He slid his gun into his holster along with a couple of other items and headed out to do some digging. And he was going to start with these guys.
Because on one side of the truck was painted a symbol he’d never seen before. It was a K and an A set at forty-five-degree angles from one another.
Robie paused on the street to eyeball the truck. The driver was still sitting in the front cab. It looked like he was reading a book.
Maybe Mein Kampf, thought Robie. Brushing up on his hatred and intolerance.
Robie passed by the truck and let his peripheral vision do a screen shot of the driver. He was young, maybe early twenties. He was lean with a shaved head, on which Robie could see tats of the same K and A set at angles. All the other men had shaved heads as well. And they probably had similar tats.
He looked to his left and saw Valerie Malloy leaning against a column holding up the porch in front of the police station. He nodded to her. She inclined her head back at him. Derrick Bender was nowhere to be seen.
With one last glance at her, Robie walked into the Walleye Bar.
The space was large and half full. Low tables with chairs were in the center of the room; high tables with seating for two or four ringed this main area. The bar was set against the far wall and had seating, too. It was about twenty feet long and made of mahogany. Two bartenders were manning it. Beh
ind them were multiple rows of liquor bottles stacked on shelves.
The young men from the truck had pushed two tables together and were ordering from a tawny-haired, slim waitress around forty who seemed to know them, and she looked like she would rather be any other place on earth than in the same room with them.
Robie walked over to the bar, sat on a stool, and ordered a beer.
He could see the group without turning around due to the large mirror behind the bar.
They were loud, annoying, and they acted like they owned the place.
So in addition to being possible skinheads they were dickheads.
Well, then again, you probably couldn’t have one without the other.
When the bartender, a man in his fifties with a crown of graying hair around a dome of skin, brought him his beer, Robie said, “The freak show over there? Where do they call home?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m sorry if they’re friends of yours.”
The man snorted. “The day I call them friends is the day they can lock me up in the loony bin.”
Robie reached into his pocket and showed the man his badge. “That’s my interest,” he said.
The man quickly glanced over at the men and then back at Robie. “I don’t think even the Feds want to mess with those guys. They’re badasses.”
“We have our share of badasses with the good guys,” Robie pointed out.
“Well, I’m just seeing one of you and eight of them.”
“I consider that an even fight.”
The man grinned until he saw that Robie was serious.
Robie said, “What’s the K and A stand for?”
“King’s Apostles.”
“Okay. And are they the ones with some sort of compound?”
The bartender nodded and said, “Fifteen miles east of town, straight line on the main road. Can’t miss it.”
“So in the same direction as the cabin owned by Roark Lambert?”
The bartender took a rag and started wiping the bar. “So you’re here about that Walton fellow gone missing.”
“I am. You think the skinheads could have done that?”
“I can’t tell you they didn’t. And we got neo-Nazis in the area, but just so you know, this bunch here don’t consider themselves skinheads.”
“So what do they consider themselves?”
“Enlightened. And they don’t cause any trouble, really. They just don’t like anything about the government. They can get pretty vocal about it. They’re their own law. But they keep to themselves, thank God.”
“How long have they been around here?”
The bartender wrung out the rag over the sink. “About three years.”
“Who started it?”
“Dude named Doctor King. He’s the letter K in the K and A, in case you’re wondering.”
“So is he a doctor?”
“No, you don’t understand, his first name, he says, is Doctor. He rolled into town, set up camp a few miles out. He started making his rounds, doing some preaching, or so he called it. Then he started up a little business. Mentoring, he said it was. Printed up pamphlets and fliers and kept talking away, mostly to the young men around here who got nothing in their future ’cept the next beer, chick, or bong. Well, before anybody could really see what was happening, he’d built this big outpost and eventually all them men went to live and work there.”
“How do they get by? Where’s the money come from? Drinks for that crew don’t come cheap.”
The bartender pointed a finger at him. “Now there’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, man.”
“Drugs, guns? Human trafficking?”
“Maybe your Mr. Walton?”
“No, I mean the one your parents gave you.”
He said hesitantly, as though he hadn’t spoken the name in a long time, “Bruce.”
“Okay, Bruce, I’m Will Robie.”
Bruce looked back over his shoulder and the men were now staring hostilely at him.
When he turned back to look at Robie, Bruce swallowed nervously. “I…I better get back…”