Written by RF Wilson – Detective Winston Fair is investigating the disappearance of  Phyllis Rivers, a partner in the real estate firm of Nyswanger and Rivers. She was last seen leaving her office to show an old house in the northern reaches of the county. In the course of his investigation, Detective Fair discovers that three other single women, all in their forties have disappeared within the past year and a half in other Western North Carolina counties. Searching the old house, Fair and an associate find a tunnel behind a hidden door.

Friday, 3:30 p.m.

Twenty yards or so along the tunnel, through cobwebs, bugs scampering away at their feet, the path ascended rapidly. Where it began to angle up sharply, they saw a hatch above.  From where they stood, Fair couldn’t get leverage to push.

“Sergeant, you’re taller than I am. Want to try?”

Timmons managed to get it open a crack then, as Fair pushed him from below, he got his head and shoulders out and pulled himself the rest of the way up. He saw a clearing bounded on three sides and overhead by thickets of rhododendron and laurel. The train tracks led the way out.

“Been traffic along here, wouldn’t you say?” asked Fair, noting how clear the tracks were.

“Wanna follow it?”

“Nope. I imagine they’ve got their eyes on the other end, especially since Shandor has probably announced our presence.”

“What’s next?” the sergeant asked.

“Guess it’s time to have another conversation with Zeno.”

 

Friday, 4:30 p.m.

Fair stopped at Detective Reese’s office and knocked on his colleague’s doorframe. Reese looked up, lifting his head slowly, as if it were an effort.

Fair asked, “What can you tell me about Zeno Pressely?”

“What makes you think I know anything about Zeno?”

“Because you’ve been around long enough to know all the interesting people hereabouts. And Zeno’s an interesting character.”

Fair thought he could see the wheels in Reese’s brain churning, trying to decide which approach would most likely serve his purpose: being too busy to be able to help, or being the go-to guy about Zeno Pressley. Reese chose the latter.

“Might as well come in and sit down.” Reese intertwined his fingers behind his head and leaned back into them. Fair assumed the man wanted to put as much space between the two of them as possible.

“You grew up in this county, Fair, so you know there are Pressleys all over the place. Zeno’s bunch settled up in that area where they have the road named after them. The family did a lot of timbering, had a few sawmills back in the day. Still have one with a small lumber yard. Does mostly high end specialty stuff for the Yankees movin’ in, buildin’ those McMansions. What with Lowe’s and Home Depot and all, the little guy got pretty much put out of business. Not that I’d call Zeno all that little. There’s a family fortune out there. Maybe like yours.”

“Being fortunate to wind up with a horse farm doesn’t mean I have a fortune. Except in the sense that it takes a small fortune to run the place.”

“Yeah, well, you say so. Anyway, Zeno, he’s into house building, dabbles in real estate out there. Not competing with the Century 21 or Remax or anything –”

“He’s a realtor?”

“Yeah. Like I said –”

“I heard what you said. So, why wouldn’t he be selling the big family house on his own.”

“I dunno. Wanted to get better exposure, maybe. Maybe he’s got a deal with Marie Nyswanger.”

Fair squinted, remembering that Marie had some connection to the sheriff, wondering if that was significant. “You know about the tunnel up there?” he asked.

He again sensed that Reese was deciding what he should allow that he knew.

“Used to run moonshine along it, I’ve heard.”

“Where’s it come out?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Reese said, his eyes shifting enough for Fair to know the man was lying. “That stuff was all over by the time I came up.”

Bullshit, Fair thought. He said, “Maybe old Zeno can tell me.”

 

Fair was not expecting Zeno Pressley to answer his phone, was surprised when he did.

“I know it’s late on a Friday afternoon, but I wonder if you might have a few minutes to spare for me.” Fair couldn’t imagine why the guy wouldn’t say, ‘Sorry, detective, I’ve got plans.’

Instead, Pressley said, “I’ve got an office up here in that little strip of businesses just west of I-26 on Monticello Road?” he said. “Know it?”

On the way north on I-26, Fair wondered what he’d wandered into. Or, perhaps, didn’t wander. Was guided. Maybe someone thought that if they put the rookie on the case, he’d give up after he couldn’t find anything. Like what had happened in three other cases in the area.

