Cold Quarry

by Andy Straka

  Fortunately, the day we took Maltese up to Felipe’s empty cabin was etched pretty firmly into my memory. I only drove up one wrong back road before being forced to turn around and backtrack. I located the correct turnoff about a mile farther on down the highway. As soon as I began the climb, I remembered certain landmarks: the rusted-out hulk of an old Volkswagen Beetle inexplicably stuffed into a narrow ravine alongside a small pile of equally rusted-out hulks of ancient refrigerators; a massive eastern hemlock, part of its root structure exposed by the washout of the road, sprouting from a steep moist slope where water normally cascaded across the road—except that now with the drought the rivulet was reduced to a thin muddy bog.

  The end of the road leveled out some at the summit and the cabin, a one-story frame structure with weathered wood and rotting shingles, came into view. The house itself hadn’t changed much since my prior visit. But instead of Felipe’s old Pontiac station wagon he used to drive all the way down from Queens there was a mud-splattered Chevy Tahoe parked alongside the Carews’ Suburban in the driveway next to the front porch.

  Toronto was waiting for me on the brown grass beside the two SUVs. There was a little more snow here at this elevation, but still not much. The pale earth broke through in mud-packed sections everywhere. The lack of moisture had bleached the tree trunks and stones, even the old wood siding of the cabin.

  “Thanks for meeting me way up here,” he said as I climbed out.

  “What’d you expect? You got my curiosity up, wigging out of there yesterday like that.”

  “Mmm. … Dad’s inside, but I’d just as soon he not hear most of what we have to talk about.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He blew on his hands to warm them. Toronto hardly ever wore gloves, except when stealth or the bitterest of cold required it. My hands were bare too,” but still warm from the truck.

  “So you said you think you’ve got a lot of this whole mess figured out.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Like I told you on the phone, I talked to someone who gave me most of it.”

  “And that someone would be?”

  “Sorry, Frank. No names. I know this guy from some ops a few years back. He’s a heavy hitter. Ex-CIA. Not someone to screw around with.”

  “I wasn’t exactly planning to screw around with him.”

  “I know, but that’s how it’s got to be.”

  “All right. How did you know this guy had info on Chester?”

  He shrugged. “You might say I happened to bump into him. He surprised me. I didn’t realize he was involved with this whole affair.”

  I hadn’t told him much about my conversation with Grooms, figuring it was best to find out what he had to say first. “So this guy’s take is?”

  “Here’s the deal: he’s taking down the Stonewallers for the Feds.”

  “Okay. And how is he doing that?”

  “It’s a sting operation. They’ve been setting up for months. You know that GPS you picked up, those pigeons we saw, and all those tail transmitters we found?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Apparently the Stonewallers have got great plans for them. They think they’re about to acquire some actual weapons-grade chemical materials. Something real nasty. My guess would be Sarin, maybe even VX gas.”

  “Lovely. And just what are they planning to do with this crap?”

  “For starters, use the little coop flyers to spread some of it all around Roseberry Circle.”

  “The population of which they no doubt feel is polluting their Aryan blood.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay. And let me guess. They’re going to track all these little buggers using the transmitters and GPS technology.”

  “You got it. Courtesy of our own defense department, who so kindly descrambled the signal a couple of years back so that now any Tom, Dick, or Harry can find his way to anywhere within a couple feet of where he wants to go.”

  “Wouldn’t want the high-end Beemer with the two-thousand-dollar computer to get lost trying to evade traffic somewhere.”

  “You betcha.”

  “How’re they planning to physically deliver the chemicals from the birds?”

  “That’s where it gets a little dicey. But my source claims they think they’ve got it worked out. Ever see pictures of those old-time homing pigeons you were talking about, like the ones Hitler used?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Turns out they’ve got a long tradition of being used in warfare. You can strap little capsules right onto their backs. They used the capsules to hold messages, but now you just launch the birds from up there where Chester’s land is, they boogie straight toward the coop back at Higgins’s place, and with a little radio-controlled signal when they’re over the target …”

  “Bombs away.”

  “You got it.”

  “No one will even be able to figure out where the stuff is coming from.”

  “Not quite as birdbrained as it first sounds.”

  I looked down the mountain, where a small cloud was passing just in front of an adjacent peak. “But back up—you said the Stonewall Rangers think they’re getting these chemical weapons.”

  “That’s the whole point,” he said.

  “The Feds have helped your pal set the whole thing up?”

  “Right. They take out the Rangers, track down their source of funding, maybe even lobby Congress to reform the GPS protocols while they’re at it. The whole shooting match.”

  “How much money’s involved?”

  “I didn’t ask, but my guess would be in the millions.”

  “You think Warnock’s the player making all that happen?”

  “Looks like it.”

  I thought about everything Grooms had told me. “This contact of yours is working with the ATF then?”

  “ATF, FBI, locals, you name it.”

