Powers Trace Ii: The Ice Age

By Don Bill

Book Summary

Get a glimpse of law enforcement in a small town in Powers Trace II. Set in a fictional town located among the farmlands in southern Georgia, the police force struggles to protect and serve with limited funds and second-hand equipment. Like police in most small towns, they get the job done working long hours for low pay.

The plague of illicit drugs is not unique to large cities. Small town USA is suffering from the affects of Speed, Methamphetamine, and ICE in an increasing spiral of addicts who will not, or cannot, seek the help they need to kick the addiction. This is the story. This is not the cure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 25, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465322012

Don Bill

I escaped from a small Kansas farm town, to serve 20 years as a pilot in the U.S. Air Force, living a life I dreamed of growing up. After the flying was over, I completed the MBA degree, and spent an unexciting career as a cost accountant in various manufacturing companies. Along the way, small sail boat racing became an obsession and we followed many fleets around courses throughout the Southeast. This led to two terms as the Commodore of the local sailing and yacht club. I now live with my wife in a small town in Georgia.

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Copyright © 2008 by Don Bill.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

EPILOGUE

Dedication

The life of a small town cop is difficult physically, mentally, and on the family. It takes dedication, perseverance, and guts to protect and serve the people who depend on them every day. These modern day warriors are there at all hours, blending into the background, until trouble comes calling. They will always be there for you. Respect them, you need them!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

No one writes, and publishes, a book alone. There were others who contributed to the word gathering, formatting, and printing of Powers Trace II. Without them there would be no book. Darlene McClain gave me her time to insure that the structure worked. Friends did the proof reading and made sure I knew where the typos were. Ethel, the ‘Chief Nit Picker’ eliminated the embarrassment of my many grammar faults and, of course, the people of Xlibris who did their usual efficient job, keeping the production going, and putting it all together.

Thank you, one, and all.

PROLOGUE

The television cameras filled the small entrance area at the Donalsonville court house. The crowd was milling around, rehashing the events of the day, complaining about not being able to get a seat in the court room when one of the Assistant District Attorneys stepped through the door and tried to pass. He was immediately surrounded by reporters shoving microphones or small hand held recorders in his face. He smiled and looked at the cameras. I don’t have anything for y’all now. The jury is still out, and it may be tomorrow morning before they arrive at a verdict.

Has the DA finished his closing remarks? a reporter asked.

Yes both sides have rested; there will be no more testimony. It’s up to the jury now.

The crowd of reporters parted and the young lawyer walked down the steps to a waiting car at the curb. The TV crews began closing down their equipment, the reporters started offering closing remarks for the six o’clock news, and the bystanders strolled off, leaving one reporter on the steps with his cameraman who was holding a small mini cam. The reporter walked over to an elderly gentleman in a brown suit. Excuse me Sir. May I ask you a few questions about what you think of the trial?

I think it’s gone on too damn long already. He said. Every piece of evidence points to this Sonderstrom so why the delay? He refused to testify in his own defense, wouldn’t take the stand, so obviously he did it and is ashamed.

Why are you here Sir? Are you a regular trial watcher? the reporter asked.

No I’m not. This is special to me. I want to see justice done.

What’s your name? Can we show this on TV tonight?

I don’t care what you do. My names Josh Monroe, I’m just a farmer, got a piece of ground south of here.

Why are you interested in this trial Josh?

That coward killed my brother’s son, my only nephew. He hit him with a jack handle and killed him dead. My brother can’t be here, he had a stroke, so I’m here for the family.

I’m sorry. Was your brother’s stroke caused by what happened?

Don’t know about that. How would you feel if some low-life SOB killed one of your kin? Josh said, his eyes filling with tears.

Another man walked up and took Josh by the arm, turning him away from the camera. He motioned for the reporter to end the interview saying That’s enough Keith. This has been a tough week for Josh and the Monroe family. Let’s let him be for now.

Keith Kent, the Powers Trace newspaper owner, signaled for the camera to stop taping. How about saying a few words Lew? The trial is over and I suppose the verdict will be announced shortly. Do you feel relieved now?

