Days of Reckoning

by Chris Stout

  Miranda opened her mouth to answer Mrs. Wainwright, but Sam interjected. “Ellie, we haven’t seen Harlan. Not since yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of him. We’ve been working the Beaumont murder; in fact, I think that case is the reason Hector was attacked last night.”

  “Oh, what a horrible thing to happen to such a sweet young man! This is just awful.”

  “Can you think of anyplace that the Chief might have snuck off to? Any business that came up? Anything at all?”

  “Why, no. I can’t imagine where he’d be. Unless he was out at the lodge. But why would he go there in the middle of an investigation? You don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?” Her hand flew to her mouth with the sudden realization that things were very wrong.

  Sam did his best to ease her mind and tried to change the subject. “Ellie, where is his lodge? It’s his hunting cabin, right? He’s told me about it, but I’ve never been. Can you tell me how to get there?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s a little ways away, but not hard to find. Here, let me get some paper and write these directions down. Or do you want me to go out with you?”

  “No, you should wait here, just in case we pass each other and he comes back in. My partner and I should be able to find it.” He nodded towards Miranda.

  Ellie Wainwright had neat, tight and most importantly legible handwriting, even though she was shaking slightly. “You two be careful,” she admonished them.

  “We will. Do you want me to have one of the boys come over, sit with you for a bit until Harlan comes back home?”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. Not much for me to do, anyway. My car’s still being worked on.”

  “Okay. We’ll call you as soon as we find him. And if he shows up, you have my number. Call me, okay?”

  “Yes, Sam, I’ll do that.”

  Chapter 16

  Sam parked his car perpendicularly behind a battered pick-up truck. He recognized it as having been at Beaumont’s store the day he found the gun dealer shot to death. That did not bode well.

  Miranda looked at the truck and remained silent. She mentally tried to calculate whether or not she had left anything behind. She supposed that there was always the possibility of hairs or other traces, but hopefully her presence here today would explain away any of that. She did not look forward to revisiting the lodge. The old cliché about criminals returning to the scene of the crime played over and over through her head. It almost made her smile, so she covered her mouth until the grin subsided and then looked over at Sam. “Well?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I should have asked one of the other officers to come in instead. This could be bad.”

  “You’ll be all right. You’ve got me to protect you.” She smiled encouragingly.

  Sam gave a tight chuckle. “Alright, Rambo, just try not to kill any small furry creatures, okay?”

  The exited the car and walked up the driveway, pistols drawn and at the low ready. Both of them could see a body sprawled on the porch steps.

  “Shit,” Sam said. It was becoming his favorite word of the day. “If it’s a sniper that got him we could be fucked.” He scanned the line of trees surrounding the property warily.

  Miranda played along and followed his gaze. “I think they’d have taken us by now.”

  Sam grunted. They moved to the front steps and crouched at the base. The body was half on the porch with stiff legs jutting over the stairs. “Jesus,” Sam said. “This poor bastard never had a chance.”

  Miranda scanned the bushes beside her. “You sure? There’s a Smith and Wesson looks like he dropped lying over here.”

  Sam weighed the value of the pistol as evidence against his distaste for leaving weapons lying around unattended. “Keep an eye on it. I’m going to see what’s up inside.”

  Miranda overrode him. “That window is broken out. I’m coming with you.”

  Sam opted not to argue. “Just stay behind me.”

  She followed him up the stairs, gingerly stepping around the body and avoiding the pool of blood that had congealed on the porch.

  “Looks like he got stitched up, then took a double-tap to keep him down,” Sam said.

  “Would you want somebody with a 9mm getting up again to shoot you in the back?”

  “We’re the good guys. We don’t work that way. Military might. Those rifles I found were military hardware. I wonder if they’re involved.”

  “What about paramilitary?”

  “That’s what I’m beginning to suspect.” They moved to the door. “How about you push it open, and I’ll go in first.”

  Miranda positioned herself in front of the door. Sam was just to the left of the frame. She tested the handle. It was locked. She looked up at Sam.

  “Should have brought shotguns,” he muttered. He regarded the door for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I don’t think we can blast through it with pistols.”

  “The window then?”

  “I guess. Just watch out for broken glass.”

  They moved to the window and peered inside. Miranda held her breath, knowing what awaited them.

  “Holy Christ!” He saw Miranda shudder. “You stay here,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No. It’s safer if we stick together.”

  They moved through the window, Sam going first. “I think this was the point of entry. All the glass has been cleared away. Maybe point of egress as well.”

  They were in the kitchen. The shattered form lying tied to a battered chair on the floor was unrecognizable. “Shot the guard, captured this individual, tortured him and then shot him,” Sam hypothesized.

  Mostly correct, Miranda thought. Bile churned in her stomach. Jesus, had she really done that?

  They moved past the body and into the den in the rear. “We may have more than one shooter,” Sam said when he saw the third body and the second shattered window. He looked over at Miranda, who was very pale. “You all right?” She nodded stiffly in reply.

