BLOOD APPEAL
VIGILANTE - A SPECIES OF COMMON LAW
BOOK THREE IN THE PALATINI SERIES
LYLE O’CONNOR
PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974
[email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com
ISBN 978-1-59433-596-9
ISBN 978-1-59433-597-6 eBook
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2016933352
Copyright 2015 Lyle O’Connor
—First Edition—
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
Dedicated in love for my Grandchildren—
Kasydi
Ava
Kaydence
Cheyenne
Shiloh
Raegan
Blood Appeal is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.
OTHER BOOKS BY LYLE O’CONNOR
Due Process
Lawless Measures
Table of Contents
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgements
“The man with insight enough to admit his limitations comes nearest to perfection.”
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I would like to thank a few people who have made my limitations less pronounced.
My longtime friend, Walter Allen Grant, author, and content editor of the Palatini Series.
His guidance continues to provide a vital role in my writing.
A very special thanks to BJ Wood whose generous collaboration on this novel has brought greater depth to the characters and strength to the story.
Finally, a shout-out to Danny Crabb for usage of his southern vernacular in this work.
The Beatles made famous the lyrics,
I get by with a little help from my friends.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter 1
“Don’t ever think the reason I am peaceful is because I’ve forgotten how to be violent”
—Unknown
Shell Knob, Missouri
April 1, 2003
“9-1-1 dispatch, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“Hey there y’all, this here be Cletus Forbes ov’rin Whiskey Gulch. I has a body layin’ out here, and she’s a lookin’ deader ‘n’ hell.”
Barry County’s Sheriff Dispatcher, Emma Lathrop, kept Cletus on the line while she relayed information to two patrol deputies with the added comment, “Check out the validity of the report.”
Deputy Bart Delford, a ten-year veteran of the force, picked up the call and responded, “Be near half-an-hour till I get there.” It wasn’t Delford’s first trip to Whiskey Gulch. Cletus had a long, and less than favorable history with Barry County’s finest. If the report turned out false, which Delford assumed it was, he’d haul him off to the hoosegow again.
Reporter Jay Landers, a young, energetic newcomer to the local grass-roots weekly newspaper in Barry County, had likewise picked up Lathrop’s dispatch over his portable police scanner and wasted no time calling dispatch to verify the report. Landers had never met Cletus, but he soon found himself on the road heading southeast toward Whiskey Gulch to meet the man he knew only by reputation.
In the rural communities of Barry County, any news, legitimate or otherwise, traveled like wildfire. It wouldn’t be too far from the truth to say the story grew with every conversation, certainly faster than I’d grown accustomed to in Portland’s urban area. I’d been told that everyone knows everyone in Barry County, but it wasn’t true. There wasn’t anyone who knew everyone, but everyone knew someone, which caused a chain reaction on the local phone lines. They sizzled when there was news to spread. I recalled seeing the process in action in early March. Table Rock Lake was the scene of a horrific boating accident that set off a flurry of phone calls in this tiny community. The informal phone tree activated when the first caller sounded the alarm. Everyone was notified at least once in the first couple of hours, and by day’s end it was anybody’s guess how many times the word had gone around.
The local newspaper Landers worked for was, at best, an added value to breaking news in the region. The weekly edition hit the shelves every Wednesday and usually validated local phone tree events. Follow up articles and filling in the gaps was the primary impact of the newspaper’s mission. Country folk might come across as simple-minded, but they weren’t, not like some people think, or portray them. Their human nature dictates the importance of details like anyone else. Precisely the reason Landers hoped he’d landed a scoop.
According to the dispatcher’s log, it was five-thirty-three Tuesday morning when Cletus made his call. For Landers, it was an extraordinary stroke of luck in timing. If the report was genuine, and he hurried, he’d have the story copy ready by press time the next morning. If he missed the evening deadline, it would be seven more days before he’d have another chance. By then, the story would have taken on the usual staleness of an update, not a breaking news story. A few days later, Landers told me, “If it had turned out differently, and Cletus didn’t have a body, it was okay. I would have caught an early breakfast, and made a human interest story about 9-1-1 calls.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “It’s always worthwhile to have a backup plan.”
Landers had managed to reach the Forbes residence in Whiskey Gulch before anyone else had arrived. Again, he wasted no time. He contacted Cletus, introduced himself, and did what reporters are most notorious for; he stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong. Up until now, Shell Knob residents had given Cletus little credit for his IQ or common sense. But it would appear he had redeemed himself to some degree when he refused to allow Landers onto his property or to contaminate the crime scene before the responding agencies had arrived. Landers told me, “At that point I was sure it was a ruse.”
Cletus referred to himself as a farmer and called his parcel of land a farm, but neither was true. He hadn’t tilled the soil or used his acreage to plant crops, at least nothing legitimate. But, he did have a few honeybee hives and a drainage ditch full of blackberry brambles that grew wild. These provided him with a little cash on the side, but in my book it didn’t constitute a farm.
