The Dead Peasants File Read online

  The Dead Peasants File

  By L. Craig Harris

  Copyright © 2013 L. Craig Harris

  ISBN-13:

  978-1483972732

  ISBN-10:

  1483972739

  Bible quotes: THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2010 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  To Jodi, David and Savannah

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblance to any person or company , living or dead, is coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Dillon McGee walked quickly up to the TSA screeners at the Lambert-St. Louis Airport. Being a former Marine, he was in great shape, but breathed heavily as he stood in line because he had just sprinted in from the parking lot. He never took his eyes off the crowd in front of him as he slipped off his shoes and put them in the tray. A small yellow sign read, “Jokes about bombs will be taken seriously.” He raised his hands above his head and glanced down as the screener felt up his thighs, then patted around his torso. He lowered his arms and the agent ran his hands down the length of each of them. Dillon didn't have his gun. He knew he could never get it through security, so he had left it locked in his car out in the parking lot. He also knew he didn't need it, he wouldn't have any trouble catching the man he was looking for and hauling him back to Springfield.

  Dillon dropped his keys into the tray and walked through the metal detector. The light stayed green and he slipped on his shoes and gathered his pocket goods: keys, leather wallet, cell phone, and an electronic scanning device that the screener had fondled and placed back into the tray. Dillon made brief eye contact with the worker on the stool and sped again down the concourse. He knew his man was there, he just didn't know where.

  Dillon had been asleep that morning when his boss, Walter Gray, called him and told him to hurry to the St. Louis Airport. “I need you to get to St. Louis and get Ron Eastland,” Walter had said. “He's running, Dillon. He's flying to Mexico. I need you to go get him and bring him back to me.”

  “Why? What's going on?”

  “It's about money I can tell you that. He's got the company's money and he's trying to get out of the country with it.”

  “Why don't you call the police? Why do you want me to go get him?”

  “This is between me and him. I don't want the police in on this yet. Can I count on you or not?”

  “Yes, Sir. I'm on my way.” Dillon was a company man, a team player, and he didn't want to lose that reputation.

  He was a security guard for Morgan Retailer – a big man at six-foot-two, with bulging muscles in his arms, a flat stomach and short blond hair. Thirty-two years old, he was as handsome as a model, but you would never know it from talking to him. He worked at the Superstore in Springfield, Missouri. Morgan had come to town and run off the big retailers, not to mention most mom and pop retailers within fifty miles of the place. They just couldn't compete with the wages or the prices. The Morgan Superstore where he worked was a cavernous beehive of activity, but his job was mostly boring, standing at the front of the store day after day, keeping an eye on the customers. He chased down and tackled a thief every couple of weeks, but there wasn't much challenge most days. This gig today was a lot more interesting. The man he was hunting, an overweight white man just a few weeks shy of his sixty-fifth birthday, was not much of a challenge, but it got him out of the store for the morning.

  In recent months, Walter had begun asking him to spy on workers. “I have a mission for you,” he'd always say. Walter knew that was the way to get him to go along and he was right. Today's mission was the first time he had called on him to actually go after and collar a worker. It was probably crossing some civil rights' line, but Ron must have been stealing from the company or they never would have sent him after him. Besides, if his training as a Marine had taught him anything, it was to follow orders at all cost. Walter had told him plainly, and more than once, that that was why he had hired him. Dillon had no desire to rock the boat and lose this job.

  If Ron Eastland was stealing from the company, Dillon certainly didn't know about it. As far as he could tell, Ron had always been a straight-shooter. He wouldn't fudge one minute on his time clock. Dillon had been thinking about it on the three-hour trip to St. Louis that morning, and he had never suspected Ron of taking so much as a can of beans from the store without paying full price. Dillon had worked with him for the past five years. You just never know.

  His one clue about where to find Ron was that he was flying to Mexico. He walked, quick-step, up to the destination sign and looked for flights there. A plane was leaving for Acapulco in less than an hour. That's gotta be it. Terminal One, Gate A-9. He looked down the hall and read the signs for that waiting area. Then he lowered his head and his eyes and ran toward it.

  Dillon slowed to a normal walk as he approached the waiting area. He didn't want to spook his prey. He sidled up to the wall and peeked around the corner into the waiting area. It was full of waiting passengers, mostly Hispanics and tourists dressed in bright clothing. Then he saw a man sitting by himself with a newspaper raised in front of his face. The man was wearing slacks and dress-shoes. There he is.

  Dillon watched him for several seconds. The man never lowered the newspaper. Dillon reasoned that he was hiding behind it. He could see that the man's knee was shaking. Dillon watched a moment more, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the scanner he had brought through security. He turned it on with his thumb and pointed the red point of light at the place on the newspaper where it would shine through to the man's forehead. The device made a small blip sound and a name appeared on the LED readout: Ronald Eastland. Now Dillon knew that he had his man. He began moving toward him.

  Ron's face was losing all of its color as he slowly lowered the paper. Dillon sat in an empty seat right in front of him.

