James Swain - The King Tides

The backup sedans pulled in behind him and went silent. The front sedan flashed its brights, indicating they were ready to roll. He walked up the brick path to the front stoop. There was a screen door, which he tested and found locked. He pressed the buzzer and waited. The front door swung in, and a man holding a metal cane stood before him. The man wore a bathrobe that hung off his body like a tent. Lancaster glanced at the driver’s license photos on the clipboard and determined it was Rhoden.

“Good evening,” he said. “I have an Amazon delivery that needs to be signed for.”

Rhoden’s eyes narrowed, inherently suspicious. “I didn’t order anything from Amazon. You have the wrong address.”

“This is the right address. I checked the mailbox.” He consulted his clipboard. “Does Jack Butler live here? The package is for him.”

“Jack didn’t order anything either.”

His eyes returned to the clipboard. “It’s a gift.”

“A gift? From who?”

“I have no idea, sir. Is Mr. Butler here? I need to give him his package, and have him sign for it. Or you can sign for it.”

“Who’s that?” came a man’s voice from within the house.

“Guy from Amazon has a package, says it’s a gift for you,” Rhoden called over his shoulder.

“That must be from my sister. Sign for it.”

“What would your sister be sending you?” Rhoden asked.

“My birthday present,” said the voice.

“Your birthday was last month.”

“She’s always late. Sign for it.”

Rhoden didn’t want to open the screen door. Intuition was the messenger of fear, and Rhoden’s instincts were telling him that something was wrong with this picture. Maybe it was the nervous sweat matting Lancaster’s brow that tipped Rhoden off. Or maybe it was something else. It didn’t really matter; Rhoden knew something wasn’t right.

Only the voice inside the house was insistent. Sign for it. Rhoden went against his better judgment and unlocked the screen door and pushed it open. Lancaster passed the box through the opening. As it touched Rhoden’s hand and he felt its weight, his eyes grew wide in surprise.

“Wait a minute. This box is empty,” Rhoden said.

Lancaster grabbed the screen door with his left hand and pulled it wide open. His right hand lifted the front of his shirt and drew the Ruger. He pointed it at Rhoden’s chest.

“Lift your arms into the air,” he said.

The empty box fell from Rhoden’s hand. He continued to lean on his cane, while his other hand remained in front of his chest. His big bathrobe was a problem. Just about anything could be hidden behind it.

“Do it,” Lancaster said.

Rhoden didn’t comply. He was plotting his last stand. The bad ones often did, preferring to die by cop than rot away in a prison cell.

“Last chance,” he said.

Behind him he heard pounding footsteps on the lawn. Rhoden shifted his gaze as the FBI agents closed in. Bad thoughts flashed through his eyes. Lancaster used his free hand to grab the lapels of Rhoden’s bathrobe and hold them closed. He didn’t want to discharge his weapon and have to deal with all the legal crap that would follow. If Rhoden needed to be shot, he preferred to let Daniels or one of the other agents do it.

The FBI agents took over. Rhoden was pulled from the house and put on the ground. Daniels handcuffed him behind his back before frisking him. He was clean.

“FBI. You’re under arrest,” she said.

“For what?” their suspect asked indignantly.

“Failing to register as a sexual predator. Get up.”

“I can’t. I was in a car accident. I can barely walk.”

“That’s nonsense. Get up.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

Daniels barked a command, and two of the agents pulled Rhoden to his feet.

“I’ve been looking a long time for you,” Daniels told him.

The other three agents had entered the house to arrest Butler. An agent named Moore appeared in the doorway with his sidearm held loosely at his side. It was a sign that Butler had been contained. The situation was under control, and Lancaster felt himself relax. He had expected Rhoden and Butler to put up more of a fight.

“Special Agent Daniels, you need to come inside and see this,” Moore said.

Rhoden noticeably stiffened and stared at Daniels. The two agents holding Rhoden’s arms sensed he was going to attack, and they tightened their grip. Daniels shot their suspect a contemptuous sneer before heading inside.

“Care to join me?” she said to Lancaster.

Daniels was savoring the moment and had a real spring to her step. Lancaster followed her into a foyer, which led to a low-ceilinged living room with a collection of matching chairs and a sofa that had grown old together. A porno movie played on the muted TV starring a barely legal Asian girl. On a TV dinner tray sat a laptop computer on which a second porno movie played, the girl clearly not legal. Moore and the other two agents who’d come into the house stood on the far side of the room in a circle. With them was a shriveled man in a wheelchair with a plaid blanket draped over his legs.

Daniels stopped so quickly that Lancaster nearly ran into her from behind.

“Where’s Butler?” she asked.

“You’re looking at him,” Moore said.

“This can’t be him. You searched the rest of the house?”

“Yes, and we didn’t find anyone else. This is Butler,” Moore said.

Daniels drew closer to the suspect, as did Lancaster. The man in the wheelchair resembled Butler but wasn’t a perfect match, his face a sickly yellow as if jaundiced. There was no life in his eyes, neither of which was discolored, and he did not acknowledge the FBI agents’ presence.

“Are you Jack Butler?” Daniels asked.

The man in the wheelchair gazed at the pornographic images on the TV and smiled. Daniels picked up the remote off a coffee table and killed the picture.

“Answer the question,” she said.

The man in the wheelchair wasn’t going to play ball, and Daniels angrily tossed the remote onto the coffee table. It slid off and went under the couch. A black Persian cat bolted out and made for the door. Daniels intercepted the animal and scooped it off the floor, holding it by the nape of the neck. The cat let out an ear-piercing yowl.

“You’re hurting her,” the man in the wheelchair protested.

“What’s her name?” Daniels asked.

“Her name is Samantha. Stop hurting her.”

“Does Samantha like to play in traffic? If you don’t start talking, I’m going to take her outside, and let her loose in the street.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Oh yes, I can. In fact, I can do any damn thing I please.”

“Give her to me.”

“Will you answer my questions?”

“Yes. Just give her to me.”

Daniels passed him the screaming feline. The man in the wheelchair held the pet against his chest and lovingly stroked its fur while talking to it in a tender voice.

“Is your name Jack Butler?” Daniels asked.

“It was the last time I checked,” the man said.

“Did you once live in Hanover, New Hampshire, and work as a nurse at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center?”

“I did.”

“Have you ever been arrested for possession of child pornography and for soliciting sex with a minor?”

“Yes, I have.”

It was him. Daniels paused before asking the next question. The expression on her face bordered on defeat, but she still asked it.

“Why are you in a wheelchair?”

“I was involved in a car crash seven years ago, right after we moved here,” Butler said. “A drunk kid ran a red light and T-boned our car. I was driving, Rhoden was in the passenger seat. He recovered, I didn’t.”