by Frank Hayes
Shattered Dreams
When he’s called to the scene of a burnt-out trailer in a remote corner of the southwest, Sheriff Virgil Dalton finds a body charred beyond recognition and the telltale signs of a meth lab gone wrong. But he also sees enough evidence to convince him there was foul play, and before long he and his deputies are searching the vast desert landscape to discover who was behind it.
When word of another fatality reaches Virgil, he learns of a supposedly accidental death that seems like anything but, and the pattern emerging tells Virgil he’s dealing with a killer who will go to great lengths to cover his tracks. With signs pointing to the possible involvement of a local company that is growing by leaps and bounds and changing his beloved landscape faster than he can keep track of, Virgil knows he’s headed for a high-stakes confrontation that will force him to put himself and everything he holds dear at risk . . .
Title Page
Copyright
Shattered Dreams
Frank Hayes
Copyright © 2019 by Frank Hayes
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-950461-00-4
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Dedication
To Joan, who introduced me to the world of fiction, setting free my imagination,
and to Fran, whose adventurous spirit always inspired
Acknowledgments
To Bill Keller and Steve Hamilton, my constant support group, along with my family, who never fail me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Books by Frank Hayes
About the Author
Chapter 1
The early morning sun was just high enough to make him squint. A light wind caused him to shiver. Despite the chill of the mid-December day, a bead of sweat was evident above his upper lip. He could see the silhouette of the figure clearly, even though it was forty yards away. He had hit much tougher targets in Afghanistan and Iraq easily. But this was different. As he found the trigger he drew in a deep breath. It was all wrong. The weapon felt strange. He knew his position was right, the sight line perfect, but he couldn’t feel the trigger. He had always been fairly ambidextrous, able to use his right or left hand, but he had always shot from the right side. He never thought why, just assumed he was right-side dominant to some degree, but it was his right hand that now was alien to him. Nevertheless he squeezed. A burst erupted, surprising him, the recoil a shock. He squeezed two more times with the same result. The distant figure bounced with the first shot then danced in the air at the impact of the next two. Then, when only the echo of the volley hung in the morning air, he lowered his weapon. He wiped the moisture from his upper lip and shook his head.
“What’s the matter?” The words from the figure in back of him, reminding him that he was not alone. “A perfect kill.” The figure answering his own question.
“It felt weird . . . like it wasn’t me pulling the trigger.” He shook his head again.
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing, Simon, to feel a little more removed.”
“I don’t think you can rationalize the end result, Sheriff.” Virgil didn’t respond.
• • •
“Well . . . ?”
“Well what?” Virgil had just walked through the door of his office. Rosie was hanging up the phone.
“How did it go with Simon? Can he hit the broad side of a barn?”
“Oh, he can hit it all right. I think it’s more a question of whether or not he is going to want to. It’s been quite a while since he had to do it. I think he’s had a lot of sleepless nights, remembering. Maybe, when he was in the midst of it all, the killing, the carnage, he was able to turn it off. Now it’s been a while. He’s allowed some perspective to creep back in. Today, when he said it didn’t feel like he was pulling the trigger, I don’t think he was talking about the prosthesis, the lack of physical feeling. I think he was remembering back to when . . .” Virgil hesitated.
“Back to when he turned off his humanity,” Rosie said.
“Yeah . . . maybe,” Virgil replied. “Guess, when your job is killing people, maybe you’ve got to turn off that part of you to survive.”
“Or just stay sane,” Rosie added. “Guess that man wasn’t joking when he said war is hell.”
Before he went to his desk, Virgil walked over and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was cold.
“Damn.”
“What’s the matter?”
“This coffee is ice cold.”
“I don’t leave the pot on all day, Virgil.”
“Why not? At least it would stay hot.”
“Yeah, and after a couple hours it would be strong enough to take the chrome off your bumper. Don’t get your shorts in a knot. All you have to do is put the cup in the microwave.”
Virgil dutifully did as he was told, standing by the microwave while the coffee was getting zapped.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Good question. I don’t know. Could hardly hear the person. Something about a man or men then it ended, abruptly.” The microwave buzzer rang. Virgil opened the door then reached in for his cup.
