by Scott Pratt
Mooney’s complexion immediately changed from pink to purple, and his mouth tightened. He began to slowly spin the martini glass with his right hand.
“I assume that was a joke,” Mooney said.
“Afraid not. I arrested him for extortion and soliciting a bribe, for now. I’m going to have Dillard look at the case and see what else he can come up with.”
Mooney took a long drink from the martini and set it gently back down on the desk. Bates had to give him credit: Besides the change in color, Mooney had exhibited barely any reaction to the news. He shook his head.
“Extortion? Alexander? I don’t believe it.”
“Maybe you’ll believe it when you see the video, but for now, I’ll just play the audio.”
Bates reached into his back pocket and produced a small CD player that contained a recording of the night Alexander had collected two thousand dollars from Bates’s informant. He pushed the button and allowed the recording to play from start to finish. When it ended, Bates picked the recorder up and put it back in his pocket. Mooney drained the rest of the martini and began to finger his handlebar mustache.
“Alexander’s been begging me to make a deal,” Bates said. “He says it was all your idea. He wants to give you up. He’s even willing to wear a wire on you.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Mooney said calmly.
“Any truth to it?”
“What do you think?”
Bates leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head, savoring the moment. Bates was a sheriff, and a damned good one, but he was first and foremost a politician. Opportunities like this were rare, and Bates planned to make the most of it.
“I think it’s time for you and me to make a deal,” Bates said. “The way I see it is this little situation could go real bad for you unless I was to see my way clear to put a certain spin on it. The way I see it is I can either tell folks around here that I suspect the district attorney has been involved in illegal activity but I can’t prove it, or, later on down the road if the word leaks out, I can tell them that we investigated Alexander’s accusations thoroughly and there is absolutely no evidence that the district attorney was involved in any way. I can tell them that Alexander is desperate and is trying to save his own ass by smearing his boss. And coming from me, people will believe it.”
“What about your recording? It mentions me.” Bates noticed that beads of sweat were forming at Mooney’s temples.
“Digital recordings can be altered pretty easily,” Bates said. “Computers are fine tools.”
Mooney rose from the chair and walked back over to the bar. Bates watched Mooney’s hands closely as he poured another drink. They weren’t even trembling.
“You said something about a deal,” Mooney said. “What is it you want?”
“Not much. You’ve got ambitions; I’ve got ambitions. Me? I think I’d make a fine state senator when my term as sheriff is up. But in order for me to be a senator, I’m gonna need a lot of political and financial support. I believe you could help me with both of those things. But in the meantime, I want you to stay out of Dillard’s way and let him make sure Alexander gets what he deserves. I also want your word that you’ll support me in everything I do from this day forward. If I bust a gambler, I want him prosecuted. Same with drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes, whatever. You make me look good, and I’ll make sure you don’t go to jail.”
“Sheriff, take a look around you,” Mooney said as he walked back towards the desk. “Expensive furniture, expensive antiques, expensive art, cherry molding, imported tile, vodka that costs a hundred dollars a bottle. I have plenty of money. What makes you think that I would ever get involved in something like this, despite what my nephew claims?”
“Your wife went to see a divorce lawyer when she caught you sleeping with Rita Jones last year,” Bates said. “Can’t say as I blame you. Rita’s a looker. But stuff like that gets around pretty quick in a small place like this. The way I figure it is that you thought you might be out on your ear, and since you’d gotten used to living like this here, well, I reckon you just needed another source of income, and those gamblers were easy pickins. But it appears as though your wife has forgiven you. Either that or it’d cost her too damned much money to divorce you. Am I right?”
A smile crossed Mooney’s face as he stood over Bates, drink in hand.
“You know a lot, don’t you, Sheriff?”
“It pays to know a lot.”
