We wanted to wait until it was near dark, so we took our time eating. I’d brought along the map I had found in Lizzie’s car, which proved to be useful. The main road up Murder Mountain was Oil Field Road, and it ran all the way to the top. Michael reiterated that we were only there to document and gather evidence, not to catch the bad guys. We had video cameras and binoculars for our stake out, and stopped at a local store for food and drinks.
It was dark by the time we started up the mountain, and I told Michael to turn the headlights off and drive slow. I had night vision goggles, binoculars that allowed me to see in the dark, and I wanted to scan the trailers and houses for one similar to what Matt had described. Oil Field Road was lined with nothing but shacks and old trailers, each at least a quarter of a mile apart. They also sat back about fifty to one hundred feet off the road; this was good because there were a lot of people out sitting on their front porches listening to bluegrass music and drinking beer. Some had makeshift bonfires on their porches, which didn’t make sense to me since it was still 75 degrees out. Obviously, there were no streetlights, so we were able to drive up the road without being seen.
“This place is creepy,” Michael said, as we were halfway up the mountain. “I’m not looking to ‘squeal like a pig’ anytime soon.”
I laughed at his reference. “If it makes you feel better, Deliverance was actually filmed in Georgia, not West Virginia.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better.”
Almost to the top, I saw a light-colored trailer with a lot of junk and garbage off to the left of the road.
“Michael! Slow down, I think that’s the one,” I said, pointing to it.
He slowed down, using the parking brake to do it so our brake lights wouldn’t come on. He stopped in front of the gravel-and-dirt driveway. It was narrower than the width of the car we were driving, and led back about 150 feet to the trailer. I grabbed a video camera and zoomed in, looking at the junk and garbage, not seeing any vehicles parked nearby. There was only one light on inside, but it didn’t look like anyone was there.
“Where should I park?” Michael wondered, looking around.
“There.” I pointed to a small clearing off the side of the road. Sometimes I think Michael will purposely let me make decision so I won’t feel inferior to him. That’s the only explanation since it was crystal clear there was only one place to park. It also told me he saw my insecurities. “They won’t see us if they’re coming from the bottom of the mountain, which hopefully they will be. If they come from the top, we’re screwed.”
Michael turned the vehicle around in the road, and wedged the car, as far as he could, into the clearing. My window was now facing the trailer, and I continued to videotape it. Then I had a thought.
“I’m gonna go in for a closer look, since it doesn’t look like anyone is home,” I said, grabbing a flashlight and opening the door.
“Oh no you don’t!” Michael said, grabbing my arm, “I told you, we are only going to do surveillance.”
“This is surveillance,” I said, pulling away from him and getting out of the car. “You just watch for any cars.”
I walked in a zigzag pattern through the woods towards the trailer, careful not to break any sticks or make noise in the slight chance someone was there. I didn’t realize how hard I was breathing until I neared the trailer. I walked around it through the woods so I could approach it from the rear. As I got to the edge of the woods, I stopped and listened before I entered the yard. Hearing nothing, I slightly jogged to a darkened area to the left of the back porch. The sliding glass doors were open, with a screen door in place with no curtains. From my vantage point, I had a clear view into the kitchen of the trailer.
I could see numerous mason jars, coffee filters, blenders, measuring cups and distilled water jugs lined up on the counter. I took the video camera I had and filmed the inside of the kitchen, getting close ups of the items on the counter.
To confirm my suspicions, I walked around the side of the house to the garbage cans and lifted a lid. Pulling out one of the garbage bags, I was overcome with a distinct odor of chemicals. I shined my flashlight on the bag, which thankfully was clear, and glanced over some of its contents. I could see numerous nasal decongestant bubble packs, rubber gloves, empty bottles of acetone, rubbing alcohol, brake cleaner, engine starter, lithium battery packs, empty rock salt bags, and drain cleaner. I did a quick shot of the bag with the video and placed it back in the garbage can.
