John Gilstrap - Threat warning

“I could shoot you.”

“And I could shoot you.” He said this in the most reasonable tone. “Or, we could shoot each other, but if it came to that, I one-hundred-percent guarantee that I would still be standing here unharmed when the smoke cleared. My point, though, is the very opposite of any of that. I have no intention of harming you or your daughter.”

She lowered the muzzle to the ground. “Susan Shockley,” she said. “Call me Sam. Or call me idiot, because that’s what I probably am for doing this.” She turned and put her hand on Jilly’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you warm.”

Jonathan wasn’t quite sure what they’d decided to do here.

“Come on, Mr. Harris,” Sam said. “Do you like coffee?”

They sat in the kitchen at a rectangular table that might have been hand-hewn from local hardwoods. At the far end, closest to the window that provided a sweeping view of the fields at the rear of the house, a place was set with nice china, complete with crystal stemware. Sam did not sit there, and she did not offer the place to Jonathan. She must have sensed his trustworthiness, because she’d returned the shotgun to its rack over the fireplace in the adjacent family room, where Jilly sat on an overstuffed chair, wrapped in her blanket and watching cartoons.

While his hostess moved through the ritual of brewing the coffee, Jonathan set his ruck on the floor and opened the top flap. On missions like this, it always paid to have cash on hand, the more the better. He counted out thirty thousand dollars in banded stacks of Franklins and set the money on the table.

Sam saw it as she was about to pour coffee into mugs, and she froze. “You were serious?” she said.

“A deal’s a deal,” Jonathan said. “My word is my bond. I can do platitudes and cliches all day.”

Steam rose lazily from the mugs. “Sugar’s on the table,” Sam said, pointing with her forehead to the bowl in front of him. “I’ve got milk if you need it.”

“No thanks,” Jonathan said. Ordinarily, he did drink his coffee with cream, but he didn’t want her waiting on him. For today, black would do just fine.

Sam took the seat across from Jonathan, and as she settled in, he pushed the stack of bills over to her. She made no effort to touch them. “What are you really about, Mr. Harris? Is that even your real name?”

“It’s real enough,” he hedged. “And what I’m really about is a very important matter that I can’t discuss.”

“Where did you come from?”

Jonathan sighed. “Tell you what,” he said. “Rather than you asking a lot of questions that I can’t answer, let’s just stop at me being on the side of the angels.”

“Did you rob a bank or something? That’s a lot of money. It’s a whole lot of cash.”

“I don’t use credit cards for my work,” Jonathan said, again with the smile. “And most of what I need to buy costs a lot of money.”

Sam looked at the stack of bills more closely. She picked up one of the packets and riffled it, perhaps checking to see if it was real. “This looks like thirty thousand dollars.”

“That is thirty thousand dollars.”

“I don’t owe that much on the truck.”

Jonathan twitched a shoulder. “Keep the change. For the inconvenience.”

Sam scowled deeply. “That’s almost six thousand dollars in change. I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. I want you to have it. Surely you can use it. If you’re upside down on the car, then you must be upside down on other debts as well. Apply the excess to those.”

Sam placed the packet on top of the stack and leaned heavily on her forearms. “This is crazy. Why are you doing this?”

The real answer-the true answer-was that he felt sorry for her. That preserved place setting at the end of the table was testament to the sad, brave story that was being lived every day in tens of thousands of households around the world. Spouses and children waiting for their husbands and fathers to return from war. It pained Jonathan that this particular warrior would return to poverty, perhaps with only a few short months before his next deployment. Jonathan could afford to pay off every debt owed by thousands of such families, and this particular one happened to be within reach.

But he’d share none of that with this young mother, lest his altruism come off as creepy. Instead, he explained, “I need to buy time. I need you to feel fairly compensated so that you don’t pick up a phone and call the police as soon as I leave.”

Sam considered that. He could see that her defenses were weakening. “This must mean that you’re intending to use the truck for a crime. I don’t want to be any part of that.”

“It doesn’t mean that at all. If someone comes and asks, tell them that you sold the vehicle to a stranger who offered you full price. If push comes to shove, you’ll have the record from the paid-off repo guy that he got his money. The paper trail will work for you.”

“Until you get caught and testify against me.”

Generally, it wasn’t this difficult to give a generous gift. “I never said that I was going to do anything illegal. You assumed that I was, and I gave you a good cover. Hypothetically, though, if lawbreaking were on my mind, the last thing I would do is throw you under the bus.”

Sam clearly had no idea what she should do.

“Think about it, Sam,” Jonathan said, closing the deal. “Is there really much choice to be made here?”

Turns out there wasn’t.

The faded sign, no doubt handmade with what appeared to be a child’s wood-burning kit, had been nailed to a tree, and likely would have been invisible if they’d arrived in the dark. The sign read NATHAN BEDFORD FOREST MOBILE HOME PARK. A cluster of rural-style mailboxes teetered underneath it.

“Aren’t there supposed to be two Rs in Forrest?” Gail asked, leaning forward in the backseat, so that her head was between Boxers and Jonathan, who occupied the driver and shotgun seats respectively.

Jonathan chuckled. “I guess it depends on whether you’re talking about the person or a place.”

Boxers asked, “What person?”

“Nathan Bedford Forrest,” Gail said. “Father of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Charming guy to name a neighborhood after,” the Big Guy grunted.

He piloted the big Dodge down a narrow wooded road until it opened up on a cluster of sad, aged house trailers, probably dating back to the 1960s. Jonathan could almost smell the mildew from all the way out here. He counted seven units altogether. Despite their weatherworn appearance, most appeared to be well cared for. Each of the mobile homes sat on what appeared to be a half acre of land, and showed the remnants of gardens out front. Two had already put up Christmas decorations, the most elaborate of which involved red foil and a wreath on the door.

“Which one belongs to Stacy Phelps?” Gail asked.

Jonathan said, “I’ve got the address one one seven, but I don’t see any house numbers.” He relayed the question into his radio, and Venice answered right away. “All the way to the end on the right,” he repeated. “By the way, Mother Hen, anything on ICIS about our borrowed vehicle?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I’ll keep monitoring and let you know.”

Jonathan had considered dropping the Dodge off somewhere and stealing a second vehicle, but he’d gotten a good vibe from Sam.

“So how are we working this?” Gail wanted to know. “Are we just going to knock on her door?”

“That’s my vote,” Jonathan said. “Box?”

Boxers shrugged. “It’s a little boring, but it’ll do. I think we should kill the phone first.”

“Agreed.” Jonathan turned to Gail. “I’m going to badge her when she answers the door, but I want you to do the talking.”