by Brad Carl
"I guess that one's out of service," Henry joked as he moved to the back door. Claire covered her mouth to hide her smile. Maddison could only stare at the pickup parked in her front hallway.
#
Henry sprinted as fast as he could back to the little white farmhouse he had lived in for a mere week. Entering through the side door, he ran through the kitchen and headed straight for the bedroom. He tossed his duffel bags on the bed and began gathering his clothes and other belongings. Wilson was in dire need of attention and made it known to his owner. He jumped on the bed and purred incessantly, rubbing up against Henry every time he came near him. On occasion, Henry would stop packing and pet his cat for a moment, or stroke his ears.
It only took Henry a few minutes to finish. Next, he took the cover off the old-fashioned vent in the bedroom and reached inside, pulling out his small backpack. Henry unzipped it and glanced at the cash inside. It was filled to the top. He zipped it closed again and slung it over his right shoulder.
It was now after two in the morning and Henry expected the police to be driving up to the farm property at any moment. After making sure Wilson had plenty of food and water, he turned off all the lights in the house. He left the house key on the kitchen counter along with the remaining guns. He then made sure all the doors were locked from the inside before heading out the front door. He popped open the trunk of his Honda and tossed his two duffel bags in. The backpack accompanied Henry to the front seat. Just before he turned the key in the ignition he noticed the glare of headlights in his rearview mirror. Henry twisted around in his seat to witness four cars coming down the driveway.
"Shit," he whispered to himself.
It has to be the cops, he thought. They were smarter than Henry would've guessed, not turning on their sirens or lights. He reached down with his left hand and used the lever to recline the seat. This put him below the line of sight from outside the car.
There would be no reason for the police to stop at the little white farmhouse. Everything on this part of the property was dark and silent. They should be heading to the Chumansky residence, where there were still, as far as anyone knew, people in danger. Henry could hear the spitting of the gravel beneath the cars as they drove by. It was happening within a hundred feet of where he was lying in his car, motionless.
Henry wondered where Chum was right now. Was he in one of the police cars? If he was, was he in handcuffs? What had he told the officers? Was Sergeant Jackson one of the cops who had just driven by?
Once the sound of the cars faded, Henry put his seat back upright. He couldn't see what was going on at the Chumansky house from inside his car, but he assumed the police were just now noticing the destruction he had caused with the pickup truck.
Henry turned the car on but left the headlights off. There was enough light along the gravel road that he could make it to the county highway without them. When Henry reached the intersection to the highway, he paused and released a sigh.
Without a second thought, he turned the steering wheel to the right and headed north. After a quarter of a mile, he turned the headlights on.
And just like that, Henry Fields disappeared into the early morning darkness.
X
"Give me a quick briefing before you write your report, Sergeant," said Chief Nathan Perkins of the Gable Police Department. It was Monday morning and the entire station smelled like coffee and donuts. It had been a long and busy twenty-four hours, and Sergeant John Jackson was ready for some sleep.
"Around one thirty Sunday morning the department received a call that the alarm had been tripped at the Corner Store," Jackson began. "When officers arrived, they found the door unlocked and the lights on. Locked inside the store's cooler were three men: Franco Salazar and Rafael Menendez, both tied up, and Tom Chumansky."
"Tom Chumansky?" Perkins verified.
"Yes, sir. He was frantic and difficult to calm down or understand," Jackson explained, "but officers were eventually able to decipher that Chumansky's wife was being held at gunpoint in their house."
"Jesus Christ." Perkins was in his late fifties and had been on the force for almost thirty-five years. He could've retired long ago, but heading up the police in a small town with almost no crime had its advantages.
"When officers arrived at the Chumansky house, they immediately noticed a white pickup truck had been driven into it," Jackson continued.
"Into the house?" Perkins exclaimed.
"Yes, sir. Inside the house there were two more men tied up: Rodrigo Ramírez and Miguel Sánchez. They were being guarded with handguns by Chumansky's wife, Maddison, and Claire Mathison."
