by Glenn Trust
He stepped up on the porch. Sharon had changed into an old robe the deputies had found hanging inside the house. It had belonged to Fel’s wife, Colleen. She stood as Rince stepped onto the porch and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. Her shoulders heaved in silent sobs.
When the paramedics lifted Fel onto the stretcher, she raised her head. They began rolling him the short distance from the porch to the ambulance. Holding Rince’s hand, she hurried to the side of the old man, reaching out to touch his pale, wrinkled face.
The paramedic looked at her, knowing her unspoken question. “I won’t lie to you. He’s just barely alive, fighting.” She gave a defiant nod and a small smile. “But he’s a stubborn old fella and we are going to do everything we can for him. We’ll meet the air ambulance from the Jacksonville trauma center at the airport in Everett. They should be getting there about the time we do. It’ll cut the distance and flying time down some. It’s not over yet.”
With that, the paramedic climbed into the ambulance and took a seat beside Fel, adjusting the IV tubes. Lights flashing, the vehicle moved slowly at first over the gravel drive out to the county road and then accelerated rapidly, one sheriff’s unit leading and one following for security.
They watched the ambulance disappear into the dark. Sharon stood there, glued to the spot where she had last seen the old man. After a few minutes, Rince led her to the porch, past the deputies and crime scene technicians gathering evidence and into the house.
They went to the kitchen and sat at the table. Rince reached out and took her hands into his own. They stayed like that for a long while, holding hands across the kitchen table.
“He saved my life.”
Rince nodded without speaking, knowing that she wanted to talk, needed to talk.
“He fired a round…killed one of them” She wiped the tears that flowed freely again down her cheeks. “The sound woke me, warned me. It gave me time.”
Rince squeezed her hands in his, wishing there was more he could do.
She looked at the pilot. “Bring George to me.” She shook her head, her lips trembling. “Bring him to me. Don’t let anything happen to him.” Shaking her head, she lowered her face to his hands wetting them with her tears. “Please Rince, bring him to me and keep him safe.”
There was nothing else to say. The superior court, the attorney general, the governor, Jesus himself might have other ideas about it, but Johnny Rincefield was going to bring George Mackey home.
86. “I’ll Give You A Goddamned War!”
Sheriff Davies lifted the Smith and Wesson model 39 nine-millimeter pistol from the nightstand drawer, checked the magazine, pushed it into its waistband holster and tucked the holster inside the top of his trousers. He picked up his cell phone and punched in Mike Darlington’s. Mike answered as Davies started down the stairs.
“Darlington.”
“I’m on the way, Mike.”
“Good, Sandy, a lot going on here. Local press is starting to snoop around and we got a long way to go processing the crime scene. We’ll be here all night and most of tomorrow is my best estimate. The scene has expanded.”
“Tell me.”
“Had some deputies follow the blood trail from the one Sharon hit. It led across the pasture into the woods. Took a while, had to move slow in the dark and didn’t know if the perps were still there, waiting, but they found the body.”
“Sharon killed him?”
“Well, it looks pretty certain that she hit him at least a couple of times and he probably would have died from the wounds.”
“Probably?”
“Probably.” Mike paused. “What did kill him was a blade across the carotid artery. He bled out in the woods.”
“They cut his throat?”
“Yeah. Looks like they knew he was not gonna make it and couldn’t drag him along, so they ended it for him.”
“Signs of a struggle?”
“No. Looks like he went peaceful.”
“Professional.”
“Yeah. Occupational hazard. You sign up, do your job, get paid, but don’t get hurt. If that happens you are excess baggage, and they are not the kind to leave loose ends dangling. No witnesses and no one to be picked up and questioned.”
Right. Anything else?”
“Looks like there might have been two vehicles parked on the dirt road that runs along Fel Tobin’s property.”
“Anything usable?”
