Normally he would have said “send it up”, but there was no one to do that at this early hour. The grill was already hot and he had his breakfast in less than ten minutes. It did make him feel better. He expected Bambi to have returned by now, but with a turn of his head he could hear her and Candi yapping. Shep stood to yell at them to shut up and for her to get up here, but then saw Bambi working a mop while Candi moved tables. He closed his shudders instead.
Finally, a text came from team three.
“Have Rebel. Brothers lost. Returning.”
“God dammit,” he muttered to himself. Two more of his gang dead. A chunk of wood flew from the desk as he stabbed the knife hard.
One at a time, he picked up the other three phones and texted “Return”. They acknowledged in short order.
Shep leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking about Rebel and how the interview would go. He didn’t have much time to figure it out, and the quiet wouldn’t last long. After a few minutes’ contemplation he opened the desk’s central drawer, removed a nickel plated .38 revolver, and placed it in the center.
CHAPTER—22
Buck skidded to a stop in front of St. Albans Clinic, with his blue lights flashing. It had taken a while to get the crime scene technicians on site at Sheriff Fouche’s and he wanted to make up for lost time. There was a period in which he had hoped to arrive in time to talk with the night folks, but as it was he didn’t even come close.
He slammed the door without shutting down his car, and ran up the few steps with a lumbering stride to the glass entrance doors, his utility belt accouterments bouncing against his sides. The receptionist looked to be a pleasant brunette lady in her thirties, but Buck didn’t recall meeting her before. It was a lousy paying job with awkward hours that dealt with the general public. Turnover was high. She smiled at his hasty approach though, but then the smile faded as she looked his wrinkled uniform up and down. He brushed yellow crumbs away from the tops of his shirt pockets.
“Good morning, I’m Deputy Garner of the Lowland County Sheriff’s Department. Can I see your admissions log, please?”
“Are you looking for someone in particular?” she asked as she reached for a white three ring binder on her work surface to the left of the computer.
“It’s an ongoing investigation, Ma’am. Thank you for your support,” he said, it sounding a little condescending although he didn’t mean it to.
She opened the binder on the counter in front of him.
“Each page is an eight-hour shift. The top sheet is from 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM, the previous from midnight until 8:00 AM. Anything from before midnight last night has been transcribed into the computer and the paper log sheet shredded.”
He was familiar with the log sheets from years in the department. It was simply a series of columns: name, address, phone, etc. with one entry per row. Buck quickly turned the page for the night admissions, looking for Rebel Tarwick or a name that just sounded like an alias for whatever reason. There were less than a dozen entries; it was a small county. Baylee Ann Langford made his job drop.
“What was Miss Langford seen for?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but that information is private and between the patient and their doctor. In truth, I don’t even have that data available to me. Would you like me to call my supervisor?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have what I need. Have a nice day.”
He beat a hasty retreat back to his car, his head reeling. Was Rebel trying to screw him over by releasing her? Hoping she would bring to light that his witness statements were fake? That could easily happen if she wound up at the office and Sheriff Fouche started asking her questions. Buck leaned forward with his forehead against the steering wheel and pondered for a moment.
Did Rebel even know about his witness report? And if Rebel released her, how did she get here? Did he drop her off? He’d be able to do it, at that time of night during the week, without anyone noticing. But Rebel couldn’t be two places at once either. And Buck had seen the result of Rebel’s visit to Sheriff Fouche’s with his own eyes. It didn’t make any sense.
He sat back when a flicker caught the corner of his left eye. Red lights began flashing over the rescue door at the Fire Department, and a second later it began to rise. A warning siren blasted several times to warn cars on Smallwood Street. The St. Albans’ medics were gearing up for a run.
His radio crackled “Lowland Deputy 1, this is St. Albans Control. You out there, Buddy?”
He recognized Kissel’s drawl right away.
“Hello, Bret. Read you loud and clear,” he said thinking the radio was only having to go a hundred feet. All you got to do is look out the window.
