The Prairie Chicken Kill

by Bill Crider

  When we got there, I saw that friends and neighbors had brought in quite a bit of food. I could smell apple pie, and there was a chocolate cake on the table. A couple of casserole dishes sat on the stove.

  Red leaned against the counter and said, "You know who killed him, don't you?"

  "No."

  "Ralph Evans," Red said. His voice almost cracked with emotion, but he kept it under control. Real men don't cry. "Ralph killed that bird, and now he's killed Paul. Paul never hurt him, any more than the bird did."

  "You don't know that Evans killed him," I said. "You might want it to be that way, but you don't know."

  "He killed that bird, and he tried to kill Bob Greer. Did you hear about that?"

  I said that I had. "But there's no proof of any of those things. If Evans killed Paul, I want to know about it as much as you do. But we have to have some kind of proof."

  "What if we could find that airplane?"

  "That might help."

  "I thought so. I got an idea about where it might be. We can go up there right now."

  Now I knew why he wasn't wearing a suit.

  "Anne needs you here," I said, thinking that she might even need protection from York. "I can go. You tell me where."

  "You don't know your way around this part of the country. I'll have to show you."

  He needed something to do. Some people are like that. Others just sit and stare, like Anne.

  "What about the sheriff?" I asked. "Shouldn't we tell him what you suspect and let him check it out?"

  Red wasn't impressed with that idea. "If the plane were in some other county, that might be a good idea. But it's in this county and Sheriff Peavy and Evans are too buddy-buddy for us to tell Peavy anything right now. If we told him, he might check it out, or he might not. But if he did, he'd let Evans know where he was goin'. By the time he got there, the plane would be long gone. If we find it, then we'll have proof. That'll be time enough to let the sheriff know. Now, are we goin' to find that plane, or not?"

  "Later, maybe," I said. "I have to make a few phone calls first. You can stay here with Anne until I get back."

  He didn't like it, but he agreed. I went to look for a telephone.

  The day was warm and the air was thick with humidity. Dark clouds were gathering in the north, and a breeze was rustling in the leaves of the trees. I knew it would probably rain before noon.

  I found a pay phone at a convenience store near The Toole Shed. There was no privacy, and I wished for the days of the phone booth. What I had was a telephone with two blue ears sticking out from the wall on either side of it. There was no one around to listen, however, so it really didn't matter.

  I dropped a quarter into the slot, and at the tone I got my quarter back and punched in my calling card number.

  "The cat's fine," Dino said after his initial greeting. "Loves me like a brother. I sat in your lawn chair and rubbed him for a while. I'm pretty sure he wants to leave you and move in with me."

  "I could sue you," I said. "Alienation of affection."

  "Yeah, there's that, but you wouldn't sue an old buddy, would you?"

  "Only if I could find a lawyer to take the case."

  "You could probably find twenty if you went to the courthouse, so I guess I'll let you keep the cat. But you probably didn't really want to hear about him, anyway. You want me to tell you about Lance Garrison and Ralph Evans."

  "That would be nice."

  He didn't waste any more words. From what he'd been able to find out, Evans was exactly what he seemed to be, a radio talk show host with a pretty good following and a man who was deeply suspicious of the federal government. But the following was dwindling, as Lindeman had implied. There were even a few people in Houston who were trying to organize a boycott of the his show's advertisers. So it was no wonder that the radio station's revenue was dropping off.

  "What about Lance?" I asked.

  "Well, now. Old Lance. Seems he's made a few mistakes himself. I guess he thought the market could never let him down. But now that everyone else is getting rich, he's not doing so well. He's taken some chances that haven't paid off so well."

  "But he still owns half the town here, right?"

  "And a lot more, so I hear. Nothing on paper, though. He's probably still set, financially. There's just one little problem."

  "What's that?"

  "There's a rumor that the I.R.S. has taken an interest in him. There’s supposed to have been an investigation into the legality of some of his investments. If that's true, he's got big trouble."

  Dino wasn't exactly a fan of the I.R.S. On that topic, he would probably have agreed with Ralph Evans. I told him to be good to the cat and hung up.

  Johnny Bates had some news of his own. With just a computer and a modem, he could do things with your bank account that you don't even want to know about.

  "Evans is broke," he said. "I don't know what he spends his money on, but it goes pretty fast. There's one really big payment every month, and by the end of the month, he doesn't have any more in his account than you do."

  "How do you know about my account?"

  "Hey, relax. It was just a guess. And your old buddy Garrison has been in a little trouble, too. He's having a cash flow problem, but nothing too bad."

  "What about his holdings around Picketville?" I asked.

  "Hard to say. Boxes in boxes, like I told you. A lot of it's in corporations, but he's probably behind them. His big trouble is with Uncle Sam."

  "Internal Revenue?"

  "Good guess. This is just a rumor I came up with; it's not solid. Word is, he got involved in some questionable tax shelters in the good old 1980s, and Uncle has come down hard on them. It looks like Garrison's going to get stuck for a bundle. I could out find for sure if you really need the information."

