The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) (4 page)

“Turn around.”

Milton did as he was told, lowering his arms and extending them behind his back.

The sheriff fastened cuffs around his wrists. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent and anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, I’ll see that one is appointed for you. You understand your rights, Mr. Milton?”

“You’re overreacting,” he said. “They both attacked me. Everyone saw what happened.”

He leaned closer to him. “You should’ve listened to me earlier. I knew you had the look of a troublemaker, and my gut’s usually right. Turns out it was right this time, too.”

LESTER HOLSTERED his weapon and pushed John Milton in the back, impelling him to start walking to the exit of the bar. The rain was crashing down outside, and Lester cursed at it. He was going to get wet. He reached down for his keys and blipped the lock of the Silverado. He opened the rear door and helped Milton to slide inside.

He opened the door to the front and climbed into the cabin. He looked back at the bar. A small audience had gathered to watch the show. Both FBI agents were there. Mallory Stanton was standing alongside and slightly behind the female agent, frowning at the scene with an inscrutable expression on her face. The regulars from the bar were there, too, although they quickly went inside when they realised it was wet and that the show was over. It wasn’t as if a brawl was an uncommon event in the bar, after all. It happened most every Saturday.

He heard the siren of the paramedics and saw the blue flash against the buildings at the end of the road as the truck approached.

“That was one hell of a punch,” Grogan said.

“Yeah, well.”

“You broke his jaw, I’m guessing.”

“A bit harder than I intended.”

“You could’ve picked someone better to hit. Those four are lawyers, up from Detroit. They come every year, hunting and fishing. Can’t say I think too highly of them, the attitudes they’ve got on them. Dollars to doughnuts they’ll press charges, especially if you
did
break his jaw.”

“Come on, Sheriff,” he said. “I wasn’t in there for trouble. I just wanted something to eat. You saw it the same as I did. They threw the first punches. I was defending myself.”

“Maybe,” Lester allowed as he started the engine and put the car into drive.

Milton sat quietly in the back, and Lester shot the occasional glance into the mirror to check him out. He didn’t seem particularly perturbed, his demeanour just as blank and inscrutable as when he was in the back of his cruiser earlier that afternoon. He had his right leg crossed over his left, and his hands were behind his back as if it was a perfectly natural thing to sit like that. Milton was a strange one, that much was for sure. Lester thought he was pretty good at reading human nature, but he was striking out here.

He couldn’t work out Milton at all.

THE SHERIFF’S Office was on West Harrie Street, a five-minute drive from the bar. Lester slotted the Silverado into the lot, crammed his cap down on his head in the vain hope that it might offer a measure of protection from the rain, got out and went around to the back. Milton was compliant, shuffling across the seat, stepping out and then hurrying ahead of Lester, as he directed him to the rear entrance at the back of the building. Lester took the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and gently nudged Milton to step inside. He followed, reaching out for the light switch. Then he took off his sodden jacket, shaking it out and draping it off the back of the nearest chair.

It was a small building with four rooms. There was a central reception area with a desk and a row of metal folding chairs against the wall. A picture of the president hung on the wall next to posters with home security tips and outdated mugshots of wanted fugitives, some of whom had been captured months ago. A door off this room led to a short flight of stairs and down there, in the basement, was the facility’s single cell. A third room was fitted out as a unisex toilet, and the fourth was Lester’s office.

“In here,” he said, leading the way.

He switched on the light. It was a simple, almost ascetic room. Lester was a plain-spoken and tough man, like the long line of hard men who had kept the peace before him. Photographs of his dour predecessors covered the walls of his office, along with the double-barrelled shotgun one of them had felt it prudent to carry. Lester liked there to be a clear distinction between his home and his office, so he hadn’t bothered to do very much to imprint it with his own personality. There was a picture of his wife and another of his kids on his desk, but that was the only concession to family that he made.

Lester went behind Milton and unfastened the cuffs.

“You know, if you looked the way you do now when I saw you on the road, chances are I wouldn’t have given you a second thought.”

