Bittersweet

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Up yours, Jackson,” Davies growled. “That’s a lie.”

  “You guys be quiet,” Coxey said. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Just funnin’,” Jackson said, and subsided.

  Mack was leaning toward the screen, frowning in concentration. She manipulated the mouse pad, zooming in at a spot behind the house.

  “Looking for something special?” Ethan asked.

  “That paddock,” Mack said, pointing. “It was empty when Google made this flyover, but that’s got to be where Doc Masters saw the stolen white-tails. There may also be some smuggled deer in there, too.” She raised her voice. “If the animals are still penned, let’s make sure that nobody turns them loose. They may be evidence of theft.” She peered closer and pointed to the long, narrow green ribbon, in the valley along Bee Creek. “And get that. A mowed airstrip, looks like, with a Quonset hut that might be a hangar, at the end of the strip. The Perrys have a plane up there?”

  “Davenport, you know anything about that?” Ethan asked. “I can ask Dispatch to do a search on pilots’ licenses, but we probably wouldn’t get the results until—”

  “Seems to me I did hear something about that,” Davenport said. “Like maybe both of them had licenses. But I wouldn’t let it worry me none. It’s not like they’re going to take off and fly away in the dark.” Murphy squeaked an assenting laugh.

  “Not likely,” Ethan agreed. “Okay, let’s do an inventory. What do we have in the way of armament and equipment?”

  They were fully armed with both long guns—AR-15s and tactical shotguns—and sidearms. Mack wasn’t too sure about men with guns tromping around out there in the dark, falling over who knows what and discharging their weapons accidentally. But it was what it was.

  “Radios? Night-vision goggles? Vests?” Ethan asked. There was another chorus of yeses, with nos from Davies and Jackson. Coxey said, half defiantly, “Radios, yes. But we’re not budgeted for goggles or vests.”

  Ethan nodded. “If there’s fire, better stay down, then.” He looked around the group. “Any questions?” Silence. He closed the laptop and picked it up. “When you get into your vehicles, check your weapons. If you’re not loaded, do that now—and then turn off those overhead cab lights. When you’re locked and loaded, turn on your headlights. When we’re all lit, we roll.”

  Mack got Ethan’s sack of burger and rings and quietly put it in his truck, smiling when he saw what she was doing and gave her a thumbs-up. As they drove out of the parking lot, she found herself in the middle of the five-vehicle pack, behind Ethan and the second sheriff’s truck but ahead of Coxey’s SUV and the Sabinal police car, which brought up the rear. By the time they got to Bee Creek on 1051, the moon was high and bright enough to cast shadows. The caravan paused at the low-water crossing, and Mack took the opportunity to put on the headgear that supported her night-vision goggles. She tightened the straps and flipped the eyepieces up and out of the way. The apparatus was uncomfortable—there was a reason it was called a “face prison”—and she didn’t need it now. But the moon was fickle, and without it, the night was a black conundrum. Later, she might be glad she was wearing it. When the police car caught up, Ethan cut his headlights and made the turn onto the Bar Bee ranch road. Mack switched down to her parking lights, and the others followed suit.

  There was enough moonlight to see the gravel two-track curving up and down through the trees, then down across another low-water crossing and up into an open field. Still running dark, Ethan pulled to the right and stopped. Davenport pulled off to the left and Mack followed, the other two vehicles pulling to the right of Ethan. The house sat on the side of the hill slightly above them, a narrow, verandah-like porch running across the width. There were three windows, two on the left side of the front door, one on the right. The first window to the left of the door was curtained and dimly lighted, the light flickering and bluish, probably a television screen, which was good, Mack thought. Whoever was inside was watching TV and would be surprised. In the parking area beside the house on the left were two pickups, one black, the other silver. The light-colored pickup looked like the Dodge that had forced Sue Ellen Krause off the road and to her death. There were no other vehicles, so it seemed likely that the men were alone. To the far left, about a hundred yards away at the foot of the steep hill, she saw the hulking shape of what she had guessed was a hangar. From its curved silhouette and the moonlight glinting on it, she saw that it was, yes, a Quonset hut. A square window in the side facing her displayed a light.

