Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 63, No. 11 & 12, November/December 2018

Fear of the Secular by Mitch Alderman

In the never-ending struggle arranging three hundred twenty pounds sveltely along his six foot five frame, Bubba Simms walked the treadmill at Big Al’s Iron Works. He’d already been lifting an hour, doing lower back work. Bubba had decided to have only two slices of whole-wheat toast at the Haven Café with the ham and cheese omelet. No side of bacon today. Nor doughnut. Maybe.

A tall, slender woman with damp, black hair tied back and unusually pale skin for central Florida in summer stood at the edge of Bubba’s vision talking to Big Al, toweling sweat. She’d probably been in one of the spin classes. Since the incident with the too-small bike seat, Big Al had encouraged Bubba to use the treadmill for his cardiovascular exercise. The woman stepped over to Bubba.

“I’m Dr. Amy Stranton. Al says you’re good at solving problems.”

Bubba increased the speed. “Can we meet at my office at nine?”

“My office at ten? I’ll have my day under control by then.” Ten worked. She gave Bubba an index card with an address, then strode toward the women’s locker rooms. Bubba finished the treadmill and found Big Al polishing small chrome weights in the mirrored aerobics room.

“Who is Dr. Stranton?”

“Excellent cyclist. Limited upper body strength.”

“Occupation?”

Al shrugged. “Pays in cash. Spins Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Early morning. I bet her resting heart rate is below fifty.”

After the strongest private detective in Winter Haven, Florida, showered and shaved, he donned tan boots, jeans, and a black pullover shirt and headed for the Haven Café, pondering the decision about the bacon. The he drove to a new strip mall encroaching a residential area in north Winter Haven. Seven pickets stood or sat on folding chairs in the parking lot, holding signs, and chanting.

The address Dr. Stranton had given him was for the new Imperial Polk County Women’s Health Clinic, open Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, according to the sign. Carrying his briefcase, Bubba started toward the clinic and his client. The chant, “Stop the Murder,” increased its volume. After an audible click, Bubba opened the door.

“You’ve waited too long; you must be in the third trimester.” The old woman behind the counter laughed.

“Mrs. Dreemond, once more you’ve crushed my positive self-image.”

“Sergeant Simms, have a seat, if you can find a chair that will hold you. I’ll let Dr. Stranton know that her ten o’clock is here.” Mrs. Dreemond whispered into the phone, then turning back she said, “She’ll be a minute.”

“Mrs. Dreemond, how does a fine Parkland Baptist Church lady such as yourself come to be the receptionist at a clinic such as this one?”

“After my husband died, social security and his pension roof and feed me, but nothing else much. Here the pay is good. The staff works hard. And the clients need my advice. Get rid of those lazy, no-account boyfriends, take your birth control. Having a baby lasts forever. Grow yourself up first.”

Arlene Dreemond had been the leader of a very successful neighborhood watch program in west Winter Haven when Bubba was the young sergeant in charge of the patrolmen cruising that zone. She lived in an area of middle and lower middle-class homes bordering run-down businesses and a closed auto junkyard. Drugs spilled into her streets. Mrs. Dreemond and her neighbors struggled with the seeming impossibility of keeping their homes safe. Eventually, the junkyard became an active business and the drug trafficking moved elsewhere. Mrs. Dreemond and Bubba had walked block after block, her talking, him listening.

“Mr. Simms?” Dr. Stranton stood in an office door, wearing pastel scrubs.

Bubba entered her office, which was bigger than the usual. A sink and counter were on the far wall. An open door showed a bathroom with a shower.

She motioned Bubba to sit, returning to her chair. “My office is my sanctuary. No one is allowed in without explicit permission.

“Mrs. Dreemond recommended you. Said Sergeant Simms would take care of the punks. Put the fear of the secular in them, since God had obviously abandoned them.”

Bubba laughed. “Mrs. Dreemond and I go way back. Punks?”

“We’ve had two incidents. Someone pry-barred the rear door and vandalized the offices. Graffiti. Cow’s blood on the floor.”

“What does the Winter Haven Police Department say?”

“We haven’t filed a complaint.”

“Why? They’re a quality department.”

“Publicity encourages the protestors. Worse, it scares the girls and women who need to come here,” Dr. Stanton said as she rubbed her eyes.

“What do you need from me?” Bubba asked.

“Ideas about how to catch them.”

“Catch them or deter them? Better locks and barred doors and windows will keep them out,” Bubba said.

“I have done that before in other places. It just feels like we’re under siege.”

“Cameras? Alarms?”

“We have both. The videos show men wearing jeans, dark shirts, ski masks. Nothing to identify them. They’re quick, weren’t inside here more than thirty seconds either time.”

“Guard dog?”

“Hmm. I had not thought of that. Can I rent one?” she asked.

“I’ll look into it. Someone could stay inside after closing and catch them in the act.” Bubba tilted his head and pursed his lips.

“We tried that. Mrs. Dreemond had two of her church members hide inside and nothing happened. The first night they didn’t stay, the vandals returned.”

“If the vandals are part of the organization protesting outside, then they’re keeping count of who comes and goes.”

“They do that anyway. Taking pictures, identifying our clients, harassing them.”

“Will you prosecute the vandals when we catch them?”

“As much as the law allows. I’m fed up with being treated as a criminal.” The glow in Dr. Stranton’s face grew.

“Do you know who organized the pickets?”

