The Shut Mouth Society

by James D. Best

  “Tell him Greg Evarts is here to see him.”

  The suited man motioned to the man behind them. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Your pay grade isn’t high enough to make that decision. Close the door, let that goon keep an eye on us, and go tell Mr. Branger that Greg Evarts is at his front door.” The man looked a bit confused and uncertain, so Evarts added a firm, “Now.”

  The man held up the flat of his hand to stop the advance of the guard and said, “Watch these two.” Then he closed the door as instructed.

  Evarts and Harding ignored the man behind them and waited patiently. This time two rough-looking characters opened the door with their hands theatrically positioned inside their windbreaker jackets. “Step into the foyer,” one of them said without preamble.

  As soon as they had stepped inside enough to shut the door, one of the men pulled out an automatic and leveled it at them. “Stand very still.” The other bodyguard patted them down. He confiscated a cell phone from Harding’s pocket.

  “If I don’t call every ten minutes from that cell phone, a helicopter gunship will take this place out,” Harding informed him.

  “Bullshit.”

  “You people know our army background,” Evarts said. “Our friends like to blow things up, especially your sorry ass if my friend here doesn’t make those calls.”

  “You want me to believe that your army buddies will launch a missile at the home of one of the most prominent citizens of this state. Give me a fucking break.” He put the cell phone into his pocket.

  “The gunship has Mexican markings and Russian ordinance,” Evarts said with a smile. “All intercepted communications will be in Spanish.”

  That stopped him. He handed the cell phone back to Harding, who opened it, pressed a speed dial number, and simply said, “Emerald.” Then he snapped it shut with relish.

  The first bodyguard appeared unamused. He said, “Follow me.”

  They were taken into a handsome library. Unlike Abraham Douglass’s dog-eared library, this one was used as a prop to stage Branger’s guests before gracing them with his presence. After one guard left, supposedly to fetch Branger, the other took up a preposterously defiant stance in front of the door. Evarts and Harding ignored the overly dramatic gangster and scanned the room.

  In less than a minute, Evarts pointed and said, “There’s the camera.” They had no time to waste. The other prong of their assault had already been launched. Harding walked over and stood beside Evarts. They both looked into the camera, and Evarts said, “Mr. Branger, we each have something the other wants. It’s time to bring this long-running saga to an end.”

  Evarts turned from the camera and said evenly to the guard, “Where’s the bar?”

  The guard looked unsure for a moment and then pointed to a closed cabinet against the opposite wall. Evarts opened the cabinet and saw rows of expensive scotches, bourbons, and brandies. Only dark liquors: no rum, gin, or vodka. Branger was a man who imposed his taste on others. Evarts poured himself a short glass of single malt scotch and turned to the guard. “Bring my friend here a cold beer. Preferably Anchor Steam.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “If you’re otherwise disposed, please ring for a servant.”

  Now he looked confused. Eventually, he rapped on the door with his knuckles and said through the closed door, “Pete, have someone bring a beer for our guest.”

  Suddenly, loud whacking noise assaulted their ears. The walls and bookshelves rattled so violently, it seemed as if the room were about to fling books in every direction.

  “Relax,” Evarts said to the nervous bodyguard. “That was just a demonstration flyby. We didn’t want you to get the idea that we might be bluffing.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Those old Russian choppers are sure noisy.”

  Actually, they were bluffing. This was Evarts’s grand idea. Since Johnson knew the lake, he had insisted on leading the assault team that would approach by water. He had asked a couple of his pilots in the National Guard to do a low-level flyby. At first they resisted, but he assured them that, as their ranking officer, he would cover for them. They had finally agreed after Johnson put the orders in writing.

  The helicopter had actually been an old American-built Sikorsky transport with its sound suppression turned off. Even if the crew had live ordinance, they would never have fired on a residential home under any circumstances. The point was moot because, unless there was an eminent threat, the National Guard didn’t allow armed helicopters to leave government military preserves.

