Legwork (8 page)

I crept back to the lane leading to the spot and examined the edges of it carefully, looking for evidence that one or more large cars had turned around.
I found nothing until I reached the larger dirt road.
There, the recent wet weather meant that the surface was particularly muddy.
It was rutted with numerous heavy tracks criss-crossing its surface.
The underbrush had been crushed or trampled along the edges.
Too much traffic, too many tires.
I’d have to leave it to the experts.

Still, now I knew where it had happened.
And the location was significant.
I was at a spot on the river almost equidistant between Raleigh and Wake Forest, where Thornton had lived.
To me, that meant his killers had come from Raleigh and that this spot had been chosen not only for privacy but also as a compromise: they had been jockeying for power as well.
It was middle ground.

I was now convinced that Mitchell had been killed by more than one person.
After all, he weighed close to 250 pounds.
There wasn’t a human alive who could have lifted him from this soggy bank and put him into the trunk of a car without help. There must have been two or more of them.

I got to thinking about exactly how they had managed to wrangle his body out of there and I followed the tree roots back to the blood puddle.
The flies had returned so I kept my distance, searching the sand for signs of heavy dragging.
I found some markings that could have been giant turtles, but I doubted it. We were hours from the coast.
No, old Thornton had surely been dragged south around the tree’s roots and toward a softer spot in the bank where he could more easily be pulled toward the road.
What a pain in the ass for the killers.
Which told me something else. The murder had been an afterthought or an accident, not premeditated.
Privacy is important when it comes to killing, but so is convenient body disposal.
The bank was practically quicksand. You’d have to be a masochist to want to drag a body through here.

As I knelt along the bank at a safe distance from the killing spot, contemplating the possible motives and methods of transporting the corpse, I glimpsed a flash of red moving through the trees on the opposite side of the river.
I was acutely aware of how exposed I was to anyone hiding in the woods and my pulse raced involuntarily.
I squinted against the sun and tuned in what Grandpa used to call my “listenin’ ears.” Someone was moving through the woods across the river, someone accustomed to walking silently, someone very sure of his forest footing.
I could hear the faint crackle of pine needles breaking under his weight. Sweat broke out in my armpits and the hair on the back of my neck rippled.
I thought it a very good idea to get the hell away from there.
I quickly hiked back up the river to my canoe and was relieved to find that both the vessel and paddle were intact.
I pulled out into the sluggish current and headed downstream.
I had no choice but to pass directly by the killing spot.
My car was waiting half a mile downstream and I was in no shape to hike over land with a canoe balanced on my head for that distance.

As I neared the spot where I’d discovered the puddle of blood, my palms grew damp and the paddle slipped free.
I lost it in the current and almost tipped the canoe in my haste to grab it.
Fortunately the river narrowed at that spot and I was able to fish the paddle out where it had snagged on a tree root projecting into the water.
Damn it.
I had to show more guts than that.
Whoever was watching me would know I was frightened.
I paddled back to the center, forcing myself to take a deep breath.
I thought about the time I’d whacked an alligator across the snout with a paddle when I was only eight years old.
I hadn’t liked the way he was eyeing my biscuit lunch.
Or me, for that matter.
My grandpa never stopped telling the story.
That was the day, he said, that he knew I had more balls than any of the sorry specimens our family had produced since the War of Northern Aggression.

What did this sudden memory prove?
That I could do a little bit better than cowering in a shaky canoe just because someone had chosen this spot for a solitary hike in the woods.
I sat up straight and paddled with dignity.
At that exact moment, I heard a whoosh like a giant dragonfly whizzing past.
An enormous arrow split the air about six inches in front of my nose, hitting the center of an oak on the far side of the bank right smack dab in the middle of its trunk.
I abandoned dignity and threw myself on the bottom of the canoe.

Someone started laughing in the woods and it really pissed me off.
I could take a lot of indignities, especially if it was a choice between being insulted and being killed.
But being laughed at was another matter.
I sat back up and paddled furiously for the far side of the river.

“All right, Bozo,” I called out firmly. “You’ve had your fun.
Now come out here and talk to me.”

I didn’t see anyone, but a soft male voice drawled back, “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

“You can start by telling me why the hell you nearly made me into a shish kebab.
This is a public river.
I have a right to be on it.”

“You were getting ready to set down on my land.”

You must understand that “my land” is a sacrosanct term in these parts.
Anyone who has managed to hang on to their corner of the earth despite progress, carpetbaggers, real estate developers, and the tax man has formed a mighty powerful attachment to property rights by now.
I knew better than to challenge that particular sentiment.

“I was not getting ready to set down on your land,” I said.
“Why were you spying on me?”

“What were you looking at over there?” the voice asked in reply.
“That’s private land over there.
You got no right to be on it.”

“Look,” I said, my voice sounding far more steady than my pulse.
“I know you could have hurt me back there if you’d really wanted to.
That arrow didn’t hit that tree by accident.
You’re a good shot.
I know that you were only trying to scare me.
If you’d wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it by now.
So cut the crap and act like a man and show yourself.”

