Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

Dushane and Buckthorn looked back through the car’s rear window. A column of black smoke was rising in the distance.

  “Last time I heard that sound,” Willis said. “Was in Baghdad.”

  “Oh my god,” Dushane said.

  “Duane.” Buckthorn said, his voice sounding strangled. Willis was already turning onto the shoulder of the road. He whipped the car around in a tight arc and headed back the way they came, towards the smoke.

  “All units, County,” the dispatcher’s voice came over the radio, tight with tension and fear. “All units. Explosion and fire at 2311 Bristow Road, Pine Lake. Repeat, all units. Respond, explosion and fire at 2311 Bristow Road, Pine Lake…”

  “That’s Lulu’s,” Willis said as he stomped the accelerator. He hit the button for the siren and it began to wail.

  __________

  Donovan heard the sharp sound of the explosion as he made the turn into the motel parking lot. He froze as he saw the Gibson County Sheriff’s car in the lot. There was a young deputy standing next to it, looking confused as he stared into the distance where the sound of sirens was beginning to rise. At first, he didn’t seem to notice Donovan as he pulled up outside the door of his room. When Donovan opened the door and swung his legs out, he had his pistol concealed behind his back. He saw the kid’s head turn towards him, saw eyes narrow and the jaw set in determination. Bad day to be you, Sunny Jim, he thought as the kid started towards him.

  “Sir,” the kid called out just as Donovan drew the gun from behind his back and fired. The bullet hit the young cop in the throat. He staggered and clawed at his neck, a gout of red blood spilling from the wound. He fell to his knees, one hand clutching at this throat as if to try and hold the blood in, the other groping for his holster. Donovan fired again and hit the kid square between the eyes just as his knees hit the ground. His body bent backwards at the waist at an impossible angle, then fell over sideways, twitching and shaking in his death throes. Donovan looked over at the door to the motel office. No one came out, but he saw the Venetian blind lift slightly in the window next to the door. He began walking towards the office with a long, determined stride that turned into a run as he saw the blind drop into place. He heard the lock click as he reached the door and dropped his shoulder to slam against it. The door shivered, but held. He stepped back and delivered a shattering side kick to the door. The frame splintered, revealing the terrified face of the old man who’d checked him in, cowering behind the high topped counter. He had the desk phone in one hand and he was fumbling at the keypad with the other. He dropped the phone and raised his hands high when he saw Donovan. Donovan shot him in the face. The old man dropped to the floor as if his bones had suddenly dissolved. Donovan went behind the counter and stepped over the body to where the phone lay on the floor. He picked it up and put it to his ear. Dial tone. Maybe the old man hadn’t had the chance to call 911. He raised the phone over his head and let it drop to the Formica floor, which was worn and stained from years of use. The flimsy plastic shattered as it hit. Donovan made sure by stomping the remaining bits several times beneath his boot.

  “So much for a quiet getaway,” he said to the silence of the empty office. Ah well, you couldn’t have everything. He thought of the still unused devices he had left in his room and decided to leave a few surprises behind him to further disrupt things, cover his escape, and last but certainly not least, destroy any evidence he may have left behind. Just like the old days, he thought as he headed back to the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  They spotted the first signs of the chaos that awaited them as they got closer to the diner. At first, it was a small pickup coming from the direction of the place. As it flew past them, Buckthorn spotted the face behind the wheel. It was Gus Hawthorne, one of the town’s two dentists. He was white-faced and wild-eyed, as if some hell-hound was chasing him. Then another vehicle, a compact sedan with a driver he didn’t recognize. Then they saw the people walking, a middle aged couple with their arms around each other. The woman was weeping, the man speaking soothingly to her. Willis slowed the car and began rolling down the window. Buckthorn looked at the column of smoke rising above the trees. They were very close now. “Just drive,” he said.

  Willis’ face was set in grim lines. “This is gonna suck,” he muttered. Over the radio, they could hear the crackling, barely controlled chaos of the county’s volunteer fire and rescue units converging on the scene. Finally, they rounded a long curve and caught sight of the diner.

