The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (15 page)

He turned his back to the tree and slid to the ground. Sitting back against the tree that stopped the slug that almost stopped him, he drew up his knees, propped his elbows, and rubbed his hands across his face, remembering the past few minutes of pursuit.

What was he thinking? He charged into these trees without thought, unarmed. He even abandoned the relative safety of the ditch when the stalker, or stalkers, were firing at him. What made him act so damn stupid?

One day your anger will kill you.
Mrs. Walsh’s off-hand comment felt like a doctor’s grim prognosis.

15

S
POTTING AN
I
VORY-BILLED
W
OODPECKER

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Hubbard became aware of another presence in his bedroom. He struggled to open tired eyes and focus on the small figure sitting at the end of the bed.

Emily scrutinized his face, her brow lowered in concentration.

Hubbard recalled their conversation from the previous night. Likely, she was looking for trace evidence of a horrific nightmare—or a funny one—still visible on his exhausted features.

She seemed to come to the conclusion that her father’s face was a blank slate, and her attention shifted. “Daddy, why are you sleeping with a hammer?”

“Hmm . . . what? Hammer? . . . Oh, this?” He picked up the heavy tool at his side. “Um, I wanted to get an early start. Farmers always need a good hammer near them.” He put the hammer on the bedside table. “What are
you
doing up so early?”

“It’s not early. It’s late. Maria and I have a project.”

“Project? . . . What time is it?” Hubbard pulled up on his elbow and looked at the alarm clock. “Eight o’clock? God—” He caught himself, then repeated the censorship on his next word. “Shiittuuute.”

He threw off his covers, muttering to himself.

“Did you dream anything?” Emily asked.

Hubbard pulled a fresh t-shirt from the chest of drawers and found a pair of jeans in the closet. He was required to weave around Emily, apparently seeking a junior bird’s eye view on his clothes gathering, as he moved. “No. Did you?”

“I dreamed I heard noises. Did you hear noises?”

Hubbard looked at his worn jeans. It jogged his memory about his plans for this morning. He pulled his nicest shirt from the closet and replaced the jeans with slacks. “I slept like a baby.”

“Where are you going? I thought you were going to use your red hammer?”

“I am, but a hammer’s no good without nails, is it?”

“I bet I know where some are. Do you want me to find them? You won’t have to go anywhere.”

“I need special nails.”

“Special?”

The doorbell rang, saving him from further interrogation.

“Oh, that’s Maria at the door. Don’t you both have a project?”

“Yeah!” Emily bolted from the room and bounded down the stairs.

Wait.
It could be the man from last night making a house call.
He grabbed the hammer and trailed after Emily. Already down the stairs, Emily shouted Maria’s name and he heard his too-young, too-pretty, too-disconcerting housekeeper’s reply.

He took a breath of relief, which turned out to be a fleeting emotion.
Maria
. He still hadn’t fired her.
Another item for the list.
Tonight, he’d check that one off.

He headed for the shower. The sleepless night had left him groggy with fatigue. With every noise, he rose from bed; hammer in hand like a minor-league Thor, checking the front door or strolling to the pine trees along the road. In the cold light of day, his weapon looked pretty silly. He reminded himself that despite the tool’s heft, the stalker’s rifle bullet carried more weight in a disagreement. He put it on the floor of the linen closet. If a problem arose, he would use his fists. His clenched hands had carried him this far in life, no reason to change now.

A few minutes later, he bounded downstairs. He passed the two girls busy in his living room. He saw just enough of Maria to become disconcerted. No one could just throw on a t-shirt and jeans and look that good. What was she trying to do to him?

When he arrived at the hot house, he began to water his seedlings. The mindless activity allowed him to reconsider the previous night’s discovery. Should he tell anyone that he knew Amir’s identity? Was that the reason he was killed? What was his life like to have that family legacy? How do you live like that?

Hubbard shut off the water. It all felt too familiar. He felt an unexpected kinship toward Amir. Was that what was driving him to continue to his amateur investigation?

When he put up the hose, he felt as if he’d just gone a few rounds in a fight that ended as a draw. He would go to town and hear the latest news about the murder.

He went back into his house and headed for the living room to say goodbye to Emily. She and Maria seemed startled when he appeared in the doorway. Their uneasiness, and sideward glances, was enough to make him pause, one brow raised in suspicion.

The two young women stood close together, a human wall, blocking his view. Behind them, the furniture had been moved, jumbled together like ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle pieces.

“Ummm, what’s going on?” Hubbard said.

A hound dog with chicken feathers protruding from its mouth couldn’t have looked guiltier. “Nothing,” Emily said, with over-the-top, little girl innocence.

“Y’all doing something in there?”

