Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  Crockett was glad of the wind. Not having to be overly careful of noise made his trek a lot easier. Nudge appearing in his wake, however, did not make things easier. He threw small sticks and such at the cat until Nudge gave up, hissed at him, and moseyed back toward home. After augmenting his Ghillie suit and cape with various strands of grass and weeds to blend in to the local flora, Crockett traveled the entire width of his property and around a hundred yards into the neighboring parcel owned by the county, before he saw the car. It was a dark brown full-size Chevy, backed into a turn-around on the north side of the road. From the auto’s position, the driver could see any cars or trucks that drove by Crockett’s land, as well as any that entered or exited his lane, nearly a half-mile distant to the east. Crockett went to his knees amid rotting sticks and leaf litter, caught his breath, and pulled the hood of his Ghillie cape up over his head and face. Goody’s training took over and he began a slow fifty-yard sneak through the trees toward the rear of the car.

  Nearly thirty minutes later, when he still had fifteen yards to go, his passing flushed a garter snake from under a log. Confused and panicked, the snake fled directly toward Crockett’s face. Confused and panicked, Crockett struck at the twenty-four inch, harmless reptile and, through blind luck, pinned the snake to the ground with a hand just behind its head. Crockett was no lover of snakes, but he worked his fingers around the snake’s neck and held on. In turn, the snake wrapped its body around Crockett’s hand and wrist and held on. Together they continued toward the car.

  The Chevy sported Missouri plates and a rental sticker. Its sole occupant, the young agent who had been watching Carson at Zona Rosa, sat behind the wheel, binoculars resting on the frame of the downed window, drumming his fingers on the outside of the door. Boredom is the enemy of vigilance. It took Crockett nearly another ten minutes to cover the last ten yards. He paused two feet from the side of the car, just behind the driver’s door. Crockett knew the kid hadn’t heard him. He also knew that if the kid turned around and looked right at him, Crockett would remain unseen. Slowly and carefully he unwound the snake from his wrist and waited. When a gust of wind sufficiently loud to cover the sound of his movement lashed at the treetops, he tossed the frightened garter snake through the auto’s open window and into the agent’s lap.

  The reaction was predictable. The binoculars fell to the ground as the kid screamed and threw himself into the door two or three times before his scrabbling fingers finally found the handle. The door sprang open with his weight behind it, and he tumbled from the car, clawing at himself to make sure the reptile was not clinging to him with a fevered grasp of venom-powered bloodlust. Once he had rolled five or six feet from the Chevy, he stopped flailing and collected himself while emitting a series of muffled shits and fucks as he got himself under control. On his knees, his attention totally focused on the open car door and ignorant of Crockett laying only an arm’s length away, he carefully eased back toward the auto, peering into the driver’s area, attempting to locate the anaconda that had attacked him with such ferocity. As he did, the young man presented his back to Crockett.

  Crockett launched himself the three feet to the kid’s position, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed his head viciously into the rear edge of the door. As the agent rebounded from the blow, Crockett used the kid’s momentum to hurl the stunned lad face-first into the rotting forest floor, threw himself heavily onto the man’s back, reached down his right side, and removed the boy’s .40 caliber Sig Sauer from its holster. The kid coughed a time or two and began to struggle. Crockett dropped his voice an octave, pressed his lips close to the lad’s left ear, and pushed the barrel of the pistol against the right side of his victim’s face.

  “Naow yew jest settle down thar, Sonny-boy,” Crockett growled, “or this here li’l ol’ gun a yourn might go off.”

  The kid froze.

  “Naow thet’s jest fine. Whatchoo doin’ out ‘chere whar you doan belong, sonny-boy? Me an’my brother doan lak nobody sneakin’ ‘round are place. Yew some kinda law, sonny-boy?”

  The kid didn’t answer.

  “Ah ast yew a question, boy!” Crockett snarled, grinding the pistol against the kid’s ear.

  “I, ah, I’m with the FBI,” the lad stammered, his voice muffled by dirt and leaves.

