“Wil, we’re all in this together, buddy,” I replied earnestly, and I saw Pat nod his head in agreement. “We aren’t aiming to build some hippie commune or worker’s paradise out here. However, the more we have to share with you and your family, the better you guys can prepare, and the better I’ll sleep at night.”
“And Lord knows, Bryan needs his beauty sleep,” Pat added, slipping the zinger in at the end. He was sneaky that way. In any event, his snark had the desired effect of dispelling our gloom as we inspected our dead neighbor’s legacy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Finding the magazine was only a chore of a few minutes once we locked up the gun cabinets and trooped back upstairs. Coin Collecting Times was the title of the monthly, printed on a slick, glossy paper and featuring not only articles about appraising the condition of coins but also pages of advertisements for various numismatic treasures and suppliers. Byron had several years’ worth of back issues stored in a wine crate in his living room, and every one of the magazines did indeed have a pre-printed subscription label on the cover.
“Wil, you know everybody around here better than either of us,” Pat said once we’d replaced the magazines in their box. “I think we need to keep our concerns quiet for now to any outsiders about this, but please get with Wade and Ethan. Be thinking about who might have been funneling information to the old sheriff.”
Swearing Wil to secrecy seemed almost pointless since we were going to share most all our information with his family anyway, but Wil actually made the promise to keep his trap shut, his words, about our suspicions without any prompting. I thought he might have still been smarting over the almost admission at Shawn’s house, and he felt like he needed a chance to redeem himself.
I knew it wasn’t because Wil was careless, but because he was still coming back into the mindset of a Marine where operational security meant keeping secrets. I was doing a little better, but I thought it was from my past training. Again, as hard as it might be for others to believe, lawyer doesn’t mean born liar, but I had a lot of experience maintaining my silence because attorney-client privilege means you don’t tell your client’s confidences, no matter how interesting a story it might make.
In addition to finding Mr. Fitts’ gun collection, once we expanded our inspection to encompass the grounds, we also located an old International Harvester square baler in one of his barns as well as two tractors, both Massey Fergusons. One, the little Model 135, had a bush hog attached and appeared to be in operating condition and the other, not so much. If given the time, I figured we could get the larger Model 165 up and running with a little tender loving care, but that was for later. We had a long winter coming, after all. That would give us a little shop project when it was otherwise too cold to go outside and do any kind of real work.
When we stepped back out of the equipment barn, I noticed the temperature, which had been sitting in the low fifties, had dropped a few degrees. Checking my watch, I saw the time was nearing five o’clock. We’d spent more time than we should have admiring the old man’s gun collection, but we needed to get an idea of what we had there and plus, I was still a kid enough inside to admit, it’d been fun handling the old cowboy guns. I just wish Mr. Fitts had been there to show us his collection, instead of the way things had worked out.
Looking around at the overgrown fields, I saw a few head of cattle loafing near a stand of trees. They looked like Black Angus, with an old bull and a harem of four cows.
“What’s with the cows? I didn’t think Byron had any,” I asked, curious.
“Just a few. I think there’s another four or five down by the pond. He kept them on the property to maintain his ag exemption,” Wil explained. “Byron used to make a little money on the side, baling hay for folks, but he’d gotten away from it in the last few years. Hell, he was probably seventy-five years old, you know?”
I’d seen some photographs inside, but hadn’t the time to look closely at them, but Wil’s words made me do a double take.
“But Wally was only in his late twenties, wasn’t he? His dad remarried?”
“Nope. Older than me. Probably at least forty, I’d say. Ahead of me in school, anyway. That said, he was an oopsy baby. His mom was nearly that age when she had him is all I know,” Wil explained. Well, I was never very good at estimating ages, I decided. “When she died, a big part of Byron went with her in that coffin.”
I nodded and set the last part of Wil’s comment aside, not wanting to mull it over at this point. Or ever. Some things, a man didn’t need to think about more than necessary.
“Alright,” Pat said, drawing our attention as we stumped back over to the farm truck. “We do not want anybody hostile getting access to this house.”
“So we either buy it or burn it,” I said, and Wil gave me a worried look. Pat, though, continued his explanation.
“That is old school brick construction, not a brick façade, and the windows upstairs would allow anybody to dominate not just the road up front, but well past the fence line on both sides of the property. Best let Wade know. We’ll also need more than just the Tylers to maintain security here. I’d say we need at least six, and preferably eight shooters, rotating a two man watch. Wil, what do you think?”
Wil studied the house, this time with a tactical eye rather than looking for flaws in the condition.
“Yeah, I can see what you mean. The fence line along the road is overgrown, but a sniper with a scoped 30-06 hunting rifle could make an easy shot there between the trees. Not sure if they could reach Wade’s house from that elevation, but might could do it from the roof if you had a Barrett. I can’t think about where the Lovett’s house is from here, though. So…buy it or burn it. But can we remove those guns first? I always wanted one of those Colt Pythons. I’ll trade you something for it.”
“We get this to work, and you got a deal,” I agreed. I already had my boat anchor, after all. The Dan Wesson in .44 Magnum I’d claimed was an accurate silhouette target shooter, but not something I’d carry as a self-defense firearm. Or for a quick-draw competition.
