by Bill Hopkins
Saturday afternoon, continued
There was no question that one other person besides the fire marshal was bound to show up where Rosswell was going, that he was sure of. All he had to do was wait at Nadine’s house.
After he’d left Frizz, he stayed by Tina’s side for a couple of hours. She was awake, although still groggy. Rosswell had difficulty believing that any anesthesia affected a healthy person the way it had Tina. While in her room, he’d tried calling several doctors, including Hakim Al Serafi. No doctor kept office hours on Saturdays. Or Sundays. He’d start calling Monday morning. Although Tina’s doctor at Saint Luke’s had assured him that she was suffering from exhaustion, the bullet grazing her, and a reaction to the anesthesia, Rosswell wasn’t mollified. He wanted Tina healthy and happy so they could snuggle in their special place. The Southern Hotel.
At Nadine’s house, the smoking ruins prompted him to do his own investigation before the investigator arrived. What did Rosswell know about investigating fires? Nothing. When he got there, the volunteer fire department wasn’t on the scene. The fire had probably been declared out and safe, or whatever firefighters say when they’ve decided they’ve done all they can do.
When the fire marshal was set to arrive, Rosswell didn’t know. He needed to work fast.
Am I going to destroy evidence that Nadine’s garden grew illegal weeds?
No traffic moved on the road running in front of her house. No birds sang in the scorched trees around the place. A large white oak on the backside of her property was burnt to the point of death. All of the ornamental shrubs and flowers planted around her house were fried. The smells were horrible. The marijuana aroma hung in the still air. The incinerated plastic and fertilizer gave off an acrid scent. The wood, glass, steel, and whatever else was in the house sent off an odor reminding Rosswell of other house fires he’d smelled.
With his back to the road, he surveyed the destruction at the front of her house. He kicked at a black lump of something lying where her front door once stood. When he picked it up, the lump felt warm. The house was a pile of charred rubble. He couldn’t tell one piece of crap from another. The smell of gasoline still pervaded the air and the ruins of the house.
There’d be no doubt how the fire started. Yet Frizz was right. The fire marshal would spot the dope set-up the instant he drove up. This wasn’t the marshal’s first roundup.
Destroy evidence? Rosswell couldn’t even tell what in that mess was evidence.
Wasn’t it about time for the only person besides Nadine who knew anything about this operation to show up? Rosswell had mulled over everything he’d heard up to this point and sifted through the information, especially Ollie’s report. Only one person could be connected to Nadine.
“Good afternoon, Judge.” The voice came from behind Rosswell, on the road.
Of course. No surprises. Rosswell was correct. A pat to the .38 special in his pocket made him brave. “Good afternoon. I’ve been expecting you.” Turning around would’ve done no good, so he remained staring into the burned mess. And, as he also had thought, no car drove up to deposit the visitor. He’d hiked a good distance, Rosswell suspected. His approach had been silent.
A tall man with close-cropped bright red hair joined Rosswell at his side. Nathaniel Dahlbert.
“Judge, how did you know I’d be out here?”
“How many clues do you want?”
Nathaniel chuckled. “Let’s see … four.”
“Too easy. Number one, you’re filthy rich. Before I met you, I would’ve said that anyone who spends over a couple of hundred dollars on a tea service has more money than brains. But you have brains. That’s number two. If you’ve got a lot of money tied up in porcelain, then I know you have a lot of money tied up in silver, gold, antiques, other things that can’t be traced easily. Excellent planning by a brainy man.”
Rosswell took a moment to recollect what was in Ollie’s report. “Oh, yes. That book selling business you have is worth a million dollars profit per year, although it’s not from selling books. You’re selling a lot more than books. Number three is where you get the dope you sell. Our friend Nadine supplied some of it. I’ll admit I don’t know your other sources. It was easy after I had all the info to realize that Nadine was one of your major sources for pot.”
“I asked for four clues. You gave me only three.”
“Number four is a stretch, I admit, but you have a hotline phone somewhere in your house. I heard it ringing the second time I was there. It doesn’t have an answering machine hooked to it.”
