by Katy Munger
As I knelt along the bank at a safe distance from the killing spot, contemplating the possible motives and methods of transporting the corpse, I glimpsed a flash of red moving through the trees on the opposite side of the river. I was acutely aware of how exposed I was to anyone hiding in the woods and my pulse raced involuntarily. I squinted against the sun and tuned in what Grandpa used to call my "listenin' ears." Someone was moving through the woods across the river, someone accustomed to walking silently, someone very sure of his forest footing. I could hear the faint crackle of pine needles breaking under his weight. Sweat broke out in my armpits and the hair on the back of my neck rippled. I thought it a very good idea to get the hell away from there. I quickly hiked back up the river to my canoe and was relieved to find that both the vessel and paddle were intact. I pulled out into the sluggish current and headed downstream. I had no choice but to pass directly by the killing spot. My car was waiting half a mile downstream and I was in no shape to hike over land with a canoe balanced on my head for that distance.
As I neared the spot where I'd discovered the puddle of blood, my palms grew damp and the paddle slipped free. I lost it in the current and almost tipped the canoe in my haste to grab it. Fortunately the river narrowed at that spot and I was able to fish the paddle out where it had snagged on a tree root projecting into the water. Damn it. I had to show more guts than that. Whoever was watching me would know I was frightened. I paddled back to the center, forcing myself to take a deep breath. I thought about the time I'd whacked an alligator across the snout with a paddle when I was only eight years old. I hadn't liked the way he was eyeing my biscuit lunch. Or me, for that matter. My grandpa never stopped telling the story. That was the day, he said, that he knew I had more balls than any of the sorry specimens our family had produced since the War of Northern Aggression.
What did this sudden memory prove? That I could do a little bit better than cowering in a shaky canoe just because someone had chosen this spot for a solitary hike in the woods. I sat up straight and paddled with dignity. At that exact moment, I heard a whoosh like a giant dragonfly whizzing past. An enormous arrow split the air about six inches in front of my nose, hitting the center of an oak on the far side of the bank right smack dab in the middle of its trunk. I abandoned dignity and threw myself on the bottom of the canoe.
Someone started laughing in the woods and it really pissed me off. I could take a lot of indignities, especially if it was a choice between being insulted and being killed. But being laughed at was another matter. I sat back up and paddled furiously for the far side of the river.
"All right, Bozo," I called out firmly. "You've had your fun. Now come out here and talk to me."
I didn't see anyone, but a soft male voice drawled back, "What can I help you with, ma'am?"
"You can start by telling me why the hell you nearly made me into a shish kebab. This is a public river. I have a right to be on it."
"You were getting ready to set down on my land."
You must understand that "my land" is a sacrosanct term in these parts. Anyone who has managed to hang on to their corner of the earth despite progress, carpetbaggers, real estate developers, and the tax man has formed a mighty powerful attachment to property rights by now. I knew better than to challenge that particular sentiment.
"I was not getting ready to set down on your land," I said. "Why were you spying on me?"
"What were you looking at over there?" the voice asked in reply. "That's private land over there. You got no right to be on it."
"Look," I said, my voice sounding far more steady than my pulse. "I know you could have hurt me back there if you'd really wanted to. That arrow didn't hit that tree by accident. You're a good shot. I know that you were only trying to scare me. If you'd wanted to hurt me, you'd have done it by now. So cut the crap and act like a man and show yourself."
Amazing how well that works. Threaten their manhood and the boys will come running. This one didn't run, exactly, but he did step out of the shadows surrounding a grove of birch trees and tramp through the grass to the edge of the riverbank. He was tall, with a head full of wiry auburn hair and a red billy goat goatee dangling from his chin. He was dressed in a red and white checked flannel work shirt with the sleeves cut off, a pair of well-worn jeans and sturdy hiking boots. He stood quietly, holding his crossbow and regarding me with complete calm. It was a good sign. At least one of us was calm at that moment.
