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  OZARK RETREAT

  by Jerry D. Young

  Published by Creative Texts Publishers

  PO Box 50

  Barto, PA 19504

  www.creativetexts.com

  Copyright 2006-2016 by Jerry D. Young

  All rights reserved

  Cover photo modified and used by license.

  Credit: Jess Wood

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, businesses, and incidents is strictly coincidental. Locations are used only in the general sense and do not represent the real place in actuality.

  ISBN: 978-0692429198

  OZARK RETREAT

  By

  JERRY D. YOUNG

  OZARK RETREAT: PART ONE

  PROLOGUE

  Brady Collingsworth watched with interest as the two men approached the bank. They seemed to be more interested in what was behind them, than what was in front. Both wore camel trench coats and baseball caps. New York Yankees. Both had both their hands in their coat pockets. It just didn’t seem that cool to Brady. Not cool enough to be dressed the way they were.

  Picking up the microphone for the radio installed in the Suburban, Brady keyed it and said, “Barbara, get the police on the line and tell them there is some suspicious activity going on in front of Midland Bank.”

  “Sure thing, Boss. Don’t do anything stupid,” came the reply from the radio speaker.

  “Stupid is relative,” Brady said to no one as he exited the Suburban. He checked the street both ways and then sauntered across it, headed toward the bank entrance. He didn’t go to the doors. Instead, he stopped at the edge of the rock façade of the building and squatted down. He took a small periscope from a pocket in the leather jacket he wore and took a long look around the corner of the entryway vestibule, through the glass doors, into the bank.

  Sure enough, the two men were robbing the bank. One held a semi-auto pistol, and the other a short double barrel shotgun. Apparently the robbery was going okay. There had been no shots, and both men, while looking somewhat jittery, seemed calm enough.

  Everyone he could see, except the perpetrators, was lying on the floor, arms outstretched. Brady stood, put his back against the wall of the building and waited. Hopefully the police would show up within a minute or two. Barbara could be pretty persuasive, when she set her mind to it.

  But it was not to be. He heard the outer airlock door open. Spinning around, Brady stepped out, directly in front of the two men. A quick punch to the face of the man on Brady’s left, and a kick to the side of the knee of the other one put both men down almost instantly.

  Another moment and both were disarmed. Brady took the weapons and the trash bag of money and set them inside the airlock. Already people were approaching the doors from inside the bank.

  Brady smiled and tipped his grey fedora to them. With that he turned around and left the vestibule. He immediately turned left and began to run. He saw a car pullout of a parking spot well down the block. He cut between two cars and ran into the street. The driver of the car slammed on the brakes and swerved to try to avoid Brady.

  Spinning to one side, the car went slightly past him. The windows were all down in the car and Brady reached in, jabbing the driver in the throat with stiff fingers. The car was still rolling slowly as the man gasped for breath. The doors were unlocked and Brady opened it. Reaching across the driver’s legs, Brady slammed the gearshift into park and the car came to an abrupt halt.

  Keys in hand Brady backed out of the car and walked toward the police cruiser that had just pulled up. “Hi, Jonesy,” Brady said as the officer rolled down his window. He handed Jonesy the keys he had pulled from the ignition of the robbers’ getaway car.

  “You might want some backup and an ambulance. There’re three of them. Catch me down at the office in a little while and I’ll give my statement. I have an appointment to keep.”

  Jonesy knew it wouldn’t do any good to protest. He’d have to shoot Collingsworth to stop him, because he sure couldn’t stop him physically. The man must have a dozen black belts in as many martial arts disciplines. He was the unarmed combat trainer for the city’s small police force.

  Jonesy was calling in for assistance as Brady walked back to his Suburban. People were standing in front of the bank, holding the robbers at the point of their own guns. When they saw him they started pointing and calling out to him.

  Brady ignored the fuss and climbed into the Suburban. He pulled out of the parking space and drove away. He did have an appointment to get to. He didn’t relish it. Twenty minutes later he was giving the bad news to Winchester Sanders, owner of Midland Bank, as well as two others in nearby cities.

  “Yes, sir,” Brady said, “They hit the bank just a little while ago. They didn’t get away. Even if they don’t squeal on your son, I have to give the police what I have. A crime has been committed and I have knowledge of it. I have to protect my license.”

  “I understand, Brady. I wasn’t going to ask you to lie. I’m not sure I could have turned him in, but the fact that it is going to happen, I don’t have a problem with. I’ll cut you a check.”

  “Don’t worry about it right now. We’ll bill the bank in a few days. You need to concentrate on your son, and protecting your interests. When the news about your son’s embezzlement and the attempted robbery to cover it up breaks, you could have trouble from the regulators and the patrons of the bank.”

