Copperheads - 12 (26 page)

For a moment, it appeared as though the older woman was going to argue, but the seriousness etching Terri’s face convinced her otherwise.

Once seated and sipping on a cool glass of water, Terri broke the bad news.

For a long time, Hannah just sat and stared at her glass, finally offering, “I don’t know whether to be happy or bust out in tears,” the older woman responded with a shaky voice. “You’ve answered my prayers by finding April alive and healthy. My little May, on the other hand, seems to be in deep trouble. I’m not sure what to do.”

Reaching across the table and taking the shocked woman’s hand, Terri said, “Don’t worry just yet. The Alliance is putting their best people on getting both of your girls back. Right now, if you want to do something to help, I need you to think hard about May, her friends, and what she did in her spare time.”

Wiping away the water from her eyes, Hannah inhaled deeply and nodded, “Of course I want to help, but I really don’t know much. May’s only friend was a kid from Del Rio named Ricky. I didn’t care for him at all. He was a little too cocky for my taste.”

“Tell me about Ricky.”

“He and my May rode their bicycles with some other teens in the area. I didn’t like it … almost made her stop hanging out with them on more than a few occasions. But, in the end, I felt sorry for the kids. After the collapse, a huge portion of their lives vanished. All of their social media, cell phones, texting, and music simply disappeared. Us older folks, we didn’t grow up with all that, so we didn’t miss it as much. For the young ones, it was their way of life. All of a sudden, poof, it was gone.”

Nodding her understanding, Terri tried to gently steer Hannah on topic. “Where does Ricky live?”

“To be honest, I just don’t know. He always rode his bicycle and met May at the end of our lane. She would dawdle outside, sometimes for over an hour, waiting to see him coming down the road. Now and then, three or four others tagged along. Most of the boys carried guns, so I felt she was reasonably safe.”

Terri continued to question the marina’s owner for another 15 minutes, but it was clear that Hannah didn’t know anything else that was going to help. Still, if May was indeed involved with the Quakers, this boy Ricky might be a solid lead.

Standing to signal the end of the interview, Terri hugged the marina owner and said, “Thank you, Hannah. I promise; we’ll do everything we can to bring your girls back home.”

Sheriff Watts, along with a handful of deputies, had arrived a short time later. Bishop welcomed the senior lawman’s insight and experience. “Let’s go find some Quakers,” the tall officer had shrugged after being briefed on the situation.

It was easy to find where May’s cycling friend lived, Bishop simply walked the road, following the signs left in the sandy shoulder alongside the pavement. Bicycles had narrow tires and there was no shortage of imprints. When the indentations stopped after a particular driveway, it was a pretty sure bet that young Mr. Ricky lived in the small home visible at the end of the private drive.

Standing alongside the pavement, the Texan pointed toward the gravel and dirt lane that was thick with the imprints of bicycle tires. “I think we’ve found our fugitive.”

Sheriff Watts agreed, “I would say so. Let’s go see if he’s home.”

Shaking his head, Bishop had a better idea. “If we storm up there and make a big, official fuss, our young suspect might clam up. His parents might not like the law appearing on their front doorstep and advise the young man to keep his mouth shut. I spied a cluster of sage about a mile up the road. Why don’t you drop me off there, and I’ll radio you after I’ve had a chance to chitchat with Ricky.”

Watts knew what was on the line, having been ordered to “provide any and all cooperation to Bishop and Terri.” He also understood where the SAINT lead was coming from. People felt comfortable at home, and that would often make them more difficult to interview in that environment. Catch the same person away from their primary residence, and they often would sing like a Blue Jay.

“If you say so,” the sheriff remarked, tipping his hat to Bishop. “I do hope that citizen will still be able to walk after your so-called, chitchat.”

Bishop’s eyes suddenly grew dark, “He is a known terrorist, after all. So much is riding on this; we don’t exactly have time for a beer.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts of the dark mental image of Butter and May’s demise, returning to the unpleasant business at hand. A moment later, Bishop grinned, “I’m not going to
hurt
the young man. I might, however,
scare
him just a smidge.”

The lanky sheriff nodded, “And there’s just no telling what might frighten the average citizen. As far as I know, that’s not a violation of an individual’s rights.”

A short time later, Bishop was waving goodbye as Watts drove off. He then turned, and began finalizing his plan.

Either wind or rain had washed a few inches of silt across the pavement here, and the local county highway department obviously wasn’t performing much maintenance these days. The barricade wasn’t any big deal for a car or pickup, but for Ricky’s two-wheel transport, it was a serious obstacle. The sand was too soft to navigate safely while riding, the footprints next to the tire tracks making it clear that the young man had to dismount and walk his bike across the wash.

According to Hannah, May normally rode with her friend shortly before dusk to avoid the heat. Since automobiles were still a rarity, cycling after dark wasn’t nearly as hazardous as before.

Bishop chuckled, “Conspirators like the darkness, but so do bushwhackers.” The Texan then began setting his trap.

Just as the sun dropped low in the west, Bishop spotted a sole figure peddling toward his hide. Hannah had described young master Ricky as hard to miss in a crowd.

“He has the brightest, rust-red hair I’ve ever seen on a boy,” Hannah had reported. “And more freckles than any three kids should ever be allowed.”

