Buckthorn hesitated, then picked his glass up. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
“You should say it,” Stark said. “Get used to the idea of hearing it.” His voice became more insistent. “To Sheriff Tim Buckthorn.”
“To Sheriff Tim Buckthorn.” The two men drank. The liquor burned smoothly going down.
__________
“All I can say is, it’s about time,” Janine said as she pinned the bars on his lapel. She stepped back and squinted, assessing her handiwork.
“Congratulations, sir,” Duane Willis said. He was standing in the door of Buckthorn’s office. He was smiling broadly, a change from his usually serious demeanor.
“Thanks,” Buckthorn said. “Feels pretty good, actually. By the way, you two, thanks again for keeping things running while I was gone.”
“No problem, sir,” Willis said.
“Duane, could you give us a minute?”
“Yes, sir.” For a moment, Buckthorn thought he might actually salute, but he just turned and left.
Buckthorn took a seat behind his desk, motioning to Janine to do the same. “I wanted you to be the first to hear the news.”
“Stark’s not running again, and he’s picked you to succeed him.”
Buckthorn looked at her sourly. “You already knew.”
“Pfft,” she said. “Of course I knew.”
“Should I ask how?”
“Probably not, because I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Whatever. I want you to be my assistant. Assuming I win, of course. There’s still an election to go through.”
“Of course you’ll win. Stark’s picked you, and Brubaker Starnes is backing you up. I’ll bet anything you care to wager that no one else will even run.”
“You sound like you think some sort of fix is in.”
“Tim, this is Gibson County. The fix is always in. Just be glad it’s in for you this time. Not that you don’t deserve it.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said. “By the way, that girl reporter from WRHO keeps calling. She wants an interview.”
“Okay. Go ahead and set it up for next week.”
She looked surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah. I promised.”
“Promised who?”
“Agent Wolf.”
Janine made a face. “Him again.”
“He’s a good lawman.”
“He’s nothing but trouble. And that reporter, too.” He started to say something, but she stopped him with an upraised hand. “Never mind. You’re the boss. I’ll call her back.” She stood up. “Congratulations again.”
“Thanks.”
“Just don’t go getting a big head over this.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. If I do, I have someone to set me straight.”
She smiled. “Depend on it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Donovan pulled his vehicle up into the narrow concrete parking area in front of an aircraft-hangar-sized metal building, a few miles out in the countryside near Fayetteville, North Carolina. The big rust-flecked metal doors in the front were rolled to one side in their shaky tracks, opening into the cavernous dimness inside. As he got out of the car, he could hear the high-pitched whine of a saw cutting metal from deep within.
Donovan didn’t enter; he stood outside and waited by the front fender of the SUV. He folded his arms across his chest, his expression unreadable behind his dark sunglasses.
After a few moments, a man came out of the building. He was short, with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair that stuck out at various angles from his head. He walked with a pronounced limp, and one eye was covered with a black patch. The whine of the saw continued from inside.
“Hey,” the one-eyed man said.
Donovan looked over the man’s shoulder, to where the sounds of metal against metal stopped, then started again. “We were supposed to meet alone.”
The one-eyed man looked apologetic. “My nephew,” he said. “He showed up, unexpected like. Had some work he needed to do with the saw. Don’t worry. He don’t know nothin’.”
Donovan grunted reluctant assent. “Okay. You got what I need?”
“Yeah,” the one-eyed man said. “Wasn’t easy at that kind of short notice, though.” He licked his lips nervously. “I had to, ah, pay a little extra.”
Donovan looked at the man. He took his shades off. “I’m willin’ to make some allowances for a rush job,” he said, “but I won’t be taken advantage of. We clear on that?”
The man swallowed. “That’s not how it is,” he said. “You know I wouldn’t do that. But hurryin’ means some of my sources have to cut corners. They run higher risks. Risks cost money. You know how it is.”
“Yeah,” Donovan said. “I do. So. Where’s the order?”
“In back,” the one-eyed man said. He turned and started to walk into the building. Donovan stuck his shades in his pocket and followed.
Inside, the building was cluttered with haphazard stacks of boxes arranged around wooden workbenches. Various kinds of tools and machinery sat on top of the benches, from hand tools to large machines taller than a man. They passed by a bench where a young man with a thick unruly bush of red hair was bent over a saw, doing something Donovan couldn’t identify with a length of metal tubing. The young man looked up as they passed. His eyes were hidden behind thick plastic goggles. He took no further notice of them and turned back to his work. Sparks flew in a bright cascade, flaring and dying as the blade sheared through the metal.
They came out of the back door, into a kind of courtyard bounded on three sides by more metal buildings. The ground in the center of the square was pounded flat and hard as pavement. The one-eyed man led Donovan across the lot, to the smallest of the outbuildings. He pulled a sliding door, like the door of a garage, up into its tracks with a noisy rattle.
In contrast to the other building, this one was empty, save for four wooden boxes, three large and one small, sitting in the center of the work space. The only light was what came through the open door. The air smelled musty and old.
