by R. A. McGee
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Porter said. “If me asking questions stirred up some shit, good. Something’s got to give.”
Spaulding nodded. “Something did give: it’s called your door frame. Just… try to let us handle this. If you find anything out, tell me. I’m committed to finding this kid.”
“Uh-huh,” Porter said. “I’ll be sure to come down and file a report if I find anything.”
“Why do I think you’re bullshitting me?”
“Because you’re not an idiot?”
Spaulding frowned. “I think I’ll take that as a compliment. I’ll write this up in the morning; I can't do anything until I get a little coffee. If the hotel needs to know what happened before that, have Ron call me. I’ll make sure they don’t charge you for the door.”
“Mighty nice of you,” Porter said, dropping the Yukon’s shifter into drive.
“Porter?”
He looked out the window, down at the sheriff.
“Don’t… do anything. Call us. I’m serious.”
Porter gave the man a halfhearted salute. “Yes, sir.”
He stomped the gas and drove out of the parking lot, leaving the sheriff and his sedan behind.
Porter drove back to the motel. He had no reason to believe the deputies would be back that night. They were probably somewhere trying to figure out how to put Adam’s elbow back together. He parked and went into the check-in building. Sam was there again, nose in a magazine.
“Hey, man, Sheriff Spaulding was here a little while ago. You know somebody broke into your room?”
“I’m aware,” Porter said.
“That kind of thing never happens around here.”
“Never is a long time,” Porter said.
Sam nodded, like he’d heard sage advice. “I like that.”
Porter squinted at the man. “Think you can give me one with a door that still works?”
Sam fished Porter another key from the pegboard and handed it to him. “Look, I called the owner and he said to comp your room for as long as you want to stay with us. Like, compensation for the break-in.”
“That works,” Porter said.
“Just come back sometime tomorrow and I’ll switch your paperwork out.”
Porter nodded and left Sam to his magazine.
“Never is a long time,” he heard the young man mutter.
He’d lied to Spaulding about several things, one being that his underwear were in the room. They weren’t; he’d packed everything in his duffle bag when he’d left that morning. With no reason to visit his former room, he went straight into the new one.
It was exactly the same as the last. Porter went through his ritual of quarantining the remote and phone, then dumped Lysol disinfectant everywhere. Satisfied he wasn’t going to get some exotic strain of leprosy, Porter went out to his truck, bringing in his bag and dropping it on the bed. Then he went back out again.
Porter pulled the confiscated shotgun from the floorboard in the second row and put it into his lockbox. He pulled out his own AR-15 and an extra mag, and locked everything up behind him.
He pushed the dresser in front of the door and lay down fully dressed, rifle on the bed next to him, and let sleep take him.
Mercifully, it wasted no time.
Twenty-Six
Pima sat as quietly as she could, her mouth closed, trying to make herself as small as possible.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Laura Bell said.
“Did I stutter? I mean all of it. It’s all gone. Nothing’s left. Not a thing. And I think… Bart…”
“Slow down, man, you’re talking way too fast,” Seth said.
Pima watched Richie pace back and forth, sweat pouring from his head despite the chill in the trailer. “Where was I going today?”
“The spot,” Seth said. “Dusty’s out getting some supplies. We were going to head over there and meet you in a little bit.”
“Don’t bother,” Richie said. “It’s all gone.”
“You keep saying that.” Laura Bell was sitting on the kitchen counter. “What does that mean?”
“What did I say, woman? It’s. All. Gone.”
“You’re talking about our shit?” Laura Bell said.
“Yes, I am talking about our shit!” Richie screamed. “What don’t you people get? It’s all gone. All of it. We don’t have shit anymore. Nothing.”
Laura Bell hopped off the counter, landing lightly on her feet. “What happened?”
“I ran some errands and I thought I’d get to the spot early. I hiked my ass all the way out there and I found all of our stuff, burned up.”
“Was it an explosion?” Seth said.
“Not an accidental one. Our stuff was piled up into one place and it was all melted down in the creek. And there was a body in there with it. I swear it’s Bart. They killed him, then they burned his ass up.”
“Must have been the cops,” Seth said.
“It wasn’t the cops, moron. They collect evidence,” Laura Bell said.
“Then who? Who could destroy our site and kill Bart?”
“The Mexicans,” Seth said sagely.
Pima watched Laura Bell’s face drop. “Why wouldn’t they just take our shit, Seth? They wouldn’t waste it by melting it down. It wasn’t them.”
“Then who?” Richie said, pausing his relentless pacing for a moment.
“I don’t know, but right now it don’t matter. We don’t have enough to give the cartel.”
For the first time, Pima saw Laura Bell look worried. Or maybe scared. She couldn’t tell, so she kept her mouth shut.
“We don’t have enough,” she muttered.
“I know those bikers have some,” Seth said.
“So?” Richie said. “Whatever they have isn't enough.”
“I’ve been talking to Colton. He was telling me his brother’s in the Peaks and they’ve been stepping up the production,” Seth said.
“Even if they have, we don’t have enough money to buy it off them.”
“Buy it? Let’s just rip them,” Seth said.
