SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

 

            Nelson spent the rest of the day unpacking clothes and equipment that had remained boxed. The next morning, Charlie rose late and wandered in for coffee as Nelson was getting ready to leave. He was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved black knit shirt, and hiking boots. One item of attire caught Charlie’s attention.

            “That’s one ugly-assed belt buckle,” he said.

            “A present. And I’m going to see the donor’s dad this morning so he will notice I’m wearing it and report the news.”

            “What are those things on it? Fishhooks.”

            “Anchors, asshole. They are anchors.”

            “Oh. So where you headed?”

            “To stir up trouble. Want to help?”

            “My particular area of expertise. What would be my mission?’

            Nelson explained the concept of the “mad minute” and how he and the sheriff’s department intended to initiate it. “I’m hesitant to ask you to get involved,” he said. “But if you want some action, I have an idea.”

            “Action is my trademark,” Charlie said. “Besides, I owe you.”

            “Would your girlfriend be interested?”

            “Like she told you, she knows Abbey’s dad. She’ll be game.”

            “Is she working today?”

            “Waiting for some data files to be sent in,” he said. “We intended to ride our bikes, then shower, and spend the rest of the afternoon working on improving my consistency in wild …”

            “Spare me all the details,” Nelson said. “Here’s what I had in mind.”

            An hour later, Nelson turned onto a graveled road in south Armistead County. Pastures framed the road on either side and the cows stopped their chewing to watch Nelson as he drove by, wondering if he had come to feed them. When he drove by, they lost interest and turned away. Farther on, woods replaced the pastures and the road narrowed. It curved slightly and soon the main highway was out of sight in the truck’s rear view mirror. A half-mile later, the road curved again and a fenced area and large metal gate came into view. Nelson slowed and took in his surroundings.

            He eased slowly until his truck was within ten feet of the gate and stopped. He opened the door and stepped out, once again examining his surroundings. Seeing no one, he walked to the gate. It consisted of two sections joined in the middle by a latch that swiveled to connect the two sections. A heavy metal chain bound the sections together and a lock connected the chain. The lock hung inside the compound, indicating it had been last touched from within. Nelson reached and pulled it to the outside. He examined it and let it drop. A small metal sign on the gate announced that it formed the entrance to “The SW Hunting Club.” A larger sign warned intruders away.

            The ground on either side of the gravel was soft and Nelson walked several feet in both directions, making sure that he was leaving footprints. Returning to his truck, he took a card from its box, and examined it. Then he took a pen and drew a large “X” on the front. Turning the card over, he wrote the name of the road on which he had turned and scribbled, “hunting club?” beneath it. He rubbed the card along the bed of his truck and bent it in the middle. He dropped the card into a footprint on the right side of the gate, stepped on it, and returned to his truck.

            As the reversed the truck’s direction, he made certain that the front tires left tracks just beyond the gravel. He drove away slowly, watching the rearview mirror intently. When he was certain that no one had observed him, he gunned the truck and left the scene. Minutes later, he turned onto the state highway and headed toward Armistead.

            The morning rush had ended at Barker’s by the time Nelson arrived. Only one vehicle was parked there, a late-model Toyota Camry, polished to a high sheen. Nelson parked alongside it and walked into the store. Inside, he turned toward “The Collusion Corner.” A thin and youngish man dressed in a flannel shirt and khakis sat in serious conversation with Elvis. When the man saw Nelson, he rose and rushed across the store and caught Nelson in a tight embrace. When they had parted, the man said, “Gideon Nelson. Mr. Badass.”

            Nelson smiled. “Rick Duffey, Ace Reporter.”

            “Editor Emeritus now,” Duffey said. “Thanks to you.”

            “I hear my investment has paid off handsomely,” Nelson said.

            “One can only hope.” Duffey led Nelson to the table where Elvis sat. “And just when did you intend to stop and see your old partner in crime? I hear you’ve been back for a while.”

            “Stopped in twice,” Nelson said. “Both times you were in Caldron. I understand you now own the paper there as well.”

            “Double the pleasure. Double the debt,” Duffey said. “The folks up there begged me to take it off their hands before some national bunch bought it and quit publishing the news from all the rural churches.”

            “Does the Armistead Announcer still do that?”

            “Hell yes,” Duffey said. “How else would folks know that Mrs. Harry Roberts came to services with her nephew Hatchet Maynard, here on a weekend pass from the state pen in Calico Rock?”

            “Hatchet?”

            “Just a name he picked up in the football team’s shower back in high school.”

            Nelson thought for a moment and then laughed. “Are you trying to tell me he is a strutting man”?

            “Strutted himself right into bed with a fifteen-year old girl or, as they call them around here, a ‘slow starter.’ Now he’ll have to post a sign in his yard, when he gets out, stating that he is a sexual predator. She was Pastor Cody’s youngest daughter and half the men in Armistead County are thinking, ‘Hell that could have been me.’ They keep that type prosecution up and there won’t be a high school football team in state in a few years. These are good times for news hounds. That why you told the proprietor here,” he said nodding at Elvis, who had been quietly listening, “that you needed to see me?”

