Written by RF Wilson – Detective Winston Fair was taken off of the investigation into the disappearance of Phyllis Rivers. While assigned to look into a series of robberies, he was called home by his stable manager, Johnny. He arrived to find one of his horses dead with a slit throat, then went to the Balsam County Sheriff’s Office and gave his resignation to Sheriff Jennings in dramatic fashion.

Monday, 12:00 noon

Fair made a phone call to Weaver County from a nearby coffee shop. “This is Detective Fair. I’d like to speak to the sheriff.”

Don Addleson got on the phone. “I thought you quit.”

“You heard.”

“Your former boss called a few minutes ago.”

“I thought using my former title was more likely to get to get me through to you. Anyway, I’d like to come up and talk.”

“You lookin’ for a job?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is. That’s why I want to have a conversation. I am, as they say, at liberty, so I could come up whenever’s convenient.”

The sheriff said that afternoon was as good a time as any.

A parking ticket on Fair’s windshield reminded him that he was now a civilian and needed to pay attention to the meters.

Driving by showy roadside flora, what the tourists came to “ooh” and “aah” about, his anger rose. He put Bob Marley in the CD changer. The singer was also an angry guy, but he’d managed to channel it into something worthwhile.

“So, Sheriff Jennings called you,” Fair said as he entered the Weaver County Sheriff’s office.

“Yeah. Called about an hour ago. Said he thought you might be coming up this way and that I ought to be careful. Said you threatened him with your gun. Talked about shooting him.”

“I did say that I wanted to shoot somebody. I just didn’t know who that should be. Kind of freaked him out when I aimed my weapon at him, that’s true. And, technically that is threatening behavior.  Scared the bee-jeezus out of him, I do believe.”

“That’s not really funny.”

“Had to be there, I guess,” Fair said. “Anyway, I’m here because, despite my change of status within the law enforcement establishment, I’m still interested in the case of Phyllis Rivers. I suppose you know that the case has become a kidnapping.”

“I do.”

“You may appreciate that I have a lot of questions about that.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, why did the alleged kidnappers wait three days to make a ransom demand? Why did the sheriff take me off the case? Why have I not been consulted about what I know? Why was I told to stay away from the underground tunnel?”

“That’s a lot of whys.”

“You may know that I was in your county the other day pokin’ around up on Dick’s Creek where I was confronted by a small posse. I was headed to where I understand the old Spears place was, the place at the other end of the leg of the underground railway that leads from Zeno Pressley’s place. I’m aware that I should have let you know I was going to go up there, but I was acting as a civilian.”

“Come on, Fair. You know you can’t do that. Is that what you told the boys who confronted you? ‘I’m just a civilian out for a Sunday drive.’ ?”

“Pretty much. Didn’t matter, of course. They fired a send-off shot as I was driving away. Then I was removed from the case when it became a kidnapping. Pissed me off. But I was finally able to tell myself, these people are gonna’ do what these people are gonna do and I’m just gonna do my job. That was until one of my horses was killed.”

Addleson turned his head to an angle, raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Fair said. “Had its throat slit.”

“God. That’s terrible.”

Fair felt his hands shaking. “What I thought. So, my attitude got fired up. That thing I’m accused of being? Angry black man. Well, you bet, angry. Went up and told off Sheriff Jennings and turned in my gun and badge.”

Addleson leaned forward, forearms resting on his desk, his expression turning severe. “What is it you want me to do?”

“What I think you’ve got up on Dick’s Creek is a few dozen folks scattered around in the woods. I looked on the Google Earth and there’s no evidence of any large structure. And, although there are roads that go up there, I think it’s also possible to access the place through the woods. It’d be tough, getting through all that rhododendron and laurel stuff. But I’m sure you’ve got backwoodsmen could get there.”

“Got this all figured out, huh?”

“No. Just an idea. They’re making meth out there, Don.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Smelled the ammonia, Sheriff. Unmistakeable. That stuff’s poison in the air when it’s being made. Not to mention the effects when people use it. The whole lot of them have got to have serious brain damage. ‘Shine’s got a long and noble history around here. The precursor of stock car racing and all that. And pot’s gonna be legal sooner or later. That meth stuff, though? It’s a stone killer, Sheriff. And now they have a kidnapping to their credit.”

Addleson leaned back in his chair. “You’re a good detective. Wish I could put you to work up here. As I’m sure you can imagine, little of this is new. Except for the missing women and kidnapping business.”

