The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  Palmer and the two other agents sent her blank looks, like they didn’t know what to make of her story.

  “I must have passed out again because the next time I came awake, I was back at my desk and it was morning.” With her eyes, she invited Tobias to explain how she’d immediately called him, but he merely squeezed her hand and kept quiet.

  She completed the tale herself. “I called home from my desk phone, and Sergeant Burke answered. When I told him what happened, he suggested I go straight to the lab to have my urine and blood tested. The first test came up positive for benzodiazepines. The latter specified high levels of flunitrazepam, better known as Rohypnol, the date rape drug—which explains why I don’t remember.”

  When Palmer just frowned at her, she clarified, “Rohypnol causes anterogade amnesia. It induces dizziness and sleepiness. There’s no way I could have driven a car, let alone operated a handgun.”

  The special agent scratched himself a few notes. “And you shared all of this with the Martinsburg Police?”

  “Yes, I did. I also surrendered my pistol and the ammunition in my purse, and we noticed there were bullets missing.”

  Palmer’s mustache twitched. “So, you’re claiming you never left the hospital last night.”

  Dylan’s heart beat faster. “I don’t believe so.”

  He looked up at her sharply. “You don’t believe so?”

  Tobias ran a soothing hand up her spine. “I don’t see how I could have walked,” she clarified.

  Palmer tapped the tip of his pencil on his notepad. “Would you be willing to submit a urine and blood sample to our own forensics team?”

  She stiffened at the implication that she’d meddled with the tests already taken. “I don’t see why not,” she said slowly.

  “Do you know whether the blood test indicates what time you might have been drugged?” Palmer inquired.

  Dylan just looked at him. “What are you suggesting? That I ingested Rohypnol after I shot General Treyburn just so I’d have some type of defense?” Resentment rushed into her bloodstream, making her long suddenly for her revolver. It was starting to dawn on Dylan that, perhaps, she ought to have a lawyer present before she said anymore to these men.

  Tobias laid a hand on her shoulder. “Easy,” he murmured, clearly sensing her rising agitation.

  The agent had raised an eyebrow at her vehemence. “Let me fetch the forensics team,” he offered standing up.

  In the following half hour, she surrendered a urine sample and three vials of blood. The forensics experts swept through her home, violating her sanctum and her psyche in one fell swoop. As she watched them raid her file cabinets, search her desk and bedroom bureau, and even poke their noses in her attic, Dylan could feel herself retreating into a remote corner of her mind where nothing touched her, not even Tobias’s palpable concern as he hovered protectively near.

  When the FBI finished tearing through the contents of her home, they turned their attention to the supply shed, just like the last time they’d been there looking for proof that she’d bombed Secretary Nolan’s car. Tonight, they left the barn empty-handed. She supposed she ought to be relieved about that. Instead, what she felt was the return of the numbness that had retreated since Tobias first joined her militia. It was back, as dark and cold and joyless as it ever was.

  Returning to the command room, Dylan sat stock still on the loveseat while Tobias and the other NCOs—all but Ackerman, who slinked off to sulk on his own—moved quietly about the room, putting items and papers back where they belonged. Above the exposed crossbeams overhead, she could hear Terrence struggling to make his way down the second-story hallway to the bathroom. A stab of concern roused her from her self-absorption. She got up to go assist him, waving off Tobias’s offer to help.

  She’d told him once that she didn’t care about her future. But what would become of Terrence if she went to jail? And what of her and Tobias? The love they’d so recently declared would wither and perish if she found herself incarcerated.

  Maybe she’d lied to herself, as well as to him. Maybe her future did matter.

  ***

  A bitter chill seeped through Toby’s militia uniform as he waited for Sheriff Hooper to sign the ledger and pick up a rifle at the front of the barn. The man had arrived early to the CPX, which—in spite of all that was going on in Dylan’s life—was taking place as usual.

  It can’t be canceled, Dylan had told him just last night. We have to prepare for the protest at the fusion center on November 9th.

