She frowned into her mug. “His story was a bit like that poor boy who did the shootings—”
“Not.” Alsop interrupted her. “Arthur Morton was not a ‘poor boy.’ He was a deranged redneck who hated people of color, Jews, immigrants, anyone outside his immediate white boy experience. He destroyed lives. Coop lost his temper a thousand, maybe a hundred thousand times, but you can’t see him climbing into a cave in Horsethief Canyon to open fire on a concert.”
Cassie smiled sadly. “You know I don’t disagree with any of that, Franklin, but it was the same rural poverty, the same inability to hold on to a piece of land, all the things that no one outside a few farm families ever cares about.
“Anyway, Coop knew something about how to work the land, but he was a rebel and he was happy to rebel against corporate farming. We learned about prairies together, and then he thought maybe he should take classes over at the Ag School, learn the science of land ecology. But he couldn’t handle structure, and then he was ashamed for me to know he’d been thrown out, so he took off. He worked for a couple named Digby up near Tarshish, and then I don’t know where, although he talked once about ranching in Mexico. He came back every now and then, when the world got too much for him. He was here when the Tallgrass happening was being planned. Franklin was involved, hoping it would stoke awareness of the importance of the prairies.
“Coop became, well, I suppose infatuated with Lydia—she came out here once and sang for us during the planning phase. He started helping Franklin out with the Tallgrass plans, hoping he could become part of her entourage or some such thing. Poor boy,” she said softly. “Poor Coop.”
“He was in the canyon when the shooting happened?”
She nodded. “He wasn’t at the stage, though. He was in back, working in the sound truck. By the time he fought past the crowd and everything, Hector was dead and Lydia was being taken away in an ambulance.
“We were all in shock after that slaughter, so I wasn’t paying close attention to anyone but Franklin, here. I think Coop followed Lydia when she moved back to her parents’ place, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. I didn’t know she’d gone to Chicago, and him after her, until he brought her here this week. He said he tried to get her to stay in the apartment her lover’s ma rented for her, but before she stopped talking, she told him she needed to be on the ground, because that’s where Hector was.”
She looked at me fiercely. “Just as well he kept an eye on her. Otherwise she would have died in that hole in the ground. So when he found her there, he brought her here. I know a thing or two about healing people, and she’s been doing better since she got here.”
“Now you know,” Alsop said. “You can go back to Chicago.”
46
No Herbal Remedies
Alsop put a hand under my arm, as if to yank me to my feet. I stood but didn’t follow him to the door.
“I know you’re protecting Lydia, and that’s crucial, but that horrific set of murders four years ago—that story isn’t done. If it was, someone wouldn’t have been shooting at me this morning. And it troubles me that my wanting to get more information on the Horsethief Canyon murders has this big law firm that was involved in Morton’s defense so roused that they alerted the Salina cops I was coming here.
“Besides that, these murders in Chicago that the cops want to pin on Coop—Lydia might have seen one of the murders. If she did, or if the killer suspects she did, then they’re going to search hard for her. If she saw something—”
“You’re not going to get any answers from Lydia,” Alsop said with finality.
“Yes. I can see that. I just hope that I can figure out fast enough what my shooter wants, and who they are, before they put bullets in her as well as me.”
“You are leaving Ellsworth, I trust?” Alsop said.
“Oh, yes,” I agreed. “As soon as Eddie fixes my car. I also have a few people to talk to around Salina. And I want to look at Horsethief Canyon.”
“You want to see if there’s still blood on the rocks?” Alsop jeered. “I promise you there isn’t.”
“Franklin!” Cassie expostulated.
“Don’t you know that’s a tourist attraction?” Alsop cried. “Every year on the anniversary, buses full of the alt-righteous pull up to celebrate the massacre. They take back souvenirs from around where the stage was set up. You can go on their websites and buy stones covered in genuine brown or Jew blood.”
“Oh, Franklin, don’t bring that talk into this house.”
