Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries)

by Shannon Hill

Joey’s jaw shifted back and forth, and he looked at Steve and the foreman before he answered. “I was supposed to be making a path. Y’know. For the trucks. Clear out brush and all. And ping, there’s this hole in my windshield. Didn’t hear a sound, but the engine runs pretty loud.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  First a pipe bomb, then feds, now a shooting. My week was deteriorating fast. “Up the far end?” I repeated.

  Joey nodded.

  I walked to the foreman. “Got a map?”

  He seemed startled, then pulled the surveyor’s map out of its cylinder and spread it on the tailgate of his pickup. I studied it to get my bearings, and frowned at a name. Oh boy.

  “I need to run back to the office,” I told Steve, “then I’ll deal with it.”

  “Deal with it now.”

  “I can’t leave my cat in the car for however long this takes,” I said coldly. “It’s a hot day, and I won’t waste gas leaving the engine running.”

  “This is more important than a cat!”

  A few of the construction boys live around here. They stepped back carefully.

  I summoned up my iciest Littlepage Glare. “If you want,” I said in a very low voice, “I can decide this isn’t important at all and you can get the county boys in here. They might even write up a report.”

  Face hard, Steve drew a deep breath, then released it in a curse. “Fine. Never knew you were so soft.”

  I lost my temper. If he’d been a stranger, I probably wouldn’t have, but then, a stranger wouldn’t taunt me. Not and get to me, anyway.

  Next thing Steve knew, he was face-down in the grass with one hand up between his shoulder blades and my knee by his kidney. “I may be soft, but you’ve gotten slow,” I hissed into his ear, and got up with maybe more weight on that knee than was completely necessary.

  Steve rolled over, and got to his feet wearing an expression I see right before someone takes a swing at me.

  “C’mon,” I invited. “Take a shot. Show the boys how fast and sharp you are.”

  The color finally drained from his face. He smiled a tight thin smile that promised retribution. “Your jurisdiction.”

  When I came back, having left a sleepy Boris in his condo, Steve was not to be seen. I took a quart of water with me, spiked with some electrolyte powder. Our uniforms are not designed to keep us cool, and I knew I’d sweat a bucket or two.

  I followed the backhoe’s trail, grateful for the shade, and stopped to consult my mental map of the county. I turned off at a tiny streamlet, and walked up its narrow cut in the mountainside, with an itch between my eyebrows that had nothing to do with sweat. I was wearing my sheriff’s hat, the Smokey-the-Bear hat, and I knew if I was spotted, I’d be in someone’s sights.

  Once I got up on higher ground, I stopped and soaked my face and feet in the creek until I cooled off. I swigged some water from my bottle. Then I walked around some boulders, through some trees, and stopped about fifty yards from a cabin.

  Out in front of the cabin, just visible to me, sat a man in a cheap lawn chair. He had a rifle across his lap, a jug by his feet, and three ancient mongrel hounds dozing nearby in the shade.

  Interesting thing about that cabin. No wires. No phone. No electricity. There wasn’t even an oil tank on the side of it. No truck or car parked anywhere, either. The cabin was built of thick, old-growth logs, solidly chinked, and the chimney was native stone. A stream bubbled down the mountain past the cabin, and that was it. Except for the compost heap downslope, where I presumed all the waste went.

  Out in the yard, which was really more just a cleared area, deer hides were stretched on wooden frames.

  I drew a deep breath. I exhaled slowly. I told myself I was not going to die.

  I stepped into view and called, “Chipmunk Tyler!”

  My instinct was to throw myself down to hug dirt, but I held my ground. Even when Chipmunk Tyler spun and sent a random shot in my direction. I kept my hands high and my water bottle in one.

  “You’re trespassing!”

  Don’t ask me how I kept my voice steady. I don’t know. “Not if you invite me to set a spell.”

  He considered it. He was technically an old man, white-haired, quilt-lined face and all. But he moved quick and limber, and nudged a foot at one hound in disgust. “Damn fool dogs don’t even earn their keep.”

  “Or could be they know I’m no threat,” I suggested hopefully.

  He cracked a grin, showing all his teeth. Healthy and white.

