Blood in Tavasci Marsh: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lakota Grace

  “He wasn’t around. What’s so special about Otis?”

  “Otis Stroud…” Shepherd began. He leaned back in his chair. “Came out from Tennessee about the same time Cal married his sister, Ruby Mae. Heard rumors that Otis had to leave, killed a man back there in a bar fight. He ran the whiskey operation for Cal. Has possible connections to the Phoenix bad guys, but never charged. No respect for the ladies, either. Always keep him in front of you, Peg. Call for backup if there’s any sign of trouble with that one.”

  Fair warning. But I’d held no patience with male physical intimidation since my growth spurt started in high school. The Krav Maga, that Israeli combat defensive training I’d taken in the Police Academy, helped, too. I’d be cautious when I met Otis Stroud, but I wasn’t backing down, either. My motto was: be a cop first, a lady second.

  “Write up your meeting with Howard and your visits with those two women before you leave tonight. I didn't see a summary report on my desk this morning like I asked for.” Truce over. Supervisor Malone had returned.

  He was the one left early last night, and I didn’t recall any request for a report. I choked back that need to prove myself right. I could’ve written one up before I left, and I didn't.

  “Best I go talk to Otis, get his statement,” Shepherd said. “I want to be certain that whiskey still isn't operational again. Man's work, but you can tag along if you want to.” He peered over his reading glasses at me.

  Was there a hint of humor in his voice, or was he pushing my buttons with that “man’s work” comment? Either way, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Works for me. When?”

  “Now. No notice this time, we'll deal with the dogs when we get there.”

  As he drove down the winding road to Clarkdale and beyond that to the Nettles' homestead, I kept my seat belt fastened tight. That man did like to slice the sharp edges off the corners.

  I hadn't called the counselor, Dr. Westcott, but I’d remembered her at least. That should count for something. No problem, I'd touch base with her later. I didn’t know what my schedule was yet. That was the truth.

  When we arrived at the Nettle place, all the vehicles were gone, the place silent. Shepherd pulled our SUV into the drive and turned off the engine. Then he opened the window and helloed the house.

  Ethan appeared from the barn, wiping his hands on his blue jeans. He tossed too-long bangs out of his eyes and walked up to the SUV. The man could do with a haircut. I tucked an errant strand of my own hair behind one ear.

  “Big dogs are penned. Momma went to pick up Aurora, and Otis is at the feed store. Come see the pups.”

  We got out of the car and followed Ethan to the near barn. In one corner he had built a six-foot square whelping box. When we approached, a redbone coonhound bitch rose from the pen and stepped carefully over the sill of the adjustable door.

  “Folks, meet Red Sheba and her family,” Ethan said with pride.

  The pups appeared about six weeks old, all round bellies and stubby legs. They tumbled over each other and squeaked in eagerness to follow their mother.

  Even Shepherd was impressed. “Nice. You sexed them yet?”

  “Three boys and four girls. They've almost outgrown this box. I'll be constructing a play area for them soon. Training them on 'coon tails,” he said.

  “You aren't shooting raccoons?” I asked.

  “No, ma'am. My cousins in Tennessee collect tails off roadkill and ship them to me on dry ice.”

  I sat down on a corner seat of the box and touched the velvet-soft, sunset-red fur of one exploring pup. It immediately suckled my finger. Always hungry at this age. “What are those bars around the pen's inside?” I asked.

  “I built the box special with pig rails. Gives the pups someplace to hide, protect them when they're little. Sheba's a good mother, but breeds this large can kill pups by laying on them.”

  “Good man,” Shepherd said.

  Ethan’s face shone in the praise. He had a man’s body, but a youngster’s need for approval. “I'm trying to do the best I can. My brother Lucas created this breeding program before he died. I aim to continue what he started.” His voice sounded wistful. “Come to the porch and I'll fix you some lemonade. Momma should be back soon.”

  As we moved from the barn, Sheba re-entered the box, plopping down with a whump and the pups swarmed her side. When we got to the house, Ethan disappeared through the door and soon returned juggling three Mason jars filled with lemonade, iced and sweet-tart.

