What Sheriff Cole really looked like, Savich thought, was a natural-born bully.
He came to within four feet of Savich before he stopped, took a wide-legged stance, his fingers still on his gun butt. He stared at Savich, measuring him, assessing him, as if wondering, maybe, how long it would take him to beat Savich unconscious. Savich would bet this guy would go about any beating he did with great joy and viciousness. Savich saw he was wearing two-inch boots and wondered why. The guy was already a good six-foot-three or thereabouts. More intimidation, more huge attitude. No help from this quarter, not after what Ethan had told him. The guy probably feared only three people in this town—all of them named Backman.
Sheriff Cole had a heavy twang. His voice boomed out deep and hard, filled with threat and violence. “Good afternoon. You want to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
Savich saw Sherlock climb slowly out of the Camry. She stood at her ease about eight feet behind the sheriff, her arms loose at her sides, her jacket shoved back so her fingers weren’t more than two inches from her SIG.
“Or what?” Savich asked easily, a black eyebrow arching.
“Or, you disrespectful piece of shit, I’ll whip your ass and kick you out of my town.”
“All that?” Savich smiled as he pulled out his creds and held them out. “If you will look at my credentials, Sheriff, you’ll see I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich. Behind you is Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. You know, Sheriff, I really dislike foul language. You might want to re-member that. I didn’t catch your name.”
Sheriff Cole looked around at Sherlock, narrowed his eyes, then turned back. He spit. No spray, just a wad of spit that hit maybe eight inches from Savich’s right foot. “I’m Sheriff Burris Cole. What are two FBI agents doing in this little town?”
“Like I told Doreen, we’re here to see Blessed Backman.”
That rocked him, but to his credit, he recovered quickly. “Well, Blessed’s not here, now, is he? I’ll bet you Doreen already told you that. So I guess there’s no other reason for you to stay.”
“You’ve got a nice town here, Sheriff. I think Agent Sherlock and I will hang around awhile, see the sights, visit with Shepherd and Grace. Who knows? Maybe Blessed will show up. And, ah, Sheriff, could you tell us where we can find Caldicot Whistler?”
Savich thought the man would come at him on the spot, but whatever good sense he had stopped him at the last minute. He let out a frustrated breath, keeping the violence pulsing beneath the surface, and hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt.
All in all, Savich was disappointed.
He looked into Cole’s nearly colorless eyes. The sheriff’s fingers dug into his belt so hard they turned white. So he did have some control. A pity.
“We don’t have any Caldicot Whistler in our town.”
“If not here then close by. Surely you know about his ... organization, Children of Twilight? As a fellow law enforcement officer, I’d sure appreciate some cooperation with this, Sheriff.”
The sheriff spit again, this time about six inches from Savich’s left foot.
Savich shook his head, sighed. “No cooperation then. Agent Sherlock, call Director Mueller, tell him we’re going to need a cadre of agents in Bricker’s Bowl as soon as possible. We got us a cult leader to track down.”
“On it, Chief.”
Savich heard her speaking on her cell not two seconds later.
“Now wait a minute, there’s no reason to flood my town with a bunch of federal guys poking into everybody’s business. All right, all right, I’ll help you.”
“Agent Sherlock, tell the director we might get some local cooperation after all. Now, Sheriff Cole, where is Caldicot Whistler? Where are these Children of Twilight?”
“ I told you, Mr. Whistler doesn’t live in Bricker’s Bowl, but he does v sit on occasion. I don’t know about any cult. ‘Children of Twilight’? That sounds crazy. Whistler’s a nice man, Agent Savich, wouldn’t hurt a soul. I believe he sells cars over in Haverhill. Why do you want to see him?”
“I want to talk to him about his cult you’ve never heard about,” Savich said.
“I tell you I don’t know about any Children of Twilight cult. Don’t you government types have anything better to do than harass car salesmen? Yeah, that’s what he does—sells those fancy German cars. Caldicot Whistler has nothing to do with a cult. Who claimed he did?”
Savich leaned forward a bit, his voice confiding. “Actually, Sheriff, the FBI knows just about everything we need to. I’m surprised that you, a law enforcement officer, haven’t bothered finding out about them, or think the FBI wouldn’t. On the other hand, you’ve been stuck in this valley a long time—don’t bother with TV or newspapers, right? Now, what’s Caldicot Whistler’s address?”
“We got TV, newspapers, computers, even People magazine.” Sheriff Cole wanted to kill this asshole or at least hurt him bad, and it showed. He also wanted to scratch at the itchy rash around his middle because the heavy leather belt dug into his flesh. That didn’t help. As for the girl with all her red hair and white skin, her long fingers flirt-ing with that SIG, he’d like to introduce her to other sorts of things he liked—a little bowling, a little love, a little pain.
He wondered if she knew what to do with that powerful weapon so close to her fingers. His two deputies were more than likely already over at Kandra’s Kafe chowing down on “All the Tortilla Chips You Can Eat,” today’s special. When Doreen had called him, he’d almost not come by, thinking about all those chips and the big bean burrito waiting for him. He could always count on Kandra to come through with the food when his wife was in one of her moods.
Stupid lost tourist who needed some hassling, that’s what he’d thought. And now this. Now he had two FBI agents on his hands, this big guy whose nose needed to be broken, and the woman, probably the guy’s girlfriend. He could just pull them behind the gas station but it was too big a risk. The woman had already called the damned director.
How could the FBI possibly know about Blessed and Whistler? He remembered that sheriff calling him about Blessed from somewhere in the mountains back in Virginia. He must have called the FBI. Damnation.
The fed had asked him a question—oh, yeah, about Whistler. He said, the hot rage burning the air between them, “You’ll have to ask Blessed for Whistler’s address. I don’t know it. I never knew it, you got me?”
“Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I probably will,” Savich said easily, and walked straight at the sheriff, making him hop to the side.
Sherlock saw the flash of rage in the sheriff’s eyes when he realized he’d been outsmarted, and tried not to smile. They watched the sheriff walk inside the Quik Mart and lean close in to speak to Doreen. They waited. After only about a minute he came out, put sunglasses on his nose, climbed into his truck, and peeled out. She arched an eyebrow.
Savich said, “Thanks for calling Director Mueller for me.”
“You’re more than welcome. He was right there, as if he’d been waiting for me to call him.”
“I must say, you sure got a hold of him fast. I’m impressed.”
“And so you should be. We’re off to see Grace and Shepherd?”
“Doreen said Grace wasn’t here either,” Savich said. “She could have been blowing me off—we’ll find out when we get to the Back-mans’.”
Savich stared after the black truck. “Do you know, I don’t think Sheriff Cole and I are going to be best friends.”
Sherlock said, “He’s afraid of the Backmans, and he hates you all the way to his steel-tipped boots. He really wants to kick your butt, Dillon, big-time.”