As I was putting the lid back on, headlights bore down on the side of the house to the right of me. Heartbeat in overdrive, I sprinted to the back of the house, and into the woods, stopping and hiding behind a tree. I knew Michael was probably shitting his pants just then, and I hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid, like come and find me. I was still catching my breath when I slowly walked around the side of the house and crouched down, trying to get a view of the occupants of the car.
I found a large pine tree in front, which I proceeded to kneel down behind and peer around the side of. I could hear two men having a conversation, but couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying. There was no front light, so all I could see was two dark figures standing by the trunk of the car, opening it. I turned the video on and began to film. They took three large, plastic bags out of the trunk and walked to the trailer. The contents of the bags sounded like they were clanging together, reminding me of pots and pans. There was something eerily familiar about the voice of one of the men, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t VanScoy; his voice was very distinct, but I had heard this man’s voice before.
After the men went inside, I zoomed in on the license plate, and made my way back to Michael.
“Jesus Christ, CeeCee!” he came at me with a sort of shouted whisper as I was getting into the car, “I swear to God, one more of those and we’re leaving for good. Don’t do that again, I thought for sure you were made.”
“Why do you worry so much? I’m fine. I’ll admit my pucker factor went up a few notches when the car pulled in, but I handled it.” Changing the subject, I added, “They have a working lab in there, Michael.”
I went through what was inside the kitchen, and in the garbage bag outside—all the makings of a full-blown methamphetamine lab. This was definitely the place, and our timing was perfect. It looked like they had just finished cooking the meth. Telling Michael I had videotaped the lab, I asked if we should call the DEA now.
“No,” he decided. “If we do that, by the time they get here everything will be cleaned up and our cover will be blown. Not to mention, we only have two people going in there right now. It would really fuck up this case.”
I came to the conclusion that he was right. While I was going over the videotape again, Michael called the office and ran the license plate of the vehicle in the driveway.
“It comes back to a Tim Carr, Oil Field Road. It looks like he’s the one who lives here,” Michael reported when he’d switched off his phone.
“Tim? Michael! He’s the other guy in the video from the gas station! He’s one of the suspects in Boz’s murder!” I was feeling a monstrous amount of rage building up.
“We could go in there right now and take him out. I have an off-duty pistol that’s not registered or on file at the department,” I suggested, somewhat seriously.
“C’mon, CeeCee. Don’t lose your focus. Do you think the other guy was “Big Al?”
“No, he wasn’t that big. But Michael, there was something about the guy’s voice that was very familiar to me, and I can’t figure out why. It’s bugging me.”
I thought I’d better call Coop, and as usual got his voicemail. I told him where we were and what we’d discovered. I also added that since I am his favorite partner in the world, he might put in a good word for me with the sheriff, reminding him I had kids and a mortgage.
It was several hours before there was any more activity at the trailer. Michael and I had almost eaten everything we bought and our coffee was cold. I decided to
buy a thermos for future stake outs.
Michael was outside, relieving himself in the woods, when I heard a car coming up the road. It was loud; sounding like it lacked a muffler. Crossing my fingers, I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched the blue pick-up truck turn into the driveway. Michael waited until the truck parked before getting back into the car.
“Did you see it?” he asked breathlessly. “It’s the truck!”
“I know! I know!” I grabbed at the night-vision goggles and the camera.
I prayed the truck owner had replaced the stolen license plates back to their original. It only made sense. He lived in West Virginia, and took a chance driving around with stolen ones. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the plates. The truck parked next to the other car, a long, older-model Cadillac, and it completely blocked my view.
“I’m going to need to get out again,” I told Michael. “I can’t see the plates unless I walk up there.”
“No, you’re not!” Michael snapped. “We can wait until it leaves and follow it. There is no way I’m letting you out of this car again, even if I have to sit on you to do it.”
