Chapter 8: Old Familar Faces
Enos left at first light, after having slept only an hour or so after returning to his room the night before. Taking the shotgun and extra ammo with him, he climbed into his car and sped away. Today was Wednesday and if he didn’t find her in the next 24 hours, he knew his chances were slim he’d find her alive. The weather, as if in defiance of the forecast for the next afternoon, was a balmy 54 degrees – abnormally warm, even for Georgia.
On the other side of the county, Rosco, too was awake. He’d taken home the camera they kept at the Sheriff’s office so he’d be able to drive straight over to where Enos had told him Daisy’s Jeep was. He carried Flash out of his house and down to the patrol car.
“Now Flash,” he said, lovingly, “Daddy’s got to do some real police work today, so I’ll have to leave you in th’ car. But I brought your doggy num-nums with me for you to have a snack while I’m busy.” He deposited Flash in the back seat and climbed into Hazzard #1.
Highway 20 ran along the southern edge of Hazzard county and Rosco followed it until he came to the “T” where Mill Creek Road took off, heading west. Snake Trail was fifteen miles out from the town and half an hour later he pulled off of the road beside the split where it merged with Mill Road. He grabbed the camera from the passenger’s seat.
“Daddy’ll be right back, Flash.” He turned around to find the aging Bassett hound asleep. “I sure hope I remember how t’ work this cotton pickin’ thing.”
He climbed out of the car and walked over to the edge of the road where he could see the skid marks in the mud. In the 38 years since he’d been a police officer, he’d never had anything as serious as this happen. Sure, he’d seen plenty of tragedy in Hazzard County, but mostly it was Moonshiners getting’ blown up by their own stills, the way Enos’s father had gone out. He snapped a couple of pictures of both sets of tracks in the road and then headed through the briars down the ravine towards the Jeep.
“Ooo..jeee…these stickers are sharp…ow! Now, what the heck was I supposed t’ be lookin for?” He saw the footprints beside Dixie. “Oh yeah, tracks. There’s a good one.”
Rosco bent over and took a picture, managing to get his own feet in the frame as well. The deer trail was on the other side of the Jeep and he followed it, taking pictures of both sets of tracks as he walked along. He nearly fell in the mud when he came to the scuff marks in the ground where they stopped. He took a picture of the area and turned to leave when something white in the brush caught his eye.
“Looky here, I think I done found a clue. Kew Kew!” He reached out to pick it up, but then stopped. “I guess I’d better take a picture of it first.” He took a picture and again reached out to pick it up, and stopped. “Wait…now, when you find a clue, you’re not supposed t’ touch the evidence.”
He felt around on himself and found a pen which he used to carefully pick up what he could now see was a white cotton handkerchief. He walked slowly back out of the woods and up to his patrol car, holding it out before him as though it were a bomb that might explode at any second. He reached in the car and dumped his lunch out of its brown paper bag and stuck the handkerchief inside instead.
“Look at that, Flash,” he said, holding the bag up in front of the dog. “Daddy’s done bagged a clue! Kew Kew! I love it! I love it!”
He started the car, turned it around, and headed back to town.
Enos turned right off of Mill Road up Cedar Point Lane which ran north up into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains towards the area of Dry Creek. Dry Creek wasn’t really dry, but the name had been given to it longer ago than anyone in these hills could remember and the name had stuck throughout the generations. He drove almost by rote, turning down roads that had no names, heading further and further into the heart of moonshine territory until he came to where he remembered the old Higgins place being and pulled off. He grabbed the shotgun from the backseat. Hoping maybe he could catch the old man alone, he walked up the wooded hill towards the shack. He didn’t remember how many sons Abel had, but making shine was a family affair and if he went straight to their still there was libel to be more people around.
Enos made his way slowly, ever mindful of traps. As he neared the house, he came to a place where two trees stood parallel to each other. Instead of continuing on the path between the trees, he walked over to one of them and bent down, feeling in the leaves at the base. His fingers caught on a strand of fishing line, running from one tree to the other. He was sure it was connected to some sort of noise maker, but didn’t pull on it to find out. Stepping carefully over the line, he continued up to the front of the small cabin.
