by Shannon Hill
“Half around here, other half over where that traitor lives.”
I took “traitor” to be Senator Weed.
While I took a moment to wonder what to say next, Freddie Tyler decided to declare his manifesto some more. “You can’t stop me, neither, it’s my right to free speech. The government don’t listen to the will of the people ain’t a Constitutional government and it’s right in the Constitution we got to take up arms against it.”
Howard shifted forward, shoulders tensing. “Mr. Tyler,” he warned. “Advocacy of armed rebellion can be seen as sedition.”
Wrong tack to take. The gun started to swing in Freddie’s hand.
I lunged and caught Freddie by the upper arm. “What he means is,” I rapped out, “please tell us if you believe in letting bombs speak for you.”
A tiny bit of fire died out of Freddie’s eyes. The biceps under my grip were so tight I thought they’d snap like over-tuned guitar strings. “I got no call to bomb some stooge. If I was gonna bomb, I’d go right to the top.”
Howard and Newsome both moved. I was leaning over that gate, with one hand on Freddie and the other near my sidearm, so I did what I had to do. I mule-kicked back. I caught someone’s shin. From the hiccup of pain, Newsome.
I kept fake-smiling at Freddie. “That’s what we need to know. Now, you can see we might not take your word for it, what with the flyers, so how about you let us take a look around.”
“You got no right.”
“That’s why we’re asking,” I growled, and dug my fingers into his bicep. “You look at me, Mr. Tyler.”
He did. Reluctantly.
“These boys behind me, they’ve got a lab report that tells them what to look for. We don’t find it, we go away. Deal?”
“How I know you won’t…”
I didn’t bother invoking my own reputation. “You seriously think Marge Turner raised a dishonest cop?”
He considered that. “No. I reckon she wouldn’t. A’right. But I get to go with y’all.”
I exhaled, very quietly, and let go of his arm and stepped back. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tyler.”
He pulled out some keys and turned one in the lock securing the gate. I smiled cheerfully. I knew how to take some of the spark out of Freddie Tyler. I’d tell Aunt Marge all about his cooperation. Within twenty-four hours, the story would be known by everyone in five counties.
Revenge is sweet.
***^***
We must have waded through half a ton of crap at Freddie Tyler’s house. Magazines about guns, conservative politics, fishing, vintage cars, golf. More types of fishing rods than I ever knew existed. A gun collection that made even Agent Newsome blink. Twenty-three handguns of various caliber, age, and type. A wall of assault rifles under glass: vintage AK-47, M-16, a French bullpup, a Heckler & Koch G36, even an Israeli TAR-21. I didn’t want to think how he’d gotten one of those. But nowhere a trace of gunpowder, steel pipe, cotton batting of any kind except on the ear swabs under the sink along with the roach traps.
As we retreated to our cars, Howard sighed heavily and put a hand on my shoulder. “Good thought, Sheriff. Good lead. Too bad it didn’t pan out.”
The mood I was in, he’s lucky I didn’t borrow a gun from Freddie just to beat him to death with it.
***^***
I was supposed to have supper with Punk, but the prospect did not brighten my day. Nor did my mood improve when I got a very irate voice mail from Steve, demanding to know what right I had to ruin his budget for Grenville. I was within one button-push of blocking Steve’s number forever when my phone rang, startling me into dropping it. I swerved onto the shoulder of Piedmont so I could reach down and grab it.
It was Bobbi. “Lil!” she squealed. “Lil, you gotta come. It’s the baby.”
My brain froze up along with my heart. “Oh God. What’s happened?”
“I’m in labor, you idiot!”
I started breathing. “Where’s Raj?”
“Up to his elbows in someone’s damn fool dog got hit by a lawnmower.”
Well, ewww.
“Okay, I’ll be right there to drive you up to…”
“I’m at the Emergicare, I don’t got time to drive, you get your ass here and hold my hand now!”
Right around the time Bobbi got to the word here, her voice went up two octaves. She was in labor. Holy crap.
I pelted into the Emergicare with Boris disgruntled in my arms, tossed him into a waiting room chair, and followed the cursing. I’ve heard Bobbi cuss plenty of times, but never with that kind of heartfelt rage. Not even when she’d had at it with her former mother-in-law.