  “Mother of God,” Dushane breathed.

  The parking lot was wreathed in smoke, people moving to and fro in the dark gray cloud like denizens of the Inferno. As they pulled in, they could see the diner itself. The end closest to them appeared untouched, but the big windows to their right were shattered. As the siren wound down, they could hear the sounds of people crying out in pain, orders being shouted, and the keening of more sirens approaching. Several vehicles were burning, others had windows shattered or webbed with cracks. The destruction seemed to center around a single vehicle, off to the side of the lot opposite them. That was blackened and burned out, but something about it looked familiar. A bolt of cold fire went through his body like an electrical shock as he recognized it.

  “No,” he said, the word coming out as a moan of despair. “Oh no. Please. No.”

  “Sir…” Willis began.

  “Tim,” Dushane said, her own voice catching on a sob, but he was out of the car, stumbling like a drunk, towards the burned out SUV. He saw the blackened and twisted figure still sitting behind the wheel and he stopped, uncomprehending. He started walking again and was immediately stopped by a man in the long turnout coat and helmet of a volunteer firefighter.

  “Tim,” the man said. Then, more urgently, “Tim!”

  He looked, uncomprehending, at the firefighter. He knew the face, but the name refused to register.

  “My sister,” he croaked. “My sister. In the car.”

  The man’s face crumpled. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “I’m sorry, Tim.”

  The import of the words fell on Buckthorn’s shoulders like a mountain and drove all rational thought from his brain. He felt his knees buckling, and the fireman grunted with the effort of keeping him upright. The cacophony of the scene receded away from him. It sounded as if he was at the bottom of a pool, the shouts and cries and sirens all far above him. He could pick Duane’s voice out of the din, shouting orders, trying to get the chaos organized.

  My job, he thought. I need to be doing my job… Then the smell hit him, the awful reek of cooked and bubbling flesh, for all the world like overcooked barbecue, but a thousand times stronger. He knew what…who…he was smelling. His guts wrenched and he vomited, his stomach emptying itself of its recent meal in one mighty convulsion. He managed to turn his head so as not to spatter the man holding him up (Carl, he thought as the name absurdly came back to him, Carl Farris), but the man sprang back in surprise, loosening his grip. Buckthorn fell to his knees, retching again, unable to bring up anything but a thin and bitter bile. The spasms and the humiliation brought tears to his eyes. He felt an arm across his shoulders and turned.

  Leila Dushane knelt beside him, tears streaming down her own face. “Tim,” she said softly. “Tim, I am so, so sorry.”

  __________

  She moved without thinking the moment she saw him go down, putting her arm around his shoulder to keep him from falling over. He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her. Then he shook his head, like a man recovering from a blow.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Dushane heard a female voice say. “Wait, is that Tim Buckthorn? Why isn’t he…”

  She turned. “That’s his sister in that car, you stupid cow,” she snarled. “Now back the fuck off.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be nasty,” he heard the woman say as she moved away. Dushane tightened her grip on Buckthorn’s shoulder. He wouldn’t look at her.

  “My fault,” he muttered. “My fault.”

  “No,” Dush
ane said fiercely. “No fucking way. Do not do this, Tim. Do. Not. Do. This.”

  At that point he did look up. “I brought this here,” he said. His voice was suddenly clear and infused with a dreadful certainty. “This time, I’m the one that brought it.”

  “Tim,” Dushane said, “listen to me. Are you listening? Can you hear me? Good. Now, we are going to get you up, we are going to get you into one of those ambulances over there, and we are going to get you the hell out of here.”

  He began getting slowly to his feet. “It’s a crime scene,” he muttered. “I need to get it secured.”

  “Not you,” she said, “and not now. You’re in shock. We need to get you…”

  “No,” he said. He got to his feet. “You think you could get me some water?” he asked Dushane. He wiped his face with his hand. “And a towel,” he added.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “My job,” he said. “Now how about that water?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just strode over to where Duane Willis was talking urgently into the portable radio mike on his shoulder.

  __________

  “Give me a sitrep, Duane,” he said..

