Six Cut Kill

by David R Lewis

  Crockett kissed her on the cheek and began to climb the stairs. Maybe a nap. Just a short one.

  Crockett’s ringing phone pulled him up out of a black hole a little after three. He cleared his throat, groped the offending instrument off the nightstand, and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Ba-da-bing, shooter.”

  Crockett’s brain rolled over and kicked in. “Montero?” he asked.

  “The one and only. Long time, no see. How’s my favorite patsy?”

  Crockett grinned. “You do know that Columbus didn’t really discover America, don’t you?”

  “A falsehood perpetrated by members of your dubious ethnic background. I got a message to call you. I called. Why the hell are you botherin’ me? I thought we were done after that little party in South Dakota.”

  “I need a good recipe for marinara sauce.”

  “Family secret. No can do.”

  “I have something I can trade for it that might change your mind.”

  “Oh Yeah? Like what?”

  “A shitload of light weapons probably bound for South Africa.”

  “How much is a shitload?”

  “Several thousand, plus ammo and grenades.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Well,” Montero said, “first ya gotta have nice fresh Roma tomatoes. And garlic. Lotsa garlic.” Crockett laughed. “Sounds like I made you an offer you can’t refuse,” he said.

  “Possibly. And where might these items be at the present time?”

  “Less than twenty minutes from where I sit.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Hart County, Missouri.”

  “That don’t help.”

  “Call me when you get to Kansas City. I’ll give you directions.”

  “Be there in two or three days.”

  “There’s a serial killer involved in this, too. Working here, Seattle, Charleston West Virginia, Russia, South Africa, and possibly China.”

  “Be there tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to your arrival. Thanks, Montero.”

  “Hey, Crockett?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fahgedaboudit.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Crockett met Dale Smoot at the diner that evening as usual. After the customary meal and/or snack, he asked Dale to join him in the truck. They patrolled as Crockett told him about the weapons stashed at Bryant’s place.

  “God almighty!” Smoot said. “That’s a helluva lot more than we can handle!”

  “Plus,” Crockett replied, “it was an illegal search. All that weaponry is fruit of the poison tree. Never be admissible.”

  Dale looked at him for a moment. “I almost asked you what the hell we could do, but that would be stupid. You’ve already got something worked out, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve got someone worked out. A Feebie named Montero. Clete and I dealt with him a couple of years ago. He’s sharp and has a certain amount of autonomy. He’s coming into town tomorrow.”

  “He’s a Fed. You trust him?”

  “He investigated a situation I was in while passing himself off as a deputy sheriff. Aimed Clete and me the right way and stood back while we took care of a very bad man and his people. Sharp. I trust him to do the right thing, even if that means he let’s somebody else do it.”

  “That’s all you’re gonna tell me, isn’t it?”

  Crockett smiled. “Unless you buy me dinner and get me drunk.”

  “What do you want me to do, just stay out of the way?”

  “For right now. I’ll introduce the two of you, but this deal pretty much belongs to him. Of course, when things start to happen, you and the department will be in on it. Full cooperation of local authorities, action initiated by sheriff’s department, something like that.”

  “Send me off into retirement with a bang, huh?”

  Crockett grinned. “Beats the hell out of a thud,” he said.

  “You gonna talk to McPherson about this?”

  “The judge? I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Should I?”

  “I would. It’s his county. He’ll wanna be in the loop. He might still be in his office. Drop me off at HQ and see.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Crockett knocked on Judge McPherson’s office door.

  “Enter.”

  Crockett did. The judge was standing behind his desk, removing a suit jacket from a coat tree.

  “Evening, Judge. Can you spare a few minutes?”

  “For you, sir? Most assuredly. You are not one to abuse me by the lengthening of my day without just reason. Be seated and relate to me the cause of the circumstance in which we find ourselves.”

  Crockett did.

  “My, my, my,” the judge mused. “What one might describe as a significant cache of weaponry.”

  “Enough to equip a small army,” Crockett said.

  “Indeed, sir. And the added benefit of the apprehension of a serial killer who has been practicing his miscreant behavior upon three continents.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You, of course, as a law enforcement officer cannot legally enter the premises in question without the probable cause necessary to secure a warrant.”

  “Nossir.”

  “This structure was originally built as a stable and riding arena?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Were you ever in the building prior to its evacuation of equines?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And you have been helping out at the new facility, cleaning stalls and working with the animals sequestered there, have you not?”

  Crockett smiled. He felt like he was on the witness stand. “I have,” he said.

  “Tell me, Deputy Crockett, was there any article that you recall left in the old barn that you thought might be useful in the new facility?”

  Crockett thought for a moment. A light came on. “Yes, Your Honor. In the office of the old barn was a small tabletop refrigerator. I thought it would be nice to have it in the new office.”

  “May I assume that you possibly went to the location in question to secure that very appliance for the new office?”

  “Nossir,” Crockett replied. “I went to the location in question to merely see if it was still there. I had planned on removing it the next day.”

