Hutch didn’t know if Flannery not only died with land, but also with money.
From town talk, Hutch did know the man’s family went balls to the wall to beat that will.
But, if town talk about the perpetual legal battle was correct, the people who inhabited that land before the Flannerys were Native Americans.After well over a hundred and fifty years on that property, the loss of it to some stranger, who apparently helped the old guy out in his later years, and got one hell of a reward, was going to be a blow.
So maybe Flannery had money too.
Either that, or more hinky shit than what was already hinky was happening on that patch.
He made his truck, pulled off the camo net, stored it, opened his truck, stowed his gear and got in the cab, jacking up the heat.
He waited behind the tree line until he saw no cars in the distance in either direction, and only then pulled out.
He drove into Mabel’s drive, even knowing she’d had plenty of time to get down to the feedstore and back.If she was home and didn’t like what he was about to do, she could follow him around and ream his ass, but she’d be doing it while he did what he had to do.
Her sweet red pickup wasn’t in the front of the cabin or the carport.
Not a surprise.
If you drove into town, even if it was for a quick errand, you found other errands to run to make it worthwhile to drive into town.
Hutch ignored the tightness in his chest when he saw she wasn’t home, parked, got out, and did what he had to do.Namely walking the perimeter of the woods to see if he could find tracks or surveillance cameras.
He found tracks all right, in the south wood, and they were not a woman’s.
Fortunately, he didn’t find cameras.
He headed back to his truck, peeled off his wet fleece, got in, pulled out of Mabel’s and drove onward three quarters of a mile until the dirt lane that led up to his house came into view on the opposite side of the road to Mabel’s.
He had two logs planted vertically on either side of his lane.Both had signs that saidPrivate Propertyin orange neon on black.
Pretty much everyone on this patch had the same.
Poachers poached.
Tourists were invariably idiots.
But most people could read.
When he got home, he parked his truck, took his gear inside, stowed it, then changed his jeans, pulled on a clean, dry fleece, got his dog and went back out to the dual line of chain link, sectioned fencing that served as his large dog pens.
Plenty of room in each for a dog to roam, but in the back, right corner was a small, insulated shed that had plenty of old blankets inside for warmth.
They’d been fed in the morning, it wasn’t time for their second feeding, but he checked water bowls, took a few out for exercise and drills, gave them some love, put them back and headed to the house.
He sat at his kitchen table and pulled out his phone.
He’d thought about it on his hike, made his decision, and as such, called Rus.
“How’s it going, Hutch?”Rus answered.
“Took a hike with some long range binos.Shit is hinky at The Lion and The Lamb.”
Rus said nothing.
“The Feds aware of these fucks?”Hutch asked.
“Do you know Mabel Adams?”Rus asked in return.