Milton stretched his arms and then massaged his wrists. “That’s not particularly helpful now, is it?”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.”

“You thought I was a vagrant?”

“Yes, and I don’t like to rush to conclusions based on the way that a man looks, but we’ve had problems in the past with folks walking in and stealing things from other folks’ houses. And I’m not the sort of man who likes to take chances.”

Milton didn’t reply to that. Instead, he looked up at the framed picture on the wall.

“You served?” he asked.

Lester looked behind him. There, on the wall, was his only concession to ego. There was a line of shooting trophies on the top of a low bookcase and above that was a framed medal.

“Sure I did,” he said.

“That’s the Navy Cross.”

Lester nodded, surprised that he was able to recognise it.

Milton rose and took a step up to it. “You mind?” he asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

The citation was framed beneath the medal. Milton read it aloud: “‘The Navy Cross is presented to Lester H. Grogan Jr., First Lieutenant, U.S. Marine Corps, for extraordinary heroism while serving as a Platoon Commander with Company D, First Battalion, Fifth Marines, First Marine Division (Reinforced), Fleet Marine Force, in connection with combat operations against the enemy in the republic of Iraq.’ You were out there?”

“Did three tours.”

Milton kept reading. “‘On July 10, 2003, while participating in a company-sized search and destroy operation deep in hostile territory, First Lieutenant Grogan’s platoon discovered a well-camouflaged bunker complex that appeared to be unoccupied. Deploying his men into defensive positions, First Lieutenant Grogan was advancing to the first bunker when three enemy soldiers armed with hand grenades jumped out. Reacting instantly, he grabbed the closest man and, brandishing his .45 calibre pistol at the others, apprehended all three of the soldiers. Accompanied by one of his men, he then approached the second bunker and called for the enemy to surrender. When the hostile soldiers failed to answer him and threw a grenade that detonated dangerously close to him, First Lieutenant Grogan detonated a grenade in the bunker aperture, accounting for two enemy casualties and disclosing the entrance to a tunnel. Continuing the assault, he approached a third bunker and was preparing to fire into it when the enemy threw another grenade. Observing the grenade land dangerously close to his companion, First Lieutenant Grogan simultaneously fired his weapon at the enemy, pushed the marine away from the grenade, and shielded him from the explosion with his own body. Although sustaining painful fragmentation wounds from the explosion, he managed to throw a grenade into the aperture and completely disabled the remaining bunker. By his courage, aggressive leadership, and selfless devotion to duty, First Lieutenant Grogan upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and of the United States Naval Service.’” Milton nodded in appreciation. “Very impressive, Sheriff.”

“What did you do out there?”

“The kind of things I can’t really talk about.”

“Special Forces?”

“Mmmm.”

“Shit,” Lester said, his cheeks beginning to flush with embarrassment. He thought of his English accent and made the connection. “SAS?”

Milton nodded.

“Now you’re making me feel stupid.”

“Why? You thought I was just a vagrant.”

Lester started to speak, but found himself tongue-tied. He really
did
feel stupid.

Milton waved it off. “What happens next?”

Lester didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get it over with.”

“I’ve got to book you,” he said. “What’s after that will depend on the guy you punched. If he’s injured, maybe you’re looking at a felony, but for now I’m going to write it up as a citation. That’s just a written notice to appear in court on a specific date and time. And I have to keep you in overnight.”

“And if it is a felony?”

“Then you have to make bail or go in front of a judge within forty-eight hours. But maybe it doesn’t come to that. I can encourage him that it’s not a good idea. He was drunk, like you say. And he threw the first punch. I was a witness to that.”

“Shame you didn’t arrest him instead, then.”

“Yes,” Lester said. “It is.” Milton wasn’t giving him an easy ride, but that was fair enough, maybe he deserved it. “I’m sorry, Milton. It’s not your fault, but I’ve had a lot on my plate these last few days. My boy, Jesus, I’ve got more trouble with him than I know how to deal with, and then we’ve got a couple of FBI agents in town, and they’ve been making things difficult for me. I think, maybe, I let that get on top of me, and then I saw you in the bar, after what we’d said on the road… Shit, just explaining this is making me feel worse. Look, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this go away.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Sure.” Lester looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. “It’s late,” he said. “Let’s get you booked in.”

