Saving Cecil (7 page)

“You're probably right,” he said. “I would like to ride along though. That way I can ask a few trouble-shooting questions when we get there.”

“Let's go,” I said.

“Okay, boys,” Jackie said to his assembled crew. “Y'all have got plenty of maintenance to catch up on while we're gone.”

“So how do you know Johnny?” Jackie asked as we zipped along the back roads of Lee County.

“I'm from these parts. I grew up not far from here. My dad was a well driller. He had a nice business. Five rigs. Anyway, Johnny and my dad were friends.”

“Well, hell, if I'd known that, I'd've used your dad to drill the well.”

“Thanks, but he's not in business anymore,” I said. “In fact he doesn't even live here.” I looked out the window as familiar places whipped past. Farmhouses here and there where I'd gone with my dad. I remembered watching, totally mesmerized, as the drill bit on his rig penetrated the mysterious depths right beneath my feet.

“Did he retire?” Jackie inquired politely.

“No … ” I said, pausing. Then, for some reason talking about a matter that I usually never talk about seemed right. “Actually he had to sell his business to pay the lawyer fees incurred trying to stay off death row. He was falsely accused of the murder of one of his drillers.” I paused to take in Jackie's reaction. He didn't move closer to the door or put his hand on the handle in fear of perhaps having to make a quick exit, so I continued.

“According to the prosecutor, my dad killed the man in a fit of rage because he wasn't doing his job properly. The good sheriff, Stuckey, the one you met the other day, went after my dad like a bulldog. They were bitter enemies, but, other than being rivals in high school, I never understood why. Just chalked it up to his being crazy as an outhouse rat.”

“He doesn't seem to have any good feelings for you, either.”

“No. I don't expect he does. If it wasn't for me … a friend of mine, actually, he and the prosecutor would have prevailed.”

“What did your friend do?”

“My friend hired a big-time New York lawyer to defend him. Problem was, my mom was so stressed by the ordeal that she had a heart attack and died. To this day, my dad blames the sheriff for her death, and he's probably right. Anyway, when she died, my dad wouldn't fight anymore. Got the big-time attorney to cut a plea deal. He served five years in the state pen and he's never gotten over the shame of it. He's a bit of a recluse now. Works out of the country, keeps to himself.”

Jackie was quiet for a while, then said, “That must have been a pretty good friend you had. I mean to spring for big bucks like that.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a lump forming in my throat. “He turned out to be a pretty good friend,” Then I decided I'd engaged in all the touchy-feely talk I wanted and pointed to a side road on our left. “Right up there is the old Endor Iron Furnace.”

“Really? When was it built?”

“In 1862, right after the Civil War broke out. They'd take iron ore from the Buckhorn Iron Mine, about 20 miles from here on the north bank of the Cape Fear, pile it onto flat barges and tow them back up stream by steamboats. They had to navigate a whole bunch of complicated locks and canals, which are all gone now. Destroyed by the Yankees, but that's how they brought the iron to the furnace. Then they'd use coal from the Deep River coal field to fire it and make war materials.”

“Was that when coal was first discovered here?”

“No, actually it was discovered in 1775, back before the Revolutionary War.”

Jackie made the mistake of acting interested, especially in how the local geology tied in with the history of my home state and indeed the birth of the nation, so I pointed out several outcrops of Triassic rocks along the roadside as we crossed the railroad tracks and again when we crossed the river into Chatham County. I noted that the Deep River Basin is one of the most studied geologic terranes in the country.

“It's also a hot destination for fossil hunters,” I said as we turned into the drive at Johnny's shop. “On the way back, I'll be sure to point out the Boren clay pit. In case you have time to go fossil hunting before heading back to Pennsylvania.” He laughed at the absurdity of that notion.

Johnny Lee was working on an old rig when we drove up. We joined him and I introduced Jackie. Johnny wiped his hands on his overalls, shook hands with Jackie, and patted me on the back. “Dang, girl,” Johnny said. “You're even purdier than you were last time I saw you and you were beautiful then!”

While the two of them went to inspect the part and engage in man-talk
about it, I stayed beside the old rig. Just looking at it brought more memories of summer days spent with my dad. When ten minutes passed and the men hadn't come back, my impatient nature kicked in and I went to hurry things along. Stepping under the supply shed, I could tell both men were deeply engaged in a discussion abo
ut the part.

It didn't take long before I developed a few filter questions of my own. Then I spied another part. This one was sitting on the far end of a workbench. It caught my attention because I'd never seen anything like it and, being the curious soul I am, I asked Johnny what it was.

“It's a fletching jig. A right-handed Bitzenburger, actually,” he said. “You probably ain't never seen one ‘cause you ain't a bow hunter. You use this to make your own customized arrows if you're really into bow hunting and you don't want another hunter to be able to claim your kill.”

