Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 20 - Compound Murder (3 page)

Rhodes stepped on the accelerator and started after the Malibu again.

The Chevy whipped past the law offices of Randy Lawless, past the civic center and the fire station. A couple of firemen sat on the bench outside. They stared after the Malibu and then at Rhodes.

Rhodes heard another siren and looked in his rearview mirror. Buddy was behind him and coming up fast. Rhodes hoped he didn’t try to pass. Sometimes Buddy could be overly excited.

They flew past houses and people who gawked at them from the yards. One person was even aiming a cell phone at him. He hoped the video didn’t wind up on Jennifer Loam’s Web site. At a couple of places dogs sat in the yards, their heads back, their mouths open. Rhodes knew they were howling along with his siren, but he couldn’t hear them.

The driver of the Malibu would have to make a choice soon because if he went straight on, he’d be on a much narrower street, and there was no outlet. However, he could try taking the big curve, an almost ninety-degree turn to the left.

He picked the turn. The Malibu leaned over to the right so far that Rhodes thought it would flip. Metal scraped the pavement and sent sparks along the side of the car.

Rhodes braked and slowed to a more sensible speed, hoping that Buddy wouldn’t smash into him, but even Buddy knew better than to try that dangerous curve at such a speed. Just a few blocks farther on was a curve to the right, just as dangerous, but the Chevy was around it and gone by the time Rhodes had it in sight.

Now there was nothing in front of the Malibu but a long, straight highway. Years ago, long before Rhodes or anyone else in town had been born, coal had been mined in the southeastern part of the county, and a railroad had been built so that the coal could be transported. The highway was built on the old railroad bed.

The Malibu pulled away. Rhodes wondered what it had under the hood. He pressed down on the gas, and the Charger responded. The speedometer registered eighty-five. Then ninety.

A quick glance in the mirror showed Rhodes that Buddy was still behind him. He checked the speedometer again. Still ninety.

A look ahead gave Rhodes bad news. About a quarter of a mile away, a big green and yellow combine harvester was trundling along, taking up a good bit more than its share of the narrow road.

A farmer was probably moving the combine from one parcel of land to another. It was the kind of thing that had to be done now and then, nothing to worry about in the normal course of events, but this event wasn’t anywhere near normal.

The man driving the combine must have heard the sirens. He looked back and saw what was bearing down on him. There was no shoulder on the highway, but as quickly as he could, the farmer moved the combine toward the side of the road that sloped off into a ditch.

The Malibu swerved to pass it, but there wasn’t going to be quite enough room. The car’s left side went off the highway. The back wheel threw up dead grass, dirt, and rocks, some of which bounced along the highway like little grenades.

One of the rocks came straight at the Charger’s windshield, and it took everything Rhodes had in him to keep his eyes on the road and not to duck.

The rock hit the top of the windshield with a sound like a rifle shot. The rock sailed away, and a crack ran down the glass, spiderwebbing off in crazy patterns. Rhodes could still see, but it was tricky.

The Malibu shuddered along, slowing a good bit as the driver fought to get it back on the highway. Rhodes thought for a second he wouldn’t manage it, but then he did, and as soon as the wheels grabbed pavement, the car sped up.

The combine was almost entirely in the ditch now, and Rhodes whipped past it. He didn’t risk a glance at the driver, who Rhodes figured was pulling out a cell phone.

The highway was clear as far ahead as Rhodes could see, and there were few houses along the way. In places there were fields beside the road. In others trees grew close to the pavement. Farther down the way there were steep drop-offs right beside the road.

At the rate they were traveling, they’d be over the county line in under ten minutes. Rhodes reached for the radio to call ahead to the sheriff’s department in the next county, but before he reached it, the casing peeled off the Malibu’s right rear tire.

Pieces of rubber spun up in the air. One the size of a bloated water moccasin slammed into Rhodes’s already cracked windshield, which sagged inward but didn’t break. Rhodes couldn’t see a thing.

He held tight to the steering wheel with one hand and pushed the button that let down the driver’s window with the other. He stuck his head out, and the wind whipped his hair, what there was of it. Speedo would’ve loved the feeling, but it didn’t have much appeal for Rhodes. A bug slapped his forehead and stung him as if it had been fired from a pellet gun.

