With Cruel Intent (47 page)

the unexpected calm and beauty that

existed in the country community. An old

timer on a tractor rumbled toward her

through a newly turned-over field, his

shirt unbuttoned and removed from his

shoulders but still tucked in, allowing it to

blow in the breeze, flapping like a flag

around his waist. His tanned arms, face

and neck were a deep leathery brown, and

his chest so white it hurt Guest’s eyes to

look at him.

“Mornin' Depidy, what brings ya

out ar way?” the old man yelled, exposing

his tobacco stained teeth and trying to get

himself heard over the sound of the

tractor. He removed the bandana tied

around his neck and mopped the sweat

from his face, then returned the material to

his wrinkled neck.

“Just interviewing some folks,

trying to get some information about the

break-ins we’ve had lately. You know

anything about those?” she yelled back,

straining her voice to be heard.

“What’s at yer saying? Can’t hear

ya sa good,” he again bellered back at her.

Deputy Guest motioned for him to

turn off the tractor, twisting her wrist as if

turning a key, “Turn if off, will ya?”

“Oh, yup sure, no problem,” and

the machine was silenced. “Didn’t catch

what ya said dere, ya lookin’ fer break-

ins?”

“Sort of. We’re trying to see if

anybody has any information that could

help us catch this guy that has been doing

all the break-ins lately. We think he lives

in the country so we’re going door to door

doing some interviews. You know

anything that might help us.”

He sat back, leaned over the side

of the tractor and spat a wad of chew from

his mouth, wiping the bit away from his

chin with his sleeve that dangled at his

side. Otis pulled to check out the stuff that

landed on the earth but his master

restrained him. As if in deep thought, the

old guy looked up, squinting into the late

morning sun, rubbed his chin, then spat

again.

“I don’t reckon I kin hep ya, we

ain’t had no trouble out hea, got good

nabas and it’s pretty quiet most da time.

Dats a fine animal ya got dere, what’s his

name?”

“Oh yup, he’s a good boy alright,

name is Otis.”

Instinctively the dog knew they

were talking about him and he sat, cocked

his head to one side, and let out a whine,

before lying at Deputy Guest’s feet, ears

up and alert.

“You don’t happen to know

anybody round here that rides a

motorcycle do ya? You know the type for

riding off road, call ‘em dirt bikes?”

“I got mysef one a dem dere four

wheelas, most farmers got one of dem fer

changing pipes and such, but don’t know

anybody got a dirt bike,” he said, spitting

again to the ground, a couple of drops

blown back by the wind, landed on his

white belly, leaving a dark stain.

“Thanks for your time, I’ll let you

get back to work. If you think of anything

or see someone on an old dirt bike, give

us a call.”

“Sho will offica, have yersef a

good un.”

The pair proceeded down the

rutted dirt road, stopping at each house,

asking the same questions and not getting

any additional information. At the end of

the lane she called in, gave an update to

the dispatcher, and headed back to the

unit. She did this a couple of more hours

until she reached Range Road 232 where

she parked the unit and released Otis from

his cage at the rear. The K-9 ran to a dip

in the road and lapped up a quick drink of

water that had collected there. Guest was

also starting to feel tired, hungry and

thirsty.

“Okay boy, this is the last road

before we head back for some chow.”

He ran to her side, knowing

exactly what she had said. There only

appeared to be a handful of homes down

the rural road but it was hard to say, some

of the homes were tucked away in

concealed locations, with years of tree

and foliage growth to hide the structures.

The first home they encountered was well

maintained with a grass front yard that

was trimmed, a circular driveway with a

Toyota SUV parked before the entry, and a

swing set on the side of the house, with a

few bikes leaning up alongside the garage

door. She could see farm equipment, a

tractor, and various other tools of the

trade, stored and well cared for, beyond

the backyard in the barn area.

The owners were in their thirties

and were happy to talk with the Deputy

while the children played with Otis in the

yard. They had little to report, the people

of the lane had lived there for years and

they were friendly with all of them. There

was one guy, about their age, that lived on

his own, a few houses down, that stayed to

himself. His parents passed away a

number of years ago and left the farm to

him. They knew he’d sold the farm and

just kept the house and a few acres, must

have made pretty good money on the farm,

though, because they didn’t think he

worked.

“Have

you

noticed

anything

unusual with him the past couple of

weeks,” the officer inquired.

“No, everybody here just minds

their own business, can’t even remember

the last time I talked to him. I’ve seen him

come and go a little bit in his van but

that’s about it.”

“Do you know if he owns a

motorcycle?”

“Can’t say that he does, but I could

be wrong. Almost everybody's got a quad

though, like those over there,” he said,

pointing to some knobby tired, four

wheeled vehicles, sitting on a trailer on

the side of the lot.

“So I’ve heard,” she replied.

“Could you give me his name so I

can follow through on some of this?” she

asked.

