Eye for an Eye

by Allen Kent

  “She’s been there three or four times.”

  “The reading she mentioned when we visited the house.”

  “No more than Raca told us. They said they both saw death in the leaves. That it was someone Lilia knew, and it was nearby.”

  Rosario cocked his head to the side. “They saw this in tea leaves?”

  Grace shrugged. “That’s what the Haddad women told us. Before this all happened, she’d been up to see the Webbers about how her family in Syria was doing. They told her they saw death. Someone she knew and that it was close. The sisters confirmed it. I don’t pretend to understand it, but that’s what both said.”

  I grinned over at Grace. “Did you have them do a reading for you?”

  Her face reddened and she looked past me at nothing in particular. “I didn’t have to ask. They insisted. I don’t think they get a lot of company.”

  “And . . . ?”

  The flush deepened. “Nothing we need to talk about here.”

  Rosario relaxed back into his chair. “So these two old ladies said they saw death coming. They obviously didn’t have anything to do with it and didn’t help prevent it in any way. If they can’t tell you who did it, I’m not sure what that does for us.”

  Grace looked around hesitantly. “That wasn’t all I learned. And maybe this can help in some way.”

  We all turned to her, waiting.

  “Mrs. Haddad had been back. She went again the day after we left their house. The twins said she asked if they could tell her if others would come.”

  “And what did they have to say this time?” Rosario smiled skeptically.

  Grace furrowed her brow and glanced at me sideways, as if this was something she would just as soon not have to say. “They told her they saw more death. And this time, they said her husband would be involved. And that great sadness would come to her from someone in her family.”

  Since neither Joseph nor our new agent had spoken to the Syrians, they decided to spend the afternoon questioning the Haddads. Marti called out to Kilgore Homes to talk to the plant manager, Roy Moser, about letting the Haddad men off for a few hours to meet with the investigators. She’d known Roy since they were kids, and Marti has a way of making even the most burdensome request seem like she’s doing you a favor. She got Roy to send the brothers home by telling him someone had come all the way from Washington to talk to them, and the plant might get some positive national TV coverage if “this immigrant relocation story pans out.” I got ahold of Yusef on his cell, told him to expect an FBI agent at his apartment, and to keep his brothers and their families nearby. Grace reluctantly agreed to go with me to talk to Verl and LJ Greaves. We headed out to Blackjack Holler.

  “Blackjack” makes it sound like the holler ought to be some gamblers’ hangout. But it’s named after a tough, gnarly variety of oak that grows along the creekbanks with bark that looks like an armor of small, black, rectangular plates. Most folk think the wood isn’t much good for anything but fence posts and fuel for the barbecue grill. The holler is a fitting location for the sovereign nation of two tough, gnarly old geezers who people around the county view as about as useful.

  I mentioned before that Mara Joseph had once shot LJ Greaves. He and his son Verl are survivalist types who call eighty acres and a corrugated metal building in the bottomland along Mill Creek their sovereign homeland. When Joseph and I had gone down there nearly a year ago to talk to them about the death of their neighbor, Verl greeted us by shattering a persimmon tree beside the patrol car with a rifle shot as we crawled down their rutted excuse for a drive. Joseph had bailed from the cruiser and disappeared, showing up ten minutes later behind the two men while they were threatening to remove my manhood with one of their firearms if I didn’t get off their property.

  LJ’s been known to let his meanness get the better of his judgment, and he made the mistake of swinging his 12-gauge around in Joseph’s direction. Before he could level the thing, she dropped him with a shot to the right side. As it turned out, the men had nothing to do with the neighbor’s death but had been poaching her timber and saw that as just as much reason to keep people away from their place. The encounter convinced me it was best to take Grace along on this visit.

  A small box with a hooded lens hung from a post at the top of the quarter-mile drive that descended into the holler. Below it, a sign declared “No Trespassing – and that means YOU!” The Greaves would know we were coming. I stopped the Explorer halfway down the hill where a line of cedars still screened us from the house and climbed out.

