All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (7 page)

With
my heart pounding rapidly, I
reassessed the situation bringing in the new information I had learned. The
thief, this Marlowe person, had stolen a diamond from Aldridge’s house and
promptly lost it in Smith’s chicken farm. The slaughter was ordered, I
presumed, so that Marlowe or a crony could investigate each fowl for traces of
the diamond. Once he found the real thing, he’d deliver it to Kruger.

Or keep it himself. Why else ask Holcombe to create a fake
diamond? Then there was Peete, the knife man. He named the farm as the likely
spot where the diamond was. Chances were, he’d go there. I had a strong
suspicion he wouldn’t care about Mr. or Mrs. Smith’s safety. I did, and slowed
my car long enough to make another turn. I needed to get out and warn them
before Peete found his way there.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the lane leading to Smith’s
house. The lights were on, the yellow glow slanted into the night. Smith opened
the door even before I had reached the front porch. One of his hands was
holding something just to the side of the door. I didn’t know what it was but
assumed it was a rifle. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Mr. Smith.” I held up my hands in deference.

“Oh, Mr. Wade, you startled me,” he said, his hand now coming
into view. He turned on the porch light and stepped out. “What can I do for you
tonight?”

I walked forward and stopped at the foot of the steps. “I’d like
to go visit your chickens. But first, I need to make a phone call.”

Mr. and Mrs. Smith let me into their house and I placed a call to
Leroy Dwight.

“Let me guess,” Leroy said, “you need something else from me.”

“Yes and no.”

“Well, what is it?”

I’m not usually one to chat about my cases with members of the
police, but I definitely could use a hand. I gave him the short version,
emphasizing that the Smith family needed protection but leaving out the fact
that a diamond might be lost in the coop.

“So you want a couple of guys to come out there and stand guard?”

“Yup.”

“The pay is good?”

“Yup.”

“I know a guy I can trust. We’ll both be there soon.”

A few minutes later, Smith and I both had on work boots—his feet
were just one size larger than mine— and work gloves. He and I carried flashlights.
Mrs. Smith carried a lantern. Together, the three of us tromped over to the
chicken pen and coop.

“A diamond,” Mrs. Smith said. “Is that what that man was after?”

“Yes, ma’am. The thief lost the diamond in your chicken coop and,
not knowing which chicken might have eaten it, contrived to have all your
chickens killed, one by one, and to search for the diamond in the carcasses.”

“But he clearly was never a farmer,” Smith said. “He never even
thought to check the manure. What made you think of it, Mr. Wade?”

“Growing up, my grandfather worked his farm and I’d help him. I
always enjoyed getting the eggs but hated when he made me wash the chicken
house. I was surprised when I saw all the rocks and pebbles in the crap. My
grandfather told me most rocks just pass on through.”

“You really think by giving the diamond back to that man he’d let
us alone?” Mrs. Smith asked.

“Don’t see any reason why he would need to maintain the
slaughter.” I scowled and stifled a wave of nausea. “What do you do with the
manure?”

Smith pointed over to a pile next to the hen house. “We compost
it and use it on the garden.”

“How often do y’all clean the coop?”

“Every morning,” Mrs. Smith said. “Otherwise, it gets to be too
much.”

I sighed when I examined the mound. It was of moderate size, but
still it meant sifting through a pile of manure looking for—well—what amounted
to a needle in a haystack. Hey, some clichés just reek with truth. So did
manure.

Smith walked over and, with a shovel, divided the manure into
three smaller piles. Nodding once, we got to work.

I sat down on an overturned bucket and put my handkerchief around
my face. It barely kept the stench away. I had a little system. I’d pick up a
small pile and work it through my gloved hands. If I found a chunk of anything,
I’d examine it in the light. Every so often, I’d stand and walk over to the
hose and wash the junk off the small chunks.

