The Homeplace: A Mystery (17 page)

*   *   *

A fool would run for all he was worth. But Ray-Ray knew better. The helicopter was gone but could be back any minute. The hunter and the tall man in the Dodge pickup hadn’t so much as looked his way. It’d be best to keep on just like he’d planned. But instead of the truck at his brother’s place to get him out of the county, he needed to get to his stronghold and wait. And he’d do it slow and careful.

The Bible taught of men like Noah and Moses heeding God’s command to prepare for bad times. Ray-Ray had done the same. A tithe portion of everything he’d earned was set aside to buy what he needed. That money bought rice, beans, sugar, and coffee. And what he didn’t have money to buy, he did for himself. He canned the okra, squash, and corn he could grow on his own. Traded blacksmithing and welding for more. Put up the meat of a fat calf and salted his own pork. Dried deer meat, too.

Noah and his folk were on the ark for forty days and nights. Ray-Ray put away food to last for more than two months. He’d patched a hundred-gallon water tank he bought for next to nothing and filled it to the brim, a bucket at a time.

For every mouthful of food and each sip of water, Ray-Ray had a bullet for his deer rifle stored in the stronghold. Others could beat their swords into plowshares. Ray-Ray would stand for what was his.

Let ’em come.

They’d have to find him first. His stronghold was hidden where no one would think to look. And while he waited, he’d be comfortable. Hanging in the cool dry of his fortress, stalks of his best homegrown weed perfuming the air.

He waited until the hunter and the man from the Dodge had started gutting the buck. He checked the skies for the helicopter, and when he saw nothing, he climbed from his place in the brush. In a few running steps, he was out of sight of the two men. He dropped into a steady pace down the creek bed.

If Ray-Ray was right, there were four government agencies after him. He’d seen both county and state police vehicles on the roads. The markings on the helicopter showed it was US Army for sure, and if you threw in chubby little Birdie Hawkins from the Department of Wildlife, well, that made the fourth.

How much taxpayer money was being gobbled up by it all? Ray-Ray would wager that the decisions were being made by someone appointed to his job, not even duly elected. If some government muckety-muck had a mind to, they’d use all that tax money they collected from good people to hunt him down.

That was what this was. A vendetta. All because he hadn’t bought a hunting license.

A man needed a license to hunt the deer that lived all the year on his land? Foolish. A man should have the right to manage the deer that ate his crops and drank from his well. The government couldn’t stick their noses in everyone’s business.

Leave me alone.
He wanted to scream it.

But instead, Ray-Ray stopped stock-still. He cursed himself. In all his carefulness, he’d missed the one thing he could count on. Quiet hung thick in the air around him. Leaves rustled in the breeze. But there were no sounds from the birds. Not one chirp. No swish of wings.

Maybe the end times had begun.

The Book said that back in the beginning, when things got too out of hand, the Lord had used a great flood to destroy all the wickedness. When it came time to do it again, it wouldn’t be water. The God of all creation would destroy the evil ones with fire.

Ray-Ray smelled it on the breeze.

Smoke.

*   *   *

Dry grass curled in the heat, and the flames raced into the leaves and autumn brush in the creek bed. It was almost beautiful. Cecil’s breathed in the smoke. He laughed at the crackle.

I’ll tell ’em I left work early to go hunting. Came out here. Saw the fire. Some city hunter must’ve tossed a cigarette out the window. That’s what I’ll tell ’em. By the time I get back to town, the fire will have burned up two miles of creek bottom.

But I’ll be the hero who saved ’em all.

*   *   *

Fingers of smoke filtered through the gulley where Ray-Ray hid. Dry brush hissed and popped. Like a skunk caught in a snare, Ray-Ray’s instincts told him to claw and bite and do everything he could to get out.

But he had hidden too well.

There was no way he could scramble up the sheer dirt sides, and the brush and trees that screened him threatened to burst into flame. Like bits of grit spun loose from a grinding wheel, and floating ash found its way onto the backs of Ray-Ray’s eyelids. With each blink the texture of fine sandpaper tortured his vision.

He clomped down the creek bottom away from the cackle of flames, stumbling in the sandy soil. Creatures fled with him. A cottontail ran a dozen steps, froze for an instant under a fallen tree limb, and darted off again. A pair of squirrels bounded through the branches overhead. Magpies clattered past.

