This story originally appeared in the March 2004 issue of Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
Inquest
By
Michael A. Black
I was staring at my reflection in the mirror, trying to decide whether or not to shave on my first day of vacation when my father called to tell me that the Redman had died. The Redman was one of his old buddies from the Marine Corps. Around half a century ago they'd shivered together in the frozen cold of Korea to defend the Changjin Reservoir.
"Sorry to hear that, Dad. Anything I can do?"
"Well, yeah, Tom." I could hear the hesitancy in his voice.
"What?" I asked.
"It's kind of strange. A few weeks ago I got this registered letter from Red naming me executor of his will, along with a note asking me to take care of old Feller if anything happened to him."
Feller was the Redman's dog. A big half boxer-half shepherd.
"We can take my truck," I said. "How soon you want to leave?"
Within forty minutes we were on the interstate heading south. I'd only met the Redman a handful of times. The first was right after I'd gotten back from Operation Desert Storm back in '92. My dad and I drove down there to relax a little before I started my new job as a cop. Red, a bantam rooster-sized man who'd gotten his name from a wiry crop of reddish hair when he was younger, had opened the hospitality of his house-trailer to us, and we'd spent an idyllic week swapping stories about the marine corps, fishing in the Ohio River, and drinking a whole lot more beer than we should have. The pace of things was a lot different down there, and I'd even briefly thought about maybe making it permanent. If my academy date hadn't already been set, I might have seriously considered it. We'd taken a few more trips down there in the intervening years, and knew a few of the people in the town, Elizabethville, including Dale Marshal, who worked for the Massac County Sheriff's Department.
My dad had been silent, just looking out the window at the rows of green crops in the ubiquitous farm land that ran adjacent to the interstate.
"So what happened to the Redman?" I asked finally.
He sighed and shook his head.
"Don't know. Dale called me early this morning. Seems a neighbor found Red in the woods near his trailer. Looks like maybe a heart attack."
"He have a heart condition?"
"Not that I know of," my dad said with a shrug. "Guess none of us are getting any younger though." He smiled slightly. "We had a reunion planned for next month too. Old Red, he sure loved that dog of his. Used to bring him with where ever he went."
There were just enough unanswered questions about this whole thing to give me an uneasy feeling. Call it cop instinct, but I was doubly glad that my Glock 21 and pancake holster were stashed in the glove compartment. "Where's Feller at now?"
"The neighbor's watching him, I think," he said. "You remember that guy named Doc Weems? Came up on a visit with Red last year."
I nodded as memories of Weems, a short, squat man with an unshaven look and a boozy redolence floated through my mind's eye. My dad had told me that, according to the Redman, Weems had once been a very smart and successful chemist. But then the booze had gotten to him.
We stopped for gas midway between Champaign and Mattoon, which was around the halfway point. Elizabethville was all the way down state, near the Illinois/Kentucky border, and my previous trips had reminded me that it was a lot closer to Paducah than Chicago. A couple of hours later we passed Marion, where the notorious Federal Prison was, and by the time we were going through the Shawanee National Forest the late September sky was showing signs of dusk.
Elizabethville sprang up off of Highway 45 about forty minutes later. The town consisted of one main street, with clusters of houses on either side. There was a big farming equipment store, several smaller stores, a few restaurants, and a VFW Post. Most of the industry down here centered on agrarian concerns, and the town had grown in population to around two thousand. The Massac County Sheriff's Office was located down the street from the funeral parlor.
"Let's stop in there first," Dad said, pointing to the metal sign hanging from a solid looking wooden crossbeam in front of a large two-story wooden house. It said, Blood's Funeral Home. "I talked to that guy on the phone this morning."
I pulled up to the curb and got out to stretch. The ride down had been long and tedious, and I was less than thrilled to be at our destination. It wasn't the way I'd intended to spend my vacation. We walked up the steps to the house, which was painted a flat white color with black trim. The front porch area was screened in, and the interior door stood open. I could hear the sounds of a television from somewhere inside. My father rang the bell. Someone stirred. Presently, a tall, solemn looking man in his forties with slicked back dark hair came to the door. He looked at us questioningly.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I'm Andrew Case. This is my son, Tom," my dad said. "We're here about Red Bannon. We came down from Chicago."
The man opened the screen door, smiled, and said, "Come in. I'm Howard Blood, the mortician."
