Final Justice (6 page)

Hank Wheeler pulled his '54 Chevy in right beside him. Ozzie scowled to see Hank had on the same clothes he had worn the day before. They were grimy and dirty, and his brogans were caked with red clay. Hank never cared how he looked, and that really griped Ozzie.

"Well, I hear we got our work cut out for us today," Hank said by way of greeting. "Heard Jubal Cochran kicked the bucket last night, so I reckon we'll be digging another grave."

"Not for a day or so. Mr. Moon don't like graves open longer than necessary."

Hank's brows lifted. "Then why in thunderation did we work our butts off diggin' old Lem's last night? Gave me the creeps, it did, bein' Halloween and all. He didn't even tell us to start till late afternoon. It was almost dark when we got done."

Ozzie shrugged. "Because the funeral is this morning, dummy. We wouldn't have had time to do it now."

Hank grunted. "I'd have been glad to come to work early instead of being around this place when the shadows start fallin'."

Ozzie unlocked the shed, went inside, got a roll of artificial grass, and slung it over his shoulder. He motioned for Hank to do the same, but Hank shook his head and walked around back, saying he had to pee.

"Too much coffee this morning. I was trying to wake up."

"Well, make it quick. We've got to get this grass rolled out."

All of a sudden Hank called, "Hey, Ozzie. Come here and look at this."

"I don't want to watch you take a piss, for crying out loud. What's wrong with you?"

"How come the sheriff hid his car back here?"

At that, Ozzie walked around the shed, and, sure enough, there sat the white Ford Torino with SHERIFF, BUFORD COUNTY, printed on the doors and across the trunk. "Well, darn if he didn't," he said in wonder.

They both eased closer, then jumped at the sound of the radio crackling, followed by Wilma Farrell's plea, "Sheriff, come in. Where are you? Come in, please. This is an emergency."

Hank and Ozzie looked at each other, and Hank said, "Maybe we should tell her he ain't here, but his car is."

Ozzie chewed the inside of his jaw. "I dunno. That's messing with law business, and we could get in trouble."

"But she says it's an emergency."

"Yeah, but it ain't up to us to get involved."

"I say we answer it."

"I say we go look for the sheriff and tell him Wilma's trying to get up with him and let him handle it. If his car's here, he's got to be around someplace."

Hank decided that sounded like a safe thing to do and fell in step behind Ozzie as they began walking up the hill.

* * *

Matt Rumsey's uniform was rumpled and smelly with sweat but it didn't matter. After his Aunt Wilma called, he'd grabbed his clothes off the chair where he'd left them the night before, dressed, and rushed out. He hadn't even taken time to answer Ruthie's questions about where he was going. Besides, if he had, he knew she'd be on the phone before he backed out of the driveway, anxious to spread the news that Alma Ballard was on her way to finally whip Emma Jean Veazey's butt. There was no need to sound the alarm, at least not until he found out for sure what was going on. Maybe Luke wasn't there and had fallen asleep somewhere in his car.

Yeah, right,
he wryly thought.

He had sensed Luke's restlessness the night before and knew it probably had to do with his planning to meet Emma Jean, which meant Rudy had to be working third shift. Now Matt wished he'd had the nerve to talk to him about it earlier to try and make him see how he was playing with fire. Bad enough if Alma found out, but if Rudy ever caught him, it would be like Godzilla Meets King Kong. Matt had arrested Rudy a few times for beating up on people at the grill when he got drunk and turned mean. He was big and stocky and strong as an ox. Luke was trained to fight special forces style, and Rudy would come at him like a madman. All hell would break loose, and they could kill each other if somebody wasn't around to break it up fast.

He was also worried about Luke's having a gun because he might shoot Rudy and be done with it. He hated the son of a bitch, but if he was in bed with Emma Jean when Rudy got there, he would have taken off his holster. Rudy might see where he left it, go for it, and...

Matt mashed his foot harder on the accelerator. Rounding a curve, he saw Alma's car up ahead and quickly pulled up alongside her to yell out the window for her to pull over.

Clutching the steering wheel tightly, she took her eyes off the road long enough to roll down her window, dart an angry glance in his direction, and yell back, "Just stay out of this, Matt. It's between me and Luke and that hussy."

"Pull over, damn it." He swerved toward her ever so slightly but was careful not to rub metal, afraid she might panic and lose control.

"Go to hell."

He stomped on the gas and shot by her, intending to warn Luke but stiffened at the sight of Rudy's pickup on the shoulder of the road in front of his house.

Turning in the driveway in a cloud of dust, he roared into the backyard and skidded to a stop. Luke's car was nowhere in sight and all was quiet, except for the cackling chickens that had panicked and scattered at his approach.

Something wasn't right. He could feel it in his bones. Things were
too
quiet. Why hadn't Rudy come charging out of the house demanding to know why he had come tearing into his yard like the devil was on his heels? Relieved not to find Luke there, and wanting to avoid a run-in with Rudy, Matt quickly whipped the car around, then cursed to realize Alma had driven in right behind him.

He pulled up beside her. "Look, he isn't here. It's all a mistake. Now let's go before Rudy starts asking questions and things get stirred up for no reason."

Alma laughed shrilly. "No reason? Then what are you doing here? You thought he'd be here, too, didn't you? That's why you came—to warn him."

"We can talk at the cafe. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Come on, Alma." He didn't know what he was going to say to her. All he was thinking about right then was making tracks fast.