  Taking her AR-15, Mack got out, silently closed her door, and took up a position facing the house, with Ethan’s truck off to her right. The air was rich with the fragrance of burning cedar, and a curl of smoke drifted from the chimney. Overhead, the sky was a deep black, the stars were pinpricks of faraway light, and the moon was intermittently clouded over. Behind her the trees were dark and still. She unsnapped the keeper on her holster and loosened the Glock, then pulled back the bolt on her rifle, sliding a round into the chamber. She raised it to her shoulder, steadying her left arm against the cab and sighting the scope on the front door. To her left, Davenport and Jackson got out of the other sheriff’s truck and melted into the shadows, heading for the back of the house. To the right, on the other side of Ethan’s truck, Coxey and Davies were doing the same.

  Murphy, who had been riding with Ethan, had taken cover behind Coxey’s SUV. Ethan was out of his truck and standing behind it, using it as a shield. In the shimmering moonlight, Mack saw that he was holding a cell phone to his ear—Krause’s, she presumed. After a moment, somebody apparently answered, and he spoke slow and level, loud enough for Mack to hear what he said.

  “This is Deputy Sheriff Conroy. I am outside your house, and my men have the place surrounded. I have warrants for the arrest of Thomas and Ronald Perry and a search warrant for this property. Come out with your hands up. Now.”

  He stood for a moment, listening. But the person he’d been talking to must have clicked off, for he closed the phone and tossed it into the truck. At that moment, the television in the living room went off and the window went dark. A second or two later, a mercury vapor light blazed at the left side of the house, near the parking area, bathing the grassy space in front with a cool blue light. At the same time, the curtain in the window twitched. Somebody was looking out. Whoever was inside could see the ring of vehicles parked across the field in front of the house and could only guess at the number of armed officers somewhere out there.

  Mack tensed, scarcely breathing, holding her rifle steady, half expecting a barrage of shots from one of the front windows. For what seemed a very long time, nothing happened. The silence lengthened. From the left side of the house, she heard the clink of a boot against a stone—Davenport and Jackson, moving around to the back. Somewhere off to the east, a coyote yipped and then another, a cacophony of coyote voices, singing to the moon.

  Ethan had picked up the mike to the PA system in his truck and keyed it. He stood, waiting, then spoke into the mike, his voice startlingly loud and deep. “Thomas and Ronald Perry, you’re under arrest. Your house is surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air.”

  Another long silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Mack caught the flicker of the light going out in the building she thought was a hangar. Whoever was down there must have heard Ethan on the PA. Then her radio bleeped softly and she heard Davenport: “Rear’s secure.”

  “Secure back here, too,” Coxey chimed in.

  Ethan spoke into the mike again. “We’re not messing around. I’m counting down. I want you both out here, hands up, before I get to one. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  The front door opened a crack, and Mack tensed, watching the other windows for any sign of movement, her finger on the trigger of her rifle. “Don’t shoot,” a man called. “I’m coming out.” He stepped onto the porch, both hands raised above his head.

  Ethan switch
ed on his spotlight, illuminating the man on the porch, who was dressed in jeans, a denim jacket, and cowboy boots. Mack knew at a glance that he wasn’t the man she had seen on the drone video.

  “Your name, sir?” Ethan said through the PA.

  The man cleared his throat. “Ronald. Ronald Perry.” His voice was high and threadlike, frightened.

  “Your brother. Thomas Perry. Where is he?”

  “Not here,” Perry said. “He’s . . . he’s down in Uvalde. He won’t be home until late.”

  Mack keyed the mike on her handheld. “Negative,” she said. “There are two trucks parked to the left of the house. The silver Dodge is registered to Thomas Perry. He’s here. And the light that was on in the hangar has just gone out.”

  “Roger that, Chambers,” Ethan said.

