In Flamingo Unit #4, really too early the next morning...

 

 

"What the hell is this?" an outraged Ray demanded. "No way I'm gonna wear this crap."He held the offending items, a bright orange baseball cap and an even brighter orange vinyl vest, as if they were dead rats. While his khakis, long-sleeved polo shirt, and fleece jacket were L. L. Bean and not Armani, they still wouldn't work with Day-Glo accessories. Fraser, in jeans, his favorite flannel shirt, and (of course), his Stetson, had already donned the vinyl vest and was looking at Ray with practiced patience.

 

Arly, who had delivered the disparaged items, leaned against the closed door of the motel room, her arms crossed. She, like the Mountie, was also in jeans, flannel, and orange vinyl. At that moment, she was tightly holding both her cap and her temper, and was looking at Ray with pure irritation. "Just shut up and wear 'em," she instructed the Chicago detective. "It's state law."

 

Ray scowled in return. It was five in the morning; he hadn't had any coffee yet and so was feeling less than accommodating. "You got a law in this state to make people look stupid?"

 

"Nah," Arly said. "Like everyone else on earth, people around here can usually do that on their own."

 

Fraser indicated the vest in the detective's hand. "It's for your own protection, Ray," the Mountie said reasonably. "It's to let you stand out and be seen in the woods."

 

"I'd have to stand out in the woods to be seen wearin' this crap," Ray assured his friend. "No where else. Besides," he said irritably, "I don't notice you wearing a stupid orange hat, Benny. Or are Mounties exempt from law in Arkansas or somethin'?" He looked towards Arly for support. She, in turn, looked pointedly at Fraser's hat. With a sigh, the Mountie carefully removed his Stetson, looked at it with regret, then carefully placed it upon the battered dresser. Picking up his own orange hat, he placed it upon his head and tried to look as if he could bear it. He wasn't very convincing. With grim satisfaction, Ray then put on the disparaged orange vest.

 

"Great. You wanna go get some coffee or what?" Arly said tiredly. Like Ray, she was not a morning person. "So just put on your damn hat," she ordered Ray, "and let's go."

 

Ray shook his head and crossed his arms. "Uh-uh. Nothin' doin'. No way. Not 'til you do."

 

Arly glared at Ray through narrowed, sleep-deprived eyes. "OK. All right. Here," she said, jamming the cap on her head and pulling her pony tail through the back opening. "I got the damn thing on. Happy now?" She then yanked open the door and indignantly stomped out.

 

Ray grinned happily at Fraser. "Kinda cute when she's mad," he said, "even wearing nuclear Popsicle orange." Adjusting his own cap at a rakish angle, Ray followed the police chief out the door, his own pace jaunty. Fraser and Diefenbaker exchanged knowing, long-suffering looks. "At least she hasn't hit him with a gun or a car," the Mountie told the wolf. Eyeing the woman's retreating, rigid back, he amended, "Yet." Then he and the wolf went to join the others for breakfast.

 

 

 

Later, after massive ingestation of caffeine...

 

Ruby Bee's breakfast exceeded the previous night's meal. Coffee, sinfully rich and dark, helped improve Ray's attitude. Scrambled eggs, biscuits, ham slices almost the size of the plates...not too shabby a way to start a day, even so damn early in the morning. Except Arly didn't seem so impressed; she poured herself another cup of coffee and sat, brooding, watching the steam curl in the air.

 

Ruby Bee came from the kitchen with another basket of biscuits and more ham. "You boys need anything else? How about you, Arly?" Estelle was not there, having opted instead for another few hours of sleep. Ruby Bee reigned supreme.

 

"No, but thank you kindly," Fraser said. A whine from the ever-famished wolf was met with a stern, "You are a predator. We are about to go into a forest. If you eat any more, you'll dull what's left of your natural instincts." An indignant sniff, much like one of Ruby Bee's, answered him. Ray, too, indicated that he was finished. Arly, however, still sat, eyes unfocused, her coffee untouched. Concerned, Ray leaned towards her and asked, "Arly? Is something wrong?"

 

With a start, Arly blinked. "Marjorie," she breathed.

 

"Will she be joining us?" Fraser asked, his blue eyes suddenly wary.

 

"Marjorie, upset by something on Cotter's Ridge...Kevin and Dahlia, missing...," Arly continued, looking not at Fraser but at her mother, "and gunrunners. Of course!" She said with calm resignation, eyes and one hand raised to the heavens, "Robin's cabin."

 

"I don't know," Ruby Bee said, sounding doubtful. "That place can't be nothin' but sticks and birds' nests now. No one in their right minds would even go near the place." Reconsidering both her words and the missing pair, she then said, "You could be right, though."

 

"Who is Robin?" Fraser asked. "Another Buchanon."

 

"Yes; Robin died some while ago," Ruby Bee answered.

 

"Yet her memory and her cabin lives on," Arly added. "OK. Besides, Robin's cabin, there are a couple of other landmarks of note up on the ridge. One is Diesel Buchanon's cave."

 

"You mean," Ray, looking disconcerted, said, "the guy who...the squirrels..." Unwilling to articulate the thought, he curled his fingers into claws and clamped them together like a bear trap, or teeth. Arly nodded. "Yeesh." Ray shook as if doused with cold water.

 

"Another one," Arly continued her lecture on historic Maggody landmarks, "is Raz's magical, mobile still."

