The Archer [Book 13 of the Hawkman Series] (3 page)

The noise of the television ceased in a matter of seconds, and Laura returned, dragging Mr. King by the hand. Hawkman concluded the man had seen much of the outdoors with his sun-leathered skin. His eyes sparkled a light blue, and he'd maintained a set of shoulders and biceps from years of toil.

"Mom and Dad, I want you to meet Mr. Tom Casey, a private investigator. Mr. Casey,” she motioned toward her mother, “Violet King,” and then to her father, “Oliver King."

Hawkman extended his hand. “My pleasure."

"Call me Olly,” Mr. King said.

Hawkman nodded, as he felt the strong grip of the farmer's hand. Both parents then turned and gave Laura a questioning glance.

"Sit down and I'll explain why Mr. Casey is here,” she said.

Laura's parents took the couch, and Hawkman settled onto a tall straight back chair facing the couple.

Mr. King suddenly pointed a finger at Hawkman. “I know who you are. You're the man they call ‘Hawkman'. You retired from the Agency, married that cute little widow who writes mystery novels, then started your private investigating practice in Medford."

Hawkman smiled. “You're right."

"How in the world did you run into our Laura?"

"I'm going to let her tell you the story."

The young woman lowered herself onto an ottoman in front of her parents and proceeded to tell them her tale. After many gasps from her mother, and frowning contortions from her father, Laura finally ended her dramatic story with the frantic call she'd made to Mr. Casey earlier.

"Oh, my dear child, why didn't you tell us about those horrible calls?” Mrs. King said with tears in her eyes. “How terrible to suffer such a thing alone."

Laura bowed her head. “I thought you might think I'd done something bad to warrant them."

"Nonsense,” her father said. “We know you better than that. There are lots of weird people in this world. We see them every day on the news. An innocent bystander can get a bullet through his chest, if he's at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Laura reached over and took a hand of each parent. “Thank you for being so understanding. Mr. Casey told me you'd be, but he had to persuade me to bring him out here to meet you."

Olly glanced at Hawkman. “I'll pay you to help my little girl. We've got to find out who's harassing her and put him behind bars."

Hawkman raised a hand. “This deal is between Laura and me. I've already told her she doesn't have to pay me a thing. I don't like to see women taken advantage of and am willing to do what I can to find the scoundrel."

"What can we do to help?"

"I have questions that I need to ask and hope you have a few answers."

"Shoot,” Olly said.

"You have a pretty good spread, and I doubt you take care of it by yourself. Do you have hired hands?"

"Sure do."

"I'd like a list of the names of your regular men. Also anyone you've hired part-time or had to fire within the last year. I'd also like to know the color, and makes of all their vehicles, plus license plate numbers if you can."

"I can have it for you by tomorrow."

"That will be a great start,” Hawkman said.

He turned his attention to Laura. “I'd like you to make a list of your male acquaintances from school, and anyone you notice watching you. I also want to get your cell phone number so I can keep in touch."

Laura quickly rose and went into the other room. She returned carrying a sheet of paper and handed it to Hawkman. “Here's my number, along with our home phone, also Mom's and Dad's cells."

"Good, this will help immensely.” He then spoke to Violet. “Mrs. King, I know this whole thing scares you, but do not change your way of doing things. If you want Laura to stop by the grocery store, have her do it. We don't want to vary in the way she goes about her day. If so, it may raise suspicion and our culprit may find another way to frighten Laura. Right now, we can hopefully control it, and keep him at bay."

"But he might do her physical harm,” Violet said, her eyes wide. “Sometimes it's almost dark when Laura comes home."

Hawkman raised a hand. “Those are the times we keep in close contact with her, and keep notes on her whereabouts. As far as we know, this man has never gotten close enough for Laura to even spot what type of vehicle he's driving. I'm sure he doesn't have the nerve to approach her yet, but that can change. So we want to move quickly."

Olly rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't even want her to leave the house now. I sure don't like the idea he's threatened Violet too."

