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“You think Henry double crossed an organization that deals in counterfeit and money laundering schemes?” She cried out. Betty began pacing the floor in an effort to process. Then she looked from one of us to the other. “This kind of thing just doesn’t happen overnight, does it? So, whatever this is? Henry has been at it for a long time.”
“Probably, yeah.”
Betty took in a deep breath. “And Liddy?”
“Hostage? Collateral damage, maybe.” Crix shrugged. “Makes sense. They didn’t expect to find anyone home, and my guess is if they had found that safe Liddy would have been killed on the spot. But since they didn’t they might have taken her thinking that having her would give them leverage. Could be they thought she was you.”
“But they haven’t contacted Henry.”
“We don’t know that, Betty.” I said as calmly as I could. “Could be they did contact Henry.”
“You are telling me that Henry is letting Liddy rot?” Betty’s eyes filled with fire. “Kid Harding, is that what you’re telling me? That Henry knows who took Liddy but doesn’t care? That he won’t trade in his counterfeiting bullshit to save my girl?”
“Yeah. That’s what I think.” I said bluntly. The more I thought about it, the more likely it sounded. The more likely it sounded, the harder my hand curled into a fist. When this was over, Henry Peters was a dead man. Many,many, manyfucking times over.
“Goddamn him.” Betty’s voice broke as she held back a sob. Then she looked straight at me. “You do whatever it takes to get Liddy back. Whatever it takes. Do you understand? You just get my girl back.”
Deke took a long look at Betty, then lifted his chin towards me. When I gave a slight nod, he nodded back. Then my father said this.
“Crix, go tell the boys to lock us down and get ready for law enforcement presence.”
Special Agent Harrison, a black man whose six-foot-five frame carried about two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle weight, has always been fair to the club. It’s widely known in the circuit that he had been a heavy-weight boxer before applying to the Bureau. Harrison had ended a very promising career as a heavy weight champion after he had delivered a strong blow that left his opponent with brain damage.
Harry Harrison had come up through the School of Hard Knocks. He had earned his place in the Bureau through guts and glory. Deke admired that, and Harrison had admired the leadership that my dad had shown in making sure that certain Silver Sinnershad a come to Jesusmoment after the Ridge incident.
So, over the years through necessity and mutual respect, the two men had come to a sort of understanding. Exactly what the terms of that understanding were? Well, that was between my father and Special Agent Harrison, but it seemed to work to both of their advantages. However, that didn’t mean that the club didn’t lock our shit down tight when an officer,a federal officer, of the law was in our territory.
People say that you can tell a lot by a man’s handshake and that’s no lie. Harrison got that. His handshake was just firm enough to show interest but not dominance, and his eyes held yours just long enough without being intimidating. “Good to see you, boys.”
“Thanks for coming.” I told him.
After the guys had gotten through the necessary formalities, Harrison turned to Betty. When she reached for his outstretched hand, he held hers in both of his for a moment before letting go. “It’s good to meet you, Miss Owens. I’m sincerely sorry that it has to be under these circumstances. I want to give you my word that we will do our best to get Liddy home safe, sound, and as quickly as possible. I hear you’ve brought us some information that could be invaluable in helping us do our job. I look forward to seeing it.”
Betty gave a small tense nod. She looked at the Special Agent with narrow, suspicious eyes. I knew as well as anyone the place Betty Owens came from, and it was not a place where law enforcement could be trusted. I got that. In spades. But I also knew that she wanted to believe that he could perform the miracle that would bring Liddy home. Because I got that too.
“I’m gonna make myself at home, boys.” He said to me and Deke.
Then Agent Harrison took off his suit jacket and put it on the back of the chair exposing a shoulder holster carrying a Bureau-issued Gen 5 Glock handgun. His dark eyes gleamed with appreciation when he saw the fresh pot of coffee on the counter.
“Mind if I do?” Agent Harris asked even as he walked over to pour himself a big cup of black coffee. He took a small sip before he added four heaping helpings of sugar into the cup. After he sipped it, his eyes closed with delight before opening them again.
“Dark, rich, and sweet. Just like I like my women.” He gave out a loud quick chuckle and to my surprise, I saw Betty’s tight shoulders relax while she let out a low giggle. Then the giggle turned into a small anxiety-relieving laugh. “My daddy used to say the same thing.”
The tension in the room eased dramatically after that and I thought to myself that it wasn’t the first time I had seen Harrison work the room. Big fucker was a master at putting people at ease. It wasn’t lost on me that even though we were on opposite sides of the law, I could probably learn a lot from Special Agent Harrison.
It hadn’t taken him long to connect some very revealing dots. Through leading questions and at times intense interrogation, Betty realized that she knew a whole lot more about Henry’s activities than she thought she did. Apparently, Henry Peters was heavily involved in the business end of a white supremacist organization called the Rogue Hillbillies. The Hillbillies had been relatively small time up until about a year ago when they were recruited by a Neo-Nazi group called the Federation of Souls. In order to fund their very fucked up agenda, the FOS dealt in extortion, money laundering, and kidnapping. More recently they had begun trafficking drugs and human cargo. And the Rogue Hillbillies were involved right up to their redneck asses.
According to Harrison, Henry most likely met up with Billy-Bob Gentry, a key member of the Rogue Hillbillies at an American Nationalist Meeting some fifteen years ago. Because Henry was an affable guy who liked to have people around him, Betty was able to recognize many of the photos that Harrison had faxed over to the compound. She put faces to names and dates to places.
Liddy
Eventually, it was only me and Emilie left. Emilie was a pretty, young French girl with brown skin, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of roasted chestnuts. Emile never liked to sit still, and I could only imagine how hard the confinement was for her. She had the natural body of an athlete and along with our daily jazzercise, she did a hundred push-ups and fifty sit-ups a day in the tiny cell. I was able to keep most of the meals down now and except for the never-ending boredom and the weird sleep schedule that we kept (Emilie and I continued that nighttime vigilance that had started when I’d been assaulted) I was feeling better.
Because she could speak a few words of English and as it turned out I was pretty good at hand gestures, we were able to communicate at only a very basic level, still it was something. Now that it was only the two of us I wasn’t sure what terrified me more, the thought that they would take Emilie first and leave me all alone, or if the opposite was true. But I had decided that the next time that damn door opened I was going to free us. I was going to grab Emilie and make a run for it. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Maybe we’d make it, maybe we wouldn’t but I was sure as hell going to try.
When two plastic salt and pepper shakers arrived on our trays one day we clapped and jumped up and down in delight. We immediately poured the contents out on the table and spent hours drawing maps and other things through the granules of salt and pepper with our fingers (it turned out Emilie was a French Canadian from what I thought might be Quebec), pictures, and words in both French and English. Through hours of crude pictures and creative enterprise, I was able to find out that Emilie’s last name was Leveque. She had two brothers, a cat, and a dog. She was twenty-two years old. Her birthday was January 5.
So we passed the time communicating through the salt, and playing cards. Double Solitaire, Hearts, Crazy Eights, and even War kept us busy for hours. When the sharp, thin bed springs started to lift up through the threadbare mattresses and poke us in the ass, we sat on the floor. One time just for the hell of it, I took a card and ran it down the side of the door jamb between the frame and the door with the ridiculous hope that the lock would trip and spring open. Of course, that didn’t happen. But Emilie’s eyes turned thoughtful for the rest of the day, and several times I saw her looking at that lock. I felt terrible. I knew that I had given her false hope. Because hope could be a horrible, awful thing. It was the false prophet, the swindler, the trickster, the stealer of dreams. And I was beginning to learn that it was just easier to live without it.
