by Sean Lynch
Scanlon still said nothing in reply.
“I would expect the sheriff in a rural Midwestern county to be somewhat uninformed, but I’m surprised at your apparent lack of awareness. Evidently the Bureau relegates its more adroit agents to the larger jurisdictions. The missing/exploited-child phenomenon is now overseen by political action groups so powerful they can easily afford to send attorneys from San Francisco to Iowa on a whim.”
In the face of Lyons not appearing intimidated in the least, Scanlon now clearly sensed he may have bitten off more than he could chew, and switched to a more diplomatic posture.
“Perhaps I was somewhat hasty in my initial assessment of your purpose, Mister Lyons,” he said nervously. “You must realize, as Sheriff Coates can attest, we are under a tremendous amount of pressure in our efforts to apprehend the suspect in this tragic case. Please forgive me if I seemed abrupt.”
Farrell smiled, accepting the conciliatory gesture. “I understand. These are troubling cases. We’re all on the same team.”
“By all means. How can our office be of help?”
“First off,” said Farrell, “are there charges being filed against the deputy?”
“Well, it’s like this…” began Sheriff Coates.
“At this time,” interrupted Scanlon, “we are pursuing the possibility of leveling charges at Deputy Kearns for battery, against me as you can probably see. We are also considering further charges for disruption of an investigation and refusal to cooperate with same.”
Just as I surmised, Farrell thought. They’re going to crucify the kid. “I see,” he said. “Pursuant to charges, has Deputy Kearns been given legal counsel at this level, or admonished of his Peace Officers’ Bill of Rights?”
“We felt no need at this point,” said Scanlon, in his head-cold accent. “We’re still in the preliminary phase of his interrogation. Also, we’re only considering charges, as I said, and should they be leveled we would certainly comply with all safeguards established to protect the deputy’s civil liberties.”
I’ll bet you would, thought Farrell. “I’m not trying to raise anybody’s hackles,” he said. “I only want to get some background.”
“Of course,” said the federal agent accommodatingly. Behind him, Coates sat at his desk and nodded in agreement.
Farrell bit his lip, appearing deep in thought. Looking at his watch, he spoke. “Special Agent Scanlon,” he said in his most sincere voice, “I don’t want to be any further trouble, and I know you’re busy enough with supervising this investigation. May I offer a suggestion?”
“What are you proposing?”
“Well,” he went on, again looking at his watch, “it’s after 11. I’ll take my client to lunch and return around 1 o’clock. I’m sure I can be finished in an hour or so. That way I could be on a flight back to California by this afternoon, and you could continue your investigation without me in the way.”
By the flash of Scanlon’s eyes Farrell knew the federal agent took the bait. Offering to be rid of the nuisance lawyer from California was too tempting.
“I think we could arrange that,” Scanlon said, a little too quickly. “What do you think, Sheriff? He’s your deputy.”
“Fine by me,” babbled the sheriff. Farrell could smell the familiar odor of Listerine on the sheriff’s breath and smirked. He realized why the sheriff had been so quiet, sitting impassively behind his desk; his breath was worse than Farrell’s.
“If that will be all, Mister Lyons, I’ll have one of my agents bring Deputy Kearns to you. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to California.”
“Considering the weather here,” said Farrell honestly, “I’d like nothing better.” He picked up his briefcase and headed for the office door.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” Farrell said, turning back towards Scanlon. “May I have one of your business cards?”
“Of course,” replied Scanlon, anxious to be rid of the bothersome attorney. He reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit.
“Thank you,” said Farrell pleasantly as he tucked the FBI man’s card into his pocket.
“I hope I’ve been of some help to you,” said Scanlon, as Farrell opened the office door.
CHAPTER 16
Buddy Cuszack squinted through the windshield wipers and tried to see the road ahead. The snow was coming down heavily, and visibility was less than fifty feet. He was forced to rely on the snowbanks on either side as his guide to keep the truck in the middle of the road.
Weather reports were predicting the blizzard would last through the night. Local schools had closed early so the rural children could get safely home, and school was canceled tomorrow. Today was the first of December, and winter wasn’t officially to start for nearly three weeks.
