The Shining Badge

by Gilbert, Morris

Jenny entered and scraped her feet on the rug. “Hard to go anywhere without making a mess with all this snow.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Here, let me hang up your coat and hat.”

  Jenny handed them to Wheeler; then when he motioned to her, she followed him down a polished oak hallway and turned off to the left. She had never been in the house and was impressed at the size of the parlor. A huge fireplace made of native stone dominated one end. A bright fire crackled and popped in the fireplace, and one wall was nothing but windows, allowing the sunshine to come in. Helen Wheeler got up, and Jenny greeted her. “Hello, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  Something about the woman’s air touched off an alarm in Jenny, and she sat down at Wheeler’s word, but he did not take a seat. He went over to stand before the fireplace and looked down at it for a moment, saying nothing. Jenny looked at Helen Wheeler and saw that she was looking down at her hands, which were not entirely steady. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wheeler?”

  Turning from the fireplace, Wheeler came over and stopped in the middle of the room. He said, “Sheriff, I’m going to have to confess that I’ve been involved in criminal activities.”

  The alarm that had touched Jenny now increased. “Do you want to have a lawyer with you? You’re entitled to one.”

  “No. I want to tell you, and then you can tell me what comes next.”

  “All right, Mr. Wheeler. Go ahead.” Jenny sat there listening as Wheeler began to speak. She had never admired Wheeler, for he had seemed rather cold, but now as she listened, she saw that there was a brokenness in him that had not been there before. She listened alertly, shocked by what she heard. Wheeler was a deacon in his church and a leader in the community, yet by his own admission, he had engaged in activities that were disgraceful and illegal. Much as her own brother, Josh, had, she realized.

  Finally Wheeler threw his hands up in a defeated gesture and said, “That’s what I have done. Now you’ll have to tell me what’s going to happen.”

  “Tell her the rest of it, Mill,” Helen Wheeler said quickly. She turned to face Jenny with tears in her eyes. “He’s a different man, Sheriff. You must believe what he says.”

  Jenny turned to face Wheeler and got to her feet. “What is it?” she asked quietly. She listened as Wheeler told her about his experience outside the church, and finally he shrugged and said, “I hear there’s such a thing as jailhouse religion. That criminals often pretend to have religion in order to get special favors. I wouldn’t blame you if you thought the same of me.”

  That thought had been lurking in Jenny’s mind, but she took one look into Wheeler’s face and saw something that had never been there before. Something in his eyes and the simplicity with which he spoke, making no claims for himself at all, and indeed suggesting that what he was doing seemed suspicious. For some reason Jenny, who did not often make snap decisions, knew the conversion of this man was a fact. She stepped forward and put her hand out, and he took it with surprise. “I’m so happy for you, Mr. Wheeler. It came late, but it has come.”

  “You believe, then, that I’m telling the truth?”

  “Of course I do. Others may not, but I do.”

  Tears filled Wheeler’s eyes, and he turned away, muttering huskily, “Don’t know what’s the matter with me. I haven’t cried since I was six years old, and now I’m nothing but a . . .” He did not finish, for his wife came over and put her arm around him. The two embraced, and then they turned to face Jenny.

  “What’s going to happen to him, Sheriff Winslow?” Helen Wheeler asked.

  “It’s not going to be pleasant, but the fact that he’s come forward and confessed voluntarily helps. And if you’ll cooperate, I think the worst thing that can happen to you would be a suspended sentence.”

  Wheeler studied her for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do anything I can. I hate to involve anyone else, but I’ll tell you all I know, and you can do with it what you will.”

  “I think it would be best if we went down to my office, Mr. Wheeler.”

  “Of course.”

  “This isn’t an arrest,” Jenny said quickly. “But I need to get this down on paper.” She hesitated, then said, “It’s going to be hard on you, I know.”

  “Not as hard as what I was facing without God,” Wheeler said and found a smile. “Helen is with me, and I’m determined to do whatever I can to make restitution.”

