Night Shift Page 5

  Outside, I strip off my bio-suit and toss it over a barrel by the back door for now. Roscoe is delighted to be released from his pen, though being a good-natured pup, he tolerates it without complaint when he’s confined. He makes it clear that it isn’t his favorite place to be, however, by skulking into and bolting out of the cage. I’m hoping that in time he’ll get more used to it and find it less of an onus.

  I decide to let him off leash so he can run off some energy. We are far enough away from the road that it poses no danger, and to keep him from going near the house I walk toward the barn and the other outbuildings, knowing Roscoe will stay close to me. He sniffs happily, wagging his tail, occasionally snorting some dust when he smells something interesting. But as I close in on the barn, he stops dead in his tracks, staring at the building. A low, rumbling growl emanates from him and it makes the hair on both of our necks rise.

  “What is it, boy?” I reach down and run a hand over his neck, feeling the tension in his fur. He raises his nose in the air and sniffs several times; then moves forward again. I’m a bit reluctant to follow him, but he no longer seems to be on alert, so I trail a few feet behind him.

  A minute later we are standing at the entrance to the barn, a large, sliding wooden door that is open wide enough for at least two side-by-side cars to fit through. I peer inside, making out odd-shaped shadows in the dark. After a moment my eyes settle on an odd glow of light about fifty feet away that seems to be coming from the floor.

  Roscoe looks up at me as if to ask if it’s okay to go inside. I glance back toward the house and see light emanating from several windows. The others are clearly busy doing their thing and I can see little to gain in disrupting that process to have them come and check out some unknown bit of light that might be nothing at all. I don’t want them to start thinking I’m a scaredy-cat, or that I have an overactive imagination, though the latter is likely a reasonable descriptor for me.

  I wish I had a flashlight, and then realize that I do. After digging into my jacket pocket, I take out my cell phone and activate the flashlight app on it. It’s not as powerful as a real flashlight, but it’s strong enough that it creates a five- or six-foot circle of light around me. Holding it aloft, I cross the threshold, Roscoe at my side. The first thing I look for is a light switch. I turn and shine the light on the wall around the door and find a bank of six switches connected to a web of conduit to the left. I walk over to it and flip the first three switches. A bank of long, fluorescent lights suspended from the ceiling come to life with a few random, sizzling blinks.

  The shadows I saw before now take on form. There are hay bales stacked along the wall to my left, tucked beneath a second-floor loft that is accessed by a ladder about twenty feet away. I venture forward several feet and to my right I see four small stalls, each one empty except for a smattering of straw on the floor. Straight ahead is a combine with an attachment that has rows of big, circular blades. Something about it bothers me, but I can’t quite put a finger on what it is.

  Up beyond the combine the barn extends a good distance and more shadows loom. I go back and flip the other three wall switches, lighting up the rest of the building. I see more machinery, more stalls, and more equipment. And then there’s that thin crack of light just beneath that attachment on the first combine that appears to be coming up from below. I approach it, but the crack is too far under those circular blades for me to examine it up close. Still, it’s easy to see that there is a cellar beneath the barn, apparently with the lights on. Could someone be down there? I look around for a way to access it but don’t see anything.

  I listen for sounds of movement or life beneath me, but the cavernous barn is utterly quiet except for the rustle of some small critter in the hay bales that piques Roscoe’s interest. I do a slow revolution, taking in the sights and smells, idly wondering what the various tractor and combine attachments are meant to do, and that’s when I realize what’s bothering me about the equipment. It’s clean. Every surface I can see is polished, shining, and lacking so much as a speck of a dirt. They are showroom ready. It’s May, prime planting time, and there are fields all around us. I would think there’d be some evidence of this stuff being used.

  Roscoe, tail wagging, nose sniffing, is staring at the hay bales and whimpering.

  “Leave it,” I tell him. “It’s probably a mouse, or maybe a barn cat and they can be mean. You don’t want to tangle with one of those.” Roscoe looks back at me as I speak but he stays put.

