Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 10 (26 page)

As he sat there with his arms wrapped around his knees, he realized there was only one thing to do-and that was get out to the four-wheel and get his ass off Cotter’s Ridge. It wasn’t easy to persuade himself to get up, but he did. After he’d peeked around the corner to make sure the creature was gone, he grabbed his coat, stuck the packet of cigars in his pocket, and pushed the button on the doorknob to make sure there was no way the creature could get inside the trailer.

He was halfway there when he remembered he’d tossed the keys to Larry Joe at some point and told him to fetch another case of beer. Had Larry Joe given them back? He slapped his coat pockets as if they were smoldering. He made it to the four-wheel and ascertained that not only were the keys not in the ignition, but that Larry Joe had locked all the doors, including the tailgate.

He hurried back to the trailer and tried to open a window, any window. Not one of them budged. He rattled the doorknob, then threw himself against the door till it felt like he’d busted his arm. A flicker of lightning was followed almost immediately by thunder.

“Shit!” he said, looking over his shoulder in case something was sneaking up on him. “This is your fault, Roy Stiver, and you’re gonna pay for it. You too, Larry Joe Lambertino. I’m the mayor and I can kick you all off the town council quicker than a snake going through a hollow log. What have you got to say to that?”

If he’d had a response, he most likely would have dived under the trailer. As it was, he turned up his collar, tried one last time to beat the door down, and headed along the path to see if he could catch up with Larry Joe.

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“What now?” I asked Raz as he barged into the PD.

“I’ve had it with that goddamn Diesel! I jest came to give you warning that I’m goin’ after him like he was a rabid polecat. This here time he’s gone too far and I ain’t gonna stand for it no longer.”

“Calm down,” I said. “It’s your fault, too. How many times have I told you to stay off the ridge?”

“I reckon it’s a free country and I kin go wherever I damn well please. As soon as I go by my house and git a box of shotgun shells, I’m fixin’ to go right back up there and teach Diesel a lesson he won’t fergit till his dyin’ day. That’d be today, come to think of it.”

“Raz,” I said, letting my irritation show, “if you shoot Diesel, you’ll end up in jail. I can’t see you being anybody’s new boyfriend, but things may be rougher down at the prison than I think. Marjorie will end up being served with eggs and grits. I’ll have a minimum of seven years to find your still. I’m sorry that Diesel continues to frighten Marjorie, but-“

“He shot her.” My hand instinctively went to my mouth. “Oh, Raz-why didn’t you say so in the first place? Is she …?”

He cackled at my horrified expression. “Dead? ‘Course she ain’t dead. I wouldn’t have gone to the bother of coming here if she was dead. I’d have wrung Diesel’s neck with my bare hands. Come out to the truck.”

I trailed after him. Marjorie was sitting in the cab, her ears drooping and her eyes downcast. If I were into anthropomorphism, I would have inferred that she was embarrassed.

“See fer yourself,” Raz said as he pointed at her side, which was covered with an orange blot. Not covered completely, mind you; Marjorie weighs upwards of four hundred pounds and it would take a gallon of Sherwin-Williams’s finest to do the job.

“He shot her with a paint pellet?” I said.

“He shore did,” Raz muttered, “and he’s gonna pay for it. Marjorie’s making out like it don’t matter, but I kin tell she’s so riled up she don’t know if she’s comin’ or goin’. Jest look at her, Arly. Ain’t she a helluva sorry sight?”

I nodded with great solemnity. “She sure is. Why don’t you go on home and clean her up? Maybe she can be persuaded to have a little soup and watch one of those televised church services. After listening to a couple of hymns, she’ll snap right out of it. Pedigreed sows are amazingly resilient, despite their delicate natures.”

“Mebbe so,” he said, opening the door on the driver’s side.

I’d taken a step toward the PD when I realized there was something something amiss with the story. “Raz,” I said, “did you actually see Diesel shoot Marjorie?”

“Nope,” he said, “but he done it jest the same.”

“When did this happen?”

” ‘Bout an hour ago.”

“But where would he have gotten hold of the pellet and the pistol? He hasn’t been in town in almost a year, and even if he has, these things aren’t available at the SuperSaver. The yahoos in the militia had their pistols confiscated before we went to the PD.”

