THE BULLET MADE A HOLLOW THUD, COUPLED WITH THE high-pitched whinnying noise of sheet metal shearing and rolling back along the left rear quarter panel. The crashing calliope ended abruptly against the interior of the steel back bumper. E.J. felt the sharp bite of a flake of chrome break off close to his forehead. His ears were ringing like a handbell banging out a Christmas carol. He reached to his forehead, half expecting a torrent of blood, only to discover the bright leafy metal shard. He yelled upwards, above his head toward where the bullet originated, “Mr. Copeland, I need you to put the gun down so we can talk about this before someone gets hurt.” “My land. Always been my peoples’ land. I got to pass it to my sons the way I found it. Not ‘bout to have no storebought lawman from some oil company tell me they get to go in and out at all hours of the night shaking the foundation of my house. Never ends. Man can’t even hear his-self think.” Just wait until they drill, thought E.J. He barely had a moment’s sarcastic chuckle when the big diver’s side mirror, specially made for trailer hauling, splintered into an infinite number of pieces. He felt the percussion of the round whiz above and instinctively jerked his head back from the edge of the rear bumper. E.J. appreciated the danger in his current tactical position. When he first saw old man Copeland on the porch with the rifle, E.J. stopped his three-quarter-ton truck in the driveway and took cover, figuring the old man would have to fire through the engine block and the length of the truck to hit him. The wisdom of the decision now seemed suspect. Penned down behind the corner of his pickup, Copeland could outflank him in either direction without leaving the big sweeping porch of his home. Worse, E.J. hadn’t had time to reach for his own rifle. A forty-five caliber 1911 pistol made a poor choice at seventy-five yards, even in the hands of a marksman. E.J. chided himself for being so stupid. In thirty years of law enforcement, had he equaled this level of ignorance? His mind spun with images landing like a marble on a roulette wheel with the image of a young officer killed on his watch. For a moment, E.J. thought he could smell the lavender perfume the boy’s mother wore at the funeral. He broke away from the image, finding no consolation in the litany of appalling errors in judgment committed over the course of his career, nor did he settle on a strategy to improve his position. In fact, he surmised his tactical situation was hopeless. The glassless side mirror revealed an enormous hole through the center of its chrome housing, bearing witness to the debacle. A dog’s muffled howl emanated from the cab of the truck. E.J. had forgotten Yak amidst the excitement of the firefight. “Hit my dog and I’ll kill you.” A loud, raspy tone projected from the house. “Not aiming at no dog.” The truth of the statement chilled E.J.’s shoulders, then ran down his spine. This guy hit exactly where he aimed. Shooting the mirror was an attention-getter. The earlier round, which came to rest against the bumper, was likely intentionally fired above E.J.’s head. The coldness had permeated E.J.’s entire body. He wiped his forehead with his hand, then pressed on his head in a vain effort to stop the ringing in his ears. Copeland could kill him anytime the old-timer chose. The only option was to establish a rapport, come to some common ground. Copeland was letting him live for a reason. He quickly reviewed his mental file on Copeland. The man was a widower, a retired lineman from the electric cooperative. He was a cowman with two sons. E.J. hollered across the recently mowed pasture separating him from the white frame house with the sweeping porches. “What you shooting? Cannon you rolled out on wheels?” Copeland yelled back in the same scratchy, deep sound. “444 Marlin. Hot, ain’t they? My hand loads.” E.J. lifted and turned his head, spitting out sandy loam, gravel, and the Redland dirt native to East Texas. His back ached, tired of lying flat, and beyond the point of trying to make a smaller target to a shooter of Copeland’s obvious skill. Shooters load their own ammunition to achieve maximum consistency. Some developed an affinity for odd calibers, even if they had to endure powerful recoil like his own 45.70. The grit slid deeper between his gums and teeth when he spoke. “I knew it was some kind of buffalo cartridge. Impressive for open sights on a lever action. Where’d you learn to shoot?” “Camp Pendleton, California, but I got my advanced certification in Vietnam, City of Hue.” Despite a limp, the old man appeared to straighten, and his chest bulged under a weather-beaten face. “I appreciate your service. Never served myself, but my son was a marine.” Copeland had taken a rest against one of the porch posts. He lowered the big carbine, keeping it close to his shoulder. “Semper Fidelis, marine’s a marine, can’t be ‘was a marine’.” “My boy would have agreed with you. He was so proud. Came back from Afghanistan in a coffin.” E.J.’s voice crackled and snapped like expensive china crashing across a tile floor. “Then I appreciate your sacrifice. Can’t imagine. I got two boys, both meth junkies. Neither one has enough teeth left to gnaw grits. Already dreading the phone call I know will come, maybe today, maybe tomorrow,” Copland said. “I thought you had to leave this place to your sons the same way your folks left to you.” “Yeah, they can’t even hold jobs, much less give me a grandchild. After Effie died, this place is sort of my family.” The distance made Copeland’s loud words sound even more tragic, ringing across his ancestral home. He lowered the rifle further and stepped off the porch, walking toward his former target. E.J. lifted his body, rising to his knees. “Lawyers say the mineral estate is the dominant estate. Don’t make much sense, so I explain it this way.” He walked along the driveway as he continued speaking. “You took the company’s money, promising they could drill. Of course, the company was using other people’s money, right? Company promising those folks to bring in a gas well. Then before we can get the drill site made, you dump roofing tacks on it and threaten our contractors with guns.” Copeland lowered his head as E.J. approached. E.J. added, “Those dirt men are just trying to make a living, and you got them changing high dollar tires on equipment the bank owns. You’re not hurting the company. The company will pay nothing. They’ll hire some other old boy who owes the bank for his