by Lee Mims
There was a shuffling noise—sounded like grit under work boots on the concrete blocks that acted as a step—then nothing. My face protested as I mashed it harder against the rough wood, straining to hear. Was he leaving?
My heart sank as I distinctly heard the creak of the truck door open. But hope sprang up again when I didn’t hear it slam shut. Suddenly I heard Tulip sniff at the door. She must have jumped out. Then I heard footsteps back my way!
“Luther, come on, buddy. Please, help me,” I pleaded.
There was no mistaking the sound of his boot on the step or his deep sigh. “Miz Cooper,” he said sadly. “You got to believe me. I’m leaving you here to keep you safe. That boy can go plumb crazy sometimes. And you’re wrong. I can fix all that’s happened. Make it right again. There’s other things going on that you don’t know about that I got to take care of … ”
“If you’re talking about this morning’s stupid hog hunt, I know all about it. In fact,” I smacked the door with my palm to get his attention, “I’m doing you a favor. Because you aren’t there, you won’t get arrested with your good buddy, Fred Butcher. Wildlife officers are going to catch his ass in the act of moving and confining a feral hog. As we speak they’re staking this place out at my request!”
“Arrest Fred Butcher! Oh, now you’ve really gone and done it!” Luther cried out. “Junior loves him better than Peter loved the Lord. Ain’t no telling what he’ll do. I’ve got to stop this from happening … ”
“Luther,” I pleaded. “Fuck the hogs! You aren’t hearing me. You can’t imagine how bad it’ll be if Junior sets off a bomb on the gas well!”
I pressed my face hard against the door again, straining to hear what was going on. For a moment everything was quiet on the other side. Just when I thought Luther might be having a change of heart, I heard a grunting noise from him, then something slammed against the door—and my face—so hard I saw stars.
Tears sprang to my eyes as I struggled to remain standing but failed miserably. I sunk to my knees and curled into a ball. Fighting to stay conscious, I turned my face toward the only light, the crack under the door. Moonlight greeted me. Within seconds, I heard the truck start. Someone gunned the engine and roared away. I didn’t move. I just stayed there, trying to gather my senses.
I used to think the saddest sound in the world was that of a far-away train, racking down a track somewhere deep in the night. Now I know that’s not true. Trust me, the saddest sound you’ll ever hear is someone in dire pain, moaning, “Help me, help me.” Only you can’t reach them.
I pushed myself to a sitting position and shook my head, hoping to dispel the confusion. Darkness spun around me. It helped to rest my hands against the door, so I did.
Luther moaned again.
Blinking hard to hurry the return of all my faculties, I reached for my Beretta. No time to worry about ricochets. I patted my side. Oh, no. My gun was back in my canvas tote in the bomb-making shed. I’d been so worried about the well being bombed, I’d forgotten it. Now what?
I struggled to my feet, but with nothing except moonlight shining through cracks in the boards for reference, I promptly careened into a corner, knocking over a bunch of tools. Tools! Grappling blindly, I felt each one in turn.
Imagine my joy at finding a pick ax! Supporting myself with the stout wooden handle, I pushed myself up. My head cleared and I swung the ax like a major leaguer at the brightest crack, the one that marked the opening of the door.
It took three swings, but on the last try, wood splintered, the hasp broke, and the door flew open. For the second time in only a few hours, I witnessed Luther sprawled out before me in the moonlight. Only this time he didn’t sit up. Tulip whined and licked his face.
He didn’t move.
Kneeling over him, I slapped his face softly and called his name. Someone must have come up behind him and knocked him out, but who? I had a sinking feeling I knew. He groaned and said something. I leaned closer. “What?” I asked.
“Look out for Junior,” Luther whispered, confirming my fear. “He’s gone crazy again … .” Then he slipped back into unconsciousness. I tried to rouse him, but when he didn’t wake up, I had to face reality.
I was going to have to leave him.
