Gundown

by Ray Rhamey

  A stop by a local marijuana shop gave him what he needed to ease the triggers that let his PTSD loose. By evening he felt his mind was working as sharply as ever.

  That night, he went to the ballet, but not for the dancing. In anticipation of Noah Stone appearing at the Alliance newcomers meeting the next evening, Hank wanted to check out the park, and the Daily Tidings had said a dance school was putting on a free performance there as a fund-raiser.

  A band shell, its stage no more than a ground-level concrete slab, sat at the bottom of a grassy slope below a street that curved through Lithia Park. On the far side of the street, more lawn slanted upward through a grove of trees laid out in orderly rows.

  Behind the band shell, Ashland Creek burbled down from the mountains and through a wooded area that offered picnicking, hiking, and a wide trail where families strolled and joggers puffed.

  As time for the ballet performance drew near, couples and families spread blankets on the lawn before the band shell, the first row as close as ten feet in front of the stage area. From there, an attack on Noah could be swift and deadly.

  People opened picnic baskets and munched meals. By the time the ballet master strode onto the stage to introduce the program, the audience had filled the lawn, humming with conversation punctuated with laughter, tolerant of children racing between blankets and leaping over outstretched legs.

  The PA system blared classical music, and the ballet troupe’s dancing had bucolic charm. To Hank’s eye, a few of the ballerinas were a little beefier than acceptable in big-city circles, but a couple of beauties showed real grace. Children in the audience imitated the dancers’ movements on tippy-toe.

  Satisfied that he knew how to handle Stone’s arrival the next night, Hank turned to leave, but then he glimpsed a pair of eyes on the far side of the audience focused on him instead of on the dancers. He stopped but didn’t turn that way, instead gazing out at the crowd, keeping the watcher in his peripheral vision.

  It was a dark-haired woman in jeans and a T-shirt, and she was definitely watching him. He flicked his gaze to her, and her eyes flinched away. He edged up the slope and around the audience to come down behind her. As he neared her position, she received a call on her cell phone. She nodded and spoke a few words, ended her call, stood, stretched, and strolled away from the lawn.

  Her face nagged at him. He’d seen it before. Something wasn’t right about this. He followed.

  She ambled up a path that led through trees and bushes. He trailed her as she passed a stone building shrouded with greenery—it housed restrooms. She turned at a corner ahead and disappeared from sight. He glanced back. No one could see him from the lawn, and he rushed to close on her.

  When he rounded the corner, she was waiting, facing him. She’d known he was coming. And that meant—

  Two big hands grabbed Hank’s wrists from behind and yanked his arms painfully back, a foot swept his feet out from under him, and he crashed, his face in the dirt.

  He twisted and saw the woman whip a pair of handcuffs from her jacket pocket. When she got close, he kicked, catching her in the stomach. She stumbled back against a wall.

  A fist clubbed his head in just the right spot with just the right force. Things went dim, and he didn’t feel like doing anything anymore. He was aware of hands lifting him to his feet and his wrists being cuffed behind his back. They helped him to an isolated picnic table screened by bushes.

  When his head had cleared, Hank studied them. A black man who looked like he could be a pro linebacker and the woman sat across from him, calm and relaxed, their hands at ease on the table, although a stopper sat within easy reach of the man’s right hand. Each wore a ring made up of bands of pinks, tans, and browns.

  Hank’s wallet lay open in front of the man, his driver’s license and retired officer ID cards on the table. So was his Oath Keepers card. And his .45.

  Hank said, “Well?”

  The woman said, “I’m Sally Arnold, and this’s Joe Donovan. We’re Department of Justice.” She took a slim wallet from her pocket and showed him an ID.

  Joe tapped the .45 and frowned. “You’ve been frequenting a man who sells illegal guns.”

  Hank flashed back to the blond who’d been walking a dog in front of Hatch’s house, and glanced at Sally. Her blond wig gone, her lean face intense now, she wasn’t the pleasant neighbor she’d been posing as. “The pretty neighbor.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. We’ve been staking out Rick Hatch, who not only deals guns but is a member of a particularly wacky militia bunch. We like to see who comes to visit him.”