dozers and finish building the site.” Stepping off the gravel drive, E.J. walked across a bright green field toward the house. He marveled at the vivid green grass. Spring rains had made keeping up with the Bahia grass near impossible. The split open seed head made an endless sea of swaying peace signs. Copeland was closing the distance with his face and the rifle pointed at a downward angle. Behind Copeland and his home, E.J. saw dark clouds far in the distance, keeping vigil over the pines. To the right of the house were the cattle pens, and a barn roofed by rusty tin. The barn’s lumber walls were bleached grey from the sun. As he walked toward Copeland, E.J. stepped back in time and place. His fingers slid through the tall grass, dislodging the tiny seeds like he had done so many times running across his family’s home place. Absently his head turned, looking toward the big oak to see if his mother was ringing the dinner triangle. The armed man before E.J. crushed the illusion. When their eyes met, Copeland barked, “You’re the big ranger the deputies told me about. Bought and paid for law.” “Fair enough. Calling me bought. I took their money, but you took their money too. We a pair, brother.” “You think I went to Paris and seen the Eiffel Tower on their dime. I used it to pay for doctors, experimental treatment in Houston. What the VA couldn’t handle. I had prostate cancer. None of it worked. I didn’t want to fight. Effie insisted, claimed she didn’t put fifty years training me to let me go dying when her hard work might pay off.” Copeland laughed while his eyes watered at the corners. E.J. saw that the old man’s mocking laughter served to fight back tears. “Then I lived, and she up and died on me. Right next to me. Same bedroom where we slept for fifty-two years.” He turned the butt of the rifle toward E.J., offering the gun to him. “Hear you folks got cable TV and medical care up there. You might as well feed me. I got nothing here anyway.” E.J. looked away. The dark horizon capping the white house nestled in a pasture made almost neon by the bloom of spring. He caught the faint sight of some White Dutch Clover almost lost amongst the sea of emerald green. He rarely saw cloverlike that anymore, and for a moment, the absurdity consumed him. Why was he thinking about clover with an armed man in front of him? After the long silence, E.J. turned back to Copeland. “Mr. Copeland, I will get the company to move the drill site back another five hundred feet. You are going to go out there and get every one of those tacks picked up, unarmed, and apologize to those construction hands. You’re gonna tell them you’ve seen Jesus and won’t be sinin’ no more.” Copeland looked bewildered, then released the tension in his face with a subtle grin. E.J. pushed the butt of the rifle back to Copeland. “Put your gun up and move your hands. I’m not gonna cuff you.” “Appreciate it.” “Well, I appreciate you not shooting me. You got a glass of tea or a cup of coffee. I got a mouth full of this dirt you’re so proud of out here.” “I got tea, coke,” Copeland smiled, “maybe some stronger if you’ll drink with a man who nearly killed you. Come in the house.” The old man extended his hand. E.J. took it. “You wanted me dead. I wouldn’t be breathing. I’ll settle for the porch and some tea. I got my dog in the cab. Better check on him, likely scared to death.” The tea tasted stout. Ice and sugar couldn’t cut the bite. He swished it across his tongue, satisfied the brew had sat far too long. Couldn’t the same be said of Copeland? His weathered rail frame made him look every inch the wore out cowboy. The two passed the time talking about rain, heat, drought, gardens, and cattle prices. E.J. had driven his truck the rest of the way to Copeland’s house. He assessed the damage to the pickup. Cosmetic, though, he had enjoyed the view from the large fancy motorized mirrors. Well, it had probably made Copeland feel considerably better shooting the mirrors, more oil company’s property. Maybe hitting them had part way dispelled the man’s anger and saved E.J.’s life. The distant familiar noise of EJ’s cell phone caught his attention. He was grateful he had left the device in the truck. After a few more moments he rose, shook hands with Copeland again, and walked to this pickup. The sweet smell of moisture rolled over E.J. as he watched the clouds slowly grow darker, springing thick with water vapor. He cranked the truck and closed the door to call the office. E.J. spent the entire afternoon on the phone with corporate. Everyone knew company founder and president Rex Ashe had hired him. E.J.’s edicts had carried the weight of an ancient pharaoh; so let it be written, so let it be done. Such prior transactions had spoiled him. Normally, E.J. downplayed his friendship with Rex Ashe. However, frustration overcame him, and he played his hole card. “This is E.J. Kane, head of corporate security. I report directly to CEO Rex Ashe, and he has approved the following….” The line went quiet for a long time. Then another voice came over the speaker. The person questioned E.J.’s authority before beginning a series of transfers to executives, refusing to acknowledge they worked for Rex Ashe. Finally, someone identified only as the acting CFO spoke. She spoke curtly yet agreed to fulfill the promises E.J. had made to Copeland. Grateful to achieve success, E.J. didn’t ask her name, nor did he carry the conversation further. The CFO’s high-pitched voice went to great lengths to pronounce each syllable. E.J. surmised the perfect pronunciation hid an eastern accent, New York, Boston, perhaps New Jersey. Stepping from the truck, E.J.’s boots felt heavy, like being mired in quicksand. Arguing with fools can make a man more tired than working. Copeland’s eyes were closed, mouth open, and his head leaned back against the chair. No point in waking the old man. E.J. turned to walk off the porch, followed by a bluish black and white dog. He whispered, “Load up, Yak.” Copeland opened his eyes, looking up from the tall oak framed wicker rocker. “You’re a good man.” E.J. stopped with his back to Copeland. Despite not facing him, Copeland continued. “I mean, people say you’re so crooked, when you die they’ll have to screw you in the ground. More cross than the devil on Sunday. Ain’t none of it true. You treated me decent.” E.J. stepped into the rain toward his truck. He yelled above the squall without ever looking back. “Don’t you go telling nobody Copeland or I’ll come back and finish our little