TWENTY-FOUR
I was soon driving through the farm community of Lake Placid. The marquee on the Lake Placid Theater read:
Ret rn of the Jed
As I pumped the gas at the Circle K, I watched a dozen or so farm workers in the parking lot. Jeans and T-shirts stained dark green from harvesting tomatoes and peppers. They sipped Mountain Dews, Dr. Peppers, ate sausage biscuits and microwave enchiladas while attempting to avoid my eyes.
At the register, a large black man was buying cases of cheap wine. MD 50-50, Thunderbird, enough of the stuff to give a platoon a hangover for a month. He glanced across his shoulder at me, black irises floating in twin pools of yellowish white, spattered with tiny specks of bloodshot veins. There was a half second look of suspicion, and then he turned away from me to face the female clerk who had finished ringing up the wine.
A scratchy voice came through vocal cords worn thin from years of cigarette smoke and nicotine. She said, “Comes to a hundred twenty nine dollars and two cents.”
The man reached in his pants pockets and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He peeled off two one hundred dollar notes and handed them to the woman.
“Where’s the dolly at?” he asked.
She snorted, clearing mucus deep in her throat. “Where it’s always at, in the corner, behind the mop, next to the ice machine.”
She looked at me. “You payin’ for gas?”
“Yes. The Jeep.”
“Be anything else?”
“No thanks.”
“Forty nine, fifty.”
I waited for change, watching the black man load cases of wine on the dolly. His biceps strained the T-shirt, which read:
O-Rock 107 - The Christian Alternative
.
The clerk handed me the change, and she reached for a smoldering cigarette.
“Can you tell me how far I am from SunState Farms?” I asked her. The black man stopped loading the last case of wine for a second, listening, breathing heavy.
The woman exhaled smoke through her leathery, pitted nostrils. “No more than nine or ten miles east on Highway 60.” She looked at the black man. “Silas, why don’t you have him follow you, if you’re goin’ to the farm?”
He leaned the dolly toward his gut. “I ain’t goin’ there.”
“No problem,” I said. “Wherever you’re going, it looks like it’ll be quite a party.”
“Somethin’ like that.” His tone had a challenge. “Who you want at SunState?”
“Richard Brennen. I understand he’s running for office.”
“So I hear.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“Depends. If you’re sellin’ stuff, he ain’t the man to see. He got people for that.”
“Maybe I want to make a campaign contribution.”
He looked at me through eyes cold as black lava rock that had turned to stone a lifetime ago. His disdain soaked into my skin like a coffee spill inching through a paper towel. I noticed a two-inch scratch on his left cheek. He gripped the dolly with both of his large hands and backed out the door.
I wanted to give him time to load the wine and beer. I bought bottled water and then walked to my Jeep while he finished stowing his cargo in a decade-old Ford van. I watched the van head east on Highway 60. I let him get a good distance down the road before pulling out to follow.
The first SunState Farms sign appeared sooner than I anticipated. The sign was not large, but its message was:
SunState Farms
Visitors Report to Office
Trespassers will be Prosecuted
I drove another half mile and saw a second SunState Farm’s sign. I was beginning to appreciate the size of the operation when I drove nearly a mile further before coming to the entrance. A truck, loaded with tomatoes, came out of the gate.
I thought the man driving the van would pull into the main entrance to SunState. He passed the gate and picked up a little speed. Another mile and the van turned off the road. I slowed just enough to see that the van had stopped about 100 feet down the dirt road. The man the clerk had called Silas was urinating in the bushes.
I kept driving. I’d let a few miles pass before turning around and going back to the dirt road. As I made a u-turn, my cell rang. It was Nick. “Sean, the cops are here.”
“What?”
“The onion head dude. He’s got two real cops with him. And they’re walking to your boat.”
I knew they’d come with a search warrant. And I knew Slater wanted to find me on
Jupiter
to make it work. “Nick,” I said, “casually walk down the dock toward
Jupiter.
Chances are they won’t break in the boat. They may ask you if you know where I am. Tell them I’m due back Sunday for a morning fishing trip.”
“No problem. Where’re you?”
“If you don’t know, you can’t say.”
“Man, you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t say nothin’.”
“I’ll call you later.” I ended the connection and pulled back on Highway 60 heading west. Soon I was turning down the dirt road where the black man urinated.
A quarter mile down the sandy road, I entered a third world country on a few acres in Florida. Dozens of trailers, many dilapidated and supported by cinder blocks and rusted jacks, lined both sides of the road. An old school bus, tires flat, wheels rusted, sat near a trailer. A brown-skin little girl, no more than two, belly swollen, wearing a diaper sagging from urine and feces, stood in the open door of the bus.
A barefoot woman, late twenties, sat on a metal folding chair under an Australian pine and breast-fed a baby. She watched me without reaction and then lifted a hand up to chase flies away from the baby’s face.
An open ditch flowed with liquid that resembled molasses. The bloated body of a black cat was lying on its back in the water. A turkey vulture paid no attention to my Jeep passing as it tore into the dead cat’s belly. The air carried the caustic scent of human waste, farm chemicals, green tomatoes and burning trash.
