Saving Cecil (21 page)

I handed Chris another. “If you look at the clearing in this photo, you'll see it's very accessible to this small farm road, which connects to the state road not far from the service station where Butcher asked Bud to meet him. Of course, I haven't actually been to the clearing to see if there's a pen there. But if there is, it'd be my guess they'll station Bud somewhere nearby and let the hog go from there.”

One of the officers looked at Chris and said, “That's one of the clearings we'd already planned to stake out. There were a few others too. But, she's right, about the one near this cornfield probably being a waste of time.”

We were just about to finish our dessert when Chris's iPhone vibrated. Fortunately I can read upside down, which is helpful, being the nosy person I am. I just had time to read, “Henri calling” before he picked it up, checked the screen, and discretely put it in his pocket. I counted back to when they'd first met and was surprised to realize they were coming up on the two-week mark. Henri's usually bored by a man by then. Maybe that's what the call was for.

I gazed at Chris across the table. Lucky for him he was drop-dead gorgeous. He'd find someone else soon enough. Too bad, though; I kind of liked him.

While I was glad we were finally going to rid the farm of the dangers involved with an illegal hog-hunting operation, I still felt a little uncertain. I said, “Just to be sure I understand, Bud's to meet Butcher at the service station. Butcher is personally taking Bud to a hunting station—probably a tree stand—where he's highly likely to see a wild boar, a so-called sporting swine.”

“Not really my idea of sporting,” Bud said under his breath.

“Right,” Chris said. “Only once Bud gets on station and Butcher leaves, he calls us, returns to his car, and then
leaves
.” Chris said. “Soon as we see someone moving a hog or releasing it from a pen, an officer will move in.”

“Let's underscore the word,
leaves
,” said one of the officers. “We don't use civilians in takedowns and arrests where things could get dicey. In the long history of our branch of North Carolina law enforcement, there have only been two hunters killed. And before the last incident in 2009, it had been twenty-nine years without a tragedy, so we don't want to take any unnecessary risks.”

“And since you know where we'll likely be staked out, Ms. Cooper,” Chris added, using my surname for emphasis, “you know where not to be, too, right?”

“Right,” I said.

Following lunch, we all made our way to the parking lot. The wildlife officers went off in separate directions—in unmarked cars, I noticed—and Bud and I went to where we'd parked side by side.

“Where'd Chris go?” Bud asked. I looked around, thinking he'd been right behind us. “There,” I said, pointing discretely. The detective was standing on the café porch beside a fall display of dried corn stalks, pumpkins, and mums arranged artfully on a bale of straw. He was grinning foolishly, holding his iPhone to his ear, oblivious to the rest of the world.

“We need to pass on the information you uncovered about the Lauderbach's oldest boy being a compound bow hunter,” Bud said, moving in Chris's direction.

Touching Bud's arm, I said, “Just wait a sec. I think he's talking to Henri.”

“Really?” Bud said and stopped. “How do you know?”

“I have my ways. Thing is, he seems happy, and I'd have thought she would have kicked him to the curb by now.”

“Yeah. I'm surprised at that too.”

We were both staring at Chris when, seconds later, he looked up to see us. Ending his call abruptly, he came our way. “Anything else?” he asked upon reaching us. We told him about the feather clamp I'd seen in Junior's car and I explained how that was significant. “It means that he is a very serious bow hunter,” I said.

I noticed how intently Chris listened when I passed on my new knowledge of arrows and how their length had to correspond with the size of the hunter.

“We thought you should know,” Bud added.

Then I had a thought. “When you took statements from the Lauderbachs regarding Clinton, did you ask them if anyone in their family was a bow hunter?”

“Yes, I did, and they said no. There were some small boys in the house at the time and I met the daughter. She said she wasn't a hunter, either. When they told me they had another son, Junior, who was in school at State, I asked if he was a bow hunter and they all said no. In fact they acted like the notion was ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I said, the mom jeans and dorky shoes coming to mind.

“Why do you say that?”

“He's just not what I would describe as the outdoorsy type, that's all. I guess it just goes to show you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. What about the lead you were chasing, the creationist with a motive? How's that going?”

Totally ignoring my question, Chris turned to Bud. “You got a compound bow and quiver of arrows for tomorrow … the proper hunting attire?”

“Yep,” Bud said. “All set. I borrowed them from my friend, Dr. Newsom. We're about the same size. I gave him a plausible excuse as to why I couldn't use mine.”

“Okay then,” Chris said. “Remember. You won't see me until after everything is over tomorrow. Just go back to Raleigh. I'll get up with both of you in the evening. I'll be in Raleigh anyway and let you know how things went.” With that he gave us both a friendly wave, angled into his Crown Victoria, and left.

