Saving Cecil (20 page)

I felt sorry for them all over again. At least by that time they wouldn't have bankruptcy looming. I was sifting through my last sample, searching for just the right chip to place on the microscope stage when Overmire chimed in on my iPhone.

“You saved me a call,” I said. “I need to talk to you about the new location you chose for Lauderbach #2.”

“Is there a problem?” growled Overmire. He had one of those gravely voices indicative of a lifelong smoker. “Between the two locations, I like the seismic on this one better. All except for the topography above ground, that is.”

“Well, that's what I thought I'd mention,” I said, still not wanting to reveal the real reason—Cecil—for keeping the first location. “I've been over the seismic again as well, and I agree, your second choice offers a somewhat higher potential of success, however, the difference is scant. Considering the fact that your clients, the Lauderbachs, are looking at bankruptcy if #1 doesn't come in … ”

“That's not happening is it?” he croaked. “Samples are still looking good aren't they? Gas shows in all the samples now—”

“Yes!” I cut him off before he had a heart attack. “You misunderstand. I'm simply saying that they've got everything riding on this first well to pull them out of debt and finance the other wells. Therefore, it would be best if we choose the second site with the least possible capital expenditures in mind. If we go back to your first choice, in the middle of a totally flat cornfield, we're way ahead on the cost of site prep.”

On the other end, Overmire wasn't saying anything, but I could hear the sound of shuffling paper. “Okay,” he said, amicably enough. “I don't have a problem with that. So you're saying once we get #1 set up, we could move right over there?”

“I drove by it yesterday and they haven't harvested it yet, but they could anytime. The corn is plenty dry. I'll check with the Mr. Lauderbach right now and get back with you.”

“Good deal,” Overmire said. “There's enough acreage on that one farm to sink at least seven wells, considering the 160-acre drainage area required for each. Anything that'll help us move along more efficiently is fine by me.”

Feeling good about dodging another bullet regarding Cecil, I whistled for Tulip and set out for my second visit that day with the Lauderbachs.

I parked the Hummer and was heading to the front door when, once again, movement through a gap in the foundation shrubbery caught my eye. I stopped and watched Junior step out of the same outbuilding I'd spotted Ruby leaving two weeks ago.

He slung a knapsack over his shoulder and walked briskly toward the pond. I watched until he descended the earthen dam on the opposite side and disappeared from view.

Curious. For a building no longer in use, a home for rats and bats, that old chicken house certainly got its share of activity. What really stood out was Junior's body language. He appeared just as suspicious as Ruby had that day. And where was he going on foot on a 2200-acre farm? Now days, most young people expect some type of wheels to carry them wherever they go.

Double curious.

I continued to the house and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, I was disappointed. Though Luther, as farm manager, probably made decisions regarding when to harvest crops, I'd have preferred to ask Arthur. With limited time, Luther would have to do.

I found him in a yearling lot behind one of the smaller barns. He was standing in the bed of his pickup along with several bales
of alfalfa hay. “Hey there, Miz Cooper,” he said with a friendly smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I was looking for Mr. Lauderbach, regarding getting one of the cornfields cut—”

“I handle the cutting and picking schedules,” he said.

“Then I've come to the right man,” I said and gave him the location of Lauderbach #2 and explained why I needed it cut.

“Be glad to!” Luther said, astonishment plain on his face. “Truth be told, I was a little skeptical about the boss being able to pump gas outta the ground and make enough money to put the farm back right and here you are, ready to drill a second one.”

“It's happening around here more and more every year,” I said, leaning against the rear fender of the truck.

“Oh yeah, I hear about it on the local news and read about it in our little paper, but until it actually happens, it just seems like a fairy tale. I'm glad for the boss. He deserves a break. He and the missus have had a right tough time of it here lately …” Luther's voice trailed off as he patted his pockets.

“Lose something?”

“I think I left my knife in the cab,” he said. “You mind looking? Try the dash. Or, it might be on the seat.”

“Sure,” I said, seeing it immediately upon opening the door. It was identical to the knife the kid had in the barn the day I spoke to the Lauderbachs about the hog operation. Same hooked blade, same serrated edge on the top. I handed it to Luther.

