Claire leveled shocked eyes on him. “No way.”
“Oh, yeah. They’re that dangerous, if you mess with them. Otherwise, they keep to themselves and cause no trouble. That feud runs hard and deep, I know that, but I don’t know what caused it. They probably don’t, either. I don’t hang around up there and ask nosy questions, believe me. You shouldn’t, either, if you value your good health and want to be a healthy physical presence at your own wedding.”
“I’m getting similar warnings at every turn in this investigation. Well, sorry, but I’m going up there, as soon as I finish another cup of this delicious coffee.”
“Are you armed?”
Claire smiled. “Well, what’d you think, Joe? And take a look at this sweet little Glock 19 that Black got me.” She slid the new nine out of its holster attached to her belt and handed it over to him butt first.
“Nice piece,” he agreed, examining it carefully. “I’ve heard about them, but I haven’t shot one yet.”
“Wanna help me sight it in?”
“Sure.”
“You still have that shooting range set up out back?”
“Yeah. It’s a little icy out there at the moment.”
“Let’s go. My snow boots have traction. Then you can decide if you want to back me up when I ferret out the Parkers and the Fitches and read them their rights.”
“Over my dead body you’re goin’ in up there alone, so I guess I’ll have to tag along. At least, I know some of them a little. They are the quintessential hillbillies. Distrustful, rowdy, dangerous, and unfriendly to strangers. Not to mention, deadly.”
“Sounds like a fun bunch.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Well, if you ever hear a barrage of gunfire on your back forty, come running. It’ll probably be me taking down the Beverly Hillbillies.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my ears open.”
But Claire had a feeling Joe was exaggerating a bit. After all, it was the twenty-first century. Out back, the two of them took turns shooting the 9mm for a while, and Claire was extremely pleased with the heft and the way the new Glock handled. The trigger was a little different than her other Glock, but it was a sweet little weapon, nevertheless. She loved it, but she wasn’t giving up her other guns just yet, either. Probably never, actually. She wondered if carrying three guns would weigh her down too much. Sure would help boost her self-confidence meter.
McKay insisted on taking his pickup truck, and it didn’t take long before he was driving up the twisting, turning, and heavily wooded blacktop road, where all they saw were rusty mailboxes identifying overgrown and snowy entrance tracks that seemed to lead out into the middle of nowhere. If there was a feud, she wondered how they ever ran into each other to start fights in such rural and isolated surroundings. Finally, and after quite a stomach-turning journey, they rounded a sharp curve and came upon a rather large and rustic gasoline station/quick stop sitting on the right side of the road. It was really just a large white house with a sign on top identifying it as
PARKER’S QUICK STOP.
A hand-lettered sign taped on the front door read:
NO DAMNED FITCHES ALLOWED
.
“Yeah, Joe. I’d say there’s a feud, all right.”
“Told ya.”
McKay pulled up next to one of the pumps, and they both got out. McKay said, “I’m gonna fill up here just so we’ll get off on the right foot with the proprietors.”
“Scaredy cat.”
“You’ll see.”
“I’m going on in, check things out.”
“Don’t start interrogating them until I get there, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll buy us some hot chocolate and some Snickers bars first.”
“Just don’t get in a fight with them until I get there.”
“You and Black, I declare. You both act like I’m some kind of bully or troublemaker.”
“And your point is?”
“Shut up and pump your gas.”
Claire left him doing just that and warily watching the front of the store, as if goblins were going to fly out on brooms and dive-bomb them. She couldn’t help but notice several more signs around the station, all warning off the elusive Fitches. She wondered if that was even legal. She thought not. But she could think of more than a few people that she would like to ban from her property.
Inside, the store looked a lot like the interior of a Cracker Barrel restaurant, except that the quaint gift shop had turned into a gun show. Of course, that was right up her alley so she browsed a time, but didn’t see a single thing that she liked better than Black’s prized gift, now snug in its bed on her right hip. The place also offered enough camouflage to clad the entire volunteer army, plus various and sundry hunters and fishermen. Yep, only Bass Pro Shop down in Springfield beat them in sheer quantity of hunting merchandise. There were also knives and army surplus and lots of insulated and thermal long underwear and fur-lined, ear-flapped, WWII era, leather bomber pilot hats for winter weather. She ought to buy one for Black as a joke. She laughed to herself to think of him sitting at his important conference table and wearing that kind of cap, maybe with the furry flaps down and snapped under his chin. Nope, not in a million years would he ever put something like that on his handsome head.