“Oh, come on, Don. Like you said, I’m a good detective. No doubt in my mind those four missing women are up there.”

“Step outside, Fair? I’d like a smoke.”

It was a soft day, warm, a light breeze, on the cusp between spring and summer. They walked in the shade behind the courthouse.

After the sheriff had lit up, he said, “You know, there’s a lot of other people besides me who have a stake in what happens up there. It’s in my jurisdiction, or at least some of it is. But others have their hands in things, too.”

“I know that, Sheriff. And I’m not gonna call out names right now. Except maybe Mr. Zeno Pressley. He figures in this. I don’t know how. But he sure didn’t like me messin’ around up at his house. And here’s another connection although I can’t figure what it means. If anything. Zeno’s a licensed real estate agent. Why’s he got Nyswander and Rivers selling his place when he could be doing it himself.”

“More resources?” Addleson offered.

“Maybe. But I also understand the sheriff is somehow related to Marie. She’s his sister-in-law, I think.”

“So?”

“Yeah. My question, too.”

“I have no reason to tell you what I am about to. And, it goes without saying, it’s not to be repeated. But, I’ve been in conversation for some time with certain other agencies about all this. Tricky thing to do without your neighboring sheriff’s department hearing about it. But I think we’ve pulled it off. And now with the addition of that little complication of Phyllis – ”

“Little complication?”

“You know what I’m sayin’. Anyway, seems like the iron’s hot.”

By the time Fair left Sheriff Addleson’s office his anger had transformed into excitement as he thought about what might happen next. Addleson had signed a concealed carry permit for him while advising him that he was not to engage in any way other than self-defense. He listened to Peter Tosh, keeping his spirits up. It worked until he pulled up at the farm’s gate. He sat in the car, waiting for the tears to stop.

Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.

Fair had spent the previous day at the stables, much of it with Adelaide. Johnny moved another mare into the stall previously occupied by Torrie. By the end of the day, Adelaide had calmed down but he could tell she was aware that something wasn’t right.

He was dressed, had his second cup of coffee, ready to take a ride, when he heard his phone.

“Get a burner phone and call me back,” was all the person on the other end said.

He called down to Johnny. “Gotta go to town. Make sure Adelaide gets out.” He hung up before Johnny could say anything.

Although he could buy a cheap throw-away phone at the local convenience store, he worried that it might raise eyebrows and headed out to the highway where he was less well known. He gave them his money. They gave him a phone. No questions asked. As soon as he got back to his car punched in the number that had appeared earlier from which the earlier call had been made.

“7:00 a.m.” was all the voice said.

Wednesday, 5:30 p.m.

A cooler sat on the deck within reaching distance of the three men: Jerry Covington, Johnny Parsons, and Winston Fair. The sun had cleared the western edge of the roof, leaving them in shade. From time to time, a breeze stirred the air. As Fair stood, ready to fire up the grill, his phone rang. He debated whether or not to pick it up. When he looked at the annoying appliance, he recognized the number that was calling and gave in to curiosity.

“Winston?” the man asked. “Ernie Reese.”

Fair didn’t say anything.

“Fair, you there?”

“Yeah, Reese. What’s up?”

“I was thinkin’ I’d take you up on that offer to come down and look at your place.”

After another short pause, Fair asked, “When you want to do that?”

“When would be good?”

Fair felt like saying, “Never’d be good.” Instead he said, “I’m kind of a man of leisure, you know, Reese. You can come down now if you want.”

After ending the call, Fair said to the other two men, “Strange. That was Ernie Reese. He wants to come down and see the place. The guy’s up to something. He’s got no more use for me than I do for him.”

“He comin’ over?” Johnny asked.

Fair nodded. “Yup.”

“I think I’ll be goin’ then, you don’t mind. I have met the man and have no need or desire to see him again. Think I’ll go to town, get some supplies.”

“That’s OK, Johnny,” Fair said. “My inclination was to say, ‘I’ve got nothin’ to say to you,’ but I’m kinda interested to know what going on.”

Johnny walked off the porch, toward the stables.

Thirty minutes later, Reese pulled into the drive  in a older brown sedan, not his assigned cruiser. When Fair made introductions, Jerry said, “We’ve met before.”

Reese frowned.

“That community meeting up at Worcester. Folks wanted to meet because they thought there was racial profiling going on?”

“Oh. Yeah. I remember.”

Fair asked Reese if he wanted a beer.