  I could tell he wanted to do the digging. It was what he enjoyed more than anything, and I knew he'd love to try hacking into the I.R.S. computers, if he hadn't done it already. But I didn't think it was that important.

  "I'll let you know," I told him. "I think you've done enough for now."

  "Sure." He sounded disappointed. "I'll send you a bill."

  "You do that. And don't undercharge. Lance Garrison will be paying."

  "If he can afford it," Johnny said, and I told him I'd call if I needed anything else. Then I drove back to Anne's house to pick up Red Lindeman.

  Seventeen

  When I got back to Anne's, Lance had arrived. He had on a suit that probably cost five times what Martin York's had, and he was even more solicitous than York had been. I had to fight the urge to break his nose again.

  He took me aside for a private talk and told me how terrible it was that Paul had been killed. "And you getting shot at from that plane. I just don't understand what's going on."

  "That makes two of us," I told him.

  "Red tells me that you think Ralph Evans may be involved."

  "It's just something I'm checking."

  "It's possible, I suppose. Ralph is on shaky ground at the station, and he's not the kind of man who likes to lose."

  "Can he fly a plane?"

  "I don't know about that. Are you looking for the plane?"

  "Red thinks he knows where it might be. We're going to see what we can find."

  "Do you want me to go with you?"

  I didn't want Lance in my way, no matter what happened, so I shook my head. "I don't think we'll need any help. You can stay here with Anne. She's the one who needs support."

  He didn't disagree. I went to find Red, and we left.

  The place where Red wanted us to go wasn't far away. It was up near Columbus, just off Interstate 10. We headed in that direction, with the clouds thickening overhead.

  "Evans has got himself a lot of land up there," Red said. "He and some of his buddies use it for camping out and playing soldier. They're gonna all move up there and hold out when the government comes after 'em and tries to put 'em in the concentration camps. That's where the plane'
s gonna be."

  We were in my truck. I wasn't sure that Red's would have stood up to the trip. We were also armed. We'd gone out to Lance's and picked up a couple of pistols that Red said were "for home defense."

  He'd let me have a Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special with a two-inch barrel, and he was carrying a Model 66, the Combat Magnum, with a six-inch barrel. You could defend a pretty big home with one of those. You could defend a small town with one.

  While we drove, Red talked about his son.

  "Paul always loved this part of the country," he said. "He was glad when we sold the farm, because it was a lot of work with not much return, and I was gettin' too old to be much help to him. We both knew Mr. Garrison, and he was glad to give us jobs. Paul took to the work at the station like a duck to water. He was worried about Ralph Evans, though, thought he'd be trouble, and he sure enough was."

  He looked out the window and didn't say anything for a while. His crutches were between us, leaning against the seat.

  More to be making conversation than anything else, I said, "What about the man who hanged himself at the jail? Was Paul investigating that?"

  Red turned away from the window. "Who told you about that?"

  "Anne."

  He nodded. "She's a fine woman. Paul was lucky to have met her." He was quiet again. Then he said, "Anyway, about that man at the jail. He was just some fella who'd been in town for a few days. He got drunk somewhere and started some trouble, then got arrested. They say he tore up his shirt and used that and his pants. Hung himself from the bars on the window. The sheriff said that's all there was to it, but Paul wasn't sure."

  "Why not?"

  "There was something funny about the man. People came snoopin' around after he was dead, but they never told anybody who they were or what they were after, at least not that I heard about. Maybe Paul found out something more, and I think he did. He sure seemed bothered by the whole thing, but he didn't tell me much about it. And he didn't usually do much investigatin' himself. If there was any story, it was likely Tony that went after it. That's Tony Lopez at the station. He's about the only reporter at the station, and he usually covers stolen dogs and things like that."

  We were getting beyond the flat prairie now. There were trees showing up and even a few hills. It wasn't nearly as woodsy as Fred Benton's place, but it seemed to me to have a little more character than the area around Picketville.

  "Do you see Fred Benton often?" I asked.

  "Haven't seen that old cuss in years, but I read all about that alligator business in the paper. You did a good job over there."

  There was more to the story than the newspapers had ever printed, but I didn't feel like going into it. I said, "What about this place we're going now? How did you find out about it?"

  "Ever'body knows about it, but I'd forgot it till Lance mentioned it this mornin'. Evans talks about it on his show all the time, but I don't hardly ever listen to him. It's got a lot of trees and some lakes. Lots of places to hide out and play war with those Minute Men of his. It covers a lot of ground."

  I thought I knew now where Evans' money was going. Unless he had some income other than what he got from his radio show, he must be sinking everything he had into the property we were about to visit.

  "How are we supposed to get on this place?" I asked.

  If Evans was as paranoid as I suspected, he might even have armed guards stationed somewhere.

  "Won't be a problem," Lindeman said. "We'll find a way."

  I wasn't quite so confident, but it turned out that he was right. We turned off the highway and drove down a paved county road for a couple of miles until we came to an area that looked like something out of a World War II movie. There were high banks of earth piled at random and covered with weeds and scrawny willow trees. There were pools of water that didn't qualify as lakes scattered here and there; they didn't look as if they were the work of any natural process.

  I slowed down. "What happened here?"

