The Dead Hand of Sweeney County

by David L. Bradley

  He sighed. “I'd been planning on finding that lawyer and trying to take care of the property, but I guess I let it go. Then about two years ago, I came home to an apparent burglary. My DVD player was gone.”

  “Man, that's a bitch,” Steve commiserated.

  “The cheap one. Nothing else. Whoever it was waited until I was gone, then it looks like they must have come up from the dock. They smashed a glass door on the deck and walked in. They stole the cheap DVD player in the living room, and they tossed a bunch of old albums and such.”

  “LP's?” I asked.

  “Photo albums, diaries, old books that Ramon got from his mother. They were out of the bookcase and scattered on the floor, and the cheap DVD player was missing. That was it. The sheriff concluded it was neighborhood kids.”

  “You have a dock?” Steve asked. “Kids with docks don't have to steal DVD players.”

  “That's what I thought,” Tyler nodded.

  “They didn't steal anything out of the albums?” I asked.

  “Not as far as I can tell, but how would I know? After they left, I just boxed it all up and put it in a storage unit with some other stuff of mine. Then last month, my house, what used to be Ramon's house, burned down.”

  Steve and I looked at each other. Neither of us said anything.

  “Fire started in the middle of the night in my garage. A gas can caught fire. They can't say how that happened. I got out, but the house burned almost to the ground.”

  “Damn, Sarge. I guess you don't think it was an accident.”

  “Fire investigator said it looked like it could be arson, but they never named a suspect.”

  “I suppose the neighborhood kids had alibis, ” Steve shook his head.

  “That's what I thought, too,” Tyler nodded, then took a swig of beer. “So then comes your email. A buddy of mine checked out the IP address, and he said it came from this town's library. He also found out the phone number you left was for some engineering company, and since you mentioned the land trust, I figured you might be working with the bank.” He grabbed a slice of pizza. “If you were, I was going to let you know I'm done playing. That's what I came here for, to take care of business and to let these bastards know the goddamn games are over.”

  He took a bite, chewed it, and swallowed. “Look, Addie is it?” I nodded. “Look, Addie, I don't give a damn about the properties-- I'm sick of it all, to tell you the truth--, but I have a sworn oath, an obligation to discharge, you understand?”

  “It's a matter of duty and honor,” I said.

  “Then you do understand,” the old soldier smiled. “What branch?”

  “Army.”

  “Outstanding. Carry on, soldier. Give me a beer, and brief me on what you know.”

  I laid out for him all I knew about Conley family history and the land trust, everything I knew about the highway project and Conley lands affected by the widening. Lastly, I gave him Lawyer Frank's number. I told him about Sarah, and he mentioned paying her for her efforts.

  “I don't think she wants to be paid, necessarily,” I told him. “Mostly, she wants to stay on her grandmother's land. She doesn't want Dick Polk, the Turd, which is what we call him, to take control of all that property and however much money is in the account.”

  “About four point six million,” Tyler remarked. “That's according to the last statement Ramon got from the bank. You know, there are lots of properties nowhere near the road project. All together, he told me the land trust properties are worth six or seven million-- again, according to the last statement, which was almost four years ago. And then they get to sell a small portion of the land they acquire to the state for the highway expansion. How much is that?”

  “Mike told me the state is paying one point eight million for thirty-seven miles of rural right-of-way. About thirty percent of that runs through Conley properties.”

  “Another five hundred forty thousand or so, for a total take of eleven and a half million, give or take a little,” Tyler finished. He whistled. “Damn, for that much money, I'd kill me, too. I'd kill anybody in the way.”

  My heart went cold. Until that instant, the whole adventure had been like some Nancy Drew mystery. Taking Isaac into account, perhaps it was a little more like an episode of 'Scooby-Doo', but it wasn't any more serious. It was a challenge: a puzzle, a mind game, something to do with Ellie, a fun diversion to satisfy my curiosity and forestall boredom. Tyler's last sentence sucked all the fun right out of it.

  “Okay, okay...” I said aloud, “Let me think here... Let's suppose someone went through Ramon's mother's stuff. They were looking for something. What?”

  “A will!” Steve exclaimed.

  I laughed. “That would be straight out of a comic book, wouldn't it? A will? A deed? A letter? If someone from here broke into your place in Texas, they went to a lot of trouble, so I have to believe they were looking for a specific item, whatever it was... I'm thinking they burned the house down because they think you've still got it. Whatever it is. Hmm... they think you have it, they don't want you to have it, even if they can't have it... something Dick the Turd either needs to have or to destroy. I hate to say it, but I wish I could take a look through those books.”

  Tyler shook his head. “Near as I can tell, Kane, they're just family pictures and scrapbooks full of newspaper clippings and an old lady's diaries.”

