This Chapter is dedicated to Mel (@bnlfan) and her sci-fi action story 'Flawed.' This is an outstanding piece of original writing that has its roots in the excesses and inadequacies of our present day society, where the basic occurrencies surrounding the plot are far too familiar through their prevalence. A powerful story. You really must read this one!
http://www.wattpad.com/story/4327248-flawed
* * *
The 'Cousins'
Chapter Eighty-One.
“ Ring, damn you, ring!” Judge Denman sat at his desk as twilight turned to dusk increasing the gloom in his unlighted chambers at Larksville courthouse. For more than an hour he had sat willing the telephone to ring and Flik Donovan to inform him he had completed his investigations with Gleitner and Mecklen. In particular he wanted to hear there was no sex scam involving High School students operating in Bamptonville.
“Get on the ‘phone Sheriff, Godammit!” Denman, in his impatience for information, poked the telephone with his finger as he spoke. The sheriff’s allegations had weighed heavily on the judge since their meeting earlier in the day. He had gone over their conversation several times since and each time came to the same conclusion; he should not have allowed Donovan to handle the situation by himself. That conclusion caused him to go over the facts again. The matter was fast becoming an obsession and overtaking his other considerations for his day. It bothered Denman that Donovan was playing a lone game, one that seemed to run counter to good law-enforcement practice. ‘Why are you handling it alone and not telling anybody your overall plan. Where’s your back-up? Why do you think Mecklen has the answers, why aren’t you tapping Gleitner’s phones- he’s the king-pin in all of this?’
The knowledge that the sheriff had gone outside of the law, and was using a rogue FBI agent to abuse his power brought the judge out in goose-bumps. Involuntarily he scratched his arms again, as if they itched badly before jabbing his arm forward to pick up the receiver and end his ordeal by calling the sheriff; only to drop the instrument back onto its rest for the tenth time. He sighed deeply, pushing back his chair, rubbing his jaw between his finger and thumb.
“Why should I call, he might have nothing to say yet? The wire-tap order had until noon tomorrow to run. I’ll give him till then. But why all this interest in Mitchell?”
The room was quite dark when the door burst open to admit the janitor whistling a popular tune off-key and switching on the overhead lights. Denman shielded his eyes against the sudden brightness with his hand, growling.
“What the hell do you mean bursting in on me like that?”
The whistling stopped instantly. The janitor stood surprised and petrified at the sight of the discomfited court officer, squirming in his chair. The janitor’s jaw dropped as apologies began to pour out of him between gulps for air.
“Beg...Beg pardon, your honour...I thought you were long gone Sir... no lights and all... It’s well after seven Sir...’
The judge grunted and scowled as he looked at his watch.
“Tempus fugit, ...time flies.”
“Yes Sir, shall I come back to clean your chambers Sir?”
“No, I’m all done here for one day.” The judge took a small bunch of keys on a silver chain from his waistcoat pocket and carefully locked his desk drawers.
The janitor stood to one side of the door as Denman picked up his briefcase and took his hat and coat from the stand, walking off along the corridor. “Good Night", he muttered without a backward glance.
“Good Night Your Honour.”
* * *
Harvey Denton sat alone in his office in the Town Hall long after he had heard the Town Hall clock strike the hour of seven. He fidgeted with his pipe-cleaning tool, rattling it between his finger and thumb on his desk blotter, creating two walls of tobacco and ash that he had spilled onto it from his pipe. The overfilled ash-tray bore testament to his confusion and discomfiture.
The prospect of Mitt Fawley staging a challenge against him at the forthcoming elections scared him. Fawley had threatened to oppose him at every past election he had fought. They had come to nothing and like everybody else he had considered the man’s candidature as no more than a joke, since he never completed the procedure to put himself forwards for election. This time it was different. Now that he had the Eastside unemployed rooting for him, Fawley seemed serious in his intent and that added to Denton’s unease and growing fear.
“And all because of that damned English pervert. Is this guy a saint or a damned devil? And I know what I think?”
