Nightwalkers cr-4

by P. T. Deutermann

  I spent the weekend getting situated in the cottage and taking some more long walks. My new Suburban looked a lot like my old one. On Sunday morning Carol called and asked if I wanted to go for a trial horseback ride. It sounded like a marvelous opportunity to embarrass myself, but I said yes. An hour later I was sitting atop Goober, who looked to me like a cross between a quarter horse and a camel. He was huge, and I felt like I was sitting on a moving Gel-Pak as he plodded along behind Carol's horse.

  We rode around her place for a while as my lower legs slowly became paralyzed and I embedded some new finger grooves in the pommel of my western saddle. The shepherds trailed along on either side trying not to laugh at me. Frick had barked once at the massive beast, who'd responded a few seconds later with one enormous, ground-shaking stomp. Then it made a horrible noise in its throat and I found out why it was called Goober, as did Frick. After that, Frick, expertly slimed, kept her distance, giving both me and the horse reproachful looks from time to time. Carol managed to keep a fairly straight face through it all. Goober mostly seemed to be sleepwalking. I kept checking to see if my lower legs had fallen off.

  Carol lived on a thirty-acre parcel outside of town. Her house was a restored eighteenth-century farmhouse, and she gave me a tour to show me what could be done. The before-and-after pictures were amazing. When she'd bought it, the four stone chimneys were mostly on the ground, the roof had fallen in, and the porches looked like wooden hammocks. Now it was spotless, standing on a small knoll surrounded by old oaks and boxwood clumps.

  "Ten years?" I asked as we arrived back at the barn. I'd finally taken my feet out of the stirrups, and now my lower legs were improving to the pins and needles stage. My knees felt like they'd been screwed on and the threads stripped in the process. I dreaded the dismount and staggered around like a drunk when I finally did get off. Goober promptly went to sleep. Frick watched from about twenty feet away, clearly appraising her chances to run in and bite him.

  "Just about," she said. "Basically we disassembled it, stacked all the useful bits on the grounds, and then rebuilt it from the stone foundations up. That's actually easier and cheaper than working from the inside out."

  I wondered who the "we" was and where she'd raised the money to take on a project like that, but I was learning about country ways: They'll tell you when they're ready; if you press it, they shut down. We had a sandwich on the front porch and talked about the restoration trade and the state of the county's economy, which wasn't great. I remembered the Chevy dealer almost falling out of his chair when I said I'd take that one right there. He said he hadn't sold anything with eight cylinders in six months.

  She asked how we were coming on the closing. I told her that the appropriate moles were digging into the stacks for the title search. I also told her what the old clerk had said. She was familiar with the issue.

  "When you start talking about the big properties in this county, say, Glory's End size and up, way up, in some cases, the titles can become entangled."

  "Entangled?"

  "Well, the big planters, the families who came up from the coast or down from Virginia, didn't have a lot of respect for the land. They'd burn it out planting tobacco and cotton and then just move on to new land nearby."

  I remembered Mr. Oatley mentioning this. "They'd just abandon it?"

  "For farming, yes. It was easier to clear new ground than to invest a growing season and money in reconstituting old ground. Technically, they still owned it."

  "Ah."

  "Yeah," she said. "So when he says be careful what you wish for, you just might find out there are claims out there that go back a hundred fifty years."

  "So why hasn't it been a problem before?"

  "Because there are enough claims and counterclaims recorded in that courthouse to keep a dozen lawyers in court for a decade. As long as the 'right kind' of folk are on the land, usually meaning relatives, prominent landowners are satisfied to leave well enough alone."

  "In other words, don't ask a question if you can't stand all the possible answers."

  "You got it," she said.

  I asked her why the Lees had fallen out.