  We perched on the steps, Ethan on the highest, Shepherd one down, and me on the lowest board. I leaned against the porch railing but straightened as it sagged behind me. A Bendire's thrasher in the high branches of an old sycamore trilled an intricate warble, and we basked in the mid-morning sun waiting for the rest of the Nettle family to return.

  A gangly adolescent coonhound loped around the corner. When Shepherd reached out his hand, the dog shied away.

  “Sorry,” Ethan said. “Reckless is spooked by strange men. Gets on fine with the ladies, though. Aurora's his favorite.”

  As if on cue, the young dog approached me and lay down with his chin across one of my shoes. “What happened?” I asked.

  Ethan’s face darkened. “Daddy about ruined him and that's a fact.”

  “Tell us about it, son,” Shepherd said, his voice gentle.

  Ethan rubbed a hand over his narrow chin. “Daddy insisted on hunting late one night. He'd do that when he got to drinking and remembering Lucas. Tripped over a log, blamed the pup. That started it. Then Reckless rolled in the remains of a dead squirrel, stunk something fierce. He's a young dog. They just do that.” Ethan’s voice was defensive. “And next, the pup treed a possum instead of a coon.”

  Ethan clenched his fists and the dog jerked upright off my shoe. He climbed up the steps and wedged against the man. Ethan smoothed the dog's ear and leaned against his side, his eyes moist. “Daddy took off his belt and started beating Reckless, like he did me when I was little. Know you're 'sposed to honor your parents, but I couldn't stand it, I plain couldn't.”

  “You fought?” Shepherd asked.

  “I grabbed that belt out of his hand and threw it away. Punched him hard. Called for Reckless but he'd disappeared. Came to my senses, then. Not right taking advantage of a man's been drinking. I left Daddy to sleep it off and went to the trailer. Reckless didn't show until the next morning, and he's been like this ever since.” He patted the dog’s side.

  “And your father?” I asked.

  Ethan looked up in surprise, as if he'd forgotten I was there. “The next morning he swore it never happened. To his mind maybe it didn't. I let it be.”

  “But you didn't forget.”

  “How could I, with Reckless here?”

  Two vehicles swung into the drive, a blue sedan and behind it, a man driving an old Ford pickup truck with sun-faded red paint. That had to be Otis Stroud, Ruby Mae’s brother.

  Reckless gave a joyous bay and leaped off the porch. He pounced on the side of the sedan, just as the hounds had done on the SUV our first evening here. Aurora opened the door and climbed out. She leaned down so the dog could lick her face, and then skipped toward us, her crippled hand braced against the dog's fur.

  “Let’s go help your mother,” Shepherd said to Ethan. “And I want a word with your Uncle Otis.” The two walked toward the vehicles. Aurora approached me, touched my hair shyly in passing, and clattered up the steps into the house, Reckless at her heels.

  Shepherd greeted Ruby Mae at her car and said something in her ear. Then he walked to the pickup and pulled a feed sack out of the bed. He lifted it to one shoulder with some difficulty. I could have done better. It was only a fifty-pounder. Otis hoisted another sack and disappeared around the corner of the barn. The man appeared to have a sinew-hard strength, with arms darkly tanned. I’d be able to judge him better at close range, though, and I intended to.

  Ethan opened the car's back door and pulled out two sacks of groceries. He handed o
ne to his mother and followed her toward the house.

  I stood and dusted off my pants. “Hello, Ruby Mae. Good to see you again. Can I help?”

  “I got it. You say hi to your granddaddy for me?”

  I reddened. “Soon,” I said.

  “Do that, now. You best catch up with your side-kick.” She jerked her head toward the barn and then climbed the porch steps, treading carefully, holding the groceries. Ethan followed close behind her.

  The far end of the barn had been partitioned off from the whelping area. Light from the second-story loft door dimly illuminated a collection of vintage farm implements: a wooden plow with an iron point, a hand threshing machine, a corn sheller. One wall held a huge hay fork. Next to it were collars and traces for long-vanished work animals. Nothing used in decades, all preserved by past generations for a future need that never came.

  In one corner of the barn sat another pickup, a 1929 Ford, lovingly restored, its brass gleaming in a blade of sunlight thrown by a high window. Cal’s truck? If so, who would inherit it? I’d seen grown men come to blows over a father’s signet ring. This truck was much more valuable, especially to men who prized fine machinery.