            Nelson nodded. “You know what I’ve been up to, don’t you?”

            “I hear things.”

            Nelson leaned forward. “I thought you might want to help plant the seed for a future scoop.”

            “I’m listening.”

            Elvis rose and walked toward the soft drink cooler. Nelson leaned back and looked Duffey in the eyes. “Wealth and fame haven’t made you honest, have they?”

            Elvis returned and sat three Diet Cokes on the table. “Hell,” he said. “Old Rick here has gained so much stature that he has been trading diphthongs with old Amanda Courtney.”

            Nelson arched an eyebrow. “She’s back in town?”

            “Back in the state and claiming no kin to her recently incarcerated father who, by all accounts, is pretty much enjoying life in maximum security,” Elvis said.

            Duffey reddened. “She comes into town on bank business,” he said. “She handles some of the advertising and that brings her to the newspaper. She wants to talk about publicity, ads and stuff.”

            “As I heard,” Elvis said, interrupting, “to check on a new insertion.”

            Duffey frowned. Nelson laughed. “I’ve missed you guys,” he said. “Now,” he said, turning to Duffey, “can we move from deep insertions to deep background?”

            “What sort of semi-ethical escapade do you want me to join you in?”

            “Simply reporting the truth,” Nelson said. “For you newspaper types, that’s a noun indicating the existence of honesty, accuracy, and conformity with facts.”

            “Heard of it,” Duffey said. “Doesn’t sell worth a damn.”

            “Will you two white devils cut the crap and get down to business,” Elvis said. “My noon crowd’s gonna come in any minute, and I might miss something.”

            Nelson and Duffey both laughed. “Here’s the deal,” Nelson said, and the conversation became serous.

            Nelson left Barker’s as the noon traffic began to build. He shook hands with Duffey before they drove away in opposite directions. Nelson drove toward Armistead and, arriving there, drove to the courthouse. He had to park in the next block because a group of pickup trucks occupied the spaces in front of the building. He walked to the Sheriff’s office at a slow pace, looking around him with his arms in position for ready action. Reaching the office, he entered and found a group of the Soul Warriors occupying folding chairs that had been moved in to handle the temporary crowd. Their eyes filled with hot anger as he walked by.

            Nelson stopped at Mrs. Matterson’s desk and caught a mischievous smile. He winked and said, “Guess he’ll be tied up for a while?”

            “Actually no,” she said. “He’s interviewing his last … uh,” she glanced toward the seated group, “visitor now.”

            At that moment, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and Bully Bridges emerged, clutching a worn baseball cap with a large cross stenciled on the front. When he saw Nelson, he stiffened for a moment, made eye contact, and then turned his eyes to the other men who rose as one. As he walked past Nelson, he brushed him slightly with a shoulder and, in an almost silent whisper, audible to Nelson only, said, “Soon.”

            Nelson watched the group leave. After the last one exited, he turned and smiled at Mrs. Matterson. He shook his head toward the sheriff’s office and said, “May I go in?”

            “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you,” she said. “Would you like for me to fetch some spray and fumigate the room first?”

            “We’ve smelled worse,” Nelson said, shaking his head. “At least I’m sure he has.” He turned and walked to the door and knocked softly. A voice from within yelled, “Come on in.”

            Once seated, Nelson related to the sheriff all his activities of the day thus far. Sheriff Love listened intently, nodding from time to time. Once he interrupted. “Do you trust all these fellers?” he asked. “You don’t know this man that lives with you that well, or his girlfriend.”

            “I think I know them well enough,” Nelson said. “I think they can pull off the act as a loving couple that well. And you know the local boys,” he said. “They’ll do anything as long as it has a little deceit and trickery involved.”

            The sheriff nodded, and then raised his head to think. Lowering it and nodding toward the reception area, he abruptly altered course. “You know what those motherfuckers told me?” he said.

            “That they love Jesus?”

            “Pretty much,” the Sheriff said. “They all claimed that they didn’t know nothing about no dead colored girl … although they used a different adjective.”

            “Isn’t that what you expected them to say?”

            “Yeah,” the sheriff said, “but that wasn’t the crazy part.”

            “Oh?”

            “Get this. They claimed they only hung out at that club in the woods to hunt during season and to conduct bible studies at other times. Can you fuckin’ believe it?”

            “Bible studies?”

            “Bible studies. They also claim to be spend time renovating the old cabins the original owners built there.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and said, “Oh yes, and cleaning the place, that being next to godliness, you know.”

            “Well,” Nelson said. “As you folks say down here, ‘I’ll swan.’”

            “Indeed,” the sheriff said. “Now what did you find out at the club while I had them all here?”

            “It was locked,” Nelson said. “I poked around the entrance and made sure they knew that I had been there.”

            “Good,” the sheriff said. “That’ll piss them off. Did you notice anything strange?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said, “but there was this one small thing that seemed odd for a hunting club.”

            “Oh? And what was that?”

            “There were no postings prohibiting hunting. You know … the purple paint and all that.”

            “No shit?”

            “No,” Nelson said, “just one sign with a skull and crossbones stating that trespassers would be shot on sight.”