"Find it," I said quietly, and both shepherds closed in on Breen and began to sniff his clothes. Standing over him I could see his fingers trembling and the pulse in his temple racing, but even this lowlife knew better than to move just now. Both dogs' hackles were up as they smelled his fear, but Breen still didn't move. He'd been inside long enough to know how to hold himself in readiness. He was tougher than I'd expected, and for the first time I wondered if I was really going to have a problem with this guy. I let the dogs get a good scent memory, and then I went back to my chair and snapped my fingers to recall them.
"I'm still waitin'," Arlanda said.
"Yes, ma'am," he said finally, his voice strangely neutral. He still wouldn't look at her. I stood up.
"I've got what I came for," I said.
She nodded. "You got my number, too, right?"
"Absolutely-and my friends here have his."
We left her office and went down to the parking lot. The cops at the security station admired the shepherds and wished me a pleasant evening. My Suburban was parked right in front. When we went out to my ride, I got a surprise. My entire crew was standing out there in the lot, waiting for me to come out.
"What's this?" I asked, as if I didn't know. Tony gave me a disappointed look, and then Pardee pointed with his chin. One of the security officers was bringing Breen out through the front doors. He shrugged off the officer's helping hand from his shoulder and then saw us. He stopped, reached inside his jacket, popped a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it without taking his eyes off of us.
There were four of us looking back at him. Pardee Bell, a tall, rangy black man, Tony Martinelli, as short as Pardee was tall but with his game face on, with a hit man's cold-crazy eyes, and Horace, who looked like an aging schoolteacher in his birth-control glasses and rumpled clothes, until you realized just how big he was. Also, of course, my two furry buddies.
Breen took a single deep drag on his cigarette, burning down half its length, spat something onto the sidewalk, and then threw the cigarette in the gutter. He blew a plume of smoke up into the evening air, just to show us he could hold it, and then sauntered away without a word.
"At least now he knows," Pardee said.
"How often does he have to check in?" Horace asked.
"Daily for the first two weeks, then weekly after that if she allows it. It's up to her, and she hates the bastard already."
"One of us will be out here each day," Pardee said. "Remind him he'll be going up against a crowd, he tries some shit."
"Y'all don't have to do that," I said. "He's tough, but I don't think he's stupid."
Based on their expressions, they did not agree.
The next morning I went out early to have some time on the property before Carol Pollard showed up. Seven hundred acres makes for quite a long walk, but I knew the only way I'd ever see the whole thing was by tromping around on foot. I parked my Suburban at the house so Carol would know I was around and then set out with the dogs for the river bottoms below the main house. It was cool enough but with a hint of humidity, and my boots and trousers were soon wet from morning dew on the grass.
The Dan River was some two hundred yards wide as it passed Glory's End. The Dan is a substantial, muscular river. From the looks of all the snags and debris along the banks, it was capable of rising up from time to time. Across the river were rocky bluffs but no houses or other signs of habitation. I walked upstream for half a mile until I came abreast of the Confederacy-era railroad bridge abutments. There was a notch visible in the trees across the river, and out in the river itself I could see swelling whirlpools where I assumed the crossing pillars had been. On my side the abutment was still intact, fifty, sixty feet high with two rust stripes running down the face from some long-decayed truss pins. The defensive fortifications were crumbling badly.
I climbed the bank awkwardly amid a small avalanche of weeds, rocks, and gravel and reminded myself to bring a walking stick the next time. The shepherds passed me easily, scrambling up through the bushes, tails wagging. They loved to go out and just run. At the top I stood on the stone floor of the bridge abutment and surveyed my new kingdom. To the northwest, upstream, there was a low ridge, which Mr. Oatley had told me marked the western edge of the property, from the river all the way in to the road. To the southeast I could see the big house on its hill, surrounded by large trees whose heads were already filling in green with the new leaves. The rest of the property was hidden behind that hill. Three crows protested my sudden appearance.
I looked around for the shepherds and saw them nosing through the grove of cedars that marked the burial ground. I walked along the overgrown right-of-way, down the embankment, and then up the knoll. It was a peaceful place, overlooking the big river and the sleeping plantation. Glory's End. I could almost picture it-a platoon hurriedly drafted from the starving remnants of the gray armies, fleeing from Richmond as Grant tightened the vise, riding nervously behind a bottle-nosed steam engine. Coming into the watering station at dusk, feeling more secure now that they were across the river and safe from marauding Union cavalry, twenty-nine of them stepping down from the cars and their precious cargo to stack arms and go for a smoke or a water break of their own behind the trees.
Then the sound of hoofbeats in the nearby trees, a moment of terror as they scrambled for their guns only to stand down with a whistle of relief when the engine's headlight revealed graycoats on gaunt horses riding into the station. Even better-more protection. The engineer leaning out from the engine to greet the riders as they fanned out along the tracks, nodding to the soldiers who were restacking their rifles, and then the horrifying surprise as the riders pulled huge horse pistols and began firing, starting with the engineer, each rider calmly shooting down the man in front of him and then the one next to him, the scene dissolving into booming gouts of flame, plunging and rearing horses, and sulfurous puffs of gunsmoke until the train guard and the three-man crew were all on the ground and the last echoes of gunfire died out across the dark river.
