All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

by Scott Dennis Parker

  I walked forward and stopped at the foot of the steps. “I’d like to go visit your chickens. But first, I need to make a phone call.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Smith let me into their house and I placed a call to Leroy Dwight.

  “Let me guess,” Leroy said, “you need something else from me.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  I’m not usually one to chat about my cases with members of the police, but I definitely could use a hand. I gave him the short version, emphasizing that the Smith family needed protection but leaving out the fact that a diamond might be lost in the coop.

  “So you want a couple of guys to come out there and stand guard?”

  “Yup.”

  “The pay is good?”

  “Yup.”

  “I know a guy I can trust. We’ll both be there soon.”

  A few minutes later, Smith and I both had on work boots—his feet were just one size larger than mine— and work gloves. He and I carried flashlights. Mrs. Smith carried a lantern. Together, the three of us tromped over to the chicken pen and coop.

  “A diamond,” Mrs. Smith said. “Is that what that man was after?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The thief lost the diamond in your chicken coop and, not knowing which chicken might have eaten it, contrived to have all your chickens killed, one by one, and to search for the diamond in the carcasses.”

  “But he clearly was never a farmer,” Smith said. “He never even thought to check the manure. What made you think of it, Mr. Wade?”

  “Growing up, my grandfather worked his farm and I’d help him. I always enjoyed getting the eggs but hated when he made me wash the chicken house. I was surprised when I saw all the rocks and pebbles in the crap. My grandfather told me most rocks just pass on through.”

  “You really think by giving the diamond back to that man he’d let us alone?” Mrs. Smith asked.

  “Don’t see any reason why he would need to maintain the slaughter.” I scowled and stifled a wave of nausea. “What do you do with the manure?”

  Smith pointed over to a pile next to the hen house. “We compost it and use it on the garden.”

  “How often do y’all clean the coop?”

  “Every morning,” Mrs. Smith said. “Otherwise, it gets to be too much.”

  I sighed when I examined the mound. It was of moderate size, but still it meant sifting through a pile of manure looking for—well—what amounted to a needle in a haystack. Hey, some clichés just reek with truth. So did manure.

  Smith walked over and, with a shovel, divided the manure into three smaller piles. Nodding once, we got to work.

  I sat down on an overturned bucket and put my handkerchief around my face. It barely kept the stench away. I had a little system. I’d pick up a small pile and work it through my gloved hands. If I found a chunk of anything, I’d examine it in the light. Every so often, I’d stand and walk over to the hose and wash the junk off the small chunks.

  This went on for a few hours. When Leroy and his friend, a man named Morales, arrived, I asked that they station themselves up on the porch. When asked what we were doing, I shook my head and told him we were shoveling shit, just like when I was on the force. The clock wound slowly to midnight. Across the fields and through the corn rows I saw the lights of the rich neighborhood and Aldridge’s house. He might be entertaining friends while I had my hand in chicken shit.

  A little after eleven, Mrs. Smith cried out. She held something up to her lantern. Mr. Smith and I gathered around her. In the light, the thing glittered despite the muck caking it. The gem was larger than I expected, large enough to want to kill for.

  “I think I found it,” she whispered.

  “I think you did,” I said.

  In a reverent voice, she asked, “How much is it worth?”

  “Don’t know, but if there are men trying to reclaim it and willing to do anything to obtain it, it must be a pretty penny.”

  I glanced at her. In her eyes, I saw the temptation. She was weighing the price and what that money could do for her and her husband. She was wondering if they could get away with it. There were probably more things running through her mind, but I eased my open hand to her. “Mrs. Smith, please let me have it.”

  Jealousy flashed across her face. Then a moment of shame. I saw both. She flicked her eyes up at me to see if I had noticed. I gave her a warm understanding face. Mr. Smith didn’t see any of it so she wouldn’t have to live with his knowledge. She turned her hand over and dropped the gem into my palm.

