Posse

By Jay Greenstein

Ted Blackwell has a problem. Unhappy with life in the big city he ran away, to train horses on Nowhere Ranch, his childhood home in rural Arizona. His plans for the future went no further than that. But the retiring lawman of that tiny hamlet said, “Offer the job to Blackwell, he’s the only one dumb enough to take it.” As it turned out, the man was right.

Now, as a result of saying yes to becoming the town’s one and only policeman, Ted has Joy, a profane fourteen-year-old runaway living in his house. As if that weren’t bad enough, he’s faced with a murder that no one believes happened; people are trying to force him off his ranch; someone used a stick of dynamite on his truck; people are dying and the body count is mounting. And now the governor wants to see him to either praise or lock him up—perhaps both.

Time is running out, danger is mounting, and the only help Ted has is in the form of three sisters, his posse. One seems to like him, another wants to drive him crazy, and the third is convinced that he’s an idiot. She may just be right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: May 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310346903

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

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Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

All rights reserved

Copyright 2014

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

As Falls an Angel

° ° ° °

Face it, Blackwell, you don’t know a damn thing about being a cop. If you weren’t the only one available when Jack got too sick to work, you’d still be looking for a job.

Ted shrugged and took a sip of Coke before turning away from his newly uniformed image in the bar’s mirror. He waved a hand in Martin Gable’s direction, saying, And your point is?

My point is that you ain’t fit for police work.

There were many ways to respond to that remark, but the one thing he couldn’t do was argue the point. He was unqualified for the job and everyone in town knew it. But, the job was his, and like it or not, would remain his until he either screwed up or quit, with the first being the more likely of the two.

Still, he had to answer, so he flipped a hand in Gable’s direction as he said, You’re still pissed because I drove in that run, aren’t you? Not waiting for an answer, he pushed his glass toward the bartender and headed for the door, and the police cruiser in the bar’s parking lot. Time to get to work.

Drove in? That ball was foul, and you damn well know it. If old man Curtis hadn’t been the worst Little League umpire in history...

Ted grinned and waved a hand as he pushed through the door and into the darkness.

The cool Arizona air brought a shiver as he unlocked the cruiser’s door and reached for his jacket. He slipped it on, then slid his slim frame into the driver’s seat. The desert air cooled quickly once the sun went down. It was probably in the fifties, and headed downward.

Keying the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot he headed for the Tanglewood Highway and his first night of police work. It was a surprise to learn that his primary duty was to help keep the town’s budget afloat by tapping into the income of the tourists passing through the area.

No, you don’t pull people over just for the hell of it, Sarah White-Deer explained. You stop honest-to-God speeders, and you stop enough of them to pay your salary and make payments on the cruiser...not to mention finance as much of the town’s budget, as you can.

He’d thought of arguing, but what could he say? Telling the mayor he’d see how it went also meant saying yes to the entire job, not just the part where he got to strut around wearing a uniform and looking important. And this went with the job. Sarah certainly should know. According to rumor, she’d been working for the township for more years than he’d been drawing breath.

He stopped just short of the highway and parked, lights off, at the start of the three-mile stretch of The Tanglewood Expressway that passed through the city limits and gave him jurisdiction. The moon was up, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he reflected that there wasn’t much to see, just empty wasteland dotted with leafless scrub and an occasional saguaro or barrel cactus.

In the distance, the town was picked out in pinpoints of light. The sight of it brought a chuckle. In daylight, the town was about as interesting as the wasteland that surrounded it. The only reason it existed was water, reachable from the surface—though that was dwindling. Current estimates gave the town only a decade or so. And that assumed there’d be few additions to the five hundred people who called the town home. Still, the water would probably outlast his stay in the area.

Traffic was light, and the few cars that passed did so at a reasonable speed. He watched the highway in the car’s mirror while he waited for the Clocker-Plus, his speed detection unit, to chirp an alert.

Was there anything here worth staying for? He could think of nothing. But where was the attraction to go elsewhere? Leaving town for a degree at Michigan State, while a good choice at eighteen, never provided the solution he hoped it would.

So, here I am, a liberal arts major, God’s gift to the advertising world, driving a police cruiser and living alone on Nowhere Ranch.

Looking back, a small-town upbringing gave an outlook that never quite fit with those of the big city crowd during the years there. But the changes made by living in the city seemed to have ruined him for small-town life, as well.

But, where do I go? If not Tucson or somewhere like it, and if not here, what’s left? Before he could reach any earth-shattering conclusions, the laser unit called for attention. Its threshold was set to eighty miles per hour and above, on the theory that he often drove just under that speed, himself. That probably made him the lousy cop Marty Gable thought him, but did it make sense to enforce a law he regularly broke, without beginning to follow it, himself?

