Fury
Main Street
Tuesday, August 8th. 11:20 am.
Lourdes Orozco was sitting in the front seat of the van
parked in the shade of an overhang. Orozco was not happy to be in Fury,
Nebraska. After leaving Wyoming three days earlier, she thought they
should’ve headed to Colorado. She had had enough hardship since
crossing the border. Her cousins were difficult men to persuade, mi dios.
And they had unfinished business.
She looked down at the gun lying on the dirty floor at
her feet. Orozco’s eyes were flat, but her heart was racing. Things
were not happening the way she imagined. America could be a shitty place
too, she now knew.
Her cousins Edgardo and Jorge – all of them from San
Miguel de Allende in Mexico -- were inside the supermarket trying to
cash their last stolen check. They had done this two days ago in
Kimball, a few hundred miles west on I-80. It went smoothly, and she
prayed that this morning was no different.
Lourdes reached down and removed a black and white
clipping from her backpack, lying amidst her clothes and rosary. It was
an ad for a ranch house for sale. She had taken the clipping from a
local newspaper. She dreamed of buying a small house like the one in the
ad. That was the American dream, no? She would carry this with her, look
at it everyday, until she had a home of her own.
She saw Jorge and Edgardo come out of the supermarket,
their identical bow-legged gaits slow, liked two burros making their way
through the desert. She relaxed. Jorge was carrying groceries and
Edgardo waved to her.
El dio had smiled upon her when her two cousins found
her at that wretched man’s house, and she was grateful. Would they be
so fortunate to find Rosie, as well?
11:23 am
Homestead County Sheriff’s Deputy Sgt. Jack Ballou was
parked one block away accessing the situation. He had cruised to a stop
in front of Dann’s bar, when he first spotted the van. A description
of the vehicle, its Colorado plate numbers, and its occupants was given
that morning at roll call by Sheriff Jimmy ‘Fuzz’ King. Ballou had
written it down, taped it to the dash in his department SUV. The vehicle
and the suspects had been captured on a town camera after passing bad
checks a few days previously. They probably had no idea they had been
videotaped, since they continued to operate in the area.
“They flashed two handguns,” Said Fuzz. “Take all
precautions.” Fuzz had a penchant for two things. One was a hunk of
chew, which always seemed to be in his mouth, the brown juice making his
teeth look like crap – literally. The other was a caring attachment
for each of the men under his command. They called him Mother Fuzz,
behind his back.
“Mark, you set?” Ballou used his portable radio to
communicate with fellow Sheriff’s Deputy Mark Tepper, who was parked
around the corner from the supermarket. Ballou had already called
dispatch in Red Deer City and was told to contain the suspects.
Reinforcements were a good twenty minutes away. Only Tepper, a part-time
deputy looking to make good, was readily available.
Now, two Hispanic men had come out of the supermarket,
the door snapping shut behind them, their thick shadows dark against a
sun brilliant sidewalk.
Ballou felt the adrenaline kick in. He punched the
button on the portable.
“Take your position.”
“Copy that.”
Tepper’s marked car came out of his position, making a
wide turn, kicking up scorched dust, a burst of siren and lights. For
the normally quiet town, it was quite a show.
Ballou gunned his own car and headed straight at the two
men. He bisected Highway 6&34, and brought his car to a stop
perpendicular to the supermarket, his door opening instantly.
The suspect with the sack of groceries dropped them and
pulled a gun out from under his billowing shirt, the chrome of the gun
flashing in the late morning sky. Ballou’s immediate thought was that
the gun made a nice target. The other man stood motionless.
Ballou was crouched behind his open cruiser door. “Police!
Don’t move!” he shouted. “Drop your weapon!”
The suspect fired several rounds striking the SUV.
Ballou kept his breath even and fired three return rounds from his .40
caliber Glock, hitting the suspect square.
The suspect’s van door suddenly flew open, and from
his peripheral view, Ballou saw the woman jump out. Tepper opened fire
and dropped her.
Ballou refocused on the second man. “Don’t move,”
he yelled.
The man looked down, and took in his dying companion. He
wavered on bow legs, and then slowly raised his hands.
