John Katzenbach - Just Cause

The young officer approached him. 'Jesus, Lieutenant, you scared the hell out of me.'

'Sorry. Just checking.'

'You heading inside, sir? Want me to take off?'

'No. Stay. I have some other business to attend to.'

'No problem.'

'See anything unusual?'

'No, sir. Well, yes, sir, one thing, but probably nothing. Late-model dark Ford. Out-of-state plates. Rolled by twice about an hour ago. Slow-like, as if he was watching me. Shoulda got the plate numbers, but missed them. Thought I'd go after him, but he didn't come by again. That's all. No big deal.'

'You see the driver?'

'No, sir. First time, I didn't really notice. Just paid attention, like, the second time he rolled on by. That's what got my attention. Probably nothing to it. Somebody down visiting relatives got lost, more'n likely.'

Tanny Brown looked at the young policeman and nodded. He felt no fear, just a cold understanding that maybe death had slowly cruised past.

'Yes. More than likely. But you stay alert, all right?'

'Yes, sir. I'm gonna be relieved in a half hour or so. I'll make sure whoever shows gets the word about the Ford.'

Tanny Brown lifted his hand to his forehead, as if in salute, and returned to his own car. He looked once toward his house. The lights were off. School night, he thought. A wave of domestic responsibilities burst over him. He realized much of his life had been obscured by the pursuit of Robert Earl Ferguson. He did not feel guilty about this; it was in the nature of police work to reach an agreement with obsession, shutting off the normalcy of life. He felt a surge of comfort. Good for you, Dad. Make them get their homework done early, shut off the damn television before they can complain too hard, and get them into bed.

For an instant, he wanted to go inside and peer down at the sleeping faces of his daughters, perhaps look in on the old man, who was probably snoring in a lounge chair; a whiskey dream in his head. The old man often took a glass or two after the girls were asleep; it helped fog the pain of arthritis. On occasion, Tanny Brown joined his father in a glass; his own pains sometimes needing similar blocking. He found a smile on his own face, a satisfaction of domesticity. For an instant he imagined his dead wife beside him in the car, and he had half a mind to talk to her.

What would I say? he asked himself.

That I haven't done all that badly, he thought. But now I need to put things right. Put the broken things back together as best as I can.

Make it all safe again.

He nodded and steered the car away from the curb. He drove away, passing through familiar routes, past remembered places. He could sense Ferguson's presence like some bad smell lingering over the town. He felt better moving about, as if by staying alert, he served as some sort of shield. He did not even consider sleep; instead he traveled up and down through the roads of his memory, waiting for enough of the night to end so he would be able to see clearly enough to do whatever he had to do.

At first the dawn light seemed reluctant to force its way into the shadows. It gave doubt to shapes, turning the world into a quiet, suspect place. It had still been dark when Tanny Brown picked up Cowart and Shaeffer from the motel. They had driven through empty streets, past lamps and neon signs, weak illumination that only heightened the inevitable sense of loneliness that accompanies the early morning. They passed few other cars, only an occasional pickup truck. Cowart saw no one on the sidewalks. He spotted a few people sitting along a counter inside a doughnut shop; that was the only sign that they were not alone.

Brown drove swiftly, cruising through stop signs and two red lights, and within a few minutes they had passed through the town and were heading into the surrounding countryside. Pachoula seemed to stumble and fall behind them; the earth appeared to reach out and entangle them, dragging them inside the variegated maze of drooping willow trees, huge, twisted bramble bushes, and stands of pine. Light and dark, muted greens, browns and grays, all seemed to blend together fluidly, making it seem as if they were heading into a shifting sea of forest.

The police lieutenant turned off the main road, and the car shuddered and bumped as it hit the hard-packed dirt that cut beneath the canopy of trees toward Ferguson's grandmother's shack. Cowart felt a fearful surge of familiarity, as if there was something awful and yet reassuring in the idea that he'd been down the road before.

He tried to anticipate what would happen but found only an unsettling excitement. He had a quick memory of the letter he'd received so many months ago:… a crime that I DID NOT COMMIT. Gripping the armrest, he stared straight ahead.

From the back seat, Andrea Shaeffer's voice penetrated the thick air. I thought you said you'd arrange for backup. I don't see anybody. What's going on?'

Brown answered abruptly, with a clipped tone designed to preclude further questions, 'We can get help if we need it.'

'What about some uniforms? Don't we need some uniforms?'

'We'll be okay.'

'Where's the backup?'

He gritted his teeth and answered bitterly, 'It's waiting.'

'Where?'

'Close.'

'Can you show me?'

'Sure,' he replied coolly. He reached inside his jacket and removed his service revolver from his shoulder holster. 'There. Satisfied?'

This word crushed the conversation and filled Shaeffer with an empty fury. It did not surprise her that they were proceeding alone. In fact, she realized she preferred it. She allowed herself to envision Ferguson's face when she arrived at his grandmother's shack. He thought he'd scared me off. Thought he had me running, she told herself. Well, here I am. And I'm not some little twelve-year-old that can't fight back. She reached down and put her hand on her own pistol. She looked over at Cowart but saw the reporter's eyes staring ahead, oblivious to what had just been said.

In that moment, she thought that she would never, ever again get as close to the core of being a policeman as that moment and the next moments to come. The clarity of their pursuit seemed to have gone past such worldly considerations as rights and evidence, and entered into some completely different realm. She wondered if closeness to death always made people crazy, and then answered her own question: of course.

'Okay, she said after a moment's pause, adrenaline starting to pump and not completely trusting her own voice. 'What's the plan?'

The car lurched as it hit a bump.

'Jesus, she said, as she grabbed her seat. 'This guy really lives out in the sticks.'

'It's all swamp, right over there, Cowart answered. 'Poor farmland off the other direction.' He remembered that it had been Wilcox who'd pointed this out to him before. 'What is the plan?' he asked Tanny Brown.

The police lieutenant slowly steered the car to the side of the road and stopped. He rolled down his window and damp, humid air filled the interior. He gestured down, through the gray-black blend of light and dark. 'Ferguson's grandmother's shack is about a quarter mile that way, he said. 'We're going to walk the rest of the way. That way we won't wake anyone unnecessarily. Then it's simple. Detective Shaeffer, you go around the back. Keep your weapon ready. Watch the back door. Just make certain he doesn't hightail it out that way. If he does, just stop him. Got that? Stop him…'

'Are you saying…'

'I'm saying stop him. I'm damn certain the procedures are the same in Monroe County as they are up here in Escambia. The bastard's a suspect in a homicide. Several homicides, including the disappearance of a police officer. That's all the probable cause we'll need. He's also a convicted felon. At least he was once…' Brown glanced over at Cowart, who said nothing. 'So, you know what the guidelines are on use of deadly force. You figure out what to do.'