The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

by M. Glenn Graves

  “When?”

  “A few moments ago.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Then who hit you?”

  “Redwine,” she said.

  Chapter 36

  The second ambulance arrived five minutes before Sheriff Buster Murdock. They were attending to a reticent Starnes Carver while I was discussing the nature of my presence on the scene with Buster. He was as happy to be there talking with me as that dispatcher was in sending out a second ambulance.

  “I told you and that friend of yours to stay out of this,” he said.

  “You did.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  “And yet here I am.”

  “Don’t give me your mouth. I’ll throw you in jail.”

  “Fat chance of that. But jail … I don’t think it’d aid your cause appreciably.”

  “What in god’s name is going on here?”

  “I think there’s someone else after Laurel Shelton.”

  “Who would that be?” he said.

  “Not sure, but I suspect he’s an FBI agent.”

  “FBI? Why would the Feds want this girl?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Why didn’t he come to me?”

  “That’d be a good question to ask him.”

  “Who is this FBI agent?” Murdock said.

  “Agent Horace Redwine.”

  “And where is this agent?”

  “I have it on good authority that he is heading up this road to Homer Gosnell’s place.”

  “What road?”

  I told him what Homer had told me earlier that evening.

  “You spoke with Homer,” he said.

  “I did. Homer is convalescing in his cabin, but I suspect he is in real danger from this agent.”

  “I thought you said the agent was after Laurel Shelton.”

  “If Homer gets in the way, then … well, the agent knocked Starnes unconscious.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And why does the FBI want Laurel Shelton?”

  “You asked that already.”

  “I didn’t get much of an answer.”

  “I’ll give you the same answer as before – I don’t know.”

  “And why is the agent driving an ambulance?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And where is Laurel Shelton?”

  I smiled at him.

  “You don’t know that either, do you?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “You don’t know much, do you?”

  “You ask hard questions.”

  “I ought to take you in,” he said.

  “For what, not knowing anything?”

  He mumbled something and walked back to his vehicle. There is one thing I have learned to do in my years of experience as a private investigator. Always come clean with the local authorities. Make certain that you tell them what they can understand. Not knowing is usually something they can understand, chiefly because they don’t know a lot as well. It’s like a walk in the dark. Or a hike in the mountains at nighttime. Analogies all around.

  “We need to get to Homer’s place,” I said as Murdock came back over to me.

  “We don’t need to do anything, lady. You can go to the hospital and be with your friend there, Starnes. Comfort her and stay outta my hair.”

  “You’re making a horrible mistake, Sheriff. Think with me here. Why would an FBI agent knock Starnes unconscious?”

  “I have no proof that an FBI agent did,” he said.

  “Point for you. However, Starnes and I met this man earlier and he identified himself as an FBI agent. I did some research and verified that there is a Horace Redwine, FBI Agent.”

  “Good for you. I don’t have any information to support your claim. Starnes Carver was hit hard and likely suffered a severe concussion. She could be delirious. She could have imagined the whole thing.”

  “Not likely, Sheriff. Starnes doesn’t have much imagination.”

  I turned to see the ambulance carrying Starnes Carver drive away. I wanted to shoot Buster Murdock, but I never did like to waste ammunition. When I got back to my Jeep, Dog and Sam were together in the back seat.

  “I guess you’re going with me, girlie,” I said to Dog.

  She wagged her tail and whimpered a little.

  “She’ll be okay. She has a hard head,” I said aloud, more to console me than Dog.

  I drove towards Asheville and the hospital where the ambulance was taking Starnes. Since Murdock was being so stubborn, I decided to make sure that my friend was in fact going to be okay. A blow to the head is what it is. I wanted to know exactly what it was, who did it, and why.

  My cell rang just as I passed into the city limits of Asheville. Rogers was calling.

  “Hey there, sweetie pie,” she said.

  “What’d you do?”

  “Whattaya mean, what’d I do?”

  “You called me sweetie pie. Likely means that you did something you weren’t supposed to do.”

  “So young and yet so suspicious.”

  “Out with it.”

  “Guess who just called me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will tell you.”

  “The baited breath thing.”

  “You’re so abrupt with your lack of humor sometimes. Anyhow, this FBI Agent named Taylor Hawkins called me.”

  “You.”

  “Well, he actually called you and I took the opportunity to easily convince him that you were here.”

  “Say it isn’t so. Kinda dangerous to be doing that since I am a long way from there.”

  “He seemed rather testy. I thought it best if I take the call and try to ease his mind a bit.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “I recorded it. Would you like me to play it for you?”

  “I shudder.”

  “It’s enlightening.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Worth your time, dear.”

  “Play it,” I said.

  I could hear Rogers’ humming some melody before she engaged her automatic recorder to play. It is often scary to be involved with a machine that can make decisions and using devices to engage with actual people in positions of authority who could lock me up and throw away the proverbial key. One of the devices that Rogers has access to is the voice synthesizer, which allows her to sound like me whenever she desires. It’s an internal switch which she triggers. Downright frightening. I blame my uncle for that.

