Then don't speculate. Investigate. Beatatric stepped closer. Mills backed up. I was a pilot.
I flew combat missions. I've seen what happens when good people stay silent. So don't stand there and tell me you're doing your job when we both know you're not. Mills looked at Jackson looking for what backup permission to leave. Jackson said nothing.
Just stared. Finally, Mills mumbled something about being in touch and practically ran to his cruiser. That went well, Jackson said. Beatatric didn't smile. He's Warren's creature.
That report will never see the light of day. Maybe, but we documented it. That's what matters. Jackson spent the rest of the morning at assessing the damage to the Harley. The tank had three major dents.
The chrome pipes were gouged deep. Both mirrors shattered. The seats slashed, cosmetic mostly, but expensive to fix and worse personal. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to weeks of careful work to something beautiful, to something that mattered. Jackson photographed everything from multiple angles, sent them to Gideon with a message.
Evidence: keep these safe. Then he started making calls. First to a body shop in Boulder City. They could pull the dents, repaint the tank. $300 in 2 weeks. Second to a chrome specialist in Las Vegas.
New pipes would cost $400 plus shipping. Third to a Harley dealer in Carson City. Mirror, seat, miscellaneous parts, another 300, $1,000 minimum. And that was with Jackson doing the labor himself. He was calculating costs when his phone rang.
Unknown number. This is Jackson. Mr. Reeves, a woman's voice. Professional.
Clipped. This is special agent Sarah Chen, FBI. Natalie Morrison gave me your number. Jackson stepped outside away from the diner. Thanks for calling.
Natalie says you have information about public corruption. Sheriff Warren Blackwell. I do. I'm listening. Jackson laid it out.
Everything. Warren's pressure on Beatatric. The suspicious deaths, the property scheme, the vandalism. He spoke for 15 minutes without interruption. When he finished, Agent Chen was quiet for a moment.
That's a serious accusation. Mr. Reeves, do you have evidence? Some photos of the vandalism, testimony from Beatatrice about the harassment, public records showing Warren's property holdings. Public records aren't evidence of corruption.
They're just records. But the pattern isn't proof. I need something concrete. Recordings of threats, documents showing quid proquo, witness testimony from someone involved in the scheme. Jackson's frustration mounted.
So, what are you saying? You can't help? I'm saying I need more before I can open an investigation. The FBI doesn't move on suspicion. We move on evidence.
She paused. But I'll tell you what I can do. I'll make some calls. Talk to the Nevada State Police. See if there have been any complaints about Warren.
Any red flags. And if there are, then maybe we have enough for a preliminary inquiry, which could lead to a full investigation, which could lead to charges. Another pause. But Mr. Reeves, be careful.
If Warren gets wind that someone's asking questions, he'll cover his tracks. Or worse, worse, how you seem like a smart man. Use your imagination. She hung up. Jackson stood in the desert heatphone in hand, feeling the weight of what he'd started.
Agent Chen was right. Warren would come after them if he knew would escalate. The question was how far Warren would go. That evening, Jackson found Beatatrice in Douglas's old garage. She sat on the overturned bucket, staring at the damaged Harley.
"I keep thinking about the day Douglas died," she said without looking up. "We were closing the diner. He was laughing about something, some joke a customer told, and then he just stopped, grabbed his chest, fell. " Her voice was steady, clinical. I did CPR, screamed for help, begged him to stay, but he was already gone just like that. Laughing one second, dead the next.
Jackson sat on the concrete floor beside her. Warren was at the funeral. Beatric continued, stood in the back, didn't cry, didn't speak, just watched. At the time, I thought he was grieving in his own way. Now I wonder if he was planning, calculating, waiting for his chance.
You couldn't have known, couldn't I? Douglas told me Warren was dangerous. Told me to stay away from him. But I thought he was exaggerating. Thought brothers should reconcile.
So, I let Warren back into my life. She finally looked at Jackson. I practically invited a snake into my home. This isn't your fault, isn't it? I ignored the warnings, trusted when I should have been cautious.
And now, she gestured at the Harley. Now he's destroying the last pieces of Douglas I have left. Jackson stood, walked to the bike, ran his hand over the dented tank. He didn't destroy it, Jackson said. He damaged it.
There's a difference. Damage can be fixed. With what money? I'm barely keeping the diner afloat. With my money, I'm paying for the repairs.
Jackson, no. You've already done too much. I'm paying. His voice was firm. Final.
This bike is going to be perfect again. Better than before. And when it is, we're going to ride at it. You and me. Right past Warren's office.
Let him see that he didn't break us. Beatric's eyes filled. Why are you doing this? Really? Jackson thought about Diane.
Uh about the promise he'd made, about the photograph upstairs, about everything that had led him to this moment, because Diane loved you, because you deserve better, because Douglas deserves better. " He paused. "And because I need to know I can still be the man Diane believed I was. The man who keeps promises, who fights for what's right, who doesn't run when things get hard. " Beatatrice stood, hugged him. Jackson held her while she cried. For Douglas, for the life she'd lost, for the fear she'd been carrying alone.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For seeing me, for helping, for staying. You're welcome. " They stood in the garage as the sun set. Two people bound by loss and memory and the determination to not let darkness win. The next three days were quiet.
Too quiet. Warren didn't come back. No more vandalism, no more threats, just silence. Jackson didn't trust it. He arranged for the Harley to be transported to Boulder City for the bodywork, paid in cash, asked the shop to call him before they did anything, before they talked to anyone.
"You think someone might try to sabotage the repair? " the shop owner asked. Well, just being careful. The owner, a grizzled man named Pete with oil under his fingernails, studied Jackson. You in some kind of trouble? Maybe.
The bike means something to you. To someone I care about? Pete nodded. I'll take good care of it. Personal guarantee and I won't talk to nobody about it.
Not even if a sheriff comes asking. So anyway, appreciate that. While the Harley was gone, Jackson worked the diner. Morning shifts, afternoon shifts, whatever Beatric needed. He learned the rhythms of the place.
Learned which customers like conversation and which wanted to be left alone. Learned that Betty's son was in the army overseas. That Earl had lost his wife to cancer. That Tom drank his coffee strong because he worked nights at the truck stop. He learned that Holloway's rest wasn't just a diner.
It was a gathering place, a touchstone, the heart of a dying town. On the fourth day, Gideon called, "Boss, I got more on Warren. You're not going to like it. Tell me. " One of the property owners who died, Ruth Sanderson, she filed a complaint with the state police 3 weeks before she died. Said Warren was threatening her, harassing her, trying to force her to sell.
What happened to the complaint? Nothing. It was forwarded to Warren's office for investigation. Let me guess. He investigated himself and found no wrongdoing.