Black Point

by Sam Cade

  Woo Chow could be as silent as dew forming on grass. He was diminutive, mid-seventies, and five-six, 133 pounds. Soft gray hair complemented his wise face. At this very spot thirty-two years earlier, Woo introduced Jake to martial arts, first Jeet Kune Do, Bruce Lee’s discipline, then Brazilian jiu jitsu.

  Jake laughed at his teacher. “You’re too much, Woo. Never miss a thing.”

  Woo stopped his motion, turned toward Jake, walked over and placed both arms around him. “I’ve missed you, Jake. I think of you almost daily.” He released the hug and looked up at the much taller Jake. “I worry about your safety in this corrupt world. Always remember...”

  Jake completed his sentence. “Empty your mind, become formless, shapeless. Be like water, drown your adversary.”

  “Yes, yes, Jake...that’s it. Water.” Woo smiled. “See you 5:30 tomorrow morning?”

  “Count on it.”

  JAKE PULLED INTO HIS MOTHER’S SHORT DRIVEWAY. He walked up onto the stoop, rapped his knuckles on the outside screen door. It rocked and slapped, making a lot of racket. Footfalls came towards him from inside. Bonnie’s green eyes peeked through a small window in the solid door. Wisps of gray in her strawberry blond morning hair fell over her forehead. The deadbolt rattled as she unlocked it.

  “What in the world, What...In...The... World! Ohhh, come here, boy.”

  He pulled the screen door open, stretching out the spring with a screech, grabbed his mother in a hug, lifting her feet off the ground. “Anybody here want a cathead biscuit at Lyrene’s?”

  Bonnie popped a sudden tear of happiness at the surprise, wiped it with the back of her hand. “Ohhhh, my goodness. You didn’t call.”

  “Let’s talk about it over breakfast. I’m starving.”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  Walking into the bungalow the smell of his childhood flushed over him like a cloud. The scent never changed. Ed’s chair sat right where he last sat in it. Jake pictured him reading the Mobile Press Register every day after work, maybe a beer or bourbon to relax. The same pictures were on the wall, the same knickknacks and curios in the same crannies they were in when he moved in the home at age ten. Jake inhaled, fighting back watery eyes. It was always emotional for him here.

  He looked into his old bedroom from the doorway. It was Chuck’s bedroom first, Bonnie and Ed’s son. Jake had changed nothing over the years. He respectfully kept it as he found it. Chuck’s model cars and fishing rod were right where he left them. A picture of Chuck and his parents at the Magic Kingdom rested on the dresser. The bed was made, everything clean and dusted. The closet still held some of Chuck’s clothes.

  IT WAS 3:25 P.M. THE FRIDAY BEFORE MEMORIAL DAY. Last day of school. Thirty-four years ago. A sweat-box hot, crystal-clear afternoon. Bonnie and Ed presented Chuck with a new mountain bike after breakfast. It had eight speeds and handbrakes.

  Chuck was riding his new mountain bike downhill on Fels, showing off his speed. Jake and Kimbo were behind him on their bikes, intentionally letting Chuck win the race.

  Chuck ran the stop sign eighty feet from the cottage, his fingers unaccustomed to hand breaks. The four-door Chevy Biscayne was running thirty. It was driven by an 83 year old retired preacher looking out at the bay.

  Bonnie saw her son’s head explode on the windshield.

  So did Jake and Kimbo.

  BONNIE AND JAKE TOOK A LEISURELY SIXTY MINUTES to chat with some folks at Lyrene’s. Everybody in town felt they knew Jake or told people they did. He made people feel small town proud. Nobody gave a rip about him being a federal cop. In Alabama what they liked were champions. Football champions. Grown men and young boys could live their dreams through him. Jake held a state title from high school, a national title at Bama, and a Super Bowl title with the Redskins. That was the Jake story. Period.

  Except for the Big Jake grills and killing people that needed it.

  57

  JAKE BREEZED INTO WILD BILL BURNHAM’S OFFICE with a clean shave and a fresh shower. “Like what y'all have done with the windows. Think I might get some plywood treatments for my cottage in Georgetown.”

  Liz, the office manager, laughed and rushed around her desk to hug Jake. She didn’t hesitate to let her bosom rub across his chest while she planted a kiss on his cheek. She was dark haired and bright eyed, still trim in her early fifties and always the happiest person in the room.