  The recording began:

  “You Clancy Evans?” Agent Hawkins asked in a gruff voice.

  “Yeah,” Rogers said.

  “Got some intel that said you want to know about one of my agents.”

  “Met an Agent Redwine. Said he worked with you. Just needed to verify that such an agent actually works for the Bureau since I had never met him before.”

  “He’s one of my mine. Where’d you meet him?”

  “I just got back from McAdams County, North Carolina, and I ran into him over there. He said he was investigating a kidnapping. Anything unusual about that?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Hawkins said.

  “Him being in McAdams County or him investigating a kidnapping?”

  “Can’t talk about any ongoing investigations.”

  “I didn’t ask that,” Rogers said. “I just need to know if Redwine should have been investigating a kidnapping in any county in any state?”

  “Off the record … a simple no is in order.”

  “Agent Redwine a good man?”

  “One of my best.”

  “Was Redwine supposed to be in McAdams’ County for any reason?”

  “Can’t answer that.”

  “I think you just did.”

  “You make a lot of assumptions, Evans,” he said.

  “You give me cause,” Rogers said.

  “Does that answer all of your questions?” Hawkins asked.


  “I just wanted to know why Redwine was sent to check on a kidnapping that never had time to be entered as even a local investigated event.”

  “I answered that already.”

  “So, one of your best men, this Agent Redwine, was not sent to McAdams County to investigate a possible kidnapping, yet Agent Redwine shows up and is checking on the details.”

  “You obviously know more than I know. I can only tell you – off the record – that there has been no reported kidnapping to my office, and I know of no one who sent Redwine to where you were in McAdams County.”

  “Thanks for calling,” Rogers said.

  “It won’t happen again,” Hawkins said and hung up.

  “You’re a scary machine,” I said to Rogers.

  “I am quite good at what I have been programmed to do.”

  “I’d say you’re ahead of the class,” I said.

  “There are others in my class?”

  “Not that I know of. The world could not handle more than one. Thanks for the sharing,” I said.

  “You want some further digging?” Rogers said.

  “Stay alert for whatever may come to your attention.”

  “My tentacles are extensive.”

  “My fear exactly.”

  When I arrived at the hospital, I couldn’t find a parking spot close to the emergency entrance. I made the loop a few times without success. Out of frustration and time constraints, I parked at the other end of the hospital near the main entrance. I then walked around to the emergency side. The night air helped to clear my brain.

  A beep on my phone told me I had one of those text messages I do so detest. It may be a way of life for most people in my culture; it is not the way for me. The message from Rogers read – “Oops, forgot to send earlier. See attached file.” I opened the file and studied the document Rogers had sent. It was the FBI’s personnel file on Horace Cleveland Redwine. It was indeed thorough, but that was no surprise.

  The surprise was the photograph of Horace Cleveland Redwine. The photo of the agent did not look like the man I met in the home of Beth Call. Not even a little like the man I met. Horace Cleveland Redwine was a strikingly handsome African American. Agent Redwine, the one I met, was anything but strikingly handsome. And he was certainly not African American.

  Chapter 37

  The only sound in the dark room was the labored breathing of Homer Gosnell. The early light of the predawn entered the cabin through the singular window in the bedroom. The solitary figure sitting by the side of the bed was awake. Sleep had not been an option. Hours earlier he had holstered his .357 revolver, satisfied that he had nothing to fear from the injured man lying near him.

  During the night, the gunman had used the flashlight to check Homer’s injuries. He observed two wounds that were relatively minor. A third gunshot wound was showing signs of a serious infection. He knew little about making a medical diagnosis, but he knew injuries that looked troubling. He also knew that if that wound was not attended to soon, the man would not live long.

  A door squeaked in the outer room.

  With the suddenness of a cat, the man drew his weapon and took three steps to place himself on the left side of the make-shift curtain hanging in the doorway. He could discern outlines now because of the ever-increasing light of the morning.

  There was a tear in the curtain which allowed him to see into the other room, but the hole was not large enough to satisfy him. With his .357 revolver in his right hand, he used his left to move the curtain slowly away from its normal, hanging position so he could see what was happening in the outer room. A young girl was entering the cabin. Her back was to the man behind the curtain. She was closing the door to the cabin with great caution.

  He stepped through the curtain quickly as the young girl turned from the door toward the curtain. His movement startled her. She turned quickly back toward the entrance with the intention of escaping.

  “You’ll be dead before you have that door open,” he said in a loud voice, but not quite yelling.

  The sound of the man’s voice woke Homer.

  The girl turned to face the man who was now standing in the outer room with the curtain at his back.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “Names are meaningless.”

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “You,” the man answered.

