When Darkness Builds (The Caldera Series)

by M. C. Sutton

  Daniel quickly dropped his hold on Leah and stepped back.

  Jon glared at Leah. “I specifically asked you to cool it tonight, didn’t I? Are you determined to see your mother’s head explode?”

  Leah narrowed her eyes at him, then looked away.

  “Oh, don’t mind him, honey,” said Sarah, stepping over to give Leah a hug goodbye. “He’s just cranky because he’s pretty sure he’s sleeping on the couch.”

  Jon might have laughed if it weren’t partially true.

  “Come on, Daniel. I’ll walk you to the car.” Leah grabbed Daniel’s hand and dragged him toward the steps.

  Daniel nodded nervously at Jon as they passed. “Captain Grant.”

  “Daniel.” Jon crossed his arms.

  “You should really cut them some slack, Jon,” said Sarah, once the teens were out of earshot. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be that age?”

  “As a matter of fact, I remember exactly what it was like to be that age.”

  Honestly, Jon didn’t mind that the two of them were together. Leah was seventeen when they started dating. Daniel was twenty. Jon and Emma would never have allowed the age difference if it were someone other than Daniel. But still, no sense in letting the kid get comfortable. The longer Jon made Daniel nervous, the less likely the two of them were to make the same mistakes he had.

  Sarah smiled. “Yeah, well, he’s nowhere near as wild as you were.”

  “I would certainly hope not.” Jon smiled back. He watched Daniel and Leah cross the dark driveway, then lowered his voice. “Listen, Sarah, about Emma…”

  “I know, Jon, I’m worried about her too. If you can manage to slip her a few more of those sleeping pills, hopefully it will help.”

  “Yeah, if I can manage it, now that you’ve blown my cover.”

  Sarah frowned. “Yeah, I guess I did, huh? Sorry about that. Sometimes I just let Emma get to me.”

  “But it isn’t just that she’s not sleeping. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she’s not eating much either. I think there’s something else bothering her. She’s restless and edgy.” Jon looked down at his feet, then up at Sarah. “I think she’s having the dreams again, Sarah. You know how reckless she gets when she has them. I’m not sure if I could go through that again. I’m not sure if we could go through that again.”

  Sarah sighed. “Jon, things are a lot different than they were twenty years ago. You’re both stronger people than you used to be.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…”

  “Look, I know Emma, and I know how… difficult… she can be sometimes. But I also know you. I know how much you love her, and your kids, and just how far you’ll go for them. I’m sure you’ll get through it.”

  Jon took a deep breath. If only he could be that certain.

  “And if she needs anything—if you need anything—don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

  He nodded.

  Sarah leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Sarah,” he said. “I really do appreciate it.”

  “What can I say?” She rolled her eyes before turning to leave. “I live to serve.”

  Jon stepped back into the living room, now darkened as the boys watched their movie and Richard snored. Jon grabbed a blanket from the loveseat and threw it over Richard. “Good night, boys,” he said. “I’m assuming Mrs. Romano actually knows you’re staying over, Garrett?”

  Garrett grinned. “If she hasn’t figured it out yet, I’m sure she will by morning.”

  Jon shook his head. “Go call your mother.”

  Downstairs, he found Emma curled up on the sectional, breathing softly, the empty tea cup still in her hand. Jon took the cup from her and set it on the coffee table, then pushed a lock of auburn hair from her face before picking her up gently to carry her to bed.

  “You are in so much trouble,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “As long as we both get a good night’s sleep,” he said, “that’s fine with me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE CREEK THAT RAN THROUGH the back of Hackett Ranch was still swollen from the storms that had blown through a few days earlier. Sam sat on its bank, watching the muddy water flow through the branches that littered the bottom. For as far back as he could remember, he and his little brother, Toby, had come down to this creek to splash in the cool water while they ate their lunch under the hot east Texas sun, their bare backs baked to a deep orange, beads of dirty sweat running down their cheeks. A faint smile crossed Sam’s face as he thought about those times, accentuating the wrinkles that had begun to develop much too early on his sun-weathered skin.

