Evil Spreads

sundown in zion
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The mystery deepens 

            Nelson returned to Little Rock at a slow pace, remaining deep in thought as vehicles roared past at speeds well past the stated limit. Traffic was particularly heavy as he navigated the corridor of anonymous shopping centers and fast foods. From more than one driver’s window, a hand making an obscene gesture shot from the window of a vehicle that had seized the opportunity of a break in the traffic to swing from behind Nelson’s truck and speed around him. He paid no attention. A manila envelope, at which he glanced periodically, lay on the seat beside him. Martin had produced it from his briefcase and given it to him before they parted. It contained, Martin had said, a listing of phone numbers to which Abbey had made using Martin’s cell phone. Nelson had work to do that afternoon.

            He began as soon as he reached home. Charlie’s car was gone and Nelson had the house to himself. He fixed a drink and spread the sheets in front of him on the kitchen table. Martin had color-coded the telephone numbers when he printed the lists, a nicety that made Nelson smile. Abbey had borrowed Martin’s phone on the morning of the day before her murder had occurred. She had returned it that night. Martin had coded calls he knew to be to and from other students in yellow, calls to family and other friends in blue, and unknown calls in red. There was little way of knowing what the red-coded numbers implied, but he noted the area codes and frequency. From a file he had place alongside the listings of number, he withdrew a business card from Sam Coulson at the Pro-Tex concealed carry school. Holding it in one hand, and scanning the numbers with a finger of the other, he found, as Sam had said, that Abbey had phoned him before her death. Then something caught his eye.

            Although the area codes of all numbers on the list were the same as those for Little Rock, Nelson could see that the first three-number prefix on Sam’s number appeared on several of the other numbers. He took a pen from his pocket and jotted a note on a page of listings, “Check the land-line prefix for the Connorville area.” He resumed his checking but stopped suddenly when his finger touched another number. He stared for a moment before making another note. He resumed checking the numbers and began shaking his head in negative response. When he finished, he pushed the pages aside and reached for his own cell phone. He punched a number and waited.

            “Please wait a moment, Deputy Nelson,” a stern female voice said from the phone. A country and western song immediately began expressing hopes that a recent sexual encounter didn’t produce a “road-trip result” played while he waited. Then Sheriff Love’s voice literally exploded into Nelson’s ear.

            “My star deputy,” the voice said, “What news do you bring? Shall I send a squad car to load the miscreants you have apprehended?”

            “Not quite yet,” Nelson said, “all I’ve done is eliminate a dead-end.”

            “And which would that be?”

            “Abbey Stubblefield was involved in a gang, but not one of bad intentions?”

            “Oh? There are gangs with good intentions?”

            “Our so-called ‘Christians’ certainly seem to think so.”

            “Indubitably ,” Sheriff Love said, “So hers was a religious one?”

            “Hardly,” Nelson said. “It’s a harmless but boisterous group of students at the school in Hot Springs whose sense of humor is located on a level so high above us that we wouldn’t even know which of their antics are supposed to be funny.” Nelson paused, then said slowly, “At any rate, they didn’t kill Abbey, but that’s where she got the nickname Poison.”

            “Spare me the details,” Sheriff Love said, “I’m a little busy and quite upset.”

            Nelson ignored him for the moment. “Just a quick question,” he said. “Do we have the capability of tracing cell phone number to their owners?”

            “Let’s just say that …” He paused, “You aren’t taping this call are you?” He paused again. “Let’s just say we have friends that can.”

            “Good,” Nelson said. “Now what has your berth all lumpy?”

            “Another body got dumped just over the city limits of Connorville.”

            “Oh shit,” Nelson said.

            “Oh shit is correct, my nautical friend. Only this one was still alive, barely. At least I assume he still is.”

            “Has he been identified?”

            “Oh,” Sheriff Love said. “Everyone knows who it is. They even found him on his own land.”

            “A Connorville man?”

            “Just barely,” Sheriff Love said. “His house is in Connorville, but his farm, which he now rents out and refuses to sell to developers for vast sums of money, is in the county.”

            A long pause followed. “Finally Sheriff Love, evidently fearing a disconnect, said, “Are you still there?”

            After a short pause Nelson said, “I’m here. What happened to him?”

            “He got beat up,” Sheriff Love said. “He got beat up real bad. One of the officers from Connorville who used to work for me called and told me about it.”

            There was another pause. “That would be Officer Patterson.”

            “Yes. He said it was about as bad a beating as he ever saw. They medevacked him to St. Vincent Hospital in Little Rock. I’m headed there as soon as we break off.” Then he said, “Are you okay. You sound like you just saw a whole company of Taliban.”

            There was a short silence again. Then Nelson’s voice eased soft and slow from the sheriff’s phone. “Are you at liberty to tell me the victim’s name?”

            “Hell,” Sheriff Love said,” You’re a deputy ain’t you.” He stopped. “Besides, the newspaper feller has already been here.”

            “And the victim was?”