“Hey, Buck. There’s a crashed truck on Virginia Route 422, about six miles north of the Sheriff’s house. Two men at the scene, best guess is they will be DOA. I ran the plate for you, and it’s a Rebel Tarwick. Seems that,” Bret’s voice went on over the radio’s speakers while Buck floored it before putting his car in gear, “a lady taking her horse for a morning ride came across it where some small bridge was being repaired.”
Arid smoke and black streaks of rubber came off the tires as he made a U-turn at such speed he jumped the far curve before getting turned around. In his rear view he just saw the ambulance creeping forward from its bay as the driver checked the road before pulling out. Buck wanted to beat him to the scene. Wanted to beat him by quarter of an hour if he could, but in truth a few minutes was probably the best he could hope for. He hit the siren toggle switch to join with the already activated lights, and got the hand back on the wheel for a white knuckled weave through a series of potholes. Rather than turn south and east toward the interstate he opted for the direct line north up Thigpen Road, the car’s rear end swinging wide while tires spun looking for purchase.
“Did you copy, Buck?”
He glanced at his rearview every couple of seconds, Buck dared for not more than a blink at a time, but lost sight of the intersection before he saw which route the ambulance chose.
“Buck?” Brett Kissel’s voice queried over the radio again.
“Yeah, I’m en route,” replied Buck while on a long straightaway where he felt he could risk a hand off the wheel for a couple of seconds. Then he really dropped the hammer, trying to gain time in the straightaways before windy rural roads forced him to back off.
The orange warning sign let him know he was getting close, and he slowed down. Of course Buck had the advantage of daylight and knew about the construction, but he was no fool. He sure as hell didn’t want to wreck the way that Rebel had, and Rebel had been a much better driver.
A lady up ahead with a cell phone in her hand waived and he killed the siren. She wore tall boots and tan britches with a tweed coat. It was a cute outfit, but as he got closer he could see on it the wear and tear, frays and stains, that came from working with horses every day. Her auburn curls were matted like she had just removed a hat. Then he recognized her and his heart sank. Mrs. Lauryn Redigan, wife of Lowland County’s Commonwealth Attorney. Her horse was tied to a tree with the reins a few long strides off the road, the strap of her helmet snapped around the breast plate. He stood relaxed, with drooping ears and an alert but soft eye.
Buck knew the ambulance was close behind so he wasted no time in jumping out.
“There’s a man in the truck’s cab, laying on the back seat, and another in the road about ten feet in front of the truck. I looked inside to see if they were breathing, and they looked like they had been dead for a while. Other than that, I didn’t move or touch anything.”
She stood there in the middle of the road while he glanced ahead to the raised rear-end of the truck. He had a better view of the suspension underneath than the back window of the cab, with its hood down off the edge.
“You did real good, Mrs. Redigan. The ambulance is right behind me and may be coming with their siren. You may want to get your horse out of here before they arrive. I’ll call la
ter for an appointment so I can get your statement.”
“Shouldn’t you be securing the scene, by putting up warnings for other drivers?”
“Please let me do my job, Ma’am,” he said with a stiff smile.
He stood there for a second, and she took a couple of steps back toward her horse but continued to gawk.
His belt radio cackled, “Buck, I just heard from rescue. They are five minutes out. Where are you?”
Dammit! Leave, Lady! Please! No time.
He strode toward the truck’s rear end while keying the radio mike on his shoulder, “Just arrived on scene. Give me a few minutes to assess and secure. Out.”
He glanced over his shoulder but she just patiently stood there next to her horse, cradling the phone. Buck climbed up into the back of the truck and peered through the rear window. He could see the deflated airbags upfront, and the twisted figure in the back. It was a big man in jeans and a dark leather jacket, neck bent against the seatback. He hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. It also wasn’t Rebel. The driver’s airbag had blood on it, at the middle top. Probably from a broken nose.