An underfed dog, part black lab and part unknown, barked and tried to chase my Jeep. It stopped short, the dog’s right hind leg stiff with atrophy and disease. Chickens scattered as I drove slowly through the community.
The place was about the size of a football field. Everything was bordered by rows of tomato plants, rows that were planted into the horizon. The doublewide and singlewide trailers were mixed with a few tarpaper shacks and a graveyard of old pickup trucks, cars, vans, tractors, a backhoe, and other farm equipment.
One trailer, a singlewide, fairly new and maintained, seemed to serve as some kind of store. A dark-skinned man came out of the door with a loaf of white bread and a six-pack of diet Pepsi in his hands. Another farm worker walked up the three steps leading to the open door and went inside.
I drove on slowly, but couldn’t find any sign of the van I’d followed or its driver. When I came to the end of the row, I noticed a lone trailer isolated from the rest of the camp. All the blinds were down and the trailer looked unoccupied. Turning and starting to drive in the direction I’d come, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a black man stepping out of the trailer. I stopped. As he came closer, I recognized the T-shirt. I turned off the motor and waited for him.
“Don’t like peoples following me,” he said, standing by my car door.
“Didn’t see any ‘no trespassing’ signs. I was trying to find SunState Farms. I guess I made a wrong turn.”
“Guess you did. SunState is on down the road. Only a blind man would miss ‘em.” He braced his big hands on both sides of my door and leaned closer to me. A worn toothpick was in the left side of his mouth. His breath smelled of last night’s beer, onions and decaying beef jerky. “What are doin’ here?”
“I told you, I’m looking for Richard Brennen.”
“Brennen don’t stay here. He don’t even
come
here. Got the wrong place, dog.”
“I’ll have to expand my search.”
“Don’t expand it ‘round here no more. Get the hell on outta here!”
“You might want to work on your diplomacy, pal.”
“I ain’t your pal. Move your white ass off this property.”
The phone on his hip rang. He picked it up and pressed a speaker button.
“Silo, where you at?” The voice was clipped. Spanish accent.
“Camp. We got us another trespasser.”
“Who?”
“Dude who’s been followin’me.”
“Hold him ‘til we get there.”
TWENTY-SIX
An old school bus, painted army green, rolled to a stop at the far end of the camp. Dozens of men and women spilled out of the bus. Even from the distance, I could see the dirt and stains from the fields on their clothes. They drifted through the camp like the walking dead, exhausted bodies and worn-out spirits.
A half dozen shuffled past me, avoiding Silas’ eyes. Only one man, Hispanic, early twenties, yellow polo shirt, looked directly at me. He stopped for a moment. I could see him fidgeting.
“How are you?” I asked the man.
He shoved his hands in his dirty jeans, looked at Silas and then at me.
“Go on boy,” said Silas. “He got nothin’ to say. Don’t speak no English no how.”
“I’ll let him tell me that. Now, back away from my door.”
Silas grinned, tossed his wet toothpick at my face and held up both hands in a mock surrender. He looked at an approaching vehicle and grinned wider. A new Ford Excursion, oversized tires, black with darkened windows, eased around the migrant bus at the far end of the camp and started in my direction.
Silas waved the young man away, but he simply stood there for a long moment. He watched the SUV approach, looked at me, and began to walk toward a trailer next to where a small lamb stood. The animal was tied by a short piece of rope to a pine tree. The lamb bawled one time when the man passed by it.
Silas watched the approaching SUV and said, “You shoulda left when I told you.”
“Maybe those folks know if Brennen is working the farm today.”
“Maybe you can bet your ass on it.”
The SUV pulled up on the opposite side of the Jeep. The window slowly lowered, and I could see two Hispanic men inside. Both were large, bull necks, mirrored sunglasses and baseball caps. The man closest to me wore a diamond stud in his left ear. “We help you?” The voice was more of a challenge than a question.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m trying to find Richard Brennen.”
The man behind the wheel leaned forward. I could see the frosty mist from the air conditioner blowing his feathered, greasy black hair.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Sean O’Brien. And you?”
The man sitting in the passenger said, “Juan Gomez. This is my cousin Hector Ortega. That’s Silas Davis. Sometimes we call him Silo, ‘cause he’s so big. Now that we all know each other it’s time to go our separate ways, no disrespect, but you’re on private property.”
“That’s what I hear.”
Silas pointed a broomstick-sized finger at my face. “Juan, the dude followed me from the store.”
“I’m investigating the death of a young woman.”
The man got out of the SUV and stood a few feet away from the Jeep’s passenger door. I didn’t like the scene. I had a large African-American man with a bad attitude at my door, and an even larger Mexican goliath standing at the opposite side.
Juan Gomez looked at me like I was a roadside curiosity. “You a cop?”
“Used to be.”
“If you’re no cop, why you investigatin’ some girl’s killin’?” He stepped closer.
“I didn’t say she was killed. I said I was investigating her death.”
He grinned. “I figured you meant somebody killed her. Otherwise a person die, it’s an accident, no?”
Another step closer.
“If I see Mr. Brennen, I will tell him you’re looking for him. Where can he find you, Mr. O’Brien? Got a cell?”
