by J. M. Hayes
“I still don’t get you,” Fair said, pausing to chew on the pencil he was making notes with.
“These terrorists are specifically attacking Benteen County’s energy resources. What do you think Windreapers is gonna do when they hear that? Gentleman, and Ms. Babcock, Benteen County will be out of the wind farm business.”
“Surely we’ll catch this guy and…” Finfrock began.
“Oh come on,” Haines said. “You really think Englishman and his deputies have a chance of catching a pro from al Qaeda? And who says there’s just one? There could be a whole sleeper cell here. These bombings could go on for months, years even.”
“So we’re out of contention for a wind farm,” Chairman Wynn summarized. “I guess we absorb our costs, shut down our little corporation, and return what we can to our investors. Build us an industrial park with our matching funds and hope someone’s willing to use it.”
“That’s one option,” Haines said, shaking his head and making his hair ripple like a field of ripe wheat in the wind. It was clear he thought it wasn’t an acceptable option. “The other is to save this thing. I was on the phone with Windreapers Corporation just a few minutes ago. I told them about Buffalo Springs Day. I said it was important to us, for political reasons, to announce we’d signed a contract with them today—that our wind farm isn’t just a dream, it’s a commitment. I said, because of those special circumstances, we were willing to pay them a premium, today only. They could take it or leave it because, on Monday, we’ve agreed to meet with a team from their competitors. They didn’t like it much, but I got them to name a figure—three million dollars—if it’s in their hands before midnight.”
“My God, that is a premium,” the chairman said. “We’ll have to pay out better than five million in order to buy the rest of the land and build our part of the infrastructure. Can we do that?”
“You bet we can,” Haines affirmed, “with a solid deal. I move we vote to seize the three outstanding sections using eminent domain right now.”
“That won’t go over with voters,” Finfrock said.
Haines brushed their objections aside with a wave of his hand and a glimpse at the alternative. “It’ll go over better than letting this deal fall through, losing money for all who’ve invested. We’ll pay premium prices for those properties. That’ll ease the hurt. But we’ve got to do this right now. We’ve got to pay Windreapers today or kiss it all goodbye.”
“How?” Finfrock asked. “We haven’t got three million. What little we do have is in the Farmers & Merchants. You think they’re gonna open back up after one robbery so we can make the kind of withdrawal they’ll think is a second hit? And it’s damn near noon on Friday, already. Other banks are gonna be closing.”
“Those are problems,” Haines admitted. “But this is the electronic age. With a few phone calls we can wire the money to any account Windreapers desires. All it takes is a little creative borrowing from county revenues and the retirement and salary accounts. We can pull this off.”
“I don’t know.” Chairman Wynn felt like it was all coming too fast. He understood Haines was proposing they violate all kinds of statutes, but Benteen County was an economic disaster area. If this wind farm, or some other financial miracle, didn’t happen, he might preside over Benteen’s slide into insolvency in the next few years. No politician worth his salt was willing to do that.
“We put together the package, arrange to have the funds available, then I take a code number for those funds and your approval and go meet with Windreapers in Denver tonight, face to face. When I have the signed contract in my hand, I transfer the funds. I know we’re cutting a lot of corners here, but you all understand what’s going to become of this county if we let this get away.”
They did. Not five minutes later, far more than an open meeting law had been violated by the Benteen County Board of Supervisors.
***
The front door to the Bisonte opened and a young couple came in, followed by the hulking bartender. Mad Dog watched the pair slide onto one bench and snuggle in a dark corner as the bartender went to fill their orders.
“Looks like some kind of wreck down by the Texaco,” the bartender told Mad Dog and Janie as he passed. “Some other excitement, too. Your brother’s pickup went flying toward the courthouse a few minutes ago behind his lights and siren.”
Mad Dog nodded. “Might be something to do with Buffalo Springs Day.”
“That it could,” the man admitted, then took his company elsewhere after both declined refills.
“Thanks for the warning about my son,” Mad Dog said. “But why’d you deliver it in person? You could have just called.”
