The Homeplace: A Mystery (26 page)

The night and snow turned everything to shades of black and white. Even so, the marks the wildfire had left were plain to see. It was almost as if someone had drawn a line just where Sandy Creek curved up close to the county road. Snow draped the trees and brush in the creek bottom on the west side of the line like a wintertime picture from a calendar hung on a café wall. But the blackened branches of the charred trees on the other side fought the new white snow, like fingers twisting just before death.

He was glad that the coroner had had Dolly’s body in a bag by the time he’d climbed up to where they found her. But the picture his imagination had drawn crept in every time he shut his eyes.

It had to be worse for Chase.

The back end of Marty’s car drifted as he followed the curve in the road. Tires spun, and the back slid toward the ditch. He fought the wheel and gunned the engine, but the car continued to slide. With a thump a back wheel dropped off the shoulder of the gravel road.

He hit the gas, and the spinning sound made him sick. As he climbed out of the car, one hand shot to his Stetson and clamped it tight to the top of his head.

Shitfire.

When Marty did something, he did it good. Now he was stuck.

Good and stuck.

His car’s radio squawked. “Marty?”

He slid back into the car, out of the wind and snow, and grabbed the microphone. “This is Marty. What is it, Arlene?”

“Where are you?”

“Down on Sandy Creek Road. About twelve miles west of town. On my way home.” He didn’t want to tell her he was in the ditch. “Why?”

“Oh, Marty. We got more trouble. Somebody took a shot at Birdie.”

“When?”

“Maybe twenty minutes ago. You might be her closest help.”

*   *   *

Ray-Ray peered out into the night through the notch he’d carved in the log walls that made his stronghold. Nothing moved except the snowflakes and a puff of steam from Birdie Hawkins’s nose.

His rifle shot had sure put the hurry-up in that lanky kid from the State Patrol who was with her.

Ray-Ray took another drag on his hand-rolled smoke and grinned.

That kid should try out for the Olympics. He flat hauled ass out of there.

But Ray-Ray wasn’t sure just what Birdie was up to. After she was sure the kid wasn’t hurt she’d just hunkered into that spot in the tamaracks and sat there watching. Smart girl, that Birdie. She picked a place out of the wind. He was sure a big girl like Birdie wouldn’t chill too soon. One of them skinny little girls would be shivering and thinking hard about getting back to where it was warm, he’d bet. Not Birdie. She was one tough woman.

Ray-Ray used the barrel of his rifle to open the door to his wood stove. The steel box teetered back and forth. He should have leveled it better, but it threw good heat. He banked the coals with a foot-long piece of split cottonwood and tossed the log on top of the small fire.

Keep the fire small and sit close. Those who didn’t know better built big fires and had to sit far back. Used their wood up quick, too. Not him. A small fire would keep the stronghold plenty warm. He’d planned things that way. Wood, water, food, guns, and bullets, all hidden in a place not much bigger than the bed of a pickup. He’d built it all himself and tucked it just below the crest of the highest point in the Butt Notch. No one knew it was there but him.

Even Birdie had almost parked her truck right on top of it on opening day when she came to the Notch to try to catch him poaching. She hadn’t seen a thing.

Ray-Ray speared the bail of a cook pot with the barrel of his rifle and lifted the pot from the top of his stove.

The deer stew smelled good.

A drop of melting water fell from the tin flashing around the stovepipe and sizzled when it hit the iron stovetop.

Ray-Ray stuffed a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Tasted good, too. Maybe Birdie would like some. He chuckled and looked out at her.

Boy, that friend of hers sure was comical running and sliding in the snow. He musta thought I was tryin’ to hit him.

*   *   *

Birdie needed his help.

Marty slammed the patrol car in reverse and hit the gas. The car rocked backward a few inches before the tires started to spin. He left off, moved the gearshift to drive, and gunned the car again. Three inches forward, then the tires slipped and spun.

Again. Reverse. The car moved backward. Spin.

Slam into drive, hit the gas, lurch forward. Spin.

Reverse.

Spin.

Drive.

