Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 (16 page)

"You must've got up early this morning," he said. "Fishin's gonna be off with all
that rain up high."

"That's okay," I said. "I'm actually just here to scout out a hunting spot for
deer season this fall." I stood looking at a map on the wall. It was made of
pages out of an atlas taped together, and it showed the surrounding valley with
spots marked along the creeks in red felt-tip. "What do you fish for around
here?"

"Smallmouth bass. Good fishing most of the time."

He kept talking while I looked at the map. I was trying to get my bearings,
retracing my route from last night. "Who owns this up in here?" I asked,
pointing a finger.

"Oh God," he said, shaking his head. "You don't want to go in there. Them dang
bikers hole up in there. I could tell right away you wasn't one of them. They're
worthless as hell. Want some bacon?" He was peeling off strips into a big frying
pan on an old gas stove.

"Sure, bacon's good," I replied. "So they wouldn't want to lease me some hunting
ground?"

"God no! You don't even ask them boys. I had to run 'em off with old Bessie here.
Pumped gas and didn't pay." He reached behind the counter and patted a
double-barreled shotgun with all the bluing worn off. "Rock salt on the left,
double-ought buck on the right. Gave it all to 'em."

"What about this place?" I pointed to the adjoining property on the map.

"Well now, that would be a good place to hunt," he said. The bacon hissed and
popped as he flipped it over with a fork. "But you can't get up there. There
ain't no road."

"What about that?" I pointed to what looked like a trail up a creek that ran on
the north side of the place.

He squinted at the map. "You can go up the creek with a four-wheeler, but you
can't get past the bluffs. Steep as hell."

"Where could I rent a four-wheeler?"

"Nowheres I know of. You want some eggs?"

"Over easy," I said. The old man looked like a hillbilly, and I'm sure he was,
but he wasn't a fool. He was answering my questions just enough to keep me
asking more. "How do
you
get around to all these fishing spots?" I
asked.

He gave a little laugh as he broke eggs and dropped them into the hot grease. "A
sure-footed old mule named Abner."

 
Abner was a jewel. He plodded on through the brushy, slick trails
that I guess he knew were there; I surely couldn't see them. I had left the
Harley, of course, after assuring the old man that it was worth at least the
value of the mule. I was avoiding thinking about how I was going to get Delbert
out,
if
I happened to find him, but I would think of something. The
saddle was an ancient, high-backed thing. The old fellow had bragged on it. "My
pap brought it all the way from Kansas City back in the twenties; that's a
genuine Shipley." The mule was big for a riding mule; he was a sorrel going to
gray around the muzzle. The rain had finally come down to meet me, and the cheap
poncho that I had purchased at the store was leaking badly where it had snagged
on tree branches. When I got to the steep part of the trail, I let Abner do his
own navigating. He went up slopes that looked impossible. All I could do was
hold on; he was like a cat climbing a tree.

The rain stopped as we topped a ridge, and the sun peeked through the clouds. I
smelled wood smoke. I looked through the army-surplus binoculars the old fellow
had loaned me and checked out the head of the valley before me. The smoke was
rising from a cabin not more than a quarter-mile away. It was still early
morning, and men were already moving about. This was not going to be easy.

I dismounted and pulled off the poncho, tying it to the saddle. My back was wet,
and I shivered as I tied off the mule. I'm not a bounty hunter; in fact, most of
my work involves a computer and digging through courthouse files for my lawyer
buddies. But ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, and a one-man
private-investigating business is not all that lucrative. The offers that I had
received from the big agencies, with their health-insurance coverage and paid
vacation time, were looking awfully good as my clammy wet jeans clung to my
legs.

As I approached the buildings, I was aware of a chemical smell besides the wood
smoke. The old man at the station had told me that "Pappy" Buckman had been dead
for years, and that his infamous still hadn't been used for decades. I ducked
behind some cedars as a man came out of one of the cabins carrying two
five-gallon buckets and dumped them into the clearing. The grass and brush were
already dead from previous dumping. The air held a tang of acid and sulfur, the
telltale signs of a meth lab.

