Saving Cecil (8 page)

No one knows why exactly, but it might have something to do with their extreme masculinity. Masculinity equals testosterone, which equals aggressiveness along with a desire to bonk every cow in sight. Anyway, those high reproductive rates are why dairymen take the risk. Their female offspring also produce award-winning milk with a low-fat content, but those silly factoids weren't important right now, considering the angry bovine now glaring at me.

In fact, he looked like he might be trying out for an award of a different sort—Bad Ass Bull of the Year. He didn't have to bellow and paw at the ground but one time for us to get his message: get outta my face!

Tulip and I fell all over each other trying to get back over the edge of the embankment. We'd tumbled and rolled about fifteen feet straight downhill, stopped only by a stand of young pines. “Shit!” I yelled. “This day just keeps getting better ‘n better!” As soon as I was sure the copse of spindly little trees was going to hold us, I stood and looked back up the embankment.

All I could see was El Torro's head. He didn't have horns, but he didn't need them. He was at least 1800 pounds and every bit of it fighting-mad beef. I pulled my Beretta from my tote, then thought better of firing it over his head. Bullets that go up come down and might hit someone accidentally. I shoved it under my waistband behind my back, then remembered another fact I'd learned: Bovine are creatures of habit. He was bound to go back to his barn at feeding time. We just needed to wait him out.

After what seemed like hours, but in truth was probably only about thirty minutes, I heard the sound of a tractor approaching. It stopped right above us and I heard a deep male voice command, “Git on, Boss! Git on up now!” Tulip growled and trembled. I held her tight and waited until the voice boomed again. “You okay down there?”

“Yeah!” I called back. “But you better look out, there's a bull up there!”

“Dat's okay. I've got him under control. You can come on up.”

Easy for you to say
. Still, not having any better offers lately, Tulip and I struggled back to the top again and peered over the edge. Before doing so, however, I placed my Beretta back in my tote. No sense scaring someone nice enough to rescue me. A tall, heavyset black man with an electric cattle prod in one hand stood above us. El Torro stood a respectable distance away on the far side of a very large tractor, the kind big enough to have a cab. “You okay, now. Come on up,” he said.

“Thanks so much,” I said, allowing him to give me a hand.

“You just lucky I come along,” said the man, who introduced himself as Luther Green, dairy manager and husband to Ruby Green, the Lauderbach's housekeeper. “Dis is Boss's field and dis time of the day, he's usually under his favorite tree over yonder in the corner. When I didn't see him, I come looking and that's when I seen he was up to no good. How come you out here anyway? Where's you car? Ain't you the lady that finds gas?”

“Well, something like that,” I said. “I'm Cleo Cooper and I work for the people who are drilling a gas exploration well for the Lauderbachs.” Then I explained how I came to be in Boss's field.

“Lawd God! And here I am going on and on. I's wondering why you was so wet. Let me get you up to the house,” he said, opening the door to the cab of the bright red Massey Ferguson. I squeezed in beside Luther. Tulip balled up in my lap and Boss looked on ominously. “My Ruby can take care of them cuts and bruises and I'll come back and see to your car. I speck we gonna need a wrecker though. That's a good little ways down to the creek.” Luther gave me the once over with a more critical eye now that he realized I'd been in a car accident. “You damn lucky you ain't dead!”

“I'll say.”

EIGHT

Hours and hours later,
after Ruby had patched me up, my beloved Jeep was hauled out of Pocket Creek by a wrecker and taken to a graveyard for dead cars in Sanford. I didn't call my insurance company. No point. The Jeep was totaled, it had over two hundred thousand miles on it and it was a 1986 model. In short, it wasn't worth anything to anyone but me. I'd also answered questions from a sympathetic highway patrolman who'd been nice enough to drive out to the Lauderbach farm to see me.

While I was on private property, the road itself was maintained by the state. Hence the patrolman. Following his visit, Luther had driven me to the junkyard where my Jeep had been taken.

Standing in the office of Dexter Jenkins, owner of Jenkins Junkyard, I negotiated with him for the price of the salvageable parts on the Jeep.

“All four of those tires are brand-new,” I said. “They're BF Good-
rich, top of the line, al
l-terrains.”

“Well, that may be,” Dexter replied, totaling the items he was willing to pay me for on a grimy plastic calculator. “But I can't give you anything for one of them ‘cause it's got a hole shot through it.”

“A hole?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, tightening the rubber band on his mullet. He took a giant swig of Mello Yello. “I know a bullet hole when I see one. Must've been a stray shot from a hunter … ”

“Miss Cooper!” Detective Chris Bryant interrupted from the open office doorway. “I heard about your wreck. You alright?”

“Yes,” I said, a little annoyed at being interrupted mid-deal. Plus, it was late, I was continuing to stiffen up and now my head was pounding too. “How'd you hear about my wreck?”

He pulled aside the bottom of his windbreaker to reveal the detective badge clipped to his belt. “Detective … remember?”

