Dangerous Undertaking Page 21

  Again, there was movement in the corn. He raised the shotgun and fired. Then he charged forward, firing again. The dead stalks burst apart as if an invisible thresher cut a swath of destruction.

  With the blasts still echoing in my ears, I struggled through the graves to the church. I found a back door and turned the knob. Locked. I ran my hand along the edge. There was no deadbolt. I threw myself against it and the old wood jamb splintered so easily I fell inside. I hoped Leroy Jackson was too busy shooting shadows to hear me.

  The room was dark and narrow. I closed the damaged door behind me and hoped to find another room where I could lock myself in. If I could just hide for a little while, surely someone would drive by, see the accident, and call for help. Jackson would have to flee.

  I felt a rack of robes hanging along one wall. That was probably where the choir changed. I found a second door and opened it. The machinegun sound of rain on the tin roof increased as I stepped into the sanctuary. Dim shapes of pews were in front of me. The main chancel was beside me, bordered by the wall of the choir room. Perhaps there was another room framing the other side, one that had no outside rear entrance and could be locked. The pain in my left leg made walking excruciating. I found a door on the other side of the chancel but it was locked. Dead bolted. The solid oak panels wouldn’t yield to my feeble efforts.

  A light flashed in the windows of the twin front doors. I heard the latch rattle as Jackson tried to force them open. “Please, God,” I prayed. “Let them hold.” The sound stopped. He would be going around to the back now. I could only hope to get out the front while Jackson followed my trail to the rear. I made it to the last row of pews when he fired at the front doors. Wood and glass erupted into the sanctuary. I fell to the floor along the side of the center aisle. I clutched the bow in my left hand and drew the string. The pain in my shoulder caused my arm to collapse.

  The shattered doors rattled again. The latch still held. I dragged myself halfway under the pew and pressed my right foot against the bow grip. I nocked an arrow. I would aim for his chest. One chance.

  The shotgun roared again. Debris rained down on me. Jackson kicked in the doors, and stood on the threshold. He held the flashlight in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “Clayton! Are you in here? Let’s make this easy.”

  Lying on my back with the bow horizontal to the floor, I clutched the string and stretched out my right leg, pushing the bow away from me. The initial pull of the draw was almost more than I could bear, but then I reached the break point and the bow pulleys kicked in, reducing the strain. I silhouetted my foot against the figure in the doorway.

  “Come on out. I found your gun in the Jeep. You don’t think I’d shoot an unarmed man, do you?” He gave a heartless, soulless laugh that echoed through the sanctuary.

  Spine. I remembered Josh talking about spine and the arrow’s flight. His bow matched his arrow, a simple target arrow without the razor-sharp broadhead blades that could penetrate the tough hide of a deer. With one arm, one leg, and a blunt arrow, I faced a killer.

  Leroy Jackson took two steps inside. I arced my leg a few degrees, keeping my toe lined with his chest. I furiously tried to blink the blood from my eyes. He swept the light around the sanctuary, expecting to find me near the altar, the spot farthest away from him. Suddenly, the beam dropped full on me. I saw the light glint off the shotgun, and I let go.

  For one sickening instant, I felt the bow twist against the bottom of my shoe, throwing the arrow higher. I flinched but there was no flash from the gun. Instead, a shower of sparks burst from the wall in a blue blaze that exploded like a Roman candle. The flashlight tumbled from Jackson’s hand, flipping backwards to rest with its beam turned squarely upon his face. The eyes were wide and his cheeks and jaw twitched wildly as his whole body jumped and jerked like some electrified marionette. I saw the feathers on the arrow melting. It had struck under his shoulder blade and impaled him like a beetle against the main power cable running along the church’s wall. The current, intercepted by the aluminum conductor, diverted through his rain-soaked body.

  The smell of burning hair and flesh grew suffocating; then with a loud pop, it was finished. I had just witnessed an execution by electrocution.

  Leroy Jackson hung from the wall, well beyond society’s retribution. I crawled toward the flashlight, grasped it, and passed out.

  Chapter 21

  “Jesus, man. What are you going for? The Congressional Medal of Honor?”

