K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  CHAPTER—3

  Azrael watched Kelton’s chest rise and fall under the faded brown blanket. His ears were up and alert, although there hadn’t been any concerns to raise his black-masked face off his paws. His coat had dried from last night’s bath, and it was all about waiting until his master stirred to get food. There was no reason to worry or to get restless. Food, rest, water, play, and the opportunity to eliminate came with both regularity and flawless reliability. And he enjoyed using his ivory white fangs on any and all whose actions dared infringe upon those basic needs or their provider.

  Kelton’s dreams of the war were persistent but not unwelcome at night. Those four years deployed were the climatic culmination of adolescent dreams of glory, academy life and many months training at state-side bases. Until a few months ago, it constituted his entire adult life and his subconscious hadn’t yet let go.

  It was a life hard fought and struggled for. There had been the late nights studying, the long runs and the calisthenics to muscle failure. It was held together with rigid discipline and the suppression of hormones. It rode upon the adventure of training with automatic weapons and repelling out of helicopters. A life shared with those special type of friends you only make when you are young, magnified by being in an alien world of strange customs, doing things that most dare not dream.

  His subconscious didn’t concern itself with the proper time and place of faces, or whether or not they still lived. It merely spliced together random fragments of memories, some fantastic like a burning vehicle, and others as mundane as a chow hall line. There were the morning crowds of men commuting in business suits and head scarfs while he walked the sidewalk wearing fatigues and body armor. Honking vehicles were flanked by tan concrete buildings towering over the groomed palm trees. A warm breeze off the heated sands, snaked through the urban canyons, and caressed the skin of his cheeks with its exotic scents of far away.

  “Okay, I’m up. You don’t have to pant in my face and then act all pleasantly surprised when my eyes open.”

  Azrael gave a soft whine and thumped his tail expectantly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe tap me with your paw or something. What time is it?”

  Azrael cocked his head to the side at the question. A digital clock-radio unit flashed digits that were obviously incorrect. They were incorrect to Kelton, at least anyway. The iPhone charging next to it said 7:45AM. He pulled the tab on a can of dogfood and banged it out into the stainless-steel bowl. A quick flash of teeth gave way to a licking tongue. Kelton sat down a moment in a rickety chair by the corroded air conditioner and slowly blinked sleep from his eyes. There wasn’t any hurry this morning.

  The sheets of the bed were threadbare with a tired blanket sporting cigarette burn marks. The concrete block walls were white except where the bed’s scarred headboard had battered them in numerous liaisons. No art was wasted on the walls. The carpet was sun faded and showed the trail from bed to the tiny bathroom. Small pebbles and a torn piece of condom wrapper nestled in the corner, out of reach of the superficial vacuuming.

  But there were no bugs and it had been much better than being on the ground. Kelton felt good, he decided, and clean. So what if he had killed five more men last night. He stood and stretched away the stiffness from the long sleep. His stomach gave a soft rumble, but he didn’t reach for one of his protein bars. He and Azrael had been on the side of the road for several days in damp weather. It was time for real meal.

  With the luxury of power, he made sure the pair of external smart phone batteries had charged properly, and then made a quick check of email and bank statements. With a swipe of the finger he paid his credit card in full. All was as should be, except he kept reaching for his missing gun.

  He decided upon another shower and this time he shaved. His towel was still damp from last night, and Azrael had done for the other, but it mostly got the job done. The clothes he’d washed in the sink last night were still a little damp, so he put them in the outside net pockets of his rucksack. He also rinsed out and refilled his CamelBak. Even though it was “city water” he added a drop of bleach anyway. With everything packed, he placed Azrael in harness and laced up his boots.

  Kelton did a slow walk around the room for any scattered items saying a mantra to himself “never leave any gear behind as you may not get to come back.” He found none. And with that, and a quick detour to a grassy parking lot island where Azrael did his business, he was off to a real breakfast.

