The Final Shortcut

by G. Bernard Ray

  She felt very much better now. She had found the reason for her odd feelings. A trucker must have had an accident and Junior had to pull the truck out. He must have made the wrong turn, got stuck and called Junior. She had been told to stay off the back roads because they weren’t always safe. And she knew if anyone was hurt Junior would have called her on the cell phone and sent for Sheriff Clyde. So everything must be just fine, she even began to smile a bit as she shrugged off the weight of her weary afternoon. It was easy to convince herself that there was no real danger. She just felt things deeply sometimes and that gave her the anxiety. Maybe she was clairvoyant or psychic. Or maybe it was something else. She really didn’t want to know. She had an acceptable answer for now and that was the end of that.

  It was dusk when she pulled in the drive. Glad to be home, glad to have seen Junior doing a good deed. He would be home when he got ready but she would most likely be asleep. He liked to work in his leather shop at night. Almost every night, and his crafts filled the shelves. She would see him at breakfast and they would talk about what chores needed to be done and they would talk about their day. In every way Junior was a good son, he kept the restaurant, her home and her car all in great working order. He would do any kind of work she asked of him without a grumble, and he was very good with fixing electronic things.

  She honestly couldn’t think of how she could survive without him, yet down in her heart she was terrified of him. If he had any affection for her he never showed it, they would hug and even kiss on special occasions but he felt cold and disinterested. Every since that horrid day in the hospital after Woodstock when she first felt his dark eyes boring into her soul. She had thought there was something wicked about him.

  And when he lost his temper, she could sense an evil about him that she couldn’t explain. Every thing had to go along with his plans or he got furious. Thankfully he always fled to the woods to vent his anger, and when he returned it was as if nothing had ever happened. But while he was away releasing his anguish, she would often have an episode like the one she just had today. Only this was the worst one yet. She felt as though they were dark warnings, premonitions of her future, or maybe she was just going crazy after all.

  But not today, she had found her answer and it was good enough for her. Something in the back of her mind told her not to mention to Junior that she had seen him. A tingling feeling that he might be angry with her for spying on him. It was made well known that all their family property was his private hunting club and no one was allowed to go wandering about, even her. He had always maintained that it was a safety issue as he could be shooting a high-powered rifle at any given time. Whether she completely believed in that reasoning or not, she would not say. But she would listen to her inner voice and keep it to herself.

  Halfway across town in the historic district, Sheriff Stokes walked into his office picking the remnants of a chicken sandwich from his teeth. The fast food place couldn’t compete with Ellen’s cooking but it was on his way. He sometimes liked to take an extra patrol through the Mayor’s neighborhood. The force had three other officers but it didn’t hurt to apply polish to the apple once and a while. He was fifty-eight years old this year and he wanted to glide onto retirement with as few ripples as possible. Rosa was still ruling the roost as the office manager, dispatcher and emergency response coordinator. She was truly one of a kind. She had left a note for him stuck to the computer monitor that simply said. “Turn me on!” Just below was another note that said. “Check your e-mail.” The police department had stood in the same spot for more than fifty years, but as with everything in life renovations had to be made. Even though Bontonville was still a sleepy town in the mountains, it had grown into a popular stopping spot for travelers and a thriving community. All his officers and staff were computer literate and he was proud to say that he had a competent understanding of them himself. But he couldn’t type three words a minute. For most of his career he could hand Rosa a notebook and get a typed report in return within a few hours. Now he had to enter information himself and he hated it. He had gotten into the habit of staying after dark to catch up, and it was the only time he could get away with smoking inside. There was something about a good cigar that made his paperwork less frustrating. Tonight he had a lot of catching up to do so he pulled out his ashtray, turned on the computer and lit his cigar.

  As his machine was coming up, he sorted through the mail and some official bulletins. Two postings about runaways, a warning about rabid raccoons, the FBI’s most wanted list and a stolen wheelbarrow report. He leaned up and opened the window a few inches as he scanned through the rest of the repetitive mailings. Nothing like the old days when the marijuana farmers were funding the town, his mail was full of wanted posters and warrants. Now that it all was a thing of the past and he found Bontonville a slow boring little town where nothing ever happened. The monitor lit up announcing it was ready for action so he wasted little time opening his e-mail. Most of it was from Rosa. Sweet, indispensable Rosa. She had checked all his outgoing mail, updated his schedule and retyped his official reports. Her last mail was a reminder that he had a spell checker on his machine, and she would be happy to show him how to use it, again. He was glad that she was not due to retire until after he did, her devotion to her job went beyond any attachment to him or the city. She was driven by the true desire to help people, to do her best to make a difference.

  The rest of his mail was notes from other city council members and some state officials. Half of which only wrote to have an excuse to use the computer. Some of the schoolteachers had put together a collection of pictures from the last field trip. Among them were several shots of him in some unflattering poses. He would be sure to avoid the cameras in the future. Then he stopped cold when he read the subject heading on the next e-mail. FBI investigation/encrypted/oo4klp/.