“Whatever,” I said as Luther Green stuck his head in the office too. “It's getting close to feeding time. I'm going to need to get back to the barn soon. You can borrow one of Mr. Lauderbach's farm trucks to get home tonight.” Before I could respond, Chris chimed in. “No need for that. I'll see to it that Miss Cooper gets wherever she needs to go.”

“Thanks,” I said, grateful I wasn't going to have to create further disruption on Mr. Lauderbach's farm. “I appreciate that. But are you sure you don't mind? I live in Raleigh.”

“No problem.”

After I thanked Luther again for all he'd done and assured him I didn't need any more help, he left.

“What a nice fellow,” I said to Chris as I waved to the departing farm manager. “And you're very kind, as well, checking to see if I'm alright and offering to take me home. I really appreciate it, but I'm glad you're here for another reason too.”

“What's that?” Chris asked.

“This gentlemen says one of the tires on my Jeep was shot out. Care to join me in checking it out?”

Chris's eyes grew round. “Lead on,” he said.

“I've already had it hauled down to the bottom field,” Dexter said, handing us a scrap of paper. “You'll have to take that golf cart out front to get to it. Here's the row and space number.”

With the sun setting behind the trees that bordered the far western edge of the immense junkyard, we zipped past row upon row of junked cars and trucks. I shivered as we navigated the neatly mowed paths between them until we reached row “F” and headed to the end, and my Jeep. Chris let out a slow, low whistle. “You must have a guardian angel,” he said, looking at the mangled remains. I could hardly bring myself to look at it; I just hopped out and started checking the tires. Chris went to the opposite side and did the same. Shortly, he called out, “Here it is!”

“Let me see that,” I said, squatting beside him.

“Can you tell if that's a bullet hole?” I asked, an eerie feeling forming in the pit of my stomach.

“Yep. It's a bullet hole, alright. No doubt about it,” he said, standing and brushing dry grass from his jeans. “Tell me what happened.”

Dutifully, I did my best to give him details.

“So you were driving along that dirt road that runs along the ridge above Pocket Creek. It's what...fifty, sixty feet down to the creek bed?”

“Something like that,” I said, surprised that he knew that much about the lay of the land.

“I'm a hunter,” he said, reading my mind. “Did you hear anything before you lost control?”

“Yes!” I said, suddenly remembering. “I'd forgotten, but there was a noise. It all happened so fast, but there was a loud bang, then the wheel jerked out of my hand and next thing I knew I was airborne. Actually, my immediate thought was I'd lost control because I was … er … ”

“Texting?”

“Heavens, no,” I snipped indignantly.

“Talking on the phone?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I was only
looking
at the phone! Trying to pull up … oh, nevermind! I was on a dirt road after all … with no traffic and … ” I started to add that I wasn't going very fast, but thought better of a lie that big.

“Okay, so you weren't holding the wheel firmly and what?”

“Well, I thought I'd hit a hole or something because there was a loud noise, then the wheel jerked violently and my phone went flying. I guess that was when my tire was shot and I ran off the shoulder of the road and headed down the ridge.”

“I'll get out there tomorrow and investigate the area where it happened,” Chris said, heading back to the golf cart.

I gave the magic Jeep one last look, then climbed into the cart. Chris gave me a curious look and I realized a big sigh had unconsciously escaped me. “You know, they only made 127 of those Jeeps,” I explained. “I guess now there are only 126 left.”

“Tough luck,” he said. “But if you had to suspect someone as the shooter, who would it be?”

“Who do you think?”

He gave me another look. This one incredulous. “You really think the sheriff shot your tire?”

“Well, this morning Jackie, the site manager, and I rode over to Chatham County to pick up a part. Jackie saw him watching us from the road when we left the guy's shop.”

“In Chatham County? Our sheriff?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus,” Chris said, stopping the golf cart beside his Crown Vic. Painfully, I unfolded myself, limped over, and climbed in with him.

As we exited the junkyard and headed for Raleigh, forty minutes away, he continued, “What kind of feud do you have going on with him?”

“Well, I'll tell you, but we have to use the ‘way-back machine,'” I said, referring to reruns of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, another of my favorite cartoons as a kid. “We have to go back to 1987 … ”

“I know what the ‘way-back machine' is,” he laughed.

“Okay, then. Waaay back, when you were just a little bitty boy, about six years old, I was finishing my master's thesis at UNC.” Another incredulous look so I clarified. “Mind you, I skipped several grades and was still … very young.”

“How young?”

“
Very
young. Do you want to hear this story or not?”

“By all means, continue.”

“At that time,” I said. “The first exploratory gas wells were being sunk into the Triassic Basin, right in the general area where we're drilling now, and the energy company doing the drilling was allowing me to observe and help log samples. My dad owned a well-drilling company and he'd been contracted to drill a water well out there since there was no other available source of water nearby.”

“I know a little about drilling,” he said as he accelerated up the ramp onto US 1. “How you have to have water to cool the bit and all that.”