Seated in Zeno’s office, the older man asked, “Am I a suspect or something?”

“Actually, right now we don’t even have a crime.”

While true, the statement was disingenuous. There had been serial abductions. But, given the lack of bodies or other physical evidence, there was nothing with which to charge anyone.

“What do you need me for?”

“I’ve got a couple of questions. First, where does that tunnel from your basement go?”

“Tunnel?”

“Mr. Pressley. I’m a detective. I know I am of a race some people consider slow. But please, don’t insult my intelligence. There’s a tunnel up there, used to be part of an underground railway during the Civil War. Then used by moonshiners. So, what’s it used for now?”

Pressley gave him a stare Fair was used to, which Fair interpreted as the man wondering if he should simply tell this nigger to get out of his office. Or, since the nigger was a lawman, if he had to make nice, somehow.

“It didn’t have any use after you could buy legal whiskey,” Zeno said. “So, it just sits there.”

“It’s been used. Recently.”

“What makes you think that.”

“The hardware’s all in good repair.”

“Hmm,” Pressley mumbled.

“What I thought, exactly. Hmm. Interesting. So what’s going on up there?”

“I have to tell you, Detective, I have no idea. Nobody’s lived there for a half-dozen years. And it was just Momma for several years before that.”

“Where does it come out?”

“Couldn’t rightly say.”

“You don’t know where a tunnel leading from the basement of your family home goes? Is that what you’re saying.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Once again, I call bullshit, Fair thought. He said, “I find that difficult to believe.”

Pressley leaned across his desk toward Fair. “Like the guy in the movie said – frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

 

Friday, 6:30 p.m.

On the way home, Fair tried to connect the dots. The disappearance of four women over a year and a half period of time, probably at the hands of the same man. An old tumble down house for sale, with an immaculate basement leading to what was once part of an underground railway and a moonshining operation. The owner of the house lying about what the tunnel was currently used for. A strange little man who seemed to be a lookout for the property.

As he was massaging all this together, his phone rang. He answered with a curt, “Fair.”

“Detective, the Sheriff would like to see you.”

“I’m on my way home.”

“He wants to see you now.”

 

“Come in, boy, and close the door,” the Sheriff said when Fair presented himself.

Fair glared. If he could have spit fire, he would have. “Excuse me?”

“I said come in. Have a seat.”

“No. You said, ‘come in, boy.’”

The sheriff splayed his arms in mea culpa gesture. “Habit. Not just you. All you youngsters.”

“I’m 45, Sheriff. I’m no youngster.”

“Detective Fair, do come in and have a seat.”

Fair decided it was probably in his best interest to appear to have let go of his anger.

The sheriff’s posture was much like Zeno Pressley’s. Leaning back, head against his knitted hands. “Nice trip out to see Zeno?”

“Not particularly. He was not very forthcoming.”

The sheriff nodded. “You do know who Zeno Pressley is, don’t you?”

“One of a line of Pressleys. Owns a big house up on Pressley’s Branch. Has a little real estate business, has a finger in the lumber trade.”

The sheriff nodded, then leaned forward.

“Mr. Pressley is one of the unseen forces behind the political machinery of this county. He’s also got bucketfuls of money. I do not want Mr. Pressley unhappy with the way I run my department. Am I making myself clear?”

“You don’t want me to piss him off. Anymore than I already have.”

“You are a quick read. So, you can forget that tunnel nonsense. Got it?”

Fair wondered how far he could push the sheriff without getting himself fired.

“I think the tunnel might have something to do with the disappearance of Phyllis Rivers.”

“I’m not sure you heard me, Detective. Maybe you’re not as quick as I was beginning to think. You’re not saying what I want to hear.”

“Forget the tunnel.”

“There. I knew you understood.”

Fair nodded. “Is that all? It’s late Friday afternoon. I’m sure there are places you’d rather be than here, explaining the realities of county politics to me.”

“I appreciate your consideration, Fair. I think we understand one another. Have a nice weekend.”

 

Friday, 7:45 p.m.

