Answers

 Sundown In Zion

CHAPTER fifty-one

 

            They all took Sunday off. Sheriff Love explained that they each enjoyed enough excitement on Saturday to last a lifetime. “Besides,” he said, “I have to take my wife to church on Sunday. We haven’t missed a service in over 47 years and we’re not going to start now.”

            Charlie was at Angela’s house. Nelson tried all that morning to reach Tina, but she didn’t answer her phone at home. He also tried her office with no luck. He read for an hour after breakfast and then fired up his computer to make notes for his report.

            The first thing that appeared on his screen was notice of an email from Tina. He clicked to it. It read.

            Forgive me, but please don’t try to contact me again. It is all over, through no fault of yours, only mine. I do not love you and will never love you. For better or worse, love is a one-time thing with me. Sex is a relief from the pain of loss, but only a temporary one. I thought perhaps you were different, but no. I loved the sex, but each time we finished, and you lay beside me, I was filled with disgust. Not only with you, but with myself mostly and with the thought of dishonoring the memory of my husband. See, I didn’t love him when we married. He represented an end to a student’s poverty and a little physical fun, that’s all. Then something strange happened as we faced life together and overcame its petty struggles. I woke up one morning and realized that I worshipped the ground on which he walked. Every time I took a breath, that feeling grew stronger. May you share it someday. Being loved can generate love, that’s not from a sociologist, but from a life’s partner of a wonderful person. When we meet on campus, let’s meet as friends. You can even take my class if you wish. Friends, that’s all. I need all of them I can find. Take care.

Tina

Nelson closed the email. He spent the afternoon making notes of his remembrances, and the evening thinking, with a glass of Jack Daniels close by.

The next morning, he walked into the sheriff’s office to find him in an expansive mood. “Come in my nautical friend. Get some coffee and sit. When they both had settled comfortably, he said, “Know what our preacher preached on yesterday?”

Nelson shook his head.

“Handling life’s surprises with the help of God,” he said. “Now ain’t that a fucking hoot? What you want to know about first?”? He stopped and spoke loudly toward the door. “Mrs. M, you’ll know all about everything when you type my report. Right now, you’ll just have to wait.” There was a familiar scuffling sound from the other side of the door. He waited.

“Now,” he said. “You’ll first want to know about Brother Dale Underhill, as he is known, right?

Nelson nodded.

“When he figured the jig was up,” the sheriff said, “he started singing. Not hymns either but a sad and tragic story. Seems greed-envy overtook him the way inertia overtakes many of our county residents. He saw those TV evangelists with their private jets and mansions, and it gnawed on him like glory gnaws on people like us.” They both smiled. “Then he read a book about those fundamentalist Mormon men out west. He and Bully spent way too much time talking about it and they hatched a plan.”

“Let me guess,” Nelson said. “It involved the Ransom Center.”

“Bingo. He used some secret network that preachers have and found this huge market for brainwashed young starlets and the two of them sprang into action.”

“Brigette said they appraised her at fifty grand.”

“That’s a discounted price,” he said, “because she was so hardheaded and difficult to train. She’s also a little old. They like them no older than 14, as a rule. Anyway,” he said. “A few sales financed their entry into a more lucrative, although riskier, field. Greed overcame caution and here we are. He says they were quitting all of their businesses after Bridgette and that delivery we intercepted. You were making things too warm for them and they all had their nests made anyway. It was off to the Caribbean after that final load.”

“Speaking of that,” Nelson said, “how did Don Dillahunty fit in?

“Seems he came to Brother Dale complaining that his wives, both former and present, were bankrupting him and he didn’t know what to do.”

“And?”

“Just so happened that the meth-gang needed a way to smuggle hard-to-get ingredients in and Don imported a lot of furniture from the Vietnamese. They, the Vietnamese ain’t above stuffing such furniture creatively. Don ask why. They are still pissed off about the war, if you ask me. Anyway, as Brother Dale put it, in that charming way of his, ‘It was a marriage made in Heaven’ and the rest is history.”

Bridgette’s mother is happy?”

“Look up the word in the dictionary and you’ll see her picture there.”

“Will they keep Martin out of the news?”

“Now there is another shocking development. I trust you didn’t fail to see a little more than rescuer and rescuee attraction during our little get together?

“Who could have missed it? That explains the portion of the letter her mom found.”
“It explains a lot of things,” the sheriff said, “not the least of which is why they took her

from the Ransom Center when they didn’t really need kidnap money anymore. They stop short of murdering for miscegenation now, these assholes. Besides, they had a better treatment.”

            “What about the crime scene?”

“They went yesterday and looked as best they could. A total wipeout. All they’ve identified so far was a section of a forearm with the letters “SW” tattooed on it, and a partial set of dentures.”

            “Believe it or not, those both belonged to Bully.”

            “Stands to reason,” the sheriff said. “I mean as far as the dentures. Man-fighting, meth, and Mountain Dew don’t make for a full set of choppers.

