Molia took the gun and considered it. “Model seven, bolt action, twenty-inch barrel, three-oh-eight caliber.” He smiled. “I’ve shot a few deer in my time, Sheriff.”
Greg pulled out another rifle, started to hand it to Sloane, then hesitated. With the cast on his wrist, there was no way Sloane would be able to shoot anything.
“I can carry it for somebody,” Sloane said. “In case we need it.” He slid the strap over his shoulder.
Greg handed Dean and Leonard backpacks, adjusted his to fit, slid on wraparound sunglasses, spit another wad of liquid, and gave Sloane a stained-teeth smile. “Time to hunt,” he said.
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Jake did his best to eat his oatmeal, but his nerves made his stomach upset and his taste buds screamed in protest. T.J. also sat stirring the pasty substance with his spoon, but not otherwise bringing it anywhere close to his mouth. Bee Dee had his head up, eyes shifting between Jake and T.J., as if he knew they were up to something. Only Henry ate, head down, shoveling it in and swallowing with a look of disgust.
The other guard was somewhere in the bushes, taking care of his morning business, but the cook stood watching them with eyes so bloodshot they were more red than white. He scowled, indicating he was not too pleased with their reaction to the food. He looked from Jake to T.J. and apparently decided he’d waited long enough. He said something in Spanish Jake didn’t understand but interpreted to mean, “Fuck you, you don’t want to eat,” and knocked the cup out of T.J.’s hand. The spoon went with it and landed on the ground beside the upturned cup. But not a bit of the gooey substance had come out, not even when the cook snatched it from the ground. The oatmeal clung inside like glue.
The cook eyed them, as if daring them to say a word, knowing exactly what they were all thinking. “You think it funny,” he said in his broken English. “You don’t eat nothing!” He grabbed the cup from Jake’s hand. “You see how funny.” He continued eyeing them as he walked back to his makeshift kitchen and popped the lid on a plastic container then attempted to shake out the contents. When it still didn’t budge he shook more aggressively, and a small amount flew out, only it didn’t drop, it flew up and struck the cook in the face. It was like a fart in church. Bee Dee burst first, and that set the rest of them off. Henry laughed so hard he lost his balance, toppling off the stump backward, which only made everything funnier. Tears streamed down Jake’s cheeks. The cook threw the cups hard into the bucket, water splashing. Then he grabbed his sharpened machete and took three quick strides toward Bee Dee, shouting in Spanish, machete raised. Jake thought for certain the next thing he’d see was Bee Dee’s head rolling on the ground.
He shot to his feet. “No!”
The cook, thinking it an attack, turned and swept the machete through the air. Jake bent his knees and leaned back, like a man stooping beneath a limbo bar. He felt the wind from the blade against his neck and tumbled over, falling onto his back. The cook advanced, whipped the blade through the air, and brought it high overhead like a snake coiled to strike.
A shot rang out.
The cook froze, the shot reverberating. The guard, who had been in the bushes, walked slowly back into camp with the rifle pointed at the sky. The button of his pants still undone, zipper down, and his stained white tank-top T-shirt inched up his stomach to reveal more of the blue ink of his tattoo, some demonic-looking snake. His eyes took them in, then shifted to the cook. He spoke in Spanish. The man, still breathing hard, glared at Jake and Bee Dee before turning his back to them and returning to his kitchen.
“Work,” the guard said.
He directed them to the shovels and pickaxes and told them to bring the last of the black hoses. Henry got up off the ground looking pale, and Jake expected T.J. to look even whiter, but T.J. gave him a small smile and glanced down at his chest. Jake noticed the small bulge in the coveralls.
T.J. had the ball of string.
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Dean had not lied. The first half hour was rough, a steep ascent on a trail that wound back and forth with endless curves and switchbacks, but it was the only way up the steep pitch. Dean stopped occasionally to put his fingers in the dirt and trace the faint outline of a horse’s hoof, or to check his topographical map. Sloane was grateful for each respite. His muscles and joints, still remembering the accident, hurt worse than he thought they would, and the exertion had caused his wrist and the cut on the back of his head to throb. He knew the others were keeping a close eye on him, and he didn’t want to give them any excuse to leave him behind. Barnes handed him a water bottle at each stop and asked how he was holding up.