  The glass door was mud splashed and well fingerprinted, showing not much more than a waitress wanted sign and a tattered “Visa MasterCard accepted here” sticker. There were no hours posted, given the twenty-four hour operations. Old fragments of scotch tape showed where business cards and other advertisements had recently been removed. He entered.

  Inside was perhaps a third full, a mix of truckers and travelers. Doris was behind the scarred counter again, even though she had checked him in last night with the sheriff. The counter was “L” shaped, with stools for loners. The register was at the top of the long side on the left, with a gap to get behind the counter where there was a doorway and window to the kitchen. Opposite the counter’s long side along the front windows were booths for larger parties. The section by the short side of the counter was a convenience store with soda coolers, racks of bagged snacks, and the restrooms.

  “Dogs can’t be in the restaurant,” she challenged.

  People went silent as they looked at the man in drab clothes with the backpack and the dog, before turning away to resume conversation.

  He sat down at a booth for four along the front window and sent Azrael up underneath the table to be hidden from view. The menu was on a sheet of paper slid underneath the glass tabletop. Doris came over in a slow stiff walk with her waitress pad.

  “I’m sorry. The sheriff says I must stay here and I don’t want to leave my dog alone in the room and have him tear it up. I promise he’ll be no trouble.”

  She shrugged, “The health inspector won’t like it, but I’m not chasing customers away when Chandler did say that. They haven’t given us better than a ‘C’ in the last five years anyway.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while with steak and eggs, double hash browns with cheese and onions, and a stack of pancakes. Sweet tea to drink, please.”

  She scribbled with the pen gouging the paper, verified that the meat should be rare and the eggs over easy, and hustled away toward the grill window and then to the coffee pot for a trucker in the corner. Service was decent given the short staffing, and it wasn’t long before he relished stuffing himself.

  But his hands and mouth were on auto-pilot while his mind began to race. He couldn’t serve his dog if he was in jail, and even if he’d done nothing wrong that remained a very real outcome for a period of time anyway. Second thoughts about whether he should have called 911 assaulted his mind, beat back by the fact of witnesses and the dim prospect of evading a manhunt on foot and being forever on the run. But not once did he entertain even an iota of regret over taking their lives.

  Doris had just refilled his tea glass and carried away the plates when the sheriff’s Durango pulled up next to the building. Chandler gave no sign of recognizing him in front of the plate-glass window as he exited the SUV, but it would be hard to excuse even a blind man for not seeing him. The sheriff paused as he entered, feet spread and hands draped at his sides holding a briefcase, and slowly scanned the room a couple of times. His chin stayed high, the Smoky Bear hat rim starched proudly level, giving all plenty of time to note his presence. Then he moved upon Kelton’s table.

  Kelton stood as he approached, “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  Chandler extended his hand and Kelton shook it.

  “Please sit, Mr. Jager.”

  Kelton did so and Sheriff Chandler Fouche gracefully sat down opposite, leaning forward so not to wrinkle his shirt on the booth back. He sat the briefcase on the floor beside his seat.

  “I recognize your claim of self-defense, but a
couple of factors concern me. The first is the amount of ammunition you were carrying. A total of six magazines, nearly a hundred rounds. It appears as if you were looking for trouble.”

  “Am I being investigated for the rounds I fired, or the rounds I didn’t fire?” challenged Kelton.

  Chandler made a slight shrug trying to encourage him to talk. Kelton sat in relaxed silence, which stretched until Doris came with a steaming cup of coffee. Chandler took a sip and waited. Many were uncomfortable with “empty air”, but Kelton wasn’t concerned. He’d spent years of cadet life not allowed to talk. Finally, Chandler relented, as Kelton knew he would have to.

  “Okay, point taken. The other is the distance. They were unarmed and out of arm’s reach.”

  “You ever train the Tueller Drill, Sheriff?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what that means to you?” asked Chandler.

