The Hanging of Samuel Ash (34 page)

“Maybe I should own my own orphanage. I know a lot about them. If my kids didn't say ‘yes sir' and ‘no sir' and do their chores on time, I'd make 'em walk the circle. I'd hire Buck Steele to keep watch and pop their earlobes off with his whip every time one of them stopped.”

Hook poured himself another cup of coffee and studied Skink.

“You really think Buck Steele watches the kids?”

“All the time,” he said.

“You've seen him?”

“Just that once when he watched me,” he said.

“Did he turn you in to Eagleman?”

“Well, no, but what else would he be doing out there?”

“I don't know, Skink. I've got a call to make. Talk to you later.”

*   *   *

Hook called Popeye and waited for an answer. “Clovis,” Popeye said.

“Popeye, Hook. Is that kid there yet?”

“He's eyeing my peanuts right now,” Popeye said.

“Put him on, will you?”

Hook waited for him to come on. “Junior Monroe,” Junior said.

“Junior, I want you to go to the Waynoka machine shop and check on my caboose. Eddie says it's ready to move. See if you can't line up someone to tow it back to Clovis.”

“But, Hook, I just got here.”

“You're a yard dog, Junior. Yard dogs are on the move. It's how we solve crimes. You're not supposed to sit around drinking coffee all day like an operator.”

“Alright, Hook. How am I supposed to get back there?”

“Just like you got to Clovis. There's a westbound at six in the evening and an eastbound at two in the morning, when they're on time, which isn't that often. First, you jump on the eastbound, and then when you get to Waynoka, jump off. I swear, how hard can it be?”

“That westbound dragged me halfway across the state, Hook, and then I had to sleep in the elevator. I found a wheat seed up my nose this morning. Another day or two and the thing might have sprouted and killed me.”

“When you get there, check on my books. Those machinists been hanging around my caboose.”

“I wouldn't worry about a machinist stealing your books, Hook.”

“Just do it, Junior. If I wanted a lecture, I'd call Eddie Preston.”

*   *   *

Hook hung up just as Patch came in the front door. “Morning, Patch,” he said.

“I guess you've had your coffee and made your phone calls?” he said.

“That would be correct.”

“And I guess Skink here has had his morning nap?”

“I couldn't say,” Hook said. “I've been busy conducting business.”

“Been at the pool hall, they tell me,” Patch said. “How is it a man can draw a salary while shooting pool?”

“Some people get paid for
doing,
some for
thinking,
” Hook said. “I get paid for thinking.”

Patch looked at Skink, who had searched out the broom and was busy sweeping the floor. “And some for sleeping,” he said.

“I'd like to stay and schmooze, Patch, but there's crime in this world that needs solving. By the way, there's a cricket in my room the size of a small dog, and it cuts into my thinking time.”

“Well, I'll ask it to please leave so that it doesn't disturb your thinking. We wouldn't want to set off a crime wave in Carmen, would we?”

Hook went out the back way, leaving the road-rail parked across the street, and struck out for the Spirit of Agape Cemetery. Mixer followed behind, stopping now and again to chew at something lodged between his toes.

The sun bore down hot by the time he reached the cemetery gate. Heat ribbons spiraled up from the rows of stones. Hook waited for Mixer to come in.

The wheat fields surrounding the little cemetery had been plowed, and they stretched off to the horizon like a red blanket. Dust devils, born from the heat, rose up and danced over the fields, disappearing into the blue distance.

Hook whistled Mixer in. “Come on,” he said, pulling his ears. “Let's walk the circle.”

On the far side of the cemetery, Hook stopped while Mixer marked a fence post to his liking. Hook moved to the shade of an old juniper and sat down. From there he could see the mound of cemetery fill dirt, grass growing on its top.

Mixer circled the mound to sniff out past traffic and then stopped in the weeds just beyond. He circled back to where he'd started and kicked dirt between his back legs.

Hook went over to him and knelt down. The grass had grown tall in the loosened soil, and he could see a sunken place in the earth.