  It was almost a shock to see something so important looking in his mailbox and it was dated two days ago. It took him a minute to fetch his password book from the safe. While the file was downloading he puffed anxiously and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  His cigar was getting hot, so he dug out a bottle of brandy to cool the fires, the only rare time he drank anymore. A short shot to cool his throat and a good dunk to cool the cigar, an intoxicating mix but a welcome friend when pouring into wordy government documents. You almost need an interpreter to explain the jargon and double-talk they use to say nothing. The effects of his brandied smoke had sufficiently removed his intimidation of the federal government and he began to read his mail again with amazing clarity.

  The gist of the message was that an investigation had been opened a few weeks ago and it may branch out into his area, all cooperation will be appreciated and expected. The FBI and other federal agencies were cooperating to work on a case which involves a twenty-year long string of truck and driver disappearances covering four counties. There was a short summary of some of the missing items and a list of the driver’s names. Also a map showing the areas where most of the trucks were last seen and their estimated routes. He was shocked to see that Bontonville was nearly dead center of the map and most of the routes ran right past on the interstate. The most recent one had been just over a year ago involving a load of assorted weaponry that belonged to a private collector. Everything from rifles to bows and arrows, also dozens of historic relics dating to the 1600’s. So far very little physical evidence has surfaced, all of which turned up in swap meets and flea markets over several counties.

  The report went on to explain that none of the trucks or their driver’s had ever been found. At last count there were seventeen unsolved disappearances. The Government office in Washington that sent the mail assured him that they would give any support to the local Police.

  “Now that is interesting,” Clyde pulled hard on his cigar and leaned back in his worn leather chair. “Imagine that, seventeen missing trucks and drivers.” The night air blowing through the window had turned cool and he moved to close it as he
pondered the news. “How could you get rid of seventeen trucks without leaving some kind of trail?” He stroked the gray hair in his temples and stared out the window, finishing his cigar. “I bet that private collector is well connected and that‘s why, all of a sudden, they start investigating.”

  He still had a little typing to do, but a lifetime as a policeman caused him to stop and wonder about the new investigation. Carefully reexamining the list of drivers, he found seven names he recognized. “I know some of these guys!” His mind raced trying to recall if there had been any suspicious activity that he may have overlooked, some strange goings on that might give him a clue.

  Over an hour passed before he snapped out of his concentration. As far as he could remember everything in Bontonville was just like it had been for many years. Nothing ever happened around here. Folks rarely got into a fight or a bad accident. It had been nine months since the big robbery, which resulted in a drunken teenager spending the night in jail for stealing a carton of cigarettes. All of the calls he got were usually traffic related, and almost always near the interstate. There hadn’t been a real crime in nearly eight years. The only real mystery of his entire career, the case of Celeste Ray and Wesley Groomes, would go down in the history books as unsolved. They just drove off into the night and were never seen again.

  After another hour he managed to finish his work and was ready for a good night’s sleep. He couldn’t resist taking another short patrol around the downtown area before heading for home. Everything was in its place, the same cars at the same night spots. The same lights burning on the same porches. But he would look at them all differently now, look at everything with a heightened sense of awareness. He couldn’t believe that anyone in his town would be involved in hijacking trucks. But if the feds were doing a four-county investigation then it’s very likely that he could have clues staring him in the face. He had been a policeman almost thirty five years and it had taught him a lot. One thing he knew better than anything else was to look outside the obvious. Most things, even in a small town, are different under the surface.

  It was just after nine when he pulled in his driveway, and just a moment more before he was on the couch with his feet up. He stifled a yawn and decided that he should just go on to bed before he fell asleep on the couch. But something in his mind told him he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.

  Chapter 11

  The official operating hours of the “Sandbox” were 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. but the doors were never actually locked. You could find companionship any time of the day or night. The secluded business district had grown along with the other areas of the county, and with growth comes pain. Several strip clubs were dotted along the roadway, along with adult video parlors, motels and nightclubs. A varied crowd frequented “Kitty City,” ranging from truckers and travelers to pimps, drug dealers and other undesirables. The nearby town of Brayton was a scant three miles away at the intersection of The Confederate Highway and the interstate. It was just eleven miles in the opposite direction to Bontonville, if you took the shortcut. A profitable little nest that still fed money, through unofficial channels, to almost every council member in the county. The county Police were also on the payroll so everything outside of the worst crimes was ignored. The reputation for a relaxed enforcement attitude had spread far and wide. It was not unusual to see people having sex in the parking lot or smoking dope in the open. So it didn’t look unusual for a crowd of hard partying rock and roll types to have been drinking at the “Sandbox” until eight in the morning. Most of the legitimate patrons had gone on their way hours ago, but this gang of twelve was known to have the best smoke available. And a direct line to all the crack, cocaine and crystal meth. All but two of them were asleep strewn around the club, some inside some out. A few of the dancers were snoring along with their party partners, having passed out in their seats. One big burley man, with a bandanna around his head and a leather jacket bearing the name “The Wanderers” across the back, stood up slowly and staggered toward the door. He bumped into two chairs and nearly fell onto the pool table before making it to the door and outside.

