Message on the Wind (7 page)

Clint thought a moment, then said, “I'll tell you what I'll do.”

“What?”

“You tell me what I want to know,” Clint said.

“And what do I get?”

“You get to ask me questions.”

Wynn sat back in his chair.

“That sounds oddly like an interview,” Steve Wynn said.

“On one condition.”

“What's that?”

“I'm always being asked for an interview,” Clint said. “And people always have the same questions.”

“I'll bet they do.”

“So I'll only answer your questions,” Clint said, “if you can come up with one—just one—that I've never heard before.”

Wynn considered the terms.

“Okay,” he said, “done.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “what do you know about a place called Organ Pipe?”

“Nothing.”

“Then this isn't going to work.”

“But I know somebody who might know.”

“Who?”

“A man named Hickey,” Wynn said, “Joe Hickey.”

“And where do I find Joe Hickey?”

“Close by,” Wynn said, “very close by.”

Clint and Steve Wynn were admitted to the office of Paul Kelsey, the warden of Yuma Territorial Prison. A large, florid-faced man in his sixties, Kelsey stood and extended his hand from behind his desk.

“Steve, it's good to see you,” Kelsey said. “What brings you out here?”

“Warden,” Wynn said, “this is Clint Adams.”

The warden stopped a moment, then moved his hand over to Clint, who shook it.

“Well, I heard you were bringing someone with you, but I had no idea it would be the Gunsmith. A pleasure, sir. Have a seat, please.”

Both men took seats and the warden sat down behind his desk.

“Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.

“Joe Hickey,” Wynn said.

“What about him?”

“Clint, here, would like to talk to him.”

“Oh? What about?”

“It's personal,” Clint said. So many people had acted odd when he mentioned Organ Pipe that he'd decided to keep the details to himself.

“I see. Do you know Hickey?”

“No.”

“I see. I don't have any objection to you seeing him,” the warden said, “but Hickey might. I'll have to go and ask him.”

“While you're at it, Warden,” Wynn said, “why don't you ask him if he'd do it as a favor to me?”

“Well, your paper did speak on his behalf during his trial,” the warden said. “He might do it for that reason. I'll still have to go and ask him.”

“We can wait,” Clint said.

“Yes, well,” Kelsey said, standing, “I'll just go and see, then. Can I get you gents something while you wait? Coffee? Whiskey?”

“We're fine,” Clint said.

“I'll be a few minutes, then,” the warden said.

As Kelsey left the office, Wynn said, “I could've used a whiskey.”

“I get what I want from Hickey, I'll buy you as many as you want.”

“One's my limit,” Wynn said. “I have a little trouble if I go beyond that. Tend to lose jobs. You know, get myself fired.”

“But this is your paper, isn't it?”

“No,” he said. “I'm the editor. It's owned by . . . somebody else. I could still get my ass fired.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I wouldn't want to contribute to that.”

“I appreciate that.”

“So, tell me about you and Hickey.”

“Nothing to tell,” Wynn said. “I was one of the few who didn't think he was guilty.”

“So another innocent man goes to prison?”

“Oh, he's not innocent,” Wynn said. “I just don't think he was guilty of the murder he's in here serving time for. He is a killer, though. Even he admits that.”

“And what about the warden?”

“I did a nice write-up about him a while back,” Wynn said. “You know, about the improvements he'd made here at Yuma since he took over.”

“How long has he been warden?” Clint asked.

“A year,” Wynn said.

“And is he doing a good job?”

“As good as anyone can do,” Wynn said. “The men are eating better than they used to, and have better visitation rights.”

“I see.”

“He's also pushing for something he calls ‘conjugal visits.' ”

“Conjugal . . . what?”

“He thinks that prisoners should be allowed to spend time with their wives once a month.”

“Spend time with? You mean . . .”

“That's what I mean,” the editor said. “Sex.”

“That's kind of radical thinking for a warden, isn't it?”

“It is,” Wynn said, “but it would probably make him the most popular warden in the history of the penal system—in any country.”

“I can see why it would,” Clint said.

The door opened at that moment and Warden Kelsey reentered the room.

“He'll see you, Mr. Adams. Come this way.”

Wynn stood up with Clint and moved toward the door, but Kelsey blocked his way.

“Just Mr. Adams,” he said.

“Why?” Wynn asked.

“I don't know, Steve,” Kelsey said. “I'm just tellin' you what he said.”

Wynn looked at Clint and said, “Okay, then, good luck. I'll see you when you get out.”

“This way,” the warden said.

As they walked down the hall, the warden asked Clint, “Do you know anything about Joe Hickey?”

“Just that he might be in here for a murder he didn't commit,” Clint said.

“That's probably true,” Warden Kelsey said, “but he's probably in here for all the murders he did commit and never got caught for.”

“Does that sit right with you?” Clint asked.

“Why wouldn't it?”

“Mr. Wynn indicated to me that you might be a little . . . radical in your thinking. Not really like any other wardens I might have known.”

“That's true enough,” Kelsey said. “I don't think these men have to be treated like animals just because they're behind bars.”

“I'm sure they appreciate your thinking.”

“There aren't many of them who take me seriously,” Kelsey said, then added, “yet.”

“Hickey one of the ones that does?”

“Hickey and I get along,” Kelsey said, “and he has a lot of influence on the prison population. When he talks, they tend to listen. Or they stop listenin'—sometimes permanently.”

“Sounds like you and him might have a special relationship.”

“We might,” the warden said, “one day.”

