by Bob Knapp
León's camera caught it all. “You're looking very nice tonight, Señorita Wagner.”
Waxter clicked his camera a few more times while Helen struggled for her share of the cover.
“We'll leave you folks to your recreational pursuits in a moment,” Waxter said.
“How much did my good-for-nothing wife pay you for this?” Hopper said. “I'll double it—and buy your cameras.”
“Hah! Hah! No need to worry about your wife, Señor. This will be our secret. By the way, Sheriff Fowlkes said the pictures are all yours once the zoning is passed. Oh, Señorita, you may wish to vote in favor of the zoning, too. I'm looking forward to coffee with you at the sheriff's office Monday. Buenas noches.”
22
Queen of Hearts
Deputy Chet Waxter quickly put his squad car into gear as he saw Nicole Tuckett, her supper finished, bounce down the steps on her way to her friend's house. Nicole was Arnold Tuckett's fourth and youngest child by fourteen years. He had wanted a girl when his third son was born. “Inseparable” was the word usually said to describe his relationship with Nicole.
Waxter and Deputy León had been shadowing Nicole for days. They knew Nicole's green winter jacket and brown shoulder length ponytail better than their own mothers' faces. Trouble was, Nicole was seldom alone. Waxter hadn't known that eight year olds had so many friends. Happily for Waxter, though, Tuckett worked into the evening hours at PPG in Natrium.
Nine days ago, an envelope marked “Confidential” and containing a playing card, the Ace of Spades-the death card, had been mailed to Nicole's father. Printed at the bottom of the card was, “Silence and Vote Commercial.” It was signed, “Resort Committee.”
Five days after its mailing, Fowlkes had become impatient, threatening, and told León and Waxter they couldn't even do a marshmallow job.
Waxter rolled down his window as he eased his cruiser up next to the skipping child. They had decided this was the safest and most effective plan. No turning back now.
“Could you help me, young lady? Show me where Mr. MacDonald lives?” Waxter called. “It's getting dark.”
Nicole pointed across the road and up the hill. “Uncle Mack lives right over that way, about three streets down.”
“I've been looking and looking over there—can't find it. Jump in. Can't take but a couple minutes.”
She shook her head, wagging her ponytail. “Daddy said-”
“But I'm a policeman. We'll be right back. I'll get you an ice cream.”
* * *
The girl huddled against the car door, but quickly bolted upright as they passed the turn into MacDonald's street. “You missed it,” she said, her eyes wide.
Waxter pointed. “Look. See that car with the hood up? I gotta check it out and see if anybody's hurt or needs help. Then you can show me the house.”
Waxter stopped the cruiser in deep shadows many yards behind the disabled car, pulling close to some trees growing along the side of Route 2.
His heart was pounding now. He forced himself to not look back as he made his way to the car, and stuck his head under its open hood. His legs felt rubbery and his head was spinning. In the dark he grabbed the greasy engine to steady himself.
Anytime now, León.
Noises—finally: a cruiser door opened, a young girl quarreled. Then came her heavily muffled screams. Waxter laid his head on the car's cold radiator. The sounds faded away. He didn't move his head.
* * *
With his hand clasped hard over Nicole's mouth, León dragged the girl down the wooded path to the river's edge. To alter his appearance, he had pushed a watch cap down around his head and face. He had also reshaped his eyebrows and worn bulky, ill-fitting clothes.
“Make one sound and you'll never see your Daddy again,” León said. He did his best to speak with a southern drawl to hide his Mexican accent.
She sobbed for breath as he released his grip on her mouth and hoisted her over the gunwale into a rowboat. Bolted to its stern was an outboard motor, but it would make too much noise. He would row.
Except for an occasional sob, Nicole was silent.
The oarlocks creaked with each pull on the oars. Their blades made a near silent splash as they settled in for each bite. Water hissed against the bow and gurgled as it passed under the flat-bottomed hull. The girl gripped the stern seat upon which she sat, her forearms poking thin and white from beneath her coat sleeves.
