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?”