Patience County War (Madeleine Toche Series) (11 page)

“Lots of other hound dogs around here not as nice as me. Better not wait,” Nathan said.

Sam was already back down the hall to the kitchen.

Things were picking up in the kitchen for the evening meal. Sam had eaten at the restaurant so many times throughout his lifetime that he recognized many of the dishes. There was often something new that Madeleine would present to her customers. Sam smelled lamb and looked over to see Christine adding some final seasoning to an earthenware pot of Daube, a Provencal heavy stew, one of Sam’s favorites. One of the women was preparing some trout that would be fried in one of the heavy iron skillets heating up on the range.

Christine saw Sam walk into the kitchen and gave him a friendly, brief smile. She was in her own world like a captain at sea, with a finger on everything at once, like a conductor, melding the strings and woodwinds at just the perfect moment. The little boy had wandered into the kitchen and sat in the corner, watching his mother and keenly aware of what was going on.

“Yves, un peu du thyme, s’il vous plait.”

The boy got up off the chair and motioned to Sam to follow him outside.

Sam followed and the boy and he walked over to a knee high planter just around the corner. The boy pointed to a thick patch of low shrubby thyme.

“C’est du thyme,” the boy said, snapping off some twigs.

“Oh,” Sam said, pretending not to recognize the plant. Everybody loves to show what they know. It was a nice moment and Sam didn’t want to do the stupid adult thing and say, “yes, I know,” or something equally pointless. Sam remembered showing both of his parents all of the herbs in these gardens when it was he that ran and picked for Madeleine.

Sam tried something else.

“Do you fish?”

The boy knew it was a question but shrugged his shoulders.

“Poisson?” Sam knew that from reading the menu over the years. He also made the universal casting and reeling of an invisible rod.

“Ah oui!” the boy said, very excited.

“We poisson,” Sam said, pointing to the boy and himself.

The two of them walked back into the kitchen, the boy ran over to his mother with a small clutch of thyme, and with a rapid fire exchange the fishing date was decided.

Christine looked at Sam and pointed at the ground and said, “maintenant?” Her gesture suggested immediacy like, “right now?” Sam wished it meant “come over here so I can kiss you again.” No such luck.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Au jour du matin,” Madeleine said as she walked into the kitchen, settling everything with a wave of her hand as she put her arm around Sam and led him out of the kitchen. Score one for me, Sam thought, some fun with the kid and a chance to see mom again.

The next morning Sam got up, dressed, and went over to Nathan’s to do a little work before they took the boy fishing for trout in the creek. He
wanted to check a couple of the potential lab sites, and he hoped like hell that the cooks had moved on and they’d come up bust. Sam was not the kind of cop who wanted to find illegal activity, imagined or otherwise, as he had seen some nut cops do, the ones who wore the leather driving gloves and carried a giant side arm. Knowing how and when to shoot meant a lot more than having the blasting power. His father had told him that if rifles and machine guns don’t do it, you’d better have armor. His father knew what he was talking about, having seen Tiger tanks rolling in his direction on more than one occasion in France.

Nathan was standing at the entrance to the Kraal when Sam drove up. He walked over to the car, carrying a spear the size of a large sapling, and strapped it to the top of the squad on two small rails that had been welded to the roof. He also had a holster attached to his side that held a short barreled shot gun, a 10 gauge side by side that had been modified so Nathan could get his finger on the trigger without discharging it.

“I see you brought the blunderbuss. Expecting trouble?” Sam smirked.

“Every time I am with you on one of these ‘look sees’ something happens and a warrior never has empty hands,” Nathan said as he wedged himself into the modified back seat. Even the squad groaned a little as he settled in. Sam had built in an extra heavy duty bench seat. It was more like a day bed. Nathan sat in the middle to balance the rig and off they went.

“The first stop is over near Taggert’s ridge. There’s an old trailer there and Dad thought it looked like there was some extra activity from the air.”

“You’re the sheriff Sammy; just tell me what to do.”

“The usual,” Sam said.

