Dead Fall Back

by Tony Masero

  Stoeffel looked up at the station clock. It was a digital one and by some miracle was still functioning despite the bullet holes. The numbers flacked down, seconds passing into minutes. Time slipping though their fingers.

  The forgotten two-way on his hip hissed.

  “Chief Stoeffel. You there?” a quiet voice asked.

  Surprised, Stoeffel buttoned the radio. “I´m here. Who is this?”

  “It´s Reason Links, Chief. I´m here with Reverend Clitus, my boy Brian and Jimmy Luke. I´m talking to you on his radio right now. Jimmy Luke is hurt bad but he´ll live.”

  “Good to hear that,” Stoeffel replied in a relieved voice. “What else can you tell me?”

  “Is it okay to talk on this thing?”

  “Sure. It´s not like the car radios. This is a closed circuit setup. They can´t listen in unless they´ve got one of the networked sets and that they don´t have.”

  “Okay. There is this girl Iris here too, she fetched the doctor and he is working on Jimmy Luke as we speak. Brian got Miz Joline out but Bubba Rose had cut her up some. Man is worse than a rabid dog, Chief.”

  “Good thing is they´re safe. We´re locked in here, Mr. Links. They have us all pinned down.”

  “I see that, Chief. What do you want us to do? We want to help.”

  Stoeffel breathed a sigh of relief. “Sure glad to hear that, Mr. Reason. We certainly need all the help we can get right now. Lookit, here´s what needs doing. We have to know where these guys are placed, then we can get to them once we´re out of here. But before that happens we have to have some sort of distraction so we can make the break.”

  “You have anything in mind?”

  “Hold one,” said Stoeffel, turning the others. “What do you say, guys? Any ideas.”

  Summersby raised a prospective finger in the air. “If he is taking the stuff out from the storage facility, then that´ll be the place to hit. They´ll want to keep that place safe at all costs.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Stoeffel and he passed the message on to Reason Links.

  “We´ll figure it out then, Chief. You just be ready to make your run when the time comes. We only got Jimmy Luke´s pistol here though so we´re not well armed.”

  “Anything, Mr. Links. Just do the best you can, that’s all we can ask. Take care though. He´s holding a hostage. It´s Jenny Lowell, be real nice if nothing bad happened to her.”

  “I understand,” said Reason Links as he broke the connection.

  Stoeffel looked at the other two. “That’s it. By the grace of God we have our chance. Let’s get ready and go do it.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Trooper Carter Bowles was truly pissed off.

  He had taken on his new partner, Pinky Cowper Weller III, for one reason only, the promise of another stripe on his sleeve. Nobody else wanted the guy as a patrol mate. The problem was that Pinky Weller was connected. His family had served in the State Senate since the first settlement at Jamestown days, well before West Virginia had split from the Commonwealth of Virginia at the start of the Civil War, and he had all the attributes of one of West Virginia´s most privileged. Trouble was he was a complete and total fuckup.

  Bowles, a tall, heavily muscled black man in his late thirties, sat in the cruiser as they drove along Highway 79 heading towards Minerstown and looked across at the cause of his distress. Pinky Weller was his antithesis in many ways. A slightly built red haired young man with pale freckled skin and two vapid slightly maladjusted brown eyes that always seemed to be registering nothing more than empty space.

  Pinky got away with murder. Not literally, although Bowles wondered sometimes. Right now the fool had a reefer burning in one hand and a hip flask cupped in the other on his lap. What on earth had encouraged Pinky to join the force Bowles could not imagine. He had taken on Pinky two weeks ago and it had been a nightmare ever since. Bowles felt on occasion that he should be slipping the cuffs on his partner rather than on some of the characters they had to bring in.

  Invariably, Pinky appeared either drunk or stoned at roll call and would stagger through his duties as if he just landed from another planet. But Bowles was ambitious. It was his downfall, he knew it. And right now he wished he had never agreed to the Captain’s request that he suffer a six-month spell with Pinky to earn another promotion. If anyone saw Pinky doing what he was doing right now, the promotion and the two good stripes Bowles had already earned would be dog meat.

