Merrill shook his head. “It’s unbelievable.”
Kent kicked at a decaying stump with the toe of his hunting boot. “Well, we’ll just have to stop them.”
“We’ll get ’em. I haven’t been tailing Lester and taking May-May’s crap all this time just for the hell of it.”
“How?”
“We’ll catch them in the act.”
“You are actually going to raid their meet?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Are you going to be there?”
Rodman smiled. “I sure as hell want to be.”
“Won’t Lester recognize you?”
“Not a chance. As a matter of fact, he and I crossed paths at May-May’s just the other day.”
“You’re kidding me. Lester Ross was in Jefferson already?”
“Yep. He didn’t know me from Adam. Arkansas was too long ago. The ATF protects the ID of its agents, so he never knew I was after him for guns. For all he knows, I’m dumb ol’ Bo Davis.” Rodman gave out a baritone laugh. “And maybe he ain’t far off.”
Kent knew there was nothing dumb about Dan Rodman. He was sure as hell glad he wasn’t Lester Ross.
“And”—Rodman’s voice became optimistic—“by some piece of luck these idiots decided to hold their national fighting convention in New York. It appears none of them bothered to find out that New York is on the forefront of animal welfare, and what they’re doing is a felony with some good long prison terms and hefty fines.”
Kent saw his brother puff up at the thought of New York being tough on crime.
“Like I said, they’re well organized. They run it like prizefighting. They’ve got an official rulebook. They’ve got a very professional-looking trade journal called the Chronicle that talks about meets, spotlights breeders, runs ads for equipment dealers, the whole nine yards.” He ticked each item off with his fingers as he said it. “There’re guys out there making a living as professional trainers and handlers.”
“What about the actual fights?” Kent asked.
“I’ve been at some where there’s an auditorium full of people, young, old, blue-collar, white-collar. From all over. They’ll wager a couple hundred grand on an average night.”
Merrill let out a long whistle but said nothing.
“If that surprises you,” Rodman continued, “what’s about to happen will really floor you. This fight coming up in Jefferson is a whole ’nother ball of wax. It’s for the national championship. It’s guaranteed to be way bigger. More people, more money, more guns, more drugs.”
“Jefferson, New York, dogfighting capital of the world,” Kent said.
“As soon as we find out where and when it happens, we’re going to drop on them like a big blob of birdshit and end this whole thing.” There was a smug confidence in Rodman’s voice.
Kent marveled at what was happening. All the plans and effort put into the investigation. And they had kept it secret! “How long have you been in Jefferson, anyway?”
“Bo Davis came to town about ten months ago, supposedly looking for farm work. Took me a while to make the connections, but I’m in now. Maylon Mays is the man here. I know he’s your brother, but I’ve got to tell you, he’s got a gold-plated line of bullshit.”
Neither brother registered surprise.
“Somehow he sold the big boys in Texas that they ought to come east with their convention. Open up new territories, I guess. Then he got wind we were around, so he tried to take advantage of FOAM’s presence to take USAPC heat off his crew. He’s behind the Copithorn fire.”
Merrill and Kent just nodded.
“I thought that would be a blockbuster,” Rodman said obviously disappointed. “You guys already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
Rodman touched the brim of his hat in a salute to them. “I should have guessed.”
“And we know about his bunch of dogs,” Merrill said.
“Right.”
Kent decided to bluff. “And his break-in at the hotel. And staging his wife’s murder.” He looked with satisfaction at the agent’s expression of amazement. “And Aaron Whitmore’s.”
Rodman stopped bobbing his head. “How do you know that?”
“We recovered a series of articles Aaron wrote that condemned the movement of dogfights into Jefferson. He died in what was supposedly a suicide just before they were to be published. We put two and two together.”
“I read about that, up on Cuyler Lake. A murder rap? It’s too good to be true. If we can pin one on these guys, they’re gone for good, and every agency will get a piece of the credit. It makes the stakes a lot higher. The attorney general is going to flip when he hears this stuff.”
“What do we do from here out?” Merrill asked.
“We’ll need you as part of the team, I’m sure, but beyond that, instructions will come down from the top.”
“What about FOAM?” Kent asked. “Aubrey Fairbanks has been working with us on this from the beginning. We include her, right?”
Rodman shook his head slowly. “Probably not. The more people involved, the more chance for problems. I doubt they can contribute much more than they have already. Plus the FOAM people can get pretty emotional.”
“I agree one hundred percent,” said Merrill.
“Too dangerous,” Rodman said. “I’m telling you, we’re talking guns, drugs, and money. It’s a very volatile combination. We don’t want anyone hurt. See if you can keep Fairbanks and FOAM out of it for now.”
“She isn’t going to like it,” said Kent.
“Do what you can.” Rodman stood up and stretched. He picked up his shotgun and started away. Then he stopped and turned to face the brothers. For a long moment the three of them eyed one another in silence. Rodman’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I never thought to ask if either of you had a problem with me going after your brother.”
“Half brother,” they said in one voice.
Then Kent said, “And if he’s a bad guy, he’s a bad guy.”