  "Damned if I know," Red said. "Looks like there was a lot of blasting at one time or another. Makes a good place to practice your sneak attacks, though, don't it?"

  "This is Evans' property?"

  "Bound to be. Looks just the way Lance said it did. Now all we got to do is find a way in."

  We drove down the road for about a quarter of a mile before we came to a gate. It was a very sturdy gate, made of welded iron bars, and it was held to the fence by a thick chain that was fastened together at the ends with a heavy padlock. There was no armed guard, however.

  "So what do you think?" I asked.

  "We could call Evans and ask him to give us his permission to visit."

  "Somehow I don't think that would be a good idea."

  "I guess we could pick that lock, then. You want to do it, or you want me to?"

  I thought he was joking, but he wasn't. He reached into his pants pocket and brought out a set of lock picks.

  "I thought you private eyes all had stuff like this," he said, holding up the picks. There were five of them dangling from a gold key chain. "I gotta admit I heard about these things on one of Evans' shows, and then I went out and bought one of those survival magazines and saw the ad for 'em. Cost around fifteen dollars, includin' the postage. They're real good for openin' padlocks."

  There was just one thing I wanted to know. "Why did you need them? You don't make it a habit to open other people's gates, do you?"

  "Nope. But there're a lot of gates on Lance's place and sometimes the keys get lost. I keep these things in a drawer were I can find 'em."

  "Have you ever used them?"

  "Once. Worked just fine. You watch me and you might learn something."

  I helped him get out of the truck and crutch his way over to the gate. The wind was picking up, shaking the tall grass in the ditch that ran beside Evans' property. I held up the lock while Red balanced himself and slid in one of the picks. He was right; it worked just fine. There was a satisfactory click, and the lock popped open.

  We got back in the truck and drove through the gate. I stopped on the other side and got out to fix the chain back in place.

  "Put the lock back in the links," Red told me, "but don't snap it shut."

  I wasn't quite that dumb. I arranged the lock so that it would appear from the road to be clasped and got back in the truck.

  "Now what?" I said.

  "Now we look for that airplane."

  We followed a dirt road that wound among the pools and mounds of earth. We could see a long line of trees some distance away, and when we drove around the last of the mounds we saw something else.

  Between us and the trees there was long open stretch of ground covered with short, dry grass. The wind chased cloud shadows across it, and I could see that would make a pretty good runway. It would be easy for a skilled pilot to land a plane there.

  And maybe someone had. Near the tree line there was a large sheet metal building with a sliding door in front. It looked almost like an airplane hangar.

  "It's in there," Red said. "I know it is."

  I wasn't so sure, but it seemed like a good possibility that he was right.

  Not far from the hangar there was a small house that looked as if it had been built by novice carpenters. It probably had no more than two rooms, and I supposed that it was used as Evans' headquarters when he and his minions came to camp out. A G.I. green truck was parked beside the house. I asked Red if he recognized the truck.

  "Looks a little like the one that fella Gar drives. Could be his."

  If Gar was there, there might be others, though I was afraid Gar alone would be enough to cause us plenty of trouble.

  "I'm going to drive a little closer," I said. "We need to get a look in that building to see if the plane's really in there."

  Red was already convinced. "It's in there, all right. It's bound to be. But I wouldn't drive any closer if I was you. If you do that, whoever's in that house is goin' to spot us. I'd just as soon that didn't happen."

 
He might not be right about the plane, but he was right about that. I said, "Why don't I back up and park behind one of those hills. Then I'll go take a look, just to be sure the plane's really there. You can wait for me in the car."

  Red didn't like that idea at all, but there wasn't much he could say. He knew that because of the crutches he couldn't get around very well.

  "All right," he said. "But you be careful. If that's Gar in that house, you don't want him to catch you."

  Truer words were never spoken. I shut the door of the truck very quietly when I got out.

  "You forget something?" Red asked before I'd taken five steps.

  I knew immediately what he meant. I'd left the pistol in the seat. I went back to get it, and Red said, "You want to take this one?"

  He held up the magnum, and I shook my head. I wasn't even sure I wanted to take the .38. I had a feeling that if Gar came after me, I was going to need more than a pistol. A rocket-propelled grenade launcher, maybe.

  Thunder rumbled somewhere toward the north as I walked to where I could peer around the funny-looking hill. The clouds continued to thicken, making the middle of the day almost as dark as late afternoon. The wind was whipping dirt up off the road, and grit popped against my jeans. I could smell the rain, and I knew it couldn't be too far away now.

  I saw no movement either in the house or the hangar, and then there was a flash of lightning, followed instantly by a crash of thunder almost directly overhead. When the noise died away, I could hear the rain rattling off the leaves of the trees in the distance.

  I knew that if I waited for a few seconds the rain would reach me and while it wouldn't make me invisible, it would give me a much better chance to get to the hangar without being seen by whoever was in the house. If there was really anyone in there at all.

  I jammed the .38 in the waistband of my jeans and pulled my sweatshirt over it. I looked back at the truck. Red was watching me through the windshield. I gave him a thumbs up, and then the cold rain sluiced over me.

  Eighteen