Savage Beast (Max Savage Book 1)

by Sloane Howell

  “I like him already.”

  13

  SHIRLEY PULLED US OFF THE highway and down a dirt road. She’d almost missed the turn. No signs. Nothing. Just a road into the trees. We kicked up dust for about a quarter mile, the Focus bouncing and rocking with the potholes. I wondered how far off the corporate farm this guy’s place sat. It might come in handy later and couldn’t have been more than a few miles from the offices. Crossing terrain was one of my specialties, and I could go miles through a cornfield undetected. I’d bypass the gate and security altogether.

  We turned a corner and the house came into view.

  “What in the fresh hell is this?”

  Shirley cringed. “He’s reliable. I promise.”

  I gestured at the scenery. “Looks like it.”

  She eased the car up the rocky driveway. A wooden fence ran around the place. It looked like a conspiracy theory documentary threw up everywhere. Worn and faded Ron Paul signs dotted the perimeter. There was a long banner on the fence that read GET US OUT OF THE UNITED NATIONS.

  A couple of rusted automobile skeletons scattered themselves around the yard. Weeds shot up between them. The house was one step short of a mobile home. The fact it had a foundation was about all it had going for it. Most houses in Oklahoma were built on foundations with no basement. Something about clay in the soil. Sean had told me once when I’d asked him why people didn’t have basements for tornadoes.

  The house had a wooden frame and siding. No brick. It had the appearance of being wildly hammered together a hundred years ago. There was wood rot everywhere, probably mold and termites too. I didn’t own a TV, but I’d seen a show at a hotel once where they’d taken a house like that with a family of five, moved them out, and secretly fixed everything and spruced it up. Made it like new, then brought the family back. Everybody cried happy tears. I could understand how people would watch the show. It was a nice, feel-good story.

  It wasn’t the condition of the house that bothered me, though. It wasn’t even the conspiracy theory vibe I got from the signs. A lot of that stuff was true. Our government was secretive, and I knew a lot of the secrets.

  It was the fact that most conspiracy theorists were in fact, delusional people. Unreliable with information. They connected dots, but their hypotheses became their reality. They blurred reality and fiction and were no closer to the truth than people who were clueless. I’d interacted with these types of people before. Many had mental illnesses and self-medicated. They couldn’t separate facts from their own narrative. Many were old soldiers. They believed them so much they could say they were abducted by aliens and pass a polygraph. It was real to them.

  Shirley threw the car into park on the gravel driveway. She started to get out and I reached over and grabbed her by the forearm.

  “How well do you know this person?”

  “He’s like seventy something. It’s fine.”

  “How well?”

  “He knew me when I was younger. He’ll know me as soon as I tell him who I am.”

  I shook my head. “Stay in the car. I’ll make the introduction.”

  Her face screwed up tight. “No. He doesn’t know you. It’ll be fine. I’m pretty sure I can take him, Savage. He’s old.”

  “Guns don’t care about age. Stay in the car. And keep your head down below the wheel.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  I saw it. Corner of my eye.

  I jammed her head down and ducked just in time. A shotgun blast echoed through the trees. It sounded like a twelve gauge. He missed high which was understandable. An old man firing a twelve gauge that kicks like a mule, with his shaky body. The shot went high when the barrel exploded full of hot gas. It turned the muzzle to an upward trajectory. Some of the fragments glanced off the roof of the car. He’d probably just sanded the paint right off the Focus. It was definitely birdshot.

  He knew how to pick a weapon for his age. That was for sure. Didn’t need to be accurate with a shotgun. They covered a large spread.

  “How’d you?”

  “Saw the barrels creep out of the door.”

  “Barrels?”

  I kept quiet.

  I looked around in the floorboard. Had to think quick. I wasn’t too worried about him blasting the car. Cars could be fixed. A basketball-sized hole in your chest was tougher to repair. The birdshot wouldn’t come through the car and hit us. He’d need a high-powered rifle with expensive ammo or some kind of slugs to even come close.

