The Hunters Series: Volumes 1-3

by Glenn Trust

“I have known many like this one. Clever and cunning, like an animal, they are not thoughtful or masters of reasoning, in many ways ignorant of the world around them, only looking for what they can take. In America, there are many like this.”

  “I hope your assessment is correct, my friend. Our plans depend on it.”

  “I have lived among them. You may rely on it,” Guzman said with a smiling confidence that, in reality, did not penetrate completely into his heart. He knew that handling Budroe would require care. A clever, cunning animal, thoughtful or not, was able to strike out and harm or kill even the most intelligent person. One should always be on guard when dealing with such animals.

  Rivera nodded. “Tomorrow I will take you to our warehouse. It will be the transfer point for wider distribution.” He smiled, looking across at the woman with the pale European. He was not having much luck. The woman rose, leaving the young man surprised and frustrated. Casting a glance at Rivera and Guzman, returning their admiring looks with a smile and a nod and walked away, hips swaying, the tight fabric of her dress clinging tantalizingly to the curves of her body.

  “Tonight,” Rivera continued, “we will find some distraction.”

  Guzman smiled. Yes, he could use some distraction, after his meeting with the big American in his silly shorts and big car.

  There was no hurry. This was not the United States. Everything did not have to happen now. There was time to sip their drinks, order another and watch the sunset, before finding the dark skinned woman and perhaps one of her companions. They could enjoy it all, in time. They were patient men.

  20. Sounds Like A Good Deal

  Hips swaying just enough to bump George lightly as they walked, Sharon scuffed her sandals through the grass. She relished the feel of the blades tickling and brushing against her feet as they walked.

  As she bumped against him, George put an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to his side. They savored the physical closeness. It held an unspoken tenderness, something neither had much experience with until discovering each other.

  Coming to the front of the main house, they found Fel, as always seated on the porch in his old kitchen chair sipping beer from a can and watching the night, waiting for it to come on and bring an end to another of his days. Seeing him there, Sharon thought that he seemed ageless. Not in the sense of being endlessly young, but as if he had always been old and had never been young. Sometimes she saw that same tired age in George. He wasn’t old like Fel, but she wondered if George had ever been young, been a child, running and playing without care or worry. It was not something she could see in him or imagine.

  “Evenin’,” Fel said lifting his beer can in greeting. “Wondered if y’all were coming ‘round tonight.”

  Sinking heavily into a kitchen chair, George lifted up the lid on the cooler and pulled two cans from the ice. “Same time as always, Fel.” He smiled at the old man. “You gotta think of something new to say.”

  Leaning to the side, George handed one of the beers to Sharon, who had taken a seat in another kitchen chair between the two men. The chairs had been dragged outside from Fel’s kitchen, making them now officially ‘porch chairs’. Originally, there had been two. But when Sharon had joined their small family, Fel had pulled a third one out to the porch. It had been Colleen’s chair, the chair where she drank her morning coffee as the sun came up and talked over each day with Fel as it went down. Fel Tobin was almost eighty years old. He had lost his wife more than twenty years earlier. She was fifty-six. The breast cancer didn’t care what age she was and showed no mercy as it ravaged her body. Colleen’s chair was now Sharon’s.

  The one remaining at the small steel and formica kitchen table in the house was sufficient for old Fel. His meals were simple. Food was of little matter to him. He ate enough to live, barely. George and Sharon tried often to coax him into sharing meals with them, to sit with them in their small apartment. But Fel always refused. Patiently, he waited each evening for them to join him on the front porch. They guessed it was his way of giving them some privacy, and that was partially true. But there was another reason. Fel and Colleen had been childless, the cancer taking her long after her childbearing years. He missed Colleen. Sitting quietly, the setting sun on his face, he thought about her, sometimes he even talked to her. Not like someone out of touch with reality, he said her name, thought about the day, remembered her smile, her face. It made him feel good to remember her. It made him feel close to her. Thinking of Colleen was one of the two true joys remaining to him in what years remained for him.

