Homecoming, page 7
“What’s the rationale behind that?”
“Budget cuts,” Bobby said dismissively. “They can barely staff the office anymore, much less the jail. Hell, we’re down to the sheriff and eight deputies, one of which is out on maternity leave. We all love Sheriff Brewer, but he’s almost seventy and not in the best of health. It’s an elected position, and nobody else around here has an interest in running.”
“What about you?” Case asked.
“Aaaahhh, I hate politics. I’d make a horrible sheriff.”
“You sure it doesn’t have anything to do with that pretty little deputy in the office—Amanda, was it?”
Bobby’s face went slack. “How the hell did you know about that?”
“I’m trained to observe, Bobby,” Case responded jokingly. “I see everything.”
“Is that right? You ever see yourself running for sheriff?”
Now it was Case’s turn to be stunned. “Are you kidding me? I just retired—for good.”
“You didn’t retire, Case. You left. There’s a difference.”
Case hung his head.
“We could use the help, Case. Pikesville’s going to shit and the State Police seem to have forgotten we exist. We’ve had a massive spike in opioid-related deaths in the last couple of years, drug store robberies, you name it. Hell, there’s even three teenage girls gone missing in the tri-county area, one from Pikesville. That shit never used to happen around here. Families and schoolboard members are all up in arms. People around here are worried, Case, and it just keeps getting worse.”
Case remembered seeing the missing-persons posters hanging by Sheriff Brewer’s office.
“Now we have Rex and the Dead Rebels running around here. It’s a lot to handle.”
“You think they’re connected to all this somehow? Case asked.
“I have my suspicions about Jesse and Rex, but there’s only so much I can do by myself.”
“Where do they stay?”
“They’re up at Grandview Estates.”
“The trailer park?”
“Yeah, it had been vacant for years. Then it got bought up by some LLC. A few of the trailers are just burned-out shells. It’s still just a run-down shithole up in the mountains, but now Jesse, Rex, and a few of their biker friends stay holed up there.”
Case got quiet as his mind processed everything.
“We could use the help, is all I’m sayin’,” Bobby added.
“I know, but I can’t get involved, Bobby. I just want to get things situated back at the farm and clear my head for a bit while this whole thing with the hijacking blows over.”
That wasn’t entirely true. After Rebecca’s death and leaving the air marshal service, Case felt like his life was slowly unraveling. But he didn’t want to show up after all this time and burden Bobby or Sam with his troubles.
“I get it,” Bobby said, “but if you ever have a change of heart, we could—”
“Use the help,” Case said, finishing Bobby’s sentence, and the two brothers laughed together for the first time in years.
* * *
Case and Bobby closed the place down that night. Sam knew Mia would be at home fast asleep, so she stayed with the brothers as they caught each other up on the happenings in their lives. She loved seeing the two of them together again. Despite the time Case had been gone, it didn’t take long for the two brothers to settle back into their old routine. There was a bond there that Sam admired—something anchored in their DNA.
Eventually, the three locked up the bar and went their separate ways. Case walked across the parking lot as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, staring intently at the phone number Sam had written on a paper coaster. He had worried that his return to Pikesville wouldn’t be so well received, but that worry was gradually fading. Case fired up the Dodge and headed north, back toward the farm. A single headlight following him in the distance.
CHAPTER 11
Case didn’t sleep well that night. Something felt off in Pikesville, and it nagged at the back of his mind—Jesse, Rex, the reduced police force, and missing girls. From what Bobby and Sam had told him, those problems didn’t exist before Rex showed up, and Case wasn’t a big believer in coincidence. This all had to be connected. That he was followed home from the bar last night only confirmed his suspicion. Case learned long ago to heed that little voice in the back of his head. It had saved his life several times in Afghanistan, and now it was back, telling him to pay attention.
