by Harvey, JM
Kyle joined in on the wailing.
“Damn it, Erath—” Val began.
“Martin,” Erath shouted, looking at one of the young cops, the one who had suggested that Gruene could watch the twins.
“Yes sir?” Martin practically sprang to attention.
“Go sit with the kids,” Erath ordered. “Keep them calm. And call a matron.”
Martin didn’t like the idea of babysitting. He started to protest, but one look from Erath shut him down. Martin handed his shotgun to one of his buddies and walked toward the porch.
“Their names are Max and Kyle,” Val called after him. He didn’t like the idea of a sheriff’s deputy watching the twins, but he didn’t have much choice. The boys quieted down when Martin started talking to them. They were suckers for attention, but they were showing extremely poor taste.
“If you need a matron, I guess that means I’m really under arrest,” Val said. But what the hell for? That didn’t take much to figure out. Zeke must have snitched him out. Or maybe Ansel Haskell? Maybe both. Val could imagine the charges: assault with a deadly, kidnapping, auto theft, damage to property, mayhem. The list went on and on.
“Let’s take this one step at a time, Mr. Justice,” Gruene spoke for the first time. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“Call my wife and have her come get the kids,” Val interrupted. He didn’t want the boys to be carted downtown by a matron. It would scare the crap out of them.
“Shut up,” Gruene snapped and continued with the Miranda, playing it tough. Probably showing off for Erath and the Sheriff’s crew. Val tried not to hold it against her. Female cops had it tough on the job. Still, that wasn’t an excuse to be an asshole. And he wasn’t forgetting the jab to the balls she had given him yesterday when she took Zeke’s gun from his pocket.
“Mind telling me what I’m under arrest for?” he asked Erath when Gruene was finished talking. The deputy seemed to be the lead duck.
Erath nodded. “Sure. The murder of Abby Sutton.” Erath’s stony gaze sunk fishhooks into Val’s face. “That makes eight,” he added and Valentine knew exactly what he meant. His fists clenched, wrists bulging inside the too-tight cuffs. “Quite a body-count there, Mr. Justice. You must be very proud of yourself.”
“I didn’t kill Abby,” Val said. “I’m no murderer.”
Erath gave that a razor-wire smile. “Right. You know what they call you down at the Jack Evans Building?” Erath asked, referring to DPD Headquarters, and also the Homicide Division’s office.
“Vicious Valentine,” Val replied and immediately regretted it.
Erath shook his head. “No, that’s what they call you to your face. Like it’s some kind of joke. Behind your back they call you the Executioner and nobody laughs.”
Val gritted his teeth and remained silent.
“What do you think the Sutton family calls you?” Erath pressed. “You took out half that family in a single afternoon. The brothers, well, no one’s really missing them, but Abby? What was she, sixteen, when you put her in a wheelchair?”
“I didn’t shoot Abby,” Val said, knowing it would do no good. No one had believed him then and no one believed him now.
Erath gave a gravelly laugh. “I’ve heard that story before. The grassy knoll theory. I know your reputation, Mr. Justice. I’ve heard all the stories. You were never a cop. You were a killer with a badge. But you ain’t got a badge now. Nothing to hide behind.” Erath stared at Val for a moment before he turned to Gruene.
“Let’s clear the backyard, Sally. Get the guns out front and away from the kids. I can handle it back here.”
Gruene fired Erath a worried look. “Henry,” she said hesitantly, “I—”
“Just do it, detective,” Erath snapped. “Mr. Justice and I are going to have a little chat.”
Val was getting a very bad feeling about where this was heading.
Gruene didn’t hesitate a moment longer. “Let’s move it out front!” she barked as she turned away. “Martin, stay with the kids, everyone else back to the vehicles.” She gave Val one last look. It wasn’t exactly sympathy but it was close.
This was not going to be good.
Erath waited, his eyes ticking off the members of his team as they grumbled and muttered their way through the rear gate. No cop likes to be shuttled away from the action even when the action is essentially over. Finally Erath and Val were alone except for Martin and the twins.
Erath dropped to a squat, the shotgun between his knees, his hands wrapped around the barrel.