"I figure that's a scare tactic. If you have men working around this house, there's no way he'd take the chance of approaching your wife. By the way, don't tell your hired workers what's going on until I've talked to them. I'm sure they're innocent, but I want to check them out. I'll do that soon, so we can clear them; then we can ask them to watch for any strangers who might come to the house, especially if you're not here."

"A couple of my men have been with me for years, and we've never spoke a harsh word between us. They're honest and hard working. Don't you think I could confide in them?"

Hawkman looked at him. “How many years?"

Olly looked up at the ceiling and closed one eye. “Ed Fowler has been with me about twenty years. His wife, Sofia has helped Violet in the house on several occasions. Then Clay Hicks for at least fifteen years. After he lost his wife, Edna, he needed a friend and has been with me ever since. Both men live on the property. There's a couple of small cottages over the hill at the back of the house. You can't see their places from the road."

"They sound very loyal, but I'd still like to speak to them first."

Olly waved a hand and shook his head. “Okay, you know your business better than me. When would you like to talk to them?"

"As soon as possible."

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The two men walked outside and proceeded toward a lean-to affixed to the side of the barn where a dark brown Ford F150 was parked under the shelter. Olly gestured for Hawkman to get into the passenger side.

"Are the men in the field right now?” Hawkman asked, as he strapped on the seat belt.

Olly checked his wristwatch. “Hard to say. It's late in the afternoon and not a lot going on right now, except milking later in the evening and keeping an eye on the livestock. We'll drive by their places and check first."

"So you don't have any extra hands working right now?"

He shook his head. “No, just Ed and Clay; they can handle the chores for a couple of months before it's time to plant the crops".

Hawkman pointed out the window as they bounced along a dirt road. “I see you have a few head of cattle."

"Yeah, used to have a much larger herd; sold them off a couple of years ago. I have a good bull, some milk cows, a few steers and calves I market. So many regulations it doesn't pay a small farmer like myself to keep a big herd. We're doing fine. I make enough money off the crops to pay my men and keep the family clothed and fed."

"You have an impressive spread,” Hawkman said as they drove over the small crest into a beautiful valley where a stream cut into the property. He spotted two cottages nestled under a thick grove of trees directly in front of them. The larger of the two had a white picket fence surrounding the yard.

Olly pulled up in front of the larger home and parked. “Looks like Ed is in.” He pointed to the side of the property. “That's his pickup."

The two men sauntered up to the front. A big black lab dashed around the corner of the house barking, then went straight to Olly, wagging his tail.

"Hi there, Ranger. You being a good dog?” he asked, pulling a treat from his pocket and giving the animal a pat on the head.

The canine sniffed at Hawkman, then retreated to the shade of the trees, lay down and munched on the hard biscuit.

Before they reached the entry, a tall skinny man, dressed in boots, jeans, work shirt and a straw cowboy hat perched on his head, stepped out the front door.

"Hi, Olly, who's your friend?"

"This here's Tom Casey. Mr. Casey, this is Ed Fowler."

"Howdy, Mr. Casey."

Hawkman held out his hand and as they shook, he noticed the firm grip and rough skin of a hard working man.

Ed squinted. “Man, you look familiar. Do I know ya?"

"I have an office in town. I'm a private investigator."

Throwing up his hands in front of him, he stepped back. “Whoa, why does Olly need an investigator?"

"Nothing you need to worry about,” Olly said. “He just wants to ask some questions."

Ed snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. You're the guy from the Agency. The townspeople call you the name of a bird.” He rubbed his chin. “Danged, right off the top of my head, can't remember what kind."

"Hawk,” Olly interjected.

Ed pointed a long skinny finger at him. “That's it. Hawkman.” He hooked his thumbs under the silver belt buckle in the shape of a bucking bronco at his waist and stared at Hawkman. “What's this all about."

Hawkman folded his arms across his chest and straddled his legs. “A young woman is being harassed and we feel it's a hired hand from one of the ranches in the area. Just wondered if you'd heard men bragging about messing with a gal?"

Ed scratched the back of his head. “We don't have no extra hands right now, and I don't go to the bars where you might hear that type of talk. So I can honestly say I haven't heard a thing. Now you might ask Clay. He does hit the night spots every now and then, and might be able to help you out."

