Brutal Business: Book Three in the Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Conor removed any gear he needed from his horse. When he was done, he was wearing his Go Bag and carrying his rifle. He had the binoculars hanging around his neck for easy accessibility. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Wayne said. “I’ll wait over there until this is over. Maybe I’ll be the one taking a nap.”

  Conor checked his watch. “It’s already getting late. It’ll be dark in a few hours. If I see that darkness will improve my odds, I might wait until then. I can’t put the old lady at further risk. She’s suffered enough.”

  “Like I said, I won’t leave until you’re back. Do what you need to do.”

  The men shook hands and wished each other luck. Conor forged ahead on the rough trail. Wayne watched him until he disappeared from sight and then faced the horses.

  “Time to go, boys. Let’s backtrack.”

  Wayne walked carefully, visually checking each foot placement. Riverbanks were an obstacle course and this would be a lousy time to get injured in a spill. There were slick rocks and exposed roots as well as plain old slippery mud. There were damp leaves that, while slick in their own right, also hid other hazards, including deep holes where Wayne could break a leg or wrench an ankle.

  He tried to encourage the horses to be careful but they paid him no mind. They had their own way of doing things. The best he could offer was to walk them slowly and cross his fingers that neither took a fall they couldn’t get up from. After about a hundred yards he reached the point he could mount his horse again. The branches were higher here and the trail wider, the surface sandy and smooth. He tied Conor’s horse to a long lead and let it trail behind him.

  Eventually he reached the edge of the mine site and the trail swung up onto the artificially flat plane of the equipment boneyard. The only sound was the constant, almost hypnotic, murmur of the river and of dry brush swept by the horses’ legs. Wayne kept his eyes moving. He could smell the coal smoke again and knew there were people about. In general he was fine with meeting the locals but this didn’t feel like the best time. The two horses might make him a tempting target for robbery and he couldn’t afford the delay. He had a cantankerous Irishman waiting on him.

  He wound his way through the boneyard, where the company set out old equipment that was no longer in service. There were complex Bucyrus draglines and power shovels, predecessors of the modern hydraulic excavator that ran off a complex maze of rusting cables laced through banks of pulleys. There were absurdly long D9 Caterpillars with open cockpits and blades that stood as tall as a man. There was a hulking Fiat-Allis HD-31 that was bigger than Wayne’s first house.

  With his construction background, Wayne was easily distracted by these gigantic machines. He would love to get the opportunity to operate one. Some of the equipment was mining specific and he didn’t recognize it. He could only ascertain its likely purpose from the fact that it was all built low to the ground so it could operate within a coal seam deep in the mountain.

  Wayne hoped the long line of machinery would shield him from whoever lived on the property. He wasn’t far from the bridge and would be back on the road soon, headed toward Shuck’s house. He was staring in that direction, trying to gauge how much distance he had left to cover, when one of the mining machines shot forward, blocking his path. Wayne was trapped in a narrow lane with the river on one side and a wall of rusting equipment on the other. He saw a grinning face behind the wheel of the low, dirty machine.

  He spun his horse and moved back the way he’d come, trying to get Conor’s horse turned without wrenching his head around. When the horse was finally pointed in the right direction, he nudged his own, kicking him into gear. The horse shot forward. If Wayne could make it back to the trail...what then? It was a dead end, at least as far as the horses were concerned.

  That decision was taken out of his hands. Before he got that far, a second mining machine shot across the path ahead of him. His route now plugged at both ends, Wayne turned to the left to negotiate a path between the massive pieces of equipment. It was the last thing he wanted to do. Wading a horse through that tangle of metal was a sure way to injure one.

  Whoever these people were, they had the advantage. Somehow, they had working vehicles. They could run him down before he ever got out of here on horseback. As sour a pill as it was to swallow, he might have to leave the horses behind and make a run for it on foot. Either that or shoot his way out of here.