There were two guys moving in and out of what looked like an old smokehouse. One
wore bibbed overalls with no shirt, his long hair tied in a ponytail. The other
had a buzz cut and wore some kind of rubber apron. They both wore rubber
gauntlets and busied themselves scrubbing glassware and buckets with water
dipped from a small, stone-lined spring. The spring was probably the original
reason the still was placed here. I made my way to the back side of a lean-to
shed where I could still see the cabin. The grass, as well as the underbrush,
was dead all down the hillside as chemicals leached out of a pile of containers
for drain cleaner and muriatic acid. Some of the stuff was partially burned; I
wouldn't have wanted to be downwind of that fire.

"Hey!" The voice was so close that I reached behind my belt for the old Colt
pistol I had brought with me. "Where can a guy take a dump around here?"

I had ducked back into the shed when I heard another one of them answer. "Yonder
next to the shed. Take a roll of paper with you, but don't leave it in the
privy; the rats'll shred it." I sank deeper into the darkness behind an old
high-wheeled grain wagon that had probably hauled corn for the mash. A door
slammed, ringing hollow in the low pressure of the cloud cover. The weathered
boards of the shed had shrunk over the years and allowed me to watch the
approaching man through the cracks.

He was even uglier than his mugshots. Delbert Fish's hair was matted and long.
His once-white undershirt was gray and stained with what could have been last
night's supper . . . or blood spatter. The outhouse stood at a crooked angle
just above the slope of the hill. I was tempted to shove it over the edge.

A dark green Honda four-wheeler was parked in front of the cabin, and I could see
a path back across the clearing. I was hoping for a pickup or Jeep, something I
could throw a disabled Fish into and hightail it out of the area. The trail was
only wide enough for the four-wheeler. If I could get Fish down the hill
quietly, I could work us back around to where Abner was tied and go out that
way. There was no way they could follow the mule on a four-wheeler.

"You tie them dogs up?" It was Fish yelling from inside the outhouse. The hair on
the back of my neck prickled. I hadn't thought about a dog.

"Rosie's tied up," came the reply. I heard a chain dragging somewhere on the
other side of the cabin as the dog heard her name.

"That damn dog don't like me," said Fish.

"That old bitch don't like nobody."

I couldn't imagine a better chance of getting Fish than now, but I was going to
need a diversion. I left the shed and ran in a crouch up to the back of the
smokehouse. There was only one door into the building, and it was on the side
facing the cabin. A pungent odor wafted from the old building; inside I could
hear something bubbling away. Several of the boards on the back side were warped
and loose. I pulled gently on one. Other than the slight hiss of a nail pulling
free, it made no noise as I removed it. The hole wasn't big enough to get
through, but now I had a good look inside, where a rack of gallon metal cans
lined one wall. The cans were puffed up like they were about to explode. White
plastic buckets sat around on the floor bubbling and hissing. One corner was
full of flattened empty boxes from cold tablets. A propane stove sat in the
center of everything. My eyes followed the black rubber hose that led back to a
silver propane cylinder next to the wall where my hole was. I reached in
blindly, pressing my face against the boards. I could feel the hose with my
fingertips. Stretching as much as I could, I got my hand around the hose and
pulled it toward me.

I heard footsteps and a shadow appeared in the doorway. I kept my shoulder
pressed against the hole. I wasn't moving a muscle; I didn't dare breathe. I
could see the shadow through a crack. He came forward just enough to pick up two
more buckets and walked out again. His eyes didn't have time to adjust to the
dark interior. I pulled my arm out and went to the corner where I could see him.

I jerked my head back as the door of the cabin opened. The one in overalls leaned
out the door. "I heated up the beans for breakfast," he said.

"Beans all we got?"

"Tiny's 'sposed to go to the store."

The guy with the buckets peeled off his gloves and apron, and the two men
disappeared into the cabin. I slipped around to the front and went into the open
door of the smokehouse. I saw what I needed right away. One method of cooking
methamphetamine requires red phosphorus. Meth cooks get it from matches or road
flares. I grabbed a flare from a box and ducked back out the door. I went around
to my hole and reached inside the old smokehouse. With my pocketknife I sawed on
the gas hose until I heard a satisfying hiss. I pulled the cap off the road
flare and scratched it across the end. The flare burst to life, spitting a
bright red flame into the cool morning air. I tossed it through the hole towards
the other side of the building and ran for the outhouse, pulling my gun from
behind my back as I ran.

