A Thousand Falling Crows (11 page)

Sonny stood next to the screen door as Hugh Beaverwood, the local coroner and Wellington's only mortician, covered Tom Turnell's body with a sheet. Beaverwood was a droll man with a hound dog face; his jowls flapped thinly over his jaw, and he had a flat, turned-up nose that looked more suited to finding rabbits than inhaling embalming fluid. Sonny'd had more than his fair share of dealings with Beaverwood over the years, mostly on Ranger cases he'd been called in on and once for a personal matter, when it had come to burying Martha. He didn't have a strong feeling about the man either way. The coroner seemed cold and detached, distant, which probably went along with the territory of conducting business with death on a daily basis. He was all business, all the time. If Hugh Beaverwood was around it was not a celebration. That came after he left, if at all.

The Collingsworth County sheriff, Layton Jones, Jonesy to everyone in town, stood behind the counter, opposite the coroner, staring at the empty cash drawer. Bertie Turnell stood behind him, wedged in a corner, his face pale with shock—he had seen the robbers leave, had pulled in the parking lot just as the shots had gone off. Bertie was a shorter version of Tom with lighter hair, probably from his mother's side, a German-Dutch woman who Sonny had never properly met, but knew from a distance. No one else was inside the store. Even the mice had the good sense and enough respect to remain hidden and silent.

Outside, the day went on. Traffic bounded up and down the farm-to-market road out of Wellington, unaware of what was happening inside the store, pushing through puddles, offering an occasional splash. It was a rare sound.

The storm had pushed northeast, like most storms did, and the sun beamed brightly down from a pure blue, cloudless, sky. Fingers of steam filtered up from the hoods of cars in the muddy parking lot, and from the roofs of buildings across the road. Heat had already returned with a vengeance, and before long, everything that was wet would be dry again, faded brown instead of rich chocolate, and the days would fall back into the normal, desolate pattern that was nearly always the promise of summer.

But from where Sonny stood, nothing would be the same. He didn't feel lucky to be alive, to have survived the deadly armed robbery. All he could feel was regret. He could barely look at the sheet, at Tom Turnell bound for the mortuary, toes up, eyes closed, his body already cold.

Jonesy walked over to Sonny. He was a head shorter, a little soft in the middle, and had wiry white hair growing out of his ears. His head was bald, blotched with red spots that resembled islands on a map, and was usually covered with a hat. Sonny couldn't remember a time when a Jonesy hadn't been the county sheriff. It was their family business, just like the Texas Rangers was his.

Jonesy was getting to the end of his term, and rumor had it that his younger son, Bob—Bubba inside the family—was already angling for the position, campaigning on the sly to the men who it mattered to most in Wellington and farther reaches of the county.

“I‘m gonna have to ask you to come down to the station and sign a formal report, Sonny,” Jonesy said. His voice was scratchy, like sandpaper lined his throat. “I hate to ask you to do such a thing.”

“I know the procedure,” Sonny answered. He looked away from the body and stared down the aisle where his .45 lay, untouched where it had fallen—out of reach. “I‘d like to take my gun home with me, Jonesy, if it's all the same to you.”

“You didn't get a shot off?”

Sonny shook his head.

“Not to be indelicate, Sonny, but why in the hell did you have a gun with you in the first place?”

“You leave yours at home when you go out off-duty?”

It was Jonesy's turn to shake his head.

“Well, there you have it. Force of habit, and you're not being indelicate. My arm was amputated. This is the first time I‘ve made it out of the house since I come home from the hospital. I might not have an arm, but I‘ve always carried my gun. Didn't see a reason to change any more things. Be like bread without butter, now wouldn't it?”

“Well, I reckon I‘d a done the same thing, if'n I was you,” Jonesy said. “You say one of them called the other by the name of Eddie, and they was Mexican-skinned?”

“I‘m certain of it.”

“Sounds like the Clever, Clever boys to me, the Renaldo twins,” Jonesy said with a sigh. “This is a big step for them, up from runnin' gin and pickin' fights in the school yard. A murder and all. They've been small time, until now. Sure never expected this from them. But there was a girl with them, you say?”

“Driving. I think. Behind the wheel.”

“But you're not certain?”

“It was raining, hard to see. The windows in the car were fogged up. I couldn't make out any features. There were three of them. I‘m sure of that, but it's all I‘m sure of.”

Jonesy stroked his chin. “That's interestin', to say the least. I don't know about no girl they've been palling around with. Maybe there's more to this than I think there is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just thinkin' out loud, I suppose. But I got two unsolved murders on my hands at the moment. First ones in a coon's age. Two Jane Does tossed to the side of the road, beaten and soiled in a foul way, if you know what I mean. No leads, no clues, a year apart, but pretty much the same MO from head to toe. The one Renaldo is pretty smart, while the other one, well, he's a little slow, unpredictable. I might have to look at them a little closer now that they've shown some meanness. I didn't think they had in them.”

“You really think there's a link?” Sonny asked.

Jonesy shrugged. “Hard to say, but I figure it won't hurt to poke around. See what else those boys have been up to. If they can kill a man like Tom Turnell, they're liable to be able to do just about anything, the way I see it. Sure is a sad day.”

“It was the quiet one that pulled the trigger. Tom had the talker subdued.”

“With the cheese wire?”

“That's right.”

A car turned into the parking lot and headed straight for the door, garnering both men's attention.

