by Gary Parker
If it proved true, then justice could yet occur and Jack’s influence could yet survive.
She began to rock. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me the rest of the story.”
Justin wrapped his cane in both hands and cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get this done.” He coughed lightly, then began.
“With the help of the Bureau, I’ve stayed one step ahead of the wise guys all these years. It’s not been the best life, but it’s . . .
I don’t know . . . it’s been okay. The worst of it has been the separation between me and Sandra and Jack. That’s been hard, awful hard. At times I’ve felt like . . . like giving it up, throwing in the towel. But one thing always kept my oil pumping. I wanted to know who set my Barbara’s house on fire, who murdered my family.” He paused and touched his cane to the side of his face, and Connie watched him fighting his emotions. He coughed again, and Connie noted the rattle in his throat. He bent forward, grimaced, then continued.
“The years rolled on by and I did okay. Bought the place in Black Canyon. Not much, but the big sky and a few buddies I made after a while made it home. Then the cancer got a toehold in me. I started to think I’d pass on without ever finding out anything. But I got a break. One of the brothers surfaced, one of the two sharks who tried to hire Bill to kill me. His picture showed up in a Vegas newspaper on page three, just as pretty as you please—”
“You saw one of the men who wanted to kill you?” Connie couldn’t believe it.
Justin laughed, then started to cough again. His coughing deepened and his body almost convulsed. Connie jumped up from the rocker and ran to the kitchen. A minute later, she rushed back into the den and handed Justin a glass of water.
Taking it, he swallowed half the glass before he regained control of the coughing.
With Sandra rubbing his back, he straightened up and touched his cane to the floor. Her eyes wide, Connie eased back into the rocker.
“You need your oxygen?” she asked.
He waved his cane at her. “No . . . it’s not that. Just got choked. Can happen to anyone.”
He cleared his throat, then lay back again. “I’m almost done,” he said. “Let me . . . let me finish.”
Connie nodded. Sandra continued to rub his back.
“I saw his picture. He’s much older now of course, but I’d recognize him anywhere. He has this birthmark on his chin, looks like a banana. He’s a legitimate businessman now. Big in legalized gambling and living in Kansas City, developing riverboats all over the United States.”
Connie thought of Cedric Blacker. But Casino Royale ran out of Las Vegas, not Kansas City. Did the two companies have some kind of connection she didn’t know about? She would check.
“How did you know what he looked like?”
Justin smiled. “These guys have been after me for years.
After Bill backed out, they came for me themselves. We almost met a couple of times, narrow escapes and all that. Over the last twenty years or so, they’ve sent other guys, but I haven’t forgotten.” “Are you sure the guys who hired Bill to kill you killed him?”
“Sure, that’s the way it works. Bill owed them money, and he knew they hired him for murder. If Bill lived, the sharks lost two ways. One, other guys with bad loans might think they could get away with it. Two, so long as Bill lived, they couldn’t know for sure he wouldn’t go to the authorities.”
Connie nodded. It made sense. “But how does it all tie to Jack?” she asked. “Why would they kill him? He didn’t know about Bill, you . . . ”
Justin tapped his chin with his cane. “Easy,” he said. “I told Jack about the man in Kansas City. I didn’t want to go to my grave with it on my head.”
“You told Jack you thought you knew who killed his mother and father?”
Justin swallowed. “I’m sad to say it, but yes,” he said.
“When I did that, I guess I got him killed. But I didn’t see any option. I knew I was too sick to go after the guy, but I didn’t think it right to let it go unpunished. The Bureau might get him, but I didn’t know about that. Still don’t. I figured Jack could keep after it; he and Sandra together could find enough to go to the authorities.”
“Why didn’t you go to them yourself?”
He gripped his cane tighter. His knuckles turned white, the veins purple. A glisten of water formed in his eyes and pooled at the base. “I did,” he moaned. “But I don’t have enough evidence yet. The guy is a prosperous citizen now, clean as a whistle. The story I’m telling is nearly forty years old. It’s my word against the sharks. I told a couple of guys in the Bureau, but I’m an old coot to them now, nobody took me very seriously. So, I . . .
