Murders on the Ridge

by ANDREA SMITH

  “You’re only partly right on that,” Harlan replied. “You see, Dalton, down in these parts most families have known one another for generations. It’s only natural families get in spats. You put it behind you. My daddy went to school with Duel. They were lifelong friends. Now they just kinda tolerate one another in their joint interests. They’ve had their differences over the years as most families do around here. But you go on, because one hand kinda washes the other if you catch my drift. I’m gonna tell you one thing you didn’t know. That hidden landing strip on the mountain you’re familiar with?”

  “Yeah,” Dalton replied. “What about it?”

  “Duel McCoy leases the land it’s on from my daddy. I’ve got some job security on that one.”

  Dalton was thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t get it. Why doesn’t your dad just sell it to the McCoy’s?”

  “They don’t want to buy it. They prefer leasing I guess. Hell, they pay Daddy five grand a month to lease it. It’s only sixteen acres and not good for much anyways being up top that mini mountain and all. The old man was gonna timber it but Duel said he’d lease it instead and to keep the trees right where they were. He cleared just enough for that landing strip on the flat part. You still think they’re bringing in horse feed, Dalton?”

  “Still,” Dalton remarked, “it doesn’t make sense with all the land the McCoy’s own down here. Surely they could find another place to put a landing strip.”

  Harlan laughed again. “You sure don’t know much about Briar County, do you? We may be in the sticks, but we’re no way in hell off the radar. You’ll learn in time. There are reasons for what we do. There are reasons for division of power. And there are reasons one hand washes the other. And there’s reasons for minimizing risk.”

  “I suppose,” Dalton replied, draining the last of his beer. “But it sure seems weird, dude.”

  Harlan laughed and gave Dalton a hearty slap on the back. “You know, you’re alright. Getting out for a couple of drinks is a good thing, I reckon. I wasn’t sure about you there for awhile, but I gotta say, you’re A-okay, dude.”

  Chapter 7

  Dalton awoke with a splitting headache the next morning. Damn Harlan and his rotgut moonshine he thought to himself as he crawled out of bed and went to the bathroom sink.

  He splashed cold water on his face, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. That shit had kicked his ass, but he was glad he’d gone. Harlan was a wealth of information once he got liquored up good.

  Dalton brushed his teeth and then wandered over to the complimentary coffeemaker that sat atop the small refrigerator in his motel room.

  He opened a coffee packet, emptied it into the basket and then took the pitcher of water he always kept there and filled the cylinder. He flipped the switch and waited.

  Before the coffee had time to brew he heard his personal cell phone ring from the dresser drawer where he’d been keeping it. He hadn’t realized it was already ten o’clock as he pulled the drawer open and grabbed the phone.

  “Edwards,” he answered, knowing who it was at the other end.

  “Let’s do brunch,” the voice said. “Usual place in Ashland. See you at elevenish.”

  Call ended.

  It was his contact. Jack Reynard. They’d only met twice before in person. The first time, Jack had reamed Dalton for not having shit to report. The second time was better.

  Dalton pulled out a clean pair of jeans and tee shirt, dressing quickly, then looked around for his boots. They were on the other side of the bed, so he quickly donned them, grabbed his keys and was out the door before the coffee finished filling the glass pot.

  Dalton made it to Ashland by a little after eleven. He saw the dark blue Impala parked in a spot and he pulled his truck into a spot around on the other side of the restaurant.

  Jack liked to meet at Jerry’s Restaurant because for whatever reason, he loved their food. Dalton thought it was just okay, but it was a good place to meet without drawing attention.

  Once inside, he spotted Jack in a booth over in the corner. The place wasn’t packed, which would make it a bit easier for them to converse. He took a seat across from his boss.

  His real boss.

  “I ordered you coffee,” Jack said, “You look like hell.”

  Dalton ran a hand through his still sleep-tousled hair. “Well, shit. Like I had time to primp and still get here on time,” he said, managing a slight grin. “Got my first and hopefully last taste of the local moonshine last night.”

