by George Wier
“Your path, when you ran, was to come here. None of this was my idea, you stupid white cracker. This was all your idea.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“Did you or did you not come here to get your armor and shit.”
Shelby digested this, slowly. “I did.”
“And was it or was it not the first thing you asked for?”
“It was.”
Sheppard slapped his desk again, but this time said nary a word.
“The White Knight?”
Sheppard slapped the desk.
“The White Knight.”
Sheppard raised his hand as if to slap the desk one more time, but instead laid it softly down. “You,” he said, and pointed at Shelby, “are going to have to be clever.”
“I’m going to need to have my head examined,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sully Kross took up most of the interior of the little MG sports car. When he got out of it, it was like watching a goat give birth to a giraffe—the roof of the car was even with his belt buckle. But Sully had no idea that he stuck out like a sore thumb as he stood and watched Rachel Ward’s house from down the street.
He’d driven slowly by the place half a dozen times, looking for evidence that she was home. After deciding she wasn’t, he pulled over in front of a house with a FOR SALE sign in the front yard. The house appeared to be vacant from the street. If someone were to ask him what he was doing, he was prepared to say that he was waiting for a real estate agent.
Sully fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit up. It might be hours before Rachel showed up at home, or it could be five minutes. What he was about to do would be risky. He might be detected if he were not careful enough.
He bent down, reached a long arm into the car and brought out his laptop computer, unzipped the bag and plopped the thing on the roof of the car. It took him no more than a minute to boot the thing up and find an internet connection from the neighborhood that didn’t require a password. Pulling up the security software, he quickly disabled Rachel’s security system, left the laptop running and put it back on the car set. He locked the car door.
The walk down to her house was a short one, his long, basketball-player legs covering the space within a minute.
At her front door he fished out a key. It turned easily in the lock and he let himself inside.
Lily Ward’s daughter had such discriminating taste that it was painful. The girl was so much a copy of her mother—Lily, as she once was—that it hurt. He could never let Lily know that he had ceased to love her in what seemed like a lifetime ago. It was Rachel who invaded his dreams. It was Rachel he cradled against his hairy, naked chest into the night. Sully was almost certain that the girl loathed him. Also, he was almost thirty years her senior.
Sully began placing the surveillance bugs. He had done this before, a few years back, but had to return to remove the devices when he realized that watching and listening to her merely plunged him farther down into the well of despair that existed from his not having her. He’d removed them all, then waged a dark war within himself about replacing them. This time, however, it was different. He had to protect her. Lily had been clear on that. He chuckled when her words came to his mind: If you fail me in any way, I will find you and I will cut your throat and feed you to the pigs out at the farm. If she tried to kill him, it would be difficult to resist snapping the heartless old woman in two.
Sully carefully placed the listening devices: one in her bedroom at the back of the nightstand by her bed, one in her living room under the edge of the coffee table, one in the kitchen under the smoke vent for the stove, and one on the front porch behind the brass lamp. He placed the battery-powered router for the bugs in the bushes out front. Any sound, anything said, would be picked up, recorded and time-stamped, and relayed to his main computer system back at the house. When he was done he locked the door behind him and returned to his car. When she came home for the night, he resolved to put a GPS device on her car so that he could follow her anywhere from a safe distance.
“Now, it’s time to wait.”
He opened his dog-eared copy of The Empty Land, by Billy Kring, and began reading.
At the same moment that Shelby Knight was receiving a particularly painful botox injection in his left eyebrow, Sheppard Payne walked into the FBI Office in downtown Houston, Texas. He walked up to the receptionist’s window.
“Help you?” the middle-aged woman with the bright pink lipstick and dyed-blond hair asked.
“Yes. I have an appointment with Agent Strongbow.”
“Just a minute.”
She rolled her chair to the side, picked up an interoffice phone and hit a button. Sheppard listened for a moment, then decided all was well.
“He’ll be with you in a minute.”
Sheppard stood aside and waited.
After a minute a side door opened and a man in his mid-fifties came out.
“Mr. Payne?”
“Yes,” Sheppard said, and extended his hand. The field agent took it and shook.
“Come on back. I hope going through the metal detector out front wasn’t too bad.”
“No sir. Piece of cake.”
“Good, good.” Agent Strongbow held the door open for Sheppard, and Sheppard walked through. He was committed now.
After a few twists and turns, Sheppard entered a small office. The desk was covered with file folders. Stacks of banker’s boxes lined one wall, blocking a doorway into the next office. The two men took their seats.
“What can the FBI do for you today, Mr. Payne.”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Sheppard said. He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a business card and handed it to Agent Strongbow. “I represent people in the black community. We’re interested in a couple of cases that are now gaining a little media attention up in Austin. And we’re not sure that...well, we want to see that this thing is done right.”
“What cases?”
“Two of them. The first is the apparent murder of Richard C. Moore. He was a local automotive repairman. The second one is no longer considered an open case, but it has ties to the Moore case.”