I was the only one who knew what was probably about to happen and I had no phone. “I’ll be back with help,” I told him and stood up. “Come on, Tulip,”
I ran a few steps but she didn’t follow, so I returned to Luther and knelt over him again to feel his brow. It was clammy. He was going into shock. Jeez. What to do?
I scrambled around in the shed and found a stack of empty feed bags.
I carried the whole stack out to Luther and spread out a few of them beside him, then knelt on the other side and pulled him toward me. The idea was to slide the bags under him, then cover him with more bags to keep him warm and prevent him from going deeper into shock.
When I rolled him up, however, my hands came away bloody. Very bloody. “What the hell?” I said aloud. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to see that he’d been stabbed in the back. Immediately, the fact that the coroner had said a stab wound to the stomach killed Clinton came to mind. I took one of the feed bags, folded it into a compress and mashed it against the wound. The good news: it had missed his spine by several inches. The bad news: I was pretty sure his lung was punctured.
I ran back into the shed, grabbed the corners of a fifty-pound bag of feed, lugged it to Luther and laid it beside him. With a little he-woman maneuvering, I managed to lay the top half of his body, wound side down, on the bag, the idea being to keep his lung from filling with blood. I covered him with more feed bags, tucking the edges under him. “Come, Tulip!” I commanded. “We’ve got to get help and we’ve got no wheels!” This time she seemed to understand and loped off ahead of me.
Her mostly white coloring made her easy to follow in the moonlight. We ran hell-bent through woods and fields until my lungs were screaming. When we finally reached the base of the low hill where the rig had been, I dropped flat and crawled until I could see the doghouse and my Hummer. Rows of Diesel trucks and massive generators loomed in the moonlight, silent now. Since the reclamation crew hadn’t come in yet and both drill crews had moved to Lauderbach #2, the place was deserted.
At least I hoped it was.
I wanted to charge up the steps of the trailer and plug in my iPhone so I could call for help, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to be sure Junior wasn’t lurking somewhere waiting to jump me. After all, I couldn’t help anyone if I was dead.
After a few seconds, when I saw no movement anywhere, I took a chance and dashed for a stack of oil drums. From there I could see the rest of the site, including the temporary well cap. It was silhouetted in the early dawn light. I almost gasped out loud when I saw the Cyclone fencing enclosing the wellhead had been cut open and a man-sized hole gaped where the wire had been pulled back. And, there was definitely something strapped to the temporary cap.
My nightmare had come true!
Rage, that anyone, crazy or not, would do such a destructive deed overwhelmed me. Blood pounded in my ears. It was difficult to know what to do next, but one thing was certain: I had to reach my phone charger. If I didn’t, Luther was going to bleed out back at the hog pens.
The fact that I’d made it this far gave me hope that Junior wasn’t hiding somewhere, watching the well, especially if he was intending to ignite the blast with a rifle shot. But I didn’t think that was his plan. When I saw the phone parts and det cord back at his man cave, I got the idea that he was going to use a homemade remote detonator, so I made a dash for the doghouse.
I took the stairs in two steps, jerked open the door and dove in. Tulip jumped right over me and I kicked the door closed and locked it. I didn’t turn on any lights. I didn’t really need to. It was getting lighter by the minute. Keeping my head below the window level, I crawled to my draf
ting table, reached up, and felt around for my charger.
As soon as I plugged in the iPhone, I dialed 911, explained the desperate nature of Luther’s wounds, gave them instructions on how to reach him and what to look for. Then I called Jackie’s cell and laid out the grim facts for him, including who Junior was and what I thought he’d done.
“Sooo, we’re dealing with a mental patient who’s also on crack?” the unflappable Jackie asked against background shuffling that sounded like he was pulling on his clothes.
“‘Fraid so,” I said. “What’s company protocol with a possible bomb?”
Without a second’s hesitation, Jackie said, “We’re to keep the well area clear of all crewmembers and civilians and be available to render assistance to a professional bomb squad … oh, and keep a record of everything that transpires.”
