Goats 4 Sale

Chapter 1

Jack Mayfield eased up on the gas pedal of his pickup and read the sign again. Goats 4 Sale. He chuckled to himself, wondering if there truly was such a high demand for goats that someone would actually stop at this ramshackle place excited at the prospect of purchasing one. Jack couldn’t help but smile as he watched a shaggy-haired goat, standing atop a pile of hay, munch on a mouthful of the forage and then lift its head to look at him.

Turning his attention back to the road, he slammed on the brakes and swerved to miss an oncoming contraption. It wasn’t something a person would typically see neither on the road, nor off it for that matter. It resembled a bicycle and was being pulled by a large, white dog while a bushy-bearded man, sporting an Amish-style hat and clothes, sat astride the bike’s seat as it moved briskly down the road. Jack felt he just had to get a photo of the odd scene to send to his co-workers in the U.S. Marshals Service and share with them another one of the unique sights of the rural Midwest.

He quickly brought his pickup to a stop and reached for his cell phone but wasn’t swift enough to get a shot. He watched in his side view mirror as the intriguing mix of man, dog, and wheels turned into the farmstead with the ‘Goats 4 Sale’ sign in the front yard. No surprise, he thought.

Jack pushed the pickup’s gear lever into park, climbed out, and stretched. He smiled and breathed in deeply. Slowly rotating 360 degrees, he surveyed the panoramic view of the southern Iowa countryside on a beautiful September day. With pastures, timber, and a field of grain here and there, he knew that if he stood there quietly long enough, some wild animal, maybe a deer, a coyote, or even a raccoon, would probably cross the road. Jack liked the area very much and was glad that many of his tasks took him up and down the rural back roads.

He had grown up on his family’s farm near Pickering, Missouri, a mere 30-minute drive from where he now stood. His work with the U.S. Marshals had taken him to Florida for a time, but now he was stationed in the same area where his life had begun. When Jack left Florida he also left behind a daughter that he missed dearly, but Chelsea lived with her mother, Jack’s ex-wife.

He was thankful that he had made a reunion of sorts with his dad, Ray Mayfield. It wasn’t intentional. He’d only stopped by to visit his father because his marshal work had brought him to the neighborhood, but life has a way of turning a person’s world upside down. The very day Jack had arrived back in the Midwest, he had stopped to visit his father, but then had decided to stay for a few days and eventually, had ended up moving in.

Ever since Jack’s mother had died from cancer a few years previously, Ray had been on his own. So, following surgery on his heart, a County Public Health volunteer named Gabriela had been assigned to go to the farm once a week to check on Ray and make sure he was taking his medications as prescribed. That was how the two of them, Jack and Gabriela, had met, and now he couldn’t imagine life without her. Due to an interesting twist of fate, Gabriela had moved into Ray’s house also. So there they were, three adults living under the same roof.

Daydreaming and knowing it was probably not a good thing for him to be doing while on duty, he let his smile fade and turned his attention beyond the ‘Goats 4 Sale’ house. A mile back up the road from where he was now standing, he had deposited a convicted felon that very morning. Before daybreak, Jack had picked up William Robert States, a.k.a. Billy Bob States, from the federal prison at Leavenworth, Kansas.

Jack wondered who in their right mind would name their son Billy Bob. It wasn’t that you never heard people called that, but it seemed to always be used as a sort of derogatory slur against southern rednecks. And, like all slurs, the insults were unfounded. No doubt hundreds of Billy Bobs had come and gone on this planet and had been among the best of the best.

Well, southern Iowa certainly wasn’t the Deep South, but, as Billy Bob had informed Jack on the drive to Iowa from Leavenworth, he’d actually been born and raised in Arkansas. Billy had talked pretty much non-stop the entire trip, driving Jack nuts. He had told him all about meeting his wife Sugar while in the service and how they’d moved to her folks’ farm when he got out of the Army. He had planned to make a stab at farming but had discovered that farming involved damned-hard physical labor and he didn’t much care for that.

Billy Bob had then tried his hand at over-the-road trucking and had developed a sideline enterprise of marketing weed and crack. He managed to get hooked up with the Missouri Mafia (a title coined by the Federal Drug Task Force) hauling product north from the Kansas City area to supply his own franchise in southern Iowa and northern Missouri. He was sentenced to serve time in Leavenworth Prison after getting caught. A raid of his truck and property had netted a variety of illegal weapons, a huge stockpile of drugs, and $43,000 in cash—proof that he was a multi-state dealer. It had pretty much been the typical career path taken by guys like Billy.

