The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

by C. J. Box

  “Okay, okay,” Ronnie said, hair falling into his eyes. “So my friend gives me a piece of paper. Directions. He says just drive over to Clement County and pick up five pounds of weed. No money. It’s all on the front. All I have to do is go see the little dude.”

  Jack smiled at me, really broad.

  Ronnie kept on rolling with his tale. “Only my guy told me, ‘Don’t call him little, dude, or midget, he don’t like that.’ I said, ‘Cool, man. I just go pick up five pounds of homegrown from a dude and drive it back.’”

  “And you got five pounds?” I asked, my excitement growing.

  Ronnie sighed, tilting his head back. “No, man, you can check. I don’t have any weed. No cash. Nothing.”

  Now I was getting into this. I knew he had to be talking about Londell Creech.

  “Tell him,” Jack prompted.

  The smell was distracting me. I couldn’t place it, though it kind of smelled familiar. Almost like suntan lotion.

  Ronnie gave us a ticked-off look like he thought we were making fun of him. Another sigh. “So I drive out in the middle of nowhere on this road. Whitehouse Road. I remember because it made me think of D.C. and the president. And I went way back, and just like my guy said, there’s this big old brick house on cleared land. It’s lit up like the Vegas strip. Music going. Every light on, like a party. I pull up in the yard, thinking there will be a ton of folks there, but no one was around. I rang the front door. I yelled.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “No one answered. I walked around the back, where this big old steep hill was. There’s one dude and a chick. All stoned. And they’re slip-sliding.”

  “Slip-sliding?”

  “Yeah,” the guy said. “You know, those things kids have that are slick plastic. Lay it down and hook a hose up and they slip-slide on it.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “This little dude is running around smoking a big old doobie and is only wearing a leopard-print man-thong. And the chick is naked. They are slip-sliding. Except this is the longest, biggest slip-slide I think ever was made.” He paused. “So I said hello and asked about the weed. He said his brothers were gone and I had to see one of them. He said I could wait. So we smoked some weed, and they slid down the hill.”

  “Tell him about the water,” Jack prompted.

  Ronnie gave a disgusted snort. “It wasn’t water on the slip-slide.”

  Coconut! The funky not-right smell I was smelling: it was coconut.

  Ronnie kept talking. “They had tons of these industrial-sized jugs of the stuff. Poured on the plastic and rubbed it on themselves.” He made a disgusted noise.

  “Love Doctor’s Lubricant?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Ronnie said. “It was everywhere. Empty jugs thrown around. And more stacks of full bottles waiting to be used. So the chick and the dude were sliding around. I sat and smoked a little. Somewhere along the way the dude grabbed one of those funny hats like foreigners wear.”

  “A bowler,” I said. Hobart Creech.

  “Whatever,” Ronnie said. “The slide had to be close to a football field long and ran straight down this big-ass hill. They’d pump some of that stuff on their hands, rub it all over, and dive onto that plastic. Slicker than snot, they’d shoot down the hill. Laugh all the way down. Walk up the hill. Smoke dope. Slide down again.” He looked at me. “I got bored. I had just drove halfway across Kentucky, so I was already tired. A few tokes on a joint and I was out like a light. It was awesome weed. I woke up just as they rolled me onto the plastic, and that little dude gave me a shove, and I started downhill headfirst.”

  He glanced back and forth between Jack and me. “Man, once you hit that stuff there was no stopping. And the worst part was that little dude jumped on my back like I was a sled or something. I’m a big dude.”

  “And gravity,” I commented.

  “Yeah, gravity. Just like in school,” Ronnie said. “Gravity sucked us down faster and faster. We were zipping down this hill, between trees. Rocks. Whatever. And then it ended. And we skidded another twenty feet, damn near slamming right into a boulder. The little dude laughed all the way down the hill. That ride scared me.”

  Falling back into the grass, Ronnie looked up at the sky. “Man, I’ve been in some fights in prison. Shanks and knives. But I was more afraid zipping down that hill inches away from a big old oak or a rock splitting my head open. I said, forget this. My guy told me the main dude I was to deal with was crazy. And he wasn’t the one nearly banging my head off the land riding down that slip-and-slide. That dude in the leopard-print thong was crazy enough for me. I didn’t want to meet his brother. I got the hell out of there intending not to slow down until I got out of this county.”