  As the throbbing in my head lessened, I realized I was back in the same hospital room I’d occupied a few weeks before. Tommy Lee Wadkins was leaning over me. His eye was studying me carefully.

  I tried to move and found my left arm again strapped to my side. My left knee was elevated and a bandage encased the top of my head.

  “You know what happened?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  “Got a pretty good idea. You turned Leroy Jackson into a shish-kabob. Odell Taylor filled in some details.”

  “I was scared to death, Tommy Lee.”

  “No, you were scared to die. So, you kept thinking and you took action. I just never would have figured you for Robin Hood. Given the condition you were in, I’m not quite sure how you pulled it off.”

  “Neither am I. Is Taylor all right?”

  “Yes, concussion and multiple bruises. You tossed him around like socks in a dryer. He’s in the next room under guard and under arrest. By the way, do you get a discount for booking this same room?” He held a cup of water to my lips and let me take a few swallows. Then he pulled up the chair, turned it backwards and sat down like the day his investigation started.

  I looked around. My head was still spinning. The clock read ten-thirty. “What day is it?”

  “Only Thursday morning,” he said. “Last night a passing car saw the Jeep wrecked in the field by the church. Reece relayed the call and I got there a few minutes after the ambulance. Taylor was conscious but still cuffed and hung up in the seatbelt. He was scared to death Jackson was coming back for him. Didn’t calm down till he heard his brother was dead.”

  “Is he talking?”

  “Oh, yeah. He wants to deal except there’s nobody left to sell out. Only thing he’ll admit to is dumping the waste. He knows he’s liable for Jimmy Coleman’s death but insists Leroy Jackson pressured all of them and he’s no more guilty than the parents.”

  “What about Dallas Willard?”

  “Like we figured, it was all about the land. Pryor was afraid the Willards would sell to Waylon Hestor. He told Taylor to speak to Dallas. He figured a local man was a better approach than some slick Charlotte lawyer. Leroy Jackson was in it the whole time too. He told Dallas he spoke for God’s will. Jackson mixed truth and fiction to fuel Dallas’ paranoia about the migrants overrunning the land if it were sold to the wrong people.”

  “But Dallas couldn’t stop his brother and sister from doing whatever they wanted.”

  “Pryor didn’t learn about the voting control of the estate until Taylor approached Lee and Norma Jean right after Martha died. They preferred to sell to Waylon Hestor, which meant Pryor and New Shores would have been out on a financial limb. That started the chain of events, and Leroy Jackson pushed Dallas over the edge. Taylor said part of the time between Martha’s death and the funeral, Dallas stayed with Jackson. Luke Coleman has confirmed he saw them together. God knows what the bastard told Dallas to keep him in a frenzy.”

  There was a knock at the door and a nurse stuck her head in. “Time for his pain medicine,” she said.

  I waved her off. “Give us a few minutes,” I said. I ached all over, but I wanted to understand everything Tommy Lee was telling me. “Go on,” I told him.

  “So, in a way, even the graveyard shooting started with Jackson. Then he hid Dallas with him. Dallas’ truck had been parked in a ravine near the compound where it wouldn’t be visible from the air. When Pryor learned about it, he told Jackson that Dallas was too much of a liability. He could bring them all down. So, Jack
son decided to get rid of Dallas the same night they dumped the chemical waste. Luke Coleman drove Jackson’s pickup to Broad Creek, and Jackson rode with Dallas to the spot by the rail bed where we found the truck. Taylor said when his brother flagged them down on the tracks that Thursday night, he had already killed Dallas. Taylor swears he never knew Pryor and Jackson planned to murder him.”

  “Of course, what else is he going to say if he wants to save his skin?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Tommy Lee. “Jackson kept Dallas’ gun and long coat as souvenirs. I found the shotgun by Jackson’s body. Dallas’ initials are carved on the stock. Jackson was wearing the long coat, but the arrow hole and burn marks will hurt the resale value.”

  “You’re too much,” I croaked. “How about selling me some more water?”

  Tommy Lee got up and gave me a second drink.

  When my throat cleared, I asked, “And Fats?”