Now, Billy Bob was getting a second chance at life after accepting a plea deal with the U.S. Attorney’s Office out of Kansas City. He had agreed to testify against members of the group who had supplied him with the drugs and was willing to name names and spell out details about the drug distribution network. This would give the Feds a better foothold in dealing with the fast-growing drug problem in the Midwest, and that’s what had gotten Jack involved. Part of the deal included a three-day furlough allowing Billy to visit his wife Sugar at their farm in southern Iowa. Jack Mayfield’s job as a U.S. Marshal was to haul him there, keep an eye on him, and have him back in KC after the three days were up to begin his interrogation with the Feds.

Jack had arrived at the prison around 4 a.m. to get the paperwork completed and to ensure he would have Billy on the road before sunrise. With a Missouri State Patrol escort, Jack headed his pickup north with his charge in the passenger seat, shackled at both the wrists and ankles. As they drove, both lawmen kept a lookout for anyone that might be planning to end Billy’s life in an effort to end his chances of testifying against their drug dealing.

By the time they had reached St. Joseph, Missouri, Jack felt confident that they wouldn’t meet up with any potential hit men so Jack had waved the patrolman off and continued north another hour across the Missouri border to their destination in southern Iowa.

At the specified address sat a two-story farmhouse with a matching set of rundown farm buildings. Gratefully Jack had unshackled Billy and had turned him over into the loving arms of Sugar. Well, maybe not all that loving, as nobody actually came out of the house to greet the con. Billy had been required to wear an electronic monitoring device around his ankle with GPS tracking that would follow him should he decide to break his agreement and extend his furlough beyond 100 yards of Sugar’s house.

Was Billy in danger? It didn’t appear so. No one should have been aware he was getting out except for the Feds and the prison guards. Even if word did travel from the prison to the outside world that Billy had been pulled, nobody would have gotten the information in time to do anything about it, let alone get on Jack’s trail or find out where the prisoner had been transported. This part of the state was pretty far off the beaten path, with gravel roads winding up and down and around the hillsides and occasionally turning into dirt roads. A strange vehicle would stick out like a sore thumb since very little traffic traveled up and down these backroads.

Jack had given Billy a government-issued cell phone with directions to call him at least every three hours or immediately if he suspicioned any kind of danger. Now all Jack had to do was check in from time to time and make sure the idiot hadn’t decided to make a run for it. But why would he? Instead of spending the next seven years of his life in the penitentiary, Billy Bob was being given the chance to be a free man again. Of course sometimes the word free could be a fairly lenient term in plea deals. Most likely, Billy would have to start over again somewhere else in the United States under one of the government’s many witness protection programs. But hell, thought Jack as he recalled Sugar’s house, it wasn’t like they’d be giving up much having to move out of that dump.

Jack decided to call the Sheriff of Taylor County, Iowa—Benjamin Willoughby. He and Benjamin had become friends and allies when Jack had helped the sheriff and his deputies out of a tight spot the previous December. They’d been dealing with a wanted felon by the name of Roydel Nuxton who had been hell-bent on killing the sheriff in retaliation for losing his eye in a shoot-out with him during his first arrest. Benjamin was the only local law officer that had been privy to any information about the federal plea deal with Billy Bob, and since the convict had been transported into his Taylor County jurisdiction, he had agreed to help Jack with protection of the witness, as much as his resources allowed.

Jack located the name of the contact he wanted on his cell phone and pushed the call button. He listened to the phone ring a couple of times and then heard, Sheriff’s Office…Taylor County. What can we do for you?

Jack smiled as he spoke into the phone. Yeah, is this the place that serves the great pizza, the one with the extra cheese and Hungarian meatballs? I’d like to order a large…

Recognizing the voice, Benjamin cut him off. Jack, you’re a U.S. Marshal. Don’t you have better things to do than to try to prank a fine local government employee? One who is overworked and underpaid?

Okay, okay, you got me. Sorry about that. But you know it gets lonely out here in the country. I just spent about three hours riding in my truck with one of the dumbest criminals I’ve ever met, and he wouldn’t shut up the entire trip. What I’d really like to do is head over there to Pigmy right now and have a fine roast beef dinner in that place on the south side of the square. What’s it called? ‘June’s’?

Yeah? Well come on over. I’ll buy you lunch. You got our guest felon delivered huh? Everything go okay?

As far as I can tell, nobody followed us. No helicopters flying over. I did almost get run over by a guy riding a bicycle pulled by a big white dog, but that’s the only suspicious thing I’ve seen.

Oh, yeah…the bicycle…the dog. Dressed in black with a beard?

Yeah, that’s him. What is he? Amish? Mennonite?

