Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series)

by Mark de Castrique

  “Come over here, Mr. Clayton, and back into the tree slowly. Reach your arms behind you till you touch the trunk.”

  I kept my wrists angled so the cord stayed taut and burrowed with my fingers until I felt the trunk. “Okay. Now what?”

  “Pull it to you.”

  Although the branches were baled upwards, smaller limbs dug into my back. The orange cord arced over my head like a jump rope. Paulo yanked it across my chest. He must have put his foot in the other side of the tree because the cord tightened at the same time the branches crushed into me. He was lashing the tree to my back. My immediate fear was the gun he had in his hand. An accidental discharge would kill me as dead as an intended shot.

  The pressure stopped. My arms were pinned to my side, and needles scratched my neck.

  Another cord sailed over, but this time Paulo let it fall below my knees. Then he bound it just as tight as the one across my chest. I was strapped to the tree like it was a stake, as immobile as a scarecrow.

  “Merry Christmas.” Paulo shoved the tree behind my head and I toppled. I twisted as I fell and landed on my side. The tree absorbed some of the impact of the cement.

  “Don’t move,” he warned. “I will, how do you say it, trim the trees with your friends, and then we will wait. When we have cleared the warehouse, we will leave you in peace. You were kind to my family. Maybe tomorrow I will call a tip to the sheriff when we are safely away.”

  He moved to Rachel. I heard the thud of a trunk hitting the floor. Then Rachel groaned as the branches jammed against her back.

  I stared at the stack of trees six inches in front of my face. Sap beaded on the ends of the trunks. One had several teardrops of dried sap along the side. They came from distinct cut marks that were not from severed branches but slashes in the bark. Crude carvings of two letters. A neater T and a lopsided O. The initials of Travis Oakley.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Misdirection. I thought Ron Simmons seemed too anxious to air his belief that Carl Atkinson was in debt to loan sharks. I should have thought more about the new safe in his office, his willingness to give Carl three hundred dollars in small bills, his personal farming operation, and his desire to keep the Atkinson property from becoming a real estate venture. Even Lucille’s hand-entering and crosschecking the dealership accounts bore potential significance. And then there was the Saturday morning shooting, a wild shot near Archie Donovan while Pete Crowder chopped wood ten miles away.

  Misdirection. I saw the irony that I’d need misdirection with Ron Simmons and Paulo Oliveira if we were all going to leave the warehouse alive. I had to create a mixture of fiction and fact that might make Paulo’s happy ending possible. That was unlikely, and my best hope was to give Paulo doubts. Most clearly I saw the irony that nearly thirty years ago, my book of magic lay under the Christmas tree, and now I lay there, my hands tangled in branches and Brock’s knife as impossible to reach as if Paulo had found it and thrown it over the fence.

  Brock groaned as Paulo knocked him to the floor. The three of us must have looked like green hedgehogs, except hedgehogs can run away.

  “Paulo! Please come here. I’ve something urgent to tell you.” I tried to roll over where I could face him, but my legs were bound too tightly.

  “Be still. I’m going to bring your vehicles inside.”

  “If he asks for my gun, he’s going to kill you.”

  Paulo’s footsteps changed direction and came closer. His shadow fell over my face. “Who?”

  “You know who. This operation wasn’t your idea, and I don’t believe Carl Atkinson set it up by himself. I also don’t believe you shot Travis Oakley. You’re a migrant worker and wouldn’t have brought a deer rifle across the border.”

  Paulo said nothing.

  “You’re watching this warehouse for someone. You saw me drive up, and while you telephoned for instructions, the reporter and cameraman arrived.” I paused to get my breath. Lying on the floor with my chest constricted made talking difficult. “My guess is you were told to talk tough and to keep us here till dark. The Atkinsons will be gone and your boss can leave work without drawing suspicion. Then he’s got a much higher chance that the shots won’t be heard.”

  “Man, you’ve been smoking some bad weed.”

  “You’re a loose end, Paulo. He’s invested in this community. He’s not going to run away. He’s got the perfect fall guy. You.”

