by Linda Ladd
Then, before Bud or Claire could move, all the women lying on the ground lurched up onto their knees, almost in tandem, with six guns held in expert two-handed grips and all aimed directly at Bud, followed by a whole lot of unsettling sounds, like safeties going off and rounds being chambered.
“Oh, crap,” said Bud, and for very good reason.
Exactly, thought Claire. “We are Canton County Sheriff detectives,” she said with more calm than she was actually feeling at the moment. “Now all of you relinquish your weapons. We have backup on the way.” That wasn’t true, of course, but maybe they’d believe it. Claire waited a few seconds for them to obey her command, but to no avail. Looked like an eight-woman, one-man standoff, all right, which was always a pretty dicey affair, especially since there were just two of them on her side.
Finally, the lady with the .357 magnum said, “Okay, and I am FBI. I will, if you will.”
What the hell? Claire didn’t think so. She wasn’t born yesterday, after all. “You first. I always try to be polite. And do make it quick. A gun that big pointed straight at my heart makes me feel downright insecure.”
At that, the self-proclaimed Fed gave a slight smile. Then she spread her fingers wide apart and let the gun dangle by the trigger guard on her right forefinger. She squatted down slowly and gently laid her weapon on the snow and then raised both arms out to her sides. Immediately after that, the half dozen ladies on their knees did exactly the same thing in exactly the same manner, and with impressive syncopated movements, at that, almost like an Olympic water aerobics team without the bathing caps and water. Then to Claire’s utter surprise, they all looked around at each other and started clapping their hands and laughing as if they were having the time of their lives.
“Great show, Laurie!” one called out to Madame .357.
“Wow. I wasn’t expecting that,” cried another delighted female.
“That’s the best exercise we’ve done so far! It seemed so real. Especially the expression on that cute guy’s face when we all drew on him.”
Claire watched that cute guy’s face color to the exact shade of a sugar beet. He said with a more pleasant inflection, “Well, I hope all those weapons aren’t loaded.”
“Oh, they are loaded all right,” said Laurie, the alleged FBI agent. Then she looked at Claire, who still had not holstered her Glock and didn’t plan to do so any time soon. “You got a badge, detective? Or is this some kind of shakedown?”
Claire pulled the chain with her badge out from the neck of her parka and showed it around. The FBI lady examined it, close up and suspiciouslike. “Alrighty then. I’m satisfied. I’m Special Agent Laurie Dale, glad to meet you.” With a wide smile, she jerked off her right glove and stuck out her hand, all friendlylike.
Claire holstered her weapon and took the other woman’s hand. Laurie Dale gripped it nice and tight, and said, “These are my students. We’re the Ozarks Chapter of the Pack Those Pistols Gun Club. The ladies here are all participating in my carry-conceal class. We were reenacting a hostage crisis of sorts when you showed up. We got a bit of a bonus lesson today, right, girls?”
The girls all nodded and started rising to their feet, excited and talking together and seemed very happy nobody got shot. Actually, Claire was pretty happy about that herself. For, truth was, it could’ve been a bloodbath.
Claire said, “You’re really FBI?”
“Yeah, assigned out here at the farm for the moment.”
“You have time to sit down and talk to us? We need to ask you some questions about your neighbors.”
“Those crazy ass Fitches? Or those idiot Parker boys? I’m not surprised you’re on to them. Just a sec, and we’ll go inside and have a nice little chat.” She turned back to her waiting students. “Well, ladies, I guess that’s gonna have to be it for today. You got a little taste of the real thing, quite a surprise for all of us, I’d say. Hope you learned something from these two detectives. See you next week. Same time, same place. Bring plenty of ammo. We’re gonna do some target shooting.”
The chattering girls holstered their guns and proceeded around the side of the house to their cars, and Laurie Dale led Claire and Bud up onto the screened-in back porch and then through a door and into a nice big warm country kitchen, replete with the delicious smell of homemade chocolate fudge cake in the air.
“Have a seat. How about some cake and coffee? I’ve also got chocolate chip cookies. I baked a big batch this morning for the club.”
