Valley Of Deception

Valley of Deception - Chapter 1

by T.H. Michael
327026
descriptionPresent day United States Marshal Jake Mathews has fled to his farm, in Northeast Iowa, to regroup after a tragic event. All he wants is a little peace and quiet to think things over. No drama, no suspense and no violence. Jake believes there is one indisputable truth in the world. No good deed will go unpunished.

Tucked away in the woods of northeast Iowa, Zebadiah Caldwell's family has led a community of followers for the last 100 years. Marshal Mathews has stumbled onto a secret that could jeopardize their way of life. How far is Zebadiah willing to go to preserve his community and their way ...more tagsaction-thriller, adventure-thriller, crime-thriller, suspense, u-s-marshals
genre Mystery & Thrillers

stats Published on 2013-02-11

Chapter 1
Chapter 1   —   Updated Feb 15, 2013   —   23,918 characters

Sirens could be heard coming from every direction. It was too late now for the law enforcement officers, but ambulances were needed, as many as they could send. Twenty minutes earlier, life had been drastically different and a lot less bloody.
***

The black SUV, with heavily tinted windows, pulled into the local police lot. Shifting the vehicle into park, Jake leaned back into his leather seat. The drive had been long and boring. He'd, seemingly, past the same Iowa corn field over and over for the past three hours. But now he was here. The arrest would take place soon and the adrenaline would flow. Until that time he needed something to wake him up.
Opening the door and reaching up he grabbed the frame of the door and pull his 6'4" frame to a standing position. Taking a step away, he bent at the waist, letting his hands hang free, trying to touch his black paramilitary boots. His khaki pants rode up slightly exposing the handle of a knife. Handcuffs and keys jingled as he gently bounced trying to stretch those last few inches to touch his feet, never quite making it.
His partners, Chris and Bill, pulled into the lot.
The expected adrenaline pump would soon kick in; it always did when they were going to make an arrest. He'd made a promise to his wife Lora--if that adrenaline rush ever stopped, he would quit. Because no adrenaline meant he was getting complacent and every cops knows complacency killed.
He pushed the button on his remote, a soft 'thunk' indicated the lock to the back window had been released. His boots scraped the asphalt as he walked around to the back and lifted the rear window. Reaching inside, he unlatched the tailgate and lowered it to create a surface on which he could set out his gear.
Last night had yielded little sleep for Jake. He laid in bed going over all the scenarios that might present themselves, and planning his response to each. Knowing he could never cover every contingency didn't stop him from trying. As the supervisor for the Northern District of Iowa, U.S. Marshal's Office, it was his responsibility to think of these things. His men counted on him to anticipate problems and head them off. He excelled at that part of the job, if he did say so himself.
The worrying was usually for nothing, as most arrests went off without a hitch. Hell, he'd even had people walk out of their houses and give themselves up. When that happened it was, usually, because they had accepted their fate and didn't want to make a scene in front of their families. When this happened Jake always tried to be respectful. He didn't believe you had to be an ass to be a good cop. You treat people with respect and, sometimes, they treated you the same way. So far that philosophy had served him well.
A uniformed local police officer came out of the station and walked over to Chris and Bill.
"Jake Mathews?" he asked, approaching the deputy closest to him.
"Hey, I don't even know you and you're insulting me!" Bill was the oldest deputy, and many people assumed that he was in charge because of that.
"I di..I didn't mean."
Bill laughed and extended his hand. "Just a little early morning humor, officer. The guy you're looking for is that tall, kind of sleepy looking person standing over there." He pointed to Jake, who was struggling to pull his bullet resistant vest on over his head.
"Sorry about that, officer," said Jake adjusting the straps on his vest. "We keep trying to leave him behind, but he always shows up, like some lost dog." He extended his hand. "Jake Mathews with the Marshals office."
"Nice to meet you. Tommy Samuels. The chief told me I'd be joining you this morning." He wasn't sure if they were making fun of him or not. He'd heard plenty of stories about working with the Feds, but the marshals were suppose to be okay.
