Chapter 21
The Hierarchy
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Raylan sat strait up in his seat with his head in between the two front headrests. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his pupils dilated with excitement. "Holy shit."
Art brought his rig to an abrupt halt, and the three LEOs were thrown forward and then, snapped back, held in their seats thanks to their seatbelts.
"Everybody alright?" Art asked.
"Yeah," Anna and Raylan answered, nodding simultaneously.
In the darkness, illuminated only by the truck's headlights, they could see that the bridge leading into Noble's Holler was gone. Had Art's truck come to a stop only two seconds later, they would have all been swimming in the dark, murky Martins Fork River with the water moccasins.
"I've got some flashlights there in the back," Art said to Raylan.
Raylan released his seatbelt and turned around in the backseat, up on his knees, and fished through Art's gear. "Found 'em" he said, passing one to Art and one to Anna, keeping one for himself.
The three slowly exited the vehicle with their hands on their guns at the ready, proceeding in trained, investigative mode. Gathering at the back of rig, Art popped the window to retrieve the Kevlar vests.
"Smell that?" Art asked Raylan, keeping his voice down, passing Raylan a vest.
"Emulex," Raylan answered, strapping on the vest.
"How do you know?" Anna asked, following suit.
"When ya' work in the mines, ya' never forget that smell."
Anna's mind was racing. "Who reported this incident?"
"Now, that's a good question," Art responded as the larger man strapped on his, too. "I don't know. I got the call from Dispatch."
"Evidently, we're the only ones who did get the call." Raylan peered into the darkness.
Anna flashed her light toward the water. "That is odd, isn't it? Where are the locals?"
"Couple of departments could argue about jurisdiction. That's always a problem up here in these hills." Art slapped his neck. The mosquitos were out.
"If I can get a signal, I'll call down to Harlan. At least get some paramedics up here in case we need 'em." Raylan tried his phone, glancing at the screen. "Shit. No service," he said, slipping it back in his pocket.
Anna tried hers too, as she was with a different carrier. No luck. They proceeded to fan out from the truck, shining their flashlights all around. They couldn't see or hear anything. Down below, splintered pieces of the bridge were strewn into the river. Art returned to the back of his rig to retrieve his bull horn, and raised it to his mouth.
"This is the U.S. Marshals," his voice echoed into the holler. "Is everyone alright? We are here to help."
There was no response. They waited for a time, when Art made his announcement again. Still, nothing. He looked up at the sky. The New Moon offered nothing but darkness. And just as Karen said the Weather Service predicted, fog was beginning to roll in.
"Dammit," Raylan swore, as he slapped a biter that landed on the side of his face.
"We'd better get back in the truck before we're eaten alive," Art suggested and received no argument. Once all were back inside, he glanced at the clock on the dash. "4:10 a.m.," he announced.
Art quickly checked his cell phone, too. It was out of the service area, just as he thought it would be. "Well," he sighed. "We can either drive back to that rest stop . . . or . . . stay here in the car until sun up."
"I vote for stayin' here," Raylan said without missing a beat.
"Agreed," Anna followed. "This isn't my first stake out."
"Alright. I say we try to catch 40 winks before sun up." Art's was the third vote, making it unanimous. "Good thing we stopped to use the rest stop facilities a few miles back." After a beat, he locked the doors and turned around to the back seat. "Raylan, are you good to stretch out back there?"
"Yeah," he said, reaching back into Art's gear where he found some auto blankets. After passing them out, he removed his hat, lay back against the door, and covered himself with a blanket and his face with the Stetson.
"I'll take first watch," Anna said.
"I appreciate that." Art pulled the release lever on the side near the floor, and his seat moved back towards Raylan, giving him a little more legroom. He then pushed another button, and his seat reclined. Anna did the same. In no time at all, there was soft snoring coming from the two men, as Anna stared out into the dark.
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
The sun came up, and Raylan stirred from the backseat. "Owwww," he said, under his breath.
"Are you alright back there?" Anna asked.
