The Weirdo (20 page)

Chip stood up, too, feeling closer to his father than
at any time since he'd arrived in the Powhatan. "You won't regret it, I promise."

Clewt shrugged resignedly. "Even if I do..."

Soon after the insurance man arrived and the tow truck was called, they borrowed Dunnegan's van and headed for an Elizabeth City gun shop.

On their departure, Dunnegan shook his head. "You're crazy, both of you. Do you know that?"

***

DUNNEGAN called the Sanders about four-thirty, asking to speak to Sam. Dell said, "She's upstairs, I'll give you her number ... no, wait, she's coming down...."

"You hear what happened to the Clewts last night?" Dell said she hadn't heard.

"Someone shot a house window out, then slashed their car tires."

"Oh, Lordy," said Dell. "That's terrible. Here's Samantha...."

Sam took the phone, and Dunnegan repeated what he'd just told Dell.

Sam said, "You're kidding."

"Wish I was. Whoever did it went up the ditch, then came back here and did the tires and the windshield."

"I tried to tell Chip."

"He's the problem. His dad wants to leave, but Chip is determined to stay. How about talkin' to him again? Maybe you'll have more influence than me."

"I've only known him three weeks."

"But he may listen to you. Me talkin' is the same thing as his dad talkin'. We're old an' mossy."

"What should I tell him?"

"Tell him the absolute truth—there are rednecks around here who don't like strangers stirrin' up trouble. Blowin' a window out an' slashin' the tires are just starters."

"I've as much as said that."

"Say it again, an' tell him to take his dad's advice."

"All right, I'll try."

"Samuel, he's a good kid an' means well, but he's got the wrong cause."

Sam was looking at her mother, thinking back to her papa on the phone Sunday morning. Each word was slow and deliberate. "Maybe he's got the right one."

She heard Dunnegan's snort. "No matter what we both think, talk to him, huh?"

"Okay."

Putting the phone down, still looking at her mother, she said, "Who was Papa talking to Sunday morning?"

Dell said, "I wasn't payin' much attention."

"I heard him saying something about what they did in the Coast Guard, sending a shot across the bow of a ship to stop it...."

"Did he say that?"

"You know he did, Mama. Who was he talking to? Some other hunter, I know, but who?"

"I don't know, Samantha."

For the first time in her life, Sam thought her mother might be lying.

There was a pie bubbling in the oven, and beef was cubed for a stew. A pile of chopped vegetables rose beside the beef on the cutting board. The fireplace had been used by Sam's great-grandmother for cooking in cast-iron pots. But the usually warm and friendly room, with its copper pots and ancient spice racks and wooden-spoon jars, suddenly seemed tense, as if last night's storm lingered inside. Dell set about dicing a turnip, avoiding Sam's eyes.

Finally, she said, "The men are meeting a week from Friday night at the center. Your papa organized it. You should let the Clewts know." Her attention stayed on the chopping board.

"Did Papa shoot at the Clewts' window and slash their tires? He left here early enough to do that."

"Samantha!" Dell said sharply, looking up, alarmed. "Your papa would never do something like that."

Sam did feel a bit ashamed for even thinking it.
"But you do know who was on the phone Sunday morning, don't you, Mama."

"I think I know, but I'm not gonna say. Ask your papa...."

"I will," Sam said. It would take some courage, but she planned to do it. He might tell her it was none of her damn business, but she was going to ask him anyway.

She went upstairs to call Chip Clewt.

Chip said, "Hi, how are you?" He sounded cheerful.

"Dunnegan told me what happened last night," she said.

"Yeah, we were sitting there fat, dumb, an' happy having noodles, and all of a sudden
ka-boom ...
"

"You were lucky." Her voice was flat.

"Dad got a chunk of glass in his forehead. You can't believe how much he bled."

He sounded almost blasé. She frowned. He was brave to the point of being foolhardy.

"You were lucky," she repeated. "Chip, why don't you and your dad back off?"

"And let people we don't even know run us away? Next time, whoever it was'll have those dogs chewing on him."

"The dogs won't worry these men."

"Maybe not, but Dad bought a twelve-gauge and fifty loads of buckshot this morning."

"That's the worst thing he could do."

"He'll shoot over their heads."

"Chip, back off! Back off! You're new here, you don't understand...."