            “So,” Nelson said, “that about wraps in up?”

            Before the sheriff could answer, three knocks came at his door. “Ah,” he said, “Mrs. M’s secret code. This is important. “Enter.”

            The door opened and a voice said, “Agent Benson is here.”

            “Send ‘Little Jedgar’ in.”

            The door opened fully, and Tom Benson entered. He surveyed the room. “Gentlemen,” he said. He shook hands with Nelson. “I think I owe you an apology for thinking of you as a pest,” he said.

            “Oh?” Nelson said.

            “Yes. I think you’re going to get me transferred to the Beverley Hills office yet.” He turned and shook hands with the sheriff. He nodded back toward Nelson and said. “Just who the hell is this man? He got me credit for solving two interstate crimes in one night.”

            “Just a former sailor,” the sheriff said. He motioned toward an empty chair. “Sit.”

            “I don’t know much more than what I reported to you yesterday,” he said to the sheriff. “We’re getting ready to assemble all we can about Chief of Police Banks over in Connorville and his possible role in all this.”

            Sheriff Love said, “If I know the Weasel, he has covered his tracks pretty well.”

            “Our trackers look hard and deep,” Benson said. “We’ll see what his financial dealings tell us. Right now, I only have one disappointment.”

            Both men sat forward. “Oh?” said the sheriff. “A loose end? I thought all your suspects were all singing “Just as I am without one plea.”

            “They are, pretty much,” Benson said. “Except for one thing.”
            “What’s that?” Nelson asked.

            “They admitted killing Bonnie Sue Anderson. Seems she went to see Dale Underwood because there was something about Bridgette Thompson she hadn’t told anyone, something that could have stirred the pot pretty badly.”

            “Which was?” The sheriff was leaning more toward Benson now.

            “Underwood won’t say,” Benson said, “and she can’t. We may never know. But that’s not the main thing they won’t admit?”

            “What’s that?” the sheriff asked.

            Benson took a deep breath. “None of them will tell us shit about Abbey Stubblefield.”

            “Why?” the sheriff was getting agitated. Nelson showed no emotion.

            “Who knows? Maybe they think they have enough trouble without getting the NAACP on their case as well.”

            The sheriff leaned back and looked at Nelson. “Well now,” he said. Ain’t that a pisser, after all you did for us?”

            “Maybe,” said Nelson. “Just maybe they don’t know.”

            This time it was Benson who leaned forward, toward Nelson. “What do you mean?”

            Nelson shook his head and sorrow showed across it. “You fellas want to take a ride?”

 

Leadership

 When I was a boy growing up in rural Arkansas, World War II had just been over five years or so. The results of it touched everyone, each day of the week in some fashion or other.

A playmate’s father couldn’t hold a job for a drinking problem brought on by his experiences in the war.

Mrs. So and So never smiled because her boy was killed in the Pacific.

Another playmate had a neat plastic model of a B-17 but knew nothing about it cause his dad wouldn’t discuss it after he brought it home.

The preacher talked about his comrades finding religion when the bombs started falling.

My aunt found out that the preacher spent the war as a cook who never left the states.

A good friend’s father died flying a fighter plane and he now had a new father.

A classmate’s father only had one arm and she was very sensitive about it.

Many of the cartoons we saw featured characters based on Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo.

The first kid to claim a branch of service while playing war was always a Marine.

We learned that Franklin D. Roosevelt was a true hero for bringing the country through the crisis.

Just musing today: The American military deaths from the war totaled around 330,000 in four years.

America may pass that number in Covid-19 deaths in one year.

One can only wonder what the next generation of kids will talk about on the playgrounds of rural Arkansas, if there are still playgrounds there in five years.

Whom to follow?

 I’ve quit trying to change anyone’s stance on how our country should meet the future. I’m too busy understanding mine. It isn’t that hard to understand. It’s just a bit incongruous. See, I firmly believe in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution when it separates religion from government, further bolstered by Article VI when it states that, “…no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States.”

 Ah yes. While I believe the wall between our government and any religion should be absolute, I don’t mind if an individual uses—along with wisdom, education, and critical thinking—passages of their (or someone else’s) religious diatribes to form their individual political inclinations. I do.

 Notice, please, that I said, “Individual political inclinations,” and not “governmental administration.” There’s no problem if religious beliefs help a person form political beliefs. The problem I see with so many so-called “Christians” in today’s American society is that they tend to choose, for their political fervor, those passages from the Bible that seem to grant a person of their faith the right to judge and then condemn others, mostly others who aren't like them.

 The Galilean warns against this in one of the religious writings that that help form my politics, The Sermon on the Mount. We’re not going to find more wonderful prose than this. That is why it is so odd to me that none of the self-proclaimed icons of modern American religion ever use it to justify their politics.

