Divine Rebel

by Tom Wallace

  This attack would come from one of his oldest friends.

  ~ * ~

  Angel and I got out of the Lexus and began walking in Rabbit’s direction. He was heading straight to his car while we were approaching from his right. We had closed to within a few yards before he looked up and took notice of us. He immediately stopped in his tracks and began to furiously look over both shoulders, his eyes intently studying the darkness.

  Rabbit held his arms straight out, palms facing forward in the classic don’t-come-any-closer pose. His head swiveled side to side and his eyes were like two marbles rolling around inside a can. Finally, he focused those fear-filled orbs on me.

  “You need to leave,” Rabbit stated, his head again turning side to side. “I can’t talk to you. Not now, not ever.”

  “Good to see you too after all these years, Rabbit,” I responded.

  “Believe me, Nick, you gotta go.”

  “You can’t make time to reminisce with an old baseball teammate? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “We both know you aren’t here to talk about baseball, Nick. You think I’m not aware that you’ve been looking for me? You want to ask me about Luke Felton’s murder. Sorry, but I’m not getting into that with you, so you may as well hit the highway.”

  “This is not the reception I expected.”

  “Too bad, because it’s the only one you get.”

  “What’s preventing you from talking to me, Rabbit?”

  “Take a wild guess, Nick.”

  “I’m not in the mood to play games, so why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “Because I’ll end up just like Luke if I do. And so will you if you keep snooping around.”

  “Who are you afraid of?” I asked.

  “Leave, Nick, please, I’m begging you.”

  “Not before you answer some questions.”

  “Shit, Nick, don’t you get it? You are putting our lives in danger.” He pointed at Angel as though he were only now realizing her presence. “Who is she, Nick? Why is she with you?”

  “Samantha. She’s my daughter.”

  “You sure about that? She don’t look much like you.”

  “She caught a lucky break,” I said. “We don’t have to talk here, Rabbit. We’re staying at the Best Western. We can have our conversation there.”

  “Oh, yeah, we all know how safe it is at that place, don’t we? The next shot might not miss.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Who’s spreading that word?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Rabbit. You need to understand I’m not going anywhere until you answer my questions.”

  “I’ve already answered about a hundred questions. I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “I’m talking about hard questions, Rabbit, not those softball lobs tossed at you by Perry Jackson.”

  “Perry never asked me a single question,” Rabbit declared. “It’s that FBI guy I’m referring to.”

  “Greg Harkins? Really, you were interviewed by him?”

  “For almost three hours. I thought he was never going to cut me loose.”

  “But Greg Harkins had nothing to do with the Luke Felton case,” I pointed out, my thoughts swirling. “If he interviewed you, it had to be about something else. Was it the Sharon Anderson murder?”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say about those murders, Nick. Hell, I’ve already said too much. I’ll probably be a corpse in a few days.”

  “You’re in this up to your neck, aren’t you, Rabbit?”

  “I’m not involved in anything.”

  “Did you murder Sharon Anderson?”

  “I never murdered anyone,” Rabbit said. “And that’s the God’s truth.”

  “But you know who did.”

  “I don’t know anything. And that’s exactly what I told that FBI guy.”

  “I have no reason to believe you killed Sharon Anderson,” I said. “But you were involved in Luke Felton’s murder. There is no question about that. You can protest all you want, Rabbit, but I know better. It’s a fact.”

  “You’re climbing the wrong tree, Nick. I don’t know why you’re so goddamn convinced I had anything to do with any of this shit. It’s not true.”

  “Facts don’t lie, Rabbit.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t always lead to the truth.”

  “Who dropped you off at the Speedway station on the day you ran into Todd Brown?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “What? She just dropped you off and left?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you know Todd was inside Speedway?”

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, Nick, I’m sure.”

  “How well do you know Todd?” I asked.

  “Fairly well. We saw each other a few times, you know, here and there. He seemed like a nice kid.”

  “Were you aware that he had a serious drug problem?”

  “I’d heard rumors, but I didn’t know it for a fact,” Rabbit said.

  “Why did you take him to the American Legion? You had to know he was underage. Yet, you took a kid with drug issues there and you bought alcohol for him. Did you think that was a smart thing to do?”

  “Once again, you’ve got your facts twisted into a knot. Todd did not drink alcohol while he was there.”

  “Two witnesses disagree with you,” I pointed out. “One happens to be your pal, Chet. We both know he has no reason to lie.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Nick. Chet’s not always a truthful guy.”

  “Now here’s the key question I have for you, Rabbit: Who put drugs into Todd’s drink when he went to the rest room, you or Dorsey McElwain?”

  “I don’t know anything about drugs. All I can tell you is that I didn’t do it.”

  “If it wasn’t you, Rabbit, then it had to be McElwain. Were you aware that he was planning on doing it?”

  “How the hell can I know what Dorsey was planning to do? I’m no mind reader. If he put something in Todd’s drink, hell, if he pissed in Todd’s drink, I didn’t see him do it. I don’t have anything else to say about that.”

