by Chris Bauer
Fuck. Judge needed air.
He doubled over outside the storage unit, needing to barf but couldn’t, his mouth losing out to the disease:
“…dripping nipple cock clamper, puke bandit, leghumping smurf wiper, asswad, tit-balls overalls…”
Within earshot, Owen talked to Skippy on Judge’s behalf: “Give him a minute. He’ll be fine.”
The nighttime air and sounds outside the storage unit were fresh, refreshing, welcome. Pumpkins and gourds and overturned earth and mooing cattle. Judge’s mouth finally cooperated. “Call your police chief buddy Frannie, Owen, right…fucking…now.”
“I’m on it, boss.”
Skippy leaned down to get into Judge’s face, draping his arm around his neck: “You feelin’ better, son?”
“Yeah.”
Judge straightened up then placed his hand lightly onto Skippy’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Thank you. Sorry, Corporal, but it looks like we’re gonna need to, ah…”
“I know, Gunny. Some yellow jackets about to swarm the outhouse. As welcome as a screwworm, but we’ll do our part.”
Frannie’s Glenn Heights local cop team plus the Feds plus some bomb guys showed up, and they all got busy. It was nearing ten p.m. Cloudless sky, full moon, stars blazing and a fall chill. Owen and Judge were out of the way, leaning against the van and drinking coffee Skippy had made. Inside the van Maeby and J.D. barked at anything that moved in the moonlight, which right about now was everything that had been inside the storage unit, the teams tagging it and readying it all for transport. Skippy handed the storage unit’s lock to one of Frannie’s guys, told him they should clean up after themselves and lock up when they were done, and went off to bed.
The nail in the coffin that confirmed this as the bounty’s little stash of victims’ keepsakes was the inscription on the Montblanc Pen, “To D.B.: Let them live, and we will help them thrive.”
D.B. Darlington Beckner, the murdered pastor.
“The ‘Let them live’ slogan,” Frannie said, “was part of a regional pro-life campaign that originated here in Texas in the eighties. And about the phone number you wanted me to check out…”
They’d spilled everything to get the police chief up to speed. It was the number their bounty used to text the Carmelites’ Mary Veronica. “Yeah?”
“Prepaid. At best, traceable to a convenience store, or maybe a Walmart. But the Feds did trace the signal. Its last triangulated location was tonight, through a phone tower in Blacksburg, Virginia, just before eight o’clock.”
Last bit of feedback from Frannie: “No guns in this mess, but they found a receipt from a company called TrackingPoint, for an eight-thousand-dollar rifle. Ever hear of precision-guided firearms?”
Judge had. Also called smart rifles. New to the market. Tag the target with a scope, squeeze the trigger, and the onboard computer releases the shot only when conditions were perfect. Some versions were nearly 100% accurate in hitting moving targets up to a mile away. A novice gun owner could suddenly become Chris Kyle, American Sniper.
“Yep,” the chief said. “TrackingPoint is based in Austin. Their guns are available to the public.”
A few members on the investigatory team mouthed off because Judge and his deputies had “ruined some of the fucking evidence” by sorting through the storage unit’s contents. Fine, Judge got it, they screwed up. But he was a bounty hunter on assignment, not a cop, and they had found shit the law enforcement agencies should have found already. Still, for Judge, Mary Veronica’s prediction from their visit to the monastery was the last word: “There will be more.”
SIXTEEN
A buzzer startled Naomi awake. The sound of the alarm, her surroundings, the windows, the ceiling, the room, everything was off.
She sat up, groggy, her mouth cottony. She reoriented herself.
This was not Austin, but rather her first night in her new Georgetown home, in a quaint new community of twenty-eight townhouses, a cloister surrounded by an urban venue. From this point forward she’d spend most of her non-working, non-court time here. Being realistic, she knew a lot of that time would be spent working as well. Regardless, she planned to keep the Austin condo. It was home to her and her kids, and also the last place her husband Reed had called home, with her, which made it home, period.
