Witness Rejection Read online

  As he got closer to the hammering, it was augmented by conversation, too muted by distance and the woods for him to understand. Crockett pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head and moved slowly onward, being careful of foot placement and branches. A slow sneak of another fifty yards or so revealed two men in their early thirties, hammering two by four board steps in the side of a large oak tree. He crouched in shadow and watched as they took a break for beer. There were two cans left in the plastic rings of a sixpack. Empties, along with a chainsaw, lay on the ground around the base of the tree. A red and white ball cap graced the head of one of the individuals. The other wore a battered straw cowboy hat. Strawhat spoke.

  “Six or eight more steps an’ we’ll up to that big branch. We git up there an’ we can thin out some a them little branches. That big’un oughta hold a platform.”

  He tipped his can of Bud Light back and drained it, punctuating his accomplishment with a deep and throaty belch, then picked up the chainsaw. His partner retrieved a twelve foot two by four out of the ground cover and straddled it, holding the short end up between his legs. Strawhat started the saw and went to work on the wood, cutting it into short lengths for more steps to nail into the tree. The noise and concentration of their efforts were such that an elephant could have walked by without notice. Crockett seized the moment to move within fifteen feet of the two men and took station behind a downed and rotting seed pine. Neither of the men appeared to be armed.

  The sawing finished, Ballcap climbed up the existing steps, a hammer dangling from his belt. When he stopped, about ten feet up the side of the tree, Strawhat started eight-inch spikes in a short length of board and tossed it up. Their backs were to Crockett. He eased out of cover and took three or four steps in their direction. When he was standing nearly beside Strawhat, he spoke.

  “How you fellas doin’ today?”

  Strawhat squeaked and levitated about eighteen inches off the ground, whirling in mid-air, nearly losing his footing when he landed. Ballcap dropped his piece of wood and hung from the tree, flailing for a moment before rescuing himself from what could have been a nasty fall.

  “Who-the-fuck-are-you?” Strawhat blurted, attempting to regain some composure.

  Ballcap scuttled down the tree and stood beside his partner, nursing a scraped hand.

  “Sorry guys,” Crockett went on. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to say hello and see what you’re doing?”

  “Puttin’ up a new deer stand. What the fuck is it to you?” Strawhat said, bristling a little as his heart rate slowed.

  “Rather you didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry,” Crockett said. “Can’t do that.”

  “Hell, you mean we cain’t do that? I hunt deers out here all the time.”

  “Maybe you used to, but not any more.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Crockett smiled. “The owner of this property.”

  “Bullshit! The county owns this land.”

  Crockett increased the size of his smile, pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and turned it on. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll call the sheriff and see if he has time to come by and explain the facts of life to you fellas. Maybe you’ll believe him.”

  “The sheriff?”

  “Sure,” Crockett went on, fiddling with the phone. “I just want everything to be clear between us.”

  “Hell, the place ain’t even posted!”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “This land really yours?”

  “Quarter of a section.”

  “You ain’t gonna let nobody hunt it?”

  “Nope. Not even me.”

  For the first time, Ballcap spoke up. “’Spose we shoot a deer an’ it runs on to yer place?”

  “Sorry. No trespassing.”

  “Gawdammit! That ain’t right.”

  “Right or not, that’s the way it is.”

  Ballcap’s smile was sly. “Hell, you wouldn’t know if we come on the place anyway.”

  “I knew today.”

  “You cain’t keep yer eye on this whole place all the fuckin’ time!”

  Crockett dropped his grin. “You willing to bet your future on that?”

  Ballcap puffed up. “Mister,” he said, “I doan cotton to no man threatnin’ me.”

  “And I don’t cotton to trespassers and even less to hunters. This place will be completely posted by sundown tomorrow. Meantime, you have thirty minutes.”

  “Fer what?”

