Bull Mountain

by Brian Panowich

  “Thank you for seeing me this early . . . and on a Sunday.” He winked at the sheriff in an attempt to let him know he was privy to the sheriff’s intercom conversation with Cricket. Of course he was. The building had only two rooms. Clayton thought the wink was an odd thing to do, but he sat back down and motioned for Holly to do the same.

  “No problem, Special Agent Simon Holly. I wasn’t doing anything important. My deputy here was just on his way out.”

  Choctaw peeled his eyes off the agent slowly, like removing a Band-Aid, and took the hint. “Right, boss.” He made his way to the door, then paused and turned around. “Is this about the black kid I got locked up there in the back?”

  Clayton regarded Holly for the answer to that as well.

  “No, Deputy Frasier,” Holly said. “No, it’s not.”

  All the color drained from the deputy’s face. He stood in the doorway, mentally racing through every shady scenario that would have put his name on the fed’s radar. Holly broke into his shark’s grin. The sheriff watched his lone deputy squirm like a little kid who’d just got caught shoplifting, hoping he would be smart enough to figure it out on his own. Clayton felt the ache building behind his eyes. He took another sip of his coffee. Cold. He pushed the mug across his desk. “It says Deputy Frasier on your name tag,” Clayton said to Choctaw, clearly embarrassed to have to point it out. Holly nodded in agreement, pursed his lips, and steepled his fingers in his lap. “Right there on your shirt, Deputy.”

  “Right,” Choctaw said, drawing the word out, not entirely convinced but ready to get gone all the same. He tipped his Stetson to the sheriff and slipped out the door like a shadow.

  “The world’s finest detective,” Clayton said.

  “I suppose good help is hard to find way up here.”

  “He’s not as bad as he looks.”

  Holly looked at the office door, then back to the sheriff. “He looks pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a lot to be said for loyalty. But you’re right, the pickin’s are slim.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it, Sheriff.”

  “You don’t have to take anything. I don’t care either way. I’ve known that man since he was a boy. He’s like family around here, so I’d appreciate you withholding judgment in my office.”

  “No disrespect, Sheriff. I’m sure he’s a fine deputy.”

  Clayton waved away the small talk like it was a gnat buzzing in his face, and leaned back in his chair. “Are you here to size up my staff, or do you want to tell me what the FBI wants with my office?”

  “I’m with the ATF.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Holly stiffened up a bit and gave Clayton a practiced hardcase stare. The sheriff was unimpressed. “Spare me the intensity, agent. It makes you look a little silly. I know why you’re here. I wish it was something else, but it’s not. It never is. Just get to it.” The throbbing behind Clayton’s eyes was on the brink of becoming a full-fledged headache, and he could feel his Sunday morning going straight down the crapper.

  “Right to the point. I can appreciate that. In a nutshell, I’m here to take your brother out of the game.”

  Clayton sipped his coffee again, forgetting it was cold, and spit it back into the mug. “I wish that could have been the zinger you wanted it to be. I mean, here you are, so excited to sit there and say that, you couldn’t even wait until Monday.”

  “I don’t think I’m making myself—”

  “Let me go ahead and stop you there,” Clayton said, and fished an aspirin bottle out of his desk. He popped two chalky white pills into his mouth and chewed them dry while he spoke. “Every few years or so, some young FBI or ATF agent, much like yourself, comes poking around my office all beady-eyed and barrel-chested, looking to drop a hammer on one of my brothers. The only difference this time between you and them is, I don’t need to ask you which brother you’re targeting, since one of your people already shot Buckley to death last year.” Clayton let that hang between them and hardened his own stare. “And by the way, how much changed after that?”

  “We had nothing to do with that, Sheriff. From what I understand, that was a state-level entanglement. I believe the Georgia Bureau of Investigation was the agency involved.”

  “Same difference. FBI, GBI, you all look alike to me.” Clayton’s voice was as callous as the hands of a construction worker.

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m sure you are. But like I said, you people accomplished nothing then, and I can’t imagine you’ll do much other than get more decent people caught in the crossfire this time, either.”

  “You keep saying ‘you people.’”

  “And?”

  “You’re a sheriff. You swore to uphold the law, same as me. Doesn’t that make you one of us people, too?”

  Clayton got up from his chair and walked over to a small coffeepot on the counter next to the sink. He dumped his mug and filled it fresh without offering any to his guest, and thought about how nice it would be to add an inch or two of bourbon. It wasn’t too long ago that that was his morning routine, and sometimes he could still smell it in his cup. He took a sip, unsatisfied, and returned to his chair. He leaned forward, aware for the first time all morning of how tired he was, and gave Holly the autopilot speech he’d given at least six other agents already.

  “Listen, Holly. I’m nothing like you. I’m just a guy born and raised less than fifteen miles from where you’re sitting right now. I’m no hotshot lawman looking to save the world from the evil that men do.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “I don’t care much about what happens out there in your world, Agent Holly. I’m a hick sheriff in a small town doing my best to keep the people of this valley—the good people of this valley—safe from the never-ending river of shit that flows down that mountain, and the trigger-happy frat boys that think they can come here and show us hillbillies how badass they are. In my opinion, all of you, cops and robbers alike, pose the same threat to my constituency, and that makes you and me the very definition of ‘nothing alike.’”

