It was just after eight when I returned to the parking lot of the Everheart Resort, Restaurant, and Bar. The adrenaline rush I had received during the raid on the Red Stone Patriots had already worn off, and I felt bone tired.
I slipped the Beretta under my belt at the small of my back and covered it with the sports jacket because I was just too exhausted to go through the trouble of stashing it in my trunk again. I walked toward the main entrance. Many of the resort’s other guests were already up and about, their faces fresh from a good night’s sleep. I, on the other hand, looked like death warmed over. At least that’s the impression I got from Bill Everheart, who called to me from behind the registration desk.
“Man, you look like you cut the candle in half and burned it on all four ends,” he said. “What the hell happened?”
I was too tired to explain it to him.
“When’s checkout?” I asked.
“Eleven. You’re leaving us, huh?”
“Time to go home. Can you put my bill together?”
“Happy to. Did you hear? The county attorney is asking for a thirty-day injunction against U.S. Sand. There’s going to be a court hearing tomorrow. This after the mine got bombed yesterday. I thought things were going to quiet down after the town hall.”
“It’s going to get worse.”
“What?”
I told him about the raid.
“This is sure to hurt business,” Everheart said.
“Is that all you care about? I have no love for either the militias or the environmentalists, but at least they’re making a stand for what they believe. But you—pick a side, man.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re leaving. I live here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I glanced at my watch. Breakfast or shower? I asked myself.
“Breakfast first,” I decided.
“Feel free to charge it to your room. Your bill will be waiting.”
“Just so you know, if they were pulling this shit in my backyard, I’d be tempted to blow up something, too.”
I drifted into the dining room and found my table, the one with a view of the restaurant, bar, and lobby entrance. The waitress didn’t even bother to ask if I wanted coffee. Instead, she brought a pot over and began filling a mug.
“Bless you,” I said.
“You look like you need it.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Sugar, cream?”
“I wouldn’t dream of diluting it.”
She dropped a menu in front of me and said she’d return in a moment. When she did, I ordered the Riverman’s Special, which was your basic steak, eggs, and hash browns, except that it also came with a choice of cocktails—Bloody Mary, screwdriver, Irish coffee, mimosa, and something called the Corpse Reviver. I went with the screwdriver because of the vitamin C. I’ve always believed in a healthy diet.
I was just starting to enjoy the meal when Skip Zetzman arrived, carrying a tan reporter’s notebook. I hoped he wasn’t looking for me, but he was. He sat at my table without asking permission and started talking.
“The ATF raided the compound of the Red Stone Patriots this morning,” he told me.
I chewed my steak and swallowed carefully before replying.
“Is that right?”
“Don’t give me that, Taylor. You were there.”
I scooped a forkful of hash browns onto a piece of toast. “Who says?” I took a bite.
“I have my sources.”
Not the ATF, I told myself. It was probably one of the Kamin County deputies speaking out of turn.
“No, that’s just an ugly rumor spread by loose-talking people,” I said. “I’m a civilian. Why would I be there?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Zetzman opened his notebook and prepared a pen as if he actually expected me to talk to him. Instead, I kept eating.
“I was told that the ATF has a warrant for Curtis Blevins, but he escaped,” Zetzman said.
I swallowed a mouthful of food and took a long sip of the screwdriver.
“Dammit, Taylor,” Zetzman said. “I answered your questions. The least you can do is answer mine.”
He had a point. At the same time, I told myself, I might be able to strengthen my own cause.
I pointed at his notebook and said, “Close that.”
Zetzman did.
“I promised the powers that be that I wouldn’t answer any questions,” I said. You have to admit there are damn few people who are capable of lying with greater dexterity than I can. “I would be happy, though, to ask a few questions if you don’t attach my name to them.”
Zetzman set his pen on top of the closed notebook.
“All right,” he said. “Off the record.”
“Who set the bomb that blew up the silica sand silo?”
“Was it Blevins?”
“I’m not saying anything, I’m just asking.”
“All right.”
“Who shot Mayor Franson?”
“You mean…”
“Who shot his own daughter in St. Paul seven days ago?”
“Sorry, what? This girl you were asking about, Emily Denys. She was Blevins’s daughter?”
“Julie Elizabeth Blevins was her real name, only you didn’t hear it from me. I suggest you contact the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office for confirmation.”
“Damn, Taylor. Damn.”
“Now, leave me to my breakfast. Oh, and Skip? We never had this conversation.”
He smiled and scurried away, happy about the scoop that I knew he would print in the Record before the week was out; a story that I was sure David Helin would happily quote to Marianne Haukass and a jury, should it come to that.
