The Brimstone Murders jo-2

by Jeff Sherratt

  I ran from the suite, then stopped and realized the only car available was the El Camino. Hammer had seen me in it. He didn’t take down the plates, but by now the cops would be on the lookout for anyone driving a blue ’63 El Camino. I stood there and stared at the car. Wait, maybe Hammer didn’t mention the El Camino to the brass hats after all. I’d been a cop and knew how they thought. Everyone would be pointing fingers, and Hammer would be in trouble if he told his superiors that he had me at gunpoint and then let me go.

  I didn’t have any choice. I’d have to take the chance. I jumped in the El Camino and peeled out of the dairy onto Artesia. I had to get to a phone.

  Slow down, Jimmy. Play it cool. Let’s not wave any red flags. Let’s not get a goddamned speeding ticket on top of everything else.

  I drove three miles before I pulled into a Union Oil gas station and stopped next to a phone booth. I dug into my pocket. Damn, I had a few bills but no coins. The attendant was waiting on a car, checking the tires. It would take him forever and I didn’t have the time to wait.

  Another block and I saw a bar, a drinker’s bar. The kind bikers loved-a rundown joint with a beat-up pool table in the center of the dingy room and a small-screen TV mounted in the corner. The TV was on, a soap opera, but no one was paying attention. I threw down a dollar bill. The barman gave me a withering look when I asked for change for the phone.

  “Gonna buy something, a beer?” he asked.

  “Nah, just change.”

  A weepy-eyed stiff at the end of the counter, clutching a glass, raised his head.

  The bartender tossed the coins down. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

  I made my way around the pool table, brushed by two Asian guys built like sumo wrestlers playing eight-ball, and moved to the old-fashioned wooden phone booth at the rear of the room. As I pulled open the squeaky door and stepped in, I glanced up at the TV. A choker close-up of my face flickered. The announcer was somber: “The manhunt continues, but so far the police are having no luck tracking down attorney James O’Brien, the man suspected of the killings. Anyone with information should immediately contact the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s department.”

  Not looking at the bartender or his customers, I quietly closed the phone booth door and covered my mouth with a handkerchief-like I’d seen gangsters do in the movies. After dropping a dime in the slot, I dialed. Mabel picked up on the first ring. “Don’t say anything. Just tell me what you know about Rita’s hunch,” I said.

  “I don’t know anything and she’s not here. I don’t know where she went.”

  Cold fear gripped my heart. I had a gut feeling Rita would try to confront Moran. She must have figured that the professor was tied in somehow. “Did she say anything about Moran or Professor Carmichael?”

  “No, but she called Sol’s secretary, then left in a hurry.”

  “I gotta go.” Hanging up, I quickly dialed Sol’s office. I didn’t think the cops were listening in on his phones. A judge would never grant a warrant to tap an innocent civilian’s line.

  It took forever for Joyce to come to the phone. I glanced back at the barroom. The heavies at the pool table were pinning me hard, steely-eyed, like they were about to break out the long knives.

  Finally, Joyce’s voice: “Oh, Jimmy, we’re all so worried-”

  “Joyce, quick, what did Rita talk about when she called this morning?”

  “She asked about the information Sol had me dig up on Moran, stuff about him owning those mines and the ore processing plant out there in the Mojave.”

  “Damn, what is Rita doing?”

  “Said she’s gonna serve them a writ or something, interrogatory, I dunno.”

  “My God, a writ?”

  “Yeah, she called about ten, fifteen minutes ago. And, Jimmy, she especially asked about Moran’s borax works, the ore refining plant. Why, what’s this all about?”

  “Asked about the borax works?”

  “Yeah, she wanted to know how to get there.”

  CHAPTER 38

  I stood there in the sweltering phone booth, trembling, staring at the receiver in my hand. I should’ve leveled with Rita from the beginning, let her know just how dangerous Moran and his band of religious whackos were. She hadn’t gotten the whole story. She wasn’t aware that he was a stone-cold killer. She didn’t know he’d shoot her and watch her die just for the fun of it. I should’ve forced her to give it up, hang back, and let Sol and me work this out. Gonna serve a writ! Oh, Rita! Gonna walk right into a den of deadly vipers and hand them a writ, for chrissakes. I had to stop her. I had to get to the borax works before she did. Maybe I could block the road or something. I slammed the receiver down and elbowed out of the booth.

