by Gregory Ashe
The two big trucks sat there, rumbling, the dust swirling in their exhaust. Both doors opened on the patrol car, and Hoffmeister and Lloyd got out, tall and thin, short and stout, looking like they were both wearing the same size uniform—which didn’t fit either of them.
“Both of them are approaching?” Somers said. “Both of them? Like they’ve never had any training at all?”
“Royal asshats,” Dulac said. His hand was on his gun.
Hoffmeister was shouting something, waving his arms, but the words were lost in the distance and the noise from the trucks. Lloyd had both hands on his hips like he’d caught teenagers with beer.
For Hazard, more lights were going on, and parts of his brain that had been dormant for months whirred to life. His attention moved to the rows of trailers around them. That one, four units down the side street. If he swung the minivan around hard, he could block the opening at the front of the lot and take advantage of the fortifications—trash barrels, a white Monte Carlo with huge patches of peeling paint, sheets of corrugated metal studded with nails. And if somebody was inside the trailer? A shotgun with twelve-gauge shot? The cool rush of logic almost made Hazard smile. Simple: create a perimeter, clear the trailer, hole up until help could arrive.
Shouts drew his attention back to Hoffmeister and Lloyd. The two uniformed officers were hammering on the trucks’ windows, and even though Hazard couldn’t make out the words, he could tell by the tone of their voices that they were losing whatever shreds of control they had started with.
“Jesus, it’s like they want to start shit,” Dulac said. “Who are these morons?”
Hazard opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” Somers said.
With a shrug, Hazard shut his mouth.
Then, so quickly and so closely timed that it must have been coordinated, the first truck’s engine roared, followed by the second. Hoffmeister and Lloyd both startled, stepping back. Then the first truck launched forward, the second truck mirroring the movement. All told, they probably traveled less than six inches.
But they covered those six inches fast. And the roar of the engines, combined with the sudden movement, sent Hoffmeister and Lloyd scurrying backward. Panic marked their faces, and Hazard knew that things had gone to a new level. The uniformed officers had been startled and scared and embarrassed by a couple of Ozark Volunteer thugs. Hoffmeister and Lloyd would have to get payback now. Maybe a hundred speeding tickets over the next three years. Maybe somebody would take a wrecking bar to those trucks one night, and the case would never be solved. Maybe the two assholes would get drunk and go to the wrong bar and pick a fight.
Then, everything got worse. Both officers went down: first Hoffmeister, his lanky form seeming to get tangled up in itself, and then Lloyd as his partner crashed into him. They rolled across gravel and dirt, coming up together a moment later. Surprise and panic had overridden everything else. They scrambled toward the car.
Somers was squinting. “Did Lloyd—”
“I think so,” Hazard said.
“Oh, yeah,” Dulac said. “He definitely pissed himself.”
“Shit,” Somers said. “Shit, this is going to be bad.”
“When those two assholes remember they’ve got guns and badges?” Dulac shook his head. “It’s going to be fucking World War III for those guys.”
Maybe the Ozark Volunteers realized it. Maybe they’d just had their fun. By the time Lloyd and Hoffmeister had gotten into the patrol car, the trucks were zipping away, disappearing into the warren of streets inside Paradise Valley. Lloyd and Hoffmeister took off after them, sirens blaring.
“Jesus, those fucking morons,” Somers swore, hammering on the dash. “Dulac, call it in. Tell Cravens those assholes need backup. Ree, let’s get the hell out of here before—”
A knock on the glass made Hazard start. He glanced over and was surprised to see an old man with a grand total of three teeth grinning at him. The man rolled his finger, and after a moment, Hazard buzzed the window down.
“Straight ahead,” the guy said. “Blue one, right up there. He’ll talk at you now.”
Hazard buzzed the window back up, and the old man trundled up a path that ran behind a row of trailers, disappearing within moments.
“Fuck me,” Hazard said. “How many more of them are hiding around here?”
