###
Higgen’s station sold the highest gas in town. You only stopped there if you were on dead empty or wanted 100% gasoline and no ethanol. In my case I was killing time. Happy Harry’s gun store was straight across the street and opened in ten minutes. The front parking lot was empty save for Chris’s F-150 truck with the obligatory gun rack. Air and gas gurgled in the crown vic’s tank while the pump ran.
A blue camaro that was more rust than paint pulled into Harry’s. A guy, maybe five ten and one eighty, got out carrying a camouflage duffle bag. He pulled on the door, but it only shook since Chris hadn’t opened yet. The gas pump kicked off and I took my time replacing the handle and getting back in the vic.
I saw Chris’s large figure fill the glass as he opened the door for the guy and I drove the vic across the street. I parked one spot over from the camaro. As casually as I could I got out and inspected his left rear tire. By that I mean I inspected the sharpness of my knife blade as it cut his valve stem. Air rushed out and the near treadless tire began to sag like a dying balloon. I returned to my car to wait.
Before I could even sit down my cell phone vibrated. Chris had already texted, “ ur man.” I opened my rear passenger door in preparation, pretending I was looking for something.
“Oh, man,” the guy’s voice moaned as I was sure he saw the flat.
I turned and briskly walked toward him. “Need some help?” I offered. Before he could turn from his hunched over position looking at the tire I knocked him to the ground and snapped a pair of cuffs on him from behind.
He struggled against me and cried, “Hey, man! What the hell? Let me go!”
I grabbed the cuffs, helping him to his feet and making his holler at the same time, and shoved him into the back of the vic.
“Dude, I ain’t broke no laws! You didn’t even read me my rights!”
An old patrol car made for easy assumptions sometimes and maybe that was why I liked it so much. I slammed the door shut, grabbed the duffle bag, and got in the front. “I’m not a cop. I’m just a good citizen taking a fella with a flat tire home,” I told him and drove the vic out on the main road.
“What?” his voice was shaky. ”Are you crazy, man? Let me out here before I put some hurt on you!”
The metal grill separating the front and rear seats made his threat the most worthless I’d heard in awhile. “I said I’m just taking you home, Rogers, to see your dad.” Politeness really pissed off some people.
“You think I’m Charlie? You got the wrong man, moron!” His unkempt black hair twisted in the air as he thrashed about and nearly rolled in floorboard.
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I knew he still had to know something about the break-in or the shooting. With my left hand on the wheel I unzipped the duffle bag with my right to inspect the contents. The heavy canvas bag held no surprises. It was full of loose bullets and plastic bullet containers with bumble bee designs on them. “Come on, Charlie,” I said, “come clean. I know about you stealing these bullets.”
“Shit, man!” he screamed and banged his shoulder into the metal grill. “I ain’t Charlie! Let me go!” He was plenty rough looking with a pocked face and stubble that tried to hide it. But it was the tattoos on his neck they gave me pause like they always do. I can’t imagine how much it would hurt to get one there. HIs was a black bat flying past a full moon.
“Okay, if you’re not Charlie Rogers then who are you and why have you got these stolen bullets?” I was glad to be out of the city now and have farmland on both sides of us. Less chance to be noticed.
Even with the windows rolled down slightly now I could hear his breathing slow as he tried to calm himself. “Promise you’ll let me go and I’ll tell you.” he offered.
“How ‘bout you just start talking,” and I eyed him in the rearview mirror, “so I don’t have to beat it out of you.”
“I’ll talk, I’ll talk. Just don’t take me back there, okay?” He stared out the window. “Clarence Averett, but everybody calls me Corky. I helped Charlie steal those bullets and stuff. Then I stole them from him. I thought I could sell them and get some money to get out. He’s crazy, man! Frickin’ crazy.” Corky started rocking back and forth in the seat. “I ain’t going back, man. Don’t take me back. He’s crazy. He’s crazy.”
I glanced down at my phone that was laying right side up on my leg. The red dot was still on the screen signifying it was recording. Apps are awesome sometimes. “So did you shoot and scare the cows down toward Thompson’s dairy, or did Charlie?”
