Farraday Road

by Ace Collins

  “That’s probably my fault.” She sighed. She started coughing and Lije didn’t think she’d ever stop. But she did, finally. “I took him to my family reunion,” she said. “Down at the park in Bates-ville. Wasn’t long after we got married. My great-grandfather was there. The old man must have been close to a hundred then. He lived to be one hundred and four. He got to telling old stories, like he always did, including one about Swope’s Ridge. It was that story that started Micah’s compulsion for the place.”

  “Must have been some story,” Lije said.

  “Oh, it was. It sure was. I remember my great-grandfather’s grandfather was the focus of his stories that day. Can you follow that? I know it must sound confusing.”

  “Two generations back from your great-grandfather.”

  “That’s right. Seems that Joshua Lucas—no, his name was Justin Lucas—was fishing on the river one afternoon when a group of riders forded at a spot just above where he was sitting on the bank. It was either 1875 or ’76, and although he was a farm boy, no more than sixteen years old, and had never seen any of the men before, he recognized two from wanted posters that hung at the sheriff’s office in Hardy. You’ll be surprised. He saw none other than Jesse and Frank James.

  “To the people in the hills, right after the Civil War, the James brothers were folk heroes. My great-great-great-grandfather was thrilled to meet them. Evidently they liked him too. Told him they were on the run from a railroad posse. A few hours before, they had robbed a train between Hardy and Mammoth Spring. Stole two chests filled with gold coins, but the load was slowing them down. They asked Lucas if he knew of a safe place to stash the loot. That way they figured they could get away, then come back and pick the stuff up when things cooled down. Justin knew the woods well, having hunted all up and down the river, so he mounted his horse and led them to Swope’s Ridge. On one of the hills, way above the stream, supposedly not far from Horseshoe Falls, he took them to a cave. Told them he had discovered it and was the only white man who knew about it. The gang stashed the loot, gave Justin a gold coin from one of the chests, and rode off. A few hours later, when the Pinkerton men the railroad had hired to catch the James brothers forded the river, Justin was fishing. He told them nothing, and the posse moved on.

  “I need another smoke.” Mabel picked up the pack and swiftly hit the bottom, causing a single cigarette to slide forward.

  “It probably would’ve ended right there if Micah hadn’t asked what happened to the two chests filled with coins.” She lit the cigarette and inhaled. “You know, I’d heard the old story many times as a kid, but this time was different. When my great-grandfather finished his story, he pulled out a double-eagle gold coin and showed it to all of us. You should have seen Micah’s face.”

  Mabel brought the cigarette back to her lips. Lije expected her to pick up her tale after she took another draw, but she didn’t. Instead she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  “What did happen to the chests? ” Lije asked.

  The woman smiled the kind of smile that revealed more pain than joy and looked off in the distance. “Less than a year after the incident, Justin married my great-great-great-grandmother. He told her the story and gave her the coin. They moved into a small home in Hardy. A few months after the wedding, Justin fell off a horse and was killed. He died so unexpectedly, he never told anyone the location of the cave. My great-great-grandfather was born six months later, and though he spent his life looking for the gold, he never found it.

  “The James brothers’ gang had been all but decimated in a failed bank robbery in Northfield, Minnesota, a few months after they crossed Spring River. Most locals believe they never returned to pick up the loot.”

  Lije considered her story. “Frank and Jesse James weren’t captured at Northfield. In fact, Jesse lived another five, six years, and Frank lived a lot longer. So why wouldn’t they have come back for the loot?”

  “I was told,” Mabel explained, “that the law was watching them closely for the rest of their lives. So they never had a chance to come back to Spring River and Swope’s Ridge. Who knows?Maybe they did. But when Micah heard that tale, he thought he had won the lottery. He was convinced he could find the loot and become rich beyond his wildest dreams. From that day on, he lived for that gold.”

  “Mrs. Dean, I understand the man who was convicted of shooting your husband was also trying to obtain Swope’s Ridge.”

  Mabel nodded.

