Rising Spirit

by Wayne Stinnett

  I sent the video to Chyrel, asking if she could identify the men.

  It was full dark by then and I needed to get a room myself. One hotel was as good as another, I figured, and started to get out of the truck when my cell phone buzzed. I pulled it out and glanced at the ID. It was Tony. I’d assumed I’d be hearing from him tonight or tomorrow. Lane’s plane had landed in Miami an hour ago.

  “Got him on ice already?” I asked, without preamble.

  “No,” Tony replied. “But I’m pretty sure he made a drive-by, just a few minutes ago. Tom’s sending pictures to you and Chyrel.”

  “Tom’s there? Good. Tell him I’m sending him a video. See if he can tell what the men in it are saying.”

  My phone pinged and I put Tony on speaker before opening the email. The picture was grainy, obviously shot with night optics, and the upper and lower portions were practically whited-out by lights. But Stuart Lane’s shaved white head was clearly visible in the backseat, looking to his right.

  “A taxi came by and slowed down,” Tony said. “Then a few houses past Eve’s, it came to a full stop for half a minute.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s Lane, Tony. Did he get out?”

  “Negative. I think it was just a recon. When it stopped, it looked like the driver was doing something on a small tablet mounted to the dash.”

  “I’m worried about Eve and Little Jesse,” I confessed.

  “Don’t be,” Tony said. “Deuce was here until the cab came by. He followed it to a nearby Hampton Inn, where he parked near the entrance and watched Lane go inside with a backpack. There’s only the one way in and out of the parking lot and Deuce is camped on it.”

  I had to smile. “Thanks, Tony.”

  “Don’t thank me till you get our bill,” he said, but I could visualize his big, toothy grin over the phone connection. “Hang on. Tom’s looking at the video now.”

  I could hear Tom’s voice but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Tom Broderick had once been my commanding officer. While he’d been in rehab after the explosion, his wife had left him and he’d about given up on everything. But it turned out that he had a natural affinity for lip reading and had learned fast.

  “Tom says the older man said, and I quote, ‘There’s enough rye to make several men kings.’”

  “He’s sure?” I asked. “Moonshine is usually made with corn, not rye. And I doubt anyone could get king rich making hooch.”

  “That’s what’s buggin’ me,” Tony said.

  Tony was sharp. Rarely did anything get past him.

  “What’s got you bugged?” I asked.

  “Even at twice the scale you described, I’d bet both the lawyer and the sheriff make more at their day jobs. Why make corn whiskey? Why the risk?”

  The same thought had been going through my head. The risk-to-benefit ratio was way out of whack for two men who had solid, professional careers and reputations as pillars in the community.

  I heard Tony ask Tom if he was sure about the rye and this time, I did hear Tom’s response. “He either said rye or oohrah, Gunny. And neither man carried himself like a jarhead.”

  I mouthed the name of the grain and the Marine exclamation and he was right. The mouth made the same shape for both.

  “Rye?” I wondered aloud. “Rye whiskey, I guess. Maybe it sells for more. I don’t know, I’ve never been much of a whiskey drinker.”

  “I’m a bourbon man, myself,” Tony said.

  “What else can you use rye for?” I asked.

  It was a rhetorical question, but Tony had an answer. He’d grown up on a farm in North Carolina.

  “We always grew rye in the winter,” he said. “Not as a cash crop, though. It was just to prevent erosion and to add nutrients to the soil when we plowed it under every spring to plant corn.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You can make rye bread and crackers,” Tony replied. “But that kind of rye is grown in Europe. In the Carolinas, it was just grown for ground cover.”

  “There has to be more to it,” I said. “Ask Chyrel to see what she can find out about rye grown in central Virginia. I wasn’t even aware there were different kinds of rye.”

  I ended the call and got out of the truck, looking forward to a hot shower. But later. For now, I was going to stake out the hotel’s restaurant. The two men from the van had to eat sooner or later.

  Aiden Pritchard paced the floor of his home office. Saturday was usually date night for him and Susan. When the babysitter had called earlier to say she was sick, Susan started to call her sister as a backup, but Aiden had stopped her, telling her he could skip tonight if it wasn’t a big deal to her. He was behind on his work and could get caught up. She’d agreed, but only if they could watch a movie together after the kids went to bed. Saturday date night had always been important to her.

  Stretch Buchannan was a problem. He’d Googled the man’s name on his computer and found dozens of news stories. He seemed to be a mid-level player in the south Florida drug scene. Some stories cited rumors that the man had a violent streak.

  They needed Stuart back in Staunton. But he hadn’t checked in since just before boarding the third leg of his flight to Miami. The man thought himself a computer hacker, and he could get around some firewalled systems and access people’s email accounts. When he couldn’t, he knew others who could. These people had their own network and sometimes traded jobs. Some charged exorbitant fees for their time.

  Aiden wanted to know who Buchannan had told and who had access to the videos he claimed to have. He didn’t need the man to show proof of either—just the mention of the conversation around the firepit was enough, and Lou had confirmed that he’d seen the other. Once they knew who Buchannan had told, then those people could be eliminated, right along with the bothersome drug dealer from Florida.