“No. The surface is pretty sandy. Could tell it had been recently disturbed where they turned around, but the sand didn’t hold any tire tracks. Figure maybe five or six in the team altogether. Could have been more. With the two they left behind down and out, that means there’s at least three or four still out there. My guess is they split up and headed out of the county. Hell, they might be heading out of the country.”
“I agree. They’re probably long gone by now.”
Sandy stepped out of his front door into the night. The scent of Meera’s roses planted by the porch was in the air. He breathed it in deeply, savoring the reminder of home before he headed to the Tobin farm, now a crime scene.
“Yeah, we’re not gonna get our hands on the shooters…but we know who is behind it.” Mike’s tone was ominous.
“I’m on the way. Be there in twenty.” He was concerned by the implied threat in his chief deputy’s tone. “I want this done right, Mike. Process that crime scene, find every scrap of evidence and let’s make a good case. We’ll fucking bury Roy Budroe under the jail. But we’re gonna do it right.”
Stepping from the porch, Sandy walked to the brown county Ford SUV provided to the sheriff, unlocked it with the remote and sat behind the wheel. He placed the key in the ignition, as Meera rushed out to the porch in her nightgown holding his jumbo-sized go-cup of coffee. Smiling, the driver’s door open and one foot still out of the car, Sandy nodded and turned the key as Meera started across the yard with the coffee.
The world exploded in a deafening roar and flash of light. The GBI explosives team that investigated the bombsite said that Meera’s coffee saved Sandy Davies’ life. Partially out of the vehicle when the explosive device detonated, He was blown out and back fifteen feet through the air. Most of his right leg stayed in the car.
Thirty feet away, Meera Davies was thrown back against the front porch with enough force to break her left elbow against the steps. The neighbors who came running from their homes to investigate found her dazed and bleeding from the mouth and nose and a number of shrapnel wounds. It took them several minutes to discover Sandy on the ground behind the remnants of the SUV, a mangled, burned lump of human flesh. He was alive, barely.
Still on the phone, Mike Darlington heard Sandy’s admonition to make a good case and bury Budroe under the jail. Amazingly, the roar of the explosion and falling debris was clearly audible over the phone that was thrown from Sandy’s hand. Spinning through the air, it landed in the grass on the other side of the yard. The crime scene techs would find the phone in their search for evidence the next day, battered but remarkably intact.
Sandy Davies was not so lucky. Rushed by air ambulance to the same trauma center in Jacksonville that had received Fel Tobin, he was listed as critical. The loss of his right leg was permanent. Doctors told Meera as they treated her wounds, that they were cautiously hopeful that Sandy would recover from his other injuries. Privately, they were much less optimistic.
Riding from the Tobin farm to the Davies’ home, Mike Darlington had one thought burning in his brain. Roy Budroe.
The beefy face of the crime boss seemed to hover in front of him in the dark as he drove. Mike stared hard at it, speaking out loud to the ghostly image. His fist pounded the steering wheel. “You want a war? I’ll give you a goddamned war!”
87. Whatever It Takes
Bleary eyed, George Mackey stumbled from the bed. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. Four-fifteen. Who the hell knocks on a hotel door at four-fifteen in the morning? He peered through the pe
ephole and jerked the door open, a look of apprehension on his face.
“What’s the matter?” The presence of these visitors at such an early hour could not be a good thing.
Andy Barnes and Bob Shaklee stood in the hallway. Both were dressed in casual clothes that looked like they had been thrown on at random before they hurried out of the house.
“We need to talk.” Andy stepped past George into the room, followed by Bob.
“Takes two of you to talk to me?”
“Maybe.” Andy’s expression was grave. “Sit down, George.”
“You sit down.” George’s level of apprehension was rising by the second. “Tell me what the fuck is going on that you have to come by my room in the middle of the night…now!”
“George, we’re going to tell you everything.” Bob put a hand on his shoulder. “But we need you to stay calm.”
“I am not calm, Bob! And I am becoming less calm the longer you two keep me waiting. What’s going on?”
