Andrew “Ash” Jackson got his name from the rumor his old man killed the ash tree growin’ out in their front yard by cuttin’ switches off it to use on Ash. Ash’s only visible means of support was a occasional odd job of the sort that’s short on effort an’ long on financial gain. An’ he weren’t known to be particular about ethics or legal niceties. He was such a good liar, he even fooled me sometimes, but he had so little respect for other people’s intelligence, he didn’t bother keepin’ his stories straight. If he had, he’d a been dangerous.
Since nobody I’d axed about him’d seen him, I figured a little visit to his place would be in order. It’s out off County C, a half mile south of the east-west interstate. I headed out right after breakfast. The driveway’s a quarter mile long, unpaved dirt, just wheel ruts separated by foot-tall grass. The grass cleaned off the bottom of my car real well by the time I pulled up to the door.
I sat in the car a while. Ash claimed to live alone, an’ his truck weren’t there, but just in case he had relatives stayin’, I wanted to give ’em time to git ready for visitors. Folks in these parts are the soul of hospitality, but they don’t take kindly to surprises. An’ they all have guns.
The house’d been white once, prob’ly ’fore Ash was born. It was a small, wood frame affair with a porch across the whole front, shaded by the roof overhang. The house faces north, an’ moss completely covered the roof, which’d been shingled, but so long ago you couldn’t tell what color it’d been. After about five minutes, by which time I’d taken note of everythin’ there was to notice in the front, I got out an’ moseyed up to the front door. No one answered when I knocked. By this time, I was pretty sure no one would. The grass in the drive didn’t seem to have been disturbed in some time, an’ there weren’t any other signs of recent activity. Ash must’a been outta town.
There wasn’t any fence or NO TRESPASSING signs around, so I sauntered ’round back, lookin’ in all the windows that didn’t have the shades pulled. Inside, I could see a big-screen TV an’ a state-of-the-art CD/stereo. Out back was a satellite dish. On the back porch under the eaves, in a padlocked cage welded together out of rebar, there was a gas-powered generator to run the equipment when County Power’s lines was down. Ash wasn’t doin’ too bad.
I went back to the front an’ left a note shoved between the screen door an’ the jamb. It said, ASH, LOOK ME UP ASAP. DEPUTY SHERIFF DETERS