Blood Money: Joe Dillard Series No. 6

by Scott Pratt

  “Shut up, Bodie,” Clyde replied aloud inside the car.

  The voice had been bothering him for years. It started around the time he graduated from high school, he wasn’t exactly sure. At first, he heard it only once every five or six months. It would make suggestions, suggestions which Clyde was free to follow or ignore. But as time had gone on, as he grew older and got married and lived the life of a young insurance agent, the voice became more assertive. It was Bodie’s voice that constantly suggested he drink vodka or ingest cocaine or take pills. It was Bodie’s voice that ruined his marriage by telling him to do perverted and violent things to his wife. It was Bodie who first told him about the CIA and the plot, Bodie who told him to buy a gun and start practicing at the indoor range and shave his head.

  Bodie spoke to him constantly now. It was a battle of wills, a battle which, at some level, Clyde knew he was losing. Clyde sometimes clawed at his ears in an effort to reach inside his brain and tear Bodie out by the roots, but Bodie was clever and elusive. The medication they’d given Clyde in the hospital had silenced Bodie for a few days, but the medication made him feel thick and lethargic, so he stopped taking it. As soon as he stopped taking it, Bodie returned.

  “She’s going to betray you,” Bodie said. “You’re going to wind up back in jail.”

  “No. They’re using her as a patsy. They’re filling her head full of lies.”

  “She knows the truth about you. She knows you’re insane. You need to kill her before she tells everyone else.”

  “Shut up! Shut your mouth, Bodie!”

  “She won’t stop until you’re in prison, or even worse, locked up on a mental ward with a bunch of droolers. She’s in on it now. She’s out to get you.”

  “I said shut up!”

  “She needs to die! Be a man and kill her!”

  Clyde covered his ears with his palms and shook his head violently. “I’m not listening to you,” he said in a high-pitched whine. “I’m not listening to you. I’m not listening to you. You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

  “You’re such a pussy,” Bodie said. “Do you really believe a girl like that would have anything to do with you? She’s beautiful. You look like Uncle Fester. She’s smart. You have the brains of a flat rock. She’s sane. You’re—”

  Clyde could take no more. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and got out, began pacing around the car with his head in his hands, muttering to himself and cursing Bodie. On the second trip around the car he noticed someone out of the corner of his eye. It was her, Charleston, standing dead still, no more than twenty feet away, staring at him. Joe and the other man were another fifty feet back, just coming out the door.

  “Uh, uh, M-miss Story,” Clyde stammered. “Charleston. I was waiting for you so I could tell you that you don’t have to be afraid of me and that I would never hurt you and I think you’re beautiful and we could be friends you know. I…I…I didn’t scare you I don’t think but I’m not a bad person really I’m not I’m good…”

  She was backing away, so gorgeous in the dark skirt and pink blouse. She’d dropped her briefcase and was reaching into her purse and screaming. He heard Joe yell something, paid no attention.

  “Wait, wait, don’t, I mean, you don’t have to, don’t be scared, you know?”

  “What do you want from me? Why are you following me? Leave me alone or I’ll have you arrested!”

  “She spoke to him. She actually spoke to him!”

  “She hates you!” It was Bodie, back in his head. “Look at her. The look on her face. She’s terrified.”

  Charleston was holding something in her hand.

  “I have pepper spray. Don’t come any closer!”

  “Wait, please, I just want to talk to you.”

  Clyde took another step toward her. Something wet hit him in the forehead; a tiny drop went into his right eye. It burned like acid. Clyde rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, howled, and jumped up and down. Bodie was screaming at him to get the gun. Where was it? It’s in the glove compartment! Charleston was backing toward the entrance to the jail. Joe and the other man had come up beside her and had taken her arm. A cop car was pulling into the parking lot, coming toward them. Clyde turned and hurried back to his car. He started it and drove away from her, away from the police car, away from the jail.

  “Idiot!” Bodie was railing at him now. “Moron! She was five steps away and you blew it! Did you see how she was mocking you? She made a fool of you again! She pepper-sprayed you!”

