Rising Spirit

by Wayne Stinnett

  Apparently, the road the GPS had wanted me to turn onto was the main entrance and parking area. The road I was on went along the south side of the football stadium, where the visitors’ bleachers were located.

  As I neared the baseball stadium, the road split. I took the right fork, which went between the left field wall and a construction site. As I passed the first building, I could see that it was still in the early stage of construction. Directly across the street, I could see the infield through the fence.

  I turned down the next street to the left, where other multi-family homes were being built, and parked on the side of the road so my truck wouldn’t be visible from the first building.

  When I got out and headed around the building with my backpack, I glanced back. I was glad I’d rented a pickup. The F150 had some drying mud on the fenders and bumper and looked like it was in exactly the place a working man’s truck should be.

  Glancing at my phone, I saw that Chyrel had added a third blinking bull’s-eye, which I assumed was Luke. He was close and the sheriff would reach my location just a few minutes behind him. I hoped the sheriff would pull in the main entrance and not do a recon of the area. He knew my truck and tag number. Not that it mattered a whole lot. By the time he got to the field, his shooter would be napping.

  Luke was turning down the road by the football field as I slipped into the back entry of the easternmost town home. There were no windows or doors installed yet. Bare electrical wires hung between wall studs and a stack of drywall lay in the front room. I crossed the room and stood facing the wall opposite the stairs to the second floor, so I could just see out the window opening adjacent to it.

  The first blinking marker on my phone was only about a hundred yards away. The next one still two or three miles. Hearing the wheezing sound of the truck, I put the phone in my pocket and stood closer to the wall, facing it. Brakes squeaked and the gasping engine died. There was complete silence in the crisp air. I heard the truck’s door protest as it opened and after a moment, it closed and I could hear the crunch of boots moving quickly across the dry dirt.

  The instant Luke came through the door opening into the gloomy interior, I stepped back from the wall and spun to my left, unleashing a long right hand that connected solidly with the side of the man’s head.

  Luke never saw me, nor anything else. His eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the gloom after being in the full brightness of the midday sun. As he crumpled to the floor, I took the rifle from his hand and propped it up by the door.

  Dropping my pack beside the inert body, I pulled a pair of nylon zip ties from a pocket and quickly bound his hands and feet. A roll of duct tape from my pack eliminated any chance of his calling out when he woke up. Finding his wallet, I removed his driver’s license and slid it into my shirt pocket. Then I grabbed the rifle and went back out the rear of the building.

  After stashing the Winchester in the back of my truck, I pulled my phone out. One of the markers was stopped at the turn into the main entrance, while the last one was just approaching the main road that ran alongside the fields.

  A moment later, the two markers converged and then turned into the main entrance. I had no intention of going through the stadium’s gate to reach the field. With both cars out of sight on the far side, I sprinted across the road to the fence and quickly scaled it. The left field bleachers had an open system of legs and braces that supported them. It stood close enough to the fence that I could reach over and grab a diagonal brace from the top of the fence. From there, it was an easy forty-foot climb to the top, where I dropped down into the cheap seats in left field.

  Taking a small pair of binoculars from my pack, I took a seat and scanned the field, looking for an opening. There were the typical egresses at the dugouts and another in the center field wall. Not seeing either the sheriff or Pritchard, I moved laterally to center field and then down to the first row of seats, just above the door that probably led to the bullpen. I took a seat, slumped down low, and waited.

  A few minutes later, Sheriff Taliaferro stepped out of the home team dugout and walked toward the pitcher’s mound, his head on a swivel as he scanned the whole field. The rangefinder binoculars told me he was nearly one hundred yards away. The top of the center field wall was in front of me, just below my eyes. I doubted he could see the top of my head from that far away.

  Aiden Pritchard stepped out onto the field from the visitors’ dugout and started toward where the sheriff stood on the mound. “Is he here?”

  The sheriff shook his head, still looking around.

  I took my phone out and called Chyrel. “Start audio recording,” I said, as the two men met on the mound.

  I dropped my phone into my shirt pocket, with the mic end sticking up, and waited a moment while they talked and looked around. When both men were facing home plate, I stood and vaulted the low wall, dropping ten feet to the ground. I rolled and came quickly to my feet, right in front of the door to the bull pen. Both men were still facing away from me.

  “Show time,” I said, raising my leg and kicking back hard against the door with the heel of my boot. Then I strode confidently toward the two men.

  Confusing the enemy was always a good tactic, in whatever way you could accomplish it. Anything that got your foe off balance gave you an advantage. Adding a bit of misperception as to how I managed to get onto the field was simple enough. All it took was a boot to the door.

  Both men turned at what I’m sure they both assumed was the slamming of the door and the sheriff stepped slightly away from Pritchard, his hand hovering close to his sidearm. It had probably taken him a while to locate the little firing pin and spring in the tall grass.

  “You must be the mysterious Mister Buchannan,” Pritchard said, when I reached the pitcher’s mound.

  “Nothing mysterious about me. I’m an open book,” I replied with a shrug, then nodded toward the sheriff while holding Pritchard’s gaze. “I’m sure by now, Lou has learned things about me that I’ve forgotten.” Then I turned toward Sheriff Taliaferro. “How’s the jaw?”