  Mack flipped her goggles down and turned toward the trees, startled, as always, by the sudden change in her vision. Everything was bathed in an eerie green light, patched with darker gray green shadows. She searched the area behind them visually, watching for movement. Where was the other Perry brother? Still in the hangar? Or moving up the hill toward them?

  Ethan turned off the PA system. “Down the steps, Perry,” he ordered loudly. “Hands clasped behind your head. Now, turn around backward and walk toward me.” A few moments later: “Stop. Cover me, Murphy. I’m taking him.” He closed the distance to Ronald Perry, pulled his arms down behind his back, and fastened a pair of plastic flex cuffs on him. “You’re under arrest.” He began a quick pat down.

  Perry stood motionless, head hanging. “What’s . . . what’s the charge?”

  “Suspicion of Lacey Act violations,” Ethan said, straightening. He turned Perry and began marching him toward the truck. “There’ll be other charges.” He opened the door of the rear cab. “Get in,” he said brusquely, and shut the door. He pulled out his radio and keyed it. Into it, he said, “Ronald Perry in custody. Davenport, go in through the back. Murphy and I are going in the front. Coxey, you and Davies check the buildings out back. Chambers, you stay where you are until we’ve secured the house and the outbuildings, then you can start your search.”

  Mack heard the curt “Rogers” from Davenport and Coxey but said nothing. Her stomach muscles tightening, she thought that “stay where you are” sounded like another effort to keep her out of trouble, out of harm’s way. Was it because she was a game warden, not a deputy? Because she was a woman? And then, another thought: because Ethan was beginning to care for her?

  But she had reported seeing the light in the hangar go out. There had been somebody down there, most likely Thomas Perry. The building should be checked out, and since nobody else was available to do it, she would.

  She waited, covering Ethan and Murphy until they had safely crossed the open space in front of the house and gone inside. Then, carrying her rifle, she slipped out from behind her truck, dodged behind Davenport’s vehicle, and headed diagonally downhill toward the Quonset hut, now dark. Her goggles allowed her to see everything quite clearly, the shadowy trees to her left, the hill rising steeply to her right as she moved swiftly forward and down. Behind her, she could hear Coxey and Davies stumbling among the outbuildings, Davies cursing as he crashed into what sounded like a metal trash can, and hoped that they didn’t see her and take a shot at her. Not much chance of that, though, she thought with some relief. The moon was clouded over, the hillside had gone dark, and they didn’t have any optics.

  In the green glow of her goggles, the building, its curved metal skin dappled with green gray rust, bulked large and ominous. There was a door on the side toward her and a square window, where she had seen the light. She ignored the door, ducked under the window, and moved silently forward along the wall, to the front of the structure. Looking ahead, she could see that the rectangular area had been regularly mowed so that the grass was short and matted, and there were five or six markers at regular intervals on both sides, each topped with saucer-size plastic reflectors. To the right was a large white-painted metal fuel tank with a pump and hose apparatus at one end. No doubt about it—this was an airstrip.

  Inside the building she heard somebody moving around, and a moment later, a door closing. She flipped the safety on her rifle and took a step forward. Then, to her surprise, she heard the deep-throated roar of a motor turning over, then a blustery rrhumph-humph-humph, escalating to a deafening thunder inside the metal drum of the Quonset hut. An airplane engine revving up, a propeller winding up to top speed.

  She stepped around the edge of the building just as the airplane—white with a wide blue stripe, its registration number painted in large letters on the fuselage—emerged through the open doors of the hangar and started down the runway, accelerating faster and faster. A light in the plane’s nose illuminated the dark turf ahead and flashed from the reflectors. Mack knelt on one knee and raised her rifle, aiming at the closest tire, but even though she was a good marksman, she knew the shot was futile. The plane was moving away from her, and moving too fast, at full power. The flaps were a better target. She fired three quick shots and thought she’d scored a hit, but the target was rapidly moving out of range for anything but a Hail Mary. She lowered her rifle and grabbed her radio.

  “Single-engine aircraft taking off on the grass strip. Registration number bravo-one-seven-romeo-hotel.” But even as she spoke, she could hear the shout from the top of the hill. Somebody else was seeing what she was seeing.