  Jack’s lips formed a grim line, and Dalton knew he had concerns about this entire assignment.

  “Don’t worry, I know my limit.”

  “So, what’s new?”

  “One delivery since we last talked. Still not sure who’s muling for them on the ground. We’re instructed to leave the vicinity before the occupants get close enough to see. Hell, they could be black, white, male, female - got no idea.”

  “You need to get closer, Dalton. You need to see exactly what’s coming in and who they’re passing it off to so we can finally get a handle on this.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Jack?” he growled.

  They both grew silent as the server set their coffee on the table and took their orders. Once she was out of earshot, Dalton continued. “These things take time. Trust has to be earned, and I have to make sure I don’t draw attention by rushing it.”

  “That’s where it’s tricky,” Jack replied, pouring sugar into his coffee. “We don’t have the time we thought we had.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Manny found out that one of the local yokels is on the take. There could be more, but for sure they’ve verified one dirty cop in that county. He’s bankrolled by Vince Hatfield. So far, he’s not linked to the cartel, at least as far as our agent can tell. So, the dirty cop is protecting Hatfield from something.”

  “What? The cock-fighting?” Dalton asked, snickering.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, just found out last night. Vince and Duel have a cock-fighting gig going on. Apparently, there’s some good money in it. They hold competitions, so there’s probably a pretty good-size ring of them in the area.”

  “Well, good money to them, isn’t chicken shit to the cartel if there is a link. Pardon the pun.”

  “And there’s something else,” Dalton continued. “The property where the landing strip is located isn’t owned by Duel McCoy. He leases it from Vince Hatfield. Aside from that and the cock fighting, it doesn’t appear the two families are business partners on the cargo coming in. I get the feeling the two families don’t trust one another. Or maybe their individual interests conflict with one another.”

  “Meaning what?” Jack asked impatiently.

  Dalton was thoughtful. “It’s almost like a civilized feud if that’s even possible. Other than leasing out the land, and the cock-fighting bit, Vince has a full-time job. The family has an obvious passion for demolition cars, but they don’t by any means live an extravagant lifestyle.”

  “Define their lifestyle,” Jack commented taking a sip of coffee.

  Dalton shrugged, “Mobile homes with additions built on sections, some barns and garages. It appears to be a compound of close-knit family members. But again, I’ve not had an opportunity to explore the place without drawing undue attention. I need to get closer to Harlan if I want access. Is somebody nervous about the Hatfields?”

  Jack shook his head slowly. “Not exactly the family per se. Manny says the chatter he’s picking up is related to what’s behind this cop who’s being paid off. After that shit went down three years ago with the AG and BCI finding the cache of marijuana plants, and then running his mouth linking it to the Mexican cartel in national news, well, things are still sensitive in the area.”

  “No shit. For the record, I’ve seen no Hispanics on the ground in the time I’ve been th
ere. Can’t even get close enough to that Cessna to see who’s piloting it. Can’t see who picks up the cargo, and where it goes. If the attorney general had done what he promised he was going to do back then, my ass wouldn’t be living in dog patch, and my gut wouldn’t be burning from moonshine right now.”

  Jack leaned forward, and lowered his voice although nobody was within fifty feet of them. “Listen, you need to find out what the hell Hatfield’s got going on that he needs to have a cop in his pocket. And finding it out sooner rather than later would be good. I’m not comfortable with this bit of news. Ingratiate your ass with whomever you need to, but I need something soon so my agency is not left in the dark, got it?”

  “I’m on it, Jack. No worries. But if time is now the biggest factor, I say let’s pop them on the next delivery. We know that plane is holding something other than weed. I’m betting a shitload of heroin, maybe coke. But my money’s on heroin. Hell, the whole state is considered Ground Zero for opiates. How many more people have to die as a result of this shit coming into the heartland?”

  Jack was just as frustrated as Dalton with the intricate networking that had taken hold of Appalachia and turned it into an opiate wasteland.