Delbert Fish was just opening the door of the outhouse when I hit it with my
shoulder. I jerked the door back open to find him holding his nose, blood
already running down his face. He was groaning, and while he was still dazed, I
ran the action on the gun and pointed the muzzle right at the bridge of his
nose. His eyes widened as he looked down the bore of the forty-five.

"Stay quiet and you may live through this," I said. He just blinked as I grabbed
a handful of filthy undershirt and jerked him out of the outhouse.

I was expecting a spectacular explosion and fireball about now, a diversion so I
could get Fish out of there, but what I heard was the distinctive rumble of a
Harley as Tiny Buckman rode out of the woods on the four-wheeler trail on an old
Panhead Harley-Davidson. A look of consternation wrinkled his brow, and quickly
turned to blind rage as he recognized me. He reached down and brought out a
short-barreled, lever-action rifle from a scabbard on the bike; he stepped off
the Harley, letting it fall. I turned to run, shoving Fish back against the
outhouse. He grabbed onto me as the whole outfit tipped over the side of the
hill. The drop-off was steep and our combined weight splintered the small
building. I lost any grip I had on Fish as we both tumbled head over heels down
the steep slope. Small saplings and underbrush slowed our descent, but the rocky
hillside took its toll on exposed flesh. I came to an abrupt stop, flat on my
back, staring up through the canopy of oaks at a darkening sky. I turned my head
to see Fish lying in a heap next to me. The steepness of the slope was
interrupted by an old logging road that had stopped our tumble.

A loud whoosh and blast sent sheets of rusty tin and weathered boards raining
down through the trees. The propane had finally ignited. I hoped that it would
distract Tiny and buy me some time. I grabbed a dazed Fish by the arm and pulled
him to his feet.

"I can't breathe!" he managed to say. He was holding his side and wheezing, his
face screwed up in pain.

"You'll live," I said. "We've got to move." His knees started to buckle, so I
gave him a hard kick in the butt.

"You're gonna kill me!"

"No, dumb-ass, I'm going to keep you from getting killed. Etta Mae hired me to
find you."

His face was smeared with blood and dirt; a green sumac leaf was stuck to his
cheek. I started to put his arm over my shoulder to help him, but he came to
life and jerked away from me. He looked confused. He didn't know whether to
believe me or not.

A clap of thunder echoed through the valley. Fish and I stared at each other. We
both heard the rush of feet on the soft leaves followed by a low growl. I
reached behind my back for my gun, but it was gone. I must have lost it in the
tumble down the hill. I watched helplessly as a brindle-colored ball of teeth
and muscle shot out of the woods, rocketing toward Fish. He put up an arm even
as he screamed. The dog launched itself at his throat, catching the arm instead
between powerful jaws. Fish went down on his back, howling in pain and terror.
The dog had its tail end toward me as it jerked its massive head back and forth,
pulling on Fish's arm as if to tear it off. With the classic two steps of a
punter, I kicked up between the dog's legs with a heavy thump that even sounded
like a football. The dog yelped as it flipped up over its victim, landing in the
trail where it lay thrashing in agony, its testicles crushed.

I grabbed Fish by his good arm and pulled him up. "Let's go!" I yelled.

We both heard it at the same time, something else coming noisily through the
brush. I caught a glimpse of another dog, this one struggling, dragging a length
of chain that was catching on the foliage, slowing the dog's progress.

"Oh God, it's Rosie!" Fish looked at me pleadingly, his arm bleeding and useless,
hanging at his side.

"Down the trail," I yelled. "Run!"

He didn't have to be told twice. Fish was surprisingly fast, and I was right
behind him. The old logging road was dim and overgrown, but it was much easier
going than bushwhacking through the timber. It curved around the brow of the
hill toward where I had tied the mule.