The other side of the big building held groceries like any quick stop anywhere that was worth its salt: chips, candy, gum, lots of beer, sodas, ice cream, bottled water, not to mention the doe urine, gun oil, snuff, and chewing tobacco. She didn’t see much in the way of hairspray, combs, soap, perfume, body wash, or anything girly, not that she wanted any of it. There was also a little snack bar in the back with hot lamps blazing down on the food trays. She walked over and observed the goodies. There was fried chicken, fried fish, fried squirrel, fried potatoes, and fried pies for dessert. Smelled good, too. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad, after all.
Only problem was, there didn’t seem to be any people within a hundred miles of the place. So she just made herself at home, moseyed around, looking for bloody baseball bats or other deadly weapons used recently and didn’t see a one. She made two supersized insulated cups of hot chocolate, sipped one as she picked up a couple of Snickers bars and walked over to the counter. She looked around again, noticing the myriad of surveillance cameras set up high in every corner and behind the counter. She placed her items on the counter, looked up at the camera, and pointed at her purchases. If that didn’t work, maybe she’d shoot a few slugs up into the ceiling and see what happened. Hell, she wasn’t a damned Fitch, was she? So what was the problem?
Turning around, she watched Joe approach the front door and push it open. A rush of cold air came in with him and blew around the corncob pipes hanging on a rack beside the door. Joe came right up to her and said, “Where’s the clerk?”
“You tell me. Shoplifters would have a heyday in here.”
“Yeah, and they’d get their heads blown off by a Parker shotgun.”
“Ssh, they might be listening and take offense.”
“Maybe he’s out back with the dogs.”
Claire handed him his drink. “Well, let’s go see, shall we? It’ll give us a good excuse to case out the property.”
“They’ve always been right here at the register when I’ve come in. This is pretty unusual.”
So they moved cautiously to a swinging door that obviously led to some storage rooms, or maybe to an office in the back. Joe yelled, “Anybody here?”
No answer. Claire happily pulled her new weapon, and said, “C’mon, let’s go. Something might be wrong. A robbery in progress, or something.”
“Well, don’t shoot anybody, or they’ll think we’re Fitches and all hell will break loose.”
So they moved through the swinging door, Claire first, Joe right behind her. They found a storeroom in back with more camo and beer and ammunition. Surprise, surprise. There was a light coming from a door in the very back and they called out again and headed for it. They found a small and basically bare office with nobody in it, either. The back door was shut but not quite latched so they opened it and walked out into the rear parking lot. Across the way, they saw a long kennel-barn kind of building with lots of dog runs built along one side. Eight hundred and some odd dogs began to bark and howl.
“Well, they know we’re here now,” Claire said. She steeled herself, expecting to see somebody dressed like Grizzly Adams with a shotgun held braced against his shoulder walk out the kennel’s door. Mountain men or rednecks, who could tell the difference?
Suddenly a tall man did thrust open that door. To her shock, he looked like a regular person, normal in every single way, truth be told. He had a curly mop of chin-length dark brown hair that made him look a lot like pictures of Achilles or other ancient Greek warriors and a dark green sweater that looked like it came from the Gap, and pressed gray Dockers. There was a neat mustache and beard trimmed close around his jaw with clean shaven cheeks, also in the Prometheus or Ulysses vein, big brown eyes with very dark lashes, nice even features, and a smile that he used to his advantage as he motioned them over. “Hey, Joe. Sorry I didn’t hear ya’ll. Got busy out here. Come on over.”
“He doesn’t look so bad if you like reading Homer,” Claire said aside to Joe in a very low voice. “You had me expecting some kind of devil, or king cobra, or something equally poisonous.”
“Give him time. Just don’t mention the Fitches in his earshot.”
Claire headed for the refreshingly clean-cut guy posthaste. She would give him time all right, time to tell her everything she needed to know about Paulie Parker and his possible Fitch enemies.
