Witness Rejection Read online

  “No kidding?”

  “Nossir. I’d stock it an’ in three or four years you’d be settin’ pretty. Deer an’ turkey out the butt, foxes, bobcat. Damn place would be its own preserve. Post it for no tresspassin’, git a dog, an’ hang a hammock.”

  Crockett grinned. “Uh-huh. How much of that is realtor bullshit?”

  Higgenbotham chuckled. “Not more than about ten percent,” he said. “If I was your age an’ had more time left, that’s exactly what I’d do.”

  “Offer them a hundred and thirty thousand,” Crockett said.

  “You got financing in place? If not, I know a guy.”

  “Cash.”

  Lyle squinted at him for a moment, then smiled. “My cell phone’s in the truck,” he said. “Gimme a minute.”

  That evening, after a dinner that involved a cardboard carton, six minutes in the microcave, and the addition of a significant amount of extra cheese, Crockett put on a little Leon Redbone and kicked back on the couch with Nudge. Jesus. What the hell was he doing? Life was getting ahead of him. Ruby LaCost was out of the picture now. In the 20-20 light of hindsight, he realized how out of balance their relationship had been. How Ruby had relied on control and manipulation as the foundation for dealing with him. He had to take half the responsibility for that. Without a gun being involved, there are no unwilling victims. His leaving her after he and Clete and Stitch had rescued her in that cave on the Spring River was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, but he had to do it. Their bond was not healthy for either of them.

  And then, there was Mazy. Mazy, who had taken him into her heart, her life, her family, and her bed. Feisty, indomitable, Mazy, tied to that marina on Truman Lake with cords he could never break. Mazy, who had been exactly what he had needed at the time, who had been much more than water to his thirst, who had no aspirations or desires past the moment. She had set him back on his feet without design or expectation. Honest with him and true to herself.

  And now, here he was, looking for his Hermitage north-northwest of Smithville Lake, alone, long past his prime, and starting over. Crockett smiled and rubbed Nudge behind the ears. It was either an opportunity or a curse. His choice. A do-over. Another chance. Christ. His back would never stand a hammock, but maybe old Lyle was right. He hadn’t really thought about it much before. Maybe he should, at least, get a dog.

  Two weeks later Crockett was a landowner.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Making friends

  Crockett stood on his freshly graveled drive and watched the dump truck make a left onto the county road about fifty yards away. Beside him was the Pequod, the big blue and silver motorhome looking about as out of place in the woods as a marble staircase in an outhouse. It was leveled and hooked up on a slab poured years before for a fifty foot doublewide, the water and septic lines securely wrapped in electric insulated tape for cold weather, the phone junction box clean and ready to hook-up, the slide-outs slid out, the awning and screen room securely pitched, weighted with sandbags on the slab and outfitted with lawn chairs and a couple of tables. He walked inside the bus, poured a cup of a really nice Ethiopian blend that he’d ordered from a coffee supplier on the internet, and followed Nudge back out into the screen room. The cat stood by the zippered door and blinked at him.

  “What? You want out?”

  Nudge “myrrphed” agreement.

  “You old fool, it’s a jungle out there.”

  Nudge sat and lashed his tail, unimpressed by the warning.

  “All right,” Crockett said, unzipping the door. “The more time you spend outside, the less time I spend cleaning the litter. Watch your ass.”

  Nudge showed the ass in question to Crockett as he ambled away into the undergrowth. Crockett re-zipped the door, leaving the bottom eighteen inches open so the cat could get back in without shredding a portion of the mosquito netting. He sank onto a lawn chair, sipped the coffee, and lit his first Sherman of the day.

  Well, he’d done it. A month ago he’d been totally footloose and fancy free. Now he had a hundred and sixty acres, four truckloads of gravel, his own well and pressure system, a freshly pumped septic tank, and a sewage lagoon down a shallow slope and out of sight about sixty yards to the east of the bus. A man of property.