The three of us went down a narrow hallway with Blood in the lead. He moved like a big bear, plodding along on long legs that seemed incongruously attached to a short upper body. Framed eight-by-ten pictures hung along the paneled walls depicted the same house at various times in the past, ranging from the grainy black and whites with Model T Fords in front to a few color pictures from the 70's and 80's. I didn't notice anything more current.
"I have Red in my morgue," Blood said over his shoulder. "Of course I'm going to need a down payment of at least half the funeral expenses before I can begin preparation." He turned into an office at the end of the hall and went behind a large wooden desk. More pictures and certificates decorated the walls and a large window, with the shade drawn, was on the right. The dark paneling went from floor to ceiling giving the place an almost claustrophobic ambiance. Blood pulled out a file envelope and withdrew a paper. "We'll also have to decide on the type of coffin and services you want."
Dad gave Mr. Blood a check, and, after making the preliminary decisions, we told him we'd be back in the next day.
"It was a long drive down," my father said.
Blood nodded in commiserating fashion. "Everything should be in order by tomorrow. I'll have the death certificate ready in the morning."
"Death certificate?" I said. "Doesn't the Medical Examiner take care of that?"
Blood's dark eyes peered at me.
"Down here we have a Coroner," he said. "I did an examination, and consider it a natural death."
"You did the examination?" I asked. "Wasn't there an autopsy?"
Blood shook his head. "There was nothing suspicious about his passing. No signs of trauma whatsoever."
"I see," I said. "Who is the coroner for Massac County anyway?"
"I am," he said. "And I saw no need for an inquest."
"I thought you were the undertaker?"
"Actually, I'm both," he said smiling. "Do you have any further concerns?" We shook hands and headed toward the door.
"You want me to drop you at the bed-and-breakfast place, Dad? I'm going to run over to see if Dale is on duty yet."
Blood's head perked up.
"Oh, you know the sheriff?" he asked.
"He's a friend of ours," I said. "I'm a cop up in Chicago. Just wanted to touch bases with him. Case on the case."
Blood nodded thoughtfully, his expression still dour. But I figured he didn't need an outgoing personality. After all, he wasn't about to run out of potential customers. And he appeared to be the only game in town.
"The sheriff has the keys to the trailer," he said, "I assume, since Red had no immediate family, that you'll be handling his estate?"
"Right," my dad said.
Besides getting a quick hug from Joyce, the dispatcher, my stop at the sheriff's office was uneventful. Dale, who was working a six-to-two shift, had already hit the street and had a call waiting for him.
"An ammon-nitrate theft at one of the farms," Joyce told me.
"What the hell's that?"
She grinned. "Ammonium nitrate," she said, her southern Illinois accent drawing out the diphthong. "They steal it all the time down here to make methamphetamine."
I raised my eyebrows. "We deal mostly with crack and heroin up where I'm at. Not much meth."
"It's a-coming," Joyce said. A unit called her for a license check and I discreetly waved a good-bye after telling her to have Dale call us at the place we were staying. I rode back to the bed-and-breakfast, which was really just a big house with a lot of extra rooms, and found my dad sitting alone upstairs.
"What's up?" I asked as I walked in.
He shook his head. "Just thinking about the Redman. Did I ever tell you about the time..."
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to him talk about a few of the stories from their Marine Corps days that I'd actually heard more times than I could count. After a while Dad began to yawn and I realized the long drive down had taken a lot more out of him than it had out of me. But I was used to riding around and working nights.
"I was going to ask you if you wanted to hit that bar for a cold one, but you look bushed," I said.
"You're going to go out drinking on a weeknight?" he asked skeptically.
"Yeah, well, it is my vacation, Dad."
He smiled. "Yeah, I suppose it is. You go ahead, Tom. I'm going to get some sleep."
The Do Drop Inn was within walking distance, but I decided to drive anyway. Hell, everything was within walking distance in this town. I parked in the expansive gravel lot and strolled over to the door. The weather was still so mild that only the screen door was shut. Inside I could see a television flickering amongst the colorful lights of twisted neon and the haze of cigarette smoke. The place was divided into two separate rooms. One had the bar, a few tables, and a big old-fashioned jukebox. A couple of pinball games were by the windows. To the left a chest-high divider and an adjacent doorway led into the second room with a pool table. A few guys, biker types, were engaged in a game. I went to the bar and took a stool near the TV. The Cardinals were playing the Cubs, and after getting a cold beer I settled in to watch.