I have nothing more to say than what I said on the stand. I’m convinced that Patrick Sonderstrom is guilty, and I will be disappointed if the jury finds otherwise. Lew led Josh to his car in the side parking lot.

That was Lew Allison, the Police Chief of Powers Trace, who is one of the three individuals that Patrick Sonderstrom swore to kill, along with his father, and his former employer Bart Silk. Mr. Silk, the farm equipment dealer in Powers Trace, was shot to death and the gun was recovered when Chief Allison confronted Sonderstrom in the streets of the small town, ending the bloody saga. Circumstantial evidence pointed to Sonderstrom in the knife killing of Calvin Dobbs, a prominent real estate broker, but this killing was not brought forth in this trial.

The clock on the courtroom wall ticked past seven in the evening and most of those waiting for a verdict had retired to the diner around the corner from courthouse square. When the phone finally rang, advising that the jury was coming in, the reporters, police officials, and other interested parties scrambled for a place in the courtroom. After the jury entered, the bailiff said Rise as the judge came through the door and took his seat at the bench. Please. Be seated everyone. He turned to the panel of jurors and asked Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury have you reached a verdict?

Yes we have Sir. The Forman answered.

Will the defendant, please stand Patrick and his defense team stood. The bailiff went to the Forman then took the folded paper containing the verdict to the judge who read it. Please announce your verdict.

The Forman cleared his throat and said We find the defendant, Patrick Sonderstrom, guilty as charged

The judge then said So say you, so say you all?

The bailiff read each jurors name and waited for an answer. Everyone repeated Guilty making the verdict unanimous.

I thank the jurors for their diligence in this trial. I am aware of the burden a decision to take a life can be but, in this case, I have no doubt that the verdict is correct. You are excused with the thanks of the court. The Judge rose and left the courtroom.

Lew Allison watched Patrick throughout the trial and saw nothing on his face to indicate any emotion. After the verdict was announced the convicted murderer walked from the courtroom between two marshals who would transport him to prison to await the sentencing hearing and final resolution of this case.

CHAPTER 1

The night wind came in from the north, bitter cold but its February, and the last month of winter in Dixie. The fragrant smell of hickory fills the air as hardwood burns in fireplaces throughout the small town and families huddle together in their homes to stay warm. Powers Trace, a town of 1,200 people located in the southwest corner of Georgia, is ready to bed down for the night under the protection of their police force. Vern Post, the officer in the station monitoring the radios, is bundled up in his winter gear, trying to stay warm. The police station is undergoing major renovation, adding three new rooms, and expanding the jail. The contractors removed one wall and part of the roof last week, enclosing the open area with heavy plastic, which helped, but the heating system cannot cope with the low temperature and the chilling wind.

Bradley Masters, the other night duty officer, circled the Baptist church at the south end of Main Street in his Ford SUV and was heading back toward Town Hall when the silence was broken by his radio. PT 4 this is Base.

Go ahead Vern. Brad said.

I got a call from Jordan Cooper about a pair of kids breaking in old Mrs. Dyess front door and taking her hand bag. She screamed and Jordan, who lives in the house next door, went to help. He saw the two leave the front porch and head for the trees west of town. Where are you now Brad? Vern asked.

I’m south on Main heading into town. I’ll turn left and maybe cut them off.

I’m leaving the station on my way over to the Dyess house to get the details. Call me if you see anything or need backup. PT 2 out.

I copied all Vern. PT 4 out.

Vern Post is the number two man on the force, the gold shield detective under the Chief, and a veteran of twelve years in law enforcement. He will move up to his new job as the lead investigator when one of the new officers is qualified to take his place on night patrol. He checked his Glock side arm and made sure the gun locker was secure before leaving the station in the new Ford Crown Victoria, loaded with all the latest equipment. When he pulled up in the driveway of the Dyess house, he saw the damaged front door, knocked and went inside. Vern thought he would find the old woman in distress but the barrage of invective language caught him off guard. Annie, hold it a minute and tell me what happened. Did you know the kids?