 Oh well. I do anyway. I combine it with another passage from the same book of the New Testament, the verses in Chapter 25, (NIV) to wit:

 34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

 37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

 40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

 41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

 44 “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

 45 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ "

I’ve never heard one of the zealots whose politics are opposite mine use this as a foundation for their beliefs. In fact, I suspect that a person could carry a tablet with the words inscribed on it and use it to chase the likes of Franklin Graham and Kenneth Copeland away, much like using a crucifix on a vampire.

 That is why it saddens me so when I see old friends, some of whom even serve as ministers to the Christian faith, and whom I knew once to be kind and generous people, post stringent beliefs in the politics of a man who, knowingly or unknowingly, is the living embodiment of  one who lives a life in direct competition to both passages I have mentioned.

 It saddens me. But life goes on. As the Galilean said, “Let your light shine before others.” That's really all we can do, isn't it?

 

 

 

 

Endgame

 

Sundown in zion

Chapter fifty

              Nelson nodded. “This place is about to blow,” he said. “Come on.” He turned south toward the main gate.

“Wait,” Martin said. “Wait just a moment.” He turned and ran back around the corner of the building from where he had emerged. In ten seconds, he rounded the corner leading a tall girl with matted blond hair wearing a pullover shift that was ragged and stained. Blue eyes flashed from a face that was bruised and dirty. Even in this condition, a glow of beauty eased its way through the filth.

“Mr. Nelson,” he said as they approached, “meet Bridgette Thompson. Brigette, Gideon Nelson.”

Before anyone could speak further, a rumbling erupted from the building. The three began running and had covered only fifty yards before the compound went dark and the first explosion occurred. The heat reached them first and they ran faster, the way now clear. Behind them, the sounds of objects falling into the trees filled the air. A second explosion shook the trees around them and they ran faster. Then all was quiet. The three slowed to walk as they heard sirens in the distant competing with the sounds of debris falling in the distance.

“Want to explain?” Nelson said to Martin.

“I found Brigette in that first wooden cell,” he said. I think they left in a hurry.” Thy just had a clevis pin holding the lock.”

“A what?”

“Dad says you call it a ‘shackle’ in the Navy. Around here they call it a clevis. Anyway, I just pulled the pin, opened the door, and there she was.”

Nelson looked at Brigette and she nodded.

“She called me a name that would make you and Dad blush and threatened to scratch my eyeballs out before she recognized me.” The merest hint of a smile crossed the girl’s bruised face.

Nelson shook his head. “You’re from the Ransom Center?” Brigette nodded. “How?” Nelson said, turning to Martin.

“This girl got in touch with me, a really weird girl. Said she had been in the Ransom Center before Bridgette and had thought of something she forgot to mention to … she called you that ‘hunkorama cop that almost made her like men.’ She got to thinking after she talked to you and so she called me. A bit of a weirdo if you ask me.”

“Tricia Davenport?”

“That was her. She said something that aroused my interest. That’s why I wanted to see you and, failing that, followed you.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she got to wondering why it was only the ugly girls, her words, who ran away from the Ransom Center that the Soul Warriors ever caught. She wondered why they never caught the beautiful ones.” He looked at Bridgette. “I put two and two together with my substantial math skills and the use of chemistry.

“Chemistry?” Nelson said.

“Chemistry,” Martin said. “Covalent bonds and all that.”

“What?”

“They are chemical bond that allow the sharing of electron pairs between atoms.”

“It does what?”

“It connects things in wondrous ways. Connectivity: that’s what we’re talking about. Things aren’t connected by happenstance in every case. Things seemed too organized to me as I’m sure it did to Abbey. So here I am.”

“How did you get into the camp?”

“Same way, I suspect, that Bully intended to leave. There’s an old trail on the eastern side of the camp, maybe an Indian trail. We used to squirrel hunt back there when I was a kid.”

“When you were a kid?”

“Yeah. I mean yes sir.”

Nelson turned to Brigette. “Do you feel like talking?” She nodded. “Why?” he said.

She took a deep breath, then another. “They kept saying …” a catch stopped her. She breathed deeply and said, “They kept saying that they could get fifty-thousand dollars for me in Utah and that I would be happy there if I would learn to behave.” They walked on toward the main gate.

At that point, help arrived. The cars surrounded them as a final, mighty explosion rocked the forest. Sheriff Love was the first out and appeared soundly confused. “I’ll explain,” Nelson said. “First, let’s take care of this young lady.”

The three of them road back together in the back of the sheriff’s car. “You saved my life twice tonight,” Nelson said to Martin. “I owe you.”

Martin laughed. “I heard your PISS buckle from way outside,” he said. “That’s how I knew you were in there.”

“But the other,” Nelson. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“We have the same Sensei,” Martin said. “She tells me all about you every time I stop for a lesson. That’s why I chose her in the first place.”

“You’re ‘The Other’ she talks about?”

“I thought that was you,” Martin said. “I think she may play us against one another. I’m awfully glad I chose well. I usually do.”

“But why?”

“Dad told me a few years back that colored boy as smart as I am had better learn to defend  himself from dumb jealous crackers.”