 

"You're tellin' us that the guy's making illegal hooch up there, yet he comes to the cops wantin' help?" Ray said, astonished. "But how does the pig come into all this? And the missing couple?"

 

"Citizens expect police to protect their property," Arly shrugged. "As for Marjorie, she goeth everywhere Raz goeth, including wherever he's moved his ah...property. About all anyone knows for sure is it's up somewhere on the Ridge. And as for Kevin and Dahlia, well...," she sighed, then continued, "OK, Kevin's a few bubbles off plumb --"

 

"A few bricks shy of a load," Ray interrupted. "One taco short of a combo platter. Not runnin' --"

 

"Shut up, Ray!" Benny, Ruby Bee and Arly ordered. "As I was saying," Arly continued, shooting the grinning cop a dirty look, "Kevin's..." a quick look at Ray caused her to rapidly edit her statement. "Kevin's stupid, but not inconsiderate. I called Eileen this morning, and she's still not heard anything from him. No way he'd not check in with momma and daddy, especially since he has their car. Kevin and Dahila are not in any of the hotels, motels, truck stops or anything else between here and Farberville; believe me, I checked." She smiled grimly. "Jim Bob and the City Council's gonna just luv my phone bill."

 

"Arly," Fraser said gently, "that doesn't mean they're safe. Or that they went to Farberville."

 

Ruby Bee and Arly exchanged looks. "What y'all got to understand," Ruby Bee took up the explanation, "is that there are just some things in life you can count on: the sun's gonna rise in the east and set in the west, a really good TV show’ll get cancelled...and when Kevin and Dahlia leave town... well, except for when they went on their honeymoon --"

 

"Where they were kidnapped by the Iranian terrorist," Ray murmured. Then, with a yelp, he grabbed his shin and glared irately at Arly.

 

"Muscle spasm," Arly said, an innocent look on her face. Ray, for some reason not buying it, continued to glower and rub.

 

Ruby Bee, irked at the interruption, shooting the two offenders sulfurous looks, continued. "When Kevin and Dahlia leave town, there are only two places they ever go. One is Farberville; the other is," she sighed tiredly, "Robin's cabin."

 

"A cave would make an excellent place to cache wrapped and crated weapons," Fraser noted.

 

"And, if they're not too picky, I guess that cabin could be a good place to hole up," Ray added.

 

"If you want to be precise," Arly added, "they wind up in the outhouse behind the cabin." She traded looks with her mother, then, as one, they said, "Don't ask."

 

"Don't worry," Ray assured them. "I don't even wanna know."

 

"Trust me, you don't," Arly assured him. She sighed, then said, "Campers, it's time for Mutual of Maggody's Wild Kingdom, where an intrepid trio of law enforcement officers go in search of missing Buchanons, a stash of weapons, gunrunners, and God alone knows what else." Turning to look at her mother, she then asked, "You got the stuff ready, Ruby Bee?"

 

"Seein' as those two have been gone a couple of days, I even put in a little bit extra," Ruby Bee told her, waving towards the bar. There they could see a largish cardboard box, a thermos, and a bag.

 

"Sure that's enough?" Arly asked. Oddly enough, she did not sound sarcastic.

 

"Well..." Ruby Bee looked doubtful. "You'll be gettin' 'em back before supper, I hope. So, yeah, that should do." Turning towards the two men, she said, "Dahlia's expectin', you see." Ray and Benny gave her the oh-of-course-I-understand look men use when they're not really sure what's going on and really don't want to know, either. Ruby Bee got up, fed Diefenbaker another piece of ham, and yawned. "Now if y'all just go away, people who's got to work for a livin' might just get some rest before openin' time."

 

"Don't buy that," Arly told Fraser, who looked as if he were about to apologize. "This just gives her more stuff to pack away for the next guilt trip she sends me on."

 

Ruby Bee gave one of her disapproving sniffs at Arly's words, but the worry and concern in her eyes were easy to see. Ray knew from his own experiences that a cop's mother didn't have it easy. These two women might bicker, snarl, and trade insults, but it was plain to see that they loved each other. From the look in Benny's eyes, Ray could tell that the Mountie saw it, too.

 

"Not to worry, Ruby Bee," Ray said lightly. "We've got Daniel Boone and his faithful wolf Babe with us."

 

"Ray," Ruby Bee said, frowning slightly, "I think that's supposed to be Paul Bunyan and Babe, the blue ox."

 

Ray grinned. "Bunyan, Boone, Babe...whatever."

 

Arly glowered impatiently at her mother and Ray. "If you two are finished discussing American literary genres, I'd like to go and get this over with. I got better things to do on a Saturday than look for Kevin and Dahlia."

 

"Like what?" Ray asked, his arms crossed and one eyebrow elevated.

 

"Like playing chess with Marjorie," Arly said steadily. "Or setting my hair on fire and putting it out with a hammer. Come on, let's go." She then went to the bar, picked up the box, and, pony tail swinging behind the silly hat, headed towards the door. Fraser, about to offer to carry it for her, settled instead for grabbing the bag and the thermos and getting the door.

       

Ray grinned, brushed a surprised Ruby Bee's cheek with a kiss and murmured, "You are a wonderful lady," then scooted out the door after Arly. He could hear the wolf's claws clicking over the wooden floor and Fraser's "Thank you kindly," behind him.

 

 Soon cop, Mountie, and wolf joined Arly by the open trunk of the incredibly battered old police car. Looking at the carton of food that had been stowed in the trunk, a poker-faced Ray asked, "So, you're sure that's enough?"

