Nothing looked promising to use as a lever. There were some concrete chips, and small rusting pieces of metal like the occasional dropped washer or oil-pan bolt but nothing big. She opened the desk drawers and Dixie joined in, both being careful to avoid contacting Baylee Ann’s exposed posterior. Some loose paper fragments and a couple of paper clips showed the desk had been cleared out before being placed in here. Other old screw holes in the desktop made clear its new purpose.
“There’s nothing,” lamented Bambi. She felt herself shutting down, trying to get small in the face of failure so it wouldn’t notice and punish her. Her heart began to race, and she sat down to pull her knees into her chest and cover her eyes. Dixie shook her shoulder and looked into her red eyes.
“Stay with me, Bambi. If we all can’t breakout, maybe you can and get us some help.”
Bambi sniffled and took a breath. She tried to relax her heart. Breaking out and running away appealed to every fiber of her being.
“How?” she asked. The concrete walls imposed upon her brains as well as her body.
“He’s shown he’s going to feed us. Maybe not much or often, but if he did it once he’s going to do it again.
And we get good warning when he does it. There’s that tool box or supply cabinet or whatever it is he keeps over the trap door. When we hear that, we climb the ladder. Me first, with you right behind.
We’ll gather up every single piece of whatever we can find. Pebbles, nuts and bolts, break-up the desk drawers if we have to. Even Baylee Ann’s shoes. When he opens the hatch, we throw it at his face and I charge him. He’ll grab me and tackle me to the ground.
That’s when you pop out behind me and run for it. I’ll hug him tight and not let go so you can get a good head start. If you get on the clear of the train tracks away from all the brush and vines, you’ll be able to outrun him and plenty of backyards face the tracks. Someone will notice you and can call for help.”
“Why don’t you run for help?”
“With my ankle? I won’t get far. And we can’t free Baylee Ann so it has to be you.”
“Won’t he hurt you?”
“He might. But there’s a reason he hasn’t hurt me already. I don’t know why he took me, but with the two of you already here he wasn’t procuring additional entertainment.”
Bambi nodded and sniffed again.
Baylee Ann turned her head sideways to look up at her and croaked, “Dixie’s right, Bambi. Get out of here if you can and get help. They might not come for me, but they’ll definitely come for her.”
Bambi turned back to Dixie who offered a soft pleading smile.
“Okay,” nodded Bambi.
A few breaths and tears later they were scouring the edges of the pit, picking up every small object they could find. The vault was barren, but poor housekeeping gave each of them a sizable handful. They sat upon the desk clutching their handfuls, eyes locked upon the hatch. It was simply a matter of time before an opportunity.
CHAPTER—9
Deputy Buck Garner settled into his office for evening paperwork. He started a small coffee pot on his sideboard and turned on the old desktop computer to begin booting up. While he was waiting he picked up the phone and dialed the city’s fire department control room which served as the county’s emergency command center. They picked up on the first ring.
“St. Albans Emergency Center, this is Mr. Kissel,” came the crisp voice.
“Evening Brett. It’s Buck. Just checking in to see if anything was going on,” he explained.
“Hello, Deputy. Old Mrs. Myrtle down Smallwood Street passed away. Her son stopped by in the afternoon to check on her and found her in bed. Dr. Fairborn is there now and says she passed in the night. Think she was ninety-three. Other than that, all is real quiet. Not even a cat stuck in a tree.”
“She was a proper southern lady of the old guard,” Buck said without any emotion in his voice. Personally, he could care less. The young were born, the old passed away. Even a small city had its people always turning over with the march of time. “I’m at the office catching up on paperwork. If anything comes up in the next couple of hours, you can reach me on the landline.”
“Ten-four, Deputy. You have a nice night.”
Buck set the receiver down to end the call and entered his password. The first order of business was finding a way to chase the Jager fellow and his dog out of town. Rebel’s Dixie stunt had driven the sheriff to give the drifter a sense of purpose. That could cause him to stick around. The longer that went on, coupled with an anointment of special authority, the greater the chances of things getting even more snarled up than they were. Right now there was a pair of loose ends to get tied up so things didn’t unravel.
First, Dixie’s absence needed to be resolved. Rebel was financially desperate with the lost cash and taking Dixie was his leverage for keeping everyone he needed in the game despite the heat. Buck would talk to him again. The point had been made. The sooner Dixie was back in view, the quicker things would go back to normal and they could start making money again. Rebel would just have to suck up this short term loss and drive on. Dixie could be coached on answering questions, but may not hold up to the scrutiny of the mysterious stranger.
Second, there was the break-in issue. For all Kelton Jager knew, reasoned Buck, plumber Braxton Greene was the perpetrator and had been released on bail. That wouldn’t hold up with Chandler, especially if Dog-Boy kept asking questions, but the old sheriff hadn’t seemed too phased by the trespass. If given a chance, he’d probably forget all about it. They were more about keeping the peace and fining trucker passersby to fund the county than playing detective.
To get rid of someone, Buck normally would put the fear of God into them. Everyone knew Sheriff Fouche was coasting toward retirement with no fire to fight over anything but his own legacy. That made Buck the face of the law and provided no recourse to those he leaned on. They could only run away.
