Graveyard Fields Read online

“Where is Cordell? That’s the part I don’t understand. Why isn’t he looking for his keys?”

  “I already told you, maybe those keys ain’t his.”

  “But why would one of those keys open Cordell’s car if that key ring didn’t belong to him?”

  Dale shrugged and took another swig from his growler.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “People give friends spare keys and shit to hold for safekeeping.”

  “Maybe to their house, but not to their car.”

  Dale shrugged again.

  “After you walked out, I asked that couple about Cordell,” I said. “They seemed very surprised that I knew that name. Then Jeff asked me who had hired me.”

  Dale squinted. “Who hired you? To do what? Drink beer and piss me off?”

  I raised my glass, middle finger extended.

  “Do you still have the address Cordell’s car is registered to?” I asked.

  Dale manipulated his billfold out of his pocket and shuffled through several pieces of paper. He handed me the piece listing Cordell’s Florida address, and I entered the information into Google. The first search result was a map with a red arrow pointing to the address’s location. Other results linked to real estate sites listing information about the address, such as house size and market value. A few links connected to background check databases that offered information such as occupant’s names, their ages, phone numbers, and so on. Five minutes and $9.99 later, I had a phone number.

  “Let me see your phone,” I said.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Let me borrow your phone. You know I don’t have service here.”

  Dale unhooked his phone from the holster on his belt and entered his pass code to unlock it. I dialed the number, and after three long rings a woman’s voice said, “Hello. If you are a telemarketer, I’m not interested.”

  The voice was slow and crackly. I imagined an older lady in a housedress sitting on the edge of her bed with a small Pomeranian on her lap.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “My name is Dale Johnson. I’m a deputy with the Haywood County Sheriff’s Department in North Carolina. To whom am I speaking?”

  Dale shot me a bird and mouthed Fuck you.

  “Oh my,” the woman said. “My name is Louise Cordell.”

  Bingo.

  “Ma’am, everything is fine. I’m calling because we recently found a red BMW 2002 registered to your address. The vehicle was illegally parked, and we’ve towed it to our holding facility. We need to get in touch with the owner.”

  “That’s Lester’s car. Is he in trouble again?”

  “Ma’am, is Lester there now? May I speak to him?”

  “Oh no, Lester moved to North Carolina some time ago. I’m his aunt.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Do you have a phone number or local address for him?”

  “He put his phone number in my phone. How do I look at that and talk to you at the same time?”

  I went through a lengthy process with Louise, describing how to view the phone number. As she recited it to me, I wrote it down.

  “And do you have a local address for him, ma’am?”

  “Yes. He asked me to send him any mail that comes for him. Hold on a minute?”

  It was more like five minutes, but Louise finally gave me an address in someplace called Maggie Valley. I thanked her and ended the call.

  Dale pointed a giant finger at me. “When I finish this beer, I’m going to wring your neck.”

  I entered the address Louise had given me into Google Maps. The red arrow on the map pointed to a spot at the end of a short road called Ellison Drive. At the other end of the road, where Ellison met the main highway, was a small orange circle with a knife and fork in its center. I clicked the icon, and the name of the restaurant appeared: Pop’s BBQ—“Give Your Mouth a Taste of the South.”

  I then typed Cordell’s number into Dale’s phone. After one ring a computerized voice recited the number I’d just dialed and requested that the caller leave a message.

  “Straight to voice mail,” I said. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  Dale snorted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got Cordell’s local address. Let’s go check it out.”

  I turned the laptop around so Dale could see the map. He glanced at the screen and frowned.

  “That’s on the other side of the fucking county. I ain’t doing that shit.”

  “Let’s just ride up there and see if we find Cordell.”

  “Brother, you’ve got a hard-on for that guy like I ain’t never seen. What are you gonna say to him? ‘Hey, I found some keys that might belong to you but they’s lost again, sorry’?”