"I'm Casey Jones," I told him, offering my hand. He ignored it.
"Ramsey Lee," he mumbled back.
And then I understood. "I wondered what happened to you," I said.
"Nothing happened to me," he said defiantly. "Life happened to me. You people can sit on your butts and watch television all you want. I believe in living my life and taking a stand about things that are important to me."
"How much time did you do?" I asked, curiosity getting the best of what little manners I had.
"What's it to you?" he asked back, but I noticed that he leaned his bow across a tree and was taking the time to check me out from head to toe. His scrutiny made me nervous, like he was sizing me up for a boiling pot. I was also slowly sinking in the riverbank mud. I wouldn't be able to retain my suave exterior for long.
"Hey, I admired you for what you did," I said. "I'd have helped you if you'd asked."
"How could I have asked you for help?" he replied. "I don't even know you."
"It's just a figure of speech," I explained. Jesus, where had this guy been? He acted like he'd been trapped in an attic for ten years and just now trotted out to dry. His social skills weren't even up to my marginal standards, though I admit his body had its attractions. He had unbelievable biceps and the kind of tanned, sinewy arms that only someone who really works the land can acquire. That kind of lean strength can't be earned in a health club.
"I did two and a half years," he explained in a flat voice. "I'm still on parole."
I did the math in my head. That meant he'd been out of prison for just under a year or so. No wonder he was people-shy. Ramsey Lee had been arrested about four or five years ago for destruction of property. One night, he'd visited the construction site of a subdivision that was going up along the Neuse just outside the Raleigh city limits. With the help of a couple of still-unknown companions, he had pushed a bulldozer off a cliff and ruined the engines of at least six other pieces of heavy equipment. A lock had been opened on several containing dams and most of the area flooded by morning. They'd dynamited the rest of the tract in four different spots, obliterating all access to the site, destroying the new septic system, and sending a good chunk of one section tumbling down the riverbank.
Ramsey Lee had been traced by the SBI through the purchase of the dynamite when one bundle failed to go off. The story had dominated the news for several months, especially since Ramsey's father was from one of those old North Carolina families who had turned to real estate to make money after World War II. Public interest had died off when Ramsey quietly pleaded guilty and plea-bargained his way to a couple of years in the slammer. I don't think he'd ever given up the names of his friends. The papers kept calling him an eco-terrorist but there were a lot of old-timers in the countryside surrounding Raleigh who had openly admired what he had done, including god-fearing, church-going people that were hardly of left-wing leaning. But I was sure the SBI had a file a mile high on this guy. They'd be all over his ass once they discovered he lived across from where Mitchell had been murdered.
"That subdivision is up and thriving now," I told him. "It's practically old Raleigh these days. Ugly as hell. I don't know how people can recognize their own houses, they all look so much alike."
He nodded slowly and stroked his goatee, pressing the scraggly growth carefully between long, tan fingers. "They won't stop until the whole damn state is gone. Mark my words. One day these woods will be a parking lot."
I stared at him and his eyes locked on mine. I wasn't sure if I liked what I saw. Something stirred in me but
I couldn't tell if it was fear or attraction. His eyes sparkled with the gleam of a fanatic and his voice vibrated with hatred when he spoke. But at the same time, I could feel his despair that the land he loved was being destroyed. How many of us really believe in anything? In an odd way, I was jealous of him.
"Why'd you try to scare me like that?" I asked.
"I'm getting tired of people trespassing on that land over there.'' He nodded toward the side of the river where I'd discovered the pool of blood. "It's getting busier and busier, especially at night. Someone ought to close off that road. It's supposed to be private. I don't like what I'm seeing and since the owner's not around, I figure I ought to protect it."
"What kind of things are you seeing?" I asked, watching his eyes for signs of evasion.
He didn't even blink. And his voice grew more relaxed. "Trespassing is all. Fishing at night. Campfires. Noise that ruins my hunting. Smells that distract my dogs. That kind of thing."