  “Did Todd leave the Legion with you?” I inquired.

  “No, I left before he did.”

  “How long before?”

  “How can I answer that? I wasn’t there when he left.”

  “You rode to the Legion in his car, but you left before he did. How did you get home?”

  “With a friend,” Rabbit replied. “We went to his house to watch TV and to do more drinking.”

  “So you left Todd, an underage kid, alone at the American Legion? What possessed you to do that?”

  “He was deep in conversation with a young woman at the time. I didn’t want to interfere with what he had going.”

  “Are you positive it wasn’t Dorsey McElwain he was talking to?” I asked.

  “No, it wasn’t Dorsey. I know the difference between a man and a woman, Nick. Now for the final time, I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

  “You can start by telling me what you know about Russell Barker.”

  “He’s a magistrate. And he has plenty of money. That’s all I know about him.”

  “What’s his relationship with Perry Jackson?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask Perry?” Rabbit said, now virtually pleading.

  “I intend to do just that, Rabbit.”

  “Great. But will you do me a favor, Nick? Please don’t come to my funeral when I’m dead, which I’ll likely be within the next several days.”

  “A funeral is the least of your worries, Rabbit.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damn well what it means.”

  “No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “You’re in the middle of a real mess, Rabbit, so let me offer you a
free piece of advice. If you hope to avoid going to prison for a long time, you need to get with someone in law enforcement and tell that person everything you know. Every detail, big or small. Don’t leave out a single fact. Prison is not a place you want to be, Rabbit. You won’t exactly thrive there. That’s why you would be wise to get out in front of this from the beginning. Don’t keep what you know hidden away. The truth will eventually come out. You know that. It’s to your advantage to take control of the narrative before the story takes control of you. Once that happens, all bets are off. You’ll just end up a minor footnote in a long, sordid tale.”

  “Thanks for your unsolicited advice, Nick. I’ll be sure to—”

  “You take good care of yourself, Rabbit,” I interrupted. “Angel, it’s time to go. We’ve wasted too much time here already.”

  ~ * ~

  As we headed to my car, Angel said, “What a strange dude. If Central Casting was looking for someone to play a weirdo, Rabbit would be the perfect choice. He’s just…odd. And for someone who says he doesn’t want to talk, he rarely shuts up.”

  “Rabbit always was the chatty type,” I said, getting in the car. “He’s one of those people who can make a short story long.”

  “Has he always been so paranoid?”

  “Not to this extent, no. But he’s never had a pair of brutal murders riding on his shoulders.”

  “Are you going to talk to him again, Dad? I mean, you almost have to, don’t you? You have to get him to tell what he knows.”

  “Can’t do it, Angel. I’m a writer, not a member of law enforcement. I don’t have the authority to persuade him to say anything he isn’t inclined to say.”

  “You can’t leave things like they are now,” Angel said. “You have to make something happen.”

  I took out my cell phone and began punching in a number.

  “Maybe I don’t have the authority to move things forward,” I said, “but I know someone who does. We’ll let him question Rabbit.”

  Twenty-two

  We were at the door of the Huddle House when I recognized a familiar voice calling out my name. Turning, I saw Karen Tucker coming toward us, several steps ahead of Mike, who was getting out of his car. I cringed, knowing Angel and Karen in the same place was like a powder keg that could explode at any moment.

  “We were on our way to invite the two of you to have breakfast with us when we saw your car pull in here,” Karen said. “The gods must be smiling at us.”

  From my past reading, the gods rarely ever smiled on anyone. More often than not, they were inflicting pain and causing mayhem for us poor mortals. If the gods are smiling it’s in anticipation of the fury they might unleash inside Huddle House.

  When Mike caught up with Karen, he said, “Since you guys won’t come to us, we decided to come to you. Let me buy your breakfast. What do you say?”

  How was I supposed to respond? No, we’ll take a pass, but thanks anyway? How unappreciative would that be? How inappropriate? Angel and I were like a pair of trapped animals with no way of escaping. There could only be one response, whether Angel liked it or not.

  “Sure, Mike, we would love to,” I said. “You picked a good time, too. The place isn’t all that crowded.”

  Five minutes later the four of us were ensconced in a booth by the window. Angel was sitting directly across from Karen, which only increased my fear of a potential explosion. I could only hope my daughter had the good sense to keep her feelings in check.

  “How is your research coming along, Nick?” Karen asked, peeking over her menu. “Are you finding enough good stuff for a book?”

  “I’m uncovering nuggets every day,” I replied. “Whether or not I have enough for a book I can’t say at this stage of the game. The jury is still out.”

  “Well, here’s hoping you do write the book,” Karen said. “I know it would be a great read.”

  The waitress came to take our orders. Karen and Mike must have been famished; they both went with a full breakfast. Perhaps because she wanted to get the hell out of this uncomfortable situation (for her), Angel ordered only orange juice and toast. I split the difference, opting for scrambled eggs, sausage, and orange juice.

