Divine Rebel

by Tom Wallace

  “Angel, when I told you I would like to have your eyes and ears here with me, I neglected to mention your brain. For that I apologize. You are correct. My focus has been too short-sighted.”

  I picked up my phone, rang Jimmy Martin’s number, and waited for him to answer. It didn’t take but a few seconds. It was obvious from the ambient sounds that he was in the car and on his way back to the office.

  “You have a change of heart, Nick?” Jimmy said. “You guys gonna come in and file a report?”

  “Maybe later this evening,” I lied. “No, the reason for my call is to ask a question about Luke Felton.”

  “Goddammit, Nick, can’t you leave all this shit alone?” A pause, then, “What do you want to know about Luke?”

  “He had two kids, right?”

  “Yeah. Jeff and Aaron.”

  “Do they live around here?”

  “Aaron does…he has a house in Powderly. Jeff lives in Wyoming or Arizona, one of those Western states. I’m not sure which.”

  “Where does Aaron work?”

  “He doesn’t; he’s on full disability. Some accident at his old job crippled him up pretty bad. His wife, Naomi, works in the lunch room at one of the middle schools.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy, you’ve been a big help,” I said.

  I ended the call before he could pose more questions or toss in additional commentary. Then I opened my laptop and began a search for Aaron Felton’s address. It took a solid fifteen minutes before I came across his address and a phone number. And I only succeeded because Naomi Felton was on Facebook.

  “Come on, Angel,” I said, closing the laptop. “We’ll take a pass on Mike’s invitation, get a bite to eat, then go pay a visit to Aaron Felton and see if he can enlighten us about his late father.”

  ~ * ~

  Aaron Felton lived in a small but well-maintained brick house located several yards off U.S. 62 in Powderly, the halfway point between Central City and Greenville. The front yard was neat, highlighted by a lovely rose bush, and on the porch there was a swing and two metal chairs. A two-car garage was to the right of the house. Inside was a blue late-model Ford Fiesta.

  It was a much better house than I expected from a man too disabled to work and a wife who probably didn’t earn much money working in a school lunch room. Maybe Aaron had received a settlement for his injury, or it could be he filed suit against the Brown family and was awarded some remuneration for his father’s death. The nice house, the two-car garage…the Feltons weren’t starving.

  Angel and I walked onto the porch and I knocked on the door. It took a few minutes before sounds could be heard coming from inside the house. Someone, Aaron I presumed, was moving slowly toward the front. He fiddled with a couple of locks, and then opened the door.

  Aaron Felton was a virtual carbon copy of his father. He was shorter than Luke, maybe a little heavier, but in the face he was practically a dead ringer. When he spoke, if I closed my eyes and listened, I would swear it was Luke Felton’s voice I was hearing. It was a true flashback moment.

  “What can I do for the two of you?” Aaron said, his eyes darting between Angel and me.

  “Aaron, this is my daughter Samantha,” I said. “My name is—”

  “I know who you are…Nick something or other. You’re the writer working on a book about that damn drug-addicted kid who murdered my father. Your goal is to save his sorry ass, isn’t it? What the hell do you want with me?”

  “You’re wrong, Aaron. Saving Todd is not why I’m here. Anyway, how can I save someone who is already behind bars? No, I’m only looking for the truth. You may not be aware of this, but I knew your father. When I was a kid, he often came to watch our baseball games. I also ran into him at the pool room. He was always a good guy around me. I am not against your father, Aaron, I’m for finding out what really happened.”

  “What you’re doing is dodging the truth. The Brown kid is guilty as sin. He admitted to murdering my father.”

  “I understand that, Aaron. But I’m not as convinced as you are. There are too many pieces that don’t fit into the puzzle for me to accept the tale being told.”

  “Such as?”

  “What possible reason would your dad, who was almost seventy, have for being with a kid not yet twenty that late at night? That’s the one question that haunts me the most.”

