P Deutermann - Spider mountain

I nosed the Suburban into the curb and was about to shut down when another vehicle slid close in alongside mine, so close that I could not have opened my door more than about four inches. It was another Suburban, as big as mine, and there were three men inside. The dogs were alarmed and I gave them a down command. The two windows on the other vehicle’s right side slid down. I lowered my driver’s-side window and looked over at the man in the right front seat. He was middle-aged and extremely hairy-beard, mustache, and a wild mop of grayish black hair on top folded into a ponytail behind. He wore a multicolored hippie headband and dark glasses on a neck rope. He was fox-faced and reminded me of some of the lawyers I’d encountered out riding their weekend Harleys when I’d been a cop. This guy’s coolly superior expression told me they were probably federal drug agents.

“You’re blocking my door,” I said. One of the men in back, dressed more conventionally in a khaki windbreaker and ball cap, snorted out a laugh.

“We need to talk to you,” fox-face said. “You’re Lieutenant Richter, am I right?”

“You’re blocking my door,” I said again. “Back up, please.”

“We’ll back up when we’re good and fucking ready to, Lieutenant. Oh, I guess I forgot, you’re not a lieutenant anymore, are you.”

“Once more, with feeling,” I said. “Back up.”

Fox-face grinned and raised a set of credentials for me to admire. “DEA,” he announced. “And we’re here to invite you to stay away from the Janey Howard case. We think you’re not qualified, not authorized, and not wanted here.”

“You’ve got me confused,” I said calmly.

“What?”

“With someone who gives a shit about what you think about anything. Back up, please.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Mister Richter,” fox-face snapped, “you’re not a cop anymore. In fact, some people think you were a bent cop. If you’d like, we can reinforce that notion locally. So why don’t you leave? You know, easy way or hard way?”

“Let’s try my way,” I said, and then I punched down the left rear window button and gave a sharp command. The two German shepherds launched serially through the window directly into the other car, where they proceeded to cry havoc. They barked, roared, growled, snapped, slobbered, and pounced between the front and back seats until all three occupants had submerged from sight. I recalled them with a whistle and they happily jumped back into my Suburban, looking very pleased with themselves. The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds. Longer for some than others, I thought.

I backed my Suburban away from the DEA-mobile, where no heads had yet reappeared, and parked it about twenty feet away. I let the dogs out and told them to watch the agents’ vehicle. They sat down ten feet away from it. The first head to pop up was the driver’s, whose white-faced visage was greeted with angry barking and raised hackles. The man quickly raised his window and then backed the car all the way out to the ramp leading to the upper parking lot. I watched them go. I wondered if I should wave, but decided not to. Once they’d changed underwear and showered, they’d discover that no one had actually been bitten. That would probably make them really unhappy. Crying shame.

The bridal suite cabin was appropriately designed. It was perched on a large rock that overhung the creek and was separated from the nearest cabin by a thick stand of Leyland cypress. It had all the important bases covered: an enormous bed in the single bedroom; three refrigerators, one each in the bedroom, living room, and kitchen; a large screened porch extending over a small waterfall with yet another bed. There was a pine-paneled living room, complete with a heavily padded bearskin rug and a huge stone fireplace. The bathroom had a large hot tub, which had a built-in cooler within easy reach. Each of the refrigerators was a fully stocked minibar, including the one in the kitchen. The bedroom had a large-screen TV and a stereo system that had been wired throughout the cabin. There did not appear to be any telephones. There was an interesting DVD collection stacked inside some kind of vending cabinet.

The shepherds looked at me as if to ask, And where do we go? I was tempted to put them back in my Suburban. On the other hand, they had done a firstclass monster mash on the uppity DEA guys. I went back out to the Suburban and got their dog beds. The shepherds were called Frick and Frack. My dog-aficionado friends had been appalled at the names, but they had the advantage of sounding different, dog commands being mostly an audio business. Frick was a sable spayed female, about eighty pounds and fairly intense. Frack was an all-black East German border guard number, an easy hundred pounds plus, whose specialty was sitting down and staring with those big amber eyes of his, which seemed to scare the shit out of most people. I set them up on the screened front porch and told them to watch for bad guys. Frick immediately assumed the alert; Frack, not one to sweat the load, yawned and lay down for a nap.

I’d been wrong about the phone. I hunted down the chirping noises and found it stashed inside a tiny pantry closet in the kitchen. I picked it up. Fox-face was back.

“I suppose you think that was funny,” he said. “I could have you arrested for assaulting federal officers.”

“I didn’t assault anybody,” I said. “My dogs may have gone to investigate some impolite assholes who didn’t know how to park their car.”

There was silence on the line. I made a quick decision: I couldn’t operate up here if the feds went to the local sheriff and made trouble.

“You have a name in addition to ‘special agent’?” I asked.

“Greenberg.”

“Okay, Special Agent Greenberg. You want to sit down and have a conversation like an adult, I’m willing to meet with you. But enough of this Miami Vice bullshit.”

I heard Greenberg take a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Where and when?”

“You’ve got this number, so you know where I am. I’ll meet with you here. Lose the other clowns. Whenever you’re ready.” I hung up.

Greenberg knocked on the front screen door about ten minutes later. Both shepherds watched him but did not otherwise react. Greenberg watched them very carefully. I gave the dogs a command and then let Greenberg in. The DEA agent was actually kind of short, maybe five-six in his stocking feet, made two inches taller with the aid of expensive-looking cowboy boots. He wore jeans and a truly repulsive untucked Hawaiian shirt. He was broad-shouldered, though, and I thought he’d probably be dangerous in a street fight. Little guys built like this often were. He seemed full of nervous energy, eyes flitting this way and that as he checked his perimeters.

“Scotch okay?” I asked as we sat down on the screened porch over the creek.

Greenberg relaxed fractionally and nodded. I poured. The agent asked if he could smoke, and I said sure. “What is this place?” Greenberg asked. “You’ve got beds everywhere.”

“Honeymoon suite,” I said. “Only thing available on short notice.”

Greenberg grunted. I tipped my glass at him. “Shall we start over?”

The agent sipped some scotch and nodded. “I apologize for that bullshit in the parking lot,” he said. “That was unprofessional.”

“I apologize for setting my dogs on you.”

Greenberg nodded solemnly and then, surprising me, grinned. “That was fucking amazing,” he said. “All three of us are armed to the teeth-belt guns, ankle guns, knives-and nobody even thought about going for a weapon. And then they were just-gone.”

“It takes some training,” I said. “I take it Chief Ranger Parsons called you?”

Greenberg nodded. “He’s apparently a bit of a politician. Your being here has his wires humming. Puppets hate that.”