The Hanging of Samuel Ash (27 page)

“Sit down,” Hook said.

“What did you say?”

Hook shoved him into his chair. Eagleman's cheeks puffed in and out, and he made strange whishing sounds.

“You can't come in here,” he said. “I'll have you arrested.”

“I've got an appointment,” Hook said.

“This is outrageous. Who do you think you are?”

“That little girl just lost her grandmother, and you put her to walking the circle?”

“Discipline is essential in a place like this,” he said. “The girl has to learn to eat what everyone else eats.”

“Except you?”

“I'm an adult.”

Hook reached over and snared Eagleman's tie with his prosthesis. He pulled him halfway across the desk. Buttons from Eagleman's white shirt popped and rolled across the floor. He stank of fear and cologne, and his ears lit red in the sunlight that streamed through the window behind him.

Hook spoke into his face. “If I ever hear of you not eating what you serve those kids, I'll be back, and without an appointment next time.”

Hook shoved him into his chair and went to the door. He opened it and turned.

“Bet's taking the day off,” he said. “Any objections?”

Dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief, Eagleman shook his head.

“Good, then.”

Hook stopped in the kitchen to get Bet, who had just finished her peanut butter sandwich.

“She's coming with me to see Mixer,” he said to the cook. “Here's my number in case Miss Feola wants to talk to me when she gets back.”

The cook stood motionless. “What about Mr. Eagleman?”

“He says that from now on whatever you fix for the kids to eat will be fine with him, too.”

The cook smiled. “We're having potato soup,” she said. “Mr. Eagleman hates potato soup.”

*   *   *

Hook and Bet spent the afternoon in the park playing with Mixer, who insisted on digging a hole under the foundation of the bathroom.

When they got back to the shop, they found Patch just closing up.

“This is Bet,” Hook said. “She's a friend of mine. She's living out at the orphanage now. And this is Mixer, whose friendship is less clear.”

“Hello, Bet,” Patch said. “Your heels are run over. Stop by sometime, and I'll put new ones on for you.”

Bet said, “I only got a dollar.”

“Well,” he said, looking over at Hook. “We've got heels enough to spare around here. No charge.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I better be getting home,” Patch said. “Nice meeting you, Bet. See you tomorrow, Hook.”

“Yeah,” Hook said.

“Course that dog will be sleeping outside, won't he?” Patch asked.

“Mixer? Most likely.”

“Good night, then, and you might tell Skink he can just stop using my phone. It's not here for his private business.”

“What makes you think Skink is using your phone?”

“Someone moved those pelts. It had to be either Skink or you. I figure a lawman would know better.”

“The law is a sacred trust with railroad bulls,” Hook said. “I'll tell him what you said.”

*   *   *

Hook walked Bet back to the orphanage and turned her over to the cook at the back door that led into the kitchen.

“I don't know what you did to Mr. Eagleman,” she said. “But he left for that conference with steam coming out of his ears.”

“We just had a little misunderstanding,” Hook said. “Is Miss Feola back yet?”

“Not yet. She called and said she'd been delayed.”

“See you soon, Bet,” Hook said, winking at her. “Maybe I'll bring Mixer around by the school sometime, and he can walk you home.”

*   *   *

Hook walked back in the dark. He could smell smoke from the orphanage incinerator, and as he cut toward the drive, he spotted a dim light coming from the barn.

He cut back toward the corral and climbed up on the fence. Below, a dozen Holstein cows circled and moved about in a vast whirlpool. In the center, a bull twice the size of any cow in the lot, and with gallon-sized balls, stirred them about. Mounting at will, he rode them around the corral on his hind legs. The cows' ankles, too delicate for their burden, cracked and popped as they struggled beneath his weight.

Though fenced off from the corral, the entire south side of the barn opened to the outside, and Hook could see the light from somewhere deep in its interior.

He found the top half of the side door open. Reaching in, he unlatched the bottom half, stepped into the darkness, and secured the door behind him. Stanchions stretched the entire length of the barn, and the air smelled of manure and alfalfa. He moved forward to where he could see that the light seeped from under the door of a room at the back side of the barn.

He'd turned to leave when he heard the corral gate swing open, and he crouched down. The bull entered first, a black shadow in the moonlight. He swung salvia onto his back, and flies lifted in a swarm from his shoulders.

Hook crept into the corner, his heart tripping. And then the others followed behind the bull, a wall of flesh filling up the remaining space. They snorted and blew liquid from their noses as they closed in about Hook.

Hook kicked and shoved and hit, but the animals, impervious to his blows, crammed in ever tighter. Suddenly, the bull, intent on getting to the trough first, pinned Hook against the wall. Pain settled into Hook's chest, and he panicked under the crushing weight. Unable to breathe, and his strength waning, he leaned forward onto the bull's neck as far as he could reach and hooked him in the nostril with his prosthesis.

When he yanked, the bull snorted, shook his head, and backed up a few inches, enough for Hook to snare the stanchion railing above him and pull himself up. He worked his way along the stanchion, kicked open the side door, and dropped onto the ground. Leaning onto his knees, he waited for his breathing to level off. He checked his leg, which had taken the brunt of the weight, and it appeared to still be working.

He walked on toward town, pausing at the end of the orphanage drive. He looked back. The light in the barn was off.

*   *   *

Once at his room, Hook let Mixer out and fixed himself a Beam and water, and then doubled the Beam. He checked his leg again, his knee now swollen and red. Mixer scratched at the door, and he let him in.

Hook drank his Beam and fixed another before turning in. The cricket took up its nightly chirping, the sound moving and elusive in the darkness. Hook thought about his day, about his close call in the barn, and he thought about all the mishaps that had plagued him ever since Samuel Ash had come into his life.

