Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 10 (6 page)

“Were you aiming to mention this beforehand or was it supposed to be a surprise?”

He brushed past her and went into the front room to see if LaRue was out in the driveway. “Yeah, I was aiming to mention it beforehand,” he muttered under his breath, then raised his voice. “When you find my boots, clean ‘em up and set ‘em on the back porch. While you’re at it, see if the sleeping bags need to be hung out on the clothesline. Last summer I spilled some fish guts on one of them and it’s liable to stink worse than a buzzard’s roost by now. And check the cooking supplies. I ain’t gonna be pleased if I have to drive back to Emmett because you forgot your pancake turner.”

“What makes you think I’m going with you next week, Jake? I’ve got better things to do than sit around all day in a drafty tent and cook over a campfire. Friday evening I have a church bazaar committee meeting. I told Janine that I’d keep the baby on Saturday so she can get her hair cut and do a little shopping. She hasn’t been out of the house in six weeks, and that fat lout she married won’t even change a diaper.”

“He puts groceries on the table, doesn’t he? Janine’s a whiner, same as you. It’s gonna be cold and wet out at the campsite, and we need better than those gawdawful ready-to-eat meals. Janine doesn’t have any call to waste her husband’s hard-earned money on a hair cut. She can get a pair of scissors and whack it off herself.”

Judy thought of something she’d like to whack off with a pair of scissors, but he most likely wouldn’t appreciate hearing it. “Who all is going this time?”

“Who all is going?” he said in a falsetto, mocking her. “Do you think Pitts invited the cheerleaders over at the junior high and all the sumbitch politicians down in Little Rock? Same as last year, except for Carter Lee and Bradley. We figure we can dig up ol’ Mo and prop him against a tent pole. It’s not like we’d be able to tell the difference.” He looked out the window, then took his jacket off a hook and made sure the can of Red Man was in the pocket. “LaRue’s here. After we test the sight, we’ll probably stop by the Dew Drop for a couple of beers. Don’t wait up.”

After she heard the truck back out of the driveway, Judy took the vodka bottle out from behind the cereal boxes, poured some in a glass and added a splash of orange juice, then returned to the living room to make a call.

She listened to the phone ring, instinctively smoothing her hair as if the person who picked up the receiver could see her. “Jake just now told me that retreat’s set for next weekend,” she began in a breathless voice.

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On Saturday I could hear gunfire in the distance as I finished writing up a report for Harve about a motorcycle wreck out by what the high school kids called “Dead Man’s Swerve.” The driver hadn’t been wearing a helmet, but since he was a Buchanon, landing on his head had done no perceptible damage. I’d had to explain this to the paramedic, who was concerned when the cyclist couldn’t say for sure how many fingers the paramedic was holding up.

Deer season had officially started. I put down my gnawed pencil and opened a drawer to ascertain I had enough blank forms to survive the next three weeks. The previous year there’d been two wrecks out by the low-water bridge, a half-dozen DWIs, three instances involving nonfatal shootings, and one fatal shooting. Harve and I had agreed the last was suspicious, since the victim had been dating his companion’s ex-wife, but there was no way to prove anything.

Earlier in the day Harve had called with the scoop on Sterling Pitts, which amounted to zilch. No rap sheet, no outstanding warrants, no entanglements with the law more serious than parking violations. A year ago Pitts had complained to the police about a neighbor’s dog, and more recently about black teenagers loitering in his parking lot in the afternoons. All in all, he was a law-abiding citizen and a successful businessman, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to keep him out of Maggody.

I was getting ready to take the accident report to the sheriff’s office (and maybe take myself to a matinee) when the door opened and in stalked Raz Buchanon, a successful businessman if not precisely a law-abiding citizen. As always, he was wearing bib overalls stained with tobacco juice and other unidentifiable substances. His whiskers were caked with the remnants of meals from the previous decade, and what remained of his gray hair glistened with grease.

“I got to talk to you,” he said as he plopped down in the chair and scratched his chin.

“And how are you today, Raz? Enjoying the last of the autumn foliage?”

“That ain’t what I come here to talk about.”