I remembered having been on a narrow winding dirt road through Whiskey Gulch and to the best of my recollection the entire valley was a maze of thick brush. In an odd quirk, I distinctly remember thinking a guy could hide a lot of bodies in the Gulch, and they’d likely never be found. If Cletus found a body, then I’d obviously been wrong.
Landers made his deadline. Wednesday afternoon copies of the Cassville rag flew off the shelf at the local retail outlets, enough so that the managing editor ran a second print the following day to meet demand. I didn’t find the quest for more information terribly strange behavior for a small community. Fear and morbid curiosity have always had tremendous draw power, even to the bes
t of people. Not only was the community ablaze with gossip, but Landers had also successfully filled in a few of the gaps with his word for word account of Forbes 9-1-1 call and his subsequent interviews. His article had a personal flair. “We were leery it was another prank call. It wouldn’t have been funny, but it never stopped ol’ Cletus in the past,” Lathrop said. Landers pointed out there was good cause to question a call from Cletus at five-thirty-three in the morning. He had a well-known history in Barry County for all the wrong reasons. According to the rumor mill, he had the finest moonshine in the vicinity of Table Rock Lake, bar none. He’d been known to personally taste-test every new batch from his still. A fresh batch of ‘shine had also corresponded with many of his previous run-ins with the law.
In an unusual confession to a newspaper reporter, Deputy Delford said, “I was reluctant to go out there at first. It was April Fools’ Day, and I figured he was probably playing a joke on us.” At one point, Delford told Landers, “It’d been a long and quiet night on patrol. I’d planned to give Cletus a piece of my mind for pulling a stunt like this here one. Then I’d haul him in.”
When Deputy Delford arrived, he directed Landers to stay at the house. Forbes pointed and said, “She be over thar.” Forbes escorted the Deputy in the direction he’d indicated. Landers reported that Bart, who he’d become friends with since moving to Cassville, and Cletus had walked a couple hundred yards from the house before they disappeared from view. A few seconds later a crackling radio transmission came over the portable scanner confirming the worst, “Dispatch, this here is Delford—we got us a body.”
Landers headline the following day landed him top billing for the front-page slot in the publication. In bold type, it read “Young girl’s body found in Whiskey Gulch, face down and naked.” It was a massive caption filling a quarter of the page. He had his scoop. In other corners of Missouri such as Kansas City or St. Louis, it would’ve been old news in a day. In Shell Knob, it was likely to be a front-page article for a month. If Landers worked it right, he could keep it in the news longer. Details were sketchy. The victim’s identity remained unknown. Delford made a couple of educated guesses. “The girl ain’t been dead too awful long and it’s a crime scene sure enough. Foul play is expected as the cause of death.” An autopsy had been scheduled. The information determining cause and time of death would likely be swift. A Sheriff’s Department spokesman released a statement, “We have not received any recent missing persons’ reports and there are no local reports of runaways which match the victim’s general description.” For some, this would signal a relief.
Nothing like this had ever happened in quiet and peaceful Shell Knob; population two-thousand, more or less. There had been deaths from vehicle, swimming, and boating accidents, but not a brutal, cold-blooded murder like this, at least not that any of the townspeople could remember. The unincorporated community of Shell Knob was spread across either side of the northwestern corner of Table Rock Lake along State Highway 39, and smack-dab in the middle of the Mark Twain National Forest’s Ava district. In my mind, there was no safer place on earth to live. Apparently I had been mistaken.
Throughout the night, prior to Cletus’ Forbes 9-1-1 call, I’d been awakened multiple times in cold sweats. My recollection of dreams was that of blood pooling on the ground. As disturbing as this might have been, what followed was worse. Spine chilling screams echoed in the breeze, followed by eerie moans as if a wolf howled outside my cabin door. I pulled my handgun close to my side and lay in the dark, waiting and watching until I’d fallen back to sleep again. Abruptly, the cycle started over with blood seeping up through the ground, always with blood.
It was through a strange twist of fate that I had arrived in Shell Knob a few months earlier. I’d been traveling from Buffalo, New York to my home in Portland, Oregon when I veered off course. I’d stopped in to check on an acquaintance and then found no need to resume my journey. There were a lot of things to enjoy in Shell Knob. My lady friend, Joyce Farmer, was one of them.
