Spider mountain cr-2
Page 15
The old lady looked at her over her glasses. “What kinda cops you say you was?” she asked with a sly, toothless grin.
I laughed out loud. “Told you,” I said. The old lady positively beamed.
“We’re state police,” Carrie said, pulling out her credentials while finessing my status. “We came up here to talk to people who live around Grinny Creigh and her crowd.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Laurie May snorted. “ ‘Sides me, ain’t nobody livin’ this close to the spider’s gonna say nothin’, if they know what’s good for ’em. That damn Nathan’ll come creepin’ in the night and burn ’em out.”
“But you’re not afraid of him?” I asked.
“Lemme tell ye somethin’,” she said. “Once ye get my age? Don’t need much sleep, ‘specially at night. I watch. They know it, too. Any snakes come around here get they rattles shot at. They know that, too. ‘Cain’t hold that big ole Greener like I used to could, but I got me a Colt. 44. Come out here in the dark, set down in this here chair, put that thing up on the railing there, I can shoot the nut out of a squirrel’s mouth the long way, if you get my meanin’. Was that y’all they was after last night, all that mess over to the bottom’a Deep Creek?”
I shook my head in wonder. The hills were indeed alive. “Yes, ma’am,” Carrie said. “We think they faked an accident with a log truck, turned it over right where we were camping.”
Laurie May nodded. “That’ll be Nathan,” she said. “That’s his style. Fixin’ to mash ye. One night he came a’creepin up behind this old man’s trailer, over to Benson Bluff? He went and sawed him a tree right down on top of that poor man’s trailer. Wasn’t no chain saw, neither. Did it by hand, quiet, sneaky like. Took’m all night, prob’ly. Used him an oiled whip blade, him an’ one other boy. Patient damn snake, that Nathan. Mashed that old man flat. Folks thought they was gonna have to bury the whole trailer to git the job done right.”
“And the sheriff?” I asked. “Couldn’t he see that it was a murder?”
Laurie May spat again, and I noticed for the first time she was killing insects every time she spat into the flowerbed. “M. C. Mingo’s a Spider Mountain Creigh. Sees what he’s tole to see, that one does. Folks say Grinny’s got somethin’ on him, b’sides they bein’ brother and sister. He come around here, what, a year ago? Stood right out yonder, giving me what fer ‘bout talkin’ to strangers, like I’m a’doin’ right now. Didn’t figger on my boys bein’ home, did he. No, sir. I got four of’em. Big boys. There’s the twins, and then t’other two. Worked them coal mines, over to Tenn-essee. Coupl’a them gittin’ on, but just the same, they ran his potbellied little ass right off. He don’t come back up thisaway no more, I’ll tell you that.”
“What about children?” Carrie asked. “I haven’t seen many children at all up here in our travels.”
Laurie May shook her head. “Mostly old folks up here these days,” she said. “Ain’t no work, no money ‘cept the welfare. Young’ns around here, they pack up to town or one of them cities back east.” She paused as if trying to remember something. “Folks do say they’s a lot of children who flat run off in these here parts. Cain’t blame ’em if they do. ‘Specially if you see some of them mamas. No-good sluts and hoors, the lot of’em. Go ‘round with hardly no clothes on, then act all s’prised when they get a baby stuck on ’em, like they don’t know wherever did it come from.”
She stopped talking when we heard a truck engine drop into a low gear at the foot of the valley and begin climbing the dirt lane that paralleled the creek. Then we heard a second vehicle do the same thing.
“Y’all be gettin’ inside, now,” she said urgently, rocking herself up and out of her chair. “And bring them dogs, mister.”
We went into the cabin, which was as neat and clean as the yard. I noted the antique double-barreled shotgun lodged near the front door. Its twin stood by the back door in the kitchen. Laurie May took us over to what turned out to be the pantry door and opened it. She motioned for me to get my fingers into a hole in the floor and then lift a five-foot-long trapdoor. She gave us a lantern and a match and told us to hide out down in the cellar until whoever it was went away. She passed the backdoor shotgun to me as Carrie went down the steps. Then she went back out onto the front porch.
