Who gets in a bar fight in the middle of the afternoon?

Surprisingly, the bar was brightly lit inside, and he had a clear view of two men wrestling on the floor. A few bystanders idly watched.

“Hey, Chief.” The owner, Doug “the Brick” Breneman, appeared at his side, looking unconcerned about the brawling men. The Brick had been his wrestling name in Portland in the 1980s, when Portland Wrestling was on TV every week. He had been a local celebrity back then, and he was still built like a brick. Rectangular bald head, thick neck, and barrel torso. People had never stopped calling him Brick.

“What happened?” Truman asked.

“Dunno,” said Brick. “It’s the Moody brothers, Clint and Ryan.” He pointed at the men. “The one in the red shirt is Clint. They’re both pissed as hell at each other, which isn’t anything new. I tried to separate them, but I’m not as young as I used to be. Got back issues, so I turned up the lights. Usually that will stop a fight, but it didn’t work this time.”

Truman scanned the room, checking for anyone who looked as if they would cause a problem if he separated the two men. His gaze stopped on Owen Kilpatrick, Mercy’s brother. His surprise at seeing Owen was compounded with relief at the knowledge that the man would have Truman’s back if trouble arose. Brick would too.

Truman strode to the fighting men. Clint had a grip on Ryan’s ear, attempting to slam his head into the floor. Ryan was kicking and punching but landing few blows. “Police! Break it up!”

The men continued as if they hadn’t heard. The brothers were muscular and fit, but Truman had an advantage because both were severely inebriated.

“I said break it up!” Truman grabbed Clint’s shoulder and yanked him backward. He landed on his back, his head bouncing off the floor.

Shit.

Ryan lunged for Clint, but Truman knocked his legs out from under him, making the man land on his chest. “I said that’s enough!” He planted a foot on the center of the man’s back and pointed at Clint. “Stay right there!” He noted Owen and Brick had both moved within an arm’s distance of Clint, ready to keep him from diving at Ryan under Truman’s foot. He lowered himself to a knee on Ryan’s back, and told him to spread his arms out on the floor and then bring the right one behind his back. Truman cuffed one wrist and asked for the other arm, which he promptly secured.

“I didn’t do anything!” Ryan protested.

“Bullshit,” said Brick. “Now shut up.”

Truman left the man on the floor on his stomach and turned to Clint. “On your stomach, arms out.”

“But Chief—”

“Now. This is for my own safety.”

Clint shot him a dirty look and laid his sweaty face down on the floor. Truman tried not to think about the filth of the tavern’s floor. Clint followed Truman’s orders and was quickly cuffed. Truman exhaled, letting go of some tension. Police work was full of what-ifs. His training had taught him to be prepared for any issue, how to study behavior and movements to anticipate a suspect’s next move, and that even a simple face-to-face discussion could turn deadly. People were insulted when the cuffs went on, but that was how it worked.

Truman went back to Ryan. The man turned his head, struggling to make eye contact from his prone position on the floor, clearly drunk.

“What happened here, Ryan?” Truman asked.

“Nothin’,” Ryan spit out. “My brother is an asshole!”

“You swung at me first!” Clint yelled back.

“That’s bullshit!”

“You’re the bigger asshole!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Both of you shut up,” Truman ordered. He hauled Ryan to a sitting position, noting how the man swayed, and then did the same with Clint. Truman couldn’t decide which man was more drunk. He turned to Brick. “You filing charges?”

“Nothing’s broke.”

Truman had figured that would be Brick’s answer.

After a quick pat down, Truman said, “I need to see IDs from both of you.” After some awkward maneuvering due to the men sitting on their wallets and having their hands cuffed, Truman finally opened the first wallet. He found a diplomatic card identical to the one he’d been shown by Joshua Forbes but with Clint Moody’s name and photo. He looked at Clint and showed him the ID. “This all you got?”

The man squinted blearily at the card. “Nah, that’s just a joke. My regular license is in there.”

Truman found a legitimate Oregon driver’s license. Clint was twenty-eight.

“Told you not to carry that crap,” Ryan told his brother. “It’s illegal.”

“Shut up!” Clint shot back. He looked nervously at Truman. “Like I said, it’s just for fun.”

Truman checked Ryan’s wallet next. No diplomatic card. Just a normal license. He was thirty.

“These are expensive.” Truman held up the fake ID. “I’d like to know where you got it.”