Beside them, Brigette began to sob. Martin patted her hand. She leaned her head on his shoulder and grasped his hand fiercely. They didn’t part until they reached the assembly area.

Quite a sight met them. The van and the sedan that Nelson had seen on his way in were parked to one side. Agent Benson was standing to one side yelling into his cell phone. The SWAT group, weapons at arms, surrounded a group of men, most of whom had been part of group of Soul Warriors who ran with Bully Bridges. Nelson and other two were ushered to a Medivac van that had arrived while he was gone. An EMT tried to assist him, but he directed them to Bridgette first. The EMT led her to the back of the van where another wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. A third began cleaning her face.

Sheriff Love walked to Nelson who introduced him to Martin and gave a short version of what had transpired. The sheriff patted Martin’s shoulder. Mrs, ‘Nosey-Rosie,’ my guardian at the office, speaks highly of your family but I don’t believe I’ve had honor of seeing you since you’ve become a man.”

“My honor, not yours,” Martin said.

The sheriff looked at Nelson, and said, “The acorns don’t fall far, do they? So, Bully felt the heat, huh?”

“He may be feeling a new heat,” Nelson said, “if a dear departed friend of mine is right.”

“Can you stand another shock,” the sheriff said. “before the feel-good crew gets around to you?”

“Do I look like I need treatment?”

“You look like you’ve been bawling. Of course, Marines don’t know much about such things.” He laughed and winked at Martin, then back at Nelson. “Seriously though, do you feel like some more strange shit on an already strange day?”

“Anchors aweigh, as the late Bully Bridges said as he left for his new home.”

“You stay here with your friend,” the sheriff said to Martin. “There are some things young folks don’t need to know right away. Besides, you already represent another two pounds of paperwork to Agent Benson over there.” He pointed to where Benson was holding his cell phone with one hand and gesturing with the other. Deputy Cassidy leaned against his patrol car, smoking and laughing at the scene.

The sheriff led Nelson to where the SWAT team guarded the prisoners under the watchful eyes of Caruthers and Dillard. As Nelson and the sheriff approached, the squad members parted to make way. Just as they did, the prisoners also revealed a figure, the sight of whom made Nelson freeze.

The man raised his hands, manacled by a thin band of plastic, and managed a tortured salute. “Hate to meet you like this my friend,” he said, “but I have to ask. Have you accepted Christ as your personal savior yet?”

 

Saving America

Sitting here a few weeks before the election, I shudder in fear of what my country has evolved into during the last couple of decades. I won’t say it is the country for which I put my life on the line. I joined the United States Navy because I wanted to go to sea, not because I wanted to go to war. Fate intervened and here I sit, terrified, angry, sad, and, yes, patriotic. I just read how the president of the United States of America, soon facing reelection, is motivating crowds to violence against his political opponents, one a governor of a state within our country.

 Has it come to this?

 I have friends who have different political view than mine. We used to talk about them. We discussed topics we felt were worth discussing. How much regulation is enough? How much regulation is too much? What are the valid purposes of good government? How do we measure the wealth of a country and its people? What are the benefits of enlightened immigration? What is the role of government in equalizing the opportunity palate for the myriad colors of its people? When will women in our country be equal citizens? Children? Those whom nature has determined to be different?

 Now? Now it seems that the only issues worth voting for are unborn babies, religion, and guns. Those are the mentionable topics. Underlying it all is the issue of white supremacy.

 The unborn? Every educated person, and/or competent processor of facts I know realizes that the best ways to address the issue of abortions is to first address the issue of unwanted pregnancies. Then they agree that sex education, access to contraceptives, and equal male responsibility address those issues far better that hateful and misguided laws.

 Religion? Which religion? A person cannot say “Mine,’ for there are so many. How about the words of the figure on that lonely hill in Judea who is reported to have said, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” (Matthew 7, NIV)

Guns? I invite any reader to come to my “little postage stamp” of America on a Sunday afternoon, listen carefully, and tell me with a straight face that someone is confiscating guns. For maximum benefit, best wait until church has let out, lunch finished, and the first case of beer consumed.

Bigotry? I thought we might have had it on the run once. Then, America elected a person of color to the presidency and, like some powerful volcano that we thought was dormant, hate spewed forth like some noxious poison and became acceptable. It seems to buttress our every movement.

Here is my modest proposal to those whose political views are opposite mine. Let us unite for our country and vote this brood of vipers out of Washington. Then for the next two years and the two after that, let us have a normally functioning two-party system that deliberates and votes on issues and policies that area real and honest. May the side with policies that are free from hate and best for America win. I’m willing to take that chance.

Are you?

Danger

 

Sundown in Zion

Chapter forty-nine

 

            His cell phone woke Nelson at first light. He lit his bedside lamp and answered. After a moment he said, “Today? I thought we had it planned for tomorrow when they would be in church.” He paused and listened. “How many got away?” He listened again. “That’s not bad for such a large operation, but even two can spread the word fast. I’ll be there in 45 minutes. Where’s the assembly site again? Perfect,” he said.