  “Tell me, Samantha, has your father taken the time to drive you around and show you where he grew up?” Karen asked, after the waitress departed. “Or has he been too occupied with his research to give you the nickel tour?”

  “No, he’s driven me around and pointed out a few important sites,” Angel said, sounding surprisingly pleasant. “Like the alley where he was involved in a big fight.”

  “With Billy Hughes, right?” Mike said, excited by the memory. “Up behind the old movie theater. I was there that night. Your dad kicked the shit out of Billy.”

  “That seems to be the consensus,” Angel agreed.

  “What’s your impression of the area?” Karen asked Angel. “How would you characterize our town?”

  “Wicked.”

  Karen was clearly startled by Angel’s response. “Wicked? That’s a peculiar term to use,” she said. “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “Give me a more appropriate word to describe a town where your tires get slashed and someone fires a shot at you. For my money, that’s the essence of wicked.”

  “Are you telling me those incidents actually happened?” Karen practically screamed. “Did they, Nick?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  Karen turned to Mike, and said, “Did you know about this?”

  “I heard about it yesterday,” Mike admitted.

  “And you didn’t think it was important enough to share with me?” Karen snapped.

  Before Mike could defend himself with what was certain to be an unacceptable excuse, two things happened simultaneously: the waitress brought our food, and my cell phone buzzed. I had a pretty good idea who was calling—Heather Anderson. Prior to leaving the motel I had phoned her, got the answering machine, and left a message for her to give me a call when she had time. I checked the Caller ID. The call was from Heather.

  “Thanks a lot for getting back with me so promptly,” I said, leaning back as the waitress distributed the plates.

  “Not a problem,” Heather said. “What can I do for you?”

  “In our past discussions I failed to ask you what Sharon did for a living.”

  “She was a beautician.”

  “A beautician, huh? That’s good to know.”

  “I could have told you that, Nick,” Karen mumbled.

  “Did Sharon have her own salon?” I asked Heather, ignoring Karen’s remark.

  “No, she worked in a beauty shop downtown,” Heather answered. “She was very successful, too. Her chair was rarely ever empty. And she had five or six women who would have her over to their house after hours to do their hair. She was normally gone three or four nights a week doing those jobs.”

  I took a drink of orange juice, then said, “By any chance, Dottie Barker happened to be one of those women?”

  “Oh, yes, Dottie loved her. Sharon was at her house two or three times a week, come hell or high water. She was Dottie’s favorite. And my sister told me Dottie paid twice as much as her other customers.”

  “This is good information, Heather, just what I need,” I said. “And I will stay in touch with you. If I learn anything new, you’ll be the first person I contact.”

  After ending the call, I poked at my scrambled eggs. They looked tasty, but I was in no mood to eat.

  “Why are you inquiring about Dottie Barker?” Karen asked, taking a bite of her omelet. “What’s your interest in her?”

  “Just collecting information,” I said. “Do you know her?”

  “Dottie is on the college’s Board of Regents. I teach a Saturday class there, and that’s when I occasionally bump into her. We’ve chatted several times, usually about the college, but we are far from being anything other than acquaintances.”

  “What’s she like personally?”

  “Arrogant, aloof…she giv
es off the feeling that she’s superior to everyone else.”

  “I’m sensing a negative vibe coming from you. Am I right?”

  “Have you heard anything about Dottie?”

  “By anything, what are you getting at?”

  Karen looked at Mike, who shrugged his permission for her to continue. “Dottie has a reputation for being…ah, how shall I put it?...a rather open-minded lady,” Karen stated. “Extremely open minded.”

  “You mean sexually?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. Putting it bluntly, she is quite sexually active. And not only with men. She likes women as well. According to the rumor mill, she doesn’t always limit the number of participants to two. I’ve heard she prefers threesomes.”

  “Does Russell know about his?”

  “Know about it? Sure, he does. He’s involved. Those threesomes I mentioned often include him and another woman. Sometimes it’s him, another guy, and Dottie. On other occasions, it will be two women and Dottie. He watches those encounters. And Russell records everything.”

  “You can’t possibly know if all this is true, Karen,” I said.

  “Ask your friend Anne Bishop if it’s true. I’ll wager she will know.”

  That was one of those statements you want to pull out of your ears before it registers in your brain. But, of course, that’s not possible. Your brain is like Las Vegas…what goes in there, stays in there.

  I didn’t want to know the answer, but I had to ask the obvious question. “Is Anne one of Dottie’s playmates?” I said.

  “It would be more appropriate if you ask Anne that question,” Karen remarked.

  “How old is Dottie Barker? I get the feeling she’s younger than Russell.”

  “Russell is at least twice her age. I would guess him to be in his mid-sixties, Dottie in her mid-thirties.”

  “Is it possible Todd Brown was involved in their hanky-panky?” I said.

  “I have no knowledge of that either way. But what I can tell you is that I heard from a solid source that Dottie does recruit college students on occasion. If that’s true, those kids would only be a few years older than Todd, so I suppose it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he was a participant.”