Fortunes of the Dead (11 page)

“He's a local boy. He was pointing his finger at the illegal gun buyers, most of whom he went to high school with. They had him going to flea markets making gun buys from guys he's known all his life.”

“So how does being local help him? People will know right away he's a cop.”

For the first time ever Wilson heard Vaughn Chesterfield laugh. “It's a peculiarity of this part of the country, Wilson. These are the gun states—”

“Texas, Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, Tennessee.”

“Obviously they've got the hard cores, but Rugger says half the time they arrest these ol' boys they're indignant as hell and swear they weren't doing anything wrong. They don't see what the government has to do with their God-given right to sell arms. They've been known to send their kids to college with the proceeds. Son comes home over a long weekend, hugs his mama, has some home cooking. He hangs out with his buddies and has a high old time, and on his way out his daddy packs fifty handguns in the trunk of his Camaro to sell when he gets back to school in the Northeast. Buy a gun in Kentucky, pay fifty dollars. Sell it in Chicago for five hundred.”

“Adds up to a lot of tuition.” Wilson stretched and flexed the muscles in his right leg. “Fifty guns in one weekend, comes to twenty-two, twenty-three thousand. Beats working at El Polo Loco.” He closed one eye, wondering if Southern criminals were as strange as they sounded. “So then we've got this sheriff guy, fingering his buddies, all the people he grew up with and went to high school with, right? He's going to be pretty unpopular when they start picking people up.”

“Yeah, it bothered me, too. Hardigree, the Lexington office S.A., thinks Edgers has been counting on moving from a temporary assignment to a permanent position with ATF. Guy is ambitious and told Hardigree from day one that he wanted to get off the local sidelines and into the federal end. Hardigree encouraged him. On first evaluation, Edgers looked pretty good. Put the hours in, was cooperative, happy to do anything they asked him to do. Hardigree says he did really good work, except for wanting to do things his way. Says the guy was starting to wear on him a little when the intern thing came up.”

“What have we got on her?” Wilson asked. “Other than she went to EKU, which sounds good.” Even in California, they knew the law enforcement program at EKU.

“The university is about a half-hour drive from Lexington. The girl, Cheryl Dunkirk, was a top student, had recommendations from all her teachers and the dean.”

She'd have to be good
, Wilson thought. The ATF female population holds steady at nine percent. “What's the story on this girl?”

Vaughn rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She's young and eager, highly motivated, jazzed about actually getting into some work. They had her doing the usual—tagging evidence and entering it in the log. Hardigree says that Edgers started up on the mentor tack, helping the girl, introducing her to local cops at the watering holes, showing her the ropes. Next thing you know, Edgers is taking her to lunch two or three times a week, and trying to get Hardigree to let her go with him on flea market buys.”

“An intern?”

“Hardigree vetoes. But he's got the situation in his sights now and he's getting concerned. She's a nice girl, and he takes her aside and gives her a little advice. She thanks him, avoids Edgers from then on out. As far as Hardigree knows, that's the end. He keeps her busy, and out of Edgers's orbit.”

“So then?”

“So then she disappears. Her car turns up, physical evidence says foul play. Lexington homicide is as sure as they can be without a body that she's dead. Cops start taking a look at Edgers, which does not thrill Hardigree, but in all fairness he knows Edgers had been working her.”

“How sure are they? Grand jury going to indict?”

“They don't have a body, remember, so it's getting long and drawn out. They don't indict for homicide in Lexington unless it's a slam dunk.”

Wilson pulled at his bottom lip. “What's this got to do with the assassin?”

Vaughn shifted sideways in his chair. “A few days after Cheryl Dunkirk disappears, one of her friends, an EKU grad student who used to be an ATF intern himself, goes to Hardigree. He says that Cheryl had come to him for advice because she thought Edgers had some kind of information about an assassin who was targeting federal agents.”

Wilson sat up in his chair. “What?”