  They went back to the body lying on the kitchen floor. It had a blood soaked napkin tied around its head. Sam knelt down to look more closely at it. “Oh Jesus. I think this is Wainwright.” His hands shook and he, too, grew pale. Sam looked up when he heard Miranda choke off a cough. “Honey, are you sure you’re okay?”

  She shook her head and turned away from Wainwright’s body. Gagging, she ran over to the sink and vomited. Sam stood beside her, rubbing her back with his free hand and looking over his shoulder in case the killers were still around.

  “I’m sorry,” Miranda said between gasps.

  “It’s okay. Happens to all of us sooner or later.” He kept rubbing her back. Her muscles spasmed with each heave. Even in her wretched state he could tell she was toned and fit. He chided himself, remembering the rule of thumb from his college days: “Never hit on the puking chick.” He chided himself again for even putting Miranda in that context.

  She ran the water in the sink, splashing some into her mouth to clean it. Sam tried a bit of humor. “You know how much evidence you just ruined?”

  Miranda’s lips were pale, her lipstick smeared. Even so, she managed to smile. “I doubt we’ll arrest anyone based on the contents of my breakfast. It wasn’t very good, anyway.” She looked back down at Wainwright and shuddered. Sam did likewise. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t think any of this has sunk in yet. Four people dead or dying last night, here and at Beaumont’s. Jesus, what the hell is going on here?”

  Five, Miranda corrected mentally. They still hadn’t been out back.

  “Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s get out of this slaughterhouse and call for some back-up.”

  Miranda followed him out of the house. He made it down the steps of the porch before the sights and smells got to him and he, too, doubled over and threw up into the bushes. “See?” he said while Miranda knelt with him. “Happens to all of us.”

  #

  Since the slaying
s took place outside of Sparta’s township limits, they were a matter for the county sheriff’s department to investigate. Sam Connor briefly held onto the fantasy that he would be able to leave this mess to somebody else, but he knew that would not happen. He and Miranda leaned against the side of his car, chewing gum that a deputy had been kind enough to share with them. They watched as the county officers collected evidence and the four bodies – the last had been discovered by the sheriff – were placed in ambulances. Sam shook his head.

  “Any idea what’s going through Damon’s mind?” he asked.

  Fish, Miranda thought. “No clue,” she replied.

  “These guys were hosed down with a 9mm weapon. Can’t tell for sure, but I’d say that – given the volume of fire – it was a submachine gun. Henry Beaumont had a couple of MAC-11’s stolen. My money says that’s what killed these guys.”

  Right on. “You think he’s acting alone?”

  “Don’t know. Four armed men is a lot for one guy to handle all by himself. And he had to be fast. Two of these guys died without firing a shot. Looks like Chief got off a mag and reloaded before he was caught. But I think they were ambushed and didn’t stand a prayer. What I don’t understand is why Wainwright was out here with these jokers in the first place. None of them are too bad, but they’ve all got records for various misdemeanors.”

  “And they’re still allowed to own guns.”

  Sam shrugged. “As long as it’s not domestic-related or a felony….”

  Sheriff Josiah Horn sauntered over and motioned to Sam. “You and your, ah, partner might want to have a look at what we found inside. In a basement.”

  “There’s a basement here?” Miranda had a brief moment of panic. She hadn’t been aware of that the night before. That was a mistake that could have proven fatal. Still might.

  “Yup. Closet in the den opened up to a set of stairs. Better to see for yourselves.” Sam and Miranda followed the lawman back to the hunting lodge.

  #

  The bodies were gone, but blood still stained the floors inside. Sam and Miranda walked around to the back of the lodge and entered through the den, where they wouldn’t be as disruptive to the specialists working the scene. They followed Sheriff Horn to an open closet near the pool table. Inside was a rack of pool cues and a shelf with other supplies, but when they turned right they saw a narrow set of stairs leading down. Sheriff Horn led them into a dimly lit but finished and furnished basement. A small table sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by half-a-dozen folding chairs. Several more chairs lined one long wall. On what they presumed was the front wall hung a map of the county. Pushed to the side was a chalkboard with photographs attached. A pair of flags flanked the map; one an American flag, the other an indeterminate white flag. They turned around stared at the back wall.

  Sam let out a low whistle. Miranda put a hand to her mouth. A rack of rifles stood in the back of the room. On one side was a cabinet; on the other side sat several crates of ammunition.

  Sheriff Horn handed them each a pair of rubber examination gloves. The three of them walked over to the rifles.

  “Bunch of SKS’s and AK’s. Looks like the cheap Romanian kind,” Sam muttered. “And a pair of shotguns. Jesus, that’s more firepower than our whole department.” Miranda opened the cabinet. Sam asked, “What’s in there?”

  “Handguns. Looks like surplus .45’s and Berettas. Lot of mags. Boxes of ammo.”

  Sam checked the crates. Most of them were labeled “7.62 x 39mm,” ammunition for the Eastern European weapons. “There’s enough for a small army down here.”

  Sheriff Horn picked up one of the AK-47’s. “Romanian model WASR-10. Looks like it’s got an American-made stock and hand guard. ”

  “Perfectly legal,” Sam said. “I bet the paperwork’s even lying around here somewhere.”

