Rising Spirit

by Wayne Stinnett

  From my pack, I pulled out a worn Caterpillar hat and put it on. My boat, Gaspar’s Revenge, has twin Cat diesels, and a mechanic who’d worked on them a year ago had left it aboard. Caterpillar also made heavy equipment and was once the leader in heavy truck-engine manufacturing. The hat was a suitable disguise for this part of the country.

  The air was crisp and cold, not a cloud in the sky. A light breeze from the north carried the scent of burning firewood. I looked around. A maple tree in the corner of the lot, between the spot I’d chosen and the one adjacent to it, had shed most of its leaves. They covered the small patch of grass and a good bit of the two parking spots. The winter solstice was just a few weeks away and soon this part of the country would get its first snow. As I strode toward the diner’s entrance, I hoped the weather would hold off until I left. I hadn’t seen snow in a long time. That was one of the reasons I’d decided to retire to the Keys.

  When I opened the door, warm air and half a dozen pairs of eyes greeted me. I scanned the inside of the diner, as if looking for a table. I didn’t see any of the three men I’d observed the night before up on the mountain. The early diners were all men—farmers, by the look of them. Men who worked with their hands and backs, growing food from the soil. As one, they assessed me and then returned to their meals and conversations. I wore jeans and a flannel shirt under a denim jacket with work boots on my feet. My hair was short, there was a three-day stubble on my chin, and my skin was dark from long days in the sun. I didn’t stand out among this group of men. Had we all been shirtless, it would probably have been different. I doubted their tans went below the neck.

  There was a long breakfast counter lined with stools against the wall to my right. It ended before reaching the back wall, where a hall led to the right—I assumed toward the restrooms and kitchen. There were two more stools on the far end. I moved toward that spot and took the one next to the flip-up access for the waitress. A quick look down the hall revealed the kitchen entrance, two doors marked Men and Women, and a third marked Private.

  A matronly-looking woman with graying hair piled on top of her head came over and asked if I needed a menu. Her name tag read Madge.

  “No, thanks,” I replied. “Three eggs, over medium, double bacon, hash browns, toast, and coffee.”

  As she scribbled on her pad, she asked, “What brings you to town?”

  It was an innocent question. Small restaurants in towns like this had a regular clientele. The other men in the place had probably been coming here every morning for most of their lives. It was the nearest diner to the farms north of town. Which was why I’d chosen it. Although I blended in physically, I was an obvious stranger.

  “Just passing through,” I said, with a crooked grin. “Delivering parts south of here in a couple of hours.”

  She poured coffee from a stained pot. “Mountain Valley Diesel?”

  “Yeah,” I lied.

  “They usually open around eight,” she said. “Sometimes nine. I’ll get your order right in.”

  “Thanks, Madge.”

  I scanned the patrons once more and saw nobody I’d consider a threat. The door opened and two men came in. They greeted several of the others by name, stopping to talk to one older man before taking a table near the opposite wall.

  My breakfast arrived quickly, and it was good. I ate slowly, then lingered over coffee. A while later, the door opened again. Jeb and Luke came into the diner together. They said hello to a few people as they made their way to the breakfast counter. Both men were taller than I’d first guessed; probably close to six feet.

  Jeb stopped to talk to the same older man the earlier two men had talked with. I used my phone and subtly took a picture of the man. He was probably in his sixties or early seventies, clean-shaven, with close-cropped silver hair and a distinguished-looking face.

  Jeb joined Luke at the counter, a few stools down from where I sat. Both men nodded a greeting. I nodded back, taking a sip of my coffee. I was hoping Stuart Lane would stop here for breakfast before heading to the airport.

  The waitress approached, stained coffee pot in her hand, and I nodded. I liked coffee. At times, I liked it strong enough to float a horseshoe. In my early years as a Marine, I would often turn the hot plate on to heat up the previous day’s remaining brew, instead of wasting it. Day old Marine lifer juice would float a battleship.

