A Deal with the Sheriff

If Connie wondered why we had gone out the back and come back in the front, she didn't ask any questions. When I told her we would need two more chairs she ran right off to fetch them. I was starting to develop a preference for people who could do their jobs without asking questions and still be willing to play with me — or let me play with them.

We got Grace to the table and had Connie bring her a glass of chardonnay to help calm her nerves. She had swallowed about half of it in the very short time before blue lights played through the front windows. Shortly after that, her husband came in and slid into the chair next to me. He asked Connie for a double-bourbon and then turned to face me.

"Young lady," he said, "Let me introduce myself. I'm Bob Foster and I want to thank you for your help out there. That was as neat a bit of unarmed combat as I have ever seen."

Bambi spoke up from her chair on the other side of Grace, "Sam, this is Sheriff Foster. You remember seeing him on the TV news the other night talking about the capture of those escaped convicts."

Things fell into place at that bit of news. Now I knew why Bambi hadn't bothered to try and cover for me outside. This was a man I very much needed to know. I hadn't had any time to plan what I would say in this situation, but as the cliché said, it was 'time to fish or cut bait'. I put on the most businesslike face I could manage and pressed on with the conversation.

"Hello, Sheriff. I'm Samantha Kramer. I'm glad you're not hurt. I got there as quick as I could."

"Sam, is it? You arrived in the nick of time, Sam. The gentleman you clobbered so efficiently was the brother of someone we had arrested last week for wholesale distribution of narcotics. Instead of posting bail to get his brother out he decided to use a more direct approach. He was trying to kidnap us so he could make a trade. You see, you didn't just stop a mugging, you disrupted the commission of a Federal crime. Now at the risk of sounding ungrateful; who the hell are you?"

"Sheriff, I don't know what I can tell you... well maybe I do. Are you still looking for those twenty outlaw bikers who beat up those poor escaped convicts?"

Foster laughed, "Lord, no. There aren't any gangs of bikers riding around this county beating up... oh shit! Pardon my French. You're not trying to tell me..."

"I am the twenty bikers, Sheriff. I am also the dead girl, in case that part of the case is still open. You can quit looking." The ambulance had arrived outside, and most of the restaurant patrons were too busy gawking out the front windows to pay any attention to our conversation, so I felt safe having this discussion on a public place.

Sheriff Foster was speechless. He just kept staring at me with his jaw set until Connie brought his drink. He picked it up and gulped half of it before he could think of something to say.

"Ah, those two cons were doing a total of 170 years hard time for multiple counts of rape and murder," he said. "They were scheduled to be transferred upstate because we considered them to be too dangerous to keep in our local facility. As nasty customers go in this state, those are among the worst. Were, that is." He paused for another sip of his drink. The smell of it on his breath was making my eyes water. "The hospital tells me that Leon Brenneke will be well enough to move in a couple of months. He may recover physically, eventually, but no one who has interviewed him thinks he will ever pose a threat to society again. Claude "Bubba" Carstairs has been permanently disqualified from ever having children. Both his testicles had to be removed and his pelvis was so badly fractured that he will need two more operations to put him back together.

When they were picked up they were both so scared that they had shit themselves. During the post-capture interview, when we told them that we knew their biker gang story was a load of bull they both became quite agitated, almost hysterical, and insisted that we had to believe them. In short, they were both broken, physically and mentally. I've been wondering what we had in this town that was so bad-ass and so damn scary that it could do that. Now that I've met you I see how they got so beat up, but I've changed my mind about knowing how you scared them so bad. I've decided that that is something I am better off not knowing.

"In my line of work I've met many professionals. Special Warfare Operatives, SEALs, SAS and SBS commandos, ex-CIA spooks and the like. Seems like their favorite form of retirement is to open a school or become a consultant or trainer and sell their experience to local law enforcement agencies. These were all very impressive people, but I don't think any of them could have done what you did."

"Now I don't know where you came from or who you work for and I don't want to know. I'll help preserve your cover as a professional courtesy. I owe you for what you've done, too. Both last night and tonight. You'll find that I am a man who pays his debts in full." The Sheriff took out a business card and wrote a number on the back before giving it to me. "This is my private line. Call me if there is ever anything I can do for you."

"Thank you, "I told him. "I'm glad you appreciate the need for confidentiality, even deniability, in my line of work. I want to assure you that I'm not here to cause any trouble, not that I could discuss that with you anyway. On the contrary, I plan to make a contribution toward keeping our community a safer place to live. I hope you don't have a problem with that?"