“Probably the dad,” Crockett said, and opened his door.
As he and Stitch walked across the lot, a large white male wearing a white t-shirt and carrying something in his right hand, exited the pickup truck, kicked the Sturgis causing it to slip its stand and fall on its side in the gravel, then he headed for the club.
“Ya think it is?” Stitch said, and moved away from Crockett at a trot, circling to their right.
“Mister Hunt?” Crockett shouted.
A hundred feet or more from Crockett, the man stopped and turned around. “Who wants to know?”
“Sheriff’s department, Mister Hunt. Stop right there, please.”
“This don’t concern you,” Hunt spat, and started back toward the club.
Crockett picked up his pace, gaining on the man. “I’m afraid it does, Mister Hunt. You set one foot in that place, and you are going to jail.”
Hunt whirled on him. “To jail? One a them goddamn outlaws in there has got my daughter. Arlene ain’t got no business with none a them in a place like that. I’m takin’ her home.”
Crockett moved to within ten feet of the distressed man. Hunt had a large crescent wrench in his left hand.
“Drop the weapon, please,” Crockett said.
“It ain’t nothin’ but a wrench!”
“Nossir. Right now it is a weapon. I’d like to see it on the ground, please.”
The man slipped the head of the wrench in a hip pocket and showed Crockett both his hands. “How’s that?” he asked.
“That’s a start. How old is Arlene, Mister Hunt?”
“Don’t make no difference how old she is. She’s my daughter!”
“How old?”
“She’s eighteen.”
“That what I thought. She’s of age, sir. She can pretty much go where she wants and do what she pleases.”
“I won’t have her hangin’ around with these assholes, doin’ drugs and drinkin’ like these low-life sonsabitches. Hell, she got a tattoo, for chrissakes!”
“I know how frustrating this must be, sir. But the truth is, there’s nothing legally that you can do. You walk into that place with the attitude you are displaying, and your next stop will be the hospital.”
“I can take care of myself!”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute, but there’s a lot more of them than there are of you,” Crockett replied.
“You sidin’ with these dirty bastards?”
“Not a bit, Mister Hunt. I’m siding with the law. The law favors your daughter. Nobody in there is serving your daughter alcohol, by the way. They know she’s underage.”
“Who told you that?”
“The owner. I spoke with him about you and your daughter earlier today.”
“What?”
“So here’s the deal, Mister Hunt. You can settle down, go away, and take all this up with your daughter at a later time in another place, or you can eventually wind up in jail. What you absolutely cannot do is storm inside that club with a weapon in your hand.”
“If Arlene’s mother was still alive, this’d kill her.”
“You walk into that place and try to take your daughter out, she might be an orphan before the whole thing is over. I’m sorry, but you have to leave.”
“Who’s gonna run me off? You?”
“Mister Hunt, please don’t challenge me. I do not want to have to tangle with you, sir. Just get back in your truck and leave.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you’re going to jail.”
Hunt looked Crockett up and down. “Who’s gonna put me there?” he asked.
“Me,” Crockett said.
“I don’t think so,” Hunt bristled and took a half step toward Crockett.
Stitch, who’d been standing two steps behind Hunt for thirty seconds or so, quickly slipped the wrench from the big man’s hip pocket and used it to strike a significant blow to the outside of his left knee.
“Sorry, man,” Stitch said, as Hunt yelled and fell to his left side.
Crockett quickly cuffed the man, and he and Stitch supported the limping Hunt to the truck and installed him in the rear seat. Stitch stayed with him and radioed for backup as Crockett put on his sap gloves and returned to the club. A couple of worthies and their ladies stood on the porch. Crockett went inside. Bison spotted him almost immediately and lumbered in Crockett’s direction. The place was full. Seventies rock blasted through the air. Heads turned.
“Crockett.” Bison said. “What’s up?”
“Your bad guy is in my truck.”
“You got him?”
“Yeah.”
“Christ! I didn’t even know he was here.”
“Where’s his kid?”
Bison looked toward the rear of the crowded room. “Back there,” he said. “Little blond bitch in the yella tank top settin’ at the second table from the corner.”
Crockett, the object of considerable inspection, walked back to the location. Two men, the daughter, and another woman sat at a four-spot. The girl was the only one that appeared to have bathed recently. She was also the only one that acknowledged his presence.
“Miss Hunt?” he asked.
Too cool for school, she looked at him from a pretty face with multiple piercings and flipped her hair. “Maybe,” she said.
Crockett smiled. “Miss Hunt, would you please accompany me outside for a moment or two?”
“What for?”
“So I can talk with you without having to shout over all this noise. I’m tired. It takes a lot of effort to shout.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Now don’t be like that, Arlene,” Crockett said. “You’re gonna leave here sooner or later. If I have to, I’ll just wait out beside the Sturgis for you. I’ve got lotsa time.”
“Fuck you.”
Crockett smiled and glanced at the other three. “My goodness,” he said, looking around the group. “These kids today, huh? I’ve been nice and polite, and she treats me like that. I blame the parents.”
A snicker or two erupted from the next table.
“C’mon Arlene,” Crockett went on. “Let’s go chat.”
