1976 - Division by Zero

[Calder]

Division by Zero – 1976
Route 305, Aurandel, North Carolina

“You were in a hurry, Miss.”

Achillea looked at the police officer. He hadn’t shaved or had a shower that day and his partner, hanging back from her car, had a button hanging loose from his shirt. “Thirty seven miles per hour. That’s not fast.”

“Limit here is thirty five, Miss. If we’d meant thirty seven, we’d have posted thirty seven. Show me your license, registration and proof of insurance.”

Achillea dug the documents out of the glove compartment and handed them over. The police officer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this your vehicle, Miss?”

“No. It’s a rental.” Achillea was getting slightly annoyed at the officer’s attitude but she carefully didn’t let it show. Most especially, she didn’t like being addressed as ‘miss’.

“I am citing you for excess speed.” The officer was writing out the ticket and Achillea could swear that his lips were moving as he spelled out the words. “You’re going to go to the police car and we’ll take you to the local court. Get out of the car and place your hands on the roof. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Achillea did as she was told. This was neither the time nor the place to start a fight so neither officer realized how close they were to getting killed. The frisking that followed would have been more effective if the police officer hadn’t been so intent on groping her. He found her Model 50 pistol but missed her back-up gun and both knives. He hefted the pistol in his hands. “You gotta permit for this?”

“In my bag. Federal concealed carry permit. Valid everywhere.” The permit actually showed her profession as “private investigator” which was a polite evasion. The police officer had also missed her OSS identification badge although she doubted if professional courtesy applied here. The officer pushed the Model 50 into his belt and for a moment Achillea hoped it would go off. It didn’t of course, the Model 50 was a well-designed piece. “If you’re taking me in, what about the car?”

“Tow truck will take it to the impound yard. You can collect it from there after you’ve paid your fine. Get to the car now.”

She was mildly surprised at not being handcuffed; not because they would have made much difference since she could have taken out both police officers any time she wanted to, cuffs or no cuffs. It was just that she had a decided impression the officer who had done all the talking would have enjoyed handcuffing her. She locked her rental car and slid into the back seat of the police cruiser, noting that both police officers were sitting in front. Idly, she wondered just how much training these two had had. The police car itself was old and worn out with a back seat smelled foul from years of abuse. Achillea reminded herself to wipe herself down with alcohol after she got this thing finished with.

The roadside scene was a strange mixture. A garage and second hand car lot with a stock that varied from nearly new-looking vehicles to rusted-out heaps that were barely mobile. Some houses that were little more that semi-derelict shacks, others that were impressive mansions. All had seen better days though and the overall impression was of a town that was slowly sliding down into terminal decay. Probably, the bulk of its income came from the speed trap on Route 305 and others on the main roads leading in and out of the town. As they were passing the garage, a tow truck was pulling out. Achillea guessed that it was going to pick up her vehicle. She also had a feeling that if it hadn’t been rented, it would have joined the used car lot’s stock.

The town courthouse was one of the better-looking houses, situated on the corner of Curtis and Commerce Streets. Even so, its yellow paint was peeling in places and the furniture on the front porch needed cleaning and restoration. The police officer banged on the front door vigorously. “Judge. Got a speeder here.”

The door opened and an old woman ushered them into what was obviously the front room. It had an aged smell about it, one that seemed a mixture of dust, mould and fabrics that had been in use too long. A middle-aged man was setting out papers on a desk. He glanced up as they came in and then looked hard at Achillea.

“Nahm?”

“Achillea Foyle.”

“What’s that theah charge Pete?”

“Speeding. 37 in a 35.”

“Too much of this kind of thing going on, young lady. This heah is a law-abiding town. When we say 35, we mean 35. Yah dispute the charge?”

Achillea had already decided not to make a fuss over this. There would be no gain from doing so and the downside was potentially serious. “No, your honor.”

“Hmm. Respectful at least. She give yah any trouble Pete?”

“No, Jim. Good as gold.” That slightly surprised her. She had half expected a trumped-up ‘resisting arrest’ accusation. Then, she guessed that was why she had been left un-handcuffed, to put temptation in her path.

“Well, that theah stands in your favor, young lady. Fine is hundred and fifty dollars per mile per hour making three hundred. Plus three hundred and fifty towing charge and a hundred and fifty storage. Plus a hundred dollars court costs. Nine hundred in all. We take cash.”

The amount was outrageous and Achillea knew it but she also knew there was more here than met the eye. That was why she was in this part of North Carolina. She was about to say something when the musty smells of the alleged courtroom was joined by a new set. Oil, grease and unwashed human. “If you ain’t got the cash, I’ll buy that car from you. Nine hundred seems right.”

“It’s a rental car, Jim.” The Police Officer spoke quickly to the Judge before he could commit himself.

“Is that so?” The Judge seemed perturbed. “Young lady, if yah don’t have nine hundred in cash, yah got a problem heah. Alternative is 90 days in the town jail. We’ll take a check for a thousand but yah’ll have to stay heah for three days while it clears. Or a credit card charge for the same.”

“No need, I’ve got cash.” Achillea silently blessed Igrat who had taught everybody never to travel off the beaten track without a lot of cash hidden away. She pulled out the roll of bills she had hidden and peeled off nine hundred dollar notes, catching a furious glance exchanged between the two police officers. “I’d like a receipt please.”

The judge wrote out the receipt and gave it to her. “Thank you, your honor.”

She folded it carefully away and then turned to the policeman who had her Model 50 sticking in his belt. “Could I have my gun back please?”

“What gun?” The man had a supercilious smirk on his face. Achillea nodded slowly.

“I’ll pick up my keys and be on my way then.”

“It’ll be a hundred bucks for a ride to the impound yard.” The oily man was obviously trying to make up for losing the car he had towed in.

Achillea looked at him scornfully. “I’ll walk.” She heard the argument starting in the room behind her as she left.

Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“So how much did they shake you down for?” Emelia Souza sounded sympathetic as she poured out a cup of tea.

“Nine hundred. They weren’t well-pleased when I paid cash. By the time I got back to the used car lot, they already had a price sticker on the windshield of the car. They really didn’t want to peel it off”

“You didn’t give them a check or a credit card did you?” Emelia was concerned for her guest, not least because she was responsible for Achillea being in town. “By the time you get out of here, they’ll have cleaned out your account and maxed the card.”

“What is it with this place? I assume the tow truck guy was in league with the court but . . . .”

“The tow truck guy as you call him is Lance Gillespie and no, he isn’t in league with the court. Quite the reverse if anything. The judge you met is the Honorable if you’ll forgive my laughter, James Pettigrew. His family has owned this town for decades. Most notably, they owned the Aurandel Material Recovery Company. Way back when, that used to be the Aurandel Garbage Collection Company and they still collect the trash around here. But, back in the ‘50s they got into metals recovery and recycling. They changed their name, adopted the cut-down version AMARECO and built a big plant on the south side of town where the railway runs. Got a contract from the government to process scrap aluminum and magnesium from B-36s. That’s when it all went wrong”

Emelia reached forward and poured out another cup of tea. “Unions have been having a big problem in the North. Companies moved south to non-Union states and membership fell in the ones that stayed north. Anyway, the unions tried to move in down here. Day after the new AMARECO plant opened, the Unions declared it struck. Demanded a big raise for everybody and wanted it made a closed union shop. Then they brought in their heavies to make sure it stayed struck. So, the Pettigrews brought in their own thugs and strike-breakers and they fought it out in the streets. Achillea, those were ugly times so I’ve heard. Neither side stopped attacking union organizers or company strikebreakers, they went after their families as well. Started with beatings but ended up with gasoline bombings and acid-throwing. By the time it was all over, the Union organizers went back north to lick their wounds and the AMARECO people had a wrecked business and ruined town on their hands. Most people had left and the few that hadn’t weren’t from the top drawer. This town had 5,000 people before the strike, it had less than 800 when it was all over.”

Achillea nodded. She had heard similar stories all too often and they usually ended the same way. The bitterness and hatred would last for years, sometimes even generations. Sometimes the town dying and its inhabitants moving on would be the best thing for everybody. She took another small cake from the stand and bit into it. “These are really nice, now do you make them?”

Emelia smiled a little sadly. She guessed that Achillea was buying time to think over the situation. “The trick is to spread a really thin coat of marmalade between the sponge and the frosting. Warm the marmalade so that it spreads easily and doesn’t get too thick. I make the sponge myself, of course, it doesn’t come from a packet of cake mix.”

Achillea looked at her host. Emelia looked about seventy years old, a very handsome seventy. Her hair was still thick although it was snow white and its shower of tight curls framed a face that still had the soft caramel color of her youth despite the dark shadows under her eyes and cheekbones. Her clothes were clean and smartly pressed as befitted a senior citizen of her status. Achillea could guess what that status was, a respected, even loved member of the community. One who always had time for the children and who was sought out by young wives who needed sage advice on the problems of marriage from a discrete woman of experience. In a strange way, Achillea was envious. For a variety of reasons, she hadn’t had to ‘age’ for many years and she’d never got to experience being a respected part of any community. Feared mostly, admired sometimes but so very rarely respected. That was a line of thought she found uncomfortable so she pulled the conversation back to the conditions prevailing in Aurandel. “What about the police?”

Emelia snorted delicately. “The real police left when the trouble really got started. They were caught in the middle and both sides went after their families. After a couple of police cars got shot up and the policemen’s homes got firebombed, they just gave the town up as a bad job. You met our police chief I guess, Pete Matthews? Well, his wife is Laura Pettigrew, the Judge’s daughter. One of them, anyway, Pettigrew formed a new police force out of his family when the real officers left. They’ve got the uniforms and the badges but not much else. There’s a whole load of bad blood between them and the drivers who look to Lance Gillespie. You see, when the strike was on, the drivers who supplied the plant and took the product out also got caught in the middle. The Union told them they would be killed or worse if they crossed the picket line, and the strikebreakers told them the same if they didn’t. So the drivers had a choice between having their trucks set on fire while they were handcuffed to the steering wheel for crossing the picket line or having acid thrown in their wife’s face for not crossing it. Or vice versa. So they all left. The trucks were then driven by thugs brought in from outside, After everything quieted down, a lot of them stayed. Nobody enforcing the law here made this a good place for a man with a bad record. Gillespie has an agreement with the Pettigrews, if he pays the fine for a speeder, he gets their car and sells it. You driving a hire car upset that little arrangement and the Gillespies won’t be pleased. That means there’s trouble brewing.”

Achillea shook her head, “Why in the names of all the gods did you choose to stay here? This is the kind of town any sane person would stay away from.”

“It doesn’t look bad from the outside.” Emelia looked thoughtful. She had been the records clerk for Brucie County before she had ‘retired’. She and a number of other clerks scattered around the country were the key people that made the masquerade work. They entered all the birth and death records, the marriages and employment details, and all the facts that went into creating an identity. When one of the 6,000 Daimones got to the point when they needed to change identities, they would be put in touch with one of these clerks and their new identity would be waiting for them. Emelia was one of the best at that game; she had arranged identity shifts for The Seer himself. Those county clerks were probably the most important people in the Washington Circle so when Emelia had asked for help, Achillea had been sent down to find out what was happening and put it right. “Nice quiet town, no trouble recorded. I used it a few times for identity shifts. So, I thought, I’d park myself here for a few years of ‘retirement’. I’m going to ‘die’ next year; Joan in Windsor has it all arranged for me. I’ll be heading for Maryville in Tennessee, to be the new county clerk for Blount. I’ll wash this dye out of my hair, get some new clothes and proper make-up. Girl, I’ll look so fine even Gusoyn’s tongue will be hanging out.”

Achillea smiled sadly but not for Emelia. She had no doubt what Emelia said was true; she would go to her new life in Maryville looking like a hard-loving girl in her twenties and in another fifty years she would be back to being a distinguished and respectable matron again. Such was the life of a female Daimones. The sadness was for Gusoyn. One of Achillea’s self-imposed duties was keeping an eye on him. He was a quiet, outstandingly responsible, and deeply respectable man but also an intensely lonely one. Every so often, he would crack and go on a spree. When he did, Achillea would be somewhere around in the background, close enough to make sure he came to no harm. Even he had no idea of how often Achillea had gone to his apartment, lifted him out of a pool of his own vomit, cleaned him up, and stayed with him until she was sure he was safe.

Emelia had paused for a second while she contemplated the glories of her new life. Now, she resumed with her description of events. “By the time I realized what was going on here, it was too late to change my mind. Anyway, the people in this area are good enough. Williford Circle is well away from the main town and the only access to it is through a single entrance onto Route Eleven. There’s a river that cuts us off on three sides. All the folks here have shotguns and rifles. Can’t say the thugs won’t get in but they’ll bleed trying. Thing is, remember I said only eight hundred people left? Well, there are, but the total population’s nearer twelve hundred. You see, Aurandel is an outlaw town now. No law, anybody who comes here and doesn’t rock the boat can live in peace. Or at least, without having the law hunting him. All the top wise guys went to Cuba, the not-so-smart to Nevada, or stayed in their hometowns. The scum, the real dross, had nowhere else to go so they came here. I guess they’re a few similar towns in other places but this is the one I know about.”

“There are others,” Achillea confirmed. “Why is this one so special that we need to take an interest in it?”

“Because it’s close to major population centers and because the situation here is close to blowing up. It isn’t just the Pettigrews and the Gillespies plus their followers. There are two other groups as well. One is the remnants of the strikebreakers led by a thug called Nathan Stauffer. When the strike folded and everything fell apart, they didn’t leave when Pettigrew paid them off. They’re set up in the Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building. That’s a sick joke by the way. It’s a nightclub, speakeasy, casino, and brothel. They throw their weight around, claiming they saved the town and demanding ‘privileges’ as a result. They get bootleg whiskey from stills and sell it as the real stuff to those dumb enough to buy it. Their casino is about as loaded a game as anybody can get. And the girls? Runaways mostly, there’s a reason why most of the windows in that place are bricked in and the rest are barred. The other group is the thugs the union brought in to strengthen their picket line when everything turned bad. They’re based at the other end of town, at the “Working Man’s Social Club” on Rice Avenue. Same kind of people as Stauffer’s mob but they claim to be standing up for ‘the workers’ and demanding ‘support’ in the form of protection money. They’re run by a man called Fred Heckman. That social club of theirs is no different from the church building. What goes on inside is no different either.

“So, Pettigrew and his family won the battle to keep the union out of their plant but in doing so they lost the town to the thugs. Now, those thugs are going to start a war to see who inherits what’s left and the town is full of the people who’ll fight it out for them.”

Achillea frowned. “That’s bad news for the people here but why is it so important to us? We’ll get you out of course, but . . .”

“Achillea.” Emelia sounded slightly exasperated. “Think about it. The town is full of crooks on the run. When this place blows up into open warfare, the State will send the National Guard in. After the Guard has restored order, they’ll start checking records to see who is who. They’ll check local town records against the county records I was keeping. Nobody ever does that, State and Federal records are taken from the county, not local. When they do compare the two, they’ll start to find all sorts of interesting discrepancies. Enough to blow the whole Washington Circle wide open. Somehow, we’ve got to stop that happening.

[Calder]

Chapter 2
Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“Can I make breakfast for you?” Emelia sounded embarrassed. She’d accidentally walked in on Achillea when her guest was fresh out of the shower and the sight had made her gasp openly. When they’d been talking the previous evening, Achillea had been wearing her usual outfit of jeans and a loose, long-sleeved top that was chosen to hide her strength. Without them, the heavy muscles on Achillea’s shoulders and thighs were painfully obvious and only highlighted by the perfect muscle definition that covered the rest of her body. The sight had reminded Emelia of the pictures in some body-building magazines that she kept hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe. The same muscles superimposed on the smooth curves of an obviously female body was only just short of being freakish. It had almost been a relief when Achillea had turned around and Emelia had seen that she was indeed female. The other thing that had shaken her was Achillea’s scars. Most of them were very, very old but they still spoke of ferocious, life-threatening wounds. Now, she was trying to dismiss the embarrassment of the incident and in doing so was being excessively friendly.

Achillea knew what her host was thinking and trying to do. “Don’t sweat it Emmie, being seen doesn’t worry me. Really. I’ll pass on breakfast this morning though; I want to walk around the town and get a feel for the place. The best way to do that is drop in at the local diner for breakfast and try a different one for lunch. Particularly if they are tied in with the groups you mentioned last night. Any suggestions?”

Emelia thought for a moment. The truth was, there weren’t too many good eating places in Aurandel. “You might try Ryan’s Diner for breakfast. It’s a normal diner on Main Street, not far from the church building. Nathan Stauffer eats there often if you want to look at him. To balance things out, try Queenies on Rice Street for lunch. It’s also Fred Heckman’s favorite. Queenie does good ribs if you don’t mind the calories.”

“I need them. Twenty-six hundred a day. Mostly protein, no carbs. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop in at a store and stock up on supplies. We might need them if this all goes bad on us.”

“Achillea, be careful. This is a worse place than you realize.”

Achillea just grinned at her hostess. “It’s all right Emmie, I laugh at danger. Other peoples of course.”

Ryan’s Diner, 108 Main Street, Aurandel

“Can you do me a special omelet, six eggs but using the whites only? And a double helping of ham, large bowl of grits, with a pint of orange juice.”

“Sure thin’ honey.” The familiar term made Achillea glance up. At some point after the group’s arrival in America, The Seer had picked up the habit of calling all the women around him ‘honey’ but the waitress using the term was just a meaningless coincidence. “Ya’all bein’ a wrestler or somethin’?”

“Why do you ask?” Achillea noted that two men down at the other end of the breakfast bar had suddenly started to pay attention.

“Oh, just the club down the street, they have women wrestlers performin’ sometimes. When they eat here, some ask for egg-white omelets. We does a good sweet potato hash here as well. Baked, not fried, ya’all likin’ to try it?”

“You bet!” The enthusiasm in Achillea’s voice was quite genuine. She controlled her diet very carefully and sweet potatoes were a magic ingredient to her. They gave her the complex carbohydrates, important vitamins, and muscle-building minerals she needed. She glanced sideways and saw the two men at the end of the bar had finished eating. It didn’t look like the food at the diner was much good. The eggs had been cooked hard and the bacon was dried shriveled strips. They left without paying and without leaving a tip. That caused Achillea to raise an eyebrow.

“Them bastards.” The waitress hissed the words but there were tears forming in her eyes as she did so. “George, fella’ who owns this here place, made them pay once. That evening there was three of them waitin’ for him. They beat him right there on the parking lot with all of us watchin’. They hurt him so badly. Now, he just sits upstairs now starin’ out the window.”

She was interrupted by the plates arriving from the kitchen. The food on them was a world away from the stale mess she has seen on the plates of the two men. The ham was thick and juicy, her omelet was perfect and delicately herbed, and the sweet potato hash was better than Achillea had tasted anywhere else. The waitress smiled. “Here, you gits what you pay for. I’m Marcie by the way.”

“Achillea.” She savored the ham, delighting in the salty sweetness that spoke of a home-cured joint. One that had never seen a factory farm. “Why do you stay in this place.”

Marcie still hadn’t recovered her balance from the memory of what had happened to the owner of the diner. “Them that can leave did. Rest of us are caught here. Can’t sell up and leave ‘cos nobody will buy. Can’t leave without sellin’ up ‘cos what we have here is all we’ve got. And who’ll look after George if we go? Us girls workin’ here is all he’s got now. But back at ya’. Why ya’ come here?”

“Just came to see an old friend and found myself in this mess. Got caught by the speed trap and they took me for enough bucks to make me curious.”

“Curious a bad thin’ round here honey. Tell you somethin’, grew up in worst part of Goldsboro but even the baddest hoods there wouldn’t take a baseball bat to a woman. Here, they do it without thinkin’ twice.”

Achillea nodded thoughtfully and finished her meal. “Could you fill my flask up with coffee, please?” As Marcie poured the coffee out, Achillea looked at the check, paid it and left a generous tip. She would be coming back here and not just to eat.

Overlooking the AMARECO Plant, Aurandel

The owners might have won the long, bitter strike but it didn’t seem to have been worth the effort for them. Achillea had been watching the plant from a conveniently wooded hill a few hundred yards from its gates and as far as she could see, virtually nothing was happening there. She was well-equipped to watch since she had a pair of pre-war German Busch 10 by 80 “Flak” binoculars. A German officer had given them to her as a feeble bribe, hoping that she would not kill him. She had taken them and killed him anyway for the simple reason that it was his day to die just as one day it would be hers. He’d had to die because his continued existence would have endangered a very important operation but the way he had still begged for his life had disgusted her. She’d been brought up to believe that when one’s day finally came, a person went out with the dignity expected of a Roman gladiator. Stoic acceptance and their head held as high as the situation allowed, Still, they were good binoculars and with them, she could see every detail of the plant.

The railway interested her. It was a single-track line coming in from the west. She had looked at the map and knew that it went west for a few miles, then slowly arched around going northwest, then north, and north-east before it ended up in Norfolk, Virginia a hundred or more miles away. Just before it entered Aurandel, it split into two tracks, one a through-line that passed across the town before heading east. The other track split again, one branch heading into the middle of the AMARECO plant, the other running along its southern outskirts. Both branch lines looked semi-derelict. There was no flash of the sun from rails polished by the passing of heavy freight trains and she guessed that they were coated with rust. In the hours she had been watching, three trains had passed, all heading east to west. At first, she had thought the line was disused but then she’d heard the dismal wail of a diesel engine’s horn and seen the approaching freight train. It had been pulled by two diesels and was at least a quarter of a mile long. She had expected to see it stop and reverse into the plant, but it had gone straight through. So had the train that had followed it. All were from the Norfolk Southern Railroad.

What had interested her was the complete lack of reaction to the passing trains. There were people in the plant, she knew that from the small car park by the front gate and the dozen or so cars parked there. When the trains had sounded their horns, she had expected somebody to come out and watch, from curiosity if nothing else. She’d read the names on the side of the cars. Penn Central on the side of flat cars loaded with steel bars, Pendlewood Farms marking refrigerated cars doubtless loaded with chickens and given the time of year, turkeys. Then there were the covered hoppers marked Golden Peanut Company and more flat cars bearing the logo of the Georgia Pacific Company on the wrappers protecting their loads of plywood and building materials. There was no apparent interest from either plant or trains in the other’s existence.

She had almost given up watching when the third train came through. That one was different in that it had sounded its horn twice as it came through the town before it slowed to a halt on the main line. A dozen figures had left the building nearest the railway line and crossed to a refrigerated boxcar. They’d opened it and started unloading the contents, passing them down a line into a truck that was parked nearby. From the size and bulk of the objects and the fact they were coming from a Pendlewood boxcar, she assumed they were frozen turkeys. The activity went on for about ten minutes with the turkeys taken from at least four boxcars before the train started to move again. Then, the plant reverted to its apparently deserted self with only the buildings and the debris of a deserted factory on view.

Achillea carefully packaged her binoculars and wormed her way back through the trees to where she had left her car. She now had a partial solution to at least one thing that had been puzzling her.

Queenie’s Bar and Grill, Rice Street, Aurandel

“I’ll have a New York Strip, well done, and a salad. Oil and vinegar on the salad, please. And hold the French fries.” Achillea had decided to pass on the ribs for now. The waitress took the order and disappeared off, leaving a glass of iced water on the table. A few minutes later, Achillea’s steak appeared. She tried it carefully, deciding that the cook had done as well as he could with a poor piece of meat. The salad was limp, obviously, at least a day old, and the dressing was made with Canola oil, not extra-virgin olive. All in all, it wasn’t so much a disappointing meal as one that failed to inspire enthusiasm. Achillea decided that ‘refuelling’ rather than ‘eating’ was the term that best applied to Queenie’s.

“Would you mind if I joined you for a moment, madam?” The voice was smooth and cultured. Achillea looked up and saw a man standing over her table. She had always imagined that men who wore white three-piece suits would be fat and bloated but the speaker was a lean man, in his late fifties with a face that suggested he had experienced much in life and learned from all of it. That thought made her check her senses but the strange sense in the back of her mind that alerted her to a fellow Daimones was silent. She looked at him again. There was a crisply ironed white shirt under the white suit and a purple cravat instead of a necktie. She found it a slightly unusual outfit but somehow the man made it look elegant. The eyes were bright, intelligent and there was a sparkle of humor in them.

It was the humor that decided her. She waved at the seat opposite her, still chewing a lump of recalcitrant steak. The man settled down and gave her a friendly smile. “I am afraid the steak isn’t terribly good is it?”

Achillea swallowed. “The cook did very well with what he had. But the meat is pretty poor.”

“I will pass your kind words to the cook. He deserves all the appreciation he gets. But I am sorry, I forget my manners. My name is Fred Heckman. I used to be a Union organizer down at the reclamation plant but now, I’m just trying to repair all the damage the strike did to this town. I own a good share of this place and quite a few others in town. The Union is sending funds to invest in local businesses, trying to get some life back here. My job is to invest it all. Anyway . . . .”

The hint that Achillea should identify herself was obvious. “I’m Achillea Foyle. I was just visiting somebody here when the speed trap got me. Now I’m stuck here until my company sends me more funds.”

Heckman nodded sadly. “Damn Pettigrew and that son-in-law of his. Apologies for the language Miss Foyle, but it’s stupid things like that speed trap that keep honest investment out of Aurandel. Businessman comes in, gets shaken down, and keeps on going, taking what money he has left with him. I don’t suppose you’re an investor, are you? Or your company?”

Achillea shook her head. “I’m a private detective.”

She watched as Heckman’s eyes narrowed and when he spoke, the voice was loaded with suspicion. “And what do you want here? Excuse me, Miss Foyle, but after the way the employers brought their goons in to break the strike, there’s a lot of bad blood here. Some of those goons called themselves private detectives as well.”

“Nothing like that. Look, I’m a girl, right? So, guess what sort of jobs I get. All the stupid little things the men can’t be bothered with.” Achillea let bitterness creep into her voice. “I’m little more than a coffee maker and secretary. Like this job. Woman gets left five thousand dollars in somebody’s will. Guess who must find her and give it to her. The top-ranking operatives. Yeah right. They get all the good jobs and I get to drive here with a check. And the company will lose money on the deal because of that damned speeding fine. I’ll be lucky if I keep my job, such as it is.”

Heckman shook his head sadly. “The discrimination against our sisters in the workforce is one of our greatest national injustices. Do you know, a woman gets only 72 percent of the salary of a man working in the same job? I’m sorry, of course, you know that. I’ve promised myself I will end this injustice in our Union at least and everywhere else we can get representation.”

Heckman paused considerately while Achillea hacked off another lump of the steak. Like all very strong people, she was used to controlling her strength all the time, so she made cutting the tough meat seem harder than it was. She knew that sooner or later Heckman would work around to asking which agency she worked for. Pinkertons would be the wrong choice, they were too deeply implicated in anti-Union activities. TransAmerican rarely worked this far south, and the Continental Agency had a cowboy reputation. “You know, the cook here deserves much better than this meat. Got a real talent.”

She picked up a steak sauce bottle and struggled with the cap. Heckman reached over and opened it for her. Achillea gave a rueful grin of thanks. Heckman acknowledged it. “The credit really belongs to Queenie herself. She comes up with the recipes and makes sure the cooks don’t take shortcuts. But you’re right about the meat and it really shows you what’s wrong in this town. When the strike got bitter, all the real truckers left town. They stood by the Union you see and got run out for their trouble. Now, only trucks driven by the goons come here and they deliver what they want. When we buy meat, we must get what they bring. They charge us for USDA Grade A Prime and give us . . . . . that. They can’t be bothered to bring us real olive oil or perhaps the suppliers won’t give them a big enough cut. So, we make do with what we can get. Like everything else in this town. Pete Matthews is in their pocket so we can’t go to the law, not that there really is any in this town. Look, Miss Foyle. . .”

“Achillea.”

“Thank you. Look, Achillea, if this speed trap is going to get you into trouble, I can contact Union headquarters and they can send a man around to collect the money for the fine on your behalf. Nothing distressing or unfriendly, just a man doing you a favor, but often the mere presence of a Union rep will smooth things over. Which Agency do you work for?”

“The Rivers Agency in Washington.” Which is a useful front for the OSS she thought. “But there’s no need to worry. My boss will give me a real dressing down about this, but he knows how things work. Especially if I can bring a job back with me.”

“Now there’s a thought.” Heckman leaned back and looked at her carefully. “I’m pretty damned sure that the goons working for Nathan Stauffer have a racket going but I don’t know what it is. Stauffer’s pretty much the man who destroyed this town you know. Him and his goons terrorized everybody into leaving. But they stayed on after everything went to hell and there must be a reason for that. If I can find out what it is, I can get the county Sheriff to bring enough men in to clear them out. With him gone, old Pettigrew will see reason and we can get this town straightened out. How about you try and find out what they’re up to and get me the evidence to bring to the law? Nobody will expect you to be doing some investigating for the Union.”

“Can’t take the job on by myself.” Achillea sounded amateurishly excited. “You’ll have to sign on with the Rivers Agency. Write a letter to them asking them to investigate a criminal enterprise in Aurandel and make it conditional on me taking the lead. Once they’ve accepted the contract, I’ll be able to get to work.”

Heckman nodded. “How much will that cost us? We’re a Union remember; all we’ve got is what the working men and women of this country give us. we must make sure every cent is well-spent.”

“A couple of thousand up front as a retainer. They won’t charge much for me, told you, they think I’m a nobody. Probably a hundred a day if that. Once the job is done, you get the balance of your retainer back.”

Heckman gave her a great beaming smile. “That sounds mighty fair. And just to start us off right, you have that steak on the house. Embarrasses me to charge for it anyway. On condition, when we get real meat here, you come back and have a proper steak.”

“I’ll do that. If you can get the letter ready for me by tomorrow, I should be able to start investigating. You have a teletype machine here?”

“We do indeed. Give me your head office teletype number and I’ll get it out today.”

[Calder]

Chapter 3
The Painted Lady Club, Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building. Aurandel, North Carolina

“You’d better have permission from Mister Stauffer if you want to work this bar.” The bar-tender leered at Achillea, taking in her appearance and missing virtually everything of importance in the process. “He’ll take his cut of anything you earn, and I’ll take another fifteen, off the top.

Achillea said nothing and simply stared at the barman. She caught his eye and held it, letting her steady, vacant gaze dwell on his face. The barman found himself staring into an abyss and just as promised, the abyss was staring back. He swallowed nervously, found himself starting to choke in fear and then couldn’t help looking back into that steady gaze. Eventually, Achillea spoke, and her words seemed to echo in the little pool of stillness that surrounded her and the barman. “And what makes you think I want anything more than a drink?”

“I . . . . . err. I’m sorry . . . .”

The bartender was floundering and knew it. He was saved from further embarrassment by Achillea becoming aware that an overweight man in his late fifties had settled down on the bar stool beside her and was stretching out a soft, white, fat-fingered hand towards her leg. Without taking her eyes of the bartender, she spoke very quietly, “if you put that hand on my body, I will remove it.”

The man spluttered and drew back. Achillea continued staring at the bartender before addressing him. “Let me guess, you must come on tough to keep the boss happy and down here, women don’t turn up alone at a bar unless they’re cruising for trade. So, you have to look after the boss’s interests. That right?”

The barman seized on the lifebelt that had been thrown to him. At that point it could have been made of concrete and he would still have grabbed it. Anything to end that stare. “That’s close. And I wanted to make a little for myself, is that so bad? Look, can we start again? Friendly like? I’m Travis Josephson, Terry to my friends.”

“Achillea. So, we start again. I’d like a drink please, double shot, whisky without an e. Whatever you’ve got that’s genuine. If nothing is, the least fake.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t say that anything behind this bar is the real thing. More a question of what it’s been fixed with.” Josephson tuned and contemplated the array of bottles, then pulled down a bottle that had a Cutty Sark label. “I’ve seen Mister Stauffer drink this so it’s probably safe.”

“Giving away my whisky Terry?” The voice was a poor imitation of Humphrey Bogart. Achillea turned to look at the speaker and the appearance was a poor imitation as well. There was a general similarity in appearance, but Nathan Stauffer had weakness where Bogart showed strength, cruelty instead of cynicism and cowardice instead of character. He had a woman with him and that suddenly drove home to Achillea how few women she had seen in her day exploring the town.

“Lady knows whisky Mister Stauffer. I thought she ought to get the best we had; she’d know otherwise. Maybe ask questions.”

Stauffer nodded slowly. Achillea took the brief pause to look at the woman with him. She was slightly overweight, broad-hipped, and buxom. The plum-colored dress she had on was a size too small and was straining at the added load. One of the seams at the side had given way for about an inch or so, exposing a small slice of white flesh crossed with threads that straggled from the torn stitching. The color didn’t suit her, and the style of the dress was unflattering. Her hair was black, so black that it was obviously dyed, but it was ill-trimmed, and the parting was crooked. Achillea had often quietly laughed at the elaborate care Igrat took over her appearance but faced with a woman who didn’t show the same attention, suddenly Igrat’s carefulness seemed understandable. If this woman lost a little weight and got some help from a beautician and style consultant, she would be attractive. Not in Igrat’s league, but enough to get by. But, she hadn’t and wasn’t.

“Good call, Terry.” Stauffer turned his attention to Achillea. “So, you know your whiskies?”

“Well enough to avoid fakes and adulterated hooch.” Achillea ignored the look that Stauffer fondly imagined was that of a hard and dangerous man. It was also true that her muscle-packed body gave her a high alcohol tolerance and it was something she exploited often enough. In a fight, it always helped when her opponent was drunk, and she wasn’t. “Terry here’s a smart man to recognize that.”

“Sugar, she’s mouthing off at you.” There was urgency in the woman’s voice, excitement at provoking a fight. “Put her down hard.”

“Shut it, Kim.” Stauffer was slightly impatient. Achillea guessed that at one time, his girlfriend had been able to maneuver him around, but those days were slipping as fast as her looks. Now, she was desperate to hold on to her glory days and he had long decided listening to her wasn’t worth the trouble it caused. Achillea’s shot glass arrived on the bar in front of her and she knocked it back. It was Cutty Sark and it had been cut with water. Not much, she guessed one in twelve. She noticed that the bartender was holding his breath while she drank. Using the eye away from Stauffer, Achillea winked at Josephson and watched him exhale in relief.

“I guess I should thank you for your whisky Mr. Stauffer. After a rough day, I needed a good drink. My name’s Achillea Foyle.”

“Nathan Stauffer, and my associate Kimberly Brand. I own this place. Why are you in Aurandel?”

“Blame Pete Matthews and his speed trap. Close on a thousand dollar fine for two miles over.”

“So you lost your car to Gillespie and his thugs.” Stauffer shook his head sadly. “Can see why you need a drink. Have another on me, it’s the least a citizen of this town can do.”

He nodded to Josephson who poured out two more shots of Cutty Sark. Achillea drank it and looked around. “I didn’t lose the car as it happens. Had enough cash on me to pay the fine. But it left me skinned and I’ve got to wait here until my company sends me some more travel money.”

“What do you do Achillea?” Stauffer’s voice was actually more convincing when he dropped the Bogart act. Achillea saw Kimberley Brand was staring at her with hatred. Probably she was seeing her as a rival who would take her meal ticket away. It wasn’t a groundless fear; no matter what happened in the club tonight, her days as Stauffer’s main woman were ending. The irony was that her knowledge of the fact made her behave in ways that brought the end of her reign that much closer.

“I’m a private detective. For the Rivers Agency. We subcontract a lot of work from Pinkertons.”

Stauffer’s face lit up. “We’ve done a lot of work with Pinkertons ourselves. You investigating the Union rackets down here?”

“Now, you know I can’t divulge anything about my client Mister Stauffer.” Achillea gave another wink, this time to Stauffer. “Or who the subject of our investigations might be.”

“Make her tell you.” Kimberley Brand was angry, resentful and had already drunk too much for her own good. Her voice was slurred. “Mess her face up.”

“I told you to shut it, Kim. I mean it. Achillea is an honest businesswoman who is stranded here through no fault of her own. A little hospitality and a friendly ear for her troubles is the least we can do for her. If you don’t like it, go.” The woman smashed a glass down on the bar top, hard enough to break the stem. Then she stormed out. Stauffer looked at her departing rear with obvious disdain. “My apologies Achillea. Kim gets a little . . . . . overwrought at times.”

Achillea raised an eyebrow but said nothing. There was an awkward pause which the barman broke by pouring out another couple of shots. Achillea jumped in quickly, “these are on me.”

“Kind of you, Achillea.”

“Not really, Pinke . . I mean the Rivers Agency are paying. After all, we’re on the same side here.”

Stauffer grinned broadly. “That’s what I like to hear. Perhaps, we can get this town straightened up at last, after all it’s been through.”

On Broad Street, Outside the Painted Lady Club.

Achillea heard the strangled gasp and cut-off cry as she left the “Church Building” and turned to where she had left her car. The club didn’t really have a parking area of its own, but the next-door lot had a small hardware store in the middle of a large area. The club used that as its park and Achillea guessed that the owner of the store had the good sense not to object to the arrangement. But the cry had come from the other side of the club, and area where a dirt track led between the building and a patch of scrubby pine trees. More out of interest than anything else, she moved quietly to see what was going on. What she saw disgusted her.

