“What did Limuel grow for the county fair again?” I asked as we sped out onto the now quite familiar highway leading to Wiggins.
“Squash,” Oak said promptly. She was scrolling through her phone, examining the small cache of information we had on Limuel.
“Ok. Any idea what a squash farm looks like?”
Oak sniffed.
“What?” I asked.
“You city folk,” she sighed. “You all think food comes from a supermarket, don’t you?”
I threw her an exasperated glare. This was not the time to debate city versus country living.
“Ok, look, the type of squash that win at a county fair are usually pumpkins or other winter squash. That means they are going to be huge vining plants low to the ground. We’re looking for a farm with a bunch of open space. That doesn’t really narrow our search down though. All farms have a bunch of open space.”
“Well, let’s try this. If you see pumpkins or squash growing in a field, we’ll stop at the farm. If it’s just corn or something, we’ll move on.”
Oak unfurled one of the maps I had procured of the Wiggins area. We started with the farms on the route into Wiggins from Cresel. There were about a dozen farms, only three of which could easily be seen to have a few squash growing by the roadside. Stopping at these proved to be fruitless. The owners, when we could catch them, didn’t have a clue who Limuel was or about the county fair pumpkin winners of the past.
“These are just people growing to sell to the pumpkin patch,” Oak surmised after we crossed the third farm off the list.
We then started on the first county road that led into the countryside from there. Soon we were winding our way along a dirt track through a mesa full of farms, mostly corn by the looks of it. We stopped at a few farms with names, hoping that one of them might be familiar with the country fair. One of them was, and he had heard of Limuel, though only because he had indeed won five years in a row for the squash.
“I never met him,” the toothless farmer explained. “We were in different categories. I do cabbage heads. One particular variety, the blue rose. You heard of it?”
We shook our heads. “Well, anyways, fair’s coming up in a couple of weeks, I best get back to it.”
“Do you know who else usually competes in squash?” I called to him as he tottered off.
“Barkley, he’s over the hill there. And I think Tukari, he did last year at least.”
We thanked the man and Oak began to research the names. “Ok, Bakley farms is just a mile away. Tukari is across town, about four miles.”
We hit Barkley first. A woman in her mid sixties greeted us at the door of their farm.
“Hello,” she said, sounding eager. “Are you here for the pumpkin interview?”
“Ah, no, not exactly,” I said. “We’re with the Melspol PD. We’d like to ask you a few questions though.”
The woman flushed. “I didn’t tamper with that pumpkin last year! They said our winning pumpkin must have been injected with water or something all because this is a woman owned farm. I’d never cheat like that!”
“Ah, mam, this isn’t about the pumpkin competition. Well, not that one. Have you been competing long?”
“Me and my brother used to put in together under the family name. He gone and died two years ago. So now it’s up to me. And I grow um just like my ole da did.”
“Right. Did you ever compete with Limuel Kasorsh?”
“Oh him? Yeah, haven’t seen him past few years though. Thought he was probably out of the game.”
“Do you know Mr. Kasorsh personally?”
“Naw. Not a friendly type him. Alls he did was bring in his pumpkin each year, then leave. Picked up his ribbon after the fair was over. Donated the pumpkin to the local cattle food drive. That was it.”
“Do you know where he lived?”
“No idea.”
“And do you know of anyone else who knew him?”
She scratched her chin. “Yeah he had help to get the pumpkin in each year. There’s a guy from the fair who volunteers to help folks get their entries in. Borris, I think is his name. He’s a bit of a duck, but he might have know ole Limuel a bit better. Know where he lives at least.”
“Thank you.”
We turned on our heels to go with a hurried goodbye.
“Where are the county fair grounds?” I asked Oak as we piled into the car.
“Just outside of Burkus.”
“Odds are this Borris guy will be there, if the fair is just a few weeks away.”
We hit the asphalt once again, taking a connecting highway from Wiggins to Burkus. When we arrived, Oak directed me towards the edge of town where the fair grounds stood on a flat expanse of land. There were distinct signs of fair preparations, stalls going up, fencing for corrals being assembled. We marched up to the first person who appeared to be an employee.