But this car was doing ninety-seven, and as it flashed past he caught a quick view of a young face in the passenger seat. The teen had his arms raised and fisted, exulting in the car’s speed.

He put the cruiser into drive and nailed the accelerator, flicking on the warbler and flashers as he hit the asphalt. Those fools were trying to see how fast daddy’s car could go, and if they didn’t slow for the snake turns at Prospect Bluff they’d either run into the bluff wall or sail out over a drop of nearly a thousand feet before striking anything solid. There was a guardrail, but it wasn’t designed for that kind of impact. There were signs, too, dropping the speed limit to fifty-five and warning of back-to-back curves, but these kids were young and wouldn’t be looking for them.

The car surged forward, urged on by the biggest engine Ford provided, part of the highway cruiser package. Half a minute later he was traveling at better than one hundred miles per hour and gaining on them, hoping they’d have the good sense to pull over, because it didn’t look like he could force them to stop before they came to the snake turns, and they were only seconds away.

They must have noticed that he was gaining, though, because they slowed, then pulled off the highway and came to a stop. He did the same, and stopped behind them. He let them sit while he copied their make and license number to the pad mounted to the dash just over the radio unit. Then he moved the shift lever to park. Leaving the flashers running, he left the cruiser and walked toward the driver’s door of the other car. As he approached he studied the occupants in the light of his headlights. Two in the front seat: a blond boy driving, and a dark-haired boy in the passenger seat. The passenger was watching him approach and looked to be about fifteen. The driver, though still facing forward, appeared to be about the same age. The sandy hair of what appeared to be a girl’s head showed above the seatback, but that was all he could make out.

I don’t suppose you have a drivers license on you— That was as far as he got, because with a spray of dust from the spinning drive wheels the car lurched forward, accelerating until it was clear of him. Then, the front wheels abruptly turned, and with a smell of burning rubber, the car made a fast loop and headed back in the direction of Tucson, fishtailing until the tires found a solid bite on the road.

Cursing, he sprinted back toward the cruiser, but stopped. Following might be a bad idea. They were kids, probably under driving age. Chasing them would only put them at risk of a serious accident, and serve no purpose. The vehicle data was recorded, and the radio would be a far more effective chase tool than the cruiser.

Sliding into the driver’s seat he set the radio to tactical frequency seven, the dispatch channel for Millers Station, the next jurisdiction in the direction of Tucson, then keyed the mike.

Millers Station dispatch, this is Bellville. Do you read me? He hoped he was using the proper protocol, and made a mental note to head over to Millers Station and get to know the people there. They were his backup, and it might pay to be on good terms with them.

Go ahead Bellville, a female voice said. What can I do for you? She sounded assured and competent, reminding him of his own inexperience.

Do you have anyone currently on the Tanglewood? I have some kids heading in your direction at high speed. They ran when I flagged them down.

I think so. Go to tac nine and I’ll have him contact you directly. He switched the radio and waited.

About fifteen seconds later a male voice said, How about some details on your speeder, Bellville? You have Hobie Winston here, eastbound on the Tanglewood. I’m switching over to the other side, now.

Trying to at least sound like a policeman, he said, Thanks, Hobie, Ted Blackwell here. You have three kids, very young, headed your way in a tan late-model Caddie. I clocked them at ninety-seven. They stopped, but ran as I approached the car. I figured to call you rather than spook them by giving chase. I have the vehicle data if you need it.

No need. I have headlights, and a clock on them at one-oh-niner. I’ll get back to you in a minute.

While he waited, he turned the car and headed toward Millers Station. He had a few things to say to the driver of that car. Moments later, however, Hobie Winston’s voice came from the speaker, saying, We’re playing ping pong, Bellville. They responded to my flashers by heading back in your direction. I’d guess they’ll try to bypass you on the shoulder. Bad news, and apparently Hobie felt the same because he continued with, The way they were slithering around when they tried a fast U-turn I’d give even odds that they’ll lose it trying to do that. If they make it, though, you’ll lose them for sure when they hit the bluff. A hesitation, then, I’d go for a tire, Ted. At least they have a chance that way.

Thanks, Hobie. You’re probably right. If he didn’t stop them those kids were dead. I’ll let you know what happens.

Good luck.

After thanking the man he parked the cruiser diagonally across the road, then kicked on the flashers and strobes. Fully blocking the road would be a bad idea, because the kids would probably swerve onto the dirt to go around him if he did, and at the speed they were traveling the driver would likely lose control when he hit the powdery dust of the wasteland. Best to let them come straight down the highway and provide a stable target.