  “Good gosh, Jake. You’re like hugging a sheet of steel, not like that powdered donut upstairs.” She flicked her chin and eyes up. “Wild Bill’s about to have a breakdown.” She grabbed her phone and sent a quick text.

  You have a visitor.

  Who?

  Some guy from Washington.

  The office sounded with heavy footsteps clomping over pine floors from above. Then tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat down the stairs like a machine gun.

  “What the hell took you so long?” said Bill. “Upstairs, now.” He slung his head towards the steps.

  “Have a seat, Jake. Gotta show you something, first. My new advertising campaign.”

  Bill picked up a foam poster board leaning against the wall, held it by both ends, flashed it in Jake’s face. “This is going up soon on my billboards.” It was a vivid color photograph of Wild Bill in a black tux leaning against the now-destroyed white Rolls-Royce. Black Stetson. Fat cigar. Champagne flute in his hand. A marina full of yachts was in the background.

  Million Dollar Bill

  1-800-All Cash

  “We took this shot at Orange Beach. Whatcha think? I mean who wouldn’t hire me, right?”

  “You called me down here for that?”

  “Okay, look, Jake. I got a little hysterical on the phone with you. But it was my damn Rolls. Look, we’ve got to keep this confidential, this extortion stuff. I paid those pricks. Whoever sent that crazy shit invitation out, I paid ‘em after I saw that snuff video from Charleston. That was over five weeks ago.”

  “How much?”

  “Keep this quiet... $5.1 million.”

  “Damn, Bill...five million?” Jake squirmed in his seat at the number.

  “Yeah. Keep it quiet. But I’ve been thinking since we spoke. I don’t think it’s those bastards. It’s a gut feeling. I think it’s somebody else.” Bill took a sip of his Mountain Dew. “Somebody local.”

  “Stop jerking me around. Who?”

  “Johnny Earl Shedd.”

  “Shedd? Jimmy Shedd’s daddy?”

  “The one and only. He was in the Army for six years, a demolition expert. Trained at Ft. Hood, Texas.” Bill leaned back in his chair, placed his boots on his mini fridge edging the sack of French rolls to the side.

  “In high school I remember he had a goat farm in Point Clear,” said Jake.

  “Still has some goats. But his main gig is raising Labrador retrievers for hunting. Trains them, everything. Sells them around the country for top dollar. Famous for it. But the damn dogs bark and howl all times of the day and night. His place is about 100 yards back in the woods from Great Bay Road, right across from my place on the bay. Those dogs have a three-hundred-yard barking range.”

  “Okay, so what? Why would he blow up your car?”

  “I’ve called the cops and animal control on him eight times for all the racket. A month ago, I filed a lawsuit against him and his hound dog business. I wanna shut him down for good. At least in that location.”

  “Okay. But blow up your car?”

  “There was one other thing, Jake.” Bill’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Four days ago, eight of his dogs died from poisoned hamburger meat.”

  Jake shot a hard look at Bill.

  Bill didn’t respond.

  Jake stood, said, “I wish I hadn’t heard that.” He walked out of Bill’s office.

  At the bottom of the steps he saw a young guy in a black tee shirt over jeans with scattered whiskers on his face talking to Liz.

  As the office door was closing, he heard Liz say, “That’s Jake Montoya.”

 
Jake didn’t notice the intensity of Theo Fuller’s eyes.

  58

  JAKE WALKED TO THE CORNER, turned left at the drugstore, made his way past a hot sushi spot and the Hampton Inn. He stopped at the window dressing of the haberdashery on the corner. The place had a water bowl outside for dogs on a stroll. That alone made him duck in. A slim short-haired blond lady saw Jake enter, size the place up, and stop at the ties.

  He bought four sharp ties at Georgetown prices. They were bagged and he was on his way.

  A half a block away he entered the Black Point Police Department and approached the clerk who was behind glass. “May I help you?”

  “Jake Montoya, FBI. Is the chief in? I don’t have an appointment.” The clerk glanced at the badge he displayed. She knew Jake from years back but didn’t mention it.

  Three minutes later, a steel door was opened by a trim man wearing rimless glasses. He was an inch taller than Jake and maybe a few years older.