Watching him exit the parking lot, Bud said, “Have you heard from Henri lately?”

“No, not even any wedding questions. What about you?”

“No. Not a word. It's just like her though. If she's happy, you never hear from her. It's when her love life is in the toilet that she needs us and calls. I wonder if this means dashing Detective Bryant doesn't bore her to tears?”

I let out a deep sigh. “Give him time. It may take a bit longer than her usual two weeks, but he'll get there. See you at home later tonight?”

“No. I'm staying at my house so I can turn in early. I've got to be back over here at the crack of dawn. What's on for you for the rest of the day?”

“Not much now that my job on #1 is done. We'll be able to make some good estimates on production once fracking is completed. But if it's like other wells in the area, the Lauderbach's will be in fine shape to pay off their debts.”

“I'm glad for them. From what you told me, they seem like nice people.”

“Yes, they are, and to answer your question, I'm going to catch up on some paperwork, connect with Watson and find out how our associate search is coming, and flag the site for well number three. Then I'll head home.”

“Okay, I'll call you tomorrow after my starring role as Bud Cooper, big game hunter, is over.”

“Thanks for doing this for me, helping me get rid of the bad guys. I'll feel much safer.”

“No problem,” Bud grinned at me. “Watching after you is a dirty job, but someone's got to do it. Besides, I'll collect payment later.”

Back at the doghouse, I started to leave the door open so Tulip could go out. She rolled up on her elbows from the nap she'd been taking on the cot and hopped down. Then on second thought, I closed it. “Too many trucks barreling around out there, girl,” I said. “You might get squished. I'll take you with me when I flag Lauderbach #3.”

I had plenty of time to take care of this task, but the fog had lifted, the sun was out, and I needed to walk off the fattening lunch I'd just consumed. I felt ready to burst as I strapped on my Beretta. Pinching my sides, I was suddenly convinced the beginnings of a muffin top were trying to creep over my jeans.

I bustled about collecting what I'd need to flag the site, grabbed my canvas tote still packed with the same aerials I'd used to show Chris different sections of the farm, and headed for the great outdoors, Tulip in the lead.

TWENTY-TWO

If I were to
superimpose an equiangular triangle on the map of the Lauderbach Farm, which itself was shaped somewhat like one, there would be a well located in each corner. Subsequent wells would fall out toward the interior of the farm, keeping in mind the 160-acre drainage field needed for each one.

Number one had already been drilled in the northernmost corner. The site for number two in the southwest corner was now being prepped, and I was headed for the southeast corner to flag number three.

We crossed small creeks that fed off the larger Pocket Creek, fields with crops and pastures with milk cows. I'd been told that most of the pastures also contained a young bull and this gave me pause to check each one before crossing. There might be more different kinds of danger in the woods, but I'd learned how to protect myself from most of them. A raging bull, on the other hand. Not so much.

As we reached a large tract of woods, easily encompassing three hundred acres or more, I breathed a sigh of relief and began scouting along the edge, searching for a way in, such as a game trail or an old field terrace. Not finding anything, I unsheathed my machete from where it dangled from a loop on my canvas tote and began chopping my way toward an area that appeared less dense.

At intervals within sight of one another, I'd tie a marker of flagging tape to a tree. Presently, I reached the spot I was aiming for and the woods did indeed seem to open up, letting in more light. Then, using my compass, I chose a southeast coordinate and headed off in that direction, marking my trail with tape as I went. The site for Lauderbach #3 lay almost in the middle of this patch of woods.

When I'd covered about half the distance to the site area, I stopped to check my line. I wanted it to be as straight as possible so the crew and I could easily follow it again when the time came. I'd chosen my entry point at the edge of the woods based on the closest distance on a straight line to the site. The bulldozer operators who would cut a road to this site would appreciate my efforts. Often I'd have to change a path because of terrain, but so far, every
thing was looking good. No unexpected creeks or boggy areas.

Just when I thought everything was going according to my plan, I suddenly stepped out of the woods and onto a newly pushed road. The portion I could see ran almost dead north/south. “What the hell?” I said to Tulip who was already sniffing the tire tracks. “There's not supposed to be a road here,” I said, pulling out my year-old aerial and checking it against today's reality. “Nope, no road on here.” Tulip whined and gave me a curious look.

“Well, obviously it was cut fairly recently, at least after this aerial was made.” I was torn. While I needed to complete my task of flagging #3, I also wanted to see where the road went. The intrigue of the unmarked road won out and I decided to follow it so I could mark its course on my aerial for future use. I marked the point of exit from my southeast line with a piece of tape and pulled a pencil from my tote. “Come on, Tulip,” I said and struck off to the right, the southern part of the road, hoping it would intersect with open land first.