Chapter Fourteen
Up close, the Parker guy looked even better. Fairly hot, in a rugged hillbilly, Cabelis sorta way. She looked for cauliflower ears for proof of cage fighting adeptness but found his ears regularly shaped and clean of oil and grime. He was clean all over, actually. His nose was slightly crooked from a possible left jab, though. He kept his eyes on her the entire time they were walking over to him. Hmm. Now why would he do that? Checking her out for concealed weapons?
“Hi, Joe. Long time no see.” Mr. Neat as a Pin glanced at Joe and then quickly returned his gaze to her. He must find her downright fascinatin’ or want to sell her a fourth gun, probably at twenty percent off with a free box of ammo thrown in to sweeten the deal.
“Hey there, Patrick. How you doin’?”
“Who’s your lady friend?”
Huh? She couldn’t ever remember being called a
lady friend
before, thank goodness. That was almost as bad as
lovely
. Hillbilly-ese for girlfriend, maybe? Somehow that didn’t compute. “My name is Claire Morgan, Mr. Parker. I’m a homicide detective from Canton County and I’d like to have a word with you.”
If Parker was surprised to hear that, he sure didn’t show it. So why wouldn’t he show it? Hmm, again. That was the pertinent question, after all. He said, “Sure thing, detective. How you doin’?”
“Just great. And you?”
“Good enough, I guess. Come on now, let’s go in my office and do some of that talkin’.”
All eight hundred dogs were still barking. Well, maybe a dozen or so had lain off a bit and were just listening to the others. Their pleasant master ignored the racket. Maybe he was used to it. Maybe it was just background noise for him. Like static on the radio. She looked around his office. It was nice enough. Not as nice as that damn Dazz’s, but nothing about this place had turned out to be what Claire had expected. Truth was, she had expected a log cabin with newspapers stuck in the cracks and cobwebs in the corners and ten or so deer heads displayed on the walls, and a bearskin rug on a dirt floor, certainly not a designer brown-and-rust chevron carpet and matching tan corduroy Stratoloungers.
“How you been, Joe?”
“Good. I’ve moved back down to the farm.”
“How’s that purty little girl of yours doin’?”
Parker was still looking at Claire while he carried on his conversation with Joe. Exclusively. She resisted the quite strong but rude impulse to manually turn his face toward Joe with her extended forefinger or perhaps the barrel of her new Glock. Joe was probably feeling insulted by now, too, being ignored the way he was. She was feeling insulted. What? Did she have a hot chocolate milk mustache on her upper lip that offended said hillbilly? Slightly curious, however, she set forth an inquiry into the matter. “Why are you rudely staring a hole through me, Mr. Parker?”
That didn’t surprise him, either. Apparently, nothing surprised him. Lots of barking hounds didn’t, either, but they were sure grating on Claire’s nerves.
Parker presented with a big wide smile. “Well, ma’am, you’re just so dang fun to look at.”
Claire wasn’t at all sure that was a compliment. Maybe he thought she was cute as a button or maybe he thought she looked like Chuckles the Clown. Hard to say. “Thanks, I think. But Joe’s not all that ugly, you know, doesn’t shave every day, or anything, but not that hard on the eyes. He’s halfway fun looking a few days a week. You could glance at him now and again when he’s talking to you. Just to be polite.” She smiled so he would know she was just joking and wouldn’t slap her with a police rudeness rap.
Patrick Parker laughed heartily, just so dang fun and good-natured, that it made her dang suspicious. Problem was, though, a brother who had received the news of his brother’s recent and brutal demise, shouldn’t be so danged happy. She had a bad feeling that he didn’t know about it yet. Joe was laughing now, too, but it sounded forced and nervous. Joe McKay had a real wary thing going on about these Parker people, it seemed.
“Please, ma’am, sit yourself down. That’s good quality hot chocolate you got there. I only buy the best.”
“Yes, it is. I left some money on the counter. I’m not trying to filch it, or anything. I promise.”
“Oh, I know.” He was doing better about looking at Joe now. He had glanced at him once during that exchange. “Hey, it’s my treat. It’s cold out there, and gettin’ colder by the minute, too.”
“Thanks, that’s very generous of you. I do love my hot chocolate.”
