by Ronald Kelly
When he got back from his trip to the mailbox, Fletcher thought about Smith's parting words. A cold feeling gripped his ancient bones. Yes, he had a feeling—an overpoweringly bad feeling—that they would be back. And the next time they wouldn't be so courteous.
He went inside and took the shotgun down from the rack over the fireplace. He cracked the breech and extracted the two salt loads. He reloaded with a couple of double-ought buckshot shells.
The old man smiled with tobacco-stained teeth. If the three did come back looking for trouble, then Fletcher Brice was more than willing to oblige them.
Chapter Nine
"I knew them fellas weren't kosher!" proclaimed Miss Mable. She barged through the door of the Tucker's Mill sheriff station and planted herself in the chair opposite Gart Mayo. "Knew it the very moment they checked into the boardinghouse!"
The sheriff had been sitting at his desk, writing a letter to his grandson and inviting him to come up and visit when he found the time. "Which fellas are you talking about, Mable?" asked Gart. "The three businessmen that are down here on vacation?" He glanced at the wall clock and was surprised to see that it was after ten-thirty. The woman usually watched Jay Leno around that time and then went to bed. It was strange to see her out and about at such a late hour.
"Businessmen, hah! That was just a crock of bull they fed us. And they ain't here to catch no fish, either. They're here to get their hooks into something else."
"What are you talking about, Miss Mable?" Gart asked patiently.
"The deed to Fletcher Brice's land," she declared. "They've gone to badger the poor man into signing it over this very hour, too."
"Why do you say that?" Gart got up, walked to the coffee maker next to his desk, and poured them both a cup.
"'Cause they left the boardinghouse a little after ten and they were acting mighty peculiar. They were dressed in black from head to toe and were toting some funny-shaped bags. Looked kinda like those SWAT teams I see on the TV sometimes."
"Maybe they decided to go camping tonight. Folks do that on vacation, you know."
"Hell, Gart, I took a peek in the back of their four-wheel drive this afternoon when they weren't looking and they didn't have a speck of camping equipment. That whole fishing and canoeing story was to cover up their real purpose for coming here."
"Which is to take up where that Vincent Russ left off, is that what you're saying?" asked the constable.
"I am," said Miss Mable. "But these fellas ain't gonna be as nice about making their offer as Russ was. They're gonna give old Fletcher a hard time of it."
"I still don't know why you think they're working for that Memphis company. What made you so dadblamed suspicious in the first place?"
"Last night for instance. I woke up about two in the morning to go to the bathroom and looked out my bedroom window and there they were, all three of them, walking across the road from this building right here. I got a mite curious and was standing in the foyer when they stepped through the door. They were dressed up in those black duds and, I declare, they looked ready to crap their britches when they saw me there waiting for them. I asked them what they were doing out at such an ungodly hour of the morning and they gave me some cock-and-bull story about not being able to sleep and going out for a walk. I mean, it might've made sense with one person…but three?"
Gart's own suspicions began to form. "And you say they were coming from the direction of the courthouse here?"
"That's right."
The lawman sat there in silence for a moment, considering their reason for even being near the public building at two in the morning. To mail a letter? He didn't think so. So, excluding the post office, that left only two other destinations they possibly could have had in mind. And since Deputy Peck had been manning the jail last night and had reported no unexpected visitors, that narrowed down their target considerably.
"I think Bill Baldwin is working late in the clerk's office," said Gart, draining the dregs of his coffee and tossing the styrofoam cup in the wastebasket. "Why don't we go over and talk to him?"
Miss Mable searched Gart's eyes. "Are you thinking what I am?"
"Maybe. Let's find out."
They walked down the hallway, past the postal boxes and the vending machines, to the office at the front of the building. The lights were still on and the county clerk, Bill Baldwin, still sat at his rolltop desk, logging the county property taxes that had been paid for the previous year, as well as those that had not. Gart knew Bill dreaded the task of personally collecting delinquent back taxes, because some of the mountain families were going through hard times and simply didn't have the money when it was due. The sheriff had accompanied Bill on some of the collections and it was always a discouraging experience. It wasn't easy demanding money from a pregnant mountain woman, while her husband lay out drunk on the busted sofa and her dirty and malnourished children stared at you with eyes filled with fear and hatred.
Before they opened the door, Gart crouched beside the lock and examined it. He checked it over twice before finding what he was looking for. Shallow scratches showed around the slot of the deadbolt. The lock had been jimmied recently.
Gart and Mable went in. "Well, howdy there," smiled Bill, grateful to have a little company drop by. He closed his tax books and removed his eyeglasses. "What can I do for you folks?"
"Just wanted to ask you something, Bill," said Gart. "Has Fletcher Brice come in here to get the deed to his land? In the past few days maybe?"
"No. I haven't seen Fletcher in a month of Sundays."
"So it's still on file here?"
"Under lock and key," said Bill. He eyed the sheriff with curiosity. "What's this all about, Gart?"
"We might just have us a little cloak and dagger going on here in Tucker's Mill. Do you think I could take a look at Brice's deed?"
