by C. L. Bevill
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go tell them they can slither off. Can I follow them?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“Pretty please with sugar on top and a cherry, and I’ll promise never to bring any more homemade cookies into the department again.”
“Do you mean your homemade cookies or Miz Adelia’s?”
“Mine.”
“Okay.”
Willodean smiled. “I’ll talk to you after I’m done with them. It might take a few minutes. I’m not quite certain about this identification being altogether real or not.”
“Willodean,” Sheriff John said warningly, “you’re goin’ to make them mad enough to pull up green corn and kick puppies.”
“It’s a good thing there isn’t any corn or puppies around then, isn’t it?” she asked and disconnected the cellphone.
Willodean took her time going back to the Chevy Tahoe. Everyone inside was still and waiting. Mr. Peterson’s window was still open, and he was tapping his fingers on the outside of the door. That was to let her know that she was taking up valuable time.
She stopped several feet away and stared at him. He stared back. She had an idea that intimidation wasn’t going to work on him, which didn’t surprise her particularly. Finally she said, “I would like to know what you’re doing in Pegram County, Mr. Peterson.”
Peterson studied Willodean in return. It was true that he had a good poker face, but Willodean played poker with some of the biggest card sharps in Texas, including her own mother-in-law. “That’s official business,” he finally said.
“And I don’t need to know,” Willodean said.
“Exactly.”
“My boss got a call from muckity mucks about stuff going on about here,” she said. “Would that be you and your compadres?” She dangled his identification over the front of her hand. “Let’s see. We’ve got Simon Peterson here. Born in April. Lives in D.C. Wow. I haven’t been there, you know. I would like to see the Smithsonian Museum.”
“Can we just get this— ”
Willodean went on as Peterson hadn’t spoken. “Then we’ve got three other men.” She craned her neck to look through the window and around Peterson. “All in their thirties and forties. One short one. Three tall ones, although it’s kind of hard to put a definite figure on their height. Your identification says you’re six two. I suppose that’s within probability.” She tapped the ID against her other hand. “Then there’s two Caucasians, one African American, and one that I would guess is Asian American, not that I care about skin color. I really don’t, but for identification purposes it does help. Future reference.”
Peterson glared at her.
“Your business then, Mr. Peterson?” she prompted.
“My business is not your business,” he said carefully. “In about thirty seconds I’m going to call my boss who won’t call your boss, but instead will call your boss’s boss’s boss and then stuff will trickle downhill. I’m sure you know what kind of stuff, being as you probably step in it daily around here.”
Willodean smiled grimly. “Of course. You know, I don’t think I know who my boss’s boss’s boss is, so perhaps you’ll tell me later.” She handed back his identification, registration, and badge. Then she handed over her electronic pad. “Here’s your ticket. You sign with your finger electronically right there.” She pointed helpfully for him. “I can print out a copy, or it’s available online with these instructions.” She handed him a card. “You can complain about me there, but my computer registered all the pertinent information on your vehicle and its illegal rate of speed in a 50 mph zone. Even government officials on important, critical missions need to mind their speed. You wouldn’t want to cause an accident and kill someone because you have a lead foot, would you?”
Peterson signed the tablet and handed it back to her, although she could tell he was restraining himself from tossing it out the window in her general direction. “You know that will be dismissed.”
“Maybe,” she said. “We have a very cool judge now by the name of Arimithia Perez. She plays poker with our group on Thursday nights. You might think that means she’s biased in my favor, but that is anything but the truth. She is a very fair and impartial judge who doesn’t like bull crap any more than the next person.”
“Can we go now?”
“Of course,” Willodean said graciously. “Keep your speed down.”
Peterson started the SUV even while he stared at her. Willodean stepped back and watched as he carefully put the vehicle into gear and pulled out. He even used his turn signal and looked over his shoulder at her. But then he spoiled it by calling her a redneck country cop with her head up her ass.