  “Thank you.”

  We stood and looked at the diamond.

  Mr. Smith said, “That should do it, right?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Turn it over to its rightful owner.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Determining the rightful owner proved more of a challenge than I had gambled on. Driving home, I tossed up the various possibilities in my head. I could easily give this diamond to Kruger, the man who wanted it in the first place and hired Marlowe to steal it. It was the loss of the diamond that prompted the order to slaughter Smith’s chickens, which was, after all, the sole reason I had been hired.

  On the other hand, the diamond seemed to belong to Oliver Aldridge. It was from his safe that it had been stolen. Wasn’t he the rightful owner, no matter how irritated that made Kruger? If I turned it over to Aldridge, shouldn’t that eliminate all the unpleasantness?

  I pondered the question all the way home and into my house. Closing the door behind be, a bone-deep weariness descended on me. I was just about to fall asleep standing up, but I moseyed to the kitchen for a quick nip of whiskey. I smelled my clothes and realized I needed a shower before ruining my sheet. Whiskey first. Shower second. I peeled off my suit and sniffed it. Sure, it reeked, but I seemed to have avoided staining it with chicken shit.

  I washed my hands three times, just to be sure all the manure was gone. Getting the ice and clinking the cubes in my glass, I swore I’d never tasted whiskey that good and that cold. I hid the diamond in what I hoped was a good spot. I knew I needed a shower, but I just wanted to sit for a minute. Just a minute. I fell onto the couch. I didn’t even take the time to remove my shoes.

  I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep until I started awake.

  Normally, I am a deep sleeper. Not much wakes me. But that night, something soft did. It was the click of something metallic. In my dream state, I half thought it was my own snores that woke me. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, tasting the dryness in it. It felt like a sandy desert. I was parched. I needed another drink.

  I sat up, the springs creaking under my weight. It was then that I realized I was still dressed. I glanced at my watch. Too dark to see. I moved it so that the light from the streetlamp streaming through my blinds caught the hands on my watch. Three in the morning. Sheesh. When was the last time I was awake at that time of night?

  I don’t know about you, but I can tell when another person is in the same room even if I can’t see anyone. As I sat there on my couch, ready to go to the kitchen, I felt the presence of someone. I couldn’t explain how, but I did. Trepidation started to warp my mind. It was the middle of the night. Perhaps I was just imagining it. Perhaps there really wasn’t anybody in my house.

  Then again, I also thought I had closed the Venetian blind on my east window.

  I tensed. The fog of fatigue evaporated. The click I heard must have been the click of the window lock. But if that was the case, then the intruder would have been outside, right? How in the world could the window latch have been opened from the outside?

  It was then that I turned my eyes to the door. It was closed. I knew that because there was no light coming from around the frame. Additionally, it was in deep shadow so most things, including my hat rack, were practically in the dark.

  But there was a shape standing in front of the door that didn’t belong. The shape was a man. I could
barely make out the outline, but it was distinctive enough.

  Damn. There was someone in my house, and it didn’t take three guesses to know why. The diamond.

  There were no available weapons near at hand. My gun was in my bedroom. Lot of good it did me there. The question now was: would he let me get to the kitchen and get a knife? Chances were not good in that regard.

  The alternative was simple: rush him and get the upper hand. The ache in my head made me wish I hadn’t partaken of two shots of rye. I needed more sleep. But I needed to have that intruder out of my house more.

  I stood and wobbled a moment. Were I a better actor, I could have thrown in some histrionics, making it appear I was more far gone than I truly was. Maybe throw my arms up.

  I think he sensed he was made. I turned to the kitchen. He rushed me. Damn, he was fast. He tackled me full on my right side. This guy, whoever he was, probably had played football on some team. If not, he needed to try out. He’d be a killer linebacker.