As he sat up with his hand on his neck, Raylan answered, "I got a damn crick in my neck. Any lesser man would be writhin' in pain, but not me," he said with bravado. "Not to mention my face itched all night from where that damn mosquito bit me."
Anna let out a little chuckle.
Sure enough, Raylan had a big, angry bite on the side of his face. "How about I take over the watch, and maybe you could close your eyes for a bit?" Raylan offered, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Art.
"I'm fine," Anna said. "Besides, I dozed off for a bit a while back. I mean, look at it," she said, referring to the fog that surrounded the truck. "Kind of hard to be the lookout when you can't see anything in front of you."
It was then that Raylan looked around and saw what she meant. "Are ya' hungry? Thirsty?" he asked, reaching to the back of the rig with his good arm and grabbing his Go Bag. He unzipped it to find some protein bars and bottled water. "I got chocolate mint and a hazelnut," he said, holding up the bars.
"I'll take the chocolate mint," she said. "Thanks¸" she added, when he passed it to her with a bottled water.
"Hell, we're stuck," Raylan complained as he ripped open the packaging with his teeth. "We can't even go back to the rest stop. Not in this fog. We've got no cell reception."
"I know. We can't even get to those poor people to see what's happened," Anna remarked. "There's no way you and I couldn't swim across that river?"
"That river and all this land around it is full of water moccasins this time of year," he said, in between bites of his bar. "And no offense, but even if there wasn't any fog, your footwear is no way appropriate to protect you from the snakes and this rough terrain."
Anna was wearing her running shoes. "I'm sorry I don't own a pair of cowboy boots."
"No, I guess not. You're pretty much a city gal," he quipped.
"I do go out on assignment from time to time," she reminded him, sipping her water.
"No offense intended," he said. "Winona's a city girl, too. I get it. You don't need protective boots in D.C. or New Orleans."
"I'm glad Winona is with Adam," she said. "Being a civilian, it's hard for him sometimes. The waiting for me to call with some kind of news." After no response from Raylan, she said, "They worry about us, you know?"
Staring out the window at the wall of fog, he answered, "Yeah. I know."
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
When Leslie walked into the kitchen in a pale blue French terry jogging suit, Adam was at the table, a mug of coffee in front of him. "I hope you don't mind," he said. "The smell woke me up." The morning had started out hazy, but now the sun was breaking through, slanting in the eastern window and flooding the small kitchen with light.
"That's why I set the timer and put the mugs out last night before we turned in," Leslie said. "Or should I say this morning." She yawned and poured a cup for herself.
"Yeah, it was one of those nights." Adam took a sip.
"Winona's still sleeping," Leslie said. "Although I thought I heard Willa while I was getting dressed. I walk with my friend Cindy at eight. You'll be alright here on your own? There's cereal and milk – oh, and there's eggs, too, if you feel like something more substantial. Winona tells me you like to cook."
"Yes," Adam nodded. "May I?" He hesitated with his hand on the fridge door.
"Absolutely," Leslie said. She leaned against the counter with her cup and watched the young man study the contents of the fridge.
"Why don't I make us all omelets?" he suggested. "You have eggs, tomatoes, onions, mushrooms . . . and there's a pepper here, too."
"That sounds delicious," Leslie said. "We only walk for about a half-hour on Tuesdays. Cindy has yoga at nine."
"Perfect." Adam smiled.
Leslie left, and he began assembling ingredients on the counter, stopping long enough to finish his coffee and pour another cup.
"Good morning." Winona's voice startled him, and he turned to see her leaning in the doorway, Willa balanced on one hip.
"Do you always sneak up on people?" he teased.
"Do you always take over people's kitchens?" she teased back. She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled into one of the kitchen chairs, Willa on her lap, clutching the monkey and drooling.
Adam laid a hand on the baby's head. "Good morning to you, too, Miss Willa." She rewarded him with a slobbery grin and went back to loving her monkey.
"Do you like omelets?" he asked, cracking several eggs into a bowl.