  He bowed his head almost shamefully. My god, things have changed.

  First, and most painfully, Toby was gone. The endless acres of pasture weren’t so endless anymore, either. Sam had been forced to sell them off slowly just to make ends meet. It had killed him to do it, but the little bit of extra money had been necessary. Then eventually even the deep-pocketed investors couldn’t afford to buy any more. The cattle went up for sale next, till there was only enough left to keep his own family going. He was grateful his father wasn’t alive to see it.

  Sam looked down at the small leather notebook on the ground beside him, its cover as tan and worn as the hand that picked it up. Inside were pages upon pages of notes, taken not in the cursory scribble of a cattle rancher, but in the carefully attentive hand of a writer. He turned impulsively to the front half of the book, to the page marked with the frayed ribbon, and read.

  And though I fight

  I know, I’ll never win

  For the battlefront

  Comes from within

  He sighed and closed the notebook, shaking his head as if to shake off some distant notion. Shoving the notebook into the back pocket of his faded jeans, he stood, turned away from the creek, and squinted at the small house across the pasture. Claire would be up and making breakfast, and if he wasn’t back by the time it was done, she’d start to wonder where he’d gone off to.

  He headed toward the house.

  Sam was met at the door by the smell of bacon and the haze of dust floating along the beams of early morning sunshine. The light poured through the windows onto the worn wooden floors. As he stepped into the living room, Sam looked up at the canvas painting that hung above the mantel of the large brick fireplace—him and Claire on their wedding day. They looked so young and carefree then. It seemed like eons ago.

  He found her at the stove, tucking a strand of golden-blond hair behind her ear as she pushed eggs around the skillet. Clarissa Finch, his high-school sweetheart. It seemed almost a crime that she’d had to change her name to Hackett. That in choosing to spend her life with him, she had gone from something as soft and light as Finch to something as hard and abrupt as Hackett.

  “Hey, sugar,” she said with a smile.

  He stole a piece of bacon from the plate on the counter, broke off a piece, and popped it into his mouth. “Mornin’, babe.”

  “Breakfast is just about ready.” She looked at him sideways as he ate his bacon. “Everything okay?”

  “Just fine,” he answered with a forced smile.

  She turned back to the skillet. “It’s the last of the bacon,” she said quietly.

  Sam turned his eyes to the black-and-white checkered floor. They’d butchered the sow late last year to get them through the winter. The few piglets born last spring had all been carried off during the night by coyotes, probably just as hungry and desperate as anyone else was, Sam figured. Claire had done the best she could with what was left in the freezer—including skipping a few meals herself, he’d noticed. But her culinary ingenuity could only get them so far. With a crop ruined by too much rainfall and the lack of work in town, they couldn’t keep the pantry stocked, and they both knew it.

  Sam stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’ll be all right, babe. You’ll see.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before
moving the eggs from the stovetop and turning to look at him. “Of course it will,” she answered. “Now go up and wake Cole before his breakfast gets cold.”

  Sam nodded and climbed the stairs.

  He found their three-year-old lying asleep in his room, surrounded by stuffed monsters and worn fuzzy dogs. Sam hated to wake him, he looked so peaceful. It had been another rough night, with a low-grade fever and more complaints of chest pain.

  Sam knelt beside Cole’s bed and ran a hand through his son’s sun-bleached hair. Cole stirred slightly and took a few dotted breaths, but didn’t wake. Sam smiled. The boy’s fever had finally broken. He’d let him sleep a little longer.

  Sam glanced at the door before taking a letter out of his pocket. He turned the envelope over in his hand, almost afraid to open it. He’d picked it up at the post office during a trip to town several days ago, and had been hiding it from Claire ever since. Rural mail delivery had been canceled years ago, thanks to gas prices, and this was a rare occasion where Sam was grateful for it. He had wanted to get to the letter before she could.

