The Maggody Militia Read online

  “I know he done it,” Raz said mulishly. “Marjorie’s taken a strong dislike to him, and I kin tell when she’s seen him.”

  I returned to the passenger’s side of the truck, but I didn’t quite have the nerve to put my hand inside. “Is the paint still wet?”

  “It was purty near dry when she came squealing into the clearing. Some of it was sticky, like molasses, but it was dry by the time we got to pavement. What are you gittin’ at?”

  I wished I knew. “I was thinking that if the paint takes a long time to dry, she might have brushed up against a tree or rock that had been shot yesterday during the lethal retreat. But if you’re telling the truth, then this must have happened this morning. Did you hear the shot?”

  He took the opportunity to stuff a wad of tobacco in his cheek while he thought. “I don’t recollect hearin’ much of anything,” he said in a creaky, puzzled voice. “I tend to keep my ears peeled when I’m up there.”

  “Then why did you assume she’d been shot?”

  He spat out the window. “’Cause I don’t live under a bridge, that’s why. I heard tell about those military folks and how they was gonna use paint instead of bullets. Marjorie sure as hell wouldn’t have let herself get near enough to Diesel that he could slap her with a paint brush.”

  I told him to go home and went back inside the PD. My stomach was gurgling more loudly than the coffee maker; my brain, in contrast, was anesthetized with confusion. The one thing I was sure of was that Diesel had not been recruited by the militia group. Those who prefer to live in caves are not what you’d describe as sociable. What’s more, Diesel had been mistaken for Bigfoot in the past; by now he most likely resembled an ambulatory hairball.

  I tried to call Harve, but LaBelle tartly informed me that he was attending various churches in order to drum up votes. This morning he was scheduled for an early service with the Episcopalians and a second with the Unitarians, who, in LaBelle’s opinion, were nothing but a bunch of human secularists.

  I thanked her for the insight into comparative religion and hung up, but I couldn’t decide what to do. It was highly unlikely that I could find Diesel’s cave, much less interrogate him. McBeen had promised to do what he could to expedite the tox screen at the state lab, but he and I both knew from experience that it could be days before we had a report. No cause of death—no confirmation of a homicide. No Ruby Bee—no chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and turnip greens.

  This last realization brought me to my senses, so I went to my apartment to eat a bowl of cornflakes. As I sat by the window and crunched like a brontosaurus, I saw Mrs. Jim Bob drive by, presumably on her way to church. I reminded myself that I’d promised her an official missing person report if Brother Verber wasn’t back in time to terrorize the congregation with descriptions of Satan’s fiery furnace. Maybe I’d throw in Ruby Bee, Estelle, Kevin, Dahlia, and the two ostriches for good measure.

  Or better yet, report myself missing and make a run for the nearest border.

  Chapter 15

  “Wonder where he went?” said Larry Joe as he scratched his head, releasing a flurry of dandruff flakes that vanished almost immediately in the wind. “He’s not in the trailer or the outhouse. Do you think he went to organize a search party?”

  Roy grunted scornfully. “Because he cares more about his friends than he does about his own hide? Yeah, Larry Joe, he’s probably at the airport renting a helicopter so he can rescue us. When he gets here, we can give him a medal.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Skedaddling down the ridge. If you hadn’t had the keys in your coat pocket, we wouldn’t be standing by his four-wheel, either. I don’t see any point in staying up here any longer. What say we grab our stuff and go back to town?”

  Larry Joe shrugged. “We might as well. I was beginning to get sick of bologna and beer, and Joyce usually fixes a roast for Sunday dinner.”

  He and Roy went back into the trailer, threw their dirty clothes into bags, and made sure the trailer was locked securely before they got into the four-wheel and started for Maggody.

  After I finished the cereal, I decided to return to the Flamingo Motel to check on the guests and see if I could find out when and how Diesel obtained the pistol.

  Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill remained closed. I couldn’t remember her mentioning a flea market of particular interest, but she and Estelle were always enthusiastic about the prospect of buying a chipped teacup for a quarter or a battered egg beater for a dime. This may explain some of my more whimsical birthday presents (and I’m sure there’ll come a day when my only chance of survival depends on a bicycle pump, a muffin tin, and a 1984 world almanac).

  Les was back on duty. He’d brought a book with him this time, and as I approached, gave me a guilty look as he stuck it under the seat. “Morning,” he said. “I just got here, but Batson said everything’s been quiet. Ruby Bee brought them breakfast trays. Right now most of them are holed up in the middle unit over there”—he pointed at #5—“having a talk, I guess. Kayleen asked for permission to go to church, and Batson didn’t see any reason not to let her.”

  I knocked on the door of #5, and when Sterling opened it, said, “Will you please step outside? I have a question for you.”

  “Ask your question right here, Chief Hanks,” he said. “I prefer to have witnesses. I may need them to testify in court about your abridgment of my constitutional rights.”

  “Fine,” I said, exceedingly tired of his pet phrase. “Did each of you bring your own pistol to Cotter’s Ridge yesterday?”

  “‘A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ In case you didn’t recognize that, it’s the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States.”

  “And a most inspiring amendment it is,” I said. “Would you like me to repeat my question?”

  Sterling gave me an exasperated look. “I keep all the pistols in a storage box, including several extras for anyone who wants to participate. We currently have an inventory of twelve. Before an exercise begins, I distribute them. Afterwards, I return them to the box, secure it, and leave the box in a closet at my office.”

  I did a mental tally. “That means you passed out nine of them yesterday. Where are the rest of them?”

  “In the trunk of my Hummer. Is that a crime?”

  I gave him an equally exasperated look. “No, it is not a crime. Will you show them to me?”

  I guess he couldn’t come up with an amendment that gave him the constitutional right not to let me count his pistols, because he pushed past me and went out to the back end of the Hummer. He unlocked the trunk, pulled out a wooden box, and set it on the ground. His idea of security was a cheap little padlock that I could have unlocked with a bobby pin. However, I let him tackle it with a key.

  He opened the lid and gave me a smug smile. “The sheriff confiscated nine. There are three in the box, which means all twelve are accounted for. Are you satisfied, Chief Hanks?”

  I picked up one of the odd-looking things, which fell somewhere between a Colt .45 and a child’s water gun. Above the barrel was a two-inch-high triangular container. “Is this where the paint pellets are loaded?” I asked.

  “You want to try it?” Barry said from the doorway. “Go ahead, Sterling—let her have a pellet.”

  Sterling didn’t look pleased as he took a pellet from the box and dropped it in the container. “Since you are a trained police officer, I assume you can figure out how to pump it and squeeze the trigger.”

  I aimed the weapon at Ruby Bee’s unit and fired. The resultant bang might not have sent Raz dropping to the ground, but it was certainly loud enough to have caught his attention. The jagged orange splotch on the door was bleeding sluggishly, confirming Raz’s comment about the viscosity of the paint. “That’s all for now,” I said brightly.

  “Good shot,” Les called as I walked back to my car, but I was thinking too hard to re
spond.

  When I got to the PD, I called LaBelle and said, “I want you to go to the evidence room and ask to see the pistols that Harve brought in after the shooting on the ridge. Count them very carefully, then come back and tell me how many there are.”

  “When were you elected sheriff of Stump County?”

  “Please do it,” I said, scowling like a gargoyle but keeping a civil tone. “Sheriff Dorfer assigned me to this case, and he would want you to cooperate.”

  I heard the receiver hit the desk and the sound of footsteps as she left the office. I spread out all the statements and notes I had, reading each one and sprinkling the margins with question marks. The one statement I really needed was Kevin’s, but I’d have to wait until he came back under his own steam—or was escorted back to Maggody by a couple of grim MPs, with Dahlia wringing her hands in their wake.

