Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1) (28 page)

“Just a temporary burner,” Ben said.
 
“But cell service is spotty at my place.
 
However, I do have internet now.
 
I’m still using my old email.
 
You got that, right?”

“Roger that.”

Ben left his old commander and wandered back toward his car, feeling a great deal of angst after seeing this formerly vital man turned into half a man.
 
The problem with seeing friends grow old is the inevitability of one’s own mortality.
 
And Ben didn’t like it one bit.

29

Ben drove south to his home in the Cantina Valley.
 
First he stopped off to see his neighbor Jim Erickson, who had taken care of his animals in Ben’s absence.

But Ben didn’t get to Jim’s house, since the man was out in a field alongside the road to Ben’s house.
 
Parking his Chevelle behind Jim’s tractor, Ben climbed the barbed wire fence and stepped out through a small herd of cattle until he reached his neighbor, who was stooping down and looking at a pile of black, burnt flesh.

“Another one?” Ben asked, as he crouched down for a better view.

“Afraid so, Ben.
 
Must have been late last night.
 
But this one was a prize heifer.
 
She won best in class last summer at the state fair.
 
A damn tragedy.”

“Have you heard anything from Oregon State?” Ben asked.

Jim nodded his head.
 
“Just yesterday.”
 
He started to rise and almost fell, but Ben caught the older gentleman.

“Are you all right?” Ben asked.

“Yeah.
 
Just got up too fast.”

“What did the folks at OSU say?”

“They said there was some validity to an external source of the flames,” Jim said.
 
“But there were also some kind of probe marks and signs that the flames actually started inside the cattle.”

“Shit.
 
That’s some major cruelty, Jim.
 
Bastards better not let me catch them.”

“Same here, Ben.
 
There’ll be a special place in hell for those bastards.”

The two of them stood in silence, with Ben trying his best to understand what was going on with these cattle.
 
It made no sense.

“Do you have any enemies that I don’t know about?” Ben asked.

Jim shrugged.
 
“The EPA has been trying to get me to let my north forty revert to wetlands.
 
But, as you know, my family has grazed cattle there since the eighteen hundreds.”

“Right.
 
And this part of Oregon has more wetland than dry land.
 
You know about my water fight with those assholes.”

“I know.
 
How they say that you can’t collect your own water from your roof and store it for summer?
 
That’s just smart use, Ben.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.
 
That lawyer friend thinks she will get the IRS off my back, and then she’ll go after the EPA.
 
But she’s a little preoccupied right now trying to get her brother out of FBI custody.”

“What’s this I hear about Marlon Telford and child pornography?” Jim asked.

“It’s bullshit.
 
Don’t pass that rumor on, Jim.
 
The FBI has some major problems right now.
 
They’re overreaching with the boys at the Compound and Marlon.”

They both heard the truck driving down their road before they saw it.
 
They turned to see the shiny black vehicle jacked up high with massive tires pull up behind Ben’s car.

“Who the hell’s that?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know.”

Ben and Jim wandered toward the road and helped each other over the barbed wire fence.
 
As they came up on the truck, the driver’s window powered down and a man in a western-style suit with a bolo tie smiled through his perfectly-trimmed thin beard.

“Morning gentlemen,” the man in the truck said, a slight Slavic accent escaping.

Ben looked in and saw a man wearing a black leather jacket staring back at him from the front passenger side.
 
This guy had a bald head, but it was shaved that way, since Ben could tell he had a shadow of stubble coming in.
 
The man in the leather jacket looked like he could bench three hundred pounds with one arm.

“What can I do for you?” Jim asked.

“Nothing.
 
We just stopped to make sure you were all right,” the driver said.

The man had an accent that wasn’t readily distinguishable among the Slavic range, but Ben guessed it was anywhere from Eastern European to Russian.
 
Which wasn’t a stretch for Oregon, since many of the more recent immigrants were from Russia and the Ukraine.

“We’re fine,” Ben said.
 
“We were just checking on our beef barbeque.”

The driver glanced out to the field and showed some understanding.
 
“I see.”

