“Wait up, Mr. Alan.”
He came hurrying after me.
“Don’t you wanna dig in that hole?”
“How would I ever get out? Besides, all I have is my trowel.”
“But what if there’s real treasure? What if they didn’t dig far enough? Or what if they dug in the wrong place? Ain’t you gonna look around, like?”
“Luther, all I want to do is get the hell out of here.”
I came to a place where the trees had been marked with bright yellow paint slashes and knew we were at the end of the property. On one of the trees was a metal sign: NO TRESPASSING.
“Mr. Alan, we better turn around.”
“Let’s go down the trail a little ways. There may be a better way out of here.”
We walked for a half mile and all at once the trail spilled into another clearing, with a log cabin in the middle. I looked for smoke from the chimney, but there was no sign of anyone inside and no vehicle in sight.
“You want to go back now?” Luther whispered.
“Luther, there’s nobody there.”
I was studying the cabin carefully. It was from a kit, the kind you build yourself, and somebody had done a good job. But it wasn’t the logs that got my attention but the telephone and power lines. They went to the other side of the clearing, and I guessed there was a road that led down to a highway.
“If we can get to the highway I’ll call somebody on my cell phone and have them pick us up,” I explained. “Then they can drive us up to where the Blazer’s parked.”
“Yes, sir.” But Luther didn’t look at all reassured.
I walked out into the clearing, aware that the other man was lagging behind me. I came to the side of the house, where an aluminum cover sheltered a stack of firewood. Suddenly my senses were on alert. Maybe it was Luther’s hesitation, or maybe it was something else, the smell of something sweet that contrasted with the ozone of the pines and the background odor of burned wood.
I turned toward Luther in time to see him step out of the trees, testing each step like a deer aware that a hunter is near. There was a look on his face I hadn’t seen before, one that could only be described as true fear.
“Mr. Alan …” he began, and the sun flashed on something in the corner of my eye. I wheeled toward the far side of the clearing, where the electric line led, and before I could react, I glimpsed a second flash, but this one was accompanied by a loud crack.
I fell to the ground and in my peripheral vision saw Luther fall, too.
Then I heard tires spraying gravel and I got onto my hands and knees. All at once I wasn’t aware of the cold, only of the sweat drenching my body. I pulled myself to my feet and realized my legs were shaking.
“Luther, you can get up. They’re gone.”
I saw with horror that there was no movement from the form on the ground.
I ran to the prone man.
“Luther …”
“Bastard shot me, Mr. Alan.”
“Where?”
“I dunno. I think my shoulder.”
I helped him up and saw a dark red splotch against the olive drab of his field jacket, just to the left of his neck. I unzipped his jacket and then unbuttoned his shirt.
“It looks like it just scraped the top of your shoulder,” I said. “Lucky it missed the subclavian artery.”
“Yeah, well, it feels like it hit the jackpot.”
I pressed a handkerchief against the angry red furrow and helped him rebutton the shirt and zip up the jacket.
“Luther, I’m sorry. You told me not to come this way. I should’ve listened.”
He nodded like a kicked dog. “Yes, sir.”
“Believe me, if I’d had any idea …”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you walk as far as the paved road?”
“I reckon.”
“I’ll call now on my cell phone, except I’m not sure where to tell them to come.”
Luther gave me a sideways look.
“Just tell ’em to come to Sheriff Scully’s cabin off 913.”
NINE
Jeff Scully listened silently, staring out his window at the courthouse lawn. A deputy had picked us up and Luther was being treated by the nurse at the parish health unit. I was just beginning to thaw.
“It was probably somebody meaning to break into the cabin,” Jeff said at last. “I don’t keep a lot there, but I do have a few guns and a stereo system. I use the place to get away sometimes.”
“Have your deputies look for an ejected shell,” I said.
Scully gave me a pitying look. “These woods are full of ejected shells. I’m sorry Luther got grazed. Believe me, I am, because now we’ll never hear the end of it. But I think we better just write it off unless something else happens. I’ll have the deputies drop by a couple of times a shift and check the place. That’s all I can think to do.”
“You don’t seem very upset.”
He shrugged. “Some hunter with too much whiskey under his belt. Happens all the time. And that was a pretty damn fool thing, if I do say so, letting Luther lead you off into the hills. You’re lucky you didn’t both freeze up there.”
“I guess so,” I said. “I just thought maybe something would turn up.”
“And?”
“Nothing really.” I considered for a moment. “By the way, you know this Berry Capshaw, who bought the map from Jacko Reilly?”
“I had to ran the idiot off the land.” My friend shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother. We should just let the idiots and the tetched run loose around here.”
“I understand his parents are from Lordsport.”
Scully shrugged. “Calvin and Myrtle Capshaw. What of it?”
“I dunno. Just thought I might ask them what they know.”
“Good luck. You’ll get an earful from Calvin, I’m sure.”
“Oh?”
“Tell me what you find out.”
