P Deutermann - Spider mountain

“But he keeps getting elected?”

The sheriff guffawed. I realized that had been a dumb question. “He’s a Creigh,” the Sheriff said. “That’s what the C stands for.”

“Mary Ellen suggested the Park Service is scared to really pursue what happened to their probationer.”

“That got just a bit murky,” the sheriff said. “They had a feds-only meeting-some Bureau types, Park Service, the local DEA guy-and decided to back off for the time being.”

“The time being?”

“We had no leads-nobody did. The girl is a semi-gorp. The DEA said they had some irons in the fire that ought to take precedence.”

“DEA: That would be Special Agent Greenberg?”

The sheriff grinned. “Met him, have you? That was quick. That old boy’s a pistol. Fuzzy looking, but don’t let that fool you.”

“He and his goon squad irritated my shepherds,” I said. “Frick and Frack convened a short meeting with them in the back of their Suburban.”

“Now that I’d like to have seen,” the sheriff said, laughing.

“Greenberg and I worked it out over some scotch last night.”

He finished his coffee. “Well, lemme tell you: Don’t try any of that shit with M. C. Mingo and his boys.”

“If I were to go over there, should I go see him?”

“What part of’stay’ and ‘out’ didn’t you understand?”

“But if I did?”

“You go over there pokin’ around into the Howard case? He’ll find you. Believe it.”

“But you have no objections to my looking into what happened to her?”

He rubbed his face with his hands. “Long as I find out what you find out, okay?” he said. “I do have to get elected, if you get my meaning.”

I told him that I absolutely would do that, and then asked him about Moses Walsh.

“Mose? Where’d you run into him?” Hayes asked.

I told him.

“He’s a retired city homicide detective,” Hayes said, surprising me. Mose hadn’t shared that tidbit with me on the creek bank. “Funny old duck,” Hayes said. “He’s been here a while, keeps to himself, hires out as a guide. People see that face, think he’s the original Indian scout. Then they see the Harley. He’s okay, best I can tell. Really likes to chase skirt during tourist season.”

I thanked him for seeing me again and left to find Special Agent Greenberg.

In the event, Greenberg wasn’t available until that night. He and his squad had been called to Gatlinburg over on the Tennessee side of the national park for a meeting. I spent the rest of the afternoon orienting myself in Carrigan County. I also visited the local newspaper and read accounts of the search for Janey Howard. I dropped by the Carrigan County social services office and was able to glean a little information about the socio-economic state of affairs in neighboring Robbins County. The census-verified population was quite small, just over seven thousand, although it was thought that the real population would be a third larger than that if the hill people had bothered to cooperate. The head count had been complicated by some ambiguities on the number of children in the county outside of the town of Rocky Falls itself. The Robbins County welfare office supposedly had some postulated numbers, but they had not been verified in quite some time.

My questions about the Creighs produced deliberately blank looks. One lady in the welfare office told me flat out that running one’s mouth about the Creighs was a good way to become toothless, and it didn’t much matter which county you lived in. I asked her if her counterparts in Robbins County just sent out welfare checks to the Creighs based on what the recipients told them, and she said, yes, that was exactly how it worked. The sheriff’s office over there did periodic verifications, no one was complaining, and it wasn’t likely that anyone would, if I got her drift.

I went back to my newlywed paradise, changed into running gear, and took the dogs for a run down the creek road. When I got back, Greenberg was sitting on the bank of the stream behind the cabin. I flopped down beside him, kicked off my shoes and socks, and let the icy water revive my feet while I told him what the sheriff had told me. He seemed a little less bouncy today.

“He’s not kidding about M. C. Mingo,” Greenberg said. “That guy’s a piece of work. He’s all smiles and snake oil whenever we show up, but we can’t go anywhere without one deputy we can see and a few we can’t within visual range. Answers every one of our questions, and none of the info’s worth two shits.”

“How about the Creigh clan?”

Greenberg skipped a stone across the creek. “Lot of myth and legend over there about the Creighs. That said, getting your hands on one is apparently really hard, and if you do, they bite.”

“It seems to me,” I said, “that if the local law is in bed with a meth gang, then there ought to be the mother of all sting operations running. Especially on the federal side.”

Greenberg smiled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, there, sport,” he said.

I put up my hands in mock surrender. “I know. My brief is Janey Howard. I’m going to get Mary Ellen to take me to see the victim. Maybe together we can prod something loose.”

“Good luck with that,” Greenberg said. “But if you do go up to that lake, please let me know. That girl may have been taking water samples for a reason, okay?”

“Would she have known what that reason was?”

He smiled. “Not necessarily,” he said.

I said I’d keep him in the loop. I asked him about Moses Walsh, still mildly curious about the guy. I told him about our conversation of the evening before. It turned out that Greenberg did know him.

“You see him in the bars sometimes; can’t miss that face. Big hit with the women.”

“Hayes called him a funny duck,” I said.

“Well, he was homicide police-some of those guys come out a little bit gonzo when they’re done. He’s never come up on our radar since I’ve been working up here.”

“He said he was from this Robbins County originally,” I said.

Greenberg shrugged. “He might be,” he said. “I don’t know. Why-you gonna hire him to be your guide over there?”

“Thought crossed my mind. First I’m just going to go over there and snoop around a little.”

“You tell Bill Hayes you were going to do that?”

I nodded.

“And he said what, exactly?”

“I got the ‘two words’ lecture.”

“You might want to listen to the man,” he said. “That would show great intelligence on your part.”

“Why start now?” I asked.

He grinned and shook his head. “Where are your furry friends?” he asked.

I spoke Frick’s name and both shepherds appeared behind us in about two seconds, ears up, ready for action.

“Man, I love that shit,” he said.

“So do they,” I said.

He watched the shepherds for a moment and then asked me if I was married. I said no, how about him?

“I make it a point to keep women out of my life,” he said. “I plan to retire a semi-wealthy man, and women have a way of screwing that up for guys in my line of work.”

“Not the good ones,” I said, thinking of the millions my ex had left me.

“Both of’em?” he said with an ironic grin.

After Greenberg left, I showered and called Mary Ellen Goode. It took some sweet-talking, but she finally agreed to pick me up at my hotel and take me over to beautiful downtown Murphy, North Carolina, where the Howard family lived. Janey Howard’s mother met us at the door of their two-story house, which was on a tree-lined street straight out of Mayberry. She was a tiny woman, and while she seemed genuinely glad to see Mary Ellen, she gave me a decisively wary look. Mary Ellen had called ahead. I didn’t know what she’d told the woman about me, but I could see that Mrs. Howard wasn’t exactly thrilled with my being there.