“Reverend Garrett Hand of the Holy Fellowship Church in Wahneta. He is outside most days.”

“I arrested him, more than once, on drug charges. Before he saw the light. He’s been clean and sober for a decade or more.”

“Suggestions?” She leaned back in her chair, glancing at her watch.

“I have an inkling. To start, I will show the flag, letting them know that vandalism just ended.” Bubba opened his briefcase, wrote on a contract, and handed it to her.

“I’m never in Winter Haven in the evenings. I travel to two part-time clinics. Here’s my personal number.” She wrote on the back of a card. She signed the contract, wrote a check.

Next Bubba drove crosstown, over the bridge to Eloise, and took a left at the light to Wahneta. The small community had remained a day laborer society since Bubba had first visited it on patrol. The Reverend Hand might be at church; he hadn’t been with the pickets. Bubba recalled Garrett Hand’s drug-emaciated visage that last court appearance.

In his office, Reverend Hand’s face remained gaunt, but his countenance glowed. “Sergeant Simms, how are you?” He removed a pair of reading glasses as he stood.

“Clean and sober becomes you.”

“Please sit. I have you to thank. My last arrest was the bottom. Up until then crack cocaine owned my soul, but the Lord found me instead. Now I have life and joy to spread. Thank you, Sergeant Simms, for being a good policeman and doing your job.”

“Glad your life moved upward.”

“How can I help you?” Garrett paused, peered at Bubba. “A matter of faith?”

“I hear you’re the boss picket at Imperial Polk Women’s Health Clinic.”

“Organizer of the like-minded seeking to right a world’s wrong — but not a boss.”

“I’ve been hired to look into burglary, vandalism there.”

“I had not heard of any trouble at the clinic.”

“The clinic doesn’t want publicity. That only encourages violence, they feel.”

“We are not violent. We’re strictly committed to legally ending the murder of the unborn innocent at that place.” Reverend Hand’s voice hardened.

“Abortions.”

“Legalized murder.”

“That’s an oxymoron. Abortions are not murder. They’re legal. You and I both know real murder. We’ve seen the bodies, smelled the stench.”

Garrett nodded. “We have. But the righteousness of God shows our duty to change the law. Like Civil War abolitionists, we confront the wrongness of the law.”

“By casting the first stone?”

“Not my church, not my people. If the time comes to break the law, we will do it nonviolently in the full light of truth and the law, Sergeant Simms. My word.”

Bubba tried to find the face he’d known. It was not there.

“I accept that, Garrett. Are your people recording who is coming and going from the clinic? Calling them at home, following them?”

“Absolutely not. We have a legal picketing area where we hand out brochures and pray aloud for the women to realize their choice before it is too late.

“Performing abortions attracts determined opponents. The rumors is Dr. Stranton is performing late-term abortions. Not all believers are committed to the value of earthly law. Other groups picket with us.”

“Who are they?” Bubba asked.

Garrett smiled. “Brothers and sisters under God. That is all I can tell you.”

“Sort of like not giving up your source, the big dealer?”

“Not at all. You should be ashamed. This is the Lord’s work. That was the devil’s.”

“But you’d found heaven in a crack pipe?”

“The devil is clever and deceitful. The Truth is the path to the real Heaven.”

They sat, looking without blinking. Finally, Bubba nodded. “Thank you, Reverend. I believe that you aren’t promoting the violence. But I will stop it. You might spread that word to the brothers and sisters. The violence has ended.”

“Spreading the Word is what I do best now.” They shook hands, Garrett walked Bubba out. “God be with you, Sergeant Simms.”

“I’m just Bubba now, Reverend.”

“Bubba, be at peace.”

“When I catch these vandals.”

Bubba called Dr. Stranton’s number and left a message. It was after seven that evening when she returned his call.

“I talked with Reverend Hand today. I don’t think he is involved with the vandals,” Bubba said. “I’ll be doing a roving patrol the next few days and nights, showing the flag. Then, we’ll catch them.”

“Not much of plan.”

“It sounds better in person, with a scaled drawing. Rumor says you’re performing late-term procedures.”

“I also practice the black arts, having sold my soul for med school. No, I’m not doing late-term. Would that make a difference, if I were?”

“Just passing along what I heard.”

Bubba and Elvis, his Blue tick hound, cruised the parking lot of the clinic several times during the night, napping out front from three till five. A Winter Haven RD. patrol car, recognizing the Bronco, stopped to see if Bubba needed help. Bubba told him that he was working security for the clinic. The officer said he’d spread the word that Bubba was sleeping on the job.

Shortly after lunch, Bubba returned to the clinic without Elvis. He parked next to the picketers and stepped out. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” Someone hissed, but the other five people simply looked at him. They were hardscrabble Florida crackers: retired, worn down, but not out.

“I’m Bubba Simms.”

“We know who you are.” The tallest man spoke and spat tobacco juice on the pavement.

“Use your cup, Harold,” a woman in his group admonished.

“Then you know I’m doing security for the clinic.”

“Who’s doing security for those helpless children?” The same woman spoke, stepping forward.

“The violence against the clinic stops. Is that clear?”

“Reverend Hand told us. But we aren’t breaking any laws. If we break your law, you will find us standing right here.” The man spat again.

The woman said, “We can’t speak for other people filled with a righteous anger.”

“As long as they spend their anger elsewhere, no problem. Around here, they answer to me. Tell them.” Bubba left the picketers, and they resumed their chanting.

