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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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“Oh. They had a fire. Never reopened. Mr. Randolph—he lives up the mountain, provided all the pork—he thought it was suspicious.”
“Because?”
“Dad says he's just a suspicious guy. Anyway, everyone had their own stuff to worry about. The police said it was a grease fire and that was that.”
Ward looked at the white van. “So now you work for the new owners.”
“They needed someone who knows the area and didn't have an arrest record,” she said. “They pay over the hourly and the checks don't bounce. My dad said those are good reasons to work for anyone these days.”
“At least they don't make you wear a head scarf.”
“I know, right?” Angie chuckled. But the smile was gone now. “Some folks might not even object to that if they had jobs. They say we should be grateful. The prices were fair and without the bailout these places would all be boarded up. Except for Papa Vito's. You can't beat his price for a pitcher of beer, and people are drinking a lot of it. He refused to sell his lease, so he'll be here at least till the end of the year.”
Angie saw a face in the shop window and turned back to the van. “Hey, I've gotta make my deliveries. How long are you here for?”
“A day or two.”
“Maybe I'll see you around,” she said. “Give Meg a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
Angie shut the door and drove off. Ward waved as she left then turned toward the dry cleaner. The face in the window was gone. But not the fire in the small of Ward's back. If anything, the sense of danger was even stronger now. He wanted to see his daughter but he was suddenly having butterflies. He wasn't the same gangbusting crusader-dad she had known; he wasn't sure what he was and he didn't want to show that to his kid. He needed to get his man-legs under him, fill his new, emptier self with something useful.
He crossed the river, made a right onto Midland Avenue, and looked ahead toward the city center. He saw the sign of the stand-alone building on the right and headed for the Fryingpan Savings and Loan.
C
HAPTER
T
WO
Ward parked and entered the bank with no clear idea what he wanted to ask or say. He didn't know Earl Dickson, wouldn't know him if he saw him, but he wanted to know more about what had happened here. He wanted that because he was a detective and detectives asked questions and observed people and drew conclusions. Even if it were just an exercise, he needed to move those muscles. Until now, he hadn't realized how much just a few days alone in his apartment, ostracized by all but his team, had compacted and crushed him.
The tellers were busy and there were several people sitting on cheap vinyl sofas beside the door. There were three officers. Two had cubicles and the third had an office. Two were busy with clients; the other, an older woman, was on the phone. Ward didn't have to read the nameplate on the door to know who the office belonged to. The door was shut and there was a middle-aged couple inside. The woman was touching a handkerchief to her eyes. The man's shoulders were rounded. They were losing a home or a business. Earl Dickson was showing them where to sign papers.
Ward studied the man. He was stout, balding, with close-cropped graying hair on the sides. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a grave expression. It was set, a mask, like the simulacrum of grief worn by a funeral director.
“Can I help you?”
The woman who had been on the phone was walking over. She was tiny, older, with sparkle in her voice. Her eyes, though, seemed tired.
“I'm waiting for Mr. Dickson,” Ward said.
“He may be quite a while. They're all waiting for him.” She indicated the others on the sofa.
Ward looked down the line. “None of these folks look very happy.”
“My name is Deb,” she said, ignoring the comment. “Perhaps there is something I can do?”
“Actually, I just wanted to introduce myself. My name's John Ward. His daughter used to babysit my daughter—just bumped into her down the street, thought I'd say hi.”
The woman seemed surprised. “You're Megan's father?”
Ward nodded.
“We read about you,” Deb said.
“Oh?”
“In the New York Times online.”
That figures
, Ward thought.
“You had a run-in with some Muslim man in the park,” she went on. “I'm glad they let you out.”
“Of what, New York?”
“No, I mean—” she seemed embarrassed now. “I understood from the article you were in trouble for that.”
“It's only trouble if I let it be,” he said. “It's sort of complicated.”
“I see,” she said, though her confused expression said she didn't. “Well, if you'd care to have a seat—or perhaps there's a number where he can reach you?”
