Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (37 page)

His eyes stayed fixed on the ticker that tallied the trail of death and illness from the anthrax outbreak. A plague that he knew he alone was likely responsible for. The death toll stood at five, but now there were close to one hundred hospitalized. Ten or a hundred hospitalized made little difference to him at this point. The mountain behind him was claiming lives with a vengeance. First two boys missing, then the illnesses, now the deaths. Blake placed his hand on his right leg, lightly touching his injury. He realized how lucky he had been. So far.

On the table beside him his cell phone buzzed like a nest of yellow jackets that dared him to pick it up. He checked the time on the television: 8:17 a.m. Blake fumbled for the phone and dropped it on the floor. “Goddammit!” he said as he grabbed it and saw the 404 area code. He pushed the button sending it to voice mail. He knew he couldn’t keep dodging the calls. A message popped up that a voice message had been left.

“Mr. Savage, Clint Justice again with the Food Safety and Inspection Service. I must speak to you. Right away. Please call me back before noon. If I don’t hear from you I’ll contact the sheriff and request his assistance in reaching you.”

Crap!
Blake stood up and paced the living room.
What do I tell this guy? I sure as hell don’t want him talking to the sheriff!

Blake went to the kitchen and wrote a note for Angelica. “Have to run see the sheriff and do some errands. Will be back later today but call my cell if you need me.” He hesitated and continued writing. “Love, Blake.”

He tried to remember the last time he had spoken those words, let alone written them. As he walked through the kitchen door he was met with a gust of wind that lifted his cap. He reached and caught it before if flew off. The high, overcast clouds he had seen before going to bed the night before now gave way to low clouds that streamed over the mountain like waterlogged sponges ready to be squeezed by the hands of God.

In his F-150, Blake fought the wind down Hale Ridge as the trees swayed on both sides of the road. Leaves flew off the autumn trees like dandelion seeds in a spring storm, darting in front of his windshield and obscuring the road. By now, Blake had memorized the curves of Hale Ridge road. Still, he had difficulty making out where the shoulders ended and where the steep drop-offs began. To make matters worse, his mind wasn’t on the road...it was on the sheriff and Clint Justice. He needed a breather, a distraction, and his eyes were drawn to a forested abyss to his left, a ravine that funneled to a sea of rocks, trees and rotting leaves far below. The scene entranced him as swirling leaves formed mini-tornadoes and danced with and among the trees.

Blake looked back up and saw the road curving sharply to the right just in front of the hood, but he was continuing straight over the edge. He pushed back on the wheel, straightened his arms as he slammed the brakes, and then pressed back into the seat so hard he thought that it might break. The rear of Blake’s truck fishtailed to the left as the brakes locked and the gravel shoulder gave way. The ravine loomed and gripped the truck’s hood to pull him in.

The front left tire was the first to depart, sliding off the road as the tread of the back tires dug in with all their might. The front tire slammed into a small pine tree, snapping it in two and sending the top half tumbling down the ravine, but the tire rested on the swaying, broken spear. Blake’s arms remained rigid. He pushed back from both the steering wheel and from the ravine, thinking that somehow if he pushed back he would be farther from the fall. Peering out his side window, he saw the drop just before him. Instinct guided his hand to the door handle, which he opened to see himself teetering on the shoulder. Blake released the seatbelt and placed his left leg out the door. Bending his knee to place his step as far back as possible, he grabbed the door jam and swung his body back, crashing to the ground. He crawled to the back of the truck, his right leg searing as his wound raked over the gravel.

Blake pulled himself up on the bumper and caught his breath. “Holy shit!” he said to himself, and then admonished himself in that of all moments to stop swearing. Blake walked around the truck to survey his predicament. The other three wheels were on the road. He looked down at his hands, trembling violently, as he tried to decide what to do. The wind whipped dusty gravel up the road, stinging his hands and cheeks.