The usual was that Sam would go in and investigate while Nathan patrolled in the woods, acting as a lookout and back up so that Sam wouldn’t be surprised from behind. Sam always brought Nathan. He knew that no matter what happened, Nathan would not leave him. The day that happened was the day Sam would quit believing in anything.

Sam and Nathan parked the squad off the road, down an overgrown cart path and out of sight. Without discussion Nathan disappeared into the darkness of the trees and was gone. Sam smiled when he thought of any poor bad guy stumbling upon the giant African prince in the woods, especially given Nathan’s sense of humor. It was just wild how Nathan could blend into the woods so completely. Sam knew the Masai didn’t fight or hunt in wooded terrain, but were especially adept at stealth in environments with
very little cover. Given cover, Nathan said any child could do it. It was about knowing where your enemy was, not having to see him all of the time. Just like Sam’s father and his boot camp drill instructor had told him. If you can see to shoot the enemy, he can see to shoot you. That’s one of the undisputed truisms from the day of the bow and arrow.

As he carefully approached the trailer, Sam could tell that nobody was around. When he got near he purposely banged a couple of old rusty cans together and stayed under cover to see if anyone would flush. Nothing, Sam thought as he approached the trailer out of line of the windows and doors. He saw the telltale signs of manufacture activity. There were piles of solvent cans and lye containers. Sam proceeded with caution around to the back and peeked into a window. There were stacks of garbage and old fast food containers. The only occupant was a raccoon picking around. Satisfied, Sam cautiously went in the back door and looked around. He walked to the front and made a loud screeching bird like sound to call Nathan in. It was the only one he knew. He figured it sounded wild enough to sound natural, at least natural enough to fool your run-of-the-mill druggie.

Sam walked out front as Nathan ghosted up to the trailer.

“No sport today?” Nathan said.

“No, it’s just an old meth lab. These guys are smart enough to keep on the move.” A piece of paper ground into a tire track caught Sam’s attention; he stooped over and picked it up.

“Sure as hell, Virgil Ward’s gas credit card slip,” Sam said shaking his head. “One way or another Virgil is with these guys.”

“He’s no criminal,” Nathan said.

“Only if you considerer dumb ass a criminal offense. The only drug Virgil needs from time to time is a smack from a frying pan,” Sam said as he tucked the receipt into his pocket. “How about we catch some fish with the kid, make some calls, and have a little get together. Don’t forget to call your dad.”

“I would never make that mistake. I would never hear the end of it.”

“Old soldiers are like that,” Sam said.

Sam and Nathan drove over to the restaurant where Yves and Madeleine were sitting on the front porch, cleaning green beans.

“Nathan, mon chou,” Madeleine said.

Nathan smiled, “Hardly have to clean ‘em, do you?”

“Beautiful as always,” Madeleine said.

“We’re here to take the boy fishing, Madeleine,” Sam said.

“Good, Christine wants to go too.”

Nathan started to giggle, gently singing a Masai betrothal song. Sam of course knew it. He’d spent two of the hottest summers of his life with Nathan’s tribe, and the two were regular visitors. Sam loved the easy, live for-the-now atmosphere of tribal life. Everyone worked and shared. Sam often thought that communities used to be more like that in this country in a loose, neighbor-help-neighbor, barn raising sort of way.

“We’d love to take her fishing. She should wear some clothes to get dirty and a hat for the sun.”

Madeleine smiled at Sam as if indulging a child‘s silly comment. “My family is from Provence. Your sun is quaint compared to Marseilles this time of year. We also know a little about fishing.”

Just then Christine came out onto the porch. Sam straightened up despite himself. She had on a frayed cotton top and cutoff jeans, buttoned over a bikini bottom along with worn leather sandals.

“Sammy will spend a lot of time in the cold creek today,” Nathan muttered.

Whoa, Sam thought. Christine was as beautiful in her beach bum outfit as any model he’d ever seen. Forget that ‘elegant-as-a-sparrow crap’, this woman’s beauty was uncontrolled and savage. She was looking at him with true pleasure; it was palpable to everyone.