  “I knowed it! I knowed yew wuz some kinda guvmint shithead. Ah could smell it on ye. Real gentle like, yew retch under yerself an’ git me yer badge. Better be nothin’ else come out from under yew, boy, or ah’ll splatter yer brains fer ye.”

  The lad inched his hand into his coat and pulled his ID case out beside his head. Crockett left it where it was.

  “Yew ain’t got no bidness out thisaway, sonny-boy. You ain’t got no right a-comin’ on are place neither. Ah oughter shove this pistol up yer ass a ways an’ touch her off a time er two. Let yew lay out ‘chere shittin’ yerself with yer own goddam blood. Yew goddam shore wooden be the first. Yew think yew’d like thet? Answer me, boy!”

  “No!”

  “All right then. My brother was here, he’d split yew like a chicken. But ah’m gonner let yew go, sonny-boy. When ah git up off’n yew, yew git right straight on inta thet car a yourn. Yew stop, ah’ll back shoot ye. Yew turn around, ah’ll gut shoot ye. Yew come back, ah’ll hang yew by the heels, skin ye, an’ dress yew out. Ah’m a ghost, sonny-boy. Yew cain’t fine me an’ yew cain’t ketch me. You show up out ‘chere on are place agin, yew’ll fine out what yer dick tastes like afore yew bleed out.”

  Crockett eased his weight off the lad.

  “Now git!”

  The kid, opting for the possibility of another encounter with the snake, as opposed to the certainty of what he’d just been through, dived into his car. Crockett dropped face down, invisible. Ten seconds later there was nothing left of the boy but dust on the gravel road. Crockett picked up the ID. Jerome Taylor.

  Jerry was going to have some ‘splainin’ to do.

  By the time Crockett got back to the bus it was nearly three o’clock. He took a shower and scrubbed off the paint, got dressed, and limped into the kitchen. Donning a pair of Playtex rubber gloves, he carefully washed the binoculars, the pistol, the badge and case, and a cheap grocery-style plastic bag in a solution of vinegar, bleach, and water. That done, he dropped the items inside the bag, tied it securely, and headed for town to visit with Chief Smoot. On his way, Crockett detoured by Smithville Lake. Crossing the north bridge, he tossed his burden over the railing and into the water. Continuing across that finger of the lake, he removed the rubber gloves and stashed them under the Neon’s seat, then headed back toward Hartrick. Christ. He was way too old for this shit.

  It was kinda fun, though.

  “Holy shit, Crockett!” Smoot said.

  They were sitting in the Chief’s unmarked car in front of the Hartrick Cop Shop. Crockett had told him about the visit from Boster and the encounter with young agent Taylor and the garter snake.

  “You don’t reckon they’re gonna come see me or the sheriff, do ya?”

  “My guess is no,” Crockett said. “They don’t want any other agency involvement for one thing. Plus, they’re outside their jurisdiction anyway. This is U.S. Marshal territory. On top of that, would you go to a fellow cop and admit you’d been had so easily by some wraith of the woods?”

  “Not me..”

  “And, I don’t believe that Boster is gonna charge into those woods trying to find whatever attacked his partner. The man’s no fool. He’d know he was outclassed. He’s been around long enough to learn how to pick his battles.”

  “What did you do with the gun and stuff?”

  “Print and DNA free, in Smithville Lake.”

  “Good thinkin’. Damn shame though. A four-ought Sig is worth a lot of money.”

  “Not as much as my ass.”

  “That would depend on who you asked,” Smoot said.

  It started to rain just as Crockett left Hartrick. When he pulled into his lane he noticed traces of muddy tire tracks turnin
g out of his drive and onto the road. He checked the perimeter of the bus as well as the surrounding area. Nothing. Christ.

