Harry could hear more splashing as the big man moved out of the water and to the firmer land. Then he heard him slapping at the muck on his pants, on his gun holster. The flashlight went on for a moment and Harry could see the sheriff’s face as he concentrated on removing dirt from the cylinders of his revolver. The sheriff was obviously angry, wearing a different face, a brutal impatient one, compared to his orderly visage at the news conference or his calm subservient nursing of old Missus Kirby. His brutality had appeared.
“We best catch up to them,” the ranger’s wife said. “Let them know we’re here or we might get shot by that fool,” she added as she began to move the boat closer to the beach.
“The shack is just up ahead maybe a couple hundred yards through the brush,” the ranger said. The sheriff was plodding into the reeds few yards away.
The sheriff replied, “You just keep shut, and keep them dogs quiet.”
A light suddenly arced out over the water, stopping just in front of the woman’s boat. At the source of the light, in the glare, Harry could see the stooped shoulders of the ranger, one hand holding leashes of muted dogs, his face showing surprise.
“I thought I heard something,” said the ranger.
“What is it?” said the lawman.
“It’s my wife,” the ranger replied. “She followed me. She brought that newspaperman.”
“Goddamn,” snarled Sheriff Good. Harry had a fleeting worry that a couple of shots from the sheriff’s big revolver might come in his and the woman’s direction.
After a pause, he heard the sheriff grunt and say, “Goddamn Marty Sol. He’d have the whole town out here.”
The woman’s boat drifted closer, while the ranger’s light played over Harry’s face.
“Cut out that light. Tell them to keep out of the way,” said the sheriff. “I got work to do.” Then he said, “You can let your dogs out now.”
The hounds made low growling noises as they moved forward freed of the leashes, scratched their paws across the boat deck and then, with quick and efficient splashes, entered the water and swam towards the sheriff’s position farther up on the bank. They panted with the quick aggressive sound of animals close to prey and anxious to attack.
A long silence ensued. Harry recognized this kind of pause from years of newspaper work. It was the kind of wait that comes before a battle begins, when men and equipment move into place, quietly hoping that they will not be discovered, still fragile and overextended.
The woman held Harry’s arm, making him wait in the darkness, his legs over the side of the boat and ready instantly to follow the big lawman. His ankles sank in ooze, as Harry heard the muffled steps of Good moving through the brush a hundred feet away. The dogs too began their chase, barking.
Harry smelled the ever-present rot and decay and felt the stings of constant insect attacks in the hot and dismal swamp air. Try as he might, Harry could not make out any form of the building or shack that had been reported. As his eyes focused though, he could see the sheriff’s large form through the beaten back reeds and silhouetted against the dark tree lines and the lighter evening sky.
The woman whispered to Harry that he should go ashore. As he moved forward trying to minimize the sucking sound of his feet in the spongy ground, he did begin to see a certain angularity not far ahead among the foliage, straight lines that were out of place and unnatural. When he got closer and could see the structure, Harry’s first thought was that the camouflage of overhanging brush was first class, that whoever had constructed the shed had talent at disguise and had done this with a clear purpose of hiding from outsiders.
Harry was close behind the sheriff as he heard the dogs bark louder.
“I’m going in,” the lawman called back, not trying to hide his presence anymore.
Harry moved quickly, the sheriff ahead, splashing in the wetness with the reeds slapping back against him. He found himself in a wet area with a small stream and many cattails. He lost track of the sheriff’s location. Harry froze, afraid suddenly that he might be mistaken for the man the officer was hunting. His feet sank past his ankles into the wet mud and he thought he might be caught in quicksand.
Then a strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. His bad shoulder hurt from the sudden wrenching. His feet slipped out of their trap, the mud slapping back together behind him with a slurping sound. Suddenly a light shone in his face and across the trees above. The night disappeared. The pain ebbed in his arm and he saw the corner of the shack directly in front of him.