  This letter was their last chance. Cole’s last chance. They’d appealed to every hospital in Texas with heart surgeons trained to treat Cole’s condition. Cole was almost at the age when he’d need to receive his final surgery. If it didn’t happen soon…

  Sam ripped into the envelope and pulled out the letter.

  Dear Mr. Hackett,

  We regret to inform you that due to current federal regulations, we are unable to accept…

  Sam let the letter drop into his lap. He didn’t need to read any more. All the others had started out the same. Due to current federal regulations… It was ironic, really. The federal programs were supposed to help people who couldn’t afford healthcare. Instead, they had put healthcare providers out of business. Cole’s cardiologist had closed his doors almost a year ago. Even those doctors and hospitals that were still going would no longer accept federal insurance, thanks to the well-below-market cost-of-service caps put on their contracts by the government. And when the government tried to prevent healthcare providers from discriminating against federal insurance, they simply stopped accepting insurance altogether, switching instead to cash-only payments.

  Cash that Sam didn’t have.

  He took a long, deep breath and rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m so sorry, buddy.”

  “Sam!” came a man’s voice from downstairs. “Sam, where are you? Get your backside down here, now!”

  Sam shoved the letter into his front pocket as he hopped to his feet and shot for the stairs.

  “Zach?” said Sam.

  His childhood best friend stood pacing at the bottom of the stairs, his face pale.

  “Zach, why on God’s green earth are you carrying on like that? From upstairs it sounded like you were dying.”

  Zach looked him square in the eyes, leaned in toward him, and lowered his voice. “The feds are raiding Harley’s gun shop.”

  Sam gasped.

  He shouted toward the kitchen, “Babe, I’ll be back,” then grabbed Zach by the arm and hurried out the front door.

  The drive into town was quick and wordless, Sam bouncing around in the passenger seat of Zach’s truck as they flew over gravel back roads, both too terrified to speak. If the feds had been tipped off—if they were there for the reasons he and Zach both prayed they weren’t—then everything was about to come to an abrupt end before it had even begun. They passed the “Destiny City Limits” sign, population 2,346 and falling, and headed straight for Harley’s store.

  Nestled between Nell’s barber shop and the abandoned five-and-dime, it was one of the few places downtown still left open. Sam fully expected to see the tiny gun shop engulfed in smoke and under siege by FBI agents. Instead, most of the agents gathered outside the store wore little badges with an acronym that the folks around here dreaded seeing just as much.

  IRS.

  “You can’t do this!” Harley’s wife Selena screamed from the sidewalk as Sam and Zach pulled into a parking spot across the street. One of the FBI guys had an arm around her, holding her back as balding little weasels with badges carried boxes of merchandise out of the store.

  “Zach, go find out whatever you can about what they know,” said Sam.

  Zach nodded. “Will do.”

  “Hey, let her go!” Sam shouted as he climbed out of the truck.

  Selena pulled herself away from the FBI agent and ran to Sam. He caught her just before she stumbled off the edge of the sidewalk.

  “Sal, honey, calm down,” he said. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

  Selena tried to explain in a rush of Spanish and English, tears streaming down her face. “They took him, Sam! They say we owe back taxes, but I know we don’t. There’s no way we can. How can any of us owe them anything when no one’s making money?”

  “Wait—what do you mean, they took him?”

  “Harley! They took him, and they won’t tell me where he is! They say they’re going to take all of it if we don’t start cooperating!”

  Start cooperating? How on earth could a hundred-and-ten-pound, five-foot Puerto Rican and a fifty-year-old war vet with three kids do anything but cooperate when faced with a small army of federal agents?

  “Young man, is there something we can help you with?” said a middle-aged bureau boy whose belly filled out his FBI jacket just a little too well. Sam guessed he didn’t have a hard time making ends meet.

  Selena darted behind Sam, whispering a colorful expletive in Spanish.

  Bureau Boy curled a lip. “Now, now, little missy. There’s no reason we can’t all be civilized.”

