Buzzards' Roost

ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES, SHORT FICTION & POETRY

Orchard Press Online Mystery Magazine
May 2003

Buzzards' Roost
a short story
by Keith Combs

Keith Combs is a twice retired, once from the Navy and later from teaching school. His stories have appeared in Over My Dead Body, Kracked Mysteries and Plots With Guns. This is Keith's first story to be published by Orchard Press Mysteries.

When the phone rang I almost jumped at it. Business had been so bad for the last few weeks that I had even given up feeding Max, a rat the size of my head, when he came around every few hours to check up on me. Maybe I should change the sign on my door from Theodore Brown, Private Investigator, to read Theodore Brown, Rat Exterminator.

The call was from a guy named William McCrackin, and he said he had a little job for me if I was interested. I knew McCrackin, and he wasn’t one of my favorite people. There was something about the guy that made me feel like busting him one smack in the face every time I laid eyes on him. During the last few years rumors have circulated concerning his involvement with some very unsavory people. Any way you looked at him, McCrackin was one rotten son-of-a-bitch. I thought seriously about telling him what he could do with his job. But, hey, a man in my profession doesn’t always get to pick who he works for. I locked the door to my office and hurried over to hear what the man had to say.

"Do you remember my daughter Lisa?" McCrackin asked, sitting at his desk.

"Oh, sure," I answered, although the last time I'd seen the girl was about five years ago when McCrackin had hired me to track down a punk who owed him money. Lisa had been no more than fifteen at the time, and to tell the truth I really didn't remember her all that well.

"I want you to find her for me."

The request sounded reasonable, but I knew there was more to the story than what he'd said so far. I tapped my index finger on the desk top and waited for him to tell me more.

McCrackin wrinkled his brow. "You ever heard of Victor Jamison?"

I doubt if there's anybody in L.A. who hasn't heard of Jamison. He's probably the biggest drug dealer in the state, although he's never been convicted of anything as far as I know. I've had a few run-ins with him in the past. The last time, he threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't quit messing around in his affairs. I knew he wasn't kidding, so I made sure I steered clear of him after that.

"Yeah, I know him," I answered, wondering what Jamison had do with McCrackin's missing daughter.

"Jamison left here about a week ago," McCrackin said. "Right now he's living in Quail Flats, Nevada. He recently had a house built a couple of miles out of town. From what I hear, he's planning on moving his whole operation over there."

"You've lost me," I said. "What does this have to do with Lisa?"

McCrackin looked away for a moment, then turned his gaze back to me. "Jamison took her with him when he moved."

I already knew the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyhow. "With or against her will?"

He cleared his throat. "I don't know." He took a manila envelope out of his inside coat pocket. "All the information my people could dig up is in here," he said. He scribbled some lines on the back of the envelope. "This is where his house is located. It shouldn't be hard to find seeing as how it's out there all by itself."

"If you know where Lisa is, what do you mean by wanting me to find her?"

McCrackin looked away again and sighed heavily. "Like I said, she might have gone willingly, or maybe Jamison forced her to go with him. Either way, I want to know."

"That's all? Just whether she's with him of her own free will?"

"That's about it, but if you can bring her back with you that would be even better."

"Why me?"

"Because I know you'll be discreet, and you won't ask too many questions."

He sure knew how to charm a guy. How could I turn him down after that?

"I have a little business to clear up tomorrow morning," I told him. "I should be able to leave here sometime later in the day."

After I stood, ready to leave, McCrackin said, "Look, I know money is always a problem in a one-man operation like yours. There'll be a ten thousand dollar bonus if you bring my daughter back with you."

The amount startled me. I chastised myself for all the bad thoughts I'd ever had about the man. Still, something inside my guts told me that earning any bonus money might turn out to be harder than it sounded.

***

The western sky was a dirty orange when I entered Quail Flats city limits. It was a pretty little place, no more than three blocks long, with a few businesses and a scattering of houses spread along both sides of the highway. After stopping at a coffee shop and devouring a couple of fat-laden hamburgers, I drove through town and continued on until I found the dirt road leading out to Jamison's house. Then I backtracked a mile or so to a road parallel to the one where he lived.

Satisfied that I had my bearings right, I drove back to town and rented myself a room at a two-story hotel that looked to have been built at least fifty years ago. Located next door was a place identified by a flickering neon sign as JOE’S BAR.