Molia had also been true to his word. He hadn’t slowed them down. Though the detective was a big man, he moved with them step for step and had only infrequently coughed. He looked to be in deep concentration. Sloane deduced it was sheer willpower and mental determination pulling Molia up that mountain more so than physical prowess.
When they reached the summit Sloane looked out over an incredible, panoramic view. The rolling sea of green seemed to reach all the way to the rust haze on the horizon, an expansive carpet that was both awe inspiring and disheartening. He knew now what Barnes had been trying to tell him, a picture in this case definitely being worth a thousand words. Finding a grow site wouldn’t be like finding the needle in the haystack. It would be harder. The haystack might take time to cull through, but at least you could pick your way through each piece to a logical end. As if reading Sloane’s mind, Barnes walked over and handed him a fresh water bottle and a protein bar. Thankfully, he didn’t say “I told you so.”
Sloane took a seat on a nearby rock, drinking water and eating the protein bar. Molia had found his own rock, rifle across his lap, seemingly considering the landscape and becoming just as depressed. Dean and Greg stood off to the side, using a flat boulder to lay out their topo map and presumably decide the group’s next path. Dean said he could continue to track the horses and believed that would be their best bet. Other than their two voices, Sloane didn’t hear another sound. The air was thin and cooler at the summit, but they had little shade from the sun, and though it remained early, not yet nine, it beat down harshly.
After another minute, Greg and Dean had reached some consensus. Dean folded the map and slipped it into a waterproof bag, then inserted it inside a pocket of his shirt. Sloane and Molia stood and followed Greg and Dean down the backside of the mountain. Sloane’s body felt as if it had finally awakened. The pain in his muscles had lessened, as had the pounding of his wrist and head. Another hour into their hike, mostly a descent, they were back walking beneath an expansive canopy and pushing through thick brush.
The gunshot sounded like a cannon blast, causing them all to instantly drop to a knee.
Sloane noticed that every head had snapped to the left, the direction of the initial sound, though the retort echoed across the mountaintop before dissipating. Sloane was no expert, but the shot did not sound far off. Greg looked back at Dean, and they both looked to Barnes. Without a word, Greg gave way to Dean, and he made a hard left and pushed on, quickening their pace. They hiked another ten minutes when Dean dropped again to a knee and raised a hand. The others mimicked his movements. Dean turned to Greg and pointed two fingers at his own eyes then pointed to the left. Greg produced a small pair of binoculars from his backpack and scanned in the direction Dean had pointed, he lowered the binoculars and nodded to Dean, then to Barnes.
Barnes slid forward, taking the binoculars. After a minute of viewing, he lowered them and motioned for Sloane and Molia to advance. They took a knee.
“There’s a spot ahead where the light filters through the trees in an irregular pattern,” he whispered. “Could be where someone cut them down to clear land, or it could just be a patch where the trees died from disease or drought, or even a fire. But it’s also where those hoofprints lead and the direction of that gunshot we heard.”
/> Greg slid the binoculars inside the backpack and removed two handheld walkie-talkies, turning a knob at the top on both and handing one to Barnes. Barnes turned to Molia. “Detective, you go with Dean and Greg to get a closer look. We’ll wait here until Greg gives us the word. You see anyone you come back; remember we’re not here to engage. If it is a camp, and it’s empty, that doesn’t mean they’re gone. That shot could have been a warning from a lookout who saw us coming telling everyone to scatter, which means they’re still somewhere around here in the woods, and we already know they’re armed.”
Molia crept forward with Dean and Greg. Well trained, they kept low to the ground and moved silently despite the brush and trees. Every so often Greg would stop and he and Dean would give each other nods and finger signals before inching their way forward. Molia could see the clearing where the sunlight reflected differently through the trees. With greater effort he could see the trappings of men—cut logs in an unnatural layout to create a crude border, an article of clothing hanging from rope strung between trees.