  Paulo stayed silent. I hoped he was thinking.

  “What’s this fall guy?” he asked.

  “Someone to take the blame. Then the case is closed and no one looks any further. Trust me. You’ll be the first one he shoots because you’re the only one of us with a gun.” I had another thought. “He gave you that revolver recently, didn’t he? A .38. The same gun he fired at a guy last Saturday morning to make us think Carl was a mistaken victim.”

  Paulo said nothing.

  “So watch yourself, amigo. He’ll want my gun because it needs to look like I shot you. Is it getting chillier outside?”

  “A little.” His high voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Lucky for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he won’t look odd when he shows up wearing gloves.”

  “You never answered my question, Mr. Clayton. Who is he?”

  “Didn’t I?” I paused a beat. “Isn’t it obvious? The guy who went to all the trouble to look like he was on the outs with Carl Atkinson. The guy who used Ralph Atkinson’s dealership funds to pay you and your Mexican buddies to do his dirty work. Ron Simmons. Now he’ll cut his losses, leave you as the dead mastermind, and continue as a model citizen of the community.”

  Paulo stood for a few seconds. I heard him breathing slowly. Then he walked away. Metal vibrated as he slid the door shut behind him.

  A shudder ran down my spine, powerful enough to shake the tree branches. I’d done what I could. I didn’t care if Paulo’s brain was part Brazilian or part Mexican as long as it was all working.

  “Was that true?” Rachel sounded frightened, and her tree sounded like a broom making a short sweep on the cement.

  “Can you move?” I asked.

  “A little. I bend my feet at the ankles and push off on my toes.”

  I tried twisting my legs but my feet were too big to tuck under. “See if you can scoot over here.”

  “I’m only moving an inch or two at a time. What am I supposed to do when I get there? My hands are buried in the branches.”

  “The only thing you can do. Gnaw through the cords tying me to the tree.”

  She sobbed. “He’ll be back before then. I’m not a damn rat.”

  I heard Brock squirming beyond Rachel.

  “Dave, what about you? Can you move?”

  “No, man. I fell into the pile. I’m half on the floor and half in the air.” He struggled to talk. “Is it true about that guy being a loose end?”

  “I hope not. I hope everything’s going down just like he said. They’ll get these trees out of here and leave us alive.”

  “You know otherwise,” Rachel said. “You weren’t lying to him. I could tell it in your voice.”

  “Then you’d better get over here and start on these cords.”

  She grunted. I pictured her like a green inchworm, lunging forward in tiny increments. After a few minutes, she stopped. Her voice didn’t sound that much closer.

  “Sorry. Gotta rest a second.” She took quick, shallow breaths. “And I’m sorry I took this assignment. If I’d left it to the real reporters, that Oakley boy might still be alive and you wouldn’t have been out here looking for his killer.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “I’m the one who screwed things up. I’m the one who believed statements I should have confirmed. I’m the one who undertook this investigation without doing my due diligence.”

  Brock laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “You. Of course, you undertook the investigation. You’re a damn undertaker. I’ve see
n you crawl out of one grave. What are you undertaking for an encore?” He laughed again with a high giggle that edged the border of crying.

  He was wrong. Now the case was an undertaking for all of us. I hoped it wasn’t a fatal one.

  Vibrating metal echoed through the warehouse. Paulo slid back the doors at the far end. Rachel continued her frantic effort to reach me. We heard a car engine start and headlights bounced off the back wall. Paulo drove my patrol car into the warehouse and killed the engine.

  “There’s no way I can make it, Barry.” Rachel’s voice sounded closer.

  “Yes, you can. He’s got to get the other car.”

  In less than twenty seconds, Brock’s SUV started. Paulo had driven both vehicles up to the door before opening it.

  “Maybe he’ll wait outside,” I said.

  The engine died, the doors closed, and I heard footsteps coming the length of the warehouse.