I told Jack and now he’s . . . ” His voice trailed off.
Connie stopped rocking and leaned toward Justin. Though his decision may have led to Jack’s death, she didn’t feel angry with him. How could she? Jack would have done the same thing. He, too, would have tried to bring to justice those who murdered his loved ones. Justin had to do what he thought right, regardless of the results. She reached to touch Justin but then drew back as a puzzling idea came to her.
“How did the man in K.C. know you told Jack about him?” she asked.
Sandra answered for Justin. “We don’t know that he does.
That’s why we’re not sure he had anything to do with Jack’s death. If he doesn’t know about Jack, then he had no reason to go after him.”
“Jack might have contacted him,” suggested Connie.
“Tried to set up a meeting or something.”
“Would Jack do that?” Sandra asked.
Connie considered it, then realized it didn’t feel plausible.
“No, he would go through the authorities, the police, let them do their jobs.”
“If that’s what he did, then the theory sort of falls apart,” offered Sandra.
Connie followed the logic to its conclusion. “Unless . . . unless the police . . . ”
Justin, his emotions in control again, finished her sentence.
“Unless Jack went to the authorities and someone there tipped the guy off.”
“But who?” asked Connie. “Who would do that?”
“That’s easy,” said Justin. “His brother would.”
“His brother?”
“Sure, the brother of the shark in Kansas City is the mayor of Jefferson City.”
CHAPTER
28
Connie almost bolted from her chair. Johnson Mack involved in the death of Jack’s father? That made no sense.
“But . . . but how?” she sputtered. “Why would he come here, choose this place to settle?”
Justin tapped his cane on the floor and a fresh surge of energy seemed to pump through his veins. His voice took on new power. “Think about it. The gambling interests have worked hard over the last decade to spread their vice all over the country. With Nevada saturated, they needed to expand, make it legal everywhere. They’ve managed to do that in lots of places. But a lot of states in the Midwest and South—your conservative, religious strongholds—remain closed to them. If the gamblers can get a foothold here in the state capital, they can move almost anywhere.
“You may find it hard to believe, but this small town holds the key to gambling’s expansion in the next ten years. Stop gambling here and you put a big dent in the momentum of the gambling forces. But if it passes here, the door swings wide open. It doesn’t surprise me they sent Johnson Mack out here a few years ago to soften up the community. They plan decades in advance.
Their long-range plans make corporate America blush. That’s how organized crime works.”
“Did Jack know about Mack?”
“No, he didn’t, not so far as I know. I didn’t know about him until Jack’s murder. I saw him at the graveside of Jack’s funeral. Bold as brass.”
“You came to the cemetary?”
Justin shrugged, and Connie nodded. Little surprised her anymore. She rocked slowly, her mind spinning. Th
e gambling forces in Vegas sent Johnson Mack to Jefferson City seven years ago to get in position to influence the community. These people had vision. If she didn’t hate what they did so much, she would have to admire their ingenuity.
No wonder Mack wanted to buy her store. With that much property in his control, he could bend the entire town to his will.
In fact, with that much property, he could dictate every condition for the construction of the convention center. Even with her limited knowledge, she knew Jefferson City had only two options about where to build it. Who knows—Mack might own land in or around the other sight as well.
She concentrated on Justin again. To her surprise, she saw he had closed his eyes and stretched out even more on the sofa.
His breathing suddenly sounded labored, and he had dropped his cane to the floor beside the sofa.
Leaning forward, Connie whispered, “You okay?”
Justin waved his hand, dismissing her question. Connie turned to Sandra. “Is he all right?”
Sandra nodded. “I think so, just tired. He’s talked enough today to fill up a normal month. Just let him rest.”
Connie shrugged. Sandra knew best. She focused again on her situation. If Johnson Mack was involved with Jack’s death, she couldn’t go to the police. Not even to Tick. He would simply report to Luke Tyler who would report to his chief who would report to Mack.