"Yes," Winona answered. "And despite our feast last night, I'm pretty hungry."
By the time Leslie returned from her walk, cheeks flushed pleasantly from the exercise, Winona was eating her omelet.
"Yours is almost ready," Adam said.
She stepped up to the sink, turning on the water. "Let me wash my hands. Any word from Raylan?" Leslie asked.
Winona shook her head. "Art?"
"Nope." After drying her hands on a towel, she turned on the tiny kitchen television set. "Maybe there'll be something about the explosion on the news."
"I doubt it," Winona snorted. "The news crew would probably get lost in one of the hollers down there in Harlan County and never be heard from again."
"Harlan County," Adam repeated. "That sounds familiar."
"There was something on PBS awhile back. Maybe that's where you heard of it." Leslie shook her head. "But it's old. You would've been a kid."
"Something about miners striking?"
"That's the one," Leslie said. "1974, I think." She poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat across from Winona.
"Got pretty nasty, didn't it?" Adam slid a plate in front of Leslie and picked up Winona's empty one.
"Things are always nasty down in Harlan," Winona said, wrinkling her nose. "It seems like someone is always shooting someone."
"It's pretty down there, though," Leslie said.
"Yes, it can be," Winona said, recalling the view from the old house the day of Helen's funeral. "But I still hate that place. No matter what we do, it always seems to pull Raylan back."
"Well, I know Art has appreciated the way he has with the folks down there," Leslie said, trying to change the tone. She tapped her fingers on the table to get the baby's attention.
"Da-da-da-da!" Willa shrieked, pounding her little fist into the monkey's fur.
"She sure loves her daddy," Leslie said, giving Winona a smile. "I'm glad you two are working things out."
"Me, too." Winona gave her daughter a squeeze.
Adam fixed his own plate and joined the ladies at the table, all eyes focused on the news. After ten minutes of coverage on a convenience store robbery and the arrest of a local baseball coach for soliciting for prostitution, the anchor turned it over to the weatherman. Pointing to his radar he informed them in somber tones that while the fog was lifting in the city "outlying areas could see visibility under one mile well into mid-morning."
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
It was a little before noon when the three LEO's, all fully awake, heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. They turned and looked behind Art's truck, towards where the sound was coming from, and watched in horror as Tim's truck swerved to keep from hitting Art's rig and slammed on the brakes. A moment later, Art, Anna, and Raylan emerged to greet Tim and Karen Goodall.
"That was too close for comfort," Tim quipped, the others still a bit shaken.
"Tim. It's never a good idea to run into your Chief's vehicle," Art deadpanned.
Taking a look around him, Tim said, "Nope. Wouldn't have been good. You all almost ended up in the Martins Fork River, and I'd probably have been shipped back to Afghanistan."
Changing the subject, Karen Goodall, dressed in jeans, boots, and wearing a Marshals Service jacket, took charge of the scene. "It took us long enough to be able to get to you. The fog is finally beginning to lift, at least back toward civilization. We left Deputy Marshal Brooks at the airport, and as soon as it's safe to do so, a helicopter I commandeered will arrive to survey the damage . . . and aid us in searching for Arndt or any injured." Everyone, including Art, listened to her every word.
"The task force will be led by me, here at the scene. If anything happens to me or I have to leave the scene, Agent Rulé, FBI, is in charge."
Tim rolled his eyes at Raylan and grinned. Art noticed the exchange and shot the younger Marshal a warning glare.
"There you have it, the reporting hierarchy." She continued, "The FBI is quashing all news reports and the media, until we've had a chance to quietly round up Arndt and take him into Federal custody."
"You owe us one, too," Tim interjected. "We picked up a couple of buckets of KFC for lunch. Figured you'd been eating Go Bag food by now."
"That we were," Raylan said. "By the way, I couldn't help but notice that all the good stuff, ya' know, the big bag of Doritos and the beef jerky and that bag of pistachios I had in my bag . . . were gone." Looking Tim straight in the eye, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now? Would ya'?"
