Dangerous Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  Chapter 10

  I had a restless night. Every time I moved, the pain in my shoulder conjured up the face of Dallas Willard. When I did drift off, my dreams always ended at the door of Fats’ bathroom with water flowing red around my feet and horror waiting on the other side. Dallas and Fats claimed me waking and sleeping.

  I heard Susan’s rhythmic breathing beside me, and gently slipped from under the covers. Looking down at her slender form, barely visible in the faint light, I felt both protector and protected. A woman’s strength has depths that men too late appreciate. I had first met Susan four months ago at the graveside of a patient to whom she had given every measure of her skill and talent. Her courageous dedication was to people and not to names on medical charts.

  A few minutes after five, I braved the morning chill to fetch the local newspaper from the head of my driveway where I found it, as usual, tossed in the ditch. I took the paper to the kitchen, started the first pot of coffee, and assessed the damage reported in the Gainesboro VISTA.

  The photograph dominated the front page. Cain’s bloodied nose was visible, although the black and white picture made the blood look more like smudges of dirt. The caption “SHERIFF ARRESTS ELECTION OPPONENT” was less sensational than I expected, and the body of the story was carried over to a back page. The bylined reporter, Melissa Bigham, emphasized that Cain had started a verbal argument in Clyde’s Roadside and then thrown a punch at an employee of the Asheville police department. Big Jack Andrews sounded like a saint in the newsprint. Melissa Bigham reported Cain was considering a lawsuit for the use of excessive force, but she had also queried a variety of high-ranking legal experts ranging from the local spokesman for the American Civil Liberties Union to the North Carolina Attorney General. They were all quoted as saying Cain had neither a case nor an excuse for his conduct.

  I chuckled. Melissa Bigham had done Tommy Lee a favor. She had neatly boxed Cain in by shifting the story’s focus to the appropriateness of his behavior rather than the physical fracas of two political combatants.

  Fats McCauley’s death was covered as a separate story, complete with speculation that the crime was linked to Dallas Willard. Tommy Lee was quoted regarding the ongoing manhunt and the appeal for people to remain calm but vigilant. In the local section, the paper gave a brief obituary on the Coleman boy. I decided I’d read enough bad news. I got my first cup of coffee and a sharpened pencil, and lost myself in the crossword puzzle.

  I walked into the Sheriff’s Department at twenty minutes after eight. Reece Hutchins turned around from the coffee machine and gave me a cautious nod. “So, it’s true then. The paper said you were at Clyde’s consulting with the sheriff.”

  “Nothing official, Reece. Just reviewing how I discovered Fats.”

  Reece visibly relaxed. “Want some coffee? County lets us have it free.”

  “To keep you from sleeping on the job?”

  “Sheriff didn’t say that, did he?”

  I realized Deputy Hutchins had no sense of humor, only a sense of importance.

  The door to the private office opened, and Tommy Lee stuck his head out. “Barry, I hoped that was you. Come on in.”

  Reece got up from his desk to follow, but Tommy Lee waved him back. “Watch the front desk, Reece. We’ve got things to go over.”

  I closed the door. “Don’t make things hard for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Reece. I can tell he thinks I’m horning in.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “It’s my problem if I’m going to keep living in this community.”

  “Okay. I’ll give him some attention later. You see the paper?” He pointed to the Gainesboro VISTA spread out over his desk.

  “Yes. That reporter did a good job defusing things.”

  “She did a great job. Cain’s lawyer already called this morning saying there would be no lawsuit because quote—‘Cain didn’t want to muddy the issue of competent law enforcement with the personal affront he suffered.’”

  “Magnanimous of him. What’s the issue of competent law enforcement?”

  “That Gainesboro is under a crime wave and needs big city experience for dealing with a hard-core criminal element.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call Dallas Willard a hard-core criminal element,” I said.

  “But it certainly blows the murder statistics for Laurel County all to hell. In politics, it’s all spin. We’ve never had so many homicides. Barry, the best thing for me to do is catch Dallas Willard. Then no one will remember Cain’s name.”

