A Dark Path

by Robert E. Dunn

  I was able to stalk right up to the passenger side of the black Chevy without the woman inside ever taking her eyes off the jail door. I stopped and watched her through the open window. She was angular and hard. There was a shape that remained behind the edges. Her body made me think of a beauty queen who had been whittled down to heartwood. She wore a ball cap with her hair tucked up under it. I could only see her face in profile. It was like an antique cameo carved from shell. Perfect lines drew my gaze and I wondered what color her eyes were. The longer I looked, the more I became aware that the sense of beauty was coming from a face that should have graced the black and white movies from the thirties—old Hollywood.

  She stared across the lot, watching the jail door. Her movements were quick but controlled, confident. But something had her nervous. She glanced forward a couple of times—without looking far enough to her right to catch me. I had the sudden thought that she may not be watching for Dando and Rath. She could be keeping an eye out for me.

  I opened my mouth to speak. It was a failed effort. There were no words poised on my tongue. When I first walked up, I could have announced myself. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to pin her with a command—easy until I got a good look at her. I was becoming certain that I knew her in some way.

  The jail door opened—breaking the connections my mind was trying to make. Johnson came through first. He was pointing a finger at Cherry Dando and making a hard point. I could hear his voice but not the words. It was a snarl of sound without definition. The meaning was clear though. Johnson Rath was angry and near violence.

  Dando didn’t exactly stand up to the bigger man. He didn’t back down either. He walked a step behind Johnson, keeping his hands open and spread. The further they got from the jail door, the more he fell behind. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said in answer to Johnson’s growling. “And you need to understand—”

  “I don’t need to understand shit.” Johnson barked the statement out loud and clear as he spun on his heel.

  Dando jumped back. It wasn’t quick or far enough to evade the grabbing hands that came at him. “Don’t you do it!” His voice was tinged with panic.

  I bolted around the front of the Chevy at the same time the woman in the cab pushed through the door.

  Johnson raised his hand. It was balled into an incomplete fist, with his splinted index finger awkwardly pointed at the sky. Even like that, his arm was like a loaded cannon aimed right at Cherry Dando’s head. “Whose fault is it now?” Johnson bellowed. With his left hand gripping the front of Dando’s shirt, he shook the smaller man as easily as a dog shakes a rabbit. He yelled again, but the words were buried in the rage.

  I cleared the front of the truck, pulling my weapon. Before I could issue a command, the woman from the truck raised a pistol. The revolver was much too big for her. Her hands shook with the weight and the adrenaline. Even at thirty feet, there was little chance she could hit what she wanted. It didn’t matter. If she fired, there was a chance rounds from that big .357 could go through a wall and kill someone on the other side.

  I shifted my trajectory as she shouted at the fighting. I don’t think they ever heard her. Running hard, I put my left hand out and my right shoulder down. At the same time, I grabbed her hands, forced them up, and I hit her sideways. The revolver came away and she sprawled.

  With her disarmed, I was able to give my attention to the men. Cherry Dando was bloody. His head was lolling as Johnson shook him and cocked his fist for another hit. He struck not with his knuckles, but with the back of the hand. Then he raised it again, pummeling down like a hammer, protecting the broken finger.

  Even limp and gushing blood from a broken nose Dando was still grinning. He saw me coming.

  “Let him go,” I shouted at Johnson. “Let him go and step away.”

  I know he heard. There was a catch in the motion of Johnson’s next punch. His head canted slightly in my direction. It was enough for me to read it as both an insult and a dare. He was telling me he had no concern for me.

  I didn’t wait for another impact to Dando’s face and I didn’t shout either. Honestly, I thought about shooting him—but I wanted to make a real point. Rushing in, I went behind him. With a long stride I planted my leading left foot and kicked with my right. I missed the steel toes in my boots.

  The kick landed hard in the crook behind Johnson’s right knee. It gave way instantly—bucking forward like a dead fish. As he fell, I caught the look of surprise on the big man’s face. It was like a gift. I got greedy for more. He hit, flat on his back, woofing out his air. My foot was already back in the air. Before he could catch the escaped breath or make any kind motion to evade me, I brought my heel down on the front of the same knee I’d kicked.

  His scream was surprisingly high and satisfying. I pointed my weapon at his chest then, just for good measure, and asked him, “Are you going to cry now, princess?”

  Fighting to find breath, Johnson said, “Huk—hue.”

  I knew what he meant. Keeping my aim, I reached for my cuffs. That was when I noticed that I was still holding the woman’s revolver in my left hand. Without taking my eyes off the man on the ground, I turned the .357 around one-handed and gripped the cylinder pin. One quick jerk and the weapon opened—spilling cartridges. When the last one hit, I dropped the revolver and kicked it away.

  “Katrina?” It was the woman asking. There was shock in her voice—as if she was asking my name and not believing what she already knew.

  I looked, but she seemed fine. Then I turned to Dando. “Are you okay?” I asked, knowing it was a stupid question. He grinned, showing bloody teeth, but not at me. His smile was for the woman.

  “Katrina?” she asked again. That time the question in my name had more of an edge to it. An expectation.