  “I think you can do a great deal,” Jenny said. “This won’t take long. Perhaps an hour or two until I get all the facts. Then you can come home.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “Not now, though I may have to later. But you’ll be a material witness in the case that’ll follow.”

  Wheeler turned and embraced his wife again. She kissed him and said, “Hurry home, dear. I’ll be waiting.”

  “I will. I’ll be right home as soon as I can.”

  Jenny watched the scene between the two and felt a sense of gladness. She was sorry that Wheeler had stepped outside the law and had betrayed his profession as a Christian, but she believed firmly in his conversion, and as the two left the house, she said with reassurance, “It’ll be all right, Mr. Wheeler. You wait and see.”

  The two got into the car, and Jenny started the engine. She pulled out and took one last look at the house, where she saw Helen Wheeler standing on the front porch. “Wave good-bye to her.”

  Wheeler waved and turned to Jenny. “Not every woman would have been as understanding.”

  “I’m glad you realize that.”

  They had not gone more than a quarter of a mile, barely off of the man’s property onto the county road which was unpaved, when suddenly they saw a car slanted across the road and two men beside it, waving at them. “I guess they slid off the road and can’t get going,” Millington said. “You got a rope or a cable? Maybe we can pull them around.”

  “Yes, in the trunk.” She stopped the car, and the two got out. “Having a little trouble?” she said cheerfully.

  The two men were both wearing long, dark overcoats and fedora hats. They were large men, one of them with a sharp face like a ferret, the other blunt and battered, obviously an ex-prizefighter. The sharp-faced man suddenly pulled his glove off, reached inside his coat, and came out with a gun. “Hello, Sheriff, we’ve been waiting for you. Take her gun, Ollie.”

  The blunt-faced man called Ollie moved toward Jenny, who stood absolutely still. She did not even glance back at Wheeler, who had gotten out of the car. She felt the gun leave her holster and saw it stuffed into the side pocket of Ollie, then Ollie turned and said, “What about the guy, Mikey?”

  The thin man smiled unpleasantly. “Just frisk him. He’s probably not carrying, but we wanta make sure.”

  Jenny kept her eyes fixed on the tall man called Mikey. “What do you want?” she said.

  “Why, we want you, Sheriff. You and Mr. Wheeler there. Come along. Put ’em in the car, Ollie.”

  Jenny turned to see the thickset man seize Wheeler by the arm and pull him along. Wheeler’s face was pale, but he did not say a word. Jenny’s own arm was seized then, and she was hustled to the car, a long black limousine. Mikey opened the door, and Ollie shoved them in. The two men got in the front, Mikey driving and Ollie turning in the seat, holding a pistol on them. “You be nice,” he said, “and maybe you’ll live a little longer.”

  “What do you want?” Wheeler said, staring at the driver.

  “Like I said. We want you and the sheriff. You’ve been givin’ us some problems, so we came down from Chi-Town to take care of it.”

  Instantly the situation was clear to Jenny. She had known for some time that she was the target of the criminal element, and now she suddenly turned and said, “Did you tell anyone what you told me—besides your wife, I mean?”

  Wheeler’s face was set in shock. “Yes. I told one person.”

  “And I guess that one person made a call, so here you two are,” Ollie said. “Now, sit
back and don’t try nothin’ funny.”

  Jenny watched the road, but they made so many turns she was lost. Finally they pulled up in front of an old house that looked abandoned. As they got out, she heard the sound of running water, and looking to her right, saw a small waterfall not over six or eight feet high, but the water made a loud gushing sound as it fell.

  “This is the old Franklin place,” Wheeler said suddenly. “It hasn’t been lived in for years.”

  “That’s enough talk. You two get in the house!” Mikey snapped.

  He nodded to Ollie, saying, “Lock ’em up good, Ollie, and if they try anything funny, put ’em down.”

  Ollie was holding the pistol in his right hand. He tapped it against the palm of his left and grinned. “A pretty thing like that? It’d be a shame. She could be a lot of fun.”

  “You do what I’m tellin’ you, Ollie. I’ll be back as soon as I go use the phone.”