  “Oh, hello, Dillon,” Ron said.

  “Hey Ron.”

  “Did you come all this way to get me?”

  “Yes, you know I did.”

  “Please, I just wanted to take a little trip before I retire. That's all. Please let me get on that plane.”

  Dillon crossed his arms and made the muscles in his upper arms bulge under his short shirt sleeves. “I can't do that. I have to take you back.”

  Ron reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened in front of Dillon. “I have four thousand dollars cash right here.” He looked around at the passengers sitting nearby and lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “I'll give it to you if you'll just let me get on this plane.”

  “What's this about, Ron? Did you steal from the company?”

  “No, I would never do that.” Ron continued to hold the wallet open in front of him. “I didn't steal a penny.”

  “I have to take you back, Ron. I'm sorry.” Dillon closed Ron's hands around the wallet and pushed it toward him. “Put this up and get to your feet.”

  Ron let the wallet drop to the floor. He buried his face into his hands. “I just need to get on that plane.”

  Dillon suddenly felt sorry for him. He felt a flash of anger that Walter had sent him to do this. He reached down and picked up the wallet. “Come on, Ron, let's get back to Springfield. We'll sort all this out when we get back.” He stood to his feet and towered over Ron, who was still sitting with his face in his hands. “I've got to take you back.” He reached down and took hold of Ron's arm and gently tried to pull him to his feet. “Don't make a scene in front of all of these people. Just come with me now.”

  Ron continued to sit and resisted Dillon's pull.

  “Come on Ron.”

  Suddenly Ron jumped to his feet and knocked Dillon backward to the seat behind him. Ron
threw the newspaper at Dillon so that the pages flew into the air and draped around him making a slapping noise. Dillon threw his hands in front of his face, startled, as Ron ran out into the concourse. Ron wheezed for breath as he sprinted down the hall, knocking a woman to the ground who was in his lane. It was only a second or two before Dillon gathered himself and bolted after him. The two men were in a foot race through the concourse, but it was only a moment before Dillon caught him. Ron dashed into a news stand but Dillon pounced on him just as he did. The two knocked books and magazines off of a rack in the store. Dillon had Ron by the arm, but Ron fought at him to free himself. He bit Dillon's hand, and Dillon let him go. Ron tried to run, but lost his footing, slipping on the magazines. Dillon grabbed him around the waist with one hand and pulled his arm behind him with the other.

  “Hey, someone's gonna pay for this,” the clerk in the store yelled as the two men got to their feet and Dillon forcefully shoved Ron back into the hall.

  Ron was sobbing now, pleading for Dillon to let him go. His white button-down shirt was pulled out of his trousers and his tie was askew. A button had popped off of his collar and a small amount of blood was beneath his right nostril. Dillon led him back through the airport.

  “Let me go! Let me go! They're gonna kill me!”

  “What are you talking about?” Dillon kept his grip on his arm, pulled behind his back. “Nobody's gonna kill you.”

  Ron continued to cry and fight against Dillon. Then he gave in and cooperated, too exhausted to fight anymore. The two men found their way out of the airport and walked to Dillon's car in the west parking area.

  “My car,” Ron said as he got into Dillon's passenger side.

  “You'll have to come get it later.” Dillon closed the passenger door and walked around to the driver's side. He sat behind the wheel, then reached under the seat and pulled out his .38 revolver. He stuck the pistol in the front of his pants, then clicked his seatbelt and turned the car back toward Springfield.

  The men arrived sometime during the noon hour. Dillon called Walter and told him they were about to arrive. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “No,” Walter said, “we'll take care of this. I just want to talk to him.”

  Dillon thought it was strange that Walter had sent him all the way to St. Louis to get this man and now he just wanted to talk to him. He looked over at Ron. “What's this all about?”

  Ron had been silent all the way from St. Louis and continued to hold his tongue. His shoulders were slumped and his head lowered. He looked like a completely defeated man. He glanced over at Dillon and shook his head.

  Walter met Dillon and Ron in the hallway at the back of the store that led to the office area. It was a back door that customers probably didn't even know existed. Ron continued his silence and Dillon kept his grip on his arm to make sure he didn't try to make a run for it. “I don't know what this is all about,” Dillon said to Walter, “but here he is.”

  “Thanks. I got him from here. Take a couple of hours for lunch and I'll see you when you get back.”

  Dillon released Ron's arm and looked at him. “You okay?”

  Ron just stared at him.

  Dillon nodded at the men, turned, and walked out to his car.

  He went home and sat at the lunch table with his wife, Jenny, eating the sandwich she had just made for him. He told her about his trip to St. Louis and how the boss had said it was about money.

  “Do you think Ron stole from the company?” She said.

  “I really don't.” Dillon took a bite. “This is really strange. And Ron told me they were going to kill him if I took him back. I don't know what he meant by that.”

  “Who was going to kill him?”