  “Did he want it for the gold too? ” Lije asked.

  “Naw, Jennings was a real estate agent who had clients back in Cleveland or Chicago. I’ve forgotten what city, but they wanted it. He claimed they had lots of money and wanted to build a vacation lodge or something. They offered Micah twice what he had in it. I tried to point out to him that that much money was more than the gold coins were probably worth, but he wouldn’t even consider it. Jennings, they said later, was in need of the sale just to keep his head above water. I guess that’s why he threatened Micah right here on this porch three times and again in the old barn. Micah was so unnerved by Jennings that he had Moony Rivers set up a camera and videotape some of their meetings. He wanted proof in case something happened. And it did too. Jennings followed up on his threats and shot Micah out in the barn, that very barn that fell down the other night. And,” she added, “when they inject Jennings in a few days, he’ll be the next victim of the curse.”

  It was obvious she actually believed in the curse. To her it was as real as the porch on which she sat. Lije felt cursed, but he didn’t believe in curses. Still, he couldn’t argue that Micah had died over the lost treasure. At least that part of her story made sense.

  “Did your husband have time to search Swope’s Ridge before he died?”

  “He owned it six months and was out there every day, rain or shine, ten to twelve hours each day. Even quit his job. Would be gone a week at a time. Even bought himself a little travel trailer. He lived only for that gold. Guess he died for it too.”

  “Did he find any caves?”

  “I know he found one, but there was nothing in it but some bats.” She paused, inhaled, then laughed. She continued to cackle until a series of coughs muffled her strangely timed fit of amusement. “Even if he’d had it forty years he wouldn’t have never found anything.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because my great-grandfather was a storyteller. He told some real whoppers. Made things up to entertain anyone who would listen. All the family knew that. Only ones who bought into what he said were fools. That’s what Micah was, a fool … after fool’s gold. I knew it, told him so, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Sad, isn’t it? He was looking for something that never existed. Spent a half million bucks on a fable. Who would believe there were chests of gold in the Ozarks? Only Micah.”

  “So,” Lije said, “you believe in the curse but not the treasure?”

  “That’s right.” She sighed. “I feel sorry for you, sir. You lost your wife, and I’m sure you lost a lot more than I did when Micah died.” Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a shiny round object. She studied it for a moment, then stretched her hand out toward Lije.

  “This is the gold piece my great-grandfather used to lure my husband into wasting the rest of his life. When I sold your wife Swope’s Ridge, I should’ve given this to her too. But for some reason, even knowing that it drove my husband to his death, I kept it. Now, I want no part of it.”

  He took the coin and examined it. Though it had been minted in 1872, it was unworn and appeared brand new. “Are you sure you want me to have this?”

  She spoke quietly, “I honestly don’t know if I want you to have it, but I know for sure I don’t want it. Now, do you have any more questions?”

  Lije studied the gold piece a moment and then stood. “I want to thank you for your time, Mrs. Dean. I’ve learned a bit of what I need to know. But if I have some more questions, can I call you?”

  “No problem, sweetie. And if you come back in a few
months, I’ll have this place all fixed up. It’ll be a nice place then.”

  “I’m sure it will be,” he replied.

  He slipped the coin into his pocket and walked off the porch to the car. He opened the door and looked back at the house. Mabel Dean was still sitting in her chair. An orange cat leaped into her lap. Her head back, she took another long draw of smoke into her lungs.

  Lije started the Cord and steered back into the road’s deep ruts.

  HE PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE BEEN A ROCKY OR A Hunter, but his mother’s maiden name was Ivy, and that’s what ended up on his birth certificate: Ivy Beals. Made him tough as a kid. Tougher as a middle linebacker. And toughest as a private investigator.

  But this hit was going to be easy. Four hours after the call, Beals had found Charles Sutton, in Memphis. The guy had lamely covered his tracks with stupid moves and amateur tricks. He never changed his appearance, he used predictable aliases (Chuck Simpson, Charles Saffron, always with the C. S.), and his credit card?Billed to his home address.