“Are you crazy? We can’t rob the bikers. There’s too many of them,” Richie said.
“They’re pussies and you know it. I’ve done more work than any of those guys. We just march our asses in there, lay some bodies down and take what we need. I’ll kill the whole fucking club if I have to,” Seth said.
“I know you’ll try, baby brother. But maybe it doesn’t have to come to that. I can get Big Man to arrange a meeting with the Mexicans, tell them we had an explosion and we need more time. Sometimes operations explode. Shit happens.”
“Don’t be stupid, those boys don’t care. Besides, you scared to rob the bikers? There’s only a dozen of those guys. How many cartel boys will be up here in a flash if we start jerking them around?” Laura Bell said.
“I don’t know what else we can do,” Richie said, sitting down on the couch. “I ain't running from nobody. No, I’m going to have a meeting and explain it to those bean-eating assholes. I’ll tell them they can have a better cut when we do deliver; they’ll like that.”
Laura Bell stood behind Pima, playing with her hair. “That’s not a good plan, Rich. You know they won’t agree to that. No chance. I hate to say it, but I think Seth has a better idea for once. We’re better off going after the bikers.”
“Damn, Sis, you’re supposed to be the smart one,” Richie said. “You know what? I’ll handle this myself. You guys just make sure you get enough equipment to start some new stills. We need to get back up and running yesterday.” Richie moved to the front to leave.
“Don’t do this. Stay and let’s figure it out,” Laura Bell said. “We can make something happen.”
Richie stepped over to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You just worry about figuring out our next spot, Sis. I got this.” Then Richie was gone.
“Damn it,” Laura Bell said, rubbing her face. “You guys just don’t listen.”
“What’s
there to listen to? We got no other chances. I don’t care what Richie thinks, I’m going after the bikers.”
“Seth, please, just listen—”
“You know that clubhouse of theirs has a back door?”
“So what if it does?” Laura Bell said.
Pima watched Seth get up and pull his pistol from his waistband. She hadn’t seen the gun since he’d tried to point it at her when she was in the tree.
“You know what that means. I’ll sneak in the back, then bang-bang. Their shit is my shit. And we’re good.”
“Just because I thought that plan was better than Richie’s doesn’t mean it’s a good plan. You’re both idiots. What if the bikers don’t have enough?”
“Who cares? At least I’ll get something. I’ll bet they got cash laying around. I’ll take that too. Then I can buy crystal anywhere. I’ve heard the Thompsons over in Morganton been making moves. They’ll sell to me.”
Laura Bell crossed her arms. “Okay, genius, let’s say this goes off. Who’s going with you? Richie’s out and I ain't no good with a gun.”
“I’ll take Dusty.”
“Dusty?”
“Hell yeah. All I have to do is set him loose.”
Laura Bell sighed. “He’s the biggest guy in Western North Carolina. Everybody will know it was you guys.”
“So? I told you I ain’t scared of their asses.”
“Come on, think,” Laura Bell said.
“Damn it, I am thinking. We gotta do something.”
“We will, Seth. We will. Let’s just wait till Richie gets back. Then we’ll sit down and figure this out together,” Laura Bell said.
There was silence in the room for a few moments. Pima watched Seth’s face scrunch up.
“Fine. I’ll wait. But if his ass doesn’t have a plan when he gets back, I’m doing what I think is best.” Seth reached into his pocket and pulled out his glass pipe.
“Do you have to do that right now?” Laura Bell said.
“Hell yeah. It helps me think.”
Once more, the sweet smell of meth filled the trailer.
And again, Pima held her breath for as long as she could.
Twenty-Seven
Fresh from the shower, Porter took a few minutes to dress his wounds. They didn’t look bad, by his standards. Given the events of the previous day, the deep gashes could have easily been gunshot wounds, which would have taken a bit more to take care of.
Like a trauma surgeon.
Instead, he felt confident that he’d be able to manage things, as long as he was careful. Fully dressed, Porter stepped out into the bright light of the day, rifle in tow.
There was a family loading up a vintage station wagon in the parking lot, the mother pulling the young daughter close as Porter walked by, rifle dangling from his hands. Moments later, he was driving through what passed for morning traffic, following the directions on his GPS. In the distance, he saw the technicolor trees, rendering the hills and peaks in inimitable shades of fall colors.
He pulled up in front of the brick building and turned the truck off. He reached into the back, pulling out his laptop bag and dragging it out of the truck with him. He paused for a second to reach back to the passenger seat and grab a couple of pictures of the meth cookers, then slammed the door behind him.
The library was smaller than the ones he’d used when he was a kid. Or maybe he was bigger. Either way, the space had tan floors and tan walls and a tan desk, and didn't seem large enough to hold more than two dozen people at once.
Standing at the front counter was living proof that Porter wasn’t the darkest person in town. The man looked to be in his mid-fifties and very fit, busy doing whatever it was that librarians did.
“Hello, young man.” The librarian’s name tag read “Lonnie.”
“Mr. Lonnie,” Porter said. “Any chance you guys have a wi-fi I could hook up to?”
