by ANDREA SMITH
Her plump face had turned beet red as she stumbled over her words. She was totally flustered and Dalton was puzzled by her obvious embarrassment over the conversation.
He smiled at her, “Ella, it’s fine, really. It’s no big deal. I think it’s nice of you to look after folks around here, especially new members of the community. No need to apologize, okay?”
Her head bobbed up and down in agreement. “You come back and see me again, okay? I promise I won’t be trying to fix you up again.”
As Dalton headed towards the door of the store to depart, he heard Ella call after him, “Good luck on your fishing, Dalton! Hope you land a whopper!”
It was dusk when Dalton tossed his line out into the water of Briar Lake. He hadn’t lied when he told Grant he had fished as a kid. His family would always make a summer trek to the shores of Lake Erie and rent a cottage. Boating, fishing off a pier, and swimming were all part of his summers back then.
He liked the quiet tranquility of the spot he’d chosen to set up his folding chair. It was surrounded by budding trees, leafy foliage with the occasional squirrel skirting up a tree trunk and disappearing into his nest.
He placed his ear buds in, listening to Tim McGraw. It was funny how he’d taken a real shine to country western music since he’d been here. Most every store, restaurant, laundromat, and radio station played nothing but country western, but it was a pleasant deflection from the music he used to listen to before his assignment to Briar County. It was laid back, the lyrics were distinguishable. And the message was always clear.
He’d had his pole in the water for about an hour with no bites. It was getting dark out and Dalton was about to reel in his line and call it an evening when he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the slope, the sound of boots crunching the leaves from last fall on the ground were unmistakable. He pulled his flashlight from the pocket of his jacket and twisted around to shed light on whoever was approaching.
It was a man looking to be in his late fifties. He had a folding chair, tackle box, and pole slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a fishing jacket with an assortment of bobbers and hooks dangling from it. Definitely a seasoned fisherman, Dalton thought.
“Hey there,” the guy called out, “are they biting?”
“Not for me,” Dalton replied with a laugh. “But it’s probably me, not the fish. Kinda rusty I guess.”
The man dropped his pole and gear, and offered his hand for a shake. “Didn’t mean to infringe on you there, buddy. This is my usual spot too. I’m Billy Ray Jensen, live up the road a piece. Haven’t see you around, but then I don’t get off my place much now that I’m retired from the outside world so to speak.”
Dalton shook hands with the guy. “Glad to meet you Billy Ray, I’m Dalton Edwards, and yes, fairly new to the area and totally ignorant to successful fishing around here it seems. Haven’t fished for years and usually fished from a boat or pier.”
“Let me have a look at your lure and bait, son. Maybe I can give you some tips on what works for me.”
Dalton reeled his line in and Billy Ray grabbed the bobber, and studied the bait still untouched on the hook.
“Well hells bells, boy,” he said, bursting into a rumbling laugh, “What are you fishing for, a plastic fish? You can’t use plastic worms to catch anything here,” he continued laughing, but it was a friendly laugh; not mean or condescending.
“Ella recommended it for bass fishing. That’s what I was hoping to catch.”
“Ella Johnson can’t tell a fart from a turd,” he said snickering. “In early spring, the best thing to use to hook the bass who are staging for the spawn is to use a lipless crank bait lure, a bigger hook than what you’ve got here and some fresh crawdads as bait. Here, watch me,” he instructed as he attached the lure, hook, and bait to his own pole.
With the snap of his wrist, he cast his line out into the dark water, and within several minutes, got the first tug on his line. He jerked it once, and then reeled in what looked like a largemouth bass.
“Got me a five pounder with this one,” Billy Ray said, unhooking the fish and tossing it into his pail. “Now you see, Dalton, that’s how it’s done.”
And for the next hour, Dalton and Billy Ray Jensen fished and chewed the fat. Billy Ray was a talker, no doubt about that. Dalton learned he was a widower, retired from the sheriff’s department of an adjoining county, and was drop dead sure the Hatfields were selling some sort of illegal contraband from their compound.
