The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  “Who…who is this talking?” Palmer sputtered. A red tide had crept out of his collar to rise up his thick neck.

  “Ivan Ackerman,” Ike replied. “One of the suspect’s NCOs, until he deserted on the first day of the standoff.”

  “Well…” Palmer’s deep-set eyes darted toward all four members of the Taskforce. “How do we know he’s telling the truth? He might simply be defending her.”

  “You want proof?” Ike countered. “That’s easy. All you have to do is request another warrant.”

  ***

  The slate-colored walls, the absence of windows, the thin mat for a bed, and the crazed voices of the inmates in the high security wing at Eastern Regional—Dylan’s temporary cell until she was moved somewhere closer to the capital—combined to threaten her sanity. With no means of running, no way to dispel her agitation, Dylan paced in the crude space for hours. She slammed her hands against the walls, bruising them, until exhaustion finally overcame her.

  When the lights blinked on, signaling that it was morning, Dylan rose stiffly off her mat. A breakfast of cold oatmeal and reconstituted orange juice came sliding under the bars into her room. She ignored it. Terrence’s memorial would take place in a couple of hours or so, as promised by her priest, and she would miss it. Since the initial process of being stripped and searched and fingerprinted yesterday, she hadn’t been visited by a soul, not even a lawyer.

  Is this normal? Had she been forgotten so soon and by everyone—even Tobias?

  Averting her gaze from the orange jumpsuit that encased her body, she helped herself to the cold, steel toilet, stepped up to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Dispensing toothpaste from the tiny tube, she brushed her teeth with a flimsy toothbrush.

  If this is going to be the new normal, she told herself, then I need to deal with it. Laying down the brush, she scraped back the tendrils that had escaped from her braid, and turned to regard her cell. The Bible she’d spied lying on the shelf above her mat seemed to beckon her. Returning to her mat, she sat down and flipped idly through the pages, seeking consolation.

  Her gaze fell on two lines from Psalm 124. She read them over and over again. We have escaped like a bird from the fowler’s snare, the snare has been broken, and we have escaped.

  God, if only that were true.

  The tread of footsteps in the hallway had her looking up. She expelled her held breath as Special Agent Palmer sidled up to her door in the presence of a security guard. Resentment made her heart pound. The lying bastard. The time had probably come to be moved to a different facility.

  He said nothing, just stood there hefting a plastic sack as the guard unlocked her door.

  Dylan closed the Bible and set it warily aside.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Palmer informed her, slipping into her cell. He extended the plastic sack. “These are the clothes you wore yesterday. You may put them on to attend your executive officer’s memorial.”

  The four walls of the room seemed to rotate. “Why?” If they thought her a murderer, why would they risk the liability of letting her out in public?

  Palmer’s fleshy face remained utterly inscrutable. “Let’s just say that your presence ought to subdue the protesters.”

  Was the situation that bad? Gratitude toward the people rallying on her behalf eradicated her sense of abandonment. She hadn’t been forgotten, after all.

  “I’ll be right back for you,” Palmer said, swiveling on his glossy shoes and disappearing. The door clanged shut, and she was left alone.

  Shrugging out of the orange jumpsuit, Dylan fumbled her way into her own clothing. As she laced her boots, she started to feel like her old self again. “I’m dressed,” she called, but no one came. Surely they weren’t playing a cruel prank on her. The opportunity to honor Terrence was more than she’d expected—nothing short of a gift, really.

  To her relief, Palmer reappeared five minutes later, bearing a device that resembled a cell phone, except for the narrow wire poking out. “You’re to wear this at all times,” he instructed, sliding it into the breast pocket of her camouflage jacket. “Anything you say and do can be used against you in a court of law. All set?” he asked, ignoring her bemused look.

  Dylan just stared at him. Weren’t they going to cuff her or at least place some kind of security anklet on her before leading her out into the world? She couldn’t help wondering if instead of just a sick joke, this was something more sinister, like an abduction followed by a quiet murder. Surely the FBI had ways of making people simply disappear.

