The Homeplace: A Mystery (30 page)

“You all alone, Marty?”

“Yeah. I swear it.”

“I got no reason not to trust you, right now. Don’t give me one.”

The brush rattled, and not ten yards away the ghostly outline of the man materialized near a fallen tree.

“That’s a big gun you got, Ray-Ray.”

“Big enough to beat a man to death, not worth shootin’.” Ray-Ray pulled back his shoulders and drew up to every bit of his height. A moonbeam rested on his face.

“Am I worth shootin’, Ray-Ray?”

“That’s gonna be up to you.”

*   *   *

The crashing in the brush stopped. Muffled voices drifted back in the night. Birdie strained to hear what they were saying. But it was just faint garbles.

She pulled her pistol out from under her coat, double-checked to be sure there was a cartridge in the chamber, and tiptoed into the brushy jumble.

*   *   *

Despite the cold all around him, sweat trickled down Marty’s forehead as if it were as sunny as a Fourth of July afternoon.

“Leave me alone.” Ray-Ray’s voice was just a harsh whisper. “Your kinda law don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

Marty had been right. The rifle was pointed at his belt buckle. His mouth went dry, and his tongue scraped the roof of his mouth. “You need to put down your gun and come with me. Sheriff needs to ask you a few questions.”

Slowly, Ray-Ray lowered the muzzle of his rifle a few inches until it trained on Marty’s knees. “Sheriff send papers?” The clouds stirred, and a shadow hid the man’s face.

“Papers?”

“A warrant, damn it. I know my rights.” Moonlight flashed on his teeth and Marty was certain Ray-Ray had a smile on his face. “You ever read the Constitution, Marty?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“The Constitution, fool. The laws you swore to uphold.”

“This has nothin’—”

“It has everythin’ to do with right here and now. I asked you a question. You read the Constitution of these United States?”

Marty wasn’t sure he ever had. He knew about the Fifth Amendment. He had a little speech printed on a card he was supposed to read if he had to question someone after an arrest. It meant the perp could decide not to talk and he had to have a lawyer if he wanted one. He knew the second was about the right to own a gun, and he thought the first had something to do with free speech. Somewhere in there was something about how no one could tell you what church to go to or if you had to go at all. The rest was just little bitty print.

“This doesn’t have anythin’ to do with the Constitution,” Marty said.

The muzzle of Ray-Ray’s gun bobbed up and down, and the smile in the shadows disappeared. With each word his voice grew louder until he shrieked, “This has everythin’ to do with it.”

He tried to recall all the training he’d had on how to talk to suspects under stress, but it blurred in his mind. He struggled to make the next words out of his mouth sound calm and even. “Listen, Ray-Ray, we can work this out.”

Ray-Ray waved his rifle in a wide circle. In the dark, Marty couldn’t be sure where the muzzle came to a stop, but he guessed it now pointed at his face. Marty took a half-step backward.

*   *   *

Birdie stalked as close as she dared. She braced her Glock on the trunk of a twisted Russian olive tree and studied the two men. Ray-Ray’s voice grew louder, and he raised his rifle. Birdie took a deep breath and put the pistol sights square on the man’s chest. But when Marty stepped back, he blocked any shot she’d have to save him.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She ducked under the tree’s branches and stalked closer.

*   *   *

“Calm down, Ray-Ray.” Marty knew it was a stupid thing to say as soon as the words left his mouth.

“No.” Ray-Ray raged.

Marty tried again. “We can work things out. Listen—”

“You’re gonna listen to me.” Ray-Ray’s voice boomed, and he cocked the rifle. “Then we’ll do what has to be done here.”

Marty knew his only chance was to keep Ray-Ray talking until he could think of something. “What you got to say?”

“They don’t want people like me.”

“Who—”

“Listen to me.” The voice went as still as the night around them. “The government of this country don’t want people like me that think and do for themselves. They want everybody the same. Earn the same money. Nobody works harder than anybody else. Just do what they want you to do.” The gun jerked in the old man’s hands. “I can’t be that way.”

A shiny spot at the muzzle of Ray-Ray’s Winchester flashed in the moonlight, the forest faded away, and all Marty could see was the muzzle of the gun. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

Then Ray-Ray’s voice changed. The demands became a plea.

No. A prayer.