The one-eyed man walked over to one of the crates and raised the lid. Donovan leaned over and picked up a long, thick package wrapped in plastic. He hefted it in his hands as if testing the weight, then grunted again in apparent satisfaction.
“All there?” the one-eyed man said.
“It’ll do,” Donovan said. He drew his pistol from the back of his waistband and shot the one-eyed man through the forehead. The man fell backwards without making a sound, crashing to the floor. He kicked and spasmed for a moment as his outraged brain fired its last signals randomly though his nervous system. Then he lay still, staring up at the ceiling.
Donovan walked back across the courtyard, leaving the boxes behind him. He re-entered the workshop, gun extended before him. The red-haired man was still bent over the workbench. The noise of the saw masked Donovan’s approach. The man never saw him coming. Donovan shot him in the back of the head, then put another bullet in his ear after he fell to the floor.
He knew that what he was about to do with the contents of those boxes was going to bring down heat the likes of which the Monroe organization hadn’t seen in years. Everyone who’d had even the most tenuous connection to them would be squeezed, and squeezed hard. Some might find the pressure unbearable and want to give him up. He’d always made it a point to eliminate any weak links, and in this situation, he presumed any link to him was a weak one. The red-haired man had seen Donovan’s face. That was his bad luck.
Donovan pulled the SUV around into the courtyard and loaded the boxes into the back, covering them with a thick blanket to hide them from casual passers-by. He slid into the seat and started the vehicle. The GPS system on the dash was the latest model, equipped with voice command. He spoke slowly and clearly, as he’d learned to do.
“Navigate,” he said. “Pine Lake. North Carolina.”
__________
Wolf was on ice again, stuck in a windowl
ess office, paging through files of busywork while the Bureau figured out what the hell to do with him. He’d been there before, but familiarity didn’t make it any easier.
The phone on his desk buzzed. He tried not to snarl as he answered. “Wolf.”
“Tony,” a voice said. “Pat Steadman.”
Wolf relaxed slightly. “Hey. Any news?”
“A lot, actually. What do you want first?”
“What’s going on in the kidnapping investigation? How’s the girl?”
He heard a sigh on the other end. “That’s not your case, Tony.”
“Yeah, but let’s just say I have an interest.”
“She’s out of the hospital. Home and resting. And keeping her mouth shut. Like her mother.”
“They’re scared. And they probably ought to be, with Donovan still out there. Any luck finding him?”
“Don’t you want to know whether or not you’re going to have a job? You or your partner?”
“Do we?”
“Yeah. I talked to OPR. They’re not happy with either of you. But I persuaded them that cashiering a couple of heroes who saved a kidnapped girl and killed the kidnapper wouldn’t make very good press.”
“That’s why you’re a Deputy Director. Always seeing the big picture.”
“Spare me the ass-kissing. You’re terrible at it.”
Wolf laughed. “True. So when do we get back to work? We need to find Donovan. I’d like to interview Monroe. Squeeze him a little.”
“No.”
Wolf frowned. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, you stay the hell away from him. And Donovan, too.”
“What? Why?” His voice rose. “Sean Donovan tried to kill my partner, Pat. He’s ours.”
Steadman’s voice rose. “What part of ‘it’s not your case’ do you not get?” He got himself back under control. “Look, Tony, part of the price of you and Dushane not getting delivered up to OPR is that you’re not to be involved any more. You pissed in too many people’s corn flakes this time.”
“Now look…”
“No, you look, Agent Wolf,” Steadman said, and there was steel in his voice. “I’ve been to the well for you a bunch of times. You’re one of the best agents I’ve ever seen, and the Bureau owes you a lot. But the well. Is. Dry. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir,” Wolf murmured.
“Good. I’ll let you break the news to your partner.”
“Just tell me one thing,” Wolf began, but the line was dead. He stared at it for a moment, teeth gritted in frustration, then set the receiver into the cradle, gently, repressing his desire to slam it down. He pulled out his cell and hit Dushane’s number on his speed dial. He considered the best way to give her the news. But the call went straight to voice mail. He frowned. He’d never known her to cut her phone off. “L.D.,” he said when the outgoing message was done. “It’s Tony. Call me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The bodies were laid out around him in a circle like the spokes of a gruesome wheel. Loretta. Janine. His nephews, Brandon and Ethan. Callie Preston. There were no marks on the bodies. They lay peacefully, eyes closed, their hands folded reverently across their chests. Leila, he thought. Where’s Leila?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, she walked into view, pacing slowly around the circle. He tried to call her name, but the words stuck in his throat. She stopped and turned to look at him. Her eyes were gone, replaced by pools of deep red blood.
You’re dreaming, he said to himself. Wake up. WAKE UP. Even though he was paralyzed, frozen helplessly in place, he could feel himself struggling. He heard a loud buzzing sound and looked up. A chainsaw had appeared as if by magic in Leila’s hands. She was holding it above her head, running at full speed. Tears of blood ran down her cheeks. She walked forward, bringing the saw down towards Loretta’s body….
