Warning Shot

by Jenna Kernan

  “Doubtful. Not the first time I got picked up.”

  “Oh, I see.” The investigator portion of her was dying to ask what exactly he had repeatedly been picked up for.

  “I steal things,” said Morris and grinned.

  “Morris,” said the sheriff, his tone an admonition. “What did I say?”

  “Let my lawyer do the talking?” said the boy.

  “And?”

  “Don’t discuss the case.”

  Axel Trace nodded solemnly.

  Morris turned to Rylee. “But I wasn’t stealing for me this time. So that will be all right.” He glanced to the sheriff for reassurance and received none.

  Axel Trace looked as if he were taking his dog to the vet to be put down. His mouth tugged tight and his eyes... Were they glistening? His repeat blinking and the large swallow of soda he took seemed answer enough. Sheriff Trace cared for this boy.

  Rylee choked down the rest of the burger in haste. Morris finished his sundae and grinned, smacking his lips in satisfaction. On closer inspection, he did not seem quite a boy but a man acting like a boy. He certainly didn’t have a grip on the seriousness of his position. Why hadn’t the information on Stanley Coopersmith included that he had a boy with special needs?

  “How old are you, Morris?” she asked.

  “Twenty.” He showed a gap-toothed smile.

  That was bad news. “I see.”

  She glanced to Trace, whose mouth went tight. Then she looked back to Morris. Her gaze slid to the sheriff.

  He motioned to Morris with two fingers. “Come on, sport. Time to go.”

  Morris stood, towering over the sheriff by six inches. He was painfully thin. He wore neither handcuffs nor zip ties on his wrists. Trace pointed at his unit. Morris wadded up his paper wrappers and shot them basketball-style, as if hitting a foul shot. Then he cheered for his success and finally slipped into the passenger side of the sheriff’s car.

  “Is that wise? Having him up front with you?” she asked.

  “Morris and I have an agreement.”

  Morris called from inside the cruiser. “Coke and comic for good behavior.”

  She stared at the young man and staunched the urge to open the door and release him.

  “You have a good evening, Rylee.”

  “Thank you for the burger, Axel.” The intentional use of his first name seemed all right. He’d used her given name first. But he just stood there, staring at her. And her breath was coming in short staccato bursts; she regretted dropping the distance of formality.

  He gave her the kind of smile that twisted her heart and then returned to his duty, delivering a boy who should be entering a group home to the court systems.

  Rylee headed back to her motel but then veered instead into the Walmart parking lot. It wasn’t until she found herself in the books section that she realized she was looking at comics. The boy was spending the night in jail; he could at least have another superhero to keep him company.

  Rylee made her purchase and used the GPS to find the jail in Kinsley. There, she was buzzed in and escorted back by a patrolman who allowed her to give Morris the graphic novel.

  “You are a nice lady.” Morris beamed. Then his voice held a note of chastisement. “Did you pay for this?”

  She would have laughed if not faced with a boy who should not have been there in the first place.

  Chapter Four

  Observe and report. Rylee took her chief’s directive to heart as she set off the next morning, the first Tuesday of September, to observe the next group on the watch list. The survivalists headed by Stanley Coopersmith. The group’s rhetoric centered around surviving the apocalypse triggered by foreign terrorists. Ironic, as that scenario might turn out much more plausible than anyone in federal law enforcement had thought until a few months ago and the very reason she was here today.

  It was hard to believe that such a group might aid foreign terrorists until you recalled your history and cult leader Charles Manson’s attempts to begin a race war by murdering innocent affluent white victims, including Sharon Tate. It was terrifying, the lengths individuals might go to bring about their worldview.

  At 7:00 a.m., Rylee left her car on the shoulder and hiked through the woods to a place where she could observe the central compound. Even though she was dressed all in earth colors for camouflage and was wearing a forest green wool sweater and a brown leather jacket atop her gray jeans and brown work boots with thick socks, she had underestimated the chill in the morning air. She had plenty of time to think about her inadequate wardrobe, among other things, as she lay on her belly in the pale green ferns. A cool September breeze shook the leaves overhead, sending down a cascade of yellow leaves through the fog.

  “Should have worn a wool cap,” she muttered to herself.

  Maple leaves fluttered through the shafts of sunlight, giving hope that the fog would lift, as she watched the compound through binoculars. From this position, she had a clear line of sight to a large crumbling former dairy barn that might have once been yellow, two new prefab outbuildings with metal exteriors and roofs and a weathered farmhouse, looking patchy with the graying wood peeking out beneath flaking white paint.

  One of the newer structures was a dock with a covered large boathouse on the St. Regis River that flowed into the St. Lawrence. That structure meant that it was reasonable to assume that the survivalists did leave their land. Did they use their boats to traffic in illegal drugs or human beings? Operations needed funding and she had yet to discover theirs. They were no longer farmers. That much was certain.

  Had Stanley Coopersmith headed to court to defend his son?

  Her reports on this group said that their leader never left the facility and his younger brothers, Joseph and Daniel, both married with children, rarely left their land. Stanley, who was married to Judy Coopersmith, had two grown boys—Edward, who they called “Eddie,” and Morris, whom she had met on the night of her arrival.

