Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery

by David Housewright

  “If you follow the regulations, there is no threat to the environment, there is no threat to public health, and we follow the regulations. Our operations are well within EPA standards.”

  “I’m concerned that no one is monitoring the noise and the water.”

  “We placed a seismograph at a house where our neighbors complained about blastings. We tested the water at our expense of another neighbor who said that mining had altered his well. We’re trying to do what’s right out there.”

  “We’re losing farms.”

  “Sand mining has created thousands of jobs.”

  “You aren’t creating as many jobs as you want us to think. Besides, the benefits of sand mining aren’t here in Arona. They flow to the pockets of the company owners who live in beautiful houses on the lake in Chicago, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the noise and the trucks and the blowing sand.”

  “When Arona was forced to close its only nursing home, it was U.S. Sand that came to the rescue. We not only made sure that the facility stayed open and protected one hundred and fourteen quality jobs, we have also promised an additional one million dollars a year for other community commitments.”

  “The head of our zoning department is using his position to retaliate against any and all residents who speak out against the frac-sand mines.”

  Heads turned to find Bob Barcott, who was sitting in the audience, a notebook on his knee and a pen in his hand.

  “I hope that is not true,” Kaufman said. “In any case, we do not interfere with local government.”

  “We chose to live here because of the peace and the solitude, and the mining company has taken all that away.”

  “If we left town tonight, by tomorrow morning there would be someone to take our place, someone who doesn’t share our commitment to the community or the environment. We’re ranked number one in the industry. The next company that comes in won’t be any higher than second place.”

  All the while, Curtis edged closer to the microphone, waiting for his turn to speak. Finally it came.

  “I’m Curtis Blevins,” he said. “You all know me. You know what I stand for. I’m an advocate of people’s rights. I personally am opposed to sand mining in Arona. There are more suitable areas where mines and neighbors can better coexist. At the same time, landowners ought to be free to do what they wish with their land without fear of government or big business. I will oppose the annexation of property any way that I can.”

  He had more to say, except I didn’t hear him. I was distracted by the muzzle of a handgun pressed against the back of my neck.

  “Don’t say a word,” a voice said.

  I didn’t.

  Nothing happened.

  I guess he expected me to put up an argument.

  I turned my head slightly. My peripheral vision caught the sight of a young man with blond hair dressed in camo.

  “Good evening, Eric,” I said. “Long time no see.”

  “You’re coming with us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get up. Slowly.”

  I did.

  “We want to see your hands.”

  I held them away from my body.

  “This way.”

  I let Eric lead me up the stairs to a door at the back of the balcony. Along the way, I recognized his companion, the one with short brown hair who had helped Eric attack me at Emily’s duplex.

  We reached the door, and Eric pushed me through it.

  The corridor was brightly lit and empty. Metal lockers lined the walls on each side. The classroom doors were all closed. It made me wonder—where do the teachers in small-town schools go during the summer? What do they do? Probably it was an odd thought to have given the circumstances; still …

  Eric stood in front of me. His companion remained behind. The companion moved quickly, clapping me into a full nelson. I didn’t resist.

  Eric chuckled, actually chuckled like a villain in a straight-to-video thriller. He held open his hand. There was a shotgun shell in his palm, what he had pressed against my neck.

  “Sucker,” he said.

  “Imagine my embarrassment. Did your sister send you?”

  “Leave Esther out of this.”

  “Out of what, Eric? What do you nitwits want?”

  “You don’t fucking call us names.”

  “I apologize. What can I do for you upstanding young men of the Red Stone Patriots?”

  “You can stay out of our business.”

  “What business?”

  “Fuck you.”

  He moved toward me and cocked his hand as if he wanted to punch my face.

  I brought my hands up and pressed them against my forehead so the kid holding me in the full nelson couldn’t bend my head forward.

  As soon as Eric was in range, I jumped up and kicked him in the face. I was actually aiming for his jaw, only I missed. Eric fell back just the same.

  I came back down. My attacker moved his legs apart while he struggled to hold me. I brought my own leg straight back and kicked him in the groin with my heel. He let go.

  I bent forward, reached between my own legs, grabbed his ankle, and pulled upward. He fell backward onto the floor. I was still holding his leg. I pulled it up high, exposing his groin. I kicked him again.

  He rolled on his side and cupped himself.

  Eric had managed to get to his knees. He was holding his face with both hands. I managed to get a grip on his short hair. He brought his hands down and looked up at me.

  “What?” he said.

  I rammed his face into a locker door. My hand slipped off his scalp and hit the locker, too. I think I hurt myself more than I hurt him.

  While we were both dealing with our injuries, I reached into my pocket, produced my smartphone, and pulled up Emily’s pic. I took a better grip of Eric’s hair and turned his face so he could get a good look at the screen.

  “Who is this girl?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I shoved Eric’s face into the locker again.

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I hit him again.

