The John Milton Series Boxset 2

by Mark Dawson

  “You thought I was a vagrant?”

  “Yes, and I don’t like to rush to conclusions based on the way that a man looks, but we’ve had problems in the past with folks walking in and stealing things from other folks’ houses. And I’m not the sort of man who likes to take chances.”

  Milton didn’t reply to that. Instead, he looked up at the framed picture on the wall.

  “You served?” he asked.

  Lester looked behind him. There, on the wall, was his only concession to ego. There was a line of shooting trophies on the top of a low bookcase and above that was a framed medal.

  “Sure I did,” he said.

  “That’s the Navy Cross.”

  Lester nodded, surprised that he was able to recognise it.

  Milton rose and took a step up to it. “You mind?” he asked.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  The citation was framed beneath the medal. Milton read it aloud: “‘The Navy Cross is presented to Lester H. Grogan Jr., First Lieutenant, U.S. Marine Corps, for extraordinary heroism while serving as a Platoon Commander with Company D, First Battalion, Fifth Marines, First Marine Division (Reinforced), Fleet Marine Force, in connection with combat operations against the enemy in the republic of Iraq.’ You were out there?”

  “Did three tours.”

  Milton kept reading. “‘On July 10, 2003, while participating in a company-sized search and destroy operation deep in hostile territory, First Lieutenant Grogan’s platoon discovered a well-camouflaged bunker complex that appeared to be unoccupied. Deploying his men into defensive positions, First Lieutenant Grogan was advancing to the first bunker when three enemy soldiers armed with hand grenades jumped out. Reacting instantly, he grabbed the closest man and, brandishing his .45 calibre pistol at the others, apprehended all three of the soldiers. Accompanied by one of his men, he then approached the second bunker and called for the enemy to surrender. When the hostile soldiers failed to answer him and threw a grenade that detonated dangerously close to him, First Lieutenant Grogan detonated a grenade in the bunker aperture, accounting for two enemy casualties and disclosing the entrance to a tunnel. Continuing the assault, he approached a third bunker and was preparing to fire into it when the enemy threw another grenade. Observing the grenade land dangerously close to his companion, First Lieutenant Grogan simultaneously fired his weapon at the enemy, pushed the marine away from the grenade, and shielded him from the explosion with his own body. Although sustaining painful fragmentation wounds from the explosion, he managed to throw a grenade into the aperture and completely disabled the remaining bunker. By his courage, aggressive leadership, and selfless devotion to duty, First Lieutenant Grogan upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and of the United States Naval Service.’” Milton nodded in appreciation. “Very impressive, Sheriff.”

  “What did you do out there?”

  “The kind of things I can’t really talk about.”

  “Special Forces?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Shit,” Lester said, his cheeks beginning to flush with embarrassment. He thought of his English accent and made the connection. “SAS?”

  Milton nodded.

  “Now you’re making me feel stupid.”

  “Why? You thought I was just a vagrant.”

  Lester started to speak, but found himself tongue-tied. He really did feel stupid.

  Milton waved it off. “What happens next?”

  Lester didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get it over with.”

  “I’ve got to book you,” he said. “What’s after that will depend on the guy you punched. If he’s injured, maybe you’re looking at a felony, but for now I’m going to write it up as a citation. That’s just a written notice to appear in court on a specific date and time. And I have to keep you in overnight.”

  “And if it is a felony?”

  “Then you have to make bail or go in front of a judge within forty-eight hours. But maybe it doesn’t come to that. I can encourage him that it’s not a good idea. He was drunk, like you say. And he threw the first punch. I was a witness to that.”

  “Shame you didn’t arrest him instead, then.”

  “Yes,” Lester said. “It is.” Milton wasn’t giving him an easy ride, but that was fair enough, maybe he deserved it. “I’m sorry, Milton. It’s not your fault, but I’ve had a lot on my plate these last few days. My boy, Jesus, I’ve got more trouble with him than I know how to deal with, and then we’ve got a couple of FBI agents in town, and they’ve been making things difficult for me. I think, maybe, I let that get on top of me, and then I saw you in the bar, after what we’d said on the road… Shit, just explaining this is making me feel worse. Look, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this go away.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Sure.” Lester looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. “It’s late,” he said. “Let’s get you booked in.”

  He led the way back into the reception area. Morten Lundquist was just arriving through the rear door.

  “Evening, Lester,” he said.

  “Evening, Morten. You okay?”

  “The same tired old bullshit with the wife, but, apart from that, yeah, I’m all right.”

  Lundquist was in his early sixties and had been a deputy in Truth for thirty years. By rights he should have been made sheriff years ago, but he had never really shown any interest in the post. He was a solid, dependable man, apparently happy with his lot as he approached his retirement. A little too religious at times for Lester’s tastes, but he had still been a father figure to him, and over the course of the years they had worked together they had become close. Lundquist had recently started to complain that his wife, Patti, was becoming cantankerous at the prospect of having him around the house full time, but Lester knew that he was exaggerating the reports for comic effect. The old man was planning on spending his autumn years outdoors; he was a keen hunter, and he had been out shooting with Lester many times before.

