Knock Out
Page 85
“Mama? What’s going on? Is Blessed here?”
48
BRICKER’S BOWL, GEORGIA
The car lights made the trees lining the Backman driveway shadowy; a light breeze made the leaves flutter.
The air was heavy, and star jasmine sent out its seductive scent.
Only forty minutes had passed since they’d left the burning car with its two dead killers inside. Savich and Sherlock, with two agents from the Atlanta field office behind them, saw the huge house, lights dotting the downstairs and the front veranda. Savich pulled the Camry to a stop, the two agents in the Toyota pulling up beside him. The four of them walked lockstep up to the Backman porch. Standing there were Sheriff Cole, and Mrs. Backman at his elbow, both now lit by several lights suspended off the overhang. Tonight, Shepherd looked like a tough old boot. Tonight, she looked like a very old witch with her white hair loose around her heavy face.
As for Sheriff Cole, he was still in uniform, looking determined. His hand rested on his gun. Was the man insane? There were four federal agents standing in front of him. He felt Sherlock move closer. He heard the two agents breathing fast.
Sheriff Cole slowly lowered his hand from his gun, held it loosely at his side, and gave them all a full-bodied sneer. “Well, now, Miz Backman, isn’t this ever a treat? I thought we’d got rid of these outsiders.”
Savich said, “Nope, the outsiders are back. Best keep your hand away from that weapon of yours, Sheriff.”
“Nosy bad pennies,” said Shepherd Backman. “You can’t get rid of them.”
Sherlock said easily, looking from one to the other, “Mrs. Backman, your mistake was to try to get rid of us. The two men you sent to kill us are dead. We’re here to arrest you for conspiracy to murder two federal agents.”
To Savich’s surprise, there wasn’t a hint of awareness on Sheriff Cole’s heavy face, there was only astonishment. The old lady sprang back. “Shoot them in the face, Burris! Kill them!”
“What? I can’t shoot them, ma’am, I can’t. We need to calm down here, think this over—”
“Do it!”
Savich saw the sheriff turn to look at the old woman, whose face was filled with malice and rage. She looked straight at the sheriff, and he at her.
Sherlock said, “Look at me instead of the sheriff. Mrs. Backman, don’t tell him that again, or I will shoot you both dead. Then I will burn this damned house down. Do you understand me?”
Agent Todd stepped forward, his SIG in his hand.
“We’ve got it,” Savich said over his shoulder. “Things are under control. Now, Mrs. Backman, I guess you didn’t realize there are four of us, all FBI agents. You’re coming with us to Atlanta. Trying to kill a federal agent is, naturally enough, a federal offense. The FBI doesn’t like having its agents shot at.”
Sheriff Cole stepped in front of her, blocking her from their view. “You can’t do that, Agent. Miz Backman is a citizen of Bricker’s Bowl, our leading citizen. Her roots are here. You can’t take her. Whoever it is that shot at you, you don’t have any proof.”
Sherlock stepped into his face, raised her SIG up to his nose, and said very quietly, “Listen, Burris, if you don’t want to share a cell with this malevolent old witch, I suggest you drop that gun to the ground. Now.”
He wanted to drop-kick her off the veranda, belt the damned girl agent in the chops. But he knew dead serious when he saw it, and he believed her. He pulled the gun from its holster and dropped it. It thumped on the wooden veranda, bounced once, and came to a rest six inches from his foot.
“Now you will move yourself back six steps. I’ll count them for you. Go!”
Sheriff Cole stepped back until Sherlock told him to stop, with his back pressed against the front door.
Agent Todd stepped onto the porch and picked up the sheriff’s gun, Dirty Harry’s Magnum, one he’d like to own himself. He raised an eyebrow at Savich, who said, “If the sheriff behaves himself from now on, I’m willing to let him slide. I just want Mrs. Backman.” He asked her, “Do you wish to make a call, ma’am?”
“Yes, to my lawyer.”
Once again, he said, “Caldicot Whistler?”
She gave him a malignant look and shuffled away in her mules. The sheriff jumped to the side so she could open the door. She flung it open so hard it hit against the inside wall. Savich wouldn’t have guessed she had that much strength. Savich watched her walk to where a phone sat on a lovely Victorian marquetry table. He watched her pick up the phone and dial.