  "Woman trouble, is the way the story goes," she said. "The plantations were called Oak Grove and Laurel Grove back then, 1820s, '30s, or thereabouts. Nathaniel Carter Lee of Oak Grove, now Glory's End, supposedly stole away the sworn fiancee of Callendar Lee of Laurel Grove. Nathaniel was richer than Callendar, and in all probability, the lady probably followed the money. Her name was Abigail, and she was reportedly a great beauty, as is usually the case in these stories. They duly married, but then some years later, just before the war, Miss Abigail had an affair with Callendar Lee. Nathaniel called out Callendar, and they met with seconds on the Richmond-Danville railroad bridge one spring morning."

  "Called out, as in a duel?"

  "Exactly. Callendar was the younger man, something of a rake in the county, and known to be impetuous. He fired first, missed Nathaniel, hit the bridge steel, and the ricochet made a cut across Nathaniel's back. Then Nathaniel fired, and his ball hit Callendar in the head. Sixty-caliber ball, probably killed him dead right there and then. Supposedly his body fell through the trestle ties and was never found, the river being in full spate. The families never spoke after that."

  "Damn. What happened to Abigail?"

  "Nathaniel sent her away, of course. She went back to the coast to her own family, and nobody ever expected to hear from her again. The day after the duel he announced to one and all that his honor and family situation had been satisfied in all respects."

  "That was the end of it?"

  "Not quite. Abigail actually had the last word. She'd given Nathaniel four sons by the time of this duel. She left behind a letter for the local newspaper, saying that two of Nathaniel's four sons weren't really his, and that she'd leave the begats to the public's 'general interest and determination.'"

  "Ouch. Even if it wasn't true, everyone would think it was."

  "Yep. Then to top it off, Nathaniel's wound, which had seemed superficial, became infected, and a week later they planted him in Saint Stephen's burial ground."

  "Which, like the Civil War," I said, "the Lees will never forget."

  "That's the War of Northern Aggression, sir," she said with a smile. "Don't you forget that, either."

  "Of course, the war didn't help with the property records. Maybe I should turn this project off."

  "I wouldn't," she said. "The most probable claimants to that property, if there even is a claim, are right across the street. If they like you, and it seems they do, there won't be a problem. If they don't, there's no telling what they'd do, but you'd certainly know before you'd have to commit real money."

  After lunch I thanked her for the ride and told her I'd try it again when and if my legs ever unkinked from trying to wrap around Goober's ample sides. She said that the only cure for that was more time in the saddle. As we walked down the front steps, I heard my cell phone chirping from the front seat of the Suburban. It was one of the detectives down in Manceford County. He wanted to know where I'd been last night at around midnight.

  "What's happened now?" I asked, not wanting to step into something.

  "Your boy, Billie Ray? He got clipped with a long gun while watching TV with his crack-skag last night. Head shot, deer caliber. Girlfriend finally has her some brains."

  "I was asleep in my rental house out here in Rockwell County," I said, aware that Carol was listening. "Sorry I missed it, though."

  He snorted. "Can you possibly corroborate that?" he asked.

  "Not unless you can make my shepherds talk," I replied. "What kind of rifle?"

  "Still waiting on that," he said, "but enough of a thumper to come through the trailer's window, do a through-and-through on Billie and another one on the refrigerator compressor. They found the bullet in a telephone pole outside. Any chance you can come down here and give us a statement?"

  "Sure," I said, "but you've heard most of it already. I
left Summerfield Friday afternoon. There's one neighbor who saw me leaving. Otherwise I've been out here, and, no, I can't prove where I was at midnight." I looked over at Carol, wishing she didn't have to hear all this.

  "Well, I guess that'll do for now," he said. "Do you own any long guns?"

  "Yup," I said, "and I emptied out my gun safe Friday before coming out here. You're welcome to test any or all of 'em. I did not shoot Billie Ray Breen. Thought about it, but it didn't seem worth the hassle."

  "You understand we gotta ask, right, Lieutenant?"

  "Absolutely. You have my number, and Sheriff Walker out here knows where I'm staying. Good luck with it."

  I hung up and looked at Carol, who was giving me raised eyebrows. I knew I had to tell her what was going on. "Got any coffee?" I asked.