  The waitress poured more of the steaming, dark liquid into my cup and left the check. The meal was a good bit cheaper than I’d expected.

  Luke looked back at the older man who seemed so popular, then said in a low voice, “Why you suckin’ up to him?”

  I pretended to be studying the check as Jeb looked around. “He’s the new judge. Never hurts to be on the good side of the law.”

  “He’s just another newcomer,” Luke grumbled. “Ain’t been here for more’n twenty years.”

  “That may be so,” Jeb said, “but he’s the law now. You get Stuart to the airport on time?”

  “As if I don’t get up early enough as it is,” Luke replied, smiling as the waitress approached. “Yeah, he was on the first flight to DC.”

  Both men placed their breakfast orders, then the waitress came back to where I was finishing my coffee. “More?”

  “No, thanks,” I replied. “Gotta get going. The food was good.”

  As she started to turn away, I reached across and touched her arm. “Say,” I said, whispering just loud enough for Luke and Jeb to hear, “is there a liquor store around? One that’s open in the morning? I need to pick up a gift for a friend.”

  “What kinda gift would you be gettin’ in a liquor store?” she asked.

  I grinned and laid it on a little heavier, as I covered the check with a twenty. “My boss likes to sample local stuff. You know, legal moonshine?”

  “Stay on Highway 250 toward the interstate,” she replied. “There’s two ABC stores before you get to it. One about a mile-and-a-half from here on the left, and another on the right just before the interstate.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pushing the check for the ten-dollar meal toward her, along with the bill. “Keep the change.”

  She picked them up and smiled before moving down the counter to the register. I tipped my mug to my lips, though it was empty, and made a show of getting ready to leave. The bait was dangling.

  I pulled my coat and hat on, looking around the restaurant once more. As I passed the two farmers, Luke looked up and nodded. “Couldn’t help overhearing,” he said in a quiet voice. “I might can help you out, without having to go through Virginia ABC.”

  The bait was noticed. Time for the teaser.

  “There’s a closer liquor store?” I asked. “I’m a little pressed for time.”

  Luke looked at Jeb, who glanced around the restaurant before leaning in closer. “Not exactly,” Jeb whispered. “And not really what you’d call legal ’shine, neither.”

  “You mean—”

  Jeb moved his hand in a downward motion. “Not so loud. You got another twenty?”

  “I do,” I said quietly, leaning closer to the two men. “But I’m not interested in rot gut from a car radiator.”

  “This ain’t like that, mister,” Luke said. “Best corn squeezin’ in the valley.”

  “Thanks,” I offered. “But like I said, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have a delivery to make.”

  “Got a coupla jugs right out in the truck,” Jeb said, with a wink.

  “Is that right?” I offered, grinning crookedly, setting the hook.

  Luke’s chair scraped the floor as he stood up. “Won’t take ya but a few seconds,” he said. “And best of all, no taxes to the guvment.”

  “Lead on,” I said.

  “Be right back,” Luke told Jeb.

  I followed him toward the door. It didn’t escape my attention that he stayed far from the judge’s table.

 
; Outside, I spotted Jeb and Luke’s trucks, parked nose in, a few spots from my own. Luke walked straight toward the blue one.

  “You ain’t the law, are you?”

  “The law?” I asked, shaking my head. “Nah, I just deliver parts. Got a drop-off at Mountain Valley Diesel as soon as they open, then back to Norfolk. But if I was the law, wouldn’t I say I wasn’t?”

  Luke opened the passenger door to his truck, then looked around the parking lot. “Maybe, maybe not.” He opened a box behind the seat and pulled out a quart jar. “But they’re supposed to say if you ask ’em.”

  “Is that right?” I said, amazed at the guy’s ignorance.

  “This is made local, from local corn. Try a snort.”

  The lid to the mason jar was on tight. I screwed it off and held the jar to my nose. The liquor had a faint caramel color and a powerful smell. I took a small sip. It was stronger than the rum I usually drank. It had a good taste just the same, with a hint of oak and cherrywood.