He shouldered the 12 gauge and knocked on the door, waited and then knocked again. Finally a scuffling of feet could be heard inside.
The door didn’t open, but Enos noticed the piece of wood in the wall beside it that covered a peephole move slightly out of the way.
“Who r’ you?” came a gruff voice from inside.
“It’s Enos Strate, sir, Otis Strate’s son.”
“You don’t have no business here.”
“I’d be mighty obliged if I could talk to ya’ for a minute, Mr. Higgins.”
A long moment passed and Enos was beginning to think he’d have to try another tactic when he heard the scrape of the board barring the door move aside. It opened to reveal a tall, broad shouldered man with a scruffy beard, and hair that looked like it had been hacked off with a rusty knife.
“I said you didn’t have no business here. An’ I know who y’are. We don’t take kindly t’ deputies snoopin’ ’round these here parts.”
“I ain’t been a deputy for years, sir.” Enos reckoned that was technically true enough.
“Well then what d’ya’ want?”
“I need t’ talk to your son, Andy, sir. Is he here by chance?”
“No, he ain’t here, and if’n he was wouldn’t be none o’ yer business I reckon. Now, me an’ my boys are gonna give you exactly one minute t’ get offa my property.”
Enos’s eyes widened as he heard the familiar “ch-chick” of a shell being pumped into a shotgun to the left of him and realized he’d been flanked as a third man made his way from around the right side of the house.
“Hey, now fella’s,” he said, holding his hands up. “I didn’t come here for no trouble. I’m goin’.”
He backed up and then walked backwards down the hill, tripping over the fishing line and rattling a host of tin plates and cups that had been rigged to it. The men laughed as he picked himself up and ran down the hill.
“What d’ ya’ think he was wantin’ with Andy, pa’?” Asked one of the men.
“I don’t know, but you two better go on an’ check th’ still. Somethin’ don’t smell right about that boy.”
“Sure thing, Pop.”
The two younger men hopped in the old truck that sat in front of the shack and headed off down the road. Abel Higgins watched them go, then turned inside the shack again and barred the door behind him.
“Mr. Higgins, sir, I sure didn’t want it to come t’ this, but I reckon I need to talk to ya’.”
Abel spun around to find Enos Strate standing in his living room, aiming a shotgun at him.
“Wha…wh…how did you get in here?”
“Moonshiners’ cabins always have a back door, Mr. Higgins, or did ya’ forget I grew up in these parts?”
“What d’ ya want from me? I ain’t goin’ t’ prison, so you can jest shoot me if that’s what you’re after.”
“I’m not here after your still, I just need t’ know where I can find your son. I need t’ ask him some questions.”
“‘Bout what?”
“About some missin’ girls.”
The man looked confused. “Missin’ girls? You mean you think my Andy’s messed up with these murders been goin’ on? Andy might be guilty o’ some illegal profiteerin’, but he ain’t no murderer!”
“If I could talk to him, he could clear that right up.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Able jumped back a foot as Enos pumped a shell into the chamber. “I’m not rightly sure I made myself clear on how important it is for me to find him.”
“I swear, I ain’t seen him fer a couple weeks or more! He spends all his time up at Josh Hooper’s.”
“Where’s that at?”
“The old Adam’s place up on North Fork.”
“I’m mighty obliged to ya’, Mr. Higgins,” said Enos, lowering the shotgun. “I hope ya’ don’t have no hard feelin’s over this. Good day to ya’.” He turned and left out the back door, down through the woods to his car. He picked up his CB.
“Sheriff, this is Enos, are you there? Over.” The radio buzzed with static. He was almost out of range and when he headed up North Fork he probably wouldn’t get any reception at all.
“Enos, this is Rosco. What’s your 20? Over.”
“I just visited Abel Higgins, but he hasn’t seen Andy in a while. You know anything about this Josh Hooper who’s up in North Fork?”
