Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4)

by Debra Gaskill

  Benny was at the wide sliding barn door, holding Doyle’s shotgun with one hand and shading his eyes against the bright light with the other, peeking through the cracks in the wood. He didn’t respond to Roarke’s request.

  Doyle sat in front of me on another old wooden chair, twirling Benny’s handgun by the trigger guard. My cell phone sat on the dirt floor between us.

  “Nice to have you back,” Doyle said. “You’ve made us quite the center of attention now.”

  I groaned and spit blood from my mouth.

  “Let us at least see him,” Roarke continued through the bullhorn. “Let us know he’s OK.”

  “You hear that? You got us into a bit of a situation,” Doyle said. “The sheriff and all his buddies got this place surrounded. He’s calling you a hostage.”

  “Isn’t that what I am?” I slurred.

  “Naw,” Doyle smirked. “You’re a martyr to the cause. Ain’t none of us getting out of this one alive, least of all you.”

  I shook my head slowly. “No. That’s not going to happen.” Gasping for breath, my head fell to my chest.

  Doyle stuck the gun barrel under my chin and lifted my head with it.

  “Sure of that, are you?”

  “You won’t get away with this.” I tasted blood in my mouth again and spit it on the dirt floor. Doyle pulled the gun away and began twirling it on his index finger as I silently watched.

  Despite my pain, I knew there were a lot of guys just like Doyle McMaster in Jubilant Falls. I wrote about them every day.

  In another age, they didn’t need college. They graduated from high school —or didn’t—and worked for thirty years at a factory job before retiring with their pension, or made a living from the farm that had been theirs for generations.

  Their wives stayed at home and raised their children according to their well-thumbed King James Version of the Bible, which they read from each morning, as well as at Wednesday and Sunday services at little fundamentalist churches on back country roads.

  In Doyle’s world, there were no grey areas. Life was black or white, right or wrong. A man worked, a woman kept the home. Children were disciplined with the back of a hand to not talk back. Life’s rules were strict and clear: men and women, blacks and whites had their roles to play in this world. You saluted the flag and thanked God for your blessings, as long as those same gifts weren’t extended to those who really didn’t deserve them.

  But then their world changed: the factory jobs and the secure future they provided disappeared. Without educations or union jobs, guys like Doyle found they couldn’t support themselves working at fast food joints or stocking shelves at a big box store. Brown-skinned immigrants with accents and religions they couldn’t understand began to fill a world they were increasingly cut out of, working at jobs these angry young white men couldn’t dream of getting.

  Now it looked like I was going to die with one of them.

  “What happened to make you like this, Doyle?” I asked, trying to get the question out in one breath.

  The gun stopped spinning and Doyle looked up at me.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah,” I gasped. “I really want to know.”

  Doyle smirked as he began his tale.

  “This farm was in my family since as long as I can remember. My grandfather farmed it and before that, his grandfather farmed it before that. Then my dad got the farm after he comes back from Vietnam and he ends up selling everything off piece by piece, thanks to Jew bankers. You know the crazy old man who lives next door? That was my grandparents’ house. My dad lived there after they died, but sold it to that crazy bastard just to pay the taxes. I grew up in that yellow house out there.” Doyle gestured toward the barn door. “All I had was that house and the fifty acres I caught you trespassing on. I got the right to shoot your dumb ass for that right now, no questions asked.”

  Doyle jammed the gun barrel into my shoulder. I cried out in pain.

  “But if it’s in foreclosure—” I managed to wheeze.

  “Shut up!”

  Doyle jammed the barrel into my shoulder again.

  “Doyle! Stop it!” Benny called from his post at the barn door.

  “Tell me your story, then let me go,” I said, feeling weak. “I’ll tell your story. I’ll put it in the paper.”

  “What’s going on in there? We want to see the hostage.” Roarke’s voice boomed over the bullhorn.

  “I’m not done yet!” Doyle called out, then turned back to me. “You wouldn’t do that. You’re just trying to con me.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I would. Tell me the rest. What happened next?”

