by Ozzie Cheek
“Who’s Nancy Larsen?” Katy asked.
“The answer to your question.”
Twenty-Three
Jackson returned to the Split-Rail Café Wednesday afternoon following a phone call from Sheriff Midden. The sheriff and Major Jessup were in Buckhorn and had asked to meet at the café instead of at the police station.
The café was mostly empty at two o’clock. Jessup and Midden sat in a booth by a big window that overlooked the town square. Jackson greeted the café owners and ordered coffee and cherry pie. Then he pulled a chair up to the booth instead of sitting beside either man.
“So why the secrecy? Why not come to my office?”
“Hell, Jackson, you got something against having coffee with us in public?” Midden said in a deadpan voice.
“Depends I guess on why you fellows are here.”
Jessup and Midden chuckled, and Jessup said, “You’ll see why once we tell you about –” Jessup paused when Suzy Beans brought Jackson’s order and refilled the other cups. “Ronnie Greathouse is why,” he added once she had left.
“You found him?”
Major Jessup shook his head. “Not yet. But we know a lot more about him. Pretty interesting stuff too.”
“Greathouse is seeing a woman ’round here,” Sheriff Midden said. “You know this gal Maryann Fedder?”
“Med and Rhonda’s girl. She’s in a wheelchair.”
“That’s the one,” Midden said.
“Someone should talk to her,” Jessup suggested. “You being local, she might be more comfortable if it was you.”
Jackson was surprised by the comment. “Is there a reason she wouldn’t be comfortable talking to you?”
“Depends on whether she knows what Ronnie’s up to,” Major Jessup said. “And if she does, you’ll want to know.”
Jackson wrinkled his brow in thought. “You think Ronnie has something to do with these cats getting out?”
“I think Ronnie’s involved in something he shouldn’t be,” Major Jessup said.
“Most people are, one way or the other. And you still haven’t told me why I should go see Maryann Fedder.”
Major Jessup and Sheriff Midden exchanged looks, but neither of them rushed to respond to Jackson.
Jackson cut into his pie. “You know, talking to you fellows is like watching a foreign film with no subtitles,” he said. “You got something to say, say it. You don’t, let me enjoy my cherry pie in peace.” To emphasize his point, Jackson shoveled a bite of pie into his mouth.
“Knights of the Golden Circle,” Jessup said.
Jackson chewed and swallowed and then repeated the name and asked what it was.
“From what we can tell, I’d say they’re another anti-government militia group,” Major Jessup replied. “Neo-Nazis, Aryan Brotherhood, or whatever, God knows we got enough of them here.” The ISP major described the printed material and the notebook written in code that the Roberts twins had found when they searched Ronnie’s house.
“Your troopers get a search warrant?”
“We’ll deal with that later,” Midden said.
“Go on,” Jackson said. Major Jessup did, and by the time he finished talking, Jackson had forgotten about the lack of a warrant. “Sounds to me like you’ve got initials and some dates, but there’s no real proof that Ronnie belonged to this group. Maybe he was investigating them.”
“If he was,” Major Jessup said, “nobody in Meridian knows squat about it. I even contacted the FBI. They played dumb, but they know something. My guess is Ronnie’s part of this KGC, and he’s probably not the only lawman here involved. That’s why we’re meeting in the café. The notebook says this group plans to replace you as chief.”
Jackson chuckled. “So does my ex-wife.” A moment later, he frowned and said, “You saying that some of my officers are part of this anti-government, hate group?”
Jackson was examining the employment files of his blue-pin and reserve officers when Angie entered his office. One of Katy’s books was on Jackson’s desk. The book jacket was open to her photograph and bio.
“Catching up on your reading?” Angie said.
“Had Sadie order it from Amazon.”
“Katy’s much prettier in person.”
“Never noticed,” Jackson said, but the upward turn of his mouth betrayed his words. “Find any ligers?”