“You got a warrant?” This from the worthy sitting next to Arlene. Thirty, raw-boned and dressed in a t-shirt, jean vest, and black Levis.
Crockett turned to him. “You’d be Clutch, I guess,” he said. “Let me answer your question with a question, Mister Clutch. You got a dentist?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Crockett went on, his voice picking up an edge. “The law is a little different in here than out in the county. I don’t need a warrant. I’ve got Bison and Joker. You think anybody wants to fuck with them? You give me trouble over something that is absolutely none of your business, and you’ll need that dentist. I’ll leave you on the floor, and Arlene and I will still go outside. My name’s Crockett. That mean anything to you, Mister Clutch?”
Clutch glared at Crockett for a moment, then looked at his hands. “Go with him,” he said.
When all was said and done, Arky arrived for backup but didn’t get out of the car and the Hunt daughter promised not to come to Whiskey River again. Her father was assured that if he ever set foot in the club or the parking area, he’d be busted for criminal trespass to land then he was released to go home. Clutch lightened up and actually shook hands with Crockett.
Stitch, Bison, and Crockett eventually stood on the porch contemplating the events of the evening.
“Well,” Bison said, “I reckon you’re going home, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You got your time card? I figure I owe ya about five and a half burgers. After taxes and shit, maybe three.”
Crockett flipped him the bird as he and Stitch walked to the truck. Bison’s chuckle floated easily on the cool night air.
Satin was waiting up when Crockett got back to the cabin.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Everything’s quiet for tonight, at least. Stitch h
it a guy with a big-assed crescent wrench.”
“What?”
“Yep. Girl’s father was giving me shit outside the club, acting like he wanted to take me on; and ol’ Stitch smacked him in the knee with the guy’s own wrench. Folded up like a cheap lawn chair. I talked with the kid and her lovely young fellow. Maybe things are settled. Maybe not. Who among us mortals can know?”
“You got an email from Clete about that preacher. Actually, he just forwarded one to you he got from Irwin Bergman.”
“You read it?”
“Sure.”
“And?”
“If he’s involved, you got the preacher right where you want him. Wanna see it?”
“I want to sit in the swing with my sweetie, drink a shot or two of single malt, and listen to the night creatures rustle in the weeds.”
Satin smiled. “An incurable romantic,” she said.
“Bet ‘cher fine little ass, babycakes,” Crockett replied. “You just put it out there in the swing, honey. I’ll git the booze.”
“A swing and a miss,” Satin said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A cold front came through mid-morning on Thursday, dropping the temperature into the seventies and bringing a light steady rain that lasted until Crockett went to the cafe around five. Smoot was already there.
“Dale,” Crockett said.
Smoot, busy with a mouthful of what may have been lasagna, nodded. Presently he swallowed, took a drink of iced tea, and spoke.
“Nice rain today,” he said. “Good soaking.”
“We needed it.”
Smoot nodded in agreement. “You goin’ out to that meeting with those ladies tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna need Charlie ten-six in that area in case those shitheads come back.”
“Okay. Want me out?”
“Naw. If we need you, the head shed’ll give you a call. Could be nothing.”
“What are you fixin’ to do?”
“I’m gonna hide back up in that driveway with all the other cars and trucks that show up for the gathering and keep Charlie close for backup. Anything happens, we’ll run ‘em down and bust their asses. Can’t get ‘em for last Thursday, but we sure can if we see something tonight.”
“Better you than the daughter.”
“Fran?”
“Yeah. She run some fellas huntin’ that place off three or four years ago with a shotgun. Tough. Her husband was killed a few years back in Afghanistan or someplace.”
Crockett smiled. “She seems capable.”
“She’s that,” Smoot said, dropping a ten on the table and standing up. “You going into the meeting?”
“What makes you ask?”
“You show back up around me carrying a crystal and humming a bunch a shit, and you’re fired.”
Crockett folded his hands and bowed. “It shall be as the Spirit wills it. Karma is all.”
“Shit,” Smoot said, and headed for the door.
Crockett found Charlie at headquarters and talked with him about the evening’s festivities before driving to the Warner residence. He reversed into the drive and parking area, left the truck back far enough it couldn’t be seen from the level of the road, and walked to the house. Fran answered his knock.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I wanted to get here so I could grab a table next to the dance floor before the band started.”
Fran led him through a mudroom and into a small kitchen that was time-locked in 1955. “Coffee’s fresh, cream is in the fridge, sugar’s on the table, cookies are off limits until later, and Mom’s taking a nap,” she said, sitting down at an old chrome dinette with a gray and white Formica top.
“What time do you customarily throw Hornwort on the fire and sacrifice the first goat?” Crockett asked.
Fran couldn’t help herself. She snorted and smiled. “Around seven-thirty. We wait ‘til after dark for the broom races.”
“That’s good,” Crockett said. “No point in alarming the neighbors.”
Fran looked at him for a moment. “”This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?”
It was Crockett’s turn to smile. “Not quite,” he said, taking a seat. “I’ve been, ah…involved in a couple of strange things over the years.”