“Very good,” I said. “There was a young man who worked for my dad on this rig. His name was Francis Gary Wayne. One morning he didn't show up for work.” I had to pause. I hadn't told the story in many years, so I was a little disappointed in myself that it still took my breath to recall it. “I found his body in a hog pen not far from our rig.”

“Aw, man,” Chris said, with a sigh. “I'm sorry you had to experience something like that. It must have been hard on you.”

“Yes, it was,” I said sincerely. “We were working the back side of the landowner's property, far from any houses or stores and I'd gone into the woods to find a secluded place to tinkle. That's where I stumbled upon a hog pen. I've always been curious so I climbed the split-rail fence to see the pigs. But there weren't any, just loads of very deep, stinky mud and Wayne's body. At first I didn't even realize I was looking at a body, it was so caked in muck and mangled by the hogs.”

Chris shook his head sadly.

“The owner of the pigs later testified before a judge that he hadn't seen the body because when he'd gone to move the hogs to their feeding lot he'd only opened the gate and not looked in. Fortunately there was a potential investor in the well on the site that day and he helped me put the death in perspective and understand that bad things sometimes just happen. We became close friends very quickly and, as it turned out, that was good for me because I came to draw heavily on his strength and maturity in the coming months.”

“Why was that?”

“Because Sheriff Stuckey arrested my dad the very next day on the grounds that he'd killed Wayne in a fit of rage. My dad had a reputation for having a bad temper and coincidentally had chewed Wayne out the day before I found him dead.”

“What did he chew him out for?” Chris asked.

“Nothing important. The kid was doing something unsafe. My dad was a real stickler when it came to job safety. Anyway, for the next few months, my fa
mily experienced more stress than most families go through in a lifetime. My dad was very courageous during the whole ordeal … until my mom died of a sudden heart attack.” I had to pause again and clear my throat. But I wanted to finish. I was actually feeling better. Who knew? Maybe there was something to the touchy-feely notion of sharing a burden by telling someone else abo
ut it.

“That's when my dad shut down completely,” I continued. “And even though my friend had hired the best lawyer money could buy, Dad took a plea deal and went to jail where he could grieve in peace. He was so worried about what would happen to me, being young and suddenly alone, he made me promise to marry my friend in the bargain and, not knowing what Dad would do if I didn't, I agreed. Of course, in the end, I grew up and the marriage fell apart.”

Chris was quiet for a time, then said, “I don't mean to bring up bad memories or a sore subject, but why was the sheriff so convinced that your dad was the murderer? Was there overwhelming evidence?”

“Not really,” I said. “I think Dad's reputation for having a hair-trigger temper hurt him more than the wrench they had as evidence. According to the prosecution, Wayne had been bludgeoned to death with it. This was impossible to prove after what the hogs did to his body, but Stuckey said they'd found it in my dad's tool box and it had Wayne's blood on it. As icing on the prosecutor's cake, there were witnesses to his blow up with the kid the day before.”

“What was your dad's defense?”

“That he was framed. I was afraid he was going to get the death penalty, although the lawyer said the chain of custody regarding the murder weapon was tainted and he could get him off. At first my dad was very positive about fighting through a long protracted murder trial, but then when mom died and he just gave up. The
rest is history.”

Chris turned to me in the darkened car. “You were lucky to have such a special friend,” he said sincerely. “Too bad it didn't work out.”

“Yep,” I said. “That's what everyone said.”

By the time we'd reached my house in Raleigh it was after eight o'clock. We pulled in the drive and I invited him in. After I fed Tulip, she hopped through her doggie door to the backyard and I went straight to the wet bar in the den to make myself a tall Black Jack.

“I'd offer you one if you didn't have to drive back to Sanford,” I said, stirring ice cubes in the ice maker.

“Here, let me do that,” he offered. “You go sit on that comfy-looking couch. I'll also make you an ice pack for your head. It's a little late to stop the bruising, but like my mom used to say, ‘It'll heal before you get married.'”

I did as told and sat on the couch. “I hope you're right,” I said. “Because I just spent a hideous amount of money for a wedding dress. I'm remarrying my first husband, my very good friend, on November 9th.”

Chris might have missed a beat as he walked toward me, drink in one hand, ice bag in the other, but it wasn't noticeable. “I'm not surprised. There was no way you were unattached. I couldn't possibly get that lucky.”

“Oh, not that again,” I said, taking a big slug of my drink and planting the ice bag on my noggin. “I told you, I'm old enough to be your … much older sister. Honestly,
I'm
the one who's surprised.”

“How's that?”

“I'm surprised that you aren't having to beat the women away fr
om your door with a stick.”

“Who says I don't,” he smiled, taking a wingback opposite me. “There are a ton of single women my age in and around Sanford. It's just that since I've been back I haven't met anyone with enough brains to carry on a conversation beyond what's new on television or at the movies or how to make the hottest new moonshine cocktail.”

“Raleigh is only 40 minutes from Sanford. There are 1.3 million folks living here now. Surly among that number you can find someone who interests you.”

“This is true. I just have to stop hunting and fishing long enough to look,” he said.