  Now what?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Kanga, Roo, and a Big Boom Too

  The next morning brought gentle breezes, chirping birdies, and a hot shower that, because of the condensed size of the Pequod’s water heater, did not do nearly enough to reduce the additional aches and pains Crocket had incurred as a result of crawling through the forest primeval the preceding afternoon. He hurt. Four aspirin didn’t help, three cups of dark roast Kenyan offered no relief, and his recliner, usually a bastion of respite, failed miserably. A little after noon he collected a large towel, dragged his crutches out of the closet, took off his clothes and his leg, grabbed a small thermos of iced tea, a sealed plastic bag of insurance and, because there was no “Morphine R Us” across the road, shuffled out to the hot tub.

  Because he liked to spend two or three hours of self-prescribed therapy at a time in the thing, and had no desire to poach what brain cells he had left, Crockett didn’t keep his hot tub very hot. It was a location of free-floating meditation. A citadel of warm and weightless release where he could discharge the cares of his mind and let go the discomforts of his body, allowing him to escape the mundane and liberate both his spirit and his physical self. In short, nap. He was so engaged when Dundee advised him of a change in situation.

  Crockett pulled himself back to reality, shifted to a sitting position, and looked down the drive at an approaching maroon Lincoln Towne Car with no front license plate. The auto rolled to a stop, dwarfing the battered Neon, and disgorged two individuals.

  The driver was about Crockett’s height and thirty pounds heavier with no hair and no neck. His arms were short for his size and ended in thick hands with stubby fingers. He had scar tissue on his forehead and around both eyes, and the bridge of his nose was nearly flat. His eyes were pale blue. A body-puncher.

  The passenger was about five-ten and slender with sunglasses, straight black hair to his shoulders, a heavily pockmarked face, and almost no lips. He had such economy of movement that he nearly glided when he walked. Both men wore suit jackets in the August heat. They were either selling insurance or carrying guns. As far as Crockett was concerned, both possibilities were threats.

  He grasped the plastic bag under the water by his right thigh and moved to the side of the tub closest to the oncoming men. The wood, insulation, and fiberglass, combined with the water, would be as good as Kevlar bulletproofing. He crouched in the tub, only his head above the side, and waited. Dundee entered the screen house and sat between him and the visitors. The two men stopped about twenty feet away. Passenger spoke.

  “Mister Crockett,” he said. “It seems we may have come at a bad time.”

  Crockett shook his head. “That’s okay,” he said. “We’re pretty informal out here in the country. Please excuse me if I don’t get up.”

  The tiniest of smiles flickered over Passenger’s nearly nonexistent lips. Dundee growled.

  “Your dog,” he went on, “appears to be protecting you.”

  “She thinks so. I don’t know how tough she is, but she’s pretty quick. Might take you two shots. That’d give me an extra half-second.”

  “You misjudge me, Mister Crockett. It is not my desire that we have an antagonistic relationship.”

  “No?”

  “No. I am here simply to ask you a favor on behalf of my employer.”

  “That would be Phillip Metzger, I presume.”

  “His identity is not important. What is important, at least as far as you are concerned, is that you and he have an affable relationship.”

  “Ah,” Crockett said. “The carefully veiled threat.”

  “You are very astute, sir.”

  “And a wonderful ballroom dancer.” Crockett directed his attention to the driver. “Light-heavy or heavy?” he asked.

  Driver shifted his weight and answered in a soft voice. “I was thinner then,” he said. “Started at cruiser, finished at heavy.”

  “Take the body and the head will follow.”

  Driver nodded. “The trick is to not let ‘em breathe,” he said.

  “Anybody I know?” Crockett asked.

  “Lennox Lewis. Marvin Hagler.”

  Crockett’s eyebrows went up. “No shit?”

  “Did mostly okay against Lewis. Hagler kicked my ass.”

  Crockett grinned. “Hagler kicked a lot of people’s asses.”

  “Fast,” Driver said. “Real fuckin’ fast. Determined, too.”

  “You gonna kick my ass?” Crockett asked.

  “Could,” Driver said.

  “Not much doubt about that. But not today.”