That night Bubba and Elvis cruised the clinic at irregular intervals. Elvis marked the dumpster, the utility pole, and the clinic’s back door. They napped twice, briefly. The Bronco was highly visible.

Bubba slept at home till noon. After lunch, he drove to the clinic and parked near the protestors. The crowd had changed. Only Harold the tobacco spitter and his wife were familiar. The newcomers wore better clothes, had more fashionable haircuts, and lacked real workman tans. Their signs were slicker, more graphically organized, and lacked a human touch.

“Good morning,” Bubba said to Harold, the spitter.

“Good morning, Sergeant Simms.”

“Are these people friends of yours?” Bubba indicated the others. Two young men smirked. The grown-ups stood straighten A shaved-bald man, early thirties, stood behind the smirkers. Bubba might not have noticed him except he seemed to be inspecting Bubba with a practiced eye. Skinhead thug or professional weight guesser?

“We all here to end the murder of helpless babies,” the wife said. She moved closer to Harold.

“Murder is a crime, ma’am. There are no crimes being committed in the clinic. And I am here to make sure none happen from the outside.”

“In God’s law, there is murder in there.”

“Then I’m sure God will deal with it. But here and now, in Winter Haven, that clinic is breaking no law. There is no cause for violence. We agree on that?” The grown-ups nodded. “Right. Now y’all watch out. That thunderhead to the east is carrying lightning and moving this way. A parking lot is a bad place to stand.”

The chanting picked up as Bubba headed toward the clinic door. “Stop the murder.”

Inside, Mrs. Dreemond was handing condoms to a pair of young women, each with a baby on her hip. “Use these until the pills take hold. Make those no-good boyfriends of yours find a second job or a hobby, like planting a garden. Something besides fertilizing you.” The girls were red-faced but giggling as Bubba stopped in the middle of the room.

“Does Dr. Stranton have a moment?”

“We are swamped with foolish young women today. I’ll check.”

Dr. Stranton leaned out, motioned Bubba to enter. After closing her door, she washed her hands. “Have you found out anything? Do you have a plan?”

“Yes and yes. The vandals aren’t part of Hand’s group. A different group is picketing today. My guess is that the vandals are part of this group.”

“The plan, quickly? I’m overbooked.” She took the damp paper towel and wiped her forehead and neck.

“I’m establishing a pattern; then, when it breaks, I will be waiting inside for the miscreants.”

“I’m on the road to Sumter County tonight; I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”

“Drive safely. It is a long, dark road that way.”

“That is the only kind I take.”

“But you don’t have to start out at five in the morning to unlock the front doors. Sleep in. Let Mrs. Dreemond open at nine.”

“On the days I work, the key stays with me. When I’m gone, they open up.”

Bubba continued cruising at night and talking to the protesters during the day until the following Wednesday. As was usual, Bubba walked through and chatted with the picketers. The same two young men were with the grownups, but the skinhead was absent.

The waiting room was empty. Bubba chatted with Mrs. Dreemond about her son’s lazy wife until the morning’s last client left. Then Dr. Stranton invited him to the office.

“Okay, the rest of the plan. Talk.”

“Fire me. Loudly, outside. I’ll slam the door.”

“It has a hydraulic closer.”

“I’ll slam it. There will be a package delivered shortly before closing. Big desk chair. Accept it.”

“Vandals after dark?”

“They’ve been wanting to challenge me and you. The waiting will end tonight.”

They left the office. Bubba opened the door. Stranton started yelling at Bubba. Mrs. Dreemond’s jaw dropped. Stranton said, “Fired. I said, Fired! Are you deaf as well as incompetent? And you can stuff your bill somewhere lucky. That’s the only way you’re going to get paid.”

The protesters gawked.

“If you were a man, I’d kick your ass,” Bubba yelled.

“If I thought you could get your foot that high without getting a hernia, I’d let you try.” With that, she turned, stomping away.

Bubba proved that a slammed steel door resonated, even with hydraulic restraint. A lifetime of lifting large weights did have its uses. Protesters scattered as he stalked through them toward the Bronco. He heard laughter as he climbed in. His tires screeching across the parking lot, Bubba smiled.

Fifteen minutes before the clinic closed, a truck turned into the parking lot. Bernie, owner of Bernie’s Furniture, and his son loaded a large cardboard container marked Deluxe Executive Chair onto an appliance dolly, rolling it toward the clinic. The protesters were getting ready to pack up for the day. The two young men watched with deck chairs in hand.

Halfway through the door, Bernie said, “Where do you want this chair, ma’am?”

“In here, gentlemen.” They rolled the container into the office. “You head on out, Mrs. Dreemond. You’ve worked too many hours this week already.”

Mrs. Dreemond said, “I hope you didn’t buy at Bernie’s first price. He’s the most overpriced store in Winter Haven, maybe all of Polk County.”

Bernie and his son were laughing when Dr. Stranton locked the door behind Mrs. Dreemond. Bernie slapped the side of the box. “You all right in there, Bubba?”

“Did you miss any walls on the way in?”

“Nope, not a one.” They sliced open the cardboard to reveal Bubba sitting in an ergonomically designed high-backed swivel chair. Bubba stood up and stepped out of the box with a lunch bucket in his hands. The men quickly put the regular desk chair in the opened container and rolled it away.

“Thanks, Bernie.”

“Any time, Bubba.”

Dr. Stranton locked the front door after them.