  The townhouse that he and Ruby owned was on the market as of a week before. She’d contacted a realtor who, in turn, contacted Crockett about listing the property. He’d readily agreed, no longer wanting anything to do with the place where memories were so thick and Ruby had been abducted. A moving company had installed his furniture and belongings in a storage facility, out of sight and mind, and he and Ruby had had no personal contact at all. His rational self assured him that was absolutely the best course. His emotional self was another matter. He sat and sipped. Spring was in full swing, and he was reminded of the quiet and peace of early mornings with Mazy and her father-in-law on Truman Lake.

  Sighing, he stood to get more coffee when the crunch of tires on gravel drew his attention down the lane to see Lyle Higgenbotham’s black Ford pickup coming his way. The truck stopped by the screen room, and the old man clambered out of the cab.

  “By God,” he said, scanning the bus, “that there purty much makes havin’ a house a waste a time.”

  Crockett grinned and opened the screen room again. “Just in time for coffee. Fresh pot. Interested?”

  “Yessir, I am,” Lyle said, following Crockett inside the coach. “Ain’t this somethin’?” the old man went on, looking around. “Hell, this here in just fine! I doan know what more a feller could want.”

  “A bathtub,” Crockett said. “A shower with a skylight is nice. A tub would be better.”

  “You got a skylight in the shower?”

  Crockett grinned. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Ha! Git me a cup a black coffee and then git me back outside ‘fore I git too spoiled. Place like this could ruin me for life.”

  Laughing, Crockett poured two cups, added cream to his, and the two of them retired to lawn chairs. Lyle sipped his coffee.

  “Crockett, I believe this here is about the best coffee I ever had in all my days. You could taste this on yer tongue if ya spilt some on yer foot. Only one thing make it better.”

  “What’s that?”

  The old man swiveled up on one hip and drew out a flask from a rear pocket.

  “Little sightin’ oil,” he said. “Hold out yer cup.”

  Crockett accepted a small shot of whisky. “Little early in the day for me,” he said.

  “Doc’s orders. Three short shots a day. Got me a little heart problem. This here booze is supposed to help.”

  “That right?”

  The old man paused for a moment as if straightening his memory. “Dilation of my blood vessels to facilitate cardiovascular circulation, doncha see.”

  Crockett smiled. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “Probably ain’t doin’ my liver a lotta good. That’s why I only do three short ones a day. Hell, Boy, I’m past eighty. Things is startin’ to wear out anyways.”

  They sipped in silence for a while. When Lyle finished his coffee he got to his feet and headed for his truck. He opened the passenger door and retrieved a box and what appeared to be a stack of papers.

  “I brought ya a couple a house warmin’ presents,” he said, handing Crockett the box.

  The carton contained a black metal mailbox with Crockett’s address neatly stenciled on the side. 13204 Poston Road.

  “That my address?” Crockett asked.

  Lyle smiled. “Yep. 13204 Poston Road, Hartrick, Missouri.”

  Crockett’s eyebrows went up. “I live in a town?”

  “More or less. Technically you’re a suburb of Hartrick.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Go east on your gravel road out here about three miles, then north on the first county road about four miles, make a right on the next blacktop and in about a mile, you’re there.”

  “Hartrick.�
��

  “Yessir. County seat. That’s where you get your fire and police protection, more or less.”

  “That’s the second time you said more or less.”

  Lyle chuckled. “The line between town and county gets a little thin in some places. The county has a sheriff and deputies, of course. They’re in the courthouse on the east side of the square in Hartrick. Fire district for this area is local. Hartrick has a police department. They’re on the west side of the square.”

  “Did they give him a bullet of his own?”

  “A bunch of ‘em. Got the police chief, a feller named Dale Smoot, couple of full time patrolmen, and some auxiliary types in case Iraq invades.”

  “But this land belonged to the county, right?”

  “Don’t try to figure it out. You’ll just get a headache. When you get a telephone, they’ll give ya a list of numbers to call in case there’s a emergency of some kind.”

  “How big is Hartrick?”

