The Homeplace: A Mystery (16 page)

“You say anythin’ about—” Cecil felt fear and anger bubble in his gut. “You know what I’m talkin’ about?”

“No. You know you can trust me.” The kid looked down at the floor. “Can I bum a cigarette?”

“No.” Cecil spit the word out. “You wanna smoke, buy a pack.”

Allen turned away from Cecil and looked out the front windows of the store. “Who’s that guy?” He pointed at the driver of a mud-crusted truck.

“That ain’t no man, stupid.” Cecil shook his head. “It’s that fat little game warden, Birdie Hawkins. Wonder what she’s doin’ in town.”

“Maybe she came in for a Weight Watchers meetin’.” Allen smiled, proud of himself. “Hide the Fritos.”

“Shut up, Allen. I’m not through with you yet. You might’ve got us both in big trouble.”

*   *   *

The cold handle on the gas nozzle stung Birdie’s hand. She placed it in the fuel port on the side of her pickup, started the gas flowing, pulled her stocking cap down over her ears, and jammed her hands into the pockets of her Carhartt jacket.

Jeff Mason’s pickup, towing a horse trailer, rolled past on the highway and swung south toward Sandy Creek. The dark tail and rump of Jeff’s bay horse pressed up against the trailer gate.

That’s five trucks and trailers.

Birdie didn’t know what to make of it, but she didn’t like it. Whatever it meant. She hung the hose back on the pump, plucked her receipt from the slot, and headed into the store for a cup of hot coffee.

The wind shut the door behind her, and Cecil pulled the tail of his T-shirt down over a hairy swath of white belly. “What’s goin’ on, Cecil?” Birdie asked. She snatched a cherry fruit pie from a counter display and tore the wax paper wrapper open with her teeth while she filled her Town Pump plastic mug. “That’s the fifth horse trailer I’ve seen. All locals.” She tipped the top of her head toward the windows. “Four more parked off the highway just this side of Sandy Creek. You know anythin’ about it?” She pushed a five dollar bill across the counter.

Cecil looked around the store. Across the room, a high school kid picked a hot-rod magazine from the rack and began to flip through the pages. Cecil motioned for her to come closer.

“Vigilantes, Birdie,” he whispered. “I heard some of ’em talkin’ in this very store. The men of this county are fed up with the way Sheriff Kendall is goin’ about solvin’ these murders. They’re gonna go find Ray-Ray, and if they do, they’ll string him up.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Vigilantes. Would I lie to you?”

“Yes, you would.” She shook her head. “Damn it, Cecil, you tell the sheriff any of this?”

“Just good men worried about their families. It’s not my place to go talkin’ about it.”

“Aw, crap, Cecil.” Birdie jammed the fruit pie into her mouth and made for the door.

*   *   *

As soon as the door shut Allen hurried to the counter. “You’re good, Cecil.” A broad smile beamed from the kid’s face. “I wish I could come up with stories like you do. They just, like, you know, flow from your mouth. You ought to write books or somethin’.”

“Any fool can write a book, kid.” Cecil watched Birdie drive away. “Listen, there’s somethin’ I gotta do. You watch things for me. Darla will be in at four. Tell her I told you to stay.” Cecil zipped up his sweatshirt over his paunch and went out into the cold wind.

*   *   *

By the time Birdie got her truck started, she’d thought over what Cecil had said.

Vigilantes out to lynch Ray-Ray? Another of his stories.

But there was something to five trucks and trailers, horses and riders meeting up outside of town. She’d check on it to see what she could find out, before she told the sheriff anything.

*   *   *

Cecil left the engine of his rattle-trap Ranger pickup running. He climbed out and went into his trailer. A half-empty bottle of Bacardi rum sat on a folding tray across from his TV, and a Marlin thirty-thirty rifle was propped behind the door.

When he shut the trailer’s door behind him, Cecil took both with him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mercy took the plate from Jim Doyle. The investigator dabbed the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “Thank you, ladies,” he said. “That was very good, but I need to get back to work now.” He pushed away from the table and stood.

“We have peach cobbler for dessert.” Mercy pointed at the pan at the end of the table.

“Perhaps later. I have a lot I need to do.” He took his can of Diet Coke and crossed the gym to the classroom he’d turned into his office.

