Last Man Standing

28

It was early in the morning and Web was soaking in the tub in another crummy motel. Every part of him ached. The long scrapes on his arms and legs burned like there was a branding iron pressed to them. He had a knot on his forehead from where his noggin had met Dumpster and a gash along the good side of his face that probably still had some grains of asphalt inside. Boy, he was aging really well. He should try out for male modeling when he left the Bureau.

The phone rang and Web swung his hand out and snagged it. It was Bates.

“I’ll pick you and your buddy up in an hour at Romano’s house.” Web groaned.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bates.

“Late night. Got a bitch of a hangover.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Web. One hour. Be there or find another planet to live on.” Bates hung up.

Exactly one hour later Bates picked up Web and Romano and they headed to Virginia horse country.

Bates looked at Web’s fresh injuries. “What the hell happened to you?” asked Bates. “You better not have trashed another car, because after the Mercury you’re riding a bicycle.” Bates glanced over at Web’s car parked at the curb.

“I slipped getting out of the bathtub.”

“You did all that getting out of the tub?” Bates clearly did not believe this.

“You know what they say, Perce, most accidents happen at home.”

Bates stared at him for a long moment before deciding not to pursue it. He had a lot of other items on his to-do list.

After an hour’s drive they got off the highway and drove for miles along twisting roads and hairpin curves bracketed by thick woods. They missed a turn somewhere because they ended up on a dirt road barely wide enough for their car. Web looked over at a sagging metal gate and the sign next to it that read, EAST WINDS FARM NO HUNTING, FISHING OR TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.

East Winds, they knew, was the name of the Canfield farm. They must have come in on the rear side, Web concluded. He smiled as he read the sign. Well, damn, these people meant business; he was shaking with fear. He glanced at Romano, who was looking at the sign and smiling too because he was probably thinking the same thing. The fencing here was low, rail board on post. The place was in the middle of nowhere. “Somebody who knew what they were doing could hop that fence in a second, go to the main house, kill the Canfields and everyone else there, have a drink, watch some TV and no one would probably know until the spring thaw,” opined Romano knowledgeably.

“Yeah, and since murder isn’t one of the offenses listed on the sign,” added Web, “I guess he’d be free from prosecution.”

“Keep that crap to yourself,” growled Bates. However, Web could tell the guy was worried. This place was vulnerable.

They finally found the correct turn and reached the front entrance to East Winds. The gates reminded Web of the ones in front of the White House. And yet with all the exposed property, the big gates were a joke from a security perspective. Above the entrance was an arch of metal scrollwork with the name of the farm written large. And to top it all off, the gates were open! There was a call box, however, and Bates hit the button. They waited and someone finally came on.

“Special Agent Bates with the FBI.”

“Come on up,” said the voice. “Follow the main road and take the first right up to the main house.”

As Bates pulled forward, Web pointed out, “No closed-circuit TV. We could be Charlie Manson and company, for all they know.”

They headed straight. The rolling green land stretched as far as they could see, much of it enclosed by horizontal rail fencing. Large rolls of hay lay in the fields. Off to one side was a small pond. The main road was asphalt and ran straight for a while and then curved right around a swath of towering oak and hickory, with scrub pines wedged between. Through the trees to the right they caught glimpses of an enormous structure.

They finally came to a large two-story stone house with high Palladian windows and broad sliding doors below and topped with a large tin-sheathed cupola patinaed by the elements, with a weather vane of a horse and rider mounted on top. To Web it looked like a color Martha Stewart might try to copyright and then sell to the masses as something far more chic than simple weather rot.

They turned right, away from the carriage house, and passed down a long paved drive. Some of the largest maple trees Web had ever seen were situated in rows on each side of the drive, forming a natural roof of limbs and leaves.

Web looked up ahead and his eyes widened. It was the largest house he had ever seen and it was constructed all from stone, with an enormous front portico supported by six massive columns.

“Damn,” said Romano, “that looks to be about the size of the Hoover Building.”