Buckthorn sat up straight in the bed, gasping for breath. His body was drenched with sweat, heart pounding, the blood throbbing so hard in his temples he had a brief flash of greater fear that he might be having a stroke. He heard the buzzing sound from his dream again, loud and insistent. He looked over to find the source and saw his cellphone, lying on the bedside table, the screen glowing with the incoming call. With shaking hands he picked it up and looked at it.
INCOMING CALL FROM: LEILA.
He pressed the button and put the phone to his ear. “Hey.”
“Hey. Did I wake you?”
He looked at the clock. 3:37. “Yeah,” he said. “But it’s okay. I was having a nightmare.” The dream was fading so fast, he was starting to lose the details, even as the physical effects lingered. The sweat drying on his chest and brow felt cool and clammy.
“I’m getting those too,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. Not that I did it that much anyway, but now I really can’t.” She sighed. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, really,” he said. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Yours, too.” She said it so softly he could barely hear her.
“Look, what we’re going through is totally normal, okay?”
“Doesn’t feel normal. They’re trying to get me set up for an appointment with one of the Bureau shrinks.”
“That’s good.”
“Not really. You know how it is. If I tell him what’s going on, I’ll be behind a goddamn desk for the rest of my career. So I feed him a line of happy horseshit, tell him I’m fine, and hope he lets me get back to work.”
“Well, you know you can talk to me,” he said.
“That’s good. I’m glad. I didn’t know if you’d started feeling…you know, kind of weird about what happened.”
“I do. But not about what happened between us. Well, maybe a little weird about it. But in a good way.”
“So…you still want to get together this weekend?”
“Of course,” she said. “Why would you even ask that?”
“I don’t know. I’m just…You know, some guys…” she stopped.
“That’s not me,” he said. “Ever.”
“Jesus,” she said. “Listen to me. I sound like a damn teenager. A crazy one.”
“You really don’t,” he said.
“Anyway, what’s going on with you? Everything okay at work?”
“Yeah,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got some news.” He told her about his conversation with Stark.
“That’s fantastic!” she said. “You deserve it.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been much of a politician.”
“And this is a problem why?”
He laughed. “I guess I’m just suspicious. If this is something my brother-in-law wants so badly, I can’t help but think it’s a bad idea for me.”
“Trust that instinct,” she said. “But do it anyway. You’re a good man, Tim. If you don’t do it, God knows what kind of empty suit he’ll try to put in the job.”
“You’re probably right.” A thought occurred to him. “Listen, if you’d like to stay through Saturday, there’s a kind of reception Saturday night. To sort of introduce me around to people.”
“Don’t they know you already?”
“Not as a candidate.”
“Blecch,” she said. “Sounds awful.”
“It does. But it might not be so bad if you were there.”
“Seriously? You really want me to come with you to this political thing?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You’re not worried I’ll say the wrong thing? I tend to do that, you know.”
He laughed. “I know. But you can say anything you like. You’re part of my life now, Leila. At least I want you to be. And if people have a problem with you, then that’s just too damn bad. I don’t want the job that bad.”
There was a long pause, so long that he glanced at the screen to see if the call had been dropped. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” she said. Her voice sounded choked. “I’m here.”
“You okay?”
“Ye
ah. I am. I really, really am.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll get the LBD out of the back of the closet. It’ll be fun.”
“LBD?”
“Little Black Dress,” she clarified.
He chuckled. “I cannot wait to see you in that.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t wait for you to see me out of it.”
The image made his mouth go dry. His heart started pounding again, this time in a good way. It took him a moment to work up the courage to say what he wanted to say next. “I want you so bad it hurts,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said. “Me, too. Get some rest, cowboy. You’re gonna need it.”
“Oh, like I’m going to be able to sleep now,” he said.
“Listen,” she said. “Like I said, I’m doing busy work till the shrinks and OPR clear me. I can take a personal day. It’s a two-hour drive to where you are, give or take. I can be there by the time Lulu’s opens. I’ve got a craving for some good coffee and a biscuit. Afterwards.”
“After…” he paused. “Oh.”
“You game?”
“Damn right I am,” he said.
__________
“I never did get that biscuit,” Dushane said. She was lying on her stomach, her head on her folded arms.
Buckthorn leaned over and kissed her naked shoulder. “Or any sleep either,” he said.
She rolled over and sat up, pulling the sheet up to her neck. “Neither did you,” she said, smiling.
“Well, you can stay a while and sleep if you like.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not?” He chuckled. “I figure I can trust you. There’s coffee in the tin on the counter. Not much else, I’m afraid. But I’ve got to go.”
She looked at the clock, dismayed. “Oh, hell. You’re late for work.”
“Yeah,” he said, buttoning his uniform shirt. “First time in twenty years. They’ll get over it, I think.”
“Sorry.”
Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield Page 18