“Yeah. Imagine. She told this guy that Edgers had been bragging to her. Said he had a contact, another old high school buddy, who was involved somehow, and that he, Edgers, was going to track down the assassin and hand him over to Hardigree, who would hopefully use his influence to offer Edgers a permanent job with ATF. Cheryl tells all this to the friend, tells him she's not comfortable sitting on the information, doesn't know what to do. She liked Edgers, but he'd said enough to convince her he was really on to something, and she felt like keeping quiet compromised her ethics. On the other hand, what if the whole thing was just a load of crap? Ergo, the friend—a little older, an ex-intern himself, the closest thing she's got to a peer—says
Holy shit
, and makes her promise she'll go straight to Hardigree. He never saw or heard from her again. Two days later she'd disappeared.”

“So what's the theory? Edgers was bragging, trying to impress her, finds out she's going to go to Hardigree, and kills her?”

“Or Rodeo finds out and kills her.”

“What does Hardigree think? He's talked to Edgers, obviously.”

“Said Edgers acts like a wide-eyed innocent. Hardigree doesn't know about Rodeo, and neither does Edgers.”

“Lexington homicide in on any of this?”

“They've pegged it as a sex thing—affair that got out of hand. Thinking maybe she was pressuring him to get a divorce. Or maybe she was trying to dump him and he wasn't going to sit still for it.”

“Which is possible,” Wilson said.

“Hardigree handed it to Rugger, who wants to watch Edgers, see if he's really involved or just blowing smoke. The problem is that the detective, Mendez, wants to go to the grand jury and ask for an indictment. And Ruggers wants to know what Edgers really has before he gets shut down.”

“So is this detective, this Mendez—he going to play ball?”

“Hell, Wilson, that's your job. Tell him what you think he needs to know, get him to cooperate, and figure out what the hell Edgers is up to. Unless you want to stay put, and chase Colombian guerrillas. Otherwise, you take a flight out of LAX at six forty-five
A.M.
tomorrow.”

“I'll take the flight.”

Chesterfield handed Wilson a flimsy piece of paper. “Electronic ticket. Here's your itinerary.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

The cowboy looks like someone she knew years and a lifetime ago. Janis can't remember exactly what happened to him. This one is young, like Hal was when she knew him. He has black hair and brown eyes, and thinks he's God's gift to women. But you can't help liking him—he is wide open and ready for anything and something about him just sparkles. Rumor has it he was a college boy four years ago, then dropped out, at the strenuous objections of his father. People tell all kinds of stories, so there's no telling if this is true or just a legend. But things are interesting when this kid is around. And Bones Jones, the traveling veterinarian, reminds Janis that life will knock the stuffing out of the kid more than soon enough.

Janis thinks the vet can turn any subject depressing, even if she agrees.

The kid's name is Dennis Kelly, and he grew up in South Dakota. He's been smoking the competition in team roping for the last two years, and tonight he rides his first bull. The prize money is good, and the rush even better. Janis figures he won't make four of the required eight seconds, and that somebody will have to rescue his cute little cowboy ass.

That's her job.

She scratches the end of her nose, trying not to smear the bright red greasepaint. Red and yellow are her signature colors. The silky material of her polka-dot shirt is coming out of the sides of her overalls, like it does in every rodeo she works. She likes the job, likes having a character to hide in. She likes the horses and the cows and the cowboys; the smells and the crowds and the life on the road. And she likes being the center of attention when she goes in that ring to play tag with a bull, to put herself between a cowboy in trouble and an extremely pissed-off animal who weighs in excess of a ton and has horns. Janis knows she is impressive. She knows people talk about her and wonder if she has a death wish. She doesn't, of course. She's forgotten how to be afraid. That's not a concept you can really explain to people; it's not one she even understands herself. Besides, that's rodeo life. It's part of her legend.

She hadn't been afraid of that other guy, either, the enemy, and he had hated her for that. No fear, no control. She knows now that those kinds of people, ones like the Branch Davidians, are all over Texas and everywhere else. The innocents, captives is how she thinks of them, stay holed up somewhere doing all the work, while the bad ones are everywhere, just waiting for someone on the wrong side of vulnerable and then they're right there to pounce.

