Down the Darkest Road

angry he didn’t trust himself to sit across from Roland Ballencoa.

Bill Hicks took that seat. The sheriff sat at the head of the table, his back straight as a ramrod. He flicked a glance at Mendez, but said nothing. He was angry. The muscles at the back of his jaw were tight. A vein was standing out in his neck. Whatever Ballencoa had to say, there was going to be some serious ass chewing afterward. Cal Dixon ran a tight, clean ship, as straight as the crease in his trousers. Any hint of impropriety was unacceptable to him.

“It’s intimidating to have them here,” Ballencoa said, but he didn’t appear intimidated or afraid, or angry, or upset, or anything else.

“They have a right to face their accuser,” Dixon said crisply. “Anyway, I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding. We can get it straightened out here and now.”

Ballencoa grabbed the messenger bag he had placed on the table in front of him and stuck his hand inside, and everything changed in the blink of an eye.

Bill Hicks shot sideways off his chair. Dixon lunged for Ballencoa’s arm. Mendez pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster and leveled it at Ballencoa, shouting, “DROP IT!!”

Ballencoa didn’t move, except for the big hooded eyes, which went from one man to the next to the next.

“It’s not a weapon,” he said. Now he looked intimidated, his skin taking on a chalky pallor.

By then, there were half a dozen deputies at the door, ready for action.

“I don’t have a weapon,” Ballencoa said again.

Mendez held his position. “Take your hand out of the bag. Empty.”

Cal Dixon slowly let go of the man’s arm, but didn’t take his hand more than a few inches away. “Very slowly, Mr. Ballencoa,” he said.

Ballencoa did as he was told, slowly withdrawing his hand from the messenger bag, fingers spread wide.

The tension level in the room dropped a few degrees. Hicks grabbed hold of the bag’s strap and pulled it out of Ballencoa’s reach.

“Can I look inside, Mr. Ballencoa?”

Ballencoa hesitated, staring at the bag. “Yes,” he said at last.

Hicks looked inside, reached in, and came out with a mini-cassette recorder about the size of a pistol’s grip.

Mendez let the air out of his lungs and stepped back almost reluctantly, sliding his gun back into his holster. His heart was still pumping hard as the adrenaline surge began to subside.

Cal Dixon sat back in his chair, pressing his hands flat on the tabletop as if reestablishing his balance.

Ballencoa was without expression, but his eyes were on his bag and the cassette recorder now lying on top of it.

“If I could have my things back now . . . ,” he said quietly.

Hicks pushed the bag back in his direction.

“Your detectives came knocking on my door this afternoon,” he said to Dixon, “and proceeded to harass and threaten me.”

Dixon turned to Mendez. “Detective Mendez?”

“You’re aware of Mr. Ballencoa’s background,” Mendez said. “And his history regarding Lauren Lawton. I was called to Mrs. Lawton’s home last night because someone had come onto her property and left a photograph on the windshield of her car. She had reason to believe the intruder might be Mr. Ballencoa. Detective Hicks and I went to Mr. Ballencoa’s home to find out where he was during the time in question.”

“I wasn’t even aware the woman is living here,” Ballencoa said.

Mendez laughed out loud. “We’re supposed to believe that? Lauren Lawton moves here, then you move here. That’s supposed to be a coincidence?”

“I didn’t say it was a coincidence,” Ballencoa said. “I said I wasn’t aware the woman is living here. I can’t speak for her.”

“She’s stalking you?” Mendez said.

“I told you, she’s done it before.”

Mendez shook his head and paced, hands jammed at his waist.

“I haven’t committed any crimes, sheriff,” Ballencoa said. “I live a very quiet life—”

“Here or in San Luis?” Hicks asked. “There’s some confusion as to your renting a property there and living here. Why would you do that?”

“It’s none of your business,” Ballencoa said. “Renting multiple properties isn’t against the law, is it?”

“No, sir,” Hicks conceded. “It is suspicious, though.”

“Why would you even know about my house in San Luis Obispo?” Ballencoa asked, suspicious. “I haven’t done anything to warrant being investigated by your department. I consider this harassment—and so will my attorney.”

“You’re a known predator, Mr. Ballencoa,” Mendez pointed out. “You’ve got the record to prove it. We would be remiss in our duties to the citizens of Oak Knoll if we didn’t make it our business to know what you’re suddenly doing here.”

“I made some mistakes when I was a young man,” Ballencoa returned. “I paid my debt to society. I’m now a free man with a right to privacy.

“I’ve had to suffer this kind of treatment before, sheriff,” he said, turning back to Dixon. “I won’t stand for it. I want to file a formal complaint against this man,” he said, pointing at Mendez.

“That seems a little over the top, Mr. Ballencoa,” Dixon said. “I’m sorry if you were . . . inconvenienced . . . but I haven’t really heard anything here that warrants a formal complaint.”

Ballencoa picked up the cassette recorder and pressed the Play button. The voices that came out of the speaker seemed small and tinny, but there was no mistaking who they belonged to.

Dixon listened, his gaze hard on Mendez. Mendez wanted to turn and kick a hole in the wall. He was angry that Ballencoa had the balls to come in here and do this, but he was almost as angry with himself for not keeping a better handle on his temper. He couldn’t argue that he sounded threatening on the tape. He had meant to sound threatening. He had put his own dick in this wringer.

The tape ended. Ballencoa looked at the sheriff.

“That was a threat,” he said. “I won’t stand to be treated that way, Sheriff Dixon. I won’t hesitate to file suit against this department if this kind of thing continues.”

“Now who’s making threats?” Mendez grumbled.

Dixon cut him a hard look, then turned back to Ballencoa. “I apologize on behalf of my office if Detective Mendez came on too strong, Mr. Ballencoa. Your point is taken. I completely agree with you—it’s not our job to pry into the lives of law-abiding citizens.”

Ballencoa was beginning to look pleased with himself.

“On the other hand,” Dixon said, “you do have a record for a serious offense, and there is a . . . unique history involving Mrs. Lawton. I’m sure you can understand—”

“I understand my rights,” Ballencoa said firmly. “I would like to file my complaint and leave.”

There was no talking him out of it. Dixon escorted him out of the conference room. He would take Ballencoa to the desk sergeant to do the paperwork. Mendez watched them go down the hall, waiting for them to turn the corner. As soon as they disappeared, he stepped back into the conference room and shoved a chair on casters so hard across the room that when it hit the wall it sounded like a gun had gone off.

“Fuck! Fucking pervert, child predator, woman stalker has the balls to come in here and complain about me? Fuck that!”

Hicks shrugged and spread his hands, as if to say This is what you get for being an asshole. “He’s smart. He wants a short leash on you.”

Ballencoa’s complaint would go on Mendez’s record. He was building a paper trail for his lawsuit if he decided to file one. A single complaint wouldn’t get him far, but if he accumulated several, he would have established a pattern of behavior.

“He’s building himself a buffer,” Mendez said. “If he can make us back off and keep our distance, he’s got breathing room to do what he wants.”