The Weirdo (15 page)

Sam had seen Audubons in an art appreciation class. "That must have pleased him."

Chip nodded, guiding the old, battered army vehicle toward Trail Eight.

There were shorter vehicle cross trails, running east and west, that connected to the main north and south trails, over the boggy land. The Jeep, in low gear, jerked, staggered, and fishtailed along, wheels sometimes spinning on slime; then it crunched up on hard ground, sinking next to more marsh.

Chip talked in bursts about Telford and how they snared the bears. Sam held onto the door frame. Her body bounced, plunged forward, slammed back. It wasn't what she'd had in mind for this morning.

It took almost a half hour to reach Trail Eight, and then Chip turned south to travel along the narrow bank, just wide enough for one vehicle, along Dinwiddie Slough. There were recent tire tracks crushing down the knee-high grass. The Jeep crept forward.

"How many people travel along here?" Sam asked, thinking about her predawn in the stump.

"Not many. Sometimes we go for days without seeing anyone. Then we might see several government geologists in their truck taking peat samples. Just people who have some kind of work to do."

"Don't you still have to get a permit to come in?"

Chip nodded. "You're supposed to. Some people sneak in."

"What kind of people?" Swamp-walkers like the one she'd seen?

Chip laughed. "One day we ran into an old guy catching butterflies. A lot of monarchs back here."

"I've never been in this part before. Kind of pretty." She never thought she'd admit any part of the Powhatan was pretty.

"This area's drier than the rest of it, with sweet gum and several oaks. Some beech. They need a little moisture."

"Where'd you learn all that?"

"Telford."

"He must be quite a guy."

"He is. Good teacher."

Ahead, a trio of wood ducks leapt off the lazy brown water and whirred side to side, dipping, zooming ahead like jets. A moment later, a red fox scooted across the trail, and there was a flash of brownish gray, fall and
winter color of the white-tailed deer, off to the left. Farther on, two otter pups emerged from their den in the bank of the ditch and quickly ducked back inside.

Sam watched silently. It wasn't that she didn't know the show went on back here hour after hour. She'd simply never had any interest in it. She felt Chip's eyes on her and glanced his way. A slight, knowing smile danced across his face.

A few minutes later, he said, stopping the Jeep, looking around for landmarks, "I think it was about here that I last saw him. In fact, I know it was. See, there's a foot trail off to the right that I took back to the lake."

"Which way would he have driven after you left him?"

"South, to get out to One Fifty-nine."

"Would he have cut off to go on another one?"

"I don't think so. It was about four-thirty, and I think he would have gone straight on out to One Fifty-nine. He was even thinking about going on to Raleigh that night but hadn't made up his mind. He'd brought all the equipment to our house, except for the receiver we were using that day. He didn't want to leave anything in his trailer for anyone to steal."

"The receiver?"

"The radio receiver to track the bears. I carried that one home."

"So he had nothing with him that anyone would want?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Climbing out, Chip said, "Let's walk. Maybe that's what was wrong the day before yesterday when I first came here. I just drove. I was looking to see if the truck was parked. I wasn't looking into the brush. That was pretty stupid."

"I would have done the same thing," Sam said.

"You take the left-hand side," Chip said.

"Could it get across the ditch?"

"Sure, four-wheel drive. There's not more than a foot of water in the slough. But we'll see the tracks."

They walked slowly along the trail, feet swishing in the high grass. Swamp sounds rose and ebbed, enveloping them, somber sky a deeper lead gray than when they'd started. Sam felt tiny ticks of dread at what they might see before long. She glanced over, expecting to see Chip.

He'd stopped about twenty feet back and was staring off into the rust-colored thickets.

"You see something?"

"I thought I did."

Then he resumed limping, saying, "I've got the damnedest feeling it's here somewhere," catching up with her.

They kept going, in silence.

Twenty minutes later, around a bend, Sam spotted a triangle of white buried deep in the brush, four or five feet off the ground. Thinking of Alvin Howell, she stopped as Chip moved on ahead, looked hard, then called out for him. "There's something back in there," she said, pointing.

