Dangerous Undertaking (20 page)
“Interesting.”
“It gets better,” Murphy continued. “Prison records and parole applications name next of kin for notification of emergency situations. Jackson has only one listed relative, his brother Odell Taylor.”
Tommy Lee pressed down the key, stepping on Murphy’s words. “Leroy Jackson is Odell Taylor’s brother?”
“Half-brother. Taylor’s father died when he was an infant. Couple years later his mother remarried long enough to have Jackson before the marriage broke up.”
The nerves in my neck tingled. “The drive to Kentucky,” I said.
“What?” asked Tommy Lee.
“Pace and I remembered that only the Colemans and Leroy Jackson were present at the funeral home when Fats said ‘too cold.’ But they left the visitation and drove straight to Kentucky. Fats was killed later the same night, after they had gone. We’ve not considered Jackson because we assumed he went with the Colemans.”
“Except the day you and I were at their compound with Pace and his intern, Leroy Jackson showed up and said he’d driven all night to get back and the Colemans were returning the next day. He had driven his own truck.”
“Exactly. Jackson could have stayed late enough Sunday to kill Fats and still have made the burial service in Kentucky.”
“What about Taylor?” asked Tommy Lee.
“Maybe he and Jackson are tied into everything together. Blood is thicker than water.”
“Tell that to Norma Jean and Lee Willard,” said Tommy Lee. “Blood is flowing like water and we may have a psychopath at the spigot.”
“And not a soul watching him,” I said.
“No one to blame but myself,” said Tommy Lee. “God damn it. Leroy Jackson has a free hand and we don’t know where he is.” He keyed the mike. “Thanks, Murphy.” Then he told his dispatcher, “Have Talmadge Watson brought to town immediately. I don’t want to take any chances that Leroy Jackson can get anywhere near him.”
I sat quietly while Tommy Lee finished radioing his instructions. Thoughts darted through my head like trout in a mountain stream. “Maybe we should confront Taylor now.”
“Why’s that?”
“At lunch, you made sure Taylor saw the newspaper story. Did he tell Jackson about it? Does he know what his brother plans to do? Maybe he’s waiting for Jackson to come to him. Our angle can be you pick Taylor up for questioning. You were supposed to see him today, right? You start asking him about his brother.”
“You mean overplay my hand,” said Tommy Lee.
“Yes, if he seems shaken. He might be expecting only to defend himself. You hit him with a lot of accusations about his brother—even if it’s conjecture, enough might be true that Taylor won’t be able to figure out what we know and what we don’t know.”
“And if Leroy Jackson is the triggerman, Taylor might not want to go down for murder. His record seems to be clean. All right. Let’s squeeze him a bit. Right now it’s the only bone this ol’ bloodhound’s got, and I aim to gnaw on it. You got a gun?”
“In the Jeep.”
“Get it. I’ve been sheriff long enough to know something goes wrong with every plan. You use it if you have to.”
I followed Tommy Lee’s patrol car out to the highway and we drove the short loop down to Odell Taylor’s double-wide. One car passed us, a Camaro loaded with costumed teenagers shrieking obscenities. They nearly swerved in the ditch when they realized they had mooned the sheriff.
Taylor’s trailer was only thirty yards off the highway. I could see him sitting in the living room. The bluish glow of a television screen reflected off his face. He moved to the window and stared out at the two vehicles that had just invaded his bare dirt yard.
Tommy Lee sat for a moment in the patrol car. I could see him talking into the two-way. He probably radioed his new location to the dispatcher, and I hoped he told him to send backup if he didn’t hear from us in ten minutes. Then Tommy Lee got out of the car and slammed the door loud enough for Taylor to know we were not sneaking up on him.
I jammed the holstered revolver in my jacket pocket and wiped my sweaty palms on my pants. I left the Jeep door open for a quick get-away.
Taylor’s silhouette crossed in front of the window. A yellow bulb came on outside the door throwing a pool of light to the edge of the driveway. Tommy Lee and I stopped at its outer rim and waited.
The metal front door opened and Taylor walked out onto the cinder block step.
“That you, Sheriff, or somebody with a helluva Halloween costume, patrol car and all?” He gave a nervous laugh.
“We need to talk, Odell.” Tommy Lee spoke casually, calmly. All the while he watched Taylor’s hands closely, ready to jump if there was a sudden movement.
“I looked for you at lunch. Kind a late now, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid it’s later than you think, Odell. Things have changed since lunch. I thought it was important to you that I pay a friendly visit.”