“Hi there, could you tell us where we might find Borris?”
The woman, who looked like the motherly sort, glanced up at us, taking in the cop car behind us. “Borris? Not sure if he’s in today. Didn’t you hear, he’s part time now. He’ll probably be retiring after this year.”
“I see,” I said, fighting to remain calm. “Where would he usually be found?”
“Over there in the produce hall.” She directed us towards a large barn like building with a red roof and white brick walls. We hurried over. Inside there were several people setting up what looked like fruit and vegetable stands, as well as display podiums.
“Are you here to drop off your vegetables?” one woman asked.
“No, we’re looking for Borris. Is he in today?”
“You just missed him. He got a call to help bring in some of the vegetables from a farm.”
“Damnit,” I said. “What farm?”
“Don’t know, somewhere outside of Cresel I think. If you run, you could catch him before he leaves. He doesn’t move to fast these days.”
We rushed out of the hall, staring towards the parking lot. I scanned the cars. Finally I spotted an old beat up truck and what looked like a guy hobbling towards it.
“Go,” I said and we both sprinted in that direction. Oak was faster on younger legs and neared the man first.
“Borris, wait!”
The man turned around, leaning on a cane and squinted at us. He was a large bloke and looked as though he was approaching his eighties.
“Can I help you?”
“Yessir. We’re with the Melspol PD. We’re investigating a case. Do you recall a man who used to enter the squash contest, a Mr. Limuel Kasorsh?”
“Limuel. Sure do. I didn’t he was entering this year. He hadn’t entered the past two years. Getting to old for this sort of thing.”
“Yes, I don’t believe he is entering. But could tell us a bit about him?”
“Well, he wasn’t the talkative sort, if that’s what you’re after. We only really talked about the pumpkins. After his wife died he closed up shop, used to own a junkyard on the other side of town. He moved out into the country more around Wiggins area. Quite little retirement on some family land he had inherited. Just had a little pumpkin patch and a garden for himself. I only saw him once in a year. He won blue ribbon five years in a row though. Don’t know what he was feeding those monsters. Last time he entered, he weighed in close to 700 pounds. Me and the boys used to go out with the trailer and help him load um up a week before the fair opened.”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Do you recall and address, where he lived. We’re trying to find him but we can’t seem to locate him.”
“Well I recall where he’s at. Not sure what the address is but I could show you on a map or something.”
Oak ran to our car to retrieve the map. “Did Limuel mention having a son?” I asked Borris in the mean time.
“A son. Naw, he never did. Like I said, he wasn’t talkative. Just grew his pumpkins and that was it. Never came to the fair or the ribbon event, far as knew. He would stop in a week after the fair was over and claim his prize, then allow us to donate the pumpkin to the cattle feed donation. That was that.”
Oak was back. She held out the map and Borris squinted at it until he pointed at a spot. “Yeah, it was just up here on the mesa, kind of tucked away, windy dirt road you can barely see on the side of the highway. Hell you wouldn’t a known someone was back there, if you didn’t know, see. He kept his land fenced in good, gated and locked up, we’d have to wait for him to let us in each time. Kind of a strange place for an old single man to end up. I guess it used to be a family farmstead back in the day. A dairy farm maybe. Big ole barn out there, main house and a worker’s quarters. Might even be a historic place.”
“Thank you Borris, we appreciate your help.”
“No worries. Probably best someone check up on him every once and while. I don’t think he has much company these days and he’s not on the young side.”
We headed back to the car. My blood had started to pulse harder. A farmhouse all tucked away up on a mesa sounded secluded and perhaps just the place for a crank dealer to have a quiet little operation. We called the new intel into Meryl.
“Ok, go check it out if you can. I can’t authorize you t enter private property and search the place without a good reason but if Limuel is there, try and invite yourselves in, you know, casually.”
