by Tom Fowler
Then he fell to his knees and pitched forward.
I dropped the gun and stared ahead.
I just killed a man.
***
Everything transpired in slow motion. Rich sat up and rubbed his head. He looked at the dead goon, then at me. His head pivoted slowly, as if he moved underwater. I kept staring ahead. It was all I could do. Rich looked down and saw the gun. He said something, but I couldn't understand it, like he shouted from behind a waterfall. Rich crouched and shook my shoulders. I blinked for the first time since I dropped the gun.
"Are you all right?" he said, and I understood it this time.
"I . . .I . . . shot him."
"Yeah. Good thing, too. I don't know how the fucker snuck up on me. He would have shot you or me. Or both of us."
"I shot him," I said again.
Rich frowned. "First time, right?" I nodded. He sighed. "Always the worst. Look, you'll get past it. I can help you." He glanced around. "And I will. Wait there." Rich left for a short while. It could have been ten seconds or an hour. Whichever, he came back and stuffed something in his pockets. "Right now, we should go. Who knows if these assholes called for reinforcements?" He collected my gun.
I felt myself nod. What Rich said made sense.We should leave. More goons could be rolling up any minute. I knelt on the ground, unmoving, as if I had grown roots. My legs didn't want to move. "Come on," Rich said. He hooked me under the arm and lifted me up. I stumbled in the direction of the Camaro. Rich gripped my bicep to steady me as we jogged. He opened the door and shoved me in. I stared forward and fumbled with the seatbelt. The V8's rumble broke my reverie. Rich turned the car around and took off down the street. "We have to change hotels," he said as we sped along the road. "Even if we have to stay outside the city, it's worth it." He paused, obviously waiting for me to concur. I couldn't form any words, so I nodded.
Something burned in my gut. I replayed the scene over and over. The man walloped Rich with a plank. I ran over. He acted like he was putting the gun down, then tried to raise it. I shot him. Once. Twice. Three times. Red spread over his chest. He lay face-down in the grass. At least his dead eyes didn't stare at me. It may have been too much right now.
The burning traveled up my throat. "Pull over," I managed to say. Rich jerked the wheel and skidded the car to a stop near the treeline. I opened the door, staggered out, and vomited all over the ground. I puked again and again, until I heaved only air. I closed my eyes and took a few ragged breaths. Rich put a hand on my shoulder. "You did the right thing," he said.
I nodded. On some level, I knew it. "Doesn't feel like it right now," I said in a raw, scratchy voice. Between the fire and throwing up, my throat felt like I had gargled with lava.
Rich handed me a couple napkins. I was about to ask where he got them when he said, "You brought a bag of food with you?"
In spite of the situation, I chuckled. "Had it in my hand when everything went down." I wiped my mouth. I wished I could have sandblasted it.
"Well, when you're feeling up to it, go ahead and eat." He looked down at the pool of vomit in the grass and handed me a bottle of water. "I think you'll need to."
I opened the water and drained half of it in one long swig. "Maybe later," I said.
"You better now?"
"Yeah." I stood. A little wobbly, but I made it.
"Let's go, then."
We got back in the car and headed toward Route 219. "Let's check out the motel," Rich said when we were closer. "If it looks like someone is sitting on it, we keep going."
"I want my laptop and gear," I said. Rich glared at me. "It's good stuff. I'm not letting it go just because a couple assholes are outside our doors." We got to 219. "Make a right," I said.
"What? Why?"
"I want to see if anyone is camped outside the back of our rooms. It'll work better if no one sees your super obvious car drive past the lot."
We snaked our way around the back roads, emerging onto 219 above the hotel. Rich pulled over and I got out. "Be careful," he said.
"I'll try to leave the shooting to you," I said. I approached the motel from the rear. The rooms backed to a grassy lot, then a short fence. I kept low, moving along the fence, but I was the only person out here. A single bound got me over the barrier. Now I had to hope I picked the right room. The window in the bathroom wasn't big, but I could fit through it. First, I need it to be unlocked. Of course, it wasn't.