  As it was, he basically ran over me. The force of his charge clipped my thigh and sent me headlong over the arm of the couch. The side table couldn’t take our combined weight and cracked under the strain. The sound of the wood snapping filled the room like a gunshot. The lamp fell to the floor, the bulb smashing to pieces. The lampshade tore off its stand and rolled across the floor.

  I grunted. My assailant laughed.

  We ended up half on the couch and half on the floor. Our legs were over the armrest while our upper bodies were on the floor. I jammed an elbow behind me but only met with air. The guy rewarded my efforts with a hard finger that jabbed in my exposed armpit.

  I swore at the pain. Instinctively, I brought my arm forward and captured his hand in my armpit. I thought I had him. He just dug his fingers deeper into the tender flesh.

  Grunting with the effort not to scream and to get those fingers away from me, I reached out and grasped the lamp. I wanted to smash the hard, wooden base on his head, but the angle was wrong. I grabbed what I could, that being the base itself. I swung the lamp over my back and brought it down on his shoulder.

  It had little effect other than to have his fingers dig deeper into my pit. Instead of a second swing, I brought the lamp forward and jabbed it directly into the body behind me. I remembered that the bulb was busted and I assumed that the broken glass might cut him enough to get him off me. What I didn’t count on was a helping hand I got from the electric current.

  There was an audible spark. The broken bulb dug into his arm. He yelped and the fingers in my armpit left. I rolled forward and my legs crashed to the ground. I rolled again to get distance from him. Still holding the lamp, I got to my knees and assumed a fighter’s stance. With a short yank, I pulled the cord out of the socket. I flipped my grip on the lamp so I held onto the thinner end and was ready to smash the heavier base on his head.

  The guy found his feet and stood to his full height. Crap. He had five, six inches on me. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  In the light that shafted in through the blinds, I saw his smile and the teeth underneath. The hair was dark and ruffled. The dark short-sleeved shirt was askew and there was a dark line down his arm. Was that blood? I didn’t know, but I saw the muscles flex under his skin.

  He moved slightly and the light struck the rest of his face.

  Amos Peete.

  Time to change the equation.

  I had an idea Peete might not realize I had unplugged the lamp. The plastic cord might surprise him. Why not give it a go?

  I swung the lamp in the air. Peete flinched backwards, but the cord ran across the floor to give him a heads up on its approach. He stuck out a hand and grabbed the cord in midair. With a quick tug, he yanked the lamp out of my hands.

  I took that moment, surprised as I was, to change my tactics. I was close enough to my kitchen table that a quick reach landed my hand around the back of one of the chairs. I picked it up, took one step forward, and swung for the fences.

  Distracted as he was in dropping the lamp, most of the chair found its mark. The legs crashed into the side of Peete’s head and I was happily rewarded with a yelp of pain. He fell to his knees, his hands gripping his head.

  Having played baseball with his head, I decided to play football, too. I kicked him. The man was fast. He shot out an arm and deflected my kick. The momentum knocked me on my ass.

  “Shit!” I cried.

  “I’m here for one thing, but I don’t have a problem taking something out of your hide.”

  Enough talk, I thought. I got my feet under me and ran back to my bedroom. I reached my chest of drawers and found my gun in its leather holster. I cleared it and turned to the door. I cocked the gun and let fly a bullet. It smashed into the door frame. Wood splinters flew into the darkened air. Some of them must have landed in a tender spot because the man in the other room swore. I grinned but my glee faded almost instantly.

  “I got more where that came from!” I shouted.

  “So do I.” A second later, I saw the flash of his gun.

  Thankfully, I was in a crouch or else I’d have had a new hole in my head. I heard the bullet sail over me and smash my bedroom window. The shards tumbled down, tinkling onto the windowsill.

  With an effort, I kept as quiet as possible. I knew I had only one shot at this. As soon as I fired, Peete would see the flash and get a bead on me. I wasn’t going to give him the chance.