  He hadn’t tried arguing. She was better off having something to focus her attention on besides the FBI’s investigation. He’d consoled himself with the fact that he could question Sheriff Hooper in person about the investigation. Had the man found anything important in the security footage? Had he been forced to surrender the investigation to the FBI already?

  Hooper scribbled his name in the ledger, took the M-16 that Morrison issued to him, and joined Toby in the back of the barn. Out the corner of his eye, Toby saw Cal Fallon step up to the ledger and shoot Toby a glare.

  Toby’s scalp tightened with foreboding. Fallon’s patience was obviously wearing thin. He had guarded the truth of Toby’s connection to the FBI with forbearance, but the scowl on his face this morning warned Toby that he wouldn’t keep his secret much longer.

  Toby kicked himself for not telling Dylan the truth last night when they’d lain in bed. Hearing the facts from anyone besides himself would decimate her. But under the pretext of shielding her from yet another shock, he’d guarded his secret one more night, clinging selfishly to her devotion. He feared his cowardice had been a big mistake.

  Hooper stuck out his hand, reclaiming his attention. “Morning.”

  “Hey.” Toby searched his gaze. “Has the FBI approached you yet?”

  The Sheriff of Martinsburg nodded gloomily. “Yep. They got me out of bed late last night. Had to give them everything I’ve got, right down to the swab taken of that stain on her carpet and the hair fibers found in her car.”

  Damn. But it was no more than Toby had expected. “What did you see on the security footage—anything?”

  “A woman with long hair left the hospital by the door closest to her office at 9:45 that night and returned two hours later. But the quality of the footage is poor. You can’t tell one way or another if it’s Dylan.”

  The man’s words crushed Toby’s hopes. Even the security footage seemed to suggest her guilt. “Are you sure it was even a woman?”

  Hooper shrugged. “Hard to tell. Could’ve been a man with a wig on. That camera’s at least ten years old. Maybe the FBI can do more with it.”

  A sudden thought speared Toby’s consciousness. “Could that hair fiber have come from a wig?”

  “Doubtful,” Hooper said, dashing his sudden hope. “More like hair from a stuffed animal.”

  That didn’t make much sense.

  Out in the yard, the bugle trumpeted, signaling the start of the CPX. Having agreed to take Lt. Ashby’s place as acting XO, Toby excused himself and made his way toward the house, climbing the steps to stand on the fresh cedar planks of the porch and announce Dylan’s arrival.

  Shivering with a mix of cold and premonition, he surveyed the troops jockeying for position in the yard. The privilege of acting as the XO sat uncomfortably in his craw. Here he was, attached to the entity seeking to put Dylan behind bars while filling the large shoes of the one man whose loyalty could never be questioned.

  As he gazed out at the men stamping their feet against the cold, their exhalations forming a misty vapor before their ruddy faces, he wondered if the rumors had begun to circulate about Dylan’s potential involvement in Treyburn’s murder. Then he imagined she was having second thoughts about running the CPX today, what with the worry that she might soon be arrested. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t like her to run even a minute late.

  The door behind him wafted open, and he turned with a guilty start to snatch open the screen door. Dylan stepp
ed through it, looking pale but somehow regal in her battle dress uniform. The burgundy beret sat regally upon her neatly braided hair. Her eyes caught and held the amber rays of morning as she cast him a wan smile that made his breath catch as it always did. Even in the face of adversity, she exuded dignity.

  “I love you,” he mouthed, chuckling when his words awakened color in her cheeks. And then, in a poor imitation of Terrence Ashby’s ceremonial pomp, he presented Dylan to her militia before trailing her into the yard, walking just to her left and one step behind.

  The dead grass crunched beneath their boots as they approached her now-quiet army. In the saluting soldiers’ eyes, Toby read reverence and respect that came from their lifelong acquaintance, not to mention the respect her father had commanded and that she’d inherited.

  “Stand at ease,” she called, and the soldiers snapped their arms to their sides.