Kris Spivey looked up as I entered. She nodded to a gown and mask and a box of nitrile gloves. I scooted into gear, sat down on an indicated stool, and Bobbi reached over for my hand. She’s smaller than I am by a good bit, but her grip brought tears to my eyes. Little red dazzles of pain went up my arm. I decided whatever was happening down below her belly button wasn’t necessary for me to know, and I twisted to face her. Also not a pretty view. Her face was hectic-pink and knotted in the most wicked frown I’ve ever seen. “Damn it to hell, Doc,” she panted through her teeth, “get that thing out!”
“Easy does it, now,” Dr. Hartley soothed. “Your little one’s coming fine. In a real hurry now they made up their mind. Breathe….”
Bobbi squeezed my hand. My eyes crossed. I felt delicate structures in my hand grind. I lost all feeling in my fingers. Thank God.
According to the clock, I was in there twenty minutes. According to my hand, it was about eighteen eternities. Then it was over, and Bobbi let go of me so she could cuddle her baby girl.
“Well, I haven’t done that in a while,” said Dr. Hartley benevolently. “What’s her name, Bobbi? I need it for the paperwork.”
“Ruby Star Vidur,” said Bobbi. Her face glowed. Not from sweat, either. I hadn’t seen her look this lovesick since she first locked eyes with Raj.
“Ruby… You want maybe Estrella or something prettier?” suggested Dr. Hartley.
“Ruby Star,” cooed Bobbi. I stood, wincing as blood returned to my hand, and went to him to explain quietly that Raj had given her a star ruby for an engagement ring. The baby’s name was Bobbi’s way of giving one back. Dr. Hartley shrugged and wrote it down. Then he shooed me out so the VFD paramedics could take Bobbi and her daughter up to a real hospital, to be on the safe side.
I waved her off from the comfort of a chair in the waiting room, Boris on my lap and an a cold pack wrapped around my hand. My head buzzed and fizzed. I was a godmother. Unofficially, but for all practical purposes, I was Aunt Lil.
Whoa.
I’d meandered comfortably home when a new thought struck me. Crap. Ruby had arrived a couple of weeks early. Bobbi’s baby shower was this coming Saturday. I called Aunt Marge, to organize a collection of gifts to be unwrapped and put in place before Bobbi came home in a day or so, with a list of who bought what so she could write thank-you notes between feedings, naps and changings.
Another thought occurred: I was supposed to be making supper.
I called Punk. After I explained that I’d had my hand crushed by a woman in labor, he agreed I needed some quiet time.
I lay down on my couch, Boris cuddling into my shoulder. I exhaled. Peace at last.
I drifted off.
I woke up when my front door exploded.
10.
After I’d taken refuge behind the couch, a quick look showed me that my front door had not exactly exploded. Someone had tried to blow it up, without a lot of success. It had a godawful dent blown into it, nothing more.
By the sound of things outside, someone had caught some well-deserved shrapnel.
Boris fled. I went for my sidearm. I have two. The town gave me a Smith & Wesson. Aunt Marge gave me a Sig Sauer. Three guesses which I prefer.
I stopped to call Tom and the VFD, then shimmied out my bedroom window. I could hear someone moaning and swearing. I tiptoed barefoot around my ho
use.
Illuminated by the safety light of my carport lay a total stranger, with what looked like a hundred bleeding cuts on his back and legs. The man was already face-down on the ground, but some reflexes you can’t help. I bellowed, “Police! Hands where I can see ‘em!”
He moved his arms, burbled in pain, and cried out, “I need an ambulance!”
A bonus of falling asleep in uniform: I had my cuffs to hand. I didn’t bother with them after a look at the guy’s back. “Good God,” I said as I knelt down. “You put some glass in there, didn’t you?”
He whimpered an affirmative.
“Good thing it wasn’t BBs or buckshot,” I remarked as I took a better look. “You’d be a sieve. Got a name?”
Eating dirt and in pain and shock, he responded, “I don’t got to talk to a representative of an illegal…”
“Right, you’re one of Freddie’s friends,” I interrupted. “Fine, let me just take a peek in your wallet, and before you scream about the Constitution, the docs’ll do it if I don’t.”