I had a special keyring full of tools for picking locks, but it was in my room. There didn't appear to be a way to open the window from the outside, anyway. So I improvised. I took the gun out of my pants, gripped the barrel, and smashed the handle into the glass. I cleared some remaining shards. A few sharp bits remained. I doffed my sweatshirt and draped it over the bottom of the window frame. I lifted myself through the window, grunting in pain as my left shoulder barked at me again.
My feet hit the bathroom floor. I opened the door slowly, my gun leading the way. If anyone was in the room, they were the hide and seek world champion. I grabbed my gear and tossed it into my bag. Then I saw my clothes. I liked what I brought. There was room in the bag. I shoved everything in and walked back into the bathroom. No one waited for me outside the window. I craned my neck and looked in both directions. The area was goon-free. I threw the bag onto the grass, climbed out behind it, and dashed back to Rich's car.
***
I persuaded Rich to pull over. We got off 219 and turned into a parking lot behind a nondescript building. Someone would have to look for us to notice us here. "What are we doing?" he said. I thumbed through a few notes on my phone.
"Finding a place to stay," I said.
"We can find a hotel."
"So can the people who tried to kill us."
"You have a better idea?" said Rich.
"We'll see." I found the number and called. Luke Thompson answered on the second ring. "You still want a story?"
"What do you have in mind?" he said.
I gave him a rundown of recent events. "Our concern is they're looking for us. They could have more guys, or they could even have some deputies."
"You want a place to stay." It wasn't a question.
"And a place to hide the most obvious car in the county for a day or two," I said. Rich frowned. I covered my phone. "I'm not the one with a bright blue Camaro."
"I think I can help you with those," said Luke.
"Thanks."
"It's not out of the kindness of my heart. I want to fill page one with the story you guys are going to give me."
"I think you'll be able to," I said. "We need a little time to wrap it up, but it could be a career-maker."
"Where are you now?" I told him. "Stay there. I'll come meet you, then you can follow me. I'll try to keep us off the main roads as much as possible."
I hung up. We waited.
***
We followed Luke's Jeep down the back roads of Oakland. A couple blocks from the Republican's office, he led us to a body shop. Rich pulled the Camaro into a vacant bay. We got out. The door closed behind us. "My brother's shop," Luke said when we got into his Jeep—Rich up front and me in the back. "He'll keep it in there for a couple days. Shouldn't take you longer than that, right?"
"No," Rich said. "I think we're close to wrapping it up."
"Good." Luke pulled out onto the road. "What else do you need to do?"
"Tie up loose ends," I said. "I need to do some research. There have to be connections here."
"Connections where?"
"Between Land of the Brave, the mayor, maybe the sheriff's office, and whoever provides meatheads for hire."
"I grabbed a couple of their IDs," Rich added. "Doesn't tell us who hired them, but we can still use it."
"I'll see if I can help you with it," Luke said. He steered us down yet another in a series of twisty county streets I couldn't distinguish. "I've lived here long enough."
"I do . . . different research than a lot of people," I said.
"Hacki
ng?"
I nodded. "None of it will be traceable back to you."
"So you're the law and order one," Luke said, inclining his head at Rich. Then he half-turned to glance at me. "And you're the one who colors outside the lines."
"I'm the better-looking one, too," I said. Rich snorted in the passenger's seat. I saw the top third of his head shaking above the headrest.
"I'll make sure the readers know," said Luke.
"Please do."
Luke owned a small, two-story house with a short driveway leading to a detached garage that looked more like a barn. He parked the Jeep and we all went into his home. It felt cool, like he hadn't run the heat since Spring began six months ago. Ugly green carpeting covered the floors. It went with the beige walls, but it was still hideous. If my house had come with such abominable carpet, I might have burned the whole place down just to ensure I was rid of it.