I quickly began to realize that everybody was rooting for the Cards, which meant that more than just accents separated me from them. But it was logical since they lived a lot closer to St. Louis than Chicago. I kept my mouth shut, except to order a refill and some chips. I noticed one of the waitresses giving me the eye. She was dark-haired and looked to be in her early twenties, with her blouse tied Shania Twain style exposing a tight midriff. She delivered a couple of drinks to the guys playing pool, then stopped and parked herself on the stool next to me.
"You're here about Old Red, ain't you?" she asked.
I grinned and nodded.
She smiled. "Your accent gave you away."
"Did you know Red?"
She smiled again. It was a very nice smile. "Everybody knows everybody down in these parts." She canted her head. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Being a cop, I get asked that question often, so I was ready for her.
"Of course I do. I arrested you, right?"
That got me a laugh.
"You came down here right after you got out of the Army. After the Gulf War, right?"
"Right, but I was in the Marines." I tried to think of who she was. She must have seen my uncertainty.
"I'm Lisa Miller. We were over at Red's that time you came down with your daddy."
She made it sound so natural that I couldn't believe I'd missed it. But then again, she'd matured considerably in the intervening years.
"Hey, girl," the bartender said, sidling over. "I ain't paying you to sit and talk."
Lisa heaved a theatric sigh and stood up. "I'll try to make it to the service," she said as she moved away. I let my eyes follow her movement and that's when I noticed one of the good-sized motorcycle dudes staring at me from in the poolroom. He looked about twenty-five with the slicked back hair, solid arms, and facial sneer of a farm-town bully. Probably was the star quarterback on the high school football team. Who knows, maybe he was still the star of the high school team. I figured it was time to drink up and leave. The Cardinals were winning anyway.
I left a tip on the bar and began heading for the door. Just as I got there, the sneering biker guy bumped into me.
"Hey, why don't you watch where you're going?" he said. "You see that, Elmer?" Over his shoulder I could see a leering, scaled down version wearing an identical dirty Levi jacket with the sleeves cut off and the same motorcycle gang colors. Sort of like a hillbilly "Mini-Me."
"Sorry," I said, remembering that I was still a stranger in a strange land, and my Glock was locked in my truck.
His hand gripped my shoulder.
"What's your problem, city boy?" he said. I could smell the heavy scent of booze on his breath.
"Hey, Willard," the bartender called out behind us. "I don't want no trouble in here."
"Me either," I said, pushing his hand away and going out the screen door.
Willard and Elmer piled out the door behind me. I stopped and let them get in front so I could keep my back to the wall. Elmer grinned showing a conspicuous gap between his front teeth, which I hoped was a testament to his fighting ability.
"Now," Willard said, "suppose you tell me what you was talking to my girl about in there?" He had a thick chain belt around his waist.
"I ain't your girl anymore," I heard Lisa say over my shoulder. She was coming out of the bar, as were several of the other locals. I guess the possibility of seeing me get knocked around took precedence over the shellacking that the Cards were giving the Cubs.
"Go on, git back inside," Willard said to her.
I was debating my chances of making it to the truck to get the Glock so I could end this farce with just a show of force. But the chances of unlocking it, then unlocking the glove box before they did the bum's rush were slim and none. And slim had left town.
But suddenly I didn't need to worry about making the attempt as their heads quickly turned at the crunching sound of tires over gravel. The white Ford pulled up, Massac County Sheriff in bold blue letters outlined in tan across the front fender. The driver's door opened and I watched Dale Marshal, all six feet four of him, step out, drop his nightstick through the metal ring on his pistol belt, square his dark cowboy hat on his head, grab his big metal flashlight, and amble over to us. The crowd began to evaporate quicker than steam from a teakettle.
"Willard, Elmer," Dale said. "What did I tell you two about causing trouble?"
"He started it," Willard said, his voice taking on a high whine. He must have sensed that it was over because he cocked his head toward Elmer, and they both strode over and got on two shiny Harleys parked on the other side of the lot.
"Where do a couple of home-grown idiots like that get the money for those kind of machines?" I asked as they roared away, spewing gravel.
"I'm real sorry about this, mister," Lisa said.
I told her it was no problem, and that she could call me Tom. She smiled and went back inside.
"I went by to drop these off," Dale said, holding up a ring of keys. "Your dad was sleeping, but they told me you'd most likely be over here."
"Thanks. These are the keys to Red's trailer?"
"Yep. Got time for coffee? You can tell me all about what's happening up in the big city."
