Wall of Night

22

Though Cahil didn’t expect to find Skeldon loitering around WalPol’s headquarters, it seemed the logical place to start. Ninety minutes after leaving Washington, he pulled into the trailer’s driveway.

He got out, hefted out a case of beer onto his shoulder, then walked to the door and knocked. Thirty seconds passed. He knocked again. Still no answer.

He looked around; the road was deserted. He set down the beer, opened the screen, and tapped the door. It was a hollow-core model. Using both hands he turned the knob counterclockwise, braced his shoulder against the door, and started pressing, letting his legs do the work. After ten seconds he heard a muffled pop. The door swung inward. He grabbed the beer and walked inside.

“Hey, Ernie! Hey, you sumbitch, where are ya?”.

Nothing moved.

“I got some suds! Get yer ass out here!”

Silence.

The trailer’s bed-sheet curtains were drawn closed. The interior was empty except for a cot, four battleship gray filing cabinets against one wall, and a homemade sawhorse-and-plank desk.

He made a quick search of the remaining rooms. All were empty.

“Time to check Mike’s housekeeping,” Cahil muttered, and set to work.

An hour later he was done. Skeldon had covered himself well. Aside from a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom and a pillowcase on the bedroom floor, the man had left nothing behind.

His job had just gotten harder. Though Skeldon had ties to North Carolina, it was a big state. Trolling around asking random questions would be not only time consuming, but could be dangerous if he came across the wrong people.

He was opening the door to leave when something caught his eye. He walked to the table and knelt. Tucked beneath one of the sawhorse’s legs was a matchbook cover. Cahil pulled it out and read.

Cahil smiled. “Bingo.”

The drive took most of the night. The sun was rising above the shadowed foothills when he spotted a billboard for a Denny’s and pulled into the parking lot. Inside, he found a booth and sat down. The waitress, a fiftyish bottle blond wearing bright pink lipstick, walked up. “Morning. What can I getchya?”

“Coffee, two scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and orange juice.”

“Comin’ up.”

Cahil liked Asheville. He and Maggie had stayed in a nearby bed-and-breakfast years before. Nestled between the Great Smokey and Blue Ridge Mountain ranges, it was a quiet city of two hundred thousand, and like many Southern cities, it was steeped in the architecture of antebellum South, with wide, tree-lined boulevards and colonnaded plantation houses perfect for lazy summer evenings.

The waitress returned with the food, flashed a nicotine-yellow smile at him, and left.

As he ate, Cahil thought about Skeldon. The former Ranger had been discharged for medical reasons in 1993 after sixteen years of service. Latham’s transcript hadn’t listed the cause of Skeldon’s medical condition, an omission Cahil found curious. After sixteen years — most of them spent in an elite unit — it was unlikely Skeldon had volunteered to opt out. That left forced retirement, which begged the same question: What had happened to drive Skeldon out of the army four years shy of retirement?

Cahil had two more cups of coffee, paid the bill, then walked outside to a phone. He found the listing for Bud’s Gun Shop and Firing Range and dialed.

“Bud’s,” the voice drawled.

“Howdy,” Cahil said. “Wondering about your hours.”

“Open from six p.m. to midnight, Monday through Saturday.”

“You got a combat course?”

“Yep. Forty targets, plus two buildings for CQB.”

CQB was short for Close Quarters Combat. “Thanks.” Cahil hung up.

Six o’clock.He had some time to kill.

He checked into a motel and napped for three hours, then made a list of local gun shops in the area and started driving. Because of zoning laws, most of the shops were located outside city limits.

The first four shops didn’t have what he needed. The fifth, run from a shed beside the owner’s ranch-style home, was tucked between an apple orchard and a horse pasture west of the city. As Cahil got out of the car, a pair of Labrador retrievers trotted over, sniffed his legs, then wandered away.

“Afternoon.” A potbellied man in denim overalls walked toward him. “Help ya?”

“You Hersh?”

“Jim Hersh. Who’re you?”

“John Malvin. I’m looking for something a little unusual. Heard you might be able to help.”

Hersh pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. “Come on in.”