  “Why the delay, sir?”

  “I checked on it after my late night patrol. It had become my habit to drop by the barn to look in on the horses after I got off work from the department.”

  “I see. You went to the old barn at about what time of day?”

  “I’m not completely sure, sir, but I believe it would have been around two in the morning.”

  “Why so late, Deputy?”

  “My shift usually ends around midnight. That makes it nearly one o’clock before I check on the stock. The walk from the new place to the old place took around forty-five minutes.”

  “You made your journey from one to the other on foot, sir?”

  “I did.”

  “To what end?”

  “I spend a lot of time sitting in my county vehicle, Your Honor. It was a nice night, cool and clear, and, since I had no intention of actually removing the refrigerator from the building at that time, I decided to walk the round trip to get a little exercise.”

  “But the structure had been converted from a horse barn to a storage facility, had it not?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Was it not, then, reasonable to assume that the building would be locked or secured from passing entry?”

  “Yessir, it was.”

  “How did you expect to gain access?”

  “Through a small door at the rear of the barn that I was reasonably sure would be open.”

  “And it was?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And what, if anything, did you find inside this building that aroused your curiosity?”

  “Several large storage containers that were in the main arena area seemed quite natural to m
e, but in many of the stalls were stacked wooden crates. I became curious and entered one of the stalls. I smelled cosmoline.”

  “And what exactly is cosmoline, Deputy?”

  “Cosmoline is a type of grease that is often used to coat firearms for storage or shipment to keep the weapons in good condition and free of rust.”

  “Could this substance also be used to protect mining equipment?”

  “I don’t know. I’m only familiar with it being related to firearms.”

  “The scent of this substance caused you to do what, Deputy Crockett?”

  “I opened one of the crates.”

  “And what did you find, sir?”

  “Ten AK-74 carbine rifles, sir.”

  “What type of rifle is the AK-74?”

  “It is an upgrade of the Russian AK-47 rifle. The same AK-47 combat automatic firearm used against our troops during the Vietnam War, and on many other occasions in many other locations throughout the world in acts of disobedience and terrorism. The AK-74 rifle is highly prized by many governments and organizations we may assume to be our enemies, Your Honor.”

  “Were there other similar crates available to you?”

  “Dozens of them, your honor. Maybe hundreds. Nine or ten stalls full of similar crates. I did not count them.”

  “Officer Crockett, when you made this discovery, were you acting as a police officer?”

  “I was not.”

  “Were you acting on behalf of the Hart County Constabulary in any way?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Did you enter the structure in search of any specific items?”

  “Yessir. The refrigerator.”

  “So, the discovery of the illegal weaponry was merely happenstance?”

  “It was.”

  “And it was not your intent, when you entered the building, to remove any items of value from the premises?”

  “Nossir.”

  “And you were acting only as a private citizen as opposed to an officer of the court?”

  “That’s true, Judge.”

  “Indeed. I see no reasonable grounds to believe that you were functioning as a burglar or thief. In that event, I choose not to charge you with any malfeasance. Nor do I find reason to believe you were acting in your capacity as a deputy sheriff. Therefore, I believe the issuance of a search warrant, based on your testimony to me as a private citizen of Hart County and a confidential informant, to be both reasonable and prudent. I shall issue that warrant tomorrow morning, sir. You may use it, with reasonable delay, at a time of your choosing.”

  Crockett grinned. “Thank you, Your Honor. I know I’m on thin ice here.”

  McPherson smiled. “The trick with thin ice, Deputy,” he said, “is to not stop in one spot overlong.”

  “I’ll drop by for the warrant tomorrow, Judge.”

  “Very well. Please give your lovely bride my regards. Good evening, sir.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Crockett’s cell phone went off a little after eight the next morning. It was Smoot.

  “Hey, Dale.”

  “Got your warrant. The judge just dropped it off.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s locked up under armed guard. Now what?”

  “Now we wait for my FBI guy and turn this whole mess over to him, I guess.”

  “I damned sure don’t want it!”

  “He’s coming in today. I’ll be in touch. Talk to ya later.”

  Crockett took a quick shower and crutched his way downstairs in his robe. Satin and Clete were sitting at the snack bar. She poured a cup of coffee and slid it over by an empty stool. Crockett sat.

  “Got the warrant,” he said. His cell phone went off again.

  “Crockett.”

  “I’m fuckin’ here, okay?”

  Crockett grinned. “Where’s here?” he asked.

  “Whatdaya think, I freakin’ walked? I’m at the airport. I took the red-eye from Atlanta.”

  “Had breakfast?”

  “Oh, hell yes. Had a short stack with bacon an’ eggs on the plane. What are ya, stupid?”

  “There’s a Cracker Barrel south of the airport a little way. Take a cab down there. I’ll come get you. Take about an hour.”

  “Terrific. That’ll gimme time for a nap. Jesus!”

  Still grinning, Crockett disconnected and looked at Cletus.

  “Montero?” Clete asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Crockett said. “The FBI Mafia has arrived.”