"Wait a minute. I thought you said the wife was being held at gunpoint." Perkins said. He took a sip of his fresh coffee and leaned back in his chair.
"That's correct. Give me one minute and I'll get to that, Chief,” Jackson said. He was reciting the entire report from memory and knew if he got off track he would forget important details. "Also inside the house and suffering from a gunshot wound to the leg was Eddie Clark," Jackson explained. "An ambulance was dispatched immediately to the house. Clark was taken to Adler Regional, where surgery was performed to remove the bullet. He's in stable condition now."
"Thank God," Perkins mumbled sarcastically. "What would the world do without Fast Eddie?"
Jackson continued with his report as though he hadn't heard his boss's comment.
"There were two deceased bodies in the house, as well. Carlos Lopez and Marty Greenberg. Gunshot wounds to the head.”
"Holy hell." Perkins hadn't expected this. There had never been a double homicide in Gable. The crime rate had remained extremely low for decades. Adler was a much larger breeding ground for murderers, thieves, and dealers. "So what happened?" Perkins inquired.
"What we've pieced together so far is this was some sort of drug-related ambush," Jackson said. "Salazar and Menendez allegedly pulled the trigger on the two victims. We're checking ballistics, residue, prints, and such. But I'm confident it will be confirmed. They're in custody right now. Ramírez and Sánchez are also in custody for their role."
"Great, we've got our own 'Little Mexico' right here in our cells," Perkins grunted. "Maybe we should charge the Adler P.D. rent."
Jackson continued without missing a beat. "We're convinced Chumansky was involved with these characters, but the Hispanic guys aren't talking. Chumansky's denying knowing anything, calling it 'mistaken identity.' Frankly, we've got nothing on him."
"So, what about the truck parked in the house?" Perkins asked him.
"Apparently there was another man involved, a Henry Fields. For the past several days he has been employed at the Corner Store and was a guest at the Chumansky house Saturday evening. Somehow, to thwart whatever Salazar and Menendez were trying to do, Fields lured the men to the Corner Store, where he and Chumansky were able to take them over. Now here's where it gets weird, Chief."
"Oh, now it's gonna get weird?" Perkins joked.
"Yes, sir," Jackson said. "Chumansky claims he helped this Fields character tie up Salazar and Menendez. Then Fields blindsided Chumansky with a choke hold and locked him in the cooler with the other two."
"So maybe Fields is the one tied to these drug assholes," Perkins suggested.
"You'd think so," Sergeant John Jackson agreed. "But then why did he go back to the Chumansky house, drive Salazar's truck through the front door, and apprehend the goons who were holding the others hostage?"
"Why don't we just ask him?" Perkins suggested.
"We would if we could find him. It seems he skipped town shortly after this all went down," Jackson reported.
"See? Looks pretty guilty, don't you think?" Chief Perkins enjoyed making observations from behind the desk, even when he knew Jackson was going to have more to say. Asking the obvious questions helped his team think ahead. Jackson was his best officer, too. There wasn't a week that went by when Perkins didn't breathe a sigh of relief that Jackson had yet to turn in his resignation to le
ave for a bigger city. Working as a police sergeant in Gable was mainly traffic accidents and an occasional domestic dispute. Nathan Perkins knew this fell short of what most police officers had in mind when they were playing cops and robbers as kids.
"Yes, sir," Jackson agreed. "Running away definitely makes him look guilty. The problem is, according to Claire Mathison, that entire notion is ridiculous. She doesn't know why Fields took off, but she confirmed that Salazar was there specifically because of Chumansky and some money or cocaine he owed them."
"Really? What did the wife say?"
"Not much. But when he found out Fields had disappeared, Tom Chumansky began alluding to the idea that Fields was the one Salazar was after."
"Fishy. So if Chumansky is the real reason this all happened, why did Fields bolt?" Perkins wondered out loud.