Bates parked the car in front and started to get out. “It’s a house, Romano, and put your tongue back in your mouth and try not to embarrass the Bureau.”

The massive door opened and a man stood there.

Billy Canfield had not aged well, thought Web.

He was still tall and trim, but the broad shoulders and deep chest—which Web remembered from the man’s visits to Web in the hospital—had fallen in. His hair was now thinner and almost fully gray and the face had grown even craggier. As Canfield walked out to see them, Web noted the limp in the man’s gait and he saw where one knee turned inward more than normal. Canfield, he figured, would be in his early sixties now. Fifteen years ago he had married for the second time, to Gwen, a woman much younger than he was. He had grown children from his first marriage, and he and Gwen had also had their own boy, the ten-year-old who had been killed by members of the Free Society at the school in Richmond. Web still saw David Canfield’s face often in his dreams. The guilt had not lessened over the years; if anything, it had grown more intense.

Canfield eyed each of them fiercely from under thick tufts of eyebrows. Bates put out his strong hand and held up his credentials with the other, just like the Bureau taught you, observed Web.

“I’m Agent Bates with the FBI’s Washington Field Office, Mr. Canfield. Thanks for letting us come out.”

Canfield ignored Bates and instead looked over at Web. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Web London, Mr. Canfield. I’m with Hostage Rescue. I was down in Richmond that day,” he added diplomatically. “You visited me in the hospital. That meant a lot to me. I want you to know that.”

Canfield nodded slowly and then put out his hand to Web, who shook it. “Well I appreciate what y’all tried to do then. You did all you could, risked your life and all for my boy.” He stopped and looked over at Bates. “But I told you on the phone that nothing’s happened out here and if that son of a bitch comes my way he’ll end up dead and not the other way round.”

“I understand that, Mr. Canfield.”

“Billy.”

“Thank you, Billy, but you have to understand that three people with a connection to what happened at that school in Richmond, and possibly a fourth person, have already been killed. If the Free Society is behind it, and I have to tell you that as yet we have no direct proof that they are, but if they are, you could be a target. That’s why we’re here.”

Canfield looked at his watch. “And what, you want to put me under lock and key? I got a damn horse farm to run, and let me tell you it don’t run on autopilot.”

“I understand that, but there are unobtrusive steps we can take—”

“Y’all want to keep talking, you got to come on with me. I got things to do.”

Bates exchanged glances with Web and Romano and then shrugged. They followed Canfield over to a jet-black Land Rover and climbed in.

Canfield didn’t wait for seat belts to be put on. He hit the gas and they sped off. Web was in the front seat next to him. As they drove along, he surveyed the farm.

“Last I heard, you owned a trucking company in Richmond. How’d you end up on a horse farm in Fauquier County?”

Canfield slipped a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit up, cracked the window and blew smoke out. “Gwen doesn’t let me smoke in the house. Take my shots when I can,” he explained. “Now, that’s a damn good question, Web, from trucking to horses. I ask myself that sometimes and sometimes I wish I was back in trucking. I was born and bred in Richmond and like it there. That city creeps into your bones for better or worse, and I’ve seen both sides of that coin.

“But Gwen’s always loved horses; she grew up on a farm in Kentucky. I guess it gets in your blood too. All it’s done for me is make my blood pressure go through the roof. Anyway, we decided to make a go of it. Jury’s still out on how we’re doing. Sunk every damn dime I have into this place, so at least we have the incentive to make it work.”

“What exactly do you do on a horse farm?” asked Romano as he leaned forward. “See, the only horses I’ve seen are the ones that pull the carriages around Central Park. I grew up in the Big Apple.”

“Sorry to hear that, Yank,” said Canfield. He looked around at Romano. “Didn’t catch your name.”

“Romano, Paul Romano. Friends call me Paulie.”