“Y'know, I'll just come back some other time,” Ward said.
“All right,” she said.
There was a moment before she turned when Ward felt she wanted to say something else, or take his hand, do something supportive. But she obviously thought better of it and went back to her desk. Ward watched her go and headed for the door. He paused beside a young man sitting on the edge of the sofa. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. A manila folder sat on his lap, his hands folded on top of it.
“Good luck,” Ward said.
The man snickered. “With the gunslinger?”
“That bad?”
“You must not owe him anything,” the man said. “If you're behind two months, you go in that office and beg for your life looking into the barrel of a twelve-gauge. And when you're done he pulls the trigger, like he's doing with the Pawleys. They've got a fishing supply store and not enough fishermen.”
“What about you? Home or business?”
“Mister, I got the trifecta. Home, business
and
truck. I'm hoping I get to keep one of them so I'll have a place to sleep.”
“There's always Al's place,” said the man sitting to his right. “It's a center for the community, right?”
They both smiled thinly and that's when Ward got it: they were joking about the Al Huda Center he'd seen at the edge of town.
Ward left. Despite the warm sunlight filling a cloudless sky, and air pure as heaven's own breath, the place felt like the devil's armpit, close and foul.
And he had been there less than an hour.
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
Being an undercover cop, it felt strange to Ward to suddenly have notoriety. He wondered what kind of reception awaited him at Joanne's house.
“She'll hear me out,” he said to himself as he stopped to book a room at the Basalt Regency Inn then drove up Ridge Road into the Rocky Mountain foothills. Joanne was still angry at Ward but she didn't hate him. “Guarded” would be the best description of their exchanges.
He drove with the window still open, past the tall lodgepole pines and taller Scotches—some of them looked dead to him—and the slopes covered with Cascade Purple rock cress. The carpet of perennials went on for acres in all directions as he ascended, adding a fragrant tang to the air. He didn't dislike the aroma, but it didn't speak to him. He preferred the smell of hot asphalt being laid over a ruptured pipe hole. He had always responded to brick and concrete, the fingerprints of human industry, rather than the seasonal, third party works of nature. Cities were constantly evolving to suit people. Nature demanded that you adapt.
The homes on the ridge had plenty of land and shade from both the peaks and trees. The temperature had dropped noticeably as he reached the large cabin. The valley and river below were still sunlit and he took a moment to take in the view. That was something else cities had over nature. When there was trouble somewhere, even from this distance, you knew it. The way traffic flowed, the speed and density of the pedestrian population, the telltale haze of a fire, the sounds of sirens. From here, everything in Basalt appeared just fine.
He turned into the gravel driveway. Joanne came out to meet him, alerted by the crunch of the tires.
She looked better than ever. Tall, slender, red hair held on her head with a clip. Even in a sweatshirt and torn jeans, she had an elegance about her. But her skin was a healthy color, not the pallor it had in the city, and she wasn't hurrying. She was smiling slightly—a good hostess smile, not an I'm-really-glad-to-see-you one.
He got out and they kissed on the cheek. There was no embrace. She took a step back and folded her arms.
“Megan is out back with Hunter,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Okay.”
“What happened?”
“I wasn't acting out or anything—”
“I'm not charging you,” she interrupted. “I'm just—asking.”
“Sorry. It's been all defense the last few days.” He sucked down a breath. “I was trying to get an unlicensed vendor to move along. I put my hands on his shoulders. Rookie cops busted me for assault, the media tried me, here I am.”
“The news reports said you were asked to resign.”
“It was recommended,” he replied. “But—we haven't talked about what part of my pension I get to keep. It's all on a disk or chip or whatever the hell it is that I haven't looked at yet. Don't worry, though. I know what my responsibilities are.”
“I wasn't thinking about that,” she said.
The alimony had ended when she remarried, but he still had child support and college to go with Megan.
“Megan know?” Ward asked.
She nodded.
“How'd she find out?”