“Not much for conversation, was he?” Mercy said to Jody Rose after the man was gone.

“Not at all. I was hoping he’d give me some tidbit I could use.” Jody moved the mashed potatoes from one side of her plate to the other, lifted a piece of meatloaf with her fork, and then set it back down from where she’d picked it up.

Jody hadn’t eaten anything. Just toyed with her food.

No wonder she looks like that in those five-hundred-dollar jeans.
Mercy felt the corners of her mouth turn down into a frown. She’d seen the way all the state troopers and deputies stared at the reporter. They should be looking at
her
that way.

“Cobbler, Jody? I’ve got a big piece here. All for you.”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry. I must be worried about not having anything new to report.” She stabbed the meatloaf on her plate and left the plastic fork standing in the cold meat. “It was good, though.”

Good? The little bitch never tasted one bite.

Mercy shaved off a piece of the cobbler, stuffed it into her mouth, and caught the syrupy dribble on her chin with a finger. Behind her the table creaked. Sheriff Kendall settled into the chair where Jim Doyle had sat. Right across from Jody.

“Save some for me?” Kendall asked.

Jody’s face beamed with the same sweet smile she’d tried on Doyle. It hadn’t gotten her what she wanted from the old detective, but from what Mercy knew about Kendall, the smile and tight sweater would start the flow of information.

Mercy unsnapped the second pearl button on her western blouse. She filled a plate with meatloaf, green beans, and potatoes, and when she set it in front of the sheriff she made sure her shirt fell open just a bit.

“Damn, looks good.” He was looking at the plate, not her.

Jody laced her fingers together, rested her elbows on the table, and perched her face on top of her hands. She tilted her head just so and looked at the sheriff.

I should stab her with her own fork.
Mercy gritted her teeth and sat next to Jody.

“Am I the last one to eat?” Kendall asked between forkfuls.

“Uh-huh.” Mercy thought it was best not to say much.

“You made a good impression, Mercy. Doyle said to order food for supper. He’s gonna keep the crew here ’til late.” Kendall looked over his shoulder at the troopers hunched over the tables and computers on the gym floor. “I’m not sure what’s he’s got all them doing, but he’s supposed to be the man that knows. So can you bring somethin’ over at around six?”

“I’ll have Hector make burritos.” Another bite of cobbler would have tasted good right then, but Mercy remembered Jody’s tight jeans. She left the fork on the table. “Any word on Pop?”

“Nothin’ at all. The helicopters from Fort Carson are supposed to be here any time. Maybe they’ll help, maybe they won’t. At least the state’s footin’ the bill on this one.”

Jody shifted in her chair just enough to press her breasts against the table’s edge. “You’ve already told us more than Mr. Doyle.” The reporter put a pouty smile on her lips.

“He’s tight-lipped all right.” Kendall swiped a biscuit through the brown gravy on his plate. “But there’s really not much to say. No murder weapon with the boy. No fingerprints on the knife that killed Coach.” He pointed with the biscuit. “And I wasn’t supposed to tell you any of that.”

“All you told me was what you didn’t know. How can I make a story out of that?”

Mercy could see the wheels turning in the little blonde’s head.

“Are you going to question Chase Ford?” Jody asked.

“We’re waitin’ for him to come in now.”

“Oh.”

The fool had just given Jody her next story. Chase Ford. Murder suspect. Or maybe the fool was a fox.

Kendall finished his meatloaf and ate two pieces of the peach cobbler. Jody helped Mercy gather up the leftover food and throw away the paper plates. When the table was wiped down, they put the serving dishes in the boxes Mercy had brought. Kendall picked up the boxes and followed the two women out the door.

“Look.” Jody pointed at a helicopter low in the sky just south of town.

“Army chopper,” Kendall said. “It’s flyin’ just over the trees along Sandy Creek. Maybe he’ll see somethin’ from up there that we can’t from the ground. Let’s all hope he finds Pop.”

Sunbeams flashed off its whirling propellers, and then suddenly the copter flared. It lifted higher into the sky, and for the first time they could hear the strain of its engine.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Kendall shifted the boxes to keep from dropping them.

The sound of a faraway gunshot drifted in from the prairie.

