AMayhar - The Conjure

by The Conjure (v1. 0) [lit]

  "Now you run back home—no, I don't mean full tilt. You go home slow enough so you don't fall out with the heat, and help your Ma. I'll tell Wash to be sure to go by and see you, when he comes."

  Wim looked her in the eye. “Yousure he'll come?” he asked.

  Libby nodded her neatly kerchiefed head, and her big gold earrings swung. “You can bet on that,” she said. “I'll see to it."

  Reassured, Wim turned back toward home. This time, filled with peas and cornbread, he couldn't have run if he tried.

  CHAPTER XXI. A Trip to the Swamp

  Farmer was up before dawn, as was his habit, waiting impatiently for the helicopter to arrive. He'd always been fascinated by flying machines, though he never considered going up in one, of any description.

  This time he knew he had to go aloft. If anyone spotted that chest, he had to be right on hand. There in the swamp, it would be easy to get rid of unwanted witnesses, and if he needed to he could ride out in the chopper and kill the pilot later. His nephew would understand.

  The contact man for the nameless owner of the contraband cargo had called him late the night before. Without overt threat, he had made it clear that nobody involved in the transfer of the shipment would survive its permanent loss.

  From Oscar Parmelee to Nathaniel Farmer, the entire organization would be eliminated. The thought made Nate feel cold at the bone. Fielding's run-in with those trash down in the bottomlands wouldn't amount to a hill of burnt beans compared to what would happen to his own hide. He'd watched that outfit and things had happened to some of their people that made even his reptilian blood run cold.

  Even he had no idea who might be at the head of the organization he had been dealing with, over the years, in smuggling “extras” along with drug shipments. Concealed behind a maze of intermediaries, the principals had been nameless and faceless.

  "The Bosses” was a terribly anonymous term. There was no handle on them, no way to strike first, before they had a chance to get him. Hell, he might have one of their agents working for him, right now. Or more!

  They were a big outfit; he'd known that from the beginning. When his own people had no luck tracing calls or identifying principals, even using their contacts in the government and the military, he understood what he was getting into. If they got him, it was his own fault, Nate knew, but it didn't make him a bit happier.

  He heard his housekeeper, Nadine, go into the kitchen just after daylight and begin fixing his breakfast. He didn't really want food, but he nibbled at his toast, sipped his coffee, and declined his usual eggs and sausage. He'd heard of air sickness, and he didn't care about upchucking all over himself in mid-air.

  He went out into the cool September morning, smelling the fall tang on the breeze. In the horse-lot, he checked hooves, coats, and teeth automatically, but his attention was on the sky above his farm. When the thud-thud-thud of the chopper's rotors sounded, he gave a sigh of relief.

  Amid the swirling grit of its landing, he shielded his eyes and moved cautiously toward the idling craft. “Keep clear of the rotors!” Antonio yelled, and he ducked low and ran to the open hatchway.

  "Buenos dias,” he said to Antonio. “My nephew didn't come?"

  "No, senor. He have the fall work to do, preparing the rose field. He send me to help you all you want. He also send the metal-finder that you ask to use."

  That was good. Nobody would miss a Mex, if he had to off him. His nephew was discreet, of course, and he'd never mention having loaned this thing to his old uncle down in the low country. If his pilot went missing, too bad.

  "You got gasolina?” the pilot asked. “We needmuch , if we search for long time."

  That was one thing he'd been warned about, and Nate gestured toward the skid tank his truck had deposited beside the fence, the night before. “All you want, right there. I guess we'll have to come back pretty often for a refill?"

  "Si!” The pilot dropped from the hatch and ran to uncoil the hose from the tank.

  While he refilled the chopper, Nate returned to the kitchen and picked up the food and the water jug Nadine had prepared for him. He also slipped his .38 into his jacket pocket, just in case. Whoever might be messing around in the swamp today was going to be mighty unlucky, if he saw something he shouldn't.

  By the time he got back to the pasture, Antonio was again in his seat, waiting, his dark face enigmatic. Did he ever think about the jobs he sometimes was sent to do? Nate had wondered for years if the dark-skinned people thought at all.

  Probably not. The only folks Nate trusted were red-headed, freckle-faced ones like himself. Even Harland Fielding was just a tad too dark to suit him, and his folks had come from England a hundred years ago.

  They took off, leaving a cloud of dust behind, and sped off toward the east, staying low enough to keep their visibility down but high enough to stay clear of the trees. Below, the asphalt roads turned to gravel, then wound and branched and finally became a scanty pattern of dirt tracks between overgrown fields and increasingly large patches of forest.

  He could see the blacks in the Brakes moving around, some working in their fall gardens, some just idling in their front yards waiting for rides to their logging jobs. Over the ridge and beyond a pine flat he recognized the hard-scrabble place that belonged to the Dooleys, with a small shape stooped over a garden row.

  High-headed woman! He'd made her a proposition, years back when her husband had just left, and she'd turned him down cold. Nate Farmer, the richest man in the county! As if she was the Queen of Sheba instead of a woman left with a passel of kids, no money, and more work to do than anybody could possibly handle.