“That was Charlie, man. I kept telling him it was too far away to hit anything. But he’s so frickin’ paranoid, like all the time, man. He said we had to shoot that hick farmer or he might hurt his dad or something.” Corky rocked even faster, his eyes looking wildly from side to side looking at the road. “Man, you’re taking us there! He’ll kill me! You gotta turn around. You gotta turn around, now!”
Corky was going to get his wish in a roundabout way. I ignored the black truck that got behind me when we left town for a while, but something about it had bothered me. After turning down two different side roads it still followed me and my memory started to catch up.
“Corky, we’re going to make a stop up ahead.” I glanced back at him in the mirror. “I’ve got some friends that want to stop and talk to me. Now, I’d advise you to keep your mouth shut the entire time unless I speak to you.”
He tried to turn his head to see what was behind us stretching his bat out of shape. “What do they want?”
“I’m pretty sure they want to kill me.”
Chapter 7
George Bettis owned a large hay barn sitting barely off the side the road up ahead. One summer when I was on break from high school Gramps and I helped George put new tin on the barn’s roof. I remembered it had several openings in the loft facing the road that might make a good spot to shoot from. I made a hard right, a little too hard causing the gravels in front of the barn to give and the car slid to a stop.
“You gonna just leave me in here? What if they kill me first?” Corky asked as I grabbed a second clip out of the glove compartment and opened the door.
I glanced back at him. “Hell, won’t that save me the trouble?”
The airplane take-off like roar of the off road tires on the truck got louder. I wouldn’t have much time to get ready. The barn wasn’t one of those pretty ones all painted red and it didn’t have a fancy barn quilt pattern on it, either. George’s barn leaned to the left like a drunk that was about to fall over. I guess the tin we put on it twenty years ago was the last bit of repairing it had seen. It looked so bad now that I knew of a couple farmers that had bets on when it would fall.
Gramps liked to tell me stories of when he was in a shootout. He had two that I had heard told too many times. HIs strategy for both had been simple, “I made damn sure I shot first because I didn’t know how fast the other guy was.” I had always been a fair shot, at least when I was at close range.
I heard the crunching of tires stopping on gravels outside. I was already climbing a sagging homemade ladder of two by fours nailed to the wall and hoping the nails in each rung would hold my weight without pulling out. The wood planks on the loft creaked as I walked past a dozen or so small square bales of straw. I peeked out one of the large openings that was used to put the straw bales in the barn.
Jeff and Martin Hayes stepped out the truck. Jeff was definitely the big one and the bruises I gave him still showed on his face. He grabbed a shotgun and started loading it. Martin’s face was pure menace and the .45 in his hand further illustrated the point. I had run them both out of town individually and now here they were together. I guess this was my lucky day. Martin and Jeff eyed me through the opening in the loft like hunters after their prey.
“Listen fellas,” I told them as they started raising their barrels at me, “you’ve still got time to leave.”
“We’ve got other plans, Steele.” Martin motioned with his pistol. “Come
on down nice and slow.”
I rolled back behind the weather beaten barn planks. “Did I ever tell you about my Gramps? He has a small farm with a few animals,” I continued while getting my own gun at the ready. “One time these stray dogs came through and got one of his chickens and started chasing his cows. Gramps didn’t take the time to get upset; he just dropped them, bam bam, right there in the field.”
That’s when I fired the first shot at Jeff, who I thought with the shotgun was more dangerous. The bullet sailed a little higher than I meant and barely grazed his shoulder. He instinctively pulled the trigger too hard and spray clanged off the metal pipe gate that secured the stalls for the animals below me. Martin’s aim was slightly better and I heard the whiff whiff of bullets passing through the straw bales beside me.
“Hey, Corky,” I hollered, “tell what kind of bullets I’ve got.” He didn’t hear or didn’t answer. “I’ve got bee bullets. They’re these super bullets that let me shoot around corners and through solid wood and they sting like a bitch. You fellas ready for this?”