  “My old man had to go to work at Traeburn Tractor, because he couldn’t make a living farming anymore. Then when Traeburn closed, he lost his job. He started drinking, and then when things got really bad, he shot himself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Doyle didn’t hear me. He was on a roll, now. “I’m tired of the white man getting screwed. I lost my job at the auto parts plant, then I got my hours cut at the hog farm—all because these damn Mexicans will work for nothin’ and the niggers are getting the jobs that belong to real Americans.”

  No doubt he’d lost his job with each conviction and jail term, but Doyle’s thought process defied any logic. I’d seen it before. It wasn’t his fault—it was everyone else’s.

  And people like Benny Kinnon came along, claiming to be the fix for their problem, the outlet for their rage. But guys like Doyle were too dumb to see him for the con man that he was, looking only to gain from their pain over the loss of a world that existed only in John Wayne movies.

  “So why did you punch Jerome Johnson?” I asked.

  “A man’s got a right to express an opinion doesn’t he? I’m expressing mine and that nigger takes offense at me calling it the way it is? The man hit me first! Then I don’t know who that other asshole was who jumped in, but Jesus.” His words trailed off.

  “What about the goats?”

  “What goats?”

  “Two cashmere goats were decapitated and gutted at Johnson’s farm after you got in the fight with Johnson. You didn’t do that?”

  Doyle scoffed at me. “Hell no.”

  It must have been the Russians, then, trying to send a message to Katya Bolodenka. Does Addison know that, I wonder?

  “I left a message for that white woman who lives there, though.”

  “What kind of a message?”

  Grinning, Doyle stopped twirling the gun and pulled a knife from his boot, the same knife he had in his hand at the Travel Inn.

  “What did you do?”

  “Paper said she was sleeping with that Johnson guy.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  He smirked and with a sharp motion flung the knife between my feet. I gasped as it shot into the dirt, vibrating slightly.

  “Like I said, I left a message for her. I cut up every piece of furniture in that place, just to let her know that kind of race mixing won’t be tolerated here. She’ll think twice before she leaves a door unlocked again.”

  On the floor, my phone rang. Doyle reached over and picked it up; it was Roarke’s cell phone number. Doyle slid his finger across the screen and held the phone in front of my face. “Go ahead. Talk.”

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Sheriff Roarke. Are you OK, Graham?”

  I looked at Doyle, who nodded. “I could be better.”

  “What do you need? Do you need food? Medical attention? We’re trying to do everything we can to get you out.”

  Doyle pulled the phone away from me. “He’s not coming out alive any more than Benny or me,” he snapped.

  “Don’t let it end this way, McMaster,” Roarke said. “Don’t let anybody get hurt and it will go easier for you.”

  “If you let me go, I can tell your story,” I said. “I can’t tell your story if I’m dead.”

  “Bring him out, McMaster,” Roarke said. “Let him come out. “

&nbs
p; Benny stepped back from the door. “We open those doors and the cops will kill us all.”

  “Who is that?” Roarke asked on the other end of the call.

  “Benny Kinnon, Sheriff,” Benny said.

  “Well, Mr. Kinnon, we have the barn surrounded. We’ve searched your truck. We found the heroin you hid in the wheel well. If you come out peacefully, with Graham, I’ll personally guarantee your safety. I’ll talk to the prosecutor about a reduction in charges.”

  “I open these doors and we all die in a hail of bullets. I’m not stupid.”

  “I promise you. Bring Graham to the barn door and let him go. You give yourself up peacefully and nobody dies.”

  Benny glared at him as Doyle ended the call.

  “You got me into this,” Benny said. “You better get me out.”

  “I’ll bring him up to the front of the barn, but I ain’t guaranteeing anything once those doors slide open,” Doyle said. Roughly, Doyle pulled the knife from the ground and cut the rope from around my wrists and ankles. I cried out in pain as both men yanked me to my feet.