Gingerly, he climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the dial to engage four-wheel drive. Slowly, he put the gearshift into reverse. He eased his foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator at the same time. The truck lurched back and the thin pine stump that bent under the weight of the tire rocked back, forth and snapped. With a thud, the front left end dropped as the running board landed on the shoulder, and the right tire tipped as it barely teetered on the road. Blake closed his eyes and floored the accelerator, pushing back on the steering wheel once more. The rear tires dug in and spun dirt up and past his window like a team of hungry dogs digging up a bone buried in the sand. The F-150 pulled back slightly and then lunged rearward as the front right tire took hold and pulled the front left tire back onto the shoulder. Blake slammed the brakes just before the rear right tire fell off the opposite shoulder.

He sat there, breathless. “Holy s—” He caught himself and swallowed his profanity. Blake began a series of three-point turns to get himself pointed down the mountain once more. Once he was centered in the road he paused and wiped the sweat from his brow and face as the wind rocked his truck back and forth. He took another moment to compose himself before shifting down into the lowest gear and admonishing himself to keep his eyes on the road.

***

Blake pulled into the parking lot at Ingle’s and blended his truck into a sea of vehicles. He took out his phone to call Clint Justice.

“Justice,” Clint said as he answered the phone.

Blake drew in his breath, disappointed that he had not reached voice mail.

“Yes, uh...hello?” Blake began. “Uh, this is Blake Savage calling you back.”

“Mr. Savage, I’m conducting an investigation for the Food Safety Inspection Service. Do you provide meat for Nick Vegas at The Federal?”

Blake wasn’t sure what he had expected. The tone was concise and not jovial. It was black and white, abrupt. Do you or don’t you, did you or didn’t you, guilty or innocent. “Do I need a lawyer or do I have rights?”

“I’m not a law enforcement official, Mr. Savage. I’m with the FSIS, which is part of the USDA. I’m simply asking you if you sell meat to Nick Vegas.”

Sell. That was the word Blake heard and focused on. “I—deliver meat sometimes to him.”

“Meat from where, Mr. Savage?”

“From farmers up here. I deliver all kinds of things.” Blake felt himself having a good idea, felt the words beginning to form and flow with ease, filling him with confidence. He kept talking, feeling certain he could now talk his way out of any trouble he may be in. “I deliver fruits, vegetables, wine and sometimes meat from local farmers.”

“What meats?” Clint asked.

“Oh, we got fellas up here that raise grass fed beef, pasteurized chickens—”

“Do you mean pastured chickens?” Clint interrupted.

“Yeah, pastured chickens, wild turkeys, raw milk cheeses, beef...you name it,” Blake said.

“Okay, I will. Pork. Did you deliver any pork to Mr. Vegas or his restaurant? Specifically, any ham?”

Blake paused. He visualized himself on the final drive, the ultimate final drive. Instead of calling his plays carefully he had to choose his words with care, letting each word, each sentence move him closer to scoring. Victory in this game would be measured with freedom. A loss would...he didn’t want to visualize that.

“Honestly Mr., uh, Clint, I don’t usually know what I’m delivering. I just pick up them boxes from farmers and take ’em to him. If they’re open where I can see tomatoes and what not then I know, but most time they’re sealed and packed.” Blake was turning on the country, redneck, hillbilly know-nothing accent, laying it on thick to make sure Clint knew this was a trail that led nowhere.

“Surely you—” Clint began.

“I suspect Mr. Vegas would have invoices that would show all the deliveries and what he bought,” Blake interrupted, “because he pays the farmers for their stuff and not me. Ain’t that what you wanna know?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Perhaps, Mr. Savage. Please keep your phone available today, as I will likely need to phone you back. By the way, I have your address as one 13 Hale Ridge Road in Clayton. Is that correct?” Blake knew from Clint’s earlier message that he had his address, but hearing it said aloud made the hairs on his arm stand up. He felt the storm closing in on him, the noose tightening, even though he hoped he had just thrown the dog off his trail.

“Yes,” Blake said. “That’s right, but I’m not here−there today.”

“That’s fine,” Clint said. “If I need to visit and have my search warrant it won’t matter if you’re there or not.”

A lump formed in Blake’s throat.

“I’ll be in touch soon, Mr. Savage.” Clint hung up. Blake sat in his truck and replayed the conversation. In Atlanta, Clint Justice made notes on his pad and did the same thing.

