Death in the Distillery (27 page)

"Yeah, I understand."

"But, if you're not ..

Our eyes met, and his promise was explicit in his gaze.

"I know."

"This is business. Nothing personal."

"I know."

With a grim shake of his head, he crossed the room and
opened the door. "Huey will take you out there. He'll stop
the others if they haven't got the word to lay off."

I reached for my Colt. "I might need this."

He arched an eyebrow.

With a chuckle, I shook my head. "Don't worry. It isn't
for Huey. Probably wouldn't stop him anyway."

Danny chuckled. "Probably not."

The storm approached the city. A few sprinkles of rain
dotted the windshield of the Lexus as we wound out of
downtown Austin. I had Huey pull into a twenty-four-hour
convenience store where I purchased a couple of flashlights.

I paused at the telephone carrel beside the door and
pulled Patterson's set of numbers from my pocket. I read
through them, glanced at the keypad on the telephone, and
jotted down the next set of numbers.

The drizzle grew heavier.

Back in the Lexus, Huey stared at me, puzzled. "What
was the phone business?"

Taking a deep breath, I patted my shirt pocket. "I'm hoping this is where I find the final piece of the blackmail
puzzle, Godz ... I mean, Huey."

"I don't understand."

I nodded in the direction of the distillery. "You don't
have to. Just drive." I hesitated. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to
bounce my little theory off someone, even someone like
Huey. I showed him the number: 2-91-147878969632.
"You see this?"

He glanced at the numbers as he pulled onto the highway. "Yeah."

"Well, here's how it goes ... I think. First, the two indicates the rackhouse where they age whiskey. Ninetyone is the year the batch was put up for aging."

He laid a sausage-thick finger on the paper. "What's
them other numbers?"

"A code."

"A code?" He frowned. "What kinda code?"

"Simple and smart, Huey. Simple and smart. Ls. The first
four digits form an L on the keypad of any push button
telephone. Starting with one, you have four, seven, then
eight.

Then beginning at seven, the next L is seven, eight, nine,
six. Then moving counter-clockwise to the next corner, the
next four numbers make another L."

"That's the last of the numbers," he said, pointing to the
9632.

"Yeah. So, what's the next logical set of numbers?"

He frowned. "Huh?"

"Patterson was a puzzle freak. He played games with
numbers, and that's what he did here." I showed him my
notebook. "The next logical set of numbers is three, two,
one, four. The next L on the keypad."

His eyes grew wide. "Yeah. I see what you're talking
about. Hey, that's pretty slick."

I cautioned him. "If I'm right. And, if I am, we're looking for barrel number three thousand, two hundred and
fourteen in the batch of whiskey barreled in 1991 and
stored in Rackhouse Two."

He pursed his lips. "Why?"

I leaned back against the seat and stared out the window.
"For the answer to this whole mess."

I crossed my fingers. If my hunch was wrong, I'd blown
the whole caper. And Danny's bosses would see that I
never had the chance to do it again.

The rain grew harder, and the windshield wipers
thumped back and forth. Just ahead, lightning lanced at the
ground.

Only a couple of security lamps lit the grounds of the
otherwise dark distillery. I opened the glove compartment
and reread the list of numbers, 2-91-147878969632. I
stared at the four I had added, 3214. I shook my head at
Patterson's ingenuity.

"Okay. Drive me to Rackhouse Two." I nodded to a distant building almost obliterated by the driving rain.

I glanced around, expecting lights to be flashing on as
we drove up, but the distillery continued to slumber, except
for a single lit window in the lab and the security light in
front of the maintenance barn.

Through the window, I spotted the Massey Ferguson
230, and then I captured the tenuous thought that had been
evading my grasp. I glanced at the ghostly bulk of the giant
oak, and I knew exactly how the killer made his escape.
And it wasn't hanging from a limb until the tandem disc
passed.

Huey parked in front of the double doors and shut off
the engine. I handed him a flashlight. "Get a tire tool and
let's go."

He grunted.

I opened the door and made a dash for the rackhouse
doors.

Moments later, he met me just inside the double doors,
tire tool in hand. I shook the water off my head and shone
the flashlight beam on the paper in my hand. "Like I said,
here's the serial number we're looking for: 91-3214."

I headed for the first row of barrels, stacked in racks four
high. Huey followed, surprisingly light on his feet considering his size. The flashlight beams slashed through the
darkness like swords, settling on the white patch of paint
on the first row of white oak barrels. "There. Ninety-four,
six, five ... must be a couple of rows over," I whispered.
The next several rows were ninety-three, then ninety-two,
and finally, fourteen rows over, ninety-one. My heart thudded in my chest when I focused the beam on ninety-one,
one, zero, zero, zero.

The next row began at two thousand. "It's in the next one over," I exclaimed. Sure enough, the first serial number
was 91-3000.

I paused. What if I was wrong?

I shook my head. I wasn't wrong. It all fit together too
neatly. With Huey on my heels, I hurried down the dark
aisle of the cavernous rackhouse, the puny beam of the
flashlight punching a tiny hole in the darkness ahead of us,
illuminating the serial numbers. The rain drummed on the
roof, ominous background music as we crept down the row.

Suddenly, I jerked to a halt. I centered the beam on the
barrel in the third rack, almost head high. There it was,
barrel 91-3214.

