See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Bart Paul

  “We okay?” she said. “I saw the headlight and knew something was wrong.”

  “We’re okay for now. I don’t know what those ginks were doing lurking around up there in the dark, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  I got out my phone and showed her the spot on the berm where the person watching us had hunkered down. She examined the human sign and gave a disgusted little shiver, then swung back up on the mare. “Hop on. I’ll ride you double. I want to get back so May can go to bed. We can clean up the mess in the morning.”

  I swung up behind her, then we watched the last lights disappear far down-canyon.

  “I told you you should have taken your rifle,” she said.

  I patted her hip next to the holster. “That’s what I got you for.”

  I was saddling mules with Harvey at the hitching rack the next morning to pack out the forensic team’s gear. Sarah walked out of the cabin with her sheriff’s radio in her hand, and Lorena on her hip. She had to step around the busted crib and didn’t look happy.

  “It’s Jack,” she said, “calling from the office. A guy named Sebastian VanOwen just met with Mitch. He showed Mitch a court order from last fall saying that he is the temporary legal guardian of Audie Ravenswood. My god, Tommy, that creep’s heading for your mom’s right now. He’s taking Audie.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It didn’t take me long to get on the road.

  “What are you going to do?” Sarah said.

  “Get her back.”

  “But if he’s got some sort of legal justification, there’s really nothing you—”

  “Look. All I know is, where he’s taking her ain’t no place for a kid.”

  “You said she was none of your affair.”

  She had me there. She didn’t say it mean, but she had me.

  “Things change.”

  We walked over to the corral.

  “I should know better than to try and talk you out of this,” she said.

  I tried to act normal but probably looked as lame as I felt. I walked over to Harvey.

  “I hate to do this to you again, Harv.”

  “Hey, Tommy,” he said. “This guy’s dickin’ with you. That bullshit lost kid business, trashin’ your cabin, then this. You go do what you need to do. You want me to tag along, just say the word.”

  “If you and May could just pack out the Feds’ gear. That’d be great. I’m sorry.”

  I fired up my old truck. I let the diesel warm up, ran into the cabin, grabbed a water bottle and a jacket. I didn’t know how long this idiocy would take or where it would lead. Sarah and Lorena were waiting for me at the bottom of the steps.

  “Go see Mitch first,” she said.

  “I will.”

  I kissed her goodbye, and she held me hard. I thanked Harvey again and walked down the corral fence line to the outhouse. I opened the door and just stood there. Leaning in with my hands on the plank doorframe, I could feel them all watching me, waiting like it was forever. I turned back without the rifle and let the spring on the door slam it behind me. From across the yard, I could almost hear the air come out of Sarah in a long sigh.

  I don’t know what I was thinking about when I drove down the logging road to the valley except what Harvey said about the guy dicking with me and wondering where VanOwen got the idea I had that damn money. I tried not to think about the kid being a hostage to fortune in this. I knew I was crazy to stick my nose into this guy’s business and let him force my hand, but I was across the meadows and turning down Main Street before I had an answer. Mitch was sitting at his desk when I walked in. He looked up like he was expecting me and held up a Xerox of a document, just cozy as hell in his own little cloud of smug.

  “Looks like we solved the mystery of who that kid’s guardian is,” he said.

  I yanked the paper out of his hand and only halfway read it before I tossed it back. It granted the guy temporary custody if his employee was incapacitated or dead. Or at least until there was a hearing.

  “I had a good talk with that VanOwen fella,” he said. “He’s pure by-the-book law enforcement. Had a dandy career till he crashed in the line of duty and crippled himself up.” He picked the paper off the floor. “Looks good to me.”

  “Did you ask him why he staged that search-and-rescue bullshit?”

  Mitch gave me a look. “Who says it was bullshit?”

  “Did you hold him for questioning in the murder of the woman at the Paul Bunyan? The woman that lied about the kid being hers and lied about her being missing?”