“Wouldn’t say no.”

“So, what’s this all about?” Fair asked as he handed Reese a chilled bottle.

The deputy took a couple of good pulls of the drink, turned to look at his former co-worker. Fair nodded toward an empty deck chair. Reese sat.

“I’ve really come to pick your brain about the Rivers case.”

“Uh huh,” Fair said. “How come you didn’t come to me before?”

“Hey, I’m just tryin’ to do my job, ya know. People tell me what to do, I do it. I’m also curious what you were doing up on Dick’s Creek.”

“Dick’s Creek?”

“Cut the shit, Fair. Does the name Shandor Squires mean anything to you?”

“If you know all that, remind me why you’re here. It’s not because of Phyllis Rivers.”

“Officers of the law don’t like it when one of their own turns on them.”

“What I gather, Reese, is that you and or other officers of the law have something going up there and you believe I might have thrown a wrench in the operation by asking too many questions.”

“You know, Fair, you are not widely admired on the force.”

“Imagine my surprise at hearing that.”

“You think you’re some kind of hot shit, don’t you? Come waltzin’ in, that hat and boots, nice suit. All Denzel-like, got the ladies swoonin’. Even got a law degree. What the hell were you doing, working for the sheriff?”

“Gee, Reese. It was a job.”

“Yeah. Okay. Whatever. You gonna show me around the place?”

“You’re kiddin’.”

“No, really. I want to see what you’ve done with it.”

“You don’t think a black man can manage a farm, that it?”

“Come on, Fair. It’s not always about race. I’m just curious, that’s all. Old man Whitworth had quite a reputation for this place. I know some of that had to do with your daddy.”

Fair let that settle, trying to gauge what was really on Reese’s mind. He noticed that the bottle in the man’s hand was empty. “You want another for the walk down there?” Fair asked.

“Sure. Why not?” The deputy grinned. “Not like I’m gonna get pulled for DWI.”

Jerry stood as the other two did and said, “I guess I’ll be –”

“No, no. Come on with us,” Reese said. “I’m enjoying your company.”

Adelaide nickered when they walked near. Fair introduced her to Reese. She pulled back from the senior detective’s hand as he reached to touch her head. Two horses at the other end of the stables grumbled.

Reese looked around. “Nice set up. Very professional.”

“I like to think so,” Fair said.

“Yeah. Nice. Where’s that man of yours? What’s his name?”

“Johnny? Gone shopping.”

“When do you suppose he’ll be back?”

“Hard to say. Man loves to shop. He can squeeze a nickel harder than any other two people I know. Takes him half an hour to get down one aisle at the supermarket.”

“Too bad he couldn’t be here for this little meeting.”

“We having a meeting?” Fair asked, realizing that whatever was going to happen next was the real reason the detective had made this appearance.

“You know, we all heard about that stunt you pulled on the sheriff.”

Fair grinned and shrugged.

“Kind of like this,” Reese said, pulling his service revolver and aiming it at Fair. “But the difference between me standing here and you with the sheriff is that you never intended to pull the trigger.”

“And you do,” Fair said.

“Yeah, I do. See, the sheriff, your former employer, is concerned about what all you know and who you might decide to share it with. Makes you kind of a loose cannon, know what I mean. Especially, with how you quit and all. And you, Covington. This is what you call fortuitous. Bein’ able to get rid a one of you who likes stirrin’ things up so much. So, if you boys’ll turn around, hands up behind your heads. You both know how it goes.”

They did as they were directed.

“That’s right. Now, kneel down. There you go.”

“You killed my horse, didn’t you?” Fair asked.

“Some of us thought you might take a hint.”

“And quit pokin’ around where I didn’t belong?”

“Oh. Now you get it. Too bad it’s too late. Well, let’s get this thing over with.”

“And how are you going to explain this?” Fair asked, curious but also stalling.

“I think it could be one of the great unsolved mysteries in the county’s history.”

Fair closed his eyes as he heard the man take a step forward. He heard a blast followed by a scream. Something fell. When he turned around, he saw Reese on the stable floor, writhing in pain, alternately screaming and whimpering. Johnny was at the open end of the building, a rifle in his hands.

“You shot me in the knee, man,” Reese yelled between gasps for air. “You are in deep trouble.”

Fair called 911. “This is Winston Fair. Need an ambulance out at my farm. Man’s been shot. . . Yeah. Oh. And he’s a deputy sheriff. They’d probably like to know that.”