He exited the car and moved toward the hood, to lean down and brace himself against it for a more stable shooting platform. A glance behind showed the headlights of something large headed in his direction. He’d have to trust that it would stop because there were headlights ahead. Feeling terribly vulnerable he took a stance, aiming for the spot where he expected their left rear tire would be when they came in range. Flattening a front tire would be far dicier, and at that speed would probably cause the inexperienced driver to lose control.

But the approaching car wasn’t coming on fast enough to be the one he sought, and that was bad news. They’d see his lights and stop, or at least slow to a walk while they tried to understand what was happening, and that would force the kids to take the off-road route, or possibly rear-end that car.

Shit!

The car, a dark-colored sedan, slowed. Well behind them headlights appeared over the rise and within the cruiser, the radar chirped a warning. He waved the sedan past, but it continued to slow. The damn fool was going to stop and ask what was wrong. In any case, it was too late. The sedan blocked one lane and the cruiser sealed off the other. Even were the sedan to pull through now, there was no room for the oncoming caddie to pass it because of the truck approaching in the other lane. There were no options at all.

Muttering curses he sprinted for the roadway at the rear of the sedan, now almost stopped, belly-flopping into what he hoped was the track of the Caddy’s tires on the driver’s side. The thought occurred that he was screwing up a brand-new uniform—an expensive jacket, too—but he paid that no more heed than the pain his landing caused. Instead, he emptied the pistol, snapping off shots in quick succession, pausing only to re-target between shots. Then he rolled to his feet and got out of the way in case the car kept on coming.

For a moment it did just that, and had nearly reached the point where the driver would have to either slam on the brakes or swerve off the road, when it began to slew violently from side to side, the tires protesting vehemently against the abuse they were taking. The car was virtually out of control, but at least it was losing speed. With luck, it would miss both his cruiser and the sedan. Taking no chances, he turned to the sedan’s driver and shouted, Go, damn it! Get the hell out of here. He needn’t have bothered. The man must have seen the oncoming headlights because the car was already in motion—though it was unlikely that he could move clear in time.

Apparently, the Cadillac’s driver still had some influence on the car’s direction, because it abruptly lurched to the right and off the pavement, tires howling. There it continued to rotate, until it was fully sideways, throwing up a huge wake of dust. Abruptly though, its motion snapped to a halt as the leading set of wheels dug into the dirt, causing the passenger side of the car to lift nearly shoulder high, almost tipping the car onto its side. It teetered there for an instant before the wheels dropped back to the dirt with a grinding crash that said there was a great deal of damage being done to the car’s suspension.

Finally, silence and the taste of dust on the tongue.

He took a second to close his eyes and murmur a quick thank you to any higher power who might have intervened on behalf of the kids. Waiting a moment or two for the dust cloud to settle, he drove the cruiser out of the roadway, pulling onto the shoulder where his headlights would illuminate the Caddy. The hard part was over—he hoped.

Forcing himself back into policeman mode he left the car and took the time to wave the truck on, declining the trucker’s offer of help. Then he turned back to the cruiser and contacted Millers Station dispatch to let them know the kids were safe. For the moment, those kids could sit there thinking over their situation and the stupidity that got them into it, while he brought his emotions fully under control. Finally, he headed for the Caddy, where three pale faces were peering out of the windshield. He took his time. They’d run, and he’d been assuming they were just a bunch of kids out on a joyride in daddy’s car. That could be a mistake. With at least one flat tire, and a severely bent suspension system, they weren’t going to get far if they tried to run. Still, no telling what they had in the car in the way of weaponry. These days kindergartners were coming to school armed.

He was playing it by ear, but prudence seemed called for, so he stepped out of the direct illumination of his headlights and called, Stay in the car and get your hands in sight...all of you. When they complied, he called, You, in the driver’s seat. Take the keys out of the ignition and hold them out the window. When nothing happened, he snapped, Now, damn it. You’re already in trouble, don’t add resisting arrest to the list.

Someone inside the car said, Shit, my daddy’s going to nail my hide to the garage door. A moment later the engine died and a hand snaked through the driver’s window with the key-ring dangling. He stepped in and took it, then dropped it in his pocket. He used the flashlight to scan the car’s interior. Nothing on the seats other than a purse in the rear that he took to be the girl’s, too small to contain anything terribly lethal. She, in the harsh light of the flashlight, appeared to be fourteen, at best. Unlike the boys, she didn’t appear to be frightened. They were visibly quaking.

Without getting within reaching distance, he said, I don’t suppose you have a license? When the driver shook his head, he asked, How about a registration for the car?

Registration?

Something with your name, or your family’s name on it to show you didn’t steal the car?

It’s our car, officer. Hopefully, he added, I’m really sorry I ran away, but Daddy... He hung his head, and his voice had a note of resignation in it as he said, My father doesn’t know I have the car. He’s going to ground me...forever. His not having permission or a license wasn’t exactly a surprise.

