Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(68)

Roby was looking through a Leupold 3-9x40mm scope that sat atop the barrel of a Remington 700 rifle. The shot would be about five hundred yards, give or take ten yards. It was a shot Roby had made hundreds of times in his life. With the combination of the Remington 700, the scope, and the 300 Winchester Magnum ammunition he was using, Roby had no doubt his target would be dead within seconds of him pulling the trigger.

The target would not be a deer, but a human. Roby had decided that Harley Shaker needed to die. Roby couldn’t exactly articulate a reason why Harley had to die; it was just a feeling. Roby knew Harley haunted the honky-tonks around Newport on the weekends, and he was afraid that one night he’d get too much beer or liquor or combination of both in him and feel the need to brag. Roby shook his head a little and smiled slightly. It was funny. He’d taken Harley along the night they’d killed Morris and his wife and the lawyer and the girlfriend because he felt like Harley owed him because of the marine he’d killed. And Harley had done a damned fine job. The hit on the district attorney’s wife was clean, Harley had shot the bagman lawyer without blinking, and he’d stood lookout with Tree while Roby had gone into the girl’s apartment and taken care of her.

Tree, Roby thought as he pictured the sheriff staying in the kitchen while Roby went into the bedroom to finish off the girl. He might have to be next. He’s afraid of his shadow, and he’s just too damned dumb to live.

Roby’s eye twitched slightly as he saw his prey walk up to a scaffold that was against the house and begin to climb. Once Harley was atop the scaffold, Roby put the crosshairs on the middle of his back, took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The Remington cracked and bucked, and Roby watched through the scope as the round found its target. Harley’s arms flew up at his sides, his knees buckled, and he fell over straight onto his face.

Roby turned away and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

Another one down, he thought. Maybe one, maybe two more, to go.





CHAPTER 40

The second time I walked into my apartment and Sheriff Tree Corker was there, I was armed. District attorneys general in Tennessee are issued badges and are allowed to carry guns. My Walther was in a holster at the small of my back, hidden by my sport coat and my overcoat, and I almost drew it. I’d spent another day listening to people bitch because Tom Masoner had reassigned them. They still had good jobs, but you’d think from listening to them whine that their lives were about to end. I was as irritable as a snake that had just shed its skin. I’d faked smiles for so long that day my cheeks were sore. Late in the day, however, two men became so belligerent that I told them they could either accept their new assignment, resign, or step outside with me and take an ass whipping. Finally, at the end of the day, I’d called Wynken, Blynken, and Nod into my office and unceremoniously fired all three of them at the same time. The administrative side of the job was beyond distasteful to me, and to be honest, I wasn’t very good at it.

The sheriff looked totally different this time. He wasn’t wearing his uniform. He wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat. The pistols were nowhere in sight. He was sitting at the counter in my kitchen.

“Again, Sheriff?” I said in a tired voice. “I swear to God I’d be within my rights to put a bullet in you.”

“I’m not armed,” he said.

“I can see that. It’s like you’re walking around without pants.”

“We need to talk. It’s serious.”

Something about his tone told me he was genuine, and I walked in and took two beers out of the refrigerator.

“I had a long talk with my daddy today,” he said. “You ever do that?”

“Can’t say that I do. My father died a long time ago.”

“Sorry to hear it. My daddy made me realize there are some things you and I need to straighten out. Some things we need to talk over. You’re not going to like some of what I have to say, and I’m not going to like having to say it.”

“Sounds like you’re either getting ready to threaten me or confess to me,” I said.

“I ain’t going to threaten you.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Do you know how I got my job?” he said. “I mean, back at the beginning? Do you know how I became sheriff?”

“I assume the county commission appointed you when Joe DuBose fell off his roof and broke his neck.”

“That’s right, but do you know where I’d been working up to that point? Had you ever heard of me?”

I shook my head. “Can’t say that I’d ever heard of Tree Corker,” I said, “but to be honest, I didn’t pay that much attention.”

“Nobody did, but it was Ben Clancy who got me in. Roby Penn suggested it. Clancy had a lot of political power in those days, back before you got hold of him, and he got some of his friends on the county commission to nominate me, and they ramrodded me right through. I went from applying for a job at the department at thirty-five to working in the jail for two years to being a patrol deputy for two years to being sheriff. I had no clue what I was doing. Still don’t, really.”

“Why are you telling me this, Sheriff?”

“Clancy already had all the hustles and rackets—all those things you mentioned to me the last time we talked—set up. Joe DuBose did what I do—kept his eyes and ears open, collected the money, distributed the money. Clancy’s big earner was my uncle Roby Penn. Clancy was a terrible man, but he hated drugs, wouldn’t have nothing to do with them, wouldn’t let the dealers get a foothold. So Roby was his big earner. I’m scared of Roby Penn and always have been. He’s a crazy, murderous man who doesn’t give a damn about anybody but himself and is filled with hatred and bitterness.”