  Clete and Crockett found Montero sitting in the back corner of the second dining area, drinking coffee and staring bleakly at nothing. He shifted his gaze to them as they approached his table.

  “The shooter an’ the spotter,” he said. “Long time no see. Siddown.”

  For the next hour or so, Crockett gave Montero all he and Clete knew about the weapons, Jack Bryant, his comings and goings, and the physical layout of the place.

  “So he ain’t on site now, huh?” Montero said.

  “No,” Clete said. “We don’t know exactly when he’ll be back. His wife should know. You’ll meet her later.”

  “How come she’s gonna give him up?”

  “She doesn’t like him.”

  Montero smiled. “Good reason. She’s willing to do that, she’s given you two this Intel, what’s her end? What’s she get outa all this?”

  “Her freedom an’ the dog an’ pony show,” Clete said.

  “So he don’t own the property she’s set up on?”

  “Nope. It’s in her name an’ leased to a philanthropic organization called the Triumph Trust that has provided some of the fundin’ for the initial set up of the place.”

  “That shit is all legal an’ binding, I assume.”

  “Bulletproof,” Clete said, “and a shitload of lawyers to defend it.”

  “An’ this trust outfit is clean?”

  “As a hound’s tooth. I’m the administrator.”

  Montero smiled. “You git around a little, doncha.”

  “Some,” Clete said.

  “Well,” Montero said, “you two assholes have cost me a night’s sleep already, an’ this story you’ve told me is beginnin’ to curl back on itself. I need some shut-eye. Let’s get to where we’re goin’ an’ get me a motel room.”

  “Probably not,” Crockett said.

  Montero looked a little desperate. “Prob’ly not?” he said. “Whatdafuck?”

  “No motels.”

  Montero dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, hell,” he said.

  Clete had moved his stuff to the spare bedroom, so they stuck Montero in the guesthouse. Late afternoon, while Crockett and Clete were sitting on the deck, the sound of an agitated Donk was heard echoing through the woods. Crockett walked around the corner to see Montero standing in the drive about twenty feet from Donk as the dog advised him he’d come far enough. Grinning, Crockett headed to the rescue.

  “Nice doggy,” Montero said.

  Dundee came hustling up, joined Donk, and lifted the ruff on her back then growled.

  “Oh, shit,” Montero whispered.

  “Stand still,” Crockett said, walking his way. “Donk! Dundee! Sit!” He passed the dogs and went to Montero, stood beside him and placed an arm on his shoulder.

  “We’re going to walk to the deck now,” he said. “Don’t look at the dogs. Don’t talk to the dogs. Don’t touch the dogs. When we get to the deck, sit down and ignore them. I guarantee you, in ten minutes they’ll be your pals. Just do what I say.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Montero said. “Absolutely.”

  On the deck, Montero sat as still as a statue while the dogs eyeballed him.

  “You don’t like dogs?” Clete asked.

  “My wife’s got a dog,” Montero replied, moving nothing but his mouth. “A little fuzzy one named Charlie. He’s okay. But, that fucker ain’t never threatened my life. Not like these two werewolves.”

  Crockett’s coffee nearly came out his nose.

  In another moment, Dundee w
alked over to Montero and sniffed his legs. He endured it. Presently, she sat and put a paw on his knee.

  “Whadafuck he want?” he said.

  “She,” Crockett said.

  “Okay. Whatdafuck does she want?”

  “She wants you to pet her,” Crockett said.

  “Where?”

  “Try her neck behind her head. Just scratch her there a little.”

  “You got a first aid kit?” Montero asked.

  “Pet the damn dog,” Clete said.

  Montero did. Dundee grinned and began to wag her excuse for a tail.

  “Hey,” Montero said, “lookadat.”

  Within another minute both dogs were vying for his attention, and Montero was roughing them up and smiling. “What are their names?” he asked.

  “Dundee and Donk,” Crockett said.

  “Naw, ya gotta change that.”

  Crockett grinned. “To what?” he asked.

  Montero held both dogs at arm’s length and looked them over.

  “Bada-bing an’ bada-boom,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Crockett got busy in the kitchen, preparing ground beef and chopping lettuce and tomatoes for tacos while the three of them made strained small talk, Jack Bryant occasionally flitting through the conversation. Satin arrived just as things were ready. Introductions were made. Any talk of the events at Ivy’s when Ruby was killed was avoided. It was a strange evening. Business needed to be discussed, but the general mood was one of wanting to relax and just settle down. Shortly after the meal was started, Stitch walked in from the deck and looked at Montero.

  “You’re that cat that finished up the shit in South Dakota,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Montero replied. “An’ you’re the airbus that did the insert and extraction.”

  Stitch nodded. “That’s me, motherfucker. You’re about the only FBI weenie I ever had any use for. Nice work, dude.”

  “The sixties were real good to you, huh?”

  “I think so, man. Kinda hard to remember, ya know?”

  Montero grinned. “Have a taco, Blackbird, an’ take a load off,” he said.