  “I have to admit that’s always bothered me as well,” Aaron said. “And I gotta be honest with you, I’ve never been able to come up with a good answer. I know what some people say, that Dad was either selling drugs to the kid, or he was gay and it was a sexual encounter gone wrong. That is nothing but horseshit. Dad didn’t sell drugs and he wasn’t gay.”

  “Can we come inside and discuss this, Aaron?” I inquired.

  “I don’t reckon it would do any harm.” He pushed the door open. “Come on it. It ain’t much, but it’s a palace to us.”

  Angel and I followed Aaron down a short hallway and into the living room. Aaron walked with a decided limp…his left leg appeared to be shorter than the right leg…and he grimaced with every step he took. Whatever his injury, it wasn’t minor. Seeing the pain he was in, I could understand why employment was obviously out of the question.

  Aaron pointed to the couch and motioned for us to take a seat. He sat in a leather recliner and wasted no time kicking back and stretching his legs. Once again, he grimaced when he did this. Even comfort for him wasn’t without pain.

  “How did you injure your leg?” I said.

  “Working construction. Big slab of concrete fell and crushed it all to hell. Damn lucky I didn’t lose it, although if they had chopped it off I wouldn’t always hurt so much.” He grimaced once more and massaged his damaged leg. “But who cares about me being hurt? Let’s get back to the real subject, talking about Dad. Do you really believe the Brown kid is innocent?”

  “No, I’m not willing to go that far, but certain aspects of the case don’t ring true for me. Like your dad being with Todd that night. Until I get some satisfactory answers, I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “But the kid confessed. In my opinion, that’s the final answer.”

  “That’s not entirely accurate, Mr. Felton,” Angel corrected. “We watched the tape of Todd being interrogated by Sheriff Jackson and we were troubled by what we saw. Todd couldn’t remember anything about what happened that night, so Jackson remembered for him. He filled in all the missing blanks, informing Todd what happened. Jackson dictated, Todd agreed. It was less like an interview and more like follow-the-bouncing-ball.”

  “Couldn’t remember?” Aaron scoffed. “Am I supposed to believe that? Who forgets killing another human being?”

  “We think Todd was drugged earlier that night while he was at the American Legion. That’s why he can’t remember.”

  “I’ve never heard that theory.”

  I said, “Where did your father live at the time of his death?”

  “He owned a house in Greenville.”

  “Do you own it now?”

  “No, Jeff and I sold it several months after Dad’s death. Jeff is my older brother. There was no reason to keep the house, and we both needed the money. Why the interest in Dad’s house?”

  “What about his personal items? Keep any of those?”

  “Yeah, a few,” Aaron said. “Which ones are you referring to?”

  “Did you find any papers when you went through his things? Notebooks, ledgers, documents, bills, personal letters? Things like that?”

  “There are three boxes of his stuff in the second bedroom.”

  “Have you sorted through them?”

  “They haven’t been touched since I brought them home.”

  “Would you object to us giving them a quick look?” I asked.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Anything that might be relevant to the case.”

  “If you think it might do some good, then I have no objection.” He lowered his legs and slowly got out of the chair, once again grimaci
ng with each movement. “Follow me. It’s down this hallway to the left.”

  The three boxes were lying side by side in a corner between a bed and the wall. They were medium-size boxes but they were filled to the top by a mountain of papers. This wasn’t going to be a quick project, I realized. Digging through the papers was bound to take some time.

  “Would you be open to allowing us to borrow the boxes for a couple of days?” I asked Aaron. “We’re staying at the Best Western in Central City. We can study the contents there. I’ll return the boxes within twenty-four hours.”

  “No, I think it would be better if the boxes stayed here,” Aaron responded. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that, well, you know, those things belonged to Dad, and I don’t want to risk losing any of it. I’m sure you can understand where I’m coming from. It’s important to me.”

  So important you haven’t bothered to look through any of the contents.

