“The pigs were slaughtered the same way,” Brennan said. “The cut went through the trachea nearly severing the headâfar more than was needed to kill it.”
“Someone train them, you think? Or did they watch the videos too?”
“Not sure,” she admitted.
“But they were definitely sending a message,” Ward said, “letting us know what kind of culture they come from, telling us they're not afraid of this level of violence, and warning us that next time it could be people.”
“Some of that, anyway,” she said.
“But not leaving any actionable evidence,” Ward said. “You say the pigs were held down. Was thereâ”
“Good get,” Brennan said. “Yes, we found smudged glove prints on one pig's head as it was pressed into the ground and held there. The fibers didn't tell us anything other than that they were smallish hands. No palm prints.”
He took another long sip. It was funny how the taste of cold coffee brought him back to his rookie year and long stakeouts.
“First thing we've got to do is eliminate a frame-up,” Ward said.
“Am I missing something?” she asked.
“Pigs, porkâforbidden to Muslims. Somebody looking to frame them for a crime might go for something obvious like that.”
“It's a thought,” she admitted.
“I met some Utes up in the field earlier. They said they were there to pray for the spirits of the pigs. True?”
“I'd believe that,” Brennan said. “They're proud of their past but they don't have their hands out, like so many others. In a lot of ways, Randolph is more like their ancestors than he is like everyone else here. He lives off the land, respects it, doesn't go in for a lot of modern conveniences. He still had an outhouse until about fifteen years ago.”
“So who would be on the short list of potential framers?”
“That's just it,” she said. “There's a bunch of people here who hate how the Muslims have come in and started buying up the town. There's been a lot of grumbling over at Papa Vito's but there hasn't been any violence against them since that started. Hell, their money saved a bunch of folks from going under. There was some uneasy joking about, âHey, it's just our gas money coming back to us.' But nobody has taken it to the next level. There hasn't been so much as a âtowel-head go home' on the community center wall.”
Ward drank more coffee. “So did you walk me to my car to chat or is there some other reason?”
“You mean to make sure you got out of town?”
He shrugged.
“I am not so stupid to put ego and bad press ahead of the safety of my town and fellow citizens, Detective Wardâ”
“John,” he said.
“John.”
“What exactly does that mean?” he asked. “You don't seriously mean to hire me.”
“Not at this point, but if you're planning on staying in Basalt for a while I can't tell you who you can or can't watch or talk to.”
He finished the coffee and looked around.
“John, my folks had one of those fake copies of the Bill of Rights framed on our living room wall, you know the kind that cost a quarter and were artificially aged?”
“Yup. I had the Gettysburg Address.”
“Well, I know what that document says. I also know, the First Amendment notwithstanding, that I don't have the right to shout
Fire
in a crowded theater. The Bill of Rights should come with a user's guide and it should have a section called, âWhat to Do When a Different Set of Laws Comes to Town.'”
“Meaning what? Muslim Sharia law? We have separation of church and stateâ”
“Actually, we don't, John, which is the trouble,” Brennan said. “We have separation of church
within
state. People haven't grasped the fact that the Bill of Rights gives legal protection to what is effectively a fifth column.”
He looked at her with surprise. “You've given this some thought.”
“I've got to be one way with folks like Scott to keep them from going off half-cocked, but I'm not naive,” she said. “I'm going to say it to you because you've seen it, but I'll deny I said it if it comes up again. Our nation is facing a stealth jihad. That's how I came to read about your experience in New York. Yes, it made some national news outlets but I saw how you were railroaded with the unwitting help of minority police and liberal media. America won't need its throat cut: our hearts are bleeding all over the pavement. It's got to stop.” She reached into her shirt pocket, took out a business card, and wrote something on the back. “This is my cell number,” she said, handing him the card. “In case you need it.”
“You're serious about this,” he said. “I mean, my staying.”
She said, “Yeah, I'm serious. John, I'm scared for the country.”
Ward slipped the card in his wallet. He only just became aware of the sounds of traffic on East Valley Road and nearby Highway 82. He had been riveted, surprised, and unexpectedly heartened by their discussion. He extended his hand. She clasped it tightly.
“Chief, it's been great talking to you,” Ward said. “I have some business with Mr. Dickson at the bank. I was thinking about setting up an account for Megan. Any thoughts about him?”
“He had some tough times before the influx of short sales,” she said.
“Any chatter about that?”
“He started taking a much harder line on foreclosures,” she said. “People looked at him like a collaborator.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that when I popped by yesterday. No threats?”
She shook her head then took his hand. She locked her other hand on his before releasing it. There was gratitude in her smile. “I need to get you a hat,” she said.
