HE COUNTY INTERROGATION rooms were designed to be either too hot or too cold, depending on the suspect being questioned. Monica sat at a table, mascara running down her face and blotting onto the ruffle of her blouse. In contrast to her earlier bluster and bombast, she’d now adopted a poor-little-girl tone. Her oncedainty nose was red and swollen from sniffling and wiping. Discarded tissues filled the small wastebasket next to her.
The examiners judged Monica to be “hot-blooded,” so they’d chosen to barbeque her with a cold grill. Turning the thermostat down, they’d kicked back to wait. After a half hour or so, Monica had settled into a steady shiver. More than from the cold, she was shaking from anger. She’d lost control when the big Texan stuck his badge in her face. Now she couldn’t even remember his name. She could remember asking him for a loan, which she promised to pay back in sexual favors.
Stacey, White, an assigned public defender and a female guard watched from behind the glass. Stacey yawned—convincingly—and lied, “I could use an hour or two of rest before the sun comes up.” He was expecting an important call in less than an hour.
“Me too,” said White. “Let’s see if she’ll talk yet.” All three men entered the room.
Stacey couldn’t help but offer a sympathetic grin. “Monica, do you remember who I am?”
Her voice was scratchy, her expression pathetic. “The cop...from Texas.”
“I’m Officer Rick Stacey. This is Mr. White. He’s the county prosecutor. This being your first arrest, we’re willing to offer you a deal. We need two things: your testimony against Jimmy and your cooperation in our investigation of Loran Rider.”
“We broke up,” she croaked before her teeth began to rattle. “No one in his office knows that yet. All you need to do is go in to feed his fish. We need a sample of the water from the tank.” “That’s it? Just water and my testimony?”
“Not exactly. We’re going to recommend to family court that you lose custody of your daughter. You need to be willing to relinquish that right, then complete a drug rehabilitation program. If you successfully complete the program and find a job, you’ll get regular visitation rights.”
Monica renewed her sobbing and nodded her head in agreement. Mr. White slid the paperwork across the desk for her to sign.
Walking out the east door of county lock-up, White was all smiles. “You did a good job, Officer Stacey.” Looking forward to a little shuteye, he got in his car and pulled from the parking lot.
Buseth motioned Stacey to an unmarked van. Handing him a cell phone, he said, “You’re cutting it a little close Stacey.” Stacey peered inside the vehicle. Two other men sat crouched at their computer stations. The phone rang at two o’clock precisely.
“How do you like my car, Bup?” spat Bingham. Then he ended the call by yelling into the phone, “See you at sunrise, turd-brain!”
The technician shook his head. Stacey bristled at the words. It wasn’t so much the threat. It was Bingham’s familiarity, his breach of an unwritten human code of conduct. Only one other person in his life had ever called him “Bup.”
“What did he mean by that, Stacey?” queried Buseth.
“I have no idea.” He had to lie. He knew if the feds even got close to his grandma’s house, Bingham would kill her. The floodgates to his mind reopened. He pictured the humble farmhouse; the momentos his grandma held dear; the photo she kept in the front room, the one of him with his grandpa and the note that said “from Bup.” The image of Bingham being there with his grandma made him shudder.
There was no other farmhouse for a quarter of a mile. He needed to
protect her. This confrontation would be hand-to-hand—and to the
death. But Stacey had one advantage in the showdown: he had something Bingham wanted more than anything else.
Buseth pressed harder. “Stacey, what did he mean?” “I’m not sure. The only person I know by that name was an old
high-school buddy we called ‘Bup.’ I don’t know what he’d have to
do with anything. Well, thanks. I need to get home, feed my dog,
catch a few hours of sleep before sunrise. Maybe I’ll grab one of my
old yearbooks and see what Bup’s real name was.” That seemed to
appease the agent.
The feds followed Stacey to his parents’ home and came in while
he scrounged through his closet. Extracting a yearbook, he slowly
flipped through the pages until he found someone he hadn’t seen or
heard from in years. Pointing, he said, “That’s him, I think...yeah, it’s
him.”
Buseth glanced up to see two other men come into the room.
“Agent Tovar, I think you and Officer Stacey have already met,”
Buseth chuckled. Tovar gave Stacey a casual nod. “He’ll be spending
the night here. Two of my men will be outside, so you can get some
good rest.” Satisfied that all was in order, Buseth, yearbook in hand,
left the house.
Tovar followed Stacey to the kitchen, where Sig was hoping to
get a meal. The requisite two cans of dog food came down from the
cupboard. Stacey slid them toward Tovar, who was standing near
the can opener. “Could you open those for me while I get his dish?” Tovar started to do as he was asked, when suddenly he found
himself face down on the tile floor, staring at the baseboards. Ashooting pain ran up and down his arm and shoulder. “I’m sorry to do this
to you again, Tovar,” Stacey hissed as he yanked an extension cord
from the wall beneath the table and hogtied the agent, then removed
his gun and phone. “I can’t take any chances Buseth will screw things
up. I’ll do my best to keep the chemical out of Bingham’s hands.”
Stacey called Sig and, after the shepherd had gulped down the food, the two of them slipped from a back room into the night. Twenty minutes later they left Melvin’s garage with the paint can, the pen safely stored inside. Careful to use the cover of trees, they headed for the river. Thirty minutes later, Stacey pulled the keys to the Mercury from the tail pipe of the old car and revved it up. If he hurried, he’d make it to his grandma’s house by sunrise.