Molia felt the adrenaline pumping, senses on full alert as they watched the camp, waiting until convinced no one was present. Greg finally broke the surveillance and circled to the right. Dean motioned that he would move to the left. Molia was to move straight ahead. Molia pulled back the bolt and checked again to ensure the gun was loaded, snapped the bolt back, and crept forward, keeping low to the ground.
They reached the camp at about the same time, Greg slightly before Molia and Dean. Molia knew immediately this was not a day hiker’s camp. The logs surrounding the camp and the propane tanks indicated the occupants intended a longer stay. The provisions had been trekked in, likely on the horses. Further examination revealed fertilizer, pesticides, and rat poison. Greg walked to a camp stove, bent, and touched it. Then he walked to a plastic bucket and pulled out a cup dripping water and a gray goo.
“They haven’t been gone long,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Could be off for the day to a grow site or they fled.” He looked at Molia. “Guess we got lucky.” He raised the walkie-talkie to call Barnes.
Molia raised the rifle. “Don’t.”
Greg and Dean looked at him.
“A little too lucky,” Molia said.
Many things had bothered him, and it had started with the truck accident the night before, when he examined the tires and concluded that the puncture marks had been from the use of a stop stick. While stop sticks certainly could be purchased, they weren’t readily available, and there was nothing more convenient than having one in the back of a police vehicle.
And Barnes seemed to be ever present.
That morning, Molia’s suspicion heightened when everything had come together just a little too neat and clean, finding the evidence of horses, the hoofprints, and ultimately the camp on a first try, as if they had known where to look all along. They’d been good actors, using the topographical map, Dean dropping to a knee like he was an Indian tracker, but in the end it was just common sense. You didn’t reach into the hay pile and pull out the needle on the first try. The question was motivation. Why would Barnes do it? But Barnes had also given Sloane and Molia that answer when they first met, back at the Winchester County Jail. It was about money, sure, but this went beyond money. This was about entitlement.
Greg grinned. He didn’t try to dissuade Molia or tell him he was being paranoid. “What are you going to do, Detective? Shoot us?”
“Give me a reason.”
Greg took a step toward him, the grin inching into a smile. “Go ahead, pull the trigger.”
“It’s loaded, Greg. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Maybe the day before yesterday?” Greg turned to Dean, who stood with his rifle at his side, butt on the ground, unconcerned. They shared a smile. Then Dean lifted a bottle of water to his lips and drank. Greg raised the handheld. Molia took aim.
Greg’s smile broadened. “Go ahead, Detective, pull the trigger.”
Molia did. The trigger clicked, but the gun did not fire.
Greg put a hand to his chest. “Oh, you got me,” he said, mocking him.
Dean stepped up and pulled the rifle from Molia’s hands. “Slight modification to the safety.”
At the same time two men dressed in khaki emerged from the brush to Molia’s right. Carl Wade entered the camp from the left.
“Morning, Detective.” Wade checked his watch. “You boys made good time, though I’m told my watch is a few minutes fast.”
Sloane remained on one knee, waiting and thinking of the conversation he’d have with Barnes if it turned out they’d located a grow site. The deal was they would drive to Fresh Start and get Jake and T.J. He didn’t think Barnes was the kind of man who’d renege on a promise, but Barnes might also come to realize the difficulty of the task—coming up with some reason to justify removing T.J. and Jake without giving away that they’d found out Victor Dillon’s dirty enterprise. Sloane had a ready-made lie for him. All Barnes had to say was the court of appeals granted a hearing on the appeal and he was to take custody of T.J. and Jake. A phone call from Fresh Start to Judge Boykin’s chambers could reveal that lie, but if it was after five they might not be able to reach Boykin or the court of appeals for confirmation, and by that time they would have T.J. and Jake out the front gate. Sloane didn’t care what happened next. It was like that old saying, “Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
He heard static over the hand-held, then Greg gave an “all clear.”
Barnes pushed to his feet, nodded to Leonard, and the two men walked from the brush and started down the slope. “What does ‘all clear’ mean?” Sloane asked, catching up. “Did they find a camp?”
“They did,” Barnes said.
“So why are we going in? I thought we were going to confirm and get out, get back down the hill.”