She was in Dallas when she first got tangled. Following up a lead on a quarter-horse paint that had been sold cheap and quick and might be her Dandy. Dandy was a prize-winning barrel-racing horse, and he'd been stolen right out of his stall in the dead of night. People who didn't understand about horses might think it strange that she would quit her old life and spend all her energy tracking Dandy, but anybody who felt the way she did about horses would probably shake her hand. They would understand that some horses depend on you, like Dandy depended on her. She knew how to clean his stall a certain way, with the bulk of shavings in the upper right-hand corner because that's where he liked to stand and look out the window in the back of the stall. She knew to give him corn oil in the spring when he was prone to colic. She knew he was afraid of pitchforks, that he liked red delicious apples cut into chunks, that his favorite song was “Smile.” He would wonder where she was. He would wonder if she'd abandoned him. He might be back to the old nightmare life he had before she'd found him.

And Dandy wasn't just any horse. Dandy had champion quarter-horse bloodlines; he was a massive and flashy paint, and she'd trained him since she was thirteen. He was probably the third best barrel-racing horse alive, if he still was alive. He'd be past it now, all the action. But that was okay. She just wanted to take her baby home.

These days Janis was out of ideas, and had been for years, and she'd finally let him go. Sometimes she would imagine finding him, working the rodeo circuit like she did. She could see him nickering to her, imagining how surprised and thrilled she would be, and how everyone in the rodeo would be amazed. That's him, that's Dandy, that's the horse she's been looking for and worrying about all these years. Isn't it funny how life works out?

Janis rarely indulges this fantasy, but it stays in the back of her mind—she can't let go of all her hope. She lets the pain take hold because running from it is worse, and it washes through her and away, a wave of regret that is almost a memory. Then it goes, and she can focus. She needs to focus.

Bull riding is the last event of the night, because it is the most dangerous, and the most exciting. It is also the most profitable. The cowboys who ride bulls will take any risk to win. There will be three clowns working the ring tonight: David Hopper, who provides the entertainment and looks after the barrel clown; “Clipper” Arnold, who rides the barrel; and Janis herself. Janis is the bullfighter, and one of the five most requested bullfighting clowns on the circuit. If it weren't for her uneven temperament, she'd be number one.

It's cold out tonight; people are hanging together and drinking coffee. The lights in the arena flicker, and come back on. Janis is plenty warm enough in her padding and “bull”-proof vest. She sees the kid look her way and wave, cheeky thing, but she knows his heart has got to be pounding. No doubt he expects to stick the eight seconds through, but Janis knows better. Half of the experienced guys don't even make it. If she was generous, she'd give him four seconds. She waves back and gives him the thumbs-up.

“Hey, there, little Janis.”

It's a familiar voice, and Janis turns and lifts a hand to a cowboy named Jaco Walker. He rides a paint just like Dandy, and the horse nickers as he passes by Janis. Walker shrugs and shakes his head. He's never understood the bond between Janis and his own prized horse, but he accepts it.

He didn't at first, not when he found Janis feeding the horse an apple. Janis knew better, of course she did, but this paint gelding reminded her so much of Dandy, with that same devil look in his eyes.

Walker's bellow could be heard all the way to the other side of the fairgrounds, and he had run at her like a Brahma bull.

“Honey, I don't let nobody even pet my horse, I'll be damned if you're going to
feed
him.”

Knowing she was in the wrong just made Janis more angry, that ice-cold rage she saw no reason to swallow. She balled up a fist and she punched him. It hurt her as much as it hurt him. Next time she took a swing she would leave her thumb outside the fist, because the way it felt, it was probably broken.

Jaco Walker was so taken by surprise, he lost his balance and fell over, then stayed put for a minute staring up at her and rubbing his chin.

“Dammit. I can't believe you did that.”

“So hit me back, I'll stand still.” Janis is too angry to be aware of the spectators, but this is the best show in town and the cowboys are gathering.

“I don't hit women, and I'm not going to start today because some pipsqueak like you has no manners. But you ought to know better than to feed somebody else's horse, and this one here has a mean streak. You're lucky he didn't take your hand off.”