  Score one for Ellie, I said to myself. To Tyler I said, “Sarge, I have put together the entire family history from outside sources, from the Revolution up until the day Ms. Burroughs died. If there something in there Dick Polk's afraid of, we need to find it. Hell, it might be the only thing that bastard fears on Earth, and it might be the only chance we have to beat him. How do you feel about driving back to Texas to bring me those books and anything that belonged to Ramon's mother?”

  The Sergeant-Major shook his head. “You make a damned good case, young man, but I don't do road trips like I used to. Eyes get tired. Fort Worth is a thousand miles from here.”

  “Sergeant-Major Tyler? Sir?” Steve spoke up. “Sir, I am one of the finest drivers you will ever meet. I would be honored if you'd let me drive for you to Texas and back.” Tyler eyed him keenly. “I have a clean record, don't I, Boss? Clean as a whistle, twenty-twenty vision, and I can drive anything anywhere under any conditions. I could drive a thousand miles in sixteen hours.”

  Tyler looked to me. “He's a great driver, and his record is clean,” I testified, “but he's also employed for another day, and it'd be best if you--”

  “Look behind you,” Steve pointed with the remote control.

  On the teevee, the weather station's radar image showed green accented by bands of yellow and red covering all of Mississippi and Alabama and drifting slowly eastward. I looked back at Tyler.

  “He's off tomorrow, and he gets paid by direct deposit, so he's got money, too.”

  “You eat Waffle House?” the old veteran inquired.

  “Yes sir. Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, and topped.”

  “I stop a lot to pee.”

  “Just say when, sir.”

  “All right, then. But stop calling me sir. I work for a living. At least, I used to. Call me Sarge.”

  “Steve,” I interrupted, “what are you going to tell your wife?”

  “That I'm drivin' a nice old veteran to Texas and back. She won't think nothin' of it. I'll be back Saturday. What are we drivin'?”

  “My Mercedes,” Tyler answered.

  “Twelve hours.”

  “Give me a holler when you get back to the Atlanta area,” I said, “and I'll meet you somewhere to pick up whatever you bring back.”

  Sergeant-Major Tyler slept on the floor between us that night, very much at his insistence. He brought in his sleeping bag and blew up a pillow. I saw him tuck that Beretta inside the top of his bag before laying down his head and going directly to sleep, and considering what he'd said earlier, it made me feel a lot better. He didn't snore, either.

  At
five-thirty, Tyler was already up and shaving. We were sitting down to breakfast before six. By six-twenty-five, Tyler and Steve were snapping into their seatbelts and driving away from the Huddle House, into the approaching storm. I went back inside for another cup of coffee and to wait for Jack and Randy.

  No sooner had I sat down than I saw the black Navigator turn into the parking lot, pull up almost to the window, and stop. The Turd got out and came inside. Of course he saw me, came straight over, and sat down.

  “How's my tree survey coming?”

  “It's coming. It's coming along just fine. Maybe three-quarters done. Looks like that's all we'll get this week.”

  “Where's your crew?” he asked. “Waiting out the weather in bed?”

  “Nah, they'll be here,” I smiled. “Even if it's just to say they're going home for the weekend, they'll show up.”

  “Where's your little sidekick?”

  It's not easy to make up a convincing lie in front of the customer; caught as I was, with no prior notice or warning of any kind, I doubted my chances of success, but I made the effort. As a matter of tactic, I decided to go with a combination of truth and distortion. Sometimes the right combination can beat a polygraph machine, but that's another subject entirely.

  “He's showing this guy around.” I said. “You should meet him. Oh, by the way, I found Ramon Burroughs. He's dead.”

  He eyed me without blinking.

  “Coffee, hon?” our waitress intruded.

  “Please, Lisa darlin',” he answered without looking away from me. “Well that is news. Who's the guy? Some friend of his?”

  I shook my head slowly. “You know, he tried to explain it to me, and it just-- hot shot over the infield's head, know what I mean? Took a bad bounce or something. He's executor of Ramon's estate; I got that part. I think he's here to do something with the properties, but exactly what I can't say. Funny thing, the dude has no idea where they are. Not a clue. Nice guy, though. Were you expecting him?”

  He kept staring. I've played enough poker to know how it's played, enough to know I'd rather spend that same time talking to interesting women, enough to know Polk was trying to read me.

  “How did you two meet?” he asked.

  My heart pounded, remembering how I'd gone looking for Ramon in part just to piss in Dick Turd's Cheerios, but as smooth as ice I replied, “I met him in the parking lot here. He had a map and was looking for directions, so I invited him inside, and we talked over breakfast. Like I said, nice guy.”

  He kept studying me. Finally he said, “As manager of the Conley trust, I'd like to meet him, of course. I need to meet him. Here, give him my card.” He handed me one.

  “I'll do it,” I promised.

  Just then, a dark green Suburban equipped with aftermarket four-wheel drive rolled into the lot and parked next to the Navigator. Four doors swung open, and four large white men with muscular tattooed arms and not a single real neck between them got out and actually increased in size upon exposure to the outdoors. They continued increasing as they entered the restaurant and approached my booth, and by the time they stood next to it, they filled my view like a mountain range.

