Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Gaby Torrijos,” Buckthorn said. “She was standing a few feet away from you in the airport.”

  Loretta gasped. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t want to talk to her. Not right then.”

  “Well, she’s been wantin’ to talk to you. She’s been callin’ the house lookin’ for you, askin’ when you’d be back. Bru’s been takin’ the calls, and I got to tell, you big brother, he’s actin’ like he’s already your campaign manager. To hear him tell it, you’re Jack Reacher come to life.”

  “Who?”

  “Dang it, Tim, haven’t you read any of those books I lent you?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Hmph. Anyway, Bru’s already settin’ up meetings with some of the local big boys. I told him he should wait and talk to you, first, to, you know, make sure you’re actually runnin’. But you know how he is when he gets a head of steam up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So. Are you?”

  “I haven’t decided,” he said. “But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to some people.”

  “Well, that’s farther than you’ve ever gone before,” she observed. “Why the change of heart?”

  He thought about Dushane, the way she’d held his hand on the plane, the way she’d looked at him in the morning, after they’d made love again.

  “I just figured I needed to start thinking about the future,” he said.

  __________

  Inside the house, Leila watched the big SUV pull away. She blew out a long breath. What have I gotten myself into, she thought. She ran her fingers lightly over the tiny bruise Buckthorn had left on one wrist. She’d been surprised during their lovemaking when he’d pinned her down, then surprised by how much she’d liked it.

  She remembered a drunken conversation with her cousin Darlene, what seemed like ages ago. It had been the night before Darlene’s wedding to a slight, shy young man named Casper Boudreaux. “Honey,” Darlene had slurred after her fourth Cosmo, “get one of the quiet ones if you can. They’re goddamn tigers in bed.” Leila and her friends had laughed at the idea of Casper, who could barely look a woman in the eye, turning into any kind of tiger, in bed or out. But now Darlene was on her fourth pregnancy, so maybe she had something there. Leila smiled at the thought. Then she remembered what she’d seen in the car, and the smile fell from her face.

  She’d been surreptitiously studying Loretta Starnes from the back seat, looking for the scar Buckthorn had told her about. It was a few minutes before she spotted it. The scar was a thin, almost invisible line, nearly completely covered by Loretta’s heavy but skillfully applied makeup. But it wasn’t the makeup that had fooled her. She’d been looking in the wrong place. The scar wasn’t across Loretta’s cheek or jaw; it ran under the curve of her jawline, starting just below the right ear and ending just short of the front of her throat.

  Her mother hadn’t been trying to disfigure Loretta; she’d been trying to kill her.

  The memory sent a shiver of fear and uncertainty through Leila. She wondered if Buckthorn’s outward calm hid the same kind of rage and madness, if maybe his sudden passion with her had been something more than that, something darker. What would happen to her if he really did snap?

  She shook the feeling off. He’s just a quiet guy who’s unexpectedly great in bed, she thought. Which brought her back to her original problem. She’d been trying to work on her career. A woman had to work twice as hard as a man to get to the same places. If men liked the way she looked, as men seemed to, make that three times as hard. A relationship wasn’t going to help, especially one with someone else in law enforcement.

  Well, she didn’t have to figure it all out now. Right now she needed a long, hot shower. Things would work out, or they wouldn’t. But she’d think about it later. Tomorrow, as the lady said, would be another day. And she and her partner would be back on the hunt for the guy that had gotten away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jack Carville, formerly known as Gene Thurman, stumbled out of the noisy strip club and into the hot, humid, garishly lit neon of the parking lot. Hours of tossing down overpriced drinks and watching nearly naked women bumping and grinding on the stage had left him befuddled and horny. He needed to get laid, and for once, he had the means to do it.