Slocum lay napping in the passenger seat. His large body seemed impervious to the cold, and Cuszack wondered how anyone could sleep in the fierce chill of the frigid night. The temperature had dropped another ten degrees, and Cuszack’s teeth chattered louder with every falling notch on the thermometer.
He wondered what caused Slocum to appear in his life after so many years. One day there he was, as if he’d never left. Buddy didn’t ask about the blood on Slocum’s face or the pistol he’d seen protruding from his pocket. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted was for Slocum to get what he wanted and leave.
He claimed to be seeking refuge, drugs, and weapons. Cuszack knew he owed the big former Marine drugs, maybe even his life. But the appearance of the man from the past was a bad omen. He sensed Slocum wanted more than merely shelter, dope, and guns, and thought that whatever it was, it spelled trouble.
At Slocum’s demand, Cuszack had spent the day at Zeke’s place in Coon Rapids, twenty miles northeast of Audubon. Coon Rapids was off Highway 141, and boasted less than five hundred people. The town was little more than a whistle-stop on the Burlington Northern Railroad line. It had taken the better part of two hours to drive to Zeke’s. There he’d bargained for Slocum’s needs.
Returning from his meeting, Cuszack had gone back to his trailer. Slocum had awakened and insisted they return to Zeke’s immediately to get the merchandise. And at a time when the Highway Patrol broadcast an advisory on the radio to stay off the roads.
Exhausted from the tedium of the two-way drive, Buddy had dug into his emergency stash of crank to wake up enough to drive back.
Zeke Fornier operated a clandestine methamphetamine laboratory at his Coon Rapids farm and used addicts like Buddy Cuszack as mules to distribute his product.
Zeke Fornier was also a Vietnam veteran, and spent his post-war years in the penitentiary at Fort Dodge for trafficking narcotics. Fornier put the three years of college-level chemistry he’d obtained prior to Vietnam to good use. His lab supplied much of the crank used from Des Moines to Omaha.
Zeke lived north of Coon Rapids on a farm chosen for its seclusion and large machinery shed. The shed housed the major components of his rural laboratory. It was also a constant party at Zeke’s place, and if you wanted crank, or guns, or stolen car or motorcycle parts, or hot VCRs, or the latest music cassettes, or jewelry, or tools, or anything else an addict or burglar would trade for methamphetamine, you could probably find it at Zeke’s. One of the rooms in the farmstead was even a home-movie studio. Zeke had branched into pornographic filmmaking, and hoped to begin marketing VHS cassettes of the people who came to him with nothing more than their bodies to barter.
It hadn’t been easy for Cuszack to negotiate with Zeke. Cuszack wasn’t able to tell Zeke much about Slocum, because he didn’t know much. He only had Slocum’s word that he had money, which didn’t assuage the skeptical Fornier. One of the reasons Zeke had been successful as a drug dealer was his predisposition to distrust strangers. He had a well-paid informant in the Carroll County Sheriff’s Department who would tip him off if the County Narcotics Enforcement Task Force began snooping, but he took no chances. And he wasn’t particularly fond of Cuszack.
Unbeknownst to Cuszac
k, Zeke viewed him as a docile junkie. Cuszack had value to the drug dealer only because he craved drugs to the point of servitude. And well did he serve. He would do anything, anytime, to score dope. To a man in Zeke’s business that was an asset if exploited properly.
Cuszack was actually one of Zeke’s more consistent mules because he was always available. The only way to avoid surveillance or entrapment was to be as random as possible in delivery, and Cuszack was always only a phone call away.
Today was different. Cuszack asked for a meeting between Zeke and an old friend who wanted to make a big purchase. He was short on details and long on pleas. Zeke had agreed to meet Cuszack’s friend because he was bored.
Now past nightfall, Cuszack fought the sliding truck over the snow-covered treachery that was Highway 141. Slocum was still asleep beside him, oblivious to the difficulty of guiding the truck to its destination. Eventually the truck’s headlights cast their illumination on the entrance to Zeke’s place. Slocum sat up.
“Back the truck up in the driveway,” he said gruffly, “and leave the keys in the ignition.”
Cuszack complied and got out of the truck. Slocum stood in the drifting snow, and Buddy watched him rack the slide of the .45 and chamber a round. He then put the pistol back into his pocket. Cuszack shuddered.