  “The question is, if someone is armed with a contact weapon, like a knife, how close does he have to be before he constitutes an imminent threat? Dennis Tueller was a Utah lawman who attempted to answer that question. He put an armed deputy on the firing line along with a second individual. The second person would take off running away from the berm. This was the cue for the deputy to draw and fire at a target on the berm. When the shot was fired, Tueller noted how far the second person had run. After many trials, the typical distance was found to be around twenty-one feet; a lot further distance than most people think.

  What was different for me was I had to shoot four others before I could engage the final target. That would extend the threat distance. Clearly, I was in imminent jeopardy.”

  The subtle nod of Chandler’s head made it clear to Kelton he had heard of Tueller. Most law enforcement who were worth something had. Even if they claimed ignorance, they certainly had been subjected to training based upon it. The sheriff shifted to a more free-form approach of conversation.

  “So what are we supposed to do with you?”

  Kelton wasn’t taking that bait any more than he’d be pressured by silence. There was no reason to share regrets of the soul in the hopes of sympathy or approval. He had no regrets. He didn’t need another’s validation either; that came from within.

  “Return my gun, and send me walking down the road with my dog.”

  “Maybe,” smiled Chandler. “Tell me more about you. Where you headed?”

  Kelton shrugged, “Wherever my dog takes me.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Wherever my dog has been.”

  Sheriff Fouche sat quietly, pouring sugar into the acidic coffee, trying to leverage silence again to encourage Kelton to share more. Kelton touched Safari on his iPhone instead, bringing up the Drudge Report. Chandler cleared his throat in annoyance.

  “You have another question, Sheriff?” asked Kelton without looking up.

  “How is it you were under that bridge with that much cash money in a saddlebag? I don’t know if it was a drug deal or an attempt to setup a tryst with a pair of girls, but it doesn’t sound like coincidence to me.”

  “It wasn’t coincidence.”

  Chandler’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. He stared expectantly. Kelton continued.

  “It was rain. Good guys or bad, we simply took shelter.”

  Kelton saw the involuntary eye roll and knew Chandler was on the edge of losing his cool. He’d been insolent enough to put him on the defensive, but didn’t want to overdo it and make him mad. Likewise, he knew Sheriff Fouche didn’t want to push on him so hard to cause him to lawyer up.

  The sheriff pulled the briefcase onto the table by the ketchup, popped the latches, and reached for one of several brown file folders. It contained a stack of photographs which looked to have been hastily printed on office paper rather than sent out for prints. The sheriff’s cell phone began to vibrate, but he hit ignore without even looking at it.

  “I just need to validate a few things for the record. Many of these have been answered already, either by you or are obvious from the scene. The faster we get through it, the faster we can close this investigation and get you on your way. Okay?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The radio on his utility belt crackled, “Deputy Garner entering radio net.”

  The sheriff reached for his microphone talk button and quickly keyed it two times in acknowledgment before flipping the photo.

  “Is this your gun?”

  The 8.5” x 11” photograph showed the Glock 40, serial number up, in nearly actual size. Kelton nodded.

  “Why such a big one?”

  Kelton smirked, “How many survivor interviews indicated they wanted a smaller gun?”

  “Right,” sighed Chandler, “and it’s chambered in 10mm auto?”

  Kelton nodded again.

  “Your concealed carry permit is a Utah nonresident permit. You don’t sound like you are from there?”

  “I’ve never even been there. But their permit has some of the most reciprocity recognition by other states so I applied my mail. But I consider myself to be carrying openly. The holster is in plain view on my right thigh, and my gun is really too large to conceal. However, with my poncho on due to the rain I can see the concealed argument, but since Virginia recognizes my permit that issue would seem moot.”

  Doris walked over with the lunch menus, and the ticket from breakfast. Kelton pulled out his USAA credit card and handed it to her without looking at the check or taking his eyes from Chandler.

  “Okay, moving on. Did you attempt to give any of the victims first aid?”

  “Yes, I treated myself for adrenaline overload.”

  Chandler sighed again.

  “I mean the men who were shot,” he clarified with strained patience.

  The sheriff’s phone buzzed again, and again he hit ignore.