“Put the closed sign on the door, if you don't mind,” Jonesy said to Sonny, his voice a little deeper with the order.

“It's Jesse,” Sonny said.

“I wondered when the Rangers were gonna show up. Put the sign up anyway. Word's gonna get out. We don't need no carnival here. And I sure don't mean no offense, Sonny, but things sure ain't been the same since you hung up your Stetson.” Jonesy glanced up at Sonny's bare head.

“Thanks, Jonesy. Jesse's still young. He's got a lot to learn.”

“If you say so.”

Hugh Beaverwood slid Tom Turnell's body into the back of the hearse. It was nothing more than a delivery truck, black in color, of course, that also served as an ambulance when the need arose. The coroner lowered his head solemnly, then closed the door of the hearse as gently as he could. “Be anything else, Sheriff?”

Jonesy, Sonny, and Jesse stood clumped together, just off the short porch that fronted Lancer's Market. Bertie had remained inside.

Jonesy shrugged. “No, not unless Ranger Burton needs anything more.”

Both Sonny and Jesse shook their heads at the same time. It was a hard habit to break. Some days Sonny felt like Ranger was his first name instead of his vocation. Probably always would.

Jesse noticed Sonny's action and stepped forward. “I‘d like to keep this as close to the vest as we can. If these boys are spooked, they could cause more of a ruckus than they already have, Mr. Beaverwood.”

Hugh Beaverwood agreed with a nod, then looked over to the sheriff for real approval. Jonesy tilted his head forward subtly.

“All right,” Beaverwood said, “if the newspaper comes snoopin' 'round, I‘ll send them your way.”

“That would be good,” Jesse said. “I‘d appreciate it.” He tipped the brim of his hat and smiled broadly. Anyone within a mile could see it was forced. Sonny knew Jesse had to work at being polite, but he'd never noticed it so much as he did just then. Probably because the sheriff had expressed some hesitation about Jesse's skills as a Ranger.

The coroner stood stiffly for a long moment, staring at the three men, then backed away and didn't turn around until he was just on the other side of the hearse.

Not one of them said a thing until the hearse started to pull away.

Jonesy shook his head, then looked at Sonny. “Man's got ice running through his veins.”

“I‘ve always tried to avoid him,” Sonny said.

“You and everybody else,” Jonesy answered.

Jesse stepped back so he was in line with both men. “He doesn't look like he's aged a day since I was a kid.”

Jonesy sighed. “All the stories about him are the same, too, that he takes pictures of dead girls and does unspeakable things to their bodies. But truth is they're just stories. I poked around early on to see if they were true or not. Turns out he's just a loner, a confirmed bachelor, a man that keeps himself busy with other folks' troubles. I guess he's like a buzzard, cleanin' up the mess that nature leaves behind. Somebody's gotta do it. This is bad enough,” he said, letting his words trail off with a thrust of his head back to the store.

“You got anything else to tell me?” Jesse said to Sonny. It was an official voice, hard and to the point. Sonny knew the tone when he heard it. Had used it a million times himself. It sounded like an echo.

“I‘m gonna check on Bertie before I go,” Jonesy said, heading back inside the store.

Jesse waited until the sheriff was out of sight before he said anything else. “What the hell were you doing here in the first place?”

“What the hell do you think, Ranger Burton? I was hungry.” Sonny stiffened, stood taller than he had all day. He didn't like what he heard in Jesse's voice.

“You could've called. I would've run you some food out, or Bertie could have delivered something.”

“I thought it was best to get out of the house on my own,” Sonny said. “Has to happen sooner or later. I didn't expect this. How could I have known? Besides, you made it clear that you preferred to stay in town.”

“Because I‘m not a boy anymore and no matter what you say, you'd treat me like one if I took up residence in my old room. You're doing it now.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I got a job to do, Pa, and it's hard enough steppin' into your shoes. I don't need to be in your shadow, too.”

“Well, then, pull down your damn hat,” Sonny said, pointing to Jesse's white Stetson. “You look like you just got off the damn train.”

Starting the truck the second time around was a lot easier than the first. The routine came back to Sonny pretty quickly, and navigating the exercise with one hand and one set of fingers was going to come easier to him than he originally thought it would. Either that or he was in a hurry to get away from Lancer's Market, which was more the truth. He thought little about the mechanics of his own existence once he stepped on the starter.

He wanted to be as far away from Jesse and the smell of death as he could. With about as much grace as he could muster, Bertie had carried a box of groceries out to Sonny's truck and refused payment for them. Sonny had insisted, but Bertie was forceful in his refusal. “
You did your best to save him, Sonny. Thank you. This is the least I can do.
”

There was nothing for him to do now but go back home. Close himself off from the world and try to figure what was next. The robbers were the sheriff's problem. Jesse's, too. But something told Sonny that Jonesy would be the one that brought the Clever, Clever boys to justice and not Jesse.

For a brief second, Sonny thought about turning around and going back, offering his help to Jesse. But the boy had made it clear that he was already struggling to fill his shoes. No need to rub his face in it.

The road was already dry, and the late afternoon sky was a perfect blue sheet that hung for as far as the eye could see. It met with the scorched vista, brown open land that looked to hold no life at all—a barren field that went on and on until Wellington rose out of it in the distance. No downpour could green things up instantly. It would take days of rain, a hurricane blowing up and weakening from the Gulf, to bring life back to the blades of grass now.