All small talk died then, like a bum lightbulb. They all sat there, listening to the dogs yapping their heads off. Maybe the hounds were just hungry or wanted to be petted. That would take some time. Eight hundred heads to pat was a lot.
“You gotta lot of dogs out there,” she finally said. “You sell them, or what?”
“Yeah, sixty-seven, to be exact. I’m the vet ’round here. Most of ’em are mine, though. My brothers and I hunt lots of deer and coon and such. And everything else, too. We got acres of some of the best huntin’ land ’round. You’re welcome to come up here anytime you want and shoot yourself a buck, both of you.” He smiled, all ingratiating and sugary as sweet potato pie with maple syrup on top. He was being so saccharine that it was hard to ruffle his composure, it seemed. Claire wondered how many Fitches he had beaten, branded, or shot in his young and pleasant Dockers-wearing persona. “So, what’s up, detective? What you wantin’ with me?”
Claire heaved in a deep breath. “Do you have a brother by the name of Paulie Parker, by any chance, sir?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, he’s a comin’ up here later today, if you wanna talk to him. He’s one helluva fighter, you know, out on the cage circuit. A real champ. We’re as proud of him as we can be.”
McKay and Claire exchanged a disturbed glance. Joe didn’t say a word.
Uh-uh.
He wasn’t going to make any such notification. It wasn’t his place. It was hers. She wished that Bud was there so she could make him do it. It was his turn, anyway. “Mr. Parker, I’m sorry but I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Patrick Parker stiffened all over, not exactly stupid, and knew all about bad news lead-ins, it seemed. Impressive muscles now tensed hard and waiting for the blow to the brain. “What’s gone and happened to Paulie? He’s okay, ain’t he?”
“His body was found several nights ago. Murdered. I assumed his wife had informed you as to his death. I am truly sorry to have to shock you this way.”
Patrick was shocked, all right. He looked as if he had grabbed a live wire and held on too long. Then his brown bearded jaw went slack, large and soulful Hershey’s Chocolate bar eyes darkening into utter and sincere horror. He spoke through clenched white teeth. “The Fitches did it, didn’t they? The dirty bastards. They been hatin’ him ever since he started beatin’ them up in the ring. Which one of ’em did it? Tell me! Tell me which one of them sons of bitches took him down!”
Claire suddenly wished Black had come along instead of Joe. He could calm down a crazy whack job in nothing flat, being a famous shrink, and all. He’d done it for her mood swings plenty of times. To her surprise, Joe stood up and placed his palm solicitously on the poor guy’s shoulder. Parker was trembling now, all over, in the most pitiful, quietly enraged way. “Hey, man, I’m real sorry about your brother. I just found out today, too. We thought you already knew, we really did, or we wouldn’t’ve ever just showed up out here and given you this sad news.”
Okay, that sent Patrick into a calmer mode big-time and faster than Claire had expected. The guy acted like quicksilver ran through his veins. He was rather mercurial, to say the least. He slumped down in his chair, kind of like a blow-up figure with a pulled plug. His face looked absolutely stricken. “I just can’t believe it. Paulie called me just the other night and told me he was gonna come out here and do some huntin’ with us before he went out on the road again.” He stopped. “Oh, God, I’m gonna have to tell my brothers when they get here.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Lots of ’em, I guess. Paulie’s in the middle somewhere. He was the best of us, too. We always liked him best.”
Lots of ’em? He guessed?
Nothing super creepy about that response, huh? He was so white faced and so openly struggling to control his rampaging emotions, however, that Claire almost felt sorry for him. Still, that answer had been straight out of bizarro world. She said, “Would you like a moment to gather your thoughts, sir? We can wait over there at the snack bar and give you a little time alone to pull yourself together.”
“Yeah, yeah, I sure would. Thanks.”
“Okay. Take as long as you like. We’re gonna stick around.”
Numb and mute now, he just nodded and stared off into space. He was taking it hard, all right.
Outside, Joe looked down at Claire. “I don’t envy you and Bud having to tell people that somebody they love is dead.”
“It’s no fun, let me tell you.”
“No. I just saw that.”
They walked across the parking lot in silence. Claire stopped and looked across the way at a fence that stood about ten feet tall and was made out of corrugated metal and old boards. “I wonder what’s inside that enclosure.”
