by Andy Straka
They were about as hard to follow as a Snoopy blimp. Obviously in party mode, whichever brother was driving cruised casually down Washington for a while, took a right on Pennsylvania beneath the interstate, and only sped up gradually after taking another right and heading into a neighborhood of drab dwellings interspersed with the occasional vacant lot. I kept the Buick back a block or so. When the car turned into the driveway of one of the houses, I pulled into a line of parked vehicles and watched from a distance while the four of them climbed out, the two in the back giggling and clinging to one another like hounds in heat as they extricated themselves from the long two-door and weaved their way with the other two in through the front door of the house.
I checked the cylinder on my .357 as well as the backup pocket 9mm I’d strapped to my ankle before swinging the Mossberg onto the seat next to me. I wore one of Jake’s oversized long hunting coats I’d also picked up before leaving his place. The short-stock shotgun slid nicely under one arm and you’d have to look closely to see I was carrying it. I decided to give them a few minutes to let the party swing into high gear before making my grand entrance. A blast of cold wind shook the Buick. I checked my watch and waited.
Twenty minutes later I climbed out and made my way down the sidewalk toward the house. The street was empty and dead quiet. People who were at home on a cold Sunday night had holed up behind the blue halo of their color televisions, eating, drinking, arguing; some, especially the younger ones, making love.
One thing troubled me. If any of my own two pairs of lovebirds was armed and I didn’t happen to catch everyone in the same room, someone could obviously get a jump on me. But a night without risk is like a night without darkness.
The house was a small pale ranch with mismatched shutters on the windows. The drapes had been pulled. More loud music beat its hollow noise from inside as I approached across the mud-caked front lawn. Thinking about Chester, I said a silent prayer as I stepped on the front porch.
The front door was unlocked, which almost made it too easy. I pushed through it as quickly and quietly as I could, swinging the shotgun up to waist level as I entered.
“Hey! What the fuck?”
They were all four in the living room, directly in front of me. Each one was naked from the waist up and one of the two girls, who’d been performing a little dance, also had her blue jeans down around her knees. The air was thick with marijuana smoke. The two brothers lay on either end of an L-shaped sofa. Four empty shot glasses, half a six-pack of beer, and a bottle of tequila were strewn about the floor at their feet. The other, nondancing girl gave a sharp scream and removed her fingers from inside the open zipper of one of the brothers, both of whom looked to be too stoned at the moment to do much other than make the aforementioned comment and stare warily at the long barrel of the gun. Lucky for me, the music drowned out the girl’s voice. I closed the front door with a soft thud behind me.
“Sorry to have to crash your little party,” I said.
The girls rushed to pull their clothes back on or at least hold T-shirts in front of their naked breasts, but the brothers didn’t move. Caleb Connors’s tattoo was clearly visible and his eyes slowly evolved into recognition as he studied the fading bruise on my face.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re that fucking guy from up in the woods.”
“See what happens when you go pointing shotguns in people’s faces, Caleb? Comes back to haunt you.”
“Caleb?” The other brother turned on him. “Jesus, man, what’d you do, tell this asshole your name?”
“I didn’t tell him jack shit. I had my mask on just like I told you.”
“And you let him take the gun away from you.”
“I told you, man. I was going to let him go and he sucker punched me.”
“Now, boys, let’s not quibble over who told whom what. The way you guys parade around town you might as well be wearing neon signs that say Stonewall Rangers.”
“Stonewall Rangers?” The girl who’d had her hand down Mart’s pants looked at the brothers with anger. “You two don’t run with that bunch of nutcases, do you?”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Love is such a fleeting thing.”
The muscles in each of the boys’ arms flexed involuntarily, and if they hadn’t been so wasted I might’ve been worried they would try something.
“Don’t even think about it, gentlemen. Unless you’d like to talk it over and decide which one gets it in the face first.”
“Fuck you, man.” Still the lack of vocabulary. Caleb’s nose was running, but he made no move to wipe it.
“The good news for you all is that I’m only here after information,” I said. “Unless, of course, you decide to be difficult. In which case I’ve got a cell phone and will be more than happy to talk this whole matter over with the Charleston City Police or the Kanawha County Sheriffs Department.”
I was bluffing, of course, since heading downtown to the sheriff’s department was one of the last things I actually wanted to do at the moment. But they didn’t know that. The boys both appeared to be slowly processing whatever options they might have. Their brains, dulled by the smoke and booze and probably not among the quickest to begin with, moved like molasses.
“Sweetie pie,” Matt said to the girl who’d spoken. “If you knew what the Rangers was really doing you wouldn’t talk like that. We’re freedom fighters. You should keep your dumb cunt mouth shut unless you know what y’all are talking about.”
“Fuck you,” she said. “I let you two jerk offs in here to party with us and this is what I find out? You’re a couple of loonies, that’s what you are.”
The music mercifully paused for a few seconds between songs.
“Please turn it down,” I said. The girl who obviously lived there went to the stereo components piled on a table against the wall and turned off the receiver.
“Thank you. Matt, now that we can finally all hear ourselves think, maybe you can start by telling me what your brother was doing up there on Chester Carew’s land.”