  In front of the barn door, they let go of me. I sank to my knees, stars swirling in my head, and my breath coming in painful gasps. I couldn’t have run if I wanted to. Doyle tied my hands behind my back again as Benny held the cold shotgun against my head. When he was done, both men stood with their hands on a sliding door, Benny on the left, Doyle on the right.

  I swallowed hard and looked up toward the rusted track that held the two doors closed. Would they even open? Tears began to fill my swollen eyes and roll down my bruised cheeks.

  This was it. I would never know my son. Elizabeth would tell him I died chasing a damned story, I thought. She was right. I’d do anything to get a byline. And for what? After a few years, they’ll move on. She’ll get married and her husband will adopt him and unless he asks about his real father, I’ll just be a footnote in his life history.

  Benny called out. “We’re at the door.”

  “On the count of three, open the door,” Roarke answered. “One… two…”

  With a groan, the barn doors slid apart and the floodlights blinded me.

  “Hold your fire! Everyone! Hold your fire!” I heard Roarke yell. On my right, Doyle cocked his pistol in slow motion.

  “Look out!” I screamed. I tried to roll away as Doyle’s gun flashed. I groaned as the bullet exploded in my right thigh. There was another shot, this one from my left, and Doyle fell to the ground, his chest an open cavity of fabric, blood and deer shot. Benny, my father, stepped forward into the glare of the floodlights, dropping the shotgun as he raised his hands in the air.

  Chapter 34 Addison

  The blue of a computer screen was the only light in the newsroom as I made my way upstairs, the horror of Katya’s bloody face still fresh in my mind.

  It was nearly two in the morning. I could have gone home, slept a few hours and then come back to do this story. No one else had it, not the big metro in Collitstown, not any of the TV stations. If I wrote it now and threw it up on the website, maybe even sent it to the Associated Press, everyone would have it by dawn.

  I didn’t care. Two people were dead and a federal agency was partially responsible for their murders. I was going to write this story and expose how serious errors in judgment led to both deaths. Everyone in Plummer County, if not the state of Ohio, should know why that happened. Once I slapped this story up on the website and across the front page, everybody would have a piece of it and I hoped they did.

  Earlene could fire me for not going after the barking dog story first—or for whatever damned reason she wanted.

  I flipped on the overhead lights, sat down at the nearest computer and logged onto the editorial system. The computer beeped, letting me know it was ready for me to start. It was time to hang one Agent Robert Peppin out to dry.

  By ADDISON MCINTYRE

  Managing Editor

  A Youngstown Road woman linked to the murder of a federal agent Tuesday has herself been shot, the latest in a case reportedly linked to a string of questionable New Jersey pain clinics, allegedly run by Russian organized crime figures.

  Although law enforcement officials would not release the details of the murder, the body of Ekaterina Bolodenka was identified early Thursday morning at the Plummer County Morgue. She was shot at least two times in the face.

  On Tuesday night, sheriff’s deputies found a U.S. Marshal known as Jerome Johnson dead on the porch of the farm that Bolodenka owned.

  Bolodenka was the wife of Kolya Dyakonov, who reportedly ran a chain of fraudulent Medicaid pain clinics where doctors on his payroll dispensed painkillers such as Oxycontin and Oxycodone to members of the homeless community. New Jersey authorities have linked these clinics to an explosion of drug overdoses and deaths in the area.

  Bolodenka was placed in witness protection by federal authorities after she reportedly witnessed her husband killing a homeless man in her Brooklyn neighborhood of Brighton Beach.

  She was the only witness against her husband, according to Agent Robert Peppin.

  “Without her, we have no case,” he said.

  Originally relocated to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, Bolodenka ignored orders from her keepers that she was no longer allowed to stay in touch with her sister Svetlana, Svetlana’s husband Alexis and their infant daughter Nadezhda, called Nadya.

  When members of the Dyakanov’s gang reportedly heard Katya had been in contact, all three, including the baby, were reportedly killed when Svetlana and Alexis would not reveal Bolodenka’s location.

