The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [95]
“Nope.”
“Could they be growing marijuana?”
“I asked, and he said the town was clean.”
Most of Florida’s crime problems over the past thirty years were drug-related. The fact that Chatham wasn’t involved in drugs only deepened the mystery. A convenience store appeared up ahead, and I tapped my brakes.
“Well, they’re doing something bad,” I said.
The store was called Shop & Save. Half grocery, half hardware store, with a rack of cheap clothes thrown in for good measure. I grabbed three prepackaged sandwiches and some cold drinks and went to pay up. The teenage kid working the register had shoulder-length hair and red-laced eyes. He rang up my items without making eye contact.
“You always smoke your breakfast?” I asked.
The kid lifted his head. I could have knocked him over with a feather.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.
“I smelled the reefer on your breath when I walked in.”
“I’m not stoned.”
“It smelled like homegrown.”
The kid’s face turned wet with fear. Linderman shouldered up next to me, and opened his wallet in front of the kid’s face. The gold FBI badge was hard to miss.
“Shit Daniels,” the kid said.
“Take a deep breath, and tell me your name,” I said.
“Tucker. My friends call me Tuck.”
“Are you from around here?” I asked.
“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
e 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