gunfight.” Copeland snickered a gravelly chuckle. E.J.’s cell phone rang through the radio in his truck. E.J. understood mechanical contrivances, yet Bluetooth technology eluded him. Every so often, for reasons unknown to E.J., the phone and radio seemed to come off the rails, and his company’s technology department had to pair the device again. He pushed a button on the steering wheel, and his daughter’s voice was in stereo. “Daddy, are you home?” “No, working.” “Making the planet an environmental wasteland for Devekon and Rex Ashe’s greed. You know the polar bears don’t have a home anymore because of you.” “That’s right, princess, I’m literally wrecking polar bear houses as we speak. Melting them big ice cubes with a hair dryer. Did you just call to give me grief, or you going to visit your pop sometime?” There was a pause, then she sighed, “Dad, I need some money.” Her soft voice was almost inaudible over the rain. Was it the sound system, or was his hearing weakening? E.J. didn’t need to hear. It seemed like all she called about was money these days. “How much?” “Seven hundred dollars. My computer got fried with my entire term paper, and it’s due Monday.” Her voice had taken on a whiny quality. “What did your mother say?” “You know I can’t talk to her about anything real. You know how she has been since Konner’s death. She’s ready to bite everyone’s head off. She checks my grades online and chews me out every day. I’m nineteen years old. She’s moody and rude to my friends, and I’m tired of it.” “Calm down, breathe, come home tonight. I even bought the stuff to make you a bean sprout sandwich. Sunshine misses you something awful.” “I don’t have time,” said Sharla. E.J. didn’t want to play his hole card, though he did. “I’ll get you the money.” CHAPTER TWO E.J. PULLED INTO HIS YARD NEXT TO HIS DAUGHTER’S Prius. A mechanical voice reported a phone call. The display recited a Houston number he didn’t recognize. E.J. touched the screen to ignore the call. Oddly, Sharla hadn’t gone into the house to wait for him. She sat in her car, playing on her phone. “You lose your key?” “I can’t stay. There are finals and papers. Nothing has gone right since my computer got stolen.” Sharla stepped out of the car, though she didn’t approach him. She sported an oversized tee-shirt and messy hair. Before college, more before Konner’s death, Sharla had taken after her mother. Both prided themselves on being meticulous in dress and hygiene. E.J. smelled the faint odor of urine. “Load up; we’ll go to Wal Mart and get a laptop right now,” said E.J. “No, can’t you understand? I don’t have time.” Sharla moved her hands upwards. MICHEAL E. JIMERSON 1 4 “Com’on, let’s visit Sunshine. He misses you.” “I’m not a little girl. Not here to see the horse. Really, I need to do my work,” said Sharla. “Why you need money?” Sharla smirked, tilting her head and putting her hand on her hips. “My computer is fried. You need hearing aids.” “Tell the truth and you never have to remember what you said. Earlier, you claimed someone stole it,” said E.J. Sharla rocked her head before E.J. could finish. “You need hearing aids. Mother told you. I told you. If you want me to fail, say so,” said Sharla. E.J. looked past her across the pasture. After Konner’s death, one of E.J.’s patrol officer contacts providing security at a club had called E.J. to tell him Sharla flashed a fake ID to enter a bar. When confronted, E.J. had witnessed the same head tilt and vigorous denial. “I want you to ask for help.” “Here we go again, over the joint. One joint and my jack-booted thug daddy wants to lock me up in rehab.” E.J.’s phone rang, and he slid across the screen, rejecting the call. Rejecting the call agitated a tense situation. He wanted to turn off the ringer, yet wasn’t familiar enough with this model phone. “You’re lying to my face for money. Don’t care how you look. Your grades stink. I’m not stupid. You need help.” “I’m lying. You’re the one lying like always. Lure me out here to play Daddy because you killed your golden child with your backward view of God and country.” She drew a deep breath and shook her hand at him. “Maybe if you hadn’t got your cop friends killed, you wouldn’t have to take charity from your drunkard enviro killer buddy—” E.J.’s phone rang again. Irritation made him fumble the device between his hands. He knew she only repeated her mother’s insults, yet they pierced his heart. Sharla yelled, “Just take it.” E.J. rejected the call again. “I’m sorry. I don’t want this. I love you. You’re all I got in this world.” “Then give me the money like you promised—” The ringer chimed out. E.J. hit the screen. “E.J. Kane. What is it?” A shrill scream bellowed, “Terrorist blew up a storage tank, and they think a man is dead.” E.J. had been intent on yelling at the caller and throwing the phone. This news pushed him off balance. Trapped between the two crises, he literally wobbled for a second. He looked to Sharla in time to see her crank the vehicle and punch the throttle. Should he chase her because he wanted to fall to his knees crying? He had messed up again. Why didn’t he get some counselor to tell him how to broach the subject? No, he bulled through, crushing everything like glass, catching her in a lie. He wasn’t working on a case. This was his daughter, his baby girl, his whole life. He watched Sharla swing onto the road from the driveway. She was gone. Had he overreacted? Was his work experience clouding his judgment? He had always strived to insulate his family from the evil he investigated. She couldn’t really be a drug addict, or somebody would have noticed other than him. Chasing her would likely cause a wreck. He needed professional advice on how to bring up rehab, and maybe he was overreacting. E.J. turned his mind to the emergency thrown at him through the cell phone. It took a moment to calm the Devekon Energy dispatcher. In fact, he wasn’t a dispatcher or an employee at all. The person worked for an answering service in Houston. For years, the answering service had answered a number posted on lease signs to call in case of fire. The service enjoyed the income since answering services were no longer in demand. Devekon was a great customer because the company paid on time, and there had never been a call. This call had come from the landowner, an avid jogger. He went out for an evening run after work when he came across an object which, at first, he didn’t recognize. Then he realized it looked as if someone used a can opener and peeled off the top of a huge metal