In front of him, the Malibu slid at an angle down the road as the driver struggled with the wheel. Rhodes thought for sure that he wouldn’t be able to bring the car straight again. Somehow he did, but only for a second. Almost as soon as the car straightened, it slipped into another angled skid, this time in the direction opposite of the first one.

Rhodes was convinced the Malibu was going to roll this time, but it didn’t. It slowed down, and Rhodes saw the brake lights as the driver pumped the pedal.

Rhodes slowed, too, and both cars were down to about forty when the Chevy left the road. It bounced through the ditch like a giant oblong basketball. It didn’t go far after that because there were trees in the way. It hit the trees sideways, with the passenger side against them. Smoke poured from under the hood. There appeared to be smoke in the passenger compartment, but Rhodes knew that was just powder from the air bag.

Bringing the county car to a stop just off the road about halfway into the ditch, Rhodes got out. Buddy was right behind him, already out of the car and holding his sidearm in a two-handed grip.

“I don’t think you’ll need that,” Rhodes said, looking at the Malibu.

The driver’s-side air bag had deflated, but Rhodes couldn’t see anyone. The driver might have been injured, unconscious, or just lying low.

“You never know,” Buddy said. “How many people in the car?”

“I didn’t see anybody but the driver,” Rhodes said.

He started walking toward the car with Buddy at his side.

“Why was he running away from you?” Buddy asked.

“I’m not sure. There was some trouble at the college, and maybe he tried to get away from it.”

“Seepy Benton at it again?”

“Benton’s never caused any trouble.” Rhodes paused. “Well, not any
real
trouble. This was something else. There was a dead man in the parking lot.”

As they neared the car, Buddy said, “You think the driver here had something to do with the dead man since he fled the scene?”

Fled the scene.
Rhodes grinned. Buddy had a fondness for what he believed to be authentic cop jargon.

“Maybe he just wanted to skip class today,” Rhodes said. “We’ll ask him. Let’s stop here.”

They were about ten yards from the car. Rhodes heard the hissing of steam escaping from the radiator and smelled burned rubber and hot metal. The trunk lid had popped open, but the doors were still shut.

“Think he’s playing possum?” Buddy asked. He still held the pistol in both hands.

“Could be. Let’s have a look in the trunk. It’s open, so we don’t need an invitation.”

They circled to the back of the car and peered into the shadowy trunk from a few feet away.

“Good Lord,” Buddy said. “He’s got somebody’s head in there!”

Chapter 3

“That’s not a head,” Rhodes said. “It’s a wig stand. With hair on it. Real human hair, too, I’ll bet.”

“He scalped his victim?”

Buddy’s voice trembled. Rhodes didn’t know if the cause was excitement or disgust.

“No,” Rhodes said. “His victim was Lonnie Wallace.”

“It was Lonnie Wallace’s body at the college?”

Rhodes wondered why all his conversations seemed to go this way. Maybe it was somehow his own fault.

“It wasn’t Lonnie’s body. Lonnie’s just fine, but his shop was burglarized last night. Somebody stole some wigs and hair extensions. That’s probably one of the wigs. It’s on a wig stand. The extensions might be in the trunk, too.”

Rhodes knew it was often a mistake to make assumptions, but in this case they seemed warranted.

“Oh,” Buddy said.

He sounded disappointed, and Rhodes supposed he was. Capturing someone who scalped his victims would have been a lot more exciting than capturing, or
apprehending,
as Buddy would have put it, someone who’d stolen some human hair extensions and a wig or two.

Rhodes walked to the trunk for a closer look. Sure enough, there were some plastic bags that held what appeared to be hair. He went back to Buddy.

“We’d better see if the driver’s okay,” Rhodes said. “Keep that pistol handy.”

Buddy perked up at the possibility of shooting somebody. “I’m ready.”

Rhodes looked through the driver’s window. A young man lay against the door, his head just lower than the window. Rhodes couldn’t see his face. He wore a baseball cap with the Astros logo on it.

“Is he okay?” Buddy asked.

“I can’t tell,” Rhodes said.

He gave the door handle a tug, and the door popped open. The driver fell halfway out of the car before Rhodes managed to catch him.

