The front wall was a mass of flames, which were coming around the door facing, and the rug was giving off a horrible smell and volumes of thick black smoke. He could hear the crackle of fire overhead, too, and knew the roof was burning. But he couldn't be two places at once, and he kept drenching everything in sight so the fire wouldn't get fully involved inside the house.
By the time sirens told him the fire department was there, he had the interior fire quenched. The harsh sizzle of the fire-hose's stream on the roof and front wall brought him out at last, to stand beside Oliver Stitch, the fire chief and his long-time drinking buddy.
Ollie looked at him intently between barked orders to firemen, who were getting the last of the burning shrubbery under control and chopping a hole in the roof to make sure there was no fire in the attic. “This was no accident, Ranse,” he said. “What happened?"
Cole sighed. “I crossed Fielding today, big time. And his boss, and his boss's boss, if any. Took a stand, Ollie, for the first time since I can remember. Cost me a bundle—did you really have to cut up my roof?"
Stitch didn't laugh, though that was intended as a joke. “I figured something like that as soon as I saw your front porch. That was a bomb, if I ever saw one. They didn't waste any time. How'd you get Mae out? Is she all right?"
Cole nodded. “I got her out of town. I expected somethin’ like this, though maybe not so bold and brassy. I've got an idea old Harland's brought in some outside muscle, because bombing's not the normal way, down here.
"Burn down a man's house, maybe, but not by bombing it. Shoot his cattle or beat him up or even kill him, but not quite this way. This's somethin’ new in this county."
Wash Shipp came over, shaking his head. As police chief, he had seen most of the mischief in town for the past thirteen years, but Cole could see by his expression that this had really gotten to him.
The two weren't friends; they'd been on opposite sides of just about every political issue for decades, but they weren't exactly enemies, either. The big black officer was one of those straight-arrow people that Cole was now wishing he'd been, himself.
Now he reached for Cole's hand. “Man, I'm really sorry about this. I heard what you said to Ollie, and it makes me boil. We both know that Nate Farmer's behind Harland Fielding, but I haven't a clue as to who's behind Nate. You have any notion?"
"I didn't even know for sure it was Nate Farmer,” Ranse admitted. “All I knew was what I called in to my office yesterday after I heard from Fielding. Did you find Parmelee at the Holiday Inn?"
Wash shook his head. “They'd flown the coop, soon as you told Fielding to take a hike, I'd guess. But we'll get ‘em now that we've got something real and solid we can set our teeth into. Sooner or later we'll hook Fielding up with that car ... you got the number?—and hang him on a charge of terroristic activity. That covers a lot of stuff, enough to hold him while we get more on him."
But Cole was staring at his ruined porch and scorched and blasted wall and door. Mae was going to pitch a fit—then he realized that the insurance would cover this.
They could fix up the place real well. Then maybe they'd sell it and move down close to her sister. It was time he thought about retiring, anyway.
If the Old Guard biggies who ran things here were going to bring in really nasty folks to do their dirty work around Templeton, he didn't much care to be involved in trying to catch them. There was nothing like a real shock to bring you to your senses, he realized.
He turned to Shipp and gave him the license number and a detailed description of the bomber, but already he was thinking about the good fishing spots he'd noted down over the years. Retirement while he was still fit might be a very satisfactory idea, and with his pension he'd be in good enough shape to last a long time.
Nossir, he'd let younger and braver people figure out this mess. He and Mae were going to live a little bit, in the time they had left.
CHAPTER XVII. Pow-Wow
When King Deport made his weekly tour of his domain, he always checked the signal atop the big tree at Lena McCarver's place. Only from one clearing that gave him a glimpse of the treetop could he see it, and he always made sure no flag flew, warning that the old woman needed something.
In forty years, only twice had he seen the thing, and both times it had signaled a real problem for the people living along the river.
Now that the leaves were beginning to yellow and shrivel, it was easier to spot that distant speck. It had been years since King could check the flag with unaided eyes, so he always kept his old binoculars around his neck.
Now he raised them and stared toward the tree. Something yellow snapped in the morning breeze.
Uh-oh! Lena had two flags up, separated by a small spot of red. That meant everybody needed to come. Because of the contour of the land, the blast of her shotgun didn't reach his place—he refused to consider that he might be getting deaf—but he would have bet that Choa was already on his way.
"Drat!” he muttered. “I needed to set a fresh batch of trotlines. Still, I better be on my way.” He trudged off toward the river, for it was easier to follow it to Lena's property line and cut across her woods to the house. Going through the thick tangles of briers and brush, stretches of swamp, and network of creeks was more than his old bones were willing to tackle these days.
When he came along the woods-path leading to the old gray house, he was surprised to see Lena's Chevy sitting before her gate. Seldom did the old woman drive the car, though somehow she kept it running. He wondered if witchcraft might possibly substitute for mechanicking.
