9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “You’ve got no business here, Sheriff. So take your deputies and go!”

  “Not just yet,” Weber said, as he walked to the pool table. The two men ignored him as they continued their game.

  “Bobby, Rick, how’s it going?” Weber asked them.

  Rick Lyons had broken his back and shattered a hip in an accident fleeing from deputies on a stolen motorcycle when he was thirteen. The accident left him with a decided limp, but had not done anything to make him a better citizen. Weber could not count the number of times he and his deputies had arrested Rick for crimes that ranged from shoplifting to vandalism, to driving while intoxicated. Rick ignored the sheriff and hobbled around the side of the table to line up his pool stick and take a shot. Bobby Christensen gave Weber a brief nod, but would not meet his eyes.

  “So what have you boys been up to today?” Weber asked them.

  The cue ball clicked against the six ball, sending it rolling toward the side pocket, but it missed and stopped off to the side.

  “Shit!” Rick said, throwing his stick onto the ripped felt of the table’s surface. “Whatever it is, Sheriff, we didn’t do it.”

  “Who said you did anything? Can’t a man ask a simple question without somebody taking offense?”

  “We been here all day, ask Margo.”

  “Rick, Rick, Rick, what am I going to do with you? You seem to have some sort of persecution complex,” Weber said. “By the way, where’s your buddy J.T.?”

  “Haven’t seen him all day,” Rick said, but Weber saw Bobby’s eyes flick furtively toward the door to the men’s room. Weber nodded to Buz and Dolan, who pulled the door open to reveal the hulking J.T. Mercer just coming out of the toilet stall.

  J.T. may have been big and he may have been mean, but nobody ever accused him of being smart, or of ever thinking before he acted. Seeing the two deputies and knowing that they were there for him, he immediately lowered his head and charged forward like a bull going after a matador.

  At 41, Dolan Reed wasn’t as fast or as strong as the younger man, but whatever physical advantage J.T. may have had on him was no match for Dolan’s intelligence and years of experience dealing with drunken cowboys, loggers, and assorted roughnecks. At the last minute, he slammed the heavy bathroom door closed and threw his shoulder into it. The door quivered under the impact and Dolan was pushed backward several inches. But when he jerked it back open, J.T. lay sprawled backward on the filthy bathroom floor, out cold.

  Dolan wasn’t the only experienced lawman in the Antler Inn that day, and Weber was prepared when Bobby Christensen tried to take advantage of J.T.’s misfortune and the attention the deputies were paying his friend to bolt for the front door. As he came around the end of the pool table, Weber grabbed the pool stick Rick had discarded with both hands and pointed it at Bobby, whose momentum didn’t give him time to stop or change course. He slammed into the blunt end of the stick, taking the impact in the solar plexus and dropping to his knees, curling into a fetal position as he rolled under the pool table.

  Behind them Margo shrieked, and Chad turned to her and put his hand on the butt of his pistol. The two cowboys quickly gathered up their change off the bar and hustled outside, wanting no part of the action.

  Weber squatted down and pulled Bobby out from under the pool table and tried to drag him to his feet, but he could only make it to his knees while Weber held him up by the shirt collar. Bobby’s face was a curious shade of green and bile dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

  Dolan and Buz dragged a semi-conscious J.T. out of the bathroom and leaned him against the pool table. Dolan slapped his face twice and J.T. opened his eyes, all the fight gone out of him. His nose was mashed flat and his forehead split open. Rick had remained frozen while all this took place.

  “Get over here,” Weber ordered, and Rick limped around the table to stand by his friends.

  “Now, here’s the way it is,” Weber told them. “Those kids you roughed up today refuse to file charges, because they really do believe in loving their fellow man and all that nonsense. They actually think you three are human beings and have some redeeming value. But let’s not bullshit ourselves, we all know you’re animals. And what do you do with a bad animal? First you try to train it to behave. And if that doesn’t work, you put it down. Now, I want you maggots to listen to me very carefully. This was your training session. I hope you learned something from it. Because if you didn’t, if you go back out there and hassle those people out at the meadow, if I ever hear of you putting your hands all over some woman again, I will put you down! And I won’t give it any more thought than I would shooting a bad dog, or a skunk. Do you understand that?”