storage tank. A far more gruesome sight awaited him. A few feet past the storage tank appeared a foot sheared above the ankle and still in a sock. Jogger looks around for a body or a shoe, and that’s when he sees the flame. The well is on fire. The dispatcher took another hurried breath before adding to the obvious. “It scared the man.” It occurred to E.J. the dispatcher couldn’t appreciate how excited and distraught he sounded. Even listening to a recap of the events had scared this person. E.J. continued to parse the information. “How do we know it was a bombing?” “What?” “You said someone blew the tank up. How do we know that?” “Top got blown off, and the well caught fire, didn’t you hear me, he said like a can opener? The caller and I both think it has to be a terrorist.” The dispatcher’s voice exuded excitement. “Thunderstorms with lightning are far more common. Usually, there’s a tank for salt water, the other for condensate. Even when grounded and well-ventilated, lightning doesn’t have to hit directly to set the condensate off.” From the location provided, about thirty miles remained between E.J. and the well site. He couldn’t drive too fast in heavy rain. Days were still fairly short. E.J. surmised his estimated time of arrival was dark thirty. Terrorism seemed implausible, though he had long thought well sites seemed easy targets. Fear might cripple markets, sending the price of oil and gas skyrocketing, not to mention the environmental fallout and lack of security. If he could educate the dispatcher, perhaps some formerly obscure fact would jump out at him. He also asked the answering service employee to overnight the recorded call. Then felt stupid when the employee pointed out he could email it. The rain subsided, leaving only a mist. It had rained long enough to soak the deputies and firefighters already on scene. In times past, E.J. had endured it, soaking wet despite rain gear, with no time to go home and get dry. He had been on many a crime scene battling the elements from bone-chilling rain to the steamy Texas heat, which made the putrid odors of death all the more rancid. Even the remote possibility of terrorism meant the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the corresponding State of Texas investigations unit, the Texas Rangers, assigning agents. It might take some time to get a special agent from Tyler or Shreveport. E.J. chuckled to himself, thinking there was plenty of time given Sheriff Benjamin Berryhill’s checkered history working with other agencies. E.J. followed the directives of his global position system along a myriad of county roads. He was somewhere near the Louisiana border, hoping he wasn’t in Berryhill’s county. As he drew closer, he realized despite his delusive hopes, he remained in Sheriff B.B.’s jurisdiction. The sheriff’s department logo on the side of a Ford Explorer confirmed his dread when he turned off the oil top road onto a gravel lease road. A young deputy built like a football player and dressed in a clear plastic rain poncho motioned for E.J. to stop his truck at the cattle guard marking the entrance to what signs denoted as the Martin number three gas well location. The deputy wore a straw hat sporting a wide brick crease and a five-inch brim. E.J. partially rolled down his window. “Sir, don’t you see the yellow tape? This is a crime scene; you’re not allowed to enter. Exit the vehicle.” The deputy bent a little at the knees, placing his hand on top of his holstered pistol. Yak growled from the passenger floorboard. E.J. waved the dog quiet, then lifted his hat off the dash. He stepped from the truck, raising the dark beaver hat onto his head. The rain cooled off an otherwise warm spring day. “Hands on the vehicle, sir. Now.” The deputy drew a black polymer pistol from his hip, pointing it at E.J. E.J. looked at the gun then back to the deputy. E.J. carefully reached into his pocket to display a leather billfold. On one side was his company identification card, and the other was his driver’s license. “My name is E.J. Kane, Chief of Security for Devekon Energy. This here is our lease. You can’t exclude me. Now get me your crime scene log, so I can sign it and open your tape.” The deputy smiled, then pointed to a small black box on his chest. “Don’t use logs anymore, old-timer, all digital now.” E.J. saw the little red light and realized he was being recorded, a fact he should have assumed previously. Still, hadn’t even the transparent poncho blurred the recording in the misting rain? He thought about advising the young man to keep a pen and small notebook in his pocket under the poncho; then he remembered this was Berryhill’s department, Berryhill’s county. Noticing the deputy’s gear brought E.J.’s attention to the young man’s duty rig under the transparent poncho. He recognized the thick leather hand-tooled belt and holster as a ranger’s style sold through the Texas Department of Corrections and made by inmates, far too expensive for most young deputies. The deputy still hadn’t holstered the weapon. “Sir, I don’t care if you’re the Dalai Lama, you ain’t coming through here.” E.J. smiled. He didn’t need to examine the deputy’s sidearm to know it probably held three times the number of shells the old Colt Police revolver he wore in his early years or the current Sig 938 secreted in his own pocket. The deputy’s tone turned harsher, his demeanor stern, plus the Dalai Lama line was a pleasant touch. A big dumb looking lug using words like Dalai Lama. Had he been so ridiculous as a young deputy? When he was the deputy’s age, he would never have known such a term as Dalai Lama and probably still couldn’t spell it today. “Before I was an old-timer, pride wouldn’t have let me draw on an old man. Old Sheriff Wharton would have had my badge for a coward.” E.J. thought better of the remark as soon as it passed his lips. The petulant officer had tapped into a pet peeve. The boy’s attitude and demeanor were the perfect example of what he lambasted many times over coffee with retired officers. E.J. remembered a time when law enforcement wasn’t criminal justice in a college catalog. Once upon a time, someone had pinned a badge on a big lug because he looked intimidating and told him he was a peace officer. If such a young man were resilient enough to grey in the profession, then he pinned a badge on the next big fellow. Officers weren’t as well educated, professional, egalitarian, diverse, or as inclusive as the modern era, yet the ‘old-timers’ kept the peace in a time when the