He gripped his rifle tighter, drew a deep breath, and pushed on. In ten yards, smoke caught in his throat, and he bent over, grabbed his knees, and coughed until he thought his insides would spill out.

A whitetail doe dashed past him. She turned and bounded up the grass-tinged crack in the steep dirt sides of the arroyo. The animal stumbled, slid back, and tried again. Her hooves found traction, and she struggled up, tossing dried clumps of dirt behind her.

Ray-Ray drew in another breath, saw his chance, and followed the deer. Boots slipping, hands grabbing for bits of weeds, he fought his way up the side of the gulley.

Behind him, flames took over the brush. Above the roar, the tortured scream of an animal that was too slow froze the blood in his veins.

The clump of dry grass Ray-Ray had tangled his fingers in pulled loose from the steep bank. He sprawled belly down across the slope, boot toes digging for a grip, to keep from falling to the fiery tangle below. He mashed the side of his face into the dirt, fought for breath, and turned to look below him.

At the base of the hillside, in an island of weeds the fire had not yet consumed, the crumpled form of a young woman lay still. Ashes from the fire all around her fell on the fan of black hair that haloed the girl’s face. Her eyes were shut as if she was sleeping.

Ray-Ray loosened his grip and slid down the dirt toward her. Heat touched his face and each lungful of air scorched hotter than the one before.

“Miss?” he croaked. He grabbed her shoulder. “We gotta get out of—”

In spite of the fire all around, her body was cold to the touch. He knew in that instant all he could do was save himself. The hair on the back of his hands curled in the heat. He scrambled and clawed his way up the bank.

When he looked back at the girl, the wind drove a curtain of flames into the weeds around her. Her long hair turned to a thousand twisting curls in the bright orange flames, and the skin on her face melted like warm wax. In the next second the sweep of the fire was past her and her place of rest.

At the top of the gulley, he scrambled under the wire fence and onto the roadway. Tire tracks, which he guessed had been made last night, blemished the dust along the side of the road. He could see the marks where someone had dragged the girl’s body to the edge of the road and let it topple over. Pointed toe prints from cowboy boots left the edge and returned to the car. The prints from boots so new that the Tony Lama logo showed in the marks left by the heels.

Ray-Ray watched the fire race away up the creek bottom. On the road without cover, the government men might find him.

Had the bastards lit the fire to smoke him out? And killed the girl, too?

He’d never put anything past them.

Ray-Ray sized up his surroundings. It was three miles across open stubble fields to the stronghold he’d outfitted.

Even in the smoky haze, he could still spot the deer that had led him to safety. Its white rump stuck out as plain as day even though the little doe was a long rifle shot out into the stubble. He couldn’t wait. He had to follow.

Ray-Ray checked both ways on the road and coiled to run, but he heard the whirl of an engine struggling to turn over.

Ray-Ray ducked into a wrinkle at the edge of the gulley. He bit back the taste of smoke in his mouth and stifled a cough.

The engine spun again and came to life.

*   *   *

Cecil slid his fat belly behind the steering wheel. Ash fell on the windshield. He turned the key. The old truck coughed.

C’mon.

He hit the ignition again. The engine sputtered but wouldn’t turn over.

Damn it.

Smoke filtered in from the cracks around the windows and doors. The stench came up through the vents. Every drop of alcohol in his body evaporated and fear rushed in.

Start, damn you. He turned the key.

Yes!

Cecil slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed into the roadway. He pointed the truck at Brandon and pressed down on the accelerator. At the edge of the burning gulley, tongues of flame as high as the top strand on the barbed-wire fence licked at everything that had ever lived. Grass, weeds, and fence posts shriveled in the heat. A jack rabbit burst from the inferno and raced for safety.

Standing in the middle of the road, an old man raised his hands.

Cecil jammed on the brakes.

Pop Weber?

*   *   *

Chase swung open his pickup’s door. “Nice buck. Can I give you a hand?”

The hunter was about Chase’s age. His rifle showed nicks and scratches from being carried, and there were old bloodstains on his orange vest. Sun flashed on the edge of the man’s hunting knife, and Chase knew the man wouldn’t need his help dressing out the buck.