I partied late and slept late. When I finally got out of bed, it was time for lunch. I cleaned myself up and went outside. The day was a beauty, a clear blue sky and air that you could breathe without having to cough. After lunch I bought a newspaper and sat on a bench at a small park and caught up on the news.

It was almost dark when I decided it was time to get back to work. I drove out to the dirt road that I had spotted the day before. About two miles from the highway I pulled over and rechecked the map McCrackin had drawn for me. Satisfied that I was in the right spot, I took a flashlight from the glove compartment and started walking. It took me a good forty-five minutes of hiking through sagebrush and bunch grass before I saw slivers of light coming from the windows of a house.

The curtains on one window gaped open an inch or two, so I eased myself over to the house and sneaked a peek inside. There was no sign of Jamison, but a goon the size of a Sumo wrestler was sitting in a big easy chair watching TV. Lisa sat on a divan, one foot drawn up close to her so that she could reach down and paint her toenails with bright red nail polish. She sure didn't look to me like someone being held against her will.

Gravel crackled underneath my shoes when I moved to get a better view. The two people inside turned in my direction, almost as if someone had pulled a string attached to both their heads. I moved over to where a station wagon was parked in the front yard and waited. In a matter of seconds the man inside came through the door. He kept moving his head back and forth, looking like a drunk who couldn’t remember how to get home. I went to meet him halfway. About the time he saw me, I hit him in the gut with so much force my knees buckled. He grunted hard and staggered backwards. I straightened my legs and whacked him again. This time he dropped like a sack of dirt.

Lisa stood staring at me when I barged inside. Seeing her brought back a little of how I remembered her; the same blonde hair and big blue eyes. But there were some changes that I knew could get me in big trouble if I didn’t watch myself. She wore a mini-skirt that showed a fine pair of legs, and some kind of halter that barely covered her breasts. I had to admit, Jamison had good taste.

She stared at me so hard I though smoke was going to come out of her ears. "If my father sent you, then the both of you can go to hell," she said. "Now you'd better get out of here before you end up in more trouble than you bargained for."

When I got close to her, she doubled up a fist and swung it at me. She missed my jaw by a good three inches. Feeling a little pain for even thinking about hitting a woman, I punched her right smack on the nose. Blood spurted out like a gusher at an oil rig. Her legs went rubbery and she sank to her knees. I picked her up and carried her outside and dumped her on the front seat of the station wagon.

I handcuffed one of her wrists to the steering wheel, and then I turned and gazed at the house. Something was wrong with what I saw, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Slowly a little of the fog smothering my brain lifted. I walked from one corner of the house to the other, then I went inside and did the same thing. Suddenly, the fog cleared all the way. Measurements inside were about eight feet less than outside. After tapping and pushing on the wall I found out why. One panel at the rear of the house slid open under a little pressure.

I found a switch and turned the lights on. A two-foot wide, waist-high work bench ran all the way on one side of the long, narrow room. Scattered about were boxes of plastic bags, a couple of scales and an assortment of small scoops. Traces of white residue still showed here and there. It looked to me as if Victor Jamison wasn’t just thinking about moving his dope operation to Quail Flats, he was already well along with the process. I left everything in place and went outside.

The gorilla I’d put to sleep moaned and tried to move his head. I kicked him in the side on my way to the car. He wouldn’t be causing anybody trouble for a couple of hours at least.

The keys were in the station wagon, so I took the cuffs off Lise and drove to where I'd left my Mustang. Lisa decided to get out of the station wagon and into my car without any help from me.

With visions of bonus money dancing around inside my head, I drove back through Quail Flats and headed for the mountains that separated me from home. Lisa pressed herself into a corner and refused to say a word. That suited me just fine.

Twenty-five miles out of town I started feeling complacent. There was very little traffic and I was making good time. Then I noticed three sets of headlights a few miles in back of me moving fast. It seemed a good bet that Jamison had found his girl friend missing, and had sent his hired hands out looking for her. I decided to find myself a hole and settle in for a while.

A short distance ahead I spotted some tire tracks meandering northward into the desert. The trail didn't look as if it had been used in a long time. I turned the headlights off and drove slowly away from the highway.

Thirty minutes later I crossed some railroad tracks and turned left, following the rails. Before long a gully leading to a culvert blocked my path. Twenty yards from the tracks the incline dwindled down enough so that I could drive to the bottom.