"Sure, if it's police business." Bill walked to a file cabinet and dug his keys out of his pocket. But before he could find the right one, Gart reached over and tried the drawer. It slid out easily on its tracks. Bill was flabbergasted. "It wasn't even locked."
"And I bet the deed isn't there, either," said Gart.
Bill rummaged through the files and shook his head. "You're right as rain, Sheriff. It's gone. Both copies, in fact."
Gart ushered Miss Mable back across the room toward the door. "Thanks for your help, Bill."
"Aren't you going to tell me what's going on, Gart? I've got official papers missing that have been left in my trust."
"And I intend to get them back to you, too," promised the elderly lawman. He and Mable stepped back into the hallway, leaving the county clerk in a state of bewilderment.
"What are we gonna do now, old man?" Miss Mable asked eagerly.
"You mean, what am I gonna do, old woman," said Gart. "You're going back home and get some sleep. I'm gonna have Homer come over and mind the store, while I take a drive up to PaleDoveMountain."
"You're going up there alone? Have you done gone and lost your dadblamed mind? You'll have your hands full with those three. They're not spineless flunkies like that Russ fella. They're born killers just as sure as I'm standing here. Give me a minute and I'll get my Remington pump and—"
“You ain't coming with me, Mable, and that's final." Gart could see the concern in the woman's eyes, as well as a touch of fear. "Please, just go back home and let me handle it. I'll be extra careful. I promise I will."
Mable Compton turned and walked reluctantly to the courthouse door. She stood with her back to him for a long moment, a moment that both puzzled Gart and tied his stomach in nervous knots. Then she whirled on her heels and penned him with a stern and straightforward look. "Gartrell Mayo, you may have been either too busy or too damned stupid to notice, but I have the hots for you. Don't ask me why. A more passionless and dried-out old fool, I've never come across in my life…but I do care for you something fierce. Now, I've gone and said it. You can let your mind gnaw on that bone for a while."
Gart Mayo watc
hed in stunned silence as the woman left the building, crossed the dark highway, and reached the lighted porch of the boardinghouse. Miss Mable had always joked about their relationship, or rather, lack of one, but this time she wasn't joking. She was dead serious. And it scared him a little to actually think that he might feel the same way about her.
But he would have to consider a romance with Miss Mable later. He had other things to take care of now. If his suspicions were right, there were three hired goons on their way to PaleDoveMountain with a deed in their pocket and some dirty tricks in mind. Fletcher Brice was a crusty old fellow, but all he had to back his orneriness with was an antique shotgun loaded with rocksalt. And Gart had an idea that such a weapon might not be effective against those that the three vacationers carried in those strange black bags of theirs.
He headed back to the office to make that call to Homer. Gart hoped that the disgruntled deputy didn't drag his fat butt in getting there, because if he did, Fletcher Brice might have to fight the first few rounds by himself.
And that might be all that was needed to lose him the deed to PaleDoveMountain—as well as his life.
Chapter Ten
Halfway up PaleDoveMountain, the three Stoogeones parked their four-wheel drive at the side of the dirt road. They opened the rear hatch of the Land Rover, collected the things they would need, then merged into the shadows of the ascending forest. The bags of black canvas were left empty, the contents accompanying the stealthful trio on their mission.
"I'm going to get the old man's attention," Anthony informed his brothers. "Joseph, you approach the cabin from the left and, Frank, you take it from the right. If we do this nice and easy, and don't spook the guy, we should be on our way out of the boondocks by midnight. Any questions?"
Frank and Joseph were silent. Their faces, darkened with black greasepaint, regarded him solemnly, as if they were carved of ebony stone rather than living flesh.
Anthony nodded in approval. "Okay, let's get busy."
They split up and quietly began to make their way up the mountainside.
Fletcher Brice sat in the rocking chair, staring past the porch railing into the darkness beyond. There was no moon to speak of that night; dense clouds obscured most of the Southern sky. Fletcher rocked back and forth. The double-barreled shotgun rested across his knees, loaded and ready. His hand was near the breech, the index finger curling close to the trigger as it had for an hour or so.
The only sounds he heard were constant, familiar ones: the chirring of crickets and the croaking of toads, as well as the lonely call of a whippoorwill high on the mountain. Even so, he couldn't ease his guard. He strained his ears even harder, trying to detect noises that were out of the ordinary, the noises made by human beings rather than nocturnal creatures. The meal of cold beans and cornbread he had eaten at supper began to go sour on him. The nerves in his stomach twitched and bunched in anticipation of unwelcome company.
As he sat there in the orange glow of a kerosene lantern, something caught his eye. He tensed, his wrinkled hands closing around the gun, ready to bring it up. But he relaxed when he realized what the sudden flash of pale motion actually was.
A barn owl flew across the front yard and landed on the limb of a black walnut tree. It perched there and watched him silently—a pure-white bird with sleepy, pink eyes.
"Nice evening we're having, don't you think?" Fletcher asked the bird.
"Yes," replied a deep voice. "Nice evening."
Fletcher was startled at first, for it seemed as though the owl had answered him. But then he realized that the baritone voice had come from an entirely different source. He looked past the walnut tree and saw a dark form making its way past the mailbox and up the drive to his junk-filled yard.