When he tapped on the porch post, he was even more surprised to look past her approaching figure to see someone coming out of the bedroom door. “Miz Follette?” Now why would she be here, and without her own car?
Lena gestured for him to sit in the rump-sprung wicker chair while she and Irene occupied the paintless swing. “You catch your breath, Mister Deport. We got a bit of time till Choa gets here. Then we got to figure out what to do about the folks who've been messing around down here and bothering us. Irene got roughed up this morning, and it's time to call a halt to such doings."
King stared at the younger woman, feeling the heat rise in his neck and face. “You mean somebody actually laidhands on you?” he asked.
"Harland Fielding caught me in my shed, getting the feed for my chickens. He shook me and hit me and knocked me over the grain bin. Put my back out, but Lena's got me pretty well put together again,” the tall woman replied.
"Sim Fielding's boy?That Harland?” King asked, unable to believe that someone he had known as a child could possibly abuse a woman. “You sure and certain?"
"I'm sure. And he threatened to go down the road clear to the river, beating up people until he found someone who would tell him where to find that box of stuff. Kimball Fitts won't be there when he drives up, because Kim disappears as soon as a car bumps along the road. Mrs. Dooley has a bunch of children and never gets far away from her house. She might be in trouble.
"I've heard on the radio about drug busts and such, but never before did I see the dealers raise such a stink about losing their shipment,” Irene said.
"Never you worry about the Dooleys,” said Lena. “That young limb of Satan, Wim, will take care of anybody who bothers his Mama. You can bank on it."
King sighed. “What bothers me is thinking about what it might be that makes this particular drug shipment so much more valuable than you'd think. Why should the bosses who sent it through bother so much? They've been losing shipments to lawmen and narcotics people for years, without so much fuss."
"Think about it!” Lena interrupted. “They know they can easily lose the stuff, in transit, and it doesn't cost them that much, up front. It's on the street that they gouge their customers. Whatelse is in that box, along with the cocaine or heroin or whatever, that makes it so valuable? Oscar Parmelee never was caught before that I ever heard about, though evidently the narcs knew about him. The shipper must have thoug
ht his whatsit was safe to send through with him."
She cocked her head inquiringly. “You think diamonds or such?"
Irene shook her head. “Those are little and easy to slip past inspections, according to what I've read. No, this is something that can fit into an ice chest but isn't little enough to hide in the lining of a coat or to swallow and then watch for until it comes out the other end, the way I've heard they smuggle jewels and such."
Their speculations were interrupted by the arrival of Choa, who appeared like a shadow from the privet bushes beyond the house and came on silent feet toward the three on the porch. “Heard the shotgun,” he told Lena. “Came right away."
Lena nodded to Irene. “Tell him,” she said, leaning back in the swing and bobbing her toe to keep it in motion.
Once the tale was told, they sat quietly, thinking about it. Choa, who no longer kept up very closely with matters outside his swamp country, looked both angry and uneasy.
"We've got nasty people coming into our country. Bad things are happenin’ to folks. I just yesterday showed that Parmelee fellow where I threw away that ice chest."
King grunted a protest, but Choa raised a hand for patience. “I sent it down the big sinky hole. God himself couldn't get it out, ‘less he dried up this whole country for a couple of years, and maybe not even then.
"I showed it to him, and then I melted out of sight and watched him stumble off, trying to find his way out. Left him some sign, just enough to keep him going right. Come to me that if I left a good trail he might bring his big boss or maybe more than one down there to work on gettin’ their stuff back."
Lena raised her head, her black eyes bright and sharp. Irene gave a deep sigh and nodded slowly, and King felt a wide grin spreading across his own face. “You get those bastards down here where they don't know their tails from a hole in the ground, they're going to be pretty well helpless.
"They can bring guns, they can bring tools, but I'd bet my boot buttons they won't bring a lot of help. They can't afford to have the low-lifes that work for them know where that chest is.
"They might try to get one of their bought-and-paid-for lawmen to help, but maybe not even that.” King felt a deep chuckle rising in his chest. It had been a long time since he had a really good laugh; the thought of putting those slick townies down there beside the sinky-hole tickled his fancy.
Lena began to giggle, and Irene joined in. Choa began to grin. King leaned back and sighed deeply. “We can provide a lot more trouble than any of them can handle, I suspect. Just letting the country itself take care of them might be enough. I wouldn't trust most townies to keep their heads above water or their feet out of moccasin holes."
The tomcat, draped over the edge of a step, raised one ear and sat up, looking toward the woods-road. Irene's wolf-dog came out from under the porch and bristled as he stalked toward the rickety gate.
"Somebody's coming,” King said, glancing at Lena. “You think maybe we ought to disappear for a bit, while you deal with whoever it is?"
She looked thoughtful, her head cocked to follow the jouncing and bumping of the vehicle over the ruts and roots of the track. “Irene and Choa might go inside. Four's too many to find here at one time.