Fair drove directly to the stables and took Adelaide for a workout. After they returned from a run and had walked a few laps around the ring, he took her back to the stable, cooled her down, got her ready for the night.

As he was walking back to the house, he heard Johnny calling him from behind.

“Winston.”

Fair turned around. “Yeah, Johnny?” His employee was one of the few people who called him by his first name, what they referred to in these parts as your Christian name.

“A car came by here this afternoon. Two men in it. Drove in very slowly, came on back toward the stables. I started to walk toward them. As I got near to them, they turned around and drove out.”

“What kind of car?”

“Brown sedan. Looked kind of like an older sheriff’s car with the lettering painted out.”

“Damn it.”

“You know who it was?”

“No. Maybe. Damn. I get stonewalled by Zeno Pressley, who turns out to be a BFD in these parts, get stepped on by the sheriff. Now, people are comin’ ’round my home, to the consternation of staff. I think I stepped in something, Johnny. I can smell it. But I can’t see it.”

“Could have been someone checking out the place, see if they wanted to board here.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what you thought. And if it was, why wouldn’t they stop and talk?” Fair shook his head, then asked, “Had your supper, Johnny? I’m thinkin’ about going to town, have a steak. Come with me?”

“I’ve already eaten, Winston.”

“Come on. Keep me company. I’ll buy the beer.”

 

Saturday, 9:00 a.m.

Fair got a phone number for Dorothy Greenwald from Marie Nyswander.

“Sorry to bother you at home on a Saturday,” he said when she answered, “but I got to wondering where that so-called tunnel comes out.”

“And, good morning to you, Detective. Let me grab my coffee and sit down . . . Okay, that’s better. Well, it’s supposed to have come out near the old Spears place in Weaver County. I think I told you the original idea was to move Yankee soldiers back into more friendly territory, which that part of Weaver was at the time.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this. Those escapees made there way somehow to the Pressley place. They hid in the basement, maybe in that room off the basement, if people were looking for them, then went through the tunnel and into the woods where, presumably, a guide of sorts would meet them and lead them along the path to the Spears place.”

“That sounds right.”

“Were these men – I assume most, if not all of them, were men – were they always being followed?”

“Oh, yes. They were outlaws and they could have been hung as deserters, even though they were from the enemy army. That was back in the day when some people stilled like a good hanging.”

Fair didn’t think it appropriate to say there were still plenty of people around who would love to see one, “hanging” being the polite word for it.

“Are there any identifying characteristics, a creek, a road, anything I can give to the Internet so I can zoom in on it, see what’s there.”

“I don’t know that area very well. But I’m on my way to an Historical Society meeting. I’ll ask. I take it this all has to do with Phyllis’ disappearance.”

“Yes, it does.” There was a pause before Fair asked, “Something else, Dorothy?”

“Yes and I probably should have said something sooner. But Marie and Phyllis had an argument over who was going to show the Pressley place. Marie’s the listing agent but she asked Phyllis to show it. Said she had other commitments. Really annoyed Phyllis who said she had other appointments that day, too. That’s all I heard before they went into Marie’s office to finish their conversation. Phyllis was not happy when she came out. Although, I will say that her mood improved when she saw Mr. Landry. It probably doesn’t mean anything other than Marie got lucky that Phyllis took the showing.”

“Lucky,” Fair repeated.

 

Saturday, 9:15 a.m.

The detective walked to the stables. As a kid, he watched Westerns on TV, old John Wayne and Alan Ladd movies, where they’d ride forever in those wide open spaces. Of course, it was fake. But he thought he’d like that. Maybe retire to Wyoming or Montana one day.

He talked a while to Adelaide, then saddled and mounted one of her stablemates, an older stallion called Torrie. He liked Torrie a lot, not the same way as Adelaide, but a good fit for him, a big guy. A man’s horse.

After the workout, he sat on the front porch with a cup of coffee. When he pulled out his phone to check for messages, he saw that Dorothy had called back.

On voice mail she said, “It’s known as the old Spears place, a mile or so up Dick’s Creek in Weaver County. The creek runs through the property. As I understand it, if you go northwest from the Pressley place over the ridge, about a mile from the Pressley place as the crow flies, you will come to the old Spears place. Call me if you need anything else . . .”