  “Who do we have here?”

  “This is John Milton. He got into it with those four out-of-towners at Johnny’s.”

  “The blond one, looks sort of like a big fluffy bear?”

  “But still big and nasty enough to play on the line for the Lions? Yeah, that one. Put him down with one punch. Bang.”

  “Ouch,” Lundquist said. “Remind me not to get on your wrong side, Mr. Milton.”

  “Don’t worry,” Milton said. “I’m nothing to worry about.”

  “What do you do?”

  “This and that.”

  “Used to be in the military,” Lester said.

  “Good for you.”

  “Morten was in the army, too. Vietnam.”

  “Long time ago.”

  “Maybe so. But that was quite a war.”

  “It was that. Good to meet you.”

  Lundquist offered Milton his hand and he took it. He pumped it like he was his long-lost brother or a customer in a used-car lot.

  “I’m going to book him for a citation, keep him in overnight, and then let him out tomorrow. I think I can persuade the others that it’d be best if they just let this one go.”

  Lundquist took off his coat and hung it on a peg fixed to the wall. “You sort out the trouble at the school?”

  “No,” he said. “Not even close.”

  “You want, maybe I could have a look at Lyle, see if I can dig anything up?”

  “I don’t know, Morten. I can’t think straight about that at the moment.”

  “Well, whatever, you go on home. I’m on the clock now. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

  “You sure?”

  “Definitely. Go on. Get. I’ve got it.”

  Lester shrugged. He wasn’t of a mind to look a gift horse in the mouth. He collected his damp coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “I’m sorry you have to stay here tonight,” he said to Milton. “It’s not too uncomfortable down there and, you ask
nicely, Morten will probably make you a cup of coffee and see to it that your clothes are dried for you tomorrow.”

  Milton nodded.

  “And I’m sorry about… well, about earlier. I was out of line.”

  “Forget it. Just a misunderstanding.”

  Lester felt like a heel as he opened the door and jogged across the yard to the Silverado. He opened the door, slid inside, and started the engine. He flicked the air to high to heat the cabin and picked the Bob Dylan CD he had loaded earlier. He put the stick into reverse and rolled out into the road as “Subterranean Homesick Blues” started to play. The rain lashed into the windscreen as he put the car into drive and started for home.

  Chapter 5

  THE MAN the sheriff had introduced as Morten Lundquist opened the door that led down to the cells. It was made from metal, had bars in a little window at the top, and it opened onto a staircase with an iron banister, concrete steps, and fluorescent strip lights overhead. As soon as Milton was inside, Lundquist shut and locked the door behind them.

  They went down the stairs. The basement was simple, with a cement floor and plain plastered walls. There was one cell, a small adjunct to the corridor that was separated by a wall of floor-to-ceiling bars. There was a camera fixed to the wall, its lens trained on the cell, and a chair with a collection of hunting magazines splayed out on the floor beside it. The artificial light was harsh, bouncing back up off the smooth floor and glinting against the iron bars.

  “Take off your boots, your pants, and your jacket,” Lundquist said.

  Milton did as he was told, folding the garments and leaving them over the back of the chair. Lundquist opened a closet that Milton had not noticed and brought out an orange prison-issue jumpsuit marked MICH. DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS. He handed it over and, as he bent to step into the legs, the deputy whistled in surprise.

  “Goodness,” he said, “that’s some tattoo.”

  Milton had a pair of angel’s wings inked across his shoulders and all the way down his back. He shrugged.

  “Must’ve hurt, up on your shoulder blades like that. Close to the bone and all.”

  “I was drunk at the time. Didn’t feel a thing.”

  Milton pulled the jumpsuit up to his waist, slipped his arms through, and pulled it up past his shoulders.

  “All right. In you go.”

  Milton stepped into the cell and moved aside as Lundquist closed the door and locked it. Milton looked around: there was a cot with a thin mattress and a toilet. Previous inmates had gouged out their initials in the mortar between the blocks in the wall.

  “You eaten?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Rules say we got to get you a meal. Three squares and a cot, that’s the deal. We don’t have enough guys staying overnight for us to have a kitchen, plus there’s no way you’d want me cooking for you, but I can order takeout. You like burgers?”

  “Sure.”

  “They do a good burger at Johnny’s. Bacon and cheese, all the trimmings. You want, I’ll get them to bring one over.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want a cup of coffee while you’re waiting?”

  “Please.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “White, one sugar.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Milton sat down on the cot and stretched his shoulders. This would be fine. At least it was clean, maybe even cleaner than the hotel. And he had stayed in far worse places.

  That’s right, he thought.

  You got lucky. This could have been a lot worse.

  You go into bars and bad things happen.

