The Night Monster (33 page)

Tuck had given us plenty of information to work with. I patted him on the arm. “Thanks a lot. One last thing. Don’t tell anyone about this conversation.”

Tuck walked us outside to our car, and shook both our hands.

“I won’t tell a soul,” the boy said.

e got back on the road. Four miles later, an unmarked dirt road appeared, just like Tuck had said it would. We bumped along it until a farm came into view. There were acres of corn and tomatoes, plenty of cows, and a large pasture filled with chestnut-colored horses. The property was surrounded by three-board fence topped with barbed wire. Yellow signs warned trespassers that they’d be shot on sight. In one pasture, I spied a man riding a tractor. I wanted to speak to him, and flashed my brights. Instead of slowing down, the man drove to the opposite side of the field.

“Is that what they call Southern hospitality?” Linderman asked.

“This is one spooky place,” I said.

I pulled off and parked in the grass. We got out of the car and stood by the fence. Several minutes passed. Finally the man on the tractor drove over and killed his engine. It made a whistling sound as it shut down. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and a straw hat, and had olive-colored skin. The brim of his hat was pulled down, shielding his eyes.

“Mister Kaplan?” I asked.

“Mister Kaplan’s away.” The man had a thick Mexican accent.

“Can you tell us when he’ll be back?” I asked.

“Can’t you read the signs? No trespassing.”

Linderman took out his wallet and let the man see his credentials. The Mexican climbed down from the tractor to look at his badge. The front of his shirt came out of his pants, revealing the black pistol tucked behind his belt.

“Mister Kaplan went to Orlando,” the Mexican said. “He’ll be back in a couple days. That’s all I know.”

“What can you tell us about the fire on his property?” Linderman said.

“Mister Kaplan don’t want us talking about that,” the Mexican said.

“I’m with the FBI,” Linderman said.

“I can read,” the Mexican said.

“You can get in trouble by not talking to us,” Linderman said.

“I lose my job if I do,” the Mexican said.

The Mexican climbed back on his tractor. Clearly, the FBI didn’t carry much weight in his world. He started up the tractor’s engine.

“We’re just trying to help,” I yelled in Spanish.

The Mexican looked down at me. I held my hands up in a pleading gesture. He pointed to the rear of the property, then drove away.

We drove around the property. Kaplan had a big spread of land, and had a dozen people working for him. It was the first working farm I’d seen in Chatham, and it looked prosperous. As I came around a curve, Linderman spoke up.

“Over there. Look.”

I followed the direction of his finger. In the rear of the property sat the charred remains of a burned-down building. The concrete footprint suggested a large structure. A hay barn perhaps. Or horse stalls.

We got out to have a better look and pressed our bodies against the fence. The remains appeared to have been there for a while. The cinders were old and gray, and the grass around the building had grown back. I spotted a wood sign stuck in the ground. Handwritten, the letters had long since faded.

“Can you read that?” I asked.

Linderman shook his head. We were on the same wavelength, and both hopped the fence. We crossed the property with an eye out for trouble. We stopped in front of the sign and still had to squint. The sign read, “To the varmints who torched my barn and killed my horses. Unlike the good Lord, I will not forgive you.”

“What do you think is going on here?” Linderman asked.

“I wish I knew,” I said.

The sound of gunfire snapped our heads. The shots had come from the forest behind Kaplan’s property, and sounded like a small-caliber rifle.

“More trouble,” I said.

I drove down the dirt road to a small pond nestled behind Kaplan’s farm. About an acre in size, the pond’s water was brackish, the surface as smooth as glass. A pair of bamboo fishing poles were stuck in the ground by the pond along with a cooler. The owners of the poles were nowhere in sight. The rain had stopped and the sun was out.

I parked beneath the inviting shade of a tree, and we both got out. Linderman removed the shotguns from the trunk of my car, and tossed one to me. The shotguns were called Mossbergs, and had gained wide popularity with law enforcement after quelling several prison riots in the late nineties.

“How many shots did you count?” Linderman asked.

“I heard two,” I said.

“Same gun?”

“I think so.”

We walked down to the pond with the Mossbergs. In the soft ground I spied two pairs of footprints. Buster had taken a liking to the cooler, and with his nose popped the lid. I let out a soft whistle. The cooler was filled with flathead catfish resting on ice.

“Are they good to eat?” Linderman asked.

“They’re a local delicacy,” I said.

“Looks like we stumbled upon a good fishing hole,” he said.

I started to agree with him. Then I spotted the rifle poking out of the trees on the other side of the lake, and knew we were in trouble.

had been in my share of firefights. Ninety percent of the time, no one got shot. The reason for this was simple: The target usually ducked.

I tackled Linderman to the ground. A split-second later, a gunshot rang out, the bullet flying over our heads. Either the shooter had lousy aim, or was trying to scare the daylights out of us. Buster, who’d been sniffing the catfish, took off running.

We lay with our stomachs on the soft ground, staring across the top of the pond. A pack of crows had exploded out of the trees and turned the sky black.

“Where are they?” Linderman whispered.

“On the other side of the pond.”

“How many rifles?”

“Just one.

“Show me where they are.”