Annie Dyess is 74 years old and has been a foster parent in Powers Trace for fifty of those years. She looked at Vern and tears came to her eyes. Yes, I knew them. One was one of my kids for three years when he was a baby. His names Randolph Jackson but everyone calls him Rimshot now. The other one is Dickie Thomas who lives in the next block, on Macon Street. He used to come over here to play with the foster kids. When you catch the two, bring them here to me. I still got a big belt, a strong right arm, and I’ll whup ’em good as ever.

Vern grinned realizing that she could. What did they take from you Annie?

They got my purse but that’s nothin’. I had a few dollars in it. I don’t care about that, but I need the insurance cards. You know, Medicare for the pills. What am I to do about my door? It’s cold in here.

Don’t fret about the door Ms. Annie. said Jordan. You come on over and stay with me tonight. I got a spare room since Emily died and the beds made up with clean bedclothes. I’ll fix the door come sunup. Be my pleasure. Pay me with a batch of biscuits in the mornin’. I’ll nail your door shut when you’re ready.

Vern looked around and made notes while Jordan got Annie up and moving. PT 4, 2 here.

Go ahead 2. Do you have names?

Yes, two boys. One is Rimshot. Sound familiar? I assumed he had calmed down. When’s the last time you saw him? Vern asked.

I worked with him in Pop Warner football last fall. He was talking straight and keeping cool. If he’s the one we want, I know where to find him.

He’s the one. Annie knew him and the other kid, Dickie Thomas. Where are you headed?

Brad said, I’m going to Rimshots house on west Elm. I’ll call if he turns up.

Rimshot, AKA Randy Jackson was sitting on an oil drum in his garage with Dickie Thomas. He threw the purse against the wall. That old woman doesn’t believe in banks. She always carries her money with her and there’s ten bucks here. The Social Security checks came three days ago, and she should have more than that.

She recognized you Rimshot. That knit cap is the one you always wear. She knows it was you. That old man next door, he seen us too. We’re in big trouble now. Dickie looked worried.

Not me. I’ll take off and go where no one will find me. I’ll go all the way to Atlanta and mix in with the crowds.

A loud voice came from the dark driveway. You’ll need more than ten bucks to survive in the city dumb head. A streetlight behind the voice flashed fire around the silhouette as the figure approached, growing larger, towering over the two boys. Did you think you could rip off Ms. Annie and not be recognized? You’re a real dumb head kid. Brad reached forward, grabbed Rimshot by the jacket, and lifted him in the air. I ought to break your face. I’m ashamed of you. Dickie, pick up that purse and come here.

With his fists full of both boys Brad carried them to his SUV and locked them in the back seat. If either of you thinks about taking a hike, Shultz there will eat you like a biscuit. Right Shultz? and the big German shepherd, sitting at the back of the SUV, cut loose with a loud bark sending the boys to the floorboards.

Get up punks. Sit there and keep your mouth shut. It’s late and I’m tired. Where’s your Mama Rimshot? Is she still in town?

She’s still here but I don’t see her much. She ain’t home tonight.

I know your father is around Dickie. I saw him yesterday.

He’s always around. Are you taking me home? said the young Dickie Thomas.

No sir. You will be booked at the police station and taken to the county lockup with the other thieves. Do you know what the penalty is for robbing old women? They’ll lock you away for a long time. The judge hates it when young hoods attack old folks. Brad explained.

But we’re fourteen. Rimshot said. They don’t lock up kids at county.

That’s the voice of experience punk. You’ve been before the judge once before and this is your second offense. He’ll lock you up this time, guaranteed. Brad said.

The back seat became quiet. The bravado ebbed and it began to sink in that maybe they were up against a big problem. As Brad pulled into the station parking lot Vern came out and opened the back door of the SUV, taking each boy by the arm he moved them into the station and put them in the interrogation room closing the door. Brad opened the back hatch, brought Shultz to heel, and went inside.