  “Six or seven hundred people, I guess. Mebbe more. Little ol’ place. Got a school system, little grocery store, couple of gas stations that sell limited groceries, sandwiches an’ stuff that’ll charge ya ten or fifteen cents more per gallon than the city. Even got their own water tower with their name in big ol’ letters right on the side.”

  “Jest like downtown ‘cept they ain’t no pigeons,” Crockett said.

  “There’s a post office and a restaurant and things like that on Division Street. That’s the one that runs north and south on the west side of the town square. You want to put in a propane tank, you’ll get it from the gas co-op there. Your electricity comes from the county co-op.”

  “I’m confused. Things were a lot simpler in Mayberry.”

  Higgenbotham grinned. “It’s changed some since Aunt Bea passed away.”

  Smiling, Crockett opened the door on his new mailbox to find a staple gun and staples rattling around.

  “What all this for?”

  “These,” Lyle said, placing a stack of no trespassing signs on an unoccupied chair. “You’ll wanna post this place. Been vacant for years. Folks is justa comin’ and goin’ through here, huntin’ and such. If you don’t want ‘em on the place, you’ll have to let ‘em know. Ain’t no fence around the property. Yer in the sticks, boy. Everthing that don’t say no, means yes. Surveyor’s stakes are still fresh and easy to spot. Follow them stakes around the property and hang these signs on trees. All four sides. I was you, I’d git it done pretty quick.”

  “I’ll do it,” Crockett said.

  “There’s a cedar post out by the road,” Lyle went on. “That mailbox’ll set right up on…” His eyes traveled to outside the netting. “What the hell?”

  Crockett followed his gaze to see Nudge walking across the drive. He chuckled.

  “That’s my cat.”

  “He give ya any choice?”

  Crockett laughed. “Not much.”

  Nudge squeezed through the flap and regarded Lyle with yellow eyes from a cantaloupe head for a moment, then levitated to a chair and lay down on the stack of no trespassing signs.

  “Lord God! I pity the coyote that tangles with him. Hell, he’s bigger’n a bobcat!”

  “Weighed him a couple a years ago. Little short of forty pounds. Been with me for a long time.”

  “Friendly?”

  “More or less.”

  Lyle stood up. “Now doan think that monster is runnin’ me off. I got a appointment over in Liberty with a gal that doan know what the devil she wants, except she wants it yesterday, and cheap. I gotta whip the team.”

  “You’re welcome anytime,” Crockett said. “There’s always coffee that could use a little sightin’ oil.”

  “Thank ya, boy,” Lyle said, stepping toward the door. “I’ll keep track of ya.”

  “Thanks for everything.”

  Higgenbotham stepped outside and glanced back at Nudge.

  “God almighty,” he mumbled, and headed for his truck.

  Crockett looked at the cat. “Well, old man,” he said, “you’re reputation grows.”

  Nudge yawned and began to purr.

  After Crockett fixed a late breakfast or early lunch of tuna salad and chips, he grabbed his small toolkit and the mailbox, and headed down the lane. The cedar post Lyle mentioned was right by the edge of the road, overgrown with last year’s weeds to the point he hadn’t noticed it. He pulled most of the weeds away from the post and spent about thirty minutes affixing his new mailbox to the old cedar. As he was finishing up, an older green Chevy work truck, the only vehicle that had passed during the entire time, went by. The driver gave Crockett the typical “two fingers off the wheel” gravel road acknowledgement, then braked to a halt a few yards past the drive, backed up, and rolled down his window.

  He was fifty or so, wearing a camouflage ball cap and a smile, and nodded.

  “Howdy.”

  Crockett grinned. “Back at ya,” he said. “You doin’ all right today?”

  “Fair. Puttin’ up a mailbox, I see.”

  “I am if this post doesn’t fall over.”

  “Didn’t know any folks lived out here.”

  “Up until a couple of days ago you were right.”

  “Thought this here was county land.”

  “It was.”

  The man nodded. “You from the city?”

  Crockett smiled at the probing. “Now and then,” he said.

  “Lookin’ for my dog. Blue tick hound. Seen her?”

  “Nossir. Sure haven’t.”