            Just as he swung from the bed, his phone rang again. This time his face showed surprise. “Martin?” He listened. “Spring break? Is it spring already?” This time the caller took longer. Then Nelson said, “This isn’t a good morning, Martin.” He waited. “I have something important to do.” He waited. “I know you are close by but I’m just leaving. Go home and we’ll get together later.” He waited. “Martin,” he said with emphasis, “I’m sure it’s important but you’ll have to wait. I can’t talk right now.” He waited. “I can’t tell you. Wait until we meet. Signing off now.” He clicked phone, pitched it on the bed, and headed for his closet.

            The assembly site was the same material storage area from where Deputy Cassidy had observed the exit from the hunting club. There was a crowd awaiting him, including the Sheriff, deputies, and FBI agent Tom Benson.

            Nelson exited his truck and walked straight to Benson. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, extending his hand. “To what do we own the honor?”

            Benson took his hand. “A little interstate trafficking,” Before Nelson could respond, Benson said, “Don’t ask.”,

            Sheriff Love interrupted. “I played hell keeping them from charging the place before you got here. He pointed at a SWAT team standing away from the rest. Then he acknowledged two men in street clothes. “That’s Loeb and Leopold from the state police,” he said pointing at the two.

            “Caruthers,” said one.

            “Dillard,” said the other.

            “They and Efrem Zimbalist here,” the Sheriff pointed at Benson, “have agreed to give you 45 minutes or until the first sound of machine gun fire before going in.”

            “I just want things to stay intact,” Nelson said. “They could blow the whole works sky high if they sensed a crowd.” He was dressed in black with a thick leather belt, also black, around his waist. He wore black sneakers. It held a holstered knife and cell phone case. “I plan to avoid contact as much as possible. I’ve had this funny little itch in the back of my head though,” he said. “You know the kind you get when you know someone is watching or tailing you? I’ll keep my rear eyes open and my body well hidden.”

            “We’ll apprehend any stragglers here,” the sheriff said. “We also have a team watching the back gate. Take off now.” He then said “Wait.”

            Nelson had started but turned. “What?”

            “Take care,” the sheriff said, “and don’t walk down any prepared roads or trails.”

            “They taught us that,” Nelson said. “We didn’t have to learn it the hard way like you guys did.” He pulled a sleeve back from one wrist and checked his watch. He rolled it back, spun, and took off running.

            Nelson wound his way through thick brush parallel for nearly a mile. Crouching under a large oak, he checked his watch. He moved ahead with care until the gate to the camp came in view. Oddly, it was open. Then the sound of vehicles approaching made him move out of sight and freeze. A large suburban van appeared moving rapidly toward the entrance. A late-model sedan followed. Both vehicles were black with heavily tinted windows preventing any viewing of the interior. They passed and Nelson relaxed.

            As the sound died, Nelson moved into the compound. He skirted the road, looking to where cameras might scan the approach. A large and meandering concrete block building came into view. Nelson approached it from behind three other concrete structures of maybe 100 feet in area. He noticed window highs on the exterior walls covered with smoked glass. He ignored these and moved to the larger building. The door to it also remained open. He backed behind one the smaller buildings and checked his watch. Silence enveloped him.

            There were no other vehicles in sight. Moving slowly and cautiously, he entered the main building by sliding against the front wall until he came to the entry door. He spun quickly and was inside. A long hallway led past a living area and several sleeping rooms, all with open doors as if the inhabitants had left in a hurry. He passed a kitchen and reached a point where the hallway ended and two other halls intersected. He looked both ways. Nothing was visible but the empty corridors.

            Nelson chose the right corridor and moved into with his back against the wall. He slid along it looking each way with sideways glances. At the end of the corridor was on opening with a large metal door hanging partway open. He eased to the door and looked inside. Then he stepped quickly into a large meandering open space that circled the two corridors. Inside the space, tubes, large cylinders and assorted paraphernalia occupied every space. There were tables covered with containers, tools, hoses, and assorted paraphernalia. A large stove-type structure with an exhaust hose leading from it to the ceiling dominated the rear wall. Empty boxes advertising Don Dilahuty’s Furniture store lay scattered about.

As Nelson surveyed the room, two things happened at once. A dull sound like the “whoosing” of an incoming artillery round erupted from the far wall producing heat a strong blast of white smoke. A voice crackled from a speaker hanging from an adjacent wall. A voice he didn’t recognize for a second sounded from the speaker as Nelson took the blast of smoke in his face.

“Welcome to my house, asshole,” the voice of Bully Bridges said. “I promised ‘soon’ and guess what?”

Nelson had dived for the floor at the first sound and the gaseous smoke enveloped him.

            “It’s gonna get hot in a moment,” the voice over the intercom said. “We’re closing the shop, and as our friend Dale says, “we’re having a fire sale.”