  Winchester nodded. He stood up behind the desk and leaned forward to shake Brady’s hand. “Thank you for keeping it quiet as long as you were able, and making it as easy as possible.”

  Brady was waiting for Detective Lieutenant Sandra Harrison when she arrived at his small office suite downtown. Barbara showed her right in. “Darn it, Brady! You have to quit leaving the scenes of crimes like that!”

  “I told Jonesy I had an appointment to keep. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Of course he told me. That doesn’t make any difference. If it was anyone but me, they’d have you in the station, in a cell, along with the bank perps.”

  Brady leaned back in the leather upholstered chair and crossed his ankles on the corner of his desk. He tossed a file folder across the desk. Sandra caught it as it slid over the edge. “That’s a copy of what I have. I wouldn’t wait too long on Sonny. His father will most likely let him run, despite what he told me.”

  Sandra was reading the case file. “I’ve got to go,” she said quickly and turned toward the door of the inner office. “You will come down to the station to make your statement. And that isn’t a question.”

  Barbara stuck her head around the edge of the door after Sandra had left. “What’s next, Boss?”

  “What’s pressing?”

  “Harry is handling the small stuff. But the cult brain washing case has him spooked.”

  “Bring me the file.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brady brought the Suburban to a halt by the fuel pumps of the Mini-Mart. It had been a long drive down to the Ozarks. He stretched before he began fueling the Suburban with gasoline. He looked around the area with interest. He switched the nozzle to the second tank
the Suburban boasted and watched a tourist family take the place by storm. They all wore bright shirts, and khaki shorts. Sandals with socks. Camera straps were around every neck.

  With a quick turn, he avoided one of the family from getting a shot of his face as they took pictures of him and the Suburban.

  “Hey mister,” said what looked to be a twelve-year-old boy came up to Brady. “Are you one of them survivalists we heard about down here?”

  Brady smiled. “No, son, I’m not.”

  “Truck sure looks like it. But it isn’t camouflaged so I guess it can’t be. My daddy says they all drive big four wheel trucks and stuff and run around in camouflage shooting people they don’t like with guns.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Brady said. “I’m just a tourist like you.”

  “Don’t look like a tourist, either,” the youth said. But he turned around and ran over to his mother, who was holding out an ice cream bar for him.

  Brady finished fueling. He’d paid with a credit card at the pump, but he went inside to take a look around after he’d cleaned the bugs off the windshield. Typical tourist area Mini-Mart. He got an Arizona bottled iced tea and went up to the counter to pay for the purchase. A pimply faced high school aged girl was behind the register.

  “Hey, mister,” she said as she took his money, “That’s a nice truck. What lift do you have under it? My boyfriend has one with a twelve-inch lift. It’s cool.”

  “Two inches,” Brady replied.

  “That’s not very much,” she said. “You should lift it higher. Be a lot more cool.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. See you around.” He picked up one of the free local maps.

  Brady went back out to the Suburban and climbed in. He checked the itinerary Barbara had given him for the address of the hotel she had booked him. After unfolding the map, he found the address and headed for the hotel.

  After settling in, and checking a few addresses and phone numbers in the telephone directory, Brady went scouting the town. Branson, Missouri, for a tourist town, he decided, wasn’t too bad. Of course it was based on a down home, rural precept. They did it well, he thought.

  He checked in to the Taney County Sheriff’s office over in Forsyth after he checked into the hotel. He showed his detective’s credentials and concealed carry permit. They weren’t particularly happy with the idea, but didn’t raise too many objections about him following up leads on his case. Brady did the same thing at the Branson City Police department. Again, he didn’t get a hearty tourist’s welcome, but the same offer of limited cooperation for cooperation on his part that the county had given him, and admonition to keep things legal.

  Neither agency could provide him with any useable information on cults in the area. The only thing that came up was Survivalists. The boy at the Mini-Mart had mention survivalists. The hotel had a good internet connection. He used his computer with it to do some research on Survivalists. Brady found himself time and again leaving the specific search to go off on interesting tangents about the actual survival subjects.

  After he logged off and had supper at one of the local restaurants, he decided to see a show. He was smiling when he returned to the hotel. Branson was a nice place to visit.

  The following morning, he went back to work. It involved casually probing questions of people that would be likely to have any contact with cults. Including Survivalists. They didn’t seem to have any contact with the tourist part of Branson, except for the old time crafts presenters. It seemed a few survival minded people had asked those doing the demonstrations to give some private lessons. Many of the experts were happy to do so, for a fee.

  Brady continued to ask questions, concentrating now on the locals. He just wasn’t getting much information. Definitely not about cults. But the subject of Survivalists kept popping up.

  Partly out of curiosity, partly from the growing belief that the cult his client had said his daughter had joined was a Survivalist Group, Brady began concentrating on that angle. He did two things, starting that second week of investigation. He booked a light charter aircraft at the Springfield-Branson Regional Airport for a flight over the area. He also contacted half a dozen real estate agencies in the area.