Yelling to be heard over the howling wind, he said, “Vern, what’s the piece for? This guy is my friend. You don’t need no gun.”
Slocum turned to face the addict, his eyes harder and colder than any Iowa winter could ever be. “This guy ain’t your friend. You ain’t never had a friend in your life. Get me in the door, and don’t worry about nothing else.”
Buddy Cuszack was scared, just like in the Viet Cong camp and the VA hospital. Once more he felt powerless, his life spiraling into a place he didn’t want to go. He began to whimper; a pathetic figure standing in a snowdrift in an Iowa field.
“Vern,” Cuszack begged, “don’t do this. It’s fucking crazy. Don’t do it. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. C’mon Vern, please?”
Slocum’s hand sliced viciously across his face, knocking him to the snow. As soon as he fell the same strong hand scooped him up by his collar and pulled him shakily to his feet.
“If you fuck this up, everything that ever happened to you is going to seem like a holiday weekend. You owe me. It’s time to pay up.”
Cuszack looked into Slocum’s feral eyes. He wanted to cry out, but the sheer evil in those eyes frightened him into silence.
“You owe me Buddy,” said Slocum’s hoarse monotone again. “If you ain’t gonna pay up, tell me now so I don’t waste any more life on you.”
The words were crystal clear. Standing in two feet of snow at an Iowa farm, in the middle of a blizzard, nothing ever seemed clearer. All Cuszack’s feeble brain could register was that to fail this monster, this phantom from his nightmare past, was certain death. “OK, Vern,” Cuszack heard himself sputter. “I’ll get you inside. Relax, OK?”
He felt the steel grip of the hand around his collar relax, and he discovered he could stand by himself. He started towards the farmhouse on wobbly legs. Slocum followed several paces behind.
When they reached the porch Cuszack wasted no time. Any longer outside and he would be deep frozen. He pounded on the door with a bony fist.
The door opened and Zeke Fornier stood in the hallway.
“Well, well, well, what have we here? Looks like my good friend Buddy Cuszack. Come on in, before you freeze your ass off.”
The speaker was a man of medium height and more than medium weight. He was slovenly-looking, with the sallow complexion and rotting teeth of the regular methamphetamine user. He wore boots, jeans, and the obligatory Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His thinning hair was greasy and grew past his collar, and his scraggly beard had the same oily quality. Over his T-shirt he wore a bathrobe. In one hand was a cigarette, in the other a glass of Jack Daniels.
Fornier stepped aside and allowed Cuszack and Slocum to enter. A fire roared in the hearth. The house was cluttered with an assortment of turntables, audio speakers, televisions, power tools, and various other items of stolen property. The television was on, and Married with Children was playing.
Sitting on one of several sofas were two females, one a woman and one a teenager. The woman was perhaps thirty years old but appeared much older. She was wearing skin-tight jeans under a halter-top which exposed most of her large, sagging breasts. The insides of both elbows were bruised and scarred from the ravages of too many needles, and most of her teeth were gone. Like Fornier, she was holding a drink and a cigarette.
Seated next to her was another female, perhaps fifteen years old. She might someday be beautiful if she shed her present company. As it was, she could expect to resemble her companion in the not too distant future.
The teenager was clad only in a too-small bathrobe which exposed her ample body. She had long blonde hair and a pouty mouth, which was undoubtedly the reason for her presence in Zeke’s home. Both women had the jaundiced pallor, glazed eyes, and diseased teeth that went with chronic methamphetamine addiction.
“Don’t be rude, Buddy,” Fornier said. “Introduce me to your friend.”
“Oh, yeah,” stammered Cuszack. “This here is Vernon Slocum. We was in the hospital together after the war.”
Fornier took this in. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Slocum,” he said expansively. “Any friend of Buddy’s is a friend of mine.”
The girls giggled at this. Cuszack nervously forced a smile. Fornier began making introductions of his own. “Gentlemen, meet Rhonda and Missy.”
Slocum nodded at the girls. An immense figure emerged from another room, tightening suspenders over his shoulders.