“Thanks,” said Claire.
“I’ll take both,” said Bud, trying not to drool.
While Claire and Bud shrugged out of their heavy winter parkas, Special Agent Dale poured them both big white mugs full of steaming hot coffee and then put down a platter full of homemade cookies in front of them. She cut them both a piece of the most fantastic looking cake, three tall layers, with fudge icing and miniature chocolate chips on top, and sliced strawberries all around the edge of the cake stand. Claire’s mouth actually started watering. That’s what she got for skipping breakfast. She put the first bite in her mouth as Laurie leaned against the bar and gazed at them. “So, you two are goin’ after all my yahoo neighbors, huh?”
“That’s right. We’re working a double homicide case. One of the Parker boys and his wife were both murdered recently.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. One is the body they found over in Ha Ha Tonka, right?”
Claire nodded, and Bud concentrated on eating his cookies.
“Well, I’m out here surveying my property lines, too, so join the club. And I’m filming any movements from about a dozen different game cameras I’ve got strapped to the trees out there. My SAC is interested in what they’re up to over there. Want my take? They’re all a bunch of mental patients running wild when they should be locked away somewhere.”
“So, you really are a Fed?” Bud asked, swallowing a bite of a rather large chocolate chip cookie, one about the size of a saucer, in fact. Claire took another bite of the cake, too, and almost shut her eyes in ecstasy. Laurie Dale was one helluva a cook. She ought to open a bakery, no doubt about it, maybe one with a gun range out behind it.
“That’s right. Out of our Springfield office. Love this assignment, though. Gives me more time to spend out here in the boonies with my husband, Scott. This is his farm, been in his family for years so they’ve dealt with those ignorant Fitches and Parkers for decades. Scott’s an attorney, and a damn good one. They all know he’ll sue if they ever step one foot on our land or cause us a spot of trouble. So they behave themselves where we’re concerned. But they go at each other nonstop. You’d think we lived in the hills of Kentucky during the Civil War.”
“What are you looking for with those cameras?”
“You name it. Gun running, prostitution, child abuse, illegal imprisonment, and that means those poor women born into Harold Fitch’s realm. He does like to degrade them. I’m surprised they don’t try to run away every single night of the year, and/or kill themselves. I sure couldn’t hack that kind of sexist treatment. There’d be a bunch of dead male chauvinists lying around all over that damn valley.” She paused long enough to take a drink of her coffee. “What about you? Any luck yet?”
“Well, we’re working both cases. The guy at Ha Ha Tonka. Paulie Parker. And we recently found his wife, Blythe, too, murdered in their home. Both beaten to death with blunt instruments. Her throat was slit. His wasn’t. We believe she was born a Fitch. You ever heard of either of them?”
“Nope. Scott and I don’t exactly swap recipes with those weirdos. They stay on their side of the fences, and we stay on ours. The surveillance thing is relatively recent. Chatter is that they are working on a deal with some organized crime elements, but I haven’t been able to prove it yet.”
“Could be the Petrovs out of East St. Louis. They’ve got ties to Blythe. Both of our vics died brutal deaths. Have you ever heard of a Parker marrying a Fitch?”
“I’d say not. That certainly doesn’t happen every
day. Maybe never before those two hooked up.”
Claire took another bite of the cake, couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t going to leave a crumb on the plate, and Bud wasn’t gonna get any of hers this time, either. “You know anything about the ATF having a man in deep cover over there in Fitchville?”
Laurie shook her head. “Nope. That’s news to me.”
“We didn’t, either, until he paid me a call at my place last night, showed me his badge, and told us to back off and let him do his job before we got him killed.”
“Well, that’s interesting, I must say. Agency cooperation at its worst. Too bad nobody tells anybody anything. It’s a miracle we all don’t end up shooting each other. Like this morning, for an example. I almost shot you. We need to coordinate, and do it all the time. But that double murder you’re working on doesn’t surprise me. It’s a regular Hatfield and McCoy war going on up here, with our property stuck right smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Have any of them attempted to harass you or your husband?”
