Bull Mountain(69)

“You think cops jacked Bracken?” Mike said, still confused.

“Cops don’t operate like that. Outlaws do. That little prick’s got my money or he knows who does.”

“Let me come with you, then,” Mike said.

“You’ll just try to stop me from doing what I have to do.”

“He’s your brother, Hal.”

“You’re my brother, Mike. He’s a dead man.”





CHAPTER





22




CLAYTON BURROUGHS

2015

1.

Cricket didn’t need to ask her boss what was going on when he dragged ass through the door a full three hours later than usual and didn’t take off his sunglasses once he was inside. The news of Sheriff Burroughs’s bender and the ass-whuppin’ he threw on Big Joe Dooley the night before had her phone ringing off the hook before she even finished turning the key in the front door. Still, she was gentle with him. “Morning, Sheriff.” She met him halfway across the lobby with a cup of coffee, black.

“Morning, Cricket,” Clayton said, taking the warm foam cup but setting it back down on the counter. “I suppose you’ve already heard?”

“Yes, sir, I have, but let me tell you, that Joe Dooley has gotten out of line a few times with me before, too, so it’s my opinion that every single woman in Waymore owes you a thank-you.”

Clayton smiled. “Big Joe is an *, but he didn’t deserve what I did. I was way out of line . . . but thanks for saying that.”

Cricket picked up the coffee and handed it to him again. This time she let her hand linger on his for a moment. “Are you okay, sir? Is there something I can do?”

Clayton looked at her hand on his and wondered if they could be any more different. He felt the warmth of it—the genuine concern. Cricket was good people. That’s why he’d hired her. “I’m fine,” he said.

Cricket raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Really, I’m fine. It’s just been a heavy few days. Down here in this valley it’s easy to forget where I come from. This case I’m working with Agent Holly is a full-on reminder of all that bad blood I left on the mountain, and that reality check knocked me sideways for a minute. But really, I’m fine now.”

Cricket let go of his hand and returned to her desk. She picked up a yellow file folder and handed it to Clayton. “Agent Holly came by about an hour ago and dropped this off. He said you asked for it.”

Clayton slipped the file under his arm and retreated into the sanctum of his office. He smiled again at the mousy receptionist through the narrowing gap of the door until it clicked shut. He tossed the file on his desk and drew the shades before finally taking off his sunglasses. The hangover was brutal. He felt like an overcooked, thoroughly dried-out Thanksgiving turkey stuffed with cold sweat and cigarette ashes. The worst part was that, even now, he still craved the bourbon. He always would. Just a few fingers to even him out. Clear his head. The only moisture in his body was in his mouth, watering at the thought. He sat down and sipped Cricket’s coffee. He needed to work—something to occupy his mind so the demons wouldn’t have anyone to play with. He opened Holly’s file.

2.

He removed the paper clip holding the two-year-old mug shot photos and laid them on the desk. A typical G.I. drunk-tank shot and profile. Short cropped dark hair, military regulation mustache, and a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. Clayton thought something about the guy looked familiar. Maybe he had seen this guy before. He thumbed through the paperwork for photos of the crime scene, but there was nothing. Allen Cleveland Bankey was his full name. No bells ringing there at all. Clayton opened his desk drawer and found his aspirin. He shook two out and chewed them dry. He skimmed through the rap sheet, but there wasn’t anything else in the file Holly hadn’t already told him. Bankey was an army veteran. Two tours in Iraq. Two in Afghanistan. All consecutive. He was a desert rat. His military record was impeccable. If anything, the file made this guy look like a hero except for the glaring statutory-rape charge that followed his time overseas. According to the file, the girl was sixteen. He met her in a bar she wasn’t old enough to be in, and the sex was consensual. The girl’s parents agreed to drop the charges, but the state of Tennessee picked it up and Bankey served eighteen months. Released for good behavior. Raw deal. Now the poor bastard was on a slab for hijacking bikers with a rifle and a clown mask. What a fall from grace. The world is a broken place sometimes. Clayton wondered when it hadn’t been. Still, the guy looked vaguely familiar. Clayton scratched at his beard and tapped on the intercom.

“Cricket, has Deputy Frasier been in this morning?”

Static.

“No, sir. I tried to call him a few hours ago, but he didn’t answer.”

“Well, try to call him again. If you reach him, tell him I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Static.

“Yessir . . . Um, Sheriff. Permission to talk to you in person?”

Clayton sat back and looked at the closed door of his office. “Um . . . of course, Cricket. Come on back.”

Cricket tapped at the door lightly, then opened it and came into the room. She looked almost embarrassed—nervous. She stood twisting her hands together like she was trying to remove something sticky from her fingers.