Won't Back Down

by J. D. Rhoades

  His search of the interior complete, Cameron exits the vehicle and walks around to stand by Fletcher. “Nothing.”

  Fletcher doesn’t take his eyes off Keller. “You check the toolbox in the back?”

  Keller speaks up then. “Let me guess. You got a visit from a short lady. Walks with a cane.”

  That stops Cameron in his tracks.

  “Lauch,” Fletcher says, “check the toolbox.”

  Cameron shoots him a worried glance, but he goes. As he climbs into the bed of the truck, he can hear Keller speaking in a low, calm voice.

  “I’m working security here. Guarding those kids you just saw. That woman was trying to get me away from them. Why do you think that might be?”

  Cameron walks to the plastic Craftsman toolbox that spans the bed of the truck. He undoes the clasps that hold it closed and raises the lid. There’s nothing inside.

  “Think about it, Fletcher,” Keller is saying. “Think about why she might want to leave those children unprotected.”

  Cameron looks more closely. The bottom of the compartment he can see is too shallow for the apparent depth of the box. He slides his fingertips underneath and pries the bottom up. Nestled in a foam holder, crudely cut to hold the weapon, is a Mossberg pump shotgun. Slots cut around the weapon hold rows of shells. Cameron sighs. He picks the shotgun out of its impromptu hiding place and holds it up.

  Fletcher glances over and nods. He turns back to Keller. “They won’t be unprotected, Mr. Keller. We’ll get a deputy here, and if necessary, Social Services. But right now, you’re under arrest for possession of a firearm by a convicted felon.” He takes the handcuffs off his utility belt. “Turn around, please.”

  Keller glances back at the house. “I can’t leave them alone.”

  “The girl looks old enough to look after her brother until the father gets here. Now turn. Around.”

  For a moment, Cameron thinks Keller’s about to make a move. He puts a hand on his sidearm.

  Keller looks back and forth between them. His voice is mild as he says, “Can I make a call first?”

  Normally, the procedure would be to have the subject make the call from the sheriff’s department, but Fletcher glances over at the house. Cameron can see the girl in the headscarf peering through a half-drawn curtain. He can’t make out her expression, but he figures she’s terrified. He hears Fletcher sigh. “Okay. But make it quick.”

  “My phone’s in the truck. Can I go get it?”

  “I’ll get it.” He steps around Keller, keeping carefully out of Cameron’s line of fire. As he walks back to the truck, Cameron gets on his portable radio. “All units, 10-78 to secure a residence at 14017 State Road 109.”

  In a moment, Fletcher’s back with Keller’s phone.

  “Thanks,” Keller says as he hands it over.

  “Reverend,” he says when someone picks up on the other end, “it’s Jack Keller. I need to ask you a huge favor.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Keller’s not surprised when they don’t take him straight to booking. This has never been about him having a weapon. He takes his place at the table in the tiny interrogation room, glancing up at the camera he assumes is on. Fletcher takes the seat across from him, and the mostly silent cop, Cameron, leans back against the institutional green wall, hands folded across his chest, just at the edge of Keller’s field of vision. He sighs. This is all so predictable. And he has work to do.

  “Okay,” Fletcher says, opening a portfolio with a set of papers inside of it. “Before we start—”

  Keller interrupts him. “I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me. I have the right to an attorney. Blah, blah, blah. Consider me informed.” Fletcher’s looking pissed off, but before he can say anything, Keller goes on. “Let me tell you what you’re going to say next. You already know the answers to the questions you’re asking. You want to hear my side. I need to get out ahead of this if I want your help. It’s weighing on me, you can tell. We all need to get on the same page. I can come clean and get it all behind me.” He sits back. “Guys, I’ve been here before. I’ve heard the questions so many times, I could probably teach the course you two took in interrogating suspects. And I’m not saying shit until I get my—”

  Cameron interrupts before he can say the magic word, lawyer. “What do you know about Ted Wilson?”

  That stops Keller. “Wilson?” He looks from one cop to the other. “Wilson’s your missing person?”

  Fletcher’s recovered his calm demeanor. “What do you know about Ted Wilson?”

  Keller looks back and forth between the two cops. He knows better than to talk to them. But then, he thinks, there’s a lot of things he’s done that he’s known better than to do. He’s known some bad cops, but he’s also encountered some decent ones, and these two might just be the kind he wants on his side. God knows he can use allies at this point. He takes a deep breath. “I got a job,” he says. “Looking after the Khoury children.”

  “Seems like a strange job for a convicted felon,” Cameron says.

  “Maybe. But I got it because I stepped in and kept those kids from getting bullied at school. By a guy you may be looking for. Brandon Ochs.”

  The two cops look at each other, then back at Keller. Clearly, the whole department’s gotten the word to look out for that boy. “You have any idea where Brandon Ochs is?” The eagerness in their eyes convinces Keller to trust these two.

  “No. But he also took a shot at my…my son’s mother. She’s an SRO.”

  “We know,” Cameron says. Fletcher gives him an annoyed look. What was supposed to be an interrogation is getting away from him.