“We’re going to make it look pretty,” Emily said.

“This room? Nothing can help in here. Tell Maria it’s a nice idea, but it’s a lost cause. We spend all our time in the den with the TV. I don’t think the fireplace even works.”

“Maria says it does.”

“And how would she know that?” Hubbard avoided looking at Maria; she stole his focus from what he needed to do. “Never mind. Just tell her I said it was a lost cause.”

“Okay.”

Hubbard decided he needed to give instructions to an adult, not a child. He turned to Maria. “Très diablo.” Very devil? It wasn’t what he meant, but Maria seemed like she understood and nodded.

Hubbard turned to smile at Emily. “Gotta run.”

Before he got off the porch, the prominent tire ruts left by Luis’s truck drew his attention again. He had to fill them in; another item for his list.

Nothing was going right today, and his luck didn’t change when he turned into the square. After three round trips, he couldn’t find a parking place at the square. It took even more frustrating minutes to find a lonely spot in the alley behind the pharmacy on the opposite side of the square.

Hubbard tried the back door of the
Shop and Drop
drug store, hoping to take a short cut through the business and shave some time from his walk. It was unlocked.
Ah, small town living.
He nodded to the girl at the cash register, who smiled sweetly in return, pointing to a poster on the wall promoting the tomato festival. Hubbard nodded and smiled. “Can’t wait.”

Hiking across the diagonal concrete path toward City Café, two people he barely knew stopped him and thanked him for his article in the
Union Democrat
. Copies of which were delivered in town that morning, thanks to the Little Rock printer and U.S. Mail. His copy would arrive in the afternoon mail.

Paula Dempsey, the pixie-sprite woman who owned the
Fresh Start
bakery, was the second person. “Why aren’t the other news people telling us what’s going on like you are?”

Hubbard was startled by the question. She must have confused his article with some other news report, but he didn’t have time to explore it with her. Besides, his story was the most out-of-date version.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m
so late
.” He trotted down the sidewalk.

Her voice rose as she called after him. “I’m locking my doors and keeping a loaded gun by the bed. Well, come by sometime and check out my gluten-free buns.” She winked and was off.

Hubbard nodded and waved his hand in acknowledgement.

The diner was crowded. The lunch hour began early in a farming community. Hubbard found an empty stool at the counter and swiveled around to survey the room. If he was lucky, Toil, Eddie, or someone from the FBI would be here and he could begin a casual conversation that might lead to details on the investigation.

“Hey fellas, here comes R.J.” A voice, faint but discernible in the dining racket, came from the direction of the large windows at the front of the diner. Hubbard’s felt a new heaviness on his shoulders.

Rick Copeland, an overweight rice farmer, stood by the front wall of plate glass and looked toward the square, both hands pressed against his big pot belly. He was informing three men at his table, all wearing denim overalls, that R.J. Hubbard was approaching. The plus-sized planter held onto a second spread, even larger, by the river.

Why did people feel compelled to announce an R.J. sighting like he was an ivory-billed woodpecker?

Some townspeople were looking at the entryway expectantly; others were pretending to be oblivious to the impending arrival of his uncle. But there was no denying the difference in the energy surrounding him. It was as if two hundred tuning forks had been struck at once. Jolted, the lazy dining gossip was transformed into the buzzing of a hive.

The diners seemed to hold their breath for the arrival of a man none of them really knew. Most were possessed by emotions difficult for Hubbard to define; adoration with a strong undertow of fear? Others were consumed by a quiet loathing they wouldn’t dare express.

At any rate, R.J. was about to enter the diner.

Hubbard spun around on the stool and turned his back to the entrance.

16

H
OW TO
M
AKE AN
E
NTRANCE . . . AND
E
XIT

F
ROM HIS STOOL AT THE
C
ITY
C
AFÉ
lunch counter, Hubbard’s attention was drawn to a woman wearing heavy blue eye shadow and clothed in a drab brown outfit. She sat at a small table with two children, almost Emily’s age; the kids were peering at the entrance to the dining area with apparent eagerness. The mother grabbed the arm of the older of the two boys and pulled him toward her, her head jutting forward accusingly. “Do
not
gape at the door. Our family does not look at the likes of him unless we have to.
Do you know what that man did?
He
—
He
 . . .”

The weight of Hubbard’s stare must have stopped her. She hesitated; her eyes blinked rapidly, and then she slowly turned her head upward in his direction. When her eyes reached Hubbard, she twisted uncomfortably in her seat and stared at her plate, shushing her son who kept asking, “
What’d he do? What’d he do?”

Hubbard’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. He looked away and his eyes fell on a blond woman in her late thirties, sitting at another table with a girlfriend. She had set aside her unfinished plate lunch. She flipped her long hair over her shoulder and opened a compact, with a surprising intensity. She examined her face, lipstick in hand. After making a corrective dab, she pressed her lips together and practiced a smile into the small mirror.