I swallowed as Oak hung up. This might be it. Oak drove while I navigated our way to the place where Borris had indicated. As we sped along the highway, we came to a county road which Oak turned onto. A moment later we began to gain in elevation and eventually we were lifted up above the township of Wiggins so that we could see it below. I certainly hadn’t anticipated how spread out the farmsteads were once we rose onto the mesa. We wove our way through massive establishments of wheat, corn, cattle and horses, where large stately looking farmhouses stood.
“This is old farm country up here,” Oak commented. “These lots must be ten acres. They don’t sell allotments that big anymore, only three acre ones. Must be from the days when Melspol was the breadbasket of the country.”
We approached the tree line as we neared the spot. When we got to where Borris had said, Oak slowed us to a crawl and we began to search for a dirt track. I appeared suddenly as we turned a bend and we slowed to a stop. The track, far from barely existing, looked well traveled. I stared at it while Oak examined our location on the map.
“This must be it, unless there’s another dirt track near here. Can’t see on the map how far back it goes. There’s a forest road that comes in about a mile up the county road as well. Can’t tell if it interacts with the farmhouse at all.”
“Let’s try this.”
We turned up the road and drove for about a mile, not seeing any distinct turn offs or what might have been driveways leading to a residence. But then we turned a bend and encountered a fence and a locked gate. No trespassing signs were posted all around it. We stopped.
“Pull over here and park,” I said, indicating a spot a little off the road. “Let’s walk the fence perimeter and see if we can locate the farmhouse.”
Oak parked us and we hopped out. The fence was a sturdy one, taller than the average cattle fence and barbed at the top. We began to hike along it. At first any sign of a human residence was obscured by trees and undergrowth. But as we came through a particularly dense patch of brackens, a clearing broke through. It looked to have once been a pasture capable of hold many head of cattle and stretched on a good ways. It also appeared to be far out of use, overgrown with weeds and wild grasses, with young shrubs popping up here and again. In the distance we could see what appeared to be the large multistory barn that Borris had mentioned, as well as some other less distinguished structures.
“You got a scope?” I asked, narrowing my eyes but unable to make out much.
Oak rummaged in her pack for a moment and then pulled out a rifle scope. I held it up to my eye and adjusted it to focus around the house.
“Nice scope,” I commented.
“For my hunting rifle, but’s it useful on its own. I always carry it in the field.”
“Good call. I’ll have to get me one of these.”
“Christmas is coming Senny.”
“I’m not religious.”
“Nor am I. It’s just an excuse to give someone something nice. See anything?”
I shook my head, dropping the scope. “That hill is in the way,” I said, referring to a slight rise in the landscape that was partially blocking the barn from view. “Let’s keep walking around.”
We moved off again, still through thick trees. After a few minutes, another clearing allowed us a potential view towards the barn. This time we had a straighter shot, although from this vantage the barn was blocking the farmhouse. I pulled out the scope again, training it on the barn.
“This Limuel sure is keeping this fence in good repair,” Oak commented as I searched.
I glanced down at what she was looking at. There appeared to have recently been a break in the fence, but it was well patched and taughtened again.
“Odd that he keeps the fence up but doesn’t even bother to mow the pasture or graze a few head of cattle out here to keep things tidier.”
I nodded, raising the scope back up to my eye. I swiveled my view around, taking in some old farm equipment outside the barn, a massive old red tractor and a rusted out truck. Then I caught sight of movement by the side of the barn. I focused on it.
“There’s someone there, walking around the side of the barn,” I said.
“Does it look like Limuel?”
“Can’t tell, there’s farm equipment in the way.”
I waited for the figure to emerge. When he did so I took in not an old farmer but a much younger guy in hunting attire, a rifle slung over his shoulder, dark shades across his eyes and a cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Looks like a hunter,” I commented, handing the scope to Oak.
She took it and focused in on the guy. “That’s not a hunting rifle,” Oak said, squinting through the lens. “It’s got a pistol grip.”
“What?”
I took the scope back. Sure enough, now that I looked closer, the gun was clearly an assault rifle. “Good call,” I muttered. Then I spotted additional movement, on the other side of the barn. “There’s another guy, same setup.”