“Thanks,” he said. “I swear. I buy more of these knives than any piece of equipment on the farm. The kids use them, you see. They put them down, then forget where. I have to keep mine with me or they'll get it too.” He chuckled and sliced through the hay twine holding the bale together, then shoved it over the side where it scattered on the ground.

“I'll let you get back to work,” I said, resisting the urge to make a remark to the effect that I hadn't fainted lately or seen any imaginary wild boars. Better to let him think I'd forgotten all about the incident.

“Don't you worry none about that corn being in the way. We'll start tomorrow and have it done for you by Monday lunch. That be good?”

“Perfect,” I said and returned to the Hummer. I gave Tulip a pull on the ears when I got in. She was in her favorite spot, front seat shotgun. “Ready to slobber on the window?” She gave me a good old dear hound grin and wagged her tail. “Alrighty then, let's go home.”

TWENTY-ONE

Sunday and Monday flew
by with little variation either in the weather or in the level of activity at the well. Immense fracking trucks had arrived in preparation for that phase of the operation. Bulldozers, front-end loaders, and other equipment used to level the ground and dig pits for Lauderbach #2 had been moved to the cornfield, which Luther, true to his word, had picked and cleared. The site-prep crew would start work there Tuesday morning.

Since the junk-down-the-hole incident had precipitated a c
hange in the drill plan to accommodate the new kickoff point, I wanted to be sure our projection for running the horizontal part of the well in the horizon where the gas content was highest was correct. The test had gone well. We were right where we wanted to be.

Both days, from early morning until evening, I was on site, running tests on the samples as they came up. An anxious Overmire called often during those days to check test results, including my favorite, the vitrinite reflectance test.

The reason I favor one test over the others is because this one always kicks my imagination into hyper-drive. When I immerse a tiny crushed sample of the Cumnock shale in oil and gently lay the slide under my microscope, the grains of vitrinite, once woody plant material, reflect the light. I use the percentage reflected, not only to measure the amount of hydrocarbon present, but its maturity.

Invariably, the
shiny irregular shapes of vitrinite evoke images of a lush land long gone. When the tiny pieces of compressed wood tissue—seen as the shiny streaks in coal—and flattened plant spoors, gleam up
at me, I can all but see the vast lakes and swamps that existed in this very spot 250 million years ago.

No matter how many times I do it, it's still mind-boggling that by using this simple test, I can prove definitively what the environment was like in a certain spot millions of years ago. I can know the temperature, what kind of plants and animals existed, even what the atmosphere was like. The truth is important to me. I wished there was a test I could run to find out who killed Clinton Baker that was as simple as this one.

By six-thirty Monday evening it was obvious I wasn't going to get home in time to cook the romantic dinner for two I'd been thinking about all day. Still, I was famished, tired, and ready to call it a day, so I gave Bud a ring to let him know I'd be late and for him to go ahead and eat.

“No problem, babe,” he said. “Tell you what. I need to get some new jeans. Why don't we meet at that Italian bistro on the upper parking deck at Crabtree Mall? You know the one I mean?”

“The Brio Tuscan Grill?”

“Yes. That's the one. We'll have a late supper, and if there's time we can pick up some jeans for me.”

“That's a great idea,” I said, checking my watch. “I need to make a few purchases myself. I'll meet you there at seven-thirty.”

The baked chicken at the Brio was as delicious as always, and afterward we did some shopping inside the mall. We were strolling along, holding our shopping bags and window shopping when I saw something that caught my attention. I'd seen one just like it on the seat in Junior Lauderbach's car and now I thought I remembered what it was.

Stepping back to see the store name above the window, I realized I was looking at hunting and outdoor camping equipment. I pointed out the piece of equipment to Bud. “Do you know what that is?” I asked.

Bud studied it quizzically, then said, “I give up. What is it?”

“I think I do, but I want to be sure,” I said. “Because if it is what I think it is, it casts a new light on things.” We entered the store only fifteen minutes before their closing time so few shoppers remained. I grabbed the first salesperson I could find, a young man with acne and enough dandruff flakes sprinkling his shoulders to qualify as a display for skiing equipment. “Hi,” I said. “I'm wondering if you could identify a piece of equipment in your window. I'd like to know the proper name for it.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said as he followed me.

