A Dredging in Swann

by Tim Garvin

  Seb gathered his shoulder rig and clothes and climbed the grassy slope to the hog buildings, looking for a bathroom to clean his arms. Hog noise swelled as he approached. He entered the end of the first building where a central aisle with pens on each side stretched a hundred yards into the interior. Fluorescent lights made glowing dashes on the low ceiling. Hogs teemed on the slated feces-encrusted floors, producing a racket of hoof-clatter, grunts, wheezes, and shrills. He found a small bathroom off the entrance, splashed water until his arms were clean, scrubbed his face and arms with powdered hand soap, dried with paper towels, then shrugged into his shoulder rig and jacket.

  As he left the bathroom, Seb saw Squint inside the pens, walking toward him, high-stepping over the pen boundaries as he progressed, using a red plastic oar to fend away the hogs. Seb watched as Squint stepped over the last pen, laying the oar over his shoulder.

  Squint said, “You know why I go through the hogs instead of down the aisle?”

  “Why?”

  “To condition the animals. If they’re not used to a human being in amongst them, they spook when you load them for slaughter. Twice a day we make the walk, to ease them toward oblivion.”

  Seb nodded. He said, “Listen, I want to apologize for—”

  Squint said, “About that red cap, I bet.” He bounced the oar against his shoulder, then swung it down and tapped it on the concrete floor like a cane. “I figured that out. You didn’t see a red cap, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. That was my half-ass ploy to get you confessing.”

  “You were being a detective, and I admire it. The question is, did you tell your buddies I was a killer, and now I got trouble?”

  “No, no. I was just swinging in the dark.”

  “Good. I damn sure don’t need more trouble. Jorge’s death is going to affect the hell out of this operation. Raleigh and the federal people are going to crawl up my butt. You headed to your car? I’ll walk you out.”

  As they left the building, Squint swung the oar yoke-style across his neck, draping his forearms across the blade and handle.

  Like a scarecrow, thought Seb, or a crucifixion.

  Squint said, “You mentioned would I sell some land? I would not.” They had reached the grassy slope. Now Squint stopped, turned, and pointed with both oar-held hands over the hog buildings. “My farm goes a mile back into those woods. I got a crew coming in a week to clear ground. I’m putting in organic Berkshires. Organic is the future of hog farming because rich folks like it, and they can pay. For smart farmers anyway. I might put in a prosciutto shed, if I can lure me off a prosciutto master. Berkshire prosciutto for the rich Chinaman.”

  They started toward the parking lot. Seb said, “I stopped by and saw Cody again. He had an orange tent all crumpled up in the garage.”

  Squint smiled across at Seb. He said jovially, “Well, you’re a smart motherfucker. I gave him that tent for his birthday.”

  “I figured you remembered it. I think his flytrapping days are over though.”

  “You going after him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, I hope he appreciates it. I definitely do.”

  Seb touched Squint’s arm and stopped. Squint turned.

  Seb said, “You know what bugs me?”

  “What?”

  “It’s that trench filling with gas so fast. I mean if he hit the valve on the way down, seems like that wouldn’t have been enough time for the trench to fill up. It might have been though. The coroner thought so. But you know what would be good?”

  “What?”

  “You said you called Jorge and heard his phone ringing, and that’s how you found him. So it’d be good if I could check your recent calls. On your phone.”

  “You’re a hard-ass, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Why would I kill Jorge again?”

  “So I couldn’t ask him if it was him in the van instead of you.”

  “And why the fuck would I kill Leo Sackler?”

  “No idea. We’ll see what comes up out of that well.”

  Squint swung the oar to the ground and leaned it against his thigh. He dug his phone out of his front pocket, entered the passcode, then offered it.

  As Seb reached, Squint lifted the phone away. He said, “I’m not going to complain to the sheriff right yet, but if I have to, he’ll damn sure listen. I wrote him a check last election.” He handed the phone to Seb. “This better be the last I hear of this shit.”