“What do I do now?”

“Pay Bernie,” Bubba rolled the chair into the office.

“Is he the most expensive furniture dealer in the county?”

“Not for me. Go on with your normal activity.”

“I’m heading to Arcadia. The clinic tomorrow,” Dr. Stranton said. “You think they’ll come tonight?”

“Tonight or tomorrow. They’re primed.”

“If nothing happens, what will you do till Friday morning?”

“Your office door stays locked. I have books, a great chair to sit in, food, water — all the comforts of home. Where do you stay in Arcadia?” Bubba asked, stretching out in the chair.

“I have friends who let me use a spare bedroom. They don’t live in Arcadia. So far, no one has connected me with them. I’d have to sleep someplace else if they did.”

“That bad?” Bubba said.

“How many death threats in how many ways make it ‘that bad’?” she asked sharply.

“Gotcha. Does your work ever keep you awake?”

“The questions tonight.” She stepped closer. Her eyes locked on his. “Did you ever arrest an innocent man? One that went to jail?”

“More than one.”

“Keep you up every night? Make you ashamed of being a sheriff’s sergeant? Drive you to quit?”

“No. I worked hard at my job, did the best I could as part of a needed system.” Bubba stared back.

“So do I. Legal medical procedures between a client and her doctor. You having second thoughts?”

“Mostly, I’m curious how anyone could work every day with Mrs. Dreemond without shooting her.”

“Quality exit line.” Stranton pistoled a finger at him.

Before the evening light vanished, Bubba set up a comfortable sitting place near the back door, where he’d be behind anyone who stepped in.

Nothing happened that night. The next day, in the ergonomic office chair, he read, ate, and relaxed, keeping quiet in the locked office as the staff moved through their routines. The day was long but boring. Following the boredom, Bubba set up his nightspot, settling in at midnight. It was about one thirty when Bubba sat upright, footsteps coming down the alleyway. He stepped against the wall, a big floodlight in his left hand, his old badge in his right.

A pry bar smacked between the door and its jam. A hammer smashed the bar. Splinters flew as the wood groaned. The door popped and two dark shapes entered. When they were two steps inside the office, Bubba flicked on the floodlight, bellowing, “Freeze, punks.”

They stood blinking, each carrying a bucket and a spray can. Bubba stood between them and the rear door. “Set the buckets down. Drop the cans. You’re under arrest.”

“You can’t arrest us. You’re just the big dude the doctor hired.”

“I’m a retired sheriff’s sergeant, carrying a badge. Assume the position.”

“Charlie, he can’t...”

“Shut up, Jerry. Lean against the wall. You see the size of that dude.” They assumed the position. Bubba moved behind them, pulling handcuffs from his belt. Once they were cuffed, he sat them on the floor. “Anyone waiting for you outside?”

“We aren’t telling you nothing.”

“Fine, Charlie. That’s smart. Too late, but smart.” Bubba dialed Winter Haven P.D. and blue lights were flashing through the broken rear door within minutes.

A patrolman came in, his 9mm out. “What’s happening, Bubba?”

Bubba relayed the basics.

“Have you read them their rights?”

“Thought I’d let you do that. Rights might have changed in the last few years.”

“You two have the right to be quiet. Then you sit in the back of my car.” The patrolman grabbed each by an arm. He returned, laughing. “You scared the crap out of one of them.”

“I hadn’t thought to bring room deodorant for a stakeout.”

“I hope I don’t have to scrub the car seat.”

They laughed and chatted while waiting for the detective. When she arrived, she took pictures, bottled samples of the blood from the buckets, picked up the vandals’ Halligan bar, gave it a heft, and told Bubba to come down to the station and sign a statement before noon.

Bubba wedged the rear door closed. He sat in the ergonomically designed chair and thought how well his plan had gone.

The click of the deadbolt in the front door startled him. He’d been resting his eyes. His watch said five oh five. As the front door snicked open, he heard, “Bubba, it’s Dr. Stranton. I’m early, but I couldn’t sleep.”

“Your vandals broke in. I arrested them.” Bubba gaver her all the details. “Well done, Macduff.”

“We aim to please. Give me a ride home. I can feed the dog, grab the Bronco, and call in a locksmith. He’ll bring what you’ll need.”

“Are you feeling confident?”

“Modesty prevents a truthful answer.”

Bubba squeezed into the passenger seat of her Lexus coupe.

As she pulled into his driveway, he said, “I’ll return to the clinic to wait for the door repair.”

“Fine.”

Bubba untangled himself from the car, went inside to the sound of screeching tires. He fed Elvis, sharing the night’s crime-busting.

After the locksmith and his helper finished, Bubba signed his statement, exchanging air freshener jokes with WHPD staff. He gave his friend David Browne, a reporter for the Ledger, a quote for his article about the arrests. Mrs. Dreemond told Bubba he’d done a good job, even if she couldn’t imagine anyone not seeing him, even in the dark. The two brothers bonded out of jail. A future trial date was set.

Bubba returned to his routine. He lifted large weights, ate doughnuts from Roy’s Bakery, found a stolen truck for a cattleman, and waved at Dr. Stranton on those early mornings at Big Al’s.

Friday morning Bubba was relaxing in the Haven Café, reading the morning’s Ledger, catching up on the news around Polk County, and recovering from bench presses with Big Al. One slice of whole-wheat toast remained.