"That's the million dollar question, sir," Jackson commented. "Fields was renting the old Chumansky farmhouse. We're searching it again today, but so far we haven't found much of anything other than a lonely cat."
"Got anything else?"
"Hodge is questioning Bruce Townsend, the Corner Store owner. But for now I'm going to get to work on the report and, if it's okay with you, grab some sleep when I'm finished."
"Sounds good, Jack. Have at it," Perkins said.
#
John Jackson sat at his desk writing the official report on the weekend's events. Being on the police force wasn't quite as exciting as it sounded; not in Gable, anyway. But it was a good job that was getting him plenty of experience. This case from the weekend was the most intriguing thing to take place in the area since Jackson joined the force eight years ago. Before then he had bounced around between the military and security jobs. While serving in the Army, he was deployed to Bosnia and worked protective service. It had been Jackson's favorite job: wearing civilian clothes and carrying a concealed firearm while guarding high ranking officials. His "Billy Bad Ass gig" was what he always called it.
Jackson was so deep in thought with his report that when his phone rang he didn't notice it until the second ring.
"Sergeant Jackson," he answered.
"Hi, Sergeant. This is Balinda Simmons from Channel 6 in Adler. I understand you're in charge of the investigation of the incident that took place over the weekend."
Jackson rolled his eyes.
"I am," he conceded. "But the info you've got is all I can tell you right now."
"No, no," Balinda said with a chuckle. She was used to getting brushed aside by the authorities. "I'm calling because I think I might be able to help you with something."
His ears perked up, but he was still skeptical.
"Sounds good to me. I'm listening," Jackson said.
"Well, you're looking for this man, Henry Fields. And you might already know this, but he helped out with the highway traffic accident that happened on Friday night."
"Yes, I met and spoke with Fields a couple of times last week, and I know what accident you're referring to," Jackson offered.
"Well, I did an interview with him the next morning because of the help he provided on the scene. The thing is, he was pretty adamant about not wanting to appear on camera," Balinda explained.
"That's kind of strange," Jackson stated. Now he was listening with every ounce of attention he could muster from his sleep-deprived body.
"Yes, I thought so, too," Balinda agreed. "The interview we ended up airing was audio only, with his blessing. But..."
She hesitated.
"...we still managed to capture some video of him."
Jackson snorted.
"In my defense," she explained, "it's not like we filmed him head-on without his knowledge. This is just some footage that happened to get recorded while we were setting things up."
"Despite the fact I've met him, we have no record of what he looks like so this is helpful," Jackson said. "But I should also mention he's not actually 'wanted' for any crime. We'd just like to talk to him and get his side of the story."
"I understand," Balinda said. "I just wanted to help out if I could. I've got some screenshots here I can email you if you'd like."
"That'd be great."
After giving her his email address, Jackson hung up the phone and went back to writing his report.
#
Jackson was putting the final touches on his police report when Officer Ryan Hodge walked into the station. It was almost ten thirty.
"Just in time," Jackson called out to him. "You got anything I should add to this?"
"Maybe," Hodge replied while walking to Jackson's desk. He sat down in the chair across from him before continuing. "Townsend said he believes the alarm was engaged because Fields intentionally didn't turn it off. Also, one of the guns we found at the farmhouse was Townsend's. He kept it at the store behind the counter, just in case."
"No surprise there," Jackson said.
"Yeah, but he did mention something that I thought was peculiar," Hodge said.
"What's that?" Jackson asked.
"I asked Townsend for Fields' employee paperwork. You know, his W-4 and I-9. He said he hadn't had Fields fill any out yet," Hodge explained.
"Not that unusual," Jackson replied. "He only worked there a week."
"Yeah, but then Townsend said Fields requested he be paid in cash," Hodge added. Jackson stroked his chin.
"Did we dust for any prints at the farmhouse?"
"No, because we didn't think we had a reason to," Hodge said.