Safe, Shultz. Brad gave the command that takes the big dog out of duty mode, and he headed straight for his blanket under the front desk, curled up, and was soon sleeping.

What are you going to do now Brad? Vern asked.

I’m going to take them through the full routine. We’ll book them here and I’ll run them up to county lockup for the night. Give me an hour to get them processed before you call Dickies father. I doubt that you will be able to find Carrie Jackson. She could be sleeping anywhere. I’ll call the county now and have them go into their ‘Scare hell out of them’ show when we get there. It might work on Dickie but Rimshot is another matter. Brad said.

When Brad and the boys arrived at the county jail a deputy Sheriff came out of the side entrance with two sets of handcuffs, leg, and waist chains. He had them get out of the vehicle, one at a time, and locked on the restraints. The deputy pushed Rimshot toward the side door and into the facility. Dickie shuffled along behind. The two kids, segregated in different rooms, waited alone for over an hour with time to think before they were moved to a small cell, which was separate from the big holding cell and the older men across the hallway. One other boy with a large bruise on his face and a swollen lower lip was in the cell with them. Rimshot stood at the bars, staring across at the men who were looking back at him. The smell of sweat, and dirty bodies was strong, and he heard the sounds of someone vomiting. He turned away, feeling weak. He had to sit down before he fell down. Dickie was facing away from the scene in the big cell crying softly. It was going to be a long night, and he feared the morning when his father came for him.

Brad was watching the cell monitor screen in the control room. Rimshot and Dickie, taunted by the older men, were nervous. What’s the other youngster in for? The one with my two? he asked.

He put a knife in his old man after being beaten. The old guy will live, but I doubt that he’ll take a swing at the kid again. It’s not a unique story. We get many child abuse victims in here and the judge may feel the knife attack was justified. Our judges don’t care for kid beaters.

Brad nodded. That’s good to hear. What do you think will happen to my guys?

The fat boy will get remanded to his parents this time, since he has no priors. The other one, what do you call him, Rimshot? He could go to juvenile lock up for a month if no one steps forward on his behalf, but I assume he’ll get probation, the deputy said, eyeing Brad.

Don’t look at me. I’m a cop, not a social worker. I think he’s a good kid, down deep, but he wants to be the tough guy on the block. I know the drill. In my case, football turned me around. My first coach put the fear of Rockne in me, and he is now one of my treasured friends. It’s a story that happens a lot to kids in poor neighborhoods. He sure doesn’t get any support from what little family he has. He has no father, of course, the product of a one-night quickie. As you say, not a unique story but a shameful reality of life. If you have any answers, speak up. Brad said.

I see the results but don’t have much to offer to make it better. The judges are in a position to make a difference, but they don’t have the power to change the street and that’s where the changes have to be made.

What time will these guys go before the bench?

With the three kids the juvenile judge will get to them about nine.

I’ll hang around and see how it goes. Brad said.

I had you pegged as a sucker. Don’t get too involved. The deputy grinned.

Brad called the station. PT Base, 4 here.

Go ahead Brad. Vern answered.

I’m going to stay here until the kids go before the judge. Have you called Mr. Thomas?

Yes. I got him out of bed and asked him to come here first. I’ll try to explain what’s going on and maybe keep him calm before he sees the boy. Where will the hearing be?

It’s at the mid town courthouse sometime around nine. Tell Thomas to meet me there. I’ll try to keep Dickie out of harm’s way. Brad signed off.

Sophie, the veteran dispatcher, came in at six thirty bundled in a big, red, puffy down-filled parka. She looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy and had to turn sideways to get through the front door. Lew Allison, the police Chief, came around the desk to help before she crashed to the floor.

Where did you get that massive coat? No store in South Georgia would try to sell that, he said.

It’s mail order from L. L. Bean. I’m on the Internet now that we have cable. The coat didn’t look like it was this bulky on the model in the catalog. It’s warm though, bullet proof with all the padding. She tried to find some place to stow it and put it under the counter beside Shultz blanket. Have you started the coffee yet?