  They’d given him a new identity and a suitcase full of cash, just like they’d promised. It was only fair, he thought, in light of the years of service he’d given the organization. He’d been mostly a conduit for information, a mole inside the Bartlett PD, for years. But they’d been telling him that someday, he might need to do something really big for them, something that would mean he’d need to disappear, but something for which he’d be well rewarded. He’d looked forward to that day, dreamed about it, only occasionally dreaded it. He had always hated that little jackleg town anyway. He was exactly the kind of rootless, angry, and dissatisfied loser who made a perfect soldier for Lampton Monroe’s army.

  When the day came, he was almost disappointed at how simple it was. Just deliver a leather belt to a prisoner who was supposed to be on suicide watch. That was all, Monroe had assured him. The prisoner would know what to do. And then, it would be time for Gene Thurman to disappear and Jack Carville to take his place. It had been so easy, he’d told Monroe, that he’d be glad to do other, more complicated things if he was needed. He’d felt the itch of ambition, the desire to be more than just a foot soldier. Monroe had told him that day might come, and sooner rather than later, but for right now, he should just take his payment and his new I.D. and have a good time. Preferably some place far away. He’d taken the advice and made a beeline for the Grand Strand on the coast of South Carolina. His family had always made the same pilgrimage, once a year, staying a week in a succession of beach-front rentals. He still had fond memories of the place. The smell of Coppertone suntan lotion, the lights of the Myrtle Beach pavilion, the screams from the rickety Hurricane roller coaster. He’d gotten his first pussy there, a quick pump and squirt in the dunes with a skinny black-haired girl from Valdosta, Georgia named Carmen something. She’d been staying with her folks in a room three doors down from his family’s room in a shabby motel a block from the beach. He’d pursued her all week, finally nailed her on the night before everyone went home, and given her a bogus phone number when they parted. He’d never seen or heard from her again, but sometimes he thought of the way she’d looked, lying back on his spread out jacket, looking up at him with those big scared dark eyes, biting her lip in pain as he entered her…

  The thought sent a jolt of arousal through his groin that cut through the alcohol fog. He pulled out his cell phone and fumbled up the number of the escort service he’d been using off and on since he’d gotten down here. He leaned against plaster statue of a rearing horse that gave the place its name as the phone rang. He thought about who he might ask for. The sassy little black girl with the big tits? The emaciated blonde who looked like a junkie, but who gave amazing head? Someone new? Someone new, he decided. He made the call, made the arrangements, then called for a cab to take him back to his rented condo.

  After the cab dropped him off, he staggered up the stairs and fumbled for his keys. The place was beach-front, of course. Not hugely luxurious, but miles above any of the places he’d stayed as a kid. He entered, threw his keys on the table by the door, and opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. He leaned on the metal rail and took a deep breath of the salty ocean air, closing his eyes with the pleasure of the rich, sharp smell and the feel of the cool breeze on his cheeks. This is the way a man ought to live, he thought.

  He heard a soft knock at the door. It surprised him. Most whores were never this prompt. Maybe being a repeat customer had its perks after all. He was whistling as he sauntered over to the door.

  It wasn’t a woman standing there. It was a man, dressed in a long coat that was too heavy for the weather. “Who…” he began, then stopped, blinking in confusion. “Hey,” he said, as he saw the ma
n raise his arm. He had only a second to register the sight of the gun in a gloved hand before there was a soft cough, a moment of incredible pain, then nothing.

  __________

  Sean Donovan stepped over the body lying in the doorway, then bent to drag him out of the way so he could close the door. It didn’t take more than a quick search of the apartment to find the suitcase full of cash that he’d been sent to recover. It looked to Donovan as if the fellow had been making quite a dent in his retirement fund. Well, now he wouldn’t have to worry about running out. Donovan let himself out and walked to the SUV he’d parked around the corner of the building. As he pulled away, he hit a button on the cell phone in its holder on the dash. “It’s done,” was all he said when the call connected.

  “Good,” the raspy voice on the other end said. “You get the money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Use it to finance the next steps,” Monroe said. “Keep what you don’t use.”

