The Killing Harvest

by Don Donaldson

  Of course he didn’t get it. He never did.

  “Anyway,” he said, unfazed by his incomprehension. “I got this baby for twenty-eight five. Saved at least eight thou. You still drivin’ that . . . Chevy?”

  Harry was sure in Kazmerak’s mind he’d plugged the word “old” into the gap he’d left in his question. Not in the mood to hear any more about Kazmerak’s new car, Harry tried to turn the tables. “It may not have a GPS in it,” Harry said, “but it brought me a little luck the other day.”

  “What kind of luck?”

  Harry reached into his desk and got out the dinner certificate the River Kings Rover had given him. He let Kazmerak see what it was, then told him how he’d won it.

  “This, I don’t get,” Kazmerak said. “I read every scrap of mail they send me in which they’re always yakkin’ about some promotion or other. If I’d known about this one, I’d have gotten a bumper sticker for my new car. I’m as loyal a fan as they got, so how come I didn’t know?”

  “It’s a big conspiracy. Better alert your congressman.”

  “I’ll just call the freakin’ River Kings’ office.”

  Kazmerak looked up the number and punched it into the phone. He railed at the unfortunate staffer who answered, then paused. “Well, my friend not only saw him, but he got a dinner certificate from him . . . You’re sure about that? Okay . . . thanks.”

  Kazmerak hung up and looked at Harry. “That was the general manager of the franchise. There’s no such person as the River Kings Rover. Somebody was playin’ a trick on you. Although I don’t know why they’d go to all that trouble just to give you two dinners.”

  But Harry did. Seeing it all in embarrassing clarity, he snatched up the envelope containing the stolen charts and charged out of the office.

  Those sons-a-bitches. He’d been played for a sucker, scammed into going to the casino so he’d be ripe for the deal they’d offered him. Accompanying the anger he felt at being manipulated was the realization that the people he was dealing with might be dangerous. And he now began to wonder if they had any intention of paying him. He looked at his watch: forty minutes before he was to meet them to turn over the charts.

  He briefly considered washing his hands of the whole thing and not showing up. But dammit, he’d done his part, and now they should do theirs. What he needed was a little something to make sure they’d see things his way.

  When Harry got home, he was distressed to find his wife’s car in the drive. His faint hope that he might slip in and reach the bedroom without her hearing him was dashed when she met him at the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just surprised you’re home. Aren’t you supposed to be in genetics right now?”

  “Class was canceled.”

  “How can they do that? You paid your tuition. They should give you every class meeting they agreed to provide.”

  “Believe me, the teacher’s not that great. So I’m not missing much. Why are you home?”

  “I left something I need in my study.”

  “I’m making tea. Want a cup?”

  “No, thanks. I need to get back.”

  Thankfully, the whistle of the teakettle called her to the kitchen.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Harry dashed upstairs and got his .38 from the nightstand. He shoved it into his coat pocket and hurried to the study, where he grabbed a manila envelope and stuffed some scratch paper in it. Downstairs, Beth was waiting with her tea.

  “Find what you needed?”

  He waved the envelope.

  “Harry . . .”

  “What?”

  “Be careful.”

  A chill ran down Harry’s spine. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just felt I needed to say it.”

  As Harry went to his car, the hairs on the back of his neck were still dancing at the way women seemed to know everything.

  Harry was to pick up his money and turn over the charts in Riverside Park, a place that in the five years Harry had lived in Memphis he’d never been, partly because it wasn’t contiguous with the rest of the developed riverfront and was therefore hard to find. Following the instructions he’d been given over the phone by the guy who’d recruited him, he found the entrance at the end of South Parkway where it ties into Riverfront Drive.

  The road inside the park ran for a while beside an empty golf course. Then it forked. As instructed, Harry took McKellar Lake Drive, which quickly left the golf course behind and ran through what appeared to be an old-growth forest so dense that even with the leaves off the trees he couldn’t see very far into it.

  Eventually, the forest on his right gave way to an asphalt parking lot containing a handful of pickups with empty boat trailers attached. Fifty yards farther down the road, he came to a wide cement ramp that dipped down into a body of water that had to be McKellar Lake. The place was not the stuff of sportsmen’s dreams.

  On the right, the water was bordered by a long peninsula crowded with industrial buildings. In the water, barely a good cast from the bank, was a large scrubby island that made the lake look more like a river. Partway down the boat ramp, a cement apron set into the side of the bluff was littered with maritime junk. At the far end of the apron, a long set of steps led down to a T-shaped dock on the water where several dozen houseboats were moored. There, he finally saw some people: a guy fixing the railing on his houseboat, a woman sweeping her window screens.

  Through the trees ahead, Harry could see a tall refinery chimney emitting a steady orange flame. In the foreground below the chimney, the road widened into a circular parking lot. At its edge was the gazebo with picnic benches under it that his recruiter had described to him.

  Harry drove to the parking lot and pulled into a slot to the left of the gazebo. He’d expected to see the recruiter’s car, but he was the only one there.

