Days of Reckoning

by Chris Stout

  “Now, while I appreciate your services, I still think it is vitally important that you reconsider taking some time off. I’m worried that what’s happened might be clouding your judgment. I’ve heard rumors that you’re pursuing your own informal investigation into what happened to your brother. I can’t let you proceed like that, Miranda.”

  She made no reply.

  “The Sheriff’s people and I myself are looking at every possibility, but every way we look at it, the results are the same. Much as I hate to say this, all indications are that your brother killed himself. Why, I don’t know. He may well have been up to his neck in something big. We’re still trying to find what that is. I’ll be happy to keep you informed of any new information we acquire. But you’re going to have to let other people handle this one. I’m sure you understand why.”

  She gave a slight, affirmative jerk of her head, struggling valiantly to keep her anger in check. Someone, most likely Damon, had warned Wainwright she was onto them. She didn’t know who else was involved, or what any of this was about, but she was sure she was getting close.

  “I don’t want to see you here for at least the next week or two,” Wainwright said. “You need a vacation. Go somewhere nice, get away from all this. You had to bury your brother. Now it’s time to heal.” He leaned back and shuffled some papers, indicating that he was finished.

  “Thank you, Chief,” Miranda said as evenly as she could manage. She rose, and he dismissed her with a wave.

  #

  Sam was next in Wainwright’s office.

  “Sounds like things got pretty hairy last night,” the chief said by way of greeting.

  “A little. Guess it just goes to show the evils of alcohol.”

  “But I take it you’re still not giving up your Scotch?”

  Sam laughed. “Not a chance in hell.”

  “Listen, I’ve asked Miranda to take some time off.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I thought she was going to pop Barry right there on his living room floor.”

  “Well,” Wainwright said, “he probably deserved it. In any case, she seems to have it in her head that her brother didn’t kill himself. I’ve already told her that there isn’t any evidence to indicate otherwise. But I’m afraid she’s going to keep pursuing this notion of hers. I’ve had people tell me that she’s been asking around, bothering citizens at their jobs. I mean, even if there is merit to the idea that someone murdered that boy, I can’t have her running around loose like that.”

  Sam dipped his head in agreement. “What do you want me to do, Chief?”

  “Keep an eye on her. Check in with her. I told her to take a vacation, but we both know that won’t happen. Just make sure she doesn’t hurt herself or anyone else. She needs time to grieve and get past this. Setting off on some vendetta quest is the wrong way to do it.”

  “I’ll keep tabs on her. She’s a tough young lady. I don’t think she’ll do anything crazy, but in time like these…”

  “Exactly. Thanks Sam. That’s all for now.”

  #

  Miranda alternated between following Damon Shearer and Henry Beaumont. Between work and their homes, neither seemed to act suspiciously. She ran a background check on Damon, but came up cold. He seemed to have appeared on earth out of nowhere. Miranda confirmed that he was registered at Sparta College, and still had a room in one of the dormitories, which was odd since he also had his own rental home in town. When she checked up on the property at the county auditor’s office, the name Jesse McClintock was listed as the owner. His name didn’t sound familiar, but she took it down and made a note to run a check on him as well.

  Beaumont naturally came up with a clean record. If he hadn’t, his license to be a firearms dealer would have been revoked. There had been several investigations into his business, but charges had never been filed against him. Miranda knew this was normal; the ATF was sensitive to the slightest inconsistency where weapons were concerned. Beaumont’s access to weapons and his choice of employee still bothered Miranda. She decided that the only way to find any real answers would be to question him in person.

  #

  Henry Beaumont drummed his fingers on the counter. The weapons had been expensive, and because they were illegal he was nervous. He couldn’t wait to offload them on the militia tonight, collect his cash and wash his hands of the whole mess. The only consolation was that all his efforts were probably going towards a good cause. That, and if anything happened, he had the Chief of Police to protect him.

  He looked at the clock on the wall. Close enough to count. “Damon, I’m gonna lock up. You make sure the back is secure?”

  Damon Shearer leaned out of the storeroom in the back. “Sure thing. Closing early tonight?”

  “Just a bit. I got a meeting I can’t be late for, and I want to grab a bite to eat first. Don’t worry, though. I’ll still count it as a full day for you.”

  “No sweat. I’ll be back in a minute to count down the register.” The young man ducked back into the storeroom.

  Beaumont went to the front of the shop. He locked the customer entrance, threw the deadbolt and drew a metal screen across the windows. It was ugly but effective security. The motion sensor alarm added a bit of high-tech defense to the place. That was Beaumont’s sole nod to “high tech,” and he had the alarm only because his insurance company required it. He wasn’t much given to complex devices, or complicated jobs like buying and selling illegal military items. It could be an exciting world, but he preferred to read about it rather than participate.

  Beaumont went back to the counter. He gasped when he saw Damon blocking his way with a revolver.

  “Damon? What is this?”

  “Where are the guns, Henry?”

  “What do you mean? We’re in a store full of ‘em. If you need one, you know I’ll give you credit.”

  “Not these. The ones you bought for the militia.”

