Thomas Cook - Sacrificial Ground

The car lurched forward down the winding road. Low-slung limbs slapped loudly against the windshield, and glancing in his mirror, Frank could see a long trail of dust as it wound behind like a furry orange tail.

“Guess you haven’t been on roads like this since you left the piney woods, have you, Frank?” Caleb asked. He pressed the accelerator a little harder, and the car slammed loudly into an enormous pothole, then plowed out of it effortlessly.

“I did a little dirt racing,” Frank said, “but we stuck to better roads for that.”

“There was a few nights in those days, Frank, when I’m not sure we even bothered with a road.”

Frank smiled, but his youth now seemed so far away that he felt as if it had been lived by someone else. “How far to this place?” he asked.

“Maybe another mile or two,” Caleb said brightly. He slammed down into another hole, and a huge smile spread across his face. “God, I love this,” he said with a laugh.

Frank closed his eyes for a moment, and felt himself go back involuntarily to the farm country of his youth. He remembered the clear, cold streams and granite cliffs, the long summer nights with Sheila beneath him, her back on the cool ground, her breath in his face, the moon above them like a kind, unsleeping eye. His mind shot forward and he saw Karen in the darkness before her house, her arms at her sides.

“Yonder it is,” Caleb said.

Frank opened his eyes. Through a wall of thick leaves he could see a large building. It was made of corrugated tin, and much of it had rusted over the years. Several cannibalized cars rested here and there in the surrounding brush and gave the woods the eerie appearance of a long-abandoned town.

A man in gray work pants and a green khaki shirt walked out of the building as Caleb brought the car to a halt.

“Howdy, Caleb,” he said as the two of them got out of the car.

“Hey there, Luther,” Caleb said. The two of them shook hands. “This is my partner, Frank Clemons.”

Luther offered his hand. “How you?”

“Fine,” Frank said as he took it.

“Me and old Luther here, we’ve seen some times,” Caleb said. He glanced at his friend. “You look like you’ve shed some weight since I saw you last.”

“Must of gone right to you, then,” Luther said with a smile.

Caleb rubbed his belly. “Well, what the hell. Like the song says, I ain’t built for speed.”

“How’s Hilda?” Luther asked.

“She’ll do,” Caleb said dryly. “Listen, Luther, I told Frank here about the car and everything. He’d like to take a look at it.”

Luther nodded. “Like I said, the minute I thought this might have something to do with that girl, I called you right up.”

“And we appreciate it, Luther,” Caleb said. “Ain’t that right, Frank?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“I don’t keep nothing from my partner, Luther,” Caleb said. “He knows you’ve not exactly walked the straight and narrow.”

“But I ain’t never hurt a soul,” Luther said.

“I told him that, too.”

“Just so that’s all clear. Sometimes, the cops, you know, they just decide they want somebody, and they go get him. I’ve seen it happen, Caleb.”

“Well, Frank’s not like that,” Caleb assured him. “Now, where’s that car?”

“Well, if you say so,” Luther said. He slowly turned toward the building. “Come on, I got it in here.”

The red BMW could be seen clearly at the back of the shed. It glowed like a bright fire among the other cars, somber late-model luxury automobiles in their conservative blacks and grays.

“Minute I saw it, I got a little click in my mind,” Luther said as he stepped up to the car. “It came in early this morning, and I’d already read about that girl.” He walked over to the driver’s side and opened the door. “I started to look her over, and that’s when I saw them initials.” He pointed toward the dashboard. “See, right there.”

Frank leaned in. The LAD initials were gold-plated and they were attached to the leather dash.

“Now me, I got girls of my own,” Luther said. “I wouldn’t have nothing to do with hurting somebody like this girl you found dead.” He looked at Caleb. “You know me better than that, don’t you, Caleb?”

Caleb nodded. “When’d you say this car came in?”

“’Round nine.”

Frank pulled himself out of the car and took out his notebook. “You haven’t done anything to it, have you?”

Luther laughed. “Shit, no. If I’d done something to this car, you’d know. This ain’t no car wash. We break them down to parts.”

“We’ll send a tow truck for it, Luther,” Caleb told him.

Luther nodded. “That’s what I figured. I already explained to the bossman. He don’t want nothing to do with it. He said, ‘sooner you take it, the better.’”

Frank felt a strong urge to examine the car on the spot, turn it inside out, but he knew they could do a better job on it back at the garage. Instead, he took out his notebook. “Who brought it in, Luther?”

Luther hesitated for a moment. “He ain’t a nice guy. Least that’s what I hear.”

“Who is he?”

“Big nigger. Into quite a few things. I hear he spread some queer around a little bit too much, and drew some time for that.”

“We need a name, Luther,” Frank said. “We can find out about all the rest.”

“He goes by the name of Davon Little,” Luther said. “Some folks call him Butt. He’s got a big ass on him.” He glanced at Caleb and laughed. “Like he’s toting a bale of hay.”

“Been doing business with him long?” Caleb asked.

“Over the years, he’s brought in nine or ten,” Luther said, “usually fancy, like this one. He usually joyrides them awhile, then just turns them over to a cutter.”

“He didn’t joyride this one for very long,” Frank said.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is, you kill a girl, you don’t want to keep her car.”

“You got the keys?” Frank asked. “Or did he hot-wire it?”

“He had the keys,” Luther said. “That’s another thing that bothered me.”

“Where are they?”

“Right here,” Luther said. He pulled them from his trousers and dangled them in the air.

“Open the trunk,” Frank said.

Luther stepped to the back of the car and opened the trunk. It was empty except for the usual spare tire and jack.

“Clean as a pin,” Caleb said mournfully. “Too bad.”

Luther laughed nervously. “What’d you boys expect to find, another dead gal stuffed back there?”

“Never know,” Caleb said. He looked at Frank. “They’ll vacuum the shit out of it. If Angelica lost so much as a hair back here, they’ll find it.”

Frank closed the trunk. “Do you have any idea where this Davon Little lives?”

Luther shook his head. “People we deal with, they don’t make a point of mentioning things like that.”

“Have any idea where he did time?”

“He talks funny,” Luther said. “Sort of like Johnson used to, Texas-like. Maybe that’s where they busted him.” He picked up a soiled magazine and fanned himself languidly. “Lord, it’s hot in here.” He glanced at Caleb. “You remember S. D. Pullens? He used to explode them little fireballs in his mouth?”

“Yeah, I do,” Caleb said.

“He got the chair up in Illinois.”

“Pullens?” Caleb asked unbelievingly. “What for?”

“He was working one of them factories up there, and he just got roaring drunk. Cops come to cool things down, and he shot two of them.” He squinted hard. “I wouldn’t have figured him for that, would you?”

“The drinking, but not the killing,” Caleb said.

Luther shook his head wearily. “When things turn sour, anything can happen. I guess that’s all you can say.” He dropped the magazine into a rusty fifty-gallon drum. “Fanning don’t do no good.” He looked longingly at the square of light which came through the single open door of the shed. “What say we go on back outside.”