  Duane looked up. “Sir, I think you need a doctor,” he said.

  Buckthorn tried to smile reassuringly. From the look on Duane’s face, it wasn’t working. “Not a scratch on me, Duane,” he said.

  “You’re, ah…” the deputy trailed off uncertainly.

  “Here,” a voice said behind Buckthorn. He turned. Dushane was standing there, a grim look on her face and a bottle of water in one hand. In the other she held a small kitchen towel.

  “Thanks, Agent Dushane,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said tonelessly. “Really.”

  He washed his mouth out, spitting the water onto the gravel, then took a drink. He wiped his face to a reasonable facsimile of cleanliness. He thought back to the way he’d felt at the collapsed house in Tennessee, that calmness he felt in a crisis. He reached down inside to try and find that control. He felt only an icy coldness at his core, in contrast to the hot summer sun beating down on the back of his neck. Just do the next thing, he told himself. The next thing.

  “Come on,” he told Duane. “Let’s get to work.”

  __________

  Dushane stood back, her phone to her ear, waiting for Wolf to pick up on the other end. She watched as Buckthorn took over the management of the scene of his sister’s murder—directing fire and emergency vehicles, assigning patrol officers as they arrived to cordon the place off and corral witnesses, giving the team that showed up from the detective division a quick briefing as they stood there looking stunned and sweating in their suit jackets and ties. She shivered despite the oppressive heat, made even worse by the grimy smoke that still hung over the scene. She knew that bomb had been meant for them, and she knew who’d set it.

  There was no way she was going to let Buckthorn blame himself. That way was a sure path to madness. But she wondered, after looking into his eyes just now, if he was already headed down that path. The eyes that had once looked at her with love were dead, the smile that had warmed her heart turned to a ghastly rictus. She’d thought when she’d met him that maybe he was wound too tight. She’d worried that he might snap. Now he truly seemed like a clockwork man, going through his job like an automaton. She wondered if she’d just seen Tim Buckthorn die.

  There was a click as someone picked up the phone. “Tony Wolf.”

  “Boss, it’s Leila. I’m in Pine Lake. Someone—Donovan—just tried to kill us with a car bomb.”

  Wolf’s voice was calm. “Okay. I assume you’re all right.”

  “Yeah. We weren’t anywhere near when the bomb went off. But it was rigged to Buckthorn’s sister’s car. She’s dead.”

  “Jesus,” Wolf said. “Is he okay?”

  She looked across the lot. “No,” she said. “He’s walking, he’s talking, he’s doing cop things. But… her voice broke, “he’s a long way from okay.”

  “Got it,” Wolf said. His voice softened. “L.D., listen to me. You need to get out of there, and bring him with you. Donovan may be back. Or he may have rigged another device to take out the first responders. That’s an old IRA trick.”

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, start. Get someplace safe and hole up. Tell the locals to secure the scene for the Bureau and sit tight. I’m getting Steadman on the line.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we’re going full out, balls to the wall on this one. They just tried to kill an FBI agent. My partner, no less. These people are history.”

  “Best idea I’ve heard all day, boss,” Dushane said. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Do that. We’ll have a team there ASAP. Just make sure the scene’s secure.”

  “I think it will be.” She killed the connection and walked over to where Buckthorn was talking to Duane Willis and a pair of detectives.

  “Captain Buckthorn,” she said formally. He didn’t seem to hear her. She raised her voice. “CAPTAIN BUCKTHORN!”

  He turned, looking annoyed. “What is it?”

  “I’ve just been on the phone to Agent Wolf. He’s asked me to inform you that the FBI is taking over this investigation. As of now.”

  He scowled. “I thought you people didn’t do that.”

  “The rules are different when someone tries to kill one of us.” She knew she was bullshitting, but she hoped she could pull it off. His eyes narrowed in anger. “One of you?” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, Agent Dushane, whoever did this did kill…” his voice faltered, “did kill one of us. One of my family.”

  “Which is exactly why you should not be running this investigation,” she snapped, “and you damn well know it. Captain.”

