Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  “Thanks, boss,” Crockett replied, and headed for the back.

  Crockett was working on his statement re-write when he heard a knock on the doorframe. Marvin Underwood stood in the door waiting for acknowledgement.

  “Mister Mayor,” Crockett said. “C’mon in. Have a seat if you like.”

  Underwood took a chair and stared at the desktop for a moment. “Uh, Crockett, you and I have not exactly had what one might call a sympathetic relationship.”

  Crockett grinned. “No shit?” he asked.

  “I have spoken to my brother at length in the jail, and talked with his wife on the phone. From what I have been able to glean, you have handled tonight’s incidents with skill and maturity.”

  “Just did my job,” Crockett said, resisting the urge to giggle at Underwood’s discomfort.

  “Suzanne tells me you counseled her about motives and relationships.”

  “I talked with her for a while.”

  “Keith told me he attempted to get you to shoot him.”

  “It was a helluva temptation,” Crockett said. “You know how trigger happy I am.”

  Underwood flinched as if he’d been slapped. “I would seem, my original assessment of you may have been in error. I also spoke with Deputy Cleaver. It appears you handled the entire situation with a great deal of restraint and understanding. I want to thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. As I said, just doing my job.”

  “Goddammit, Crockett, I’m trying to apologize to you here!”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “You’re not going to give an inch, are you?”

  “Mister Mayor,” Crockett went on, “you and I don’t like each other. I believe you’re a pompous ass. You think I’m a bloodthirsty cowboy. I don’t have the patience to understand your position, and you don’t have the balls to appreciate mine. We are never going to exchange Christmas cards, go shopping together, or take long walks in the moonlight. I did my job. Just like I’ve done my job every day since I took it. You would love to get rid of me because I don’t give you any respect that you haven’t earned, and you have not earned any. I do appreciate you had the guts to come to me like you have tonight. Understand that I did nothing this evening that I wouldn’t have done for anyone else in similar circumstances.”

  Underwood stood up. “So that’s it?” he asked.

  “There’s something else you need to understand, sir,” Crockett said.

  “What?”

  “If your brother had pulled his Glock on me tonight, I’d have dropped him where he stood.”

  Underwood turned and left the building.

  Crockett smiled and went back to his re-write.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Satin was sleeping in Crockett’s recliner when he and Donk got home. Dundee’s welcoming barks woke her up. She peered at him nearsightedly through a mop of hair and smiled.

  “Home from the wars?” she asked.

  “What the hell are you doing up, young lady? You’re supposed to be getting your beauty sleep while I’m out saving the world.”

  “You okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “Timeisit?”

  “Oh-dark-thirty.”

  “I made some fresh coffee around two,” Satin went on. “That Kenyan you like. As soon as it dripped, I shut off the pot. Should still be good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I made some French toast, too. Wrapped up and in the fridge. Mic it if you’re hungry.”

  “I don’t care what anybody says. You’re an okay wife.”

  “The last one you’ll ever have.”

  “Thank God. After the lovely marital relationship I dealt with tonight, I don’t believe I’d want another one. You’ll do ‘til the roads dry up.”

  “Smooth talker,” Satin said, levering herself and the chair into an upright position. “I’m going to bed. How ‘bout you?”

  “Naw. It’ll be dawn in an hour. I’m gonna go for a pontoon ride, check on our fishy friends, and not toss and turn beside your lovely self and keep you awake.”

  “You gotta sleep.”

  “Dale gave me tomorrow, uh, today off. I’ll sleep later.”

  Satin got up, schlepped over to where he stood, pressed her face into his neck for a moment, and shuffled off toward the stairs, Dundee on her heels.

  Smiling, Crockett divested himself of the police poundage attached to his person, nuked a cup of coffee he poured into an insulated mug, and turned toward the door. Donk sat there, looking at him.

  “You going with me?”

  “Boof.”

  “Well, all right, but this time you’re gonna have to bait your own hook.”

  The dog vanished into the dark and was waiting on the pontoon boat when Crockett arrived.

  He got back to the cabin around ten, after cruising the lake for a couple of hours, fishing for a while, and dropping by Stitch’s place to con the hippie out of a bacon and eggs breakfast. Satin was on the deck with coffee.

  “You got the house cleaned and the laundry done already?” Crockett asked.

  “Silly boy. Actually, I was considering going back inside. Too hot and humid out here. Got some clouds coming in from the northwest. Gonna rain.”

  “Probably. The fish were skittish. Not biting much. Hanging around deep cover. That’s a sign of something.”

  “Going to bed?”

  “Yeah. I’m beat. What time you go to work?”

  “Later. I’m leaving soon, though. Going to meet Charlene and talk with her about everything.”

  “You ever call Danni?”

  “Tonight. Second weekend next month good for the big fish fry?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. You staying home all day?”

  “Most of it. I’ll probably go into work late for a little while and leave early. Weather shifts influence more than just fish.”

  Satin smiled. “You’re a good man, Crockett.”

  “Tell your friends,” he said, starting up the stairs. “I need the publicity.”