He muttered, “Fascists!”
I looked in his wallet. He was from one county over, Senator Weed’s home turf. Alan Quinn. “Okay, Mr. Quinn, lie easy, I can hear the sirens.”
He squirmed, thought better of it. I lounged on the trunk of my car. I didn’t bother keeping Quinn in my sights. He had glass slivers sticking up from his back like quills out of a porcupine in a temper. He was going nowhere.
He grumbled. I ignored him, waving as Tom pulled to one side, and the VFD came right behind him. One of my new-planted azaleas was smoldering a little. They doused it with eighty more gallons of water than it needed, then power-washed the front of my house for good measure. Bye-bye trace evidence.
The paramedics loaded Quinn into the ambulance. Like the paramedics, it was shiny-new, and I could see them grimace at the mere thought of a scratch on the bumper. Tom held them up long enough to put Quinn under official arrest, and I left him to chase the ambulance up to Charlottesville and whichever hospital Quinn wound up at. I had other problems.
First problem to arrive was Punk. Man never sleeps. He forgot our audience of volunteer firemen to hurry up, embrace me and then kiss me. I gave it six hours before everyone in five counties heard about it.
Then came Cousin Jack, and with him, Steve. Both of whom also hugged me, though I’d have gladly tossed Steve over the car for it if I hadn’t been surrounded by witnesses.
Finally the state police showed up, right as Aunt Marge and Roger did.
Dawn was streaking the sky pale gold and lavender when Agent Howard pulled into the driveway. “Newsome’s with the prisoner,” he greeted me. “Two pipe bombs in two weeks, Sheriff. Someone around here’s got issues.”
Exhausted as I was—and irritated, and a few dozen other emotions Aunt Marge would chide me for—I still managed to think like a cop. “I don’t think it’s going to be the same guy who did the Weed house.”
Credit to Howard, he took me seriously. “Why do you say that?”
I pointed at the obvious. “My house is still here. Then look at what he did. He set it by the front door. You want lethal, there’s ten better places than the front door to put a pipe bomb if you’re looking to make my house disappear.”
“But you do think it’s another pipe bomb,” Howard argued.
“Sure. But this wasn’t a job where he set it off and got out clean. He got blown on his face. Not very careful or smart.” I walked with Howard around the rear of my house. “At night, best bet is I’m in bed. Why not break the window with something and throw it in the room? Or take out my car?” I shook my head. “Blowing in my front door doesn’t do much but piss me off, and he barely got the thing off its hinges. If it’s the same guy, he’s acquired some serious stupidity.”
Howard finished noting down my opinions. “I have to say I’d agree. I’d add that I doubt this guy bothered with much reconnaissance. If he had, he might’ve realized that door was steel.” He slanted me a curious look. “Why steel?”
I almost smiled. “Dumb luck. Contractor over in Richmond got stuck with a bunch of leftovers from a job that fell through. Sold it to my builder on the cheap. I figured, why not?” I let my smile fade. “I was asleep on the couch. If I had a wood door…”
Howard nodded grimly. “You lead a charmed life, Sheriff. You got somewhere to sleep? You look pretty worn out.”
“Sure.” I jerked a thumb at my house. “Just give me a boost so I can get back in the window. Roger boarded the doorway shut.”
***^***
What does it say about me that the biggest item of gossip in town that day was Bobbi’s baby girl?
“Do people around here just expect attempts on my life?” I groused to Aunt Marge. She was pushing one of her cure-all juice mixes on me. Pineapple, mango, goji berries, I don’t know what-all. Tasted like cough syrup. We were sitting in camp chairs watching Roger install a new front door for me, with some help from Tim Hutchins of Hutchins Home Repair.
“Drink up,” Aunt Marge ordered. “You’ve had a shock.”
I drank it up. Then I struggled to keep it down. “Where’s the green stuff?”
She burrowed into her carry-all shoulder bag and came up with a thermos. The “green stuff” was a blend of decaf green tea, cilantro, parsley, mint, and some other green things. It tasted the way fresh-cut grass smells.
Boris merowled and leapt onto my lap. He sniffed, sneezed, and settled in to watch the men at work.
