by Linda Ladd
“Hey there, Patrick. How you doin’?”
“Who’s your lady friend?”
Huh? She couldn’t ever remember being called a lady friend before, thank goodness. That was almost as bad as lovely. Hillbilly-ese for girlfriend, maybe? Somehow that didn’t compute. “My name is Claire Morgan, Mr. Parker. I’m a homicide detective from Canton County and I’d like to have a word with you.”
If Parker was surprised to hear that, he sure didn’t show it. So why wouldn’t he show it? Hmm, again. That was the pertinent question, after all. He said, “Sure thing, detective. How you doin’?”
“Just great. And you?”
“Good enough, I guess. Come on now, let’s go in my office and do some of that talkin’.”
All eight hundred dogs were still barking. Well, maybe a dozen or so had lain off a bit and were just listening to the others. Their pleasant master ignored the racket. Maybe he was used to it. Maybe it was just background noise for him. Like static on the radio. She looked around his office. It was nice enough. Not as nice as that damn Dazz’s, but nothing about this place had turned out to be what Claire had expected. Truth was, she had expected a log cabin with newspapers stuck in the cracks and cobwebs in the corners and ten or so deer heads displayed on the walls, and a bearskin rug on a dirt floor, certainly not a designer brown-and-rust chevron carpet and matching tan corduroy Stratoloungers.
“How you been, Joe?”
“Good. I’ve moved back down to the farm.”
“How’s that purty little girl of yours doin’?”
Parker was still looking at Claire while he carried on his conversation with Joe. Exclusively. She resisted the quite strong but rude impulse to manually turn his face toward Joe with her extended forefinger or perhaps the barrel of her new Glock. Joe was probably feeling insulted by now, too, being ignored the way he was. She was feeling insulted. What? Did she have a hot chocolate milk mustache on her upper lip that offended said hillbilly? Slightly curious, however, she set forth an inquiry into the matter. “Why are you rudely staring a hole through me, Mr. Parker?”
That didn’t surprise him, either. Apparently, nothing surprised him. Lots of barking hounds didn’t, either, but they were sure grating on Claire’s nerves.
Parker presented with a big wide smile. “Well, ma’am, you’re just so dang fun to look at.”
Claire wasn’t at all sure that was a compliment. Maybe he thought she was cute as a button or maybe he thought she looked like Chuckles the Clown. Hard to say. “Thanks, I think. But Joe’s not all that ugly, you know, doesn’t shave every day, or anything, but not that hard on the eyes. He’s halfway fun looking a few days a week. You could glance at him now and again when he’s talking to you. Just to be polite.” She smiled so he would know she was just joking and wouldn’t slap her with a police rudeness rap.
Patrick Parker laughed heartily, just so dang fun and good-natured, that it made her dang suspicious. Problem was, though, a brother who had received the news of his brother’s recent and brutal demise, shouldn’t be so danged happy. She had a bad feeling that he didn’t know about it yet. Joe was laughing now, too, but it sounded forced and nervous. Joe McKay had a real wary thing going on about these Parker people, it seemed.
“Please, ma’am, sit yourself down. That’s good quality hot chocolate you got there. I only buy the best.”
“Yes, it is. I left some money on the counter. I’m not trying to filch it, or anything. I promise.”
“Oh, I know.” He was doing better about looking at Joe now. He had glanced at him once during that exchange. “Hey, it’s my treat. It’s cold out there, and gettin’ colder by the minute, too.”
“Thanks, that’s very generous of you. I do love my hot chocolate.”
All small talk died then, like a bum lightbulb. They all sat there, listening to the dogs yapping their heads off. Maybe the hounds were just hungry or wanted to be petted. That would take some time. Eight hundred heads to pat was a lot.
“You gotta lot of dogs out there,” she finally said. “You sell them, or what?”