  “Oh, that’s good,” I said, putting the lid back on. “Tastes like it was aged a bit?”

  “Not long,” Luke said. “Just enough to add some color and flavor. That’s from last year’s run. Eight months in a cherry barrel, then finished a couple more months in charred oak. That’s a-hunert-and-sixty proof hooch right there.”

  I pulled my money clip from my pocket. “Ten bucks, you said?”

  The man smiled, showing yellow, stained teeth. “No, it was twenty, was what I said.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I took a bill from my clip and handed it to him while stuffing the jar under my jacket. “Ya know, my boss might be interested in getting more of this. Ever been to Norfolk?”

  “We can deliver down there,” Luke said, pulling a cheap cell phone from his pocket. “Minimum’s ten gallons and the price is the same. More’n ten gallons, it’s only fifty bucks a gallon, though.”

  “How can I reach you?”

  “Get your phone out and call me,” he replied, holding his phone up. “Then I can save your number as a trusted customer.”

  He was careful, I gave him credit for that. If the law ever checked his phone records, they’d see that I had initiated the calls.

  My cell phone was a little different than most. It had a second number that Chyrel could make disappear. Since I was coming up here, she’d changed the second number to a Virginia area code. I pulled it out of my pocket and when I touched the phone icon, I quickly switched it over to the burn number. Luke gave me his number and I punched it in, then hit the Talk button. His phone rang and he looked at it.

  “Says Newport News,” he said, looking up from his phone.

  “Yeah, that’s me. Name’s Stretch Buchannan. Newport News is just across the James River from where I work in Norfolk.”

  Luke tapped the screen a few times, saving my burn number. I’d have Chyrel delete it later.

  “All set,” Luke said, pocketing his phone. “Give me a call and we’ll work something out. When you call, tell me how many gallons of ‘gear oil’ ya want, and I’ll know what ya mean.”

  Luke turned and headed back to the diner.

  “Thanks,” I called out after him.

  I got in the truck and immediately called Chyrel. She answered right away, as if she had her phone in her hand.

  “Can you pull up my burn number and put a trace on the last number I called?”

  “Deuce’s oldest boy can do that, Jesse.”

  “I keep forgetting who I’m talking to,” I said, starting the truck’s engine. “Is there a way you can patch any calls to or from that number to my phone, so that they can’t hear me?”

  “Well, Trey can’t do that yet, but yeah, I can. Who is it?”

  “His name’s Luke Wright; one of the three landowners you said Sandy’s email might have come from.”

  “Deuce told me this morning that you already ID’d the guys and learned which one killed your ex’s boyfriend. That’s fast work, even for you.”

  “I got lucky,” I said. “Also, I’m going to send you a picture of a guy. I think he’s the local judge. See what you can find out about him.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “No, just the opposite. But I want to be sure first. These guys seem to be involved in a pretty large-scale moonshine business.”

  “We call it white lightning back home.”

  Chyrel was an Alabama girl, but had worked for Deuce for many years now. Before that, she’d been a computer analyst for the CIA.

  “I just bought a quart from Wright for twenty bucks.”

  “I’ll get the call forward set up and get to work on the judge’s background. I emailed you a file on Wright and the other guy—Pritchard? Is Luke Wright close to the third man, Jeb?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, putting the truck in gear. “They were just having breakfast together. They seem close.”

  “Good. I can cross-reference calls from Wright’s number and probably find his last name. Then I can get some intel on him, too.”

  I drove out of the parking lot and turned right. “He’s likely the least interesting of the bunch. Nothing about him strikes me as anything other than he appears; a farmer.”

  “I’ll get right on it. If Wright makes or receives a call, your alert tone will be the theme song from Cops. You know, ‘Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?’”

  “Sometimes I think you enjoy your work too much,” I said, then ended the call.