  Sam pushed Selena farther behind him. “My friend here says you’ve taken her husband. Refused to tell her where he is. You can’t just take off with a man and not tell his family what you’ve done with him. From what I understand, this is still America—though it looks less and less like it every day, from where I’m standing.”

  “Son, I’m Deputy Director Sanchez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the overweight agent. “In case you didn’t catch the FBI part.” He smirked and pointed to his jacket.

  Sam clenched his jaw.

  “Now, your feisty little friend here refuses to answer any of our questions. If you want this to go smoothly, I suggest you talk her into being a little more cooperative. And as for not knowing where her husband is… Well, if the little fence jumper has some difficulty communicating… then that’s not my problem.”

  “Ai!” Selena shouted. She darted toward Sanchez, but Sam grabbed her by the waist. “I was born in San Antonio, you ignorant pendejo!”

  Sanchez just smiled as he stepped away and motioned to another agent.

  “Selena, that doesn’t help,” Sam whispered. “Do you want to find Harley and save your shop or not?”

  Selena bowed her head. “Yes.”

  Sam let her go.

  “Mrs. Rankin,” said the next little FBI weasel. “Mister…” he added, turning to Sam and offering a hand.

  Sam crossed his arms. “Hackett. Sam Hackett.”

  The guy pulled his hand back. “Mr. Hackett,” he said to the ground. “I’m Agent Larson. I’m a negotiator with the FBI.”

  “A negotiator? Why would the FBI feel the need to have a negotiator present for an IRS seizure?”

  “Sometimes these things get a little… ugly,” Larson answered quietly. He glanced at Sanchez, who had walked away to talk to some of the guys with IRS badges. “Look, if you could just answer a few quick questions for me, it would make both our lives a lot easier.”

  Sam sighed. If it would help them find out where they had taken Harley, then fine. “All right, Larson, what do you want to know?”

  “Are you aware of any support, financial or otherwise, given by Harley Rankin to any of the following organizations: Public Citizen, the Movements, Americans for Prosperity, any organization that promotes education about the Constitution or Bill of Rights, or any organization openly against fe
deral healthcare?”

  Sam’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Is Rankin an avid supporter of President Saundra? Is he actively involved in any sort of local militia?”

  “This is Texas; of course he is,” said Sam. “We all are. What does any of this have to do with owing back taxes?”

  “Mr. Hackett, has Harley Rankin ever spoken against, or supported organizations that have spoken against, the GOG?”

  Sam froze. This wasn’t about back taxes at all.

  Selena released a blood-curdling cry he wouldn’t have thought possible from such a small-framed girl. “Phoenix, noooo!”

  Sam followed Selena’s gaze—and understood her panic. Phoenix, her twelve-year-old son, was perched in the second-story window of Harley’s shop. He held an AR-15 in his hands.

  “I don’t know about you, Mama, but I think I’ve had just about enough of this!” he shouted before firing a single shot into the side of one of the IRS vans.

  Agent Larson shoved Sam and Selena behind an unmarked car.

  “Son, that was about the dumbest thing you could have done!” shouted Sanchez, squatting with several other agents behind a van and pulling out his sidearm. He nodded to one of the other agents, who disappeared around the back of the van. “Is this how you raise your kids, fence jumper?” he barked at Selena.

  Selena glared at him and spat some colorful Spanish Sam had never even heard before.

  Sam grabbed her before she could rush at Sanchez again. “Selena, don’t let him bait you. You can’t help Phoenix, or Harley, from the back seat of an FBI car.”

  “Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Sam? Just sit here?”

  Sam sized up the scene. The agents had all taken cover, but Sam knew it wouldn’t last for long. He glanced up at Phoenix’s window, then dropped his gaze to the doorway beneath it. “That’s exactly what I expect you to do,” he answered, then jumped up and ran for the door.

  “Sam!” Selena shouted after him as Phoenix began unloading several rounds into the IRS van.