Using his peripheral vision, Jake looked Tommy over. Tommy was standing straight and tall, fidgeting with his hands. Jake was accustomed to this, as small town cops didn't work with the feds very often. Locals usually reacted in one of two ways. Either overly anxious, ready to please, to do anything to show they are just as good as the Feds, or the opposite, acting cool reserved and unimpressed like it was a chore or punishment to be assigned. Tommy fell into the first category; he would have to keep an eye on him.
"Well, we're happy to have you, Tommy. Always nice to have someone who knows the area. Why don't you pull your squad car over and gear up. We'll brief in five minutes." Jake thought he saw him start a salute and then thought better of it. Tommy half jogged, half walked over to his squad car. Jake smiled to himself. It was nice to see the next generation come up. It didn't seem all that long ago that he had been a new officer like Tommy, but it had been almost twenty-seven years now. He shook his head thinking back to the start of his career; the travel, the weeks away from the family, the late nights and weekends. Would he do it again, knowing what he knew now? He wasn't sure. He had no regrets about the path his life had taken, but would he do it all over again?
Tommy pulled his squad car over to where Jake was parked. Low visibility emergency lights sat on the top of the car. The logo on the side showed a picture of a badge with the motto "To serve and protect". His vehicle happened to be brown. Jake always wondered how each department chose their colors. As far as he could tell there was no pattern. He'd seen white, brown, black, even some reds and blues in varying shades. Not like the county sheriff cars, they were all uniform throughout the state; white with a green stripe running the length of the car on each side.
Tommy got out of his vehicle and made his way to the trunk, which already stood open. His excitement was obvious. By looking anywhere but at the marshals he showed how hard he was trying to hide it. The team could spot little things like that. The deputies glanced at each other and hid a smile. Most of them had been in Tommy's shoes at some point, starting off in small departments and working their way up to the Feds. They weren't laughing at him; they were remembering.
"Listen up," Jake said. "This is officer Tommy Samuels. He's going to be joining us today."
Tommy nodded to the deputies; Chris and Bill nodded back as they continued to put their gear on. Generally speaking they didn't like locals coming with them. It was nothing personal; they just felt more comfortable with people they'd trained with -- each other. They didn't like that unknown quantity being thrown into the equation. Would Tommy be a wild card, trying to impress them, doing something stupid? Or would he be timid, not wanting to mess up their thing, to the point where they couldn't count on him? They never knew.
"We are here today because we have an arrest warrant for Jared Bettner. As I'm sure you all remember, Mister Bettner was arrested by the DEA, Drug Enforcement Agency, on charges of manufacturing methamphetamine. He managed to stay out of trouble for a full three weeks, before he dropped a positive urinalysis. His probation officer filed a report with the courts last week, and first thing Monday morning we got the warrant." This information was known by his deputies, but Jake wanted to make sure that Tommy was on the same page for safety's sake.
"Mister Bettner lives a couple miles from here, in the country, on a small rented acreage. Tommy here was in on the original arrest with the DEA. He knows the lay-out, so I'm going to turn it over to him."
Tommy stepped forward, looking at his shoes, running his fingers through his hair. He had been on the original arrest team; that part was true. What Jake had not mentioned is he'd been assigned to traffic, making sure no one came down the road to the house until the site was under control. But he did know the lay-out of the acreage; he'd driven by it almost every night since the arrest. After all there was little else to do in town, except hassle the kids when they stayed out too late at night.
He began slowly: "The house is a two-story, fairly old. There's a barn with a loft off to your right as you pull in. Bettner is doing most of his cooking there, we think." He really had no idea if that was true or not. His Chief had been talking on the phone earlier in the week and he was just repeating the information he'd overheard. "There are always people hanging around out there but, technically, no one else is supposed to be living with Bettner. The activity usually doesn't pick up until later in the afternoon. As a matter of fact, they probably just went to sleep a few hours ago, if they follow their usual pattern."
Tommy smiled. The Fed's were listening to him. Hell, half the time his own chief ignored him when he tried to report something. "During the original raid, all of the weapons were taken out of the house. But, as you guys know, that means nothing." Tommy looked over at Jake. "That's about it, unless you have some questions."