Chip interrupted. "Samantha, it's me. Not him. He'd rather just walk away."

"He's the smart one! Chip, if you don't know already, the hunters are having a meeting at the Community Center next week. They plan to organize."

"What day, what time?"

"A week from Friday night. I don't know what time."

"I'll find out."

"You'll go?" Sam couldn't believe it.

"Yes, I'll go." Harsh, angry defiance was now in his voice.

"Chip, you're just asking for more trouble."

"I doubt it. Talk to you later." He hung up sharply.

Sam sat on the edge of her bed and wondered how she could have ever thought Chip Clewt was gentle.

***

TRUESDALE called early Thursday morning and said the lab had confirmed blood on the earth near the Toyota. Whose Type A blood it was he didn't know, but they were checking to find out if Tom Telford was Type A. Meanwhile, would Chip take him back to that
area on Trail Eight where he'd last seen Tom? Truesdale said he'd like to look around again.

Grateful that there was still interest, Chip said, "Fine," and Truesdale arrived a little after nine.

Taking the Jeep back to Dinwiddie Slough, they spent almost two hours walking around. Truesdale said the immediate area where the Toyota was discovered had been scoured by the crime lab technicians for evidence—spent shells, pieces of clothing, cigarette packs—any stray clue. Nothing had been found.

Chip soon realized that Truesdale was trying to fine-tune his memory. Jog it the same way Chip had tried to jog Samantha's. Make him remember something about that day, or any other day, that had been covered over by time. Finally, Truesdale said, "Take me to where you ran into that poacher. Is it near here? Can you remember?"

"I'll never forget. Trail Six. Down two trails and south."

On the way there, bounding along, Truesdale said, "Think back. Try to remember anyone Telford mentioned—local people he came in contact with."

"I don't know who he saw at night."

"Go all the way back."

All the way back, all the way back. Here we go again. Chip prided himself on having a good memory, but a year and a half had passed. "Okay, I think the
first person he talked with, aside from Dunnegan, was an old man named Jack Slade, who lives in Skycoat. We met him the first day we set snares. I'd talked to him the week before. He knows more about the swamp than anyone around here."

"That's a good start. Can you get out to Skycoat on these trails?"

"If I go out on Coach Road. But I don't have tags."

"Never mind you don't have tags."

"I thought you wanted to go where the poacher was on Trail Six."

"Trail Six can't talk. Slade can. If I have to go all the way back to Dunnegan's for my car, I'll lose two more hours. I want to meet this man who knows all about the swamp."

Thirty-five minutes later, they were in Skycoat. A minute after that, they were in the retired yellow school bus.

Truesdale showed his badge, saying who he was, saying, "You remember Chip Clewt...."

The old man nodded. "Boy, yuh still look like yuh got yer head stuck in a hot oven."

"I'm sure I do," said Chip.

Truesdale said, "Mr. Slade, I guess you've heard that Tom Telford, the graduate student from NC State, is missing...."

"That fella that was countin' the bars? Read it an'
heard it. I coulda tol' yuh he was gonna git in trouble back in there."

"Why could you have told me he was going to get in trouble?"

"Well, he tells the govemmint there ain't enough bars, an' then no one can hunt 'em for another five years."

"You think somebody did him in because of that?"

"That's what I think." The old man nodded, scalp pink beneath the sparse white hair.

Chip disliked the old trapper even more this time, and the converted school bus smelled even worse.

"You could be right, Mr. Slade, though I doubt it. My big problem is, I've got no body. I've got no
corpus delicti.
If he is dead, and not just missing, where could I hunt for the body?"

Chip frowned at Truesdale. He sounded so cold, so uncaring.
Hunt for the body.
Tom was a person.

The old man, sitting in a cane chair that must have been as old as he was, cackled. He slapped his thighs. His watery eyes oozed with mirth. "Why, Detective, I could hide Norfolk City Hall in that swamp. I could hide a whole division o' troops in there...."

"Mr. Slade, I'm being serious."

The old man stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. "So am I serious. Ain't many square acres you couldn't hide a body. Enough have been hid."

"Where?"

"Oh, tossed in ponds wired to concrete blocks, tossed in that quicksand patch, tossed in any of a thousand peat pits. Or tossed back into a thicket. Them animals'll take it down to bones in no time."