“A friend gave it to me. He didn’t charge me anything.”

“What’s that friend’s name?”

Clint looked away.

Truman bit his cheek at Clint’s stubborn silence. Does he not realize he’s sitting on the floor in cuffs and about to go to jail? He sighed. There was no point in arguing when the men were clearly inebriated.

Eagle’s Nest officer Samuel Robb pulled open the bar door and entered at that moment.

“Damn. I missed the fun,” the buzz-cut, brawny officer said as he took in the two men on the floor. “What do you have?”

Truman briefed him on the fight and fake license. “I want them locked up until they’re coherent.”

Samuel nodded. “Will do. I got this one.” He grabbed Clint’s arm and easily hauled him to his feet. “This way, princess.” The two men disappeared out the door.

Ryan sat silently, his head down, still swaying. Truman hoped he wouldn’t puke in the back seat when he drove him in.

“Nice job.” Owen approached and shook Truman’s hand.

“Thanks.” The simple fact that Owen approved of Truman’s police work was a big sign of the change in Mercy’s brother. He’d been suspicious of police and government all his life. Enough to make him rub shoulders with a growing militia several months ago. He’d learned from his mistake and had grudgingly also accepted his sister as a federal officer.

“I heard Joshua Forbes will be arraigned tomorrow,” Owen commented, his words casual but his eyes alert as he studied Truman.

“I heard that too,” said Brick.

“Word travels fast.”

“He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” added Owen.

“I noticed that,” said Truman. “You know him well?”

Owen shrugged. “Everyone knows the Forbeses.”

“Not me.”

“They try to stay under the radar,” said Owen. “His dad had a few run-ins with the courts and police back in the day. He’s in a wheelchair now, and that’s reined him in. But Joshua seems to be following in his footsteps.”

Brick nodded. “Right here in this bar, I’ve overheard him try to convince people about the straw man theory. He’s pretty fervent in his beliefs.”

“People fall for it?” asked Truman.

“Hard to say,” answered Brick. “It’s easy to get people’s attention when you tell them they’re not legally obligated to pay taxes and that the government actually owes them money. Making the life change is a difficult commitment, but sometimes people are just hungry and desperate for answers. No taxes sounds like heaven.”

“Have you seen these?” Truman showed Owen and Brick the fake diplomatic license. “I’d like to find the supplier.”

Owen grinned. “You arrested the supplier the other day.”

“Joshua Forbes made it?” Truman was surprised.

“Yep. Sells them too,” said Brick. “Makes a pretty penny, I believe.”

Truman nudged Ryan with his boot. “Is that who your brother got this from? Joshua Forbes?”

Ryan wobbled and nearly tipped over. “I don’t know where he got it. He doesn’t tell me shit, and he’s an idiot for carrying it around.”

Truman scowled, wondering if he could get forgery added to the charges against Joshua Forbes. “Glad to hear you weren’t sucked into this scam, Owen.”

Mercy’s brother looked grim. “I stay away from big talkers now. Besides, everyone knows those aren’t legal. Well, everyone but the sovereign citizens who want to believe.”

“Good.”

Ryan suddenly fell to one side and moaned. Truman jumped backward as the man vomited where Truman’s boots had been a split second earlier.

Truman’s stomach heaved at the odor, and Brick cursed like the professional wrestler he’d been.

Better here than in my vehicle.

TEN

Two miles away from the scene at the Hartlage house, Mercy parked at the closest neighbor’s home. Kenneth Forbes’s house strongly resembled the Hartlages’, but there was a long ramp to the front door. An ancient sedan without license plates sat beside the home, weeds growing around its tires.

Does he live alone?

Earlier a deputy had briefly visited Kenneth Forbes, returned to the Hartlage crime scene, and reported that Forbes believed Corrine Hartlage’s brother had lived in the home with the family, but didn’t know his name.

“What else did he tell you?” Mercy had asked the deputy. “When did Mr. Forbes see them last? Has he been by the farm recently?”

The deputy had looked at his feet and shuffled them. “He wasn’t very cooperative, ma’am. And he’s disabled. I didn’t want to pressure him.”

Mercy had exchanged a look with Detective Bolton. The deputy was very young. “I’ll go talk to Mr. Forbes,” Mercy stated.

Still in her vehicle, Mercy looked at the cat, who’d curled up on the passenger seat and gone immediately to sleep. I thought cats hated cars.