“Oh,” I said lamely. “No wonder I've never seen one on a rig!” We all laughed, then followed Johnny back to the rig he'd been working on when we arrived.

“This old double-barrel Schramm has seen better days,” Johnny said, patting the hood of the rig. “But with the economy the way it is, I can't replace it. Got to keep everything patched up the best I can. Another reason I appreciate you coming by, so I could keep on working and get this old lady back on the job.” We commiserated on the crappy economy and offered our own sure-fire cures, then Johnny said, “Say, Cleo, how's your dad?”

“Pretty good,” I said, although in truth, I was beginning to worry about not being able to reach him for the last month. And, the few times I was able to get him on the phone before that, he'd only talk in general terms or tell me stories about some of the big game he'd seen on side trips he'd taken.

“Reason I ask is … well, you remember Buster Gilroy? Runs a machine shop over in Gulf?”

“Yes, I remember him.” If Dad had a best friend, I'd guess it would have to be him.

“Well, one day, back in the spring, I thought I saw your dad and him eating together at one of the little cafés over there. I couldn't believe my eyes so I went over and spoke and sure enough, it was Pete. It sure was good to see him.”

“My dad, up here?” I asked aghast. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. Sure as you're standing right here, it was him. So you didn't know he was here?”

“No. Did he say why he was here?”

“Well, that's the thing. The two of them were friendly enough. You know, asked me to sit a spell, but they seemed a little … what's the word … secretive to me. He did make a point of telling me he was only up for a short visit. Maybe that's why he didn't call you … ”

I was stunned into silence. Jackie came to my rescue. “I ‘spect we'd better get on back. Those boys will be done with the work I gave them before long.” We said our good-byes and headed for the Jeep. I got behind the wheel, but Jackie hesitated before he got in.

“Something wrong?” I asked as he finally climbed in.

“Naw. It's just my old military training kicking in, I guess.”

“How so?”

“I got the feeling I was being watched. Just wanted to take a sec to check things out.”

Watched? Out here?
“Did you see anybody?”

“Yep.”

I started the engine. “You going to tell me?”

“You know that big Ford Interceptor the sheriff drives?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I saw it pull out from behind that stand of China Berry trees at the corner of Johnny's drive. It pulled off real slow, then went on down the road. Didn't you say we're in another county here?”

“I did,” I said, nodding my head.

“Curious,” Jackie said.

“Yeah. Curious.”

SEVEN

“I'll be in the
doghouse for a while,” I told Jackie as he exited my Jeep. “Then I'll either be flagging the new position for Lauderbach #2 or taking care of some things offsite.”

“Okey doke,” Jackie said and hurried off with the much-needed filter.

I stepped into the doghouse to grab my Beretta and field bag before heading across the farm to flag the new location for the second gas well. I'd barely gotten out the door when my iPhone clanged. I didn't recognize the number.

“Is this Ms. Cleo Cooper?”

“Yes,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, I'm so glad I caught you,” a slightly hysterical voice said. “This is Frank, at Giovanni's Florist. I've been trying to call Muriel … ”

“Muriel?”

“Yes. Your wedding planner?”

“Oh, right,
that
Muriel,” I said, shrugging my shoulders at Tulip. She cocked her head.

“I've been trying all the numbers available to me on my contract,” Frank went on, “and I can't get a soul to answer. But since you're the bride … you are the bride aren't you? The Cooper/Cooper wedding? November 9th ?”

“Yes.”
Safe to say there's probably only one Cooper/Cooper wedding happening in North Carolina that day.

“Well, yippee then,” gushed Frank, “you can answer my question.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Well, since peonies are your wedding flower and they aren't available locally in November—they bloom here the second week in May—and as I'm sure you're aware, they're very expensive right now, what with Thanksgiving and the holidays right around the corner. Everything positively doubles and triples in price … ”

“Yeah, umm, Frank, I'm kind of busy here. If you could—”

“Get to the point,” Frank laughed, finishing my sentence. “Of course, I was just wondering if you'd mind if we substituted garden roses. They look very similar and they're much cheaper and it would really save time for my staff if we could stop looking all over hell and Georgia for peonies.”

“Sure!” I said. “Anything else?”

“Gosh! That was fast. Most brides would go all Bridezilla on me … ”

“I think you'll find I'm not most brides, Frank,” I said. “Thanks, and have a nice day.”

I'd no more than hung up when the phone rang again. Henri.

“Hey, Mom”

“Hey, Henri, what's up?”

“I'm just making sure you haven't forgotten our dinner tonight.”

“Of course, I haven't,” I lied. Tulip gave me another head cock.