Ballou remained crouched and kept his gun pointed. “Down
on the ground! Down on the ground! Now!” Ballou approached cautiously
and aimed his gun at the man the whole time.
“You move, you’re dead,” Ballou said to the man.
He looked over at Tepper who had a glassy look on his
face. “Cover me,” he yelled. Ballou quickly holstered his weapon and
cuffed the suspect on the ground and frisked him. The man had a
semiautomatic handgun stuck in his waistband and Ballou pocketed it.
He left the man lying on the ground and checked for a
pulse on the wounded suspect, but there was none. He left the dropped
gun where it was for the forensic investigators to document.
The woman lay face down where she fell, a wide area of
blood under her being soaked up by the parched earth. One of her shoes
had come off. Ballou knelt down and felt her neck. She was dead, too.
“I thought she had a weapon,” Tepper said. “She
came out so fast. I thought she was going to shoot.” His body was
limp, as though the marrow had been sucked out of it.
Ballou looked in the open van door and saw a handgun on
the floor. Two suspects who never pulled their weapons, but one hot-head
that did. And cost himself and his companion her life. He shook his head
at the stupidity of it.
Fuzz and two state trooper cruisers came over the crest
of the highway, riding hard up the street, sirens and bubble lights
going, past gathering people, and pulling up to the crime scene.
“Are you boys okay?” said Fuzz. He had his hands on
his gun belt as he walked up to the deputies.
Ballou felt eyes on his back and turned around. The
cuffed suspect, still prone on the ground, was staring at him, with
tears streaking his cheek.
Fury
Sheriff’s Substation
Monday, August 21st; 1:30 pm
Nebraska State Trooper Sgt. Elizabeth Mendes had her
sunglasses propped on top of her brown hair, as she sat opposite Ballou
in the Sheriff’s Substation.
“Edgardo Moya died earlier this week of a brain
aneurism,” said Mendes. “He was in lockup and they let them out for
exercise. He was playing pickup basketball. Went up for a shot, and
collapsed. Never regained consciousness. That leaves us in a hole.”
Mendes and her partner, Sgt. Richard Emerson, who was
sitting next to her, were investigators assigned to major cases. They
were looking into the Moya brothers and Orozco, in an effort to trace
the origin of the ring that stole federal checks and bonds, which the
Moyas and Orozco were passing.
“We know some things,” she continued. “We traced
the gun used by Jorge Moya to a murdered man in Cheyenne, Wyoming –
Billie Bob Montgomery. He was shot to death three weeks ago.” She
placed a binder on Ballou’s desk in the substation. “This is a copy
of our case file, including the murder book on Montgomery.”
Ballou viewed the binder like a deer viewed food left
out in the open on the prairie. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“The stolen federal checks and treasury bonds the
Moyas and Orozco were passing came from the same batch the feds also
found in Montgomery’s home,” said Mendes.”
“What’s left to investigate?” said Ballou. “They
either robbed Montgomery or were partners. Maybe they double-crossed
him.”
Mendes tapped the file with a tanned, manicured finger.
“The Moyas worked in a meatpacking plant in Colorado. They shared an
apartment there with five other men. Why are they in Nebraska?”
Ballou thought of Edgardo Moya crying on the ground. “You
don’t shit where you eat,” said Ballou. “It might be that simple.”
He put his hand on the files, thought about pushing them back towards
the troopers, but didn’t.
“The checks and bonds were stolen from a mail handling
facility in Lincoln,” said Emerson. “The Moyas and Orozco passed a
total of five checks worth one thousand dollars. Montgomery had fifty
thousand worth of checks still on his property. A total of one hundred
twenty thousand was stolen. Where’s the rest?”
Emerson shifted his massive girth in the small wooden
chair. Ballou had recognized him when he entered the substation that
morning. He remembered Emerson on the front line of the Cornhuskers
football team, pushing opposing defensive linemen back on their heels.
He was good and headed for the pros – until he popped ligaments in
both knees. Ballou and his brother Scott made weekends out of the home
games. Only Ballou went now.
“Where are you headed with this?” said Ballou.