“Boris should have warned you someone was outside.”
“He’s not a dog.”
“I can’t believe Alan Quinn would do such a thing.”
Boris’s tail twitched twice. I grinned to myself. Finally, I’d caught Aunt Marge in a lie.
“His mother’s devout.”
“What’s his father?”
Caught, Aunt Marge pondered a moment. “That is a good question. Hmph. Now, I assume those federal agents have Alan?”
“For now,” I confirmed. “They found pipe bomb fixings at his house, some pretty intense literature, and a few copies of that flyer.”
Aunt Marge sniffed disdainfully. “Isn’t it strange he would be so competent at the Weeds and so… bumbling…here?”
“Howard forwarded me the link to Quinn’s blog, I’ll send it on. He saw this as a blow for freedom. Apparently, I and two dozen storm troopers ransacked Freddie Tyler’s house, abused his right to freedom of speech, and I don’t remember what else.” I yawned, and stroked Boris. He purred lightly. “According to the blog—well, you can read it.”
“I do not think,” announced Aunt Marge, pink-cheeked, “I will be able to hold my temper if I do. Give me the short version, please, dear.”
“This was a warning to me to stop serving a fascist socialist government,” I started to smile, “full of corporate stooges. Which, when you think about it, is quite a trick.”
Aunt Marge smiled thinly and changed the subject. A lady does not discuss politics, unless she can do so in a genteel fashion. Having someone lob a pipe bomb at me did not put Aunt Marge in a genteel mood. “What do you intend to do about this?”
“Feds have it.”
Aunt Marge stared at me. When I was a kid, I’d have confessed to being Jack the Ripper if it would stop that stare.
I confessed, “I’ll make a few visits.”
She pounced on the admission. “Lil, you have to stop. I am sure you’re doing your job well and that you’re not breaking any rules…” Which meant she thought I was. “But something you’re doing is making people very angry at you. First there was that awful drug dealer…”
“I blew that one, I didn’t pay enough attention.” I crooned to Boris, and added, “Besides, that’s when I met Boris.”
Aunt Marge was relentless. “And what about the Colliers?”
“Oh, come on,” I retorted, “it was one Collier, and all I got were a few bruised ribs!”
“Then this horrible, horrible thing Kim did…” Aunt Marge
blinked away tears. Her mouth quivered. “You could have frozen to death in that cabin!”
I couldn’t answer that. Kim sold me out for a chance at living large with a guy she met online. No way to minimize that.
“And now this!”
Just as well I didn’t tell her about Chipmunk Tyler’s potshot in my general vicinity.
I took a long breath, and let it out very slowly. “What do you want me to do?”
She replied promptly, “Stop getting people angry enough to kill you.”
“So…turn into Vernon Rucker?”
Wrong answer.
“Don’t be sassy. I’ve spoken to Punk, and…”
My whole body tensed. “You did what?” I yelped.
Roger looked around. He must’ve figured out what we were talking about, because he became very absorbed in attaching the new door.
“It’s for your own safety, Lil. You know how people are. I don’t say I agree or approve, but the truth is, a woman with authority is very difficult for more traditional people to accept.”
I heard her out. She’d raised me to be polite. Then I tossed my temper to the wind. “You want me to quit!”
“No, dear, but Tom did a very good job as sheriff, and it would remove your relationship difficulties with Punk if you weren’t his boss.” Aunt Marge smiled tremulously. “Think of the stress it would save you. The headaches. The hassle with town council.”
All good points, particularly the last one. Town council consisted of Ruth Campbell, who loathes me. Matt Lincoln, whose daughter I’d helped send to prison for kidnapping me. Our mayor, Maury, who likes me. Camp Brady, who probably couldn’t care less if I existed. And Mr. Shiflet, so quiet a man you could forget he was in the room.
“You’d have a quieter life, Lil,” Aunt Marge continued, softening. “A longer one.”
Her arguments had merit.
I rejected them. “I was elected.”
Her temper flared. “Lil, do not be bull-headed! It is for your own good! Maury would understand, everyone would!”
A thousand responses flooded my head. One made it to my mouth. “How long before you ask me to stop being a cop completely?”