After he ended the call, he turned to Johnny. “So, Johnny. How’d you know to come down here armed?”

“When I got back from the store, I saw that brown car. Not a sheriff’s car. Maybe was once. So I wonder, what’s a sheriff’s man doing driving that thing. And, I think, he’s here on unofficial business, didn’t want anybody to see a sheriff’s car around here. Figured he must be up to no good. I parked up by the gate, stopped by the house to get your rifle, and came on down, quiet like.”

“Man,” Jerry said, “Talk about timing.”

“I’d been outside where I could hear what was going on. Been there for a few minutes.”

“So, explain this to me again,” Sheriff Jennings said, after he and a swarm of his deputies had descended on the farm, lights flashing, sirens screaming, although the latter were squelched when they confirmed that no one was in imminent danger.

Fair said, “It’s not complicated. Reese called late this afternoon and invited himself down. Said he wanted to see my operation.”

“Just invited himself,” another sheriff’s detective said. “You didn’t call him up, ask him to come down here?”

“That’s right, Detective. Glad you’ve been listening.” As soon as he said it, Fair regretted the  sarcasm. He didn’t want to alienate these people more than he already had. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, Detective. It’s been a rough afternoon. I thought it was strange when Reese called, but said, yeah, come on down. We – Jerry, Reese and me – drank a beer while Reese talked about how un-liked I’d been at the Sheriff’s Department. Then he asked to see the operation. We walked down here. He went on some more about me being a loose cannon, then told Jerry and me to turn around and get down on our knees with hands behind our heads. We did. I was thinking to myself, ‘this son-of-a-bitch is actually going to do this,’ when I heard the gun shot. I was surprised I was still alive. Reese screamed, ‘You shot me in the knee,’ and I turned to see Johnny with the rifle and Reese on the ground.  Apparently, Reese’s revolver went off when he was hit. That’s it.”

Fair wanted to protest when Johnny was placed in handcuffs and escorted to the back of one of the deputy’s cruisers but decided that wouldn’t get him anywhere and might get him his own ride into town. He called his friend and attorney, Nate Chatham. At ten o’clock, he met Johnny in the lobby of the detention center, the spruced up term for the spruced up jail house.

“I suppose it was Nate’s doing that got me sprung,” Johnny said.

“Sure wasn’t mine,” Fair said. “Don’t think I have any currency with these folks anymore.”

Thursday, 7:00 A.M.

When his alarm went off at 5:45, it was as if he were back in the Marines. Out the door at 6:15. He timed the drive so that, at precisely 7:00 a.m., he turned onto Pressley Branch Road. At 7:10, he pulled to the side of the road, just below the house. Shandor was on the porch as Fair had been hoping. Fair got out and leaned against his truck for a minute, then started walking back down the road. Shandor got up and walked toward him. If Shandor communicated to others in any way it would be to say that the black detective was back.

“What you come for today, huh?” Shandor asked. “You ain’t no cop no more.”

“Information gets around fast. That’s right, little man. I’m no cop. Just an interested citizen.”

Shandor stayed by Fair’s side, like a mascot, as he walked farther down the road, away from the house. If all was going as planned, while Shandor was keeping an eye on Fair, a squad of men was making its way through the woods behind the Pressley house, bypassing the basement, and connecting directly with the above-ground tunnel. At the same time, another group was moving in from the north, onto the old Spears property, also under protection of the native flora. If things worked as designed, thirty men would descend on the “community” before the residents knew what was happening.

“What you lookin’ for, Mr. Used-To-Be-A-Detective?”

“I’m not rightly sure, Shandor. Just getting the lay of the land.”

Shandor was standing next to Fair, when a phone rang in the little man’s pocket. He answered it, holding it to his ear. He stared at Fair and reached an arm around his own back. Fair did the same, seeming to mimic the man. Each pulled a hand gun and aimed it at the other.

“You no longer a cop,” Shandor said.

“I still know how to use this thing.”

Shandor stared at the erstwhile lawman as if considering his chances.

“Gonna play chicken with me, Shandor? Go ahead. As the man said, ‘make my day.’”

Fair held his empty hand toward Shandor. The little man thought another few seconds, then handed over the gun. The two of them headed back up toward the house. Two minutes later they heard a shot. Then another.

“Oh, shit,” Fair said. “Here it goes.”

They stood and waited. A volley. Fair flinched, expecting more. Then quiet. One minute. Two minutes. After three minutes, they continued their walk up the road. Ten minutes passed. Fair wasn’t sure if that augured good or ill. His phone rang. He listened to it and nodded.