She faced Sandra. “We need help with this,” she said.
“Someone outside of Jefferson City influence.”
“You know someone?”
Connie nodded. “I sure do. A good friend of Jack’s. The attorney general. Wilt Carver. He’ll know—”
“How well do you know him?” Sandra interrupted, a scowl darkening her face.
Connie shrugged. “Not that well, he’s a friend of Jack’s.”
“You think you can trust him?”
The question puzzled Connie. She had no reason to distrust him. Why was Sandra so suspicious? “I . . . I don’t know, don’t see why not.”
Sandra’s lips curled in disgust. “He’s a politician, Connie, just like the rest. Chances are good he’s in the gamblers’ pockets. You’ll need someone else, someone you know well enough to have no doubts whatsoever. Promise me you won’t go to Wilt Carver, promise me that right now!”
Her ferocity stunned Connie, and she didn’t know how to avoid the promise. Sandra seemed irrational to her, yet maybe she had a point. Wilt did take the video to Tyler without asking her first.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” she offered, deciding to compromise. “I won’t go to him except as a last resort. And I’ll let you know if and when I do.”
Sandra gritted her teeth, but she didn’t fight Connie’s decision. Instead, she became very quiet. The room fell silent for several seconds, and both women shifted away from the confrontation. Connie wondered why Sandra disliked politicians so much. Unable to answer, she glanced past Sandra to Justin, resting on the sofa. He remained quiet, his breathing— To her horror, she realized he had stopped breathing!
“Justin!” she yelled.
As if fired from a pistol, she jumped from the rocker and rushed to him. From behind, Sandra appeared, her larger frame nudging Connie to the side.
“Get his oxygen!” she yelled to Connie.
Sprinting, Connie ran to the door, pushed through it, and bolted outside to the trailer home. Less than a minute later, she lugged the oxygen tank through the door of her house. She saw Sandra leaning over Justin, her hands massaging his chest. She had ripped open his shirt and the bare white of his hairless chest glared in the lights of the den. Driven by fear, Connie lugged the oxygen to Sandra, unhooked the twin tubes that ran into his nose, and handed them to her.
Grabbing the tubes, Sandra shoved them into Justin’s nostrils and nudged up the gauge on the tank. Justin gagged and took a deep draught of the air, but he didn’t open his eyes.
Sandra continued to press on his chest, massaging it firmly with both hands.
“Is he—?”
Justin gagged against the oxygen. “I need to get him to a hospital!” shouted Sandra. “I think it’s his heart. His rhythm is all off, his pulse weak. Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“Ten minutes from here! Come on, I’ll drive you!”
“What about your kids?”
Connie bit her lip. Should she wake them up, tell them what was happening? Take them with her? But that would take too much time. She couldn’t call Tess; she was out of town.
Could she call Mrs. Everhart back over? She looked at Justin again. His face had turned blue.
“Get him in the van!” she shouted. “I’ll call Mrs. Everhart from the hospital. Ask her to come back. She’s only a few minutes from here.”
Sandra instantly obeyed, grabbing Justin under the shoulders and motioning Connie to grab his feet. Grunting and straining, the two dragged him from the sofa, out the door, and into the backseat of Connie’s van. Hustling back to the den to grab her keys, Connie thought of leaving a note but then decided against it. No time.
Slamming the door, she jumped into the van and backed out. Justin lay prone in the backseat, Sandra kneeling on the floor in the middle of a stack of baseball equipment, her hands working Justin’s chest.
“Move all that junk,” Connie shouted. “Push it all away.”
“Hang in there, Justin,” Sandra urged. “The hospital isn’t far.”
Connie gunned the van down the street. The ride didn’t take long. Within ten minutes, she screeched to a stop under the canopy of the emergency room, hopped out, and sprinted inside. With three medical personnel and a gurney in tow, she reappeared within a minute and pointed them to the van. The medical team moved into high gear, pushing Sandra aside to get to Justin. Hurriedly, they did their work—a quick examination, a series of questions fired at Sandra, a transfer from the van into the emergency room. The whole process took less than five minutes, but to Connie it seemed like forever. Here she had finally met two people from Jack’s past—and one of them teetered on the verge of death.