  Joe said, “Gives us all kinds of leads into lowlifes around town.” He studied Hank and then fingered his ID cards. “You don’t appear to be a lowlife.”

  Hank shook his head. “I’m not.”

  Donovan spun the .45. “You weren’t visiting Hatch to pick up this illegal cannon?”

  “I have a job to do that requires a weapon.”

  Sally glanced at Joe, and then said to Hank, “And that job is?”

  “Security for Noah Stone.”

  Sally raised her eyebrows. “We haven’t seen you around before.”

  Donovan added, “ID says Chicago.”

  Hank relaxed. These weren’t local cops; maybe he was okay. “Where we met up.”

  Sally’s eyes widened. “The attack?”

  Hank nodded.

  Donovan frowned at Hank. “You the one who stopped a bullet for Stone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re helping him with security?”

  “I think I can make him safer.” Except from Hank Soldado.

  Donovan smiled. “Well, why are you sitting there wearing bracelets?”

  Hank grinned. “You don’t think they’re ‘me’?”

  Sally hurried to unlock the cuffs; Hank stretched cramped muscles. “Nice work, the way you caught me.”

  Donovan pushed Hank’s ID and gun back to him. “I think we were lucky.”

  Sally leaned forward, taut with intensity. “How long you been here?”

  “Just a couple days.”

  “Wait till you’ve spent some time. They’re really on to something.” She smiled. “I’m moving my folks out from Ohio.”

  “The prosperity thing?”

  Donovan smiled. “Damn right. And we’re gonna help it get better.”

  Sally took up the story. “We’re working with local cops, helping clean up the place.”

  Donovan smiled. “Though business is gettin’ a little slow.”

  The crime business sure wasn’t taking it easy where Hank lived. “Slow?”

  Donovan nodded. “Real crooks, the ones who make a living out of it, are clearing out. I think it’s the stoppers.” He tapped the little gun. “Here, if somebody with a stopper catches somebody doing wrong, the bad guy knows he’s likely to be hit with nap and wake up lookin’ into a cop’s baby blues. Anyplace else, even if a cop comes along, a perp with a gun has a chance to take him out, grab a hostage, do something to get away. But not with nap, tangle, and whack.”

  “Stoppers work that well?”

  Sally nodded and picked up the stopper. “I was in a liquor store on a busy night when this guy tried to stick it up. The second he pulled out his piece, whap, a shopper hit him with nap. The robber made the mistake of takin’ a shot at the dude, and half the people in the store whipped out stoppers and gave him a nap shower plus wads of tangle. The nap overdose killed him.”

  “Yeah, but nap isn’t instantaneous, is it?”

  “Less than a minute.”

  “So he could have done more damage?”

  Donovan said, “Here’s the damage—he didn’t rob or kill, and the next day two more shady types headed south for California.”

  Hank let that sink in. “You mind if I go now?”

  Joe exchanged glances with Sally and then nodded. “See you around.”

  Hank got up and, to the strains of Swan Lake filtering through pine trees, left them. They were good people.


  He hoped they wouldn’t get in his way.

  • • •

  It was late in the evening when Jewel rose with the rest of the audience in the Oregon Cabaret Theater to give the singers a standing ovation. She flashed a smile at Earl and got one in return. The performance of “My Way,” a musical tribute to Frank Sinatra, had been one rush of delight after another. “That Old Black Magic” was so good, it had given her shivers.

  When the applause died out and the audience began leaving, Earl said, “Want to meet the cast?”

  “Oh, yes!” What a treat—the perfect dessert since she sure didn’t have any room left in her belly for more food. She’d never eaten anything as good as her coconut cashew chicken, although a taste of Earl’s pan-fried catfish had run a close second.

  On the way down from the tier that held their table for two, she once again marveled at how an old church had been transformed into a theater. Even the stained-glass windows somehow blended perfectly with the huge crystal chandelier that Earl said came from an old movie palace.

