Chapter 30

On the Trail

Tim pulled up into the gravel lot and parked in front of the store. A sign with faded wooden letters read: WILLIS FA M & SEED STO E. Another sign in the window said Closed but the door was propped open and the lights were on inside. A gravel road led back into the brush, and more lights glowed through the trees.

"Think there's a house back there?" Tim asked, glancing over at Raylan who was studying the building.

"Mebee," Raylan mumbled.

"Well, I gotta piss like a racehorse," Tim said, opening the driver's door. "I'm goin' in and see if they've got a bathroom."

Raylan slid out his side and followed the younger marshal. As soon as their boots hit the porch, a woman appeared in the doorway. She was a hard thirty-five, skin and bones in dirty jeans and a grey t-shirt. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled back in a flowered kerchief. "We're closed," she said, kicking the rock that held the door open. "Cain't you read the sign?"

"Ma'am," Raylan slid his hand along the brim of the hat and dipped his head. "My friend here needs to use the facilities, if ya' wouldn't mind."

She hesitated, looking them up and down, then thumbed over her shoulder. "Outhouse in back. He's welcome to it."

"Thank you," Raylan said as Tim took off at a half-run toward the back of the building. "Could I ask ya' a question?"

Pausing again, she cast a glance behind her. "I gotta finish cleanin' up before Cecil gets back."

"This won't take long." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled to a picture of Anna. "Have ya' seen this woman?"

Her lips pressed tight and she shook her head. "Nope. Sorry." She looked up and her eyes slid to the left, toward the road that trailed into the woods. Raylan took a step forward, turning his body so that he was between her and the door.

"You sure? Look again." He held the phone up with one hand, while moving the edge of his jacket aside to reveal his badge that was seated on his belt buckle.

"I toldja I ain't seen her," she snapped, showing no regard towards law enforcement. "Now, I gotta get back to work." She reached for the door just as Tim came around the corner, tucking his shirt into his pants.

"What's back there?" Raylan asked, pointing in the direction of the outhouse.

"The shitter." She glared at him. "I toldja. You don't listen very well, do ya?"

Tim stepped onto the porch. "No," he chuckled. "Raylan here doesn't listen very well." He laid a hand on Raylan's arm. "Let's go."

Raylan glared at him.

"Come on," Tim said, shifting his eyes back the way he'd just come. "Unless you need to use the facilities, too." He raised an eyebrow.

Raylan caught the hint. "As a matter of fact, I do. Be right back."

"I'll just wait right here," Tim said, leaning against the building and crossing his arms over his chest.

Raylan walked the well-worn path to the outhouse, which was actually a green plastic porta-potty, probably stolen from some construction site. Rather than going in, he continued past, pushing the brush aside and peering into the twilight. He ventured further into the woods, careful of roots and branches. Crouching low, he could make out a house and barn, not in much better shape than the store. It was nothing special. There was nothing whatsoever, beyond the woman's hesitation at Anna's picture, to make him suspicious, and yet, his Spidey senses were tingling.

He was sure that the woman knew more than she was letting on, and he wondered for a moment how long he could be gone without raising suspicions. But Tim was there. He could keep her from notifying anyone. Raylan made his way toward the buildings, heading for the barn first. These people who held Anna would never take her into the house. To them, she was nothing but an animal. The barn was the logical place for them to hold a prisoner. The stench was almost enough to make him turn back, but he held his breath and pulled the door open.

One side of the space inside was divided into stalls for horses and cows, the other side had a pen, likely used for sheep or pigs. A rusted lock hanging open from a make-shift door on one side of the pen drew his attention. Stepping carefully around piles of dried and crumbling feces, he tugged the door open. The room was empty.

Raylan pulled a penlight from his pocket and flashed it around the filthy floor. A mattress, equally filthy, was pressed against one wall. Kneeling, he brushed his hand over the pillow, coming up with several dark hairs, likely human, possibly Anna's. She had been here. He was sure of it.

He continued his inspection of the small space, examining and discarding each bit of trash until he came to a tightly folded paper football, the kind he and Johnny Crowder used to finger-kick back and forth while Mr. Pitts droned on and on in Biology class. It looked strangely out of place, as it was about the only thing not covered in dirt and dust. Raylan carefully unfolded the paper and read the scrawled letters. Bingo.

"Thata girl, Anna," he said softly.

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

Karen Goodall rubbed her eyes. Barely in bed an hour, she woke and grabbed for her ringing phone, catching the incoming call a split second before it went to voicemail. "Why is it that you only call me when you want something?" she asked, flirtatiously.

"I need your help," Raylan cut to the chase. "And I need you to give us a head start before notifyin' the Feebs."

"What's the matter, Raylan? Is the Louisville office cramping your style?"

"They always cramp my style," he answered. "And then, they fuck things up. And we can't afford for them to do that, now can we?" His tone was very serious. "Tim and I found the location in Shepherdsville . . . where Anna's phone was traced? She was here but not now. I think she's been moved."