Perspiration gathered on León's upper lip and breaths came faster. His soft palms burned from his grip on the oars. He had not handled rough tools for years, and only two days ago had he learned to row.
Now he shipped the oars and allowed the boat to glide and drift with the current. A putrid smell from the river greeted his nostrils. The riverbank was in dark shadow that blended with the darkened trees behind it. León glanced over his shoulder across the bow to check their bearing. When he looked back at the stern, he saw that Nicole's eyes were fixed upon his, pleading.
León dialed a cell phone and poked it at the girl. “Here, talk to your Mommy.”
Nicole gripped the phone with trembling hands, “Mommy, a man took…”
León snatched the phone from her and hung up. Message delivered. He smiled.
A breeze on the open river whispered in León's ears and tugged at his hair. He fumbled an envelope from his pocket and thrust it at Nicole. “Put this in your pocket. Don't lose it.” Hands shaking, she pushed it deep into a coat pocket.
At last, Nicole's eyes left him and looked past him into the bow where a couple of cement blocks rode. A coil of rope lay atop them.
“What's that for?” she asked. Her voice quivered. “When Daddy takes me fishing, he never puts those things in a boat.”
“That's cause we're not going fishing. We're feeding the fish.”
Nicole sat, staring at the blocks. Deep furrows formed across her brow. Her lips turned down and she began to sob, “No, mister, please. Please, mister…”
“Mister Judd. There's no need to cry—really. Does no good.”
She shuddered and her teeth began to chatter. León looked toward the riverbank and grinned. They were in the right place.
Brrrp…Brrrp!
Nicole jumped. “What's that?” she cried. The blast from the horn made León's own heart skip a beat.
“It's the horn from a tugboat.”
He and Waxter had agreed it would be the signal. It was time.
Brrrp…Brrrp!
A searchlight turned the river bend behind them into daylight as a tug, pushing barges loaded with coal, sought to locate navigation markers.
“We gotta hide somewhere before they see us. Get your head down!”
Brrrp…Brrrp! The light swung across the river. León grabbed the oars and, turning the bow toward the side of the river from which they had come, rowed furiously while keeping the stern aligned with a street light on the opposite shore.
The tug's spotlight danced along the river bank above them. León ducked.
Nicole laughed nervously.
“Shut up and get your head down! Don't think you'll get away. When the tug's gone, we'll go back. Don't make me hold your head under water.”
The sound of the river, rushing along the rowboat's hull, sent a tremor down León's back. He was pleased with the ease at which he propelled the boat.
Scraping came from beneath them as they lurched to a stop at the river's edge. Nicole pitched forward onto the floor. León allowed the momentum to carry him backwards into the bow. His legs were now where his body had been. He struggled to get upright until he heard the splash made by Nicole jumping into the water.
“Come back here. Come back or you'll be sorry!” León hissed. He heard splashing feet running toward the riverbank. When he heard her no more, he lay back on the floorboards, his legs over the seat, and laughed until he ached.
* * *
Waxter, heedless of the brush tearing at his clothes, hurried toward the cries for help. Upon seeing him, Nicole rush
ed to him, threw her arms around his waist, and pressed her head against his stomach. It was almost more than Waxter could take. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He couldn't remember the last time he had been hugged. By his mother, probably.
“He, uh, uh…” Tears streamed down Nicole's cheeks, wetting her coat collar. “Mr. Judd, he, he…”
Waxter gingerly patted Nicole on the back. “It's okay now. You're safe.” He remembered his role. “I've been hunting all over for you. You can tell us, tell your daddy about it when I get you home.”
* * *
Arnold Tuckett, his wife, their youngest son, Sheriff Fowlkes, and Deputy Brady were waiting in the Tuckett living room when Nicole burst through the door and flung herself at her father. Waxter eased himself in behind her.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Tuckett lifted her into his arms in a tight embrace while her mother and brother gathered around, smiling and saying, “He found you. Praise God! He found you.”
Waxter almost felt like a hero. He wished it were so.
