Champagne for Buzzards

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Champagne for Buzzards Page 23

by Phyllis Smallman


  “I will,” Marley said and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. She led me to the front hall, away from Boomer, and out onto the veranda. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I barely took in what happened after that. It was just noise and confusion. My body and my mind were frozen, unable to process what I was hearing and seeing. Time stopped.

  Clay came from the barn. I recognized the men he pushed along in front of him. I’d seen them in the woods with Boomer. Behind them came Brian.

  “Ambulances are coming,” Brian said. “How many people are hurt?”

  “Just the cop,” Tully told him. “Boomer is dead and Dog is shot.”

  Marley was kneeling in the dirt beside Quinn, pressing towels over his wounds to stop the flow of blood while Tully tended to Dog.

  “Why?” Brian was asking, the question we all wanted an answer to.

  “He was going to kill me.” They were my first words. “He said he was going to kill every living thing on this ranch.” Their eyes, incredulous in pale faces, turned to me. “He was going to kill us all,” I added, wanting them to understand. Clay wrapped me in his arms.

  Uncle Ziggy came out of the barn and said, “We have to move the horses.” He held up a small plastic pail.

  “What is it?” Clay asked.

  “Rat poison, I think. Maybe they were trying to kill the horses, poisoning the water bowls, or maybe they were putting these pellets in their hay bags; either way we have to get those horses out of the stalls before they drink any water or eat any hay.” Uncle Ziggy set down the pail and headed back into the barn at a trot.

  “Will you be okay?” Clay asked. I pushed him away from me. “Go.”

  “Tully, keep these guys covered,” Clay said and held out his gun.

  Tully rose from beside Dog. “Sherri, come look after Dog.” Dog raised his head and made an attempt to stand up. His hindquarters wouldn’t cooperate.

  My own legs barely obeyed. I stumbled to Dog’s side, fell to my knees, and pushed gently at his shoulder, “Stay down.”

  A long smear of blood oozed along his hip where the bullet had torn the length of his flank before taking off most of his tail. His tail slapped the ground and blood sprayed from the nub that remained. The warmth of his blood splattered across my face and left a dotted line of red across the front of Clay’s white shirt.

  “No, no.” I said, holding down both his neck and his hindquarters.

  A long keening noise came from him. “Shush, you crazy animal.” I leaned over and kissed him. “You didn’t need that long tail anyway.”

  But he kept trying to wag his tail, only to send more blood pumping out in an arc. I felt clots of blood hitting my hair. “I need a towel to wrap around the stump.” I started to get up. Dog tried getting up as well. “Stay still,” I told him.

  Tully offered me his shirt. I wrapped it gently around Dog’s tail, squeezing tightly. Blood seeped out under my fingers.

  “It’s okay, Champ,” I crooned. “You’re gonna be fine.” Those same words, the same promises, yet again. What else do we have?

  Tully asked, “Champ?”

  “We’re going to call him Champ because he’s a champion, aren’t you?” I leaned forward and stroked along the dog’s face with my left hand. Champ lifted his head and tried to lick my hand.

  “Champ it is,” Tully said.

  My mind was starting to work again. I asked, “What in hell happened?”

  “I’ve got an old man’s prostate, had to get up to take a leak and couldn’t go back to sleep. I was going out on the back porch to have a smoke, left the rifle on the kitchen table. Champ was with me. He started to growl, started to go crazy. He went for the barn and I went for my gun. I heard the first shot before I got to the barn. I went for the back of the barn, because the motion light had come on out front when Champ went in those front doors, figured whoever Champ was after would want to avoid the light. There was no car so I figured the guy in the barn had gone in from the back of the barn, come from the woods.”

  I stroked Champ’s leg as I listened to Tully.

  “I met this guy coming out back.” He waved the gun at the guy on his right. “Bastard tried to kill me. He was quick but I grazed him, drove him back in. Then Zig and Clay came and had the front covered. We had them cornered. That’s when the cop showed up. We didn’t know Boomer was in the house.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” I said. “We never would have had a safe night again with him alive. He would have come after us until someone died.”

