He scanned the parking lot of Ed’s as he drove by, but didn’t spot Buck’s patrol car. Nor was it in front of Dixie’s house, or in the city parking lot out front of their building. He grabbed the phone from the passenger side seat and went inside.
The lights were off and the air inside tasted stale. He flipped on the fluorescents, which blinked as they lit up, and started by plugging in his phone. Then he grabbed the keys to the equipment locker. Like all departments, there had been Department of Homeland Security grants for gear that wouldn’t normally have been in the budget. Therefore, he was able to dress in a military grade flak jacket and Kevlar helmet. He put a handful of cable ties into his pockets for use as extra handcuffs. He also found a ram, a steel bar with handles used to break down a door like some medieval siege assault.
And he grabbed a nine ball machine, a Remington 870 pump shotgun. It had an 18” barrel, tactical light, and reflex sight. It held six shells of three-inch magnum in its tube-shaped magazine and was a law enforcement classic with various models in production since 1951. This gun was much more modern, but the design was proven, reliable, and powerful. He racked the pump slide, and then inserted another shell to replace the one just drawn into the chamber from the magazine to top it off. Chandler made sure it was on safe. On the stock was an elastic nylon shell holder he loaded up, and then put extra lose shells in his pockets.
He strode down the front hall, checking out his reflection in the glass office door. The helmet and armored vest were black, with “Sheriff” in bold yellow letters. Chandler felt the blood serge in his biceps as he hefted the short shotgun. Bad boys, I’m coming for you. Fucking with my town. Fucking with my home. Fucking with my truck. Yeah, bad ass, he said to himself stepping toward the door to exit. His urgent bladder made him do a quick about face to run to the men’s room before driving off.
Chandler put the ram in the back and threw the shotgun on the passenger side seat, aiming the barrel down at the floorboards. He was already back to Ed’s and the southbound onramp before he realized he’d forgotten to check if Rebel was in a cell. Or check on Dog-Boy for that matter. Well, no worries. This wasn’t about Rebel and a couple of dead bikers. This was about the motherfuckers who sent them. He sped south toward the exit for Azalea Estates Lane.
His blood cooled some on the five-minute ride down the interstate. From the off ramp he could see the motorcycles under the glow of a security lamp swarmed with moths. There must have been nearly two-dozen of them. The old barn itself didn’t appear to be rocking, but the lights were still on. He pulled in the lot, cursing himself for not checking the cells for Rebel. A pair of big men, crossed armed under the front door’s awning eyed him suspiciously. Chandler knew he needed backup, knew he needed to get with Buck and determine the score. Track down the man who actually did it. That was the better play. He circled in the lot, and exited to go east on Azalea Estates Lane.
It would hit Lowland Road, where he could turn right and north to stop by Rebel Tarwick’s garage. He knew the address, having apprehended the Dog-Boy vigilante on his way there. It was where Buck was likely to have gone, and it was a good logical next step for him too. He might not have been a fancy detective like in some New York City cop show his wife was always watching. But he knew how to get things done in his town.
When he arrived and drove down the driveway, things were dark and felt forlorn and lonely. Under his headlights the garage office’s broken window drew his immediate focus, but old habits made him stop short. He grabbed the shotgun, and crouching behind the Buick’s door he used the tactical light to make a slow scan. Off to the left, Buck’s patrol car made him instantly relieved, which soon drained away to worry.
He approached and looked through the driver’s side window. Neatly folded on the front seat was Buck’s uniform and utility belt of equipment. Despite the large number of accouterments such as handcuffs, radio, night stick, etc., there was no missing the empty holster. Chandler lifted up the clothes with the end of the shotgun, not wanting to touch them for fear of interfering with forensic testing. It was only his uniform shirt and trousers. There were no shoes or underwear.
Chandler turned toward the quiet garage, the shotgun’s intense tactical light easily overpowering the Buick’s high beams. He pointed it through the broken window.
“Sheriff Fouche. Come on out,” he yelled. The running Buick in the driveway dispelled any notion of trying to sneak around.
But the old building felt still. He found the office door unlocked and slightly ajar, and he pushed through with the shotgun out before him. The light reflecting off the close white walls hurt his eyes and made him squint. He reached out to the light with his left hand, never taking his right from the trigger, and adjusted the beam to its low setting. A quick walk through the back and the garage bays confirmed no one was home.
Okay, thought Chandler to himself. Doris sent Mr. Jager here when Dixie was missing. Buck was here. The owner of here was driving the truck which paid his home a visit. There must be something here to tie it all together. Something that would show the county he wasn’t ready for pasture, that Sheriff Fouche was a serious lawman.
The papers on the desk didn’t tell him anything. Work orders for various cars, trucks and tractors were in various stacks itemizing materials, fees and labor rates. Catalogues of parts and vendors, complete with diagrams of how things went together were stained with black oily fingerprints.
He turned toward the waste paper basket, brimming with small brown paper sacks. The size of bag they’d give you if you bought more than one roll of lifesavers, crumpled up and thrown away. Chandler reached for one and smoothed it out. He looked inside, finding nothing but a receipt left in the bag. The top of the receipt was for Ed’s Truck Stop, denoting a total paid in cash for one item of just over six dollars.