Instead of finding Calvin Capshaw, however, I went back to the camp. I was shaken and didn’t feel like confronting a man who sounded difficult. The crew had just arrived from Baton Rouge and was unpacking David’s Land Rover and the small pickup the company owned. When I explained what had happened, David just threw up his hands.
“Maybe you can use all this as a reason to keep Pepper from killing you. She’s pretty upset.”
I groaned. I’d meant to try calling her again and had been caught up in events.
“I won’t be much good in the field,” I told him. “Not after this morning.”
“You haven’t been any good in the field since you met Pepper,” David said, sighing. “But I can handle things—as usual.”
I went outside, got out my cell phone, and punched in my home number.
“Alan?” It was Pepper’s voice and I took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I meant to call sooner …”
“But you just didn’t get around to it, right?” There was ice in her voice.
“Things happened …”
“Sure. You take off without a word and I’m supposed to just wait here by the phone until you get tired of playing with the boys and decide to call. Well, let me tell you—”
“Pepper, listen, I admit I jumped the gun leaving, but I was upset and—”
“—and I wasn’t? But I didn’t leave. I wouldn’t pull a stunt like that on you. I have a little more concern for your feelings. I should’ve known—”
“Known what?”
“That you were just too unstable to—”
“Unstable? Me?”
“Who else?”
“Have you ever looked in the mirror? Have you?”
“I don’t have time for this. I have a class to teach.” I’d never heard her voice that cold, not even when we’d first met.
“Pepper …”
“Goodbye …”
“Wait.”
“We don’t have anything more to say.”
“Yes, we do: The librarian disappeared. And somebody too
k a shot at me and another guy this morning up in the hills. They’re patching him up now.”
There was a long silence.
“You’re all right?”
“More or less. Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left like that. I was upset. Insecurity or whatever you want to call it. I’ve been worried ever since you went to Mexico last summer. Maybe it’s been building up. I needed to get away. But I was going to call as soon as I got to Lordsport. And I did, only nobody answered. Then, last night, somebody knocked me on my tail outside the camp and this morning I almost got shot and—”
“Alan, you fool, get out of there before somebody kills you!”
“I can’t just leave Jeff.”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t leave a friend. Just …” I groaned again.
“Look,” she said. “When my last class is over today I’m driving up.”
“What?
“Yes. I found somebody on the Internet who deals in colonial coins. He’s in Port Gibson, Mississippi. I’m bringing the silver piece up to show him.” Her voice softened. “Besides, somebody has to look after you.”
All my anxiety turned to relief. “When will you get here?”
“If I leave at five I’ll be in Natchez by seven, depending on traffic. Give me another forty minutes to get to the camp.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. Let me drive out and meet you somewhere in between, so we can talk and make plans. I may have more information by then.”
“Okay, we can meet for supper in Natchez. Or better, on the Louisiana side, in Vidalia. Remember that restaurant, the Sandbar?”
“I’ll be there at seven,” I said. “I’ll keep my phone on in case you need to call.”
“Alan …”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. If anybody’s going to kill you, I want to be the one.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
I was just putting my cell phone back into my glove compartment when a white Forerunner pulled into the driveway and a beefy, gray-haired man in a plaid lumberjack’s jacket got out. The jacket was unzipped and there was a bulge under the left arm.
I heard Digger start to growl and the man reached inside his jacket.
“It’s okay,” I told Digger and leashed him to the pump.
“You’re Alan Graham?” the man growled.
“That’s right.”
He held out a credential case and I saw a card that said “Private Investigator.” “My name’s Chaney Reilly. I used to be sheriff here.” He squinted at me through rimless bifocals. “There’s those who say I may be sheriff again.”
“Well, I’m not a registered voter in this parish, Mr. Reilly.”
“Not here for that. I’ve been hired to look into Jacko Reilly’s murder.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reilly, but I’m a little worn out right now, and I gave a statement to the sheriff’s office, so …”
I turned to go in but he put a hand on my arm.
“It won’t take long. It’s cold out here. We can sit in my car.”
Reluctantly, I let him guide me to the Forerunner and took a seat next to him. It was warm inside, a welcome respite from the cold. I noticed a pair of handcuffs dangling from the mirror and blue and red flasher lights on the dash and wondered if you got to take your official car with you when you were booted out of office in this parish.
“There’s a story you have evidence from the crime scene where they found Jacko,” he said.
“I think you ought to talk to the sheriff about that.”
“I’m talking to you, Mr. Graham. I don’t think you understand just what you’ve got yourself into here. This is a small parish. Things aren’t always done the way city folks expect. I was sheriff here for twelve years. I know people. Your stay here can be either pleasant or not so pleasant.”
“You sound like a warden,” I said.
“May be.” He ran a hand through his longish gray hair. “Some might say the parish needs a warden. ’Cause they sure ain’t got one now.”
“Save it for the stump,” I said. “The election’s a year away.”
“A year can go by pretty fast. You’re a smart man, Mr. Graham. They say you’ve got all sorts of college degrees. Seems like you might want to come back here and do some more work sometime. Mr. Thomas Jefferson Scully may not be there then. It’d be nice to have friends.”