  “Scoot away if you’re too close,” I told Rachel.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Don’t ask him any questions,” I said. “The hook’s been set.”

  Paulo’s footsteps stopped behind me. “So, everybody comfortable around their Christmas tree.” He laughed. “Lady, it looks like you’ve been doing some exploring.”

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  “Not very nice talk for a lady,” he said. “I’m trying to be your friend, your amigo, or as they say in Brazil, your amigo.” He laughed again. “It’s the same word in Portuguese.”

  “Friends don’t tie their friends to trees and then leave them on a cement floor,” Rachel said.

  “They do when they are trying to save their lives.” Paulo walked over to Rachel. “I think you will be better off facing into the trees like Mr. Clayton and Mr. Cameraman.”

  I heard needles brushing against the floor as Paulo spun Rachel around.

  “Now stay still if you know what’s good for you.”

  We said nothing further. Paulo paced for a while. The scent of the Frasers gave way to cigarette smoke as he lit one after another. Unable to see my watch, I used the interval of Paulo striking a match as a measurement of time. Figuring five to six minutes per cigarette, I estimated roughly an hour went by before I heard a car park behind the building.

  Paulo came closer. “Everyone stay quiet. I’m going outside.” He flipped off the lights, and I heard him open one of the doors just enough to slip through.

  “What’s happening?” Rachel whispered.

  “Everything,” I said. “And we want to stay in the dark.”

  “Barry, I have to tell you something.” Her voice quivered.

  “Okay.”

  She sniffled softly for a few seconds. “I still love you.”

  “I love you, too. But you made the right call. What was best for you and for me.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “No. I’m not. We’re getting out of this, Rachel. And as soon as you’re free, get up and run like that tuition check is due all over again.”

  “An order from my favorite policeman?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  Then I heard Paulo’s voice vibrating through the metal walls. Most of his words were too low to make out. Three times he spoke loudly enough to be understood. “Where are the others?” “He doesn’t know!” “He didn’t have it!” I thought I knew the context of the first two sentences but not the third.

  A door slid open and the lights came on. Two sets of footsteps approached. I tensed, realizing my gambit had failed. Someone grabbed my feet, pulled me away from the pile, and swung me around.

  I saw the man I expected.

  Bruce Hampton.

  His lips were tight and his eyes flashed with anger. He wore a brown, sleeveless hunting vest over a green flannel shirt. His pants were woodland camo and he held the .38 in a gloved hand. Paulo stood beside him, his empty hands by his side. The only expression I saw in his eyes was fear.

  Hampton bent over me. “Well, Barry. You couldn’t hold off till Carl was in the ground before sticking your nose in. One more day and this unpleasantness would have been avoided.”

  “Why’d you wait?”

  “I couldn’t have Ralph cut his trees while in mourning. That would be unseemly.”

  “And you needed his trees to hide the ones you and Carl stole.”

  Hampton shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “How did Travis Oakley find out?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he came snooping around one night. I told Carl to leave his trees alone. I didn’t want to put the kid out of business. But Carl wanted his land. Something he had to prove to his old man.”

  “Yeah, Bruce. You’re a regular Robin Hood. Except Robin Hood didn’t shoot the poor.”

  “I prefer to think of it as justice. He killed Carl.”

  “Justice? You stole fourteen or fifteen years of these growers’ hard work. Why?”

  Hampton sneered at me. “What a stupid question. Money. A lot more than I make hauling spics back and forth across the border.”

  I glanced at Paulo. He flinched at the insult.

  “Really? What have you got here? Two hundred trees?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s less than $10,000. Hardly worth multiple murders.”

  “These are only from two farms. We’ve got all of western North Carolina to choose from.”

  I thought how stealing from twenty farms would jump the number to $100,000. Forty took the gross to $200,000. The market was just ramping up for the season. From now through the first week of December would give him time to rustle a lot of trees. People had died for far less.

  “Where’s your gun?” Hampton waved the revolver in my face.

  “Isn’t one enough for you?”

