“What has brought about this revelation?”
“Apparently at some point they decided it would be kind of cool to have surveillance cameras in the jail cells, so whoever was on duty at the front desk of their police station could watch the prisoners.”
“Makes sense.” I took a seat in one of the decrepit folding metal chairs that seemed to be Clay County’s idea of hospitality for citizens who had to visit the sheriff or the jail. “They have a small department—even smaller than Caerphilly’s. The cameras probably let them get by with one deputy on duty here at the jail.”
“Oh, I get why they did it—no argument there. But they should have gotten someone who knew something about computer security to set it up for them.”
“Wait—does this mean you can see into the cells?”
“Yes, and before you ask, they’re all fine. Rob, your dad, your grandfather, Dr. Rutledge, Randall Shiffley, two old guys dressed a lot like your grandfather, three guys who look so much like Randall that I assume they’re his cousins, and a guy who under the bruises and contusions matches the picture the DMV has for Mark Caverly. None of them look very happy, but they’re alive and well.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“So how did you happen to find these cameras?” I asked aloud.
“Wasn’t hard. I take it you don’t want the technical explanation, so I won’t bore you with stuff like IP addresses.”
“Yeah, just give me the version you’d give Rob.”
She chuckled at that.
“They set up the cameras so that you can see the pictures over the Web,” she explained. “Maybe the sheriff likes to sit in his den and watch his captives wither away or something. Clearly it never occurred to them that they should maybe install some kind of security. It’s just out there for anyone to see.”
“And just out of curiosity, what made you look for camera feeds?”
“Ever since you told me what happened to Rob, I’ve been looking—and had people looking—for any data going into or out of Clay County. There’s not a lot of it, actually, so this was pretty easy to find. We also figured out that Deputy Darnell Plunket, the one who’s usually on the overnight shift, likes to do video chats with his girlfriend to while away the long, boring hours on desk duty. Pretty lively video chats.”
“Oh, good heavens,” I said. “Do I really want to hear about this?”
“Probably not,” she said. “I wouldn’t even be mentioning it except that one of my guys was watching the videos. Supposedly just in case he could glean any useful information from it. Not because he has the emotional maturity of a thirteen-year-old or anything like that. But weirdly, he actually did find something useful. He spotted where Plunket hides his keys. Top left desk drawer. You could actually just go in and open all the cell doors.”
I pulled open the drawer. Yes, sure enough, there was a set of keys.
“Tempting,” I said. “But getting them out of the cells is only a start. We also have to get them out of Clay County, and even that won’t do much good if Clay County claims they’re escaped fugitives and makes us give them back. I’m not sure letting them out of the cells is going to help with that.”
“Might make them happy, though,” she said. “We’ll keep snooping around for anything useful. Oh, by the way, I’m recording some video of them moping around in their cells. Pretty boring but it could come in handy. If you do decide to let them out, I can substitute that for the live feed.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”
I stared at the keys for a few seconds, then pushed the drawer closed again.
I went over and peeked out the front door.
More buses had arrived, from the Methodists, the Lutherans, St. Byblig’s Catholic Church, and even Temple Beth-El, although I wondered how useful Rabbi Grossman’s flock would be at the carol singing. And quite a few people that I assumed were Clay County residents were gathering on the sidewalks and gaping at the spectacle.
No, not just gaping—joining in. Singing.
The combined church choirs were doing a slow, poignant version of “We Three Kings”—well, as poignant as three hundred or more voices raised in joyous harmony could manage—and at the foot of the jail steps Rose Noire and her retreat buddies were doing a sort of interpretive dance, now pretending to be camels traversing afar, now gazing heavenward at the star of royal beauty bright, and ending every verse with what I gathered was supposed to be the three wise men presenting their gifts to the infant Jesus. The fact that the two Dingles had gone back to standing dead center at the top of the steps, right behind where their imaginary manger would have been located, added a delightful note of weirdness to the situation. Clearly neither Dingle could quite grasp what was going on.
Meanwhile, the Dingles in question appeared to be having some kind of not-altogether-friendly discussion. Neither was paying the least bit of attention to what might be happening inside the station.
On impulse I reached out and threw the dead bolt.
“Delaney,” I said into the radio. “Do you have enough video recorded to pull off the switch?”
“Think so. I started recording as soon as I found the feed, so I’ve got at least twenty minutes’ worth. It’s kind of boring to watch—they move enough to show it’s not a still photo, but not much more than that. And I haven’t seen any of them do anything really memorable that would stick out if someone were watching, so that’s good.”
“Switch it over, then,” I said. “And let me know when it’s done.”
“Done. You’re going to let them out?”
“It occurs to me that it might be a good idea to have them out of the cells and ready to run if the chance comes.” I strode over to the reception desk and grabbed the keys from the drawer.
“Good thinking.”
