Deadly Catch (18 page)

The wire ran across the trail about ankle high and disappeared into the brush on either side. I eased parallel along the wire to see what it was attached to. It might be bad news or maybe just some tin cans with rocks inside to act as a warning that someone was approaching. The wire ended next to a small tree about ten feet off the trail. Being as careful as I could, I pulled the brush away. The hair on the back of my neck rose up when I spotted what was either a flare or a stick of dynamite. I wasn’t risking my ass to find out which. I pulled my cell phone out of the plastic bag and snapped a few pictures. Then I tore a strip of paper towel to mark the wire where it crossed the trail and moved on.

I was on high alert now, my adrenaline kicking in like I was on a combat patrol back in Iraq. Somebody was up to no good around here, or had been. I eased along, eyeballs peeled, sweeping the trail closely for wires or other danger. Forty yards ahead I spotted another wire. I moved over carefully, this time testing the ground first for solid footing. Some of the old salts I’d served with who’d been in the Corps during Vietnam had mentioned how the Viet Cong would often dig punji pits just past their tripwired booby traps. If a soldier or Marine spotted the wire and stepped over it, the next step might find his foot plunging into a camouflaged pit filled with sharp, poison-coated stakes.

The ground held. I marked the wire, took a deep breath, and kept going. I considered getting off the trail and working my way through the underbrush but decided I’d rather watch out for wires than rattlers. Every few yards I stopped and scanned the area for signs of marijuana plants. I’d read on the Internet how growers will often hide their crop between rows of pines; enough sunlight filters through for good growth while offering excellent concealment from aerial surveillance. These mammoth pines were old growth. Loggers had likely never laid eyes on them, but it looked like an ideal place to hide a pot plot.

I spent a good hour searching the area. I didn’t come across any more tripwires or punji pits, but I didn’t find any marijuana plants either. I was just about ready to give up the search and head back when a burlap bag lying behind some bushes just off the trail caught my eye. I gave the area a good visual going over and then worked my way around a bush to the bag. It was the same type used by oystermen, and it wasn’t empty.

I nudged it with my boot and then flipped it over with the shotgun barrel. No movement or buzzing, so I figured it didn’t contain a nest of diamondbacks. I reached down, grabbed the bag by the bottom corners, and lifted it. Stacks of small black plastic containers spilled onto the forest floor, the kind tomato and pepper and other seedlings come in. I took a quick count; there were around four dozen. A few similar bagfuls, and you could have one hell of a profitable marijuana crop.

I grabbed my phone again and snapped a few more pictures, then headed back to camp.

I made it back to my bivouac before dark. Nobody was around, so I stripped down and took a quick dip in Little Gator Lake to wash off the sweat and bug juice. Inside the tent, I put on a fresh set of utilities, ate a pack of jerky, and washed it down with scotch. Not a bad combo after a long trek through the wilderness. I tried calling Kate to let her know I was still among the living, but I couldn’t pick up a signal from my campsite. I was bushed, and sleep came easy.

The first day of July dawned hot and muggy. I broke camp before the sun topped the trees, saddled up, and hit the trail. The hike back was uneventful except for a three-foot water moccasin I spotted about a mile from trail’s end that posed no threat. It was still a relief when I got back to my truck and found it safe. I stopped in Crawfordton again for breakfast and was back in St. George just past one.

Inside my trailer, I showered and put on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I started to shave but then decided what the hell. I liked the look of the two-days’ growth and let it go.

The parking lot at Gillman’s was damn near full when I pulled in at two-thirty. The store was buzzing with tourists in town for the big weekend. Kate was behind the counter working the register for a long line of customers, too busy to notice me when I’d come in. Sara was manning a table in front of a large banner announcing registration for the fishing tournament. I walked over and stood in line.

“Oh, Mr. Mac,” she said, breaking eye contact when she saw it was me at the head of the line. “What categories are you entering?” The usual smile and perkiness in her voice were missing. I guess I was fairly high on her poop list at the moment.

I flashed a smile, hoping to break the icicles loose. “Just speckled trout, single boater.”

“That’ll be fifty-five dollars, please.” I was surprised I couldn’t see the frostiness in Sara’s breath as she jotted down my entry on the proper sign-up sheet.

I counted out the correct cash and laid it on the table in front of her. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” she said and handed me a flyer with the contest rules without looking up. “The weigh-in deadline is seven o’clock, Friday and Saturday evening.”

I idled down the aisle where the lures were located and picked up a silver MirrOlure and a blue and silver Rapala, then moved to the end of the line Kate was working. I hoped I’d get a warmer welcome from her.

When I was a few customers away Kate glanced over and smiled. At least I’d managed to avoid stepping in her piss pot. When I got to the register I handed her the lures. “Movie and dinner tonight, O’Malley’s?”

“Can’t, Mac. I don’t get off until seven.” She did a double-take. “Are you growing a beard?”

“Maybe. You like it?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“The movie’s not until nine. Pick you up at eight-fifteen?”