  The two detectives looked dumbstruck, their eyes tracking back and forth between Dushane and Buckthorn like spectators at a tennis match. Buckthorn was glaring at her, his teeth clenched, lips drawn back in what was almost a snarl. That iron control was beginning to slip. Duane Willis broke the silence. “She’s right, sir.”

  Buckthorn’s gaze snapped to him. “What did you say, Deputy?”

  Willis met the stare, his own gaze as flat and uncompromising as a stone. “You know she’s right, sir. You can’t be involved in an investigation where the victim’s a member of your family. That’s a rule. And it’s a good one.”

  “TO HELL WITH THE RULE!” Buckthorn screamed. Other people were beginning to stop talking and stare. He got himself under control with a visible effort of will, but he was still shaking.

  “Captain,” Dushane said. “Tim. We need to go. Come on.”

  Buckthorn wouldn’t look at her or Willis.

  “I can take over, sir,” Willis said. “Go ahead and take my vehicle.” Buckthorn still didn’t answer. “Please, sir,” Willis said. Buckthorn still didn’t answer, just turned and walked towards the cruiser.

  Dushane let out a deep breath. “Thank you, Deputy Willis.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” he said. “Take care of him, okay?”

  “I wish I knew how, Duane,” she said. “Oh. Agent Wolf reminded me of something. The primary suspect in this used to be a member of the Irish Republican Army. One of their techniques was to place a second device to catch first responders.”

  He rubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah. The hajjis used to do that, too. I’ve got people poking around.”

  “Carefully, I hope.”

  “You know it, ma’am. And Fort Bragg’s sending over some EOD guys.” He shook his head. “I came home to get away from shit like this.”

  She nodded. “Tim…Captain Buckthorn’s…got a lot of faith in you, Duane. I can see why now.”

  “Thanks, ma’am,” he said. Something seemed to occur to him. He spoke into the portable mike on his shoulder. “709, this is 705. Report.”

  There was no answer. Willis tried again. “709. Come on back, Chris.�
��

  Nothing.

  “Damn it,” Willis breathed. He spoke again. “County, 705.”

  “705, County.”

  “I can’t raise Chris in 709. He was out at the Pine Lake Motor Lodge. See if you can get a unit out there.”

  “10-4.”

  “I don’t like this,” Willis said. “Not one bit.”

  “I don’t blame you,.” Dushane began, then she noticed Buckthorn. He was behind the wheel of the cruiser. They heard the engine start.

  “What the hell…” Willis began, then he began waving his arms. “HEY!” he yelled. “CAPTAIN BUCKTHORN!” Buckthorn began backing up, turning the car around. “HEY!” Willis yelled again.

  “Maybe he heard you trying to contact your guy,” she said.

  “Oh, that is just fucking great,” Willis said. He spoke into the microphone. “Captain, where you going with my car, you don’t mind my asking?” There was no response. He shook his head angrily and spoke into the mike again. “County, 705. Captain Buckthorn’s got my vehicle.”

  There was a pause before the dispatcher responded. “Say again, 705?”

  “Captain Buckthorn took off with my vehicle.”

  “Well, where’s he goin’ with it, Duane?”

  He looked at Dushane. “Possibly the Motor Lodge. What’s the ETA on that other unit?”

  “Ten minutes,” the dispatcher said. “I’m havin’ to call people in on their days off. Perry Twisdale told me to tell you he ain’t happy. He was takin’ his wife to the doctor.”

  “I hate it for him. But days off are canceled right now. We got a situation developin’ here.”

  “Ahhh…does Tim know about that?”

  “He put me in charge. Just get everybody you can get ahold of out on patrol. We got a suspect in this bombing runnin’ around loose. We need to get some roadblocks set up. We need…”

  Dushane stopped listening by this point. Buckthorn was clearly right on the edge of losing it, and if, as she suspected, he was headed for the where he thought he’d find Donovan, he stood an excellent chance of getting himself killed. She spotted a uniformed deputy taking a roll of crime scene tape out of the trunk of his car.