  Fel Tobin’s second great joy was the time he shared with George and Sharon. He looked forward to their steps in the grass. He could hear them before they came to the front of the house. It made him happy to see them together.

  “Don’t pay any attention to George.” Sharon sat back and sipped her beer. “You say whatever you want, Fel, anytime you want.”

  He laughed a soft, old man’s laugh. “I believe I will…yes, ma’am, I believe I will.”

  The three sat quietly as the sun sank lower. A meadowlark on a fencepost at the edge of the yard sang its melody and dove down to the grass in search of a snack before bedding down for the night.

  “I talked to Bob Shaklee, today.” Sharon had waited until after supper and they were seated on the porch with Fel. It was family business, and she wanted Fel to hear.

  “Bob called?” George asked mildly curious. He watched the meadowlark return to its perch on the fencepost. He knew Sharon would get to it in her own time.

  “He wants me to go to work for him again?”

  George’s head turned towards her, more than mildly curious now. “Back to the GBI? Back to Atlanta?”

  “No, not that. The governor has appointed him to head up the Office of Special Investigations, OSI he called it. He wants me to be part of it.”

  “You leavin’ us?” Fel leaned forward, his thin old face troubled.

  “No, Fel not leaving. Bob said I could work out of Pickham County, out of Everett. I can work right here if I want. Mostly research and case background. He said, there might be an occasional trip but nothing regular and not often.”

  A minute or two of silence ensued as George and Fel took the news in. George was the first to speak.

  “What do you want to do?”

  Sharon turned to him, her face showing an earnest excitement. “I want to do it. I said yes, but that I would talk it over with you.” She paused, peering into the dusk for some reaction on his face. “What do you think?”

  George turned his face towards her, took in the evident excitement, the need to do this. Working for the DA’s office in Pickham County was a waste of Sharon’s abilities. George knew that. In a way, he had been expecting something like this. “I think it’s right up your alley. You should do it, long as me and old Fel aren’t losing you.” He smiled into the gathering darkness in her direction. “Besides, you know you’re the best goddamned investigator ever put on this earth…and you make sure the rest of us know it too.”

  Fel snorted a laugh over his beer as Sharon leaned forward and playfully showed George her extended middle finger. He lifted his can in appreciation and took a swallow.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention.” Sharon said, nonchalantly.

  “What’s that?”

  “He wants you too.”

  “He wants me? Why? I’m committed to Sandy Davies and the county right now. We just started cleaning up Roydon. I can’t leave now.”

  “Bob said you could work into it. Take care of things with the county and Sandy and then as time permits spend time working with the OSI. Eventually, come on full time.”

  George let that sink in. “Was he going to talk to me about all this?” he asked a bit testily.

  “As a matter of fact, he is. Should be calling at eight. I believe that’s about five minutes from now.” This time, Sharon leaned back in her chair, giving a soft girlish chuckle and taking a dainty sip from her beer.

  As predicted, five minut
es later George’s cell phone started playing ‘Beer for My Horses’ featuring Willie Nelson and Toby Keith. He answered and after some preliminary, good-natured bullshit with Bob Shaklee, he listened quietly to Shaklee’s offer. As it had been for Sharon, the opportunity to focus on cases, without distraction, cases that mattered was alluring. More than that, he trusted Shaklee.

  The call ended with George’s general acceptance that he would work his way onto the OSI team as he continued to work with Sheriff Davies in Pickham County, cleaning up the problem areas. They figured it might be two years before George could step away from the county, and Sandy could appoint another chief deputy. By then he would be a full-time member of the governor’s Office of Special Investigations.

  Quiet returned to the porch. The hum of insects and croaking frogs filled the night air.

  “So,” Fel said, breaking the silence, “you two both gonna be working for this governor’s special detective investigating thing, right?”

  George nodded. “Looks like it.”

  “And you’re stayin’ here, right?”

  Sharon reached out her hand and patted his bony old arm. “We’re staying here, Fel. Not going anywhere.”

  Leaning back in his chair, the old man took a long pull from his beer before tossing the empty can into the crate on the porch. “Yep, sounds like a good deal, to me.”