“That,” I said, pointing to the aluminum object. Flakes looked at the object and I could tell immediately that he didn't have a clue what it was either. “Uh,” he said. “I'll have to ask someone. I'll be right back.” Ten minutes later, when he still hadn't returned, I began to worry the store would close before I had my answer. “Great!” I fumed. “I had to pick the only person in the whole store that didn't know what in the heck that thing is.”

“Relax, babe,” Bud said returning from the interior of the store. “I saw one just like it in a case in the back and the guy manning the counter looks to be about ready to wrap things up with his customer. Let's go ask him.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll be awake all night wanting to know for sure if I'm right.”

Just as Bud predicted, the salesman, who had a large purple nose, the kind you can only get by drinking gallon-sized cocktails, was free. “Pardon me, sir,” I asked him, pointing out the odd device in his case. “Could you please tell me what this is?”

Booze Nose leaned over the glass counter to look where I pointed. “That's a Bitzenburger fletching jig,” he said. “A left-handed one. Could I take it out for you? It'd make a nice Christmas present. The holidays will be here before you know it.”

“No,” I said, positive now that I remembered where else I'd seen one like it. “That won't be necessary. This is a tool used by bow hunters who want to customize their arrows, right?”

Booze
Nose shrugged. “Or just save money by making their own. Some of the guys even prefer to make their arrows in the more traditional way. Not like the mass-produced ones.” Despite my saying it wasn't necessary, he removed the jig and sat it on the counter so he could demonstrate as he talked. “This little piece of equipment is ac
tually a clamp,” he continued. “Once your arrow is cut to the exact length for your arm … ”

“Wait,” I said. “Arrows have to be … sized … to fit your arm length?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Say, for instance, your arm length measured 29 inches. You'd buy arrows 33 inches long and cut them to
31 inches. The arrow has to be two inches longer than your arm. Then, say you wanted to get fancy. You'd buy arrows without fletchings … ” He paused, looking at my furrowed brow, and pointed in the case to the colorful feathers at the slotted end of an arrow and explained, “The feathers on the nocked end of the arrow.”

“I see,” I said.

“And that's what this tool is for. It holds the feathers in place on the arrow while the glue dries. Then, you custom-wrap the fletching with sinew or synthetic twine. The twine is what actually holds the fletching in place. Most of the fellas who make their own arrows have a special way of wrapping theirs so they stand out from anyone else's.”

Bud and I thanked him and left. “Why were you so interested in that jig?” Bud asked.

“Because I saw one in the back of Arthur Lauderbach's oldest son's car. And, though I couldn't remember for sure what it was, I knew I'd seen one somewhere. After Booz … I mean, that nice salesman told us what it was, I remembered that a well-driller friend of my dad had one. I saw it in his shop not long ago and he told me what it was, but, it's not an everyday object so it slipped my mind.”

“That's not good,” Bud said, his expression growing serious.

“What? You think I've come into my dotage at an early age?”

“No,” Bud laughed. “It's not good that the eldest son of the Lauderbach tribe is into compound bow hunting and an old friend of the family, his sister's best friend in fact, was killed with an arrow.”

“Yes, well, there's that to be worried about too.” I said. “But, to be accurate, Clinton was killed by a stab wound to the belly that caused him to bleed out. And that's something else that's been nipping at the back of my brain.”

“What?”

“I don't know. That's the problem. It's just that every time I think of him being stabbed to death, I feel I'm missing an important … clue or … I'm failing to connect the dots somehow. One thing's for sure. We need to tell Chris about this.”

“We'll do it tomorrow. He wants to introduce me to the wildlife officers who will be working with him to catch the hog operators in action.”

“When and where are you meeting him?”

“Besides somewhere in Lee County, I'm not sure. I'll call you when he lets me know.”

Tuesday was a foggy, cool day. The horizontal run had been completed, and the pipe and bit were withdrawn from the wellbore for the last time. Technically, that meant my job at this well was completed. Once the production casing had been set and cemented, Jackie and his crew would take down the rig and move to the next wellsite and the perforation and frack crew would go to work.

