By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2

by Charles Wendt

  “I don’t know,” said Helmut, cocking his head to one side and his shoulders raised in a shrug. “I don’t follow real estate. For all I know, the bank still owns it. City Hall is just a little further on the left.”

  Kelton leaned far forward, to see around his driver who appeared to be resting on the steering wheel as he drove, and saw the flagpoles next to Main Street’s sidewalk. Helmut turned in on the single lane one-way parking lot entrance, the corresponding one-way out on the other side of the flagpole. It was a modern building of concrete and glass, set back from Main Street to provide room for a gray marble tablet memorial engraved with the military branch of service emblems, a few benches, and giant concrete planters. The parking lot behind the building boasted plenty of spaces on a Monday evening. It seemed the public wouldn’t be out in mass.

  Helmet pulled in to one of the slanted spaces, set the break, and turned off the ignition.

  “I’m actually a little nervous,” confessed Helmut before unfastening his seatbelt.

  “You’ll do fine. People want to hear what you have to say. That’s why you were invited,” encouraged Kelton.

  “No, that’s not true, my young friend. Spineless politicians don’t want to stand by their own decisions so they bring in a citizen they can blame to keep their image from tarnishing so much.”

  “Come on you old cynic,” said Kelton getting out. “Fox Ridge Girls will still love you. And if you have that, you can say the hell with anyone else.

  It’s hot, so what should I do with the cookies. Bring them in? I’d hate for the chocolate to melt everywhere.”

  “Ja, there should be a garbage can by the entrance.”

  “You want to throw them out? They look great to me, but I’ve been eating Chips Ahoy the past five years or so.”

  “Mrs. Grant isn’t teaching them to be house wives. I’m afraid it shows.”

  They got out, Kelton pulling back the foil to try one of the cookies.

  “Okay, I agree. You’re right,” said Kelton.

  Helmut grunted as Kelton tossed them into a stone trashcan at the entrance.

  As Kelton suspected, the sheriff’s deputy made them both pass through a metal detector so he was glad to have left behind his pistol and pack. Judging by the black felt directory made with white plastic letters posted on the wall behind a glass cover, the building handled all types of city business from court room, county clerk, city administration, and the like. However, the city police and the county sheriff seemed to both have separate facilities as neither were listed. The town meeting was in the training room, which was the largest space on the first floor.

  The floor was linoleum tile over a concrete slab, but it glowed with upkeep. There were simple folding conference tables with brown metal folding chairs, long serving and flexible for a wide range of purposes. Large pictures on the wall displayed local officers, deputies, firemen, paramedics and city maintenance workers in action with the public. The front of the room was set up for a panel, flanked by the American and Virginia flags, facing a central podium for speakers giving testimony. A couple dozen people were already there, including a trio who were clearly journalists wrestling with camera tripods, making the room only a third full. Some coffee pots were going on a sideboard.

  Kelton and Helmut settled in to the hard metal chairs near the front and waited for the meeting to begin. Kelton slowly scanned the gathering faces, searching out his quarry. The banker man in gray was nowhere to be scene.

  Larry Turner used the long wooden pointer to gesture at the site plan mounted to the large foam board on the easel. He’d used color instead of a monochrome style blueprint, and the long green tracks of the future golf course holes brought the diagram to life. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back, and the tie-wrapped collar of his shirt irritated the freshly shaved skin of his neck, but Larry consoled these minor discomforts with the fact that he looked good and professional. He’d even gone to the all night drugstore late last night for shoe polish.

  Given all that special effort, it was annoying that Johann was a no show and the text message he’d sent him had so far gone unanswered. The attorney didn’t show either. Not that Kenny Martin had said for sure that he was coming, but with the late-night phone call Larry thought he’d make the trip. Some support would be nice, because he was giving it everything he had and it wasn’t going well.

  Larry had spent the weekend preparing for a good show. He’d honed his talking points to give complete sound bites without rambling superfluous details. He was respectful and encouraging with questions. But despite all his best charms and scripted display of his builder’s skills, the board of supervisors were not smiling at him.