  21. Always Cautious

  “I’m in Fitzgerald.”

  “Fitzgerald? I thought you said, Tifton, or Albany.”

  “I said there, or somewhere. Said I would let you know. I’m letting you know.”

  “Why Fitzgerald?

  “Why not?”

  Sounding exasperated, knowing he was going to be joining Roy Budroe the next day for their meeting, wherever he was, the man on the phone asked, “What the fuck’s in Fitzgerald.”

  “Me.” Budroe smiled, enjoying his confederate’s annoyance.

  “Fine. Whatever.” The man on the phone was more than a little annoyed at the choice of such an out of the way spot. He had been hoping Budroe would choose someplace with the potential for some entertainment. Fitzgerald sounded about as entertaining as Pickham County. “So where we meeting?”

  “Little place I picked out. Quiet.”

  “How do we get to your quiet little place?” The annoyance was turning to resignation. Budroe was the boss, and he knew it, and he knew how to make that point to others.

  “Take Highway 129 south of town, go east on a county road. It’s marked, Talisham Road. Three miles you come to a dirt road to the right. Two miles on the dirt road brings you to an old shack. I’ll be there.” Shifting his bulk on the cheap motel bed, Budroe paused and scratched his ass. “You bring him there at ten, no sooner. I will be there early to scope things out. Don’t want to see you or anyone else there when I get there. If anything seems wrong, I’ll call you, and we’ll pick someplace else to meet.”

  “Got it. We’ll be there.”

  Budroe changed gears. “So, how’d it go today?”

  “About like we thought. Davies and Mackey are gonna be fucking with us full-time.”

  “Yeah, I got a call from Lonna. They rousted everybody on some business license and liquor permit bullshit. I’ll get it straightened out when I get back. Until then, I told Lonna to open up every day, and if they want to close us down so be it. You see she opens up.” His voice rose slightly, feeling his own annoyance at what he considered harassment of a simple businessman just trying to make a living. “We ain’t backin’ down. Not now. Not ever!”

  “I hear you. I’ll make sure Pete’s is open, keep things on track.”

  “You do that. We got bigger things going on, but Pete’s Place, Roydon, that’s our base. We are not losing our base. It would be like…” Budroe paused, searching his brain for a suitable comparison. “It would be like giving up the flag…like surrendering, or some shit. We are not surrendering. You hear me?” His voice had risen to a shout now. “Them boys are gonna wish they had never fucked with Roy Budroe, or my business…” The words faded off as Budroe gained control and calmed himself, leaning back on the pillows.

  The man, who had roasted Jobie and Elma Nicks alive, listened quietly, without interrupting. It was never a good idea to interrupt Roy Budroe, especially when his mood was vengeful.

  Budroe ended the call, cutting off any further discussion of the day’s events.

  “Be there tomorrow. One car, you drive. Have him in the passenger seat.”

  “Right.” The single word was unheard by Budroe, who had already disconnected.

  Picking the hotel services guide off the nightstand, Budroe scanned for somewhere to get a drink. He was going to relax tonight at…he looked through the directory and found a suitable sounding spot…at Mama Jo’s Bar and Grill, a short drive from his hotel. Tomorrow he would begin to settle the score with Davies and Mackey.

  22. Talking to Ricky Sanchez

  “Mama? Mama, what’s wrong?”

  Manny Lopez stood aside, holding the door wide so that the young man could enter his home. Eyes focused on the woman seated on the sofa beside Anita Lopez, Ricardo Sanchez rushed across the small room and fell to one knee, taking his mother’s worn hand in his.

  “Mama, tell me what happened.”

  “He’s gone, Ricardo.” Gina Sanchez’s face dropped to her hands while Anita put an arm around her shoulder pulling her close. Both mothers were dealing with their own different but similar grief. They had lost their children, one permanently, dead with a bullet through his back, the other missing, probably dead, or worse. They had huddled on the sofa for hours, arms around each other, trying to console each other as Manny Lopez watched, unable to offer them anything more than his own tears.

