by J. M. Hayes
Their daughters found the idea of leaving the book on the table morbid. So they’d shelved it. But they were mostly away at school by then. The sheriff just took it back down and put it on the table as soon as they were away. Eventually, they’d left it alone. The sheriff had read it several times since, always carefully returning Judy’s bookmark to the proper spot.
The sheriff unconsciously put a hand on the book. Seeking Judy’s advice, or just some reminder of her. She’d had a mind of her own and a tendency to speak it. Hard to live with. Harder still to live without.
There was a phone on the table, too. As well as the remote for the old TV that sat across the room. The sheriff briefly considered calling his daughters. Saying goodbye. No, he decided. He didn’t want them remembering him that way. He didn’t want his last words to be false assurances of his well-being. He’d talked to both of them yesterday. And both were busy today, and not expecting calls. They knew him too well. They’d hear trouble in his voice. Better, if he died today, that they remember yesterday’s conversations than whatever maudlin thoughts he might mumble on this Christmas afternoon.
He thought, too, about calling Mad Dog. The sheriff hadn’t spoken to his brother for a week. He’d planned a call tonight, after Pam got home from work at the casino. Mad Dog might have a useful insight or—he smiled—a way to make things worse. The sheriff looked at the phone for a moment and then got up and walked over to the fireplace. The mantel was lined with photographs of his daughters. And Judy. He picked them up, one at a time, and remembered how much fuller his life had seemed when each was taken. They were a little dusty. He wasn’t a skilled housekeeper. He started for the kitchen to find a dust rag. Half way across the living room, he stopped, disgusted at himself.
He was the sheriff of Benteen County, Kansas. If trouble waited for him at the courthouse, he had no business wandering around home looking at old photos and indulging in self-pity. He had a job to do. Even if he had no idea how to do it.
He turned and went back out the front door. Left the dust cloth untouched. Left the shotgun in the closet upstairs. Left the dust where it lay. Where, after his ashes were scattered on the Kansas wind, his own dust might join it.
A cold wind slapped him in the face as he stepped into the yard. A door at the end of the street opened. Mrs. Walker, whose Torino he’d shot out from under her that morning, stepped onto her front porch. She pointed a wrinkled arm at him. Made a pistol out of her hand, dropped her thumb like a hammer on a round, and jerked her fist up with simulated recoil. She blew imaginary smoke from her finger, turned, and went back inside her house.
All things considered, English decided, he’d be lucky to survive his trip to the courthouse before getting gunned down.
***
Heather turned in Mad Dog’s doorway and faced out into his yard. A black Jeep Wrangler swung into Mad Dog’s drive. Top down. Four men tumbled out, all in uniforms and all carrying automatic rifles.
“Is the army after you?” she asked her uncle.
“That’s not the army,” Mad Dog said. “Not ours, anyway. Cassie and I just escaped from those guys.”
One of the men stationed himself on the other side of the Jeep and drew a bead on Heather and the doorway. The other men scrambled. Two left, one right. Heather threw herself to the side, drew her gun, and checked their progress from the living room window.
“Police officer,” she shouted. “Identify yourselves.” In a lower voice she asked her uncle, “Who’s Cassie?”
“Cassie Hyde,” he said. “The governor’s daughter. These guys kidnapped her and her dad last night. And they grabbed me today. I think they’ve got me confused with someone else.”
A girl in jeans and a pony tail peered around Mad Dog.
“You’re the governor’s daughter?” Heather said. “Really?” How on earth had Mad Dog gotten himself involved in Arizona’s crime of the century? And why wasn’t she surprised?
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said.
Heather didn’t have time for introductions. Or, thank goodness, for telling the girl what had happened to her father.
“Drop your weapons,” she shouted. “Come out in the open with your hands raised.”
No reply.
“If they start shooting,” she told Mad Dog, “the walls of this place are going to offer about as much protection as cardboard. You two need to get behind something solid.”