  Jack pulled me away a few steps. “What do you think?”

  Raising my voice, I said, “Ronnie, I think we can let you off with a warning this time.”

  * * *

  After we had Ronnie give us all the info he had about the house, Jack and I raced back to the office, where we came up with this great idea. Others would call it harebrained. But to us two rookies, it was a great plan. We used Ronnie’s statement about where he went (the Creeches’) and who he met (Hobart Creech) as well as the description of the slip-and-slide (matching the type of material stolen from Poppa Roche’s) and the brand and enormous quantity of Love Doctor lube (ditto for Poppa Roche’s burglary), and we thought we could get ourselves a search warrant for the Creech residence. Even better, with only a stoned and half-naked Hobart there, the two rookies could easily be the heroes and solve Poppa’s burglary. One stoned Hobart against two of the finest of the thin gray line. No problem. It was a foolproof plan.

  When we knocked on the county attorney’s door with our freshly typed affidavit in hand, he was more than a little mad. However, after he read our work and saw what we were doing, he was all in. Did I mention that the prosecutor and judge also liked eating at Poppa’s place? From there we went to the judge’s house, where Jack swore out the search warrant.

  When we finally got the warrant, it was after 3 a.m., so we figured even the ne’er-do-well relatives on Whitehouse Road would be asleep or passed out drunk or stoned and not be able to rouse old Hobart. Our plan was to ease up Whitehouse Road. Not going too fast. Not going too slow. With a little luck we would get to the Creeches’ big brick house while Londell and the others were out doing Lord knows what. We would snatch up Hobart, and once we located the missing stove and griddle, along with all of the plastic and Love Doctor’s product, it would be time for first-shift troopers to come in to work. All of those senior troopers could come help us heroes tote out all of the stolen property.

  Sounded like a great plan.

  Jack and I slid into his car and headed toward our destination. We waited until we were already headed down the road before I keyed the radio to dispatch. “Dispatch, be advised Units 322 and 575 are en route to 1072 Whitehouse Road.”

  A long pause as the night dispatcher probably rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Unit 322, I don’t have a call for that address.”

  “Dispatch, we will be serving a search warrant for stolen property there,” I said. Then I keyed the microphone and made static noises and half words. “Dispatch we . . . when . . . contact post when we’re ten-seven.”

  Jack suggested we switch off the radio. I didn’t do that, but I did turn the volume all the way down, so we could honestly say we couldn’t hear dispatch call for us.

  To get an idea of Whitehouse Road, you have to picture a small, barely two-lane road that snakes this way and that. More curves than straightaways. Hillside on one side and wooded drop-offs on the other. Every little bit, a house or trailer would be in a flat spot or just visible through the trees. Most with only a porch light on, or a lone bulb glowing in through a window. The rest was darkness and shadows of trees, the road only illuminated as far as the light from the headlights.

  As we drove deeper into the holler, the thicker the trees got and the farther apart the houses
were. And the darker it seemed to get.

  We rounded one long curve and there was a great big house and driveway. And it was lit up like it was on the Vegas strip. We didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing us roll up. AC/DC’s “Back in Black” was pumping out of a huge stereo someone had dragged out into the driveway with an extension cord running back into the house.

  Jack pulled the Crown Vic to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, and we quietly got out, each taking one side of the driveway. Heading up the gravel drive, we kept our eyes open and one hand on our holstered pistols. As we passed the stereo, Jack reached down and gave the cord a yank, killing the music. The silence was deafening.