            “A local man, known and loved by just about everybody except, I guess, whoever beat him up. Clifton Sikes was his name, but I’m sure that don’t mean anything to you.”

            The only sound that came from the phone was heavy breathing. Nelson broke the silence. “It happens that I do,” he said. “It happens that I do know him.”

            “Did you know him well?”

            “Well enough,” Nelson said, “that you might want to hope you find the person, or persons, that beat him before I do.”

            “Lord, mister,” the sheriff said. “Troubles follow you like hounds after a bitch in heat.” Sounds of a chair moving came through Nelson’s phone as the sheriff rose. Then he said, “Are you ever going to tell me who the hell you are?”

Duty

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 Our hero runs into a local acquaintance 

            A half-hour after leaving Armistead, Nelson was almost back in Connorville. He turned before he reached the outskirts and drove toward the ProTex site. Arriving there, he found the building closed and locked. Nelson saw that the Toyota Sienna belonging to Sam Coulson was parked in the rear. He exited his truck and walked to the front door. Although the lights were off, he knocked on the door and waited. Hearing nothing, he knocked again, this time banging the door with a loud boom. Before he turned, a voice from the highway said, “Coming. Coming. Hold on.”

            Nelson turned to see a man arriving on a bicycle. It was a road bike, an expensive one by its looks and the man was dressed in the garish style of true believers. He exited the highway and wheeled to a stop in front of Nelson. “Hey sailor,” he said, laughing, “It’s me, Sam.”

            Nelson stared. The man lifted his racing helmet, revealing that it was, indeed, Sam Coulson. Nelson continued to stare.

            “Surprised?” Sam said. “You may be looking at the only biking enthusiast in Armistead County, but don’t tell anyone. They all think I’m a retired mobster.”

            “Certainly not what I expected to see,” Nelson said, “in a place where the average teenager drives a few blocks to school in a pickup truck that costs as much as some homes.”

            “A habit from my Army years,” Sam said. “Your buddy Charlie and I were the terrors of the military biking competitions.”

            “Charlie?”

            “He hasn’t told you?”

            “Told me what?”

            “Charlie …,” Sam said, “Charlie is, was, a world class cyclist before he got shot up.”

            “He’s never mentioned it,” Nelson said.

            “Must be painful to think about,” Sam said. “The Marines were going to let him train for the next Olympic Games, but you know the military, ‘fighting first and fun second,’ as the Irish couple said when they settled in for the night.”

            Nelson’s head jerked slightly. “Oh,” Sam said, “I enjoy your friend Dickens too.” When Nelson didn’t respond, he added, “This is a small county, my friend.” With that, he changed course, “But to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

            “Best we go inside,” Nelson said. “As you say, it is a small county.”

            “Tell you what,” Sam said, “I’ll keep your secrets if you won’t spread it around that you saw me riding a bicycle.” With that, he unlocked the front door and motioned Nelson it, following him with his bike. “Wait one while I store this thing,” he said, and he disappeared down a hallway and around a corner.

            Returning, he unlocked the office door and the two men entered. Nelson took a seat in a visitor’s chair and Sam sat behind his desk. “Now what prompts this secrecy? I suspect it involves the Stubblefield girl.”

            “More or less,” Nelson said. “I seemed to have sailed into a sailed into a squall, particularly by getting too inquisitive with Sheriff Love.”

            Sam looked surprised. “Sheriff Love? He’s usually friendly. I can’t say anything bad about Sheriff Love since he sends all his deputies to me for firearms certification. That surely can’t be the reason you’re here.”

            Nelson said nothing, just looked at Sam and nodded.

            “No,” Sam said.

            “Afraid so,” Nelson said. “He sent me here to get certified. Can you teach me to use a pistol?”

            “Bite me,” Sam said, laughing. “How much is the old skinflint paying you?”

            “That’s the fascinating part,” Nelson said. “Nothing.”

            “That sounds just like him,” Sam said.

            “Oh, and he said to ask you for a discount on the training.”

            “Screw the training,” Sam said. “I’ll give you whatever old ‘Tub of Love’ wants.” He paused. “I suppose then, that you are going to solve the Stubblefield case?”

            “The Sheriff seems to think so. What I plan to do is bumble around and piss people off until someone confesses.”

            “I take it then,” Sam said, “that you don’t buy into the ‘gang-related’ theory?”

            “Don’t know,” Nelson said. “It sounds a little theatrical to me for a gang, no more than I know about them. Something does strike me, though.”

            “And that is?”

            “It seems that modern gangs operate more like my old outfit than they do the old mobsters.”

            Sam jerked back and stared. “What do you mean?”

            “They seem to operate on the basis of get the mission done with as little fanfare as possible and move on down the line. I would guess that they use theatrics more to attract women than to kill them.”

            Sam considered this. After a long pause, he said, “Maybe I can start you off with a tidbit.”

            Nelson waited.

