Dangerous Undertaking (15 page)

“That’s the morning I mean,” explained Jane. “I always type up the daily report on the following morning. But someone had backed into the utility pole Thursday night and knocked out the electricity to this trailer. Mr. Pryor was quite upset about it.”

“Did he find out who did it?” asked Tommy Lee.

“That’s part of why he got so angry. No one stepped forward and admitted it. Security’s pretty tight. Someone had to have a gate pass-key to get on-site. And then it took longer than it should have that day to rehook the power. Some of the men were late to work.”

“Do you mind?” I asked. I picked up the notebook before she could object and flipped a few pages. Stopping at one of the entries, I said, “On Saturday, Pryor met with Bob Cain. Does your boss work Saturdays?”

“Sometimes. He always has me log it. I think he wants the corporate office to see how dedicated he is.”

“We saw Cain’s car here the day before.” Tommy Lee grabbed the journal. “Three to three-thirty, Saturday. No topic or reason listed. Do you know why Cain returned?”

“They meet frequently. Mr. Cain handles our security.”

“Was it Cain who left someone free to knock over your power line?”

“Maybe that’s why Pryor saw him last Saturday,” suggested Jane.

“Maybe,” said Tommy Lee.

As we stepped out of the trailer, he whispered, “I hope Pryor saw Cain last Saturday and tore him a new asshole.”

“Really?” I asked. “Can an asshole tear an asshole on an asshole?”

“Good question. I don’t know. But there’s its shadow.”

I followed Tommy Lee’s gaze to the edge of the parking lot. Odell Taylor stood beside a yellow bulldozer, staring at us.

Chapter 15

When we returned to Broad Creek the next morning, a second trailer had been parked about twenty yards from Pryor’s. A gray sedan with black-on-white federal plates was parked in front.

“I heard CEO Ralph Ludden has given permission for an EPA investigator to have an office on-site,” said Tommy Lee. “Let’s pay our respects to the Feds first. I want them to understand their information is my information.”

We were surprised to find Miss Jane Cummings seated at a desk just inside the door. She had a stack of files and notebooks in front of her.

“New job?” asked Tommy Lee.

She shook her head. “I’m assigned to assist in the collection of any and all relevant materials,” she said and rolled her eyes. Then she lowered her voice. “Mr. Pryor ordered me to grin and bear it. He said our guest will soon see there’s nothing wrong.” She glanced through the office door at the far end of the trailer where a young government agent was already going through a pile of books.

The man looked up from his work and immediately reacted to Tommy Lee’s uniformed presence.

“Sheriff Wadkins,” he stated and hurried out to greet us.

Tommy Lee saw Jane Cummings look at her watch, then grab her purse. “I need to speak with you,” he said. “Don’t leave for lunch yet.”

“Kyle Murphy,” said the agent, and he firmly shook our hands. “Phillip Camas told me to expect you. I’m in charge of the investigation in so far as the power company may be involved. Miss Cummings has provided the project journals, and Mr. Pryor is lending assistance during crew interviews and site analysis. If there is any way I can aid your murder case, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” said Tommy Lee. “Has the Pisgah Paper Mill connection led anywhere?”

“Not yet. We’re not surprised. It’s a defunct company, and no former manager wants to admit he improperly or illegally disposed of those cylinders.”

“That’s what I figured. Well, I can’t think of anything I need right now. Don’t let me keep you from your paperwork. I just have a few questions for Miss Cummings.” He turned to the woman who sat fidgeting with her purse. “We can talk on the way to your car, can’t we?”

Outside the new trailer, we walked ahead of the woman until we reached her vehicle. Tommy Lee leaned against the driver’s door, making it clear she would have to get through him and his questions. “Did Mr. Murphy ask you anything unusual?” He folded his arms across his chest as if he could stand there all day.

“Guess not. Lot of questions about Mr. Pryor. Did his habits change recently? Does he drink on the job? Is he seeing people at the office not tied to the project?”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I haven’t noticed anything. I just try to do what Mr. Pryor wants. He’s not one of the easiest people I’ve ever worked for.”

“He is a tight-ass, isn’t he?”

Jane Cummings didn’t smile. “Getting tighter by the hour.”

I got the distinct feeling the lure of being in a Charlotte skyscraper with Pryor was losing its charm. He struck me as one of those men who lash out under pressure. Jane Cummings would be an easy target.

“He ever have any arguments with the men? I’ve known construction guys to be a hotheaded lot.”