  Following their murders, Bolodenka was relocated here to Plummer County and the Youngstown Road farm, along with a number of llamas and alpacas from another witness, where an agent reportedly named Jerome Johnson was assigned to protect her.

  Just as Bolodenka had secrets, so did the man protecting her.

  Johnson, who’s real name was Terrell Simms-Reed, was a former Marine, assigned to the American Embassy in Moscow. He spoke Russian and was trained as a military policeman, according to his parents, but his military career was cut short when his commanding officer found he was involved with Russian prostitutes.

  Simms-Reed received an honorable discharge and following his return to the States, found a job with the U.S. Marshal Service, where he was assigned, often under assumed names, to provide protection for Russian-speaking witnesses, such as Bolodenka, until they could testify.

  Bolodenka told members of the Journal-Gazette staff that she and the man she believed to be Johnson were romantically involved.

  Agent Robert Peppin, who is heading up the investigation, would not comment on where or how Bolodenka was killed, but suggested that a J-G story last Saturday on Bolodenka was responsible for her death.

  The Journal-Gazette’s first story was about Bolodenka’s background, and how she had won at the state fair. She later admitted that the Witness Protection program fabricated the information she provided for that story. She also identified Johnson as her farm manager.

  A visit to the Youngstown Road farmhouse by J-G staff yesterday afternoon found Bolodenka was not at home, but the house had been ransacked and much of the furniture slashed.

  Peppin, questioned at the morgue, would not comment.

  The story needed one more line, one more paragraph to make it complete. I stepped away from the computer to think.

  The police radio was quiet, not really surprising at this time of the morning, but out of force of habit, I decided to check it anyway. I walked across the room—it was off.

  Shit, I thought to myself. I knew who did it—Earlene had the weekly cleaning service under orders to turn off anything they found still using electricity when they came through after midnight.

  Who cares? It could stay off until I got back in here for deadline—not that I needed anything else on my plate. I made a mental note to call Graham Kinnon and see how his stepfather was doing after his heart attack. Maybe I could talk him into coming back from family leave a few da
ys early.

  Across the newsroom, I heard my cell phone ring deep in my purse.

  Probably Duncan, I thought to myself as I walked back to the desk to answer it. I didn’t recognize the number. Was it Peppin? Maybe Dr. Bovir?

  “Hello?”

  “Addison, it’s me, Elizabeth Day.” Her normally tough voice was quiet and scared.

  “What’s up kiddo? Why are you calling me at this time of the morning?”

  “It’s Graham. He’s at the hospital. He’s been shot.”

  Chapter 35 Graham

  “Hey. You awake?” It was a woman’s voice, soft and gentle.

  My swollen eyes opened slowly as I felt the stupor of anesthesia temporarily recede. I was in a hospital bed. A nurse touched my shoulder, speaking softly. With the light glowing gently behind her, she seemed angelic. As my eyes focused more, I saw she had red curly hair trying valiantly to escape the bun pinned atop her head, and green eyes that danced in the halo of her smile. She wore a stethoscope around her neck and I wanted to see how far her freckles descended into the V-necked collar of her blue surgical scrubs.

  I wanted to tell her, too, how beautiful she looked, but my words were garbled and slurred. I couldn’t move my right leg, but why? The memory of Sheriff Roarke and his deputies rushing into McMaster’s barn returned.

  Once again, I heard the gunshots, felt the pain and I saw Ben standing in the glare of the floodlights as he was handcuffed. I remembered EMTs surrounding me, working frantically to stem the bleeding in my leg. I remembered Roarke standing above Doyle McMaster’s dead body, shaking his head as I was placed on a gurney and rolled to the ambulance.

  I groaned.

  “I’m sorry—just nod,” the nurse said.

  I complied.

  “You have two broken cheekbones. You also have a pretty good concussion and a broken rib. Do you remember being shot in the leg, Mr. Kinnon?” Now that she knew I was awake, her voice was loud and she over-enunciated her words.

  I grunted in assent and tried to reach down to touch the bandages, but I was too loopy to find my leg. She took my hand and placed it on top the covers.