***

A white Econoline van with a Black Rock Farm logo pulled into the driveway at 13 Hale Ridge Road at 10:15 a.m. The driver got out and walked to the door, holding his hand against his face to block sand and gravel that the wind had launched in his direction. He banged on the door loudly thinking that since he couldn’t hear with all the wind then no one else could. Angelica came to the door and greeted the driver with a smile.

“Howdy, ma’am. Name’s Gus...got a delivery for your husband.”

“Hello, Gus, I think we’ve met once before,” she said.

“Right. Well, howdy again ma’am. Looks like we got some weather coming.”

Angelica looked out at the trees swaying briskly in the wind. She had been immersed playing board games with the girls. “Sure does,” she said. “Looks like a good rain’s a comin’.”

Gus looked at her with a sense of puzzlement.

“Rain? You been hearing what they’re saying? ’Bout that hurricane?” Gus asked.

“Not since yesterday,” she said honestly. “They said it may hit the Georgia coast I think. Has it changed?”

“Hadn’t changed, just got stronger that’s all. And coming this way too.”

Angelica looked a little puzzled. “We can’t get hurricanes up this far, silly.”

“No ma’am, ’course not. But it’s a Cat 5 storm and they got the eye tracking this way. Saying it’s gonna bring a ton of wind and rain so you best hunker down.”

“Well,” Angelica said as she fingered the beads around her neck, “I think this mountain could use a good washing.”

Gus gave her a puzzled look and then looked at his watch. “Well, anyway, I got a delivery here for Blake. He’d asked us to bring it tomorrow but we’re rushing to get these all delivered on account of the weather. Where you want it?”

Angelica grabbed a light rain jacket.

“You girls stay put for a moment,” she said.

“Hmmm...Gus, can we put the boxes in the garden shed over there?”

“You betcha, ma’am.”

Gus backed the van up to the shed. Angelica walked inside to clear a spot.

“How many boxes do you have?”

“Let’s see. Three full boxes of organic bone meal, ma’am.”

Angelica surveyed the shed. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. She walked to a shelf that was just over the height of her head, about six feet high. There was a clearing on the shelf next to a couple of watering cans. She reached up to grab the cans. As she did she felt something soft brush the back of her hand. She pulled her hand down, mildly startled. A strong gust of wind slammed the shed with a loud bang and closed the door on the van with Gus in it. Angelica looked for something to stand on and found a milk crate. She turned it over so she could stand on it and raised her eyes to the shelf. Peering over the edge she saw a wadded-up piece of stained, blue fabric. She took it down and stepped off the crate. The door of the van opened.

“Almost got myself locked in here,” Gus said with a smile.

Angelica smiled back. “If you don’t mind, just put them up on this shelf next to these tomato cages.” Gus took three plain brown boxes and stacked them on the shelf. He looked at how well organized the shed was and reached back up to align the boxes.

“There you go ma’am. Just sign here if you please and I’ll be on my way.” Angelica signed the form. “Nice to see you again, Gus. Come back anytime.” Most customers in Rabun County were nice, Gus thought, but he was struck by how genuine Angelica’s smile was. “It was my pleasure, ma’am. Y’all take care in this storm.”

Gus drove away as Angelica unfolded the cloth. It was a blue jacket. A man’s jacket, she realized, though she had never seen it. It was spotted with dark reddish-black stains. She examined them closely and scratched them with one of her long fingernails. “Blood,” she whispered as she looked at the label of the jacket. “Large,” she murmured. “Blake wears extra large.” But it wasn’t the size that puzzled her. It was the initials J.S. that were marked on the label in permanent, black ink.

***

Blake pulled into the courthouse parking lot just before 11:00 a.m. After the call with Clint he had driven up and down the strip in Clayton, hitting the Dairy Queen and going back to the traffic light, turning right down Main Street and circling back once he hit the bottom of the hill. Just as he had done countless weekend and summer nights in high school. Only now he wasn’t cruising for girls, wasn’t hootin’ and hollerin’ after a game. He was stalling. Thinking.