Once, years before on a Friday night, Marty and Chase had been hurrying to get two girls from Comanche Springs home before their curfew time struck. A shortcut to the highway across Sandy Creek seemed smart. But Marty buried his old man’s pickup halfway to the axles in the muddy clay along the creek. One girl started bawling about how much trouble she was going to be in.

So Marty started rocking the truck back forth. Reverse then forward. Reverse then forward. Again and again. Sand and water flew in the air. Tires whined. The girl cried. Chase screamed
Eastwood
and laughed until Marty thought he’d bust.

Inch by inch and little by little, that old truck pulled itself out of the muck. They bounced up from Sandy Creek, across the pasture, busted through a barbed-wire gate, hit the highway, and made to Comanche Springs with ten minutes to spare. Laughing the whole way.

Marty wasn’t laughing now. He slammed the patrol car from reverse into drive and jammed his foot into the gas pedal. One back tire found the edge of the road, and the car heaved ahead. He turned the steering wheel, and the spinning tire grabbed the ridge of gravel along the shoulder and with a bounce the car freed itself of the ditch.

I’m comin’, Birdie.

And he never let up. He took chances he shouldn’t have and drove faster than he would have ever dared before.

Deb’ll kill me if I break my neck.

But Marty gripped the wheel tighter and willed himself through the blizzard to Birdie, trying to chase away all the thoughts that tumbled around in his head.

Out across the prairie, the pulsing flash of the red and blue lights on the State Patrol car from a mile away let him know he was close. It didn’t slow him down. If anything, he drove faster.

Down the next hill and then up. Tires sliding.

Around the hard corner at the next junction.

He used the brakes for the first time when he slid to a stop in the middle of the road next to the State Patrol car. The young trooper had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder and was at his door before Marty could jerk it open.

“Tell me what we got.” Marty scrambled from the car and jerked a thumb for the kid to follow.

Marty had to give one to the trooper—he was precise with his report. The kid and Birdie had followed tracks, Birdie had smelled a campfire, and they’d hid in some brush trying to spot where the smoke came from. The kid told Marty it was cold—real cold. He’d said that to Birdie half a dozen times. Finally, when he was ready to give up, Birdie had sent him to radio for help, and when he got to his feet, there’d been a rifle shot.

“Just one shot?” Marty asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Marty shook his head. “How long ago, do you think?”

The kid trooper looked down at his watch. “An hour and twenty-three minutes.”

“You sure Birdie didn’t get hurt?”

“Yes, sir. She hollered for me to get out of there.”

“Anything else? More shots?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, you’re doin’ good.” Marty opened the passenger door and unhooked a short-barreled shotgun from its bracket on the dashboard. “One more thing, kid.” Marty eased open the gun’s action and checked to be sure there was a load of double-aught buckshot in the chamber. “What did that rifle shot sound like?”

“Sir?” The kid took a step back. “It sounded like a…” His face screwed up like his was thinking. “Like a rifle shot, sir.”

“Anything you can remember might help. Think hard now,” Marty said. “Was it a sharp crack like from that gun of yours? Or…?”

The kid looked to one side, then the other. Snowflakes blew by his face. “No, it was a deeper sound. More a boom then a sharp crack.”

“Good.”

“Why you askin’—”

“Ray-Ray hunts with an old forty-five-seventy. Buffalo gun. When it goes off it bellows real mean. Not a polite bang like a modern gun.”

“That means it’s him, doesn’t it?”

“It does, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Ray-Ray usually hits what he’s aimin’ at, and you don’t have any holes in you.”

“So?”

“He must not have wanted to hit you. Probably just wanted to scare you off. Ray-Ray’s a strange one, but I bet he just wants to be left alone.” Marty pulled on his gloves. “One thing I am sure of. He won’t miss next time.”

The trooper wiped the melting snow from his face. “What are we goin’ to do now?”

“You’re gonna wait here.” Marty tossed his Stetson into the car and rolled a ski mask over his face. “When help gets here, tell ’em what you know. Nobody will listen to me, but you tell ’em that I think it’s best if everyone goes and finds a nice warm place for the rest of the night and that we leave Ray-Ray alone until morning.” He shook his head. “But that’s not what they’ll do.” Marty left the trooper and tromped through the snow out into the field.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Goin’ Eastwood,” Marty muttered.