Matt Connors looked at his older brother, who glared back at him. “I ain’t gonna tell you jack shit, mister.”
“Oh, no?” I kept the shotgun in one hand and with the other slid the .357 from my inside jacket pocket. Before leaving the car, I’d fitted a silencer onto the end of the barrel. “I’m not going to waste time giving you a bruise or anything like you did to me, Caleb.” I raised the handgun and pointed it toward his forehead. “Let’s see, if I aim this just right, the exit wound won’t make too much of a splatter of your brain matter on the couch.”
“Jesus.” The young man’s lip trembled.
“He’s bluffing, man,” the younger brother said. “Can’t you see that?”
I swung the gun toward his end of the couch and squeezed off a round. Everyone jumped and the other girl screamed. The bullet blew a sizeable hole in the piece of furniture less than two inches from Matt’s leg. Little bits of foam exploded into the air and onto the carpet while other finer particles confettied through the air.
“Fuck!”
“I know you’re not so concerned with yourself, Matt, so how about I just start with your brother’s kneecaps? He won’t even bleed to death if you tell me what I want before I have to shoot up the rest of him.”
There was a short silence then Matt Connors said, “What do you want to know again, asshole?”
“What Caleb was doing up there.”
He looked at his brother.
“Shit,” Caleb said. “Go ahead and tell him.”
“He was looking to see if the dude who killed that old man and all those cops being up there had screwed up our plans.”
“Your plans to fly and track the pigeons with the nerve gas.”
His mouth went flat. He said nothing.
“You better not tell him any more, man,” his brother cried.
I almost shot out Caleb’s kneecap then. But I didn’t want to interrupt his brother if he might keep talking.
And the
younger brother, either too stoned or too scared, obliged. “Yeah, man. What the hell else you think?”
“Matt! Shut the fuck up!”
“Jesus H. Christ, mister,” the girl was saying. “Maybe you should call the FBI or something.” She had pulled her blouse completely back on now. “I want you two bastards out of this house, now.”
“Who killed Carew?” I asked.
“We don’t know.”
I squeezed off another round into the couch, coming a little closer to Matt’s leg than I’d intended.
“Shit, man! What are you, crazy?”
“I’m calling the cops.” The girl made a move toward the kitchen.
“Not yet,” I told her. “Who killed Chester Carew?”
“We don’t know who killed him and that’s the God’s truth, ain’t it, Caleb?”
Caleb said nothing. I finally turned the long gun toward him.
“You had specific instructions,” I said. Higgins was worried about something. “What were they?”
The older brother smiled and shook his head.
“Oh, who gives a fuck anymore, Caleb? Tell the man so we can get the hell out of here before the cops show up. He was looking for that other bird man who was always with the old guy who got shot. The one who’s been training us how to track the birds and all.”
“You talk too much for your own godamned good. You’ve always talked too much,” his older brother admonished him.
“Another falconer? Which one?” I asked.
“Farraday.” So there it was.
“Does Higgins think he’s the one who killed Carew?” I suddenly remembered Toronto’s theory about a second person being present at Chester’s killing.
“Matt,” Caleb said.
He ignored him. “Either him or the guy he works for.”
“So he works for someone else?”
“Yeah. That’s what I heard.”
“And who is the guy he works for?”
“Matt!”
“Mister. I’m telling you the truth. I ain’t got a clue. Why don’t you go ask Higgins or Warnock?”
“But why would Farraday murder Carew? Did Chester know he was helping you people learn to track the birds?”
“No way, man. The old guy showed up with that other guy at a couple of meetings. But we never talk about the shit that is really going on at the meetings. Only a few of us are in on it. We’re like a round table—knights.”
They were knights all right. Knights of darkness.
“You’re blowing our whole operation!” Caleb screamed at him. “We’re dead, you keep talking, you little fuck. Don’t you know that?”
“Shit,” his brother yelled back, “you just talked too. We may be dead already, anyway. I showed you how my hands was shaking.” He held up his young hands and they both were trembling—more than just a fear-inspired kind of trembling, these were minor spasms.
“Oh, God, get out!” one of the girls screamed. “You bastards have brought some kind of poison shit into my house.”
“Relax,” I said. “If they’d brought it here, we’d all be dead or getting ill by now.”
“It’s not contagious?”
“No.” I hoped I was telling the truth, but whether I was or not, it was a moot point. I looked again at Matt. “You two have been doing some testing, handling vials of some kind of chemicals with those pigeons, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But you’ve always worn protective clothing, masks and everything when you’re handling this stuff, right?”
He nodded.
“Will you people please leave my house? I’m gonna call the cops. This whole thing is scaring me shitless,” the girl said. The second girl, who’d managed to pull up her pants and rebutton them, was now crying, slumped against the wall in the corner.
“Okay, fellas,” I said. “Time to go. Get your shirts on and get out of here.”
“What, you mean you’re just going to let us go?” Matt Connors looked with wide eyes at his older brother. “I need help, man. I mean, I’m tired of handling all this toxic shit. Maybe I’m sick. I want to go to a hospital.”
“Then get in your car and drive straight there,” I advised him.