Are you kidding? said Lew. Everyone believes my coffee is toxic waste, and I’ll not be ridiculed anymore, you make it.

Vern came out of the small interrogation room. Brad’s up in Donalsonville. He took two fourteen year olds to the county lockup after they busted in Mrs. Dyess door and stole her purse. Rimshot is one of the boys and the other is Dickie Thomas. I called Mr. Thomas and had him come by here. He left for the courthouse an hour ago for the boy’s appearance at nine. Brad will stay with him and also represent Rimshot.

Lew asked, Did Mrs. Dyess lose anything?

No. Brad caught the boys with the purse, and I returned it to her a few hours ago. She was more concerned about the insurance cards than the money, ten bucks. Rimshot was one of her foster boys, and she won’t press charges. Brad will tell that to the judge, but he wants the court to give the kids a tough warning, maybe get through to Rimshot. A few hours next to the holding tank should get their attention.

Do you suppose Brad is getting involved too much here? Lew asked.

He could be. Brad coached Rimshot in Pop Warner football, and he says the boy has talent. I believe Brad sees himself there, a black kid with no family to speak of trying to be bigger than his age. Football turned Brad around or at least Coach Tarragon did. He thinks he has some influence. Vern said.

There’s nothing wrong with trying. I hope he doesn’t feel let down if the kid is past saving.

The construction crew arrived at seven and began banging, ripping, and sawing; creating enough noise to make conversation difficult. Lonny Ulrich, the boss of the crew, said they should have the wall finished today and the roof up by tomorrow. Lew pretended to write that down in his imaginary book and Lonny grinned as they walked outside.

Do you have an estimate on the completion date? I have some prospects coming in for interviews, and it would be nice to let them see where they will work, if hired. Lew needed to build a schedule.

A week of good weather and we’ll be able to start the interior. The jail is close to completion and the plumbers will finish in a day or two. After that, the electricians and network people will have the place to themselves. We have the wires and cables in the walls. Painting will take a day, maybe two. We will finish the end of next week.

Sounds as if you’re on schedule, and I appreciate the effort. We’ll get out of here and give you room to work. Lew said.

Rufe Weston, the day patrol officer, drove into the parking lot and Lew waved him toward Fred’s café. Sophie decided not to battle her way into the new parka and left it behind as the three went across the street for coffee and whatever. The temperature climbed into the upper forties as the sun came up. Vern signed out and was on his way home. Lew looked back toward the parking lot and asked Rufe Are you sure you want to stay with that truck? I had you budgeted for a new SUV, the same as Brads.

I’ll keep the truck Lew. It fits me better than worrying about putting a ding in a new fancy one. After the work Corey did on it, the new supercharged V8 and all, it’s a speeder catcher.

"Well maybe a new paint job, at least?

No. I enjoy the look of surprise when I pull a gear head over after a short chase. They won’t believe that old truck ran them down. Rufe said.

Rufe Weston, six foot two and two hundred pounds, is a seven-year veteran of police work. Lew hired him away from Americus, Georgia two years ago, convincing him that small town law enforcement was not as stressful as city work. Rufe agreed, being loose and easy going he fits in with the team and became the steady influence in many stress-filled situations.

The three took seats in a back booth. Do you have any pecan pie Mary Beth? Lew asked.

Of course we do. You ever been in a southern restaurant that didn’t? the waitress said.

Come to think of it no. Well maybe that pig and fish joint in Pensacola but you can’t call that a restaurant. Do you want pecan pie? Lew asked the other two and they both answered yes.

Bring the whole pie. Sophie said. We’ll handle it.

There goes the weight loss number. Rufe moaned. I’m not a turkey kinda guy; I need the BBQ ribs to get through the week.

Sophie has been on a weight-loss program for the past four months, and if she continues to drop five pounds each week, the team gets BBQ ribs on Wednesday afternoons. If she fails to lose, they eat turkey. Lew started the Wednesday BBQ rib dinner many years ago as a way to supplement their meager pay. Nobody remembers when it began, but it is a regular affair now and the team members look forward to it each week. Since Lew mandated the five-pound rule, Sophie missed twice. She was now down to 185 pounds, which is better than the 210 when she started. At 5' 8", she carries the weight well, her stamina has improved a lot, and she maintains a good pace when she takes Shultz out for his exercise.