  “To get those boards off my tree and your truck and yourselves off the land. You wanna stop by sometime to have a beer, you’re welcome. We’ll tip a couple and jaw. Maybe even break out the grill and some steaks. You want to hunt, it’s fine by me. You can do that north of here, south of here, east of here and west of here. I couldn’t care less. You sneak back on my place with a gun or a bow, as far as I’m concerned, you’re burglars. Burglars are taking a hell of a chance. You’ve been warned. You’re wasting time. I’ll be watching. Don’t forget your beer cans.”

  Crockett left them standing there and walked back into the woods. When he broke line of sight he dropped to the ground behind a stump and eased down into the leaf litter. As far as the two men were concerned, he just disappeared. He lay quietly and listened to them cuss and damn about the way he treated them, but they did take the steps off the tree, pick up the cans, and leave.

  On the walk home he got a little queasy because of excess adrenalin. Back in the bus and out of what had become a real spring shower, he retrieved his cell phone and examined the pictures he had taken. While they were not suitable for Christmas cards, they were certainly good enough to I.D. his new friends. Jesus. Welcome to the neighborhood.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The heart of Hartrick

  It was still raining the next morning. Crockett put on his long oilcloth slicker and his wide brimmed slouch hat, and headed for Hartrick. Lyle’s directions were right on the money. About twenty minutes later, and after he waited for several minutes by flashing red lights and a lowered signal arm for a freight train to pass, he found himself on Division Street. Driving toward the center of town. About two blocks off the county blacktop, he passed the water tower. It was surrounded by what seemed to be a small park. As he drove, City Hall, a brick building with a half basement about the size of a four-car garage, appeared on his left. In front of it, under a metal carport, were parked two nearly new white Chevys, each with a red and blue Hartrick Police logo down the side. Next to one of the vehicles stood a young man wearing dark blue trousers with a light blue stripe down the seam, a light blue shirt with dark blue cuffs, collar, and pocket flaps, and a dark blue ball cap. His waist was cinched with a heavy black leather belt sporting an auto-loading handgun of some type, and what Crockett assumed were pepper spray, handcuffs, and other accoutrements for the well-dressed law enforcement officer. Noticing a truck he wasn’t familiar with, the kid watched Crockett roll by.

  Next to City Hall was a building that had probably once been a hardware store, maybe a five and dime, now graced with a sign confessing it was the Hartrick Community Center. Beside it squatted a brick post office. Across the wide street stood a white clapboard structure with Wager’s Café painted across large front windows. Several trucks and a car or two were parked out front. Crockett pulled in on the other side of the street beside a Ford F250 with a red light on the dash and walked into the post office. He needed stamps.

  In the lobby he passed a large man about his age with an unruly shock of snow-white hair, dressed in blue jeans, work boots, and a chambray shirt under a short blue windbreaker, sorting mail at a table against the wall. As the man reached to throw some correspondence into a wastebasket, Crockett noticed a Smith & Wesson Chief high and tight against his right side. The little five-shot .38 was nearly invisible against his bulk. Crockett ignored him and went into the service area of the building.

  An elderly woman no more than four and
a half feet tall was at the counter conducting business with the postmaster, a harried looking man with thinning carrot-colored hair and thick horned-rimmed glasses. As he waited his turn, Crockett watched the Hartrick Police cruiser pull up out front and stop in a lane of traffic behind the parked vehicles. The young patrolman he’d seen moments before got out and strode into the lobby with the typical policeman’s swagger, a gait generated by the bulk and weight of the gun belt and accessories. Crockett paid for his stamps and walked out into the foyer in time to hear the cop say, “I’ll take care of it, Chief,” before he left the building and returned to his squad car. Crockett stopped beside the big man with the white hair.

  “Chief?” he said. “Police Chief?”

  The big man looked at him. His eyes were pale gray. He smiled. “That’s me,” he said in a low easy voice. “Dale Smoot,” he went on, extending a hand.