I rocked back in my chair, but there was no way short of going out the door to avoid his sour stench. “How’s Marjorie these days? Is she snuffling up tasty acorns and hickory nuts?”

Raz let out a wheeze that engulfed me in a toxic haze. “Marjorie ain’t doin’ well. She’s a pedigreed sow, ye know, and has a delicate nature. Lately she’s taken to moping around the house, sprawled in the corner instead of in front of the television, turning up her snout at most ever’thing she used to gobble down. Why, yesterday evening she wouldn’t take one bite of turnip greens.”

“Did you fix them with ham hocks?” I asked.

He gave me a horrified look. “I’d never do something like that! That’d be like her eating kin. No, ma’am, I don’t even use lard anymore.” He resumed scratching his chin and sighing. “I reckon the problem she’s bein’ crumpy is on account of that dadburned cousin of mine. You know about Diesel livin’ up on the ridge?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Well, used to be Marjorie’d wander around while I was”-he hesitated, obviously not wanting to confess to a felony right there in the PD-“huntin’ Squirrels or pickin’ poke salet, but the other day she must’ve got too close to Diesel’s cave. The next thing I knew, she came trotting as hard as she could into the clearing, her eyes all round and her ears pasted back, and squealing somethin’ awful. Afore I could figure out what in tarnation was goin’ on, Diesel charged right into me and liked to knock me plumb out of my boots.”

I clucked sympathetically. “I don’t know what to tell you, Raz. There aren’t a lot of veterinarians trained to deal with traumatized sows, pedigreed or otherwise. All I can suggest is that you leave Marjorie at home when you go fiddle with your still.”

“Who sez I got a still?” he said, puffing up indignantly.

“Get off it, Raz. Everybody in the damn county knows you have a still up on the ridge. One of these days the revenuers are going to locate it and reduce it to a pile of scrap metal. Moonshining’s a federal offense. That means you’ll be up in Leavenworth instead of enjoying the company of your relatives at the state pen.” His rheumy eyes met mine. “I ain’t got a still and ain’t nobody gonna find it. What do you aim to do about Diesel? He’s got no call to scare Marjorie like that, or me, fer that matter.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” I said, shaking my head. “If you don’t have business on Cotter’s Ridge, stay off it. You and Marjorie shouldn’t be there during deer season, anyway. Neither of you resembles a buck, but that doesn’t cut any mustard with a bullet fired from a mile away.” I stood up in hopes he’d take the hint and leave, but he remained seated, glowering like a jack o’ lantern well past its prime. “Something else?” I asked.

“I heard there’s gonna be some fellers dressed in soldier clothes crawling all over the ridge.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, either. It’s going to be crowded up there next week, Raz. Take my advice and stay away.”

I held open the door and tried not to grimace as he shuffled past me and climbed into a muddy truck. The thought of Sterling Pitts and his followers had given me the stirrings of a headache; Raz’s redolence had escalated it to the quintessence. The report I’d planned to take to Farberville could wait until Monday. In the interim, I was going to crawl into bed, cram a pillow over my head, and imagine what it would be like to be somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

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On the far side of Stump County, Sterling sat in his Bronco, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and watching raindrops slither down the windshield like transparent slugs. He was parked at one of their carefully chosen meeting places, a farm that had been abandoned more than ten years ago. The windows of the house were as vacant as a dead man’s eyes, and the rusted screen door groaned as the wind dragged it across the surface of the porch.

Sterling reminded himself he was not the sort to entertain irrational notions about ghosts. He was organized, efficient, decisive, truly a general’s general. The fact that his underlings were so ill-disciplined was disturbing; he made a mental note to require them to study their manuals and the additional guidelines he’d typed up and stapled to the back covers. After all, the Second Amendment stressed the need for a “well-regulated” militia as necessary to the security of a free state.

He pulled back his cuff to look at his watch. Red Rooster had agreed to be there at 1700. It was now 1720, and Sterling was growing increasingly peevish. It was cold, damp, and getting dark. His wife was expecting him to come straight home from his office to escort her to some fool dinner party. She had no idea what he did in his free time, but it was getting harder to come up with lies about conventions in other cities and emergency meetings at the office.

