I walked into the Taneycomo Café without my leash.
Givens was the first to notice. He tried to wave me off, counting on a level of discretion it was foolish to credit me with. His face had melted to an exasperated frown by the time I got to the table. Then Keene saw me. Boone was still shoveling biscuits and gravy in his mouth.
“Cozy kind of investigation you run,” I said.
“Goddamn it,” Givens said.
It was the wrong thing to blurt out in the middle of the poster crowd for white, evangelical voters. Especially pointing it at a woman.
I looked around the quiet room. Boone was the only one still eating.
“Careful,” I said. “You don’t have any friends in here.”
Keene stood to face me. “You’re the one who’s going to need friends—Hurricane.” He sneered my nickname.
I never liked being called Hurricane. I liked it less coming from him. “Friends?” I asked. “I’ve got them.”
“Fuckin’ A.” Someone behind me said. I heard flatware clattering on dishes and chairs scraping back.
Keene looked like he wanted something to happen. Givens looked like he wanted to disappear.
“What are you hoping to get out of this, Detective?” Givens asked. His tone was very calm.
“What does any investigator want?” I asked back. “Answers.”
“You won’t get any here,” Keene said. “You’re out of your pond little fish.”
“Maybe,” I looked down at Boone who had stopped eating to grin back and forth between me and his keepers. “But it looks to me like you’re swimming in the toilet.”
“You talkin’ ‘bout me?” Boone stood with Keene and he looked ready to pick up where we left off last time.
“In this scenario, Keene’s the fish.” I looked squarely at Silas Boone daring him to react. “You’re the crap he’s swimming with.”
In the space of a sparrow’s heartbeat, Givens was on his feet and he’d done something that I never saw. Whatever it was, dropped Boone back to his seat. Next thing, his hand, one finger pointed, was up in front of Keene. It was a hovering warning less than an inch from the end of his nose.
I was reevaluating the nature of their relationship.
Givens turned to me and dropped his hand from Keene’s face. “Are you finished here? Because my breakfast is getting cold.”
“What kind of investigation do you really have going on?”
“There are no answers for you here, Detective Williams.” Givens held his gaze firm on my eyes.
“Why are you protecting a murder suspect?”
“You need to leave.”
“Was the death of the girl a result of direct action by you or collateral damage?”
“You are out of line.” Keene found his voice again. “I serve my country.”
“Sometimes we serve best by refusing to do what’s asked.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Captain Keene,” Givens said, and he had command in his voice. “You need to de-escalate this and step away.”
“Fuck this bitch,” Keene said. He was past being reined in by his partner. He pointed at me. “You want to call me—my service—into question, I’ll take it out of your lying ass.” The finger he had pointed at me became fingers as he spread his hand and grabbed at me.
He was angry and I was ready. When his hand touched my collar he never got the chance to take hold. I caught him with my right thumb in his palm and fingers at his wrist. At the same time, I brought my left arm up under his elbow. I turned in as I twisted and Keene went down with his face in his eggs.
After a moment like that, things can get over or they can get uglier. I was betting on ugly when I saw Boone grab up his fork. Givens reached for something behind his back and I assumed it was going to be much deadlier than a fork.
Givens could get me. But I had the satisfaction of knowing that he would not live through it. The thing is, Missouri has one of the most liberal open-carry laws in the country. The state had recently even eliminated the requirement of basic permits. Combine that with a standing mistrust of the federal government and you were looking at Ruby Ridge in the diner.
Givens cleared and aimed his 9mm at me faster than reason. There were two things about his action that were tremendously scary. First, he pulled knowing we were in a crowded, public space with civilians in line of fire. And second, he didn’t blink when three other weapons, all much bigger than 9mm, I couldn’t help but notice, were pulled on him.
“Let him up,” Givens said, his voice slow and steady as a steamroller.
Givens was a steel spine pro. He didn’t falter or show anything but resolve. Not until I glanced back at the guns supporting me and back to him. That was when I twisted and Keene gasped in pain.
“I’m willing if you are,” I said to Givens. At the time, I may have meant it. He seemed to think so. I saw the front sight of his Glock, tick down slightly. In any other, less-steady hand, it would have been nothing. In that man’s hand, it was everything.
I smiled.
We were all saved from my next bad decision by the tinkle of a bell and a booming voice like Moses on the mount.
“Put those guns away,” the Reverend Roscoe Bolin bellowed from the café door.
Everyone, even Givens, did.
I bent over Keene and quietly asked, “Who’s the bitch now?” Then I let him go and shoved a napkin at him. It wasn’t so quiet when I told him, “Clean yourself up.”
“Hurricane Williams,” Roscoe bellowed. He released the open door and it closed behind him once again ringing the bell over it. “Is this the way you conduct the business of the people?”
“Yes, Reverend,” I said, unapologetic. “One of the ways.”
“And have you accomplished anything?”
I looked at Givens. “I don’t know,” I answered. “But I think I learned a few things.”
“I hope it was worth the danger you put these people in.”
“My weapon never left my holster.” I was speaking more for Keene and Givens at that point. “I’ll let the, assaulting-a-police-officer charge go, though. In the spirit of cooperation.”