“Good to know. I want you to call 911. I’ve already called them about another emergency at the other end of the property, but I didn’t mention the bomb to them to avoid confusion. I’ll meet you back here at Lauderbach #1 as soon as I take care of it.”
“Another emergency?”
“I’m pretty sure Junior stabbed Mr. Lauderbach’s farm manager, so be careful. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“You too,” clipped Jackie.
Still crouching, I gathered what I thought I’d need: my phone, its charger, Schmid and Medlin’s first aid kit, a handful of survey flags, and a packet of hand towels from the bathroom. Wishing I hadn’t left my canvas tote in Junior’s shed, I shoved what I could into my jacket pockets. Then I booked it for the Hummer, praying Junior wasn’t taking a bead on Tulip and me through the scope of a rifle.
I skidded to a stop on the side of the road at the location I’d given to the 911 operator, turned on my hazards, and unplugged my phone, hoping it had been plugged in long enough to store a little charge. Then Tulip and I took off at a dead run again, heading for Luther. Every fifty feet or so, I’d stop and jab a survey flag into the ground. I knew I needed to call Chris, but I couldn’t talk and run, so I just kept running. It wasn’t long before I could hear a cacophony of sirens from the direction of the well.
When I reached him, Luther’s condition was unchanged: unconscious, but still breathing. I tried to rouse him several times, but couldn’t. Though the feed bag I’d placed under him was soaked with blood, the bleeding had stopped. I placed a thick pad of paper towels over the wound and called Chris.
“What the hell’s going on?” he blurted. “I just heard the call go out for the bomb squad out there. Everyone’s been called in … ”
“There’s a bomb strapped to the well!” I said, cutting him off abruptly. “And Luther, the farm manager, has been stabbed. Both acts, I believe, done by the same … maniac, Junior. Remember, the one you were told wasn’t a hunter.”
“Slow down. Start at the beginning,” Chris sputtered.
“Just get to the well,” I said, hearing the voices of the EMTs coming through the woods. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Wait! Where are you now?”
“Down by those hog pens I first told you about … with Luther. Gotta go!” I disconnected and waved frantically for the rescuers.
As soon as I’d told them who I was and how Luther came to be injured, Tulip and I hustled back to where I’d left the Hummer.
TWENTY-FOUR
Nothing’s worse than when you need to get somewhere in a hurry, but everything seems to be moving in slow motion. That’s how it was for me heading back to Lauderbach #1. I gunned it down straight stretches and slid around curves but the dirt roads still felt like salt water taffy. After what seemed like an eternity, I made it back to the site, but I couldn’t even get close to the doghouse for all the emergency vehicles in the way.
I parked behind a horde of Lee County law enforcement cars, fire trucks, and other emergency vehicles, and Sheriff Stuckey’s Interceptor. After I’d cracked the windows and locked Tulip in, I scanned the crowd of firemen for Jackie. Then I saw him and the rest of the crew. He had called them off Lauderbach #2 in case they were needed. Their familiar Schmid & Medlin hard hats were clustered together in a tight little grouping. I headed toward them but only got a few steps. A fireman rushed up to me, wanting to see my identification.
I showed it to him, explained who I was, and asked if he knew where I might find Detective Sergeant Chris Bryant. “No, ma’am,” he said. “But you’re free to proceed at your own risk. Turn your cell phone off and keep it that way until the device has been disarmed. Also—” Just then, someone connected with him through his helmet phone. He listened, then said, “Chief says everybody has to move back another hundred feet as quickly as possible. Oh, and better move your vehicle too.”
Not a good sign. I jogged back to the Hummer and moved it where Jackie and the crew were relocating the company pickups. I reassured Tulip again, got out, and went to stand with them. “Can you believe this shit?” Jackie asked bleakly.
“No,” I replied. “I guess by them moving us farther away, it pretty much confirms that the object I saw taped to the cap is a bomb.”
“Looks that way,” he said, his eyes glued to the proceedings taking place at the well. “Ever seen a blown well?”
“Thankfully, only on television and company safety videos,” I said.
“Same here.”