Chandler grabbed another bag, and found a similar receipt. And then another. Sometimes the item total varied, but the one six-dollar item was always present. Like he got his usual purchase, but added a drink or snack to it. He pushed the desk from the center of the room to make space and emptied out the trash can. Then he found the overhead light switch, and dropped to his hands and knees to begin arranging what he had.
He used the dates to place them in order. There were over three dozen such receipts, the oldest from only two weeks ago. Receipts having multiple items were spread out over every couple of days, but everyday had at least a few and some had several. What was Rebel buying he thought? That was purchased one at a time, regardless of how many trips were made, even to the tune of multiple times a day? Doris didn’t deal in auto parts.
But, thought Chandler, whatever it was came in packaging and all that was here was the sack and receipt. He grabbed the gun and left the office, going right around the building. His still running Buick lit the front and side well enough, but he resumed using the nine-ball machine’s weapon light when he reached the back. There were several black trash bags in a pile. Rural addresses never had pickup. You had to take it yourself, and some went a long time between trips.
He slung the shotgun over his shoulder and grabbed a couple of bags by their topknots to drag into the garage bays. There was good overhead lighting, and lots of room on the concrete floor. Chandler made several trips dragging bags. He used his pocket knife to slash them open, contents tumbling out as he gave the bag a wild shake. There was a shop broom in the corner he used to spread the little mounds.
The trash smelled, but not near as badly as one would expect. There was little food waste, mainly crumbs of crackers or pork rinds left behind in foil or plastic bags. Certainly no rotting banana peels to contend with. A few soda pop bottles here and there, or the bloody Styrofoam of a tray of burgers. Some moldy bread. Most of it was paper waste, paper towels or carbon copies of old work order forms.
But then, he hit the jack pot. Tumbling out from the garbage bag came small cardboard boxes of cold medicine, and their accompanying empty foil blister packs. His lips and teeth made a wet howling soun
d as he suddenly sucked in a breath and assuredly gripped his shotgun.
CHAPTER—29
Dixie Johnson sat with her mom, Doris, and father, Ed, at their kitchen table in the small weathered apartment over the truck stop diner’s kitchen. Exhaust fans shared some of the same ductwork. The apartment was built to the same standard as the motel, but didn’t suffer from the same indifference. Her mom had tried to make it a home, separate from the business. Doris took the time to clean and display remembrances, and Dixie recalled many family meals here before the teenage years started.
The apartment’s kitchen was just inside the door at the top of the outside stairs which led down to the diner’s back entrance and where they parked the family car. It had an avocado green table in the middle, a color popular once upon a time and never updated since visitors weren’t invited inside the Johnson’s retreat. Dixie was graduating from high school before realizing the table was really a painted wooden wire spool, surplus from the power company, with a circle of plywood screwed on top. The checkered plastic tablecloth had been replaced a few times over the years, but her mom always stuck with the classic country style. Overall it was a poultry décor, with a wooden rooster napkin holder, rooster and hen salt and pepper shakers and the like. Even the clock showed a red topped hen pointing white feathery wings to show that it was a bit before midnight. Opposite the door was an entryway to a small living room before a bedroom and bath beyond to round out the home.
“Mom, I can’t believe you let it come to this. There has to be a way.”
“We’ll just work harder,” interjected her dad. He smiled and nodded vigorously to drive home his point.
Doris rolled her eyes quickly and ignored him, “I’ve run the numbers, Dixie. We’re just not selling enough and if we don’t make some needed repairs we’re going to be fined out of business.”
“Well, for starters we need to sell my house. If I can’t pay for it out of my own job, then I can’t have it. I’ll move back to a motel room until we get things sorted out.”
“That’s not going to be enough, Dixie. The diner’s not making money. The labor costs are too high.”
“I can take a couple of hours each day at the register,” pledged Ed with a shrug of reluctance.
“We need to get out of the open twenty-four hours’ business. There aren’t enough patrons at those hours. Most people who stop in then just want gas and a cup of coffee. We don’t need to be paying for a waitress and cook in addition to the cashier.”
Ed’s face tightened, “We can’t do that. This is what will put St. Albans on the map. Always open. We’ll grow into a traveler’s oasis.
And them cooks and dishwashers have families, too.”
Dixie continued, “And I’d like to understand what really are the requirements with the fuel system update. What’s a must do now and what are things we can plan for later? Is anything grandfathered? Does it apply to automotive pumping or just commercial tractor trailers? All those details.”
Ed piped in again, “The man who did the inspection said he could fix it all for $50,000. We should go with him. He’s already looked at it and it’s a fair price.”
“Let’s have a couple of others take a look and get their bids,” proposed Dixie. “Someone who is truly in the business and knows the inspectors, what they are looking for and the most recent regulations. I’m not convinced we need to pay that much without even knowing what it is we are supposed to have done and whether or not it is really needed all at once.”
“Good work costs money. If you plan to run this place on the cheap, you can count me out,” protested Ed.