“What is it, boy?” Hook asked.

Mixer dug at the ground, barked, and then dug again.

Hook sat back on his heels. Mixer, as undisciplined an animal that ever lived, could drive a man to distraction with his antics, but this much Hook knew: his nose never lied.

 

39

 

H
OOK SAT IN
the office while the sheriff washed his hands in the back. When he came out, he'd taken off his hat, exposing the sunburn line across his forehead.

He sat down at his desk. “Okay, now what is it you wanted to see me about?”

Hook started with Bruce Mason and how the body had never been Samuel Ash at all and how Lucy Barker had never run away with him like everyone had thought.

The sheriff leaned in on his elbows. “For Christ's sake, Bruce Mason is over at the funeral home now?”

“That's right,” Hook said.

“Well, I'm glad you got around to telling me,” he said. “Just 'cause I paint houses don't mean I ain't the sheriff, Runyon.”

“You're right about that, and I apologize. I just didn't have enough of this put together for it to make sense.”

“And you do now?”

Hook took out the letter from Bruce and the payment receipt showing where Bain Eagleman had sprung for the pregnancy test. The sheriff read them over and laid them on the desk in front of him.

“Are you suggesting that Lucy Barker was carrying Bain Eagleman's baby?”

“That's what I believe to be true,” Hook said.

“And what about this letter?” he asked.

“When Eagleman intercepted Bruce's letter, he realized he was about to be exposed, that everyone would know Lucy had never run away at all. He had to do something about it.”

The sheriff took out his bandanna and dabbed the perspiration out of the ding in his head.

“And so you think he killed Bruce?”

“Had him killed. That letter has been in the possession of Buck Steele. I believe Buck killed Bruce Mason and then stole this letter and the receipt from Eagleman for insurance.

“Later, Eagleman found out from Juice Dawson at the mortuary about Bruce's body being delivered back here to Carmen. He sent Buck Steele on vacation to try to stop me.”

“And how did you wind up with this letter?” He shook his head. “Never mind. I don't think I want to know. Clearly, this suggests that Bain Eagleman might have taken advantage of a girl in his charge, but, if your information is correct, she was of consenting age at the time. It's shit, I admit, but hardly evidence of murder. Without a body, all this is speculation. Without a body, there's just no crime.”

“And that's why I'm here,” Hook said.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I know where Lucy Barker is buried.”

The sheriff reached for his pocketknife and peeled a layer of paint off his thumbnail.

He looked up at Hook. “And just where would that be, if I may ask?”

“In the Spirit of Agape Cemetery.”

The sheriff closed up his knife and dropped it into his pocket.

“Now that's convenient, ain't it?” he said. “I take it you've seen her body?”

“Not exactly, but my dog, Mixer, caught the scent of something buried out there.”

“I hate to bring this up, but there are a number of folks buried out there.”

“Eight feet down, embalmed, and in caskets. Skink says he saw Buck out there the very same night Bruce and Lucy were to have run away. It's possible that Buck killed her and buried her in a shallow grave, figuring it would be the last place someone would look.”

The sheriff put his feet up on the desk, exposing the holes in the bottoms of his boots.

“That's one hell of an idea, Hook. Now, I don't mean to be too wary about all this, but Bain Eagleman dragged my ass up and down Main over that foreman of his. I'm not anxious to stir something up I can't prove.”

Hook lit a cigarette. “There's only one way to know, Sheriff.”

“And what if that dog of yours is just hot for badger holes? What then?”

“I'll shoot him and swear the whole crazy notion came from me alone.”

The sheriff dropped his feet and walked to the window, looking out toward the Agape cemetery.

“I'll make a call, see if I can't get a warrant. You go get the digger, and I'll meet the two of you out there.”

“Thanks,” Hook said.

“You and that dog better be right about this, Runyon.”

*   *   *

Hook picked up the road-rail and drove over to the mortuary. Juice Dawson led him into the waiting room. He had on an apron and smelled of formaldehyde and cigarette smoke.

