by George Wier
“What’s wrong with you?” Noonday said.
“Nothing,” Jockovitch said.
I walked toward the front of the restaurant, then, following my instincts ― which screamed at me that I was going the wrong direction ― I again walked toward the other side of the restaurant and turned toward the kitchen.
Before I could step through the doorway where I could already hear the sizzle of meat being flattened against a hot grill, there was a tremendous shatter of glass and a series of loud reports.
I flattened myself on the floor.
The waitress to whom I had nodded leapt over me and disappeared into the kitchen.
There were shouts, screams, moans and the ear-splitting cacophony of gunfire. I heard enough of it to last me a lifetime.
Then an eerie stillness ensued.
I got up and peered carefully around the brick-facade divider that separated the waitress’s serving aisle from the remainder of the restaurant. The other bystanders had vacated through the front door. Outside, the parking lot held several cars, but there was no one that I could see out there. They must have left their cars sitting there and took to the sidewalk, ditch, whatever.
At the other end of the restaurant, the booth where I had been sitting was minus its single plate glass window.
A man came charging from that direction: Jockovitch. His jacket, shirt and face were speckled with crimson. Somebody’s blood, but not his own. Jockovitch’s eyes were wild things and his teeth were clenched together in a grimace.
He saw me, stopped abruptly, then turned to his left and went out the front door.
I stepped out where I could see the booth where he had been sitting. The glass behind the booth was gone as well. Two forms were there: Sheriff Noonday, slumped on the floor, and his deputy, Sam, lay sprawled half across the table. Sam looked as though he wouldn’t be getting the drop on any more trespassers. Part of his head looked to be missing. The angle was odd, so I couldn’t be sure. Also, I could only see Noonday’s legs.
I’d seen enough.
I went through the kitchen. The skinny, acne-faced kid from the night before lay prone on a dirty rubber mat that covered half of the kitchen floor.
He turned his head, looked at me, and for an instant recognition dawned on his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head the other direction.
I went through the kitchen and out the open back door one last time, or so I hoped.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My first thought was to turn left and leave the area, on foot if necessary. Instead, I found myself turning to the right where I could see the hood and front tires of the eighteen-wheeler poking out from behind the north side of the diner.
I had to know.
I walked over a slippery patch of asphalt where a water hose bled onto greasy pavement. The sodium-arc lamp at the far back corner of the diner behind me cast my looming shadow ahead of me, making me look thirty feet tall.
I poked my head around the corner in time to see Jockovitch pivot and head back toward the front door of the diner. He didn’t see me.
I stepped around the corner and caught movement on the pavement not far away.
It was the fellow with the white shirt and the baseball cap. The cap was under the edge of the trailer portion of the rig and the fellow had his feet up on the sidewalk alongside the building and his back and head down on the ground. His right hand was moving. A large semi-automatic pistol of some kind lay about three feet from his hand. He reached, winced in pain, and pulled his hand back.
I knew I didn’t have much time.
I stepped forward, picked up the automatic, found a safety catch and flipped it. I stuffed it into my belt. It was still hot.
I bent down to the man on the ground.
He was young and clean-cut, like the dead man on the hill near the barn.
“Are you going to live?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said, and coughed. There was a hole in his chest and blood on his lips.
“Are you my other sniper?”
“Not... telling you... anything.” A small spray of blood came from his lips.
“Are there any more snipers besides you?” I asked.
“Go to... hell.”
I still had the journal in my left hand. I showed it to him.
“Jockovitch is looking for this?”
He coughed. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t... know. Orders.”
“Orders from whom?”
“I... I...”
He wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t need a crystal ball to tell that much.
“Easy,” I said. “Take it easy, son.”
His eyes fixed on mine.
“He’s... going... to kill... you,” he said, raised his head an inch, and then died.
“Thanks,” I told him.
I turned around to head back the way I had come. And, of course, I heard the familiar voice behind me before I could take two steps.
*****
“Hold it!”
I stopped.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I turned around slowly.
The rig next to me idled on in the clacking drone of the diesel engine. The exhaust was starting to burn my eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Jockovitch,” I said.
“Just who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“Me? No one of consequence.”
“Right,” he said.
Jockovitch had a pistol pointed right at me. I don’t like it when they point those things at me.
“Give me the journal,” he said and held out his left hand.
I was ten feet away from him. I didn’t have much chance to turn and run.
“This silly thing?” I asked and hefted the journal in front of me.
He smiled. From his smile I knew the moment the thing left my hand that I was a dead man. I decided I wasn’t going to give it up.
“That silly thing,” he said.
I caught movement to Jockovitch’s left from inside the restaurant where the glass was gone.
“No,” I told him.