Sure enough, Bishop spotted a mop on the approaching rider that left no doubt he had the right guy.

As predicted, Ricky slowed and then dismounted his bike immediately before the sandbar. Just as the tracks indicated, the kid pointed his bike toward the side of the road where Bishop was hiding.

Ricky was almost through the obstacle when the scrape of a boot caused him to turn. Before he could execute the maneuver, however, the world went black as Bishop pulled a dark pillowcase over the lad’s head.

“Hey, what the hell…” the protestor snarled from inside the hood. Before he could finish, Ricky was on his ass, and then a heartbeat later, an incredibly strong pair of hands yanked on his arm, twisting it viciously until his body flopped face down into the sand.

Ricky barely felt the boot on the small of his back, the pain shooting through his shoulder being so intense. “Oh, God! Who are you! Stop! Please!”

“Shut your mouth,” came a harsh, low growl as Bishop torqued just slightly on the kid’s arm. “Shut up before I rip off this arm and shove it up your ass.”

“Okay, okay, Mister. Take the bike … it’s all I’ve got.”

“I don’t want your bicycle, boy. I want to know where the Quakers are meeting tonight.”

His prisoner’s hesitation was too long, telling Bishop instantly that he had the right man. Still, Ricky tried to play it dumb. “The who?”

Again, Bishop torqued on the arm. Not enough to dislocate the lad’s shoulder, but almost. “Don’t try to bullshit me, son. May sent me to find you and your other friends. Where do you meet?”

The mention of May’s name caused another lengthy pause before the muffled answer came from under the hood. “You know May?”

Bishop didn’t have time to play nice. Still, he was a bit surprised at the youth’s resilience. Normally, the ambush and hood were enough to motivate all but the most disciplined tongues. Pulling his sidearm, he pressed the weapon close to Ricky’s masked head and cocked the hammer. Without any warning, he fired a shot into the sand.

In a way, the Texan felt sorry for the kid. The .45’s report was enough to make a person’s ears ring for hours. Without any warning, inside the dark confines of the hood, he was sure Ricky’s brain was just about to go into convulsions. The smell of urine soon confirmed that fact. On the other hand, there were accusations that he had participated in a massacre and torched food bound to the famine ridden U.S.

“The next one goes into your right kneecap,” the Texan shouted. “I carry a .45 automatic with 200-grain hollowpoints that have a velocity of 980 feet per second. I will fire at an upward angle so that the lead shatters your tibia, crushes your patella, and shreds every tendon between the femur and your asshole. You will never ride that bicycle again. Where is the fucking meeting?”

Inside the darkness of the cloth, Ricky was trying to cry, breathe, think, and lie all at the same time. The resulting gibberish didn’t answer Bishop’s question.

The Texan shook his head in frustration. The kid at his feet was being stubborn. He touched the tip of his boot to the back of the prone kid’s calf, sure that it felt like the barrel of a pistol to his hostage.

It was like a bolt of electricity shot through Ricky’s convulsing body, a clear, “Nooooo!” escaping from the terrified lad’s throat.

“Where is the meeting?”

“It’s at the warehouse, you son of a bitch,” he sobbed.

“What warehouse?”

“The one just outside of town, next to the water tower.”

Bishop loosened his grip on the boy’s arm, then pulled the weak-kneed youth to his feet. A moment later, the red mop of hair was exposed, Ricky blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. “Come on, son. You’re going with me.”

As expected, the removal of hood stiffened the boy’s constitution. “Fuck you, Copperhead. I’d rather die than be a slave. You can kill me right here and now, but I ain’t going anywhere with you.”

“I’m not a Copperhead, dumbass. I work for the Alliance,” Bishop stated with a serious voice. “The second thing you should know about me is that I’ve killed more men than you have hairs around your pussy. I strongly suggest that you show me a little more respect.”

When the youth didn’t respond immediately, Bishop pointed to the widening, damp stain that darkened the front of Ricky’s pants. “And lastly, you should really work on controlling your bladder, baby boy.”

Embarrassment was now added to the whirlwind of emotions clogging Ricky’s brain. Bishop didn’t care. Lucrecia’s hourglass was running out of sand. There were hundreds of lives on the line, including Butter’s.

Reaching for the microphone, the Texan broadcasted, “I’ve got him, Sheriff. I would appreciate a ride.”

“Everything okay?” Watt inquired across the airwaves.

“Yes, everything is fine. By the way, you wouldn’t have a spare pair of trousers in your trunk, would you?”

Having dry jeans didn’t seem to help Ricky’s attitude. Nor did learning that May had been captured by the Copperheads.

“She knew the risk,” the defiant youth stated boldly. “We all know the risks.”

Terri was playing the role of good cop. After Bishop’s initial encounter with the lad, there was no need for a bad cop. “Why didn’t you come to the Alliance? Why didn’t anyone come forward and report that slavers were ravaging the countryside?”

The suggestion seemed to offend the young man. “We did. When the Copperheads first started taking people from their homes, several folks went to the men who were running the town. The next night, the whistleblowers disappeared. It was several months before we found out that the slavers were bribing the local cops and the man who called himself the mayor.”