She found her mind shifting toward Scripture. Bits and pieces of the Psalms flooded her head, the words building up on one another as if forming a brick wall.
“The Lord is my shepherd . . . “ “I will lift up my eyes to the hills—from whence comes my help? . . . ”
“The Lord is my rock and my salvation . . . ”
The medical team rolled Justin behind a white curtain, and a nurse came to Connie and Sandra and escorted them to a waiting room a few feet down the hall.
“You can wait here,” said the nurse, her open face reassuring. “We’ll call you as soon as we know what’s going on.”
Neither Sandra nor Connie protested. They knew the way things worked. The doctors needed to do their jobs.
Sandra eased into a plastic chair. Connie started to sit down beside her, but then remembered her children. She started to search the hallway for a phone, then decided not to call Mrs.
Everhart just yet.
“Let me run back home,” she said. “I’ll wake Daniel, tell him what’s going on, then call Mrs. Everhart. She’ll come over, then I’ll come right back.”
Sandra smiled thinly. “You don’t need to come back,” she said. “We’re fine. He’s had a couple of spells like this in the last year. Take care of your family. I’ll call you when—”
“No, you won’t either,” insisted Connie. “As soon as I get things situated at home, I’ll head back. It shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes. You hang in there until then, I’ll be right back.”
Sandra’s eyes rimmed with tears. Connie wrapped her arms around her new friend and hugged her. “I’m praying for you,” she said. “The Lord can do things the doctors can’t even comprehend.”
Sandra nodded but didn’t speak.
Connie started to say more but, not wanting to press Sandra in such a vulnerable moment, decided against it. No matter what happened to Justin, she would have another opportunity with Sandra. Rig
ht now the woman needed love and companionship, not hard-sell preaching.
“I’ll be right back,” Connie assured her. “Just hang in there.” As she hustled to the van, it suddenly hit her: Love and companionship were hard-sell preaching. They were the proof of the product. If she wanted to sell Jesus to other people, she had to show them who Jesus was, what Jesus did. What she did served as evidence of what she said.
In her van, she headed home. Sometime soon, she would tell Sandra more about her faith. When she did, she hoped and prayed Sandra would listen.
*****
Brit had traded in his Jaguar and Humvee for a more sedate vehicle, an egg-white, four-door sedan with black tires. He smiled as he followed Connie from the hospital, thinking how official he looked in the new car. From all appearances, he might as well be a policeman.
As Connie pulled into her driveway, he drummed his thumb along the steering wheel and tried to anticipate the next few hours. Lennie had called just a few hours ago and given him his instructions: set up a meeting with Connie Brandon.
Nothing more, nothing less. Lennie had insisted on that—do nothing else except make the call. Set up the meeting, then wait for him to arrive.
Brit glanced at his watch. Lennie would arrive within the next two hours. He had to wait until then. Though he disliked the waiting part, Brit knew he couldn’t disobey orders again.
For all he knew, he’d already disobeyed one too many times.
Last night, he had tried to run over Connie Brandon. Today he tried to shoot her and her new companions. Tonight? Well, tonight he had removed all the evidence of his presence in her house and guaranteed she would make the meeting Lennie told him to set up. He couldn’t go any further without clearance.
Even now, if Lennie found out about the first moves, he might face severe penalties.
Frustrated, but not foolish, Brit decided to do what Lennie told him. Make the call, set up the meeting, then wait on Lennie.
Anything else would go too far, even for him. Content, he stopped his drumming and stared at Connie as she stepped from her van.
“Get on inside,” he muttered. “Get on inside so I can make the call.” A gleam burned in Brit’s soft, colorless eyes. He would set up the meeting, and she would come. No doubt about it, she would come. Then, sometime before the sun came up on the Missouri, he would put a finish to all this.