  My photo still flashed on the TV screen, and from the way those Chinese King Kongs at the pool table were giving me the eye when I left the bar, I thought I was going to have to fight my way out. But they gave me a wide berth, and even the bartender seemed to shrink when I rushed by him. It pays to be famous.

  Before we hung up, I’d asked Joyce to get a message to Sol. “Tell him I’m going to try to head off Rita. Send help,” I’d said.

  Rita had a fifteen-minute head start, but she’d take the 605, and I’d be heading out on the 91 Freeway. If I hurried I might beat her there.

  Leaving Dairy Valley, I held the El Camino close to the speed limit when in traffic-constantly watching for Chippies in their black-and white cruisers-but when alone I opened it up, pushing ninety.

  Swerving off Highway 58, I bounced onto old Badwater Road, bypassing Barstow. I took a shortcut directly to the borax works, one that wouldn’t pass in front of the Rattlesnake Lake base. Once on the dirt road, I floored it. Now, with pistons hammering and the wind rushing by like the roar of a jet and trailing a tornado of dust in my wake, I screamed along Badwater Road in a frenzied rush.

  I was flying low on the deserted gravel surface about ten miles from Moran’s complex, zeroed in on his borax works. Yeah, I was provoked.

  I hadn’t taken the time to listen to Joyce’s detailed explanation of what she’d said to Rita. But before hanging up, I caught enough of it to give me a picture. She told Rita that the prior owners had abandoned the borax works before World War II, but Moran bought the plant and the mines that fed the ore to it fifteen years ago, roughly at the same time that the government sold Rattlesnake Base to the Jeroboam Corporation, which we now knew he also owned.

  I knew how Rita’s mind worked. I could almost see the thoughts forming. She figured these guys were businessmen, figured legal documents would bring them to their knees. Christ, a writ. How could I let this happen?

  Couldn’t this damned El Camino go any faster? I twisted the wheel to miss a jackrabbit, skidded and almost lost control. Then I stood on the gas pedal and kept the mass of metal bouncing forward.

  I shot over a rise and sped down a long incline aiming for the small desolate valley below. Serrated peaks of hostile mountains off in the distance surrounded the desert floor, and laid out in the center of it was a long forgotten industrial complex. But now, twin smokestacks towering amid a gathering of old stone buildings belched swirling clouds of soot and smoke.

  I slowed. Still a few hundred yards away from the works, I saw an area devoid of brush and rocks, where I pulled off the road and parked. I couldn’t let anyone at the borax works see me out here.

  I crept away from the El Camino and moved a hundred yards closer. On a high mound, at the road’s edge, I hid behind a cluster of tall sagebrush. I shaded my eyes from the midday sun, and with one sweep I scanned the whole complex. Looking down from the vantage point, I saw dump trucks unloading their cargo of rocks and dirt, skip loaders operated by kids, scooping the stuff up and moving it about, and forklifts, also driven by teens, racing in and out of the smokestack building which had to be where the ore was processed. The guards slouched in the shade watching as the kids, in the sun-blinding yard, formed up into a line, lifting and hauling heavy bags to waiting trucks. A small kid stu
mbled when a large sack came at him too fast. One of the bastards ambled over and gave him a whack, grabbed him and slapped him around before shoving him back into the bag line.

  As I watched, the shrill whine of a whistle filled the air and the activity slowed. I glanced at my Timex: noon. Must be lunch hour. Another short blast sounded and instantly a scratchy recording of Bickerton’s voice reverberated from loudspeakers: “Behold, the scripture saith, how good and how joyous it is for brethren to labor together in unity…” His voice droned on and on, extolling the virtues of hard work. Bastard.

  In a matter of minutes, gun-toting guards escorted several rows of weary teenagers out of the smokestack building. Boys and girls marched like the dead across the yard to a smaller structure close by. Had to be the mess hall.

