Bull Mountain(8)

“Same difference. FBI, GBI, you all look alike to me.” Clayton’s voice was as callous as the hands of a construction worker.

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sure you are. But like I said, you people accomplished nothing then, and I can’t imagine you’ll do much other than get more decent people caught in the crossfire this time, either.”

“You keep saying ‘you people.’”

“And?”

“You’re a sheriff. You swore to uphold the law, same as me. Doesn’t that make you one of us people, too?”

Clayton got up from his chair and walked over to a small coffeepot on the counter next to the sink. He dumped his mug and filled it fresh without offering any to his guest, and thought about how nice it would be to add an inch or two of bourbon. It wasn’t too long ago that that was his morning routine, and sometimes he could still smell it in his cup. He took a sip, unsatisfied, and returned to his chair. He leaned forward, aware for the first time all morning of how tired he was, and gave Holly the autopilot speech he’d given at least six other agents already.

“Listen, Holly. I’m nothing like you. I’m just a guy born and raised less than fifteen miles from where you’re sitting right now. I’m no hotshot lawman looking to save the world from the evil that men do.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “I don’t care much about what happens out there in your world, Agent Holly. I’m a hick sheriff in a small town doing my best to keep the people of this valley—the good people of this valley—safe from the never-ending river of shit that flows down that mountain, and the trigger-happy frat boys that think they can come here and show us hillbillies how badass they are. In my opinion, all of you, cops and robbers alike, pose the same threat to my constituency, and that makes you and me the very definition of ‘nothing alike.’”

Clayton sat back and blew into his coffee.

“Sheriff, doesn’t McFalls County butt up against Parsons County up around Black Rock?”

“It does.”

“And isn’t your office responsible for policing the entirety of McFalls County?”

“I’m sure you already know it is.”

“So that means Bull Mountain is under your jurisdiction, not just Waymore Valley. It also means that what’s coming down that mountain is coming directly at you. It would be contrary to everything I believe in if I didn’t come here and talk to you about it first. Not as some hillbilly sheriff, but as a fellow law enforcement officer. There are a lot of folks that think you’re a puppet for your brothers, a way to control this office, but I’m not one of them. The people of this county voted you in for a reason, despite your family, and that says something. It says they want you here. It says that they trust you, and that’s good enough for me. I don’t mean to scrape dog shit on your welcome mat.”

“I can’t help you.” It was a line Clayton was tired of having to say.

“I understand that, Sheriff. I’m sorry I sounded like an ass for a minute there. It’s automatic. Let me start again.”

Aspirin wasn’t going to cut it. Clayton fiddled with the childproof plastic bottle, wondering exactly how many he’d have to eat to get rid of the headache sitting in his office. He expected Holly to stand up, shove a finger in his face, and spout off some self-righteous bullshit about how he “owed it to the people” and “the county he loved” to stop the bad men—blah, blah, blah. That was normally the routine with these guys, but Holly stayed seated. He was respectful. Clayton reckoned Holly was at least smart enough to play by the sheriff’s rules until he had his say.

“I can’t help you,” Clayton said again.

“I’m not asking for your help, Sheriff.”

“Then what do you want, Agent Holly?”

“Call me Simon.”

“Go ahead and make your speech, Agent Holly.”

“Okay, Sheriff. Like I said, I’m not here for your help, but maybe you can help yourself, and that could work out for both of us.”

Clayton said nothing and scratched at his beard.

“Maybe if I start from the beginning, I can paint you a better picture of what I’m talking about.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ve been with the ATF for two years. In that time, I’ve focused on one case.”

“I’m guessing Halford Burroughs.”

“No, your brother didn’t pop up on my radar until recently. No, for two years I’ve been building a case against an outfit set up in Jacksonville, Florida, which, among other things, has been supplying your brother and his people with guns—lots of guns. And for the past few years, they have also been your brother’s pipeline to the raw materials he’s using to process methamphetamine.”

Clayton felt the pressure in his head release. Not much, but some.

“A gentleman by the name of Wilcombe is at the top of the food chain down there. You heard of him?”

“Nope.”

“They use some low-rent bikers who call themselves the Jacksonville Jackals to transport the goods. They’re dirtbags, smart and loyal dirtbags, but dirtbags nonetheless. They’ve been at it a long time. I’ve got them in business with your family dating back to your father’s days of hustling weed in the early seventies. Do you know who I mean?”