“I don’t want to find out,” Dulac said, holding his phone to his ear. “Turn around.”
Hazard shook his head; if the Ozark Volunteers had wanted them dead, they’d had their chance. That old man could have blown off Hazard’s head while Hazard was distracted by the performance happening behind them. Or they could have turned this stretch of road into a shooting gallery. Or they could have activated an IED while the cars were stopped.
“Stupid,” Hazard muttered as he shifted the van into gear and started forward. “It took me three months to become a stupid fucking moron.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Somers said, squeezing his arm. “You were stupid lots of times when you were police.” And then he offered a brilliant smile.
Hazard shook him off and tried to ignore Dulac’s laugh.
When they pulled up in front of the blue trailer, Hazard left the engine running. He studied the lot: a series of plastic windmills, sparkling in the November sun as the breeze made them whirl; a basket of mums on the sagging porch, the blossoms dead and shriveled; the white flag with the rising sun: Bright Lights.
As Somers reached for the seat belt buckle, Hazard shook his head.
“Yes,” Somers said.
“They said just me.”
“Well, they also almost ran over two police and scared the shit out of us, just for fun.”
“If you go in, they know we’re scared.”
“Fine. But if you get killed, I’m going to murder you.”
Hazard slid out of the minivan, leaving the engine running in case they had to leave quickly. Not that it would make much difference; in a place like this, if they didn’t want you to leave, you weren’t going to leave. Not without a lot of bullets.
He was halfway to the trailer when he heard steps.
Somers was five feet behind him. He was keeping watch on both sides, his gaze moving steadily, missing nothing. When he met Hazard’s eyes for an instant, he said, “I changed my mind.”
Hazard took the steps up to the sagging porch, trying to control a growl that was building inside him.
“You’re making a noise,” Somers said as he joined Hazard.
“Shut up.” Hazard knocked.
“I just thought you’d like to know.”
Hazard shook his head, trying to listen for movement inside.
“It’s cute. Kind of like a kitten learning how to purr.”
“John, for the love of Christ—”
The trailer door swung open. The man who stood there was tall, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair in a conservative part. He wore a forest-green dress shirt, pleated khakis, and penny loafers.
“Hi, guys. Bob Sackeman.” He held out a hand. “Emery Hazard, right? And you must be John-Henry. Nice to meet you, nice to meet you. You want to come inside? Or we can sit out here. Beautiful day.”
Microseconds. Hazard’s brain was calculating, processing. This guy didn’t have a beer gut. This guy didn’t have snake tattoos on his neck. This guy didn’t have a beard down to his solar plexus. This guy looked like he built model airplanes and worked as an actuary, like he got all his kicks from mortality tables and morbidity rates and maybe, when he got really wild, changing all the fonts to Arial instead of Times.
“Inside is fine,” Somers said.
Sackeman led them into the trailer. It was nice. Very nice. Fresh white paint, slate blue curtains, a mixture of modern furnishings that were nice without being out of place in a mobile home. Sackeman pointed to a sofa and said, “Let me get drinks. I’m sorry, John-Henry; I didn’t pick up Bud Light for you. We thought only Emery was comin
g.”
“That’s ok,” Somers said. “We’re a package deal.”
Smiling, Sackeman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back with three beers. Guinness. Then he sat in one of the chairs, at an angle, all of them facing the TV. Like they were here to watch the game.
“Got any chips?” Somers said, cracking open his Guinness. “Maybe some dip?”
Hazard didn’t know whether it pissed him off more that Somers had been thinking the same thing or that he’d beaten Hazard to the joke.
Sackeman just offered the same bemused smile. It was a hobbyist’s smile, Hazard thought. A lot of patience. Like he got the decals wrong on his 1944 Hellcat and, hey, no big deal, because he was still having a great time.
“Emery, thank you so much for coming. I want to tell you—”
“Where’s Naomi?”
“Who?”
“Naomi Malsho, you dumb fuck.”
Somers groaned. Quietly.