“I like the detective’s idea better. We need evidence of the camp.”
“We have evidence. We have eyewitnesses.”
“Might not be good enough,” Barnes said.
Even before he pushed through the brush and entered the camp, Sloane had a sinking feeling something had gone terribly wrong. Tom Molia sat on the ground, hands behind his back. Greg and Dean stood with two men dressed in khaki, and Carl Wade stood, smiling his shit-eating grin.
TWENTY-THREE
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The guards hiked them to a different site than the one they’d worked the first two days, farther out from the camp, just under forty-five minutes. Jake feared the change in location had just ruined his plan of escape, but then he saw that only the place had changed; the procedure remained the same. Gray scrub brush six to eight feet tall had been fortified to further conceal a patch of land. Someone had hacked and stacked branches to make the brush even more impenetrable—likely the cook with his beloved machete.
The man remained agitated. He spun the machete by a leather strap wrapped around his wrist, and it rotated like the blade of a fan cutting through the air. Occasionally he’d hack at a limb of a branch or the trunk of a tree, but mostly he just spun the blade, looking angry. Bee Dee and Henry lowered their coveralls to their waists but left their T-shirts on, a chill still prevalent with the sun not yet high enough to warm the patch of dirt in which they toiled. Jake kept his coveralls over his shoulders. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion when T.J. did not lower his.
After an hour the guard stood from his squat. “You, Yake.” He handed Jake a three-foot saw blade with severely jagged teeth, wood handles at each end.
“You cut. You and him,” he said, pointing to Bee Dee.
The guard directed them to cut down certain of the thinner trees and drag the trunks and lay them in the brush. Jake became concerned they’d spend the entire day working to clear and till the patch of dirt, much the way it was apparent the prior crew had hacked at and stacked the brush, but following a water break the guard directed him to grab a coil of hose. Before the guard
could give the second coil to Bee Dee, Jake took it and tossed it to T.J. Bee Dee noticed. So did the guard. The man hesitated, but Jake was counting on the man’s indifference being stronger than his curiosity. Indifference won out. What did he care who did what task as long as the work got done? The guard turned and started off into the brush. Jake and T.J. followed.
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“Here’s the terrible thing about these camps,” Barnes said. “They’re hidden so well, sometimes a man stumbles into one before he ever sees it. Ordinarily that’s not a big deal. Most campers are friendly types and welcome the brief interruption, but in this instance, it can be deadly.”
Sloane sat beside the detective. They had fashioned two zip ties together to fit around the cast on his arm and used a third to bind it to his other wrist behind his back. The sun shone over Barnes’s left shoulder and caused Sloane to squint until Barnes moved to block the light. It seemed an odd gesture of courtesy given the circumstances. The others, Dean, Leonard, Greg, and now Wade and the two guards who Barnes called Atkins and Bradley, formed a sort of semicircle around them.
“That’s why I warned the two of you not to take matters into your own hands and come up here,” Barnes continued, “which is the last time anyone ever saw you. You stumble into a camp like this with armed men and the consequences can be dire. Plus they have all this acreage to bury your bodies, or the animals get you.”
“So you work for Dillon,” Sloane said, thinking Barnes might be a good sheriff, but he was one hell of an actor.
“Everyone works for Dillon to some extent,” Barnes said. “And everything was just fine until you two came along.”
“Fine? Is that how you rationalize turning your back on a sworn oath to uphold the law?” Molia asked. “You tell yourself everything around here is ‘fine’?”
“I wasn’t the one who turned my back, Detective. The State of California turned its back on me. Thirty plus years of service, and they tell me they’re phasing me out. ‘Sorry, budget cuts you know.’ The suits down in Sacramento can’t manage the budget to save their lives, so everyone’s got to pay. Only everyone isn’t paying. Mostly it’s those of us who put our asses on the line every day who are paying. They tell me I can’t retire at fifty-five, that the pension is billions in the red, so they want to take another ten years out of my hide. Oh I can go ahead and retire, just like me and my wife planned, but now we’re going to have to do it on a lot less, as well.”
The Conviction Page 30