*   *   *

Sometime in the night, he awakened to Patch's phone ringing in the shop. He slipped on his shoes and groped his way through the darkness.

“Hello,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Hook?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Celia,” she said. “I heard about what happened today with you and Eagleman.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I hope it doesn't cause you a problem.”

“Do you think you could meet me tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“At your place, about ten, after everyone's gone to bed.”

“Is everything alright, Celia?” he asked.

“I'll talk to you then,” she said.

 

29

 

H
OOK TURNED ON
the small porch light just before ten, and within moments Celia knocked on the door. She wore a black beret with a gold medallion pinned on the side. When she took off the hat, her auburn hair spilled onto her shoulders. She pushed her hair back with her fingers, revealing her widow's peak.

“Celia,” he said. “Come in.”

Mixer leapt off the bed to greet her, and she reached down to pet him.

“I hope I'm not keeping you up,” she said.

“No. I've been reading. May I take your things?”

She slipped out of her jacket, which smelled of green scents, and Hook arranged it on the back of the chair.

Sitting down, she crossed her legs. She wore tan slacks and black pumps. Hook wondered what significance Patch would assign to their short heels.

“You caused quite a stir at the orphanage,” she said.

“I'm sorry about that, Celia. I let my temper get the best of me.”

“No apology necessary,” she said. “I've been having second thoughts about things myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Intuition, I'd guess you'd say. Even though the Spirit of Agape facility is rather nice as orphanages go, there's something not right. I'm just not certain what.”

“Kids will be happy if given half a chance,” Hook said. “Bet isn't.”

“Few
are
out there,” she said. “The question is why.”

“Even kids can spot a phony,” he said. “And in my opinion that's what your Mr. Eagleman is.”

Celia leaned forward on her knee. “I can't stop thinking about Samuel Ash,” she said. “About him being out there on your caboose, a war hero, and not having a resting place with his own people.”

“Samuel Ash haunts us all,” he said.

“Maybe we should take a look at those orphanage records. I have the key to Eagleman's office while he's gone. I mean, who knows if there's something there that might help.”

“It could cause trouble for you, Celia, and there is no guarantee we will find anything.”

“No,” she said. “But you can at least rule it out.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Now. Everyone's in bed.”

“We'll need a flashlight,” he said.

“I brought one. We can go in through the kitchen.”

Mixer jumped off the bed, his tail wagging.

“Alright,” Hook said to him. “But you'll have to keep it quiet.”

The streets of Carmen were vacant and the night still as they made their way toward the orphanage. The moon, full and bright, ducked behind the clouds that raced along as if in an invisible river.

As they approached, they could see the turrets of the orphanage reaching up into the sky. The barn lay in darkness, and smoke from the incinerator hung in the evening air.

Hook waited as Celia unlocked the back door to the kitchen, and then he stepped in behind her. He eased the door closed. Celia climbed her way up the staircase with him close at her heels.

Once they reached Eagleman's office door, she paused and listened before unlocking the door. Clicking on her flashlight, she panned the office.

“There,” she whispered.

They started with the top file drawers, looking through the folders one by one.

Soon, Celia said, “There are so many. We'll never get through them all.”

“No pictures either, but I think they're organized by date and gender,” Hook said. “There's no point in going through all the girls' records or even the more recent males'. Let's start with these down here.”

They searched through the records, but there was no evidence of Samuel Ash. Hook sat down on the floor and leaned against the desk.

“Dead end,” he said

Celia, scanning one of the files with the light, glanced over at him. “Take a look at this one,” she said.

“Bruce Mason? Who is Bruce Mason?”

“I don't know, but look. His parents are listed as deceased.”

“Most of them are, Celia.”

She came over and knelt next to him. “Here,” she said. “His father's name was Samuel Mason. His mother's was Ruth Anne Mason. But check out her maiden name.”

Hook focused the light on the folder. “I'll be damned,” he said. “Ash. Ruth Anne Ash. Do you suppose he used his father's first name and his mother's maiden name when he enlisted in the army?”

“The age is right, too,” she said.

Hook closed the folder and looked over at Celia. “That would mean I've been searching for the wrong guy all along.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“But why hide his real name?”

Celia slipped the folder back into the file. “There could be any number of reasons, I suppose.”

“You should have been the yard dog,” he said.

“And you the matron? I don't think so, Hook. Come on, let's get out of here.”

Hook checked out the window before opening the back door. He turned to Celia. “Thanks for this.”

She nodded. The moon slipped from behind a cloud and lit the red in her hair.

“Let me know,” she said.

“Celia,” he said, “intuition only whispers, but it often speaks the truth. You're wise to have listened to it. Be careful.”

As Hook made his way down the drive toward town, his knee protested, and his head reeled at the new information. Involved in his thoughts, he failed to see the pickup sitting in the middle of the road with its lights out. The door opened, and a man in a cowboy hat climbed out. His jaw bulged with chew.

“What are you doing on Agape property, Runyon?” he asked, coming in closer.

He wore a belt buckle made of Indian Head nickels, a shirt buttoned to the neck, and a white beard in need of a trim. When Hook saw the riding heels, he said, “You must be Buck Steele?”

Buck rolled his chew and spit to the side. “That's right. What you doing on Agape property?”

Mixer, his head lowered, stepped up next to Hook.

“Seeing Miss Feola home,” Hook said.

Buck smiled somewhere beneath his beard. “It just might be worth dying for at that,” he said.

“Miss Feola and I are friends,” Hook said. “I suggest you keep this out of the gutter.”

Buck stepped in closer, and Mixer, growling, laid his ears back.

Buck stopped. “My advice to you is to stay off Agape property. A man could get mistaken for a coyote and get his carcass hung up on a fence post.”

Hook started to answer, but Buck got back in his pickup, turned on the lights, and pulled away.