  “Any word?” I asked.

  “Nothing on Dallas. I did get some preliminary information out of forensics for Fats. The shell was fired from Dallas’ shotgun.”

  “Why would Dallas kill Fats?”

  “Are we back to the land?” asked Tommy Lee. “You hear anything from Carl Romeo?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Wonder if it’s too early for him to be in his office?” Tommy Lee hit an intercom button and instructed his secretary to get Carl Romeo on the phone.

  “You said he was researching other heirs,” said Tommy Lee. “I’d like to know what he discovered.”

  “Forensics find anything else?”

  “Not really. I got this stuff over the phone. Full report won’t be ready for a day or two. Oh, the lab man did mention one thing. You know how they like everything accounted for.”

  “Yeah. They don’t care how gruesome the details are as long as they have an explanation for them.”

  “Well, forensics is interested in the notepad you pointed out in Fats’ bedroom. By checking the depression on the top sheet, the lab determined your name was written in Fats’ handwriting. But, the actual note could not be found. I figured Fats might have jotted down your name as a reminder that you’d be calling him and then written another note about checking the weather forecast. Maybe it would affect his plans for something. The wastebasket contained little notes for a lot of things.”

  “But, if he tore it off and didn’t throw it away, it should have been on a calendar or the refrigerator or somewhere. Did they check his pockets?”

  “Yes. And we don’t have any reason to think that Fats went out after you and Susan took him home. Unless the crime lab overlooked it, or Fats destroyed it in a way we haven’t traced, I’d have to say the murderer took it.”

  “That’s real comforting.”

  “Yeah. Dallas still has his shotgun, and he still might want you to talk to his grandma in heaven.”

  The phone on Tommy Lee’s desk chirped, then a woman spoke through the intercom. “Carl Romeo is on line three.”

  “Pull up your chair,” Tommy Lee told me. He punched a button on the instrument. “Good morning, Carl. I hope you don’t mind being on speaker phone. Barry Clayton is here with me.”

  “No problem,” said Carl. “Glad you called. I just left Barry a message at the funeral home.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Tommy Lee. “You found a Willard heir.”

  “I did. Spent yesterday afternoon at the courthouse going through county records.”

  “And the heir is Fats McCauley?” ventured Tommy Lee.

  “That would be nice and neat,” replied Carl. “It would also be wrong. I thought the same thing, but there isn’t a connection at all. The legal heir, the one the state will recognize, is Talmadge Watson.”

  “Talmadge Watson?” exclaimed Tommy Lee.

  He looked at me and I shrugged. I’d never heard of the man.

  “That’s a surprise,” said Tommy Lee. “I never knew Martha and Talmadge were related.”

  “Oh, they’re related all right. Brother and sister. At least up until sixty years ago. You have to remember that’s before my time,” said Carl. “We Romeos were still in New Jersey.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life and never knew that,” said Tommy Lee.

  We heard Carl chuckle on his end of the phone. “I did my own detective work. I asked Ruth here in the office.
She called her eighty-eight-year-old aunt who said it was a double feud.”

  “Double feud?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “Yeah. Martha ran off with a Willard when she was fourteen. Back then it was like a Hatfield eloping with a McCoy. Martha was disowned by the Watson clan.”

  “Including this Talmadge Watson?” I asked.

  “That’s the double feud part,” said Carl. “A couple years later Talmadge committed an even greater crime. He married a Cherokee Indian.”

  “Seems like that would have brought brother and sister together,” I said. “They both followed their hearts.”

  “We’re talking mountain families here,” said Tommy Lee. “Each of them would have thought the other married beneath them. You don’t back off that kind of grudge.”

  “Would Martha’s grandchildren have even known Talmadge Watson was their great uncle?” I asked.

  “Talmadge Watson is not what I’d call a high-profile character,” said Tommy Lee. “He rarely comes off his land. His name was probably never spoken in Martha’s household.”

  “I know it never came up when the will was drawn,” said Carl. “Dallas might not know at all.”

  Tommy Lee cleared his throat for an official pronouncement. “Keep it that way, Carl.”