This went on for a few hours. When Leroy and his friend, a man
named Morales, arrived, I asked that they station themselves up on the porch.
When asked what we were doing, I shook my head and told him we were shoveling
shit, just like when I was on the force. The clock wound slowly to midnight.
Across the fields and through the corn rows I saw the lights of the rich
neighborhood and Aldridge’s house. He might be entertaining friends while I had
my hand in chicken shit.

A little after eleven, Mrs. Smith cried out. She held something
up to her lantern. Mr. Smith and I gathered around her. In the light, the thing
glittered despite the muck caking it. The gem was larger than I expected, large
enough to want to kill for.

“I think I found it,” she whispered.

“I think you did,” I said.

In a reverent voice, she asked, “How much is it worth?”

“Don’t know, but if there are men trying to reclaim it and
willing to do anything to obtain it, it must be a pretty penny.”

I glanced at her. In her eyes, I saw the temptation. She was
weighing the price and what that money could do for her and her husband. She
was wondering if they could get away with it. There were probably more things
running through her mind, but I eased my open hand to her. “Mrs. Smith, please
let me have it.”

Jealousy flashed across her face. Then a moment of shame. I saw
both. She flicked her eyes up at me to see if I had noticed. I gave her a warm
understanding face. Mr. Smith didn’t see any of it so she wouldn’t have to live
with his knowledge. She turned her hand over and dropped the gem into my palm.

“Thank you.”

We stood and looked at the diamond.

Mr. Smith said, “That should do it, right?”

“Pretty sure.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Turn it over to its rightful owner.”

Determining
the rightful owner proved more
of a challenge than I had gambled on. Driving home, I tossed up the various
possibilities in my head. I could easily give this diamond to Kruger, the man
who wanted it in the first place and hired Marlowe to steal it. It was the loss
of the diamond that prompted the order to slaughter Smith’s chickens, which
was, after all, the sole reason I had been hired.

On the other hand, the diamond seemed to belong to Oliver
Aldridge. It was from his safe that it had been stolen. Wasn’t he the rightful
owner, no matter how irritated that made Kruger? If I turned it over to
Aldridge, shouldn’t that eliminate all the unpleasantness?

I pondered the question all the way home and into my house.
Closing the door behind be, a bone-deep weariness descended on me. I was just
about to fall asleep standing up, but I moseyed to the kitchen for a quick nip
of whiskey. I smelled my clothes and realized I needed a shower before ruining
my sheet. Whiskey first. Shower second. I peeled off my suit and sniffed it.
Sure, it reeked, but I seemed to have avoided staining it with chicken shit.

I washed my hands three times, just to be sure all the manure was
gone. Getting the ice and clinking the cubes in my glass, I swore I’d never
tasted whiskey that good and that cold. I hid the diamond in what I hoped was a
good spot. I knew I needed a shower, but I just wanted to sit for a minute.
Just a minute. I fell onto the couch. I didn’t even take the time to remove my
shoes.

I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep until I started awake.

Normally, I am a deep sleeper. Not much wakes me.  But that
night, something soft did. It was the click of something metallic. In my dream
state, I half thought it was my own snores that woke me. I opened and closed my
mouth a few times, tasting the dryness in it. It felt like a sandy desert. I
was parched. I needed another drink.

I sat up, the springs creaking under my weight. It was then that
I realized I was still dressed. I glanced at my watch. Too dark to see. I moved
it so that the light from the streetlamp streaming through my blinds caught the
hands on my watch. Three in the morning. Sheesh. When was the last time I was
awake at that time of night?

I don’t know about you, but I can tell when another person is in
the same room even if I can’t see anyone. As I sat there on my couch, ready to
go to the kitchen, I felt the presence of someone. I couldn’t explain how, but
I did. Trepidation started to warp my mind. It was the middle of the night.
Perhaps I was just imagining it. Perhaps there really wasn’t anybody in my
house.

Then again, I also thought I had closed the Venetian blind on my
east window.

I tensed. The fog of fatigue evaporated. The click I heard 
must have been the click of the window lock. But if that was the case, then the
intruder would have been outside, right? How in the world could the window
latch have been opened from the outside?