The victim was Sheriff Pete Matthews. Two men were holding him by the arms, leaving him helpless against the slow, measured blows that a third man was placing in his stomach. Achillea had no objections to a fight, even one against loaded odds. But the sight of a man being held so that he was unable to defend himself sickened every instinct she had. She had killed her first opponent when she was six years old and countless others since, but nobody had ever, ever expected her to kill a completely helpless victim. It had always been a fight, even if the odds had been hopeless. Without even thinking about it, she started to move forward, seeing the dull gleam of heavy metal on the fist of the man who had been beating Matthews. The heavy metal of a knuckleduster. In the shadowy near night of late dusk, the trees formed a complete circle around them and she could imagine them watching dispassionately. The ground beneath her feet was sand and it moved ways that brought memories flooding back. The whole area looked just like an arena, the arena. Achillea was home.

One of the men holding Matthews saw her first and called out a warning. He dropped the policeman’s arm, leaving him to tangle up with the other man holding him as he fell to the ground. Achillea saw blood running from Matthews’ mouth and noted to herself that he wouldn’t be trying to help her. That suited her, it meant he wouldn’t get in her way. She quickly measured up the men, her eyes drinking in every single scrap of information she could absorb. Knuckleduster was turning towards her, his eyes brightening as he saw she was a woman. He started to move in towards her, thinking she was easy prey. That made him stupid for he should have realized that a woman who was prepared to take on three men had to know something he didn’t. Nevertheless, he was moving in and was careless about doing so but the angle of her approach had already put him off and to her left. She was moving fast, splitting up the group and separating them so they could be taken down individually. In her eyes, everything was already slowing down, people appearing to move in slow motion as they closed in on each other. Achillea changed her angle slightly, moving further right and heading for the man who had seen her approaching.

As soon as he realized he had been singled out for the first attack, he reached out and plucked something from his belt. The sight almost made her laugh. Two lengths of wood joined by a chain. A nunchaku, a so-called weapon for which Achillea had nothing but contempt. Showy, but largely ineffective except against people who knew nothing about how to fight for their lives. A simple baseball bat was a much more effective weapon.

The man lashed out with the nunchaku and instantly demonstrated why Achillea held it in such contempt. Had he been armed with solid weapon, a quarterstaff or baseball bat, the free end would have been under control and could stab, strike or otherwise maneuvered against an enemy. The flexible nunchaku didn’t allow that degree of precision and the striking end was effectively out of control. Achillea swung to one side while stepping back and the end passed harmlessly past her face. By then she was already turning, and her hand swung out to catch the nunchaku from the right. With her hand overtaking it from behind, the man wielding it got no warning of the sudden increase in speed that ripped it from his hand. The sudden realization that he had been so quickly and easily disarmed caused him to freeze still in shock. Achillea didn’t even take a serious look at the nunchaku, she threw it away with her contempt plainly visible. Even as it left her hand in an arc that would take it into the fir trees, she was already using her own motion to go on the attack. She had closed on Nunchaku who was still trying to understand what had happened to his weapon. The heel of her left hand, the skin as coarse and hard as aged leather, slammed into his chest. The blow, for all its speed and power was carefully placed just over his heart. Achillea knew the oldest rule in fighting with her hands. Don’t punch at something, punch through it. Her blow was aimed at a spot about a foot behind his chest and the impact caused an audible crackle of bones from his ribcage It wasn’t just the impact that threw him backwards. The blow over his heart had disrupted its rhythm and he was already suffering from the effects of the disordered blood flow. Achillea steadied herself, paused for a brief second and then her right hand lashed out, the heel hitting him under the chin. His head cracked back with the sheer force of the blow and there was another crackle of bones. She wasn’t sure whether it was his neck, his jaw or both nor did she care. She glanced quickly at the trees and saw the wind blowing the branches horizontally. It was the old sign of the Games Master, signaling the death of a defeated opponent. She struck with her fist this time. Not with the front for that was a sure way to break her fingers but with the side. The blow landed at the spot where the skull joined the spine and she felt the joint separate.

In the time it had taken her to kill Nunchaku, Knuckleduster had moved forward three paces while Third Man was still trying to disentangle himself from Matthews. The sheriff was only semi-conscious and obviously badly hurt but he was trying to hold on to the third man, trying to buy her some extra time to deal with Knuckleduster before Third Man broke free. For that, Achillea was grateful although it wasn’t necessary. She already knew how to deal with Knuckleduster.

The incredibly rapid destruction of Nunchaku had finally told Knuckleduster that he was in trouble. It had been the way Achillea had so contemptuously thrown away the weapon she had taken from the man that had convinced him of that. Knuckleduster actually had a gun, but it was in his right jacket pocket and his right hand was tangled up in the heavy brass of the knuckleduster. He couldn’t reach it with his left. So, he punched out at the woman who was coming straight at him. The blow was a fairly skilled one, aimed at her solar plexus. Knuckleduster had trained as a boxer and often said that he might have been a contender. He would never have been but even if he had, he wouldn’t have helped. He might have been a contender, but Achillea was a gladiator, a woman who had offended every sensibility the Roman nobility had by defeating all the male opponents sent against her. Even when they had loaded the dice and sent her into battles she could not win, she had somehow walked away victorious. And the crowd, the common people, had loved her for it.

As Knuckleduster’s blow lashed out at her, she seemed to go boneless for an instant as she flowed around the striking fist, allowing it to pass just by her left side. Then her left arm clamped down, trapping Knuckleduster’s arm against her body while she rotated hard, dragging him off his feet. Then her right fist struck a hammer blow at his elbow, shattering the joint. Expertise, the knowledge of how and where to use strength destroyed Knuckleduster’s arm and with it any hope he might have had of living. Achillea pivoted further, her left leg scything out to catch Knuckleduster behind the knees. His legs cut out from under him, he crashed onto his back, stunned and incapable of moving. She dropped on top of him and the twist that broke his neck was a formality.

That left Third Man. He had broken free from Matthews and was trying to make up his mind whether to escape or try to attack. He had drawn a knife, a cheap bowie, and was holding it the way he’d seen it done on the films. Achillea looked at the blade and the way it was shaking in Third Man’s hand. She checked around her, making sure that they were still alone in the arena, and decided that she didn’t need to use her own knife. His would do nicely. She rolled to her feet, leaving the dead body of Knuckleduster on the ground, and closed in on Third Man, her knees bent and her arms down by her sides in the traditional crouch. Third Man was panicking, his eyes darting from side to side, sweat beading his brow and the upper lip over the slack mouth. Achillea saw it all, saw every slight detail and when his lips tensed, she knew what he was going to do before he committed himself to it. He slashed at her face with the knife, perhaps thinking that a woman would instinctively throw her arms up to protect it and thus leave herself wide open. But, Achillea had already stepped back, and her right hand caught his right around the wrist. Her thumb pressed the nerve center, causing his fingers to spasm open. As the knife dropped from his hand, she caught it neatly and flipped it so she was holding it properly. Third Man’s eyes were open wide with shock as it registered that his hand was empty. In that second, Achillea drove the knife into his stomach and sliced upwards towards his sternum. He went down, scrabbling in a vain effort to hold his abdomen closed with his arms.

Achillea spun around holding the knife in the air, the blood of her last victim trickling down her wrist. Somehow a stray shaft of light caught the blade and the wind moving in the trees seemed to shout ACH – ILL – EEE – AAHH, ACH – ILL – EEE – AAHH. She looked at her three victims. The fight had taken less than a minute and now two men were motionless, the third writhing on the ground. It had been their day to die, and she gave them the final salute when she said dispassionately, without the smallest hint of pity or remorse. “Sorry boys. It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Then, she went to the one who was writhing in agony from the stomach wound. She knelt beside him and looked at the damage she had wrought. It was not survivable. “Boy, tell me. Who sent you.”

Third Man was crying, aware that he had a hard road to take into darkness and that there was no way out. He tried to say something, swallowed, and then tried again. “Heck, I don’t kno . . . . . . .” That was all he got out because blood from his mouth drowned the rest of the words.

Achillea looked at him for a split second, then whispered, “hold still”. The knife stabbed into his throat, killing him instantly. She checked the body quickly, finding some money and a set of keys. That was all. Then, she checked the bodies of the other two men. She found Knuckleduster’s gun, a Colt 1903 Hammerless that appeared to be an exact match for her own and took it. Nunchaku had another cheap bowie knife, and she took that as well. She didn’t bother with the Nunchaku other than to wipe it clean of any prints. A useless weapon had no place in her collection.

Then she went to Matthews. He was still on the ground, half bent over and there was blood oozing from his mouth. She felt his ribs, feeling cracks or breaks in the lowest ribs. She couldn’t feel anything but the blows from the knuckleduster could easily have ruptured his stomach or spleen. She didn’t know and for a second she wished Naamah was here. She would know what needed to be done. “Sheriff, I’m going to take you to my car. You need a hospital fast.”

“No. Pettigrew’s place. We’ll call from there.” Matthews coughed up more blood and the effort caused his body to spasm. “Who are you? You destroyed them.”

“Just a passer-by. We’re going to get off the ground now. Hang on to me and use me for support.” Achillea took his weight and maneuvered him back to her car. Then, with him sprawled on the back seat, she set off for Pettigrew’s house.

[Calder]

Chapter 4
Jame’s Pettigrew’s House and Town Courthouse, Route 305, Aurandel, North Carolina

“You? What do you want heah?” James Pettigrew peered short-sightedly through the safety hole in the front door of his house. The door was good, solid southern oak and it had a steel plate backing. Despite its weight, it had shaken when Achillea had pounded on it.

“I’ve got the Sheriff in the car. He’s been beaten up, badly hurt. Needs attention now.”

Pettigrew looked out and saw the Sheriff slumped in the back of Achillea’s Studebaker Eclipse. That was enough and he threw the door open. “George, Reed get down heah. Give the lady a hand. Pete’s been attacked.”

Achillea was hard put to stop laughing. The Judge was wearing an old-fashioned nightshirt topped off with the traditional cone-shaped hat with a bobble on the pointed end. On the other hand, the double-barreled shotgun in his hands was anything but funny. Achillea had a healthy respect for shotguns, and she debated taking this one away from the Judge before he hurt somebody. But his hands and eyes were rock-steady and she was confident he wouldn’t shoot anybody by accident. Two men came downstairs, pulling on their police shirts as they did so. One of them looked at the Judge with eyes still filled with sleep. “Where’s Cousin Pete?”

“In the back of my car. Three men worked him over with a knuckleduster. He could have ruptures, internal injuries, I don’t know what.” She held the keys to her car out and the man who had spoken to her took them.

The Judge looked at her carefully. “We’d bettah go to mah Courtroom.”

“With all due respect, Judge, last time I was there, I got poor very quickly.” Behind them, the door crashed, and Cousin George and Cousin Reed brought the Sheriff in between them. Achillea looked at him. He was still bleeding from his mouth and nose and was only semi-conscious. “Keep his head hanging forward or he’ll drown in his own blood.”

“He’s bad, Uncle Jim.” One of the policemen spoke. He was an odd-looking man, heavy-set and with a curiously-flattened nose.

“Get him on the couch. Reed, get Doc Clemmer over heah. As if his life depends on it which it does. You, young lady, I said into mah courtroom or be fined for contempt.”

“Ohh Petey what have they gone and done to yah.” The woman on the stairs was fluttering one hand in the air while the other covered her mouth. She turned and looked at Achillea, jumping with unerring precision to the wrong conclusion. “What have yah done to my Petey?”

Matthews replied before anybody could say anything. “She saved my life Laura, fought three men to do it. Now you go upstairs and bring down that gun I got yesterday.”

“Do ah have to Petey? You know I hate them things.”

The woman turned and fled upstairs as her husband glowered at her. The Judge caught Achillea’s eye and raised his eyebrows expressively. “Ah southern woman afraid of guns. This world is surely goin’ ta hell.”

She looked at him closely for the first time. He was plump and elderly and had an odd, kindly expression. He looked like the sort of man who might know a really good recipe for fried chicken. He opened the door to the room that served as his court and ushered Achillea in. “Naow, young lady. What jus’ happened out theah?”

Achillea closed her eyes and gave an abbreviated version of the fight, emphasizing how the grievously wounded Pete Matthews had clung on to one man in order to give her a better chance deal with the others. That would be something he could tell his wife rather than admit he’d been helpless on the ground while Achillea fought the men alone. The Judge helped her along by nodding and making supportive comments when her flow of words threatened to dry up. In other words, he was a good listener and Achillea realized there was more to him than the corrupt judge she had met the day before.

When she got to the end, he nodded. “Well, mah deah young lady, it seems the court owes you ah debt for assisting one of our officers. Ah debt of around nine hundred dollahs if mah memory serves me well.”

He went to a strong box in the corner of the room, unlocked it and removed a roll of notes. Then he gave it to her. It was the same money she had paid the day before. Before she could say anything, the doctor came in. “Judge, Pete’s going to be OK. His gut’s badly bruised and he’ll be hurtin for a week or more. But, from what he said, this young lady done him a real good turn. Saved him from a bad beatin.”

“They meant to kill him.” Achillea’s voice was stone cold and there was loathing in it. The Judge looked at her with surprise. He knew she had just killed three men with her bare hands, but her manner had given no sign of how she could be capable of doing it. Now, he knew. That made it less of a shock when she continued, “I did the women of this town a favor. Now, none of them will be fooled by any of those three pretending to be men.”

As she was leaving, Pete Matthews called her over. “Yesterday, should have given this back. Your Model 50. Nice piece. Got another thing for ya. New town ordinance passed few minutes ago. Ya now exempt from speed limits within this here town.”

Achillea took the Model 50 and pushed it into the empty holster on her waist. Then, she thought for a second. “Pete, your boys have picked up the bodies, right? And nobody saw them? Well, why not say that three men attacked you, but you beat them off and they ran for it? Don’t mention me at all.”

Matthews frowned. “Look better for me but .. . . . .”

“And it will give you and your boys the excuse to bust into a few places and look around right? Trying to find the attackers. Better still, I’ll be a witness and can identify the attackers. You can take me along to see if I recognize them. That’ll make them think, won’t it?”

That made Matthews laugh and the effort caused him to double up with pain. When he recovered, he looked at her with respect. “It surely will.”

Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“So, you had a good day?” Emelia was working hard, her fingers massaging olive oil into Achillea’s shoulder muscles.

“Got my money back, got my gun back, met Fred Heckman and Nathan Stauffer and renewed my friendship with the local police. Collected some additional iron. Two knives, one set of knuckledusters and another Colt Hammerless. I thought it was the same as mine but when I looked closer, it’s a .380. Mine’s a .32. The .380s are pretty rare.”

“What did you think of Stauffer and Heckman?” Emelia moved around and started to work on Achillea’s calves.

“Both went to great lengths to tell me how they were trying to put the town back together. According to Heckman, he’s funneling Union money into redeveloping businesses here. Going into partnership with local businessmen and all that.”

Emelia snorted. “Yeah, right. You know the terms of the partnership he has with Queenie? He owns 49 percent of the business; she owns 51 percent. That means she does all the work; he takes all the money and she pays for the privilege on her back. He never invested anything. If Union money is coming in, Heckman’s pocketing it. There isn’t any Union property in this town, commercial or otherwise. I was county clerk remember? If the Union were taking shares in companies, I’d have seen it on the property records.”

Achillea shifted around in her seat. “Thank you for the massage, Emelia. I get cramp easily, price of being built like this. How come Queenie accepted a deal like that?”

“How do you think? Heckman and his ‘organizers’ came around one day with a partnership agreement. Queenie refused to sign it. So, his enforcers knocked her down and held her over her own grill. She gave in before it heated up enough to burn her too bad. Smart girl. Now, she just hopes for something to turn up that’ll let her get out of town.”

There was a long silence while Achillea thought that over. “You know, something I’ve noticed. Very few women here. I met Stauffer’s girlfriend and she seemed like the sort of woman who keeps Igrat in fur coats.”

“You know Igrat’s ‘mother’ ‘gave birth’ to her here don’t you? I remember rigging the records. It’s not often I got to cook the books for somebody with a Congressional Medal of Valor. Anyway, most women got out of town during the strike. It was just too dangerous for them to bring up their kids here. There are relatively few female criminals who need a place like this. So, not many women.” Emelia laughed. “There are so few that even I get suitors from the younger men, and I’m supposed to be in my seventies.”

“Granny complex?” Achillea wriggled her eyebrows knowingly.

“Why, shut your mouth young lady! I’ll have you know that I can still show those young things a trick or two.” Emelia tried to look indignant but ruined it by laughing. “True though, and it’s not funny. You know what happens when there is a shortage of women in a group. We’ve both been there.”

That killed the laughter stone dead. Achillea and Emelia had both been born slaves and understood what it meant in ways that very few other Daimones did. They’d tried to explain it, but they’d never managed to get the message over. They also knew that the idea that women would be empowered by a society in which they were greatly outnumbered by men was a naïve myth dreamed up by idealists. In fact, that situation was a recipe for brutalization and abuse, and it had never been any different. There was a pause that seemed to go on for hours before Emelia picked up where she had left off. When she did so, she spoke carefully as if she was afraid of digging up things that were best forgotten. “When you were . . . young . . . was it bad for you?”

Achillea shook her head, her eyes defocusing as she remembered a time long ago. “My father was a gladiator, the best in Helicarnassus, my mother was an acrobat and gymnast. Both slaves. They were picked specifically to breed me for the arena. The owners wanted a boy of course but they got me instead, so they made the best of it. I guess the Lanista must have been a pretty decent man. He could have just killed me and tried again. For all that, my parents did the best they could for me. Made sure I knew they both loved me even if they didn’t love each other. My father came to see me every few days right up to the time he was killed in the arena. He didn’t what to say to a young girl so we would talk about my armor and weapons, and he would tell me stories about his fights I was wearing the armor of a secutor and training with the sword from as early as I can remember. That’s why I’m built this way. The dottore, he’s the man who trained the gladiators, he became like a second father to me when my own died. Training was harsh but it had to be because we were being trained to fight for our lives. I think I realized that when I was still very young and didn’t resent it. Early on, I was a sort of mascot for the other gladiators, later more of a sister than anything else. By then, I was already fighting in the arena myself. When I had my first man, he was one I chose, not one forced on me. No, Emelia, I was lucky. But I saw what happened to those who weren’t.”

There was another very long silence as both women remembered their childhood. Achillea was lost in her memories, back when she had been in the arena for the first time. Unaware of the fact she was speaking aloud, she started to tell her companion about it. It had been in the years when Titus Flavius Caesar Domitianus Augustus had been Caesar. A man of great substance had been found plotting against Domitian Caesar and sentenced to die in the arena at Helicarnassus. His wife and six-year-old son had been condemned to die alongside him. The sight of two young children fighting to the death was scheduled as a comedy, some light relief before the main business of the day. The boy had been dressed in his manly toga and then pushed into the arena first so that his mother could watch him die. As young as she had been, Achillea had known what was required of her and had put on a good show to amuse the crowd. At first the crowd had laughed at the sight of a six-year-old girl armored as a Secutor but when they watched her handling a reduced-size gladius like a seasoned professional they had changed their minds. They had cheered her on as she had used her skills to highlight the helpless incompetence of the boy. She had danced around him easily parrying his attempts to strike while she touched him with her sword at will. Finally, in desperation, he had run straight at her, his eyes tightly shut, and his sword held out in front of him. And so, her first match ended with her opponent on the ground, disarmed, crying, and screaming for his mother while a laughing crowd made the slashing horizontal gesture that meant death for the loser. That had been the first time she had whispered ‘hold still’ so the killing thrust would be quick and clean. That was the day when the other gladiators had first called her ‘sister’ and she still couldn’t understand why her dottore had looked at her with such pity in his eyes.

Emelia was stunned by the story and hardly knew how to respond. She’d always known that Achillea had been born a gladiator but what that actually meant had escaped her. If anything, the picture she had assembled was taken from Hollywood films and they had never featured the brutal killing of a small boy while his mother watched. Suddenly she was very frightened of Achillea. To break the mood, she tried to swing the conversation back to the events of the evening. “Do you really think Gillespie and his men were responsible for attacking Matthews?”

“I don’t know.” Achillea sounded frustrated. “I’m not really a detective. If Conrad was here, he could tell us, but he isn’t. It smells wrong to me though. If Gillespie was really upset about losing the money from stealing and selling my car, he would have gone to Pettigrew about it first. I think Pettigrew would have given him the money, or at least a part of it, just to keep the peace. He’s got to know there’s a war brewing over who controls this town and he won’t want to alienate a possible ally. He’s not a stupid man. He’d make a deal and Gillespie must understand that.”

“You think there really is a war coming?” Emelia had known the answer but hearing it stated somehow made it permanent.

“There is. So far, I’ve been hired by three of the four sides to clear the town of the others. Or at least they think I’m on their side. Tomorrow, I hope to make it four for four. So, it wouldn’t surprise me if Heckman or Stauffer ordered the hit on Pete in an effort to break up the Pettigrew-Gillespie deal. I asked one of the attackers tonight who had given the orders, but he said he didn’t know. He was dying and knew it so I don’t see why he would lie about that.”

“Perhaps Heckman or Stauffer set it up so that the other would be blamed. That way the battle would be three to one.”

Achillea nodded slowly. It was a very plausible scenario. One she could work with. “Emelia, have you time to drive over to Ahoskie tomorrow? I need to get a long message off to home. There’re a few things I need from there. Could you also get me a bus timetable and a couple of steaks. Not special ones, just ones out of the local market.”

“No problem at all. Retired old lady has nothing but time. The bus timetable is easy. Got one here already. You need Seasons Bus Lines; their terminal is on the corner of Poole and Magnolia. They used to be a rental and charter services but now they do local busses and a few Interstate runs. It’s a small operation, pop runs everything, mom keeps the books, sons do the driving, daughter runs the ticket office. They’ve got one route going up to Norfolk, another to Richmond, a third to Raleigh. They’re early morning runs though, Richmond leaves at three, Norfolk at four, Raleigh at five. I’ll drop in and check though, get the latest.”

“That’ll do fine. Can you drop in there and get me through ticket to Richmond and Norfolk? An open one on dates. I’m not sure when we’ll be using it. I’ll give you the money for everything. There is a teletype office in Ahoskie?”

“In the market. I can send it off and get the steaks in the same place. We going to have a celebration of you getting your money back?”

Achillea shook her head. “I just want to see what the meat there is like. I’ve got a bad feeling about the meat in this town. Could you get a turkey leg or breast as well?”

“Get you a whole turkey if you like. Thanksgiving is coming soon. Been a long time since I had a proper turkey for Thanksgiving. Being a respectable old lady is like that. Usually just get a breast. It ain’t much fun doing Thanksgiving for one.”

“I’d forgotten about that. We can get a whole turkey for the ritual sacrifice. I’ll send out for one though, if my suspicion is right, we’d be better off that way. I’d still want that leg or breast though. Thought for you, we can invite the neighbors in for a Thanksgiving feast as well. We’d be well off building some solidarity in this road.”

“That’d be good. Hey, what you mean, ritual sacrifice? This is Thanksgiving we’re talking about.”

“I know. We get an animal, kill it and eat it to celebrate something. That’s a ritual sacrifice.”

“All right. So, we’ll have a ritual sacrifice. With pie.”

[Calder]

Chapter 5
Packard Matador Police Cruiser Approaching Lance Gillespie’s Junkyard and Used Car Lot, 308 NC305

“How’s Pete?” Achillea wasn’t really that interested but it was polite to ask. She was riding in the front seat of a Packard Matador police cruiser with a pump-action shotgun in her lap. She also had her Model 50 back in its holster and her backup Colt Hammerless tucked away in its hide-out. The police officer with the curiously flattened nose was driving.

“Had a bad night. Threw up a lot and screamed every time he did it. First couple of times he puked blood but that’s gone away now. Cousin Laura was no help, just stood there witterin’ and wailin.”

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name in all the fuss last night.” Achillea was sure he was a Pettigrew cousin but had no idea beyond that.

“Ah’m Cousin George but everyone calls me Porky. Well, family do anyhow and after what yah did for Cousin Pete, I reckon yah can call yourself kin of ours. Before yah ask, during the strike got the flat of a spade across ma face. Left me like this. And yah don’t have a mark on yah. You must surely know how to fight.” Porky nodded his head sagely.

“I have my moments.” Achillea acknowledged.

“Time to go to work.” Porky reached down and flicked on the police cruiser’s red, blue and white lights, then put his foot down. Behind him the other three cruisers in the convoy did the same. They swept into Gillespie’s used car lot at a speed that Achillea thought really ought to get them all fined a thousand dollars and fanned out around the dilapidated white building that appeared to be the sales office. They swerved to a halt raising thick cloud of red dust that seemed to act almost as if it had a life of its own. By the time it had settled, all the newer cars that had been freshly washed a few minutes before were coated with a thick layer of dust. Almost a dozen police officers and hastily deputized cousins spread out from the cars, pump-action shotguns at the ready. Lance Gillespie ran out of the front door to see what was going on and came to a dead halt when he realized the force that had been brought to bear. The news of the attack of Sheriff Matthews was already spreading around the town and he had the good sense to realize he was at the top of the suspect list. He also had the sense to realize that the police were assuming he was responsible, and it wouldn’t take much for him to be killed while resisting arrest.

If he had been under any illusions on the matter, the shotgun barrels prodding him back into his office would have convinced him otherwise. He backed up, carefully keeping his hands in open sight. Once back behind his shoddy imitation of a desk, he was a bit more confident. “Look, Porky, I wouldn’t pull a stunt like that on Pete. OK, so we’ve had differences, but we always made a deal in the end. Would have been the same today. I’d planned to go say my piece to the Judge and he’d do right.”

“It’s Officer George Pettigrew, Gillespie. Now, this lady saw what happened. You like to tell Mr. Gillespie here all about it.” Porky was actually speaking with the presence of a police officer. Achillea had always been impressed by the fact that when people were pushed hard enough, they tended to grow into their jobs.

“I was leaving The Painted Lady last night and I heard something strange in the trees. I went to look and saw a police officer fighting with three men. He had beaten one down, but the others were giving him a bad time. I was frightened and screamed. I guess they didn’t want witnesses so the two attackers standing grabbed the third and ran off. The Police officer, he was too badly hurt to chase them, so I drove him to the courthouse.”

“Is this one of the men?”

Achillea made a show of looking hard at Gillespie. “No, officer, it is not.”

“Right Lance, look at these pictures. You recognize any of these men?” Achillea looked carefully at Gillespie while the pictures were put in front of him. They were good pictures although they didn’t show that two of the men had broken necks and the third had been disemboweled before having his throat cut. One of the Judges daughters had drawn the pictures the night before. Allegedly, they were based on Achillea’s descriptions. In her opinion, while Laura Pettigrew might be a useless simpering nonentity, one of her sisters had both a strong stomach and artistic flare.

Gillespie shook his head and Achillea saw tiny furrows around his eyes and above his nose. He was genuinely confused. “I’ve never seen any of these men. They look a bit familiar but no more than most people here.”

“Right Lance, mah boys are going to look around yah place here. But looks like we maht have been a mite hasty coming in mob-handed like we done. Yah can see how it looked though.”

Gillespie was obviously relieved that the hostility was ebbing from the atmosphere. “Sure can. Would be the same myself if one of my boys got beat up like that. Tell your boys, look all they want, we got no secrets from the Pettigrews and you tell Pete, we’ll be rooting for him.”

Ryan’s Diner, 108 Main Street, Aurandel

“Where do you get this ham from?” Achillea was tucking in to the ham steak with relish. “Been a long time since I tasted a slice of ham this good.”

“Now why would ya’all be wantin’ to know, honey?” Marcie sounded suspicious.

“I have my doubts about the meat in this town. I had a steak yesterday that was pure shoe leather. This is so different I just wondered. I know luxury butchers in Washington who’d pay top dollar for ham like this.”

“Come from a farm just a way up the road. There’s a lot of hog farming goes on ‘round here. Most is big factory places now but still some little guys left. That there steak comes from one of them. Ya’all ever see one of them big hog farms?”

Achillea shook her head, her mouth to full of ham and egg-white omelette to say anything.

“It surely is a pitiful sight. Hogs all jammed in on top of each other, little ones they getting squashed all the time. Ya’all fall in with them ain’t no point in tryin’ to pull ya out. Them hogs eat everythin’. Them’s got great lakes for all the crap and blood. Bright pink they is. Smell is somethin’ so fierce chokes people up. There’s one such farm down on Cotton Island, see trains from there going through. Man we get our ham from, two three times a month they come to him, want him to give up raisin’ his own hogs and just fatten theirs so they kin claim it’s farm-raised. Won’t have nothin’ ta do with them but they keeps tryin’. But he lets his hogs run free and root for food like they should. That steak ya’ll have there, five minutes before it was a steak, that there hog was happy.”

“Well, it didn’t die for nothing. Nobody try to sell you the trashy meat?”

“Nathan Stauffer’s boys. We must buy some from them else this place gets burned down. But we feed it right back to them and keep the good stuff for real customers. Same with chickin’ and eggs.”

Achillea looked around. “Those boys, I assume they were Stauffers, ain’t around today?”

“You is late. They was here earlier. Them always come in same time to the dot. Leave same way.” Marcie looked curious, obviously forgetting her own advice. “You hear about Pete Matthews? Some ole’ boys beat him up real bad. You think they might have done it? Although I do hear tell that Lance Gillespie was behind it. Then agin he and Stauffer is partners with their trucks.”

“It wasn’t them and the police think Gillespie wasn’t involved.” Achillea frowned slightly; she had slightly hoped that the men who had beaten the diner owner were the same ones she’d killed the night before. Still, it was probably better this way. “You know, I saw that attack?”

“No kiddin?” Marcie was fascinated but suspicious. In her job, she’d heard people claim to be everything from the Howard Hughes to the emperor Napoleon. Witness to a crime that was the talk of a town was boringly normal.

“Honest. I was walking out of The Painted Lady, and I heard a beating going down. Then I saw Matthews fighting off three men. He chased them off but they worked him over real good first. I’ll tell you Marcie, they meant to kill him. Would have done if I hadn’t screamed.” Achillea tried to look innocent, but she really wasn’t very good at it and Marcie was too familiar with people telling tall stories to be fooled. She knew Achillea wasn’t being honest about something but wasn’t quite sure what.

“Ya’all got any idea whether it was Gillespie’s men. Havin’ seen it an’ all?”

“Went with the police to Gillespie’s place as a witness. They wanted me to see if I could identify any of the men I saw. Pretty tense at first, but it calmed down. Gillespie’s men denied anything to do with it. Sounded pretty convincing as well, for what that’s worth.” Achillea leaned forward a little, “Marcie, can you keep a secret? Matthew’s men don’t think it was Gillespie at all. They think Fred Heckman was behind it. The only thing that’s stopping them going after him right now is that they don’t know why.” Achillea finished off her meal and looked down at the empty plate, sighing with happiness. “And could you make me a box lunch to go? Ham and salad will be fine.”

“Sure can honey.” Marcie took off for the kitchen, bursting to tell somebody about the insight she had just gained into the attack on Pete Matthews. It never fails, Achillea thought. Swear somebody to secrecy and it makes sure they’ll tell everybody in town about whatever it was.

With her package of ham salad tucked under her arm, Achillea paid her tab and left.

Cardinal Park, Aurandel

It had been a very pleasant day, all things considered. Not too hot and the park bench upon which Achillea had parked herself had been pleasantly shaded by the trees that filled all the park grounds. A surprising number of those trees had scars on them, some from bullets, others from other fighting tools. They were ageing marks now, the growth of the trees masking the trauma. The slow stately growth of the trees was something that even the Daimones could measure time by.

The shade wasn’t the reason why she had selected this spot though. Using it she could watch the railway line and the factory even though she didn’t have the oversight she’d had the day before. A pair of Heckman’s men had seen her sitting there and smiled knowingly at her. That meant at least part of the mission for the day was accomplished. The other part had been to see if any more trains stopped at the factory. Sure enough, one had. It had given the double blast on its siren and then stopped for around twenty minutes before heading on its way. Despite the extra time Achillea had been watching, it had been the only one stopping. However, this time she saw something she had missed the day before. About five or six hours after the train had stopped, a group of Lance Gillespie’s drivers had arrived at a small truck park on Chestnut Street and started to move the semitrailer tractor units parked there. They’d shifted them across the road to the factory, then vanished into one of the big buildings. An hour or so later, they’d started to leave, towing large semi-trailers. Then, the plant had relapsed into its previous silence.

“A pretty place here, isn’t it?” Achillea turned around to look at the man who had joined her on the seat. It was the same fiftyish man who had tried to approach her at the bar the night before. He was speaking to her in a cheerful, friendly manner that made her instantly suspicious.

“I remember you from last night. What I said then, still applies.” Her delivery was curt and abrupt.

“Now, ma’m, surely you won’t hold a moment’s indiscretion by a man in his cups against him.” There was no whining or plaintive tone to his voice. It was more businesslike, as if there was information she needed to know before making a final judgment, but once she knew it, he would abide by her decision. It was the tone rather than the content that decided her. Achillea neither liked nor trusted men who bent the knee. Be free from anger, envy, and jealousy, in their place develop clear judgment and inner calm. Cultivate the clarity of vision that leads you to accept the situation facing you for what it is and do not distract yourself with how it may differ from how you would wish it be. Always remember that you will face ungrateful, violent, treacherous, envious, uncharitable men. Yet, if you maintain your own peace and tranquility you will not be harmed by them for they will more certainly be brought down by their own lack of wisdom, courage and temperance than by any action you may take. It is in that balance between your calm and their temper that justice lies.

The words spoken by Achillea’s dottore centuries before echoed softly in her mind and she acted on them. “Forgiven. And yes, it is a really nice day.”

The man relaxed, his implicit apology accepted. “I hear old man Pettigrew really took you to the cleaners when you blew into town.”

Achillea looked at him curiously. The old man had the distinct appearance of a mournful dog, perhaps one who had learned that his human couldn’t always be trusted. Sad, brown eyes above a long, sharply-ridged nose and a mouth that sagged at the corners even when he tried to smile. “I think they have doing that down to a fine art.”

“I guess they have to in the fine and beautiful town of Aurandel. Lord knows, this place is a hive of industry and a bustling center of commerce. A man has to struggle hard just to keep up with the race. My name is Raymond Lowrey by the way.”

“Achillea Foyle. You’re right about this town. I haven’t been able to catch my breath in the social whirl. Why, I even think I saw a dog get up, turn around and go back to sleep again.”

“I would hate to accuse a lady of grave exaggeration, but I fear that I must.” Lowrey spoke with exaggerated reluctance. “I haven’t seen any excitement to match that in three days. If we except the attack on the Sheriff of course.”

“If we except that of course. You been here long?” Achillea wanted to put this man in a place. It was important to her mental picture of the town that she know exactly where he fitted in.

“Three days. I was luckier that you though. Being familiar with the revenue-orientated outlook of local law enforcement, I took good care to enter the town limits at a speed well under the posted maximum. So much so that I may have been in danger of committing the offense of obstructing traffic. The police officer on duty at the speed trap made a rude gesture as I passed.”

“What do you do, Mister Lowrey?”

“Well, firstly I insist that my friends call me Ray. I come from Hartford in Connecticut. Just representing the company, I work for. And you?”

“Washington, a private investigator. I had to deliver a legacy to somebody who lives here. Then I got caught up in all this. I’ve never seen a town like this before.”

“Strange, isn’t it? As quiet as the grave. Yet from the levels of trade most of the businesses here claim, you’d think the place was a major business center.”

“The Painted Lady seems to do a lot of business.” Achillea was thoughtful. The more she looked at this town, the less it seemed to be doing. There was a food mart just the other side of the railway line and it had hardly seen a customer all day. “I suppose the Union Social Club is the same?”

“Different clients, same level of business. Same kind of business as well. But, from what I’ve seen, they’re the only places that do keep a relatively good level of trade. All the others, well, this here town is barely moving. If this were a person instead of a town, the doctor would be shaking his head and folding up his stethoscope.”

Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“I got your message off to Gusoyn. That place is just an accommodation address, isn’t it?”

“It is. There must be a thousand or more companies and agencies using it for mail and teletypes they don’t want to go to a public office. How about the rest of the stuff?”

“No problem. Got the bus tickets and I drew you a map of how to find the terminal. It’s the Season’s family home so it’s quite hard to find if you’re looking for a real bus station. And the meat.”

“Good, let’s have a look at it.” They went into the kitchen and tool the packages of meat out of the refrigerator. Emelia had picked up a package of pork fillet as well as the turkey and beef. Achillea laid them all out on the table and picked up a carving knife. Then she felt the edge and her lower lip pushed out. “I’ll sharpen your knives for you. There’s an art in doing it right. I couldn’t spread butter with this.”

When she had the knives sharpened to her satisfaction, she opened the package of beef and looked at it carefully. Then she smelt it. There seemed nothing wrong with it although it was very poor quality and Achillea doubted that it had ever seen a USDA inspector. The turkey breast fillet was different. Achillea sniffed it and also smelled her fingers where she had touched it. “Emelia, take a sniff. What do you smell?”

Emelia did as she was told and frowned slightly. “Bleach?”

“Bleach. When meat is over-age and beginning to turn bad, the seller wipes it with watered-down bleach. Takes away the smell and gives him two or three days to get rid of it. Probably as a ‘special offer’. It’s still bad of course and it can still make the poor sap who eats it ill but it doesn’t smell bad unless somebody looks closely. It’s the sort of thing the USDA inspectors watch out for.”

