Champagne for Buzzards (24 page)

My toes fought to touch the hardwood floor. The forearm across my throat cut off my air. I couldn't scream. I could barely breathe.

“I'm going to kill you, kill every living thing on this farm.” A sound gurgled from my lips, nothing loud enough or strong enough to be heard by anyone, anyone except Marley creeping back in. Behind us I heard the slap of bare feet running. The front door squeaked. Boomer swung me, a rag doll hanging from his arm, around to face the door. My nails dug into his forearm.

“Who was that?” His bristled face scratched across mine. The smell of stale beer wafted from his mouth. “Was that your little friend? Don't matter, my friends out there will get her.”

Boomer's arm tightened around my neck. The muzzle of a handgun bored into my side. He pushed and lifted me forward into the kitchen. “I'm going to kill you first, bitch, and then her.” He shoved me into the kitchen and dragged me in front of him to the door.

Only the screen separated us from the night. Headlights swept into the yard, red lights pulsing on the roof like blood, the light throbbing in the kitchen.

Motion detectors turned on the barn lights. The car hesitated at the barn and then came on towards the house. It halted at the edge of the lawn. The door of the car swung open and a tall figure stepped out.

“In the house,” Marley screamed from somewhere on the porch. “He's got Sherri.”

A beam of light from a flashlight led the figure towards the back door. Boomer's arm rose from his side. “Come on, sucker.” His voice was a low growl in his throat.

The porch light flicked on, freezing the deputy in its glare. “No,” I screamed.

The sound of the gun was deafening. The flashlight fell. Then the figure holding it crumbled slowly. When the man reached the ground, Boomer shot again. The form on the lawn jumped in response.

Boomer pressed me up against the ragged screen door, the gun raised beside my face. The smell of the gunshot, and Boomer's body odor, filled my nose. Crazy, I stared at the hole in the screen and thought of insects I wouldn't be around to worry about.

Intent on the fallen figure, Boomer's arm seemed to tremble, on the edge of shooting one more time, and then he said, “Best save some bullets for you.” His arm relaxed. The light went out.

There was a snarl, a blur of something flying towards us, and then the screen imploded.

Boomer's gun blasted in my ear as we tumbled backwards. A shower of plaster fell. Dog yowled and fell in a lump on the floor.

Flat on my back on top of Boomer, my hands were trapped between us. Boomer's arm crossed my chest to shoot at Dog again. I dug my fingers deep into Boomer's crotch and squeezed.

Boomer screamed. His body bucked. I didn't let go until he threw me away.

My body landed on Boomer's arm, the arm with the gun. I twisted on my side and held onto his arm. I dug my nails deep into his wrist and then sank my teeth into his flesh. Another shot blasted into the kitchen wall.

Dog was on Boomer. Boomer was screaming in pain. I had both hands wrapped around the gun now, not trying to get it away from Boomer as much as I was trying to stop Boomer from using it on Dog.

Boomer let go of the gun and picked up Dog with both hands and threw him out through the screen.

Dog cried out.

Boomer crawled to his knees and got to his feet. He came towards me, saw his gun pointing at him and stopped. He turned back to the door.

With his hand still raised to push the door open, a shot rang out.

Boomer jerked backwards. The screen door bounced open and then shut again as Boomer caught the door frame and pulled himself forward. He stood there as if he couldn't decide what to do next. Another shot. Gradually, slowly, very slowly, Boomer pitched forward. The broken screen held him for a second and then, with a great cry, it released him.

Falling through the frame of the screen, the bottom of the door caught Boomer at the knees and swept him off his feet. He pitched face forward onto the porch with his legs sticking up into the kitchen.

I heard Tully cry, “Don't shoot, my daughter's in there.” Down the hall, at the foot of the stairs, the heavy front door creaked opened. I rolled on my belly to face the door, holding the gun out in front of me.

“It's okay,” Marley said.

I laughed. How many times have I heard those words? Marley crept forward and took the gun from my hand. “It's okay.”

She went to the edge of the door and flicked on the porch light. “It's okay,” she yelled, staying well back from the opening. “Sherri and I are fine.”

I got off the floor and went to huddle beside her with Boomer at our feet. Out in the yard the officer knelt on his right knee, his left leg stretched out to the side with his left arm hanging useless.