“There are a lot of unanswered questions,” said
Mendes. “We put together a working theory. Somehow, the Moyas and
Orozco found out about Montgomery having these checks. They went there
to rob him. He faked them out. Gave them a few checks and told them he
didn’t have any more, or that they were with his partners. What
Montgomery didn’t expect was that they would kill him. Which they did.”
“They came here to Nebraska to rob Montgomery’s
partners,” said Emerson. “That half might be with somebody here in
the area, possibly Fury.”
“How do you know that?”
“Why didn’t they head back to Colorado? The Moyas
took a motel room in Indianola and paid for two days in advance. They
were planning on spending time in Nebraska. They didn’t know we had
their plate numbers and didn’t realize the feds were watching for
those checks. They were looking for someone. We think Montgomery’s
partners and those checks.”
Emerson’s phone chirped and he pushed his massive
weight up from the chair, his body moving with effort, like a mountain
trying to tear itself free from the earth.
“I have to take this,” he said.
Mendes’s waited for her partner to step outside,
before speaking again. Her tone was softer. “I visited your brother
Scott in the hospice last month,” she said.
Ballou was taken aback.
“I worked with the Omaha PD on a few cases and got to
know him professionally,” she said. “I’m sorry he was shot. I hope
they get the guy.”
“I appreciate that,” said Ballou. He felt himself
growing sad again, an emotional state he knew too well, ever since the
shooting put his brother in a coma.
She leaned towards him and her hair fell forward, over
the shoulder of her department issued blue polo shirt. “Look, several
of our guys were sent to Iraq, including our profiler. I’m stepping in
to pick up some of that slack. I’ve got a multiple killing in Red
Cloud that I have to investigate. The feds are stretched thin, too. I
need your help.”
“You got a partner.”
They both watched Emerson slouched in the sun, talking
on his cell. He was as animated as a cow munching alfalfa on a hot
afternoon in pasture.
“He has determination. But no imagination with
evidence. I need you kicking up the dust.”
She tapped the files again. “Think about it, please.”
He thought about Scott, instead.
Fury
Tuesday, August 22nd; 10:00 am
The blue stem grass was ankle high and burnished brown
from the lack of rain. That was something they all worried about. The
local farmers talked about rainfall, like stockbrokers talked about
share price. The water table was getting low and had been the past few
years, and there was more talk of buying water from Kansas.
Ballou felt he was wasting his time. An anonymous call
came into dispatch that morning, a female caller reporting a man
shooting a dog at the ethanol plant on the edge of Fury. Ballou was
nearby and caught the job.
Beating his way through the grass with his collapsible
police stick, Ballou thought he might smell the dog, before he saw it.
But his nose only picked up the odor of fertilizer, lifted into the air
by water spraying off the irrigation pivot of a nearby farm.
The ethanol plant had been built two years ago, as part
of a privately funded multi-million dollar project to bring ethanol
processing to Homestead County. Trial production had been successful,
and now the old plant was in the process of being replaced to make way
for a newer, higher production facility. Actual construction hadn’t
started, so the old plant stood empty.
Ballou’s cell phone rang.
“Sgt. Ballou.”
“Arf. Arf. Arf.”
“You’re an asshole,” he said and hung up.
He was up to the large silver tank now, the sun glaring
off the metal. He let his eyes wander over to a smaller building that
served as administrative offices. Wanting to escape the heat, he tried
the door to the building, and it opened.
The inside was mainly empty and the shaded room was
cooler in temperature than the outside air. He tried the light switch
and the electricity was still on. The cooler air was making his clothes
stick and he wished he could take his tie off.
The furniture had been pushed back against the walls,
leaving a wide expanse in the center of the floor. He walked its length
and noticed old dog turds, but no dead dog. At one point, he stepped on
a .40 caliber shell casing. Another time, he stooped to examine dry blood
spatters. Something had happened in here.
Overhead, sections of the ceiling venting were missing,
and when he looked in the bathrooms, all the plumbing had been removed.
Back in the main room, he inspected a full trash bin.
There were a lot of beer empties, cigarette butts and packaging, and
miscellaneous food wrappers. He picked up a discarded crumpled piece of
paper that looked out of place. It was an email, with the address of the
ethanol plant and a date from two weeks ago printed in the body. The
date was the day he and Tepper had stopped the Moyas and Orozco. The
email had the return address of kingdog@hotmail.com. There was something
about the email that bothered Ballou, and he put it in his pocket.