  Clyde nodded his head as he pulled onto the highway. “I know, I know.”

  “You need to kill her!”

  “Next time.” Clyde said. “I’ll do it next time.”

  Chapter 33

  SULLIVAN County Sheriff Raymond Peale leaned back in his swivel chair and rested his black cowboy boots on top of his desk. The walls surrounding Peale were covered in law enforcement and political memorabilia: plaques, certificates, photographs. Peale, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man, weighed a muscular hundred and eighty pounds and was fond of western shirts, blue jeans and oversized belt buckles. He twisted the end of his handlebar mustache with his right hand and pushed his cowboy hat back on his large head with the other.

  “I reckon we got ourselves a mole,” Peale said.

  Sitting on the desk near Peale’s boots was a laptop computer. The computer was equipped with a receiver that captured the signal from a tiny microphone and transmitter Peale had placed in the ceiling of the attorney/prisoner interview room before Joe Dillard arrived to talk with Jordan Scott.

  “How could you let this happen?”

  Peale looked across the desk at Howard Raleigh, a slim, blue-eyed man with the personality and demeanor of a southern Baptist evangelist and a hairdo to match. He was a leader in the community, a county commissioner and father of Todd Raleigh, the deputy Jordan Scott had killed. Raleigh’s money and influence were the primary reasons Peale remained in office. He served at Raleigh’s pleasure and protected Raleigh’s passion, a cockfighting ring that hosted fights every other week from June to November and from which Raleigh had earned millions.

  “What do you mean, Howie?” Peale pulled his boots off the desk and leaned forward. “I didn’t let it happen. I’ve got a lot of people working for me. I can’t keep an eye on every one of them all the time.”

  “They’re planning to put my boy on trial. Did you hear that? The ‘sumbitch needed killin’’ defense? Needed killing? Todd was murdered, Raymond, and you know it. He never raped anybody. That black boy and that trashy white girl cooked up a story because Todd caught them in the bushes together.”

  Peale looked down at the laptop, disgusted. Raleigh had repeated this ridiculous accusation so many times that he’d convinced himself it was true. But Peale knew better. He’d been to the crime scene, interviewed the girl. He’d seen the ski mask that covered what was left of Todd Raleigh’s head. He’d destroyed the samples of blood and tissue that the medical examiner had gathered and preserved so that Jordan Scott’s defense team couldn’t subpoena the samples for DNA testing, and he’d urged Howard to have his son cremated so the body couldn’t be exhumed. He’d also seen Todd Raleigh in action for the past several years after he’d given Todd a job, and he had fielded the complaints about sexual harassment. He’d counseled Todd, threatened him, but nothing worked. Todd was a sociopath and a rapist and Peale was glad he was dead.

  “Jury will see right through it,” Peale said. “They’ll convict him and they’ll give him the death penalty.”

  “Death penalty my ass. The district attorney hasn’t even filed a death penalty notice yet, and I don’t think he’s going to. Besides, this state doesn’t execute people anymore. There are men sitting on death row that have been there for more than thirty years. We’re gonna wind up supporting him, feeding him, clothing him, bathing him, putting a roof over his head for fifty years.”

  Peale shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing we can do about that.”

&
nbsp; Raleigh stood and walked over to the wall, looked at all the photos.

  “You’ve had a pretty good run, haven’t you, Raymond?”

  Peale didn’t respond.

  “Make a good salary, plus what I pay you and what you skim here and there. Got a nice house, nice cars, nice wife, nice kids. Be a shame if you got beat in the next election. How in the world would you pay for everything?”

  “I’m not planning on losing the next election. Haven’t even heard of anyone that wants to run against me.”

  “That could change in a hurry. Right man with the right support behind him, you could lose it all.”

  Raleigh’s fangs were coming out, something Peale had seen many times during his life

  “This black boy,” Raleigh said, “something’s got to be done about him. I’m not going to let them drag my son through the mud again. The newspapers have already spread enough lies.”