  Much to his disgust, she'd kept her brood together, clean and respectable. That young'un of hers, Wim, was too bright for his own good, somebody had told him. Kept an eye on the river and the woods. That boy better not come snooping into his business, that was all Nate could say.

  The pilot, Mex or not, seemed to know his business. He skimmed the treetops, seeming to feel his position with his hands because he was watching the forest, the occasional fields, the swampy spots, and the thick gray-green mats of reeds and waterweed slide past. On his own side, Nate squinted downward, amazed at the difference in the trees from what he saw when standing on the ground.

  He would have thought that anyone could hide in a pine thicket and remain unseen from someone in the sky. That was evidently wrong, for he could see down through the dark green needles to spot a cow grazing in the shade, a dog lying on his stomach, even a dozen white chickens pecking around a scraped-bare yard completely shaded by umbrella chinaberry trees.

  Their sweep was methodical, and he found it much slower than he would have thought. There were miles and miles of low country, some of it impassable swamp and brushy tangle, some of it cut-over woods and brier vines, and some of it scabby-looking cornfields overgrown with bindweed. So early in the morning, he often saw deer fleeing from the noise of the chopper.

  The few roads, logging tracks, and even footpaths shone white in the sunlight, as if marked out in neon. Not a vehicle was in sight—the logging was concentrated farther south, in the big flats along the river.

  Once he saw a little black boy trudging along a path, a cane pole over his shoulder. When he heard the chopper, he glanced up and then darted into the brush.

  Once Nate spotted two sandy-colored red wolves loping along a stream-bed, flipping bright beads of water about their bodies. He could see sparks of light caught in the droplets in the instant it took to pass over them, and he found it in him to marvel at actually seeing those rare animals running free.

  Late September in East Texas can be hot. The sun rose higher, and they were too low to take advantage of the cooling effect of altitude. Nate found himself sweating as they turned and stared, turned and stared. When Antonio called for a fuel break he was more than ready.

  So far he had seen nothing that might have been the infamous sinky-hole. Even as a boy he had never located it, and he wondered if Oscar might be lying
about what the old man told him. Then he discarded the notion. There was too much to lose, and Oscar was right in the firing zone. No, the place had to be there. It only took a lot of looking to find it.

  * * * *

  Wim returned to help Ma in the garden, but he was antsy at staying so close to home when he could occasionally hear the distant sound of the helicopter's blades. If only Wash Shipp would come! Then he might let Wim go with him to watch the chopper from some hiding place deep in the woods.

  The two of them pulled the tough and prickly weeds from around the collards that would supply them with green stuff all winter. They picked the late tomatoes and peppers. By noon Wim was almost frantic with impatience, but at last Mama headed for the house and lunch.

  The children were playing in the sandy yard, tended by Susie and Ella, the oldest of Wim's sisters. They headed for the well and a good washing up when they saw the gardeners returning. Wim joined them at the washtub beside the kerb and splashed heavenly cool water over his face and shoulders.

  There were cold field peas left from the night before, kept from spoiling by being let down into the well in a tight-lidded can. Along with cold cornbread and fresh tomatoes, they filled the growling gap in his belly, though even as he ate he listened for the sound of a car coming down the road.

  It was Mama's firm rule that nobody worked in the heat right after eating, so the entire family found cool spots, either flat on the smooth pine floor of the central hallway in the house or in the dust of the deep shade under the umbrella chinaberry trees. As Wim lay there, batting at an occasional fly and wondering hard, there came a distant rumble as a car moved along the washboarded road.

  "Chief Shipp!” He rose and tiptoed among his sleeping kin to the edge of the porch, where Mama was stretched in the flimsy swing, sleeping with her mouth open.

  "Mama! Mama, I think Chief Shipp's coming. Kin I go with him, if he takes off to see what that chopper's doin'?” he asked in a whisper.

  "Mmm-hmmm,” she sighed, without waking fully, as he had hoped she would.

  That was all the permission he intended to get. He scampered up the road, hoping to meet the car before it reached the house and woke his mother completely.

  The car was the dusty black one the Chief drove, all right. It pulled to a halt beside the panting boy and Shipp leaned out. “Wim? What's up, boy? You all right?"

  "You see the chopper that's been goin’ back and forth across the bottoms?” Wim asked. “It's been gone for a while, but it spent the whole entire mornin’ lookin’ for somethin'."

  Shipp opened the door. “You get in here where it's cool and tell me about it. We'll go back to the Brakes to the store and get something cold to drink while you do that, okay?"

  That was definitely okay with Wim. As they turned in a track leading into a cornfield and headed back up the road, he described the helicopter and its activities. The Chief listened with flattering attention and nodded from time to time as he spoke.

  When he was done, Shipp turned in at the store and stopped the engine. “How far down toward the river is that sinky hole, Wim?” he asked. “Will they make it that far today?"