48
BRICKER’S BOWL, GEORGIA
The car lights made the trees lining the Backman driveway shadowy; a light breeze made the leaves flutter.
The air was heavy, and star jasmine sent out its seductive scent.
Only forty minutes had passed since they’d left the burning car with its two dead killers inside. Savich and Sherlock, with two agents from the Atlanta field office behind them, saw the huge house, lights dotting the downstairs and the front veranda. Savich pulled the Camry to a stop, the two agents in the Toyota pulling up beside him. The four of them walked lockstep up to the Backman porch. Standing there were Sheriff Cole, and Mrs. Backman at his elbow, both now lit by several lights suspended off the overhang. Tonight, Shepherd looked like a tough old boot. Tonight, she looked like a very old witch with her white hair loose around her heavy face.
As for Sheriff Cole, he was still in uniform, looking determined. His hand rested on his gun. Was the man insane? There were four federal agents standing in front of him. He felt Sherlock move closer. He heard the two agents breathing fast.
Sheriff Cole slowly lowered his hand from his gun, held it loosely at his side, and gave them all a full-bodied sneer. “Well, now, Miz Backman, isn’t this ever a treat? I thought we’d got rid of these outsiders.”
Savich said, “Nope, the outsiders are back. Best keep your hand away from that weapon of yours, Sheriff.”
“Nosy bad pennies,” said Shepherd Backman. “You can’t get rid of them.”
Sherlock said easily, looking from one to the other, “Mrs. Backman, your mistake was to try to get rid of us. The two men you sent to kill us are dead. We’re here to arrest you for conspiracy to murder two federal agents.”
To Savich’s surprise, there wasn’t a hint of awareness on Sheriff Cole’s heavy face, there was only astonishment. The old lady sprang back. “Shoot them in the face, Burris! Kill them!”
“What? I can’t shoot them, ma’am, I can’t. We need to calm down here, think this over—”
“Do it!”
Savich saw the sheriff turn to look at the old woman, whose face was filled with malice and rage. She looked straight at the sheriff, and he at her.
Sherlock said, “Look at me instead of the sheriff. Mrs. Backman, don’t tell him that again, or I will shoot you both dead. Then I will burn this damned house down. Do you understand me?”
Agent Todd stepped forward, his SIG in his hand.
“We’ve got it,” Savich said over his shoulder. “Things are under control. Now, Mrs. Backman, I guess you didn’t realize there are four of us, all FBI agents. You’re coming with us to Atlanta. Trying to kill a federal agent is, naturally enough, a federal offense. The FBI doesn’t like having its agents shot at.”
Sheriff Cole stepped in front of her, blocking her from their view. “You can’t do that, Agent. Miz Backman is a citizen of Bricker’s Bowl, our leading citizen. Her roots are here. You can’t take her. Whoever it is that shot at you, you don’t have any proof.”
Sherlock stepped into his face, raised her SIG up to his nose, and said very quietly, “Listen, Burris, if you don’t want to share a cell with this malevolent old witch, I suggest you drop that gun to the ground. Now.”
He wanted to drop-kick her off the veranda, belt the damned girl agent in the chops. But he knew dead serious when he saw it, and he believed her. He pulled the gun from its holster and dropped it. It thumped on the wooden veranda, bounced once, and came to a rest six inches from his foot.
“Now you will move yourself back six steps. I’ll count them for you. Go!”
Sheriff Cole stepped back until Sherlock told him to stop, with his back pressed against the front door.
Agent Todd stepped onto the porch and picked up the sheriff’s gun, Dirty Harry’s Magnum, one he’d like to own himself. He raised an eyebrow at Savich, who said, “If the sheriff behaves himself from now on, I’m willing to let him slide. I just want Mrs. Backman.” He asked her, “Do you wish to make a call, ma’am?”
“Yes, to my lawyer.”
Once again, he said, “Caldicot Whistler?”
She gave him a malignant look and shuffled away in her mules. The sheriff jumped to the side so she could open the door. She flung it open so hard it hit against the inside wall. Savich wouldn’t have guessed she had that much strength. Savich watched her walk to where a phone sat on a lovely Victorian marquetry table. He watched her pick up the phone and dial.