Cassie’s eyes filled with tears. She hurried to a wall hung with photographs of wildflowers and took out a handful of dried something from a chest standing there. She put it in a pot on top of the chest, chanting something under her breath, and set the contents on fire. The room filled with a scent that recalled my dope-smoking days in college, when incense blended with weed into a sweet, sickly smoke. Cassie chanted over it, waved her hands through the smoke, and then carried the pot around the room, making sure all the spirits troubled by Alsop’s language could smell her concoction.
There was so much bloodshed everywhere on the planet that it didn’t seem unreasonable to keep one small dugout in the Kansas hills safe from it. I don’t know why the thought made me want to weep. Maybe my fatigue, or the strangeness of a house with no windows.
When Cassie finished, Alsop mumbled an apology. He turned to me. “What business do you have with Horsethief Canyon?”
“I have a photograph of the cave where Morton lay. I want to see what’s on top of it.”
I scrolled through my phone for the pictures I’d downloaded at the Salina library and showed them to Alsop.
“Four years of rain, blizzards, and disaster tourists, there won’t be anything left up—” He stopped and held my phone up closer to his face, then enlarged the photo with his fingers. I knew which shot had caught his attention.
“You really think you’ll find something?”
I shrugged. “Likely not, but one piece of hard evidence that would make the local LEOs take notice would be a good thing. Maybe a six-point-five-millimeter Creedmoor cartridge labeled ‘shot from a Bergara by a left-handed miner wearing an Armani linen jacket,’” I said.
Alsop stared at me. “What does that mean?”
“It means Amelia Butterworth or Sherlock Holmes would have sorted this out weeks ago. It means I am clutching at straws. It means a beautifully dressed man keeps showing up, like a Shakespearean ghost—at the park meeting, at Morton’s mother’s house, at Morton’s sentencing hearing. It means that the bullets fired at me this morning were six-point-five-millimeter Creedmoors.”
I hadn’t meant to blurt that last sentence—I was clearly more off-balance than I realized. I’d examined the shell casings I’d found in the Mustang as best I could under my flashlight, before setting out for Cassie’s prairie. A lot of different rifles fire Creedmoors, but I was picturing the well-dressed stranger at Kelly Kay Morton’s home, paying fifty dollars to look for Artie’s computer. The well-dressed stranger showing up in court. Showing up (perhaps) at the SLICK meeting. He would own a high-end brand, not a Remington, but something that had to be imported, hand-finished.
I’d stuck the cartridges in my pocket when I left the motel. I took them out now to show to Alsop, but Cassie flapped her hands in agitated shooing motions. No talk of murder, no guns, no bullets, in her home.
It was impossible to tell what the weather might be like outside, but it was after eight, past time I left. When Alsop said he’d guide me back to my car, I didn’t hide my astonishment.
He gave a wry smile. “We can’t have you tripping and falling out here on the land. Cassie’s got her arms full looking after Lydia. She can’t take on a clumsy city woman.”
“Franklin!” Cassie cried again.
“More to the point, I want to make sure no one is lying doggo in the road,” he added. “I don’t want shooters finding their way to Cassie’s house. If twenty percent of what the detective said is true, someone out ther
e would kill Lydia as soon as look at her.”
We all knew Bear was staying here with Lydia. I went back to her room to say goodbye. He was lying in the bed, his body stretched out next to hers. He looked at me, but didn’t move. I knelt next to them.
“Lydia, I’d like to hold your hand.” She didn’t open her eyes, but a muscle in her jaw tightened. I leaned over Bear and took her hand. The palm and fingertips were callused, but Cassie must have been rubbing some lotion into them because the rest of the skin felt soft.
“Lydia, it’s V.I. Warshawski. We met in Chicago. I’m glad you’re safe here with Cassie and Bear.”
Her eyes twitched open and her breath came a little faster, but she didn’t look at me.
“I wish I knew why you were trying to confront Jane Cardozo at Devlin & Wickham. It might help me keep the bad guys off your track.”
At that she seemed to struggle to speak, but all that came out was a high-pitched mewling. Bear began washing her face.