  Crockett got up around three-thirty. The dampness on the deck indicated it had rained a bit, but not nearly enough to break either the heat or humidity. He went outside for a while, but it was like trying to breathe under water. He washed a load of towels, did a partial sink of dishes, vacuumed the ground floor except Satin’s office, cleaned Nudge’s litter box, watched an old Have Gun, Will Travel episode on the tube enjoying Richard Boone’s performance, put on his quasi cop uniform, and headed into town. Margie was on desk duty when he arrived at the office.

  “I thought you were off tonight,” she said.

  “I am. I just couldn’t go a whole day without seeing you.”

  “You can look, but if you touch you’ll draw back a bloody stump.”

  Crockett grinned. “Woof!” he said. “I like a woman with spirit.”

  Margie sneered at him. “You’d fall offa this ride on the best day you ever had.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would ya, Marge?”

  “Have to. You can’t handle the truth.”

  Crockett chuckled. “I’ll be around for a few hours, sitting in the dark, thinking about you.”

  “Heard whatcha done for them folks last night. Maybe you ain’t so bad after all.”

  Crockett waved over his shoulder and left.

  He drove around for an hour or two and passed by the Underwood place a little after dark. The front entrance area was boarded up, the crippled truck sat sideways in the drive, and no lights were on. It had been quiet all evening. Bored and tired, he was ready to cash in around ten, when his cell phone went off. It was Margie.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I didn’t use the radio ‘cause I don’t want a couple of marked cars gittin’ everbody shook up,” she said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Verna Warner’s place up in the north part of the county at 4123 Farm Road 117. She and her friends have had some trouble up there. Ain’t nobody hurt or no
thin’, but they’d like to talk to a cop. In spite a that, I called you.”

  “What do they need me for?”

  “They’ll tell ya when you get there, I guess. They’re nice folks, Crockett. Don’t deserve to be hassled by nobody.”

  “Good enough for me, kiddo. On the way.”

  “It’s a small dark house. Sits on a bank right close to the oil road. Only place for a half a mile in either direction. Right after you cross Fox Creek. There’s a pole light. If ya git lost, call me. I been there a few times.”

  Twenty minutes later, Crockett found Fox Creek. A hundred yards farther on he drove up a fairly steep hill, and there, perched about thirty feet back from the road on a high bank, was a low house with a pole light glowing above a gravel drive. He turned in and found a place to park in the company of eight or ten other vehicles. A dozen or so cats wound around his feet as he walked to a side door and knocked. It was opened almost immediately by a tall rangy woman in her seventies. She wore a dark blue sweater in spite of the heat, and gabardine slacks. Her eyeglasses were thick and made her eyes look huge as she peered at him.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Warner?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Deputy Crockett, M’am. Margie at the office said you wanted to talk to someone.”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, M’am. They won’t let me go home until midnight or later.”

  She smiled and stepped back. “Come in, Deputy,” Ms. Warner said.

  “Thank you, M’am. Please, call me Crockett.”

  The room was bigger than he anticipated. Books were everywhere, piled on tables, cascading off shelves, stacked on the floor and leaning against the walls. Two or three lighted glass curio cabinets glistened with stones and crystals. Maybe a dozen women, from thirty to Ms. Warner’s age, sat in chairs placed about the periphery. The timber of the room was warm and inviting, coupled with curiosity and a little tension. Crockett felt at ease almost immediately. Ms. Warner directed him to an old wooden rocking chair and asked if he wanted coffee. Crockett surprised himself by agreeing with both the chair and the drink. He sat, and a woman about thirty brought him a mug. She then seated herself on the floor, and all the women turned their attention toward him. He felt a little like a presenter at a book club meeting. Ms. Warner gathered herself a bit and began.

  “This is a metaphysical group, Dep…uh, Crockett,” she said. “We meet here, at my place, on Thursday evenings and have for years. Some of us are just curious about alternate possibilities, some of us are readers, some of us work with healing, and some of us trance-channel. Some people stay in the group for only a month or so. Some have been attending for years and years. To call us Pagan would be too limiting. To call us witches would be inaccurate. To call us devil worshipers would be silly. We do not attempt to cast spells, work in the dark arts, or control or manipulate anyone in any way. Most of us are psychics.”

  The room was quiet as everyone watched him. Crockett smiled. “Go on,” he said.

  Everybody relaxed. “You’re all right with what I’ve told you?” Ms. Warner asked.

  “Well,” Crockett said, “I’ve managed to not hiss at anyone and run screaming into the night.”

  The laughter was loose and easy. “Ladies,” he went on, “I don’t care if you’re Wicca or Pagan, or witches or bitches. I don’t even care if you’re Catholic.”

  “Some of us can be pretty bitchy,” somebody said.

  Crockett joined in the increased laughter. “I will tell you this,” he went on, “I have had some experience in your area. Enough that I am not as foolish as to put limits on what may or may not be true. My karma ran over my dogma years ago. But this is not the time for any of my delightfully entertaining stories. I’m here for you. What’s going on?”

  The woman who brought him coffee spoke up. “I’m Fran Warner, Deputy Crockett. Verna is my mother.”

  “Nice to meet you, Fran. Call me Crockett. Just Crockett.”

