P Deutermann - Spider mountain

We all knew the answer to that question.

“How about the old lady?” Greenberg asked. “Could she point us toward some concrete evidence?”

“I don’t think so,” Carrie said. “She knows what’s going on and who’s who in the zoo, but I doubt she ever comes off that place. Apparently she has sons who see to her needs.”

“She said there are lots of decent people living up there alongside the Creigh nest, but what she’s doing doesn’t really affect them,” I said. “And according to Laurie May, if they do poke their nose in where it doesn’t belong, big trees fall on their cabins at night.”

“Shit,” Greenberg sighed. “We’re nowhere. Again.”

“I say you all quit creeping around the hills, playing their game, and take a federal crew into Grinny’s place, have a look at that abandoned mine that’s supposed to be under her cabin. I recognized Nathan as being in charge of what happened last night, so there’s probable cause.”

“They’d say it was an accident with a logging truck,” Greenberg pointed out. “Shit happens. The guy who came across the creek looking for you was only checking for possible victims.”

“With his shotgun? And with all the logs in the creek?”

“You know and I know, but think what a lawyer could do with that in front of a judge who may or may not love the government and all its works. I mean, that applies both before and after any search. I’d hate to find a ton of evidence at Grinny’s only to lose it because the search gets tossed.”

Greenberg’s radio crackled into life. “Incoming,” reported one of the agents on the hill.

“How many?” Greenberg asked.

“One vehicle. Stand by.” Then he came back. “Looks like a sheriff’s patrol car.”

“Ours or theirs?” I wondered aloud.

By then we could hear a vehicle approaching along the shoreside dirt road. Its headlights pitched bizarre shadows on the boulder piles just above us.

“Some ranger coming to check out the fire inside the park grounds, maybe?” Carrie asked. Greenberg groaned.

The vehicle stopped about a hundred yards away. Its headlights switched off and a single individual got out, flipped on a flashlight, and started walking toward the fire. The shepherds were up and alert; I ordered them to sit down as M. C. Mingo himself stepped down the bank and into the firelight. He was in uniform and had his right hand on his gun butt. He turned off the flashlight, stared at me for a long moment, ignoring Carrie, and then addressed himself to Greenberg.

“You’re Special Agent Greenberg?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“And who are you, miss?”

Carrie didn’t answer him. She sat back in her folding camp chair and gave him a bored look. I noticed that her right hand had drifted down to the side of her chair, where the Mamba stick was perched. I’d taken my SIG off earlier and put it in my tent with the rest of my gear.

“And who might you be?” Greenberg asked.

“You know damn well who I am, and so does this suspect over here. Why haven’t you turned yourself in, Mister Richter?”

“Waiting for a warrant, Sheriff,” I said. “Sheriff Hayes knows where I am, and then, of course, we’re going to want an extradition hearing. In front of a real judge, even.”

Mingo glared at me, then at Greenberg. “What are you people doing up here? You’re DEA agents. Why wasn’t this coordinated with my office?”

“I believe we’re in the national park,” Greenberg said, looking around innocently.

“Not all the time,” Mingo said. He was tapping the flashlight against his right palm impatiently.

“Yes, all the time,” Greenberg said. “Haven’t strayed from the park since we’ve been here.” His tone of voice was faintly mocking, and I could see that Mingo’s temper was rising. The flashlight tapping became more intense, and the light actually switched on.

“You’re required by your own regulations to inform local law enforcement whenever you’re going to conduct an operation. Why wasn’t this done?”

“We’re just camping out here, Sheriff,” Greenberg said. “You know-like an off-site? A time to kick things around, without being bothered by all that e-mail and phone calls. Talk about what we’re going to do about the out-of-control drug problem in Robbins County.”

Suddenly the shepherds turned to face the lake and began to growl. I turned to look in time to see three flat-bottomed boats emerging out of the darkness. Each boat held two men who were standing and pointing shotguns at us. A third sat in the stern and paddled until the boats grounded in the gravel at the shoreline.

That damned flashlight, I thought. That had been a signal.

“Now then,” Mingo said in a much calmer voice, his anger melting away. He had his own sidearm in his right hand. My shepherds weren’t happy with these developments.

“Everybody just sit tight,” he said pleasantly. “We don’t want any of my deputies here making any mistakes, right? Mister Richter, curb those dogs or they’re going to get shot.”

“You have to be shitting me,” Greenberg protested. “Pointing weapons at federal agents? Those aren’t deputies-they’re just a bunch of Creigh riffraff.”

“All sworn this very evening,” Mingo said. “And they ain’t pointing at you, Special Agent. They’re pointing at this murder suspect here. Mr. Richter, walk towards me.” The two agents who’d been asleep in their tents poked heads out and froze when they saw all the guns.

Mingo turned to Carrie. “You, too, young lady. You’re both under arrest for assault and battery against one Tommy Weil, who swore out an affidavit in my office that you two attacked him with these two savage dogs right there.”

I thought I knew what was coming next, so I decided to get the shepherds out of harm’s way. “Frick,” I called in a very clear voice. “Frack. Hide!”

Before any of the humans could react, both dogs bolted, going in different directions into the darkness. One of the men in the boats swung his shotgun, but his target was already out of sight. I could see that Greenberg was about to get into it in a big way, and I gave him a warning shake of the head before walking over to where Mingo stood pointing a gun at me. Carrie didn’t budge.

Mingo holstered his weapon and then made me turn around and put my hands behind me so he could lock on a pair of plastic cuffs. “I said, you, too, miss. You won’t like it if one of my deputies has to help you.”

I wondered what the on-watch agents were doing, but I had this sick feeling that they were sitting up there somewhere on a rock with a shotgun at the back of their heads. These guys had come in off the lake without making a single sound, and that was hard to do, the way sound carries over water.

Carrie got up and walked over to the sheriff, who cuffed her with a second pair of cuffs. He stood back, drew his weapon again, and motioned for us to walk toward his cruiser, being careful to keep his distance while keeping us covered. He opened the back doors and made us get in, then slammed the doors. He turned to face Greenberg and the two agents who were still crouching in their tents.

“I suppose I should have told you I was coming,” he said, it being his turn to indulge in some mockery. “You know, coordination? ‘Cept I didn’t know y’all were doing anything up in these parts. Y’all have a good evening, hear?”

He got into the cruiser and turned around to face us. “See that open cuff hooked to the center seat belt?” he asked. I looked down and then nodded. “Put your cuff wire through that. You, too, miss. Then close it. I believe you know the drill, Mister Richter.”

I thought about just sitting there and making Mingo come back there and do it. But then, even if we took him out, all those so-called deputies were still there, no more than thirty feet away. There’d be some kind of violent conclusion to our efforts, so despite the fact that Carrie was staring at me with obvious telepathic intent, I turned sideways and did as I was told. She let out a long breath and did likewise.