Another text from Geenie: It’s 8 pm, hot stuff. Time to make the donuts.
“She’s at a Dunkin’ Donuts,” Judge told Owen. They were still in the van, negotiating D.C. streets near the Supreme Court building.
“I like Starbucks,” Owen said.
“Geenie doesn’t. Me neither. You lose.”
At a red light he texted Geenie back and got the location. Somewhere on 23rd Street, on the George Washington University campus. They’d get something to drink, some light sandwiches, “…and then we’re checking into a D.C. bed and breakfast that accepts pets,” Judge told Owen.
“A B&B? Sweet. How’d your girlfriend know I’m a B&B kind of guy?”
“She didn’t, and I’m guessing you’re not. Best behavior tonight, Owen. She traded on her B&B network reputation to make these rooms happen on short notice. That means no whores in your room. We have a deal?”
“What’s the alternative?”
“You find another hotel. Or you’re on the street.”
“Well, not really, there’s your van.”
“You’re funny. That’s not gonna happen.”
A trendy address for the donut shop, on the first floor of a multi-story brick and stamped concrete university low-rise, not too far from Georgetown. The sunlight was gone and the campus lighting had claimed the tree-lined street, with Maeby and J.D. chilling in the van, the windows open far enough for Maeby to sniff at the foot traffic. J.D. sacked himself out in his crate. Basic Dunkin’ Donuts décor inside, with plastic tables and a tiled floor. Holding down a table in the corner of the shop was Judge’s girlfriend. Judge made the introduction.
“Owen Wingert, meet Geenie Pinto.”
Owen took off his hat. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, him devouring her and her dark, porcelain-smooth face and neck, her healthy pecs and toned arms, and her short, espresso hair. Judge surrounded her with a tight hug. After they all sat, Owen couldn’t contain himself.
“Damn, Judge,” he said, admiring her. “Just…damn.”
“Chill, Owen.”
Sandwiches and drinks for the three of them. They ate, talked, and Owen stayed cordial, although it was clear he was impressed. His reaction said his bounty-hunting mentor didn’t deserve this exquisite creature, and in Judge’s estimation he was right. If Judge told Owen she was Judge’s senior by a few years, he would have choked on his food.
“I’m not sure what my next move will be,” Judge offered.
“Simple,” Geenie said. “Be near the person your bounty is after.”
“That’s what I told him,” Owen said then sipped his coffee. His laptop was open and he returned to pounding away at it. “That’s why I’m going to Court tomorrow, to get in as a visitor. Did it once before, years ago. It’s cool, even when someone isn’t trying to kill a justice. Now it’s way cray-cray.”
“It’ll be easier, Geenie, if you act like he isn’t here.”
“First stop tomorrow,” Owen said, ignoring Judge, “will be the Supreme Court building. Early wake up. Seating for oral arguments opens at nine-thirty. If I get in line by seven, seven-thirty at the latest, that should do it.”
“Sounds doable,” Geenie said. “What do you think, Judge?”
“That’s early. What about breakfast?”
Owen keyed while he talked. “Not a problem, Judge. You sleep in, have your crepes and quiche and fresh passion fruit while Geenie and I check out the oral arguments. She’ll be fine with me.”
Judge would sooner have a lit firecracker up his ass. “Fine. I’ll miss breakfast then.”
“Tell me about this bounty,” Geenie asked.
She heard all of it. Background on Larinda Jordan, the murdered pastor, the murdered mother-and-son parishioners, the stolen Bibles. The storage locker and the description of the damage to the two clinics. One blown-up teen, four torched Planned Parenthood women, and a security guard executed at point blank range.
“I’m not getting the connection,” she said. “The clinic attacks, I get. The pastor…what’s his name again?”
“Darlington Beckner,” Owen said.
“Why him?”
Owen googled him on his laptop. He retrieved an obituary first, read some of it out loud. “Seventy-four years old. Adoption agency director earlier on, until 1989. His wife predeceased him but, hell, it wasn’t by much, only three weeks. He’s survived by four adult kids and a slew of grandkids.”
No new insights from the obit. “Other Internet crap on him. Personal interest stories and kudos from the press, things like that, for his past adoption agency work with orphaned kids, then with underprivileged Texas families as a preacher.”