“Somewhere, we got things all screwed up.” Ray-Ray fought for his next words. “The Constitution says what the people allow the government to do for them. It’s not about the government makin’ people do things. You gotta read it, Marty.”

Ray-Ray stepped into the moonlight. The muzzle of the Winchester was ten feet from Marty’s face. In a voice made raspy by four decades of Marlboros, Ray-Ray whispered, “One side gives you more rules and regulations and promises to take care of you from your first cry until they pound nails in your coffin. The other makes up just as many new laws and calls it the Patriot Act.” He spit on the ground and his voice rose again. “I don’t want no help. I’ll make my choices and take my chances. If I fail it’s on me. I won’t come cryin’ for someone to clean up any mess I got myself into.” He jabbed the rifle at Marty’s face.

“Think what happened here the past few days. The power of the county, state, and army helicopters chasin’ after one man ’cause they think I didn’t buy a state license to hunt deer on my own land. How much tax money got spent up? Leave me alone, Marty. And tell all of them to leave me alone.” Ray-Ray’s proud shoulders slumped, and he lowered the gun.

Marty took a deep breath. “Ray-Ray? This ain’t about any huntin’ license. Boy named Jimmy Riley was killed, and some of Andy Puckett’s buffalo were shot. Coach and a girl from town got killed, too. Sheriff thinks you know somethin’ about it?”

“Huh?” Cloudy mist flowed out of his nostrils.

“Three people killed? Know anything?”

“I ain’t been to town in months. I don’t know nothin’ about a dead boy or buffalo.”

A gust of wind drove the cold deep in his chest. A cloud of snowflakes stirred from the trees. Marty looked into the darkness on one side and then the other. “It’s my job to take you in, Ray-Ray.”

“I’m not goin’ with you.” Ray-Ray tightened his bare fingers around his gun.

“I believe you didn’t have anythin’ to with those folks gettin’ killed. But, Ray-Ray—”

“I seen the dead girl.”

“What?”

“Girl’s body. Along Sandy Creek. Where the fire started. That her?”

Marty nodded. “It was Dolly Benavidez. Firemen found her.”

“Somebody dumped her there.”

“How you know that?”

“There was tire tracks on the road. Drag marks where they took her from the car. Boot prints all over the side of the road.” Ray-Ray’s breathing blended with the sounds of the breeze. “New Tony Lama’s. Woman’s size, I’d guess. You tell that to the sheriff.”

It made sense. Ray-Ray could have seen the tracks the traffic from the fire trucks and snow had covered. “Come with me. Tell him yourself.”

“Bold talk for a man whose guns are layin’ on the ground.” Ray-Ray winked. “I’m leavin’ now. Follow me and I’ll have to kill you.” He backed into the brush, and in a moment there were only the sounds of his movements through the brush along the creek.

Marty’s knees failed him, and he dropped into the snow. More cold than he’d ever known stabbed up at him.

“Son of a bitch.” He cursed at himself.

Birdie stepped out of the darkness. Her pistol hung in her hand. “Let him go, Marty. He didn’t have anythin’ to do with those people gettin’ killed.” She held out her hand and pulled Marty up from the snow. “None of the boys from the state’ll ever catch up to him on a night like this. He’ll show up back here in a couple of weeks after everythin’ blows over.”

All went quiet except the wind. Clouds boiled and covered the moon. Night and cold wrapped tight around them.

Marty looked up at Birdie. “What are we gonna tell Kendall?”

“We got a long walk out of here. It’ll give us time to think of a good lie. C’mon.” She turned and walked away. “Don’t forget your guns, dumbass.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Sputtering signal flares, stabbed into the snow banks, dotted both sides of the road. The snow had mostly stopped, and when Kendall checked his watch it was coming up on midnight.

The ambulance’s flashing lights disappeared on the dark road headed west toward Hugo. Both state troopers climbed in the front seat of one of the cruisers. They tugged off their parka hoods and slouched back into the car seats, no doubt as tired as he was. Steam, painted pink by the glow from the taillights of their idling car, rose from the coffee cups in their hands.

Nothing for anyone to do but wait until the wrecker from Limon got there. Then there’d be a shitload of standing around in the cold while the crew lugged the big rig up onto its wheels and pulled the whole mess out of the ditch. Kendall wouldn’t admit it, but a good part of a sheriff’s day was spent standing, pointing, and nodding, and Kendall had done enough of that for the rest of month.