“It's Mike Quinn,” I said. “I called him peckerwood.” The lights came on at the barn. Tully called, “Don't shoot.” Tully walked from the barn with his arms above his head. But Officer Quinn wasn't going to shoot anyone. He didn't even turn to look at Tully, just sorta collapsed back to the ground.

Tully ran to Quinn's side and then looked up at us. “Get towels, lots of them.”

But for me everything had shut down.

“I will,” Marley said and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. She led me to the front hall, away from Boomer, and out onto the veranda. “Wait here,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

I barely took in what happened after that. It was just noise and confusion. My body and my mind were frozen, unable to process what I was hearing and seeing. Time stopped.

Clay came from the barn. I recognized the men he pushed along in front of him. I'd seen them in the woods with Boomer. Behind them came Brian.

“Ambulances are coming,” Brian said. “How many people are hurt?”

“Just the cop,” Tully told him. “Boomer is dead and Dog is shot.”

Marley was kneeling in the dirt beside Quinn, pressing towels over his wounds to stop the flow of blood while Tully tended to Dog.

“Why?” Brian was asking, the question we all wanted an answer to.

“He was going to kill me.” They were my first words. “He said he was going to kill every living thing on this ranch.” Their eyes, incredulous in pale faces, turned to me. “He was going to kill us all,” I added, wanting them to understand. Clay wrapped me in his arms.

Uncle Ziggy came out of the barn and said, “We have to move the horses.” He held up a small plastic pail.

“What is it?” Clay asked.

“Rat poison, I think. Maybe they were trying to kill the horses, poisoning the water bowls, or maybe they were putting these pellets in their hay bags; either way we have to get those horses out of the stalls before they drink any water or eat any hay.” Uncle Ziggy set down the pail and headed back into the barn at a trot.

“Will you be okay?” Clay asked. I pushed him away from me. “Go.”

“Tully, keep these guys covered,” Clay said and held out his gun.

Tully rose from beside Dog. “Sherri, come look after Dog.” Dog raised his head and made an attempt to stand up. His hindquarters wouldn't cooperate.

My own legs barely obeyed. I stumbled to Dog's side, fell to my knees, and pushed gently at his shoulder, “Stay down.”

A long smear of blood oozed along his hip where the bullet had torn the length of his flank before taking off most of his tail. His tail slapped the ground and blood sprayed from the nub that remained. The warmth of his blood splattered across my face and left a dotted line of red across the front of Clay's white shirt.

“No, no.” I said, holding down both his neck and his hindquarters.

A long keening noise came from him. “Shush, you crazy animal.” I leaned over and kissed him. “You didn't need that long tail anyway.”

But he kept trying to wag his tail, only to send more blood pumping out in an arc. I felt clots of blood hitting my hair. “I need a towel to wrap around the stump.” I started to get up. Dog tried getting up as well. “Stay still,” I told him.

Tully offered me his shirt. I wrapped it gently around Dog's tail, squeezing tightly. Blood seeped out under my fingers.

“It's okay, Champ,” I crooned. “You're gonna be fine.” Those same words, the same promises, yet again. What else do we have?

Tully asked, “Champ?”

“We're going to call him Champ because he's a champion, aren't you?” I leaned forward and stroked along the dog's face with my left hand. Champ lifted his head and tried to lick my hand.

“Champ it is,” Tully said.

My mind was starting to work again. I asked, “What in hell happened?”

“I've got an old man's prostate, had to get up to take a leak and couldn't go back to sleep. I was going out on the back porch to have a smoke, left the rifle on the kitchen table. Champ was with me. He started to growl, started to go crazy. He went for the barn and I went for my gun. I heard the first shot before I got to the barn. I went for the back of the barn, because the motion light had come on out front when Champ went in those front doors, figured whoever Champ was after would want to avoid the light. There was no car so I figured the guy in the barn had gone in from the back of the barn, come from the woods.”

I stroked Champ's leg as I listened to Tully.

“I met this guy coming out back.” He waved the gun at the guy on his right. “Bastard tried to kill me. He was quick but I grazed him, drove him back in. Then Zig and Clay came and had the front covered. We had them cornered. That's when the cop showed up. We didn't know Boomer was in the house.”