We went over to a truck-stop diner near the Interstate and sat in a booth next to a window. After the waitress brought our coffee Dale took a quick sip, and said he was sorry to hear about the Redman.
"We lost us a good one," he said.
"That's for sure. Can you tell me what happened?"
Dale held his coffee cup in both hands, blowing at the vapor cloud. After another careful sip, he set it down.
"Well, Doc Weems has been living at the old Parnell farm that butts up against Red's property. From what I gather Feller came drifting over, and Doc thought it kinda strange, since Red and Feller were practically inseparable." He paused to lick his lips. "Not much else to tell, really. Doc went a-looking for Red to check up on him, and found him laying by the trailer. He loaded him into Red's car and brung him into town, to Mr. Blood's place, but there was nothing that could be done. He'd passed."
"Blood's place? Why did he take Red there? Why not the hospital? And where did he get off moving the body at all? Shouldn't he have called the police?"
Dale chuckled softly. "This ain't the big city down here, Tom," he said. "The clinic wasn't open, and Mr. Blood's place sort of doubles as a make-shift hospital anyway. He's a very intelligent man."
"Yeah, he mentioned that he was also the coroner."
"Actually," Dale said, picking up his cup again. "That ain't too uncommon 'round here. Remember," he smiled and took a long sip. "We're just down home folks."
I smirked. "Yeah like those two dirtbags on the hogs?"
Dale shook his head. "Bad seeds, both of 'em. I'm next to certain that they're the ones doing all these ammon-nitrate thefts, but I just can't prove it."
"Joyce was telling me about those. They use it to cook up crystal meth, or something?"
"Right. 'Cept I gotta wonder how those two ain't blowed themselves up yet."
"They looked like a couple of brain surgeons all right," I said. "You still short-staffed on the sheriff's department?"
"Yeah, but all that might be changing soon." He leaned over the table and said, "We're in line to get one of those riverboat casinos pretty soon."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Not like it's any big secret, or anything, but being a county employee," he said, "I'm privy to information that everybody else is just speculating about."
"Great. When's this supposed to happen?"
"Next year's Gaming Commission should be approving it. They're just looking at a few of the final details, from what I understand. Area around Red's place might turn out to be worth a pretty penny."
Poor Red, I thought. Too bad he wouldn't be here to see it.
Our conversation began jumping around after that, and before we knew it, Dale got assigned to check on a traffic accident. We agreed to meet again, and I told him that my dad and I would probably be out at Red's place in the morning.
"Okay," he said, getting up and shaking my hand. "Doc Weems is a watching Feller for you all. You know what you're gonna do with him?"
"With Weems or the dog?" I said with a grin.
The next morning came earlier than I'd wanted, but my dad shook me awake and said he'd be down getting breakfast and if I wanted any I'd better shake a leg. The clock on the nightstand said it was 7:05.
"I can tell you were in the old Marine Corps," I said, dragging myself out of bed. An hour later we pulled onto the gravel road that met the highway and led into the labyrinth of old farmhouses, fields of tall corn, and patches of dense woods. Red's place, which was almost at the road's end, lay close to the river. Luckily, we had visited down there frequently enough that we knew the way. I slowed as I passed the perpendicular dirt road of the old Parnell place.
"Want to check on Feller first?" I asked.
"Nah, that Weems probably ain't even rolled over in bed yet."
I smiled and kept driving. The road to Red's trailer was perhaps two-hundred yards ahead. I saw the crimson mailbox with BANNON painted in black letters across the side.
"We should probably check the box," I said.
Dad rolled down the window and reached pulled open the metal door. Several letters were inside and he removed them.
"It's funny," Dad said, "Red was using a Post Office Box in town, too. He sent me the number with that registered letter."
"Maybe he was having trouble with the mail out here and wanted to make sure he got it all."
The truck bounced and jerked over the bumpy gravel drive. Large trees and a thicket of smaller bushes lined each side as we proceeded. After about fifty yards the grove thinned out into a clearing with Red's white house-trailer set along the far edge. The gravel continued around forming a loop and when I got even with the trailer I saw the door slightly ajar. I pulled past it and stopped.
"What're you doing?" Dad asked as I reached across and opened the glove box taking out my Glock.
"Front door's been jimmied," I said, slipping the gun from the pancake holster and getting out. "Stay here until I have a look."
