Blood Money (Joe Dillard Series No. 6) (21 page)

“What do you mean, out?”

“A guard let me out. He said they were going to kill me tonight. Told me to run. I don’t know what’s going on, but please come get me, Pops. I’m scared.”

Chapter 38

JASPER
turned out the light in his shop and stepped outside. The mountain air was cool and fresh, the stars sparkling above. The moon was full, a pale, white, small globe high in the sky. It was well after midnight. He didn’t usually work so late, but he’d been unable to sleep after hearing about Peanut’s scare earlier in the day. He’d waited until he had heard her steady breathing in her bedroom and had gone out to his shop. He’d spent the last few hours working on placing the antlers on a bull elk mount that he was doing for a rich horse rancher from Lexington, Kentucky. The rancher had shot the animal in Colorado, and as soon as he got it out of the field he had it frozen and shipped to Jasper. Jasper had been working on it for months. The rancher wanted the entire thing mounted, not just the head, and he wanted it mounted in a “natural” setting. It was a challenge, but Jasper was pleased with the way it was turning out. He’d have it finished in a few weeks.
 

 
He secured the padlock on the shop door and started walking toward the barn to check on Sadie before he turned in. Biscuit had spent the evening in the shop with him. The dog was a few steps ahead of Jasper, also headed toward the barn where he would bed down outside the stall near Sadie. Jasper had taken about ten steps when the dog froze. He lifted his nose to the breeze, his tail stiffened, and he started a quiet, threatening growl that Jasper didn’t hear often. Someone was nearby.

“Biscuit! No!” Jasper whispered the command sharply. He grabbed the nylon harness that he kept on the dog so he could control him when he needed to and started pulling him back toward the shop.
 

“No! Come!”

The dog was strong, but he was also obedient. He allowed himself to be pulled toward the shop, growling every step of the way. Jasper was certain someone was in the tree line near the back porch a couple of hundred feet away, and he believed it was Clyde Dalton. He’d kept his radio on during the evening, something he rarely did, and he knew Dalton hadn’t been arrested. He didn’t know exactly what Dalton looked like, all Peanut had told him was that the man was bald. He did know something about obsessive behavior, however, and he didn’t believe that Dalton would be able to stay away from Peanut.
 

Jasper pulled Biscuit into the shop and closed the door behind him. He had dozens of knives in there, nearly all of them sharp enough to shave hair from a wet frog, but the weapon he wanted was an old-fashioned, re-curve bow that he’d had since he was a boy. He had gone through spells of collecting bows – there were several of them in his bedroom – but the one he liked the best was the old re-curve. It was hanging on a rack above his work bench.
 

Jasper had been hunting all his life. He could hit a bullseye with an arrow from sixty yards. It was pitch black inside the shop, but Jasper knew it so well he didn’t need light. He took the bow down from its rack on the wall along with a quiver full of razor-sharp, broad head arrows. He slipped his arms through the quiver straps and walked to the back door of the shop. He unlocked two deadbolts and had to squeeze through the door to keep the dog from following. Clyde Dalton had used a gun when he tried to kill Peanut and had shot Joe Dillard’s son. Jasper wasn’t about to let the fool shoot his dog.
 

Jasper slipped into the trees and knelt beneath a laurel bush. All he knew about Clyde Dalton was what he had heard from Peanut, and based on what she’d told him, he was dealing with a crazy man, probably schizophrenic, definitely psychotically obsessed and extremely unstable. Jasper moved a little deeper into the trees and began to circle silently toward the house, stopping every few steps to watch and listen. There was a mild breeze, just enough to rustle the canopy above, and there was enough light from the moon and stars to enable him to make out shapes on the open ground. He was far enough away from the shop now that he could just barely make out Biscuit’s muffled whines. He sat down, leaned his back against a tree, and settled in to wait. A thought stuck him:
“I’m stalking the stalker.”

A few minutes later, a dark shape came out of the tree line near the back porch, right where the dog had indicated earlier. Jasper felt his heart quicken as he watched the figure move slowly around the front of the house and disappear. Jasper moved to his right around the other side of the house, staying tight to the trees. If the man circled the house, Jasper would then be in front of him. He broke from the trees and jogged to Charlie’s old truck, which was sitting in the driveway about twenty feet from the northeast corner of the back porch. He leaned against the truck and raised the bow.