But with the Kelton Jager case it was different because of the possible murder indictment working against him. If Kelton ran away, the long arm of the law threatened to chase him down and bring him back to face consequences for that. Buck needed to change the threat of indictment to actual indictment to send him on his way. Whether that way was out of town as a fugitive or off to prison really didn’t concern Buck very much. Fortunately, there were a couple of witnesses he could control.
On the computer screen he opened a witness report form, and to the left of his keyboard, his notebook. He poured the now ready cup of coffee into a stained and chipped department mug and settled in, working hard to get the details right. He wrote how the rain caused the members of the Lowland Outlaws motorcycle club to stop under the shelter of the bridge. How the president wanted to privately address his riders in their formal club ceremony of inducting a new member after their initiation ride, and moved them all away from the women folk to do so by having them line up at the far side of the bridge. That this normally would have taken place at their clubhouse, but people were wet and tired and ready to break up and go home. They began bellowing their sacred and bawdy song, when the insecure hidden drifter felt threatened and senselessly gunned them down.
He printed three copies, placing one in Sheriff Fouche’s in-box to be found in the morning. The others he would get signed by the girls when he went to visit Rebel. He didn’t want to forge anything, and have Baylee Ann and Bambi show up later with different handwriting. That was probably remote, but he wasn’t in the mood for any more chances.
The caffeine surged in his veins as he left the office and locked the metal doors with his key. If he were to reassure Rebel, actions would speak louder than words. Buck had to find a way to convey that he was still serious about the continuation of their enterprise. He cranked the key of the Chevy patrol car and headed toward Ed’s.
Once he was through the flashing light at Thigpen, he pressed the accelerator. If a truck driver was alert, there was little he could do to avoid being seen. Before he could
get to the cab, the girl slipped out the passenger side of the truck and raced toward the woods behind Ed’s to disappear until their next visit. Being quick, mitigated this problem.
As he raced down Main Street with his lights off he did a quick survey of the lot and saw a big white International parked in the far corner. He made a hard turn into Ed’s parking lot, and went right past the motel, diner, and pumps to pull up alongside. Buck jumped out without closing his door and sprinted to the driver’s side. Grabbing the hand bar as he leapt up onto the running board, he used his other hand to tap on the window with his badge.
“Deputy Sheriff, open up.”
Inside the cab was dim, but the big parking lot lights allowed him to see inside well enough. The driver was behind the wheel, but his jeans and jockeys were down at his knees. It was a bench seat and she was splayed across it face down, although now getting up on her hands and knees with big eyes. Excess lipstick smeared across her plump cheeks. Buck didn’t bother to look down to see how much lipstick was left behind there. Some things can’t be unseen. The window came down as the driver’s left arm made several circles.
“Hey, man, me and my new special friend were,” he began groping for an explanation.
He was a dirty greasy blond, mid-thirties, with lots of stray facial hair.
“Shut up,” ordered Buck in a flat, disappointed tone.
He turned on his flashlight and shined it on the girl for a better look. She was dark haired with crooked teeth. The pink spaghetti top was low enough but still failed to show cleavage, although her braless nipples budded enough to make an impression on the thin fabric.
“Did he pay you?” he asked firmly.
Her eyes dropped down with uncertainly over the best response. Buck turned toward the driver.
“Pay her,” Buck ordered with a sneer.
“But I already paid her,” the driver protested.
“Then pay her again,” Buck demanded firmly.
The driver reached toward his knees to fish out his wallet from the twisted jeans. He had plenty of cash and handed the girl $20. She smiled a bit as her hand grasped the bill tightly.
“Okay. Exit the truck from your side and go wherever it is people like you go.”
She looked a little surprised again, and then raced to comply. They usually were barely literate so tickets were meaningless, and there wasn’t the manpower to bother holding them in a cell. Besides, he didn’t want the girls afraid of him and be inhibited from doing business. He needed them for the scheme to keep working.
“Give me your driver’s license,” Buck demanded.
The driver opened the worn wallet again as the passenger side door slammed with the girl’s exit. It was under a cracked plastic window sewn into the leather. He had to pry at it a bit to free the laminated card, then handed it over. It was a Georgia license.
“Wait here. And pull your pants up.”
Buck climbed down and got back in his cruiser. He started an incident report with the usual litany of charges for being caught in public committing lewd acts with a far under-aged prostitute. However, he chose a local drive “save” rather than “submitting” into the official database. He placed the license into an envelope.
When he returned to the driver, the sweat was notable dripping down the unkempt sideburns. The musty body odor from days on the road made Buck wonder how the young girls did it.
“Well, Mr. Branson, you are in a heap of trouble aren’t you? Solicitation of a minor, child endangerment, public lewdness, even sodomy if our prosecutor has a mind. The old geezer often does too. Very conservative and Christian. Always re-elected for his long and notorious record of no leniency in such cases. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Look man, the roads are long and lonely, you know and,” he began shrugging and cocking his head to the side.
“They are long and lonely. I spend a lot of time in the patrol car, but I get to go home after each shift. It’s harder for you, but at least I can relate some. Tell you what I’m going to do.
