P Deutermann - Spider mountain

“No, and there’s a wrinkle,” he said. There was enough background noise in the dining room to cover our conversation. “They can’t tie any reported instance where children have been rescued from one of these human sewers to a source in this area. I asked. But: They did have one CI who told them that there is a ‘florist’ up here somewhere, and that what she, and he did say ‘she,’ produces is extremely valuable in subject markets.”

“Any details?” I asked.

“That’s when they went NFI on me.”

NFI was intel-speak for no further information. It was the code word intelligence wienies used when they didn’t understand what some snippet of information meant. But that reference to a “she” also supported Carrie’s theory.

“He used that term?” Carrie asked. “A florist?”

“Yeah, and I asked about that, too. A florist produces ‘flowers,’ which is the street word for the product, as in little flowers, plucked for the disgusting pleasure of some seriously bent motherfuckers.”

“And why Appalachia?”

“Because the children have little value to a certain stratum of the population. As in, she was a’lookin’ pretty damn good for thirteen, but then she done got her a damn kid hung on her. And if it was her daddy who did the hangingon, then the child become disposable.”

“Did you ask them that question I had about a doctor’s involvement?”

“I did. They said that if the flowers are sterile, they’re more valuable, for obvious if repugnant reasons.”

“And this is a Washington, D.C., game?” I asked. “That seems like a dangerous place for this kind of enterprise, especially these days.”

“The key is a transport channel with diplomatic immunity,” Greenberg replied. “Most of the diplomatic courier channels in the country terminate in Washington and New York. They are not subject to search. Think about it: A Saudi woman shows up at Dulles, all burka-ed up in her best twelfth-century haute couture. She arrives with a sleepy child in tow, similarly covered, made up to look Saudi and probably doped to the gills ‘because she gets airsick.’ They’re boarding a Royal Saudi Air Force plane, and her husband’s a prince, of course. That’s a government airline, and nobody messes with them. They pass the metal detector test and the bomb dogs, and off they go.”

“So if someone’s going to bust this up, it would have to be on the way into Washington from Robbins County?” Carrie asked.

“If you just wanted to rescue one flower, then yeah,” he said. “But if you’re a bunch of feds trying to put together a case that can be prosecuted, then you need to roll up both ends of the pipe. That’s hard, and it takes time. Lots of time. Especially on the diplomatic end-especially if you assume it’s the princes who are buying the flowers.”

“Based on what I overheard, we may not have lots of time,” I said. “Somehow our probes have spooked Grinny. She’s talking maybe unloading the whole hothouse.”

“Jeez, I wonder why,” Baby said. “Nathan grabs you up and then gets beat to shit, Rue Creigh gets her head blown off, a third of their lovely little dog pack is vulture bait up on Book Mountain, somebody inside Mingo’s force gets you out of jail, and they’re spooked?”

“The way to stop this is a laser-guided bomb into Mother Creigh’s little house of horrors,” Carrie said. Santa Claws was in the building.

“LGBs are good,” I pointed out. “Unless, of course, that’s where the children are collected prior to a shipment.”

“My Bureau contact said there’s another problem, which is that, so far, they have never been able to put a TV monitor or even an eyeball at either Dulles or Reagan airport on a mother-and-child departure profile that seems to fit the bill. And there are zero ties to Robbins County or any other part of this area.”

We ate our dinner for a few minutes, trying to digest this information. Carrie finally broke the silence. “If Robbins County is the source in question, the ‘she’ would have to be the Creigh clan. Who else has a criminal enterprise of substance going up there?”

“One wonders,” I said.

“What’s that mean?”

“I’m struck by the fact that the people like Sheriff Hayes don’t seem to be very excited about the Creigh clan and all their works in general.”

“That’s partially because we’re here,” Baby said. “Chasing druggies isn’t a big priority for local law if the appropriate feds are in the area. But we’ve been looking at the meth problem, not anything to do with trafficking in children. And, actually, by the Code of the West, that would belong to the Bureau, not us scruffy narcs.”

“But they might be related,” I said. “Desperately poor mountain families, staggering under a meth jones, might be tempted to sell a child to either sustain their habit or pay down a drug debt.”

“No mother would do that, not even an addict,” Carrie said. Even as she said it, I could see that she was remembering that woman we’d seen at the trailer. It was, in fact, entirely possible.

“There are some so-called menfolk in these parts who’d do it in a New York minute,” Greenberg said. “We’ve arrested some pretty sorry-assed dudes up in them there hollers. And when you see some of the kids…”

“What do you mean?” Carrie asked indignantly.

Baby threw up his hands. “I’m talking some truly damaged DNA here,” he said. “Yes, they’re innocent children. But their chances of succeeding amongst the human gene pool are minimal, at best.”

At that moment, the lodge’s duty manager approached our table. “Gentlemen, lady,” he said, and then looked at me. “Mr. Richter?”

I said, yes, that’s me.

“Last night the sheriff’s office told our security people they’d have a patrol car in our parking lot at random intervals, for your protection?”

“Okay,” I said. “Problem?”

“Well,” he said, looking around and then lowering his voice. “One of our waitstaff came in for the night shift a few minutes ago. She said there was what she called an old muscle car out in the parking lot with some ‘bad-looking dudes’ inside. She thought she saw shotgun barrels. Said the car looked like something a moonshiner would run. Said they were just sitting out there in that car, like they were waiting for someone. Bad-looking dudes. Should I call this in?”

“You bet,” I said. “Call the sheriff’s office and tell them what you’ve got. Especially the part about guns. They might be setting up to do a holdup, okay? Call 911 and ask for deputies, plural.”

His expression told me that I’d just confirmed his worst suspicions. I had also, hopefully, taken my name out of the equation. He hurried out to make the call.

“What do you think?” I asked Carrie. “Mingo’s black hats?”

“Or you’re right, they’re out there working up the courage to rob this place,” she said. “I can’t imagine Mingo would be so brazen as to send a hit squad over here.”

“Nathan might,” I said. “Rue Creigh was special to him, probably in ways you don’t want to think about. And Grinny has a motive, too.” I looked around at the crowd of diners and bar patrons. “I’d feel a whole lot better with guns and dogs at hand,” I said.

“I can help with half of that,” Baby said helpfully, patting his suit coat. “But life would be a whole lot simpler if you both took Mr. King’s advice.”

“Funny how so many people want us out of here, isn’t it?” Carrie said to me. We finished dinner, and I signed the bill. We went out to the lobby to see what was happening. The manager gave us a signal that he’d made the call.

“Where’s the vehicle?” I asked.

He parted some heavy curtains and showed us. The lot was pretty full, and I actually couldn’t make it out. But just then three Carrigan County cop cars came swinging into the main parking lot. They’d come fast, dark, and quiet, but now they lit up their light bars and at least one tapped his siren. They swept down from the main road and then made a beeline for what looked to me like an old Dodge Charger, which was sitting all by itself out in the lot. They were parked closer to my cabin than to the main lodge, I realized.