I finished my breakfast, drained both the screwdriver and my mug of black coffee, and stood up.
“My work here is done,” I announced.
Unfortunately, no one was listening.
* * *
I paid for my meal and left the restaurant. I gave Everheart a quick wave as I passed through the lobby to the carpeted staircase that led to a long second-floor corridor with rooms parceled out equally on both sides. There was another flight of stairs at the far end of the corridor that led to the parking lot, as well as a small room filled with vending and ice machines. A large double-pane window looked down on all of it. The sun was shining brightly through the window.
It was because the sun was at his back that the man who stepped out of the vending room appeared as a shadow to me. The shadow didn’t move, just stood there looking more or less in my direction. I was ten feet from my room when he started shooting.
He shot high. A steady rat-a-tat-tat of bullets tore into the walls and ceiling above me.
I went low, diving to the floor.
My right hand found the Beretta behind my back and pulled it from my jeans.
The man ceased firing his automatic rifle for a moment.
Then promptly resumed shooting.
This time he aimed low. Bullets tore into the floor only a foot or so in front of my head, sending shards of wood and carpet fibers flying through the air.
I gripped the Beretta in both hands and returned fire.
I was off target, too, the bullets slamming into the wall just off his right shoulder.
He fired again. This time his aim was even wilder. Bullets seemed to fly everywhere, yet somehow managed to avoid hitting me.
I fired again.
And missed.
The shadow turned and started running. He became a man when he stepped into the sunlight at the end of the corridor—Curtis Blevins. I could see him fumbling with a magazine, trying to reload his assault rifle as he reached the staircase and started down.
I jumped to my feet and began pursuit.
Room doors opened. Frightened faces peered out at me. I yelled at them as I passed.
“Stay in your rooms, stay in your rooms.”
I stopped running when I hit the staircase.
I couldn’t see the shooter, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see me. It didn’t mean Blevins wasn’t waiting.
I descended the staircase cautiously, the Beretta leading the way.
I was halfway down the staircase when I heard gunshots coming from outside.
I dashed down the remaining steps and hit the glass door with my shoulder.
The door flew open, and I found myself standing between two rows of parked cars. The sound of automatic rifle fire drew me toward the front of the resort.
I started running through the parking lot.
I could see a Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor with the words ARONA POLICE DEPARTMENT painted on the door blocking the exit.
A woman dressed in sneakers, black Dockers, and a blue short-sleeve knit shirt was sprawled on the asphalt near the Interceptor’s open door. A nine-millimeter Glock was lying just inches from her hand.
Curtis Blevins stood over her. He was carrying an AK-47.
I screamed his name and started shooting as I ran at him.
He never got the rifle up. To this day, I’m not sure he even saw me before I took half his head off.
* * *
I sat on the asphalt, my knees drawn up to my chest, my back resting against the front quarter panel of the Interceptor, and looked at her. Just looked. Sheriff deputies came and went, yet no one touched her body. Or Blevins’s body, either, for that matter. Finally the ME arrived, along with an army of techs. The sheriff stood next to me. Together, we watched them work.
“What did I tell you about not carrying a gun in my county?” the sheriff asked.
The sun was in my eyes when I looked up at him, and I had to shield them with the flat of my hand. I didn’t say anything, though. I returned my gaze to the body of Chief of Police Maureen McMahan.
“You’re coming with me to Tintori Falls,” the sheriff said. “I have a lot of questions, and you’re going to answer every fucking one. Then the county prosecutor is going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them, too.”
“Okay.”
“You can start by telling me why this Blevins character was trying to kill you.”
“He thought I ratted out him and his militia to the ATF.”
“Did you?”
“I suppose.”
“You’re saying you were involved in that raid they used my people for this morning.”
“You need to talk to Special Agent Rachel Colgin.”
“I’ll talk to the fucking ATF when I’m good and ready to talk to the fucking ATF. You act like you’re doing me a favor. You’re not doing anyone any favors.”
“I know. I’ve been through this before.”
“I bet you have. Every day and twice on goddamn fucking Sunday.”
I kept my mouth shut and watched the techs and the ME working around the chief’s body.
“She was a good cop,” the sheriff said.
“She was a lousy cop,” I said. “She deserved better than this, though. She deserved better than what we gave her.”
“What I gave her,” the sheriff said.
“She was going after U.S. Sand. Tilting at windmills, I suppose.”
“I heard.”
“Now…”
He surprised me by reaching down and gently squeezing my shoulder.
“I have her files,” the sheriff said. “I’ll keep the investigation alive.”
“In an election year? How’s that going to play?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t think I much care.”