“Whatya say?”

“I said, I’m gonna find Birdie.” He didn’t look back. “And do everythin’ I can to keep your friends from gettin’ killed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Chase stood for a minute to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The lights from the neighbor’s house filtered through the frosty window glass and painted everything in gauzy grays. On the vinyl floor, shadows of falling snowflakes danced between his boots.

Like the negative of an old black-and-white snapshot, the shades seemed reversed. Walls were silver pale and open doorways as dark as deep water. Even in the confusion the house was just as he remembered.

So many times he had sat with Coach at the kitchen table for meals, and when they’d finished, a flipped coin decided who did dishes. The archway opened to the living room where Coach’s big-screen TV was always set to ESPN when it wasn’t being used to study tapes of the Brandon Buffalos. The silent TV in front of the couch where Chase had slept when he lived in the house proclaimed for certain that Coach was really gone. Chase’s throat clamped closed, and he muffled a sad sound.

Dark streaks marred the carpet outside the bathroom where Marty had said they found Coach’s body. Chase couldn’t let himself look at the gore or go into the bedroom where Coach had slept.

He stepped into the short hallway, took a breath, and swung open the door to Coach’s office. The curtains were drawn on the only window, and darkness wrapped the little room tightly. Blurred rectangular images hung on the walls, each a picture of a squad of boys in their basketball uniforms. The biggest, of Chase’s state-championship team, hung over the desk, with two smaller beneath it—Chase’s college team and a picture of Chase with the Lakers.

If Coach was anything, he was a man of details. Every minute at ball practice was planned. Notes were taken and filed. Each game was dissected for mistakes to eliminate and successes to build on. The file cabinet next to his desk bulged with those records.

Chase knew if there was any clue to be found it would be in Coach’s other notes. Not the careful ones filed in the cabinet, but in the jots and scribbles he made on the sheets of his desk calendar.

A bottom drawer hung open on the old metal desk. Coach would prop his feet up there when he leaned back to talk on the phone. Chase wrapped his fingers over the screen of his cell phone and turned it on. Bright light slipped out between the tight gaps of his fingers and cast just enough light to see the desktop.

The phone sat on one corner, and stacks of papers to be graded, sports magazines, and newspaper clippings lined the edges, each slumping over until it blended with the next. In the center, three felt-tipped pens rested on the open calendar.

The calendar was open to November’s page. Coach’s way of coding things was printed in the blocks of the calendar. Appointments were written in blue, errands and shopping lists in black. Now, they were only trivial reminders of a man who had shaped Chase’s life in so many ways.

Chase ran his fingers over the page, looking for anything in red. In Coach’s system, notes in red were the spontaneous ideas, things to be remembered, and more important notes about his players. Chase’s name in red had covered Coach’s calendar sixteen years before.

Looking down at the page, two initials, printed in red, showed three times in the month. The first,
J-R,
was circled three times and the name
Slater
was scribbled next to it. J-R had to be Jimmy Riley, and Slater was head coach at the University of Denver. Slater had called Coach or Coach had planned to call him. Scholarship offer for the boy?

In the middle of the page, next to the score of Friday’s game, a dash separated the
J-R
from a carefully printed
27 pts
—Jimmy’s total for that game. But when his fingertips stopped near the red ink on the top of the page, Chase’s breath stopped in his chest. Away from the numbered blocks, on a corner of the paper, in small, tightly printed red letters, a name Chase knew too well was written. The name was circled in blue—Coach’s code for an appointment—and
11
P.M.
with a question mark twice the size of the letters was drawn below it.

Chase reread the name.

No. No. Could it be?

He let his cell phone go dark so he couldn’t see the name again, and sickness burbled up from his stomach.

Outside, sirens wailed.

*   *   *

Every State Patrol and Sheriff’s Department vehicle had emptied out of the high school parking lot. Lights and sirens filled the snowy night over Brandon. Sheriff Kendall’s truck was the last in line. Mercy set a box filled with dirty silverware and empty serving plates on the backseat of her mother’s Lincoln. Twenty years before, it had been the nicest car in Brandon.