As we trekked along, Tulip kept her nose to the ground, sniffing constantly, more than she ever does in the woods. This was not a good sign. In my mind, it meant she might be picking up an unsettling scent. Like that of something being transported in a trailer?

A hog, perhaps?

I mocked myself for letting my imagination run wild, but 2,200 acres is a large piece of land. When it has been continuously owned by one family for generations, well, any number of things can be hidden on it, especially if the owners have gotten old or unable to stay watchful. Moreover, knowing what I knew about this farm, finding an unexpected road far removed from the working part of the dairy operation made me more than a little curious.

After about thirty minutes of st
eady walking, the road stopped where the woods met a vast field of corn stubble. I saw no sign of a road across it, although I did see what looked like tire tracks here and there. I turned and headed back the way I'd just come.When I reached the exit marker I'd left where my line intersected with the road, I debated whether to continue on and find where the road came out on the other side of the woods or tur
n southeast and plant my site marker flag. I decided to plant the flag first, then I wouldn't have to come back. After all, it was after three thirty and this time of the year it got dark early.

I picked up my southeast coordinate and marched to a clearing where I tied three ribbons of flagging tape like stripes around a nice, straight tree, and wrote “Lauderbach #3” in indelible marker on the middle one. Then I headed back to connect with the road and follow it.

In walking the northern component of the road, I got the feeling it was used recently, although not often. The weeds that grew in the center were mature, but they were flattened in places. Moreover, where humps existed, they had been scraped away altogether, exposing the red, gravelly earth. This end of the road wasn't nearly as straight as the one I'd just walked and probably wouldn't be suitable for use by the site crew. Still, I marched on. I just wanted to see where it came out.

As the road took an abrupt left turn, Tulip, a few feet ahead of me, stopped and backed a few steps. Then she turned and trotted toward me, her ears cocked back in a wary manner. Ahead of me, half-hidden in a thick stand of young pines was a small wooden shed. I chirped and pulled Tulip with me into the brush at the side of the road, where I could watch and listen.

No vehicles were present and no sounds emanated from the shed, which looked like the pre-built kind they sell at Lowes. There was no marijuana growing around it and I didn't see any signs of a moonshine operation, so I cautiously approached.

Upon closer inspection, what stood out was the fact that whoever drug it here wasn't very competent. For one thing, red clay from the road still clung to the bottom edge of the back of the building. I pictured it teetering on a too-small trailer. For another, it was sitting directly on the ground. Insects and the humid conditions in this part of the world would make short work of it.

I opened the double doors to have a look-see inside and saw a chilling sight. Red clay footprints on the bare plywood floor bore the same NB imprint I'd seen in photos Jackie had made of footprints found at the well when it was sabotaged.

I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the dimmer light, and laid my canvas tote on one of the wide wooden shelves that occupied both sides of the twelve-foot-long shed. A rustic workbench had been sloppily nailed against the back wall. Two NC State beanbag chairs, both with cigarette holes, were stowed in a corner. I sniffed the air.

There might not be marijuana growing outside, but there had damn sure been plenty smoked in here. I was getting the distinct feeling that this shed was being used by kids as a “grass shack.”

I moved to the shelf on the right and poked through the junk scattered there, looking for clues to identify the potheads. All I found was a few porn magazines, empty drink bottles, snack bags, and candy wrappers. There were also two hurricane lamps, matches, and a variety of marijuana pipes. Prizing open an old coffee tin, I found a sandwich bag of grass and a couple of doobies. Apparently these kids had access to money.

Moving to the shelf on the other side, my anxiety meter suddenly pegged the red line. Now, I've spent a lot of time in quarries and learned a thing or two about blasting and explosives. I definitely knew visco fuse, a slow-burning fuse commonly used by pyrotechnic engineers, and det cord, a high-speed explosive fuse, when I saw them. Also—and maybe I've seen too many episodes of
Burn Notice
—but several dissembled cell phones, some hobby shop wire, sawed-off pipes, and empty containers of smokeless gun powder screamed only one thing to me: bomb! These creeps—no longer did I think of them as kids—had made a bomb.

My first thought. Call the law. Gas wells and bombs don't mix. I jerked my iPhone from my pocket, then saw I had no signal. Thinking maybe the shed was blocking the signal, I spun around to step outside but when I got to the doorway, the door slammed shut in my face!

Since there was no window, my world went from light to pitch black. Dumbstruck, I heard a brief fumble with the bolt latch, then a clack as someone rammed it into place. “Hey!” I yelled, pounding on the door. Then I heard Tulip growling—snarling, more precisely—some scuffling noises, a smacking sound, and one startled yelp from her.