Achillea tossed the turkey to one side and picked up the pork fillet. It didn’t smell bad but there was something wrong with the way it felt. She took a freshly-sharpened knife and started to slice the pork thinly. About halfway along the fillet, she stopped. The last slice had exposed a whitish patch on the meat. “Have you got a small bottle or something? A pill container will be ideal if it seals tight. I mean, tight. If this is what I think it is, it needs to be kept separate from anything else.”

Emelia produced a glass bottle that had a ground glass stopper sealing a wide neck. Achillea picked up a knife with a long, thin blade, then positioned the bottle carefully. Once she was satisfied, she stabbed the curious white patch. It burst open, spewing out a stream of white pus into the bottle. Achillea stoppered it and then opened the area the pus had come from. There was a cyst in the meat the size of her thumb.

“Can’t be certain but I think this pig was tubercular. If not that, something equally bad. Whatever it was, this is definitely the sort of thing the USDA inspectors look for.”

[Calder]

Chapter 6
Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“Can I help you?” Emelia looked at the young woman standing on the doorstep with evident and genuine sympathy. The girl was obviously young with short-cropped black hair topping an oval face that was shadowed with exhaustion. The clothes she had on, a plaid shirt over a white T-shirt and jeans, showed every sign of having been worn to the point where a change was long overdue. Emelia guessed that she had been driving overnight and, by putting the pieces together, came to the conclusion this was a member of the OSS’s Courier Division.

“Christina Phillips. I’ve got a delivery for Achillea Foyle.” The tiredness in the girl’s voice was evident.

“Why don’t you come in? Achillea’s upstairs in the shower. I’ll take the package and give it to her.”

Emelia was astonished by the change that came over Christina’s face. The tiredness was replaced by grim determination backing mulish obstinacy. “No, I can’t do that. I must hand it over to Miss Foyle personally.”

“Good for you!” Achillea’s voice came from the stairs. “Let me guess, Igrat taught you herself?”

Christina nodded, her face losing none of its determination. “When Miss Shafrid was head of Courier Division, she would arrange little tests for trainees. Somebody would meet us and try and talk us into giving them the package so they could hand it over. Falling for it meant instant dismissal. When she retired, the new head carried on the same policy.”

“Pleased to hear it.” Achillea was actually very well aware that Inanna had carried on with Igrat’s policies while Igrat was in California. She produced her OSS shield and identity document.

Christina took them and compared the photograph she was carrying with the one on the ID pass and with Achillea standing in front of her. After a close inspection she nodded. “I have everything you asked for on your teletype. Certified check for ten thousand dollars, twenty pounds of military-grade thermite, timers all the rest. The body is in the trunk, packed in ice. It’s older than you wanted but it’s the only unclaimed body immediately available. You want some help bringing it in?”

“No thanks, I can manage. Emmie, I’m going to need to need to borrow your bath tub for the rest of the day. Don’t worry, what’s going in to it will be gone by morning. While I’m bringing stuff in, you give Christina here some coffee and a meal? She’s deserved it.”

At mention of a body, Emelia got a distinct ‘what have I started?’ look on her face. “Err, yes, of course. Will ham salad be alright? I don’t trust the meat around here anymore but we know the ham comes from somewhere reliable. The coffee is fresh though.”

By the time Achillea had finished unloading Christina’s car, the courier had two cups of coffee and a ham salad sandwich inside her. That, at least, made her feel a little more human even if she didn’t look that way. “So how was your run down here?”

Achillea’s question made Christina smile slightly. “It was a bit of a milk-run. I just had to be careful not to get pulled in for anything. Oh, yes, and for the last twenty miles, I was listening for banjos playing.”

“Driving around with a body in the trunk is never a milk run. You did a good job Christina, I’ll make sure Inanna knows that. We’ve got something for you to take back, some samples we got from a pig. Meat and the contents of a cyst. We’ve sealed them up tight, whatever is in there is nasty. I think the pork is tubercular but I’d like to know what it really is.” Achillea got a sealed plastic bag with the pork fillet and the bottle of pus from the cyst out of the fridge where it had been carefully isolated from everything else.

Christina looked at the exudates carefully. “It’s not tubercular. It’s the wrong color and it doesn’t flow right. I may be wrong but I think your pig suffered from cysticercosis although I’ve never seen cysticercosis cysts this big before. The poor thing must have been riddled with tapeworm eggs.”

“You sound like you know your way around this kind of thing?” Achillea was curious.

“I majored in parasitic biology before I took this job. Then, when I left college, I had a choice between wearing a white coat and washing test-tubes each day or being sent to exotic places and catching a VC-144 out of Andrews any time I needed one. That was an agonizing choice.” Christina made the traditional ‘weighing things up’ gesture with her hands but half-way through she frowned. “I hope neither of you eat undercooked meat here? How something like that got through USDA is beyond me.”

Achillea and Emelia both shook their heads. That was a Daimones trait; mostly they remembered when eating rare-cooked meat was foolhardy to the point of madness. Achillea took another look at the young courier. “Look, you’re tired, do you want to rest over here before driving back?”

Christina smiled back at them. “No, if this pork is as bad as it looks, the sooner we get a handle on what is wrong with it the better. If they’re letting this through, the USDA inspectors need an ass-kicking. Anyway, this town makes my skin crawl. I’ll stop in a motel up near Norfolk.”

Perceptive girl, Achillea thought.

After Christina had pulled out, Achillea was checking the supplies that had been delivered. Suddenly, she stopped dead. “Omnes deos fellat mea cunnus.”

“What’s the matter Achillea?” Emelia hadn’t heard a latin curse before and didn’t understand it but it was obviously impressive.

“I forgot something important. Emmie, could I have the handcuffs out of your naughty drawer please?”

Emelia tried to act outraged and offended but her ears flushed with embarrassment. “How could you suggest a respectable old lady could have something like that?”

“Emmie, according to a survey in last month’s Cosmopolitan, 64 percent of women keep a pair of handcuffs in their naughty drawer.* When Christina was here, there were three women in this house. I don’t own a pair of handcuffs so you and Christina must. I do need them, Emmie, its important.”

Emelia paused, trying to think of a way of explaining to Achillea how statistics worked. Then she gave it up as a bad job. “Look, numbers don’t work like that but . . . . .”

She went away for a minute or two and then came back with a pair of handcuffs. “You won’t tell anybody where you got these, right?”

Achillea looked at them carefully. “These are completely perfect. And I can promise you, nobody will know where they came from.”

Queenie’s Bar and Grill, Rice Street, Aurandel

Women reacted to being woken up by a hand pressed firmly over their mouths in different ways. Some tried to scream or weep, some to bite, others fought to pull the hand away. When somebody had tried it on Achillea once she had broken his arm in three places. Queenie just mumbled something that sounded like ‘please, just get it over with’ and tears had formed in her eyes. Then she had woken up properly and realized that tonight things were different.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. Don’t scream, there’s no need to. Nobody is going to hurt you.” Achillea spoke softly, and saw the woman beneath her nod. “Alright. I’ve heard you want to get out of this town. Is that true?”

“If only.” Queenie was shuddering with fear despite the efforts Achillea was making to be friendly and reassuring. It never occurred to Achillea that her efforts to be friendly and reassuring were themselves threatening. “Fred is a member of the Union, he told me that if I ran away, the Union would find me wherever I tried to hide. Then, they would drag me back here and he would torture me until I died.”

“Suppose I arrange things so he thinks you’re dead. He won’t bother to search for you since there is no point in searching for a dead person.”

“You can do that?” Hope flared on Queenie’s face and was, as quickly extinguished. “This is all one of his little games isn’t it? I’ll say yes, then he’ll come in and use it as an excuse to hurt me.”

“Gods, this town is enough to drive anybody blood-simple. No Queenie, this is not one of his games. This is deadly serious. I’ve arranged for you to go to Richmond where a couple of people will meet you and help you set up a new life. Now, if you really want out of this town, get dressed. Don’t pack anything, leave everything but the clothes you stand up in. The more you leave behind, the more certain it is that people will assume you are dead. By the way, is your name really Queenie?”

“No. Molly Richardson. But my daddy called me his little Queen so everybody called me Queenie. Then my parents . . . . died and Fred made me sign over half the business in exchange for his ‘investment’. Ever since, he said he owns me.”

“So, every night, you go to bed wondering if he’s going to come in and rape you?” Achillea summoned the words of her dottore to mind again. Emotion is destructive, overcome it and you will understand the world that surrounds you. Passion is the enemy of truth. “How could you live like that?”

“Sometimes I wanted to kill myself but I was afraid I wouldn’t do it properly and then Fred would hurt me even more. In the end I was grateful to him for the nights he didn’t come.” Queenie was crying again and pulled a badly worn teddy bear from behind a wardrobe “Can I take Mr Cuddles please? I’ve hidden him for so long in case Fred found him and destroyed him.”

Achillea fought down emotion again and forced her mind into the cold, dispassionate, emotionless mode that she had been engrained into her for as long as she could remember. It was easy to say that time healed wounds or that everything would be all right in the end. Only, she knew very well that it wasn’t. Queenie had been so badly damaged by the cruelty she had endured, her emotions were so numbed by physical and mental abuse, that she would probably never recover. Fred Heckman had carefully and deliberately destroyed her life. “That will be fine. Nobody knows he exists so he won’t be missed. Now downstairs.”

During the two days she had been wandering around the town, Achillea had noted a dirt track that led past the back of the restaurant yet was shielded from the town by trees and the building. She’d driven down it without using lights, relying on her Daimones-enhanced night vision to get her to her destination safely. Now her car was parked there, backed up to the rear door of the restaurant. She’d already brought everything she needed in before waking Queenie up. Now, she started to get things set up. The first was to unwrap the body Christina had brought down.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” Queenie saw the dead woman and her voice was rising in hysteria.

Achillea shook her. “It’s a Jane Doe, she probably died of a drug overdose. There needs to be a body here so people will think it’s you.”

“But she’s old, and taller than me. And she’s white, I’m black.”

“We’re dousing the place in gasoline and I’ll put a thermite charge underneath her. She’ll be carbonized. Nobody will be able to tell what sex she was without a full detailed autopsy and probably not then. But, she’ll get a decent burial and a marked grave even if the wrong name is on it. If we’d left her in the morgue she would have shared an unmarked pit in the Potter’s Field.” Achillea got out the handcuffs Emelia had given her and secured the body to the kitchen range. “It’ll look as if whoever burned this place down chained you to the stove and left you to burn with it. That’ll put Heckman in a really bad place; everybody knows he’s already threatened to burn you at least once. A lot of people will think that he finally carried out the threat. You may even read about it in the paper one morning.”

For the first time in many years Queenie laughed. “You mean there is justice in the world?”

Achillea looked at her and her eyes were the passionless void that the ancient stoics had said was the ultimate state of enlightenment. “Of course not. There’s only the justice we make for ourselves. Now, I’m going to dump the gasoline cans so they can’t be missed. We don’t want anybody to mistake this for an accidental fire. Then, let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

Achillea’s Studebaker Eclipse, North Carolina 11, Aurandel

“This is a nice car.” Queenie hadn’t meant that as genuine admiration, it was more an effort to fill the silence in the vehicle while Achillea turned on to NC 42. It seemed to Achillea that the dirt track had once been a railway branch line since it had joined the main track just before the latter crossed the road. If so, the line had been torn up many, many years ago.

“It’s a rental. I usually drive a pick-up truck but it isn’t suitable for this kind of job.” Achillea’s reply was also more filler than content. “Keep your eyes open, we want NC42. It’ll be on our right.”

There was more silence in the car until Queenie spotted the road sign marking the NC42 turnoff. The road led through the center of Ahoskie before changing to NC13. Queenie was staring out of the window, looking at the few lights that were on. At quarter to three in the morning, the place was as silent as any grave Achillea had ever seen and that was something of a load off her mind. She wasn’t a natural driver and navigator the way Gusoyn was. The Daimones joked that if Gusoyn couldn’t find an address, the address would come to him. Achillea knew that timing on this run was tight and her relief on finding Brinkleyville Road was palpable. From there, it was easy for her to locate the bus terminal. Emelia had been right, it was just a normal house with a small parking lot. Achillea pulled into that lot with five minutes still to spare.

She fished around in a pocket after she had parked and took out the roll of notes that Pettigrew had given her earlier. “Here, take this, it’ll help you get set up again.”

“I can’t take it.” Queenie was almost crying again. “I can’t take your money, I can’t even thank you properly. What does anybody say to the person who rescued them from Hell?”

“You can take it. After all, I just burned down your restaurant. Look on this as your share of the insurance pay-out. Something else, by the way, that will get Fred Heckman into trouble.” Achillea then stopped the conversation dead by getting out of the car and walking over to the bus. To her amazement it was a nearly-new vehicle, spotlessly clean and obviously well cared for. There were two youngsters standing by it, a boy and a girl, both in their late teens or early twenties. Both were fair-haired and well-dressed. There was enough of a family resemblance for Achillea to tag them as brother and sister. The girl’s first words proved that right.

“We’ve just got one more Bro, an open ticket. Oh, here she is.”

“Not me, my friend.” Achillea looked at the bus again. She had been expecting a broken-down rattle-trap, not a small but modern vehicle.

The girl turned around and took Queenie’s ticket, helping her on to the bus and showing her to her seat. Meanwhile her brother caught Achillea’s eye. “Small business like ours, we can’t afford a reputation for skipping maintenance or having crashes. So we get good busses and take real good care of them. Cuts profits down in the short term but means we got a well-established business people trust. OK Sis, if we’ve got everybody, I’ll be on my way.”

The door closed with a solid, well-founded thunk, and the bus pulled out with a purr of diesel. In one window, Queenie held up Mr Cuddles and waved goodbye with one of his paws. Then the bus was gone. The sister who had looked after the tickets waved to the departing taillights Achillea found herself wondering if Queenie would make it to Richmond safely. Some people just never had any luck. She was confident that Heckman and Stauffer weren’t a problem though. She had a feeling that for all their bluster, they were small time and their writ did not run far outside the town limits of Aurandel.

The girl sensed her concern but mistook the reasons for it. “Don’t worry about your friend. My brother’s a bit young I know, but he’s the safest, most careful driver I’ve met. Your friend will be all right.”

The smile the girl gave was automatic and mechanical but the feeling behind it was genuine. Then she looked at the horizon and frowned. “Now that’s odd. I get used to seeing the sun rise in this job but I’ve never seen it come up in the west before.

Achillea and turned to look at a red glow that was reflected off the clouds that lay to the west. “That looks like a fire. Long way off though. You going to get a chance for some sleep?”

The girl shook her head. “I’ve got two more busses to get loaded up and off. Then I go to bed. Sleep all day, party all evening and then get the busses off at dawn. Good life for a country girl if you think about it. Anyway, ma’am, we thank you for your custom.”

It was a polite dismissal and Achillea took the hint. The girl wasn’t the only one who had more to do that night.

* Editorial Note: Before anybody asks, this statistic was indeed produced in a Cosmopolitan survey.

[Calder]

Chapter 7
Corner of Rice Street and Business Avenue, Aurandel

Achillea had had no trouble finding her way back to Aurandel. She’d simply steered right at the glow on the horizon. By the time she reached the site of the blaze, there was no doubt that Queenie’s Bar and Grill was a thing of the past. On the way she had stopped to drop off her Eclipse and borrowed Emelia’s old Ford in case the dirt on the Studebaker raised questions but even the delay hadn’t caused her to miss anything. The fire brigade had blocked off Rice Street completely but even from three hundred yards away, she could feel the heat on her face. At that point, the only thing she was worried about was that she had done too thorough a job of torching the place and all the evidence of arson and murder she had carefully planted would have been consumed.

“What’s going on?” She asked one of the men who was standing on the street.

“Grease fire. A lot of restaurants have them. The grease an’ fat from cooking builds up and the cooks don’t clean it up too good. Then one day it burns.” The man sounded knowledgeable and authoritative which in Achillea’s eyes was quite an achievement since she knew he was talking nonsense.

“Oh my, that’s terrible.” Achillea put on her best ‘shocked and appalled’ voice. “Was anybody hurt?”

“They say Queenie’s still in there. If she was, she ain’t coming out alive.” As if to emphasize the man’s words, a large section of the roof caved in over the public area of the restaurant. From what Achillea could see, the kitchen area still had its roof in place. She looked harder and could see there were at least three fire engines around the blaze. That was good, any tire tracks her Eclipse might have left were long gone, crushed out by the efforts to fight the fire.

“I’ve never seen a fire this bad.” Achillea spoke to the man beside her again.

“We ain’t got no fire brigade here. It took half an hour for the Powellsville Volunteers to get here and by then it had taken hold an’ spread. There’ll be a powerful big turn-out fee hitting ole Fred for this nights work. They’ll bill him for three engines and the medical team. That’s got to hurt.”

Again, his word were interrupted by the sounds of the firefighters. This time it was an ambulance coming out of Rice Street with its lights and sirens on. For a moment, Achillea thought that some of the firefighters had been caught when the roof caved in but her informant was relishing his new-found role as commentator and killed off the thought. “Two of the firefighters got caught when the deck fell in. One jumped clear but the other got his foot tangled. The paramedic ran in after him. Didn’t think a girl like that would have had the strength but in she went an’ dragged him out. They’re all OK so I hear, just smoke inhalation. That’s another powerful big chunk of change for medical fees ole Fred will have to find.”

“Achillea, I thought I’d find you here. The torpid state of this town seems to be changing, doesn’t it?” Achillea turned around to see Raymond Lowrey standing behind her.

“Oh, hi Ray. Isn’t this terrible? My friend here says poor Queenie was trapped inside.” Achillea watched the man she had been speaking to stand a little straighter when he heard himself called her friend.

“If she was, then there’s a good chance this could turn into a murder investigation. This fire’s too fast and too hot for a natural one. A lot of people are going to want to look into this.”

“Not Pete Matthews. I hear tell he still cain’t walk after the beatin’ Gillespie’s boys gave him after they had a fallin’ out over money from the speedtrap.”

“Weren’t Lance’s boys. Porky and the rest tore his place up good lookin’ for evidence. And found nuttin’. Bet this is Nathan’s mob tryin’ to stir up bad blood between Heckman and the Pettigrews. The voice from the darkness was belligerent.

“Nah, it was Heck’s boys beat up on Pete. Tryin’ to get them riled up at Gillespie.”

The argument was turning into a pushing match with the supporters of the various groups in Aurandel trying to exonerate their favorites and put the blame on their enemies. As easy as starting a fight between football fans in a sports bar Achillea thought, reflecting on one of her favorite amusements. Satisfied with her night’s work, she slipped quietly away.

Burned-down Ruin Of Queenie’s Bar and Grill, Rice Street, Aurandel

There was no doubt that the destruction had been arson. The evidence was so blatant that it was obvious the fire was meant as a message and a warning. Heckman looked at the curled-up shrunken remains of the body chained to the kitchen range with resentment. It was true that he had been getting bored with the woman who had run this restaurant but he hadn’t finished with her and the business still generated money. Now, both were gone. The floor and the ashes were still hot from the fire and every step turned up a fine black dust. Then, he heard the steps behind him. Achillea was carefully entering the kitchen.

“That bastard Pettigrew is behind this, you mark my words.” He reluctantly forced his mind away from the image of Queenie fighting to get free while the fire spread around her and drove himself back into his affable public persona. “I’d heard he thinks I organized the attack on Pete Matthews but I never thought he’d try something like this. Hasn’t got the guts to face me man-to-man so he took it out on poor Queenie.”

“Are you sure of that?” Achillea sounded thoughtful and she was staring at the twisted, shrunken body by the grill.

“I thought you were supposed to be an investigator? Perhaps there’s a reason why your company doesn’t take you seriously. Queenie was handcuffed to the range before the kitchen was set on fire. Who else uses handcuffs but the police?”

Achillea knelt by the body and looked at the handcuffs. It helped that she knew what she was looking for and that the fire hadn’t damaged them. She’d been concerned that the fire’s heat would have melted them. “You can get handcuffs anywhere, even police handcuffs. And these aren’t police handcuffs, they’re toys. Look at them.”

Heckman looked at the handcuffs and had to admit they looked flimsy compared with the ones he had seen. “Well . . . .”

“And look, see this here?” Achillea pointed to a small metal tab on the body of the handcuffs. “That’s a safety release so the person wearing them can get out in an emergency. Ever hear of police handcuffs having that? These are sex-toys, the sort of thing one finds in a brothel. Somebody wanted you to think Matthews and his cops did this so there would be a war between you. Probably the same person who had Matthews beaten up. That ploy failed so he tried this. Poor Queenie, she spent the last minutes of her life fighting to get free when all she had to do was release a simple catch.”

Heckman was shocked, not by the fate of Queenie, but by the fact that he had been so nearly fooled by a trick so obvious. “Look, I’m sorry Achillea. I’m still in shock from what’s happened here. I didn’t mean . . . .”

“Yes you did. You obviously have no confidence in my abilities and I won’t work for somebody like that. The Agency might not give me any decent jobs but they trust me to do the ones they do let me handle. So you can take your job offer and shove it.” Achillea spoke with quite genuine anger although the reasons for it were quite different from the ones Heckman believed.

“Now that’s the sort of words one expects from a good Southern woman. Good on ya Achillea.” Pete Matthew’s voice was warm and amused despite the evidence of strain and stress within it. “I never asked ya where ya came from.”

Achillea always believed in telling the truth whenever it suited her to do so. “Rome.”

“I knew it, I thought I recognized a good honest, Georgia accent. Fred, all the years ya lived here, ya just don’t understand our Southern women do ya? Let me lay it out for ya. A little respect goes a long way. Proper respect goes a whole sight further.”

“Achillea, I want to make this right. Got a teletype from your agency thing morning, accepting the deal. Two thousand retainer, your rate sixty a day plus expenses. They also said their standard was one-twenty. So, I’ll give you an extra hundred a day. That’s how much confidence I have in you, right? Enough to pay you 30 percent over the going rate. And what you just told me, that shows I’m right to do so.” Heckman looked anxious.

“And what did you tell him?” Matthews tried to sound severe when he addressed Achillea. “It’s a crime to withhold evidence from the police. Could cost you your license.”

“I wouldn’t want that. It’s simple enough though. This is obviously arson unless the cooks were in the habit of storing open gasoline cans in the kitchen. And the cuffs used to chain Queenie to the range are toys, sort of things got from a sex-shop or in a brothel. Not cop cuffs.”

Matthews went over to the body by the range, removed his hat, and carefully knelt beside the charred corpse. Then he took his own handcuffs out. “She’s right. Look at them, then look at these. There ain’t a lot these sets of cuffs got in common. Doc Clemmer will be pickin’ up the body soon. Ain’t a hell of a lot of doubt about how she died though. Hell of a way to go for a nice lady. Whoever did this to her, got a lot of paying to do. Now, we’re going to need statements from everybody. You especially Fred, with Queenie gone, this is your place, what’s left of it. Who was here last night?”

Heckman shrugged. “No way to tell. All the records have gone up with the rest of the building. But I can point you at the most likely person behind this. Nathan Stauffer. Him and his goons have been trying to run us Union men out of town ever since the strike. Don’t need to tell you that. And Achillea says those cuffs are the sort of thing a man might find in a brothel. Well, his Painted Lady Club is just that. Nathan Stauffer. That’s who’s behind this. You agree Achillea?”

Achillea nodded slowly. “There’s no real evidence to suggest that but it seems likely. I’ve seen a couple of Stauffer’s men when I’ve been having breakfast at Ryan’s Diner. They eat there every day, same time, same place. They look like they could have done a thing like this.”

Heckman glanced at Achillea and gave her a tiny nod, getting one in exchange. “Well, as you say, there’s no evidence. We’ll just have to hope something turns up. But, you mark my words, Pete. Nathan Stauffer.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Fred. Now, Porky will take ya statement and I’ll take Achillea here back to the courthouse for hers. As a licensed private detective, she has to give her version of this and any evidence she’s observed, in the presence of a judge.

“Never heard of that before.” Heckman sounded guarded but Achillea gave him another slight nod.

“Keep tellin’ ya Fred, for all the time you been living down here, ya just don’t understand us Southerners. We got a long tradition of unofficial lawmen and they gets treated just like regular cops. There’s no doubt that this is a murder scene and her statement is part of the official record in ways ya don’t qualify for.”

Matthews got to his feet with a groan and his face creased with pain. “Damn, those guys you scared off hurt me somethin’ bad. Can’t eat anything and hold it down. You come with me now so we can get that statement down”

Packard Matador Police Cruiser 1-K-40, Rice Street, Aurandel

“Front seat, Achillea. Back seat is for suspects and prisoners.” Pete Matthews grinned at her. “Can I call you something other than Achillea? It sure is a mouthful and like Porky said, you family now.”

“Try ‘Lea. How you really Pete?”

“Cousin Lea, yeah I like that. Not so bad as I made it seem. Doc has my guts all bandaged up though. Says I’m bruised up inside and gotta be careful or I’ll start bleeding agin. Now, should I take what Heckman says serious? Or is he blowing hot air?”

“Do I really have to give a statement before the Judge?”

“Nah, but Heckman don’t know that. I just wanted us to talk private like. Look, ya know I ain’t a real cop. None of us here are. And the law don’t run in Aurandel anyhow. Before this, the gangs here sorted things out between themselves. Quiet. Last night everything changed. If we don’t handle this right, the state will send real cops in and things will get bad for us all. Me and mine worst of all ‘cos they’ll know we’re fake cops and they’ll go harder with us than anybody. You may be a private eye that does fetchin’ and carryin’ for the experienced operatives but you’re the nearest I got to somebody who knows how to do an investigation.”

Achillea looked out the car window, absorbing the information and fitting it into her mental map of Aurandel. “OK, Pete, first thing Heckman thought when I got there was that you and your boys did it. He’d grabbed at the handcuffs and jumped to the conclusion that it had to be you because cops carry handcuffs. When I shot that idea down, he got pretty nasty at first, then listened to me. That’s when he jumped to the idea that Nathan Stauffer was behind it. He’s flailing Pete, he’s grasping at lifelines and trying to make sense out of what has happened. He wants enemies he can put a face on so he can fight them. Interesting he didn’t even consider Lance Gillespie as a candidate for that enemy.”

“If anybody here, Lance is linked to Nathan. And us of course.” Matthews relaxed back into the seat of the Matador with a small groan.

“That’s what I thought. We can be pretty sure that Lance wasn’t behind the attack on you. He had nothing to gain from it and he’s smart enough to know he can do better by having a sit-down. In fact, they all know that. So, the attack on you had to be something else. Look at this town. There’s a loose alliance between you, Gillespie and Stauffer with Heckman on the outside. He wants to improve his position so he has to break that alliance up. That’s a motive for the attack on you. But how does this fire fit in? We know you and yours didn’t do it. If you had, you’d have shot Queenie in the head before leaving her to burn.”

“Thank’ya.” Matthews sounded bitter.

“You’re welcome. Believe it or not, that was a compliment. Stauffer had no reason to kill her at all. He could have made a much stronger point by setting her up in a new restaurant of her own. That would have really humiliated Heckman.”

“That leaves Lance. I suppose he could have come up with this as a way of hitting back at Heckman for trying to frame him.”

“He could. But there’s another candidate. Heckman himself. No business in this town is doing well, you know that. Suppose he decided Queenie’s Bar and Grill was worth more as an insurance loss than as a going business? And that an insurance payout was better split one way than two? Everybody in town knows he threatened to burn Queenie once and that she was terrified of him. Suppose he finally did it for real. He’s the kind of man who would get a kick out of hearing her scream when she realized what was about to happen. That would explain why he was so shocked by the handcuffs, it was a bad mistake that pointed right at him. The Workers Social Club is as much of a brothel as the Painted Lady Club. And his flailing around is to find another suspect to act as a distraction.”

“That company of yourn is making a bad mistake keeping ya on fetchin’ and carryin’,” Matthews was impressed. “Heckman burned his own place down. I can see that. And ya working for him?”

“Did you hear me accept his offer? Because I didn’t. He thinks I did, but he assumes every women will fall for that oily charm. Anyway, I have to get some money to live on here. But, remember this, Pete, even if you forget everything else. I don’t work for Fred Heckman. So, now you go back to the courthouse and you write up everything that happened this morning. The fire, what you saw, all the statements you can gather. Then, point out that the severity of the fire meant that there’s little physical evidence left but what you can see and your local knowledge points the finger at Heckman burning down the place himself as insurance fraud. That will give the insurance company enough reason to hold payment on the policy.”

“That’ll mightily annoy Fred Heckman.” Matthews sounded pleased at the prospect.

“It will indeed. It’ll drive him mad. I hear he’s going to get a statement of account from the Powellsville Volunteers that will put him in a sea of red ink. You got friends over there?”

“Some.”

“Contact them. Tell them to jack the fees as high as they can get away with. Then, if the State Police ask what you’re doing about the killing, you can point to an identified suspect, a lot of circumstantial evidence to back that suspicion up and a plan to bring him to justice by financially pressuring him into making a mistake. That’ll be enough to keep them off your back.”

Matthews looked at Achillea with something very close to genuine affection on his face. “Cousin Lea, I reckon the guys that gave me that beating did me more of a favor than they could possibly know.”

[Calder]

Chapter 8
The Painted Lady Club, Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building

The girl was dancing listlessly on the stage, going through the motions with barely enough energy to keep herself, let alone the audience, awake. She was naked, he body painted with swirling patterns of color that, had she shown any real interest in her performance, would have turned a simple dance into a charged erotic experience.

“So, what happened to Queenie’s?” Nathan Stauffer had brought a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label over to their table and he poured a couple of generous shots. “I hear she was inside when it burned down.”

“Chained to the grill in the kitchen. Whoever torched the place made sure he burned her alive.” Achillea let horror and disgust creep into her voice. “Heckman thinks you did it, Matthews thinks Heckman did it.”

“Can see why Heckman would think I did. He’s wrong, but I can see how he got there. But Matthews thinks Heckman burned his own place down? How did that fat buffoon come up with an idea like that?”

“Insurance. Businesses aren’t doing well here and Matthews thinks that Heckman burned the restaurant down and killed Queenie to avoid splitting the payout with her. The obvious problem is that it’s a very unmistakable case of arson and that runs against Heckman doing an insurance scam. Put bluntly, he would have done a better job. But, Matthews hasn’t spotted that yet.”

“So who gave him the idea it was an insurance job?”

Achillea grinned at him. “I did. And built in a little test. If he spots the horrible flaw in the theory, we’ll know he didn’t do it. If he goes with the theory, we’ll know he did.”

Stauffer leaned back in his seat and laughed loudly. “Oh, that’s good. Achillea, you’re a real find. Have another shot of the good stuff while I deal with a little business.”

Achillea poured herself another drink while wondering at the poor taste of somebody who could call Red Label ‘the good stuff. Of course, having met Kimberley Brand, it was obvious to her that his preference in women matched the alcohol he drank. Meanwhile Stauffer had called the dancer over. She left the stage and came down to their table, trembling every step of the way.

“What’s your name?” Stauffer spoke to her in a calm, business-like voice.

“I’m Donnetta, Mister Stauffer, Donetta Samuels.”

“Well, Donetta, you decided to wake up yet?”

“Sorry Sir, I woke up sir . . .”

“Then why are you dancing like a zombie? You’re paid to dance, not waddle.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Stauffer,” the girl was terrified and nearly sobbing. “I was working last night until five.”

Stauffer stared at her, then nodded. He waved a hand and the floor manager came over, almost as nervous as Donetta. “Donetta troubling you Mr. Stauffer?”

“What she told me is. You have her working to five and then back on the stage now?”

“That’s right, Mr. Stauffer. Put her on a double shift.”

“She’s off duty now. Donetta, go get some sleep. Kenny, don’t double shift girls who’ve been working past dawn again. And if I see Donetta’s got lumps from telling me, you’ll get them as well. Two for one.”

Stauffer turned back to Achillea. “Kind-hearted ain’t I? Like hell. Worn-out girl here is bad for business. Kenny should have known that. Girls make more money for us if they get enough sleep. So, who burned down Queenie’s?”

“Not you, not Heckman. That leaves only the Pettigrews or Gillespie. Either the Pettigrews think Heckman was behind the attack on Matthews and hit back or Gillespie because he thought Heckman was framing him for the attack.”

“Not me?” Stauffer just leaned back in his seat with a half-smile on his face. “Or are you just being polite?”

“Not you. You don’t kill when there’s no need to. There was no need to kill Queenie, especially not like that. You didn’t smack that girl around just now and you made sure the floor manager didn’t. I could see you for the attack on Pete Matthews if you had a beef with him but not killing Queenie. I’d put you down for getting her to change sides and run an eatery for you.”

Stauffer slammed forward in his seat. “Just how the hell did you find out about that?”

“Find out what?” It took a second for Stauffer’s reaction to register with her and then Achillea kicked herself hard for the delay. There were times and places where not recognizing a reaction correctly would get her killed. “You were trying to lure her away from Heckman weren’t you? I was just guessing based on the kind of person I thought you were.”

“Yeah. I want an upclass eating place here. Queenie did good food. One of my boys tried to sound her out but she ran off. She was scared stiff of Heckman.”

“And suddenly Heckman is back in play.” Achillea was thoughtful. “Suppose he found out, she might even have told him, and he decided to make an example of her. Did the fire so clumsily that he thought the finger wouldn’t point at him. And that’s why she was burned like that. Nathan, you mind if I call you that?”

Stauffer nodded. “Go ahead. You’re the first person with a brain I’ve met for years in this town.”

“Thank you. Nathan, I was sure Heckman burned that place down only couldn’t think why. Only it wasn’t insurance fraud, he was warning people of what would happen to them if they turned on him. You watch your back, Nathan. Heckman is making his move to control this town. And he’s starting by cleaning house.”

Outside Ryan’s Diner, Main Street, Aurandel

The Packard Matador police cruiser pulled up alongside Achillea as she walked down the street to the diner. Pete Matthews was inside and he waved her over. “Ya’d better get into the front seat, we’ve got a problem.”

“What’s up, Pete?”

“The thing you said about Heckman, I was writing it up and when I put it on paper, it was all wrong. The fire was deliberate, even a baby could see that. I saw it but I got carried away when ya was speaking and forgot. Fire was too obvious for insurance fraud. That lets Fred off the hook.

“No, it doesn’t Pete.” Achillea settled back and told Matthews the story she’d just learned from Stauffer. “We got the right man for the wrong reason. That’s why he burned Queenie alive and why he made it so obvious the fire was arson. It was a message for all of his people, cross him and they die real bad. So, that’s what your report reads. Not insurance fraud but a fully-fledged torture-murder. One that’ll send him to the electric chair. We’ll never know because the body as burned so bad but I think Heckman worked Queenie over real bad before he set her alight.”

“Got a little bit on that. Mostly negative, Doc Clemmer went and got drunk after he’d finished lookin’ at her. Don’t blame him for that, would do the same myself. May do later. Flesh mostly carbon, bones baked so they turned to dust when he touched them. But, he couldn’t find any fractures to the skull or signs of bullet wounds in the head. She might have been knifed or had her throat cut. Might have been beaten first, we’ll never know unless Heckman tells us. But, what little evidence we have says she was alive when she burned.”

“Put it all together, you can bet the State Police will let you run with it. Pete, no bull, you’re doing pretty well on this. I doubt if anybody else would come up with much more this early.”

Matthews nodded, obviously feeling ridiculously pleased by the compliment. “What do ya think of Nathan Stauffer?”

Achillea thought carefully. “He’s a thug, a cheap one. Too little in the way of brains to ever be much more than small time. That fits Fred Heckman too by the way. They’re small-time hoodlums with delusions of grandeur.”

“And I’m just a small-town fake cop.” Matthews sounded bitter.

“But no delusions of grandeur. Pete, you know your limitations. You know what you are and accept it.. That puts you a whole division of smarts above Nathan Stauffer and Fred Heckman. Knowing what you are now means you can the next step up, be a bit more than you are. They’ll never do that. Anyway, Stauffer. A cheap, dumb thug. But, he knows how to run his business and doesn’t mix business with pleasure. I’d trust him more than Heckman. Not that I’d trust either with much more than a plugged nickel.”

“Ya got that right, Cousin Lea. Look around ya. Everything this town ain’t is because of those two. They spent almost two years tearing at each other. Trying to outsmart the other, tryin’ to think up a play that’ll have the other one foxed. Never once managing to pull it off.”

Achillea thought that one over for a long, long time.

Southern Savings and Loan, Main Street, Aurandel

“Could I speak to the manager please? I’d like to open a savings account here.” Achillea smiled at the teller who seemed slightly unnerved. She attributed it to the rarity of people actually having savings accounts in Aurandel.

“Er, yeah,” The teller fluttered for a moment. “I’ll get Mister Culbreth right away.”

She went to a back office and Achillea heard a muffled ‘Travis, a lady wants to open a savings account’ followed by the unmistakable sound of a coffee cup breaking after it had been dropped on the floor in shock. The teller made it back in record time, obviously relieved to discover that Achillea’s arrival wasn’t a dream.