“Owning a phone without an answering machine isn’t against the law.”
“Agreed. But why have a phone in a back room instead of your living room where you conducted business?”
“You’re a suspicious person.”
“Suspicious and skeptical. When I heard that phone ring, I wondered why you didn’t buy a disposable cellphone at Walmart. Simple. You need a credit card to buy one of those. Sure, the phone company has info on you they got when you installed your landline, but that was a chance you’d have to take. The only calls would be local and the phone company doesn’t keep records of local calls on landlines like they do on cellphones.”
Nathaniel offered his hand to Rosswell. “Congratulations.” They shook.
“Admirable business organization you have, Nathan. That is, if your name really is Nathan Dahlbert. I haven’t been able to nail down your identity. Give me time.”
“Nathan? I don’t like that nickname. Nathaniel is my name.” He waggled a forefinger at Rosswell. “Besides, a man needs a few secrets.”
“Your distraction was only momentary.”
“Distraction? What was the distraction?”
“There’s no Masonic breakaway group who added the initials EJD to the Latin motto on the ring I found. Fortunately, I recognized that as a lousy story and didn’t pursue it.” Ollie’s report had been thorough on that point.
“True. Eddie Joe Deckard is the only one I know with those initials. He was a scoundrel of the highest order.”
The irony of a man who used an Internet book company as a cover to sell dope calling a fellow doper a scoundrel of the highest order verged on the ridiculous. There was no time for Rosswell to call him on it. It was an argument he could have with Nathaniel later. Other things had priority.
Rosswell hadn’t brought any water. The heat of the day sapped him of the last bit of energy he had. The wound to his arm was healing but it still hurt. His whole body, sad to say, hadn’t healed either. Fatigue was a constant worry. Those problems were ones he wouldn’t share with Nathaniel. However, falling over in a faint with Nathaniel standing next to him could be a death sentence.
Rosswell pointed to the house and spoke the obvious. “Nadine’s out of business. At least for a long time. She spent a lot of money on this house that she’ll never get back from her insurance.”
“True. But there are a thousand Nadines in Missouri. I’ll find other helpers.”
No, you won’t, Rosswell promised himself. He’d take Nathaniel off the street no matter what it took. Alas. There was that little matter of evidence. Something he didn’t have on the book seller. Yet.
Rosswell said, “Let me guess one more thing.”
“Guess away.”
“Your house, including your computer and paper records, doesn’t have a speck of incriminating evidence.”
“You are absolutely correct. If you’d like to have your sheriff search the place, you won’t even need a search warrant. I’ll give you consent. Right here. Right now.”
“Why are you out here?”
Nathaniel stepped across what used to be the threshold. “You tell me first.” He bent to examine something that appeared to be a doorknob.
“I’m looking for evidence.”
Nathaniel straightened, then turned to the woods surrounding the house. “Evidence of what?” He shaded his eyes and surveyed the trees.
“I won’t know until I find it.”
“I’m also looking for evidence.” Rosswell watched as Nathaniel traipsed through the outer edges of the ruins of the house. Nathaniel kept his head down, seeming to calculate each step, careful to make certain that he didn’t fall over something. At one point, he stopped and stared for a long time at something in the ruins. What he looked at Rosswell couldn’t tell.
Rosswell said, “Why haven’t you absconded? You should be running away. From what I know about you, the FBI will hunt you down wherever you go.”
“Perhaps.”
“Until then, we’ll work together?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
They shook hands again.
“Who’s your enemy?” Rosswell asked.
“Let’s look around.”
They had just started searching for evidence when Candy found them.
Chapter Thirty-two
Saturday afternoon, continued
Baggy blue jeans. Gray sweatshirt. Her hair tucked under a John Deere cap. Dirty blonde hair. Big sunglasses. Big bracelets. Standing in the middle of the road about a hundred feet from them, not even trying to hide. She moved up and then back several times.
She’s dancing! Candy’s cracked completely.
