[Lady Justice 04] - Lady Justice And The Avenging Angels

by Robert Thornhill

  Just before the end of the first set, there was a pause, and Gene announced, “We’ve got some celebrities in the crowd tonight.” He pointed to our table, and the light guy shined a spot on us.

  “These are the dudes that blew up the park! Awesome! Since they’re cops, we’re going to dedicate this last song to them ‘Love Gun.’ You dudes packin’ your love guns tonight?” He grinned and gave us another tongue wiggle.

  After “Love Gun,” the Crawl for Cancer organizer called us onto the stage and presented us with a big cardboard check for five thousand dollars made out to the cancer charity. A few people clapped, but most didn’t give a damn. They were ready for the next set.

  Having done our civic duty, we said our good-byes and thank yous and headed for the door. Outside, we soaked up the clean, fresh air and relative quiet. It was about ten thirty when we pulled out of the parking garage onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

  We were really wired from the sensory overload and figured we would need some time to decompress, so we decided to head downtown and maybe find someplace to get dessert.

  I noticed that a big, brown pickup truck pulled out of the garage behind us. I made my way over to the Southwest Trafficway and turned north toward downtown. About Linwood, I glanced in my rearview mirror and noticed that the same brown pickup was still with us. I cruised down the long hill and had just gotten onto the Trafficway bridge that spanned the railroad tracks below.

  I took another glance in the rearview and saw that the truck was closing the gap between us. I also noted for the first time that this was no ordinary pickup.

  It was one of those dually things two back tires on each axle and the size of those tires lifted the bumper, which I noticed for the first time had a thick board bolted on to almost the level of our back window.

  “Ox, I think we have company.”

  Ox turned to look just as the truck rammed our back end.

  The girls screamed, and Ox yelled, “Step on it. They’re coming again!”

  I put the pedal to the metal and opened a small gap between us, but the big truck kept pace, and I could see him coming fast. The next jolt caught us in the rear quarter panel, and our back end swung wildly toward the guardrail. They were trying to push us over the edge! I steered the wheel into the direction of the slide, and the car fishtailed a couple of times before sideswiping the rail.

  Ox yelled, “Walt, are you carrying?”

  Even though off-duty officers are supposed to carry a concealed firearm, I had never gotten into the habit.

  “Well, I am!” Ox bellowed. “Try to hold her steady.” He pulled his big Glock from his shoulder holster, rolled down the window, and leaned out.

  At ten thirty at night there was still a lot of traffic.

  “I can’t risk a windshield shot. I’m going to try for a tire.”

  I heard the report from the big nine-millimeter.

  “Damn, I missed.”

  He might have missed, but the counterattack certainly got the attention of our pursuers. They backed off but kept pace. I heard the roar of their engine and figured they were coming at us again.

  By this time, we had reached speeds of eighty to eighty-five miles an hour. Ox leaned out the window and fired a volley at the oncoming truck. The big truck swerved to the left into the center lane just as we reached the Broadway exit.

  I slammed on the brakes and slid sideways onto the exit. It was too late for the big truck to brake and turn from the center lane, and we saw it whiz by. I pulled off to the side of the road, and we all sat in stunned silence.

  Finally, I asked, “Is everyone all right?”

  From the backseat Martha whimpered, “I peed my pants.”

  We were just a few blocks from the station, so we stopped and made a report, but our attackers were, of course, long gone.

  The car was quiet on the way home. We dropped Martha off first.

  As she was getting out of the car, Ox asked, “Is it okay if I call you again?”

  There was a long pause, and finally Martha replied, “Ox, you’re a great guy, and I like you a lot, but your dates are just a little too intense for me. I think I’ll pass.”

  We dropped a sad and sullen Ox off at his door.

  On the way home, Maggie said, “I feel terrible about Ox and Martha. They were a cute couple.”

  I took Maggie by the hand. “It takes a special woman to be with a cop. I’m so glad I have you.”

  Maggie smiled. “Yes, Walt, you’re a very lucky man!”

  Chapter 19

  After the attack on our car, it was quite apparent that the terrorists had painted a big target on our backs. After all, Ox and I had foiled their attempt to maim and murder at the Red Garter, confiscated their TATP at the Three Trails, and all they had to show for the pub crawl debacle was a boatload of dead fish.

  If I were them, I’d be after me too.

  The thing that bothered me the most was that Maggie and my friends were in danger too.

  I talked with the captain about protection, but with the way these people operated, unless we wanted to hole up and never set foot outside a protected area, there was just no way to cover all the potential danger zones. We found ourselves looking over our shoulders and in our rearview mirrors, wondering who might be following us next. We were constantly on our hands and knees, looking for bombs hidden under our car. We were even cautious when taking the trash to the dumpster. Who knew what might be inside?

  It was a stressful way to live.

  Given the religious nature of these thugs, I decided it might be worthwhile to pay a visit to Pastor Bob at the First Community Church.