  “Just some of my timber company employees. Gentlemen, this is Addison, the surveyor from Atlanta.”

  The all nodded their greetings.

  “Pleased to meet y'all,” I said. “I'd invite you to sit down, but I'm expecting a couple of guys from my company for breakfast.” I also believe that at that moment, I was physically unable to digest food, buzzing as I was with a classic flight-or-fight adrenaline rush. There was no reason to tell them that, though.

  “Well, let us get out of your way,” Dick said. “We'll take that big booth in the back. Addison the surveyor, have yourself a nice day. We'll see you around. Give that guy my card.”

  “Will do, chief,” I smiled. “You boys look out for deer ticks.”

  Randy arrived right after six-thirty to inform me that Jack was in the shower and that they were leaving at seven to drive back to Columbus. He didn't want breakfast, and he took his coffee in a styrofoam cup. I left when he did. The Turd watched us go.

  I walked into my room, grabbed my backpack and laundry bag, tossed the card key on the table, and walked out. I put my stuff in the back and drove around the motel, away from the Huddle House, to leave. As I pulled out into traffic, I glanced over and saw their vehicles still parked outside the restaurant.

  From the look on his face and the way he started asking about Steve, I just knew that Polk had seen Steve driving Tyler through town. Small towns: few roads in and out, and very few Mercedes. Suddenly I thought of the green Suburban pulling into the parking lot minutes after Dick, and all I could think was that they'd also seen Tyler and Steve before arriving. I drove toward the interstate. Within a quarter mile, the houses gave way to countryside. In my head I tried remembering how long it was before they showed up. It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. I figured I'd drive two minutes, and if I didn't see any flashing lights or wreckage, I would assume they got away. I didn't see anything, but I drove the full ten miles to the interstate just to be sure. I turned around at the Shell station and drove north again.

  Okay, so they weren't on the side of the road. Still, I could be pretty sure Dick Polk, the Turd, had seen Steve with Tyler, and no doubt I was now linked with his adversary. Polk had wealth, power, and two centuries of political connections. Now I knew he also had his own goon squad. He was holding all the cards, and I would be damned lucky if I could manage a good bluff.

  For the immediate, I wanted to avoid him. As a light rain turned steady, I drove north to Reynoldston to pull more plats and deeds from the courthouse. At least I didn't know anyone there. Yet.

  17. Discovering the Diaries

  That afternoon, I parked at home in a steady, heavy rain. My mind was a jumble, a general untidy mess like a teenager's room, with thoughts scattered everywhere on the floor: Mike's debriefing, SGM Tyler's arrival, Sarah's lynching stories, Ellie's kisses, a break-in and arson out west, the wide array of maple varieties growing on the Old Home Lot, Polk's face, an old lady in a wide-brimmed gardening hat... Luckily, Veronica was home.

  When I'd laid out the week's events for her and showed her my printout of the tree count, she shook her head and said, “Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”

  “What's that?”

  “A slouch hat to go with your trench coat, Sam Spade. No, seriously. I can't believe the drama. Now, your bird in the gilded cage, what are you going to do about her?”

  “Spring her.”

  “Of course,” she chuckled. “Good luck with that and all its repercussions. Pass the whiskey.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She did a shot and passed it back.”I'm glad you're having a good time. Just take it easy. See what happens.”

  “It's not fair. Where she is, her whole situation.. And then she said the other night that she has decided that if he has a secret, he can keep it.”

  “When did she say that?”

  “When we were in bed.”

  “Sounds fair to me.”

  “But it's not. He's free to do whatever he wants and leave her there, locked up in an empty house. She doesn't get to be loved, honored, and respected every day.”

  “And that's what you'd do.”

  “Well, yeah, you know... I was thinking of some sort of barter system: I adore her, she adores me.”

  “Don't you really mean that it's unfair to you? He gets to be married on his own terms. She gets to stay married on her own terms, and she gets you, too. You're the only one who doesn't get to be married, not on any terms.”

  “When I'm around her, I honestly feel like I'd be married to her on any terms. She could name the terms, and I'd be there.”

  “Silly boy. She already has. But you're okay, kid, you really are. Just keep your eyes open. Dryer's stopped.”

  I wasn't sure why Veronica was being so cynical, except it was her way of pr
otecting me, and that was just a sign of how close we had become. As I restarted the dryer and began rolling socks into pairs, I resolved to let it go, and I wouldn't bring up Ellie again. I needn't have worried. When I returned to the studio, she wanted to know more about Sergeant-Major Tyler.

  “How old? Late fifties, maybe early sixties.”

  “Good looking?”

  “Yeah, you know. Older gent. He's an ex-Ranger--”

  “A park ranger?”

  “An Army Ranger. I don't think he's your type, though.”

  “Why not?”