Bucked straddled the edge of the bed on the driver’s side facing forward, slowly lowering his left leg seeking the running board. He found it, although he shuffled his feet slowly along it as his boots didn’t have the best soles for walking on hard plastic, especially at such a steep incline; he kept one hand firmly on the bed’s sidewall. The side of the truck was dinged up and down with birdshot pellets. Gingerly, he pulled the driver’s side door latch with his left hand, and gravity pulled it open. With a deep breath he let go of the bed’s side wall while holding the door post, and slowly shuffled down the running board. A second later he could grab the steering wheel and pull himself inside. Inside stunk like a summer outhouse, and the guy had that waxy look of being dead.
Buck reach toward the man’s carotid for a pulse since he felt Misses Redigan’s eyes burrowing into his back, but his attention was on his other hand feeling under and around the seat. The truck was diesel, with minimal risk for a fire, but he reached up and turned off the ignition anyway. The firemen could give the environmental office a call if they wanted to concerning any radiator fluid and oil that might be polluting into the stream. Ostensibly, he had a crime to solve.
The windshield was cracked, but all things considered, intact. Through it he could see the figure in the roadway on the far side, along with an assortment of equipment like jack stands, chains, tire iron, bottle jacks and the like. It was possible he was hit by the truck, but Buck thought being thrown from the bed was more likely. And he didn’t care. However, Lauryn was still standing there watching him and he had to put on a good show while he tried to find the cash.
Buck looked down at the creek through the driver’s door and tried to find a dry place to land and easily get across. The short answer was, there wasn’t one. Not that dropping down from the truck into a couple of feet of muddy water was an insurmountable obstacle, glad as he was to be wearing yesterday’s uniform. Getting over the three feet of exposed concrete retaining wall while standing in two feet of muddy water however was going to be the real bugger. Instead he opted to wade upstream, for no other reason than that direction was on the driver’s side, slopping water while he clambered up the muddy bank and the briars.
A couple of steps up the side, he paused. Tips of the tall yellow grass in places were red. Blood red. Whether from a gunshot wound or the accident he had no idea, but it was a good bet it was Rebel’s. Buck had been looking for an easy place to climb out and cross just like he had. This was the trail. He was no outdoorsman, but even he could see the mashed grass where Rebel must have rested on his stomach after getting out of the water. Then the broken grass curved up to the right toward the road. He heard the sirens approaching, and then cut off as Rescue slowed their approach.
Buck clambered up to the asphalt, looking keenly for additional sign. The first blood drop he saw was on the yellow painted centerline, but its size and shape helped him to pick out others on the blacktop. Rebel had gone up the road, not bothering to check his compatriot. Made sense. Rebel was injured and the guy was out cold. No way he was going to carry him, even if he wanted to. And Buck knew that Rebel didn’t.
He took a quick look. It was another big man, huge around the belly and lying face down. This one also wore a dark leather jacket, with the patch of the Lowland Outlaws sewn on the back. There were multiple penetrations. Clearly, Misses Fouche had dusted him once with her shotgun as he’d fled down the driveway. Flashing lights made him turn around, and he saw the ambulance arrive on scene. He raised a hand as their doors opened to grab their attention.
“One in the truck, one over here on the road. I’ve a blood trail I’m following for a suspect in the Sheriff’s home invasion. Get crime scene out here. They should still be just down the road.”
“You got it, Buck. Go get him!” wished the driver as the medics ran forth carrying plastic boxes to the wrecked truck.
One of them cursed, as he came to terms with crossing the stream. Buck hoped Mrs. Redigan had noted his display of leadership.
Following the trail was hard, and soon he lost it. There just wasn’t enough blood and Rebel could have turned off the pavement anywhere. Buck hated himself for wishing he had a stupid dog. Maybe they could get one as surplus equipment on a government grant as the war in southwest Asia wound down. They could keep it in one of the cells; they never held many people at a time. Dixie could clean up its poop and stuff. Chandler may actually like that after two incidents and it couldn’t be that hard. Even that Jager prick could do it.