  As they approached the stage, a long-haired man with a swishy way of walking rushed at Earl. With a big smile, he shook Earl’s hand and said, “Your set is great! The actors love working it.”

  Jewel turned to Earl. “You didn’t tell me you did the set.”

  He shrugged. “It’s in the program.”

  The long-haired man eyed Jewel and said, “Please tell me that you dance, sing, or act.”

  Jewel laughed. “Nope, not a stitch of talent.”

  With an exaggerated sigh he said, “Too bad.”

  Earl said, “Wesley, don’t you ever stop being a director? Meet my friend Jewel. We’re on our way backstage.”

  Wesley shook her hand. “Please come again.”

  After meeting the cast and wondering how such regular-seeming people could do such amazing things, Jewel stepped from the theater into a cool evening. Even though it was ten o’clock, trickles of conversations and sprinkles of laughter came from other theatergoers sauntering down the sidewalk. A sense of belonging settled on her.

  Partly because of the wine they had shared at dinner, but mostly because of the show and Earl’s company, Jewel’s spirits were high, relaxed, and easy. A breeze caressed her face, and they walked in silence.

  A pretty blond woman came up to Earl. She hit Jewel with a chilly glance, then lavished a warm smile on him. “Earl! Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  Resenting the invasion, Jewel edged closer to Earl. It pleased her when he didn’t stop to talk. He said, “Been real busy, Stephanie. See you around.”

  As they strolled, Earl reached for her hand, and she welcomed the feeling of his skin on hers.

  “Thank you, Earl, for everything. It was a wonderful evening.”

  “My pleasure.”

  A black SUV drove past as they waited to cross Main Street. Hank Soldado was at the wheel. Jewel shivered.

  Earl said, “You cold?”

  She shook off a dark feeling. “No. I’m fine.”

  “You might want to bring a sweatshirt or something to the Alliance meeting tomorrow. It gets cool in the park when the breeze comes down off the mountain.”

  “I will. I saw Noah speak in Chicago. He’s good.”

  “Yeah?” A streetlight put a gleam in his eyes. “Should be interesting.”

  Time to Beard the Lion

  Marion’s intercom buzzed. “There’s a Mr. Cy Ligon here to see you. He didn’t have an appointment, but—”

  “Send him in.”

  The FBI agent hurried in and plopped his briefcase on her desk. “Sorry to drop in on you, but I just got urgent marching orders, gotta help identify some assault rifles down in Alabama, a KKK rally got out of hand and some good ol’ boys shot up a kindergarten in a black community.” Ligon took out the red stopper she had given him and said, “I wanted to give you my results on this before I left.”

  He opened the stopper and took out a nap cartridge. “Notice any difference?”

  She examined it. “Looks the same.”

  He slipped it back into the weapon and pointed to the three-round chamber. “I loaded these first two nap rounds with the liquid form of VX gas. It’s a lethal nerve agent Saddam Hussein used on the Iranians. Hit somebody with this, they’re dead real fast.”

  “You actually did it.”

  “Yeah.” He snapped the weapon shut. “This little gadget can be deadly, but you have to get close.”

  She said, “Thanks, Cy.”

  “My pleasure.” He handed the stopper to her. “See you.” He rushed away.

  So Noah Stone’s little world wasn’t so perfect after all. The little gun felt good in her hand, though. It did seem like it would be good to have handy for protection. She decided she’d reload the gun with the real ammo and keep it in her apartment. She slipped the stopper and the little case of cartridges into her purse.

  She buzzed her secretary. “Samantha, get me on a flight to Ashland, Oregon. Today.”

  It was time she saw the Constitution-killer in person.

  Death in a Park

  On the evening of Noah’s speech in the park, Hank drove to the Alliance campus to take him to the meeting. Light illuminated Noah’s tower room. From the parking lot he could see Noah at his desk, and so could a gunman. If he were really doing a security job, he’d have to introduce the man to the concept of window coverings. That Earl guy he’d met at Hatch’s place could be creeping around with a rifle . . . No, the militia boys said they wanted Noah’s killing to be public.