“Maybe he lives in there. I could just barely see a house and a barn standing way back off the road on that last curve we came around.”
“You’ve never been inside that fence?”
“These people aren’t my best buddies in the world, Claire. I barely know this guy. Just met him once or twice since I got back. I hardly know any of them, just from stoppin’ occasionally at this place for gas and groceries. I don’t know where the hell he lives. Maybe in that house way back there, who knows?”
“I’d sure like to get a peek inside that enclosure.”
“Well, don’t push it right now. The guy’s suffered a loss. I know how that feels.”
Claire looked quickly at him but McKay was smiling and looking pointedly at her diamond ring. He was talking about her engagement to Black. He just never gave it up. She ignored the insinuation.
Inside the quick stop, they moved at once to all the fried stuff. Both of them were hungry, despite the bagels, so they filled up plates with crispy fried chicken and fries and other unhealthy selections and chowed down together at one of the small tables. It was all clean; spotless, in fact. Again, not the kind of place, she had been expecting. She had been expecting an outpost fort in the early French and Indian wars.
“So who are the bad guys, McKay? The Parkers or the Fitches?”
Joe finished chewing his bite of chicken, swallowed it, and said, “Depends on who you ask.”
“This guy seems pretty normal, considering.”
“We don’t know him all that well yet.”
“Have you met any of the Fitches?”
“I’ve been scared to.”
Claire laughed, but softly, and both of them kept looking around for trouble. “I’m going to have to pay them a call one of these days. I don’t have an official reason yet, other than checking out Malachi Fitch, who’s a real piece of work, but I’d like to look them over and see if they’re as civilized as Patrick Parker appears to be.”
“I don’t know them, but if the Fitches have any inkling that I’m friendly with the Parkers, they’ll probably shoot me down on sight. Better wait and take Bud.”
Before Claire could agree, three pickup trucks roared into the parking lot, skidding to dangerous stops on the graveled ice. Four guys piled out, all decked out in camouflage, all big and muscular with scary-looking expressions on their faces. They all had rifles in their hands, too. Bevy of brothers, by any chance? She hoped to hell not.
Claire stood up. She had a pretty good feeling what the guns were for. They came rushing in the door like a four-man battering ram. They looked angry and distraught and determined. But face to face, they weren’t too bad looking, and looked a helluva lot like Patrick and Paulie. In fact, they looked exactly like Patrick and Paulie. Almost like a matched set of Parker sextuplets. Or identical clones developed by some evil woodsy witch doctor. They headed straight for the back door until Claire stepped out in front of them and halted their wrathful journey to kill or be killed.
“Excuse me, sirs.”
“Who the hell are you? Get outta my way, girl,” said one of them. Billy Goat Gruff voice, too.
“Get the hell outta my way,” said number two, equally annoyed and even gruffier and goatier.
The other two stared at the badge she was now holding up and showed not a whit of gruff. A couple of them darted a sidelong look at Joe McKay, who had remained seated, out of regard for his own well-being, no doubt. Claire just tried to find something that differentiated them from one another, without much luck, since they all wore the same Mossy Oak pattern of camo, too. A lone gold tooth, chicken pox facial scar, black eye, anything would be helpful.
“You the cops?”
“Yes, I am. One of them, in any case. I’d like to talk to you. I assume you are some more Parker brothers.”
“That’s right. Where’s Patrick?”
“He’s out in the veterinarian office. Have you spoken to him recently?”
“He just called and said that them Fitches killed our bro, if that’s what you talkin’ ’bout.”
“I’m Detective Claire Morgan, and I’m investigating your brother’s homicide. I want you to know up front that I have no evidence that the Fitch family had anything at all to do with Paulie Parker’s death.”
“Bullshit, lady. They done it.”
“I assume you have proof, if you’re making that kind of accusation to a law enforcement officer.”
“We don’t need no stinkin’ proof.”
“That’s from
Three Amigos
, if I recall.” Not that movie quotes were her thing, but Bud knew everything about that movie and had quoted from it several times and just last week. “But alas, I’m afraid you do need stinkin’ proof. Now please, sit down and calm yourselves. I have some questions to ask you.”