Martin let off two more shots close to my left. The rusty pipe gate squeaked below giving away Jeff’s location. Martin glanced at the noise and I took my moment. I fired twice this time. He let out a curse and fell to the ground grabbing his chest.
Straw and wood blasted into the air behind me as Jeff tried to pinpoint my location. I dove on top of the straw and made my way to the back side of the loft. He fired two more shots near the first and I slid to the floor quietly. A pitchfork leaned against a post beside me. I carefully picked it up and tossed it to the far wall. Martin fired a blast in that direction and I made my move.
I leaned my head and gun hand down through opening in the loft at the top of the hay manger. Jeff held his gun straight out bracing it with his left hand and slowly walked away from the manger toward the back of the barn. I whistled once to get his attention and fired. He whirled around in time for the first bullet to hit him crossways in his ribs and out the back. I squeezed the trigger again as he fired wildly into the barn wall unable to aim his weapon. Jeff collapsed into a heap, shuddered once, and moved no more. The soft yellow straw was stained with blood.
I held my phone up and with the height of the barn on my side I managed to pull in one bar and dialed.
An elderly man’s raspy voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“George, this is John Steele. Bad news. I just saw two dead meth heads at your barn next to the road.” I reloaded and holstered my gun. “ Don’t know how they got there.”
“Me neither,” he replied. After a pause he said, "I'll call Brookshire.”
Last fall George was having trouble with some punks stealing tools and old farm equipment from him to sell for scrap metal. I put a stop to it and I don’t think he’s forgotten.
Chapter 8
The drive to Charlie’s place was quiet, not that I was complaining. Corky must’ve either given in or gotten so scared from the Hayes brothers incident that he wasn’t talking or moving much. His face was paler now and he stared aimlessly out the window. “Did you take something?” I asked
No reply.
“Hey, Corky! Did you pop a pill or something?” Don’t how he could manage that with his hands still cuffed, but druggies could find ways.
Eyes wider than normal he continued staring out the window. “Yeah, man. I needed to calm down. I’m good.”
Black clouds were blowing in from the west and I caught a glimpse of lightning far off. Burnt Pine Ridge was probably the steepest spot in the county and the road leading to the top made long horizontal passes with steep twists zig zagging upwards to keep it from washing out in the winter. It was always the last road to be cleared when after a snow because the county didn’t want to pay to pull out another stuck snowplow again. I glanced down at my cell phone again to check for messages but there were none. There were no signal bars either.
At the crest of the ridge the pine trees were cleared and a paved driveway led to a wide two-story log house. It didn’t look like something rustic. The logs were cut to perfection and somehow gave the house a modern look. The mailbox had “Rogers” carved in cursive on a wooden plaque above it. Beyond the house was the solar array. You couldn’t see the rows and rows of glass panels from below because of all the trees, but up here you couldn’t miss them. I bet the glare from them would be almost unbearable on a sunny day.
I had seen the solar panels before in a newspaper article. Rogers senior was some sort of scientist or entrepreneur. He made big bucks helping companies go green and this project to help power the county was supposed to be his biggest yet, even if would only partially power all the houses. Thunder boomed in the distance. The sun wasn’t going to do him any favors today with this kind of weather.
A green hybrid car was parked in front of the house and I couldn’t imagine how my long legs would ever fit inside such a small vehicle.. The crown vic looked even bigger sitting next to it. I got out and opened Corky’s door. “You ready to see Charlie?” His pupils were so wide I could hardly see any color in his eyes.
“Charlie?” he said as he carefully planted one foot on the ground. “Charlie’s my pal. I can’t wait to see him.”
For better or worse, I uncuffed him and led Corky up the porch steps to the door. The white curtain in a front window moved and I knew we had been seen. “Hello. Anyone home?” I rapped the door and called. I heard footsteps on the other side and the solid wood door opened as much as a safety chain would allow.
“What do you want?” A face came crept from behind the door. His thin face wore a three day beard with bedraggled hair, and dark circles shown under his eyes.