Alsop hauled me to my feet and pulled me roughly from the bedside. “You’re unbelievable, tormenting a sick woman with a police-style interrogation. Get your boots on. We’re leaving.”
Cassie came in, carrying a mug that smelled faintly like ginger. “You both go. Franklin, I’m counting on you to make sure the land is clear. Bear, move your big old head: I need to give Miss Lydia here her supper.”
Alsop didn’t speak while we walked back to the Impala. We moved quickly, more quickly than when I’d been trailing Bear: the dog had been following a straight line that led through thick ground cover, but Alsop knew a trail.
When we were about twenty feet from the road, Alsop put a hand on my shoulder to make sure I understood his signal to stay still and be quiet. An instant later, he disappeared into one of the prairie swales.
The moon was in its first quarter, but the clouds were heavy enough that the prairie was as dark as if it were the outer reaches of the galaxy. I wanted to be bold and decisive, to take action, move forward, but I felt unmoored, unhinged.
Alsop reappeared as silently as he’d gone. “You’re clear, at least as far as the next intersection. Before you take off—who told you how to find Cassie?”
“Eddie, at the Ellsworth body shop.”
“I guess that’s okay. I know him, or his brother.”
“Yes, you went to high school with his brother,” I agreed.
“Eddie is still the kid brother, wanting attention. I hope he isn’t that chatty with everyone,” Alsop said.
I hoped so, too, but I only said, “Before I go, where is Coop?”
“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, but I don’t know. He brought Lydia into Cassie’s place, made sure she was going to survive, at least for the near term, and disappeared. Three days ago, if you’re wondering.”
He stopped for a minute. “I believe you are not trying to bring harm to Cassie, or me, or the prairie, but you are so ignorant—about the land and about us—that you’ll do damage without meaning to. That’s almost worse than coming out here intending to do harm. I’m begging—imploring—you not to come back. Cassie’s place is hard to find, but not impossible, and if someone is following you, they’ll find her.”
He melted once more into the darkness before I could respond.
47
Asleep in a Boat
The drive back to Ellsworth on the unlit country roads intensified my loneliness. It embarrassed me that I felt aggrieved with Bear for choosing Lydia over me.
I didn’t know if Lydia was safe at Cassie’s, because I didn’t know what was keeping Devlin & Wickham interested in her whereabouts. The Salina cops might not know specifically where Cassie’s prairie house was, but if Devlin & Wickham asked them to hunt for Lydia, they’d get on Cassie’s trail easily enough.
I wasn’t just lonely, but also frustrated to the point of tears that I didn’t have the resources to keep Lydia safe. The Canadiens could help look after Bernie. Hopefully Angela would be safe in Shreveport, but this dark expanse of land made me feel puny, ineffectual.
I started singing to hold my tears at bay. I was trying to learn “Tradimento,” by the Baroque prodigy Barbara Strozzi, and I was having trouble with the key shift at the end of the first stanza. Focusing on the music kept me going until I reached the lights of Ellsworth, such as they were.
The rain had stopped by the time I reached Tales of a Traveler. I parked at the edge of the lot and walked the few blocks to a restaurant with a full bar.
The restaurant menu ran heavily to steaks and burgers. The talk of the massacre and Cassie’s revulsion made me squeamish about looking at meat. I ordered vegetable side dishes, all grown by local farmers, the menu promised, but the steaks made me remember the food I’d bought earlier. There was a steak for Bear still in my motel room refrigerator. Maybe I’d leave it there in the morning for the next guest. I also had his blanket and bowls, but he seemed fine at Cassie’s without them. I’d take them back to Chicago and give them to Coop when we finally connected.
My whisky came and I sipped it, relishing the warm gold taste, while I checked my messages. I had forgotten Peter’s WhatsApp message, letting me know he’d arrived in Ankara.
I tried to sound upbeat in my reply. Lively day on the Great Plains. I talked to people who knew Lydia and met people who are trying to preserve the ancient prairies. I hope you had fun, too.
