FAR WEST Chapter Four

LONELY NATION

 The penultimate exit from the state highway to nowhere, also known as Torrington, came within sight of Lonely Nation Falls in the Wycliffe Forest and the towering nearly vertical mountains that enclosed the Vale into its own universe far from the outside influences of the modern world. 

            This geographical feature known as the Cranbury Vale had been created in the last ice age in the glacial conglomerate of igneous and metamorphic rock and earth.  The hollow shaped valley had been carved out by the retreating rocks of the long gone glaciers.  This rather unique, often too cold, too polluted, and too wet environment of the Cranbury did play a part in the Tanter’s strong belief that this Vale was the same England of the storybook Masterpiece Theatre and Thomas Hardy.  Despite their belief, it had been quipped by a great many on this side and the other side of the pond that Cranbury Vale was a cruel joke perpetuated by God on the losers of the English Civil War.  Their descendents were chosen by their poor circumstance and complete lack of piety to settle and die here.

            “No.  Scotland does not smell like sheep’s intestines.  That’s an old wive’s tale.”  Swarbrick said as he downed the last few ounces from his flask, licking the remnant drops from his mouth.  He had been drinking since noon.

            “Who’s wife, yours?”

            “Shut the fuck up.”

            Swarbrick’s face was red.  He let himself cool out thinking about his first ex-wife.  Phillippa, the Goddamn Wife of Bath, had like five husbands aside from me.  If your looks stay long enough you can have as many lovers as you like.  But you will still die alone.  Not a big deal, I have had plenty of snatch as it is.

            The two detectives, parked in the anterior parking lot of the resplendent cathedral, sat in their Crown Vic watching the FBI agents and US Marshals walking haphazardly around the perimeter of the house and down the hard pack dirt road.  The shadow of the great stone cathedral’s steeple covered over the detectives shrouding them from the Feds. 

            Across the dimmed street cast in a somber yellow Sergeant Bezzeg and his wife waited behind the tightly knit security detail of Federal agents.  Bezzeg was thoroughly bored out of his mind in the breaks between his many trials and testimonials without resolution.  The conclusion, without doubt, was going to be conviction followed by sentencing, prison, death, divorce. Yes, death before divorce.  When one marries a Mormon; it is forever despite what occurs in this life.  But, after that . . .  

            Pizarro said, “So what do we do, go to the front door and ask if Beg can come out and play?” 

            “What else do you suggest we do?  We have to bring the Sergeant to the Tower.  I dinnah know what the problem is.  I’ll do it if you don’t want to, that’ll be a bitch for your machismo, miracon.” Swarbrick’s volume increased for the final clause.

            “Haggis—shut your fucking trap,” Pizarro barked angrily.

            Swarbrick laughed under his breath with his copyrighted broad grinning smirk.  Pizarro put on his shining bronze badge while Swarbrick flipped the safety latch of his Ruger sidearm.  They walked across the village street to the unkempt front yard with a tired cadence.  The muted green streetlights hummed as dragonflies and mosquitoes buzzed in a brood cloud beneath the false illuminations of the blue twilight.

            The Feds sitting in their government plated Crown Vics erupted from the inauspicious vehicles at the cul-de-sac.  They drew gloks out from their holsters and surrounded Swarbrick and Pizarro.  Swarbrick flashed his badge while Pizarro with growing paranoia watched their movements in the periphery.  The Feds ignored the common courtesies and forced the Detectives to surrender their weapons.  Swarbrick sat down on the yellow dried out grass on his own, and found it amusing to pester this lot of ultra-serious no neck agents.  “Could I have a drink while I’m down here, boys?” 

            Through the panes of the front door, Maggie noticed the county policemen inside the circling sharks on her dead yard.  She put on her block-lettered FBI identification badge and loaded her black sidearm that had been collecting dust on the coffee table.  She left her blonde hair down as she continued on her way outside.

            The Federals outside lowered their guns as she left the darkened front hall.  She was the Special Agent in Charge (SAC), named by the US Attorney and the FBI Chieftain of the New Haven Field Office to command their presence in the Taconics.  There was little argument for conflict of interest here.  Maggie Bezzeg carried the reputation of a fiercely competitive and excellent undercover agent due to her aesthetic qualities as the euphemisms went.  Her career remained on the inside track to advancement as Deputy Director still seemed within reach. 

            “What’s going on out here, gentlemen?  You’re ruining my lawn.  Well, what’s left of it.”

            Swarbrick burst out in brief drunken laughter until Frankenstein tugged at his neck harshly.  “Caught these Cranbury pukes violating the house arrest.”  Frankenstein said happily pulling Swarbrick up by the shirt collar from the ground with one arm. 

            “Yeah, I know the court orders.  Did you ask them their business or got too excited to keep your guns in the holster?  Perhaps we should be a bit more patient with the local constabulary, even if they are the criminal element.”

            “The US-A told us to prevent any and all contact between Sergeant Bezzeg and his department, Mum.”  Frankenstein addressed her sarcastically with the proper English address.  His hold on Swarbrick gave slack as he mumbled cunt underneath his breath.

            “Thank you, Marshal Fielding.  Just give them back their guns and badges.  We do not need to write this up if our friends get on their way.” Maggie said looking at both men without emotion reading their equally misanthropic faces.    

            The Cranbury cops were brought to stand by the throng of impeccably clean bureau agents.  Swarbrick spoke with his hands cuffed behind his back. He contorted himself awkwardly and broke from the yoke as if he were escaping from a stray jacket.  Marshal Fielding quickly uncuffed Pizarro and walked away with the pair of manacles to his car.   

            Maggie reluctantly agreed to their lease proposal.  “I am coming with you then.  He is still my prisoner.” 

            Swarbrick laughed heartily under his breath before her glare bored into him so hard the he felt heat.  He kept his thoughts silent.  Beg’s right she’s more fun pissed.  Bloody gorgeous when she’s in an upset.  Lucky bastard Beg—you get to have that everyday.  I am such a horny devil, but still . . . I bet she’s wet downtown or at least tingling.  The Marshals and their goonish FBI counterparts departed muttering more anti-feminist profanity as they walked past Maggie back into their vans and patrolling the property to keep the journalists away.