“So what’s next?” Pat asked, as we were ticking off items from our to-do list.
“If you all don’t need me, just drop me off at the house,” Wil volunteered, “I’ll get started installing the police radios and light bar kit for my truck. What vehicle you guys going to use?”
“That’s a good question,” Pat replied thoughtfully. “We’ll need to discuss it tonight, then start the setup tomorrow. I’m not volunteering the minivan, though. No matter how much Nikki hates it.”
I nodded in acknowledgement. We would have to decide, and it wasn’t going to be the Chevy farm truck either. Or my little Datsun. Probably Mike’s big old truck, though I wasn’t going to be the one to break that news to him. Then I shifted gears mentally at Pat’s earlier question. What next today?
“I need to talk to Earl and Lynette next,” I replied with a sigh. “There’s things we need to discuss with them about security, and since their property borders the main road, they are especially at risk.”
“Earl’s not going to like it,” Wil volunteered.
“Won’t like what?”
“Whatever you’ve got to suggest. I should say, Lynette won’t like it, and she’ll tell Earl he doesn’t like it either,” Wil explained with a bit of a snicker in his voice. “She’s like that frog you like to talk about, slowly getting boiled in the pot as the temperature just keeps rising. I imagine she’s still telling herself everything will get back to normal. Any day now.”
“Good one. Yeah, I got the idea that Earl might wear the pants in that family, but Lynette tells him which ones to put on every morning,” I agreed.
After deciding our immediate course of action, the three of us made another round through the house and figured out which breakers went to which zones in the house and Pat and I took the time to label them correctly. While the two of us were playing red light, green light with the appliances and light switches, Wil inspected th
e old backup diesel generator and pronounced it dirty but usable. However, the power draw necessary to run the whole house would end up wearing out the generator if somebody tried to run certain appliances at the same time. We prioritized the heat and the water pump as we made out the chart for which breakers to switch on if someone needed to use the generator.
We also needed to make sure the central heat would operate as long as commercial power lasted to prevent any burst water pipes from freezing temperatures inside. Mr. Fitts had two fireplaces, more for ornamentation than actual heating, and three cords of wood cut and stacked, but it was mostly pine and not fit to the purpose. Pine burned great, of course. Too fast, in fact, and fouled the chimney to boot. Pine was great for getting fires started, especially pine knots, but oak was better to burn all night.
By six o’clock, the electric panel was relabeled, the filters and oil changed on the backup generator, and I was ready for bed. Or at least a hot shower. Pat locked the house back up as Wil and I hauled the loot we were taking from the storage lockers, including all the precious metals and cash. I stashed them in the same cubby on the crossbed toolbox we’d used for the veggies we’d delivered to the Tylers earlier.
“That sure is handy,” Wil commented once again as we stood by the tailgate and chatted about trucks and accessories. Again, my lack of true mechanical aptitude came through, but I was intrigued by some of his stories after he started driving the wrecker. The trips were shorter than driving an eighteen-wheeler, but the tales at least were more interesting and varied. My brother-in-law came wandering up just as Wil reached the punchline of his latest tale.
Pat started to say something, but I felt my cellphone vibrate, and I saw Pat and Wil both reach for their pockets at the same time. I checked the message, saw it was from the Sheriff’s Department, and cursed under my breath.
“I guess we passed the background check,” Wil deadpanned, and the three of us took off for the farm truck at a dead run. I grabbed the driver’s side door and Pat and Wil started to pile in on the other side, but Pat paused and climbed up behind the cab onto the crossbed toolbox.
“Use one of your d-rings, and clip your harness to the top bar of the metal frame,” I shouted out the window, and Pat crouched down just enough so I could see the ‘seriously?’ look on his face. Then he rapidly attached his harness to the uppermost of the three steel cross members meant to keep the toolbox stationary. As much as the steel box weighed, the last thing you wanted in the event of a crash was having that much weight shifting forward. Hence, the steel framework.
“Don’t mind him,” Wil encouraged as he shifted his rifle into a more comfortable position. “The fact you thought about it at all under stress is a good thing. Means your mind can process tactically. Just like at Landshire’s house.”
I started the engine and shifted into gear.
“If I recall correctly, I caught two rounds in the chest that night,” I retorted with a snort. “Not exactly a stellar performance. Where we headed, anyway? I got the name and address, but that street address means nothing to me.”
“Turn right at the intersection, away from town. About three miles out, on the right side,” Wil directed, and I stopped for the gate. Pat jumped down and took care of it, then closed it up after I passed and jumped back on the truck without ever releasing the pistol grip on the stock of his rifle.
“Just a medic my ass,” Wil murmured, then gave me a look out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, you’re still alive and that counts for something. That Deputy Stertevant, he had a reputation, you know? Quick draw artist, did a lot on the competitive shooting circuit.”
“He was so quick, Wil. I never even saw his hand move,” I replied nervously as I craned my head around, looking for any signs of trouble on the nearly empty highway. We had only just turned onto the blacktop and I was already feeling anxious. I wasn’t sure if it was anxiety over getting into another potential gunfight, or worry about arriving too late.