“I'm glad he's dead,” I said. “We never would have had a safe night again with him alive. He would have come after us until someone died.”

“Yup,” Tully said. “And we're lucky that young deputy was sitting in a car at the end of the lane. Keep that tight around Champ's tail until it clots. And try and keep the silly fool from wagging it.” He patted me on the head. “Soon as Clay gets back to watch these guys I'll go in the house and get something to bandage it with.”

I sat there with Champ, thinking that it was over. But the evil hadn't died with Boomer.

Cars from the sheriff's department filled the yard before the last of the horses had been moved to new stalls. Red Hozen wasn't with them.

Two ambulances came. They loaded up the guy Tully had wounded.

Marley held Mike Quinn's hand as they wheeled him to the ambulance. “Please,” he said softly to Marley as they started to put him inside.

“May I go with him?” Marley asked and climbed up inside the ambulance without waiting for them to agree.

Champ wasn't trying to stand anymore. He seemed sleepy and lethargic, perhaps from shock or perhaps from blood loss. Tully and Ziggy wanted to take him to a vet. A bit of a noisy argument broke out when the deputies wouldn't allow Tully and Ziggy to leave the property. Tully and Ziggy put Champ on a blanket and carried him into the bunkhouse between them, away from the noise and confusion to keep him warm and quiet until they could get him help.

We weren't allowed back into the house because it was a crime scene so I sat on the front step with Clay, who rocked me in his arms until I stopped shivering.

As the night slipped away, each one of us gave a statement. The body of Boomer Breslau was photographed and moved to a stretcher from a mortuary van. The body was being wheeled to the van when a gray sedan pulled up beside it. Agent Welbee got out of the back seat. He was wearing an armored vest.

We rose and went to meet him.

“Hold up a minute,” Agent Welbee called to the mortuary guys. He went to the trunk and took out a wheelchair.

The driver of the sedan opened the back door for Harland Breslau. He held Harland's arm as they came around to the front of the car. Harland's hands were locked and folded in front of him, and he looked around in confusion while the agent opened the passenger door, reaching in to help Amanda to her feet. When she was on her feet, Amanda held onto the top of the door and looked to Clay and me, never looking at the stretcher draped in white. Agent Welbee rolled her chair into place. She positioned herself over the chair. With Agent Welbee and the driver supporting Amanda, together they lowered her onto the seat.

Harland shuffled closer to the wheelchair. His eyes were downcast, fixed on the top of Amanda's head, and his fingers picked at the rubber handle of the wheelchair. Amanda sat there regally, composed and elegant. Clay whispered. “Who are they?”

“Harland and Amanda Breslau.”

“No shit?”

Agent Welbee moved Harland aside and pushed Amanda's chair to the stretcher. We followed.

The agent lifted the sheet. A moan of shock escaped Harland. Amanda reached out for the stretcher, clasped the edge of it and pulled to lift herself. Agent Welbee helped her rise. “Is this your son, Justin Breslau?”

Amanda stared down in silence for some time before she nodded. “Yes, that's Justin.” She twisted her body and looked over her shoulder towards Clay and me. Her face twisted and for a moment I saw Boomer again.

“Sit down, Mrs. Breslau,” Agent Welbee said, clasping her arm and easing her down. He turned her chair to face us.

“He was shot by a deputy,” I told her. It was like I was trying to remove myself from any responsibility.

“Why?” Harland wailed. “I don't understand — why was he here?”

“Boomer came here to kill me.” I pushed hair back from my face. “He was going to kill us all.”

“We knew nothing of this,” Amanda put in. “It has nothing to do with us.” Her voice was harsh and angry. “Are they under arrest?” I asked Agent Welbee.

“Yes.”

“What for?” Clay asked.

“For illegal confinement.”

“What?” Harland wailed. It was as if he was unaware of the handcuffs, had been in a coma when they were put on and suddenly came alive outside our barn. “What are you talking about?”

Agent Welbee replied, “I already told you the charge when I Mirandized you.” He started to explain again but Harland cut him off. “Both of us? But you can't arrest Amanda. Why would you arrest Amanda?

“Harland, it's okay.” Amanda raised a hand to comfort him. “It's a mistake; it will be cleared up.”