Now all that remained was these rough stones, the weedy gravel, and the rusting bones of the water tank. It wasn't like some of the big Civil War battlefields I'd visited, like Antietam, where a walk at sundown would raise the hairs on the back of your neck as you contemplated the thousands upon thousands who had died there. This did not seem to be a haunted place, but rather more of a sad footnote to that tragic war, now sleeping comfortably in the morning sunlight. The shepherds were resting against the largest stone, which actually looked like a real tombstone. I bent down to read the badly weathered inscription.
Thomas Harper, 1845-1865
Gone to Glory for No Good Reason
Got that right, I thought. Glory's End indeed. As I stood up I caught a flash of light in the distance up on that ridge that marked the western boundary. It was a bright flash, as if a beam of sunlight had bounced off a mirror. Or some binoculars?
The top of the ridge was heavily forested, and I hadn't brought my own binoculars. I need glasses to read comfortably, but my distance vision is just fine. The shepherds, attuned to my sudden alertness, saw me staring and got up to look around. I walked deeper into the cedar grove to the highest point on the knoll, where there was a treeless clearing caused by an exposed rock ledge.
I stood behind a tree, however, just in case I'd caught a glimpse of a rifle scope instead of plain old binoculars. I was, of course, thinking of Billie Ray Breen, even as my brain was saying, No way. Then I caught a brief glimpse of a horseman up there in the trees, moving away from me and disappearing down the backside of that ridge. At that distance I couldn't make out whether the rider was male or female. The figure was wearing a dark slouch hat and what looked like one of those long western duster coats.
Okay, I said to myself. Definitely not Breen. Not on horseback. A neighbor, perhaps? I knew who lived across the road but not who lived on either side of the plantation. One more project for the to-do list. That was the whole point of my new home: projects
, something to look forward to each day beyond yet another dreary court case. I craved an endless to-do list that could lead to tangible accomplishment. Restoration of the house. Bringing the farm back to life. Doing something about this forgotten graveyard. Meeting new and interesting neighbors. Maybe even learning how to ride a horse.
The shepherds were looking at me expectantly. "Okay, guys," I told them. "Let's go meet the pretty lady and get this show on the road."
Carol and I broke for lunch after two hours of inspecting the main house and its immediate surroundings. She drove me to a large, purple-painted Victorian-era house out on the main road. It had been the home of the man for whom the local town was named, and a couple from Chapel Hill had restored it and opened a restaurant. The place was full, and I soon found out why-the food was excellent.
"I didn't expect this out here in the country," I told her.
She laughed. "It's become quite well known," she said. "There's also a community college on the other side of town, and they have an excellent subscription concert program. We locals call it the Chapel Hill effect."
"Don't tell me suburban growth is pushing its way all the way out here, too," I said, noting the very mixed crowd of diners.
"Well, you're here," she pointed out.
Touche, I thought. So I am. My head was buzzing with all the details of our house inspection, and I was glad she'd brought a voice recorder along because I could not possibly have kept up with her.
"How can I find out who my adjacent neighbors are?" I asked.
"Courthouse," she replied. "Mr. Oatley can help you with that. You've already met the Lees across the road. The places on either side of you are even bigger than Glory's End. They won't necessarily have anyone living there, though. The really big tracts in this county are owned by just a few local families."
"Who 'never' sell."
"Generally, that's true. Everyone was really surprised when Glory's End came on the market."
"Who's everyone?" I asked.
"It's a really small town, Mr. Richter."
"How'd you get here?" I asked.
"I grew up here, went away to college and then out into the world for a while. Didn't care much for it and came back."
"Married?"
"Briefly," she said, looking away. I sensed she'd just as soon not pursue that subject.
"So what's next in our project planning?"
"Just that," she said. "Planning. I build a proposed restoration plan, you review and approve it, we set a budget, and then I act as the general contractor and start a bidding process. There's a sequence to these projects."
"Like doing electrical and plumbing before the wallpaper?"
"Exactly. First, of course, you have to close. How's that coming? Do you need some bank referrals?"
When I explained that I wouldn't need a bank, she whistled softly. "Wow. This has to be a seven-figure deal. Police work pays that well in Triboro?"
"If you let the right people bribe you, it does," I said.
She put up her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean it that way."
"No offense taken."
"It's just that, in this county, when someone's considered to be rich, we're usually talking about land rich. Families who have been here since the 1700s, but they're riding around in Ford pickups, not Mercedeses."
I nodded. Then I told her about seeing the horseman on the ridge.
She didn't think it significant. "A lot of people ride in this county," she said. "There's even a fox hunt. Horseback's still the best way to get around some of the bigger properties. Do you ride?"
I told her I did not but might want to learn, among the many other projects I wanted to do on the property over the next few years.
"Few years?" she said with a smile. "Longer than that, I think. The house alone will probably be a ten-year project."
"It didn't take that long in that movie-at the end, where the crew comes in and swarms all over it?"
