Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  “This is Patience Matthews,” she said. “I need to speak with Mr. Suddreth. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  __________

  The FBI agents had driven the three of them to the local police station, where they’d separated them immediately. Braswell had stuck Buckthorn in an interview room and left without speaking. That had been over three hours ago. Buckthorn supposed it was better than a cell. The interview room was like the ones in his own department back home: bleak and sparsely furnished with just a table and two chairs. There was a mirror on the wall that was almost surely one-way with an observation area behind it. Leaving a subject alone for a long time was a time-honored tactic; Buckthorn had used it himself on occasion. He wondered if Braswell and Watson knew that. Of course, it was possible that they were leaving him alone because they didn’t know what to do about him. He wondered if they’d try to interrogate him. Maybe they’ll let me take notes on their technique, he thought wryly.

  He was worried about Dushane. The man at the construction site was almost certainly the first man she’d ever killed. He remembered the shock of that, the sickening knowledge that you’d taken another human life. The fact that you’d had no choice, that it was him or you at the time, softened the impact, but only slightly. It was still a psychological blow. He was feeling it himself. It gave him an odd sense of relief that he could still feel something. He hoped it would never become routine to him. He wished he could be there for Dushane to help her through it.

  That thought made him pause. He’d tried very hard for years not to mix his professional and personal lives, with the result that he hadn’t had much of a personal life to speak of. He thought about her statement that she was going to buy him a drink, maybe several. He found himself liking the idea very much. Except that he’d buy, of course. He smiled at the thought. Then he looked around the room and the smile vanished. First, he had to get out of here.

  The door opened and he took a deep breath. He figured Braswell or Watson, or maybe some local cop, would yell at him, jerk him around, probably threaten him. But he knew in his heart it had been a justified shooting. He had nothing to be worried about. If I can keep telling myself that, he thought, maybe I’ll believe it.

  Watson came in, holding a file folder, his seemingly permanent scowl in place. He was followed by a man Buckthorn didn’t recognize. The new arrival had a fringe of greasy hair around his bald head, and the red face of someone with poorly controlled high blood pressure. His belly overlapped the waistline of this cheap suit. He didn’t look happy either.

  “This is Detective Rivers,” Watson said. “From the Bartlett PD.”

  Buckthorn stood up and offered his hand to Rivers. “Lieutenant Tim Buckthorn,” he said. “Gibson County Sherriff’s Department.”

  Rivers looked confused for a moment. He obviously wasn’t used to a suspect standing up and introducing himself. He took the offered hand automatically. Buckthorn shook it firmly and sat down.

  Watson’s scowl deepened. “This isn’t a courtesy visit, Buckthorn. You may think you’re King Shit back home, but here, you’re in trouble. Deep trouble.”

  “I’m a sworn law enforcement officer,” Buckthorn said, “and I was assisting two federal officers in the performance of their duties. Those duties involved locating a kidnap victim and pursuing the subjects responsible for said kidnapping. Are you going to write this down, Agent Watson? Detective Rivers? Because this is the only statement you’re going to get from me.”

  Rivers spoke up. “Now you listen here…”

  Buckthorn went on as if Rivers hadn’t spoken. “Agent Leila Dushane of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and myself were engaged in a vehicle pursuit of two subjects believed to be the kidnappers. At one point, they wrecked their vehicle and attempted to flee on foot, ignoring orders to stop. One subject produced a firearm and began firing at me and Agent Dushane. We engaged said subject with our own weapons.”

  “What you did was…” Watson said. Buckthorn raised his voice over Watson’s and went on. “I believe the subject was struck by at least two shots and was dead at the scene.” He looked at Rivers. “Uniformed officers of the Bartlett PD arrived on the scene at this point and apparently mistook Agent Dushane and I for subjects. In the confusion, the other subject made his escape.” He dropped the formal tone. “So did your folks get him?” he asked Rivers. Before he could answer, he turned to Watson. “And if you say ‘we’re asking the questions here,’ I promise you, I will laugh straight in your face.”

  “No,” Rivers said. “We didn’t get him.”

  Buckthorn grimaced. “So who was the man we shot? Lofton Monroe or Sean Donovan?”

  “That’s on a need to know basis,” Watson said.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Buckthorn snapped. “Damn it, Agent Watson, I’m trying to help you people here. And you’re not even going to show me photos of the possible suspects so I can tell you if they were the people who shot at us?”

  Watson glanced down at the file folder on the table in front of him. Buckthorn sighed. “Are the pictures in there? May I?” he reached for the folder. Watson snatched it away. Buckthorn’s teeth clenched involuntarily in frustration. “Do you want me to say please? Okay, please.”

  Watson took two photographs out of the folder and laid them on the table, not meeting Buckthorn’s eyes. Buckthorn slid them towards him.

  The first was a police mug shot. It showed a young man with dark hair and a cocky sneer on his face. The name and booking number that would normally appear across the bottom had been obscured with marker.