The blonde’s friend, a tiny brunette wearing a tight pink t-shirt, appeared dumfounded by her table mate, and shook her head with an expression that looked like disdain.

At that moment, his uncle entered, and the room took note.

R.J. Hubbard, with salt and pepper hair, still trim with none of the protruding belly his contemporaries had acquired, cut an elegant figure in the small town. For most people, however, it was difficult to see past his smile; broad and confident, it swept the room like the beam from a lighthouse. It was the display of assurance by a man who believed that everyone should be thrilled by his arrival.

Hubbard wondered why he never saw any doubt on the man’s face. He wasn’t oblivious. R.J. had tremendous insight into people and their motivations, he must certainly be aware of the mixed, but always strong reactions, he elicited in his hometown. But now, like always, he looked like the guest of honor at a surprise party. He grasped hands and slapped backs at the first table he came to and seemed to have no doubts that the next table would be welcoming as well. Young and old, man, woman, or child, they all gave him their full attention. Hubbard thought that even babies in strollers seemed to be clued in, but he knew it was his imagination playing devilish games with him.

Everyone’s relationship with the fifty-five-year-old man was as complicated as it was unique. For some of these numbers he had done a “favor” for at one time or another. His beneficence was well known, but secretive, a favor bestowed by R.J. Hubbard was something you remembered, but never spoke of. So these favors, like most his uncle’s life, remained in the shadows.

R.J. was moving to another table. In a town where denim seemed to be the standard uniform for men, R.J. was the man garbed in expensive wool and custom made shirts. The only outlier was his boots. They were old and worn—a point of curiosity for people who wondered by a rich man chose to wear boots that seemed well beyond their useful life. But Hubbard’s father had the same quirk, putting new soles on the same old boots repeatedly. Hubbard was glad the old boot preference gene had skipped him.

R.J. was getting too close. Hubbard focused on the counter in front of him, hoping R.J. would pass by.

“Hiya kid.”

No such luck. Hubbard turned to his left as R.J. sat on the stool beside him. He had hoped it would take R.J. another ten minutes to make it through the supplicants in the lunch crowd.

“Hi. Um, haven’t seen you in a bit,” the younger Hubbard said. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

“Here and there.”

“Oh . . . Yeah, of course.” Questions to his uncle never got a straight answer.
Why did he even try?

Uh, say, I hear you’ve hired a housekeeper.”

John Riley sighed. “How do you hear these things?”

“Here and there. Do you think she’s going to work out?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s too young.”

R.J. nodded, his face looked like he was mulling over something. Hubbard braced himself. Anytime his uncle chose his words carefully, there was usually something else going on.

“I want to talk to you about that article you wrote. Why are you getting involved with something like that? You’ve got a farm and a daughter to think about.”

“Ah, you read the paper, I guess. Mrs. Welsh would be proud that the most important man in town reads our little rag. As far as the story about that poor kid, I’m stopping now. I just did it for extra money—like always, no difference.”

“Well, it’s a little bit more than a simple article. I know you. You don’t know where it will lead.
What you might find out.
I know you. You don’t give up when you got an idea in your head. ”

“I give up all the time.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do”

“No—”

“Okay, you’re right.
I don’t give up.
See?
I gave up.
I do it all the time.”

“Not this time. Not when you have such a crazy theory to stand behind. I don’t believe you.”

“What crazy theory?”

“Let’s put that aside for a moment. I don’t want to argue. I have something I need you to do. A favor, let’s say.”

It was a remarkably short turnaround time for payback. “Oh.” He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.

R.J. smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s really simple. I think it’s time to show you some stuff. Tell you how things work on my farm. How to keep things going. It’ll just take a day or two.”

Hubbard was momentarily stunned by request. His uncle wanted to show him how things worked on his farm. Why now? Didn’t the old man realize he had a farm to run, too? “I am really behind with my planting. Can it wait a bit?”

R.J. smiled. “Don’t worry, your crop will be in before nightfall—drip irrigation, your tomatoes, everything. I sent some men over this morning. I really need you to be able to focus on this.”

“What? I don’t understand. Do you know how many men it would take to get all that done before nightfall?”

“Of course. I’m the one that sent them.”

Hubbard’s cell phone rang in his pocket. He reached into his coat.

Before he answered, R.J. placed his hand on Hubbard’s arm. “Oh, and I told my men that they could park on your lawn. No more than a couple dozen trucks, maybe a few cars, a working tractor. Not much. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“What? My lawn?” Protest was futile. The ring of his phone telegraphed their arrival.