“And what is this second one?” Strongbow asked and clasped his fingers together on the desk in front of him.
“It’s the Aiden Holloway shooting. It’s ten years old. Supposedly, a local cop killed a kid who had what appeared to be an assault rifle but was instead an airgun. The kid refused to put it down.”
“You want us to go after this cop after ten years?”
“I didn’t say that, sir. It’s all over the local newspapers and the nightly news back home. According to the local police, the gun that was used to kill Holloway was the same gun that was used to kill Moore. Now the suspect, Shelby Knight, is at large and no one can seem to find him.”
“Are any of these people...black?” Agent Strongbow asked.
“One of them may be transracial.”
“Transracial? What the hell is that?”
“It’s not so much a mixture of races, but an identification with a particular race, although not a member of that race.”
Billy stared at Sheppard Payne, trying to determine whether or not the man was joking.
“Huh. I used to know a lot of white people who tried to be Indian. Mainly the tribe ignored them. Look, I’m not sure I...what is it you want, Mr. Payne?”
Sheppard leaned forward. “All we want is someone looking over the shoulders of the watchers. According to the police, the gun that killed Moore was the same gun that killed Holloway. We’re not sure we believe that.”
“Is there a reason for that...belief?” Agent Strongbow asked.
“Nothing certain, but the police are not releasing files. Believe me, we’re happy at this point to see that race hasn’t directly entered into the equation.”
Strongbow nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“That’s easy. Ask for a copy of all of the files, and just look them over. And when I say all of th
em, I mean every scrap there is, particularly the ballistics.”
“Do you want me to report to you?”
“No sir. Just look it over. If something is rotten—and we hope there’s nothing rotten, you have to believe me—then just fix it. If all goes well, we’ll never need to speak about this again.”
Strongbow looked down at the business card. He flipped it over, noted there was nothing on the reverse side, then flipped it back. “The Coalition for Racial Calm,” he read. “Sounds peaceful enough.”
“Dr. King was all about peace. We have made great strides since Selma, Agent Strongbow. Some of us are watchers, making sure we never go back down the slope.”
“Is this the number where I can reach you?”
“That’s the phone number for my church. Yes, you can reach me there.”
“Are you a Reverend?” Agent Strongbow asked.
“No sir. I’m just the deacon.”
“Just the deacon. I sort of doubt that, Mr. Payne.”
“Every knight needs a squire.”
“Okay. I don’t see any harm in taking a look. If I find anything...well. We’ll see.”
“That’s all we ask.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Shelby asked.
“Causing trouble.”
“I don’t doubt it.” It was dark outside. Shelby had finished his last workout for the day and was cooling down. He was stripped to the waist and wore a pair of loose-fitting shorts. He wiped sweat from his face with a towel. “I think I’ve dropped a few inches and I’m developing a six-pack again.”
“I’m willing to bet Linda told you to take it easy after the injections. You look like Cro-Magnon Man at the moment. Sorry, what I meant to say is, you look like shit.”
“Thanks. It hurts a little,” Shelby laid a finger on his right eyebrow, testing it. “I’m afraid to look in a mirror. I figure I’ll come out looking like The Joker.”
“Probably. But you won’t look at all like Shelby Knight, and that’s what we’re shooting for. Okay, tomorrow, less time working out, more time in the tanning bed.”
“Go...nevermind. I think my tan is fine.”
“That’s the problem. You look...tanned. A tanned white boy. You need to look less tanned and more like—”
“A non-white cracker?”
“Yeah. That.”
Squire jumped up Sheppard’s leg and he lifted the dog up and held him. “It’s been only a week and this dog has doubled in size.”
“I know. At this rate she’ll be big enough to ride in another month.”
Sheppard laughed. “Pay no attention to him, Squire. He’s a mean man.”
“I am a mean man,” Shelby said. “Any word from civilization?”
“Nothing you need to hear. But I did pick up something for you.” Sheppard reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small black booklet and offered it to Shelby.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Sheppard nodded. Shelby opened the booklet onto his new life.
“What kind of name is this, Danel Artola?”
“Danel means, ‘God is my judge.’ I thought that fitting. The last name is a common surname.”
Shelby mouthed the name to himself half a dozen times.
“Will that work?”
Shelby nodded.
“Great. Let’s get you out of this shop in one week.”
“A week? I won’t be ready.”
“You’ll never be ready if you stay here. I brought some black hair coloring. Go ahead and see how it works. If it turns purple, we’ll try again. You get the hot water working yet?”
“Maybe I like cold showers.”
“Maybe you’re shiftless and lazy,” Sheppard said, and held Squire out to him. “Here’s your dog.”
“Why is the FBI interested in this case?” Quinn Thompson asked. He sat back in his chair and swivelled it around to where he could see the tops of trees over Waller Creek to the north and west.
“We have a pretty large file on Moore. We were watching him for some time, as you know.” From his desk in Houston, Billy Strongbow watched a father trying to help his son get a kite aloft in the city park. There wasn’t enough wind, and the two would have to sweat a good bit to get any action out of the kite.