  I hear a loud thud then from the other end of the barn, a noise like a door closing, followed by the sound of running feet pounding on the barn’s wood floor. Frightened and ready to bolt back the way I came, I’m about to slap a hand on my thigh in a come-on gesture to Roscoe when the world goes dark. I stand frozen to the spot, waiting for my eyes to adjust, thinking the lights must be on a timer, or maybe a motion sensor. There is a period of silence and then I hear a car door slam and an engine come to life. All of this seems to be coming from the far end of the barn, though it’s hard to be sure because of the weird acoustics. The hairs on my arms and along the back of my neck rise to attention and, showing he is in sync with my emotions, Roscoe lets out a low, menacing growl, a ruff of fur rising along the back of his neck.

  I turn around and squint, trying to see out the open barn door. There is a pole light down by the house and I can see all the vehicles parked there, none of them running, none of them moving. My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that I can now see the vague outline of the barn door and I walk toward it as fast as I can, eager to escape the building’s confines. As soon as I step outside, I breathe a sigh of relief. That’s when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel coming from somewhere behind me. I scurry around to the back side of the barn and look toward the sound in time to see the red glow of taillights disappearing across what appears to be a field.

  Somebody was out here, I realize, and it might be the someone who killed the farmer.

  Time to interrupt the others.

  Chapter 5

  I make my way to the back door of the house as fast as I can, looking over my shoulder several times. I hesitate at the back stoop, unsure if I should put Roscoe in the car or let him follow me into the house. Neither answer seems right, so I tell him to sit and stay, and I enter the house alone.

  The kitchen is brightly lit and filled with people, little groups of two or three, each one carrying on a conversation. I can’t see the victim because both Laura and Doc Morton are standing between him and me, and for a moment the tableau looks as if there’s a party going on at the house with several of the guests hanging out in the kitchen having a chat. It’s a bizarrely disorienting moment, and I quickly shake it off.

  “There was someone here on the property,” I say to no one in particular.

  Nobody acknowledges me. In fact, no one has bothered to so much as look at me since I entered the room. That overactive imagination kicks in and for a moment I wonder if I’m dead, if I ran into the killer out there in the barn and now I’m nothing more than a ghost, a spirit, the thing of Danny’s nightmare, since none of these people seem to be able to hear or see me. I hold my hands out in front of me and stare at them. They look solid and real enough, so I try again, more affirmative with my declaration and a little louder this time.

  “Someone was here on the property. Just now. What if it was the killer?”

  This time I get the attention I want. They all pause with what they are doing and turn to look at me. It’s Brenda Joiner who first seems to get the importance of my words.

  “There’s someone here on the property?” she says, her hand reflexively feeling for her gun, which is currently hidden beneath her white Tyvek body suit. She hurries across the room toward me with Devo and Sheriff Carson on her heels.

  “There was,” I say. “It was out by the barn. I heard someone running and then heard a car door close. And I saw a car driving across the fields beyond the barn.”

  “What did this person look like?”
Sheriff Carson asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say with an apologetic shrug. “The lights in the barn went out on me all of a sudden and I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face, much less anything else.”

  Brenda, Devo, and Sheriff Carson push past me, and I follow them. Outside they shed their body suits like a second skin and then quick march toward the barn. After telling Roscoe to come and heel, I trot after them, struggling to keep up. The three cops stop at the open entrance to the barn and look inside, staring into the darkness and giving me time to catch up.

  I show them where the light switches are but, before flipping them on, I also point out the spot of light coming up through the floor beneath the combine. “Look at that,” I say, panting slightly. I’m embarrassed by how out of breath I am. “It looks like it’s coming up through the floor. I think there’s a cellar beneath this barn.”

  There are grunts of acknowledgment, and then Sheriff Carson walks over and flips the switches for the lights. As the fluorescents sizzle and crackle to life, I’m forced to close my eyes temporarily against the brightness.

  “I’ll scout the perimeter,” Carson says. “You guys check out the interior.” With that, Carson goes outside and makes his way around to the front side of the barn.