Fair located Dick’s Creek on the Internet. On satellite images, he couldn’t make out anything other than a bunch of trees and some water and some blurred objects that might or might not have been dwellings.

He showered, put on a clean shirt, well-worn jeans, old riding boots, his “barn hat” –  side brims rolled, front pulled down, a little raggedy around the edges, like that country singer Kenny Chesney wore. A ten year-old Dodge pickup with a rifle rack in the back, his “around the ranch” vehicle, was perfect for where he was headed. He removed two long guns from the rack.

The sky was crystalline blue. Pink and white dogwoods lined the highway, turning it into a road in a fairy tale, on the way to some adventure that, regardless of how frightening it was, would have a good outcome. Fair’s mind let go of the fantasy and considered the disconnect for many blacks whose ancestors were rural, farming, people and who now lived in the most unpleasant of urban settings. To change the mood, he popped a Hank Williams CD in the player and sang along with the old heartbroken and hell-raisin’ songs. Some people wondered how he could be a fan of Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Cliff and at the same time like Hank. He didn’t care. It was all music. Good music. White soul. Black soul. We all the same under the skin, he said to himself and laughed out loud. Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s what they all think up here. Maybe while they’re in church. But when we come in their restaurants?

Fair knew that where he was headed was out of his jurisdiction. If he found what he was looking for there could easily be trouble. But no one else seemed interested in finding out what was going on up there. First, there was Shandor. Then the basement room. The tunnel and the path in the woods that he was convinced had been used recently.

A paper map of the county was spread out on the seat next to him – his GPS wouldn’t be much good where he was headed. Dick’s Creek was also the name of the road that paralleled the stream.  Although in good condition and apparently recently graveled, it was a more challenging drive than up Pressley’s Branch.

Although protocol required that he notify the local sheriff that he was coming out here, he was operating on the old adage that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission. He was here as a civilian, out for a Sunday drive. A civilian with a sheriff’s badge and a handgun.

Three-quarters of a mile up the hill he caught his first whiff of ammonia. In another hundred yards, “NO TRESPASSING – NO HUNTING –  NO FISHING” signs adorned trees every ten yards. Coming around a blind curve he saw three men, all bearded, all in blue coveralls, all with long guns at the ready.

The man who came up to the cab said, “You lost, mister?”

“Nope. Just out for a drive.”

“So, I guess you cain’t read, what with that poor quality education y’all get compared to the white folks’ kids. So, I’ll tell you what those signs say.” He pointed to a nearby tree. “It says–”

“I know what it says.”

“You do? Then why is it you are here?”

“Because this is a county maintained road. The signs relate to the land adjacent to the road. I’m on public property.”

“Oh. Not only are you stupid, you are a smart-ass.” He turned to the men behind him. “Do we like dumb, smart-ass niggers up here?”

He received a resounding no from his minions.

“Hear that? We do not.”

Fair thought about dragging out his ID and waving it at them. It would probably get a good laugh. He’d found out what he’d come for. There were people living up here. The ammonia smell confirmed that they were making methamphetamine. What, if anything, that had to do with the Pressley place and the disappearances of four women was still a mystery. Discretion suggested he leave that for another day.

“And you know,” Fair said, “I don’t really want to be hanging around a bunch of ignorant rednecks. You do know that methamphetamine will fry your brains, don’t you? Later, gentlemen.”

Throwing the truck into reverse, he made a quick three-point turn and wondered if the rifle shot he heard was a warning or a goodbye. Halfway down the mountain, a vehicle coming up squeezed him to the shoulder. It was an old blue pickup truck.

His first thought was to call the local sheriff and ask for a search warrant for the property based on him seeing a blue pickup truck that matched the one known to have been driven by the man Phyllis Rivers went off with. The sheriff, or someone, would likely ask, “Did you, personally, ever see that truck before, Detective Fair?” He would have to answer, “No,” and he’d have to explain what he was doing outside his county of jurisdiction without the knowledge of the local law enforcement establishment.

