A Dark Path

by Robert E. Dunn

  “You gotta get here,” was the instant response.

  “Mr. Turner?”

  “You need to get here and in a hurry. I can’t stop them and I think they sent the wrong park ranger.”

  “Park ranger? What are you talking about, Mr. Turner? Where are you?”

  “I’m at the land. The place where Tyrell was. There’s going to be trouble.”

  “What trouble? What are you talking about?”

  “Bulldozers are here and so’s the park ranger. It’s getting ugly. If those racist sons-of- bitches show up—there’s going to be bloodshed.”

  “Mr. Turner, I’m on my way. Whatever’s happening, stay out of it and keep yourself safe.”

  “I ain’t scared.”

  “I’m not saying you are. And that’s not—” I had to stop and tell myself it wasn’t the time for explaining. “Just do it.” I disconnected, then used the truck communications to send deputies out to the lake plot where Tyrell had been found. I didn’t really understand what was going on—but if there were bulldozers at the crime scene—I wanted them stopped.

  The scene was even worse than Earl had made it sound. I arrived, bumping hard over broken-up hard pack. It had been chewed down by the semi-trucks loaded with heavy equipment. The crime scene tape was down, and two men were kicking curiously though the burn circle.

  Battle lines had apparently been formed. On one side, there were bulldozers and their handlers, bikers, and Johnson Rath. On the other side, two deputies, Earl Turner, and of all people—Cherry Dando. The deputies had hands on their weapons and looked terrified. Dando appeared to be ignoring everyone but Johnson. I had the impression that he was imploring the big man not to stop the treasure hunt. I think the lines would have charged each other already—if it wasn’t for a tall black man wearing a US Department of the Interior uniform. Earl was right. There was a Park Ranger here.

  The Ranger and the construction crew looked to be actually talking—despite the efforts of Rath and the bikers to provoke something.

  I drove my truck right up into the cleared part of the field, stopping between the men and the heavy equipment.

  As soon as I stepped out, Earl held up his cell phone. He pointed at it with his free hand and shouted to me, “He’s here.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Before I could ask, Johnson Rath tromped straight up to me. When he got close I could smell chewing tobacco and the sweat of more than one hot day. His eyes flashed. His beard flicked in the slight breeze as if each strand had its own life. “You can’t stop me,” he pronounced. “This is private land.”

  “Back off.” I glared right back at him.

  He wasn’t the kind of man on whom harsh words and hard looks had much effect. Rath Johnson believed in the physical—the right of arms and muscle. He shook his mane of hair and squared his shoulders. I would have been lying if I said I wasn’t scared. The thing is—I’ve been scared before. It teaches a lot of things—one thing for sure—if I backed down he would consider me the same way a lion considers a wounded zebra. Prey.

  I reached back and placed my hand on my service weapon. I didn’t let it rest. Without taking my gaze from the big man in front of me, I thumbed the gun’s safety and lifted it from the deep seat of the holster. The barrel remained tucked. My 9mm was not technically cleared from my holster. It was as close to free as it could get.

  “You going to shoot me?” Johnson raised his hands to present his broad chest. He craned his neck down then spoke softly, making sure only I could hear. “If you do you better kill me. Because. . .” He finished the thought by leering. The look was packed with the threat of pain and of something worse. “But I’m an unarmed man. You can’t do anything.”

  I cleared my weapon and held it down at my thigh. I tapped the barrel against my leg a couple of times to get his attention. When he looked I moved my right foot forward about three inches. Not far. Not obvious to anyone but him. Speaking so he had to lean in to hear, I told Johnson, “Don’t worry about being unarmed. I’ve got a spare for you right here.” I moved the toe of my boot. “Strapped to my ankle.”

  He raised his face and locked his gaze to mine. There was no doubt he was listening carefully.

  “If I have to put you down. . . I’ll do it without thinking about it—and without tears or bad feelings later. In fact, I’ll never think of you again. But one thing I can promise you—an unregistered and untraceable .32 will have been in your hand. And no one will ever question me about it.”

  I wasn’t very experienced with bluffing. There was no drop piece. But Rath was just the kind of guy who assumed everyone played by his rules or they were fools. He bought it. I saw the resignation in his eyes an instant before I saw the flash of new anger. It was the look of an animal tricked into a cage—then regretting.

  Regret came too late. Two people approached. Each came from a different angle, but generally from the direction of the heavy equipment standoff.

  It was the construction operator who spoke first. “You in charge here?”

  “I am now.” I answered with a full, loud voice keeping my gaze on Johnson Rath a little longer. After I’d spoken, I returned my weapon to its holster with a firm shove. Only then did I turn to the man in the hardhat. “What’s your story?”

  “I was hired to clear and level this plot. And—”

  “When?”

  “What do you mean when? Now. Get it done ASAP.”

  “When were you called?” I clarified.

  “This morning.”

  “Kind of short notice, isn’t it?”

  “It was a cash offer.”

  “Who from?” He didn’t say, but he looked squarely at Johnson Rath. “I’ve got a crew to keep busy. I’m not in the business of turning down work,” he finished defensively.