“I know he done it,” Raz said mulishly. “Marjorie’s taken a strong dislike to him, and I kin tell when she’s seen him.”

I returned to the passenger’s side of the truck, but I didn’t quite have the nerve to put my hand inside. “Is the paint still wet?”

“It was purty near dry when she came squealing into the clearing. Some of it was sticky, like molasses, but it was dry by the time we got to pavement. What are you gittin’ at?”

I wished I knew. “I was thinking that if the paint takes a long time to dry, she might have brushed up against a tree or rock that had been shot yesterday during the lethal retreat. But if you’re telling the truth, then this must have happened this morning. Did you hear the shot?”

He took the opportunity to stuff a wad of tobacco in his cheek while he thought. “I don’t recollect hearin’ much of anything,” he said in a creaky, puzzled voice. “I tend to keep my ears peeled when I’m up there.”

“Then why did you assume she’d been shot?” He spat out the window. ” ‘Cause I don’t live under a bridge, that’s why. I heard tell about those military folks and how they was gonna use paint instead of bullets. Marjorie sure as hell wouldn’t have let herself get near enough to Diesel that he could slap her with a paint brush.”

I told him to go home and went back inside the PD. My stomach was gurgling more loudly than the coffee maker; my brain, in contrast, was anesthetized with confusion. The one thing I was sure of was that Diesel had not been recruited by the militia group. Those who prefer to live in caves are not what you’d describe as sociable. What’s more, Diesel had been mistaken for Bigfoot in the past; by now he most likely resembled an ambulatory hairball.

I tried to call Harve, but LaBelle tartly informed me that he was attending various churches in order to drum up votes. This morning he was scheduled for an early service with the Episcopalians and a second with the Unitarians, who, in LaBelle’s opinion, were nothing but a bunch of human secularists.

I thanked her for the insight into comparative religion and hung up, but I couldn’t decide what to do. It was highly unlikely that I could find Diesel’s cave, much less interrogate him. McBeen had promised to do what he could to expedite the tox screen at the state lab, but he and I both knew from experience that it could be days before we had a report. No cause of death-no confirmation of a homicide. No Ruby Bee-no chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and turnip greens.

This last realization brought me to my senses, so I went to my apartment to eat a bowl of cornflakes. As I sat by the window and crunched like a brontosaurus, I saw Mrs. Jim Bob drive by, presumably on her way to church. I reminded myself that I’d promised her an official missing person report if Brother Verber wasn’t back in time to terrorize the congregation with descriptions of Satan’s fiery furnace. Maybe I’d throw in Ruby Bee, Estelle, Kevin, Dahlia, and the two ostriches for good measure.

Or better yet, report myself missing and make a run for the nearest border.

“Wonder where he went?” said Larry Joe as he scratched his head, releasing a flurry of dandruff flakes that vanished almost immediately in the wind. “He’s not in the trailer or the outhouse. Do you think he went to organize a search party?”

Roy grunted scornfully. “Because he cares more about his friends than he does about his own hide? Yeah, Larry Joe, he’s probably at the airport renting a helicopter so he can rescue us. When he gets here, we can give him a medal.”

“Well, where is he?”

“Skedaddling down the ridge. If you hadn’t had the keys in your coat pocket, we wouldn’t be standing by his four-wheel, either. I don’t see any point in staying up here any longer. What say we grab our stuff and go back to town?”

Larry Joe shrugged. “We might as well. I was beginning to get sick of bologna and beer, and Joyce usually fixes a roast for Sunday dinner.”

He and Roy went back into the trailer, threw their dirty clothes into bags, and made sure the trailer was locked securely before they got into the four-wheel and started for Maggody.

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After I finished the cereal, I decided to return to the Flamingo Motel to check on the guests and see if I could find out when and how Diesel obtained the pistol.

Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill remained closed. I couldn’t remember her mentioning a flea market of particular interest, but she and Estelle were always enthusiastic about the prospect of buying a chipped teacup for a quarter or a battered egg beater for a dime. This may explain some of my more whimsical birthday presents (and I’m sure there’ll come a day when my only chance of survival depends on a bicycle pump, a muffin tin, and a 1984 world almanac).