  When the phone on his desk rang, Aiden jumped, but he composed himself as he put the receiver to his ear. “ACA Pritchard.”

  “It’s Lou. Have you heard from Stuart?”

  “I was actually hoping you were him. No, the last time he checked in was when he was boarding at Newark Liberty.”

  “He should have gotten there hours ago,” Sheriff Taliaferro said.

  Aiden checked the antique grandfather clock by the door. It was nearly ten. “He probably went straight to work. You know how he gets.”

  “Yeah,” Lou replied. “He gets completely off the rails if there’s a skirt involved.”

  “I spoke to him before he boarded. No shortcuts, no tracks, and no fucking around.”

  “You should have sent Jeb.”

  “That old man?”

  “He’s done this kind of thing before, and he’s level-headed. You know Stuart; you were his attorney the night he strangled the hooker and shot the—”

  “I’ve told you not to bring that up, Lou.”

  “The man attracts attention,” Lou said, scoffing. “That Uncle Fester head and face of his.”

  “On a Saturday night in Miami, he’d blend right in.” Aiden didn’t know why he was defending his decision to send Stuart to Miami. “He’s probably at the woman’s house now and will be back tomorrow.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “Are you really just going to let this guy muscle in and take over?” Lou asked, finally getting to the real reason he’d called.

  “Absolutely not,” Aiden replied. “You know me better than that. But right now, he’s got our asses over the proverbial whiskey barrel. There’s only so much digging around you can do without drawing attention from your subordinates. We need Stuart to find out who Buchannan has told. After that, we can put him down; Buchannan’s the kind of man who doesn’t leave many tracks, and nobody would connect a missing Florida drug dealer to anything going on here in the Shenandoah Valley, or to us.”

  “But he was right, wasn’t he?” L
ou said. “About the sloppy part. Those guys are ripping you off and selling locally. You don’t shit where you eat, Aiden. Both our dads knocked that into us early.”

  “You’re right,” Aiden said. “We have to put them on a tighter leash. But we need their rye.”

  “How’s that coming along?”

  “I was down there earlier today,” Aiden replied. “Brown has started the extraction or whatever it is. He’s already produced nearly two liters.”

  “What’s that in regular English?”

  Aiden rolled his eyes. “It’s about half a gallon.”

  How that backwoods hick got into, much less through college, he couldn’t fathom. They’d been classmates since kindergarten, but Taliaferro’s folks could only afford in-state college, and Lou had graduated from the military school just down the interstate in Lexington. After VMI, Lou had served four years as an Army officer. Aiden glanced up at the Stanford diploma on his wall. His own father had been an attorney, and Aiden had attended both his alma maters, University of Virginia for pre-law, and on to California for one of the best law schools in the country.

  “And you have a buyer lined up?” Lou asked. “Who is it?”

  “Yes, I do,” Aiden said, his voice showing his exasperation. “And I told you before, the fewer who know, the better. That half gallon is worth sixty grand, Lou. In one day, mind you. Brown will be making about that much every day for most of the winter. Twice that, once we bring the second processor online.”

  “Almost half a million a week,” Lou said softly. “All winter long?”

  “And he’s checking the rye yields from other farms all over the valley. Our three can’t be the only ones with that fungus growing on it.”

  “Let me know when you hear from Stuart,” Lou said. “I don’t trust this guy, Buchannan. I want him out of my county.”

  “I will,” Aiden said, then hung up the phone. “Your county,” he mumbled, as he resumed pacing. “Maybe it’s time for a change there, too.”

  His phone rang again and he snatched it up, thinking it was Lou calling him back with another question. “What now?”

  “Huh,” a voice said. “It’s Stuart. You said to call.”

  “Yeah, hours ago. Where are you?”

  “Miami,” Stuart replied.

  Knowing the man’s penchant for speaking with as few words as possible, Aiden chose to let it go. “Give me an update. Have you made any progress?”

  “Looked over the house,” he replied. “Should be easy enough. Gonna head back after midnight.”

  “Tonight? I figured you’d wait till tomorrow and catch her alone.”

  “Why? It’s just one man, plus the two women, and a coupla kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “Yeah,” the brute huffed. “Sneed’s daughter has two kids.”

  This wasn’t something Aiden had figured on. He knew Stuart was impatient and he’d known the woman’s daughter was married, but killing a kid?

  “You’re going to do it tonight?” Aiden asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “Figured I’d bust in and knock the husband out. With him outta the way, the others will be easy. Then I can do him last.”

  Aiden Pritchard had risen to assistant prosecutor before he was thirty-five, partly due to his ability to tell when he was being lied to, and partly for being able to lie convincingly himself. Stuart wasn’t telling everything.

  “Remember what I said, Stuart,” Aiden reminded him. “Do it quick and leave no trace. I need you back here for another job. A hacking job.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Stuart said, and then the line went dead.