“In the car, coming home from school, on her iPhone,” Joanne said. “I couldn't tell her not to read it. We looked at a few of the articles together when we got home.”
“Anyone give her a hard time?”
“No,” she said. “Not for what you did. Or rather, who you did it to.”
“Ah. I have street cred in Basalt.”
“But she's embarrassed,” Joanne said. “I guess that's not the best word. Uneasy, maybe? She doesn't know how to be around you.”
“I'll take that up with her,” he said. “Look, I'm embarrassed and uneasy and
scared
, too. I came here because I needed to connect with the only people on the planet I thought would give me a fair hearing.”
She nodded. “What did your folks say?”
“They're in China. I'm not sure they've heard about it.”
“Are they okay?”
“They've got their health and they've got
their
pension,” Ward replied. “They're fine. Thanks for asking.”
Joanne turned quickly. He knew the move well. She did it when she wanted to yell at him for being stupid but didn't feel like fighting. Ward followed her up the walk.
“I noticed the town's undergone a few changes since last year,” Ward said.
“Towns do that. A lot of people want to make more of this than it is.”
“Tough not to. The first three places you see when you enter town have signs that have to be translated. That's a pretty big change.”
“Better they should be boarded up?” she asked. “And don't talk like that in front of Megan, please.”
“Like what?”
She stopped and turned on him. “Disparagingly. Would you have said that if they were in Chinese or Spanish?”
“If I were in Tibet or Arizona, maybe,” he said.
“Megan has Ute friends and French-Canadian friends and I hope she will have Muslim friends as well,” Joanne said. “Do you understand me, John?”
“No, but I hear you,” he replied.
The Vassar College liberal lion was in full roar. Ward backed off. It all came back, the whole marriage, like undigested sushi. The differences you overlooked for months because you thought she was really smart and hot and she thought you were brave and studly. And then you were parents and all the illusions ended.
They walked around the side of the inverted-V roof, along a slate path. Every second slab was glazed with a painting of a bird underneath. Ward wondered how many owls broke their necks dive-bombing the cartoony suckers. He experienced a sudden deep longing for New York sidewalks with gum, chalk art, and real pigeon droppings.
Hunter and Megan were grilling corn, red pepper, and eggplant on a firepit. Joanne took the tongs from Megan, who ran over and locked her spindly arms around her father, her cheek pressed to his chest.
“Hi, Daddy—”
“Hey, Princess,” he cooed.
She had grown taller, and stronger. It was no longer a little girl who held him.
“I hear you've been surfing the net,” he said.
“I was worried about you,” she said. She chuckled through a sob. “You're a superstar on Fox.”
“Me and Homer Simpson.”
“Actually, it's Hannity,” Megan told him. “They said they've been trying to get in touch with you.”
Ward hadn't bothered to check any of his cell phone messages. He didn't want to hear from attorneys or officials and he certainly had no intention of giving interviews; there was nothing to be gained from intellectualizing a moment of conviction or living it over and over—though now that he thought of it, maybe his next career could be as a talking head or radio host or blogger. Part of him, a big part, still hadn't accepted the idea that he wouldn't be going back to his old life.
Megan continued to hug her father in silence as Ward cradled her head. He didn't want to look over at his former wife and Hunter but he did, anyway. The shouldery, bearded man had taken Joanne's hand. His big-as-all-outdoors compassion made Ward feel inadequate and angry. Mostly angry.
Father and daughter released one another and walked hand-in-hand to the firepit.
“Hunter,” Ward said, offering his hand.
The big man took it. “Welcome,” was all he said.
Hunter McCrea was a lumberjack of a man, three inches taller than Ward, with gray eyes set deep in his broad, bearded face. There were paint splotches on his apron—it obviously doubled as a smock—and flecks of red and yellow in his curly salt-and-pepper hair. He looked like one of his colorful birds that had mutated.
“Daddy, are you going to stay for dinner?” Megan asked.
“Actually, I was kind of hoping I could steal you for a couple of slices at Papa Vito's,” he said. He was talking to his daughter but looking at Joanne.
