“Well, you’re doing a good job. I don’t think any of our readers would be disappointed if they came here for a hunt.”
“That’s good to hear. And as far as your shooting earlier...” he laughed, “believe me, I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” I said.
Mitch cranked the ignition and we started back up the lane toward the lodge.
I wondered what Amy would be serving for lunch.
Chapter 33
Lunch was every bit as good as the previous two meals I’d eaten at the lodge—BLT wraps and white chili made with pheasant meat. Once again I had to struggle to show some restraint.
Mitch and I were the last to arrive at the lodge after the morning’s hunt. We stopped first at the kennel building, where Jasper the Lab and Baron the shorthair, already back from their hunts, barked a welcome. Mitch headed on over to the lodge while I got Preacher squared away in her run, feeding her and giving her fresh water. I knew that after eating she’d most likely snooze the afternoon away.
As for my own afternoon itinerary, a nap definitely sounded inviting but I needed to shoot some photos of the lodge, both inside and out, for my article. After that, I planned to head back into Rushville to do a little more poking around and see if I could turn up anything more that might help me figure out what to do about Charlie Flanagan, and how to do it.
I carried my cased shotgun and camera bag over to the lodge. As I mounted the steps to the porch I saw a hand-lettered sign taped to the front door that read: Please leave your boots on the carpet inside. I stepped through the door and saw a row of wet and muddy boots on a strip of all-weather carpet beside the doorway. I followed suit and removed my boots.
In stocking feet I crossed the lounge and went upstairs to my room. I dropped my gun and camera on the second bed and took off my cap, vest, and the insulated hoody I’d worn underneath. I shucked off my brush pants and pulled on the jeans I’d worn earlier. I stepped into my moccasins and headed back downstairs.
The Larsons and the Parkses were already eating when I got there, and they hailed me as I came in and took the same seat I’d occupied at breakfast. I helped myself to a wrap from the platter on our table and a bowl of the chili from the crockpot next to the platter. A matching crockpot sat on the table occupied by the Parkses. Dave Larson grinned at me and asked, “So, how’d it go?”
“A little rocky at the start, but I eventually figured out where to point the gun,” I said. “Wound up with six quail and three chukar and I got some good photos of my dog, so all in all, it was a good morning. How’d you fellows do?”
“We had a good morning also,” Dave said. “We got seven pheasants, and Mike was responsible for six and a half of those. But no complaints on my part…Jasper had a ball, and it was just a fine morning to be out.”
“It was that,” I agreed.
Amy Halvorsen came in from the kitchen with another platter of BLT wraps and asked who wanted seconds. I was tempted but opted for a second bowl of the pheasant chili instead. The Parks brothers and Mike Larson all took another wrap but Dave declined.
“You’re going out again this afternoon, right?” I said.
“Mike is,” Dave said. “I was going to, but I’m thinking a nap might be in order instead. My old knees could stand a break, anyway.”
“I hear that,” I said. “I’m gonna shoot a few more pics around the lodge and make some notes for my article while everything’s fresh in my mind.” I didn’t mention that I was planning to make another run into town.
It got quiet for a few minutes while everyone concentrated on their food. Then Amy returned from the kitchen again, this time bearing a pumpkin pie in one hand and an apple pie in the other. She set them on an empty table and said, “OK, we have pumpkin and apple pie, so let me know your preference.” She laughed and added, “Of course, you can have a slice of each if you’d like.”
The Parks brothers laughed in return and I guessed they might take her up on the latter offer. Dave Larson groaned and said, “It’s a good thing we’re leaving tomorrow. If we stayed much longer I wouldn’t be able to waddle into my house when we get home.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” I said.
The Rushville town square was a busy place on a Saturday afternoon with strolling shoppers on the sidewalks and no available parking places on the street. I circled the square a couple times before I finally caught a break when a car backed out of a parking space in front of the Subway sandwich shop. I pulled into the vacated spot and sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do.