  Taliaferro started to take a step, but Pritchard’s hand on his chest stopped him. “Never mind about that,” he said. “Lou was telling me that you know more than you should, Mister Buchannan.”

  With mock indignation, I said, “Aw, Aiden, if we’re gonna do business, you’re gonna have to call me Stretch. But yeah, I have people everywhere. They hear things and tell me what they hear.”

  “What kind of things?” Pritchard asked.

  I reached for my shirt pocket, and the sheriff dropped his hand to his sidearm.

  “Really, Lou?” I said. “You wanna do that dance again? If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it three times already, and there wouldn’t have been a damned thing you could have done to stop me.” I slowly removed Luke’s license from my pocket and showed it to the sheriff. “You can take your hat off any time you like.”

  Taliaferro looked at the license, then whipped his hat from his head. I dropped the license onto the mound, folded my hands in front of me, and just watched him. He was furious.

  I grinned. “You could try waving it around,” I suggested. Then I fixed him with a stony expression. “But that’d just be a waste of time. Luke can’t see you.”

  “What’d you do with him?” Pritchard asked, a bright shade of red crawling up from his collared shirt.

  I was getting under their skin. People made mistakes and acted irrationally when they were off balance.

  “Relax,” I said. “Luke will be just fine. But I’m keeping his hunting rifle.”

  “What the hell do you want, Buchannan?” the sheriff asked.

  I ignored him. “Here’s the deal, Pritchard; you and your people are careless amateurs.” I jerked a thumb toward the sheriff. “This Muppet couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were written on the sole.”

  The sheriff star
ted to take another step, but I turned fully toward him and dropped my left shoulder slightly. “Ya know what, Lou,” I growled menacingly. “I hope you do go for it. I’m sick of waiting for you to try. Now pull that Glock out of that holster and either try to use it against me or toss it toward second base.”

  He hesitated.

  “Do it now!” I shouted, taking a small step toward him.

  Most of my weight was on my trailing right foot. He was well within range of a powerful hook kick, and over the past couple of years, I’d been getting much better at hitting a moving target. There was no doubt in my mind that if he drew, my left boot would collide laterally with his gun hand before he got it halfway up.

  Pritchard nodded, and the sheriff slowly lifted his sidearm from the holster, not taking his eyes from mine. I could see the hatred in the man’s face. His left jaw muscle twitched. We were three feet apart; it was all about reaction time at that distance. I didn’t play poker either, for the same reason he shouldn’t. I knew his cop mind picked up on the confidant resolve of my expression.

  I also knew what thoughts were going through the so-called lawman’s head. He was wondering if he’d remembered to chamber a round after reassembling the pistol, or if he’d even put it back together correctly.

  Finally, he tossed the Glock toward center field. The weapon landed in the dirt about halfway to second base.

  “That’s smart,” I said. Then I turned back to Pritchard. “I want in. In fact, you might say I’m taking over your whole moonshine operation.”

  “What moonshine operation?” Pritchard asked.

  For a moment I saw a flash of relief in his eyes, then it was gone. I wondered why he’d be relieved that I knew about their operation. There must be more going on.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Aiden,” I said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m an attorney, Mister Buchannan. Do you have any proof of these allegations?”

  I was losing my patience with the guy and stepped closer to him. “You want proof? How about I tell Susan what you’re doing? I bet Aiden Junior would be real proud.”

  My words somehow calmed the man. “You know my wife and kids’ names. A simple Google search would tell you that, Buchannan. I’m a public figure.”

  “More public than you know,” I said, grinning slightly. “I have video of Stuart Lane shooting a man, with Jeb Long standing there watching him do it. That’s enough to send those two to death row. The dead man’s girlfriend shot the video while hiding in the woods. Lou saw it and did nothing. I’m sure that’s a violation of some law. But I’m not a lawyer.”

  Some of the color leached out of Pritchard’s face.

  “I also have video of you, Counselor. It was shot last night when you told Luke and Jeb to send Stuart Lane to Miami to kill the woman.”

  Pritchard’s face paled as he tried to remember his exact words from the night before. So, I let it rip. “I know you make moonshine in your old barn on the back of your property. I know you age it in oak and cherry barrels. Not long, but it’s good stuff. I know you have it shipped all over the state, but don’t sell any of it around here. All these things are documented and I’m not the only one that has the information.”

  “What is it you want, Buchannan?” the sheriff asked again.

  I glanced over at him, then back to Pritchard. “I can do one of two things here. My first option would be to just knock both your asses out right here and now, which I’m becoming more and more inclined to do, then truss you both up like I did Luke, and dump all these things that I know, along with the videos, into your boss’s lap.”

  Pritchard swallowed hard. “And the other option?”

  “I’m a fair man, Aiden. But I am taking over your operation. Make no mistake about that. And, I’ll be bringing in my own people for distribution.”

  “You really think you can take the both of us?” Taliaferro said.

  “Not really,” I replied, raising my hands, palms up in a passive gesture, as I turned toward the sheriff.