  “Yup,” Tully said. “And we’re lucky that young deputy was sitting in a car at the end of the lane. Keep that tight around Champ’s tail until it clots. And try and keep the silly fool from wagging it.” He patted me on the head. “Soon as Clay gets back to watch these guys I’ll go in the house and get something to bandage it with.”

  I sat there with Champ, thinking that it was over. But the evil hadn’t died with Boomer.

  CHAPTER 54

  Cars from the sheriff’s department filled the yard before the last of the horses had been moved to new stalls. Red Hozen wasn’t with them.

  Two ambulances came. They loaded up the guy Tully had wounded.

  Marley held Mike Quinn’s hand as they wheeled him to the ambulance. “Please,” he said softly to Marley as they started to put him inside.

  “May I go with him?” Marley asked and climbed up inside the ambulance without waiting for them to agree.

  Champ wasn’t trying to stand anymore. He seemed sleepy and lethargic, perhaps from shock or perhaps from blood loss. Tully and Ziggy wanted to take him to a vet. A bit of a noisy argument broke out when the deputies wouldn’t allow Tully and Ziggy to leave the property. Tully and Ziggy put Champ on a blanket and carried him into the bunkhouse between them, away from the noise and confusion to keep him warm and quiet until they could get him help.

  We weren’t allowed back into the house because it was a crime scene so I sat on the front step with Clay, who rocked me in his arms until I stopped shivering.

  As the night slipped away, each one of us gave a statement. The body of Boomer Breslau was photographed and moved to a stretcher from a mortuary van. The body was being wheeled to the van when a gray sedan pulled up beside it. Agent Welbee got out of the back seat. He was wearing an armored vest.

  We rose and went to meet him.

  “Hold up a minute,” Agent Welbee called to the mortuary guys. He went to the trunk and took out a wheelchair.

  The driver of the sedan opened the back door for Harland Breslau. He held Harland’s arm as they came around to the front of the car. Harland’s hands were locked and folded in front of him, and he looked around in confusion while the agent opened the passenger door, reaching in to help Amanda to her feet. When she was on her feet, Amanda held onto the top of the door and looked to Clay and me, never looking at the stretcher draped in white. Agent Welbee rolled her chair into place. She positioned herself over the chair. With Agent Welbee and the driver supporting Amanda, together they lowered her onto the seat.

  Harland shuffled closer to the wheelchair. His eyes were downcast, fixed on the top of Amanda’s head, and his fingers picked at the rubber handle of the wheelchair. Amanda sat there regally, composed and elegant. Clay whispered. “Who are they?”

  “Harland and Amanda Breslau.”

  “No shit?”

  Agent Welbee moved Harland aside and pushed Amanda’s chair to the stretcher. We followed.

  The agent lifted the sheet. A moan of shock escaped Harland. Amanda reached out for the stretcher, clasped the edge of it and pulled to lift herself. Agent Welbee helped her rise. “Is this your son, Justin Breslau?”

  Amanda stared down in silence for some time before she nodded. “Yes, that’s Justin.” She twisted her body and looked over her shoulder towards Clay and me. Her face twisted and for a
moment I saw Boomer again.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Breslau,” Agent Welbee said, clasping her arm and easing her down. He turned her chair to face us.

  “He was shot by a deputy,” I told her. It was like I was trying to remove myself from any responsibility.

  “Why?” Harland wailed. “I don’t understand — why was he here?”

  “Boomer came here to kill me.” I pushed hair back from my face. “He was going to kill us all.”

  “We knew nothing of this,” Amanda put in. “It has nothing to do with us.” Her voice was harsh and angry. “Are they under arrest?” I asked Agent Welbee.

  “Yes.”

  “What for?” Clay asked.

  “For illegal confinement.”