Out of the shower, she dressed herself in a smart gray skirt suit and white blouse. She wasn’t moved in by a long shot. That would happen later in the week when the rest of her clothing, furniture, and other personal belongings were delivered. The townhome came partially furnished, appointed with a well-equipped kitchen, some geeky electronic gadgetry, and an incredible sound system she’d enjoyed last night while she read briefs in her den.
She grabbed the TV remote, found CNN and put on her earrings. A “BREAKING NEWS” header hijacked the news crawl. She raised the volume as the front doorbell chimed. At six a.m. this would be Edward, punctual to the minute. Except now she was preoccupied by the news story. Her feet stayed planted in front of the TV. “Planned Parenthood bombed last night…Virginia…one confirmed dead.”
An overzealous sort might think this barbaric act could somehow have been directed at the Court. Then again, she’d have been naïve to think that given the fall case docket, it could be ruled out as having nothing to do with it. The doorbell chimed again. She heard Edward project a low but determined voice through the door. “Deputy Trenton, ma’am. Please open up.”
Naomi quickstepped over, her high heels click-clacking the tiled foyer. Another chime, then came a fist pummel. She opened the door. “Edward, I’m so sorry. Have you seen, oh, I guess you have.”
Edward’s gun was drawn, his phone to his ear. He reholstered his weapon, spoke into his phone. “Hugh? Trenton. Never mind. I’m with her now. Thanks.”
The phone back in his pocket, he addressed Naomi, his tone serious. “Madam Justice, we need to talk.”
Larinda was on her knees in prayer, next to the motel room bed. “Thank you, Lord. I am humbled by your blessing.” She’d saved unborn lives last night. Her reward had been a revitalizing overnight rest.
Today she wanted to accomplish three things: change her appearance, acquire new transportation, and since it was Sunday, attend a church service somewhere.
Her newest SUV was history. It could have been easy to eliminate considering its contents, a ready-made munitions dump, but she hadn’t gone that way, even though she’d been tempted. She instead carried everything into her motel room and abandoned the vehicle in the dead of night in a parking lot off a wooded section of town called the Huckleberry Trail. By midnight she was back in her room.
Preference by L’Oreal. Her hair color choice, for today and the rest of this job, was Purest Black. She sat on the bed cross-legged in bra and panties in front of the TV, eating a jelly donut and sipping coffee from the lobby. Her hair, piled slick and glistening atop her head, absorbed the dye. She’d go from blonde to crow black in under thirty minutes. Draped around her neck and shoulders was a white towel in case the dye got away from her, which it did. Light black shadows colored the tops of her ears, darkened her wispy girly sideburns, and spread onto the sunburned nape of her neck beneath stray hair strands. She would buff the shadows out with peroxide after the news segment ended and she finished her donut.
Blacksburg VA Planned Parenthood Office Explodes. One confirmed dead.
CNN, MSNBC, plus we-interrupt-this-program thirty-second news updates on other network stations. Anchors, experts, a few eyewitnesses, and a pissed-off lawyer from the firm on the second floor of the building, all appeared in front of the cameras. Foreign terrorism or domestic? A gas line leak? A lightning strike? Yes, no, neither, both, all, maybe, probably, and some I-don’t-knows. Larinda sipped more coffee, checked the room’s thin local information binder, and found a nearby church with a ten o’clock service.
‘Pure Black.’ Crow-black hair color with a sheen. Like the Montana tribe she remembered from her American History studies, the Crow Nation; ster
eotypical Indian squaws in general. So proud of their straight black hair and their thick, copper-brown skin. Such savages. She could duplicate the hair, but for the time being her skin would need to settle for the reddish-tan tint the tanning session had given it. She’d maybe augment it with another session somewhere later, or a spray tan, to hide her freckles. All this to sell it, to sell her, better. To buy a few seconds of curiosity or hesitation, or misdirection, which could mean the difference between success or failure.
“Authorities are currently analyzing footage from multiple security cameras and taking statements from witnesses.”
Larinda needed to determine her next move.
It was Sunday. Unfortunately this one would not be a day of rest.
Back to the binder, to check for rental car information. Enterprise Rent-A-Car: “We’ll pick you up.” She left a message, soon received a return call confirming she’d be good to go shortly.