  “I don’t know you,” she said.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why do you want me?”

  “Means to an end.”

  “What end?”

  “You go away and I make money.”

  “Are you one of the men who’ve been trailing me the last few days?”

  “If you mean hiking, hardly. I find people without much walking in forests. I do my job. I leave.”

  “What’s your job?”

  He grunted.

  “Call me a problem solver.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Heard about your new friend in there,” he said and pointed over his shoulder to the curtained-off area for the bedroom behind him.

  “How’d you know I’d come here?”

  “I must be good at guessing.”

  “And how’d you find this place?”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “What are you’re going to do with me?”

  “Take you with me.”

  “Where?” Laurel said, stalling her adversary in the hopes that Homer might awaken and help somehow.

  “No more questions. We need to leave. Open that door behind you carefully,” he said without changing his position. “We’ll exit through that one.”

  The man gestured to the back door of the cabin as he stood and moved a couple of steps towards the back door, stopping directly in front of the curtain for the bedroom. Laurel took three steps and reached for the door. She opened it gently, wider than need be, slowly pushing it back, hoping that the hinges might squeak or groan. If no sound came, she would simply walk out ahead of the man holding the dangerous handgun.

  Homer listened to the two distinct voices. He recognized one. The unfamiliar voice had a tone he did not like. He didn’t like the words, either. There was no way he could allow the man to leave with Laurel. Despite his weakened condition and nauseating pain, he reached under his bed with some difficulty and removed the crossbow and two arrows from his sheath. With some intense pain and great strength, Homer stood up and maneuvered himself to the curtain. He peered through the slightly torn section and saw the figure of a man.

  One of the hinges on the back door squeaked when Laurel opened it wider than she needed.

  “Hold on, girlie. I can’t just leave your friend in there.”

  “Will you help him?” she said with some surprise in her voice.

  “I’ll help him outta his misery,” he said.

  “You have me. You don’t need him. He’s injured. He doesn’t know you or anything about you. I’ll go with you. Just leave him be,” she said.

  “Doesn’t work that way.”

  The swooshing sound came from the arrow which tore through the curtain’s existent hole.

  The arrow penetrated the lower left side of the man’s back. Homer’s accuracy was a given considering his distance from the man. There was no guess work at all despite the dismal light of the outer room. The arrow hit the man in his lower back and with the point of the arrow coming into Laurel’s view quite suddenly. She gasped at the sound and sight of the arrow. Internally, the arrow caught a portion of the stomach and sliced through the area where the man’s appendix used to be.

  The gunman grimaced and grabbed his side as the blood began to escape from the two holes created by the arrow. Still on his feet, he turned toward the curtain behind him. Using his left hand, he slid the curtain to the left along the rod Homer had installed, and then took one step into the room with the barrel of his revolver aimed at the bed where Homer was lying moments ago. He immediately discharged his weapon three times upon enter
ing the bedroom.

  Despite his weakened condition and the severe, throbbing pain, Homer had moved away from the curtain and had reloaded his crossbow for a second shot. He was now standing opposite his bed. All of Homer’s movements seemed to be from instinct. His normal prey carried no weapons for retaliation. However, some animals had a way of zeroing in on their attackers, and Homer had learned the art of moving after the first shot if he was close to his target.

  This prey had a weapon, and he knew that if his first arrow was not likely to be a kill-shot, a wounded animal was more dangerous.

  The second arrow struck the man between the sound of the second and third discharge of the man’s handgun. This arrow entered directly into the man’s gut, just above the navel. It was a deadly second shot. The arrow was slowed by penetrating both tissue and organs before it halted a little more than halfway between the front and the back of the man’s torso. Laurel gasped once more as she watched the gunman fall to his knees.

  The man grabbed the curtain with his left hand as he fell. The long fabric twisted as the now kneeling victim of the two arrows swayed with his head down, his eyes staring blankly at the floor. His weight and grip caused the curtain to break loose from the small, plastic hooks which secured the curtain to the tension rod between the door jam. One by one the fragile hooks broke as the injured man pulled and slowly fell to the floor of the cabin.

  The man raised his head but had a hard time focusing because of his lethal wounds. Once he was on the floor, he flailed wildly with his left hand, cursing as he tried in vain to rid himself of the curtain which now entangled him more because of his erratic movement. He looked toward the bed and pointed the barrel of the revolver in that direction.

  He fired his weapon once more. One shot. The bullet lodged in the wall just above Homer’s bed. His head went down hard on the wood beneath him. The heavy .357 revolver hit the floor and dislodged from his hand. The weapon then slid under Homer’s bed as if it had a mind of its own.

  The man lay motionless. Laurel walked slowly to the now empty doorway. Despite the tangled curtain around the man on the floor, Laurel could still see the blood coming from the two back wounds and making ever-increasing dark splotches on the shirt.

  Homer paid no attention to the man on the floor.