Doris talked over him in the middle of his sentence, “It’s been quite a while since we looked real hard at that. I told the county inspector we’d address their concerns but then I got too busy with your Dad’s medical appointments and then the bills started coming. I kind of wanted to let that sleeping dog lay and just never got back around to it.
I think what you’re proposing may get ends meeting month to month. But we’ll never start banking money for the upgrades unless we find some other efficiencies.”
Dixie nodded, “Okay. It’s a good first step anyway. Maybe we can look at the numbers tomorrow and see how close we come. And make sure our prices are up to date with our costs. Seems to me a cup of coffee is the same price as it was when I was in middle school. Then, let’s make some calls so we truly know what we need for the future.”
Doris nodded while Ed talked about selling the car, but no one was listening. Instead the two women tilted their heads as they heard the steps outside ring with pounding footsteps. A moment later the door flew inward with a wood splintering crash, only the bottom hinge remaining attached to the frame so the door didn’t fall completely on the floor.
“Sheriff’s Office!” came the voice at almost the same time. The tall figure in military body armor dropped the metal ram, and slid a slung shotgun off his shoulder. He entered the room in a couple of steps, swiftly kicking aside debris.
“I’ve a warrant for Ed and Doris Johnson,” he screamed. “Keep your hands where I can see them!”
Doris screamed into the blinding tactical light at the end of the shotgun with wide eyes while Ed started to rise, and then fell back down grasping at his chest.
Dixie screamed at Sheriff Chandler Fouche, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Don’t interfere with the serving of a warrant. All of you, keep your hands where I can see them,” Chandler loudly decreed.
“Hands, dammit!” Chandler reiterated with a stabbing motion of the shotgun.
Doris and Dixie looked at each other in confusion, their hands plainly visible with outstretched palms. Then they glanced toward Ed, who clutched at the front of his shirt with a bowed head while leaning forward over the table.
“Daddy!” said Dixie rising, but Chandler shoved her with the side of the shotgun and caused her to lose her balance. She fell out of the chair and backward, the dainty legs of the ladder-back chair coming apart.
Doris reached Ed first, Chandler powerless to stop both of them, and gently pulled his chair backward to lower him on to his back while Dixie scrambled to get back up. Her Mom wasn’t strong enough to give him a soft landing.
“I said to freeze. What’s the matter with you people?”
Chandler strode around the table toward Doris, and then saw the sweat pouring from Ed’s face as he gasped for breath. His hand came up pressed against his jaw, as Doris pulled him free from the chair to lay flat.
Dixie screamed at him, “Daddy is having a heart attack. Call an ambulance!”
“I’ve got a warrant,” said Chandler confused for a moment, “I need to…”
“Call an ambulance!” ordered Dixie again.
Chandler took his grip off the shotgun’s slide and keyed his mike, “Control, it’s Chandler. Need medic one at Ed’s, possible heart attack. Come around the back of the diner.”
Doris held his hand and cried as Ed’s breaths became quick and shallow. Chandler stood in the doorway, mouth agape, the shotgun gripped only by the neck of the stock and pointing at the floor. Dixie sprang around the table to her father and kneeled at his side opposite her mother. The old man’s face was beginning to discolor with tiny spider webs of purple and they both noticed his chest had stopped moving. Doris looked upward and began to wail.
Dixie put her fingers where her father’s rib cage came together to find the center of his chest. She could hear the siren out on Main Street, even over her Mom’s sobs. Chandler’s radio crackled that they were turning onto Thigpen Road from Smallwood Street. Placing one hand over the other she started chest compressions.
The Fire Department’s annual training last fall seemed forever ago, but the simple basics had stuck with her. Quick compressions, faster than one per second. Her technique was good. She had been well coached in the mechanics, and the dummy had given her a good feel. But they’d never made her keep going for a realistic amount of time.
She was onl
y a light smoker, but hardly an exerciser. Even then, no one exercised like this. The fast speed of the compressions led her to starting out holding her breath, and soon the lack of oxygen clawed at her will to continue. Her shoulders and forearms burned. Dixie began to figure out how to force herself to breath while compressing, but by then her body was behind. She gasped, choking a helpless sob. A hand pushed her away to sprawl on the floor.
Dixie looked over to see Chandler now on his knees spelling her. He was fit, but he was also an old man. He’d shed his helmet, but the armored vest forced him to lean in at an awkward angle. She counted the compressions, and noted their pace rapidly slowing. The old sheriff didn’t have it in him, but he was going for it for all he was worth. Minutes later, the medics came storming up the stairs with a stretcher.
They were quick. Dixie knew them, or at least knew most of their faces. But never did she think she’d share a moment of her family with them in quite this way. There were shouts at each other as her dad was loaded on the stretcher, no time to be lost with a mechanical gurney on the stairs. Her dad’s weight required all of them, rescue men biceps pumping, her mother desperately screaming and trying to hang on as he was led away. Chandler pried her hands free, and then pulled her back out of the kitchen where he fumbled with his handcuffs. Dixie’s last glance at her dad was in the back of the ambulance with an oxygen mask on his face and his shirt being cut away for the cardio paddles. Within seconds of the back doors closing, they were racing from the parking lot with red emergency lights blazing.
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 25