“We sure do. Got it installed just a couple years ago. It runs pretty damn fast if you ask me.”
“Good. My motel didn’t have it. I’d usually go to one of the big bookstores and use theirs, but I didn’t see any around.”
“I think that’s a good thing. Keeps a place like us busy,” Lonnie said.
Porter looked around at the half-empty space.
“We pick up after school,” the librarian said with a smile. “You just need the number from your library card as the login. Password is the same for everyone.”
“I’m fresh out of library cards,” Porter said.
“How on earth can you live on this world with no library card?”
“I’m not from around here,” Porter said, “hence why I said my motel didn’t have wi-fi.”
“So? You don’t have a library card for wherever you’re from?”
“Nope,” Porter said. “I’m guilty.”
“Well, I’ll have to fix you up,” Lonnie said, leaning over to a keyboard. “Name?”
“Smith.”
“First name?”
“John,” Porter said.
“You have been gifted with a common name, haven’t you?” Lonnie said with a smile. “How about your address?”
“Don’t got one of those either,” Porter said.
“No problem, I’ll just use town hall. I do it for our indigent population. They like to come in and read a little bit. Well, they mostly nap on the couches, but better here than out there,” Lonnie said, pointing to the street.
“You have a lot of homeless folks in town?” Porter said.
Lonnie stopped typing, his smile dimming. “You know, we didn’t use to. Last few years, though, it seems like we get more and more. Drugs, you know? People give them a try and get hooked, it’s a short trip to the streets, you know?”
Porter nodded. “Drugs a big problem here?”
“More than it used to be. Seems like it’s everywhere nowadays.”
“Sheriff do much to stop it?”
“Spaulding? He tries, but what can you do? People gonna do what they want, no stopping it, you know?” Lonnie said, shaking his head. He punched a button and the printer behind him whirred to life. Moments later, he handed Porter a plastic library card, still warm from the printer. He scribbled something on a Post-It note and stuck it to the card. “That’s the password. You go on and get comfortable.”
That was easier said than done at the desks in the library. Porter smacked his knees into one of the small spaces, then sat on the chair, only for the hydraulic mechanism to hiss and slowly lower him to the bottom. It was a blessing in disguise, since he was now a bit more comfortable.
Porter fired up his laptop and started his search. His first plan was simple: check the jail. Google pulled up the link to search the jail’s roster. Most jails, even tiny ones, had an online database of who was in jail for what. The often-basic web pages would generally also show the amount of the bond, if any, required for the defendant to be let out of jail.
While every sheriff touted this as a way to interact with the community better, Porter knew better: it was just a place to pawn off family members asking questions about their incarcerated loved ones.
He started with the list of currently incarcerated people. Porter’s search of the page brought up twenty-three currently incarcerated inmates at the local jail. With nothing else to go on, Porter clicked each link that popped up, trying to see if he’d get lucky. Maybe one of his guys had managed to get put in jail in the last couple of days.
That didn’t happen. After fifteen minutes of watching the slow page open and shut, he’d struck out.
“Figures,” he muttered. He opened up his search parameters, asking the website to show him anyone who’d been in custody in the last year, but had been released for whatever reason. There were options to filter things by race or gender, but Porter didn’t use them. He’d seen too much sloppy data entry in his life. Leslie or Stacy being marked the wrong gender, a black person marked as white and the like. It would be better to check them all so he didn’t miss anything.
Two hours later, he was still crawling through the web page.
Lonnie the librarian appeared across the desk from him. “You’re working hard, Mr. Smith.”
“Please, call me John,” Porter said with a smile.
“Right, right. Can I get you some coffee?”
Porter shook his head. “It doesn’t agree with me.”
“Doesn’t agree with you? You mean the caffeine or…?”
Porter raised his eyebrows. “Trust me, you don’t want details.”
“Definitely not,” Lonnie said, walking off between a set of bookshelves.
Porter kept looking, digging through the jail’s roster of formerly locked-up people. An hour later, he felt like his eyes were starting to cross. As he clicked the close window tab on the face of Harold Sumter, a black man arrested for DUI, Lonnie appeared again.
“John, I feel like you need to take a break,” Lonnie said, holding out a bottle of water. “I figure this won't send you running to the toilet.”
“I hope not,” Porter said, accepting the water. He looked at the man for a minute. “You lived here long?”
“My whole life,” Lonnie said. “I mean, you take out the few years I was in the service. Then my Uncle Sam moved me around to a few different places, but when I got out, I came right back home.”
“You know most of the people?”
“Sure. There may be a few I missed out on meeting, but I’d say you’re the first new person I’ve met in six months, John.”
Porter picked up one of the photos from the small stack he’d brought in. “You ever see this guy?”
Lonnie took the picture and slipped the reading glasses that hung around his neck onto the end of his nose. He moved the picture closer to his face, then back again. “No, can’t say I have. I mean, he looks familiar, but that might be me tricking myself into being helpful.”
Porter took the picture back and slid it to the bottom of the stack.
The librarian looked down at the table and pointed to the other picture Porter had laid there. “Hell, I know this one, though.”
“Who, the big guy?”