  Worst of all, he ate lunch at the same place every day. Was this guy for real?

  Beals punched 1144 South Childress Lane and Memphis into his GPS navigational system and followed the arrows. Simple.

  Childress Lane looked just like a lot of other streets in the river city. It was lined with three-bedroom tract homes, set on small flat lots, all built in the 1970s. About the only thing distinguishing one from the next was the color of trim or the shade of brick. The trees were tall, and the yards, though half were littered with toys, were well kept. This was the last spot he expected to find a seedy kidnap-and-ransom scam artist. When crime pays well enough to afford a suburban paradise, then it’s time to go to jail.

  Sutton lived alone. His car was gone, so Beals had nothing to do but wait. Half of his job was waiting. He unscrewed the cap of a Dr. Pepper. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  And it was a long afternoon. Right before sunset, Sutton pulled into his driveway in a large blue Cadillac.

  Definitely time to go to jail.

  There were still a few children out playing in their yards, so Beals took his time. The fewer folks who saw him, the better. He waited for Sutton to go inside, get comfortable, and settle into his routine. When dusk turned to night, Beals checked his nine millimeter, dropped it into his shoulder holster, and got out of the car.

  Three rings, no answer. He knocked and noticed the curtains in the picture window move. He knocked again. How rude. Beals hated rudeness. Figured he might just have to be rude back. He brandished his weapon, lowered his shoulder, and crushed the door like it was an opposing team’s running back.

  Was he kidding? He loved this.

  He dropped to one knee, gun pointed into the living room. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sutton bolting toward the kitchen. When Beals first started work as a P. I., he might have yelled “Stop!” or “Wait!” or “I just want to talk!” Now he just got up, strode into the kitchen, and dove at his fleeing prey. The tile floor must have really hurt, but Beals didn’t feel it. Sutton sure did.

  Beals holstered his gun, flipped on a light, and threw Sutton into a chair.

  “Charles Sutton,” Beals said into Sutton’s clammy face. “Or should I say Charlie Smith, Chuck Simpson, Clint Schmidt, or Chance Spencer? What is it about the C. S. initials? If you were any kind of real con man, you would know that the pattern makes it much easier to track you down.”

  “What do you want? ” Sutton asked, his attempt to sound defiant failing so miserably that Beals had to look the other way to keep from laughing. When he turned back, he watched Sutton shrink with fear, as if Dorothy had tossed a pitcher of water on him.

  “What do I want? I want to kill you, but I would hate to explain that mess to the cops. So I may have to settle for just beating you within an inch of your life and leaving you to bleed on your kitchen floor. You get to clean up the mess.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sutton sputtered. “I ain’t done nothin’. And if you’re here to rob me, if you want money, I don’t have any. But take anything I’ve got, just don’t hurt me and I won’t call the police. I promise you that.”

  Beals grinned while pulling a chair around so it was directly in front of the man he had so terrified. This was so easy. He turned it so that the chair’s back faced Sutton, then straddled the seat and sat down, leaning his arms and his chin on the chair back.

  “I believe you. Let me assure you of something I wouldn’t do. I wouldn’t call the cops if I had been bilking innocent families out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Just wouldn’t do it. So I don’t think you would call the cops either. In this one area, and only this one, I’ll take you at your word.”

  Sutton cocked his head sideways, as if that position would help him think. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Beals smirked. This guy was really playing it dumb. Or maybe he was that stupid. It didn’t matter. He was cracking faster than an egg at Denny’s.

  “Listen punk, the Rhoadses, the Hendersons, the Youngbloods, and the Perezes have all forked over more than fifty grand each so that you could get their supposedly kidnapped relatives out of the hands of terrorists. You have tooled them along for months, squeezing harder while you pushed their hopes higher and higher. Yet during all this time, you’ve made no overseas calls. In fact, the only research you’ve done is newspaper searches of men and women who are missing in action. And you’ve also done a bit of work conning people into believing that the army or the marines misidentified their loved one’s remains. That they buried a stranger. That’s when you tell them that their son or daughter or brother or sister is still alive. And you promise them you can get them back home. All it will take for a ticket back to the living is a bit of cash.”