  Beaumont swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Damon sighed. “You’re supposed to deliver them to me. Wainwright’s the one whole told you to hire me. He wanted me here so I could take possession, and also watch you, make sure you don’t double cross us. And Henry, I don’t like what I’ve seen. Now tell me where the guns are so we can get them without being met by the Feds.”

  “What? What do you mean the Feds? Those guns are clean!”

  “They might be, but you ain’t. I know you went to the Feds about this deal. You could bring down the whole militia here. Now why would you want to do that?”

  “I swear to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about! If someone went to the Fed’s, it wasn’t me!”

  Damon shook his head. “You’ve been ducking around like a scared rabbit all week. I know you’re hiding something, but I don’t aim to get wrapped up in it. Now tell me where the guns are. I’ll go get them, and the Feds can think you were the victim of a robbery. You’ll get your money later, and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.”

  “But I never called the Feds! I’ve been ducking around trying to get this damn deal set-up real quiet-like --”

  Damon fired a round into Beaumont’s right knee, and the man collapsed with a scream.

  “It’s only going to get worse, Henry. Now tell me where those guns are before you lose the other knee.”

  “They’re in the shed, behind my trailer.” Beaumont gasped in pain. “I have the keys right here. Just let me get them.” He reached into his right pocket.

  Damon was almost fooled. He fired two rounds into Beaumont’s chest, and another into his forehead. The man fell back to the floor with a thump.

  “Good try,” Damon murmured as he bent over the body. He reached into the right pocket and found a small revolver. “But you always keep the keys in your left pocket.” He found them and stood up. “Thanks Henry. I’ll make sure your payment gets put to good use.”

  Damon worked quickly to cover his tracks. He donned a pair of work gloves, grabbed a baseball bat from
the team sports section, and smashed the glass display cases in the store. He took an assortment of handguns and ammunition, and also swiped a pair of sound suppressors and all the high-capacity magazines he could find. All the goods went into a large laundry bag. He emptied the cash drawer then smashed the register. Damon checked his watch and scanned the rest of the store, trying to decide if there was anything else he should grab. He ignored the rifles; they were all hunting weapons or surplus military rifles. The guns Beaumont had picked up for the militia would be far better than anything here. In the back room he found a pair of MAC-11 machine pistols stored in a locker. He grabbed those as well, figuring that somewhere along the line the eleven hundred round-per-minute rate of fire would come in handy.

  Damon went out the back door and loaded the weapons into his dark van. As an afterthought, he tossed the bat in with them. Then he set about working on the door to the building with a sledgehammer, hoping that the racket wouldn’t attract any attention as he smashed the knob and hinges. Mission accomplished, at least in his mind, Damon climbed into the van and drove off to Beaumont’s house. He was pleased to see that no cars pulled in behind him.

  #

  Miranda watched Damon’s van pull out from behind the store. She waited for Beaumont to follow before she pulled out after her quarry, but the older man’s sedan never appeared. Instinct made her pause, and she watched the van disappear for a single despairing minute before she decided that Beaumont’s absence might be worth investigating. She parked her car around the corner from the store and approached it on foot.

  Despite the blurred view through the barred windows, Miranda could tell something was wrong. The front door was barred and locked as it should have been, so she went around to the back of the building. There she saw the battered door hanging from its hinges.

  Miranda drew her Glock, even though she knew the perpetrator had already fled the scene. She checked her surroundings; no one was in sight. Silently, she eased her way around the shattered door and into the back of the gun shop.

  Out on the main floor, Beaumont lay in a pool of spreading crimson. Miranda winced at the sight. Killing Donnie Andrews and seeing her brother’s body still hadn’t taken away the nausea that came with confronting a dead body. She remembered to breathe through her mouth and approached Beaumont.

  The hole through his head and the brain matter spattered on the floor behind him erased any doubt as to whether there was a hope of reviving him. Miranda was careful to steer clear of the drops and pools of blood, lest she leave any tracks or take any of it with her. She took stock of the store and noted the smashed cases and missing weapons. What the hell had Damon done? She looked closer at the body and saw one of the pockets was turned inside out. Miranda moved closer. The other was the same way. His keys, she thought. The bastard must have been after his keys.

  With nothing more to do at the scene, Miranda left the store and went to her car. If she was lucky, she might be able to find Damon at Beaumont’s house.

  #

  Henry Beaumont owned a small farm north of Sparta. Before he died, he’d been a man who valued his privacy. Bushes masked the access road to his home, and twenty yards up that road was a gate, normally kept locked. A fence surrounded his property, electrified of course, ostensibly to keep the deer away from his few plantings. Miranda approached the property with her lights out and parked well out of sight from the main road. She noted with satisfaction that the lock on the gate hung open and the indicators on the fence showed it had been deactivated. Miranda moved forward in a crouch until she reached Beaumont’s house, where she knelt at one of the corners.

  The house looked to be deserted. She strained her ears, searching for the slightest sound that didn’t fit. She moved along one of the walls of the house, ducking beneath the windows. She could see a trailer and a shed sitting on the back property, but nothing that seemed out of place. No doors or windows were forced open, but if Damon had the keys to the place, he wouldn’t have needed to resort to such measures anyway. So now what?