“I can put her in the closet behind my file cabinets. There’s a heavy dresser on one side, washer and dryer on the other. It’s not perfect, but….”
“Both of you, go there now.” She tossed Mad Dog her cell. “Call Captain Matus. He’s at a new number. My last outgoing call before I tried you. Tell him our situation. Tell him Cassie’s here and we need help right now.”
“I’ll put the girl there, then….”
“No! You can’t help me out here. Hide and use the phone. Leave this part to me. At least I’m armed.”
Like her SIG was a match for the weapons that surrounded them.
“Drop those guns. And I mean now,” she yelled. They didn’t. And she’d lost track of the three who hadn’t stayed by the Jeep. At least they weren’t shooting. Yet. And they hadn’t tried to enter Mad Dog’s place so far.
“Are you Sewa Tribal Police Officer Heather English?” It was the guy behind the Jeep. How did he know her name?
“I am,” she replied. “Who are you?”
“Someone will be here right away to answer your questions.”
“Well, they can speak directly to the SWAT team that’s coming any minute. I suggest you lay down your arms because they’ll come in expecting trouble.”
That was a gross exaggeration, she knew. If she was lucky, Mad Dog was on the line to Captain Matus right now. She wasn’t sure the Pima County Sheriff’s Office would send anyone. Not unless Matus could persuade them. If he couldn’t, she thought Matus would send some of her fellow officers. But that would take time. Maybe twenty minutes.
“There’s one out back in the mesquites,” Mad Dog said from the door to the kitchen. “And one on this side, behind the tool shed.”
“I told you to stay with the girl.”
Mad Dog waved the phone at Heather. “Matus says the county doesn’t believe him. But he’s bringing every Sewa officer he’s got.”
It was what she’d been afraid of. But if Matus was coming, he’d come like the wind. Twenty minutes, maybe only fifteen.
She must have said some of that out loud because Mad Dog told her, “Don’t worry. I’ll help.”
Great! An aging hippie pacifist who didn’t believe in violence was going to help her hold off four soldiers with the latest in military weapons. And the bad guys were getting reinforcements. A motorcycle and a truck pulled up behind the Jeep.
“We need a miracle,” Heather whispered.
Mad Dog nodded. He squatted down on the kitchen floor. Assumed the lotus position, except he couldn’t get his feet up on his thighs.
“I’ll see if I can manage one,” he said. And then he threw his head back and began to whistle. Five notes. Over and over.
She recognized them. And wondered if he might not deliver. And if even that would be enough.
***
Mrs. Kraus helped Doc set up his triage in the courthouse foyer. Doc wanted it where as many militia members as possible would see it. After getting chewed out by his commandant, Ned Evans had completely taken over her phones. Mrs. Kraus thought she might be able to get another message out through War of Worldcraft, but should she risk it? Englishman had been warned. He could get his own help. And stay away until it got here. That should be enough.
The militia had one man on the entry doors. One down the hall at the rear exit. One in the sheriff’s office windows, and Ned Evans on the phones. She and Doc were trying to locate the rest. They h
ad two guns at this little army’s back now. They might make a difference if any real shooting started, but they needed to know where the other soldiers had stationed themselves. Judging from the way Koestel kept going up and down the stairs and checking with the guys on the main floor, at least one more gun must be up in a courtroom. Or maybe in the cupola, though the stairs that led up there had been blocked off for years. Unsafe, the county supervisors had decided, and too expensive to repair.
Doc made a show out of setting up tools like his bone saws and chest spreaders. Mrs. Kraus managed to slip behind the main staircase and go back into the jail. She’d thought she might pick a weapon or two out of Don Crabtree’s arsenal—the one Englishman had locked up back there. Taking those firearms had apparently set these gun nuts off. Now they had seized local government in response to a threat that didn’t exist. She had a copy of the key to the padlock on the cell. Only there weren’t any guns in there anymore. Someone had cut the padlocked chain that secured it. The key to the original lock had been lost decades ago.