public wasn’t willing to pay for such niceties as training and education. As a commissioned law enforcement instructor, he knew modern was better; still, he couldn’t help but admire his mentors. For the old-timers, riot gear, body armor, and urban assault vehicles had all amounted to a police or trooper model revolver accompanied by a tin star thrown across a desk. He spanned both eras, having started as a big lug of a deputy himself before later graduating from the Texas Department of Public Safety Academy. He chuckled, realizing his mind still wandered aimlessly; this was the second time someone had pointed a gun at him today. “You aren’t hearing me, Pops.” The young deputy appeared beyond annoyed. There was no Tazer, no pepper spray, nothing less than lethal on the deputy’s duty rig. Snapped back to the moment, E.J. began searching for what was now being taught in the profession as de-escalation techniques when a familiar voice sliced through the tension— “Ranger Kane, God Bless America if it’s not a bona fide real-life oil company tycoon.” The dark complected man moved from the shadows between E.J. and the deputy. The gold FBI letters on his windbreaker and cap caught the light from E.J.’s headlights. He added while extending his hand, “Forgive the excessive patriotism. Got saved and gave up cussing.” E.J. extended a hand to his old friend, Hall Oglethorpe. “Not enough Jesus to save you. Won’t be no grace left for the rest of us poor sinners.” The young deputy slid his weapon back in the holster. “This is Ranger Kane?” “Son, this is him.” Hall lifted the crime scene tape. “I imagine if he doesn’t qualify to pass this tape, none of the rest of us do.” He turned back to E.J. “Grace is in infinite measure. It’s the sinner’s mind that’s limited.” With his back to the deputy, Hall gave a quick nod, telling E.J. he needed to move. The two were stepping down the lease road, leaving the deputy at the entrance. About a quarter mile ahead of them were several large portable banks of lights extending to the top of three poles anchored by their generators. Hall spoke under his breath. “We got to move quick. Eventually, he will call his dear old daddy. When B.B. shows up, you let me do the talking. He hates the Bureau, but he hates you more.” “I can handle B.B. Been doing it since we were kids. So that’s 'Son’.” E.J. referenced the nickname denoting Sheriff Berryhill’s son, recalling a child dragged around in his father’s shadow. The kid had never had a chance of being known by any moniker other than what his father always called him, ‘Son’. “Still, let me do the talking when B.B. gets here.” “No offense, but B.B. won’t respect a black man in authority.” Hall stopped whispering. “God Bless America, I saved your sweet land of liberty butt back there. You didn’t know I could speak ‘cracker’ when I needed to.” E.J. nodded, chuckling a little under his breath. “So, Son made a man?” “Depends on how you measure a man. A little jumpy. The kid is no coward. I saw him walk through a hail of bullets and clean out a meth cook. Like a Sunday picnic mixing Kool-Aid.” Hall smiled. “That part reminds me of you. Shoots like you, too.” “Fast.” “Faster than you. Where’s your gun, anyway?” E.J. decided there was no point in giving Hall information the man might have to deny later. Even trying to tell himself he was more accommodating his limited armament than lying to an old friend didn’t sit well, so he tried to sidestep the question. “Between the FBI and the DAs, I have about decided it’s a bad idea to carry one. Shoot an outlaw so mean, his momma can’t love him, and I get grilled for four hours by federal agents. Then I still have to go to a grand jury. After some shyster lawyer signs momma up, telling her I could have kicked the gun out of her baby’s hand like Walker Texas Ranger.” Both men knew the back story behind the detailed example and turned to walk in silence. The night air cooled, following the rain. The moon made a yellow crescent hanging far away in a black sky. Every quick-paced step crunched the gravel under their boots until Hall asked what E.J. already knew. After E.J. relayed the facts provided by the answering service employee, Hall began his narrative. “Chicago people by way of Houston. Man is an engineer at the new natural gas-powered electric plant. The woman is some kind of counselor, substance abuse, or kids or something. Man is the jogger, alternates between pasture and county road near every night.” “I take it he was running through pasture tonight.” Hall swung his arm past the direction they had walked, and E.J. saw the tiniest lights, which he took to be a house through distant woods. “So, he is running from the house, and then he crosses near the road we were just walking before he steps over the lid to one of those big tanks and a foot.” “A foot?” E.J. asked. “A foot,” Hall repeated. “Where is it?” “We got more. Over by the dehy is an arm and the torso and head are back near his truck. I expect his legs flew out in the pasture.” They passed a motte of trees nearing the well site, and E.J. could make out the shapes of a typical gas well location. Two large tanks were to the left. Something peeled off the top of one tank, twisting the remainder of the vessel. Along the back stood the dehydrator or dehy, while to the right was the wellhead or Christmas tree. E.J. saw the outline of the tanker truck past the tanks. “Who?” Hall opened the gate over the second cattle guard. “Who?” “Fellow who belonged to the foot?” They descended the short distance from the cattle guard to where the fenced perimeter of the well site made a square. From this vantage point, the generator and tall light station illuminated the entire square of gravel and gas production equipment. Hall answered, “Truck has WelCo Salt Water written on the door and a phone number. I called the number. The Martin number three wasn’t on their list for today, but they got a driver who didn’t check in, one Chester Arnold.” “Searched the truck yet?” Asked E.J. “No, I’m hoping to talk B.B. into letting me call the crime scene unit from a bigger department or let your rangers do it with their mobile unit.” “Not my rangers anymore. Where is Cooper?” Asked E.J. “Still about twenty miles away. Daughter playing volleyball.” “No reason to rush her. B.B. will likely run us all off, anyway. Is that torso and head you mentioned attached?” Asked E.J. Hall pointed toward the back of the well, leading the way. They reached a large diameter pipe rising from the dirt about three feet, running