I pointed at the spot where I’d seen the rifle poking through the trees. Linderman took aim and squeezed the trigger of his Mossberg. The shotgun’s pellets ripped through the branches and echoed across the forest. Screams followed, accompanied by Buster’s frantic barking. I jumped to my feet. Linderman was right beside me.

“I’m going to my right. You go to the left,” the FBI agent said.

Linderman took off in a crouch. I did the same, the two of us moving around the pond at the same speed. I could hear Buster ripping something apart behind the trees. A pair of high-pitched voices screamed for mercy.

As I drew closer, the voices became more distinct. Two boys, maybe a few years past puberty. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Linderman aim high into the trees, and fire another shell. One of the boys screamed for his life.

“Don’t shoot me … please!”

Linderman halted when he was twenty feet from the trees. “Both of you come out with your hands in the air. Right now!”

“Get your dog away from us,” the second boy pleaded.

I hollered for him. I heard a yip, followed by Buster exploding out of the trees. He came over to my side with a wild look in his eyes.

“Now come out, and do it slow,” Linderman ordered.

Two adolescent boys walked single file out of the trees. Each wore green camouflage clothing and a baseball cap with the visor pointing backward. One of the boys’ pants legs had been ripped to shreds by Buster. They were so scared that both of them had started bawling.

“Are there just two of you?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, sir,” one answered.

“See if he’s telling the truth,” Linderman said to me.

I skirted around the boys and entered the woods. I came to the spot where they’d been hiding, and found a pair of .22s in the leaves. I brought the rifles out and showed them to Linderman.

“Keep your eye on them,” Linderman said.

I kept my shotgun trained on the boys. Linderman took the .22s and emptied them of their ammunition. Then he tossed the rifles into the middle of the pond. He watched them sink, and turned back to me.

“Let’s find out what they’re up to,” he said.

We separated the boys, with Linderman taking one to the other side of the pond, while the boy with the ruined pants stayed with me. Buster had not calmed down, and several times I told him to lie down, afraid he might again go on the attack.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Clayton,” the boy mumbled.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Clayton,” I snapped.

He lifted his gaze. He had muted brown eyes and peach fuzz on his cheeks. Sticking out of his baseball cap were several wisps of curly black hair.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Thirteen.”

“You live in Chatham?”

Clayton vigorously nodded his head. Fear has a powerful effect on people, and often cleanses their consciences. He looked ready to confess.

“Why’d you shoot at us?” I asked.

“We thought you were the Bledsoes.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re a family that lives in town. They come out and steal our fish.”

“Do you know Mister Kaplan? He owns the farm down the road. Someone burned down his barn and killed his horses. Was that you and your friend?”

Clayton stared at the ground and didn’t respond. My heart was racing from being shot at, and I wasn’t willing to put up with any of the kid’s crap. I nudged Buster with my foot, and my dog emitted a vicious bark. Clayton jumped back in alarm.

“Don’t let him bite me!”

“Did you set that fire?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t me.”

“But you know who did, don’t you?”

Clayton glanced at his buddy on the other side of the pond. Satisfied his buddy wasn’t watching him, he said, “Yes, sir. I know who did it. It was the Bledsoes.”

“Tell me why they did that.”

“Some men from Jacksonville came to town and started asking questions. Word got out that nobody should talk to them. Only Mr. Kaplan did, and his place got burned.”

“Who else talked to them?”

“The Webber family did. They ain’t around anymore.”

“The men who were asking questions … were they policemen?”

“No, sir. They were private investigators. They worked for some big insurance company. I don’t know what they wanted.”

I had heard enough. Clayton had answered my questions without hesitation, a sign that he was probably telling the truth. Linderman and Clayton’s friend came around the pond toward us. I pulled Linderman to one side, and we compared notes. Their stories were the same, and we decided the boys were telling the truth.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Outside of the fact that they shot at us, I think they’re harmless,” Linderman said. “I vote for letting them stay. Maybe we can pull some more information out of them.”

I agreed, and turned to the boys.

“Grab your poles,” I said.

We let Clayton and his friend fish the pond with us. They stood a good distance away, and kept to themselves. Had we let them run into town and tell everyone about the strange men with the shotguns, I knew our chances of saving Sara Long were doomed. Better to keep them around, and let them enjoy the afternoon.

Using the boys’ bait, Linderman and I caught six of the prettiest flathead catfish I’d ever seen, and stored them in their cooler. As the sun started to set, I called the boys over. They reluctantly joined us, and glanced nervously at the shotguns lying in the grass.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Each one of you gets to pick a fish. We’re going to take the rest. I’ll pay you for the cooler. Deal?”

The boys nodded woodenly. Clayton picked the largest of the catch, while his friend took the next biggest fish. I handed Clayton a twenty-dollar bill, which was more than enough for the cooler and the ice.

“You boys have a nice day,” I said.

Clayton had a funny look on his face. Like he’d come to an understanding about what had happened, and needed to get it off his chest. He took off his baseball cap.

“I’m sorry we shot at you,” Clayton said.

“Mistakes happen,” I replied.

“Thank you for not killing us,” Clayton said.

“Yeah, thanks for not killing us,” his friend echoed.