            “That girl called me a few weeks ago,” Sam said. “I had forgotten about it until after you and Charlie left the other day.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a three-ring binder. Placing it on his desk, he fanned the pages until he found an entry. “Here it is,” he said. “A ‘Miss Stubblefield’ called about two weeks ago and wanted to know if she could come and visit about some people who might be my regular customers, a group calling themselves ‘The Soul Warriors for Christ,’ as she put it.”

            Nelson leaned forward with interest. “And?”

            “I told her that I didn’t share information about my clients. That’s what I call them, ‘my clients.’ She seemed disappointed but understood. That was it.”

            “That’s all she said?”

            “As I remember.”

            “Have you told anyone about this?”

            “I was going to tell the Police Chief, but when I called him, his response was ‘I ain’t responsible for that little …,’ well, you don’t want to hear the rest.”

            “Probably not,” Nelson said.

            “So I was going to tell Sheriff Love but now you’ve saved me the trouble.”

            “Thanks,” Nelson said.

            “No problem,” Sam said. “Now let’s get your paperwork together. You do know how to use a pistol, don’t you?”

            “I seem to remember something about it.”

            “What kind do you use at present?”

            Nelson shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t own one.”

            It was Sam’s turn to be surprised. “A man with your background doesn’t own a firearm?”

            Nelson shrugged. “I laid down my sword and shield a couple of years ago. It may have been ‘down by the riverside,’ I can’t remember.”

            “Oh,” Sam said, “speaking of remembering, there was something that girl said before she rang off.”

            “Oh?”

            “She apologized for bothering me, that she was just trying to find a friend and she thought maybe some of the Soul Warriors knew her.”

            “That’s all?”

            “I know it isn’t much, but that’s all she said.” With that, he rose and walked to a file cabinet.

            Nelson left Sam’s place with a manila envelope in his hand. Not long after he turned onto the highway, he saw an old flat-bed truck pulled off on a long stretch of road with the truck’s hood raised. As he slowed to pull around, he saw a man bending over into the engine well. When the man stood, Nelson saw a familiar face and pulled off the road just beyond the stalled truck. He exited his truck and walked to where the man stood. “Remember me?” Nelson said. “Your name is Clifton, right?”

            The man’s face tightened. He shook it from side to side as if trying to cast out unnecessary information to uncover the one important fact.

            “We had breakfast together.”

            Clifton’s face broke into a smile. “Be damned,” he said. “You’s the one whipped Johnny Gallagher’s ass.” He stuck out a hand and shook Nelson’s. “They’s talk about makin’ you mayor. Old Johnny smacks that cast on his finger against the griddle ever time he tries to cook an egg.” He laughed to himself at the thought.

            “Don’t know anything about that,” Nelson said, “just saw you were stalled here. Stopped to see if you needed help.”

            “Goddam battry,” Clifton said. “I was going to get a new one today, but did I? Let me answer that. No, I heard there was some excitement going on over’t Armistead and I decided to drive over and see if’n I could find it.” He turned and spat toward a copse of woods that bordered the highway. “Stopped to take a leak, and guess what?”

            “The battery gave up?”

            “Dead as my whacker. You don’t have a jumper cable do you?”

            “Afraid not,” Nelson said. “Looks like you need a new battery more than a jump. I could take you for one.”

            “You’d do that?”

            “Sure,” Nelson said.

            “I’d be obliged. Wait just a second.” He went to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door and produced a small tool box. “Won’t take me but a second to get it loose,” he said, producing a small wrench.

            Minutes later, he and Nelson were on their way toward Connerville.  As they passed the ProTex building, Nelson broke the silence. “If I remember correctly, you said you were from these parts.”

            “Born and raised in Connerville,” Clifton said. “One of the few now who was. Our family had a dairy farm on the edge of town but our house was just inside the city limits. The whole place was just a speck on the highway when I was growin’ up.”

            “Did you like it?”

            “It was okay. They never allowed no coloreds in our town and that appealed to some folks.”

            “Why was that?”

            “Why was what? That it appealed to some folks that they didn’t allow coloreds?”

            “No. Why didn’t they allow them?”

            “They tell me it went back to a couple of men back in the 20s that got all worked up, raised a crowd, and started running them out of town, the coloreds, that is. They’d give a family a week or so to move and if they didn’t, a crowd would pay them a visit at night and burn their house down.”

            “Then it was an all-white town?”

            “Yep, they even printed some flyers braggin’ on the fact. Said folks ought to move here because it was ‘free of negroes and other low-lifes.’ Later on, that’s what drug the assholes here.”

            “What do you mean, drug them?”

            “When they started bussing school kids, assholes from Little Rock started moving here.” Neither man spoke for a moment. Then Clifton said, “Now we’re colored-free and Little Rock’s free of a bunch of assholes, so I reckon things are in some sort of balance. That’s why I was headed for Armistead.”

            Nelson looked at him, but said nothing.

            “I heard,” Clifton said, “that we got rid of a couple of assholes this morning.”

            “How so?”

