Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (18 page)

Turning around, Kit drove back past the old farmhouse. The field was still empty. Seized by temptation, Kit found a place to pull off, parked the Forester, slung on her backpack, threw her UVA cap on her head, and began walking up the lane.

This far inland, away from the ocean breezes, the air was stifling, thick with humidity. Locusts buzzed in the bushes and far away, a buzzard circled lazily on an updraft of air. A fine glaze of sweat appeared on Kit's brow. She wiped off her upper lip and took a sip from the aluminum water bottle. The lane stretched for about a quarter of a mile, and in retrospect, she wondered if she should have driven down it instead of leaving
her car off the property. She'd thought she'd look less like an intruder on foot. Now, she second-guessed herself.

The tomato plants stretched out in neat rows on either side of the lane, staked up on wooden sticks that were about six feet tall. Kit could see fruit in various stages of ripening still hanging on the vines—these fields weren't finished yet, and she guessed that the pickers rotated from field to field, hitting one every two or three days.

In her mind's eye, Kit could imagine kids playing hide-and-seek in the rows, digging in the dirt along the edges, and chasing each other in the woods that surrounded the farm. Approaching the tree, she took multiple pictures. Then she reached the house and glanced around. Seeing no sign of anyone, Kit stepped past the overgrown boxwoods, up onto the front porch, and peered inside. The broken windows gapped like missing teeth. Wide pine board floors stood empty except for leaves and debris blown in from outside. She walked around the old place, noting the old-fashioned cellar, the tin roof, and the small outbuilding that she guessed had served as a smokehouse. A privy still stood in the back.

From the back porch, Kit could look into what had been the kitchen. One end opened into a large pantry. Kit balanced precariously on the half-rotted boards of the porch, aimed her camera through the broken glass of the back door, and took shot after shot, her neck tight with tension.

Moving around the outside of the house, she gazed up at the live oak, the one she identified as the mother tree from which the boy's acorns had come. The tree's elongated oval leaves were green and thick. Kit placed her hand on the massive trunk, and looked up. The leaves were so dense only tiny bits of sky came through.

Kit took more photos, then headed back for her car. She was nine-tenths of the way back down the lane when a white
pickup truck suddenly pulled in. Her heart jumping, Kit stepped into the ditch, hoping the man would just drive by.

No such luck.

A muscular man wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a cowboy hat stepped out. He looked Hispanic, and stood just a couple of inches taller than her, about five foot eight, Kit figured. A scar bisected his right cheek. His eyes were brown, his skin leathery and dark, and when he looked at Kit, she felt like he was undressing her. “
Buenos dias, señorita
. What are you doing?”

Kit tugged at her UVA cap to draw attention to it, smiled, and said, “Looking for a tree. Found what I was looking for right back there.” She gestured back toward the live oak.

“What kind of a tree are you talking about?” The man shifted his weight.

“It's an oak, a live oak.
Quercus virginiana
. You see, we're working on a project . . .” Kit lapsed into a speech full of as much technical jargon as she could think of on the fly, a tactic designed to sound intelligent and bore the man as quickly as possible. It worked—she saw his eyes glaze over.

He finally interrupted her. “This is private property, you understand? You stay off of it.” The man spat on the ground.

“Who's the owner?” she said eagerly, “because I'd like to . . .”

The man looked around. “You are here by yourself?”

“Oh, no!” Kit replied. “There's a bunch of us.”

“Really,
chica?
Where are the others?”

Kit saw a glint in his eye that she didn't like and when he took a step forward, she quickly moved away. Then her cell phone rang. “Hello? Yes? I got the live oak, Steve. I'm almost to the road. I'll meet you there,” she said, without taking her eyes off the man. She snapped the phone shut, making a mental note to call her boss later and explain. “I have to go meet my partners,” she said to the man, and walked away, aware that the man's eyes were following her, conscious of any sound he
might make. And as she walked past his truck, she glanced back, and memorized his tag number.

Grateful to be away from the scarred man, Kit turned onto the main north-south road, Rt. 13, and called Connie Jester back on Chincoteague. She told Connie what information she needed. “Grease the skids for me, would you please?” she asked.

She called her boss, left a voicemail message explaining her odd call but minimizing the danger. Steve wouldn't like her taking risks on her own. Then she dialed a member of the support staff at her office in Norfolk. “I need you to run some plates for me,” Kit said.

Juanita was good at her job, and the answer came back just a few minutes later. “C&R Enterprises in Accomack County. You need an address?”

“Sure.”

Kit wrote down what she gave her.

When Kit got to the courthouse, she found out quickly that Connie had paved the way. The clerk in the county land records office welcomed her, offering plenty of information. “Well, yes,” Mary Granger said. “You can see here: I think this is the property you're talkin' about. Only I'm hopin' you're not thinkin' about a big development or anything, 'cause I'd hate to see all that land get et up.”

Kit assured her she was not talking about hundreds of homes.

“Well, this here farm is 237 acres. Owner's name is . . . let's see . . . C&R Enterprises. That'd be Curtis and Richards, Sam Curtis and Tom Richards. Tom's married to Sam's daughter. They own five or six pieces of property in the county, not including their own homes. Don't think they'll sell to you, not as long as they're making money in tomatoes and corn.”