“Well, that one’s pretty cut and dried. We know who killed him.”
“This isn’t exactly a request, Lieutenant. Have one of your people make a copy of the file.” Billy Strongbow thought of the miles between Houston and Austin. He turned his head and gazed at the stack of files on his desk. His mind wandered to the last time he was out of town. It had been months. “In fact, I’ll pick up the file personally tomorrow. See if you can have it ready for me by, say, noon.”
Quinn hung his head and closed his eyes. “That won’t be a problem.” With one hand he grasped at the bridge of his nose and pinched himself. The throb in his head began to lessen by degrees. “Can I buy you lunch?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll be stopping in to visit some people while I’m up there. Thanks for the invite, though.”
“It’s no problem.”
“All right. We’re set then,” Billy Strongbow said. “Have a nice evening, Lieutenant Quinn.”
“That I will,” Quinn said, but Strongbow had already hung up. Quinn hung up the phone. “Prick.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Billy Strongbow got out of his black Dodge Charger and took the walkway up to the stately home on the hill in the small, incorporated township of Westlake Hills, a stone’s throw from west Austin. He rang the doorbell.
The ring was answered quickly by a small barking dog, and a moment later by a wholesome-looking middle-aged woman with black curly hair and blue eyes.
“Yes?” she said.
“Ms. Ward? Rachel Ward?”
“Yes. Just so you know, this neighborhood is restricted as far as soliciting is concerned.”
“I’m not selling anything,” Billy said, and held up his wallet with the fold open to show his identification and his badge. “Agent Billy Strongbow, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Do you have time for me to ask you a few questions?”
“Um. Yeah. I guess. Very few, though, because I have to get ready and go shortly.”
“I have a noon appointment as well. I won’t take long. I promise.” Billy gave her his most reassuring smile.
A small moment of doubt crossed her face and quickly fled. “Come in, Agent Strongbow. Come in.”
She stepped aside.
Rachel Ward led the FBI agent to her living room and nodded to an easy chair. “Can I get something for you? A glass of tea, maybe?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re Native American, aren’t you? I’m sorry to ask like that, but we don’t get very many down here in Austin.”
“Yes ma’am,” Strongbow said. “Dakota Sioux. One quarter, actually. Mixed blood doesn’t do as well on the Res, so I got a shot at college and took it. I haven’t looked back. And by the way, we call ourselves Indians.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. Is this about Shelby?”
“Yes ma’am.” Billy said.
“I have no idea where he is.”
“I know. I’m not looking for him.”
She seemed surprised by this. “Then...I’m not sure I understand.”
“What I need to know is, do you think your...ex-husband was the kind of man who could kill someone in cold blood? I mean, intentionally?”
Rachel Ward cocked her head and regarded Billy for a long moment.
“Honestly?” she said.
Billy nodded.
“I don’t know. I used to think not. He was a good man and a good police officer until...”
Billy nodded again. “After ten years, did he snap for some reason and go and kill Richard Moore?”
Rachel shook her head slowly. “No. Shelby was many things. His luck is the worst of any man I’ve ever known. I mean, he came from a solid background, positively conservative family. But, things happen
to him. I mean...”
“Go on.”
“When he killed that kid, something inside him died. It didn’t die by degrees. I mean, it died in that moment. After that, he couldn’t function. He couldn’t...”
Rachel turned her head and raised her hand to her cheek. Her face was flushed. She suppressed crying very well, Billy thought.
“You became his caregiver.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Ward. While I didn’t want to get overly personal with you, I had to know these things for myself.”
“Why?” she asked, and the silent tears began.
“I’m about to go pick up the file from the local police department. I’m looking into the possibility that this manhunt for your ex-husband was somehow...internally motivated.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re a smart woman. Almost eleven years ago your husband arrested Richard Moore before a case could be built against him for a hell of a lot more than insurance fraud. Mr. Moore served two years in the state jail, and then was let out. If your husband hadn’t arrested him, he likely would have wound up serving life. Do you know why Shelby arrested Moore?”
“Because I asked him to,” she said.
“Why? And please, Ms. Ward. I need the truth.”
“Because...Shelby loved me. He did what I asked.”
“You asked him to do it. To save Mr. Moore from a life sentence?”
She nodded and wiped away the last few tears.
Billy leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and looked up at the woman. This was a complicated woman, he decided, full of contradictions and misplaced affinities. She appeared to be in her late thirties, but he knew from the Bureau index that she was forty-four. From her muscle tone, he knew she worked out, and regularly. She watched her diet, didn’t smoke, and had few nasty habits of the social kind. She was a looker. Also, she had it wrong about Shelby Knight. He wasn’t the unlucky one. The unlucky one was her. She was the daughter of one of the most hated women in Austin, a former Madam of a house of ill repute. Also, she had lost the love of her life, her husband who had essentially died as a human being the moment he took the life of a stupid kid who was at exactly the wrong place at the wrong time.
