WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (13 page)

White Tail Lodge

Tuesday Late Morning

The morning rain moved out of Middle Tennessee and was replaced with mostly sunny skies. Brad checked eastbound Highway 64 in his mirror and slowed his truck. The red and white sign on the chain-link fence was right where Arnie said it would be, and Brad turned onto the narrow limestone gravel road.

Brad had driven no more than fifty feet before the transition from the bright sun to the darkness of the dense woods, limited his eyesight. He stopped his truck and turned on the headlights. Even in the middle of the day, the canopy of trees was so dense, the few laser-like rays of sunlight that shot to the floor of the woods failed to light the roadway. Once his pupils adjusted to the darkness, he continued his drive.

The gravel road slalomed around aged trees whose canopies bore much of the spring leaves darkening the woods. The huge Southern Red and Willow Oaks created the thick woods along with Ash and Elm trees.

In the distance ahead, Brad saw a brightly lit area he suspected must be his destination. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find there, but as he drew closer, what he saw was something else. He observed what appeared to be the entrance to a fortress. An eight-foot tall solid wooden fence ran from the roadway in both directions as far as he could see.

His attention was arrested by numerous flashes of sparkling sunlight reflecting from the razor wire running in continuous loops above the top of the fence line. Another wire ran the length of the fence, mounted so that it stood out from the top of the enclosure. It was anchored every six feet by black ceramic insulators.

“Electrified? What the hell is this place?” Brad asked aloud. He was beginning to question his decision to visit the lodge when he spotted two video cameras panning to observe his arrival. The huge double-doors where the roadway met the fence opened away from him revealing two men, each sporting a Heckler & Koch MP45 on a black canvas sling and semi-automatic pistols holstered at their belts. Brad lowered his window for the larger of the two men who had a clipboard in his hand and a questioning look on his face.

Brad nodded his head once.

“What’s your name?” The man said with a gruff expression.

“Brad Evans.”

“Your sponsor?” The guard said without looking up from his clipboard.

Brad wrinkled his brow. “Sponsor?”

“Yeah. Sponsor. Who invited you?”

“Oh, Arnie Nicholson.”

“Arnie?” He looked at Brad then down at the paper.

“Yeah.”

“You got any weapons on board?”

“Arnie told me there would be some shooting contests. He said I should bring them.”

“We log in all weapons brought onto the grounds.”

“You want to see them now?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” the guard said with a sarcastic tone.

Friendly asshole.
Brad opened his door and stepped out of the truck. He pulled the seat back forward and reached for the Starlight cases that held his guns.

“Open ‘em.”

Brad wanted to say ‘No shit’, but thought better of it.

Brad placed the cases flat on the ground, flipped the latches and lifted the lids. As he stood, he saw the other guard open his truck’s passenger door and start searching through the cab of his truck.

“There’s a pistol in the glovebox,” Brad said, trying to prevent any surprises.

“Why do you have a suppressor for this rifle?” The big man barked.

Brad was getting his fill of this cantankerous jerk. “I do contract work—varmint removal. I sometimes work concealed in populated areas after dark. Folks tend to get a little agitated when they hear gunshots in the night, so I take out unwanted animals, quietly.”

The guard looked at Brad for a minute as if to determine whether he was telling the truth or yanking his chain. Then he proceeded to log the descriptions and serial numbers from each of Brad’s long guns. He stood and stepped back. He looked at Brad, still unsure of his story.

“You can put ‘em away now.”

Brad closed the cases and returned them to the truck.

The other guard completed his search and was hugging his H&K as he delivered his log of Brad’s Sig Sauer pistol to the big guard.

“I need to pat you down,” The guard said, standing poised as if ready for a fight.

“I’m not armed.”

“I
still
have to pat you down.” The guard stared into Brad’s eyes.

Brad took a large breath and let it out. He wasn’t happy about this, but he didn’t want to reflect badly on Arnie. He faced the guard, and held his arms out parallel with the ground.

The guard dropped his clipboard on the ground and frisked Brad.

