P Deutermann - Nightwalkers

"You think you hit him?" the sheriff asked again.

"I fired three shells, heard what sounded like a grunt, and then a big splash," I said.

"So he could have just been real surprised and made a noise when he jumped into the water?"

"That's possible, and what I saw of the boat as it went by was a peripheral image. I know I hit the boat."

"So that should still be out there," he said.

"That'll depend on the current, but yeah, if it was inshore, it should still be there."

He raised some deputies on the radio, and we went down in his car to take a look. I left the shepherds up at the main house, not wanting any more deer chases. One of the deputies found the boat a hundred yards downstream from where I thought I'd been last night. He'd climbed a tree and looked down into the water, where he spotted the glint of metal. It took all four of us to grapnel the thing onto the riverbank. We confirmed that I had definitely hit it with the shotgun. There were seven holes along its starboard side and six more on the other where the shot had gone all the way through. There were no traces of blood or anything else in the boat, nor was there a boat license with my stalker's name and address, either. I felt relieved that we'd found some physical evidence from the night before to back up my story of a gunfight down here, but there was no way to tell if he'd been in the boat or had just lost it to the current.

"Let's go check the bank upstream of that cross creek," the sheriff said, and we did. Either the river had come up during the night or no one had been running that way. We found nothing but the usual riverbank debris.

"Well," said the sheriff, "we might get lucky and get a floater in a couple of days, but right now, besides the boat, this here looks like another dead end."

We went back to the main house. At the sheriff's request I took some of his detectives through the house, pointing out the two escape routes and showing them the smokehouse and the springhouse exits. We walked the barn complex, where I showed them the abandoned well. I didn't see fit to tell them about my encounters with the major, as I didn't believe that had anything to do with my night stalker. We discussed the events in Summerfield and the pictures of the mask taped to my windows at the stone cottage. They speculated as to the meaning of the latest picture postcard, but I pointed out he'd said something like that before and we were all still playing fuck-fuck. Horace down in Triboro still hadn't come up with anything useful. We went back out to the front porch.

"Well, damn," one of the detectives pronounced, as we tramped up the brick walk behind the house. "What do we have?"

"One dead Guatemalan hit man, one dead biker skank, and one dead ex-con," I said. "Rifle rounds in my woodwork, a flashbang on my porch, scary faces taped to my windows out here, a climbing rope hanging on a cliff to nowhere, and now a love note hinting that the fun and games are over."

"You want protection?" he asked.

"I want to kill the sumbitch," I said. "With any luck I got a start on that last night."

We kicked it around some more on the porch, and then I said I planned to go to town, get some lunch, go back to the cottage and get a nap, and then come over here tonight with guns and dogs and see what or who showed up.

"We can assign some people here," the other detective said. "Give you a little backup."

"You know," I replied, "I think at this juncture I'd just like to see if I can flush him out and get it done. No offense, but so far, as long as I've had help, he keeps putting off the showdown."

"That may be no accident," he said. "You know, keep jerking your chain until you finally lunge-into something bad."

"I've hunted humans before," I said and watched their expressions change. "Sometimes you simply have to go into the woods and stir shit up. He's out there, somewhere on these seven hundred acres. He's mobile, he's got sensory equipment, he's got weapons, and apparently he has a demanding motive. It's time."

They shrugged and said they'd report that back to the sheriff. They warned me he might have a different take on the matter, the biker woman's murder having taken place in his sandbox.

"I'll take him alive if that's possible," I said.

"Or he'll take you."

"That's also possible."

"Oh, by the way," the first detective said. "Sheriff said to tell you he saw a box, back where you were sleeping last night."

I thanked him. Once they'd left, I walked back to the barns and began looking. I nearly missed it, because he'd put it up in the tractor seat where I'd waited the night before. It was a metal U.S. Army ammo box, olive drab, the size of a shoebox turned on its side, with all sorts of army serial numbers, marks, and mods stenciled on it. Inside were two concussion grenades, which were far more powerful than flashbangs.

Set some traps, the sheriff had said. These would do nicely.

Before setting out for Glory's End, I walked up to the barn area looking for Cubby. He wasn't around, which wasn't too surprising since it was the end of the working day. I eased around to the horse barn to see if the major's horses had been put up for the night and the tack room locked, which they were. As I was headed back toward the cottage, I spotted Patience Johnson apparently leaving for the day. I intercepted her and asked if Cubby was still here. She told me he hadn't come to work today because he was home sick with an ear infection that was driving him and everyone else crazy.

"Old fool's gonna learn one day," she said. "Somethin' you need?"

"I'd asked to speak to Ms. Valeria. He said he'd relay the request to you."

"You asked Cubby?"

"I did."

"Didn't tell me nothin' about it. I'll speak to Ms. Valeria first thing in the morning if that's all right."

"That'll be fine," I said. I went back to the cottage to gather up the dogs and my weapons. When I got into the cottage, my cell phone was ringing. It was Hiram Whatley Lee, Esquire.

"Mr. Lee," I said. "Pleased to meet you, if only telephonically."

"Mr. Richter," he said. "Hope I'm not intruding at this late hour."

I sat down on the couch. "Not at all," I said. "How can I help you?"

"I was calling to see if you really wanted a title search of the Glory's End property, and by that I mean all the way back to the original land grants."

"I need a title search that will satisfy me that I'm not buying into a nest of liens and that the heirs of Mrs. Tarrant have a legal right to sell it. You know, that she left it to them in her will, and the will passed probate, and so on."

"I see," he said. "I'm glad you mentioned wills, because therein lies a possible sticking point."

My heart fell. "How's that?"

"Well, nowadays, wills are recorded, if the people making them know enough to do so. In the distant past, that wasn't always the case. This means we have two collections of wills at the courthouse, the ones done by attorneys and duly recorded, and the others."

"Others?"

"Yes, like when an individual passes away and his heirs or family go through his files and then hand over deeds, mortgage paperwork, trusts, and other important-looking paperwork to an attorney. They get deposited but not necessarily recorded."

"I would have thought that stuff like that wouldn't ever be orphaned, so to speak."

"Nowadays, with most everything being recorded, it's rarely an issue, but I'm talking about the nineteenth century, and, of course, the effects of the war. Whole families were destroyed, sometimes thrown off their properties, and these documents don't resurface until years later when someone finally ventures into the attic."

"Okay," I said. "I can see that."

"It bears on your request because I can do a fairly simple title search of the recorded papers. That would reveal any lurking liens or judgments. Or I can do the full Monty, which would entail archaeology in the special records."