Half in Love with Artful Death (17 page)

“Sounds like a plan,” Andy said.

He got out of his car, then reached back in and got his shotgun. Rhodes got his pistol from the ankle holster and then got his own shotgun. Andy checked his sidearm, a 9 mm Glock, and pushed shells into the shotgun.

Rhodes loaded his shotgun as well. He was sure the Foshees would be armed, though he didn't know what kind of weaponry they had.

The shotgun shells were loaded with double-aught buckshot, but Rhodes was alternating them with slugs. He knew that Andy would be doing the same.

Both men got their Kevlar vests from the car trunks and slipped into them. They were heavy and hot, but it was a cool day. Besides, Rhodes didn't worry much about the heat or the weight of the vest. He wasn't wearing it for comfort.

“The county should buy us some AR-15s,” Andy said when Rhodes was ready.

“Maybe next year,” Rhodes said. “They cost a couple of thousand dollars, and things are tight right now.”

He thought about the time Mikey Burns, one of the commissioners, had wanted to buy an M-16 with some of the Homeland Security funding. Rhodes had thought at the time that buying a gun like that was a foolish idea. Now he was having second thoughts.

“Time to go,” Rhodes said.

They started walking, Rhodes in the right-hand rut and Andy in the left. The sunlight came through the trees and made patterns on the ruts and weeds.

After they'd walked for a couple of minutes, Rhodes heard a noise. He stopped.

“Gasoline generator,” Andy said. “Not a very big one.”

“Big enough for some lights and fans,” Rhodes said. “They're probably cooking the meth with a propane stove.”

“That generator's so loud, they won't hear us coming,” Andy said. “I guess they'll have somebody watching, though. Even out here, they'd need to be careful.”

“I don't think they'll have anybody watching,” Rhodes said. “If they have any security, it'll be dogs.”

“I'd hate to shoot a dog.”

“We won't shoot anything or anybody unless we have to. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“You ever shot anybody, Sheriff?”

Rhodes nodded. “Once or twice.”

“Kill 'em?”

“Never had to kill anybody. Hope I never will. I might not sleep as well at night if I did. I'd do it if I had to, though, but let's hope today's not the day I have to.”

“Or me,” Andy said. “I'd hate to do it. I would, but I wouldn't like it. You ever been shot?”

“Yes,” Rhodes said. “Nothing serious, though. Just a scratch.”

“You think these vests we have are really bulletproof?”

“That's what they tell me.”

“You don't know for sure, though.”

Rhodes could understand why Andy might be a bit worried. Anybody would be. Including Rhodes.

“They're guaranteed,” Rhodes said, “so they must work. If they don't, you can sue the manufacturer.”

“I might not be around to sue.”

“Then I'll do it for you,” Rhodes said. “Give you a big send-off. The whole town will turn out.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel good about things,” Andy said.

Rhodes nodded. He knew Andy would be fine. “Just part of the job. We'd better stop talking now. Wouldn't want to make it too easy for the dogs or the sentries.”

Andy put a finger to his lips and nodded, making Rhodes grin.

The lane made a slight curve about fifty yards ahead, and Rhodes thought the meth house wouldn't be much farther. In fact, he could smell it already. It smelled like ammonia mixed with cat urine. The Foshees must be cooking up a batch. That was all right with Rhodes. He doubted the dogs would smell him and Andy, thanks to the stink coming from the house.

Just before Rhodes got to the curve, he motioned for Andy to take to the trees. Rhodes did the same. They could still see each other if they looked, but now they wouldn't be out in the open for the Foshees or their dogs to see them. Rhodes hoped there wouldn't be dogs, but he was expecting them.

When he rounded the bend, Rhodes caught sight of the house through the trees. Parked in the sandy lot in front of it were two pickups, both nearly new and both black, along with a black Chrysler 300 that dust from the road had settled on. So Neil was likely to be there. To one side of the house were a couple of ugly brown patches where waste chemicals had been dumped.