Candy had somehow escaped from jail, changed her appearance yet again, and cradled her AK-47.
And she was pissed.
How did she escape? Why wasn’t Frizz out here? Surely the sheriff would realize that she would return to the scene of her many crimes. Cocking his ear, Rosswell listened for sirens. Nothing but a gentle breeze blowing through the trees.
She’s shot Frizz. He’s lying dead at headquarters.
Rosswell pulled the pistol from his pocket and aimed it at her head. “Candy, drop that gun.”
A blast from the rifle sent Nathaniel and Rosswell scurrying behind Vicky, as if a puny Volkswagen could stop bullets from an AK-47.
I don’t think she saw my pistol!
Nathaniel said, “Who the hell is that?”
“Candy Lavaliere. She’s a murderer.”
“You’re correct on that score.”
“Candy!” Rosswell screamed at her. “Put down the rifle!”
Rosswell hit the ground, scooted around the back end of Vicky to get into position. More shots rang out, a few ripping through Vicky. If Candy kept that up, he’d have to kill her for sure. No one messed with his car and lived to tell the tale.
Nathaniel said, “Call the sheriff.”
“No service.” Nathaniel checked his own phone. Rosswell guessed that Nathaniel didn’t believe him.
More shots.
“Candy,” Rosswell yelled, “stop shooting. Everyone and their brother is looking for you. You have no way out.” Rosswell prayed that was true.
Silence for a moment then more shots.
Rosswell watched as Nathaniel scooted next to him. Nathaniel squinted at Candy and grunted. “That’s not a woman.”
“What?”
“I’m telling you that the person who’s firing that gun at us is not a woman.”
“That’s Candy Lavaliere. I’ve known her for years. You don’t even know her. She’s got some masculine traits, maybe, but she’s a woman. Hell, I suspect she and Ollie are lovers. You’re fricking crazy.”
“Women generally have wider pelvises than men. That’s why they sway their hips.”
Nathaniel had gone around the bend. Candy was trying to kill them and he lectured Rosswell about female anatomy, giving him facts he already knew. Rosswell had seen stress under gunfire many times. Men sometimes go crazy when someone’s trying to kill them. And now Nathaniel was comparing the way males and females walked.
“Rosswell, come out here, you prick,” the shooter yelled.
Rosswell said, “What the crap?”
Unless she’d downed a dose of testosterone while in the jail, that voice didn’t belong to Candy or any other woman Rosswell knew. It was a deep bass voice of a man. And it was a man he knew. But he couldn’t place a name with the voice. Not right then.
“I told you,” Nathaniel said. “It’s a man.”
“No crap.”
“Who is it?”
“I know him, but I can’t place the voice right now.”
“Let me try.”
Rosswell said, “Try to place his voice?”
“No. Let me see if I can talk him down.”
“Have at it.”
Nathaniel scooted a foot or so towards the road, but Rosswell doubted that the bad guy could see him clearly enough to take a kill shot. The shooter knew that spraying them and everything around them with bullets would do the job as effectively as one shot to the head. The guy didn’t need good aim. All he needed was a lot of bullets.
“Hey, out there,” Nathaniel said.
No answer.
Nathaniel waited a few more seconds, then said, “Let’s talk.”
No answer.
Rosswell said, “I don’t think this is working. I’m going to shoot him.”
“Wait,” Nathaniel said to Rosswell, then hollered to the shooter, “Talk to me, man.”
No answer.
“That does it,” Rosswell said, squirming into a sitting position behind Vicky. It was a stable position that would allow him accuracy.
The guy said, “What do you want?”
Rosswell then recognized the voice. “It’s Johnny Dan Dumey.”
He’s been stalking me. The glint of light I saw at the park when we got the tire impressions were from binoculars. Shooting at Tina and me. The woman in the crowd that Hermie’s son saw. The knife under my couch. All of it was Johnny Dan Dumey.
“Tell me about him.”
Rosswell wasn’t about to give up one criminal to another. He’d have to settle for something that would give Nathaniel something to chew on but nothing he could use if they lived through the firefight.