The front door to the trailer was slightly buckled and showed the indentation of some sort of pry tool. Holding the Glock out in front of me, I went up the three concrete steps and used the tips of my fingers on the edge to ease the door open. Inside papers were scattered all over the floor, dishes were smashed, and cabinets had been pulled off the walls. Red's substantial collection of books had been dumped also. I moved quickly but cautiously through the tight spaces, checking each room and closet. The burglars had spared nothing. After satisfying myself that the trailer was clear I used my cell phone and dialed the Massac County Sheriff's Department.
The deputy who arrived about fifteen minutes later felt worse than we did. "I knew old Red," he said. "I was trying to keep an extra watch on this place, too."
I knew how he felt, having been there myself taking burglary reports. I threaded the pancake holster through my belt and snapped the Glock in place while we waited for another copper to come and process the scene. My sweatshirt was long enough to cover the weapon.
"Maybe I'll go over and check on Feller," I said to my dad. "If you don't mind waiting here alone."
He nodded, looking at a large book called Birds of America that had been left on the floor with some pages ripped out. I took the leash from a peg near the door and went to the truck. That was when I noticed a pair of parallel skid marks cut deeply into the gravel surface of the drive. The tires looked too thin for a truck.
I went back out to the main road and drove down to the dirt road. It was full of deep ruts and the truck scraped bottom a couple of times on the short road. The same overgrown woods that separated Red's place from the road ran along side. The big white house came into view with the dilapidated barn behind it. Feller was fastened to a long chain up near the porch, a pair of bowls next to him. Weems had obviously been less than fastidious about cleaning up after the dog. I tapped the horn and got out. Feller seemed to recognize me, because he immediately got to his feet and began wagging his tail. When he saw the leash his ears perked up and he began barking.
"What the hell you barking at, boy?" Weems said, coming out of the front door. He stopped quickly when he saw me and squinted. Then he smiled and pulled up his suspenders over each shoulder of a dirty undershirt.
"Oh, howdy-do. Didn't recognize you at first." He sauntered down the sagging wooden steps and held his hand out. Weems was about like I'd remembered him: pot-bellied and seedy. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a week, and smelled like the beer he'd had for breakfast was hoping for an early lunch.
"I came to check on Feller," I said. Extending my hand, palm first for the dog to lick. He grabbed the leash and tugged on it, almost pulling it from my hand. "Want to play tug-of-war, boy?" Feller shook and twisted his head, never giving up his grip in the leather leash.
"I been meaning to clean up 'round here," Weems said, scratching his gut. "Been kinda busy though."
We exchanged small talk for a few minutes and I told him I wanted to take Feller for a walk. He nodded.
"You gonna be taking the dog back up north with you?"
"I expect we will. You mind watching him for a few more days?"
Weems licked his lips and shook his head.
"Here," I said, reaching in my wallet and taking out a twenty. This should cover the expense of the food and all."
Weems flashed a smile that gave me a glimpse of his bad teeth, and managed to stuff the twenty into his front pants pocket beneath a hanging dollop of belly. I walked Feller up toward the main road, avoiding the ruts and grooves in the dirt driveway. On the main road I turned and headed back toward Red's place. Feller paused to smell everything in sight. We were about a hundred yards from the dirt drive when I heard the twin roars of the unmuffled drag pipes. Feller growled and his ears flattened. I drew up on the leash and stepped to the side of the road as Willard and Elmer slowed their big Harleys to a stop.
"Well, well. Lookie, lookie here," Willard said, his lips curling over his feral looking teeth. "Far from town, ain't you, city-boy?" His scaled down buddy smiled also.
"Far, but not alone," I said.
Willard spat. "You think some old hound dog's gonna scare me?"
"No," I said, pulling up my sweatshirt and exposing the handle of the Glock. "But my other buddy from Austria should."
Willard looked down at the gun and spat again, closer to me this time. Feller growled and barked some more.
"You'd best get back up north where you come from," Willard said. He slammed the Harley into gear and let his fingers pop the clutch. Elmer did the same, spitting a gust of gravel and leaving Feller and me standing in the resulting dust cloud. As I watched them disappear down the road, I noticed the parallel skid marks they'd left. Too thin for a truck, I remembered. Hopefully they'd lift some good latent fingerprints from the burglary scene, and Dale would be paying Willard and Elmer a little visit.
When I took Feller back I quizzed Weems if he'd seen the two motorcycle idiots hanging around the area.