  “Come set a spell, missy girl.”

  I normally get bristly when someone calls me missy or girl, let alone both. Faced with Chipmunk Tyler, I smiled and said, “Thank you, sir. Hot day.”

  He unfolded an old aluminum-framed lawn chair and waited for me to sit before he did. “Ain’t seen someone up here in years. Not since…” He frowned, his black eyes sparkling. “Huh. ‘Bout fifteen years now. Fat man, smelled like pork.”

  I took a guess. “County tax assessor?”

  He grinned. “That was him. He still doin’ that job?”

  “Retired. Heart attack.”

  Chipmunk leaned down and grabbed his jug. I declined a drink. “You here about that potshot I took at them trespassers?”

  I judged the distance from his cabin, and the point where the backhoe trail would end. “They were still a hundred yards off your property line.”

  “And I didn’t want them no closer,” he said matter-of-factly. He put the jug back down. “Now look, missy girl.”

  “Sheriff Eller,” I corrected. “Mr. Tyler, I know you’ve got your own way of living.”

  He nodded once, proudly.

  “Truth is, the Littlepages are putting in a campground down there. Tent sites. Lots of families with kids. Maybe some hunters and anglers.” I gestured at the cabin. “How long you figure it’ll stay quiet here?”

  “I can sue. This is my land, has been since I bought it right out of school.” He jerked his chin sharply toward the town. “I don’t go bothering with them, they got no right bothering with me.”

  “Littlepage owns the land. He can do as he likes, same as you.”

  His jaw tightened.

  I stayed silent, to let him think it through. I’d never met Chipmunk Tyler. Like most, I’d only heard stories. Some of them probably true. All agreed he’d turned his back on the world when he was about sixteen, leaving home with what he could carry. He’d built the cabin‌—‌four times before he got it right‌—‌and lived off what he could hunt, fish and gather, or make himself. From what I’d been told, he’d learned a lot of that from his grandfather, which I tend to believe. You learn plants just from books, you don’t outlive your mistakes. Only thing he ever went to town for was to grab a few staples once a year. Salt, beans, bullets, that kind of thing. Where he got money, nobody had ever known or asked. Like the origin of his nickname, it remained a mystery.

  One of the hounds rose, stretched, ambled over and put his head on my lap. I scratched behind his floppy ears and he crooned happily.

  Chipmunk stirred. He swigged from his jug. “Gotta ask, Sheriff. Any chance that Littlepage will change his mind?”

  “Nope.”

  “And if I use this rifle again, you’ll throw me in some stinking cell.”

  “Yep.”

  He exhaled in a gust. “Hell. Can’t have that at my age. I’m 80 this year, y’know.” The look he gave me was full of pleading. “Any chance at all for me here?”

  “You’ve got fifteen acres, right?”

  He nodded glumly.

  “Pay your taxes?”

  He nodded more glumly.

  The idea came into my head full-sized, and out of nowhere. “Got much saved?”

  He snorted. “You gonna ask me if my gains are ill-got?”

  “No, I’m just asking if you’ve got much money on hand.”

  Chipmunk heaved a sigh. He stood abruptly, walked into the cabin and re-emerged with, of all thin
gs, a checkbook. From the old bank down in Gilfoyle that’s managed to hang on mostly because no big banks have figured out our county exists. He showed me the last page.

  He had $1,312 in his account. The address was a post office box down in Crazy.

  I handed it back. “Think that’ll last you the rest of your life?”

  He glared, without malice. “You know it won’t, missy sheriff. Won’t barely cover taxes.”

  The words popped out. “Littlepage’ll pay five thousand an acre for your fifteen acres.”

  I had no idea what Cousin Jack would say to me about that, but I didn’t doubt he’d pay it. He’d been willing to pay half that per acre to old Vera Collier for the 500 acres she’d owned. Of course, he might also tell me to pay it, in which case there’d be a serious problem.

  “You’re lying.”

  I kept going. Chalk it up to stress. “Let me call him.”

  I walked away ten paces to get another bar of reception, dialed Jack’s number, and braced for the worst. A bullet in my head, maybe. “Lil,” he said briskly, “what can I do for you? And can it be brief? We’ve got a problem out at Grenville, apparently.”

