Warning Shot

by Jenna Kernan

  “Not if they sell it in your county,” she countered.

  “They don’t.”

  “So it just passes through here like the water through the aquifer?”

  “More like the St. Lawrence. What travels past us and down state isn’t my concern.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  “You have no idea what I do up here all day. Do you?”

  “Eat barbecue and gamble at the casino?” she guessed.

  “I cover up to thirty calls a day. Mostly folks who smeared themselves and their vehicles all over our roads. Drunk drivers, texting drivers, sleepy and distracted drivers and then we have the domestic violence calls, drunk and disorderly, and you might not be surprised to hear that most of those last ones are guests on vacay. But the winters up here are hard, lonely, and we have suicides. I also accompany Child Protective Services and they are way too busy here.” He took a sip of coffee, burned his tongue and quickly chased the brew with ice water.

  “You okay?”

  “I will be when you head back down to Glens Falls.”

  “You got a particular reason you want me gone?” That one sounded like an accusation.

  “You insinuating I’m dirty?”

  “Just that you work up here without much supervision.”

  “I’m supervised by the town council and elected by the citizens I serve.”

  “Eloquent.” She pursed her lips and his blood surged in all the wrong places.

  Truth was, just sitting this close made his nerves jangle like a jar full of quarters rolling along the floor.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “I don’t like your brand of cooperation.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The kind where you expect me to assist in an investigation of which I have no information.”

  She sat back and folded her arms. Her posture said that she wasn’t interested in any sort of cooperation. Then, unexpectedly, her arms dropped to her sides and she leaned in until her torso pressed to the edge of the table. He leaned in as well, close enough to smell her skin and the spicy, earthy scent of something that seemed wildly erotic. His fingers, resting on his knees, curled, wadding the fabric of his trousers in his fists, and he told himself to sit back. But he didn’t.

  “All you need to know is that I am searching for illegal border crossings.”

  “You looking for a person or what they carry?”

  “Both.”

  The lines on her face told him the rest.

  “It’s soon?”

  “Any time.”

  “So why you?”

  “Why not me?”

  “You clearly don’t have experience in the field. Either that or your method of investigation is to piss everyone off. Are you trying to rattle them into doing something stupid?”

  Her chin lifted and she said nothing. But her cheeks blazed, indicating to him that her technique was no ploy. The high color bloomed on her throat and the vee of skin visible above her buttoned-up blouse. His blood sizzled and turned to ash.

  “I volunteered.” She clasped her drink between both hands, lacing her fingers around the glass. “Most of my department is assigned elsewhere.”

  He pictured the briefing and this county being mentioned and her hand shooting in the air. She wasn’t up to it. Now he felt irritated at her supervisors for sending her and annoyed that he’d have to babysit her during her little field trip.

  “Were you that kid with her hand in the air, asking if there was homework?”

  The flush bloomed brighter. “Homework is important.” She cleared her throat. “This assignment is important.”

  “If that’s true, why send you up here all alone?”

  “Who said I’m alone?”

  Did she have contacts, informants or undercover agents up here? He tried to think of any new arrivals. But the fall season brought many visitors to watch the leaves turn and boat on the St. Lawrence.

  “Still, if this were a likely place for your illegal border jumpers, I’d expect a higher presence.”

  She conceded the point with a slight incline of her head. “Intel indicates that this crossing will be at the other end of the state.”

  “Buffalo?”

  “Most likely. But this area is still a possibility.”

  “How possible?”

  “Least likely, according to the analysts’ report.”

  “So they sent you in the opposite direction of trouble. That about it?” In other words, her department was trying to get rid of her. He had a few thoughts of his own on why. Where he came from they called that a snipe hunt.

  He waited for an answer.

  She glanced away.

  “I see.” He hadn’t meant that to sound so insulting. But it had.

  Rylee sat back as if she’d slapped him. The arms came up and around her chest again. Her face hardened, and her eyes went cold as frozen ground.

  “I know it can be difficult, having federal involvement in your county.”

  No use holding back. He laid it out there. “You’re what’s difficult. And I’m guessing that is exactly why they sent you up here. Not the most popular agent down there in Glens Falls. Am I right?”

  “From my perspective, I’m thorough.”

  He continued to stare, and she glanced away.

  “You can rub folks wrong.”

  She nodded, forcing a smile that struck him as sad. She was the know-it-all in the office. Least popular because she was often right. And she had the social skills of a bull shark.

  So why did he feel the need to help her?

  “You could get better cooperation if you turned down the aggression a notch.”

  The arms slid back to her sides and she clasped her hands before her on the table. Her perfectly shaped pink nails with the white French tips tapped restlessly. She eased back into the vinyl seat. Their eyes met and a chill danced over his skin.

  “I wanted a field assignment and I got one. I’ll admit that I don’t play well with others. Abrasive and dictatorial were the words my supervisor used just before shipping me up here.”