  Behind the gazebo, running as far as Harry could see, was a treeless strip of grass about twenty yards wide. On the near edge of the grassy strip, a wide band of asphalt skirted the woods before curving and disappearing in the distance. Farther to the left, a much-narrower asphalt path went directly into the woods.

  Harry picked the envelope with the charts off the passenger seat, got out of the car, and took a long look around.

  Where was the guy?

  Harry studied the narrow path into the woods. Actually, his instructions didn’t say they’d meet in the parking lot. Harry was to go along the narrow path until he came to a tree that had fallen across it. That’s where the exchange would be made. Thinking the guy had probably parked on the other side of the woods and come in from that direction, Harry reassured himself by touching the .38 in his pocket, then walked toward the path.

  As he entered the woods, a squirrel objecting to his presence began to squeal. The only other noise was a faint hiss like the sound from the air hose at the gas station when you fill your tires. In this case, Harry figured it was the gas that fed the flame on the refinery chimney.

  It didn’t take him long to find the tree across the path, but there was no one there either. He checked his watch and found he was a few minutes early.

  He had to agree, it was a good location for their deal to be consummated. From the fallen tree he couldn’t see either end of the path, and the woods were so dense no one could observe them through it. That also made it an excellent place for treachery. His hand went again to the .38 in his pocket.

  Uncomfortable standing there in the open, he walked to a large oak near the path and leaned his back against it, facing the way he’d come in. With his back protected, he felt better. The protesting squirrel had not followed him to the fallen tree, so the only sound came from the refinery chimney.

  Every
fifteen or twenty seconds, Harry leaned out and checked the other direction in case his recruiter might think he wasn’t there. After a couple of minutes of this, he heard a woman’s voice coming from the far end of the path.

  “Shadow . . . here boy . . . come on.”

  Great. This was just what they didn’t need. What was she going to think when she saw him just standing there? Better it look like he was taking a walk.

  Harry moved from behind the oak, stepped over the fallen tree, and began to stroll in the direction of the voice. In a couple seconds an older woman wearing a long tan coat and a brown scarf over her hair came into view. She was carrying a dog leash, but there was no dog to be seen. Her head swiveled from side to side as she called into the woods.

  “Shadow. Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

  When Harry drew close, she looked at him with an imploring expression. “Did a big black Lab pass you in the last few minutes?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “I never should have let him off the leash. I knew it even before I did it, but he’s so happy when he can run free. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” Harry said, silently cursing the woman’s presence. Until she found her dog, she’d never leave the area.

  “Wait,” the woman said, straining to see into the woods behind Harry. “Is that him, do you think?”

  Harry turned to look in the direction she indicated. But he didn’t see any—

  Jesus . . . something was around his neck—the leash—squeezing, cutting off his air. Harry swung his elbow and spun to his right, trying to knock the woman away, but she moved adeptly in the other direction. Harry’s hands went to the leash, and he tried to pry it from his throat, but there was no way to get hold of it.

  Air . . . he had to have . . .

  Forgetting the gun in his pocket, Harry spun wildly, trying to shake the woman loose, but she matched him step for step.

  Harry’s head felt huge . . . the pressure . . .

  He let his legs drop from under him, but she followed him to the ground, spinning him onto his belly, her grip never waning.

  White light mushroomed behind Harry’s eyes, his mouth stretched in silent outrage. Just before his brain shut down, he saw Beth looking into his coffin and crying.

  Beth . . . Beth . . .

  Jackie kept the leash tightened for another two minutes after Harry stopped struggling. He then loosened it and checked Harry’s pulse. Satisfied that Harry was permanently beyond springing any surprises on him, Jackie picked up the envelope with the stolen charts in it and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He then picked up Harry’s body and carried it to the fallen tree, where, after pausing to catch his breath, he continued into the woods and down a small hill to a spot where he couldn’t be seen from the path.

  Jackie lay Harry’s body on its back. He then went to a nearby mound of leaves and retrieved the overnight case he’d left there earlier. From the case, he got out a pair of scissors and set to work on Harry’s goatee.

  20

  LEE-ANN LOVED THE National Enquirer for the way its photographers regularly captured supposedly glamorous women the way they really looked, without makeup and padding. Show her a little cottage cheese on the thighs of a major star, and Lee-Ann could run for days on it. A picture showing how badly a former sex symbol was aging could lift her spirits for a week.

  So even though she had something important to do, it could wait until she’d finished looking through the new issue. Her loyalty was rewarded by a spread telling how an actress who was getting twelve million dollars per film had gained so much weight that she was seeing a hypnotist for help losing it. The accompanying photographs were among the best the paper had ever published.

  She spent a few minutes burning the faces off the models in a Victoria’s Secret catalog with her cigarette, then turned her mind to her campaign against George Latham. She’d heard about Sarchi’s visit to Pelligrino and had hoped something significant would come from it. But all it had accomplished was to make Latham angry. She’d further hoped that once Sarchi had been pointed to the Stanhills, she’d be able to take it from there without further help. But nothing more seemed to be happening. Apparently Seminoux didn’t understand what she’d meant when she’d advised her not to ignore the events surrounding the onset of Drew’s condition.