“Please follow me now, ma’am. Mister Culbreth will see you right away.” Achillea followed the girl towards the back office, getting an amused picture of the doors behind her being locked in case she wanted to change her mind. She opened the door, and ushered Achillea in. “This is Mister Travis Culbreth, manager of this branch.”

“Thank you, Paulene. Forgive me ma’am but Miss Schrieber forgot to tell me your name?”

“Achillea Foyle. I have a certified check for ten thousand dollars I would like to place in a savings account with you. Also, I have a thousand dollars in cash I would like to place in a checking account.”

Achillea hadn’t seen quite such an impressive expression of orgasmic delight for many years. Culbreth swallowed a couple of times before getting himself under control. “Well, the savings account is no problem of course, assuming the check is from a reputable financial institution?”

He almost tore the check from Achillea’s hands and she could see his eyes drinking in the words ‘J.P. Morgan Guaranty Trust’. “Well, this is, of course, entirely satisfactory. You may consider your savings account opened as of close of business today. But, your checking account, I’m afraid that will be a little more difficult. Firstly, do you have a government-issued form of identification?”

Achillea handed over her personal Federal concealed carry permit. “Will this do? I have a driving license of course, but anybody can get one of those.”

“Quite so. This is satisfactory. Are you employed locally Miss Foyle?”

“My primary employer is the Rivers Agency of Washington. They sent me the certified check. But, I am on assignment to Fred Heckman of the Amalgamated Union of Metal Workers here in Aurandel.”

“Mr. Heckman? Why, one of our most valued clients! Why didn’t you say you were one of his associates? Did you hear about the fire? Such a terrible tragedy. Well, I see no problem at all with you having a checking account either Miss Foyle. May I offer you a small libation? Mr Heckman and I often share a glass of fine sippin’ whisky but I have an excellent sherry for the ladies.”

“A small shot of your whisky will do me just fine, Mr Culbreth. Have you been doing business with Mr. Heckman for long?”

“Please, call me Travis. We don’t stand on ceremony in small towns like this. The bank has been helping Mr. Heckman with his investments in this town ever since the strike. What would have happened without his Union money flowing in, I just don’t know.”

Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“Emmie, in the county records, who owns the industrial plant down by the railway?”

“The old AMARECO place? The Pettigrews were the owners of record, at first anyway. When the strike started to bite home, they sold bits of it, interests, you know the thing. By the time it was all over, the majority shareholder was a shell company.”

“Cuban?” Achillea thought that would make sense. The Mob had moved all their prospering operations to Cuba where the law was what they said it was. That chain of thought led her to wonder if Aurandel was what Cuba might have been without the genius of Meyer Lansky to guide it into a more profitable way of life.

Emelia shook her head. “No idea but I don’t think so. There’s a certain something about Cuban shell companies. It’s as if they have a touch of the glamor still. This one’s just sordid.”

“I’m beginning to get a theory of what Nathan Stauffer is really up to. I’ve watched his men stealing meat from a train that stopped here. I think they steal it, illegally butcher it and then sell it off cheap to local businesses. Times are hard around here, a little extra profit probably goes a long way. Only, they don’t have the proper sanitary facilities, I doubt if they have proper refrigeration and as sure as hell, the USDA doesn’t inspect stolen meat. My guess would be that they probably mix the rotten and diseased meat up with the fresh stuff and use it for things like hot dogs, cheap hamburgers and pies. Anything where the cut of meat isn’t obvious.”

Emelia had gone distinctly green. “I like hot dogs. I’ve eaten them here. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Achillea hesitated. “The meat here is poor quality but I don’t think its rotten. They wouldn’t sell the really bad stuff locally; they might end up eating it themselves. The trucks I saw pulling out were big ones, long-distance rigs. I would guess the really bad stuff goes south. Remind me never to eat a burrito down that way.”

“That’s just not true.” Emelia was genuinely scared at the thought of eating the badly contaminated meat. “We got that ulcerous pork from Ahoskie just down the road. I could have eaten something like that any time.”

Achillea thought that over. “You’re right of course. I wonder if some of Gillespie’s drivers are selling their loads off locally and taking the time and money themselves? It would explain why the bad meat is turning up locally.”

“Do you really believe that?” Emelia looked at her refrigerator in the kitchen that had suddenly developed a mean and threatening presence. She’d got so used to trusting her food supplies that finding out they might be questionable came as a bad shock.

“If that is what is happening, then Lance Gillespie would have to be in on it. There’s no way his drivers could pull a scam without him being involved. But whether I believe it isn’t important.”

“Then what is?”

“Can I make Nathan Stauffer believe it.”

[Calder]

Chapter 9
Burned-down Ruin Of Queenie’s Bar and Grill, Rice Street, Aurandel

“I’m sorry Mister Heckman, but there is no way on earth any responsible insurance assessor would sign off on a claim like this. If he did, he would lose his job by return of post. Look at the evidence around you. Your partner chained up and left to die in the fire. Five-gallon cans of gasoline laying in the ruins. Three days after the fire, the whole place still stinks of gasoline accelerant. Any insurance company would take one look at this and their verdict wouldn’t be ‘no’ it would be ‘you gotta be kidding us’. And then there is the matter of how much this business is insured for and the value of the partner insurance on Miss Richardson. The former is many times its proper value and the latter is excessive by any standards. No, Mister Heckman, your claim on Queenie’s Bar and Grill is going to be disallowed.” Ray Lowrey had a professionally sympathetic smile on his face.

Before Heckman could respond, another figure joined the circle in the ruins of the burned-out restaurant. “Mister Heckman? I’m Captain Roger Trent, Commander of the Powellsville Volunteers. We have the statement of account for the call out here. Let’s see, we have three fire engines and a medical unit, call out fee is five hundred dollars each. They attended the fire for a total of six hours, including ensuring there would be no fresh outbreak, at two hundred and fifty dollars per unit per hour. That’s a total of eight thousand dollars. Three of our volunteers suffered smoke inhalation and will be unable to work for a week. You’ll have to make good their regular salaries. That’ll be one thousand five hundred dollars for each of the two firemen and one thousand for the paramedic, total four thousand dollars. Including miscellaneous costs and replacing expendables used, the grand total comes to twelve thousand five hundred dollars.”

“That’s outrageous. How can a fire department justify that sort of charge?” Heckman was shocked and flailed around in an effort to find a target for his rage.

“Fire Department? Department?” Trent bristled, his moustache standing upright in righteous anger. “The Powellsville Volunteers are a Fire Brigade Mister Heckman. We are fire fighters, not a bunch of yellow-livered, weak-limbed Democrat paper-pushers.”

Achillea looked at the Captain quizzically. “You don’t happen to have a relative in the Navy do you?”

“No ma’am. I regret to say that I have never had that honor.” Captain Trent turned to Lowrey who was trying hard not to smile. “I suppose that, as the insurance company representative, this account goes to you?”

“I’m sorry Captain. The circumstances of this fire are so suspicious that I have to tell you the insurance company will deny the claim.”

“Can’t say I blame you. That is very unfortunate, Mister Heckman. In the absence of insurance cover, we must hold you liable for this account. The Volunteers will take cash or check. Unfortunately, we have an agreement with the local banks. They don’t put out fires and we don’t give credit.”

Achillea had a mental picture of Captain Trent, Judge Pettigrew and Sheriff Matthews sitting down the previous night over a bottle of sippin’ whiskey and coming up with the biggest account they could imagine. It was obvious that all three men had vivid imaginations.

“This is outrageous.” Heckman was spluttering with anger.

“Mister Heckman, on four occasions over the last year, members of our company have approached you with regard to you joining the financial benefactors of our volunteers. There is a set contribution of $600 per year for out-of-town businesses which would have covered you against any and all call-out costs. Had you done taken advantage of this, your account would have been stamped ‘paid in full’ and you would have no liability. But you refused, very rudely I might say. Despite this, on hearing of your emergency, we turned out, and our volunteers risked their lives, on your behalf.”

“Excuse me.” Achillea was deferential in a way that would have shaken anybody who knew her. “Mister Lowrey, surely the very fact the arson is so obvious gives rise to doubt over Mister Heckman’s involvement. The evidence around us could obviously be interpreted as an extremely incompetent attempt at murder and insurance fraud but it could also be interpreted as an attack on Mister Heckman’s business interests and the murder of his partner with the evidence of arson being deliberately made obvious to ensure that he did not receive any insurance payment.”

“She’s right you know.” Captain Trent nodded in agreement. “Either explanation would fit the evidence. I suppose it really depends on how stupid Mister Heckman is. After all he did refuse to pay the six hundred dollars requested by our company.”

“Failing to join the local fire company supporters is pretty stupid. Normally we would take it as a contributory factor towards the extent of the loss.” Lowrey was equally thoughtful. “But, this level of incompetence is something quite different. I’m inclined to agree with Miss Foyle. This is too clumsy for a real insurance fraud. We need to have a deeper investigation. I’ll hold off on denying this claim until we find out more. Miss Foyle, you’re a private investigator and an outsider. Will you take on investigating this claim on behalf of Provident Friends Insurance. Two thousand dollar retainer and a hundred dollars a day?”

“I’d have to get confirmation from my agency.” Achillea still sounded diffident. “There are some problems there, the decision would have to be theirs. Can you get your Hartford headquarters to contact them?”

“I can certainly do that. Why don’t you walk with me and give me the appropriate contact details? I’ve done about all I can here. Captain Trent, may I ask that you delay presentation of your account for a few days until we have a better handle on what happened here?”

Trent looked doubtful. “There is the question of our volunteers who are unable to work due to their smoke inhalation injuries.”

Heckman looked resentful but resigned. “Suppose I was to make an interim payment of, say, two thousand dollars, on the understanding that I will be reimbursed for this some once the questions on our claim are settled.”

Lowrey thought for a second. “If it is clearly understood that reimbursement will take place only if your claim is allowed, then I think we have a viable arrangement.”

Trent nodded and walked off with Heckman. Lowrey seemed unfazed by the situation. “I must say, Achillea, I’m surprised at you offering Heckman a way out. He was in a bad hole there.”

“He hired me to investigate illegal activities carried out by Nathan Stauffer in this town. So, I thought I’d better do at least something to earn the money. I suppose that’ll constitute conflict of interest in me investigating the fire?”

“It may. I’ll have to check with headquarters. Do you have any idea how heavily over-insured Queenies Bar and Grill was?” Achillea shook her head. “It appears to have been based on a level of business many times higher than the actual total. The same applies to most of the other businesses in this town; the ones in which the ‘Union’ has an interest at least. The level of business they claim would be compatible with a town of twenty thousand plus people. And, we’ve agreed this town has nowhere that level of occupancy or activity.”

Achillea looked at Lowrey suspiciously. “Just who in all the hells are you?”

Lowrey hesitated before answering. “I’m not just an insurance assessor, I’m also an insurance fraud investigator. My primary responsibility is to spot fraud before it happens and end it before it ever becomes real. This town, and a few others like it, all show massive over-insurance. My company wants to know why.”

The Painted Lady Club, Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building. Aurandel

Stauffer was sitting alone at a table, watching two women dancers auditioning for the club. To Achillea’s admittedly unpracticed eye, neither seemed that enthusiastic about the prospect of employment. Stauffer saw Achillea at the door and waved her over, pushing out a chair for her with his foot. Achillea took it and a waitress hurried over with a shot of whisky for her. She had a black eye and her face was scratched. Achillea had a shrewd idea Stauffer had put her on duty now because she wasn’t fit to be seen when the club was full of paying customers.

“They don’t seem that energetic.” Achillea’s comment brought out a nod from Stauffer. “They runaways?”

Stauffer’s nod was only marginally interested. “Runaways with no options and fewer choices. Hard to for them to realize it but they’re better off here than out on the streets. At least here, they get to eat and nobody beats up on them for kicks.”

“Sorry, Nathan, but starting to rent out their bodies doesn’t seem much of an improvement on anything.”

“They’re not starting. By the time they get here, they already passed that stage. Aurandel is the end of the line Achillea. From here, there’s nowhere further down.” Stauffer sounded strangely depressed, as if he had, for the first time, taken a serious look at himself and not liked what he had seen.

“Nathan, I picked up some disturbing news over the last couple of days. There’s a steady increase in the amount of condemned or rotten meat finding its way into the supply chain. Pinkertons have been hired by the government to investigate it. Friend of mine was telling me that this is one of the areas where an unusually high incidence of the stuff is turning up.”

“Here?” Stauffer sounded disbelieving and suspicious. “How could it be turning up here?”

“That’s what’s got my friend confused. He’s a biologist. Apparently, sub-grade meat that finds its way on to the market usually gets sold to processors and winds up in meat products at best and used for animal feed at worst. That way it can’t be easily identified and traced back to source. But, a lot of it is turning up in this area. As cut meat, not processed and that makes a serious investigation possible.” Achillea carefully stopped there. Stauffer could put the rest together for himself. He’ll find it more convincing that way.

There was a long pause as Stauffer mulled over the situation. Achillea had already thought her way through the mess and come to the conclusion that Lance Gillespie had to be selling off the contaminated meat locally and pocketing the difference in operating cost of his trucks. Before Stauffer could come to the same conclusion, the
door crashed open and Pete Matthews came in with Porky following close behind.

“Hi, Pete. Can I offer you a drink?” To Stauffer the intrusion seemed welcome since it gave him time to think over the information he’d been given.

“Sorry, Nathan, here on business. When did ya last see Kimberley Brand?”

“Yesterday. We had words so she went off to do some shopping in Ahoskie. She hasn’t come back so I assume she’s still there. You want to look through the bars there.” Stauffer’s face showed that he guessed what was coming next.

“Don’t need to, Nathan. Couple found her body in a patch of trees, corner of South Commerce and Front. We’re on our way there now. Achillea, I’d take it kindly if ya would come with us.”

“What happened? Is she . . . was she . . .” Nathan Stauffer was struggling for words.

“Murdered. No doubt of it. Cousin Reeve will take a statement from ya.”

“Read him his rights, Pete.”

“Say what?” Matthews was genuinely confused. The concept of reading people their rights had passed him by.

“Read him his rights, Otherwise his statements won’t be admissible as evidence. Here.” Achillea took a card out of her purse. “This is the version the Miranda Police Department in California came up with. There’s other versions but the courts like this one. Nathan Stauffer, you have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say may be introduced as evidence in a court of law. You have the right to be represented by an attorney and have one present at your questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at public expense. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you and wish to give up the right to remain silent? Your decision but take my advice and say yes, Nathan.”

Stauffer didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Achillea gave Matthews the card. “Keep that and read it whenever you question a suspect. Don’t recite it from memory, read it. Once you’ve done that, you’re covered. If I were you, I’d have copies made and give them to all the cousins. Now, take me to the body.”

Straggling Bunch of Pine Trees on the Corner of Front Street and South Commerce Street

It was a good place to commit murder. There were no houses around for hundreds of yards and the trees gave enough cover to shield the act from drivers on the roads. There was a dirt track into the trees with fresh tire prints on it. Matthews pointed at them. “Don’t get your hopes up. Couple from Pattonsville came here courting and found Brand. She was dead then and ain’t changed any. We left everything as it is. Got casts of the tire prints though.”

“Sure this was murder?” Achillea was impressed by the way the police department was actually learning to do its job.

“Sure as can be. Ya’ll see why.”

It was murder. Kimberley Brand’s body was tied to a tree in the middle of copse. She’d slumped forward against the ropes that had been used to restrain her and her blood-matted hair hung down, covering her face. Her dress had been ripped open and her underwear cut open and pulled down. The body was bloodstained with rivulets running from her mouth. Her eyes were open and filled with terror. Achillea didn’t need much more than a glance to see what had been done to her. The woman’s abdomen was covered with more than two dozen small red dots. There were two or three more on each side of her chest.

Achillea pointed to them. “Ice pick, Pete. Strange weapon, an ice pick. An expert with one can kill somebody so fast the victim literally doesn’t feel the blow. Or, they can stretch it out so that it takes the victim hours to die. Kimberley went the hard way. Doc Clemmer will confirm it but none of those stab wounds in her gut are fatal. They’re there to hurt. They’ll burn like fire when the air gets to them. The ones that killed her are the wounds in the chest. They aren’t fatal either, not on their own, but they bled into her lungs. She drowned in her own blood and took her time over it.”

Achillea stepped up to the body and looked carefully, completely unaware of the impression her indifference to the murder scene made. All things take place according to providence or fate. Whether they are good or evil is of no significance in itself. It is only by their effects can we determine whether they are one or the other. Only by being in harmony with oneself and the cosmos, can one gain the insight needed to separate the good from the evil. She knew no amount of fake sympathy would bring Kimberley Brand back to life and saw no point in wasting effort on it.

“Was she abused?” Pete Matthews was appalled by the sight of Kimberley Brand’s body and by the dispassionate attitude that Achillea exhibited. Brought up to believe there were sights that a woman wasn’t supposed to see, her quiet acceptance of death scared him. But, he also knew that it was exactly that dispassionate acceptance of death that had saved his own life.

“Raped? No. At least I don’t think so. Doc Clemmer will have to do a proper check. I think her clothing was stripped away to humiliate her while she was dying.” There was a brief surge of emotion in Achillea’s mind, one she brutally beat down and locked away. To her, death was a part of life and deserved a respect of its own. One she had always extended to those who had died at her hands. What had been done to Kimberley Brand while she died offended her more than the killing itself.

“There’s no doubt about who did this one.” Pete Matthews was still staring at the body. “Heckman believes that Nathan Stauffer killed Queenie. So he retaliated by killing Stouffer’s woman.”

Achillea looked at him and raised one eyebrow. Matthews noted the gesture and started to reconsider. “But, if our theory of the fire at the restaurant is right, Heckman knows that Stauffer didn’t kill Queenie because he did it himself. So who killed Kimberley Brand? And why?”

“Good question Pete. Something you might like to try. Somebody I know who investigates crimes, every time he gets a fact or another person gets involved, he writes them on a card. Then he spends every evening shuffling the cards into different combinations. Discards the unlikely ones, pays more attention to the ones that seem likely. Every so often, he hits a combination that fits the facts perfectly.”

“How long did she take to die?” Matthews was still staring at the body.

“An hour, more likely two or three. Towards the end, all she wanted was for it to be over.” Achillea’s attitude was still dispassionate. “That’s a bad way to go.”

“Cousin Lea, sometimes, things like this shake my faith. How can I believe in a God who leaves a woman to spend hours tied to a tree and dying by inches?”

“You can’t.” Achillea’s voice was firm and steady. “There are no gods, Pete. Only the ones we make for ourselves. There’s no justice either, except for that we make for ourselves. We can’t understand good or evil as absolutes, all we can do is judge by their deeds and effects. If something knowingly permits evil deeds to happen then it must itself be evil. Therefore, when you see things like this you must either believe that your god is evil or that he doesn’t exist. I chose to believe that there are no gods and the world around us is all that there is. A rational person accepts that bad things happen to good people because that’s the way things are in a universe that’s blind and senseless.”*

Pete Matthews sighed, very deeply. “Cousin Lea, ya’all a good friend and ya saved my life. But I wouldn’t want to be ya. Seems to me ya chose a hard road to walk alone.”

“It wasn’t my choice, Cousin Pete.”

*Editorial Note: The quotations on philosophy are all taken from the surviving works of Greek and Roman stoic philosophers. Achillea’s speech is an edited version of one attributed to Chrysippus.

[Calder]

Chapter 10
Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“Oh, hello Christina. Let me guess, you have another delivery for Achillea. Come on in.” To Emelia’s practiced eye, Christina Phillips was a lot less exhausted than she had been on her previous visit. “Achillea, Christina is back.”

“Thank you. Achillea, I have the information you requested plus a report on those samples. Also a reprimand from the USDA laboratories. You should have marked them as being biohazards. Christina’s voice dropped into an alien pattern that Achillea recognized as repeating somebody else’s intonations and inflexions. Christina was nowhere near as proficient at doing so as Igrat but the effect was still eerie. “The material in these samples was potentially hazardous if consumed or allowed to make skin content. It should not have been shipped in unsealed, unmarked containers. Your operative placed himself and those around him in grave danger by doing so. You should instruct your operative on the correct procedures for transporting hazardous materials of this nature and ensure this negligent handling is not repeated.”

“Gods, what is that stuff?” Achillea was appalled at the seriousness with which the whole affair was being treated. Right up to this moment she had regarded the whole bad meat issue as nothing more than a tool she could use to lever apart the power structure in Aurandel.

“Swine brucellosis. Those samples of yours are causing a panic in the USDA. I had to go there myself with all the reports and there were scientists running in the corridors. The disease is known in South Carolina but no further north than that. Its appearance in North Carolina with the heavy concentration of pork farming in the state is a matter for the most urgent concern.” Christina’s voice had dropped into somebody else’s timbre again. “I’ve also brought the filings from the Norfolk Southern Railroad. I was given a brief summary for you. The guts of it are that they’re not reporting any significant theft losses above the normal petty pilfering level. Nor are any of the meat farming companies in North Carolina.

“Can I see the stats?”

Emelia reached out for the file Christina was holding but the courier turned slightly so it was out of her reach.”I’m sorry, Emelia, the package is for Achillea.”

Achillea took it and signed the delivery slip on the front. “Don’t get sore at Christina, Emmie. It’s the one rule that Courier Division makes no exceptions over. Some of the stuff they carry could mean the end of the world. And I really do mean the end of the world. Here, now I’ve officially signed for it, you can have it.”

Christina took out another file. “While Emelia is reading that, I’ve got some background dope on Heckman and Stauffer. Courtesy of the FBI.”

“How’s the new Director?”

“Still settling in. Director Hoover is a hard act to follow. You know, when I was in college, I thought all government agencies were at each other’s throats with jurisdiction disputes but every time I go to the FBI building, I get treated like royalty. Straight up to the Director’s suite. Once Director Hoover even broke off a meeting to see me.”

“We work damned hard to keep relations like that.” Achillea was slightly concerned as discussing OSS business in front of Emelia. “What can you tell me about those two?”

“Heckman was a low-level heavy for the Amalgamated Union of Metal Workers. You know the kind of thing, baseball bat wielder second class. He was never in charge here. He was thrown out of the Union when, on his own initiative, he started to go after families. In the Union leadership eyes, brawling with strike-breakers was one thing, beating a pregnant woman’s head in was quite another. They dropped him like a hot coal. When the union people left Aurandel, he dropped out of sight for a while and has only resurfaced now.

“Stauffer is pretty much the same thing on the other side. Low level thug with a string of convictions that goes back to his early teens. Started off running a protection racket shaking down newspaper vendors. If they didn’t pay up, he set their stand on fire. Graduated to truck hijackings. Made his bones a long time ago but never became a made man. Not for want of trying but he was never anything more than mob associate. When all the smart mobsters moved to Cuba, they didn’t even think he had the makings of a bag-monkey and left him here. He tried to get in with some of the city mobs left here but he just didn’t have the credentials. Again, he dropped off the map for a few years and this is the first time he’s resurfaced.

“Anything on Kimberley Brand?” Achillea still felt a stir of anger over the way she had been treated as she died and crushed it down again.

“I got her file but their’s nothing of much consequence in it. Fading showgirl, never had much running for her other than her looks. The only reason there was a file on her is because she hung around with gangsters. The official assessment is that she did that because she didn’t have the looks or style to attract anybody else. Why?”

“She was murdered this morning. Ice pick job.”

Christina shuddered. “Poor woman. Lance Gillespie, long string of convictions for assault, battery, extortion. Associating with known criminals while on probation. That was when he double-crossed the San Francisco mob over trucking. Turned out he was giving a rival Mexican hijacking gang pointers as to which trucks were carrying valuable loads and when they would be moving. The don out there, Frankie Castillo, put a contract out on him and Gillespie left town then vanished. The Bureau assumed the San Francisco mob had caught up with him and put him down. The Bureau had to dig his file up from their ‘presumed sleeping with the fishes’ section. They actually got a phone tap tape of Castillo ordering the hit but they couldn’t use it for some reason. Something went wrong, they had a solid case against Castillo but it all fell apart and nothing was done about it.”

“Let’s see that file on Gillespie.” Achillea took the documents and as she read the contents, a slow smile spread over her face. “Oh, this is good. What about Judge Pettigrew and Pete Matthews?”

“Nothing much on Pettigrew and nothing at all on Matthews. There’s no record of him attending any police academy but the FBI say that isn’t rare down here.”

“Now that is strange.” Emelia was reading the statistics from the meat farming and processing facilities.

“What’s the matter Emmie?” Achillea was mulling over the news about Gillespie. It fitted perfectly with her own plans.

“These figures for USDA inspections of various factory farms. I was looking down the column for diseased or contaminated carcasses from Pendlewood Farms. They’re wrong. Take a look. This is the column for carcasses that have passed USDA inspection at another meat farm a bit further inland. Ships by a different railway line, one that comes nowhere near Aurandel. Here’s another, different part of the state, same shipping route that comes nowhere near Aurandel. Next to them are the lines for carcasses that failed USDA inspection. Now look at the lines for Pendlewood Farms that does ship through Aurandel.”

Achillea and Christina shared puzzled looks. “They don’t look different.”

“Remember, I’ve been keeping county records all my working life. I recognize the patterns in them. Whether its property values, births and deaths, whatever, there are patterns in the numbers. Take a close look at the other two companies I pointed you at. Every so often, the pattern breaks. Here for example,” Emelia’s pencil tapped a number, “we have a spike. This company suddenly had an upswing in the number of infected carcasses. Here, the number dips where whatever went wrong was put right. Here, we have a slow, steady increase for two or three months, then it ends and drops back to normal. All perfectly normal, life is life and things happen. But, never at Pendlewood Farms. They never have an anomaly, never deviate from the norm. In fact, glancing at these figures, I would say the number of rejected animals is an average of those recorded across the state.”

“Brucellosis is highly infectious. If its loose in a pig farm, the percentage of infected carcasses could be very high indeed. Remind me not to eat any sausage for a long, long time.” Christina shuddered again. “If there’s brucellosis loose in their factory-farm, the number of accepted carcasses should be way down and the number of rejects way up.”

Emelia pulled out more files and looked through them. “The number of carcasses shipped is more or less that same as the number listed as approved by the USDA. And the returns show petty pilferage only. So where are the ones Achillea saw being unloaded from the trains coming from?”

It was a rhetorical question and everybody knew it. Christina answered anyway, but she simply vocalized the words everybody was thinking. “They’re the ones the USDA condemned.”

Ryan’s Diner, 108 Main Street, Aurandel

“Usual for ya, honey?” Marcie’s voice was bright and cheerful.

“Please.” Achillea dropped her voice to a very low whisper so that the two Stauffer men sitting the other end of the breakfast bar wouldn’t overhear. “Marcie, word to the wise, keep any meat you buy from people in town well away from the good stuff. There’s a big problem brewing.”

“I knows it.” Marcie spoke equally quietly. “I kinda guessed as much, the stuff don’t look right and don’t smell right.”

Marcie looked at the two Stauffer men and her lips curled slightly. As if they were taking a hint, they got up and stalked out. As usual, they didn’t pay for their breakfasts. They were in the middle of the small parking lot when a pair of pick-up trucks came racing around the corner and into the lot. The cloud of dust they stirred up hid most of the details but Achillea could see four men, their faces covered with scarves, jump out of the back of each truck with two more from each cab. That made a dozen men with baseball bats surrounding the two gangsters. One of Stauffer’s men tried to draw a pistol but the ambush was too fast and too well-planned. He barely managed to get the gun out before a swing from a bat sent it spiraling through the air. With it went the last chance the two men had of surviving.

The attackers were well practiced and had a careful plan. They fanned out around their victims and swings with the bats hit the two gangsters in the knees. They went down before they even had a chance to strike a blow in their own defense. Then, the bats beat out a steady tattoo on the victims, the dull, sickening thuds of the impacts carrying across the parking lots. They were mixed with the screams of the men and the echoing voices seeming to cause eddies in the clouds of dust as they begged for their lives. Eventually, with both men unconscious, the beating stopped. One man from each truck, obviously the leader of that squad, stood over the prone men and started swinging his bat in heavy deliberate blows at their heads. When he had done, the men piled back into the trucks and the parking lot was empty except for the two still figures in a slowly spreading pool of crimson.

Marcie’s voice was small, still and shaken. “Them’s the two that beat on George. They beat him just like that, right there. Now, they got what was comin’ to them. Ya’all think’s they’ll live?”

“They’re dead.” Achillea cut off a slice of her omelette and chewed it carefully. It really is a very good omelette. It would be a shame to let it go cold. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm and dispassionate, almost disinterested. “Those last blows smashed their skulls like eggshells. Nobody intended those two to survive.”

Achillea finished off her sweet potato hash and tucked into the hamsteak. Marcie was looking at her with shock and real fear in her eyes. “How can ya eat after watchin’ that?”

“Wasting good food won’t bring them back.” Achillea glanced up. Two Studebaker Javelin police cars had swung around the corner with their blue-and-red lights flashing. After they’d come to a halt in the parking lot, Achillea recognized four of her newly-acquired cousins getting out.

“Damn, Pete Matthews and his boys are startin’ to work for a livin’.” Marcie was still deeply distressed by what she had seen and it showed in her voice.

Achillea finished her breakfast and put a roll of notes on the counter, payment plus the usual generous tip. As she left, Marcie was still staring at the money as if it was a live rattlesnake that had been left on the counter. By the time she reached the two bodies, Pete Matthews had arrived in his Matador. He saw her and waved. “Hi Cousin Lea. Please tell me ya saw exactly what happened.”

“I surely did, Cousin Pete. The dust thrown up made things a bit hard to see but I got most of it.”

“Do I need to read ya some rights?” Matthews had an anxious air about him.

“No, I’m just a witness, not a suspect.” Achillea gave a quick but detailed and accurate account of the deaths of the two gangsters. Meanwhile, the four cousins had marked off the area and were taking photographs of the bodies and tire tracks. “There’s a gun somewhere over there. One of these tried to use it but it was knocked out of his hand.”

Porky left the group and went over where Achillea had waved. A few seconds later, he picked up a gun “Found it.”

“Witness not a suspect.” Matthews was thoughtful. “Yesterday, when we found Kimberley Brand and ya read Stauffer his rights, ya was tellin’ me he was a suspect even then weren’t ya?”

Achillea nodded. “When a woman dies, her partner is always the strongest suspect. Way of the world. Who do you think did this?”

Matthews started to say something, then stopped himself. “I was going to say Heckman but then I thought on it. Seems to me this town is blowing apart and could be anybody. We need somethin’ solid before we start thinking of people as suspect.”

“You need to get a statement from Marcie as well. Try to talk to George, see if you can get anything out of him. I understand he just sits in the window and watches all day. From up there, he might have seen something. Go careful with them both though, George is not quite all there and Marcie doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t believe you’re investigating this.”

“Can’t blame her.” Matthews bit his lip. “Cousin Lea, layin’ in bed after that beating I took, throwin’ up blood and hurtin so bad it seemed like I was split in two, had a lot of time to think. Them punks were beating me to death in the middle of the town and nobody came to help. Only ya’all. Made me think that nobody in this town has ever helped people who needed it. That made me look at myself real hard. We ain’t real cops but we’re the nearest thing this town has. So, we better act like we’re real.

“That’s the second time you said you aren’t a real cop. When we had our first serious talk, you said you were a fake. Well, Cousin Pete, that isn’t true anymore.”

The Painted Lady Club, Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building.

“We got work to do here. No time to chat.” Stauffer was angry, pacing up and down in front of his bar. “Heckman just killed two of my boys.”

“I know two of your boys have been killed. I was there and that’s why I’m here.” Achillea’s voice exuded patience. The way she had phrased her reply caught Stauffer’s attention.

“You think it wasn’t Heckman?”

“Might be, but there’s something else you need to know first. Remember I told you about rotten meat turning up all over this area? Well, the Feds are closing in on the man responsible.” Achillea saw the involuntary blink in Stauffer’s eyes. “It’s our old friend Lance Gillespie. It turns out he’s got a long record for truck hijackings and dealing in stolen goods. He’s also got a long track record of selling out his associates. The San Francisco mob wanted his head for giving details of their trucking operation to a rival gang and then trying to snitch on the San Francisco don, Frankie Castillo. Wanted it enough to put fifty grand on his head. He ran and vanished, obviously hiding out here. Now they know he’s still alive, the Feds will be moving in on him within a day or so. If he goes true to form, he’ll be singing like a bird come morning.”

“And how would you know that?” Stauffer was suspicious but his eyes showed that he was aware of the implications of the news.

“I’ll show you. Can I use your phone?” Stauffer nodded. Achillea picked up the receiver and dialed a number, one that was clean and led only to a small deli in San Francisco’s red-light area. When the call was picked up, her message was simple. “Tell Frankie, Achillea needs to talk to him. At this number.”

It took less than ten minutes for the phone to answer back. Achillea picked it up. “Hi Frankie, how’s it going out there.”

After a minute or two of old-friend exchanges, Castillo got to the point. “What can I do?”

“Listen to a friend of mine. Associated with your East Coast relatives. He’s got news for you.” She handed the receiver over to Nathan Stauffer.

“Mister Castillo, I think I’ve met an old associate of yours. Lance Gillespie.”

“Haven’t heard that name for a long time. We used to be partners but the business didn’t work out so well. Disappointed me. Just never knew who his real friends were. You know where he is?”

“Here in Aurandel, North Carolina. Just up the road from me.”

“If you see him, give him my best. Let me know how he’s getting on.”

[Calder]

Chapter 11
Southern Savings and Loan, Main Street, Aurandel

“Achillea, I didn’t expect to see you here. I’ve got a handle on what’s going on. It’s big, huge. All about property values. I don’t want to talk here. I’ll see you on the park bench where we talked first.” Ray Lowrey spoke in what he fondly imagined was a discrete whisper, apparently unaware of how well such whispers carried.

Achillea glanced around quickly, noting with extreme relief that there was nobody within earshot. “What the hell have you done?”

“I’ve been checking property values. They’re not at the Courthouse, the records are stored in another building, corner of North Lombardy and Main. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“The idiot.” Achillea fairly hissed the words to herself as she stared at his retreating back She had been going into the bank to deposit some more money when she had bumped into Lowrey. He had then proceeded to drop her in it, whatever ‘it’ was. Everything around her seemed to slow down as she thought through the situation. Lowrey’s comments had turned the situation from one she had under reasonably good control to an exceptionally precarious position. The simplest and most effective thing to do right now was nothing. She went ahead and made her deposit, acutely aware that Travis Culbreth was speaking quietly but urgently into the telephone in the background.

“Do you know Mister Lowrey?” Paulene Schrieber asked the question very casually. Much too casually in fact.

“He’s the insurance assessor handling the fire at Queenie’s Grill. Wants to hire me to investigate the fire, he says. The truth is he’s been trying to get into my pants ever since I got here. Got hands like an octopus. Now he thinks paying me an investigators fee will help him get some. Asshole.”

Schreiber thought about the insurance assessor and shuddered sympathetically. “Is there any news about the fire?”

Achillea shook her head. “Lowrey wants me to believe that it’s some foul plot to defraud his company. I’ve tried to explain to him that insurance frauds do not start with leaving cans of gasoline next to the seat of the fire. It’s arson all right, but Fred Heckman is the victim. But will he listen to me? No, he keeps producing more opinions that he thinks are facts and tries to grope me while he’s coming out with them. Anyway, I’m writing up my opinion now and once I’ve delivered it to his company, I can break his arms with a clear conscience.”

Corner of South Lombardy and West Pearl Street, Aurandel.

The street corner was ideally positioned for her purposes. She’d parked her Eclipse a little further up South Lombardy where it was masked by a patch of trees. At the same time she could watch the overgrown apology for a park and, in particular, the bench where Ray Lowrey was sitting. She knew he had been there for at least twenty minutes since she had been watching him for that period of time. Including the time she had been at the bank and the time she had taken to get to her chosen vantage point, he had probably been there for an hour or more. Achillea had a private bet with herself that something horrible was about to happen to Lowrey and she had no intention of being near him when it did.

Finally, there was some movement in the park and it caused Lowrey to look hopefully to see if it was Achillea finally arriving. When two men wearing long grey raincoats emerged from the overgrowth that narrowed the blacktop path to single-file status, he slumped back in obvious disappointment. What happened next seemed to take an age. Both men let their coats fall back to reveal double-barreled shotguns. The weapons had been sawn down so their barrels barely extended beyond the foregrip while the buts of the weapons had also been sawn to leave crude pistol grips. Lowrey suddenly realized what was about to happen and tried to get up and run but he was far too late. He was only half way to his feet when the blasts from the shotguns hurled his body back over the seat. The impact of the buckshot sent Lowrey’s blood spraying in a fine arc that caught the sun to create a fine reddened rainbow thet lasted for justa brief fraction of a second before it dissolved into a red splatter across the blacktop. The men walked around to where Lowrey’s body was shaking and jerking on the grass. Standing over him, they reloaded their guns and fired again. It was probably unnecessary in Achillea’s professional opinion. Eight loads of buckshot at that range could hardly do more damage than four.

Achillea slipped away from her vantage point. The scene played out in front of her had proved one thing beyond any question of doubt. There was a lot more going on in Aurandel than just insurance fraud. Now she needed to have a look at the building on the corner of Lombard and Main.

Lance Gillespie’s Junkyard and Used Car Lot, 308 NC305

“Well, look who we have here. My old friend Lance Gillespie.” Nathan Stauffer was sitting on the front wing of an aged Nash Rambler American. “Have a good lunch, Lance?”