  “Leroy Jackson thought Fats had figured out the phony snake story. Barry, I think he just enjoyed killing. A self-proclaimed man of God who played God. Perfect cover for a psychopath. Didn’t need much excuse, just opportunity. The Colemans said he got to Kentucky several hours behind them. Enough time to have murdered Fats, and using Dallas’ gun gave him the perfect fall guy for the crime. I suspect he saw your name and the word weather written on that note and took it. He might have been watching you for any sign you could cause trouble.”

  “What about Pryor and New Shores?”

  “Kyle Murphy discovered the LLC is made up of insiders in the power company. Not Ralph Ludden but some lieutenants looking to make a killing. Like that deal at Enron where assets got placed in outside firms controlled by executives. Greed, plain and simple. The shit is going to hit the Ridgemont electric fan for sure. It will be a PR nightmare in these parts.”

  “The profiteers try to screw the mountaineers again,” I said. “What about the money Fred Pryor withdrew?”

  “Bob Cain had arranged for the crew to have free access that night to the construction site including the locomotive. Pryor paid everybody off in cash. He had made it clear he wanted Dallas taken care of but he knew nothing about Dallas being dumped in Hope Quarry along with the waste. Neither did Cain. When the body was discovered and we told Pryor, he made another cash withdrawal and paid Jackson and Taylor a bonus to make sure everyone’s mouth kept shut.”

  “Cain is dirty then?”

  “Yeah. But that’s an EPA jurisdictional prosecution. I don’t care about that ex-candidate.”

  “Ex-candidate?”

  “Cain dropped out of the race this morning.” Tommy Lee smiled. “Guess he’s not entirely stupid.”

  “No loose ends then?”

  “Oh, there’s stuff that will be filled in. I expect the paint on the power pole will match either Odell Taylor’s or Leroy Jackson’s vehicle. But other than Taylor, we don’t have many culprits left alive.”

  “You know, it’s funny about Fred Pryor.”

  Tommy Lee looked away from me. “Why would you say that?”

  “Like you told Taylor last night, it would have come down to his word versus Pryor’s. The paper trail ties Pryor to the land scheme but not to the murders he caused. Jackson probably did what a judge and jury could not have done.”

  Tommy Lee made no comment. He simply paced the hospital room. Somewhere in the fog passing for my brain a light clicked on.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “If Leroy Jackson shot Pryor, how did he get on my trail so quickly? Tommy Lee, I think he came from behind the barn where we had been earlier. He couldn’t have made it from Broad Creek to there in less than five minutes. He was probably coming to Taylor’s. They had to meet somewhere before they went after Talmadge. He saw the patrol car and ducked behind the barn. He saw you put Taylor in my Jeep.”

  “Sometimes an investigator can be too smart,” said Tommy Lee.

  “Leroy Jackson didn’t kill Fred Pryor, did he?”

  My friend stared out the window at the overcast sky. I understood he was struggling with something, and waited while he worked it out.

  Finally he said, “Next Tuesday this county will re-elect me sheriff. They trust me to uphold the law, to protect law-abiding citizens. And this county is blessed with law-abiding citizens,” he added. “What should a lifetime of obeying the law earn you?”

  “Respect,” I said. “And maybe a little grace from the powers that be.”

  “I can get the D.A. to accept Leroy Jackson as the murderer of Fred Pryor. Leroy Jackson had the motive to keep Pryor quiet. We have proof that Leroy Jackson was a repeat killer, and we have a fried Leroy Jackson in the morgue, unable to mount much of a defense. In fact, the D.A. is pressing me for my report so that he can sign off everything from the past two weeks. He’s up for re-election too. All those murders will be buried with Leroy Jackson and no one is thinking of looking any further.”

  “But,” I said.

  “But you and I know we have some problems. Not only with the timeframe, but with other details as well. Fred Pryor was killed with double-aught buckshot and Jackson used number one. The pump shotgun always left a shell, and yet none was found at Pryor’s murder scene. I went up to the Hickory Falls Methodist Church early this morning. Pace and I picked up pieces of the door, pieces embedded with number one buckshot. Number one shells were littered all over the place. Why would Jackson kill Pryor with double-aught and then revert back fifteen minutes later to number one?”