  Like at tonight’s event.

  He parked, and jogged inside. He climbed the spiral staircase unimpeded. Why wasn’t there an electronic lock on the front door for after-hours?

  Noah was shaking something granular from a jar onto a small piece of paper. Hank caught the distinctive aroma of high-resin marijuana.

  Noah glanced up and smiled. “Hey, Hank. Just a minute.” Hank watched as he crafted an expert joint. Hank read heavy tension in the man’s eyes and a tightness in his face.

  Noah lifted the joint. “For after the meeting. I never do this stuff when I have to use my brain for anything more complicated than walking. But you’re driving, and a toke after a night like tonight takes the edge off.” He smiled. “It’s nice living in a civilized state with legal weed.” He slipped the joint into a wooden case.

  “Tell me about it,” Hank said. “Where I live we have medical marijuana, but it’s not approved to treat PTSD yet.” When Noah raised an eyebrow at him, he added, “Ah, I get it from friends there, and I visited a dispensary here.”

  Noah nodded. “Well, if I can help, let me know.” He stood and took a deep breath. “I hate this.”

  “You hate what?”

  Noah waved a hand toward the town lights.

  “Meetings?”

  “Speeches. Sometimes it makes my guts cramp up for hours before. And it’s worse now.” He looked to Hank. “That attack in Chicago and then having a pistol pointed at my head here, where I live . . .” Noah gazed out a window, then turned back to Hank. “Tonight is a test. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

  “You do what you have to do.”

  Noah took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

  Yeah, you do what you have to do. Hank wondered if he would have to do anything to Noah Stone. The man had courage.

  Clusters of pedestrians strolled in the street that led to the band shell, slowing the drive to the parking area closest to the stage. Hank spotted the barefoot receptionist, Becky, waving from a parking place he’d sent her to hold. She carried a hand-printed sign that read, “Noah’s Spot.”

  When Noah saw her, he frowned at Hank. “I don’t want any privileges.”

  “Security. The shorter the walk, the less the exposure.” He had to do something to make Stone think he had a new security man.

  Noah sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  As soon as Noah stepped out, a dozen people swarmed around him with greetings and questi
ons. Instinctively, Hank put his hand on the pistol inside his Windbreaker and moved toward Noah.

  Noah lifted his hands high. The voices silenced. He smiled widely. “I’d love to talk with each of you, but as you can see, there may be one or two too many.”

  The crowd chuckled. Hank relaxed and let go of the gun butt.

  “If you have questions, ask them during my talk. If you want to visit, come see me during office hours. Okay?”

  Hank braced himself to force a way through the throng, but the people surprised him by dispersing and hurrying to find places on the lawn in front of the band shell.

  As he led Noah toward the stage, a cop approached. Noah said, “Hey, Tom.”

  Tom nodded and said, “Hey, Mr. Stone. Crowd seems okay.” His gaze shifted to Hank, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you.”

  Noah said, “Tom Stevens, meet Hank Soldado. He’s helping me with security.”

  Tom put his hand out for a shake, and Hank took it. “Glad to have you, Mr. Soldado.” The officer smiled at Noah and then strolled away, his gaze sweeping the crowd. Hank liked his alert manner.

  Noah mounted the stage and accepted a cordless microphone from the bearded guy Hank had seen running sound for the ballet. At the stage’s rear, two young men and two young women wielded guitars, a keyboard, and drums to make the happy music Hank had heard at the Alliance rally in Chicago.

  Hank surveyed the crowd—maybe sixty or seventy people filled the sloping lawn in front of the stage in orderly rows and talky clumps, clustered on blankets or sitting in low folding chairs. They were young and old, white and yellow and brown and black. Clean and upbeat, they reminded him of the people he had seen at the Alliance rally in Chicago. And they were too close to the stage for decent security.

  But Noah’s security wasn’t really Hank’s problem, was it? On the other hand, he had taken the job, hadn’t he? He was on alert and couldn’t have shut down even if he’d wanted to. Duty was duty.