“We Busted into Garland’s place yesterday and guess what? No Garland, just a bunch of shit-birds selling bibles. And now Garland knows we have a warrant,” Erath said conversationally, but his gaze wasn’t conversational. His eyes were cold and bright, his thin lips pulled into a tight frown. “I’m thinking you called him after we let you go. Set him to running. Screwed us good, asshole.”
“Only my closest friends get to call me asshole,” Val said then added, “Asshole.”
Erath snapped the shotgun’s barrel forward, driving it into Val’s face. It ‘thocked’ off Val’s right eyebrow, setting off another explosion behind his eyes and putting him face down in the grass again.
Erath helped him up to his knees, steadying him with one hand, the other still locked around the shotgun, Erath brushed off the loose grass dotting Val’s shirtfront.
“Clumsy, clumsy,” Erath said.
Blood dripped from Val’s eyebrows onto his shirt. He shook his head. That didn’t help. The world went blurry and he almost went down again. He narrowed his eyes on Erath’s face.
“You know,” Val said, “your interrogation technique went out in the middle ages. Law enforcement is about rehabilitation now. A kinder, gentler—”
‘Thock!’ Val caught another one in the same location, opening the cut in his eyebrow wider, but he had been ready for it that time. He had pulled his head back as the shotgun snapped forward. It didn’t help much, but he didn’t fall face first into the grass again, he just swayed like a punch drunk fighter.
“I can keep this up all day,” Erath pointed out matter-of-factly.
“What do you want, Erath?” Val’s tongue felt thick and wooly. He spat more blood in the grass. The trickle of blood from his eyebrow sped up, ruining the vision in that eye.
Erath smiled. “That’s more like it.” He took his hands off the shotgun and draped them across his knees. He looked pretty comfortable squatting like a monkey, the shotgun resting against his crotch. There was a metaphor there, but Val didn’t bother pointing it out. He waited for Erath to get to the point.
“Like I said, no Garland. So?”
“He was there when I left,” Valentine said. “He and Jasper Smith.”
“Jasper was there,” Erath said with a nod, “You got that much right. Creepy-ass faggot was nailing crosses on the walls when we kicked in the door. I spoke to him. He said he hadn’t seen Garland in weeks.”
“Did you apply your ‘shotgun to the skull’ questioning method?” Val asked. “I know it’s making me a little forgetful.”
Erath gave Val another tight-lipped smile. “Jasper and I did have a conversation, much like this one,” he conceded. “He had a lot to say about you and Garland. Said you were working a deal.”
“The man is a gossip,” Val said.
‘Thock!’ Val went face down again. Again Erath helped him up and brushed him off. He had to keep a hand on Val’s shoulder to steady him this time.
“All day,” he reminded Val.
“A man who enjoys his work,” Valentine said, but it came out in a mumble. He could feel the blood rolling down his face. Blood that was going to require an explanation when they took him downtown for booking. He bet the murder charge against him would be revised to include resisting arrest.
“I’d give you another dose of my interrogation technique,” Erath said affably, “but I don’t think you’d be doing much talking afterward. Now, listen closely and choose
your responses carefully. Got it?”
“Like a quiz show,” Val said and tried to nod, but that made his vision go gray and soupy. He held his head very still after that. “And you’re Alex Trebek.”
“Just like that,” Erath agreed. “Question and response.”
“Shoot,” Val said and then laughed. “Not literally, of course.” He was feeling loopy. He wondered vaguely if he was concussed? No, Erath hadn’t hit him that hard. The deputy knew what he was doing.
Now, there was a scary thought.
“Where’s Garland and where’s the fifteen million dollars?” Erath asked.
Val had no time to respond before the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the cavalry.
“Well, now, looks like y’all just about got the piñata ready,” Jack Birch drawled. “What time’s the party start?”
Erath looked up sharply then stood, his teeth grinding, knuckles white on the shotgun’s barrel. He obviously didn’t welcome Birch’s intrusion.
Val watched Jack cross the lawn, two uniformed Dallas police officers in tow. One of the officers was Hispanic, tall and fit, the other was a huge, paunchy white guy with a bad sunburn on his neck and forearms. Valentine recognized them both, though he couldn’t recall the Hispanic cop’s name. The white guy was Gary Griggs, a sergeant out of South Central Patrol. An old friend who had saved Val’s life that day at the Sutton hideout.