“Not really. The subcontractors are specialists. Ridgemont bids and buys the best. Odell Taylor handles the general laborers. He and Mr. Pryor seem to get along fine.”

“What about Bob Cain? What does he do?”

“I don’t know. He has meetings with Pryor and reviews our security arrangements. He doesn’t come to the site that often.” Jane looked at her watch for the third time. “Can we talk later? I’m meeting a girlfriend for lunch.”

Tommy Lee ignored the plea and pressed forward to the main point of his inquiry. “We were here last Friday when the power was off. Someone knocked out the electricity.”

“Yes. Right over there.” She pointed to the far end of the gravel parking lot where the fifteen-foot pole supported the cable feeding the trailer.

“Put in a new one?” asked Tommy Lee.

“No. It didn’t actually fall down. Just got bumped enough to snap the wire. The guys straightened it and restrung the power line.”

“The guys. These the men who came in late?”

“Yes.”

“Remember who they were?”

“Odell and some of the Kentucky crowd. Faron Thomas and Junior Crawford.”

“Luke Coleman?”

“Don’t remember. Think he was sick last Friday.”

“Pryor must have blown his stack when they were late. He sure seemed hot when we talked to him.”

“That’s kind of funny. He was angry when he first got here, but when Odell and the men finally showed up, he joked about it. Didn’t even dock their hours.”

Tommy Lee didn’t ask any further questions. He stepped aside and opened the door. “Thanks for your time, Miss Cummings. I’ll be back in touch.”

As her car drove away, we walked the length of the parking lot to the utility pole. One section, about three feet off the ground, still showed splintered damage. A streak of blue paint marked the spot where a fender or tail-gate had wedged against the treated timber.

“Pryor drives a blue car,” I said. “Could he have done it himself?”

“Maybe,” said Tommy Lee. “He could have been too arrogant to admit to us or Jane Cummings that he did something stupid like that. Easier to blame it on the crew.” He looked at Pryor’s empty parking spot. “I see he skipped on us. Probably saw us go into Kyle Murphy’s trailer and now will claim he had a meeting and couldn’t hang around.”

I followed Tommy Lee back into the EPA investigator’s office. Kyle Murphy looked up from his papers.

“I’m heading out,” said Tommy Lee.

“Was she any help?” asked Murphy.

“Not particularly. Mentioned a few possibilities. I guess you’re already checking into Bob Cain?”

Murphy’s face went blank as he struggled to place the name.

“Cain,” repeated Tommy Lee. “The outsider who consulted on security. Miss Cummings didn’t know why he kept coming by for special weekend meetings.” The sheriff let the words “special weekend” roll off with an ominous inflection. “It’s awkward for me to investigate. Cain is challenging me in next month’s election.”

“Oh, yes. He’s on our list. Appreciate your sensitivity. We’ll keep you out of it, but we’re going to have to make him a priority.”

“Whatever you think best,” said Tommy Lee. “We’ll stay in touch.”

He chuckled to himself as we stepped outside.

“Whatever you think best,” I repeated. “You’re wicked. By tomorrow morning, Cain will be a bug under a huge federal microscope.”

“Yeah,” said Tommy Lee. “A bug I hope gets squashed.”

Since there was nothing I could do to help Tommy Lee on Saturday, I decided to enjoy some normalcy and get as far removed from a multiple murder investigation as I could. At nine-thirty I turned into Fletcher’s pasture, which serves as the park-free zone for all the archery tournaments at our club. Although my wounded shoulder would not allow me to compete in my favorite hobby, I thought walking the course as a spectator would do my spirits some good.

Susan rode beside me in the Jeep, dressed in lightweight, wheat-colored jeans and a red cotton blouse. She’d rolled the cuffed sleeves back from her wrists. A novice at her first tournament, she had taken my warning about ticks to heart and left little skin exposed.

Breakfast had been a treat, not only because Susan had given into Herbie’s House of Pancakes and their buttermilk flapjacks smothered in real Vermont maple syrup, but also because she was a wonderful diversion from the cyclone of events usurping my life. Now she and the tournament promised to take me away from those problems for awhile.

I parked between a 1963 Impala and a new Range Rover. The vehicles epitomized the socioeconomic span of the participants. Trunks and car doors stood open as archers selected their equipment for the day. To the uninitiated, it appeared to be a tailgate party or impromptu flea market. Susan saw everything through fresh eyes, and as we walked along, she didn’t hesitate to barrage me with questions.