It would be another couple of days before the crew would move the doghouse to Lauderbach #2 and I was content, even with the extreme noises created by the fracking trucks as they arrived on site, to stay put and use it as my base. They wouldn't start the actual process for a few days, but the low-frequency noises of their massive diesel engines so close to me could cause a headache. Still, as long as I kept the doors closed and my industrial-grade, noise-canceling headphones on, it was a great place to go over Overmire's orders for new site locations and write up my reports.

Standing in front of the aerial of the farm, studying the location Overmire had picked for Lauderbach #3, I felt my iPhone vibrate in the back pocket of my jeans. It was Bud. “Hey, hold on a minute,” I said, removing my headphones. “Okay, What's up?”

“I'm headed your way.”

“I take it Chris got up with you,” I said.

“Yes, he did. In fact, I'm following him now. We're headed to a café to meet with a couple of wildlife officers. Are you still planning to join us?”

“Definitely,” I said. “It's not that I think Chris would put you in danger, it's just that I'd feel better hearing what the plans are. What's the name of the café where you're meeting?”

“The Spring Chicken. Chris says you know where it is.”

“I do,” I said. “I'll meet you there.”

As I was the last to arrive at the restaurant, Wilma had already seated Bud, Chris, and two wildlife enforcement officers and taken their orders. They were laughing about some type of shooting contest in which Chris had apparently won more than his share and been jokingly referred to as a “ringer.”

The men stood at my arrival and Bud, who'd ordered for me, pulled out my chair. Chris introduced me to the wildlife officers. Before sitting, I shook hands with each man, noting that their appearance matched my expectations.

They were fit, outdoorsy types wearing crisp bro
wn uniforms and field boots. One looked to be in his mid-twenties and the other a little older, maybe late thirties. Their ball caps, bearing the Wildlife Resources Commission logo, hung politely from the backs of their chairs. Each was outfitted with a hip holste
r encasing a .357 SIG Sauer pistol, a shoulder-mounted radio, and a collapsible baton.

As I took my seat, I said to Chris, “Did I hear these guys say you're a crack shot?”

Chris flushed a little and grinned as the two exclaimed over his prowess at a local turkey shoot the night before. “I wouldn't have a clue how to cook one so I always give my birds to the Baptist church for a feed they put on at Thanksgiving. But, enough of that, let's get down to business,” he said, taking his seat. “I've already explained to Bud that he'll be part of our operation but only in a very limited capacity.”

“Right,” said the older of the two wildlife officers. “All we need to do is catch someone moving a wild hog from one location to another on the property or confining it in an enclosed pen. Those two things are illegal in the state of North Carolina. Shooting the hog with a gun or a bow is not. Point is, there's no need for him to be involved except to let the hunt organizer put him on station. More than likely, that'll be a tree stand. We'll have the pens staked out. We have a good idea of where they are.”

Wilma brought our orders—chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, and green beans cooked with fatback. I gave Bud an incredulous glance. He gave me a “what?” look. Leaning over to him, I whispered, “If my gown doesn't fit, it's your fault.” He smiled and gave me a pat on the knee.

We all dug in and the younger of the two officers washed down a mouthful of cornbread with his tea and said, “We certainly appreciate you bringing this activity to our attention, Miz Cooper. You know, some states allow so-called ‘sporting swine' to be relocated on a piece of property, but North Carolina does not. In fact, feral swine are considered a non-game species in this state.”

His buddy said, “The only thing you can do to a feral swine in this state is kill it by gun or bow or trap it, but you have to have a permit for that. We've made a thorough search and no one with authority on the Lauderbach farm has applied for such a permit.”

“I've looked at the laws too,” Chris said. “And as far as captive hog facilities being allowed in our state, the Wild Hog Working Group says that the state doesn't offer a permit to run such a facility. But, they do have some nebulous wording under the law to the effect that, if a landowner has some type of facility that wild hogs ‘just happen to be in,' then hunting would be legal there. This is why we have to catch these guys in the act of breaking the law where it is clear-cut, by actually moving a feral swine from one place to another on the farm.”

“I can help you there,” I said and stopped eating long enough to reach in my canvas tote for a set of 8 x 10 photocopies of the farm aerials. I handed the top one, showing the location of Lauderbach #2, to Chris. “We've just moved the site prep crew to this cornfield. I think that means that the hunt organizer would want to steer clear of this area.” Each man looked at the photo as it was passed around.