The Adam’s apple of Taylor’s narrow neck bobbed. I realized he was close to panicking.
“Come on in then.”
“No, Odell. We’ll talk by the car. I need to be by the radio.”
“Let me get a jacket.”
“The car is warm. I’ve kept it running behind the barn up on the hill where I’ve been watching you.”
Tommy Lee’s candor unnerved Taylor. “Why? I ain’t done nothin’.”
“Then you ain’t got nothin’ to be afraid of, do you?” Tommy Lee motioned Taylor away from the trailer. He kept him in front of us as we walked to the car, where he instructed him to sit in the back seat.
“You puttin’ me under arrest?”
“Just putting you in back so that all of us will be more comfortable,” said Tommy Lee.
I opened the car door for him and stepped away.
“Suit yourself,” he said and crawled in.
I walked around to the front passenger side and felt little comfort at the steel mesh hanging between Taylor and me.
Tommy Lee slid in the driver’s seat and turned around. “Tell me, Odell. When’s the last time you saw your brother?”
In the glow of the interior car lights, I saw the man’s lean, wolfish features flinch. “My brother?”
“Yeah, brother Leroy. Not in the church brother sense. The kin brother sense. Family. Blood family. Like Dallas Willard and his brother.”
“I told you I don’t know nothing about Dallas Willard.”
“Yeah, you did. And that’s where I’m getting confused. I’m hoping you can help me sort out the truth. Like you said, you ain’t done nothin’ wrong, so there’s no reason for you and me not to help each other get to the truth, is there?”
“No.”
“Good. Suppose I told you someone claims to have seen you and Leroy with Dallas Willard.”
“Who said that?”
Tommy Lee didn’t answer. He left Taylor’s question hanging and asked another. “What do you think of Fred Pryor? Should I believe him?”
“Pryor?” The name came out as a cracked whisper. “Did he say Leroy and I talked to Dallas Willard?”
Again, Tommy Lee ignored the question. I couldn’t help but admire the way my friend was manipulating Taylor’s responses.
“You know, I’ve made no secret of the fact I don’t trust that man. I’ve told you that, haven’t I, Barry?”
“Since the first day you met him.”
“Yeah, the Friday morning the power was out at the construction trailer. Reminds me, we got to get the paint match back on the vehicle that hit the pole that night. The night Bob Cain seems to have let any and everybody onto the site. But, we were talking about Pryor. Yeah, I believe the prick would sell his mother out before taking any responsibility for something that could hurt his career. Like admitting he knew anything about the toxic waste dumping. Man, his whole New Shores scheme would blow up in his face. That’s probably why he suggested the drums could have been moved by the utility engine. Without his knowledge, of course. He’s trying to appear helpful.”
“When did he say that?” asked Taylor.
“Say what? That man talks a lot. Frankly I was surprised he told me you came to see him this afternoon about Talmadge Watson. But like I said, I don’t trust him. What’s your version?”
“Look,” said Taylor. He sounded like he could jump out of his skin. “I don’t know what he told you, but I just asked him if he heard some old mountaineer named Talmadge Watson was inheriting some land he wanted.”
“So, he did tell you about his real estate scheme. So, if he told me that he knew you and Leroy had talked to Dallas Willard, it was because he had asked you to. And then he tries to make it look bad for you because it will be only your word against his. What a snake.”
“I only did what he told me. He’s my boss.” Taylor looked out the patrol car window as if he expected Pryor to be standing there listening.
The action did not escape Tommy Lee’s eye. “You expecting company?”
“Nah. I’m not exactly a trick-or-treat kind of guy.”
“Really? Would it surprise you if Pryor said you were planning to trick-or-treat Talmadge Watson tonight? What would he mean by that? Another one of those talks like you all gave Dallas Willard? Help him understand what’s expected of him?”
“You’ll have to ask Pryor. I ain’t no mind reader.”
“Come on, Odell, you just told me Pryor is your boss and you do what he tells you. Does that mean he can leave you twisting in the wind while he goes back to the comfort of his country club and boardroom? I think you’ve been given a new assignment. You and Pryor talked about Talmadge Watson all right. Who was going to take care of him, you or your ex-con brother Leroy?”
Taylor shifted in the seat, sliding away from the window. He spit the words out in a harsh whisper. “I never done nothin’ but talk. If Pryor said something different, it’s a lie. We were going to talk to this Talmadge Watson. Pryor was coming too.”
“He must be getting desperate. When?”