“Okay,” the guard said, pointing to the truck. He collected his clipboard and made another notation.

Brad climbed into the truck and closed the door. He looked at the big guard for some sign of approval to enter the compound. He was still writing on his clipboard. The man finally looked up, raised his arm and pointed.

“You see the parking lot there on this side of the old house?” the guard asked.

“Yeah,” Brad said, without taking his eyes off the guard.

“That’s where you need to park.”

“Got it.” Brad accelerated while still watching the guard. He was grateful to be finished with the less than congenial welcoming committee.

He pulled into a space close to the building and as he closed the truck’s door he glanced back at the big gate and the big ass that had checked him in. He locked his truck and began his search for Arnie.

Brad had decided to wear a new western shirt and jeans with, what he referred to as his dancing boots. The shirt was one that Julie bought him not long before her death. He had not worn it before today. Brad had no plans to dance, but he felt close to Julie wearing the last clothes she had bought for him.

As he walked from the parking lot he could hear loud music and kids laughing. These were sounds he had not heard for quite a while. He and Julie used to go out for dinner and a little boot scootin’ on Saturday nights. She always enjoyed those special evenings and Brad was content anytime Julie was happy. So many things in his solitary life caused him to miss her. He even missed doing his poor excuse for the Texas Two-Step, but he would never admit that to anyone.

“Brad.”

Brad turned to see Arnie approaching with an attractive middle-aged lady in tow. It was Sheila.

“Man, it’s great you could come.”

Brad smiled and shook Arnie’s hand.

“Same here Brad,” Sheila said. “Welcome to the White Tail Lodge.” Sheila held out both arms and gave Brad a hug. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it sure has. Thanks for the invite.”

“The competitions start at two,” Arnie said. “Did you bring your guns?”

“Oh, I might have a couple in the truck,” Brad said.

“Great. Come on, Brad,” Arnie said. “Let’s get some sweet tea, and pitch some horse shoes.”

“Oh, please,” Sheila said, shaking her head. “Ever since he put in those pits behind the house, he thinks he’s an expert.”

“Come on, babe,” Arnie said. “Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to hustle the man? Help me out here.”

Brad and Arnie both laughed.

Sheila rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. “Men,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going back inside with the girls.”

“Okay, Hon, I’ll come show you my winnings in a few minutes.” Arnie looked at Brad as they walked away. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I understand,” Brad said.

“Oh—sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Arnie dropped his head.

“No, don’t apologize,” Brad said. “Don’t ever apologize for loving your wife. You appreciate your wife. That’s good. I appreciated mine. I’m lucky to have had her as long as I did.”

Arnie nodded.

“So, show me your horseshoe tossing form,” Brad said, trying to change the subject.

Arnie perked up. “You’re on, buddy.”

The two old friends had been playing about thirty minutes when Brad asked, “Arnie, what kind of place is this lodge?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know of any men’s lodge anywhere with armed guards watching over electrified perimeter fencing. What’s the deal?”

Arnie turned to Brad with a serious look and asked, “Have you ever heard of TARPA?”

“TARPA? I don’t think so.”

“It stands for The Alliance for the Racial Purification of America.”

“Racial purification? What the hell does that mean?”

“We believe America was founded by a group of white Christian men who intended for this country to remain for white Christians, not for every alien who wants to escape his current predicament and sponge off all our hard-working, tax-paying, and law-abiding citizens.”

“I guess I can understand that perspective.”

“I knew you’d feel that way.”

“How else can I feel? The bastard who killed Julie is probably in the U.S. illegally. If he is, and if I know our government, he’s probably getting a welfare check. He’s got a public defender fighting for his freedom and both the sons of bitches are getting paid with my taxes.”

“That’s exactly the kind of injustice we’re battling,” Arnie said.

Brad nodded his head. “Good for you.”

Forty-five minutes and two horseshoe matches later the reunited friends decided to grab some barbeque and prepare for the shooting competition.

“Man, this is some fine barbeque,” Brad said.