Flashing a mischievous grin, Tim said, "Not me. Maybe it was Rachel."
"'By the book' Deputy Marshal Brooks?" Raylan's eye narrowed. "I don't think so."
The group wandered back to Tim's truck, and he opened the tailgate, laying out the chicken, napkins, and all the extras.
"Ah-ah-ah," Tim scolded Raylan. "Ladies first."
But it was too late. Raylan grabbed a bucket and pulled off the lid, taking a chicken leg for himself and passing the bucket to Anna. "Ummm," he mumbled between bites. "Extra crispy."
"What other kind is there?" Tim asked. "You always were a leg man," he bantered. "I'm a breast man myself."
Art took the bucket next, and Tim looked worried as his boss deliberately laid claim to the one breast. "Don't look so stricken," Art said to Tim. "There's another bucket."
Anna took a seat on the open tailgate of Art's rig that was parked next to Tim's. She dug into some baked beans and a biscuit, her feet now safely off the ground. Ever since Raylan told her about the snakes, she'd been uneasy about walking around in her running shoes. "Shit," she thought to herself. "Even The Bitch knew not to come to this part of the country without boots." But as Raylan politely said in his country boy way, how was she to know? Even though she may have been born in this part of the country, this was the first time she'd ever been there. Or was it?
Raylan joined her, taking a seat on the other side of the tailgate. His added weight lowered the gate's height a bit.
"So, what was with that, about me being second in command?" she asked, disapprovingly pulling the crispy skin off her piece of thigh meat with her fingers. "Does it mean you're in the dog house with her, again?"
Raylan gave a "Tsk." "I'm sure I am," he said, licking the grease from his fingers. "But that's not what that was all about. It means the FBI has the lead on this one. And you're FBI. I'd of never been considered anyways. Art would. But even Art gets it."
She looked over at him to see how he was doing with it. Not that the gesture meant much to her. It was the idea of being in charge of a big investigation that was new to her. If need be, she knew she could do it. She'd been trained for any scenario.
"Don't even worry about it," Raylan reassured her. "Believe me, this isn't the first time the Marshals Service has taken a backseat to the Feebs, and it sure won't be the last." He took a chomp on an ear of corn. "Karen has the clout to bring in a helicopter, and she has a few years on ya'. Plus she's a big wig bureaucrat in DC, now. But she still has to have the FBI at the scene. And that's where you come in."
"Well, yeah," she said. "I figured that. I just didn't expect a nod from her."
"I told ya' she's not so bad." Placing the cob down on his plate, void of every single kernel, Raylan continued. "I have some advice for ya' if you're willin' to take it. Art and I are damn good shots. We taught Firearms at Glynco. You knew that about me, but not Art. But as good as we are . . . no one's a better shot than Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. The man's a sharpshooter, trained in Afghanistan. Got his short and long range rifles with scopes in his truck."
"Good to know," Anna said, taking it all in."
Wiping his hands and mouth with a napkin, he continued. "And you already know, Rachel Brooks is just as solid as the day is long. An excellent shot herself, smart, and cool as a cucumber. A real Pro." After a beat he added, "But if ya' know what's good for ya', always remember this: DON'T MAKE ART RUN," he said, talking with his hands for emphasis. "His runnin' days are over, and it'll piss him off if ya' make him run. Okay?"
"Got it," she smiled. "I'll remember that."
"I for one am glad you're here. Trust me, we've had some real assholes from the FBI before."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said with all sincerity.
"Did I hear you mention the name of FBI Agent Jerry Barkley?" Tim asked, approaching them with his plate of lunch. "May that asshole rest in peace."
"I was just about to tell her the story of ol' Barkley," Raylan answered.
His tale was interrupted before it even began, by the whirr of a chopper coming in just over the horizon.
"Eat up," Raylan recommended, and Tim shoveled his plate of food in his mouth.
Everyone finished up whatever it was they were doing to clean up, stow away the leftover food, and check their weapons . . . preparing themselves for whatever was to come.
(To be continued . . .)