“Tonight. Pryor is going to make him an offer for the land. Nothing illegal about that.”
“And when he won’t sell, cause trust me he won’t, what then?”
Taylor said nothing.
Tommy Lee dropped the friendly tone and barked out questions without giving Taylor time to answer. “How about your brother Leroy? Does Leroy only do what Pryor tells him? Is that why Leroy murdered Fats McCauley with Dallas Willard’s shotgun? Is that why Leroy knifed Dallas Willard? Listen, Odell. Fred Pryor has denied any part of your brother’s killing spree. Pryor understands conspiracy charges. Premeditated murder applies to everyone who can be proven a conspirator, and North Carolina is not in the least bit shy about capital punishment.”
“I had nothing to do with any of that,” Taylor said. Fear tightened his throat and I got the feeling we were not going to get anything more.
“Maybe you didn’t, Odell. But what do you suppose a jury is going to think when they hear the description of how little Jimmy Coleman died in agony because you wouldn’t get medical help? What will a jury think of a piece of shit who denies treatment to an eight-year-old boy? I’m not supposing anymore, Odell. You do the supposing now. What do you suppose will come out of the foreman’s mouth when he stands up to deliver the verdict?”
Through a muffled sob, Taylor said, “The Colemans agreed. They agreed with Leroy. That’s all I got to say about any of it.”
“That’s all you got to say, huh? Well, I wonder what brother Leroy will say or do when I put the word out you’ve been talking to me.”
“No, don’t,” he pleaded.
The radio crackled to life. “Sheriff?” I recognized the anxious voice of Deputy Reece Hutchins.
“What is it?” snapped Tommy Lee.
“Kyle Murphy just telephoned. He found Fred Pryor by the construction trailer at Broad Creek. He said the man has been nearly cut in two by a shotgun blast.”
“Oh, God,” wailed Odell Taylor and buried his face in his hands. “He’s out of control. He killed them all.”
“Who?” shouted Tommy Lee. “Who’s out of control?”
Odell Taylor lifted his head and looked out the window, his eyes wide with fright, his jaw clenched shut.
“Who, Odell?”
The man had become a statue.
“Give it to me quick, Reece.”
“Murphy heard a shot. Ran outside. Found the body around the side of the construction trailer. Called immediately. Shooting occurred less than five minutes ago.”
“Osteen still in position at the front gate?”
“Yeah. He was waiting to tail Pryor. Nobody has come out.”
“Split the manpower, Reece. Cover all roads in and out of Broad Creek and the Kentucky compound. And put out a
BOLO
for Leroy Jackson. He’s driving—” Tommy Lee looked back at Taylor. “Come on, Odell. What is it?”
Taylor refused to speak. He just stared out at the night.
“It’s a blue pickup,” I said. “I saw it at the funeral home. Has a lot of rust and a camper on the bed.”
Tommy Lee repeated the description and added, “Jackson could be armed and extremely dangerous. He could also be mentally unstable. I’m headed to the scene. Whoever killed Pryor must still be on site. Barry Clayton will be bringing in Odell Taylor.”
I wanted to blurt out “I am?” but realized Tommy Lee was right. He needed all his resources concentrated at Broad Creek and the compound.
“Clayton? He’s with you?”
“Yeah, Reece. And be damn glad he is. Now you do your job.”
Tommy Lee got out of the car. A light rain had begun to fall. He opened the door for Taylor and ordered him out. “I’ve got a lot more questions for you, and I don’t want any trouble. You know you’re probably safer in jail anyway.”
Taylor didn’t argue. We walked to my Jeep and Tommy Lee cuffed Taylor’s hands behind his back. He put him in the front passenger seat and buckled him in.
Tommy Lee handed me the key. “And keep your gun out where you can get it.” He looked at my wounded left shoulder. “You okay with this?”
“Yeah. Just take care of yourself.”
“I want to hear this Jeep engine start, and then I’m gone.”
I took my Smith & Wesson out of the holster and laid it on the seat beside me. As soon as the engine caught, Tommy Lee peeled out of the driveway. I watched his flashing blue lights fade into the rain and fog.
My shortest route into town was over Hickory Nut Mountain. The two-lane road was narrow and curvy, but I doubted I would encounter much traffic. The light rain became a torrent as a storm front moved into the region dumping water by the bucket load. I dared not go over twenty-five miles an hour for fear of outrunning my visibility. The windshield wipers whipped across the glass at high speed, and the more I ascended the mountainside, the thicker became the enveloping clouds.
