Cahill

I could hear the din from the bar as I exited my SUV and I was still almost a block away. What a shame! I knew from long experience that would change as soon as my foot crossed the threshold. I tend to have that effect on people. I’m six feet six inches tall and I weigh an even 250 pounds—all of it broad shouldered muscle. My Body Mass Index at my last physical was less than four percent. My light brown hair is styled exactly the way it’s been for the past fifteen years—ever since I first joined the Navy. Sure enough, no sooner had I taken my first step into the bar than the noise died. When I turned left and stepped up to the bar the people there couldn’t back away fast enough. I took a stool in the middle of the empty space and sat down, waiting for the bartender to approach. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” “Good…neither am I. Give me a ginger ale.” He reached under the bar for a glass and some ice. Twenty seconds later he slid the glass in my direction. I pulled a fiver from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. He ignored it and walked away to draw a few beers and pour some wine. It looked to me like this was a pretty cheap crowd. Checking up and down the bar all I could see were longnecks and drafts. I reached into the lower left pocket of my cargo pants. Like almost everything else I was wearing they were a true deep navy blue. My heavy shoes were black as was my wide belt. My belt said as much about me as the bold white lettering across my chest. Just below the American flag over my heart were the letters that were my life—U. S. MARSHAL. On my right hip was my nickel plated .44 Magnum Colt Python, just behind two speed loaders in addition to the twenty-four rounds on the belt. On my left hip was my ASP Talon baton—every bit as deadly a weapon in my hands as the revolver. A pouch at the back of my right hip held my stainless steel handcuffs and its partner on the opposite side held my radio—my link to my backup team. I placed the photo flat on the bar as the bartender returned to me. “I’ll have another,” I said in a loud voice, continuing so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t pick it up and don’t make a production of looking at it. I’ve been told that he comes here a lot. Is he here tonight? If he is and he escapes because you’ve given me away I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for obstruction of justice.” He gulped a few times but did as he was told, nodding slightly in response. I continued almost at a whisper. “If my nose is pointing to twelve o’clock, my right ear to three, the back of my head to six, and my left ear to nine, tell me where he is. Again, don’t point or do anything obvious and we’ll be fine.” He pretended to wipe the bar as he whispered, “About 4:30 with his back to you.” I picked up the reflection in the mirror then asked, “Red shirt with black and white stripes, looking away from me?” He nodded again. Now, in my normal tone of voice I asked, “Where’s the men’s room?”

Fredrick_Udele · Fantasía

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69 Chs

CHAPTER 2

Digging into the right-hand cargo pocket I removed a plastic wrist cuff that I wrapped tightly around his friend's crossed wrists. Max was only inches from his face when I told him, "You're either the best or the stupidest friend I've ever encountered. Your actions tonight will cost you at least ten years of your life." I pulled both prisoners to the bar where I searched them once I had them off balance—legs back and apart, leaning forward against the edge of the high wooden structure. Clifford had a switchblade tucked into the cup of his briefs. Under the table I found two .38 caliber snub-nosed revolvers. I tucked them into my waistband. Only then did I radio my backup team. They ran thirty seconds later with a team of EMT's. I stood by while both captives were read their Miranda rights and were searched again. Both were wearing cowboy boots and, sure enough, both had large hunting knives hidden within their right boots.

We unloaded the pistols then tagged and bagged them before removing both suspects. I was the last one to leave and, as Max and I crossed the threshold, I turned to address the crowd. "I really am sorry to have ruined your evening. We've been chasing that bastard all over the Midwest for months. Believe me when I tell you this: you'll sleep a whole lot better tonight knowing he's behind bars."

"How many women, Marshal?" A middle-aged man had stood to ask the question.

"Six…six beautiful young women kidnapped, raped, and sodomized before being brutally tortured and murdered—six families torn apart by their violent and senseless crimes. If all of you weren't in potential danger I would have gladly exterminated vermin like him in a heartbeat. We thought he had an accomplice, but we weren't sure. Now it looks like we were right." I turned and strode into the dark starless night, Max walking easily at my side.

>>>>>>

I'd had a brief talk with the other two who had been at the table with Clifford and friend—one Jordan Smith. They had told me that they knew Smith from high school, but hadn't seen him in years until tonight in the bar. They willingly gave me their ID's and told me that they were graduate students—one in California and the other in Massachusetts. It was easy to verify their stories. I did the following morning. They were in the clear; both had been hundreds of miles away when the crimes had been committed.

Clifford and Smith had been trapped by DNA evidence. Clifford had briefly served in the U.S. Army after graduating high school. He had been in basic training only three weeks when he lost his temper and tried to punch his drill instructor—a big mistake on his part. The DI took him down in a heartbeat. He was court martialed and spent six months in the stockade before receiving a dishonorable discharge. His DNA was on file with the Army and it was that file that had led to his arrest. Both switchblades had traces of their victims' DNA in cracks in the cases and the mechanisms that opened the blades. Tracking them down had been a long and arduous job, but that's why they paid me the big bucks. I left for home in eastern North Carolina the following afternoon, planning on taking a well deserved three week vacation.