He shot her a quizzical look.
She pointed at the Prius. “White hat to go with the white horse.”
When she was gone, he reached through the window of the Prius, grabbed the bag of half-eaten breakfast and stuffed it in a trash can beside a street lamp.
Damn, but she was right
. He hadn't felt this clean, this right, this unencumbered in a long, long time. There was no district attorney, no straitjacketing regulations, no sense that lurking behind every good and honest action was a punk attorney looking to stick a pitchfork in his backside.
No.
It was different.
It was the West.
C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
During anti-terror training, Ward learned that one of hallmarks of a terrorist was an air of euphoria that increased in the days and hours leading to an attack. That feeling lessened without disappearing entirely as the hours became minutes and the execution of the mission became all-encompassing. The rapture came from knowing something of which the people around you were oblivious, something that would have a tremendous impact on their lives or even end those lives. That excitement was enhanced by the fact that the terrorist was immune to laws and restrictions. The combination of power and certainty was godlike.
To a smaller degree, Ward felt that exhilaration now. If he were still a cop working in New York where everyone was always on high-alert, where laws and protocol had to be strictly obeyed, he could never attempt what he was planning. He felt liberated in a way he never had.
Ward used his cell to place a call from the parking lot of the Fryingpan Savings and Loan before entering the bank. Earl Dickson was on the phone when Ward arrived. He sat on the sofa to wait for the manager. He acknowledged an elderly woman seated beside him, the only other patron waiting for an officer. She was solving a Word Search puzzle in a magazine.
“The bank doesn't seem as crowded as it was yesterday morning,” Ward remarked pleasantly.
“You're not a local,” she said.
“No.”
“Monday is Take Your Home and Business Day,” the white-haired lady explained, with the slight edge of someone describing wallpaper they didn't like. “At least, that's what everyone calls it. The opening of the business week is when the checks are due. Though most people come here with pleas. They'd come with lawyers, but who can afford them?”
“Do the pleas ever work?”
She shook her head gravely. “I'm here to see my banker, Ms. Wood, and open an account for my granddaughter. It used to be so crowded here in the mornings. So crowded. Everyone chatty.” The head continued to shake as she went back to her puzzle.
Ward was about to ask what she thought of the new faces in town when he saw Dickson hang up. He excused himselfâhe actually used the word “ma'am,” unaware that it had ever been a part of his vocabularyâand strode to the desk. Dickson had already turned his attention to his computer monitor.
“Mr. Dickson?” Ward said to the man's back.
The manager's thick neck turned. He looked up at the newcomer. There was a slight, formal smile, a touch of inquiry in his eyes, but his demeanor was otherwise flat and uninterested.
“My name is John Ward. I'm the former husband of Joanne McCrea. Your daughter used to babysitâ”
“Yes, Mr. Ward. Angie mentioned she saw you. How are you?”
“Not bad.”
Dickson swiveled his chair around and gestured to the thinly cushioned plastic seat beside the desk. Before sitting, Ward absently angled the chair so that he could see the front door.
“How may the bank be of service?” Dickson asked.
“Well, I find myself temporarily unemployed and was thinking about opening some kind of investment account. Let my money work for me.”
“We read about what happened,” Dickson said. “Very sorry.”
“Thanks.” Ward watched Dickson carefully. “I've been told that the Midwest Revitalization Initiative has been making some forward looking deals and I was also told you might be able to hook me up.”
The banker asked defensively. “Who told you that?”
“Actually, I overheard it at Papa Vito's.”
“Happy-hour gossip. I've handled some local transactions for them but I am not their agent.”
“I see. Do you think it's a good investment?”
“I don't know, Mr. Ward.”
“Who would I talk to, then?”
“They have offices in Chicagoâ”
“Locally, I mean.”
“There is no local office.”
“But youâ”
“Everything I did for them was conducted online,” Dickson said with mounting impatience.
“Oh? I understood that they have agents in town.”
The banker's expression no longer held even the hint of welcome. “I'm sorry, you really shouldn't listen to men well into their beer. Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” Ward said. “I don't believe you.”
Dickson shocked to full alert. It took a moment for the electric jolt to fade, then he leaned forward. “Mr. Ward, that kind of bullying may work on the streets of New York. Or in your case, it may not. Either way, it does not intimidate me.”
“I'm not trying to intimidate you, Mr. Dickson. I'm trying to help you, to help the town where my daughter lives. I think the MRI
does
have people here and I think they're up to no good.”
“I'm not interested in your suspicionsâ”
“I don't believe that, either. I think they scare the pants off you. Why? Are you into something you shouldn't be?”