“No sense both of us gettin’ our hands bloody.” The hunter grabbed a hind leg and rolled the deer on its back.

“That helicopter spook ’em?” Chase asked.

“No. I saw this guy midmornin’ and spent the next three hours tryin’ to get close enough for a shot. I finally spotted him in the trees down there.” He jerked his head toward the creek. “Somethin’ on the other side of the road had his interest. I thought it was another hunter. I took my shot just before I heard the helicopter. Any idea why it’s here?”

“There’s a search for a farmer who went missin’.” Chase lifted his cap and smoothed his hair. “Old man with Alzheimer’s.”

“That’s tough. I hope they find him.” The man looked up at Chase. The lines around his eyes tightened. “Hey, I think I know you. That Lakers cap. Yeah. Sure.” He tapped his knife on the deer’s belly. “You’re Chase Ford, the ballplayer. I was at CU when you played. Never missed a game. You were good back then.”

Back then?
Chase let himself nod. So much had changed.

The hunter went on, “I remember now. You grew up down here, didn’t you? What are you doin’ these days? Since all that stuff about your wife—I mean ex-wife.”

Chase raised his hand. “Wait.” Something in the air seemed wrong. He sniffed again. “Do you smell smoke?”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The prairie grass bent in the gusting wind until the tips of the stalks touched the dust like faint brushstrokes. Each second the wind grew colder. The breeze beat the side of Chase’s truck and breathy blasts whistled around his ears.

“Do you hear that?” Chase asked the hunter. Even over the wind, Chase could make out a faint wailing noise. No more than a distant whine.

“I do hear somethin’.” The man raised his head. “But in this wind—” His face strained. “Is that a siren?”

Chase knew the sound. He turned on his heel and started for his truck. “I better go.” And he left the man with his deer.

The siren was coming from town.

Calling for the volunteers.

The volunteer fire department.

It was smoke he’d smelled.

Chase scanned the skies over Brandon. Nothing. He looked west. Feathery wisps of gray formed an angry column, maybe five miles off.

Chase slammed the door of his pickup shut, turned the key, and bumped over the rough pasture ground. The fire truck from Brandon barreled down the county road and over the bridge at Sandy Creek. By the time Chase made it to the pasture gate, two pickups had caught up to the fire truck. Chase leaped out of his truck, dropped the gate to the side, jumped back in the cab, and rolled through.

The fire truck turned south. The pickups fell in behind. A county sheriff’s car with flashing lights caught up to the three. Chase checked the western sky again. The smoke pillar had doubled in size. Against the dark clouds, it boiled and tumbled back on itself.

*   *   *

Birdie was about to turn off the highway to the spot along Sandy Creek where she’d seen Cecil’s vigilantes unloading their horses when the radio in her truck squawked to life. At the same instant her cell phone rang. She snatched the cell from her jacket pocket and pressed the phone to her ear. The automated voice of a prerecorded warning message began to play. She tossed the phone on the seat beside her and hit a button on the radio.

“What is it, Arlene?” Birdie said into the microphone.

“Fire on Sandy Creek ten miles south of town. It’s already jumped up from the creek bottom. I just got a call from Connie Mason. She says it’s bad, Birdie. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

“I’m on my way.”

The speedometer showed seventy-plus when Birdie turned off the asphalt onto the dirt road along Sandy Creek. She knew she was ten miles from the Masons’ farm when she saw the smoke in the sky.

“Holy hell.”

She jammed her foot onto the gas pedal.

*   *   *

“Get over.” Marty gritted his teeth and raced his patrol car up behind the pickups following the volunteer fire department truck. “Come on. Come on,” he hissed through his teeth. “Get out of my way.” He flipped the siren switch on the dashboard. The warning wailed, and the fire truck and its followers eased to the shoulder of the road but never slowed. “Good. Good. Stay there.” He floored the cruiser and shot around the firemen.

Billows of dark smoke rose from the tangles of brush and cottonwoods in the twisted creek bottom a mile away. Flying ash pelted his windshield, convincing him of what he feared. The wind was from the west and would funnel the fire through the dry fuel along the creek toward town. He slowed enough to make the turn onto the single-lane bridge that led to the Masons’ farm. In his rearview mirror, the fire truck and pickups sped past the turn.