"How do you know she was there?" Karen asked, her interest piqued. She sat up and swung her feet from the bed to the floor.

"She left a clue only I would understand," he explained. "Malbec 1971."

"I've always preferred Boudreaux myself. Was 1971 a particularly good year?"

"1971 is the year she was born. See? That tells me that even she doesn't want the Feebs here, tryin' to find her." He shifted gears. "Could ya' have the cell company check her phone location again?"

"Sure. I'll call you right back."

"Oh, and Karen?" he stopped her. "The house where she was bein' held is rented by a man named Frank Edwards. He lives here with a minor, a young boy."

"Frank Edwards is one of Arndt's men," Karen said, knowing the case files like the back of her hand. "Hold on a sec." She walked over to her brief case and popped it open, opened a file, and rifled through its contents. "Here we go. Frank Porter Edwards," she verified. "42 years old. 6'0 even. Brown hair, grey-green eyes. He was paroled from Big Sandy 10 months ago after a fifteen year stint for two counts of murder-1. Has a jailhouse tattoo of a Celtic cross on his head."

"Wanna bet he's now a skin head?" Raylan miffed.

"Probably," she agreed. "The boy is his brother's kid, Caleb. His brother, Ralph, was killed execution style about a year ago. Still an open case."

"Don't tell me," Raylan closed his eyes and placed his fingers over his face. "It's an open case with the Louisville Office of the F.B.I."

"Okay. I won't tell you." She let out a little chuckle. "Anyway . . . Since his brother was murdered, Edwards took up with his brother's wife, Cindy Louise Edwards. No record on her."

"That seems to be the red neck way. Takin' up with your dead brother's woman," Raylan said, reminded of Boyd and Ava Crowder. "Or your dead sister's husband," he thought to himself . . . about his Aunt Helen and Arlo.

After a pause, she said, "Let me call you right back."

"Alright," Raylan said, disconnecting the call. He paced back and forth, along the porch.

"You're going to wear a path down in that wooden porch if you keep pacing like that," Tim said.

"Funny," Raylan said, although not amused. "How's Cecil's old lady doin'? She's not gonna go and get her shotgun, is she?"

Tim grinned. "She's better, now that I explained to her there's no law against rentin' to the kidnapper of an FBI agent . . . if she and her cousin-husband didn't know what the renter was up to."

Raylan screwed up his face. "Cousin-husband?"

"Yeah. Evidently," Tim nodded.

A short time later, Karen called back. "Leitchfield,' she began. "But something tells me you already knew that."

"Thank you." he said. "You know, turns out she is . . . my sister."

Karen suddenly felt for her favorite marshal. "I can give you until morning. Is that enough of a head start?"

"It's gonna have to be," Raylan answered.

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

Adam and Winona continued their late night vigil in Gayle's family room.

"Have you ever seen Raylan . . . in action? On the job?" Adam asked Winona.

She raked her fingers through her hair, off her face. "Yeah. There've been a few times. How about you?"

"Not in action," he answered. "We've gone to a shooting range together, before. Of course, she's a good shot." He added after a minute of silence, "Tell me about the times you've seen Raylan. In action."

A look of dread at remembering came over her face. Still, she thought it might help Adam pass the time.

"When I was pregnant with Willa? I was staying with Gayle in this very house," she began. "Two men from the Detroit mafia came here, pretending to be delivering a rocking chair," she began. "But that was a ruse. They were really here to use me and my unborn child as bait to draw Raylan here."

Adam's eyes became quite large. "Jeez."

"Raylan did show up," she continued with her story. "There was a shootout in the room upstairs, the same one where I've been staying. Let's just say that entire room, including the carpeting, drywall, and ceiling had to be replaced."

"Wow." He could tell she didn't like telling this story. And then, it dawned on him, because she might be pregnant . . . again. Changing the subject, he asked, "What about another time?"

Winona tucked a throw pillow behind her back, thinking. "I told you that Raylan got shot, down in Harlan?"

Adam nodded.

"Well, right after he went back to work, he was put on light duty because he hadn't been able to re-qualify on the shooting range. His bullet wound wasn't all healed up, and he couldn't pull and shoot and hit his target because of the gun's kickback." Shaking her head, she said, "He wasn't at 100 percent and could have been out on medical leave longer . . . but that's not Raylan. Anyway, there was this guy – Ice Pick Nix they called him – who came after him during this time."

"Don't tell me." Adam interrupted, guessing, "Detroit mafia?"

She smiled. "Actually? It was the Dixie mafia, but you're getting the picture. So, this Ice Pic guy came to the motel where we were living and forced Raylan into a shooting match."

"Right there in the parking lot?"

"No. He snuck up on us, on our way from the parking lot to our room, and made us go inside at gunpoint, where he ordered Raylan take his holstered gun and put it down on the ground. Then, he sat down across from Raylan at the table and set his gun down between them. They both put their hands on the table, and this guy had me count down from ten." She shivered at the memory. "When I got to 'one,' they would both go for the gun, and the one who grabbed the gun first would shoot the other guy." Winona stopped talking for a second to take in a breath. "Raylan told me later that this guy liked to play this game. Nix kept an ice pick – "

"Hence the nickname," Adam said, nodding.