He tossed his pipe-cleaning tool angrily onto his desk and watched it skid from the blotter across the polished oak onto the floor. He sat deep in thought, with his elbow on the desk, cradling his jaw on his fist and searched his brain for ideas for his best next move.
* * *
Chuck Armstrong was still in his office at the Community College an hour after the school secretary had left. He too was scared for his position after speaking to Sheriff Donovan following his interview with Jesse White that morning and the sanctions imposed on him; banning the boy keeping company with Mitchell.
Donovan had frightened him by saying his sanctions were both improper and actionable. He hoped Leon Druce had passed on his message to White that the ban was lifted and only said to frighten Jesse White. He did not want Greg Mitchell hearing about these sanctions, since by banning the boy’s association with him, they also worked against the man.
Armstrong kept a volume of his postage stamp collection in his office at the school to consult in moments of relaxation. It lay unopened on his desk and his fingers drummed on the hide binding to show his irritation and fear. “Damn the man! Why did his journey have to stop here?”
He had thought over his speech at this morning’s meeting with Jess time and again during the day and, like the judge, had ended each time with increased feelings of concern for himself. He closed his hand and tapped the volume heavily with his knuckle.
“I only want that boy to pay what he owes and keep my accounts clear and my reputation and that of the school unimpaired. Is that too much to ask? Am I to be constrained because of a man, one seen physically abusing the boy, has more money than me with which to pay for fancy lawyers?”
Armstrong recognised Greg as a man of action, one who would not hesitate going to law to redress his grievances if Jesse White told him of the restrictions placed upon him.
Armstrong slapped the book with the palm of his hand. The sharp crack sounded extra loud as it reverberated around the otherwise silent office, amplified by the stillness of the administration wing beyond the office doors.
“I need to get that debt paid before the end of the semester.”
Armstrong licked his tongue over the dryness of his teeth as thoughts of his predecessor’s downfall entered his head. Sloppy accounting had prematurely ended, what in other respects, had been a long and successful teaching career at the College.
Armstrong grasped a piece of copy paper lying on his desk, scrunching it into a tight ball before tossing it into his waste-basket.
“It’s not going to happen to me! Those college books will balance impeccably at the end of the year. White will pay his debt before then by hook or by crook.”
At all costs Armstrong wished to avoid a legal confrontation with Greg. His greatest hope lay in Leon Druce passing on his message before Greg learnt of the restrictions. ‘But what if Leon Druce had not passed on the message?’ A shudder passed along his spine with the thought. Armstrong no longer saw Jess as the ‘boy next door’ since Wes Chandler’s revelations and the boy’s own admittance to sleeping alongside Colonel Stuart on any number of occasions. White now kept bad company. Leon Druce was known as untrustworthy and a rough diamond who was believed to engage in doubtful sexual practices. ‘And White gave me thirty, crisp new dollar bills. Where did he get them? He can’t even afford to buy his own Coca-Cola.’ Armstrong pulled open his desk drawer to see the bright new notes he had taken from Jess and felt physically sick at the distasteful thought of the boy prostituting himself.
“It’s time I called that boy’s father and get him to take his son away from here.” The idea appealed to the Principal as the ideal solution to this potential mess.
Armstrong pushed back his chair and strode into the secretary’s office to fetch the student particulars register. He pushed aside the volume of stamps to drop the register on his desk and sat to find the telephone number of Mr. White forming the words he would use to ask him to remove his son; for his own protection. That would get him away from Mitchell and any threat of legal action against the College and himself; since it would now be the father preventing them meeting by taking his boy away, and not himself by sanction.
Armstrong paused with his finger running down the page as a conflicting thought came into his mind. ‘What about the debt?’ He paused to consider this for a few seconds before shrugging it off. ‘I’ll pay the outstanding $272 if I have to. It will be worth it to get rid of the boy and this problem.’
His finger found ‘Jesse White’ and ran along the row to read ‘Father- Arthur White, Lowfield Farm. Mittenwald...’