  Clayton sat back and blew into his coffee.

  “Sheriff, doesn’t McFalls County butt up against Parsons County up around Black Rock?”

  “It does.”

  “And isn’t your office responsible for policing the entirety of McFalls County?”

  “I’m sure you already know it is.”

  “So that means Bull Mountain is under your jurisdiction, not just Waymore Valley. It also means that what’s coming down that mountain is coming directly at you. It would be contrary to everything I believe in if I didn’t come here and talk to you about it first. Not as some hillbilly sheriff, but as a fellow law enforcement officer. There are a lot of folks that think you’re a puppet for your brothers, a way to control this office, but I’m not one of them. The people of this county voted you in for a reason, despite your family, and that says something. It says they want you here. It says that they trust you, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t mean to scrape dog shit on your welcome mat.”

  “I can’t help you.” It was a line Clayton was tired of having to say.

  “I understand that, Sheriff. I’m sorry I sounded like an ass for a minute there. It’s automatic. Let me start again.”

  Aspirin wasn’t going to cut it. Clayton fiddled with the childproof plastic bottle, wondering exactly how many he’d have to eat to get rid of the headache sitting in his office. He expected Holly to stand up, shove a finger in his face, and spout off some self-righteous bullshit about how he “owed it to the people” and “the county he loved” to stop the bad men—blah, blah, blah. That was normally the routine with these guys, but Holly stayed seated. He was respectful. Clayton reckoned Holly was at least smart enough to play by the sheriff’s rules until he had his say.

  “I can’t help you,” Clayton said again.

>   “I’m not asking for your help, Sheriff.”

  “Then what do you want, Agent Holly?”

  “Call me Simon.”

  “Go ahead and make your speech, Agent Holly.”

  “Okay, Sheriff. Like I said, I’m not here for your help, but maybe you can help yourself, and that could work out for both of us.”

  Clayton said nothing and scratched at his beard.

  “Maybe if I start from the beginning, I can paint you a better picture of what I’m talking about.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ve been with the ATF for two years. In that time, I’ve focused on one case.”

  “I’m guessing Halford Burroughs.”

  “No, your brother didn’t pop up on my radar until recently. No, for two years I’ve been building a case against an outfit set up in Jacksonville, Florida, which, among other things, has been supplying your brother and his people with guns—lots of guns. And for the past few years, they have also been your brother’s pipeline to the raw materials he’s using to process methamphetamine.”

  Clayton felt the pressure in his head release. Not much, but some.

  “A gentleman by the name of Wilcombe is at the top of the food chain down there. You heard of him?”

  “Nope.”

  “They use some low-rent bikers who call themselves the Jacksonville Jackals to transport the goods. They’re dirtbags, smart and loyal dirtbags, but dirtbags nonetheless. They’ve been at it a long time. I’ve got them in business with your family dating back to your father’s days of hustling weed in the early seventies. Do you know who I mean?”

  “Nope.” Clayton wasn’t as convincing with that answer.

  “Well, you’re lucky. These people are bad news. They’ve got their hands in some heinous shit. Dope, money, guns, you name it. Recently we’re getting intel that shows them involved in human trafficking as well, and they’re getting bigger and richer for the effort. Your brother Halford knows these people well. He has intimate knowledge of their entire operation and they trust him implicitly.”

  Everything else Holly was going to say clicked in place before he could say it.

  “You want to flip him.” Clayton almost laughed. “You want Hal to give up your boys in Florida so you can close your case on this Wilcombe fella.”

  “Yes,” Holly said.

  “In exchange for what?”

  “Conditional immunity.”

  “What’s the condition?”

  “He opts out of the meth trade.”

  “It won’t happen,” Clayton said. “Halford isn’t your average drug dealer. It’s against his warped sense of honor. He’d die before turning over on anyone he considers family. If these bikers have been in bed with my kin for as long as you say, you can bet they fall into that category. He’d never rat them out. Never.”

  “Well, if his sense of honor is skewed, then we appeal to his other sensibility.”

  “Which is?”

  “His money.”

  “Halford doesn’t care about the money.”

  “Don’t be that naive, Sheriff. The money is paramount. The money is all that matters.”

  Clayton shook his head. “No, it’s not, and that’s why you people will always lose, Agent Holly. Because you don’t understand how it works up here. Money isn’t the endgame for my brother. It never was. It’s simply a by-product of the lifestyle my father raised him on.” Clayton leaned way back in his chair, lifting his arms and interlacing his fingers at the back of his neck. He let himself feel the stretch down his back, and debated what road he wanted to walk down with this federal. Most of the time, it didn’t matter to these guys how he tried to explain things. They just sat there behind their dark sunglasses and pretended to listen, while they waited to blurt out whatever they were itching to say next. Clayton brought his arms down, and used an index finger to rub the dust from the edge of a small framed photograph on his desk. It was a picture of him and Kate taken by a stranger on their honeymoon on Tybee Island. It was the first, and only, time either of them had ever been to the beach. He couldn’t say he was much of a fun-in-the-sun guy, but that was a good day. He smiled, and decided to take the long road. “Are you married, Agent Holly?”

