P Deutermann - Spider mountain

“We’ve got to report this,” she said. “You saw them take a child down at Grinny’s. You watched while she showed a guy who’s probably some kind of back-alley abortionist the latest merchandise. And now here they are, Mingo and Hayes, delivering a child to a pathology lab where some bastard with a degree from Burundi U. is probably sterilizing an eight-year-old girl.”

“Um,” I said, “report to whom?”

She thought for a moment. “Mingo and Hayes collaborating? That has to go to Sam King.”

“Sam King? He’d blow you off, say this is just another interesting tale out of Robbins County. Plus, they were arguing.”

She stared at me. “So?”

“Hayes may have been running him off, not collaborating.”

“But that’s not what Mingo did, is it,” she said, angrily. “They talked, and then Mingo made the delivery.”

“All I’m saying is-”

“What-we do nothing?”

I held my temper. I was pissed off, too. Hayes and Mingo. Not good. “No,” I said, “but let’s see what happens next. If we’re right, somebody will come back and pick up the flower.”

“Mingo might just be disposing of a body,” she said.

“He’d have Nathan take care of that, Carrie. They wouldn’t bring an inconvenient body into town, especially outside of Mingo’s territory, not when they have all that empty country available. They give you any pain meds?”

She nodded.

“Put your seat back. Close your eyes and let that shit work. I’ll keep watch. I got a nap while you were partying in there.”

She let out a big sigh of exasperation but didn’t argue. In fifteen minutes she was asleep. I got out, rummaged in the backseat, and found a car coat to drape over her. It wasn’t really cold, but she was obviously uncomfortable. Her breathing was shallow and her forehead was warmer than it should have been. If we were going to do anything about this tonight, she wasn’t going to be a player, not until that infection was knocked down.

Twenty minutes later, the driver of the delivery truck showed up, got in, and drove the thing away in a clatter of diesel engine noise. We were now sitting out there all by ourselves, and there was no other place to park the vehicle where we could also watch the lab entrance. The truck’s departure woke Carrie up, and I pointed out our predicament. We decided to get out of there before Mingo came back. If he and Hayes did have some kind of understanding, we’d be fair game in that empty parking lot.

“Well, damn,” Carrie said wearily, as we went back into town. “Now what?”

“We go somewhere and get this all down in writing. Then we mail a report to someone who’ll listen.”

“Like who?”

“Like the Bureau? Or maybe that federal task force in Washington Baby was talking about-that PROTECT outfit.”

“And then what-sit back and wait for our government to get off its enormous inertial ass and do something?”

“No, then we join forces with some other interested citizens and see if we can catch these bastards in the act. But first, we obey the old fire department rule: See a fire, tell the fire department, then go see what you can do.”

She looked so down I decided to try a little humor. I leered at her. “Hey, little lady: Wanna go to a motel, fool around a little?”

She smiled despite her frustration. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” she said. “Will you mind if I throw up in the middle of it?”

“Kinky,” I said approvingly. “I love kinky.”

My lame attempt at humor didn’t really work, though, as neither of us could get our minds off what might have just happened in that lab. As I drove back to the motel, I could just imagine that bastard giving an unconscious little girl some kind of deep sedative and then going to town with scalpels or sterile knitting needles. And somewhere up there on Spider Mountain, was Grinny Creigh keeping a whole stash of potential flowers, which she might want to dispose of in a hurry? From a practical standpoint, I knew we couldn’t do anything for the kid in the lab. But somehow, somewhere, we needed to light a fire under one of the alphabets.

I did get her back to a motel room, but kinky it was not. That big blast of antibiotics sent Carrie into the bathroom for a double-ended purgative siege lasting an unpleasant hour. She was miserable, and so was I in not being able to do a damned thing for her. Plus, I was out of scotch. Even though it was past midnight I spent the time drafting a report of everything that had happened up here since I answered Mary Ellen Goode’s call for help. I named names and told it like it happened, being careful to protect Baby Greenberg as much as I could. I laid down our theory of what the Creighs were doing and delineated the events supporting that theory, especially what we’d seen tonight.

Normally a government report ends up with a list of recommendations, and there I hit a brick wall. Regrettably, I couldn’t just say bring in a section of F-18’s and wipe Grinny and her entire establishment off the face of the Smokies, although that would have improved the Smokies immensely. I finally gave up, deciding that a summary of the facts would prompt better brains than mine to some kind of effective action. I fervently hoped.

Carrie emerged from the bathroom several pounds lighter and pale as an oyster. She flopped onto one of the beds, told me not to go in there, and asked if I had any whiskey. I told her no and she groaned. Both of us knew she did not need to be drinking any alcohol, but I sympathized with the idea. I did the coldwashcloth routine on her face and arms for a few minutes, but she was still fighting an infection, and what should have been soothing began to irritate her. Then I had a stroke of genius, something that happens about once in a good year. It was nearing 2:00 A.M., so I turned on the television and found a channel where the station was off the air. The beam of white noise where the signal had been was still on the air, so I turned that up, doused the lights, lay down beside her, and held her hand. She was off to sleep in about ninety seconds. I soon followed.

I was awakened by a gentle tapping on the motel room’s door. It took me a few seconds to gather my wits and realize that it was bright daylight out there. The knock came again, gentle but insistent. I got up without disturbing Carrie and went to the peephole. It was Bigger John, or at least one of the shirt buttons on his chest. I was still dressed except for shoes, so I opened the door and stepped out, extending the deadbolt so I wouldn’t lock myself out. I checked my watch. It was nine thirty and it was indeed broad daylight. A crew of happy Hispanic ladies was clattering housekeeping carts down the sidewalk.

“How’d you find us?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“Said you was moving to a motel here in Marionburg,” he rumbled. “Made me some calls. You always sleep in your clothes, Lieutenant?”

“One of the benefits of being an ex-lieutenant,” I said. “Plus, I was up late. Ms. Santangelo isn’t doing so well after that head shot.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Word in the office was that y’all had left town,” he said.

“I told Sheriff Hayes we were leaving town, but her injury flared up, so we had to go back to County last night. Infection.” I looked around the parking lot. I saw his cruiser but no others, which I thought was a good sign. “Anybody in particular asking?”

“Ain’t nobody asking,” he said, shuffling his feet. “But we get the ER report every morning down at the sheriff’s office?” He smiled. “Professional courtesy sorta thing?”

I nodded. We’d managed something similar down in Triboro at the sheriff’s office. Quite often the violent events of the previous night and some of the people flopping around in the ER were related.