I considered paying another visit to the Rushville Tap but I didn’t really want a beer so early in the afternoon, the old “it’s five o’clock somewhere” rationale notwithstanding. Plus, I was still feeling the effects of Amy’s lunch and wasn’t sure I had the capacity for twelve more ounces of anything just yet.
That feeling of fullness helped me reach a decision. After lunch I’d spent about 45 minutes shooting the photos I needed of the lodge, but a little more exercise wouldn’t hurt. I turned off the engine and climbed out of the Equinox. I didn’t bother locking the door, figuring my vehicle was safe enough in a small town during daylight hours. Call me trusting.
During my circuits of the square I’d spotted an antique shop on one corner and for want of any other goal I decided to go in and browse a bit. That probably wasn’t going to help me come up with a plan for dealing with Charlie Flanagan but it gave me a reason to walk around the square, at least, and once in a while I’ve found an interesting piece of sporting dog memorabilia—an old print or a nice statuette—in such places. My home is decorated with those pieces.
I never made it into the antique shop.
I’d walked about halfway around the square when a white F150 pickup passed me. As it did so, I glanced at the driver and saw it was Charlie Flanagan. Though I’d only seen him for a few minutes the night before and he was now wearing a camouflage bill cap, I recognized him by his profile and his mustache and his scowl.
Standing in the open bed of the pickup was a good-looking yellow Labrador, shifting his weight to keep his balance.
I immediately bristled. A dog riding loose in the open bed of a pickup is an injury waiting to happen. Even if the dog doesn’t attempt to jump out if it sees something it wants to chase or investigate—say, a cat, a squirrel, another dog—any unexpected movement by the vehicle like a sharp turn could send the dog flying out of the bed and into the path of oncoming traffic.
There was little danger of that happening at the moment as the pickup was moving slowly around the square while Flanagan jockeyed for a parking space. Still, knowing that Flanagan lived out of town off the highway meant the dog had ridden some distance at higher speeds. Whether from ignorance or carelessness, or more likely both, Flanagan was apparently not too concerned about the dog’s safety.
I took a deep breath and kept watching. The pickup kept moving until it was a half block away, then I saw its brake lights flash. Just ahead of the truck, another car was backing out of a parking space. Flanagan waited for it to leave and then pulled into the space. Without thinking I quickened my pace, wanting to close the distance between us.
I was maybe thirty yards away when Flanagan climbed out of the cab. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and started walking toward me. As he did so, I looked past him and saw the yellow Lab brace his forepaws on the side rail of the pickup bed, then jump out and onto the pavement. He started after Flanagan and I could see by his legginess and lanky build that he was a young dog, not yet filled out with a Lab’s typical sturdiness. He was probably no more than a year old.
Flanagan apparently heard the dog coming. He turned and, as the dog drew alongside him, he drew back his right leg and delivered a vicious kick to the dog’s hindquarters, knocking the Lab’s back legs out from under him.
The Lab yelped and scrambled to his feet. Flanagan bellowed, “God damn it, Dusty! Get back in that truck!” The Lab wheeled and made for the truck at a limping half run. Flan
agan watched as the dog jumped at the side, hooked his forepaws over the rail and managed to pull himself back into the bed.
Flanagan turned back toward me, shaking his head. He muttered, “Son of a bitch” to himself but paid no attention to me. He walked another few paces and turned to enter a barber shop.
I stood frozen on the sidewalk, replaying in my mind what I’d just witnessed and thinking only one thought.
Charlie Flanagan, you miserable motherfucker, you’re a dead man.
Chapter 34
Like thousands of other Baby Boomers, I grew up reading the stories of Albert Payson Terhune.
Terhune was a newspaperman and also a prolific writer of popular fiction in the early 20th century, and his widespread popularity continued for at least another two or three decades after his death in 1942. He wrote mysteries, adventure stories—he called them “yarns”—and domestic dramas, but he is best remembered for the many stories he wrote about his Sunnybank collies—Lad, Bruce, Wolf, Gray Dawn, and others. A cult following of his admirers—myself among them—exists to this day.