  Devo and Brenda both undo the snaps on their holsters, though neither one pulls their gun. They step inside and without a word they split so that Devo is checking out the left side of the barn where the hay bales are stacked and Brenda is scouting out the empty stalls. They both disappear as they work their ways past the combine toward the other end of the barn. They are amazingly quiet at their task, and the silence feels suddenly ominous. I realize I’m alone and standing in bright light—an easy target. I swallow hard and reach down to touch Roscoe’s head for a little reassurance.

  Seconds tick by and the night is utterly silent again, the cops stealthy in their work. Then I hear Pete Carson holler from the back side of the building. “Found an entrance.”

  Roscoe and I hurry out of the barn and around the corner to the back side of the building. There I see Sheriff Carson shining his flashlight on a bulkhead-style cellar door located about halfway down the length of the building. I start toward him and see Brenda and Devo come around the far end of the building. We all meet in the middle.

  “Hildy was right,” Devo says. “There are fresh tire tracks out there. Looks like there’s an old dirt road that runs between two fields. It probably connects to County Road D. And there is a matching set of switches for the lights at the other end of the barn.” He looks at me with a sympathetic smile. “I’m guessing that’s how you got plunged into darkness.”

  “There’s also a trapdoor in the floor of the barn near that end,” Brenda says. “That might be where the person Hildy heard came from. It has a keypad padlock on it, so it can’t be opened from inside the barn unless you know the combination.”

  Carson looks at the bulkhead doors. “These are padlocked, too, but with a more traditional lock. I’m guessing the key is around here somewhere. Though I suppose we could saw the lock off.”

  “I saw a ring of keys hanging by the backdoor of the house,” Brenda says. “Might be worth a try. I’ll run and get them.”

  Brenda takes off at a trot toward the house, leaving the three of us and Roscoe standing by awkwardly, waiting. I feel Pete Carson’s eyes on me and after trying to ignore it for a bit, I finally cave and look at him.

  “You’re the new social worker,” he says. I nod. He shifts his gaze to Devo. “How’s it going so far?”

  “It’s going great,” I say quickly before Devo has a chance to answer. He shoots me a sidelong look while Carson clucks his tongue.

  “She’s right,” Devo says. “It’s her second night and she’s already proven herself with a mental health situation. The dog, too.”

  Carson looks down at Roscoe, who thumps his tail at the attention. “What’s his name?” Carson asks.

  “Roscoe.” At the sound of his name, Roscoe’s tail picks up the beat and he grins at Devo, tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

  Carson walks over and puts a tentative hand on Roscoe’s head. Roscoe butts his head up into Carson’s palm, and then leans against Carson’s leg. The effect of this simple encounter is rapid and amazing. I watch as all the tension dissipates from Carson’s body. His posture eases, his facial muscles relax, and a hint of a smile forms. The awesome and mighty power of dog love at work.

  Brenda’s return breaks the moment, and she hands the key ring to Carson, who hits pay dirt with the second key he tries. Roscoe and I back away from the bulkhead doors and both Carson and Brenda take their guns out while Devo grabs ahold of the right bulkhead door in preparation for opening it. He counts down from three with his fingers—the use of silence at this point seems unnecessary to me, but what do I know—and then he lifts the door and lets it fall to the side.

  Light spills out from below, but no sound emanates from within. After waiting several seconds to make sure no one and nothing is coming out of the basement, Devo hurries around and opens the other door. He then tells me to stay put until he announces it clear, and then the three of them make their way down the stairs, guns at the ready.

  Roscoe and I wait, tensed, for several minutes. Then Devo yells, “All clear.”

  I venture down the stairs, Roscoe at my side, and enter a large room that, at first, appears to be separated into two sections. The largest area, in front of me and off to my right, is filled with wooden planters sporting hundreds of healthy plants, fed and watered by an overhead irrigation system of hoses. Lights in the ceiling mimic daylight. I realize as I scan the area that there is a third section down at the end to my right. It appears to be a greenhouse of sorts with plastic sheeting, grow lights, and heaters.