The house was an old one, looking as if it were about to fall off the brick and concrete blocks it sat on, and badly weathered. No one had lived there for a very long time. The tin roof was rusty and peeled back in a couple of places. The top bricks were missing from the chimney, as was all the window glass. The missing window glass was a bonus for the meth cookers because the toxic fumes could escape more easily. If the Foshees were being careful, they had a few big fans blowing in the house to further help with the ventilation.

Rhodes looked all around, but he didn't see anyone watching. He looked over at Andy, who shook his head, so he didn't see anyone, either. There was no sign of any dogs so far, which Rhodes thought was a good sign. He'd expected the Foshees to be careless, and they were. They didn't have much of a reason for caution, being well off the road, and being well away from anywhere that someone would pass by and notice them, so they didn't bother with security.

One of the many problems with meth was how easy it was to make, and people like the Foshees could set up just about anywhere, including the trunk of a car. Making meth was dangerous, though, and it polluted the workspace so badly that any house where it was made usually had to be condemned. The best thing to do was to find some old place well away from anywhere and use that. They'd be less likely to be caught, and once they'd polluted that place so much that even they couldn't stand it, they could leave and find another old house that was equally deserted and equally well hidden.

The good news was that there wasn't a big meth problem in Blacklin County, not like some other counties in East Texas, where it was like a plague, involving whole generations of families. Rhodes didn't know how many generations of Foshees were mixed up in this operation, but he had a feeling he was about to find out.

He wasn't looking forward to it.

The circular clearing was about thirty yards in diameter, with the house in the middle. Stumps stuck up here and there in the clearing, none of them very big, and brush was stacked in a big pile off to one side. Rhodes didn't think the trees had been cut down too long ago, maybe a month at most. He figured the Foshees would be moving on to somewhere else soon. Or they would be if Rhodes and Andy didn't put a stop to their business.

Rhodes neared the edge of the trees. If there were dogs around, they'd be coming out soon. They might not smell anybody, but they'd sense the presence of strangers somehow. Dogs had a way of doing that, especially dogs in the employ of meth cookers.

When he'd gotten as close to the clearing as he thought he could without being seen, Rhodes crouched down. He looked over at Andy, who did the same. There was movement in the house, but no indication that whoever was inside knew that anyone was watching.

Rhodes waited until his knees started to bother him. He'd still seen no sign of any dogs. Maybe there weren't any. He stood up and took a step forward.

As soon as he did, three dogs surged from beneath the house, barking, showing their fangs, and running as fast as they could, straight toward him.

 

Chapter 15

The dogs were the kind called leopard hounds, though Rhodes knew they weren't really hounds. They were often trained to hunt feral hogs, which meant they were a popular breed in Blacklin County, one of many in the state being overrun by the wild porkers. It also meant that they could be trained to be very unfriendly to strangers, which Rhodes was. He didn't think they were inclined to make friends.

Halfway across the clearing, one of the dogs swerved off in Andy's direction. Andy glanced at Rhodes, who aimed his shotgun high above the dogs and pulled the trigger.

The buckshot didn't have much of a spread, and it wasn't much use beyond twenty yards. It rattled against the tin roof of the house.

Andy fired, too, and the noise of both guns was enough to give the dogs a reason to stop and look around. While they were stopped, Rhodes fired a slug into the ground in front of the two nearest him. Dirt flew up into their faces. The dogs didn't like that at all. They turned and ran. The third one turned and followed them. They scuttled back beneath the house.

Just as the dogs managed to hide themselves, two men burst out of the doorway. Both of them were armed with AR-15s with thirty-round magazines. Selling meth was quite profitable, so they could afford more firepower than the county. Rhodes had hoped they'd be armed with something small, like pistols. He'd also hoped they wouldn't be quite so prepared to start shooting. So much for hope.

Both men started bump-firing the rifles toward the trees. Rhodes was already on his stomach, and he hoped Andy was, too. He squirmed behind the thickest nearby tree and tried to make himself invisible. Bullets whizzed above him, clipping off tree branches right and left and filling the air with flying leaves.

It took only a second or two for thirty rounds to go through an AR-15 the way the Foshees were firing. They had to change magazines, and even though they could do that quickly, it gave Rhodes a chance to jump to his feet and run forward.