About that time I caught sight of Chris pow-wowing with Sheriff Stuckey. After a brief conversation, the two of them walked to within a few feet of us and Chris motioned for me to join them. I did.
Stuckey had nothing to say to me—apparently Bud’s strategy of an arrest for an arrest was still working—so I turned to Chris and asked. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad,” he said. “It’s big enough that we don’t have a bomb disposal unit sufficient to take care of it, so we’re waiting on one from Raleigh.” He checked his watch and continued, “Once they get here, we’ll know more. Now, tell us what happened with the man who was stabbed and start from the beginning.”
I relayed the events of the long evening, starting with flagging Lauderbach #3, then on to Luther finding me and what he told me about Junior’s mental health issues and use of heavy drugs. When I got to the part about Luther tricking me into getting locked up a second time, Chris gave me one of those looks like Ricky used to give Lucy when she’d really botched things. “What?” I said, daring him to say anything.
“Nothing,” he sighed. “Go on.”
“Well, the rest of the story is simple. After he locked me in, he stood outside the door and told me he was going to set everything right. But here’s the weird part. When I told him I knew about Butcher and the hog hunts and that you guys were going to put a stop to them, he freaked. He said that Junior loved Butcher and he didn’t know what Junior might do if anything happened to Butcher.”
Stuckey looked like he was trying to put on a game face, but I could tell he was behind in the program. He looked at Chris. “You talking about the kid you’ve been investigating on the Baker death? The religious nut?”
Suddenly it was my turn to be behind. “Wait. What?” I said, “You mean you’ve been investigating Junior?”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “I told you I was following a lead on a ticked-off creationist. Well, he and Clinton had worked up quite a hatred for each other. They were on opposite sides of the pole, you might say, when it came to evolution. But, my investigation of him only started there. It didn’t take much digging before I found clues that his past might have been troubled with drugs and mental illness.”
“Good grief!” I practically shouted, my hand planted firmly on my hips. If you knew all this about him, why didn’t you bring him in before now, before he strapped a bomb to his parents’ only hope for saving the family farm? For that matter, why didn’t you say anything at lunch yesterday when I told you he was likely a serious bow hunter? Why didn’t you tell me then he’d been a mental patient and h
ad a crack cocaine problem? You might’ve saved everyone a lot of heartache!”
“Calm down,” Chris said patiently. “Most of that information was sealed so it took a few days to get the actual facts. I got confirmation on his mental illness and drug use—the actual sealed files—late yesterday before I left to go home. I was going to ask the sheriff to issue an arrest warrant this morning.”
Stuckey gave me a smug look, then turned to Chris and asked, “You have sent someone over to pick him up, haven’t you?”
“Wow,” I said to Stuckey. “Looks like you’re going to have to arrest someone for a murder that isn’t even related to me.” He wisely ignored me.
“Yes sir,” Chris said, answering Stuckey’s question. “The moment I got Ms. Cooper’s call, I sent a team to the Lauderbach home to bring him in for questioning.”
“What about Butcher?” I asked. “Did you arrest him this morning? Did Bud leave the property like you told him?”
“Yes and yes,” Chris said. “We weren’t planning on holding Butcher, but now … if there’s a chance of some association with our murder suspect … ” He motioned to a uniformed deputy to join us.
“Harris,” Chris addressed the deputy. “Go back to the courthouse. Have them hold Butcher over for more questioning.”
The deputy went to do Chris’s bidding and Stuckey looked at me and asked, “Have you got anything else to add about this situation?”
I had a few more choice comments regarding his finally taking some interest in finding Clinton’s real killer instead of trying to nail me for it, but I resisted the impulse. Still I couldn’t actually bring myself to have a conversation with him so I said, “Not to you, I don’t.”
Chris said to Stuckey, “When I took statements from the Lauderbachs, the kid’s parents, they told me he didn’t hunt. I don’t think they were lying, but in light of all that’s gone on this morning, I’ll do a thorough search of the home again, this time with the arrows in mind.”