But Harland wasn't having it. “You can't take my wife into custody.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “Can't you see she's not well?”

“Harland, shush,” Amanda said. “They might as well take me if they're taking you. I can't go home without you.”

The truth and the tragedy of this statement were only too evident.

Behind me Clay wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me to him. I leaned back into the warmth of his body.

Harland was begging now, “Please, let me take my wife home.”

“I'm afraid not,” agent Welbee responded. “I already told you, you both have to answer questions involving trafficking in humans.”

“What do you mean trafficking in humans?” Harland protested, outraged at the thought. For a moment I almost believed he'd had no part in it, he was so totally amazed.

Welbee began to explain with a voice that might just as well have been telling Harland how to plant potatoes. “Human trafficking is defined as forced labor obtained not only through the use of force but also the threat of physical force, and restraining or confining another human being unlawfully. Transportation, soliciting, harboring or obtaining another human for transport is defined as human trafficking. We have a witness who says you were involved in these activities and we have agents at twentynine River Road, searching your property for evidence as we speak. If they find any evidence that you, or the rest of your family, were in any way involved in this activity, that you were holding aliens unlawfully, it will go very hard on you. We are taking you to our office so you can tell your side of the story now. Mr. Breslau senior and Sheriff Hozen are already under arrest.” Agent Welbee turned to look at me, “When your 911 call came in, we already had Sheriff Hozen in custody. The sheriff's office called Sheriff Hozen and we intercepted the call. We brought Mr. and Mrs. Breslau here to identify their son.”

“But,” Harland said, shaking his head in denial. “None of this is our fault.” Tears ran down his face. “We didn't do it.”

“Hush now, my darling. Don't say anything.” Amanda put his hand to her lips. Tears slid over her cheeks.

Harland wasn't listening. He croaked out, “Can I take my wife home now?” He didn't seem to be able to grasp the concept that he wouldn't be able to walk away as if nothing had happened. He just didn't understand anything beyond Amanda.

“No sir,” Agent Welbee's voice was flat and patient. “I have a warrant for your arrest. I've explained that.”

“But what will happen to my wife?” Harland wailed. “You can see she couldn't ever hurt anyone. She wasn't part of this. And she needs me.” Not even what happened to Boomer and his father penetrated Harland's concern for his wife.

“Harland won't harm anyone ever again if you just let him go,” Amanda promised.

“What about Lucan Percell, doesn't his life mean anything?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” Amanda leaned on her forearms, raising herself in her outrage. “Harland didn't have anything to do with that.”

“Didn't he?” I jerked away from Clay, every bit as angry as Amanda. “It was the night Ramiro went missing, the night they were moving workers and Ramiro escaped. Harland never went to the Gator Hole but he did that night, the night Lucan died.”

“That isn't a crime,” Amanda said, “Going into a bar.”

“No, but murder is. If Boomer had killed Lucan, well, he would have just killed Lucan and left him lying there, and Orlin's arthritis would never have let him lift Lucan into the truck.” I looked from Amanda up to Harland. “But you're strong, Harland. You lift Amanda all the time. She told me last Saturday how strong and fit you are. And you promised me the murderer hadn't damaged my truck. Such a careful man.” Amanda looked up at him, uncertain. “Harland?” His wail of distress was full of self-pity. “I had to,” he assured her. “Lucan was going to tell. He wanted to put Justin in jail so he would stay away from Lucan's daughter. Lucan didn't even care if it meant he was going to jail too, didn't care if I went to jail.”

“Why didn't you just make Boomer stay away from Kelly Sweet?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Couldn't, never could control him. His grandpa raised Justin. We had no say.” Tears washed Harland's face. “Neither my son nor my father cared about us. I asked my father to sell enough land so that Amanda and I could have a little place on our own, away from them and start a new life. He wouldn't do it. Said we weren't in the business of selling land. Said we were going to keep the land together, going to keep all of us together. He wouldn't let us go.”

“Can't you see?” Amanda said, “We were trapped there just as much as any of those men. We couldn't leave, had nowhere to go, no money of our own and no health care for me. My father-in-law controlled it all.”

It seemed the damage they'd done to other people's lives had never entered her head. Agent Welbee's phone rang.