  “Verl, it’s Sheriff Tate,” I shouted through the trees. “I need to talk to you and LJ.”

  The snarl of the Greaves’ pit bulls answered me, followed by a “Shut the hell up!” that immediately silenced the dogs. They’d been victims of the Greaves’ wrath often enough to know when to obey.

  “You know you ain’t welcome down here, Tate,” Verl called back.

  “I just need to talk to you and LJ. I’m not here to cause you any trouble.”

  “You don’t come out here lest there’s trouble. And we got nothing to talk to you about. This is sovereign land, and you’re trespassing.”

  “Like I told you last time I came, Verl, I can come back with a small army of state police or come down and talk to you peaceably. I have Officer Torres with me.”

  He was silent for a moment, then yelled, “You mean the looker? Not that little bitch what shot LJ?”

  I looked over at Grace who still sat in the passenger seat, rolling her eyes.

  “Yeah. Just the two of us. We’ll leave our weapons in the car and walk down if that will make you feel better.” Grace turned toward me with a start, silently mouthing “No way!”

  “Or maybe it will just be me,” I called. “Do you want me to come down now, or return with a lot of backup?”

  Another moment of silence. Not even the dogs whimpered.

  “Okay. You come on down,” Verl hollered up at us. “And you can bring that Mexican woman. But leave your guns in the car.”

  I unbuckled my weapon and tossed it onto the seat, signaling for Grace to stay put. She cast me a disgusted glare and climbed from the far side of the Explorer, tucking her own weapon beneath the seat. We walked together around the cedars and into view of the metal building. Verl stood beside a rusting engine hoist that served as a yard ornament for the front of the Greaves’ homestead.

  What the pair called home was a 30’ by 70’ metal box with a wide pull-down garage door in the front beside a smaller walk-in entrance. A grimy window in the side door was covered on the inside by a faded yellow curtain. Aside from an open patch in front that held the engine hoist, a half-dozen fifty-gallon drums, and the dog pen, the ground around the building was a salvage yard of broken-down pickups, rusted riding mowers, and assorted axles, drivetrains, and rimless tires. In a cleared area in the rear, an aging GMC pickup with a heavy welded grate and front-mounted winch sat beside a small dozer and a stack of oak and walnut logs.

  Verl leaned against the hoist with the same Marlin 336 that had threatened me last time in his right hand, resting it across the crook in his left elbow. He’s a bull of a man, head shaved smooth as a cue ball and lower face covered by a thick tangle of rusty beard. A roll of belly fat hung over the waist of his stained jeans, spreading the buttons of a plaid, long-sleeved shirt.

  “I see you been getting your trees cut,” I called down to him as we approached.

  He glanced back at the stack of logs. “Most of ours is down. That lady who took over Nettie’s place after she died has been letting us cut hers for shares. I hope you ain’t here about that.”

  “Got nothing to do with that, Verl. But I’m glad to see you’re getting what you can cut before you have to move out.”

  “We ain’t movin’,” he growled. “Suing the bastards for invading our territory.”

  We stopped thirty feet from the man. He gave Grace an appreciative stare. She returned the look with an unwavering glare.

 
; “How’s that going?” I asked about the suit.

  “Ain’t heard nothin’ back. But we ain’t movin’. Pa’s too sick to even be getting out of his chair. He ain’t ever recovered from bein’ shot by that other woman you brought down here.”

  I lifted my arms away from my hips. “No guns this time, Verl. Are you getting some medical held for LJ? Doc Waterman would come out and have a look at him.”

  “I’m gettin’ him what he needs. What do you want?”

  Grace decided she wanted to be more than just window dressing. “You must have heard the explosion a few days ago from here. What do you know about it?”

  Verl sneered. “I know what it was. Someone must have wanted the dam gone as bad as we do.”

  “Did you hear what caused the explosion?” Grace asked.

  “Just that it wasn’t no accident. Someone did it.”

  “How did they do it?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. It sounded pretty damn big. Dynamite, I’d guess.”