The skies were filled with dark threatening clouds when I left around three in the afternoon. I hadn't been on the road an hour when the heavens opened and traffic slowed to a crawl. Max walked aimlessly in the back seat before lying down for a nap, leaving me to navigate through the maelstrom on my own. I was driving my personal vehicle—a specially modified Ford Explorer. It was a good dependable SUV with four-wheel drive that had been structurally changed to accommodate Max, but even with it the trip was challenging. I had hoped to be at least a third of the way home by the time I stopped around ten that night, but it wasn't to be. The interstate was closed due to flooding and I had to take an alternate through back roads that weren't any better. A deputy sheriff tried to give me directions for a detour, but I must have taken a wrong turn in the heavy downpour. It wasn't until 12:35 that I spied lights ahead on the dark deserted road. I prayed it wasn't the "Hotel California" as I approached. Those lights turned out to be a diner—Lulubelle's, if the big sign in the parking lot was to be believed. The sign in the window said "OPEN" when I drove into the empty lot.

I pulled on my yellow rubber rain parka, raising the hood over my head as I exited, leaving Max in the dry car. The sign said open, but the door was locked when I reached it. Looking in through the windows I could see a woman behind the counter and, peering into her eyes I could see her fear. I was hungry and thirsty and I was getting wet below my parka so I opened the front of the jacket and stood as close to the window as I could so she could read the letters on my shirt.

It took a few seconds, but I could see her relief when she exhaled and began to relax. A minute later she had opened the door and I had hung my parka on a nearby hook. "I'm surprised you're open at this hour," I said.

"I'm really not. That sign goes on automatically when I turn the lights on. I'm sorry, but I don't have anything I can offer you."

"How about a fountain soda and some chips or pretzels? It's been a long difficult night."

"Coke I can get for you and how about a couple of bags of chips? Think that will tide you over until tomorrow morning?" I smiled and nodded my appreciation as she went into the kitchen for the chips and a plate.

I was dumping potato chips onto the plate while she poured a large fountain Coke over ice. "Thank you, Ma'am. This plate was a good idea."

"Well, when I saw the size of your hands I knew you'd never get them into one of those little bags."

"I do appreciate it. Mind if I ask why you're here at this ungodly hour?"

"My car doesn't run too well in the rain and even if it did I still would have to drive through a big puddle to get home. Last time I tried, the damned thing stalled right in the middle and I was stuck until a tow truck pulled me out. I made a few calls, but nobody wants to come out in the rain. I think a lot of them are afraid of going through the puddle, so here I am."

"Is there a motel anywhere nearby? I need a place for me and Max…my dog"

"Normally, I'd say you had about twenty miles to the nearest motel, but a deputy sheriff stopped in earlier and told me that the bridge over Bascomb's Creek was closed. Apparently, it's under water from flash flooding. Last time that happened, it was closed for two months while the state checked it out. It'll be more than a hundred miles up north and around the lake and then another hundred back down. You'll never make it in this weather. Half of the roads are probably flooded out."

"Then I guess I'll be sleeping in my car."

"I wouldn't do that either. The sheriff's deputies will arrest you. There's a county law about it. We had a problem with Gypsies a few years ago and that was the county's solution. I guess it worked. They never returned"

"Surely, they wouldn't arrest a federal officer."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew our sheriff. He'd take the greatest pleasure in locking you up. He's a legend in his own mind. He'd brag about it for years. If you can get me home you can sleep on my couch. I'm Lucille; I own the diner."

I laughed briefly before asking if she was also known as "Lulubelle."

"That's what my father called me when I was a baby. I thought it was cute when I was little, but I learned to hate it by the time I was ten. Unfortunately, he had opened the diner long before that and the name has stuck. And your name is…?"

"Matt…Matt Cahill." Now it was her turn to laugh. "Don't say it. Do you have any idea how many times I've heard someone say, 'Cahill, U.S. Marshal?' It's probably more than five thousand times and in a bar it's even worse. The more people drink the more times it's repeated."

We talked and joked around for about ten minutes while I ate and drank. I offered to pay, but was refused. "Register's closed," she informed me with a smile as I donned my rain parka and led her out into the rain. She locked up and set the alarm as I led her to my car.

"You'll need to give me your hand when I open the door." I continued when she looked up in shock. "Max will probably attack you. He won't understand that you're with me for the first time. Once he gets a sniff of the two of us together you'll be fine."

I took her hand as I opened the door. Max was right there—on the job—to make sure I was okay. "It's all right, Max. She's a friend." Lucy was shaking a bit when I pulled her hand toward Max's muzzle, but those concerns died when Max leaned forward first to sniff and then to lick. "Okay, Lucy…you can get in now. Max likes to have his head and ears scratched, don't you, boy?"

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