Barking at the Moon

by Nene Adams

  “Shit!” Noah exclaimed, his voice carrying across the pond. He stood up, keeping his balance despite the boat’s inclination to rock back and forth, and shook a fist at the vehicle. “I just had that car detailed, you crazy fool!”

  Deuteronomy “Ron” Cutshall, Abner’s youngest son, flew out of the Jeep almost the second it came to a halt. “Is it true?” he panted, his blue eyes widened by excitement. “Is it Reverend John? Did you find him?”

  Annalee ignored his question. Ron was a reporter for the Huntswell Star, and she wasn’t prepared to give official statements to the media yet, especially when both the reporter and the newspaper represented Cutshall, who was, in her opinion, a person of interest in a murder case. “How the hell did you hear about that?” she asked.

  He huffed and shook his head as if chiding her for ignorance. “Chatter on the scanner from the state-police boys,” he said.

  “They’ve got more discretion than that,” Annalee declared, keeping her uncertainty to herself. The explanation was credible as well as troubling. Some LEOs weren’t as close-mouthed as she might wish. There would have to be another memo sent out from her office regarding confidentiality when it came to on-going investigations.

  “Then maybe I’ve got a source which I’m not going to identify,” he said impatiently. “Heard of reporter’s privilege, Sheriff?”

  When it seemed like Ron would simply jog around her, Annalee blocked him. Ron was taller, but he was as skinny as a beanpole, while she possessed a solid physique She pushed him backward, not giving an inch and not caring when his expensive Italian shoes sank into the mud. “You contaminate my crime scene, and all your daddy’s money won’t save you from a record-breaking ass-whuppin’,” she said, glaring at him and setting her jaw.

  “Did you find Reverend John?” Ron repeated, apparently unfazed by her intimidation and unconcerned about the ruin of his leather loafers.

  “Just what’s your connection to the reverend, apart from your father joining the Honey in the Rock’s congregation?” Annalee asked, still determined not to answer his question. “I thought you had nothing to do with Lassiter’s brand of religion.”

  Ron sighed and scratched his fingers through the chaos of cowlicked red hair blazing like fire on top of his head. “Sheriff, it’s a scoop.”

  “Yep, sure is, and for your daddy’s paper too. How ’bout that?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, my father’s an obsessed man, really obsessed, to the point that he truly believes Reverend John is an agent of the Lord. Hell, he worships the man like he can walk on water or turn it into wine.”

  “You’re not answering my question.” Annalee was deliberately curt.

  “And you’re not answering mine!” Ron flared. He subsided when she frowned at him and went on earnestly, “Since the man’s disappearance, my father’s promised a reward for anyone who brings him real information on Reverend John.”

  “A reward, huh? How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  Annalee whistled, impressed. That was more than her annual salary. On the other hand, fifty grand was probably loose change to the great Abner Cutshall, multimillionaire extraordinaire. He owned a good chunk of the county and had inherited a sizeable fortune from his daddy and granddaddy as well, not to mention having married an heiress who had the good taste to die after giving him several sons to continue the Cutshall family line. The Great Man was sitting in the catbird seat, no mistake about that.

  “I’m surprised most of the county isn’t out there beating the bushes for Lassiter,” she commented.

  “He didn’t make the offer public for that very reason.”

  “Who knew about it?”

  “Only the church members and whoever they told, which I presume were family members and close friends. C’mon, Sheriff, help me out here.”

  “Why shouldn’t I make you wait until the official press conference?” Annalee asked after glancing back at the crime scene, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

  Ron assumed a knowing expression. “I’ll split the reward with you,” he offered.

  She almost laughed, but managed to strangle the impulse at the last second. Hurting his pride would do no good. Her expression schooled to seriousness, she said, “Trying to bribe a police officer is a felony offense.”

  His face fell. “Please,” he said at last. “I need the money, Sheriff. I need it real bad.”

  “Doesn’t your father pay your bills?”