  He took his digital mini-cam with him on the flight and recorded everything that looked like his recently developed ideas of a Survivalist compound. He included enough landmark shots to be able to pinpoint each one from the ground. It cost a bundle, but Brady felt it worth it. He had lots of possibilities to check out.

  He told each of the real estate agents what he was looking for in the way of land acquisition. It was based on the same ideas he used for checking properties during the flight. One agent immediately asked if he was one of those ‘Survivalists’.

  “Why,” Brady asked, “Does it make a difference?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really, but it helps me define what to look for, for you. I sold one piece of property much like you say you want. When I asked them if they were, they denied it. My husband is a prepper and he was sure that’s what the land was purchased for.”

  “The buyers put in a compound?” Brady asked.

  “No, I haven’t seen any development on the property at all. It’s not too far from where I live. I could check with the owners and see if they are interested in selling.”

  “Let’s leave that option open, but concentrate on properties already on, or coming onto the market.”

  Brady began checking the properties he’d seen from the air. He used the same spiel in each case. “Hi. I’m Brady. I’m thinking about buying a compound up here and wanted to meet my neighbors. Get some advice on wells and such. LaRhonda Richards put me onto the area.” LaRhonda Richards was the woman he was trying to find.

  Most of the places had locked gates or looked like they weren’t currently inhabited. The ones with locked gates he knew he would just have to observe until he could catch someone arriving or leaving. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do that. He could, but it was tiresome work.

  The real estate agents began contacting him the third week he was in the area. A couple of them had access to some of the locked properties. They were up for sale. He kept looking. Brady was about to decide to start surveillance on the other locked down properties when he noticed the person he was talking to at one of the sites he’d found from the air reacted to his use of the name LaRhonda.

  The fellow didn’t say yea or nay about her, but Brady knew the signs. The man knew her. Brady actually got quite a bit of useful information about building in the area before he used LaRhonda’s name. The man shut down then and made an excuse to go back inside the confines of the compound.

  It was only a matter of time now that he had location pinpointed. He could concentrate on this compound. Brady didn’t cancel the real estate agents’ searches, but he wasn’t quite sure why.

  It wasn’t that difficult to finally contact her. All it took was a letter addressed to the street address of the place with his cellular telephone number. Brady decided after the first barrage of cussing that he probably had LaRhonda on the other end of the line.

  She finally calmed down. “Your father is only concerned about your welfare. If you are tied up with a cult you could be in danger.”

  “We’re not a cult. It’s not like the media portrays us. We’re just people trying to prepare for bad times. Don’t you listen to and see the news every day? It’s just a matter of time before we have a nuclear war, bio-chemical war, or something.”

  Brady watched the voice stress analyzer as she talked. All indications were that she was telling the truth. He trusted his judgment as much as he did the voice stress analyzer. He believed her.

  “I’d like to come out there and meet with you, with your friends around you. If I’m convinced you are okay, I’ll tell your father as much.”

  “You’re willing to come out here by yourself? What if we are what you say?”

  “Then I’ll be right and you lied to me. I believe you, but I owe it to your father to
confirm it in person.”

  “Hang on.”

  Brady could hear discussion going on in the background. LaRhonda came back onto the line and said, “Sam says it is okay. But be warned, they won’t let you take me away, even if you have help.”

  “I’m not going to try to take you away, based on what you’ve said.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Someone will meet you at the gate. You’d better come by yourself.”

  “I will. You have my word.”

  After LaRhonda broke the connection Brady leaned back in the hotel chair and relaxed. He might be running into trouble tomorrow at 2:00 PM, but he was prepared to handle it.

  “Prepared,” he thought. “Interesting word.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brady was prompt. He showed up at the gate right at 2:00 PM. Of course, he’d been parked down the road quite a ways and had scouted the compound from the cover of the forest surrounding it.

  He saw six houses, a barn, large outdoor garden, an orchard, and a greenhouse, a couple other outbuildings and people working here and there. There was no sign of armed guards circulating. All the men and most of the women he saw did have holstered handguns.

  “Clever,” Brady thought when he noticed the blackberry bushes surrounding the compound. He wouldn’t want to try to push his way through those.

  The man was curt at the gate. It was the same one he’d talked to previously. He too was wearing a holstered pistol. “You Collingsworth?” At Brady’s nod, he unchained the gate and swung it open. It put him on the driver’s side of the Suburban.

  A rather begrudging “Nice truck,” passed the man’s lips as Brady drove past. “Just follow the road. Someone will meet you at the compound.”

  There was a welcoming committee. Brady judged it to be half the population of the compound. No children. He stopped the Suburban next to a small line of vehicles. He noted that they were all older models.