  After checking in at the front desk and getting a key card, I went straight to the restaurant, partly because the two men might have already gone there, but mostly because I was hungry. The thought of a man going after Eve and the kids kept niggling at my brain like a worm. I should be there, not here. But I knew the caliber of the men who were there on my behalf. It wouldn’t surprise me if Deuce had the whole team deployed after Lane’s plane touched down. He’d be driving back to the office soon enough with Stuart Lane strapped to the hood. I had to concentrate on what I was doing here and now.

  A pretty waitress in her mid-twenties approached wearing a smile, and the traditional white and black outfit of a fine restaurant. She had tattoo sleeves halfway down her upper arms that her uniform only barely covered.

  “Good evening, sir. I’m Tammi and I’ll be serving you tonight. Would you like to see a menu?”

  “Is there a steak on it, Tammi?” I asked.

  Her smile brightened. “Your choice of a twelve-ounce or sixteen-ounce New York strip, served with a baked potato and your choice of vegetable.”

  “The sixteen-ounce,” I replied. “Medium, with broccoli, water, and any IPA you think is good.”

  “There’s a brewery just a few blocks from here called Skipping Rock. They make a New England-style pale ale that I really like.”

  “Sounds great,” I said, as I saw the two men from the van enter the restaurant.

  “Bottle or draft?”

  “Draft,” I replied.

  Having written nothing down, Tammi left my table. It was still early, and the room was less than half-filled with diners. Most were at tables close to the entrance. I’d chosen one in a corner. The two men sat at a table two down from me and a moment later Tammi brought my beer, then went to get their orders.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Chyrel.

  “Find out anything?” I asked in a low voice to keep others from hearing.

  “Where are you?” Needlessly, she whispered back.

  “In a restaurant at the Stonewall Jackson Hotel.”

  “I wouldn’t order a fish sandwich there,” she cautioned. “How are you surviving so far from water?”

  “Steak,” I said. “What’d you find?”

  “I only have information on the older man. His name’s Walter Brown and he’s a botanist.”

  “A botanist?”

  “A PhD, no less. He’s done a lot of work in and around the Appalachians, even wrote a paper on the Okefenokee. I haven’t ID’d the other guy yet. Facial recognition only hit on Doctor Brown so fast because of the numerous papers he’s published.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Tony said you were asking what uses there could be for rye,” she said. “Aside from baked goods, some beers, and rye whiskey, not much. Why?”

  “The two guys in the video were at Pritchard’s old barn,” I replied. “Tom said they were talking about how they had enough rye to become rich.”

  “Uh-oh,” Chyrel said.

  “Uh-oh what?”

  “The sheriff called Pritchard a little while ago. Pritchard mentioned Doctor Brown and said he’d made something worth $120,000 dollars a gallon.”

  “So why the uh-oh?”

  “I thought they were just confused and I only now put the two together.” I heard her nails on a keyboard for a moment. “The most expensive liquid in the world. There’s a microscopic organism that grows on certain grains called an ergot fungus. Ergotamine can be extracted from the fungus. Lysergic acid is made through alkaline hydrolysis of ergotamine.”

  “Remember who you’re talking to Chyrel.”

  “Acid, Jesse.”

  “You mean like battery acid?”

  “No,” Chyrel replied. “I’m talking about Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Jesse. Cid, vitamin A, like Alice in Wonderland acid; LSD.”

  “From rye?”

  “From the fungus that sometimes grows on certain kinds of rye,” she corrected. “It’s rare and you’d need thousands of pounds of rye just to make a couple of pints of LSD. But it’s worth six figures a gallon.”

  “How much rye do you think Pritchard, Lane, and Long can grow?”
<
br />   “Definitely enough to make it worthwhile,” she replied. “That is, if the ergot fungi is growing on it.”

  “Put together anything you think Stretch can use as leverage against Brown and send it to me within ten minutes. He’s here in the restaurant.”

  I ended the call just as my steak arrived.

  “Thanks, Tammi,” I said, as she placed a perfectly grilled steak in front of me. “This looks almost too good to eat.”

  Tammi smiled, leaning a hip against the table. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  I smiled back at her. “Call me Stretch, Tammi. I’m not real big on formalities.”

  Her smile brightened. “How was the beer, Stretch?”

  Tammi was pretty; tall and willowy, with dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that hung to the middle of her back.

  “It was good, thanks.”

  “Can I bring you another one?”

  “No thanks,” I replied, setting my phone aside.

  It always paid to be nice to bartenders, waitresses, and cab drivers. They were the invisible segment of society that most people didn’t even notice, but they all often overheard conversations.

  Tammi left my table and I enjoyed my meal. Just as I finished, my phone chimed an incoming email. I spent the next few minutes taking a crash course on the production of what was a very popular hallucinogen in the 1960s. Brown and the man I assumed was his assistant ate their dinner while I read.

  When Tammi brought my check, I gave her my card and asked her to deliver two double-shots of their best rye whiskey to Brown’s table and to include their meals on my check.

  She came back a moment later, placing the two highball glasses in front of Brown and the other man. Then pointing, to me, she told them what was in the glasses. Or she might have said, “Oohrah.”

  When she brought the check, she said, “I might as well have pointed a gun at them, Stretch. The drink seemed to scare them. What’s that about?”

  “Just a joke,” I said. “Thanks, Tammi.”