  “I can see that. I might have said headstrong.” He sipped his coffee, now just the right temperature to scald his throat without leaving any permanent damage. “Thank you for telling me all that.”

  “I’m sure you are even more anxious to see my back than she was.”

  He lowered his chin. “No, I think your analysis might be wrong.”

  Her eyes lit up and looked at him as if for the first time.

  “Were you sent here, or did you choose to come here?” he asked.

  “I chose because I think the analysis is wrong. This border is a strong possibility.”

  “But the boss went with the numbers and was happy to let you take a field trip.”

  She puffed out her cheeks and blew away a breath. He waited and at last she said, “Yes.”

  “How big a load?”

  Her brows rose and studied him. Judged him, he thought. Then she shook her head.

  No details for the sheriff, he realized.

  “I’d like to ask you about some of the organizations in your county.”

  The path between them was back to a one-way road, he realized. She didn’t trust him, and he wasn’t sure if that was standard or if she had something on him. The obvious reared up inside him like a jab to his belly. How thorough had her research been before her arrival?

  He studied her and decided she likely knew it all. He sank down in the booth seat, bracing his hands on either side of him so they acted like flying buttresses to the cathedral.

  She continued, all business again, “The Kowa Mohawks are on my watch list because of their known smuggling activities.”

  “Cigarettes.”

  “What?”

 
“They buy in Canada and sell on their reservation and skip the federal tobacco tax.”

  “They transport merchandise through New York State without declaring them. It’s trafficking.”

  “I guess they figure that since they are a sovereign nation, they don’t pay income tax.”

  “Sovereign nations don’t import goods over federal and state highways.”

  “They have land on both sides of the St. Lawrence and all this land was theirs once.”

  “Agree to disagree,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  She made a face. “I don’t want to win the argument. I want you to understand that some of their members are radical in ideology and could, conceivably, be convinced to assist in a domestic attack.”

  “Not buying it. I’ve never seen them bringing in more than smokes. Next?”

  “The North Country Riders?”

  He nodded. The motorcycle gang did a lot worse than smuggling tobacco. They carried weed from Canada into New York. They also carried illegal pharmaceuticals.

  “Possibly. For the right price, I believe they’d carry anything or anyone.”

  “The Mondellos?”

  “Moonshiners? They are all about avoiding taxation and the feds. That family has been in business since prohibition.”

  “They have property directly on the river, facilitating their illegal distribution. They have the means and the opportunity.”

  “Motive?”

  “Same as for the booze. Money.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t rule them out. Who else?”

  “The Coopersmith family. Survivalists are one thing, but what if they feel it is necessary to give the coming Armageddon a little shove?”

  “I’ve known them since I was a boy. They are all about protecting their own, protecting this country. I can’t see them doing anything to jeopardize either. Who else?”

  “That’s it.” Her eyes still twinkled, and he felt for all the world like he was in an interrogation room. Sitting here, under the guise of helping her out when actually he was on her little list. She knew. He was convinced. But some tiny part of him did not want to say it aloud.

  He shook his head. “You left out the congregation.”

  “A religious order?” she said, but her eyes narrowed as if just considering them.

  He shifted in his seat, realized he was relaying his discomfort and forced himself to sit still.

  “You know about them?”

  “Some.” She gave nothing away.

  “They are also on the St. Regis River, between the Mondellos and the Coopersmiths, just a stone’s throw from the St. Lawrence.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Father Wayne heads the outfit. Call themselves the Congregation of Eternal Wisdom.” He waited for her eyes to light up with recognition or her brows to lower in disapproval. But instead, her expression remained open.

  “Go on,” she said.

  He didn’t want to. The coffee now sloshed in his stomach like waves tossed by an angry sea. This storm’s origin came from deep within himself, out of the sight of his DHS observer. Funny how something that had been his entire world for so many years, to her, meant nothing at all.

  “It’s a cult. They call themselves a congregation but it’s a cult. They also live in a fenced compound. You might see some of the men outside the complex. They wear simple clothing. The top is a brown tunic. Bottom is baggy pants. No pockets, just a satchel, if they need to carry anything. Their heads are shaved and most wear beards.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone like that. Is it an all-male order?”

  He dropped his gaze to his half-finished coffee. “No. But you won’t see the women. They stay put.”

  “Are they a radical group?”

  “No. But their ideas are untraditional. Their leader says he is preparing them for ascension. They consider themselves the chosen and they consider children communal property.”

  “Many cultures share in raising children.”

  The small hairs on his neck lifted. “These kids don’t know which of the women is their birth mother.”

  Now she was frowning but her notebook was out.

  “They practice polygamy and some of the males undergo voluntary castration.”

  She stiffened. “What? Why?”