After parking the Mustang inside the culvert I went outside to look around. With only a half-moon providing light, there wasn't much to see. I walked back inside and checked on Lisa. She had settled down on the back seat of the car and was snoring softly. I went over to the side of the culvert and leaned against the warm cement. Without effort, my body slowly slid down the rough surface until I was sitting on some dry, packed sand. I wrapped my arms around my legs and let my head sink down to rest on my knees. Sleep came quickly.

The morning heat showed me no mercy when I woke. My mouth felt as if it had been stuffed full of desert sand. Getting back on the highway during daylight didn't appear to be a smart move. It seemed a good bet that Jamison and his goons were somewhere out there waiting for me. I decided to stay put and wait until dark before I ventured out again.

Lisa's nose was all red, and bruises were starting to turn purple underneath both eyes, when I went to check on her. I doubled up a fist and stuck it in front of her face to keep her from starting a fuss. She pulled back into a corner and glared at me.

I slept off and on for the next few hours. The sun was halfway down the western sky when I went outside again to look around. The buzzing of bees came at me from all sides. Moving to higher ground I spread a hand above my eyes and made a complete turn. I finally located the source of the noise. Back toward Quail Flats a helicopter moved southward, then turned and went in the opposite direction. Soon, it passed over the highway and on to the railroad tracks. It looked as if Jamison had given up the search for Lisa and me on the highway and had taken to the air.

It took nearly an hour for the helicopter to get close enough for me to start worrying about being spotted. I slowly moved back inside the culvert. It wasn't long before the chopper swept over the tracks and hovered close to the opening.

Jamison leaned out the side of the copter and aimed a rifle at me. I flopped down next to the car just as a barrage of bullets sent cement fragments splattering all around me.

Lisa was already down on the floor when I got into the Mustang. After I started the engine, I slammed the gearshift into reverse and pushed my foot hard against the gas pedal. Three holes the size of chinaberries marred the hood as soon as the car was in the open.

When the chopper veered off again, I jumped out and ran. The helicopter finished its turn and followed after me. I'd gone no more than a dozen yards when I was slammed against the ground, and a bolt of fire seared through my left side just below the waist.

Jamison had to take the chopper out of its hover position again. While it circled, I extended my arms, holding my gun with both hands. This time when Jamison came at me I looked down the length of the barrel until I saw his head. And then I squeezed my finger against the trigger until the clip was empty.

The whole damned helicopter exploded above me, sending pieces of metal flying off into space.

Tiny specks of dust started falling out of the sky, thick enough for me to see the stuff coming down. It's just sand stirred up by the rotor blades, I thought, or maybe fragments of the chopper drifting back to earth. Yeah, and maybe the Big Guy upstairs was reminding me that a little praying might be in order about now.

I stuffed the gun inside my waistband and ran to the culvert, my hands shielding my head all the way. By now, there was no doubt in my mind about the dust. Little pieces of Jamison were raining down, seeking vengeance on me. Well, he'd given me fair warning about messing in his affairs, I reasoned, so I had no one to blame but myself.

The wound in my side was seeping blood. I checked to see if the bullet had gone all the way through. No such luck. A piece of lead was still in there somewhere, contaminating my flesh.

Lisa left the car and came over to take a look. "You got a handkerchief?" she asked.

I stifled an impulse to reach over and pat her on the butt. She was starting to act like a human being, and that bothered me.

She didn't seem overly concerned about the loss of her boy friend. Still, I decided to watch her a little closer just in case she was hiding her true feelings and was just waiting for a chance to make me pay for my foul deed.

I pulled my handkerchief out of my back pocket and handed it to her.

"Take off your belt," she said, pressing the cotton pad over the wound. She held it in place while I used my belt to anchor it down. When she’d finished she turned away from me. This time I did pat her on the behind. Lisa didn’t even look back.

When I ventured outside again the sun had already disappeared behind the mountains, sending giant shadows stretching deep into the valley behind me.

The wiring underneath the hood of my car had been scrambled like a bowl of cracker crumbs by the rifle bullets. I knelt down on one knee and stared at the mountain. It had to be close to seven or eight miles to the village at the top. The main highway was at least that far away. The village won out by default. With a little luck, I figured Lisa and I could make it by midnight.