parallel to the ground before returning. There, trapped by the pipe, was the eerie looking human trunk with the head hanging on top of the pipe. Hall touched E.J.’s arm. E.J. stopped and kneeled, studying the corpse. A tattoo on the upper right chest read nineteenth and displayed something like a warrior with a spear and maybe a lightning bolt under a crescent moon. “Prison Ink?” Hall kneeled prior to answering. “Probably not, but he’s been in on a burglary.” “You run him, NCIC?” Asked E.J. “I got some identifiers from this WelCo. He got released over a decade ago, nothing since, bunch of drugs and thefts in the day,” said Hall. “Aryan Ink?” Hall smiled. “You know I teach the class in sovereign citizens.” “I thought it was some offshoot of AC or AB because of the lightning bolt,” said E.J. “Nephilim, like in the Bible. Lightning and the line is a marker for a mile.” Hall pointed toward the mark, which was slightly taller than the warrior figure depicted. “Nephilim? Not in the Baptist Bible,” E.J. said. “In all of them, right at the start. They’re some giants; some think the offspring between angels and mortals. Racist plenty all right and buy into the whole illegal annexation like the Republic of Texas and invalid confederate surrender, but their primary thing is God. Law of God types like God’s champions,” said Hall. “True sovereign power. Guess every cracker wants to be a cookie.” E.J. mirrored Hall’s grin. “You know we need to get into that truck.” “Let the experts do it,” said Hall. “Do Son and his buddies qualify as experts? Because we both know B.B. is not letting anyone else do it,” said E.J. They turned over their shoulders in unison, blinded by bright lights. A new black Tahoe sped toward them, stopping hard only feet away. The door swung open, besides the general badge like the other units, this one denoted Sheriff Benjamin Berryhill. An athletic man stepped around the door and fender. Hall rose while E.J. turned back to the tattoo. He saw better in the additional light cast by the headlamps. E.J. could make out the figure was wearing armor with the familiar lone star flag pattern across the chest. “Bless my soul, it’s the old pretender and Mr. Yankee affirmative action done graced my little crime scene,” said Sheriff B.B. CHAPTER THREE “SHERIFF B.B., YOU KNOW THE FBI INVESTIGATES ALLEgations of domestic terrorism. I’m only here to observe until I show terrorism is probable. It’s your show, sheriff.” Hall raised his hands, feigning surrender. B.B. closed the distance between the two men until his lips near touched Hall’s face. “Lightning ain’t terror. Besides, folks didn’t elect you, Mr. Affirmative Action, to protect them. They elected me. So, take your federolly ass back to Dallas and stop mucking up my scene.” “Sheriff, may God praise our great nation and pour his blessing out on you and your family. I need to call my superior.” Hall stepped back yet still stared at B.B. until B.B. made a little motion with his fingers, communicating his intent for Hall to run along. Hall turned and stepped away while placing his phone to his ear. E.J. didn’t plan on rising. Sheriff B.B. failed to appreciate personal space and mouthwash. E.J. yelled from his still crouched position. “This is Devekon property, at least the well site. You’ll have to get Rex Ashe to run me off. I know you got the number. You call him every four years begging for a dollar bill.” “You can’t bully me, pretender, the way you did my son.” Sheriff B.B. closed the distance to E.J. E.J. rose, still trying to avoid confronting Sheriff B.B. “The opposite, I tried to teach him a peace officer can back a bully down by using his head.” Sheriff B.B. stepped even closer. “Stay away from my son. You won’t betray him to the cartel like you did your own outfit, pretender.” E.J.’s index finger slid along the steel frame of the pistol in his pocket. The cool feel comforted him. He stepped back, distancing himself from B.B. There had been a time when his view of manhood wouldn’t permit him to step back. Rather, he would have inventoried his options. Maybe consider if the fool would have gone for his gun on him and whether he could draw. Better yet, could he lift his thigh, thumb down the safety, and hit the trigger without removing the pistol from his pocket. Be a stout powder burn, wouldn’t it? The passenger door of the Tahoe flew open. A well-dressed woman stepped out and slammed the door. Both men turned, but Sheriff B.B. spoke. “Widow, you can wait in the car. I’ll have this trespasser off the property straight away.” “I see that.” The corner of her mouth turned up as Sheriff B.B. looked back at E.J. E.J. produced his cell phone, pushing buttons until a ringing noise came over the speakerphone. “Who you calling?” Asked Sheriff B.B. “Rex Ashe, let you explain to him how I got run off his well site.” Sheriff B.B. grabbed the phone and canceled the call before handing it back to E.J. “You stay out of the way, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation and impersonating real police.” Sheriff B.B. walked toward the tanker truck. E.J. hoped Hall was watching what would likely be an amateur search of the cab. He wasn’t. From the faces he was making, it was clear Hall was arguing over the cell phone with someone. E.J. stepped toward the woman and then took another series of steps, mindlessly taking in the thick fragrance of vanilla and fresh flowers. She extended her hand for a handshake. “Ruth Welchel, but everyone calls me Widow Welchel.” “WelCo?” E.J. pointed toward the logo on the tanker truck door. “Didn’t expect a woman in the oilfield?” Widow Welchel asked. “Nothing of the kind, ma’am. I figured you wouldn’t want to see the body.” He couldn’t tell her the truth. There were plenty of women in the oilfield, but none smelled like lilacs and looked like her. There probably weren’t many women who looked like her outside of Hollywood. She stepped around E.J. “Not much left, is there?” “I’m sorry,” said E.J. “Why? You didn’t do it, did you, mister—” It occurred to him he hadn’t identified himself despite shaking her hand. How silly to get sidetracked by a pretty face? “E.J. Kane, chief of security for Devekon. Did you know him?” “We called him ‘Troll’. He preferred nights. Speed freak, I heard. The few times I spoke with him, he was tweaking,” she said. “You don’t drug test?” Asked E.J. “Sure, but I don’t do equipment checks, so I don’t know if it’s junk or a whizinator. We need drivers.” She looked down at Troll’s head slung unnaturally across the pipe. “Tweaker