  “I know, I’m dealing with it. You willing to pay five thousand an acre for fifteen acres owned by Mr. Tyler?”

  “Who?”

  “Chipmunk Tyler.”

  Chipmunk gesticulated wildly at me. I covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Yes?”

  “My real name’s Harold.”

  “Mr. Harold Tyler,” I said to Jack, “doesn’t believe the offer.”

  “I don’t believe the offer. What the hell made you think you could do that, Cousin?” I winced at the sarcasm dripping off Cousin. “That’s outrageous.”

  “Look, you were going to pay seven figures for the place, you’ll still be paying less than a hundred grand. And with seventy-five grand, even after taxes, I bet Mr. Tyler could pick up a nice chunk of land someplace nowhere near a campground.”

  Chipmunk finally clued in.

  “Or he could buy a little trailer down Quarry way, still have money left.”

  The anger on Chipmunk’s face faded to thoughtfulness.

  “Punk’s got one he’s been trying to sell. Just a little single-wide, but it’s got air conditioning and it’s only a few years old.”

  Jack started to speak, stopped, then growled. “Damn it! All right, Lil, get his address, I’ll need it for the paperwork.”

  “Got it,” I said and rattled off the post office box number.

  “I’ll throw in some extra to compensate for the taxes on the sale. Figure an even hundred grand.” He snorted. “What the hell, it’ll get the men back to work tomorrow. Tell Mr. Tyler he can pick up his check tonight. Hand-delivered. I’ll be out at the road around…‌I suppose he doesn’t own a watch. Sundown.”

  I relayed the information. Chipmunk glanced at his cabin. He asked, quietly, “This trailer. I’d have to pay for that electric and all?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Hate to leave the old cabin…”

  I prayed. Let me get something done. Solve something.

  “A’right then. I can make it work.”

  I told Jack. We hung up. Then Chipmunk Tyler waved at me. “C’mon in the place. Got somethin’ for you.”

  I followed him inside. He handed me a wooden bowl from the mantle over the fireplace. “There y’go. Figure you earned it, makin’ that deal.” His eyes were shrewd. “That Littlepage didn’t know you were goin’ to do it.”

  I blushed a little. “No, but I had a feeling he’d be okay with it. This campground’s important to him.”

  He chuckled. “Heh. Guess it must be.”

  I turned the bowl in my hands. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Hickory.”

  I thanked him again, and as I turned to go, I suddenly noticed a small pile of paper. I took a look.

  It was the flyer.

  My hand dropped to my gun. Pure reflex.

  Chipmunk Tyler’s friendliness evaporated. “You got a problem, Sheriff?”

  “That flyer showed up at a house that blew up.”

  We locked stares. He blinked first. “Huh. Didn’t know about that. You think it’s important.”

  “It could be.”

  He fingered the papers. Then he handed them over. “Hell. Ain’t nothing. My nephew come up, asked me to stuff ‘em in the mailboxes when I got a chance. Went down a few nights ago on my way to the creek. Good fishing up above the bridge.”

  Without a license, though I wouldn’t be busting him for it. “You mind your nephew gets a visit?”

  Chipmunk shrugged. “He’s kin, but that don’t mean I got to like him.”

  I laughed, against my will. “What’s his name?”

  “Freddie. My brother’s boy. Lives up Buck Hollow. Comes hunting this side of Fox Mountain now and then.”

  Poaching, I mentally amended. “Thank you, Mr. Tyler. For everything.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  I headed downhill at a quick walk. It’s a long way to Buck Hollow. I wanted to get started.

  9.

  Buck Hollow lies more or less north of Paint Hollow, in the shadow of Sims and Fox mountains. The road up there is not what you’d call paved. More occasionally tar-and-chip, with bouts of washboard. In his cat seat, Boris uttered a few startled “Mrows!” when we hit a particularly bad patch.

  Behind me, I saw the dust cloud raised by the FBI’s sedan. Yeah. I called them. Damn conscience got me.

  Most of our county’s population lives outside of our few towns. The roads that snake out of Gilfoyle up and around the mountains have a house every hundred yards or so. Then you get to the entrance to Buck Hollow.