  But the spread could easily pepper me if I got out of the car and he shot in the right direction. I eased the door open to my side, looking around at the ground.

  “Get off my property! Ya tresspassin’!”

  I needed him to fire the one shot he had left. It’d take his old ass a while to load that thing again. Shirley’s car was neat and clean. Nothing anywhere in the floorboards. Damn her for her tidiness. I opened the glovebox. Her car manual was in a heavy leather case.

  “I got the right to defend myself via the second amendment!” His voice was old and shaky, almost comical or cartoonish. But there was nothing comical or cartoonish about getting blasted with birdshot. It’d penetrate the skin and was hard to pick out. It’d hurt like hell too and pretty much guaranteed infection.

  I grabbed the manual and left it in the case, then glanced over at Shirley. She didn’t look super concerned. I figured she was smart enough to deduce what we were up against.

  “Stay down,” I whispered.

  She nodded.

  I inched the door open a little farther. He’d be pickier about the next time he pulled the trigger if he was smart. The first was a warning. That was the beauty of a double barrel shotgun. Fire a warning. It’d usually scare whoever it was away. If that didn’t work, put them down with the next one.

  I slid one foot out the door and had to contort my body to stay below the windshield. Once I got my foot planted and craned my head around, I peeked up over the dash for a split-second to make sure he was still there.

  He was on the porch and had the gun trained on the car. I scanned the perimeter. What I could make out anyway. There were a few ponds in the distance, and I saw a duck blind sitting off to the side.

  I left the manual in the case, but didn’t strap it in, just let it hang loose. I inched out a little farther, using the door for protection. The bottom of my right leg and my foot were exposed. That was about it. He had on thick glasses and was probably relying on sound as opposed to sight.

  I hurled the manual and case as far and as high as I could so that it would pass right in front of him. It was like a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar hook shot from half-court. I waited for the blast. It came.

  The manual had separated from the case in the air and flapped in the wind, just as planned. He was a duck hunter. I’d seen the blind out in the distance. It was most likely the same gun he used for it. It was why he had birdshot loaded. The manual passed in front of him and instincts kicked in. Instincts coupled with fear and sudden movements. He blew the manual right out of the sky when he heard the pages flapping like a bird’s wings.

  I turned to Shirley. “Now we can get out.”

  We piled out of the car. Shirley yanked her pistol from the holster, stood in a perfect Chapman Stance, and aimed the gun right at him. He dropped the shotgun and held up both hands. It rattled around on the wooden porch. “How can I help ya folks?” He acted like nothing had just happened.

  I shook my head.

  “You just took two shots at a police officer.” Shirley still had him dead in her sights.

  His eyes darted around behind the thick glass lenses. “Well, umm, I didn’t know that’s what ya was. Shoulda identified yourselves.”

  Shirley panted. Her jaw was tight, neck constricted. She was even sexier when she was all worked up. “We didn’t have a chance to.”

  “Oh.” He stood there and looked at us through the thick set of bifocals. “Well come on in now. Let’s chat.” He grinned with a crooked set of teeth and turned for the
door.

  I shrugged and took off up the steps. Shirley released a huge breath, holstered her firearm, and followed. I held the door open for her.

  I glanced around the place and it was even worse than the outside. There were old newspaper clippings strewn across the walls, and an antique Zenith console radio sat along one side. His couch was dusty and worn. It didn’t look like he ever sat on it. He plopped down in a La-Z-Boy recliner and kicked his feet up. Dust puffed off it in a small cloud. He admitted defeat with a smile.

  “Well, have a seat.” He waved an old arm to the couch. His skin drooped down and flapped under his bicep. His arms were translucent and papery. Purple varicose veins snaked down to his bony fingers. He had on overalls with a short-sleeved shirt underneath and seemed to get along surprisingly well for being in his seventies and half-blind. An elderly hound dog waddled up and he scratched it behind the ears. “Good for nothin’ guard dog ya are, Remington.” His words said one thing to the dog—his actions said another. They’d grown old together.

