the van’s perimeter and made no attempt to crawl underneath the chassis or reenter the interior. She finished her route, calmed, sat next to her master and waited for her Milk-Bone reward, which he gave her. Judge called over to his other dog, motioned and called to Owen. “All clear.”
Owen arrived alongside them. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Not sure.”
The traffic whizzed by, headlights waxing and waning in their eyes, the inky-blue nighttime sky lost to total darkness. Judge ran a hand over his head and its nonexistent hair. “Maeby sensed, felt, something. Tremors maybe. An explosion somewhere.” He wasn’t totally baffled. It was a nature thing, like when forest animals sensed severe weather somewhere and retreated. He gazed up the highway at the direction they were headed, the road disappearing in the distance. If there had been an explosion, it could have been anywhere out there.
“Whatever she felt, she’s not feeling it now. Let’s run down this motel lead then grab a bite and call it a night.”
Buckled up, Owen scratched Maeby behind the ear as they reentered traffic, getting chummy with her. “At one with the cosmos, are we, Maeby?” He stroked her ears then took an extended pull from his flask. “A couple more slugs of this and I’ll be joining you, sweetie.”
“Put it away, Owen. The Palace Motel, on your right.”
One misaimed floodlight illuminated the “PAL” part of the motel’s roadside sign. They were four miles east of the monastery they’d just left, still on the same highway.
This would be J.D.’s recon this time. His master saddled him up with a full shoulder harness and switched out the ragged black leather leash he lived in for a nylon one. In the back of the van Judge located a plastic bag and removed the tee shirt he’d lifted from Ms. Jordan’s apartment. After a whiff, J.D. got plenty eager.
Maeby sat at attention in the passenger seat. She snorted and whined, wanting to be part of the effort. Her master raised his finger, which she licked. “Enough with the whining, young lady. No.” Her severe face relaxed when he cupped it. “Love you, sweetie.”
They were off, Owen included, so they could speak with the manager. “I’ve got a leash back in the van with your name on it, Owen. Don’t piss me off in here.”
“Nope, don’t recognize her.”
The motel’s night manager was a skinny guy with a black mustache and a soul patch,
and a bad case of adult acne that reached his red neck. He handed the mug shot back to Judge and stared at the dog, keenly apprehensive. J.D. rested on his haunches, apprehensive at him right back.
“So help me God,” the clerk said, “your dog better not take a dump in here.”
Like anyone would notice. It stank in there of TidyCats. “He won’t. Owen, help me out here.”
Owen produced the mug shot he’d colored in, handed it to the clerk.
“That one, I know,” the clerk said. “She called herself Sister Dolorosa. Wore her habit while she was here.” He chuckled. “She was a thief. Sort of.” He keyed some searches into his computer, or what passed for a computer, behind the counter. Small screen, with a thick-as-a-brick keyboard attached at the base, it was an old CPU that reminded Judge of a Radio Shack museum piece.
“A thief? How’s that?” Judge asked.
The clerk found what he was looking for. “She stayed in room three. Then,” more keying, “room seven, then room six. Three stays. Yes, room six was her last. She stole the Bibles in the rooms, according to my brother. He cleans the rooms and remembers shit like that.”
He grabbed for his take-out coffee cup, spat in it and smiled for them, showing licorice-colored teeth. What Judge had thought was a soul patch was tobacco juice dribble. The clerk relocated the juice to his sleeve.
“The last time we had a Bible stolen, my brother’s note says ‘Gideons called,’ so I assume another one is gone. It was the first week of September. Three weeks ago. Room eight. The guest wasn’t a nun this time.”
“You have a name for that guest, too?” Judge asked.
“Maybe. Who are you anyway?” He looked Owen up and down, then J.D, still sitting next to Owen, the dog shorter than him but only by a forehead. The clerk’s interest returned to his interrogator. “You for sure ain’t cops.”
“I’m a bounty hunter. So’s the dog. The cowboy is…”
“I already know him. Chigger Wingert from Chigger Bytes. Great column the other day, dude. Fucking Eagles fans suck.”
A beaming Owen bowed. “Thanks, but if you read the whole column, the Eagles fan tried to save that kid.” Owen nodded in Judge’s direction. “Pulled him out of the fire.”
Some goodwill, finally, for Judge agreeing to the ride-along. “So we’re all caught up then,” Judge said, ignoring the slur. “Great. A name please.”
“Fifty bucks.” He spat more tobacco juice into the cup. “I hate Philly too much.”
Judge wanted to choke this guy. “You want any of this, Owen?”
“Twenty,” Owen said, “and I’ll autograph the mug shot.”
The clerk softened, pocketed the money, and looked up the info. “She was registered as a ‘C. Hammer.’ No phone number, no address. The room’s empty. Wanna see it?”
The four of them checked it out. It was what someone might expect to get for sixty bucks a night. Bed, bureau, small flat-screen TV, toilet, shower-only bath. No mint on the pillow, no shampoo. Judge gave his dog another whiff of the bounty’s tee shirt. Three weeks was long for a scent to remain but J.D. was good with it, padding quickly to a patch of gray indoor-outdoor next to the bed. He clawed at a spot, sat by it. His master moved in closer to check it out, found a slight discoloration. Closer examination showed it to be a few crusty brown spots. Judge’s guess was they were drops of blood.
“Good boy, J.D.” A doggie treat for him. No other hits in the room. One last request for the motel clerk. “Where’s the closest self-storage facility?”
“Next door close enough?”
Judge gave the live-in Alamo Mini-Storage proprietor a name. “Larinda Jordan.”