  Buckthorn tapped the picture. “That’s the guy we shot,” he said. He looked at the other picture. This one was some kind of surveillance photo, grainy and blurred, and apparently taken from long range. It showed a stocky man in a dark suit, getting out of a BMW convertible. Buckthorn could make out a prominent jaw and dark hair cut short, but that was all. He shook his head. “This guy, I don’t know. He could be anyone.”

  “That’s the only photo we have of Sean Donovan,” Watson said.

  Buckthorn looked again. “Sorry.” He looked up. “So can I go now?”

  Watson didn’t answer. He gathered up the photographs and slid them into the file folder.

  “Wait,” Buckthorn said as they stood up. “What about the girl? Is she okay?” They didn’t answer as they moved towards the door. “Look,” Buckthorn said a little desperately, “I know we stepped on some toes here, but can we at least keep in mind that this was all about that young girl?”

  Watson left without answering, but Rivers paused at the door.

  “She’s in ICU,” he said softly. “Last I heard, her condition’s stable. She’s going to live.”

  “Thank you,” Buckthorn said. “I really appreciate you telling me.” Rivers just nodded and walked out. Buckthorn heard the lock click again. He shook his head and addressed the mirror. “Right now,” he said, “I can’t say I’m real impressed with the local FBI.” He didn’t know if there was anyone behind the mirror, but it made him feel better to say it out loud.

  Another hour went by before the door opened again. But it wasn’t Watson or Braswell this time. It was Tony Wolf. Dushane was standing behind him.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  Buckthorn stood up. “Just like that?”

  “Well, sort of. We need to stick around for a while in case the locals have more questions. But we’re not under arrest.”

  “Okay. Well…” he looked down at his uniform. The mud had dried to a crust, and he knew he probably smelled like he’d just crawled out of a swamp. “I need someplace to get cleaned up and change clothes.”

  “We’ll get a hotel,” Dushane said. “Courtesy of the FBI. And then, those drinks I promised you.”

  “Sounds like a deal,” Buckthorn said.

  As they walked out of the police station, Buckthorn said,”I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth or anything…”

  “But you want to know how I
swung this?” Wolf said. “ You can thank our old friend Deputy Director Steadman. He remembers you. And likes you, apparently.”

  Buckthorn thought back to the dry, emotionless senior FBI agent who’d come to Pine Lake in search of his long-missing agent, Tony Wolf. “I barely know him.”

  “Well, he was so pissed at me, he was going to let the two of us twist in the wind. But when I mentioned you were wrapped up in this, too, he made a few phone calls. After cussing me for a bit, of course. We’re still going to have to go in front of OPR, but I’ll worry about that when it happens.”

  “Huh,” Buckthorn said. He stopped and looked around. They were standing on the sidewalk outside the station. It was starting to get dark. “So, do we have a car here, or what?”

  “I thought asking for another FBI car would probably be pushing it,” Wolf said, “so I called a rental place. And unless I miss my guess…” A Ford Fusion was pulling up to the curb, a large van bearing the logo of a national rental company right behind it. A young African-American man in a white shirt and tie got out of the Fusion, holding a clipboard. “You the one called for a car, sir?”

  “Right.” Wolf walked over and the two started going over the paperwork.

  “This on the FBI, too?” Buckthorn asked Dushane.

  “Nah,” she said. “The boss is picking this one up.”

  He reached for his wallet. “Let me get some of it.”

  She waved him away. “You can get dinner.”

  “And the drinks we talked about.”

  She shook her head. “I told you, I got those.”

  “No, really. It wouldn’t feel right. A lady paying, I mean.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding, right?” Then she laughed. “What am I saying? You don’t kid, do you?”

  He smiled. “Not often, no.”

  “We’ll have to work on that,” she said. She shook her head and chuckled again. “Are you for real, Tim Buckthorn?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

  She gave him a long appraising look, then smiled. “Yeah,” she said, “I guess you are.”

  “Let’s go,” Wolf called out.

  “You got shotgun,” Dushane said. “But don’t get used to it.”

  The hotel was a chain place near the airport; nothing fancy, but the room was clean and the bed looked comfortable. Buckthorn looked at it longingly, realizing how tired he was. He considered just stripping off his dirty uniform, crawling between the sheets, and sleeping for the next year. But he needed a shower and his stomach was growling.

  The shower revived him somewhat, and by the time he was dried off and clothed in the jeans and workshirt he’d brought from home, Dushane was knocking on his door. He opened it to find her standing there, dressed in black pants, a red silk blouse, and boots. She looked gorgeous.

  “C’mon, cowboy,” she said, “let’s go eat.” It sounded like she’d already gotten a couple of drinks in ahead of him.

  Wolf was standing beside the rental car in the parking lot, his cell phone held to his ear. His brow was furrowed in worry. As they approached, he was apparently finishing his call: “Look, be careful, all right? Okay. Love you.” He put the phone in the pocket of his shirt.

  “Trouble?” Buckthorn said.

  “It’s Gaby,” Wolf replied. “She’s on a story. Some kind of hostage situation. In your neck of the woods.”