  “I’m back,” announced LaBelle as if her mission was completed and it was time for applause.

  I sighed and said, “How many pistols?”

  “I don’t know why you care. Paint didn’t kill that boy.”

  “I realize the paint pellets are not deadly. However, shooting one at a person without his or her consent could qualify as assault, and I’ve got an innocent bystander who is distraught enough to file charges. I’m trying to determine the location of the weapon that was used.”

  “Nine,” she said, then hung up.

  Even in Maggody, where math does not reign supreme, nine and three made twelve. None of the obvious suspects at the Flamingo Motel could have taken a pistol out of the Hummer and left under the benevolent gaze of the deputy assigned to watch them.

  The door opened. I steeled myself for another malodorous encounter with Raz, and therefore was surprised (okay, delighted) when the process server came into the PD. He was dressed as he had been the previous day, which meant he could attend the Voice of the Almighty Lord service on his way back to Farberville. If he wanted to, that is; I never recommend it for recreational purposes.

  “Looking for the Flamingo Motel?” I asked. “It’s down that way, behind Ruby Bee’s Bar and Grill. There’s a sheriff’s deputy in the lot, so this might be a good time to serve the papers.”

  “I’m not a process server,” he said as he sat down across from me and put a briefcase on the floor.

  “You’re not?”

  “That was your idea, not mine. It seemed easier not to contradict you.”

  “Then who the hell are you?” I demanded, rising out of my chair.

  “My name is Tonnato, and I’m in charge of the FBI office in Farberville. Your calls to the Little Rock office and to the bureau headquarters in Washington created quite a stir. I was ordered to cut short a visit to my daughter’s house and come back to Farberville.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then swallowed and said, “Let me see some identification, please.”

  He took a leather wallet from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. I gingerly opened it, as if it might explode, and found myself looking at a shiny badge and an ID card with Tonnato’s somber face.

  “Okay,” I said, “you’re an FBI agent. Does this so-called stir I created have to do with Dylan Gilbert? Was he an agent?”

  “No, but we were aware of his activities and to some extent, cooperated with him.”

  “Well, you sure didn’t cooperate with me,” I said testily. “If he wasn’t an agent, who was he and why did he have the serial number of a weapon used in a homicide?”

  “The young man, whose name was not Dylan Gilbert, was the son of the radio talk show host who was killed by a member of a Missouri-based militia. We were indirectly involved, since we monitor these groups in the hope we can catch them in a federal offense and come down hard on them. The killer was apprehended, but the victim’s son was convinced there was a conspiracy that stretched into Arkansas. We suggested he assume the identity of Dylan Gilbert, a sociopath who’d blown off several of his fingers making pipe bombs in his basement and then decided to squeal on his buddies from the sanctuary of the witness protection program.”

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  “Oh, Chief Hanks, we can do all sorts of things. We’re the FBI, not the DAR. The real Dylan Gilbert has been providing us with a great deal of useful information, including how to access the top-secret electronic boards. We allowed Sterling Pitts to get a limited confirmation of Dylan’s participation in the Colorado militia, then intercepted all his messages.”

  I thought all this over for a minute. “Are you saying that the group in the motel is a part of this conspiracy? They don’t really seem”—I struggled for a word—“capable of anything more sophisticated than shooting paint pellets at each other.”

  Tonnato shook his head. “I agree with you, Chief Hanks. I’ve been keeping an eye on them for several years. They share the same beliefs as other extremist groups, but they appear to be ineffective. This morning they were bickering among themselves with such fervor that two of them were on the verge of a fist-fight. I was disappointed when it failed to take place.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, frowning at him. “How do you know what they were doing this morning? I would have known if you were skulking around the motel units.”

  “I don’t skulk,” he said primly, as if I’d compared him to a coyote. “I merely listened in on the conversation that took place in unit Number Five. Would you like to hear a tape of it?”

