Cam - 04 - Nightwalkers (5 page)

Okay,
I said to myself.
Definitely not Breen.
Not on horseback. A neighbor, perhaps? I knew who lived across the road but not who lived on either side of the plantation. One more project for the to-do list. That was the whole point of my new home: projects, something to look forward to each day beyond yet another dreary court case. I craved an endless to-do list that could lead to tangible accomplishment. Restoration of the house. Bringing the farm back to life. Doing something about this forgotten graveyard. Meeting new and interesting neighbors. Maybe even learning how to ride a horse.

The shepherds were looking at me expectantly. "Okay, guys," I told them. "Let's go meet the pretty lady and get this show on the road."

Carol and I broke for lunch after two hours of inspecting the main house and its immediate surroundings. She drove me to a large,
purple-painted Victorian-era house out on the main road. It had been the home of the man for whom the local town was named, and a couple from Chapel Hill had restored it and opened a restaurant. The place was full, and I soon found out why--the food was excellent.

"I didn't expect this out here in the country," I told her.

She laughed. "It's become quite well known," she said. "There's also a community college on the other side of town, and they have an excellent subscription concert program. We locals call it the Chapel Hill effect."

"Don't tell me suburban growth is pushing its way all the way out here, too," I said, noting the very mixed crowd of diners.

"Well, you're here," she pointed out.

Touche,
I thought.
So I am.
My head was buzzing with all the details of our house inspection, and I was glad she'd brought a voice recorder along because I could not possibly have kept up with her.

"How can I find out who my adjacent neighbors are?" I asked.

"Courthouse," she replied. "Mr. Oatley can help you with that. You've already met the Lees across the road. The places on either side of you are even bigger than Glory's End. They won't necessarily have anyone living there, though. The really big tracts in this county are owned by just a few local families."

"Who 'never' sell."

"Generally, that's true. Everyone was really surprised when Glory's End came on the market."

"Who's everyone?" I asked.

"It's a really small town, Mr. Richter."

"How'd you get here?" I asked.

"I grew up here, went away to college and then out into the world for a while. Didn't care much for it and came back."

"Married?"

"Briefly," she said, looking away. I sensed she'd just as soon not pursue that subject.

"So what's next in our project planning?"

"Just that," she said. "Planning. I build a proposed restoration plan, you review and approve it, we set a budget, and then I act as the general contractor and start a bidding process. There's a sequence to these projects."

"Like doing electrical and plumbing before the wallpaper?"

"Exactly. First, of course, you have to close. How's that coming? Do you need some bank referrals?"

When I explained that I wouldn't need a bank, she whistled softly. "Wow. This has to be a seven-figure deal. Police work pays that well in Triboro?"

"If you let the right people bribe you, it does," I said.

She put up her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean it that way."

"No offense taken."

"It's just that, in this county, when someone's considered to be rich, we're usually talking about land rich. Families who have been here since the 1700s, but they're riding around in Ford pickups, not Mercedeses."

I nodded. Then I told her about seeing the horseman on the ridge.

She didn't think it significant. "A lot of people ride in this county," she said. "There's even a fox hunt. Horseback's still the best way to get around some of the bigger properties. Do you ride?"

I told her I did not but might want to learn, among the many other projects I wanted to do on the property over the next few years.

"Few years?" she said with a smile. "Longer than that, I think. The house alone will probably be a ten-year project."

"It didn't take that long in that movie--at the end, where the crew comes in and swarms all over it?"

"The Money Pit?
That's Hollywood. The truth comes in two parts. One, you want to enjoy the process of bringing one of these places back to life. Two, getting the right people and materials takes forever--just the nature of the beast and the folks who do this for a living. The
real craftsmen don't know the meaning of a schedule, and unless you're buying it to flip it and make money, you should just sit back and watch."

That sounded like the ground truth to me, and I had said that quality time was the objective. Now I knew why she hadn't mentioned a schedule when she'd described the project planning. I asked if it would take ten years before I could live there. She told me I could probably make a part of the house more habitable once the basics were done, and then just creep along with the project.

After lunch I went over to the courthouse to try my hand at researching the property title and possibly the surrounding parcels of land. An elderly gentleman wearing a wool suit and a bow tie greeted me in the records section. He gave me the immediate impression that I was disturbing him and asked if I was a lawyer. I said no.

He sighed and said that I would be wasting my time unless I happened to be an expert in deciphering old deed books, which he very much doubted I was.

I smiled patiently and told him that I was willing to try, if he would only do his job and get me the appropriate books.

"I do not work for you, sir," he said, laying on a little high dudgeon of his own.

"Are you paid by the taxpayers of this county, Mr. Clerk?" I asked.

"Are you a taxpayer in this county?" he retorted.

"About to be; I'm buying Glory's End. Then I'll be a voter, too. Imagine that, a landowner and a voter--and you in an elected position."

He glared at me and then said he would bring the books to the reading room, which was right through that door there, where normally only attorneys were allowed.

I went in and sat down, wondering about all this hostility. I'd dealt with minor bureaucrats all my life, and I knew some of them can grow a Nazi streak, usually in proportion to the insignificance of their job.

He came in bearing an armload of deed books. He informed me that I really meant the Oak Grove Lees, unless I was only interested in the time after the war.

"There's a magnifying glass in that drawer," he said. "Do you know how to read a deed book?"