probably blew himself up.” E.J.’s shoulders twisted, rotating his neck. If Hall had said the same thing, then E.J. wouldn’t have looked up. The thought was sexist, and there was no place for it anymore. He wanted to look away, yet the shade of blue drew him. They must be contact lens. No one’s eyes could be so blue. “Am I a little cold for your taste?” She asked. “Not at all. Appreciate you telling it like it is, ma’am.” “Then this ma’am business needs to end. We’re about the same age,” said Widow Welchel. “I’m fifty-five,” E.J. said. “I’m not. Call me Widow like everybody else.” During the conversation, E.J. kept stealing glances at B.B. searching the truck, hoping to see what he recovered. So far, he noted the only item B.B. removed was a shotgun. “Suppose big Devekon is going to want me to pay to repair the tank and whatever else, or I lose my contract?” Widow said. “Likely an act of God anyway, lightning and all,” said E.J. “Arnold’s family will probably sue us all, act of God or not.” Her voice turned terse. “I’ll get somebody to notify the family.” E.J. stepped closer. “Can you help me figure something out? What was Arnold doing here if this well wasn’t on the route for salt water removal tonight?” “How about you take care of Devekon, and I’ll handle WelCo? I thought you were going to ask for my phone number.” Her tense posture eased. E.J. likewise relaxed. “I’ve never been the swiftest runner in the race.” She smirked at the comment and excused herself to make phone calls while E.J. continued to study the truck. E.J. thought the truck should have been connected to the salt water tank. If he hauls off salt water, then why wasn’t the truck connected to the tank. Could Arnold have been tweaking and blown himself up? E.J. heard kids hanging out and smoking on top of the tanks had ignited vapors off the condensate tank. He walked all around the tanks. They were in a poor state, and he didn’t have enough expertise to know what was distinguishable from lightning versus man-made causes. Sheriff B.B. stepped aside, returning to his Tahoe. E.J. suspected Cooper had arrived. Cooper was too professional and smart to take on Sheriff B.B. in a confrontation. A ranger learned how to work with all sheriffs. She knew which ones to talk about hunting and which sheriff to discuss kid’s baseball. It was like Cooper to be waiting at the gate for Sheriff B.B. to show her around. Let Sheriff B.B. be the big man while Cooper worked the case. This meant if he moved quickly, E.J. could get a peek in the truck. He did his best nonchalant beeline for the cab. These drivers spend their entire shift in the cab, so he expected it to be a mess. The interior surprised him. Everything neatly stowed. Arnold probably never even ate or drank in it. An empty cradle made E.J. conclude Arnold’s cell phone had been removed, whether by him or someone else. E.J. scoured the cab for a logbook. He decided he had done what Cooper called his twentieth-century thinking again. He had been too far behind the times. Arnold must have had everything on his phone, or there had been a laptop, and Sheriff B.B. had taken it. Then he saw the corner of a grey notebook under the seat. When he pulled the notebook, a black leather-bound Bible slid from behind it. He pushed the Bible back under the seat. He opened the grey notebook. An old school log book notating dates, times, and well numbers. The listings looked complete for the past several months. E.J. found no listing for the Martin number three. Why? Was Arnold doing something he wanted to be kept off the books, or had this been an unexpected change in an otherwise meticulous itinerary? E.J. felt someone on the truck steps behind him. Startled, he jumped straight up, hitting his head on the roof of the cab. Raucous laughter erupted behind him. “You jumped out of your skin. Must have thought your prayers had been answered. Old B.B. was goosin’ you.” Cooper came off the truck step, continuing her laughter. A red-faced E.J. popped back, “You gave me a start is all. You being so unnaturally ugly and all.” The quip referenced an inside joke. E.J. had mentored the young female trooper. The jabs were his way of bonding with her and encouraging their colleagues to ignore her attractiveness. She later told him she appreciated the backward way of drowning out the sexist comments of others. No one had been prouder when she made ranger, prouder when she informed him; she had earned his old spot. Even the taint of his reduced circumstance didn’t dampen his excitement. Cooper answered the unasked question in E.J.’s mind. “Sheriff B.B. ran to town to get burgers for the deputies out here. You know it’s always an election year.” “Where’s he sending the body?” Asked E.J. “Nacogdoches,” said Cooper. “The fellow cutting before he got licensed?” To E.J., the name denoted the city, the laboratory, and the pathologist. “They got rid of him a while back. Not saying it’s good, but it’s cheap and better than it was. You know I can’t make Sheriff B.B. use Dallas or Fort Worth,” Cooper said. E.J. tried to remember the name of the case where he first met ‘Nacogdoches’. Originally, the doctor impressed him by fixing the time of death to the minute and the last meal in its entirety. His opinion had changed when he witnessed the pathologist cross-examined or, more aptly, described as crucified. The torture ended with the doctor confessing he couldn’t tell the jury anything. “All a water haul anyway, don’t you figure?” Cooper stepped back, taking stock of the entire well site. “Where’s Hall?” asked E.J. “Sheriff B.B. run him off. Feds don’t want to fight over jurisdiction to a lightning strike,” said Cooper. E.J.’s phone buzzed. It occurred to him he should take pictures of the logbook. First, he read the text message. “Mr. Ashe will call in approx. 30 min. to discuss future changes.” “Something important?” Cooper asked. “I guess I wait a half hour to find out if I still have a job,” said E.J. “You even want to keep working for Devekon?” Cooper’s question alluded to one of their many discussions where E.J. had confessed he would as soon draw his pension and stay on the farm. E.J. paused before answering. He couldn’t tell her he wanted what he had lost, all of it. She would feel guilty for taking his position. However, the career was the least of what he wanted back. He wanted his son alive, marriage with Rebecca, a real relationship with his daughter, Sharla. Besides, it was too much to dream, too much to want. He lied. “I don’t know what I want, Cooper.”