A cold plunging sensation hit my stomach. “This place is guarded.” I dropped the scope, looking at Oak. “I think this is it.”
Oak nodded slowly. I could see a look a fear dance over her face. “What do we do?”
“Well, we’re not going to go knocking on the front door, that’s for damn sure.”
I raised the scope back to my eyes and observed the men as the wandered around the barn. “I think they’re guarding the barn. That’s probably where the operation is. Let’s keep going on the fence line and scope the place out. We need to gather intel. But be careful. If one of those guys sees us, or if they have additional men watching the fence, we need to be careful.”
We moved around much more cautiously now.
“Do you think they’d have someone walking the fence line?” Oak asked after a couple of minutes.
“Potentially. It depends on how much manpower they have. If we’re right in thinking that this is Ulug’s hideout and our friends from last night are Ulug’s crew, there could be at least three more guys in the vicinity. Possibly more. And Ulug for that matter.”
After we had come into closer range of the barn on the opposite side from our original view, we stopped again. I crouched down and pushed through some low lying scrub to examine this side of the barn with the scope. Outwardly it could have been just any barn at any farmhouse. But I started to notice interesting developments. There were what appeared to be two trucks parked outside the back of the barn, both covered in tarps. Whether one of them was the truck from last night, it was difficult to tell. There was what looked like a bench outside of a back rolling door. I watched one of the two guards plop down in it to take a sip of water and check his phone. From here, I could also see the farmhouse, a somewhat dilapidated but still stately manor with wooden paneling and a large brick chimney along one side. It had two stories, and as I looked, I spotted another man sitting in a chair on the second story dressed in plain clothes but with a gun leaning up on the wall next to him. As I watched, I saw him hold a set of binoculars up to his eyes and gaze out back towards the road that led to the farmhouse, and then off to either side.
“There’s one up top of the house. Looks like he’s the lookout.”
“Someone just came out of the barn. Look.”
I redirected my gaze to the barn, where a man also in plain clothes had exited and was walking up towards the house. I caught sign of what I thought could have been a sleeve of tattoos before he entered through the front door and I lost sight of him.
“Damn, that might have been Ulug. He had a ton of tats it looked like.”
“Should we keep moving?”
“Yeah, let’s go. Keep out of sight until we’re around the other side.”
We moved off back into the woods again. But we had hardly been walking for a few moments when we intersected a dirt track.
“This must be off the forest service road,” Oak mused, examining it.
Suddenly we heard a crashing sound to our left and the roar of a car engine. Without thinking I seized Oak’s arm and hauled her quickly into a dense patch of trees. We crouched down behind two tree trunks and gazed out at the track as a truck wound its way through the trees and into view. I just had enough clearance to see it was white and there might have been two guys inside as it passed us up the track towards the farmhouse. I motioned to Oak and we stood and headed in that direction, keeping to the side of the track. When we came to where the track met the fence, we saw a gate swinging shut. It appeared someone had just gotten out of the truck to close it back up. I couldn’t clearly see the person, and he was back in the truck and speeding towards the house a second later.
“Let’s keep moving,” I suggested and we crouch ran along the edge of the fence until we came to a slight hill, which we topped to find a clear view of what was going on below in the yard. Two men had just exited the parked truck and we walking towards the house. As the driver slammed his door, I focused in on the emblem. I could just make out the familiar shield logo, and I was willing to bet the letters HIB were described there, though it was difficult to see for sure. I continued scanning the area. I saw motion by the side of the house. Zeroing in on this, I paused. But instead of another person, I saw what appeared to be fabric blowing in the wind. It was an article of clothing that looked like it had been stacked under some milk crates. I felt my heart leap.
“Oak,” I said, lowering the scope and handing it to her. “Look at the corner of the house, by those crates. What do you see?”
Oak took the scope and focused it. “I can’t tell what’s in them,” she said, shaking her head.
“Lower.”
Oak descended her gaze. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she lowered the scope. “Is that?”
“A green plaid skirt. Just like the uniforms that 5th graders wear at Wiggins Elementary.”