“We never really go there,” Joanne said.
“Except for parties, when I only have a little cake and tea,” Megan said.
“Just like one of your old doll house fiestas,” Ward said, adding pointedly. “When you were five.”
“We're vegetarians,” Hunter explained. “People understand.”
“Where's the brawn come from?” Ward asked, using his chin to point at Hunter's shoulders.
“Soy milk, peanut butter, beans and unprocessed tofu are all great sources of muscle-building protein.”
“Sometimes Hunter sounds like a cable TV ad,” Megan chuckled.
Hunter grinned but Joanne looked unhappy.
“So what if we get a cheeseless pie with onions, olives, mushrooms—that kinda stuff?”
“That works,” Hunter had to admit.
Megan made a face. “Except for the olives,” she said. “I don't like them.”
As they were speaking, Ward became aware of a distant buzz, like a lawn mower. He wouldn't have thought much of it if Megan hadn't shot her mother a look.
“Just ignore them,” Joanne said.
“Who are we ignoring?” Ward asked.
“The off-roaders,” Megan told him. “They cut through Mr. Randolph's place to get to the field.”
“Should they not be there?” Ward asked.
Randolph. The name was familiar
—
“We learned in school how it cuts rivulets in the earth and changes the flow of the runoff from the mountains,” she said. “
That
starves the fields off Ridge Road.”
“Yeah, I saw them. They looked a little parched,” Ward said. “Can't the police do anything about it?”
“They never get there in time,” Megan said.
Ward heard a gunshot. Then another.
“That's new,” Hunter said.
“Mr. Randolph?” Ward asked.
“That sounded like one of his blunderbusses,” Hunter said. “He sometimes shoots at coyotes.”
“Not this time,” Ward said. “What's got him so upset?”
“Scott's got a ninety-four acre hog farm and he says the noise scares his pigs,” Megan said, proud of her knowledge.
That was where Ward had heard the name. From Allie. He used to provide the pigs to Pullet 'n' Pork.
“Maybe we should call 9-1-1,” Ward suggested.
Hunter considered then dismissed the idea. “They'll still be gone before the police get there.”
“From up there you can see them coming along East Sopris Drive,” Megan said. “That gives the riders enough time to leave.”
“You're a regular detective,” Ward said to her.
“And the chief may not look kindly on Randolph firing at people,” Hunter added. He took the vegetables from the grill and put them on the pita pockets. “Don't get me wrong. It's upsetting. And Scott used to call 9-1-1. The law is on his side, there are trespassing and noise violations. But as Meggie said, the police never catch anyone.”
“They're probably kids, and kids do stupid things,” Joanne said, in a voice intended to be the final word on the subject.
“Some kids,” Megan corrected her.
“Sorry, honey,” Joanne stroked her daughter's hair and smiled apologetically.
Ward looked through the trees toward the ridge above. “Does Ridge Road go to Randolph's place?”
Megan said, “The dirt road beyond the fence does—”
“No!” Joanne said.
Ward fired her a look.
“You're not going up there. Scott might shoot at
you
.”
“In a Prius?” Ward said.
“John,
don't
,” Joanne said. “This has nothing to do with us or you.”
There was a thick, unpleasant silence. Ward turned and started toward the painted slate path.
“I'll just go and check it out,” he said. “Maybe I'll see something that'll help the police. A license number, something.” He glanced at his daughter as he was about to turn the corner. “Be back in a little bit. Don't fill up on chick peas.”
From Megan's expression he couldn't tell if she was eager that something was being done or anxious that he was doing it. Not that it mattered. Only part of him was doing this for her approval. He was going up there because he couldn't help himself.
Ward was jogging when he reached the front of the house. He jumped in the Prius and tore from the driveway. A wooden-slat fence marked the end of the city-managed street. It was easy to maneuver around it. Flooring the pedal, Ward spun a cloud of dirt behind him as he raced up the road.

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