  Evarts sipped his scotch and tried to look confident. In a few minutes, the door opened and an ordinary servant brought in a Dos Equis beer and a chilled glass. Harding grabbed the longneck and drank from the bottle.

  After another ten minutes, Evarts was getting jumpy about the amount of time that had elapsed. He was about to try a more severe gambit in front of the camera, when the door finally opened. Two thick-necked brutes entered and patted them down again. Evarts took this as a good sign. Branger must have decided to meet with them. After they had passed inspection, one of the bodyguards rapped on the door twice. Evarts didn’t know what to think about the person who walked through the door. A tight-lipped young man with short-cropped blond hair stared at them in a curious manner, with his head bent to the side like he was puzzled by some oddity. He didn’t look to be over thirty and wore round tortoiseshell glasses, gray trousers, and a pink polo shirt that appeared to have been pressed. The young man looked like the nicely fitted-out son of a prominent country-club member.

  Evarts stepped forward but didn’t extend a hand. “Mr. Ralph Branger?”

  “Why did you come into my home uninvited?”

  “To barter.”

  “For what?”

  “Are we going to play dumb, sir?”

  He tilted his head again and studied Evarts. “I never play dumb.”

  Evarts pointedly looked at the three bodyguards in the room. “I presume I can talk in front of your men?”

  “You may presume nothing.”

  Evarts decided to test Branger. “A fault of mine, I fear. And it seems I’ve made a mistake. No one so young could possibly run the union. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll depart.”

  “You really are a simpleton. How did you elude my men for so long?” Branger shook his head. “No matter.” After pausing to adjust his prissy tortoiseshell glasses with two manicured fingers, he continued in a controlled monotone. “Mr. Evarts, I do run the union. It was a simple task to push aside the timid old men who presumed to ascend to the throne. To restore the South to the gracious glory that was once hers requires a man of courage, vision, and intellect … not purposeless pomposity.”

  Evarts started to speak, but Branger raised the flat of his hand. “You have intruded on my home. I do not abide that.”

  Evarts felt Harding tense beside him. He spoke quickly before events could outstrip his ability to manage them. “I apologize.” He bowed his head slightly. “Not having been raised in the South, I may have overstepped proper decorum.”

  “Overstepped proper decorum? Forcing entry into a gentleman’s home, threatening to blow it up, insisting on refreshments not offered by your host: You call that overstepping proper decorum? I call it trespassing, and in this state, we can shoot trespassers. Pete, kill these men and dispose of the bodies.”

  As his men drew weapons, Branger turned toward the door. “I shall be in the bomb shelter in case these ill-mannered louts aren’t bluffing.”

  “Yes, s—”

  “Aren’t you concerned about the original I took from the DTCC?”

  Branger turned away from the door in a movement that seemed almost slow motion. Evarts thought he was going to smile, but instead his lips twisted into an unbecoming smirk. “I’m sure you buried it so deep, it will probably never be found. If someone does happen to stumble upon your hiding place, it will be far too late. This little episode with Congressman Sherman will be ancient news. No o
ne will care a wit about a single old document with questionable authenticity.”

  He was turning toward the door, when Evarts said, “Two more signature cards have already been filed with the DTCC. Ms. Baldwin has authorized access for myself and another person. She’s left instructions for this third person to turn over the entire contents to Congressman Sherman if she isn’t heard from in seven days.”

  Branger faced Evarts. What he did next chilled Evarts to his very core. His thin lips curled in a grotesque manner that conveyed unbridled menace driven by an unstable mind. “Mr. Evarts, if that had been the case, I’m certain Ms. Baldwin would’ve already told us. She has been most cooperative.” He adopted the odd tilt of the head again and then said to his men, while keeping eye contact with Evarts. “Pete, I believe my instructions have been clear. Please carry them out immediately.”

  In desperation, Evarts said, “Have I misunderstood Southern hospitality?”

