John Ringo: Princess of Wands

“Deer hunting,” Kelly said, shrugging as she straightened back up.

The AR-10 was a .308 version of the venerable M-16 rifle. It was actually designed to mimic the M-16A2 but used a much heavier round. The M-16 used a high-velocity 5.56 millimeter bullet whereas the AR-10 fired a high-velocity 7.62 millimeter bullet. An M-16 round tended to wound a man rather than kill him. An AR-10 round tended to put him in the morgue.

“Yeah, right,” Barbara scoffed. “You know those things tend to jam about every tenth round?”

“I noticed,” Kelly admitted.

“Not enough gas blowback,” Barb said, shrugging. “And the tubes get fouled. It gets really bad over a hundred rounds. There’s a type of powder that cuts down on it but not many .308 rounds are made with it. They need a lighter buffer spring, too.”

“You do say?” Kelly said. “If I have to fire more than fifty rounds, I’m in the wrong fire-fight. I’m a detective, not a tac-team member. And I don’t think even they fire more than fifty rounds in any situation. Where did you learn about AR-10s?”

“All that is gold does not glitter,” she said, grinning. Then she tossed him her purse.

Kelly caught it, noticing the additional weight immediately, and frowned.

“That is highly illegal in the state of Louisiana,” he said, tossing the bag back. “Don’t get caught with it by, say, a local cop. Or you might end up in the local slammer and I really don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“I’ve got a concealed carry permit for Mississippi,” Barbara said, frowning. “Louisiana has a reciprocal agreement, so I’m covered. But, while I’m not into resisting arrest, I think I would if it meant dealing with local justice. The term ‘prison movie’ comes to mind. I… did not like that deputy.”

“As a professional police officer, I do of course feel that resisting arrest would be the wrong thing to do,” Kelly said. “As a thinking being, however, I suggest that if it comes to it you use every bit of force, short of lethal, necessary to avoid being arrested by Deputy Mondaine. The other question that comes to mind is, can you use that thing? Because if you can’t, you shouldn’t be packing, Mrs. Everette.”

“I’ve probably put ten times as many rounds through it as you have your service pistol,” Barb said, shrugging. “Including on tactical ranges. Not that I’ve had much chance lately. But what I aim at, I hit. And it’s a court of last resort, anyway. I have… other skills. Which I will use on you if you make any ‘packed and stacked’ cracks.”

“What… are you, Barbara Everette?” Kelly said, carefully.

“I’m just what you called me,” Barb said with a frown. “A soccer mom. I had to have one da… danged weekend where I wasn’t taking care of somebody else. Just one. And I ended up… here,” she said, waving her hands around. “In… this! Fortunately I had a father who thought his girls should be able to defend themselves.”

“Okay,” Kelly said, nodding. “I’ll play it as it lays, then. I don’t suppose your cell phone works?”

“Nope,” she said. “No towers around here. I asked.”

“In that case, we need to find a pay phone.”

“Down by the Piggly Wiggly.”

At the Piggly Wiggly he bought a phone card and went out to the pay phone to call in. While he was doing that she went to the drugstore next door and bought her own phone card, a small black backpack, a six-pack of bottled water, some cold Pepsi in twenty-ounce bottles, a bag of ice and some energy bars. If worse came to worst she could survive on those for the weekend. As she was walking back to the front she stopped by the drugs section and picked up some Tylenol and Claritin-D.

When she’d paid for her items she passed Kelly, still talking on the phone, and went in the Piggly Wiggly to use their bathroom. It was only marginally dirty as such places went. She emptied half the ice in the sink and put the half-filled bag in the backpack, then stuffed the drinks in the ice. Once that was done she put the energy bars and drugs in the side pockets and carefully disposed of her trash in the overflowing trashcan.

When she came back out, Kelly was finally off the phone and she called home. Still no answer so she left an updated message and called Mark’s cell phone. No answer there, either. He’d probably turned it off.

What she wanted to do was ask him to come down and pick her up. A creepy town was bad enough. A creepy town with a tough cop who was looking to her for a chance for survival was worse. She was trained to stay alive and get out of danger situations. The first position in every self-defense class is the running position. And everything in her was telling her to run .

But Mark was going to be in no condition to come pick her up and even if he was the drive would be hell on both of them and she’d be paying back for years.

No, she was just going to have to wait for the car to get done or figure out an alternate plan. She could call Daddy and wail. In which case he’d be on a plane for New Orleans in no more than an hour and here in about… ten. The thought was immensely reassuring but she couldn’t do that any more than she could call Mark. She was a big girl and she was the one who had just up and left for the weekend. It was up to her to get out of the town.

Preferably alive. If she knew she was in danger she’d pick up the phone. Then again, if Detective Lockhart was sure she was in danger, he’d carry her out of the town in an instant.

“You talk to your boss?” she asked when she was done with the phone.

“Yeah, Lieutenant Chimot,” Kelly said, frowning. “I told him what seemed to be going on and he agreed it was suspicious. I also told him I was going stay on overnight and come back in the morning. I don’t think the good deputy is going to show.”

“Neither do I,” Barbara said, grimacing. “What are you going to do now?”

“Ask around,” Kelly said. “See if I can find anybody who doesn’t give me the run around.”

“Lieutenant Chimot, my name is Augustus Germaine.”

Chimot had received a call from the director of the FBI explaining that one of their consultants was coming over to see him and that he should listen to what he said and believe it. “ No matter how strange it seems, believe it .”

The FBI and local police had a so-so relationship. In certain cases, and kidnappings were one of them, the FBI had override authority. That meant that some snot-nosed punk straight out of the academy could order around anyone on the case, up to and including the chief of police. Generally they were polite about it but enough had been right pains in the ass that local police rarely looked forward to the FBI poking its nose in. They had excellent support and the manpower was often useful, but truth be told most of the cases the FBI ended up “supervising” were solved by some local detective who actually knew the area and the players involved.

The FBI hadn’t taken over the Ripper case, but Chimot knew it was close. He suspected that the “consultant” was going to tell him that. Just what he needed to hear from some closet academic.

Germaine, though, was something different.

“Mr. Germaine,” Chimot said, standing up and offering a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I doubt that,” Germaine said, bluntly, giving the hand a quick but firm shake. “Your department has had more than a few run-ins with the FBI and the Justice Department and there’s not much love in either direction. But that’s not important in this case, what is important are the Special Circumstances.”

“What… circumstances?” Chimot asked, sitting down. He cocked his head in interest at the tone; the capital letters had been noticeable.