  It was Dando who answered—in more ways than one. “Carmen,” he called. “Let it be and come help me.”

  “Carmen?” That time I was the one using a name as a question. “He called you Carmen.”

  The woman nodded and smiled at me. More expectation. Finally she said, “It’s me. It’s Mama.”

  Cherry Dando pulled himself up onto an elbow and laughed that awful cackle. It turned wet. He spit out a wad of clotted blood, then said, “I told you. Hee yeah, I told you. I knew you. It’s old home week again.”

  “Stop it, Cherry,” the woman who claimed to be my mother said. Her voice had a gentle, suffering quality that I had never heard.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. In my own ears it sounded wishful.

  Johnson Rath, still lying on the parking lot clutching his knee, started laughing. “Stupid bitch.”

  I kicked him in the ribs.

  He grunted. Hard. I relished the sound—until a siren sounded from behind me. Right after the sound came the lights. I glanced back. It was Sheriff Benson. Right behind his SUV came a black sedan with government plates. DEA Agent Devon Birch stared indictments at me as he parked.

  Before either of them got out of their vehicles, two deputies came out of the jail door with weapons drawn. “Johnson Rath, you’re under arrest for assault, failure to comply, resisting arrest, and anything else I can come up with.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said. “My ticket’s here.”

  To the nearest deputy, I said, “Cuff that one,” indicating Johnson. To the other I called, “Request an ambulance for Mr. Dando.”

  Dando cackled again. And again it turned phlegmy causing him to hack out a wad of blood. “I don’t need no ambulance. And I won’t be preferring any charges.”

  “Your nose looks broken.”

  “There goes my cover-girl career.” He lifted a hand to the woman. “Help me up.”

  Instead of reaching for him she put a hand out toward me. “Katrina.”

  I was getting sick of hearing my name come from her mouth. I ignored her gesture, turning away and holste
ring my weapon. Sheriff Benson and Agent Birch were approaching in lock step.

  “Dammit Katrina,” the sheriff said.

  “Good job.” Birch added. There wasn’t any joking in his sarcasm.

  I ignored Birch. “Is it true?” I asked the sheriff.

  He leaned his head to look beyond my shoulder. I was pretty sure he was watching Carmen assist Dando to his feet.

  Sheriff Benson nodded. It looked like it pained him to do so. “Yep.”

  “What are we talking about?” Birch asked.

  “This is how I find out?” My gaze stayed fixed on the sheriff.

  “I thought it would be best if Orson talked things over with you.”

  “Orson was hoping it would all go away. That she would go away.”

  “We all were. Given a little time she would have.”

  “Well we’re all out of damned time now aren’t we?” I turned to head back for a confrontation with the woman who had left me outside Uncle Orson’s dock when I was six.

  “Katrina, wait.” Sheriff Benson’s voice was soft and regretful.

  “Stop right there, Detective.” Birch’s voice was firm.

  I turned to face him.

  “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Talk with the sheriff.”

  “I’ll talk with you—if I have to put you in cuffs to do it.”

  “Who the hell—”

  “Hurricane.” That time the sheriff was loud and certain. It was a boss’s voice, not a friend’s. Then he smiled. Everything about him relaxed. “You look nice,” he complimented gently. “It’s good to see.”

  If there is one person I can count on to douse my burning fuse, it’s the sheriff. And honestly I appreciated it—both being told I looked nice and being pulled back from another round of rage. Even I can spend only so much time angry.

  “We need to talk,” he told me. “And we need to do it before you go talk to your mother again.”

  “What’s she done?” I looked over my shoulder, then over at Earl Turner’s Chevy. “Never mind. I can start building a list on my own. Give me a second.”

  Rather than going to talk to Carmen and Cherry, I crossed at an angle over to the black truck. The door was still open. I reached in and pulled the keys from the ignition. Then I came back to where the sheriff and Birch were watching me.

  “The truck belongs to Earl Turner.” I held up the keys. “He wouldn’t let me verify it was missing. I’m thinking Tyrell took it without permission. I’m also thinking he was driving it the night he was killed.”

  Sheriff Benson looked over at Dando and Carmen. They were staring back. They didn’t look happy. “How’d they get it?”

  “That’s a question I need to be over there asking.” I answered. “That truck is the one that tried to block me on the highway when I was following Tyrell’s body.”

  “Duncan,” Sheriff Benson called over to the second deputy. “Take Mrs. Dando into custody.”

  “Dando?” My exclamation was loud enough both Carmen and Dando looked my direction. He cackled that choking rooster laugh again. “She married that ass?”

  * * * *

  Sheriff Benson put his summer straw hat on his desk, crown-down, then dropped into his chair. Agent Birch stood ramrod straight. You can always tell ex-Marines. He gestured at one of the chairs for me to sit before he would be seated. It’s the clothes I told myself.