It was almost five in the morning in Ankara. If he had jet lag he’d see my text and write me while I was sipping my Johnnie Walker.
I leaned against the banquette, but when I shut my eyes, women’s faces spun through my mind—Lydia’s in all its terror; Kelly Kay Morton’s anger over her son’s and her own fate buried under a thick skin of apathy; Lydia’s mother, defiantly announcing that she’d shot at Coop; even Filomena, the Chilean disciple of Ayn Rand. They all belonged together, my brain was trying to tell me, but I couldn’t figure out why.
“Do you want those vegetables cooked more, hon?” The waitress jolted me back to the room.
I assured her that I liked them crunchy. “Sorry. Long day.”
“We’re closing soon, hon. You want another Scotch?”
I wanted another Scotch, but a second whisky would make it hard for me to stay awake long enough to reach Tales of a Traveler. I settled the bill and walked back along empty streets to the motel. I thought of all the times I’d cursed the traffic and noise in Chicago, but being alone in a small town, knowing someone had tried to murder me this morning, made me long for a three-block traffic jam.
Franklin Alsop wanted to know why people were shooting at me, and I couldn’t come up with a good reason. Maybe my downstairs neighbor had hired a hit man to save her the trouble of getting me evicted.
Alsop had said something else that made me cautious: he hoped Eddie hadn’t been as chatty with everyone as he was with me. When I reached the motel, I didn’t go inside but crept around to the back, trying to walk silently in my mud-crusted boots.
About a dozen other cars were parked in the lot. I hadn’t paid as close attention as I should have, but I thought five had been there when I arrived back from Cassie’s prairie. I wondered what brought people to Ellsworth late at night. They couldn’t all be on a mission to attack Chicago detectives.
Homey lights shone through some of the curtains. My own room was black. I should have left a light on to welcome me home. And to see if someone turned it off in my absence.
I went around to the main entrance. No one was at the front desk. It was only 9:50; even if the motel didn’t run to twenty-four-hour service it was still early to shut down for the day.
Two people were in the alcove with the vending machines, but they weren’t buying anything. They looked at me furtively and one of them started texting.
I left, not running, but moving at a good clip. No one was behind me when I got into the Impala, but a light came on in my room. I kept the car lights off and took off as fast as possible without laying down rubber. Still keeping dark, I circled the downtown an
d followed signs leading to Great Bend. When I was in the open country, I turned on my headlights, looking for a place to pull off the road that wouldn’t land me in a ditch.
I came on a big gate outside a field with a clearing in front just big enough for a tractor to pull off the road. I didn’t want to take the time to open a gate, but a tangle of bushes and tall grasses covered the area on either side of the clearing. I got out to inspect the land, check where the drainage ditch ended, then backed the Impala carefully behind the sheltering plants. When I got out, I ran my hands through the grasses to make the ones I’d driven over stand upright. A car was coming; I ducked into the ditch, but it didn’t slow.
I crossed the road and sat in the high plants along the shoulder opposite. In the next hour, nine cars drove by, six coming from Ellsworth, three heading to it. One slowed as it passed my hideout. It shone a police-style searchlight at the gate, but my work on the grasses had apparently been good enough—they didn’t stop, and the Impala’s metal trim didn’t catch the light.
I waited another hour, but the car didn’t return and no one else was searching. I crossed the road again and climbed into the backseat. I unlaced my boots but kept them on, just in case. I lay across the seat, knees drawn up, grateful Eddie’s beater was such a big old boat, and fell heavily asleep.
48
Trouble Follows Me
It was six on another gray morning when I wrenched myself awake. I was stiff, with a painful knot in my neck. I massaged it and stretched it but I felt all the sticky-eyed discomfort you get sleeping on a surface about half your size.
I laced up my boots and drove back into town so that I could shower and perhaps even get a few hours of real sleep. When I reached the motel, travelers were starting to pull out for the day, and the woman behind the desk was busy handling checkouts.
Dead Land Page 30