I didn't believe him. "You've got a problem," I said, hoping to shake him up a little. "I'm a private detective. I'm working on a high-profile case involving a man named Thornton Mitchell and a politician named Mary Lee Masters. Ever heard of them?"
"I know who they are," he said glumly.
"I think Mitchell was murdered over there a couple nights ago."
He shrugged. "Lots of funny things happen along this river at night."
"The cops are going to be all over you when they find out it happened across from your land. They'll want to know what you saw."
He shrugged again, unconcerned. "That's easy. Like I said, I didn't see anything. Cops don't scare me. I'm used to them." He picked up his crossbow and turned his back on me abruptly. "Sorry to have scared you," he apologized over his shoulder. "But I got to be going now."
He disappeared back into the woods, his figure blending instantly with the colors of the forest. I was pretty sure he had been lying. But about what?
I pulled away from the bank, uncomfortably aware that my ankles were now covered in bug bites. I moved quickly downstream, anxious to put room between me, the killing spot, and Ramsey Lee. Besides, I had a whole barn to muck before I could go home.
It wasn't until I was a couple of miles up U.S. 1, headed back toward Slim's farm, that I remembered something pretty damn important I'd picked up from scanning the back pages of the N&O: Thornton Mitchell had been one of the developers involved in the subdivision project that Ramsey Lee had been convicted of sabotaging.
He was in for an SBI rousting supreme.
Chapter Five
I have the kind of answering machine that blinks once for each new message. At the moment, it was strobing like a disco from my distant youth. I counted the lights and fixed myself a large Coke from one of the two-liter bottles lining the bottom of my fridge. Between paddling and shoveling, I was exhausted. It was time for a caffeine jolt.
Hmm... six messages in six hours. What a coincidence. That meant they were probably all from Bobby D.
What a pleasant surprise. The first message was from Mary Lee Masters. Perhaps she had even dialed the number herself. It gave me a warm glow to know how important I had become in her life.
"Goddamn it, Casey. Where were you today? You said you'd call me with an update. What's going on? Who did this to me?" There was a pause while she took a deep breath. "It is very, very important that I know who was behind this. Fast. For both professional and personal reasons. I can't afford to have this hanging over my campaign. Please, I'm begging you. And I'll give you triple your hourly rate if you get it cleaned up by early next week."
See what a tough negotiator I am? All I have to do is sit and listen and my opponent comes crawling.
"I'm begging you, Casey," she repeated. "Get these guys off my back. And hurry. I need you back. I've been getting those obscene phone calls again. Plus I hate my new bodyguard. I can't pee with the big goon standing there waiting for me to finish. It's killing me. He listens. I think he has a tinkle fetish."
She hung up abruptly and I marveled at her self-centeredness. Her bladder was more important than justice. But then again, whose isn't?
The next three messages gave me more to think about.
"Casey, what did you screw up now?" Bobby's accent was unmistakable. He sounds like a garbage truck backing up, only with a drawl. "You're not content to have lost your own license, are you? Now you want to go and lose me mine."
Oh, that Bobby D. He's always getting things mixed up. That's why he's a lousy detective. I never had a license. You can't lose what you don't have. Except for your virginity, of course.
"You're great for business, doll. Really great. Two of those SBI jerks came to the office today. I lost a customer when he saw them coming."
Poor Bobby. Having to sit on his duff in an air-conditioned office telling two polite men he doesn't know a thing while his slimy bail client slips out the back. No wonder he was traumatized.
"I don't want to resort to threats, babe," Bobby was saying. "But if you don't call me back in an hour, your fat ass is tossed right out the door."
I would lose little sleep over having my fat ass tossed out his door. The next message represented a slight change in his attitude. It began with a greasy chuckle that escalated into a nervous laugh. "Casey, babe. Jonesy, Jonesy, Jonesy. I was kidding about what I said before. Har. Har."
Yeah. Har. Har.