  Branger charged at Evarts until their noses almost touched. When he spoke, spittle sprayed Evarts’s face. “You are not to speak of Southern hospitality or anything else associated with my homeland. You know nothing of our culture or way of life. You’re both ill-bred white trash, and it’s a sacrilege for you to be standing here. Your very presence dishonors North Carolina.”

  He took a step back but continued to glare. “Kill the woman too. Her first, so these make-believe heroes can see the results of their handiwork. A single shot to the back of the head, if you will, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” The one called Pete pulled the hammer back on his .45 automatic.

  “Trish is here?” Evarts blurted.

  “Not for much longer,” Pete said.

  Chapter 58

  When Branger left the library, Evarts was glad to see that one of the three guards accompanied him. He took a step toward the guard closest to the door. “Your boss is crazy, you know.”

  “Step back or I’ll kill you right here.” He laughed. “We already replaced this carpet once.”

  Evarts retreated. “Don’t tell me you buy into this scheme of his to resurrect the antebellum South?”

  “I don’t buy into anything. Mr. Branger buys, and he’s very generous.”

  “Then it’s just business to you?” Harding asked.

  “A damn good business. Mr. Branger runs a tight operation.”

  “Are all of Mr. Branger’s employees moronic?”

  The guards were too professional to take the bait. The one by the door made a sideways motion with his gun. “Just put your hands on your head and walk slowly toward the door. Any sudden movement will be very painful.”

  The first guard opened the door and positioned himself with half his body on the opposite side of the doorjamb in a way that protected him from a body blow, but didn’t interfere with keeping his gun aimed at Evarts’s center mass. The second guard kept his distance to the rear, with his gun leveled at Harding. Army covert-operations training included how to disarm an opponent without sustaining a lethal wound, but the techniques required close proximity. As Evarts slowly approached the doorway, the first man backed up to stay out of reach. These guards appeared to be experienced and thoroughly trained.

  When all four men had transitioned into the hallway, the first guard said, “We’re going to the basement. Down this hall and to your left.”

  Evarts had no intention of fighting these men. First, he had to know Branger’s location. The revelation that they had transported Baldwin here gave him hope. All he needed was a little luck to go along with their plan. He stole a glance at his watch and almost groaned when he realized they had little time to discover Branger’s position in the house. At least they were going to the basement, which Evarts assumed was the bomb shelter.

  A few yards to the left, Evarts saw a grand staircase going up to the bedroom level and a closed door. The first guard commanded, “Hold up. Lean against the wall with your legs spread. Police position.” After they had assumed the position, the guard opened the door to disclose a narrow staircase to the basement. “I’m going to be at the bottom of the stairs. If you’d like to come tumbling after me, I wouldn’t mind a little moving-target practice.” He disappeared down the stairwell.

  The second man continued to keep his distance. “Okay, one at a time. Keep it slow and easy.”

  Evarts led the way down the stairs, which went far deeper than an ordinary cellar. At the bottom, he saw an unpainted concrete hallway leading left and right that ran far too long to be restricted to the foundation of the house. Perhaps they had been right. It looked like the basement could be a headquarters. It was hidden from sight, and it was certainly large enough.

  The forward guard motioned them to follow him down the left branch of the corridor. When they had passed two doors, the guard punched a number into a keypad and pointed them through the third door in the long hallway. When Evarts passed through the steel cased door, the interior of the room surprised him. Large and indirectly lit, it reminded him of a movie set from Gone with the Wind. After the sterile concrete corridor, the heavy upholstered furniture, spindly wood pieces, patterned rugs, and life-size nineteenth-century portraits stunned his senses, but Evarts thought the décor leaned too heavily to maroon for his taste.

  Branger suddenly opened a door at the opposite end of the room and showed surprise at seeing them. “What are you doing in my parlor?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I must have misunderstood.” The guard glanced back at his accomplice for support but received a noncommittal stony stare. Evidently he would have to face their boss’s wrath alone. “I thought you said to take the woman as well.”