Jake looked at the other deputies. They shook their heads, no.
"Alright, here are your assignments," Jake said. "Chris, when we get there you cover the barn. Bill, you're with me. We go to the kitchen door. Tommy, you go around to the back of the house and make sure no one tries to escape that way. Any questions?"
Jake glanced around the circle that had formed. Hearing nothing, they were ready to move. "I'll go in first, followed by Bill and Chris's car and Tommy will bring up the rear."
He could see the disappointment on Tommy's face. "Make sure your squad car is in plain view before you cover the back. We don't want Bettner claiming he didn't know it was us and thought he was being ripped off."
It was a legitimate concern. It wasn't all that uncommon for a rival drug dealer to try and rip off his competition. If the police weren't careful they could easily walk into a misunderstanding.
Jake thought of all of the cop shows on TV. People were always asking him why the cops had to yell and scream all the time. The reason was to avoid confusion and misunderstandings. They wanted the bad guy to know who they were; that they weren't a rival gang. That's why they wore the raid jackets with the word POLICE plaster all over it in bold letters. If the shit-bag later claimed he didn't know who he was shooting at, well even the most liberal or nutty judge wouldn't buy the claim.
The drive to Bettner's house was a couple of miles from their location, about a mile outside of the city limits. Technically, Tommy did not have jurisdiction, but exceptions were routinely made. Especially, when working with a U.S. Marshal, who has authority anywhere in the United States or its territories.
The town was typical of most small towns in Iowa. A central road, aptly named Main Street, ran down the middle of it. A post office, several bars and a convenience store taking up a majority of the space. To the north and south were houses that made up the rest of the population.
As they drove down Main Street the locals were already up and at the convenience store for their morning coffee. They stared and pointed at the small convoy. This was big news for a little town, and within minutes everyone would know. But, Jake wasn't worried. Bettner's acreage was just a few blocks away and he would know soon enough.
As they neared the house, all looked quiet. No one was outside, no lights on in the house. Jake noticed that the cars, park haphazardly in the lawn, had frost on the windshields, they'd been there a while.
The white house, at least he thought it was once white, was weather worn and in desperate need of a new coat of paint. It was funny the things a person noticed under stress.
The barn was in similar disrepair. Doors were missing leaving gaping black holes while others were hanging askew, missing one of the hinges. Several planks were gone and the ones that remained were starting to take on a rotted look. Several of the window panes were either missing or half broken out. The wind was blowing hard, an old curtain was flapping from one of the barn's broken windows.
To the north of the barn were rusted out old cars that had vegetation growing up inside the frames. An old swing set, without any swings, sat next to the house. It looked as if it had seen many Iowa winters and was now just something to mow around. All looked quiet. Jake was happy.
Jake knew appearances could be deceiving and it was still best to go in hard. He accelerated into the driveway, his engine roared with the effort, the back tires spitting gravel, hitting the cars behind him. Fifty feet in he slammed on the brakes and came to a stop near the door he was to cover. He glanced at a window that, probably, opened into the kitchen and saw nothing. He was happy, they had surprised him; that was half the battle.
Jake jumped out of the car and immediately ran to his door, slamming his body flat against the siding. Bill joined him taking the opposite side. Tommy made his way to the back of the house.
Chris, the youngest of the group, but maybe the best trained having been through sniper training in the military and SOG, Special Operations Group for the Marshals, took up his position behind the front of his vehicle to cover the barn door.
Jake looked at Bill, who nodded his readiness, and pounded on the door. "United States Marshals," he announced. "We have a warrant for your arrest, Bettner. Open up." The likelihood was that Bettner was lying in bed sleeping off a high, dead to the world. The law allowed law enforcement to enter a wanted person's house if there was reason to believe he or she was inside. The Marshals played fast and loose with that interpretation; all cops did. Jake pounded again, this time almost breaking the glass. He heard nothing from inside the house.
