Gunpowder Green

There it was again. Not a rustle, more a soft gush of air. Couldn’t be an alligator, they were few and far between out here. Plus those critters barked and moaned and made a terrible racket. No, this was more like...a snort?

By the time her brain registered the sound, a new movement was under way.

Hoofs clicking on gravel. Quick, precise, and moving toward her. Fast.

Theodosia scrambled for the car door, pulled at the handle, fumbled, pulled at it again. As the Jeep’s door swung open and she struggled to climb in, the boar appeared on the road, not more than twenty feet away. It ran easily, almost mechanically, dainty feet carrying the wild pig with awesome swiftness. Theodosia saw that the creature’s sharp, beady eyes were focused directly on her.

Theodosia slammed the door shut and grabbed for the ignition key. As the engine turned over, a loud report sounded.

Wham.

Confusion for a split second, not comprehending what had just happened. Jeep backfiring? Wild pig crashing headlong into her front fender?

Theodosia peered out the window and saw the pig lying motionless on the gravel not six feet from her. Then a pair of dusty boots came into view.

Ford Cantrell. Casually hefting a rifle in one hand.

Theodosia remained in her seat and, with shaking hands, pushed the button to lower the driver’s-side window.

“Sorry about that,” Ford Cantrell called to her. He waved at her casually, as though he were out for a stroll in the park.

Sinking back against the soft leather of the Jeep’s upholstery, Theodosia breathed out slowly. Aunt Libby had once told her the Cantrells weren’t happy with a thing unless they could ride it, shoot it, or stuff it. She might have been right.

“This bugger got away from us,” called Ford. “I had a mind it might be headed this way. Hope it didn’t cause you any problem.”

Theodosia climbed down from the Jeep. “Quiet,” she told Earl Grey, who was barking at the dead pig and at Ford Cantrell. “Settle down.”

“Those things bite?” she asked, pointing toward the dead boar.

“They can take a chunk out of a fellow,” Ford Cantrell replied mildly. “Although if you’d let that dog of yours out, he probably would of shagged it away. Most pigs are pretty scared of dogs.”

As if to underscore Ford’s remark, Earl Grey let loose with a throaty growl.

“Most pigs,” repeated Theodosia. Fresh in her mind was the look of intent on the boar’s curiously intelligent face.

“What are you doing this far from town?” Ford Cantrell asked her. “I was visiting my aunt Libby.” Theodosia waved an arm in the direction she’d just come. “At Cane Ridge.” Ford Cantrell seemed to accept her explanation. “Guess you heard I turned Pamlico Hill into a game ranch, huh?”

Theodosia nodded. She was surprised that Ford seemed to know exactly who she was. Introductions at this point would seem superfluous.

He nudged the dead pig with his boot. “This here’s one of my main draws. A classic American razorback. Breeder I got ’em from said they’s descended from the swine that Ponce de León brought from Spain. Supposed to be real smart.”

“I’ll bet,” said Theodosia.

“Hear you’re pretty smart, too. You’ve been asking questions about me.”

Theodosia didn’t back off. “A lot of folks have,” she said.

Ford Cantrell squinted in the direction of the sun and swiped his hand roughly at the stubble on his chin. “And I guess they always will. Appears I’ve always been a lot more welcome out here in the low-country than in town.”

When Theodosia didn’t say anything, Ford Cantrell continued. “Yeah, I’m gonna be moving my boat over to McClellanville. Those guys at the yacht club are just too snooty for my taste.”

Theodosia nodded. A sleepy little fishing village on Jeremy Creek would be quite hospitable to a low-country denizen like Ford Cantrell. And he certainly had to be persona non grata at the yacht club these days. Maybe the board of directors had even forced Ford to resign. She’d have to call Jory Davis’s friend Eldon Cook, and ask him if he’d heard anything to that effect.

Ford Cantrell swept his broad-brimmed straw hat off his head and ran his broad fingers through a tangle of red hair. “Funny thing about that to-do,” he said, finally looking Theodosia directly in the eye. “Everybody thinks Oliver Dixon and me were on the outs. But I was working for him.”

Theodosia stared at Ford Cantrell, stunned by his words. “You were working for him!” she exclaimed. “What are you talking about?” she fumbled. “You mean Oliver Dixon was a partner in the hunting preserve?” That didn’t sound quite right, but it was the best she could come up with at the moment.

“No, no,” Ford said. “I was doing some work for his new company, Grapevine.” He laughed harshly. “Well, not his company, the whole thing’s very tightly controlled by the investors. Anyway, I had worked on some of the fault-tolerant disk arrays for Vantage Computers. You know, the company over in Columbia that has a lot of contracts with the military? Anyway, Oliver asked me to serve as an outside consultant. As it turned out, Oliver and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things. That’s why we were arguing that day in White Point Gardens. I’m sure everybody thought it was the old family feud but, in truth, I’d just told him he was a damn fool if he didn’t think streaming video would be critical.”

“You were working together?” Theodosia knew she must look totally unhinged, caught so off guard as she was by this new revelation. And here she’d gone and sicced Burt Tidwell onto Ford Cantrell. Tidwell had followed up, so he had to know about the two men’s business relationship.

Had Tidwell been able to find some hard evidence that implicated Ford in Oliver Dixon’s death? Or was Tidwell laughing merrily behind her back because she was a rank amateur who had jumped to a wild conclusion?

Theodosia watched as Ford Cantrell carefully leaned his rifle up against a tree stump, then grabbed the boar by its hind feet and dragged it to the side of the road.

“Be back to pick up this big boy later,” he told her.

“You worked together,” Theodosia murmured again.

“Yes,” responded Ford, “but it’s a moot point now. The investors have decided to shut Grapevine down.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about that.” Goodness, she thought, stunned, things are happening fast.

“I just got word late Friday. Come tomorrow, the employees are on the street, and any existing inventory of raw materials is scheduled to be sold off.” His eyes, pale blue like his sister’s, like a sea captain who’d stared at too many horizons, met hers sadly. “I suppose any technology developed so far will also be sold or licensed.”

“But why?” asked Theodosia. “I thought Grapevine was beginning to get noticed as a player in the market.”

Ford shrugged. “Who the hell knows why these things happen? Could be a jittery board of directors with zero confidence, now that Oliver Dixon’s gone. Or maybe the investors found a better place to make a fast return on their buck.” Ford Cantrell traced the toe of his boot in the sand. “Hell, maybe somebody has inside information on what’s really happening with PDAs and is executing a cut-bait maneuver.”

Theodosia nodded. She understood there could be any number of reasons. Business start-ups and spin-offs were constantly being shut down or sold off at a moment’s notice. Sometimes there was a solid reason; often it was done on a whim. She’d once developed a marketing plan for computer voice recognition software that showed great promise, only to find the entire project shut down because the product manager resigned to take a job with another company.

“Did your sister know you were working with Oliver Dixon?” asked Theodosia.

Ford Cantrell shook his head slowly. “Nope. Less Lizbeth knows, the better.”

“What are you going to do now?” she asked him.

Ford Cantrell grinned crookedly, then shifted his gaze toward the dead boar. “Have a barbecue.”