Strawman's Hammock by Darryl Wimberley Page B

belt.
    â€œWhere the hell exactly are we?”
    â€œI’d guess one and a half, maybe two miles off the sand road. Not too far from the coast.”
    â€œThere a name for this place?”
    â€œMmmhmm.” Jarold nodded. “Strawman’s Hammock.”
    Barrett paused. He had heard of the Hammock. There were all sorts of stories. Ghosts, bogey men. Witches.
    You don’t behave, young’un, I’m agonna take you down to the Hammock, leave your black ass onna stump!
    Barrett followed Jarold’s lead to debark from the Jeep.
    â€œLooks like it’d be a hunter’s paradise,” he remarked.
    â€œNo,” the warden disagreed shortly.
    â€œNo? Why not?”
    â€œâ€™Cause hunters have got lazy, Bear. They won’t get off the road fifty yards if they can help it. And nobody stalks game on foot anymore. Not even bowhunters. They just get in their blinds or up a tree and wait for it.”
    â€œIf you leased this land somebody’d hunt it. They’d put in roads. And blinds.”
    Jarold nodded. “Paper mill in Perry wants to do just that. They been tryin’ to buy this land, what I understand, for months. But there’s some legal problem with title, or squatter’s rights. I don’t know the details.”
    Barrett gazed over the pond.
    â€œMaybe our man just came in to fish.”
    â€œHe’d’ve had to know there was a pond,” Jarold pointed out. “Outside aerial photography, I don’t know how he’d find this one.”
    â€œAccident, maybe.” Barrett slapped a gnat off his face. “Or maybe he was just exploring.”
    Jarold remained quiet.
    â€œSomething botherin’ you, Jarold?”
    â€œThis ain’t the first fellah took a sudden interest in exploring Strawman’s Hammock. I was driving out this way a month, maybe a month and a half ago, on the Suwannee side, and I saw where maybe four or five vehicles had pulled off the road and into these woods. I followed the tracks right to this pond, pretty sure it was this pond. If it is, there’s a shack on the other side. Some old cracker shack.”
    â€œSounds like a place for hunters to me.”
    The warden shook his narrow head. “Nuh uh. You find hunters camping, you’re gonna see things. There’s gonna be a latrine. Someplace to bury the skinnings. Usually toilet paper or beer cans—they never clean up right.
    â€œBut this place looked scrubbed. I didn’t see a soda can or a campfire, much less any sign of field dressing. But I did find a condom.”
    â€œCondom?” Barrett fell in beside Pearson as the warden stepped out to follow the water’s edge. “Long way to come for poontang.”
    â€œLong way for anyone,” Jarold agreed without looking back. “And there must’ve been three … four vehicles come in here. I thought, well … if you wanted to have a party … be hard to find a place much more out of the way than this.”
    â€œProbably.” Barrett found he had to stretch to keep up with the game warden. “But Jarold … you don’t mind … I’m mostly interested in Mexicans.”
    Again without breaking stride or looking back, Jarold pulled what looked like a credit card from the breast pocket of his olive green and handed it back.
    â€œIt’s a phone card,” the warden tossed over his shoulder. “The migrants, they all get ’em. To call back home, I guess. Or Texas.”
    Barrett took the card. “You found this at the shack?”
    â€œWays off from it. On the way back to the county road.”
    It was a Sprint calling card. Barrett pocketed the item.
    â€œWe should be able to see who made the purchase. See where they called. But unless the place is being used now—”
    â€œOh, it’s being used,” Jarold said. “I’m just about positive of that. I just don’t know for—Hold up.