He shook his head. "Can't say that I have." He looked like he was working on a real good drunk. I told him to keep a good eye on Feller and said I'd be back later on, leaving a hint of possibly more money. It was against my better judgment to leave Feller there, but I had no real alternative. At least not right away.
After cleaning up the trailer as best we could, we headed back into town for lunch. It was closer to dinner by that time. At the diner I went over my suspicions with my dad about the burglary. He shook his head in disgust as he went through a stack of mail we'd recovered from Red's Post Office Box in town. "Maybe Dale will be able to nail 'em."
"Looks like quite a few letters from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service," I said. "What kind of work did Red do before he retired?"
"He was a geologist. Always said he had an affinity for the earth after digging so many foxholes in Korea." Dad smiled fleetingly as he looked through the letters. "These seem to be about some kind of endangered bird. A red-cockaded woodpecker."
I left him at our rented room going over the rest of Red's papers and went to see if Dale was working. When he wasn't I mulled over what to do next. Call it my cop instinct, but a lot of the little things were starting to gnaw at me. First there was Red's letter to my dad asking him to look after Feller if anything happened. Then Red's unexpected death, coupled with the burglary of his trailer. Coincidence? Maybe. But I still had that uneasy feeling. Maybe Red had found out something about Willard and Elmer... Dale had mentioned them as suspects in those ammonium nitrate thefts. But it was still unclear. Like having pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, without knowing what the overall picture was supposed to look like. I decided to head down to Howard Blood's and have another talk with him. He was standing in front of his house watering some flowers with a garden hose.
"Mr. Case," he said. "I have prepared a temporary death certificate for your father, but I'm afraid I haven't gotten things totally ready as of yet for the service tomorrow."
"That's okay," I said. "I wanted to talk to you anyway."
He raised an eyebrow and shut off the hose. "Certainly. You want to come inside?"
He ushered me into the same claustrophobic office and sat behind his desk. "Now, what can I do for you?"
I told him about the burglary and my run-ins with Willard and Elmer. I finished with, "I starting to wonder if everything happened the way it seems."
Blood ran his tongue over his teeth. "Well, I'm certainly upset that anyone would be so unscrupulous as to burglarize a house of a deceased. But this being a small community, word of someone's demise gets around fairly quickly. Everyone knew that Red didn't have any immediate family in the area. Still, it does not speak well of us here."
"You mentioned that Red's body didn't have any outward signs of trauma?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"What if I requested an autopsy?" I said, trying to gauge his reaction. "I'll pay for it. Just to be thorough and all."
Blood seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, "That won't be necessary, Mr. Case. I'll tell you what I'll do. If it'll ease your mind, I'll do another examination. Have one of the doctors from the county hospital come down and assist me. If we find anything suspicious, I'll order a Coroner's Inquest."
"That sounds good to me. I appreciate it."
He nodded. "Red was my friend too. I want to be clear in my own mind as well. But I'm afraid it may delay things another day or so. Have you talked to your father about this?"
"No. Red's death was pretty hard on him."
He nodded again, in commiserating fashion, and stood. As he came around the desk he laid a hand on my shoulder. "I'll call Dr. Gleason immediately. Hopefully he'll be able to come over tonight. I'll contact you in the morning."
"Fine," I said, and gave him my cell phone number.
I didn't want to burden Dad with a lot of suspicions, so I kept the conversation generic as we ate dinner. I did mention that I'd stopped to see Blood and things had been delayed another day.
"Hell of a way to spend your vacation," he said.
I grinned. "I've had worse."
By nine o'clock the combination of our early start and the country air had him dozing in a chair. I woke him and he stretched and decided to hit the sack. I was debating as to whether I should give the Do Drop Inn another try, or maybe track down Dale to discuss things with him when the old guy who ran the place told me I had a message to call Doc Weems right away.
"Tom? It's Doc," the voice on the phone said with a compelling urgency. "It's Feller. He's real sick."
"Sick? What happened?"
"Don't know. Found him outside there where I been keeping him. Think maybe somebody mighta poisoned him."
Willard and Elmer, I thought. "Is there a vet around?"
"There is," he said. "But I ain't got no car. Can you come out and we'll put him in your truck?"