Case threw off the heavy quilt, placed his feet on the worn wooden flooring, and was immediately shocked by the cold. It was late September in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and he had forgotten how unpredictable the weather could be this time of year. Case got dressed and made his way down the hall to the kitchen and found enough dried kindling and sticks of hickory to start a small fire in the old buck stove sitting in the corner.
I’m gonna have to get busy before winter, Case said to himself, relishing in the thought of working out his recent frustrations with an axe and a pile of wood. But first…coffee.
Case searched the countertop and cabinets for a coffee pot, but couldn’t find one.
“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath.
Luckily, he had learned to be prepared for just such emergencies. Case found an old kettle under the stove and filled it from the sink. It was only tap water, but still better than anything he’d ever tasted from a bottle. The farm had never been put on public service, so the Youngers sourced their drinking water from an underground spring that bubbled up from a hillside behind the barn. That water flowed into a cistern and then got filtered and pumped straight to the house. Growing up, Case had never paid much attention to it, but after spending several years in some of the world’s filthiest third-world countries, he’d come to appreciate the luxury of clean water. Plus, it made a damn fine cup of coffee.
Case sat the kettle on top of the wood stove and returned to his room to retrieve a small French press and a cannister of ground Boconó coffee from his bag. He’d never been picky about coffee, as long as it was black, but he discovered this particular brand one morning while jogging in the Lavapiés district of Madrid. The beans were shipped in from Ethiopia, then specially roasted in a small cafe off Calle Embajadores. The smell was so intoxicating it compelled him to stop and pinpoint its source. The coffee was bold and strong—sharp with a hint of blackberry. Case loved it so much he made it a point to grab a bag or two every time he went to Madrid. It looked like this would be his last.
As the warmth from the stove slowly began to fill the small room, Case pressed out a cup of coffee and poured it into his dad’s old stoneware mug. Cupping the mug, he walked over to stare through the murky window above the sink. The sun was barely above the eastern ridge, and wisps of fog hung lightly over the fields. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of freshly brewed coffee and burning pine. Home.
Case opened the faded off-white door of the Frigidaire and saw that it was freshly stocked with a few staple items. Butter, milk, eggs, and bacon. There was also a note.
Mr. Younger,
Thought you could use a few things.
—Trevor
Case smiled. The kid was really growing on him.
After breakfast and a second cup of black coffee, Case slipped on his favorite pair of Silverado work boots and went out to inspect the property. Starting on the western edge of the field, Case walked the perimeter fence, looking for busted wire or felled trees. Then, after crossing a rickety wooden bridge that stretched a few yards over the creek, he made his way to the barn.
From outside, the old barn looked the same, but inside, Case noticed someone had put in a considerable amount of work. The vacant stalls had been shoveled and cleaned, and what little hay was left had been stacked neatly in the loft where it would stay dry. A giant lump of dingy canvas sat in the middle of the building. Case approached it slowly. He firmly gripped the cloth and pulled it toward the floor, creating a momentary cloud of dust and straw. Underneath, Case found Avis’s 1976 Dodge Power Wagon, the same one they’d used for decades around the farm—the same one he’d borrowed to take Sam out on their first date and the same one he’d lost his virginity in six months later.
Case walked around the old truck, brushing his hand against the flat blue-gray surface. Most of it was still original, with a few modifications. It had been raised a couple of inches to accommodate larger off-road tires, and a brush guard had been added to the front to protect the grill. The engine was the factory 318 V8, and had less than 100,000 miles on it. Avis had always taken good care of the truck and never drove it farther than town and back. Case opened the driver’s side door—it still squeaked— and climbed up onto the blue pleated vinyl bench seat. He admired the simplicity of the dashboard: no touch screens, backup cameras, or buttons to control heated seats, just basic gauges and an AM/FM radio surrounded by simulated wood paneling.
Simpler times.