  Rick nodded his head and J.T. said “yeah” or something that sounded like “yeah” through his battered lips. Bobby just stared in vacant misery, so Weber tightened his grip on the man’s shirt collar until it choked off his airway and Bobby gagged. “Bobby, do you understand me? Or do you need some more training?” Bobby’s eyes bulged and he clawed at his shirt collar, trying to pull it loose without success. Weber shook him like a terrier would a rat. “Bobby, do you understand me?”

  Finally Bobby was able to nod yes, even though the effort made his shirt bite deeper into his neck. Weber released him and stepped back. Margo was cussing Weber and his deputies, but she remained rooted behind the bar.

  “Now, we have two choices,” Weber told the trio, “I can arrest all three of you for assault and attempted rape, even though I know the charges won’t stick. But at least it will keep you off the street for a while and make your miserable lives a little bit more miserable. Or, this can end right here and you can remember what I told you. Because I meant what I said. I’ll blow all three of you away and drag your sorry-ass carcasses into the woods for the bears and coyotes to eat. Any questions?”

  All three nodded, and Weber stared at them a moment longer to be sure the message had sunk in. Then he turned and led his deputies out the door, Margo still cursing them as they passed.

  Outside, Dolan said, “Ya know what pisses me off? He’s as worthless as the other two, but nobody kicked Rick’s ass. Is that because he’s a gimp?”

  “Yeah,” Weber told him. “We’re the good guys and the good guys don’t do that. Still, you’re right, Dolan, it don’t seem right. It’s favoritism.”

  Weber stared around the Jeep. Though it was filthy, it was Rick Lyons’ proudest possession. He had decked it out with oversize tires, CB radio, expensive stereo, system and other accessories. Weber opened the Jeep’s hood, pulled the heavy-bladed Buck Folding Hunter from the sheath on his belt, and opened it. The razor-sharp blade easily sliced through the fan and drive belts and opened a wide slash in the top radiator hose. Green coolant flooded out and Weber closed the hood, then walked around the Jeep, jabbing the knife blade into the sidewall of all four tires and the spare mounted on the back of the vehicle.

  “Yeah,” Weber said as he folded the knife and put it away, “I hate favoritism.”

  ***

  By the time Weber got back to town, it was late afternoon and his stomach was growling. He realized he had not had anything to eat all day. He pulled into the drive-thru lane at McDonald’s and ordered a large Chicken McNuggets and fries, eating them at his desk while he sorted though his latest stack of telephone messages. One caught his attention and he called Wayne Pickney at his insurance office.

  “Wayne? Jim Weber here. You said you needed to talk to me?”

  Weber had dated Wayne’s sister Kathy off and on during his last two years of high school. He had been heartbroken when she let him know that life in a small town wasn’t her idea of life at all, and left for California the week they graduated. Weber had not seen her in years, but the last time he and Wayne had gone fishing together on the lake, Wayne said she was climbing her way up the ladder with a Silicone Valley tech company and driving a BMW.

  “Yeah, Jimmy. I had a rather heated conversation with Dutch Schmidt about his arson claim this morning. The fire wa
s reported at 7:15 and Dutch was in here at 9:30, still smelling like smoke and covered in dirt and soot, expecting me to write him a check for the cost of his bulldozer. Now, most people want their claims settled fast, but I’d think he’d at least wait for the darned ashes to cool down. I told him I needed to get a police report and send it to the company before I could do anything, but he wanted the money right then and there.”

  “Dutch doesn’t seem like a very patient man,” Weber said. “But that does seem like he was jumping the gun. How much was the thing insured for?”

  “The policy has an agreed value of $79,000.”

  Weber whistled. “Do you think he torched his own equipment, Wayne?”

  “I don’t know,” the insurance man told him, “But Dutch has had a run of bad luck.”

  “What do you mean?” Weber asked.