  Keeping a tight grip on her fears, she followed Palmer out of her cell, where he took hold of her arm. The guard escorted them through the brightly lit high-security wing. Cat calls chased them all the way to a steel door. The guard used his thumb print to pull it open. They swept Dylan down one more deserted hallway to a door marked with an emergency exit sign. Cold, moist air greeted them as the guard pushed that door open. Just outside, in what looked like a loading area with walls on three sides and no witnesses, Palmer’s black Tahoe, with three more agents in it, idled quietly.

  Dylan drew a tight breath. This couldn’t be normal. She’d never heard of a prisoner—certainly not a murder suspect—being released for a special event, not even for a funeral. Why, then, were they secreting her away? She didn’t dare ask, didn’t even want to know. It was easier to hope that Palmer would be true to his word and that she was headed to Terrence’s memorial.

  As she slipped into the back seat trapped on either side by two broad-shouldered agents, the verse she had just read from the Bible returned to her. Had she, in fact, escaped the fowler’s snare? Or was she being taken into a situation from which there was no return?

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Park right here,” Toby said, pointing out a grassy area on a knoll not far from the church. In a town where parking was already scarce, not a single legitimate parking spot remained, especially on a day like today, when a respected member of the community was being honored. Terrence Ashby’s memorial promised to be packed, with every member of the militia, their families, and townsfolk in attendance.

  Jackson eased the four tires of his Chrysler onto the grass and killed the engine. “Would you look at this mob scene,” he marveled.

  “Crazy,” Toby agreed. The town of Harpers Ferry probably hadn’t seen this much excitement since the Civil War. On streets below the bluff where they’d parked, he could just make out the heads of the locals continuing to protest Dylan’s arrest. Marching in a circuit around town, they had been carrying posters and displaying banners for forty-eight hours now, decrying First and Second Amendment violations. Toby could make out one such sign hanging between third-story windows with a message in bold, red letters stating that Uncle Sam was a bully.

  Made identifiable by their olive berets, members of the militia began to part from the crowd as the bell within the bell tower tolled. Like salmon swimming upstream they swarmed up the steps to the church to honor their fallen leader. Spying Gil Morrison’s girth, Toby surmised that Dylan’s NCOs had been charged with violating the peace and then released. The local media, sympathetic to Dylan’s cause remained present while the larger metropolitan stations went back to D.C. Positioned in strategic locations here and there, journalists sympathetic to Dylan’s cause continued to broadcast the ongoing drama. Anti-government sentiment brewed like the dark clouds squatting over the mountaintops, portending rain.

  Jackson slanted Toby a worried look. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” His light-colored eyes lowered to take in Toby’s outfit.

  “Probably not,” Toby conceded. The last time he’d worn his militia uniform, he’d been exposed as an informant and led away at gunpoint. Members of the militia weren’t exactly going to welcome him with open arms—not with their leader, whom he’d supposedly informed against, in prison. “But Terrence was the man. I have to try.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Jackson said on a resigned note. “I’ll stay here with Milly i
n case I’m told to park somewhere else.”

  “Coward,” Toby ribbed, taking off his seatbelt. “Text me if you see anything strange, like Richardson showing up.”

  For all they knew, Dr. Kevin Richardson was sitting in FBI custody somewhere. Palmer kept the Taskforce intentionally out of the loop for having thrown a wrench into his open-and-shut case. Ike, who was confident that Palmer would pursue the match between the fur fiber and the big bad wolf mask, had departed the area that morning, taking Hamilton with him. As far as Toby knew, he and Jackson were the only Feds still brave or stupid enough to stick around, given the current atmosphere.

  “Wait.” Jackson shot out a hand just as Toby reached for the door handle.

  Toby twisted in his seat to follow Jackson’s startled gaze. The sight of Palmer’s SUV braking on the narrow road behind them made his stomach lurch. “What now?” he exclaimed, astonished to see the FBI on the scene, especially considering the present atmosphere.