I don’t think he bought it or really cared. Reverend Bolin waved an impatient hand at Boone. “Come along, Silas. Let’s get back to the tabernacle.”
“I never finished my breakfast,” Boone complained.
“No time for that,” Roscoe told him. “We have to run.”
Boone tossed the dirty fork he’d been holding onto his plate and started walking.
“I’m going to need to talk with you again, Reverend.” I said as the pair were headed out the door. “About last night. About the girl.”
It wasn’t until then that I noticed the same dark man, I’d seen earlier at the big RV. I worked my memory for the name that Roscoe had used. Massoud. It was a given name, nothing to run.
“I think it might be in everyone’s best interest if further discussions went through my lawyer,” He responded without looking back. “He’ll be in touch.” Roscoe went through the door and the bell tinkled again.
I followed and quickly cut in front of the stranger. “Just a moment, sir. What’s your involvement with the Reverend?”
He stared at me without the slightest indication of concern.
I glanced at Roscoe who was standing at the curb waiting. There was a storm of colors in his eyes. The rest of him looked relaxed.
When I looked back at Massoud, he lifted his right hand and wiped at his prodigious mustache. Two of the fingers on the hand had large, gold rings. The one on his middle finger had a blue stone with a Coptic cross in the center.
“What’s the matter,” I asked. “Don’t you speak English?”
He burst with a belly laugh then used that ringed middle finger to point at my face. It sounds like a simple gesture. There was nothing simple about any of it. His laugh was warm and bright. It was an easy sound. However, the look on his face remained hard. The eyes were like f
ixed black stones without life or movement. His teeth, tobacco stained and jagged, danced up and down in a mirthless chewing of air that had no connection to the sound escaping from behind them. Then he nodded, tucking away the laughter, but not the pointing finger. I didn’t know exactly what he was trying to say, but I felt a skin crawling malevolence in the way he chose to say it.
Massoud dropped his finger and turned to step around me.
“Excuse me,” I spoke louder than I intended to.
He kept walking.
“Hey!”
Massoud turned. It was a swift and sure motion. Not at all what I’d expected from a man of his stiff bearing and age.
“You are typical,” he said in an East Coast American accent. “Small town, small mind assumptions.” With a sniff, as if something all of a sudden smelled bad, he stroked his mustache again, then said, “If you have just cause to stop me, Detective. Do so. Otherwise, understand, I choose not to engage in conversation other than that officially required. And then, only with my lawyer present.”
He turned again, and strolled with a strong, straight back alongside Reverend Bolin.
* * *
It wasn’t until I had gotten out of the café, leaving Givens and Keene behind, that the reality hit me. There had almost been an honest-to-God shoot-out in the Taneycomo Café. I could rationalize it any way I wanted, but the whole thing came down to me pushing buttons just to see what would happen. That was irresponsible. More and more, that seemed to be an aspect of my nature.
I hadn’t thought of myself as the loose cannon on the deck, but I was beginning to understand why others would.
The question was, what would I do with it?
I could hear my therapist asking. I could hear myself not answering.
I had a lot of time not to answer because I decided to try for a talk with Mike Resnick. I say try, because Conservation Agents get to work early and they don’t hang around an office. I expected him to be out on the lake and unreachable. I got lucky when he picked up the call on the first ring. He didn’t sound very happy to hear from me though.
“What do you want, Hurricane?”
“No hello?” I asked. I probably didn’t sound very happy either.
“I’m working and I’m busy.”
“Fair enough. I’d like to talk though. Are you on dry land?”
“I’m at Cooper Creek boat landing, checking fishing licenses and stringer counts. Can’t it wait?”
“How about if it waits the fifteen minutes it’ll take me to get there? I want to talk to you about Daniel Boone and Damon.”
“What about them?”
“When I get there.” I broke the connection, then called my destination into dispatch.
Cooper is a public landing where those who don’t rent slips at a private dock can trailer their boats in and out of the water. Just like traffic cops stake out those parts of the road known for speeding, agents like Mike make random checks at boat landings and docks.
When I arrived, Mike was standing with a foot up on the fender of a trailer looking into the wells of the boat it carried. The bass boat, all metal flake fiberglass and flashy graphics was still dripping wet after being pulled from the lake. At the bow of the boat, between it and the big truck by which it was pulled, stood an unhappy-looking man.
I saw Mike counting and writing in his ticket book. It looked like it was going to be a big over-limit fine.
Instead of going over there and making things worse for the fisherman, and maybe Mike, I took my truck over to park beside the Conservation Department Ram. In stark contrast to the flashy bass boat Mike was ticketing, the department boat on his trailer was a basic V-bottom aluminum model with a tiller-steered outboard motor. No one ever said government work was glamorous.
The landing was busy. There was a boat being launched and a couple of trailers lined up waiting their turn. I saw five boats bobbing out in the lake waiting to come in. There were two that were conspicuously holding back, waiting, I thought, for Mike to go away.