  He kicked my legs. Then he pointed the barrel at Rachel. “Tell me or I shoot the woman.”

  I looked at Paulo. “That would be hard to explain.”

  Hampton cocked the hammer and the cylinder spun.

  “Paulo didn’t find it in the car?” I asked.

  Hampton glared at him. “You moron. You told me you searched it.”

  “I tucked it under the seat,” I said. “Right next to the two-way radio.”

  “I’ll get it,” Paulo said.

  Maybe he volunteered too quickly. Maybe I overemphasized two-way radio. Whatever. Bruce Hampton balked.

  “Stay here. I’ll get it.” He looked at his three prisoners. “Can’t you figure some other way to keep them tied? That’s a hundred and fifty dollars worth of trees.” He circled around the pile and headed for the patrol car.

  “Paulo, you know what’s he’s doing,” I whispered.

  He nodded. “I told him you suspected someone else and if he wasn’t seen, you’d never know. He wouldn’t listen. And he didn’t bring any men to load.”

  “That’s because he isn’t going to load. He lied to you. His operation is just cranking up and he’s not going to walk away.”

  “He won’t find your gun. I threw your belt over the fence.”

  “He’ll shoot you with the thirty-eight and make it look like a multiple murder and suicide. You’ll be blamed for the thefts and not alive to defend yourself. Maybe the sheriff will figure you worked with Carl, but Ralph will deny his son was involved and there’s no direct proof to say otherwise. Hampton will lose these trees but he’ll find another way to keep his operation going. Understand? Comprende?”

  He nodded more vigorously.

  “Then hurry. You don’t want to be hunted as a murderer, do you? Cut me loose.”

  Paulo pulled a knife from his pocket and severed the cords around my legs and chest. I rolled clear of the Christmas tree, rotated my wrists, and worked my hands free. Paulo blinked in amazement.

  “The lady and Mr. Cameraman,” I ordered.

  He ran to Rachel. I got Brock’s knife from my pocket. It was a Buck with a four-inch blade like the one that killed Carl. I opened it.

&nb
sp; “It’s not in here,” Hampton yelled across the warehouse from the patrol car. “He’s jerking us around.”

  I crouched behind the wall of trees. Paulo bent over Rachel. He made two quick slashes with his knife.

  “What are you doing?” Hampton was running back.

  I moved to the edge of the pile where I expected him to come.

  “You told me not to tie them to the trees,” Paulo yelled back.

  “I said think of something else, not cut them loose.”

  In his anger, Hampton went straight for Paulo. He leaned over the pile, the revolver straight out as far as his arm would reach.

  Rachel pulled free and did what I’d told her. She jumped up to run just as Hampton fired.

  The shot sounded like a cannon blast in the enclosed metal building. Rachel flew backwards into Paulo and they both tumbled to the floor. Hampton froze, unsure what to do. Then he saw me.

  I sprang to my feet as he fired again. The shot went wild. I made it to the bank of switches by the door. A bullet smacked into the metal wall a foot from my head. I flipped five switches down with one hand and the warehouse went pitch black.

  I heard Hampton curse as he stumbled around the trees. I crawled to the middle of the double doors, pushed the right one open a few feet, and rolled out into the night. A fourth bullet whizzed through the air above me.

  I got to my feet and ran ten yards, stomping the ground as hard as I could so Hampton would hear me running away. Pain shot through my left knee as I re-injured the damage done by my fall into Blake Junior’s grave. I didn’t slow down. I was trying to stay out of my own grave this time.

  I moved quickly to the cement slab extending from underneath the wall. Rachel was in there, maybe dead, maybe dying. Brock and Paulo too.

  I ran quietly along the slab to the gap between the doors, hoping to beat Hampton to the opening. I heard him coming, anxious to catch me. I crouched down, holding the knife in both hands. When I saw the blur of Hampton’s body, I leapt up and drove the blade into his stomach with all the power my legs and arms could muster. The blow lifted Hampton off his feet and his forward momentum kept him suspended in the air on the knife like a kite in the wind.