"The Money Pit? That's Hollywood. The truth comes in two parts. One, you want to enjoy the process of bringing one of these places back to life. Two, getting the right people and materials takes forever-just the nature of the beast and the folks who do this for a living. The real craftsmen don't know the meaning of a schedule, and unless you're buying it to flip it and make money, you should just sit back and watch."
That sounded like the ground truth to me, and I had said that quality time was the objective. Now I knew why she hadn't mentioned a schedule when she'd described the project planning. I asked if it would take ten years before I could live there. She told me I could probably make a part of the house more habitable once the basics were done, and then just creep along with the project.
After lunch I went over to the courthouse to try my hand at researching the property title and possibly the surrounding parcels of land. An elderly gentleman wearing a wool suit and a bow tie greeted me in the records section. He gave me the immediate impression that I was disturbing him and asked if I was a lawyer. I said no.
He sighed and said that I would be wasting my time unless I happened to be an expert in deciphering old deed books, which he very much doubted I was.
I smiled patiently and told him that I was willing to try, if he would only do his job and get me the appropriate books.
"I do not work for you, sir," he said, laying on a little high dudgeon of his own.
"Are you paid by the taxpayers of this county, Mr. Clerk?" I asked.
"Are you a taxpayer in this county?" he retorted.
"About to be; I'm buying Glory's End. Then I'll be a voter, too. Imagine that, a landowner and a voter-and you in an elected position."
He glared at me and then said he would bring the books to the reading room, which was right through that door there, where normally only attorneys were allowed.
I went in and sat down, wondering about all this hostility. I'd dealt with minor bureaucrats all my life, and I knew some of them can grow a Nazi streak, usually in proportion to the insignificance of their job.
He came in bearing an armload of deed books. He informed me that I really meant the Oak Grove Lees, unless I was only interested in the time after the war.
"There's a magnifying glass in that drawer," he said. "Do you know how to read a deed book?"
I told him I'd muddle through, but if I had any questions, I knew where to find him.
"Well," he said, "I am fairly knowledgeable about the history of this county and the various important families. I myself am a Gaston."
"Wow," I said. "A Gaston."
He reddened, and then I decided to end the bullshit. I stood up, and we discovered that I was one foot taller than he was and quite a bit more substantial. "If I have a technical question," I said, "I will expect you to answer it truthfully to the best of your ability, and if you can't, I will expect you to refer me to someone who can. Clear?"
He put up his hands in protest. "I only meant that I am well versed in the names of various properties and the genealogy associated with them," he said. "I didn't mean-"
"Thank you," I said.
He backed almost out of the reading room, then stopped. He looked as if he'd gotten some of his courage back. "May I say something?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Glory's End and the Lees in this county have a troubled past," he said. "You need to be careful of what you go looking for, Mr. Richter. You just might find it."
I'd heard a variant of that expression before, as in, Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. I didn't understand how that pertained to deed books, though-or a title search, for that matter. Before I could think of anything cute to say, he turned around and went back to his office.
There were six deed books piled on the table, and I was suddenly glad my own name wasn't Lee. One thing was clear, however: By taking on the house and the land, I was stepping into a rich vein of Carolina Piedmont history.
Thirty minutes and two deed books later I came to a decision: Much as I hat
ed to admit it, the old man had been right. This little project was going to require an expert, specifically an attorney who did this for a living. I returned the books to the front desk and asked my new best friend to recommend someone.
"There's really only one," he said, trying to keep any hint of triumph out of his voice. "Hiram Whatley Lee, Esquire."
"Lee."
"Who better than a Lee, Mr. Richter?" he asked, cocking his head to one side.
Who indeed, I thought.
Arlanda Cole gave me a call at home that evening. They'd run a little con on Billie Ray that afternoon. They'd put him in a waiting room with two other "parolees" to wait for Arlanda to get around to him. The parolees had, of course, been undercover drug cops, and they got to going on the matter of getting back at some of the pig bastards who'd put them away. Billie had let them rant for a little while but did not join in. Then he made a single comment: There are people who talk shit, and there are people who do shit. Talkers were never doers. Then he clammed back up.
"Either he made 'em for cops," she said, "and was just messin' around, or that's exactly what he meant, that he was a doer and not a talker."
"I have to assume the latter, then," I said.
"Yeah, Lieutenant, I think you do. I'll keep irritatin' him, see if we can get him violated, but I believe this one's a crafty dog, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Yes, I do. My guys are keeping an eye on him, for the moment. Letting him know we're watching him."
"Tell 'em to do it from a distance, okay? Don't want that little shit goin' and gettin' a lawyer, accusing you of stalking him. Co-vert, not o-vert, and you didn't hear that from me."
"Got it, and I really appreciate your help."
"You walk around strapped these days?"
"Not lately, but-"
"There you go. You have a nice evenin'."
I'd wanted to ask Arlanda where Billie Ray was staying, since he had to give his PO a physical address, but I knew she wasn't allowed to tell me that. I then called Horace and relayed the message about getting out of Billie's face. Horace said he'd pass it on and that he had a great rifle scope for doing distant surveillance. If I really wanted to find out where his crib was, my guys could probably manage it. From a distance, of course.
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