P Deutermann - Spider mountain

“Where’s Mark and Matthew?” I asked with a grin.

They looked at each other, and then Luke said, “Mark’s in Carson prison; killed a man when he was eighteen. He’s gone upstate for twenty years. Matthew drownded in the coal mines two years ago. Just us now.”

“How long have you two worked here in the sheriff’s office?”

The Big brothers considered the question. They appeared to want to think about anything they said, which I considered a useful trait in policemen. They also seemed like pretty decent people, and not the kind who would associate with someone who threw unconscious kids into his cruiser like sacks of coal.

“Goin’ on five years now,” Big Luke said. Bigger John nodded. Five years it was. “We growed up in these parts,” Luke continued. “Went off to the Army for a while, then did this and that, then came home.”

“What’s the sheriff have you doing?”

“Traffic, some patrol, sometimes the jail here,” Luke said. “We didn’t do so good in school. Mostly played ball.”

I thought for a moment. They’d treated me well enough-no cell-block roughhouse or demeaning tricks. “Let me give you something to think about,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Three words. You ready?”

They looked down at me patiently. John might have been counting.

“The three words are: federal task force.”

Luke blinked. John frowned, then looked to Luke for guidance.

“Federal. Task. Force. Ask around, but do it outside the sheriff’s office. Do not ask the sheriff what it means. But once you find out, think hard on it.”

The door to the interior offices opened and another deputy called for the hulking brothers to come inside. I sat down on the bunk bed. I wondered what they’d done with Carrie and whether or not she’d identified herself yet as SBI. She might not. I’d seen her set that jaw.

I thought about escape. There were no other prisoners in this part of the jail. The big deputies seemed friendly enough at this juncture, but I certainly couldn’t take them both down, even if I did manage to surprise them. And then what? The building’s doors were operable only by mag-cards and a key code that I did not know, and getting out of the building would put me right back in the same concrete arena where I’d met the lovable Ace. The question was: If Carrie were to be sprung by her own people, would she be able to spring her “operational consultant”? I needed to get word to someone back in Manceford County. I decided to go to sleep and see what the morning brought.

The following morning Big Luke brought me a breakfast tray from the jail kitchens with a paper cup of coffee perched on top. He handed it to me through the food slot in the bars and then left. He came back an hour later.

“Y’all’s lawyer is here,” he announced as he retrieved the breakfast tray.

Lawyer? What lawyer was that? Not the high-priced esquire from Triboro, certainly. I felt the stubble on my face and wondered when I was going to get some clean clothes and a shaving kit.

Bigger John came down the corridor, followed by a man with a briefcase. He looked vaguely familiar. John unlocked the cell door and let the man in, re-locked the door, and stood patiently outside. The lawyer handed me a business card, but when I looked at it, all it said was go with it. When the looming deputy didn’t leave, the “lawyer” looked pointedly at him. When John still didn’t get the hint, he asked John to leave so that he could speak in private to his client. John said, “Oh,” and then left us alone. I finally recognized the “lawyer” as one of the DEA agents from Greenberg’s team. He was freshly shaved, his hair was cut, and he was wearing a suit and some lawyerly eyeglasses. He sat down on the bunk, opened the briefcase, and took out a legal pad. He patted the bunk and I sat down next to him.

“Got some documents you need to see,” he said in a loud voice, pointing at the ceiling, and then showed me what was written on the pad. If anyone was listening to us, this guy wasn’t going to give them an inch.

Basically the pad revealed that Carrie had been released when her boss and a team of SBI agents showed up at the sheriff’s office that morning. Baby Greenberg had stashed Frick and Frack at my love-nest cabin. Mingo had produced a bench warrant for my arrest and refused to release me, SBI consultant or no consultant. My hearing was tentatively scheduled for a week from today at the Robbins County courthouse.

Mingo was playing hardball because his cousin, the magistrate for Robbins County, was backing him up. The Manceford County Sheriff’s Office had been informed of my predicament, as well as my real lawyer in Triboro. SBI had been unable to get Mingo to investigate the logging-truck “accident,” once again because they could produce no evidence, the pile of logs in the creek notwithstanding. My Triboro lawyer was not optimistic on bail, given the relationship between the sheriff and the magistrate, nor did he feel that a recusal motion had much chance of success. SBI was going to work that angle and also request a venue change. Greenberg was setting up a surveillance cell in town in order to make sure there were no late-night rides resulting in a shot-while-attempting-escape deal.

Any questions?

I took the pen and told the agent to get someone close to the two big deputies who ran the holding cells and explain what a federal task force was all about and how it might be to their advantage to switch sides before the roof fell in on Mingo.

What roof is that? the agent wanted to know.

Make one up, I wrote. They’re outside Mingo’s criminal crew.

You know that? the agent wrote. I hesitated, but had to shake my head. What’s Carrie Santangelo going to do? I asked.

She’s in hot water within the SBI because of this, he wrote. Her boss couldn’t explain to his boss what we were all doing out there. He’s pissed. Carrie’s pissed. Baby’s beyond pissed.

I need some clean clothes and bathroom gear, I wrote.

The agent shook his head. They’re going to book you and process you into the jail system today, he wrote. Jumpsuit city. Sorry.

That evening I found myself the sole occupant of that small wooden building attached to the main sheriff’s office headquarters. My theory that it had been the town’s original jail apparently was correct, based on the interior furnishings. It was connected to the main jail wing by a breezeway across one side of the parking area. There were four cells, in a two-across configuration. Each cell had a metal bunk bolted to the floor, a seatless toilet fixture, a steel sink, and a tiny table and chair, also bolted to the floor. Unlike the main building, there were actually one-foot-square barred windows up high in the cell walls, which was fortunate because there was no other ventilation system. The front of the cell and the dividing walls were freestanding bars. The exterior walls appeared to be made of stone blocks. I half-expected to see Marshal Dillon coming through the wooden door leading out to the breezeway.

They’d booked me that morning after my “lawyer” left, taking my street clothes and issuing me a lovely orange jumpsuit, some really uncomfortable jail shoes, a blanket, a single sheet, a pillow, and some basic toiletries. I was allowed to shower and shave with a disposable razor, which Big Luke retrieved when I was finished. Then the amiable giant had escorted me to the annex, as he called it, and placed me in a cell.

“Sheriff said to put you in here on account of you bein’ an ex-cop,” Luke told me. “Didn’t want no trouble from the other prisoners.”

“What other prisoners?” I asked him.

Luke grinned and shuffled his feet. “Well,” he admitted, “ain’t none right now. Sheriff Mingo, he don’t hold much with puttin’ folks in jail, less’n it’s real serious-like. The field deputies usually just take care of things, one way’n another.”