Murder Among the OWLS (17 page)

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Authors: Bill Crider

BOOK: Murder Among the OWLS
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Rhodes stepped on his own brakes. There was plenty of resistance, and not much give. They were too wet, and they weren't going to hold.
Uh-oh,
Rhodes thought.
 
The county car's headlights showed Rhodes that the road went straight ahead, through the line of trees and right into a creek. Not a shallow branch like the one he'd crossed a little while earlier, but the real thing, at least six feet deep and three times as wide.
Once a wooden bridge had crossed it, though not much of one, judging from the little that was left of it now. Rhodes remembered he'd promised Ivy he'd try not to get muddied up. He hadn't promised he wouldn't drown, but he didn't regard that as an option.
Fortunately he hadn't been going as fast as Thorpe. He cranked the steering wheel to the left as fast as he could, and the car responded. The tires held their grip for about a second, then Rhodes felt the car begin to slide through the mud. He fought the wheel
and tried to get the car pointed back toward the road as Thorpe had done with the truck.
It wasn't going to work. The car hit a bump and threw Rhodes to the right, causing him to lose his grip on the wheel. The car leaned over, too far over, Rhodes thought, sure the car would roll. It didn't, and he grabbed the wheel again, steadied it, and stepped on the gas. Over the engine noise he heard the whir of the heavy-duty tires as they spun in the mud, digging deeper and deeper, and he hoped they'd find something solid before the car sank in up to the axle.
He'd just about given up hoping when the tires grabbed some traction. They stopped spinning, took hold, and the car surged forward. Rhodes whipped the wheel to the left and somehow got back on the road, headed back the way he'd come. He could see the pickup topping the hill, and he went after it.
Confident this time that he wasn't going to get stuck and having a better idea of where he was going, Rhodes sped up. Thorpe had a good head start, but Rhodes hoped to be able to keep him in sight. He might not be able to stop him before he got off the Harris property and onto the road leading to the highway, however, and then Thorpe would have two directions to choose from. Rhodes grabbed the radio mike and called for backup.
He had to slow down again at the creek branch, and Thorpe gained some more ground. He might have gotten away completely, but he wasn't counting on what happened when he started past the drilling rig.
Rhodes hadn't counted on it, either. He'd never even thought about it.
As Thorpe sped toward the rig, a man ran out into the middle of the road, waving his arms.
The owner of the truck, Rhodes thought. Rhodes wondered if the man could possibly believe that Thorpe would stop, because it was evident that he wouldn't.
The man didn't seem surprised when Thorpe continued to bear down on him. He jumped to the side of the road and produced a pistol from somewhere.
It didn't come as a shock that the man was armed. Rhodes suspected that several of the men working on the rig were licensed to carry and that they had sidearms in their cars or trucks. The man whose pickup Thorpe had stolen must have borrowed one of them.
Thorpe kept right on going. The man raised the pistol and started shooting when Thorpe passed him.
Rhodes saw flame from the barrel and then heard the shot. The man fired again.
Rhodes thought the man was crazy. Thorpe had no intention of stopping, and all the man could do was damage his truck and maybe kill Thorpe.
Come to think of it, killing Thorpe might be his intention. A lot of people in Blacklin County looked on car thieves the way their ancestors had looked on horse thieves.
Rhodes took his foot off the gas pedal, hoping the county car would coast to a stop near enough to the man for Rhodes to put a stop to the shooting. Better for Thorpe to get away than for him to be killed for something like stealing a pickup.
Rhodes pumped the brakes, but the car slowed only a little. It was still rolling along when he came alongside the man with the pistol.
Rhodes opened the door and jumped out. He staggered, tried to retain his balance, couldn't, and fell. He somersaulted to his feet
and threw himself at the man, who had time to get off one more shot.
The bullet struck one of the truck's tires, and Thorpe swerved off the road.
Rhodes barreled into the shooter, knocking him to the ground, and kicked the pistol out of his hand. Then he looked to see what was happening to Thorpe.
The pickup ran off the road and over a mound of dirt. It bounced high in the air. Then it rolled over on its right side in the air and sailed out over the slush pit.
It got almost to the middle before it fell, landing with a muddy splash.
Rhodes looked down at the man on the ground. He started to say something, couldn't think of anything, and just shook his head. He looked for the county car. It had gone off the road, too, and it sat in a little ditch with its engine running. Rhodes shook his head again and ran to the slush pit to see what was left of Leo Thorpe.
THE PICKUP WAS ON ITS SIDE, ABOUT HALF-SUBMERGED IN THE slimy mixture of mud, water, drilling fluid, and who knew what else. Rhodes didn't want to go into the pit, but he didn't see any way out of it. Ivy was going to be disappointed in him.
He slid down the side of the pit and into the water, which was cold and opaque. The bottom of the pit was thick, soft mud, and it sucked at Rhodes's shoes as he waded toward the pickup. All he needed to do was lose a shoe, he thought, to make the day complete. Or to lose both shoes. That would be perfect. His shoes, however, stayed on.
He reached the pickup and slogged around to where he was facing the roof. He banged on the part that was sticking out of the water and called Thorpe's name.
He didn't get an answer, so he tried again. No answer that time, either.
Rhodes didn't want to look in for fear that Thorpe was lying inside
with the gun in his hand. Getting shot in the head would be a lot worse than losing a shoe or two.
It was possible, though, or even likely, that Thorpe was too badly injured to do any shooting. Rhodes leaned over and looked inside.
Thorpe was there, lying over on the passenger door, which was on the bottom of the pit. Water was seeping in, and Thorpe was facedown in it, not moving. Not a good sign, Rhodes thought.
Rhodes wriggled over the top of the pickup until he was hanging into the open window. He groped around until he had a hand on Thorpe's head. Taking hold of a handful of hair, Rhodes dragged Thorpe out of the water.
Thorpe wasn't breathing. Rhodes propped him up against the dashboard, climbed up on the side of the truck bed, opened the door, and let it fall toward the windshield. Then he lay down, reached in, and pulled Thorpe along the seat, past the steering wheel, and into the water.
Dragging Thorpe along behind him, Rhodes waded back to the bank of the pit as fast as he could, which wasn't fast. The mud made it heavy going. When he got to the bank, he pushed Thorpe up the slope and started CPR, making sure that the airway was clear and positioning Thorpe's head before beginning the rescue breathing.
They could call it
rescue breathing
all they wanted, Rhodes thought, but it was still mouth-to-mouth, and it wasn't pleasant by any name, least of all when you were doing it for someone like Leo Thorpe. Whether Rhodes liked it or not, it had to be done, so he did it, forcing the air into Thorpe's mouth and checking for vital signs at the proper intervals.
Thorpe still wasn't breathing when Rhodes began the chest
compressions, but he kept them up, alternating with the rescue breathing. After what seemed like a long time, Thorpe coughed, sputtered, spit out water and mud, and breathed.
Rhodes sat back, relieved. He'd been afraid he was going to have a dead murder suspect on his hands, never a good thing. Thorpe wasn't in great shape, but at least he was alive.
Because Thorpe had been unconscious when Rhodes had found him, Rhodes suspected that he had sustained some kind of injury when the pickup had hit the water, if not before. There hadn't been any blood, so Rhodes didn't think Thorpe had been hit by one of the bullets, but now he had a look to make sure.
He found a large knot on the side of Thorpe's head, some blood still oozing from it. Thorpe hadn't been wearing his seat belt, which had made it easier to get him out of the pickup. If he'd been wearing it, though, he might not have hit his head on whatever it had smacked into. Or the knot might have come from a bullet that grazed his skull.
Not that it mattered at the moment.
Rhodes took hold of Thorpe's collar and dragged him up the bank, which was so slick that Rhodes had trouble climbing it. Water and mud squished out of his shoes with every step, but no one offered to help him.
Dragging Thorpe just made things harder, but at least he slid easily on the mud. When Rhodes got to the top of the bank, the man who'd been shooting at Thorpe was standing there watching.
“Is he gonna be okay?” he said.
“I don't know,” Rhodes told him. “Why don't you make yourself useful and call 911.”
The man held up a cell phone. “Already did.” He put the phone into the pocket of his filthy jeans. “You gonna arrest me?”
“Yeah. I am.”
The man shook his head. “Damn. I was afraid of that.”
 