  Crockett returned the smile and shook the hand. He got the impression of controlled strength in the dry grip. “Call me Crockett,” he said.

  “What can I do for you, Mister Crockett?”

  “Just Crockett will be fine, Chief.”

  “Just Dale will be fine, Crockett. You don’t work for me.”

  “That’s probably best for both of us,” Crockett said. “I was about to grab some breakfast. Care to join me?”

  “Already had breakfast. I’ll drink a cuppa mud though. You like a good cup of coffee, Crockett?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then you’re going to be real disappointed,” Smoot said, and walked out the door.

  The café was warm and humid, and smelled of bacon and cigarette smoke. A chrome-trimmed counter made a horseshoe in the center of the room, booths graced the left hand wall, and four-spot tables with chairs were scattered about the rest of the space. There were ashtrays throughout the dining area. Just inside the door, four older men sat at a table. They bombarded Smoot with greetings and comments and Crockett with curious appraisals, as the two men made their way into a booth near the rear.

  “The Mayor, the funeral home director, a retired insurance agent whose wife has the only beauty shop in town, and the president of the bank,” Smoot said. “City fathers.”

  Crockett smiled. “Wherever two or more of you are gathered in my name,” he said, “there is politics.”

  A waitress with hair stuck to her forehead, a perspiration stained blouse, a sweaty upper lip, and amazing calves arrived with coffee for both of them. She looked down at Crockett. “Know whatcha want?”

  “Two over easy, browns, and bacon. Crisp please.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Looks like that exhaust fan is still on the fritz,” Smoot said.

  The woman wiped her handsome brow and nodded. “Three hundred degrees in the kitchen. There a law against topless waitresses in this town, Chief?”

  Smoot grinned. “Probably.”

  “Gits any hotter in back an’ yer gonna have to put me in jail.”

  “Might be able to make an exception in your case. Want me to ask the Mayor?”

  “That ol’ fart’s heart couldn’t stand it,” she said, and scooted off toward the kitchen.

  Crockett watched her go, then sipped his coffee and made a face. “God help,” he said.

  “Once you get used to it, it gets worse,” Smoot said, rubbing his chin and looking around the room, “Now comes the inevitable question.” His eyes found Crockett again. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

  “Nope. And neither are you.”

  “Where you from, Crockett?”

  “Central Illinois originally. Been in Kansas City most of the time for over twenty years now. How ‘bout you?”

  “Lincoln, Nebraska. Was a cop up there for eighteen years. Had a helluva wreck. Got t-boned by a runner. The powers that be granted me early retirement rather than keep me on full disability until I had twenty-five in.”

  “You move pretty well.”

  “My wife died about six years ago. Took some insurance money and had experimental surgery on my back. Mostly, it worked.”

  “How’d you get here in scenic Hartrick?”

  “My daughter’s a graphic designer. Took a job in Kansas City after she got out of school. Got married. Got money. Lives out in Johnson County. Kept raggin’ me until I gave in and came down this way. Didn’t want to live in a city anymore. Found a little place here in town. Small. Quiet. Couple of widows around that enjoy a little company from time to time. Not too bad.”

  “And now you’re a cop again.”

  “Can’t be helped, I guess. I’d been here around two years when the big scandal hit. The police chief and a few of his boys were caught stealing money from the city. False equipment vouchers, fake overtime, even bribery from some guys with a meth lab. When the smoke cleared, the city decided they needed an outsider and asked me. Been on the job ever since.”

  “How do you like it?”

  Conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Crockett’s food. The sweaty waitress had hazel eyes. After she left, Smoot smiled.

  “Enough about me,” he said. “Quid pro quo, Crockett. What’s your story?”

  Crockett took a bite of greasy toast dipped in egg yolk, and followed it with half a strip of pretty good bacon.