“That's enough!” Dickson barked. He rose stiffly. “If you've no business here, please leave.”
The staff was looking over. “Okay, Mr. Dickson.” Ward stood slowly. He had been watching the door. “By the way, it looks like you've got a visitor.”
A swarthy man had arrived less than a minute before and was standing just outside, talking on the phone.
Ward watched Dickson's face as he turned. The bank manager's cheeks flushed and his eyes snapped back toward the detective. “What have you done?”
“I called the Al Huda Center and told them you have a new investment to discuss,” Ward said. He put his face close to that of the banker. “Hog futures. You tell them there's no way in hell they're getting the Randolph farm. You also tell them they're going to replace every last pig they killed, with interest.”
“I don't want to get involved in this.”
“I don't care,” Ward said. “Just deliver the message.”
“Why don't you tell them yourself?”
“I'm betting that slob outside knows you,” Ward said. “He'll see you're afraid. He'll listen.”
Dickson was looking around as though searching a sandbag to throw in the breach. “I'm telling you, you've got the wrong idea.”
“I don't think so,” Ward replied. “An innocent man would've treated me as a crank caller. That guy outsideâhe's pissed.”
Dickson shook his head. “You're making a terrible mistake, Mr. Ward. Another one. You have family.”
“Oh, so we're going the ugly route? You've got family too, which is why it'd be best if this ended here and now. It's up to you.”
“You don't understand,” Dickson hissed.
“I think I do. We've both got daughters we love, and they've got yours working at the Fawaz Dry Cleaner to keep
you
in line. I've mucked that up, which is all the more reason to talk to the law while you still can.”
Dickson's face was pale. “Get out.”
“Mr. Dickson, call me the worst father in the world but I can't live with the idea of handing my daughter a broken America, one where women have no rights and liberty is just a street name. I'm betting that you and the other townspeople will stand shoulder to shoulder and stop this before it's too late.”
The banker did not reply. Ward waited. The man didn't even move. Ward sighed and wrote his cell number on a foreclosure notice. He pushed the document in front of the bank manager.
“If you change your mind, call. I'd also like to know what your friendly neighborhood Muslim outreach liaison has to say, if you care to share that.”
He left Dickson standing stiffly behind his desk, the two men uncertain what would happen next but only one of them eager for it. Ward passed the darker-skinned man on his way out. He was about five-eleven in a well-tailored beige suit and neat beard stubble, cleared away under the chin. Except for the facial hair, he reminded Ward of the muscle he saw in mob stakeouts. The man's fingers were thick as carrots, his eyes dark, his mouth an unforgiving line. There was nothing in the man's body or posture that said “compromise.”
Ward passed without exchanging a glance, though he did look at the man's feet. They were largeâlarger than the mush-prints he had seen at the farm. Ward suspected that this man had nothing to do with the attack. He didn't look the hell-raising sort. This mule was probably just what he seemed to be: the dumb eyes and ears of whoever was unwilling to leave the Al Huda Center, albeit one who could take care of himself if he had to. Defense only. His brain probably wasn't built for tactics.
Ward was sure his picture was being taken by the cell phone. It would be sent to whoever did do the actual ass-kicking. That was fine. He'd be happy to have the bad guys come to him. He only needed to make sure Megan was out of the line of fire. He was betting these guys didn't want to kill anyone yet: if they had, Scott Randolph would be in a box instead of the hospital. Still, now that he'd declared himself, Ward couldn't afford to put anything past them. He would pick up Megan after school, take her home, and tell Joanne to keep her there except for classes or any other activity where she was in a crowd. Joanne wouldn't like it and Megan might be frightened, but it had to be.
Ward couldn't wait for that conversation. But he believed what he told Dickson. His brother had died for that ideal. This was not a poker game with a fold option.
The detective got in his car, checked the rearview mirror, saw the man taking a picture of the Prius. He wasn't even being subtle about it. Ward wasn't surprised. Part of their job was to try and make people paranoid. That was why they call it
terror
. Ward considered going over and calling him out but decided against it. He had a feeling where this was going and wanted to let it play out.
Ward pulled from the spot and headed toward the inn. As he drove up the road he found himself smiling. He had faced down a Russian gunrunner. With guns. Let this guy and his handlers think that Ward could be frightened. The greatest strength of a man, of a people, is when the enemy underestimates them. Ward realized that what he was doing here, what Randolph and Chief Brennan and he were
all
doing, was erasing the destructive hyphenates. They weren't a New YorkâAmerican or Basalt-American. They weren't a Farmer-American or Cop-American. They weren't a Male-American or Female-American.
They were, simply, American.