“Fair enough.” Andy nodded. “There’s been an attack.”
“What the hell does that mean? An attack?”
“It means that a group of men went to Fel Tobin’s place. They were looking for Sharon.”
“Sharon…” George paled, breathing heavily, then recovered like a boxer recovers from a punch to the solar plexus. He walked across the room and grabbed his pants off the chair.
“She’s fine, George. Sharon is okay.” Andy put a hand on his arm.
George pulled the pants up one leg, then the other. “Budroe.” He spit the name out through gritted teeth.
“Maybe. We don’t know for sure. They’re still working the crime scene.”
“It was Budroe. You know it as well as I do.”
“I won’t argue that it wasn’t Budroe.” Andy sighed and sat on the small sofa to one side of the bed. “We know he’s back. It’s the kind of thing he would do.” He looked up at George, standing in the center of the room clenching and unclenching his fists as if they were tightened around Budroe’s throat. “There’s more.”
“What?”
“Fel Tobin’s been shot, it’s serious. He killed one of the attackers. They returned fire and hit him. Sharon shot another. He died out in the woods. Deputies, GBI crime scene techs, they’re all over it right now.”
George reached for his shirt. “I’ve got to get there, now.”
“We’re going to get you there.” Andy looked him in the eye. “George, I need you to stay calm. I’ll clear it with the governor, the court…Swain.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the governor, or Swain or the goddamned trial. I’m going back to Pickham County.” He looked at Andy and Bob. “Now.”
Andy nodded. “Rince is on his way. He’ll meet you at the airport here in Macon. I told you we’ll get you there.”
Nodding George took a deep breath. He looked around and lowered himself to the edge of the bed. “Tell me what happened. Everything.”
Andy went through the attack, detail by detail as it had been relayed to him from Mike Darlington. When he had finished, George stared at the floor and nodded
“I’ve got to go to Sharon, see to Fel.”
“We know.” Bob put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this George. Stay calm. Work with us, not against us.”
Andy’s phone chimed. “Yes.”
He listened for a full minute. The look of astonishment on his face could not be disguised. George stood, waiting, fists clenched once more. Whatever the news was, it wasn’t good.
“All right.” Andy disconnected from the call and looked at them. “There was another attack.”
“Who? Where?” This time Bob’s voice rose in volume.
“Sandy Davies. A bomb.”
“No!” George stood in the tiny room, fists clenched at his sides, head back shouting his rage at the ceiling.
“Mike Darlington said he’s alive but critical.” He looked at George shock on his face, his own rage building inside. “We will throw everything at this. Budroe is going down, whatever it takes.”
His face like stone, George repeated Andy’s words through gritted teeth. “Whatever it takes.”
88. Not Pretend
Leaning against the bar, Marco sipped a beer and scanned the faces in Pete’s Place. Other bikers were gathered around him, bullshitting and drinking more than they should. Scattered around the tables were those who had been ordered by Schulls to remain inside.
Whatever was happening outside, Henry and Big Luke had been tasked with making sure no word leaked out from Pete’s Place. Lonna had assisted by providing ample credit and copious quantities of beer. Most of the rednecks, farmers and construction workers scattered around the tables dozed with their heads resting on their arms, sprawled in various positions across the tables. They were beyond caring about anything but sleeping off the beer they had poured down their gullets.
Ponce sat upright in his chair, his head back, and mouth half open pretending to sleep. It was a good act. Marco hoped it was only an act.
A cell phone began playing a loud, annoying martial tune announcing an incoming call. Henry Schulls reached in his pocket.
“Jesus, Henry. You deaf?” Big Luke grinned and the bikers around him dared a small laugh at Schulls’ expense.
“Maybe.” Schulls scowled at the laughing bikers whose smiles and laughter evaporated under his glare. “What of it?”
“Nothin’, nothin’. Just askin’ is all.” Luke picked up a beer and turned away to face the bar.