“No, like I said, they respect Scott and his ability to sue their pants off in court. They do not want their backward lifestyles plastered all over the newspapers. That goes double for the Fitches. It would be harder to make their women wear gingham and walk three steps behind their men, if the media ever got hold of it and it hit the airwaves. As far as the Parkers go, they pretty much keep to themselves. A brutal bunch of guys, not too smart, either. I heard they had a father who abused them. But the Fitch men don’t spare the rod, either.” Laurie sat down on the high stool beside Claire. “But I can tell you one thing, there’s lots of shooting going on over there, at all hours, both sides, too. Most of it comes from an area that our land doesn’t abut. I think they’ve been holding illegal fights for money out there, too, and for years. Can’t prove it, though. Ever heard of a guy named Punk Fitch? Story is that he’s got a twin brother who’s even worse than he is. Real badasses, both of them, and they like to work together when they beat the crap out of people. I’ve got a feeling they’re in the middle of lots of the illegal stuff going on around here.”
“Yeah, actually, I have heard of him.”
“Well, we’re pretty sure now that he’s been beating people to death around here for years. We do know that he was placed in the Fulton State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but he recently escaped. That probably means he’s slinking somewhere around here as we speak.”
“Have you seen this Punk guy on any of your surveillance? Or his brother?”
“Not yet. I have a feeling that they know we’re watching. And somebody’s been sneaking up outside camera range and putting our equipment out of commission. Nothing we can prove, of course. Don’t have enough yet on either family for a warrant to go in and search. They are careful, and sometimes they are smarter than they look.”
Claire said, “We don’t have much, either, not yet. We were hoping you could help us out, living next door to them like this.”
“My advice? Go over to Fulton. Check out the doctors who treated that guy. Hear what they have to say about him. They might know something that’ll help you. He was in there quite a long time before he escaped, I think. They’ve got to know what makes him tick, or not tick, I might ought to say. Stories I’ve heard, his brain ought to be sitting in some lab, next to Hitler’s, maybe, on the most defective specimens’ shelf.”
“Sounds like a plan. We’ll look further into that guy. Any chance you can make us copies of those tapes if you catch anybody skulking around?”
“Sure. Could take me a day or so, though. I doubt if you’ll see anything you haven’t already seen. They are very careful and they post guards around here and there, guards with binoculars and high-powered rifles with nightscopes. Not sure that’s to keep intruders out, or the women in.”
Bud said, “Yeah, I hear you on that one. We saw those women for ourselves the other day.”
After they finished their cake and coffee and warmed up some, they got up and thanked Laurie Dale for her help, and then she walked them through her big comfortable farmhouse to the front door. It was beautifully decorated but in a cozy way that made a person want to settle in and stay a spell. As they were leaving, Laurie looked at Claire. “Hey, detective, how about joining our little gun club? We’ve got some nice women involved, and I’ve made some good friends. We have lots of fun when we meet up here or down at the lake. You can handle that Glock with the best of them, from what I observed when you got the drop on me and had me in your sights. That hasn’t happened all that often in my career so I’m sure glad you were friendly.”
Claire smiled. “Yeah, and same back at you. Maybe I will. I’ll think about it and let you know.”
Laurie pulled a white card out of the pocket of her red sweater. “Here you go. Now you know where to find me. Good luck with your investigation. Let me know if I can help you. Any time, night or day. Just ask. Truth? It’s pretty boring tromping around out there in the snow watching those backwoods creeps do their thing.”
After they said their good-byes, and very much encouraged, Claire and Bud climbed back into Bud’s Bronco and returned to town. But Claire had already decided a little trip to a state mental institution was definitely in order, and who better to arrange that little excursion than her own personal and famous shrink of all shrinks, the one and only Dr. Nicholas Black. He could probably open any doors over in Fulton as easy as one, two, three. Even the padlocked ones. And those just happened to be the very ones she wanted to go inside and take a look around.