  “Sure, I understand,” I said. “Do you mind if we rummage through the boxes for a few minutes?”

  “Not at all. Take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

  That didn’t turn out to be true. Aaron excused himself a minute later, saying his leg was throbbing, which necessitated taking a couple of Aleve for the pain, then getting back into his recliner and stretching out. He limped away, the pain written on his tortured face and in his body language.

  ~ * ~

  An hour later, after rushing through the contents in the first box, I had come up with nothing even remotely interesting. Most of what I found was receipts for old bills Luke had paid, past tax information, personal letters, or commendations he’d received while he was in law enforcement. There were also dozens of photographs he had taken over the years, some of which were attached to newspaper articles that included the original photo. Luke was an excellent shutterbug, but unfortunately for us, his photography skills were of no help.

  “Here, Dad, take a look at this,” Angel said, handing me a single piece of paper. “I think this might be important.”

  “What is it?” I asked, taking the paper from her.

  “Luke’s final phone bill. Check out the date on those last three calls. Wasn’t that the day he was murdered?”

  I looked at the date. It corresponded to the last day Luke was alive, although the actual time of his murder could have been that day, or early the following morning. That particular fact had never been made clear to me.

  Luke’s final call, which he made at four-ten, was to a number in Jackson, Wyoming. That was obviously a call to his son, Jeff. However, the two earlier calls, one he made and one he received, spaced out about ninety minutes apart, captured my attention.

  Especially the second call, the one he received. I recognized the number. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through the call list to verify that I wasn’t mistaken. I wasn’t.

  “That twelve forty-five call was from Perry Jackson,” I said to Angel.

  “Are you positive? Maybe it’s the sheriff’s office. The call could have come from McElwain.”

  “Anne Bishop gave me Perry’s cell phone number when we were at Philly’s. I already had the number to his office.”

  “Perry Jackson calling Luke on the day he was murdered? That sounds more than a little suspicious to me.”

  “Let’s refrain from immediately jumping to any conclusions,” I warned. “It might have been a friendly call. Don’t forget, Luke and Perry worked together. Maybe Perry just wanted to chat with his old boss.”

  “Yeah, and I just want to chat with Ryan Gosling. What are the chances?”

  “The more important question for me is who Luke called at eleven-fifteen. That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Well, why don’t we find out?” Angel picked up her phone, snatched the piece of paper from me, typed the number, and waited. Then: “Yes, is Lana there?...Isn’t this the Del Rey residence?” At that moment, Angel’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped to her chest. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. Silly me, I’ve dialed the wrong number. I’m such a klutz.”

  She ended the call, stuffed her phone into her purse, and stared at me.

  “You going to sit there like a dummy or tell me what it is that has you so jazzed?” I said.

  “You’ll never guess who I just spoke with.”

  “You’re right, so why don’t you save me from the guessing game and solve the mystery for me?”

  “Dottie Barker, who, I’m assuming, is Russell’s wife.”

  “Like you said, why don’t we find out?” I picked up my phone and called Anne Bishop’s number. When she answered, I said, “Anne, what is Russell Barker’s wife’s name? Thanks, that’s all I needed to know.”

  I ended the call before she could cross examine me.

  “Did I assume correctly?” Angel asked.

  Nodding, I folded the paper listing the phone calls in question and tucked it into my pants pocket. Technically, I was committing the crime of larceny, or more accurately, theft of private property. But I wasn’t too concerned about it, either from a legal or a moral perspective. This was information that might prove useful, and I wasn’t leaving Aaron Felton’s house without it. I would seek penance at a later time.

  “Come on, Angel,” I said, standing. “We need to get moving.”

  “Where to?”

  “First, we make a quick stop at McDonald’s to use the rest room and to get something to drink. Then we proceed to the American Legion, park close but not close enough to be seen, and then we wait until a certain individual named Rodney Adcock shows up.”

  “Who is Rodney Adcock?”

  “The elusive Rabbit.”