"Listen, babe, I just got a call from that lady politician you've been guarding. She says she'll pay us triple if you can wrap things up by early next week. I told her it was no problem. You were a star."
Yeah—a superstar. But I didn't get far.
"Take your time getting back to me, babe. If I don't hear from you, I'll know you're hot on the trail." His greasy chuckle faded as he clicked off.
I sat in the old armchair I had fished out of some garbage pile and considered my options as I scratched the four thousand bug bites on my ankles. Let's see. I could bust my ass for Mary Lee. I could tell Bobby D. to take a hike. Or, I could confess to the murder myself and seize the opportunity to throw myself on Bill Butler's mercy for an hour or two. Hmmm . . . now that was a concept.
But the horses weren't through running yet. The next message was from Bobby. Again. His voice was starting to give me a headache. I found an old Darvon molding on the window sill, no doubt a memento from a previous attack of mega-PMS, and popped the tranquilizer while I listened.
"Hey, babe. Just checking in to see how we're doing. We have some big bucks on the line here, know what I mean?"
We? What was he planning to do that would help? Sit on the suspect once I caught him?
Screw Bobby. I fast forwarded the message to the next one. Him again. Sorry, wrong number. Four down and two to go. Come on, Bill Butler. Pick up that phone and dial.
"Casey, babe. I've got a really great idea."
So have I. Go stick your fat head in the can. Please. And leave my answering machine alone.
"I've got a contact at the N&O who would kill for an exclusive on the inside track," Bobby said. "In return, she could hook us up with Hard Copy when we're done. We could make a little more scratch and get a lot of publicity. There's no reason not to plan ahead, hey, babe?"
No reason at all. If you have no qualms about ethics. And if you have no qualms about ethics, then why aren't you running for senator yourself?
I fast-forwarded the rest of Bobby's babbling. There were more important things on my mind.
I'm not superstitious. I make my own luck. But I did cross two sets of fingers plus both my legs when the last message announced itself with a beep.
"Casey? Bill Butler here. Just called to see if you could meet me for lunch tomorrow. I'll be here late. Give me a call when you get in."
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
My headache was gone.
I called Bill Butler back to confirm lunch at one o'clock in a downtown Raleigh diner that had gone upscale and had great crab cakes if you could stand the four-minute description of every
thing on the menu delivered by the earnest waitresses. He had a great voice on the phone. I was really starting to like the man. I wondered if he knew it and was trying to use it. I hoped not.
The next morning, I decided to get an early start on tracking down just who had lured Thornton Mitchell to the lonely banks of the Neuse and why. I was hoping to uncover a tidbit or two before lunch so Bill and I could swap something other than saliva, which regrettably was unlikely to happen.
I knew just where I would go first. I'd let others explore lofty theories and political conspiracies. I had been through a divorce myself. I know who knows where the bodies are buried. I was going to visit Thornton Mitchell's ex-wife and pump her for everything I could get.
Apparently, she had done the same to good old Thornton. Adriana Mitchell lived in Oakwood, an historical neighborhood half a mile from the governor's mansion. Real estate prices had skyrocketed there in the past decade and a lot of the old timers had taken the money and run, leaving the gentrified neighborhood to an eclectic mix of lawyers, real estate and finance professionals, professors, former hippies, and an occasional politician. I was pretty sure Stoney Maloney also had a house there somewhere and, being a detective, I suspected it might be the one with ten of his yard signs sticking out of the shrubbery like warnings. I slowed but saw no one home.
Some of the Oak wood houses were small mill homes, left over from manufacturing days. Nowadays they call them charming bungalows and charge a fortune for them but they are still dwarfed by the stately Victorian mansions, all lovingly preserved, which dotted the neighborhood. Adriana Mitchell had one of the nicest. It was big and white with green shutters and a huge porch that wrapped around three sides. The porch intimidated me. When I was growing up, big porches like that were for rich southern folk. I'd never lived in a house with a porch.