“Who stole Crabtree’s munitions?” she demanded of Koestel when he next passed through the lobby on his circuit of inspections. “They’re private property, in the temporary custody of the sheriff’s department.” Her outrage over the missing weapons outweighed the wisdom of letting Koestel know she’d been snooping. That she was a security problem he just might have to do something about.
“Why, no one stole them, Mrs. Kraus. We’re not common thieves.”
“Hardly common,” Doc muttered, “this being the first time I recall anyone stealing a whole government building in Benteen County.”
Koestel spun on Doc. “We haven’t stolen this building. We’re simply occupying it in order to prevent the powers that be from committing unconstitutional acts. People will call us patriots, not thieves.”
“Fools,” Doc countered, flexing the jaws on his rib cutters. “Dead fools, most likely.”
“What about the guns?” Mrs. Kraus demanded.
“Why, Don Crabtree came and retrieved his property. Brought his own bolt cutters because we told him how they were locked up.”
Mrs. Kraus’ jaw dropped. “Sweet Jesus! That nincompoop is probably shooting up the Conrad place this very minute.”
“Why would he do that?” Koestel seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Because that’s why Crabtree’s daughter gave us the guns in the first place. To keep her father from murdering the Conrad boys because he thinks they peed on his Christmas decorations.”
“I didn’t know,” Koestel said, “or I wouldn’t have let him take them.”
“Which may make you an accessory to murder,” Mrs Kraus said. “You and your whole damn army. And a total idiot. You took over this building because Englishman did exactly what you’ve just said you’d do under the same circumstances.”
“Maybe your forces would be better deployed as peacekeepers over on Plum Street between the Crabtrees and the Conrads,” Doc said.
Koestel looked like he was considering it. Then an automatic weapon chattered its way through a full clip. Nearby and from the direction of Crabtree’s and Conrad’s. Koestel threw himself to the floor and quick crawled to the nearest window. Knocked the glass out with the butt of his rifle.
“You’re gonna pay for that window, buster,” Mrs. Kraus said. But she was afraid Conrad, or maybe Englishman, might have just paid a whole lot more for no good reason on God’s earth.
***
After his little confrontation with Mrs. Walker, the sheriff had gone back in the house and traded his cane for his shotgun. When he left again, he went out the back door. The loose boards in his back fence hadn’t repaired themselves. He slipped through into the alley and turned west toward Veteran’s Memorial Park and the courthouse. Still without a plan, except he had something that threw bigger slugs than theirs. If his ammo was still any good.
The alley contained a few tire tracks, but its coating of dirty snow remained mostly undisturbed. His house was on Cherry, the street that marked the north border of the park as well as the courthouse grounds. The alley ran between Cherry and Plum, and Plum was where Don Crabtree lived across from Roy Conrad. Being in no hurry to die, the sheriff decided to follow the alley behind Conrad’s place. That way he could take a quick look to be sure the warring factions were behaving themselves and no outbreak of violence seemed imminent.
Everything appeared calm enough from behind the Conrads. Their place had a high board fence, much like the one at the back of the sheriff’s yard, though in better repair. Behind the house next door, though, the boards were older, weathered. A few hung askew, leaving gaps wide enough to peek through. Wide enough to crawl through, too, which tracks in the snow clearly indicated someone had done. The sheriff dropped to his knees and peered inside the adjacent yard. Just over the top of a classic Chevelle SS 396 parked beside the house, the sheriff could see half of Crabtree’s home. And he could see the trail of the crawler, winding through raggedy evergreens, headed toward the fence that separated this place from the Conrads.
Why would someone crawl through the snow to the back of the Conrad’s property? The sheriff could think of only one reason, and one person, foolish enough to do that just now—Don Crabtree. Especially if Crabtree had gone by the courthouse and liberated his arsenal. The sheriff took another look at Crabtree’s house, hoping to see that Don had remained at home and at peace. As English looked, someone came to the window over Crabtree’s garage. Crabtree’s daughter—it was easy to tell because she still wore the same oversize sweatshirt. She stepped right up to the window. She seemed to be staring directly at the sheriff. Odd. He didn’t think he’d be visible to her back here. He was still hidden by the fence he was considering crawling though. Looking at her father, maybe?