I checked to make sure there weren’t any other doors into the reception area. There was one, actually—a side door, with a small, utilitarian window made of chicken wire-reinforced glass. It appeared to be locked on the outside, though easily opened with a push bar from inside. I nodded with satisfaction. I liked having options. From what I could see through the smeared little window, anyone exiting from this door would be in full sight of everyone in the street, including all those gaping locals. But we might be able to do something about that.
I also found what seemed to be a small conference room that had been turned into a storage room. It was full of metal utility shelves, and every single shelf was covered with red plastic gasoline cans. Hundreds of them.
“Good grief.” I tried to remember what I’d learned about gasoline safety. The vapor was more dangerous than the liquid gasoline itself—I remembered that much. And neither was dangerous without a spark to set it off. But still—this many gallons. Surely it was a bad thing. And—yikes! One of the cans had sprung a leak. A small puddle peeked out from under one of the metal shelves.
But curiously enough, I couldn’t detect the telltale odor of gasoline. But there was a faint odor of … alcohol?
I bent down beside the nearest can and unscrewed the top. The fumes made my eyes water. Definitely alcohol, and pretty high proof. Probably the Dingles’ equivalent of Everclear. And the red gas cans were their equivalent of Uncle Hiram Shiffley’s cobalt blue bottles.
I wiped where I’d touched the gasoline can. If the chief succeeded in sending in the Feds, I didn’t want them to find my prints on the moonshine. I took a picture of the storage room. Then I remembered that cell reception in Clay County was almost nonexistent at the best of times. I radioed Delaney.
“Can you get a message to the chief?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“If he ever manages to talk the Feds into making that raid, he might want to tell them that there are several hundred gallons of moonshine stored in the storage room here in the jail in red plastic gasoline cans.”
“Roger. I’ll tell him.” She was giggling. Okay, it was a little funny.
I located the door be
tween the reception area and the jail proper. It took me a few tries to figure out which of the dozen or so keys opened it. When I finally pulled open the door and peered in, I found myself staring down a short corridor with two barred cells on either side. The eleven prisoners were all standing by the bars, peering out, with anxious expressions that suggested that their interactions with the jail personnel had not been entirely pleasant.
“Oh, no!” Rob exclaimed.
“That’s a fine way to greet someone who came all this way to rescue you,” I said. “If you’re having a wonderful time here I can just go away again.”
“I think Rob was assuming the Dingles had captured you the way they did us,” Randall said. “But you don’t seem to be accompanied by a deputy.”
“I knew we could count on Meg!” Dad was almost dancing in place behind the bars of his cell.
“How soon are we leaving?” Grandfather asked. “The accommodations here are lousy, and I bet the breakfast would be inedible.”
“I’m going to unlock your cells.” I started with the first one on my left, which contained Dad and Grandfather. “But I want you to stay here in the cell block, for the time being. We’re not home free yet. Get ready to move on a moment’s notice, but stay out of sight.”
Chapter 35
“So what’s the plan for getting us out?” Randall asked when I’d unlocked all their cells.
“Don’t have one yet,” I said. “Originally we were just planning to create a distraction until the chief could arrange state or federal intervention.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Randall asked.
“Distraction from what?” Rob asked.
“And is the chief making any progress?” Vern asked.
“‘We’ would take too long to explain, and I have no idea how the chief is doing, although I might check on that soon,” I said. “Normally, I’d have just sat back and trusted him, but the Dingles have a mole in the ATF who’s sabotaging his efforts. And even though you idiots probably deserve to spend Christmas in jail, your families will be a lot happier if we can get you home. And there’s also the fact that the Dingles still might have it in for Mr. Caverly. Now that we’ve been able to get you out of the cells, I’ll be working on a plan to get you all the way back to Caerphilly even if the Feds take longer than we’d like. I’d explain at greater length, but I should probably get back out into the reception area, in case Sheriff Dingle figures out I’ve locked him out of his own jail.”
I could tell they wanted to ask a lot more questions, but just then I opened up the door between the cell block and the reception room, and as if on cue, the singers burst into their next number
“DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH
“IN HEAV’N THE BELLS ARE RINGING!”
“Is that the New Life Baptist choir?” one of Randall’s cousins asked.
“Yup,” I said. “We’ve weaponized Christmas carols.”
I left the cell block, making sure the connecting door was unlocked. Then I stuffed the keys into my pocket and was about to see what was happening outside when I heard a gentle knock on the side door. Rose Noire was peering through the window.
I went over and opened the door for her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I thought I’d bring the sheep in here,” she said. “If that’s okay. They’re a bit unsettled with all the noise.”
I’d always found Seth Early’s sheep to be pretty imperturbable, but far be it from me to second guess Rose Noire, who was so much more in tune with the ovine psyche. So I flung open the door.
“Good dog, Laddie,” Rose Noire called.
Apparently she’d borrowed Lad, Seth’s Border collie, along with the sheep. With brisk efficiency, he herded the two dozen or so sheep into the reception room. Rose Noire held the door open until Lad had double-checked that his entire flock was present. Then he looked at Rose Noire and gave a brisk bark, as if to say, “So? What are you waiting for, silly human?” Rose Noire closed the door and pushed past the sheep to join me near the main door.