  “So they think Chester just stumbled onto something—maybe with the birds or whatever—and the Rangers killed him to keep him quiet.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What about the bombs?”

  “That’s why I took off yesterday. I’d seen this guy earlier, but that’s when I knew I needed to talk with him. They’re thinking the Rangers are getting real nervous and wanted to try to take out you and me and anybody else snooping around up there on Chester’s land.”

  “Well, I’ve already gotten the message loud and clear the Feds want us out of their hair.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and drew in a deep breath. “I’m wondering if for once maybe we ought to listen to them.”

  The wind kicked up and blew a swirl of white powder snow at our feet. My hands were beginning to feel the cold now.

  “Something just doesn’t add up,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What about the ANFO bomb?”

  “ANFO bomb? Ammonium nitrate and shit? Who said anything about that?”

  “I found evidence in Chester’s desk at home. It looks like that could be what he found that got him killed. Not something to do with tracking birds to drop chemical weapons.”

  “Maybe the Rangers have some kind of an alternative plan using a bomb.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the story’s not quite so simple as your friend indicated.”

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong. This guy’s no friend. I know who my friends are. I’d call him more of a professional contact.”

  “Not sure you trust him then?”

  Be careful who you trust. Grooms’s words still echoed through my mind.

  Toronto thought about it. “I think he was giving me some straight dope. It jives with all the evidence we’ve seen. It explains what happened to Chester. But if you’re asking me would I trust this guy with my life, the answer is no.”

  “How come?”

  “I’ve seen too much of the way guys like him operate. Working both sides of the fence. In it for themselves mostly in the end.”

  “Everybody seems to be going on
the big assumptions here. But what if the Rangers didn’t kill Chester.”

  “How do you come up with that idea?”

  “The guy who hit me across the mouth with the Mossberg. If you’re the Rangers and you’re planning this big attack, and you’ve just killed a potential witness, why would you send somebody right back up there a couple of days later to the scene of the crime?”

  “Maybe they’re just making preparations for their operation.”

  “No. I sensed this guy was looking for something. He freaked out when I showed up.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m wondering if the guy wasn’t sent there to look over the scene because the Rangers are trying to find out who killed Chester too.”

  “Which would mean there are other players here we don’t know about.’’

  “And the scary thing is, maybe the Feds don’t know about them either.”

  “Only one way to find out for sure and that’s talking to the guy who socked you.”

  “Uh-huh. You come up with anything on that phone number he called?”

  “As a matter of fact I did. But I wasn’t going to go anywhere with it.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s not good news. Turns out he’s one of Higgins’s lieutenants and he’s a state trooper,” he said.

  “You talk with him in person?”

  He beamed. “Yeah. We … uh … played some chin music together yesterday. That’s right.”

  “Chin music.” Where did he come up with this stuff?

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “He wouldn’t give me the name of the caller, he said. He gave up our buddy Tony Warnock instead.”

  “Back to Warnock again.”

  “Call it corroboration,” he said. “Rats from a ship.”

  “You think your trooper’s state police superiors know he’s been involved with the Rangers?”

  “Nope. And now he swears he’s got religion. Won’t ever talk to Higgins again and won’t go to another meeting either.”

  “All from talking with you.”

  “Yup.”

  “You can be very persuasive.”

  He nodded, beaming again.

  I stamped my feet, thinking the whole thing over. It wasn’t getting any warmer up there on the top of that mountain.

  “So what do you want to do, boss? Punt and just let the Feds handle it? We’re talking about some pretty big kahunas involved here.”

  “I want to find out who killed Chester Carew,” I said.

  He smiled. “Like a mad dog on a bone. I was afraid you were going to say that, Frank. But you know what? Me too.”

  19

  The Bitter Angler sounded more like a watering hole for frustrated bass fishermen than a redneck haven. I bit anyway. The establishment occupied the end cap of an otherwise crumbling strip mall on the river between Dunbar and the north side of Charleston. Out the back, the Kanawha flowed wide and strong, and in the evening light even the visible fire stacks from the first of the chemical plants upriver glowed with an almost pastoral aura.

  “This is the place I was telling you about,” Toronto said, sitting across from me in my truck again. He was eating peanuts from a small plastic cup. He popped one into his mouth.

  “Warnock will be showing up here around nine?”

  “Uh-huh. If not a little bit before. Thinks he’s coming to meet the trooper,” he said, chewing.

  “Nice work.” I looked out the window at the building.

  “But explain something to me, will you, Frank?”

  “You bet.”

  “You already said you think the Stonewallers may not have killed Chester.”

  “Right.”

  “So why are we still wasting our time chasing after Warnock?”

  “Two reasons. First, we can lean on him to tell us the name of the guy who made the phone call. You said the state trooper claimed Warnock knew who it was.”

  “Right.”

  “And second, Warnock looks like the money man for the Rangers. And money men are usually middlemen.”

  “Which means he gets to see whoever’s on the other side of the fence.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I love this game,” he said.