Fran’s eyes lost focus for a moment, her posture relaxed, and she came back. “They’re all fine, you know,” she said. “At peace. And they all love you.”
A lump hit Crockett’s throat. “Who?” he asked.
“The man from years ago. It wasn’t your fault. He doesn’t blame you. And the two women you loved who passed more recently.”
The room seemed to shift on its axis a bit, and Crockett felt tears well in his eyes. “Good to know,” he whispered.
“Christ,” Fran said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It was just there, and I didn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“That’s okay,” Crockett replied, collecting himself as he watched her get up and pour a cup of coffee. “I meant it when I said it was good to know. It just caught me off guard.”
“Me, too,” Fran said, sitting down and putting a cup in front of him.
“You are something else, lady.”
“So are you,” Fran said. “Have a cookie.”
Crockett smiled. “Thanks. Can I eat it in the other room in Grandfather’s rocking chair?”
“I think that would be good,” Fran said. “I’ll leave you alone. Mom’ll be up in about thirty minutes. Enjoy your time and your cookie.” She smiled at him and went outside.
Crockett eyeballed the cookies. He took two. The chair was just right.
The women began arriving a little before eight. Crockett went outside to sit in the truck as darkness fell. He contacted Charlie and confirmed that he was a mile or so south on Privot Road and waiting. It was a quiet night and cool after the rain. Traffic on the oiled farm road was almost nonexistent. He thought of Paul Case and Rachael and Ruby, and how easily Fran picked up on them and his hurt. He listened to the peeping of frogs from a small stock pond down the slope behind the drive, the chirping of crickets, the occasional spate of laughter from the house, and was nearly dozing when a large farm truck rumbled by and caused him to clear his throat and sit up.
He looked down the road and noticed headlights some distance away. When they went off for no apparent reason, he started the truck. Dark, the car approached the little bluff on which the house sat. He lost sight of it below the lip of the yard and grabbed the mic.
“Heads up, Charlie. I think we got a bite.”
“Ten-four.”
Crockett saw an airborne flame arc up over the lip of the yard, strike a large oak tree about fifteen feet in front of the house and heard the car accelerate. Almost instantly, the front side of the tree and the yard near it were engulfed in flames. Molotov cocktail! He goosed the siren to call the women out of the house and grabbed the mic to yell at Charlie. The flames, powered only by the kerosene or gasoline, were losing power on the wet tree and grass. He left the ladies to tend to the fire, shot out of the drive and onto the road, and turned the Ram loose.
The beige car was nearly a quarter of a mile ahead when he saw it crest a rise, but it was no match for the truck. He was gaining rapidly. When he reached Privot Road and turned right, he was no more than a hundred yards behind. In his rearview mirror he saw Charlie’s red and blue lights a half-mile behind him. He clicked on his own, closed to within a hundred feet of the fleeing vehicle, slowed to under ninety to keep from running into the car, hit it with every driving light he had, and clicked the siren on yelp. Nothing. The car, with at least three occupants, made no attempt to pull over or stop. Crockett got on the radio.
“Hart two to HQ!”
“Go, two!”
“In pursuit of an old beige Ford Taurus, Missouri tags C Charlie, L Lincoln, B Bravo, six, six, five, northbound on Privot Road from farm road one-seventeen. Vehicle does not seem inclined to stop. Charlie’s with me for backup.”
“Ten-four, two
. More backup?”
“No yet, HQ. He’s not going to get away. If necessary, I’ll PIT him. Occupant of vehicle threw a firebomb at the Warner residence. The fire is confined to wet grass.”
“Ten-four two. Be advised, Hart six just left post and is heading your way.”
“Ten four, HQ. Two out.”
Crockett stayed behind the fleeing vehicle for another mile or two before he began to lose patience. “Hey Charlie?”
“Go two.”
“We’re gonna get to a major road in a minute. Next time this idiot has to slow down for a curve or something, I’m gonna PIT him. Drop back a little so we don’t get in each other’s way.”
“Ten four.”
Crockett never got the chance. They were doing about eighty-five when the thirty-five mile per hour sign flashed by, denoting a curve ahead. The Taurus braked violently, threw a right front tire, left the road in a flat spin, and whirled fifty yards or so out into a bean field. Crockett eased the Ram into the field and out to the vehicle. Charlie stopped on the narrow shoulder and hustled to the car on foot.
The three young men in the car, who apparently had not been wearing seat belts, were pretty scrambled because of the spin and offered no resistance as they were removed from the Taurus, put face down in the bean plants, and handcuffed. They started getting a little mouthy by the time they’d been installed in the rear of Charlie’s car. Gordon Mills showed up and was given the job of photographing the scene, the skid marks on the road, the two remaining Molotov cocktails in the car, and the towing of the vehicle to Jelly Morton’s garage. Crockett followed Charlie back to the head shed, installed two sixteen-year-olds in juvenile cells, an eighteen-year-old named Lawrence Stephen Pike in an adult cell, and returned to the office area for coffee. Charlie followed him.
“Ah, Crockett?”
“Yeah?”
“We gonna process these guys?”
“You are.”
Six Cut Kill Page 22