“What makes you think I won’t shoot you down and take it?” he said and raised the pistol in straight-arm fashion.
“Because you’ve never killed a man before,” I told him. “You’re a lawyer. You have to keep your hands clean. That’s why all the hired guns. That’s why you suborned the local constabulary. I think you’re a buffoon and a coward, that’s what I think.”
Jockovitch laughed.
I hoped I was hearing the nervous laugh of a good bluff. But, I was never good at poker.
“You’re a ballsy fellow,” he said. “I would have thrown in the towel by now myself.”
“Maybe that’s what you should do,” I said.
His face went serious, the smile gone.
“Give it,” he said.
I shook my head.
Jockovitch cocked the pistol.
“Herr Pfeffer,” I said. “He experimented on children. His journal tells it all. It took the oldest man in the world to decipher it, but it doesn’t take an idiot to understand the implications of it.”
“You know too much,” he said.
I could tell that I had all of five seconds left in the world.
But then a blood-soaked hand emerged through the broken out window from inside the diner. It held a pistol.
“Thank you, Sheriff Noonday,” I said.
*****
Jockovitch’s eyes rolled to his left. The bloody hand with the pistol was two inches from his left temple.
“Just move a fucking inch,” Sheriff Noonday’s voice said. “Come on,” he said. “Move. That’s all the excuse I need.”
Jockovitch stood frozen.
“You ki
lled Sam, you sonuvabitch,” Noonday said.
“It wasn’t me. I’m truly... sorry,” Jockovitch said.
“Like hell.”
Sheriff Noonday’s blood-drenched hand began shaking. I didn’t want Jockovitch dead, or at least didn’t want him so until I got some answers. I had about decided to take action when I caught a flash of light from around the corner of the building.
Blue-red-blue-red, coming closer.
The cavalry.
The police cruiser squealed into the parking lot and twin headlights and the rotating red and blue bubbles on top bathed us in a weird stroboscopic glow.
The car screeched to a halt and two doors came open.
“Don’t fucking move!” the voice said. The voice was deep and commanding and sharp with certainty.
It was Darla Sinclair. The passenger, twelve-gauge shotgun in hand and pointed at Jockovitch’s back, was Lief Prescott.
*****
“Cover them!” Darla called to Lief. He stepped forward slowly, shotgun raised. He took the gun from Jockovitch’s hand.
Darla was inside the restaurant. I couldn’t see what was happening, but I could hear the brief exchange and so had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
“Drop it, Noonday.”
Noonday’s hand, still holding the pistol to Jockovitch’s temple, shook even more fiercely.
“You have THREE SECONDS, asshole.”
The hand went still.
“ONE!”
I made a mental note never to make that woman mad at me.
“TWO!”
The hand opened and the pistol dropped to the pavement and clattered. I was surprised when it didn’t go off.
“Three,” Sheriff Noonday said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Darla had Sheriff Noonday’s shoulder wound patched up in a makeshift cravat, but before it was applied I watched her frisk him down thoroughly. He had a buck knife in his pants pocket that would have pleased Jim Bowie, the long-knife wielder of Alamo fame. He had a small, single shot .22 caliber Derringer inside his right boot. I watched it as Darla placed it on the coffee table by the buck knife. Also, he had a small Walther pistol hidden inside the back of his belt. It must have been damned uncomfortable, but I’d seen lawmen carry such things before. Noonday had at least followed the unwritten code of a law enforcement officer: never be without a backup weapon.
I covered up what was left of Sam with a spare waitress apron from the serving aisle. I figured the place would be closed for a few days anyway.
Within the hour news crews from Bryan and Waco began arriving. The circus had begun.
The local Police Chief put in an appearance, noticed that everything was under control, took a brief statement from me, and then went out to talk to the cameras. The parking lot was as bright as daylight, even though it was 2:00 a.m.
Sheriff Noonday got his picture taken over and over again as he was led out and put in the rear seat of Darla’s cruiser, complete with handcuffs.
I followed my friends ― and my detractors ― to the Hearne Police Station. The town looked like a ghost town, as small towns usually do during the wee hours.
Judge Rogan Sinclair was waiting outside the Police Station when we drove up. Next to him was a man I’d never seen before, but I was ready to lay odds that it was the District Attorney. He was one of those white-faced fellows that flush crimson easily. When Darla took hold of Noonday’s good arm and pulled him out underneath the parking lot lights, the D.A.s face turned red. I took it as a good sign.
The Judge signed to me that he wanted me to wait until he came out before speaking with me, and so Lief and I were alone for a moment.
“What is it with you, Bill?” he asked.
“What?”
“I was hoping you’d be headed home by now,” he said.
“Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I mean that you either go looking for trouble, or it has a way of finding you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Lief. Did you ever think that trouble finds me because it needs to be settled.”
His eyebrows furrowed.
“Bill. That’s a little too deep for me.”
“How are you and Darla getting along?” I asked. “It was a good thing you were with her, or it might have turned out a bit different. I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong.”
“Darla and me,” he said, and whistled. “Damn.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
“What are you going to do with that journal?”
“For now? Keep it. What are you going to do with that girl?”
“For now? Keep her.”
We laughed. It was a good laugh. I could feel the tension draining away from me.
Judge Sinclair poked his head out the front door of the station.
“Bill. Lief. Come on in here.”
*****
I’ve seen my share of the inside of police stations. The Hearne Police Department was nothing to write home about. It consisted of three offices and a small fingerprint room wherein sat a stack of out-of-commission computers and an even more ancient finger-print machine.
“Bill,” the Judge began, “this is Holly Keefer, our District Attorney.”
“Holly stands for Holleman,” he said, and extended his hand. We shook.
“He’s the fellow I told you about, Holly,” Judge Sinclair said.
“What about the Sheriff, here?” I asked, indicating the bruised and bloody man sitting across from me.
“Sheriff Noonday is being held,” Holleman Keefer said. “Charges pending. Unless, of course ―”
“I said I’d help you,” Noonday said. “And I will. Sonuvabitch killed Sam.”
“What about him?” I asked, pointing at Jockovitch, who looked uncomfortable in the chair against the far wall.
“We don’t know anything about him,” Holly Keefer said. “That dead kid out by that diesel rig worked with him. He was the one who sprayed the diner with bullets and killed Sam. This guy, however,” he gestured toward Jockovitch, keeps saying something about the NSA.”
“The National Security Agency?” I asked.
“The same,” Judge Sinclair chimed in.
“I see,” I said. I put my hand in my shirt pocket and pulled out the two shells and handed them to the D.A. “These are shells from two different assassination attempts. Two different snipers. One of them was from the sniper rifle from the guy who tried to waylay us in the barn. The other one is from the sniper the first morning I got into town. People sure like shooting at that cafe. The dead kid out by the rig said something about ‘orders’ right before he died. I’d like to know what those orders were, and why.”
“Ask him,” Noonday said, and poked his left thumb in Jockovitch’s direction.
We all turned our heads at the same time. Our little group very nearly exceeded the capacity of the small room. Darla and Lief stood together. They looked like they belonged that way. Judge Sinclair and Holly Keefer looked like old fishing buddies, mentor and apprentice. Then there was Noonday and Jockovitch. Both men looked very much alone. We could feel the tension between them. If one or the other had a gun in his hand at that moment, the other one would be dead.
“Why are you looking at me?” Jockovitch asked.
“You can begin with your full name,” I said.
*****
We got that much, at least.
His name was Salmon P. Jockovitch. The ‘P’ was for Percival, but he was no knight. The Massachusetts driver’s license from his wallet confirmed his name and address. Also, he wore corrective lenses. I hadn’t seen any glasses, so I asked. He was wearing contacts.
He clammed up when it came to the issuance of his orders.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said.
“Or what?” Da
rla asked. “You’ll have to kill us?”
Salmon Jockovitch remained silent.
It was time to bring a few things into the open. I walked over to Jockovitch and stood no more than three feet in front of him. I looked at him, unblinking. It took a moment, but he eventually raised his gaze to meet mine.
“Why would our government be interested in experiments on children from over a century ago?” I held the journal up in front of his face. I opened it, plucked out the picture of the chair and showed it to him.
He laughed. It was a chilling laugh. When he was done there was dead silence in the room.
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he said.
It was the last thing I heard from him that night. The front door to the police station opened behind us. Before I could turn completely that way I saw something I had no stomach for on Salmon P. Jockovitch’s face. The son of a bitch was smiling.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“This business is concluded,” the man said. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He was a lean, silvery haired fellow and he spoke with a mild, dismissive voice.
Each person in the room had his full attention.
“The Pfeffer file is closed,” he said. “You will release your prisoners to me and go home.” He reached into the outer pocket of his long, black all-weather coat. For an instant I thought he was going to flash some kind of identification, but instead he removed a handkerchief and wiped his nose.
The stranger had either allergies or a touch of the cold.
“Who are you?” Holleman Keefer asked.
“My name isn’t important, but I’ll give it anyway: Roth Hayward.”
“NSA?” I asked.
“No. But I have friends there. Good friends.” He stuffed the cloth back into his pocket. “I’m not at liberty to discuss very much, but I want to assure you that this is not how your government conducts business domestically. From time to time small men with large egos assume powers not rightfully theirs. And so there are, consequently... excesses.”