After a long minute, Nicole lifted her head from her father's neck and Tuckett returned her to the floor. They continued to hold hands as she stood by his side and looked up into his face.
“Daddy, a bad man, Mr. Judd, took me, and was going to drown me with a big cement block. He gave me this.” She pulled the envelope from her pocket.
With shaking hands, Tuckett tore open the envelope and extracted a card.
The Queen of Hearts. This time the card said, “Save Your Loved,” again signed, “The Resort Committee.”
Tuckett blanched and looked at Fowlkes.
Fowlkes’ lips formed a faint smile. He nodded toward Nicole as he stared at Tuckett. “Looks like we all have business to take care of.”
23
Laying Block
“Sheriff Fowlkes, may I have a word with you?” Helen forced a smile. Fowlkes altered his path to the front door and stopped at the buxom woman's desk. Color rose to her neck and cheeks.
“You sent the León boy to get Moose Morella's guns,” she said. “Don't you think…?”
“I decide what I think, Ms. Wagner. And I decide what the Sheriff's department does.”
The pink color from Helen's cheeks sought the cleavage at her V-neck blouse. These blouses were why Slim preferred meeting Fowlkes at the municipal office, and why León and Waxter—especially Waxter—dallied around her desk.
“I'm not trying to tell you what to do,” she said. “But Mr. Morella has a terrible temper. I mean—he's a very nice, gentle family man. But, you know he had a four-year football scholarship to WVU.” Her face turned a hot pink. “Always argued with the coaches. He was back home by October.”
Helen was a little plump, but not bad at all. She had her hair down today. “I know exactly what kind of man Mr. Morella is.” Fowlkes was beginning to feel warm, doing a little lingering himself. “He wants his own way. And if you must know, Deputy León will return both with Morella's guns, the job he thinks I want him to do—and with Mr. Morella—the job I want him to do.”
“You can't send him there alone, Sheriff. Somebody's going to get hurt, or . . .” Helen reached for the telephone. “I'll call Chet.”
“Don't.” Fowlkes grabbed her wrist.
“At least let me warn Orlando.”
She surprised Fowlkes with her fire. His blood pounded in his ears. “Don't worry, León can handle Morella. And you do what I tell you.” He ran his finger under his shirt collar to relieve the burning. “Let's talk about this in my office.”
Fowlkes maintained his grip on her wrist, helped her to her feet, then allowed her to lead him through his office door. Her hips swayed in front of him. He tried to control his breathing. Once inside, he locked the door and pulled his sunglasses from his face.
“Helen!”
She turned to him, her eyes wide.
He grabbed her arm, crushed her to him and found her lips with his own. The fullness of her body pressing upon his chest and thighs stirred him, but his vision was of Becky.
Helen pushed away, surprised, her eyes fixed on his. She held him off as he sought to kiss her neck. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
* * *
Why was it always the last place that you looked? At least the construction sites weren’t far apart. And considering it was mid-October, the afternoon was warm and sunny. “Anthony Morella, New Construction and Home Remodeling,” read the side of the panel truck.
Deputy Orlando León walked across the broken earth to the excavation in which a basement wall was nearing completion. Along the far side on a scaffold was Moose Morella, placing a concrete block on the rising wall.
Except for some thickening through his chest, Morella's body had changed little since those days when he played high school football. His power and determination as an offensive tackle had raised the level of play of the entire line and had brought the team to the state championship for four years. Unfortunately, his reputation as a hothead and his marginal grades had kept most colleges, except WVU, at bay.
A younger version of Moose, MJ—Moose Junior, was mixing mortar in a mortar box. The few clothes the two men wore were drenched in sweat. A large picnic cooler sat nearby on the rim of a completed portion of the wall.
“Hey, Señor Moose, can I talk with you a minute?” León called.
“Sure, but I can’t stop. Gotta get done, and my mortar’d dry in the box.” Morella didn't look up. “Come over by the scaffold, so we don't have to shout,” Morella said. He wiped the sweat from his face with the front of his shirt. “What ya want? I know you ain't come to lay block.”
