P Deutermann - Spider mountain

“Need a ride?” she asked.

I hesitated.

“C’mon, it’s fifteen miles back to Marionburg. I don’t bite, less’n I get really excited.”

I said okay and climbed in. The truck was not new, but there was obviously a huge mill under the hood. The interior smelled of perfume and cigarette smoke. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse knotted under her breasts, cutoff blue-jean shorts, and sandals. Her long legs gleamed in the light from the dashboard. She put the truck in second gear and let it roll itself down the road, the engine rumbling in protest.

“Better’n the way you came, don’t you think?” she asked.

“I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter,” I said. “But I do appreciate the lift.”

She laughed. “Grinny wants to see you, she’s gonna see you. One way or another. That’s how it is around these hills. You’d best believe that.”

“I saw a fat man get run down and torn to pieces by a dog pack the other day,” I said. “Those the same dogs I just heard back there?”

“Wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said, fishing a cigarette out of her blouse pocket and punching in the truck’s lighter. “That there’s menfolk business.” She looked across at me, a teasing look in her eyes. “I just live there.”

“Sure you do,” I said.

She lit the cigarette and returned the lighter. She took a deep drag and blew out a big cloud of smoke. “Uncle M. C. wasn’t too happy with you bein’ in Rob-bins County. You some kinda lawman, ain’t you?”

“He really your uncle?” I asked, avoiding the question.

“Hell if I know,” she said, rolling down the driver’s-side window to let a little of the smoke out. “Uncles, brothers, cousins, husbands-what’s it matter when the county phone book has only eleven different names listed?”

I laughed despite myself. The dirt track ended at a two-lane blacktop, and she turned right. She flipped on her headlights and put the hammer down. The truck jumped forward and I found my seat belt. She wasn’t wearing one. “Rocky Falls looks a little bigger than all that,” I said.

She grunted derisively. “Rocky Falls ain’t what I’m talkin’ about. I meant the county. You really a lawman?”

“Nope,” I said. “Used to be, but I’m retired. Now I do investigative work for hire. How about you? What do you do?”

“Me?” she laughed. “I’m Rue Creigh and I cause trouble. I drive around makin’ all the menfolk crazy and their women huffy. I smoke and I drink and, lemme see, there’s a third thing, but damned if it hasn’t slipped my mind just now. But it’ll come to me.”

I could just imagine, which was probably the object of the lesson. “Nice truck,” I said.

“Meanin’ what-how do I come to have it, seein’ as I’m just a layabout?”

“Interesting choice of words, but let me guess. Grinny Creigh got it for you.”

“Good guess, lawman. And Ym guessin’ you know how she manages that. But you need to be real careful if that’s what you’re really doin’ up here, ‘cause Grinny don’t abide strangers pokin’ into her business. Got her a regular hateon for that.”

“I told her why I was here, to find out-”

“That’s finished business,” she interrupted. “You want some sign of the old boy done that, you’ll need to get you a pooper-scooper.”

Suspicions confirmed, I thought. I saw a sign indicating we were crossing into Carrigan County and relaxed fractionally. The road paralleled a rushing mountain stream, with towering green hills on either side. There was no moon, but the air was incredibly clear. “That’s awfully convenient,” I said. “But we have only your word for that.”

“We?” she said. “Got a mouse in your pocket there, lawman? But, what the hell, if it’s proof you want, reach under your seat.”

Surprised, I felt around under the front of my seat and discovered a small, cold, heavy cylinder among the empty beer cans. I pulled it out. It was a law-enforcement-model pepper-spray canister. There was a decal on it saying that it was property of the U.S. Park Service and, if found, should be returned to the nearest ranger station immediately.

“This hers?” I asked.

“Ain’t no one knows, lawman. But the fat boy you saw doin’ the Alpo marathon? He had that thing in his truck. Y’all can make of that what you will. Convinced me. Good enough for them dogs, too.”

“Nobody from Robbins County has done anything like this to a park ranger before,” I said. “The cops are speculating she witnessed something, maybe even tried to interfere.”

Rowena shrugged and then readjusted her blouse before she fell out of it. “Where you stayin’ at?”

I told her, and she drove through the town going at least twenty miles over the speed limit. At this hour there was almost no traffic, but I did see a sheriff’s cruiser parked on a side street. They had to have heard that engine, but didn’t seem to be interested. When we pulled into the parking lot at the lodge, however, there were two police cars and a Park Service Jeep out in the middle of the lower lot. Rowena drove right into the middle of the cluster, put the truck in park, and leaned an elbow out her window.

“Well, here you are, lawman,” she announced, as several cops began to get out of their vehicles. Mary Ellen Goode climbed out of the Jeep, and my two shepherds came bounding out behind her.

“Well, thanks again for the ride,” I said. “I guess I probably won’t be seeing you again.”

She pushed both hands through her luxuriant hair, which did interesting things to her superstructure. “Not in Robbins County,” she said with a seductive smile. “But now that I know where you’re stayin’, who knows?”

Mary Ellen was close enough to the truck to hear that last bit, and I saw a pained expression cross her anxious face. I got out of the truck and closed the door. Rowena waved at me, smiled at all the staring cops, and thundered out of the parking lot. The two shepherds were all over me, but over their fuzzy shoulders I could see that the cops wanted some answers.

“Where did you get that?” Mary Ellen asked, pointing at the pepper-spray canister in my hand.

“It’s a long story. Let’s all go to my cabin.”

Once in the cabin, the senior Carrigan County sheriff’s deputy told me that a guest on the second floor had seen a pickup truck leave the parking lot with what looked like a body in the bed. He’d called 911, and the responding deputies found my two German shepherds racing around the parking lot looking for me and displaying just a bit of aggression, meaning no one in the lodge could get to a vehicle. It also kept all the cops in their patrol cars until their sergeant, who’d shown me into Sheriff Hayes’s office the other day, had called Mary Ellen Goode, a known associate of the possibly missing ex-lieutenant Richter, to corral the agitated shepherds. A ninety-minute search through the surrounding area had produced nothing but the facts that I appeared to be missing, my cabin was unlocked, and my car keys and wallet were in the kitchen. They also had a second witness statement about a woman seen leaving my cabin earlier in the evening. Mary Ellen had called her supervisor at Thirty Mile station, the redoubtable Ranger Bob, who’d brought along the senior law enforcement ranger from the station.

I got everyone situated out on the creekside porch and held an impromptu debrief, leaving out only my visitation from the lady SBI agent. Then Sheriff Hayes himself arrived, and we had to go through it all again, while the other cops verified and added to their notes. When I had finished, the sheriff gave me a long look and then commented on my continuing propensity to instigate trouble.

“You are a regular shit magnet, Lieutenant,” he said.