In some ways, Terhune was a man ahead of his time. Long before the current crop of celebrity dog trainers and multi-degreed animal behaviorists, Terhune studied and wrote knowledgably and accurately of canine intelligence. He espoused the importance of the early socialization of puppies, and he advocated a regimen of strict obedience for his dogs, but one based on firmness, patience, consistency and rewards rather than harsh physical discipline. A favorite saying of his, repeated throughout his writings, was this: “A human can show his inferiority to his dog in better ways than by kicking him.”
Obviously, Charlie Flanagan was not a student of Terhune’s school of dog ownership.
I was enraged by what I’d just seen Flanagan do, to the point that my first instinct was to follow him into the barber shop and inflict the same savage ass-kicking on him, consequences and probable subsequent mayhem be damned. But I gave it a moment and forced myself to relax…or attempted to, anyway.
I started walking toward Flanagan’s truck. As I did so, I passed the barber shop and glanced in the front window. Along with two or three other men, Flanagan was seated in one of the regular chairs at the front of the shop, awaiting his turn for a haircut. Apparently he strictly adhered to a high-and-tight sense of style and was going to get his already-short hair cut even shorter.
When I got to Flanagan’s truck I stepped off the sidewalk and moved alongside the bed. The yellow Lab was lying there licking his haunch but lifted his head and regarded me warily.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. “You doin’ OK?”
I saw the wariness leave the Lab’s eyes and his tail began thumping the truck bed. He started to get to his feet but I leaned forward and stretched out a hand and said, “Take it easy. You don’t need to get up.” He settled back down and I ruffled his ears. The tempo of his tail thumping increased.
This was a fine dog, one far better than Charlie Flanagan deserved to own…in fact, after what I’d just witnessed, I was convinced he shouldn’t own an animal of any kind. His bullying obviously wasn’t limited to other humans.
I gave the Lab a final pat and straightened up. “Take it easy, fella,” I repeated by way of farewell. He returned to licking the haunch that had caught the brunt of Flanagan’s kick and I moved away from the truck, seething.
As a breed, Labradors have a fairly high incidence of hip dysplasia and any trauma to their hindquarters can exacerbate this condition. I hoped Flanagan’s kick hadn’t done any permanent damage.
Unlike what I was planning to inflict on Flanagan himself.
I cut diagonally across the square to return to my vehicle, passing the decorated pavilion on the way. I had a plan in mind but I knew I had to move quickly. Because of the other customers ahead of him, I guessed Flanagan would be in the barber shop for at least a half hour or 45 minutes. Not a lot of time, but enough—maybe—for me to accomplish what I needed to do.
If I could find a way to get inside, I was going to toss Flanagan’s house.
I doubted that he would be so accommodating as to have left a door unlocked. But I also thought there was a fair chance that he might have a key hidden somewhere. If I could find it—and again, I knew I didn’t have much time to spend searching—I was going to let myself in and see if anything inside his house might suggest a course of action…specifically, a way to kill him without incriminating myself or anyone else.
I started the engine and sat for a moment, still trying to calm myself. I couldn’t afford to get reckless and make any careless moves. Driving out to Flanagan’s house in broad daylight and going inside was risky enough; I needed to do everything I could to not add to that risk.
As I sat there, a curious thought crossed my mind. Less than 24 hours earlier I’d sat in a similar spot here on the Rushville square and wished for some deciding factor, something that would convince me once and for all that Charlie Flanagan’s death was necessary.
My wish had been granted. But I was damned sorry that an animal had to suffer to make it happen…an animal whose only real sin was his apparent desire to remain close to his owner.
Dusty—I was pretty sure that was what I’d heard Charlie call him—was, like almost all Labradors, friendly and apparently very loyal. My mind wandered for a moment and I recalled that it was a yellow Labrador named Luath who, motivated by his intense desire to rejoin his master, had led his companions, a Siamese cat and an old bull terrier, on a dangerous cross country trek through the Canadian wilderness in Sheila Burnford’s beloved classic, The Incredible Journey.