“Well, we’re not friends, so I’ll just call you Paul. Now, the main thing you do on a horse farm is bleed money, Paul. Bleed it like it’s ice in a damn hailstorm. You pay out your ass for a property like this and all the people to help run it. You get you some horses and they eat you out of house and home. You pay outrageous stud fees so some son-of-a-bitching horny stallion with a few track victories to its name will impregnate your mares. And then nature delivers you some foals that proceed to chip away at what little money you got left. As the foals grow into yearlings, you spend enough on the little sons of bitches to send a dozen kids to Harvard. And then you hope and pray that maybe one of ’em shows some promise and you can sell it to some poor sucker and maybe get a five percent return on your money for working your ass off sixteen hours a day. And if you don’t, then the bank that you’ve sold your life to comes and takes every single thing you’ve ever owned in your whole life and you die dirt poor without a roof over your head, a stitch of clothes on your back or a single person you could call a friend.” He looked back at Romano. “That’s about it, Paul. You got any other questions?”

“Nope, that about covers it,” said Romano as he sat back.

They reached a compound consisting of barns, stables and other buildings, and Canfield drove underneath a pediment wooden arch that Canfield said was based upon the one at George Washington’s Mount Vernon; only that it cost more.

“This is the equestrian center. Horse stalls, big hay barn, manager’s office, trainers work center, wash stalls, riding rings and the like. God’s Little Acre if ever there were one,” said Canfield, and he laughed as he climbed out of the Rover. The FBI agents followed him.

Canfield called out to a man who was talking to a number of what looked to Web to be farmhands. “Hey, Nemo, come on over here for a sec.”

The man walked over. He was about Web’s height, yet burly, with the powerful physique of someone who worked with his body for a living. He had short, wiry black hair, slightly graying at the temples, and strong, handsome features. His clothes were clearly ranch: loose-fitting jeans and a faded denim shirt. Pointed-toe boots were on his feet. They weren’t fancy, no alligator or kangaroo skin and no silver toe clips. They were dusty and creased from hard use and worn away where Web figured stirrups met the leather. Muddy canvas gloves stuck out from his back pocket. He took off his sweat-stained Stetson as he walked over and wiped his brow with a rag.

“Nemo Strait here is my farm manager. Nemo, this is a bunch of folks from the FBI. They’ve come here to tell me I’m in danger because they let the asshole that killed my son break out of jail and he might be gunning for me.”

Strait gave them all a terrifically unfriendly stare.

Web put out his hand. “I’m Agent Web London.”

Strait shook his hand, and Web felt the extra force the man gave to the grip. Nemo Strait was a very strong gent and obviously wanted to let Web know it. Web caught the man checking out his damaged mug. For most it evoked sympathy, which Web loathed. Nemo, though, came away just looking a little surlier, as though he had suffered far greater wounds on a good day. Web instantly liked the man.

Canfield pointed at Web. “Now, this fellow here actually tried to save my boy, which is more than I can say for some others involved in the process.”

“Well, in my opinion the government’s not good for much ’cept messing up folks’ lives,” said Nemo, looking at Web. His voice was pure country, with little dips in between each syllable, mimicking the bobbing of his prodigious Adam’s apple. For some reason, Web envisioned big Nemo performing country and western karaoke and being just a stitch at it.

Web looked over at Bates, who said, “What we’re trying to do here is help you, Billy. If somebody tries something with you, we want to be here to stop it.”

Canfield surveyed his property and then stared at Bates. “I got ten men full-time on my farm and every one of them is pretty good with a gun.”

Bates shook his head. “We waltzed right in here and you didn’t even know who we were. You came out the front door unarmed and alone. If we were looking to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

Canfield smiled. “What if I told you I had some of my boys watching you from the time you stepped on the property? And that they were pointing something at you that wasn’t their fingers?”

Web and Romano glanced around without seeming to do so. Web had a sixth sense about people aiming guns his way and he was wondering why it hadn’t kicked in.

“Then I’d tell you your boys probably would end up shooting some innocent people,” said Bates.

“Well, hell, that’s what I got insurance for, I guess,” Canfield shot back.