  A low-rise clapboard building, probably the office, stood closer to the road. Behind the wooden structure, a small landing strip ran north for a couple thousand feet. Adjacent to the office was a vacant pad; must be the airplane parking ramp. Beyond that, disappearing into the distance was a dirt road on which a couple of empty dump trucks rambled away from the works, probably going to one of the mines to load up on more ore.

  Parked in front of the office building were six or seven cars and a few black Ford passenger vans. But Rita’s yellow Datsun was nowhere in sight. I must’ve beaten her here. I gulped a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Thank God for that! But wait. Maybe she wasn’t coming out here after all. Yeah, that’s it. If she really was going to serve papers on these guys she’d use a process server. What’s the matter with me? Always dashing off half-cocked. Maybe Sol was right. He said I was impulsive. But what could I do? I couldn’t take any chances. Goddammit, not with Rita’s life.

  But standing there watching the cruelty, seeing all those kids work until they dropped made my stomach churn. Bile welled in my throat.

  It didn’t take a lightning bolt for me to realize what was going on out here in this desolate place. Moran, under the guise of rehabilitating lost kids, was exploiting them. He turned them into his slaves. He housed the teenagers at the base, then worked them like dray animals at his plant and at the borax mines. Obviously, he controlled them by using the timeworn techniques of brutality, fear, and religious brainwashing.

  It all fit. When the borax ore yields dropped and the mines had failed to produce a profit due to the high cost of labor, the original owners ceased operations and abandoned them along with the plant that the mines supported. But Moran-with a bit of entrepreneurial flair-was able to overcome that trivial labor matter and make them profitable again.

  I had to find out more. Creeping closer to the facility, I saw a big man in bib overalls amble out of the mess hall. It was the guy I’d seen with Moran, the guy who almost killed me at the base, Buddy the Bear. He stretched, yawned, and rolled a cigarette, licking the paper with his tongue. He took a few puffs and dropped the butt on the ground. A moment later a young black kid-couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve-came out of the same building. Head down, he walked past Buddy the Bear. The psychopath grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck, backhanded him across the face and jabbed his finger in the direction of the cigarette butt on the ground. The kid bent to pick it up and Buddy planted a boot in his backside. He sprawled flat. Buddy belched, laughed and swaggered off. If the world ended today and the only things left on the planet were the cockroaches, Buddy would be crawling around in the slime with the rest of his kind.

  If only I had a movie camera, I’d have all the proof needed to show probable cause. Enough for the FBI to conduct an investigation.

  I wasn’t being naive. Now that Robbie was dead, an investigation wouldn’t get me off the hook with the D.A.. But if the authorities raided Moran’s operations, his whole scheme would unravel. Maybe one or two of the kids-teens that hadn’t been totally brainwashed-might know who actually murdered Robbie and maybe, just maybe, one of them would talk. But even if they didn’t, I’d have enough to show reasonable doubt at my murder trial.

  But regardless of what happened to me, with the movie plainly illustrating the brutality, the kids would get their freedom.

  I had to get to a telephone fast, call Sol on his radiophone, and tell him to bring a 16 millimeter movie camera with a telescopic lens. We were going to make a horror flick.

  I looked at the pebbly ground. All of the pain and misery happening out here caused my heart to ache, but soon it’d be over and the kids would be free.

  And for me, I was beginning to see a way out of the horrible mess, and it felt good. I got to my feet and for the first time in days I was able to stand in the sun and breathe the air and feel alive again. It felt as if fate had finally turned my way.

  But five seconds later, I saw how absolutely wrong I was.

  Edging out from behind the scrub, I turned back toward the road just as cloud of dust appeared. Rita’s Datsun came out of nowhere, went zooming by, and headed straight for the borax works.

  CHAPTER 39

  I froze, an immovable object, a ton of lead. This can’t be happening. But it was. Rita’s Datsun zoomed right by me, heading right for the facility. I raced to the center of the road and hurried after her, eating the dust of her receding car, waving my arms wildly, and shouting.

  The dust cleared a bit, and in the distance, down at the bottom of the sloping road, I saw the yellow Datsun pull up to the clapboard office. Rita parked and went into the building. Damn!