The rest of the place was furnished by and for a bachelor. Luke and I had similar tastes in furniture if not in quality. The living room room consisted of a sofa, recliner, entertainment center with two game consoles, and a large TV mounted on the wall. The dining room held a small square table and four plain chairs. "You can setup here for now," Luke said. He told me his Wi-Fi password. A minute later, my laptop was on his network and connected to the VPN. "You don't take many chances, do you?"
"Not with my technology," I said.
Rich and Luke adjourned to the dining room while I banged away at my research. The people had to be connected. The helpful mayor, the nice charity director, guys like Billy, the four goons. I couldn't link them professionally, and in a small town, I couldn't go around and interrogate people. That left Google and other tools. I preferred those to most people anyway.
There are plenty of websites, legitimate and otherwise, dedicated to aggregating information about people. With the right search parameters, you could find a trove of embarrassing information on most people. Humiliation was always nice, but I wanted to see how these people fit together. Ken Dennehy. Pete and George Rodgers. The two dead assholes whose wallets ended up in Rich's pocket. Even Billy the drug delivery guy. Something other than drugs tied them to each other.
The first domino fell in about a minute. George Rodgers took his wedding vows thirteen years ago, marrying Dawn Dennehy, sister of Ken. They had an older sister, Sheila, who married a man now deceased. Their son William in West Virginia struggled with addiction and often found himself on the wrong side of the law. The dead husband, Edward Leonard, had a son from his first marriage. Tyler Leonard's picture looked back at me from one of the dead men's wallets. A family operation, more or less.
This would give Luke his story. He could pull a couple more threads and unravel the whole thing. I did enough of the heavy lifting for him.
Now Rich and I had to bring these people down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the other room, Rich called someone he knew in the Maryland State Police. I heard him make the case for not summoning the feds—the operation was careful about state lines—and it sounded like he won the argument. He hung up and rejoined us in the living room. "State cops will be here in the morning," said Rich. "They're looping in the West Virginia boys, too, for the other side of the border.
"Why so long?" I said.
"They like to work within the law. Gotta take the case to a state's attorney and then get a warrant."
"I thought you were off the clock."
"Captain Norton isn't," Rich said.
"I guess you're bunking it down here," Luke said. "The loft above the garage has a couple beds in it and bathroom."
"Can I borrow some clothes for tomorrow?" Rich asked me.
"I'm not sure my stuff will fit you well," I said. "Besides, you'll look way more fashionable than normal."
Luke offered to get some clothes for Rich in town. While he ran the errand, Rich and I checked out the loft. The first thing I noticed was the brown shag carpeting. I hoped Luke didn't choose something so ghastly. With a better layout, the loft would make a functional apartment. It could hold a bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. As configured, it had the kitchen and bathroom, and the rest of the place was undefined. Two twin beds sat close to a sofa, which was in the vicinity of an old recliner and ancient TV. With a few weekends of work, Luke could rent this place out.
Speaking of Luke, he came back about an hour later with clothes and food. We ate pizza from Tomanetti's at Luke's dining room table. After our meal, we went over the story. Luke had the skeleton of it already, but he was missing a lot of bones and connective tissue. Rich and I provided that for him. Luke took notes on his laptop, showing off a typing rate my keyboarding instructors from middle school would have envied. "Jesus Christ," he said when we finished. I expected smoke to waft up from his laptop.
"It's a lot to take in," I said.
"They've been pretty brazen about it, too. George Rodgers using his own bank accounts." Luke frowned and keyed in another note. "I wonder if some of those withdrawals were to law enforcement or federal regulators."
"Maybe." I shrugged. "I figured they were for snatching a box of drugs here and there. Who knows? Maybe you can find out before the police do."
"It'd be safer to let them do it," Rich chimed in.
"Ever the wet blanket," I said.
Rich rolled his eyes. "Nosing around could be dangerous right now. We don't know if Billy blabbed to everyone he knows. They could be wise to us."
"Which is why we're staying here."
"And why you should wait for the police," Rich said to Luke. "Type up your story and send it to your boss the second the cuffs get slapped on. But going off the reservation for a scoop could get you hurt. Or worse."