  From across the room another man raised his head and carefully scanned the room, this was the moment he was waiting for. He stood easily, having faked drinking after everyone else got too drunk to notice. Biding his time until he could contact his boss without being seen. The phone booth was directly in line with the front door so he could see if anyone came in. No one inside was in any condition to see him. He quickly closed the doors and dialed the number, anxiously listening for the familiar voice on the other end.

  “Jenkins.” The phone had only rung once before being snatched off the hook.

  “It’s Wheezer. I haven’t got much time. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Where have you been? It’s been nearly three weeks since your last report. I was about to send out the dogs. ” Conrad Jenkins was the district director of the FBI, and a long time friend of agent Hitchcock.

  “I was beginning to wonder myself, I have to be really careful, and these guys aren’t very trusting. We’ve been hanging around this strip club called “The Sandbox” just outside of Brayton, for the last couple days. They are waiting for these two guys that are supposed to be heavily connected.” He did his best to speak quickly, quietly and clearly.

  “You’ve been friendly with those folks for two months now, have you got any solid evidence yet?” Jenkins voice was curt and firm, trying to gain as much intelligence as he could before contact had to be terminated.

  “Yes, I’ve been able to identify several items by serial number that came from different trucks over the last four or five years. But I haven’t seen enough to make me think these guys are the masterminds, they could have bought the stuff at the flea market. But these two we’re waiting on are supposed to be bad news. I don’t know when I’ll be able to contact you again. I’ve got enough on the Wanderers to put them all away today.”

  “Well, maybe later if we need to squeeze information out of them. You have a good nose for trouble, that’s why you are there and I am here.” Jenkins tapped the receiver with his pencil, “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I’m fine, a little hung over but good. I think I’m getting close. These guys are going to a big swap meet and party next week. A couple of the girls told me they bought all sort of new stuff, like some that’s on our list. Supposedly one can get anything one wants at one of these meets. Maybe I can stir up a few more clues and find...”

  The phone abruptly clicked off in Jenkins ear, he hung up and crossed the fingers on both hands silently wishing for the safety of his old friend. And if he solved the case that would be good too. Every since Congressman Herndon’s nephew became number seventeen on the list of missing truckers, the heat has been steadily turned up to find the answers. It was just a matter of time before the entire sleazy district known as “Kitty City” was raided and shut down. The county police were also on the list of warrants, along with six other city officials on the county seat in Brayton. Almost a year of investigation had led a large team to the area around “Kitty City.” The whole of which were poised and waiting for the last vital bits of information that would cue the attack. But until the congressman was satisfied, no one could act. Everything hinged on the undercover agents strewn around the area. Nine men in four counties, men just like Ramone Hitchcock.

  A big shape re-entered the front door and Wheezer knew he had been seen in the old-fashioned phone-booth, it was time to think fast. An enforcer for the group called Tree came directly toward him, grabbed the door and yanked it open, “Who are you talking to?” His face was burning red with a combination of alcohol and suspicion about the new guy.

  “Can’t a man have a little privashy?” Wheezer had one hand on the wall of the booth and the other hand on his manhood, urinating in the corner. “You want to leave …or are you enjoying the view?” He did his best to sound drunk and even managed to squeeze out a belch. Tree hadn’t fully taken in what
was conspiring. So when he pulled Wheezer’s shoulder to confront him, he only managed to get his boots wet.

  “Oh man, watch what you’re….. .sheeeeit!” Tree shoved him back and stepped away to find a rag. “You drunk fool. You can’t even find the bathroom. If’n you can’t handle your drink you need to stay home.” He headed in the restroom still cussing. Wheezer scanned over the rest of the bunch and thankfully no one else was stirring. Two steps to the left was an unfinished drink that he sloshed quickly down the front of his shirt. Then walked over to the front door and waited. When he heard Tree coming out, he acted like he was going to throw up and stumbled outside. And just to make it more convincing he staggered over to the edge of the lot and sat down roughly in the grass. Then he lay down on his side and began to make retching sounds, hopefully the charade worked. He didn’t look to see if Tree had followed him or not. He hadn’t come outside, so that was a good sign.

  The sun felt warm as it climbed high in the morning sky and after partying all night he was tempted to take a catnap right where he was. Just ten feet away he saw another of his new friends snoring loudly. Hat and jacket in place, his legs crossed and an empty bottle of Crown Royal still in his hand. He laughed to himself and found a comfortable spot to lay his head. As he drifted off to sleep, he reminded himself how much danger he was in. Even though he didn’t believe “the Wanderers” were responsible for the missing trucks. He knew from experience that if they found out he was undercover; he would be very dead, very quickly.