"You
did
think he'd be here," she repeated, tears welling in her eyes. "You know about them, don't you? Just like everybody else in town. Well, I'm sick of everyone laughing behind my back. And it's time Rudy found out. He'll put a stop to it, and..."

She fell silent, eyes going wide, and Matt turned to follow her gaze just as her scream of horror broke the stillness. Emma Jean was standing on the back porch looking like a zombie, staring straight ahead but not seeing anything. She was naked and she was also holding a knife.

Matt bolted out of the car, yelling over his shoulder for Alma to stay put. As he sprinted across the yard, he saw that Emma Jean was covered in blood. Instinctively, he drew his pistol. "Drop the knife, Emma Jean. Now."

She blinked a few times, opened her hand to let the knife fall to the ground, then sank to the steps. Matt kicked the knife out of her reach. Then, as a precaution until he found out what was going on, he swiftly handcuffed one of her wrists to the porch railing. She did not resist. He asked what had happened, but she didn't respond.

Slowly opening the screen door, he stepped inside the kitchen. He could smell the familiar metallic odor of blood, and his gaze dropped to the floor to see bloody footprints coming from what appeared to be the bedroom. Moving in that direction, he called, "Rudy, are you in there? It's Matt Rumsey."

With a chill of foreboding, he sensed there would be no answer. Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped through the door and froze. Before becoming a deputy sheriff, Matt had put in some time with the volunteer rescue squad and had seen his share of blood and gore... but nothing like the carnage before him now.

Rudy was cradled in a bed of blood, the floor a carpet of what looked like a thick, red pudding. His mouth gaped open in a silent scream, and his eyes were wide with the sightless glare of death.

There was nothing anybody could do for Rudy, and Matt needed to radio for an ambulance for Emma Jean. Until she came out of shock, there would be no answer about what happened. Meanwhile, Hardy Moon, who was also the county coroner, needed to come do his thing and clean up the mess.

Matt started to turn away but hesitated, did a quick double take, then spun around to lean over Rudy's body to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. They weren't. Emma Jean had taken a bite out of Rudy's dick.

Holstering his gun, Matt backed out of the room, wondering just what Rudy had done to make her go nuts. He had seen it in her eyes. She was lost in that netherworld where the mad go to escape what they can't face.

But what about Luke? Where did he fit into all of this? If he had been here, and Rudy had surprised the two of them, Matt knew there was no way he would have run off to leave Emma Jean to face the music alone. He would have stayed and had it out, no matter the consequences. It wasn't Luke's way to run.

Emma Jean was right where he had left her, but now she had company. Curiosity had gotten the best of Alma. Standing over Emma Jean, she demanded, "What's going on? How come she's all bloody, and why won't she talk to me?"

"She's in shock."

"But what about the blood?" Alma persisted. "And where is Rudy?"

"Dead. And don't go in there unless you want to have nightmares the rest of your life." He caught her elbow and steered her toward his car. "I've got to radio for help."

Alma tried to pull away from him. "I want to go home."

"You don't have any business driving the shape you're in."

"I don't want anyone to find me here. They'll know I was looking for Luke. Besides, I don't want any part of this. Now let me go."

"Not till I talk to Luke and find out what he wants me to do with you." He wrestled her into the back seat of the car and slammed the door, locking her inside.

She beat on the window. "You can't do this to me, damn you. I've got to get home."

He grabbed the microphone. "Car nine to base." He did not wait for Wilma to acknowledge. "I've got a ten-thirty-three at the Veazey place. Get an ambulance and the coroner out here quick."

Wilma came back at once. "Is Alma with you, Matt?"

"I'm afraid so. Look, it's bad out here. Real bad. Rudy is dead, and it looks like Emma Jean did it. She's in shock. I've got to talk to Luke. Have you found him yet?"

"Matt, I..." her voice broke.

He tensed. "What is it?"

She choked the words out. "The call just came in a few minutes ago. I was going to call you, but I had to get the ambulance on the way first. Luke's been shot. Ozzie and Hank found him at the cemetery in Jake Petrie's open grave. They said it looked like he'd been there all night."

Alma screamed, "She did it. I know she did. He must've met her there to tell her he wouldn't leave me for her, and she got mad and shot him, then came home and killed Rudy, and..."

Matt growled at her to shut up, that she didn't know what the hell she was talking about. Then, worriedly, he asked Wilma, "How bad is he?"

"They say he's breathing, but he's lost a lot of blood. You all go on to the hospital and meet the ambulance there."

Matt reminded, "I can't leave a crime scene when I'm the only officer here. Find Kirby and get hold of Hardy and tell him to get his butt out here to pick up the body."

In the back seat, Alma collapsed in alternating fits of crying and cursing out the window at Emma Jean, who was oblivious to everything around her.

Matt released the mike button. There was nothing else to say, and he was feeling too sick to his stomach over the whole mess to talk anymore.

Chapter 4

The injection machine made a gentle whirring sound in the otherwise silent room as it pumped embalming fluid into Jubal's body. The procedure was almost over, and Hardy had enjoyed every moment. Usually he closed the eyes right away, but he had wanted to imagine Jubal could actually see what was happening to him.

He noticed oozing from the mouth and nose, which wasn't unusual when death came from heart failure. It was caused by fluid in the lungs, and Hardy wiped at it with a dirty rag.

He had stripped off Jubal's pajamas and tossed them to the floor. Ordinarily, out of respect, he would cover the genital area with a towel. But not Jubal. "I always knew you'd have a little pecker," he said, tweaking the limp organ between thumb and forefinger. "And your balls look like prunes."