  Justin Harper facilitated a few questions, whether they were from a scattering of attending citizens or fellow board members, with a professional and neutral tone. But there was a lack of energy in the room, and nobody seemed poised to be swaying anybody. There were no passionate citizens advocating for jobs by waving signs or making chants. He’d thought a big outfit would fill the room with employees to convey wide support for the measure. It actually was boring, which was disappointing given what was at stake. Camera’s flashed again from the back of the room. Then Larry did his wrap up, capping it off about how excited he was to be serving the economic needs of all of the Westburg community.

  Justin Harper leaned toward his microphone pressing the desk button, “Thank you, Mr. Turner. On behalf of the board of supervisors and the citizens of Westburg, we appreciate your time outlining one possible future for our town.

  The next speaker on the agenda was our city comptroller,” Justin continued and looked sideways at the empty chair, “Mr. Grunfeld. However, it seems he is under the weather this evening and is unable to attend. A copy of Mr. Gunfeld’s presentation was included in the board packets. If necessary, we will reserve time in next week’s council meeting for any questions board members may have of him.

  Which brings us to Mr. Helmut Muench, Master Horse Trainer at Fox Ridge School.”

  Larry watched the old German, who must have been seventy, steadily make his way to the central podium on his cane. He was dressed rather plainly; a fraying tweed sport coat the man’s only homage to the forum. Helmut stood a moment, and then made a sweeping look across the board’s faces before beginning.

  Helmut introduced himself, telling the board about the number of years he’d been teaching the riding program, and his opinion of what the constant drone of helicopters would mean to both equestrian instruction and classroom studies. Larry scanned his phone’s texts again as Helmut neared a climax of how the project wasn’t just the addition of a golf course with various pesticides and fertilizers to contaminate the water table the local farmers depended, but an airport with noise and risk of accident. The blank faces of the board, professional politicians all, betrayed nothing and Larry scanned about the room to get a read.

  The crowd sympathized with the opposition to Larry’s project. These weren’t business owners hoping for a larger market; those hardworking entrepreneurs were too tired for policy meetings. It was all journalists and old ladies who came of age in the dawn of the environmental movement. There were riders from the hunt, quietly protesting by wearing their formal riding attire to the meeting. And those on the board could see that, and all the subscribers of tomorrow’s newspapers could read that, and Larry knew which way things would go despite the poker faces.

  As Helmut wrapped up Larry stood, “Mr. Harper, a suggestion if I may.”

  “The board recognizes Mr. Turner,” said Justin, with a tired tone expressing annoyance at an expected rebuttal. Justin’s face lightened though as Larry opted to punt instead.

  “Given Mr. Grunfeld’s untimely illness, and the fair points raised by Mr. Muench, I think it would be appropriate to withdraw the current proposal. We want to serve our community and by listening this evening, we have learned some things to enhance the plans. Our efforts are about collaboration rather than trying to steamroll any oppositi
on. I will look forward to returning to this forum in the near future with an improved proposal incorporating the feedback.”

  Justin nodded, “Granted, Mr. Turner. Next on the agenda is a progress update on the summer road maintenance…”

  Larry turned and strode toward the back of the room, hand grasping at his throat to loosen his tie. A moment later he sneered at a blond teen girl who’d parked her little red car too close to his truck door making it hard to get in. She flipped him the bird as he juggled both his keys and his cellphone. Then he drove his big truck to the south exit of the parking lot and turned left on Second Street which paralleled Main Street. The grocery store behind the bank would still be open and he definitely needed a case of beer. And if it wasn’t, the lounge of the Hunt Lodge Hotel down the street would serve.

  He dialed, and then sneered at his ringing phone, “Pick up, you assholes!” When the voice mail greeting came on he tossed his mobile to the passenger side floorboards.