  Together, Jack and I eased around to the back of the house, since that was where Ronnie said Hobart had been when he left. Moving through the carport, we took a flagstone path toward the rear of the house, where I could see at least an acre or more of cleared land sloping down to the bottom of the hill. As I rounded a corner, my foot kicked into something that skittered away, bouncing into the night. Looking down, I saw there were empty plastic bottles scattered along the pathway and into the yard. Love Doctor’s Lubricant. Sure enough, there was a long tongue of black plastic rolled all the way down the backyard out of the range of the light into the darkness. The slide started fifteen feet from a nice concrete patio with lounge chairs and a grill. Two of the lounge chairs were occupied. Curled up on one was a woman as naked as the day she was born. Flopped in the second chair with his legs and arms spread out in a wide X was Hobart Creech. Still wearing the leopard-print thong and bowler. Snoring away. Tucked in at the corner of the patio were neatly stacked cartons. You guessed it. More Love Doctor product standing by, ready to slather up and slide down.

  Jack kicked the side of Hobart’s chair with his shoe. “Mr. Creech. MR. CREECH!” Raising his voice had gotten a slight stir out of him. “MR. CREECH. STATE POLICE!” Jack had a booming voice that could rattle your teeth.

  Hobart stirred and opened an eye. Lazily a hand rose, pointing. “I know you.”

  I nodded. “Trooper Stokes and Trooper O’Bannon, Mr. Creech. We have a warrant to search your house for stolen property.”

  Now, you would think a man stoned and slow to stir would not be so quick, but my words must have been like a starter pistol going off for a track star. Hobart sat up bolt straight and yelled, “I’m not going to jail.”

  “Now, Mr. Creech,” Jack said, reaching a hand to grab the man’s wrist. Hobart yanked. His hand slipped right out of Jack’s grasp.

  Jumping up, Hobart cried, “I’m not going to jail.” He leapt between Jack and me to make a dash toward the front. Running between us should have been a mistake, because we both instinctively grabbed for him, but our hands just slid off his skin. Hobart was lacquered up in Love Doctor slippery action formula in layers like wax on a surfboard. And for a small fellow, Hobart sure could run fast. About every time his foot came down, he yelled, “I’m not going to jail. I’m not going to jail.”

  Jack and I gave chase. Now, Hobart’s advantage was he had a good start and he knew the lay of the land. Jack and me weren’t stoned and we had greater strides on Hobart. Still, he rounded the corner into the carport and made it into the house in time for the screen door to slam closed. Pausing, Jack ripped the door outward and off its hinges in one yank, and in we went.

  “Hobart, calm down and stop,” I said. The carport door led us into the kitchen. Hobart was already across the linoleum floor into the living room, two angry state troopers on his heels. There was a large couch in the middle of the room, and Hobart paused on the back side of it to catch his breath, keeping the couch between us.

  “Troopers, I’m not going to jail,” he said in between ragged breaths. Jack edged toward the left side of the couch. I moved to the right. I had to move quick, because I thought Hobart might try to make it to the front door on my side and run into the night. Hobart feinted toward me but spun on his heels and tried to squirt past Jack on the inside of the couch. He almost would have made it, but Jack dove onto Hobart and both of them rolled onto the carpet in a mess of limbs.

  “I’m not going to jail!” Hobart wailed, thrashing.

  Jack had a hold of one of Hobart’s arms and was trying to fish a pair of handcuffs out of his belt pouch with his free hand. I grabbed Hobart’s other arm, figuring that between the two of us, we should be able to hang on to one arm until we could get him cuffed.

  Now, if this was the worst of our plan falling apart, we could have handled a little slicked-up thief trying to get away. But no. What we didn’t know until later was that the other Creech brothers had been gone all evening trying to pull Londell’s Caddy out of a ditch. They tried to use their second car to pull Londell out, but all they succeeded in doing was getting both cars stuck and having to hitch a ride home. We knew none of this as Jack and I tussled with Hobart on the living room floor. Hobart had quit screaming. It was taking all of his concentration to keep us from cuffing a hand. It was all we could do to hang on to him. I felt like I was in an oil wrestling contest. And I was losing. We were all grunting and squirming. Rolling this way and that.

  Then I had this feeling that someone was watching me. I looked over my left shoulder at Londell Creech, the king of the Creeches, standing in the doorway. Behind him was a line of Creeches. Without a word, Londell took off at a dead run toward us, the other Creeches following right behind, like a charge of warriors from a medieval battle.