  I turned and looked at the man in the ranger uniform. He was a poster child for park rangers. Tall and lean, with a dusting of gray at the temples to match the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He looked mixed race; maybe black and Indian. He didn’t seem nearly as upset as the equipment operator. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re the one who got in the way.”

  He half-smiled—like a man who had been through all of this before, but always enjoyed the ride. “Not me,” he said then he held up an envelope. “This.”

  “He said he had a court order.” The workman made his statement an accusation. “He said we had to stop. So I called Rath, here. This is his land. Who else are we supposed to take orders from?”

  “From me,” the ranger said without leaving much room for discussion. Then he added, “From the court. From the President of the United States. And, I’d imagine, now you’re going to take them from this detective.” He turned to me and offered his hand. “You’re the Hurricane. I’m Jesus.”

  “What the fuck?” The outburst came from Johnson.

  The construction guy quick-stepped backward, two paces. He looked like he expected the ranger to detonate.

  “Really?” I was a bit astonished myself. Even so, I took the hand.

  “Jesus Selassie Carter.” The grin on his face was joy itself. He turned, once again, to face Johnson. Special Agent Jesus Selassie Carter of the National Park Service, Department of the Interior. You can read that as Federal Agent.”

  “That’s goddamned, black-assed bullshit.” Johnson pronounced.

  Still gripping my hand, Jesus turned the high wattage smile on the huge racist. “Ain’t that a kick in the racially pure nads?” He laughed.

  I couldn’t help but think he made a point of sharing his name for effect whenever possible.

  Ranger Carter, I couldn’t keep thinking of him as Jesus, turned back to me. He released my hand, but kept the grin turned on. “It was inevitable. Mamma is Mary and my daddy is Joseph. Black militant and Osage Indian, Methodist hippie—what else would they name me?”

&nbs
p; “I should wipe that shit-eating grin off your face for you.” Johnson all but snarled the threat.

  The ranger acted as if he hadn’t heard. He kept his gaze on me as he said, “In the envelope, you will find a copy of the court order, a copy of the e-mail ordering me here, copies of memos from Congresswoman Tindall to the Department of the Interior, and the President, requesting this site be evaluated for protection under the Antiquities Act as a National Monument. There is a copy of the White House memo to my bosses to make it happen.” Jesus turned to Johnson and the construction guy. “And here I am.” He flourished his hands toward the other two men.

  Suddenly, I realized that Ranger Carter looked a bit like Sammy Davis Jr. —if he had been a lumberjack. I almost laughed at the thought. Instead, I tucked the envelope into my jacket. “That explains you.” I nodded at the construction guy, then Johnson.” And you. And you. What about everyone else?”

  “Aren’t you going to read that?” Ranger Carter asked about the paperwork.

  “I don’t need to. I was expecting something like it. Maybe not from the President, but we take our wins where we get them.”

  “You did this.” Johnson stared—his pale eyes as hard as the accusation in his voice.

  “Not me actually. There were a couple of us who got the ball rolling.”

  “I’ll roll some balls—”

  “Watch it.” I dropped my voice into a “you-better-take-this-seriously” register and placed my hand back on the butt of my weapon. “I don’t care what pull you have, threatening an officer is sure to get you put away.”

  “None of this shit is legal.” Johnson spoke up and over our heads. He wanted the bikers to hear. He raised his voice to almost shouting. “This is my land. You can’t take it. You can’t do any of this.” Then he turned to the construction guy and ordered, “Fire up your bulldozer. No one gets to say what I do with my private property.”

  “It’s not yours though.” I said. “Is it?”

  “You know it’s mine.”

  “No.” I admit I enjoyed telling him. “And it’s definitely not private property. The deed is registered in the name W&S Foundation.”

  “And I run the foundation.” Johnson didn’t sound quite so sure of himself.

  “See now, that’s the thing.” Ranger Carter jumped in. “You know, before memos and orders like those I gave the detective are ever written up, a whole team of lawyers has a look. Just to make sure, you see, that everything is legal. Or if not completely legal on the face, at least defendable.”

  “What the hell are you goin’ on about?” Johnson was losing his edge and confidence. “You ain’t a lawyer. You’re a park ranger.”

  “A man can’t be both?” His grin beamed again. It was his personal scoreboard. “We all took a good look at the charter of the W&S Foundation. There was a lot of crap in there about the white race, and a Christian America. But there was one little bit about the preservation of heritage—and some BS about preserving the history of the real America.”

  “Fuck you.” Johnson’s curse was more a declaration of despair.

  “No,” Ranger Carter smiled along with the slow shake of his head. “You’re fucked. And it’s by your own hand. You created and chartered a nonprofit with the stated goal of preserving heritage and history. Then you purchased land filled with both. The government is assisting in that noble goal.”

  If life were a cartoon, Johnson Rath would have had whistling steam coming from his ears. I was close to laughing—even without the added visual—so I gave my attention back to the construction guy. “So you called Rath. Then what happened?”

  “The bikers started showing up first. Then Johnson came barrelin’ up the road. That other guy was with him.” He pointed over at Cherry Dando—who was stalking around the machines as if he could find some weakness. Shifting his aim over to Earl Turner he said, “Then that guy showed up and started shouting about murder and saying the killer was here.”