  Twenty-one

  We drove straight from McDonald’s to the American Legion and parked in a spot that provided us with a dead-on view of the front door. We had been there for an hour, and during that time several members had come and gone. There was plenty of activity going on inside the Legion, but as of now no sign of Rabbit.

  “This is my first stakeout, Dad,” Angel said, finishing off her soft drink. “And I have to tell you, it lacks excitement. Do you think this is what a real stakeout is like?”

  “Are you bored?”

  “To death.”

  “Then, yes, this is exactly like a real stakeout.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When I was working on a script for a cop movie, I spent three nights riding around with a couple of real Los Angeles detectives. On one of those nights, we kept watch on an apartment complex while waiting for a suspect in an armed robbery to show up. We sat there all night and never laid eyes on the guy. Yeah, it was boring.”

  “That settles it for me. I’ll never be a cop.”

  “With your observation skills and insights, you would make a good one,” I said, adding, “not that I want you to choose that as a career path. By the way, I really admired your Lana Del Rey reference. Kind of a risky thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  “Right, like there was any chance Dottie Barker has a clue who Lana Del Rey is. To be honest, I’m surprised you do.”

  “Hey, I might be an old dude, but I’m hip.”

  “Why do you think Luke phoned Russell Barker?” Angel asked, changing the subject.

  “Good question.”

  “Then less than two hours later Luke gets a call from Perry Jackson. I would pay a million dollars to know what those conversations were about. They all had to be connected.”

  “That would be good to know.”

  “Is it possible Russell ordered Jackson to call Luke?”

  “I’d say it’s more than possible.”

  We were silent for the next few minutes. It was completely dark by then, but the front of the American Legion building and the adjoining parking area was well-lighted. The good lighting made it easy for us to see the people coming and going. Although it was not yet nine o’clock, a good crowd had already gathered inside the big Legion hall.

  My first glimpse of Rabbit took me by surprise. He wasn’t going int
o the Legion, as I had anticipated, he was coming out. Apparently, he had arrived before Angel and I began our stakeout, had concluded his drinking, and was heading home. His earlier-than-usual exit caused me to wonder if he was leaving for fear that I might show up and ask him a few tough questions. I didn’t doubt for a second that he knew I had been there on two previous occasions. Chet, the unfriendly bartender, had surely given Rabbit the heads-up.

  What Chet said or didn’t say hardly mattered at this moment. Rabbit was in my sights, and I wasn’t going to let him slip away. As the great Joe Louis once said: “He can run but he can’t hide.”

  “That little pipsqueak, that’s Rabbit?” Angel said, breaking the silence.

  “You think he’s small now, you should’ve seen him in high school. He’s a monster compared to then.”

  Monster was a slight exaggeration, I must admit, but not totally inaccurate. Rabbit was several inches taller and a few pounds heavier than the kid I had grown up with. Back then he was really small, maybe five-four, tops. I recall he had brown hair, a sickle-shaped scar over his left eye, a slightly off-center nose, a small mouth, and a ruddy complexion. Except for the height and weight difference, I doubt much else had changed over the years. There was only one thing even remotely memorable about the guy…his eyes. They were constantly moving, wary, on the alert for possible danger.

  Rabbit had always been paranoid about everything and everybody. He truly believed evil forces, dangerous men, or law enforcement personnel were forever tailing him, watching his every move, zeroing in on him, the target in their cross hairs. Because of his ever-present fear, and perhaps due to his small stature, Rabbit was a scrapper. He never backed down from a fight, and thanks to his hair-trigger temper, he usually threw the first punch.

  Rabbit walked briskly toward the parking area, his head constantly turning, first left, then right, those eyes scanning the darkness for danger. For him, every shadow was a potential hiding place where one of those evil villains was preparing to spring out and attack with deadly vengeance. What Rabbit couldn’t know or possibly suspect was that an attack was imminent. But it wouldn’t come from a villain or with a deadly vengeance.