Back outside, an open top truck carrying gravel rumbled
on by, and small pieces of rock flew off and rolled like small hard
tumbleweeds in the road. There was no dog here, but Ballou had found
something far more important. He headed back to the substation.
Beaver City
2:00pm.
It was a small room, with a single doorway, a table and
two chairs. The two-way mirror was in the door, and the walls were a
freshly painted white. Ballou waiting for Darlene Johnson to be
escorted from her holding cell.
After leaving the ethanol plant, he had done several
things. He got a chicken fried steak sandwich and a large coffee from
the local restaurant in Fury. He settled back into the substation,
turned on the fan and the XFM radio, and propped open the door for a
cross-breeze. He then looked through the files Mendes had left behind,
and ate his sandwich and drank his coffee. He had read through the files
carefully the night before, when he took them home with him. It was his
familiarity with the material that prompted his reaction to the email
discovered at the plant.
Flipping through autopsy reports, crime scene photos and
witness statements, he came to the source of what was troubling him. The
crime scene unit of the state troopers had photographed all the items
removed from the Moyas’ van. In front of him was a photo, and exact
replica of the one he found, of an email printout. Mendes and Emerson
were right. The Moyas had a connection to someone in Fury, and that
unknown person might be part of the ring that stole those federal
checks.
After this discovery, Ballou had the dispatcher/jailer
trace the call regarding the dog. It came from a payphone on Patterson
Street, one of four main shopping blocks in Fury. Ballou closed up the
substation and headed into town on foot.
He canvassed the bank, the hardware store and the coffee
shop, all within view of the payphone. The cashier in the hardware store
told him that Darlene Johnson, who worked in the video store, had been
using the payphone the past week.
“She told me her cell phone went out and that the
owner wouldn’t let her use the store phone for personal calls.”
Ballou thanked her and started for the door.
“You won’t find her there,” the cashier said.
“She out?”
“Likely for awhile. The deputies arrested her this
morning in Cambridge for selling stolen goods. She’s in Beaver City
lockup.”
Ballou stood up when the deputy brought Johnson into the
small room. They sat her down in a chair on the other side of the table.
She was in her early fifties, five foot three and bottle blonde. The
skin on her face was tanned and wrinkled in symmetric rows, like a
plowed field. Her eyebrows were jet black and framed her face. Her eyes
were baby blue.
“Mrs. Johnson? I’m Sgt. Ballou from Homestead
County.”
She nodded her head. “I told the deputies that I had
no idea that scrap metal was stolen. Swede told me that he had
permission from the town to take that stuff.”
The sergeant on staff had told Ballou that Darlene was
arrested for stealing metal fixtures and plumbing from the ethanol plant
and attempting to sell it in Cambridge. Ballou said he had been by the
plant and noticed it had been stripped. Johnson’s husband had evaded
arrest by running across the Union Pacific tracks, nearly get hit in the
process.
“You made a call to the sheriff’s office in Red Deer
City and reported a dog being shot.”
Her eyebrows rose increasing the wrinkles in her
forehead. “That’s why you’re here?” Then a thought occurred to
her. “Talking to you might only make things worse for me.” She
looked around at the deputy standing by the door. “Can I have a cup of
coffee?” He knocked on the door and told the officer who poked his
head inside.
“You’re not in trouble, if your husband lied to you.
What kind of man is he? He’s leaving you holding the bag.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along. I don’t
give a rat’s ass about that metal. He’s got the damn scrap business
in Alma.” She wiped away a tear with a purple painted fingernail.
“Tell me about the dog.”
“We were there two nights ago.”
“Where?”
“The ethanol plant. I was surprised to see cars and
all. At first, we thought it was the plant owners. Turned out to be a
bunch of men with dogs.”
“And then what?”
“Swede said it was dog fights. So, we waited for them to go, sitting
there in the car. One of the men dragged a dog out of the building –
where they’s were having the fights – and shot it. I own three dogs
and four cats, you know. I don’t like no animal abuse. The whole thing
is wrong, you ask me.”