He fired a blast of buckshot in the direction of the porch. He didn't think it would disable anybody, but it would sting. He fired a slug that barely missed one of the men on the porch just before he slid down behind the Chrysler.

The AR-15s chattered again. Rhodes looked around as he slid shells into his shotgun. Andy was on the ground behind one of the pickups. Bullets clanged into the metal of the trucks and the car for a couple of seconds. Then it was quiet.

“This is Sheriff Dan Rhodes,” Rhodes called out. “Put down your weapons and give it up.”

The men answered with another volley.

Andy responded by hammering away with his Glock. Rhodes waited until the firing stopped. When it did, in the brief and total silence that followed, Rhodes heard something hit the wooden porch. That sound was followed by cursing. Either they were trying to fool Rhodes or they'd dropped one of the magazines. Rhodes bet on the drop, jumped up, and ran forward, firing the shotgun low, aiming for the men's legs.

One of the men fell off the porch. The other ducked back into the house.

Rhodes didn't think the man would be stupid enough to fire a gun inside an enclosed space where meth was being cooked. No matter how well ventilated the place was, an explosion was too great a risk.

“Cuff him, Andy,” Rhodes yelled as he passed the man on the ground.

Rhodes stopped when he reached the porch. He was in a bad position. If the man did risk firing, the bullets would rip right through the walls of the old house. If the house blew up, it wouldn't matter whether Rhodes was inside or standing where he was. He'd be in big trouble either way. So would the Foshees.

Rhodes thought about it for a second, and then he heard a squeal like unoiled hinges.

“Got the prisoner secured,” Andy said, coming up to stand beside Rhodes. He'd holstered the Glock and held the shotgun ready. “He's not going anywhere. How many more do you think there are?”

“Two, at least. Let's find out.”

“How will we do that?”

“Go around back,” Rhodes said, “and be careful. I have a feeling they're slipping out that way. You take the left side.”

Rhodes ran around the right side of the house. Sure enough, as he neared the back he saw two men running into the trees. Both had pistols, but neither was carrying an AR-15, so Rhodes figured they were out of magazines. That suited him just fine.

The old “stop or I'll shoot” trick most likely wouldn't stop them, so Rhodes blasted a slug over their heads. Andy did the same. Both of them pumped a fresh shell into the chambers of their shotguns as the spent ones were expelled.

The men ducked behind trees and hunkered down, ready to return fire, but the trees didn't conceal them very well. One of them fired a shot that went right over Rhodes's head. Rhodes thought he was close enough to hurt them with the double-aught buck, but not too badly, so he fired back at them. So did Andy.

Both men yelled. They were hit for sure, and Rhodes said, “Next shots are slugs. Anybody want to feel them?”

“Not me,” one of the men yelled. “I'm putting down my gun.”

“Let me see it,” Rhodes said.

The man held a revolver up, then put it on the ground.

“Earl's hit pretty bad,” the man said. “I'll get his gun, too.”

“Careful how you do it,” Rhodes told him.

The man moved to the tree where Earl was slumped and held up a pistol, which he then laid on the ground.

“That's all we got,” he said.

“It better be,” Rhodes said. “Are you Neil?”

“How'd you know that?”

“Lucky guess. Lie facedown. Tell Earl to do the same.”

“He's hurt pretty bad.”

Rhodes didn't believe it. “Just tell him. I'd hate to have to hurt him any worse.”

Neil said something to Earl and lay down. Earl rolled over on his side, then over on his stomach.

“Hands behind your backs,” Rhodes said, and Earl and Neil complied.

Rhodes and Andy walked forward with their shotguns aimed at the prisoners.

“You have enough cuffs?” Rhodes asked.

“Always carry four,” Andy said.

“Good. Neil and Earl, my deputy's going to cuff you. Hold still.”

The two men held still. Rhodes saw that Earl's right arm had taken a pretty good hit, but the bleeding had about stopped.

“I hope you two turned off your cooker before you left the house,” Rhodes said.

“Didn't have time,” Neil said as Andy cuffed him.