  Seb smiled. He said, “I hope it is.” He opened the recent calls. There was a call to Jorge at 9:16 a.m. He handed the phone back to Squint.

  Squint said, “So what now? I’m a clever killer?”

  “I guess I know you’re clever. Now here’s another thing. The guys said when they got here the generator was howling away. So you had to hear that phone over the generator.”

  Squint made a cold smile. He said, “I did. You come out here again, you better bring more than guesses.”

  Seb said, “Definitely,” thinking, I’ll bring handcuffs.

  The Right Call

  Cody had gotten separate plastic bags, one for the rags and lures, one for the AllGone, and now tied them to his bike’s basket, then slid the fishing pole under the brake cables. He unlocked the bike, wound and locked the cable to the seat post, and, as he swung a leg over, looked up to see Seb Creek walking toward him, both hands extended in an offer of mild surprise.

  Seb said, “Damn, man. We meet again.”

  Cody felt his heart surge and felt also, wildly, that he must run, smash the bike hard into this cop, knock him down, and escape. He put a foot on the pedal. He looked down, past the handlebars, at the asphalt. He froze. Any instant, he might burst into tears. The man who had saved him had betrayed him.

  He saw Seb’s hand move to the handlebar, saw him halt beside the front wheel, heard his casual voice, “You’re probably thinking, he’s following me. Or I’m going to arrest you. Neither one. This right here is a chance meeting. I’m on the way to get a change of clothes. Can you smell that?” Cody saw a jacketed sleeve lift toward his face. His eyes darted. He sniffed. He said, “That’s hog.”

  “Yes, it is. I been out to your dad’s farm. I had to go down and get a dead boy out of a trench. I ruined my shirt, and I smell like hog.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your dad has got some hydrogen sulfide equipment out there now. This kid, Jorge, got in a hole and got asphyxiated. Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “It looks like an accident. But I’m worried maybe your dad set it up.”

  Cody felt Seb’s gaze probing. He did not lift his eyes. He said, “Why?”

  “Let me ask you this. Did your dad, or maybe your mom, ever mention Hugh Britt?”

  “No. Who’s … oh. The guy that was killed in the old boathouse.”

  “Right, that guy. Murdered with an axe years ago.”

  “By my father?”

  “I’m just wondering. Anyway, forget it.” Then: “You think I’m following you?”

  “I guess.”

  “I promise I’m not. What do you have in the bags?”

  “Just …”

  But Seb was already pressing the translucent plastic to inspect the contents.

  Seb said, “AllGone. And some rags. And fishing lures for the fishing pole.” Seb regarded him soberly. “I’d say you’re on the right track. This is a huge relief, I can tell you that. I see this stuff, and I think, okay, Seb, good call. You made the right call.” He found Cody’s eyes. He said, “We’re trusting each other. I bet if we get through this we’ll be friends.” He added, “And you can get your ass to Pass the Salt.”

  Cody half smiled. Seb started toward the Walmart entrance, then turned and said, “I was not following you, Cody. Nobody’s following you. Be bo
ld, bro.”

  The Truth and

  Justice Warrior

  Seb sorted through the windbreakers, thinking about his parking lot encounter with Cody, whether it was chance or something the universe did. It was too complicated to think about.

  Then he thought of how he had accused his father’s hero of murder, wondering if there had been some hidden father-debunking going on. His father had once pointed Squint out on the street. He had been too shy to introduce himself, but had more than once recounted Squint’s Silver Star bravado in Huế, how he had broken from cover to flank the second-story machine-gun nest, the double grenade attack, the knife fight with the survivor. So maybe a little father-debunking, which would be normal and natural and not important, not enough to color the facts, which were: Squint killed Jorge, and Leo, and probably Hugh Britt. At least Seb would be surprised if he turned out innocent. How to know? Maybe he never would.