            “They say a couple of those Baptist Tabernacle hoodlums wrapped their truck around a tree in the Baker’s Creek bottoms.”

            “Oh,” Nelson said. “Were they hurt?”

            “They say one went to the hospital and one went to see Jesus.”

            Nelson was quiet for a moment. “It doesn’t sound as if you like them much.”

            “About as much as I like rattlesnakes,” Clifton said. “They’s a bad bunch, but ain’t nobody gonna tell them so.”

            “Why not?”

            “They got God and Bully Bridges on their side.”

            “I see,” Nelson said.

            “That’s a dangerous combination, if you ask me,” Clifton said.

            “What is?”

            “Religion and power,” Clifton said. Then he pointed up a busy street, “Up there at that yellow sign.”

            Nelson parked the truck outside a business advertising auto parts. Clifton took the old battery inside. As he waited, Nelson’s cell phone announced a text. He took it from his pocket and read, “Will be enjoying wine in your favorite kimono tonight. Must I beg?”

Enlistment

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 Gideon Nelson joins up again.      

“Well butter my hoe cakes and rub my jelly-roll if it ain’t Boats,” Elvis Barker said when he saw Nelson enter. “What’s up white boy?”

            “Out slumming,” Nelson said, “and giving thanks.” He walked to where the soft drinks lay stacked in orderly rows. He grabbed a diet soda and gestured toward Barker with it.

            “No thanks,” Barker said. “The old lady says I been drinking up the profits lately.” He followed Nelson to a table in the “Collusion Corner.”

            “Keeps watch on you, does she?” Nelson said, as he counted out payment for the soft drink.

            “I told her it was a good thing we are in a dry county,” Barker said. They both laughed as they sat. Barker checked the front door, and said, “So what’s up? What you got to give thanks for?”

            “All that Navy training we received.”

            “That you received. All they ever taught me to do was to chip paint and clean shit scuppers. What did they train you to do?”

            Nelson smiled. “Well, once they sent our team to Charles Town, West Virginia to that evasive driving school where they send the State Department boys.”

            Barker considered this. “Guess you need to know shit like that when you jump out of a helicopter in the middle of the ocean.”

            “It comes in handy at times,” Nelson said.

            When Barker saw that Nelson wasn’t going to discuss it further, he said, “So what brings you around?”

            “Just going to see the Sheriff,” Nelson said. “I called from the road and he said I could come on by a little later. He was receiving some urgent radio traffic. So I thought I would stop here and waste some time.” He grinned.

            “You always did know how to make a person feel important, Boats,” Barker said. He took the money that Nelson had placed on the table and took it to the cash register. Upon returning, he said, “What are you finding out in Connorville these days?”

            Nelson looked around, then back at Barker, “Just that there’s one bunch of lying sons of bitches there.”

            “Okay,” Barker said, “now tell me something I don’t know. And don’t tell me that they don’t like black folk.”

            “I met a former sheriff’s deputy named Ralph Patterson. You know him?”

            “Barney Jr.? He was Sheriff Love’s right hand man. We all thought he would be the next sheriff.”

            “What happened?”

            “Politics shifted. Power’s in the north county now.”

            “And?”

            “Roger’s roots are south county. Farm country.”

            “Which means?”

            “Next sheriff will be on the right side of politics. And I mean not on the left side.”

            Nelson nodded. “I see. He seemed like a fairly nice young man.”

            Barker said, “Oh, Roger? He’s okay. He never was one of those ‘Whatchew doin’ here this time of night, boy?’ type of deputies. He got pushed aside for a while by the two that you … uh … the two that injured themselves.” He stood up, walked to the door, looked outside. In the distance, the wail of an ambulance siren could be heard. Seeing nothing, he returned to the table. “So what are you going to see the Sheriff for about?”

            “They’re claiming Abbey’s body was found in the county and her murder is his case now.”

            “Well crack my chitlins. How’s he feelin’ about that?”

            “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

            “Say,” Barker said. “By the way …I’ve been trying to help you out with this case.”

            “Oh,” said Nelson suddenly leaning forward. “How?”

            “I been asking folks if any of them know Abbey or why she might have turned religious all of a sudden, and why she chose Connorville as the right place to come to Jesus.”

            “And?”

            “Not much so far,” he said. “The kids around here think it had something to do with her friend running away.”

            “This Bridgette girl?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “So what about her?”

            “Nobody knows much except she was athletic and Abbey’s best friend.”

            “Yeah,” Nelson said, “I had heard that already.”

            “One more thing,” Barker said.

            “What’s that?”

            “Everybody agrees that she was some kind of beautiful.”

            “I’ve gotten that impression.”

            “No,” Barker said. “I’m talking movie star beautiful. In fact, the kids tend to think she ran off to Hollywood.” He paused. “All of them except Martin.”

            “He disagrees?”

            “He says he knows for a fact that she and Abbey had made plans to take a field trip down to Louisiana this summer when Bridgette got out of the rehab clinic.”