Griggs had been the first cop on the scene that afternoon. Without a word, he had scooped a bleeding and incoherent Val up off the porch steps like a newborn calf, tossed him into the back of his patrol car then raced across Dallas at over a hundred miles an hour while Val’s blood pooled in the car’s floorboards. If not for Gary’s quick action, Val would have died that day as surely as Lamar and Lemuel Sutton had.
Trailing well behind the three men came detective Gruene, her expression apprehensive, agitated. She looked at Val’s bloody face and winced.
Val couldn’t meet Jack’s eyes. Christ, this was embarrassing. He hadn’t talked to Birch much since the twins were born, or any of his other cop buddies for that matter. He wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d get. Whether they’d welcome him or shun him. But he felt particularly guilty about avoiding Jack. The two had been partners for a lot of years. Good partners. But things had changed when Val left the force. Jack had never said anything, but Val knew that Jack was disappointed with his departure. To Jack’s way of thinking there were only two ways to leave the force: at the mandatory retirement age or in a coffin with full honors and a flag for the widow.
“Hello, Valentine,” Birch said, “You’re looking a little frayed around the margins.” Val saw the anger in Jack’s face, though he doubted anyone else noticed it. Jack’s rocky visage barely changed, but his eyes were forty degrees colder than normal. Jack shifted that frosty glare to Gruene.
“Detective Gruene,” he said. “Would you mind telling me what brought you out here this morning? You’re a long way from gang territory.”
Gruene flushed. “I’m working with the Sheriff’s department at the moment. Liaison with the Special Tactics Unit,” she said nervously, looking sidelong at Erath. “We’re executing a warrant.”
“Well, ain’t that a coincidence.” Birch said. “We got us a warrant, too.”
“First come, first served,” Erath said. “Don’t get in the middle of this Jack.”
So the men knew each other, Val thought. Val had never heard of Deputy Erath before yesterday, but he was hoping to see the man again. Without the handcuffs and the shotgun.
Birch shrugged. “Now, Henry, that depends. What exactly are you two arresting him for?”
Gruene looked embarrassed. Erath didn’t say anything. Birch waited them out.
“Abby Sutton’s murder,” Erath finally said.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Birch reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers folded into thirds. He opened the bundle, looked at the first page and raised an eyebrow. “That’s what my warrant says too.” He turned it to show Erath. Erath barely glanced at it.
“All right, then,” Birch said as he folded the warrant and tucked it away, “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
Erath just stared at Jack and said nothing. He looked like he was about to chew his own tongue off. Gruene replied for him.
“We got the word on your warrant,” she said slowly. “We’re working on the Confederate Syndicate task force. It’s related, so…” she ran out of steam.
“So, y’all thought you’d lend us a hand,” Jack said mildly. “Just being neighborly and all.” Neither Erath nor Gruene had anything to say to that, so Jack continued, “Well, we do thank y’all for the help, but I think we can handle this desperado from here on.”
Gruene started to say something then thought better of it. She might be rolling with the Sheriff’s Special Tactics Unit, but she was still a Dallas Police Department detective and Jack Birch was a senior officer. But Erath wasn’t under any such constraints.
“You’ll get him when we’re finished with him, Jack,” Erath said. “We’ve got some questions for Mr. Justice.”
Birch shook his head, his pale eyes peeling skin from Erath’s face. “Henry, I’m going to give you just ten seconds. If you’re still here when I count ten you’re going to be the one in handcuffs with blood on your face.”
Erath’s lips twisted into a snarl and for a minute it looked like there would be blood, but Erath blinked first. Silently, he dropped to one knee, un-cuffed Val, stood and turned to Gruene.
“Let’s go, Sally,” he said.
“Hold your ground detective,” Birch told Gruene. “You and I have a couple things to talk about.”
Gruene flushed. “I’m assigned to the STU—”
“I have a feeling that assignment is over,” Birch cut her off. “You might want to dust off your uniform.”
Gruene’s complexion turned gray. She knew what that meant: back to the street and goodbye gold shield. “I didn’t—” she began.
“That’s right, you didn’t,” Birch agreed.