  “No. I knew there were more of them back at the motorcycles so I thought it prudent to call 911 and stay hidden instead.”

  “Fine. This is a copy of your identification, which happens to be a passport. Most people we ask for I.D. provide us a driver’s license.”

  “I don’t have one. My mom couldn’t afford the insurance when I was in high school. Then it was off to West Point and immediately to war. I had a military driver’s license so I could operate government vehicles while on post. But frankly, as an officer, I would just grab some private to shuttle me around. The army preferred that, and the young soldiers didn’t really mind the light duty.”

  The sheriff’s radio crackled, “Sheriff, this is Doctor Fairborn. Can you pick up your phone please?”

  Chandler’s eye brows knitted up. Kelton surmised it was highly unusual for a doctor to use the police radio net.

  “That’s our coroner, Mr. Jager. Please excuse me for a second,” he said as he keyed the microphone on his left shoulder. “Sheriff here. I will pick up.”

  The cell phone vibrated a third time and the sheriff was as good as his word.

  “Good morning, Sheriff Fouche.”

  The volume was turned up to make it easier for the old Sheriff to hear, but it also allowed Kelton to hear the other side of the conversation. Doris wandered over with the coffee pot even though Chandler’s cup was mostly full. She poured slowly.

  “Chandler, I’m at your office. Came in to drop off my preliminary report to you. Dixie’s not here and it looks as if there’s been a break-in. Your office safe is open and battered.”

  Doris stopped pouring the coffee and just froze. Chandler knew she had overheard and keyed his radio.

  “Buck, have you seen Dixie this morning?”

  The deputy’s reply was quick, “We had an early lunch at Suzanne’s. She left there, maybe, twenty minutes ago.”

  Kelton began to relax figuring it was a long walk back or maybe Dixie had some other errands to run while she’d been out anyway. However, Chandler and Doris tensed their shoulders and eyes narrowed.

  “Sheriff, you have to find my baby girl.”

  “Can your dog track?” asked the Sheriff.

&nb
sp; “Yes he can, but I’m not sure it would really be my place to get involved. At least until your district attorney clears me.”

  “Please help find my baby,” pleaded Doris.

  “Do a good job and I’ll make sure he knows of your cooperation. It will support your case about being a ‘good guy’ under that bridge. Okay?”

  “Alright. Let me use the restroom and I’ll come with you.”

  Chandler raised his phone again to the side of his head, “Okay, we will be there in a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER—4

  Kelton appraised the St. Albans Sheriff’s Office through the Durango’s windshield and decided it looked as if it were built in the twenties. The bricks were weathered and bonded with cracked mortar. Vertical rust stains streaked down from the flat roof’s scuppers to half-wild hedges against the base. The windows were caked with mildew and pollen, but had clearly been updated sometime in the last thirty years or so. A couple held air conditioner units whose aluminum was badly oxidized. Ankle high weeds poked from the sidewalk cracks leading to the main entrance and the grass had yet to be mowed this season. In short, most army buildings which dated back to World War II, were in better shape. Kelton also recognized the coroner’s vehicle from the night before amongst the others in the city owned lot.

  Sheriff Fouche swung out the driver’s side and strode on a mission straight toward the sidewalk and the heavy metal doors facing Main Street, but Kelton took his time with Azrael’s leash and got a feel for his surroundings. A small hardware and feed store was south across the street, with living space above. A faded painted sign for “Mail Pouch Chewing Tobacco” still loomed on the side of the second floor. The city park to the west and north abutted the parking lot, where the greenery appeared better groomed amongst a few statues. It was surrounded by a knee high stone wall, perhaps a hundred yards on a side. Through a combination of architecture and bits of signage he decided a church, county offices and a few shops faced the west side. He couldn’t tell what the buildings to the north were, although one looked “medical” being painted white in contrast to the taller brown brick neighbor on the corner. Chandler was now looking back from the front sidewalk leading to the building’s entrance with narrowed eyes.