It was after midnight, and Rhodes was sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning his pistol, a short-barreled .38 Police Special. Other people preferred automatics, but Rhodes was old-fashioned. Give him a good revolver any day.
He hadn't had to use it, however. It was just wet and muddy from his soak in the slush pit. Leo Thorpe hadn't given any trouble. He'd still been unconscious when he was put in the ambulance summoned by the 911 call, and he hadn't regained consciousness by the time Rhodes had gone by the hospital on the way home.
The doctor on duty told Rhodes that Thorpe had been struck by a bullet and had a serious concussion. He added that Thorpe might even have memory loss when he did awaken. When Rhodes asked if there could be any chance that Thorpe was faking it, the doctor hadn't even bothered to answer him. The doctor did answer when Rhodes asked how long Thorpe might remain in a coma. He said that he had no idea.
The man who'd shot Thorpe hadn't given any trouble, either. His defense was that he was just trying to stop Thorpe from getting away with his truck, and Rhodes thought he might even be able to convince a grand jury of that. He'd arrested him anyway, however, and booked him in at the jail.
With all that taken care of, all Rhodes had to do before taking a bath and going to bed was clean his gun.
The smell of gun oil didn't seem to bother the cat, which was
asleep in its usual spot by the refrigerator. It bothered Rhodes that he'd thought in terms of
the usual spot,
but he was too tired to worry about it.
Ivy had gone back to bed after Rhodes had come in and told her about his evening. She hadn't even said anything about his appearance. Well, that was a slight exaggeration. She'd said something, all right, but not as much as Rhodes had thought she might.
“You said you'd try not to get muddy,” she told him, but without sounding too accusatory.
“
Try
is the important word there,” he said. “I tried. I just didn't succeed.”
“You surely didn't. You look like the Swamp Thing.”
Ivy wasn't a comic book fan. Rhodes had watched the movie version of
Swamp Thing
one night, and she'd watched it with him. She hadn't liked it as much as Rhodes, nor had she appreciated the acting ability of Adrienne Barbeau as much as he had. She'd liked Louis Jourdan, however.
“I don't look like him yet,” Rhodes said. “When you think about what might have been in that slush pit, though, I might look like Swamp Thing by tomorrow.”
“It would be better if you looked like Louis Jourdan.”
“Not a chance.”
“You could get a face-lift.”
Rhodes grinned. “Even less of a chance.”
Ivy shrugged. “Maybe they could use Louis Jourdan on the cover of the crime-bustin'-sheriff book. Or books. I'm sure there'll be a whole series.”
“Better Louis Jourdan than somebody who looks like me.”
Ivy gave him the once-over, not for the first time that evening.
“With all that pollution you've absorbed, maybe you'll have spider powers.”
“I wasn't bitten by a radioactive spider. I was just wading around in a slush pit. It's not the same.”
“Oh.” Ivy looked even more disappointed than she had about the face-lift. “I was sort of hoping for spider powers.”
At times Rhodes had hoped for the same thing, but it had never happened. He just had to muddle along as an ordinary person. One who didn't even look like Louis Jourdan.
“You're going to make a mess in the bathroom,” Ivy said.
Rhodes told her that he'd clean up after himself.
“Don't bother. And don't worry about it. I'll take care of it tomorrow.”
Rhodes said he'd help her.
“You'll probably be too busy.”
Rhodes had a feeling she was right.
 