  Three doors popped open, and several agents in dark suits jumped out, including Palmer, who turned to help someone out of the back seat. Toby blinked and looked again. “Dylan!” he cried, nearly falling out of the car in his haste to get to her. “Hey!” he yelled, leaving his door ajar as he rushed over to intercept Palmer’s path. Behind him, Milly gave a joyous bark.

  “Tobias!” Color bloomed in Dylan’s waxen cheeks. She looked equally astonished to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  Before he could reach for her, Palmer blocked his path. “Step back, Agent Burke. You’ve meddled in my affairs enough as it is.”

  Toby didn’t even spare him a glance. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked over Palmer’s shoulder. He searched her puzzled gaze, wondering what they’d told her, if anything about the state of the investigation.

  “She’s fine,” Palmer retorted, cutting off Dylan’s murmured affirmative. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Toby waved a hand at the church. “Honoring the XO, of course. I think a better question is what the hell are you doing here? Don’t you have something more pressing to do? Like arresting the real killer?”

  Palmer thrust a warning finger in Toby’s face. “Not another word,” he threatened. “We are handling this case, not you. So step aside and let us handle it.”

  The click-click of a round being chambered snatched Toby’s attention to the pistol being brandished by one of Palmer’s agents. “Back off,” Tibbs advised with a jerk of his head.

  Toby took a healthy step backward, but he couldn’t contain himself as the agents continued toward the church, drawing a stunned-looking Dylan with them. “Didn’t they tell you what’s happening?” he called, trailing them at a distance. The baffled look she threw back at him confirmed that Palmer had kept her in the dark, the son-of-a-bitch. “Ackerman planted that evidence in the barn; he confessed to everything!”

  Dylan jerked to a startled halt. He could read her lips. “Ivan?”

  Tibbs wheeled on Toby a second time, driving him back, as the rest of the entourage urged a resisting Dylan down a set of stairs to the piazza in the front of the church.

  Toby found himself with his hand outstretched, like a love-sick school boy. Feeling foolish, he immediately lowered it and watched with throbbing jealousy as the crowd in front of the church swallowed Dylan. Amazed militia members flocked to her like disciples to the Messiah, and the four FBI agents slinked off toward the south side of the courtyard, keeping to themselves. Journalists, attracted to the chorus of happy greetings, turned their cameras from the protest to the reunion taking place in front of the church. Toby could see them speculating, pulling people out of the crowd to ask them what was going on.

  Puzzled by Palmer’s intentions, Toby slipped back into Jackson’s car and slammed the door hard behind him. “What the hell’s going on?” he raged.

  Jackson rubbed his jaw with the tips of his fingers. “No idea,” he admitted.

  Together, they considered the four agents, now standing with their arms folded next to the wrought iron fence that kept visitors from plummeting off the edge of the mountain. Toby’s thoughts churned. “It’s got to be a publicity stunt,” he concluded. “The Feds want to placate the crowd by bringing her around.”

  “I think there’s more to it,” Jackson suggested.

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe they’re hoping Richardson will show up?”

  “Christ.” Toby strafed a horrified gaze over the crowd. “Why wouldn’t they just arrest him?”

  “On the basis of a single fiber?” Jackson shrugged. “Maybe they’re hoping for more.”

  Toby blew out a long breath. “He’d be a fool to show up. Surely he knows by now that he’s a suspect.”

  “Not necessarily. They might be stringing him along.”

  Toby sought Dylan’s bright head in the crowd. Concern vied with poignant longing as he saw her smile wanly at Sergeants Morrison and Lee. “She’s glad to be here,” he surmised, happy on her behalf. As she moved into the church, bookended by her NCOs, he watched Palmer separate himself from the other agents to follow her. But a short time later, the man emerged from the church, escorted by a stone-faced Sheriff Fallon.

  Toby chuckled. “Check that out.”

  “Palmer doesn’t look too happy,” Jackson noted.

  And given the tense situation and the fact that the agents were immensely outnumbered, Palmer didn’t dare assert his authority either. “Serves the bastard right,” Toby muttered, secretly relieved that Fallon was an elected official and, as such, Palmer couldn’t get him replaced for his insubordination.