“Jesus H. Christ!” He yelled as he took his cup out, dropping it on the yard-sale table that held the microwave. He ran to the sink, stuck his han
d under the faucet, turning on the cold water.
“What did you do, genius? By the way, what does the H stand for, hopeless?”
“Figured it was cold, so I put it in for eighty seconds.”
Rosie shook her head, went over to the sink, got a sponge along with some paper towels then went to the table. While she was cleaning up the mess the phone rang again. She went back to her desk, throwing the sponge in the sink as she walked by. “Sheriff’s office.” Rosie waited a few seconds with the phone to her ear. Virgil could see the immediate change that came over her. She reached the phone out to him.
At first he heard nothing more than random noise, then a baby’s cry followed by a clear voice.
“Lady, shut that kid up or I will. Come on, hurry it up with that money.” There was a pause, then a loud sound that caused Virgil to pull the phone away from his ear.
“Virgil . . . what do you think?”
“Valley Federal,” Virgil answered as he ran across the room and guided a rifle from the gun rack.
“Call Simon. Tell him I’ll pick him up in front of Margie’s. Tell him I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Then call Dif and Jimmy. See if you can get a response from them. Tell them I think there’s a robbery going down at Valley Federal.”
Virgil was already at the door when Rosie was punching in the number for Simon.
• • •
Simon had just walked into the apartment he had moved into three days before. It was a little more than five minutes from the sheriff’s office, so Virgil had dropped him off on their way back from target practice. He was thinking about a shower to wash away the nervous sweat from the shooting experience. He could smell himself. It was the familiar odor that he hadn’t smelled since Afghanistan.
When he returned from his final tour, the end of his military career, the world had become a different place. After a couple of months, he realized he didn’t fit into his old life. It was about the same time that he came to the conclusion that the skill set from his time as a sniper wouldn’t hold much weight on a traditional résumé. That epiphany, with the physical reminder provided by his right hand hook, brought him to the point of considering that his chances of landing a job in law enforcement were little to none. It had always been a career goal. The IED on a dusty road to nowhere in a land far away changed all that. In addition, the girl who had promised to wait forever decided forever was a lot longer than she thought. So, one sunlit day, when he was feeling as dark as he had ever felt, he threw his belongings into the backseat of his car, then headed west to Chet, the one person he knew would understand. Here, almost a year after his separation from the service, a dream he had almost given up on suddenly had new life. This morning, now for the first time, after pulling that trigger three times in quick succession, feeling the nervous sweat on his body, he was questioning whether this was really the life he wanted. He had stepped into the bathroom, about to turn on the shower, when he heard his cell phone dancing on the end table next to the sofa, which had come with the furnished apartment.
“Simon, it’s Rosita. We have a situation.”
Chapter 2
Main Street was quiet. One car passed Virgil going in the other direction. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 10:35. When he looked up, he saw Simon running across the street to Margie’s. He pulled to the curb. Simon quickly hopped in while the car was still rolling. Virgil gunned the vehicle but did not hit the siren or dome light.
“A bank robbery? Rosie said a bank robbery.”
“Looks like,” Virgil said. “Get the rifle from the backseat.”
“A Mauser . . . where did you get a Mauser?” Virgil didn’t answer the question.
“It’s locked and loaded,” he said.
“Where’s your weapon?” Simon asked. Virgil patted his sidearm. He could feel the question coming from Simon.
“If there is going to be any long-range or pinpoint shooting, you’re it,” he said. “I saw what you did with that target. I’m not the worst shot in Hayward County. I might be able to put one round dead center, but on my best day I could never cluster three, like I saw you do this morning.” Virgil had driven almost a mile when he slowed the car. Valley Federal was at this point in time the only bank in Hayward. It was also in one of the oldest buildings in Hayward. It sat on the corner of Main and Mesquite. An imposing white stone building, it had an entrance on Main Street, another around the corner on Mesquite. Virgil guided the car to the curb a half block away. There was no indication of anything out of the ordinary. Then he saw a puff of condensation rise on the cold morning air at the corner. He pointed it out to Simon.
“There’s a car idling around the corner . . . waiting.”
“I see it,” Simon said.