  I had met Pastor Bob while I was selling real estate. He had been booted out as pastor of a mainline congregation for not knuckling under to the political dictates of the church hierarchy. When he left, half the congregation followed him to a little church building I sold to him on Linwood.

  While I certainly believe there is some higher power out there a lot greater and smarter than I, I have always had difficulty with institutional religion. Pastor Bob’s view was to promote peace on earth and goodwill toward men in a very real and very concrete way without all the trappings, rituals, and falderal found in most denominations.

  There had been times of stress in my life, especially since joining the force, when his wise words of counsel helped pull me through.

  The front door of the church was unlocked as always, and I wound my way through the pews to the pastor’s study.

  I knocked, and Pastor Bob looked up from his desk. “Well, if it isn’t our local hero. Come in, Walt, and take a load off.”

  Pastor talk.

  “I’ve been reading about you in the papers. You’ve had a busy few weeks.”

  You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

  “Actually, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You have?”

  “Sure. I’ve been following the news stories and reading the Bible quotes from your fanatic friends.”

  “They’re no friends of mine!”

  “No, I suppose not. When they weren’t caught right away, I thought you might be dropping by for some insights from a man of the cloth.”

  “So what’s your take on these guys?”

  “The first thing you have to understand, Walt, is that what’s happening is nothing new. Throughout recorded history, men have been committing atrocities on one another in the name of religion. How many men died during the Crusades or the Spanish inquisition? How many witches were burned or drowned in Salem? How many perished in the bombing of the Twin Towers? They all died at the hands of men who believed they were doing the will of their God.”

  “But why? How?”

  “Ignorance, misunderstanding, greed, power, you name it. Sometimes it was simply the work of one very powerful and v
ery disturbed individual.”

  That statement rang a bell, and I remembered the words of Dr. Max Leighton, the department forensic psychologist. “Our department shrink said that might be the case, but how does one man get that kind of control over normally rational people?”

  Pastor Bob smiled. “Really, Walt? You do it all the time.”

  “Do what?”

  “Crazy stuff! Stuff normal people wouldn’t do. Like driving a bomb across town and dumping it in a lake. Why did you do that?”

  “It’s my job! I’m supposed to serve and protect!”

  “So you really believe that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “And who told you that it was your job to serve and protect?”

  “Captain Short.”

  “And you believe him?”

  I started to answer, but I could see where he was leading me.

  “So here you are, a regular guy, a normal person who suddenly gets a wild hair and believes with all his heart that he has a job to do and a responsibility to fulfill, and this belief is empowered by another speaking with all the trappings of authority. The end result being, you’re willing to risk your life and all that you have to fulfill your destiny.”

  What could I say? “But killing people like that. It’s just so wrong.”

  “Has anyone died as a result of your work on the police force?”

  The specter of Jack Ballard’s body impaled on the bale spike of a John Deere tractor flashed into my mind. “But”

  “But that was the right thing because you believed you were serving the cause of justice. Believe me, Walt. These men are just as convinced they’re in the right as you are.”

  “And they’re getting their inspiration to do all these terrible things from the Bible?”

  Pastor Bob picked up an old, worn Bible and handed it to me. “Here, open the Bible to any page and read a passage. I can take that passage out of context and make a case for anything I want to believe and say it’s coming straight from God. It’s scriptural, so it must be right.”

  “So how do you fight a thing like that? How can you make those people see that what they’re doing is wrong?”

  “If you want to kill a snake, you cut off his head. There’s a very powerful man out there somewhere who’s convinced regular folks that he is speaking with authority from God. Adolf Hitler convinced a whole nation that killing Jews was the right thing to do. The Germans weren’t all bad people. They just had a very forceful and very misguided leader. The violence will continue until you find this man and take away the spell he has cast upon his flock.”

  I thanked Pastor Bob, and as I was leaving the sanctuary, I saw a picture of Jesus standing with arms outstretched. I thought how sad He must be at all the atrocities that had been committed in His name.

  Chapter 20

  I had been totally preoccupied with the saga surrounding the Beaumont Club to the total exclusion of almost everything else in my life. My plans for a second pilgrimage to St. Clair County had been put on hold.

  After a few days, the story of the bombing and my improbable journey to Loose Park Lake had faded away, and thankfully there had been no more threats from the terrorists.

  Willie had been chomping at the bit to dig in to his family history, and I have to admit I was intrigued with the old parchment map and the possibility that somewhere out in those wooded hills a buried treasure was waiting to be discovered.

  I called Dan the Catfish Man and arranged for him to meet us at Osceola Cheese at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday. In the interim, I reread The Burning of Osceola, Missouri and The Roscoe Gun Battle.

  I had no idea the little village of Osceola played such a prominent role in the Civil War. To me, the Jayhawkers were just the rabid fans of Kansas sports teams, but to the residents of nineteenth-century Osceola, they were a scourge that came from the West to burn and pillage their little town.