  Rolling away from Hobart, I tried to get to my feet but only made it to my knees when the first body slammed into me, followed by a second piling on top. A rain of kicks and punches started hammering me. Luckily the body armor under my shirt absorbed a lot of that energy, but my head took a few shots. For several minutes it was a mass of bodies rolling around and around, trying to gain leverage and the upper hand. I think we wrestled from one end of the living room floor to the other. Londell Creech was trying to choke or hit me, and one of his brothers was trying to wrap up my legs. At one point Londell scrambled onto my back, slipping his arm around my throat. Choking me. My lungs screamed for oxygen, but none was coming. Desperately, I flailed my arms, trying to get him off me. I was hoping to hit any body part. Then I started trying to pull his hair. When my fingers found a nostril, I dug in deep. Yanked. Hard. The arms choking me dropped away as my attacker howled.

  Pausing to suck in lungfuls of air, I looked over and saw that Jack had managed to stagger to his feet with a Creech latched onto each arm. Windmilling his body back and forth, he threw one Creech into a wall behind him. When he pivoted the other way, he let that one sail across and land in a cupboard. Standing straight up was Jack’s downfall.

  Hobart had gotten up but had not run away. Instead of shooting out the front door, he scrambled onto the back of the couch, standing at full height, sort of reminding me of Nature Boy Ric Flair on the top rope of a wrestling ring. Once Jack was upright, Hobart let out a banshee scream and jumped off the couch, his fist hitting Jack right in the face. Blood spurted from Jack’s broken nose as he toppled back to the ground.

  At that point I had my own hands full. Both of my attackers had clambered up on me and ridden me to the ground. One smacked my head into the floor, sending bright shards of pain through my brain. I felt a pair of hands clawing at my holster. Now, I don’t know if they would have killed me if they got my gun, but I locked my hand down on my pistol, feeling panic rise in me. Here we were just wanting to be heroes with an easy bust, solve a crime and show the old guys we knew what we were doing. I really didn’t want to shoot someone over a stolen kitchen appliance, some plastic sheeting, and all the Love Doctor lube in the world. I knew if this kept up, either I would lose my gun or, if we couldn’t get them to stop, I’d have to shoot. The hand pawing at my holster was relentless. And the other one was pummeling my sides and back.

  I felt the holster give and the heavy Smith slide. Instead of pushing the gun back in, I frantically grabbed the grip, swinging the heavy hunk of steel this way and that in
a wide arc. On one swing I felt the blade of the front sight hit something fleshy. Shifting around, I rolled until my gun grabber and I were almost face-to-face, but I had rolled on top. Rearing up, I smacked the gun down, splitting his head open.

  Struggling to my feet, I put my back against a wall, wildly pointing the gun this way and that, sweeping the barrel over every person standing in the room. I thumbed back the hammer on that big-old-hogleg .357 Magnum.

  With one hand I reached down and helped Jack stand up. He was wobbly on his feet, blood pouring from his nose, staining all the way down his torn shirt. My badge was halfway torn off of mine.

  My desperation must have been plain on my face. Motioning with the muzzle, I told the Creeches, “The first one that even moves wrong, I’m going to shoot.” They saw I was serious and raised their hands. Londell was bleeding from his own ruptured nose. A Creech I didn’t know had his hand held to his scalp where I’d laid him open. Another one was nursing a broken arm.

  Marching them out into the front yard, I had them sit on the ground, arms still up, while Jack staggered back to the cruiser to radio for help. I was beyond caring about the immense trouble Jack and I were going to be in. I just kept hearing Morman’s voice in my head telling me to take plenty of backup when dealing with the Creeches.

  Over the years I’ve dealt with criminals who have wanted to fight. But I have never had a knock-down drag-out fight like that night. Those Creech boys were small but they were determined. It dawned on me right then that they might be disadvantaged as criminals. It’s easy being a bad hombre when you’re as big as my friend Jack O’Bannon. It’s another to be a bad outlaw when your genes have shortened your stature. The Creeches hadn’t shied away from their outlaw ways. They relished it. Yet they had to be twice as tough and twice as mean to make it as criminals.

  In my book, pound for pound, inch for inch, no criminal is as flat-out bad as the Clement County Creeches.