Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

“Sir?
 
The detectives handle that.”

“I can assign any swingin’ dick I want to investigate.
 
Besides, those folks are busy with the triple they caught last month.”

The detectives normally handled robberies and homicides, but since the county usually only got a couple of homicides a year, most of their time dealt with robberies and grand theft.
 
But there was a triple homicide in North Eugene in early October, and the media was on their ass to clear it.
 
The Eugene area was unusually sedate considering the large drug use.
 
Legal marijuana had actually reduced crime even more.
 
But Lester thought that might be only a temporary blip.
 
He was sure that pot led to an eventual increase in harder drugs.
 
Time would tell if he was correct.

“If you think I’m ready, sir,” Lester said.

“You got this.”
 
Then the sheriff hung up.

Not exactly a rousing endorsement, but when the sheriff said to do something, Lester followed that order.

After what seemed like a long period, Lester could finally see a couple more sheriff’s vehicles approaching in his rearview mirror, their lights shining through the pounding rain and eerie fog.

2

A heavy fog lingered over the Coast Range, a constant drizzle hitting Ben Adler’s windshield as he drove his 1968 Ford pickup along a narrow muddy road, and forcing him to hit the wipers every few seconds.

He stopped at a crossroad and turned on his right blinker.
 
This road led to his eighty-acre hobby farm nestled into the hills with a nice view of the narrow Cantina Valley pockmarked with little ranches and farms and not yet taken over entirely by the large wine conglomerates that had converted much of the Willamette Valley into a Napa Valley on steroids.
 
Oregon pinot noir had finally found worldwide approval, so every snobby weasel wanted a taste of the burgundy elixir.

Ben tried his best to see if any vehicles were coming, but with the fog that was nearly impossible.
 
The good news was that only one other farm sat between this intersection and his own place, which was the end of the road.

As soon as he turned and shifted into second gear, the first of his warning signs loomed on the right side of the road, telling anyone who happened to come this way that this was private property.
 
In reality, for the next quarter mile this was a county road, which ended at his gate.
 
His neighbor Jim Erickson owned both sides of the road here and grazed angus cattle mostly.

When Ben saw a flash of light ahead, he slowed his truck and pulled over behind his neighbor’s green tractor with attached front loader.

Ben shut down his truck and stepped out into the drizzle.
 
Although he was wearing a rain-proof jacket, his jeans were still rather soaked from his fishing adventure in a small trout stream that morning.
 
He had caught his limit of rainbows and would now have enough to fire up the smoker.

His neighbor sat up high in the cab and shut down the tractor when he saw Ben approach.

Jim Erickson got out of the enclosed cab and climbed down the ladder to the muddy road.
 
“You catch anything, Ben?”

“Slayed a few small ones,” Ben said.
 
“I’ll brine a batch tonight and get the smoker burning in the morning.”

“Sounds like a plan.”
 
Jim was at least seventy, but he was still as strong as a power forward, with a tall sinewy frame like the former basketball player he had been in his youth.

Ben had known the man most of his life, having grown up at the homestead before heading off to the military after high school.
 
Forty years old might have been too early to retire for most, but Ben had taken his military retirement and moved home.
 
His decision had been somewhat easy, since both of his parents were going through cancer treatments in Portland.
 
That was less than a year ago.
 
At forty Ben had become an orphan.

“What you got on the front loader?” Ben asked, his head shifting to a black blob protruding from the front loader bucket.

“Another heifer burned up,” Jim said.

“Second one?”

“Third.
 
Two heifers and a steer.”

“What the hell’s causing it?”

“Shit if I know.
 
I sent the last one to the state for analysis, but the bastards still haven’t gotten back with me.”

Ben rounded the front of the massive machine to get a closer look at the heifer.
 
But at this point the young angus looked more like a blob of charcoal.
 
“I wouldn’t trust the state to come up with diddly squat,” Ben said.
 
“Those morons couldn’t find their assholes if their heads twisted like an owl.”

Jim smiled.
 
“The Air Force teach you that?”

“My dad taught me that.”

“Wise man.”

Ben looked back down the road toward Cantina Creek.
 
“Any word on the dead guy you found the other night?”

“Not really.
 
I gave my report to Lester Dawson.
 
He followed up yesterday afternoon, saying the dead guy was more than likely an illegal alien.
 
But he had no ID and his face was pretty messed up, so they can’t even pass around a photo of the guy to help identify him.”

Dead bodies in this part of the county were rare, Ben knew.
 
If someone went missing, word would get out fast.
 