  He had come for a jacket but had forgotten to leave his shoulder rig in his car and would need a changing booth, or else shock the public with his chest-strapped nine millimeter. Since he couldn’t find the changing booths, or a clerk, he decided on a windbreaker. He chose a green one, extra-large with an adjustable elastic bottom, and threw it over his shoulder, then found an extra-large three-pack of gray T-shirts, then wandered aisles until he found the cologne section and got a bottle of Aqua Velva. When he was a boy, in the mornings at the breakfast table, his father smelled of Aqua Velva.

  In his car, Seb removed the holster from his shoulder rig and fastened it on his belt, then pulled off his stained T-shirt and put on a gray one and the windbreaker, tucking it over the holster. Then he splashed a handful of Aqua Velva over his hair, face, and pants and fanned with his notebook.

  When he’d confronted Squint, throwing out the lie that the red cap had been visible to the drone, it had basically been a truth-and-justice move, with a little take-down-the-asshole thrown in, no doubt, and also the reflex fun of detective skirmishing. He had read about a warrior on a battlefield ready to plunge his sword into an enemy when the man spit in his face. The warrior sheathed his sword and let the man go, since he would not kill in anger.

  His eyes fell on the cart enclosure where Cody had locked his bike. Had it been ego, a picture of himself as the honorable warrior, that prompted him to warn Cody instead of arresting him? Last year, Charlene had told him of Cody’s bare-legged beatings with bamboo at the hand of his father, told him of the welts and cuts. Had it been stupid idealism? Maybe partly, but also partly compassion—which could still land him in federal prison.

  He could tell the FBI it had been a technique, that he had sensed Cody’s desperation, so had acted on impulse, turn the guy loose, let him recover the missiles. Besides, he only had suspicion. They would say, Why not put him in the box and pound him? At least set up surveillance. Releasing him was insane, maybe criminal. Since, as they knew, he was the brother of Seb’s ex-girlfriend. But no, no, Seb would reply, the way of the truth-and-justice warrior is compassion and honor, and you are all baboons. And go to prison.

  He googled AllGone on his phone. A powerful cleanser. Also there was a bundle of shop rags and the fishing stuff. Cody would be on the water all day, up some creek somewhere fishing, then after dark head for his stash and wash everything down. Then what? If he was smart, he would just leave everything exposed. If he was not, he would load them into the boat, try to move them into town, leave them somewhere public. And be caught. And say, Seb Creek gave me the idea. Especially after the chance meeting in the parking lot, especially if he started to think Seb had set him up. Life was dark and crisscrossed, and the flashlight of truth and justice was dim and clumsy.

  His phone rang. It was the sheriff, who told him that the feds had taken over part of the sheriff’s offices. Also, Agent Lowry wanted to talk to him. Also, his friend, Mia Fairchild, had been picked up by the FBI.

  The Only Bone

  Seb drove with the blue light on top of his car, honking through intersections. He got his NCIS compadre, Bill McAllister, on the phone, and McAllister briefed him and said he would meet him in the sheriff’s parking lot. As Seb got out of his car, McAllister, still in his Stetson and wearing the same clothes he had worn at the crash site, said, “First thing, Seb, my man, you must settle down. She’s not under arrest. Grayson Kelly is the only one under arrest.”

  “She’s not detained?”

  “She’s being questioned. They’re picking fish out of a net, and she’s in the net. They got to look her over.”

  They started toward the sheriff’s building.

  “She’s in the box?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “She’s cooperating?”

  “Far as I know.”

  They crossed the street, headed for the rear door of the massive redbrick county building.

  Seb said, “So the operative theory is, she and this Grayson guy figured out a way to shoot down a Super Stallion, or two Super Stallions, so they could make off with some Stinger missiles?”

  McAllister laughed. “That’s it. And we’re the guys that caught them. An exciting career-builder.”

  “Is Lowry still the asshole in charge?”

  “Yes, he is. We just call him the asshole. You know him?”

  “I do. He fired me. Now he’s got him a tasty bone.”

  “The only bone you got is always tasty, Seb.”

  Seb swiped them through the rear door. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. He said, “Run it down to me one more time. Piece by piece.”