I tilted my head toward Corky. “Your pal had a flat tire and I gave him lift to here. He said you could help him.”
He glanced from me to Corky to the vic. “I don’t know him,” he said and started to shut the door.
I stopped the door closing with my leather boot. “Now, wait a minute,” I barked as bigger drops of rain started falling. “I just brought your pal, Corky here, to come see you. What’s this guy’s name again, Corky? Is this Charlie?” I shook Corky’s shoulder.
He let out a sigh and rolled his head around then looked straight at the guy behind the door and blinked his eyes. “Hey, Charlie,” he said after a pause. “I’m sorry I left and took the bullets.” Then to me, “That’s Charlie. He’s my pal.”
Charlie’s mouth turned down and soured. “My name’s not Charlie,” he grunted. “You’re lost. Get out of here.”
Thunder echoed across the ridge followed by a loud lightning crack that cast our shadows on the door. I decided the conversation had gone on long enough. I heaved my right leg up and smashed my foot on the door. The safety chain snapped and the door whipped around striking Charlie in the face barely missing his nose. I pushed Corky inside. “I thought you’d never invite us in,” I said looking down at Charlie.
“That’s quite far enough,” said a new voice. The sound of a homeowner’s best friend followed: the pump of a shotgun.
My eyes didn’t have to look too far to see it or the grey haired man holding it. “Dan Rogers, I presume?” I raised my hands slowly upward. The old man’s clothes hung a little too loose to his frame and his face was pale and wrinkled. He was sick, but not too sick to hold the shotgun on me.
“That’s right. Now give me a good reason not to have my boy clean your blood up off the floor.” The gun barely wavered in his frail hands, but I could see the walker behind him next to one of those motorized recliners. Firing it might knock him down and out, but at this range there was no chance of him missing me.
“John Steele, private investigator. I’m working on a case that involves your son.”
Dan shifted his feet trying to keep the gun steady. “Charlie’s had trouble before, but that’s all in the past. He’s been here with me. He’s not done anything.” He talked steadily and I wasn’t sure he believed what he said, or maybe he was convincing us both with the shotgun
in his hand.
“Well, sir, I’m afraid he was recently involved in a breaking and entering and a homicide.”
That was all Charlie needed. He swung hard at me while before his dad could say anything else. I had expected it, but the slug to my right cheek didn’t hurt any less.
“I didn’t do nothing.” He looked back at his dad. “I’ve been good, Dad, real good,” he said. Charlie looked back at me and stuck out his stubbled chin and made like I had more of the same coming.
“Listen, I phoned the cops outside before I came in. You might as well lower the gun and we’ll settle all of this peaceably,” I told them and rubbed my sore jaw, tasting blood in my mouth. It was a lie, of course, but I needed to buy some time before I ended up dead by one of them.
Still tremoring, Dan hoisted the gun level again and said, “Now, if I know anything then I know that is not true. There is no cellular service on this ridge.” He was a man that had been used to getting his way. When he spoke people listened and obeyed. Time has a way of catching up to people in power.
Lightning again lit up the windows, but no one paid much attention to it or the rain pounding now on the tin roof. Corky’s head followed the circular path of the ceiling fan oblivious to everything else. Charlie’s right hand fidgeted in his jeans pocket, his eyes going back and forth from me to the shotgun.
“You fixed that, too, didn’t you? When Thompson was going to get the cellphone tower you waved some money around and made sure it was going to get built up here,” I said.
Dan yanked the heavy shotgun up a bit aiming straight at my chest. The windows lit up with another lightning strike and Dan blinked. Never let a good opportunity go to waste, I say. I shoved Corky as hard as I could into the old man. The dumbfounded druggie pushed the shotgun up and away from his face and Dan fired it harmlessly into the ceiling and sheetrock dust and crumbles rained down on all of us. Charlie yanked his hand out of his pocket sending all different sizes and colors of pills into the air. He dove to the ground to pick them out of the pieces of sheetrock. The shotgun blast must have awoken Corky from his stupor because he also got down in the floor and dug for his share of the pills.