  “I’m going to have to execute the estate,” warned the lawyer.

  “Right. Sometime. But not today, not this week, not this month. If Dallas is running around trigger-happy with a shotgun, I don’t want you or me or Barry putting Talmadge Watson in his sights. I mean it, Carl. You tell no one.”

  “All right, Sheriff. I can take a hint.”

  There was a sharp rap on the glass window of the office door. Tommy Lee thanked Carl and hung up.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Reece entered stiffly, looking past me to the sheriff. “Radio call from the Highway Patrol. They’re notifying us they may be initiating traffic control up near Charlie Hartley’s farm. Official request is for this afternoon. Said we’re welcome to help.”

  “That’s odd,” said Tommy Lee. “What kind of traffic control do you need on that two-lane blacktop? Reece, you take a patrol car and be there. You’re the best traffic man in the department.”

  Reece beamed and looked at me to make sure I’d heard the praise. “No problem. If they need me, I’m always ready.”

  When the deputy had left, Tommy Lee added, “Why don’t you and I take an unofficial ride up there now. You mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Rich Blanchard met us outside Charlie’s barn.

  “We lost her. Nell died about half an hour ago.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at Tommy Lee.

  “How’s he taking it?” asked the sheriff. “Can we talk with him?”

  “That would help. If you keep him occupied, I’ll get my assistant and a truck, and we’ll remove the carcass from the stable. He shouldn’t have to see that.”

  “And what’s all this about the Highway Patrol and traffic control?”

  “I don’t know,” said the vet. “Must be because of the report. I expect we’ll have some visitors today.”

  “Visitors?” asked Tommy Lee.

  “Yeah. Yesterday, I air-freighted that specimen of blood and a creek water sample directly to the veterinary lab. A friend of mine is the supervisor, and he ran the tests last night. He called shortly after midnight. The toxic waste in the water makes Love Canal look like lemonade. I came right back here and found Charlie still sitting up with Nell, but she never had a prayer. My friend is required to make a full report to the EPA first thing this morning. He said don’t be surprised if they’re here by noon with a battery of forms and questions. To them, a dead horse is just collateral damage, if you know what I mean.”

  The white van beat Rich Blanchard’s deadline by an hour. The vet, Tommy Lee, and I met two government officials in the front yard of Charlie’s house.

  The senior man introduced himself as Dr. Phillip Camas. “Is this the Hartley property?” His tone made it clear there would be no chitchat.

  “Mr. Hartley is inside,” answered Rich. “He lost a prized animal because of the water. I sent the sample, and I can show you around.”

  “Whatever,” said Camas. “Can we drive to it?”

  “The stream is down in the pasture. Your van ought to make it.”

  Once at the stream, Dr. Camas and his assistant drew a beaker of creek water. A quick test conducted in the rear of the van confirmed its toxicity.

  “Mr. Hartley dump any chemicals on his property?” asked Camas.

  “Charlie? He’s just an old-fashioned farmer. Little fertilizer maybe.”

  “Well, this isn’t a little fertilizer. Not by a long shot.” Camas nodded to the second man, who began packing equipment in a leather satchel.

  “What now?” asked the vet.

  “Now, we walk upstream until we find where the hell this poison is coming from.”

  Fifteen minutes later we stood at the mouth of Hope Quarry, its granite walls scarred with pock-marks from the dynamite charges of years gone by. Nature had transformed the abandoned basin into a spring-fed pond that spilled over and formed the creek meandering through Charlie Hartley’s pasture land.

  “Nothing flows into this other than runoff,” said Rich.

  “Divers?” the assistant asked Camas.

  “Not if we can avoid it,” Camas replied. “First we’ve got to alert all areas downstream where we think the levels could be dangerous. Possibly as far as the stream flows before joining a major tributary. And I’ll need engineers to contain and neutralize the contamination here. Tell the regional office I want a remote-cam and operator on site before authorizing any divers to go into that shit.” He turned to Rich Blanchard. “This is more serious than one dead horse.”