“Yeah, sixty-seven, to be exact. I’m the vet ’round here. Most of ’em are mine, though. My brothers and I hunt lots of deer and coon and such. And everything else, too. We got acres of some of the best huntin’ land ’round. You’re welcome to come up here anytime you want and shoot yourself a buck, both of you.” He smiled, all ingratiating and sugary as sweet potato pie with maple syrup on top. He was being so saccharine that it was hard to ruffle his composure, it seemed. Claire wondered how many Fitches he had beaten, branded, or shot in his young and pleasant Dockers-wearing persona. “So, what’s up, detective? What you wantin’ with me?”
Claire heaved in a deep breath. “Do you have a brother by the name of Paulie Parker, by any chance, sir?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, he’s a comin’ up here later today, if you wanna talk to him. He’s one helluva fighter, you know, out on the cage circuit. A real champ. We’re as proud of him as we can be.”
McKay and Claire exchanged a disturbed glance. Joe didn’t say a word. Uh-uh. He wasn’t going to make any such notification. It wasn’t his place. It was hers. She wished that Bud was there so she could make him do it. It was his turn, anyway. “Mr. Parker, I’m sorry but I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Patrick Parker stiffened all over, not exactly stupid, and knew all about bad news lead-ins, it seemed. Impressive muscles now tensed hard and waiting for the blow to the brain. “What’s gone and happened to Paulie? He’s okay, ain’t he?”
“His body was found several nights ago. Murdered. I assumed his wife had informed you as to his death. I am truly sorry to have to shock you this way.”
Patrick was shocked, all right. He looked as if he had grabbed a live wire and held on too long. Then his brown bearded jaw went slack, large and soulful Hershey’s Chocolate bar eyes darkening into utter and sincere horror. He spoke through clenched white teeth. “The Fitches did it, didn’t they? The dirty bastards. They been hatin’ him ever since he started beatin’ them up in the ring. Which one of ’em did it? Tell me! Tell me which one of them sons of bitches took him down!”
Claire suddenly wished Black had come along instead of Joe. He could calm down a crazy whack job in nothing flat, being a famous shrink, and all. He’d done it for her mood swings plenty of times. To her surprise, Joe stood up and placed his palm solicitously on the poor guy’s shoulder. Parker was trembling now, all over, in the most pitiful, quietly enraged way. “Hey, man, I’m real sorry about your brother. I just found out today, too. We thought you already knew, we really did, or we wouldn’t’ve ever just showed up out here and given you this sad news.”
Okay, that sent Patrick into a calmer mode big-time and faster than Claire had expected. The guy acted like quicksilver ran through his veins. He was rather mercurial, to say the least. He slumped down in his chair, kind of like a blow-up figure with a pulled plug. His face looked absolutely stricken. “I just can’t believe it. Paulie called me just the other night and told me he was gonna come out here and do some huntin’ with us before he went out on the road again.” He stopped. “Oh, God, I’m gonna have to tell my brothers when they get here.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Lots of ’em, I guess. Paulie’s in the middle somewhere. He was the best of us, too. We always liked him best.”
Lots of ’em? He guessed? Nothing super creepy about that response, huh? He was so white faced and so openly struggling to control his rampaging emotions, however, that Claire almost felt sorry for him. Still, that answer had been straight out of bizarro world. She said, “Would you like a moment to gather your thoughts, sir? We can wait over there at the snack bar and give you a little time alone to pull yourself together.”
“Yeah, yeah, I sure would. Thanks.”
“Okay. Take as long as you like. We’re gonna stick around.”
Numb and mute now, he just nodded and stared off into space. He was taking it hard, all r
ight.
Outside, Joe looked down at Claire. “I don’t envy you and Bud having to tell people that somebody they love is dead.”
“It’s no fun, let me tell you.”
“No. I just saw that.”
They walked across the parking lot in silence. Claire stopped and looked across the way at a fence that stood about ten feet tall and was made out of corrugated metal and old boards. “I wonder what’s inside that enclosure.”
“Maybe he lives in there. I could just barely see a house and a barn standing way back off the road on that last curve we came around.”
“You’ve never been inside that fence?”