The sheriff became instantly convinced otherwise when she flashed a big smile and then flashed the rest of herself, pulling the hem of her sweatshirt up over her head. She wore nothing underneath.
A light bulb came on in the sheriff’s head. This property belonged to Matt Yoder, a bachelor, living off the estate of his hard-working Mennonite-farmer-parents. Rumor had him as Buffalo Spring’s most notorious womanizer. The sheriff hadn’t thought of Yoder in connection with the Crabtree girl’s late-night shenanigans. Yoder was way too old for her, at least in the sheriff’s mind. Apparently not in Matt Yoder’s or young Miss Crabtree’s.
The sweatshirt came back down. The girl waved, definitely not at the sheriff, and grinned, and then turned around and lifted the hem for a different view. She might be a little girl to the sheriff, but she definitely had a grown up body. She scampered away from the window and picked up her cell phone. The sheriff heard a phone begin ringing in Yoder’s house. He thought he should go have a chat with the man. Pass on a little wisdom regarding the age of consent and the penalties for statutory rape. But there was that trail through the evergreens. The sheriff had a bad feeling about it, especially if the Crabtree girl was sexting from her window instead of keeping an eye on her dad.
The sheriff’s bad leg protested as he crawled through the fence and followed the trail. It was hard work, and difficult to keep the barrel of the shotgun free of dirt and snow. Worth the trouble, though, when he discovered Don Crabtree lying prone, Uzi to his shoulder, barrel poking through a slat in the direction of Conrad’s home.
If the sheriff rushed Crabtree, the man would have time to swing the gun around and cut him in half. So the sheriff continued crawling. He slid forward, shoved the shotgun barrel up against Crabtree’s butt, and said, “Drop it” in his most authoritative voice.
The sheriff evidently caught Crabtree by surprise. He yelped when the shotgun touched him, though you could hardly hear it over the string of explosions as the Uzi emptied its clip.
***
“That voice sounds familiar,” Uncle Mad Dog said.
The voice in question had just
called Heather’s name.
Heather had to agree. It did sound familiar, though she tried to deny it as she peered around the curtains into the front yard.
It was the guy who’d arrived on the motorcycle. One of those all-too-fast-for-a-human-to-control Japanese super bikes. The rider advanced on the house, taking off his helmet.
“Heather English,” he called again. “Come out. Let’s settle our business so everyone else can go on with their holiday plans.”
He was small and compact and moved with the grace of a big cat. All that was familiar, too. Though when the helmet came off and she could see his face, it didn’t match the man she remembered. But it had to be him. And, if it was, the rest of this crazy day began to make a twisted kind of sense.
“Heather,” he called again. “Come on. No one will shoot you. You know you can trust me. Have I ever lied to you?”
Nightmare in Three Points. When she’d first come to Tucson, she’d visited the Yaqui Easter ceremonies, known her uncle would be crazy about them, and emailed him. Mad Dog immediately threw things in his car and drove a thousand miles. Minutes after arriving, he’d been accused of killing a cop. He ran, and soon it seemed the police wanted to kill Mad Dog instead of catch him. She’d searched for him, tried to help. And found herself the target of a mad man—the one who’d just reappeared in her uncle’s yard, asking her to come out and play.
But for a lot of luck, the psycho would have killed her then. He was a professional hit man, and she had become a contract he intended to fill. Would have, if his employer hadn’t double-crossed him. In the end, Heather had been responsible for letting the psycho escape. Not because he didn’t deserve the most extreme penalties the law allowed. But because, in taking revenge on his employer, he’d saved Mad Dog’s life. Now here he was again, striding across Mad Dog’s yard. Telling her she was unfinished business.