There was a vision I didn’t mind having. I didn’t argue with him, and, to be frank, I was a little apprehensive about leaving the security of the car, anyway. It didn’t matter, though. We had plenty to occupy ourselves because the two men in the trailer came outside to meet the truck. I heard two of the truck doors open and shut, which meant there had been at least two people in it. All the men stood on the far side of the truck, the side I couldn’t see, of course, and began talking.
The talking turned into loud arguing, which began to escalate. I turned the video on to get whatever audio I could, if nothing else. One of the men walked to the back of the truck, and was waving his arms around, yelling,
“No way, man! I ain’t fuckin’ doin’ it! Enough’s enough. It’s my ass, not yers!”
Another man walked back to the truck with him and talked quietly, which made me nervous. I thought, any minute now they’re going to whack this guy. The man yelling continued to wave his arms about and argue with the quiet guy.
“He ain’t the fuckin’ boss! Tell him he ain’t the fuckin’ boss! If the boss wants me to do that, then he kin come tell me his fuckin’ self!” he yelled, pointing over the back of the truck at one of the two other men standing to the side.
The quiet guy was putting his hands up, in a calming manner, speaking quietly to the agitated man, and kept looking over his shoulder. The quiet guy appeared to be the mediator between the yeller and one of the two other men. His mediation didn’t work, because one of the other men walked to the back of the truck, pushed the mediator aside, and began punching and kicking the yeller until he was on the ground.
“Michael, should we do something?” I asked, hoping the guy didn’t kill the yeller right in front of us.
“No, just wait,” he whispered, calmly, as if he’s in this situation daily.
Michael had told me his father was a retired FBI Agent and his mother stayed home. He made it sound like he had the home life of Beaver Cleaver. Raised in go-with-the-flow Virginia, I wondered if that was how he always stayed so calm.
We still couldn’t clearly see any of the men, just dark figures. But the apparent leader stopped kicking the shit out of the yeller before putting his hands on his hips and speaking loudly. “I am the fuckin’ boss when he ain’t around! You got that you motherfucker! You keep yer shit up, and you’ll get a welcome like ya never seen before! Don’t ya fuck with me, boy!”
He gave the yeller one last kick before turning around and quickly walking into the house, followed by the other guy I couldn’t see. The mediator helped the yeller off the ground and walked him to the passenger door of the Cadillac, opening it so he could get in. The mediator got into the driver’s side, backed the Cadillac out, and drove away.
“What was that all about?” I asked Michael.
“I have no idea, but it looks like there’s a little dissention amongst the ranks.”
Having the Cadillac leave finally gave me a view of the truck. Grabbing the night vision goggles, I focused in. The truck still had the stolen plates on it.
“Great,” I said, putting the goggles down, “It’s still got the same plates.”
Michael nodded and said softly, “I’m not surprised by anything at this point.”
It was very late and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. There wasn’t any more activity inside, or outside, of the trailer. I was getting ready to tell Michael we should call it a night when he completely shocked me.
“CeeCee! Play along and trust me!” he sang out, untucking his shirt, and grabbing his gun out of the holster.
“Michael! What are you doing?” He was scaring me a little.
“Just trust me!” He grabbed me, pulling me to him.
“Michael! What the ...,” I yelled as he began pulling my shirt up over my head, lying on top of me, shoving his gun under my back.
I couldn’t believe this! I thought Michael had thoroughly snapped, and was actually attacking me.
“There’s someone walking up to your window,” he whispered in my ear, and I understood.
I grabbed Michael around the neck, and began passionately kissing him, keeping one eye open, and using my other arm to grab my gun out of the holster, holding it between the door and seat. My shirt was halfway over my head, and as I sat there in my bra, I could see a dark shadow hovering by my window. Michael had a hold of his gun, which was buried in my back. We were both ready.
“Don’t show your face,” he whispered, kissing my neck.