“Glad to hear it. Dad can't be here, but Will and I are still planning to meet you at the address I gave you last week. Remember? It's on your events app on your phone. I know because I put it there myself.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“We are too … ”

“Oh, before you go,” I added, proud that I could interject something about the wedding, some decision I'd made all on my own. “Frank from the florist shop just called and asked if it was okay to substitute … er … garden roses, I believe he called them, for peonies … ” I heard a sudden intake of breath.

“What'd you say?” Henri gasped.

“I told him yes, of course.”

“Mom! Good grief! You know better than to make decisions on something as important as this on your own. Now I've got to call him back and undo this mess. What were you thinking?”

“Umm, that it is my wedding … ”

Silence. Then, as though she were speaking to a three-year-old, Henri said, “Of course it is, Mom. I'm sorry. Don't you worry about a thing, I'll take care of this. See you tonight.” Just before our lines disconnected, I'm pretty sure I heard a comment about “Fuck a bunch of garden roses!”

I hit the door with both palms and strode for my Jeep, Tulip ha
rd on my heels. Best for me to get as far from civilization as possible until I simmered down following my conversation with Miss Henri, especially considering I was packing. With Tulip in the cargo area and the 8 x 10 copy of the aerial photo of the farm in the passenger seat, I left the site for a different pasture, this one still occupied by cows,
I'd been told.

Winding down long dirt roads, some no wider than a cow path, I bumped along, my thoughts jumping between and the murder of Clinton Baker and why my dad hadn't called me on his recent visit home. Of course, I could simply call and ask him. Provided I could get him on the phone. But who could I call to answer the larger question of who would want to rob Clinton Baker of his life? One thing was clear. It had nothing to do with a plan to save the planet by stopping fracking in the Sanford sub-basin.

Maybe it was something of a more personal nature. An angry girlfriend or a ticked-off drug dealer, perhaps. But why was he killed in the woods, wearing camos? Someone angry enough to shoot him with an arrow and then stab him sounded like someone with a lot of pent-up hate. Or passion.

I wanted to talk to Sara again, but the words of my new friend Detective Chris Bryant about no more detective work were still fresh in my mind. Nevertheless, she'd be coming back to see me often since we were now working on a paper together. I'd chat with her then.

The dirt road I was traveling cut through the entire farm, dividing it in half. According to my GIS research, the road was here before the farm, which had been purchased piecemeal over the generations. At any rate, the part of it I was now traveling ran along the top of a long ridge. Another smaller ridge rose about ten feet above me to my left.

Needless to say, the road was subject to erosion so it was good that the state maintained it. A smooth road with few potholes and gullies was a good thing, because I was zipping along at a pretty good clip. What the heck? I wasn't bothering anyone and I hadn't seen a speed limit sign.

In fact, the drive was helping to lower my blood pressure, pushed to the boiling point by Henri's call. When I stopped to open yet another gate, I took the opportunity to check my aerial map and make sure I was in the right pasture.

As I drove through, rumbling over the cattle guard, I wondered why the gate was here in the first place. Seemed redundant. But I'm no farmer and since I'd been told all the pastures contained cows except the one where we were drilling, I dutifully closed it before resuming my joyride across the farm.

Dust clouds roiled merrily behind me and despite my attempts to put Henri from my mind I thought of the reason for her call: to remind me of tonight's dinner. I assumed the restaurant was in Raleigh. But then I'd assumed I had a say in my own wedding, too, and where did that get me? Just to err on the side of caution, in case I needed to add travel time, I pulled up the events calendar on my phone.

Or, tried to.

Bracing the wheel and holding the jiggling phone with one hand, I struggled to punch the correct app. Suddenly there was a loud bang.

The wheel jerked abruptly to the left and my phone flew off into space. Well, it just seemed like outer space, because within seconds, I was fairly certain none of the Jeep's four tires were attached to the planet and I was no longer attached to the seat. But then the laws of gravity took over again and with a crashing thud, Tulip, the Jeep, and I hit the ground, headed down the steep ridge. I spit blood—must have bit my lip—and wrestled the wheel for control.

No dice. Looking ahead of us, I realized two things: one, control was out of the question because the wheels had fit neatly into a pair of erosion gullies, and two, if memory served me correctly, the soft, fluffy green bushes another twenty feet ahead weren't bushes. They were the tops of trees growing along Pocket Creek fifty feet below. If that was true, and I keep a very accurate internal map in my head at all times, I needed to stop. Now!

Again, it wasn't to be.

For a split second I thought the tree tops might act as a safety barrier, but the Jeep cut through them like a roadside tree shredder and we became detached from gravity again.

It's said your life passes before your eyes when you're about to die. Mine didn't. My thoughts:
Dang, this is going to hurt! And I sure hope Tulip survives.
Pitiful, I know. No grand thoughts of family or friends, just my own personal pain and a fleeting thought for my dog. Then we hit the creek.