The first police siren whooped from the left, down First Street. Bubba looked up, another siren was followed by a fire truck’s bellow. More sirens were coming from the west, headed toward north Winter Haven. Bubba walked outside, coffee cup in the left hand, toast in the right. A roiling mass of black smoke filled the northern horizon. The toast landed marmalade side down. Coffee soaked it.

Bubba followed the sirens. Approaching Havendale Boulevard, traffic clogged all lanes. He realized he had not paid his breakfast check. The smoke still spurted densely black. Bubba cut over the curb, turned into the park, through the park, out and across the median. Bubba created a route to the clinic, driving down residential roads, through parking lots and across backyards. Dwindling smoke beckoned.

Two blocks from the clinic, the traffic jammed solid. Bubba parked in someone’s yard and started off running. Rounding the final corner, he saw firemen showering the clinic location, but the clinic was gone from the strip mall, like a tooth pulled from a smile. The clinic area was covered with debris, firemen, EMTs, water, and lingering smoke. Patrolmen were stretching yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter of the parking lot. He kept walking, nodding past two uniforms controlling the opening in the tape.

In the cluttered debris, firemen circled a pair of Emergency Medical Technicians, moving heavy debris for the gurney. No one moved quickly. Other EMTs were kneeling over a body on a lowered gurney. Both workers were soaked from the fire spray. They raised the gurney, slowly moving it toward their waiting ambulance. Bubba slowed his approach. They stopped at the ambulance, opening doors. One toweled the face of the body before placing the towel over the upper torso. Bubba felt time stretch out.

Reaching the gurney, Bubba saw the floral print of Mrs. Dreemond’s dress. He touched her arm. The male tech said, “She never knew what happened. Blink of an eye.”

“She was standing behind the other woman when the bomb exploded. The doctor caught the blast. Both gone before we arrived.” The EMT’s voice sounded muffled, distorted. Mrs. Dreemond’s remains were crystal clear, minute details in focus.

Bubba eventually looked up. The face of Harold the spitter emerged in the group of civilians standing with the detectives. Bubba stepped around the gurney and started toward the group forty yards away on dry asphalt.

Reverend Hand stepped in front of Bubba. “They didn’t do this, Bubba. They were standing in their usual space when it happened. Three of the protesters were cut by flying glass.” Bubba swept him away with his left hand. A second later, two patrolmen faced him, with Roger Dallman, the WHPD chief, behind them. Four hands slowly gestured for Bubba to stop. Bubba knew he could step between them effortlessly; they weren’t seriously trying to stop him. Their batons were secure in their belt loops. Bubba’s right hand reached for the gap between shoulders. A voice spoke clearly, sharply, “Stop, Bubba. I know you can go through these boys like Sherman through Georgia, but I can’t let you go near those protesters.” Bubba heard a hammer notch onto a sear, saw the chief’s face blurred behind the muzzle of the Beretta.

Bubba stopped. Time resumed. Light mellowed. Harold’s face merged with the others, stunned, teary eyed, drained of anger, purpose, lost in the reality of parking lot murder.

“Deep breath, Roger. I’ll take one. You take one,” Bubba said, stepping back from the outstretched hands. The hammer unnotched.

In the next few hours, standing off to the side, watching the EMT vehicles slowly make their way through the crowded streets, Bubba waited. Criminalists took pictures or marked objects. The FBI arrived by helicopter, landing in a vacant lot a block away. ATF agents arrived in black Suburbans. Florida Highway patrolmen and Polk County sheriff’s deputies took over traffic control, clearing the streets. Television news teams from Tampa and Orlando arrived in logo-encapsulated vans. Technicians vacuumed the entire parking lot, collecting bag after bag of evidence, tagged and loaded into black vans.

An emergency tent was erected, folding chairs and tables situated, and the work began. The FBI watched the WHPD detectives questioning Reverend Hand and the other protesters. Employees and customers from the other businesses in the shopping strip told their stories. Uniformed patrolmen knocked on doors in the neighborhood.

Food arrived, coffee pots plugged in, coolers placed nearby. Porta Potties appeared within an hour.

Reverend Hand left the tent area, starting toward Bubba. Bubba waved him away.

Bubba talked to patrolmen, detectives, technicians, and bystanders while the chaos began to turn into crime-scene routine. David Browne arrived, spoke with detectives, patrolmen, FBI agents, ATF agents, technicians, lookie-loos, and men in suits who didn’t talk to anyone else. David ignored commands to move away, leave people alone, let them work. He was owed too many favors by everyone who was anyone.

Eventually, he asked Bubba. “How are you doing?”

“Angry. Empty. Embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“I told them they were okay. That the problem was taken care of. Now they’re dead.”

“It’s not your fault. You did what you hired on to do.”

David added that it was a double bomb. The wiring connected both doors. No matter which one was unlocked — Boom! The Feds were totally pissed. They took the fatal bombing of an abortion clinic as a major affront. “They’re assuming the intended victim was Dr. Stranton.”

“The list of people offended by Mrs. Dreemond is called the phone book. But blow her up? On purpose? Not in this world. Dr. Stranton should have opened up by dawn, long before Mrs. Dreemond would be here.”

David sipped coffee. “Dr. Stranton had car trouble this morning driving in. Mrs. Dreemond waited for her, while talking to the protesters, telling them they weren’t the kind of Christian that she was. And eating one of their doughnuts.”

“The vandal boys questioned?”