  “What is her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I hit him a third time.

  “He said he doesn’t know.”

  I turned my head. Chief McMahan was standing in the corridor, her hand resting on the butt of her holstered nine-millimeter Glock, a gunfighter ready to throw down.

  “Of course he knows,” I said. “Why else would he and his friend attack me outside her duplex in St. Paul? Why else would they attack me again in the corridor?”

  “Let him go. I mean it.”

  I released my grip on Eric’s hair, and he slumped to the floor.

  “Move away,” the chief said.

  I did.

  “You don’t get to hit him again. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  The question seemed to slow her down.

  “No, of course not. I saw what happened. They attacked you.”

  “You saw them?”

  “It’s a high school. There are cameras everywhere. I’m going to arrest them both and take them to our lockup. I won’t have you taking the law into your own hands.”

  I looked down at my hand; my knuckles were scuffed and swollen. I flexed my fingers.

  “Is that what I was doing?” I said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “You’re asking me?” I looked down at Eric; his face was red and puffy. There were only a few small cuts, yet they were bleeding profusely. I glanced at his friend; he was still holding himself and moaning loudly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to take them both to the station. I need you to come down and make a statement.”

  “No, no, no, don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Arrest them. Let them go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Honestly? I might want to talk to the
m again later when you’re not looking.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Not to them, anyway.”

  “Taylor, I don’t think I like you.”

  “That’s too bad, Chief, because I’m starting to like you more and more. By the way, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “I wanted to warn you that Eric Tibbits and his friend were in the school.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The line behind the microphone had grown considerably shorter by the time I returned to my seat. I searched for Curtis Blevins in the audience, and couldn’t find him.

  A woman stepped up to the mic. She was carrying what looked like a folded blanket. I didn’t recognize her from where I sat until she stated her name.

  “I’m Bridgette Franson.”

  That caused a stir in the audience and a few ohhs and ahhs, yet she didn’t acknowledge it.

  “I live near a sand mine. There’s a layer of sand on my car every single day. I brush it off and the next day I come back and there’s another layer, and I park in a garage. The same with my porch and sidewalk. The same with my windows and roof. I never open my windows anymore no matter how hot it is. The sand gets inside anyway. It covers my dishes in the cabinet; I have to wash them before I set the table. My clothes are full of it. So is my hair. I can feel it in my throat, in my nose. I’m not asking anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m asking you not to make the same mistake that we made by selling our property to these people.

  “I’ve heard a lot of talk tonight about how prolonged exposure to airborne crystalline silica can cause cardiovascular disease and increase the risk of lung cancer. I compare it to secondhand smoke. These two will tell you that the problem doesn’t exist, just like the tobacco companies claimed for how many years that cigarettes weren’t addictive and that they didn’t cause cancer. Believe me when I tell you that I have been around a great many liars in my time…”

  I heard a hoot and a smattering of applause.

  “These two are as accomplished in the art as anyone I’ve ever seen. This quilt was hanging on my line for only a couple of hours this afternoon.”

  Bridgette unrolled the quilt she was carrying and gripped one end with both hands. She waved it up and down frantically. A cloud of yellow dust formed and spread across the auditorium.

  “My advice?” she said. “Don’t believe a word these people say.”

  Bridgette turned and walked back up the aisle, trailing the quilt behind. Applause followed her; some people cheered. One of them was a woman dressed in jeans, a white dress shirt, and a blue sports jacket not unlike the one I wore. She sat down next to me.

  “You go, girl,” she shouted. I watched her as she applauded. In a softer voice she asked, “Are you having fun yet, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Have we met?”

  She reached into her pocket, withdrew a thin wallet, and handed it to me. I opened it slowly, as if it were a bomb. Instead, it was the lady’s credentials. I read it aloud.

  “Special Agent Rachel Colgin, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”

  “Don’t you just love the way that rolls off the tongue?” she said.

  I handed the wallet back.

  “You’re a little young to be working for the Department of Justice, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Says the old man of forty-three.”

  “Forty-two. My birthday isn’t until the end of the month.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Whenever I meet someone from the Justice Department I always ask the same question—what did I do?”

  “It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re going to do.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Good, Taylor. You’re going to do good.”

  “I already don’t like the sound of this.”

  Colgin patted my knee the same way my father did just before telling me how much fun we were going to have putting new shingles on the house.

  “Let me tell you a story,” she said. “Once upon a time, there was a magical people called Yuppers that lived in a land called the Upper Peninsula in the kingdom of Michigan. Some of these Yuppers, about eighty-five hundred, resided in a city called Menominee. Menominee, Michigan, not to be confused with Menominee, Wisconsin. It’s very pretty. You’d like it there.