Les was back on duty. He’d brought a book with him this time, and as I approached, gave me a guilty look as he stuck it under the seat. “Morning,” he said. “I just got here, but Batson said everything’s been quiet. Ruby Bee brought them breakfast trays. Right now most of them are holed up in the middle unit over there”-he pointed at #5-“having a talk, I guess. Kayleen asked for permission to go to church, and Batson didn’t see any reason not to let her.”

I knocked on the door of #5, and when Sterling opened it, said, “Will you please step outside? I have a question for you.”

“Ask your question right here, Chief Hanks,” he said. “I prefer to have witnesses. I may need them to testify in court about your abridgment of my constitutional rights.”

“Fine,” I said, exceedingly tired of his pet phrase. “Did each of you bring your own pistol to Cotter’s Ridge yesterday?”

” ‘A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ In case you didn’t recognize that, it’s the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States.”

“And a most inspiring amendment it is,” I said. “Would you like me to repeat my question?”

Sterling gave me an exasperated look. “I keep all the pistols in a storage box, including several extras for anyone who wants to participate. We currently have an inventory of twelve. Before an exercise begins, I distribute them. Afterwards, I return them to the box, secure it, and leave the box in a closet at my office.”

I did a mental tally. “That means you passed out nine of them yesterday. Where are the rest of them?”

“In the trunk of my Hummer. Is that a crime?”

I gave him an equally exasperated look. “No, it is not a crime. Will you show them to me?”

I guess he couldn’t come up with an amendment that gave him the constitutional right not to let me count his pistols, because he pushed past me and went out to the back end of the Hummer. He unlocked the trunk, pulled out a wooden box, and set it on the ground. His idea of security was a cheap little padlock that I could have unlocked with a bobby pin. However, I let him tackle it with a key.

He opened the lid and gave me a smug smile. “The sheriff confiscated nine. There are three in the box, which means all twelve are accounted for. Are you satisfied, Chief Hanks?”

I picked up one of the odd-looking things, which fell somewhere somewhere between a Colt .45 and a child’s water gun. Above the barrel was a two-inch-high triangular container. “Is this where the paint pellets are loaded?” I asked.

“You want to try it?” Barry said from the doorway. “Go ahead, Sterling-let her have a pellet.”

Sterling didn’t look pleased as he took a pellet from the box and dropped it in the container. “Since you are a trained police officer, I assume you can figure out how to pump it and squeeze the trigger.”

I aimed the weapon at Ruby Bee’s unit and fired. The resultant bang might not have sent Raz dropping to the ground, but it was certainly loud enough to have caught his attention. The jagged orange splotch on the door was bleeding sluggishly, confirming Raz’s comment about the viscosity of the paint. “That’s all for now,” I said brightly.

“Good shot,” Les called as I walked back to my car, but I was thinking too hard to respond.

When I got to the PD, I called LaBelle and said, “I want you to go to the evidence room and ask to see the pistols that Harve brought in after the shooting on the ridge. Count them very carefully, then come back and tell me how many there are.”

“When were you elected sheriff of Stump County?”

“Please do it,” I said, scowling like a gargoyle but keeping a civil tone. “Sheriff Dorfer assigned me to this case, and he would want you to cooperate.

I heard the receiver hit the desk and the sound of footsteps as she left the office. I spread out all the statements and notes I had, reading each one and sprinkling the margins with question marks. The one statement I really needed was Kevin’s, but I’d have to wait until he came back under his own steam-or was escorted back to Maggody by a couple of grim MPs, with Dahlia wringing her hands in their wake.

“I’m back,” announced LaBelle as if her mission was completed and it was time for applause.

I sighed and said, “How many pistols?”

“I don’t know why you care. Paint didn’t kill that boy.”

“I realize the paint pellets are not deadly. However, shooting one at a person without his or her consent could qualify as assault, and I’ve got an innocent bystander who is distraught enough to file charges. I’m trying to determine the location of the weapon that was used.”

“Nine,” she said, then hung up.

Even in Maggody, where math does not reign supreme, nine and three made twelve. None of the obvious suspects at the Flamingo Motel could have taken a pistol out of the Hummer and left under the benevolent gaze of the deputy assigned to watch them.