“I went to the plant and there’s no dog.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Did you see the man that shot the dog, or can you
identify any of the men you saw there?”
The woman stared at him, her hair looking like yellow
play dough in the lighting. “Ollie Rice was the one shot the dog.”
Fury
Wednesday, August 23rd; 10:00pm
The Remington 870 shotgun was on the seat next to him, a
present he bought himself at Cabela’s. Ballou had the windows rolled
down and was enjoying the first evening breeze in weeks. Winds had come
in from somewhere, maybe the Rockies, maybe from Minnesota.
He could hear the corn stalks rustling in the field next
to his pickup. He remembered the first time he picked corn with his
father and brother, when he was a boy, the mud covering his shoes, the
work making him sweat. It had been a good time.
The good times were all locked in the past now. Thinking
of his brother lying in his hospice bed, wasting away, and eventually
dying. The acid in his stomach was burning a hole in Ballou. He imagined
it would consume him one day.
He blinked several times. Across the darkened road, he
saw lights going off in Ollie Rice’s house. Rice would be coming out
soon.
Walking around Rice’s house earlier that evening,
Ballou had looked for evidence of anything out of the ordinary. Little
missed details could sometimes derail larger criminal intentions. The
front lawn was covered in dried dog shit. Out back, a German shepherd
was sleeping. The dog had a bloody bandage on its hindquarter and deep
scars on its coat. Rice was not at home and Ballou left his business
card in the front door frame. He wanted to rattle Rice a little, perhaps
cause him to make a mistake in panic.
Lourdes Orozco’s death was still eating at Ballou.
There was something wrong about the way she died. She didn’t bother to
pick up or use the gun. He had arrested plenty of hardened men and
women, who ordinarily wouldn’t have hesitated using it. She didn’t,
however.
The ensuing investigation removed Tepper from active
duty and his dismissal, maybe even criminal charges, was imminent. Maybe
Orozco was an innocent bystander. Maybe the Moyas had abducted her and
kidnapped her.
The last light in the house went out and the front door
opened. Rice emerged with two dark shapes in step beside him. The moving
shadows got into the back of a pickup.
Ballou was parked off the side of the field, almost
putting himself in a ditch. Rice didn’t see him when he drove past,
but Ballou could see the pickup bay. The dark forms were dogs, and their
eyes seemed to glow as they looked out at the countryside.
Ballou started his pickup.
10:22 pm
Ollie Rice drove slowly along Highway 23, passing Eustis
and taking a right hand turn at Moorefield. He made another left,
heading away from Jeffrey Reservoir in Lincoln County. He was heading
deep into country. The night was dark and the stars a spray of white
poppy seeds frozen against the black. Ballou kept his distance, knowing
that his headlights would be noticeable to Rice.
Eventually, Rice slowed at two large grain silos and
made a right, taking a local, barely paved road winding through the
craggy plains. He stopped at a brick building that Ballou recognized.
Erected in the 1930s, it once served as a major feed distributorship in
northwest Nebraska. Ballou’s father came here regularly years ago to
stock the family feed and grain store. The building was leased out now
as a storage facility, by the grandson of the original owner.
Ballou killed his lights and circled around, stopping
parallel to a soy field. He couldn’t see well in the dark and given
the distance. Taking his shotgun with him, he got out of the pickup and
walked closer.
A few cars and pickups were parked around the building.
Rice was leading his two dogs out of the bed of the pickup. Both dogs
were Boxer terriers. Other men with dogs were going inside, the dogs
muzzled and half-charging each other. When the fights started, the
owners would give their dogs stimulants and cut them. The angry,
adrenaline fueled dogs would tear each other to pieces.
Ballou was faced with a predicament. He couldn’t go
inside because he would be recognized. He was too far away to hear
conversation, or to view the inside activity. He stood there mulling
what to do, when his answer drove up in a green PT Cruiser.
Curtis
11:04pm
The John Deere distributorship in Curtis was closed, but
a single pickup was parked in the darkened lot. After ten minutes, it
was joined by the green PT Cruiser.
Donny Palisade got out of his car, walked over to the
pickup, and got in the front seat.
“Working overtime tonight?” said Palisade. “Surprised
me seeing your number on my cell.”