“My guess is someone will report a missing person soon enough.”

“Maybe,” Jim agreed.
 
“But I think most of the aliens are pretty tight-lipped.”
 
Jim pointed up the road and said, “Were you expecting someone at your place?”

“Hell no.
 
Why?”

“A shiny black BMW just drove up there about ten minutes ago,” Jim said.
 
“I took down its plates just in case.
 
Thought it might be your drug dealer.”

“For an old man, you’re pretty funny.”

“Age has nothin’ to do with hilarity, Ben.”

He guessed his neighbor was right.
 
“All right.
 
Thanks for the info.
 
Do you suppose they were dumb enough to go through my gate?”
 
Ben felt the butt of his semi-automatic handgun on his right hip under his rain jacket.

“Just holler if you need backup,” Jim said, slapped the gun on his own hip, and then climbed back up into the cab.

In this tight-knit community, nobody relied on the sheriff to keep the peace.
 
Ben knew that they were only called in to pick up the bodies.

Getting back into his truck, Ben started his engine and waited until Jim waved him to pass.
 
He wound his truck through the tight, narrow road until he reached his outer gate, which was wide open.
 
He shook his head, went through, and closed the gate behind him.
 
Then he drove up the hill toward his house.
 
The black BMW stood out in front of his ranch house like a banjo at a state funeral.

He parked his truck next to the BMW and he tried to see who was inside, but the windows were tinted too dark to make out the driver.
 
His ducks and geese were making a fuss with the new car.
 
Ben guessed they didn’t like fine German autos.

Getting out, he unzipped his rain jacket and tucked it behind his gun before approaching the driver’s side of the car like he had been taught as an Air Force security policeman.
 
He waved and yelled at his geese to shut up.
 
Once they saw who fed them, they did just that.

The window slid down smoothly and he saw a pretty redhead behind the wheel, which quickly brought Ben relief.

“Do you have shit for brains?” Ben asked the woman.

She reacted with shock.
 
Then she recovered and said, “I don’t think so.”

Ben pointed toward his front gate down the hill.
 
“You didn’t see my sign to keep the hell out?”

“Yes, but. . .”

“When you open a gate on a ranch, you close the damn thing after you go through.
 
I’ve got alpacas, sheep and cattle grazing around here.”

“And foul.
 
I’m sorry,” she said.
 
“I didn’t think...”

“Oh, I know that,” Ben said.

She continued, “I didn’t see any animals.”

“It’s November and the rains have started,” Ben explained.
 
“Most of them have enough sense to get the hell out of this crap and into their shelter.”
 
Except for the ducks and geese and sometimes the chickens and turkeys.

“But you’re out in the rain,” she said with a smirk.

Ben looked up to the sky.
 
“This isn’t bad.”
 
He cast his gaze upon the woman again and said, “What do you want?”

“I’m Maggi McGuffin, an attorney from Portland,” she said.

He pointed back to his gate again.
 
“Get the hell out.”

“I was told you could be an ornery bastard.
 
I thought the colonel was kidding.
 
Now I know he was understating your condition.
 
You might be certifiable.”

“I’m certain of one thing,” Ben said.
 
“I don’t put up with idiots from Portland.
 
Especially lawyers.”

“I’m not here as a lawyer,” she said.
 
“Well, that’s not entirely true.
 
I do represent the colonel on a number of matters.”

That was the second time she mentioned a colonel.
 
“Am I supposed to know this colonel?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Walter Keyes,” she said.

Yeah, Ben knew this man.
 
After four years as a security policeman, Ben had cross-trained into the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.
 
AFOSI investigated everything in the Air Force from drug crimes to murder.
 
They also worked counter espionage.
 
Lt. Col Keyes had been Ben’s last boss before both of them retired.
 
The main thing they both had in common was the fact that they were both native Oregonians.

“What’s the Bull up to?” Ben asked.
 
Everyone called the man Bull Keyes, even the enlisted special agents like Ben, who had retired as a senior master sergeant.

She wiped the rain from the black leather door and said, “Can we talk inside?”

Glancing about his yard, Ben turned back to the redhead and shifted his head toward his house.
 
“All right.
 
But stay close to me.
 
I don’t want you to be attacked by my critters.
 
That’s fair warning that even a lawyer could understand.”

The lawyer raised her window and then got out of her fancy car, her six-inch heels sinking into the muck of his driveway.

Ben held out his hand to her, and she grasped on like she was dangling from a cliff.
 
“Like I said, stay close.”