  “Pinky, you want to keep that stuff outta sight maybe?” he asked.

  Pinky looked across at him soft eyed, taking his time to register the admonition.

  “Carter,” he slurred. “Don´t be so uptight. Relax, partner. It´s okay. I´m cool.”

  “Man,” sighed Bowles, shaking his head. “Why the hell do you do it? You know we´ll be in seven kinds of trouble if we get spotted.”

  Pinky waved a dismissive hand.

  “Nah! Don´t worry, anything happens I´ll get my Dad to sort things out... after all, he always does.”

  “Maybe for you?” said Bowles meaningfully. “Why do you take all that stuff anyway?”

  Pinky looked out, unfocussed, at the passing countryside, a thin smile creasing his lips.

  “It’s all a matter of equilibrium, my friend.”

  “What, like uppers in the morning, downers at night and a purple haze all day in between.”

  “Something like that,” Pinky turned to look Bowles square in the eye, suddenly irritated by his partners criticism. “Look, Carter, if you had the kind of fucked up family life I have to contend with you would probably eat your pistol for breakfast ... well, for me,” he raised the hip flask and swallowed. “Short of a frontal lobotomy, this is the next best thing.”

  Bowles watched the empty road ahead, breathing hard through his nose. “Then why the police? Why me, for heaven’s sake? Couldn´t you have found a nice easy number in the family bank or a peanut farm or something more suited to a loser’s mentality.”

  Pinky backed off in feigned surprise.

  “Carter! Sometimes you can be soooh harsh. Lookit, you´ll get the up in salary you treasure so much in six month’s time then you can wash your hands of little ol´ me and my...” he sneered a casual laugh. “My, what was it? .... loser’s mentality. That’s very good, Carter. I like that. Loser’s mentality. Boy, I wish I had some of that gung-ho spirit of yours instead of the twelve year old sort I got right here.” He raised the flask in salute and swigged again from the neck.

  “Aw, shit!” Bowles grumbled to himself. He despised his partner’s attitude, for although it was true he himself craved the promised promotion he still thought of himself as a good cop and it upset his sense of morality to have this self- pitying freeloader sitting beside him. For all the talk, Bowles knew that in six month’s time, good or not, Pinky would move on up the ladder just because of his silver spoon connections and not for any innate abilities.

  It had been a long tedious drive up from Charleston after delivering off a suspect to Headquarters and the reek of marijuana and whisky inside the cab had not improved the atmosphere. The countryside began to change as they approached their destination and Bowles cracked the window, pleased to breath the draft of fresh morning air as he watched snow topped mountains approach and the state forest close in around them. He liked this place a lot.

  He swerved suddenly as a ragged man limped out onto the highway in front of them waving his hands wildly in the air.

  “Hell!” he shouted, bringing the cruiser to a sliding stop across the road twenty yards on.

  Pinky looked over his shoulder at the man, who was standing sagging in the middle of the road.

  “What in damnation was that?”

  “Stay here and cover me,” ordered Bowles, switching on their overhead hazard lights. “I´ll check it out.”

  Fastening his nightstick in place and taking his hat out of the back he climbed out of the cruiser. The man waited for him bent over, favoring one leg and breathing heavily. He looked done
in to Bowles as he approached but even so the trooper´s eyes carefully checked the woodlands along each side of the road beside them.

  Leban Griss was a mess, mud stained clothes already torn were even more shredded now and his face and hands bore the blood of many scratches and undergrowth slashes. Somewhere along the way he had lost one of his boots and a torn sock sprouted bloody toes.

  “Sho´ glad to see you,” he gasped, as Bowles approached.

  “What’s going on here, mister?” asked Bowles. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  Leban rested his trembling hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. “Not me, no suh. It´s where I come from....”

  “Now I seen everything. What does it look like? Tarzan the fucking Apeman, I reckon.” It was Pinky coming up from behind Bowles.

  “I told you to stay in the car, Pinky,” Bowles admonished. “D´you call this in yet?”

  Pinky shrugged indifferently. “Why really Carter, d´you think we have a problem with this?” he waved a dismissive hand in Leban´s direction. “Looks like he´s been swinging around in the trees too long, you ask me.”