  We stepped out of the truck. The assortment of vehicles in the parking lot ranged from a muddy Toyota pickup with a missing side mirror and a broken taillight to a sparkling new Corvette sporting temporary dealer plates. The swinging glass doors to the bar were reinforced with steel bars and duct tape.

  “Guess we get to hang out with the local talent for a while,” I said.

  “Staggers the mind, doesn’t it? But they’ve got a decent jukebox.”

  “Fifties music?”

  “A song or two. Mostly country though, I’d say.”

  “Any Elvis?”

  “Oh, yeah, there’s Elvis. Always Elvis.”

  “We just might survive,” I said.

  Trace Adkins was crooning “Help Me Understand” through the speakers as we entered. I judged from the number of chairs, almost all of which were occupied, that there were about twenty-five people altogether in the place, a fair crowd for a Saturday night. There were about a half dozen seats at the bar and the rest of the tables were arranged in diagonal patterns. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling and the room was dim, tailor made for intimate conversation; that is, unless you decided to raise your voice. Pictures on the walls generally seemed to follow a sports or hunting or fishing motif, with the exception of a couple of dramatic nighttime shots of what looked like flying saucers.

  “There are a couple of stools open over by the window,” Toronto said, nudging me in that direction.

  A few eyes had turned our way as we entered, but most went back to their conversations, laughter, or beer. We found the two empties—high chairs actually, next to one of those tall round bar tables—and sat down.

  “Figured I might see you back in here tonight.”

  The voice belonged to a large auburn-haired woman wearing rectangular tortoiseshell eyeglasses facing Toronto. She was hoisting a tray filled with used beer glasses.

  Toronto nodded in return.

  She eyed me cautiously. “Don’t know what you two are looking for exactly, but you both look like the type that’ll get it.”

  “Frank, this is Roswell Parker. She owns The Bitter Angler.”

  “Roswell. Like the town in New Mexico with the UFO spacemen?” I asked, glancing at one of the photos on the wall.

  “You betcha.” The proprietor beamed. “My original name was Shirley. Had it legally changed.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Roswell, this is Frank Pavlicek. He and I used to be partners. Frank’s a private investigator.”

  “Is that so? We had one of those in here not long ago—start of the month. Greasy-looking fella said he was looking for a lady used to work over to the plant in Dunbar. Showed me a picture, but I’d never seen her before.”

  “Did he say why he was looking for her?” I asked.

  “Not really, as I recall.” She shrugged. “I guess I must’ve just figured he was working for some husband whose wife had been whorin’ around on him. Ain’t that mostly what you fellas do?”

  “On our good days.” I tried to smile.

  “I heard Tony Warnock comes in here every now and then,” Toronto said.

  “Tony? I suppose so, but I don’t keep a surveillance on my customers, as a rule. What you want with him?”

  “Just to ask him a couple of questions,” I said.

  “Lawyers don’t usually like you asking them questions, you know.”

  “Let me ask you something,” I said. “Did you know Chester Carew?”

  She put the tray down and folded the dishcloth she was carrying over her arm. “I knew who he was, had seen him in the grocery store a couple of times. Fine old man. Damn shame, what happened.”

  “The party line seems to be a hunting accident, poachers.”

  “What I heard to
o, but don’t you believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked at one of the UFO pictures then said in a softer voice, “ ‘Cause if you ask me, a man gets shot to death right square in the back like he did in the middle of the woods for no reason, it ain’t no accident. It’s ‘cause he knows something.”

  I was almost afraid to ask but I did. “Like what?”

  Her tone became conspiratorial. “The next time they come, they ain’t gonna leave no spaceship for the air force to steal.”

  I nodded and looked across at Toronto, who had somehow managed to keep a serious expression on his face. After she’d gotten this off her chest, however, the owner’s expression brightened considerably.

  “So what’ll you two boys be drinking? Something light or something dark?”

  “How about a couple of bottles of Rolling Rock?” Eagle Eye Investigations’ standard sipping beer for alcohol-related stakeouts.

  “Coming right up.” She bustled off and disappeared through a door in back that appeared to lead to some kind of kitchen.

  I let out a low whistle. “This is better than watching sitcoms,” I said.

  “How would you know? When was the last time you watched anything but the news?”

  “Does nineteen ninety-seven count?”

  We hadn’t waited long, in fact were only about a quarter of the way through our beers, when Tony Warnock came swinging through the glass doors into the room. He moved purposefully and with almost catlike efficiency toward the bar. The top half of him was wrapped in one of those red-and-black checked three-quarter-length hunting coats.

  “Here’s our target,” Toronto said under his breath.

  I glanced over his shoulder. “Looks like him.”

  “Let’s wait and see if Roswell lets him know we’re looking for him.”

  Sure enough, as soon as Warnock had picked up his drink—it looked like Scotch and water—from the bartender, who said something in his ear, he turned and made a beeline in our direction.