“You’re a lucky man, Mister Harry Jacobson,” said Sheriff Good, as he released the newspaperman’s arm. “I almost shot you.”
Harry looked up at the big man, watching him holster his revolver.
“You shouldn’t be snooping on police business,” he mumbled, his eyes on the shack.
“That’s my job, Sheriff Good.”
Good called back to the ranger. “I got no one at the shack.”
Underneath the green fronds that had grown over the corners of the hut, were the sides made of dark flat material which looked like weathered mud covered tarpaper or roofing material. By the base of the wall in front of Harry, he could see several unused rolls of the material stacked in an orderly pile.
“Cheeks will trace that stuff, find out where that was purchased,” Harry thought. Then he heard the sheriff say in disgust that the roofing material was unlabeled and the kind that was pretty much available anywhere.
Harry moved forward.
“Nothin’ here,” said Good. “Ain’t been used in several years, I don’t think.”
Harry looked in the front door. The sheriff had set his flashlight against the door jamb and the beam struck out into the interior.
The ranger had come up. He was looking around, tending to his dogs, which had gathered around him, rooting at the ground and whining.
“I see an old piece of metal drum that might have been a stove,” said the Ranger as he looked inside. “So rusty you can’t tell.”
Harry could see a small pipe that could have carried smoke from the drum up through to the roof.
The ranger went on, “Couple of boards that might have been a table or a bed. That is,” he chuckled, “If you call staying out here with the mosquitoes any kind of sleeping.”
The lawman laughed.
The hut was about the height of an average man, approximately seven feet long on each side, and six feet high to the edge of the flat corrugated steel roof. Harry saw a dirt floor, corner posts and a few cross timbers. The whole thing looked as if it was designed to be taken down and moved as quickly as it was constructed.
“Sheriff’s right,” said the ranger. “No one’s been here for a while.”
“Or, it’s been made to look that way,” said the sheriff.
“What do you mean, a while?” asked Harry.
“Vines all growing up. This place been deserted for years,” observed the anger.
“On the other hand, vines like these can grow up in a few days,” said Good.
Outside, Harry stepped back off a tramped down and seemingly cleared area near the hut. As he did, he felt his feet going into a mud hole. He grabbed out in the darkness for support from the flimsy shrubs and reeds nearby. As he tried to pull himself up from the hole, his left hand clawed at the muck. His fingers touched a small piece of what he thought was rectangular wood or metal.
When he finally got to his feet, he walked back to the sheriff’s flashlight to examine what he had found. He pushed off the mud from its surface and in the dim light he saw a small plaque of green and yellow plastic material with words cut in to the surface. He held it up and read out loud,
“Honorable Mention mechanic of l967.Walker John Douglas, awarded by the United National Power Boat Association, August 7, 1968, at the Mahoney Memorial Powerboat Regatta, River Sunday, Maryland.”
The sheriff had come up behind him. He reached over Harry’s shoulder and grabbed the plastic.
“That pretty much clin
ches it, “said the sheriff, tapping the plastic in his palm.
“What is it?” asked Harry.
Good smiled as he showed the object to the ranger. “I bet you Walker looked over and over for this after he lost it. The newspaperman found us what we wanted to find.”
He began to twist the plastic. “No need to prove anything. Walker’s been here all right.” Then, the sheriff snapped the plastic in half, the sound cracking against the swamp bug noise. He heaved each piece far out into the water where the flashlight glinted on the parts as they floated for a moment then sank out of sight.
The mosquitoes were incessant. The dogs had discovered swamp rodents to chase and even though the ranger had leashed them again, he had trouble holding them back. Sheriff Good motioned to get back to the swamp boat. They started back through the crumpled reeds, the flashlight pointing out their trail and the muddy deep footprints they had left before.
The ranger looked at his wife, resignation on his face. “I’m sorry about her bringing the newspaperman here, Sheriff,” he said.