Answering the call with a hard punch and a final glare at the bikers, he lifted it to his ear. “Speak.”
Several seconds passed before Schulls nodded. There was just the slightest trace of a smile that played across his face before he disconnected, saying only. “Right.”
He turned to the bikers. “Gather round.”
Shuffling and looking at each other with smirks, they ambled to the end of the bar where Schulls waited. Big Luke looked at Marco who remained at the far end, watching the proceedings, and gave him a stern-eyed jerk of the head, motioning him over. Marco joined the rear of the shuffling procession.
Schulls allowed several seconds to pass in dramatic silence. “All right. I told you before, we got a war coming. I want all the doors and windows covered. I don’t care what kind of badge they carry; you take them out if they try to come in.”
A couple of bikers nodded and grinned, thumping each other in the shoulders like football players pounding their pads on before the big game. Most were quiet, thinking about the business at hand and what it might mean. The biker ‘Dud’ and a few others looked panic stricken, seeking some way out, but terrified to challenge Schulls, or Luke or the other, more committed, bikers.
“What happened?” Marco stood at the edge of the group, hands pushed down in the pockets of his greasy jeans.
“None of your fuckin’ business, is what happened.” Schulls spoke sharply and then looked around the group for any hint of rebellion. There was none.
Marco shrugged. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it, man. You fightin’ the law, I’m in. Just figure we oughta know what it is we’re fightin’ for exactly.”
“You don’t got to know nothin’. You just do like you’re told.”
Big Luke leaned down, speaking into Schulls’ ear. Henry’s eyes stayed riveted on Marco, but when Luke finished speaking, he nodded.
“All right, Bono, and all you other wannabe tough guys. Listen up. We’re goin’ to war with the Pickham County law, the sheriff. That’s what the big man wants. It’s already started.” He smiled a toothy grin. “Seems the sheriff met with an unfortunate accident tonight. He got blown into a million pieces…hurt his wife some too.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed. “You killed the sheriff?”
“Deader’n shit.”
“They’re gonna come at us with everything they got.”
“That’s what we’re countin’ on.” Schulls’ voice rose in volume, making sure that everyone in the group c
ould hear what he told Marco. “That fuckin’ sheriff said he was gonna clean us out. Now they’ll be cleanin’ up pieces of him for the next year. If the big man knows what he’s talkin’ about, and ain’t no one here gonna say he don’t, that crazy ass chief deputy is gonna come stormin’ in here with every deputy in the county. That’s our war. We take them out…all of them.”
“And after that?” Marco’s voice raised a notch as well. “The state will send everything they got at us.”
A couple of the bikers who were the most enthusiastic about taking on the law turned. “Whatsa matter boy, you chickenshit?”
“Naw, I ain’t chickenshit…just smart enough to figure out that there’s a hell of a lot of questions here. My mama didn’t raise me up to commit suicide. I just want to know what the plan is for after.”
Schulls nodded. “That’s all right, boys. It’s a fair question.” Schulls looked around at the group. “The answer is, we’ll be gone. Big man’s orders are, hit the county deputies hard, take ‘em all out if we can, then get the hell outta here before the state gets here. We’ll be back once things calm down and when we have our own sheriff in place.”
“Your own sheriff? Who’s that?”
“You ask a fuckin’ lot of questions, Bono. Just do what we been payin’ you to do…” He looked around again. “All of you, do what you’re bein’ paid to do and things will work out fine. Big man takes care of people who take care of him.”
The war council broke up, Luke directing bikers to their stations. Marco dared to exchange a glance with Ponce, who still dozed in his chair, his eyes half open. Marco made a fist, extending his forefinger and thumb the way kids do when they pretend to point pistols at each other. Ponce blinked once and let his head loll to one side.
Standing at the window that Luke had directed him to, Marco hoped Ponce had understood the pretend gun hand signal he had given. What was coming was not going to be pretend.