  Squeezing her hand hard, Ricardo Sanchez asked again. “Mama, who’s gone? Tell me what happened!”

  Lifting her tear stained face from her hands, Gina was able to whisper, “Roberto. Roberto is gone.”

  “Bobby? Gone? Gone where, Mama? Tell me what happened.” Ricardo felt the fear rising in his chest, his breath coming in short bursts as he tried to push down the cold dread in his heart.

  “Dead! Roberto is dead!” Her face lowered to her hands again.

  Ricardo Sanchez’s head dropped, resting on his mother’s knee as he fought to grasp the words. When he lifted it, his face was wet with his own tears.

  Taking a deep breath, the young man asked with a soft, steady voice. “What happened, Mama? Tell me how Bobby died.”

  “Shot…Roberto was shot…” Shoulders shaking convulsively, Gina Sanchez could say no more. Anita stroked her back with one hand, drying her own tears.

  Turning at the touch of the hand on his shoulder, Ricardo looked up into Manny Lopez’s eyes. The older man nodded towards the door motioning Ricardo outside. On the little concrete front stoop, it was quiet, only traffic noise and the bark of neighborhood dogs. No women wailed their grief at the loss of their children.

  Leaning against the doorframe, Manny Lopez took out a cigarette, offered one to Ricardo, who declined, and then lit up with an old Zippo lighter. He inhaled deeply, seeking calm in his own way before speaking.

  “They were at the restaurant. Your brother was dropping Juanita off for work. They spent the night together making wedding plans.” He paused, remembering for a moment such sweet times with Anita before their wedding, spending the night together as if they were married. The priest would have disapproved, had he known. Then bitter reality pushed the sweetness away, and he continued. “Someone was there. The police asked us a lot of questions. I think that someone was waiting for them, or maybe just for Juanita, but Bobby was with her. I think he tried to help her, and they shot him. They took my Juanita…” His word trailed off as his own tears now fell in large drops down his face continuing to the concrete porch.

  “Mr. Lopez, what else? Can you tell me anything else?” Ricardo’s voice was softly courteous, but the questions were intent and focused.

  Shaking his head while his trembling
fingers held the cigarette to his mouth, Manny Lopez said, “No, nothing else. The police don’t have any idea who did this. I don’t think there are many clues…” He paused for a moment trying to remember and then added, “They asked a lot of questions about Bobby’s car.”

  “His car? The Mustang?”

  Manny nodded. “Yes, they were very interested in the car, the Mustang, you call it.”

  “Why, Mr. Lopez? Can you tell me why?”

  The old man shrugged. “I suppose because it is missing.” He took another long drag on the cigarette.

  “Missing? The car is gone?”

  Lopez nodded. “Yes, Ricardo, Bobby’s car is gone. Could the killers have taken it, the ones who took my Juanita?”

  Ricky Sanchez turned and stepped off the front stoop. He was halfway down the walk when Manny Lopez called out to him.

  “Ricardo, is this important? Can it help find Juanita and the ones who killed Roberto?”

  Ricky Sanchez responded without looking back. “Maybe.” Then he was in the car pulling quickly away from the Lopez’s house, his tires squealing briefly as he accelerated.

  Manny Lopez watched as the car disappeared down the street. The Sanchez boys were very much alike in the way they looked, but there the similarity ended. Roberto was a star student and athlete. Ready to start his senior year in college, he had a baseball and football scholarship to Georgia Southern, and he was being recruited by professional teams in both sports. Manny and Anita Lopez could not have been happier about their daughter’s engagement to Bobby Sanchez. That would not have been the case had Juanita chosen the other brother.

  Unlike his younger brother, Ricardo Sanchez was not a good student and had no plans for college. He was a high school dropout who found the attractions of the street far more appealing to his restless nature than the classroom or football field. In trouble with the law from an early age, Ricky Sanchez had done time in Juvenile Detention and then some county time for some minor thefts. He knew the streets of Atlanta’s projects and low rent areas. They were his playing fields and his places of business. He was home there.