 

Saturday, 1:30 p.m.

He called Jerry Covington, his best friend going back to high school. They were both geeks, but Jerry grew up in a public housing development while Fair was out on the farm. In addition to running track together, they played Dungeons and Dragons and other video games rather than games that involved running around trying to hit, or catch, or kick, a ball. Fair taught Jerry how to ride. Jerry taught Fair about computers.

“Jerry,” Fair said, “I’ve got a couple of steaks thawing and they’ll either go bad or I’ll have to eat both of them. You don’t want me to do that to my cholesterol, do you?”

 

Saturday, 7:30 p.m.

When Jerry arrived, they went to the back deck and settled into the fading light. Fair pulled two bottles out of a cooler and handed one to his friend. After they’d had their first few sips of beer, leaning back in their chairs, feet up on the deck railing, Jerry said, “Got harassed for driving while black last night.”

“How so?” Fair asked.

“You know I tutor a kid over at Hillside. Nice kid. Has a future if he hangs with the right people. I was leaving there just after dark had fallen and at the gate –”

“Where they used to make you identify yourself and say where you were going?”

“Yeah. Until the city was taken to court. The court agreed that asking for that information was an invasion of privacy. Anyway, so I’m leaving the development and, as I get to the gate, I pull over to answer a phone call Momma. Of course. When I pull back onto the road and go through the gate, blue lights come on. She-it. I pull over. Cop asks me what I’m doing there. Me, being me, says, ‘I’m sorry officer, I don’t think you can ask me that. And I’m wondering what cause you had to stop me.’”

“Oooh.”

“Yeah. I know. I was feeling pretty full of myself. Here I am a damn tutor, getting pulled for some damn reason I’m sure is going to be made up. Cop says, ‘you have a broken taillight.’

“’Oh,’” I said. “’I didn’t know.’ He walks to the back of my car, takes his flashlight and smacks the taillight, comes back and says, ‘Yeah. It’s broken.’ Then says, ‘You want to keep this game going or are you going to tell me what you were doing up in there.’ ‘Up in there.’ Like it’s some, I don’t know, secret place or something.”

“What’d you do?”

“I considered my options. I really didn’t want to be dragged downtown even knowing they’d have to let me go. They’d charge me with resisting or some bogus thing, I’d have to get my lawyer friend to get me out. I thought about saying something like, ‘Just let me get your name and badge number.’”

“Which you have the right to do.”

“Yeah. But I figured that would be the next step to getting a free ride to the jailhouse. So, I told him, said, ‘I was mentoring up in there. Trying to help some young kid so he can grow up and not have to deal with this kind of shit. Thank you, Officer . . .?’ Cop walked back to his cruiser without answering and took off. I did get the car number and I did report him.  I know he’ll want to retaliate some way, but he also knows I know who he is. He’s got to balance who’s going to come out the worse in this and am I worth the trouble. I’m counting I’m not.”

“Same ol’, same ol.’” Fair said.

“Think it’ll ever change?”

“Not if my job’s any indicator.”

“What’s happening there?” Jerry asked.

“They’ve got me on a case I don’t think they want me to solve. A missing woman who is technically not missing. An area of investigation I am told not to pursue. I’m getting too close to something. But I don’t understand how the one thing – the disappearance of this lady – relates to the other – the existence of a couple of stops on an old underground railroad.”

“What do you think your blackness has to do with all that?”

“I don’t know. But it has occurred to me that, given that I am a black man, they thought I’d have less access to people who might know something about what’s going on. It turns out that being a good detective is more of a factor than race. Not what they wanted to happen.”

“It was real clear what happened to me up at Hillside was racial. But, do you think you might be projecting some in your situation?”

Fair turned to Jerry, until his friend turned and Fair caught his eye. Fair glared, said nothing.

“Okay,” Jerry said. “I get it.”

After another moment passed, Fair said, “On the other hand, take a look at these steaks.” Fair started the grill and sat back down as it heated up.

Jerry asked, “Think you’ll find the Rivers woman alive?”

“Now, why the hell did you have to go and ask that?”

 

Sunday, 9:30 a.m.