  “Jake Montoya, huh? You’re famous around here. I’m Pike Tatum.” They shook hands. “Come on back,” said Pike, doing a big circle wave with his arm.

  “Take a seat, Jake. Bet I know why you’re here,” said Pike. “Wild Bill.”

  “Well, yeah. Unofficially.”

  “Got anything on the bombing, Pike?”

  “Too early. The ABI Bomb Squad was on the scene six hours after the blast. They scooped up everything they could and loaded it up in a couple trucks. They’ll get back to me next week on the vapor signature. One guy said 99%chance it was plastic, either C4 or Semtex.”

  The chief had no knowledge about the extortion on Wild Bill. That had remained under wraps.

  “Sounds good. I was just over at Bill’s office. He said it could be Johnny Earl Shedd. Something about dogs.”

  Pike took a deep breath. “Ahhh, Jesus H... yeah. Small town bullshit is about to wear me out. Lucky you don’t have to deal with that. Bill’s been incensed about the dog’s barking. He’s called me ten times over the last six months. I’ve spoken to Johnny Earl after each complaint. He said it’s his land and he can do what he wants.”

  “Bill said Shedd’s an explosives expert.”

  Pike perked up. “Really? I didn’t know that. I just thought he was a dog purveyor. Shedd did call us about the incident the other day. Somebody poisoned them, he said. I knew that would stir the pot. Shedd mostly sticks to himself. He has a reputation of not getting along with people. He does better with his animals.”

  “Pike, would you mind if I spoke to him? I’m not in town to step on any toes. The Bureau’s looking into the death of two lawyers at this point, looking for connections. A guy in Charleston and a guy in Colorado. There’s a lot of work to be done. And, again, I’m not in it officially.”

  “Wait a minute. You think those guys are coming after Bill?”

  Jake threw his hands up. “Don’t know.”

  “Help yourself on Shedd. But I’d like for you to keep me posted on things. Listen, don’t expect the welcome mat to come out from him. He hates cops.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Pike was surprised after Jake left. Montoya didn’t go all big shot Fed on him.

  Thought, maybe he’s alright.

  59

  JAKE RAN BY PAGE AND PALETTE, the local indie bookstore. He browsed around a half hour and didn’t leave until he bought two books written by a guy named Rick Bragg. Bonnie told Jake that Bragg has a house in Black Point and knows the south like the devil knows evil.

  Back in the bungalow, Jake punched up the Dogpile search engine. Typed in ‘Johnny Earl Shedd dogs Black Point, Alabama.’

  The first result was an article from the Mobile Press Register four days ago. ‘Prize Gundogs Poisoned in Point Clear.’ The article reported a four-week old litter of puppies as well as the mother were found dead in their kennel. The owner, Johnny Earl Shedd, refused to comment other than to say that he lost over $15,000 worth of dogs.

  Another result was a short video from Fox 10 television in Pensacola. A reporter was onsite the day after the poisonings and interviewed Johnny Earl Shedd on camera. Shedd had to be six-three, two-fifty, with an earthy, country-rough look to him. He was late sixties, red drinker’s nose, and balding with the remaining gray hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Both eyes glowed with fire as he spoke angrily into the camera.

  “The man or the people who did this better pray to God they end up in jail before I get ‘em. YOU HEAR ME? YOU bleep bleep HEAR ME!”

  Johnny Earl turned and walked away. Around his waist was a heavy saddle-tan leather gun belt ringed with thick brass ammo. Jake figured the bullets for .44 magnums.

  Definitely a guy that would blow a Rolls into next year.

  60

  Thursday, June 6, 2019

  JAKE AND ROWDY WERE HITTING thirty-five rolling south to Point Clear on Great Bay Road. At two and a half miles they passed the old Magnolia Hotel, a deep-south bayfront landmark. The property was thick with oaks, magnolias and lushly landscaped. A snug marina was at the northern edge of the property. Two golf courses were on the eastern side of the road.

  Jake spotted the place a half mile down from the hotel. Johnny Earl had one of the huge rural-type mailboxes mounted on a thick piece of timber. A placard was screwed into the post below the mailbox. Southern Gundog Institute. It was painted in patriotic red, white, and blue. These days, that could mean a good old U.S. of A. gun radical could be waiting in the bushes with a M-16 and thirty thousand rounds of ammo. A smaller sign said No Trespassing. It made Jake think, but only for a moment.