  “You know why. For every puddle jumper carrying a load of the latest poison of choice to Briar County, there are a hundred others doing the same damn thing one state over. We have to get the distribution infrastructure in our sights. And that means people, Dalton. Joe Blow at the gas station down the road, Aunt Tillie at the donut shop in town. People have knowledge; they just might not know exactly what it means.”

  “Yeah, I get that, Jack. Hell, nobody has to preach to this choir. I know that nearly a half-million pounds of this shit came into the country last year. But maybe this farm-to-arm supply chain needs to be dismantled one small piece at a time, have they considered that?”

  “Listen, Dalton, we don’t set DEA procedure or protocol, we do what we’ve been instructed to do. And right now, Briar County is the entry point for all of Southeast and Southwest Ohio. My BCI agent is posted in Dayton, and the hub there seems to be the epicenter. We’re close. But we can’t let whatever else is going on in this particular county fuck everything up. If we bag the couriers, we get nothing. This network doesn’t move in a vertical line, there are nodes and redundancies involved. Why take a low-level courier or two, when I want to annihilate the whole fucking supply chain?”

  “I don’t know about that, Jack. I’ll do my best but these people are tight knit. And my gut tells me that maybe it’s a one-man show.”

  Jack grunted, and Dalton knew he was totally passionate about this mission. As well he should be. Jack had lost his son to a heroin overdose. It was up close and personal with him.

  Dalton, on the other hand, just wanted to put the bad guys away and shut our borders to the international drug smugglers coming up through Mexico. Small Cessna’s like the one that landed the other night could fly virtually undetected using VFR (Visual Flight Rules) and no flight plans had to be filed with the ATC. Their flight paths could be damn near anywhere within the hundreds of miles of porous border that separated the two countries.

  Their food arrived and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Dalton broke the silence. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll see if it works. I’ll hit Harlan up to get a feel for whatever other work I can get being that he believes I’m trying to get out of the country. He did say that preparing the landing strip was only part of how he earns his living. The rest comes from the family business I’m presuming.”

  “Well that’s rather obvious, isn’t it Dalton? Unless you think legit stuff like demolition derbies or growing tomatoes does the rest,” Jack replied tersely.

  “Chill, Jack. Let me dig harder to find out what his other source of income is, and how it plays into what Duel has going on. If they’ve got a side business going, which seems likely, it has to be on their property. Vince Hatfield owns over seventy acres just in Sunfish Township. If he’s got a local in his pocket, I need to find out why.”

  Jack looked up at Dalton. “Have you scoured their property?”

  “Yeah, I mean as much as possible from a distance. There’s a big metal fab building about three hundred yards behind their barn.”

  “So, you’ve been in there yet?” Jack asked impatiently.

  “Negative on that. You can only access it from the road that runs parallel to the road they live on unless you’re actually inside the gates of their property.

  The gravel road behind it looks like an easement between property lines probably made to access pastures with farm equipment. And it’s gated as well, so I seriously doubt if that building is for cock fighting. I’ll snoop around. The problem is the whole area is like a compound. Several mobile homes spread out around it in a half circle. Kind of difficult to get in and out without notice.”

  “Well shit, Edwards! That could be the whole enchilada. He could be cutting the heroin with whatever the additive of choice is and making synthetic fentanyl in that damn building.”

  “But what if the cargo isn’t heroin, Jack? What if it’s cocaine?”

  “Doesn’t matter what the fuck the cargo is, Edwards. These asshats are putting homemade fentanyl in any drug of choice. Pretty soon weed will be sprinkled with that shit!”

  Dalton felt Jack was overacting just a bit. But he understood why. “Look Jack, at this point, we’re still guessing what the hell they’re unloading. And the fact remains Vince and Duel are not friends. They’re more like business associates who don’t particularly like or trust one another. Like at all. No, if something’s big going on, those two are not in it together. It’s separate.”