"Neither. His name is Wolford something. Don’t know what his last name is. He was with a religious group from somewhere east of here, but as I understand it he was kicked out of his group when they caught him selling nudey magazines to some of the teenage boys. Apparently the elders weren’t as offended at the sinfulness of the photos in the magazines as they were when they found out that the young men had been paying up to $10 a copy, and Wolford was hoarding the money and also refusing to pay his share of community expenses.

Wolford moved into our county and is making a go of it on 80 acres or so. And he’s right down the road from where you dropped off Billy Bob, right?"

Kicked out? I never knew anybody could get kicked out of a group like that. Anyway…I think Billy’s sittin’ pretty safe here. I’m gonna cruise up and down the road a little bit and then probably hit your place around noon and take you up on that meal. Are you still going to be able to offer a little bit of help keeping an eye on my felon the next three days?

Yeah, we’ll do what we can, which probably means I’ll send Jan over at least once a day when she’s on duty. I’ll let you talk to her and figure out what works best for the two of you. I mean…well you know. We can only do so much. If we’re not allowed to sit in Sugar’s house with him, pointing a loaded gun at Billy Bob, there’s still a chance the guy could run or get shot. You know what I’m saying?

Exactly the same thing I told my supervisor, Bootie, when they came up with this deal and we got roped into it. But decisions in these type of things are not made by those of us relied upon to make things work out. Sometimes you just have to have a little faith I guess. Hope Billy doesn’t try something stupid, although that’s not been his style in the past, or he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

Isn’t that the truth. answered Benjamin wryly. So much crime, so little time. Hey, I’ve got someone waiting for me. See you for lunch at June’s. Call me when you’re close.

Will do Benjamin. Thanks. After hanging up, Jack stuck the phone back into the pocket of his jacket. Well, what to do now he wondered. All right, he knew he shouldn’t, but he just had to go back down the road and visit with this character named Wolford. Maybe buy himself a goat.

Chapter 2

Simon stared out the window of his camper, trying to wake up and fully process the information he’d just received over his cell phone. It had been another tough night of trying to sleep on the floor of the camper, hooked behind his Dodge pickup. The air conditioner wasn’t working correctly, so he’d had to leave a window open and listen to the other idiots parked on either side of him at the campground. They had awakened him with their noise at least two, maybe three times, during the night. Then, just when it seemed he was approaching that magical spot of peaceful slumber, his cell phone had started buzzing. Picking it up, the party on the other line had said, Oh, I’m sorry. I believe I’ve dialed the wrong number, and then had hung up. That was the way it was supposed to be—part of the process of contacting Simon.

He was trying to remember if the caller had followed the correct protocol and had used the exact words. It was part of the business deal, and if any part of the spoken contract was violated, the people on the other end would never hear from him again. It didn’t matter that they paid him $50,000 for every job. It didn’t matter that they paid cash and always paid on time. Simon’s whole world, the success or failure of it, depended on being completely anonymous, today, tomorrow, and forever.

His disappearance from the world began upon his return from the Middle East, having helped the U.S. chase Sadam’s army back into their playground during Operation Desert Storm. There were images from the war Simon would never forget—following a group of tanks, the troops in his regiment mowing down everything in their way, the smell of burnt bodies.

Something had happened to Simon during that stretch of time, and he had no doubt he had developed PTSD. He was sure he could probably get a diagnosis of it at the VA hospital, but he didn’t see the point. He hadn’t been what one would consider emotionally healthy even before he’d entered the military. His parents had become aware of his instability when he was a child, their only child, in the way he acted and the things he did. Troubling things like attaching the leash of their pet dog to the back bumper of his father’s car just before his old man left for work. That taught the dog a lesson to never pee on the wheel of his bicycle again. And then there was the… Okay, enough of this. Going over all those thoughts and self-analyzing was a pointless waste of time.

He was what he had become—a man who killed men. It was not something that bothered him. His conscience had gone into neutral. He had become what his mother had described as a devil that didn’t care about others. She was always saying that those type of people were the devil. Well, he thought, then so be it. Being the devil was just a business and a very lucrative one at that. His life was not that different from those around him. He ate, slept, worried, worked, and even visited his dentist twice a year. No, Simon didn’t punch a time clock, make sales on commission, or ever participate in any company focus groups. He just identified clients he was supposed to kill and, as effectively and efficiently as possible, ended their lives.

If Simon had a business card, it would be blank on both sides. That was the key to his success. With over three million dollars stashed away in several bank accounts spread across the United States and Mexico, he no longer needed to do it for the money.