  Wim thought hard. He had timed the sweeps by his inner clock, which was seldom wrong, and it seemed to him it might be pretty far into the next day before it could possibly cover all the area between its last lap and the hole in which he had helped Possum sink the ice chest.

  "If they go like they did today—I could hear the noise every time they come this way—they ought to come nigh the spot tomorrow afternoon some time, if they work on Sunday. But I wouldn't bet on that, cause I might be wrong."

  "Tell you what,” Shipp said, “If they haven't got farther than that today, you're likely right that it'll be tomorrow. I'll come back and get you about ten o'clock, just to make sure we're in plenty of time, if you think you can work us down into the area before they line up with the sinky hole. That all right?"

  Wim thought about Mama. Would she let him go? Then he realized that this was one of the few people in the county she trusted, mainly because he was Miz Libby's nephew.

  "Fine with me,” he replied. “I'll be ready. It may be a long time, though. Better bring some bug stuff—I notice most folks hate being et up by mosquitos. And maybe some sandwiches?” His tone was a bit wistful, though he tried to control it. Peas and cornbread stuck to your ribs all right, but they sure got old, after a while.

  Shipp grinned. “It's a date. Now we'll take you back so you can help your Mama some more. But we'll get something cold to drink first. You want strawberry or grape?"

  He stared at Wim, his head cocked. “Why don't we get enough for your brothers and sisters, too?” he asked. “Kind of a treat."

  Wim felt startled. Enough for everybody would be more than three dollars! “You sure it won't cost too much?” he asked.

  Shipp shook his head. “I've got a fund just for such things,” he said. “Folks who help out the law are always appreciated."

  All the way back home Wim nursed his can of red soda in one hand and the sack of cold containers holding his siblings’ treat in the other. They would sure and certain be surprised and pleased, he knew. And Mama would never refuse to let him go now. She'd feel beholden.

  Even to the extent of letting him miss church? He turned to Shipp. “Would you mind askin’ her yourself?” he inquired. “For you, she might not fuss if I missed goin’ to meetin’ with the family."

  Shipp nodded. When they pulled up under the sweetgums in the yard, he got out and approached Mama, and when she got over her astonishment she agreed to let her son show him the way he needed to find. Even on a Sunday.

  "But we ain't going to make a habit of this, you understand,” she said firmly. “Just this oncet, as a favor to Miz Libby's nephew."

  Shipp grinned his wide grin. “Agreed, Miz Dooley,” he said. And that was that.

  CHAPTER XXII. Quiet As a Possum

  Although he hated leaving his swamp, Choa had enjoyed his ride to the Farmer ranch in Lena's car. He'd kept his feet on top of Harland Fielding all the way, putting more pressure on the man than the state of the roads really demanded, and every pained grunt delighted him.

  Bound hand and foot, Fielding had also been gagged, so there had been no interruption of the quiet as Lena drove and Choa watched the passing country. Things were getting worse, he decided. If this was progress, folks had their heads turned right around backwards.

  Where twenty years before the road had run through a tunnel of tremendous trees that arched together over the asphalt or gravel, now everything was skinned down to the bare dirt. Not many cornfields and hay meadows lay beyond the fence rows, just cut-over timber that looked as if a battle had raged over the countryside.

  "How they going to eat, once they ruin all the land?” he asked himself, softly.

  Lena looked over her shoulder, her black eyes glinting. “They won't, but the fools don't know that. Think food grows on the shelves at the store, think farmers and fishermen and such have no right to make a living, because they don't understand who PUTS that food on those shelves. Let things go to pot, like they sometimes seem aimed at doing, and there'll be some hungry folks across this land."

  "Not us!” Possum grinned. “Couldn't starve swamp folks if they tried. But it makes you feel kind of sorry for the young'uns, when their folks don't know to teach ‘em right."

  Fielding squirmed under his feet, and Possum placed a careful kick that quieted him. “Don't tell me that's where Nate Farmer lives!” he exclaimed. “That family never had nothing to speak of. He's got all that hurricane-fenced land and that fancy house? Whooeee! Dope MUST pay good!"

  They had pulled up in front of the ornate brick gate posts with cut-outs of cows and cowboys on the bar across the top. Lena got out and opened the side door, and Choa kicked Fielding out and joined Lena in dragging him to the side of the gate. There they arranged him artistically among the evergreens that decorated the entrance.

  With a final kick, Choa rejoined Lena
and they turned back toward their own country. Not a soul had been on the road or visible in the distance. Neither of them, he knew, gave a good hoot in hell if anybodyhad seen them. They could both take care of themselves better than almost anyone he'd ever known.

  It took him a while to settle down, once he got back home. He set trotlines, fished for crawfish down their mud chimneys, using fat meat and a piece of string, and dangled his feet in the water off his little dock. However, Choa was still antsy, knowing that the combination of Oscar's news and Fielding's defeat was going to set their employer on fire.

  Fielding would do something fancy, he felt in his bones, and when he heard the distantwhup-whup of a helicopter he figured he knew what. He counted the marks on his calendar-stick. Saturday.