Chapter 9: The Plan
On Wednesday morning, Sheriff Carl Benson sat in his office with the door closed and spread Maggie's photographs across his desk. Beside him sat a state trooper named Daniels, a calm woman with twenty years on the highway patrol, and his senior deputy, Mark Halloway. The three of them studied the photographs, the plate numbers, and Maggie's notes, and by the time they were done, nobody doubted that something criminal was happening at the Beckett farm.
"We need a warrant," Daniels said. "A judge will want more than photographs, but the plates alone will give us enough. Two of those trucks were reported stolen last month. That ties Beckett to a theft ring, and that gives us the barn."
Benson nodded. He had already called the county judge, a fair-minded woman who had known Maggie Holloway for thirty years, and she had agreed to review the application that afternoon. "I want this done right," Benson said. "No shortcuts. We go in at dawn, when the crew is sleepy. We block the road at both ends. We take Beckett and his men into custody, and we get those riders out of there safe. Nobody gets hurt if I can help it."
That afternoon, his phone rang, and the voice on the other end introduced himself as Big Jim Callahan, president of the Iron Prairie club. Benson had braced himself for trouble, but the big man was polite and direct. He said his men were missing, that Maggie Holloway had called him, and that the club was riding to help. "Sheriff," Big Jim said, "we are not coming to cause trouble. We are coming to stand behind you. Our boys are in that barn, and we want to be there when they walk out of it."
Benson was quiet for a moment. He had dealt with riding clubs before, and he knew that some of them meant trouble. But he also knew that a man who calls the sheriff before he rides is a man who wants things done the right way. "Mr. Callahan," he said, "I appreciate the call. Here is what I need from you. Your people stay at the edge of town. You do not go near the Beckett place. You let my deputies and the troopers do the work. When it is over, your men will be brought to you, and you can take them home."
"You have my word, Sheriff," Big Jim said. "We will be at the diner on Main Street, drinking coffee, and we will not move until you tell us to."
After the call, Benson sat back and allowed himself a small sigh of relief. The plan was coming together. The warrant would be signed by evening. The troopers would arrive before dawn. The riders would wait in town, peaceful and patient. And Maggie Holloway, who had started all of this with a camera and a promise, would stay home and stay safe, or so he hoped.
Benson had called the county judge that morning, and the judge had come to the office herself to look at Maggie's evidence. She was a fair-minded woman in her sixties, who had known Maggie Holloway for thirty years, and she asked careful questions: where the photographs were taken, how Maggie had gotten the plate numbers, whether anyone had been threatened. Benson answered them all honestly, and showed her the stolen-truck reports that matched two of the plates. The judge studied the photographs for a long time, then nodded and signed the warrant. "Carl," she said, "you bring those men out of there safe. And you bring me Roy Beckett, too." Benson promised he would, and he folded the warrant into his jacket pocket with the care of a man carrying something precious.
Out on the highway, Big Jim Callahan and his club were riding in formation, two by two, their headlights cutting through the afternoon sun. They had left before dawn, and they stopped only for gas, in a small town where a waitress asked them where they were headed. "To bring our boys home," Big Jim said, and the waitress nodded as if she understood, and filled their coffee cups without another word. The riders were somber and determined. They had heard Maggie's story, and they had seen the photographs, and every man among them was thinking about his own brothers, chained in a dark barn, waiting for someone to come. They rode through the afternoon and into the evening, and the miles fell away beneath them, and the town of Millbrook drew closer with every turn of the wheels.
That night, Benson gathered his deputies and the visiting troopers in the office, and spread a map of the Beckett farm across the table. He assigned the roadblocks, one at each end of the county road, and the team that would enter the barn, and the team that would secure the house. He said it twice, and then a third time, so that everyone understood: nobody was to fire unless lives were in danger, Beckett's men were to be taken alive, and the riders in the barn were to be brought out safe, whatever it took. The men and women in the room nodded. They were professionals, and they had done this before, but there was something different about this night, something that made them sit a little straighter. They were not just serving a warrant. They were answering a promise made by a seventy-six-year-old schoolteacher, and none of them intended to let her down. She listened carefully, Biscuit at her feet, and when he was finished she said only, "Thank you, Carl. Those men will be free by tomorrow, and that is all I wanted." Benson looked at her, this seventy-six-year-old schoolteacher who had done what a dozen men had failed to do, and he shook his head in wonder. "Maggie," he said, "if this works, this town is going to owe you a great deal." She smiled, and said the town owed her nothing, and that she had only done what anyone would have done. Benson knew better, but he did not argue. He drove back to town under a sky full of stars, and for the first time in days, he felt hopeful.