Server Down by J.M. Hayes Page A

necessary force. You understand me?
    â€œShoot first, ask later. Yeah,” the sheriff said, “that’s clear enough.”
    â€œYou deliberately overstate my orders, Sheriff English, but if you want to see your brother taken alive, you better inform him to just stop, wherever he is, lie face down with his arms and legs spread so it’s clear he’s no threat, and not move while you notify us where to find him before we do it ourselves.”
    â€œI will, Chief Dempsey, if he calls back. You’ve got his cell phone so I can’t contact him. He hasn’t called me since I talked to your detectives.” The sheriff purposefully left off mentioning that his daughter was holding on the other line.
    â€œThen you better hope to hear from him
real
soon,” Dempsey said. “Because we
will
find him, and we
will not
let him get away from us again.”
    There was suddenly a dial tone humming in the sheriff’s ear. He glanced at Mrs. Kraus and gave her a “not good” shake of the head as he punched onto the other line.
    â€œHeather,” he said. “I hope to hell you ran because you’re with your uncle or know where he is. If not, they may be issuing a shoot-on-site order for you pretty soon, like the one they just put out on him.”
    The second line was quiet for a moment. Then Heather said, “No, Daddy. I haven’t a clue. I hoped you’d tell me where to look for him.”
    ***
    After they dropped off the last rider, Cherokee directed Mad Dog through a few blocks of neighborhood, then told him to turn north on Grande.
    â€œThat over there,” Cherokee explained, “used to be Dunbar School. It’s where all the Black kids went back when Tucson was segregated.”
    â€œArizona had segregated schools?” Mad Dog hadn’t thought of this as part of the Old South.
    â€œYep. And on your left is Estevan Park. It had the only pool colored kids could use. You know who Estevan was?”
    Mad Dog was considering the question when Cherokee told him to turn east on Speedway.
    â€œEstevan the Moor was a slave. Part of Cabeza de Vaca’s party, the first Europeans to enter this country.”
    Mad Dog remembered. The Indians had considered Estevan a great sorcerer, too great to live when he led the way into Cibola ahead of Fray Marcos de Niza.
    â€œAnd Tucson was part of the Confederacy in the Civil War,” Cherokee continued. “Lots of Southern sympathizers here back then, until the California Column marched across the desert and drove the Rebs out. Say, I bet you didn’t know the farthest west battle of the Civil War took place just north of here near I-10—place called Picacho Peak.”
    Cherokee continued the history lesson as he directed Mad Dog east and north.
    â€œI live in Sugar Hill,” the man said, “where rich Negroes moved while white folks got out of their way and beat it for the foothills. Wife and I, we got an apartment in this complex, just over here.”
    It looked like a nice place with tall palms and neatly manicured vegetation. Mad Dog pulled in and Cherokee opened his door and climbed out, even though Mad Dog couldn’t see any vacant parking places.
    â€œYou can leave the car in the street, just down from the park there,” he said. “Let me go smooth the way for you with my old lady. We’re in two-oh-four, second floor on the left.”
    Mad Dog watched to see which set of stairs his new friend took, then backed out onto the street and headed for where he’d been told to park. He chose a spot behind a white van. As he pulled in, the van suddenly accelerated out of its spot. Metal slammed metal as it encountered the vehicle in front and broken glass rained into the street. Mad Dog wasn’t thrilled with the idea of talking to the van’s driver while his face and hands were still covered in black body paint. Or with the inevitable call to police to investigate the