 

"All that," Arly said, "is for Dahlia, and, no, it's probably not enough. This," she indicated the bag that Fraser placed by the carton, "is for us." A whine from Diefenbaker caused her to look more closely at the wolf and say, "All of us." Dief, front paws on the bumper, stared at the box with longing. "No sane being," Arly said, looking into the wolf's eyes, "would get between Dahlia and food during the normal course of event. And now that she's pregnant...well, unless you want to be reduced to little, fluffy wolf bits somewhere in the woods, I recommend that you don't try it or even think about it." Sulking, Dief stalked away to stand beside a car door.

 

In moments, the three humans joined him, and the quartet was busy trying to make themselves as comfortable as they could on badly-sprung seats. With some reluctance, the engine coughed to life.

 

"Not many people talk to Diefenbaker like the intelligent being that he is," Fraser, seated in the back with the wolf, noted. "Thank you kindly for doing so."

 

"Hey," Arly said, looking over her shoulder as she backed the sputtering cruiser onto the road, "I live in the same town as a pig who has her own satellite dish and who gives me clues in investigations. So what's talking to a wolf around here?"

 

Conversation became fairly general as they drove past assorted trailer houses, tired wooden homes and chicken coops. Soon these structures became scarce, eventually disappearing altogether, leaving a landscape empty of anything except dirt roads that left the highway and wandered off to God-alone-knew-where and trees. Lots and lots of trees. As they headed up deeper into the hills Ray noticed clumps of trucks, four-wheelers and people gathered at the edges of the roads and the forest. All of the people, including a fair number of children, were wearing the stupid orange vests and hats to which he had so eloquently objected and were holding serious weaponry.

 

"Modern gun season," Arly, noting where Ray was staring, informed the cop.

 

"'Modern gun,'" Ray repeated, eyes askance. "As opposed to what, cannon? Swords? That little girl back there couldn't been more than eight, nine years old."

 

"'Modern gun' as opposed to bows and arrows," Fraser helpfully explained, "or muzzle loaded guns and black powder."

 

Ray looked sourly at his unofficial partner. "Of course. This is just like your world, right? Just no ice or penguins or polar bears."

 

"There are no penguins in the Arctic, Ray," Fraser patiently corrected his friend.

 

"Do have black bears here, though," Arly added helpfully. "And Buchanons."

 

Ray included her in the scowl he gave Fraser, then turned back to the window to frown at the landscape. He could be heard muttering under his breath something concerning Lieutenant Welsh and what bears and Buchanons could do. Glancing quickly at the rear-view mirror, Arly caught the Mountie's eyes and grinned. With a fond glance for his disgruntled partner Fraser looked at Arly's reflection and returned the smile. Then everyone, human and lupine, settled back to enjoy (or endure, in Ray's case) the ride.

 

 

 

About the same time, up at what's left of Robin's cabin...

 

"Bert?"

 

"Yeah, Ernie?"

 

"What'll we do?"

 

Bert, exasperated because it was early in the morning, because he was stuck in the middle of nowhere with his yellow-eyed, idiot brother, and because he had the mother of all headaches, said, "We will go and get rid of that jeep, decide what to do with Romeo and Juliet in there, cover our tracks, and get the hell out of here."

 

"But what'll we do about the ... the... you-know-whats, Bert?"

 

"Why be coy, Ernie? Since you told them, they," Bert jerked his thumb in the direction of the cabin, "know what the you-know-whats are, we know what the you-know-whats are, every damn squirrel and whatever damn else lives in this damn forest probably know what the damn you-know-whats are. So just say this, Ernie." Bert, now even more annoyed than he usually was before he had his coffee, directed his brother, "Just say, 'What'll we do about the guns, Bert?'"

 

Obediently, Ernie said, "What'll we do about the guns, Bert?"

 

"I DON"T KNOW!"

 

Ernie looked wounded. "But, Bert, you just told me to --"

 

"Now I'm telling you to just shut up, Ernie. OK? Just. Shut. The. Hell. Up. Can you understand me?" Bert asked. God, he had a headache. "Look," he said more calmly, "this hasn't exactly turned out the way we thought it would. That little problem up there in Chicago, for one thing, and the Chicago cop and the Mountie down here, for another. We got the guns up here, stashed 'em in that cave, all ready for the trip north... then the stupid truck breaks down, we can't use Mr. and Mrs. Redneck's car," he said, indicating the two in the cabin with a jerk of his head, "'cause sure as God made little green apples, some local yokel'll see it and call the cops. So all we're left with is the HumVee, Ernie." He looked, desperately, at his brother. "There is no way on earth we're gonna get all those crates to Farberville in a HumVee, much less to Chicago. Not without someone noticing, anyways. OK, maybe the old fart'll still let us use his cave, but, still... you know what it's like trying to deal with that ... that ... whatever the hell that guy is?"

 

Ernie shuddered. "I can't believe what he did to that poor squirrel."

 

"Just better hope," his brother said gloomily, "that he doesn't try to do it to us." The two brothers, united for a moment, exchanged sympathetic looks and as one chorused, "Eeewww." Bert shuddered. Then, getting a grip on his emotions, he said, "Gotta go tidy up down there. You just take care of those two in there, OK? You can do that, can't you, Ernie?" His last statement was enunciated so distinctly as to turn each word into a sentence: "Just. Take. Care. Of. Them."

 

Ernie looked uncertainly at his brother. "That what you want, Bert? Me to take care of them?"