Case saw the keys hanging in the ignition and couldn’t resist. He pressed the clutch to the floor, gave the gas pedal two quick pumps just like Avis had taught him, then turned the key. The engine cranked and sputtered for a few seconds but finally relented, firing up and running smoothly. Someone had apparently been taking care of the truck while he was away. Case let the engine idle for a while as he fondly reminisced about time spent with Sam, fishing trips on the Little Reed River, movie dates, and homecoming. Reluctantly, he forced his mind back to the present and the work that needed to be done, so he switched off the ignition and stepped out of the truck and back into the real world.
“You getting reacquainted with the place?” Trevor said from the open barn door.
Case turned to see the boy standing there, smiling excitedly.
“Me and grandpa Dimpsey’s been keeping that truck up and running for ya. I come in and start it every now and then.”
“I appreciate that, and thank you for the groceries.”
“Oh, it was no problem at all. Grandpa Dimpsey eats mostly oatmeal anymore.”
Case laughed at the kid’s honesty. “You feel like doing a little work this morning?”
“Heck yeah. That’s what I’m here for.”
“How about you and me fix some fence and get a little more firewood in? Then we’ll jump in my truck, and I’ll buy you lunch at the diner.”
“Really? That’d be awesome!”
Case was charmed by Trevor’s cheerful disposition.
“You have your learner’s permit, right?”
“I sure do.”
“Then maybe I’ll let you drive us to town.”
Trevor’s already smiling face lit up with excitement.
“No way! Are you serious? I’ll run back to the farm and grab my hammer.”
“I have an extra ha…” Case started, but Trevor was already halfway across the field, running wildly. Hammer. He finished to himself, shaking his head. The kid was impossible not to like.
CHAPTER 12
Grandview Estates was burrowed in a small valley on the western edge of Cook County, just outside the boundaries of Jefferson National Forest. It used to be a decent little place, secluded and peaceful, but once the opioid epidemic took hold in Pikesville, it was the lower-income trailer parks that fell first. Vacant for years, Grandview was eventually bought up by some out-of-town LLC and then left just as it was. Rex somehow got word that the place was wide open and went to work setting it up as the hub for their drug operation. It was a perfect location, isolated and quiet, with easy access to Highway 94 and the 604. There wasn’t another house for miles, and the police seldom wandered this far outside the Pikesville town limits.
Jesse woke up around 10:00 a.m. exhausted and irritable. After BG’s, he and Rex had returned to the trailer park, where they linked up with the rest of the crew. Rex had suggested putting a tail on Case. The man was a former fed, obviously a local hero, and a home town rival to Jesse. Plus, if the news was accurate, he was also an incredibly dangerous man. Keeping tabs on him seemed like the smart thing to do, so Rex sent Mac, a low-level enforcer for the Dead Rebels, to watch over Case.
The crew consisted of ten people, mostly bikers from the surrounding counties and a few Pikesville locals. The structure was simple. Two men were sent down from the Richmond Chapter of the Dead Rebels—Tucker and Smokey. They were both tapped into the wholesalers who pushed supplies across the southern border and shared control of the money flowing north from sales in Pikesville. The meth business didn’t exactly lend itself to trust, so although Tucker and Smokey stayed close, one man always kept an eye on the other. The two were seldom around and usually showed up at Grandview only when there was a cash delivery to pick up. Under Tucker and Smokey, there was Rex. Because of the conditions of his parole, he could never become a fully patched club member, but he’d pulled time for the Dead Rebels and kept his mouth shut. Managing the Pikesville operation was his reward for silence. Rex also made a little money on the side by occasionally pushing fresh young girls into the trafficking chain that ran north through Richmond to Baltimore and New York. These underprivileged rural areas seemed to teem with poor, fatherless girls who had big dreams of making it out of Pikesville. All too happy to help, Rex was known for setting up “modeling gigs” in the big city, but not before he had a chance to sample the talent himself. Then there was the muscle. Rooster, Mac, EZ, and Tubbs. They oversaw the cook operation in Grandview and took care of anyone who interfered with the business. Jesse was the local in charge of sales. He also introduced Rex to Dwight and Lisa, a husband/wife team of meth cooks who’d fled north from Florida after running afoul of the police. They kept busy perfecting their recipe while simultaneously trying to avoid blowing up any more trailers inside Grandview.