  “About a thousand years ago,” he said, “I, too, was a member of the constabulary. Got shot. Disability retirement, divorce, a tragic tale, really. One of the saddest stories you ever heard. Would have crushed a lesser man. Then I came to Kaycee. The rest of that time has been spent just waiting to drink the world’s worst coffee. Now I can die disgusted.”

  “That why you limp?”

  “Yeah. This coffee could cripple anybody.”

  “Ha! C’mon. Give.”

  “I lost the bottom of my leg a few years ago.”

  “How?”

  Crockett took a bite of hash browns and stalled for a moment. “Hunting accident,” he said.

  “Probably not,” Smoot said. “The way I hear it, you don’t hunt.”

  Crockett smiled. “Why, Grandma, what big ears you have.”

  “Delbert Sprinkle found his hound.”

  “Guess I’m busted, Dale. What else you got on me?”

  “Nobody gets enough money to pay cash for a quarter section of land, even the piece of shit property you got, on cop shop disability. They don’t drive a damn near new truck and live in a motorhome that cost three times more than my house, either.”

  Crockett mopped up the last of his egg yolk with a forkful of potatoes. “I’ve done a couple of favors for wealthy friends. They were grateful.”

  “Legal favors?”

  “Not quite.”

  “What kind, then?”

  “Unless I miss my guess, Dale, the same kind you would have done in my position.”

  Smoot watched Crockett eat another bite of bacon before he spoke up. “Sometimes there’s a difference between what’s legal and what’s right,” he said.

  “Experience breeds understanding.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “Just trying to get away from it all,” Crockett said.

  “Not what I mean. Why are you here with me?”

  Crockett produced his cell phone and displayed the picture of the two men he’d taken the day before. “Know these guys?”

  Smoot studied the photo for a moment, then nodded. “Oh yeah. These are the Boggs boys. How’d you get this picture?”

  “Found them on my place yesterday, building a deer stand. Made ‘em tear it down and leave.”

  “The hell you did. You point a gun at ‘em or something?”

  Crockett smiled. “Naw. Just exposed them to my pure heart and dynamic personality. Invited them over for steaks and stuff, but told them that there was definitely no hunting on my property. They were unhappy. Mentioned that they might go ahead and just do what they pleased, anyway.”

  “They’re a pair to draw to,” Smoot said. “Their daddy died a few years ago. Left the boys a piece of land and
a paid for house. They work now and then. Sawmills, hauling hay, whatever they can get. I doubt if either one graduated high school. One of ‘em got married two or three years ago. I don’t remember which one. Probably doesn’t make any difference. They all live together, anyway. I busted ‘em a time or two. Drunk and disorderly, fighting, that kind of thing. Named Larry and Gary, or Jerry and Harry. Hell, I don’t know. I could look it up.”

  Crockett shook his head. “Not necessary. They gonna give me trouble?”

  Smoot drained his cup and winced. “They might. But probably not as much trouble as you’d give them.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble, Dale.”

  “I bet it finds you anyway, now and then.”

  Crockett smiled. “Now and then.”

  Smoot dropped a five-dollar bill and two ones on the table and stood up. “I’m only about ten minutes from your place if I hurry. You need something, you call. Food is on me.”

  “Count on it,” Crockett said. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “My pleasure,” the big man said. “We ought to tip a few and swap lies sometime.”

  Crockett grinned. “The steak offer applies to you, too. I’ll give you a call one of these days.”

  Smoot nodded toward where the waitress was standing. “This place goes topless before you leave,” he said, turning toward the door, “pick up the phone. Quick.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dealing with Dundee

  When Crockett left Wager’s Café, the rain had stopped. A glance toward the southwest showed clearing skies in the offing. He drove the length of Division Street and then around the square, finding the town’s small city works building, the beauty shop, the bank, and, at the edge of town near the blacktop that had brought him there, a Texico Station/mini grocery store. He waited for another train to pass, stopped, gassed up, bought some bread, milk, orange juice, and a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. On his way out, a bulletin board by the door caught his eye. He browsed.