  All of a sudden, there weren’t houses.

  The road narrowed. It ran alongside Red Branch near enough you could park your car right there in the road, sit on the trunk, and cast a line for trout.

  When we broke through the narrow gap between Fox and Buckle mountains, we saw houses again, off on dirt side lanes. They were pretty typical for around here, one-story ranch-style, an occasional old saltbox. At the bottom of each lane were clusters of mailboxes with house numbers on them. I slowed to better read them. Finally, not far from the end of the road, I spotted Freddie Tyler’s, and went up the lane at a crawl. I didn’t want the feds too far behind.

  It didn’t take a lot to guess which of the five houses was Freddie’s. It was posted with “No Trespassing” and “Trespassers Will Be Shot” signs every ten feet, and I mean that literally. The whole lot was fenced off in barbed wire topped, I noted, by razor wire.

  Definitely time to leave Boris in the car. Window down, but in the car.

  As I stood there, Agent Howard came up behind me, and remarked quietly, “Not a friendly man.”

  “He’s got cameras,” I said, without nodding to the house. “Front door, both windows, corners.”

  “He’s at the window.”

  I looked at the gate that led to the house. It was not topped with razor wire. I didn’t trust that at all. I stepped back, took a second look, and noticed that the plain wooden post had a very small brown-gray doorbell set into it.

  “Well, he either answers or he blows us up,” I said, and pressed the button.

  The front door popped open way too quickly. A voice rasped loudly, “Get off my property!”

  Agent Howard started to say something, but I jumped in and hollered back quickly, “Ain’t on it yet! You want, we can go get a warrant.”

  The sunlight glinted dully off something down by his leg. Howard didn’t have to mutter, “Gun.” I’d seen it. My pulse tripped into high gear.

  “I don’t recognize your authority! It’s not given by the people!”

  “Jesus,” murmured Newsome. “One of those.”

  Howard silenced him with a look.

  “Mr. Tyler,” I called, “I spoke to your uncle Harold.”

  Freddie wasn’t speaking, yet there was a sense of a pause. A reassessment.

&nb
sp; “What’d the old nut tell you?”

  “Mr. Tyler, you heard what happened up in Crazy the other day.”

  “Yeah. Goddamn fed got his house blown up!”

  I wanted to walk up and slap some compassion into the man. “He’s a road engineer for the DOT, Mr. Tyler, and he has two kids never did harm to anyone.”

  “He works for an illegal government, he gets what he deserves!”

  There are times rational debate works. Then there are times you just have to play to their delusion.

  “Look, you numbnut son of a bitch,” I hollered, “you’re one phone call from Armageddon, y’hear? Now you can get your ass out here and answer questions, or I can get the black helicopter boys and ain’t nobody gonna see you again till Judgment!”

  “Sheriff,” Howard reproved, without much force.

  Freddie Tyler stepped onto his front stoop. He had an assault rifle in his hands. A freakin’ AR-15. He wore the faded military surplus camo pants and old t-shirt to go with the rest of the cliché. Swear to God, it was embarrassing. Made me blush to be mountain folk.

  He stormed down the walk to the gate. “You got no right to threaten me on my property!”

  “Simple question, Mr. Tyler,” I said hotly, and waved the flyers at him. “I’ll let it slide you had your uncle stuff these in people’s mailboxes instead of springing for stamps.”

  “I won’t contribute to a government that…”

  “Taxpayer money hasn’t funded the US Postal Service since the 1980s, and it is technically just borrowing money from the Treasury, get your damn facts right.”

  His face purpled. Not a good color on him. Brought out a touch of jaundice in his eyes. Or maybe that was bile.

  “And keep your politics to yourself,” I added sharply. “These flyers all your idea?”

  The dumb cluck brightened up with pride. It was the star moment of his day, maybe his life, that here came the Law, the big bad Government, to get him over his flyers.

  “Yep. Wrote ‘em myself.”

  “It shows,” I said, and Newsome choked into his hand. “So who all got ‘em?”

  “I printed five thousand.”

  That was more flyers than we had households in the county.

  “Where’d you put them?”