  “What do you want me to do, Howie? Go up to his cell and kill him?”

  “Not exactly.” Raleigh turned away from the photos and walked toward Peale. He leaned over and put his fists on top of the desk. “I want you to let him out.”

  “Let him out?”

  “Where do you think he’d go if he escaped?”

  “Most of them head straight for family or friends. I don’t think he’d go far.”

  “Good. Let him escape. Make it look good. Then hunt him down and kill him.”

  Chapter 34

  THE story of Russo’s gold, beneath the headline of “Could There be Gold in Them Thar Hills?” and beneath the byline of Ted Sams, was published in both the print and online editions of The Carter County Comet on Thursday morning. It was picked up by the Associated Press in the afternoon and circulated nationwide.

  By Friday morning, the online version had made its way before the eyes of Isabella Greatti, formerly Isabella Russo, in Atlanta. She immediately called her mother in Philadelphia, who found the story online and immediately called her son, Johnny. By the time Johnny Russo finished reading the story, his mouth had dropped open and limitless possibilities were running through his mind. He called Carlo Lanzetti.

  “Who’s that guy with Donnie Blue’s crew?” Johnny said.

  “What guy?” Carlo said.

  “That guy! The hacker. The geek. The one they say can find out anything about anybody.”

  “You talking about Reno?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Reno. That’s him. We need to get with him today. Right now.”

  “Reno’s a tool. I don’t want to have nothing to do with him.”

  “I don’t care if he’s a tool, Carlo. We need him. You’re tight with Donnie Blue, right?”

  “Need him for what? He’s a dick with ears, that guy. Thinks he’s smarter than everybody—”

  “Shut up and listen. My ma called me a little while ago. She read this story on the internet. It’s out of a little county in Tennessee about some gold. Ma thinks it might be the gold my great-great-great grandfather Carmine left with a hick bootlegger back in the day.”

  “What are you talking about?” Carlo said. “You high or something?”

  “I need to find out everything I can about these people down in Tennessee. This guy named Barnes and this girl named Story. I need to know everything there is to know about them, and Reno can do that for me. I want you to make the contact through Donnie Blue and set up a meet.”

  “I still got no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about gold, Carlo!” Johnny could feel his face reddening. He was screaming into the phone. “Maybe fifty million dollars in gold that rightfully belongs to my family! Are you gonna help me get it or are you gonna jerk me around?”

  “Damn, man, take it easy. You don’t gotta yell at me like that.”

  “Listen close, Carlo,” Johnny said. “I’m gonna talk slow so maybe you can understand me. There might be fifty million in gold hidden in Tennessee. If it’s really there, me and you are going to go get it, but before we go, I need to know as much as I can about the people I’ll be dealing with. Capisci?”

  “What do you need to know anything about anybody for? If the gold belongs to you, we just go take it, right? We kill anybody who tries to stop us.”

  “Carlo, if you don’t set up a meet with Reno in the next five minutes, I swear on my mother I’m going to find you and shoot you in the head.”

  “Listen to you threatening me,” Carlo said. “Ain’t you the one that’s always telling me I shouldn’t be so quick to violence?”

  “Get it done,” Johnny hissed, “and call me back as soon as you have it set up.”

  Chapter 35

  I went with Charlie while she reported the second incident with Clyde Dalton to the same police officer, Mike St. John. His question to her was whether she felt legitimately threatened by Clyde during the encounter, to which she replied honestly, “I was terrified. He looked so… so… deranged.”

  “Okay, we’ll arrest him,” St. John had said.

  The next morning, Charlie, Jack and I were all in the office preparing for Jordan Scott’s trial. Jack and Charlie were researching legal issues and I was going over written summaries of interviews with potential witnesses I’d already conducted. Each of us were in our separate offices when I heard the tone that told me someone was walking through the front door. Thinking back on it, I suppose leaving the door unlocked had been stupid because I hadn’t heard anything from Mike St. John about Clyde Dalton being arrested, which meant he was still on the street.