Janie reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “There are some pictures of Sam in here. Nothing more recent than when he got out of jail. He’s almost twenty years older now, but I though they might help you recognize him.”
Mad Dog took a quick glimpse, then stuffed them in a pocket. “I know Buffalo Springs is only about three miles from the edge of the world, but even we get faxes these days. Hell, I’m on the Internet. You could have sent me an email and a jpeg.”
She shrugged. “I thought maybe, if I was here, he might not be so likely to act. That maybe I could…”
“Aren’t you afraid of him yourself? You said you felt like he was a threat to you when he was little. How will you being here help slow him down? Seems more likely he’d be inclined to do a little two-for-one shopping.”
“I didn’t want him to hurt you.”
“Weren’t you listening to the bartender? My little brother, you remember Englishman, he’s the sheriff of Benteen County. If you checked to see if I was still here, you probably knew that too. So, be honest Janie, why’d you really come?”
She bit her upper lip for a moment and stared at her hands, then she looked up and met his eyes. “I don’t know, Mad Dog. I thought that was why I came. But maybe I wanted an excuse to see you. To find out who you really are. You only lose your heart for the first time once. I guess I wondered whether you were the bastard I ran away from or the guy I loved too much to stay with.”
“Oh,” Mad Dog said. He wondered too. In a way, this was the answer he’d hoped for. In another, it was the one that scared him the most. He reached down to ruffle Hailey’s fur and reassure them both, only she wasn’t there.
He looked for her. She was trotting around from behind the bar toward their table. She had something in her mouth. It was metallic and kind of pineapple shaped. She set it on the floor by his feet. It looked just like he remembered from all those war movies. It looked like a hand grenade.
***
“You get me any help yet?” The sheriff was coming out of the narrow hall that led back to the jail as Chairman Wynn emerged from the more opulent corridor that housed Benteen County government.
“Help?” the chairman jumped and spun toward the sound of the sheriff’s voice. “Uhh, no, not yet.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’ll get right on it. You catch somebody?” Obviously, the chairman had noticed what part of the building the sheriff was coming from.
“Just your fireworks. I locked them in a cell up on the second tier where nobody’s even apt to notice them. I’ll give them back to you tonight, if I think it’s safe. I left Deputy Parker across the street to keep an eye on the potluck in the park. Ideal situation, one deputy providing security for several hundred people.”
The sheriff glanced over the chairman’s shoulder as a parade of cars, Haines, followed by Babcock, Fair, and Finfrock, pulled out of the driveway at the front of the courthouse and turned south toward downtown.
“You have a board meeting?”
“No,” the chairman shook his head. “Not really. Just bringing everybody up to speed on this crisis.”
“That required everybody coming here?”
It was quiet in the foyer. Almost quiet enough to hear the gears turn while Chairman Wynn considered how to frame his answer. The chairman was as skittish as a bull calf
before a Rocky Mountain Oyster banquet. The sheriff had been around minor felons, and teenagers, long enough to know when he was talking to someone with a guilty conscience.
“What’s up? The board into something I should know about?”
“Oh no,” the chairman reassured him. “We talked about what emergency measures we might take. Considered martial law, thought about how we’d evacuate the county if we had to.”
“Hey,” the sheriff protested, “you just vetoed my suggestion to shut down Buffalo Springs Day. Now you’re talking about abandoning the county. That’s a big turnaround. You sure you don’t know something I should?”
“Englishman, what if we had to seize property to insure our community’s existence?”
“You tell me whose property to seize. If it’ll stop this bomber from hurting somebody, I’ll do it, and worry about the court order later. You got a name?”
“No. We don’t know anything that hasn’t come from you. It’s just, well, some of the potential solutions troubled me a little. You know, does the end justify the means, that sort of thing. But thanks, talking to you has made me feel a lot better.”
“Sure.” And what the hell was that about, the sheriff asked himself as the chairman headed for the front doors. He wondered if he should pursue it further, but Mrs. Kraus stuck her head out of his office and refocused his thoughts.