“You know,” Hazard said. “Your boss. De facto leader of the Ozark Volunteers. Recently elected mayor, on a shortened term, of Wahredua. Oh, she’s also a first-class cunt. Maybe that’s how you know her.”
Nothing from Sackeman except that same smile. “Whoops,” he said. “We’ve had a big misunderstanding.”
“Whoops,” Somers said.
“Whoops,” Hazard said.
“Mayor Malsho was kind enough to arrange this meeting, but I can assure you, that’s the extent of her involvement.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. She has no affiliation with Bright Lights. And I can also assure you that Bright Lights has no connection to the Ozark Volunteers.”
“What the fuck,” Hazard said, “is Bright Lights?”
Another soft groan from Somers.
“We’re an organization interested in protecting and promoting the American way of life.”
Hazard suddenly felt tired; he could feel the bullshit coming in like a tsunami. “You’re the Ozark Volunteers reboot. Or the Ozark Volunteers lite. Which is it?”
“You don’t understand. We have no connection to the Ozark Volunteers. We’re an independent organization.”
“What is the American way of life?”
“I think we’re getting off track,” Somers said.
Hazard brushed the comment away, his gaze fixed on Sackeman.
“The American way of life,” Sackeman said, with his model airplane smile, “embraces the intellectual and philosophical traditions that shaped the Western world. The same traditions that made America great.”
“For example?”
“Let’s talk about Jim Fabbri,” Somers said.
Hazard’s hand sliced through the air; his gaze remained on Sackeman.
“For example,” Sackeman said, “English common law, Stoicism, Neoplatonism.”
“Go on.”
“The Judeo-Christian tradition, of course.”
“Ah,” Hazard said. “There it is.”
“Emery, you’ve got to understand that we’re not lunatics. We’re not fanatics. People from all lifestyles and sexual orientations are welcome in Bright Lights.”
“Fantastic.”
“Great,” Somers said. “Great, we got that out of the way. Now, before we forget why we came here—”
“What about races?” Hazard asked.
Sackeman blinked. The model airplane slipped an inch. A decal slightly off center. “I’m sorry?”
“You mentioned lifestyles and sexual orientation. So, you don’t hate fags. Great. What about race?”
“Listen,” Somers said, “now isn’t the time to—”
“What about other religions?”
“Emery,” Sackeman said, “I don’t like your tone. And I don’t like your insinuations.”
“Fuck what you like. Answer the question.”
“John-Henry is right: we don’t need to talk about this right now. We need to discuss the Fabbri murder and the unjust persecution of—”
“Answer my goddamn question.”
“Jesus Christ,” Somers whispered.
Sackeman straightened, his smile coming unglued. He suddenly looked a hell of a lot more like an actuary, and one with his tail in a knot. “Did you know that, genetically speaking, people from Africa or with African ancestry are actually biologically inclined to violence? It’s right there; it’s science. You can look at the genetic code, look at the alleles that program our biochemistry, and you can see it. And if you look at Ashkenazi Jews, they’re actually pre-programmed for clannish, anti-social behavior.” A hint of the peel-away smile came back. “Kind of like wild dogs. Did you know that?”
“There it is,” Hazard said. “There it fucking is.”
“And a recent study on Persian brain structure shows—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Hazard said, “or I’ll kill you.”
Sackeman stiffened in his seat, his face screwed up. “That’s a perfect example of police—”
“I’m not police. Not anymore. If you talk again the way I just heard, when I’m around, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand me?”
“You can’t say something like that. You can’t.” Sackeman swiveled toward Somers. “You’re a police officer. You can’t sit here and let him say things like that to me.”
Somers pointed a finger at himself. “Me? Oh, sorry.” His finger shifted, and he tapped his temple. “I was replaying an episode of Family Ties. Michael J. Fox. What a hunk, right?”
“I’m not going to—”
“You brought me here for a reason,” Hazard said. “Let’s hear it.”