  He walked his horses beneath the boom of a dragline, his mind racing and searching for the next opening in the boneyard. What he found was a man standing on the tracks of an old front end loader with a rifle leveled at him. There was nowhere he could go and not take a bullet in the process. He reluctantly reined his horse to a stop.

  “Get them hands up!” a dirty man in navy coveralls ordered.

  Wayne did as he was told, holding the lead tethering him to Conor’s horse. To either side of him, the low mining vehicles coasted silently toward him, closing the distance. The drivers stopped their vehicles and got out, weapons pointed toward Wayne.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked one of the drivers, an older man with a white beard and a camouflage cap.

  Wayne saw no reason to lie. “I came through here with a buddy. We needed access to get down the river. We thought we could make it through with our horses but the trail ran out. My buddy went ahead on foot and I’m headed back downriver to meet up with him.”

  “What’s so danged important that you had to get on this side of the river?” White Beard asked. “My side of the river.”

  Again, Wayne went with honesty. “Your nearest neighbor downriver, Shuck Lampkins, is holding an old woman named Fannie Bell as a prisoner. She’s naked, injured, and chained up like a dog. Some folks that know her asked my buddy and me to check in on her. That’s what we found. We figured the decent thing to do was pay Shuck a visit and see if we could come to an understanding.”

  “Shuck got his own bridge down yonder,” the man standing on the machine pointed out. “Why didn’t you use it?”

  “First man that tried to talk to Shuck about this woman got shot dead and thrown in the river. That was her son. Second man that tried to talk to him got killed because Shuck’s bridge is booby-trapped. We decided that the direct approach is clearly not working.”

  “You intend to kill Shuck Lampkins?” White Beard asked.

  Wayne shrugged noncommittally. “If the situation calls for it, I got no doubt that my friend will deal with it properly. I wouldn’t say he’s fond of killing but he certainly doesn’t shy away from it.”

  “Why don’t you get down off that horse so we can talk,” White Beard said. “Staring up at you is making my neck hurt.”

  “I’ll get down if you lower your guns,” Wayne said. “Otherwise I want to keep my options open.”

  The older man nodded, lowered his gun, and then gestured at the others to lower theirs. It was only then that Wayne noted there was a similar appearance to all the men, as if they were related.

  “Well if you don’t show me yours, I won’t show you mine again,” White Beard said. “How’s that?”

  Wayne nodded. “I’m good with that.” He climbed off his horse and tethered the animals to a rusty railing. He extended a hand and slowly approached the older of the men. “My name is Wayne. I was passing through from Michigan. I have a group living down at the fire hall.”

  The old man took Wayne’s hand and shook it. “I’m Bud Lester. These two yahoos are my sons. The one on the machine is Tivis. Far one over yonder is Chester.”

  Wayne raised an eyebrow. “Chester Lester?”

  “What of it?” Chester demanded, raising his voice in anger.

  “Nothing at all,” Wayne replied. “Just making sure I heard you correctly.”

  Chester launched into a tirade of mumbled curses that Wayne couldn’t make out, but assumed were about the nerve of his parents sticking him with a name that made him the constant butt of
jokes.

  “You know it’s a family name, Chester,” Bud said. “Now hesh up. This ain’t the time to be rehashing family business.”

  Chester did as he was told but was still angry. Wayne thought he had a legitimate beef with his parents.

  “I apologize for cutting through your place here,” Wayne said. “We didn’t realize it was a problem.”

  “We all worked at this mine,” Bud said. “We decided to move in before winter hits. Wasn’t no one else here and there was a good supply of coal for heating.”

  “You must have fuel for those little buggies,” Wayne posed.

  “Ain’t a buggy,” Chester said. “It’s a mantrip. This here was a longwall mine and the mantrip carried the miners back and forth to the face each day. They run on big old batteries.” He left a few letters out of the word, referring to them as batt-rees.

  “They’re still charged?” Wayne asked.

  “We charge them,” Bud said. “My boys worked underground but I worked in the shop, making and repairing equipment. I took a steam boiler and made up a turbine to crank one of our big Cat generators. Ain’t nothing fancy but we get a little power out of it. Hot water and lights. Basically it’s like a little coal-fired power plant, ‘cept a personal-sized one.”