  Earl was wandering through the torn up field staring at Elaine’s phone.

  “Earl,” I shouted. When he looked, up I waved him over.

  He ignored my summons and kept following his phone around.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked not expecting any answer.

  Agent Carter surprised me. “Looks like he’s tracking something on his phone.”

  As soon as he said it, some pieces fell into place. Earl had his daughter’s phone. She was Tyrell’s mother, and worried mothers aren’t above putting tracking software on their kid’s phones.

  “He’s tracking Tyrell’s phone.”

  Before I got three steps, I heard a piercing whistle. When I glanced back, following the sound, I saw Johnson whipping his raised arm in a tight circle. I kept running but realized I was too late. All the motorcycles fired up. The Nightriders twisted their throttles and charged from the field—throwing rooster tails of dust behind them.

  “No,” Earl exclaimed at his phone as I reached him. “No. It’s here.” He pointed through the dirty haze at passing bikers. I looked. The last to clear the grounds was Roland Duques. “One of them has Tyrell’s phone.”

  Chapter 12

  I calmed Earl as the dust settled. It turned out as I had thought. He’d been following the tracking feature on the cell phone to find Tyrell’s phone, and, he believed, the boy’s killer. He implored me to chase the retreating dot on the phone’s map. I explained the rules of evidence and how using tracking on a phone registered to a dead woman, with no warrant, then searching someone, without a warrant, based on the tracking information could do more harm than good. It didn’t matter to him. I understood his need. Still I had to say no.

  When I asked for the phone to start the warrant process, Earl gave me a sullen stare. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Mr. Turner, I don’t want to have to arrest you for interfering in an investigation.”

  “Seems to me, I’m the only one investigating.”

  “Well you’re not.”

  “I’m going to do what I have to do.”

  “Then let’s do it the right way.”

  “What’s that? I give it over to you and it disappears.”

  “We’re the Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Turner. Things don’t disappear.”

  “You can’t trust the swamp without trusting alligators. And that ain’t happenin’.”

  I had to think that one through. It took a moment. “There’s someone in the department you don’t trust?”

  His stare gave me nothing.

  It didn’t matter. If there was one thing I understood it was wariness of people in authority who said, ‘Trust me.’ So I didn’t say it. Instead I said, “Look, Mr. Turner, I can’t stop you. And I can’t help you. But—” He looked at me expectantly. “If you find the phone—and pin it down to the possession of a single person—I’ll find a way to do something.” The expression on Earl’s face became cagy. I didn’t like what he seemed to be thinking. “But only if you don’t confront anyone. Don’t do anything that puts you at risk. And if you try being a vigilante in any way—”

  “I got it.”

  He ambled off to his car, and I pulled my own phone from my pocket. I called the sheriff to fill him in and get him out to the scene. As we talked, I watched the bulldozer and grader being loaded onto the trailers. The grading crew was leaving.

  When the big dozer pulled toward its ramp, I saw the truck behind it. Johnson Rath and Cherry Dando were arguing again. There was something new about the fight though. Outside the jail, they had tangled more out of annoyance than deeper anger. This time, the fire was stoked and teeth were bared. Johnson shoved Dando and shook his bandaged finger at him. Dando swiped at the injured digit. From the distance I could read the pain in the string of heated cursing that followed.

  Something else was different. Parked beside the same old car I’d seen at my house, were two big motor
cycles. Each bike was mounted by a huge man whose arms were illustrated by blue ink. One of the men I’d never seen before. He was wearing jeans and engineer boots, but no club colors. The other man was familiar. Charlie Lipscomb, the Nightrider’s Sergeant-at-Arms.

  I was too far away to be absolutely certain, but it appeared that the pair had some matching ink on their right forearms. I hadn’t paid any attention to his tattoos when I last saw him at Roland Duques’ trailer. Now, paired up with the same symbols on the other man, they were hard to ignore. They looked like jailhouse tats—with the Nazi lightning bolt SS matching up over the number 88. In white supremacist code, 8 can represent the eighth letter of the alphabet, H. 88 is shorthand for Heil Hitler. Some also say it’s a reference to a passage in Mein Kampf that runs eighty-eight words long. I don’t know the truth of it, but I know hate when I see it.

  I immediately assumed they were representatives of the AB: one inside the Nightriders to manage things, and one here to check on the status of their investment. They were watching the argument, and Johnson seemed to be focused on them more than on Dando. He turned his back on the smaller man and stomped toward the men on bikes.

  Dando wouldn’t be ignored. He ran forward and imposed himself between Johnson and the other men. As I watched, I caught the rising tone of the exchange, not the words themselves. Dando pointed at the surrounding ground—then back to Johnson. He barked out something that sounded harsh—and the bigger man swung his arm out. Dando took a hard hit to the side of the head and went down.

  The men on the bikes joined in and started pointing and yelling too. Johnson didn’t seem so forceful with them.

  Dando got up. His shouts and angry gestures took in the bikers, as well as Johnson. The two men turned even grimmer than they had been. One at a time they stood, still straddling their motorcycles. I could tell the new stance was a threat.