  “My information’s correct,” Sutton argued, “and you can’t prove it isn’t. I am helping these people. It’s the government that’s lying to them.”

  Beals wanted to knock the man across the room, but knew it would not help him get what he needed. So he resisted the urge. For the moment.

  “I can tell you one thing, you have a few solid contacts in the grave units of the military and you have a flair for making up stories that play on the hearts of grieving souls. But you don’t know much about truth.”

  Sutton’s eyes darted to the back door.

  “Don’t even try it,” Beals warned. “If you do, I might think the effort of chasing you was simply too great and just shoot you instead. Probably should have done that to begin with. With as many people as you’ve conned, the suspects would be so numerous the cops would never pin it on anyone. I have no connection to you. No one even knows I’m here.

  “You know, the more I think about this, the more I’m finding this to be a waste of my time.” Beals pulled the gun from inside his coat.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t bet on it. I’m not in a good humor tonight. Missed supper while waiting for you to get home and I bruised my shoulder inviting myself into your lovely abode. Now, why don’t you improve my mood?”

  “How?”

  Beals watched the man sweat. At this rate there wasn’t going to be much fluid left in the guy’s greasy body.

  “By giving solid, truthful answers.”

  “But none of it was illegal,” Sutton argued. “They might be alive. In fact, I know some of them are. I was simply providing a service.”

  Beals stood up and slapped Sutton so hard with the back of his left hand that he almost knocked him out of his chair. Plopping back down, Beals stared intently at the red welt coming up on the man’s left cheek. Then he spoke in a very calm tone.

  “Now, before I realize how much I enjoyed that, I’m going to cut to the chase and you had better be ready to run with me. My name is Ivy Beals. I’m a private investigator working for an attorney. He has a client whom you took for thirty grand. I’m here to get that money for her.”

  Tears slid down Sutton’s stinging face. “Who are you talking about?�
��

  “Heather Jameson.”

  Beals watched Sutton’s expression grow more hopeful. He was not surprised when the man started to spin the conversation in a new direction to work a con. “Her brother’s really missing. I know for sure that he’s not dead. My sources are good on that case. I can provide you with real information. This isn’t a scam! This was money well spent.”

  “Yep,” Beals agreed, “we had the casket exhumed today. It’s empty. Like you said. But that doesn’t mean her brother’s alive, and it certainly doesn’t mean you had information on the case or were actually doing anything to find him. Suffice to point out, I’m not leaving without the money she gave you.”

  “I already spent it,” Sutton said.

  It was a con job so easy to spot a grade-school kid wouldn’t have swallowed it. “Don’t think so.” Beals pulled his left hand back as if to strike Sutton, but before he could follow through, Sutton hurriedly put forth a deal.

  “I’ve got a little left. I can give you ten thousand, but no more, at least not right now. I’m a gambler and I don’t do it very well. So I’m pretty much broke.”

  The detective ran his hand slowly across the top of his bald head. Acting as if he were considering the offer, he returned his gun to its holster and smiled. “If you can only give me ten grand, then I guess I’ll have to take something you do have as collateral.”

  “That’s great!” Sutton said, the color returning to his face. “I have some jewelry and you can have my car. How does that sound?Okay?”

  “Ah … doesn’t sound good to me.” He got up from the chair and strolled to the kitchen cabinets. He opened three drawers before finding what he needed—a nice twelve-inch butcher knife.

  “What’s that for? ” Sutton’s voice cracked.

  Beals pulled the well-worn wooden kitchen table against the man’s side. Sutton squirmed like a rat in a cage watching a cat trying to spring the door.

  “You’ve been bleeding these families, thousands of dollars at a time. I think it’s time you bleed some too. It will give you some idea as to the pain you have caused them. Now, you promised to give me some collateral. I’m the banker here. I’m not interested in your jewelry and I have a car, so I think I’ll take something more personal as a marker for the rest of the cash.”