  Within four hours the driveway to Charlie Hartley’s farmhouse was clogged with late-model cars and vans, all cream-colored with permanent license plates and double-parked from the highway to the front porch steps. The EPA set up a mobile lab at the edge of the quarry. Government ‘techies’ crawled all over. Orange plastic stakes lined the creek bank for the entire distance from the pasture to the quarry. I couldn’t determine whether they performed some scientific function or merely marked ground samples.

  The water in the stream dwindled to a trickle. Tadpoles, newts, and salamanders lay dead in the drying mud. The last hundred yards of the creek wound up a steep grade to the lower edge of the quarry basin. The rail spur I had walked last Saturday ran down from the left ridge along the rim of the quarry and ended near the lip of the spillway. Two four-wheel-drive vehicles were parked on the opposite side. A wall of quick-set synthetic had been erected across the gouge in the basin that formed the mouth of the stream, effectively damming the water flow.

  Several clusters of workers were spread around the quarry. They climbed down the jagged rocks to fill glass vials with water. An orange stake was hammered in the ground marking each specimen location, and identifying labels were stuck on the stake and vial. I counted nine such markers spaced twenty yards apart. There were still a good number of samples to be taken if they planned on covering the full circumference of the one-hundred-yard diameter pond.

  Tommy Lee and I volunteered to help a young woman unload electronic equipment from the back of one of the all-terrain trucks. A television monitor and several coils of cable had been set on a portable table.

  “Is this for underwater use?” Tommy Lee asked, lifting a silver metal case off the tailgate.

  “Yes. It’s a remote vid-cam. We submerge it from either a boat or the shoreline. Has a spotlight and sensitive chip to feed us pretty good pictures. Better than sending a diver down.”

  “Impressive,” said Tommy Lee. “What do you think is down there?”

  “Not sure. Has elements of highly corrosive sulfuric acid. Just hope we can remove it. You guys are welcome to watch.”

  Tommy Lee and I patiently waited while the EPA team assembled the video rig. The mini-cam
era was mounted in a stainless steel ball with a thick, quartz face plate. All rubber gaskets and cables were sheathed in protective alloy coverings. The unit was mounted on an extendible rod that held not only the camera but also an underwater spotlight aligned with the camera lens.

  “Are the others trying to find where the pollutant is most concentrated?” I asked.

  “Yes,” answered Camas. “Helps narrow down the scope of the video probe. We’ll cover the whole pond if we need to, but the higher the toxic count, the nearer we should be to the source. That’s where we’ll start.”

  I noticed that the sample-collecting teams had reached halfway around the quarry and were beginning to work along the bank of the rail spur. I looked up the tracks I had walked a few days ago. “Dr. Camas, you can take all the water samples you want, but the pollutant had to be dumped from somewhere. If the railroad tracks were used, I’d submerge your vid-cam at the point where the rails run closest to the water.”

  “You would, huh.” He thought for a moment. “Miss Dodson, is the unit operable?”

  “Yes, Dr. Camas.”

  “We’ll continue gathering the concentration samples as planned. In the meantime, let’s test the equipment. I suggest you follow this man’s recommendation as to the best site.” He gave a nod to me and went off to check on the rest of his staff.

  We helped the video technician carry her equipment to the edge of the water directly below the railroad tracks. Through a series of extenders and flotation devices, she deployed the camera unit nearly thirty feet offshore and twenty feet down.

  The image on the monitor was stark in its high contrast. The harsh spotlight bloomed out the near rocks and debris while darkness immediately swallowed up their shadows. The pictures could have been beamed from the dark side of the moon. Miss Dodson spent ten minutes adjusting her focus and mobility controls. Satisfied the unit was working properly, she began to make systematic passes over ten-foot square areas.

  The chill of late afternoon settled over the quarry. Charlie Hartley came from the farmhouse with thermos bottles of hot coffee. I gave a cup to Dodson, who took it with a “thank you” while keeping her eyes on the screen. As she touched the cup to her lips, she let out a short shrill scream, flinging the coffee across the table and splattering my pants with the scalding liquid.