“Wynn Junior’s on the line,” she rasped. “Says there’s a foreigner over at the Texaco acting suspicious. Wonders what he should do about it.”
“What’s suspicious about the guy?” the sheriff asked.
She reached up and ran her fingers through her darkened locks. “I’m not sure I understood this right, but Wynn seemed to think it was peculiar. This guy, he was asking where he could find some sagebrush.”
***
The bartender met Mad Dog at the cash register. “Hey,” Mad Dog greeted him. “You by any chance missing a hand grenade?”
That’s what it was, even on close inspection. Not some kids’ toy—the real thing, complete with the curved metal safety lever you released when you threw it, and the pin that kept that lever from releasing. As far as Mad Dog could tell, this thing would go off if you pulled the pin, released the lever, and waited a few seconds.
The bartender’s eyes got big. “Where’d you find that?”
“I didn’t find it. Hailey did.”
“Damn,” the bartender said, looking from Mad Dog to where Janie stood just behind him, and then down at Hailey. “I’ve heard of dogs playing fetch, but a thing like this could turn the game right serious.” He grinned but Mad Dog didn’t grin back. Neither did Janie. She’d remained wordless since she saw what Hailey had brought them. Hailey’s only indication of amusement was the wicked twinkle in her eyes.
“Never knew Mr. Finfrock to leave that room unlocked,” the man told them. “Come on back and I’ll show you, then we can put it away.”
He went down to the end of the bar farthest from the entrance and pushed on the door that led into the back. It didn’t open.
“Huh,” he muttered. “Guess she musta brushed it and it closed behind her.” Mad Dog didn’t comment. Hailey had an almost supernatural way of appearing on the other side of locked doors and closed windows. Mad Dog had learned not to bother trying to keep her penned. Nothing ever held her.
The bartender turned the handle and held the door for them. Janie seemed reluctant, so Hailey led the way. They went by a kitchen that persuaded Mad Dog to pass on future opportunities to sample the Bisonte’s happy hour snacks. Next was a walk-in refrigerator, then, at the end of the hall, another anonymous door. It was also closed, and, when the bartender tried the knob, proved locked as well. He gave Hailey a real funny look as he dug into his pocket and came out with a ring of keys.
“I don’t know where she got it,” Mad Dog told him. “I just saw her bring it from behind the bar.”
It was just one of those push-the-button-on-the-doorknob locks.
“Musta been locked but not closed,” the man said, trying to convince himself. The door opened onto what was obviously a man’s office with dark wood paneling, leather upholstery, plush carpet, and some impressive artwork—not for its quality, but for the imagination that had gone into combining Barbie-proportioned women with equally improbable weaponry.
“Mr. Finfrock, he’s a collector,” the bartender explained.
Mad Dog guessed he didn’t mean of fine art.
There was a third door behind the desk. At last, one that was neither locked nor closed. It was a heavy metal door, more like you would expect on a safe. The bartender pushed it further open and reached in and flipped on the lights.
It was like a museum in there. Weapons, far more outrageous than those in the paintings in the office, hung on the walls. Rows of them, carefully displayed with focused lighting. Everything, from pistols that would have made Dirty Harry envious, to full-fledged machine guns trailing belts of gleaming ammunition. And a row of grenades in a variety of styles, from which Hailey’s trophy was obviously missing. Antiques too, including a rifle that didn’t yet have its own space. It was obviously a prize, though, since it lay on a piece of crushed velvet atop a glass case filled with gleaming steel blades.
“That must be a new one,” the bartender said. Mad Dog bent and bobbed his head over it, looking for the right focal length.
Janie finally managed to find her voice. “Is it legal to own guns like these?”
“Sure thing, ma’am,” the bartender reassured her. “Read your Second Amendment.”
Mad Dog finally found the spot where the lettering on the rifle came into focus. “Sharps,” he whispered.