She shook her head. “Katy found tracks, but the only thing we captured was a strange old guy nosing around the house,” Angie said. “I started wondering if he’s a cop, a Fed maybe. Something about the way he handled himself, like he was in control even though we had the guns.” She reported the details of the encounter with Ted Sands.
“Probably just being nosy.” Jackson then told Angie to close the door and sit down, and once she had, he asked, “What do you know about the Knights of the Golden Circle?”
“That’s easy. Nothing.”
“Ever hear anyone you work with mention it?”
“No,” she said. “What is it? Some kind of club?”
“A white-militia group,” Jackson said. “I’d like you to find out about them – why here, why now, what do they want? And see if you can locate the man Pamela and Dolly were both married to, this Edward King Yow.”
“So being deputy chief, it’s kind of like being your secretary. You forgot to mention that.”
Jackson laughed. “Try and get a current phone number for Eddie Yow. I’d like to talk to him.”
By the time Jackson greeted Maryann Fedder, afternoon sunlight bathed the three-season porch where she sat reading a book titled The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. He took in immense green fields, the potato plants a week or two from harvest, and beyond them, a thick border of ash, hawthorn, and elder trees. The house was built on a knoll and had a spectacular view.
“Nice place to read,” Jackson said.
“I practically live here from spring to fall,” Maryann said. “I hate the winters for keeping me inside.”
Maryann marked her book and laid it aside as her mother served coffee. Upon arriving Jackson had asked Rhonda about the Placett family. He was not surprised to hear they planned to go away after the memorial service.
Jackson waited until Rhonda left before he pulled a Kennedy rocker up to face Maryann. “Maryann, I need to ask you some questions,” he said.
“About Ronnie?”
He nodded. “When did you last talk to him?”
“Sunday. We had a date, but he didn’t show up.”
“And nothing since then? No phone calls, e-mail?”
“No. Just the package.” Maryann moved the newspapers covering the seat of another chair and showed him a box that said Frederick’s of Hollywood. “On Monday dad found this beneath the mail box. Wrapped and sent to me.” The wrapping paper she pointed to had balloons on it. “But it didn’t come through the mail. I mean, there’s no postage or address. Just a little card with my name on it.”
Jackson wondered if he should tell her who had actually delivered it on Monday. The Roberts twins had admitted to Jessup that they left the box and in their excitement about the lion hunt failed to follow up on it.
“What was in it if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Lingerie,” she said and blushed.
“Were you expecting a present?”
“No. It’s not my birthday or anything.”
“Did Ronnie seem worried lately? Or maybe afraid?”
“Nope. Never. I really wish I could help you but –”
“You’re doing fine,” Jackson told her. “Tell me, did he ever mention The Knights of the Golden Circle?”
She repeated the name and then said, “I’m sure he didn’t. Sounds like something out of The Da Vinci Code.”
“Maybe it is,” Jackson said. He finished his coffee and stood. “I’ll let you get back to your book.”
“That’s okay.” She picked up her novel anyway.
“So what’s it about, your book?”
She thought for a moment. “D
eceit and revenge.”
Jackson walked to the door, but before opening it he said, “The present you got, could it have been a farewell gift from Ronnie? Maybe he decided to leave town?”
“I don’t think so.” Maryann blushed again. “You don’t give a girl red crotchless panties and leave town.”
Jackson had just turned onto the county highway when he met up with Deborah Dawson. Behind her Toyota Tundra she had a horse trailer with two horses. Jackson recognized one of them.
“I see you’ve got Touie with you.”
“Had to let Doc Willis check my mare before he left town, so he asked me to bring Touie home. I told Jesse.”
“Need my help?”
“I imagine you’ve got other things to do. The doc, he has some family emergency in Seattle. A sister.”
Jackson nodded and said, “You lose any more sheep?”
“Two more. Armando and me, we take shifts now guarding them at night. The dogs watch over them during the day.” Deborah shook her head. “Never thought I’d carry around a rifle to protect myself from lions and tigers in Idaho.” Her words spilled out in a rush, a slight accent to them. “I can’t believe schools are open and people go to work, carrying on like normal.”
