Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Clem’s gas station was so old, it still had dial pumps rather than the more modern digital ones. Not surprising, as the machines hadn’t pumped a single gallon of gas for decades. The whole place exuded an air of neglect and wear.

Mute and Weatherman rode up on their bikes, the noise only briefly masking the tinny radio crackling out an old country station. Weatherman took note of his companion’s curled lip and expression of distaste. He understood that completely. Years of collected junk and refuse lay in piles all around the dilapidated building. Rusted oil cans, crumbling cardboard boxes, engine parts in plastic crates, random car parts—the entire scene was one of misery and abandonment.

Clem Gustler appeared from behind the old station, wiping his hands on a dirty shop cloth. He was somewhere in his midforties and built like a Ford truck: lean, tough, and ready to fight. His eyes darted to the rockers on their cuts, and his wariness ramped up. “Help you two?”

“Brick sent us over to ask about a lawn tractor he heard you had for sale. Still got it?” Weatherman asked.

Clem grinned and shoved his thumbs in his jeans belt loops. His faded T-shirt showed a few grease stains over a faded Coors Light bottle. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, but his demeanor gave off an air of caution.

He moved the wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other and scratched the gray scraggle on his chin. “Yeah, I still got it.” A ropy muscled forearm with a blurred Navy tattoo jerked a thumb behind him. “’S’out back. Make you deal for cash money.”

“We need to look at it first.”

“Sure, sure. Come on, I’ll show it to you.”

The tractor was pristine, totally opposite of the shack it was housed in.

“Ain’t been used a lot. Got it off some stupid fucker over in Whittier. Owes me money, but he’s broke, so he gave me this instead.”

Weatherman was sure the mower was stolen, but he kept that thought to himself. “Blades need sharpening, but otherwise, it appears to be in good shape.”

“I ’spect so. Sellin’ as is, though.”

Mute walked around the building. Clem eyed him before spitting a stream of brown on the ground. “You boys lookin’ for something?”

“Mute likes to scout around wherever he is. It’s in his nature as a bouncer. You know, to prevent trouble before it happens.”

“Not sure I like him scoutin’ my place.”

“You got something to hide?”

The grin came back, showing Clem’s stained teeth. “Not at all. Brick ain’t someone to cross. Folks ’round here know better’n to tangle with him or his boys. My trailer is over yonder down in the holler. My cousin’s down there too. Bet he got some ’shine for sale. Might give you some if you wanna buy that tractor and all.”

Clem seemed too sure of himself, as if he had one up on the Dragon Runners in his yard. Weatherman didn’t trust him at all. Going down that narrow dirt path might lead to the clues they wanted or bullets in the back. These mountains could swallow a person whole, and no one would ever find the body.

Mute came from around the other side of the building and approached the two men. He ignored Clem and twirled his finger in the air in a “let’s ride” gesture.

Weatherman took the cue. “I think I’ve seen enough. Mute doesn’t drink, and he’s ready to go. We’ll tell Brick about the tractor and let you know what he decides.”

“Don’t take too long. Buck Melford is interested too.”

Both Dragon Runners mounted their bikes and took off with Mute in the lead. The scenery flashed by, mostly bare trees as the drought had taken effect. The normal vibrant colors were dull, and the leaves fell quickly this season. The big Halloween party was happening this weekend, and the campground where it was held had already shed down to bare.

Weatherman followed Mute as he pulled off at an overlook. Both men took off their helmets and gloves. Weatherman could tell Mute was upset and probably wanted to get back to his pregnant wife, as she could pop anytime now. If this business weren’t so serious, he’d be home right now enjoying being a father. Instead he was out dealing with garbage like Clem Gustler.

“What did you see?”

Mute gave Weatherman a dirty look and pulled at his beard before whipping out his phone.

Mute: 10 oil drums. Clean. Holes.

Oil drums themselves were nothing, but with cutouts in the sides? That meant possible bear baiting. Food was stuffed and sealed into the containers and then put out along known bear paths. The purpose was to attract as many animals as possible in one area for easy hunting. Illegal as hell in North Carolina. Add some heavy-duty horse sedatives and it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Weatherman hated the pun.

Mute: Lot of bags of cheap dog food. No dogs around.

Bingo. If it looked like a duck, walked like a duck, and quacked like a duck, it had to be a duck. The problem was, the drums and dog food were circumstantial, and they would be hard-pressed to get a search warrant. Weatherman had the impression from Clem that even if they did get a deeper dive at the place, there wouldn’t be any hard evidence to convict.

He inhaled sharply. “We need more. This isn’t enough to go on yet.”

Mute: The guy who owns the tackle shop by the lake talked about his favorite hunting spot once. Real private and hard to get to, so he didn’t go there often, but he always saw a lot of deer and bears. Somewhere between Peachtree Creek and Andreas Branch.

The mountains were full of backcountry campsites, trails, and other hidden spots. The idea of a secret place for hunting was not some wild theory—these forests were huge and thick with areas no one had ever seen before.

Mute: We need to get this to Brick. Nothing else we can do now. Stay alert at the Halloween ride.

A grimly pressed mouth sat on Mute’s face, echoing his bad mood. Hopefully, getting home to his woman and children would soothe the silent beast.

“I’m with you. I’ll share with Chief Wilson, but his hands are tied for now.”

His phone buzzed with a text, and he was surprised to see it was from Opal. She’d come by the house the same night after helping with his mom and brought Pearl with her. The sausage stew was one of his favorites from his childhood, and most of the root vegetables came from his mom’s gardens. Served with homemade biscuits or cornbread, it was simple and filling. Natalie usually made homemade biscuits, but for this night, they came out of a Pilsbury can. She mentioned that Opal had been the one to fix the tasty meal and was delighted the younger woman came by with her daughter. His mom insisted they stay for dinner, and for the first time in a very long while, the house had laughter in it. The little girl completely charmed his mother as she giggled and played with her stuffed alligator.

Opal: I don’t want to bother you, but Betsey is champing at the bit for me to get the wig fitted for your mom. When would that be convenient for you and her?

Dead mutilated bears. Evidence of illegal baiting. His mother’s cancer. The Halloween event. So many problems piling up. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but something about seeing Opal and Pearl held some appeal. Even with all the shit swirling around, there was a simple peace that came over him when watching the pretty hairdresser and the obvious love and care she had for her child.

Weatherman: Would you be willing to come to my place on your day off this Sunday? I don’t know what she’s got planned for dinner, but bring an appetite. I’m sure she’ll want to feed you and Pearl again.

Opal: She doesn’t need to worry about us. We’re fine.

Weatherman huffed a laugh before answering.

Weatherman: I’m sure you are, but I learned a long time ago not to argue with my mom. It also means something to her to give you a meal for your trouble. Please just let her do it.

For a few seconds, he thought Opal wouldn’t reply, but then a final text came through.

Opal: Okay. I’ll be there around 5:00. Does that work?

Weatherman: Perfect. See you then.

He smiled and slipped the phone back into his pocket. As he turned toward his bike, he caught the speculative expression on Mute’s face. Almost like the big man knew a female had been texting him.

“Mind your own business, Mute.”

He grunted in a strange, garbled laugh as he strapped on his helmet. Even though the huge man couldn’t talk, that didn’t mean he couldn’t communicate. Weatherman expected by noon the next day, it would be all over the club that he was showing some interest in a woman.