Page 29 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Whoever was driving the pickup had left it idling near the old pine tree, where he’d set up a picnic table that he used for target practice. Each Sunday afternoon, he’d line up his empties from the week and take aim. Though it had been a long while since he was in the army, he could still shoot the hell out of a Budweiser can at a hundred yards.

It took him a second to recognize the man who was striding toward the front porch. Dressed head to toe in camouflage, he’d been to Alfred’s home before. A customer. A good-paying customer at that.

General let out a low, warning growl.

“Hush!” Alfred said, and the dog instantly quieted, though his droopy-eyed gaze followed the visitor. Through the screen door, he greeted the taller man. “Howdy. You here on business?” It was a superfluous question; they both knew the answer.

“Yeah.”

“How many this time?”

“Not sure. But a few. Let’s see what ya got.”

Alfred was nodding and wondering just how much he could charge. He didn’t want to lose the guy as a customer, but he had expenses to cover, and now that his logging days were over, he was on a fixed income. “Okay. Let’s go out back and take a look.”

Without further ado, he grabbed his keys and walked outside, down the long front porch and around the side of the house, where Alfred had several old trucks parked, all in various states of repair, another side occupation.

He unlocked the shed in the back of the house, then once inside, rolled up the old rag rug and found the trapdoor. He climbed down the ladder first, flipped the switch, and illuminated the concrete bunker, which he’d built himself. It was rudimentary but had everything he needed down here. Heat, light, water, and cases of canned goods. The place was ventilated too, and there was a toilet of sorts, though he hated to think that if there was ever a nuclear blast he’d be stuck down here waiting who knew how long for the radiation to dispel. He knew that idea to be a fool’s game, but the bunker was here, just in case, and in the meantime he used it for another purpose.

For his babies.

The walls were lined floor to ceiling with Plexiglas-and-wood cages he’d constructed himself. Some held sand or mulch with ladders or fake tree limbs, along with the water and lights on timers. Most important, each terrarium housed one of his snakes.

He felt a swell of pride as he watched them move slowly in their cages, their eyes bright, their tongues flicking in exploration, the beauty of their scales glistening as they moved. It was in Vietnam that he’d first become fascinated with the pit vipers, cobras, and kraits of Southeast Asia. Here, in the hills of Georgia, on his grandfather’s old estate, he’d decided to catch his own domestics and sell them.

Rat snakes, milk snakes, black racers, and hognoses—you name it, he had most of the nonvenomous kind, but Alfred knew that this customer, like so many of his, was interested only in his babies who had fangs.

“What would you like?”

His client walked to the far wall, where he eyed the terrariums for rattlers, corals, copperheads, and water moccasins.

“Coral snakes this time,” he said, eyeing several cages. “At least to start with.”

My banded babies, Alfred thought as he eyed the colorful rings on the coral snakes. Red on yellow, kill a fellow. Red on black, friend of Jack. These were definitely red on yellow.

“And let’s make it three. That should do. Now, how about the copperheads?”

 

; “Got a fine lot,” Alfred bragged, showing the client his three largest—beauties each one, and a little different in size and color.

“They are. I’ll take all three.”

“Really?” Alfred was already counting the dollars in his head. He was thinking that this week he could buy the more expensive whiskey that was displayed on a higher shelf at Marty’s Liquor Store, a luxury he rarely afforded himself, as practical as he was. Things were definitely looking up.

“Yep. That’ll do it, I think.” The customer looked him squarely in the eye and reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Alfred wanted to bargain, start high, then accept something a little lower so that the customer would return. He never wanted to lose a customer since his business wasn’t exactly sanctioned by the state of Georgia, but this guy worried Alfred a little. He was just one of those dudes you knew instinctively not to push too far; he looked like he might have a hair-trigger temper.

None of his clients were mainstream, of course, but this one, there was something a little unnerving about him. Still, they dickered a little over the cost, settled on a price that warmed Alfred from the inside out. Once the cash was exchanged, Alfred found his hook and tongs and began fishing out three of the best corals he’d caught in the last year, feisty little things that curled over the tongs.

The client handed him a leather pouch, one with holes in it, and swore he’d take them directly back to wherever the hell it was he came from and put them in a terrarium he’d made himself.

“I’ve seen yours, decided to build my own.”

“Well, that’s good.” Alfred dropped the snakes, one by one, carefully into the pouch, and felt a pang to see them go. He’d caught each one himself, in the wilds of Georgia, and it pained him a little to know that he’d never look into their faces again.

The same was true of the copperheads, which took a little more work and were put into separate pouches, again with tiny little air holes. At least this customer came prepared.

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