  I looked back at the map and noticed that to get from the cabin to Maggie Valley, we’d have to drive through downtown Waynesville.

  “We can stop at Long Branch on the way, pick up a couple more growlers.”

  Dale grabbed his phone from my hand and looked at the screen.

  “It’s nine twenty-two. Long Branch closes at ten. If you don’t drive like a nearsighted grandpa, we might make it.”

  23

  As we drove toward Waynesville, Dale wrangled the auxiliary audio cable from between the seats and plugged it into his phone. Soon Dokken’s “The Hunter” was blaring out of the Mercedes’s speakers. Dale sang along while he dug a tin of Copenhagen out of his shirt pocket.

  “Where do you plan on spitting that?” I asked.

  Dale glanced around the car, obviously hoping to find an empty bottle or coffee cup. “Dammit, Davis! You need to keep a spit cup in here.”

  We arrived at Long Branch Brewery a few minutes before ten. A couple of cars and several motorcycles sat in the lot. I pulled into an empty space and told Dale to make it quick.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “I ain’t going in there. I’m in my uniform.”

  “Weren’t you in uniform when you came here after court?”

  “Yeah, but I was in my patrol car. People would’ve reckoned I was on official business.”

  “I doubt they thought that when you walked out with four growlers.”

  “Dammit, Davis, they’s about to close. Get your ass in there and let’s go to Maggie Valley and get this shit over with.”

  I turned off the car and held out an open palm.

  “Are you shitting me?” Dale said.

  I didn’t move.

  “Goddammit, Davis.”

  Dale opened the door and got out. At first I thought he’d changed his mind and was headed into the brewery himself, but then I realized he couldn’t reach his wallet while he was sitting down.

  After a minute of finagling, he handed me two twenties.

  “Here,” he said, throwing himself back into the passenger seat. “And bring me my fucking change.”

  * * *

  Inside, a couple of servers wiped off tables and hauled trays of empty glasses toward the kitchen. Three men sat at the bar, dragging out last call as long as possible. I half hoped to see Skeeter among them, although I didn’t know what I’d do if he was. Maybe knock off his aviators with a pint glass.

  I stepped up to the bar and asked the bartender for two growlers of Dark Secret IPA. He gave me an apologetic look.

  “Sorry, buddy, we’re closed.”

  A skinny guy with a ZZ Top beard sitting at the bar chuckled, then picked up his beer and took a long drink. I ignored him, pulled out my phone, and showed the bartender the time.

  “C’mon, man. It’s only nine fifty-eight.”

  “He told you they’re closed,” ZZ Top grunted.

  The angel on my shoulder chanted, “Stay calm. Be cool. Stay calm. Be cool.” I clenched my teeth for a moment, then leaned over toward the bartender.

  “Listen, my friend’s waiting for me in the car. I promised I’d get him two growlers. Help me out, okay?”

  ZZ Top slammed his beer down on the bar. “Do you not understand the word closed?”

  Stay calm. Be cool. Stay calm. Be
cool.

  The bartender glanced at ZZ Top, then back at me.

  “We’re closed,” he said firmly. Then he shrugged and disappeared through a door behind the bar.

  I had a couple of choices. I could leave quietly and tell Dale we were too late, or I could make ZZ Top swallow his own beard. Neither would give me complete satisfaction, so I walked behind the bar, pulled two clean growlers off a shelf, and began filling them from the tap labeled DARK SECRET. ZZ Top watched the whole affair with a complacent grin.

  When both growlers were full, I stepped back and looked under the bar.

  “The caps are in that drawer behind you,” ZZ Top said.

  I nodded a thank you, capped off the growlers, and then tossed Dale’s forty bucks onto the bar. As I was limping away, I wondered how close to the door I’d get before ZZ Top tried to stop me. I was just past the shelves of board games when I got my answer.

  “Don’t you want your change?”