  “What does this all say to you?” the sheriff asked.

  “Looks like we’ve got a militia in the area.” Sam walked across the room to the white flag. He pulled it out. On the white background was a black cross, highlighted with a red fringe. It was a banner popular with the KKK. “And it looks like Chief Wainwright was up to his neck in it.”

  Sheriff Horn nodded grimly. Sam Connor swore. Miranda Leider crossed her arms and said nothing.

  Chapter 17

  It was evening by the time Miranda and Sam got back in his car and drove to town. “What a mess,” Sam said after driving a few miles in silence.

  Miranda nodded in agreement.

  “I can’t even begin to make sense of it all. I had no idea that the Chief was… you know, into that sort of thing. Christ, Heck is Hispanic, and Frank’s black. Never would have imagined it.”

  “People surprise us, sometimes.”

  “Do you think your brother was part of Wainwright’s group?”

  Miranda looked at Sam a while before answering. “He was big into the militant movements. They made him feel like part of something. With all the other connections we’re finding, I have to believe that he was.”

  Sam shook his head. “Unbelievable. I’m sorry, Miranda. I really am. For a lot of things. This is just a lot to digest. It’s going to take a while to come to terms with the fact that Chief was one of the bad guys. But Jesus, what that kid did to him…. I don’t think anybody deserves to go through that.”

  You’re probably right, Miranda thought. “We’re sure it was Damon who killed those guys?”

  Sam shrugged. “I’m going on instinct, mostly.”

  “Could the two guys found outside have been attackers?”

  “I doubt it. First because the one trying to get in was shot mostly from behind. The other guy was shot trying to flee. If they had successfully made it in and tortured the Chief, I don’t think that would have happened.”

  “What if they were caught by somebody? Maybe members on the Chief’s side came to rescue him?”

  Sam nodded. “It could happen. But it looks like the same person or people killed everyone. There were plenty of 9mm shells lying around, but none of the nines we found had been fired. Chief got off a couple of rounds, but I doubt he was firing at the guy we found out back. That guy was riddled, and then shot in the head at close range. His gun had an empty cylinder, but there were only two .357 holes found in the house, and neither of them were anywhere near the window. Looked more like he was shooting at the corner. No, I think Damon got them all. The technique even matches the Beaumont murder. Three of these guys were finished off with double taps to the head, just like Henry.”

  “What about Hector?”

  This time Sam sighed. “I don’t know, now. That may be totally unrelated. But I’m wondering if the bullets recovered from him and his car are going to match the .357 we found on dead guy number four.” He shook his head. “Lord only knows what happened at the Beaumont place last night. And Hector, I guess, if he’s still alive.”

  They pulled into the lot of the police station. “What now?” Miranda asked.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And I want to look in on my aunt. She’s a neat lady; you might like meeting her. Want to head over with me, maybe grab a bite to eat on the way?”

  Miranda’s growling stomach answered for her. She laughed. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Terrific. I’m going to go check my messages and see how bad things are inside. Then we’ll try to forget about this whole shit-pot for an hour or two.”

  #

  When they pulled into the nursing home parking lot, Miranda regretted agreeing to join Sam. It wasn’t that their meal had been a bad one; they’d had a simple but tasty dinner at one of the local establishments. Their conversation was light, touching on anything that wasn’t related to the maelstrom of murder. A few times they had even joked and laughed. But now, here they were, in the parking lot of a nursing facility and retirement community. A place Miranda had visited once before wondering if she would have to shoot the man sitting beside her. A place where she had visited one of his relatives and spoken with memb
ers of the staff. She thought back to the wig she had worn and decided it had been a flimsy disguise. Maybe there’ll be a different nurse on duty at the reception station, she hoped.

  No such luck. But the woman behind the desk merely smiled and waved as Miranda and Sam walked past. Together they headed down the familiar corridor, finding the same room as before. Sam rapped gently on the doorframe. “Hello, Aunt Fran.”

  “Sam!” Francine Connor exclaimed in delight. “How wonderful to see you! It’s been so long. Come give me a hug.”

  It had actually only been about twenty-four hours, but Sam agreed that it seemed like forever. Besides which, he had been recognized. Aunt Fran was having a good day. He went over to her bed, knelt down and swept the frail woman into a great hug. “How have you been?”

  “I’m managing, dear. And how are you? I’ve heard some awful things are going on in our little town. You’re not involved in any of that mess are you?” She frowned in disapproval.

  Sam shrugged sheepishly. “I’m afraid I am, whether I want to be or not.” He quickly changed the subject. “Aunt Fran, I’d like you to meet one of my colleagues.”

  The woman’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Yes! Becky! I believe we’ve met before. But your hair is different today. I thought you were a blonde?”

  Miranda’s first thought was, shit. Her second thought was, who the hell is Becky? She forgot that it was the name she had adopted yesterday. She looked to Sam with wide eyes. Her face betrayed wonder, surprise, confusion. Sam smiled and winked at her in return.