  He sat back, pulled his legs up onto the cot, and leaned against the wall. He would stay here tonight, and, with luck, the sheriff would be able to see to it that he could leave tomorrow morning. He would go to the hotel, collect his pack and his rifle, and set off again, back towards the west. He had been working his way to Minneapolis. Morrissey was playing a gig there in a couple of weeks. He was a fan, and it immediately conjured memories of the time he had spent in the regiment. Music had always been a trigger for his memories, and, as he sat in the cell, miles and years and a hundred murders away from that time, he remembered the tunes he had listened to on that old battered Walkman: The Smiths, his solo stuff. He remembered sitting on his bunk in the barracks, not so different from this, treating the blisters that he had collected during the brutal Fan Dance across Pen y Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons, and listening to his music.

  Selection. Five months of Hell. Ninety percent of the men failed. Two of them died.

  Milton had been one of the ten percent.

  Milton heard Lundquist coming back down the stairs. He backed through the door, two mugs of coffee in his hands. “White with sugar,” he said, handing one of the mugs through the bars of the cell. “Burger’s on its way. Twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks. Good of you.”

  He waved that away. “‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s Hebrews.”

  “Oh—the Bible?”

  “That’s right. Pretty good rule to live your life by.”

  “I’m not really a Bible type,” Milton admitted. “And you don’t need to worry about entertaining an angel. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that.”

  Lundquist laughed. “I’m sorry. Lester’s always telling me to dial down on the scripture. I know it’s not for everyone.”

  The man paused on the other side of the bars, bringing his mug to his lips and taking a sip.

  “What part of England are you from?”

  “The south.”

  “I went over there, five years ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh, trip to Europe. My ancestors are Danish. Came over here in the last century, thousands of them, thought they could make a fortune working the mines. Cornishmen, then the Irish, Germans, French Canadians, Finns, Danes, Swedes. You know, turn of the century, three quarters of the families here were born overseas. How about that?”

  Milton sipped the hot, sugary coffee.

  “How’d that turn out for them, though? Maybe good enough at the time, but now, everything’s closed, and all we got’s the tourists. And when we get ignorant types like those city boys you taught a lesson, well, I gotta ask myself is it really worth it. You know what I’m saying?”

  Milton shrugged.

  “What do you make of it, John? What’s happening to the country?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look at those government types in Washington, getting fat off the federal teat; they don’t give two shits about what happens to the people here. Look at Detroit, last time I went down there the place was dying on its feet, and they don’t do nothing about it.”

  He flashed with a sudden anger that cut through his amiable exterior. Milton finished the drink and handed it back through the bars. “I don’t know, Deputy. Don’t know if I’m qualified to comment.”

  “Sorry, I know I’m going on about it again. My wife, Patti, she’s always telling me that I’m stuck in the past like I’m some kind of dinosaur. Maybe she’s right, I don’t know. All I can say is that you work as a policeman as long as I have and you start to notice how things are getting worse. But I’ll leave it there.” He flicked two switches, and the strip light cut out to be replaced by dim lights that were set in sconces in the wall. “You want anything, you just need to holler. I’ll be upstairs. I’ll bring your food down when it gets here.”

  Lundquist shut the door behind him, and Milton listened to the sound of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. He heard the ground floor door shut and the sound of the key as it turned in the lock.

  Chapter 6

  SPECIAL AGENT Ellie Flowers rode back to the hotel with her partner, Orville Clayton. She got out of the Denali and ran across the parking lot with a copy of USA T
oday held over her head to try to shield herself from the rain. It didn’t work, the newsprint going soggy within seconds and then little rivulets running through the creases and folds and dripping down onto her.

  Orville ran after her. She waited until she was inside and then she turned. There he was, dodging the puddles in those ridiculous five-hundred-dollar shoes with the lifts in the heels that were made for him especially. Back in the office, Joey Trimble said Napoleon used to wear shoes with lifts in them like that, so Napoleon had quickly become his nickname. Orville hated it, hated everything that reminded him that he was five eight and not the six foot he listed on his profile at Match.com. Ellie had never cared how tall he was, but she had learned quickly that he was touchy about it, so she never brought it up. Didn’t mean that she didn’t find the sight of him as he splashed through the water amusing, especially since they had just had an argument.

  She was tempted to just go back to her room, without saying goodnight, but her father hadn’t brought her up to be petty, so she waited for him in the lobby.

  “Fucking rain,” Orville said, the water plastering his thinning hair to his crown. “The sooner we get out of this place, the better.”

  “Goodnight,” she said.

  He looked confused, as if he had already forgotten that they had argued and he had expected her to come back to his room like the night before like nothing had happened. “You don’t want to come in?”

  “Not tonight,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “This is about what you said?”

  “No, it’s about your attitude.”

  “What about it?”

  She was tired. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. I’m tired. I need to sleep.”

  “What’s wrong with my attitude?”

  “Goodnight.”

  She reached across and touched him on the shoulder. She thought about kissing him on the cheek, decided against it, and then smiled a little sadly at him and went back to her room.

  SHE LIT a cigarette and dialled a number on her phone.

  “Hi, it’s Ellie Flowers, just leaving a message to say that I won’t be coming back to the office tomorrow. I know, yeah, that’s what I said. Orville’s coming back. I’m going to stick around for a couple days extra. Okay?”