Jesse rummaged around on the cluttered kitchen counter of his trailer and managed to find a half-drank can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The same brand his dad used to drink. Jesse vaguely remembered the man. The image that always came to mind was of a tall man with black hair who would place his young son on his shoulders and run around the yard, his arms outstretched like superman. That always made Jesse happy—that feeling of flying. He also remembered the day his dad walked out. That memory was still very clear in his mind. Like most nights, Jesse had sat in the living room eating his Swanson’s dinner in front of the television while mom and dad fought in the kitchen. Then from out of nowhere, a Pabst beer smashed against the wall above Jesse’s head. He watched, mesmerized, as it spun and spewed on the floor—incoherent screams still emanating from the other room. Then his dad grabbed his jacket and walked out the door, never to be seen again. Jesse forcefully pushed the memory aside, grabbed the can of beer, and walked outside.
Standing on the rickety plywood porch, he wondered how his life had become so shitty. It wasn’t that long ago he’d felt on top of the world. After Case left town, he’d managed to talk Sam into going out with him, but that bitch let herself get pregnant. Now, what little money he made went toward paying child support for a fucking kid he never wanted. The rest he spent on booze and meth, but how else was a man expected to cope with all this bullshit? Now the fucking conquering hero had returned, reminding Jesse of just how far he’d fallen down the social ladder. Sometimes he felt like the whole goddamned town was conspiring against him. Waking up every morning in this shithole was just salt in the wound.
Jesse saw Mac wandering from his trailer, which sat adjacent to the single entrance, up the gravel road toward Rex’s place.
“Mac!” Jesse called.
“Yeah.” Mac stopped in front of a burnt-out trailer hull to face Jesse.
“What happened last night with Case?”
“Who the fuck is Case?” Mac yelled in return.
“The fucking guy we sent you to follow last night, asshole. That’s who.”
Mac smirked, and Jesse wanted nothing more than to jump off the porch and beat him to death with his warm can of beer. “What was he up to?”
“Nothing. Him and the other two hung around bullshittin’ until after the place closed. Then they all left. I followed the guy back to a farm north of town. He went inside and went to bed. I came back here.”
“Weren’t you told to keep an eye on him?”
“Look, if you think I’m sittin’ my ass out on a bike all night watchin’ some guy sleep, you’re fucking crazy. You got a problem with that? Take it up with Rex.”
Jesse could feel his face redden. It infuriated him that these assholes didn’t take him seriously. This was his town. His home. In Jesse’s eyes, Rex was second in command to him, but the rest of the crew didn’t see it that way.
“Watch your fuckin’ tone with me, smartass,” Jesse stammered, trying to maintain some sense of authority. “Do you think he’ll be a problem?”
“No. But you’re welcome to follow him yourself if you’d like.”
Mac walked off, leaving Jesse alone, feeling as small and unimportant as ever.
CHAPTER 13
Trevor helped Case load the truck with everything they needed: fencing hammers, staples, spools of barbed wire, and an old Goldenrod splicer they found hanging in the barn. Case could have mended the sagging sections of fence on his own, but Trevor was eager to help, and Case enjoyed the boy’s company.
“I noticed your Mustangs baseball cap. Do you play?” Case asked as they settled into the cab of the truck.
“Yes sir, I do, centerfield,” Trevor said. “This is my first year at the high school, but I’m hoping I can make the team this spring. Grandpa told me that you and Bobby used to play.”
“Yes, we did. I was a decent third-baseman, but Bobby had the real talent. He could have played in college, but….” Case stopped himself, then changed the subject. “So, are you dating yet?”
“No.”
“No? That’s it? That’s probably the least you’ve had to say on any subject since we met.”
“I like a girl at school. We have a couple of classes together, but I ain’t got up the nerve to talk to her yet. I’m hoping to run into her tonight at the fall festival.”