            “She was going to be released?”

            Barker nodded. “Martin seems to think she had responded well to treatment, this was according to Abbey, before she just up and ran away.” Nelson narrowed his eyes in thought. Barker said, “Damndest thing I ever heard of.”

            “Passing strange,” Nelson said, as a group of workers walked into the store to buy lunch. With Barker occupied, Nelson finished his soda, tossed the can, and waved farewell.

            Reaching the highway, Nelson turned toward Armistead. As he did, a sheriff’s car approached him at high speed, lights flashing and siren screaming, heading in the direction from which Nelson had just come. Nelson pulled over until it had passed and proceeded into town. He passed a new building under construction, moved along a busy main street, and proceeded to the courthouse where he parked. He climbed from his truck and, after looking both ways, walked to the Sheriff’s office.

            When he entered the large anteroom, the Sheriff’s receptionist, who knew him now by sight, continued a phone conversation as she waved him through. As he passed, he heard her tell the person on the other end of the conversation, “I said that he would be glad to talk to you as soon as we hear from the deputies on the scene.”

He entered the office to find the Sheriff bent forward in front of a radio listening to transmittals. He motioned Nelson to the visitor’s chair as he continued to listen. Nelson heard a transmittal that ended with the words, “all secure here.”

            Sheriff Love pressed a button, said, “Ten-four, out,” and turned to Nelson. He rolled this chair back to its normal position behind his desk. He closed an open notebook and turned it over. Smiling at Nelson, he said, “My nautical hero, what brings you in boredom’s way? You’ve caught us on a busy morning, I fear.”

            “Crime never sleeps,” Nelson said, “or so I hear.”

            “Not crime exactly,” Sheriff Love said, “more like the spirits of the universe shining upon our poor jurisdiction.”

            Nelson gave him a questioning look but said nothing.

            Sheriff Nelson said, “Two of our county’s most notorious scumbags got to playing a little too hard this morning.”

            “At what?” Nelson said.

            “According to the one who is still able to talk, at playing race-car, actually race-truck, driver.”

            Nelson nodded. The Sheriff studied his reaction. “Why do I get the feeling that you always seem to be around when our county enjoys an upgrade?”

            Nelson shrugged. “Just enjoying a bad reputation I suppose.”

            “Hmm,” the Sheriff said. “But good news aside, what brings you here?”

            “I’ve heard that you now have the Abbey Stubblefield case.”

“They laid the poor girl’s body, so to speak, on my doorstep, rang the bell, and fled. It is indeed, now my case.”

“I hear the Connorville Police Department is quite pleased.”

“And where did you hear this?”

“I got that impression straight from Chief Banks himself.”

            “The Weasel?” The Sheriff leaned back with his hands folded on his stomach. “You didn’t hear this from me, but an informant tells me the Chief is bragging that the transfer is the Connorville version of the burning bag of excrement placed on one’s porch.”

            Nelson closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “Do you have any idea when you might be able to tell the family anything?”

            “Are you serious? I had one deputy that was well trained in crime investigation and he went over to serve The Dark One.”

            “Just trying to get something, anything, any hope at all for the family.”

“I’m not being cranky,” Sheriff Love said. “I’m just frustrated. If I ask the Bureau’s help, I’m a suck-up who has to call big brother to help. If I don’t solve the case, I’m inadequate. The folks up Connorville way dominate my Quorum Court now and they have eviscerated my budget. It’s a goddam shitty mess as my daddy used to say. I…” he stopped. Leaning forward, he glared at Nelson, his eyes growing wide. “Say,” he said. “I have a good idea about once every forty years.” He nodded toward the photo of a young Gladson Love and another Marine, taken at Khe San shortly after the siege was lifted. “Getting out of the Marine Corps was my last and I’m about due for another.”

            Nelson shook his head and shrugged in utter confusion.

            “You’ve an independent income, right?” Sheriff Love said.

            “I get by.”

            “No felonies? At least no sex-related felonies?”

            “I don’t understand,” Nelson said, “but no.”

            “I know you love truth, justice, and the American way.”

            Understanding seemed to settle on Nelson. “Now wait a minute Sheriff …”

            “Shut up sailor,” the Sheriff said. “Haven’t you heard that Marines rule?” He punched a button on his phone and roared into it, “Miss Matterson, bring me a set of that deputy paperwork in here.” He turned to Nelson, “I’m gonna deputize your seafaring ass.”

            “Now wait a minute, Sheriff,” Nelson said, but the Sheriff cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Do you want to see this goddam case solved?”

            “Of course I do,” Nelson said, “but …”

            “Then shut the fuck up,” Sheriff Love said just as his receptionist opened the door to his office.

            “Now stop that kind of talk,” Mrs. Matterson said. “Here you go.” She handed the Sheriff a folder of papers. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” She raised herself to her full height, glared at Nelson, and turned back to the Sheriff. “Don’t make me talk to your family.”