  A red clay dirt drive wound through a thick stand of pines looming over a ground cover of briars and palmetto. Twenty yards in, he stopped, put the truck in park, leaned to his right, slid a Glock out from under his seat. He inserted a magazine of .45 caliber rounds into the pistol, chambered a shell, placed the gun on the seat, then crept forward at five miles an hour.

  After fifty more yards he reached a pea gravel circular drive that would have been at home at an English country manor. A two-story white farmhouse was nestled in a copse of live oaks, pignut hickories, and black gums. Two huge southern magnolias stood like sentries at the beginning of the old brick walkway from the drive to the home. Place could be in a magazine. He couldn’t imagine the grizzled old coot he saw on the TV footage living here.

  Jake stepped out, left the driver’s door open, leaned in, and tapped the horn a couple of beats. He waited. Nothing. He walked away from the truck so he could get a better look behind the home. An expansive pasture contained goats and burros.

  Two separate kennel buildings sat 100 feet from the home. Their design matched the architecture of the home. Classy.

  A younger man drove a green Gator utility vehicle from behind one of the kennels into Jake’s view. It wasn’t Johnny Earl. He killed the engine, reached behind him and brought up a long gun with a scope, laid it across his lap, put his right foot up on the dash, leaned back in his seat, and watched Jake.

  Well, damn. Jake knew this guy could probably shoot his ear off if he wanted using the scoped rifle. Jake stuck up his hand in a wave. “Hey, how you doing?” The fellow didn’t twinge a reply.

  “Stop dead in your tracks, boy.”

  Jake looked in the direction of the sound, didn’t see anybody. A gray beard slowly came into view, edging around a 150-year-old landmark oak. Johnny Earl was dressed exactly like he was in the news video. Only today he held a flat-black pump shotgun.

  Johnny Earl walked slowly towards Jake, right index finger in the trigger guard flush on the trigger, left hand clutching a firm grip on the fore stock, ready to ratchet another round in the chamber if his first shot didn’t cut somebody in half.

  “Mr. Shedd, I’m Jake Montoya, FBI. Mind if we chat a moment?”

  Shedd spat to the ground. “Don’t mean shit to me. You’re trespassing. Take off your shirt.”

  “What?”

  “Take off your shirt right damn now, less you want me to blow your right shoulder off.
”

  “Why?”

  “Ain’t no damn why. Take your shirt off.” Shedd was now eight feet from Jake. He’d raised the scatter gun towards Jake’s chest. “Even I might not miss at this distance.”

  Jake started at the top, unbuttoned six buttons, slowly opened the shirt and dropped it to the ground

  “Turn around, boy.”

  Jake turned a slow circle with his arms out to his side.

  “Take off your pants, toss ‘em to me.”

  Jake kept his eyes on Johnny Earl, held his pants with his right hand, slowly stepped out, tossed them. Shedd took three large steps back, knelt, pulled Jake’s wallet as well as his F.B.I. badge out of his pants pocket. Studied the driver’s license. Felt the heft of the badge.

  “Jacob Montoya. Washington, D.C.” Shedd tossed the badge, wallet, and pants back to Jake. “What in the hell are you doing on my property?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the dogs.”

  Shedd wagged a finger at Jake as a suspicious goofy grin creased his face. “No, no, no. Nooooo. The FBI ain’t sending somebody down here to talk about dogs. That’s rat shit.”

  “Mr. Shedd, I grew up here.”

  “Hold it, hold it right there.” Shedd was looking at the Tahoe. “Let’s see the dog.”

  Shedd walked over to the Tahoe. Jake dressed quickly and followed. Shedd looked through the open window at the dog. Rowdy’s eyes bored into the old man, hard. Better hope this leash stays on me, Jack.

  “Belgian Mali. Aggressive, agile. Fine dogs.” Shedd glanced back towards the house. The younger man was standing there watching, long gun still in his hands.

  “Landry, get a bowl of water for the dog.” Shedd looked at Jake. “Now what are you doing here?”

  “Why’d you make me undress?”

  “You drove right past my No Trespassing sign. Mistake one. Then you stopped the truck to load a pistol. Mistakes two through ten.”

  “You’ve got surveillance?”

  “The question was, what the hell are you doing here from Washington looking into my dogs? That’s nonsense.”