  Ollie then shrugged and waved the pistol at the front door. “Come on. No funny stuff, or you’ll be sorry for it.”

  Jenny stepped up on the porch and walked inside, followed by Wheeler.

  “You can cook up some grub. I’m hungry. You make a fire in that wood stove.”

  Jenny gave a cautioning look to Wheeler and said, “All right,” knowing that only God could save them now. The two men were obviously killers, and she had no doubt, nor had Millington Wheeler, that they would be victims unless God intervened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Clay Finds the Way

  Raymond Briggs did not look like an FBI man—at least not the way most people envision agents of the bureau. He was small, not over five-six, had a pale bland face, nondescript brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and was mild mannered. When he had first appeared, Clay had instantly judged him to be incompetent. He was more accustomed to big men with a decisive manner, and he had been so buried in his own misery that he made a snap judgment. Now as he sat across from Briggs, he squeezed his hands together and tried to concentrate on what the man was saying. “You’ve got to remember, Deputy Varek, kidnapping carries a death penalty. The kidnappers wouldn’t have anything to lose if they killed the captives.”

  “I know that!” Clay snapped. “What I want to know is why they kidnapped them in the first place.”

  “It’s not local, I don’t think,” Briggs said mildly. He had a pen in his hand and from time to time would look down at a sheet of paper in front of him. His writing was meticulous and so small it was almost microscopic. He studied the paper for a time and finally looked up. “I understand you are very close to Sheriff Winslow.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why, it just means that when we’re too close to a problem we can’t see it clearly.”

  Clay Varek knew that Briggs was right. He shook his head and said quietly, “I haven’t been able to think straight, Mr. Briggs, and you’re right. We are very close.”

  “We’ve gone over all the possibilities of local people being behind this, but I don’t think that’s the case. Mrs. Wheeler has told us that her husband made a full confession of his part in criminal activities, and we’ve had reports that Vito Canelli has been in the area a number of times recently. And I can tell you for certain that Canelli is totally bloodthirsty. He’ll kill without a qualm. You know him from your Chicago days, you say?”

  “I met him a couple of times. We almost got him once on a bust, but he was too clever. He was Al Capone’s right-hand man before Capone was sent to prison—although we’ve never been able to literally prove that.”

  “You know what kind of people we’re dealing with, then.”

  “I keep waiting for the phone to ring for them to make some kind of a demand.”

  Briggs took off his glasses, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and began polishing them, letting the silence run across the room. The clock on the wall was ticking loudly, and from outside the office there was the sound of cars passing on the street. Finally Briggs said softly, “I don’t think there’s going to be a call. Most kidnappers want money, but in this case I think they want to get Wheeler out of the way. They’re afraid of his testimony.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “Well, she’s been an aggravation to the bootleggers and the mob knows it. You know how they look on things like that.”

  Clay did not answer. He felt strangely inept and unable to think. Usually his mind was clear and sharp, and he could make decisions instantly, but since Jenny had gone missing, he had been like a man in a fog. He looked up now, and Briggs could see the misery in Varek’s eyes. “I’m afraid,” he said simply.

  Briggs held Varek’s glance for a moment and then nodded, “I can understand that. I’ve got every man available out searching, and I’m sure you do too, but it’s like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “We’ve got to find them, Briggs, we’ve just got to!”

  Briggs hooked his glasses behind his ears and rose to his feet. “I don’t know this country. All we can do is look. We don’t even have a description of the car. From the tire tracks we know it was a big, heavy car, but that’s not much to go on.”

  “Some of the known bootleggers must be in on this. Why don’t we pull them in and make them tell us what they know.”

  Briggs shook his head. “That’s the kind of shortcut that will get us into trouble.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Varek. We mustn’t give up hope.”

  Clay looked up and saw that the words did not agree with the expression of Agent Briggs. He well understood that Briggs had already given up hope and was convinced that Wheeler and Jenny were already dead. Clay rose to his feet and said, “I can’t sit here. I’ve got to do something.”