“Damn,” he shouted and stabbed the page viciously with his index finger when he saw a line had been drawn through the contact telephone number and the single word of explanation written in tiny letters in red ink, ‘disconnected’.
Armstrong pushed himself back into his chair, making it squeak in protest. His hand flew to his forehead while he thought of how best to overcome this difficulty. There was no swift way of contacting Mr. White senior today other than driving to Mittenwald, and that would take two or three hours. They would be abed when he arrived and Armstrong did not relish facing the boy’s parents in their own home and away from the comfortable security of his office. The next quickest means would be to mail the man. ‘The last post for today is long gone. The earliest a letter would arrive would be Monday mid-morning. Too late if Druce has not passed on my message and Mitchell finds out about my sanctions before then.’
Armstrong pulled out a large, flowered handkerchief from his inner coat pocket to wipe away the droplets of cold sweat beading his forehead and neck. His fear returned. No other solution suggested itself. Then he jumped upright in his chair with renewed optimism as he remembered that Flik Donovan promised to call him back. Donovan was now Armstrong’s best hope for ending his misery.
“Make the call Flik, make it now, damn you for being late.” The Principal sat in his chair wringing his hands together, his eyes misting with self-pity as they willed the phone to ring. “Flik will have the answers. He said do nothing until he called back. Come on Flik. Make the call! What are you doing man?”
* * *
With Tod Mecklen gone for good and Maisie gone for the day Flik Donovan sat at Tod’s old desk minding the Sheriff’s office, willing the hands of the clock to move more quickly to 7.30 pm. Officer Moon would come on duty for the night shift then and let him get away to continue his search for Felix Gleitner. He urgently needed to find the man and have a heart to heart exchange with him. Flik needed answers and reassurances that the Sheriff’s office was not compromised by anything Tod Mecklen had passed on. That was serious enough, but he needed to know and fast, if the rumour that Felix was operating a sex-scam using High school kids had any substance to it. Flik’s anxiety made him grind his teeth as he watched the clock. This could end his career before the next election and so it had to be kept quiet, in consequence, he could not arrest Gleitner. A wave of anger surged through his body and he jumped out of his seat, lifting his revolver from its holster; holding it by the barrel he made hammering motions in the air as he shouted.
“But there’s nothing stopping me battering out your teeth with the butt of my gun Felix if you try giving me any bullshit.”
His sudden outbreak seemed to calm the lawman. He holstered his gun and sat down to consider Felix’s interest in the White boy and this Englishman.
“Mitchell,” he mused aloud, “ things were so much quieter before you arrived.”
His musings stopped as Officer Moon burst into the room in a state of agitation.
“Hi Chief, what’s all this I’m hearing from Maisie in Ma Tooley’s about Tod Mecklen flittin’ to Canada?”
Moon heaved his night bag onto Maisie’s desk and turned to focus his attention on Flik, sat stern and impassive behind Tod’s desk.
Flik was pleased to see him as he could now get away to search for Gleitner, but knew he had to remain composed and spend a little time to offer an explanation before leaving. With a set and sombre face he brought Officer Moon up to date on the ‘official’ story he had concocted with Tod Mecklen before the man left for Canada. “Nothin’ else to tell yer Gus. I gotta go now, I’m on my cell phone if yer need me.”
Flik moved to leave by the back door to his office, but turned to call out to Moon. “ You didn’t see Felix Gleitner on your travels here t’night did yer?”
Moon pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘”Nah Chief, I came in by the Truck Stop where he usually hangs out, but it’s quiet t’night. Caint miss that big bus o’ his in a crowded car park, which it ain’t.”
Flik was in a hurry to get away and gunned his car as he left, making the tyres squeal. He decided to head for the Truck Stop as the best place to start looking for Felix. Even although Mecklen had warned him of a sting, Flik thought Gleitner would put in an appearance. He drove directly out of town on Main to the diner.
Had he gone by the longer way, through Charmain and Whitewater he would have seen Gleitner’s Buick parked outside the condo.