K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  Doris handed him the box of cold pills. They’d just done it to test the license really quick, but no sense in putting the box back on the shelf. Buck slipped it into his pocket and drove home for the night hoping there wouldn’t be any calls. Tomorrow, when Sheriff Fouche read his report, would likely be a lively day and he still needed to have a conversation with Rebel before hitting the sack.

  CHAPTER—10

  Kelton walked his dog west down Main Street just after the morning rush. He’d slept a little on the later side again, for him anyway, made easy by a motel bed rather than being under a poncho on the ground. Like before, he’d availed himself upon the diner for a huge American-style breakfast, and sat pondering Buck’s motivation for lying about the blue pickup. He had still been at his table when Doris wondered in from the back and immediately approached.

  Dixie still hadn’t been seen or heard from, and understandably Mom remained worried. She told him it was probably a long shot, but there’d been a wild boy in town that once had an interest in her girl. His name was Rebel Tarwick and he ran a garage just south of town on Lowland Road. She said she’d mentioned it to Buck who’d scoffed.

  He’d considered he wasn’t a police officer with any special authority to trespass or interfere in an active investigation. However, since it had supposedly been made clear that this wasn’t a lead the deputy considered worth pursuing, Kelton had decided that the interference opposition carried little weight.

  Normally, he would have declined the request as someone else’s business. Especially since Doris offered no firm evidence other than a mother’s hunch and law enforcement was actively involved. But young idealism, in the mold of an officer and gentlemen, didn’t like to pass on rescuing young ladies. It didn’t endanger his dog, and it gave him something to do while the slow wheels of justice turned for his ticket to walk out of town.

  His plan was to stop at the top of Rebel’s driveway, let Azrael scent Dixie’s sock in the plastic bag, and then approach to knock on the door. He could play “lost out of towner” and ask for directions if anyone was there, but the real aim was to see if his dog gave any indication Dixie had recently been there.

  It was not just a long shot as Doris termed it, but also a long walk. He decided upon a route that avoided the residential areas to avoid trouble from other dogs who weren’t as well trained as his. The fresh doughnuts of the St. Albans’ bakery smelled good, but with a full tummy it wasn’t hard to not stop in. Dixie’s house remained dark and quiet. He gave a friendly wave at the barber’s window and noted both sheriff’s vehicles were at the office. A couple minutes later he and Azrael reached Lowland Road, and Kelton paused to look around.

  His dog sat and whined softly looking north up the railroad tracks that stretched behind the city offices. Kelton decided the city office building looked like an old rail terminal. It had “architectural character” as one of his old professors would say. So did the church beyond it with its tall stained-glass windows. But it wasn’t what caught Azrael’s attention. It took a minute for him to hear the train himself and then he understood.

  He slipped off his pack, unzipped a side pocket, and placed the “mutt-muffs” over Azrael’s ears. It wasn’t his dog’s favorite thing, but after helicopters and gunfire during the war the dog was well conditioned to them. Kelton was remounting his pack as the big diesel locomotive came into view, black with a white rearing horse painted on the nose. The engineer extended a hand from the window and gave a friendly wave. Kelton gave a wave back. There were several power units on the front of the train, followed by an endless metal snake of boxcars and container carriers.

  An ancient relation of his mother had driven locomotives long ago, and sent him a toy train set at one of the first Christmases he could remember. To the best of his recollection he never met the man, nor knew what became of the toy train. His mother had kept a neat and tidy house in those early years, being quick to participate in garage sales or use thrift store consignments for things not in active use. It seemed they moved every few months as she struggled with evictions or chased the next minimum wage job.

  He’d been ten when they had finally settled down into the little house in Fayetteville, North Carolina, near Fort Bragg. She got a job at an herbicide factory, and sold the car due to the convenient bus stop. Her shifts were erratic but the retired cop veteran next door, despite being on disability, took a keen interest in him. At one point Kelton hoped the old cop and his mother might get married before he was old enough to appreciate the thirty-five-year age difference and his physical infirmaries.

  Patrol Sergeant Hesp saw to it that Kelton had done his homework, and done it well. He’d made him give presentations on the lessons. Then the old sergeant quizzed him mercilessly not just to make sure the lesson had been thoroughly understood, but to help young Kelton learn to keep his mental balance. The reward had been shooting. Lot of shooting, which also meant lots of reloading using a press to turn empty brass casings back into live cartridges again. The boy he’d been thrived. The lonely old policeman thrived to, with renewed purpose in life.

  Kelton had felt he was on his way. There was an appointment to the United States Military Academy at West Point. Old Sergeant Hesp passed his sophomore year, but a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering and an officer’s commission in the regular army soon followed. Then he was off to war and wasn’t looking back, extending his tours and then getting waivers to further stretch his deployment.

  Then, through the American Red Cross, he was notified his mom had died and he came home. An aggressive form of cancer, perhaps brought on from years of chemical exposures in the herbicide plant. She must have known, but never told him. He knew he might or might not come home from the war. It never occurred to him that home may not be there when he got back.