  “Sit down, both of you,” the sheriff said—kicking back in his creaky chair. If he was alone with me or a handful of other detectives and deputies, he would have put his boots up on the desk. With a fed in attendance, Sheriff Benson was on his best behavior. “Now what we got here is a grade-A cluster-fuck.” Best behavior is relative, I reminded myself.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “It’s your pig in the poke,” he said to Birch. “You tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Well I’m not going to tell you to keep your hands off a federal investigation. We all know how well that works.” Birch spoke to me, but he looked at the sheriff.

  “Someone has to clean up the messes you make.” I looked right at Birch.

  “Stop it.” Sheriff Benson jumped in. “Just stop.” He looked at both of us. Then he said to Birch, “Give us the story.”

  “Johnson Rath is a federal witness and confidential informant,” Agent Birch said.

  “I don’t believe it.” My reaction was probably as much to his bald statement as much to the information.

  “Believe it or not, that’s the situation and all that matters.”

  “You think that’s all that matters?”

  “Hurricane,” the sheriff cautioned.

  I didn’t listen. “What about the dead kid? Does he matter?”

  “Conduct your investigation, but you share everything with me. And you have no contact with Rath unless I’m in on it.”

  “No.”

  “Hurricane,” the sheriff said again, coloring the word with meaning. “Katrina.”

  “None of this is a request, Detective.” Birch was looking at me then, hard and square. He kept his voice level but he was close enough that I could see the slight flaring of his nostrils.

  “You keep a pretty tight rein on yourself,” I told him. “But you don’t have one on me.”

  “If you want to keep your job. . .”

  My laugh surprised him. “There are so many ways that’s not a threat that I can’t even explain it.”

  His mouth twitched and I noticed the gray hairs in his mustache. “Maybe jail time is a threat.”

  “For what?”

  “For meddling in a federal investigation—one in which you have a family interest.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Not what? Not true? Or not fair—because you’re going to say you didn’t know she was your mommy?”

  I stood. I was about a half-second away from reaching out to rip that hair off his lip when the sheriff jumped to his feet. His hat fell to the floor, landing brim down, spilling out all the luck.

  “No one—and I goddamned mean no one—is going to make another threat, accusation, smart comment, or even so much as a fucking harsh word.” The sound of the sheriff’s words matched the fire in his eyes. “We’re going to be quick. We’re going to be professional. And we’re going find that boy’s killer.” He turned and pointed a gnarled finger at Birch. “Make no mistake. At this time—in this case—that boy is the priority of this department.” Then he pointed the finger at me. “You—sit down. Keep it civil or I’ll be the one making changes to your career path. You’re not indispensable around here. Get me?”

  “I’ve got you, Sheriff.”

  “Whatever.” Birch was mocking me.

  It was the sheriff who answered. “Shut up.” He held the other man’s gaze until Agent Birch looked away. “Now tell it. And do so with respect.” He retrieved his hat and slapped it on the desk.

  Birch took a deep breath, then put up his hands. I thought he was going to say something stupid. He said, “You’re right.” Turning to me he added, “I’m sorry.”

  That pissed me off almost as much as anything else. I wanted to stay mad at him. I wanted to hate him and make it his fault. It would be hard to do if he suddenly started acting like a human being.

  “This whole thing has me on edge and I’m ready to take it out on anyone.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  “Johnson Rath was asked by some other Aryan brothers to reform his militia slash old-time religion. This time around, none of the players are even pretending that The New American Covenant–The Word and The Sword is about anything but moving meth and making money for the cause—the cause being lining the pockets of some very bad assholes.”

  “It’s not a racist organization?” I asked.

  �
��Oh hell yeah. It’s as racist as the Klan at a Saturday night cross burning. They talk hate. They spread hate. And they do it all under the banners of freedom of speech and freedom of religion. But it’s all a coat of paint over the drug dealing.”

  “I guess it’s a big network or you wouldn’t be so worked up.”

  “The AB got their start moving junk in prisons. That’s a big network all by itself. But they’ve been spreading out, taking on the white trash, trailer park market.”

  “Why here?”

  “Really?” He twitched his mustache and looked a little like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “You have to ask?”

  “This is my home, Agent Birch.”

  “Maybe so, but half the local economy is built on the hillbilly mystique.”

  “You can’t argue with that,” the sheriff chimed in.

  “What’s the real reason?” I asked.

  “Highways.” Birch sounded exhausted saying it. “I-44 runs north of here up to St. Louis. From there you can go east or west. South of here, you have I-40. That covers the whole south. The cheap product comes out of Mexico and hits the highways. The other reason is that the Ozarks have been open territory for a long time. The Ozarks sit right between the Mexicans and the Dixie Mafia. The AB has a long standing alliance with La eMe and—well the Dixie boys are kind of kindred spirits.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking it through. “Maybe you have something on your shoulders we don’t. But why Johnson Rath?”

  “And how?” the sheriff asked.

  “Rath is a true believer. He wants the race war and expects the apocalypse to come any time. In his thinking, it will cleanse the world of people like me. And he can’t wait for it to happen.”

  “It doesn’t sound like the basis of a good working relationship.”

  He smiled, shaking his head. I think for the first time both of us relaxed. “It doesn’t. But it’s the only one I have.” To the sheriff, he said, “And to answer your question, he thinks he’s a lot smarter than he is.”