Gillespie looked around carefully. He had two men working in this garage, stripping stolen vehicles for saleable parts. Now, both men were standing against a wall at the back of the work area. “Yeah, working lunch.”

“Now that’s good to know Lance. That you’re working I mean. You see a little bird tells me that you’ve been running a burn on your old friend Nathan. Charging him for taking cargoes a long, long way away when you’ve really been selling them right next door.”

“Who been sayin’ things like that?” Gillespie was suddenly very frightened. “They’re lying to you Nathan, I swear. . . . . ”

“I know Lance, I’ve heard you. Terrible thing for a man to use language like that in front of ladies.”

Gillespie turned white. “I didn’t do nuttin, Nathan, honest I didn’t. I took the stuff away just like you said.”

Stauffer reached out and slapped Gillespie on the cheek. “Now, Lance, don’t insult me. You see I got a tip-off that the USDA found the meat you’d sold in Ahoskie and called in the FBI. We’d have got away with it if you hadn’t got greedy. Ground up, nobody could tell what that meat was. But you had to get greedy. And now the Feds are coming in force.”

“Nathan, please. . . .” Gillespie was nearly crying.

“And you know what upsets me most? You sold me out for a few bucks. Not even a few hundred. Just for gas money and teamster wages. That hurts, Lance. Then I got to wondering, if my old friend Lance would sell me out for a few bucks, I wonder who else he’s tried it on? So I called my old friend Frankie Castillo in ‘Frisco. And he told me a strange story, Lance. About how you’d been selling his truck routes and manifests to a Mexican gang and when you got caught you tried to rat him out. Ratting out a Don, Lance, that’s against everything this thing of ours stands for. But Frankie don’t hold no grudges. He asked me to give you his best.”

Gillespie was crying and a dark stain suddenly marred the front and right leg of his coveralls. Stauffer slid off the wing of the Rambler American and took a Tommy gun from one of his men. Then he looked at the car. “Always preferred the 63 version myself. Get over there with the others.”

“No, Nathan, please. You’ve got this all wrong.” Gillespie stumbled and nearly fell but one of Stauffer’s men caught him and pushed him back to the wall where the other two were waiting. “Don’t do this, please.”

Stauffer sighed and shook his head. Then the Thompson gun in his hands gave a vicious burst. Gillespie doubled over as the stream of .45 caliber bullets slammed into his stomach. His body lurched back against the wall, jerking with the impacts and then rolled on the floor. Stauffer aimed again and another burst of .45s shattered Gillespie’s head. Next to Gillespie’s body, the first of the mechanics was shaking and crying, begging Stauffer not to shoot. Then he too was shot down with a long burst to the body and another, shorter but immensely destructive series of hits to the head.

The third and last man was different. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Nathan, you got no reason to do me a favor but I’m going to ask anyway. My lady was nothin’ to do with this. Please, don’t hurt her.”

Stauffer looked at him and nodded. “Got no reason to harm her. But I’ll make sure she hears the last thing you thought of was her. And that you died like a man.”

Then, his Thompson gun hammered again, a single burst wrecking the last Gillespie man’s chest. Stauffer was about to fire again into his head when he changed his mind and gave the gun back to the gunman who had brought it. The man looked curiously at him and Stauffer shrugged. “Might as well leave her a body she can recognize.”

Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

There was no doubt which building Lowrey had meant. All four corners had buildings on them but one was a burned-out derelict house. Another was marked ‘Ye Olde Café’ but it was so run down and shabby there was no chance of Achillea sampling the food there. The third was a church but the fourth was the obvious one. The sign, washed out by years of exposure to sun and rain read Aurandel Police Department. It was obviously disused, in its original role at least but unlike the house and probably the café, somebody was using it for something.

Achillea looked at it more carefully. It was a simple, one story building, typical of the kind built by any local government anywhere. The only slightly unusual feature of it was the triple garage that was built out from the side. Each bay was big enough to hold a police cruiser. That made sense to her. Before the strike had started and the gangsters had come, this small building and its three police cruisers were probably all that the town had needed. Afterwards, they’d been nowhere near enough.

She parked her Eclipse under some trees where it wouldn’t attract much attention and crossed the road to look at the deserted police station. To her surprise, it hadn’t been looted or vandalized although it had obviously received no maintenance or repairs in the years since the strike. The entrance doors were still intact and sat firmly on their frames. Achillea was about to try them when a voice from inside made her jump.

“Wha, Cousin ‘Lea, whaat ah ya doin’ heah?” It was a woman’s voice that was obviously the young female version of Judge Pettigrew with an accent that was, if anything, even stronger.

“I was driving past and saw this place. I just wondered why Cousin Pete and the boys weren’t using it anymore.” Achillea hesitated. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

The woman stepped out from the shadows, swinging the pump-action shotgun in her hands to a safe position with practiced ease. She was ash-blonde and looked as if she should be serving very delicate high tea somewhere. Then Achillea saw her eyes and they were light blue and ice-cold. She noticed something else as the woman stepped from the shadows to the light, her pupils were constantly moving, enlarging and contracting with every tiny change in the light levels.

“Ah’m Cousin Grace. Ah drew them pictures ya’all took to Lance’s a few days back. Ah wahn ta thank ya for what ya did fah Cousin Pete. Nobody dun somethin’ lahk that in a long tahm rahnd heah.”

“What is this place, Grace?”

“This here used ta be theah police station. When the strahk stahted, theah was fightin heah all the tahm. In tha end, them police as was left upped and went. Been deserted evah since. Uncle Jim, he says mah job is ta keep the town records safe so ah stores them heah. Tha eveedahnce rahm got the only safe locks ah knows. Surely goin’ ta need it. You heahad baht the killins?”

“More than heard, I saw Ray Lowrey get killed. Shotguns, double-barrelled.” Achillea hesitated, “you might like to think about a double-barrelled, it’s too easy to short-stroke a pump in an emergency.”

Grace laughed, a pleasant laugh that put Achillea in mind of a cool waterfall on a hot day. “Been handlin pump shahtguns since Ah was six and ain’t never short-stroked one yeht.”

Grace’s casual mention of the age she’d learned to use a shotgun made Achillea blink. Grace saw it and misunderstood the react. “Ah’m a southern woman Cousin ‘Lea with all thaht means. And it doan include stahndin helpless whal meah and mahn get hurt. ”

Achillea nodded. “Just a coincidence; I had learned to fight by that age as well. Not with a gun. With my hands and a knife. You say you drew those pictures? They were very good.”

“Why thank yah kindly. Rahnd here nobody cares too much for doin art. But it ain’t jest Lowrey. Lance Gillespie ahnd two of his men got blown away at theah scrapyard. So mah pictures wahn’t mahch healp afta ahll. Cousin Pete’s goin tah need yah help agin. Ah’ll just lock up here then weah can go see him.”

Lance Gillespie’s Junkyard and Used Car Lot, 308 NC305

The Packard Matador and a Studebaker Javelin were parked outside Lance Gillespie’s white office building. As Achillea and Grace pulled in, Pete Matthews came out and waved them around the back. The building he showed them to had brick front and rear walls but timber sides and roof. It was as run-down as the rest of the property. Inside, Matthews took Achillea to see the three bodies sprawled out against the back. The whole area was thick with flies. Matthews kept trying to brush them away from his face but Achillea just ignored them. The faces of two of the men were unrecognizable but she’d seen the third standing around on her previous visit.

“Somebody heard the gunfire and called us.” Matthews was looking at the three bodies, unaware of the change in the town’s internal dynamics implied by what he had just said. “This makes it eleven people dead in less than a week. Just what the hell is happening here?”

“A dangerously unstable situation is blowing apart, Pete. It had to happen sooner or later. I wonder why the third man wasn’t shot in the face as well.”

“How does that matter?”

“Because it doesn’t fit with the general pattern. Exclude the three people where we know who killed them.” Achillea shot a brief conspiratorial glance at Matthews, “Queenie was burned alive, Kimberley Brand tied to a tree and left to drown in her own blood, two of Nathan Stauffer’s men beaten to death with baseball bats. Four victims, all of them died slowly and painfully. Then we have Lance and his two men here plus Ray Lowrey. All gunned down, brutally but quickly. Two sets of four victims, one set killed slow, the other fast. We can add you to the first group. The attack on you was intended to kill and it wasn’t meant to be quick. Now, given that Fred Heckman and Nathan Stauffer are behind all of the killings, which man was responsible for the ones where the victims died slowly?”

Matthews didn’t even hesitate. “Fred Heckman. And that means Stauffer did this.”

“Good working theory isn’t it? A gang war between Nathan Stauffer and Fred Heckman restarting. The problem is this, why did Nathan Stauffer kill Lance Gillespie? They were partners in some kind of racket, everybody knows that. So why did Stauffer kill him?”

“Because Gillespie was about to, or had, sold Stauffer out and joined up with Heckman.” Matthews sounded thoughtful. “And that would be why Heckman started this war. He’d persuaded Gillespie to change sides and he thought that would isolate Stauffer. Allow him to make a complete take-over.”

“And now we know who planned the attack on you. Heckman wanted you out of the way because you’d side with Stauffer, just to keep the town in balance. With you dead, especially if it looked like Stauffer might have been responsible, your faction would have kept out. Then Heckman burned his own restaurant down to give him cause to go to war. Probably killed Kimberley to make it look as if he was taking revenge for the killing of Queenie and so cement the blame for the fire on Stauffer. Only, he couldn’t resist putting a signature on the killings.”

“My faction.” Matthews sounded bitter again. “Not the law.”

Achillea heard the undertone of shame in Matthews voice and it gave her the opening she had been looking for. “Cousin Pete, you’ve got a chance to change all that right now. You say somebody called you about the gunfire?”

Matthews nodded. “They did. Telephoned the Uncle Jim’s house.”
“Don’t you realize what that means? Pete, people in this town, are sick of having gangsters ruling the place and having nobody to turn to. They want the law back and you wear the uniform. Now, you’re beginning to act like real cops and they’re turning to you. None of you are trained for the job but you’re no worse than a lot of other small-town police forces. So, it’s time to step up to the mark.”

“And how do we do that?” Matthews sounded resentful and derisive but mixed in with it was curiosity and a tiny flicker of hope. “We’re just the town jokes who run a crooked speedtrap.”

“Grace, that old police station? What kind of condition is it in?”

Grace Pettigrew started. She’d been staring at the bodies with a degree of morbid fascination. “Ah, sahrry. Naht sa bahd. Few windahs broke, lot of dahrt in thah. Nahthin a good clean wahnt fix. And ah paintin.”

“OK, Pete, you want to step up to the mark? Then here’s how you do it. How many police cruisers have you?”

“Five. The Matador, two Javelins and a Dodge Monaco Wagon. And the old Plymouth Fury we use at the speed trap. Don’t use the last much ‘cept for that.”

“Then get all the Cousins together as a cleaning crew. Then we drive those five cruisers plus trucks with the cleaning crew in convoy, lights and sirens on, to the old police station. We open it up. The cousins clean it out and we repaint the sign, big and clear. Aurandel Police Department. Grace, you need to do that. Make the new sign something nobody can miss. That makes me think, police department needs a police woman. Grace, you want the job?”

Grace nodded enthusiastically. “Baht whaat abaht the tarn recahds?”

“I know somebody who can take that over. Nice old lady, used to be a county clerk. Pete, get Uncle Jim to swear Cousin Grace in. In fact, get him to swear you all in again. Clean start, past behind us. I told you once there is no justice in the world except that we make for ourselves. Time to start making some. As soon as the Police Station is up and running, then we bring in Fred Heckman and Nathan Stauffer for questioning. You don’t invite them Pete, don’t ask them. Read them their rights and bring them in.

[Calder]

Chapter 12
Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“And I suppose that, as soon as I’m alone with the records, I set them all on fire, say ‘oops’ and apologize.” Emelia spoke with a degree of acerbity that made Achillea chuckle.

“If this was as simple as burning the records, I’d have done that a week ago. And screwed up because they aren’t stored in the Courthouse like everywhere else. If there is a sudden courthouse fire that destroys the records and nothing else, it makes it obvious there was something in the records somebody was trying to hide. And that makes people ask the kind of question we can’t afford to have asked. This time around, we’d have burned down the Courthouse and those records would have surfaced immediately to our great displeasure. Thank you Ray Lowrey, you saved us from that although we would have found out eventually. My original plan was for either Stauffer or Heckman to attack the Pettigrews and the Courthouse get burned down in the fight. That’s had to change but as from tomorrow morning, the town records will be in the Police Station and you’ll be in there with them. Sorting them out as only a retired county clerk can do and making a few additions to the files in the process.”

“Uh-huh.” Emelia did not sound convinced. “And what is going to start them fighting?”

“We’ve got a lot of pressure building on Stauffer already. The rotten meat business is beginning to get to the point where he’s got Federal heat on his back. The press is already picking it up. Heckman? We already have financial pressure building on him. Stoke up the pressure enough and one of them will go for broke.” Achillea hesitated and finally gave voice to the thing that was worrying her. “Emelia, there’s something else here as well. We’ve heard the background on those two. Neither of them are anywhere close to being smart. Stauffer summed it up perfectly when he said that Aurandel was the bottom, there wasn’t any place lower. I think he realized what that meant and he didn’t like it. Neither he nor Heckman are bright enough to be calling the shots here. There’s somebody else behind this whole situation and those two are just the operating front. They’re puppets and somebody else is pulling their strings.”

“We know that Pendlewood Farms is the source of the condemned meat. They’re not reporting the losses so they obviously know what is going on. I think their management has to be behind Stauffer. Try this. They had the brucellosis outbreak and it really hammered their stock. Big percentage of their carcasses are rated as unfit for human consumption. So, they ship the condemned meat in special cars, stop the trains here and Stauffer unloads the bad stuff. The train delivers the good stuff to the meat processor and it gets passed by the USDA inspector there. Meanwhile, Stauffer ships the contaminated meat and sells it under the counter to processors. He then splits the proceeds with the company. The only problem I can see is how they hide the discrepancy between the amount of meat they ship and the amount they actually deliver.”

“It’s not Stauffer that’s the problem. He’s a hood, a cheap thug without the brains to be trusted with anything more than the simplest of operations. Look at this one. You can’t get much simpler. Steal something off a train, with the cooperation of the owners no less, take it somewhere else and sell it. And he messes it up. Heckman’s no better but I can’t see how he’s working it. I just keep thinking of something Igrat told me about California. She said that a screen star can be a finger man for the mob and deal drugs for them. That a banker can make his money from the rackets and use his bank to launder it.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Emelia was fascinated. “Say that again?”

“A banker can launder money from brothels or drug dealing or extortion through his bank. So much so that the gangsters effectively work for the banker because they have no way of hiding their income without him. Don’t ask me how it’s done. I leave things like that to people like Lillith.”

“Probably as a mortgage or loan.” Emelia sounded thoughtful as she thought the problem through. “Bank makes a loan as a mortgage on a gangster-owned property giving a lump sum of clean cash. Then, the load is repaid using illegally obtained funds. As long as the loan is repaid on time, nobody is going to look at it too closely. The problem would be the gangster explaining where he got the cash from to make the payments. I’d have to think about that.”

“Lowrey said he’d found out something about property values, said it was very big. That makes it sound like whatever is going on here extends beyond this town. Unless Lowrey was blowing smoke of course. But, he was killed pretty damned quickly after he started mouthing off about what he had found. Which suggests that whatever he found was as important as he thought it was. Or that they thought he had found something as important as he made it out to be.”

“You realize that only works if Heckman had Lowrey killed, don’t you?” Emelia looked confused. “But you have Matthews believing Stauffer did it.”

Achillea grinned. “I know Stauffer killed Gillespie and his two men. As for the rest, I’ve no real idea who killed who. Doesn’t matter anyway. As long as they keep killing each other, that’s fine with me.”

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

Any town, any community acts like a living organism. It evolves to match changes in its environment; it adapts its lifestyle to minimize the risks from predators. Aurandel was no different. The law-abiding inhabitants, the ones not associated with the criminals who had taken over the town were well aware that the gangsters and thugs that had overrun their community did not like to get up early. So, they did. They tried to get their business done as the sun came up so they were safely off the streets by the time the hoodlums emerged. Aurandel was dead during the day but in the hour or so after dawn, whatever life there was left in the town took place. And so, the streets were occupied by the honest citizens of the town when they heard the yelping of police sirens and they saw the convoy of police cars swinging on to Main Street and heading for the North Lombardy. Most of them stood for a long time, watching the convoy as it made its way down Main. Then, they hurried about their business, desperate to get finished before the predators started to roam the streets.

Achillea was already waiting on the forecourt of the police station when the convoy of police cars and pick-up trucks arrived. Sheriff Matthews was first in and he started marshalling the other vehicles as they arrived. Two of the pick-up trucks pulled alongside the main entrance. They had ladders on board and the crews erected them quickly. Between them they had a long board, one that Grace Pettigrew has been up all night painting. It read “Aurandel Police Department” and had a new badge design painted on each end. Other Cousins were already starting to sweep the parking area clean and unloading cans of paint from the trucks. The women were disappearing inside, loaded down with mops, brooms and cleaning supplies. Achillea shook her head at the division of labor but reminded herself that this was the south after all.

Matthews used a crowbar to open up one of the garage doors. He started to go inside but then stopped and started to back up very slowly as the rattle carried across the parking lot. Next to him, Grace raised her shotgun and fired twice. The rattle stopped. Matthews went into the garage and came out with a matched pair of dead rattlesnakes, one in each hand, both thoroughly blasted. “Everybody, ya’all be damned careful until we’ve got this place cleaned out.”

Achillea drifted over to where Grace was thumbing rounds into her shotgun. “Browning 12-gauge?”

Grace smiled. “Rahmin’tahn, tahn-gauge. Fahve rahnd magahzeen, one in tha chahmber. Theyah the fahst rahttlers Ah’ve seen arahnd heah. Cahsin Pete gonah fahnd a prahblam in theyah. That theah place is ah shell. Gaht picked clean yeeahs bahk. Mah tahpwrahter an desk ah ahll thahts theyah.”

Achillea paused for a second while she translated Grace’s accent. It would make a wonderful family code, she thought idly, no outsiders would ever understand a word she was saying. “No telephones, nothing?”

“Naht ah one.”

Pete Matthews confirmed the comment a moment later. “We’re getting it cleaned out in there but somebody beat us to it. They’ve even taken the light switches from the wall. There’s no radios, nothing. Just ya stuff locked up in the evidence room Grace. By the way, ‘Lea, when’s ya friend coming down?”

“Tomorrow. She’s over in Raleigh, picking some stuff up for you. Official forms, paperwork, manuals and so on. Why don’t you call Uncle Jim and see if he’s got any ideas? In the meantime, you can use the car radios. Tac-two will allow you to speak to all four cars. You’re not using the Fury are you?”

Matthews shook his head. “We need a telephone. There’s got to be a spare one somewhere in this town. Hold on, Lance Gillespie. ‘Lea, can we impound all of his stuff and use it to equip the police station? Or is that illegal?”

“If it was, half the police forces in the country would be doing time. As long as it is the proceeds of his illegal activities, you can impound it for official police use. Only for official use though.” Achillea wasn’t actually as certain of that as she sounded. “If you have good cause to believe that any of the vehicles there were extorted from their original owners, you can take them into your custody as well. Prior to finding their original owners and returning the vehicles to them.”

Matthews turned around and sent four of the uniformed officers off in the wagon. “They’ll bring back whatever’s useful in pickup trucks. I happen to know there’s couple of new ones there. Meanwhile, why don’t ya have breakfast with me. Up at Ryans. I wants to have a word with them.”

Marcie was behind the bar when Achillea and Matthews walked in. Her face made an interesting display of mixed emotions at the sight of the two of them together. She was obviously desperate to know what the sudden frenzy of activity around the old police station meant but years of living in Aurandel meant that her curiosity was moderated by extreme caution. She smiled at Achillea as befitted one of her regular customers but her voice was tentative as if asking for a great favor she didn’t know she deserved. “Honey, know ya’all like omelette but will’ya do us a favor today and have them scrambled?”

“Sure, Marcie. What’s up?”

“It’s George. He sat up there, watching the men who worked him over gettin’ theirs. Today, he gets up and comes down for the first time since they beat him. Started makin’ scrambled eggs when the customers ordered them. He ain’t doin’ much but it’s a whole lot more than he’s done before.”

“Scrambled eggs then, sweet potato hash and hamsteak. And coffee.”

“Same for me.” Pete Matthews hesitated and took a deep breath, taking a step that he knew was irreversible. “Marcie, ya better give me the check right away. If the station calls, might not have time to stop and pay.”

“Give ya a check?” Marcie was obviously shocked at the unprecedented idea. Then curiosity triumphed over caution. “Sure, Sheriff. What’s goin’ on down at the station anyhow?”

“We’ve moved back in. Setting it up as a real police station again. This town needs it, Marcie, and there’s nobody else who can step up to the mark. That beating ah took showed me that. Look, like as not we’ll all be coming in here regular. Every one of us who does, gets a check and pays it. They expect otherwise, ya call me and they’ll get straightened out.”

Marcie nodded. “What’s the phone number?”

Matthews flushed with embarrassment. “We ain’t got a phone right now. Trying to fix that. When we have, everybody will get it.”

“Right Sheriff. Now, I’ll put ya order in. And here’s the check. Ya’all payin’ for both?”

Matthews nodded. A few minutes later, when his breakfast arrived, Achillea saw that he’d got one of the good hamsteaks.

By the time they got back to the police station, the difference in appearance was obvious. The front wall had been painted white and the crew had disappeared to do the sides. The front parking lot had been swept clean and the police cars parked in a neat row. They were about to go inside when a horn sounded from the road behind them. A truck with the words “Powellsville Volunteers” painted on the side pulled up. Roger Trent climbed out of the driving seat and gave a cheery wave. “Hi Pete, I heard you and yours were opening the old place up.”

“Sure are, not before time either.”

“Won’t disagree with you there. Look, Pete, no offense meant but I guess you’re pretty short of equipment. This place got stripped years back. The Volunteers have just replaced our communications system with a new one. We were going to toss the old stuff out but seemed to us you need it. All works fine, it’s just old-fashioned and doesn’t have the bells and whistles the new sets do. I can loan you a dispatcher for a week as well if you want, she can train your own people. If you can show us where to put it, we’ll set it up for you.”

Matthews looked at the truckload of equipment and gulped slightly. “Roger, I just don’t know what to say.”

He led the way in, past the desk that had suddenly arrived in the reception area. Achillea recognized it; once it had been in Lance Gillespie’s office. There was a telephone sitting on it. Suddenly it rang and one of the cleaning crew picked it up.

“Aurandel Police? Great, that’s fine, thank you.” He put the receiver down. “We got a working phone, Pete.”

Trent looked around. “My guess is the old dispatcher’s room is back there. The mast is still on the roof, we can run a cable up it as a temporary antenna. How many shifts you going to run, Pete?”

“Was thinking three. One of the Javelins with a single cousin morning and afternoon with two people here, desk and dispatcher. At night, put the Matador out with a couple of ma cousins in it plus the two here. There’s ten of us, only way Ah can think of spreading us.”

Trent thought. “This is a small town so that’ll work. For a while anyway. You’ll need more people here soon though. You’ll need a detective or two as well.”

Matthews grinned at him and waved a hand at Achillea. “Got one.” Then he hurried away to oversee another part of the great clean-up.

Trent watched him go quietly. Achillea spoke very quietly. “It’s good of you to help out like this. You known Pete a long time?”

Trent nodded. “Yeah. When we heard he was setting up here again, we had to help. Most towns round here are tired of pretending this wretched hive doesn’t exist. But, Miss Foyle, have you ever had a friend who’s sunk low? Gone down from being a proud man down to a drunken bum laying in a pool of his own filth down some stinking back alley? Whose so far gone it seems there is no way he could ever climb back?”

Achillea nodded wordlessly. In her long life, she’d known people in that situation far too often.

“And do you remember what felt was like when he cleaned up his act and stood there taking his pledge at Alcoholics Anonymous. The expression of pride on both your faces, him from cleaning up and you for helping him? Well, that’s how I feel right now. Pete’s taking his pledge and making his first steps back.”

Achillea reached out and squeezed his arm gently, remembering as always to control her strength. “You’re a good friend.”

“Pete was a good friend to me a long time ago.” Trent looked at her sharply and she felt his eyes boring into her. Then he got something out of his pocket, a simple medallion. “This means I’ve been ten years sober. Ten years ago, Pete stood there with me when I took my pledge. I’ve carried that debt all these years. Now, I can start to repay it. If a few bits of old emergency equipment are payment of a debt to a man who gave someone their life back.”

The Painted Lady Club, Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building. Aurandel

“Jimmy was still alive when we got there. Lance and Chris were so shot up, they was deader than dead. But Jimmy still had a little life left in him. He said ‘Nathan don’t let anybody hurt Stella, Look after her.’ Then he went. I think he hung on just so he could make sure you was safe Stella. That’s how a real man dies.”

One of Stauffer’s gunmen took the weeping woman away. Stauffer himself looked up as Pate Matthews and Achillea walked up to him. He was about to say something when Matthews cut across him. “Nathan Stauffer, I am taking you in for questioning in connection with the murders of Ray Lowrey, Lance Gillespie, Christopher Parker and James Gutman. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down and introduced as evidence. You have the right to be represented by an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll come down to your new hang-out when I got time.” Stauffer leaned back in his chair with a supercilious smirk on his face.

Matthews said nothing but his foot snaked out and caught the rail under the front of Stauffer’s chair. He yanked it out, sending the gangster crashing to the floor. A gunman at the next table tried to draw a .38 revolver from his jacket. He actually got it out before there was a slap on his hand as Achillea’s thumb pressed into the nerve center in his wrist. The gun fell from his limp fingers, then Achillea caught it, spun it on her finger and aimed it straight at his face. “Bad boy. Bad, bad boy. Nathan, don’t be stupid. We all know Heckman killed those men. This is your chance to get rid of him legally.”

Stauffer nodded. “Sure, Heckman did it. We heard about the shooting, went up there to help. Found Lance and Chris dead, Jimmy dying. You heard what I said to his lady. So, you want to talk about it in your new crib? Fine.”

He got up and followed Pete Matthews out of the door with Achillea bringing up the rear. The sheer menace he exuded was quite tangible. As a connoisseur of people who were really dangerous, Achillea found his pretensions quite amusing.

[Calder]

Chapter 13
Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

“Adam oh-one see the man. Incident call oh-four, we have a report of a four-one-five public disturbance on the corner of Harmon and Canal. Two men fighting. Answer Code Two.” Pamela Charlton looked at the three trainee dispatchers in the room with her. She’d begged Captain Trent not to send her on this assignment, Aurandel was a town no decent woman wanted to work in. It was also not a safe town for any woman to work in. Captain Trent had simply told her that she was the best qualified person to help change that and told her that he was depending on her. Unable to disappoint her Captain, she had agreed and arrived here. “Call’s out, Adam oh-one will respond without using lights and sirens. They know a man called in the complaint and will see them when they arrive. So, we write down the time in the log and who is responding. In this case, officers Pettigrew and Pettigrew.”

“Cousin Grace an’ Cousin Reeve.” Laura Matthews fluttered her hand in front of her mouth. She also didn’t want to be here but her father had called her in and told her it was time she made some use of the space she occupied.

“Quite.” Pamela looked at her stonily. She found it very hard to believe that the competent, shotgun–carrying Grace Pettigrew was this simpering nonentity’s sister but it was so. “Also, in the last column you enter the call number. This ties to the report the officers dealing with the situation will make.”

“Harmon and Canal, that’s Heckman territory.” Carole Rosario sounded thoughtful. The third sister, and second of the three women chosen to be trained as dispatchers, she had married a Mexican safe-cracker. Like so many others, Tony Rosario had come to Aurandel because he had nowhere else to run. He had repaid protection and a wife with absolute, almost fanatical, loyalty to his new family. Now, a slightly confused and definitively retired safe-cracker, he had taken the afternoon shift as the police officer in Lincoln Oh-Two.

“No, it isn’t. It’s your territory. This is your town. If somebody thinks a part of it belongs to him, then you take it back and you take him down.” Pamela was angry but a lot of that anger came from fear. A few hours in Aurandel had taught her how thin was the veneer that separated civilization from barbarism and how easily civilization could be lost to the waiting barbarians.

The radio crackled again with a man, obviously Cousin Reeve speaking. “Dispatch, this is Adam-oh-one. Disturbance was two men fighting over a dice game. Men have been separated, cautioned and sent home. One of Heckman’s gunmen tried to intervene. We are bringing him in, charged with four-one-seven and five-oh-seven. Show us as code two for the station.”

“Dispatch, Adam-oh-one, we show you cleared from incident call oh-four. Now, everybody, we take a look at the time and log that as the time the incident was cleared.”

From his position behind the class, Matthews quietly took a step backwards and slipped out of the room. He realized that the dispatcher Roger Trent had loaned him was only giving a very basic course in how to manage the police service but he felt that, for the first time in many years, he was actually worthy of the uniform he wore.

“Got a call from Emelia a few minutes ago. She’s on her way back tomorrow morning with the supplies.” Achillea was sitting on the reception desk since all of the available chairs were in the dispatcher’s room. “She’s also found some Federal grants you can put in for. Allow you to buy some new equipment and hire support staff.”

“What?” Matthews couldn’t believe that there was Federal funding available for people like him.

“Federal law enforcement grants. They’re intended to help fund local police forces where the town tax base isn’t solid enough to support proper law enforcement. Aurandel is apparently tailor-made for them.” Achillea looked at the notes she’d made while speaking with Emelia. “She’s pulled a few strings and got the forms you need to fill out ready. It does mean there’ll be State Police coming here to look you over. When they come, you don’t need to be perfect, Cousin Pete, but you do need to show you’re trying. And, the gods know you’re doing that.”

She was prevented from continuing by the sight of the Packard Matador pulling up outside. A protesting figure was hauled out of the back seat and hustled through the front doors of the station. “Glahd yo heah, Cousin Jim. This heah gunsel has sahm ideah abaht who keeps the lahw arahnd heah. Heah seems to thain’ it math be heam.”
Grace Pettigrew was grinning broadly as she gave the gunman a hard shove in the back with the barrel of her shotgun. The man spun around in protest but all that achieved was that he got the push from Cousin Reeve’s baton in the stomach instead of the small of the back. “Matthews, you bastard. You wait until Heck hears about this. He’ll rip your fat gut open and feed the contents to the coyotes.”

“That would be a two-one-seven, assault with intent to murder.” Matthews actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He’d been reading the list of police codes all afternoon and it had quite surprised him to find out how many things people could be charged with. “We’ll add a four-one-five, public disturbance, to the five-oh-seven, public nuisance and the four-one-seven, interfering with a police officer pursuing his duty. Hey, Pam, did I get that right?”

“That’s fine Sheriff.” Pamela’s voice came from the dispatcher’s room. “Now, take him into custody and put him in a cell. Make sure you get his full name with identity documents and so on. He gets one call to a lawyer.”

“I don’t need no stinking lawyer.”

“In which case, oh boy, are you screwed.” Pamela’s voice had an entirely feminine air of smug satisfaction about it. “Officers Pettigrew, you two had better get back out there. Remember to call and clear yourselves as soon as you’re in the car.”

“What’s your name?” Matthews decided it was time he took back control of events.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The gunman was almost sneering and he reached inside his jacket. Matthews wasn’t quite certain how Achillea could have moved so fast but somehow she had left her seat on the table and thrown the man against the wall behind him before his hand had got inside his coat. She held him there with one hand mashing his face against the wall while the other frisked him.

“Pete, you’ve got to tell everybody that they must pat down everybody they bring in. This one’s got a .38 revolver and a knife. Both cheap junk but the first could have killed you. Or them. Now, wallet. This one seems to be called Tony Cuozzo. We’ll need to check that. He must have a record somewhere. Have the ladies finished cleaning out the holding cells?”

Matthews got the hint. “Cousin Alice and Cousin Bonnie-May, have you cleaned all the rattlers and scorpions out of the holding cells?”

A middle-aged and very tired female voice came from that area of the station. “We think so.” The words lacked conviction.

“Very good. Mister Cuozzo, you’ll be detained overnight and will go up before the Judge on our charges. Meanwhile we’ll check for outstanding warrants.”

“You bastards. Heck will get you for this.”

“So you said.”

Town Courthouse, Route 305, Aurandel, North Carolina

“Defendant is named Anthony Cuozzo, resident of Aurandel. Charged with under article four-one-five, public disturbance, article five-oh-seven, public nuisance and article four-one-seven, interfering with a police officer pursuing his duty. Defendant has declined the provision of a lawyer.” Aurandel didn’t have a district attorney so Sheriff Matthews was making the charge himself.

Judge James Pettigrew grunted. “A man who represents himself has a fool for a client. How do you plead Mister Cuozzo?”

“I don’t have to plead anything to you.” Cuozzo struck an exaggerated air of truculence.

“We’ll enter that as not guilty. Sheriff what are the facts of the case?”

“Last night, Judge, Officers Grace Pettigrew and Reeve Pettigrew was on patrol when they saw a coupl’a men having a public dispute over a game of dice. They separated them and took statements. Both agreed that one had thrown a seven. They disputed the other; one claimed he had rolled an eight, the other that the dice had been swept up before he could see’em. The officers told them being as that was the case, the last bet in that there game ain’t no good. Told’em to take up their money and go home separate ways. Then, Mister Cuozzo turned up and told the officers not to interfere with people in his part of town. So they arrested him. Got the statements here Ji . . . Judge.”

He handed the reports up to the Judge who read them. “Do you have anything to add to these statements Mister Cuozzo?”

The defendant stood mute, not quite sure that he understood what was happening around him. He was familiar enough with trials but he believed that they simply didn’t happen in Aurandel. On the east side of town, Heckman’s word was the only law that mattered, on the west side, it was Stauffer’s. By that standard, there was no reason why he should have been standing in the courtroom.

“In the absence of any defense, I find that the defendant is guilty as charged in article 415 and 507, these being Class 2 misdemeanors and on article 417, this being a Class 1 misdemeanor. You are fined two thousand dollars on each Class 2 offense and three thousand dollars on the Class 1 misdemeanor. If you fail to pay these fines, you will serve 150 days in the Brucie County Jail. Case closed.” Although his face didn’t show any trace of the thought, Judge Pettigrew was surprised to discover that administering the law honestly had greater potential for profit than his previous ways of doing things. Perhaps that nephew of mine is smarter than he seems.

“The hell you say.” Judge Pettigrew looked up at the speaker. Fred Heckman was standing by the rail separating the official part of the room from the tiny public area. It was a hastily-erected rail and swayed on the load Heckman put on it. “That there is one of my boys. You let him be.”

“Are you taking responsibility for paying his fine?” The Judge asked the question mildly although the import of it wasn’t lost on anybody.

“I told you let him be, he’s one of my boys.”

“Mister Heckman, if you take responsibility for him and pay his fine, the court will release him into your custody. Otherwise, off to Brucie County jail he goes.”

Judge Pettigrew looked at Heckman with a benign smile upon his face. It was not returned in kind. Heckman had his expression contorted into a snarl of rage. “This isn’t over. You’ll pay for this.”

Then Heckman stormed out, leaving the Judge still smiling benignly. “This court notes how spineless, cowardly braggarts always admit defeat by telling somebody that ‘this isn’t over.’ The defendant will be held until transfer to the county jail can be arranged.”

“If your honor pleases, I can arrange that immediately.” The voice in the courtroom was new and was loaded with authority. Its owner was more than six feet tall and wore the light gray shirt, dark gray tie and Stetson hat of the North Carolina State Police. “I have four state troopers here. Two of them can take him to the county jail.”

“You are, sir?”

“Phillip Sebolt, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Sebolt. Your courtesy is much appreciated.

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

“I’m here for two reasons, Sheriff Matthews. One is to inspect your station here and confirm that you qualify for the grants your town clerk has applied for. One look tells me that you certainly qualify on grounds of need. The other thing I need to confirm is that you are a bona fide police force. That brings me to the second reason for my visit here. There is a major problem in this area of contaminated meat and it has been traced to this town. I need to know what you know.”

Matthews was about to panic when Achillea cut across him. “Lieutenant Sebolt, I am detective Achillea Foyle. I work for the Rivers Detective Agency but they are providing my services to help set up a detective’s section for the Aurandel Police.”

Achillea reached into her bag and got out wallet containing her shield and identification, making sure that Matthews didn’t see what she was producing. It had the Rivers Agency ID on one side but on the other was her OSS shield and ID. Sebolt didn’t change his expression in the slightest as he handed the badge back. “I’ve heard of the Rivers Agency. Well-regarded by the FBI so I’m told.”

“Thank you. Our investigations here have shown that the rotten meat business is centered at the old AMARECO plant down by the railway. It was run by a man called Nathan Stauffer in partnership with a trucker named Lance Gillespie. We were closing in on Gillespie, hoping that we could use him to indict Stauffer. Unfortunately, Lance Gillespie and two of his associates were killed before we could arrest him. We believe Nathan Stauffer is responsible. Come and look at our incident room on this.”