  Keller goes for broke. “Look, Officers, you want to get on the same page, let’s get on the same page. There’s a lot you need to know, because I get the feeling some shit’s about to go down in Harnett County, and you need to be ready for it.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  When the van pulls up, Bassim’s on the couch, earbuds in and eyes closed, listening to his music. Alia’s been at the window, watching and worrying. She’s tried to call Ben, then her father. Both calls went to voicemail. She paces back and forth, chewing at her thumbnail, until the van pulls up. HOLLY RIDGE PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, the logo on the side says. A man gets out, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He speaks to the deputy for a moment, then walks to the door. The ringing of the doorbell makes Bassim sit up straight. Alia calls to him, “I’ll get it.”

  The man at the door has a nice smile and kind eyes, but it’s not until he says, “Hi. I’m Ed. I’m Jack’s landlord,” that Alia can relax even slightly.

  She holds out a demure hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ed. Thank you for coming.”

  The formality seems to amuse Ed, but the smile fades quickly. “Jack thought things might not be safe here. He asked me if I’d give you a ride to his house. While he gets some things straightened out.”

  “Straightened out.” Alia shakes her head. “Did he tell you he was being arrested?”

  “Yeah.” He looks over his shoulder. The sheriff’s car is pulling away. “He seemed to think that maybe that put you in danger.”

  Alia looks over her shoulder. “Bassim. We’re leaving.” She turns back to Ed. “Does this put you in danger, Ed?”

  He smiles at her. “In’shallah,” he says. As God wills.

  She looks down and covers her mouth with her hand.

  “What?” he says.

  She’s trying not to laugh. “Your pronunciation is terrible.”

  The smile doesn’t leave his face. “We’ll work on it in the car. Let’s move.”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  “So let me get this straight,” Fletcher says. “You’re protecting the children of a guy who you think stole at least a few million in USAID from Iraq, and there’s some kind of renegade CIA operative trying to use those children to get at the guy who stole it?” He shakes his head. “It sounds like something
from a novel.”

  “Except you were contacted by someone trying to get me away from them. Weren’t you? When I mentioned the lady who showed up trying to warn me off, you both looked like you knew who I was talking about. Come on, Fletcher. Admit it. This is weird, but it all comes together.”

  “What about these two guys you talked about?” Cameron asks. “The guys you said looked like military contractors. Where do they fit in?”

  “I don’t know,” Keller says. “I honestly don’t know where they fit in. But I don’t think they’re here for anything good.”

  There’s a brief silence in the interrogation room. Then Fletcher stands up. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Outside in the hallway, Fletcher takes a drink from the water fountain, then stands up, rubbing his face. “This shit is nuts. This is tin-foil-hat level conspiracy craziness.”

  Cameron’s voice is gentle. “You know what’s different from your usual conspiracy nut?”

  Fletcher sighs. “The part where he’s right about someone contacting us from the government.”

  “And if he’s right about that…”

  “Like the man said. There’s some shit coming down.” Cameron shakes his head. “We need to kick this upstairs, partner. It’s gettin’ away from us. We may need to even call in—”

  “Homeland Security?” Fletcher interrupts. “I seem to remember that lady saying she was from Homeland Security.” He puts his head in his hands. “Fuuuuck.”

  “We still got a guy in there.” Cameron nods to the door of the interrogation room.

  When they go back in, Keller gives them a sad smile. “You’re in that place where you don’t know who to trust. Where up is down and left is right and everything is wrong.”

  The stock reply sticks in Fletcher’s throat. All he can do is nod.

  “Gentlemen,” Keller says, “welcome to my world. Now let me make my phone call.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  As he approaches Keller’s house, MacDonald frowns. There’s a truck parked in the driveway that doesn’t look like Jack’s. He slows the van down. “Hmm. I don’t recognize that truck.”

  Alia looks up from her phone. Her eyes widen. “Drive on,” she says in a low, urgent voice.

  “What?” MacDonald is confused, but he presses down on the gas and speeds up.

  “That truck. With the dent in the side. It was at our house. Watching us.”

  As they pass the cottage, a man looks out the driver’s side window of the truck. As they pass, they’re close enough to see his mouth open and hear him calling something to someone they can’t see.

  “Shit,” Bassim speaks up from the back seat.

  A man exits the house at a run, headed for the truck.

  “Drive,” Alia pleads.

  MacDonald stomps on the gas. “Get on the phone. Call 9-1-1. Tell them there’s a B and E…” As he speaks, the first shot shatters the rear window.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  He’s been Adnan Khoury, warehouse manager, for so long, he doesn’t respond to his birth name at first when the American woman addresses him. “Fadhil Al-Masri?”

  He blinks at her as she stands silhouetted in the open bay door, leaning on her cane and carrying a large leather handbag on her shoulder. “I’m sorry?” He recovers his composure and thinks of the cover he’s maintained for so long. “I think you have mistaken me for someone else.”

  She smiles. “Of course. I should have said Mr. Khoury.”

  He nods. “How may I help you, Miss…”

  “Gray.” She leans forward and speaks in a low voice. “Does the name mean something to you?”

  He looks around. The workers he manages are busy stacking bags of concrete on wooden pallets. “In my office.”