 Nelson stood into the room now filled with smoke and gas. His eyes and face turned red a swollen as he tried to find his bearings.

“You might be having trouble seeing,” the voice of Bridges said. “You might be gonna die too. I hope your last thought is that a pussy Navy SEAL is no match for one of God’s own warriors. I won’t be around to watch it. I figured you might have friends at the two entrances,” he said. “So I walked in from another trail. I’ll be leaving the same way.”

Nelson moved but ran into one of the empty boxes and nearly fell. Blinded, he extended his arms and tried to move forward again. Then the sounds of flames became louder.

“I’m getting ready to leave now. Headed to a happier place.” He laughed. “Not Heaven, but a happy place where if you got money, there ain’t no end to the pussy you can get and the fun you can have serving the lord.”

Nelson walked into a counter and the sound of glass hitting the floor joined with the sound of the crashing of material.

“We’ve had a good run here,” the voice said. “Got go now. Don’t want to face the charges for killing that little fat bitch you were talking to. Stupid she was. Said she remembered something and what she remembered could have caused us some problems. We had our nest made anyway and were ready to relocate. It wasn’t worth risking a murder charge. So yes, we killed the little bitch like we beat up your pal. But hey, gotta sign off now. I’ll wait for a few in case you find your way out. Better hope you don’t, asshole. Anchors away.”

The sound of the intercom ended, and Nelson began coughing. As the heat grew stronger, he reached down and pulled away a black nylon covering shielding his belt buckle. He punched the buckle and a piercing sound filled the room. He turned and the sound subsided. He walked forward until the sound started again. He swung in an arc until it stopped, and he walked forward, coughing. Tears streamed from his tortured eyes.

The sound came again, and Nelson swung to his let amidst the now dark gray smoke. When the sound dropped, he moved forward again. When nothing happened, he moved forward more quickly. He was swinging in smaller arcs now as the sound came and went. That let him to a quiet path. He had found the door.

Nelson moved quickly down the second hall he had entered, and using his buckle, found the first. He turned and started a half run down it. The smoke still burned, but the heat had lessoned. He ran until he heard the sound again. With the same swiveling motion, he found the opening and ran through it. His moment caused him to stumble as he reached fresh air. Using a well-practiced roll, he landed without harm and rose to his knees. Less than ten feet away stood Bully Bridges.

“Well, well, well,” Bridges said. “Ain’t we got the war hero here? This is gonna be some kinda fun. Remember my pals that you fucked up?” he said. “What’s happening next will be for them.” He moved forward.

Nelson’s eyes weren’t as red and swollen now. Had they cleared, he would have seen more than the figure of Bully Bridges. As Bridges grew near, a dark figure emerged from the around the corner of the building. It moved toward Bridges from behind. Just as Bridges prepared to quick Nelson in the face, the figure behind him said, “Hey, mister.”

Nelson tried to speak but only coughed. He drew a breath and managed a loud, “No,” as the figure took a small step. Before Nelson could speak again, the figure executed a perfect spinning Taekwondo move and a foot slammed into the face of Bulling Bridges with a force that knocked snot, spittle, blood and a partial set of dentures more than ten feet. Bridges staggered, turned, and stumbled past Nelson toward the building’s entrance. He turned to make a stand, but as he did, a foot came down where his neck met his shoulder. There was a crunching sound and Brides tried to turn and run. He made it ten feet or so inside the door before he collapsed into a heap.

Nelson had rolled over to avoid Bridges and was now on his feet. Wiping a sleeve across his eyes, he looked hard at the figure now standing before him. “What the hell?” he said.

“I thought you might run into some trouble and need another team member, Martin Barker said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

The Trap

Sundown in Zion

Chapter forty-eight

 

            Nelson and Sheriff Love sat in the front seat of the sheriff’s car waiting. In back, Sherlock, a German Shepherd, lay curled on the seat, his head raised and cocked in anticipation. “This gripes my ass,” the sheriff said, “and to think I used to get paid to do this four hours or more at a time.”

            Nelson said, “You mean the waiting? I’ve done some of that myself.”

            “I’ll bet,” the sheriff said. “It’s one thing to wait so you can do harm to someone. It’s another thing to wait while there may be someone out there waiting to do harm to you. Ain’t that what they call a ‘matter of perspective’ or something like that?”

            “It is.” Nelson said. “They used to tell us to ‘get comfortable with being uncomfortable.’ They didn’t mention anything about getting comfortable with being scared.”

            “Lots of things to be scared of in this world,” he said. “I just hope we can figure out a way to scare the Soul Warriors. Right, Sherlock?” The dog stood and sniffed the air. “No drugs in here, boy,” the sheriff said. “Nothing to be excited about.” He turned to Nelson. “Did I ever tell you about the scary birds we had in southeast Asia?”

            “The what?”

            “They were lizards, really, but we all called them birds because of the sound they made out in the jungle. Scare the hell out of you the first time you heard them, they would.”

            “What? The sound of a lizard would scare a marine?”