The bartender must have thought he was looking at the display inside the glass. “Course they’re sharp,” he said, “they’re swords.”
***
There was a row of high-dollar vehicles at the curb when Chairman Wynn added his Cadillac and stepped out beside the bright yellow strand of crime scene tape surrounding the Farmers & Merchants. The building didn’t look like it had been bombed. It wasn’t missing any large sections, nor was it bowed out along the seams like an over-inflated balloon. The only indications were the missing glass in doors and windows, and the piece of skylight that hung from the end of some stretched insulation off the edge of the roof.
The street was deserted. Even the three or four businesses still operating in the immediate vicinity had shut down for the kickoff of Buffalo Springs Day. The chairman could hear the band tuning up in the distance. It reminded him he was supposed to be climbing in the back of a convertible about now, along with the rest of the board. Well, he supposed, the parade might wait on them. The community’s future wouldn’t.
He ducked under the tape and crunched his way across the broken glass to the front doors and stuck his head inside. “You guys in there?”
The manager came out of a hallway behind the remains of the teller’s counter. He had something in his hand that looked heavy enough for Schwartznegger to pump in case he wanted to bulk up a little.
“That you, Mr. Chairman?”
“Sweet Jesus, Brown. Don’t point that thing at me. What is it, anyway, a hand gun or an artillery piece?”
Brown let the weight of it pull the barrel back down toward the floor. “It’s a fifty caliber Smith & Wesson,” he said. “Most powerful hand gun you can buy. Just ask Supervisor Finfrock.”
Supervisors Finfrock and Haines had followed Brown into the hall.
“I’ll take your word for it,” the chairman said. “Looks big enough to do more damage than that bomb.”
Brown gave him a crooked smile, as if he agreed that, as far as destructive power went, he had the advantage on the bomber.
“More to the point,” the chairman continued, “what’re you doing with it?”
“He’s guarding the vault,” Finfrock explained.
The chairman edged past a piece of broken glass and stepped inside. There were papers everywhere. Deposit and withdrawal slips, receipts, a
nd more he didn’t recognize. “Guarding the vault? What would you want to do a fool thing like that for?”
Brown shrank a little. “I’ve got a duty to my investors.”
“To risk your life? The money’s insured, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but…”
“What the hell,” Supervisor Haines said. “It’s his life. Let him set in there by his safe if he wants to. No skin off our butts. We got more important business just now.”
“They’ve been telling me,” Brown said, leading the way back down the dusky hall toward his office in the rear of the building. “But there’s some problems. You don’t have that much money in your accounts. Not that’s not borrowed against or that I know have got payments due.”
Supervisors Babcock and Fair met them at the door. “Can you believe this?” Finfrock told the chairman. “This fool’s saying he’s not gonna let us have our money.”
“You bet I’m not. I mean, you’re askin’ me to help you rob taxpayers and kite checks.” Brown didn’t raise the Smith & Wesson, but his knuckles got white around the grips.
“Now, let’s not go calling each other names, here,” the chairman said, wondering what they could do without Brown’s cooperation. Kiss the Energy Cooperative goodbye, he supposed.
“Mr. Brown,” Supervisor Haines said, “what we got here is a genuine emergency. Haven’t you been listening to me and my fellow board members explain that to you?”
“Well, yeah, sure I have. But you can’t go and spend money you don’t have.”
“Sure we can,” Haines reassured him. “We’re the government. Don’t you know the United States is running a deficit?”
“Of course,” Brown said, “only you’re not the federal government.”
“Actually, just now we are,” Supervisor Haines continued. “I just got off the phone with the Homeland Security Department. Told them what’s going on here. We’ve been delegated full authority. Donald Rumsfeld, himself, personally signed off on this thing. Until they can get a counterterrorism task force together and fly it in here, we got us a martial law situation. So you will release the money we tell you in the manner we specify, or we’ll have your ass on the first helicopter out of here so’s you can join the rest of the enemies of the state and see firsthand how you like the climate at Guantanamo.”