The only good thing about the rest of the night, what little was left of it after Rhodes got to bed, was that the cat didn't come in and plaster himself to Rhodes's back.
Even without the cat, Rhodes didn't sleep well. His mind refused to shut down, and he worried about things like the pistol Thorpe had used. Thorpe's gun was taken before he was hospitalized. The owner of the pickup swore that there had been no gun in his vehicle, and Thorpe had shot at Rhodes before he even got into the truck. So where had the pistol come from?
For that matter, how had Thorpe gotten to the Tumlinson house? It was logical enough that he'd know about it. He'd been
on the property because it belonged to his cousin. When he escaped from the hospital, however, he'd been on foot. It was possible that he'd walked nearly to Sheldon, a distance of about ten miles, but Rhodes didn't think Thorpe was much of a walker. He was more likely to have gotten a ride. But from whom? He might have hitchhiked, but most people were wary of hitchhikers these days.
There hadn't been any clues in the house when Rhodes had searched it, just some canned food and a change of clothing. Rhodes hadn't been expecting a piece of paper with a phone number on it, but it would have been nice to find one.
Gid Sherman bothered Rhodes almost as much as the pistol and the question of how Thorpe had gotten out of town. Sherman was likable enough, but Rhodes wondered if he'd been telling the whole truth about things. Did Sherman really dislike Thorpe because Thorpe and Alton Brant didn't get along, or was there more to it? Sherman had turned Thorpe in for arranging the poker games, but what if that wasn't the whole story? Could there be a connection to Helen Harris, for example?
For that matter, where had Thorpe gotten the money to buy the Royal Rack and move his poker games there? As far as Rhodes knew, Thorpe didn't have a steady income. He did odd jobs, mowed lawns, repaired roofs and soffits, mended fences, painted a little. Nothing he did would generate enough money to buy a pool hall. It would have been hard for him to get any kind of loan without a steady job or something to put up for security, and Thorpe had neither, at least not that Rhodes knew about.
When he got up the next morning, he didn't feel as if he'd slept at all.
The first place Rhodes went the next day was the courthouse. He looked up the deeds for the Royal Rack and saw that Thorpe had bought it one month previously from someone named Rodney Jackson, who lived in Dallas.
Up in his office, Rhodes called Jackson, who wasn't particularly interested in talking to him.
“All I can tell you is that he made the down payment in cash,” Jackson said. “And before you ask, I didn't care where he got it. The deal's all legal, and if he makes his payments on time, the place is his.”
Rhodes didn't mention that Thorpe might have trouble making the payments, considering his current situation. He said, “Who managed the place for you?”
“A guy named Wayne York. He did a good job. I hardly ever had to come down there. You need anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
Jackson hung up. He wasn't the most congenial person Rhodes had ever talked to, but he wasn't as bad as some.
Rhodes called Hack and asked him about things at the jail.
“If you mean Truck, he's fine. He's just sorry he caused so much trouble. The fella who shot Thorpe bonded out first thing this mornin'.”
“Any calls last night that I need to hear about?”
“You were the one responsible for most of the excitement. Nothin' else happened worth a mention.”
“I'll be in when I get a chance then,” Rhodes said. “I need to talk to a few people.”
“Who?”
“I'm not sure yet.”
“You're just sayin' that 'cause you don't think it's any of my business.”
“Would I do that?”
“Yep.”
Rhodes grinned, though Hack couldn't see him. “Maybe I would, at that.”

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