By the time Fair realized that the buzzing phone was not in a dream, it had quit. A minute later his landline started ringing, setting off sensitive receptors in his brain. The night before he’d consumed more beer than he’d had in the previous three months combined. He picked up the offending appliance.

“Fair,” he said.

“Dave Pennington. How you doing this morning, Detective.”

“Have had more pleasant awakenings. And yourself, Captain?”

“Sheriff thought you’d want to know that we got a ransom note for Phyllis Rivers.”

“Ransom note,” Fair repeated, clearing the cobwebs from his head.

“Yeah. So –”

“How much?” the detective asked, surprised at this late development.

“100,000.”

“Hmm. Not so much as kidnappings go, is it?”

“No, but the sheriff also wanted you –”

“Seems kind of late in the game, doesn’t it? I mean she disappeared, what, Thursday? And it’s Sunday? What’ve they been doing?”

“Don’t know. But I’ve reassigned the case to Detective Reese.”

Fair thought about that.

“You still there, Detective?”

“Yeah. Just chewing on that last part. Why the change now?”

“Sheriff says now that’s it’s high profile and now that we know for sure what’s happened to her the community’s going to want to be confident that we have our . . . most experienced people working on it.”

“’Most experienced,’” Fair repeated. “You don’t by any chance mean ‘most white’ do you?”

“Oh, come on, Fair. Not everything has to do with race.”

“Not everything, but more than you might imagine.”

“Well, that’s not the case here.”

Fair wanted to get off the phone, take some aspirin, and get back in bed. Curiosity wouldn’t let him.

“OK. You said, ‘now that we’re sure what happened to her.’ What did you mean by that? Do we know who has her, where she is?”

“No. I just mean we know for sure she was abducted. We didn’t really know that for sure before.”

“Don’t suppose Reese wants to talk with me about what I know.”

“What do you know that he doesn’t?”

“Well, actually, I don’t know that he doesn’t know this. But I got stopped by a phalanx of men up on Dick’s Creek yesterday. Weren’t happy to see me. Had guns and such. Ran me off.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah,” Fair said. “Mmm.”

 

The simple thing would have been to let it go. Not his problem. He’d been assigned to find a missing person. Now the case was a kidnapping. He’d been dismissed. He could be pissed off about it all he wanted and still be powerless over what happened. But he knew there was more to it than simply wanting the most experienced deputy to work the case.

He took Adelaide for a workout, more for his own benefit than hers. After lunch he sat at his computer, checking on a few Facebook friends. He never posted anything specifically about work, but did say he was tired and wondering if law enforcement was the future he wanted.

 

Monday, 8:00 am

Over the weekend there’d been a series of break-ins in a rural southeastern section of the county. Fair took the call. After getting the homeowners’ statements and inspecting the premises, Fair drove down the two-lane highway to the local volunteer fire department. A couple of good ol’ boys sat in the open bay, chewin’ and spittin’.

After Fair showed his ID, one of the men, dressed in blue overalls, asked, “You’re that guy has the horse farm, aren’t you?”

Fair smiled. “Guess that’s not too hard to figure out.”

“I knew your Daddy,” the other one said. “Nice kinda feller.”

“I thought he was. Thank you for saying so.”

“Not many of your kind in that line of work,” the man in blue said.

Fair ignored the comment and asked if they’d heard about the robberies.

“It’s that meth shit,” one of them said. “Couldn’t imagine this kind of thing happening a couple of years ago.”

Fair asked if they knew of anyone messing around with methamphetamine.

“There’s that Thompson boy, you know him, Earl. He was up at the court house last week for something or other. He’s always into some kind of trouble.”

“The Thompson boy?” Fair asked.

“Yeah,” the one called Earl said. “Lives up on Lonesome Creek. Daddy was pretty much no-good, got shot and killed a few years back. Don’t know what Momma lives on.”

He thanked the men and was headed for the Thompson place when his cell phone rang. He could see on the screen that it was Johnny calling.

“You’ve got to come home,” his stable manager said, before Fair could say hello.

It sounded like the man was crying. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Just come home,” he repeated and hung up.

__________________________________________________

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.