  A moment of awkward silence ensued as she considered them with gravity. “The inspection and the march will commence shortly,” she announced. “I know you are as eager as I to prepare for our protest at the fusion center in Woodlawn next Saturday. This being the final exercise of the year, I would like to share a word with you first.” She glanced over at Toby, who pondered what she was about to say.

  “As you all can see, Lt. Ashby is indisposed this morning. Most likely, he will not be joining us again. Your prayers for his health are requested.” Her voice wobbled and she took a moment to tether her runaway emotions. Pressure descended onto Toby’s chest as he considered how hard it was for her to watch her friend decline.

  “I would like to remind you that my term as your captain ends this December,” she continued, probably unaware that she wrung her hands as she spoke. “It has been an honor and a privilege to lead you.” An air of expectancy hovered over the crowd. “However, I will not be running for re-election.”

  Murmured protests mimicked the sound of swarming bees. Dylan held up a hand. “Without the aid of my executive officer, whose health does not permit him to continue in his office, I would not be the kind of leader you deserve.”

  Once again, the soldiers objected, turning to their neighbors to voice their dismay.

  Dylan raised her volume to be heard over the din, which promptly died down again “If I am not in attendance at the fusion center protest next weekend, it must go on.” A profound silence fell over the yard, as soldiers eyed her curiously. “You know what to do. Bring your signs from home and carry them peacefully.”

  “Where will you be?”

  Dylan stiffened at the question that was called out from the back.

  Toby pitied her. “You don’t have to tell them,” he murmured for her ears only.

  In an admirably steady voice Dylan answered, “The FBI believes I’m responsible for the murder of General Treyburn, which occurred two nights ago.”

  A shocked hush emanated from the assembly.

  “Those of you who knew my father,” she pressed on, her voice gathering strength, “know that I was raised to value the sanctity of life. I had nothing to do with General Treyburn’s murder.”

  Shouts of indignation erupted without warning, turning into a roar of solidarity.

  “You will carry on without me,” she shouted. “Until a new captain is elected, I am still your leader, and as your leader I command you to cooperate with the FBI’s investigation. You may defend my innocence with your words alone and continue to trust in a justice system, which assures us that every man and woman is innocent until proven guilty!”

  A roar of support followed her exhortation. With a nod of thanks, Dylan pivoted to inspect Toby’s uniform through tear-bright eyes. Finding nothing out of place, she choked out, “Proceed with the inspection and the march,” and retreated to a distance to collect herself.

  Torn between wanting to comfort her and fulfilling his duties as the acting XO, Toby stepped forward to inspect the three sergeants, urging them under his breath to rush their own inspections. A brisk march to the firing range, followed by rigorous training, would give the militia an outlet for their rising resentment. He could tell by the speculative talk that, as a body, the militia saw circumstances only one way: their leader was being falsely accused by a government they already held in suspicion and contempt.

  “Run them,” he suggested to Dylan, who pulled herself together sufficiently to set a swift pace to the range.

  But, even there, tension continued to ebb and flow. Toby worked hard to retain an air of normalcy. But with their ire and their anxiety levels raised, the soldiers were quick to quarrel. It was all he could do to keep brawls from breaking out.

  At last, Ackerman sounded the retreat on his bugle. The soldiers slung their packs on their backs, hefted their rifles, and fell into line for the return march back to the house. Seeing Dylan move to the front of the pack, Toby quickened his pace to catch up to her.

  “You hanging in there?” he inquired with a sidelong look.

  “Sure.” She tossed him a quick-to-fade smile. “It’s weird to think that this is my final exercise.”

  They walked together, briskly, in comfortable silence.

  “What are you going to do with yourself when you’re no longer a militia leader?” he asked her, brushing aside the issue of her still having to defend her innocence.

  She squinted off into the distance. “Well, I’ll always be a doctor, but I was also thinking of farming the orchard again.”

  “Really?” He felt a grin split his face. “I think that’s a great idea.” The picture in his head warmed him from the inside out.