You’re doing fine Sophie. Don’t let up now. Lew said. You will be lean and mean in no time.

Lewis Allison is fifty-eight and has been the Powers Trace Police Chief for over twenty years. His forty years in law enforcement began in the Army as an MP followed by an assignment as a CID investigator in Europe until his discharge when he signed on with the Atlanta Police Department. He worked in all major divisions and earned the gold badge as a detective at a young age. His career in Atlanta ended in the parking garage of police headquarters when he walked in on a black man during a car theft. Shot twice, he spent months in recovery and rehabilitation. He was not allowed to remain as a full time cop and headed south with Beverly, his wife, and after a year of loafing around in their lakeside home accepted the job as the Police Chief of Powers Trace. He has respect in the town, serves on the town council, and after the large money grant from a businessman killed last fall, became one of the three trustees of the town’s assets. Along with Gil Watson, the chair of the town council and owner of the bank, and Scotty Emerson, the Fire Chief, these three are obligated to bring the small town into the present. It is not an easy task.

Brad arrived back at the police station at noon. Dickie Thomas received the strong lecture from the judge and walked from the courtroom shaken. Rimshot got his lecture plus two years probation. Brad spent the morning with Rimshot, trying to convince him that he has to change his attitude and stay in school or he would end up in jail within a year. Reporting to his probation officer was part of his new life. The boy nodded his head in answer to Brad’s questions, but it was evident that nothing was sinking in. Rimshot would not survive if he stayed on the streets and a solution was needed that would provide a complete and total change in his lifestyle. Brad had an idea but for now, he was exhausted, and with Schultz at heel, he gave Sophie a See ya later and left for home.

Bradley Masters has been with the Powers Trace team for over a year. He served six years in the Army and spent two of those years on separate one-year tours in Iraq training their Military Police. That was enough separation from his wife Kate and soon-to-be four-year-old son Jeffrey. He wanted to spend time watching Jeffrey grow up, and he put in the papers for discharge two years ago.

Brad adopted Schultz, the three year old German shepherd, while serving in Iraq. The big dog failed the attack dog training school for not being aggressive enough and was about to be released from the program when Brad, along with a friend, a dog trainer, took over and retrained him. They changed the Attack command to Take Down while retaining the other commands that fit the profile of a K9 police dog. After adoption, Brad talked to a member of the 82nd Airborne Division who smuggled Shultz back to the States as one of their rescue dogs. Man and dog were now inseparable.

Brad grew up in Seminole county. He graduated from the University of Alabama with a major in English and competed with the debate team for three years. He played tight end all four years for the Tide and was recruited by a number of NFL scouts but after seeing the damage of Pro football on old, retired linemen at the tryout camps he walked away preferring to live a good life than have a few good years playing football for money. He is heavier now but at 6' 5", he’s still in shape.

He approached Lew with the idea of hiring a black man to appease the equal opportunity crowd and, with his military police background, was what Lew wanted. He hired Brad without much opposition from the town council. He fits in well with the other members of the team and works nights with Vern, the experienced teacher who brought Brad up to speed on the law and explained the requirements for dealing with civilians in Georgia.

CHAPTER 2

The construction work on the station progressed on schedule. The new south wall was up, the windows were installed, and the roof was in place. The cold snap ended as temperatures approached seventy degrees during the day, and it was now comfortable in the station at night. Brad and Vern returned to their normal night shift routine while Schultz slept on his blanket. On this night, Vern was in the Crown Vic driving toward the Sweet Auburn Club, patronized by blacks. Entering the parking lot at midnight, he started the circle around the right side of the building counting cars as part of his usual procedure. Seeing nothing unusual he left the lot and headed for the Bottom End. If Powers Trace has a skid row, this was it. The houses are years past prime with patched up roofs, peeling paint or broken siding. On a warm night, as this was, you would see the homeless sleeping on the street or in doorways but not in the Bottom. The Enders, as they called themselves, took care of their own, and although they didn’t have much they did have compassion for those even less fortunate. The three large two-story brick buildings left over from the cannery days were shells with broken windows and doors but one large room, boarded up, provided a place to sleep as a last resort.