The elderly man was out of his chair in a flash, the shotgun held at hip level. "Who is it?" he demanded.
"You know who it is, Mr. Brice." The fellow who called himself Smith stepped out of the shadows and into the sparse glow of the lantern. "Aren't you going to do the neighborly thing and ask me to come up and sit a spell?"
"You can sit on this right here!" spat Fletcher. He prodded the air with the twin barrels of the shotgun.
Smith shook his head. "Quite a painful suggestion," he commented. "I was hoping you would be civil this time, Mr. Brice. After all, we have important business to take care of tonight."
"I told you before, I ain't interested. Now get off my land this instant, or I swear I'll—"
Before he could finish his threat, Fletcher heard sounds to either side of him. He twisted his head, taking his attention away from Smith for an unwise moment. The fellow named Jones was at the right end of the porch, holding a strange-looking gun that Fletcher figured might be one of those submachine guns. At the left stood Brown, clutching a semi-automatic pistol in one hand. His other hand held a similar object—distinctly gun-shaped, yet bulky and constructed of steel and black plastic.
Then the elderly man remembered his initial visitor and shot his eyes back toward the front yard. Smith had moved swiftly. Before Fletcher could react, the man had crossed the thirty feet of open ground, bounded up the porch steps, and grabbed hold of the shotgun barrels in one beefy hand. They struggled with the shotgun for a moment, before Brown came up and clubbed the old man across the back of the neck with the 9mm pistol. With a grunt, Brice slumped to his knees on the dusty boards of the porch.
Smith wrenched the gun from his slack hands and tossed it to Jones. Then he crouched before Fletcher and took something from the inside pocket of his black windbreaker. "Recognize this?"
Fletcher's pained eyes stared at a folded document in the man's hand. "The deed to my land. How did you get hold of that?"
"We pulled a little Watergate down at your local county clerk's office," said the big guy. "But that isn't important. What's important is that we stop all this foolishness and have ourselves a serious discussion about this piece of paper."
"You can go to hell, the whole lot of you! I ain't signing nothing over to that damned company!"
Smith reached out. His hand disappeared behind the old man's head, fingers closing at the base of his skull. A bolt of pain like nothing Fletcher had ever experienced shot from the top of his head clear down to his groin. Brice tried to stop himself from yelling out, but he couldn't. He screamed shrilly as agony gripped him. A sensation like a white-hot ice pick ripping through the center of his spine lanced the length of his ancient body. Then he grew as limp and listless like an old rag doll.
"You're in for a painful night, Mr. Brice," Smith whispered in his ear. Then the leader looked to his confederates. "Carry him inside."
Smith watched as the two grabbed the old man's arms and legs and lugged him through the door of the cabin, into the kitchen. He smiled coldly, taking a ballpoint pen from his pocket and unfolding the copies of the deed in anticipation of the persuasion to come.
He was starting inside when a loud rustle drew his attention. He whirled, instinctively pulling a Colt .357 Magnum from the holster beneath his jacket. He set the sights in a fraction of a second, but did not fire. It was only a stupid owl, that was all. He holstered the revolver as the snow-white bird flew off the limb of the walnut tree and winged its way over the roof of the cabin.
Shutting the cabin door behind him, he forgot about the strange fowl and turned his attention toward more entertaining matters.
"Tough old bird, isn't he?" remarked Joseph Stoogeone. He delivered another punch to the old man's abdomen. The gloved fist went in fast and forceful, as if attempting to travel through Fletcher's midsection and emerge out of the small of his back. Instead, a dull crack sounded as a rib fractured. Then the fist pulled away, ready to launch a new assault.
"Enough of this crap!" said Anthony in growing disgust. "Beating him black and blue isn't getting us anywhere." He knelt beside the old man and grabbed him by the hair of the head. "Sign the deed, Mr. Brice, or we'll be forced to use more destructive means to win you over."
Fletcher's b
attered and swollen face twisted around and stared at the man through puffy slits. He hacked up a glob of bloody spittle and sent it flying through torn lips. The saliva hit Anthony on the forehead, trailing down his broad nose before he could wipe it away.
"Put him in the chair," Anthony said coldly. "Let's introduce Mr. Brice to the Persuader."
Joseph lifted Brice and put him in one of the cane-backed chairs. He took a roll of silver duct tape from his pocket and secured the old man's left hand to the kitchen table with several strips. Then came the Persuader. It was actually a Black & Decker portable power drill, the kind powered by a battery pack. Joseph pressed the trigger switch, sending the long, quarter-inch bit into spiraling motion. The high-pitched whine of the drill sent a shiver of sadistic anticipation through the younger Stoogeone. "Which one should I do first?"
"It's up to you," smiled his big brother.
"Goodie." Joseph centered the point of the drill bit over the nail of Fletcher's pinky finger and revved the motor. Then he bore downward, bringing screams of pain and tiny corkscrew shavings of flesh and bone.
Frank Stoogeone stood on the front porch, keeping watch. He and Joseph had flipped a coin to see which of the two would be in on the fun that night. Frank had lost the toss, so he ended up with the dull and thankless job of keeping an eye open for unexpected visitors who might want to crash their private party.
