Dead South (Mattie O'Malley FBI agent)

by Daniel Adams

  She handed it to him.

  “Keep it. It’s a copy. I’m gonna dig a little more. It can’t hurt.”

  “This ain't really none of my business but there's a rumor goin' 'round that you and Doc Flint are gettin' real cozy.”

  Once again, his motive for warning her wasn’t to protect her. If she got her ass kicked or tarred and feathered, it would bring the hive down on Kingswood.

  “You’re right. It isn’t any of your business.”

  “You need to remember where you are. This is the South. As far as the people 'round here are concerned the Civil War ain't over. It's just on hold. The folks in New York City may be enlightened when it comes to mixed race couples, but 'round here, it ain't tolerated. Somebody gets hurt.”

  She knew he was trying to protect her. The problem was it just wasn’t anyone else’s business what she and Doctor Flint did.

  “I thought this is your town. Nothing happens without your approval.”

  “I can’t be everywhere,” he said. “Sooner or later something will happen.”

  “I told you before, Sheriff, I can take care of myself. If they come after me, some of them are going to die.

  She was as stubborn as he was.

  “I ain't worried about you, I'm worried about Doc Flint. He's a good man, but he don't have a violent bone in his body.”

  “I’ll warn him. Maybe it’s time he set up practice in another town. I don’t think he’s appreciated here.”

  Mattie didn’t know what her next move was going to be. In her mind Libby’s father was number one on her list of suspects. Noonan had gone to the bottom. There was absolutely no way he had killed Paxton. Even if Noonan was indicted she was going to keep on investigating. If he wanted to the Sheriff could sit on his ass but she wasn’t going to. She now had two things to do. Find out who killed Paxton. Nail the two sons of bitches that had attacked her. Never mind that she had kicked their butts, they had invaded her room and touched her. As far as she was concerned, both were capital offences. Someone was going to pay.

  As she drove through the town’s “wealthy” neighborhood, she looked at the houses and was surprised to see that some of them were mansions. Evidently, someone had some money. If she had to guess, she would probably say the mansions belonged to the big moonshiners. No one else in town made that kind of money. Not even the bank president. Anywhere else most of the mansions would have been considered gaudy or over the top. She noticed that most of them had an inordinate number of columns. If she saw a house with a dozen columns on one side of the street, the house across the street had twenty. She guessed that the more columns a homeowner had, the richer he was.

  Just as she turned the last corner on the street to take her out of the wealthy subdivision, she saw a moving truck parked in the driveway of the largest house she had ever seen. It had to be at least three-quarters of an acre, she estimated. She couldn’t imagine having to take care of 35,000 square feet of house. Just cleaning her 800 square foot apartment was a daunting job for her. A house like that would take at least a half-dozen maids to keep it clean. She was wondering who was moving in when a familiar woman came around the truck. Mattie couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Grace Flatt, Paxton’s widow. She wore a brand new colorful dress, boots and sunglasses that made her look ten years younger. What the hell? Mattie wondered. How could Grace afford the biggest mansion in town? Something didn’t smell right. Mattie needed to talk to Sheriff Wilks.

  Out at the racetrack, Dewey finished sweeping the last stall about two minutes before quitting time. He hated the work but needed the money. He knew his boss would be coming along any second to knit-pick his work so he went around behind the stall where he couldn’t be seen. Sure enough, he heard his boss enter the stall.

  “Dewey!” His boss called. Dewey had no intention of answering. Two minutes with his boss could turn into an hour of unpaid extra work. His boss had a way of asking for five minutes of work that always dragged on a lot longer. Keeping the stall between him and his boss, he hurried toward the exit. He had a lot on his mind. He had heard something very disturbing from one of the other horseshit engineers. Sheriff Wilks had been out to the paddock area and talked to Gil about Big Blue. Dewey knew for a fact Gil couldn’t keep his mouth shut. There was only one thing for Dewey to do: leave town. He would go to his sister’s place in North Carolina. No one knew about it so there was no way Rafe could find him. All he had to do was pack his few belongings in his truck and sneak out of town.

  If only.

  As he put the key in the door lock of his truck, a voice called to him, a voice he dreaded. Junior Barnes.

  “Where ya goin’? Dew Boy?”

  He had been so deep in thought, he hadn’t heard Rafe’s car slide to a stop behind him. He knew he had screwed up big time. He opened the door. If he played it cool, he might buy enough time to get away.

  “Home,” he replied.

  Junior Barnes quickly exited Rafe’s car. Catlike, he moved to Dewey’s side.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. Rafe wants to see you.”

  Dewey sat down behind the steering wheel.

  “I got somethin’ to do,” he announced.

  “Get in. You can talk to Rafe first.” Junior Barnes stepped between the door and the truck. No way Dewey could close the door.

  “No,” he said stubbornly, “I’ll come by.”

  Junior Barnes patience was molecularly thin and he had only one solution to most problems. He slid a silenced pistol out of his pocket.

  “Get in the car or ten minutes from now you’re gator food.”