  The army hadn’t been there for him either. Despite four years in the warzone, volunteering for special duty and performing it well, his military career was completely off track. He had the wrong assignments for a developing engineering officer and the army was drawing down. A personnel officer, a friendly old major with graying hair, advised Kelton he had no future there, so he separated.

  The train finally rumbled on, and Kelton took off Azrael’s “mutt-muffs”. They turned left on Lowland Road to start heading south. Within a block were the neatly kept old track houses of Coalson Street, with white asbestos siding and rusting tin roofs. A quarter mile later they were deep within the wild rural lands ornamented with scrub cedars, barbed wire, and giant purple pokeberry stalks.

  On his right, the railroad bed had been built high enough that when walking on the road he couldn’t really see much on the far side. There were old telephone poles with glass insulators, wires broken and tangled with kudzu vines. To the left, it alternated between pastures and woods with the occasional modest house much like over on Thigpen.

  As was their custom they walked on the left shoulder to see on-coming traffic, and occasionally stepped into the briar clogged drainage ditch for cars reluctant to drift into the other lane to give them space. He used his iPhone briefly to check his location, and noted it was probably another half hour to Rebel’s address. Putting the mobile device away, he saw the two sheriff’s vehicles coming up fast behind them with blue lights flashing but no sirens.

  He turned to watch them curiously, as Buck’s Chevy Interceptor skewed sideways in the road and came to a stop. As the Sheriff’s Dodge Durango pulled up close behind, Deputy Buck Garner opened his door, stepped out kneeling, and leveled his gun at him over the car’s engine block. Kelton cocked his head to the side while Azrael sat panting. Sheriff Fouche exited his vehicle behind, but didn’t feel the need to walk any other way than smartly erect.

  Kelton called to them in greeting, “Good morning, gentlemen. Would you please not point that at me? And what can I help you with this morning?”

  Buck called out, “Kelton Jager, you are under arrest for murder. Raise your hands high above your head!”

  Chandler
quickly corrected him, “Not arrested, detained. The county prosecutor has some questions. I need to take you back to the office.”

  Buck’s sunglasses and raised pistol kept Kelton from reading his expression, but he leaned forward with his weight on his front foot and his shoulders were high and tense. His knees were bent, taking as much cover as possible while still being able to aim. Kelton briefly considered, fingers tingling, but heard the soft voice in his head reminding him that one can’t outdraw a drawn gun. He raised his hands, but with bent elbows.

  “How do you plan to detain my dog?”

  Chandler’s head cocked slightly to one side as he considered the question but Buck quickly yelled, “We’ll turn him over to animal control.”

  Really it was their only choice, Kelton thought. They couldn’t put the dog in the jail cell with him any more than they could leave him with his gun or any other weapon. But Azrael was a Military Working Dog, an “M.W.D.” in K-9 parlance, and most likely far beyond the handling capabilities of the small town dogcatcher. They might put him down in the interests of public safety.

  Sheriff Chandler Fouche was advancing, circling as wide as the drainage ditch allowed around the front of Buck’s car so as not to interfere with Buck’s line of fire. The old-timer had his left hand out for balance as he walked gingerly with firm flat foot placement so as not to scuff his shoes. His right hand was on the butt of his revolver.

  Kelton knew Chandler was coming for his gun and considered. There was a good chance he could kill them both, despite Buck at the ready, and save his dog. He didn’t believe Buck was very practiced, and firing a double action revolver wasn’t easy. But becoming a fugitive may not be necessary to do that. Kelton was confident there was no true murder case against him. So the impending detainment was temporary, although possibly a year to trial if indicted.

  Kelton made a soft kissing sound with his lips as Chandler got within fifteen feet, still stepping slowly and deliberately. Azrael looked up, bright eyes in the black masked face answering. He pointed his right index finger with a soft stabbing motion toward the near field, where Azrael’s path would take him in front of Chandler so that Buck’s line of sight would be blocked.

  “Voraus,” he commanded softly. Go forward and run out. Dog’s had great ears. There was no need to aggressively shout. Kelton figured that was a good thing when someone was pointing a loaded gun your way.

  Azrael launched himself in a deadbolt sprint in the direction Kelton had pointed. Chandler wobbled in surprise, but didn’t lose his balance. In a single leap, the Belgian Malinois was over the drainage ditch and barbed wire hedge of cattle fencing. He found a low roll in the ground, and then poured on the speed. Buck’s pistol banged after him, shot after shot, until clicking empty. A dog is a small target, moving low and erratically, and the range was long for a handgun. Buck wasn’t a great shot either. Azrael probably didn’t even know the gunfire was meant for him.

  With the deputy’s gun empty and the sheriff’s still holstered, Kelton’s fingers tingled again. A common firing range drill was the “El-Presidente,” where the shooter started with his hands above his head and back to the targets. This would be easy in comparison, but it was not about the police. It was about his dog.

  He extended his arm and finger to continue the voraus. He didn’t want Azrael becoming protective, breaking the command, and returning. As Chandler approached, Kelton gave no resistance, and let the old sheriff take possession of the Glock 40 once again. He made no sudden moves that Azrael might interpret as the beginning of a struggle. Azrael liked putting teeth into flesh.

  Chandler ordered in a conversational tone, “Please drop your hands and slip off your backpack, Sir.”