  As she moved along the back of the house, Miranda finally heard the sound she’d been waiting for: a muffled “whump” coupled with a metallic clatter. But it didn’t come from the house or the other structures. What the hell…?

  A beam of light split the darkness in the middle of the yard, and Miranda flattened herself against the ground. She watched a figure rise from the earth, like some resurrected corpse coming out of a grave. She stared, imagining for a wild moment that some zombie was emerging and coming for her brains.

  “Goddammit!”

  A ridiculous sense of relief washed over Miranda. According to the movies, zombies didn’t talk, and this thing swore very clearly in the voice of Damon Shearer.

  The next sound was more solid: something heavy hitting the ground. Damon knelt and doubled over, catching his breath in loud gasps. He swore again and disappeared back into the earth.

  Miranda moved forward, recognizing the grave from her imagination as the underground shelter it actually was. Despite the hills of the region, tornadoes still blew through, and many farmers built such shelters to cope with the threat. She found that the door was open and lying flat against the ground. She could see a light on within, and shadows flickering below. When Damon next emerged, she was ready for him.

  #

  Damon still felt like he was on a roller coaster when he woke up. His stomach lurched and his head hurt. He wondered if he’d hit it on the seatback or something. He reached up to touch the tender spot, but his hands refused to move as he commanded them to. He tried and failed again. “Goddammit!” he meant to say, but all that came out was an indecipherable moan. Cotton filled his mouth, and spitting didn’t budge it.

  Then Damon remembered he hadn’t been at an amusement park or on any roller coasters, and he began to sweat.

  #

  Miranda looked over her shoulder at the form lying across her back seat. “Make yourself comfortable back there. It’s a nice night for a drive.”

  Damon strained and moaned in protest, but her seatbelts kept him in place, and the sock in his mouth absorbed whatever curses he was flinging at her.

  “Just relax, buddy. We’ll be there soon.”

  She didn’t actually have any idea where she wanted to go, but she knew she wanted to be as far away from Sparta as possible right now. She had a small arsenal in the trunk of her car, and her prisoner wasn’t exactly restrained according to procedure. All she knew was that there was no way he was ever going to see the inside of a Sparta PD holding cell.

  Miranda passed a sign indicating that the West Virginia border was only ten miles away. She remembered taking camping trips with her father and one of their favorite places to hunt and fish had been just inside the neighboring state. As she drove, Miranda decided that would be a perfect destination. It was isolated, quiet and probably not yet in use. Perfect spot for an interrogation, if she could remember the roads that led to it.

  It took some doubling back, but Miranda eventually found the place she was looking for. She turned down a small two-lane access road and drove another two miles before shutting off her lights and rolling to a stop. After parking the car, she got out and went around to her trunk. Miranda selected an MP5 sub-machine gun from the various weapons she’d recovered from Damon. Anyone who was unlucky enough to happen upon her and her prisoner would have to be dealt with quickly and permanently. The idea was unsavory, but Miranda knew she’d passed the point of no return when she bound Damon in duct tape and shoved him in the back seat of her car, rather than cuffing him and driving to the police station. From here on out, it was kill or be killed.

  Damon thrashed around as Miranda pulled him out of her back seat, but a quick blow to the side of his knee with the butt of her weapon calmed him down. She made him shuffle and limp several yards along a small hiking path. After he fell for the second time, Miranda cut the tape that had bound his ankles. She tucked the muzzle of the gun behind his ear. “You move anywhere except where I t
ell you, and you’re dead.” She grabbed his elbow and pulled him upright. “Move forward, nice and easy.”

  The gurgle of rushing water greeted them as they came upon a stream swollen from rain and the previous winter’s melted snow. Miranda guided Damon down an embankment underneath a narrow footbridge. From there, they were out of sight to anyone who didn’t know they were there.

  Miranda tore the sock out of Damon’s mouth. He launched into a tirade of cursing and yelling, but she cut him off with a swift kick to the back of the same knee she’d hit with the gun. Damon crumpled to the ground, and his cry of pain was cut off when Miranda grabbed the hair at the back of his head and shoved his face into the water beneath the bridge.

  She decided to count to sixty before she let him up, but by thirty her hand was already numb. Miranda slung her weapon at her side, and pulled Damon out of the water. He gasped, coughed and choked all at once, spitting and shivering at her feet.

  “My turn to talk, okay?” Miranda said.

  Damon didn’t reply, so she took his silence as assent.

  “We’ll start off easy. Why’d you kill your boss?”

  Despite his chattering teeth, Damon managed to reply: “Fuck you!”

  She shoved his head under water again. This time she made it to forty. His lips were blue when his head came up again. “Should’ve brought gloves or something,” Miranda said. “Water’s fricking freezing. So let me guess, you killed Beaumont for all these guns that are now in my car, right?”

  “He was… a… fucking sell-out.”

  “Really? So what was he selling?”

  Damon didn’t answer.

  “What’s all that firepower for?”