He returned to her side and without speaking knelt to examine the sand, pushing aside the thick grass with his hands. "Tire tracks," he murmured. "Covered tire tracks."

Rising, he began to separate brush, open it up, saying, "Help me."

In a moment, the white truck was revealed, sitting about thirty feet off the trail,
Toyota
emblazoned on the tailgate.

"That's his license plate," Chip said, face showing despair.

"Why would he drive it off in here?" Sam asked.

"I don't think he did. I think someone else drove it off."

"Should we get closer?" Sam asked. The faint tick of dread grew to a drumbeat.

Staring at the truck, Chip said, "Everything I know about this sort of thing comes out of books or over the tube. But when we get up there, don't touch anything. And don't step into footprints."

Sam mentally crossed her fingers that when they
got to the truck they wouldn't see Telford slumped over the wheel or sprawled across the seat.

Finally, they were broadside to it, and Sam asked, "Does it look any different from when you saw it last?"

"No. I don't think it does. Why don't you just stay put, and I'll go up closer."

"Maybe we should just go back and call Truesdale?"

Chip looked around. "Nothing here to be afraid of, I don't guess. But I don't want to mess up footprints. Okay?"

Sam nodded. "Okay."

She watched as Chip gingerly moved toward the truck, careful where he stepped, finally opening the left-hand door handle with a stick. Sam held her breath as it swung open, but there was no body slumped in the cab. She thought of Alvin Howell again.

Chip leaned in, careful not to touch anything, then said, "Keys are still in the ignition."

He looked down, studying the ground. Finally, he said, "I think there's dried blood here. It's on some leaves...."

As Sam watched, he backed out, turned around, retraced his exact steps as if they'd been laid out and numbered. His face was drained and taut. He took a deep breath, then said, "Tom may soil be in the swamp."

She followed him to the trail.

"Let's go. back. I'll call Truesdale. This could be the proof of foul play that he wanted."

As they trudged toward the Jeep, she could see that he was grief-stricken, fighting back tears.

"I'm so sorry," she said. It wasn't the right time to tell him about Alvin Howell.

Suddenly he stopped. "I've got to find out what happened to Tom. I have to find out. Do you understand? Do you?"

Sam kept silence but nodded.

"He changed my whole life. If you'd been up on the roof a year and a half ago, before Tom, I probably would have helped you down, but then I likely would have gone into the house and shut the door."

"Why?"

"So I wouldn't have to show you any more of my face or my hand. The time with Tom changed some of that—not all, but some. In a different way I love him more than I do my dad."

He began walking again, and Sam fell in beside him, not knowing what to say.

***

THE CALL to Dairy Queen came at about eight-thirty, and Sam took it in the back room.

Chip said, "I talked to Truesdale. They'll ask the
Norfolk city police to send a crime lab unit. I'll meet them and show them where the truck is. In the morning. They'll take fingerprints and footprints. I'm sure that was dried blood on the ground." His voice was low and flat.

"Don't give up," she said.

"I don't have a lot of choices. Let me ask you something. What was that guy you saw in the swamp wearing? A red-and-black mackinaw?"

"It was too dark to see him that well. I just saw he was carrying something. But I think he had on a hat."

"What land of a hat?"

"One of those floppy cloth kinds, one like soldiers sometimes wear."

"I'll tell Truesdale. Maybe he'll want to talk to you again."

"Okay."

Hunting season for bear and deer outside the Carolina refuges begins the first week in November, with archers having the first crack at big game with their compound bows and broadhead arrows. Had the animals a choice, I believe they would prefer death by gunfire. Arrowheads drive deep inside them, tearing through flesh and muscle, the shaft of the arrow dancing with each tortured step as the animal bolts away. Hopefully, the archer finds the animal quickly and ends its pain.

The second group of hunters allowed to shoot bear outside the refuges are primarily after deer. They can begin pulling triggers the Monday after Thanksgiving. A week later, the monthlong season for hunters using dogs opens.