This work had always made her a chameleon. Fake IDs, stolen credit card info, all of it the courtesy of unwary senior citizen contributors to a certain Texas ministry run by Reverend Higby Hunt, her spiritual advisor and her connection to The Faithful. “Use them for God’s work only, and only when we assign it,” the reverend had directed her. A self-prescribed mission to D.C.? Once they saw the outcome, they’d be good with it.
Rental car delivery was scheduled for nine a.m. The church service was at nearby Christiansburg Presbyterian. She opened an end table drawer, lifted out the Bible. After she showered she would spend some time with it. After that, she’d toss it into her gym bag.
The anchor on the TV screen cut into her thoughts, “Blacksburg Planned Parenthood explosion now labeled a terrorist act. Homeland Security, the FBI…”
She decided there was time only for one more clinic. The unborn babies scheduled to die there, whichever clinic she picked, would live at least one more day. She’d pray that their stay of execution, and the spectacle that provided it, would give their mothers the impetus to change their minds.
Larinda was not a terrorist. She was a crusader.
Roanoke was next up on her list, but it was less than an hour away. Too close to Blacksburg. That left Falls Church. Four hours away per her GPS. The last clinic in Virginia before she entered D.C.
SEVENTEEN
J.D.’s low growl awakened his master, this after a decent night’s rest on Owen’s surprisingly comfortable couch with Maeby across his ankles and J.D. on the floor. Sunlight blasted through the uncovered sliding glass doors. Out back of the house, with the sun just over the horizon, Owen’s appliance and vehicle graveyard looked like a mini city skyline at dawn. Judge’s fingers rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Next to the couch at the opposite end, his German Shepherd focused on the view into the backyard. “Grrr.”
In front of the uneven skyline on the other side of the sliding glass door stood Señor Quixote, all eighteen hundred gray pounds of him.
A staring contest. Señor Q’s bull tail wagged, Judge’s German Shepherd partner’s didn’t. Separating them from the bull, his massive head and his horns, Judge’s sleep-addled brain told him, was a flimsy sliding screen door. The danger jolted the grogginess out of him. He lifted himself onto an elbow. Maeby didn’t move.
“Owen,” Judge called, weakly. It came out evenly, he thought, like he was about to pour Owen some tea, not soil his pants.
From behind them, Owen answered. “Yeah?” Owen’s fingers tapped a keyboard. “I’m finishing a column,” he said and continued keying. “Relax. Q does this all the time, gets this close then backs off. Too cluttered for him in here to make a move, and he knows it. He sees you and your dogs. He’s curious is all.”
Judge didn’t buy it. Less than fifteen feet away were some big, pointy horns. All those running-with-the-bulls videos in narrow alleys, with gored bodies, flailing arms and legs, and cluttered streets that didn’t seem to slow the bulls down…Owen needed to call his rancher neighbor now, or better yet, the National Guard. Judge’s Glock was under a couch pillow. He removed it, slowly, wondering how much damage the gun could do to that big, ugly head. He slowly swung his feet onto the floor, raised himself to a sitting position and rested the gun in his lap. Maeby hopped off the couch and joined J.D. in his growl. “Stay,” Judge told them, and they did. Smart dogs, considering this was an animal with a whole lotta I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-your-gun-or-your-dogs attitude. They watched the bull, and he watched them. Owen keyed his column.
A black blur that was Bruce the cat sprang from a patio picnic table onto Señor Q’s head, pushed off from his nose and bolted toward the rear of the cluttered yard. Q snorted like a cartoon Toro, did an about-face and stormed after him in a cloud of dust.
Fifteen minutes later, Owen ambled toward the bull’s breached post and rail fence dressed in his coveralls, the bull gone. Judge and his deputies watched from the family room. Owen tossed aside the splintered rails, found three tapered replacements in a weedy pile of gray ranch lumber on his side of the fence. He lifted each end and shoved them inside the empty post rungs. Except for the snapped electrified wires, the fence was repaired. Back inside, he made the call to his neighbor.