He turned the fan on the truck’s heater down a notch and unzipped his coat for the first time since he pulled up at the scene. When he was sure the troopers weren’t looking his way, he snuck a pint of Old Yellowstone out from under the passenger seat and poured two inches in the Styrofoam cup he had bummed off the ambulance driver. The twelve-hour-old coffee was cold, and sipping cold coffee was part of his job.

Old Yellowstone gave it some life. He drained half the cup with his first gulp and let the liquor’s warmth flow down to his feet and toes.

Kendall flipped on the radio and waited for Arlene to answer.

“I’m fixin’ on headin’ back to Brandon,” he told her. “Nothing more for me here. The driver’s banged up pretty bad. They’ll get him to Hugo and decide if they need to send him on to Denver.”

“True it was Cecil with him, boss?”

“Yep, and how the little turd didn’t get all busted up in the accident is beyond me. The trooper told me that when he found the meth right there in the cab with ’em, suddenly old Cecil started havin’ chest pains and couldn’t remember anything about what had happened except that the crystal wasn’t his. Dumb shit.” He took a sip of the whiskey. “I got to read ’em both their rights and handcuffed Cecil to the gurney myself. One of the few joys I get from bein’ sheriff.” Kendall rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger.

“Long day, Sheriff?”

He nodded. Arlene knew the answer. “So Colorado’s finest couldn’t catch up with Ray-Ray, huh?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I thought with Storm and Hawkins out there we stood half a chance.” He drained the cup and slipped his pickup into gear. “I’ll spend the night in Brandon, and we’ll start all over tomorrow.”

“Get some rest, Sheriff.”

“Yeah.” Not if what I got planned for the TV reporter comes true.

He checked both ways on the highway and then cranked a hard U-turn. The lawman nodded to the troopers as he drove by, and when he was down the road far enough, he took another sip of Old Yellowstone. Right from the bottle.

*   *   *

Birdie turned off the blacktop and followed the faint ruts in the snow down the lane to Marty’s double-wide. In the corral just past the trailer, the truck’s lights flashed off the eyes of Marty’s horses. Snow covered their shaggy backs and steam trickled up from their nostrils.

“Thanks for gettin’ me home, Birdie.” It was the first time either of them had spoken since they left the troopers on the prairie.

“Think they bought our story?”

“Who knows? Maybe everyone was just cold and tired and wanted to get back to where it was warm.” He slouched back in the seat and stared ahead. “If I can convince Kendall tomorrow morning that Ray-Ray gave us the slip, I did the right thing. If not? Well…”

“Something botherin’ you?”

“Just tired I guess. But”—Marty shook his head—“Ray-Ray didn’t kill those people, and they didn’t kill themselves. Who did? Used to think this county was a safe place and I helped keep it that way. Stuff like this happened somewhere else. Not here.”

Birdie leaned over the steering wheel. Her breath fogged the windshield. A light came on in Marty’s trailer house.

“Is that Deb?”

“I reckon. She’s got a way of sensing when I get home.”

The light in another room flipped on.

Marty reached for the door handle. “She’s in the kitchen now. She’ll make some hot chocolate and want to hear about what happened. Wanna come in?”

“Naw. I gotta get home.”

Marty popped the door latch open. “Cross your fingers about tomorrow.”

“Wait.”

Marty turned to look at her.

“Somethin’s been eatin’ at me. ’Member, I told you I found boot prints out where we think Jimmy Riley got the hay bales he used to lure in the buffalo?”

“I remember.”

“Before Ray-Ray walked off, what did he say about boot prints where he saw Dolly’s body?”

“What the hell, Birdie?” Marty slammed the door shut and looked at her.

Birdie told him what she had seen each piece at a time. “Last thing, the paramedic told me Pop said ‘Alice hit me.’ He wasn’t sure he heard it right, and when he asked again, Pop just started gibberin’ about somethin’ else.” Birdie pounded a fist on the steering wheel. “You know who Pop confuses for Alice almost every morning?”

“We gotta find Chase.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A speeding truck sent beads of slop splattering across the back of Chase’s truck. The glare from the eighteen-wheeler’s headlights erased the candlelight and painted a flash of twisted shadows around the single table in the center of the dining room. Chase stepped over the wet cowboy boots in front of the door. “Mercy?” he called out again. “Power go out?”