“Godfuckingdamn, Zeke,” bellowed a thundering voice. “I just took a shit a Kodiak bear would be proud of. A real cornback rattler. Why don’t you girls come to the shitter and take a look? I didn’t flush it yet.”
At this Zeke smiled, and the girls burst into uproarious laughter. Zeke said, “Buddy, you remember Wolf, don’t you? Mister Slocum, meet Wolf. Wolf handles my security.”
He turned to face the emerging figure. The man stood easily three inches taller than Slocum, and weighed well over three hundred pounds. Wolf had a blonde beard which grew to his chest, and he was clad in overalls.
“Now that we’ve made acquaintances, let’s get down to business. Rhonda, turn that shit off.” The older woman switched off Al Bundy mid-punchline. Zeke sat down on one of the sofas and motioned for Slocum and Cuszack to do the same. Wolf took a seat next to Rhonda and put his large hand inside her shirt. Fondling Rhonda’s breast, he leered at Slocum.
“I’m being a poor host,” Zeke said melodramatically. “Please, help yourself.”
He motioned to the coffee table which was littered with drugs and drug paraphernalia. Lying among the rolling papers, straws, razors, needles, bongs, and pipes was an ounce of meth. It looked like oily sugar, and several lines were already neatly and expertly chopped. There was also weed, and an open bottle of Jack Daniels.
Cuszack bit his lip. Never before had Zeke offered him anything for free, especially crank. It was a bad sign.
Slocum reached down and scooped up some meth, placing it onto the web of his hand. Putting his hand to his nose he inhaled deeply. His face flushed, the veins in his thick neck distended, and his nose began to run. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Do you like my product, Mister Slocum?”
Slocum didn’t answer. Instead, he looked around the room. He saw Cuszack’s nervous eyes darting to and fro. He saw Zeke’s too confident expression. He saw Wolf seated on the sofa; one hand conspicuously on Rhonda’s breast, the other inconspicuously out of view. The fifteen year-old returned his stare, secure in the power of her sexuality.
“I want a half a pound,” Slocum said at last.
“Only half a pound?” asked Zeke in mock surprise. “That’s a pretty large order from a guy I just met.” His eyes narrowed. “But then
again, you’re a friend of Buddy’s. I trust Buddy like a brother. Any friend of his is a friend of mine. Right Buddy?”
“Uh... yeah,” babbled Cuszack. “Partners, brothers, and friends.”
It was Wolf who spoke next. “I heard you’re interested in weapons, tough guy. What exactly are you looking to score?”
“What you got?”
“Wolf can get you anything you want,” Zeke interjected. “That is, if you’re not full of shit.” When he spoke he cast a sidelong glance at Wolf. Cuszack noticed.
“So tell me, Mister Slocum, are you full of shit?”
All but Cuszack and Slocum began to laugh. Zeke’s double chin bobbed up and down. “If you’re a friend of Buddy’s you’ve got to be full of shit, right?”
“Hey, Zeke, you don’t gotta talk to me like that. I thought we was friends. I done a lot of work for you. Why you making me look bad in front of my friend?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Zeke roared. He stood up and walked towards Cuszack, who began to cringe. He grabbed Cuszack by his collar and slapped him across the face. Slocum watched impassively.
Zeke Fornier drew back his hand to strike Cuszack again when Slocum rose from the sofa and threw a lightning fast punch to his jaw. It dazed the drug dealer, and when he fell back Slocum slammed a fist into his solar plexus, doubling him over. Wolf started to get up, the hand not full of Rhonda’s breast emerging with a revolver. He tried to bring the muzzle to bear on Slocum. He was too slow. Slocum had already drawn his pistol.
Slocum shot Wolf in the face. The heavy slug took the giant above the mouth and snapped his head back. Wolf fell dead, the pungent smell of his relaxed bowels filling the room. His revolver clattered from his lifeless hand.
Both women began to scream; primal, terrified howls. Cuszack curled himself into a fetal position on the floor and lay trembling, saliva dripping from his quivering lips. He was too terrified to scream. Slocum stepped over Wolf’s body and grabbed Rhonda’s hair. He chopped down on her head once with the butt of the .45 and she quieted instantly, collapsing into unconsciousness. Missy frantically scrambled over the sofa in a futile attempt to escape.