  The origin of the name Monegaw was equally fascinating. It was the name of a powerful chief of the Osage Indians who led his warriors in battle against the white men encroaching on their land. The Indians were soundly defeated by soldiers from Fort Osage, and legend says that Chief Monegaw, defeated and disgraced, secluded himself in one of the many caves in the great limestone bluffs overlooking the Osage River and died a death from starvation.

  Maggie and Mary made the first trip, but this time we decided to have a boys’ day out. We met Dan at the cheese store and climbed in his old pickup. Dan was born and raised in St. Clair County, and like many of the local residents, his family had made their home there for generations.

  We drove back into town, and as we circled the old town square, Dan pointed out several buildings of historical significance, including the old Commercial Hotel. The building, currently unoccupied, was built just after the Civil War and had a long and colorful history. Legend had it that Jesse James often stayed at the hotel and always requested a favorite room because it provided access for a quick getaway.

  We drove out on WW Highway, stopped at the cemetery, and examined tombstones dating back to the 1800s. Osceola sat on the bank of the Osage River. Dan drove the paved road south along the riverbank to a high bluff overlooking the valley below.

  We climbed out of the truck, and below us the river valley stretched for miles. The Osage, coming from the west, made a sharp curve to the north, where another river joined.

  “That’s the Sac,” Dan said, pointing to the river coming from the south. “Caught me a seventy-pound white cat on a limb line right down there where the two rivers come together.” The old man stared wistfully at the waters below, and I could tell he was reliving happy memories of past days on his beloved river.

  “Dan, we’re particularly interested in some of the old James and Younger lore, and we’d like to take a look at Monegaw. Could we do that?”

  “Sure, city boy. I can tell you anything you want to know.”

  We drove back through town out to the highway and turned north on 13 then west on County Road B. We drove about ten minutes and turned back south on County Road E. About five minutes later, we came to a gravel road. Dan pulled off onto the shoulder, and we climbed out.

  An historical marker buried back in the weeds proclaimed this to be the location of the Roscoe gun battle where John Younger and the Pinkerton agent were killed.

  “Actually,” Dan said, “the gunfight was down that gravel road a piece, but they put the marker here. I suppose so more folks could find it.”

  I pulled out my little book by Wilbur Zink and opened it to the map.

  “Hey, you got old Wilbur’s book. I knowed Wilbur. He was a good friend.”

  “The map says this corner is called The Forks, and it looks like the county road we came down used to be called the Old Chalk Road.”

  “You got that right.”

  “And it looks like the old McFerrin and McDonald cabins were down that way,” I said, pointing down the old gravel road. “Can we go see them?”

  “The McDonald place is long gone, but the old McFerrin house is still there, or at least part of it.”

  We climbed back in the pickup and drove about a quarter mile down the gravel road. We stopped in front of an old log structure that had obviously been vacant for years and left to deteriorate in the elements.

  As we stood in the dusty road, I remarked, “So this is the place they took John Younger’s body?”

  “Yep. Folks say the McFerrins and McDonalds was real tight with the James and Younger boys.”

  Willie had been quiet through most of the trip. We watched as he crossed the road, climbed through the old barbed-wire fence, and stood facing the ramshackle cabin.

  “Your friend seems mighty taken with the place,” Dan said.

  “Well, he should be. John and Hannah McFerrin were Willie’s great-great-grandparents.”

/>   Dan turned in amazement. “You’re pulling my leg!”

  “Nope. His auntie just passed, and she had a family Bible showing Willie’s family history all the way back to the McFerrins. His grandma, Liza McDonald, was born on the very day of the gunfight.”

  Willie roamed the old ruins for fifteen minutes, and when he returned I could see where tears had streaked his face. “Thank you, Mr. Walt. I neva knew nothin’ ‘bout my kin. Neva had nothin’ to be proud of ‘cept my daddy what was kilt in de war. Now I knows where I come from, and dat’s a real good feelin’.”

  I remembered something else I had seen on both Zink’s map and the one that fell out of the Bible. “Dan, the map in Zink’s book shows a dotted line from The Forks through the woods to Monegaw.”

  “Yep, used to be an old loggin’ road went through there, but it’s long gone too.”

  “Could we go to Monegaw now?”

  “Monegaw Springs. Comin’ right up.”

  On the way to Monegaw, Dan filled us in on the history of the little town.

  “When we get there, you’ll see there ain’t much left. At the turn of the century, it was a boomin’ little place. There was a sulfur spring that bubbled up out of the ground. You could smell the damn thing a mile away if the wind was right.

  “Folks thought the old spring had healin’ powers and drove horse and buggies all the way from Kansas City to drink the water. There was hotels and dance halls. It was a grand old time.”

  “Is the spring still there?”

  “Yep, it’s there, but you can’t see it no more. When the gove’ment came in and built the Truman Dam, it got covered with water.”

  I remembered the old school primer that had been in the box of books. “Does the name Rabbit Roost School mean anything to you?”

  Dan slapped his knee. “I ain’t heard that name for years. That was the old school that kids who lived in Monegaw went to.” I saw a sad look in his eyes. “That’s gone too.”