We headed for the mountain pass. An hour later the peak was barely visible in the dwindling light. My breathing became shallow, making it necessary for me to stop every few minutes to rest. It was embarrassing to see that Lisa had barely worked up a sweat. Finally I stopped and sat on the ground, pulling Lisa down with me. The hell with everything, I thought. If I have to die from thirst, or exhaustion, or from the loss of blood, then let’s get on with it.

After a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself Lisa helped me to my feet, and we started walking again.

A lone light had been left burning in front of the gas station when we staggered into the settlement at the top of the mountain. Big red letters spelled out BUZZARDS ROOST above the door. I looked around to see if any of the big birds had bedded down anywhere close by, but there wasn't as much as a stray feather in sight. After we drank from a water hose, I left Lisa and went over to the telephone booth located at one end of the building.

"I need a way to get home," I told McCrackin when he answered.

"Where are you?"

"A place called Buzzards’ Roost, thirty-five or so miles west of Quail Flats."

McCrackin paused for a few seconds, then asked, "What about Jamison?"

"He's dead."

"Did you find Lisa?"

"She's right here with me."

"I'll have transportation there by daybreak," he said. "Where will you be?"

"Inside the telephone booth next to the gas station," I told him. I hung up so I wouldn't have to answer any more of his questions.

Lisa came over and helped me to sit down in the booth, and then she positioned herself in the opposite corner and draped her legs over mine. Having her body that close to me didn’t even bring a smile to my lips. Old age must be closer than I figured. My mind was as weary as my body. I was asleep before I could remember what the dull pain in my side was all about.

Bright and early, someone pushed the door against my right shoulder. At first I thought it was the owner of the gas station, ready to rough me up before calling the county sheriff. Instead, McCrackin stood over me, a .45 pointed right at my head.

I closed my eyes and scooted to the back of the booth, pushing Lisa out of the way in the process. While I was still moving I reached for the Beretta I kept in a holster strapped to my right leg. I continued to search for the damn gun even after I knew it was no longer where it should have been.

Two shots rang out a fraction of a second apart. My heart almost stopped beating. Then I felt a thump, thump, thump coming from my chest, and I knew I was still alive. I opened one eye. McCrackin was flat on his back outside. A small hole in the middle of his forehead oozed blood.

I turned to face Lisa. Her eyes were open but they were no longer pretty. Matt's Colt .45 had almost taken her head off. A hole big enough to stuff a clump of sagebrush inside had obliterated her nose and mouth, along with a good part of her chin. Blood had splattered all over the place. I stood and stepped over McCrackin's body to make my escape out of the booth. The sight of all that copper-colored goo running wild got me to wondering when my turn to donate a quart or two might come around.

Lisa still grasped my Beretta in her right hand. I reached inside and pried her fingers off the gun and put it back in my leg holster where it belonged.

People from the half dozen houses in the village had gathered together next to the gas pumps and watched in silence. I couldn’t help wondering how they felt toward a group of outsiders who had invaded their community and interrupted their lives the way we had.

A man walked in my direction from where a helicopter was sitting in a clearing twenty-five yards away. After he checked his boss over to make sure he was dead, he cradled McCrackin in his arms and walked away without a word.

Even in my weakened state, I managed to pick up Lisa and followed after him.

After the two bodies were stashed away inside the copter the pilot asked, "What happened?" There was no doubt about the meaning of his words.

"McCrackin was ready to use me for target practice. He missed when I moved aside. The bullet meant for me got Lisa instead. Lisa shot him as she took her last breath."

As soon as we were airborne, I turned to the pilot and asked, "Why was Matt set on killing me?"

"You still don't know what that was all about?" he asked without looking my way. I guess he didn't expect an answer because he continued without a break. "Matt wanted to take over Jamison's operation and he picked you and Lisa to do the job for him. But Lisa showed she was the old man's daughter when she decided to take control of Jamison's business for herself. I think Victor suspected what she was up to. You weren't his target back there. It was Lisa he needed to get rid of."

"His own daughter?"

The pilot chuckled. "Like the old saying goes, it was strictly business, nothing personal."

He looked at me directly for the first time. "You did get Jamison, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah," I answered without giving any particulars.

We both became quiet after that. I mostly spent my time on the trip back to L.A. wondering where the bonus money McCrackin had promised me was going to come from.

Contact the Author - Lothair5@aol.com