"Bill, take a peek in that window!" whispered Jake. As counter-intuitive as looking into a window may sound it had to be done. It was worth the risk to know what you were getting into. Bill was experienced; he knew how to do it. He peeked, quickly, around the edge of the window, letting his mind take a picture that he would let develop as he ducked back to safety. The picture that was developing was not a pretty one.
Bill's eye's grew big and his mouth opened. Rounds from an automatic rifle tore through the walls of the house, ripping into Bill. Most people falsely believed a wall is protection from gunfire. That's not always the case. It was better than nothing, but bullets from a high-power gun could treat it like paper.
Chris turned to the house at the first shot. His first instinct was to return fire and pin down whoever was firing. But without knowing who else was in the house he couldn't. A high pitched, hysterical laughter pierced the air.
"Fuck you, if you think I'm going back to prison," screamed Bettner, firing another salvo of rounds through the wall. "You assholes shouldn't have stopped at the police station to get your gear on. I got a call!" Bettner's voice sounds like an eagle that was screeching when mad. He fired again, laughing as the outside wall splintered with each round that passed through.
The door to the hayloft in the barn swung open. A man dressed in a Vietnam era green army jacket raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. Chris, still paying attention to the scene in the house didn't see the man until it was too late. A bullet ripped through his left shoulder, spinning him around. The man in the barn fired two more shots but they were wild and wide of their mark. Chris rolled towards the back of his car, crawling behind the rear tire hugging it for cover. He cried out in pain.
Jake didn't move for a moment when the first shots were fired. They say things move in slow motion when a life or death situation takes place. Jake wasn't sure that it was slow motion as much as instinct and subconscious thought taking over. He grabbed Bill by his bullet resistant vest pulling him through the gravel to his car, keeping his weapon trained on the door of the farmhouse. When the shots from the barn thundered out he swung his weapon around and snapped off two quick shots. He knew he probably wouldn't hit anything, but he wanted the shooter to have something to worry about. With the two men having them in a cross fire he was in a no-win situation as far as cover went. Dragging Bill he moved to the back of the vehicle, making the angle as severe as he could for the two shooters. He called out to Chris.
"How you doing? Is it bad?"
"My left shoulder is destroyed. Most of the bones are broken and I'm bleeding pretty bad." He screamed through clenched teeth. "How's Bill?" It was like Chris to wonder about his partner no matter how bad his own wounds were.
"He's breathing, but unconscious. He's hit bad, in several places. I have to get him out of here, fast, and to a hospital."
Shots and hysterical laughter emanated from the house and barn. "Get the motherfuckers, man!" Bettner screamed to his partner. Shots sprayed the cars they were hiding behind.
"Shoot the shit outta 'em," yelled back the man from the barn as he pulled the trigger and emptied his gun. He let out a war whoop, like athletes do at a game when they are celebrating.
Jake took a quick look over the roof of his SUV. He had to do something, they couldn't hold out long. He saw the man in the hayloft was fighting his gun, trying to reload. He either didn't know what he was doing or had a malfunction that he was trying to fix. Jake drew his sidearm and took careful aim. It was a long shot with a handgun; hell, it was a long shot with a rifle, but he had to try. He started to squeeze the trigger and waited for the surprise of the bullet leaving the barrel, what every good marksman wanted. He jumped as shots rang out from his left. He was confused for a second as the shots had a slightly different sound to them than the ones fired moments earlier by Bettner. Was there a third shooter? He turned back to the man in the hayloft, but he was gone. Damn, he'd missed his chance. He slid back down behind the car.
A voice reverberated throughout the farm yard. "I got him! I got him, Marshal!" It was Tommy. Jake had forgotten about him.
"What are you doing, Tommy? Stay behind cover!" Jake yelled back, but it was too late. Tommy was in the middle of the yard for all to see.
"I got him, I got the guy in the hayloft!" Tommy was staring at the body on the ground directly below the hayloft. So it hadn't been a third shooter, it had been Tommy's gun.
"I did it, I shot him," mumbled Tommy as he dropped his weapon. "I've killed a man."