  When I turned around, ZZ Top and the two other guys from the bar were walking in my direction. I decided this would be a really good time for Dale to lose his patience and come looking for me.

  ZZ Top pushed up the sleeves of his denim shirt to reveal a mural of faded tattoos. His buddies were just as rough, their hands and arms covered in prison ink and their fingers laced with heavy rings that I did not want introduced to my face.

  “He’s a friend.”

  The voice came from the door the bartender had walked through a few minutes earlier. It was a voice from heaven. Diana’s voice.

  I was elated, but ZZ Top and his buddies didn’t seem to care and continued their slow march in my direction. As they walked, ZZ Top lifted the bottom of his shirt to reveal the grip of a handgun poking out over the top of his jeans. Diana ran up behind the men and put her hand on ZZ Top’s bony shoulder. When she whispered in his ear, he stopped walking, and his minions immediately followed suit.

  ZZ Top listened to Diana without ever taking his eyes off me. I didn’t like his eyes. They were as dark as coal chutes.

  When Diana pulled away from ZZ Top’s ear, the man nodded, then tapped both of his buddies on the chest. Soon they were back on their barstools, drinking beer and laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  “I always figured I’d die in a brewery,” I said as Diana came up to me.

  She glanced back at the bar, then nudged me toward the front entrance.

  “Did you get my email?” she said when we were by the door.

  “The guy with the beard has a gun,” I said.

  Diana looked again toward the bar, where one of ZZ Top’s buddies was now filling a pitcher from a tap.

  “Overprotective friends, that’s all. So, did you get my email?”

  I stared at the men and imagined ZZ Top’s beard getting caught in a wood chipper.

  “Hey,” Diana said, putting a hand on my arm to redirect my attention. “Don’t worry about them. Some guys think a woman who owns a bar needs extra security. So did you see my email? I want to get together to hear more about your book.”

  I looked at Diana and immediately lost myself in her eyes.

  “Yeah, sorry, I just saw it a little while ago. The email, I mean.”

  “So tomorrow night’s good?”

  “Yeah, that works. I’ll send directions to the cabin.”

  I glanced back at the bar. With friends like these …

  “We’re closing up,” Diana said. “Now get out of here.”

  When I didn’t move, she smacked me on the ass.

  “Don’t make me tell you twice,” she said, backing away with the cutest smirk I’d ever seen.

  * * *

  Out in the parking lot I could hear Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” coming from my Mercedes. I opened the back door of the car and put the growlers on the floorboard. Once behind the wheel, I turned down the stereo and told Dale what had transpired.

  “She really smacked your ass?” he said.

  I hit Dale’s chest with the back of my hand. “What about the guy with the gun?”

  Dale shrugged.

  “I think if I were lying dead in there, you’d come in and drink a beer before helping me,” I said.

  “Well, if you was already dead, how could I help you?”

  I huffed and started the engine.

  “Look,” Dale said. “We’ve got concealed carry in this county. That man’s got a right to protect hisself.”

  “I wasn’t threatening him.”

  “Yeah, but you going in there and acting like an asshole don’t help matters.”

  I pulled out of the parking lot and asked Dale how to get to Maggie Valley. Soon we were out of Waynesville and headed west on a four-lane highway flanked by antique stores and mom-and-pop motels.

  “Hey, did you see Daiquiri in there?” Dale asked.

  “No. I guess it really is her day off.”

  Dale shook his body like a dog that had just come in out of the rain. “Whooo! I can’t stop thinkin’ about that woman.”

  “Well, earlier you were thinking about a bailiff with a wildlife problem for an ass.”

  “Yeah, I know, but Daiquiri is leading the pack. I sent her a friend request on Facebook. I tell you, it won’t be long till I change my relationship status.”

  Dale tapped his phone screen, and a moment later “Heavy Metal Love” by Helix started up.

  “You ever heard of playing hard to get?” I asked.

  Dale snorted. “That shit don’t work for dudes. A man’s got to show that he’s interested.”