  And then something happened that Mack would marvel at for the rest of her life. The plane seemed to have nearly reached its lift-off speed when the light on its nose illuminated a huge white-tailed buck as large as an elk, wearing an enormous rack of antlers. It was standing still as a statue in the middle of the grassy strip, head turned toward the onrushing aircraft, unafraid. The pilot must have seen it at about the same time, for the plane nosed up, then swerved sharply to the left, its left wing dipping down. The left wingtip caught the ground, and the plane swung violently around. Above, on the hill, more shouts.

  And then, as Mack sucked in her breath, the right wing rose up and the plane cartwheeled, the left wing crumpling under it. It landed with a loud crash, upside down, and burst into flames.

  Antlered head high, the buck stood watching, then trotted briskly toward the trees, its white tail a proud flag.

  Chapter Eleven

  American bittersweet (Celastrus scandens) is not just a pretty plant. It has a long history of use by Native Americans and by the colonists who copied their medical practices. The root was boiled and pounded into a poultice or made into an ointment to treat burns, skin sores, eruptions, cancers, and rheumatism. A tea was used to treat liver ailments and dysentery. A stronger tea was used to cause uterine contractions during and after childbirth, and as an abortifacient. Bark extracts are thought to be cardioactive, so modern herbalists generally avoid the use of this plant.

  Oriental bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus) has its medicinal uses as well. In its native Asia, it is employed for the treatment of paralysis, circulatory problems, headache, toothache, and snake bites. Ongoing research is exploring its possible antitumor activity.

  Both vines are highly decorative. But do remember that Oriental bittersweet is an invasive pest. Please hang out the UNWELCOME sign and don’t let it move into your neighborhood!

  China Bayles

  “Native Plants for Wildlife Gardens”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  “And then what?” Ruby dropped her duster and stared at me over her shop counter. “Come on, China—you can’t stop there! What happened to the pilot? Was he killed?”

  “You bet,” I said. “And if you ask me, that was poetic justice. He died in a crash-and-burn, just the way Sue Ellen died. And that white-tailed buck—” I shook my head, marveling. “Quite an amazing coincidence, that deer showing up on the airstrip just as the killer was about to take off. Mack was astonished at the way the buck behaved. She couldn’t sto
p talking about it.”

  “That was no coincidence,” Ruby said, very seriously. “That was the universe, which has its own ways of settling scores.”

  I regarded her, both eyebrows raised. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Well, do. Everybody knows how long it takes to work through the justice system, and even then things don’t always turn out the way they should.”

  “Yes,” I replied, with irony. I pulled Ruby’s stool out from behind the counter and sat down, hooking my heels over the rungs. “Sometimes diabolically clever defense attorneys derail justice, don’t they?”

  It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and we weren’t open for business, but that didn’t mean we had the day off. Both Ruby and I were working, even though we weren’t waiting on customers. I had gone in about eight thirty to make out book and herb orders, stocking up for the holiday season. I had just gotten started when the UPS delivery guy came, bringing me an entirely new shipment of bittersweet—the right bittersweet, this time, with the apologies of the Michigan wreath maker and a promise to never again substitute Oriental for American bittersweet.

  Miss T dropped in right after the UPS guy, to see if we were going to want her to work that week. She is short and chubby and loves bright colors. Today’s outfit was a bright chartreuse sweatshirt over dark green pants, and her hair (pulled up and twisted to keep it out of her way) was a soft burnt orange. “In honor of Thanksgiving,” she said with a laugh. “And of course, the Texas win over Texas Tech. Wasn’t that a great game?”

  I shanghaied her immediately, and the two of us spent a pleasant hour hanging wreaths and making the shop pretty for the winter holidays. That kind of creative work is one of the reasons I love Thyme and Seasons—it’s almost like play, rather than work. And being able to share it with a friend and helper, like Miss T, makes it all the more interesting and fun. When we finished our work, the shop looked and smelled like the holidays, and Miss T went on her way with a hug and a smile—a great start to the week for both of us.