“Sure, it’s Lester...a, honey, what

is his last name? It’s slipped my mind,” he

said, speaking to his wife.

“Cummings,” his wife said.

“Yeah, that’s it, Cummings, Lester

Cummings. Nice enough guy, just likes to

be left alone. I heard him doing a bunch of

shooting the other day, over by the river.

Think he’s got a range over there. His dad

was quite a shot.”

“Thanks, you’ve been helpful,

hope you enjoy the rest of your day. Come

on Otis, let’s get a move on.”

There was no one home at the next

place, but the neighbors had indicated that

they were a retired couple that leased out

their land and spent a lot of time visiting

their extended family. Another quarter of a

mile down the road the pair came to a

section of the ditch bank that was

particularly overgrown, a mailbox stood

at the end of the dirt drive, weeds as tall

as the support. Well before reaching the

drive, Otis jerked free of the leash and

charged

the

mailbox,

barking

and

growling, going crazy with the scent

around the site.

“What you got boy?” the handler

said, taking the leash and leading him

down the drive to the small country home.

Otis continued smelling the ground before

them, weaving side to side, yipping, and

straining the leather strap that Deputy

Guest had wrapped around her hand. An

older model, silver van, sat at the end of

the drive, next to the side of the house.

The grass in the front area had turned to

seed, and what had survived, was long,

and interspersed with dandelions and

other weeds. Otis sniffed his way around

the van and returned to Natalie at the front

door.

Lester had heard the commotion

coming up the drive and closed the

bookshelf, putting his 9mm in the back

waistband of his pants, a light jacket

hiding it from view. From the bathroom,

he peered through the narrow opening in

the curtains, to see the officer approaching

the front door. If they had anything on him

they would have responded in force, not a

lone officer with a canine. He stood, sure

she couldn’t tell he was watching her, and

waited to see what she would do. The dog

was acting more overly excited than

Lester would have liked to see, he’d never

hurt a dog before and didn’t know if he

had the will to do it. The doorbell rang.

Lester saw it coming as she raised her

hand to the bell, but it still startled him

when the buzzer sounded in the hallway

outside the bathroom. He ignored it, both

the second and third time she rang it as

well.

She finally gave up and he could

see her moving to the side of the home. He

couldn’t let her near the barn but he was

sure he’d closed it when he’d stashed the

bike after his hell-bent ride. He moved to

the back of the house and found a vantage

point where he could see what she was up

to. The dog led her down the trail, away

from the barn, but to the fishing shed and

the gun range. When she was out of sight,

he pulled the gun from his pants, slid the

action back, taking a shell from the

magazine and loading it into the chamber,

then returned it to the small of his back.

He exited the back door and

trotted down the path to the shed.

“Hey, can I help you? What’s up?”

he shouted, making them aware of his

arrival. “Is there something I can help you

with? This is private property back here.”

Deputy

Guest

saw

him

approaching and took a firm grip on Otis,

with the quick release just under her

thumb. “Mr. Cummings?” Otis growled

and barked at the stranger.

“Yeah, I’m Lester Cummings,

what’s going on?”

“I rang your doorbell a couple of

times, what took you?”

“I was in the bathroom, is that a

crime? Thought it was the neighbor kids

playing a joke or something.”

“Neighbors said you were down

here doing some shooting yesterday. Can I

ask why?” she asked, watching his eyes

carefully.

“I come down here a couple of

times a week and shoot a bit, got a 9mm

my daddy left me that I enjoy shooting

cans with,” he said, pointing at the refuse

of perforated cans lying on the ground

nearby.

“I see. Well, we’re just doing

some interviews trying to get some leads

on the recent rash of break-ins near the

base and thought we’d see if anybody over

this way could help out. We think our man

is a farmer, or country raised, and rides a

motorcycle,” again, looking at his eyes as

she spoke. “You don’t happen to have a

bike do you?”

“Wish I did. Been saving up to buy

a four-wheeler, almost everybody round

here's got one, looks like they’d be fun.

But, naw, never had much use for a

motorcycle,” he lied.

“Do you mind if I look around a

little bit. My dog here is acting a little

jumpy and I’d like to see why,” she

pressed her luck.

Lester put his hand on his hip and

turned, blocking the view of the other

hand, in case he had to quickly draw the

9mm and fire. “Go ahead, this is where I

do my shooting and fishing, hence the

shed. Everything else is up in the barn,

although not much there anymore since I

sold the farm, just the lawnmower and a

few tools.”

“Thanks, appreciate it. Do you

know anybody around that does ride a dirt

bike? A yellow one?”

“Can’t say that I do, but I’ll keep

my eyes open for ya’ll,” he again lied.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just let Otis

do some snooping, and I’d appreciate it if

you’d return to your home and I’ll talk to

you there in a moment.”

“Oh sure, no problem.” He turned

and walked back to the house, sat on the

back porch and waited.

A short time later the officer and

dog returned up the path and approached