CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DELIA

Word first reached me at four o’clock, long before sunrise, but I’m only now getting the details. Heyman Weymouth’s been formally arrested by the Leland County sheriff, Elvin Morrow. His numerous cuts have been stitched up and he presently occupies a hospital bed, to which he’s cuffed. I’ve already dispatched two patrol cops to Mercy Hospital. They’ll carry a formal warrant and escort him to our jail when he’s cleared to travel, in a couple days at most.

I’m in the kitchen, slicing and dicing strawberries, bananas, and papaya. It’s wholesome day in the Mariola house. The dawn of a new health-conscious era that might, if I employ all the willpower at my command, last a week. My phone’s propped up on the counter and I’m talking to Leila Dox, Leland County deputy sheriff.

“The bikes are gone, Delia,” she tells me. “Melted almost. There can’t be more than two in working condition and even those are scorched.”

“Any thoughts on the cause?”

“Yeah, a hand grenade. Or more than one.”

“Seriously?”

“We found the pins on top of the bluff.” She laughs. “Once the explosions stopped, bikers scattered in all directions. The ones not wounded or dead. But there’s nowhere to go, really, and we’ve been picking them up all night. Nobody saw anything. That’s the party line, which you’d expect. But my instinct? They’re telling the truth for once in their miserable lives. Somebody snuck up to the edge of the cliff and dropped those grenades. Not on the bikers, but on the motorcycles. I think the bikes were the target.”

Danny takes that moment to wander into the kitchen. He’s rubbing his eyes, still groggy as he heads for the coffeepot, another sign that he’s growing up. And if that isn’t enough, Fetchin’ Gretchen, Danny’s first girlfriend, is coming for dinner tonight. Fetchin’ Gretchen’s the name I’ve chosen for the girl, who I’ve never actually met, but already hate for taking Danny away from me. Which she hasn’t done, but that’s all right. I’d hate her anyway because she’s a cheerleader.

“What’s the count?” I ask the deputy.

“Three dead on scene. One died on the way to the hospital. Two in critical condition. Eight more wounded, but stable. The dead, I should mention, include a fifteen-year-old girl, a runaway from Minnesota.”

I’m as relieved as I am enraged. I’ve no doubt the attack on the Horde came from Charlie, whether or not he was present when the grenades were thrown. Maybe he was more interested in destroying property then pure carnage. I’ll concede that much. But he surely gave no thought to the lives of whoever happened to be camping in Knob Canyon. On the other hand, for the past couple days, I’ve been imagining an all-out war in Boomtown and the effect the battles might have on the construction site. No more. Individual bikers may well come to Boomtown looking for revenge. But without their bikes, the damage will be limited.

“Did you hear?” Danny asks.

“About Leland County?”

“Yeah, the Horde.”

I pull a tub of vanilla yogurt out of the refrigerator as Zoe walks into the room. She kisses me on the cheek, gives Danny a little hug. Ever the optimist, I thought I’d be the recipient of double the affection when Zoe moved in. Now I’m wondering if Zoe will replace me as Danny’s confidant.

“Did you hear about the Horde?” Zoe asks.

There’s no avoiding the topic and I briefly highlight my conversation with Deputy Miranda Dox. “Assuming the damage was caused by hand grenades, and that’s not proven, I have to ask myself if the assailants deliberately targeted the motorcycles, or if they miscalculated. And before you jump to conclusions, no evidence ties the attack to the crew in Boomtown.”

“C’mon, who else?” Danny wants to know. “What I heard, they were at each other’s throats. Charlie and that biker, Zeb.”

“Heard from who?”

“Whom,” Zoe corrects.

Zoe’s turning the temperature down and she’s right. My tone is growing sharper, an indication of how frustrated I am. Me and all my detectives. The restrictions on our activities in Boomtown are grating, what with crimes being openly committed. But that’s about to change. The mayor’s given us broad latitude to investigate any crime that occurred in Baxter and that’s what we intend to do. This afternoon.

“Sorry, Zoe, but there’s something my son needs to understand. First, motive isn’t evidence, no matter how often prosecutors use motive to influence juries. Motive can be used to isolate suspects, but until you find evidence, motive proves exactly nothing.”

I lay bowls of yogurt and fruit in front of Danny and Zoe. My son doesn’t exactly recoil, but he doesn’t attack the food the way he attacks bacon, eggs, and toast. Danny’s learning that his athletic ambitions come with sacrifice. Athlete’s bodies are all they have to sell. You perform on the field or you don’t perform on the field. That means caring for the only tool in the toolbox. Injury-prone can be a career-ending judgment.

“The way it works,” I say, “motive points you toward suspects. So, yeah, Charlie and his people. They’re obvious suspects and if it was our case, I’d start with Charlie. But I’d also want to know who else had a motive. Remember, we’re talking about a biker gang heavy into drug dealing. They sell in Baxter, true, but also in at least four surrounding counties. One reason I’m glad the investigation is falling on the Leland County sheriff and not on the Baxter PD? Most likely, the Horde has enough enemies keep a detective squad busy for the next year.”

“If these New York gangsters are responsible, they kept the attack away from their home base,” Zoe observes. “I mean, it’s brilliant, really. You look outside, it’s just a normal day in Baxter. People going about their business, the factory going up, good jobs at decent wages. What’s not to like?”

“Maybe that’s the message,” Danny says. “Leave Boomtown to us. We’ll keep the peace.”

“And before you know it,” I say, “the factory will be completed. These temporary workers, here without their families, will be replaced by permanent workers. Boomtown will close down because it will no longer serve a purpose. So, relax. Don’t rock the boat.”

The conversation drifts at that point. Danny first, describing Emmaline’s decision to become a ball player like Danny and Mike, her brother.

“She’s not even five years old,” Danny explains. “The glove is bigger than her head, but, like, she’s determined.”

“And Emmaline always gets her way?”

“Yeah, always. Only this time she’s maybe wishing she didn’t.” Danny lowers his spoon to the bowl and glances up at me. “I was tossing the ball underhand. Like, I wanted it to plop into the glove without her moving. Just land there. And she did catch a couple balls. But then she started swiping at the ball. I tried to tell her not to move the glove, but . . .”

“But she moved it?”

“Yeah, moved the glove and herself. The ball landed on top of her head. I thought she was gonna break down, or at least cry.”

“She didn’t, though,” Zoe says. “I’d bet my next paycheck on it.”

“No, she laughed and rubbed her scalp. Then she said, ‘Uh-oh.’ “

We eat on, just another family starting its day. Wondering about the weather, organizing our activities, no hurry, nothing out there to fear. Baxter’s crime rate has slowed and that’s good news for the pols and the cops. As for the murdered fifteen-year-old runaway, what happens in Leland County stays in Leland County. You can say the same of Boomtown.

The boat didn’t need rocking, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Charlie. The Horde probably have other enemies, or at least rivals with an eye on the Horde’s drug operation, and I can imagine an ambush, or even a direct attack. But targeting the motorcycles, leaving the Horde unable to counterattack? Too subtle for another outlaw gang. Not for Charlie, though. Smart and bold are the adjectives I’d apply to Charlie. Maybe too smart, maybe too bold. At this point, I’m only sure that I want to wipe the smirk off his face. I want to watch him endure the booking process, watch him cringe when a cell door closes behind him. I’ll need a conviction as well. I ran Charlie Setter’s name through NCIC late yesterday afternoon. He’s been to prison. The booking process won’t throw him. It’ll take a judge’s gavel banging down at sentencing time to slice away the man’s arrogance. That or a bullet.