  I stopped a hundred yards short of the borax works when a couple of guards, weapons slung from their shoulders, came out of the mess hall and milled around.

  Standing on the high ground, gazing at the complex, I wondered how I’d get her out of there without both of us getting shot. Moran had already issued my death sentence, and his number one honcho, Buddy, was only too happy to carry it out.

  I heard a noise. A car. I spun around. It skidded to a stop.

  Two men jumped out.

  Oh, God!

  I stared at the gun pointed at my face, the gun held by Sergeant Joe Hammer.

  “Move and you’re dead,” the cop said.

  “What the hell-”

  “We tailed her, figured she’d lead us to you. She did.” Hammer nodded to the other cop. “Hook him up, Butch.” Then to me: “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Hammer, you’ve got to help! Rita’s in danger!” I pointed toward the works. “She’s at the borax plant down the road!”

  Butch grabbed my arms and snapped the cuffs on.

  “Hammer, you gotta listen to me! They’ll see us-”

  “You’re under arrest. Put him in the unit, Butch.”

  The cop shoved me toward the detectives’ unmarked vehicle. “Goddamn, Hammer, they’ve got guns, assault weapons.”

  The plant’s whistle let out a long blast.

  Hammer peered at the complex as teens filed out of the mess hall, nudged along by guards jabbing them with automatic rifles. The kids paraded back toward the main building.

  “Hammer, you gotta believe me!”

  Butch pushed my head down, trying to get me in the back seat. I banged him with my shoulder. He cocked a fist.

  “Hold it a second,” Hammer holstered his gun and, without taking his eyes off the borax works, gestured for Butch to cool it.

  One of the guards looked up. He saw us standing out here on the road. Nudging the man next to him, he pointed at us and shouted. “Hey! Who are you guys?”

  “Police, official business,” Hammer shouted back.

  The second guy started to raise his assault rifle.

  “Good Christ,” Hammer said. “What are they doing?”

  “Move! They are going to kill us.”

  Butch shoved me aside, jumped in the cop car and grabbed the radio mike. Then he dropped it. “Goddamn radio, too far out, can’t raise anyone…”

  A rifle shot banged in my ear. Butch’s head exploded.

  “They’re firing!” Hammer exclaimed. We jumped behind an outgrowth of rocks at the edge of the road.
Three more rapid gunshots; the bullets buzzed over our heads.

  “We got to get out of here,” Hammer said as he peered over the rocks. “We’re outnumbered-” Then he saw Butch’s body lying in the dirt. “Oh, Jesus! Jesus Mary Joseph, oh God-Goddammit!” Sliding down below the rock’s edge, he fell silent. He bowed his head and his body deflated slowly, like his soul was leaking out. Maybe it was.

  I raised my head until I could barely see over the top of the rocks. Buddy barged out of the office.

  The guards huddled up with him, pointing furiously in our direction.

  “Go get ’em. Shoot the bastards,” Buddy roared. His voice carried across the valley.

  I ducked down.

  “Let’s go, O’Brien, move it!” Hammer grabbed my arm.

  “Hammer, listen to me! We can’t leave. We’ve got to save Rita.”

  He gave me a blank look. “What?”

  “Rita’s down there. She’s in the office. They’ll kill her!”

  “There’s nothing we can do. We got to get to the car.” He started to crawl away. A bullet almost took off his head. He jerked back. “Must be eight or nine of them. They’re moving out. Shit, man, let’s go. They’re coming after us!”

  I thrust my bound wrists at him. “Here, for chrissakes, unhook me. I didn’t kill Robbie, they did.”

  He grabbed a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Then he snatched a gun from his ankle holster. “I don’t know if you murdered anybody or not, but you used to be a cop. Here, use this. We’ll lay down some fire, and then make a dash for the car.” He handed me a small automatic, a Beretta, not exactly police issue, and not much of a weapon.

  He pulled another gun, a big revolver, from his shoulder holster, checked the cylinder, and snapped it closed. With a determined look on his face, he said, “I’ll go first. You follow. Barstow’s down the road and-”

  I shook my head. “Forget Barstow, the chief’s one of them.”

  “Are you sure?”