The Night Monster_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [96]
“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
had been in my share of firefights. Ninety percent of the time, no one got shot. The reason for this was simple: The target usually ducked.
I tackled Linderman to the ground. A split-second later, a gunshot rang out, the bullet flying over our heads. Either the shooter had lousy aim, or was trying to scare the daylights out of us. Buster, who’d been sniffing the catfish, took off running.
We lay with our stomachs on the soft ground, staring across the top of the pond. A pack of crows had exploded out of the trees and turned the sky black.
“Where are they?”