  Reluctantly, and with a great feeling of dread, Dewey got out of the truck. With Junior Barnes right on him, he locked it then got in Rafe’s car. Leroy was on the far side of the back seat so when Dewey slid into the car, he was bracketed between the big nigger and Junior Barnes. He nodded to Leroy who just smirked at him. Another one of Rafe’s thugs, Rengo, was behind the wheel. Rengo had been named after Ringo Starr, the famous Beatle only Rengo’s mother had only made it to Fourth Grade so her spelling of Ringo’s name hadn’t quite turned out right.

  Junior Barnes looked at Dewey and smirked. All Dewey could do was to try to keep from bursting into tears. He was in bad trouble. He had a knife in his pocket. He thought about pretending to need his inhaler. If he could kill Junior Barnes, he might have a chance at getting his gun. He reached for his pocket.

  “What are you doin’?” Junior Barnes demanded.

  “Getting’ my inhaler,” he claimed.

  “You better bring out an inhaler?” Junior Barnes warned.

  Moving carefully, he put his hand in his pocket. Eyes glued to Dewey’s pocket, Junior Barnes positioned his pistol so he could shoot Dewey without hitting Leroy.

  Dewey felt the warm handle of the knife and the inhaler. Maybe if he just took out the inhaler, when he put it back, Junior Barnes wouldn’t be as suspicious. Taking out the inhaler, he held it up for Junior Barnes to see then took a big hit out of it. Satisfied, Junior Barnes sat back. Dewey waited a minute then took another hit. If he was in as much danger as the thought he was, two hits close together wouldn’t matter to his health one way or the other. After taking the second hit, he slid the inhaler back in his pants pocket. The moment Junior Barnes looked away, he palmed the knife out of his pocket. He let it fall onto the seat between his legs. With feigned nonchalance, he scratched his balls. Neither Junior Barnes nor Leroy paid any attention. When they both weren’t looking he opened the knife. It had a three-inch blade—more than enough to kill Junior Barnes if he could stick it in his black heart.

  With all of the strength he could muster, he swung the knife at Junior Barnes heart.

  SMACK!

  Before the blade could sink into Junior Barnes’ chest, Leroy swatted it out of Dewey’s hand.

  Startled by the commotion, Junior Barnes’ eyes swung back to Dewey in time to see the knife land against the seat.

  “Wrong move, Pal,” he declared.

  With a
quick move, he slugged Dewey on the head with the pistol, opening a big cut over his eye.

  “Next time you try anything, I’ll cap your ass,” Junior Barnes promised.

  Totally dejected, Dewey sunk into the seat. He was a dead man.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mattie easily found Libby’s house. It was a ramshackle house on a street lined with identical houses. Evidently, pride of ownership wasn’t a big deal in Libby’s hood. As a matter of fact, pride of anything was in short supply unless you were proud of the five junker cars parked in and around your driveway in various states of disrepair. She guessed that she was in one of the poorer neighborhoods in town. If the age of the cars in the driveways was any indication of the wealth of the neighborhood, these neighbors were as poor as dirt. Another thing she noticed was the paint—or more concisely, the lack of paint on most of the houses. What had once been brown wood was now gray with age, which only added to the dilapidated appearance of the homes. The neighbors didn’t seem to spend a lot of time on landscaping either. Most of the houses were completely surrounded by dense vegetation. Two things made Libby’s house stand out: it was painted a bright blue and there was an old truck on jacks parked two feet away from the front door. For the light, she guessed, given off by the porch light.

  She saw a man working on the truck. From the Sheriff’s description, she was pretty sure it was Gus. He was late forties, lean to skinny, around six feet tall and had long brown hair tied in a ponytail down his back. As she got out of her car, she saw him glance her way but that was the only response she got. Having learned to be more cautious, she kept a close eye on the windows to make sure no one was going to take a shot at her as she walked to the truck. She saw it was a 1954 Ford that had seen better days—lots of them. Most of the truck’s original blue paint was covered over with gray primer—primer that had been put on over the course of many years. Everywhere there wasn’t primer there was rust. It appeared that if the truck hit a bump, it would just disintegrate. Like many of the neighborhood trucks, its tires were nearly worn through.

  When she stuck her head under the raised hood, Gus didn’t look up at her. He just kept fiddling with the battery and starter cables.

  “Won’t start?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  She scanned the engine and engine well. If she could figure out what was wrong with the truck, it might give her some leverage in talking to him. She knew about engines. When she was nine, her father had begun showing her how to fix cars and engines. She had rebuilt several engines. She was probably best at trouble-shooting problems.

  “Battery good?”

  “Yep.”

  She thought about it. If the battery was good, and she had to take his word that it was, that meant the problem was either in the cables, solenoid, ignition or starter. She glanced at the battery terminals. The cable ends were clean where they attached to the battery. It appeared he had just cleaned the corrosion off of the battery terminals so there was good contact between them.

  “Terminals clean,” she stated.

  “Yep.”

  Unless the ignition switch was bad, which probably would have been something he looked at first, it was either the starter or the solenoid.

  “It give you any trouble before it quit?”

  “Nope.”

  As far as diagnostics went, that was big news. Something that doesn’t give any indication it is bad usually means something broke. She was leaning toward the solenoid.