“Woman belongs at home,” said the big man. Then he suddenly turned back to the shack saying, “No sense leaving anything to be used again.”
He told them to wait as he plodded back up to the shack, his boots making watery sounds as they stuck in the mud. Harry followed. When the sheriff reached the worn structure, he proceeded to kick in the sides, pulling at the vines until they broke loose. When the flimsy walls were a pile of black paper and thin boards, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a book of matches.
“Don’t light that,” called the ranger. “We’ve had a lot of dry weather out here.”
The big man looked back at him. “You see me doing anything you don’t like, Ranger?”
The ranger hesitated and glanced at Harry. The light from his flashlight trembled across the upturned and staring face of his wife. Harry could see her disbelief and distrust.
The ranger turned back to the lawman and said, “No, I don’t see anything.”
“That’s what I thought,” said the sheriff as he struck several matches and lit the pile of scrap. The flames grew up quickly. The fire reflected on the swamp water and in the eyes of the men and the woman, the sudden intense heat forcing them to move backwards. In a few moments, the hot fire reduced the timbers to nothing but piles of glowing ash and molten nails. The fire also scorched a few branches of overhanging brush. The Ranger rushed forward and doused swamp water on any bushes he saw beginning to ignite. When the fire at the shack was embers, he called to Sheriff Good and said, “You had enough?”
“Yeah,” answered the sheriff.
Harry glanced around one more time and his eyes were drawn to what looked like a piece of antique hammered chain and a broken manacle big enough to have been a leg iron. It was molten hot, still red in the remains of the fire. Then a piece of wood fell over it, smothering it as that timber popped into small flames.
The ranger clambered up the path to the remains of the shack and threw water on the smoldering pile. The lawman walked down to the edge of the water. There he stood looking out, scuffing his boots in the mud. He reached down to his holster and unbuckled the cover, pulling out his revolver.
As they watched, Sheriff Good pointed the pistol, a long barreled forty-four magnum revolver, out over the water and towards the darkness and pulled off the first shot. The sheriff’s eyes were the same small lights that Harry had seen that first day when the boat was found. The glimmers of hatred shot forth with the bullets and were accentuated by the big man’s repeated words, “I’ll get you, you son of a bitch. I’ll get you.” Flame lit up the water as it followed the bullet out the barrel and sparks flickered in the swamp air. The report of the explosion thundered through the underbrush. Harry could hear excited animal cries in the distance and the noise of birds getting up in flight. The big man gradually proceeded to pull off the rest of the shots in the chambers of the gun, aiming them in a semi-circle out over the water, shooting into the darkness, each round followed with the added strength of the words, “I’ll get you.” Harry listened to the echoes of the explosions as they tumbled over one another, reverberating through the Wilderness Swamp, angry human sounds that were alien to the swamp and that the animals could not have understood in their terror. In the ranger’s boat, the shots caused the dogs to rear back, excited from the noise, and tear at their leashes making swamp water splash into the bilge of the boat.
The sheriff holstered his revolver and rejoined them.
“OK, let’s go,” he said.
The boats moved out on the swamp. Nearby, in the darkness, Harry could hear the lawman mutter to the ranger, “He’s here. I know it.”
“Dogs can’t do anymore, Sheriff. Too much water for them to track good,” replied the ranger.
“I’ll find him,” said the sheriff.
“What do we do now?” asked the ranger. “Seems to me, all you’re looking for, Sheriff Good, is a dead man’s bones.”
“Just because he ain’t in this spot, don’t mean he ain’t around somewhere,” said the sheriff. “You all saw that tarpaper. All I know is somebody brought it out here to build that shack. He got a lot of help, seems like.”
A flashlight went on and shone over the water in front of the sheriff’s boat. Harry could see Good’s fat cheeks curling against his small teeth.
“I thought I saw the remains of a shackle, a leg iron, in the fire,” Harry said to the woman.