“Oh, that wasn’t very nice,” Willodean called after him. Then she hurried back to her Bronco because she was in the mood to be curious. She passed Deputy Steve Simms and waved at his blank face as she accelerated to catch up with the SUV. Ten seconds later on the police band she heard Steve asking Sheriff John what to do. Sheriff John grumbled for Steve to go back to business as usual while Willodean got comfortable in her pursuit.
* * *
Willodean clambered out of her Jeep, and, not for the first time, wondered if it was time to trade in the Wrangler for something more family friendly. One could put a baby seat in the back of the Jeep. It did have a back seat unlike some other 4X4s, but an infant in a Jeep didn’t really seem right. (And the antique Chevy truck that Bubba drove didn’t have seat belts at all.) Bubba could find them a used sedan or SUV that would work well.
She patted her protruding belly and thought that it could wait for a bit. They had three months(ish) to consider that move. She looked at the Snoddy Mansion and then at the caretaker’s house. (Her home, too, but that was going to take some time to get used to saying or even thinking.) There weren’t any lights on. In fact, the whole place had the air of something dead or at least abandoned for the moment.
Willodean rubbed the base of her back. No antique truck. No Caddy. No other car from whatever Miz Adelia was driving lately. (The last one had suffered a catastrophic engine failure halfway down the long driveway to the mansion, and Willodean had helped push it out of the way. Bubba had helped the housekeeper with her replacement, but Willodean couldn’t even remember the make, much less the model.)
She knew that Miz Demetrice had been at Bazooka Bob’s. Trying to unionize the strippers. That was so like Willodean’s mother-in-law that it wasn’t even funny, except that it was funny. As she had sat in the place eating those wonderful wings (Still hungry, too.), she could hear Miz Demetrice trying to organize new employment for all the dancers. (The chef wasn’t going to have a problem. Heck, she’d hire the chef because it wasn’t a secret that she couldn’t cook. In fact, the previous week she’d burnt water.)
Anyway, Bazooka Bob’s was probably where Miz Demetrice was still located. It was a Tuesday night, and Bob’s was running on empty. It was common knowledge that the club was on death’s door. To law enforcement that wasn’t a bad thing because she had to make a call there at least once a week to break up fights, escort someone out of the building, or accompany an ambulance. However, the lack of business meant that she was making calls there less and less. It was good for the sheriff’s department and not so good for the employees.
Miz Adelia, on the other hand, was likely at her mother’s house. Charlene wasn’t getting any better, but for some reason, she didn’t seem like she was getting any worse. Regardless, the Cedarbloom clan was circling the wagons. Why? The doctors seemed to think she was on the verge.
It made Willodean ache inside for Miz Adelia, but Willodean couldn’t think of anything to do except hug the other woman when she saw her.
Finally, there was Bubba. Bubba had a day off, and he was going to do all things baby, but there had been an errand to run to the Cedarblooms with a casserole that Miz Demetrice had made. (Willodean didn’t dare make a
casserole for anyone; it would have been a criminal offense.) Then he was picking up wood for the crib he was making. Willodean was inclined to buy one, but Bubba was handy, and he wanted to make it, so that was okay with her. Once she’d pulled Officer Smithson over for speeding, he couldn’t wait to tell her about where he’d seen Bubba’s truck.
Not that Willodean was jealous. Bubba wouldn’t do that to her. If he was at Bazooka Bob’s, there was a very good, very Bubba reason for it, and there had been. He’d even made certain that both she and his mother had eaten, and by the way, she was going to drag Sheriff John to that buffet if the business didn’t roll up its shutters first.
But it wasn’t Bubba who was in Willodean’s thoughts at the moment. The mysterious Mr. Peterson was still on her mind. She didn’t know who he was working for (FBI? Secret Service? Apple?), but it was too good to let go. She’d followed him to several places before losing the vehicle on the edge of Pegram County. By that time she’d needed to pee and nothing on God’s green earth was going to keep her baby from pressing on her bladder, so it was off to the nearest bathroom, and in the interim the SUV vanished into the night.