The single headlight first appeared soon after I passed the barn where Tommy Lee and I had watched Taylor. It just didn’t register at the time. On a down-slope straightaway, the reflection in my rearview mirror caught my eye. Someone was coming up fast behind me. A motorcycle in this flood?
Then Taylor shouted, “It’s him. He’s just got one headlight. He’s chasing us.”
I looked back in the mirror and saw the pickup truck emerge from the fog.
I sped up to forty-five and desperately tried to recall the pattern of twists and turns I knew were ahead.
My Jeep lurched forward as the truck rammed my rear bumper.
“He’s trying to wreck us,” yelled Taylor. The panic in his voice told me he was as scared as I was.
We raced on. I pulled my left arm away from my body, ignoring the shoulder pain and gripping the steering wheel as tightly as I could. The truck bumped us again, and then swerved into the other lane.
“Oh, God, his passenger window’s down,” said Taylor. “He’s gonna shoot us!”
I pushed the Jeep to sixty-five. A sign blurred past. One-lane bridge ahead. I moved to the center, crowding the pickup over. I knew the road bottomed out at the creek and then ascended again. The bridge was upon us. The truck swung against the side of my vehicle, but the Jeep held the road. We shot through the single lane bridge as one, missing either railing by inches.
If the pickup didn’t wreck us, the speed would. I knew I could never make it through the hairpin climb ahead. I had to get the truck off my tail or be rammed into the mountain. That meant risking a few seconds with it alongside. I eased up on the gas and braced myself, ready to brake as soon as the rear was clear. Then I would be on his tail. “Hold on,” I shouted to Taylor.
The truck came up beside us. I expected the driver to try and run me off the road. I risked a quick glance and saw the shadowy profile of Leroy Jackson illuminated by the dashboard lights. He turned toward me and lifted a shotgun with his right hand. I slammed on the brakes a split-second before the muzzle flashed. The Jeep’s windshield exploded.
Jackson’s pickup rocketed ahead as the Jeep’s tires squealed against the pavement. I was thrown against the steering wheel. Rain and wind blasted in, snatching my breath away. The Jeep fishtailed off the edge of the road, and careened out of control. I saw the bent and broken shapes of dead corn stalks fly up in front of us as we tore across a muddy field. A grass embankment caught the left front wheel, catapulting us into the air in a spiraling roll that flipped heaven and earth and sent us crashing upside down in a mix of mud and weeds. My head smashed against the door beam and my left knee jammed against the steering column. I nearly passed out from the pain.
I managed to undo the seatbelt and tumble down to the crumpled roof. Taylor was either dead or unconscious, hanging from his seatbelt beside me. I had to get out. Leroy Jackson would be turning around and heading back. I had only a moment at best. I felt for my pistol but it was gone. Everything inside was scattered. I reached out farther and my hand touched a string. Josh’s bow had been hurled from the back to the dashboard. The quiver was attached and a few arrows were still clipped in place.
I struggled through the hole in the windshield, dragging the bow and arrows with me. Crawling through the mud under the Jeep’s hood, I avoided the headlights. I wished I had turned them off, but it was too late now. The twin beams angled into the sky, and through the sheets of rain, I could see a cross on a steeple. We had crashed beside Hickory Nut Falls Methodist Church. Maybe a phone was inside and a place to hide.
I got to my feet and my left leg buckled under me. The knee throbbed. The bow became a crutch as I limped up the hill toward the rear of the church, staying clear of the Jeep’s lights. I kept wiping my eyes, not from the rain but from the warm blood that trickled down my forehead. I didn’t know how deep the gash was. It was the least of my worries.
The congregational cemetery lay between me and the building. I tried to find a row of headstones to use as a guide for an aisle of open ground. Stumbling across a grave marker in the dark would not only be painful, it would also be fatal if I couldn’t get back up. I had about fifty feet to go when I saw the single headlight come down the road. Jackson drove past the entrance to the church, stopped, and backed up. I dropped behind a double-grave monument as his headlight raked across the parking lot and swept the tombstones. The chill of the falling rain did not compare to the cold fear welling up inside my stomach. Fate had dealt a cruel hand. I was back in a cemetery facing a shotgun.
Leroy Jackson parked his truck at the edge of the lot where there were no grave plots between him and the wrecked Jeep. I watched lights and shadows flicker through the rain as he used a flashlight to maneuver down the short slope. I started crawling from stone to stone away from him, peering back as I dared to see whether he was coming after me.