  I prayed the ringing in my ears would be duplicated in his. I wasn’t terribly quiet as I scooched toward my bedroom door, but I wasn’t loud either. I just hoped my knees didn’t crack. They didn’t, but the wooden floor did.

  I froze, holding my breath. I flexed my fingers around the grip of my revolver. I waited.

  So did he.

  I tried something. “The gunshots’ll bring the police,” I called. “This is my house. You’re the intruder.”

  Peete answered with another gunshot, this one lower, closer to me, closer to where my voice emerged from the darkness.

  In response, I all but lay on the floor. I eased my way backwards to the far wall. From there, I ducked down and slithered under my bed. It was an older model, high off the floor. It was a family heirloom, made by my grandfather. I thanked him for making it with enough clearance underneath for storage. I was hoping it would get me out of this little predicament alive.

  I got on my elbows, gun in front of me, and edged myself toward the door. I caught a break. The outline of Peete’s lower leg was illuminated from behind by the light coming in through the Venetian blind. From his position, however, I knew he’d be able to pinpoint my location as soon as I fired. That meant I needed to make my shot count.

  Also, there was another obvious fact. If he got a bead on me, I had nowhere to go. I was pretty much stuck there under the bed.

  My ears were getting back to normal. In the distance, I could hear a siren. Part of me wanted Peete to leave and be done with it. Another part of me wanted to maim him and ask a boatload of questions.

  I took careful aim. There was only a sliver of leg showing from around the doorjamb. I held my breath and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The gun fired. I heard a yowl of pain from my assailant. The thud on the floor must have meant I hit him pretty well. The chorus of curses followed soon thereafter.

  Not wanting to assume anything, I forcefully pushed myself backwards, emerging on the far side of the bed from the door, just in case he decided to charge the room.

  Instead, I heard limping, then a heavy, meaty thump on the front door.

  I stood, my hands holding my gun out in front of me. I eased to the wall and waited.

  Peete grunted, wheezing in and out trying to stem the pain. The next moment, he flung open the door. The doorknob, I would later learn, gouged a hole in my wall.

  The sirens were louder now. Still, I didn’t dare look around the corner. I enjoyed having my head intact.

  I counted to five, then braced myself for the pursuit. I took a couple of deep breaths—w
ere they to be my last?—and moved hard into the open door frame.

  Nothing.

  There was no sign of Amos Peete. Wait. There was. On the door frame, low, was a dark stain. That would be his blood. Damn. How bad did I hit him that he lost that much blood but was still able to walk out of here?

  One part of my mind told me not bad enough.

  The other part was glad he was gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The police weren’t glad . The one siren I had heard had grown to two. The lights of their squad cars strobed off the fronts of the houses along my little street. I bet my neighbors were cursing my name. Gunshots, police cars. What’s next? Truth be told, I didn’t much like gunshots in my house either.

  Like a good citizen, now that I didn’t wear the badge, I placed my gun on the kitchen table and held out my hands. I didn’t want some jumpy rookie mistaking me for a burglar and putting a new hole in me. I stepped out of my front door and let them all see me.

  My house is in the middle of my block. The squad cars stopped, one in front of my house, the other partially into the driveway. From each car’s passenger side emerged a patrolman. Each man had his gun drawn.

  “You the homeowner?” one of them called to me.

  “Yes, sir.” Always good to give deferential treatment to anyone holding a gun.

  “What happened?”

  “Burglar. Broke into my house. I discovered him. We fought. We exchanged gunfire. I got him, in the leg.” I pointed to the door frame. “He’s pretty badly hurt. I suspect he can’t have gone far.”

  Across the street, one of my neighbors turned on a light and peered out his window. He joined just about every other neighbor that I could see.

  “We didn’t see any man walking down your street, sir,” the patrolman said.

  “Y’all see a car?” I said.

  “No, sir.”

  I frowned. How had the gunman gotten away so fast? I nodded to the house. “Might as well come in. Don’t need the neighbors looking at everything.”