  “Do you have any dynamite in the house, Verl?”

  The sneer returned to what we could see of his face behind the ragged beard. “So—we finally get to what you’re here for. You’re comin’ after us again, are you, Tate? Time for you to be headin’ on back up the hill.”

  I rescued the conversation from Grace. “It’s just like with Nettie’s death, Verl. We’re checking with everyone close who might know something.”

  “And asking them if they have dynamite? I ‘spect you’ll be wantin’ to come in and have a look around.” He let the Marlin drop from the crook in his arm, aiming it at the ground midway between us.

  “That would help you, Verl. If we don’t see anything that could be used to blow up a dam, it might mean we don’t need to bring some extra troops in to search your place.”

  Verl’s face curled into a thoughtful frown. “You did right by me last time, Tate,” he said finally. “Didn’t screw me over when everyone thought we’d killed Nettie and taken a shot at that trooper bitch. I guess you can walk on through and see we don’t got nothin’. But Pa’s in bad shape, so don’t be botherin’ him. And don’t be messing with things.” He turned and led us toward the smaller door.

  “Better take a deep breath,” I whispered to Grace. “And watch where you step.”

  The inside of the Greaves’ building made the outside look like the Webber sisters’ tearoom and was even more chaotic than I remembered. Food-crusted dishes, discarded food packaging, and empty beer cans lay ankle-deep across a kitchen area to the right as we entered. The sharp stench of rancid meat mixed with the stale mustiness of mold and mildew, clouding the air like swamp gas. I sneaked a glance at Grace whose nose had curled involuntarily. She was swallowing hard to keep her gag reflex from triggering.

  A propane stove vented to the outside through the metal sidewall and a length of insulated PVC pipe brought cold water into a single tap from a well somewhere outside the building. The plastic sink below it overflowed with grimy pans, one a quarter-inch thick with bacon grease.

  The front space opposite the kitchen was a jumble of sofas and chairs, some pushed into the background and stacked on top of each other as they split a seam or cracked across a vinyl cushion. The more serviceable seats formed a crude circle, grouped around an assortment of coffee and end tables, each heaped with worn tools, machine parts, grease-covered clothing, and more discarded food wrappers. LJ Greaves reclined in a worn, Naugahyde rocker, as pale as death in the dim light of the bare bulbs that hung from open trusses. His eyes were loosely closed, his mouth gaping open to draw long, rattling breaths.

  I turned to Verl. “You need to get someone here to check LJ,” I insisted. “He looks real bad.”

  Verl shook his head. “I can help him with what he needs. I ain’t havin’ no one comin’ in here to be poking around. You get on with what you need to do.”

  “If I send the Doc out, will you let him take a look at him?”

  “You send him out and I’ll shoot him,” Verl said without the slightest hint of exaggeration.

  A channel, no wider than the men’s shoulders, disappeared into the back of the building between the nearest sofa and the mounds of kitchen rubble, cast in the dim light of the open front door. Both sides were stacked head-high with furniture that had moved beyond the slightly-damaged stage and was now useless. Crates of car, tractor, and mower parts, old TVs, bicycles, vacuums, and worn tires bumped against the metal trusses overhead. We picked our way systematically through the kitchen clutter and around the snoring LJ, looking for anything that might resemble an explosive pack. Grace unclipped a flashlight from her belt and started toward the shadowy passage.

  “Hang on a minute,” I called, turning to Verl. “You got any of those boobytraps set up, Verl? I don’t want Officer Torres to be tripping one of your shotguns.”

  He sneered over at me. “Ain’t put them up again since you sent them state troopers through here last time. They said they was lettin’ us off since nobody’d been killed. But would be haulin’ us in if they ever found them set up again. A man can’t even protect his own property in this police state.”

  “Not with boobytraps,” I said, flashing my own light at the floor in the channel. No wires that I could see. “Keep an eye open for trips as you go through there,” I cautioned Grace, and followed her into the slot canyon of junk.