Muttering to himself, he switched on the ignition and prepared to leave. Before he could back up, however, a pickup truck came up the weedy driveway and stopped.

Reed climbed out of the driver’s side and came around to the car. “So, did you check him out?” he asked loudly.

Sterling could smell the beer on Red Rooster’s breath. “I do not care to be kept waiting while you and your friend are drinking beer in a bar somewhere. Were you also shooting off your yaps about our activities? Should I expect a carful of ATF agents to pull up next?”

“Naw, we just stopped off for a quick one on the way out here. Wasn’t nobody else in the joint except for a bony hooker, and she was talking the whole time on her cell phone.” He put his hand on the roof of the car and blearily smiled down at Sterling. “Did you hear back from Colorado?”

Sterling glanced at the young man in the pickup who was staring at the ramshackle farmhouse. “Yes, I communicated with the second-in-command in their group. He acknowledged that Dylan Gilbert had been with them for eighteen months before getting into trouble with the authorities in Denver. Apparently, he’s quite adept with electronic surveillance equipment.”

Reed turned and thumped the truck window. “Hey, Dylan, you fucker, you never told me you were a bug-meister.”

Dylan rolled down the window, looked coolly at Pitts, and said, “I majored in electrical engineering for two years before I dropped out of college. What’s the verdict? If I’m not welcome, I’ll find another group someplace where the weather’s not so shitty.”

“Well?” Reed said to Sterling.

“The procedure,” he said through clenched teeth, “is for the cell to interrogate a potential recruit before taking action. I for one have questions about why he came here and chose to make contact with you instead of having his former commander contact me through proper channels. I also need time to verify his credentials. Then, if we are unanimous in our decision to accept him, he will be inducted as soon as possible. Until that time, he can participate in the training, but he will not be present at sessions of a more tactical nature.”

Reed grinned at Dylan. “That okay?”

“Exactly what I anticipated,” Dylan answered without inflection. He pushed long black hair out of his eyes and stared at Sterling. “I’ve got some questions of my own, Pops. I don’t want to get hooked up with a bunch of guys who are liable to spill secrets to the nearest undercover cop. I’ve got the FBI searching for me, and not so they can wish me a happy Thanksgiving. With my juvenile rap sheet and a few minor felonies since then, I’m looking at up to forty years.”

Sterling bristled. “You have no fear of indiscretion from this group,” he said sternly (if somewhat mendaciously, considering his previous thoughts). “We are highly disciplined and tightlipped.”

“Gotta take a wiz,” Reed announced, then stumbled into the darkness.

Dylan waited until Reed was out of sight, then gave Sterling a contemptuous smile. “Then aren’t you concerned about the informant in your group, Pops?”

From The Starley City Star Shopper, November 8:

What’s Cooking in Maggody?

by Rubella Belinda Hanks

This column is going to be short on account of nobody much bothered to share any news with me, even though I’m right here in Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill from morning till midnight, fixing everything from grits and redeye gravy to fried chicken and scalloped potatoes. The food’s tasty, and the price is right.

Mrs. Twayblade out at the county old folks’ home reports the residents spent a real nice afternoon making turkeys out of pine cones and colored paper to decorate their tables on Thanksgiving. Everybody enjoyed themselves except for Petrol Buchanon, who had to be sent to his room after he pinched a nurse’s aide on her fanny.

Estelle Oppers is all excited about an inheritance from her Uncle Tooly, who was killed by sheep. It’s supposed to arrive sometime this week. She said to tell everybody that she has a big assortment of fingernail polish and lipsticks at bargain prices, and her ten-percent discount on perms will run until December 24.

There’s still no date for the grand opening of Smeltner’s Pawn Palace, but Kayleen says she should be in business by the end of the year. Progress is just as slow on her remodeling out on County 102 because all the workmen are off deer hunting instead of showing up like they promised.

Arly Hanks, our chief of police, asked me to remind hunters that not wearing bright orange is against the law, just like hunting on property that’s been posted. If you’re over in Farberville, stop by the sheriff’s department to pick up a free pamphlet with tips on gun safety.

Until next time, God bless.

Garlic Cheese Grits

6 cups water

2 teaspoons salt