An Unmarked Grave (15 page)

He eyed the stairs leading into the ground. "No. Unless
you need some help carrying stuff up."

I started down. "He didn't have that much."

The room smelled musty. I quickly packed Justin's clothing and the few personal items lying around. The rickety
table he'd used for a desk was clean. I don't know why, but
I had half expected sheaves of paper to be stacked upon it.
On impulse, I removed the two-by-four in the doorjamb of
his closet. I spotted a roll of papers bound by a rubber band.

Glancing over my shoulder toward the door, I hastily extracted the roll from the doorjamb. I remembered the sheet
of aircraft skin Justin had mentioned, the same sheet of
which Sam Fuqua had spoken. I peered back inside, but the
cavity was empty. Puzzled, I rolled the papers out on the
table and stared at the drawings.

There were no words on the first drawing, just a series
of interconnecting lines. It appeared to be a schematic of
Elysian Hills. One of the lines had an S curve in it, and I remembered Mabel Hooker's telling me that the Cemetery
Road had an S curve. I adjusted the paper so the roads were
oriented to their proper points on the compass.

The second held a grid of intersecting lines but nothing
to indicate what they meant. At the juncture of two perpendicular lines near the top of the grid, Justin had drawn a
tiny circle. From the circle, a diagonal line extended about
half an inch.

The third page contained an inventory of what he had
discovered: bolts, pieces of rusted metal, and one of the
items was a five-by-four-inch piece of aircraft skin with hieroglyphics or symbols. At the bottom of the page, Justin
had drawn several strange characters.

My heart thudded against my chest. I shook my head in
disbelief. Could these strange characters be the hieroglyphics Justin had told me about? They had to be.

Maybe I should hang around a while longer, I told myself.

The other papers contained notes he had garnered from the
locals regarding the oral legends concerning the UFO that
had crashed into Lewis' windmill. Even a cursory glance told
me that the stories merely reprised the ones I had heard
since I had been in Elysian Hills.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, so I quickly
rolled the papers and slid them into the inside coat pocket
of my tweed jacket.

Jack stuck his head into the doorway. "Need any help?"

Rising and looking around, I shook my head. "Nope. Finishing up. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to call it a
day. Let's go pick up your car."

Up above, Marvin Lewis waved us down just before we
left. He hurried out to my truck. "Get it all?"

"Wasn't much there, but I got it. By the way, any idea
about what he did with the few pieces he dug up on the
hill?"

Marvin frowned. "Nope. You might ask Harlan Barton.
Sometimes he helped Justin with the digging and stuff to
pick up a few bucks"

"Barton?" I frowned. "You mean that old man shuffling
around town?"

"Yep. He lives out on Cemetery Road. Rundown shack
just past the bridge. Can't miss the place. Of course, half
the time he's drunker'n a skunk"

Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the
Bucket Inn on 1-35. My room had an extra double bed, so
I had no compunction in suggesting Jack save his money.
Bunk with me. I made arrangements at the desk. It was only
a few bucks more, and I was on expenses.

On several occasions in the past, we've shared rooms. He
wasn't a bad suite-mate, although at times when he'd had
too much Budweiser, he snored like the proverbial chain
saw. I usually rose early, and by the time Jack rolled out of
bed, I was downstairs on my second cup of coffee. So we
were never in each other's way.

I don't know about all the states, but I'd be willing to bet
there is not a single truck stop in Texas that doesn't specialize in chicken-fried steak, cream gravy, and French fries.
And in gigantic portions.

Jack ordered the largest chicken-fried steak on the menu.
I settled for the small one, and even then I left over half of
it. While Jack was polishing off his repast and placing the
remainder of my meal into a doggie bag for a midnight
snack, I decided to take my pickup next door to the Valero
station to fill up.

On impulse, I stopped off in the liquor store beside the
motel and bought a bottle of Jim Beam Black label bourbon. I might have some use for it the next day.

I shivered as I stood beside my pickup at the gas pumps. The night had grown colder. My breath came in frosty
puffs. After paying at the pump, on impulse I went inside
and bought half a dozen scratch-off lottery tickets. I never
won, but from time to time I took a fling. Who could tell?
Maybe tonight I would become a millionaire.

While I was waiting for my change, I glanced out the window and spotted the familiar face of Lester Taggart. Bulldog
Face himself.

By the time I got outside, he had disappeared around the
corner of the motel.

hurried after Taggart. When I reached the corner of the
motel, I spotted a single vehicle leaving the parking lot. I
couldn't make out the license number. All I could tell was
that it was a small white car. Whether he was in that one or
not, I had no idea.

At that moment, my cell rang. It was Danny. His connections at the funeral home assured him that the trauma was to
the back of Justin's head. His face, except for a slight scuff
that did not break the skin on his forehead, was unmarked.