  Jack was thoughtful for a moment, and finally let out a frustrated sigh. “Do you think Hatfield is cooking meth? Hydroponic weed? Maybe they both know what the other is doing and are frenemies for that reason.”

  “Could be. He’s going through a shitload of propane. I’ve seen that truck there twice in one month on my way into town. It’s not even that cold out now. Doesn’t really explain why Vince has a cop in his pocket either, but seriously, Jack,” Dalton continued with a chuckle, “Did you actually use the word frenemies?”

  “Fuck off,” he growled, trying not to crack a grin. “I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. I learn from her. But check it out, and let’s talk again next Saturday. And in the mean time, see what you can do to get some motion activated surveillance up on the ridge.”

  “You got it, Jack. Same place, same time?” Dalton asked.

  “Yep. Your turn to buy next week,” Jack replied, pulling out his wallet. “See you then.”

  Chapter 8

  It was pitch black outside. Dalton was on foot, a pocket flashlight he couldn’t use just yet in his backpack, along with his night vision goggles that he couldn’t use yet either. For now, he was being guided only by the half-moon and the sprinkling of stars that provided a bit of light whenever the patches of cloud cover moved out of the way.

  Once he made his way up the steep, wooded hill, and then hiked down into the ravine, he could use the night goggles to make his way back up to the crest where the land flattened out for a few acres for the landing strip. That time couldn’t come soon enough as far as Dalton was concerned.

  An outdoorsman he’d never been. Not even a boy scout on his past resume. But he’d hiked up here enough times to know the lay of the land fairly well.

  Once he reached the area, he put on his goggles and paced off the yardage he’d calculated he’d need to have the infrared camera activated by the motion sensors installed.

  He hoisted himself up the tree that was just on the other side of the landing strip, and with the dark brown Velcro strips he’d ordered, the video equipment certainly wouldn’t be visible to anyone around, night or day.

  Once he’d secured that camera, he made the trek to the other end of the field to install its twin to another tree. The Cessna had
come in from both directions the times he’d been there so this would hopefully lend itself to capturing the plane’s tail number for tracking. He also hoped it might provide clear pictures of the couriers that made the drop-offs.

  Once finished, he cleared out before some idle hunter or an early morning fisherman crossed his path. It was a secluded area, but not a ghost town by any means.

  The following morning Dalton awoke to a loud pounding on the door of his motel room. “Jesus,” he growled, looking over at the clock. It was only a little after six. Who the hell would be pounding on his door this damn early?

  “Hang on,” he yelled, grabbing his discarded jeans from the chair next to the bed and pulling them on. He stubbed his toe on the way to the door, and a soft curse escaped. He jerked the door open, prepared to lay into Harlan if it was indeed him disturbing his sleep on one of his days off.

  It wasn’t Harlan Hatfield he came face to face with. It was Elroy Driscoll of all people.

  “I’m sorry to bother you this early Dalton, but I came here to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Dalton asked, rubbing his chin stubble in confusion, “For what?”

  “May I come in for a second?” Elroy asked, leaning on his cane. “It won’t take but a minute, and it’d be better if we’re not seen by some nosey ‘Lookie Lou’ who might drive by this place.”

  Dalton held the door wide allowing the older man access to his motel room, closing the door behind him.

  Elroy looked over at Dalton. “I know it was you who left that envelope full of cash inside my truck a few weeks back. Twenty-five hundred dollars to be exact. Enough to pay off my delinquency and make next month’s payment to Virginia McCoy, which I’ve done. Thanks to you, I’ll be able to survive until I can get back to work. Ida got an evening job at the nursing home, so we’ll be fine until then.”

  “Why do you think it was me?” Dalton asked.

  Elroy gave him a grateful smile. “Because around these parts you never know who’s gonna sneak up to my garage, break the lock and steal me blind. My tools of the trade are my livelihood, least they will be again once I’m healed up. I installed a motion-activated spy cam inside the electrical box on the front of my garage last year.”