So, do you have a name?

The boy looked, for a moment, as though he might supply a false name, but with a sigh of resignation said, Brad Zalkin, sir.

And how old are you, Mr. Zalkin?

... Fifteen, sir...but I’ll get my permit next month. And I already know how to drive. My father taught me.

Uh-huh. He hid a wry smile as he recorded the data on his pad. It seemed unlikely that the boy would be driving in the near future. He’d done something stupid, and then compounded it by trying to run away. Now he was having his first police experience.

As am I...from the police side of it. The thought came that he was basing his police technique on experience gained in his own brushes with the law. Again, hardly a recommendation for a career in law enforcement. Maybe get permission to sit in on police academy classes in Tucson?

He continued writing on the pad before reading the list back to the boy.

Well, Mr. Zalkin. You have two counts of speeding, each more than thirty miles over the limit. Next is driving without a license, failure to provide proof of ownership, fleeing to avoid arrest, and—

Is that last one a real charge? The interruption came from the girl. He met her eyes for a moment before deciding that were he to indulge in a staring contest in an attempt to intimidate her, he’d lose. Instead, he told her, Makes no never mind, honey. I’m all the law there is in Bellville, and if I say it’s real, it is. He very nearly laughed out loud as the other boy quietly muttered, Shit, we’re dead.

He continued gathering information on the kids. The driver’s parents were away for the weekend, but his older sister was home, and a call by cellphone brought a promise that she’d be out to pick up her brother within the hour. The other boy, Gabe Thomas, also provided a phone number, and his mother, too—after being assured the boy was okay—vowed to be there within the hour. The girl was another matter. She gave her name as Joy Meekin, and her place of origin as Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She refused to give a phone number, and claimed to be staying in the Thomas home. The young man corroborated her story, but based on his evasive eyes when he did so, he doubted the boy’s mother would agree.

But that was for when she arrived. For now, he locked the Caddy, hustled the kids into the back seat of the cruiser, and headed east, pulling onto the shoulder, close to the guard rail, at the start of the snake turns, right at the lip of the drop-off. He killed the headlights, then got out and opened the rear door, motioning the kids to follow to a spot in front of the car, clear of the roadway.

Sit for a spell and watch, he ordered, pointing to the guardrail. But mind that you don’t go over backward. It’s a long fall. The moon was on the wane, but high enough to illuminate the scene fairly well. Behind the rail lay a thousand-foot drop. Below, Prospect Basin stretched into the distance, pale and empty in the moonlight. Before them the bluff wall stretched upward, beginning a short distance beyond the road’s shoulder. Certainly, they could follow the lights of the passing cars as they swept through the first of the turns. After allowing their eyes to acclimatize to the dark he motioned in the direction of a passing car.

So, what do you think would’ve happened when you hit these turns at better than a hundred miles an hour?

Ahead, the highway curved sharply to the right, as it hugged the wall, halfway between the tabletop mesa and the floor of Prospect Basin. The road swept through nearly ninety degrees of turn before reversing its course and disappearing around the shoulder of the bluff. Had they managed to avoid the bluff wall, the odds favored their tumbling over the edge at the first switchback.

Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of passing cars, for perhaps half a minute, finally, the girl, said, You shot out our tires, didn’t you? I saw the flashes. He said nothing, and after a moment she added, I’m glad you’re a good shot.

After another moment the driver of the car said, I guess I have to...to thank you, too. I didn’t know this was... He trailed off, wiping his eyes with his jacket sleeve, apparently realizing just how close a brush with death he’d just had.

He ordered them back into the car, but the girl hung back and asked to speak with him, so he took her a few steps from the car, just out of earshot. Something about her didn’t track. She gave her age as fourteen, but dressed and acted older. It seemed probable that the joyride had been her idea.

Okay, what is it? he said, wanting to get this over with and be rid of them.

It’s like this, officer. I ran away from home. My mom’s dead, and I wasn’t going to live with my stepfather for one more day. I was tired of getting my brains fucked out every goddamned night by somebody whose dick smelled like piss. And if you send me back, I’ll be out of there again the minute his back is turned. Quiet intensity edged her words as she added, Bet on that.

He suppressed the comment of Shit, that came, instead saying, What about your real father?

She shrugged, expressively, with her hands, as she said, I got no idea of who he was and I doubt mom knew, neither. And Neil isn’t really my stepfather. He just makes me call him that. He was mom’s boyfriend when she overdosed, which is why I ended up with him. For all I know the bastard did it to get rid of her and take the house till the welfare people caught on. She blew through her lips like a horse before adding, Which will probably be never.

Before he could reply she leaned closer, her voice little more than a whisper as she said, "Look. You got nothing