I went ballistic, pounding and beating on the door until I heard what sounded like a car door opening, then nothing for a few seconds, then the worst sound I've ever heard. The sound of someone nailing the door closed.

I continued to beat on the latched door and hurl insults at the parentage of whoever was out there, until the hammering stopped and I realized I was hollering to no one. Silence enveloped me. Several minutes went by and all I could think of was Tulip. Fearing the worst, I called out to her.

Within seconds I heard snuffling and whimpering at the bottom edge of the
door. Relief washed over me. “Tulip!” I said. “Don't worry, girl, I'll get out of here in a jiffy.” I heard her whine again and lean back against the door. She was sitting guard. I turned back to face the in
terior and tried to feel my way to the
right-hand shelf. I needed to remedy the light situation right away.

I felt around until I found the matches and one of the hurricane lamps. After a bit of fumbling, the interior of t
he shed bloomed into view. I tr
ied my iPhone again. Still no signal. Either the shed was hampering the signal or I was too far from a tower … or maybe both. I pulled out a beanbag and flopped down to take stock of my plight.

I was miles back in the woods of North Carolina and no one knew where I was … except Bud. He knew! Sort of. I tried to replay our conversation with Chris and the wildlife officers after our lunch, remembering I'd told him I'd be flagging Lauderbach #3 before I came home. That's when it dawned on me that he wouldn't miss me because he wasn't coming home. He'd said he was staying at his house since he had such an early start tomorrow.
Well, damn!
At least when he did notice I was missing, he'd have some information to work with.

I tried to quell my panic when I though of how long that would take and I already had to pee. Bad! I had to get out of here. If all else failed, I had my Beretta 380, my baby nine. That would be a last resort for obvious reasons, ricocheting bullets hitting me or Tulip outside. Also, I didn't want to use bullets I might need later. After all, the jerk or jerks who locked me in here weren't very nice and might need a baby nine lesson before this evening was all said and done.

I pulled the little gun from its holster and checked the clip. It was full and I had one in the chamber, so thirteen in all. Then I tried to think of other explanations as to why someone would make a bomb except to destroy the well.

Terrorism was the only other reas
on I could come up with but that wasn't logical. The woods of North Carolina aren't exactly known as a hotbed of fundamentalist radicals. No. It made more sense that the bomb was meant for the well. We'd already been subjected to a sabotage attempt. I was convinced of that. By
someone who wore New Balance tennis shoes. Seemed obvious to me that someone, not being able to stop the well from being drilled, was now determined to stop it from producing.

It's impossible to get into the mind of anyone insane enough to build a bomb with the intention of harming people or the economy, so the why wasn't important right now. What was important was that at this critical time, when the well was fitted with only a temporary cap, it was at its most vulnerable. Twenty thousand pounds per square inch of pressure was sitting right out in the open with only a chain-link fence around it. In a few days, the well would have a six-foot-tall piece of equipment called a Christmas tree fitted onto the casing and a sturdy enclosure built around it.

If a bomb were to go off now … well, what came to mind was old films of the Devil's Cigarette Lighter—the natural gas well fire that burned out of control for six months back in 1961 and could be seen from outer space. We'd definitely be wishing firefighter, Red Adair, was still alive.

Mental images of raging gas wells sprang to mind. I got up and frantically searched the shed again, hoping to find something I could use to get myself out of the creepy little space and go for help. After thirty minutes of sifting through everything, I was as disappointed by what I didn't find as what I did.

I did find a small package of hobby-grade gunpowder—primarily used in making rockets. What I didn't find was any more fuel for the lamps. I checked each of them. At most there was a few hours of fuel left in them.

What I desperately needed was a tool of some type that I could use to prize open the door, but I didn't find any. No claw hammer, no crowbar. Even if I could have pulled up the floor, I'd still have needed a shovel to dig my way out since the damn thing was sitting flush with the ground. There was a small amount of space where roof and rafters met and though one of the sections of pipe was about three feet long, it wasn't stout enough to use as a pry bar. Moreover, strong as I am, I seriously doubted that I could prize the roof away from the rafters.

I did solve the potty problem with an empty plastic drink bottle. Exhausted and suffering a raging headache from breathing unventilated air laden with smoke and fumes from the hurricane lamp, I shut off the lamp.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see all the cracks in the shed, lit from the outside by the bright light of a full moon. I curled up on the bean bags in the back corner for a short nap but couldn't get comfortable, so I got up, unstrapped my Beretta, and stuffed it in my tote bag.

Before I closed my eyes, I called Tulip through a quarter-inch crack between the floor and the wall until I heard her sniffing back at me. We commiserated until I dozed off.