I wedged the door open and lit the lantern. I pulled out the DEA radio, called Greenberg’s radioman up on the mountain, and told them we were going into hiding in case whoever was coming was the Creigh gang. I described the location of the cabin and then shut it down when Laurie May stepped back into the kitchen and said to hurry, they was almost here. We went down the wooden stairs and I lowered the trapdoor. We could hear her slithering a carpet over the trapdoor and then walking back toward the cabin’s front door, her cane counting time.
“There’s a reason they call it a trapdoor,” I said nervously. “If she’s one of them…”
“I don’t think so,” Carrie said. She took the lantern and looked around. The cellar walls were made of stone, and the floor was packed earth. The shelves along one wall were filled with Mason jars of preserved foods, sacks of flour and sugar, and store-bought canned goods. There were a dozen burlap sacks of lump coal stacked along another wall; a third wall held all kinds of antique kitchen implements, soap, candles, and three more lanterns. There was a kitchen table and three wooden chairs out in the middle of the cellar. The air smelled of chalky dust and old stone. It certainly could have been a trap-there was no other way out of the cellar other than those oak steps. The shepherds sat down next to the steps and watched the shadows being thrown along the walls by the kerosene lantern.
“Why did you ask her about children?” I asked, easing myself into one the chairs. A fine halo of dust rose from the table when I sat down. We couldn’t hear anything from the outside.
“We’ve seen a dozen or so places in two days, and exactly one two-year-old child,” she replied.
“There could have been more,” I said. “The people who didn’t come out, or the ones who told us to get gone-there could have been kids in those places.”
“Then there should have been toys, trikes, big-wheels, swings-kid clutter. I didn’t see any, except at that one place.”
“Well, like she said-there’s no future in these hills for young people, and it’s the young people who have kids. They go to town or just plain away. Makes sense.”
Carrie sat down. “That makes sense for teenagers-I’m talking kids. Four-to ten-year-olds. There’s one combined elementary and middle school and one high school in this county, all in Rocky Falls. They combined the elementary and the middle school three years ago because the elementary school didn’t have enough new accessions to warrant keeping it open.”
“The overall population dropping?”
“Not much change really, and that’s part of the mystery. Now, the county people do admit they have some ‘data holes’ in the higher elevations.”
“Probably more like bullet holes in their county vehicles,” I said. We heard a door close upstairs, and then Laurie May was tapping on the trapdoor with her cane. I went up the stairs and pushed the door open.
“They done gone,” she announced. “But they was a’lookin’ for ye, all right. Nathan and his boys. I told ’em you and the lady done been here. Told ’em you said y’all was headed for Spider Mountain. That put ’em right off they feed, that did.”
“They say what they were going to do?” I asked.
“Heard one say they was gonna go get the dogs, put a track on ye. Best leave now, and don’t go nowheres near Grinny Creigh.”
“We’re going to go right up to the top of this valley, and then we’ll probably head out,” I said. “I’ve seen that dog pack.”
“Ain’t we all,” Laurie May said. “But Mr. Samuel Colt works on dogs, same as men.”
“Thank you for speaking to us,” Carrie said.
“Most folks up here is decent folks,” the old lady said. “But not on Spider Mountain. Folks knows, but they
skeered.”
“That’s why we’re here, Ms. Creigh,” Carrie said. “We want to fix that problem real bad.”
The old lady nodded. “ ‘Bout time,” she said. “Folks been a’wonderin’.”
Baby Greenberg took a sip of coffee from a metal cup, winced, and threw the remainder of the coffee into the fire. “Goddammit, Rupe,” he said, “if I wanted asphalt I’d have asked for some.”
Special Agent Rupert Jones shrugged his overlarge shoulders. “Never said I could make coffee,” he said. “Don’t drink that shit, myself.” Then he and one of the other agents left to take up their night watch positions on the slopes above Crown Lake. The other two agents had already rolled into their bags.
