Read Online Cat's Cradle by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William W. Johnstone
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years; decorated FBI agent, deputy, then sheriff of Ruger County. Well-liked and respected. And one hard-nosed son of a bitch when he had to be. Sheriff Dan Garrett would take no crap from anybody, anytime.
A reporter stood up. Dan nodded at him. “Are you gathering all the law officers we’ve seen here for a manhunt, Sheriff?”
“That is correct. My chief deputy is meeting with them now, and I’ll be joining them as soon as this briefing is concluded.”
Conclude it right now as far as I’m concerned, you jerk! Mille fumed.
“Sheriff, do you have any thoughts about the mental condition of the people you’re after?”
“After seeing what was done to the bodies, my first thoughts were that the people who did that were extremely savage. They are the most brutal killings that I have ever seen. As to whether they are insane—” He shrugged. “—that will be up to a psychiatrist to determine.”
You’re lying, Sheriff, Mille fumed. You’re lying, the state police are lying, the doctors are lying, and when the FBI opens their mouths, they’re going to be lying, too. I’m sitting here right on top of one whale of a story, and I’m going to pry open this can of worms. And when I do, I’m going to wipe the floor with you, Garrett.
She thought: I’ve got to get in touch with Kenny Allen. I need somebody to do some legwork, and he’s the best. I’ll call him just as soon as this farce is over.
Kenny Allen was the same age as Mille. They had gone through school together, from grade school through college. They shared many things in common; two things above all else: they both hated cops; any type of authority figure brought out the viciousness in them. And they both felt the press was the guardian of everything fine and decent and moral. It didn’t make any difference who they hurt getting a story. Their method of news-gathering was this: everybody has some dirt in their past—let’s find it. It doesn’t make any difference who gets hurt in the process, or whether the dirt has anything to do with the story at hand. Anybody who gets in the way of the press gets kicked in the mouth.
Mille forced her attention back to Cowboy Dan Garrett and his lying mouth.
“Anyone have any further questions?” Dan asked.
Yeah, Mille thought. Where do you want the flowers sent? ’Cause when I get through with you, you won’t be able to get a job anywhere ...
7
Sheriff’s deputies highway patrolmen, FBI personnel, and selected volunteers combed the countryside of Ruger County for days. They found two pot patches, a small cache of illegal automatic weapons, a still that hadn’t been in operation for more than thirty years, two illegal aliens from El Salvador, one whore house, the rusted remains of a stolen car that had been missing for two years-and scared the living hell out of a deacon of a local church who was pumping away at the wife of another deacon.
And that was all the lawmen turned up.
No more bodies were found. No trace of Eddie Brown could be found. And no trace of the people responsible for the brutal deaths.
Nothing.
“Nothing,” Dan told Vonne over supper. “I’ve got to believe they’ve left the county.”
Friday evening, and Carl was home from school, his friend Mike with him.
“I don’t mean to lighten what has happened,” Carl said. “But there hasn’t been this much activity in Ruger County since Mrs. Zigler ran off with that truck driver.”
Dan laughed, and the laughter felt good, the tension gradually leaving the man. Vonne had fried chicken, made lots of mashed potatoes, a big bowl of gravy, biscuits from scratch, and fixed corn on the cob. Dan had pitched in, making his famous (more or less) deep-dish apple pie.
Mike was digging in. “Don’t eat this way at my house,” he said, wiping a bit of gravy from his chin. “Our cook wouldn’t think of frying chicken. We’d have broiled chicken breasts a la poo doo, or something like that. I try to avoid eating at home
A reporter stood up. Dan nodded at him. “Are you gathering all the law officers we’ve seen here for a manhunt, Sheriff?”
“That is correct. My chief deputy is meeting with them now, and I’ll be joining them as soon as this briefing is concluded.”
Conclude it right now as far as I’m concerned, you jerk! Mille fumed.
“Sheriff, do you have any thoughts about the mental condition of the people you’re after?”
“After seeing what was done to the bodies, my first thoughts were that the people who did that were extremely savage. They are the most brutal killings that I have ever seen. As to whether they are insane—” He shrugged. “—that will be up to a psychiatrist to determine.”
You’re lying, Sheriff, Mille fumed. You’re lying, the state police are lying, the doctors are lying, and when the FBI opens their mouths, they’re going to be lying, too. I’m sitting here right on top of one whale of a story, and I’m going to pry open this can of worms. And when I do, I’m going to wipe the floor with you, Garrett.
She thought: I’ve got to get in touch with Kenny Allen. I need somebody to do some legwork, and he’s the best. I’ll call him just as soon as this farce is over.
Kenny Allen was the same age as Mille. They had gone through school together, from grade school through college. They shared many things in common; two things above all else: they both hated cops; any type of authority figure brought out the viciousness in them. And they both felt the press was the guardian of everything fine and decent and moral. It didn’t make any difference who they hurt getting a story. Their method of news-gathering was this: everybody has some dirt in their past—let’s find it. It doesn’t make any difference who gets hurt in the process, or whether the dirt has anything to do with the story at hand. Anybody who gets in the way of the press gets kicked in the mouth.
Mille forced her attention back to Cowboy Dan Garrett and his lying mouth.
“Anyone have any further questions?” Dan asked.
Yeah, Mille thought. Where do you want the flowers sent? ’Cause when I get through with you, you won’t be able to get a job anywhere ...
7
Sheriff’s deputies highway patrolmen, FBI personnel, and selected volunteers combed the countryside of Ruger County for days. They found two pot patches, a small cache of illegal automatic weapons, a still that hadn’t been in operation for more than thirty years, two illegal aliens from El Salvador, one whore house, the rusted remains of a stolen car that had been missing for two years-and scared the living hell out of a deacon of a local church who was pumping away at the wife of another deacon.
And that was all the lawmen turned up.
No more bodies were found. No trace of Eddie Brown could be found. And no trace of the people responsible for the brutal deaths.
Nothing.
“Nothing,” Dan told Vonne over supper. “I’ve got to believe they’ve left the county.”
Friday evening, and Carl was home from school, his friend Mike with him.
“I don’t mean to lighten what has happened,” Carl said. “But there hasn’t been this much activity in Ruger County since Mrs. Zigler ran off with that truck driver.”
Dan laughed, and the laughter felt good, the tension gradually leaving the man. Vonne had fried chicken, made lots of mashed potatoes, a big bowl of gravy, biscuits from scratch, and fixed corn on the cob. Dan had pitched in, making his famous (more or less) deep-dish apple pie.
Mike was digging in. “Don’t eat this way at my house,” he said, wiping a bit of gravy from his chin. “Our cook wouldn’t think of frying chicken. We’d have broiled chicken breasts a la poo doo, or something like that. I try to avoid eating at home
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