Achillea was hard put to stop laughing at the expression on Matthews’ face as she led the way into a small room. She’d set up the photographs she had taken of the AMARECO plant, the train stopped and being unloaded and the trucks entering and leaving. Then she showed the pictures of the bullet-riddled bodies of Lance Gillespie and his men. There were casts of tire prints, collected shell casings from a Thompson gun and some footprints. “So, you can see, we didn’t know what Stauffer was doing in there, only that it was related to stealing from trains and distribution. That wasn’t enough for a search warrant of course. Now, we have enough evidence for that search warrant. With a little luck, we’ll find enough to pull in Nathan Stauffer.”

She went over to another corner of the room. “We’ve got another case here. Murder of Kimberley Brand, killed by an ice-pick. We’ve got little evidence to go on in this case but we suspect that she might have been killed by Lance Gillespie as an attack on Nathan Stauffer. Just after the killing, two of Stauffer’s men were clubbed to death in the parking lot of a local restaurant, again Lance Gillespie was the prime suspect. We think this is why Stauffer killed him. Finally, an insurance assessor named Raymond Lowrey was shot down in the town park. That crime doesn’t fit yet.”

Sebolt was shocked. “You’ve got what amounts to a war going on here. I thought you said Gillespie was in partnership with Stauffer?”

“He as; but we think he changed sides and the killings were a demonstration of good faith as it were. Heckman is making a play to take the whole town over; hence the show of force we made at the Courthouse. That’s why we need those Federal grants, Lieutenant. This police department is outgunned and outnumbered.” Achillea sounded thoughtful and concerned which wasn’t far from the truth.

“I can say for certain that this is the most under-resourced police department I’ve ever seen. Yet, Sheriff Matthews, for all your lack of resources, you’ve done a pretty competent job of investigation here.” Sebolt had very little doubt over who had done the real investigation but Matthews was the man in charge. Credit, like blame, went to the top. “I assume we’re going to have a look inside that AMARECO plant?”

“My force is.” Matthews spoke firmly. “This is our town and our responsibility. We’d appreciate any help ya people can provide though.”

Sebolt looked around the incident room and across the corridor to where Emelia was setting up to work on the town files. “You got good friends here Sheriff. When we got told the Aurandel Police Department was applying for these grants, we all had a good laugh. But, I’ve known Emelia for years and she’s the best county clerk Brucie has ever had. When she called in some markers we owed her, we gave you the hearing she asked us to. Achillea here has done a good job on getting your detective division set up. Now you’ve just told me you know when to ask for help. My report will recommend you get your grants. Now, serious advice. If the word we’re getting on this diseased meat is right, we’re dealing with bad things here. I can put in a call and get a team from the Arnold Pellatiere Infectious Diseases Center down here. They will come down by Rotodyne and be here by the time Chris and Sammy get back from taking your prisoner to the Brucie County Jail. My other two troopers can stay here and maintain the watch while I come with you and the team to see what’s going on at the AMARECO plant.

“Sounds good, Lieutenant. But one thing. I’ve known Nathan Stauffer for a long time. Ya'all saying this meat business is big. Well, he ain’t that smart. He’s got to be a front for somebody who seems legitimate.”

“Ain’t that always the way?” Sebolt sighed resignedly.

[Calder]

Chapter 14
Outside the AMARECO Plant, Aurandel

“The team from the Arnold Pellatiere Center are ten minutes out. Chris and Sammy are coming in from Windsor; they’ll be at the south end of West Pearl any minute.” Phillip Sebolt had just come off the radio in his own cruiser.

“I’ve got Porky and Cousin Joe at the north end of West Pearl with one of the Javelins. When we go through the gates at the end of South Bell, whoever is inside will have nowhere to run to.” Matthews had been on the radio as well and the whole Aurandel police force was assembling outside the AMARECO plant. Two state troopers were holding the fort at the police station. That meant thirteen police officers and one detective were about to launch the raid. It was the biggest police operation in Aurandel in many, many years.

“You’d better let my cruiser burst the front gates open. It’s got bull-bars fitted; none of yours have.” Sebolt knew that, by rights, Matthews should lead the way in but his cars were poorly-equipped for the job and could easily end up with a crushed front end.

“Porky’s probably going to do that to his Javelin when he takes down the side gate. How long have you had bull-bars like that?”

“They’re pretty new. Look, Pete, your boys have been out of circulation for quite a while. One of the grants you can get is like a scholarship. It pays for police officers from smaller forces to go on refresher courses. Teaches them about new techniques and equipment. Your people can use it.” Sebolt hesitated. “Are all your officers really cousins?”

Matthews snorted. “Mostly, yeah. Round here, family is the only thin’ a man can trust. Cousin ‘Lea, she’s honorary cousin ‘cos she saved ma life when ah was getting’ beat to death. But, we’re all family.”

“Who tried to kill you?” Sebolt was curious.

“We don’t rightly kno . . . .”

“Heckman. Fred Heckman.” Achillea was leaning by the window of the cruiser. “I didn’t know for sure until last night when Grace and Reeve brought Cuozzo in. He kept referring to Heckman as Heck and that got me thinking. All Heckman’s underlings call him Heck. Remember the last one of the three men who attacked you Pete? I asked him, ‘Who sent you, why?’ He said ‘Heck, I don’t kno . . .’ and died. I thought then that he was saying ‘Heck, I don’t know.’ But, Pete, he was a dying man and knew it. He wouldn’t waste his last few breaths with something meaningless. I asked two questions and he gave me two answers. ‘Who sent you?’ answer, ‘Heck’. ‘Why?’ answer, ‘I don’t know’. He told me Heckman sent them and I missed it.”

“Err, before he died?” Sebolt picked up on that.

“I killed all three men who tried to kill the Sheriff. We’re keeping it quiet so the person responsible didn’t know why his attack failed. Now we know it was Heckman, we know why he’s been sweating. What we don’t know is why he ordered the attack.”

“Phil, we held a proper inquest immediately after the fight. Judge ruled it was three cases of justifiable homicide. Cousin Grace had it written up by dawn next day. It’s in the town records, we jus’ ain’t made it public quite yet.”

Sebolt was just about to ask some more questions about that night when the radio squawked again and his curiosity remained unsatisfied. “Time to go. The teams on West Pearl are about to go in.” He watched as Achillea swung into the back seat of his cruiser, noting her undoubted athletic ability but still finding it hard to believe that she had killed three men in a single fight. Surely, Matthews and his ‘cousins’ are pulling my leg. Then, he led the way down South Bell Street.

Ahead of the column of three police cruisers was the main gate of the AMARECO plant. It wasn’t very impressive; a standard industrial chain link fence on a steel tubing frame. The gates were simply sections of that fence with chain loops as hinges and a simple padlocked loop keeping them closed. They were no match for a heavy State Police cruiser that had been fitted with bull-bars for the specific purpose of bursting open such gates. The two town police cruisers followed the State vehicle in and the three formed a line across the semi-derelict parking area.

Inside the AMARECO Plant, Aurandel

Achillea saw at least a dozen men had run from the AMARECO plant when the gates had been broken down. Initially, at least, they had made a run for the gate that led on to the north end of West Pearl Street but the sight of another police cruiser, albeit one with its front end damaged and steam coming from under the hood, stopped them. The sight of two town police getting out made them forget about any hope of getting away through that gate. They then attempted to run south, towards the railway tracks but a State Police cruiser was already through the gates at that end and coming up towards them, blocking any escape by that route. It stopped and two state police officers got out. The fugitives from the factory turned again, only to see the line of three cruisers blocking the last way out. At that point, they did what they should have done to start with and split up, each trying to make his own way out. A few seconds before, it might have worked but now they were encircled by the police and the officers simply split up after them. With twelve gangsters and thirteen police officers chasing each other around the derelict yard, the situation looked vaguely reminiscent of an old-time comedy film.

The fourteenth was Achillea who had evaluated the situation and decided that running around in circles was pointless and beneath her dignity. She simply waited by one of the cruisers until a gangster tried to make a break past her. Then she stretched out a foot and hooked one of his legs out from under him. He went down with a crash that shook the car she was leaning up against and, incidentally, knocked him out. While Porky was cuffing his senseless body and stuffing him into the back of the cruiser. Grace Pettigrew was already bringing her arrestee in, handcuffed and with her shotgun pointing at his groin. He seemed remarkably determined not to offend her. That situation being well under control, Achillea went for a quiet walk to see if anybody else needed a hand.

It was Sebolt who had got himself into trouble. He’d obviously decided that rank and status meant he was morally obliged to tackle the biggest of the gangsters. As a result, he had bitten off slightly more than he could chew and the gunmen was trying to pull Sebolt’s gun from its holster. Fortunately, it was a retention holster but the struggle going on between the two men was grimly life or death. Achillea walked over to the fight, stopped to survey it for a second and then slammed the heel of her left hand into the gangster’s right kidney. The man arched upwards as the shock and pain of the blow seized him. Achillea followed through with a second strike under his chin. She heard the crackle of bone as his jaw fragmented and he slumped to the ground, out cold.

“Thank you.” Sebolt was breathing heavily, partly from exertion, partly from nervous stress.

“That’ll cost you dinner. An expensive dinner.” Achillea smiled to take the sting out of the words although privately she thought the State Police officer had let his desire to show off get the better of him.

“At the best restaurant in Raleigh. We’ve got a really good Italian place in town. If you like Italian.” Sebolt looked around. The situation was under control with the handcuffed gangsters being assembled by the four working police cars. With Lance Gillespie gone the way of all flesh, Achillea guessed that the damaged Javelin wouldn’t be fixed for a long time.

“It’s a date.” Achillea was going to add some more but a curious whistling whine cut her off. She knew what it was and it was a comfortingly familiar noise to her, one that put her in mind of other, more mainstream towns. The Rotodyne though caused excitement in Aurandel as it came in to land. People hadn’t come out to watch the fight in the AMARECO plant but they did leave their houses to watch the white-painted Rotodyne with its green stripe down the fuselage and the red crosses painted on the side. Achillea noted something else, something virtually everybody missed. It was the red, white and blue tricolor painted on the nose, under the cockpit. Every Rotodyne used by the Arnold Pellatiere Center carried that marking in honor of the French doctor who had died to warn the rest of the world about the deadly danger of the Blackpox plague.

The Rotodyne touched down well clear of the area occupied by the police. Then, the tail ramp dropped and men in the white coveralls of a medical emergency team disembarked. That caused Achillea to raise her eyebrows slightly. Normally these teams had at least some women with them. This time there were none. One of the team collected Grace Pettigrew and brought her over to where Achillea was lounging against a police car.

“Are you the only two women here?” The man was brusque and to the point. Achillea nodded; she didn’t want the doctor to have to try and understand Grace Pettigrew’s accent quite yet. The man relaxed slightly. “Have either of you been in the main building? Where the contaminated product is believed to be.”

“Whaat’s gahin ahn, Dahk?”

The man blinked slightly as he translated the exaggerated Dixieland drawl. “The disease here is Swine brucellosis. There may be others but that’s the one we’re worried about. The bacteria responsible for the disease is a serious abortificant. A swine brucellosis outbreak will really do a number on a herd of pigs; it’ll cut the live birth rate down to negligible proportions. It’ll also infect humans and if either of you are pregnant, you will lose the baby. So you keep out of there. In fact, I’d be happier if you kept a long way away from this plant.”

“Not a problem for me Doc, I can’t have children.” Achillea was actually shocked by the seriousness with which the medical team were treating the situation.

“Naw meah Dahk. Cahn shureleigh bee cayrten ah ain’t in the fahmileah way.”

The doctor shook his head. “The bacterium can remain resident in the host’s system. If it does, and you get pregnant in the future, you could still lose your baby.”

Grace’s eyes went round at that “Dayum. Ayn’t theyah nawthin ya’all cahn do?”

“No, Officer. There are treatment protocols but the efficiency is low and the relapse rate very high. You’re better off staying out of this.”

The doctor went off to join the crew preparing to search the buildings. Achillea and Grace watched the police officers being given contamination prevention suits and face masks. Grace turned to look at Achillea with tears in the corners of her eyes. “Cahsin ‘Lea, ah’m so sahrry.”

Achillea looked at her, seriously confused. “Thank you, but why? We’re clear and we got warned in time.”

“Ah heared ya’all say abaht naht havin’ bahbies. Thaat’s sah sahd. Ahh ya’all sure?”

Achillea nodded. “Very sure. I’m as barren as they come. Way I live, that’s probably a good thing. You were very sure about not being pregnant?”

Grace gave her a friendly grin. “Whaa, Cahsin ‘Lea, didn’t ya mammy tell ya’all that tha’s thin’s a gahl has to do befah ah bahbee comes? And mah weddin night, mah man will gaht a preysant ain’t nobahdy had befah.”

Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“And so, what’s the verdict?” Emelia Souza sipped delicately at her cup of tea. The truth was she relished being back at work and feeling the sense of achievement that came with the end of a well-spent day. Watching Achillea demolishing the power structure that had turned Aurandel into a slum also filled her with a fierce glee, unmatched since the day she had watched Sherman’s bummers burning down the plantation house she’d worked in.

“The medical people from the Pellatiere Center wouldn’t let Grace or I anywhere near that site. In fact, they sprayed everybody who went into the place down after they came out. I talked to Doctor Costa about it though. The whole place was contaminated. Swine and Avian brucellosis just to name the nastiest. He explained to the men who’d been working there just what they had been exposed to, putting pretty heavy stress on the sterility and fertility issues. They thought about that for a few seconds and then sang like birds. We got the whole story out of them. Stauffer gets a heads-up from the factory farms when a train carrying diseased meat is on its way through. Mostly pork, chicken and turkeys. They unload the meat and try and cut the obviously-infected bits out and sell the rest to meat processors. Gillespie was paid to take the meat to processors a long, long way away. Only, he didn’t. He sold the meat as cut pieces to various businesses, some local, some national, and pocketed the difference.”

“I hope he thought the money he got was worth it.” Emelia obviously hadn’t yet realized the implications of what had happened.

“It couldn’t be. The team from the Pellatiere Center are horrified. It’s not just the original meat that’s infected. When it was sold to local markets and butchers, they cut it as well, into retail portions. When they did that, they contaminated all of their equipment. That transferred, or might have transferred, the infection to uncontaminated supplies. Their staff is working on the assumption that the whole meat supply chain has been infected. There might not be a safe piece of meat in the country. We’re going in to Nathan Stauffer’s business in a couple of hours and we’ll try and get a handle on exactly what has been going on. My bet is, he doesn’t know. We’ll then hit the factory farm owners tomorrow and try and find out what they know. They’re behind all of this but whether we’ll ever prove it is another matter.”

“You might not believe this, but there may be a worse problem looming.” Emelia had the sort of ghoulish relish in her voice that spoke of impending disaster. “I think I’ve worked out what’s going on here. Well, not just here. What got Ray Lowrey killed. Remember you were telling me about a bank manager laundering money for gangsters, well, that got me thinking. You see, I can understand how a gangster could mortgage a property for clean cash and make the mortgage payments with dirty money. What I couldn’t understand is how the gangsters could explain how they got the money to make those payments.”

“I suppose nobody asked.” Achillea wasn’t seeing where this was going.

“Oh, somebody would have asked. Ever since Appalachin, getting on for twenty years ago, the FBI have been watching organized crime. In some ways, all the smartest mobsters moving out to Cuba helped them. It just left them with the Nathan Stauffers of this world to deal with. Anyway, if a gangster spends money, he has to explain where it came from or he gets the Al Capone treatment. So, how do they make the mortgage payments? Well, I was in the Raleigh City Hall getting all Matthew’s paperwork sorted out and there was a message on the public address system. The septic system had backed up and all the restrooms were unusable. That kind of inspired me. Achillea, laundering means taking dirty money and making it clean, for a substantial fee of course. Right?”

Achillea nodded. She still couldn’t see where this was going. Emelia, if anything looked even smugger,

“Suppose we turn this on its head. Suppose we create a system that takes in clean money and makes it dirty – at an enormous profit of course. Take a Savings and Loan. People save their money in it and it makes loans to people for property right? Well, all that money going in is clean. So, the Savings and Loan makes a big loan to a gangster as a mortgage on his property. Only, they get together and split the money three ways. One part goes to the gangster, one to the Savings and Loan as a slush fund and the balance gets used to make the payments on the mortgage. Now, the incredible thing is, this doesn’t make any difference to the apparent financial health of the Savings and Loan. All they have done is replaced a pile of cash money with a piece of paper that says they own an asset of equivalent value. I really doubt if the auditors would pick it up.”

“But the money will run out long before the mortgage is paid off.” Achillea’s head was beginning to hurt.

‘It will, there’s a financial term for this kind of arrangement. It’s called a self-licking ice cream cone. So, this is the clever bit. When the money runs out, they refinance the mortgage. To do that they have to inflate the value of the property. That means the surveyors have to be crooked and there isn’t a place more crooked than Aurandel. The only problem is, they have to have insurance otherwise the auditors really will get suspicious. That’s easy though, they just quote increasing levels of business and so on. The country has been on a steadily rising prosperity tide for almost thirty years now so that’s hardly unbelievable. So, they refinance the mortgage for another large chunk of change, some goes to the gangster, some to the bank management, the rest goes to paying off the mortgage. And when that runs dry, they refinance again and again and again. And you do that for businesses in towns like Aurandel all over the country. It’s a pretty foolproof system. I bet they’ve got life insurance on people who don’t exist as well as on properties far in excess of their real value. That’s why Heckman has been taking over businesses. He takes control of them and mortgages them. All the ‘Union money’ that’s been coming in? That’s the cash flow from the mortgage racket. Lowrey must have realized the reason why all the businesses in Aurandel are so heavily over-mortgaged and put the racket together. Either he talked too much or he used a telephone and somebody was listening in and they silenced him

“Then, you burned Queenies Bar and Grill down. Made it so obviously an arson attack that an inquiry started. This gave the whole conspiracy a real problem. If the insurance company fails to pay up because the business was grossly over-insured and then written off in an arson attack, then it’s going to start a lot more investigations. Pretty quickly, they’ll spot that the pieces of paper that allegedly represent assets owned by the bank are worthless. The Savings and Loans will have a mountain of debt and no assets to cover it. All the funds invested in them have vanished, gone to money heaven. The entire edifice will cave in.”

“So, Southern Savings and Loan will fail taking its investors with it.”

Emelia shook her head in frustration. “You’re still not getting it. If just one Savings and Loan was involved in this, they would stick out like a sore thumb. They’d be mortgaging properties for many times what they were really worth and equally many times what their rivals were doing. The regulators would spot it in a moment. They’ve all got to be doing this. The whole national Savings and Loan industry is a vast pile of debt, anchored on grossly inflated property values. And you’ve just kicked the props out from under it.”

[Calder]

Chapter 15
Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

“Have we got the warrants?” Sebolt needed only one glance at Pete Matthew’s grinning face to know that he had indeed taken delivery of the paperwork. Just how valid is a search warrant when the awarding judge was the sheriff’s uncle?

“We surely have. Search warrant for the Painted Lady Club, arrest warrant for Nathan Stauffer on multiple charges.” Matthews wasn’t troubled by the same concerns; going to a judge for a warrant was a new experience for him so he really didn’t have anything to gauge the matter by. “We’d better mount up. Cousin ‘Lea, ya want to ride with me in the Matador?”

“I’ll drive.” Achillea hurried on before Matthews could argue. “You getting the Fury out of store?”

“Surely am. With one Javelin down, we ain’t got much choice there.”

“I hope it doesn’t get wrecked. The ’58 Fury is a classic.” A lifelong vintage car enthusiast, Sebolt looked at the near derelict police cruiser with true pain. “You should donate it to a museum. I don’t think there is another ’58 Fury cruiser left. Get some enthusiasts to restore it and you’ve got a treasure there.”

Once more a column of police cars left the newly-revitalized police station. This time, Sebolt had left his State Police cruiser in the station parking lot. This time he was along as a guest and as a courtesy. They proceeded down Main Street until they arrived at the Aurandel Interdenominational Church Building. Then the three cars split up, one parking on each side while Achillea pulled the Packard Matador up at the front. The sight of the building made Matthews distinctly and obviously uncomfortable. He found seeing the ring of trees where he had been ambushed and nearly killed a chilling reminder of something he would dearly like to forget. That was when those same woods suddenly lit up as a black sedan tried to make a break through the circle on to Broad Street beyond them.

“That’s Stauffer. He’s making a run for it.” Achillea reached down and flipped on the police lights, seeing the red, white and blue reflecting off the buildings around them. She was already accelerating fast and she heard the tires squealing in protest as she followed Stauffer’s sedan on to Broad Street. Behind her, she saw the headlights of the remaining Studebaker Javelin dipping as it raced across the rough ground to join in the chase. “Who’s in the Javelin?”

“Cousin Joe and Cousin Tony.”

Achillea’s mouth twisted slightly. They weren’t the most skilled of the group but at least she had some back-up. Ahead of them, the powerful Lincoln Continental had widened the gap between it and the Matador, aided by the long, straight road. Achillea’s unusually acute night vision could make out the sight of Stauffer hunched over the steering wheel of the Lincoln. Her own pose was casual to the point of being relaxed despite the speed at which she was driving. She was laid back in the seat, holding the wheel with one hand, leaving the other free for any emergencies that might arise. The scattered house lights were flashing past and she could hear the sound of her engine and siren pulsing off the walls of the buildings that lined Broad Street.

“Comin’ up on the crossing with Canal Street.” Matthews was trying to keep his voice steady as the Matador kept accelerating. It was nothing personal, he just hated being a passenger in cars. Ahead of them, Stauffer raced through the four-way, causing another vehicle to spin as it avoided a collision. “That’s a five-oh-five A and a five-one-zero.”

“Spoken like a true police officer.” Achillea flashed him a smile. “If we carry on down here, we’ll cross the railway line soon. There is a crossing I hope.”

“Uncontrolled. Ya better hope there isn’t a train coming.”

Achillea took a quick look in the mirror. The Javelin had closed right up behind her Matador and was sitting off to the left. “That Javelin is fast.”

“They’re good cars. Shame about the one Porky busted up going through that gate.”

The Matador lurched and bounced as Achillea hit the intersection at high speed. “Put your safety belt on Pete. Or you could lose your teeth on the dash.” She watched out of the corner of her eye and Matthews struggled with the belt and finally clipped it into place. She glanced into the mirror again. The Javelin was still just behind her, its lights flashing and its siren wailing. Far behind them, she could see another set of lights topped by flashing red, white and blue. That was probably Sebolt, Grace and Reeve in the Fury desperately trying to catch up. All around them, house lights were coming on as the commotion caused by racing engines and the blaring sirens woke people up and they tried to see what was causing all the fuss.

“Railway crossing comin’ up.” Matthews spoke with a voice that was distorted by a set of tightly-clenched teeth. Ahead of them, the black sedan dipped and rolled as it hit the railway tracks and a shower of sparks flashed out from underneath where the oil pan grounded. Achillea quietly hoped that the damage would be enough to stop the Lincoln before anybody got hurt. She was straining her night vision to its limits in case a dog or deer ran out in front of them. That made it fortunate this chase was taking place when it did. People wouldn’t be out on the roads.

She swerved, placing the car at an angle across the rails rather than the perpendicular impact that Stauffer had inflicted on his vehicle. As a result, the car rolled lot more but the pitch was far less and there was no ugly grating sound of the chassis grounding. Behind her, Joe and Tony in the Javelin had seen what she had done, guessed why and copied her. Matthews saw them do it. “I should have guessed ya’all can drive as well as ya can fight.”

Achillea returned the smile. “You should see my boss. He’s the one who can really drive.” And, the gods know, he’s had enough practice.

The road had widened slightly where it crossed the railway tracks and the Javelin used the chance to overtake Achillea’s Matador and assume the lead. That actually suited her well enough, there was something wrong about this chase. “Where does this road go from here?”

Matthews thought for a second. “More houses, mostly boarded up. Some gone. At the end, there’s a hard right and we join South Commerce. That’ll take him right to State Eleven. Ah think he’s runnin’ for eleven.”

“There’s something wrong here Pete. He could have separated away from us by now. That Lincoln has twice as much engine power as we do and fifty percent more than the Javelin. He’s leading us. Where did you say that turning was?”

Matthews froze for a second as he put the pieces together. “About half a mile ahead. God Lord almighty, he’s walking us into an ambush.” Then he grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, Lincoln one-zero, in pursuit on Broad Street. Tell Cousin Joe and Tony, we’re heading into an ambush. This is a set-up.”

At the speeds the cars were doing, there was less than 20 seconds to react and the Aurandel dispatch system didn’t even come close to making it. Achillea saw the 90 degree bend in the road ahead of them and watched the suspension on one side of Stauffer’s car sagging as he started to make the high-speed turn that it demanded. He flattened the curve as much as he could, crossing over to the left hand side of the road before making the turn but it didn’t help him that much. Nothing would have done.

Achillea saw what was waiting for him. Parked a little past the junction where Broad Street joined South Commerce was a wagon with its tailgate raised. Stauffer was half way around the turn with one side of his car almost scraping the road surface and his tires howling in protest when a long jet of white flame shot out of the opened rear of the wagon. The sound of the burst was drowned out by the cacophony of car engines, squealing tires and blaring sirens but she still recognized the firing signature. It was an M-81 machine gun The only thing that saved the crew of Lincoln Two – Zero was that it wasn’t aimed at them. Instead, it spewed 1,500 rounds per minute at Nathan Stauffer’s Lincoln.

Everything seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. She watched the big Lincoln stagger with the impacts from the long burst, every section of glass on the vehicle seeming to shatter in the same instant. It spun around, the .27-59 bullets still slamming into the bodywork, sending fragments flying into the air. The tires had given up the unequal battle to keep the car on the road even before the machine gun hits tore them apart. The Lincoln went off the road, then rolled over as it slammed into the curve. It came to rest in the middle of the same patch of trees where Kimberley Brand’s body had been found.

The Javelin was more agile and maneuverable than the big Lincoln and it would have made the turn. Only, a few stray rounds from the machine gun had hit it, shattering the windscreen and sending the hood arching upwards on a cloud of steam from a ruptured radiator. The car spun around several times before it flipped over and bounced down the road in a way that reminded her of a steel helmet she had thrown away once. It ended up upside down and spinning around on its roof.

Achillea had already hit the brakes and was swerving in an effort to avoid the wreckage of the Javelin, evade getting hit by any more stray bullets and bring the car to a stop. She managed the first and last but she still heard the dull thumps as at least three .27-59s slammed into the bodywork. Even while she was doing so, she was able to see the people in the wagon pull down the tailgate and roar off towards State Highway Eleven. One less problem unless they’ve left a sniper here. I hope they know enough not to touch the barrel of that machine gun. After a burst like that, the barrel will be white hot and burned out. Then she was out of the car and running towards the wrecked Javelin.

She could smell the fuel pouring from the ruptured gas tank long before she got to the wreck. The fuel cap and come off and the contents of the tank were streaming out on the road. She could see one of the crew struggling with the door but it was jammed tight. Inside, Cousin Tony was fighting with the frozen door handle, crying in desperate terror from the knowledge it would be only a few seconds before the gasoline exploded. Achillea took hold of the external door handle, braced herself and pulled with all the strength she could muster. Pete Matthews, at least twenty feet away, swore that he could see her shoulder muscles bulging with the effort of ripping the door open. There was a grinding sound, the noise of metal reluctantly giving way and the door opened. She drew her bowie knife, reached in and slashed through the seat belt. Then she had the struggling Tony by the shoulders and heaved him clear of the wreck. She virtually threw him at Matthews “Get him out of here.”

That left Cousin Joe. She ran around to the other side of the car, feeling the gasoline soaking her feet as she did so. He was behind the wheel, motionless. Already a flicker of flame was running along the top of the overturned car and she knew she had seconds left at best. Once again she ripped the car door open, slashed through the seat belt and started to pull the man inside clear. This time it was easier, he was unconscious and the limp body was easier to maneuver. She saw the two red splotches on Cousin Joe’s shirt. The one high on the shoulder won’t be a problem but the one low in the center of the chest is really bad. Then, he was out and she was dragging him backwards from the car. They were nearly clear when the wreck exploded into flame. She felt the heat wash from the fire, strong enough to sting her face, but they’d just made it. She put his body down beside the Matador, checking the pulse as she did so. Very weak, very thready.

“Whaah, that mahst beah thea brahvest thin’ ah’ve eveah seaan.”

That has to be Cousin Grace. Achillea looked around and saw her standing beside the Fury that had just pulled up. She has her virtues but she still has a lot to learn. Starting with not silhouetting herself against a fire.

“I’ll second that.” Sebolt got out of the back seat of the old Fury, his face wrinkled from the foul smell in the back. Having sat there, Achillea could sympathize with him. “You’ve lost your eyebrows by the way. And you’ve got a widow’s peak now.”

Achillea reached up and touched her face. The skin on her face still felt as if she had a severe sunburn and she could feel the front of her hair was crisped. Her eyebrows smelled burned. “Ah well, I never liked them. Pete, we need to get a flying ambulance here. Joe’s hit real bad. Two rifle-caliber bullets in the chest. I’m going to see what’s become of Nathan Stauffer.”

She left the rest of the crew doing what they could for Joe Claiborne while she set off for the wreckage of Stauffer’s car. It had rolled at least fifty yards off the road before it had come to a halt. The combination of the high-velocity .276 rounds and the sheer rate of fire of the M-81 had torn the whole front of the car apart. How Stauffer was still alive surprised Achillea but he was. For a while at least. He’d been hit more than a dozen times yet he’d still had the strength to pull himself from the wreckage. She’d seen that before. Some people died almost instantly from wounds so tiny that they could hardly be seen while others had taken hours to die from injuries that left their bodies torn apart. She approached him carefully, aware that even a dying snake had a lethal bite, and noted that the area around her was familiar. It took her a second to place it. This was where Kimberley Brand had died.

“It’s you.” There was no antagonism in Stauffer’s voice although he was having difficulty speaking. “The bastards, they told me they would cover my escape if I got this far. Should have known they would be laying for me.”

“Who’s they, Nathan?”

“Pendlewood. Called them, told them about the raid. They told me to get away, to come here if I was followed. Should have known. She said I would die here too.”

“Kimberley? Why did you kill her Nathan?” Achillea spoke quietly and softly.

“She knew she was on the way out. Thought one of the girls was making a play to replace her. Smacked her around, scratched up her face. Those runaways, only thing they got is their looks. She tried to take that away from her. That finished her for me. I dragged her out here, told her I was going to leave her. Said whoever found her could have her. She just screamed at me, kept needling, picking away at me. So I stabbed her. Told her she was fat and ugly and nobody wanted her now. Then I left her bleeding.”

“I talked to our Frisco friend, Nathan. He said he wants you to run a crew for him if you get out of this.”

“I ain’t gettin’ out of this. Damn thing is that Heckman’s won.”

“No, he hasn’t. He’ll be joining you very soon now.

Stauffer tried to laugh but he was too badly shot up. “I shoulda . . . . . . . .”

Achillea had argued many times with many people about a death shadow on people’s faces. Mostly they were those who had never seen a person die and didn’t know what it meant. Achillea had watched more people die than they could possibly have realized and she did know. She saw the dark shadow start around Nathan Stauffer’s eyes and sweep down across his face, leaving the once-living flesh a waxy white mask. Once the shadow had passed, the difference between a living face and a dead one was so profound that it was hard to believe they had once been the same.

“Ah gaht ahl ahhve thaht.” Grace Pettigrew was standing just out of sight and had taken down Stauffer’s statement in her notebook. “We sahlved thea Brahnd mahder.”

“There’s a friend of mine, a Broadway Baby. She says all a girl needs to make sure a man adores her is to know when to shut up. Kimberley Brand never learned that I guess.”

“Haahhl ahv ah thing to daieh fah. Stauffah desarved whaat heah gaht.”

“I’ve known a lot worse men that Nathan Stauffer, Grace. He was close to the bottom of the barrel but he wasn’t all the way down. Heckman, on the other hand . . .”

Her voice was drowned out as, for the second time in a day, a white-painted rotodyne with a green stripe and red crosses swung in to land. It was much smaller than the one that had brought the team from the Arnold Pellatiere Center and had jets on its wings instead of turboprops. It lowered its undercarriage and settled down, the tail ramp dropping almost as soon as it touched ground. The paramedics ran out and started hurrying the gurney with Cousin Joe on it into the back. From where she stood, she could see the inside looked like a fair imitation of an intensive care unit. One of the paramedics looked over at her and she gave a thumbs down sign. Odd, everybody thinks the Romans used that to indicate death but they didn’t. The sign to kill was a horizontal slash with the hand held like a blade.

She watched the rotodyne taking off as she walked back to where the fire engulfing the Javelin had subsided down to a dull glow. Overhead, the aircraft changed from vertical to horizontal flight and accelerated away. The medevac rotodyne was almost 150 knots faster than its bigger cousins. Cousin Joe will be in hospital pretty damned fast Achillea surprised herself by caring.

Tony Rosario came out to meet her before she reached the knot of police vehicles. “Cousin ‘Lea, I need to thank you. I woulda be burned up if it hadn’t been for you. All I could think about in that car was the gas catchin’ fire and me burnin’. Then you came and pulled me out. I don’ know how you opened that door but you did and I’m here now because of it. If you ever need a safe cracked, just ask.”

“I don’t think a police officer is supposed to make offers like that.” Achillea flashed him a grin. “As for the rest, when your day to die comes, that’ll be your day. Today just wasn’t the one. How’s Cousin Joe?”

Tony lost the embarrassed look he had been sporting and replaced it with one of sheer distress. “Bad, very bad. You say how that ‘dyne took off. One bullet shattered his shoulder blade, the other hit his liver. Both broke up inside. Medic’s say there’s a whole lot of internal damage in there.”

“Twenty-seven fifty-nine is a bad bullet to take a hit from. Stauffer took a dozen of them and he didn’t make it. He lived long enough to point a finger though.”

[Calder]

Chapter 16
CEO Suite, Pendlewood Farms Head Office Building, Colerain, North Carolina

“Of course as the main employer around here, we take our responsibility to the community very seriously.” Chief Executive Officer Randolph Bragan leaned forward, one hand massaging his chin reflectively. “In a very real sense, the welfare of the local community is our welfare as well. After all, we are part of it, everything is connected and in looking after it, we also look after ourselves.”

“Quite.” Supervisory Agent Michael Delgado looked at Bragan without the slightest shred of sympathy. “So, that being the case, can you explain how so much meat that is rotten and infected with Brucellosis is getting into the community you feel so responsible for?”

“It’s a mystery to us.” Bragan leaned forward, his whole pose and demeanor shrieking sincerity. “We have strict controls on our animals. We have inspectors from the USDA who look into our animal handling practices, inspect the meat and check for any infections. If a carcass is found to be sub-standard in any way, it’s condemned and isolated immediately. Agent Delgado, the Department of Agriculture will tell you, it doesn’t just hold us to the law, as an act of policy this company cooperates with them to go far beyond what the law demands.”

“The Director of Agriculture doesn’t have to explain anything to me.” Delgado sighed, a touch theatrically, “But he and my Director are briefing the President on this matter while we speak. The President is very concerned, and with an election coming up soon, he is looking for solutions.”

“To be completely honest with you, while here at Pendlewood Farms we have the welfare of the community close to our hearts, I suspect that some of the small farmers may not be so well-intentioned. It’s not their fault of course, but a small operation by definition runs on a tight margin. Complying with regulations that protect the consumer is no great problem for us but for them it represents an onerous burden. Perhaps cutting corners was only to be expected if the alternative was going out of business.”

“The quantities of meat we are talking about here is far in excess of anything small operations could supply. The whole meat chain east of the Mississippi is probably contaminated. Agriculture is carrying out a crash program of recalling and inspecting meat right across the country. Most of it is safe to eat of course, but the level of contamination is far more than anybody could regard as acceptable. Mister Bragan, for the first time in more than two hundred years, America is facing Thanksgiving without turkeys. Rightly or wrongly, it’s these giant factory farms that the American public holds responsible for that prospect.”

“If I might ask a question.” Delgado’s partner lifted her pen up. “What happens to the meat that is condemned by the USDA?”

“We pay a specialist contractor to dispose of the carcasses in a customized facility, Miss . . . ?”

“Margolis-Jacobs. Which specialized contractor Mr. Bragan?”

“Please call me Randolph, everybody does. What’s your first name?” Bragan’s smile was almost as infectious as his meat.

“Agent. Which contractor Mr. Bragan?”

“A company over in Aurandel. It’s called AMARECO. Our contact there was a Mister Stauffer. We have copies of all our contracts with him. It plainly specifies that he takes delivery of the condemned meat and incinerates it in approved facilities.”

“I’ll need to see those contracts immediately. And have you ever inspected those facilities?”

“Of course. The facility was originally designed for material reclamation but the furnaces there have been converted into incinerators for waste materials. With a disease as infectious and dangerous as Brucellosis, high-temperature incineration is the only safe choice. I’ve already asked my secretary to bring copies of our disposal contracts up here. I’ve had extra copies run so you can take them away with you. I would suggest you go through them with Mister Stauffer and he’ll explain everything. It’s a simple deal though. We pay him to incinerate the meat on a flat rate per ton. We weigh the condemned meat before it leaves here and he returns an inventory of the meat he has burned. We make sure there is no discrepancy.”