  “Preparation for the afterlife. No sex there, according to Father Wayne. You’ll know which ones have done this because they shave all their hair away.” Axel lifted his mug and swallowed, tasting the remains of the coffee mingled with bitter memories. He should tell her the reverend’s last name, but he just couldn’t summon the courage.

  “They sound like the Branch Davidians,” she said.

  “Except for the UFOs.”

  She sat back, leaving the pad open on the table. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  He wished that were so. Axel pressed the flat of his palm to his middle, trying to settle his stomach.

  “No joke. They live, farm, sing and dance out there on the river. And their leader has twisted theories of UFO visitations with God and scripture. The jumble is confusing but the gist is that reported alien visitations are actual angels sent by God in preparation for the end of the world. Only they call it the Rising.”

  “How many?”

  “Hard to get an exact count. Thirty adults, maybe.”

  “How many children?”

  “Social services go out there to check on them. The cult won’t let kids be inoculated or register their births. They’re homeschooled, or they tell us they are.” He knew that schooling included creationism, their version of scripture and little else. “They collect the necessary textbooks and fill in all the correct paperwork.” He locked his jaw so tight there was a distortion in his hearing, so he eased up.

  “How do they fund their order?”

  “Selling books and junk online. Taking donations and offering religious retreats. They recruit from the guests and once you are in, everything you own becomes theirs. Communal property.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  Because I was born there.

  “It’s my business to know who lives in my county.”

  She lifted her pen and began writing. “I’ll check them out.”

  And then she’d discover exactly where he came from.

  “If you are going out there, you need me along.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Rylee, trust me. You won’t get past the gate without me. Let me help you.”

  She held his gaze and he held his breath.

  “All right. I won’t go out there without you.”

  Chapter Seven

  On the third night in Onutake County, Rylee roared into the lot of the roadhouse favored by the North Country Riders on a red Harley Low Rider. The neon advertising for various beers sent colorful light gleaming across the chrome on the line of Harleys parked in a neat row along the front of the establishment, including the handicapped spots.

  She parked her motorcycle at the end of the line of bikes and walked it back in preparation for a quick getaway that she hoped would not be necessary. Once the sled was leaning on its stand, Rylee tugged off the helmet and braced it under one arm, keeping her gun hand free.

  She had prepared for her meet with the undercover agent from DHS stationed up here, dressing in clothing appropriate for a roadhouse in the territory of the North Country Riders. The tan slacks were tapered so she wore her calf-hugging suede boots over them. Her suede-fringed top covered all her assets and her brown leather jacket covered her service weapon. Under her bike helmet, she wore a black woolen cap.

  She paused to take in her surroundings. Or was she just stalling?

  That thought sent her forward, as she wondered again if she should have called the sheriff to request backup.

  “It’s just a me
et. Make contact and get out.” She tugged the wool cap lower over her ears, hoping to hide the most obvious of attributes, her blond hair.

  No disguising she was female, because of her height. The longer she stood, the faster her heart beat.

  “Did you ask for this field assignment or not?” she scolded. Despite the lecture, she suddenly missed her desk and her data with the kind of wistful longing usually reserved for departed friends.

  Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the door, paused and then reached for the handle. The interior stank of stale beer and the thumping beat of music assaulted her eardrums. She swept the groups of occupants, seeing that the motorcycle gang occupied most of the tables and the area of the bar closest to that seating. There was a stage at the opposite side with a band playing ’80s metal. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them as they shouted in each other’s ears and tipped long-necked bottles back.

  She made for the area of the bar closest to the band, farthest from the bikers and closest to the spot the servers picked up their orders for the tables.

  The sticky floor made it seem she was walking across a surface slathered with glue. She set her helmet on the scarred surface of the bar, beside the heart someone had scratched into it.

  As she waited to order, she busied herself looking for her contact. She did not know her, but Rylee’s image had been sent to the agent. She still had five minutes to go before the meet.

  Reaching into her coat pocket for her mace, she made sure it was close at hand. Then she retrieved her mobile phone and glanced at it because the screen showed she had made a call, connected and had been connected for three minutes. Had her helmet made the call?

  She glanced at the caller information and groaned. Sheriff Axel Trace. Rylee lifted the phone to her ear but could hear nothing.

  “Trace?” she asked.

  “Rylee? Where are you? I was just having your phone geolocated.”

  “I’m fine. Sorry. Must have pocket dialed you.”

  “Fine? What’s that music?”

  “’Bye, Trace. I have to go.”

  “Rylee, where—” She disconnected and shoved the phone back in her pocket.

  “What’ll ya have?” The bartender was young with a bushy beard that did not disguise how painfully thin he was, or cover the tattoos on one side of his throat. It seemed to be a wing and the word blessed. The tips of the wing flew up behind his ear, which sported a plug the size of a nickel. Above his eyebrow was a musical note.