  “Okay. A couple of years ago it started. While we were meeting, a car drove by and several male voices shouted at us. Unbelievers, witches, things like that. We are not evangelistic about our belief systems nor do we hide them. Our Thursday gatherings are open to anyone who cares to come. We do not dance in the moonlight or sacrifice lambs. As time went on, these incidents of drive-by shoutings increased in frequency. Eventually it grew into shouting and horn honking, even firecrackers and such. These people are cowards. Just two weeks ago I chased them in my car. They ran. My car is slow, and I couldn’t get close enough to identify their vehicle or get a license number. Tonight, they came by and shot two holes in car windows before running away.”

  “Gun shots?”

  “We heard the customary shouting and firecrackers, but nothing else. It may have been a pellet gun or something.”

  “Can’t have that,” Crockett said. “Any idea who’s doing this stuff?”

  “We have no proof,” Ms. Warner spoke up. “We don’t want to unfairly judge, or we’re just like those who judge us.”

  Crockett smiled. “Any idea who’s doing this stuff?” he repeated.

  Fran spoke up. “There’s a small church about three miles west of here. It’s a splinter from a Baptist church over by Sutton. Some congregants that were asked to leave because of extreme beliefs is the way I heard it. Anyway, that church was organized just a few months before our trouble started.”

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” Crockett said.

  “For some people,” Ms. Warner said, “any excuse is enough.”

  “I’ll look into it, ladies.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For starters, I’m going to be a regular attendee at your Thursday night meetings. But, I’ll stay in my truck. I doubt if they can outrun it. After I deal with the yo-yo’s who give you trouble, I’ll chat with their minister. This is abuse and intimidation.”

  “What if they won’t leave us alone?” Fran asked.

  Crockett grinned. “Then,” he said, “the wrath of the deputy shall fall upon them, and they will be sore afraid.”

  When the laughter settled, Crockett stood up to go. “Were you comfortable in that chair?” Ms. Warner asked.

  “Yeah,” Crockett replied. “It was fine.”

  “That rocker was my grandfather’s. He built it himself. He was the only person to use it. It has been in this living room for over thirty years. No one, and I mean no one, has ever been able to stay in that chair for more than a minute or two.”

  Heads nodded in conformation around the room.

  “Asking you to sit there was a test. It has spit everyone else out but you. You are the only person, other than my granddad, who has ever found that chair to be comfortable. It is a very unusual chair. You are welcome here at any time for any reason. Thank you so much for sharing yourself with us.”

  Crockett felt a little numb.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Fran said, and nearly led him to the door.

  She stayed with him through the dim light to the truck. After Crockett got in and shut the door, she spoke again.

  “The man with the knife is not done,” she said. “Here or anywhere else.”

  Crockett watched her walk away and felt a ripple behind his heart.

  Damn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Crockett phoned Judge J.R. McPherson the next morning and met the man for a late lunch at Steak n’ Shake in Liberty. He found the judge at the rear of the nearly empty dining area. The judge, in casual dress, stood as Crockett approached.

  “Deputy,” McPherson said, “I must thank you for this pleasant diversion. It gives me the opportunity to indulge myself in a triple burger with Thousand Island dressing and some of the marvelous baked beans they serve here. Mrs. McPherson, in an ongoing quest to pummel me into dietary submission, allows me few liberties at the table, preferring instead to inflict upon me tasteless renditions of food as opposed to the real McCoy. She suffers nearly m
anic concern for my arteries, sir. Her good intentions, and the cruel punishment they inflict upon me, appear to bring her a great deal of pleasure while I occasionally am thrust into craving so intense for something as mundane as a Slim Jim, as to be rendered nearly incontinent with desire.”

  Crockett grinned. “Judge,” he said, “you are a real piece of work.”

  “As are you, sir,” McPherson replied. “It would not at all surprise me to learn that in a previous incarnation you and I were hung from the same gallows. To what do I owe this fortuitous encounter today?”

  The waitress arrived. Crockett ordered chili three-ways and iced tea. The judge, true to his word, asked for exactly what he said he would, topped off by a chocolate shake. After the young woman departed, he looked at Crockett and waited.

  “I visited a woman last night named Verna Warner,” Crockett said.

  “Ah, yes. Ms. Warner. From the northern part of the county. Lovely woman. Very kind. She appeared before me once in the jury selection process. She was released during voir dire. She said that she just would not be comfortable in judging the fate or motives of another person.”

  “She has a group that meets in her home on Thursday evenings.”

  “A metaphysical conglomerate, I believe,” the judge said. “Mrs. McPherson attended her gatherings now and then some years ago. She found it very pleasurable but had to discontinue her association due to deterioration of her night vision and the resultant difficulty with driving during darkness.”

  “Ms. Warner and her group are being hassled.”

  “Indeed?”

  The food arrived while Crockett explained the situation, and McPherson listened attentively while savoring his lunch. After disposing of the last bite of his sandwich and carefully patting his lips with a napkin, he spoke up.

  “Your intentions, sir?”

  “I thought I’d attend her meetings for a while from outside her home and inside my truck. If these shitheads show back up for more trouble, I’ll run ‘em down and toss ‘em in jail.”