SUNDOWN IN ZION
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Nelson finally headed this truck toward the city of Connorville. Charlie stayed silent as the row crops gave way to rolling pastureland. When they were about three miles from Connorville, he said. “When you get to the state highway, turn right.” When Nelson nodded, Charlie said, “Sam’s place is just out of the city limits on the east side of town.”
“What does he call his business?” Nelson glanced over at Charlie. “Connorville Concealed Carry?”
“No,” Charlie said. “He wants no connection with that city. He calls it "Pro-Tex." Sort of cashing in on the cowboy image.”
“One question,” Nelson said. “If he wants nothing to do with Connorville, why did he locate his business there?”
“Same reason Willie Sutton robbed banks. That’s where the money is.”
“Folks here create a big market?” Nelson said as they entered the city limits.”
“Sam says so. They live under a lot of fear.”
Nelson said, “Fear of what?”
“You know … fear. Robbers, killers, terrorists, blacks, Mexicans, Catholics, Jews, liberals, sailors. You name it and they fear it.”
“And he profits from it.”
Charlie thought for a moment. “Someone has to,” he said, “and I guess Sam is as good a choice as any.”
“How do you know him?”
“He’s army and was assigned to my unit under one of these inter-service swap programs,” Charlie said. “Supposed to build up our communication skills and make us even more fearsome during joint operations.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know. When the two of us found out we were from the same state, we hung out together at the Officer’s Club, him drinking whiskey and me drinking coffee and cold drinks. That was the extent of my interfacing.” He pointed ahead to four-way stop. “There’s your turn.”
Nelson eased to the intersection and was about to turn when a horn honked and a pickup sailed through the intersection from his right. As Nelson slammed to stop, a hand shot through the truck’s open window and a young man of eighteen or so made an obscene gesture. Nelson waited until he passed and then turned.
“That was a product of what they call their ‘superior school system’ in case you wondered,” Charlie said.
“I could learn to love this place,” Nelson said.
“A true piece of paradise,” Charlie said. “It’s about a mile now.”
“They were on a two-lane state highway. A pine thicket flanked the road on the left and a low-lying swampy area lay to the right. Nelson continued until the elevation rose and the land was overgrown with dense underbrush. Ahead was a break in the vegetation and the outline of the front of a plain metal building without ornament or landscaping. As they approached closer, the building showed itself to be narrow and long with a large parking lot to the front and sides. A pole held a large sign containing the words, “ProTex” and the slogan, “Central Arkansas’s Concealed Carry Headquarters.”
“We’re here,” Charlie said.
There was a lone Toyota Sienna parked in the lot. Inside lights indicated that the place was occupied so Nelson parked in front the two stepped from his truck. They entered the building through a glass door and found themselves in a hallway decorated with framed ads for various firearms. A large poster hung there, depicting a movie scene in which a smiling Mexican bandit said, "We don't need no stinkin' badges." The hallway ended at a door marked, “Classroom.” To the right was a door marked “Office.” Charlie knocked on the door and yelled, “Sam.”
Immediately they heard sounds within the room and footsteps approached. The door opened and tall man with a shock of wavy red hair stood before them. He was wearing a set of work khakis that stretched over a developing paunch and draped over a pair of snakeskin boots. “Charlie Winters,” he said. “You old son-of-gun. How the hell have you been?” He shook Charlie’s hand and then extended his toward Nelson. “Sam Coulson,” he said. They shook and he ushered them in and motioned toward two visitors’ chairs.
“I’m better, thanks for asking,” Charlie said as he sat. “And thanks for seeing us.”
“My pleasure,” Coulson said. He looked at Nelson, “Charlie tells me you’re a Navy man.”
“Was,” Nelson said. “On medical leave now.” He looked around. The room bore the look of self-decoration by someone not highly skilled in the art. The walls were freshly painted green, reminiscent of military furnishings. Directly across the room from Coulson’s desk, a lone photograph hung slightly off center in the middle of the wall. File cabinets and office equipment made up the remainder of the furnishings. A rubber mat covered the top of a well-worn desk and was covered with parts of disassembled pistol that Coulson had been in the process of cleaning. The smells of cleaning fluid and fresh paint mixed and filled the room.
“Army here,” Coulson said. “Marines there.” He pointed at Charlie. “Get us a flyboy and a Coast Guard man and we could start us a parade.” He smiled a broad smile and leaned back in his chair. “So what are you two boys up to?”
Charlie looked at Nelson and nodded, indicating for him to speak. Nelson looked up at the ceiling and exhaled. He looked at Coulson.
“Charlie tells me you have your pulse on what happens around here.”
Coulson pondered this for a couple of seconds. “I hear things.”
Charlie interrupted and said, “What kind of people are your customers?”
“Coulson knitted his brow. “The ones from out in the county or the ones from Connorville?”
“Whichever,” Charlie said.
“Well,” Coulson said, “the ones from outside are fairly normal. They come in for all sorts of reasons. Some travel. Some worry about intruders. Some just like guns. They are hard to stereotype.”
“And the others?” Nelson said.
“I get a lot of nut cases from Connorville,” Coulson said. “They seem to want to shoot someone and I always hope it isn’t me until I can get them permitted and out the door. There are the occasional cases of sincerity in the mix.” He sucked his upper lip into his teeth. “But more than the statistical expectation of scary sonsabitches.”
Nelson said. “How did you wind up in this business?”
“Did my twenty in the service—twenty-two to be exact— and retired a Lieutenant Colonel. So, I needed something to occupy my time more than I needed money. I was in the artillery like Charlie here, but blowing things up for a living didn’t seem all that promising.”