  I felt the knot re-tying in my stomach. Tommy Lee’s speech about law-abiding citizens was leading in a direction I didn’t think I wanted to go. “And you know something else, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I noticed one thing at Pryor’s murder scene before the rain washed everything away.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Manure. Someone had scraped manure off on the steps to the trailer. Probably what would be caught between boot heel and sole and not come off even after walking, say, several miles into Broad Creek on a railroad track.”

  “Manure,” I repeated.

  “Yeah. I took a sample, but I haven’t sent it to the lab. I’ll wager Tuesday’s election that it’s horse manure.”

  In an instant, I understood why Tommy Lee was so upset. A lifelong, law-abiding citizen had seen his family destroyed by a faceless institution. No one spoke for him; no one came to a funeral; no one offered justice. Charlie Hartley had found the killer of his mare and unborn foal. He had made the connection between drums of Pisgah Paper Mill waste and Ridgemont Power and Electric’s Broad Creek Project. He had put a face on the guilty institution. The face of Fred Pryor. The man who had sent him a check. I heard Pryor’s sarcastic voice in my head. “How many cans of dog food?”

  Tommy Lee must have read my thoughts from the expression on my face. “Yes,” he said softly. “I can imagine that he politely wiped his feet before knocking on the trailer door. And Pryor came out like he did with us that first day. Wouldn’t even let him in. No telling what Pryor said, but I’m sure it was insulting and cruel. The million-dollar wheeler-dealer who couldn’t understand what other people value.”

  “How can you prove it?” I asked.

  “Easy,” said Tommy Lee. “And that’s the damn problem. All I have to do is ask him. He’ll tell me the truth.”

  I wanted to say then never ask. For once in your life, turn your blind eye to a crime and let an old man live out his days.

  “I’m an undertaker,” I said, “not a law officer anymore. And I’m certainly not a judge.”

  “I’m not asking you to be either.”

  I nodded. “However, I am your friend.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said Tommy Lee.

  Susan stepped into the room. “How’s the patient?”

  “Better, now that you’re here,” said Tommy Lee. He reached down and gave my right hand a firm squeeze. “Thanks for everything. Take care of yourself.” On his way out, he said to Susan, “And you, remember this man is in a
weakened condition. Don’t take advantage of him. This hospital has rules of conduct.”

  She eased into the chair and took my hand. For a few seconds, we didn’t say anything. Tears started flowing down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Barry,” she whispered. “When I heard the news last night, I thought I’d lost you.”

  “So, how am I doing, doctor?” I asked.

  “O’Malley did the surgery. You’ve now got a nice set of stitches in your head that match your shoulder. There were torn ligaments in the knee that will require a couple months of physical therapy. We might let you out Saturday.” She forced a smile. “O’Malley wants to know if you’d rather just keep us on retainer.”

  “And you? What are you going to do now that I’ve broken another Friday night date?”

  “I’ve got to take care of an injured friend’s guinea pig, but I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow night, and I know when the nurses make their rounds.” She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

  I reached up and gently cupped her cheek, guiding her lips to mine.

  Chapter 22

  The November sky spanned the ridges, cloudless and crystal blue. The air was crisp and pure. The bright colors of the tree-covered hills had peaked and descended into muted browns. On the shadowed side of the barn, the chill of the late afternoon gathered force. I stepped with my crutch into a patch of fading sunlight and glanced back into the stalls. Ned whinnied once. I heard the voices of Tommy Lee and Charlie Hartley rise and fall on the autumn breeze, but the words were swallowed in the whispered rustling of dying leaves.

  My head started throbbing and I pulled a bottle of aspirin out of my jacket pocket. I choked down two pills without water and watched the last rays of sun disappear behind Hope Quarry. Reverend Pace had been right. As beautiful as the scenery was, it was the people who mattered. The people Pace served, the people Tommy Lee protected, the people my grandfather and father consoled during life’s saddest moments, the people who now looked to me to carry on the tradition my father no longer remembered. And because he could not remember, I would not forget.