Standing beside Mike’s boat I couldn’t help but notice the clutter in it. It wasn’t that surprising I guess. I’ve heard stories from CAs about confiscating everything from beer to dynamite on the lake. It all has to be tagged and logged and sometimes we all fall behind in the paper work. Besides that, when you’re on the water all day, you can’t just run back to pick up something you need. Everything has to come with you.
From out on the main road a horn honked and tires skidded on pavement. After a second I heard someone yelling. It had probably been a close call but I didn’t hear any crash so I ignored it. Something else caught my attention.
Sticking out the front of Mike’s boat were two poles coming to dangerous-looking terminations. The shorter one had a gaff head. The long one had a gig. It was the same one I had noticed Monday night when we were dealing with Daniel Boone and the pile of fish. The pair were protruding beyond the prow and I almost walked right into the points.
I heard more yelling and the sound of tires squealing again. This time they were louder and getting closer.
Someone burst through the trees and ran across the broad lot, pumping his arms and legs for all he was worth. Dewey Boone. The moment I recognized him, there was a new squeal of tires and a car careened from the access road into the parking area. It spun, making the sharp turn to point itself right at the sprinting boy.
Dewey was running so fast he was basically out of control. When his foot hit a patch of gravel, he flailed and almost fell, then caught himself. Only for a moment, though. He couldn’t keep his balance and overcorrected as his arms went windmilling over and over. He tumbled forward leading with his hands and his face.
Dewey hit hard and bounced into a roll then came up bloody and running again. Behind him, the car was barreling forward tracking his path. There was no doubt, Dewey was running for his life.
The car was an SUV a bit beat-up and muddy, but the engine seemed more than up to the job of catching a running kid.
I shouted his name and Dewey must have heard me. He turned and looked. At that moment I was able to see the side of his face he’d fallen on. It was scraped and bloody. Then I noticed his hands. His arms weren’t swinging as strongly as they were, so I could see that a couple of fingers were bent in the wrong direction. One looked to have a bone showing through. Instead of being fisted, Dewey’s hands were open as he ran. They were slinging trails of red.
Dewey won his race, in a manner. About the same time I started running at the car, he hit the water. The SUV skidded to a stop on the ramp and three of its doors opened.
Still running and with my badge held high, I shouted, “Sheriff’s Department. Stop.”
We pretty much have to say that and it pretty much never works. The kind of people who you have to shout that to are not great respecters of the police.
Before I ever got a look at anyone in the SUV, its doors closed and it bolted into a skidding U-turn, but took the time to try to bring me down.
I lunged to my left and rolled onto my shoulder and came up with my weapon drawn. I had no clear shot so I raised then secured the gun. The SUV had no rear plate.
A shout and a splash reminded me of Dewey. When I looked, he was standing in a boat that had been idling up to its trailer. The owner was in the water, still shouting. Dewey was backing away and ignoring the string of obscenities condemning him.
Heading for the shore with my phone out I called dispatch and waved my hands trying to get Dewey’s attention. He saw me. I told Doreen, our dispatcher where I was and what had happened as quickly as I could, sending a BOLO for the SUV. At the same time I walked to the edge of the water.
“Dewey! Come back in.” I shouted.
He shook his head.
“We can protect you.”
Shake.
“You don’t want to do this.”
“It wasn’t me,” he finally shouted back. “I was going to help her. I was going to marry her.”
“You’ve got to come
back to make it right, Dewey.”
He hit the throttle and spun the wheel kicking up a shower of foam and a deep wake behind him. I shouted again but he headed across the lake toward Arkansas.
When I gave up tracking Dewey and turned around, Mike was gone. He had offered no assistance and instead used the distraction to drive from the scene.
I wasn’t feeling very kindly disposed toward Mike Resnick at that point but I knew I could track him down easily. I stayed and worked the crowd. One man reported that he’d clearly seen the front of the vehicle chasing Dewey. There were no front plates either.
As I worked I kept tabs on the BOLO and planned my next step. No one caught sight of the SUV. I was pretty sure if we did a little poking around the Starry Night Traveling Salvation Show we’d find it. I was just as sure that we would run into a federal roadblock if we tried. Reverend Bolin’s evangelical movement was somehow tied up with the government and it wasn’t exactly clear how. Givens and Keene never mentioned the show or Roscoe, but both were surrounded with rough-looking military types. They looked to me to be the kind of private contractors the government has been using to stretch the reach of the real military into places we sometimes didn’t want official fingerprints. Somehow the entire Boone family, except maybe Dewey, was part of the team.
So the big question was, were the feds investigating or protecting these men? The next, and only slightly smaller question was, how did I move ahead?
My answer was Daniel Boone and his murder. There was something, literally, fishy there. And I was feeling that Billy had been onto something about the connections between Daniel, the fish, Mike, and the Russian.
Was Damon in that chain somewhere? One thing that was becoming certain was that Daniel Boone’s death was a middle link and not an end. From him there are connections to fish poaching, Damon, and Mike. Had they become involved only since that night or was there a relationship before that was being hidden?
Following connections the other direction led from Daniel to Silas and Dewey then right under the tents of Reverend Bolin’s evangelic church by way of the federal government.
A Particular Darkness Page 16