Hubbard switched on his cell. It was an excited Emily.

“Daddy! You’ll never guess!”

Hubbard spent another minute calming Emily and waiting while she translated his instructions to Maria who was keeping the workers at bay until she knew Hubbard approved. He hung up.

A waitress appeared and set down a coffee cup and filled it, momentarily interrupting the conversation. After she went into the left, Hubbard turned back to R.J. He was momentarily surprised to see that his uncle was intently studying his face. He knew the look. R.J. expected the favor to be returned.”

“O.K. I guess I can do it.”

R.J. nodded. “I was thinking about what you said about your housekeeper. It’s too important a decision, leaving your child in someone else’s care; to let it all go to chance. I’ll write up a list of suitable—”

Hubbard rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Wait . . . Just wait. I got this. I can make my own hiring and firing decisions.”

“But, if she’s too young, it won’t work.
It just won’t work.
Listen to me; I’ve been down this road. Let me help you.”

“Just a second. Emily is my little girl. I think Maria might surprise us all. I’m just going to wait and see. Give it a few days.”

“
For once, will you just listen
.”

Hubbard took a sip of coffee.

R.J. sighed. “Well, there’s no changing your mind . . . Call me and we’ll set it up. I’m kinda in a rush. It’s important.”

Hubbard felt his chest tighten. “What? So soon?”

“Can’t be helped.” R.J. surveyed the room. “I see Reverend Harper. He wants to see me about
some big emergency
—he is always so dramatic. It’s probably about the ‘thank you’ luncheon for the flood workers.” R.J. put his hand on Hubbard’s arm and squeezed. “In the meantime, let go of this murder thing. You don’t want to get some nut job all riled up.”

“Nut job?” Hubbard wondered if his uncle had heard about his visitor the previous night, but that would be impossible. His uncle continued to squeeze his arm, a bit too forcefully. “Ouch,” Hubbard said.

R. J. smiled. “Sorry. I just don’t want this murder to create problems for you.”

It was an odd comment to process. “Um . . .It’s not.”

“Good.” R. J. patted his arm and stood. “We’ll talk.”

“Yeah,” Hubbard said.

He watched R.J. walk away; his uncle’s progress was slow as several diners rose to greet him in turn.

“John Riley Hubbard, I knew you wouldn’t be far away from your truck.”

Hubbard turned to his other side to see the grinning deputy.

“Oh, hi Eddie. How’re you doing?”

“I’m doing great! Guess who is back at home where he belongs?”

Hubbard nodded. “Well, I think I can guess just fine. Congratulations.”

“Mona said that if anyone was going to kill me, it was going to be her, not some stranger. The White River Killer can just get in line and wait his turn . . .” Eddie’s head rocked back and forth with contentment, closing his eyes as if he was savoring the memory of her comments. “
She loves me
.”

Hubbard tilted his head and his forehead creased. “Sounds like it . . . But, why did she mention the White River Killer?”

“
Oh, I almost forgot.
Sheriff Toil wanted me to fetch you as quick as possible.”

The clang of the round bell sitting on the kitchen ledge sounded. Hubbard turned and saw what looked like his BLT sitting on the kitchen window ledge.

“Tell the sheriff I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Well, you come when you can. But remember; when you see your truck you’re going to be hopping mad. So, come find the sheriff.”

“Okay . . . Um.” Hubbard’s brow furrowed.

Eddie was quickly away, before Hubbard could react. He called after the deputy. “Uh, Eddie, what about my truck? Why am—”

Eddie didn’t hear him and seemed intent on leaving the dining area at the speed of a cannonball.

Hubbard stood. He couldn’t ignore Eddie’s comment about his truck He threw some bills down on the counter.

Hubbard followed after Eddie. He progress was slowed by the Sloan family, who lived about a mile from his place. The couple stood in his path and told him that they read his article and wondered what the world was coming to. Hubbard hurriedly told them that he didn’t know either. The reaction of the town seemed a bit over-the-top.

Hubbard wove through the tables, trying to make it out of the diner without being stopped again.

R.J. Hubbard looked around to see if anyone had heard Harper’s emotional plea. Fortunately, their table was in the corner. No one was looking at them. This was probably one of the few times when the general noise and confusion of the café was a blessing. He turned to face the minister. “Keep your voice down.”

“I asked you if we could meet in my office at the church. We can go there now—’”

“You know I don’t do church.”

“You want Henry to kill you. That’s insane.”

“Do I look insane?”

“You know, I’ve known you’ve for so long I don’t think I would know. I do know that you’ve done some crazy shit—”

“Reverend.
Your language
.”

“What is going on? They think you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance with surgery, don’t they. You’ve won with worse odds than that. Why give up now?”