The Bottom End is not a trouble-free zone. It has its share of alcoholics, drug addicts, and mental misfits but the leaders of the community, the top three or four big men, controlled the street and maintained the peace. They have their rules and anyone breaking the rules is gone, no questions asked. The biggest of the big men is Rafer Chacon. He is big as well as respected for his fairness and compassion. He is a light-skinned black man who turns up at civil rights demonstrations throughout the south and leads marches in the cause of those mistreated by the police or the law. Rafer is the exception to the usual perception of the black leader. He avoids the media spotlight and, unlike others, does not jump in front of every TV camera that comes along. He is outspoken and has spent time in jail as a result. His street cred is high but in the right way. He has no felonies on his record.

Vern cruised through the Bottom End, searching for Rafer. He has worked with Rafer and the others for a number of years. Each side knew that Vern is the police, and they were subject to the law, but they also knew that Vern is a good man and would help if they needed support. Each maintained a position on their own side of that imaginary line, but they work together when necessary.

After two trips through the neighborhood without finding Chacon, Vern headed back to the station. The night sky was total blackness with no moon, and as he drove past the Sweet, he saw a giant flash of orange and white light before he heard the loud explosion. The flames were visible above the trees to his left, near the center of town, and he sped to the corner, turned, and called the base station.

PT base, 2 here.

Go 2.

Brad, there’s been a big explosion over near Maple Street. Get the fire trucks on the road. The fireball is huge. It must have been a gas leak. I see it up ahead now. The whole house is in flames, mostly in the back.

I copied Vern. The trucks are leaving now. Do you need help?

Stay by the radio Brad. I don’t think there’s much we can do. The firemen will have to handle this. Vern slowed as he approached the house, driving up on the sidewalk to leave room for the fire trucks. He ran toward the back of the house and heard a woman screaming. He cringed, knowing the screams were coming from inside the burning house. He had no way to get in at the back, the flames were consuming everything. He ran around to the front but the porch was burning, blocking the door. A large picture window blew out, showering the front yard with glass. It was a two-story structure and the fire was heaviest on the bottom floor but eating its way to the roof of the second story. He looked up as a top floor window shattered and saw someone appear, on fire, falling through the flames from the second floor. The body hit the ground and Vern rushed over, threw himself on the victim, and thrashed at the flames with both arms. His hands were hurting bad when a heavy stream of water from a fire hose knocked him over. A firefighter ran up and smothered the flames on his chest with a heavy coat while another firefighter covered the victim. The smell of burning flesh was horrible and Vern was getting nauseous. A rescue team EMT grabbed Vern by the arms, pulled him away from the burning house, helped him to his feet, and led him to their truck. His heavy winter jacket saved his arms and upper body from severe burns but his hands were hurting. He felt the heat from his face and neck as the Emergency Med Tech started smearing greasy stuff on his burns and wrapped his hands with gauze.

That will hold you until you get to the hospital. Are you hurt anywhere else?

I don’t suppose so. Did you get a look at the victim? Did you know her? Vern asked.

Sorry. Don’t think about it, you did your best. No one could have done anything to save her in that fire box.

Scotty Emerson, the fire chief came over. How do you feel Vern? Can you walk? I want you to get to the hospital with those hands. The sooner they get on them the sooner you will cure up. Rufe is here and will drive you to Donalsonville if you’re ready.

It’s the hands Chief. I’ll go with Rufe. Where is he?

He’s bringing your car over. You go ahead now.

Rufe helped Vern into the car, and they drove off. Lew arrived a few minutes later and came over to Scotty. What do you know? Are there any obvious indicators yet?

"I know