“Who hired you?” I asked.
“That ain’t information I usually give out but in this case I’ll let you in on it: It was the widow of the deceased. She just wants to see justice done and she doesn’t figure she’ll get it so long as that horse doctor’s the man doing the investigating.”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket, took out a briar pipe, and began to fill it: “Look, Mr. Graham, I got nothing against you. You do your thing, that’s fine. But try to forget Scully’s your friend and look at it from Mrs. Reilly’s point of view: Would you feel good knowing the investigation of who killed your husband was in the hands of somebody whose training was curing sick horses?”
“I’m sure there are competent people in the sheriff’s office.”
He laughed. “There used to be. But Scully fired ’em all when he got in. Hell, he even let ’em rob the courthouse.”
I thought about the empty display case, and there wasn’t anything I could say.
“By the way, any news on who shot at you?”
“How do you know about that?”
Another chuckle. “Little place like this, you can’t keep nothing secret. I was you, I’d watch out. It sounds like somebody’s already gunning for you.”
“I don’t know they were shooting at me. They hit Luther Dupree.”
“But they were warning you.”
“More small-town rumor?”
“Call it what you want. You give any thought to why they were shooting at you?”
“Somebody was trying to break into the cabin. Or maybe they were trespassing and didn’t want to be found out. Or they could have been illegally cutting timber.”
“Find any broken windows? Any cut stumps?”
“I didn’t look.”
“Might want to. Or you might want to ask your friend Scully what all goes on up at that cabin.”
“What?”
“Just ask.”
The house door opened then and David came out. He saw the car and started toward us. I opened the car door and got out.
“It’s okay, David, Mr. Reilly was just leaving.”
“Just ask,” Reilly said, leaning across the seat toward me. “Ask him what he does in that cabin.”
I slammed the door and the car started backward as David approached.
“What’s going on?”
“Just another happy local. Well, I guess I better drive down to Simmsburg and get some provisions if Alice Mae’s going to have anything for the crew to eat tonight.”
TEN
All the way to Simmsburg, a distance of ten miles, I imagined that I saw Reilly’s Forerunner behind me. I’d called Jeff, of course, and after an oath, he’d told me not to worry about Chaney Reilly and asked me what my plans were for the rest of the day.
“Well, take care of your shopping and check with me before you leave to meet Pepper. Reilly won’t bother you, though.”
Now, as I pulled in at the grocery in Simmsburg, I hoped I could count on my friend’s judgment.
I didn’t like what the ex-sheriff had said about the cabin, as though Jeff was using it for some unholy purpose. But I didn’t feel I could pry into my friend’s private life.
Half an hour later I’d stocked up and was out of the store. It was almost four and the temperature had reached its apogee for the day. In another hour it would start to drop again, and the thought of snuggling in next to Pepper was a welcome one.
I retraced my route north on Highway 12, an elevated two-lane that ran through an expanse of lowland used mainly for catfish ponds. They
’d built this road after the flood of ’27, so the people of Simmsburg could flee to the hills above Lords-port if it ever flooded again. The road was straight and narrow and I didn’t see anything in my mirror to suggest I was being followed.
When I reached the camp, the crew was still in the field and there was a note on the counter from Alice Mae:
Dear Mr Graham,
I’ve went to check on Paw who was shot at the health unit but I will come back in time to make supper.
God bless you for helping him your a good Christian man.
Alice Mae
I called for Jeff but he wasn’t in the sheriff’s office so I tried his house. No answer. I thought of calling his pager number, then decided against it: He’d asked me to call him before I left and I had, but there was no emergency. I’d changed into a clean pair of jeans when I heard the crew coming in. I told David where I was going and that I’d probably be back tomorrow. His brows went up suggestively and he shrugged.
“Just so we don’t have to come bail you out.”
It was dark by the time I got to Ferriday, a town whose claim to fame was having produced the cousins Jerry Lee Lewis and Jimmy Swaggart. My stomach was in full growl, and even Digger was looking longingly at the beaneries we passed.
“Soon, boy,” I told him.
I’d just left town and was on the busy four-lane that connected with Vidalia when I realized I was being followed.
There were plenty of trucks on the nine-mile stretch and I was used to being tailgated, but this guy was inches from my bumper.
I gunned my engine and whipped past a pickup.
The other car sped after me, as if he were glued to my rear.
His lights were blinding me and I tipped my mirror down, to get the glare out of my eyes.
There were no State Police or sheriff’s substations on this highway. Just a lot of people who wouldn’t be able to see much if I stopped by the side of the road in the darkness.
I tried to remember: Was this somebody I’d cut off by mistake, or who’d taken offense at the make of car I was driving? Somebody who hated people with Baton Rouge plates and a big dog in the front seat?
That bothered me: Digger would scare off most would-be robbers. If this guy wasn’t scared of a dog the size of a horse, it meant he had firepower.
Past Dying (The Alan Graham Mysteries) Page 8