Rodman seemed satisfied. He turned and walked away. “We’ll be talking.”
Chapter 25
Kent and Aubrey sipped nightcaps and fumed at each other across a tiny table in a quiet corner of the Groggery. Dinner had been great, as usual, until Kent brought up the subject of his hunting venture along the railroad track earlier that day. He told her about Dan Rodman, the USAPC’s reason for being in Jefferson, and the difficult part— that FOAM was not going to be included in further moves against the dog men. The evening went to hell in a hurry.
Aubrey used a tiny straw to poke at the muddled fruit in the bottom of her glass and bristled at the prospect of her exclusion. “I’ve been in this from the beginning. FOAM’s been in this from the beginning. Where do they get off cutting us out? I told you. The problem with the USAPC is they always want to run the show.”
Kent rattled his scotch and tried to keep the conversation at a slow enough pace that it might not be considered an argument. It didn’t work. “Nobody’s trying to take over the show, Aubrey. As a matter of fact, the show was already in progress a year before we came on the scene.”
“Still, we are involved! Deeply involved. And we’ve made a huge contribution to the case.”
“They don’t deny that,” Kent said, “but as I said, there are several other agencies involved in this too. Their concern is that too many more and the chance of something getting back to the dog men goes way up. It would jeopardize the entire investigation.” He held up his glass, played with a trickle of condensation on it, and lied. “I have to agree with them.”
Aubrey glared at him, furious at his betrayal. “That’s a lot of crap. FOAM is less likely to leak information than any of those other agencies. I’d stake my worthless reputation on it. The problem is that the USAPC wants all the headlines.”
&nbs
p; Kent decided not to mention Rodman’s concern about FOAM being emotion-driven. “Rodman said all orders come down from the top. That’s the FBI and attorney general.”
“That’s a cop out!”
He took a different tack. “These dogfighters are dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“I realize that.”
“There is a lot of nasty stuff that goes along with dogfighting. Guns, drugs, gambling. This thing is much more volatile than your average rodeo protest or research lab picket.”
Aubrey slammed her glass to the table and hurled her words at him. “Eat shit, Kent! I’ve been in tough spots before.”
He looked around to see if anyone else had heard her. “Take it easy. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just relaying the information they gave me. And to tell the truth, I’m trying my best to persuade you not to get any closer to this thing for my own selfish reasons. It would kill me if anything bad happened to you. Remember, there have been two murders already.”
“If you care about me, you’ll let me do what I came here to do.”
“Good.” Kent made a grand gesture. “Go protest at Copithorn. I have no objection to that.”
“No! I mean, work for animal rights. What these guys are doing makes all other acts against animals pale in comparison. And they are conspiring to make it grow and spread throughout our country. It is the ultimate abuse of animals. You said it yourself. I want to have a part in exposing these sons of bitches.”
Kent stood slowly, deliberately, signaling that he was through arguing. “As I said, I don’t call the shots.”
“Yeah. Well, they’ll let a burned-out veterinarian in, but not us. That’s real fair.”
Kent tossed some drink money on the table without counting it. “I’ll call you.”
“Don’t bother.”
Kent strode across the darkened barroom. As he pushed through the door into the lobby he ran head-on into a person coming his way. He caught his balance, cursed under his breath, and glared at the offender. He gasped, seeing the dead, as he stared into Tammy’s Indian eyes. “Jesus Christ, Nathan. What are you doing here?”
Nathan’s face was like stone. “Barry said you and his mom were here. I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait?”
“It’s important. I got something to tell you.”
Kent drew a calming breath and released it. “Okay. What’s up?”
Nathan’s eyes flashed defiance. He pointed in the direction from which Kent had come. “Maybe we better go back in and sit down, Doc.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.
Kent gave him a long, appraising look. “Okay.” He turned back into the darkness of the Groggery.
Nathan followed without a word.
Aubrey, once again, had her legs stretched the length of the booth, head back, deep in thought. She sensed more than heard their approach. When she saw who it was and their somber looks, she coiled her feet back under the table, and made room for them to sit. Her eyes flashed Kent. Now what? She said nothing.
“Nathan’s got something he wants to say.”
Nathan slid in across from the two adults. He did not hesitate. Kent guessed he’d put a lot of thought into his words. “My mom knew who killed Whitmore. She just didn’t want to rat on him.” He stopped, as if that said it all, and that everything else should fall logically into place.
Kent and Aubrey held, waiting for more.
“I should have seen it,” he said. “Whitmore was trying to give him a break, but the jerk-off wouldn’t take it.”
“Who, Nathan?” Aubrey asked. Her voice held the tone of a mother consoling a suffering child.
“Hold on a second,” Kent said, the anger gone now. “Nathan, maybe you should start from the beginning and tell us everything you know.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I overheard May-May talking to Bo. He’s May-May’s helper. Mostly screaming at him, really. He was all over him about killing my mom.”
“Bo killed your mom?”
“No. May-May did, when she told him she figured he killed Whitmore and that if he didn’t stop all the dogfighting shit, she was going to the police. I heard him yelling at Bo to keep his mouth shut about it.”