“You and me both,” said Ballou.
Palisade had become Ballou’s primary confidential
informant two years before, when the sheriff’s deputy had busted him
on a drunk and disorderly. A search turned up two joints. Palisade was
looking at a good year, or two, since he was known to the system. Ballou
saw his usefulness however, and talked the DA down to probation, in
return for Palisade turning snitch.
Ballou saw CIs as a necessary evil. He knew Palisade
wasn’t a law-abiding citizen, and probably would never be one.
Palisade had even spent a year inside since turning CI. The fact that he
operated on the other side of the pale was what made Palisade a useful
informant.
Palisade slapped Ballou on the shoulder and flashed a
yellow-toothed smile. On his head was a weathered cowboy hat with a
pheasant feather stuck in the brim.
“So why you ask me to meet you tonight?”
“Tell me about the dogs,” said Ballou.
Palisade shrugged and reached for a packet of cigarettes
in his tee shirt pocket. “Pretty basic stuff, Jack. Dogs fightin’
each other. You bet on the winner, hopefully.” He shrugged his
shoulders again, two points rising up under the fabric of his shirt. “There’s
something poetry-like about it, you know. You see the winning dog
standing in the pit, all proud. Covered in blood on its fur. It’s got
this dignity and power to it. Like it’s a god.”
Ballou pointed to the cigarette in Palisade’s hand.
“Not in the pickup. The two Hispanic boys trying to pass bad checks a
few weeks back. Have you seen them at the fights?”
He shook his head. “Ain’t never them.” He put his
unlit cigarette to his lips using lean fingers, the tan skin stretched
tight over the bones. “They’re careful about who’s invited.”
Ballou watched the lights of an approaching car. It
passed them and kept going.
“Who does the inviting?”
“That’d be Ollie Max. He organizes the fights.
Charges an entry fee. Takes a percentage off the top. He fights his own
dogs, too. Can’t stand to see them lose.” Palisade powered down the
window. He pointed to the right. “Best burgers in that bar right
there. Harlan’s.”
Ballou shook his head. “How does Ollie let everyone
know about the next fight?”
“You get an email, or a text message. The good ole
boys that haven’t caught up to technology – well, we tell them. Not
only have to worry about you guys with badges,” he looked at Ballou
and smiled, “but you got these animal lovers raising hell now.”
“Who’s Ollie tight with?”
“That’d be Ryan and Jarrett Fox.”
“These boys into anything illegal?”
Palisade shrugged.
“You into anything illegal with them?”
“I’m not answering that, Jack.” The smile was
gone, and his tone was cautionary.
“How long do the fights go?”
Palisade leaned over, studied the dashboard clock. “This’ll
go until nearly one, one thirty. Then everyone splits up, some go for
beers and a side of red.”
“Where do Ollie and the Fox brothers go?”
“Their regular hangout is the Husker Hut. I heard them
talking about going back to Ollie’s tonight, though.”
Ballou reached into his pants pocket and handed Donny
his usual payment for information.
“Go back. Keep your ears open for any mention of the
Moya brothers, or stolen checks.”
“Checks? You mean that Lincoln job?”
“That’d be the one.”
Palisade looked at Ballou under sandy eyebrows, as he
opened his door. They both heard the approaching whistle of the Union
Pacific train. “Where you going, Jack?”
“To get some answers.”
Ballou drove away before Palisade reached his own car.
Fury
11:58pm
Ryan and Jarrett Fox lived just outside Strunk Lake in
Furnas County, in a weathered yellow ranch house. Adjacent to Ryan’s
house was fenced-in grazing pasture that extended for a hundred acres,
and next to that, closed-off public land.
Ryan had applied for many jobs when he graduated from
Fury High School. The railroad, the phone company and driving truck for
local farmers. His bad character was written all over him, and employers
either turned him down, or eventually turned him away. He currently
worked as a bouncer in a strip club. His brother Jarrett had just
returned from serving in the National Guard in Iraq and had no job.
Ballou drove past the darkened house and parked down the
road in a pull-off spot. He put his sheriff’s card in the front
window. He would have preferred starting with Ollie Rice’s house, but
since they were headed back there after the fights, he would begin his
investigation with the Fox brothers.