I told him I'd muddle through, but if I had any questions, I knew where to find him.

"Well," he said, "I am fairly knowledgeable about the history of this county and the various important families. I myself am a Gaston."

"Wow," I said. "A Gaston."

He reddened, and then I decided to end the bullshit. I stood up, and we discovered that I was one foot taller than he was and quite a bit more substantial. "If I have a technical question," I said, "I will expect you to answer it truthfully to the best of your ability, and if you can't, I will expect you to refer me to someone who can. Clear?"

He put up his hands in protest. "I only meant that I am well versed in the names of various properties and the genealogy associated with them," he said. "I didn't mean--"

"Thank you," I said.

He backed almost out of the reading room, then stopped. He looked as if he'd gotten some of his courage back. "May I say something?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Glory's End and the Lees in this county have a troubled past," he said. "You need to be careful of what you go looking for, Mr. Richter. You just might find it."

I'd heard a variant of that expression before, as in,
Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.
I didn't understand how that pertained to deed books, though--or a title search, for that matter. Before I could think of anything cute to say, he turned around and went back to his office.

There were six deed books piled on the table, and I was suddenly glad my own name wasn't Lee. One thing was clear, however: By taking
on the house and the land, I was stepping into a rich vein of Carolina Piedmont history.

Thirty minutes and two deed books later I came to a decision: Much as I hated to admit it, the old man had been right. This little project was going to require an expert, specifically an attorney who did this for a living. I returned the books to the front desk and asked my new best friend to recommend someone.

"There's really only one," he said, trying to keep any hint of triumph out of his voice. "Hiram Whatley Lee, Esquire."

"Lee."

"Who better than a Lee, Mr. Richter?" he asked, cocking his head to one side.

Who indeed,
I thought.

Arlanda Cole gave me a call at home that evening. They'd run a little con on Billie Ray that afternoon. They'd put him in a waiting room with two other "parolees" to wait for Arlanda to get around to him. The parolees had, of course, been undercover drug cops, and they got to going on the matter of getting back at some of the pig bastards who'd put them away. Billie had let them rant for a little while but did not join in. Then he made a single comment: There are people who talk shit, and there are people who do shit. Talkers were never doers. Then he clammed back up.

"Either he made 'em for cops," she said, "and was just messin' around, or that's exactly what he meant, that he was a doer and not a talker."

"I have to assume the latter, then," I said.

"Yeah, Lieutenant, I think you do. I'll keep irritatin' him, see if we can get him violated, but I believe this one's a crafty dog, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yes, I do. My guys are keeping an eye on him, for the moment. Letting him know we're watching him."

"Tell 'em to do it from a distance, okay? Don't want that little shit goin' and gettin' a lawyer, accusing you of stalking him. Co-vert, not o-vert, and you didn't hear that from me."

"Got it, and I really appreciate your help."

"You walk around strapped these days?"

"Not lately, but--"

"There you go. You have a nice evenin'."

I'd wanted to ask Arlanda where Billie Ray was staying, since he had to give his PO a physical address, but I knew she wasn't allowed to tell me that. I then called Horace and relayed the message about getting out of Billie's face. Horace said he'd pass it on and that he had a great rifle scope for doing distant surveillance. If I really wanted to find out where his crib was, my guys could probably manage it. From a distance, of course.

My visit to Lawyer Lee's office had been brief. He'd been out of the office. His assistant said that he could take on the project, but probably not for two weeks or so. I asked her to contact Mr. Oatley to get the precise property description in question. She gave me a smile not unlike the county clerk's and told me that Whatley Lee was fully familiar with Glory's End, formerly Oak Grove plantation. Apparently my input for the title search was going to be limited to paying for it.

Finished with my work for the day, I went home for supper, then got some single malt, and went into my study to read. The three shepherds came in, found their dog beds, and began to decorate them with dog hair. Frack, the oldest of the three, was showing a lot of gray in the muzzle, and even though he could get around on his three remaining legs, he was slowing way down.

I never thought it was possible to smell a moving bullet, but you can if it's close enough. Its vapor trail gives off a brassy, coppery smell, somewhat like ozone but with a distinct flash of heat. Also, if it's that close, the shock wave will press on your eyes.

The round that razor-cut the air in front of my face came through
the window from the outside, but I didn't learn that until later. I'd been reading my book, not bothering anybody, when what turned out to be a .30-06 soft point clicked through the window, burned into the kitchen, and smashed six coffee mugs into ceramic dust inside one of the cabinets. I remember hearing a distant boom outside, but I was too surprised to do much more than blink as I rolled out of my chair onto the floor and pulled the table lamp over with me, breaking the bulb and putting the room in darkness.

I lay on the floor, wondering what would happen next, smelling expensive Scotch on the rug. A big piece of glass guillotined out of the window frame and crashed to the floor. A moment later I could feel a cool breeze from outside. I listened to see if anyone was coming up to the house, maybe to look inside, see if he needed to finish the job, but heard only the night wind. My nearest gun was in the gun safe in my closet.

Then I realized that this had to have been a warning shot. Somebody with a long rifle and a scope had just put one between my nose and my book, and I didn't think it had been Horace. If the shooter was that good, he could just as easily have put it in my ear.

Three cold shepherd noses were pushing into various places on my body, making sure I was okay. I crawled across the floor, found the phone, and called the cops.