Sackeman was trying desperately to pick up the pieces of his plan. “Conservative white men are being systematically discriminated against in this county. I want it to stop.”
Hazard took a deep breath. “You’re joking.”
“I’m perfectly serious. Loyal, hard-working Americans are being persecuted by minority factions. The Wahredua police’s baseless harassment of white men following the Fabbri murder is just the most recent example. The militarization of police is escalating; the shock tactics designed to oppress the white citizens of Wahredua are growing more brazen.”
At the phrase militarization of police, all Hazard could think of was Hoffmeister and Lloyd, flat on their asses because they got scared by a truck.
“Bright Lights is a vehicle for social and civic change.” Sackeman was just getting started, his tone shifting into speech mode. “The election of Mayor Malsho proves that the tide is shifting, and loyal, traditional Americans are determined to take back their country and—”
“That’s enough,” Hazard said. He didn’t bother shouting this time. He didn’t raise his voice. He had learned a long time ago that people responded shockingly well when Hazard let his voice drop and shed all affect.
Sackeman swallowed. Maybe he had one of those little plastic Hellcat wings stuck in his throat.
“You’re telling me an Ozark Volunteer didn’t kill Jim Fabbri.”
“We have no association with the Ozark Volunteers.”
“I heard you the first time. And I’m not stupid.”
Somers made a noise that sounded like a question; Hazard ignored him.
“If that’s all,” Hazard said, shifting to stand.
“No,” Sackeman said. “Hold on just a second. You can get angry if you like. You can shout. I don’t expect you to agree with us; you’ve clearly staked your position in the war.”
“The war?” Somers said.
“But you don’t have to like us.” Sackeman drew out a checkbook. “I’d like to hire you to find whoever killed that professor. I’ll be happy to write a retainer for whatever you think is fair. Shall we say, ten thousand dollars?”
Hazard felt his jaw unhinge, and he had to fight to keep his expression fixed. “You think I’m going to work for you?”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to help you shift police at
tention away from the Ozark Volunteers.”
“We are not the Volunteers,” Sackeman said, slapping the checkbook against the coffee table. “What don’t you understand about that? And I’m not asking you to shift police attention or cover anything up. We’re hiring you to find the killer because we’re confident that the killer was one of the minority elite secretly controlling our town and county.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Hazard said, getting to his feet. “Tell Naomi she can try all the shell games she wants. Shit still stinks, no matter where you shovel it.” He looked at Somers. “Ready?”
“I guess I’d better be. I’d hate to ruin that impressive exit.”
Hazard struggled to keep from rolling his eyes; he headed toward the door, Somers at his side.
“If you won’t help us prove we’re innocent,” Sackeman was shouting after them, “then we’ll have to do it another way. The truth will come out, even if we have to rip it out in a bloody surgery, even if we have to tear down the lying machinery of the government and the media to—”
By then, Hazard and Somers were outside. Somers pulled the door shut.
“You should have slammed it,” Hazard said as they returned to the minivan.
“He was really getting going,” Somers said. “I didn’t want to break his rhythm.”
“Now what?”
“First, I’d like to get out of this madhouse without any bullets inside me.”
“And then?”
“And then we go back to the evidence,” Somers said.
“Nothing has pointed to the Volunteers; why the hell does Naomi have her panties in a wad? Why drag us out here?”
“That might have been a genuine offer.” They were approaching the minivan now; in the middle seat, Dulac was talking on his phone. Somers continued, saying, “Naomi’s a tactical genius. Bright Lights might be what you said: the Ozark Volunteers with a shiny upgrade. But it gives the Volunteers a legitimate face. You heard all that crap about science. And recruiting you, that would be a coup.”
Hazard shook his head. “I don’t buy it. The skeleton, whatever the fuck that was about.” Do you like puzzles? Hazard shook his head again.
“Nothing we can do about Naomi right now,” Somers said. “Let’s get back to the station and start putting pieces together: what you know, what we know.”