“What he did, Bryan, it was a trick,” Wil counseled. “That’s all. Just like being able to light a match with your thumbnail, or juggling, for God’s sake. The fact is, you won that fight. You walked away, and he didn’t.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I replied easily. “I’m not having nightmares about it. I just want to get back into practice so I can do that kind of shit myself next time. I used to train, but that was three gun, mostly. I did run the Murder House the major set up down in Kountze a few times.”
“You talking about that retired Ranger’s outfit? The one that came out to your house? I knew he used to train up all the local departments in the area.” Wil asked, then suddenly changed the conversation as he pointed off to the right. I could make out a driveway, leading back and lined with chinaberry trees.
“That’s it. The Hostetler place. Older couple, retired now, go figure,” Wil added with a snort, since that probably described a quarter of our country neighbors. “They had a couple of sons who moved off after they finished school, but likely back living at home.”
If they survived the last few months, was the unspoken part of the message.
“You ever been inside?”
“Yeah, but I can’t recall the layout. Hopefully we won’t have to go that route. You got the same text I did. They were holding out with one bandit vehicle in the driveway.”
Thinking about the text again, I tapped my phone, hoping Pat had his Bluetooth plugged in his ear.
“We close?”
“Just ahead on the right, maybe another half mile. How you want to handle this?”
“Like you and Mike did in Fred, if the Hostetlers are still alive in the house,” Pat replied. I had him on speaker so Wil could hear him as well. “Unless we hear different, Bryan, I want you to pull in behind their truck, parking at a diagonal so they can’t get by us if they try to retreat.”
“Quick now, how close do I park?” I demanded, already gripping the wheel to turn into the driveway. We couldn’t see the house for the row of overgrown hedges on this side.
“As far back as possible to the turnoff,” Pat replied rapidly. “Too close and they could rush us.”
He probably wouldn’t have to tell one of his fellow soldiers this, but I was still learning the trade. I did realize the angled approach might also help us avoid any blue-on-blue if Hostetler and his boys were shooting straight down their driveway.
And then I was committed to the turn and I sped up for a second before jerking the wheel and slewing the body of the truck at an angle across the drive. I killed the engine and hunker down, worming my way towards Wil and out the passenger side door.
I looked for Pat and he was gone, but a few seconds later I heard him over the still-open phone line.
“I’m in the hedge on the far left. Don’t shoot me or Nikki will have your ass,” my brother-in-law warned, and I could make out a ripple in the green undergrowth on that side, but that was it. I braced myself against the sheet metal just behind the cooling engine, and I took a breath in preparation for standing up and firing over the hood. Then I stopped, processing the sounds of the gunshots. They were sporadic, and, I realized, all coming from the house.
I popped up, risking a look prairie dog-style before dropping back on my haunches again, rifle laid across my arms like a sleeping baby. The transport for the suspected bandits was a faded red, rattletrap-looking Chevy Suburban. The back glass was pockmarked with several bullet holes, and I could only figure the front windshield looked the same.
“Wil, Pat, hold your fire!” I suddenly called out, a bad feeling growing in my gut. Something was wrong here, and more than just the usual.
“Not me,” Pat reported.
“Not me,” Wil added, but he was close enough I already knew that.
“Wil, can you get a call in to the house on your cell? Call Dispatch and get their number,” I went on, hunkering down and risking another glance around the front bumper as I gazed at the truck.
“What’s got you spooked?” Pat asked, his vo
ice low and expressing concern even if I was the only one to hear it.
“All the windows on that truck, they were rolled up, and the shots look to have come from the outside in,” I replied.
“Even an amateur would have rolled the windows down,” Wil pointed out, and the sick lump in my gut continued to grow. Then he was punching buttons on his own phone, as I held onto the link with Pat. I thought Wil was on the same page as I was, and his terse comments into the phone once he connected to the house confirmed my suspicions. All of them.
“No!” Wil demanded, his voice rising over the crack of random gunshots originating from the house. High pitched cracks, making me think .22s were now being used. “Stop your fire right now. You’re too close to us, and you’re getting no return fire. Stop shooting, damn it!”
The sporadic gunfire faded to nothing, and I exchanged a look with Wil, who then stared down at the phone in his hand.
“I got Albert Hostetler on the phone,” he said softly. “It’s his place. Said this truck pulled into the driveway and the driver got out. She came up to the porch, and started asking to come in. He told her no, and she commenced to caterwauling in Spanish.”
“And…” I asked, dreading what Wil might say next.
“Albert locked the door, and the woman started banging on it. That’s when Beulah called 911, and she got Dispatch.”
“Where’s the woman?” I asked, matching Wil’s subdued tone.
“I think that’s her on the side of the porch,” Pat interrupted, quietly joining our little chat beside the truck. Damn, my situational awareness was turning to garbage as I got tunnel vision on the supposed target.
“What?”
My raised voice sounded like thunder in the quiet afternoon.
Wil tapped his Bluetooth, as if straining to hear what was being said.
“Albert just said he wants a lawyer. What do you say, Bryan?”
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 3 | Bite of Frost Page 15