  He just glared at me.

  “Afraid to tangle with him, Mitch?”

  “Look,” he said. “When it comes to that little girl, he’s holding all the cards. Maybe this trouble between you two started when a disabled cop got attacked for no good reason by a goddamn cowboy what thinks he’s above the law.”

  “Those fake parents that ended up dead were his people.”

  “Says who?”

  “The little girl he’s grabbin’ right now while I’m wasting time talking to you.”

  “He’s got friends in Reno law enforcement,” Mitch said. “You got no play up there.”

  I was heading for the door. “Somebody beat that woman to death with that guy’s steel cane. I’ll bet my life on that.”

  I rattled on out of there and barely heard Mitch’s shout behind me.

  “Well, you may have to do just that, hotshot.”

  I didn’t want to waste any more of my life talking to that jerk than I already had. Jack was waiting by my truck when I got outside.

  “This whole deal kinda pissed me off,” he said. “That big crippled bastard kinda smirkin’ my way when he was talking to Mitch.” Jack handed me some notes he’d written on a pad.

  “I tried to check the guy out but couldn’t find squat that applies,” he said. “No arrest records here or in Nevada. He was a person of interest in an arson for insurance deal in the torching of a motorcycle shop up near Bordertown, but the policy and business was under another guy’s name.”

  “Whose?”

  “A guy named Carroll Gopnik.”

  “Should that mean anything to me?”

  “He sometimes used an alias—Cody Davis.” Jack reached up to touch the top of his bandaged ear. “One of the guys shooting at us in the canyon. The guy Mitch says you clipped with my pistol.”

  I took a minute to ponder all that.

  “Where’s VanOwen live?”

  “No known residence,” Jack said. “His California disability checks are sent to another custom motorcycle shop in Sparks called Vicious Cycles. That’s a totally different jurisdiction, but he ain’t the owner of record there either. I got the address for you if you want to check it out.”

  I looked at the notes and got in my truck. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “You going to Reno?”

  “I’m going to Sarah’s dad’s first. Talk to my mom. See what happened when the guy took Audie.”

  I flew out of town and made good time for a bit. Then ten miles from Dave’s ranch I hit road construction with a flagman, a pilot car, the works—fifteen minutes at a dead stop. That gave me time to think about what I was doing, and it wasn’t pretty. And it sure wasn’t smart. I thought about the forensic team we had to pack out and wondered what VanOwen’s guys were doing in the canyon. There had to be some connection, but I couldn’t imagine what. I thought about the cut fence I needed to mend and the crib I needed to rebuild. I couldn’t fix on a subject that didn’t piss me off. I got up to Dave’s by mid-morning, half furious, half burned. Mom and Burt and Dave were all waiting in the kitchen for me, looking like death. I knew my thinking on my own child and the missing child was getting all mixed up, and that just pissed me off more. Sarah had told Mom over the radio not to argue with VanOwen or interfere, as that might make things worse.

  “It was hard,” Mom said. “Audie was crying, and … oh, Tommy, it was just real hard.”

  “That kid’s a trouper,” Dave sa
id. “She sure didn’t want to go. She kicked the big bastard a couple of times.”

  “What’re you going to do, son?” Mom said.

  “Go to Reno. Bring her back.”

  “He’s got the law on his side,” she said.

  “I could really give a shit right now, Mom. The guy beat a woman to death a couple nights ago right in Paiute Meadows. Audie knows stuff about him that could put her life in danger. I don’t want that girl anywhere near him.”

  “How could a man like that be granted custody?” she said.

  “Audie said her mother used to work for VanOwen before she died. She was a stripper in Reno. Maybe she named him as guardian or something in case something happened to her. I’m gonna try and find out.”

  “Good heavens,” Mom said.

  “Lemme get my AR,” Burt said, “I’ll go with you.” Mom’s boyfriend Burt had been with the Corps in the first Gulf War. I’d seen him use that AR to take down a drug peddler who had pistols in both fists the year before, not two miles from where we stood.