  “She’s a good pup, I guess, but she’ll follow her nose to China if she gits a first class smell of somethin’. Name’s Delbert Sprinkle.” He stuck his hand out the window of the truck. Crockett walked over and shook it.

  “Call me Crockett,” he said. “My pleasure.”

  “I live over offa Bend Road. Doan git over thisaway much. Wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for that pup. Gotcha some acres here?”

  “Half mile square.”

  “Good huntin’ in this neck of the woods.”

  “Don’t hunt.”

  “Hell ya don’t.”

  “Nope.”

  Sprinkle adjusted his cap. “Most folks do. They’ll keep your deer thinned out for ya.”

  “Rather they didn’t.”

  Sprinkle digested this new information for a moment. “Gonna post the place?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Sprinkle adjusted his cap again and stared out the windshield for a beat or two before he returned to the conversation.

  “That might work. You see that pup, tie her up for me, will ya?”

  “Sure. How do I get word to you?”

  “I don’t find her, I’ll be back this way tomorrow. Tie a rag on your mailbox post. I see it, I’ll stop.”

  “Glad to, if that post’ll hold the extra weight.”

  “Thanks. Nice to meetcha.”

  “Likewise,” Crockett said, and watched him drive away.

  Walking back up the lane, Crockett rolled the conversation over in his mind. Maybe he’d put out a few salt blocks. Deer liked salt blocks. The thought of wildlife on the property pleased him. The thought of people didn’t. Might as well post it and set the rules right from the start.

  Clouds had drifted in while Crockett was working on the mailbox, and the wind had freshened a bit, driving the temperature down a few degrees. It felt like rain. After putting on what he’d come to consider his ATL, or “all terrain leg,” and the corresponding boot on his original equipment foot, he donned a lightweight hooded Gortex jacket in tan and green, hooked the handle of the staple gun in his belt on the right side, put an extra box of staples in the jacket pocket, stuck twenty-five or thirty of the no trespassing signs in a canvas carry bag, and walked down the lane. His property was bordered by gravel roads on the south and east sides. From the drive, he began to work his way east, stapling up signs every eighty to one hundred feet as the tree growth would allow. It was not easy work.

  The rocks, gulli
es and cuts made it tough going for a one-legged man, and he took his time, dreading having to do the same job on the north and west sides of the property where there were no roads or easy access. When he reached the corner and turned north on the east side of the land, he stopped and rested for a few moments, enjoying the wind in the trees and the absence of traffic. Anticipating rain, he moved on, determined to do most of the two easy sides before he quit or the rain started.

  He didn’t make it. About two thirds of the way up the east side, drizzle began. He pushed on. The next surveyor’s stake, complete with its strip of red cloth, beckoned him from the near distance up a shallow slope. As Crockett got to the stake, he was surprised to find a level area, fairly similar to the one that supported his newly graveled driveway.

  Free of old growth trees, it had evidently been cleared at some time in the past, perhaps by hopeful loggers who abandoned their efforts because of the unsympathetic terrain. The flat extended into the property farther than the woods would let him see, and he turned to follow it. As he stepped off the shoulder of the gravel road, he noticed two parallel strips at ground level where the weedy undergrowth had been mashed to the earth. Tire tracks.

  Training took over and he abandoned the flat, moving into the trees on the south side of the trail, slowing his pace and keeping to cover. After little more than fifty yards, a glint of blue caught his eye. Wishing the weight on his left side was more than just a staple gun, he left it and the bag he was carrying at the base of the only walnut tree he had seen, switched off his cell phone, and continued on.

  The blue turned out to be a rusty Chevy pickup from the early nineteen eighties. It was parked as far into the property as the lay of the land would let it go, poised on the edge of a rocky cut. In the bed of the truck were several boards and miscellaneous tools. In the rear window was a gun rack containing a compound bow with a clamp-on quiver of six arrows. The sharpened edges of their black broadheads glinted in an evil manner. As he was making a mental note of the license number, the sound of distant hammering reached his ears. He slipped back into the trees and, dry-mouthed, continued on.