Okay, cowboy just think a second he thought to himself. Rebel is hurt, but he is mobile. Which means he will go and hole up somewhere or maybe go to the clinic. Perhaps not the clinic. He might have risked it before a response had been mounted, hoping to slip away once treated. But too much time had gone by and Rebel would know they’d be on the lookout for him. Rebel would go to ground.
He might go back to his garage. That had been Buck’s thinking earlier. But now that the truck was found, even that idiot would know that the posse would soon be pounding on his door. There was nothing left there anyway; the property would soon be seized for back taxes and environmental violations. That must be why he’d let Baylee Ann, and probably Bambi, go. Rebel wasn’t planning to go back there. He had his money, but now needed some help. Where would he get it? Injured, and on foot?
Buck walked back toward the bridge and watched as a trio of medical technicians lifted the body into a bag, and Buck saw the patch again. Rebel would go see Shep, and so would he. But first, he had to feed that stupid prisoner. On second thought, he’d call Dixie and have her do it. He pulled out the cell phone to dial the office, and saw he still had a voice mail.
Buck hated voicemail. A text message you could scan quickly on the move and know whether it was important. Voice mail you had to stop everything you were doing, dial, enter a password, and then listen. If you missed any part of it, you wound up doing it all over again. He almost dropped the phone when he heard Dixie’s teary voice.
“Hey, Buck. It’s me. I’m over here at Mama’s and its close to midnight. That Kelton Jager guy and his dog left here about half an hour ago. He said he was going to Rebel’s to get Baylee Ann and Bambi. I thought you might want to know.”
Buck’s face turned red as he choked the phone to where he thought it’s shell or his fingers would break. Not only was Dog-Boy on the lose again. And that meant Mr. Redigan had set him free despite the witness reports. It also meant Dixie had told him something. That was the only way Kelton Jager would have any clue about those two geriatric lot lizards.
His to-do list had grown from killing Rebel and stealing the money to teaching that little bitch a lesson she would never forget since last time didn’t seem to have made much of an impression. And he’d have to find some way to deal with Dog-Boy if he was sticking around. Buck hoped that Shep might do that for him, if someone without an Outlaw patch was p
laying with the biker girls.
He turned toward the arriving crime scene technicians and forgot all about Lauryn Redigan, “Hurry the fuck up! We got things to do.”
CHAPTER—23
Azrael lay in the center of the motel room’s floor, so he could see the figures on the bed. Or their bare feet dangling off the end, anyway. They weren’t moving other than breathing, and at a time of day when he and Kelton were normally walking the roads. This wasn’t concerning to him, but rather a curiosity given that it was unusual. Life’s rhythm was a little different today, and one might think it would make him speculate on how the rest of the day would be different. But truth was, Azrael was more of a live in the moment kind of dog. Now was a time for rest, so he rested.
It was also a time to be alert and he was ever vigilant. There were many noises outside, as was typical when bright sunlight snuck around the corners of the curtains. Some were people, others were vehicles. His ears stood tall and erect, and he occasionally cocked his head to fine tune the direction and distance. Approaching steps caught his attention, and he rose with a stretch. A second later he admitted a soft cautionary growl.
Kelton awoke instantaneously to Azrael’s warning and immediately drew his gun from his pants beside the bed. Baylee Ann barely stirred, and succumbed back to deep sleep before ever awakening. A moment later came a pounding upon the door. Azrael barked in response. A single deep loud bark.
“Mr. Jager are you in there?” came the voice of Doris in a strict schoolteacher type tone.
“Yes, Ma’am. Give me a minute to dress.”
He shook Baylee Ann and she opened her eyes with a groan.
“Come on, wake up. Throw something one.”
She rolled back over and ignored him, and he pulled on his pants. Azrael barked again, dancing in front of the door with his tail up.
“Mr. Jager,” she pounded on the door again, “I’m not fooling.”
He looked through the spyhole and saw it was only Doris. Kelton grasped the knob and turned, letting the door open to the safety chain. He didn’t fear Doris, physically anyway, but putting his leg in the gap made it easier for him to control Azrael. Or at least keep his furry buddy from unduly affecting the conversation.
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 19