“It’s all over, Shandor. Want to ride to the Weaver County courthouse with me.”

The little man declined and faded into the woods. Fair returned to his car, was about to get in, when his phone rang again. It was not the news that Fair wanted to hear.

“ATF guy found the other three women,” Don Addleson told him. “Seems he followed a guy to a house in a central compound area. Caught the guy as he was about to go into a basement room where the women were. Anyway, the ladies seemed okay, said they were okay. No signs of physical abuse. They looked healthy.”

“But no Phyllis,” Fair said.

“Nope.”

“Get the guy who calls himself Tom Daltry?”

“Nope.”

“Damn. What about an old blue pickup truck?”

“It was there.”

“So, where’s Daltry? That’s a rhetorical question, Sheriff. I know you don’t know, either.”

As he headed down Pressley’s Branch, going to check out the action at the Weaver County Court House, he wondered where and when the Daltry guy would have gone, wondered if there was more than one bunker out there, if they’d missed something. He thought about a bunker, thinking in war terms. A bunker. Had to have a way to get in.

He called Addleson back, knowing the guy was likely to be very busy, hoping his name would get the man’s attention.

When the sheriff answered, Fair asked, “Did that ATF guy describe that bunker the women were in in any more detail?”

“I don’t recall. I told you what I remember him telling me.”

“You don’t happen to know how I can get a hold of him, do you.”

“I suppose his phone number is in my cell. Hold on. Yeah. Here it is.”

“Thanks, Don.”

“You onto something?”

“Maybe.”

Fair called the number. “Agent Turner,” the voice answered. Fair introduced himself, explained why he was calling.

“Yeah. I followed the guy into the house. Saw a basement door and heard a commotion. The guy was just about to go into a room off the basement. I got to him before he could get the door closed. The three ladies came out after him.”

“You didn’t happen to notice if a tunnel went off that room, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. But I got distracted because the guy tried to make a run for it. I had to get him before he got out of the house.”

Fair thanked the man for the information. He made a quick U-turn and headed back up Pressley’s Branch, parking a hundred or so yards below the house, so that if Shandor returned, he wouldn’t see the car. In the woods, he circled around so that he would come out on the back side of the property, where he could see the kitchen door. Briars and deadfall made it rough going. Several times he had to backtrack to avoid rhododendron thickets, “hells” as the locals called them. Easy to get lost in there and have no idea of direction. He regularly checked his back for landmarks he could remember, a large rock, a gnarly tree. After coming to the edge of the woods several times to check his bearings, he finally got to where he could see the back of the house.

He’d been too busy trying to keep from getting lost to consider what his action would be at this point. He stayed out of sight, wondered how long it would be before someone who had been hiding in the basement would surface. He presumed Phyllis and Daltry were together. Daltry would want her for a shield. Would they come out into the yard, or to go back up the tunnel?

As he was considering how long he should wait for events to unfold, Shandor appeared. Coming out of the woods fifty yards away, headed toward the house. Maybe there was no cell phone signal down there and Shandor had come with the “all clear.” As soon as the little man disappeared into the house, Fair called Addleson, then headed toward the kitchen door.

Fair waited, recalling his days as an M.P. in the Corps. Hours of waiting. He wasn’t good at it then and wasn’t better at it now. After thirty minutes, he opened the kitchen door, soundlessly pulled it closed behind him and opened the door to the top of the basement stairs. The light was on. He took the steps with care. When he got low enough, he saw that the door to the other room was open a few inches. If anyone had come through the tunnel earlier, they could have slipped out into the woods while he was being so clever keeping Shandor away from the house. He wasn’t sure what to do, felt stuck. He hated the feeling. Had never done well with it. Was inclined to go off and do stupid things when the right thing didn’t come immediately to mind.

He thought about calling for back up. Unfortunately, he was in B____ County and there was no reason to presume he would get support from them. And he was out of his friend Addleson’s jurisdiction.

READ THE EXCITING CONCLUSION NEXT MONTH!

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RF Wilson writes in Asheville, NC, where he lives with his wife, Beth Gage. He is the author of the novel, “Killer Weed,” recently published by Pisgah Press. His short story, “Accident Prone,” appears in the anthology “Carolina Crimes” published by Wildside Press, which has been nominated for an Anthony Award as Best Mystery Anthology of the Year.