  “It’s my wife, Doreen. She’s been gambling again, after she swore to me she’d quit. You know how Daddy feels about that. He said to me last time she got caught, ‘Wealth gotten by vanity shall be diminished: but he that gathereth by labor shall increase.’ Daddy won’t pay, not one thin dime, and you know what happens to people who welsh on their debts.” Ron’s voice lowered. “Doreen’s a good woman, but she’s sick with gambling fever. Sick in her head. I’m going to send her to a Baptist retreat, but first I gotta make sure she’ll be safe. I sure don’t want her to end up in the hospital, beat to hell on account of those bloodsuckers.”

  Annalee swore under her breath. “The Ricketts still running that operation out on Route 82?” When Ron hesitated, she took hold of his bicep and squeezed, willing him to cooperate. “You want me to shut them down to save your wife’s skin, you’ve got to tell me the truth. Help me and I’ll help you.”

  He shook his head. “You shut them down one week, they’re at it again the next.”

  She had to admit he had a point. The Ricketts ran an illegal mini-casino—poker, craps and blackjack—that moved from place to place. Their drivers used prearranged stops on Route 82 where gamblers were picked up and transported to the week’s secret location. Her father had made several related arrests in the last couple of years, but that wasn’t enough to prevent the Ricketts from continuing their illicit activities.

  The Ricketts are like cockroaches. Crush one under your heel, ten others come scurrying out of the walls to take its place. It was too bad the US Attorney wasn’t interested in bringing a racketeering indictment against the Ricketts’ organization. The matter was far too picayune for the federal government to take notice.

  “How much does Doreen owe?” she asked.

  “Twenty-five grand,” he said, taking a deep breath and looking troubled. It was clear how much he hated the situation his wife’s addiction had put him in.

  Annalee didn’t blame him. Cleophus Rickett and his brothers, Manassas and Gideon, were savage, vicious enforcers for their family’s gambling racket, collecting unpaid debts by any means necessary. She had files in her office containing photographs taken in the Emergency Room of men who’d failed to pay on time. She recalled one victim who’d lost the use of an eye. Another had six of his teeth pulled out with pliers. None had pressed charges.

  She let the moments pass in silence, waiting for him to make his decision.

  Ron hitched his thin shoulders and finally told her in a dead voice, “They’re over at Doodlebug McKenzie’s this week.”

  Annalee nodded. “Okay, there’ll be a raid later today, so keep Doreen at home, and for God’s sake, don’t tell her or let her near a phone. If she finds out and tips them off, I’ll bust her for obstruction.” Time to show Ron the stick. “I guarantee I’ll find a judge who isn’t one of your daddy’s fishing buddies, and when she’s found guilty, the DA will ask for the maximum at sentencing. You sure as hell don’t want to have to schedule conjugal visits with Doreen at Lakeside Women’s Correctional for the next seven-to-ten years.” Just to mess with him a bit, she started to move away. He twitched. She halted and added over her shoulder, “Reverend Lassiter’s been dead about a week. Doc’s got his body at the county morgue.” That was the carrot, his reward for obedience.

  Ron stammered his thanks, leapt into the Jeep and sent it tearing onto the blacktop, headed east toward Huntswell and his father’s mansion.

  Noah brought the boat in against the bank, muttering curses at the mud splashed
on his newly detailed patrol car, but he quit complaining fast when she brought him up to speed on her plan to go over to Doodlebug’s house that afternoon and execute a raid on the Ricketts’ gambling operation. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “No joy on the shotgun, by the way. Diver turned up nothing except some beer cans, an old outboard motor and this thing near the bank.” He held out a thick silver chain.

  Annalee took the chain, turning it this way and that while she examined the broken clasp. “Looks like it was torn off, maybe snagged on something.” She spotted a minute tuft of hair caught between two of the links and quickly bagged the evidence, presuming the chain had belonged to the victim. They’d check with the reverend’s wife later.

  Returning to the sheriff’s office, Annalee blessed Minnie, who had made a fresh pot of coffee and ordered her a late lunch delivered from the Smog Hut barbeque restaurant. After inhaling a plate of chopped pork, coleslaw, Brunswick stew, baked beans and roasted corn on the cob, she typed up her initial report and helped log the evidence found at the scene. She also organized the planned raid.

