There was no response.
“Guess I’ll have to keep going.”
A white van slowed on the county blacktop where I had parked my car, and sped up again. I waited until it was out of sight before I walked around the gate and the hut and forged ahead. I followed the road as it curved until I could no longer see the county blacktop behind me. It dipped down, angled to the left, and climbed a steep hill that made my thighs ache. Yes, I run three to five miles a couple times a week, except never uphill. There was a nice view at the summit if you like trees, but no buildings as far as the eye could see, and I looked hard while I rested my legs. I wondered briefly if Curtis Blevins and the Red Stone Patriots had camouflaged them, if they were deliberately hiding their compound from prying eyes, as well as government drones, black helicopters, and spy satellites.
I kept following the road as it dove into a valley and circled again to the right. The trees weren’t as thick as they had been at Mrs. Barrington’s place, and I could see deeper into the forest as I walked. I found a clearing. There had been a stand of trees in the clearing, the biggest about four inches in diameter. Only the trees had been cut down three feet above the ground; the trunks were splintered and dry and standing like shattered fence posts. I left the road and plowed through the brush to the trees. I bent to examine the trunks and found that slugs had mutilated the bark. A short distance away, sunlight reflected off metal shell casings. I bounced a few in the palm of my hand, listening to the metallic tinkle they made, and tossed them back to the ground.
I returned to the road.
“Apparently the Patriots wiped out a stand of trees with sustained fire from automatic weapons just for practice,” I said. “I think we had better start taking them seriously.”
The road zigged and zagged a few more times and suddenly there was a cluster of cabins no bigger than the ones I had found at Mereshack, all with small windows, all painted forest green, including the roofs. In the center of the cluster was a prefab pole barn made of corrugated steel and aluminum, also green. The huge door was flung open. Inside I could see two pickup trucks and an SUV; the owners are keeping them out of sight, I thought. At the edge of the compound, I spied a mobile home mounted on a cinder-block foundation. Beyond that there was a firing range setup with fresh bales of hay resting on top of old bales of hay. The hill behind the bales looked as if it had been torn up with a garden hoe.
I couldn’t see or hear anyone. I called out.
“Hello.” This time my voice was loud and clear. “Anyone home?”
I walked toward the buildings and shouted some more.
“Hello.”
I heard them before I saw them. Four men. They seemed to burst out of the forest all around me. Young. Dressed in camo. Each was armed with an AK-47 assault rifle. The muzzles were all pointed at me.
I threw my hands into the air, holding them high as I slowly spun around so all could see that they were empty.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I chanted. “What’s going on?”
“Down,” a voice yelled. “On your knees.”
I dropped to my knees, my hands still up.
“Why are the four of you pointing automatic weapons at me?” I asked.
I was careful to enunciate the number, although only two of the men were actually holding guns on me. The others had fanned out in the direction I had come, searching for friends.
“Listen,” I said.
“Shut up,” I was told.
The man who did the telling had a mustache. His partner looked like he was attempting to grow one and not having much success.
“Why are you snooping around?” the partner asked.
“I wasn’t snooping,” I said.
“Shut up,” said the mustache.
“How the hell did you get here?” the partner said.
“I walked.”
“Shut up,” the mustache said again.
“You came up the road, past the gate?” asked the partner.
I kept quiet.
“Answer me. Didn’t you see the signs? Can’t you read?”
I gestured with my chin at the mustache. He stepped behind me and put a boot in the center of my back just below the neck. I fell face-first into the dirt.
“Someone asked you a question,” he said.
“What are you doing, Tom?” his partner asked.
“What do you think I’m doing”—he spoke the name like an insult—“Jerry?”
“Let him answer the question,” Jerry said.
“Search him first.”
Hands patted my sides, the small of my back, the inside and outside of my legs. They were looking for weapons, not a wire. No one bothered to roll me over and pat my chest. What they did find was my wallet and smartphone. I turned my head enough to see both men examining them. At the same time, their two allies finished their sweep and returned to where I was lying.
“He’s alone,” one of them said.
“Now, what the hell are you doing here—Holland Taylor,” Jerry said. “His first name is Holland. What kind of name is that?”
Tom nudged my ribs with the toe of his boot.
“Answer him,” he said.
“It’s the name my parents gave me.”
“No, I meant—dammit.” Tom kicked me again. “Why are you here?”
“I came to see Curtis Blevins.”
“Hear that?” Tom said. “He’s a fucking spy.”
“Actually, I’m a private investigator.”
“What did I tell you?”
“He is a private eye,” Jerry said. “Says so on this card.”
I heard the sound of a rifle bolt being pulled back and a round jacked into the chamber.
“I say we waste him right now,” Tom said.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jerry said.
“Yeah? What do you suggest?”
“Put ’im in the barn and wait for Curtis to get back.”
One of the other Patriots spoke up.
“I knew we should have left someone at the gate,” he said.
“Fuck you, Charles,” Tom said. “Sitting around there eight hours at a time. Besides, nobody ever comes ’round.”
Charles casually pointed his weapon at my head. “’Cept him.”