 

"Yes, Ernie, that's exactly what I want."

 

Ernie considered this blankly for a few moments, then, determinedly said, "OK, Bert." He then went back into the tumbled down shack. As Bert trotted over to his vehicle, he heard three voices raised, two of them terrified. Smiling with relief that, for once, Ernie seemed to have a handle on the situation, he started the HumVee and bounced off down the trail.

 

If he'd have stopped and considered everything for a moment, he would have realized that both of the terrified voices were male.

       

 

 

A little bit later, about ten miles away from the cabin as a squirrel runs...

 

Vecchio and Fraser stood beside the cruiser, grimly surveying the scene before them: a hard top Jeep Cherokee crashed into a tree beside the dirt road, an Arkansas Department of Wildlife and Fisheries oval decal on its door, a dead wildlife officer inside. Even standing ten or more feet away, they were fairly sure that the man was dead, since the front windshield of the jeep had been chewed up by gunfire, as had a great deal of its occupant's face.

 

Arly, who had been attempting to raise someone, anyone, on her radio, abandoned the cruiser to join them. Her face pale, she said, "I hate, really really hate, this part of the job." She stood there, rigid, fists clenched, staring at the dead man from under the bill of her orange cap.

 

Ray, concerned about her (and not feeling that great himself), said soberly, "I don't think any cop ever does. And when they do, they need to get another line of work." Diefenbaker, sitting beside the Maggody police chief's feet, gave a sympathetic-sounding whine and pushed his muzzle against her fist. She absently relaxed her fingers and began to scratch the wolf behind his ears.

 

"Hope you have a cell phone or some other fancy city cop stuff," Arly told Ray. "The radio on my car is on strike again." As an answer, Ray reached into his jacket and, with a magician-like flourish, extracted his cell phone. Taking a look at the LCD, he began to hiss in Italian. While Arly didn't speak the language, she gathered that whatever the Chicago detective was saying wasn't exactly nice. When he paused for a second, she asked, "Out of range, right?" His glower, as he deactivated the unit and shoved it back into his pocket, was answer enough.

 

"This is just wonderful," Ray said through gritted teeth. "We're out here with a dead game warden, the person or persons unknown who whacked him, two missing people, and a mutant who bites live squirrels."

 

"Dead squirrels."

 

Ray looked irritably at the Maggody police chief. "OK, dead squirrels. What more could happen?" As if in answer, thunder rolled in the distance. Both cops looked up at the bit of overcast sky they could see through the overhanging pine branches. "Don't," Ray, his voice terribly calm, warned his Arkansas colleague, "even say it."

 

Arly raised one eyebrow suggestively, but obeyed.

 

Ray took a deep, calming breath, then turned his attention towards the Wildlife and Fisheries vehicle. "You feel ready to tackle that?" he asked.

 

"No," Arly answered frankly, "not that it really matters; gotta job to do and all that. How about you?"

 

"Not that it matters, but, no," Ray answered, equally frank. "So let's do this part of the gawdawful job while Benny communes with nature."

 

Fraser had already started his investigation a little further up the trail. Ray and Arly watched him kneel, first by this thing, next by that, then take in the surrounding area. The wolf left Arly's side and went to join his human. "Don't be surprised," Ray warned her as they walked towards the jeep, "if he starts tasting stuff or eating the dirt." Seeing Arly's forehead wrinkle quizzically, he explained, "It's some Mountie thing or the other."

 

Despite Ray's words, Fraser did not taste anything. He had begun his investigation by sniffing the air and detecting something beside the typical forest smells. Then he walked beside some tire marks in the dust, observed them closely, then knelt beside some especially deep ruts cut into the iron – hard ground. Diefenbaker was nearby, nosing through the thick pine straw and fallen leaves by the side of the road. Looking in the wheel ruts, the Mountie noted a fine powdering of dust on top of a clump of green pine needles. He reached for the clump, picked it up, and after wiping it free of dust, sniffed. Fraser frowned, studying the pine needles carefully. Satisfied with his conclusions, he

rose, stretching his neck with an audible click.

 

Diefenbaker, a paper sack in mouth, trotted towards the Mountie. Looking terribly pleased with himself, the wolf stopped and sat in front of his human. Fraser held out his hand for the bag, but Diefenbaker, not willing to share his prize, bounced up and loped up the trail, leaving an annoyed Mountie staring irritably after him.

 

Arly and Ray had found the dead man's vehicle still warm to the touch. Arly observed, "Morning's too chilly for a car to stay warm long."

 

Ray opened the driver's side door and checked the dead man's skin temperature. "He's still warm, too." They looked at each other, knowing that this could only mean two things: this hadn't happened very long ago, and whoever had done this was still somewhere close by. Since there had been not so much as a trail leaving the road they'd driven, and since they'd not met any vehicles heading back towards town, that could mean a third thing: the person or persons unknown

had to have gone back up the ridge.

 

"Let's see if his radio still works," Arly said as she went to the other side of the jeep. Opening the door, she reached inside, carefully not looking at the dead man. Punching in a frequency, she sat on the passenger side and growled into the mike, "LaBelle, it's Arly; I know Harve is there, dammit, so put 'im on." The dispatcher on the other end squawked a bit but complied.

 

"And a good mornin' to you too, Arly," a deep voice boomed from the radio. "Business or pleasure?"

 

"Business. Drag dear ol' Doc McBeen out of the morgue and whatever cop you can haul out of the deer stands and get up to Cotter's Ridge, near Robin Buchanon's old place."