“They’ve lawyered up. Already, they’ve told the P.D. that they would be happy to provide an alibi, but no other information is forthcoming... What are you going to do?” David looked past Bubba to a group of firemen poking through the remnants of the clinic debris, not seeing them. Dullness hung from Bubba. David had seen Bubba happy, dancing like a bear; angry, roaring like a bear; ruthless in search of justice, like a bear after a salmon. But never like a bear who had lost his faith in the other bears. David shook himself. He hated similes. And he didn’t want to be around when hibernation was over.

“Buy flowers, be a pallbearer, cry at her funeral?”

“Then?”

Bubba’s eyes lacked any reaction to David’s soft voice.

“I’m headed to the office to write tomorrow’s lead. I’ll be done by six. I’ll swing by and get you. Go find some onion rings, a martini or three.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be hungry tonight.”

David left and Bubba wandered to the Bronco. The trucker who owned the yard where Bubba had parked came out and gave Bubba a free evaluation of his parking ability. Then he retreated inside and locked his door.

Dr. Amy Stranton’s funeral was with her family in Norfolk, Virginia. Bubba had sent a donation to Planned Parenthood as her family requested.

Mrs. Dreemond’s funeral proved an event for Winter Haven. Hundreds jammed the lanes of the Winter Haven cemetery. After helping the other pallbearers to set her casket on the lowering frame, Bubba stood at the edge of the family group.

The preacher told stories of the advice Arlene Dreemond had given him over the years. The stories brought knowledgeable laughter. Her oldest son talked of his failure to follow her advice, resulting in personal satisfaction with wife, career, and house color but continual dispute over life’s values. More laughter. The laughter ended when he spoke of the huge gap in his world, the silence that hung over the casket and the grave. Finally, the family dropped flowers onto the lowered casket. The crowd followed suit. Near the end of the line, Bubba dropped a purple violet. Cars headed out to Parkland Baptist Church for the dinner on the grounds.

David Browne joined Bubba with the stragglers, “You going to Parkland?”

“Mandatory. Jesus might have been able to feed a crowd with just a couple of fish and a loaf of bread, but these folks take food seriously.”

“Your appetite must be back.”

“Enough for survival. You going?”

“Of course, there’ll be a column worth writing. And free food.”

Parking two blocks from the church grounds, they joined the line heading for the tables sagging with blessings. The preacher said a heartfelt prayer, finishing before the food grew cold.

Bubba managed to place fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, sliced tomatoes, and three rolls with butter without overflowing the paper plate. David chose macaroni and cheese, roast beef, broccoli with cheese sauce, and cornbread. They found seats at a picnic table in the shade of a live oak tree. The food was excellently cooked and seasoned. Bubba’s second plate, filled with another variety of choices, was equally delicious. The dessert selections might have been better even than the main courses.

They finished, trashed the paper plates and plastics, carrying their unsweetened iced tea refills over to standing shade, freeing up table space for a family.

“Your story of the bombing was excellent. Factual with enough emotion to keep reading.”

David nodded. “You hear anything?”

“I might handle a suspicious bad-back case for State Insurance. Arnie, their claims denier, called this morning.”

“That’s not anything.”

“I asked around. Chief Dallman called fifteen minutes later and told me to keep my nose out of an active investigation, or my nose would be in jail along with my big ass. Said that was directly from acronyms, but endorsed by him. So, anything is nothing right now.”

“Well, there is always the limber lumbar to check out.”

Hesitantly, the Reverend Garrett Hand approached, wearing a blue suit, white shirt, blue-and-silver-striped tie. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Bubba, can we talk?”

David stood. “I see people I should conversate with.”

Bubba motioned the reverend into the shade. “I apologize for my behavior the other day. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“I want to help you.”

“Help me? I’m surprised you’re even here.”

“Arlene was a fine woman. We spoke many times after she started working at the clinic. I didn’t approve; she disagreed with me.” Garrett made a face; Bubba smiled.

“What’s on your mind, Reverend?”

“I have seen your look many times. On the street, in the gutter. Nothing is alive there. Only the bottom of the dry well. I can’t leave you there.”

“What can you do?”

“Tell you that both God and Arlene wouldn’t want you to do what you’re planning. Listen to one of them.” The Reverend’s low voice was dense with feeling.

“You read minds?”

“I understand being ready to sell your soul to fill the empty.”

“This is nice of you, but not today.”

“There is only now, joined with forever. God and this world will punish whoever killed Mrs. Dreemond. I am not God, and you are not responsible for this world.”

“You know who killed her?” Bubba asked.

“It wasn’t one of my people.”

“Find out who. The group hiding the bomber trusts you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then don’t bother me. If you don’t owe Arlene Dreemond that much, then all those caring words mean nothing.” Bubba poured the rest of the tea on the ground and crushed the plastic cup. “Remember, that bomber betrayed you and yours.”

“The FBI, the ATF will find them.”

After a few minutes, Bubba said, “I’ll be damned. You know who, or think you do. Tell me.”

“As a preacher, I can’t tell you anything.”

Bubba unclenched his fists, flexing his shoulders, making a rueful smile. “Thank you for coming by. You’re a good man, Reverend. But I can’t let a real murderer rest easy. My soul’s not worth that. I’ll find him.”

“But...”

Bubba held out a business card. “You best make sure that you don’t put your soul between your God and the bomber. He’s not worth that. No more talk.” The reverend nodded; they shook.