The storage facility was Vietnam-vet, army-navy chic. American flags, helmets, bayonets, USMC patches, and framed black and white photographs. The crusty proprietor’s residence was on the second floor, above the office. He was now a hundred bucks richer, Judge’s money. Owen had pushed him on the price, looking to again trade on his sportswriter celebrity, but the fifty bucks he offered soon turned into a hundred. The guy had no clue who Owen was, and no patience. He thought he was with the circus.
His arthritic pointer finger checked a database list of customers. “No Larinda Jordan.”
“How about a Sister Dolorosa?”
“If that’s a rock or a rapper group been squattin’ on their spurs because they got no gigs, we do have some of them losers storing their stuff here.”
“No,” Judge said. “It’s a nun.”
“Lick that calf again?”
Owen translated: “He said, are you kidding me?”
“Not kidding, sir. A Carmelite nun, from a nearby monastery.”
He hunted then pecked the keyboard. “No. No ‘Sister Dolorosa.’”
“How about someone named Hammer?”
More arthritic keying. “Ah. Well throw your hat over the windmill, son, we have a winner. ‘C. Hammer.’ Except it seems C. Hammer is about to lose his stuff for non-payment.”
“It’s a she,” Judge said. “What does she owe?”
“Three months.” More hunt-and-peck, this time on an adding machine. “That’s one-ninety-five.”
Owen interceded. “Look, we don’t want to own the shit, we just want to see it.”
Judge stepped hard on Owen’s boot again, enough to make it hurt. “That’s a deal, sir.” He peeled off two hundreds, told the guy to keep the rest. The crusty proprietor took the money and offered his hand in return.
“We’ve howdied but we ain’t shook. Skippy.”
Skippy’s hand was bony, misshapen, but the grip he offered was firm. His eyes drilled Judge’s while they shook hands; he’d figured Judge out. “Tet Offensive,” Skippy added. “Corporal, USMC. You?”
“Judge Drury. Gunnery Sergeant, Iraq and Afghanistan. Nice to meet you, Corporal.”
In front of the storage unit, the dogs and Judge and Owen waited while Skippy fumbled with his keys.
“Whatever’s in here was scheduled to go on the auction block,” Skippy said. He slipped a key into the hanging Master lock. “You best not be letting no yellow jackets in the outhouse on me, me giving you a look-see without no key. I got nowhere else to live.”
“Roger that, Skippy,” Judge told him. “No one needs to know.”
He snapped open the lock, then he checked out Judge’s canine partners before he unhooked it. “Some of these units don’t get aired out much, so keep your guys from marking territory in here please.” He nodded in Owen’s direction. “Tom Thumb included.”
The metal door slid up, drowning out Owen’s protests. Skippy tugged on a hanging chain for an overhead light bulb. “Our eight-by-fifteen unit,” he volunteered. Its contents sat mostly against the back half so there was room in front for them to step inside. But with the dogs in the mix and the three of them inside, it was tight.
First recognizable smell: “Gasoline,” Owen said.
“Dirtier and smellier than gasoline,” said Skippy. “When it smells as bad as a homeless person, it’s diesel.”
Maeby’s leash tightened up quick. She strained, pulled Judge forward, stopped in front of some boxes and sat. She nudged one of them and retreated, waiting to be rewarded. Judge untucked its flaps. In it were jars of Tannerite binary rifle targets. Good for when gun owners wanted things they were shooting at to explode. Nearby was a box of Tovex gel sausages, an alternative to dynamite. Sitting loose on the floor were model rocketry igniters, the wiring stripped at both ends, plus two radio-controlled toy monster trucks, their packaging open. The trucks were there, but the hand controllers for them, a poor man’s, or woman’s, remote detonator, were gone. This did not bode well.
“Gunny,” Skippy offered, “it looks like your bounty’s a full bubble off plumb.”
What else was in there was no less scary. Small jugs of diesel fuel and gasoline. Jug water. Empty Gatorade bottles. Flash 21, a fuel gelling agent. A small CO2 tank. And an empty shipping box labeled “X15” with packing materials discarded in a haphazard pile. Judge
began to feel queasy.
“I recognize that. It’s packaging for a flamethrower,” Skippy said. “Civilian model. Damn.”
Judge had seen civilian flamethrowers before. The farmer he rented a cottage from had one. Fifteen hundred bucks by mail order. They delivered a liquid fire propellant, like napalm, all legal. People used them for clearing brush from their property. Unless they wanted to use them for something else. This made Judge more anxious.
Owen worked his way farther back into the storage unit. He cradled a large shoebox. “Judge, these boxes here…look.”
They threaded their way back. Of interest, two shoeboxes. Owen popped the top on one. No weaponry or bomb-making materials in it. What it did contain were a University of Oklahoma men’s class ring commemorating a 2004 Bachelor of Science degree, an elegant, diamond-encrusted pen, a hairpiece, and jewelry, some men’s, some women’s.
Owen handed Judge the box, retrieved the second one. “Some nice stuff in there. See if there are any…”
“Inscriptions,” Judge said. Names, dates, sentimental words engraved on items that would typically carry them. Mementoes, or in this case more like personal effects. What they were looking at here were a killer’s souvenirs.
Inside the graduation ring band, the inscription carried a name: Zachary Enders. Judge did a search on his phone. Tulsa Journal Sentinel headline, 2004, “University of Oklahoma College Student Missing.” Zachary’s parents would be saddened by the discovery, but they’d be glad for the closure, and the return of a keepsake.
Owen removed a large zip-lock bag from the second shoebox. He held it up to get a better look at the contents. Light from the dim overhead bulb glistened off multiple stainless steel surgical instruments. Judge recognized one item: birthing forceps. They were stained red. On the plastic bag, printed in big black letters: MURDER WEAPONS. His guess was these were also souvenirs, from a surgical procedure his bounty had interrupted.