*   *   *

Chase stomped the brakes and twisted his head to look back at the cottonwoods along the creek. Three deer bounded from the trees into the brown pasture grass. The third deer’s legs wobbled. It struggled to keep up with the others. The animal stumbled once, fought to stay on its feet, stumbled again, and went down. Chase could see a red smear on its side. A hind leg flailed the air and went still.

A man in a blaze-orange hat and vest stepped from brush along the creek bottom. He looked to where the deer had fallen, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and walked to his kill.

I’ll see if I can help,
Chase thought.

That’s what folks still do out here in farm country. They help one another. Not like the big cities where people don’t even know their neighbors’ names.

Maybe Chase could help gut out the deer. He could put it in the back of his truck and give the man a ride to where he left his vehicle. Neighbors should help one another.

Especially when a murderer was about.

Chase turned the truck and eased over the rough pasture ground to the dead deer.

*   *   *

At the sound of the shot, Ray-Ray put down his rifle. The helicopter banked higher and swung to the south.

“Leave me alone,” he hissed, and looked back down the creek bed toward the sound of the shot.

Ray-Ray spotted the hunter just after he saw the deer.

Maybe it was luck. If it hadn’t been for the helicopter, Ray-Ray would have crossed the road and could have run into the hunter. No telling what Ray-Ray might have had to do then.

Getting to his little brother’s place was too risky for now, what with the helicopters and the law crawling all over this end of the county. Ray-Ray had known a day like this would come.

When laws were more important than the people they were made to protect, when a few high-ups decided what was best for everyone and didn’t listen to the regular people, natural, God-given rights were forgotten.

But Ray-Ray was ready. He’d prepared for that day. He’d built his stronghold, and all hell could rage against him.

Let ’em come.

*   *   *

Cecil pounded both fists on the steering wheel.

“Damn him.” He glugged down another swallow of Bacardi and chased the rum down with a swig of Coke. “Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!”

The little shit Allen had told the police everything. Now the sheriff knew about the weed, the party at Butt Notch, and Ray-Ray’s threats. If Allen had spilled his guts about that much, what else had he said? There was one thing Allen couldn’t have said. Allen didn’t know about that. Only Cecil knew. But if the sheriff started nosing around …

Cecil didn’t chase his next swallow of rum with the Coke. He chased it with more rum. He opened the door of his truck and staggered to the edge of road. He had to think of something quick. The sheriff would be knocking on his trailer’s door anytime now. When Cecil wasn’t there, they’d comb the whole county.

Where could he go? He didn’t have enough money in his wallet to buy gas for his truck. If he could get to Limon he could pawn his rifle for a few bucks. But he knew his piece of crap truck wouldn’t get that far.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he called out, and quenched his curses with more rum. “Think of somethin’.”

The edge of the road crumbled away under his boots. Dirt clods tumbled down the steep bank into years of dried, gray tumbleweeds stacked on themselves in the gulley. The wind stirred the treetops, and a shower of brown cottonwood leaves fell into the dry grass.

Cecil stared down at the tinder-dry weeds in the creek bottom.

That shit’s a wildfire waitin’ for a spark.

The alcohol’s blur cleared for an instant.

What if?

Cecil cocked his head. What if?

What if a fire got started?

He smiled.

It would burn through the grass and weeds like a runaway train. Everybody in the county was on edge about how dry it was. A fire could start anyplace, and the wind would sweep it through the water-starved brush along the creek. If it wasn’t stopped, stubble fields would go next. Then houses.

And the man who warned the town?

He’d be a hero for sure.

Cecil smiled at the story he played out in his head. What would it matter if Cecil sold a little pot to the high school kids and bought ’em beer for their parties? He’d be a hero. Jody Big-Tits would interview him on the TV news. Even Mercy Saylor would look at him as if he was important. Not like something to wipe off the bottom of her shoes.

Cecil took a last swallow of rum, grabbed a handful of old newspapers from the floorboards, and climbed from his truck. He sloshed some of the rum onto the papers in his hand and gulped down the rest. He sparked his Bic lighter and touched the fire to the wet papers. Yellow flames curled out and singed the hair on his arm. He tossed the burning paper into the tangle of dry weeds.