  “I’ll stand.”

  Shirley followed my lead and didn’t move but seemed to relax a little.

  “Suit yourselves.”

  “My name is Kristine Shirley.”

  He leaned forward. “You Mark’s kiddo?”

  Shirley nodded.

  “James Peabody. Can I help ya with?”

  “Just information.”

  “What kind?”

  I listened and logged away everything. Shirley could pick his brain better than I could. She had enough background and knew the place.

  “What can you tell us about McCurdy Farms?”

  The old man’s face soured like he’d just sniffed a bottle of vinegar. His eyes narrowed. “You mean how them assholes took everything from me?”

  “What do you mean?” Shirley folded her arms across her chest.

  This might be helpful, and maybe not a waste of time. She needed to keep him away from the conspiracies and focused on reality.

  “Squeezed me outta my land. I used to own all this.” He waved his arm back in the direction of the giant corporate farm.

  “What do you mean? Like he bought your land when times were tough?”

  “That ain’t what I said. Coercion.” He grimaced and looked away. “You folks should know all about that. It’s what ya do.”

  We were veering off course to the wrong kind of territory. Shirley righted the ship before I sprang into action. She was good. Peabody eyed me up and down and kept staring.

  “How’d they coerce you?”

  “Through the law. Made up stuff. Ya know how it goes.”

  “No, I don’t. Can you tell us?”

  “Why? Ya ain’t gonna do nothin’. And it’s too late. Look at me. I’m an old man.”

  “It could help us.”

  “Why would I help yas?”

  “You knew my grandpa and my dad.”

  He stared at her. “Yeah, I s’pose. They were good men.”

  Shirley nodded in agreement.

  “They all know each other down around the big city. Ya know how it goes. Permit here. Trumped up dispute there. Nickel and dimed me. Inched me off my property.”

  I nodded. Money could certainly do that. Especially if the city smelled larger tax revenues from a different use of the land. Shirley practically read my mind. Her questions were on point. It made listening easier.

  “This isn’t in Tulsa City limits. Why would the city care about the land out here?”

  “Wasn’t the city of Tulsa. County. Sheriffs. Same difference.”

  “This isn’t Tulsa County either. It’s Rogers County.”

  He waved her off with a hand. “Don’t be naïve. They all know each other. Grease each other’s backs. Trade favors.”

  “Okay. So what can you tell us about McCurdy?”

  “Younger fella. Compared to me, anyway. Probably in his mid-fifties now. But he sits back at a desk. Smart enough to have other people handle the dirty parts of his business.”

  Sounded familiar. Almost like a cliché. This guy was a quack, but there was still some sanity left. I felt bad for him. Independent farmer that had everything taken from him for something new and better that’d make more money. It was why I didn’t like corporate chains, for that very reason.

  “So, who does the dirty work?”

  “Big ol’ Indian fella. They call him Yona. Cherokee for bear. The man is a giant.”

  “So, he’s the enforcer?” She glanced at me.

  Peabody pointed a finger and clicked his tongue. “Bingo.”

  “Any other illegal stuff going on over there?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. They took everything from me. I’m too old to go poking around. But if they have a giant Indian fella who intimidates people, what do ya think?”

  “Tell us more about McCurdy. What’s he like? I’ve never met him.”

  “Lucky you.” He sighed. “Cocky fella. Thinks his crap don’t stink and that he’s smarter than everyone else. Grew up here. Started poor. Wanted to be in the oil business. Ya know how that goes. Made a name for himself farming.”

  “What does that mean?” I cut in. “You know how that goes?”

  They both glanced at me.

  “Everyone’s connected in the oil business. And they ain’t like new guys coming in and vying for their piece of the pie. They don’t share. Those guys are ruthless. Cutthroat. It’s like an exclusive club.”

  “So, he became a farmer instead?” Shirley said.