“We fish?” Yves said, used to men’s reactions to his mother, taking Sam’s hand.

“We fish,” Sam said as he bent down and picked the kid up by his ankle and slung him over his shoulder. No need to translate that. Old Sammy’s the fun one he thought, as the kid let out peals of joy.

They drove the squad over to Nathan’s farm and parked next to a log shed where the fishing poles were kept. He grabbed some fly casting rods and a couple of beat up old cane poles.

“So we cheat today?” Nathan said as he picked up a pole. Nathan and Sam had spent so much time in the creeks of Patience growing up that they would generally creep up to special pools and eddies where the trout would hang and catch them by hand. They shined frogs that way too, never using a gaff. That way they could have the fun without killing the bullfrog. They both liked frog legs, but it was hard to kill a big ol bull frog. It wasn’t about being squeamish, far from it. But most of the time a frog really does
look like it’s minding its own business. Particularly with all the old stories about the frog prince, lawn ornaments, kiddie frog pools, and frog floaties. The frog has some standing in the amphibian-man world. You can’t just throw a spear through him, especially one that looks like a trident, so that the frog’s last thought was, “eh tu Poseidon?”

“We’ll show ‘em both ways.”

“Which one are you going to teach, my friend?” Nathan teased.

“We’ll all go together there, Farmer Nate.”

The sun filtered down through the tree tops and a gentle breeze made the temperature pleasant. The fresh smell and moisture in the air near the creek and the dark shadows cast from the banks kept the heat of the day away.

They walked, carrying the poles and a small tin can of grasshoppers across one of Nathan’s pastures, ducking under some low lying branches and down a short hill to where the creek ambled by. As they walked over the whitish stones that were the creek bed when the water was higher, Sam saw a water moccasin and pointed it out to Yves and Christine. He demonstrated by curling two fingers over like fangs and striking his arm, “Ne touch pas,” he said.

“So you do know some French. What’s it mean?” Nathan said.

“It means don’t touch.”

“Obviously you’ve met a French girl before.”

“Once or twice,” Sam said with a grin.

The creek meandered under and around oaks and cottonwoods, twisting around with a few straightaways. The depth varied as the creek bit into the banks and created some deep pools and shady spots where Sam and Nathan always found something. It was cool and still under the canopy, with only a slight rustle of the cottonwood leaves at the very top of the trees. The sound of cicadas was everywhere. Sam reached up and cupped a cicada out of a tree and showed it to the boy. He was fascinated by the large, prehistoric looking insect and reached out to touch it right away.

“We’ll turn him into a Missouri country boy yet, just like I did you,” Sam said.

“No, I turned you into a Masai warrior who happens to live in Missouri.”

Sam took a fly out of a small packet in his pocket and tied it to the end of his line and gestured for Yves to follow him to the edge of the water. Sam dropped the fly into the current and let it be carried down into a
small pocket just adjacent to a patch of faster running water. Just as the fly floated into the pocket there was a silvery flash as a trout took it. Sam handed the pole to Yves and showed him how to pull back and land the fish. The boy landed a beautiful rainbow trout just the right size. Sam showed Yves the gunny sack to put the fish in. The kid was way ahead of him. He easily took the hook from the mouth of the fish, dropped it into the bag, tied the top with a cord, and set the bag into the stream, weighing it down with a rock. Yves then took the pole and promptly caught another fish. Just as that happened, Christine picked up one of the fly rods, attached a fly and expertly flicked it into another small, likely pool, almost immediately hooking into one.

“Who’s teaching who, Sammy?” Nathan said, duly impressed.

“I bet they can’t catch ‘em in their hands,” Sam answered.

“No way am I betting against ole Bill Dance there. She’s as good as I’ve ever seen,” Nathan said.

It was true. Christine handled the rod with complete control and touch. It was like watching her dance. She looked just like she belonged in that stream, casting for trout thousands of miles away from the Mediterranean under the Missouri sun.