It was then that I turned my eyes to the door. It was closed. I
knew that because there was no light coming from around the frame.
Additionally, it was in deep shadow so most things, including my hat rack, were
practically in the dark.

But there was a shape standing in front of the door that didn’t
belong. The shape was a man. I could barely make out the outline, but it was
distinctive enough.

Damn. There was someone in my house, and it didn’t take three
guesses to know why. The diamond.

There were no available weapons near at hand. My gun was in my
bedroom. Lot of good it did me there. The question now was: would he let me get
to the kitchen and get a knife? Chances were not good in that regard.

The alternative was simple: rush him and get the upper hand. 
The ache in my head made me wish I hadn’t partaken of two shots of rye. I
needed more sleep. But I needed to have that intruder out of my house more.

I stood and wobbled a moment. Were I a better actor, I could have
thrown in some histrionics, making it appear I was more far gone than I truly
was. Maybe throw my arms up.

I think he sensed he was made. I turned to the kitchen. He rushed
me. Damn, he was fast. He tackled me full on my right side. This guy, whoever
he was, probably had played football on some team. If not, he needed to try
out. He’d be a killer linebacker.

As it was, he basically ran over me. The force of his charge
clipped my thigh and sent me headlong over the arm of the couch. The side table
couldn’t take our combined weight and cracked under the strain. The sound of
the wood snapping filled the room like a gunshot. The lamp fell to the floor,
the bulb smashing to pieces. The lampshade tore off its stand and rolled across
the floor.

I grunted. My assailant laughed.

We ended up half on the couch and half on the floor. Our legs
were over the armrest while our upper bodies were on the floor. I jammed an
elbow behind me but only met with air. The guy rewarded my efforts with a hard
finger that jabbed in my exposed armpit.

I swore at the pain. Instinctively, I brought my arm forward and
captured his hand in my armpit. I thought I had him. He just dug his fingers
deeper into the tender flesh.

Grunting with the effort not to scream and to get those fingers
away from me, I reached out and grasped the lamp. I wanted to smash the hard,
wooden base on his head, but the angle was wrong. I grabbed what I could, that
being the base itself. I swung the lamp over my back and brought it down on his
shoulder.

It had little effect other than to have his fingers dig deeper
into my pit. Instead of a second swing, I brought the lamp forward and jabbed
it directly into the body behind me. I remembered that the bulb was busted and
I assumed that the broken glass might cut him enough to get him off me. What I
didn’t count on was a helping hand I got from the electric current.

There was an audible spark. The broken bulb dug into his arm. He
yelped and the fingers in my armpit left. I rolled forward and my legs crashed
to the ground. I rolled again to get distance from him. Still holding the lamp,
I got to my knees and assumed a fighter’s stance. With a short yank, I pulled
the cord out of the socket. I flipped my grip on the lamp so I held onto the
thinner end and was ready to smash the heavier base on his head.

The guy found his feet and stood to his full height. Crap. He had
five, six inches on me. This wasn’t going to be easy.

In the light that shafted in through the blinds, I saw his smile
and the teeth underneath. The hair was dark and ruffled. The dark short-sleeved
shirt was askew and there was a dark line down his arm. Was that blood? I
didn’t know, but I saw the muscles flex under his skin.

He moved slightly and the light struck the rest of his face.

Amos Peete.

Time to change the equation.

I had an idea Peete might not realize I had unplugged the lamp.
The plastic cord might surprise him. Why not give it a go?

I swung the lamp in the air. Peete flinched backwards, but the
cord ran across the floor to give him a heads up on its approach. He stuck out
a hand and grabbed the cord in midair. With a quick tug, he yanked the lamp out
of my hands.

I took that moment, surprised as I was, to change my tactics. I
was close enough to my kitchen table that a quick reach landed my hand around
the back of one of the chairs. I picked it up, took one step forward, and swung
for the fences.