  “What?” Harland wailed. It was as if he was unaware of the handcuffs, had been in a coma when they were put on and suddenly came alive outside our barn. “What are you talking about?”

  Agent Welbee replied, “I already told you the charge when I Mirandized you.” He started to explain again but Harland cut him off. “Both of us? But you can’t arrest Amanda. Why would you arrest Amanda?

  “Harland, it’s okay.” Amanda raised a hand to comfort him. “It’s a mistake; it will be cleared up.”

  But Harland wasn’t having it. “You can’t take my wife into custody.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “Can’t you see she’s not well?”

  “Harland, shush,” Amanda said. “They might as well take me if they’re taking you. I can’t go home without you.”

  The truth and the tragedy of this statement were only too evident.

  Behind me Clay wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me to him. I leaned back into the warmth of his body.

  Harland was begging now, “Please, let me take my wife home.”

  “I’m afraid not,” agent Welbee responded. “I already told you, you both have to answer questions involving trafficking in humans.”

  “What do you mean trafficking in humans?” Harland protested, outraged at the thought. For a moment I almost believed he’d had no part in it, he was so totally amazed.

  Welbee began to explain with a voice that might just as well have been telling Harland how to plant potatoes. “Human trafficking is defined as forced labor obtained not only through the use of force but also the threat of physical force, and restraining or confining another human being unlawfully. Transportation, soliciting, harboring or obtaining another human for transport is defined as human trafficking. We have a witness who says you were involved in these activities and we have agents at twentynine River Road, searching your property for evidence as we speak. If they find any evidence that you, or the rest of your family, were in any way involved in this activity, that you were holding aliens unlawfully, it will go very hard on you. We are taking you to our office so you can tell your side of the story now. Mr. Breslau senior and Sheriff Hozen are already under arrest.” Agent Welbee turned to look at me, “When your 911 call came in, we already had Sheriff Hozen in custody. The sheriff’s office called Sheriff Hozen and we intercepted the call. We brought Mr. and Mrs. Breslau here to identify their son.”

  “But,” Harland said, shaking his head in denial. “None of this is our fault.” Tears ran down his face. “We didn’t do it.”

  “Hush now, my darling. Don’t say anything.” Amanda put his hand to her lips. Tears slid over her cheeks.

  Harland wasn’t listening. He croaked out, “Can I take my wife home now?” He didn’t seem to be able to grasp the concept that he wouldn’t be able to walk away as if nothing had happened. He just didn’t understand anything beyond Amanda.

  “No sir,” Agent Welbee’s voice was flat and patient. “I have a warrant for your arrest. I’ve explained that.”

  “But what will happen to my wife?” Harland wailed. “You can see she couldn’t ever hurt anyone. She wasn’t part of this. And she needs me.” Not even what happened to Boomer and his father penetrated Harland’s concern for his wife.

  “Harland won’t harm anyone ever again if you just let him go,” Amanda promised.

  “What about Lucan Percell, doesn’t his life mean anything?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Amanda leaned on her forearms, raising herself in her outrage. “Harland didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Didn’t he?” I jerked away from Clay, every bit as angry as Amanda. “It was the night Ramiro went missing, the night they were moving workers and Ramiro escaped. Harland never went to the Gator Hole but he did that night, the night Lucan died.”

  “That isn’t a crime,” Amanda said, “Going into a bar.”

  “No, but murder is. If Boomer had killed Lucan, well, he would have just killed Lucan and left him lying there, and Orlin’s arthritis would never have let him lift Lucan into the truck.” I looked from Amanda up to Harland. “But you’re strong, Harland. You lift Amanda all the time. She told me last Saturday how strong and fit you are. And you promised me the murderer hadn’t damaged my truck. Such a careful man.” Amanda looked up at him, uncertain. “Harland?” His wail of distress was full of self-pity. “I had to,” he assured her. “Lucan was going to tell. He wanted to put Justin in jail so he would stay away from Lucan’s daughter. Lucan didn’t even care if it meant he was going to jail too, didn’t care if I went to jail.”