“Two of our men cook it right here on the property. We’ve got a large pit out behind the mess hall that’ll cook ten pork shoulders at a time.”

“What
don’t
you have here?”

“Not much. When you’ve got over six hundred acres to work with, there’s room for everything you need.”

“I noticed several other buildings, and some of them look like apartments,” Brad said.

“Those are dormitories where the men sleep who are here for training.”

“What kind of training?”

“We have training sessions throughout the year in various disciplines important to our cause. Our people usually spend some vacation time and weekends participating in these sessions.”

“What are some of the courses?”

“Some I’m sure you’ve been involved in during your military career: Hand-to-Hand Combat, Survival Skills, Small Arms and Rifle Weaponry, Conventional and Unconventional Explosives, Defensive and Offensive Driving Skills. They’re all pretty interesting.”

“It sounds like it.”

“With your Army experience, you could teach them.” Arnie laughed.

“I
have
taught a couple when I was in Iraq.” Brad smiled. “What time is the competition?”

“Oh shit,” Arnie said, checking the time and grabbing his tea. “We gotta go.”

The shotgun was not Brad’s weapon of choice. Use of this gun required the shooter to be relatively close to his target—not a strong tactical position when the target was an adversary who might also be armed. However, Brad had owned a Remington Model 870 twelve-gauge pump for years, and he had done enough dove and quail hunting to be every bit as proficient as most other shooters. He felt capable of holding his own in any shooting competition.

“Anyone who can take their limit of fifteen doves can hit flying clay targets,” Brad said. “Unlike doves, clay targets don’t make forty-five degree turns in midair. Hell, the damn targets are red. Just watch ‘em and then shoot where they’re gonna be when the buckshot gets there.”

When the thunderous shotgun contest was finished, Brad had grabbed second place behind Buddy Westmoreland, who’d won the lodge’s shotgun competition for the last four years. Runner-up status paid Brad fifty dollars.

The rifle competition required participants to fire at twelve-inch targets fifty yards down range with .22 caliber rifles using standard long rifle ammo. All rifles used were required to have iron sights only, no optics allowed. Shooters were asked to fire ten shots each from three positions: standing, kneeling and prone. Brad won this easily by placing all 30 rounds within the fourth ring from the target’s bull’s eye. For his flawless efforts, he collected one hundred dollars.

The competition leading up to the handgun finals had been fierce, lasting over three and a half hours. The thirty-four contenders were required to shoot 9 millimeter or 40 caliber ammunition using a semi-automatic pistol of their choosing. All handguns were inspected by the judges.

The list was now whittled down to three shooters who were scheduled to compete in the handgun finals. The names of the three finalists had been posted and spectators were choosing their favorites. Darryl Miles, Glenn Prater & Brad Evans would be competing for the day’s final prize, two hundred dollars cash.

Brad wasn’t sure who Miles was, but Arnie told him Prater was the big guard who’d cleared him at the gate. That piece of news was what Brad called
motivation.

After much anticipation by the White Tail Lodge members and their families, Ross Pruitt, Operations Director for the lodge, stepped to the microphone to explain the rules.

“May I have your attention?”

After a moment, everyone quieted.

“I hope you are all enjoying your day. We’re glad you all could be here.”

The crowd cheered briefly.

“This year’s handgun finals competition will be unlike any we’ve had in past years.” Pruitt smiled. “This year, the finals will consist of a series of handgun-related tasks. Performance of these tasks, as well as the accuracy of the shooting itself will be timed. Gentlemen, if you will remove your personal side arms and hand them to the judges, I’d like you all to step up to the three tables here before me.”

The men relinquished the pistols which had helped them reach the top three spots in the contest and took their assigned positions behind the tables.

“The tasks involved in today’s contest include the following: Each of you must field-strip a forty caliber Glock Model Nineteen down to its five basic parts and then place them on the table in front of you. Once this step has been completed and confirmed by your judge, you will reassemble your pistols, load ten rounds into the empty magazine, insert the magazine, cock the weapon, and place as many rounds as you can within the rings of a twelve inch target mounted twenty-five yards away.”