The shed had a concrete floor and unpainted Sheetrock walls. Floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with guns and boxes of ammunition lined the walls. The shed’s only window was crisscrossed with steel rebar. A pair of box fans hung from the corners, churning the dusty air.

Hersh opened a mini-fridge. “Grape soda?”

“Sure.”

Hersh tossed him one. “What kind of unusual?”

“Heckler & Koch USC forty-five.”

Hersh took a gulp of his soda. “Trojan.” The gun had gained the nickname from the University of Southern California’s football team. “Government just put a moratorium on ’em. That’s one step away from being banned.”

“That’s why I’d like to get one before it’s too late.”

“Still don’t change nothing. I can’t sell ’em.”

Cahil looked around at the gun displays. “Nice collection. How long’ve you been in business?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Ex-military?”

“Marines. You?”

“Army Rangers.”

“Airborne?”

Cahil shook his head. “Straight leg.”

“Me, too.”

“Why fly when you can march.”

“Damn right.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Outside the dogs barked a few times, then went silent. Hersh was mulling it over, Cahil guessed. As far as the police were concerned, selling a moratorium weapon was the same as selling a banned weapon. He could lose his license and go to jail.

“Why the Trojan?” asked Hersh.

“I’d rather have a tommy-gun, but so far I’m not having much luck. Till then, I’d settle for the USC. I got a buddy who can attach a box magazine on it.”

“No shit. How many rounds?”

“Hundred.”

“Whatchya gonna use it for?”

“Quail hunting.”

Hersh was in the middle of taking a sip; he choked, then started laughing. “A .45 round ain’t gonna leave much bird to eat. No, really, what for?”

“I like to run combat courses.”

Hersh finished his soda, tossed it into a nearby garbage pail. “I’ve got a Trojan, but it ain’t registered. That a problem?”

“Not for me. What about the serial number?”

“Somebody spilled some acid on it. Can’t read it for shit. Three grand.”

They haggled for a few minutes and Cahil got him down to $2800 with ten boxes of ammunition and a Browning 9mm pistol thrown in. As they walked to Cahil’s car, Hersh said, “There’s a good course south of here.”

“Bud’s?” Hersh nodded. “I’m headed there tonight.” Cahil stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

Hersh shook it. “Pleasure. Just so we understand each other, I don’t sell many of those. If it comes back on me, I’m gonna be unhappy.”

“I hear ya,” Bear said.

Cahil waited until the sun went down, then followed Highway 240/74 out of the city to Minehole Gap, where he turned north, following the signs for Bud’s. After another seven miles the road took him into a clearing where he found a ten-foot-high fence made of rusted corrugated steel. Above the razor wire, he could see the glare of stadium lights. He heard the staccato popping of semiautomatic gunfire.

Parked along the fence was an assortment of pickup trucks and muscle cars, most sporting a mix of Confederate flags, pro-NRA bumper stickers, and naked lady mud flaps.

Rebel heaven, Cahil thought.

The men inside would likely be stereotypical “good ’ol Southern boys”: patriotic, bigoted, and full of “aw-shucks” charm masking mean streaks ten-miles wide. Cahil suddenly realized how far from civilization he was. If he got into trouble out here, he would be on his own.

He got out, locked the H&K in the trunk, and walked through the gate. He found himself standing beneath a lean-to porch attached to an open-ended WWI-style barracks; inside were several dozen men sitting at tables, drinking and laughing. To his right, spread out over a quarter mile, lay the grass shooting lanes. Three or four men, each armed with some version of a banned assault weapon, were shooting at man silhouette targets.

“Evening,” a man called from the counter.

“Evening,” Cahil said and walked over.

The man was in his early sixties, wearing a yellow “Prowl Herbicide” baseball cap. Tacked to the collar of his flannel shirt was an American flag pin with a gold “II” superimposed on it.

That told Cahil much. The pin was the symbol of the militia group known as America Secundus, or Second America. Believing the government was tainted by corruption, cultural decay, and racial impurity, America Secundus was dedicated to the foundation of a new United States built on the ashes — metaphorical or literal, no one knew — of the old.

Was Skeldon a member? Cahil wondered. And if so, did his affiliation have anything to do with his business with Baker and the Guoanbu? “Are you Bud?” he asked.