  He closes the door behind him as they enter. The office is cramped, with cheaply paneled walls and a bulletin board crowded with thumbtacked work orders and index cards bearing various phone and account numbers. “Where is Mr. Wilson?”

  She sighs as she takes a seat. “I’m afraid Mr. Wilson is no longer with us.”

  He doesn’t comprehend for a moment. “You mean…dead?”

  She nods. “And I believe the man who killed him was Jack Keller. The man you hired to protect your children.”

  He sinks into his chair. “That is not possible.”

  “Really?” She smiles sadly. “How much do you know about Jack Keller, Mr. Khoury?”

  His eyes narrow. “I know that he saved my children from a bully.” His jaw tightens. “And I have seen the interview he did on that website. The one that caused all the trouble in your,” he grimaces, “intelligence community. Whatever he is, I know he is not with you.”

  She angles her head inquisitively. “Do you not trust us, Mr. Khoury?”

  “Should I?”

  “We’ve been trying to keep you safe.”

  “Who is ‘we’? First there is this Wilson. Who works alone. Or so it seems. We believe everything he tells us, but he never provides any answers as to who or what is threatening us. But we blindly move from place to place because he tells us it’s not safe. And now he is gone, and you show up.” He stands up. “I don’t know you. Wilson never mentioned you. So. Get out.”

  She doesn’t move from the chair. “Mr. Al-Masri—sorry, Mr. Khoury, your children are in danger. And Jack Keller is under arrest.” She leans forward. “You may not trust me, sir, but right now, I’m the only one you can trust.” She reaches into her handbag, pulls out a photograph, and slides it across the desk. Khoury sucks in his breath as he recognizes the person in the picture.

  “We know you used to be partners. And he landed at Raleigh-Durham airport a few days ago. He’s hired a pair of contractors who’ve done a lot of work in the Middle East. Now do you believe in the danger?”

  He looks at her, his eyes hard. “I have always believed in the danger. I am not sure I believe you are the answer to it.”

  She smiles sadly. “And Jack Keller is?” She shrugs. “Try and call him. Now.”

  He hesitates, then picks up the phone and dials Keller’s cell. He listens, then puts his phone down. “Voice mail.”

  “His phone’s in evidence. They’re likely getting a search warrant to do a data dump on it. Meanwhile, he stays in custody. And your children are alone, while Al-Mansour’s men hunt them to use as leverage against you.” She shakes her head. “We need people we can trust, Mr. Khoury. And that means money.”

  He gives her a look of pure hatred. “So again, it is the money. All of this has been a ruse to get the money. The money I tell you I do not have.”

  She shrugs. “It may take a while to convince Al-Mansour of that. In the meantime, your children suffer.”

  His voice is a low, flat hiss. “You bitch.”

  She smiles again. “Guilty as charged. But I have people lined up. Waiting to help you and your family. All they want to know is how they get paid. And I know you’re sitting on far more than it would take to pay them. I’ll be taking the rest as…well, call it a finder’s fee. So, what will it be, Mr. Al-Masri? What will it take to get you to come off some of that money you’ve been sitting on? Are you willing to let your children—”

  “Shut up. Just shut up.” He gets up and goes to the cork bulletin board on the wall. Carefully, he lifts it from the wall and sets it on the floor. Behind it is a safe sunk into the wall. He places his body between the safe and the woman and works the combination. In the silence of the room, the mechanical click of the lock opening sounds like a gunshot. He reaches into the safe and pulls out a large canvas bag. He turns back to the desk and takes a deep breath before tipping its contents onto the desktop. Bricks of cash, bound with paper bands, spill onto the table.

  The woman nods in appreciation, then looks over the stack appraisingly. “This isn’t all of it. Not anywhere near.”

  He won’t look at her. “This should be enough to hire the men you need.”

  She reaches out and takes
the bag from him. Setting it on the desk, she begins scraping the banded bills into its darkness. “We’ll call this a down payment.” She sits back down, the bag in her lap, and reaches back into her handbag. She comes out with a short-barreled black semi-automatic pistol. “Now tell me where the rest is.”

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Deputy Seth Childress has always told friends and family that he likes the busy days. They keep him occupied. Not like those long days, or worse, night shifts, on patrol with nothing happening. He wants to be doing something, not just waiting for something to happen. Some of the older deputies rag him about it; they’re happy with a slow day, and laughingly accuse him of stirring up trouble where there isn’t any. He just smiles and kids them back about being old and lazy. No one takes offense, it’s all a way to pass the time and be part of the unit.

  All that said, some days make Childress feel like he’s scrambling just to keep up. First, he gets sent to the house where some unaccompanied minors are supposed to be, next he’s shunted to investigate a supposed B & E. He grew up in this county, so he recognizes the address of the little stone house everyone calls the old Holly Ridge parsonage. He pulls up in the driveway and looks the place over. There doesn’t seem to be anyone there, but as he leans forward and looks at the front door, he sees it’s slightly open. He frowns and gets on his radio. “Dispatch, this is two-six. I’m at the Holly Ridge parsonage. We got an open door with nobody here. Possible forced entry. I think I’m gonna need some backup.”