  At around four o’clock, she and Noah, accompanied by two other deputies, drove to Doodlebug McKenzie’s residence, located about a mile off the Lingerville exit. The house was set far back from the access road on a slight rise, surrounded by the thick growth of pine, oak and hickory trees that comprised Malingering Deep.

  Annalee got out of the patrol car, shutting the door behind her with minimum force. Noise out here carried surprisingly far.

  She and the deputies were on the edge of the forest. The air was filled with the loamy green scent of earth and growing things, as well as the taint of decay. She was no stranger to the odor. Her family’s home also stood on the edge of the Deep.

  Beside her, Noah stiffened. Annalee caught a glimpse of a pale blur flitting at ground level through the trees before it disappeared behind the house. The blur didn’t seem human shaped. “What was that?” she whispered.

  Noah shrugged. The other two deputies, Jeeter Murphy and Cynthia Starbuck, came up behind them, silently awaiting orders.

  Another movement in her peripheral vision had Annalee’s .38 in her hand, the weight comfortable and familiar, right down to the slight burr in the trigger guard that itched where her forefinger rubbed against it. She scanned the area but found nothing out of the ordinary. Holstering her weapon, she decided somewhat sheepishly that the movement must have been made by an animal of some kind, not a threat.

  “Jeeter, you and Cynthia put on your gear and go around to the back of the house,” Annalee said as she strapped a tactical vest over her uniform shirt. At thirty pounds, the vest was uncomfortable but a necessary safety precaution. “When you hear me and Noah go in the front, that’s your cue to bust in from the rear. Y’all ready?”

  The deputies nodded, putting on their tactical vests and protective helmets.

  At her gesture, Cynthia and Jeeter ghosted to the side, keeping behind the tree line to avoid being seen as they maneuvered their way to the rear of the house.

  Annalee gave them a few moments to get into place, then nodded at Noah. “Let’s go,” she said, striding boldly to the front porch. She doubted the Ricketts had lookouts posted to give warning. If anybody managed to get away, the state police had promised to have prowl cars roaming east and west along Route 82 to pick up escapees.

  The pillars that held up the porch roof were slender tree trunks, well-weathered and bug-drilled. As usual in these parts, the underside of the roof was painted haint blue, the traditional bright hue supposed to ward off evil spirits and ghosts.

  A whippoorwill’s call burst out of the woods, startling her. She grimaced at the tightness in her chest, trying to breathe through it. When she was six years old, her mother had told her a whippoorwill singing near the house was a sign that someone was going to die. As an adult, she didn’t believe in such superstitions, but habits absorbed in childhood had a tendency to linger when they no longer desirable.

  Noah made a faint sound she interpreted as nervousness. She glanced at him and mouthed, “Ready?”

  He nodded.

  Annalee had used Ron Cutshall’s testimony to gain a search warrant from a friendly judge, so anything they found would be admissible in court. Any gambling equipment could be confiscated and destroyed, hopefully before the Ricketts hired a lawyer. In her opinion—and her late father’s—the only way to stop their illegal operation was to make it too expensive for them to continue. Just keep hitting them in the wallet until they took up some other scheme or moved out of the state, preferably both. Putting some of the Ricketts into Edgewater Correctional Facility for a ten- to fifteen-year stretch would be a good start.

  She glanced at her deputy. Noah toted a twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with frangible, semi-solid breaching rounds packed with fifty grams of zinc powder and wax. The rounds were designed to blow off door locks, deadlocks and hinges and immediately disperse without the possibility of ricochet or endangering anyone on the other side of the door. He put the shotgun stock to his shoulder, taking close aim at his target.

  Annalee turned aside, the strap of her helmet digging into the soft flesh beneath her chin. She closed her eyes.

  Noah fired once, the painfully loud explosion making her ears ring. She opened her eyes. The round had destroyed the brass lock, left a splintered hole and damaged the wooden frame. He drove his boot heel into the door, crashing it open.

  “Police!” Annalee shouted while stepping inside. “Nobody move! Stay put, keep your hands in plain sight and don’t be stupid.”