  “How did you get into the room to plant a bug?” I asked, thoroughly stunned by now and in danger of falling out of my chair.

  “I had no need to get into the room, Chief Hanks. Over twenty years ago the technology existed to overhear any conversation held in the proximity of a particular telephone. All you had to do was dial the number and sit back. It was called an ‘Infinity Transmitter’ and was available to the public for less than a thousand dollars. Just imagine what government agents have these days.”

  “But … how did you get the number?”

  “I have resources,” said Tonnato as he took a midget-sized cassette and recorder out of his briefcase. “Since this was obtained without a warrant, it’s not admissible in court. I am not involved in your investigation and, even under oath, will deny the agency’s relationship with the victim’s son. Once you’ve listened to the tape, I’ll need to take it with me.”

  His tone was affable and his smile back in place, but I had a prickly feeling that his eyes were warning me: “Don’t mess with the feds.”

  “Okay,” I said meekly. “Let me listen to it.”

  Ruby Bee carried the sheets as she and Estelle walked up the muddy logging trail. Lightning flickered every few minutes, and the thunder followed within a matter of seconds. Although it was late morning, the clouds were heavy enough to block out most of the light, giving the woods an eerie feeling of twilight.

  “I’m beginning to regret this,” Estelle said as she picked her way through a puddle. “The hissy birds could be in Mexico, like you said, or in the bottom of a ravine with their necks broke. Diesel could have caught ’em and be roasting them over a campfire. How in heaven’s name are we gonna find them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ruby Bee, “but I don’t aim to be in your station wagon when the creekbed floods and washes it down the mountain. We’ll sit out the storm in Robin Buchanon’s shack. After that, we can see if your engine will start.”

  “How far is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Ruby Bee repeated, this time with an edge to her voice. “I’m pretty sure we’re headed in the right direction, but—” She broke off and cupped a hand to her ear.

  Estelle glanced at her. “But what?”

  “I heard it again. It wasn’t a gun being fired, but more of a hollow sound. If I didn’t know those militia folks were at the Flamingo, I’d have thought they might be firing some kind of artillery weapon. Step lively, Estelle!”

  They stepped as lively as they could up the road, saving their breath, and exchanged pinched smiles when they saw the lopsided roof beyo
nd some trees. It wasn’t much in the way of shelter, not by a long shot, but they scurried inside and closed the door.

  Estelle was about to ask about the mysterious noise when they heard the floor creak in what had once been Robin’s bedroom. “Oh dear,” she mouthed, jabbing her finger at the closed door.

  “A bear?” whispered Ruby Bee.

  Clutching each other, they inched backward toward the front door. A second creak was accompanied by a groan, and a third by a string of pants.

  Estelle stopped. “That’s no bear. I’ll bet it’s an escaped convict that holed up here.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I’ve never been an escaped convict, so I really couldn’t say. I do know bears don’t pant, though.”

  Ruby Bee looked at her. “Why not? Remember when we went to the zoo in Little Rock in August and that polar bear was lying on the concrete, his tongue hanging out?”

  “Are you saying you think there’s a polar bear in there?” said Estelle. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  The door opened and Dahlia came into the front room. “You got to help me,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Kevin Junior is coming.”

  Ruby Bee’s jaw fell. “What are you doing here, Dahlia?”

  “I was lookin’ for Kevvie, but now I’m having a baby. I jest don’t know how to do it. The doctor said to time the contractions, so I’ve been counting one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi. As far as I can tell, they’re around two hundred and fifty Mississippis apart.”

  After a moment of silence, Estelle said, “Maybe four minutes. What’ll we do, Ruby Bee?”

  Ruby Bee stared at her. “How should I know? When I had Arly, I was in a hospital with nurses milling around like hens. When the pain got real bad, they gave me a shot, and when I woke up, they gave me a baby in a pink blanket. I think it’d be best to take Dahlia back to town.”