I told him I'd be right there and hung up. I made the trip a lot faster than I should have, cursing myself for leaving the dog out there in an idiot's care, especially after my minor run-in with the motorcycle jerks. I made a mental promise that if anything happened to Feller, I'd track down Willard and Elmer and beat the truth out of them. The truck fishtailed on the gravel as I made the turn at the dirt road. My headlights bounced over the rut-filled road and I slowed, knowing it would do no good to wreck the truck at this point. But I felt that every second counted. As I pulled up to the house the lights centered on Feller, who was standing by the porch just like he had been earlier today. I got out, leaving the lights on, and went over to him. He wagged his tail and licked my hand, seeming fine. Weems shuffled out the door holding a bottle, his face slack and sweaty looking.
"He doesn't seem too sick," I said. Suddenly Feller started to growl.
"Not as sick as you gonna be," I heard a voice say from the corner of the house. Willard walked into the open holding a shotgun on me. His shadow followed, displaying a wide, gap-toothed grin. "Elmer, go get his gun. Try anything, city boy, and I'll shoot you and the dog."
I raised my hands, staring at Weems who was still holding a bottle of Jack Daniels. He looked away quickly and took a slug.
Elmer's hand swept over me in a cursory search, but my gun was easily found. Willard approached and took the Glock, handing Elmer the shotgun.
"Whoooie," Willard said, holding my pistol up and marveling at the tritium night sights. "Will you look at this? I can line up the sights with these three little glowing dots." He stuck the Glock into his belt and told Weems to get some rope.
"If you can set your bottle down long enough," I said.
Feller continued growling and barking. Willard kicked at him and missed, then took out the Glock.
"I oughta blow that damn dog away," he said.
"No, don't. Please," Weems said, shuffling down the stairs. He reached out and stroked Feller's head, then deftly undid the clasp on the chain. "Git, Feller!" he yelled and swatted the dog hard. I saw Feller scamper into the woods, looking back briefly.
Elmer grabbed my hands and lashed them behind my back, pulling the rope so tight my hands began to feel numb. Willard leaned close to me and spit in my face.
"You think you're better than us, city-boy? We'll see who's better than who." Before I could do or say anything he hit me on the top of the head. From the sound and feel of the impact, he had some kind of sap. He brought it down again and I sagged to my knees, a bright spot of light exploding behind my eyes with the blow. Another bright light exploded and this time I felt myself drifting away, the light suddenly more distant.
The disembodied voices drifted through my consciousness, seeming far off at first, then coinciding with the steady ringing in my ears. Something wet swept over my face.
"But the boss said he wants it to look like a car accident. You keep beating him over the head like that---"
"Shut up. We'll make sure it looks good. And what does it matter? He can cover it up if'n' it ain't."
"Just like with Red," a third voice chimed in. I recognized it as Elmer's.
"Go make us some more of that cyanide stuff, Weems." The voices were becoming clearer. That one was Willard.
"Dammit, I shouldn't never got into this with ya'all."
I heard the sound of a hand slapping flesh and tried to gaze up through my lashes. I was on the ground near a corner of the barn. Inside the partially open door I could see electric lights. The odor was pungent. Like rotten eggs and something else. Ammonia. I felt wetness on my cheek again, and shook my head. Feller was there licking me. I blinked several times, trying to clear my head. The dog began sniffing at my arms. I rolled onto my side and held my hands out as best I could.
"Come on, Feller," I said in a husky whisper. "Tug-a-war."
Oblivious to the danger, Feller barked once, then started wagging his tail. I shushed him and wiggled my fingers. He hesitated, then grabbed at the ropes with a playful fervor dragging me nearly a foot. I could feel his big jaws trying for purchase. We struggled there in the darkness, me trying to squirm away, and the big dog gnawing at my bonds. Swell game, I thought.
Suddenly the ropes began to give. I worked my hands frantically. Feller growled and continued to pull, raising a big paw to push me away. With two more tugs my hands were free. I sat up and began to untie my feet. The coils were around my ankles, so I pulled off my shoes and was able to work my stocking feet through. I ran for the woods just as Willard and Elmer came around the corner.
"Hey!" I heard one of them yell, and a round from the Glock whistled by me. Feller yelped in pain, but I couldn't stop. He'd been running beside me. I crashed into the brush, getting scratched by tree branches and bushes, their voices trailing behind me.
"Did I get him? Which way did he go?"
"He can't go far. He left his shoes."
I worked through the underbrush as quietly as I could and crouched behind a large tree letting my night vision develop. I was perhaps a hundred feet in and could still hear them talking.
"Weems, go get us some flashlights," Willard said. "We'll track him down, and I'll get him with his own gun."