Before six the next morning, Bubba let himself into Big Al’s with his personal key. Nine found him downtown in his office, calling Lieutenant Ray Bisse, head of the Polk County Sheriff’s Department Detective Bureau. For once Ray wasn’t in a meeting or out arresting a felon.

“I wondered when you would call.”

“Thought I’d give both the lab and the snitch world some time. What’s the word?”

“I’ve been told not to talk to anyone about the lab results. But if I know, it can’t be too big a secret. Initial results say the bomber foamed the alarm system box with insulation in a can, picked the back-door lock, wired both doors.”

“Dynamite, C-4, fertilizer?” Bubba asked.

“The taggants blown onto the scene indicate dynamite manufactured five, six years ago. The Feds will trace where that batch went, without telling us locals where.”

“Besides the usual suspects, any unusual ones?”

“Word has it, your vandals’ older brother.”

“Bald guy, mid thirties?”

“Sounds right. He owns a security business in North Lakeland, this side of the mall. Reputation as a badass. Trains guard dogs, teaches martial arts. Ties to redneck militia.” Ray recited the name and the specifics.

“Has he been questioned?”

“His lawyer says he has an alibi. Church in the evening. A friend was spending the night. End of questioning. Three initials probably want more links attached before they jerk his chain.”

Bubba heard the slide of paper, the clunk of coffee cup on wood. Finally, Bisse asked, “What are you doing?”

“Dithering.”

“Dithering is a fine substitute for sticking your nose in federal business.”

“This is my business. I totally misjudged the possibilities. Caught some vandals, unleashed a beast,” Bubba said.

“The beast unleashed itself. It had probably had been a long time coming. Let it alone, Bubba.”

“Good advice, Ray.”

“Come over to All-American and lift with me. I’ll show you what muscles are meant for.”

“Besides scaring miscreants?”

“I’ll call if I find out anything. Call me if you need help. I mean it. Call me.”

“I will.”

Bubba called David at the Ledger, ready to share and receive. David knew the taggants matched dynamite. He didn’t know about the eldest brother in Lakeland. But tomorrow’s Ledger would say the clinic would be rebuilt and named the Stranton/Dreemond Women’s Clinic.

Warned off by everyone, Bubba decided to call Arnie at State Insurance and find out if he still needed the lumbar looked into. Let the feds simmer down and allow the absolute control of the investigation to fade.

The following Tuesday, while Bubba wrote the results of the last five days of investigating the bad-back case for State Insurance, his phone rang. “Simms Investigations,” said the answering machine.

“Bubba, this is Marx. Wake up.”

“Corporal Marx, to what do I owe this welcomed interruption?”

“You know Garrett Hand?”

Bubba stood. “Yes.”

“Late last night, I worked pursuit for a coke sting, between Wahneta and Eloise, two vice guys selling to the drive-bys. Guy tried to drive away. He was high, strung out. I patted him down, found your card. I asked him about it. He said he couldn’t talk to you. Then he shut up. Didn’t say another word. Thought you might want to know.”

Bubba thanked him, asked how the Polk County Sheriff’s Department was doing by its patrolmen, shared a laugh. After they hung up, Bubba called the county jail, talked to the booking sergeant. The reverend had bonded out this morning, after arraignment.

A week later, after lunch, there was a knock; a man’s shadow showed through the frosted door of Simms Investigations. “Come in.”

The door opened. Harold spat into his Styrofoam cup and said, “All right if we talk?”

“Have a seat.” Bubba waved at the visitor’s chair or the couch against the near wall. Harold picked the chair. Bubba leaned back, propped his boots on the desk corner.

“You arrested me once,” Harold said.

“Arrested a lot of people over the years. Don’t remember your case.”

“No need to. Wasn’t much of an arrest, not even much of a crime.”

“How is Reverend Hand?”

“Better. He’s been in a rehab place the last few days, helping him fight the demons. The church always paid for him to have insurance, so he has pretty good care. And the drug charges ain’t gonna stick, no real possession.” Harold stopped, tilting his head. “Is that your doing?”

“All his work these last few years probably bought him some slack.”

Harold looked at Bubba, then spat in the cup. “He talked about you and that Mrs. Dreemond before he gave in to the devil.” They sat. The second hand of the clock ticked loudly.

“Garrett wanted to tell you stuff he couldn’t. That’s what ate at him. He’s a good man caught between can’t and should.”

“You know the what?”

“I’m the idiot who told him.” Harold tossed a manila envelope on the desk. “I ran with rough people before I saw the light. Garrett said you needed to know. I wish I had figured out what he wanted me to do before he returned to those drugs.”

“You know the bomber?”

“There was never supposed to be any violence.”

Bubba looked at the envelope. Harold stood up. “Don’t reckon there is much more to talk about, Sergeant Simms.”

“Tell the reverend to take care of himself. Tell him he’s a good man.”

“Don’t need your backup on that. Sorry, he’d be mad, hearing me talk that way. When he’s home, you tell him yourself.” Harold left.

Bubba opened the envelope, spreading the papers over his desk. A hand-drawn map in pencil, a set of directions printed in pencil, and a photograph of the bald protester, squatting in front of an earthen bunker with a tripod of military rifles, cases marked DYNAMITE with grenades scattered on top, and what appeared to be a flamethrower on display. The map showed the Green Swamp area, a few hundred yards off a paved road.

Bubba dialed Lieutenant Bisse. “You still have the same fax number? Stand by. This will make you a rock star.”