Luke took Rich's advice better than I would have—and better than I've taken whatever advice he's given me over the years. "All right," he said. "I'll type up what I have and send it in. My boss will sit on it until the time is right. Then it'll go out online and in the next morning's edition."
"You have a gun?" I said.
"It's Garrett County," Luke said. "Everyone has a gun."
"Fair enough. Might want to bring it with you tomorrow. If Billy ran his mouth, it could get ugly."
"I've never shot anyone before," Luke said.
His words rang in my ears like the three shots I had to fire. I wished I could still make the same claim.
***
The next morning, Luke and I ate breakfast—he ran out to Sheetz—at his dining room table while Rich showered and put on his new clothes. He joined us a few minutes later. Rich's eye for fashion is a couple years behind and hit-and-miss, but he always picked jeans that fit perfectly. The pants he wore today did not. They were carpenter's jeans, with a bunch of straps to dangle tools from, and they were both too big in the waist and too long in the inseam. Rich's belt did yeoman's work to keep the pants around his midsection, while the legs were rolled into inch-high cuffs. Despite Rich's preemptive scowl, I laughed.
"Want to hang some drywall before we leave?" I said. Rich ignored me, sat at the table, and grabbed a coffee. "Maybe we could saw a bunch of two-by-fours. Is it 'measure twice, cut once?'"
"Yes," Rich said. If he had a hammer, his expression indicated he might have hit me with it.
"Look on the bright side," I said. "If you ever need to infiltrate the guys standing outside Home Depot, you have the perfect disguise."
Luke covered his mouth and chuckled. Rich sighed and looked through the Sheetz bag for breakfast. He pulled out a breakfast sandwich and a donut. We all finished eating, and I wished Luke came back with more coffee. A coffee maker was conspicuous by its absence in his kitchen. "Where is your friend meeting us?" Luke asked Rich.
"Land of the Brave headquarters," he said. "He'll have some state cops with him. At the same time, the West Virginia cops are going to hit the hospital and scoop up George Rodgers and his people."
"If it's all simultaneous, nobody can tip anyone else off," I said.
"Sometimes, the cops h
ave good ideas, too," said Rich.
"Let's hope it all goes as planned."
After breakfast, we got in Luke's Jeep and drove toward Deep Creek Lake. "Does your state police friend know you're coming dressed like Bob Vila?" I said.
"I'm surprised you know who Bob Vila is," said Rich, ignoring the barb.
"I watch Youtube. Besides, he's part of pop culture."
"I agree," Luke said. "I was way too young for his show, but I know who he is."
"Great," Rich said, "we're all Bob Vila fans."
"Looks like you are most of all," I said.
Rich shook his head, but I saw a brief smirk pass over his face. A few minutes later, we approached Land of the Brave. The parking lot held about the same number of cars it did when Rich and I came before. "Keep going," Rich said. "They're not here yet." It didn't take long for us to encounter the state contingent. A minute farther down 219, a convoy of unmarked state police cars rolled past us. Luke turned around while Rich made a phone call. He told whoever answered we were in the Jeep but declined to mention his inadvertent disguise as a carpenter.
We parked near the police cars. A couple troopers jogged around to the rear of the building. Rich introduced me to Captain Casey Norton. He was about my height but broad like Rich, with short blond hair and dark green eyes. The hair showed no gray, but a few creases around the eyes made me guess Norton to be about Rich's age. If the police career didn't work out, he could always try out for the Ravens as a linebacker. "Rich told me about you," he said as we shook hands.
"He embellishes a lot," I said. Rich only complimented me to his law enforcement peers after running me down first.
"Your reputation precedes you."
"That a good thing?"
"I guess we'll find out," Norton said.
We proceeded inside, bypassing the startled receptionist and heading right to Pete Rodgers' office. Rich led the way. Rodgers smiled initially, but his expression soured when he saw the retinue of troopers walking behind him. "You're done, you piece of shit," Rich said.