“You know Dalton, I fish a lot. Generally, night fishing on account of I have a farm to tend to during the day. Nothing big, mind you, a few goats, some chickens, and sheep. Keeps me busy, supplements my retirement income. I harvest hay in the fall for some of the horse farms in the area. Other than that, my recreation is fishing and hunting. Done it all my life. Lived here all of my life, and I can tell you one thing, stuff has changed around these parts--and not for the good.”
“Is that right? I’ve only been here for a few months. I kinda like it around here.”
“What is it you do for a living? I’m guessing it’s not supplying fresh caught fish for the restaurants or grocery deli,” he said with a chuckle.
“I work part-time over at the McCoy East Fork Ranch. And then odd job here and there. I like the pace of Briarton. The people seem friendly and all.”
“Virginia McCoy is one of my customers for baled hay. A saint that woman is. Done so much for the community. Even has some non-profit benevolent organizations she runs. Seventy-five years old and still going strong. Give her a lot of credit. Now her grandsons? They might be a different story.”
Dalton chuckled. “I’ve met them, mostly in passing cause they work the barns the days I’m off. I mostly interact with Duel. But I did happen to see his younger boy, Brant, come around one day totally out of sorts. Something about his kid and the kid’s mother?” Dalton replied, hoping for more information on that situation.
Billy Ray didn’t need a formal invitation to share his views on that topic.
“Why in the hell that boy got mixed up with the likes of Tammy Hatfield is beyond me,” Billy Ray started, shaking his head.
“First off, the girl was like fifteen years old! Wearing her jeans so tight you could see her religion! No surprise there when she got knocked up. But I can tell you this; it didn’t sit well with Brant’s family. Especially with Brant living out there with her in one of those trailers. I mean, c’mon, what girl at sixteen even knows what love is?”
Dalton shrugged his shoulders in response. He knew Billy Ray had more to share.
“Brant, on the other hand, should’ve known better. Now I hear she’s kicked him to the curb and has some other guy living there and is due to have another baby in a matter of weeks. Custody battle going on now that Tammy is knocked up again. It’ll be interesting to see who the daddy is on that one being her trailer seems to have a revolving door - know what I mean?”
Dalton chuckled and nodded affirmatively. “How did Brant’s family take him fathering a child with a minor?” Dalton asked. “Were they pissed off?”
Billy Ray thought for a moment. “No, I really don’t think so. It was Duel and Sally Jo’s only grandbaby, and Virginia’s only great-grandchild. From what I know, the little girl - let me think . . . yeah, her name is Madison - they call her ‘Maddie’, she spends a lot of time out at the ranch which is a good thing,” he said, nodding. “It’s a much better environment than at the Hatfield place.”
“What’s your take on the Hatfields?” Dalton asked, leaning back in his chair. The guy liked to talk. He wasn’t going to waste this opportunity to gather info he might not already know.
Billy Ray gave a snort, and then continued on, “The Hatfields have an almost cult-like existence. All these adult kids or other relatives living there with their spouses or significant others. Don’t see how they’re making ends meet which is why I’m convinced, regardless o
f Vince’s job, there’s money coming in from the side, know what I mean?”
“Well,” Dalton replied, “I don’t know Vince all that well. He’s kinda quiet, but he did give me some odd jobs on the weekend, so that much I appreciate. I’ve partied a couple of times with Harlan. Seems like an okay dude.”
Billy Ray turned to him. The glow from the lantern he’d brought clearly reflected his surprise at what Dalton had just told him. “Boy,” he said slowly, “you need to watch yourself being tied up with them. One thing I can tell you is that something has been going on in the last six months or so up around his place. You know he has that huge metal building, right? Can’t figure out what he does with it. I can tell you this though, there’s been a few times I’ve been out night fishing late, and by that I mean early hours of the morning. On my way back to my truck, I’ve seen two black Suburbans coming down the road from his land. Thing is, I’ve never seen them around during the daytime. I figure he’s growing weed up there. Can’t prove it. Decided to just keep out of it. Never know where danger lies. You be careful, you hear?”