  “Well, three times in the past two years his premium checks have bounced. Each time he made it good and kept the policy in force, blaming the bank for the error. And last year he reported that while he was over in Gallup, somebody broke into his truck and stole over $1200 worth of tools. It raises a red flag when a customer has that many problems, that close together. And now this big claim.”

  “I’ll do some snooping around,” Weber said and hung up the phone. He stared at it for a moment while he finished his meal, then picked it up and pushed a button. “Mary, get me Joyce Taylor over at the bank and ask her if she’s got a minute to talk to me if I come by.”

  ***

  The Timber Savings Bank manager was a short, plump woman in her late 40s with dyed brown, shoulder length hair and sensible makeup. She was a good businesswoman and a good judge of character. More than once the large corporation that owned the bank had offered her the opportunity for advancement, but she was happy where she was in life. She had a nice house and a good family and wasn’t willing to trade them for the rat race a promotion would throw her into.

  “What can I do for you, Jimmy? Need a new car? Maybe a home loan? Whatever it is, you got it.”

  Weber shook his head. He had known Joyce for a long time and always enjoyed their easygoing relationship. “No, I’ve got my old truck, and my Explorer for work, and my cabin’s just fine.”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, but when a man gets himself a wife and starts a family, he needs something more substantial than a beat up truck and an old cabin.”

  “Whoa, lady,” Weber told her, holding up his hand. “Who said anything about a wife and kids?”

  Joyce said, “It’s a small town, my friend. A little birdie told me you’re head over heels in love with that pretty little deputy of yours.”

  Weber blushed deeply and Joyce laughed, enjoying his discomfort.

  “Hey Jimmy, that’s a good thing. It’s about time you found a woman and settled down.”

  “Nobody’s making any announcements that I know of,” Weber said. “Can we just drop this? I need to talk to you about something else.”

  “Party pooper,” Joyce said, sticking her tongue out at him. “What do you need, Jimmy?”

  “What can you tell me about Dutch Schmidt?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, any financial problems?”

  “You know that’s confidential information, Jimmy. There are all kinds of privacy laws…”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble professionally,” Weber told her. “But let’s say we were sitting around your kitchen table having a cup of coffee and I casually mentioned to my friend Joyce that Dutch wanted to buy that old truck of mine, which is not beat up, by the way, and he wanted me to carry the note.”

  Joyce looked up and out the glass wall of her office to be sure nobody was listening to their conversation. Christine Owens was at her teller window finishing up a transaction with Ester Waverly, engaged in conversation as she counted out bills. The other teller, Jill Throckmorton, was lost in thought, probably daydreaming of her boyfriend Aaron Nelson, who was off in California on a mission for the Mormon Church.

  Joyce lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes before she said, “If my friend asked me about something like that, I’d tell my friend that I wouldn’t even take Dutch’s cash without two forms of identification. And then I’d want to check each bill with a Dri-Mark pen to be sure it was real.”

  ***

  Weber drove to Wayne Pickney’s insurance agency and saw Dutch Schmidt’s dented and battered four wheel drive pickup parked in front, at the curb. He parked and went inside and even from the front counter he could hear voices raised in heated argument coming from Wayne’s office in the rear.

  Janet Reardon, the young receptionist, put down the telephone receiver and sighed with relief. “I was just calling your office, Sheriff. Mr. Schmidt has been screaming at Mr. Pickney for the last ten minutes, using all kinds of dirty language. I’m afraid of what he might do.”

  “You stay here,” Weber told her as he made his back to Wayne’s office.

  “Listen, Dutch, I’m telling you for the hundredth time. I can’t just write you a check for that kind of money! It’s not even my decision to make. First we have to get the police report and then I have to send it to the main office. Then it has to go before a claims adjuster.”

  “I’ve heard all of that shit I’m gonna listen to,” Dutch bellowed. “You’re the one I pay my money to, not some main office and not some damned claims adjuster. You! Now you give me my goddamned money right now or I’m gonna stick my hand down your throat and rip your lying heart out and jam it back up your ass!” Dutch shouted, leaning across Wayne’s desk, his face red and contorted with rage.