While waiting for the fax machine’s completion signal, Bubba put his Browning Hi-Power on his belt, leather sap in his pocket. Minutes later, ignoring the phone, he left the office.

Bubba pushed the Bronco’s limits, finding the fastest lane and gaps, avoiding the slows. He passed through Auburndale, then continued past the assortment of manufactured-housing communities, fortune-tellers, convenience stores, small manufacturing and specialized retail businesses that covered the reclaimed phosphate tailings areas. Reaching Combee Road, he took the back way toward Polk Security and Deterrent, located behind one of the giant lumberyards that fronted Highway 98.

The security store occupied the north end of a strip mall. Bubba parked, straddling two spaces in the auxiliary lot to the front of the building. Easy exiting might be important. He opened the wooden door. A wide, gray counter ran the width of the room, where a set of blueprints lay unrolled, held open by small weights. A dog in the back gave a single bark. A voice said, “Be there in a second.”

A Confederate flag honored the far wall. A cold, dead hands poster proclaimed the right to firearms. What looked like a bid for a security system sat on the blueprints. The plain vinyl flooring matched the wall paint. An opened lift section in the counter was to Bubba’s left.

A toilet flushed. Bubba unholstered the 9mm and held it at his side. The sound of footfalls preceded the man quickly entering. When he saw Bubba, he stopped, said a guttural word. The scurry of dog nails sounded, and a German Shepherd entered the room and ran through the gap in the counter. Another word and the dog perched six feet away, staring at Bubba. Bubba stared back, slowly turning his vision to the jabbering man.

“King’s on alert. You make a move toward me he’ll eat you alive.”

“Going to need a bigger dog if you plan on eating all of me.”

“What? Never mind. King has a twelve hundred-pound bite. He’ll snap your arm.”

Bubba lifted the pistol. “Even with King hanging on my arm, I bet I can shoot you, then King. Physical pain is an overrated deterrent. A few bites will make my story even better. If your hands drop, we’ll find out.”

The man stepped to the counter, placed his hands on it, then spoke another word. King relaxed without discovering which portion of Bubba would be the tastiest.

“What do you want?” the bald man asked.

“Always wanted to see a live bomber before he became notorious.”

“You can’t prove I bombed anybody.”

“I don’t have to. Guilt clouds your eyes. You know you screwed the goose this time.”

“They worked in a murder clinic. Both guilty.”

Bubba smiled; King imitated him. “Keep saying that. Say it often. You don’t believe it. I’ve looked ten thousand guilty scumbags dead in the eye. I don’t believe it. God won’t believe it either.”

“There were murderers in there. Man, you were a cop. You know what America stands for. You know we got to do what’s right, not just what the lawyers say is legal. I was called to stop the murders.”

“Hearing voices doesn’t mean you were called. You’re pathetic. They’ll crack you like a walnut. I don’t know why I wasted my time driving over here.” The dog remained calmly curious as Bubba backed to the door.

Bubba walked away, holstering the Browning. An unmarked Crown Vic was T-boned behind the Bronco. Lieutenant Ray Bisse, a Kevlar vest buckled across his chest, with mirrored shades and his sweat-stained Panama hat completing his outfit, leaned against the left front fender, tactical shotgun in his hand. He looked more immense than usual. “Everything all right?”

“Simpatico. Except for meeting the scariest dog in Florida.” Bubba could hear the popping metallic groans from the Ford Interceptor engine of the Crown Vic. “You made good time from Bartow.”

“Blue lights and whoop-whoop decreases the drive time.”

“That vest looks hot.”

“Safe for me to take this off?” Bisse began unfastening the vest. In the distance they could hear the sound of the feds’ sirens growing louder. “Put the evidence in my car, before the feds arrive to make the arrest,” Bisse said.

Bubba opened the Bronco’s passenger door and dropped the envelope on the seat. “You were awfully confident, guiding the feds here,” Bubba said. “Be embarrassing if I were at Andy’s Igloo having a butterscotch sundae.”

“Browne, your pet ink-shedder, called earlier wanting to know if I had had any reports of giant alien seedpods because the real Bubba was missing. Replaced by a bear who lost faith in his fellow bears. Reading the faxes and being a trained detective, I thought of the bald brother. Driving, I wondered if I should call the colonel.”

“I have no need for a high-priced defense lawyer. Baldy wasn’t worth killing. He needs to be on trial. Go in now. He’ll brag about it all, you being a muscle-bound oaf of a cop. He almost bragged to me, but I would’ve shot him.”

“I would too. He made you doubt yourself.”

“Put it that way, I might go back inside.” They laughed.

Then Bubba cleared his throat. “I failed people I cared about.”

The whooping and flashing lights from two black Suburban grilles went past them, sliding to halts in front of the wooden door. Agents with FBI jackets exited as one unit.

More whooping black Suburbans approached.

“For now, beat it. Don’t spoil my moment of evidentiary glory. Word has it, black helicopters are landing in the Green Swamp as we speak, with a search warrant based on my word.”

“You are a fount of knowledge.”

“I’m a Polk County Sheriff’s Department detective lieutenant who benches five hundred pounds. I know everything worth knowing.”

Bubba took his exit. He stuck the gun and sap under the driver’s seat, cranked the Bronco, and eased homeward. Elvis needed to chase a soggy tennis ball. A steak needed grilling. Flowers needed taking to the cemetery. Bubba needed home.