“Why are there wheels on the bows?” She pointed to two men sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck. Each held a compound bow. The cam wheels at the tips and the multiple strings linking them together certainly gave the impression of a contraption that would have caused Robin Hood to shake his head in disbelief.

I overheard enough of their conversation to recognize the endless arguments that keep archers jawing for hours: magnesium vs. wood vs. aluminum for bow construction, the ideal arrow weight, the perfect flight speed, ad nauseam.

“The wheels act like pulleys on a block and tackle rig,” I explained. “Draw back the bow and sixty pounds of effort can be reduced to thirty pounds. The more power in a bow, the harder it is to pull. This design lets even a woman shoot a hunting bow.”

“Even a woman?” Susan drenched me with sarcasm.

“Did I say woman? I meant even a wimp like myself.”

“Barry!”

I heard my name on the open air.

“Barry,” shouted Josh Birnam. He stood at the end of the row of cars, waving his bow over his head.

Josh and I could pass for brothers. The color of our sandy, curly hair matched perfectly, and we both cut it the same. Josh wore glasses and stood a couple of inches taller at an even six feet, but we drew the same length arrow which, in an archer’s eye, made us the same height. He was thirty-five, five years older than me, and he looked it, thank God. As we walked toward him, I enjoyed watching the curiosity grow on his face.

“Josh, you know Dr. Susan Miller.”

He shook her hand and then looked at me. “So, you brought a doctor along just to back up this phony sling as your excuse to get out of the tournament?”

“That’s right. I did his surgery myself,” said Susan.

Josh didn’t miss a beat. “Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?” asked Susan.

“Why you’re with this turkey. Professional duty, right? No good-looking woman would hang around him voluntarily. And I apologize, Barry. Obviously, you’re severely injured.”

“Tell me, Josh,” she said. “Do you shoot arrows as well as you shoot bull?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He laughed. “But maybe my arrow shooting will improve. I got the new bow, Barry.” Josh held out his prize for me to admire. The high-gloss silver and camo finish enhanced the image of its technical wizardry.

“So, you went with the Lightning,” I said.

“Yeah, Darton makes another bow I liked, but this one just has such a great feel. I jumped to a sixty-pound pull, and at full draw, it’s no heavier than my old one. Want to try it?”

“With what?” I asked. “My feet?”

“Hey, that might improve your scores,” he said. “Surely something can. I brought you my old bow and arrows.”

He reached into the rear of his SUV and pulled out another camo-colored bow and quiver of arrows.

“Josh is a certified archery addict,” I said to Susan. “He has to get the latest and greatest.”

“Why are you giving Barry your arrows?” she asked.

“My new bow takes a stiffer spine. And who said anything about giving. Shoot them, Barry, and if you like them, we can work out something on next year’s tax fee. The fletchings are in good shape. I’m not just giving you the shaft.”

“This will be a first.”

“Why do arrows have to match a bow?” asked Susan.

“It’s all very scientific,” said Josh. “The arrow has to bend a little as the bow releases its stored energy, but the arrow can’t flex too much or it wobbles. Either way accuracy suffers. Barry has a wimpy bow, so he’ll have to use these arrows with this bow.”

“I guess even a woman could shoot Barry’s,” said Susan.

“Yeah, even a woman,” agreed Josh, not realizing he was trampling through a flower bed.

Susan smiled at me. “So, show us what a real man can do.”

We transferred Josh’s old bow and arrows to my Jeep, and then followed him to the practice range that hugged the boundary of the pasture and woods. Six targets lined the edge of the forest. Multiple stakes marked the distances from them. Archers waited in line for a chance to set their bow sights because once on the actual course, the distances would be unknown, just like in hunting. The archers would have to estimate and adjust their sights against the tested reference points.

These targets were not the multi-colored concentric rings around the gold bull’s-eye that most people remember from a few hours of practice at summer camp. Instead the only clear spot to aim at was a small black circle on a white field. I realized as Josh sent four arrows inside that sweet circumference that he would be hell to beat whenever I started shooting again.

“Okay. Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, after nailing another four from sixty yards. “Let’s go join up with Doug and Sally Turner. We go off at ten. I knew they wouldn’t mind you tagging along, and the total number of entrants worked out so that we can stay a threesome without adding someone who may object to my little entourage.”

Normally, tournament rules allowed four archers to shoot the course together, much like a foursome in golf. A path wound through the woods, passing by thirty different three-dimensional targets. Thirty molded replicas of deer, bear, and a variety of small game animals constituted the challenge. Clean “kills” scored ten points. Other hits counted for eight or five. A perfect round was three hundred.