 

"McBeen's had a call or two this mornin' about that area, so he’s there somewhere. Say, I didn't know dead bodies ever appeared anywhere else in Maggody except number 5 of the Flamingo, Arly. Who's the stiff this time?"

 

"Hold on a sec ..." Ray handed her the dead man's wallet, which he had extracted. "Willard Jenkins, Wildlife and Fisheries. Although," Arly said bleakly, "We can't make a positive visual ID because he doesn't exactly look like his photo anymore."

 

"Up near Robin's old cabin, you say. OK, I'll contact the State Police then the area Wildlife bunch over in West Fork, see who I can get hold of and be there quick as I can. Dorfer out." Sighing, Arly reached into the vehicle to return the handset to its base, carefully extracting herself so as to not jar the late Willard Jenkins. She then went and leaned against the hood, crossing her arms across her chest and letting her head drop backwards until she was looking up at the graying sky.

 

Ray went over to join her. "Ah... unit 5?"

 

Rolling her head just enough to see him out of the corner of her eyes, she answered, "It's a real long story; I could write a whole series of books on it, only nobody'd ever believe it." She then returned to cloud watching. Over in the woods, a squirrel and a blue jay engaged in a shouting match. Diefenbaker could be heard just a little way off, woofing about something. They heard Fraser yelling his deaf wolf's name, soon followed by an irate lecture about evidence.Ray and Arly turned to watch the show.

 

"This is conduct unbecoming a wolf that is working with a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser scolded.

 

The conduct-disordered Diefenbaker stopped where he was, sat down, and looked intently at the Mountie, his prize between his front paws. The wolf gave a grunting whine.

 

"Yes, I know this is not in our jurisdiction, Diefenbaker."

 

::Whine::

 

"That is beside the point, and you know it."

 

"This is gonna sound stupid,” Arly leaned over to whisper to Ray, “especially since I've been talking to him, too, but I thought that wolf was supposed to be deaf. So exactly how are we able to play Dr. Doolittle?"

 

Leaning towards her to whisper back, Ray answered, "Benny says Diefenbaker reads lips."

 

Arly looked through narrowed eyes at the detective. "Are you telling me," she said, still whispering, "that your friend over there actually sat down and taught a wolf how to lip read?"

 

Ray shook his head, green eyes crinkled with laughter. "Benny insists that Dief taught himself." He paused. "Oh, yeah, Dief can lip read Inuit, too."

 

"You are making that up," Arly accused him.

 

"No," Ray corrected her. "Benny did."

 

"Did what, Ray?" came the Mountie's voice.

 

"You got the evidence away from Diefenbaker," Ray segued smoothly, nodding at the bag in his approaching friend's hand.

 

"Well done," Arly complemented Ray.

 

"Well," Benny said, thinking the police chief was acknowledging him, looked a bit embarrassed, "it did take more time that it should have. I had to reprimand him sternly and remind him of his duties as a representative of our government."

 

"And what did the Canadian ambassador find?" Ray asked.

 

Fraser opened the bag and looked. "Seven empty soda cans, an empty Fig Newton package, and four empty sandwich containers." Sticking his nose into the bag, he said, "Wait... there's part of a Fig Newton left." Lowering the sack, Fraser extracted the Newton fragment and raised it towards his face.

 

"Eeeewww," Ray gagged, looking as if he were about to be extremely ill. "Geeez, Benny! Don't taste it!" Arly looked at the Mountie, not sure whether to admire or be repelled by such dedication.

 

"Now, Ray," Benny said, the cookie half way to his face, "I don't feel it's necessary to make an oral identification of this. After all, it is fairly obvious that this is a Fig Newton. What must be determined is how long this particular Fig Newton has been here."

 

"What," Ray asked irritably, "we gotta go through the woods asking litter bugs exactly when they dumped their trash?"

 

"Are those empty soda cans by any chance empty orange NeHi cans?" Arly asked.

 

Ray eyed her with irritation. "Why? You thirsty?"

 

"I was raised behind a bar, not a garbage dump," Arly reminded him. "If those are cans of orange NeHi, then they had to be Dahlia's."

 

"Dahlia Buchanon being the only person in these parts who happens to drink orange Nehi?" Ray asked skeptically.

 

"Dahlia Buchanon being the only person in these parts," Arly informed him with some asperity, "who downs 'em six at a shot, along with three sandwiches and a package of Fig Newtons."

 

"But there are four sandwich containers and seven cans," Fraser pointed out.

 

Arly shrugged her shoulders. "Kevin has to eat occasionally." She gestured towards the forbidden fig cookie. "So, how long you think that thing’s been here?"

 

Fraser raised the cookie remnant back to eye level and studied it closely. Then, giving it another sniff, he informed them, "This cannot have been here any earlier than yesterday afternoon or any later than this morning; the outer cake layer is still fairly moist, as is the filling."

 

"You should write ads," Ray observed drily.

       

"Also," Fraser continued, ignoring Ray, "I was able to detect the residue of diesel fuel in the air and I found this." He held the pine needles up for their inspection.

 

"Great, Benny," Ray enthused sarcastically. "You found some pine needles in the middle of a pine forest."

 

"They're broken," Arly observed, squinting at the greenery in the Mountie's hand.

 

"OK, he found broken pine needles."