  Suddenly, I lunged toward him, bringing my right hand over and down onto the base of his skull; the sensitive spot where the trapezius muscle joins the neck. The blow paralyzed him instantly and then he passed out before his knees buckled and he dropped like a bag of feed, face down in the dirt.

  I turned back to Pritchard. “As a rule, I take out the noisy one first; the one who can’t make the decision.”

  Pritchard had no reaction to my swift attack on the sheriff. Maybe it happened too fast for him to understand what had occurred.

  Slowly, he looked down at his fallen cohort, then back up at me. “What do you hope to gain by this?”

  “Money,” I replied. “You and your people will continue making liquor just the same as you have been.” I pointed to the inert Taliaferro. “You’ll continue to pay the good sheriff whatever protection money you two agreed on, though it’s my belief that whatever the amount is, it’s too much. I’ll take everything you make off your hands at five bucks a gallon.”

  Pritchard only stared at me. Finally, he shook his head. “Five isn’t good enough. It costs more than that to make good liquor. I’ll sell you all I make at ten dollars a gallon.”

  I smiled at the man. He knew he was beat. Now it was just a matter of how bad. “We could dicker back and forth until Lou wakes up. But like I said, I’m a fair man. Let’s call it seven.”

  “You think you can handle the delivery?”

  “I can have my people here in less than twenty-four hours,” I replied. “By Monday, I’ll start moving your product. This could be a good thing for you, Aiden. It eliminates most of your risk and decreases your shipping expense.”

  “The people we deliver to don’t like strangers.”

  “Being anti-social is their problem, not mine,” I said. “If they don’t want to deal with my guys, they can shop elsewhere. I have contacts in south Florida that will buy up anything you make.”

  “Florida?”

  “That’s where I’m from,” I replied. “Those good ol’ boys down in the ’Glades do love their liquor.”

  The sheriff started to stir and moaned softly.

  “Should we shake hands?” Pritchard asked.

  I had to hand it to him; he took defeat easily. Maybe too easily.

  I just grinned at him. “I wouldn’t want to sully the good reputation of the assistant commonwealth attorney. Why don’t you just help the sheriff to his feet and go back to your cars?”

  Pritchard’s eyes cut to where the Glock lay in the dirt, twenty feet away.

  “I’ll keep the sheriff’s gun, too,” I said.

  “How can I reach you?” Pritchard asked. “To arrange the pickup.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll have a truck come to your barn at sunrise, Monday morning. You just make sure you have the distribution list ready, with names, addresses, quantities, and prices.”

  Pritchard’s face suddenly showed fear. He hadn’t shown any sign of it earlier, so I knew there had to be something else going on, and it had to do with the barn. There was something he didn’t want me to see in that barn.

  The fear left his eyes as quickly as it had appeared. “I produce three fifty-gallon barrels a day and we deliver five days a week, using a three-quarter ton cargo van.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “How many of those barrels are you currently aging?”

  “Two hundred are in various stages of aging.”

  I did the math in my head and smiled at him. “So, you’ve been making and shipping a hundred and fifty gallons a day for a while, huh?”

  “I would have thought you already knew that,” he replied. “You seem to know everything else.”

  “If I’m going to do business with a man, I’d as soon know from the source.”

  “Yes,” Pritchard said. “Lou told
me about what a capitalist you are down in Florida.”

  “See, I’m no mystery at all.”

  He knew there was no way out. He could try to kill me on Monday or next year, but the copies of the evidence would prevent that. So, his only option was to open negotiations in a businesslike manner.

  “You understand supply and demand economics, Stretch.” He even offered a smile. “My customers demand a certain product; they want something unique. Aging for just a few months gives them that. And to be honest, I was planning to replace the men I have doing the distribution anyway.”

  “Luke, Jeb, and Stuart? Why?”

  “One or all of them have been skimming,” he said. “The amount is peanuts, but I won’t tolerate people stealing from me.”

  “Really?” I said in a mocking tone. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m ripping you off.”

  “Semantics,” he said, waving a hand as if brushing aside the idea. “You’re right. Dealing with you might be less stressful than with these idiots.”

  “You’re making and shipping a hundred and fifty gallons a day, five days a week?” I asked, to get him to confirm their output. “And you want to go into business with me on the terms I laid out, voluntarily?

  “Yes,” Pritchard said. “I’m not at all fond of the first option you mentioned, and as you said, I have a lot more to lose in not doing so.”

  “My crew can handle that.” I said with a nod.

  “Stuart did most of the driving,” Pritchard went on. “He usually carried empty one-gallon bottles to fill for customers and brought back any empties they had. They buy anywhere from ten to thirty gallons each and they’re filled straight from the barrels.”

  “Hence, the van,” I said, nodding.

  “My van isn’t part of the deal. You’ll have to get your own vehicle. I’ll have the barrels on a pallet, ready to load into whatever vehicle you bring.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Bring cash every day,” he said flatly. Then I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes; an idea. “One thousand and fifty dollars, plus another fifty for the bottles. Sunrise is at 7:15 on Monday. If you’re five minutes late, I’ll load it into my own van and move it out. My customers also like punctuality. You lose all rights to any days’ shipment if you’re late in picking up. Is that acceptable?”