“Let’s see if we can get close enough to that window to get a look in.” They both exited the vehicle, then, hugging the wall, made their way alongside to get to the large window that looked out on Main Street. Virgil had to climb up on the tiered stone façade to reach a point where he would be able to look inside. Because it was winter, fortunately the shades were raised to let in the light. Simon stood by while Virgil climbed to reach his vantage point. He edged closer along the cornice, his hands gripping the rough texture of stone. He knew well the layout of the inside. Anyone who lived in Hayward did. At last he was ready to raise his head. Virgil had left his hat in the car, so only his hairline would be slightly visible. He could see six or seven people sitting on the floor against the far wall, to the right of the entrance onto the side street. Through the glass of that door he could see the idling car, along with the figure sitting at the wheel. It was too far away to make out distinctive features of the driver other than long, shoulder-length hair. Inside the bank he could see two men, each holding an automatic weapon, one at the main front door, the other leaning against the long counter in back of which would normally be two or three tellers. Everything appeared to be quiet. One of the women in the group huddled on the floor, appeared to be holding a baby. The baby seemed to be asleep. Virgil looked on for almost a minute but saw little movement of any kind. Finally, he stepped down from the ledge.
“What’s happening . . . what’s going on?” Simon asked in a low voice. Virgil kind of shrugged before answering.
“Nothing, nothing’s going on. That’s what’s strange. I don’t get it. It’s almost as if they’re waiting, waiting for something or someone. Take a look.” Simon climbed effortlessly up to the perch Virgil had left. The scene initially was unchanged from what Virgil had described, then a man came from behind the counter pushing an older man in a suit ahead of him toward the front door. At a certain point they stopped. The second man looked at his wrist then said something to the man in the suit. The man in the suit nodded. Simon jumped down from the cornice and told Virgil what he’d seen.
“So there’s three of them inside along with the one guy driving the car. That’s Myron Wilkes in the suit. He’s the bank manager. I don’t get it. If they’ve got their money, why aren’t they getting out? The car’s waiting and running.” Simon had no answer. “Just doesn’t compute. This could be bad, something I’m not seeing.”
“Maybe they don’t have all the money yet. Maybe the bank vault is hooked up to some kind of a time mechanism and they can’t get in. Otherwise what would they be waiting for?” Simon offered.
Virgil looked out at the street. A couple of vehicles had driven by in each direction. None of the drivers acknowledged the sheriff and his new deputy standing on the sidewalk, but Virgil knew Hayward was waking up. It was Monday, after all, a new week was beginning. Sooner or later some people were going to show up on the sidewalks. Some of them were more than likely going to head for the bank. He knew there wasn’t much of a window before the situation could become a lot more serious. What was he missing?
“That’s it,” Virgil said. “Monday.”
“What?” Simon asked.
“It’s Monday, the beginning of the week. They’re waiting for the armored car to come
. They don’t want to rob only the bank, they want to get what’s in the armored car too.”
Virgil ran back to the cruiser. Simon could see him on the radio. He returned in less than a minute.
“Get up on the wall,” he said to Simon. “Tell me, what’s happening?” Simon reached his perch in an instant. He stood there for a couple of minutes. “Anything, anything at all?”
“Nothing . . . nothing’s changed, they’re just . . . wait, Mr. Wilkes and the guy that’s with him are walking back to a desk. The phone . . . the phone must be ringing. Mr. Wilkes is answering it. He put it down and he’s talking to the guy. Something must be wrong. He’s angry, that guy is really angry. Now the others are coming over to him. They’re all talking at the same time. Yelling . . . gesturing. Something’s gone wrong.”
“No. I’m hoping something’s gone right,” Virgil answered.
“Wait . . . they’re all going through the cash drawers, scooping up whatever’s left in them. I think they’re going to leave.”
“Come down from there. I want you to run down this alley. It goes around the building. You turn left at the end. It will bring you to the side street. Get a description, the make, model and license number of the car. I’ll stay here so I can get into the bank as soon as they’re gone. Maybe we can get through this thing without firing a shot. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Absolutely.” Simon smiled. Then he turned and ran down the alley.
Chapter 3
“Well, your day started off with a bang.”
“Actually it didn’t and that was a good thing,” Virgil replied. It was a little after twelve.