"I thought we weren't supposed to shoot him?"
"I don't give a damn what he said. Now move it. We'll bury him in the woods here and take the rest of the stuff you got cooked up. We'll all be in Mexico living like three kings by the time they even think to find him."
Three kings, I thought. A tough hand to beat.
"But Mr. Blood said---"
Willard swore at Weems and slapped him. Blood, I thought. Was he mixed up in this?
"Come on, Elmer, spread out. He can't of gone far. He's just a city-boy lost in the woods."
I looked around. The forest here was a mixture of various sized trees that formed an uneven maze ranging from partial clearings to dense overgrowth. Running would be fruitless. I was unarmed and on unfamiliar ground. They'd track me down and shoot me. A city-boy lost in the woods... I could hear them coming with impunity, making more noise than a whole regiment of Saddam's retreating Republican Guards. I smeared some dirt over my face and tracked their movements. Maybe the woods wasn't such a bad place for a marine to make his stand.
Elmer was edging left, toward me, and Willard was off to the right. The beams of their flashlights bounced on the hanging branches. Elmer kept bringing up his shotgun, ready to fire at every dancing shadow. He was holding the gun in one hand.
"Watch it with that thing, stupid," Willard said. "You were pointing it at me." Perhaps thirty feet separated them.
Elmer grunted and pushed through the brush. I did a low crawl, leaving my jacket draped over a small bush. With the rope tied to it, I jiggled it slightly, hoping he'd key into the movement. I tugged the rope again, and felt the blast of the shotgun go by seconds before the thundering roar. Elmer yelled and ran forward, moving right past me. I sprang up and grabbed the barrel and stock of the shotgun. The little creep was stronger than he looked, but in Saudi, my platoon had spent endless hours practicing disarming techniques. I swung the stock of the rifle at his face, striking it a glancing blow. He went down, but was up just as fast, running and yelling, "Wiiilllllaaarrd!"
Willard responded with the Glock, perhaps seeing the movement and thinking it was me. The blast from the barrel was lighting him up like a Roman candle. I shouldered the gun and waited a split second for the next shot, then fired at the flash.
* * *
Feller found me as I worked my way back and we walked up toward the house together. Except for a bloody scrape along his left leg, and lots of brambles, he seemed okay. Weems sat on the porch watching us approach, the bottle of booze more than half gone now.
"I was a wondering which of ya'll was gonna come out of them woods," he said, bringing the bottle up to his lips. Feller moved forward and licked his hand, and he patted the dog's big head.
"Well now that you know," I said, "you can tell me the rest of it." I went to my truck and used my cell phone to call the sheriff's office, then went back to the porch. "How's Blood involved in this?"
Weems let out a slow breath, glanced away, and began talking.
"Blood owns this place," he said. "Bought it all up for back taxes for a song and a dance. He got some kind of tip that they were gonna put that riverboat casino down here. Figured he'd be rich." Weems started to raise the bottle again but I knocked it away from him. The fear registered on his face as he continued. "Like I said, Blood owns this place so he found out about us using the barn to cook up the meth. But he came in on it with us, even letting Willard use the hearse to transport the stuff over to Paducah and St. Louis. Figured he'd be rich anyway when that riverboat came."
"How did Red fit into this?"
Weems sighed and looked down at the bottle on the ground.
"Red got wind of the Plans to change all this into a parking lot. He was dead-set against it. Found some kind of bird that migrated through here. Some kind of endangered species."
"The red cockaded woodpecker," I said.
Weems shrugged. "Red was gonna contact the government about it. Mentioned it to me, and I... I told Blood." Twin tears wound their way down his cheeks. "He figured that would be the end of his plan to get rich. You know most of the rest." Weems wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thing is, Red was real good to me. I shouldn't have oughta done what I done."
I let him think about that and we sat and waited. Presently, I saw the headlights from the three squads from the Sheriff's Department bouncing down the road toward us. The first one screeched to a halt, and Dale got out and ran over.
"What happened, Tom? I got the dispatch that somebody'd been shot out here."
"They're in the woods," I said. "But before you call the coroner, get out your Miranda card and read it to Doc here. He's got something he wants to tell you."
Dale squinted at Weems, pushed his cowboy hat back on his head, and reached into his pocket. "You have the right to remain silent..." he read. Weems leaned over, his breath coming in rapid sobs now, as he listened to the litany.
Feller heaved a sigh and set his big head on top of my thigh and watched.