“So?” Nelson said.
“So, I decided to stick with small arms. I was assigned for a while to a military police unit, so I had the training. I inherited a family farm not far from here, purchased this property on the cheap before the boom hit, and the rest is history. I work as much or little as I please. Make some traveling money from enrollments along with the proselytizing income.”
Charlie said, “Proselytizing income. What’s that?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you what organizations might look favorably upon my help in building their membership,” Coulson said. Before anyone could respond, he said, “But what can I do for you?”
Nelson said. “I’m just checking on the progress being made on solving a recent crime here,” Nelson said. “Doing a favor for a friend.”
“And the crime is?”
“The murder of young girl Abbey Stubblefield,” Nelson said. “A young man who was her schoolmate is the son of a close friend of mine.”
“Ah,” Coulson said. “The black girl they found here.”
“That is the one,” Nelson said. “Have you by any chance heard anyone mention it?”
Coulson smiled. “Not in any way that would be decent to mention, or of use to you.”
Charlie said, “Are you implying that there is a lack of sympathy?”
Coulson said, “Well, so far, nobody has gone so far as to cheer about it. But there sure as hell haven’t been any memorial services. No candlelight services like they held when Princess Di bought the farm.”
“Have you heard any guesses as to what might have happened? How Abbey was murdered?”
“None, except that she maybe had gotten in with the wrong crowd.”
Charlie said, “What kind of crowd would that be?”
“Gangs, young toughs, big city boys, the usual.”
Charlie said, “What makes folks think that?”
Coulson looked off and then back. “First, I suppose, they couldn’t imagine what she could have been doing in Connorville on Saturday night. They don’t exactly have entertainment venues designed for her kind here.” His face contracted in thought. “To tell you the truth, they don’t have any entertainment venues here at all, except for sports and church.”
Nelson said, “I understand she had attended that big Baptist Church here a couple of times.”
“I heard about that,” Coulson said. He laughed. “I understand that they didn’t exactly sing ‘Bring Them In’ when she showed up. They still joke about it.”
Charlie said, “Who does?”
“The Soul Warriors.”
Charlie said, “Who?”
“The Soul Warriors. They are a nasty bunch of thugs that hang out at the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle. Can’t badmouth them too much since they send all their new members to me, but they are not the type of men you normally associate with churches, militias maybe, but not churches.”
Nelson said, “Are they part of the church?”
“You might say,” Coulson said. “They provide security over at the Ransom Center.”
Nelson said, “Is that part of the church?”
“Yep. They don’t advertise the fact much. They think that might reduce referrals from other denominations. They don’t particularly try to hide it the fact. They just don’t make a big deal of it.”
Nelson said, “And this bunch, the Soul Warriors, works there?”
“When they work,” Coulson said. “Mostly they just hang around and scare folks. When they get tired of that, they come out here and use my range to shoot their guns.”
“Sounds like a fine group of boys,” Charlie said.
Charlie said, “So they think Abbey was a gang member?”
“They just think she was black,” Coulson said, “and that is enough for them.”
Nelson said, “So if she was black, she had to be a gang member?”
Coulson shrugged. “It’s Connorville. What can I say?”
Nelson said, “Any other evidence that she ran with gangs?”
“There was the method of her death. Sure looked like a planned ritual, here being tied up and tortured and all. My old buddies in the Military Police would say that doesn’t look like a crime of passion.”
Nelson said, “Anything else?”
Coulson pondered the question. “She was wearing gang-related colors, I understand. ‘Blood Red.’ And she supposedly had this necklace that resembled a gang adornment.”
Charlie said, “A gang name?”
“It said ‘Poison.’ I guess that sounds a little like a name that a gang might give someone,” Coulson said.
The three sat in silence for a full minute. Finally, Nelson said, “This group, the Soul Warriors, does it have a leader?”
“A piece of work,” said Coulson. “that they call Bully Bridges.”
“And this church,” Nelson said, “who is the pastor and how does he fit in with such a group as the Soul Warriors?”
“Nice guy,” Coulson said. “Brother Dale Underhill. I don’t think he exactly approves of them but they come in handy at times. There are some fairly rough customers at the Ransom Center. They also help find runaways. So Brother Dale puts up with them.”
Nelson said, “Do you know him?”
“Oh yes. He is from around here. I’ve known him all my life His father was a preacher too, one of those old-time ones. Honest and poor as a church mouse, like they say.”
Nelson said, “This preacher, do you know him well enough to arrange for me to meet him?”
“When?”
“I have no set schedule,” Nelson said. “And Charley’s appointment book is totally empty.”
Coulson looked at Charlie, who smiled. Coulson then opened a drawer and retrieved a phone book. After searching for a moment, he wrote a number on a pad and dialed it. It took him a couple of requests to get through to the pastor and a minute to explain the call. Holding a hand over the bottom of the handset, Coulson said to Nelson, “He can see you right now if you wish.”
“Tell him I’m on my way,” Nelson said.
Coulson delivered the message and laid the receiver back into its rest. “What else can I do for you boys?”
Nelson said, “Could you keep Charlie entertained while I’m gone?”
“That would be my pleasure,” Coulson said. “I haven’t seen the rascal since he worked for me last. That must have been six or seven months ago.” He winked at Charlie. “We’ve got a lot of lies to catch up on.”
“Maybe you could run him by the spot where they found Abbey’s body,” Nelson said.
“Sure thing,” Coulson said. “I’ll give him the ‘cook’s tour’ of beautiful Connorville. And I’ll promise him one thing.”
“What’s that?” Nelson said.
“I won’t show him ‘the Hood,’” he said grinning, “because they don’t have one.”
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