“These people aren’t my best buddies in the world, Claire. I barely know this guy. Just met him once or twice since I got back. I hardly know any of them, just from stoppin’ occasionally at this place for gas and groceries. I don’t know where the hell he lives. Maybe in that house way back there, who knows?”
“I’d sure like to get a peek inside that enclosure.”
“Well, don’t push it right now. The guy’s suffered a loss. I know how that feels.”
Claire looked quickly at him but McKay was smiling and looking pointedly at her diamond ring. He was talking about her engagement to Black. He just never gave it up. She ignored the insinuation.
Inside the quick stop, they moved at once to all the fried stuff. Both of them were hungry, despite the bagels, so they filled up plates with crispy fried chicken and fries and other unhealthy selections and chowed down together at one of the small tables. It was all clean; spotless, in fact. Again, not the kind of place, she had been expecting. She had been expecting an outpost fort in the early French and Indian wars.
“So who are the bad guys, McKay? The Parkers or the Fitches?”
Joe finished chewing his bite of chicken, swallowed it, and said, “Depends on who you ask.”
“This guy seems pretty normal, considering.”
“We don’t know him all that well yet.”
“Have you met any of the Fitches?”
“I’ve been scared to.”
Claire laughed, but softly, and both of them kept looking around for trouble. “I’m going to have to pay them a call one of these days. I don’t have an official reason yet, other than checking out Malachi Fitch, who’s a real piece of work, but I’d like to look them over and see if they’re as civilized as Patrick Parker appears to be.”
“I don’t know them, but if the Fitches have any inkling that I’m friendly with the Parkers, they’ll probably shoot me down on sight. Better wait and take Bud.”
Before Claire could agree, three pickup trucks roared into the parking lot, skidding to dangerous stops on the graveled ice. Four guys piled out, all decked out in camouflage, all big and muscular with scary-looking expressions on their faces. They all had rifles in their hands, too. Bevy of brothers, by any chance? She hoped to hell not.
Claire stood up. She had a pretty good feeling what the guns were for. They came rushing in the door like a four-man battering ram. They looked angry and distraught and determined. But face to face, they weren’t too bad looking, and looked a helluva lot like Patrick and Paulie. In fact, they looked exactly like Patrick and Paulie. Almost like a matched set of Parker sextuplets. Or identical clones developed by some evil woodsy witch doctor. They headed straight for the back door until Claire stepped out in front of them and halted their wrathful journey to kill or be killed.
“Excuse me, sirs.”
“Who the hell are you? Get outta my way, girl,” said one of them. Billy Goat Gruff voice, too.
“Get the hell outta my way,” said number two, equally annoyed and even gruffier and goatier.
The other two stared at the badge she was now holding up and showed not a whit of gruff. A couple of them darted a sidelong look at Joe McKay, who had remained seated, out of regard for his own well-being, no doubt. Claire just tried to find something that differentiated them from one another, without much luck, since they all wore the same Mossy Oak pattern of camo, too. A lone gold tooth, chicken pox facial scar, black eye, anything would be helpful.
“You the cops?”
“Yes, I am. One of them, in any case. I’d like to talk to you. I assume you are some more Parker brothers.”
“That’s right. Where’s Patrick?”
“He’s out in the veterinarian office. Have you spoken to him recently?”
“He just called and said that them Fitches killed our bro, if that’s what you talkin’ ’bout.”
“I’m Detective Claire Morgan, and I’m investigating your brother’s homicide. I want you to know up front that I have no evidence that the Fitch family had anything at all to do with Paulie Parker’s death.”
“Bullshit, lady. They done it.”
“I assume you have proof, if you’re making that kind of accusation to a law enforcement officer.”
“We don’t need no stinkin’ proof.”
“That’s from Three Amigos, if I recall.” Not that movie quotes were her thing, but Bud knew everything about that movie and had quoted from it several times and just last week. “But alas, I’m afraid you do need stinkin’ proof. Now please, sit down and calm yourselves. I have some questions to ask you.”
“Don’t have the time, lady.”
“Don’t call me lady. I am not usually a lady. But I am a homicide detective.”