  I pictured Otis and Ethan in a toe-to-toe struggle. Ethan had the youth, but I read Otis as an experienced street fighter. If Ruby Mae intervened, maybe it wouldn’t come to that. But when the patriarch of a family died, it was hard to predict the new matrix.

  The two men looked up as I neared. Otis was about forty, with a big head and small eyes. A worn circle of fabric in one shirt pocket outlined a can of chewing tobacco. He had a rank odor like a wild animal caged too long.

  Otis surveyed me like a Saturday-night John deciding how much to offer. “Who're you?” he asked. His voice had that raspy hardness of a lifetime smoker now denied his habit.

  It was a challenge I accepted. Getting in his face, I stuck out my hand. “Deputy Peg Quincy, from Mingus.”

  He spat to the side, reached in his pocket for the can, stuck another plug in his cheek, and slowly slid the can back into its resting place. “Heard about you.” His eyes were dead, like pools filled with rotting leaves.

  I'll bet you have. Take my hand, you bastard.

  When he did, I matched him grip for grip. He was strong, I'll give him that. But I’d been arm-wrestling champ at the Police Academy and I held my own. Finally, Otis dropped his hand, his fingers twitching. Shepherd stood behind him, watching the exchange. A smile drifted across his face and disappeared.

  “Now then, Otis,” he said, “time we mosey down to that old whiskey still. Want to make sure no bears destroyed your equipment.”

  With lightning reflexes, Otis grabbed at a fly buzzing around his head. He opened his palm to view the mangled insect. It was still alive, although its wings were crushed. Carefully he set it on the Ford’s hood and watched it struggle up the curved surface.

  “Kill the damn thing, Otis,” Shepherd said.

  “Nah. It’ll die soon enough.” He turned on his heel and spat again at the ground, barely missing my shoe.

  We walked abreast down a dirt road behind the barn. In the noonday sun, the animals and birds turned silent as we hiked about a quarter-mile through a small meadow and over a hill. Tuzigoot Ruins filled the horizon as the Tavasci Marsh spread before us. The road ended at water’s edge and a single-file path entered the swamp.

  “What about it, Ms. Quincy. You up to a hike?” Otis flashed tobacco-stained teeth, inviting me to follow directly after him.

  Shepherd quickly stepped in front of me. “I’ll take the middle, Otis. Peg, you bring up the rear.”

  Part of me prickled at Shepherd’s intervention, and part of me was relieved I didn’t have to smell Otis’s animal stench in front of me. He had a sure-footed familiarity on the path, but both Shepherd and I sometimes misstepped as we tried to predict which hillock was solid and which slid off toward the murky water.

  We'd been hiking for about ten minutes, the overgrowth getting thicker and wet areas increasing as we angled diagonally into the marsh. The rough path remained weed free as though someone trod it regularly, but to either side, pools of dank water appeared and then vanished from view behind tall reeds and marsh grasses.

  Sweat blurred my vision and I wiped my eyes. “How much farther?”

  “Why? You tired?” Otis sneered.

  I grunted, not willing to engage. We'd be out of here soon enough. The man was a sore loser, that was all. I pumped my fist in memory of arm-wrestling victory.

  Otis picked up the pace, striding long. Shepherd and I hurried after him; my eyes on the path to keep my footing sure, Shepherd stiff with an arthritic hip. Then Otis jerked to an angled halt and his elbow jutted out. Shepherd bumped into his motionless figure and sidestepped, splashing into the water to regain his balance.

  There was a sound like a recoiled spring snapping, and Shepherd cried out in pain. He doubled over, clutching his calf with both hands. Blood seeped through his fingers, turning the water black. Two rusty metal bands with jagged teeth sliced into his leg: A bear trap, set at water's edge to protect the whiskey still.

  Shepherd screamed and slumped forward into the water.

  Caught in the Bear Trap

  8

  I PLUNGED INTO WATER above my knees, frantic to reach Shepherd before it was too late. I turned him so that his face was out of the water and he could breathe. Blood gushed from the wound like an artesian spring. I tried to pull the jaws of the trap apart, but the spring was too heavy for me to pry open by myself.