  I drove back to the cottage after filling Carol in on what had been happening down in Summerfield. Sheriff Walker had already told her about the shooting incidents, but she did not know about the flashbang, and now our logical suspect had himself been killed. She seemed to have taken all this in stride, and then I remembered that she'd been a cop. She did ask the logical question: Was this business going to migrate out here to Rockwell County?

  I wasn't sure what to say, but that telephone dialogue with the flashbang voice seemed to indicate we weren't done with each other. I told her about falling into the well at Glory's End, and that did bother her.

  "Those damned wells are all over this county," she'd said. "One of my contractors dislocated both shoulders stopping himself from falling down one here, and that one had a brick walk over top of it."

  "Is there a way to search for them?" I'd asked.

  "Thermal aerial survey," she'd told me. "It's expensive, but they sometimes show up as black circles on IR pictures. Unless of course they're covered by a brick walk or a pile of grass clippings."

  I hadn't elaborated on my theory of the scent trap, because I was afraid that might be the straw that broke the project's back. Carol might just back out, and without her, this was pointless. I put the question to her.

  "Let's see what happens," she said. "I don't want to get in the middle of some revenge war, but, on the other hand, none of us should have to go around living in fear, either. That pisses me off."

  Back at the cottage I put a call in to the Rockwell County Sheriff's Office and left a message at the operations desk for Hodge Walker to give me a call Monday at his convenience. I figured it would be better for him to hear about the Billie Ray problem from me if at all possible. I was introducing Frack to his new yard and surroundings when Walker called back. I apologized for disturbing his Sunday afternoon.

  "When you're the sheriff, the days of the week all kinda run together," he said. "What's up?"

  I gave him the gist of it, including the fact that Manceford County had called to get a statement and that I had not shot anyone since the Guatemalan hit man.

  His tone became a tad more formal, as I'd expected it would. I proposed that I come in to see him or one of his detectives on Monday to lay out the whole history of my ghost problem. He thought that was a great idea.

  "So this ain't over?" he asked.

  "Unfortunately, I don't think it is," I said and told him about the tracking device that had been found on my license plate.

  "This Billie Ray thing a red herring?"

  "Maybe," I said. "I believe he truly wanted him some getback, but flashbangs, GPS-based surveillance devices, and now someone's popped him?"

  "Yeah," he said. "Okay, let's talk tomorrow. I'll have one of my people get in touch."

  "Sheriff?"

  "What?"

  "Do I have a problem with any of my neighbors that I don't know about?"

  "Like the Lees?"

  "Well, yes."

  "Not that I've heard. What have you heard?"

  "Ms. Valeria was all sugar and lace," I said. "I haven't met her mother, but they were perfectly willing to rent the cottage."

  "There's always the major," he said.

  "Met him," I said. "I don't think he's with us all that much." I described the circumstances.

  He nodded. "You're one of the few people's actually seen him, then," he said. "He really was in the army at one time. Vietnam, late stages. I believe he's medically retired."

  "Medically as in mental illness?"

  He shrugged. "Lots of those guys who went to Vietnam came home with damage. Some of it you could see, some of it you couldn't. I don't know, but everybody's heard the stories. There's a son, too."

  "Oh, great. Another nutcase?"

  "Nope, worse, from the Lees' standpoint. He did something that disgraced the family. They sent him away."

  "Away."

  "High drama. Banishment. Disinherited. The son, dead to the parents. That sort of thing. He'd been in the service, too, and whatever it was, it involved the military. Doubly disgraceful."

  "What happened to him?"

  "No one knows. He disappeared. It's been years."

  "Does everyone know everything about everyone else here?"

  He laughed. "Absolutely not," he said. "We all just pretend we do."

  "So in my case…"

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, I know it's a small town, but…"

  "Gotcha," he said. "No more running my mouth."

  "Appreciate it," I said. "I've got enough problems without scaring my neighbors."

  "Or the lovely Ms. Pollard."

  "Well."

  "Unh-hunh. See you tomorrow, Lieutenant. Y'all keep those dogs close, you hear me?"