Bates rose and stuck out his hand. “So, do we have a deal? In exchange for me keeping this ugly matter under my cowboy hat, you support me a hundred and ten percent from now on. And when the time comes for me to move on up in the world of politics, you’ll make a substantial campaign contribution, publicly endorse me, and get your friends to do the same. Plus you stop shaking down the gamblers, give Alexander’s case to Dillard, and stay out of his way.”
Mooney took Bates’s hand and squeezed.
“Have you spoken to Dillard about this?” Mooney said.
“I talked to him, but I didn’t say nary a word about you.”
“Anyone else know about it?”
“The jailers know Alexander’s in jail. My informant heard what Alexander had to say, but I took care of him. That’s it.”
“Good. Then I guess we have a deal.”
Mooney set his drink down on the desk and led Bates back through the house to the front door. As Bates stepped back out into the sunshine, he heard Mooney clear his throat behind him.
“Sheriff, do you mind telling me how you caught Alexander?”
Bates turned and grinned. “It was good old-fashioned police work is all.”
“Hmm, good for you. Bad break for me, huh?”
“Brother, let me tell you what my granddaddy used to say when I told him I thought I’d caught a bad break. ‘Leon,’ he’d say, ‘the sun don’t shine up the same dog’s ass every day. If it did, it’d warp his ribs.’ ”
Bates tipped his hat to the district attorney, got in his car, and drove away.
Monday, November 10
I took the money to Jim Beaumont Saturday morning after I talked to Martha King, and then spent the rest of the weekend trying to distract myself. I ran six miles both Saturday and Sunday, cleaned out the garage, fixed a leak in an upstairs faucet, mopped all the floors in the house, did a couple of loads of laundry, anything to keep busy. I slept fitfully Sunday night. Images of Natasha kept haunting my dreams. At four fifteen on Monday morning, I had a vision of Natasha standing over me while I slept, ice pick in her hand, and I bolted upright. Sweat was pouring out of me, so I went into the bathroom and took a shower. I didn’t even bother trying to go back to sleep.
Caroline’s mother walked through the door at seven, right on time. Her name is Melinda, a tall and elegant woman, sixty-eight years old. She’d agreed to stay with Caroline during the day until the worst of the sickness passed.
“Why is there a sheriff’s car out there?” Melinda said as I gathered my things.
“We had a little problem with someone. Nothing to worry about.”
She looked at me suspiciously. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the girl who went after you in the courtroom, does it?”
“It might, but I think we’ve got it under control. If everything goes well today, she’ll be in jail by Wednesday.”
“For what?”
“For committing crimes against the peace and dignity of the great state of Tennessee.”
“How’s Caroline?” Melinda said.
“She still has a slight fever, and I don’t think she slept very well. I’m worried about her.”
“Well, her mother will take good care of her. You can run along and save the world.”
The truth was that I didn’t care much for Melinda, although I refrained from saying anything to Caroline. She was a cold and manipulative woman who reminded me very much of my own mother. But I was relieved to have her around. I knew I could count on her to look after my wife.
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nbsp; I was glad to see Alisha standing at the corner of the convenience store when I pulled in. She was wearing the same dark coat and tan cap she’d been wearing Friday. She got into the truck and smiled, but she had very little to say on the way to the courthouse. We arrived a little before eight, and I escorted her up the steps to my office. The hearing was scheduled to start at nine. I hadn’t heard anyone say anything about it being postponed or canceled, so I made some coffee and brought a cup to Alisha.
Fraley walked in just a couple of minutes later in his usual jovial mood. He was wearing a brown jacket that had a small tear in the right shoulder seam, and I noticed a stain on his white shirt.
“Well, if it isn’t the phantom,” Fraley said when he saw Alisha.
“Alisha Davis, meet Hank Fraley,” I said.
She smiled and nodded at Fraley. “We met at the park, but we haven’t been properly introduced.”
“Speaking of the park, where did you disappear to?” Fraley said. “I talked to Dillard for a couple of minutes, and when I started back down to talk to you, you were gone.”
“When you live with someone like Natasha, you learn to disappear,” she said. “As soon as Mr. Dillard turned his back I started walking down the hill towards the river. Then I walked along the bank. There wasn’t anything magical about it.”