            “I’ll tell her about those fried pies you want to swap me for sexual favors, wench,” the Sheriff said. “Now begone.”

            She harrumphed, turned on her heels, and walked out.

            “Now you’ll need to fill all this out and let Miss Manners out there make you a photo ID. Of course I can’t pay you but this will give you official status and open up all the right doors. If we’re lucky, some of the wrong ones too.”

            “But …,” Nelson said.

            “And it will piss everyone in Connorville off to no end. Case closed.”

            Nelson shrugged in surrender. “You know,” he said, as he raised his head in thought. “It just might work,” as the 1950s Sci-Fi hero said when he finally figured out how to kill the monster.”

            “Fuckin A, it’ll work,” said the Sheriff. He yelled toward the door, “Now Miss Manners, get your ear away from the door and get a-holt of Judge Thomkins so he can swear this feller in.” The sound of scuffling came from beyond the door.

            “Now …,” Sheriff Love said as he walked to a locked gun cabinet in the corner of the office. He produced a key and unlocked the cabinet. Inside, there were no guns but a collection of umbrellas, a raincoat, a tattered Bible, a large box of Ritz Crackers, and a small metal box. He opened the box and fished out a badge. “Now,” he said, tossing the badge to Nelson, “Your first assignment is to go and tell that medical examiner that we expect some results soon or we’ll put out the word that he fornicates with his patients.”

            Nelson still appeared in shock. He stared at the badge and the back at the Sheriff. “Are you serious?” he said.

            “About the fornication?” he said. “No, just repeating rumors I’ve heard.” He smiled.

            “No,” Nelson said, “about this deputizing thing.”

            “Never been more serious in my life,” he said. “I’ll tell the other deputies that you are on loan from the Bureau and that will impress the hell out of them. They’ll follow you like lap dogs. You’ll have to kiss Miss Manner’s ass daily of course, or your life will be one of constant misery. You’ll furnish your own vehicle I presume? I have this feeling that it is fairly maneuverable.” He winked.

            Nelson didn’t respond. The Sheriff said, “I’ll get you a portable blue light and siren. Boy, it’s going be nice having you in the tent with me pissing out, as old Lyndon Johnson said of J. Edgar, instead of outside pissing in.” He sat in his chair and smiled.

Information

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gideon returns home after visiting Charlie's wife and boyfriend.

            “I don’t know what to say.” Charlie’s eyes were moist and his face red. He said, “I really don’t know what to say. He looked at the pile of papers before him and picked up the check book.

            “How about, ‘You sailors aren’t as bad as I’ve always heard,’ and let it go at that,” Nelson said.

            Charlie flipped the pages of the check book. “There’s even some money in here. And there will be another deposit this week.”

            “You probably ought to change accounts,” Nelson said. “Sluggo may convince her to pull a stunt.”

            “I’ll take care of it,” Charlie said, “now that I have my own car.”

            They had picked it up late the night before without incident. The title was where it was supposed to be and there had been no sign of life inside the house. Charlie had smiled like a teenager on his sixteenth birthday when he slid under the wheel. He had gone straight home. He was finishing breakfast next morning and sorting his records when Nelson arrived.

            “So,” Charlie said, pushing the papers aside as Nelson sat across the table with a cup of coffee. “Did you steam along false bearings on your way home last night?”

            “Is everything there?” Nelson said, ignoring the question.

            “I think so,” Charlie said. “I think I’ll go shopping for some new clothes and then find a new bank.”

            “Sounds like a good plan,” Nelson said. “I’m off to Connerville.”

            “Oh hell,” Charlie said. “What now?”

            “I have an appointment with the police chief.”

            Charlie cocked his head in surprise. “How the hell did you manage that?”

            “Friends in high places.”

            “No doubt. You never cease to amaze me. What do expect from the police chief?”

            “Not much,” Nelson said, “it might be interesting to note what he doesn’t tell me.”

            “Good luck,” Charlie said. He stood and walked to the front door and opened it. He walked onto the porch and Nelson followed. The day promised to be fair and warmer.

Nelson took a deep breath and said, “I think I’ll head out, don’t want to be late for the chief.”

            A familiar sight walked along sidewalk. It was the woman walking her dog, the same one that Nelson had seen the day before. She looked at them, smiled, and nodded. The dog ignored them. Both men waved.

            Inside, Nelson washed his coffee cup, placed it on a rack to dry, and said, “You need in the shower?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “I think I’ll go for my walk around the park. Did I tell you that yesterday I made a complete lap around it without stopping to rest? That’s exactly a mile.”

            Nelson nodded in appreciation. “That’s great,” he said. “Do they have the distance marked?”

            Charlie scooped his papers into the box. “Uh … no, another walker told me.”

            “Well it’s a good accomplishment at any rate. Enjoy yourself.”

            “I will,” Charlie said. “You too.”

