Free Legwork by Katy Munger

you’d wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it by now. So cut the crap and act like a man and show yourself.”
    Amazing how well that works. Threaten their manhood and the boys will come running. This one didn’t run, exactly, but he did step out of the shadows surrounding a grove of birch trees and tramp through the grass to the edge of the riverbank. He was tall, with a head full of wiry auburn hair and a red billy goat goatee dangling from his chin. He was dressed in a red and white checked flannel work shirt with the sleeves cut off, a pair of well- worn jeans and sturdy hiking boots. He stood quietly, holding his crossbow and regarding me with complete calm. It was a good sign. At least one of us was calm at that moment.
    “I’m Casey Jones,” I told him, offering my hand. He ignored it.
    “Ramsey Lee,” he mumbled back.
    And then I understood. “I wondered what happened to you,” I said.
    “Nothing happened to me,” he said defiantly. “Life happened to me. You people can sit on your butts and watch television all you want. I believe in living my life and taking a stand about things that are important to me.”
    “How much time did you do?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of what little manners I had.
    “What’s it to you?” he asked back, but I noticed that he leaned his bow across a tree and was taking the time to check me out from head to toe. His scrutiny made me nervous, like he was sizing me up for a boiling pot. I was also slowly sinking in the riverbank mud. I wouldn’t be able to retain my suave exterior for long.
    “Hey, I admired you for what you did,” I said. “I’d have helped you if you’d asked.”
    “How could I have asked you for help?” he replied. “I don’t even know you.”
    “It’s just a figure of speech,” I explained. Jesus, where had this guy been? He acted like he’d been trapped in an attic for ten years and just now trotted out to dry. His social skills weren’t even up to my marginal standards, though I admit his body had its attractions. He had unbelievable biceps and the kind of tanned, sinewy arms that only someone who really works the land can acquire. That kind of lean strength can’t be earned in a health club.
    “I did two and a half years,” he explained in a flat voice. “I’m still on parole.”
    I did the math in my head. That meant he’d been out of prison for just under a year or so. No wonder he was people-shy. Ramsey Lee had been arrested about four or five years ago for destruction of property. One night, he’d visited the construction site of a subdivision that was going up along the Neuse just outside the Raleigh city limits. With the help of a couple of still-unknown companions, he had pushed a bulldozer off a cliff and ruined the engines of at least six other pieces of heavy equipment. A lock had been opened on several containing dams and most of the area flooded by morning. They’d dynamited the rest of the tract in four different spots, obliterating all access to the site, destroying the new septic system, and sending a good chunk of one section tumbling down the riverbank.
    Ramsey Lee had been traced by the SBI through the purchase of the dynamite when one bundle failed to go off. The story had dominated the news for several months, especially since Ramsey’s father was from one of those old North Carolina families who had turned to real estate to make money after World War II. Public interest had died off when Ramsey quietly pleaded guilty and plea-bargained his way to a couple of years in the slammer. I don’t think he’d ever given up the names of his friends. The papers kept calling him an eco-terrorist but there were a lot of old-timers in the countryside surrounding Raleigh who had openly admired what he had done, including god-fearing, church-going people that were hardly of left-wing leaning. But I was sure the SBI had a file a mile high on this guy. They’d be all over his ass once they discovered he lived