“Talking with Mister Stauffer will be difficult.” Phillip Sebolt wore his most solemn and distraught expression. “He was killed last night, ambushed on a road near Aurandel. The killers used military-grade machine guns. Took two of our officers out in the process. I need hardly tell you, Mr Bragan, the killing of a State Police officer, let alone two, is not something that gets treated lightly.”

Bragan looked shocked and to Achillea’s practiced eye, a lot of it was genuine. Not all of it though. She knew he was behind the killing of Stauffer but he obviously didn’t expect word that two State Troopers had been killed. That didn’t surprise her since they were all still alive and well. Only Cousin Joe had been badly hurt and it was still unclear whether he would make it or not. “That’s terrible. We all hear the stories about Aurandel of course but to have something like that happen to a business partner. . . . And your men, Lieutenant. I am so sorry to hear of your loss.”

Car Park, Pendlewood Farms Head Office Building, Colerain, North Carolina

“Well, what do you think Miriam?”

Agent Miriam Margolis-Jacobs looked very thoughtful. “What I think is that he and Stauffer split the cash for destroying the contaminated meat between them and Stauffer had a side racket set up selling it. I’d bet he sold it to processing plants so that the treatment it would receive destroyed the infection – or so he hoped. He split the proceeds of that racket as well. I will bet that it wasn’t a 50:50 split either case and Stauffer wasn’t on the up side of that. Then, when things started to come apart, Bragan ordered Stauffer to kill Gillespie and then he had Stauffer killed to cut the connection between him and Bragan. We’ll never prove it of course. As far as the law is concerned, Bragan and Pendlewood Farms had a legal contract with Stauffer and were defrauded. They’ll be victims, not criminals. We’ll never take them down.”

Delgado looked at her and nodded. “Pretty good. We’ll discuss a few aspects of the case later but your summary is good as far as it goes.”

Margolis-Jacobs nodded. The conversation later would be Delgado telling her everything she had missed and why she should have spotted it. Delgado winked at her and then turned to the others. “Miriam’s one of our rising stars, we’ve been grooming her for ten years now. She finished her twenty weeks of basic last year and got the Directors Leadership Award at the end of it. Now, she’s doing our counter-intelligence course.”

The trainee agent flushed with embarrassment at the praise. Achillea, who knew more about the girl than anybody else suspected, nodded. “Impressive. So you think Bragan and Pendlewood Farms will walk away from this.”

Margolis-Jacobs nodded. “They will, unless we get really lucky. The USDA will put in all sorts of new controls; I hear they’re talking about individual carcass tracking. But, Bragan will walk.”

“Deos maledica illum ossibus comminuet, sit mentula quod putrescit et excidat, et canes, manducare corpus eius.”

Achillea muttered the curse quietly. Even so Delgado and Sebolt both heard it and exchanged confused looks. Not Margolis-Jacobs. She nodded reflectively. “That sounds appropriate. But, Achillea, if you don’t mind me saying so, you pronounced it wrong.”

“No,” said Achillea, “I didn’t.”

West Main Street, Aurandel.

Achillea wandered idly along the street, heading slowly in the general direction of Rice Street. When she and Sebolt had got back from the Pendlewood Farms facility, Matthews and his cousins were still trying to sort out the aftermath of the raid on the Painted Lady Club and the consequent death of Nathan Stauffer. The main problem was the runaways who had been working in the club. They just kept asking what they would do without Stauffer to look after them. Achillea had decided that any advice she could give would have run along the lines of “quit whining and stand on your own feet” and it wouldn’t have been helpful.

“Hey, you. Turn around slow.” The voice echoed around the road and made Achillea turn slowly. Two men, wearing raincoats and carrying shotguns menaced her. Achillea felt her mind drop into its combat mode, straining for every shred of information she could gather. Her eyes were focused on the faces of the two gunmen, waiting for the tiny, imperceptible tightening of skin around their eyes. They were within ten feet of her and that gave her a lot of options. Given that tiny shred of warning, she could take the shotgun out of the hands on the nearest man and use him as a shield against the shotgun blast from the other. She estimated the chance of success at doing that as being somewhere around two to one in her favor. Alternatively, she could use the split second of warning to go over the stone wall behind her. That would allow her to return fire while they reloaded the shotguns. She estimated the chance of pulling that off as being three to one in her favor. Then she saw the beads of sweat along the lips of the men and the way they were glancing at each other. They hadn’t been ordered to kill her and that made them afraid. They had no logical reason to believe that she was as dangerous to them as she was but their subliminal animal instincts were drawing on tiny clues and observations that were way below the threshold of consciousness yet caused those same instincts to scream warnings. “The Boss wants to see you.”

“He only had to ask.” Achillea’s voice was mild but it still made the men flinch. Still, the primitive instincts in their brains were screaming the warning that, despite there being two of them armed with shotguns, this woman they faced was deadly dangerous. The conflict between what those primitive instincts told them and what their experience and reason wanted them to believe was enough to slow and befuddle them. Achillea was neither slowed nor fuddled by the conflicting instincts. She knew what hers were telling her and why.

“Yeah, well, he sent us to bring you in. Now, get in the car.”

Achillea decided that would be fine with her. In the cramped conditions of a car, the shotguns would be useless and the odds in her favor went way up. One of the men had taken her Model 50 but she still had both her knives and her Colt .32. If the situation went bad, both men would be dead before they realized how inept they’d been.

Working Man’s Social Club, Rice Avenue, Aurandel

She had heard that the conditions inside the Working Man’s Social Club were no different from those in the Painted Lady and, at first glance, that seemed to be correct. It was only as she walked through the public bar area and into the rooms behind that she felt the difference. It was hard to put her finger on what was the cause of it but the difference was there. Finally it dawned on her. For all its faults and sleaziness, the Painted Lady Club had been a haven and the people in it counted themselves fortunate not to be somewhere worse. The Working Man’s Social Club was that somewhere worse. At that point, one of the two men with her opened a door leading to an office and the other pushed her through.

“Siddown. What the hell is going on with Stauffer’s mob?” Heckman was snarling, his lips curled back with a small trace of saliva running from one corner. He gave every appearance of being furiously angry but it took Achillea only a second to understand that he was really a very frightened man. Why, she didn’t know. He had no reason to believe in the dimension of the threat that she actually posed him. There was a cheap chair in front of the desk and she took it. In doing so, she glanced around the room, noting the position of Heckman and one of his gunmen. The other was outside, presumably to stop anybody entering the room.

“You wanted him screwed over. Nobody gets more screwed over than dead. Mind you, we did find out all about the property racket you’re part of. You really shouldn’t have overclaimed on Queenies you know. Not with all the others” The level of amusement in Achillea’s voice should have been a warning but it was one both men missed.

“I didn’t . . . ‘

“Oh, of course you did.” The amusement was replaced by mild annoyance. “Everybody does when they make an insurance claim. I know it, you know it, the companies know it. But, only a very stupid man would have over-claimed so outrageously when so much else was at stake.”

Achillea could almost read Heckman’s mind. He had blundered badly, exposed things that were best left in the dark and had painted himself into a corner. Now, in his limited imagination, the only way out was to commit another murder. Hers. Achillea decided that her opinion of this town was correct. Anybody who spent more than a few days here went blood-simple.

“All right then.” Heckman had forced his voice down to a facsimile of friendliness. “What does Matthews and his gang of fake cops know about the rest of it. Have they got proof?”

Achillea smiled brightly. “Of course.”

“Well?” Heckman was beginning to lose his temper again.

“Fred, you sent two men with shotguns to bring me in. That ended our contract right there. Whatever I found out is for me to know and you to worry about.”

Heckman seemed to inflate and his eyes were rimmed with brilliant red. “Al, take a handful of our guest’s hair and rip it out of her scalp. Repeat as necessary until she is either talking or bald.”

The man Heckman called Al fumbled in Achillea’s hair, trying to get a good grip on a handful. That was what she had been waiting for. She now knew where both his hands were and neither was usable. Her position, sprawled out in the cheap chair, looked casual but it was really far from it. Her legs were positioned so that they had maximum leverage and a solid base to kick against. That meant there was absolutely no warning when she gave a double-footed kick to the heavy wooden desk in front of her. It shot backwards, hitting Heckman in the waist and pinning him against the wall behind him. The same kick sent her own chair arcing backwards, taking Al completely by surprise and throwing him to the floor. In doing so, he lost any grip on her hair that he might have had. The chair landed on top of him but she was already rolling out of it. By the time she was on the floor beside him, she had already drawn her legs up again. With both feet planted firmly in Al’s stomach and one arm gripped in her right hand, she rolled on to her back, pulling him towards her. Then, she kicked a second time, again with both feet. As he went upwards, she held on to his arm so that he described an arc through the air that terminated with him crashing into Heckman’s desk. He fell to the floor, out cold. Achillea reached down and took his gun, an M1911A1 chambered for .38 Super. Then, she took her own Model 50 back again. To her, its primary value was that when somebody took it, they assumed she was helpless. Al had just learned the full importance of that mistake.

Achillea looked at where Fred Heckman was pinned against the wall by his desk. She smiled brightly at him and batted her eyelashes seductively. Or, at least she copied the way Igrat batted her eyelashes and hoped it had a similar effect. It never occurred to Achillea that when the lively, vivacious Igrat made a gesture like that it was indeed seductive. When she did the same it was terrifying. “Now, Freddie, you have no idea how I have longed for this moment. A quiet romantic evening together with just you and me, your balls and that desk drawer.”

Heckman started making gurgling noises and tried to push the desk away from him. Achillea leaned against it to prevent it moving. “What’s the matter, Freddie? I thought you were into pain and suffering. Or do you only have any guts when your victims are defenseless and helpless?”

Behind her, the man Heckman had called Al made a moaning groan on the floor. Achillea noted it without bothering to turn around. “I’d stay on the floor if I were you Al. Standing up will only get you hurt. More hurt. Anyway, from down there, you can watch while I show you what kind of boss you work for.”

She let the desk slide forward slight, allowing just enough movement to permit Heckman to be dragged out from behind it. The movement when she grabbed his wrist and pulled was sudden enough for Heckman to be caught by surprise. Then, she twisted the wrist in her hand and forced him down on the floor. He started to come up again but her other hand was already moving in a short, vicious arc that ended in the pistol-shot sound of a slap. A second later, her free hand made the return swing, cracking its blow across his other cheek. Heckman could have put his hand up to stop the slaps but seemed paralysed with shock. It took half a dozen blow before he mumbled, ‘No, please, stop.”

“There you are you see, Al. The great Fred Heckman, supposed to be such a heroic union enforcer. Only, the Unions kicked him out years ago because he was too much of a coward to fight the battles he was supposed to fight and went after women and children instead. Now, he’s just a down-and-out who gets slapped around by a girl. That’s right, isn’t it Freddie?” She lifted her hand again and watched Heckman cringe on the floor. “And now he’s terrified that I’m going to use the desk drawer on him until he tells me everything I want to know. Well, Freddie, you’ll be relieved to know that we’re not going to play that little game. Ray Lowrey was an indiscrete idiot but he was one hell of an investigator. He had everything put together and he wrote it up. It’s with the police now. What do you think made the police in this town suddenly come back to life Freddie? The desire to redeem themselves or the sudden realization that what Lowrey gave them could set them up in luxury for the rest of their lives? They’ve got the Lowrey report in their evidence room. Sebolt and the State Troopers are away until tomorrow cleaning up Stauffer’s mess but bright and early tomorrow morning, they’ll be picking it up and you’re gone. And no great loss to anybody.”

Achillea turned to leave, then stopped. “And, Al, if I ever hear of you tearing a girl’s hair out, I’ll find you and tear something of yours off in payment. Understand?”

[Calder]

Chapter 17
Portam Penitus Desperabat, Amphitheatrum Flavium, Rome, 108 AD

The tension behind the closed gate seemed to make the very air creak with the strain. Soon, without warning, the gates would open and the gladiators would have to charge through them to fight the opposition waiting on the other side. Technically, this was a re-enactment of the storming of a fortress but which side was which had been carefully left unsaid. If the ‘defenders’ waiting the other side of the gates won, they would turn out to be the heroic Roman defenders beating off a barbarian attack. If the attackers managed to force their way in and defeat the defenders, then they would be heroic Roman soldiers subduing a barbarian stronghold. Either way, Rome would win. Rome always did.

That didn’t change the odds. The fact was, the battle was heavily loaded in favor of the men waiting outside the gate. Even such apparently minor factors as the dimness of the light inside and the brilliant afternoon sunshine outside worked in their favor. The men entering from behind the gates would be dazzled by the change. Achillea knew what would happen. The gates would be opened, the men with her would run in and they would be brought down by the retiarii with their nets. The men following them would trip over the ones in front, turning the charge into a sprawling mass that would – literally – be hacked to pieces.

The strange thing was that Achillea didn’t need to be here. Five years earlier she had won her wooden sword from the hand of the Emperor Marcus Ulpius Nerva Traianus Augustus himself. A free woman, she could have left the arena although what she would have done if she had, escaped her. Instead she had elected to stay as a gladiator but her Lanista was now her manager rather than her owner. That made her a Rudiarius, a gladiator who, having been given her freedom, had elected to fight on in the arena. Now, she was paid a fee in gold every time she made an appearance in a fight he had arranged for her. But, the Lanista had pleaded with her to take this match because her experience and tactical skills were the only chance of survival the rest of the Ludus had. If they were wiped out, as could very easily be case, he would be ruined. There were whispers that the whole purpose of the Penitus Desperabat matches was to reduce the number of Ludii and concentrate them into Imperial hands.

In the dim light, waiting for the doors to crash open, she looked at the men she had to work with. Seven inexperienced novices and five veterans including herself. She planned to send the novices out first. They would draw the thrown nets from the retiari. Some would be brought down, others would not but they would draw the sting of the nets. She and the four other veterans were formed into a wedge. She guessed that the force the other side of the gate would be a mixture of secutors and retiari and that the latter would be at the sides. She would take her wedge straight into the secutors and scatter them. Then, the opposing formation broken into two, she would take down the two parts separately.

There was going to be a lot of blood on the sand this day.

The gates slammed open and the lead element charged out, holding their shields high to catch the descending nets. They were ready to throw their shields away in the hope that by doing so they would drag the nets from the hands of the retiari. Better to be free and without a shield than trapped in the shroud of the weighted net with a useless shield in one’s hands. In the background, she heard the crowd chanting ACH-IL-LEA, ACH-IL-LEA. Ahhh dihm fah yah’all’s thawts Cahsin ‘Lea?”

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

Achillea snapped back to the present. The parallels between that fight so long ago and the one that would take place tonight were so strong it seemed as if a wheel had come full circle. “I’m sorry, Cousin Grace, my mind was a long way away and a long time ago.”

“Ahh cahn see that. Stahffer ahnd his men ahh a’coming fah us tonaht. Ahmm suah ahve it.”

“So am I. Please tell me there’s a back way out of this place.” Achillea looked out again, sure she could see movement on North Lombardy.

“Waahl, theyah wahsn’t. Baht Cahsin Pete thawht yah’all math wahnt wahn. Sah the bahs knahcked a hawll whar ah windah wahs.”

Achillea blinked as she translated Grace’s drawl. It was even thicker than normal, a sign perhaps of the tension that electrified the area. “They’re coming all right. Heckman has to know we are the only thing left between him and undisputed control of this town.” And if he didn’t, I made damned sure that he did.

The telephone on the reception desk ran suddenly and the room went silent as everybody stared at it. Matthews reached over, picked it up and spoke quietly for a few minutes. When he put the receiver down, the sense of apprehension was palpable. “That was the Brucie County Hospital. Cousin Joe’s still in intensive care and critical, but he’s stable. One bullet shattered his shoulder and he won’t have much use in that arm from now on. Bad news is, his liver’s been chewed to hell. They’ve got to go in and dig some more bits of bullet out of him as soon as he’s stronger.”

He was about to say more but the telephone rang again. This time, the conversation was much, much shorter. “That was Marcie at the diner. She says, Heckman and his boys are coming this way. Tooled up for a full-scale war.”

James Pettigrew’s House and Town Courthouse, Route 305, Aurandel, North Carolina

Judge James Pettigrew carefully opened the passenger door on his car for his wife and took her arm to assist her out. He’d done the same thing every time they’d driven together for the more than forty years that they had been married. And, just as she had done every time before, Adèle Pettigrew smiled and thanked her husband for his attention. The Judge then opened the rear door and helped Laura Matthews out of the back seat.

Pettigrew was replete with good food. He and his wife had gone over to Ahoskie where they’d eaten at a seafood restaurant. They’d been lucky to get seats; there had been a long line of people waiting outside even though the steak house next door had been empty. With the steadily-growing scandal over contaminated meat supplies, steak and other restaurants were havinga hard time. On the other side, vegetarian and seafood places were making money like never before. The Judge had had the foresight to call ahead and book a table but he’d been sternly cautioned that if he wasn’t there within five minutes of his stated time, the table would go to somebody else. Despite the frantic level of business, the restaurant had kept its standards up and he, his wife and daughter had been well fed. They’d also sunk a bottle of wine between them with most of it accounted for by the Judge himself. He wasn’t quite drunk, but he was definitely tipsy.

That was probably why the significance of the car pulling up on the road behind him never sunk in. The vehicle slowed right down, almost stopping before the Thompson gun fired from the back seat chopped out a long burst. It was so sudden that neither Adèle Pettigrew nor her husband stood a chance. The swinging burst caught them both full in the back. The multiple bullet hits hurled them forward and spread-eagled them on the ground in an ungainly sprawl. Before he died, Judge Pettigrew just barely had time to grab his wife’s already-dead hand and be thankful that she hadn’t suffered.

Laura Matthews wasn’t so lucky. She caught a single bullet in the back, low down, that severed her spine. Her legs dragged uselessly as she tried to pull herself forward with her hands, towards the house that she believed would somehow provide her with a refuge. The car on the road had come to a full stop by then. The man with the Thompson got out and walked over to where she was trying to move. She saw him coming and started weeping, begging the man not to hurt her any more. He couldn’t be bothered to listen. His foot swung in a vicious kick that caught her in the ribs and threw her over on to her back. Then, he raised the submachine gun and emptied the magazine into her face and chest.

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

The spotlight swung across the face of the police station and then centered on the front door. It paused there for a full minute or more before a voice echoed across the parking lot in front of the station. “We ain’t got no quarrel with the women. Send them out, we’ll hold our fire while they get clear.”

“If anybody believes that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I can give you a good price on.” Achillea was straining her eyes to see what was going on. She had a PPS-45 machine carbine propped up against the wall beside her, one of four that Christina Phillips had brought down on her last run. Matthews had the second, Porky and Reeve the others.

“Wahl, lahts fahnd aht.” Grace grinned at Carole Rosario who was hiding by the door leading to the back of the station. Karina Bremmer, the third of the trainee dispatchers, was on the radio. She was waiting to send out a call for help when the station came under attack. Pamela Charlton had wanted to stay as well but Matthews had sent her home a long time ago. She had a husband and children to worry about. Anyway, this was family business. Positioned just behind the door were a couple of quickly-assembled wooden frames with some old curtain wrapped around them. In the darkness, they looked a bit like a pair of women wearing dresses. “Ah’ll raht. Ya’all hahld yah fah nah. We’ah comin’ aht.

Grace jerked the door open to reveal the two dummies. Almost instantly, there was a roar of fire from at least three tommy guns. The dummies were hurled around by the multiple impacts before collapsing on the floor in a tangled heap. Stray rounds swept across the room, shining off the walls as they bounded off the old bricks. The door reached the end of its arc and bounced back, slamming shut again and shaking with the tattoo of bullets that hammered against the steel sheet that backed the wood. The steel might have been old but it was still solid. It held.

Achillea had watched carefully. The tommy guns outside had given away their positions by the muzzle flash. As soon as they had started firing, she had taken careful aim with her Colt Hammerless and fired six shots, so rapidly that their sounds merged into one. Or, they would have done if they hadn’t been drowned out by the hammering of the Thompson. The low-powered .32 cartridges in her Colt gave virtually no muzzle flash and the recoil was so slight that she held the gun on its target easily. She put all six rounds into the shadowy figure of the nearest Thompson gunner and watched the muzzle flare arch upwards as he fell.

“Ah dahn’t think theah ahh truthful folks aht thah.” Grace was looking at the shredded wreckage of the two dummies with what was very close to blazing fury..

“Yah think?” Matthews looked up from the floor. Everybody had gone flat when the machine guns had bounced their bullets around the room.

“Molotov!” Achillea saw the flare from the fire-bomb and fired two more shots at the figure she thought was throwing it. Whether she hit him or not was something she didn’t know. What she did see was much more impressive. The spluttering flame that marked the fuze of the gasoline-filled bottle described an arc through the air. Only, it was an arc that was never completed. Grace’s 10-gauge shotgun crashed and the bottle disintegrated in mid-air.

“Paahl!” Grace’s shout echoed across the parking lot. As if in reply, another Molotov Cocktail arched out from the darkness and, again, it vanished in a flare of burning gasoline when Grace shot it out of the air.

“Gettdown.” Achillea screamed the warning just in time. Grace went flat under the window she had been using just as another hail of submachine-gun fire raked it. “Everybody, don’t fire from the same place twice.”

“Ya’all’s dahn this heah khandah thing befah.” Grace brushed the broken glass and dust from her. Short bursts from the tommy guns outside were peppering the outside of the station with bullets. It was fortunate the building was an old one; it was solidly built of brick and stone and it kept the low-velocity .45s out.

Matthews was staring at Achillea. “Cousin ‘Lea, just who the hell are you?”

Portam Penitus Desperabat, Amphitheatrum Flavium, Rome, 108 AD

The brief pause had allowed Achillea’s eyes to adjust and she could see what she was up against. There were ten retiarii tunicate, five on each side of the gates. The tunicate were the lowest of the low, a group considered vile and depraved by even the other retiarii. Right in front of her was the center of the opposing group, four secutors led by a dimachaerus. He’s mine thought Achillea. I’ve never taken down a dimachaerus.

The dimachaerus had picked her out as well. That wasn’t hard, it was well-known the fabled Achillea would be leading the attackers in this match and she was the only woman on either side. The armor of a secutor included the heavy helmet that protected her head, her shield and the mailed plates that covered her arms and legs. Apart from a loin cloth though, the rest of her body was bare. In the arena, the status of the various classes of gladiator was illustrated by the amount of armor they wore. Only the highest in status, the Thraex, had a breastplate to complement their shield. The Secutors were second to them, slightly ahead of the Murmillones. Technically, Achillea, as a Rudiarius was counted as a Thraex. She still wore the Secutor’s armor though, as she had done for as long as she could remember.

The dimachaerus believed he could make his name by taking her down. He had a sword in each hand and believed that gave him a significant edge over the single sword wielded by Achillea. That wasn’t entirely wrong; in a match between a dimachaerus and a secutor of equal skill, the dimachaerus did have an edge. He had probably been warned that she was a veteran of great standing but his urgency to engage her suggested the warning hadn’t sink in. Nor had the fact that her shield was a weapon in its own right. He made his first thrust at her, a swinging cut from high on his right, the blow aimed at her unprotected side. He’d expected her to block it with her shield. After all, that’s why I’ve got it. But, in blocking it, I’ll leave myself open to that second sword in his other hand . If I parry that thrust with my own spatha, it will put me on the defensive and I’ll never survive by just defending myself.

The thought flashed through her mind so fast she was barely aware of it but she’d already taken action on it before the need had registered. She went to her left, down low, letting the sword swing pass over her head. Sometimes, the fact that she was smaller than a man was a major advantage and this was one such time. The completely unexpected move put her behind the dimachaerus and on his right. Her shield swung out and the round boss in the center slammed into his body at exactly the point where his right kidney was unprotected by bone or armor. She knew the pain had to be excruciating and it sent him staggering forward and to his left. In that split second, her spatha licked out and thrust into his back, just beside the spine. There was one of the great arteries there and she severed it with the unerring precision taught by a lifetime of brutal training. The dimachaerus went down, his life-blood spraying skywards in a great arc that caught the sun and turned into a crimson rainbow. The roar of cheering from the crowd swelled into tumult as the sheer swiftness and audacity of the kill sank in. This was vintage Achillea, the kind of display her supporters knew and loved.

The turn had also left her facing the scene at the gate. Her force had broken through the ring of defenders despite being outnumbered fifteen to twelve. Her four Secutors were fighting series of one-on-one duels with their four secutor rivals while her seven novices had waded into the retiarii tunicate. The latter, their lowly status made clear by the fact they only wore linen tunics, were having a bad time of it. Two of her novices were Velites, armed with spears that they could either throw or wield. The other five were Hoplomachii and their shields had defeated the thrown nets of the retiarii. Almost, two of their number had died as the nets had entangled them and the tridents killed them on the ground. But, the Velites had avenged them and more. Each had carried four spears and had thrown three of them. Achillea’s quick survey saw that the six thrown spears had taken down four of the ten retiarii tunicate and two more had died on the swords of the Hoplomachii. That left four of them against five of her own novices. The tunicate had realized their game was up and they had broken. To the jeers of the crowd, they were fleeing from the men they were supposed to have brought down. Had they stood and fought, they might have won mercy from the crowds but by fleeing, they made certain they would receive the slashing horizontal gesture that meant death.

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

“Just a friend passing through.” Achillea was watching carefully, her night vision giving her a small but priceless edge over the gunmen outside. She’d picked up the PPS-45 and cradled it in her hands, waiting for the assault that had to come. The gunfire and the gasoline bombs had been just a preliminary skirmish; intended to keep the occupants of the police station busy while everybody else moved into position. “Watch it, here they come again.”

A half-dozen men had risen from behind cover and started to run forward while the weight of fire from the gunmen outside doubled in intensity. What little glass was left in the windows was shattered by the bullets while others struck the walls inside. Depending on whether they hit brick or drywall, they either ricocheted off with whines or went through with dull thuds. In the background, Achillea heard Karina Bremmer putting out the distress call, broadcasting that the Aurandel Police Station was under attack by a large number of heavily-armed criminals and help was needed, urgently. Achillea agreed with the message although she did not approve of the note of desperation in the girl’s voice.

The men running towards the station had taken their punishment. One was down and motionless, the great spreading stain from his body suggesting that Grace’s 10-gauge had done the damage. Matthews had shot another with his M1911 pistol. The other four had dropped into cover provided by the Churchyard to the east. From there, they threw pipe-shaped objects at the police station. There was no trace of flame from them and Achillea knew exactly what they were.

“Pipe bombs. Everybody away from the windows.”

One of the bombs landed underneath Matthew’s Matador cruiser. The blast flipped it up in the air and ruptured the fuel tank. By the time the car landed on its roof, it was already ablaze and the orange flames lit up the grim scene. A second pipe bomb landed outside the middle of the three garages, blowing the metal roller door out of its tracks and on to the Monaco wagon that was parked inside. The other two hit the brick outer wall of the main building and bounced back a little. Achillea’s ears seemed to cave inwards with the blasts and her vision blurred with the shock. The room at the front of the station seemed filled with dust and smoke. It was also filled with the sound of coughing from the occupants, half stunned by the pipe-bomb blasts and desperately trying to shake sense into themselves. She took the PPS-45 and fired a long burst, raking the graveyard where the men throwing the bombs had taken cover. She was also painfully aware that the two foot-long white spear of flame from the muzzle blast marked her position all too clearly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something happening on the road. Achillea had already hit the floor in anticipation of the reply to her own gunfire and she used the position to crawl over to one of the forward-facing windows. From there, she could see a pickup truck accelerating up North Lombardy towards her. Two men jumped out of the cab, leaving the vehicle to its own devices. They’ve blocked the accelerator in place and tied the steering wheel. The vehicle continued straight and true, down the road and across the parking lot. It slammed into the front of the police station just beside the front door. The wall had already been seriously weakened by the dynamite blasts and the impact of the fast-moving truck was too much. The pick-up plowed through the wall, dropping the remains of the roof on to it as it did so. That, more than anything, brought it to a halt. In the back, Achillea could see the cylinders of propane and saw the flickering tongues of fire already starting to spread in the wreck.

“Everybody out. Right now.”

[Calder]

Chapter 18
Portam Penitus Desperabat, Amphitheatrum Flavium, Rome, 108 AD

The roar of cheering from the crowd told Achillea that the last of the retiarii tunicate had been cut down. Her novices had done well, the velites had maneuvered their opponents into a corner and then the hoplomachii had cut them down with the sword. The desperate netmen had doubtless appealed for mercy, Achillea knew that from the laughter that had gone up from the crowd before being drowned out by the cheering. Two of the opposing Secutors were also down but the remaining pair were back-to-back and putting up a courageous, skilled fight. They were holding off her four veterans, just, but that could not last. Achillea could join in the fight herself and that would end it quickly for fighting two enemies was desperately difficult. Three was hopeless. Or, in a minute or two, the velites and hoplomachii would join the fight here and it would all be over that way.

Achillea turned and lifted her arm, her hand folded so the thumb was touching the little finger, the three middle fingers extended upwards. It was a gladiator’s gesture, requesting mercy for an opponent who deserved it. She actually doubted whether her request would be honored, despite the odds being loaded against her team, they had massacred their opponents. The two survivors would pay the price of failure. They had just one tiny chance of survival. For all Achillea’s renown, she knew that Romans felt uneasy about the sight of a woman cutting down man after man. Her following was, at least in part, the hope that they would see her finally brought down. It was just possible that the crowd might demand mercy so that they wouldn’t see her kill again. But, the crowd was silent, waiting for the decision made by the game sponsors. She, and they, watched the Editor and saw him glance at the Magister. Then, his hand made the slashing horizontal cut that meant death.

The two surviving men saw it too and they knew what it meant. They also knew that they had just one chance of survival. If they could kill Achillea before they were themselves killed, it might be enough to buy mercy. They abandoned their back-to-back position and lunged at her in a desperate, do-or-die attack. Around them, her veterans started to move forward but one put his hand out to stop them. Hypatos, she thought, even though he’s still a slave, if I die, he’ll be the Premier of the Ludus. And he has ambition. Ah well, if I was in his place, I would do the same thing.

The two men were coming straight at her, by now aware that the others had held back. They were circling, trying the time-honored maneuver of moving around her so that she would be sandwiched between them. It was an old move and one she knew well. She also knew the counter to it. She broke to her right so that her shield covered the exposed left and also started to circle. No matter how the two men moved, they would be in front of her. Their only counter-move was to split even further apart and circle still further out. That would restore the chance of one of them outflanking her but sacrifice their ability to work together. She could sense them trying to work out whether it was better to split apart and outflank her or stick together and not risk being taken down individually,

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

Achillea grabbed Grace and bundled her through the door separating the reception area from the rest of the police station. The weight and heft of the door told her that it was, supposedly at least, fireproof although she guessed that the combination of age and neglect had seriously degraded any protective properties it might once have had. As she slammed it shut, she saw the first of the propane tanks let loose. It didn’t explode; the safety valve worked perfectly and released a stream of gas that ignited and raked the inside of the reception area with a jet of flame that would have done honor to a military flamethrower. The whole reception area erupted into a blaze that made her eyes hurt. Smoke was already seeping around the door and contaminating the air. As she put her hand against the door, Achillea felt it beginning to heat up with the intense blaze on the other side.

“Out the back. This place will blow up like a bomb any minute.” Or it should do, if I rigged the records room right.

The thought of being hanged in the morning may concentrate the mind wonderfully but the concept of being burned alive in the next two or three minutes put that effect into the shade. There was a stampede backwards to where Matthews and his cousins had opened up a hole in the back wall. As Achillea passed the communications room, she saw Karina Bremmer still patiently sitting at her radio, constantly, calmly repeating the call for help. “Karina get out of here.”

“I haven’t had a reply yet.” Karina’s mouth was set in mulish determination. "Aurandel Police Department, Code 11-33; officers in mortal peril. Please send help!"

At that point the radio crackled. “This is the Powellsville Emergency Center. We got your message and are passing it through now. Hang on in there, help is on its way.”

Achillea recognized Pamela Charlton’s voice on the network and realized she had made a point of being on radio duty this night. “That’s it, Karina, now move.” Then she dragged the trainee dispatcher away from the console and heaved her towards the hole in the back wall.

It wasn’t just a hole. Matthews had had two garbage skips full of refuse from the renovation of the police station dragged around so that they provided cover for people using it. How he’d managed to move them, Achillea didn’t know and didn’t care. She turned to Matthews, waving at three of the cousins who were nearest the hole. “You need to get those three, out through the hole. Use the skips for cover; if anybody shoots at you, shoot at the gun flashes. They’ll cover us while we get Karina and Carole out. They’re non-combatants.’ For all the good that will do them. “Then, the rest of us will get across that car park out back and into the trees.”

“There’s a drainage ditch in there, we can use that for cover.” Matthews wiped sweat off his forehead. The fire that was consuming the forward end of the police station was spreading fast and he knew they only had a couple of minutes to abandon the place. “Cousin Emmett, Cousin Boyd, ya’all stay close to the door and cover us until we’re all out. Cousin Lane, Cousin Tony, ya’all head deep, get the girls out to the ditch. Like Cousin ‘Lea says, we’ll follow ya and give cover once we’re out.”

Portam Penitus Desperabat, Amphitheatrum Flavium, Rome, 108 AD

Achillea watched the two Secutors closing in on her with grim amusement. One of the advantages of fighting two opponents is that if they have to make a hurried choice between two sets of tactics, they will end up compromising between them. And so it is again, this pair have compromised. They are too far apart to coordinate properly, too close together to outflank me.

Once again, the careful circling began. Now, the crowd were silent, watching closely as the drama was fought out beneath them. She could sense them, feel their eyes drinking in the sights and sounds taking place beneath them. She also knew that there was a time limit on how long this pre-fight maneuvering could go on before they started to get bored and a bored crowd was something to be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, rushing this bit, not getting the final fight prepared properly could get her killed. A fine balance needed to be maintained, her life against the need to please the crowd. Even to Achillea, it was hard to say which was more important.

One of her opponents broke the pattern and started to move in on her, perhaps sensing that the crowd were starting to lose patience. In their eyes, two against one meant that the onus was on them to initiate action. The other of the opposing Secutors was caught by surprise and was slightly out of position. The first stabbed out with his gladius, a tentative blow that Achillea parried easily. It was followed by the real thing, the real attack, a shield slam that was supposed to leave her stunned and helpless. Achillea parried it with her own and the gong-like ringing noise of the two shields meeting echoed around the arena. Achillea was already moving backwards, realizing that with the shield-blow blocked, another sword-stroke would already be on its way in. Once again, her spatha met her opponents gladius and deflected it sideways.

In doing so, her opponent had made a bad mistake. He had spent so much time preparing this attack that he had forgotten sword and shield were not the only weapons a gladiator had. The shock of having his shield-smash blocked followed by the need to balance himself for the follow-up cut with his gladius had put him into an unusual position, legs spread unusually far with his right foot well forward. Achillea took that position in, her mind processed the data and she took action before the need to do so had been consciously formulated. She took a half-step forward, bouncing slightly as she did so, then her own right foot slashed out in a kick that had all the strength and weight she could muster behind it. Her opponent saw the blow coming a split second too late to do anything about it.

His bronze armor actually protected his knee from shattering and deflected a lot of the power of the kick but the impact still sent him staggering backwards, his shield arm flailing in an instinctive effort to keep his balance. That instinct killed him. He was left wide open to Achillea’s spatha and she didn’t miss the opportunity. She made a perfect thrust, the spatha cutting through his stomach and hitting his spine. Her opponent doubled over with the sudden shock and agony, dying before his body lay crumpled on the ground.

That was when everything went wrong. In folding over, his body actually trapped her sword for a split second. The flurry of blows and the need to balance herself for the kick that had won the brief duel had already left her completely off-balance. The resistance to her pulling the spatha from her opponent’s body and the reaction when that resistance suddenly yielded sent her staggering backwards. That was when her second opponent exploited his position behind the first to launch his attack on her. She saw the gladius swinging and blocked it with her shield but the discordant ringing of the blow told her the parry had been only partially successful. Her shield stopped the full force of the blow but deflected the blade inwards. It caught her left shoulder and sliced diagonally downwards towards her right hip. Achillea felt the numbness of the cut and then the blazing pain as the air entered the open wound.

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

Cousin Emmett and Cousin Boyd both dived out through the hole in the back wall and took up positions covered by the garbage skips. Their movement was lit by the orange-red light from the burning police station but the availability of a rear exit had caught the attackers by surprise. Achillea guessed they’d got hold of plans of the building somehow, or perhaps they’d looked it over discretely from a distance, but those plans hadn’t shown a hurriedly-smashed hole where a window had once been. Heckman had concentrated most of his gunmen at the front of the building, intending to shoot down the occupants as they ran out through the front doors. Only the men at the extreme ends of the arc could see the escape in progress out of the back although they were quick enough to give warning.

Achillea had given her PPS-45 to Cousin Emmett while Matthews had given his to Cousin Boyd. The shots that came from the gangsters were slow and spaced-out. She guessed that they probably had lever-action rifles rather than sub-machine guns. They were firing at an angle, from beside the burning building out into the rear parking lot and that also served to limit their ability. One of them stood up to take a better shot but was thrown back by a burst of fire from a PPS. The ripping sound of the Russian-made machine carbine, its rate of fire more than three times that of the Thompson, made an easily-recognizable imprint on the battle. It told everybody that an escape out of the back was in progress and the long white bar of muzzle-flash revealed exactly where the two gunners were positioned. Achillea saw the gangsters starting to move in the shadows, one group heading up North Lombardy Road to the west, the other through the graveyard of the church to the east. It wouldn’t be long before the police station’s back parking lot would be covered by a lethal crossfire.

