The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 12

I sat watching the shipping bays from my car. Grain elevators were barely visible shadows looming in the background. I'd been there two hours so far, trying not to fall asleep from the heat. Through the open bay doors I could see a lot of guys moving around. A half-dozen trucks were idling, but nobody had made any move to get in and go yet.

The night dragged on. A sliver of moon rose in the sky, casting just enough light to remind a fella how much he couldn't see. For example, someone sneaking up behind my car and pressing a pistol against my ear.

"Hands up where I can see them," the gun drawled.

"You can see out here? That's one up on me."

The gun pressed a little harder. "Just do it." The accent was local. A neighborhood gun. I raised my hands. My door opened, and the pressure behind my ear vanished.

"Get out." I did.

"Start walking."

"Where?"

"Thataway."

"Which way is 'thataway'?" I saw the gun whistling towards my face as clearly as I'd seen it gesture towards the shipping bays. Sometimes I can't help myself, and no one else is interested in the job. After I checked to see if I'd lost any teeth (No), I picked myself off the street and headed for the shipping bays. No need to try for a twofer.

Inside, everything was lit up nicely. There were men with guns everywhere, 27 as best I could tell. Not professionals, just farmers and the like. I spared a glance at the guy behind me. The same. I didn't entertain any notions of running. Just because they weren't professionals didn't mean they didn't know how to use those things. With all the hunting and general messing around, they were probably better shots than half of the hitters back on the coast. They all eyed me with varying degrees of wariness, not sure of the surprise guest. A thin, wheedling voice called out from above.

"Mr. Curtis, is it? What brings you to my property, again?" It was an older gent, full head of silver hair, wire-rimmed glassed perched on a narrow nose. He was dressed well, maybe a bit too much for the loading dock. Double-breasted suit, starched cuffs on his black pants. The walking stick he leaned on was hand carved, the only thing that didn't fit. I figured that meant it was part of the real Aldophus Charlane, and the rest was just window dressing.

"You tell me. I thought I was here at your invitation."

"I thought you'd be excited to see the inside of my operation."

"Not really. manual labor has never been an interest of mine."

"I gathered as much from your chosen profession. Making a living digging into others' lives."

"Well, we can't all inherit land our ancestors purchased from others' misfortunes." Charlane's nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes widened, but he said nothing, unless the rhythm his fingers were tapping on the head of the cane were a code. "I'm more interested in what's coming out of here than the building itself."

"You mean all manner of produce?"

"I mean whatever you're shipping under all that. Guns, I imagine."

"You imagine? You implicate me as a gun runner based on your imaginings?" Not much of a denial, I noted., and his fingers were fluttering over that cane like a hummingbird's wings.

"All the men with guns are a pretty big clue. You don't set up security like this for grain. It's to help your son, isn't it?" The fingers grew still, along with the rest of him, like a current was running through, paralyzing him. "He's across the ocean somewhere, mixed up in something that doesn't concern him. And you're trying to load the deck in his favor with arms shipments. Does he know, did he ask you to, or are you dealing with his superiors behind his back? Guns in exchange for keeping him well out of the firing?"

Charlane said nothing, just clenched his teeth and glared at me. The workers didn't seem surprised by any of it. Either Aldophus had been upfront with them about it, or they pieced it together on there own. Given how much I'd figured out just from scattered conversations, the latter option wouldn't surprise me. The mice know more about the cat's life than it would ever expect.

Charlane's paralysis broke abruptly, as he started pacing, jabbing the stick at me for emphasis. "Who are you working for? It's the thieves, isn't it? You're their informant."

"You were getting robbed before I ever came to town."

"You could have been here earlier, hiding in the shadows. It's where your kind is most comfortable, anyways."

"I'm impressed you've researched the habits of my "kind" so thoroughly, but I had nothing to do with the thefts. If I did, why didn't you catch me until now? Your guy here," I jerked my thumb at the fellow with the pistol, "sniffed me right out. What I suddenly got stupid tonight?"

"Then who do you work for? Why are you meddling in my affairs?" Charlane took a step towards me, and all the men tensed up. Whether they planned to stop him if he got violent, or me if I did, I don't know.

"Sheriff Thompson hired me." I hoped invoking the law would make Charlane ease back.

"A pathetic lie. Thompson hates outside interference."

"He also hates a bunch of heists going on under his watch. Hurts his re-election effort." There must have been something true in that, because Charlane paused to consider it. Then he turned to a man to his right.

"Lyle, take 10 men on the first shipment and head east towards 103." He turned left. "Silas, you wait 5 minutes then take the decoy shipment west to Route 13, then onto County Road 219. Make like you're headed for the border. See how they handle that." He turned to me. "You'll wait here with John. If the shipment makes it through without you able to warn them, I'll have to conclude you're lying."

He stalked off, that cane rapping out one sharp note after another on the concrete floor. I'd have been worried, but before everyone got to work, I noticed there were only 26 men in the room. Someone had already ducked out. I hoped it was just to find a restroom, but I doubted it.