 

"Run over," Fraser corrected. "I found them in a tire track over there." He used the needles to point in the direction he meant, some yards in front of the jeep. "The resin is still sharp. And sticky," he finished, rolling the needles between his fingers, then displaying the result: a finger with pine needles stuck to it. "As green pine needles are fairly pliant, and judging from the odors and tire marks I observed up ahead, I think that these were crushed by a particularly heavy, diesel fuel burning, eight -wheeled vehicle sometime this morning."

 

"Fairly fresh, then," Arly concluded. "This morning, you say?" Fraser nodded in confirmation.

"I'm in the woods with a dead guy and Ranger Rick and his forest friends," Ray groaned, dropping his head in disgust.

 

 

Diefenbaker, his nose lifted, growled.

 

"In fact, I think a vehicle similar to the one I just described in heading this way now," Fraser said, listening. "As we do not know the identity or purpose of the driver, I feel safe in concluding that their friendliness is open to question, so I suggest that we utilize Arly's police car as a barricade, until we are sure exactly who is driving down that trail."

 

Arly tossed her keys to Ray. "Move my hunk of junk; I gotta go get something." Ray caught the keys and went to do so. Fraser, watching the police chief curiously, saw her take a deep breath, wrench open the jeep's door, and duck inside. She quickly exited with the dead game warden's weapon and extra ammunition clip in her hands. She then hurried over behind her car, which was now satisfactorily blocking the road. She saw the two men's puzzled looks, and confessed, "I'm not exactly overly-blessed with ammo." She could see the Canadian's disapproval, but decided to ignore it. "How about you two?" Arly knelt beside the rear fender, her own revolver ready.

 

"Service weapon and backup," Ray told her as he joined her. His friend remained quiet, standing upright, gazing up the trail for whatever was coming.

 

"Ah, Constable?" Arly asked.

 

"Go ahead," Ray goaded his friend. "Say it."

 

"I, also, have a service weapon," Fraser said, "a standard issue .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. But as I am not licensed to legally carry a firearm in the United States, it is unloaded and packed away in my father’s trunk." Arly held the game warden's handgun up for the Mountie. "I am sorry, Chief Hanks," he said formally, "but I simply cannot take it."

 

Arly looked exasperated. "We may or may not be about to face whoever did that," she said, waving toward the Wildlife and Fisheries vehicle with the agent's gun, causing both Ray and Benny to flinch, "who's probably toting an Uzi or AK47 or some other weapon of mass destruction, and you aren't gonna take this," she flourished the weapon again, "because you don't have a license in this country?"

 

"Welcome to my world," a smug Ray grinned. Arly drew a deep breath and rested her head against the car's fender. Ray then continued, "Just hope he doesn't decide to arrest you for disturbing a crime scene by taking the dead guy's gun." She lifted her head and looked at the Chicago cop like he was crazy, then looked at the Mountie's face and decided to give the detective the benefit of the doubt. Shaking her head slightly, she stuck the appropriated weapon in the back of her waistband, pocketed the extra clip, and trained her own pistol back toward the trail. Ray could hear her muttering under her breath something about whoever was coming for them probably didn't have a license and probably didn't worry a whole damn lot about it, either. A quick glance at Fraser let Ray know that the Canadian had also heard, but was determinedly overlooking Arly's comments. Soon, though, his attention was claimed by a full-throttle roar from the trail up ahead. "My God! What in hell are they drivin'? A tank?"

       

"A High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle," Fraser, not God, answered. "Or, as many people call them, a HumVee." Fraser, of course, was correct, and they could now see it as well as hear it.

 

"No way this poor old clunker's gonna hold that off," Arly observed, patting the old police cruiser.

 

"Very likely not," Fraser told her.

 

"Got a plan?" Ray asked.

 

"Yes," the Mountie told him. "Run!"

 

 

 

Next, a strategic retreat...

 

Following his own advice, Fraser grabbed Ray and Arly each by an arm and ran for cover behind a tangle of thorny vines and fallen trees, Diefenbaker outracing the three humans and diving in first. They were just in time, for Arly's car didn't slow the HumVee down one bit. The assailant leaned through his lowered window, blazing away at them with an Uzi and screaming. Both Ray and Arly returned fire with their own handguns, with Arly forced to resort to her borrowed weapon after only three shots.

 

"Three bullets?!" Ray yelled. "What cop goes around with only three bullets in a gun?" He continued to fire, but was soon forced to stop and reload.

 

"The one who has to argue with the Maggody City Council about insurance and liability!" Arly yelled back, keeping up the fusillade towards the HumVee and its occupant.

 

The HumVee's driver, none other than Bert, had panicked when he first saw the cop car across the road. But then, as Fraser and Arly had earlier realized, he didn't have much to worry about; one of the original functions of the High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle was to either circumvent obstacles or to render them useless. Howling "Hasta la vista, baby!" and feeling like Rambo, Bert held his Uzi out the open driver's window, opened fire and slammed into the obstructing cop car. He pulled sharply on the wheel, intending to swing around and smush cops, trees and all. Unfortunately, he forgot one little part of the incredibly expensive "You and Your HumVee: Wheee!" class that he had attended: High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles tend to be top-heavy, and don't corner easily. Bert's vehicle toppled over with less grace than a two-legged cow onto the red dirt road, shooting red dust and pine needles up like fireworks.