“I talked to a woman on Saturday who explained some things about telepathy to me,” I said to Alisha while Fraley poured himself a cup of coffee. “I tried to get her to come and testify, but she said there wasn’t going to be a hearing.”
“No hearing?” Fraley said. “Why not?”
“She didn’t say. She just said she sensed something about evil being around me.”
“I know how she feels,” Alisha said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Don’t worry; you’ll do fine. Just answer the questions the best you can.”
“That’s not what I mean. I just have this nagging feeling that something very bad is happening.”
“Happening? You mean now?”
“Yes. Something isn’t right.”
Lester McKamey sat on the cold concrete bench and sulked. The guards had rousted him early and taken him to a holding cell near the sally port. They’d refused to bring him any breakfast, telling him food wasn’t allowed in the holding cell. He’d been there for two hours, and his stomach was churning and growling. To make things worse, if they didn’t hold his hearing in the morning, he’d be stuck at the courthouse and would miss lunch, too. Fucking assholes. Being locked up was bad enough. Did they have to starve him to boot?
A fat transport deputy in a khaki uniform unlocked the cell door. The clock in the drab gray hallway said it was seven forty-five, too goddamned early to go to the courthouse.
“Why the hell are y’all takin’ me over there already?” Lester whined. “Court don’t start till nine.”
“What difference does it make to you, boy? You can sit on your ass over there as good as you can sit on your ass here.”
“I ain’t gonna get fed till suppertime,” Lester said.
“Tell it to somebody who cares.”
The guard led Lester down a short hallway. The steel door buzzed and then clanged as the bolt released. The door slid back into the wall and Lester walked through to yet another steel door twenty feet down the hall. It slid open and Lester could feel the cool morning air. A white van sat idling in the open sally port. Lester climbed into the back, conscious that another inmate was already there. Lester didn’t look at the other inmate as the guard chained his shackles to a steel ring on the floor. He wasn’t in the mood for idle conversation.
As the van bounced along towards the highway, Lester thought about his prospects. He’d been arrested for his third DUI in eighteen months after being stopped at a sobriety checkpoint a month ago. The cops also tacked on driving on suspended, second offense, violation of the seat belt law, violation of the implied consent law, and misdemeanor possession of marijuana for half a goddamned joint they found in the ashtray. His mama and daddy had refused to post his bail, and he’d been stuck in jail ever since. His lawyer, a fresh-faced punk who probably didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, had filed a motion claiming the roadblock violated Lester’s constitutional rights. If the lawyer was right, Lester would be home by suppertime. But if he was wrong, Lester was looking at six more months of eating cheap peanut butter and bologna.
The courthouse was less than two miles from the jail, so the ride lasted only a few minutes. Lester continued to sulk and stare at the floor as the guard unchained the other inmate. Once his own chain was unlocked and pulled through the ring, Lester climbed out. He thought he recognized the other guy as they shuffled towards the steps that led to the courthouse holding cell, but he wasn’t sure. He’d get a better look when they got upstairs.
The guard led them through the door, up the steps, and into the holding area. Lester leaned on one foot, then the other, as he waited for fat-ass to unlock the cell. The other dude shuffled into the cell ahead of Lester and plunked himself down on the concrete bench. Lester took a seat on the floor across from him. The guard slammed the cell door and walked out, leaving the two of them alone. The courthouse bailiffs were in charge of holding cell security, but they didn’t pay much attention. The last time Lester had been in the cell, a fifty-something lesbian with big teeth had talked on the phone on the other side of the counter for almost an hour. When she hung up, she disappeared until it was time for Lester to go in front of the judge.
The guy across from him was leaning over on his elbows with his face in his hands. He was wearing the standard-issue orange jail jumpsuit. He was lanky and had long black hair that Lester figured had been dyed, since the roots were a different color. Why in the hell would anybody dye their damned hair black? It made the guy look like a fucking zombie.