“Enos, I don’t follow the genealogy of criminals.”
“What makes you think he’s a criminal, Sheriff?”
“You dipstick! Ever’body knows that ever’body up there’s either makin’ shine, runnin’ it, or growin’ wacky weed. Over an’ out.”
“If you say so, Sheriff.” Enos rolled his eyes and put the CB away. Rosco couldn’t, wouldn’t, and didn’t try to understand the people who lived up in the hills. His father had been the Sheriff before him and his grandfather before him. The Coltranes had been after the Dukes, Strates, Davenports, McCullums, and Petersdorfs for generations. Enos was the exception to the rule.
North Fork was the next hill over, but on these roads it would still take a good half hour to get there. He didn’t know Josh Hooper and couldn’t recall any Hooper’s that had ever lived up in these parts. Maybe he was a drifter in from another county, but like as not, Rosco was probably right – if he wasn’t making shine, he was probably growing weed. Lots of the younger generation who drifted in were. Enos took off the coat he’d borrowed from Uncle Jesse and grabbed his bomber jacket with the LAPD insignia on it from the back seat instead. He checked the time. It was already 11:30 a.m., and at this rate he was getting nowhere fast. He pulled back out onto the dirt road and headed back up the mountain.
About 20 minutes later he pulled up in front of the old farmhouse that he remembered as belonging to the Adam’s family, now one Josh Hooper. He’d debated just staking the place out to see if Andy showed up, but he didn’t have much time and with his luck no one would show up until tomorrow, or not at all. A guy, looking to be in his mid 20’s, overweight and unshaven, sat in a lawn chair in front of the house, smoking a reefer. Enos grabbed his handcuffs from the glove compartment, stuck them in his pocket, and got out of the car.
“Hi there,” he said, walking up to the man who was obviously very stoned. “I’m lookin’ for Andy. That you?”
The man looked at Enos sleepily. “Naw, man, I ain’t seen Andy since last week,” he drawled.
“Are you Josh?”
“It depends on who’s lookin’…”
“I heard you an’ Andy are pretty close. Where’s he hole up when he’s not here or at his pa’s?”
“I ain’t gotta tell you nothin’,” he said, taking another toke of the weed. “You don’t look like a feller he’d wanna be talkin’ to anyway, so run on.”
Enos kicked the base of the lawn chair, spilling the man out of it onto the ground where he floundered around like a beached whale.
“Hey, man! What the…”
Enos flipped him over and cuffed his hands behind him. “You’re under arrest for possession of marijuana. Get up!” Enos hauled him to his feet and pushed him towards his car. “You can stay in jail until you feel like tellin’ me where your friend is.”
“No way! You can’t do this! I got rights…”
“So do I, Buddy Roe. If I’s you, I’d start talkin’.”
The door of the Sheriff’s Department slammed open, rattling the blinds on the other side, and making Cletus jump as Enos half pushed, half dragged Josh Hooper into the booking room. Rosco came out of the office to see what all the ruckus was.
“Enos, what in tarnation are ya’ bringin’ that riffraff in for?”
“He’s…uh…Get up, I can’t carry ya’!…He’s going in a cell ’till he remembers where Andy Higgins is.”
“Now, uh look, Enos…I know Boss turned a blind eye to it – God rest his little, fat, chubby soul – but ya’ can’t just lock someone up for no reason.”
“He was smokin’ dope, too.”
“Ooo…naughty, naughty,” Rosco brushed his index fingers together at the man. “Shame, shame, everybody knows your name. Cletus! Don’t just sit there like a frog on a log, help Enos take him downstairs.”
“Yes sir, Sheriff!” Cletus hopped up and grabbed the man’s other arm. Together he and Enos dragged the man, who now seemed to be asleep and was snoring loudly, down the stairs to the first holding cell and tossed him onto the bed.
“He don’t look too cooperative,” commented Cletus.
Enos shook his head. “I’m running outta ideas, Cletus. Findin’ Andy an’ his truck’s turnin’ out to be like findin’ a needle in a haystack.”