“The house on the property looks pretty old.”

“Sure is. That's an 1870 farmhouse. Why I remember when Grammy Curtis lived there. Her old man got killed, got messed up in a harvester. She stayed on, though, working that farm and raising them kids on her own.” Mary shook her head. “Sammy, he was the smartest of the bunch. Hard work got 'im where he is, that's it. Hard work.”

Kit bent over the county tax maps. She pointed to a small rectangle. “What's this building?”

“That'd be the tomato plant. See, the growers' pickin' crews, they bring the tomatoes in, wash 'em, grade 'em, and then ship 'em off.”

“Does C&R own that, too?”

“Yes, ma'am. I told ya. Sammy's smart.”

Accomack County had not yet put its land records on computer, so Kit had to be content with copies of plats and copious notes. Leaving the county office building, her hands full of papers, Kit rounded a hedge and stopped short. There, parked next to her Subaru, sat a white pickup truck like the one she'd seen on the live oak farm's lane. She glanced around. She didn't see the scar-faced man who'd been driving it. But as she approached her Subaru, he stepped out from behind a large van parked nearby.

A cold chill raced through Kit. She'd left her gun in her car in case there was a metal detector in the courthouse. She hugged the papers to her chest and laced her keys through her fingers so that one protruded through each gap in her now-clenched fist. Then she met the man's leering gaze straight on.

“Ah, we meet again,” the man said. As he smiled, his gold tooth glinted in the bright sun. “I pay my taxes,” he said, tapping
an envelope in his left hand. He nodded toward the papers in her hand. “You get everything you need?”

He was standing right in front of her driver's side door. “Yes. Now excuse me,” she said, moving forward.

But the man didn't move, and Kit found herself just inches from his face. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, and the sweat that permeated his clothes.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, his eyes glittering with anger, “it is not safe for a young woman like you to be alone out there, in the country, so far from help. Things could happen, you know? Bad things, that would be in your dreams for the rest of your life.”

“Move away from my car,” Kit commanded. “Now.”

“Oh, you are a strong woman. I see. But really, you know, it would take only one man, just one, to start the nightmares.” Then he stepped back, swept his arm grandly toward her car, and said, “Here you go, señorita.
Buenos dias
.”

The confrontation had Kit adrenalized all the way back to Chincoteague. He was trying to scare her. He had clearly followed her. And now he had identified the car she drove and knew that she'd been to the county records office. Her cover might have been blown—in any case, she wouldn't be as free to explore the area around the farm, or question locals, now that she'd been spotted. She was going to need help.

Kit compulsively glanced in her rear-view mirror. Was the man following her now? Not so that she could see. She'd hate for him to find out she lived alone on Chincoteague.

Convinced no white truck was on her tail, she stopped at an Office Depot and bought an all-in-one printer/copier/fax machine. The time had come to cement the deal with Steve, to get him to commit to her ongoing investigation. She would use Google Earth to create satellite views of the farmhouse where the oaks were located, the tomato fields, the tomato
processing plant, and the surrounding area. She'd create a PowerPoint show that would include those views plus the botanist's data, the autopsy report and pictures of the body, and the data she'd collected on migrant labor—basically all the information she'd collected so far. And she'd include information about the man with the gold tooth.

One problem: even she thought her case was thin. She had no suspect, no crime scene, no means, motive, or opportunity. Just a suspicious man, some tomato seeds, a handful of acorns, a little dead beach child—and her gut instincts.

A key piece of the puzzle came from an unexpected quarter.

K
IT
, I'
M SORRY TO CALL YOU SO LATE, BUT SHE
'
S BEEN CRYING FOR THREE
hours.” Piper's voice sounded frantic.

“Who has?”

“Patricia. Look, she's ready to talk. She needs to talk.”

Kit glanced at her watch. Nearly 11:00 p.m. and she was only halfway through preparing the presentation. “I've got a big meeting tomorrow in Norfolk. Why don't we get together then, late in the afternoon, say around 4:00?”

“Not you, Kit. Or Chris. She wants to talk to that guy—David.”

“He's not here, Piper. I don't know where he is.” That was the truth. The house on Main Street had been dark every time she'd passed it. His car was gone. The painting had not progressed. Where was he?

Kit swallowed hard. She heard Piper say something to the Latina. Then Piper said, “Listen to her, Kit,” and she must have passed her phone to Patricia.

In very broken English, the woman began to speak. “My friend, she has trouble. I scared it is that man, the one brought us from Mexico.”

“What man? What's his name?” Kit figured if the woman was serious she'd start giving up some worthwhile information.

The Latina hesitated. “Hector.”

“What's his last name?”

“That is all I know. We call him ‘Hector.' I hear he get trouble when I run. My friend, she run first. Months before me. Then he find her! He take her. I scared what he do. I really scared, missy.”

What was she saying? That the trafficker had tracked down one of his escaped victims? Kit needed to know more. Most of all, she needed to know if Patricia was sincere. “I will try to help you, Patricia, but you have to help me. Who were the people you were forced to work for?”

Silence followed.