Wait a minute. Wait just a goddamned minute. Could it be? Lester cleared his throat.
“S’up, dude?” Lester said.
The zombie lifted his chin. It was him. The baby killer. Lester had seen him on television a bunch of times. What’s his name? Zombie-looking motherfucking baby killer, that’s what. Why would they leave me alone in a cell with a goddamned baby killer? I’m just a drunk.
Lester decided to play dumb, act like he didn’t recognize the dude. Maybe he’d even get the zombie to say something Lester could use later on to cut a deal and get out of jail.
“I’m fixin’ to get the hell out of here,” Lester said.
“That right?” said the zombie.
“Fuckin’-A. My lawyer says they violated my rights by settin’ up a roadblock out in the middle of nowhere.”
The zombie responded by dropping his face back into his hands.
“What’s your name, dude?” Lester said.
“What the fuck do you care?” the zombie said through his fingers.
“Shit, man, ain’t no need to get your panties all in a wad. I was just tryin’ to be friendly. Whatcha doin over here today?”
“Kicking the shit out of a baldheaded little redneck if he doesn’t shut his fucking mouth.”
“Damn, you are one hostile dude,” Lester said. He stood up and walked towards the barred window at the back of the cell that looked out over the parking lot behind the courthouse, still stinging from the remark about his bald head. He’d thought about getting one of those rugs like his uncle Roy, but they were too damned expensive. Besides, he didn’t want to put up with all the shit he’d hear from his drinking buddies.
Lester watched another van pull up and saw a stocky, black-haired boy get out of the back, wearing the same orange jumpsuit that he and the zombie were wearing. It was the other baby killer. He remembered this one’s name because Lester had a younger brother named Levi. His brother was pretty much worthless, but at least he wasn’t no baby killer.
“Looks like we’re gonna have company,” Lester said.
A couple of minutes later, Lester heard the sound of shackles rattling in the hall. The door
opened and Levi came shuffling through, followed by a different transport deputy. The deputy stuck his key in the barred door and opened it. Lester had heard the news about the zombie wanting to cut some kind of deal with the DA’s office, and he knew there wasn’t but one way to cut a deal. You had to rat somebody out. This could get interesting.
The kid walked into the cell without looking at either Lester or the zombie. He sat down on the concrete bench next to the zombie and stared at the wall while the deputy locked the cell door.
“I’ll be back to pick you up at noon, Levi,” the deputy said.
What was that? A deputy who ain’t a son of a bitch? He called the boy by his name. Lester had never heard a guard or a deputy call an inmate by name. Sometimes they’d call them inmate or prisoner, but usually it was dickhead or maggot or shitbird or asshole. Never by name. He shook his head. If the deputy was coming back to pick up Levi at noon, that meant Lester’s hearing wouldn’t be held until at least one thirty. He’d have to sit in this fucking cell and twiddle his goddamned thumbs all morning. Why in the hell won’t they feed the inmates in the courthouse holding cells?
The clock behind the counter outside the bars said ten after eight. Lester could smell coffee brewing and could hear a couple of the bailiffs laughing beyond the door that opened onto a hallway that led to the courtroom. He put his back against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor.
“I hear you’re planning to make a deal,” a voice said. Lester looked towards the baby killers. The young one, Levi, was staring at the zombie, who still had his face in his hands. Levi’s voice was calm, his empty eyes locked onto the zombie’s head.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” the zombie said without moving.
Levi leaned towards him and hissed, “You gonna snitch on me?”
“I’m not snitching on anybody.”
“You’re a liar. And a coward.”
“Fuck you, man,” the zombie said, and he stood up and started to move towards the window. Before he could get out of range, Lester saw Levi rock back and lift his knees to his chest. His shackled feet flew forward and the zombie’s knees buckled. Lester slid into the corner and pulled his ankles beneath him as Levi leaped onto the zombie’s back and drove him face-first into the concrete floor.