            Nelson shaved and showered and was heading for Connerville by eight o’clock. He found City Hall easily. One of the major state highways connecting the city with the nearest freeway dead-ended into a perpendicular highway that passed in front of the governmental complex. Winding through the traffic jam created by the intersection, he parked in a public lot and entered a building marked “Police.”

            Inside, a sergeant met him and directed him to a small waiting room outside the Chief’s office. Before leaving, the sergeant said, “You want coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. “But tell me, has City Hall always been located so that it blocks a major highway?”

            “No,” the sergeant said, “just since we built the new complex thirty years ago. They had to catch up with the population growth.”

            “Did the highway go through before?”

            “No, the highway always stopped where it does, but the street continued through. It was closed so this building could be built.”

            Nelson studied the sergeant’s name tag and said, “Wasn’t that a strange bit of urban planning, Sergeant, … uh …, Patterson?”

            “Ralph, please sir,” the other said, looking around, “and no, not if the Mayor’s brother owned the land.”

            “A unique town you have here,” Nelson said.

            “Oh, not my town,” Sergeant Patterson said. “I don’t even live here. I’ve only been on the force for a year. Went to work here to get a promotion.”

            Nelson nodded. “I see,” he said.

            “I know who you are,” Sergeant Patterson said. “I worked for Sheriff Love before.”

            “Well,” said Nelson. “Mum’s the word.”

            The other smiled but before he could answer, the door opened and the Connorville Police Chief appeared. He was a man of medium height, with a thin face set off by a sharp nose that jutted forward as if being paid to test the air. His hair was full and carefully combed and sporting a deep bluish-black color that no human hair had ever achieved in the natural world. His uniform appeared neat and sharply creased. He nodded at Nelson. “You here to see me?”

            “I am,” Nelson said, “Thank you for taking the time.” He extended his hand. The Chief looked at it, hesitated for a second, and extended his. “Chief Rowland Banks,” he said as they shook.

            “Gideon Nelson.” He followed the chief into his office.

            The office was as sparse and neat as the chief. Awards and photographs covered the side walls. Plastic plants graced the corners of the room. A large print of George Washington kneeling in prayer in the snow adorned the wall behind his desk which was completely bare save for a phone and desk pad. The chief motioned for Nelson to take the visitor’s chair in front of the desk. He eased into his own chair and said, “The FBI guy said you were interested in that girl we found murdered.”

            “Just checking on the progress for the family,” Nelson said. “They still find it too painful to leave home.”

            “You need to talk to the county sheriff,” the chief said, inspecting a fingernail. “It’s his problem, not mine.”

            “I understand your men found the body and processed the crime scene.”

            “I don’t care much what you understand,” the chief said. “We were mistakenly called to the scene and retrieved the body. As for a crime scene, the heavy rains during the night had obliterated any evidence. Nothing left but mud and a little dead gangbanger.”

            Nelson drew his lips tight against his lips. “I thought you said there was no evidence.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “If there was no evidence, why do you think the murder was gang related?”

            “Because she was black and because she had been executed, gang style.”

            “Executed?”

            “Tied to a piece of plywood and executed.”

            “That’s how gangs do it? Tie them to boards, haul them to the next town and dump the body on the side of the road?”

            The slighted hint of a smile crossed the chief’s tight face. He said, “You from around here?”

            “No, from the northwest.”

            “Thought maybe so. Then let me tell you a quick story and I have to go to a department head meeting. There was a mayor in a city near here back in the 1960s that folks still talk about. A legend, so to speak. Once, a group from a black neighborhood came to his office complaining about flooding. Seems a major ditch wasn’t functioning. The mayor listened, respectfully. Then he leaned back and said this. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. Gonna send a crew out to clean that ditch. Ya’ll remember that when election time comes around.’ Then before they could thank him, he added, ‘That said, everybody knows that if you people can’t fuck it or eat it, you throw it in the goddam ditch. Find someplace else.’” The chief laughed. “So I just imagine how your girl got in the ditch.”

            “She’s not my girl,” Nelson said, “her parents are Eli and Martha Stubblefield.”

            The chief’s smile vanished. “Whatever,” he said. “Anyway, Sergeant Patterson can answer any more questions. He’ll even take you to the crime scene if you like, though it’s in the county’s jurisdiction. We want to be sensitive to the concerns of the parents and all that.” With that, he rose. “That’s all I can tell you about the victim. While we were on the case there was no evidence recovered except the body and the plywood, there were no witnesses, no tips, and no clues. Now I have to go.”

            He walked by Nelson but as he reached the door, Nelson said, “Just one more thing, Chief.” The chief turned, annoyance showing on his face. “Do you have any information about a girl from here,” Nelson said, "that went missing from the Ransom Center over in Saline County?”

            The chief’s face reddened. “That runaway?”

            “Bridgette Thompson.”

            “She ran away in Saline County,” he said. “We provided information to the sheriff’s office there but it wasn’t our jurisdiction. Not our problem.”

            “Even though the center belongs to a church here in the city?”

            The chief’s face reddened more. “Who told you that?”