Willodean gathered up her to-go box and went inside to finish her wings. She didn’t care if they were cold or not. After she ate, she took a long shower and then called Bubba’s cellphone. He did not answer and the line rolled over to his voicemail. She fell asleep in the easy chair and woke up at 1 a.m. because she had to pee again. Neither Bubba nor his truck nor his dog was home. Then she started to worry.
Chapter 15
Bubba and the Gov’ment Peoples
Tuesday, August 22nd or Possibly
Wednesday, August 23rd or Possibly
Some Other Day Altogether
When Bubba woke up sometime later, he cogitated on the fact that someone had actually used a Taser on him. He had known other people who had been tasered. One example was the Christmas Killer by Brownie in the form of a homemade Taser. (The Boy Scouts were still denying that they ever suggested that Brownie make one of those as part of a project associated with their organization.) The very same Taser had been used on Matt Lauer, and as far as Bubba knew, the television morning show host still had a lawful restraining order against the second youngest Snoddy. In addition to this tasering, Bubba had been hit (many times) by both bad people and good. He’d been kicked, punched, shot at, shot once, been threatened to be bombed, and once he’d been in very close proximity to a stick of dynamite that that been dangerously unstable. He shuddered. That had meant a trip to the hospital again. He’d been bruised, cut, smacked, and various other things.
But…
Being hit with a Taser was a whole new experience which Bubba wasn’t longing to repeat anytime soon. This time he felt like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical outlet just for giggles and then he’d stuck the index finger on the other hand in another outlet because he just felt like having a very good time. Plus he must have been standing in a pool of water just to amp the whole situation up. His entire body had seized up, and he could feel his muscles turning into stone as waves of pain poured over him. It ratcheted up and up and up as the excruciating groundswells of pain coursed through his body. At the point where he’d realized that there was absolutely nothing he could do but to tough it out, he’d grunted once while trying to grind his teeth together, and then he’d realized that it must have only been a few seconds. Those seconds of unbearable agony had stretched into an eternity of suffering. It had been one of the worst experiences he’d ever had.
For a very, very brief second Bubba almost felt sorry for the Christmas Killer and Matt Lauer.
After what seemed like a thousand years, the flow of electricity stopped, and Bubba realized he was lying on the ground, having fallen at some point in the course of being tasered. He hadn’t felt like asking questions at that point so he wasn’t wont to ask the men standing above him. That had been followed closely by someone expertly hefting Bubba over onto his stomach and snapping handcuffs on his wrists while someone else slipped a hood over his head. Peripherally, he could hear David protesting that someone had just broken one of his fingernails. Why hadn’t they tasered David? That hadn’t seemed fair to Bubba although it was likely they hadn’t seen David as the threat that the other six-foot-four-inch, two hundred-and-forty-pound man that was Bubba.
In any case, once Bubba had been secured, there was an abrupt jab in his neck. Bubba figured out that they had just drugged him once the world started to gray around the edges. His last waking thought had been that they were going to need a cart to move him from the trees to the nearest parking lot.
Then there was wakey time. Bubba opened his eyes after much contemplation and found himself in a prison cell of some type. It wasn’t his normal type of cell. There wasn’t a fixed bunk and a steel toilet with an attached sink. It was a box of a room in which he was certain he wasn’t going to stand up straight. There wasn’t a toilet. There wasn’t even a mattress. Bubba had been placed on the cold steel floor and left there.
The logical part of Bubba told him that if they had wanted something bad to happen to him, he wouldn’t be lying on the floor of a box waiting for something to happen. So he sat up and groaned because it felt like every part of his body had experienced a nighttime charley horse. He looked around and saw a bottle of Dasani water sitting by the single door. Bubba didn’t have to reach much to snag the bottle. He twisted the cap and broke the seal and drank half of it. It made him feel a little better but not that much better.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Where’s my hound? You better not have left her at the lake!”