It dawned on me that although most of them probably knew who I was, they may not know Michael. When we gave our statement on the news, he stayed to the back and we never identified him as the FBI agent working the case. The horrible part about this whole scenario was that although I was scared to death, I was also enjoying the physical contact with Michael, which should have been the last thing on my mind just then. I saw the shadow move closer to my window, and I began using my foot to kick the cameras and binoculars under my seat. What I couldn’t get under the seat, I covered with my shirt, which I pulled off and put on the floor. Michael’s hands were all over me, and it was apparent he was enjoying this, also. I heard a light tap at the window.
“Here we go,” Michael whispered, “Keep your head down and act embarrassed.” He sat up and leaned over to roll the window down. As he did this, it occurred to me that we’d rented our car in Ohio and that it had Ohio plates on it. Our little act wouldn’t work if the guy didn’t think we were locals. I prayed he wouldn’t notice.
“Kin I help ya folks?” the man asked, leaning down to the window, looking at Michael.
“Uh, I’m sorry sir, I was just spendin’ some time alone with my girlfriend,” Michael said in an accent that sounded as ridiculous as mine did.
I kept my head down, with my hand over the side of my face and my other arm crossed in front of me, covering myself. That arm was also holding my gun, which the man couldn’t see. My adrenaline kicked in and I was shaking and breathing hard, something that could be easily written off as screwing in a car.
“This here’s private property, son. You kin’t just park here if ya feel like it. Now it’s time ya was on ya way,” the man said sternly.
“Yes sir. I’m sorry sir. We’ll leave now,” Michael said, starting the car.
Michael began slowly pulling away, and I sat up and looked in my passenger side mirror. The man stood there and watched us, definitely seeing our plates. It was safe to say we were made.
“Michael!” I said, grabbing my shirt from the floor, “Our car has Ohio plates on it! He’s gonna figure it out, we’re busted!”
“Don’t be so sure,” he shot back. “I didn’t turn my lights on yet. And he didn’t stand there that long.”
Michael drove down Oil Field Road to the bottom of the mountain. I was still shaking, and for the first time I questioned my own decision for coming there. I didn’t g
et a look at the guy, and Michael said he didn’t see him that well, either. At the bottom of the road Michael pulled off to the side and I began putting my shirt on.
“You don’t have to dress on my account,” he grinned.
“Very funny.” I realized my shirt was inside out and took it off again. “That scared the wits out of me.”
Michael started rubbing his face with both hands and let out a loud sigh. We were both exhausted.
“I guess that if I want to stay positive, I at least got to roll around with you in the car tonight, even if it was just pretending,” he laughed. Nothing seemed to scare him.
I didn’t laugh, especially at the pretending part. I really felt something when I was kissing Michael, and I was too scared and too guilt-ridden to tell him that. All of a sudden, I was overcome with a desire to have Michael. All of my guilt and fears aside, it was a feeling I couldn’t control. With my shirt still off, I turned, climbed over the seat, straddling him, grabbing his face and kissing him. He was clearly stunned by my actions, but didn’t put up a fight. We were kissing, and his hands were all over me again, and it felt good, and it felt right. We were comfortable together; I could only imagine what he would be like in bed. I had worked Michael’s shirt off, running my hands all over his amazing, muscular, tanned, body, (he had gotten my bra off almost immediately), and began to unbutton the front of his jeans. Michael, in turn, began to unbutton mine.
However, this time it was Michael who grabbed my hand and stopped. “CeeCee, oh my God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but no, we can’t.” He held onto my shoulders and closed his eyes, placing his face in the middle of my breasts; he was breathing hard and shaking a little.
“Michael, stay with me tonight,” I murmured, burying my face in his hair and kissing his neck.
I didn’t care about anything just then. I just wanted to be with him and I would deal with the repercussions later.
“No, CeeCee,” he said, pushing me away.
I was astonished and felt ashamed as I crawled back to my seat and began putting my bra and shirt on. Then I got angry. “I thought this was what you wanted, Michael! Now you don’t?”
Murder Mountain Page 19