 

They went down several hallways and—Clint swore—a tunnel or two before reaching a wooden door with a small barred window. There was a guard standing in front of it.

“Open it,” the warden said.

“Yes, sir.”

The guard produced a key and unlocked the door. As he opened it and Clint started in, the warden put his hand on Clint's arm to stop him.

“I'll need your gun,” the man said.

Clint hesitated, but he understood and handed the weapon over.

“You have any trouble in there, just yell out and the guard will come in.”

“Okay.”

Clint walked through the door.

 

The prisoner was seated at a wooden table, his wrists shackled together, his ankles shackled together, and then his wrists and ankles connected by a chain. He was once a big man, but had lost a lot of weight recently. His prison stripes hung on him. He had a prison pallor, but seemed relatively healthy. Clint thought that a few meals would do wonders for him, bring him back to health. He seemed to be in his late forties, but might have been younger. His face was black with stubble.

“You him?” he asked. “You the Gunsmith?”

“That's me,” Clint said. “Clint Adams. You're Joe Hickey?”

“That's right. Siddown, why don't ya?” Hickey said. “Make yerself comfortable.”

There was one other chair, at the opposite end of the five-foot table. Clint sat.

“Took your gun, huh?”

“Yup.”

“As you can see,” Hickey said, moving his hands and rattling his chains, “I can't do nothin' anyway.”

“Guess they just wanted to be sure.”

“I don't get too many visitors,” Hickey said, “and none as famous as you. What brings ya here?”

“Organ Pipe.” Clint decided to get right to the point.

“What?”

“Have you ever heard of a place called Organ Pipe?” Clint asked.

Hickey sat back in his chair and stared at Clint. “What are ya askin' me about that fer?”

Clint shrugged. “I'm curious.”

“That kinda curious could get ya killed.”

“So you have heard of it?”

“Sure.”

“You're the first person I've talked to who's admitted that the place exists.”

“Existed.”

“What?”

“It don't exist,” Hickey said. “It existed.”

“What—what happened to it?”

“Organ Pipe was wiped out years ago.”

“Wiped out?” Clint repeated. “Wiped out by what?”

“Mister,” Hickey said, “believe me, you don't wanna go there.”

“Why not?”

“Organ Pipe was wiped out,” Hickey said, “by a plague.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Clint asked.

“Organ Pipe, Arizona, right?” Hickey asked.

“All I know is Organ Pipe,” Clint said. “Could there be two towns with that name?”

“Well, I suppose there could be,” Hickey said. “Maybe after the first town died, they started one up somewhere else with the same name.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“That newspaper editor brought you here, right?” Hickey asked.

“That's right.”

“Well, that's because nobody knows this area like I do,” Hickey said.

“Can you tell me where Organ Pipe was?” Clint asked.

“You actually wanna go there?” Hickey asked. “Why?”

Clint took the newspaper clipping out and passed it to the shackled man.

“Somebody wrote a note on here?” Hickey asked.

“That's what it looks like.”

“How did you get it?”

“It blew into my camp one morning.”

“This note? But this is an old newspaper.”

“I know.”

“You think this has been blowin' around Arizona all this time?”

“I don't know what to think, Hickey,” Clint said. “But somebody needed enough help to write that and toss it into the wind.”

“Well,” Hickey said, putting the clipping down on the table carefully, “that town needed help, all right. If I was you, I wouldn't be carryin' that around too long. Might have plague attached to it.”

“What kind of plague are we talking about, Hickey?” Clint asked.

“The kind that can kill a whole town, that's what kind,” Hickey said. “Ain't no use in going to that town, Adams. It's dead.”

“Just tell me where it is,” Clint said, “and I'll go and see for myself.”

“Well, it's kinda hard to tell you where it is,” Hickey said, “but I can show you.”

“Which means you want me to get you out of here,” Clint observed.

“That would be helpful.”

“That's not going to happen, Hickey,” Clint said.

“The state is not going to let you out of prison just to satisfy a curiosity of mine.” Clint stood up. “So I guess we're done here.”

Hickey rattled his chains and said, “Wait, wait, don't be in such a damned hurry!”

Clint stopped, and saw the guard peering in through the bars to see what the commotion was. He waved the man away and turned back to Hickey.

“Sit back down,” Hickey said. When Clint didn't move, the prisoner added, “Please.”

Clint sat.

“The thing about Organ Pipe is where it's located. You could approach it for miles and not see it, and then there it was, right in front of you.”

“It's hidden?”

“It's well hidden by the hills around it,” Hickey said. “More people would find it by accident than would actually go there on purpose.”

“But you could tell me how to find it?” Clint asked.

“I could tell you how to find where it used to be,” Hickey said. “I'm sure they musta burned the whole thing to the ground.”

Clint looked down at the newspaper article, which he'd forgotten to pick up again—or had he? Was Hickey telling the truth about a plague wiping out the town? Clint shook his head and picked up the clipping. He folded it under the watchful eye of the convict and put it back in his shirt pocket.

“Tell me how to find it,” he said.

“Get me some paper and a pencil,” Hickey said, “and I'll draw you a map—but you gotta agree to somethin' first. I mean, I gotta get somethin' outta this, right?”

“What do you want?”

 

When Clint was finished with Hickey, a guard walked him back to the warden's office, where Steve Wynn and Warden Kelsey were sharing a whiskey and talking.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Wynn asked.

“I did.”

“What did it cost you?” Kelsey asked.

“I'll be sending some packages in for Hickey from time to time, Warden,” Clint said. “Will you see that he gets them?”