“You a lady, too, lady.”
Oh, pul-ease, Claire thought. Why in the world couldn’t things ever just be simple?
“Sit down. All of you. Now.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to and you seem overly excited about killing members of the Fitch family.”
The four brothers then started looking at each other wonderingly and scratching their Greek beards, as if they were mightily confused Athenians. The biggest one and the apparent leader noticed Joe. “Who’s that?”
“That’s my friend. Joe McKay.”
“Yeah, Patrick knows him.”
“Please, sit down, put down all those guns, and have a bite to eat. I’m sure Patrick will be out any moment now.”
They considered all that, mumbled a short and whispered conversation amongst themselves, and then moved over to the snack bar and piled the rest of the fried chicken and fish on their plates. Okay, they didn’t seem that overly distressed at Paulie’s unfortunate circumstances anymore. Weirdos? You bet.
They huddled down together at a table meant for three smaller types and ate silently, their many rifles and shotguns propped in a nearby corner. None of them was crying or carrying on. That was peculiar, too, considering Patrick’s reaction. Claire sat down beside Joe.
McKay said, “Thought for a moment that you were a goner.”
“Yeah, you looked so worried that you continued to tear at that chicken leg with your teeth.”
“This chicken is damn good. Nice and crispy.”
“And you wonder why I’m with Black? He would’ve at least looked concerned for my well-being when confronted by four huge hooligans.”
“I’ve seen you in action. You can handle them. Besides, I left my rifle in the truck.”
“Maybe you oughta go get it.”
“Really?”
“No, too late now. I was joking.”
McKay took a drink of his icy Mountain Dew. “They don’t seem overly grief stricken. Seems to me like they’re more interested in killing ’em some Fitches than mourning their brother.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
For some reason, Claire had lost her appetite. Adrenaline surging through one’s bloodstream could do that to a gal, armed to the hilt or otherwise. But she had the energy and armament that she needed to take on the small herd of four large and heavily armed and mirror-image hillbillies. She looked up as Patrick Parker slammed through the swinging metal door. Oops, make that five large and heavily armed hillbillies.
All the Parkers jumped to their feet like marionettes attached to a single string. So did Claire. Joe took anot
her sip of his Dew. He had been a Marine demolitions expert. He didn’t get overly excited about much. He just came back later and blew the place to hell.
“Are you ready for that interview now, Patrick?” Claire smiled at the stiff-faced newcomer, but she kept her hand close to her Glock, glad she’d sighted it in at Joe’s place.
Patrick’s excited expression faded somewhat. He looked at his brothers, who were looking at Claire’s gun hand. He took a moment to calm his engines. “Yes, ma’am. You met up wit’ my bros, I guess?” Polite, so polite, all of a sudden.
“Not formally.”
Joe laughed. Nobody else did.
Patrick said, “I’ve already told them the bad news.”
“I gathered that by the firepower they brought along.”
Patrick frowned darkly. The other pissed Parkers watched Claire’s gun hand some more.
“Why don’t you introduce us? Let things calm down a notch. We don’t need anybody jumping to conclusions.”
“Okay.” He walked over to the table. “This here’s Percy. He’s the best shot of us all.”
Percy Parker nodded politely, his ire receding admirably. He, too, had that same interesting short brown beard, brown eyes, longish brown hair, except his was pulled back in a curly ponytail. His eyes looked almost normal again, the pupils no longer spinning, which was always a good sign.
“How many brothers in your family?” Claire asked Patrick again, still suspicious about his last evasive answer.
The Parkers all looked around at each other, as if they weren’t sure what to say. Then they all looked at Patrick, as if he would know. They all had the same expression on their faces. Claire wondered if they could even tell each other apart.
Patrick thought it through some more, and then he said, “Six, counting Paulie. Yeah, there are six of us, and that’s all.”
All the big, bearded, brown-eyed brothers began nodding, as if suddenly remembering that was the true number, too. Claire and McKay just stared at them, thinking them nuts, of course.