They were finishing their breakfasts at a booth inside the Jack-in-the-Box restaurant near Owen’s house, the dogs still catching up on sleep in the van. Judge sipped his coffee and depressed buttons on his phone, calling his Iraqi War bud at his home in Allentown. Owen continued to tap away on his laptop in between taking bites from his jumbo fast-food breakfast platter.
“LeVander. Good morning.”
“’Sup, Judge? I’m eating breakfast.”
…nigger nigger suck my trigger…
A jumbled thought, the tic-like reflex almost escaping his mouth. Judge unclipped his rabbit’s foot from his belt, put it on the table. All better.
The furry foot took Owen away from his column. “That thing is offensive, Judge.”
Judge still listened at his phone, ignored him.
“You know how filthy those things are?” Owen added. “And you put it next to your food?”
Judge’s facial expression said Really, dude, I’m hearing this from you? Someone with a toxic waste dump for a backyard? He covered the ‘offensive’ thing with his hand, which did his anxiety good. Soft bunny, cute bunny…
He turned his back to Owen, told LeVander why he called. “Larinda Jordan. She’s got some issues.”
LeVander snorted through a laugh, choked on his coffee. “Ya think? You’re killing me, Judge. What bail jumper doesn’t?”
“It’s more serious than that. You see the news yet? The Planned Parenthood bombing?”
“I was at church. No.”
Judge filled him in regarding place, time, impact, and national coverage, then reeled off what they’d found in the Fort Worth storage locker: victim souvenirs, bomb making materials, and fuels for said bombs. He finished with “Plus a few motel Bibles, and something else, something odd. Aside from the Bibles, one other book. On Native American religions.”
Owen hocked up a huge hunk of hash brown on overhearing that bit of info. He grabbed for his carton of OJ and gulped through the blockage. Judge ignored his distress.
“That sounds off, Judge,” LeVander said. “American Indians don’t consider their beliefs religion. They call it spirituality. As in being one with nature.”
“Fine, I misspoke, but the bounty is interested in it, whatever it is, and for whatever reason.”
Owen butted in. “You didn’t tell me about no book, dude. Let me see it.”
“Hold on, LeVander, my Cowboy fan buddy here seems to have recovered from his perpetual hangover and is now being rude.” Judge lowered the phone. “Owen, there is no book.”
“You just said…”
“I don’t have it. The cops took it,” which was true. “Evidence.” This shut him up, but Judge saw the gears spinning in Owen’s head.
Back to LeVander. “The Feds are looking to connect our bounty to the bombing. I’m heading back east today. I’
ll make Blacksburg, Virginia, where that clinic blew up, a stop.”
“Fine,” LeVander said. “But just so you know, there’s no combat pay for this. What’s on the books for the drug charge is it, Judge. No other bounty money.”
True, Judge was sure, and validation that LeVander continued to be one cheap-ass businessman. Which was why he still had most of the money he’d earned. “Well then, having re-thought this, LeVander, I’m deciding this one is above my pay grade. The locals and the Feds are involved now. So, sorry, but I’m bowing out.”
“Judge, don’t be like this.”
“See you when I get home, sport. Adios.”
Judge tossed the phone onto the table. A stare outside the restaurant window seemed in order. Typical LeVander. Cheap bastard. Screw him. Judge was finished chasing his bounty. He re-secured the rabbit’s foot and was ready to leave. Owen punched keys on his laptop, flipped it around, put the screen in front of Judge on the table. “Is this the book on Native American religion you saw?” he asked.
It wasn’t. “How about this one?” No. “This one?” No.
“This?”
By Jove…“That’s it.” American Hero-Myths. A Study in the Native Religions of the Western Continent.
“The E-book version is free today on Amazon. And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he waved his hand over his phone like a magician over a top hat, then he pushed a button. “Presto, it’s in my phone reading library.”
“Happy for you, Owen,” Judge said, still irritated with LeVander.
He decided now was when he should call Geenie. He’d promised to tell her when he started on the trip back. His phone to his ear, he laid things out for Owen, waiting for Geenie to pick up. “This thing’s run its course. Where do you want me to drop you off, the bus? A train station?”