  “Got it.” He disconnected the call. He had some stops to make, and supplies to obtain.

  __________

  “Everything all right?” Patience asked. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Fine, fine,” the old man said. He patted her hand with one of his.

  “Time for your medicine,” she said. She held out the cup with the pills in it.

  “Whatever.” He’d gone back to focusing on a reality show on the television. He took the pills without looking and she handed him a glass of water. He downed them quickly with the ease born of long practice. He went on watching the show. She watched him. After a half-hour or so, he began to nod. She got up and went to the bedside table. She took a sheaf of papers out of a drawer and approached Monroe, kneeling down next to his wheelchair.

  “Hon?” she said softly. “Remember those papers we talked about? About the insurance?”

  He turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were cloudy and confused. “Eh?”

  “I’ve got to get those signed, hon, or the insurance won’t pay me to come here anymore. I’d have to leave.”

  “Leave?” he said, and his eyes widened in fear. “Can’t…leave. Don’t.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said. “So you need to sign these.” She put the papers on his TV tray and stood up. “Let me get you a pen.” She got up and left the room. When she returned a few moments later, it was with a middleiaged woman in tow. The woman’s hair was drawn back in a severe bun and she was carrying a small briefcase. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Patience said.

  The woman gave her a professional smile. “It’s no trouble,” she said. “Our firm prides itself on being available to our clients, at their convenience.”

  With the fees you charge, Patience thought sourly, you’d better. But certain kinds of legal help didn’t come cheap. The kind she needed, the kind with the more flexible ethics, was the most expensive of all. And it wasn’t like she was paying for it.

  “Here you go, hon,” Patience said. She picked up the papers off the TV tray as the woman was taking another set out of the briefcase. Patience put the second set on the tray and handed Monroe a pen.

  “He’s reviewed the draft copies?” the gray haired woman said.

  “Yes he has,” Patience replied. Monroe was trying to sign his name in the middle of the top sheet of paper. Patience guided him back to the signature line at the bottom. The gray-haired woman pretended not to notice, just as she pretended not to notice that the papers Monroe was signing bore no relation to the ones Patience had showed him. “You looked at the papers, right, Mr. Monroe?”

  “Unnh-hunhh,” he mumbled. Patience guided him through the rest of the signing process. When he was done, she picked them up briskly and handed them to the gray haired woman. “Thank you,” the woman said. “I’ll notarize them back at the office, and they’ll be in your file.”

  “Mr. Monroe’s file,” Patience corrected her.

  The woman smiled. “Of course. I’ll let myself out. Have a pleasant evening, ma’m.”

  “You too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Buckthorn returned to find his department in much better shape than he’d expected. Janine, along with Duane Willis, the young ex-Marine sergeant who’d joined the department after his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, had kept things running smoothly. Janine had even cleaned up his desk, so that the paperwork he needed to tend to immediately was organized and easy to complete. The detectives had made a couple of big drug arrests and turned things over to the local DA’s office in what looked like good shape. Things had finally come to a head between Jubal Tyree, uncle to young Gerrome, and the wife he’d been knocking around for years; she’d put him into intensive care at the hospital in Chapel Hill with a fractured skull. Duane had taken her into custody himself, shepherded her through the booking process, and seen her home with a written promise to appear in lieu of bail and an unwritten promise to call him or Buckthorn if Jubal showed his badly bashed face around their trailer home again. Other than that, things had been quiet. The jail was even under capacity for the first time in five years. Buckthorn wondered wryly if there’d really been any need for him to come back. He didn’t ask the question out loud, however; he was afraid of how Janine would answer.

  His second day back, he got a message that Sheriff Stark wanted to see him. He was apprehensive; his trip to Tennessee hadn’t had any kind of official sanction, and while none of it had been on the county’s dime, he had been wearing the county’s uniform.

  As he came into the Sheriff’s luxurious, wood-paneled office, with its subdued lighting and lingering smell of cigar smoke, Buckthorn was struck all over again by the contrast with the bustling, cramped offices downstairs.