  That got Buckthorn’s attention. “Say what?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s the next county over. I think. Place called Blainesville. Some guy’s holding a bunch of people in the local newspaper office.”

  “Damn,” Buckthorn said. He pulled his own phone out, tried to turn it on. It was dead. He thought about asking Wolf if he could borrow his phone. If Blaine County needed assistance, they’d call his department. And if they do, exactly what are you going to do from here? He asked himself. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Duane and Janine would handle anything that needed handling.

  “You okay?” Dushane said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

  They took a busy six-lane road from the hotel. As they drove, Buckthorn reflected on how alike most cities looked once you got outside of the downtowns. Same hotels, same fast-food places, same oil and tire changers. The thought made him even more homesick for Pine Lake and the places he knew, and where people knew him.

  “Chili’s okay?” Wolf said.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Buckthorn said.

  “Long as I can get a drink,” Dushane said. Buckthorn and Wolf looked at each other. “Okay,” Wolf said as he pulled into the parking lot.

  As it turned out, Dushane had several double bourbons with dinner, and her voice got louder with each one. Several times Buckthorn and Wolf reminded her to keep her voice down. She’d laugh at them, calling them a “couple of old guys,” then order another drink. At one point, she got up and went to the restroom, weaving slightly in the aisle.

  “It’s the shock of what happened,” Buckthorn said.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “She needs some help dealing with it.”

  “Yeah, Buckthorn. I know. I’m on it, okay?”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Wolf sighed. “Don’t be. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. How about you? How you holding up?”

  Buckthorn took a sip of his beer. It was his second of the night. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “As soon as I get home.”

  “You really love that place, don’t you?” Wolf said.

  Buckthorn shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes, not so much. You know the best thing about living in a small town?”

  “What?”

  “Everybody knows you. Knows all about you. You know the worst thing about living in a small town?”

  Wolf smiled. “Everybody knows you and knows all about you?”

  “You got it. Still. It’s home.”

  “Must be nice,” Wolf said. “Having a place to call home like that.”

  “Well, your old place is still for rent,” Buckthorn said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The realtor says people are scared of it. They still think the whole house is wired to explode.”

  Wolf laughed. “Sorry about that.”

  Buckthorn joined him in the laughter. “You could probably get it back cheap.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Dushane came back, stumbling a little as she rejoined them in the booth. “Whass so funny?” she said.

  “Wolf’s talking about moving back to Pine Lake,” Buckthorn said.

  She nodded. “Nice town. Nice people.” She patted Buckthorn on the shoulder. “Nice people.”

  “Come on, L.D.,” Wolf said. “We need to get you to bed.”

  She squinted at him, a lopsided grin on her face. “You sexually harassin’ me, boss?” She turned to Buckthorn. “You’re my witness. My superior just prepositioned me. Proposition. Whatever.” She raised her voice. “Help! I’m bein’ harassed!” She started giggling. People at the tables around them were falling silent and starting to stare. The waitress hurried over, a look of concern on her pretty face. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Buckthorn said. “Just get us the check.”

  “You better not mess with me,” Dushane said to Wolf, shaking a finger in his face. “I killed a guy today.” She turned to the waitress. “I did. I killed a guy. Shot him dead.” She formed her thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun. “Bang!” she said. The wide-eyed girl jumped as if she’d actually been hit. The tables around them had fallen silent, leaving only the noise of the rock music over the sound system and the baseball game on TV. Dushane noticed the drop in the decibel level and looked around, squinting as if she’d just now noticed the other people in the restaurant. She turned back to Wolf. “I think. I need to go,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “I think you’re right,” Wolf said.

  Buckthorn reached for his wallet. “Get her to the car. I’ll get the check.”
<
br />   “Okay. Come on, L.D.” She leaned on Wolf as he led her to the door. The waitress stared at her, then turned back to Buckthorn. “Did she really kill someone today?”

  “Can I just have the check?” Buckthorn said.

  The girl didn’t move. “Are you guys cops?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Buckthorn said. “The check?”

  The girl fished in the pockets of her apron. “I thought you might be. But the other guy, I wasn’t so sure of. And that drunk girl…so, really, did she kill someone?” She handed him the check.

  He looked down at the bill and his heart sank. Dushane had had even more to drink than he’d thought. And she’d ordered the good stuff. This was really going to put a dent in his bank account. “Yeah,” he said. He pulled out his debit card and handed it to her.

  “Wow,” the girl said. “Were you there? Did you shoot anybody?”

  She was young, no more than twenty, and her eyes shone with an eagerness that shocked him. It made him feel a little queasy. “I’d really rather not talk about it,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”

  She looked disappointed, then brightened as she realized that his not wanting to talk about it probably meant the answer to her question was “yes.” She took the card from him. “I’ll be right back.”

  Buckthorn sat down at the table and rubbed his hands over his face. His earlier fatigue was back, redoubled. He began to wonder if he was going to be able to get back up.