Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

The man hurled a chunk of something that looked like the fatty meat from a can of pork ’n’ beans. Barely missing Raley’s ear, it landed on the bare dirt of the yard with a wet splat. The dog fell on it like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Bracing the door open with his shoulder, the large man pointed toward a No Trespassing sign nailed to the utility pole at the corner of his trailer. “Can’t you read?”

“Lewis Jones?”

“That ain’t what it says.”

Britt had been right. Three sentences into the conversation and already Raley was impatient with this asshole. “Lewis Jones?” he repeated.

“Who’re you? What do you want?” He was asking Raley, but his beady, close-set eyes were fixed on Britt.

“My name is Raley Gannon. Remember me?”

The flinty gaze cut back to Raley. “Why would I?”

“I was investigating the police station fire. We never actually met, but I spoke to you on the phone about Cleveland.”

His eyes narrowed, and he divided a suspicious look between them, ending on Raley. “I remember your name. Vaguely. Told you then, telling you now, I don’t want to talk about Cleveland. He’s dead. End of story. Now beat it.”

He backed into the trailer, pulling the door closed as he went.

Britt lunged across two steps and grabbed the edge of the metal door before it shut. “We apologize for coming without calling first, and promise not to take up too much of your time. Please, Mr. Jones? Can’t we talk to you for just a few minutes?”

Jones didn’t close the door, but he was still regarding them warily. “What for? It happened a long time ago. Anyway, what’s it to you, lady?”

“Britt Shelley.”

Raley couldn’t believe she’d told Jones her name, especially since he’d emphasized to her that she should remain anonymous. Then, to his greater dismay, she extended her right hand. Raley curbed an impulse to push it away before Jones could touch it, but he didn’t. She apparently knew what she was doing, because her straightforwardness totally disarmed the man.

He looked at her hand and seemed to be as taken aback by the friendly gesture as Raley was, then he wiped his hand on the seat of his pants before giving hers a brisk shake. “Guess I can spare y’all a minute or two,” he mumbled grudgingly.

He turned his back on them, and they followed him into the mobile home. Britt shot Raley a cheeky grin over her shoulder. He scowled.

The interior of the trailer was even more oppressive than the outside. The floor was uneven, causing them to walk uphill to reach the sofa that Jones motioned them toward. It was filthy, but Britt sat down without hesitation. Raley was more reluctant as he took a seat beside her.

In addition to the sofa, which was essentially the width of the trailer, there was a round end table with a gaudy Hawaiian print cloth draped over it and, separating the living area from the kitchen, a dining table pushed against one wall with two chairs beneath it.

No TV, Raley noted. No newspapers evident. Which explained why Jones hadn’t reacted with recognition to Britt’s name.

In fact, the man seemed to have entirely shut himself off from the rest of the world. Every window had been covered with black poster board. The sheets were taped to the walls so securely, they prevented any natural light from getting in. There was one ceiling light fixture, with a naked yellow bulb that made them all look jaundiced. It shone onto the top of Jones’s head, which had been shaved but was dusted with several days’ stubble.

He had on a pair of camo pants that had been cut off just above his knees so that the pockets hung down beneath the ragged legs. His black combat boots were shined, but the laces were untied and he wasn’t wearing socks. Completing the outfit was an olive drab tank top that showed off his muscled arms and chest, as well as an array of elaborate tattoos.

Most depicted either a lethal weapon or a symbol of death. The most detailed tattoo covered his biceps and shoulder. It was a rendition of the grim reaper with a jeering skeleton’s face, waving a frayed Confederate flag in one hand and a saber dripping blood in the other.

He hooked the toe of one combat boot around the chrome leg of a dining chair, dragged it across the buckled linoleum floor until it was directly in front of the sofa, and sat down in it. He crossed his arms over his chest, rattling the dog tags that hung from his neck on a silver bead chain, and stared at them.

Britt opened the conversation by asking politely, “Did you serve in the military, Mr. Jones?”

“Not the official one.”

“I see.”

It was readily apparent that Jones was affiliated with a paramilitary group. Photographs covered nearly every inch of wall space not taken up by the black poster board. There were pictures of men in camouflage fatigues, men in black balaclavas, men holding the leashes of vicious-looking dogs wearing spiked collars, men standing over the eviscerated carcasses of deer, men armed to the teeth.

Weaponry catalogs were scattered about and stacked on the floor, their pages curled and dog-eared. The only oasis of neatness amid the clutter was a three-level shelf constructed of concrete blocks and plywood planks. The planks were lined with felt. Laid out on them like a museum display was an extensive collection of handguns, rifles with scopes, one sawed-off shotgun, knives, bayonets, tripods, a fully loaded bandolier, and most disturbingly, grenades. All the firearms were highly polished so they gleamed in the yellow light. In fact, the smell of gun oil permeated the trailer.

“I’m sorry about your son, Mr. Jones,” Britt said, trying again to start a conversation.

Jones looked her over, his expression doubtful. “You knew Cleveland?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Then what’s your stake in this?”

“I’m just a friend and associate of Mr. Gannon.” He seemed about to pose another question when she said, “Losing a child is a cruel tragedy.”

He shrugged. “Cleveland wasn’t a child. He was old enough to take care of hisself. We hadn’t seen each other in…hmm…maybe a year before he died. The last time I saw him, I told him I’s done, I was washing my hands of him and wasn’t going to bail him out no more. Guess he took me at my word, ’cause next I heard of him, they called to say he’d died down at the police station during that fire.”

“It must have come as an awful shock.”

Misinterpreting her meaning, he said, “Not really. I couldn’t keep up with all the times that boy was in and out of jail.”

Britt looked past his shoulder toward the end table on which was an eight-by-ten framed photograph. The quality was poor, the color resolution too vivid, but the costume couldn’t be mistaken, and neither could the hatred channeled through the gleaming eyes of the man wearing the pointed hood.

Jones followed Britt’s gaze to the photo, and when he brought his head back around, he was smiling proudly. “My daddy.”

Raley asked, “Are you Klan?”

“You a fed?”

“No, a firefighter.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe I ain’t. What difference would it make to you?”

“None.”

Britt said, “Mr. Jones, on that day, Cleveland was apprehended for assault, correct?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess.”

“Do you know the circumstances of his arrest?”

“Circumstances?”

“The nature of the crime, why he was arrested.”

“No, all I was told was assault,” Jones said. “Later, you know. After Cleveland was dead. Didn’t seem to make much difference what he’d done. Anyway, he never said-”

“He?” Interrupting, Raley sat forward, leaning toward Jones.

“Some guy.” Jones’s expression became belligerent, obviously disliking Raley’s encroachment. He didn’t say anything more until Raley returned to his original position. “A cop. Came by to tell me none of Cleveland’s effects were salvaged after the fire.”