 

The three bedraggled humans and their lupine companion extracted themselves from the briars and vines with bits of native flora stuck to them. Except for assorted scratches and the beginning of a few bruises, they were uninjured. They cautiously approached the vehicle, Ray and Arly holding fire, but with weapons

ready. Ray and Fraser clambered onto the vehicle and Arly remained on the ground, ready to fire at whatever poked its head out anywhere. Their precautions, while wise, proved unnecessary, for their assailant's gun arm was pinned by several tons of HumVee. Its occupant could be heard cussing up a blue streak.

 

"Bert? Bert Bolt?" Arly asked, leaning over to look through the windshield. The answer she received was an obscene affirmative.

 

"Bolt?!" Ray, halting so quickly that the Mountie ran into him and almost sent them both off the vehicle, spat the name like a curse.

 

"Oh, dear," said Fraser, working to maintain both his and Ray's balance.

 

"He's some cousin or the other to the Buchanons," Arly explained. "You can tell by the yellow in their eyes, you see."

 

"Figures," Ray commented sourly, and sat down on the overturned vehicle, scowling.

 

"Ah, reinforcements," Fraser said, looking down the road as he jumped from the HumVee. Ray followed suit, perhaps a little less agilely, then turned to where his friend was looking. A sheriff's car, a state police car, a state police investigative team car, an ambulance, and a very old pickup were heading up towards them, raising another stupendous cloud of red dust in the chilly morning air. Soon everything, dust cloud included, swirled around the battered police car and the HumVee, causing those in the immediate vicinity to choke.

 

A pot-bellied man in a sheriff's uniform, an incredibly foul-looking cigar between his fingers, was the first to reach them, a state trooper looking like he stepped from a recruitment poster just steps behind. "Looks like y'all got everything under control here," he said, pointing at the overturned HumVee with his cigar. For some reason, Ray felt the man was not exactly being complementary. "Any ideas on getting the poor sumbitch out?"

 

"We'll use your cigar as a lever and Sergeant Trooper there as a fulcrum," Arly told him. "That, or shove Diesel Buchanon's collection of squirrel skulls under one at a time until it tumps back over."

 

"I think I like that second option better," said the state trooper who, adjusting his Stetson, joined them. "'Course, that's just my opinion." Then, eyeing the police chief, he told her, "You know, Arly, orange does not suit you." Arly replied with one of her snakier unblinking looks. Since the trooper was several inches taller than Ray and several pounds of muscle heavier than Fraser, she had quite a bit to look up and over. She did not seem overly impressed.

 

Everyone's attention was soon claimed by the activity swarming around the Wildlife and Fisheries jeep. The state police team was busily photographing, printing, and measuring everything, while an elderly, dyspeptic man hopped out of the jeep and walked over to join the group by the HumVee.

 

"Gentlemen... and trooper," Arly said, "Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago P.D. and Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. This is Sheriff Harve Dorfer and that is Sergeant Plover, the Mr. Blackwell of the Arkansas State Police. This is Dr. McBeen, the county coroner." The usual pleasantries were exchanged, although Ray felt that the handshake offered by the trooper was a bit more bone-crushing than necessary.

 

"Any ideas yet?" the sheriff asked the coroner.

 

"Yeah. One's dead and one ain't," the coroner said acidly. "You want anything more definite, let me get the dead one back to the morgue."

 

"McBeen," Arly said wearily. She'd dealt with the coroner before. "Just humor us, please?"

 

"What the hell for?" McBeen snarled. "Already this morning, I've seen a fella who managed to break his neck on a three-wheeler, an S.O.B. that some other dumb S.O.B. mistook for a twelve-point buck, and some really dumb S.O.B. what shot himself in the back of the head climbing up to his tree stand while carrying a loaded shotgun with the safety off. Then I'll have see a whole waiting room of dumb S.O.B.s who managed to mangle themselves or their hunting' buddies on this glorious November day." Fuming a bit, he then said, "Oh, all right. One hour, plus or minus thirty minutes," he said, indicating the late wildlife officer. "Now," McBeen, his attention on the crowd of cops by the Wildlife and Fisheries jeep, "if you people'll get that dumb S.O.B. out of the truck so's I can look at him, then get the poor S.O.B. game warden loaded in the ambulance, I might get to do some work and tell you a bit more. That is, if you don't mind." He turned to go and berate the investigative team, but paused, however, when he saw Diefenbaker. "Nice lookin' wolf," the coroner said, a grimace-like smile briefly flashing over his face as he returned to the jeep. They could see the state police crew cringe as one at his approach.

 

"Doctor Kevorkian there still sees living people?" an incredulous Ray asked.

 

"Don't be fooled by that ol' country doctor charm," Arly commented. "What he lacks in bedside manner he more than makes up for with sheer ill-will. And expertise."

 

"How are we gonna get the poor S.O.B. out of the truck?" Plover asked, straight faced. "I mean, since we don't have the squirrel skulls."

 

"Sheriff Dorfer," Fraser said, "I see that your car has a winch on the front. I think that, if we pass the hook and chain behind on the trees on the passenger side of the HumVee and attach it to the vehicle, we should be able to return the vehicle to its normal position." Following the Mountie's directions, they were able to do just that, although the HumVee's driver seemed unappreciative of their efforts. He was also less than thrilled with ol' Doc McBeen, who returned to patch him up.

 

Sheriff Dorfer looked at the driver. "Bert Bolt?" he asked. "That you?" Bert, understandably unhappy, snarled affirmatively. "Where's Ernie?" the sheriff asked.

 

"Bert... and Ernie?" Sergeant Plover asked.

 

"Of course," Ray nodded. "Had to be."