  “I pay well enough to expect a three-digit IQ.” Branger’s voice assumed the tone of a parent instructing a recalcitrant child. “I thought it clear that the sight of these men makes me nauseous. Take them to the shooting range. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind tying them up? Once you have them secure, one of you may return to pick up the woman. When you come back, the polite thing would be to knock first. Then you may take the woman back to the range.” Branger removed his glasses and excessively cleaned the lenses with an unsoiled white cloth from his pocket. “Do you need any further instructions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” He started to turn away but then rounded on his employee. In a chillingly cold voice, he said, “Never again presume that because I ask you to dispose of some discarded article, you may enter my private chamber unannounced.” Branger slipped his glasses back on his face and returned the cloth to his pocket. “Are we perfectly clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Just as the guard turned around to escort them out of the parlor, Harding reached into his pocket. Both guards came instantly around on them, and Evarts could actually sense them squeezing ever so slightly harder on the triggers of their automatics. Harding froze in mid motion. Waiting until the guards seemed assured that they had control of the situation, Harding slowly pulled the cell phone out of his pocket with two fingers. “If I don’t call, this house will be rubble.”

  “Then I shall build another,” Branger said.

  “When the authorities investigate, they’ll find your command post down here,” Evarts tried.

  “The authorities don’t concern me,” Branger said dismissively.

  Harding raised the collapsible antenna and flipped the phone open with his thumb.

  “You ignoramus, there’s no reception down here.”

  “Then you’d better call your contractor,” Harding said. “Because you’re going to need a new plantation house.”

  “I’m tired of these games. Take that phone away from him and get them out of here.”

  Harding raised the phone like he actually held a weapon. “Stand back. I can blow this house to smithereens as easy as one, two—”

  Harding tossed the cell phone in the direction of Branger, and in mid flight a light flashed so white that all other colors disappeared.

  Chapter 59

  The flash
grenade barely made a popping sound. On the count of two, Evarts and Harding shut their eyes and covered them with their hands to protect against the blinding light. They simultaneously sidestepped away from where they had been standing and ducked close to the floor. As soon as the flash dissipated, they attacked the two guards.

  Evarts punched his target in the solar plexus with his two center knuckles. He knew he had pent-up energy, but he hit the man so hard that the expulsion of breath felt like a bellows. He next hit him in the windpipe with all four knuckles. Suddenly, the boom of gunfire assaulted his ears, so he grabbed the guard by his shirt and twisted around behind him. He immediately saw that Branger had somehow gotten hold of a .45 automatic and was now blindly spraying bullets around the room.

  Evarts felt a bullet hit the guard he held in front of him as a shield. He didn’t feel anything and hoped that Branger’s automatic had been loaded with hollow points; otherwise, even the slow-moving .45 slug could pass through and hit him. He tried to push the guard toward Branger, but he collapsed instead of moving forward, and Evarts had to drop to the floor to stay behind his limp body. Luckily, in another second, the gun’s slide locked open because Branger had emptied the magazine. Still blinded, Branger fumbled around in a table drawer trying to feel for another magazine. Evarts charged.

  He hit Branger with a football tackle, and they both went tumbling to the floor. Evarts felt a sudden excruciating pain in his neck and reflexively rolled away from the hurt. In a split second, he rallied and came back at Branger with a punching fist aimed at his face, but Branger jerked and Evarts’s glancing blow skidded against the floor. He raised his knee to attack Branger’s groin, but Branger had twisted enough so that Evarts merely hit the inside of his thigh. Then he felt the jarring impact of a fist driven into the side of his head. Damn it. Branger knew how to fight. He had to win this quick. Evarts bounced into the air and came down knee first into the center of Branger’s chest. He heard a cry of pain and knew from his agonized expression that Branger had lost the will to fight.