  Could I trust Otis? Probably not—he’d set the trap—but my partner's life was at stake. I had no other options, had to act now. “Help me?” I asked.

  Otis looked at me and shrugged a half-hearted agreement.

  I maneuvered Shepherd’s body to the edge of the path so that his head was on dry ground. Then I splashed back toward the jaws tightening about his leg. “Get on the other side,” I told Otis.

  He waded in and together we reached under the water and forced the teeth of the trap apart far enough to reset the springs. The trap jaws chunked into a cocked position with a muffled thud, more felt than heard.

  I painstakingly worked Shepherd's calf free of the rusty teeth, my fingers turning red with his blood. He moaned and blood surged from his crushed and mangled leg. I tried to be as gentle as I could, not wanting to spring the trap again as I struggled with the unyielding metal. Finally, with a sucking sound, the jaws relinquished their grip, and Shepherd’s leg slipped free.

  Otis hefted Shepherd in a body hug, taking most of the weight. I grabbed his legs, the blood dripping down my arms. We staggered out of the water and laid Shepherd lengthwise along the narrow path. Otis stood breathing heavy at the exertion.

  My mind calculated the next step to save Shepherd’s life. “Give me your belt,” I ordered.

  Otis whipped it off and handed it to me. I placed it above Shepherd’s knee, cinched it tight, and the bleeding slowed. But my partner’s face paled as he slipped into shock. I wiped my hands, smeared with his blood, onto my uniform. He was stabilized but wouldn’t last long in this condition.

  With shaky fingers, I keyed my radio. “Officer down. Assistance needed. Send an ambulance.” I gave our location.

  Then I put my hand over the mike. “Is that whiskey-still still operational?” I asked.

  Otis bent his head.

  I returned to dispatch. “And send some ATF men out here. Got an illegal still.”

  Otis and Shepherd were both Verde Valley residents—they had a shared history. Maybe Otis felt a small guilt at hurting Shepherd. Or maybe he was like some bullies I’d known—call their bluff and they collapsed. Fine with me, either way. I was past caring, but I needed outside help for Shepherd.

  I fished out my cell phone and glanced at Otis. “Ethan have a mobile?”

  He mumbled the number and I dialed.

  “Been an accident, Ethan. Shepherd stepped into a bear trap. We freed him, but it's bad. You got an ATV?”

&
nbsp; “Old, but it works.”

  “Get it revved up and ready. Wait for the ambulance crew. Load them on that ATV, bring them and their gear out here to the still.”

  What else? My mind raced in overdrive, adrenalin-charged. “Next vehicle is going to be a cop car,” I told Ethan. “Have Ruby Mae lead them out here, double-time. Tell them to watch the edges of the path. Don't know what other traps might be set.”

  My mind spun through all the contingencies: What about Aurora? Aurora had been traumatized the last time there’d been an accident in the marsh. Didn’t want to leave the little kid by herself if Ruby Mae came to us. And the dogs at the home place—would they get vicious with strangers?

  “Call Janny at work,” I told Ethan. “Have her come home to take care of Aurora. And pen up the loose dogs. Don't want any of them getting shot.”

  That should cover it. I turned back to Otis.

  “Now what?” he snarled. The immediate life-threat over, his hostile attitude had re-emerged.

  “T-shirt,” I ordered. Otis silently unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled off the undershirt and tossed it to me. Then he put his outer shirt back on and re-buttoned it while I fashioned a rough bandage around the jagged wounds on Shepherd's leg.

  The T-shirt was sweat-stained, but that was the least of Shepherd's worries. What infection he didn't catch from that rusty trap, he might from the foul waters around us. The man was in for a long recuperation.

  I loosened the tourniquet for a moment and retightened it. Shepherd's color was returning, but he was still unconscious.

  The bear trap was next. I jammed a stout branch in its jaws to re-spring the trap. It snatched the branch with an explosive crack. The splinters of wood tumbled end over end into the swamp. That could have been Shepherd’s leg bone.

  I stepped around Shepherd’s motionless body and grabbed his gun out of its holster. I pointed it at Otis. “Turn around.” When he did, I cuffed him. I kicked his boot heel with my toe. “Up the path,” I grunted. I wanted him out of the way when the med techs arrived to work on Shepherd.