Chip had already told Truesdale about the possibility of Tom being in the Sand Suck, reminded him of what Samantha Sanders had seen.

"So you think it's a waste of time to hunt for him? Drag those ponds?"

"I do. If he's in there, there's a coupla-million-to-one odds somebody'll stumble 'crost his skeleton someday. I doubt either one of us'll care by then."

Chip felt sick.

"Guess you're right."

Slade said, "You betcha I'm right. You gonna waste taxpayer money? Take you two year to dig out that quicksand patch. And the wildlife people ain't 'bout to let you do it anyway."

Truesdale nodded. "Mr. Slade, you know anyone who's poaching in the swamp? Deer or bear? Maybe someone's offered you a bear steak in the last year or so?"

Slade's eyes narrowed. "No, Detective, ain't no one offered me illegal meat."

"You know a hunter who wears a red-and-black mackinaw? Big burly guy?"

"Can't say I do, Detective."

Truesdale rose up and passed over his card. "Well, if you hear of anyone poaching, I'd appreciate a call."

Slade stayed seated, saying, "If I hear o' anyone doin' somethin' awful like that, I'll surely git in touch."

Truesdale murmured a thanks, and they departed.

Truesdale said, "I'd just as soon trust one of his dead muskrats."

They went back up Coach Road, took a right, and Chip steered around the locked gate to reenter the Powhatan.

As they bumped and jerked along, Chip asked, "What are the chances of finding him?"

"Telford?"

Chip nodded.

"If he's just missing and alive, pretty good. If he's dead, slim to none. If people are murdered in town, there's a fifty-fifty chance you'll find the body. Out here in this brush, slim to none, I'd say."

Chip found it hard to say the words, but he wanted to know. "If he is dead, what are the chances of finding out who did it?"

"Slimmer-than-ever to none. Chip, I'll drop a statistic on you. If a guy shoots or stabs someone on a street corner and there are witnesses, you may have a case. If he does it in a cow pasture with only the cows looking on, forget it. Less than two percent of that kind of murders are ever solved...."

Maybe Tom Telford's case was hopeless.

They bumped along in silence, then Chip said, "I've been thinking about what Sam said she saw in the swamp and wonder if you've thought about hypnotizing her?"

Truesdale laughed. "You must see a lot of TV."

"Don't police do that?"

Truesdale laughed again. "On TV, yes."

"Don't they do it for real?"

"Okay, sometimes. Very rarely but sometimes. Big city forces I've heard about."

"Can't you try it?"

"Chip, I can understand why you want to find out what happened to Telford, but there are limits."

"I can get my father to pay for it. I know I can."

"It's not so much a matter of money. I'm not sure I believe in it."

"Will it hurt to try?"

Truesdale sighed.

***

JUST before five, Jack Slade hobbled over to the filling station and said to Grace Crosby, "If Buddy Bailey comes by, tell him be sure an' come see me. Tell him twice." What he had to say was for Buddy's ears only.

Grace said, "Aw, Jack, you always got somethin' earthshakin' to say to somebody. Ever try talkin' to yourself?"

Slade cackled. "All the time. Jus' tell Buddy."

Then he hobbled back to the school bus.

Buddy Bailey showed up just before dark, still in his spattered housepainter's coveralls, pounding on the door, getting a "That you, Buddy?" from inside.

Then Jack opened the door, letting out the smells of the evening meal he was preparing. The bus was steamy.

"Grace said you wanted to see me."

"Had a visitor today, Buddy." Jack was standing at his two-burner gas stovetop.

"Who?"

"Deputy from the county sheriff's. Card's on the table."

Buddy glanced at it. "What's that got to do with me?"

"He's investigatin' the college boy that's missin', that Telford fellow from Raleigh."

"What's that got to do with me?"

Jack turned from the stove. "He ast me if I knew any poachers. 'Course, I said I didn't."

"And?"

"Then he ast me if I knew one who wore a red-and-black mackinaw, a big man."

"And what'd you say?"

"I said I didn't."

Buddy was silent a moment, rubbed his square jaw,
took another look at the card on the table. "You said the right thing, Jack."

Jack grinned—a grin of the hobgoblin variety, due to his lack of teeth. He wore dentures only when eating.