There wasn’t a response. Bubba clambered to his feet and dragged his unwilling body over to the door. He pounded on it with his fist. “I want a lawyer! I want something to eat! Tell me where my dog is! I’m goin’ through this door! I need to pee!”
A long time later someone said through the door, “Shut the hell up, redneck guy! We’ll get to you!”
“Wait! At least let me go pee!” Bubba shrugged. He didn’t really need to pee, but he wanted to get out of the box.
“Are you going to cause trouble?” came the wary question.
Bubba didn’t really like to lie, even to people who had tasered him, cuffed him, and then put a hood over his head. It wasn’t even his first time being kidnapped, but he still didn’t like to lie. (In essence the truthful answer to “Are you going to cause trouble?” was “Yes, I intend to cause trouble,” but he also knew that saying that wouldn’t get him bupkus.) “I’ll try not to,” he said instead of outright lying, and that was about the best he could do. “Kin I have something to et? Coffee mebe?”
“Bathroom, then food,” the voice agreed. “Step to the back of the box and put your forehead against the wall. Put your hands behind your back. We’re coming in, and the other guy will taser the holy living crap out of you and me without a second thought. Then he’ll drag me out and you can spit on whether you want to go to the bathroom or eat again.”
“Okay,” Bubba said. He followed the instructions and thought that these people sounded a whole like law enforcement people to him. They followed the rules to a certain extent and then they didn’t. Bubba didn’t think a law existed that allowed them to arbitrarily taser and drug him and David and then secret them away somewhere for illicit purposes. But then he thought about John J. Johnson the Third and how he thought John was likely some type of government peoples. Bubba had called the telephone number he found under that likely government person’s hand on his own cellphone.
Bubba heard the door open and a man say, “Okay, Bubba, just don’t move, and everything will be all right.”
“You fellas from that Hamilton Art Industries?” Bubba asked, not moving. He heard them unexpectedly stop and knew that he’d hit the nail on the head without smashing his thumb to smithereenies.
“What do you know about that?” one asked. There was a click, and Bubba’s wrists were confined again. He flexed his arms just to size up the cuffs and found them likel
y to keep him confined. Unlike those canny fellas in the movies who could slip their cuffed wrists under their feet and legs in order to move their wrists in front of their body, Bubba could not perform that particular maneuver even if he’d had a barrel of grease to aid him.
“Oh, not a lot,” Bubba said. “Kin I have pancakes? It feels like breakfast time. Bacon would be good. My wife says I et too much fried foods, but it don’t feel right having vegetables in the morning.”
“It’s not even 2 a.m., redneck,” the other man snarled. “They grow them big out here in the woods.” The latter comment was clearly spoken to the first man.
“That’s not very nice,” Bubba said. “You might want to ask some questions that I kin answer, and because you ain’t bein’ nice, I won’t be inclined to answer.”
The two men didn’t say anything else to Bubba before they let him use a bathroom. They even uncuffed one wrist and let him go in the tiny lavatory by himself. He did have to pee, after all, but before he did, that he checked his pockets for his cellphone and found everything gone. With a sigh he set about his business and then he spent about three minutes washing his hands in the small sink before one of the men pounded on the door. Bubba dried his hands and even dried the cuffs off before he opened the door. He could see a narrow hallway and walls that resembled the inside of a box trailer that had been converted into a weird prison. There were several doors along the hallway and one that was opened. That one was the one he’d been inside. Another one was locked with a padlock on the outside, and Bubba thought maybe that was where David was being held.
One man was about six feet two and had dark hair with blue eyes. He was in his early forties and wore a black suit. (Surprise! Another black suit that looked a lot like John J. Johnson the Third’s suit. What were the odds?) The second one, the one holding the Taser, was about five feet eight inches and African American. His hair was black, and his eyes were green in the fluorescent lights of the cargo trailer cum prison trailer. Both stared at Bubba like he was the scum which they wiped away from their shoes.