“Believe it or not, I've done that before.” León picked his way around the debris to where Morella was working. He nodded at the wall. “Nice work.”
The sounds of MJ working the mortar, his hoe scraping the box, the slosh of the mortar, the scraping of Morella's trowel on the block and then the bricklayer's soft grunt when he deftly placed each block took León back to another time. The sun's rays replaced a cool breeze and warmed León's neck. He spoke before inertia could completely overtake him.
“That rifle you showed us at the Sheriff's picnic—think I might like to have a rifle like that myself. I'd never seen a Hatcher before. A target rifle, wasn't it?”
“There were too many people around to show what it could do. I shoulda showed it to the men while everybody was eating.” Morella's smile faded as he felt the deputy's bait-and-switch approach sinking in. “You lookin' to take me in like you did Tom Jenkins?”
“No, no, Señor. But we didn't find a registration for your firearm. Is it registered?”
“If you didn't find a registration, I suppose not.”
“Then I have to take in your gun,” León said. “You can have it back, soon as you register it. And you have to have a license to hunt. Come downtown and take care of it right away, if you want.”
“So that's it, huh? You busted Tom and now me.” Fire arced from Morella's dark brown eyes. “What I own is mine and my business. Not Fowlkes’. Not the County's. I 'spected Fowlkes was up to no good when he threw that picnic.”
Morella reached for a concrete block. León grabbed the thirty-pound block with one hand and swung it over to him like it was a hanky. “I'd appreciate it if you would get the rifle for me.” León waited for a response. “It's no big deal. Still in your truck, right?”
“I said, I can't stop work. And I might need the rifle.” He glanced at León. “Let me tell you something else, Deputy. The people around here decided a long time ago, before I was born, that everybody had to have a gun. Know what happened to crime? Zip—none. Think about it.” Morella slung a line of mortar on the block like it was an exclamation point.
“It doesn't matter what you think, Moose, I gotta have your guns. You keep working. Tell me where they are and I'll get them myself.”
Morella stood up straight to stare at León. “Can't reason with you. You stupid or something? Listen, did Tom Jenkins get his guns back?�
� When León didn't answer, Morella pointed his trowel at him. “Let me keep it simple. You're not getting mine.” He jerked his head toward the road. “Now, clear out of here.”
“Look, I got a search-and-seizure warrant I have to serve. According to the warrant, I need your deer rifle, too. My guess is that both guns are right there in your truck.”
Morella seemed to ignore him, but his knuckles turned white from his grip on the trowel. He looked at his son. “MJ, walk down to Hanover’s and get us some more soda pop—Dr. Pepper, and a bag of ice, too,” Morella said. “And a soda for Deputy León.”
Once the boy was out of sight, Morella fixed León with a stare. “Here in Madison we know what's fair. We know our rights—and we ain't gonna give them up. Not without a fight.” He slung another slab of wet mortar on the wall, hard. It splattered onto the toe of León's buffed shoe. Morella placed the block on the wet cement and defiantly tapped the end of the trowel on the block to settle it in.
León rested his hand on his holstered pistol and held a paper out to Morella. “This warrant authorizes a search of any of your property and seizure of your guns,” León said. “Get them for me.”
Morella worked the block with exaggerated movements, his anger rising. “You going to shoot me if I don't?”
“Nah, too much paperwork, Señor Moose. Just get your guns.”
Morella continued to work. His breathing was hard, but not from exertion. He reached for another block, but kept León within his field of vision.
“All right, have it your way,” León said. He tossed the paper on the pile of concrete blocks and turned on his heel to walk to Morella’s vehicle.
Morella cursed. The scaffold rattled as he scrabbled up and out of the hole. “Don't touch my guns!”
León turned as Morella closed the distance between them. “I said I'll . . .” As León reached for the door handle he was slammed against the truck and then to the ground by a crushing tackle. His head hit the truck's door. Stunned, León felt for his service revolver. Morella’s hands were there first.