  The room was crammed with small tables and chairs. A long pine bar topped with bottles of cheap bourbon and whiskey ran along a wall. Annalee looked around, trying to see everywhere at once and identify potential threats. She noted two dozen people around the playing tables plus eight dealers and a pretty young woman in Daisy Duke cut-offs and a halter top, who held a couple of drinks.

  The girl’s mouth formed a round O of astonishment, as comically round as the blue eyes framed in false eyelashes that resembled spider legs. Condensation-beaded glasses slipped out of her hands and smashed on the wooden floor, sending shards of glass scattering. The sharp scent of alcohol bloomed in the air, joining the fug of cheap cigar smoke.

  Noah shouted orders. From the rear of the house came Cynthia’s raised treble voice, backed by Jeeter’s rumbling bass. Annalee was about to holster her weapon—everyone stared at her in paralyzed consternation, no one seemed inclined to resist, this was going to be a cakewalk—when Barabbas Rickett barreled into the room, swinging up the muzzle of an FN P-90 compact submachine gun. The bore was like a dead, black eye staring her full in the face.

  She let out an inarticulate yell, her .38 aimed at the center of the man’s chest, though it was too late to squeeze off a shot that would count. Even if she hit him, Barabbas wouldn’t die instantly. At such close range, his return fire—fifteen 28mm rounds per second, her memory supplied, if the P-90 was fully automatic—would in all likelihood kill her stone dead despite her tactical vest’s ballistic panels.

  The sound of her breathing seemed as loud in her ears as a hurricane’s roar. Annalee took in the split-second scene. Noah holding plastic flexicuffs, about to restrain a middle-aged male prisoner. Barabbas’ mouth dropping open, spittle flying as he screamed. The gun clutched in her hand heaving into her sight when she raised it a little higher, her finger curled around the trigger.

  She heard Cynthia’s shout. A pale blur streaked across her vision, resolving into…a dog? Big damned wolf suddenly registered, making her instinctively scramble backward. The wolf moved too fast for her to catch more than a handful of details, but it seemed composed mostly of masses of thick, white-blond fur and a black-lipped muzzle bristling with teeth. The wolf leaped snarling at Barabbas, straight for his unprotected throat.

  Shaking, Annalee raised her gun again, only to have it knocked aside by Noah. “Don’t,” he gasped, his gaze locked on the scene. “Don’t hurt her.”

 
Barabbas went down hard, flat on his back with the wolf planted solidly on top of him. His shriek trailed off into a wet gurgle when the sharp-toothed muzzle darted forward and teeth closed over the front of his sunburned neck. The wolf’s ferocious growl made Annalee’s chest lurch, a weird, fluttering sensation that took away her breath.

  Barabbas’ P-90 discharged a chatter of bullets when his finger convulsed. Annalee crouched, half expecting to feel the burn of injury, but the rounds chewed their way up the wall and across the ceiling, sending plaster and plaster dust raining down on her head. By the time she blinked her vision clear, the wolf was gone. Barabbas Rickett lay dead, his open eyes glazing over, his throat a mangled mess of blood and torn flesh. Crimson arterial spray fanned over the nearby wall. A pool of blood was spreading over the floor and mingling with the spilled alcohol.

  The waitress sucked in a breath, letting it out in a scream that drilled straight through Annalee’s skull, where an ache of mammoth proportions had started gnawing behind her eyes.

  Furious, she barked at Noah, “Shut her up, Deputy, and secure the rest of the goddamned prisoners.” She had stood by and let a man be killed by a wolf. A wolf! Jesus Christ on roller skates! The county would be lucky if the Ricketts didn’t sue them back to the Stone Age. “Murphy! Starbuck!” she shouted. “Where the hell are you, damn it? Playing mumblety-peg? You were supposed to secure the rear.”

  Cynthia stumbled into the room, Jeeter hot on her heels. “Sorry, Sheriff,” the woman panted, her face pasty with shock. “We were securing prisoners.”

  “You let a wild animal loose in here,” Annalee said, reining in the impulse to scream at them until the rest of the ceiling came crashing down on her aching head.

  “We couldn’t do anything,” Jeeter insisted. He looked a little wild around the eyes himself. “It just ran in through the door, quick as never-you-mind.”