Only the kitchen light was on inside the house. It wasn’t much, but combined with the stars and moon, there was enough light so that Jasper could clearly make out the figure of a man wearing dark clothing and a floppy hat, crouched down, moving carefully along the side of the house. The man came out of the crouch and craned his neck to look in the kitchen window. Jasper could make out the features on his face; they were unfamiliar. He pulled the bowstring back to the corner of his mouth, aimed for the man’s chest. He thought fleetingly of saying something, giving the man some command to stop, but when he saw a glint of light reflect off of a gun barrel and remembered the strain in Peanut’s voice when she was telling him about the bullets whizzing past her, he let the arrow fly without saying a word. The man grunted and staggered back a couple of steps, the pistol fell from his hand, and he dropped to his knees as Jasper pulled another arrow from the quiver and raised the bow again. The man fell forward on his face. Jasper moved around the pickup and kicked the gun away. He rolled the man over with his right foot. He was still alive, but had that far off look in his eye that told Jasper he would be dead soon. Jasper knelt next to him.

“You Dalton?”

There was no response. Blood was beginning to trickle from the man’s mouth. Jasper patted him, looking for some kind of identification. There was none. He pulled the floppy hat from the man’s head. He was completely bald. It was Dalton.
 

“I told Peanut it’d be unhealthy for you to show up here.”

Jasper stood, slung his bow across his back, reached down, grabbed Dalton by his feet, and starting dragging him toward the taxidermy shop.
 

The bull elk would have to wait. Jasper had more important work to do.

Chapter 39

I'D
taken a frantic telephone call at 3:22 a.m. from Duane Scott, Jordan Scott’s father. Jordan had been let out through a back door of the jail, told he was about to be killed, given a cell phone, and instructed to run. Jordan was making his way through a wooded ravine and Duane was on his way to pick him up near the Sullivan County fairgrounds on the outskirts of Blountville. What should they do? Where should they go?

“Bring him here, to my house,” I said. “Tell him to get rid of the cell phone and then call me back as soon as he’s in the car. I’ll give you directions.”

Caroline was at the hospital with Jack. I’d come home at midnight, fed the dogs, and had planned to catch a few hours of sleep and go back to the hospital at 4:00 a.m. to relieve Caroline. We lived on a large plot of land on a bluff overlooking Boone Lake in Washington County. Land owned by the Tennessee Valley Authority bordered my property on one side, the lake bordered another. My nearest neighbor owned the rest of the land that surrounded my property, and he lived more than half-a-mile away.
 

I dressed, made a pot of coffee, and turned on the small television that Caroline kept on the kitchen counter.
 
Duane Scott called again and I gave him more specific directions to the house. A couple of minutes later, a young, stiff-haired talking head appeared on the television screen.

“We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin,” the young man said as an image of Jordan Scott’s booking photo appeared on the screen. “The Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department is reporting that accused cop-killer Jordan Scott has escaped from the Sullivan County Jail. Sheriff Raymond Peale tells News Channel Nine that Scott faked a medical condition less than an hour ago, overpowered a guard and took his keys. He locked the guard in his cell, used the keys to steal a service revolver and a cell phone from a desk on the cell block, and then escaped through a service entrance. Peale warns that Scott should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. He urges residents in the Blountville area to lock their doors and keep a sharp lookout for what the sheriff is calling a desperate, dangerous criminal.”

I knew from talking to Leon Bates about the association between Raymond Peale and Howard Raleigh, about the corruption within the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department, and I knew I’d put myself in the middle of a dangerous situation. I called Leon and told him to come to my house and to bring the cavalry with him. Leon was groggy and it took him a few seconds to understand what I was saying, but he finally got the message. He said he’d be there as soon as he could. I just hoped it wouldn’t be too late. I shut the dogs in our bedroom and walked outside just as Duane Scott’s car pulled into the driveway.

“Come on,” I said. “Hurry.”