Now Pocket Creek, a tributary of the Deep River, is not some little babbling brook. In places, it's ten to fifteen feet wide, deep and dangerous. It is especially treacherous if the water is high from runoff, which, as luck would have it, it was.

We landed nose first, tilted to the passenger side. There was a sudden stop, a crashing blow to my body, seemingly from everywhere, and the deafening sound of bending metal and splintering fiberglass. Being fall, the windows were up, thankfully. The creek was high so that was a good thing, I guess. Maybe the water cushioned the impact. I don't know.

I might have been knocked out for a few seconds. The first thing I remember was pushing away from the windshield with both hands, feeling water trickling in through its myriad of cracks. We were still wheels down, but the passenger side was definitely taking on water faster. The tilt suddenly became alarming. Then I heard Tulip barking. That was a good thing! I tried to push the buzzing fog from my head and get to her. In our current situation two things were certain: The Jeep was in the creek and the creek was coming inside. We needed to exit. Pronto!

Naturally I tried to lower the driver's side window but since the doors were buckled, that was a non-starter. I gathered my feet under me—grateful everything was still working—and prepared to kick out the weakened windshield, but I didn't have to. About that time, my optional hard top, my pride and joy, shelter for Tulip for lo these many years, detached from its clips along the roll bar. A giant gush of water flushed us from the Jeep like so much flotsam.

We drug ourselves onto the nearby bank. Tulip kept licking me as I tried to examine her. Unbelievably, she didn't have so much as a scratch that I could see, although I could tell she was tender to the touch in places. I prayed there was no internal damage. I, on the other hand, hadn't fared so well.

Both lips were swollen, the bottom having a cut inside, probably made by my teeth. Horrified they might be broken, I ran my tongue over them. No jagged edges and they felt tight so a trip to the prosthodontist wouldn't be required. There were a variety of minor cuts and bruises scattered about my body, including a goose egg forming at my hairline right above a scar I'd gotten last summer, but nothing life threatening.

My Jeep, however, was another matter altogether. It was a gonner for sure. I walked to where it had floated, then settled into shallow water not far away and surveyed the damage. The frame was definitely bent and I'd had some experience with water flowing through an engine. They tend not to work very good afterward.

Suddenly I felt shaky, so I found a piece of deadfall on the bank and flopped down on it. Tulip huddled beside me. While we watched, the Jeep rolled on its side and began to hog in, settling into the rocky bottom. It was going to be a bitch to haul out. Finally, the fog of near catastrophe cleared from my mind and a thought that had occurred to me way too many times in the past found its way front and center. What the hell happened and why does it always happen to me?

Soon, as is my way, I'd had enough of feeling sorry for myself—although I was planning on spending some quality time with a bottle of Jack when I got home. I stood stiffly, waded to the wreckage, and got on with the job of saving what I could of my possessions, starting with my Beretta. My tote, my purse, and any gear that wasn't underwater were next. I gave a cursory glance about for my phone, but suffice it to say, wherever it was, it was underwater and that meant bye-bye phone.

I spent the better part of an hour dragging salvageable equipment from the Jeep to the bank and dumping it into what was left of the hardtop. I'd managed to drag it back upstream from where it had caught on the snag. My plan was to retrieve it when I came back to get the Jeep out of the creek. How I was going to accomplish that I wasn't sure yet. I thought about going back to the site for help, but Jackie had his hands full getting the well back on track. Plus, if I pulled a crew off station, the bill from Greenlite and Schmid and Medlin would be a darn site heftier than that of a local wrecker service.

“Come on, girl,” I called to Tulip and crammed my baby nine and soggy purse into my dripping tote and draped it over my shoulder. “I expect the Lauderbach house is the best place to get help.”

Scrambling and clawing our way back up an embankment so steep that, at times, I didn't think I was going to make it, we finally reached the road. I was gasping for breath. The possibility that a little shock was starting to set in was enough to make me take a minute to sit down on the shoulder of the road. As soon as my lungs had filled again, I considered myself recovered. I checked my watch. Mickey had taken quite a licking over the years, but he was still ticking. It was past two.

“Funny how time flies when you're having fun, huh, girl?” I said to Tulip who had been resting beside me, but now had moved to stand behind me, a low growl bubbling deep in her chest.

“It's
not
funny?” I said, turning to see what she was upset about. The world's largest Jersey bull—and the reason for a gate as well as a cattle guard—was standing about ten feet from us. Now I happen to know a few things about bulls. This isn't the first dairy farm I've prospected so I've picked up a little cow knowledge over the years. One important fact came quickly to mind. Of all the different breeds available to cross with Holstein cows—the black and white ones—Jerseys are the most desired. They are also, with absolutely zero dissent amongst dairymen, the most dangerous, most cantankerous, most nasty-tempered bulls in the world.