“Yes, sir,” was all Gruene could squeeze out of her throat. She put her eyes on the ground. She looked like she might cry. Val almost felt bad for her, but just almost.
Birch looked at Erath. “You still here, Henry?” he said. “Tick-tock.”
Erath turned stiffly and stalked toward the gate. “Get your ass over here, Martin,” he yelled at the porch and the young sheriff’s deputy came running. Erath turned back when he reached the front gate.
“This ain’t over, Justice,” he yelled.
“Sorry you have to go,” Val called back. “I was looking forward to the bonus round where the scores can really change.”
Birch dropped a restraining hand on Valentine’s shoulder. “Let it go, partner,” he said too low for Erath to hear. Not that Erath was listening anyway. He and Martin had disappeared around the side of the house.
Birch looked at Gruene. “You can wait out front in my car,” he said. “You can sit up front. For the moment.”
“Lieutenant—” she began, but Jack turned his back on her. She left the back yard, shoulders drooping.
Val stood. “Thanks, Jack,” he said.
Jack gave Val a slash of a smile. “Don’t go thanking me just yet, partner, you’re still under arrest.”
Val opened his mouth, but Jack held up a hand to cut him off.
“If you’re going to try to talk your way out of this, let’s go sit in the shade.”
25
For the second time in two days, Victoria prepared to die.
As the jail’s alarm screamed, Randall Rusk charged down the narrow hallway like a freight train, his bald head lowered, massive shoulders thrust forward, the knife clutched in his right fist. With the four visitation rooms’ doors locked and the hallway door barred behind her, there was nowhere for her to run.
Behind her, Herby was still bellowing for help as he beat on the steel door’s wire-reinfo
rced window. Beside her, Axel Rankin cowered against the closed door of visitation room three, defenseless in his manacles and waist chains. Debbie Foster, the only deputy alive in the visitation area, was still unconscious, her face pressed to the concrete, blood leaking from her nose. Victoria was on her own.
But she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Instinctively, thanks to ten years of judo classes, done more for exercise than self-defense, she dropped into a classic fighting stance, right leg back, left leg forward, left arm up to protect her body and face, right fist cocked at chest level, shoulders curled in. With her heart racing, knees shaking, she prepared to take the one shot she was going to get before Randall plowed into her, his weight advantage ending any hope of making a fight.
Randall covered ground fast for a big man. Blood splattered from the shank as his fist pumped in rhythm with his legs. He was almost on top of Victoria before she made her move: a blocking sweep at the knife with her left arm as she snapped the ball of her right foot at Rusk’s crotch, putting her hip behind it, giving it all she had. But Rusk twisted away just as she went into motion. Her block caught nothing but air and her foot bounced of Rusk’s muscular inner thigh, leaving her off balance and hopelessly exposed to the huge fist that clipped her jaw, popping a flashbulb inside her head, and knocking her sprawling. But Rusk didn’t pile in on top of her; he turned on Axel Rankin, looming over the smaller man.
Axel drew his knees up tight to his chest. He looked up at Rankin then his gaze jumped to the knife. “Back off,” he said, but his voice was quivering, “I ride with the Confederate Syndicate. You don’t need that kind of grief.”
Rankin shrugged that off. “It ain’t my call. This ain’t personal. You knew the rules before you turned snitch,” he said in his cartoonish voice, acting like he had all day as the siren continued to wail. Axel started to reply, but Rusk was done talking. He dropped swiftly to one knee, pulled the knife back and drove into Rankin’s chest.
With his hands manacled to his waist there was nothing Axel could do to stop the attack. He thrashed and bucked like a cow caught in the slaughterhouse chute as Rusk stabbed him again and again, ripping open Axel’s stomach and chest, slinging arcs of blood that splattered Victoria’s skirt and the floor around her. In desperation, Axel snapped his head forward and managed to hit Rusk over the right eye with his forehead, stunning the serial killer for a split second. The knife, slippery with blood, fell from Rusk’s hand to clatter on the concrete. But the blow didn’t stop Rusk for long. With the knife gone, he locked his hands around Axel’s throat and started to squeeze, lifting Axel clear of the floor, shaking him like a dog with a rat in its jaws, snapping Axel’s head left and right with a sickening click-clack.