  Some of the tension in her face disappeared. “You think so?”

  “I know so. You’ve got all the help you need to do it, too.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help?”

  Her question hit him like a right hook coming out of nowhere. He fought to keep his smile in place as regret vied with poignant longing for things to remain just the way they were. “We’ll talk about it,” he promised. “There’s something I need to tell you first, as soon as the CPX is over.” He’d put it off long enough. He wouldn’t blame her, either, if she hated him afterwards and never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

  The muscles in her face tightened all over again. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “I just can’t.” The phone hidden in the lining of his jacket emitted a sharp electric charge against his hip, distracting him. Why the hell would Ike be calling him now, when he couldn’t possibly answer? His pulse kicked at the suspicion that there’d been a breakthrough in the investigation.

  “Who’s that?”

  Dylan’s sharp tone pulled him out of his preoccupied state. Following her stare across the swale separating two hills, he recognized the unmistakable form of two FBI-owned Tahoes pulling up to Dylan’s front porch. The doors of the black SUVs popped open, and a total of six special agents sprang out of them, either blithely unaware or too arrogant to care that an army was about to come marching up over the adjacent hill.

  Toby drew to a startled halt. What was the FBI thinking, showing up on Dylan’s property while her militia was in training?

  Suddenly, the screen door flew open, and Lt. Ashby tottered onto the stoop, his crutch under one arm and his rifle in the other. He heaved it upward, pointing the muzzle squarely at the approaching special agents. Oh, shit, Toby thought.

  “No!” Dylan broke into a sprint, prompting Toby to give chase.

  “Dylan, wait!”

  “Terrence, it’s fine,” she shouted, racing ahead of Toby, who fought to overtake her.

  Down the rest of the hill and up the long slope to the house she ran, her long legs keeping her in the lead. Two hundred yards narrowed to a hundred, then fifty. Toby sent a harried glance over his shoulders. More than a dozen civilian soldiers were just now cresting the hill behind them, confusion registering on their faces as they beheld the official-looking vehicles at the house and the stand-off taking place.

  This is going to get ugly, Toby thought, with a burst of
speed.

  Suddenly, a rifle went off. The sound of it echoed off the surrounding hills followed immediately by the sound of a bullet punching through the windshield of one of the FBI’s SUVs. “Get down!” Toby yelled. Dropping his own rifle, he hooked Dylan with his free arm and tackled her into the grass.

  As he rolled to break their fall, he craned his neck for the source of the shot. It wasn’t Lt. Ashby, who’d lowered his shot gun with a startled look. The FBI agents, seeing an army headed in their direction backed cautiously toward their Tahoes.

  Dylan squirmed beneath Toby. “Stay down,” he ordered, afraid that some random bullet might yet come their way. “Hold your fire, god damn it!” he bellowed at the soldiers running in their direction, looking more confused and angrier by the moment. “No one shoots. Put your weapons down, now!”

  The sound of his own pounding heart drummed within his ears as, one by one, members of the militia, recalling Dylan’s earlier orders to them, rested the butts of their rifles on the ground. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they formed a wall of distrust. Eyes darted here and there as they sought to determine who had fired in the first place. A tense hush fell over the land, broken only by the cry of a hawk soaring high above them.

  “Let me up,” Dylan insisted. “I need to handle this.”

  Reluctance weighted Toby’s limbs. He didn’t want to let her up, didn’t want to let her go, not now, not ever. The FBI wasn’t here to talk to her this time. Armed with the evidence Hooper had gathered, they must have decided they had enough proof to convict her. Ike must have been trying to warn him with that phone call.

  “Keep your weapons lowered,” Toby repeated as he levered himself off Dylan and helped her to her feet. Everything was coming to a head faster than he’d thought it would.

  Dylan pointed a finger at her soldiers. “Hold your fire,” she repeated. Slapping the dirt and grass off her uniform, she adjusted her beret and started uphill.