I’m going to keep your license. I’ve got an incident report started in the car. If I see this ugly rig fouling any pavement within Lowland County, I’m going to see Mrs. Doris for a big pot of coffee and slap on every charge I can think of and get it over to our commonwealth attorney. Our inmates don’t take kindly to child molesters and you will be with them for a very long time.
But if you drive away, and stop polluting our air, then there’s a chance that by the time I get up in the morning and start a new day I will forget about it as I find other things to do.
You got me?” Buck leaned in the window to finish with a cold stare.
The driver nodded, face twitching with nervousness and adrenaline.
“Then fire up this heap and get across my county line. I suggest you begin avoiding my section of I-85 and find some alternative routes.”
Buck stood hands on his hips like a disapproving coach or parent as the big rig rumbled toward the interstate entrance ramps. Once its lights faded from view, he started walking toward the diner.
He’d had that same conversation many of times. He used to bring in the young girls, but it cost the county more in jail supervision than any legal fines that could be imposed. They were in this particular line of work because they had no money. And Chandler hated the bad press of “prosecuting the victims of sex trafficking” editorials in the county newspaper. The national conversation on whoring had shifted toward victims of sexual exploitation, and even old Fouche still paid enough attention to things to shift with the winds.
With the truckers, fines were best his boss had explained to him. The problem belonged to someone else so let their jurisdiction pay for jail, legal, and other fees associated with starting the pipeline to the state penitentiary. He’d been told to instead look at them as a revenue source for the county to tap. Well, thought Buck, if it’s moral for the county to tap nonresidents for money, it was for him too.
He opened the door to the diner and gave a quick look around. A few drivers were tanking up their bodies and trucks for their night runs. Doris manned her counter with hard set eyes. Buck sat on the usual stool and placed the envelope on the counter without saying a word. She reached up, took it, and felt the hard plastic card inside. He thought she might refuse to take it on account of Dixie and thoughts of laying low.
Instead, she gave him a slow nod and walked over to the locked cabinet of pharmacy goods for a package of decongestants. Upon returning to the register she scanned the small cardboard box, then opened the envelope to do the same with the license. The query went to the state database tracking pseudoephedrine purchases, and a response came back authorizing the sale.
Buck knew no single person was allowed to purchase more than 9 grams per month under the Combat Methamphetamine Epidemic Act of 2005, a law designed to choke off a key ingredient in making “kitchen sink meth.” Retailers, like the St. Albans’ Pharmacy or its “satellite location” at Ed’s truck stop, were required to keep detailed records of purchases along with a rigorous host of storage and security requirements. Nowadays the reality was with the instant check system, one couldn’t commit the crime of over purchasing. Illicit drug manufacturers now needed armies of “smurfs” to try and obtain enough raw materials to stay in business.
Buck and Doris, well-motivated by financial insecurity, had developed a scheme of sorts to bypass that purchasing limit hurdle. Before long they had an entire stack of mostly out of state licenses to make purchases. Any auditor of Ed’s would declare the business of providing allergy relief to travelers “amazingly good”.
It was possible someone could be denied a purchase somewhere, and raise a fuss to cause an investigation. But most people didn’t purchase very much, unless an allergy sufferer, to run into their limit. On top of that, the state databases weren’t linked with each other. If this recently busted driver bought some cold pills back in Georgia, the rulers of the land of the peaches had no idea there’d been a purchase in Virginia
to count against the limit. The reality was that with child sex charges hanging over their heads, the busted drivers merely reported their license lost to obtain a replacement in their home state and went on with life.
On occasion, the Virginia state database provided a report of people who consistently made purchases at or near the legal limit month after month. In local law enforcement circles this useful tool had been informally dubbed “the smurf report”. Given that the report came to Buck, their little conspiracy had no fear from that. Instead, Buck identified names from their stack of licenses who had made the list, and rested them for a rotation. If someone made the list twice in a row, they disposed of the license.
If anyone were to come investigate the store’s success, they would find everything in order. Sure they moved a lot of pharmaceutical product for a truck stop. But it was next to an interstate, and the rural surroundings provided lots of molds and pollens to torture allergy sufferers. The town pharmacist was meticulous in his supervision, yet totally ignorant of the scheme to be able to tip their hand. But no one had ever come knocking.
A decade or so ago Rebel had done six months for breaking his then girlfriend’s nose, jaw and cheekbone. There he’d met a dealer from Church Hill in Richmond. The rural community made it easy for Rebel to cook and his contact in the big city readily moved the product. Together, they could both produce and distribute. Buck and Doris fed the machine its most important input.
The money was okay. A quarter gram hit of their meth sold for around $30 wholesale, and they could make a gram or more from just four boxes or so of cold pills and some other common ingredients. Buck wasn’t sure what it went for in the big city, but Rebel was always able to quickly take every cold pill they could procure. And that was fine with Buck. He didn’t want to be near the distribution and street sales. Too many people would know who he was that way. The wholesale side of things was just fine. It wasn’t buy a mansion and a sports car kind of rich, but for a small town deputy and a truck stop clerk it really changed things. Especially over the long haul.
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 8