“I say we smoke this fuck right now and bury ’im in the woods,” Tom said.
“What is wrong with you?” Jerry said.
Tom’s answer was to again put his boot into my ribs, harder this time.
“Get ’im up,” Jerry said.
Charles and the fourth Patriot slung their rifles over their shoulders and pulled me to my feet. Tom kept pointing his at my head.
“Really, fellas?” I said. “Russian-made AKs? You couldn’t buy American?”
They urged me along to the pole barn and locked me in a small room in the corner. The outside walls of the room were iron, and the inside walls were made of wood and Sheetrock. The floor was concrete. There was an old mattress on the floor and a wooden chair next to it. A 60-watt bulb that I couldn’t reach dangled from a black cord above my head. There were no windows. Just for fun, I tried the door. It was locked.
“That went well,” I said aloud.
* * *
I sat in the chair. When I tired of that, I sat on the mattress, my back against the corrugated walls. I spent a lot of time staring at my watch. For a while I thought my battery was dying out, the second hand seemed to move so slowly. I closed my eyes, tried to nap, and failed.
“You’re all probably wondering how I ended up here,” I said to no one in particular. “I blame my mother. She was the original helicopter mom, hovering over me all the damn time, so naturally, when I became old enough, I ran away to join the cops so I would be in charge for a change. I took a wife and had a daughter. Then I lost my wife and daughter and started engaging in some, let’s call it reckless behavior. Booze had a lot to do with it. Then George Meade ate his gun. He was my supervising officer back in the day, the guy I broke in with, and I was left wondering,
is that my future, too? So I quit the cops and became a private investigator because, seriously, can you imagine me working a real job? Now I’m a prisoner of an anti-government militia. Like I said, it’s my mom’s fault. Plus, I fell in with bad company. You know who I’m talking about.”
I closed my eyes. Voices outside my door caused me to open them again. I strained to hear. The voices went away. Changing of the guard, I told myself. I looked at my watch again.
“How time flies when you’re having fun.”
I tried to sleep again and succeeded. More voices jolted me awake. My watch told me eighty minutes had passed. Someone was unlocking the door. I made sure I was sitting in the chair, my legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles and my arms folded over my chest, a portrait of contentment, when the door was opened.
Tom and Jerry crowded into the room, followed by Curtis Blevins. They were armed. Blevins was not.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “Make that good afternoon.”
“Stand up and put your hands behind your head,” Tom said.
“No.”
Tom whacked me on the forehead with the business end of his AK. I sat up straight in the chair and brought one hand up to rub the skin where he hit me.
“Get up,” Tom said.
“Mr. Blevins, is that you? Will you please tell this moron to back off before someone gets hurt?”
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“He’s a fucking spy,” Tom said.
“Let’s not go through that again,” I said.
Tom pressed the muzzle of his AK against my forehead, which, believe it or not, was exactly what I wanted him to do.
I grabbed the barrel of the rifle just above Tom’s hand and pushed it to the left even as I angled my head to the right, out of the line of fire. I yanked the gun forward. At the same time, I punched Tom in the groin just as hard as I could. The blow brought his head closer to me. I pivoted as I jumped to my feet and drove my elbow into his jaw. I grabbed the rifle with my other hand above the trigger guard and kept turning, pulling the rifle with me. Tom tried to hold on. My momentum dragged him over my leg. He released the rifle and fell with a loud thud on the concrete floor between the chair and the mattress. I brought the rifle up and centered it on the chest of the only other armed man in the room. Jerry froze in place.
“I promise I won’t die alone,” I said.
Blevins held out his hands as if he were attempting to ward off a collision.
“Wait, wait,” he said.
Everyone waited.
I saw Eric Tibbits for the first time. He was standing behind Blevins’s shoulder.
“Hey, Eric,” I said. “The bruises on your face, did I do that? Sorry, man.”
Blevins glanced over his shoulder. Eric lightly fingered his face where I had rammed it into the metal locker.
Tom reached out and grabbed my leg with both hands and tried to topple me over. I drove the rifle butt into his jaw, and he stopped moving. I brought it back up again and aimed it at Jerry’s head.
“If it comes to it, I’ll kill you all and take my chances with whoever’s outside,” I said.
“Stand down,” Blevins said.
“Mr. B?”
“Jerry, stand down.”
Jerry slowly stooped and rested his weapon on the concrete floor.
“Step back,” I told him.
He moved backward until his shoulders and head were against the wall. I lowered the muzzle of the AK until it was pointed at the floor.
“Maybe now you’ll tell me what this is all about,” I said.
Blevins looked down at Tom.
“Maybe you’ll tell me,” he said.
“Happy to. My name is Taylor. I’m a private investigator. I came here to ask if you could identify a girl who was killed recently in St. Paul, but your guys went all militia on me. I think they’ve been in the woods too long.”
“Why would I know a girl who was killed in St. Paul? I’ve never even been there.”
I took my left hand off the rifle and used it to point at Eric.
“He knows her, yet he won’t tell me her name,” I said. “What’s that all about, Eric?”