  “Less, umm, barriers to entry. From what I could gather. Very sharp guy. Overly confident in his abilities though. But he has a mindset like the oil fellas. Was bitter about ‘em. Probably still is. I just try to stay off his radar. He whipped me. Took my land. I’m just out here trying to survive until I die. Don’t want any problems.”

  “How far is it to their offices from here?” I glanced to him.

  “Maybe a few miles. You shoulda passed ‘em on the way if ya came from the north.”

  “I mean if I go through the fields, not the roads?”

  “If you go through?” He grinned like he knew something. “Maybe cuts off, oh—” He paused and looked at the ceiling. “Twenty percent of the time and distance.”

  I did the math. It’d be maybe two or two and a half miles instead of about three. “Any obstacles along the way?”

  “There’s a creek but it ain’t much more than a foot deep. I imagine someone from Delta could manage.” He grinned again.

  Shirley glanced between us. “How’d you know that?”

  “I pay attention.”

  I liked this guy more by the minute. He was interesting, and I couldn’t resist. “Seriously, how’d you know I was Delta?”

  He cackled. “Ya both just told me. Double whammy on the confirmation.” He did a fist pump in the air.

  I liked him even more.

  I turned to Shirley. “I need to go check it out. Can you stay here with him?”

  She shook her head. “I’m going with you.”

  “No. You’ll slow me down.”

  She flashed me a look that said go to hell. It was an instinct. She thought it was because she was a female and she was used to people telling her she couldn’t do the things men could do. I didn’t have time for gender politics.

  I made decisions based on truth. Anyone would’ve slowed me down. We trained for things like this—navigating terrain, gathering information, operating in the wild. Detectives didn’t. Her partner would’ve slowed me down just as much. An Olympic sprinter would’ve slowed me down in the woods. It wasn’t personal.

  “I’m going alone. You follow, you get left behind. Stay here.”

  She glared.

  I turned to Peabody. “Got any other weapons?”

  “What kind?” He grinned.

  “Pistol?”

  His bones creaked as he eased his way up out of the chair. He walked over to a gun safe in the hallway. I could barely make it out around the corner. He turned the di
al on it, then walked back over. He held his shaky hand out. It was a Colt 1911. “That work?”

  I took it from him, released the magazine and inspected it, then looked in the chamber. Once satisfied, I checked the safety was engaged. The bullets looked new enough. “It fire well?”

  “It’s a Colt 1911. What do ya think? Last time I fired it, it did.”

  “When was that?”

  “1986.”

  “Works for me.” I shoved it back into my waistband.

  “Give me a dollar.” He held his hand out.

  “Why?” said Shirley.

  “He’s buyin’ it. I ain’t need it comin’ back to give me problems.” He turned back to me. “Have ya ever been convicted of a felony and/or have ya sought psychiatric treatment that would deem ya illegal to possess a firearm in the state of Oklahoma?”

  He was a smart guy, and maybe not as crazy as I’d guessed. “No, sir.” I handed him a buck from my wallet.

  He turned to Shirley and pointed a finger at her. “Ya witnessed the transaction.”

  She nodded.

  I turned to her. “If I’m not back in two hours, call someone at your department. It’s not personal.”

  14

  I PUSHED THROUGH THE WOODS east of Peabody’s house using the sun and my mental compass as my guide. I’d gone about a half mile and passed over the creek Peabody had mentioned. No wonder he’d laughed. I hopped across a couple of rocks and cleared the shallow water. I came up through a clearing between two oak trees and hit the perimeter of McCurdy Farms.

  It was an eight-foot chain-link fence like the one on the highway. It must’ve stretched all the way around the place in a huge square or rectangle. There was no barbed wire at the top. On the other side was a ten-foot gap with a trail large enough for ATVs or farm equipment, covered in crushed brick. After that, nothing but corn as far as I could see. The stalks were at least ten feet high, about the same as a basketball goal. I hoped they ran all the way to the buildings. A man could easily disappear into the field for hours without being found. If they saw me and chased me into it I could hide for a few days if needed. I was good at waiting things out.