"Let's go ahead and do it," Jackson ordered.
"You got it, Sarge." Officer Ryan Hodge turned and walked out the door.
Fields might not be wanted by the Gable Police Department for any crimes, but his behavior was sparking curiosity that warranted some extra effort. Jackson pulled up the criminal database and entered the name "Henry Fields." There were two matches. One of them was African-American and the other one was white but looked nothing like the Henry Fields Jackson had spoken to on multiple occasions. Jackson opened another window on his computer and checked for an email from Balinda Simmons. When he found it, he opened the attachment and stared at the video screen captures of Henry Fields, the superhero without a cape. Jackson thought it was interesting that Fields was involved in what could be described as two heroic incidents on consecutive nights. Was this guy trying to be a modern day superhero? Was the conversation Jackson had with Fields about superheroes more serious than he had thought? Of course, the other possibility was Fields had been a victim of circumstance, twice. After the drug-related incident on Saturday night, he might have been so spooked he simply skipped town. There's no law against doing that.
Jackson heard footsteps behind him. He could tell it was the chief by the sound of the walk. Two knee replacements and a lifetime of weight problems had made Nathan Perkins a perfect desk jockey.
"Guess who's coming to dinner?" Perkins asked. Jackson turned from his computer and leaned back in his chair, looking up at his boss.
"I give up," he replied.
"DEA," Perkins explained. "They're gonna take Tijuana back with them, too." He pointed with his thumb towards the jail cells.
"So we got ourselves some big players here, eh?" Jackson surmised.
"Something like that," Chief Perkins said. "They'd like our report and evidence...everything."
"St. Louis?" Jackson asked.
"Chicago. They'll be here for lunch," Perkins said as he began hobbling back to his office.
"I thought you said 'dinner'?" Jackson called back to him, realizing a nap was no longer in his future.
"It was a figure of speech, Jack," Chief Perkins grumbled.
"Cary Grant?" Jackson recognized the phrase "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" as a movie title.
Perkins let out a gruff belt of laughter before responding.
"Spencer Tracy and Sidney Poitier."
"I was close," Jackson retorted.
"No, you weren't."
#
When noon came and there was still no sign of the DEA, Chi
ef Perkins sent Hodge to Stubby's to bring some sandwiches back to the station. Jackson had switched from drinking coffee to Diet Coke an hour earlier and after rummaging through the kitchen cupboard found a Nutty Bar that he split with the chief.
At twelve forty-five, a dark blue sedan pulled up to the station. A tall woman with long brown hair climbed out of the car with a briefcase. As she entered the building, she placed her sunglasses on top of her head. Jackson and Perkins rose from their desks to greet her.
"Chief Perkins?" she stuck her hand out and looked at him and then at Jackson.
"Yes, ma'am. That's me," Perkins responded by taking her hand and shaking it. "And this is Sergeant Jackson."
"I'm Agent Delia DeMarco," she said.
Jackson shook DeMarco's hand and sized her up at about five feet ten inches tall. This was an easy guess for him since it also happened to be his height.
The three of them sat down at the conference table. Chief Perkins offered her a sandwich, but Agent DeMarco declined, saying she had eaten something an hour ago. She explained that her initial intent was to be in Gable an hour earlier, but she ran into some road construction on Interstate 80 that slowed her down.
After giving her a brief rundown of Saturday night's events, it was time to discuss the next steps.
"We've never had anything like this go down in our small town," Chief Perkins explained. "Where do we go from here?"
"Well, we have a wagon on the way to take Salazar, Menendez, Ramírez, and Sánchez off your hands," DeMarco explained. "It should be here tomorrow." She began thumbing through the report as she continued to speak. "After that there's not much more for you to do other than provide a support system in case we need anything else. I'll take the rest of the day to conduct my own interviews with the witnesses. Looks like there's Claire Mathison, Bruce Townsend, Tom and Maddison Chumansky and...you say this Henry Fields is M.I.A.?"