  “I might have to bring my buddy back around to meet you sometime. He runs a welding and fabrication shop somewhere near here. He’d love to hear what you’re doing. It might be something he could duplicate over in his neighborhood.”

  “Plenty of spare parts around,” Bud said. “Hard part is finding a boiler ready to go.”

  “Well, I hate to be rude, but if I’m free to go, I really need to meet up with my buddy. He might need my help.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Bud asked. “I might know him.”

  “Irish guy named Conor Maguire. Some folks call him the Mad Mick.”

  “That was the Mad Mick that came through here with you?” Chester asked.

  Wayne nodded.

  “We seen the signs people been putting up about him, warning troublemakers to keep out,” Bud said. “And we’ve heard stories. Didn’t know if they was any truth to them or not.”

  “Oh he’s the real deal. Like I said, I’ll bring him by one day to meet you if that’s okay. You guys would probably get along.”

  “I hope we do,” Bud said. “I’ve heard what happens to those he don’t get along with.”

  12

  The trail between Conor and Shuck Lampkin’s house grew worse with every step he took. Downed trees appeared more frequently. Briars became more vicious, lashing him and embedding their curved claws. Eventually even the faintest remnant of a trail faded away entirely and, had it not been for the river at his side, Conor would have been uncertain if he was even heading in the right direction. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he should go back and find an alternative route, the forest opened into a narrow, overgrown farm.

  At the edge of cleared land, the grass grew with a lush thickness only found in river bottoms. A few ancient and gnarled trees were draped in vines like ghosts dripping with chains. A vibrant green moss, soft as a baby’s hair, grew on the rough bark. Young poplars, willow oaks, and sycamores stood ten feet tall in previously mowed fields, a sign that some tired and frustrated servant of the land was relinquishing his claim to it. The place had once been carved from this unforgiving landscape by a family dependent on an annual hog, a milk cow, and a few chickens. Such families died out, replaced by superstore shoppers and eaters of fast food.

  A skeleton of a barn slouched scoliotic and decaying, fighting the forces that tried to pull it into the Earth. The crumbling metal roof held rust holes the size of washtubs that let soft light filter to the weed-filled floor of the structure. Poplar siding sprung loose from rusted nails. Some boards had fallen away entirely and left more gap than wall, revealing an RC Cola can, a brown glass Clorox bottle, and an old headlight that lay discarded like a glass eye that survived the decomposition of its owner.

  Beyond the barn was a log corn crib. The chestnut logs had been carefully hewn with a broad axe from what remained dead and standing after the American chestnut blight moved through in the last century. Between the gaps in the logs, Conor spotted a rusty woodstove, a set of metal box springs, and an antique wheelbarrow with a steel wheel on the front. Everything told a story and Conor could read every word of it. He came from people like those who’d lived on this farm. Generations of them, an ocean and a lifetime away.

  Even at this time of the year, with the leaves mostly gone and the foliage dying, this area by the river was almost like another planet. The constant backdrop of river noise drowned out most of the other sounds. The thick carpet of moss possessed an insular, sound-dampening quality that absorbed any echo. It also made it hard to hear what might be happening at the house. Had anyone been sneaking up on Conor, he probably wouldn’t have detected them. That gave him something to think about as he crept along the narrow strip of land, closing in on the house.

  He caught the smell of wood smoke before he saw the place. He hid behind a fat sycamore, the peeling gray base as round as a steel drum. When he was certain it was clear, he sprinted for a rusty blue Ford tractor. The tires were flat and it was settled on its haunches like an ancient beast gone to die. Conor dropped onto his knees and peered carefully through the gap between the seat and steering wheel.

  The light hadn’t shined directly into this valley in hours but now any ambient light was fading quickly. The curtains were pulled back on every window. Privacy had been sacrificed to take advantage of what little natural light made it into this river bottom. Inside the house, someone had lit a Coleman lantern and a harsh white light filled the kitchen. Conor’s stomach knotted as he spotted the naked woman tending a pot on a wood cookstove.