He led the way back into the reception area. Morten Lundquist was just arriving through the rear door.

“Evening, Lester,” he said.

“Evening, Morten. You okay?”

“The same tired old bullshit with the wife, but, apart from that, yeah, I’m all right.”

Lundquist was in his early sixties and had been a deputy in Truth for thirty years. By rights he should have been made sheriff years ago, but he had never really shown any interest in the post. He was a solid, dependable man, apparently happy with his lot as he approached his retirement. A little too religious at times for Lester’s tastes, but he had still been a father figure to him, and over the course of the years they had worked together they had become close. Lundquist had recently started to complain that his wife, Patti, was becoming cantankerous at the prospect of having him around the house full time, but Lester knew that he was exaggerating the reports for comic effect. The old man was planning on spending his autumn years outdoors; he was a keen hunter, and he had been out shooting with Lester many times before.

“Who do we have here?”

“This is John Milton. He got into it with those four out-of-towners at Johnny’s.”

“The blond one, looks sort of like a big fluffy bear?”

“But still big and nasty enough to play on the line for the Lions? Yeah, that one. Put him down with one punch. Bang.”

“Ouch,” Lundquist said. “Remind me not to get on your wrong side, Mr. Milton.”

“Don’t worry,” Milton said. “I’m nothing to worry about.”

“What do you do?”

“This and that.”

“Used to be in the military,” Lester said.

“Good for you.”

“Morten was in the army, too. Vietnam.”

“Long time ago.”

“Maybe so. But that was quite a war.”

“It was that. Good to meet you.”

Lundquist offered Milton his hand and he took it. He pumped it like he was his long-lost brother or a customer in a used-car lot.

“I’m going to book him for a citation, keep him in overnight, and then let him out tomorrow. I think I can persuade the others that it’d be best if they just let this one go.”

Lundquist took off his coat and hung it on a peg fixed to the wall. “You sort out the trouble at the school?”

“No,” he said. “Not even close.”

“You want, maybe I could have a look at Lyle, see if I can dig anything up?”

“I don’t know, Morten. I can’t think straight about that at the moment.”

“Well, whatever, you go on home. I’m on the clock now. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely. Go on. Get. I’ve got it.”

Lester shrugged. He wasn’t of a mind to look a gift horse in the mouth. He collected his damp coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “I’m sorry you have to stay here tonight,” he said to Milton. “It’s not too uncomfortable down there and, you ask nicely, Morten will probably make you a cup of coffee and see to it that your clothes are dried for you tomorrow.”

Milton nodded.

“And I’m sorry about… well, about earlier. I was out of line.”

“Forget it. Just a misunderstanding.”

Lester felt like a heel as he opened the door and jogged across the yard to the Silverado. He opened the door, slid inside, and started the engine. He flicked the air to high to heat the cabin and picked the Bob Dylan CD he had loaded earlier. He put the stick into reverse and rolled out into the road as “Subterranean Homesick Blues” started to play. The rain lashed into the windscreen as he put the car into drive and started for home.

THE MAN the sheriff had introduced as Morten Lundquist opened the door that led down to the cells. It was made from metal, had bars in a little window at the top, and it opened onto a staircase with an iron banister, concrete steps, and fluorescent strip lights overhead. As soon as Milton was inside, Lundquist shut and locked the door behind them.

They went down the stairs. The basement was simple, with a cement floor and plain plastered walls. There was one cell, a small adjunct to the corridor that was separated by a wall of floor-to-ceiling bars. There was a camera fixed to the wall, its lens trained on the cell, and a chair with a collection of hunting magazines splayed out on the floor beside it. The artificial light was harsh, bouncing back up off the smooth floor and glinting against the iron bars.