            “Seems to be common knowledge.”

            “Look, Mr, Nelson,” he chief said, turning to face him, “I told the FBI agent I would meet with you and I have. Now if you want to chase down the thugs that killed that black girl, I’d suggest you get on back to Little Rock and start there. And I’d suggest you don’t make a hobby of looking for runaway white girls. We have a crime-free community here and we plan to keep it that way.” He opened the door, “Patterson,” he said to the young man waiting outside, “Please show Mr. Nelson here all the courtesy that our top-rated police department is known for.” With that, he walked away without another word to Nelson.

            Sergeant Patterson stood and smiled. “At your service sir,” he said. “Do want to drive out and see the place where they found the Stubblefield girl’s body?”

            “Some other time,” Nelson said. “Why don’t you just walk with me to my truck?”

            When they were clear of the building, Nelson said, “Did you enjoy working for Sheriff Love?”

            “Very much, sir,” Patterson said. “I would have stayed, but there is only one slot available for a chief deputy and I didn’t have time to wait.”

            “You’re young,” Nelson said. “Wouldn’t you have had time?”

            “Maybe,” Patterson said, but the sheriff doesn’t. He’s old-school around here. That means on the wrong side of politics.” He looked around and then leaned in toward Nelson. “Besides,” he said, “they say he goes to the wrong church.”

            Nelson thought as they neared his truck. “You mean that, if maybe, he became a member of the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle his political future might improve?”

            “That place,” Patterson said. “Oh hell no, the Sheriff wouldn’t be caught dead in there.”

            “Why not?”

            “The Soul Warriors,” Patterson.

            Nelson stopped at his truck and turned to face the sergeant. “The Soul Warriors?”

            “You know them?”

            “I hear things. What is the Sheriff’s beef with them?”

            “Oh,” Patterson said, “they keep squeaky clean here in Connorville. To hear them tell it, they just live to serve Jesus.”

            “But?”

            “But once they cross the county line, look out.” The sergeant looked around again.

            “Up to mischief?”

            “Anything you can imagine.”

            “Oh, I can imagine quite a bit,” Nelson said. “I am a sailor.”

            The sergeant laughed. “Let’s just say they quit serving Jesus and start serving Mammon once they leave our fair city. They have this ‘deer club,’ or maybe more precisely, ‘social club’ south of here where they hang out when they aren’t saving souls. Some of them stay there at all times. As guards, most people think.”

            “They hunt there?”

            “They hang out there. I don’t know how much they actually hunt although they shoot a lot. I know the family that owns land adjacent to them. When the Warriors first started building their clubhouse, the neighbors paid a friendly visit to see how they might cooperate in retrieving game that had been shot.”

            “And?”

            “The head Warrior, a charming guy named Bully …”

            Nelson interrupted. “I’ve met him,” he said.

            “Then you may not be surprised to learn what Bully told my friend.”

            “Which was?”

            “He said, “You stay on your side of the goddam line and we’ll stay on our side of the goddam line and we won’t have no goddam problems.”

            “So the Sheriff suspects they do more than talk hunting when they gather there?”

            “He’s pretty sure but he has no basis to enter. He has documented how much the methamphetamine business picks up when the ‘warrior’ hang out there a lot.”

            “But Connorville is crime free?” Nelson said, changing the subject.

            “Connorville is ‘crime-report’ free,” Patterson said. “There is a difference. Want an example of what I’m talking about?”

            “By all means.”

            “We had a couple of rocket scientists here a few years back. Big time football stars. Headed for the big state “U” and all that. They would get stoned of a night and decide it would be fun to raise a little anonymous hell. First it was just pranks—busted car windows, ‘good pussy’ spray painted on the driveways of houses where nice girls lived, beating up computer nerds, that sort of thing. They wore ski masks but everyone pretty much knew who it was.”

            “They were apprehended?”

            “They were football stars. You don’t apprehend football stars in this town if you want to keep your job.”

            “They went unpunished?”

            “I didn’t say that,” Patterson said. “For reasons known only to them, they decided it would be a rush to rob convenience stores. With a pistol they weren’t familiar with, and a little physical force, which they were, they had hit two and picked out a third. That’s when they met Mrs. Albright.”

            “A store owner?”

            “A retired army noncom who not only had her own pistol but knew how to use it.”

            “She did?”

            “Two shots. Two less football players. Two less petty thieves. Had you been paying attention, you would have felt a positive movement in the gene pool about that moment.”

            “Did it make an impression? Teach anyone a lesson?”

            “I’ll say,” Patterson said. “Taught the business owners in town not to protect themselves from football players gone bad.”

            “It what?”

            “You don’t shoot football stars in this town,” Patterson said. “if you want to keep your business. After a year’s boycott, she sold out and moved back to Texas.”

            “That’s not a happy story,” Nelson said. “Not what some would call the American way.”

            “It’s the Connorville way,” Sergeant Patterson said.

           

Digging

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 Our hero meets a new friend. 

            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.”