  She shivered with the cold as she counted occupants, noted physical descriptions into a digital recorder and snapped shots through her telephoto lens. As the morning stretched on and the sunlight finally reached her, she daydreamed about making a major arrest. Was it possible her runner had left Mohawk land? The Mohawk reservation land ended at the St. Regis River, just a short distance from Coopersmith’s property. Had this been the runner’s destination? The journey along would have been easy overland, or on the St. Lawrence River, with an escort of survivalists.

  If she intercepted the shipment from Siming’s Army, her boss would have to promote her. Then Rylee might ask for an assignment in New York City. What would her father think of that?

  She sighed. Would he be proud?

  The sound of a trigger’s click dropped her from her daydreams like an acorn from an oak and made her stiffen. Her skin flushed hot and her fingers tingled. She held the binoculars; making a grab for her weapon seemed like suicide. Why hadn’t she placed her weapon nearer to hand?

  “Lace your fingers behind your head,” came the order from a male voice behind her. The smell of the earth beneath her now turned her stomach and the ground seemed to churn as if heaved by an earthquake.

  “Roll over,” ordered her captor.

  “I’m a federal agent. Homeland Security.” For once, her voice did not shake.

  There was a pause and then the command to roll over again.

  She pushed off and rolled, coming to her seat. The man holding a rifle was the brother of the family’s leader—Daniel Coopersmith. She recognized him by his ginger beard and the scar across the bridge of his nose. He held the rifle stock pressed to his cheek and the barrel aimed at her chest.

  “Stand up.”

  She released her laced fingers as she did so. The blood pounding through her veins made her skin itch. This might be her only chance to reach her weapon. Her only chance to avoid
capture.

  “Don’t,” he advised.

  The roar in her ears nearly deafened her.

  He wasn’t taking her. That much she knew, because she was not creating a hostage situation on her first assignment. As she came upright, she swept her leg behind his and knocked him from his feet. As his arms jerked outward in reflex, she seized the barrel of the rifle and yanked. By the time Daniel recovered enough to scramble backward, she had his rifle pointed at him.

  “It ain’t loaded,” he said.

  She felt the weight of the firearm and gave him a look of disappointment.

  “Daniel, have you had any visitors, other than me, recently?”

  “What kind of visitors?”

  “Smugglers.”

  “Anyone crosses our land we know it. Got cameras everywhere. How we spotted you.”

  “Your family likes their privacy?”

  “We don’t assist illegals if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They’re carriers. Part of the scourge to come.”

  She knew the dogma.

  “You know your nephew is in court this morning?” she asked.

  Daniel curled his fingers around his beard and tugged.

  “I knew he run off again. He get arrested?”

  “Shoplifting.”

  “Comics again?”

  She shrugged.

  “Stan is gonna tan his hide.”

  “Not if he’s in prison. Second offense.”

  Daniel seemed to forget she was pointing his rifle at him as he turned to go.

  “I gotta go tell Judy.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You best git. Leave my rifle on the road by your vehicle. That is if Stan don’t already got your car.”

  “Stop.” She had her weapon out and it was loaded.

  He stopped and glanced back at her.

  “You threatened a federal agent,” she said to her retreating would-be opponent.

  “I threatened a trespasser who’s also an agent. We got constitutional rights. Illegal search. Illegal surveillance. Just cause. Illegal seizure.” He continued speaking about rights and threats as he wound through the trees and out of sight.

  She watched him go.

  As it happened, when she reached her vehicle, she found Stanley Coopersmith waiting with his wife, Judy. Coopersmith was a man in his sixties, silver-haired, slim and muscular with a mustache that would have made any rodeo cowboy proud. His wife’s hair was short and streaked with silver. She had the body of a woman accustomed to physical work and the lined face of a smoker.

  Coopersmith did not move the rifle he held resting over his shoulder at her approach. She kept her personal weapon drawn but lowered.

  “You holding my boy?”

  “Sir, I’m Homeland Security—”

  “We know who you are,” said Judy Coopersmith, her chin now aimed at Rylee like a knife. “You holding my boy?”

  “No, ma’am. Morris was arrested for shoplifting by local law enforcement. He has a hearing scheduled for this morning.”

  “You come here to tell us this?” said Coopersmith.

  “No. I’m here investigating a case.”

  “You here to shut us down?”

  Visions of Waco, Texas, flared like a dumpster fire in her mind.

  “I am not. My job is to secure our borders.”

  “Well, we can assure you that this border is secure. Nobody sneaks through this patch of ground without us knowing. Yourself included.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Rylee. “Has anyone tried recently?”

  The two exchanged a look but did not reply. No answer is still an answer, she thought.

  She took a leap of faith that their mutual threat made her, if not an ally, at least not an enemy. “We have intelligence that indicates something dangerous might be coming over from Canada. I’d ask you to be extra vigilant and hope that you will alert me if there is anything that threatens our national security.”

  Another long look blazed between the two.