He looked at Caleb as if he didn’t quite trust that would happen.
“C’mon. You heard what I said. Now, move.” I gestured with the Mossberg.
They slowly wrestled their shirts over their heads. Caleb stared at me with a renewed hatred as he stood and his younger brother struggled to his feet.
I took a step to the side, swinging the gun directly toward him. “Don’t even think about it,” I said.
“What about this grass, man?” He gestured toward their bong and the other drug paraphernalia. “This shit all belongs to us.”
“Take it, and get out of here.”
“Hey, you’re just going to let these idiots leave?” the girl protested.
Caleb smirked at me. “Thanks, asshole.”
They scooped up their belongings and headed out the front door. I watched them down the sidewalk and into the GTO before I lowered the shotgun. Their back tires bounced over the curb backing up and they burned rubber tearing off down the street.
I’d already committed the plate to memory. The cops and the FBI could figure out the rest. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.
“Like to report a possible DWI,” I said.
Snoopy wouldn’t get far.
32
“I finally got it, Dad.” Nicole’s voice, through the cell phone, hovered somewhere between excitement and horror.
“Are you still at Priscilla’s?” I was on MacCorkle Avenue headed out of South Charleston toward St. Albans and Farraday’s place. It was coming on to nine o’clock and though I might be late for my rendezvous with Higgins and Warnock, I’d decided to focus, for the moment at least, on Farraday.
“Yes. But I’m just about to leave to drive out to you.”
“What have you got?”
“Damon Farraday’s real name is Drew Slinger.”
“Really.”
“And get this: he has a criminal record a half a sheet long.”
“What is he, some kind of right-wing militia extremist?”
“No! You won’t believe it. He spent time in jail for several acts of sabotage against lumber and mining companies. He was also one of the leaders arrested at the protest riots during the finance meetings in Seattle a couple of years ago. Apparently, he subscribes to a more left-wing agenda.”
“Why in the world would he be involved with the Stonewall Rangers then?” I asked.
“Good question. Are you sure he’s working with them?”
“I just got further confirmation that he is. I’m on my way to try to find him now.”
“Be careful, Dad. Priscilla helped me come up with the info on Slinger’s record. She also made a couple of phone calls … and get this, Slinger was let out of jail early with the help of the ATF. Plus, she said to tell you that the ATF and FBI are working in West Virginia with a man named Colonel Goyne—Patrick Goyne. He’s ex-CIA and apparently a whole host of other things.”
“Gotta be the guy Toronto was talking about. I guess Priscilla didn’t tell you how she came up with all that information.”
“She said don’t ask.”
“No other names? Just Farraday and Patrick Goyne?”
“That’s it.”
“Great job, honey. This helps close the loop on things. A lot.”
“Have you found out any more about Jake’s situation?”
“A little, but it’s not necessarily good. He escaped federal custody.”
“He what? Where is he? Have you talked to him?”
“No. I just talked to Betty Carew awhile ago and he hasn’t shown up there either.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Go to the Carews’ in Nitro and wait there until you hear from me. I’m going to try to find Farraday and haul him down to talk to the lead ATF agent on this whole dea
l. That ought to be interesting.”
There was silence on the phone for a moment.
Then Nicole said in a much softer voice, “Dad, maybe you should wait for me to get there. I mean, for backup and everything.”
“I’ll be all right, Nicky.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. You go on to Nitro. I’ll call you in a couple of hours if not before.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just be careful.”
“Hey, do you remember when you were a little girl, what I used to sing to you when you were scared at night?”
“Sweet Baby James, right?”
“Yeah, Sweet Baby James. Hang in there, Sweet Baby.”
“Sure, Dad … love you.”
The connection clicked off.
I had Stinger’s a.k.a. Farraday’s address, a house on a quiet residential street backed by fields, but as it turned out, I wouldn’t need to go all the way to the residence. His old Scout was just pulling down to the next intersection, a block away from his place, as I rounded the corner by his home. He turned on to the cross street and I followed.
I shadowed him from a distance for several miles, onto the interstate and all the way back into the city. He seemed in no hurry. We took the 119 Robert Byrd Freeway exit and wound our way up into Charleston’s South Hills, a world away from Washington Street and the west end. Tony Warnock’s neighborhood. Now wasn’t this interesting? Maybe I wouldn’t be so late for my appointment with him and Higgins after all.
In a neighborhood of expensive homes, I cut my lights at the curb and watched from around the corner as the Scout drove into the driveway of a stately plantation-style house. Even from a distance I could see it sported brightly lit landscaping, a three-car garage, and an in-ground pool that had been covered over for the winter. And there was another vehicle in the driveway: Warnock’s Lincoln Navigator. Farraday climbed out of his vehicle, walked up to the front door, and entered without knocking.
I thought about hauling the shotgun up to the door with me again, but in this neighborhood I decided I was better off sticking with handguns that could be concealed. I left my car and cut across the neighbors’ lawns to the back of Warnock’s residence. I moved in the shadow of the pool house toward the back patio, beyond which I could see lights blazing in a sunken living room. The room was empty, but I could hear classical music playing from somewhere, Tchaikovsky I thought.