He was close enough for me to see a curly black hair growing from a mole the size of a green pea on his cheek. His bulldog jaw popped as he chewed gum.
“I have a cell.” I slowly lowered my hand to the pistol grip.
Gomez stopped, looked at my right hand and locked eyes with Davis. Neither of the men standing seemed to be armed. I assumed the man in the SUV had a weapon. I said, “You two back away from the Jeep.”
Gomez smiled. “Amigo, you have the wrong idea. We mean you no harm. I understand you have a job to do, yes? You some kinda insurance investigator, right?”
“More like a private investigator. Now back off.”
“You cain’t take all of us,” Davis mumbled.
“You’re right, but I’ll take you first.”
Gomez gestured with both palms up. “Mr. O’Brien, relax. We just don’t get many visitors down here. Sometimes Silo gets a little, how you say…agitated. Came back with somethin’ from the Iraq war.”
He glanced at my right hand and said, “Maybe you could write down your cell. If I see Mr. Brennen, I give it to him?”
“Don’t have paper or pencil. Maybe your associate has some in your vehicle.”
“Vehicle,” he grinned. “You sound like a cop.”
“I saw a bulletin board back at the convenience store. It has business cards on it. I’ll leave my cell number there. I feel almost rude having to turn my back on one of you gentlemen as I talk. So if you don’t mind, maybe you both could stand together.”
Gomez smiled. “No problem. Silo, the man has a point. Come here so we can both speak with Mr. O’Brien.” Silo shuffled around to where Gomez stood.
“Any of your female employees missing?” I asked.
“Missing?” Gomez shook his head. “No.”
“Someone leave and not return? Did a girl walk away? Maybe she was kidnapped? About five-four, young, late teens or very early twenties?”
Gomez said, “You know workers come and go. When season’s over, it’s over.”
“I understand that farm workers follow the seasons, usually with the same contractors, working various farms.”
“Sometimes, that’s so. People are free to go whenever they choose. But we have no missing women, right Silo?”
“Right.”
“We’re very busy. I’ll check for your number at the store in case we hear of anyone missing. Lot of camps through here, you know? If I see Mr. Brennen, I’ll give your number to him. I hope you find your missing girl. Adios.”
“Before you go, maybe you could help me with directions.” I lifted my right hand off the pistol stock, opened the console, and pulled out the photograph of the dead girl. “Do you recognize her?”
Davis tried not to react. The tightening of the neck muscles, touching the tip of his nose, diverted eyes, gave him away.
Gomez’s nostrils flared, like a giraffe that had just scented the presence of a lion. I held up the picture so the man in the SUV could see it. He pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and looked away.
“I don’t know this girl,” Gomez said.
“Me neither,” Davis mumbled.
I said, “Bet she was pretty before this. That’s what happens to the human face when the cheekbone is crushed, the jaw is broken, and teeth are knocked out.”
Gomez folded his thick forearms. Davis buried his hands in his jeans.
I said, “The man who did this left something.”
“What?” Gomez asked.
“He left a trail.”
“Trail?”
“And it led me here.”
“Now you’re fuckin’ with me,” Gomez said, in a voice that sounded like it came from a different man. “Ain’t no trail bring you here. You ain’t a real cop, so get the hell off this land or somebody will find you on the side of the road. They’ll believe you got hit by a truck and crawled in a ditch to die.”
“I guess I wore out my welcome. Hasta luego.”
I saw the man in the SUV remove his sunglasses and reach for something under the seat. He slowly opened the door and slid to the ground. Narrow-toed snakeskin boots easing onto the sand. He stood behind the false security a second too long. His right shoulder moved. I pulled the Glock up and leveled it at his head.
“Drop it!” I yelled. “Drop the gun!”
Both Gomez and Davis held up their hands. Ortega hesitated, looked at Gomez.
“Hector drop the fuckin’ gun,” Gomez said.
The gun bounced a foot away from Ortega’s left boot.
Gomez looked at me and gestured innocently. “A simple misunderstanding. My cousin had no intention of using the gun. He just wanted to make a point. We have a right to bare arms. This is America.”
“I’ll leave my number at the store. I know you have seen her. She had a name. Somebody here is going to tell me what it was.”
I held the gun on them, put the Jeep in gear, and started to drive. I heard the cry of the lamb as I passed it. In the rearview mirror, I saw the young man come out of the trailer. He stood next to the lamb and watched me leave.
I drove slowly. A man sat on the edge of a tractor tire that was lying on its side, weeds growing through the center, rusted paint cans and beer bottles scattered around it. On the ground, between bare feet scarred and filthy with muck like dried cow manure, was a bottle of wine wrapped in a wrinkled brown paper bag.
Another man stood next to a mixed breed yellow dog with the shape of a pit bull’s square head. One ear was gone. Fight scars resembled barbwire tattoos on the dog’s chest and neck. The man’s dark face was the hue of a worn horse saddle. It was an emotionless face, hollow cheeks with pockets of old dirt, unshaven and vacant as a field of weeds after a frost. His jeans were tucked into scuffed cowboy boots, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. His eyes followed me, unblinking and lifeless as black marbles.
I felt like I was driving though the village of the damned.