Then why? He didn’t know. It was just what his mind told him to do. Eat, drink, sleep, and end human lives. Thinking to himself that there were billions of humans living on this planet, and millions of them were dying every day anyway, what did a few random ones disappearing because of his line of work matter? And, knowing the kind of people that employed him—bad people, the worst of the worst, asking him to kill more of their own kind—maybe, just maybe, he told himself again and again, what he did for a living was not actually a bad thing at all, but maybe a huge service to mankind.

He was constantly thinking these thoughts, talking to himself because he very rarely talked to anyone else. He couldn’t talk to his parents, because he’d murdered both of them when he had returned home from the war in Iraq. He had stood at their funeral and managed to fake a few tears, watching as their caskets were lowered into the ground while others stood around wondering who could have done such a thing to the wonderful couple.

That was enough wondering for today, it was time for preparation. The phone rang again, and Simon checked his watch. Excellent, precisely five minutes after the first call. It was exactly the correct procedure for procurement of his services.

Simon picked up his cell phone, hit the receive button and said nothing, but listened to the voice on the other end.

The individual cleared his throat, Usual terms … male … name–Billy Bob States … left Leavenworth this morning … subject believed to be heading for home in southern Iowa … visitation with wife … priority three. The phone conversation was ended.

Simon checked his watch again. Yes, the message had taken less than ten seconds, still within the proper protocol. He smiled satisfactorily noting the priority three statement. That meant the job had to be done urgently and that his client was willing to pay twice the going rate.

Simon logged into his laptop and did a search for Billy Bob States. Pretty soon he had learned more than he wanted to know about the target. He was just another low-level drug dealer who knew a little bit too much and apparently had become a threat to people who made an incredible amount of money from illegal drug transactions. He made a note to himself to destroy the laptop as soon as possible, committing all the information he had about his next target to memory. He did not want some forensics crime detective visiting the hard drive on this computer and noting Simon’s interest in a recent murder investigation.

Simon picked up his cell phone again and punched in a number. When the voice answered, Simon coughed once, loudly, and then hung up. The business contract had now been completed. The cough indicated to his client on the other end that Simon would now be tracking the subject, and that he would be terminating said subject’s life.

He left his camper, glancing around for nosey neighbors, and took a hammer out of the toolbox in the pickup bed. He laid the cell phone on a plastic trash bag in the bed of his pickup and gave it a good whack with the hammer. Then he rolled the smashed device up in the plastic, tossed it into the glowing coals of the campfire he’d built the night before, and watched it melt. Finally, after again checking for watchful eyes, he took his shovel and used it to remove the smoldering mass that had once been his phone, from the campfire, and buried it on the far side of his camper, out of view of his neighbors. He would pick up another cell phone down the road under another name later that day or the next and begin again from there. Maybe all this was a waste of time, but it was the kind of thing Simon did every day of his life—part of the anonymous world in which he lived. He was a man with no true identity, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Simon noticed a few ants scurrying around on the ground in the area where he’d just buried the burnt phone, and, not being able to stop himself, he reached down and gently herded them into the palm of his hand. Carrying three ants between his cupped hands, being careful not to crush them, he quickly took them into his camper. He carefully pushed them off his hand and arm and onto the countertop, containing them under an overturned cereal bowl. He searched through his cupboards until he found just the right container—a clear glass, mixing bowl with steep sides. He then transferred the three ants into the mixing bowl and covered it with a piece of clear plastic wrap.

He walked into the bedroom and removed one of the seven ant farms that he kept wedged between pillows on his bed whenever he was traveling. Simon had kept ant farms in this camper for three years, absolutely amazed at the little insects. Many a night, he would spend hours watching them with his magnifying glass. He’d apply a drop of sugar or send some moisture into the bottom of the glass farm and watch the panic and movements of the little critters. His favorite game was smoking a cigarette and then blowing smoke through a straw into one of their tunnels and watching the ants flee into some obstacle he’d set up, usually a fork he’d heated red-hot over the stove. Most of his games ended with the ants being crushed or burned, but that was okay. He could buy or find the critters anywhere and start his game all over. He made a routine practice of eating a banana for breakfast nearly every morning. Then he’d toss the peel out on the ground and later go back, trapping the ants that were feasting on it.

Today’s match would be special. He had one large fire ant in captivity. He’d been able to keep it alive for several days since he’d discovered a colony of them on a recent trip through Texas. He’d been wanting to find out what would happen if he turned the fire ant into a bowl with a group of regular field ants to find out if they’d fight and get a little action out of it.

Using a pair of tweezers, he picked up the fire ant. It seemed a little dumpy, maybe not in the best of health but clearly still alive.