COUNTY ROAD 44

            Shane Jacobs sat in the warmth of his SUV while it idled on the snow-packed country road.  He gazed out to his left across a field that barely revealed the studded remains of the harvested corn rows above the snow.  The only trees were to the right of the cornfield—a far-off row of bois d’arc that lined a stretch of wire fence and separated neighboring fields.  Jacobs lowered the window and peered through his Nikon Monarch 5 binoculars, scanned from the tree line across the field, then stopped when he saw an old, weathered hay barn.  The side doors of the barn were closed to the elements, and what resided inside he couldn’t be sure, but what really caught his attention was the loft door, which hung at an angle due to a broken hinge. This could be a great hide, he thought.  Much better than a hedge row.  He lowered the binoculars then looked to his right across another field, a twin to the one on his left save a brushy draw that branched out like a Y towards another hedge row.  What lay in the hazy distance could be seen by the naked eye, but he needed more clarity.  He lowered the passenger side window and brought the binoculars back up to his eyes.  The brisk winter wind quickly consumed the interior of the SUV and the cold air made him blink several times to maintain focus.  There it was: The Potter farm.  The white two-story farmhouse, vintage red barn, towering blue silo, galvanized machinery shed.  All were well within range, he was sure, but neither of those buildings interested him.  He continued to scan the farm with the binoculars. There you are, you son of a bitch.  The farm hand’s trailer.  A grimy two-tone metal structure that at one time would have been a subtle tan and beige but now looked like grungy shades of gray.  The hijacked home inhabited by none only than Black Hawk County public enemy number one: Doug Griswold.

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Jacobs set the binoculars in the passenger seat then lifted the levers on each of the automatic windows.  The low hum of the heater fan now took the place of the whining wintry wind that previously drew in from both windows.  A call came over his police radio, but it wasn't for him, so he turned down the volume to concentrate.  He stared at the Potter farm, then glanced back to his left where the old, weathered barn resided and was confident it was the best choice, but he had to find a good way to it, and see inside.  There were many elements of risk.  Nothing was that easy.

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He drove to County Road 44, which would be the closest to the barn, but close wasn’t always the answer.  For now he wanted to study the area, the neighbors or potential bystanders, the lay of the land, any other obstacles that might make this hide too risky.  Not that being a DCI agent wasn’t a good excuse to be traveling the country roads, but the law wasn’t exempt from trespassing, nor would the siting of a strange car be easy to forget.  Maybe only 20 or 30 cars passed these roads on any given day, most known to the neighborhood, so seeing a state law enforcement vehicle would receive a harder, longer glance.  State license plates might as well be accented with a blinking red arrow, because they are easily noticed.  For this reason alone, Jacobs knew, he would need to use a different car.  One quality he understood about farmers, especially those who had lived in the area for multiple generations, they observed the most minute things, especially changes in routine or appearance.  If something was out of whack, they were usually quick to inquire.  They also noticed when someone had been trespassing on their land.  The easiest to ascertain were tire tracks. They knew their own, the tire widths, the axel widths, especially tracks in the mud or snow, which would be unavoidable this time of year.

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Over the course of an hour, he passed two pickup trucks and a John Deere tractor with an enclosed cab, hauling a large round bale of hay on the back.  Each of the drivers waved at him, as was customary in the countryside, law enforcement or not, or whether they knew him or not.  He was sure they questioned as to why he was on their road and was certain they noticed his state license plate.  Being that Doug Griswold, known drug dealer, rapist, host to many biker parties, and pain in the local sheriff’s ass, lived nearby, they were accustomed to seeing patrol.  Nevertheless, his presence was surely to be mentioned at the next cafe coffee gathering.

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As he turned onto an intersecting road he saw another vehicle, an SUV similar to his own Ford Explorer, only maroon in color, dirty with road grime, with its emergency flashers on.  A “U.S. Mail” sign was promptly displayed behind the windshield.  The driver, who customarily sat on the passenger side, appeared to be a man of about 60, a full gray beard, a brown duck coat and dark blue U.S. Mail knit cap.  The man waved at Jacobs and he kindly returned the greeting.  After passing the vehicle Jacobs looked in the review mirror and observed another U.S. Mail sign stuck on the back window.  Six days a week that vehicle drove down these roads.  Probably about the same time every day.  No one in the neighborhood would think anything odd about seeing him.  In fact, they would expect it.  Jacobs grabbed his black stocking hat stuffed in a side pocket on his door and put it on his head.  He looked at himself in the review mirror and compared his goatee bearded face with the image of the mailman’s.  Yeah, he thought. It’s possible.

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When the mail carrier was out of site Jacobs pulled over to the side of the road to think about what he had just seen.  It might work.  It just might work. 

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Jacobs looked to his right, and on a ridge a mile away stood the white Victorian home of Jerry and Martha Farnsworth.  He knew of the couple.  Early seventies.  Retired.  Lived in Mesa, Arizona, during the winter.  Jerry, a fourth-generation corn grower and cattle farmer, now rented his farm to a sharecropper.  Jacobs wasn’t sure who rented the farm, but he’d have to find out.  It was a place for potential eyewitnesses and the closest to the Potter farm, and even closer to the weathered barn.  A common fact about Rural Iowa was that everybody knew everybody, and there was always someone willing to talk a little too much about what they knew.  Some would say it was an element of nosiness, others would cite boredom, or loneliness, but regardless, these people came in handy when law enforcement needed information.  This made Jacobs think of Debbie at the Corn Crib Cafe in New Hartford.  They made a good pork tenderloin sandwich.  He looked at the time on his instrument panel. 11:30 a.m.  Almost lunchtime.

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His thoughts were interrupted by the SYNC ringtone of his SUV and by the name displayed on the instrument panel.  It was fellow agent Ryan Isaacs.  Jacobs wished he had shut his phone off, but what was done was done.  He pressed the button on his steering wheel and answered.

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“What’s up?”

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Isaacs’s gravelly voice came loudly through the speakers.  It was common for him to raise his voice when he was outside or at a crime scene. “Tried to call several times, so you got a couple of voice mails. Couldn’t get you on the radio either.”

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Cellular signals were spotty in rural areas, and this is where most people would try to explain themselves, but Jacobs hated doing so.  Besides, it would require a lie, and lying was a habit that he tried to avoid. “Sorry, what’s up?”

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“Well, put on your parka and snow boots. We have a floater at Hickory Hills.”

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“Floater? There must be two-foot of ice on that lake.”

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“Exactly.  And this one is underneath it.”

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“Interesting.”  Jacobs let out a long breath through his nose then glanced again at the clock on the instrument panel. “Okay, on my way.”

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I guess I’ll have a tenderloin sandwich for supper, he thought.