“Thanks, Billy Ray. I’ve seen the metal building but never been in there. My job is just cleaning the barns, feeding the chickens and goats, and cleaning up after them.”
“Well,” Billy Ray replied, “My property borders his towards the back. I’ve been tempted to snoop around myself.”
Dalton was uncomfortable with that. All he needed was an ex-cop getting tangled up in something he knew nothing about. It would likely make his mission unnecessarily complicated.
“It seems to me that the local authorities might already be privy to this, don’t you think Billy? I mean, how would the black SUVs tie into the Hatfields?”
“Yeah one would think, but I’ve not seen any action on their part, you know? The only reason I’ve tied them to Hatfield is because they come from that side road that borders their property. Only two landowners bordering this here road. Me and them. And I know for a fact it ain’t me,” he said with a chuckle.
“Yeah, but Billy, it’s not a dead end road, ya know? I mean it goes on for several miles doesn’t it? Could be coming from lots of other places other than the Hatfield place, couldn’t it?”
Billy ray shrugged, “A road to nowhere basically. Yeah, I mean it eventually leads into the nature preserve, but seems like a stupid way to get from there to here on a road full of ruts and big rocks when there’s better routes to take from that area.”
“Well,” Dalton continued, “I don’t pretend to know a lot about how law enforcement works down here, but sometimes don’t they work off the grid until they get concrete evidence of something going on?”
“That’s how it’s supposed to work in a perfect world, but in case you haven’t figured it out yet, Briar County ain’t a perfect world.”
Dalton shrugged. “Still, you never know what might be going on. Tell you what, if I see anything screwy, I’ll let you know in case they are turning a blind eye to it for one reason or another. I know you’re a law abiding man who one can trust, at least that’s how I see it.”
He gave Dalton a nod. “I think you’re probably a good guy too, Dalton. If you come upon anything, you can trust me with it. After all, my career was in law enforcement. I have connections in other counties. Briar County law enforcement, well, I don’t trust ‘em, just saying. Pretty bad history of corruption.”
“I’ll do it for sure, Billy. No worries.”
“You might as well take them with you, Billy. My motel room doesn’t have a kitchen.”
“Why you staying there at the motel, Dalton?” he asked.
“Didn’t think I’d be staying this long. Was headed further south. Might be looking for a place to rent. Feel like I belong here.”
“Yeah,” Billy Ray said, “I think maybe you just might. Tell you what, you take those fish up to Stella at the diner. Have her clean and fry these up for you. Tell her to fry it in some apple butter with a squeeze of lemon juice. You’ll love it, I swear.”
“Thanks, Billy,” Dalton replied, reaching out to shake his hand again. “It’s been real nice fishing with you, hope to see you again.”
That night when Dalton returned to his motel room, he had three Largemouth bass in his cooler thanks to Billy Ray Jensen.
Dalton had just crawled into bed after his evening fishing excursion when his private cell vibrated on the nightstand. Hell, Jack never called this late, he thought as he grabbed it up and hit the screen to accept.
“Yeah,” Dalton said.
“Tomorrow. Let’s meet at Sally’s Diner just down the street from Jerry’s..”
End call.
Chapter 12
“Just a sweet tea for me, darlin’,” Dalton said flopping down in the booth across from Jack. “Whew, I’m pooped,” he continued, “Don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard physically as I have been since being down here.”
“No doubt,” Jack said, “Maybe you need to exercise more brain less brawn.”
Dalton cocked a brow. “So, what? You telling me I’m moving too slow? You never did give me any feedback on the surveillance video. I need some feedback here to know what my next steps are, Jack.”
“Because we didn’t get shit off the video. Two guys on the plane wearing hoodies so their faces are overshadowed, your boss Duel, and a tail number that’s fake.”
“Fake?” Dalton asked, his brow furrowing. “How the hell can the carrier get away with that? Aren’t those tail numbers recorded when the plane lands at airports or refuels somewhere along the way?”