That sort of loyalty deserved a better owner than Charlie Flanagan.
I shook my head, shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking space. I drove halfway around the square, turned at the next intersection and headed out to the highway.
Chapter 35
There were tracks in the snow of the lane that went up the hill to Flanagan’s house, presumably made by Flanagan himself when he’d driven down the lane to go into town. As I turned in off Highland Road, I tried to center the Equinox in those tracks so Flanagan wouldn’t notice a second set when he returned. I didn’t know how observant he ordinarily was, but a clearly visible second set of tracks was bound to attract attention and leave him wondering who’d paid him a visit while he was gone.
I got to the top of the hill and looked around before getting out of my vehicle. Flanagan’s house, a white, frame two-story with a covered front porch facing the road below, sat to my left. To my right was a large metal equipment shed that appeared to double as a garage. Just beyond the shed was a dog kennel with its gate hanging open. A row of tall windbreak pines stood behind the shed and dog kennel, a space of maybe 30 feet separating the trees from the buildings.
I turned off the ignition and pulled on a pair of cotton gloves, the brown jersey kind you can buy for a buck or so at any gas station or convenience store. I hadn’t thought to bring a pair of latex gloves, but these would suffice to prevent leaving fingerprints. They also had the advantage of being brand new, so they were a tight fit, not yet stretched out to hinder dexterity.
I climbed out of my vehicle. The area between the house and the equipment shed was crisscrossed with tracks, both human and vehicular, so I didn’t worry about adding mine to the mix. Most of the snow was packed down hard anyway, so any tracks I left would be minimal.
Before approaching the house I paused and looked around in all directions. The land was rolling and wooded and although Flanagan’s house sat atop a hill, no other houses were visible in the distance, at least not from where I stood. I remembered from my drive-by the night before that his nearest neighbor was a half mile on down the road, meaning that Flanagan was fairly isolated out here.
That was good. I wasn’t likely to be spotted by a nosy neighbor who might tell Flanagan about my unscheduled visit.
I walked over to the front porch of the house and mounted the steps. As I did so, I glanced at my wristwatch. About 20 minutes had pass
ed since I’d seen Flanagan kick his Lab on the town square. That didn’t leave me with much time to toss his place, especially if Flanagan came directly home after his haircut.
I was guessing—OK, hoping—he wouldn’t, but I couldn’t be sure. I figured he’d probably take care of a few additional errands while he was in town, maybe stop in at the Rushville Tap or one of the other bars for a beer or two. It was Saturday afternoon and he might be in the mood to socialize a bit with some of his buddies.
Then again, maybe not. He’d been anything but social the night before and what I had just seen him to do to his dog suggested he was still in a bad mood.
To put it mildly.
Two all-weather chairs stood on the front porch, along with a table made out of a cable spool. Two European-style skull mounts, one an eight-pointer and the other a ten, hung on either side of the front door.
I tried the latch of the aluminum storm door. It was locked.
Shit.
But I should have known. I realized that like a lot of folks, Charlie Flanagan probably came and went through his back door most of the time…especially in winter, when snowy or muddy boots were likely. He probably kept the front doors locked from the inside and seldom opened them unless he was planning to sit on his front porch—something he wouldn’t be doing at this time of year.
I stepped down off the porch and walked around to the back of the house. Sure enough, the walkway outside the back door was shoveled clear, a pretty good indication this was the door Flanagan primarily used. A snow shovel leaned against the front of a small wooden garden shed a few feet away.
I tried the latch on this storm door and it opened. Progress.
The inner door, a heavy wooden number, was locked, however. No surprise, and this is where things would get interesting.
I’m not an expert at picking locks…hell, I’m not even an amateur. I wasn’t going to be able to let myself into Flanagan’s house unless I found a hidden key or broke a window. The second option was out for obvious reasons…I didn’t want Flanagan to know anyone else had been there.
The Killer in the Woods Page 18