  The woman needed another nudge.

  Lee-Ann took a last long draw on her cigarette and stubbed it out. She then set about gathering everything she’d need to lead Sarchi closer to the truth.

  She began by going to her computer and drafting a note to accompany the item she’d decided to send Sarchi. Because it had to be worded precisely, it took her nearly twenty minutes to write. After printing the note, she made a mailing label addressed to Sarchi at the hospital, then took the note and the label into the dining room, where she put the folded note into the item. She wrapped the item in brown paper from a cut-up grocery sack and affixed the label, which, of course, didn’t bear a return address.

  That was the easy part. The hard part was driving the eighty miles to Biloxi, Mississippi, so the package wouldn’t have a New Orleans postmark.

  SARCHI ALWAYS LOOKED forward to the one day each week when the hospital ran without her. This week, coming as it did the day after the two charts had disappeared, she had mixed feelings about it. She needed to get to the bottom of that puzzle, particularly since Kate obviously believed the missing charts had never existed. On the other hand, she also wanted to see John Metcalf. The weather too, which had turned sunny and mild, weighed in on the side of taking the day off.

  John arrived with a large Irish setter in the back of his pickup. Both the dog and the truck looked freshly washed. The dog went delirious with joy when Sarchi rubbed his head.

  “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

  “I did want you to meet him, but there’s something else.” Metcalf was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a denim chambray shirt under a navy blue jacket vest.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Guinness.”

  Hearing his name, the dog snapped to attention, awaiting instructions.

  Sarchi scratched his neck with both hands. “What a good boy.”

  “We’d better go,” John said. “If we don’t get to the restaurant before noon, it’ll be packed.”

  “Guinness is staying in the back?”

  “He loves the wind.”

  They got in the truck, John backed it out onto the street, and they were on their way.

  “What’s it like being a policeman?” Sarchi asked.

  “As many domestic quarrels as I have to deal with, I should have a degree in social work instead of criminal justice. As for getting criminals off the street, sometimes when I take one in, they’re back out before I can finish the paperwork. It’s like I’ve been hired to stand in front of a trough of running water and pick out all the floating rubber ducks as they go by. I store them in a box, somebody takes the box into the next room, and puts them all back in the water.”

  “I know the feeling. There’s a patient at the hospital who’ll be practically brain dead for the rest of his life. Because of his condition he gets a lot of infections, so he’s in and out of the hospital three or four times a year. And the best we can do for him is never going to make him normal.”

  “That has to be frustrating.”

  “What job isn’t at times?”

  “Hey, we don’t care about other jobs. This is our turn to gripe.” He gave her a big grin that she returned.

  “I’ve been wondering,” he said. “The bumper sticker on your car—Free Floyd Collins. Who is that?”

  “One of the legendary figures in caving.”

  “What’d he do to get locked up?”

  “He wasn’t in jail. He was trapped in a crawl
way in Sand Cave in 1925. During the two weeks he was trapped, the attempts to rescue him were front-page news across the country. Thousands flocked to the scene to get in the way. It was bizarre. He was trapped fifty-five feet underground, and the chute that allowed people to bring him food and water had collapsed, so no one could reach him anymore. Above ground, they sold hot dogs, apples, sandwiches, soft drinks, anything to make a buck. Even Floyd’s father passed out handbills for Crystal Cave, the family business. There was a movie about it, The Big Carnival, with Kirk Douglas.”

  “Did he get out?”

  “Eventually they dug a shaft to get to him, but they found him dead. The coroner figured they were three days too late. It was two months before the family got around to recovering the body.”

  “So you’re a caver?”

  Sarchi smiled self-consciously. “What gave me away? Yeah, I love caves. They can be incredibly beautiful or unforgivingly treacherous, often at the same time. There’s no solitude like you find in caves and no darkness quite like it. Sometimes I turn my lamp off and just sit there enjoying the quiet.”

  “For me, it’s scuba diving. Being underwater makes all my problems seem too far away to matter.”

  “I’ve actually solved a few of mine underground. Sounds like we both have a strong need to occasionally lose ourselves in a different world.”

  “It’s probably our work—high stress, being around people in trouble all the time.”

  “Hadn’t thought about it like that,” Sarchi said. “Makes sense though.”

  “And maybe, in a way, we’re both loners.”

  “Then why are we together?”

  Grinning, John said, “Even loners need somebody.”

  They drove to Southaven, Mississippi, a fourteen-mile shot down I-55, and John pulled into the crowded parking lot of Dale’s Restaurant, a large stucco building sporting a mango-colored paint job trimmed in turquoise.

  “I’ve probably eaten here five thousand times,” John said. “It’ll hold two hundred people now, but it started as an ice cream stand with only a couple of picnic benches out front. I used to work here as a waiter when I was a kid.”