  “Solenoid old?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  He sure wasn’t the talkative kind. Getting answers out of him was like pulling a boot out of the swamp mud. She considered what to do next.

  “If you have another cable, you could go directly from the battery to the starter. Have you tried that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did it start?”

  “Yep.”

  Another big development. It meant the starter and battery were both good. That only left the cables and ignition. To her, the cables looked relatively new. That meant it was the ignition switch.

  “Key work?”

  “Yep.”

  She hated to admit it but she was stumped. The good news was that so was he. She ran back through her memories, trying to think of a possible solution. Then, out of nowhere, she remembered a problem with one of her dad’s cars.

  “See the plastic wrapped around the cable where it attaches to the starter. If acid runs down the cable it can get under that plastic wrap and corrode the cable right in half but it still looks good.”

  Without a word, he swung under the truck. A couple of moments, and a noisy ratchet later, he took off the cable. Coming up from the ground her took the starter end of the cable and whacked it against the ground. When the end broke off, she was not surprised. He was. He looked at the broken end and the white corrosion that filled the red cable instead of copper wire. She had been right. It was the cable.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked him.

  “Yep.”

  That was good.

  “I want to talk to you about Paxton. Did you know he was romantically interested in Libby?”

  “Yep.”

  She was surprised he admitted it. If he had killed Paxton it was a bad move indeed. Or maybe he was being cagey.

  “Were you at Willow Bend?”

  “Nope.”

  She wasn’t surprised. If Gus had been at Willow Bend, Paxton and Noonan probably would have died there. It was hard for her to imagine a father who wouldn’t try to kill men who were courting his teen daughter.

  “But you heard about what happened, right”

  “Yep.”

  She was making progress. That he knew about the Noonan/Paxton incident gave him motive to kill Paxton.

  “Were you angry?”

  For the first and only time he looked at her. Anger sparkled clearly in his eyes.

  “Yep.”

  Anger was a good motive for murder.

  “Did you ever talk to Paxton?”

  This was a critical question. If he had talked to or confronted Paxton it made her case that much stronger.

  “Nope.”

  Gus put the new cable back on the battery then carefully let the starter end down into the engine well.

  It wasn’t the answer she was expecting. He could be lying but it didn’t seem like it.

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t answer just swung under the truck. She watches as he attached the cable to the starter.

  “Why won’t you answer me?”

  She tried to figure out why he wouldn’t answer. So far, all he had said was nope and yep. Then it came to her.

  “You want me to ask questions you can answer yes or no?”

  “Yep.”

  He was a strange man. What he was doing made no sense. Maybe it was a pride thing. He didn’t want to snitch out anyone.

  “Did you tell Libby to stay away from him?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did she?”

  “Nope.”

  There it was.

  “Were you going to tell Paxton to stay away from her?”

  “Yep.”

  If Gus was telling the truth, her case was getting weaker and weaker.

  “If he didn’t, you were going to kill him.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yep.”

  She’d been an FBI agent long enough to know when someone was telling the truth and she was sure Gus was. That took him off her list of suspects.

  It came to her in a flash. “You didn’t go out there that night because your truck wouldn’t start.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Yep.”

  Boom. There it was. A simple answer that explained everything. That night he was going out to kill Paxton but his truck wouldn’t start. Incredible.

  “Do you think Noonan killed him?”

  “Nope.”

  She was running out of questions. She quickly ran over the names she had heard.


  “Deacon Boggs?”

  “Yep.”

  It made sense.

  “Because of the two loads of shine Paxton stole from him?”

  “Yep.”

  Gus lifted himself out from under the truck and wiped his hands on his already dirty shirt.

  “Is that a guess?”

  “Yep.”

  Gus went around to the cab. She heard the ignition key turn and the engine roared to life. A moment later he shut it off.

  “Good as new,” she said.

  “Yep.”

  She waited a moment to see if he was going to say anything. He didn’t.

  “Thanks for your help,” she exclaimed.

  “Yep.”

  It was the longest ride of his life. Dewey knew his life was on the line if he couldn’t convince Rafe that Jubal had forced him to poison Big Blue. He knew Rafe wouldn’t have sent Junior Barnes and Leroy after him if he didn’t know something. Dewey knew he should have left town before word had a chance to get out. What he didn’t know was who had snitched him out. It couldn’t have been Jubal and as far as he knew, he and Jubal were the only ones who knew about it. He had figured they would take him to the dog food plant but instead they drove him out to Deacon Boggs’ still.

  Rengo parked the car near the still. Junior Barnes and Leroy didn’t even wait until the car had stopped before they grabbed Dewey and hauled him out of the car. Dragging him between them, they hurried over to Rafe who turned away from Deacon as soon as he saw Dewey. Junior Barnes and Leroy held Dewey between them his feet a good six inches off of the ground.

  “We grabbed him at the track,” Leroy advised Rafe. “No one saw us.”

  Behind Deacon, Dewey saw a dozen men working the still. He knew half of them as friends. Maybe they would come to his aid.

  “We’ve heard some bad things about you, Boy,” Rafe told Dewey.

  “They ain’t true,” Dewey objected. “I ain’t done nothin’. Ain’t been drinkin’.”