We were gathered around what was technically an illegal campfire on the edge of Crown Lake. The duty radioman had picked us up at the top of the valley after we’d left Laurie May’s and driven us down the firebreaks to the DEA campsite. Dinner had consisted of cold pizza from Marionburg, courtesy of the agent who’d driven the lower valley road to see about the logging-truck accident. The logs had all still been down in the creek, but there’d been no sign of the truck or trailer.
“If you were a truly special agent,” I said, “you’d have some scotch in one of those briefcases over there.”
“Why, is your flask empty?” Carrie asked innocently.
“Very,” I said, making a mental note to get her for that.
“Well,” Greenberg said. “In fact…”
He got up and returned with a bottle, which duly made the rounds. My shepherds were curled up close to the fire. Once the three of us had properly equipped ourselves against the rapidly cooling mountain air, Greenberg threw another log on the fire and asked the essential question. “So: Now what’re you gonna do?”
“I think we’ve established that this is definitely Injun country,” I said.
“Gosh, you think?” he asked.
“With a damned good intel and surveillance network,” Carrie said. “They knew we were up there and where we’d settled for the night. And they had no qualms about squashing their problem.”
“So we have grounds for taking action,” I said. “But even if you guys came in force, swept up all the black hats you could find, including Grinny and Nathan, would you have a case for court?”
We all knew the answer to that question.
“How about the old lady?” Greenberg asked. “Could she point us toward some concrete evidence?”
“I don’t think so,” Carrie said. “She knows what’s going on and who’s who in the zoo, but I doubt she ever comes off that place. Apparently she has sons who see to her needs.”
“She said there are lots of decent people living up there alongside the Creigh nest, but what she’s doing doesn’t really affect them,” I said. “And according to Laurie May, if they do poke their nose in where it doesn’t belong, big trees fall on their cabins at night.”
“Shit,” Greenberg sighed. “We’re nowhere. Again.”
“I say you all quit creeping around the hills, playing their game, and take a federal crew into Grinny’s place, have a look at that abandoned mine that’s supposed to be under her cabin. I recognized Nathan as being in charge of what happened last night, so there’s probable cause.”
“They’d say it was an accident with a logging truck,” Greenberg pointed out. “Shit happens. The guy who came across the creek looking for you was only checking for possible victims.”
“With his shotgun? And with all the logs in the creek?”
“You know and I know, but think what a lawyer could do with that in front of a judge who may or may not love the government and all its works. I mean, that applies both before and after any search. I’d hate to find a ton of evidence at Grinny’s only to lose it because the search gets tossed.”
Greenberg’s radio crackled into life. “Incoming,” reported one of the agents on the hill.
“How many?” Greenberg asked.
“One vehicle. Stand by.” Then he came back. “Looks like a sheriff’s patrol car.”
“Ours or theirs?” I wondered aloud.
By then we could hear a vehicle approaching along the shoreside dirt road. Its headlights pitched bizarre shadows on the boulder piles just above us.
“Some ranger coming to check out the fire inside the park grounds, maybe?” Carrie asked. Greenberg groaned.
The vehicle stopped about a hundred yards away. Its headlights switched off and a single individual got out, flipped on a flashlight, and started walking toward the fire. The shepherds were up and alert; I ordered them to sit down as M. C. Mingo himself stepped down the bank and into the firelight. He was in uniform and had his right hand on his gun butt. He turned off the flashlight, stared at me for a long moment, ignoring Carrie, and then addressed himself to Greenberg.
“You’re Special Agent Greenberg?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“And who are you, miss?”
Carrie didn’t answer him. She sat back in her folding camp chair and gave him a bored look. I noticed that her right hand had drifted down to the side of her chair, where the Mamba stick was perched. I’d taken my SIG off earlier and put it in my tent with the rest of my gear.
“And who might you be?” Greenberg asked.
“You know damn well who I am, and so does this suspect over here. Why haven’t you turned yourself in, Mister Richter?”