  The rear of the building was split into halves like the front. Two unmade double beds filled the back left corner, the hoard piles stacked right up to the side of one, the second pressed tight against the outer wall. There was just enough room to squeeze between them, with a goose-necked lamp separating the headboards.

  The corner to the right was the only spot in the building that allowed any free movement. Four chairs surrounded an oval table. A long workbench hugged an outside wall with a flatscreen TV at one end, the rest covered with cartridge reloading equipment. Between the bench and a rear door, an open cabinet held an assortment of weapons: two standard hunting rifles, four shotguns, two semi-automatic rifles that looked like AR-15s, and a shelf of assorted handguns and ammunition. Grace went directly to the cabinet while I picked through the junk that covered the table. Verl stood in the gap between walls of scrap, the Marlin still hanging from one hand.

  “You men have a computer?” I asked.

  He scoffed. “What the hell for? We got no need and wouldn’t know how to do with it if we had one. Them things ruinin’ the world anyway. People spread all kinds of socialist shit through that social media.”

  “You’ve got a TV.”

  “Like to watch them shows about people living in Alaska. Thinkin’ of doin’ that when LJ gets fit.”

  “You got a satellite antenna?”

  “Up on top.”

  “Is that TV a smart screen?”

  “What the hell does that mean? A smart screen? It’s just a plain old TV.”

  “How about your phones? You still got your cell phones?”

  “Yeah. I got a phone. LJ quit payin’ on his. He’s been too stoved up to use it. You gotta go up to the road to get a signal.”

  “How about letting Officer Torres take yours up to the road to have a look at it?

  “What the hell for?”

  “To see if you used it to order anything in the last couple of months.”

  “With my phone? You mean like callin’ for some dynamite?”

  “Yes. Something like that. It will save us having to go get the judge to give us permission to take it. In fact, I’d probably need to take it with me anyway to keep you from getting rid of the thing.”

  Verl’s free hand involuntarily went to his pocket. He frowned deeply for a silent moment, then pulled out what looked like an iPhone 5 in a cracked plastic case. “Don’t make no difference to me. I hardly use the thing.”

  I took it and handed it to Grace. “Send a list of calls for the past two months to Marti and check the search history back as far as it shows,” I told her. “See if anything catches your eye. You got a p
assword, Verl?”

  “Yeah. Just them first four numbers.”

  Grace exited through the rear door. As I moved on to a stack of army green ammunition boxes, the Explorer rumbled to life and climbed out of the holler. She returned fifteen minutes later. I was just confirming that the last of the metal cases had nothing in it. She came through the same rear door, dropped Verl’s phone in a clear space on the table, and looked around for other things to examine with no indication she felt an urgent need to talk to me.

  “I think we’ve seen about what we need to, Verl,” I said. “We’re just getting into this investigation, so may need to come back. But we’re through for now. Thanks for being cooperative.”

  “Ain’t really cooperation when I’m just keepin’ you from bringin’ the storm troopers in,” he grumbled.

  “Well, thanks anyway. And get LJ in to see a doctor. He doesn’t look good.”

  “I can take care of Pa,” he repeated and stayed planted in the narrow passage while we left through the back.

  “I take it there wasn’t anything too interesting on the phone,” I guessed as we skirted the building. Grace nodded without looking over.

  “I sent a list of calls to Marti. There weren’t many. Not even one a day. And there was nothing in his browser history. I checked to make sure it hadn’t been purged. I don’t think he even knows how to use the data functions. There’s no signal at all down here, so I doubt he experiments with it much.”

  I sniffed. “Wouldn’t surprise me. And what a pit that place is! But I didn’t see any reason to start picking through all those piles of crap. It’s like one of those games where you stack up the blocks. You pull out the wrong piece and the whole place collapses on you.”

  “Jenga,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the game. Jenga.”

  We had reached the car and looked back to find Verl standing in the open front doorway, Marlin still in hand.

  “You don’t seem to think the Greaves blew up the dam,” Grace ventured as we climbed in. “Otherwise you’d have wanted to risk an avalanche.”