The State Game Commissions wildlife management department talks about the death of bears in terms of harvest: X number of bears are "harvested." I'd always thought of harvest in terms of bountiful crops, goodness, and grace. The number harvested annually is about five hundred, not counting those poached. If the Powhatan were opened up, the number would be sure to rise to six hundred or more.

Powhatan Swamp
English I
Charles Clewt
Ohio State University

***

"I THINK there might be a connection between Mr. Howell and Tom Telford," Sam said.

"
Alvin Howell?
" Ed Truesdale sputtered, blinking. "Alvin Howell? You gotta be kiddin'. You know how long he's been dead?"

Sam knew exactly. "Seven years."

She was sitting with Chip in Truesdale's cubicle in the sheriff's department in County Hall. Law enforcement radio cross talk and voices from the main room bled into the tiny cluttered office.

Truesdale laughed, scratched his head, lit up his cold cigar, and asked, "Why do you think that, Samantha?"

"The swamp had something to do with Mr. Howell and has something to do with Tom Telford."

"As I recall, you found Howell on the edge of the swamp in front of your house, and there wasn't anything to indicate he'd been shot in the Powhatan. I think I remember that much."

Chip had suggested they go to Truesdale after she'd told him about Alvin Howell and the pickup she'd seen in her dreams.

"But there wasn't anything to say he wasn't shot in the swamp."

"I'd have to look back at the records. They're on microfiche for that long ago."

"I still have dreams about Mr. Howell," Sam said.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sometimes I see a truck in those dreams...."

"And?"

"I don't think I've ever told you."

Truesdale laughed hollowly, confusion showing in his eyes. "Look, no unsolved murder is ever closed, but Alvin Howell's case is ancient history. We just don't have the resources to keep it active."

"I don't see the truck in every dream. Just sometimes," Sam said, unwilling to let the subject go.

Truesdale sighed. "What kind of truck do you see?"

"A pickup."

"Well, we probably have three thousand of those in Albemarle County. What model, what year, what color?"

"I don't know. It's too vague."

Truesdale sat back in his chair. "Samantha, I'm glad you dropped by, but I'm afraid I don't make a connection between Tom Telford and Alvin Howell and a pickup truck you see in a dream. Forgive me for that, but I don't make it."

"I just feel it's there, Mr. Truesdale," Sam insisted.

"
Feel
doesn't work very well in this business," the deputy said patiently. "Neither does coincidence."

"I know it's there."

"Are you a psychic of some sort?"

"No, I, ah..."

"I'm not a great believer in these psychic and ESP things." Truesdale sighed.

"I also think that gambling and gamecocks have something to do with Howell's murder."

"Samantha, I discarded that idea five years ago. We busted him a couple of times for cockfighting, but there was never a link between what he lost on roosters and the bullet he took."

The deputy began shuffling papers on his desk.

Chip sensed that Truesdale was becoming annoyed. "Sam, maybe we should go."

Truesdale said quickly, "If either of you hears
anything that'll help with Telford, call me. Don't hesitate."

Chip said, "We will," and nudged Sam. Time to go. Now.

He rose and began limping away. Sam followed.

Behind them, Truesdale urged, "Don't give up."

Chip looked back. "We won't."

Outside, by the Volvo, Chip said, "It didn't hurt to talk to him. Keeps Tom's case alive."

"I do see a truck now and then. I really do."

"I believe you."

Soon the Volvo was headed up Main, then to the highway and Chapanoke Road.

"You never mentioned gambling or gamecocks before," Chip said, glancing over.

"It's just a hunch."

"Howell raised them? Bet on them?"

"Uh-huh."

"How'd you find that out?"

"His widow told me, then Dunnegan confirmed it. I asked Dunnegan who else went to the fights, and he told me a man named Jack Slade."

"I've met him. Lives in Skycoat. Smelly old man."

Sam nodded. "I drove down there and parked in front of his bus once but didn't have the courage to go in."

"I'll go with you."

"Dunnegan said to stay out of it."

"All Slade can do is tell us to take off...."

After a mile of silence, Sam asked thoughtfully, "Do you think we'll know it's him? If it is him?"