“Waiting for a warrant, Sheriff,” I said. “Sheriff Hayes knows where I am, and then, of course, we’re going to want an extradition hearing. In front of a real judge, even.”
Mingo glared at me, then at Greenberg. “What are you people doing up here? You’re DEA agents. Why wasn’t this coordinated with my office?”
“I believe we’re in the national park,” Greenberg said, looking around innocently.
“Not all the time,” Mingo said. He was tapping the flashlight against his right palm impatiently.
“Yes, all the time,” Greenberg said. “Haven’t strayed from the park since we’ve been here.” His tone of voice was faintly mocking, and I could see that Mingo’s temper was rising. The flashlight tapping became more intense, and the light actually switched on.
“You’re required by your own regulations to inform local law enforcement whenever you’re going to conduct an operation. Why wasn’t this done?”
“We’re just camping out here, Sheriff,” Greenberg said. “You know-like an off-site? A time to kick things around, without being bothered by all that e-mail and phone calls. Talk about what we’re going to do about the out-of-control drug problem in Robbins County.”
Suddenly the shepherds turned to face the lake and began to growl. I turned to look in time to see three flat-bottomed boats emerging out of the darkness. Each boat held two men who were standing and pointing shotguns at us. A third sat in the stern and paddled until the boats grounded in the gravel at the shoreline.
That damned flashlight, I thought. That had been a signal.
“Now then,” Mingo said in a much calmer voice, his anger melting away. He had his own sidearm in his right hand. My shepherds weren’t happy with these developments.
“Everybody just sit tight,” he said pleasantly. “We don’t want any of my deputies here making any mistakes, right? Mister Richter, curb those dogs or they’re going to get shot.”
“You have to be shitting me,” Greenberg protested. “Pointing weapons at federal agents? Those aren’t deputies-they’re just a bunch of Creigh riffraff.”
“All sworn this very evening,” Mingo said. “And they ain’t pointing at you, Special Agent. They’re pointing at this murder suspect here. Mr. Richter, walk towards me.” The two agents who’d been asleep in their tents poked heads out and froze when they saw all the guns.
Mingo turned to Carrie. “You, too, young lady. You’re both under arrest for assault and battery against one Tommy Weil, who swore out an affidavit in my office that you two attacked him with these two savage dogs right there.”
Before any of the humans could react, both dogs bolted, going in different directions into the darkness. One of the men in the boats swung his shotgun, but his target was already out of sight. I could see that Greenberg was about to get into it in a big way, and I gave him a warning shake of the head before walking over to where Mingo stood pointing a gun at me. Carrie didn’t budge.
Mingo holstered his weapon and then made me turn around and put my hands behind me so he could lock on a pair of plastic cuffs. “I said, you, too, miss. You won’t like it if one of my deputies has to help you.”
I wondered what the on-watch agents were doing, but I had this sick feeling that they were sitting up there somewhere on a rock with a shotgun at the back of their heads. These guys had come in off the lake without making a single sound, and that was hard to do, the way sound carries over water.
Carrie got up and walked over to the sheriff, who cuffed her with a second pair of cuffs. He stood back, drew his weapon again, and motioned for us to walk toward his cruiser, being careful to keep his distance while keeping us covered. He opened the back doors and made us get in, then slammed the doors. He turned to face Greenberg and the two agents who were still crouching in their tents.
“I suppose I should have told you I was coming,” he said, it being his turn to indulge in some mockery. “You know, coordination? ‘Cept I didn’t know y’all were doing anything up in these parts. Y’all have a good evening, hear?”
He got into the cruiser and turned around to face us. “See that open cuff hooked to the center seat belt?” he asked. I looked down and then nodded. “Put your cuff wire through that. You, too, miss. Then close it. I believe you know the drill, Mister Richter.”
I thought about just sitting there and making Mingo come back there and do it. But then, even if we took him out, all those so-called deputies were still there, no more than thirty feet away. There’d be some kind of violent conclusion to our efforts, so despite the fact that Carrie was staring at me with obvious telepathic intent, I turned sideways and did as I was told. She let out a long breath and did likewise.