Jordan was wide-eyed, obviously terrified, and looked haggard. His father, a tall, solidly-built, proud man, looked even worse.
 

“Did you see anyone following you?” I said as we hurried toward the front door.

“I don’t think so,” Duane Scott said. “Have you heard what they’re saying on the news? The radio… they said Jordan overpowered a guard.”

I nodded and put my hand on Duane’s arm. “I’ve been watching. It isn’t good, but try not to worry.”

The news bulletin was blaring again as I led Duane and Jordan through the kitchen.
 

“These steps lead up to my daughter’s old room,” I said. “I want you to go up there, lock yourselves in the bathroom, and wait until I come for you.”

“What’s going on, Mr. Dillard?” Jordan asked. “What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure, Jordan. But I promise you that Raymond Peale will have to kill me to get into this house.”

I watched them walk up the stairs and then went to our bedroom. I pushed the dogs back, pulled a pistol from the drawer in the nightstand next to my bed and then went back to the kitchen and turned off the television and all of the lights. I walked to the front door and turned on the outdoor security lights, stepped through onto the front porch, closed and locked the door behind me, and pulled a wooden rocking chair over. I slid the pistol into my belt beneath the light jacket I was wearing, sat down, folded my arms across my chest, and started rocking.

Almost immediately, I heard the roar of the engines. Four police cruisers pulled into my front yard, blue and red lights flashing. I felt my heart begin to race, but I didn’t budge. I watched as car doors opened and men took cover behind the cruisers, pointing rifles, shotguns and pistols at me. High-powered spotlights blazed on, blinding me. No one said a word for thirty seconds; the night was still and cool and filled with tension. I heard another engine and a gaudy, black Crown Victoria with gold lettering that read “High Sheriff of Sullivan County” pulled up next to Duane Scott’s car. A man I assumed must be Raymond Peale climbed out. I could see the gleam off of his belt buckle and the outline of his cowboy hat. As he came closer, I saw a shotgun in his hands. Peale walked up onto the porch and stood less than five feet from me.

“You’re in the wrong county, sheriff,” I said. “My name is Dillard, Joe Dillard, and this is my property. I’m asking you to leave.”

“I know who you are,” Peale said. “I also know you’re harboring an escaped murderer and a dangerous fugitive.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Don’t play games with me, counselor. I know he’s here.”

“And how would you know that? Do you have some kind of tracking device on his father’s car or did you bug his father’s cell phone? Either of those things would be illegal unless you got a warrant. Did you get a warrant, sheriff?”

“Move aside,” Peale said. “We’re going in.”

“You would also need a warrant to go into my house. Can I see it?”

“I don’t need no warrant and you damned well know it! Now move aside!”

I thought about drawing the pistol but decided against it, at least for the moment. I stood.

“This is my home,” I said, raising my voice so all of the deputies could hear clearly. “This is
my home
, and I won’t let you invade it. If my client is inside, he’s there because he fears for his life. This is not what you men think it is. Your boss, your sheriff, wants to turn you into assassins. He wants you to kill Jordan Scott, most likely because his friend Howard Raleigh wants you to kill Jordan Scott.”

“Shut your mouth and get out of the way,” Peale hissed. He leveled the shotgun at my chest.
 

“Jordan Scott will turn himself in,” I said, “but not to you.”

That was when I heard Leon Bates and his men, sirens screaming, coming across the hill. I felt a tremendous surge of relief.
 

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a real party now,” I said to Peale.

Within a minute, Leon, flanked by three of his own deputies, walked up the sidewalk. He stopped a few feet from Peale, who was still pointing the gun at me.

“What in the dickens is going on here?” Leon said. I noticed that Leon’s right hand was resting on the butt of the nine-millimeter pistol holstered at his side.
 

“He’s harboring an escaped convict. We’re here to take him back into custody,” Peale said.

“Without so much as a courtesy call to my department? Lower that weapon and tell your men to stand down.”

Peale turned toward Leon. I don’t think I’d ever seen such a look of unadulterated contempt.

“No,” Peale said. “He’s in there, and he’s going back with me.”