“Larinda Jordan’s either a serial killer,” Judge said, “or a militant pro-lifer gone off the deep end.”
“Or a hitwoman.” Geenie’s chiding look said not to struggle with the concept. “They’re out there, Judge, in real life, not only in the movies.”
“Okay. Maybe. But the clinic damages tell me she’s an unhinged pro-lifer.”
“Assassins get assignments. This church pastor murder sounds more like a hit to me, Judge. Could be both.”
“But why him?”
Owen’s phone rang. “Hey, Frannie, how the fu…, ah, how the frig are you, bro?”
Judge dished for Geenie: “Owen’s Texas police chief buddy.”
“So how’d you like it, Frannie? Wait, stop. Aw c’mon, Frannie, relax. Stop yelling, asshole. Fine. FINE. I’ll take it down, goddamn it. Look…hello? Hello? Shit.”
Judge squinted at him like, what now?
“It seems a few law enforcement types caught up to the blog entry I posted an hour ago.”
“Who’d you piss off this time, Owen? Dallas Cowboy stadium security?”
“The FBI.” He went sheepish. “And it’s the court beat column, not the sports column.”
“You use a pen name for that one,” Judge said.
“I do local police blotter stuff, too. Frannie knows the alias.”
“Which is?”
“Thurgood Cochran. You know, a combination of Thurgood Marshall and Johnny…”
“I get it, Owen. Let me see the column.”
“I have to take it down or they’re gonna come after me for obstruction of justice. Might still come after me anyway.”
“Christ, Owen, just let me see it.”
He pulled it up. Judge and Geenie read it in silence.
“Your trusted local court reporter, reporting from the granddaddy of court venues, Washington D.C., on the road with a real-life bounty hunter. Tomorrow I visit the Supreme Court to watch America’s federal justice system at work during the first few days of its fall term, with newly confirmed associate justice Naomi Coolsummer from the great state of Texas on the Bench.”
No, Judge thought. Fucking no.
“After that, it’s back on the job, knocking on doors in the District with the bounty hunter, a former enlisted Marine…”
“…who’s chasing a Planned Parenthood terrorist…”
NO.
“…with his two dog deputies trained by the military. And here they are, folks. Don’t let the small one fool you.”
Judge couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Any comments or info or leads, put ’em in the box below. Wish us luck.”
Owen might as well have painted a target on their backs. No pictures of any people, but there were phone snapshots of his canine deputies. Add to that, his girlfriend Geenie was with him now.
“How could you possibly think this was a good idea, you…fucking…idiot.”
“We need leads, right?” he said. “Publicity gets leads…”
Judge was about to lose his shit all over the little bastard, Tourette’s-assisted or not. “It also gets people killed. I don’t get you, you self-destructive, alcoholic…”
“Judge,” Geenie grabbed his hand, “calm down.”
“…goddamn clueless little…”
She repositioned his hand to the rabbit’s foot on his belt loop but it wasn’t helping him one bit, no siree, didn’t stop him, wouldn’t stop him from saying it, it was coming out right…the fuck…now.
“…piece of shit SECOND BASE.”
The rabbit’s foot, plus Geenie’s hand in his, plus the most hurtful look Judge had seen on a human being in a long time, finally worked together to calm him down. But his mind was made up.
“That’s it. You’re gone. Tomorrow morning I’m shipping you back to Cowboy country. Get in the van.”
“Bro, look, I’m sorry, we needed leads…”
“Shut the fuck up. Take the blog entry down. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
The laptop started burping before he touched another key, giving off single ploink and bloink noises that sounded more appropriate for comic strips or cartoons than a computer.
“Judge…”
“WHAT?”
Comments were popping up, the bloinks and ploinks and kerflinkles all passing gas on their way to filling up the bottom section of his blog, and quickly. “Wow,” Owen said.
They looked over Owen’s shoulder. What Judge saw was horseshit, a page full of crazies come to visit, witnesses to every alien abduction and Kennedy cover-up and gun-grabbing conspiracy ever posited, one after another, misspellings in all of it. “It’s all BS, Owen. More trouble than it’s worth. Like I said, tomorrow, you are gone.”
“Look at this one,” he said, pointing, “here.”
One entry stuck out because of the name of the person who had posted it.
“Email me at the funeral home address with your phone number. I have additional information. Darlington Beckner Jr.”