  Passenger cleared his throat to re-direct the conversation. “Mister Crockett,” he said, “you know the location of a woman now known as Carson Bailey, I believe.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you, of course, will not divulge that location.”

  “Right again.”

  “And if I were to, for instance, threaten your life?”

  “I’d sic my dog on you.”

  Passenger’s smile flickered for the second time. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “No.”

  “A man like you, Mister Crockett, will go to nearly any lengths to keep both his promises and his secrets. My employer respects that. He offers you a monetary inducement of one hundred thousand dollars for the location of this woman. I assume you find that laughable?”

  “I do.”

  “Of course. That’s fine. Eventually we will find Carson Bailey anyway. Now comes the threat. I’m going to give you another chance to save yourself. You are asked to disengage from any further attempt to assist Ms. Bailey in any way. If you do, all will be well. If you do not, you will be killed.”

  “I see,” Crockett said. “Let me ask you a question. We’ve met and talked. You’ve already made your judgment about me. Why not just kill me now? Why wait? Scared of my dog?”

  Passenger’s smile flickered for the third time. “You’re too confident. In spite of what appears to be a relatively awkward and vulnerable position, you believe you have, if not an advantage, at least a chance to break even in an encounter. I’m no fool, Mister Crockett.”

  Crockett nodded. “No, you’re not. Macho calls upon me to now issue my threat. If I see you again, I’ll kill you. I won’t give you a second chance. You’re partner here, I’ll just kneecap. I like him. You scare me. And as much as I hate to break this up, it’s time for you guys to leave. I’m getting waterlogged.”

  Slowly, the two men backed away toward the Towne Car. As they approached the vehicle, Crockett raised his voice and spoke again.

  “How long did it take Hagler to kick your ass?” he asked.

  Driver stopped, partially shielded by the car’s open door. “He kicked my ass from the start. Took me out in six.” he said. “Longest six rounds of my life.”

  Crockett watched the Lincoln back down his drive and head east on the road. He fell backward into the tub completely immersing himself for a moment, then surfaced, lifted the plastic bag containing the 686 Smith & Wesson out of the water, scrambled out of the tub, and crutched inside. He dripped his way back to the bedroom, lifted the satellite phone out of the charger, and punched in a number.

  “Crockett. What’s up?”

  “Get your ass out here, Texican,” Crockett said. “Right fucking now.”

  “On the way, son. Be there in the mornin’. I’ll rent a car when I get to Kaycee and call ya when I leave the airport.”

  Crockett fell back across the bed and fought the nausea rising in the pit of his stomach.

  Christ.

  Oh, Jesus Christ.

  Around five, as Crockett was giggling at an Eddie Izzard DVD and wishing he’d remember to get Chief Smoot to subscribe to a satellite network for him, his phone rang. It was Satin.

  “Whatcha doin?”

  “Nothing I can’t inter
rupt for you,” he said.

  “Comb your hair, what’s left of it, and put on a clean shirt. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Happy Monday. I miss you. And since you won’t initiate contact, I guess it’s up to me.”

  Crockett smiled. “I’m all yours.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Goddammit. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  They took Satin’s Jeep into Zona Rosa and went to The Hereford House. Satin had made simple small talk on the way in. After they took their seats, she ordered a bottle of Merlot and looked across the table at Crockett. The candlelight made her eyes dance and brought out her freckles.

  “You’re kinda quiet tonight,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Me? Oh, no. I’m fine.”

  “C’mon, Crockett. Don’t try to bullshit me. I know you too well. What’s up?”

  The wine steward arrived. Crockett went through the ritual of smelling the cork and sampling the vintage, as if he knew one decent wine from another. Glasses were poured and their waiter arrived. They settled on an appetizer of stuffed mushrooms to split, a Kaycee strip for Satin, a small filet for Crockett, and baked potatoes for both. After the waiter left, Satin picked up where she’d left off.

  “Well?”

  “Ah, this thing with Carson is gaining a little speed. I’m just preoccupied. Sorry. I’ll drink some wine and get with the program.”