  “Keep in touch,” Briggs called out as Clay left the office. Clay did not turn, and Agent Briggs shook his head. “Too bad. It’s just too bad. They wouldn’t have any reason for keeping those two alive. I’m afraid Varek’s going to take it hard.”

  ****

  Clay approached the cabin with his gun pulled, but when he entered he found that it was abandoned. It was a shack they had been keeping their eye on because there had been bootlegging activity there in times past. He knew that the Cundiffs had used it and the Skinners also, but there was no sign of recent habitation. A heaviness descended on him as he holstered his gun. He walked out of the cabin and then headed down the road to where he had parked his car half a mile away. The snow had almost disappeared under the heat of the previous day, leaving behind mushy, muddy ground. Overhead the skies were blue, and as Clay trudged along, a mockingbird flew past him, warbling a loud song. Clay paid no attention, and all the way back to the car he tried desperately to think of some way to save Jenny and Wheeler. He reached the car and got in, but when he started to turn the key, despair deeper than any he had ever known welled up in him. He placed his hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward, putting his forehead against the wheel. He remained there for a long time, but time had ceased to mean anything to him except that it was fleeing by, and every second meant that there was less chance that Jenny was alive.

  She can’t die! God, you can’t let her die!

  The cry burst out of the deepest part of Clay Varek’s being, and it rose to his lips so that he knew he was crying out aloud, something he could not remember ever having done. The coldness of the wheel seemed to burn into his forehead, and he gripped it with every bit of strength, as if he could rip the truth out of it.

  Clay Varek had known helplessness before. When his partner had died in his arms, there was no way he could keep the life in the man, and he felt exactly like that now. But he felt even more than that. He suddenly had a picture in his mind of Jenny’s face and could see the vitality and the sweetness that had attracted him from the first. He could almost hear her easy laugh and see her eyes sparkle. Grief and fear so mingled in his breast that he could only hang on to the wheel as if it were a life preserver and he were a drowning man.

  Finally he drew a deep breath, a
nd the quietness of the country about him surrounded him. He looked out the window at the trees, the sky, and the earth. Blindly he searched as if he might find Jenny simply by looking, and then in despair he closed his eyes and sat there gripping the wheel. Slowly the silence entered into him, and yet in that silence there was a grief that he could not contain. He was shocked to find tears rolling down his cheeks, and he did not wipe them away.

  Finally he spoke aloud and began a prayer. It was not eloquent, and his voice was broken. “God,” he said, “I’ve left you out of my life, and now I’m in such trouble. God, you know I haven’t followed your laws, and I don’t know how to pray. But I pray anyway. I pray for Jenny and for Wheeler. That you would save them from death.” He prayed for a long time, stopping from time to time, and finally as he sat there, he began to remember verses of Scripture. He had heard more sermons recently than he had in his whole life, and he remembered vividly one text that Brother Crutchfield had preached on the previous Sunday. Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.

  Those words seemed to come to him in a powerful way, and as Clay Varek sat there, he knew that God was somehow dealing with him. He kept his eyes closed and finally put his hands over his face. “Oh, God, I’ve heard that Jesus is the Son of God, and I believe that. I know I can’t make bargains with you, but I need you. I’ve needed you for a long time. You’ve said that anyone who would call upon you would be saved, so, Lord, I’m calling on you right now. I ask you to save me in the name of Jesus.”

  This was not the end of his prayer. It seemed to go on for some time, for Clay Varek remembered his past, which had not always been good. But finally he finished confessing to God his grief at the life he had led and said in an exhausted voice, “I can’t do anything to help myself. If I get any help, Jesus, it’ll have to come from you!”

  ****

  Missouri Ann Winslow had been listening to Clay for fifteen minutes. He had come to the house exhausted but determined. When she had let him in and led him to the living room, she was glad that, for once, all three of the babies were asleep. She herself had slept little, for she had stayed awake fasting and praying for Jenny and for Millington Wheeler. In fact, Clint and Lewis were out searching for them right now. Clay would not sit down, so Missouri stood with him, watching and listening carefully as he told of his misery.