“Welcome to the wild west.”
“Shouldn’t you evacuate the town or something?”
“You’re from New York City, right?”
“Upper West Side. Most of my life.”
“You live there back in two thousand one?”
Deborah nodded yes.
“When the World Trade Center fell, did you leave?”
“Well, no.”
Jackson shrugged.
“Okay, I get it.” A smile softened Deborah’s boney features, although it exaggerated the crows-feet mapping her eyes. “Speaking of carrying on like normal, Jesse wants to comes back to work.”
“As long as she doesn’t go out riding, I’m fine with it,” Jackson said. “Can’t speak for Iris.”
Deborah nodded and shifted the Tundra automatic into drive. “You round up your two quarter-horses yet?”
“Haven’t been able to even look for them.”
“Maybe Armando and me can help. We’ll try.”
They said goodbye, and Deborah drove off to deliver Touie. Jackson was pretty sure that by now half the town thought of him as ‘that negligent rancher’. In Idaho or Wyoming or Montana, you fed your animals first, your kids second, and if your wife only saw you at supper, it simply meant you were a good, hard-working husband.
He pulled away and drove to Safari Land. When he reached the Cheney house, he sat in the Jeep with the windows down and listened to Canadian geese flying south and to the usual buzz and hum and chirps of insects and birds. Nature was never quiet. But Jackson wasn’t listening for sounds that should be there; he was listening for sounds that shouldn’t. When he heard nothing, he went to the house, opened the screen door, and removed the crime scene tape.
The bullet whistled past him and seared the screenwire a millisecond before he registered the rifle shot. He ducked his head and shouldered the solid wood door as he turned the knob. He heard a second shot and dove to the floor. His only weapon was his Glock 21 semi-automatic. He drew the handgun and crawled behind the couch.
Twenty-Four
One shot could be an accident. Even two shots could mean a careless hunter with bad eyesight and a worse aim. Jackson still wiggled to a window, peeked out, and called for backup. While he waited he tried to think of a reason someone would shoot at him. All he came up with was what Jessup had said about the white-militia group wanting to replace him as Chief of Police. He remained on the floor, his body pressed to the wall, but there were no more shots. John and Brian and Angie showed up within twenty minutes.
If it was not an accident, Jackson knew the shooter would be gone. He sent John and Brian to search the perimeter anyway. If it was an accident, some hunter was in for an unpleasant surprise. After the two men left, Jackson and Angie searched for the bullets. They couldn’t find the second one, but the first bullet had passed through the house and broke a window before burrowing in a gnarled Siberian crabapple tree. Jackson dug out the bullet with a pocketknife and said, “Oh Christ!”
At sundown Jackson entered Benson’s Sporting Goods. Buck Benson was an avid hunter and more knowledgeable about guns and ammunition than anyone in the county. If Benson couldn’t help him, Jackson would try the state crime lab, although he knew their analysis could take weeks.
He found Benson in his office in the back of the store. Benson had the patrician look that a few lucky aging men get. “Sorry to disturb your supper,” Jackson said. He had phoned Benson at home and asked him to return to the store.
Jackson laid the splayed bullet on Benson’s desk. Although the bullet was flattened from going through a house and into a tree, it still was larger than an unfired .38 caliber bullet. Benson whistled. “A big boy.”
“That much I know already, Buck. But could a gun that fired this thing be used for hunting lions?”
“Not unless you want to blow a hole you can see through,” Benson said with a laugh. “Leave it with me for a half-hour; I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I appreciate it,” Jackson said. Benson was already taking measurements as Jackson left. He was halfway to the police station when he got the frantic call from Katy.
The motel parking lot was full when Jackson pulled in. He left his Jeep blocking two cars. A small group of men had gathered, some of them snickering and pointing to a rainbow palette of panties and bras attached to the motel wall like mounted trophies. Jackson suggested the men find better things to do, and they wandered off, grumbling.
