“Next town over.”
“We’re interested in what you can tell us about Chatham,” I said.
Tuck swallowed the rising lump in his throat. I didn’t like scaring the daylights out of adolescents, but we needed some answers, and he looked like a good subject.
“Folks in Chatham have always been unfriendly,” Tuck said. “It got worse a couple of years ago.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Some guys from Jacksonville showed up, and started asking questions. Then the townspeople started fighting with each other. Couple buildings got burned down, and I heard some folks disappeared.”
“They disappeared?” Linderman said.
“That’s what I heard. Can I ask you guys something?”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“You’re not going to arrest me, are you? I only took a couple tokes.”
“Whose buildings got burned down?” Linderman asked.
“Old Man Kaplan lost a barn and a bunch of animals,” Tuck said.
“Think he’d be willing to talk with us?” I asked.
Tuck saw his opening. He came out from behind the counter, and pointed at the road outside the store. “Go back the way you came. Four miles, you’ll see a dirt road. Drive down it, and there will be a big farm on your right. That’s Kaplan’s place. I’m sure he’d be willing to tell you what happened.”
Tuck had given us plenty of information to work with. I patted him on the arm. “Thanks a lot. One last thing. Don’t tell anyone about this conversation.”
Tuck walked us outside to our car, and shook both our hands.
“I won’t tell a soul,” the boy said.
CHAPTER 48
He got back on the road. Four miles later, an unmarked dirt road appeared, just like Tuck had said it would. We bumped along it until a farm came into view. There were acres of corn and tomatoes, plenty of cows, and a large pasture filled with chestnut-colored horses. The property was surrounded by three-board fence topped with barbed wire. Yellow signs warned trespassers that they’d be shot on sight. In one pasture, I spied a man riding a tractor. I wanted to speak to him, and flashed my brights. Instead of slowing down, the man drove to the opposite side of the field.
“Is that what they call Southern hospitality?” Linderman asked.
“This is one spooky place,” I said.
I pulled off and parked in the grass. We got out of the car and stood by the fence. Several minutes passed. Finally the man on the tractor drove over and killed his engine. It made a whistling sound as it shut down. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and a straw hat, and had olive-colored skin. The brim of his hat was pulled down, shielding his eyes.
“Mister Kaplan?” I asked.
“Mister Kaplan’s away.” The man had a thick Mexican accent.
“Can you tell us when he’ll be back?” I asked.
“Can’t you read the signs? No trespassing.”
Linderman took out his wallet and let the man see his credentials. The Mexican climbed down from the tractor to look at his badge. The front of his shirt came out of his pants, revealing the black pistol tucked behind his belt.
“Mister Kaplan went to Orlando,” the Mexican said. “He’ll be back in a couple days. That’s all I know.”
“What can you tell us about the fire on his property?” Linderman said.
“Mister Kaplan don’t want us talking about that,” the Mexican said.
“I’m with the FBI,” Linderman said.
“I can read,” the Mexican said.
“You can get in trouble by not talking to us,” Linderman said.
“I lose my job if I do,” the Mexican said.
The Mexican climbed back on his tractor. Clearly, the FBI didn’t carry much weight in his world. He started up the tractor’s engine.
“We’re just trying to help,” I yelled in Spanish.
The Mexican looked down at me. I held my hands up in a pleading gesture. He pointed to the rear of the property, then drove away.
We drove around the property. Kaplan had a big spread of land, and had a dozen people working for him. It was the first working farm I’d seen in Chatham, and it looked prosperous. As I came around a curve, Linderman spoke up.
“Over there. Look.”
I followed the direction of his finger. In the rear of the property sat the charred remains of a burned-down building. The concrete footprint suggested a large structure. A hay barn perhaps. Or horse stalls.
We got out to have a better look and pressed our bodies against the fence. The remains appeared to have been there for a while. The cinders were old and gray, and the grass around the building had grown back. I spotted a wood sign stuck in the ground. Handwritten, the letters had long since faded.
“Can you read that?” I asked.
Linderman shook his head. We were on the same wavelength, and both hopped the fence. We crossed the property with an eye out for trouble. We stopped in front of the sign and still had to squint. The sign read, “To the varmints who torched my barn and killed my horses. Unlike the good Lord, I will not forgive you.”
“What do you think is going on here?” Linderman asked.
“I wish I knew,” I said.
The sound of gunfire snapped our heads. The shots had come from the forest behind Kaplan’s property, and sounded like a small-caliber rifle.
“More trouble,” I said.
I drove down the dirt road to a small pond nestled behind Kaplan’s farm. About an acre in size, the pond’s water was brackish, the surface as smooth as glass. A pair of bamboo fishing poles were stuck in the ground by the pond along with a cooler. The owners of the poles were nowhere in sight. The rain had stopped and the sun was out.
I parked beneath the inviting shade of a tree, and we both got out. Linderman removed the shotguns from the trunk of my car, and tossed one to me. The shotguns were called Mossbergs, and had gained wide popularity with law enforcement after quelling several prison riots in the late nineties.
“How many shots did you count?” Linderman asked.
“I heard two,” I said.
“Same gun?”
“I think so.”
We walked down to the pond with the Mossbergs. In the soft ground I spied two pairs of footprints. Buster had taken a liking to the cooler, and with his nose popped the lid. I let out a soft whistle. The cooler was filled with flathead catfish resting on ice.
“Are they good to eat?” Linderman asked.
“They’re a local delicacy,” I said.
“Looks like we stumbled upon a good fishing hole,” he said.
I started to agree with him. Then I spotted the rifle poking out of the trees on the other side of the lake, and knew we were in trouble.
CHAPTER 49