“Are you lost?” Ben asked.

“No.”

Ben waved his hand up toward the road ahead.
 
“I ask because this road only leads one way, into a dead end just ahead at my gate.”

“You are Ben Adler?”

“Guilty.”
 
Ben glanced at the passenger a little closer and saw that the man was carrying a handgun under his right arm.
 
So that made the man a southpaw.
 
He unzipped his own jacket to make it easier to draw his handgun from his right hip.
 
He also noticed that Jim had his hand resting on his Colt .45, which he always carried openly while on his ranch.
 
What did this man want with him?

The driver finally said, “I understand you might be having a little trouble with the EPA.”

“Was that a question?” Ben asked.

“An observation.
 
Is it true?”

“The EPA is known around here as Extreme Pricks and Assholes,” Ben said.

Jim Erickson laughed under his breath.

The man in the fake western outfit smiled.
 
“I understand.
 
But those assholes can pack some heavy fines.”
 
The driver hesitated and then glanced at Jim.
 
“I understand you might also be having a problem with them.”

“I don’t worry about unconstitutional organizations,” Jim said.
 
“They come and go over time.
 
My family has owned this land for more than a hundred years—far before a bunch of hippies dreamed up the EPA.”

The driver reached inside his jacket and came out with two business cards.
 
He reached his hand out, expecting Ben and Jim to take one.
 
Jim took them and handed one to Ben.
 
The card simply had the man’s name, Vlad Grankin.
 
Under that it read ‘Entrepreneur.’
 
Then there was a Portland area cell phone number.
 
Nothing else.
 
The strange thing about the card was how thick it was.
 
It was made from some kind of plastic composite.
 
A bit ostentatious for Ben’s taste.

“Entrepreneur covers a lot of bases,” Ben said.

“That is correct, Mister Adler,” Grankin said.
 
“The list of my business interests is much too long and diverse to fit on a normal business card.”

“Why are you giving us your card?” Ben asked.

Now the Russian or Ukrainian held back a smirk.
 
“I like you.
 
You get right to the point.”

“Unlike some people,” Ben said.

“All right.
 
You got me.
 
I would like to make your problems go away.”

“Okay,” Ben said.
 
“Just back up a little and make a U-turn.”

The thick-skulled man in the passenger side gave a combination of a grunt and a growl.
 
But the driver smiled and stifled a laugh, his right hand reaching out to the man next to him.

“I would like to make a offer for your properties,” Grankin said.
 
“I will pay better than the normal market dictates.”

Now Ben laughed.
 
“This is my retirement property.”

“I’ll be buried on this land like my ancestors,” Jim chimed in.

The man in the fake western outfit nodded his head and said, “Think about it.
 
I’ll have my people draw up offers to both of you.
 
You will be able to move anywhere you like.”

“I like it here,” Ben said.

“That’s right,” Jim agreed.

“This kind of money could change your life,” the Russian or Ukrainian said.

Then, when Ben or Jim didn’t have anything more to say, the driver started his truck and pulled a U-turn before slowly driving away.

Jim looked at the strange business card and said, “Douche bag.
 
Who the hell does he think he is?”

“Vlad Grankin, entrepreneur,” Ben said.
 
“Whatever the hell that is.”
 
He considered throwing the man’s card, but decided to hang on to it to do a background check on him.

“You’re considering it,” Jim said.
 
“Makes sense.
 
You’ve got nothing holding you here.”

Ben thought about his own parents, who had really built his place to what it is today, although he had perfected the solar grid and the cistern system.
 
Still, his parents had died in that house within a one month period.
 
He was sure they would have never sold out.

“Is this the first you’ve heard from this Grankin dude?” Ben asked.

“I believe so.
 
But I have been getting a lot of flyers from real estate agents.”

“It’s possible those people were hired by this entrepreneur,” Ben asserted.

Now Ben’s mind reeled as to motive.
 
He didn’t believe in coincidences.
 
This man didn’t just show up out of nowhere.
 
Vlad Grankin had a strategy, and Ben intended to find out what the man was up to in this valley.