“I am. You’re John Malvin.”

Uh-oh. “That’s a helluva guess.”

“Hersh called, said you might be stopping by.”

“Nice of him. Listen, if I’m not welcome, I understand.”

“Nobody said that. We’re kinda family out here, that’s all. Hersh said you seemed okay, asked me to make you welcome.”

Cahil was guessing Bud’s was not only the headquarters for Secundus’s North Carolina chapter, but also the Southern version of a mafia social club. “Then I guess you know about our transaction.”

“Yep. Nice rig.”

“Mind if I give it a whirl?”

“Go ahead,” Bud replied, then grinned. “Just don’t shoot no quail.”

Looking better. “Deal.”

Cahil gathered the Trojan and chose a shooting lane. He shot a few dozen rounds, getting a feel for the gun, then set to work sighting it in, starting first at twenty-five yards, then moving back to the fifty and one hundred marks.

He heard voices behind him. He turned. Twenty or so of Bud’s patrons were standing on the porch watching him. As he’d hoped, the Trojan had attracted some attention.

“Not bad for standing still,” one of the men called.

“You volunteering to stand-in?” Cahil replied.

There was general laughter.

“What I mean is, try it on the run.” The man was nearly six and a half feet, with a long beard and heavily tattooed forearms. Cahil mentally named him “Beard.”

“If I’m gonna tire myself out like that, I’d like it to be worth my time,” he said.

Beard sauntered over. The rest of the pack followed at a distance, forming a semicircle around the lane. All of them were wearing either belt or shoulder holsters.

“Hundred bucks says you can’t put two in the head of each target at a full sprint,” said Beard.

Obviously, Hersh’s courtesy call hadn’t quite given him a full pass. Beard was either the de facto leader here, or the enforcer. To back down now could be disastrous.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Cahil replied. “Turn off the lights, and for two hundred I’ll put three in each head.”

“Bullshit.”

Cahil shrugged. “If you don’t have the cash …”

His eyes locked on Cahil’s, Beard called, “Bud, turn ’em off.”

A few moments later Cahil heard a double thunk, and the range went dark except for what little light filtered out from the barracks windows.

“Wanna flashlight?” somebody called. There was laughter.

Cahil turned to face the lane. Working by feel, he changed the Trojan’s magazine, then stood still, letting his eyes adjust. After a few seconds, the outline of the twenty-five-yard silhouette came into focus. He brought the Trojan to his shoulder in the ready-low position.

Nice and easy … get the sight picture, then squeeze.

He started running.

Thirty seconds later he was done. As he returned to the head of the lane, Bud flipped the lights back on. There was a few seconds of silence, then a lone, “I’ll be damned,” followed by murmuring.

Each of the target’s foreheads was punctured by a near-perfect triad of shots.

“Not bad,” said Beard.

Time to back him down a little bit, Cahil thought. He took a step forward, pushing the man’s space. “Better than ‘not bad,’ I’d say.”

Beard’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Come inside. I’ll get your money, buy you a beer.”

They drank beer and talked for an hour before Beard asked, “What brings you down here?”

“Looking for an old army buddy. I heard he’d been spending some time here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mike Skeldon.”

As Cahil had expected, Beard quizzed him for several minutes about the army. Finally Cahil said, “You know Mike?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Hey, forget it. If he don’t wanna be found, no problem. I know how it goes.”

Beard took a gulp of beer. “Why wouldn’t he wanna be found?”

“Forget it.”

“No. Why wouldn’t he wanna be found?”

Cahil shrugged. “Couple months before the army booted him, we were bullshitting — talking about work on the outside. Mike figured his experience oughta be worth something to somebody.”

“Damn right it should. Why’d they discharge him?”

Cahil put his mug on the counter, slid it away, and stood to leave. “I’m done getting quizzed. If you don’t know why Mike got out, it ain’t my business to be telling you.”

Beard put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, relax. Nobody’s seen Mike for a few weeks. There’s a woman, though — she might know. She’s a stripper at Rhino’s downtown.”

“Is she working tonight?”

“Every night. She’s got a habit to feed. Name’s Candy something … Candy Kane, that’s it.”

Cahil nodded. “Thanks, maybe I’ll look her up.”