Blevins turned to look at the young man, whose expression changed quickly from surprise to terror.
“What is this all about, Eric?” Blevins said.
The young man shook his head.
“Eric?”
He shook his head some more and said, “I can’t…”
“Can’t what?”
Eric looked at me as if he were hoping I’d help him out.
“May I have my phone and wallet?” I said.
Blevins nodded, and Jerry took them out of his pocket. He gave me my wallet, which I promptly stuffed into my own pocket, and the smartphone, which I hung on to. In exchange, I handed him the AK-47. The gesture seemed to surprise him.
“We’re all friends now, right?” I said.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Taylor,” Blevins told me.
“Mr. Blevins, I’m not from the government. I’m not a cop. I don’t care what you guys are doing here in the woods. You want to shoot down trees with automatic weapons, be my guest. I just want to ask a few simple questions, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Ask your questions.”
I activated my smartphone and called up the pic of Emily Denys. I held it up for Blevins to see.
“Do you know this girl?” I asked.
Blevins stared at the pic. His eyes blinked once, twice, three times, as if he were having a difficult time focusing. He reached out his hand slowly. I let him take the phone.
“What are you telling me?” he asked. His voice was low. I could barely hear it.
“Sir?”
“What are you telling me?”
“I just want to know—”
“What the fuck are you telling me!”
“What’s wrong? Do you know her?”
“It’s my daughter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Who killed her?” Blevins asked.
“I don’t know.”
“According to this, it was that Barrington bitch.” Blevins spun the laptop on his kitchen table so that the screen was facing me. It displayed an article from the website of the St. Paul Pioneer Press. “It says you helped.”
“It’s what the county attorney told the paper. It’s not what happened.”
“You tell me, then, you sonuvabitch. You tell me what happened.”
Blevins was angry, to say the least. That was okay. Anger was good. I could work with anger. There were times when I was forced to tell parents the unthinkable when I was with the cops. I watched them melt before my eyes, their brains becoming emotional mush that I couldn’t access. It’s a sight that stays with you, too. A sight that haunts your dreams. I thought Blevins would do the same. Back in the pole barn he kept chanting the same question—“What are you telling me?”—until I spelled it out.
“The girl in the pic is dead. She was murdered last week in St. Paul.”
He collapsed to his knees and started hammering the concrete floor with his fists. His wail was painful to hear. Instead of attempting to comfort him, his people dragged Tom out of the tiny cell and disappeared. That left it to me.
“I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I didn’t know. I would have found a better way to tell you if I had known.”
Blevins wasn’t listening. He rocked on his knees and pressed his head to the floor and hammered the concrete and wailed.
“It’s my fault, it’s my fault,” he told me.
I said nothing. Hell, maybe it was his fault.
Yet the grieving didn’t last long. Less than fifteen minutes by my watch. Blevins gathered himself together. He stood slowly, took a deep breath, and brushed the tears off his face.
“Come with me,” he said. “I have questions for you, and you had better answer them.”
We exited the pole barn, and Blevins led me across the compound
to the trailer mounted on the cinder blocks. A half dozen of the Red Stone Patriots watched us pass, including Eric, yet no one spoke a word.
Blevins fired up his personal computer and started searching news archives from his tiny kitchen table as if he needed independent confirmation of what had I told him. Maybe he was hoping I was a liar.
“I don’t know who killed Emily,” I said.
“Her name was Julie. Julie Elizabeth Blevins.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“What do you know? Why are you even here?”
“We traced Emily’s … we traced Julie’s movements. She was seeing Joel Barrington—”
“That’s what the media said.”
“What they didn’t say is that she visited him at his office. He was meeting with representatives from U.S. Sand.”
“The Barringtons are dealing with those bastards?”
“Let me finish. Joel Barrington was meeting with representatives from U.S. Sand—”
“Kaufman and Palo.”
“Yes. This seemed to upset her. No one knows why. The next day she was killed.”
Blevins grimaced at my words.
“Later, I asked Kaufman and Palo about it. They claimed they had no idea who Julie was, claimed they didn’t even remember seeing her in the office. Their administrative assistant said the same thing.”
“Esther.”
“Yes.”
“Esther who works for them.”
“Yes.”
“My niece. Julie’s cousin.”
“She told me she didn’t know who the girl, who Julie was. The next day I was at Julie’s duplex. That’s when Eric and his pal tried to shoot me. I didn’t know who he was at the time. Or Esther, either, for that matter. I found out yesterday. When I went to the town hall meeting, Eric and his pal attacked me again. The bruises on Eric’s face, that was from me. Yet he still insisted he didn’t know who Julie was. That’s why I’m here.”
Blevins went to the thin trailer door and flung it open.
“Eric, get your ass in here,” he said.
He stood back, leaving the door ajar. A moment later, Eric entered. He moved cautiously. Blevins grabbed his arm, pulled him all the way into the trailer, and pushed him down to the floor.
“Tell me about this,” he said.
Eric pointed at me. “It was him,” he said.
Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 19