  “Why didn’t you just make Boomer stay away from Kelly Sweet?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Couldn’t, never could control him. His grandpa raised Justin. We had no say.” Tears washed Harland’s face. “Neither my son nor my father cared about us. I asked my father to sell enough land so that Amanda and I could have a little place on our own, away from them and start a new life. He wouldn’t do it. Said we weren’t in the business of selling land. Said we were going to keep the land together, going to keep all of us together. He wouldn’t let us go.”

  “Can’t you see?” Amanda said, “We were trapped there just as much as any of those men. We couldn’t leave, had nowhere to go, no money of our own and no health care for me. My father-in-law controlled it all.”

  It seemed the damage they’d done to other people’s lives had never entered her head. Agent Welbee’s phone rang.

  CHAPTER 55

  Everyone froze while Welbee listened silently. As he hit End and slapped closed his phone he said, “A body was found buried behind the house. The dogs had dug it up. The driver’s license in the wallet they found says the body was that of a Howard Sweet.”

  Harland gave a whimper of distress and slumped forward. Welbee quickly moved to support him but Harland rallied and pushed the agent away. “I didn’t know,” he said. And then he added, “Why? Why would they kill Howie?”

  “We don’t know, sir,” Welbee replied. “Those are questions yet to be answered.”

  Zig and Tully took Champ to town to find a vet while Clay and I sat in the sun on the porch steps long after Agent Welbee and the other men had left. I didn’t think I’d ever be truly warm again and neither of us seemed inclined to move.

  Elbows on his knees enclosing me, I leaned back and looked up at Clay, saying, “Grandma Jenkins used to say, ‘Greed is the root of all evil.’ The Breslaus sure proved that, didn’t they? Anything was better than losing what they had. Didn’t matter who else had to suffer. Other than that, it’s real quiet here in the country.”

  “Yeah, no wonder you prefer the beach.” His hands rubbed my shoulders.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting back to saving your empire?” I asked.

  His hands stopped. “Things will change big time for us.”

  “I’m real good at being poor.”

  His hands went back to massaging my shoulders. “I’m not sure I am.”

  I laughed. “It’s one of the few things you don’t need to practice.”

  He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”

&n
bsp; “It will hurt if we lose the Sunset, no denying, but it’s better to lose possessions than your humanity.”

  “There’s a lot more than the Sunset at stake,” Clay said. “We may lose everything.”

  “Well, if that’s the worst thing that happens to us, we’re golden. Boomer just showed me something a whole lot worse. But I sure as hell will miss my bar.”

  “I suspect you’ll always find another one, and we haven’t lost it yet.”

  I leaned back and looked up at him. “Why don’t you get out of here and do your damnedest to hold on to it.”

  “I will,” Clay said, getting to his feet and pulling me up, “But first I have something else to do, something for your daddy.”

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  On Monday, March 27, 2006, an article appeared in the Englewood Herald Tribune on human trafficking. It told the story of migrants coming to Florida from Mexico and Guatemala to find a better life, only to be sold into slavery. The article stated that Florida was the third state behind California and New York for human trafficking and that it was currently proposing a new anti-trafficking bill that would affect tens of thousands of people a year. The true extent of the problem is unknown because victims seldom go to the police for fear of being deported.

  I had earlier read about migrants being held in container trucks, beaten and forced to work in Florida fields. The scheme was revealed when one of the workers was able to get away. I haven’t looked at produce in a major supermarket the same since reading this article, wondering who picked that tomato or bagged the head of lettuce I’m holding. From this grew Champagne for Buzzards.

  Phyllis Smallman Englewood, Florida

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the Pereira family, Anil, Sheryl, Lucie, Bennett, Henry, Jaipur and Elysse for their generous support of Artsping on Salt Spring Island.

  And thank you to Betti and Carl for the loan of the Pink Palace so I could finish this.

 

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