  I shook my head. “Have you ever seen a cat play with a piece of string?”

  Dale stared at me but didn’t answer.

  “What happens if you hold that piece of string just out of the cat’s reach? It goes crazy, right? It jumps in the air and swats at it. All it can think about is getting its paws on that string.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “But what happens when you put that piece of string on the ground right in front of the cat? Suddenly the cat’s no longer interested. The string isn’t enticing. It’s no longer a challenge. Don’t you think Daiquiri might become more interested if you stayed just slightly out of reach?”

  Dale’s face twisted as he tried to wrap his head around the concept.

  “I’m the cat,” he finally said. “Not the fucking string!”

  24

  It was almost ten thirty when we passed the sign welcoming us to Maggie Valley. During the drive Dale told me the town was a tourist trap. A long swath of souvenir shops and cheap motels that beckoned visitors looking to get away to the Great Smoky Mountains. The town was also a favorite among bikers who flocked to events with names like Rally in the Valley and Thunder in the Smokies.

  “Them bikers don’t cause much trouble,” Dale said. “They’ll be a fistfight here and there and some ole gal’ll get liquored up and flash her titties, but it ain’t never nothin’ the local police can’t handle.”

  A few minutes later I noticed the sign for Pop’s BBQ. The restaurant was dark and the parking lot was empty. I pulled into a handicap space next to the front door and dug out a flashlight and a pair of binoculars from the car’s center console.

  “What are you doing?” Dale asked.

  “I’m going to walk around back and see if I can find Cordell’s house.”

  “Why don’t you just drive back there?”

  “Because I don’t want to announce our arrival.”

  Dale reached around and pulled one of the growlers off the back floorboard. He unscrewed the cap and took a long draw.

  “Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

  I stepped out of the car and was about to close the door when Dale threw a hand in my direction.

  “Hey! Where’s my fucking change!”

  * * *

  It was a clear night, and a three-quarter moon hung just above a ridgeline in the distance. It was getting colder, and as I walked across the parking lot, I wondered if I was going to have
to eventually invest in a thicker jacket. Surely there was a Goodwill somewhere close.

  When I reached the corner of the building, a motion sensor light clicked on, and suddenly the entire parking lot glowed as bright as day. I glanced back toward the car and saw Dale give me a thumbs-up through the window.

  I turned off the flashlight and quickly walked to the back of the building, where a rectangular asphalt pad was shrouded in darkness. As soon as I passed the rear corner of the building, another motion light clicked on. I assumed this was the employee parking lot. It was empty except for two blue dumpsters sitting about three feet apart on the lot’s far side. I crossed the pavement and wedged myself between the two dumpsters with my back to the restaurant. I knelt down, then stayed perfectly still. After a minute the motion light turned off, and when my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I was looking out across a flat, grassy field. I raised the binoculars and turned the focus ring. The field stretched out in front of me for about three hundred yards, ending at what looked like the edge of a wide ditch.

  On the other side of the ditch, the field continued sloping upward on a slight grade. I could see the grass was cut shorter on the slope. It looked like someone’s front yard.

  Beyond the yard stood a white, two-story house. The building was dark except for a light coming from one of the second-floor windows. I focused my binoculars on the glowing window but didn’t notice any movement.

  I scanned the bottom floor of the house from one side to the other. It was too dark to see many details, but I did make out a couple of rocking chairs on the front porch next to a red door. Starting at the door, I lowered the binoculars down a set of steps that led from the porch to a small path. I followed the path to the left and could make out the very faint glow of a few solar-powered walkway lights. The path ended at a small, barren parking area.

  I hurried back to the car, damning each of the motion lights that clicked on as I passed under them. Dale was blaring the stereo as I approached the Mercedes, and when I opened the door, he nearly jumped out of his seat.

  “Mother! Fucker!” he yelled as I got in. “Don’t be sneaking up on me like that.”