Rhodes laid the young man on the ground, and Buddy moved over to have a look, but he didn’t holster his pistol. He didn’t get a chance to use it, however. The driver sprang up and hit the deputy in the chest with his shoulder, knocking him aside. Buddy’s arms jerked above his head, and he pulled the trigger of the pistol just before he fell. The sound of the shot was like a starter’s gun for the driver, who took off at a run. His cap flew off his head as he dashed around the car and into the trees.

Rhodes went after him, and within seconds he was running over dry leaves with tree branches slapping at him. The driver was younger and faster, but Rhodes was persistent. He tried to think of something to slow the driver down, but nothing came to him. All he could do was hope for good luck. For him, that is. He hoped for some bad luck for the driver.

In the end, it wasn’t luck that decided things. It was the driver’s youth and overconfidence that did him in. He came to a fallen tree and jumped over it, something Rhodes would never have attempted.

The driver shouldn’t have attempted it, either. He hadn’t been able to see the low-lying brush pile on the other side. He landed in it, and it tangled his legs and tripped him up. He fell sprawling. The brush crackled around him.

Rhodes took the cautious approach and climbed over the deadfall. Before the driver could get back to his feet, Rhodes was right there, kneeling on his back.

Buddy panted up beside them, holding his pistol. He’d run around the deadfall. “Can I shoot him, Sheriff?”

“Not a good idea,” Rhodes said. He was breathing hard himself. Sweating, too.

“Maybe just in the leg,” Buddy said. “Or the foot. So he won’t run off again.”

“He won’t run off again,” Rhodes said, knowing that Buddy was talking for the driver’s benefit. “Will you?”

“No,” the driver said.

“Good. I’m going to ease up a little and put some cuffs on you. Put your hands on your head.”

The driver did as he was told. Buddy held his pistol in his left hand and handed Rhodes his cuffs. Rhodes pulled the driver’s left arm down and slapped on a cuff. He hooked the other on the right. Taking hold of the cuff chain, he stood up, pulling the driver along with him.

When they were standing, Rhodes got his first good look at the young man he’d been chasing. He was around twenty, Rhodes thought, maybe a little older. Hair over his ears and falling in his eyes. A red splotch on his face, most likely where the air bag had hit him. Faded jeans and dirty running shoes.

“What’s your name?” Rhodes asked.

“Terrell.”

Buddy looked at Rhodes, who knew what the deputy was thinking. They both knew about the Terrells. They were a family of survivalists, living on their own off in the woods and avoiding contact with anybody else as much as they could. All sorts of stories circulated about them. They were running a meth lab. They were farming marijuana. They were guilty of some kind of unspecified crime and would all be arrested if they ever showed their faces in town. Rhodes didn’t think that even one of those stories was true.

“Terrell your first name or last?” Rhodes asked.

“Last. First is Isaac.”

“People call you Ike?”

“Maybe.”

“Good enough. That’s what I’ll call you. Got any ID?”

“In my back pocket there’s a wallet.”

Buddy removed a driver’s license and handed it to Rhodes, who noted that Ike was nineteen. That would make him an adult in the eyes of the law.

Rhodes handed the ID back. “Are you any relation to Able Terrell?”

“Maybe.”

“You take classes at the college?”

“Maybe.”

“You need to communicate a little better,” Rhodes said. “Might be a good idea to sign up for a speech class.”

Ike didn’t smile, but Rhodes hadn’t expected him to. It wasn’t much of a joke.

“You were out at the college this morning,” Rhodes said, “and you were in a big hurry to leave. Any reason for that other than the hair you have in your trunk?”

Ike looked down. “I don’t know anything about any hair. It looked like there was some trouble at the college, so I thought there wouldn’t be any classes. I thought I’d just go home. Then you got to chasing me.”

“There was some trouble, all right, and I got the idea you might have had something to do with it.”

“Well, I didn’t. I just didn’t see any reason for staying around if there weren’t going to be any classes.”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t take any classes,” Buddy said. “Those Terrells are all so worried about the end of the world that they don’t put any stock in education. They just hole up in that compound of theirs and wait for the zombies to come after them.”

“You live at the compound?” Rhodes asked Ike.

“Maybe.” Ike paused. “You gonna read me my rights?”