I heard him call to Taylor a few times. Then he banged on the side of the upside-down door. There was no answer. He turned his light into the dead cornfield behind the Jeep. I saw the shadowy blur of something moving along the ground. Jackson saw it too. It must have been a possum scurrying for the safety of Hickory Nut Creek at the other side of the field.
Jackson yelled out, “Clayton. Come here. We got to get Odell to the hospital. He’s bad hurt. I got no quarrel with you, Clayton.” He took a few more steps toward the creek. “I never meant to sic Dallas Willard on you. That was his own doings. Come on, boy. Use your head.”
Again, there was movement in the corn. He raised the shotgun and fired. Then he charged forward, firing again. The dead stalks burst apart as if an invisible thresher cut a swath of destruction.
With the blasts still echoing in my ears, I struggled through the graves to the church. I found a back door and turned the knob. Locked. I ran my hand along the edge. There was no deadbolt. I threw myself against it and the old wood jamb splintered so easily I fell inside. I hoped Leroy Jackson was too busy shooting shadows to hear me.
The room was dark and narrow. I closed the damaged door behind me and hoped to find another room where I could lock myself in. If I could just hide for a little while, surely someone would drive by, see the accident, and call for help. Jackson would have to flee.
I felt a rack of robes hanging along one wall. That was probably where the choir changed. I found a second door and opened it. The machinegun sound of rain on the tin roof increased as I stepped into the sanctuary. Dim shapes of pews were in front of me. The main chancel was beside me, bordered by the wall of the choir room. Perhaps there was another room framing the other side, one that had no outside rear entrance and could be locked. The pain in my left leg made walking excruciating. I found a door on the other side of the chancel but it was locked. Dead bolted. The solid oak panels wouldn’t yield to my feeble efforts.
A light flashed in the windows of the twin front doors. I heard the latch rattle as Jackson tried to force them open. “Please, God,” I prayed. “Let them hold.” The sound stopped. He would be going around to the back now. I could only hope to get out the front while Jackson followed my trail to the rear. I made it to the last row of pews when he fired at the front doors. Wood and glass erupted into the sanctuary. I fell to the floor along the side of the center aisle. I clutched the bow in my left hand and drew the string. The pain in my shoulder caused my arm to collapse.
The shattered doors rattled again. The latch still held. I dragged myself halfway under the pew and pressed my right foot against the bow grip. I nocked an arrow. I would aim for his chest. One chance.
The shotgun roared again. Debris rained down on me. Jackson kicked in the doors, and stood on the threshold. He held the flashlight in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “Clayton! Are you in here? Let’s make this easy.”
Lying on my back with the bow horizontal to the floor, I clutched the string and stretched out my right leg, pushing the bow away from me. The initial pull of the draw was almost more than I could bear, but then I reached the break point and the bow pulleys kicked in, reducing the strain. I silhouetted my foot against the figure in the doorway.
“Come on out. I found your gun in the Jeep. You don’t think I’d shoot an unarmed man, do you?” He gave a heartless, soulless laugh that echoed through the sanctuary.
Spine. I remembered Josh talking about spine and the arrow’s flight. His bow matched his arrow, a simple target arrow without the razor-sharp broadhead blades that could penetrate the tough hide of a deer. With one arm, one leg, and a blunt arrow, I faced a killer.
Leroy Jackson took two steps inside. I arced my leg a few degrees, keeping my toe lined with his chest. I furiously tried to blink the blood from my eyes. He swept the light around the sanctuary, expecting to find me near the altar, the spot farthest away from him. Suddenly, the beam dropped full on me. I saw the light glint off the shotgun, and I let go.
For one sickening instant, I felt the bow twist against the bottom of my shoe, throwing the arrow higher. I flinched but there was no flash from the gun. Instead, a shower of sparks burst from the wall in a blue blaze that exploded like a Roman candle. The flashlight tumbled from Jackson’s hand, flipping backwards to rest with its beam turned squarely upon his face. The eyes were wide and his cheeks and jaw twitched wildly as his whole body jumped and jerked like some electrified marionette. I saw the feathers on the arrow melting. It had struck under his shoulder blade and impaled him like a beetle against the main power cable running along the church’s wall. The current, intercepted by the aluminum conductor, diverted through his rain-soaked body.
The smell of burning hair and flesh grew suffocating; then with a loud pop, it was finished. I had just witnessed an execution by electrocution.
Leroy Jackson hung from the wall, well beyond society’s retribution. I crawled toward the flashlight, grasped it, and passed out.