  Once he left, I called Bobby Lee Baggett's office and suggested one of the Manceford County detectives join us for the seance at Sheriff Walker's office the next morning. The desk officer said they'd take it under advisement.

  At midday Monday I was sitting on the front porch steps of Glory's End with the shepherds, enjoying a greaseburger from the one and only fast-food joint in town. The shepherds had visibly high hopes for a fry or two. I told them there was no chance except for the ketchup packs; Frick loved ketchup.

  The morning had been a lot like being back on the Job again, one meeting after another. No one had had any brilliant ideas, and the Manceford County investigations had produced nothing substantive in the way of evidence. The good news was that they didn't like me for the shooting. The only thing I did not bring up at the first group-grope was the goings-on in the house at Glory's End and my fall into an abandoned well. I had told Sheriff Walker about both, but he'd had the same opinion about the moving candlestick-probably some local kids screwing around. As to the abandoned well, he said that people often forgot that there'd been dozens of farms out there since the late 1600s, and every one of them had had a well. I didn't think he appreciated the significance of the ball cap, but I didn't press it because I might be making more of it than it warranted.

  "The key thing is that phone call," he'd said. "That's your real ghost right there, and if he's serious, he probably will follow you out here. You need to go on the offensive."

  I relented and pitched exactly one fry to each mutt, then threw the ketchup packs out onto the front lawn like any good redneck. Frick tore them up immediately, while Kitty looked at her fry disapprovingly. Kitty did not indulge in fast food. I was glad no one walked up just then; Frick's mouth was dripping ketchup, and she looked like a canine vampire.

  Go on the offensive, Hodge Walker had told me. Great idea, but how? Billie Ray had been the traditional prison ghost-a dumb jailbird with a lot of anger but not many resources. The flashbang stalker was a different beast. I needed to do two things right away: First, learn my ground out here so that I knew it better than he did. Second, think long and hard about who this might be. He was using sophisticated surveillance techniques and careful planning, and he wanted to play a little before we got down to it. This ghost wanted a war.

  Thinking and walking could be done simultaneously, so I called in the dogs and went back to the cottage. Fifteen minutes later we were back on Glory's End property and
headed east this time. The two shepherds ranged ahead while I followed, pushing through knee-high grass and weeds in the plowed fields with a walking stick borrowed from the cottage. The main house was behind me, and ahead was a wooded creek, behind which rose another of those heavily forested ridges. The creek was about ten feet wide, filled with smooth stones, and running a foot deep. The shepherds jumped right in and turned into happy mudhens. I found a shallow area where one of the dirt farm roads had made a ford.

  The road on the other side was badly rutted from rain washout. The trees along the banks were a bedraggled mixture of locust and straight-shanked poplars, rising sixty feet or higher out of the rocky ground as I climbed the ridge. At the top I could look back toward the house, now a half mile distant. It appeared I was at about the same elevation as the house. Ahead the farm road dropped down the back side of the ridge into wide meadows flanking both sides of the road. Farther to the left there was what looked like a stone quarry visible through the trees between the farm track and the Dan River. There were two beehive-shaped buildings at the back edge of the quarry, behind which rose steep banks of vividly red clay. At the far, eastern end of the meadow rose yet another ridge, which I believed marked the boundary of the property.

  I cut left toward the quarry while crows in the trees warned the wildlife of my approach. The shepherds bounded right down the hill to the edge of the quarry but then stopped. When I got there I saw why: It was completely flooded. The quarry was perhaps two acres in size and roughly square, with straight stone sides dropping into dark blue water. A stone ramp led down into the water on the far side, and there was some rusting machinery along the eastern bank, including what looked like the drum of an ancient boiler. When I walked around I discovered there was a rail spur leading from the machinery area out toward the river in a long curve that suggested it had been joined to the old Civil War railroad at one time. Unlike up on the main line, the rails were still there, buried to their tops in dirt and grass, the ties invisible. I could hear the Dan flowing behind a line of river oaks just beyond the rail spur.