  Kelton got in Vicky’s car, finding the front seat surprisingly roomy for a car known as a “Cooper Mini”. The car still smelled new, and was meticulously clean of trash and dust.

  She smiled at him, with bright blue eyes surrounded by heavy eye shadow.

  “Where’s your partner in crime?” asked Kelton.

  “She went home to take care of Indy, but don’t worry. Abriella will be coming,” she nodded at him.

  Kelton felt his cheeks flush just a little bit.

  “So what’s tonight subject? It sounded a little… free form?”

  “Yeah, we all have our own stuff. I’ve got an essay I have to write.

  We’ve been reading this fantasy series in literature that has lots of ties to modern politics. Actually, I guess as I think about it, politics probably hasn’t changed since mankind started. Anyway, I don’t know if Mr. Hardy thinks we can’t see through him, or maybe he doesn’t care, but it’s a fun way to talk about today’s issues. He’s been harping on all the mercenaries we’ve been using in the Iraq War and where that leads.

  See in the book we’re reading, this queen is hiring this mercenary army so she can take back over her lost lands. These mercenaries, are like, supposed to be these perfect unfeeling killing automations. They’re like, given a puppy when a child, and are made to kill it after they’ve developed an attachment. And those that don’t are killed. So what they have is this cold heartless army of killers that supposedly can’t be stopped.

  So our teacher wants us to write a paper about what we think about that. I’m not sure how to get started.”

  “So who do you think would make the better soldier?”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “This mercenary group trains these young boys to be soldiers, and after a few years they tell them to kill their dog they’ve had since a puppy. Those that do it, are the ones they pick as soldiers. Those that don’t, they kill and discard. What do you think of their choice? Do you agree?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, the author seems to be saying that those with blind obedience and a cold mindset make great warriors. I can see that. I guess.”

  “What traits do the ones that face certain death but refuse to kill their dog have? How do those traits align with what you think would make a good soldier?”

  Vicky pondered as she took a left at the flashing light in front of the bank.

  “Well, they must know they will be killed if they refuse, but do it anyway. So they must be really strong in their conviction. The others, just kind of let themselves be punked out.”

  “What’s ‘punked out’ mean?”

  “They subjugate themselves,” explained Vicky.

  Kelton nodded, “Interesting choice. Cold and disciplined to obey any order, but not particularly spirited. Or those with the character to fight for their love and conviction, even when all alone and in the face of overwhelming power and certain death.

  Sounds to me they might have a better army if they reverse what they are doing. But then, those are the type of men you can’t sell as slaves which is the business their trainers are in.”

  She put on her left turn signal to turn into the school.

  “I hadn’t thought about these things before. I’m excited to write my paper now. Thanks, Kelton!”

  “Any idea what other things people will want to talk about?”

  “Not really. Elizabeth never knows what she will want to do. She just springs things on people. Abriella hates math so she might want to talk some more there even if we don’t have a quiz tomorrow. Kate will probably work on Shakespeare. I don’t know about Holly.”

  “I’ve not met Holly. What’s she like?”

  “Kind of quiet, keeps to herself. I think she’s really into the field hockey thing so we don’t see her. She’s not into horses. Whenever we start talking about it, she just kind of slips away. Sometimes, I forget she even lives in our house.”

  “Doesn’t the school group like people together? She seems kind of odd girl out.”

  “Mrs. Grant likes to try and mix us as much as she can, but it feels weird and forced sometimes. School’s not crowded now with it being the summer session. But when the fall term starts, the house will get stuffed with more hockey players and all the laundry will smell. It’s disgusting.”

  Vicky drove the car around the faculty lot, going the wrong way on the perimeter road and avoiding the speed bumps.

  “Why don’t you drop me at the barn so I can pick up Azrael. Then I’ll walk back over.”

  “Sure,” agreed Vicky.

  There was a beep sound from the car’s counsel.

  “What was that?”

  “Got a text,” said Vicky and she hit a button on her steering wheel. “Dad wanted it as a safety feature, but honestly I really like it, too.”