  Angrily, Bowles turned back. “You have a name?”

  “Name´s Leban Griss, I´m from over...”

  “Got any ID, monkeyman?” cut in Pinky.

  “Nah,” shrugged Leban. “Look here, officers. This is important, I gotta tell...”

  “No ID, huh?” Pinky circled Leban slowly, one hand on his pistol grip, looking down his nose at the tattered man. “Man, you stink, you know that?”

  Leban straightened even though his legs shook uncontrollably. “Guess you would too, son. If´n you´d come as far as me.”

  “I ain´t your son, boy,” snarled Pinky in affronted disgust. “My grandaddy would have whipped your back raw for talking like that, you know that?”

  Leban eyed him silently, his lips narrowing into a thin line.

  “Stow that shit, Pinky.” Bowles snapped irritably. “We´re all off the plantation long time ago.”

  Pinky gave him a slow maybe-that’s-what-you-think smile. Bowles shook his head and turned back to Leban.

  “What’s the score, Mr. Griss? What’s going on here?”

  “They got big trouble over at Lodrun. Communications are down and there´s some kinda gangster fellas lookin´ to loot the town. Chief Stoeffel tole me to run fetch help, he needs you people there right now.”

  Bowles looked at him doubtfully and Leban reached for the pocket of his tattered coat to get the note Stoeffel had given him.

  “Lookit, I got....”

  “Stand still!” snapped Pinky, drawing his pistol and pointing it at Leban´s head. “Don´t you move a muscle, you hear!”

  Bowles waved placating hands. “Calm down, Pinky. This here fellow don´t look like he´s going to raise any hell, ain´t that right, sir?”

  “Dirty little beggar,” growled Pinky disdainfully. “World´d be a better place without rubbish like this wandering around.”

  Leban raised his hands in air and shook his head.

  “That’s right, officers, no trouble from me. Ah´m just bringing the news. You don´t want to hear it, that’s fine with me.”

  A mud splashed farm truck slowed down to pass and a man with a puffy red face under a battered straw Stetson poked his head out.

  “You boys need any help there?” he asked.

  Inside Bowles could see the man´s companion had one hand resting on the rifle hanging from a rack at the back of the cab. He also noted the dusty stars and bars banner pasted on the truck´s panel side. It proclaimed its allegiance beneath a huge sow tied-up on the flat back of the truck. The beast grunted and snuffled its long snout in Bowles’ direction.

  “That’s alright, sir. We have everything in hand here. Now you just drive on, if you will,” Bowles waved them on but the truck barely moved, edging forward slowly at a crawl. “Go on, get along now.”

  Bowles watched the truck carefully, feeling uncomfortable at the menace he could sense coming from inside the vehicle.

  “You want it, Officer? We´s only too glad to take that vagrant off your hands,” said the driver. “Have enough trouble with their sort around here, starting fires and such.”

  Behind him, Pinky, fired with his daily mix of chemicals and alcohol, butted Leban hard in the shoulder with his pistol and whispered, “That right, boy. You a fire starter, are you? Make a run for it. I´d love for you to do that.”

  “I ain´t going nowheres,” answered Leban, looking down nervously at his ruined foot.

  “That’s right,” hissed Pinky spitefully. “You ain´t going nowhere. You know what? I´d like to take you back in those woods there and stop your clock permanent, you hear?”

  Bowles was fast losing his temper, what with the redneck farmer in the truck facing him down and his stupid partner aggravating things behind him.

  “Listen!” he bellowed at the truck driver, drawing himself to his full height and placing his hand on his holster. “I won´t say it again, you don´t move on right now I´ll cite you for impeding justice. Now get along out of here this minute.”

  The driver suddenly slammed his foot on the accelerator and with a loud Rebel yell sped off down the road, the truck spitting a cloud of muddy debris out from under the rear wheels. Bowles turned back to see Pinky prodding Leban with his pistol and whispering vehemently in his ear.

  He strode over and took Pinky´s arm, pulling him aside. He bent over the slighter man, pushing his face close in until their noses almost touched.

  “Cut it out, Pinky. Or by God I´ll put you down, understand?”