Amazing how well that works.
Threaten their manhood and the boys will come running.
This one didn’t run, exactly, but he did step out of the shadows surrounding a grove of birch trees and tramp through the grass to the edge of the riverbank.
He was tall, with a head full of wiry auburn hair and a red billy goat goatee dangling from his chin.
He was dressed in a red and white checked flannel work shirt with the sleeves cut off, a pair of well- worn jeans and sturdy hiking boots.
He stood quietly, holding his crossbow and regarding me with complete calm. It was a good sign.
At least one of us was calm at that moment.

“I’m Casey Jones,” I told him, offering my hand.
He ignored it.

“Ramsey Lee,” he mumbled back.

And then I understood.
“I wondered what happened to you,” I said.

“Nothing happened to me,” he said defiantly. “Life happened to me.
You people can sit on your butts and watch television all you want.
I believe in living my life and taking a stand about things that are important to me.”

“How much time did you do?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of what little manners I had.

“What’s it to you?” he asked back, but I noticed that he leaned his bow across a tree and was taking the time to check me out from head to toe.
His scrutiny made me nervous, like he was sizing me up for a boiling pot.
I was also slowly sinking in the riverbank mud.
I wouldn’t be able to retain my suave exterior for long.

“Hey, I admired you for what you did,” I said.
“I’d have helped you if you’d asked.”

“How could I have asked you for help?” he replied.
“I don’t even know you.”

“It’s just a figure of speech,” I explained. Jesus, where had this guy been?
He acted like he’d been trapped in an attic for ten years and just now trotted out to dry.
His social skills weren’t even up to my marginal standards, though I admit his body had its attractions.
He had unbelievable biceps and the kind of tanned, sinewy arms that only someone who really works the land can acquire.
That kind of lean strength can’t be earned in a health club.

“I did two and a half years,” he explained in a flat voice.
“I’m still on parole.”

I did the math in my head. That meant he’d been out of prison for just under a year or so.
No wonder he was people-shy.
Ramsey Lee had been arrested about four or five years ago for destruction of property.
One night, he’d visited the construction site of a subdivision that was going up along the Neuse just outside the Raleigh city limits.
With the help of a couple of still-unknown companions, he had pushed a bulldozer off a cliff and ruined the engines of at least six other pieces of heavy equipment.
A lock had been opened on several containing dams and most of the area flooded by morning.
They’d dynamited the rest of the tract in four different spots, obliterating all access to the site, destroying the new septic system, and sending a good chunk of one section tumbling down the riverbank.

Ramsey Lee had been traced by the SBI through the purchase of the dynamite when one bundle failed to go off.
The story had dominated the news for several months, especially since Ramsey’s father was from one of those old North Carolina families who had turned to real estate to make money after World War II.
Public interest had died off when Ramsey quietly pleaded guilty and plea-bargained his way to a couple of years in the slammer.
I don’t think he’d ever given up the names of his friends.
The papers kept calling him an eco-terrorist but there were a lot of old-timers in the countryside surrounding Raleigh who had openly admired what he had done, including god-fearing, church-going people that were hardly of left-wing leaning.
But I was sure the SBI had a file a mile high on this guy.
They’d be all over his ass once they discovered he lived across from where Mitchell had been murdered.

“That subdivision is up and thriving now,” I told him.
“It’s practically old Raleigh these days.
Ugly as hell.
I don’t know how people can recognize their own houses, they all look so much alike.”

He nodded slowly and stroked his goatee, pressing the scraggly growth carefully between long, tan fingers. “They won’t stop until the whole damn state is gone.
Mark my words. One day these woods will be a parking lot.”

I stared at him and his eyes locked on mine. I wasn’t sure if I liked what I saw.
Something stirred in me but I couldn’t tell if it was fear or attraction.
His eyes sparkled with the gleam of a fanatic and his voice vibrated with hatred when he spoke.
But at the same time, I could feel his despair that the land he loved was being destroyed.
How many of us really believe in anything?
In an odd way, I was jealous of him.

“Why’d you try to scare me like that?” I asked.

“I’m getting tired of people trespassing on that land over there.” He nodded toward the side of the river where I’d discovered the pool of blood.
“It’s getting busier and busier, especially at night.
Someone ought to close off that road. It’s supposed to be private.
I don’t like what I’m seeing and since the owner’s not around, I figure I ought to protect it.”

“What kind of things are you seeing?” I asked, watching his eyes for signs of evasion.

He didn’t even blink.
And his voice grew more relaxed.
“Trespassing is all.
Fishing at night.
Campfires. Noise that ruins my hunting.
Smells that distract my dogs.
That kind of thing.”

I didn’t believe him.
“You’ve got a problem,” I said, hoping to shake him up a little.
“I’m a private detective.
I’m working on a high-profile case involving a man named Thornton Mitchell and a politician named Mary Lee Masters.
Ever heard of them?”

“I know who they are,” he said glumly.

“I think Mitchell was murdered over there a couple nights ago.”

He shrugged.
“Lots of funny things happen along this river at night.”

“The cops are going to be all over you when they find out it happened across from your land.
They’ll want to know what you saw.”

He shrugged again, unconcerned.
“That’s easy.
Like I said, I didn’t see anything.
Cops don’t scare me.
I’m used to them.” He picked up his crossbow and turned his back on me abruptly.
“Sorry to have scared you,” he apologized over his shoulder.
“But I got to be going now.”