  Stark rose to his feet and extended a hand as Buckthorn approached. Buckthorn noticed that since the last time he’d seen the Sheriff, his hair had gotten thinner, the bags under his eyes had gotten more pronounced, and his nose redder. His voice, when he spoke, was raspier than the last time. “Good to see you, Tim,” he said.

  Buckthorn took the offered hand and shook it firmly. The skin of Stark’s hand felt dry, almost papery. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  Stark sat down, waving Buckthorn to one of the leather chairs opposite. “You’ve been on a little adventure, I hear.”

  Buckthorn took his seat cautiously. “I guess you could call it that,” he said.

  “Runnin’ around with the FBI, savin’ a kidnapped little girl…you’re the talk of the county. A hero, even.” Stark examined him from under his bushy gray brows.

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” Buckthorn said. “There were a lot of people involved.”

  Stark grimaced. “Includin’ that FBI agent that made all that trouble here a couple years ago.”

  Buckthorn started to say something in Wolf’s defense, but closed his mouth. He sensed that his wasn’t what the meeting was about.

  “Anyway,” Stark said, “I’ve got something for you.” He reached into his middle desk drawer and pulled out a small jewelry box. He slid it across the empty desktop at Buckthorn.

  “Well?” he said as Buckthorn looked at the box. “Open it.”

  “We getting married, Sheriff?” Buckthorn joked as he picked it up. He had a suspicion what was inside, and his heart pounded with the thought.

  He was right. The double silver bars of a Captain glinted up at him from the cotton padding.

  “It’s long overdue, Tim,” Stark said, and the apology in his voice sounded real. “You should have been at least a Major by now.”

  Damn right, Buckthorn thought. But Captains drew higher pay, and Majors higher still. Whatever failings Stark had as a lawman, he made up for in the eyes of the County Commissioners by keeping his budgets lean. And if a Lieutenant who actually did a Major’s job would stay even without advancement, well, that was one place the budget could be cut. So there had to be another reason he was getting this now. All this raced through Buckthorn’s mind as he regarded the silver bars. “Thank you, sir,” was a
ll he said.

  “Fact is, Tim,” Stark said, and that apologetic tone was still there, “I haven’t been keeping up with the job as well as I used to.” Buckthorn stayed silent. “I’ve been thinking. Talking with some folks.”

  Here it comes, Buckthorn thought.

  “I’ve got enough time in for full retirement. And frankly, I don’t need the aggravation of another campaign. So…” he paused for dramatic effect.

  “Would my brother-in-law be one of those people you’ve been talking to, sir?”

  Stark paused, his brows drawing together. He was clearly nettled by the interruption in his dramatic presentation. “Bru Starnes was one of the people I talked to, yes.”

  “And both of you would like me to run because you won’t be filing next year.”

  The scowl deepened. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Buckthorn said. “I think I’d like that.”

  Stark’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Well I have to say, this is a surprise,” he said. “I thought I was going to have to twist your arm. You never showed any interest before.”

  “I know, sir,” Buckthorn said. “But the past few days have made me think. Life’s short.”

  Stark nodded. “That it is, Tim, that it is. And men like us need to grab as much of it as we can, while we can. Right?”

  Buckthorn wouldn’t have put it that way, but he kept it to himself. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Stark reached into his left desk drawer. He pulled out a half-gallon bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, about one-quarter full. A pair of rocks glasses followed. “Well, now that’s decided, let’s have us a drink to celebrate.” He poured two fingers of the dark amber liquid into each glass.

  “I’m on duty, sir,” Buckthorn said.

  “Tim,” Stark said, “when you get to this level, you’re never really off duty. That’s a burden, Tim, and a heavy one. But one of the perks of being at this level is that there are certain rules you can bend.” He raised the glass. “To Sheriff Tim Buckthorn.”