“May-May killed Tammy? You know that for sure?”
Nathan’s face went white. His eyes became puffy. “Yes! I heard him say it. My mother always stuck up for him. I never did anything bad to him either, but he still always hated me.” Nathan turned them a proud look. “But I stuck up for him too. Just like Mom did. All the time. No matter what people said about May-May, he was my mom’s husband and my stepfather, so I just told them to fuck off.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But not anymore. He killed my mother, and I want him dead.”
Then Nathan looked straight into Kent’s eyes. His voice rose, raspy with anger and determination. “I know nobody but me cared about my mom. I’m going to tell you just what happened so you can string the bastard up. For her.”
Aubrey leaned toward him, “We cared about your mother, Nathan.”
“Whatever. You let me do this while I got it in me.”
Kent gently eased her back.
Nathan started again. “You remember the night we went coon hunting? You and Barry saw me climb out from under the cover in the back of May-May’s truck?”
“Yes.”
“Remember I told you I hitched rides from May-May like that all the time, and he never knew it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the night Whitmore died, I did it—hitched in May-May’s truck. May-May gets this phone call at our house while we’re eating supper. After he hangs up, he’s all nervous and mad, and says to Mom he is headed into town for a drink.” Nathan twisted his mouth into a dubious expression. “Which is easy for us to believe. And then he leaves.
“Anyway, I am looking for a way to get into town to see this girl. So I slip into the truck bed. What he doesn’t know is that when he’s bouncing that big beast of his down our lane, I’m jiggling around in back. He hits the bars. Me and this girl sit under her umbrella smoking cigarettes and making out in the park where we can keep and eye on his truck. It’s raining to beat hell. About ten he comes out, staggering, of course. I tell the girl goodbye and load up again. I figure we’re headed home and good thing because I’m soaked and freezing to death. But next thing I know, he’s pulling into the Cuyler Lake boat launch.”
Kent could feel himself shaking, a mix of emotions—anger, frustration, and relief—jamming his sensory system. He reached over and took Aubrey’s hand.
“I’m thinking, What’s May-May up to now? He pulls in and shuts off the motor. I hear him get out and walk a few steps. I figure, oh, he’s just taking a piss, but then he’s talking to somebody. I pop a few snaps on the cover to get a better look. There’s Aaron Whitmore in his Land Rover, nose to nose with May-May’s truck. Rain beating down, May-May standing at the window next to Whitmore. Neither one sounds very happy to be there.
“I just keep low. I’m watching and listening. May-May has those big KC bar lights up on top of his truck. They’re shining right inside Whitmore’s cab.
“Whitmore is yelling, ‘May-May, I know what you’re planning.’ He shows him this old leather book bag and says he’s got all kinds of stuff in it that could land May-May back in jail. Now May-May’s crazy mad. Mad about what Whitmore is telling him, and mad about standing in the rain probably, too. He pounds his fist on the Land Rover’s roof a couple of times, real hard. I can see Aaron getting all scared-looking. I think he wants to say the hell with this and bolt, but his Land Rover is wedged in between that railing in back and May-May’s truck in front. So anyway, he says he really doesn’t want to rat out May-May because he figures it would break your mother’s heart.”
“What?” Kent said, startled at the mention of his mother in this mess.
“That makes May-May goes ballistic. He tells Whitmore he’s known all along he’s sweet on your mom. And he doesn’t give a shit if she gets hurt. This thing he’s doing is his ticket to the big time. Whitmore says something like, ‘Okay, to hell with you. The story goes in tomorrow.’ May-May totally loses it. He reaches in the window and grabs Whitmore by the throat. I swear he’s going to pull old Whitmore right out. Whitmore is kicking and clawing and making all these gurgling sounds. Next thing I know, he’s got a gun.”
Nathan formed his hand into a gun and pointed it into Kent’s face. “Pow! I figure that’s it for my stepdad. But the bullet misses. Must have gone within an inch of his ear. May-May lets go of Whitmore’s neck and grabs the gun. So now the two of them are wrestling for the gun in kind of a tug of war. And remember, it’s raining like hell. Everything’s like all slippery. They’re yanking and swearing till, all of a sudden, May-May’s grip gives, and Whitmore goes rolling back into the Land Rover with the gun. He’s down below the dashboard, so I can’t see him, but the gun goes off again. May-May hits the deck. He must have been figuring Whitmore was coming out shooting. But everything got dead quiet. Pretty soon I see May-May ease up real careful-like and peek in the Land Rover. Then he starts laughing. A big cheerful laugh. He just stands there half dancing and muttering to himself. Dancing real weird. He pulls a rag out of his pocket and wipes around the window where he’s been touching. He goes around to the other door, reaches in, and picks up the gun. He wipes it real clean in the headlights, then he puts it back. He says something like, ‘Looks like a suicide to me!’ Then he grabs the book bag they argued over and gets back in the truck. Next thing I know, we’re peeling out of the boat launch.”
Taking On Lucinda Page 22