Distracted as he was in dropping the lamp, most of the chair
found its mark. The legs crashed into the side of Peete’s head and I was
happily rewarded with a yelp of pain. He fell to his knees, his hands gripping
his head.

Having played baseball with his head, I decided to play football,
too. I kicked him. The man was fast. He shot out an arm and deflected my kick.
The momentum knocked me on my ass.

“Shit!” I cried.

“I’m here for one thing, but I don’t have a problem taking
something out of your hide.”

Enough talk, I thought. I got my feet under me and ran back to my
bedroom. I reached my chest of drawers and found my gun in its leather holster.
I cleared it and turned to the door. I cocked the gun and let fly a bullet. It
smashed into the door frame. Wood splinters flew into the darkened air. Some of
them must have landed in a tender spot because the man in the other room swore.
I grinned but my glee faded almost instantly.

“I got more where that came from!” I shouted.

“So do I.” A second later, I saw the flash of his gun.

Thankfully, I was in a crouch or else I’d have had a new hole in
my head. I heard the bullet sail over me and smash my bedroom window. The
shards tumbled down, tinkling onto the windowsill.

With an effort, I kept as quiet as possible. I knew I had only
one shot at this. As soon as I fired, Peete would see the flash and get a bead
on me. I wasn’t going to give him the chance.

I prayed the ringing in my ears would be duplicated in his. I
wasn’t terribly quiet as I scooched toward my bedroom door, but I wasn’t loud
either. I just hoped my knees didn’t crack. They didn’t, but the wooden floor
did.

I froze, holding my breath. I flexed my fingers around the grip
of my revolver. I waited.

So did he.

I tried something. “The gunshots’ll bring the police,” I called.
“This is my house. You’re the intruder.”

Peete answered with another gunshot, this one lower, closer to
me, closer to where my voice emerged from the darkness.

In response, I all but lay on the floor. I eased my way backwards
to the far wall. From there, I ducked down and slithered under my bed. It was
an older model, high off the floor. It was a family heirloom, made by my
grandfather. I thanked him for making it with enough clearance underneath for
storage. I was hoping it would get me out of this little predicament alive.

I got on my elbows, gun in front of me, and edged myself toward
the door. I caught a break. The outline of Peete’s lower leg was illuminated
from behind by the light coming in through the Venetian blind. From his
position, however, I knew he’d be able to pinpoint my location as soon as I
fired. That meant I needed to make my shot count.

Also, there was another obvious fact. If he got a bead on me, I had
nowhere to go. I was pretty much stuck there under the bed.

My ears were getting back to normal. In the distance, I could
hear a siren. Part of me wanted Peete to leave and be done with it. Another
part of me wanted to maim him and ask a boatload of questions.

I took careful aim. There was only a sliver of leg showing from
around the doorjamb. I held my breath and slowly squeezed the trigger.

The gun fired. I heard a yowl of pain from my assailant. The thud
on the floor must have meant I hit him pretty well. The chorus of curses
followed soon thereafter.

Not wanting to assume anything, I forcefully pushed myself
backwards, emerging on the far side of the bed from the door, just in case he
decided to charge the room.

Instead, I heard limping, then a heavy, meaty thump on the front
door.

I stood, my hands holding my gun out in front of me. I eased to
the wall and waited.

Peete grunted, wheezing in and out trying to stem the pain. The
next moment, he flung open the door. The doorknob, I would later learn, gouged
a hole in my wall.

The sirens were louder now. Still, I didn’t dare look around the
corner. I enjoyed having my head intact.

I counted to five, then braced myself for the pursuit. I took a
couple of deep breaths—were they to be my last?—and moved hard into the open
door frame.

Nothing.

There was no sign of Amos Peete. Wait. There was. On the door
frame, low, was a dark stain. That would be his blood. Damn. How bad did I hit
him that he lost that much blood but was still able to walk out of here?

One part of my mind told me not bad enough.

The other part was glad he was gone.