  Seeing Weber in the doorway, Wayne visibly relaxed and said, “Jimmy, will you please try to talk some sense into this man. I keep telling him….”

  “You keep telling me shit!” Dutch bellowed, “I want my money and I want it now. As for you, Sheriff, did you arrest that bunch of tree huggers that burned up my dozer yet?”

  “I haven’t arrested anybody yet, Dutch. But if you don’t get off the man’s desk and calm down right now, you’re going to be sitting in a jail cell sooner, rather than later.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m pretty sure you set fire to that bulldozer yourself, and I’ve got enough evidence to prove it. I’m just waiting for one final lab test to come back and it should be here by the time I get back to my office. And when I get it, I’m busting you for arson and insurance fraud.”

  “What the hell kind of test are you talking about? I didn’t do a damn thing.”

  “Forensics, Dutch,” Weber told him, pushing his bluff further. “The technology is amazing these days. Even when a guy wears gloves to handle something, his fingerprints on the outside of those gloves from when he carried them and put them on transfer to the object. We got those already from those old gas cans of yours. And some DNA you probably left on them weeks or months ago. Once the FBI lab gets back to me on that, your ass is mine. You shouldn’t have been so damned cheap and bought new gas cans to burn your stuff up with.”

  “FBI? What’s the FBI got to do with all of this?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Weber figured as he carried on the charade. “Those cell towers are protected under Federal law because the signals are carried over the public airways.” Weber told him. “So when you burned that bulldozer up, you interfered with the completion of a Federal project. Larry Parks, that new FBI agent in town? He’s on the phone with his boss and the Federal prosecutor down in Phoenix right now, getting an arrest warrant.”

  “Now wait just a goddamned minute! You can’t…”

  “Yes I can,” Weber interrupted him. “The Feds will do the ultimate prosecution, but the crime happened in my jurisdiction, so I can make the arrest and hand you over to them. It makes me look good along the way.”

  “But I didn’t burn…”

  Weber pulled his handcuffs out of the pouch on his belt and Dutch said, “It wasn’t me, it was those damn protesters.” This time his voice had a hint of a
whine to it and wasn’t nearly as harsh, or convincing.

  “Forensics, Dutch. DNA,” Weber said shaking his head.

  “Okay, wait, this is all a big mistake. I didn’t set the damned fire on purpose. It was an accident!”

  “Yeah? An accident? Tell me how that happened.”

  “Okay, I was using the gas to clean up the dozer. It cuts right through the grease. And the damn thing just caught fire on me! I tried to put it out, but it all happened so fast. Then I decided that nobody was gonna believe me about how it really happened, so I blamed those damn tree huggers.”

  “Well, Dutch, you need to tell your story to the judge,” Weber told him as he locked the handcuffs around the big man’s wrists. “He may believe you, but he’s getting pretty old for fairy tales, so you’ll have to do better than that.”

  ***

  “Do you believe his story?” Chad asked, after Dutch Schmidt had been booked and locked in a cell.

  “Not for a minute,” Weber told him. “Maybe he’ll come up with something better if he has time to sleep on it.”

  “Well, what the hell, Jimmy,” Parks said. “He believed that line of bullshit you fed him, it seems only fair you give the man the benefit of the doubt. What’s fair is fair.”

  “Speaking of bullshit, I need to go home and get cleaned up for the Town Council meeting,” Weber said.

  “We’ll be there for moral support.” Chad said.

  “I appreciate it,” Weber told him, “but this is my fight, not yours.”

  “Now that’s the real bullshit!” Buz said. “Nobody in this office is on their own. We’re a team, and when somebody messes with one member of the team, they mess with all of us.”

  “That’s right,” Dolan said. “A team of horses couldn’t keep us away, boss.”

  “Besides,” Chad said, “It’s kind of a command performance. Our presence has been requested by Kirby Templeton and Bob Bennett. You might even say strongly requested.”

  “Now what do those two have up their sleeves?” Weber wondered aloud.

  “Whatever it is, boss, we’ve got your back,” Dolan assured him, and the others nodded.