"But there's no reason in the world why my old neighbor mightn't be visiting me. You stay put, Mr. Deport. I think you and I and Lone and Wolf can handle anybody that comes poking around, even if he has had to cut my chain at the gate to get in."
The others moved into the house and went so far as to go into the unused portion, which could give them a view of the porch without allowing them to be seen. King pulled out his pipe and stoked it with dried mullein leaves.
When he lit it, Lena nodded approvingly. “Good for the chest and lungs,” she said. “You're a wise man, Mr. Deport, not to clog up your innards with poison."
She perched on the step beside the alert tomcat, scratching him behind the ears. The rumble of his purr joined the chirring of locusts and the distant quarrelling of jays and crows as they waited to see who was coming.
King could see dust, carried ahead of the vehicle on the brisk north breeze, before the car came into view.
Irene said, from her place of concealment, “That's Fielding's car. I've seen him driving it in town."
King shifted his weight and rose to lean casually against the nearest porch post. His gnarled walnut walking stick was at hand, and he was ready for anything this whippersnapper might try to hand out.
The Cadillac pulled up amid a last swirl of dust. When the door opened, Fielding unfolded his lanky length and strode toward the gate.
"You Miz McCarver?” he asked, his tone not one guaranteed to gain him any cooperation.
King didn't like people who hid their eyes behind dark glasses, which usually told him they had other things to hide. That was one reason he kept to himself, down in his woods; he didn't have to deal with idiots and scoundrels like this one.
This duded up fellow in his tan suit and shined-up cowboy boots was the kind the old man particularly didn't appreciate. King straightened his bony back and moved forward to stand behind Lena.
The old woman rose to her feet, the tomcat bristling at her side. “What you want, Sonny?” she asked in her most shriveling manner. “You lost?"
The man pushed back his straw hat and stared at her, his lips curling. “You don't want to get across me, old woman,” he said. “I want some answers, and I want ‘em now. One of my men came out of the swamp yesterday evening and said that red-tailed scoundrel Choa put my ... goods ... into quicksand. You know that one. I want to know where he lives."
Lena sighed. “Seems like every idiot born this century has come down here and asked me that same question. Listen hard, Sonny. Nobody but Choa and God knows where he lives, and neither one has talked to me about it. It's kind of south of here is all I can tell you. And unless you had the U.S. Army helping you, you'd never be able to comb out this country close enough to find his place.
"Now you get back into that car and high-tail it out of here. I like my privacy, and there's been precious little of it to be had, this summer. Federal agents! Deputies! and now drug pushers cutting my chain!
"I'm about out of patience with the whole kit and bilin’ of you.” She stepped off the porch, her skirt caught up in a vicious pinch in her left hand.
"Scat!” she hissed between her teeth. Lone, beside her, raised a lip and showed his incisors, while Wolf grinned his particularly wolfish grin.
Fielding took an involuntary step backward. “Now see here,” he began, but King was now on the ground, his stick held ready to poke him in the belly.
The man stared at the strange group, his mouth working as if he longed to curse them but didn't quite dare to begin. Then he backed away, with Wolf keeping his teeth in easy reach of his knee, to the gate. There he pulled the thing shut between him and the dog.
"You don't cross me! You don't cross the man I work for! Old folks, way out in the woods this way, can have all kinds of things happen to them. Fires, hunters shooting in the woods, drugged-out kids—there's just no telling what might happen to you.” His face was twisted with anger as he stepped into his fancy car and slammed the door.
As he surged backward, twisted into a sharp turn, and zoomed out of sight, King sat down again, his stick across his lap. “You just wait a minute,” he said to Lena. “We'll have to go pry him out of his car, because he's goin’ to hit a tree along about ... now!"
At that moment, there was a crash. The big hickory at the sharp bend, King thought, had claimed another victim.
"Come on, Choa,” he said over his shoulder. “Let's go get the bastard out of there and send him on his way. You care if we use your car?” he asked Lena.
She nodded and went after her keys; without much conversation the four piled into her Chevy and went through the still settling dust to the spot where the Caddy was well and truly hung up in the thicket surrounding that huge hickory.
Fielding was sprawled over the dash,
his forehead sporting a lump that was already turning blue. He was out cold, though not badly hurt, Lena decided.
"Let's deliver him to his boss,” said King, as they heaved him out. “Give Farmer a shaking up, that will."
Possum Choa nodded. “Maybe bring him out of his safe place, you think? Maybe bring him down here, where he's got no people around him?"
Lena giggled. “Now wouldn't that be a useful thing?” she asked. “If he'd come right down here where we could look him in the eye—but I don't think that could ever happen. He's not one to risk his own hide, not Nathan Farmer."
Irene watched as they man-handled the limp shape into Lena's car. “If you let me off at home, where I can pick up my own car, I might be able to gig him on a bit. I've known Washington Shipp since we were in college together. He might know some way to stir up the ant-hill and get things moving."
AMayhar - The Conjure Page 12