            “Fuck you."

            “What?”

            “Fuck you”

            “I didn’t mean …”

            “Fuck you,”

            “What did I do?”

            “Not do. Fuck you.”

            “Did I offend you?”

            “No, that’s the sound the lizard made in the darkest time of night. I guess when he was sounding off for some lizard nookie, he’d say, plain as could be, ‘Fuck you.’ It would come right out of the jungle like the NVA was there. ‘Fuck you,’ and if you don’t think that would scare the hell out of some young jarhead slick, just a few months out of boot camp at three o’clock in the morning on a pitch black night, you never stood watch in the jungle.”

“I …,” Nelson began as the sheriff’s radio crackled.

            “Big Daddy,” Deputy Cassidy’s voice said.

            “Go ahead, Sonny Boy,” the sheriff said into his handset.

            “First target passed. Second target stopped.”

            “On my way,” the sheriff said. “Give me one minute.”

            “Roger, out,” the voice said.

            The sheriff said nothing, but started his car and eased onto the highway. As soon as they were in motion, he lowered the two rear windows. “How about some fresh air, Sherlock?” he said to the dog in back. The dog moved to the right window and stuck his head through the window. “That’s it,” the sheriff said. “Good boy. Take some good deep breaths.” He drove a little below the speed limit, in no hurry.

            The car rounded a curve and the men saw, just beyond the intersection of a county road and the highway, flashing lights from a patrol car and an oversized delivery truck from “Dan’s Almost Free Things.” Both were parked on the side of the highway. Deputy Cassidy stood with another man beside his patrol car. The deputy was writing on a pad. The other man was tall and sported a week-old growth of beard. He wore a green work uniform. Oily hair extended from a baseball cap advertising the store. He looked back toward the sheriff’s car, which was now parked behind them. Nelson and the sheriff emerged from their car and the man recognized the sheriff immediately. He froze.

            “Kilo,” the sheriff said as they approached. “Kilo Kesterson. I thought you were still in Tucker Maximum.” The man remained stiff.

            After a few seconds, he relaxed and smiled. “Out on parole, Sheriff,” he said. “for good behavior. I been working for Mr. Dilahunity for three months and this is the first time I’ve even been pulled over and I don’t hardly know what for. I was trying to drive as careful as I could cause you know I don’t belong back at Tucker Max. How’s your family been? You’ve lost some weight, haven’t you?”

            “You ain’t about to go into “con-mode” on me now are you Kilo?” The Sheriff asked. He turned to Deputy Cassidy. “What’s this old boy done now?’

            “Failure to stop at the four-way,” Cassidy said. “You told us to get a little stricter about that since the last wreck.”

            “I did indeed,” the sheriff said. “And Kilo here was the first?”

            “No,” Cassidy said. “One came through like a bat out of hell a few minutes before him, but you don’t want us in high-speed pursuits”

            “Good job,” the sheriff said. “I spect you gonna let Kilo off with a warning, ain’t you? He’s a good old boy when he ain’t high on something or other.”

            “Yes sir,” Cassidy said, “just thought I’d make an example and he’ll get the word out. What are ya’ll up to?”

            “Just out takin’ Sherlock for some air. He’s been cooped up and gets nervous if I don’t take him for a ride ever now and …”

He stopped when the dog barked and bounded through the window of Sheriff Loves’ car. Hitting the ground, he went straight to Kilo Kesterson, sniffed his pants, and went into response mode. Before anyone could move, he left the man and bounded to the rear of the delivery truck, He reared onto its bumper, sniffed the doors, and became more agitated. Like a trapped person, he darted back and forth between man and truck until the sheriff gave him a command to cease. Sherlock obeyed and the sheriff walked to the man.

            “Kilo,” he said. “Just what in the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

            He turned to talk to Nelson but Nelson had taken off running past the delivery truck. Another man, a passenger in the truck who had gone unnoticed, had slide from the passenger side and was fleeing the scene. He hadn’t covered 50 yards before Nelson caught him. It only took a hand on the collar to end the escape attempt. Nelson walked him back to the sheriff without saying a word.

            “Well ain’t this a godammed class reunion,” the sheriff said, “a real gathering of old pals.” He moved the man to where he stood beside Ken. “Boys,” he said. “I want you to meet Jitters McDaniels, arguably the stupidest car stealer our county ever apprehended. He stole the ugliest purple car you’ve ever seen, drove straight to a liquor store, parked it with the license plate facing the highway, and went inside. I was personally waiting for him when he came out with a six-pack of Old Milwaukee.” He nodded. “What say, Jitters?” He turned to Nelson, “He that slow, or you that fast? Don’t say a word. I know the answer.”

            Nelson didn’t answer, for he was bent forward holding his side. His face had drained and he motioned for the sheriff to give him a second. Slowly, he raised himself erect and nodded. “Just a little remnant,” he said. “I’m fine now.”