  As soon as I heard the beep tone, I got up and walked toward the door that separated my office from the foyer. Before I got to the door, I heard three gunshots.

  Pop! Pop!

  Pop!

  I pulled the door open and burst through, not thinking about myself. Charlie was in danger. My son was in danger. I saw Clyde Dalton as soon as I cleared the door, his face expressionless, his eyes as dull as sandstone. He raised his right arm and there was a deafening explosion. I saw the flash, felt the shock wave of a bullet passing by my left ear. I picked up one of the two small chairs in the foyer, heard myself curse, and threw the chair at him as another gunshot rocked the short hallway. I rushed him and got my right shoulder into him. He bounced off the wall as I slipped on the carpet and fell to my knees.

  Then I heard Jack’s voice, pained, almost pitiful: “I’m shot. Oh God, I’m shot.”

  Time suspended. Endless seconds. I scrambled into Jack’s office. He was sitting in his chair, his face white, his left hand covering his upper chest and neck. I forgot all about Clyde as I knelt beside Jack.

  “It went through,” he said. “I think it went right through me.”

  I sensed someone behind me and turned, ready to throw myself at Clyde Dalton again. It was Charlie, her face contorted by fear.

  “He went out the back door,” she said.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said, and I turned back to Jack. Dark, red blood was oozing from Jack’s white shirt near his collarbone. I reached out and gently lifted Jack’s hand, pulled his shirt away from the wound. The hole was small and almost black with red blood oozing from it.

  “I’m going to raise your shoulder a little,” I said. “I need to look at the back.”

  Jack groaned as I lifted his shoulder. I saw nothing, so I lifted his right arm. There was a pink hole the size of a silver dollar. I could hear Charlie’s frantic voice over my shoulder: “There’s been a shooting… Yes... Charleston Story… Joe Dillard’s office… Calm! What are you talking about? Get somebody down here! No, no, he’s gone! He walked out the back door! Jack’s been shot! He’s bleeding! Please hurry!”

  “It came out under your arm,” I said to Jack as calmly as I could. “We need to get you onto the floor and get your feet up. I don’t want you to go into shock.”

  I helped Jack out of the chair and onto his back on the floor.

  “Charlie, there’s a first aid kit under the sink in the bathroom. Bring it to me. And grab my jacket. It’s on t
he chair in front of my desk.”

  “Talk to me, Jack,” I said. “Does anything else hurt? Are you hit anywhere else?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m sorry, dad, I didn’t… it just happened so—”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” I said. “Just lie still now. You’re going to be fine. Hear the sirens? The EMTs are almost here.”

  Charlie brought me the first-aid kit and the jacket. I rolled the jacket up and placed it beneath Jack’s ankles, and I pressed gauze into the wounds, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. Then the door burst open and the placed filled with commotion. Police officers with guns drawn barked at us and at each other while the EMTs took me by the arm and helped me up so they could attend to Jack. Charlie was crying, mumbling something about it being her fault. Mike St. John appeared at my elbow.

  “Did you see who it was?” he asked.

  “It was him.”

  “Him? You mean Dalton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. He tried to kill me.”

  “We’ll get him.”

  “You better. He shot my son. If you don’t get him, I will.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Joe. We’ll take care of it.”

  “He shot my son,” I said. “The crazy son of a bitch shot my son.”

  Chapter 36

  LATER that evening, after we’d spent the day at the hospital and were sure Jack would be all right, I offered Charlie a ride home. The doctor who worked on Jack said the bullet had bounced off of his collar bone, fracturing it in the process, and had traveled straight down and out beneath his arm. It had done some damage to tissue, but the doctor said Jack should be “as good as new” in a couple of months. I spent the day alternating between beating myself up for leaving the office door unlocked and thinking of the terrible things I wanted to do to Clyde Dalton. I tried to keep the anger bottled up and focus on Jack and the rest of my family, but Caroline had mentioned more than once during the day that she was more worried about me and what I might do than she was about Jack.