“I checked the records, Billy. During the trial you received death threats from Ernest Free among others. The Bureau put you under protection then.”

Canfield’s features grew very grim. “That’s right, every time I turned around there was some suit with a gun staring at me and reminding me that my little boy was dead and buried. So, no offense, but I’ve had enough of you folks to last the rest of my life. That’s about as clear as I can make it.”

Bates squared his shoulders and got closer to Canfield. “The Bureau is offering you protection again. And until Ernest Free is caught and we’re sure that you’re not in danger, I’m kind of insisting on it,” added Bates.

Canfield folded his arms across his chest. “Well, then we got us a problem, because this is the United States of America and a person has the right to choose who comes on his property and who doesn’t and I’m asking you to get the hell off my land right now.” Strait moved closer to his boss and Web saw some of the other farmhands also draw nearer. He also noted that Romano’s hand had eased to his pistol grip.

One big fellow made the truly enormous mistake of putting his hand on Romano’s shoulder. In an instant the man was facedown on the ground, Romano’s knee against the base of his spine, one .45 in the guy’s ear, and another .45, which Romano had pulled from the second holster he wore on the back of his waistband, pointed at Canfield’s other men.

“Okay,” said Romano, “any of you other buckaroos want to bring it on?”

Web quickly stepped forward before Romano killed them all. “Look, Billy, I shot two of the Frees, and if I had gotten the chance I would have blown Ernest away too. But the bastard got lucky and took a round through his shoulder instead, and I walked out with half a face and missing most of my blood. Now, I really believe that we all want the same thing here; we’re just differing a bit on how to get there. What if Romano and I came to stay with you on the farm? No suits, just jeans and boots. We’ll even help with the work. But in exchange you have to cooperate with us. You’ll have to listen to us when we tell you there might be a problem, and if we tell you to get your butt down, you get down. It looks like the Frees have already taken out several people and they did it in ways that were pretty damn ingenious. So while I’m sure your men are really good at what they do, it might not be enough if these people really want to take you out. I can see that you’re not the sort of guy who likes other people to tell you what to do, but I also don’t believe you want to give the Frees the satisfaction of killing you. You and your wife have already been through that hell with your son. I don’t believe you want her to have to grieve again over you.”

Canfield looked at Web a long moment. And for that entire time Web wasn’t sure if the man was going to jump him or maybe order his men to open fire. Finally, Canfield looked down and kicked the dirt. “Let’s go on back to the house and talk about this.” He motioned for Strait and his men to go back to work. Romano helped the man up and even dusted him off.

“Nothing personal, slick, I would’ve done that to anybody who touched me. Get the message?”

The man grabbed his hat and hustled off. From the look of fear in the man’s eyes, Web didn’t think he’d be “touching” Romano ever again.

Canfield and the agents climbed in the Rover. As they were driving back, Canfield looked over at Web.

“Okay, I’m not disputing that what you say makes a lot of sense, but I’m not looking forward to revisiting that part of my life. And I’m kind of hating it that these assholes are pulling me back into that shit hole.”

“I understand that, but—” Web was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone. He checked his phone, but it wasn’t his. Bates and Romano did the same thing. Canfield pulled a phone out of a storage panel in the Rover and looked at it. It wasn’t ringing. He glanced at the floorboard and reached down and picked up the phone that was lying there.

“Somebody must have left their phone in here, although it’s not Gwen’s and I don’t know who the hell else drives this truck. Probably somebody wanting to sell me something.” He was about to punch the talk button when Web grabbed the phone out of his hand, hit the window button on his door and threw the phone out.

Canfield looked at him. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

They watched as the phone flew through the air and then hit the ground in the middle of an empty dirt field. Nothing happened. Canfield pulled the Rover to a stop. “You get your ass out there and go get that damn phone—”

The explosion was powerful enough to rock the Land Rover and send a cloud of black smoke and flames a hundred feet in the air.

All the men stared at this fiery spectacle for several seconds. Finally a shaken Canfield looked over at Web. “When do you boys wanta start?”