            “Fine hell,” the sheriff said. “You take my car back to the office and wait there. Tell Mrs. Matterson to feed my dog and put him in his pen. Me and Hopalong will let these fellers explain why they almost sent Sherlock into cardiac arrest. I’m sure they’ll do a good job and I’ll be back in an hour or so and they’ll be on their way to Mr. Dilahunty’s store. He winked.

            The sheriff didn’t come back that afternoon, so Nelson headed to his office first thing the next morning. He was having coffee with Mrs. Matterson when Sheriff Love burst into the area and motioned Nelson into his office. “Sorry I didn’t call. It was a long day.”

            Once inside, the sheriff collapsed behind his desk and motioned for Nelson to sit. “Long version or short version?” he said.

            “Whichever you have time for,” Nelson said. “What did you find in the truck?”

            “Enough methamphetamine to build your Navy a new aircraft carrier if you sold the goods at market value.”

            “Impounded?”

            “The truck or the goods?”

            Nelson cocked his head.

            “I brought the state boys in” the sheriff said, “to help with a case that may be a little big for us. They confiscated the dope and two of their men are driving the truck on to where it was headed.”

            “Not to Dilahunty’s?”

            “No, to this resort town in the north part of the state which is sort of a receiving and distribution center. They are after bigger fish.”

            “How did they know the destination?”

            “Well,” said the sheriff, “after I reminded Kilo and Jitters who they would be auctioned off to back at the old cell block, they sang sweeter than Simon and Garfunkel.”

            “So the state is taking over?”

            “Just the main distribution. I only asked two things, well three actually.”

            “And they were?”

            “For us to take down the hunting club and the Soul Warriors, the associated search warrant, and a commendation for old Sherlock.”

            “They agreed?”

            “Only if they could have a couple of their guys involved along with the feds. They were insistent about the feds for some reason. I didn’t ask.”

            Nelson said nothing.

            “Damn,” said the sheriff. “Thank goodness for talkative losers.”

            “What next?” Nelson asked.

            “You tell me. I want to get inside before they get wise or get word and we raid an empty tomb. Law enforcement around here is a leaky vessel and the Weasel is bound to get word that something is up. Or old “Almost Free” Dan Dilahunty may crawl off his teenaged bride long enough to start missing his truck.”

            “That reminds me,” Nelson said.

            The sheriff raised his hand. “You don’t have to tell me,” the sheriff said. “The young Mrs. Dilahunty. She called me while I was at the state yesterday. You really pissed her off. Hell hath no fury like a two-bit bitch who feels ignored.”

            “What did you tell her?”

            “What the lizards said in Vietnam,” or something close to that.

            “That’s the same thing I told her,” Nelson said, “except I didn’t have to say it.”

            Someone knocked on the door three distinct times.

            “Enter,” the sheriff said.

            The door opened and Mrs. Matterson peeked past the opening. “Someone from the bank needs to see you for just a second,” she said.

            “Send him in.”

            “It’s a she.” The door swung in and Morgan Fowler walked in carrying a thin file folder. She stopped when she saw Nelson and she blanched visibly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

            “Meet my new deputy Gideon Nelson,” the sheriff said. “This is Mrs. Moneybags from the bank.” He gestured toward her.

            “I know Mr. Nelson,” she said. She nodded and said, “How do you do?”

            “Fine,” Nelson said, looking as if he had never met her. She was immaculately dressed in a business suit that complimented her full figure and ample legs. Her hair was trimmed shorter in a professional style that accented her oval face. She smiled and her face seemed to light the room. Sheriff Love noticed and smiled back. “Am I overdrawn again?”

            Morgan laughed. “Hardly,” she said. “I just need to get your signature on this receipt for some grant funds so we can expedite the processing.”

            “Good old ‘Uncle Sugar.’ Will you thank him for me?” The sheriff took the file she offered and signed. Handing it back, he said, “I hear nothing but good things about the job you’re doing over there.”

            “Thank you,” she said. “We’re trying hard to change some of the old practices.” Her face moved slightly toward Nelson.

            “Be sure to call me first if you happen to get robbed,” the sheriff said.

            Morgan laughed and didn’t reply. Turning to Nelson, she said, “It was nice to see you again.” With that, she twirled about and was gone. Only her scent remained.

            Sheriff Love didn’t speak for a minute. He gathered his thoughts and looked at Nelson. “There was enough electricity in this room just now to power a skyscraper. I hope you noticed.”

            Nelson said nothing for a few seconds, then, “I want to go in first.”

            “I figured as much,” the sheriff said. “You let me nab Kilo and Jitters. Now you figure it’s your turn.”

            “Pretty much,” said Nelson. “By the way, how does a man get a name like ‘Kilo’ anyway?”

            “Funny you should ask.” the sheriff said, I asked him the same thing once. It’s his real name, you know, on this birth certificate and all. What he said was, ‘My mother was a crack-whore and my daddy was a drug pusher. What would you expect?’ Now, let’s get back to taking down the Soul Warriors. How you gonna do it?”