Huey whispered. "That it?"

I stared at the barrel, unable to believe I had actually
found it; that there actually was a barrel with this number.
I had to hand it to Patterson. He kept the barrel hidden for
years by simply changing the year of production. I moved
closer to study the serial number. If I was right, there might
be some faint traces of black smudge against the white
background.

To my disappointment, there was no indication of the
year having been altered. But, it had to have been. I ran
the beam of light along the barrel, noting the tight fit of
the staves, the precision-like placement of the metal bands.
I tried to imagine what was inside the barrel.

Outside, the lightning crashed.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah. I think this is it. Now, give
me a hand. Let's turn the barrel until the bung is facing
us."

Together, we managed to skid the barrel in the rack until
the bung hole stared at us.

Overhead, the rain pelted the roof with a steady drumming.

Huey looked down at me. "Now what?"

I shook my head. I cocked my head back and stared up
at the big man. "Now, we're going to find out if I'm a
detective or a teacher with no future."

"Huh?"

"I'll explain later. There, the bung hole. Use the tire tool
and knock out the plug."

He frowned, but Danny had him trained. Huey did exactly what I asked. With one sharp blow, he popped the
plug loose.

Brown liquid spurted out on the dirt floor splattering mud
on our trousers. Before I could say a word, a pale hand and
thin wrist popped through the hole, abruptly halting the
flow of whiskey."

"What the-!" Huey barked in surprise.

A crash of lightning reverberated throughout the rackhouse.

I could only gape at the tiny, slightly wrinkled forearm
protruding from the whiskey keg, its lightly colored flesh
plugging the flow of whiskey.

I had found Katherine Voss.

I heart a faint pop, and Huey groaned and slumped to
the ground. Behind me, whiskey spurted from another barrel-through the hole punched in it by the slug.

I spun, but a beam of light blinded me. "Don't move an
inch," said the voice, a familiar one.

Squinting into the light, I nodded slowly. "Forget about
it. You don't stand a chance, Jackson. I know exactly what
happened, and it's all on paper, even down to this barrel
where you hid Katherine Voss ten years ago."

The light moved closer. "Shut up. Keep your light on
the floor."

My beam shone on Huey, who lay motionless on the
floor. Jackson nudged the prostrate man with the toe of his
shoe. A stain of blood spread across Huey's chest. "This
one won't bother anyone. Okay, now turn around."

I hesitated.

"Don't try it, Boudreaux. Don't try it. Now, turn
around."

Reluctantly, I did as he ordered. He patted me down,
finding the Colt in my coat pocket. "You won't need this,"
he said, dropping it into his own pocket. "Now, head for
the door."

Outside, he pointed me toward the building that housed
the Saladin Box. The rain fell steadily, soaking us. Raising
his voice against the storm, he moved up close behind me.
"Don't get brave. In this rain, nobody can hear a thing."

I kept waiting for lights to pop on around us, just enough
distraction for me to try to get away, but as my luck would
have it, Jackson was right. The windows remained dark.
Either the storm was too noisy or everyone was sleeping.

One chance. When I stepped inside the unlit building, I
would disappear into the darkness for an instant. That's
when I had to make my play.

Jackson anticipated my move. Just as I reached the building, he jammed his automatic in my back. "Easy, now. Just
take it nice and slow. I know what you're thinking. Believe
me, you don't stand a chance."

The lights flashed on, illuminating the long, narrow
building in a weak, yellow light. In the bay running the
length of the building were the six huge corkscrews of the
Saladin Box.

I needed time, time for something to happen. Just what,
I had no idea. Jackson gave me the time.

"Well, Mr. Boudreaux. You've done that which I was
never able to do."

I faced him. "Find the girl?"

"Yes, and now, thanks to your snooping, I'll be able to
dispose of her, after which I will inform the police how
you murdered your friend back there, and then fell in the
Saladin Box when you were trying to kill me."

"Why the girl, Jackson? I know she came after the yeast,
but why kill her over it?"

A trace of remorse edged his reply. "That was an accident. She stole the formula and tried to escape. She fell
down the stairs outside my office and broke her neck."

"Why didn't you just tell the truth?"

"Why?" He laughed in disbelief. "You ask why? Chalk
Hills, naturally. Stock prices had soared. We couldn't afford any scandal."

"You mean Morrison went along with you on the coverup?"

He shook his head. "No one knew. Except Patterson."

"You're a clever man, Jackson. Did you really plan your
escape from the tractor, or did it just happen?"

His face was like granite, and his eyes were cold as
death. "The world progresses, Mr. Boudreaux, because
those of us who think can also plan, and make sure their
plans succeed."

"Well, it was clever. But, I don't understand why you
killed Patterson now, after so many years."

He gestured to the stairs leading to the walkway over the
Saladin Box. "You're not as smart as you look. He was
bleeding me dry. It wasn't so bad at first, but over the years,
he wanted more and more. He didn't leave me any choice.
So, I took a chance, and thanks to your snooping, I'll soon
have my old life back."

I shook my head. "Don't count on it."

Jackson sneered. "Don't get your hopes up. No one is
here. You can play for all the time you want, but to no
avail. The old lady is in town, Tucker and Hawkins are on
a binge, and nothing can wake Seldes or Runnels except
four-thirty each morning."