Crosscut (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 2)

by Jude Hardin

  “I don’t know. The DNA evidence was a dead end. Didn’t show up on any databases. If it had, the cops would probably have somebody in custody by now.”

  Pete stared into the fire.

  I studied the lip of my Heineken can.

  “What about that guy named Bear?” Pete said.

  “Lester was under quite a bit of stress when he told me about that. He might have made it up. But we’ll check into it.”

  “Want to check into it now?”

  “Yeah.”

  A winding two-lane skirted by steep rocky cliffs snaked down the western side of the mountain, with only the sharpest curves protected by guardrails. The fact that a blown tire or a momentary lapse in concentration could send us careening a hundred feet to our deaths didn’t seem to bother Pete, but I could feel my blood pressure in my eyeballs. I longed for the warmth and flatness of Florida.

  “You just passed it,” Pete said.

  “What?”

  “Carp Lane. You just passed it.”

  “Shit.”

  A couple of miles and a bucketful of expletives later, I steered my Jimmy onto a dirt path that led into the woods. I waited for a tractor-trailer to lumber by in low gear, and then backed out and turned around.

  Carp Lane had been paved, but years and years of harsh winters and neglect had cursed it with uneven cracks and potholes and crumbling edges.

  “Should have brought the lunar rover,” Pete said.

  “They left it on the moon,” I said.

  “What?”

  “They left it up there. I swear. I saw a story about it on TV.”

  “And we all know everything on TV is true.”

  “What’s your point?” I said.

  “It was a hoax. The whole damn thing was a hoax. Nobody ever landed on the fucking moon. All those pictures and videos were taken in the desert. And on soundstages.”

  “You’re crazy. Of course they went to the moon.”

  “There’s a whole lot of evidence to the contrary. And if they left some shit up there, why don’t they take some satellite photos now and prove it? I can go to Google Maps and zoom in on my car in my driveway, so why can’t they do the same thing with the moon? They don’t want to, that’s why, because there’s nothing there.”

  “Whatever, man. I’ve heard all that hoax crap—”

  “You passed it.”

  “What?”

  “The Bar. I think that was it back there.”

  “Shit.”

  I turned around.

  There was a gravel lot on the left side of the building with several parking places and a hitching post for horses. I parked and we got out. The metal roof sloped away from the gables and sheltered a wooden porch cluttered with antique farm equipment and whiskey barrels. Signs advertising products that no longer existed had been tacked to the board-and-batten siding in front.

  “There’s nobody here,” Pete said, cupping his hand against the window and peeking inside.

  “I guess we’re a little early for happy hour. Or maybe they’re only open on certain days.”

  “We could sit in the truck and wait for a while.”

  I was about to suggest an alternative plan when a black Dodge Ram pulled into the lot and parked beside my Jimmy. A man got out and walked toward us. It was Ted Grayson. Something about him had changed since the poker game, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  “Hey, Nicholas,” he said gleefully. “What the hell you up to?”

  “Rumor has it a man can get a drink and shoot a game of pool here,” I said.

  “Now where’d you hear a thing like that?”

  “Around.”

  “Who’s your buddy here?”

  “I’m sorry. This is Pete Strong. Pete, Ted Grayson.”

  They shook hands.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Pete said.

  “Likewise.”

  “Ted owns the meat packing plant,” I said. “Grayson’s Meats.”

  “No kidding?” Pete said. “I eat your ham all the time. Good stuff. You can’t beat it.”

  “Well, thank you. We take pride in putting out a quality product.”

  “Are you saying Ted can’t beat his meat?” I said.

  They didn’t laugh.

  “I rode over to check the pilot light on the furnace,” Ted said. “It went out the other day, and I wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again. You guys are welcome to come in for a spell if you want. I’ll even buy you a drink.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. I needed one after traversing that perilous mountain road. Ted opened the door and we walked inside.

  Ted switched the lights on, revealing what could only be described as a classic roadside honky-tonk. Wood paneling, jukebox, neon beer signs, pickled eggs. There was an L-shaped bar and some booths with globed candles on the tables. Bottles of liquor lined the shelves behind the bar, and a stainless steel beer cooler hummed monotonously in the far left corner.

  “I’m assuming you own this place,” I said.

  “I do,” Ted said. “It’s illegal as hell, but nobody around here much gives a shit.”

  “What’s back there?” I said, pointing toward a dark archway.

  Ted flipped another switch, and the lights came on in the adjacent room. There was one coin-operated pool table and some bistro tables and a big-screen television. Everything was neat and tidy, the ashtrays on tables clean and ready for business.

  Ted gestured toward the stools back in the main room. “Have a seat, and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Pete and I sat at the bar. We didn’t take our coats off.

  “I guess this is what they used to call a speakeasy,” I said.

  “Amazing what you can do with the right kind of money.”

  “Yeah.”

  The furnace kicked on.

  “How are you planning to approach this?” Pete whispered. “He thinks you’re up here scouting fishing locations, right?”

  Ted clomped back in before I could answer. He grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the back bar and three glasses. “Bourbon OK?”