She took my money and gave me the change, my bagged lures, and a smile. “Okay, see you then.”

O’Malley’s wasn’t your ordinary movie theater. Instead of rows upon rows of seats, there were tables and chairs where couples or small groups could sit together and enjoy a dinner menu or regular movie fare while watching classic films from yesteryear. Tonight’s feature was
Casablanca
, which I’m sure Kate had probably seen as many times as I had. But hell, can you ever get too much Bogie?

During the drive to Parkersville I filled Kate in on what I’d found during my little excursion to Grand Gator Bay and showed her the photos I’d taken.

“That’s not the Brett Barfield I know,” she said after looking at the tripwires strung across the trail. “Okay, maybe he was growing marijuana, and maybe he dragged Maddie into that mess, but I still can’t imagine him blowing people up.”

“They could’ve been dummy wires just to scare people away,” I said, “but I wasn’t about to risk my butt to find out.”

We agreed to put off any further discussion about the case for the time being and enjoy our dinner and movie. The roast beef sandwich platters and pitcher of beer hit the spot, and the company couldn’t be beat. By the time Rick Blaine and Captain Renault walked off into the fog, to paraphrase Rick’s closing line, I was sure Kate and I were beginning a beautiful friendship.

After the movie Kate took my arm in hers as we strolled back to the truck. Things were beginning to look promising. I turned onto Main Street and headed for the highway, hoping tonight might just be the night for Kate and me to move our relationship a step farther. We’d just passed the Commerce Bank when something caught my eye. I took the first right and turned right again at the next block.

“Where on earth are we going?”

“Don’t stare, but take a look down the alleyway behind the bank when we pass by,” I said. “Tell me what you see.”

I slowed a little as we drove past the alley that was lit by a nearby streetlamp. Kate turned her head just enough to see. “It’s Chief Merritt. So what?”

“Yeah, in Parkersville, not St. George. Who’s the other guy?” I circled on around the block and passed in front of the bank again so Kate could get another look.

“Hey . . . that’s Clayton Barfield, Brett’s dad.”

I thought I recognized him from one of the photos on the wall the day I’d visited Barfield Fisheries. I glanced at Kate. “You got any idea why a grieving father would be laughing it up with the chief of police in an alleyway at eleven-thirty at night?”

“You know what I’m starting to believe?” I said as I pulled into Kate’s driveway.

“What?”

I rolled down the power windows and switched off the engine, rested both hands on top of the steering wheel, and stared through the windshield at Kate’s house. “That Brett Barfield is still alive.”

Kate unbuckled her seat belt and slid closer. She placed a hand atop mine. “Then you think he’s responsible for what happened to Maddie?”

I glanced at her, then out the windshield again. “I don’t know what to think. But if he’s dead, why the hell would his father and Ben Merritt be laughing it up in that alley?”

“I still say they were arguing, not laughing,” Kate said, moving her hand. “It looked like it to me, anyway. Besides, you said George Harper is Brett’s father.”

I nodded. “Biological father. I’d bet on it. But even if Barfield found out his wife
had
fooled around, he still raised Brett like his own son. You don’t just throw away twenty-one years. That man in the alley didn’t strike me as someone who’s just lost a son. My guess is Brett’s alive, and Clayton Barfield knows it.”

Kate let out a deep breath. “They were arguing, Mac. And I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but shouldn’t you let Bo Pickron in on what you’ve learned? You’re supposed to be working for him.”

With everything that had been happening I’d almost forgotten about Bocephus. “Yeah, I’ll touch base with him Monday. He’ll be busy enough this weekend with this crowd down for the Fourth.”

For a moment neither of us spoke. Then Kate leaned over and gave me a quick peck on my stubbled cheek. “You want to come in?”

Why the hell did I have to drive by that bank in Parkersville? Seeing Barfield and the chief together had blown the romance right out of the air. I looked at my watch. “It’s midnight, and I’m guessing you’ve got to be at work early. Rain check?”

“Sure.” Kate grabbed her purse and opened the door. “I had a nice time tonight.”

“Me too. Thanks.”

She shut the door and leaned through the open window. “Are you going out in the morning?”

Heat lightning had been flaring in the clouds over the gulf during our drive back to St. George, and the wind had picked up. “I paid my entry fee. What’s this weather supposed to do?”

Kate gave the sky a quick look. The wind lifted her hair, blowing it off her neck and shoulders. “It’s iffy,” she said. “NOAA said a low-pressure system is trying to form in the central gulf. They’re giving three to five offshore, choppy in the bay. Dang lousy timing for the tournament.”

“Guess I’ll drive down to the park and take a look first thing in the morning. See you tomorrow.”

“Night, Mac,” Kate said and headed for her house. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She turned and walked to my side of the truck. “Guess who the Gillmans hired?”

“Sandra Bullock?” Ask a silly question, get a silly answer.

“Funny, ha ha. Hey, do you have a thing for her?”

“She’s easy on the eyes.”