Ballou walked down the gradient, suddenly startled by a
deer that ran past across the road. He realized he had left his shotgun
in the pickup, turned and looked back, but decided not to go get it. His
adrenaline was working overtime and he told himself to relax.
He gently tried the back and front doors of the house,
but both were locked. Ballou didn’t want to jeopardize the case for
either his office, or the state police. It was easy enough to say he
drove by and saw something suspicious, but a whole other matter to break
inside.
He walked around again to the back of the house. A chain
was linked to a single leafless tree, and an older model Toyota pickup
was parked under a tarp. He flashed his light in the kitchen window and
illuminated a messy kitchen. Dishes were piled in the sink, and cups and
glasses filled the counter tops. He thought he saw a small rodent run
along the drain board.
Ballou moved over to the next window further towards the
front of the house. This was pointless, he thought. If there were stolen
checks in the house, he wasn’t going to find them this way. Not unless
they wallpapered the living room with them. He turned his light onto the
interior and quickly scanned his light beam over more mess.
Something on the floor caught his attention. He focused
onto a rolled up quilt, sliding the beam up its length slowly. The quilt
was up against the bottom portion of a couch, with papers and food
wrappers lying around it. Sticking out of the top of the quilt was a
face staring back at him. A set of woman’s eyes looked at him. Her
eyes were dull, then suddenly horrified. The woman’s mouth was duct
taped shut.
“Shit.”
Ballou broke the window glass with his flashlight
handle, turned the inside latch and opened the window. He lifted himself
through and went over to the woman. She was making groaning noises. Her
hands and feet were bound with more tape. Her face was bruised.
“You’re going to be alright,” he said. “I’m
with the Homestead County Sheriff’s Office.”
He started to pry the tape off her mouth, but stopped
when he heard a car pull up. Headlights flashed across the wall above
him making strange shadows. At the same time his cell phone rang. He
turned the ringer off and glanced at the number – it was Palisade.
Two car doors slammed and footsteps approached on the
wooden porch. He pushed the woman back against the couch, stepped away
and drew his gun.
The first man through the door was Ryan Fox wearing a
camouflage baseball cap. The second man was Red Carver, a local
miscreant that Ballou had arrested once for assault. Fox turned on the
lights and both men looked at Ballou, who was pointing his off-duty
weapon.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” said
Ballou. “You’re both under arrest.”
“You’re just as dumb a motherfucker as your brother,”
said Carver.
Fox smiled and whistled once.
Ballou heard something move on the porch and the patter
of paws. A Doberman entered the house.
The dog growled and looked up at Ryan Fox. “Go on boy,”
he said.
The dog jerked its head and barked once, hurling itself
at Ballou. Ballou fired several rounds from his gun at the same moment
that Carver pulled a handgun from his cargo pants pocket, and fired
several times at Ballou.
The dog took the brunt of it. It was struck in the snout
and chest by Ballou, and since Carver’s aim was bad, the dog was hit
in the hindquarters too. The Doberman landed against Ballou’s chest,
knocking him down. As he was falling, Ballou fired several more rounds
at Carver, hitting him each and every time.
Pushing the dead dog away, Ballou looked at the body of
Red Carver, but didn’t see Ryan Fox anywhere.
Outside, a car door opened and closed, and someone ran
up the porch steps. Ballou was looking for a place to take cover, as he
loaded in another clip. There was no time.
Jarrett Fox came through the front door firing and
pumping a shotgun in quick succession. With shotgun pellets flying
around him, Ballou rolled across the floor, knocking his head on a small
wooden table, and sending empty beer cans flying.
Fox paused to sight Ballou, and during those
milliseconds, Ballou fired three rounds from his position striking
Jarrett in the shoulder and chest. The man was knocked backwards into
and over an armchair. The shotgun was still in his hands.
Ballou stared up to remove the weapon from Jarrett Fox.
He shook his head trying to clear it, and had forgotten about Ryan in
the bedroom. Forgotten him, until he felt cold metal against the back of
his head.
“You in a world of trouble now,” said Ryan.
Ballou saw a flash of light. He waited for the pain to
hit and the blackness to follow, or so he imagined death to be like.