Frankly, I didn’t feel like I belonged in Shell Knob, although I had deeply entrenched roots in a similar environment. I had lived on a cattle ranch in the Chenoweth district of The Dalles, Oregon and spent many days and nights hiking and camping in the rolling foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Life was laid-back and peaceful amongst the hills and alfalfa fields of the Columbia River Gorge. It was the kind of upbringing and life most city people only dreamt about but never experienced. However, there came a time when duty called and off to war I went for God, country, and mom’s apple pie. Except I didn’t find any of those things we’d been fighting for in the rice paddies of a foreign land. Saigon fell to communism, and my commitment to military service ended. I’d sought to do the right thing, but my countrymen disdained the sacrifices that we’d made. I returned to the workforce an empty and unfulfilled person. My compassion for humanity was all but nonexistent. With country living in my rear view mirror, I set my sights on a career. As with many of my friends, the well-trodden routes led to big industrialized cities. My path ended in Portland.
I despised every aspect of urban living, especially the level of crime. It was everywhere. Co-workers at the aluminum factory were ambivalent to the rising crime statistics and avoided the issue as if it would disappear on its own. By their behavior, you would have thought it was an accepted fact of big city life to be contended with—I didn’t see it that way.
The abundance of crime, coupled with the lack of interest others demonstrated, made a negative impact on me. Reaching my lowest point, and overwhelmed by victims sufferings, I changed my outlook from thoughts to actions. A kaleidoscope of dreams and ghostly apparitions attached themselves to my obsession. It was a deadly mix. My fixation over the mistreatment of victims of heinous crimes brought me to the breaking point of sanity. Some might even say I broke, but I didn’t share their opinion.
I kept to myself and minded my own business. I enjoyed my regular workout routine until crime seized the opportunity to pay me a visit. I didn’t ask for it, but I wasn’t one to shy away either. One day, fate guided me to Destiny on the bike path near my Portland home. I had frequently pondered what course of action I’d pursue if faced with a violent criminal attack. Mentally I’d prepared for such an event. But I learned I wasn’t ready because it seldom goes down the way a person imagines. I witnessed a female fighting for her life and being dragged from the bike trail into a wooded area. I’d armed myself months earlier with a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver for my protection while hiking the urban trails. I reasoned at this time my intervention was necessary. I drew my weapon and interrupted what I believed to be a rape and possible murder in progress.
In the midst of the chaotic scene, a shining spirit-apparition appeared before me. In a demonstrative way, the ghostly female figure urged me to kill the attacker, but I hesitated. It was quickly apparent that neither the victim nor the perpetrator could see her. After the police and ambulance had left with both victim and bad guy, I was once again joined by the apparition. Through her guidance, a path was chosen for me to walk. Forever illuminated as the passage to righteousness, I proceeded steadfastly in The Way. I named the spirit Destiny. She was my friend and closest ally.
As I followed my calling, I factored myself in as a lethal consequence through vigilante justice. My campaign of terror against the vilest of criminals caught the eye of a journalist, Anna Sasins, who led me to a secret society known as Palatini. They were those who represented a knighthood of the resurrected order of freelance assassins—I was knighted “Scythian,” one who wields a scythe as the Grim Reaper. The name has served me well. Wisely, I’d hidden my birth name so that it might never be known. Through my façade as a freelance reporter, I am known as Walter Eloy Goe.
Palatini knights existed for a single purpose, to right the wrongs committed on the innocent, as did our medieval predecessors who’d fought crime and tyranny in their day. Our mission was one of guardianship of the people. We lay no claim to being superher
oes, but we didn’t call 9-1-1 either. We took care of business our way—the vigilante way. We fought our most recent Palatini project along the New York-Canadian border. I’d been called upon to assassinate a couple of Mob targets who were pimping underage girls in their brothels. I was more than happy to lend a hand. The project should have been routine, but it didn’t turn out that way. It was my opinion that we’d compromised our principles to bring the bloodshed to an end. Making a deal with the mob was like making a deal with the devil, and I conveyed that message clearly. Other Palatini operators didn’t feel the same way. We’d reached our project’s primary goal through a pact with another mobster faction who’d agreed to end the human trafficking. I doubted any such agreement would stand for long. They were not honorable men. The dominant opinion prevailed that it was in our best interest to let the mob fix the mob or we’d end up in an endless battle.
My contrary position put me at odds with the Palatini. I came across as disgruntled and as if I distrusted those I was in league with, but it wasn’t true. My beliefs were framed with the simplest of principles to guide me. When it came to dealing with lawyers, politicians, and mobsters, I found the adage, “If their lips were moving they were lying,” apropos. To my way of thinking, all mobsters were the epitome of evil, as were lawyers and politicians. In the end, I couldn’t come to grips with anything the mob promised, and cast the only dissenting vote among Palatini. The project was tied off, and each of us went our separate ways.
Joyce Farmer, my acquaintance, and lady-friend, lived east of Shell Knob on Highway 39. I had a hand in helping her leave the Mobinfested work environment of Toronto, and back to her childhood home in Missouri. Upon my arrival, she gave the impression she was happy to see me again and invited me to stay if I liked. I liked a lot, and we’ve spent the past three months informally cohabiting.
Blood Appeal Page 1