"Yes," Winona confirmed. "His deal was to stab the other guy's hand, grab the gun, and shoot him." She swallowed. "If I had known that . . ." she shook her head. "All I knew then was that Raylan wasn't up to form. I was scared to death thinking I was going to watch Raylan die and then, God knows what he'd do to me." She looked up at Adam's face. "I am so sorry," she said with an apologetic wince. "This isn't making you feel any better."

He managed a slight grin. "At least I know you got out of it alive." He chewed at his lip. "How'd Raylan manage that?"

Winona chuckled. "I was so sick of that damn dreary motel room that I'd brought a tablecloth and a vase with some flowers, just trying to brighten the place up? When I counted down to '1,' Raylan tugged on the cloth so that Nix missed. The ice pick stuck in the table, missing Raylan's hand, and Raylan grabbed the gun and shot him."

Adam gave a low whistle. "Pretty smart."

Winona met his eyes. "So's Anna."

Quiet descended, and Adam picked up his cell-phone, checking for a message that wasn't there. Redirecting his attention to Winona, he asked, "What else you got?"

Winona rolled her eyes and blushed. At the risk of totally humiliating herself, she felt the price was a small one if she could continue to distract Adam from the reality of his situation. "Well. You may not ever again hold me in as high esteem as you do right now, after hearing this story. But okay," she agreed. "You've heard mention of my second husband, Gary Hawkins?"

Adam nodded.

"Well, he was a realtor with delusions of grandeur," she managed a smile. "He had big plans that never seemed to pan out, and he got himself involved with some shady people. There were threats . . ." she paused. "Things hadn't been good between us, and that – along with Raylan reappearing in my life – brought things to a head. Gary and I separated, and I was about to file for divorce when he took all our savings and bought a horse." She snorted. "And not even a race horse. That's almost a sacrilege here in Kentucky."

She continued, telling Adam the long, sordid tale about how she stole money out of the evidence locker at the courthouse and how Raylan helped her to put it back, and about the hit men, hired by Gary, who cornered her and Raylan in the warehouse. By the time she was finished and then answered all of Adam's questions, it was in the wee hours of the morning. Both all talked out, Adam turned on the television, keeping the volume low, and they flicked through the channels until neither could hold their eyes open any longer, and they each dozed off in their respective corners of the sofa.

-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-

Margery looked up as Winona came into the kitchen, Willa on her hip. "There's coffee," her mother smiled. "And some Tylenol in case you have a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch."

"Thanks, Mama." Winona poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, settling the baby on her lap and giving her a spoon to distract her. "Oh, and it looks like I won't be needing that pregnancy test after all." She smiled a little sadly.

Margery took the chair across from her. "Are you okay with that?" She took a sip from her own cup and looked at her daughter. Willa banged the spoon on the table and gave her grandma a big grin.

Winona held Willa tight and stared out the window into the backyard. Gayle was pushing Kyle on the swing while Davis ran back and forth along the fence racing the neighbor's big yellow Labrador on the other side. At the end of the fence, the dog stopped, standing on his hind legs and putting his paws up on the post. Davis reached out a hand to pet him, and the dog licked his face. Winona turned back to her mother. "I'm a little sad, actually." She shrugged. "I mean, I wasn't looking forward to two kids under two and piles of diapers, but . . ."

"But you aren't getting any younger." Her mother stated the truth.

"Thanks for that reminder, Mama," Winona said. "No, I'm not, and, well, Raylan seemed happy about it when I told him, and I thought that maybe two kids would make him want to settle down." She sighed and leaned back in her chair.

Margery chuckled. "I don't think Raylan's ever going to settle down." Noting the frown on Winona's face she quickly added, "It's obvious how much he loves you and Willa. You've got nothing to worry about on that front. But he is what he is. You knew that when you got involved with him, again."

"I suppose I did," she agreed. "But he has changed - a little. And he's talked about going back to Glynco."

"Do you think he'd really be happy there?"

"We were happy there before."

"Then, why did you leave?"

Winona stood, still clutching the baby close. Why was her mother doing this? She didn't want to rehash the history of her relationship with Raylan. She wanted to look forward to their future together. One conversation with Mama and she was doubting herself – and Raylan - all over again. She sighed with relief when Adam came into the kitchen, his hair damp from the shower.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"Please."

"Why don't I take Willa outside?" Margery asked. "Would you mind making sure your father is up? He has that appointment this morning, and we don't want to be late."

"Are you going with him?" Winona asked, surprised.

"Yes," her mother answered. "He asked me to, and, well . . ." she flushed. "We were married for almost thirty years." She reached for Willa.

"I know, Mama," Winona said with a smile, handing her daughter over. "Relationships are complicated, aren't they?"

(To be continued . . .)