“Pete, get everybody out now. We haven’t time to do this properly. And the fire is going to blow any second.” I know that, ‘cos I’m going to blow it

Matthews nodded and dived through the hole, followed by Cousin Lane and Cousin Darrin. Cousin Tony and Grace pushed the two dispatchers through and started to hurry them across the lot. Reeve, Porky and Achillea brought up the rear, the two men firing bursts from their PPS-45s to force the advancing gangsters into cover. They were joined by Emmett and Boyd who also fired long bursts at the area the gangsters had to be trying to cross. The ammunition expenditure was worrying Achillea; each man had five of the seventy-round drum magazines but the 1,800 round per minute firing rate of the PPS-45 could empty them in a couple of seconds. On the other hand, nobody who gets hit by one of those bursts will ever get up again. Achillea knew there was no point in worrying about ammunition expenditure at this point. They had to pin the gangsters down to cover the withdrawal from the police station. If they didn’t, they’d all be dead and unexpended ammunition would be of no interest or value to them.

She started to drop back, to all appearances bringing up the rear and providing a spirited rearguard action. In fact, she was mainly concerned with getting away from the police station before it blew up and staying clear of the PPS-45s. Their massive muzzle flash was drawing fire from the equally prominent Thompsons. While the Russian and American sub-machine guns were exchanging their deafening bursts of fire, the yapping of her .32 and its minimal muzzle flash left her almost invisible. She’s seen two or three gangsters going down as they’d exposed themselves but, as far as they could see, most of the profligate expenditure of .45 ACP and 7.62 Tokarev Magnums was spraying the countryside. “Replacing a few rounds that hit their target with a lot that miss.” She could almost hear Henry McCarty’s sour verdict on sub-machine guns. She knew if he was here, he’d be firing his Colt revolvers slowly and carefully and one person would be dying for every shot he fired. She also knew she was nowhere near that good.

Time to light everything up. Achillea took a small box out of her pocket, twisted the knob on the top until it was armed then squeezed both the firing button on top and the catch on the side that released it. There was no immediately obvious effect, no dramatic explosions or sudden fireball, but the blaze that was consuming the police station redoubled in intensity as the incendiaries she had made and Emelia had planted in the county records went off. Slowly, the fire changed from orange-red to glaring yellow-white as the intensity picked up. Achillea sighed slightly; the records were destroyed and nobody would ever suspect that the inferno that destroyed them was anything to do with the contents of the documents themselves. A job well done, she thought with a degree of satisfaction.

Highway U.S. 13, North of Windsor.

The column of police cars was two abreast and five deep, all with their lights and sirens blasting at full power. Inside the cars, the officers were clasping shotguns, M-14 rifles and grenade launchers. Their faces were set in grim determination, their eyes fixed forward to where the police force at Aurandel was fighting for its life. For more than a decade, the Aurandel Police Department had been somewhere between a bad joke and a bad embarrassment but, at the end of the day, they were fellow police officers. When an entire police station and force came under this kind of concerted attack, it was an assault upon the whole law enforcement profession. Anyway, as the Windsor police commissioner had said “To have stirred up this kind of attack, they must have done something right.”

Up ahead of the convoy, a single civilian vehicle was occupying the left hand lane of the highway, ignoring the cacophony of sirens and the blazing column of flashing blue, white and red lights. The left-hand lead police car didn’t hesitate. The driver flashed his headlights and, when the civilian vehicle still failed to get out of the way, lined up carefully then slammed his bull bars into the rear right hand quarter of the obstructing vehicle. It swerved for a split second and then went off the road, coming to a halt in the highway divider zone. The police driver’s partner nodded in satisfaction and picked up his radio receiver. “Dispatch, Lincoln one-two. Civilian vehicle on central divider, U.S. Thirteen five miles north of Windsor line. Charge with obstruction, failure to yield, two counts, failure to maintain normal progress. We’ll think of some more charges later.”

“Acknowledged Lincoln one-two. Patching Noble-Golf One through now.”

The driver and his partner exchanged curious glances. Noble-Golf was the code-sign for the North Carolina Air National Guard. Then, their radio crackled with the unmistakable sound of an air-to-ground transmission. “Windsor Lincoln One-Two and others. This is RF-104G Noble-Golf One circling Aurandel at 40,000 feet. You’d better haul ass, there’s one hell of a fire burning where the police station used to be and electro-optics is showing a major gun battle going on in the area behind it.”

“Acknowledged.” The two officers in the car exchanged grim glances. The driver put his foot down harder and the car surged forward, the ones behind picking up speed to match. From out of a side turning, three more police cruisers turned out on to the main road to join the tail of the convoy as it thundered north.

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

The bursts of gunfire ripping across the parking lot behind the ruins of the police station were growing fiercer by the second. Carole Rosario was only a few yards from the relative safety of the trees and ditch when her nerve broke and she panicked. She ran, away from the main group and towards a patch of darkness off to one side. Unfortunately, that also led her directly into the arc of fire from the gunmen on that side of the parking lot. Silhouetted against the intense fire, she was an easy target compared with the dimly seen figures elsewhere and at least half a dozen gunmen opened fire on her. The blast of bullets slammed into her, throwing her back to the ground. She lay there, crumpled and motionless.

“No!!” Tony Rosario’s scream of denial cut across the parking lot, echoing off the trees and walls. He broke away from his position and ran towards where his wife lay on the ground. His PPS-45 was hammering out long bursts, its barrel beginning to glow white hot and the weapon overheated. He’d already emptied one magazine, dropped and replaced it when that one also ran dry. The stream of fire from the machine carbine was interrupted for a second as he dropped the empty and hauled out another drum., He never got to load it because one of the gangsters with a lever-action rifle took advantage of the short stop to squeeze off one of the few aimed shots fired that night. The .44-40 bullet took Tony Rosario full in the forehead and laid him out dead, just a few feet short of the body of his wife.

Achillea saw just how disastrous the scene had become. The loss of Rosario and the machine carbine he had carried had left one flank completely uncovered. She also saw that Grace Pettigrew had seen what had happened and run over to try and cover the gap. Achillea heard the deep crash of her shotgun as it slammed out one load of ten-gauge buckshot after another. Then she saw her drop to one knee, struggling with the weapon. Damned thing has jammed. Grace was still struggling with the shotgun when a burst of bullets spun her around and stretched her out on the ground.

Achillea raced oout from the cover of the shadows, using every ounce of strength and fraction of speed she could muster. Grace was writhing on the ground, her belly covered with blood. Achillea grabbed her under the arms and started hauling her backwards, towards the semi-cover that lay behind them.

“Yah’all wah raht, shaht-strahked aht.” Grace just managed to gasp the words out.

“Save your strength.” Achillea snapped the words out. The bursts of bullets were all around them but the wild inaccuracy of the automatic fire saved them. They’d just managed to get into the treeline when Achillea felt heavy blows in her shoulder and arm and went down.

[Calder]

Chapter 19
Portam Penitus Desperabat, Amphitheatrum Flavium, Rome, 108 AD

“The passions or pathê are literally ‘things which one undergoes’ and are to be contrasted with actions or things that one does. Passions have a momentum that carries their victim beyond the dictates of reason. If the soul is consumed with fear, it will not do what under other circumstances it would know to be the sensible thing. Thus, a properly balanced soul should not be manipulated and moved by those things that it undergoes. Instead, it should be being actively and positively in command of its reactions and responds properly to things as they occur or are in prospect. When proper balance is achieved, the result is complete self-sufficiency.”

Dottore’s words echoed in Achillea’s ears as she moved backwards, away from the attack of the surviving Secutor. She knew that if that sword slash had penetrated her stomach wall, she would almost certainly die. Yet, she did not even consider the possibility of looking down to see how badly she was hurt. Her injury was something that she had to undergo, it was not something that would manipulate or move her. There would be time enough to see if she would live after she had won the battle. Instead she responded to the attack and was in complete command of that response.

Her opponent had expected her to look down, if only for a second so he had followed up his attack with another slash. And so he lets his passions control his actions. He wants to kill me now and hurries to the attack when his reason should tell him to take his time and let me be weakened by bleeding. She intercepted the swing on her shield, this time placing the parry perfectly so that the crash of the impact echoed around the arena yet the blow itself was neutralized. The impact also told Achillea much. Her left arm was still working and her strength was still there although already beginning to ebb. Her own sword swung out, arching high to slam into the side of her opponent’s helmet. It sent him staggering sideways, the helmet protecting his skull from destruction but transmitting enough of the blow to stun him. She pounced on him, her sword slashing in a series of blows that overwhelmed any defense he might have tried to put up. The return sword slash caught him full in the face, crushing the visor of his helmet and sending a shower of his blood to join her own. He staggered backwards, blindness joining his still-addled brain to add confusion to his actions. Her shield slam threw him back, leaving him to reel helplessly against the sheer ferocity of the assault. Another sword slash took him behind the knees and he fell to the ground, the tendons in his legs cut. Achillea stood over him, then reached down, lifted his head by the hair and she drew her sword across his throat.

Only when he was dead and on the ground did she look down to check her wound. The slash ran from left shoulder to right hip, at its deepest in the heavy muscles that marked her shoulders. Her left breast was almost cut in two but the wound slackened quickly after that. By the time it reached her abdomen, it had barely enough depth to break the skin. But, it was at a shallow angle and had bled profusely, making it look much worse than it was. It would leave an ugly scar though, one more to join her collection. Well, nobody will ask me to dance naked at one of the Lanista’s parties. Then, nobody ever has. She lifted her sword in her trademark salute to the crowd, allowing the blood on the blade to run down on to her wrist. Satisfied that she had given them a good show, she listened to them chanting ACH – ILL – E – AH. ACH – ILL – E – AH.

Hypatos was watching her nervously as she walked over to the stand where the Magister and Editor stood to congratulate her. As she passed behind him, her sword point flicked out, caught the back rim of his helmet and flipped it into the sand. The crowd, knowing that he had left her to fight two men on her own, roared with laughter at the joke and also at the embarrassed Hypatos. Then, the chanting of her name redoubled. The Magister looked down at her and gave her the Victor’s Salute as befitted a gladiator with the status of Rudiarius. She returned it gravely, listening with amusement to the next words from the Editor. “The appearance of Rudiarius Achillea today was sponsored by Nerva’s Bakery.”

Those words were literally worth gold to her and her endorsement of the bread would make much more gold for Crispinus Maxentius Nerva who was sitting in the box, just a few feet from her. A combination of the gold she had won as her share of the fees for winning the matches in which she took part and her sponsorship of some products had made her, if not wealthy, at least comfortably off. Nerva smiled at her, a little weakly. He was trying not to look at her blood dripping on the box floor. The Editor passed her a bronze dish with lumps of bread and olive oil. She took a chunk, dipped it in the oil and ate it with genuine enjoyment. Then her voice rang out across the Ampitheatrum. “Fine Roman bread for the fine Roman citizens. I will accept nothing else.”

And now, let me get out of here so I can get this slash stitched up before I run out of blood completely.

ACH – ILL – E – AH. . . . ACH – ILL – E – AH. . . . . ACH – ILL – E – AH. . . . . ACH – ILL – E – AH.

Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

“Cousin ‘Lea, Cousin ‘Lea . . . .” Pete Matthew’s voice was tinged with near panic and desperation. He was tearing open her blouse to try and treat the wounds he expected to find.

Achillea opened one eye carefully and looked at him. “Cousin Pete, there is a time and place for everything and this is not it. How long have I been out?”

“A minute or so, no more. Ya’all been hit.”

Achillea moved her fingers carefully and then her arm. It hurt, a burning pain that she knew was the effect of air on deep wounds. But, aside from the pain, everything seemed to work properly. Then she looked around her. She was in the ditch Matthews had mentioned and her blouse and the left side of her jeans were blood-stained. A few yards away, Porky and Cousin Reeve were exchanging fire with the gangsters who had moved up past the burning wreckage of the police station. Satisfied she had a few minutes to catch her breath, she looked down. There was a gouge across the upper part of her left arm where a bullet had carved a channel out of her flesh. Another had done the same for her side, just under the arm. It has probably cracked a rib, she thought, I can feel the pain when I breathe in. Another had hit high up under her collarbone and her guess was that one had caused all the blood. Nothing broken, through-and-through. I got lucky.

Matthews was staring at her. “Where did ya’all get muscles like that? And scars like that?”

“I’m a body-builder. You know that, you’ve seen me eat. And fight. The scars, they came from an accident.” The accident being that I accidentally let somebody stick a sword in me before I stuck one in him.

Matthews was staring at the long diagonal scar on her body, the one that ran from her shoulder to her hip. She knew he wanted to put a finger out and trace it; for some reason all the men who had seen it wanted to do that. He started to ask something but she cut him off. “How’s Grace? Did she make it?”

“She’s alive. Just. She caught five or six hits in the stomach. It’s such a mess we can’t be sure how many. We’ve padded her up to try and stop her bleedin’ but she needs a hospital fast. Cousin ‘Lea, Grace acts tough but she ain’t like ya. Ya’all’s had a hard life, don’ try to deny it, and ya the real thing, tough all the way through. With Gracie, she just ain’t that way. Ya shruggin’ off three hits and that’s fine for ya’ but she’s never been hurt like this. We gotta get her to a hospital if she’s gonna make it.”

“Then we’d better get this cleared up so we can get a ‘dyne in to take her out.”

“Gonna be hard. Carole, Tony and Emmett are dead. Grace and Boyd hit bad. That leaves you, me, Lane, Darrin, Reeve and Porky. Six against thirty or more. Only thing running for us is we’re here in the woods with some cover, they’re out in the ole’ station parkin’ lot. A few seconds later, Matthews regretted he’d ever spoken those words. From behind their position came a couple of loud blasts, pipe bombs tossed at the muzzle flashes of the PPS-45s. They were accompanied by a blast of gunfire from an old house that lay to their rear. Matthews looked bitterly at the explosions and gunfire. “They’ve looped around on Curtis Road. They’re behind us. We’re done.”

Achillea looked at him grimly. “Probably. But not yet. We’re a long way from dead right now. You hang on here, I’ll deal with the ones behind us. There can’t be that many of them. One car load. Two at most.”

Highway U.S. 13, South of Aurandel.

“Windsor Lincoln One-Two and others. This is RF-104G Noble-Golf One circling Aurandel at 40,000 feet. Be advised that the fire where the police station used to be is dying down. Our electro-optics shows a hell of a gunfight still going on out back but your guys look like they’re surrounded. You’d better move fast, they’re in a bad way down there.”

“Noble-Golf One, we’re six perhaps eight minutes out. Can you help?”

There was a long pause, then the voice on the radio link replied hesitantly. “Look, we’re unarmed recon birds. There’s just one thing we can try. I don’t know if it’ll do any good though. Be advised, there’s other police convoys closing in from north, east and west. You’re closest but not by much. Watch out for friendly fire.”

Ruined House, Curtis Road, Aurandel

Six men, two cars. Achillea had wormed her way up to where the men were positioned in the old ruined house. In the time she had taken to do so, there had been four more dynamite blasts. One of them had been accompanied by a loud scream and only one of the PPS-45s was left firing. Either Reeve or Porky has had it. Then she checked the magazine on her Colt Hammerless to make sure it was full. It was, eight rounds, plus one in the chamber. And she had three spare magazines left. Now this will take timing.

She saw a spluttering brightness in the darkness that showed two men were lighting the fuses on another pair of pipe bombs. Two others opened up with Thompson guns, putting down covering fire on the one remaining PPS-45 muzzle flash. Achillea’s acute night vision showed her exactly what was going on as she centered the foresight of her Colt Hammerless on the center of one pipe bomber’s chest. As he drew his arm back to throw, she fired three shots into his center of mass. Henry would have shot him in the head, she thought, and The Seer would have tried to. Even better, the flash and yap of her pistol were lost in the cacophony of noise from the battle.

The man fell back, the pipe bomb rolling out of his hand. The other pipe bomber saw his companion go down, looked at the body and then the realization of what had just happened sank in. He yelled in terror and tried to get away from the pipe bomb that had already rolled into some of the debris from the collapsed house. To Achillea’s amusement, he was so filled with panic over the dropped bomb that he actually forgot he was holding one himself. She wasn’t actually sure what happened next or which bomb went off first but when the blast and flash from the two explosions had cleared, the ruined building was spread over the lot and the figures of the gangsters were sprawled out in it. If the soul is consumed with fear, it will not do what under other circumstances it would know to be the sensible thing, she thought to herself, remembering the kindness of her Dottore’s eyes as he had taught her what she had needed to know in order to survive.

The pipe bomber she had shot was dead of course, and so was his companion. Achillea was sure of that because quite a few feet separated the various parts of his body and she couldn’t see his right arm anywhere. Two of the other gangsters in the building had caught the full force of the two pipe bombs and were equally, unequivocally dead. The other two were a bit less certain. One seemed as if he might be breathing, just so she carefully and precisely shot him in the forehead. The other flinched at the sound of the shot and that drew her eyes to him. It was the man Heckman had called Al. He recognized her and started to shake with fear but when she stared at him, the whimper turned into a wail of mortal terror.

“Holy Mother of God have mercy on me. Save my soul from the forces of darkness, now and . . .” Achillea heard his babbling and shook her head. She had an idea what had caused his complete breakdown. The position of the few working street lights had reflected off her eyes and turned them bright red. It was a simple thing that a doctor privy to their secret had explained once. Like all female Daimones, her eyes had a reflective membrane behind the retina. Cats, deer and a lot of other nocturnal animals had the same thing. It meant that light striking her eyes made two passes through the retina, enabling her to see much more clearly at night that non-Daimones. But, it also passed through the blood vessels in her eyes and that tinted the light red. Al had seen her eyes glowing red assumed she was a real demon come to take his soul. He’s wrong of course; it’s his life I want, not his soul. He was still babbling in terror when she shot him in the head.

RF-104G Noble-Golf One, Over Aurandel

In an Air Force that never really bothered with flying at low altitude, the RF-104 was a rare bird that was stunningly fast low down. Its short, stubby, razor-thin wings made it relatively unaffected by buffeting from the ground while the long fuselage made it relatively easy to control. The dive from 40,000 feet had pushed the speed of the aircraft up against the maximum allowable limit for the airframe, Mach 2.5. As they had descended into thicker, warmer air, the two RF-104s had had to slow down and now they were doing a mere 938 miles per hour, Mach 1.23. The problem the pilots faced was what to do next.

The F-104 was a point defense interceptor, flown only by the Air National Guard and tasked with defending American cities and other targets from any attacker who had managed to penetrate the other rings of defenses. Once long-range fighters, area defense and point-defense missiles had taken their toll, what was left belonged to the F-104s. For that purpose it carried a 20mm cannon in the nose, two AIM-7s under its wings and two AIM-9s on its wingtips. And, if all hell had broken loose, a single nuclear-tipped AIM-47 was carried semi-recessed under its belly. But, Noble-Golf One and Two had none of those things. They didn’t even have the cannon. They were RF-104s, representative of a small number of tactical reconnaissance aircraft the Air Force maintained in order to preserve expertise against a future when it might be needed. The problem was, they were unarmed.

The two pilots had discussed that problem quickly over the radio and come up with an idea. Now, skimming at Mach 1.23 and barely two thousand feet above the ground, they reached down, set their cameras running and then flipped the selector on their armament panel to “decoys”.

Ruined House, Curtis Road, Aurandel

Achillea caught the sight of two dots moving fast across the sky and looked hard at them. She recognized the short, thin wings and long fuselage a needle on a razor blade – F-104s. What the hell are THEY going to do? For an insane moment she wondered if Aurandel was about to get nuked, then she saw the jets hurtle over head in absolute silence. As they passed over, she saw them firing steaks of white smoke sideways.

The flares were dual-purpose. They were supposed to draw heat-seeking missiles away from their target while also blinding hostile electro-optical systems. The flares were magnesium-based and burned with an intense white light as they hung on their parachutes. This low and this fast, they went off almost together, creating a brilliant white flash that was enough to temporarily blind anybody on the ground. At the same time, the sonic boom of the F-104s passing low overhead created a fair simulation of a very loud explosion. The combination of flash and crash was enough to disorientate and bewilder anybody on the ground. When their vision and senses returned, the third part of the display was ready for them. The F-104s had also dropped their load of chaff, thin-cut strips of highly reflective aluminum that were supposed to hide an aircraft behind a mass of radar reflections. Tonight, they weren’t reflecting hostile radar emissions but the intense white light from the flares and the duller red from the burning police station. Taken together, the thousands of lightweight aluminum strips floating slowly downwards, filled the air with a shimmering mass of red and white light. To those on the ground, the whole sky seemed to have caught fire.

Achillea had realized what was about to happen when she saw the decoys firing and hidden her eyes behind her arm. As a result she was only dazzled, not blinded, and she saw the two F-104s climbing away, heading back to the stratosphere where America’s aircraft felt safe and secure. She made her way back from the ruined house to where the Aurandel police were still holding out. By the time she got there, she could only count four still fighting. Matthews saw her arrive and confirmed it. “Porky’s gone, pipe bomb got him. Reeve’s down as well, shot when he tried to help Porky. You get the ones back there?”

Achillea followed his gesture and nodded. “They’re gone, all six of them. Heckman’s lost at least two thirds of his men by now and the rest won’t be happy, Not after that.”

Matthews looked at the dying flares in the sky and the cloud of aluminum foil that was now settling on the ground. “Never seen anything like that before.”

“Pete, it means reinforcements are on the way. We’ve just got to hold out a little longer, that’s all.”

“There are just four of us.” Matthews was near to crying and Achillea reminded herself that while these people might be players in an arena to her, they were his family. At least five dead out of eleven and more seriously hurt. For her, death had been a constant companion for more years than Matthews could possibly realize and its presence was meaningless to her. That wasn’t true for him and she had no way of teaching him that when it was somebody’s day to die, that was all there was to it.

“That’s all we need, Cousin Pete. Take a look.”

Achillea pointed to the south. It was a long way away but the blue, white and red lights in the distance reflected off the remaining chaff cloud. As their ears cleared, they heard the equally-distance sound of massed sirens. Matthews stared at it and then pointed west. There were more lights and sounds approaching there. Nor were they the only ones. Seen and unseen, heard and unheard, police cars from all over the state were converging on the town of Aurandel.

[Calder]

Chapter 20
James Pettigrew’s House and Town Courthouse, Route 305, Aurandel, North Carolina

Three police cruisers peeled away from the convoy that was hurtling down Route 305 and jumped the kerb to stop outside Judge Pettigrew’s house. The bodies on the ground in front were all too obvious. Six police officers left the front seats of those cruisers, M-14 rifles held at the ready, covering anything that might contain a hidden gunman. Three more left the back seats and ran to check the bodies.

“This one’s Judge Pettigrew; woman with him is his wife. Looks like a Tommy gun nearly cut them in half.”

“Over here, another woman. Shot to hell, impossible to recognize.” There was a pause while the officer checked the woman’s purse. “Driving license says she’s Laura Matthews. That would be Sheriff Matthew’s wife.”

A long, aching silence fell on the scene, split only by the sound of sirens, car engines and the tattoo of distant gunfire. The police officers standing around the bodies started to take off their helmets, then realized this was a war zone. The need to mourn their own could wait. Eventually, the senior officer on scene took over. “Call coroners from Ahoskie and Powellsville. Get those bodies moved inside and cover up Mrs Matthews. No man should ever see his wife looking like that.”

Then, he turned on his heel, got back into his police cruiser and got on the radio. “Dispatch, relay William one-five to all units on Tac-Two. Be advised that the gangsters killed Judge Pettigrew and two of his women-folk including the Sheriff’s wife. You can expect the perpetrators will try to surrender in a life-threatening manner. Act accordingly.”

Woods Behind Ruined Police Station, Corner of North Lombardy and Main, Aurandel

“I ain’t hurt bad. You look after Gracie and Boyd.” Lane Pettigrew was winding his belt around his leg, trying to stop the bleeding from a bullet that had caught him.

Achillea took a quick look; the blood was oozing out. Not spurting in the unstoppable spray that told of a severed artery. She shook her head. “Boyd’ll make it. Grace, I don’t know. But, a few seconds looking after you now will make a hell of a difference to your chances.”

The gunfire coming in at them was diminishing fast. The attackers had seen the columns of lights converging on the town and the sound of the massed sirens was now loud enough to be painful. Achillea checked the leg again, satisfying herself that the wound wasn’t life threatening, then shifted her position. Five dead, three wounded out of twelve. It never occurred to her to include herself in with the wounded, despite the way her shoulder hurt or the sharp pain in her chest when she breathed in too fast. By Achillea’s standards, if she was alive, she wasn’t hurt badly enough to worry about. Her new position allowed her to look south down North Lombardy just in time to see the first police cars swerve around the corner and head up the road towards them.

The remaining gangsters saw them arrive as well. It was enough. On top of the hammering they’d taken in the battle, the realization of what they had done suddenly sank in. They have suddenly realized that they’ve taken a whole local police force on in a pitched battle and they can run but they’ll never find anywhere to hide. Every police force, Local, State and Federal, uniformed and plain-clothes will be looking for them. It won’t stop there; even the Mob will be after them. There’s an unspoken agreement between the two sides of the law, some things just aren’t done and what happened here tonight is at the top of the crooks ‘Hell, no. Don’t even think it’ list. Even the Unions will be after Heckman in an effort to keep themselves distanced from what he’s done tonight. Thinking it over, Achillea was slightly awed by her own success.

The gunmen were trying to slip away in the darkness. Achillea saw their shadows trying to retreat into the patches of trees and scrub that were interspersed with the remaining houses in the run-down town. By now, all four main roads into Aurandel were blocked by the flashing lights of police cruisers and figures in black police tactical uniforms were spreading out from the parked cars. Down on North Lombardy, Achillea watched a small group of police flushing one man out from a ruined house he had been trying to hide in. It was a brief, violent encounter that ended with the man being shot down where he stood. If the Police had tried to arrest him, Achillea saw or heard no sign of it.
Another man had seen the brief struggle and he learned from it. He stopped in his tracks and stood motionless with his arms raised over his head. He was thrown to the ground, handcuffed and bundled into the back of a police cruiser, undoubtedly bruised and injured but alive. Achillea’s guess was that the fugitive gangsters had one very brief chance to surrender and they would be well-advised to take it.

While she had been watching developments, another column of police cruisers had arrived along Curtis Road and turned so that their headlights illuminated the open ground between that road and the area where the survivors of the Aunrandel police force were still waiting. The police from those cars jog-trotted across the waste ground, their guns at the ready. When they finally joined the Aurandel force, their faces showed their shock at the casualties. One of them took Matthews to one side and spoke to him, quietly and gently. Achillea watched as the Sherriff crumpled to the ground, his arms wrapped around his chest, and started rocking backwards and forwards.

“What happened?” One of the recently-arrived police officers was watching sympathetically. Achillea asked the question although she already had a shrewd idea of the answer.

“Them gunsels killed Judge Pettigrew, his wife and daughter, Sheriff Matthew’s wife. Poor woman, she got shot to hell and back. There’s going to be an accounting for all this. How many gunsels hit this place?”

“Thirty-plus. May be forty.” Achillea was about to say something else but she was cut off by the whistling scream of a Rotodyne air ambulance. It was on the ground for only a few seconds as the wounded police officers were rushed on board, then it took off again, heading straight for the nearest hospital. Achillea noted that the pilot was so intent on getting to the hospital fast that he never even tried to climb for altitude.

“Ma’am, your hurt bad as well.” The police officer next to her was looking at her torn, blood-soaked blouse and jeans. “You should get on the next ‘dyne.”

“I’ve been hurt worse than this.” The gods know that’s true enough. “I’ve got things to finish off here. Starting with making sure he’s . . . . . ”

Achillea didn’t quite know what words to use when she pointed at Matthews sitting on the ground. The policeman nodded then watched as she went over to him. She sat down, quietly, unobtrusively, not trying to interrupt his grief. He saw her and managed to blurt out, “is this what happens when we try to do the right thing?”

She shook her head. “This was going to happen anyway, Cousin Pete. The town was coming to a boil and you’d have been in the middle of it regardless of how the chips went down. They were coming for you and yours sooner or later. By trying to do right, you made sure you had help when you needed it. You, me, Boyd, Lane, Karina, the rest of your family, we’re alive because of the decisions you made. Grace and Joe have a chance because of those decisions. You’ve done the best anybody could with a real lousy hand Pete.”

“And Laura got killed. Why they have to kill her? She never did anybody any harm.”

“Because they’re bad people and doing bad things comes naturally to them. There isn’t any need for more of an explanation than that.”

Matthews looked at her, his eyes bright red with weeping and his cheeks swollen. “Ya’all must think I’m a real jerk breakin’ down like this.”

“Pete, a long time ago, when I was very young, I cried the first time somebody really hurt me. The man who was training us made all the . . . people . . . . there hit me until I stopped crying. I’ve never been able to cry since. You don’t know how lucky you are to be able to grieve. And, to answer your question, I’d think you were a real jerk if you didn’t break down right now.” She reached out and cushioned Matthew’s head on her shoulder. It was only when he felt the concrete muscles under her clothing that he understood just how strong she was and how little chance the men he had seen her fight against had stood.

After a moment, she patted him gently and stood up. “Pete, there’s an account that has got to be settled. I want to do it.”

“Heckman?”

“Heckman. The police will be fanning out from here to secure the town. We both know where he is. Buy me a little time will you? By not being quite sure.”

Matthews looked at her and nodded.

Working Man’s Social Club, Rice Avenue, Aurandel

Heckman guessed he had only a few minutes before the police finished cleaning up around what was left of the Police Station and started to clear out the rest of the town. He intended to use that time to get all the money he could out of his safe and put as much distance between himself and the town of Aurandel as he could. He had the safe door open and was piling money into a black leather bag when he heard a click behind him. The sound was quite unmistakable; it was that of a semi-automatic pistol being racked. He turned around and saw an indistinct figure in the semi-darkness. He guessed who it was though and the voice he heard was only confirmation of that.

“Well, well Freddie, I see its time for our date at last.” Achillea’s voice was almost soft and affectionate but the it was made ugly by the way it was laden with sneering contempt. “Have you decided what you want to do yet?”

“Whadya mean?” Any pretence of style or refinement had gone from Heckman’s voice and what was left revealed him as the back-street thug he really was.

“The police are coming for you, Freddie. You killed a law officer’s wife and declared war on a whole police force. Everybody wants you dead. Both sides of the law for a start. The police will put you into general population and every convict who wants to curry favor with the cops and courts will be trying to think of new ways to kill you by inches. The Mob know that the cops will hammer everybody who even parks illegally until you’re caught. And as for your old Union friends, they’ve got to dump on you. No matter who gets you in the end, you’ll die screaming. That leaves you with three choices Freddie. The first is you can try to fight your way past me and get out of here. Now, I’m not at my best right now, being shot and all, but your chances aren’t very good. In fact, only question is how you’ll die and that depends on how the fight plays out. Or you can sit there and let me kill you. Downside there is that I’m mad at you as well and I’m one of those who’ll make sure your dying won’t be quick or easy. It will hurt. A lot. Or, you can use this.” She tossed a rope she had picked up on the way to the Club. It landed on the desk with a thump, uncoiling as if it were a live snake. The end was tied in a noose. “Hanging yourself will save me a lot of paperwork and I get writer’s cramp easily. So, you get to do me a favor and in return, I let you off easy. You just tie it off around that fan up there, put the noose around your neck and step off the desk.”

“I got money, lots of money. You can have it all.”

“So have I Freddie, much more than you realize. In fact I could buy and sell you with my petty cash.” And that is the truth, I do have the money. Once, I could have bought you and used you for a demonstration match in the arena. “But that money there goes to the people you’ve brutalized and bled white. That’s not a fourth way, Freddie. You only got three and they all lead to the same place. Now, make up your mind.”

With her last words, Achillea’s voice had changed from the soft, derisive tone she’d used in speaking to a flat, vicious command. It had the impact of a whip-lash and it hit Heckman the same way. He flinched as if it had been a physical blow.

In fact, it took almost an hour before the police turned up. By the time they did, Achillea had found herself a clean shirt to replace her ruined blouse and had helped herself to a couple of drinks from the bar. In her considered opinion, the whisky here was worse than the stuff Nathan Stauffer had once served.

“And you are ma’am?” She didn’t recognize the police officer.

“Achillea Foyle. Office of Strategic Services. We’re working with the FBI on this.” She produced her badge and showed it. “Heckman’s though there. Hung himself.”

“Damn. We wanted his ass so bad.” She took the officer into the back room and watched his face gray slightly with shock. Heckman’s face was twisted with the agony of slow strangulation and drool from his gaping mouth had soaked his shirt front. The officer shook his head. “He didn’t even have the sense to use a slip-knot or a decent drop. He must have taken ten, fifteen minutes to strangle like that. Whoever said there was no justice in the world.”

Twenty-two minutes to be precise. Achillea thought. Then she turned to the police officer. “I guess somebody gave him some really bad advice. Could you give me a lift back to the police station please?”

Front Parlor, Emelia Souza’s Home, Williford Circle, Aurandel

“Sheriff Matthews, I heard about Laura, I am so sorry. If there is anything I can do. . . . . . She can’t come to the phone right now, the Doctors looking at her, she’s got a cracked rib. . . . . . . That’s terrible, I’ll make sure she knows right away.”

Achillea raised an eyebrow as Emelia put the telephone down and sighed. “That was Pete Matthews, he wanted you to know that Grace didn’t make it. She died on the operating table. Boyd, Lane and Joe are going to be all right though.”

“Six dead.” Achillea thought about it. “That’s the end of the Pettigrew hold on the police force. This town will have more cops in it than citizens for a long time to come. Cops from outside. When it does get its own police force back, it will be properly trained and the officers won’t all be related. They’ll have a hell of a big pair of shoes to step into though. The Pettigrews will be famous when this siege goes down into history. Hollywood will probably make a movie of it.”

“With Bill Shaych writing the script.” Emilia snuffled slightly. She’d heard the grief in Sheriff Matthews’ voice and knew it would be a long time before he recovered from the losses he’d suffered. If he ever did. “I wonder who’ll play you?”

“Pier Angeli, I guess. And Pam Grier’ll play you. Clint Eastwood for Pete Matthews?”

Achillea and Emelia looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then Emelia suddenly looked ashamed. “We can’t laugh. Not after all those people died.”

“Oh yes we can. We’re alive. You know, I read a book once.”

“Surely not!” Emelia held her hands up in mock horror.

“Very funny. It was about some general. Washington perhaps. Anyway, he said that save for a battle lost, there is nothing so terrible as a battle won. I thought then, what a dumbass. If winning means you’re alive to see the sights, it’s a good day. Look, Emelia, you’ll have to stay on here for a few months longer than planned. Help Pete get sorted out. And, I’ll need to stay on for a day or two. I’ve got to write a report on all this, one that won’t make The Seer tear me a new asshole.”

Ryan’s Diner, 108 Main Street, Aurandel

“You must be George.” The man was standing behind the counter, serving up the coffee. He was moving carefully, as if his balance wasn’t so good. His face was lumpy and distorted. Achillea knew why, being beaten with a baseball bat would do that.

“I am. You must be Achillea, Marcie told me about you.” The voice was also careful, as if the man knew he couldn’t speak very well and took each word carefully. “Double hamsteak, white-egg omelette, sweet potato hash, grits, juice.”

“Thank you.” Achillea watched him go back to the kitchen with her order. That was when she turned to the end of the breakfast bar. Pete Matthews was there, talking quietly with Marcie over coffee. Every so often she would reach out and touch his hand. But when she looked up and saw Achillea, the welcoming glance was mixed with fear and defensiveness.

“One last breakfast and I’m out of here. Got to go back to Washington. Marcie, it’s been a pure pleasure eating here.”

Marcie’s eyes relaxed and she glanced at the Sheriff with affection in her eyes. Cops and diner waitresses have a long history together. I hope this works out for them Achillea looked Matthews in the eyes as well. “Pete, this will all work out in the end. And you know where to call if you need help getting there.”

“Thanks Cousin ‘Lea. I ain’t the law here anymore. Not really. Got the title but the professionals have the place now. The State’s sending the rest of us to the academy so we can learn our jobs the right way. Perhaps, when we get back. . . . .” Matthews voice trailed off for a second. “You remember Travis Josephson? He’s takin’ over the Painted Lady Club. He says, it’ll be run straight from now on. No more bathtub booze, the games’ll be run straight and the girls won’t be puttin’ out. He says he’ll still give runaways a job and a place they can rest up though. Just without the strings Stauffer attached.”

Achillea nodded and started to eat her breakfast. She guessed it might be a long time before she had a ham steak again and a very long time before she had one this good. When she’d finished, she paid her check and left, leaving the usual generous tip behind. Around her, the town seemed crowded with police cruisers. There was one at every intersection and police officers with shotguns prominently displayed were watching every movement. Guess my exemption from speed limits has just been revoked.

Then, she left Aurandel behind her.