“Typically, yes. But what if this particular plane doesn’t need to refuel from Point A to Point B and back to Point A?”
Dalton nodded. “A private mule. Network couriers. This has to be bigger than I thought. It’s not coke or meth. It’s got to be heroin.”
“No surprise there being the whole fucking state is Ground Zero for this shit,” Jack replied.
“I know, I know. I’ve heard it before, Jack. No need for reminders. I got it.”
They remained silent as the server placed the sweet tea in front of Dalton, and refilled Jack’s coffee.
Jack poured some cream into his coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “What else do you have?”
“There’s a retired law enforcement local living down the road from the Hatfields. Does a lot of night fishing. He’s seen the ground mules a couple of times now. Black SUV’s headed to Highway 32, one goes east, the other goes west. What we don’t need is him getting involved at this point.”
Jack nodded. “So work faster, Edwards. If we can’t get the boys in the air, we’ll need to get the boys on the ground. Gotta give something to the AG what with the elections coming up in a few months.”
“Yeah, it’s always politics first, isn’t it?”
“Welcome to the world of the D.E.A., Dalton.”
Chapter 13
Dalton was just starting his Sunday chores at the Hatfield place when Harlan came out to the small barn that housed the chicken coops where he was busy filling the feeders and trying his best to avoid getting pecked.
He turned to see that Harlan was wearing a suit that didn’t quite fit, looking totally uncomfortable, one hand tugging at his striped tie that seemed to be choking him.
“Wow,” Dalton said with a laugh, “Look at you. Never have seen you that dressed up for Sunday services, Harlan. Trying to impress somebody special?” He tossed him a wink.
Harlan looked flustered and definitely not in the mood for levity it appeared. “Funny, dude,” he said, “Naw, it’s a baptism service today. Tammy is finally getting around to baptizing her and Brant’s kid. Big doings afterward. Daddy wanted me to come out and pay you since you’ll be finished by the time we get back. Harlan reached into the rear pocket of his suit pants pulling out a wad of bills from his wallet.
“For yesterday and today. Daddy says to make s
ure you put the padlock on the front gate when you leave,” Harlan said, his arm reaching back to replace his wallet. It missed his pocket and landed in a pile of straw Dalton hadn’t spread yet. “Shit,” he said, bending down in an attempt to retrieve his wallet and everything that had spilled out of it.
The sound of material ripping, caused Harlan to straighten up immediately, his right hand quickly reaching behind him to assess the damage of the too tight dress pants.
“Fuck,” he growled, “I knew I’d put a little weight on, but not that much! Dammit!”
“Here,” Dalton interceded, “Allow me to help out here.” Dalton squatted down, slipping the contents back into the wallet and brushing some of the straw out of the way.
He stood and handed the wallet over to Harlan. “Turn around and let me see how much damage you did to your fancy drawers there, Harlan.”
Harlan’s face turned a shade of red as he grabbed his wallet and backed up toward the door of the barn. “S’okay, dude, I got it,” he said with obvious awkwardness. “Got to go change, I’m already running late. Later, Dalton.”
Harlan exited the barn so fast, Dalton had to chuckle. He’d left like his ass was on fire. As soon as he was sure Harlan was well out of sight, he squatted back down and brushed the straw back from an item he hadn’t returned to Harlan’s wallet. He picked up the electronic key card, wiping pieces of straw from it.
It was an RFID smart card. There was no commercial printing on it, which told Dalton it was used to get access to one of the buildings on the Hatfield land. He slipped it into the pocket of his jeans, knowing what he needed to do once he’d finished up his chores.
Back in his motel room, Dalton went to the closet and grabbed his briefcase off the shelf and placed it on the bed. He input the combination, and when the lid flipped open, he grabbed the small RFID NFC card reader and plugged it into the USB port on his laptop.
Pulling up the software, he placed Harlan’s key card on the reader and waited for the code to upload to his computer. He then placed a blank card onto the reader, hit “clone” on the device, and within seconds, he heard the verification beep that the code had been replicated on his card.