"Tommy!" Jake screamed as loudly as he could, desperation in his voice. "Take cover, for Christ's sake! Bettner's in the house." Tommy turned slowly blinking his eyes rapidly. Bettner was standing in the doorway aiming his rifle at him.
"Tommy, you shouldn't have killed my friend. A man... has a right to do...what he wants to do...if he ain't harming nobody," tears were running down his cheeks. Bettner wiped them with his sleeve. "These Marshals have no right being here. I was doing nothing but providing a service, giving people what they want!" he screamed. He raised his rifle an inch higher to his eye, taking aim at Tommy.
"Now look at this mess, Tommy. People dead, and for what?" His voice was a whisper now, his speech slower. He seemed to stare over Tommy's shoulder into the horizon. "So I'll stop making something that people will get from the next guy down the road?" He shook his head.
"Jesus, Tommy, this is all fucked up. It just doesn't make any sense." He was sobbing again now, as the adrenaline was wearing off, along with the Methamphetamine. He was as unstable as Jake had ever seen anyone.
"Tommy, I've known you since grade school. Hell, we used to hang out when we was younger." A sob escaped. "Because of that I'm not going to shoot you, but I want you to get out of here. I want you to get in your car and drive away. Will you do that, Tommy?" He was pleading now. "It's enough that my friend and I are going to die; along with these Marshals. No reason for you to die too." He raised the gun again, taking aim. "Now git! I mean it! Get in that car of yours and drive like you've never driven before!" Snot was seeping from his nose onto the gun; he wiped it away with the sleeve of his left arm.
Tommy glanced at Bettner and then over at the cars concealing the Marshals. He wanted, with every fiber of his being, to take Bettner up on his offer and leave. To run as fast as he could and hide from the mess, the confusion, the danger. Would the Marshals survive if he did? He would call for help as soon as he was in the car. Hell, the neighbors had probably already called it in when the shooting started. But what would people say if he abandoned the Marshals? No one would ever talk to him again, much less work with him. He was paralyzed with indecision. What was he to do?
"If you let me take the wounded Marshals with me, I'll go, Jared."
"I don't think you're in any position to bargain, Tommy, now go!" Screamed Bettner, reaching into his pocket and taking out a baggie, containing an off-white powder. He held it to his nose and breathed deeply, inhaling the powder.
Bettner shivered. "Ah, that's good!" he mumbled. Jake could see the drug working it's magic on him. "Things are good now, Tommy! Now run! Cuz I'm fixin to end things right here, right now and I don't think you want to be around for that." He pointed the rifle in the air and pulled the trigger firing rounds into the air, screeching into the air. "I already killed a Marshal, Tommy, so they'll never let me live. What do I care if another one dies?" Bettner lowered the rifle, bringing it down to his waist. He leveled it at Tommy. "Last chance."
Bettner really didn't feel any pain, just a dullness as though he'd been hit with a baseball bat alongside his head. He knew he was dead; he wasn't sure how, but he knew it. He could see his lifeless body below him. The left side of his face blown apart from the bullet that ripped though from the right side. Jake stood, with his gun in his hand a white puff of smoke still escaping from the end of the barrel, surveying the body. He must have sneaked up on him as he was talking to Tommy, but it didn't matter now, nothing did.
Bettner felt a peace and a love that he'd never knew existed, urging him to go to the light. So all those people that had cheated death were right, he thought. There was a light; there was something after life. He did as he was urged and walked into the light.
"Nice work, Tommy. Way to keep him occupied while I got into position."
Good work? Hell, he hadn't even seen Jake sliding along the wall. He'd been so intent on how to get out of there alive that he'd blocked everything else out.
"But I..I just..."
"Tommy, get us some medical help out here fast. My men need help." Jake knew what he wanted to say, but it didn't matter. Enough had happened today. He just wanted to get his men to the hospital.
"Officer down; I repeat, officer down. I need back up and an ambulance, hell, all the ambulances you have, out to the Bettner place. We have dead all over," Tommy screamed into his mic. He knew it was unprofessional to talk in clear language but he didn't care. He just wanted this day to be over.