Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

It all fit. When the borax ore yields dropped and the mines had failed to produce a profit due to the high cost of labor, the original owners ceased operations and abandoned them along with the plant that the mines supported. But Moran-with a bit of entrepreneurial flair-was able to overcome that trivial labor matter and make them profitable again.

I had to find out more. Creeping closer to the facility, I saw a big man in bib overalls amble out of the mess hall. It was the guy I’d seen with Moran, the guy who almost killed me at the base, Buddy the Bear. He stretched, yawned, and rolled a cigarette, licking the paper with his tongue. He took a few puffs and dropped the butt on the ground. A moment later a young black kid-couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve-came out of the same building. Head down, he walked past Buddy the Bear. The psychopath grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck, backhanded him across the face and jabbed his finger in the direction of the cigarette butt on the ground. The kid bent to pick it up and Buddy planted a boot in his backside. He sprawled flat. Buddy belched, laughed and swaggered off. If the world ended today and the only things left on the planet were the cockroaches, Buddy would be crawling around in the slime with the rest of his kind.

If only I had a movie camera, I’d have all the proof needed to show probable cause. Enough for the FBI to conduct an investigation.

I wasn’t being naive. Now that Robbie was dead, an investigation wouldn’t get me off the hook with the D.A.. But if the authorities raided Moran’s operations, his whole scheme would unravel. Maybe one or two of the kids-teens that hadn’t been totally brainwashed-might know who actually murdered Robbie and maybe, just maybe, one of them would talk. But even if they didn’t, I’d have enough to show reasonable doubt at my murder trial.

But regardless of what happened to me, with the movie plainly illustrating the brutality, the kids would get their freedom.

I had to get to a telephone fast, call Sol on his radiophone, and tell him to bring a 16 millimeter movie camera with a telescopic lens. We were going to make a horror flick.

I looked at the pebbly ground. All of the pain and misery happening out here caused my heart to ache, but soon it’d be over and the kids would be free.

And for me, I was beginning to see a way out of the horrible mess, and it felt good. I got to my feet and for the first time in days I was able to stand in the sun and breathe the air and feel alive again. It felt as if fate had finally turned my way.

But five seconds later, I saw how absolutely wrong I was.

Edging out from behind the scrub, I turned back toward the road just as cloud of dust appeared. Rita’s Datsun came out of nowhere, went zooming by, and headed straight for the borax works.

I froze, an immovable object,a ton of lead. This can’t be happening. But it was. Rita’s Datsun zoomed right by me, heading right for the facility. I raced to the center of the road and hurried after her, eating the dust of her receding car, waving my arms wildly, and shouting.

The dust cleared a bit, and in the distance, down at the bottom of the sloping road, I saw the yellow Datsun pull up to the clapboard office. Rita parked and went into the building. Damn!

I stopped a hundred yards short of the borax works when a couple of guards, weapons slung from their shoulders, came out of the mess hall and milled around.

Standing on the high ground, gazing at the complex, I wondered how I’d get her out of there without both of us getting shot. Moran had already issued my death sentence, and his number one honcho, Buddy, was only too happy to carry it out.

I heard a noise. A car. I spun around. It skidded to a stop.

Two men jumped out.

Oh, God!

I stared at the gun pointed at my face, the gun held by Sergeant Joe Hammer.

“Move and you’re dead,” the cop said.

“What the hell-”

“We tailed her, figured she’d lead us to you. She did.” Hammer nodded to the other cop. “Hook him up, Butch.” Then to me: “Don’t even think about it.”

“Hammer, you’ve got to help! Rita’s in danger!” I pointed toward the works. “She’s at the borax plant down the road!”

Butch grabbed my arms and snapped the cuffs on.

“Hammer, you gotta listen to me! They’ll see us-”

“You’re under arrest. Put him in the unit, Butch.”

The cop shoved me toward the detectives’ unmarked vehicle. “Goddamn, Hammer, they’ve got guns, assault weapons.”

The plant’s whistle let out a long blast.

Hammer peered at the complex as teens filed out of the mess hall, nudged along by guards jabbing them with automatic rifles. The kids paraded back toward the main building.

“Hammer, you gotta believe me!”

Butch pushed my head down, trying to get me in the back seat. I banged him with my shoulder. He cocked a fist.

“Hold it a second,” Hammer holstered his gun and, without taking his eyes off the borax works, gestured for Butch to cool it.

One of the guards looked up. He saw us standing out here on the road. Nudging the man next to him, he pointed at us and shouted. “Hey! Who are you guys?”

“Police, official business,” Hammer shouted back.

The second guy started to raise his assault rifle.

“Good Christ,” Hammer said. “What are they doing?”

“Move! They are going to kill us.”

Butch shoved me aside, jumped in the cop car and grabbed the radio mike. Then he dropped it. “Goddamn radio, too far out, can’t raise anyone…”

A rifle shot banged in my ear. Butch’s head exploded.

“They’re firing!” Hammer exclaimed. We jumped behind an outgrowth of rocks at the edge of the road. Three more rapid gunshots; the bullets buzzed over our heads.

“We got to get out of here,” Hammer said as he peered over the rocks. “We’re outnumbered-” Then he saw Butch’s body lying in the dirt. “Oh, Jesus! Jesus Mary Joseph, oh God -Goddammit!” Sliding down below the rock’s edge, he fell silent. He bowed his head and his body deflated slowly, like his soul was leaking out. Maybe it was.

I raised my head until I could barely see over the top of the rocks. Buddy barged out of the office.

The guards huddled up with him, pointing furiously in our direction.

“Go get ’em. Shoot the bastards,” Buddy roared. His voice carried across the valley.

I ducked down.

“Let’s go, O’Brien, move it!” Hammer grabbed my arm.

“Hammer, listen to me! We can’t leave. We’ve got to save Rita.”

He gave me a blank look. “What?”

“Rita’s down there. She’s in the office. They’ll kill her!”

“There’s nothing we can do. We got to get to the car.” He started to crawl away. A bullet almost took off his head. He jerked back. “Must be eight or nine of them. They’re moving out. Shit, man, let’s go. They’re coming after us!”

I thrust my bound wrists at him. “Here, for chrissakes, unhook me. I didn’t kill Robbie, they did.”

He grabbed a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. Then he snatched a gun from his ankle holster. “I don’t know if you murdered anybody or not, but you used to be a cop. Here, use this. We’ll lay down some fire, and then make a dash for the car.” He handed me a small automatic, a Beretta, not exactly police issue, and not much of a weapon.

He pulled another gun, a big revolver, from his shoulder holster, checked the cylinder, and snapped it closed. With a determined look on his face, he said, “I’ll go first. You follow. Barstow’s down the road and-”

I shook my head. “Forget Barstow, the chief’s one of them.”