Chapter Twenty-two
The State Hospital in Fulton, Missouri, had opened its doors in 1851 and was purported to be the oldest public mental health facility west of the Mississippi River. Tidbits obtained by Google, each and every one. And it looked to Claire like it certainly lived up to its ancient billing. The state highways and byways were nice and clear after a day or two of extremely cold sunshine and zero precipitation. Black elected to drive his big shiny Humvee that she found so super awesome, probably chosen over the helicopter, because it would take them longer to get there and back, and thereby keep Claire far away from the super-crazy people he knew she was investigating of late. He didn’t tell her that, of course, but she knew him well and could read between his motives even better.
Black also called ahead to the mental asylum so as to make an emergency appointment with his fellow headshrinker of the ultra, ultra, bark-at-the-moon crazies of Missouri society. His colleague there happened to have the unfortunate moniker of one Dr. Henry LeCorps, which Claire decided was one of the most terrible names any doctor could ever possess, right in line behind Dr. Will Killyou.
“How well do you know this LeCorps guy?” she asked Black, when they stopped in the wide, green-tiled corridor outside said doctor’s office in Biggs Forensic Center, which turned out to be the maximum security unit where the worst of the worst dangerous and psychotic maniac killers were kept in their nice soft padded cells, no doubt.
“Pretty well. Hank’s an old friend. So don’t make fun of his last name. He’s sensitive about its connotation.”
Claire laughed softly. “You think? Well, I’d say he should be. It’s a tad off-putting for new patients, I suspect.”
“Just don’t taunt him about it, Claire.”
“As if I’m that rude. Really, Black. You offend me.”
Black ignored her sarcasm, opened the door, and then stood back politely for her to enter first, quite the gent whenever he wanted to be, which was most of the time. Not that she usually wanted him to have to open every damn door for her, but it was sweet and rather retro on his part, and she liked it, as well as just about everything else about him, too. Inside the waiting room, she found a combination secretary/clinical nurse/warden manning a rather old white metal desk to match the rather old rest of the building. Black had told her that they were trying to get state money designated to overhaul the hospital, mainly because they were still using old kitchen appliances that had been taken off decommissione
d Korean War battleships, or from some other equally ridiculous and embarrassing place. But, oh, well, it all did seem a little worse for the wear while trying valiantly to hold up, and that was the truth.
The nurse said hello and good morning and please wait and good to see you again, Dr. Black, and the doctor will be with you shortly and take any seat you wish. Blah, blah, blah, and more blah, just like all physicians’ receptionists everywhere, almost to the letter, at that, and all said while the phone was ringing and waiting for her to pick up the receiver and say all the same things again. They ought to just make a recording, and be done with it. Just press the button when they see somebody approaching, play their little spiel, and smile ingratiatingly.
So, they sat down in the seats of their choosing and waited for almost twenty long and endless minutes. Black took the time to be his usual calm and relaxed self while reading through a patient’s file that he’d brought along on his iPad because he probably knew how long shrinks like him make people like her wait, being a crack and often sought-after one himself, and who also probably made people wait too long. After about twelve and one-half minutes, Claire began twiddling her thumbs and started to get all antsy and annoyed and wanting to flash her badge and make threats.
So she got up, paced to the windows, and stared out over the rather lovely grounds and thought about Laurie Dale, FBI Lady/Cake Maker Extraordinaire, and how they’d almost had the shoot-out at the O. K. Corral in her backyard with her and her trigger-happy gun club. What a headline that would’ve made: CANTON COUNTY DETECTIVES ANNIHILATE ALL-WOMAN GUN CLUB. Or, even worse, ALL-WOMAN GUN CLUB ANNIHILATES HAPLESS DETECTIVES or the most horrific of all, EIGHT DEAD IN SNOW FOR NO APPARENT REASON. Thank God, none of that had happened. Because, truth be told, Claire rather liked Laurie Dale. Now that was a lady who could handle a .357 Magnum with the best of them. Even Dirty Harry would be jealous if he weren’t fictional, and she did it all the while looking as cool as a cucumber, too. Maybe Claire would join up with that club and play some war games, especially if they agreed to name it something less cheesy and ridiculous. Perhaps The Gun Club, for instance.