  A woman’s voice, but very much with a techno edge announced, “You have one new message from: Abriella Harper. Did Kelton get something to eat?”

  Vicky turned toward him as she pulled in the barn’s east side parking lot facing the paddocks, “I’ll let you answer that one.”

  “I’m fine. I had all of Helmut’s cookies,” Kelton said as he got himself out of the tiny car. “See you over at the house in a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER—18

  Arabell Harper entered Master Bartholomew’s hospital room carrying a fresh bag of saline for the IV machine. Johnbull sat with Helmut in the two visitor’s chairs near the foot of the bed talking quietly.

  Johnbull looked up at her while she was recognizing Helmut, “How’s he doing Mrs. Harper?”

  Helmut rose to his feet using his cane.

  Arabell greeted him, “Mr. Muench. I didn’t immediately recognize you away from the barn. Justin said you were going to the meeting.” Then she turned toward Johnbull who was also now getting up. “So far so good we think. There doesn’t seem to be any signs of infection as of yet and we believe the healing is off to a good start. Vitals are strong. The doctor plans to start backing down his medication tomorrow so he’ll be lucid. Sergeant Barker called late this afternoon looking for an update as well. I think the police are anxious to talk to him.”

  Helmut interjected, “That’s good news, Mrs. Harper. Please let him know I stopped by in case my duties at the school keep me from coming again soon.”

  Then the three of them heard a loud challenge in the hallway.

  “Hey, who are you? You can’t be in here!”

  She recognized it as Marco’s voice and he called out again, “What the hell are you doing? Security!”

  There was a crash, like a cart of supplies or a gurney being overturned. Maybe furniture.

  Arabell strode out into the hall facing the commotion. She caught a glimpse of two men dragging the John Doe from his hospital room, the IV line dragging the overturned pump stand behind them. Also being dragged was the tube metal side rail of the bed to which the man was handcuffed. The men were young and muscular, wearing slacks with long sleeved collared shirts. Their black hair seemed just a touch unkempt, kee
ping them from passing as office professionals or any type of medical sales associates if one looked closely. They were making for the emergency exit at the end of the long hallway which led to the parking lot.

  A third man held a chair by the back, the four legs extended out before him, keeping Marco in check like a lion tamer. Each time Marco took a few steps forward, the man thrust the chair causing Marco to retreat. Eventually the tape holding the IV line separated, and the pump stand was discarded in the hallway. As the man covering the retreat tripped backward over it, Marco surged forward.

  The man roached his shoulders and twisted, taking the fall’s impact on the hard floor mainly along his upper arm. The abductor didn’t relinquish his hold on the chair though, and Marco ran into it taking a leg to the center of his chest. The nurse fell to the side gasping, and a trickle of blood streamed from the corner of his lips. Johnbull rushed passed Arabell and grabbed Marco by the shoulders while the thug regained his feet.

  “Where are you taking our patient?” demanded Arabell with hands on her hips. She felt Helmut come up on her left side, while Johnbull dragged Marco backward down the hall toward Greg Bartholomew’s room.

  Johnbull whispered harshly at Arabell as he passed, “Back off. They all been on the inside. Nuthin worth fussin over. Trust me. I knows.”

  The thug retreated after his fellow kidnappers, still holding the chair out before him to discourage pursuit. Helmut wacked his cane at a fire alarm pull box on the side of the hallway. The klaxon screamed and a strobe of silver light began flashing. In just a few more seconds, the intruders were gone into the failing light outside, the bed’s metal side rail getting hung up on the doorframe for a moment. Arabell chased after Johnbull, and waved her hand toward the floor to signal him to stop dragging Marco away.

  She knelt at her coworker’s side, “You with us, Marco?”

  He coughed and nodded his head gently. Then he raised his right hand and gave her a strong thumb up gesture. A few more coughs, and his thumbs up gesture switched to a raised index finger. There were some more red streaks on his chin.