  McAllister laughed again. “You’re going to go up there and fight with Lowry, you pissant county cop?” He shook his head. He said, “Seb, Seb, Seb.”

  Seb waited, with a stare.

  McAllister rubbed his eyes, red with sleeplessness. He said, “Look, these guys are jacked up. They got one more day until they disappoint the White House. Some guys, man, would shoot their mothers. Lowry would probably shoot his kids.”

  Seb waited.

  McAllister sighed. He said, “Okay. Piece by piece. One, you told the sheriff that Jimmy Beagle rented boats. Which, by the way, means you started this line of investigation, and the country is in your debt.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not funny?”

  Seb did not smile. “Moderately funny. Go on.”

  “Oh, lord, he’s getting that Sergeant Creek focus. Okay. Next, agents descend on poor Mr. Beagle and, what do you know, they find he has indeed rented a boat to the elusive Grayson Kelly, which is why Beagle was hanging out at his fish house last night, hoping Kelly would finally return his boat, which he was supposed to do the evening before. And, what do you know, while the agents are questioning Beagle and poking around the fish house, here comes Kelly in the rented boat and gets cuffed for possession of hand grenades.”

  “Did the boat show residue from the missiles?”

  “No. But listen up to this interesting feature. How does Kelly know to rent a boat from Beagle, who doesn’t advertise and is way in the boonies on a choked-up creek? He learned about Beagle from Miss Fairchild, who was hanging out with Beagle last night. Be honest, Seb. That’s a hackle-raiser.”

  “Even if Kelly’s the guy, which he can’t be …”

  “How do you know?”

  Seb stared. He could say, because Cody Cooper’s the guy. He said, “Because even if he is the guy, he’s just a guy in the right place at the right time that scavenged a dropped load. How is that a conspiracy?”

  “Current theory, he shot the pilot. The chopper jerks around or something, which drops the load, or the load hits a tree. There’s panic in the cockpit, which is why no one radios. Finally, they lose control, and the choppers collide.”

  “He shot the pilot in the fucking night in a fucking storm?”

  “It would be a feat, but who knows? Except there are no machine-gun bullet holes in the wreckage. Which it would likely take to hit a chopper in the
night in a storm. Unless you were an amazing rifle shot, which Kelly is. And you own a thermal scope, which Kelly does. Because we found one in his storage compartment.”

  “So he had two and hid the other one with the missiles?”

  McAllister shrugged and smiled. “Must have.”

  “They find a bullet hole in the windshield?”

  “The windshield is in tiny pieces.”

  “They find a hole in the pilot?”

  “They’re looking. The pilot’s in pieces himself. And also burned up.”

  “So who knows? You guys maybe uncovered an amazing conspiracy. Or else everybody’s innocent, which would be depressing.”

  “Also, ten minutes ago, we got two more pieces of evidence. One, they got a warrant for Mia’s storage compartment and found three hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate. Which is plenty for a giant-ass bomb. Six fifty-pound bags. She had bags of clay stacked on top of them. Everything covered in dust. Plus, she’s got five gallons of diesel in the back of her studio.”

  “What does she say?”

  “No idea. I expect they’re asking her right now.”

  “Does she drive a diesel?”

  McAllister smiled and sighed emphatically. “Yes. A Jetta.”

  “That’s probably just a coincidence though. Since the diesel’s for making bombs.”

  McAllister joined Seb in a smirk. He said, “She’s also got a record, Seb. She and a bunch of people chained themselves to a gate outside a nuclear plant.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So, hey, maybe Lowry’s not such an asshole.”

  They started up the stairs.

  McAllister said, “No, he’s an asshole. But he might be a right asshole.” At the landing, he touched Seb’s arm. They stopped. McAllister said, “So what’s the deal with this girl? Are you in love?”

  “I am deeply in like.”

  “Well, don’t do something awful, like take a swing at Lowry. I see you getting hot, I’m going to mace you.”