  Pinky looked back at him aggressive and disconsolate all at the same time, he hooked his thumbs self-consciously in his belt with the pistol left hanging by a finger from the guard.

  “And put that firearm away,” ordered Bowles before returning to Leban, who stood shivering still with his hands in the air.

  “Alright, lower your arms. Now tell me more about Lodrun, will you?”

  “I gotta note from the Chief. That´ll explain it all. Can I get it out?”

  “Sure, just do it slow and easy though,” nodded Bowles. He could hear Pinky mumbling behind him but chose to ignore the rising note of irate bitching.

  Leban reached into the bundled coat hanging around his waist.

  “You can´t talk to me like that!” snapped Pinky coming up behind them, his face red and twisted in anger. “Just what the hell do you think you are? Do you know who the fuck my family is, you goddamned cretin? I´ll have your ass reamed for this, Carter.”

  Bowles sighed deeply and his shoulder slumped. He saw the promotion, the raise and everything else in his future shrinking to a diminishing dot on the horizon.

  “I had enough,” he apologized sadly to Leban, who nodded sympathetically. “Can´t take no more.”

  Bowles turned and swinging one brawny fist he thumped a short, sharp punch into Pinky´s snarling face. With a surprised look Pinky jerked away to land hard on his behind on the tarmac. “Now just sit there and keep your big stupid mouth shut.” Bowles wagged a warning finger at the round eyed and stunned Pinky, whose mashed nose was now dripping red down his shirtfront. “Because when we´re done here I´m taking you in for substance possession, unnecessary aggression towards a witness and for being intoxicated on duty. We´ll see who´s the cretin then.”

  Even Leban, exhausted as he was, could not avoid seeing the release in the grim smile of satisfaction on the trooper’s face as he turned back to face him.

  “Now,” he said. “Give it to me again, Mr. Griss. From the top.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They sat against the wall, waiting. Separate now. Silent with their thoughts. Legrand had his sidearm on and his pump action shotgun stood sloped against the wall beside him. Calmly he let his eyes focus on his dusty boot tips. Emptying his mind.

  Summersby kept his semi-automatic pistol and had decided to carry an old army M16 rifle Stoeffel kept out of nostalgia, which he held now laid across his lap.
Wired and tense, he fiddled with the thirty round magazines continually. He hated to wait. Knew that when he had to move, it would be with a cold efficiency. But the waiting needled him.

  Stoeffel had taken George´s belt and Black Widow holster from his office drawer, stripping the dead deputy’s utility units away and packing the Glock 19 to one side in a cross-draw fashion. He looked like an old time gunslinger with his own belt and George´s crossed over at the waist.

  A battered strip lighting cover gave up the ghost and slipped from the ceiling to fall to the floor with a metallic crash. Summersby jumped, then turned to the others and grinned shyly. Apologizing with his eyes.

  The air in the station was getting rank. Dust motes still floated in the air from the ruined plasterboard and shattered furniture making the atmosphere heavy and unpleasant. The men smelled too, the fear sweat on them rising in an unmistakable tang. Stoeffel knew that waiting for the moment will do that. Bringing out all the hidden and irrational doom demons that lurk in the depths waiting to say that death is coming and he rides a pale horse.

  Stoeffel knew it better than the others. But for him the sweat stink was mixed with a memory of the slick heat of the jungle, in a fetid land where the dense scent of rot and death clung to your clothes until it seemed to be a part of your skin.

  The younger men had served too. But never in full combat situations. Summersby as a military cop, spending most of his time at bases in Europe and the Far East. Seeking out terror bombers, rapists, black-marketers or just soldiers gone absent. Legrand had never left the States during his military service, his postings being all home based, guarding against terror attacks that never came. But for all that they had still been foot soldiers and knew the way of things. Respect and discipline. Humility and teamwork. They might not all follow the paths set out by such codes but they realized the significant value inherent in such regulation.

  Stoeffel saw the digital clock flap over. Over an hour had passed since he had last spoken on the radio. Nothing had happened. The town outside remaining quiet and still as a graveyard. Only the sun climbed higher, moving the shadows across Main Street. It was the only sign that life still continued out there.