Instead, the first flash was followed by more flashes throughout the
room. Specifically, red and white lights. He could still feel the cold
metal against his head.
Out the front windows he saw the origin of the lights --
a series of patrol cars, both Furnas County Sheriff’s deputies and
Nebraska State Troopers.
“Fuck almighty,” said Ryan.
They both heard a male voice come over a bullhorn
ordering those inside to come out, hands on their heads.
Ballou felt the gun barrel come away, heard Ryan toss
the gun onto the couch.
“You make sure they don’t shoot me,” said Ryan. He
looked expressionless at his brother. “And get Jarrett an ambulance.”
Ballou turned and struck Ryan across the face with the
barrel of his gun.
“If you don’t want to be shot,” said Ballou, “then
I’d suggest you go out slowly.” He pushed Ryan towards the door.
“Don’t shoot,” said Ryan. He held his hands up and
out, as he stepped onto the porch.
Ballou checked on the two men. Carver had expired, but
Jarrett Fox still had a pulse. He stepped to the doorway and flashed his
badge and ID card. “We need an ambulance in here.”
He went over to the young woman and pulled the tape off
her mouth, and she started to cry and cough.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She shook her head, trying to form words. “Rosita,”
she whispered hoarsely.
“Everything’s going to be okay now, Rosita.”
He helped her up and together they walked out into the
glaring lights.
Fury
Sheriff’s Substation
Monday, August 28th. 10:15am.
“Gone, baby, gone,” said Mendes. “She didn’t
trust us. Either that we would end up getting her killed or that the
government would deport her. She disappeared last night.”
The image of the tied-up, bruised and bloodied woman
merged in Ballou’s mind with Orozco lying dead by the side of the van.
He couldn’t argue with Rosita’s logic.
“Your track record seriously sucks, Mendes.”
“And your sense of invincibility sucks. You owe your
ass to Palisade calling us.”
“I guess he gets a raise.” Ballou flashed a half
smile. “The Moyas had nothing to do with stealing those checks from
Lincoln.”
She shook her head. “The Moya brothers came looking
for Lourdes and Rosita,” said Mendes. “She was their half sister.
Both she and Lourdes had been sold for sweatshops and prostitution.
Montgomery was into lots of shit. Smuggling humans must’ve been one of
them. They got Lourdes out of his clutches, first. They took the email
off him to track down Rice and Fox, we think. The checks they took off
him were coincidence.”
“I noticed Edgardo crying when I arrested him. He saw
his chances of freeing his half-sister go up in smoke.” Ballou knew
what family meant. He sympathized with the Moyas. He would’ve done
whatever needed to be done, too. “Did you find more checks?”
“Nothing in Ryan Fox’s house. We got a court order
for Ollie Rice, but found a nice collection of ash in his backyard
barbeque. He obviously burned whatever was left of the checks. Forensics
is going through it now. There’s a tie between Montgomery, Rice and
the Fox brothers, and the checks. I’m sure of it. We’ll find it.”
Ballou got up and opened the front door for ventilation.
“Something Red Carver said bothered me. He mentioned me being as
stupid as Scott.”
Mendes rolled her eyes. “A bad guy trying to rattle a
cop. Gee, that’s surprising.”
“Yeah,” said Ballou. The investigation at the time
ruled Scott’s shooting a foiled robbery attempt. Scott had been
wounded outside a bar the previous year, during his off-duty hours. The
shooter had never been identified. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“You did a good job, Jack. You put cracks in this
case. It’s duly noted at headquarters.”
Ballou nodded his thanks. His mind had moved on to other
things, though. It had shifted back to the night Scott was shot, on a
dark street in Kearney. Maybe he would place a call to Palisade tonight,
shake things up a little bit.
Copyright 2007 by
Anthony Rainone
Anthony Rainone
currently lives in New York City. He writes for Mystery Scene
Magazine, CrimeSpree Magazine and The Rap Sheet. He is a
Contributing Editor for January Magazine. Anthony is
finishing a novel using the main characters in this story, and he wants
to thank the good people of Nebraska for putting up with him. You
can find him blogging at Anthony Rainone's Criminal Thoughts.