  Pete nodded.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Ted poured the drinks. “Damn thing went out again. Guess I’m going to have to call someone. You guys know anything about HVAC?”

  “I adjusted a thermostat one time,” I said.

  They didn’t laugh again. I was starting to get a complex.

  “You still eyeballing spots for the bass rodeo?” Ted said.

  “I need to talk to you about that,” I said. “I kind of made all that up.”

  “Huh?”

  “I love to fish, but that was never my mission here. I’m a private investigator. Pete and I are working together on a case, the murders at the Lambs’ residence a year ago Thanksgiving.”

  “Well fuck me runnin’. Chris was right about you. He said you were up to something, and damn if he wasn’t right.”

  “He was right, in a way, but I never—”

  “So what are you going to do now? Bust me for operating a tavern in a dry county?”

  “Not at all. This isn’t about you.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “Ever hear of a Christian militia group called the Harvest Angels?”

  “No.”

  “One of my sources told me a guy named Bear comes in here sometimes. Supposedly he’s a member.”

  “Never heard of him. But I’m not here that much. A couple of bartenders and a bookkeeper mostly run the joint. I pay them under the table, so they’re not going to be too happy to be involved in any kind of investigation.”

  “Maybe you could do me a favor,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Just call one of your bartenders and ask him if he knows anything about this Bear fellow.”

  “You lied to me. Why would I want to help you with anything?”

  I thought about telling him I had friends who worked for the IRS, but I was on his turf and didn’t want to get into a game
of hardball I couldn’t win. I decided to come clean all the way.

  “I originally thought Virgil Lamb’s gambling debts had something to do with his disappearance,” I said. “I figured a loan shark sent a couple of guys to the house to take care of business, and that Derek Wahl just happened to show up at the wrong time. The crosses carved into the victims’ foreheads initially had me intrigued, because I saw the same thing on a young woman who was killed three years ago. Her name was Leitha Ryan, and she had hired me to find her sister, Brittney, who had run away from home. The man who killed Leitha was an old acquaintance of mine. Later on, I found out he belonged to the religious cult. So at first I thought there might be a connection, and then I dismissed it as paranoia on my part. I couldn’t find any evidence to back the assumption. But when Derek Wahl broke into my house—”

  “I heard about that. So you’re the one who killed Derek?”

  “I’m the one. I shot him in the chest.”

  “He was a good man. Good police officer. He used to come in here and have a drink every now and then.”

  “I’m sure he was a fine upstanding citizen,” I said. “Right up to the time he tried to kill my wife and daughter.”

  “Something must have happened. That’s not the Derek I knew.”

  “Affiliation with a cult can change a man,” I said.

  “All right, I understand why you killed Derek, but why the obsession with this Harvest Angels outfit? Why don’t you just go on back to Florida and play your music?”

  “Because Derek came all the way from Tennessee to invade my home and murder my family. That’s pretty goddamn personal. I have to assume I’ve been targeted. If not by the Harvest Angels, then by someone else. I have to find out who it is and put a stop to it.”

  “And you want me to help you.”

  “Well, I did sign those records for you.”

  Ted reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. A minute later, he penciled a name and address on a cocktail napkin.

  Phineas R. Boyle, aka Bear.

  “Now we’re even,” Ted said.

  Coincidentally, Phineas Boyle’s single-wide trailer was located along the same dirt road I had used to turn around on earlier. It was a shabby, depressing little place, with olive green shutters on the windows and a rusted ’55 Ford in the yard. A very large pair of jockey shorts trembled on a clothesline stretched between two trees.

  “We just going to walk right up to the door and knock?” Pete said.

  “Got any better ideas?”

  “Maybe we should tail the guy for a while or something. Call me crazy, but white supremacist cults tend to make me nervous.”

  I pointed toward the underwear. “It’s OK. He’s already raised the white flag.”

  “Hillbilly motherfucker.”

  “I’ll go up there and talk to him by myself,” I said. “If something bad happens, you can come to my rescue.”

  “Aren’t you just a little bit afraid? You go up there and start confronting this guy—”

  “I’m going to act like I’m interested in joining. All I want from this Bear dude is to confirm the existence of a Harvest Angels cell here, and try to find out their location for meetings. Then I’m done. I’ll turn it over to the state police and drive on back to Florida.”

  “Won’t he be a tad suspicious about the Negro in your car?”

  “That’s why I parked this way. He won’t be able to see you through the tinted windows.”

  “This shit makes me nervous.”

  “We’ll be fine. Be back in two shakes.”

  I got out and walked up to the trailer and knocked on the door. An enormously fat man with long black hair and a full beard answered. It was obvious how he got his nickname.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Eighty-eight, brother,” I said. It was something I learned when I infiltrated the cult called Chain of Light down in Florida three years ago. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet. Eighty-eight means double H, which stands for Heil Hitler.

  He smiled. “Eighty-eight,” he said. “Come on in.”