  At the far end to my left, beyond the rows of plants, there is a small closed-off area with large glass windows and its own door. At first, I think it must be a kitchen because I can see a sink and a stove in the room, but then I notice Bunsen burners, flasks, glass tubing, and other items that suggest it’s a lab of some kind.

  Most of the plants I see are instantly recognizable by the unique shape and serrated edges of the leaves. “Wow. It looks like our farmer has quite the little marijuana farm going,” I observe.

  “I suppose that’s one way to keep the farm afloat,” Brenda says. “Make a little extra cash on the side.”

  “I’m not sure it’s for extra cash,” I say. “It may be the primary source of income. That equipment upstairs doesn’t look very used, and there’s no livestock on this farm.”

  Sheriff Carson gives me an approving look. “That’s an excellent observation.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling a blush of pleasure. “Do you think this marijuana is the reason he was killed?”

  “Illegal drugs and murder?” Sheriff Carson says. “They go together like a hand and glove.”

  Brenda has wandered down a row of plants that look different from the others. There is a long line of them, bushy plants with red stalks and large maroon leaves.

  “These aren’t marijuana plants,” she says with a frown. “Not sure what they are. And who knows what that stuff is growing behind curtain number one,” she adds, nodding toward the plastic sheeted area. “I’m going to get Laura up here to get some pictures and take some samples. She knows plants.”

  Brenda takes out her cell phone, frowns at it, and then waves it around in the air. “No signal here,” she says. She pockets the phone and uses her radio instead to contact Al and request that Laura be sent up to the barn.

  While Brenda is doing that, Devo says, “If Mr. Fletcher was killed for this stuff, why is it still here? You’d think whoever killed him would have taken the plants, or at least tried to hide it and his death better.”

  “Maybe they haven’t had time yet,” I say. “Do we have an estimate on how long Mr. Fletcher has been dead?”

  Carson answers this one. “Doc Morton said the guy is in full rigor. He gave a rou
gh estimate between eighteen and thirty-six hours based on that.”

  “I don’t think our victim was killed because of the marijuana,” Brenda says, staring at the red-stalked plants with a frown. “I think there’s more to this,”

  “Such as?” Sheriff Carson asks, eyebrows arched questioningly.

  “Let’s wait and let’s see what Laura says,” Brenda demurs. “She has a degree in forensic botany, and I think she’ll be able to shed some light for us.”

  As if on cue, we hear a “Yoo-hoo” from the area of the bulkhead stairs and then Laura Kingston descends into the marijuana pit. “Okay, I’m here. Oh, boy, it looks like we have quite the pot den down here, don’t we? What was our farmer man cooking? Oh, look, a stove! We really could be cooking something, couldn’t we? Though I suppose smoking would be more accurate, wouldn’t it? I wonder why there’s a stove in a barn cellar. Maybe the farmer was processing the plants for the oil? The pot plants are illegal, but the oil can be harvested and sold, particularly if the THC is removed. But you need special permits for that and—” She stops midsentence, staring at the bush beside Brenda. Slowly, her eyes move down the row. She stares at the makeshift greenhouse area and takes off toward it. Finding a gap in the plastic sheeting, she pushes it aside and looks at what’s growing behind it. There is a long silence, something that rarely happens when Laura is in the room because she’s a total motormouth. Her silence now is telling. And scary. Those hairs on my arms and neck start to rise again.

  Finally, she lets the plastic fall back into place and turns toward the rest of us. “Oh my,” she says, her eyes big.

  “What?” Devo says.

  “These,” Laura says, pointing to the row of red-stalked plants, “are castor bean bushes. And this,” she pulls back the plastic and points to a plant inside the greenhouse area, some sort of tree, “is a nux vomica.” She points to other plants behind the plastic. “And these are jequirity bean plants.” She turns and looks at all of us, a worried expression on her face. “These plants can be interesting ornamentals, but only one of them, the castor bush, would typically be grown in our area. The nux vomica and the jequirity are tropicals.” She makes an equivocal face and shrugs. “Maybe they’re being grown here to sell to a garden center of some sort but...” Her tone makes it clear this is not what she thinks.