  “Now, Menominee, Michigan, is located across the Menominee River from its evil rival Marinette, Wisconsin. The river marks where the Upper Penninsula begins and Wisconsin ends. Both towns are also on the western shore of Lake Michigan. They like to call themselves inland seaports. Only Marinette has the edge in that regard. To keep up, Menominee decided to expand its harbor facilities. To do this, it needed to acquire the land immediately adjacent to the existing harbor. The city made what it considered a fair market offer. Except the owner of the property was a feisty anti-government sort named Curtis Blevins, and he refused to sell. The city instituted a complete taking of the land.”

  “Condemnation via eminent domain,” I said.

  “Look at you knowing how the government works. I bet you got nothing but A’s in high school civics.”

  “The city took Blevins’s property.”

  “Yes, it did. It paid him less than he would have received if he had accepted the original offer, too. Blevins was upset, to say the least, and who can blame him? He decided to depart the city by the inland sea and never return. Unfortunately, the night before he left, he indulged himself with a little domestic terrorism.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He blew up Menominee’s Welcome Center, the building the city used to greet visitors and promote commerce. Classic IED. Anhydrous hydrazine. Ammonium nitrate. Aluminum powder. Glass canning jar. Cell phone detonator. Ka-boom. You know what the ATF thinks of bombs.”

  “You don’t like them.”

  “We don’t like them.”

  “How do you know he did it?”

  “I know.”

  “Why isn’t he in custody?”

  “There’s knowing it and there’s proving it. Seems the court demands evidence before locking up an American citizen and throwing away the key.”

  “How inconvenient.”

  “Too bad he’s not a foreign national. Oh well. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “He has refused on several occasions to converse with Special Agent Rachel Colgin of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Yet he might speak to you.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because you just beat up his nephew. I saw the fight, by the way. I was rooting for you.”

  “Blevins and Eric Tibbits are related?”

  “Yeppers.”

  “That makes Esther Tibbits his niece.”

  “Raises a few questions, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Is the apparent bombing by Curtis Blevins of a public building in Menominee, Michigan, over a dispute involving eminent domain related to the murder of Mayor Todd Franson, who was attempting to abuse the same power in Arona, Wisconsin, and is that somehow related to the murder of Emily Denys in St. Paul, Minnesota?”

  “Do you always speak like this?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “How do you know who I am and why I’m here?”

  Colgin tapped her chest.

  “Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives,” she said. “Aren’t you paying attention?”

  Actually I wasn’t, because at that moment I heard a voice that forced me to gaze back down at the auditorium floor. A woman with strawberry hair was now standing at the microphone.

  “I’m Devon Barrington,” she said. “First, I must apologize. My mother had hoped to be here tonight. Unfortunately, she was unable to attend.”

  “Not without violating the conditions of her bail agreement,” Colgin said.

  “Shhhh,” I told her.

  “Nor could my older brother be
here,” Devon said.

  “I wonder what that’s about,” said Colgin.

  “Would you please?” I said.

  “So it falls to me to publicly address the representatives of the U.S. Sand Company, Acting Mayor Gischler, members of the Arona City Council, and the citizens of this fine community which my family has loved and supported for nearly a century. My statement is simple—our property is not for sale at any price.”

  I was surprised by the high volume of applause Devon received. She waited patiently until it receded.

  “We are aware, of course, that steps have been taken in the past to acquire our property by hook or by crook, as my mother put it,” she said. “Please, don’t do that. If you persist … My mother gave me a note to read.”

  Devon pulled it from her pocket and carefully unfolded it.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “Those of you who have met my mom know that her language can sometimes be … salty.” She took a deep breath and read the note with her exhale. “Don’t mess with us you sonsuvbitches. I will fuck you up and I won’t care how much it costs, how long it takes, or how many lawyers I need to hire.”

  Devon refolded the note, returned it to her pocket, and smiled.

  “Thank you for your time,” she said.

  Devon returned to her seat amid the loudest cheers of the evening.

  “I like her,” Special Agent Colgin said.

  “So do I.”

  “Her brother was dating Emily Denys, wasn’t he?”

  “So I have been led to believe.”

  “Her mother, Eleanor Barrington, stands accused of Emily’s murder. Must be hard on her. Devon, I mean.”

  “What’s your point, Rachel?”

  “You used my given name. I’m going to use yours, too, because we’re friends now.”

  “What do you want me to do, Rachel?”

  “I want you to do your job, Holland. I’m going to help.”

  “Help me what?”

  “Find someone else to blame for killing Emily Denys.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  She patted my knee some more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Everheart Resort, Restaurant, and Bar was as busy after the town hall meeting as it had been before. If there was a difference it was the mood. It was celebratory, almost euphoric, as if the kids had won the Friday night football game. Although nothing had been resolved at the meeting, everyone getting a chance to have their say had apparently expelled much of the tension that I had felt in the town since I arrived. At least for now. The cliques had temporarily dissolved. Now sand supporters were bellying up to the bar with the enviros as if they had been pals all along. Personal insults became jokes instead of additional volleys in never-ending political conflicts.