  He stepped aside and allowed me to enter the cramped living room. It was a manly place, with the head of a buck on one wall and three mounted bass on another. He motioned for me to have a seat on a ratty plaid sofa, half of which was covered with dirty laundry. I sat, expecting to sink, but the couch was surprisingly firm. It must not have been in there long enough for Bear’s weight to trash the springs. He pulled up a stool that reminded me of a drummer’s throne and sat across the coffee table from me.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “My name’s Nicholas Colt. I’m thinking about moving to the area, and I’m interested in finding some like-minded individuals.”

  “You believe in taking back the country for the white man?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You know about the Harvest Angels?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Got some ID?”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver’s license. “That picture’s a few years old,” I said.

  “Florida, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Florida’s nice, man. Why you want to move to Tennessee?”

  “I miss the change of seasons.”

  “What kind of work you do?”

  “I was second ham-boner at a slaughterhouse down in Hallows Cove,” I said. “Hoping to get me a job at Grayson’s.”

  A two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew stood greenly erect among the general mishmash of items on the coffee table. Bear picked it up, twisted the cap off, and took a drink. “Want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I have some beer in the refrigerator.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “There’s a meeting here at my house tonight, if you’re interested. You can come over and meet some of the guys.”

  “What time?”

  “Around seven. I got plenty of beer. You can bring a bag of chips or something.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be here.”

  “Cool, my brother. Well, I got some work to do, you know.”

  “That’s cool. Thanks for the invite. I’m definitely interested.”

  “See you tonight, then.”

  I got up and walked toward the door. When I reached for the handle, something hard and unforgiving smashed into the back of my skull.

  I woke up with the worst headache of my life. I was positioned in some sort of recliner, maybe a dentist’s chair, my arms and legs bound with leather straps. Plastic tubing coiled upward from my left arm to a bag of clear liquid hanging on a pole. My clothes had been stripped off and replaced with a hospital gown. Another plastic tube, a larger one, snaked from between my legs to a bag attached to the foot of the chair. The bag was about half full of what I assumed was my own urine.

  A male voice from behind me said, “What’s your name?”

  “Nicholas Colt,” I said.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, let me assure you, you did.”

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “An old friend, Mr. Colt.”

  He came around to where I could see him. His features were chiseled and expressionless. I decided to name him Stoneface. I didn’t recognize him, but there was something about the voice. Something familiar. I couldn’t place it.

  “What do you want with me?” I said.

  He walked across the room and opened the top drawer on a steel cabinet. He pulled out a small bag of intravenous fluid and a syringe. He uncapped the syringe and injected its contents into a port on the bag. He grabbed a set of tubing and walked back to my chair and piggybacked the new IV into the one on the pole beside me. He opened a clamp, and I watched the fluid drip into a chamber until everything went black.

  A period of time lapsed. I didn’t know how much. When I opened my eyes, a young woman with blonde hair tied in a bun walked into the room carrying a food tray. She set the
tray on a table and wheeled it to my chair and tried to spoon-feed me some green mush from a bowl.

  “I don’t want that,” I said.

  She rolled the table back to where it had been and carried the tray out of the room without saying anything. Stoneface came in a few minutes later.

  “Why won’t you eat?” he said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If you continue to refuse sustenance, I’ll be forced to surgically insert a feeding tube into your stomach. Is that what you want?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What I’m offering you is a specially formulated paste with precise amounts of protein, carbohydrates, vitamins and minerals, fiber, everything you need to stay healthy. I invented it myself. There’s a patent pending. I’m planning to pitch it to NASA one of these days. It doesn’t taste bad. I promise.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I see. Well, we can’t have you starving, so tomorrow I will place a gastrostomy tube into your stomach and we’ll feed you that way. I was hoping we could avoid that, but apparently not.”

  Gastrostomy tube. Why? The last thing I remembered was being in Bear’s house, being invited to a meeting of the Harvest Angels. I had to assume Stoneface was a member of the cult, as well. But why in hell would he want to feed me through a tube? Why keep me alive? None of it made any sense.

  “Why are you doing this?” I said.

  No response.

  I wondered what had happened to Pete. Maybe Pete had escaped. Maybe he was out looking for me.

  Stoneface got up and walked to the medication cabinet. He did his thing with the small bag of fluid and the vial and syringe. He connected it to my primary drip and a few minutes later, I went reeling into the worst nightmare of my life.

  I had an intense hatred for a man I’d never met, and I was out to hurt him in the worst possible way. I knew where he lived. I knew he wasn’t home. I took a taxi to his neighborhood and got out a block from his house. I strolled by casually with my hands in my pockets. There was a handkerchief in one front pocket and a small bottle of chloroform in the other, and a ski mask stuffed into one of the back pockets. I kept trying to remember my name but could not. The garage door was open. There was one car parked in there. There was a washer and dryer, and the washer was running. It was on spin cycle. I could hear it whining furiously. I walked up the driveway and into the garage. I crouched down between two large blue Rubbermaid trash cans and put the ski mask on and waited. I pulled the bottle out of my pocket and poured some of the chloroform onto the handkerchief. The washing machine completed its cycle, the basket winding down to a complete stop. The garage got very quiet, and I had to make sure I didn’t make a sound when the woman came out to transfer the clothes from the washer to the dryer. She set the timer and pushed the button and the dryer started humming.