by Joan Hess
“Who sez I got a still?” he said, puffing up indignantly.
“Get off it, Raz. Everybody in the damn county knows you have a still up on the ridge. One of these days the revenuers are going to locate it and reduce it to a pile of scrap metal. Moonshining’s a federal offense. That means you’ll be up in Leavenworth instead of enjoying the company of your relatives at the state pen.”
His rheumy eyes met mine. “I ain’t got a still and ain’t nobody gonna find it. What do you aim to do about Diesel? He’s got no call to scare Marjorie like that, or me, fer that matter.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I said, shaking my head. “If you don’t have business on Cotter’s Ridge, stay off it. You and Marjorie shouldn’t be there during deer season, anyway. Neither of you resembles a buck, but that doesn’t cut any mustard with a bullet fired from a mile away.” I stood up in hopes he’d take the hint and leave, but he remained seated, glowering like a jack o’ lantern well past its prime. “Something else?” I asked.
“I heard there’s gonna be some fellers dressed in soldier clothes crawling all over the ridge.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that, either. It’s going to be crowded up there next week, Raz. Take my advice and stay away.”
I held open the door and tried not to grimace as he shuffled past me and climbed into a muddy truck. The thought of Sterling Pitts and his followers had given me the stirrings of a headache; Raz’s redolence had escalated it to the quintessence. The report I’d planned to take to Farberville could wait until Monday. In the interim, I was going to crawl into bed, cram a pillow over my head, and imagine what it would be like to be somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
On the far side of Stump County, Sterling sat in his Bronco, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and watching raindrops slither down the windshield like transparent slugs. He was parked at one of their carefully chosen meeting places, a farm that had been abandoned more than ten years ago. The windows of the house were as vacant as a dead man’s eyes, and the rusted screen door groaned as the wind dragged it across the surface of the porch.
Sterling reminded himself he was not the sort to entertain irrational notions about ghosts. He was organized, efficient, decisive, truly a general’s general. The fact that his underlings were so ill-disciplined was disturbing; he made a mental note to require them to study their manuals and the additional guidelines he’d typed up and stapled to the back covers. After all, the Second Amendment stressed the need for a “well-regulated” militia as necessary to the security of a free state.
He pulled back his cuff to look at his watch. Red Rooster had agreed to be there at 1700. It was now 1720, and Sterling was growing increasingly peevish. It was cold, damp, and getting dark. His wife was expecting him to come straight home from his office to escort her to some fool dinner party. She had no idea what he did in his free time, but it was getting harder to come up with lies about conventions in other cities and emergency meetings at the office.
Muttering to himself, he switched on the ignition and prepared to leave. Before he could back up, however, a pickup truck came up the weedy driveway and stopped.
Reed climbed out of the driver’s side and came around to the car. “So, did you check him out?” he asked loudly.
Sterling could smell the beer on Red Rooster’s breath. “I do not care to be kept waiting while you and your friend are drinking beer in a bar somewhere. Were you also shooting off your yaps about our activities? Should I expect a carful of ATF agents to pull up next?”
“Naw, we just stopped off for a quick one on the way out here. Wasn’t nobody else in the joint except for a bony hooker, and she was talking the whole time on her cell phone.” He put his hand on the roof of the car and blearily smiled down at Sterling. “Did you hear back from Colorado?”
Sterling glanced at the young man in the pickup who was staring at the ramshackle farmhouse. “Yes, I communicated with the second-in-command in their group. He acknowledged that Dylan Gilbert had been with them for eighteen months before getting into trouble with the authorities in Denver. Apparently, he’s quite adept with electronic surveillance equipment.”
Reed turned and thumped the truck window. “Hey, Dylan, you fucker, you never told me you were a bug-meister.”
Dylan rolled down the window, looked coolly at Pitts, and said, “I majored in electrical engineering for two years before I dropped out of college. What’s the verdict? If I’m not welcome, I’ll find another group someplace where the weather’s not so shitty.”
“Well?” Reed said to Sterling.
“The procedure,” he said through clenched teeth, “is for the cell to interrogate a potential recruit before taking action. I for one have questions about why he came here and chose to make contact with you instead of having his former commander contact me through proper channels. I also need time to verify his credentials. Then, if we are unanimous in our decision to accept him, he will be inducted as soon as possible. Until that time, he can participate in the training, but he will not be present at sessions of a more tactical nature.”
Reed grinned at Dylan. “That okay?”
“Exactly what I anticipated,” Dylan answered without inflection. He pushed long black hair out of his eyes and stared at Sterling. “I’ve got some questions of my own, Pops. I don’t want to get hooked up with a bunch of guys who are liable to spill secrets to the nearest undercover cop. I’ve got the FBI searching for me, and not so they can wish me a happy Thanksgiving. With my juvenile rap sheet and a few minor felonies since then, I’m looking at up to forty years.”
Sterling bristled. “You have no fear of indiscretion from this group,” he said sternly (if somewhat mendaciously, considering his previous thoughts). “We are highly disciplined and tight-lipped.”
“Gotta take a wiz,” Reed announced, then stumbled into the darkness.
Dylan waited until Reed was out of sight, then gave Sterling a contemptuous smile. “Then aren’t you concerned about the informant in your group, Pops?”
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About the Author
Joan Hess (b. 1949) is the award-winning author of several long-running mystery series. Born in Arkansas, she was teaching preschool when she began writing fiction. Known for her lighthearted, witty novels, she is the creator of the Claire Malloy Mysteries and the Arly Hanks Mysteries, both set in Arkansas.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Joan Hess
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3725-9
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