Hanging up, I considered Danny's reply. Could my hunch
be right? Someone had struck Justin on the back of the head
and then driven the pickup into the creek? I reminded myself
to visit George McDaniel the next day to see what light he
could shed on Justin's injuries.

A blast of frigid air whistled down in front of the motel.
I shivered. I could not see beyond the glow of the motel lights, but from the endless Texas brags I'd heard, all that
lay out there was an endless prairie, windswept and desolate, stretching all the way to the North Pole with nothing
to break the wind but a couple of barbed-wire fences. What
next?

Turning back to the motel, I made a mental note to call
Tricia Chester first thing in the morning. I wanted to know
what Lester Taggart was doing here.

It was the kind of morning to stay in a warm bed with the
covers over your head. Outside, the wind howled, a mournful, chilling whine that drove the cold to the very marrow
of your bones.

I rolled out of bed and called to Jack. "Hop up. We've got
work to do this morning."

Downstairs, in a corner of the restaurant, I called Tricia
and told her about Taggart.

"I have no idea why he was there, but I did ask Vanessa
why she had him following me," Tricia Chester exclaimed.

I glanced at Jack across the breakfast table. He was completely absorbed in his blueberry pancakes and honey syrup. "And what did she say?"

"She said she was worried about me. My maid-" She
paused and in an apologetic tone said, "You were right about
her-the maid, I mean. She's the one who told Vanessa I was
going out to the County Line that night."

"That's what I figured"

Then she continued. "Anyway, my maid told her I had
been talking about using a detective agency to find Justin. Vanessa said she was afraid I would hire an unreliable one.
She even checked on your company with the Better Business Bureau and the local police."

For a moment, I was speechless. Either Vanessa Chester
was a glib liar, or she hovered over her siblings like an old
mother hen. And I didn't believe the latter. Although I had
met the woman only twice, the second time at Justin's funeral, her demeanor did nothing to suggest a deep concern
for anyone's welfare except her own.

I started to ask Tricia if she believed her sister, but she
must have anticipated the question, for she continued. "I
don't believe her, but that's what she said. And as soon as
we hang up, I'm going to call her and find out what Taggart
is doing up there!"

Taking a deep breath, I replied, "Well, he's here. Or was
here" I paused, then, seeing that the conversation was at a
dead end, added, "I should have everything tied up today or
tomorrow"

"Why is it taking so long? Or have you discovered something?"

"Not really," I lied, then stretched the truth some more.
"The folks around here thought a lot of your brother. These
old country people, once they start talking, it's hard to get
away from them"

I could see no reason to tell her of the unanswered questions in my mind. I didn't believe in any of the UFO nonsense, but there still existed a few items missing from the
inventory list, the aircraft skin among them. If Sam Fuqua
had not mentioned it, I never would have pursued it. The
truth was, I was curious as to exactly what Justin had found.
Whatever it was, there had to be a logical explanation for the properties it was said to possess-and why it was missing. In
a way, I felt I owed it to the poor guy.

In the call Justin had made to me, he was obviously very
excited. I could never forget his words. "I've got it, Tony. I
told you I would, and now I have it."

And when I asked him what he had, he'd exclaimed,
"Proof of the spaceship!"

He had also remarked that the sheet of metal had not set
off his metal detector. He had discovered it while digging
up other artifacts.

So now I was curious about what kind of discovery would
lead him to make such a statement and what kind of metal
on this earth would not set off a metal detector.

Before we left the motel, I purchased a throwaway camera from the gift shop downstairs.

Thirty minutes later, we passed the Elysian Hills Baptist
Church on the left side of the narrow macadam highway. The
sheriff's office was just beyond on the right.

I slowed as I approached Cemetery Road. On the left,
Newt Gibons was climbing from his pickup. He was wearing the same baggy overalls he had worn the day before. I
waved. He nodded.

He paused to watch as I turned onto the road behind his
shop. I glanced into the side mirror and spotted him peering around the corner of his shop so he could see where I
was heading.

A mile down the narrow road, I came upon a new section
of barbed-wire fence on the left just beyond a shallow ditch.
Tire tracks on the side of the ditch indicated where Justin
had left the road. Fifty feet beyond was a large oak with a fresh scar in the rugged bark. I pulled to the side of the road
and parked.

Jack frowned. "What's up? Why are we stopping?"

I reached for the camera. "This is where Justin Chester
ran off the road. See that oak? That's the one he hit. I just
want some pictures for the family" The truth was, the family could just as well do without the pictures. I wanted to
take a look at the scene myself.

Justin's death wasn't as cut-and-dried as it seemed. There
were too many unanswered questions. How could you explain the injury to the back of his head? What did the lines
on the sheets of paper mean? Where was the piece of metal
with hieroglyphics? And what was Lester Taggart doing at
the motel the night before?