  I drove fast. Jeb and Luke would take at least fifteen or twenty minutes to eat breakfast. I could stretch that to twenty-five if I hauled ass. That would be plenty enough time to get to one of their houses, locate a computer and email Chyrel to check the IP address.

  The rental Ford ate up the miles quickly and I braked hard for the turnoff. With no other vehicles in sight, I got to Luke’s driveway and turned in. The gate was closed, so I jumped out to open it.

  Back in the truck, I drove quickly down the double ruts of the driveway, keeping track of the time. I left the gate open, knowing I’d only be there for a few minutes and the cattle guard would keep any livestock from straying. My biggest concern was a dog.

  The road led to a small farmhouse. There wasn’t anyone around and there were no other cars parked outside, or in the covered carport beside the house. I turned the truck around and left the keys in the ignition before jumping out and running straight to the front door. If anything would get a dog going, that would.

  I banged hard on the door and waited a few seconds. Wright made it too easy. The door was unlocked. I swung it open and called out in an urgent voice in case there was anyone there. No answer.

  And no dog.

  Moving quickly, I checked out the living room in the front of the house. It looked like it didn’t get much use. Same with the kitchen. Luke probably ate every meal at the diner. The dining room table seemed to be the catch-all for mail and magazines. That room was where I found a desktop computer on a small desk in the corner.

  When I moved the mouse, the screen came to life. I opened a browser in private mode and typed in a web address. When the page loaded, I signed in and composed a quick email and hit Send. Then I logged out and exited the browser. Being in private mode, there would be no history, and even if there was, Wright would have to know my login information.

  When I got back outside, I climbed into the truck and started it up as I fumbled with my phone. After hitting the Talk button, I put it on speaker and headed for the open gate.

  “I got your email,” Chyrel said, instead of the usual hello or hiya.

  “Is it a match?”

  “No, Wright wasn’t the one who sent the email to your ex.”

  “Damn,” I said, as the truck bounced over the uneven terrain. “He and the Jeb guy were at a diner I just left when I talked to you earlier. I doubt if I have time to check Jeb’s house. Besides, he do
esn’t strike me as the computer type.”

  “Speaking of,” she said, her tone becoming serious. “You couldn’t have been more wrong about that guy. His name is Jebediah Long. He did a fifteen-year stretch at Virginia State Penitentiary in Richmond, from 1975 to 1990, for involuntary manslaughter. The prison was built in 1800 and closed down in 1991. It had a rep for being a real hell-hole.”

  “Really?” I said, bringing the truck to a stop just outside the gate. I got out to close it, grabbing up the phone as I slid off the seat.

  “Yeah, and the third guy, Stuart Lane, he was a person of interest in another murder in 2014. That one is still unsolved.”

  After closing the gate, I returned to the truck and headed back in the direction of town. “Any details on Long’s conviction?”

  “He served fifteen years of a twenty-year sentence for the beating death of a man named Justin Kiernan, who had been dating Long’s older sister. She committed suicide a couple of weeks before the murder and Long blamed Kiernan.”

  Ahead, a blue truck was coming toward me. I pulled my hat down lower and held the phone to my ear, turning my head slightly to the right until the truck went by. It was Jeb Long, not Luke.

  “And the unsolved murder in 2014 that Lane was a suspect in?”

  “A local woman, Grace Masterson. She was twenty-one at the time of her death; a known prostitute and crack addict.”

  “Any interesting details in that murder?”

  “The lead investigator at the time was Louis Taliaferro.”

  Chyrel had pronounced the name exactly as its obvious Italian origin would dictate.

  I mocked a Virginia drawl. “That’s pronounced Tolliver around these parts, thank ya ma’am.”

  “For real?”

  “Same as Staunton being pronounced without the U,” I said. “Families here go back to not long after the Pilgrims and the local dialect is…well…local.”

  Lou’s one of us, I remembered Pritchard saying about Sheriff Taliaferro.