“Thought you might be one of Mable Engle's family,” he said. “She fell out of her porch swing and broke her leg. Died this morning.”

“They didn't shoot her, did they?” Hook asked.

Juice looked at him. “It's rare we shoot people with a broken leg in Carmen. Now what brings you here? You figure out where you want that boy buried?”

Hook sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs and laid out the story.

“I'll be damned,” Juice said. “Bain Eagleman?”

“The sheriff wants us to meet him out at the cemetery.”

“Are you certain it's a body?”

“That's what my dog claims. If he's wrong, he's going the way of Mable Engle.”

“That body would have been there for a spell, if it's there at all,” he said.

“Ever since Bruce Mason robbed that station,” Hook said.

“Might not be a whole lot left, you know. Doesn't take long for a body that's not embalmed to just disappear.”

“Could you come?”

“If that's what the sheriff wants, but I don't have any legal authority, you understand. You'll have to get the state medical examiner for that.”

*   *   *

By the time Hook and Juice rolled up to the Agape cemetery, the sheriff had already backed in to the fill site. Mixer bailed out of the road-rail and made a dash to the area and began circling.

“Juice, thanks for coming out,” the sheriff said. “Runyon's got it in his head that there's been a body buried out here. I got a warrant from the judge out of Cherokee to take a look, but it's going to be my ass if Runyon's wrong.”

“Well,” Juice said, “it looks like there's been some settling over there where that dog is. I guess there's only one way to find out. Did you bring some shovels?”

“In the back of my pickup,” he said.

The sun eased below the horizon as Juice and the sheriff dug. Hook took a turn, but his prosthesis made the digging too slow, so he soon turned it back to the sheriff.

Within the hour, the sheriff stuck his shovel into the ground and knelt down. Hook pulled Mixer back from the edge of the hole.

“I'll be damned,” the sheriff said. “Look here, Juice.”

“It's a body, alright,” Juice said. “There's not much left, though.” He took his shovel and pulled away more dirt. “Looks like a woman, too.”

“It could be Lucy Barker, then?” the sheriff asked.

“Could,” he said. “Could be any woman. The medical examiner will have to do an autopsy before we know for sure.”

Hook knelt down. “No identity of any kind?”

“None that I can see,” Juice said. “Dental should tell us something. Been there a long time by the looks of it.”

“Can you make that arrest, Sheriff?” Hook asked.

“I'll call the medical examiner,” he said. “He should be here by morning. Until then, you two keep this to yourselves.”

*   *   *

Hook loaded Mixer into the road-rail and drove back to the room. Both Patch and Skink had long since gone home. Having failed to replenish his Beam, he made a quick run to the package store. When he got back, he fixed himself a drink.

Had it been him, he would have arrested both Bain Eagleman and Buck Steele this very night. But then he understood the problems of circumstantial evidence. He understood that these were people the sheriff had lived with his whole life and, in all likelihood, would live with the remainder of his life. He understood how a good lawyer would tear the case to shreds without watertight evidence.

He personally believed that Lucy Barker lay in that shallow grave and that Buck Steele killed her and buried her there. But, like the sheriff, he couldn't be a hundred percent certain, not even after having seen the chipped front tooth in the poor girl's skull.

 

40

 

H
E'D NO SOONER
drifted off when the phone rang. He sat up, his heart pounding. In the darkness, he tracked the muffled ring, finding the phone buried under a stack of wool pelts.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hook, this is Celia.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I'm not sure. Could you come to the orphanage? Meet me at the back door.”

“I'm on my way,” he said, hanging up.

Hook dressed and let Mixer out to run. Celia sounded frightened. He checked his P.38 and worked the flashlight into his back pocket.

The road-rail groaned a couple of times before firing off, and Hook rumbled away toward Agape. Soon, he could see the orphanage looming in the moonlit night. No lights were visible from the windows of the orphanage or from the barn. He checked his watch. Eleven. Why would Celia be calling this time of night?