 

"It is highly possible," Fraser said, his head cocked, listening, "that we'll soon make Ernie Bolt's acquaintance shortly."

 

An elderly, four-door sedan crawled from behind the tree-screened curve at the Moutie's words. "You'll get to meet your international gunrunners, too," Arly said, recognizing the vehicle.

 

Plover looked at the approaching car, close enough now that he could identify two of the occupants. "Kevin and Dahlia?"

 

"Kevin and Dahlia Buchanon?" Dorfer asked incredulously, cigar dangling from his bottom lip.

 

"The scourge of law enforcement officers everywhere," Arly said dryly.

 

Both Plover and Harve Dorfer turned to look at the Chicago detective and the Mountie."Those are your gun dealers?" the sheriff asked them, nearly dropping the cigar from his mouth. Then, to Arly, "Why the hell didn't you tell me that was why you were so anxious to find 'em?"

 

Arly looked at him steadily. "And your reaction would have been?"

The sheriff opened his mouth to answer, closed it, considered her question again, then nodded sheepishly and made a you-got-me-there gesture with his hands. "OK, then. Who's that with Bonnie and Clyde?" Harve squinted towards the approaching vehicle.

 

Bert Bolt, his arm temporarily splinted and in a sling and having been given a stiff shot of painkiller by McBeen, saw the oncoming car and its occupants and let out a fierce howl. "Ernie! You idiot!" Staggering first towards the woods and then towards the approaching car, he shrieked, "I thought I told you to take care of those two!" He then collapsed into a well-dressed heap onto the middle of the dirt road.

 

Earl Buchanon's car came to a screeching halt just inches from Bert. Ernie Bolt popped his head through the open driver's side window and, guilessly, assured his brother, "I am, Bert. I'm gonna take them down to the town for breakfast. Dahlia's expectin', you know."

 

Bert pulled himself up, using the bumper for support, then unsteadily launched himself at his brother's head with intention of inflicting severe bodily harm. He missed by several feet, since the medication interfered with his navigational abilities something awful, and landed, spread eagle, face down, back on the road, sending aloft a baby dust cloud.

 

Ernie, understandably confused, looked down at his brother's prone body and asked, "Ah, Bert?"

 

"Yeah, Ernie?" came the dust-muffled reply.

 

"Are you all right?" In lieu of a verbal reply, Bert rolled his head so as to see his brother's concerned, yellow eyes, spat out a considerable quatity of dust, and glared for a moment, before dropping his head, face down, back into the dirt.

 

"Who gets 'em?" Plover asked.

 

"I don't have the facilities," Arly informed him. "And I don't want 'em. Any of 'em. Harve?"

 

The sheriff sighed, looking from the collapsed heap on the road to the confused man still hanging half way out the car's window. "Cuff 'em and load 'em up in mine, then," Harve Dorfer instructed. Turning to Vecchio and Fraser, he continued, "I guess y'all have to come over to Farberville to interview 'em."

 

"All of them?" Plover asked, his face carefully innocent of all expression. "Even the international gun-runnin' terrorists?"

 

Waving his frayed cigar with all the verve of the late Leonard Bernstein, Harve looked casually up towards the clouds and said, "Nah. Arly'd really have a fit if we took 'em off her hands. I'll run the Bolts in and she," the Sheriff said, carefullyignoring his colleague, "can run in the Buchanon contingent." Pivoting sharply on

one heel, Dorfer headed towards his car, jauntily whistling the Sesame Streettheme song as he walked.

 

"Hey, Arly," Kevin Buchanon, hanging out the front passenger window, hailed the police chief. Wordlessly, Arly turned to face him. "I don't really think Dahlia's up to no runnin' or anything, even though her doctor over in Faberville said she needs to get more exercise and stuff." Yellow flecked eyes blinked fecklessly.

 

"I thought we was gonna go get some breakfast," the love of his life, Dahlia (nee O'Neill) Buchanon, all three hundred plus pounds and six plus feet of her, said from the back seat. It came across more as a threat than an reminder. Sergent Plover backed away a bit from the car. The two visiting police officers, remembering Arly's earlier warning to Diefenbaker, decided that they didn't want to get in the way, either.

 

"I think," Arly said patiently, "that you two ought to go on back home, let Earl and Eileen know you're...all right..." she looked a little doubtful here, as did everyone else, "... that you're safe," she corrected. "Later on, these two men over here, Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser, will probably want to talk to you. But not now." The Police Chief said the last three words with emphasis. Ray and Fraser looked at each other, not sure if they were aimed at the Buchanons or at them.

 

"That will be fine," Fraser assured them.

 

"OK by me," Ray confirmed.

 

Sergeant Plover, adjusting his hat firmly, walked over and hauled the recumbent Bert off the ground and handcuffed him, splinted arm not withstanding. Motioning Ernie out of the car, he turned to Arly and asked, "Got a pair of cuffs I can borrow?"

 

"That's my only pair, Plover," Chief Hanks said as she tossed her cuffs to the trooper. "I want 'em back, and not next year, either."

 

Plover caught them and soon had both Bolts cuffed and ready for transport. When both prisoners were safely stowed in Dorfer's shiny new car, Harve, with a cheerful flourish of his cigar, executed a neatly done 180 degree turn, and peeled off. The last sight anyone saw before the car disappeared into a red dust cloud was of Bert Bolt banging his head repeatedly against the metal screen that separated the sheriff and his prisoners.