An hour later, Buseth returned, primed to question Stacey about his bad information, only to find Tovar struggling to free himself from the electrical cord. Both men were furious. Barking orders and demanding that his men learn who this “Bup” fellow really was, Buseth lost his temper and kicked a hole in the wall. It didn’t do much to cool his rage.
Stacey raced down I-15 toward Fillmore. Two hours later he crossed the lava fields to where he’d left his squad car. Burying the paint can under the rocks near his shotgun, he then backtracked the long miles to his grandma’s house, praying he could coax Bingham away without her getting hurt.
The valley was bathed in early-morning light. An orange glow peaked out from the mountain tops as Stacey turned the corner just outside of town. Reaching her lane, he slowed. His heart raced. Sig, sensing his master’s anxiety, paced back and forth across the backseat.
When Stacey pulled up onto the gravel drive, he found Bingham there, arrogantly seated on the back porch swing, his arms folded across an automatic rifle. The man went right into his bullying routine. “Looks like the wolf got to grannie’s house first....Get out of the car. Leave the dog inside, if you want to keep him alive,” Bingham warned, rising to his feet. “I’d just as soon see him dead, but his time will come. And maybe he’ll suffer at seeing his master go down first.”
Prepared in case he had to make a fast getaway, Stacey turned the ignition switch to accessory mode, ordered Sig to wait, and stepped from the car. “Doesn’t look like it took much to shake the feds,”
Bingham said with disdain. “Smart move.”
“You let me see my grandmother,” Stacey called out, “and you
can have the pen.”
Bingham’s stance was threatening. “The pen first.”
“You think I’m stupid enough to bring it with me?” “Guess not.”
Sig began to bark and paw at the door. Stacey moved closer as
Bingham glowered over at the car. “I think I’ll kill the dog first.” He
lowered the barrel of the automatic weapon and sighted on the car.
At that instant, Stacey lunged for the gun and the two men wrestled
for control of the weapon as round after round fired off. One bullet
hit the vehicle, some whizzed into the air, most thudded harmlessly
into the ground. Finally one connected with flesh. The gunfire
stopped, the ammunition spent. Stacey’s leg burned, but only from
the pain of the knife wound. Bingham’s foot bled from a bullet. The
scuffle was a stalemate. Bingham held the butt end of the rifle, Stacey
the barrel end.
Sig nervously continued to paw at the door until his foot hit the
electric window button. The window inched down. Again he pawed,
and again the window inched down. He bit at the glass and returned
to pawing.
Now, Bingham, with a burst of energy, yanked the rifle free, at the
same time kneeing Stacey in the wounded leg. The shooting pain in
his leg and the searing barrel against his neck brought Stacey to his
knees, gasping for air.
Inside the car, Sig forced his shoulders through the ten-inch crack
and hung by his hips until he wiggled free, dropping to the ground.
Bingham caught a glimpse of the dog’s savage fangs. Frantic, he
swung the rifle from Stacey in the direction of the airborne dog, catching him squarely across the skull. Sig gave one yelp, and crumpled
to the ground in a heap.
The captain reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. In a
move he’d practiced thousands of times, he seized Stacey by the front
of the neck. Slowly, he turned his adversary around and threaded the razor-sharp blade through the skin at the base of his neck.
Buseth stood in the safehouse, explaining to Stacey’s mom and dad what danger their son was in, and how imperative it was that they find this Bup guy. Hearing the name, the parents knew exactly where their son was. Their eyes met. What should they to do? Buseth easily picked up on the signal. “You know where he is, don’t you? ...I’m telling you, he won’t come home alive unless I get a team to help him. It may be too late already.”
Mr. Stacey, concerned for the life of both his son and his aged mother, caved in. “He’s at my mother’s home in Fillmore. My dad used to call him Bup.”
“Get the chopper up! Move, move!” Buseth hollered into his radio.“You’re finished, Officer Stacey. I’d take you in to see your dead grannie before we go, but I didn’t have it in me to kill that smelly old dog that wouldn’t leave her side. He’s already suffering—and I didn’t want to put him out of his misery. You should have seen the old lady squirm when I slit her throat.” Stacey fought for control. If Bingham had killed her, he couldn’t change it now; and if it was just a ploy to get him upset, Stacey wasn’t about to play along. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Bingham eased into the back seat of the Mercury, all the while keeping the tip of his knife shoved up against the top of Stacey’s spine. He was a professional. Bingham, too, had been a recipient of a purple heart for combat wounds. Three times he’d been awarded that distinguished honor. After recovering from each wound, he’d returned to the battlefield. His present lifestyle and personal code, however, no longer reflected those days. Now money and greed ruled. And he played on a different team.
Stacey would have to deal with Bingham on his own terms. One false move and Bingham would send the blade through his neck. He hoped to get Bingham’s hand off his throat long enough so that he could tuck and roll. Then again, the move could prove futile—and deadly. Regardless, he believed the blade would find its mark the moment Bingham regained his property. A chance might come when he handed over the pen.
“Where’s the kilo of coke I put in your car?” Bingham snorted. “I could use some money. It seems someone raided my accounts.”
“It’s with the pen.”
“Splendid. Maybe then I can stop playing the good little captain and put it on the street so I’ll have enough dough to get out of the country. Now drive!”
Stacey steered the old car along the dusty roads toward the lava flows. No one would be there to help. It’d be him and Bingham, alone.