“These things all yours?” Jackson asked Katy as he walked up. She was pacing back and forth. Tucker Thule was blocking the doorway to her motel room.
“What do you think?” she snapped.
“Anything else disturbed or missing?”
“I don’t know. He won’t let me in.”
“It’s a crime scene,” Tucker said. “I told her that.”
“Where are your guns, Katy?” Jackson asked.
“In the truck. Your truck. They’re safe.”
“I need you to talk to the guests here, Tucker,” Jackson said. “Somebody must have seen something.”
“Roger that.” Tucker hesitated. “You mean now?”
“Yes, now,” Jackson said. “Start at the far end of the motel.” Jackson waited until Tucker was gone. “You can gather up your clothes now, Katy. You want help?”
She shook her head no, her eyes glistening.
Jackson tried to avoid watching Katy remove her lingerie, but he had seen everything already. He was no expert, but he knew granny-panties from thongs – butt floss Sadie Pope called them – and he knew the difference between the plain cotton panties Iris usually had worn in Colorado from the lacy sexy ones she started wearing once they moved to Idaho. Katy seemed to have underwear for all occasions.
Once Katy was done, they checked her motel room to verify nothing had been stolen. After that, they went together to the motel office to talk to the owner.
“Any idea who did this?” Jackson asked Neil Fennis.
“Nope. Kids maybe. But it’s more likely somebody who doesn’t like her trying to shut down our lion hunt.”
“What?” Katy said. “What are you talking about?”
“Same thing I’m wondering,” Jackson said.
“On the news a couple hours ago. Some smug, bunny-lover in Colorado said he filed an injunction to stop our lion hunt. He especially mentioned Miss Osborne’s name. Said she was a big supporter of what he was doing.”
Jackson looked at Katy and frowned. “What’s he talking about? What injunction? Who in Colorado?”
“I didn’t … I didn’t tell Stan to use my name.”
“Stan?”
“Stan Ely. We talked about him the other night.”
“So you know about this injunction business?”
Kat
y hesitated before saying, “Sort of.”
Jackson continued to frown at Katy, although he spoke to Neil. “How’d they get in, Neil? Lock wasn’t jimmied.”
“Maybe the door was left open,” Neil Fennis said.
“And maybe someone gave them a key,” Katy prompted.
“Jackson, I have a motel crammed with hunters. I can’t watch them all.” To Katy he said, “It’ll be better for everyone if you find another place to stay.”
“There is no other place,” she said. “You know that.”
“My new price is triple what she’s paying, Jackson.” Neil Fennis shook his head. “I gotta hand it to Iris and Dell. This lion safari is just what the town needed.”
“Except for people getting killed, you mean,” Jackson said. Fennis scowled, but before he could argue, he was called away to handle a check-in, and Jackson told Katy, “I’ve got an extra bedroom at the house. You can stay there. Should have offered it to you before.”
Jackson saw from her expression that she was hesitant about accepting. “Look, you can’t stay here and I –” His cell phone rang, and he stopped mid-sentence when he saw the caller ID. “I need to take this,” he said. He walked outside into the early darkness. A few minutes later, Jackson left Katy at the motel to pack up, while he returned to Benson’s Sporting Goods.
“Elephant gun,” Benson said when Jackson entered the office. “The shell is a five-hundred. Big as you can buy without a special permit. I don’t sell a single rifle that can fire them things, although I can order the guns and ammo. Can’t tell you the exact model and make, but I put together a list of a half-dozen rifles it could be.”
He handed a slip of paper to Jackson. A Weatherby Mark V was near the top of the list. That was the rifle Dell had shown Katy and Jackson a couple of days earlier.
“My things were trashed and now I’m being evicted,” Katy snapped. She had called Stan Ely as soon as she finished packing to move to Jackson’s house.