  A blurry shape moved past the window and the back door opened. Conor raised his binoculars and struggled to pick out Shuck with a large butcher knife in his hand. A skinned and gutted doe hung from a hook that had once held a porch swing. Shuck carved off a thick roast and carried it inside.

  As he moved, Conor followed him with the binoculars. Shuck set the deer meat on the counter and took a seat at the table. He carefully unscrewed the lid from a clear jar and helped himself to a long drink. Conor suspected what the jar contained but the manner in which Shuck pursed his lips confirmed it. This wasn’t branch water. It was homemade liquor.

  Conor returned his focus to Fannie Bell, noticing for the first time how slow her movements were. Her hands trembled but that could have come from a number of factors – fear, old age, or cold. Shuck was gesturing at her, his mouth moving. He was giving orders. Fannie Bell grabbed a cutting board and set it in front of Shuck. He pulled out the same knife he’d used to cut the roast off the doe. Fannie Bell reached for the deer meat on the counter and was passing it to Shuck when it slipped from her fingers.

  She froze and stared down at it. Conor could sense her panic. Shuck stabbed the knife into the kitchen table and it stood upright. He rose from the table and lashed out with a fist nearly the size of the roast. Fannie Bell dropped like a rock when it connected with the side of her head. Shuck lifted a foot. His knee rose above the table height as he aimed a stomping blow toward Fannie Bell’s head.

  The window shattered from Conor’s two rapid shots. Shuck slumped against the kitchen counter, a thick red bloom growing on his shirt. He appeared stunned, trying to figure out what was happening. When he didn’t fall fast enough to suit Conor, his rifle still on the bastard, he touched off a third shot. This one, more carefully placed, caught Shuck just below the ear and finished the job.

  Before breaking cover Conor yanked his radio from its pouch and keyed the mic. "Conor for Wayne, Conor for Wayne."

  Without waiting for an answer, he bolted from cover to charge the house. He was pretty certain he dropped his target but he didn't know if there might be other folks in the house. Shuck might have kids or buddies staying with him. It could be that Miss Fannie Bell's captur
e was a family project.

  Conor kept a constant eye on the house, his weapon raised and moving from window to window, keeping alert for movement. He took cover behind a rusty black Blazer with a garbage bag duct taped over the window. He did a more careful examination of the house from this position, checking each window and both porches. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. He heard nothing but the constant murmur of the river.

  Before moving, he tried his radio again. "Conor for Wayne, Conor for Wayne. Come in, Wayne."

  Nothing.

  He sprinted from behind the Blazer and ran for the back porch. He shoved past the hanging deer carcass and flattened himself against the wall by the door. He peered through the half-glass and saw straight into the kitchen. Fannie Bell was unconscious on the floor, perhaps even dead. Shuck was lying beside her and he was definitely dead, his blood slowly spreading to encircle the two of them.

  Conor put a hand on the knob and twisted. It turned in his hand and he shoved it inward, then stood there for a moment, listening. When he heard no footsteps, no voices, he flipped the safety on his rifle and let it hang from its sling. He drew his handgun and hit the weapon light. The only light was the Coleman lantern going in the kitchen and it left dark corners everywhere. Corners that could hold an armed attacker.

  He stepped from the back porch into a mud room with a peeling linoleum floor. There was a washer and dryer sitting beside a big stack of firewood. Conor played his light around the room and found no surprises. He eased into the kitchen, passing a coat hook holding a frayed and dirty farmer’s jacket. It reeked of body odor.

  Conor crouched by the downed woman, touching two fingers to Ms. Fannie Bell's neck. She was startled by the contact but did not open her eyes. Her pulse was strong and steady. He stood up, went to the window, and yanked on the curtain. It was simply an old bedsheet tacked up with two nails and gathered to one side to let light in. Conor spread the sheet over Fannie Bell to allow her a little dignity when she awoke.