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Loved it! 😍
With a rural East Texas setting and intriguing and intricate plot, White Gold hooked me with its hot action from the very first page.
For thirty years, E.J. Kane exemplified perfection in law enforcement. But when he loses a son to the war on terror in Afghanistan, both his marriage and his career as a Texas Ranger are crushed. Incapable of acknowledging his daughter’s drug addiction, she ends up sex trafficked. His last chance job as head of security at an energy company pulls him into the romantic clutches of a ruthless businesswoman known as Widow Welchel. She allies with a sovereign citizen group stealing casinghead gas, also known as white gold.
E.J.’s ex-wife’s skill as an attorney reveals his lover, Widow Welchel, murdered those in her path to take over the giant energy company. The killer offers her dark web trafficking connections to locate E.J.’s daughter, but her help comes at great cost. She exacts a crippling promise.
E.J. may save his daughter, yet keeping his word sacrifices the personal code which has driven every part of his life. Can he hold fast to ancient notions of honor while using twenty-first century technology to end the killing and restore his family?
White Gold hooked me from the very start, and I didn't want to put it down until the last page. First, the main character, E.J. Kane, seems like a regular guy dealing with extraordinary circumstances and handles himself well. His surrounding characters are an interesting and distinctive lot, and there are obviously backstories and prior histories between them and E.J. Some of these backstories are broadly hinted at but left unexplained. But for the most part, readers will get the gist of their relationships. However, I felt more could have been done to flesh out these details and characters.
E.J. is a former Texas Ranger, always an excellent choice in my mind, but he has been forced to retire under an investigative cloud, the circumstances of which are never fully explained. The reader knows that other rangers lost their lives, and E.J. was blamed. Although exonerated, local law enforcement still holds the incident against him. However, his former trainee, Cooper, and a close FBI colleague have his back. But that's not his only burden, his ex-wife blames him for their son's death in Afghanistan, and his college-age daughter is at a crisis point in her use of some very heavy drugs. E.J. is suffering and is very vulnerable, leaving him open to some of what happens in the book.
The plot dealing with oil production was fresh and intriguing. Who knew there could be that much interest in what could be seen as a waste product? Mixed with his personal problems, the involvement of a rural conservative political organization, and his friend and employer's legal struggle, the story has twists and turns upon twists and turns! I could have kept turning pages all day to find out where things were going if life had allowed it.
I thoroughly enjoyed the east Texas/Louisiana settings, ones not often used; I perked up each time E.J. hopped on Interstate 20. And except for mentions of Lufkin, Houston, and Shreveport, the action is operating in the middle of rural east nowhere. Being from the north-central Texas area myself, I love seeing this area highlighted.
With its dual focus on E.J.'s investigation and his ex-wife's courtroom drama, I recommend WHITE GOLD to readers who have enjoyed the Andy Carpenter series by David Rosenfelt. With its main character of "a certain age" and temperament and his old-school ways, as well as the rural east Texas setting, WHITE GOLD may please fans of Reavis Z. Wortham's Red River series. I hope this is the author's first book in a planned series; I will be first in line for more.
A final note: The book's text appearance is fabulous. The font used and page layout are attractive and easy to read. It just looks high quality.
Reviewed by
I love to read and hook up others with books that they might enjoy. I like genre fiction with a weakness for cozies, post-apocalyptic, dystopian, and westerns. My professional background is in law enforcement, fire, water, and environmental education. I have basset hounds and ham radio is a hobby.
For thirty years, E.J. Kane exemplified perfection in law enforcement. But when he loses a son to the war on terror in Afghanistan, both his marriage and his career as a Texas Ranger are crushed. Incapable of acknowledging his daughter’s drug addiction, she ends up sex trafficked. His last chance job as head of security at an energy company pulls him into the romantic clutches of a ruthless businesswoman known as Widow Welchel. She allies with a sovereign citizen group stealing casinghead gas, also known as white gold.
E.J.’s ex-wife’s skill as an attorney reveals his lover, Widow Welchel, murdered those in her path to take over the giant energy company. The killer offers her dark web trafficking connections to locate E.J.’s daughter, but her help comes at great cost. She exacts a crippling promise.
E.J. may save his daughter, yet keeping his word sacrifices the personal code which has driven every part of his life. Can he hold fast to ancient notions of honor while using twenty-first century technology to end the killing and restore his family?
About the author
Biography Micheal E. Jimerson lives with his wife, Mona, and son, David, on the family farm in East Texas. The privilege to serve as an elected prosecutor has provided an opportunity to witness the timeless values, faith, and courage of ordinary people facing down evil every day. view profile
Published on May 18, 2022
70000 words
Genre: Mystery & Crime
Reviewed by
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