  “I don't know. It's like he was running for his life. He must have done something really bad that I don't know about.”

  When Dillon pulled into the parking lot at Morgan Retail, an ambulance was backed up to the office doors. He parked as close as he could and ran up the sidewalk. He hated the thought of something happening at the store while he was at home. He feared some robber had gone on a shooting spree while he was away from his post. He ran through the doors and was met by EMTs with a stretcher, bringing a body through the hallway. Walter was following them.

  Dillon hurried up to him. “What's going on?”

  Walter shook his head. “Bad news I'm afraid.” He looked at Dillon. “It's Ron. He had a heart attack in my office after you brought him in.”

  “What?”

  “He died right in my office. Hit the floor.” Walter paused a moment. “I called 911, but they couldn't save him. I did all I could.”

  Dillon and Walter followed the gurney out of the building and watched the EMTs load it into the back of the ambulance. Dillon studied Walter's face. He seemed genuinely sorry that Ron had died.

  Dillon could feel heat warming his face. He stepped back as they closed the back doors of the ambulance. “How did this happen?” He raised his voice. “I brought him back here so he could die?”

  “I don't know. Didn't know.”

  Dillon grabbed his arm. “Didn't know what? What happened?”

  Walter looked at the sidewalk. “He just got so upset. We were talking about some money he owed the company ...”

  “So he did steal from you.”

  “Yes, well no.” Walter pulled away from him and straightened his collar. “I can't talk about that right now. I really need you to get to your post.”

  “I deserve to know what happened. I'm the one who went and got him.”

  Walter looked Dillon in the eyes. “He got upset in my office and had a heart attack. I tried to save him. What else do you want to know?”

  Chapter Two

  Dillon drove under the canopy of a maple tree, flaming red in Autumn color. The late-September sun was bright and the warm air made it hot in his car. He turned up the fan on the air conditioning another notch. It was three days after Ron Eastland's death and Dillon was heading to his grave-side service. He couldn't help but wonder if he had caused this funeral. He had gone to get Ron and the man hadn't lived an hour once he got him back. He felt guilty about it even though he had only done what he was told.

  He pulled into the gate of the cemetery and parked between a couple of SUVs. Leaves crunched under his shoes as he walked up to the crowd, dressed in black and muted colors, huddled around a tent that had been set up for the service. He spotted Phyllis Eastland, Ron's widow. She had a tissue in her hand and was being comforted by some man in a suit that Dillon didn't know. He walked up and stood a few feet behind her, next to his boss, Walter Gray. He and Walter shook hands and exchanged tight-lipped nods.

  The preacher talked about what a great guy Ron was. Dillon oscillated between being sad and mad. Phyllis' shoulders heaved a couple of times and the man next to her put his arm around her to comfort her.

  The preacher opened his Bible and read from it. “Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, because when we are clothed, we will not be found naked. For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. Now it is God who has made us for this very purpose and has given us the Spirit as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come. Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. We live by faith, not by sight.”

  He looked up from the text. “This life on earth is only our temporary home. The Bible promises that our permanent home is in heaven, with God himself.” He looked at Mrs. Eastland. “And even if we live to be a hundred years old, that is only a mist, a finger-snap, compared to eternity. When we who believe leave this tent, this human body, we will find ourselves in God's presence. Ron is there now and God himself will wipe away any tear he
ever has.”

  This made Dillon feel a little better. He had never considered himself to be a religious person, and hadn't been to church very many times, but he liked the comforting words this preacher was saying. He wasn't sure he believed what he was hearing, but at least it made sense and this preacher seemed like a normal guy who really believed what he was talking about. Maybe Ron really was in a better place.

  After the prayer, Dillon watched as the preacher hugged Mrs. Eastland and spoke to her grown sons and the others who were near her. People in the crowd spoke to one another in hushed voices and began to disperse. Dillon continued to stand near Walter.

  It surprised him that Mrs. Eastland looked over at him and Walter and began to walk toward them. He straightened, expecting her to speak to him, but she brushed right past him and stood in front of Walter. She glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I, I'm just paying my re-”

  “You killed my Ronny.” She cut him off. Her eyes nearly closed in an angry glare. “How dare you come to his funeral.” She turned and walked away. One of her sons put his arm around her shoulders and escorted her to a black vehicle parked nearby, looking back over his shoulder at them as he walked her.

  Walter turned and stepped quickly to his car, not speaking to anyone.

  Dillon was frozen where he stood. He had never seen anything like this. He watched as Walter got in his car and drove out of the cemetery. As he stood there, he felt the presence of someone near him. He turned to see that the preacher had walked up next to him. He reached out his hand. “I'm Christopher Forrest.”

  “How do you do?” Dillon shook his hand. He was pleased that it was a firm handshake.

  Christopher released his grip. “Were you kin to Mr. Eastland?”

  “Uh, no, I work with him at the store. I mean I worked with him at the store. I'm Dillon McGee.” He paused. “I thought you did a good job with the service just now.”