  “I was. It didn’t take.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “For the moment,” Holly said, leaning back in his chair as well, settling in to the small talk. “For however long that lasts.”

  “A girlfriend, good, that’s good.” Clayton reached over and picked up the picture of him and Kate. “You ever pack her up, or the ex, for that matter, back when you were hitched, and just get out of town for a few days? Get away from the daily grind, and go get lost, find a place off the map to just relax, enjoy each other?” Clayton talked more to the picture of him and Kate than to Holly.

  “Not as much as either of them would like, I’m sure, but yeah, I try to get away a few times a year.”

  “Okay, good. We’re tracking. Now imagine the feeling you had the last time you took a few days off and packed the car, your girl, maybe a few beers and a camera, and set off to find a secluded spot in the mountains, or by a still pond or lake somewhere. You with me?”

  Holly nodded, waiting for the point.

  “This is the break from most people’s lives that makes the burdens and pressures that come from all the responsibilities we heap on ourselves the rest of the time worth enduring. Would you agree with that?”

  “Sure, Sheriff. Everyone needs a vacation sometimes. What does—”

  “Bear with me, Agent Holly. Now imagine that same setting, that pretty picture you got in your head, imagine that as the basis for your everyday. Imagine it’s the foundation for work, family, relationships, wisdom, pain, all of it. It’s a different mind-set. It’s not a break from life for these people. It is life, and the urge to protect it, and hold on to it, can be fierce.”

  Holly began to say something, but Clayton kept on.

  “There is a subtle symbiotic relationship between the land up here and the people who call it home that folks like yourself never seem to fully understand, no matter how many files you read, or training scenarios you run. It’s not your fault, you’re just not from here. It goes way beyond simple pride or honor. Pride is a brand-new red bike or a better-paying job. Up here it’s something different. It’s something deeper than bone. It’s not something that they earned or had to fight to get. They were born into it, and the fight comes on real hard when someone threatens to take it away. It’s an integral part of who they are—who we are.” Clayton wiped the dust from his finger onto his pants, took his stare off the picture and put it back on Holly.

  “The point is, the money absolutely does not matter. And that’s not me being naive, that’s me telling you how it is. No one gets to tell them what they can and cannot do on their own land. No one’s going to take what God gave them. Not on their mountain. And believe me, Hal thinks it’s his mountain. He would burn his money before he would give up his home, or his people. Your plan is flawed. He won’t betray his kin.”

  “Even you?” Holly asked.

  Clayton didn’t have an answer for that.

  “Then let me put it another way,” Holly said. “The United States government is putting together a multiagency task force consisting of well over a hundred people ranging from the FBI, ATF, the DEA, all the way down to the state police. Homeland is even involved. They’re educated, trained, willing, and able to set the entirety of Bull Mountain on fire. That’s not a threat, Sheriff. It’s a fact. We know the locations of all sixteen cookhouses and we know the routes heading into Florida, Alabama, both Carolinas, and Tennessee. The finger is on the trigger, they are intentionally leaving you out of the loop, and a lot of people are going to die. It’s a brand-new ball game. The post-9/11 rules give us the teeth we need to get it done with close to zero accountability. This operation was a
lready supposed to happen. It’s been in development since your brother Buckley was killed and exposed Halford’s involvement with Wilcombe. The powers that be want the revenue being generated on that mountain so bad they would rather burn it down than see your brother get over on them one more day.”

  “So what’s stopping them?” Clayton said.

  “Me.” Holly’s shark smile returned. “I am.” He let his words dangle between them before setting the hook. “I have a better plan, and that’s why I’m here, Sheriff.”

  “Go on,” Clayton said.

  4.

  “Nothing makes a U.S. federal law enforcement agency drool more than a huge pile of money. Nothing, except of course, a bigger pile. That’s what I’ve got in Florida—a bigger pile. If we can take that down, this place dries up by default.”

  “Couldn’t Hal just find new suppliers?”

  “Sure, he could, but would he want to? You said it yourself, he was born into this dance with these boys from Florida. He didn’t have to go through the bloodshed and double-crossing most entrepreneur types like your brother have to go through. It takes a long time to build that kind of trust, and your father just handed it to him. Do you think he’s up to going through all that at his age? Fifty-three is no time to go back to the drawing board. He has no children that we know about. There are no young up-and-comers ready to take his place as far as we know, and the bloodline ends with him.” Holly paused and corrected himself. “Well, other than you, of course.”

  Clayton nodded and spun one finger in the air like a wheel, signaling for Holly to keep going.

  Holly said, “He’s practically cut off from civilization up there. Take Wilcombe out of the equation and Halford Burroughs could just retire. Take his winnings and cash out.”

  Clayton hesitated for several moments before speaking. “And you’re telling me that you would leave him be?”

  “Yes,” Holly said without a bit of hesitation.

  “And there’s paperwork to back that up?”

  “Yes,” Holly said. He crossed his arms and let the prosecution rest.