  Kelton did so, in slow steady compliance, before standing relaxed.

  “Please place your hands behind you, Sir.”

  Kelton was a little surprised to be handcuffed by the old sheriff, the action interrupting his amused view of Buck fumbling with a speed loader for his empty revolver. The cold steel bit at his flesh, clearly indicating they weren’t decoration for procedure’s sake. In a few moments, Buck was reloaded and joined them with now holstered gun. It took the deputy a few minutes to strip away Kelton’s Leatherman tool, spare Glock magazines, and the like from his belt and pockets. At least they placed them in the top of the backpack for safe keeping, he thought.

  Kelton stood quietly, waiting for Chandler to scold his deputy for the half dozen shots. But if there was going to be tongue lashing over it, it wasn’t going to happen here. Chandler directed Buck to pick up the backpack and they started marching toward the sheriff’s SUV.

  There was a possibility, thought Kelton, that the sheriff did such chastising in private and wanted the facade of a unified law enforcement front. But he’d been quick to loudly correct Buck about arrested vs. detained. And now the sheriff didn’t even bother to use his voice to defend a dog which had helped him just the day before. Kelton, in the mental filing cabinet of the brain, lumped him in the bottom drawer with the jihadists.

  Buck pushed him roughly into the back seat, but didn’t get to bang his head against the car roof given the additional headroom of the Durango. The deputy also didn’t bother with his seatbelt. Kelton wasn’t sure if that was because of the short ride, or Buck feared him biting into his throat when he leaned over. The backseat door was closed, his pack thrown in the back with the spare tire and he and the sheriff were headed north. Kelton stared down at the surplus ammo can which was bolted to the floor with a padlock on it for a second to collect his thoughts and then looked out the windows for any sign of his dog.

  Kelton took a look over his shoulder to see Buck return to his car and head south, and then looked to his right, east out over the pasture land again. Azrael was nowhere to be seen. The separation filled him with anxiety, and Kelton strained against the cuffs. He knew it would be fruitless in breaking free, but the exertion felt good to burn off the adrenaline and frustration. Before he came to terms with the state of affairs, they were pulling into the parking lot.

  “Are you going to give me any trouble?” asked the old sheriff.

  Kelton took a deep breath to relax. If he was going to give trouble, handcuffed in the back of a SUV was absolutely the worst time to do it. He’d made his choice when he gave up his gun and sent his dog away. Kelton stuck with that decision and shook his head. He also noted there wasn’t a single hair on the upholstery he could see from his dog’s ride just yesterday.

  Minutes later he was led through the alley entrance to one of the holding cells and gently pushed inside. The door slid closed, and the sheriff locked it with a large key. There were no fancy electric locks in St. Albans. The other cells were still empty.

  “Back up to the door,” instructed Chandler and Kelton did so.

  The sheriff reached between the bars and removed the handcuffs. Angry red circles, some already darkening into deep bruises, were plainly visible on his skin despite it being darkened from years in southwest Asia. And then the sheriff disappeared through the central hallway door, the same one he and Azrael had tracked through just yesterday, without another word.

  All the water had evaporated from the stainless steel commode, although things worked appropriately as Kelton took advantage of being alone. The dusty furnishings were sparse as to be expected, with only a sink and a cot with a thin mattress. The cells were really just separate cages erected in a large bay with a concrete floor. No matter where one was, one could see absolutely everything.

  He figured the prosecutor might come within minutes or hours, but not days. Else they would need to feed him and check on him regularly. They didn’t have the staff for that. But they might be thinking it would be a good move to let him cool down awhile before starting their interview so he was more in a mood to talk. Lawyers didn’t like to be kept waiting for someone to speak.

  Kelton made himself comfortable on the cot and tried to contemplate returning to life in the absence of a special dog. It was distasteful, and he
began to regret honoring the authority of law.

  CHAPTER—11

  Rebel Tarwick closed the manila folder, sat back in his desk chair, and rubbed his hand over his greasy beard. Despite his troubles, he’d slept sound without suffering from heartburn, and even his morning coffee sat well with him for a change. It felt good to be calm again after all the rage, but his problems remained and he had to face the issues. He took a deep breath again, and wiped his palms on his denim clad thighs without letting go of the pencil he’d done his figuring with.

  He owed a lot in property taxes, with compounding penalties and interest, and had for a long time. He’d never liked tractors that much, finding their crude simplicity boring, and neglected the cornerstone of his daddy’s business. He’d always enjoyed working on racecars, or at least cars since there weren’t too many racers who didn’t have their own mechanic at their local dirt track. Every year he had to purchase more specialty equipment as automotive systems became more sophisticated, but St. Albans lacked the volume to recoup his investments. The Commonwealth of Virginia’s letter was demanding immediate payment, or they were prepared to move forward with seizing his assets. The shop was the only asset he had.

  The Environmental Protection Agency’s letter was similar, but in addition to fines wanted excavation to start on soil contaminated with oil, heavy metals, and assorted solvents. His attorney had described it as a “remediation effort.” That was all well and good, but contractors with big machines didn’t work for free. Neither did lawyers, and the man had stopped returning his calls.