  “Why do you think we’re up here?” asked Coopersmith. “Just a bunch of crazies playing war games in the woods? We know what’s coming.”

  “And you do not think the federal government is capable of stopping threats from foreigners.”

  “If I did, why would I build a bunker?”

  Rylee glanced toward her vehicle. “I’d best get back.”

  It was a long, long walk...to her vehicle. She did not draw an easy breath until she was safely behind the wheel. However, when she pressed the starter, her vehicle gave only an impotent click. The engine did not turn over on any of her next three attempts. There was no motor sound. In fact, the only sound was the thumping drumbeat of her heart.

  * * *

  THE FOG HAD settled into a steady drizzle by midday. Axel reached the stretch of old timber bordering Coopersmith land. He’d received a tip from Hal Mondello, who knew how to spot a fed’s car if anyone alive did, that Rylee had headed past his place. Beyond Mondello land was the cult that called itself the Congregation of Eternal Wisdom. Beyond that was Hal Coopersmith’s spread and his survivalist family. He didn’t know which was a worse place for Rylee. For personal reasons, he decided to try Coopersmith’s first and backtrack if necessary.

  Hal Mondello was not a friend, but he protected his self-interest. Having the sheriff rein in a fed nosing around would be to his benefit. Hence, the call.

  Mondello called himself a farmer, but everything he raised went into his cash crop, moonshine. Hal supplied most of the entire region with hard liquor. His brew was popular for its potency and the fact that it was cheap, due to Hal’s complete avoidance of paying any federal tax. That made his moonshine a working man’s favorite. Thankfully, that sort of violation fell under the auspices of the ATF, who had found his operation too small to be bothered with.

  Axel raced out to the Coopersmiths’ main gate, running silent, but exceeding the speed limit the entire way. He understood the Coopersmiths’ desire to live off the grid, be largely self-sufficient, but he didn’t understand living in a constant state of fear of some upcoming disaster from which only you and yours would survive. What kind of a world would that be, anyway? The thought of only Axel and his family surviving such a calamity gave him a shudder.

  On the other hand, he did admire the Coopersmith family. Before they’d taken to their compound and ceased interacting with the outside world, Axel had been to their farm and respected the close-knit group. Anything could be taken too far. Religion came to his mind and he shuddered again.

  He’d just be happy to have a family that didn’t scare him so much that he didn’t dare leave them out of his sight. And he owed Stanley Coopersmith for getting him out of his abysmal situation and helping him take his GED. Without him and Kurt Rogers, Axel didn’t know where he might be now.

  Axel was pleased to find Stanley’s oldest son, Edward Coopersmith, minding the gate when he roared up. He and Eddie had enlisted in the army together and the two had been friends up until a year ago when his father had shut the family up on their land.

  By the time Axel had left his sheriff’s unit, the dust he’d raised was falling about them in a fine mist, settling on his hat and the hood of his car. Here, beneath the cover of trees, the drizzle had not succeeded in reaching.

  He and his former comrade stood on opposite sides of a closed metal gate.

  “Where is she, Eddie?”

  “Who?”

  “The homeland security agent your family is detaining.”

  Eddie could not meet his gaze.

  “No concern of yours, I reckon.”

  “Eddie!”

  His friend gripped the shoulder strap of the rifle slung over his shoulder so tightly his knuckles went bloodless.

  “She’s up at the farm,” Eddie admit
ted.

  “Under duress?”

  “Not that I could see. But they was armed. So was she, come to that.”

  “Trespassing?”

  “Well, she was.”

  “Eddie, she’s a federal agent. You do not want her harmed.”

  His friend offered no reassurance.

  “Bring me up.”

  “No outsiders.”

  “I’m not an outsider. I’ve eaten at your table. Your ma taught me algebra.”

  “Still...she ain’t your concern.”

  Axel imagined the news crews and federal helicopters circling the compound. He had to stop this right now. Looking back, he didn’t know why he did it. Perhaps because it was the only idea that popped into his head.

  “She’s my girl,” said Axel.

  “She’s what now?” Eddie cocked his head.

  Axel doubled down. “That’s why she’s up here, berry picking.”

  “With binoculars?”

  “She’s my fiancée and I won’t have her touched.”

  “If she’s your girl, why she up here alone?”

  “Rylee is deciding if she wants to live up this way. I imagine she got...confused. Turned around.”

  “She was armed.”

  “Everyone up here is armed. We got bear and moose and elk.” And survivalists with semi-automatic assault rifles, he finished silently.

  Eddie released his grip on the rifle strap to scratch under his jaw at the coarse black beard. He looked so much different than from just a few years back when he was muscular and fit. Now his body looked undernourished and his face gaunt.

  Axel watched Eddie as the man considered his options in silence.

  After a long silent stretch, Axel had had about enough. “Open the gate or I’m ramming it.”

  “You can’t do that.” Their eyes met.

  “I’m getting my girl so open up or stand aside.”

  Chapter Five

  “Your girl, huh?” His old friend did little to hide his disappointment and Axel wondered if perhaps Eddie was attracted to Rylee. His answer came a moment later.