  “It’s not like Dylan would try to run,” Jackson noted. “Would she?”

  “Impossible. There’s only one way out of that church, and it’s through the front door. It’s a firefighter’s nightmare.”

  The sound of organ music carried through the slightly lowered window. Jackson waved him away. “You’d better get in there.”

  With a deep breath, Toby pushed out of the car a second time.

  Flipping up the collar of his jacket, he managed to avoid being seen by the agents as he shadowed another latecomer toward the church doors. Shuffling up the steps to the church, he kept his chin ducked, his eyes fixed on his boots. He had just crossed the threshold into the nave, when a firm hand landed on his shoulder, making him glance up into the cold eyes of his nemesis.

  “Not you,” Sheriff Fallon growled, ejecting him back onto the stone stoop.

  “Oh, come on, Cal. You’ve persecuted me enough. I just want to pay my respects.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a lying son-of-a-bitch. You—”

  “Language, Cal,” Toby scolded, putting a wrestler’s move on Cal that reversed their positions and gave him the upper hand. “Jesus, man, you’re in church.” He slammed Cal’s back against one of the stoop’s thick pillars. “Yesterday, Ackerman confessed to planting the evidence in Dylan’s barn,” he hissed in Cal’s ear. “Why didn’t you tell Dylan the truth about his past?”

  “Ackerman?” The sheriff’s stunned reply made Toby ease up on his grip. “I just assumed he was ashamed of the truth.” The sheriff stared at him intently. “Who told him to plant the evidence?” he demanded.

  A thundering chord on the organ yielded to absolute silence. Toby breathed the name quietly in Cal’s ear, then pulled back to witness his reaction.

  Cal appeared thunderstruck. “He goes to this church.”

  “Did you see him inside?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Now, can I go in?” Toby asked him.

  The sheriff straightened his jacket with a jerk. “You can stand in the back with me.”

  Together they eased into the sanctuary, and Toby saw that it was packed—standing room only. Sliding his shoulders along the rear wall, he fixed his attention on the back of Dylan’s head. Her gaze was riveted to the jade-green urn holding Terrence’s ashes. As she lifted a hand to wipe away an errant tear, sympathy constricted Toby’s chest. Given al
l she’d endured in the past week, it was a marvel that she hadn’t come unhinged. God, how he loved her!

  Why hadn’t Palmer told her that half the charges had been dropped in light of Ackerman’s confession? And if the fur fiber found in her vehicle had proved to match that of the big bad wolf mask, Palmer already had himself another suspect. So why wasn’t he out questioning Richardson even now?

  The priest’s thoughtful words, echoing in the vaulted chamber wrested Toby’s attention.

  “Those who knew Terrence Ashby recognized in his presence that he was an old soul. Life had not been kind to him. But rather than grow bitter and disillusioned, he allowed himself to be smelted, beaten, and shaped into something useful—a vessel of wisdom and patience. God was the blacksmith, and Terrence Ashby was his iron, forged in the refiner’s fire, and made pure.”

  Toby gave up on second-guessing Palmer’s intentions and tuned his thoughts toward remembering a great man.

  A river of tears flowed down Dylan’s throat over a lump that made it difficult to swallow. The priest’s every word strummed her heartstrings making her long for the company of her dear friend, whose absence, coupled with Toby’s betrayal, had left such a gaping void. Even so, she had managed to keep her grief locked within. A leader, in her opinion, didn’t have the luxury of bawling. She would keep up a front of strength until such time as she was alone again—a prospect that would occur all too soon.

  Not even her overwhelming emotions could distract her from her awareness of Tobias, standing at the rear of the church, watching her. His presence brought her unexpected comfort, just as his words, spoken outside, gave her reason to hope that he might, in fact, prove her innocence. What evidence had Ackerman confessed to planting—the pipe found in her barn? And had he become involved in a plot to frame her?

  Between her grief and her fractured thoughts, it was all she could do to follow the priest’s elaborate metaphor as he built upon it, reading aloud from scripture, “Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have tempered thee in the furnace of affliction.”