“No surprise to me,” she said as she ran the engine, carefully following her husband’s boat through the darkness. “My people got a story about this swamp being part of the Underground Railroad from Virginia and North Carolina. That iron, maybe the shack too, might have been from some folks getting free to go on up North.”
Harry heard the roar of that revolver in his mind as he drove back to River Sunday. His thoughts rushed with the snapping of the insects against the van windshield in the humid Maryland night. He thought about the threats to the newspaper and he knew they would get worse after the paper was published tomorrow. He thought about Homer Kirby and what he wanted to say to Jesse that long ago night at a race, and about his son Catch who held such strong anger towards Harry’s investigation. But most of all, with the memory of each explosion, each bullet tearing into the brush, his mind would wonder again over what kind of man this Walker had been who could light a great fire that killed people, yet still apparently get help from others to escape. He knew that he and Annie had done the right thing by publishing the boat article and raising the question of Walker’s innocence, yet, at the same time, all this was torn by the words of the sheriff, sounding in his mind over and over with the gunshots from the large revolver, the words so stubbornly repeated, “I’ll get you, I’ll get you, I’ll get you.”
Chapter 9
Sunday, August 2, 10 am
River Sunday had no funds for searching the swamp, because of the costs of patrolling the regatta. As a result Marty informed Harry that the sheriff was going to have a tough time finding anyone to go out in that infested marsh and work for free, crawling around on hands and knees in the mud looking for the bones of a killer like Walker, especially for a crime thirty years old.
Following the publication of the newspaper, Harry had felt an increase in tension in people’s attitudes. Townsfolk would look at him with stares of fear or dislike as they passed him on the street. On top of that, the news about finding the shack, which quickly spread mouth to mouth around town, seemed to remind everyone that Walker’s story had not gone away. Harry sensed that the belief in Walker’s guilt varied, mostly depending on whether the person was one of Pastor Allingham’s followers or a member of the Reverend Blue gathering. Other citizens seemed to care little about the issue, preferring to go to their jobs or homes without comment. Most of these people had not lived in the town for very long and would not have witnessed the troubled times of the past when the fire occurred. However, from time to time he would see some of these new citizens holding the l
atest issue of the Nanticoke Times and talking, moving their arms in excitement. When he approached them to ask their opinions on his coverage of the finding of Walker’s boat, the people would nod, perhaps say hello pleasantly, but would walk away from his company, as if they had no desire to be seen in public with him. He had seen this before in other towns especially when he was overseas doing a story. Sometimes the most violence came from the new people, the new blood, who could get worked up about an old wrong, ready to participate as if it were their turn to take on the devil, whoever that might be to them.
Annie maintained, although not convincingly, that any tension in the town was really due to the coming regatta and the reason was economic in nature. Whether people liked boats or not, money was to be made from the visitors and that was very important. In other words, most of the citizens didn’t want racial trouble or old unsolved town problems to make the visitors unwelcome and to affect spending and profits.
Annie drove out to Harry’s cottage in the morning to go over copy for the race articles. He didn’t know she was there until he heard rustling of dishes in the kitchen. He pulled up his chino shorts and stumbled out of his bedroom to find Annie in jeans and tank top, making coffee.
“Hi. Say, you should let me bring out some things for your kitchen,” she said.
He yawned, smiled at her, fitting into his polo shirt, and said, “We keep it simple around here.”
He looked at her and realized he was seeing her at this moment more as a woman than a manager. The memory of Jess was gone this time. For a long time he had seen a vision of Jess when he was alone with other women, a vision which came between him and any new person. Yet, that vision of Jess did come to his mind this time. Instead he saw an attractive intelligent woman who was very much alive and who cared about him.
Annie poured his cup. “You want good coffee, you have to work for it,” she said, pointing to the draft articles spread out on the Formica topped counter.
He reviewed the copy as they sat at the wooden table. The large picture window beside the table looked out over the back porch and toward the nearby creek.
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 12