"Is he home?” Hawkman asked.

Ed walked to the fence line, leaned over, and looked toward the back. “Yeah, his pickup's there behind the house."

"Thanks, Ed. If anything comes up, give me a call.” Hawkman handed him one of his cards."

"Will do."

When Olly and Hawkman left the yard through the gate, Ed had to whistle for Ranger not to follow.

The men walked down a pathway toward Clay Hicks’ place, which sat back about half a block from Fowler's. Both properties were well kept, with good paint jobs, trimmed hedges and cut lawns. Even though no fence surrounded the smaller cottage, it appeared neat, with a brick border around the grass.

The sun had dropped behind some hills and Hawkman noticed a light shining through the crack in the curtains. Approaching the front door, he could hear the television. Olly knocked, then rocked back and forth on his booted feet, as they waited.

When the door opened, a short man close to fifty years, with mussed thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and dressed very similar to Ed, frowned. “Olly. Something wrong in the field?"

King raised a hand. “Nothing I know about. Just brought a friend over for you to meet.” He gestured toward Hawkman. “This here's Tom Casey. Mr. Casey, this is Clay Hicks."

When Hawkman gripped the man's hand, he had the same feeling as he did with Fowler's, a man who was strong and knew hard labor. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hicks."

"Call me, Clay. I don't handle that Mister stuff well."

Hawkman smiled. “Very well, Clay it is."

"Come in."

Clay opened the door wide, then quickly picked up clutter off the gently used couch and chairs in the small living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you a beer?"

"Sounds good,” Olly said.

Hawkman sat on an overstuffed chair while Olly took a seat on the sofa. Soon, Clay came into the room with three cold bottled beers. “Anyone want a glass?"

"No, thanks, this is fine,” Hawkman said.

Clay took a seat on the opposite corner of the couch and glanced at Olly in puzzlement.

"Mr. Casey is a private investigator and is asking questions of some of the ranchers."

Clay's back straightened. “Is there a problem?"

"It's been reported a young woman is being harassed by some local hired hand,” Hawkman said. “Just wanted to know if you've heard anything?"

"What's the guy look like? Clay asked.

"She's never seen him; he calls her on the cell phone and says vulgar things."

"How do you know he's a worker on one of the ranches?"

"We really don't know. A farm girl made the complaint, and it seemed like the best place to start. Just wondered if you'd heard anyone bragging about it? Sometimes, guys tend to gloat over such things."

"I know you drop by Red's sometimes to have a beer; have you heard any tales?” Olly asked.

"Did this just happen lately?"

Olly nodded.

"Haven't seen many new faces around. Now, during harvest it's a different story; but right now there's just the old timers and they're all too cranky to even think about young girls. This sounds more like a young man's prank. None of these old codgers even know how to use a cell phone."

Hawkman leaned forward and put an elbow on his knee; holding his beer in one hand, he pointed with the other. “I see you have one on that table over there."

"Olly gave Ed and me one to use out in the field. They've been a big help. Saved us miles of walking time looking for a downed cow. I push a memory button and can contact Ed or Olly in a second. I wouldn't know how to use one for any other reason."

"Don't you carry it into town?” Hawkman asked.

"Only when I'm going in for feed or supplies. It's great to check before leaving to make sure I haven't forgotten something."

"The next time you're in the bar, keep your ears open. In case you hear something out of the ordinary, give me a call. If you'll hand me that cell phone, I'll punch in my number and give it a memory digit. Then all you'll have to do is hit it and you'll reach me."

"Sure, be happy to.” Clay got up, retrieved the phone off the table and handed it to him. He stood and looked over Hawkman's shoulder as he fed the number into the cell. After they agreed on a memory button, he handed it back to Clay.

"All these technical things are really something,” he said. “I've even given some thought about learning how to use a computer after I saw Olly's daughter with one. Not sure my old brain could take the overload.” He laughed as he returned to his seat.

Hawkman stood and placed the empty beer bottle on a magazine on the table. “Clay, thank you for letting me intrude on your evening. Please give me a call if you hear or see anything unusual in the area. Write down any suspicious vehicle's license plate and let me know when you can."