Maybe Nathaniel will do something really stupid out here that he could be arrested for. The two birds with one stone ploy.
Rosswell said, “I don’t know him that well. He’s an auto mechanic, and his daddy, Elmer, is in a nursing home.”
“Good stuff.”
“What are you, some kind of hostage negotiator?”
“I’m quite well read.” Nathaniel nodded toward the man trying to kill them. “No practical experience, but that seems of little consequence now.”
“Ollie will be sorry he missed out.”
Johnny Dan yelled, “I said, what the hell do you want?”
Nathaniel cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Johnny Dan, how’s Elmer doing? How’s your dad?”
Johnny Dan still hadn’t sought cover. Probably because he didn’t realize that Rosswell was armed. Then again, if he didn’t think either one of them had a gun, why didn’t Johnny Dan charge and blow their heads off? Something was wrong with the boy’s brain, but what bothered him was way beyond Rosswell’s knowledge.
In answer to Nathaniel’s question, Johnny Dan shot a volley over their heads. “Get out here where I can see you. Who the hell are you?”
“Nathaniel Dahlbert.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“Infiniti.”
“How old?” Johnny Dan asked.
“Brand new.”
“Is it silver?”
“Yes. You know it?”
“I’ve seen you driving around town a lot. You’re going to have a problem with that clutch slave assembly. I can hear it going out.”
If Rod Serling had appeared announcing the beginning of a Twilight Zone episode, Rosswell wouldn’t have been more surprised. A madman trying to kill them was giving Nathaniel a little last minute advice about a bad clutch on his car.
Nathaniel said in a low voice, “I’ve got him talking about irrelevant matters. That’s good.”
Rosswell whispered, “Keep going.”
Nathaniel said to Johnny Dan, “Maybe you could take a look at it.”
Johnny Dan said, “You’re going to be dead. You won’
t need a clutch.”
Nathaniel said, “Johnny Dan, there are some more things we ought
to talk about. Come over here and let’s talk. Man to man.”
The idea of Johnny Dan waltzing over for a visit while he was toting his AK-47 didn’t appear to be a real good idea. However, Rosswell had to admit that as long as Nathaniel had Johnny Dan talking, he wasn’t shooting.
Johnny Dan said, “Y’all got any guns?”
“No.”
Rosswell was proud of Nathaniel’s instant lie.
Johnny Dan strutted up and down the road, never letting his eyes leave what little he could see of them. Hoping they were hidden behind his precious Vicky to the point where Johnny Dan couldn’t see them well enough to shoot them didn’t bring Rosswell comfort. Parked between them and death was—Rosswell hated to think of her this way—nothing but a hunk of German tin, but Vicky could be sacrificed if she kept them from getting killed.
“He’s only got thirty rounds per magazine,” Rosswell said to Nathaniel. “I’m hoping he’s running out of ammunition.”
Nathaniel yelled to Johnny Dan, “Throw down your gun and we’ll talk.”
Johnny Dan laughed loudly. “That’s a good ’un. I’m going to use that.” He slung his rifle over his shoulder, posturing like a soldier of fortune. Even though he was disguised as a woman, the sneer was all male.
“Your method isn’t working,” Rosswell said to Nathaniel. “Let me try something.” He nodded. Rosswell stood. “Johnny Dan, come over here and talk to us.”
The instant he saw Rosswell, Johnny Dan drew the rifle off his shoulder and slapped it into firing position, but before he could pull the trigger, Rosswell shot him between the eyes. What happened next played out in slowmo, like the movies. Johnny Dan dropped the rifle, raised both hands, and fell backward into the road. It didn’t take a second but seemed like it took ten minutes.
In the stillness that followed, Rosswell said, “You saw him aiming for us, didn’t you?”
Nathaniel didn’t answer. Rosswell said, “It was clearly self defense.” Nathaniel still didn’t answer.
Rosswell said, “He was going to shoot first.”
Rosswell turned and Nathaniel had disappeared.