“There—now isn’t that much nicer?” Did she mean nicer for the sheep, or was she of the peculiar opinion that the décor of any room would be improved with the addition of a few ruminants?
Lad trotted over to where we stood. He looked up at me as if to say, “Don’t worry—I’ve got this.” Then he laid down, carefully choosing a position in which he could keep one eye on the sheep and one on the door. Or maybe on us.
“Have you found them?” she asked, in a low voice.
“If you mean the prisoners, they’re all fine,” I said. “And hiding behind that door back there until we figure out a way to sneak them out of here. A pity you didn’t bring the sheep costumes from the Christmas pageant. We could smuggle them out with the flock that way.”
“Not unless this year’s costumes are a great deal more realistic than last year’s,” Rose Noire said.
To my surprise, my phone rang. Apparently I was in one of Clay County’s random pockets of cell phone coverage. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and glanced down at the caller ID. Then I braced myself and answered it anyway.
“Good morning, Chief,” I said.
“What in blue blazes are you people doing over there?” he shouted.
“Bringing a little much-needed Christmas cheer to Clay County,” I said. “We figure maybe if we sing a little Christmas spirit into them, the Dingles might let themselves be convinced to empty their jail for the holidays.”
“And what happens if you’re all still there singing ‘in excelsis deo’ when the state troopers and the FBI want to start their raid?”
Aha! Clearly he’d found his way to our video feed.
“Do they want to start their raid now?” I asked. “Because you’d be amazed how fast I could have everyone back on the road to Caerphilly if you give the word.”
“It’s coming together,” he said. “I think it was your information about where the moonshine was stored that did the trick. Although even the Feds need a little time to pull a raid together. I saw you coming out of the jail—do you know who they’ve got locked up in there?”
“Randall’s party, Grandfather’s party, and Mark Caverly,” I said. “All present and accounted for.”
“Good,” he said. “Fodder for the kidnapping charges I’ve been telling the FBI about. At least—have you actually seen them? You could testify that they were there?”
“Even better,” I said. “We’ve got video. Would you like me to have Delaney send it to you?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I think the FBI would find that highly useful. And may I tell them that all you innocent civilians will be out from underfoot in, say, an hour’s time?”
“I think we can manage that,” I said. “Should give the ladies time to sing enough carols to make the trip seem worthwhile and then load them on the buses.”
“Oh, look!” Rose Noire exclaimed. “How lovely!”
Since her definition of lovely sometimes collided with my definition of looming disaster, I moved a little closer to the door so I could see what was going on.
Minerva, with ferocious energy, was directing the choir in a rousing rendition of “The First Noel.” And right on cue, as the singers warbled “Three wise men came from country far,” three of the zoo’s camels strode majestically out between the choir and the jail steps, each bearing a brightly costumed wise person. Definitely all wise persons here—I recognized Caroline Willner, Rabbi Grossman’s wife, Joyce, and Viola Wilson, the wife of New Life Baptist’s minister. After a brief transit in front of the jail, they began circling around in back of the choir, pulling handfuls of foil-wrapped candy out of their saddlebags and flinging them at the Clay County onlookers.
“Lord have mercy,” the chief muttered over the phone. Evidently he was watching the video feed.
The camels were nice, but I was more focused on what I had spotted over their heads—a small mechanical object flying around near one of th
e huge oak trees. Presumably Ekaterina’s drone. As I watched, it slowly settled down on one of the oak’s large, nearly horizontal branches, twitched a little as if adjusting its position, and then grew still.
“Look, if we’re going to get out of the FBI’s way in an hour, I should go do a few things,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“You do that,” he said, and hung up.
First, I called Delaney.
“Do we have a reasonable number of people watching all this?” I asked.
“More than reasonable,” she said. “I wouldn’t exactly say it’s gone viral yet, but there’s an impressive number of people watching the live feed, and a lot of people are posting clips on Facebook, so the numbers are growing steadily.”
“Can you send Chief Burke a link to the feed from the cell block cameras?” I asked.
“Not a live feed anymore, remember?”
“He’ll find the canned feed just as interesting,” I said. “As will a few other law enforcement types, I hope.”
“Funny you should mention that—I won’t bore you by telling you how we use IP addresses and such to figure it out, but I’m pretty sure there’s reasonably high level of law enforcement interest in our webcast.”
“State or federal interest?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” I said. “Once you get the chief the link—”
“Already done.”
“—we may be changing over to the drone camera.”
“That’s drone cameras. We have two in place. You’re thinking of starting a strategic withdrawal? Does that mean you’ve figured out how to rescue the prisoners?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Just keep the feed going, and do what you can to expand our audience.”
I hung up and thought for a moment.
“Meg?” Rose Noire looked worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I’m just thinking. This is what it looks like.”
“Sorry.”
Lark! the Herald Angels Sing Page 23