  “Appreciate it, Burt. But, you know, gunfire breeds gunfire, and I got these girls to think about, now.”

  Mom gave me one of her teary smiles when I said “girls.”

  “However you want to play it,” Burt said.

  I took a deep breath and headed back outside to the truck.

  I drove slow as the highway left the pastures and cottonwoods of Shoshone Valley and crossed into the sagebrush and piñon of Nevada, trying to keep my head clear. I hadn’t gone to Reno much since high school when I went there looking for girls and trouble. When I was younger, Dad had taken me to the Snaffle Bit Futurity there a bunch of Septembers. Reno had a great Western store we’d stop in at from time to time, and it was smack in the crappy 4th Street neighborhood where I was headed. At least I remembered that I needed to take the Wells off-ramp off the I-80 Westbound.

  Fourth Street was wide and depressing, with block after block of low one- and two-story buildings, lots of them brick like old Reno, some new and industrial, some bars and Lysol-stink motels. I found the Pink Corral pretty quick. Inside, the walls were painted black, and the only lights were on the stage and behind the bar. Girls dancing naked before noon in front of boozy men isn’t so uncommon if you figure that when guys work a night shift at a casino or hotel or a mine, they get off work at six or seven in the morning and this is their happy hour. Not that anybody in the joint looked very happy.

  A semi-naked middle-aged woman sat at a table by the door. She told me what the cover charge was. She pointed at the cashbox with a flashlight pen.

  “I’m looking for Sonny VanOwen.”

  The woman told me what the cover charge was again. I walked past her scanning the room. A bouncer was right on me. Sucker was huge—all black tee-shirt and bench-pressed like crazy. I asked him for Sonny. He looked me up and down. I was the only guy in the place in a big hat and spurs. It was like I could hear the guy thinking.

  “He usually comes in midafternoon.”

  “Thanks. He the boss?”

  “Well, yeah. Ain’t that why you want to see him?” he said. He looked like he’d already talked too much.

  “Any idea where he’d be now?”

  “No clue. You might wanna check Vicious Cycles in Sparks. Right across the tracks from the Nugget.”

  He walked away without bothering me, so I figured he was telling the truth.

  I got back in my truck and drove east. I passed the Western store like it represented normal life in a sea of pus. I had the thought that what I was doing was crazy, and I should just go inside and buy a saddle pad or new hat or something. But I didn’t. I cruised further on, slowing down opposite a brick corner bar with a sign that said The Nogales over the entrance. A half dozen bikers in their leathers and shades with bandanas around their greasy heads watched me creep by. I made eye contact with a fat one and he flipped me off. He was shaped kind of like the guy on the dirt bike the night before, so big you could barely see the Harley under him. I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street and got out, leaving the engine running and the door open behind me. I was right in the middle of that bunch before they knew it. Actually before I knew it either. I walked up close to the one who’d flipped me off. He was most definitely the fattest. The black biker chaps he wore looked all muddy and had some fresh tears. From the waist up he was filthy with dust. The rest of him was just normal filthy. His arms and face had fresh cuts, too. He looked like he’d wrestled a badger. I knew he was the guy from the trailhead fence.

  “I’m looking for Sonny VanOwen, Tiny.”

  “Never heard of him … Tex.” He said it real slow. Then he laughed. He had some broken teeth. Guys behind him laughed. A car zipped by, and its horn honked at my truck.

  “Don’t dick with me.” I grabbed him by the throat with just my left hand and squeezed.

  It’s a funny thing that if folks think you are batshit out-of-your-mind-crazy mad and ready to take them down or die right there, it makes ’em cautious. Kind of a rabid dog thing. If you actually are that mad, it helps. Still, a couple sonsabitches straddling their hogs closest to the bar entrance fired them up and revved them so loud that if this pig had squealed I would’ve had a hard time hearing. Just as fast as I grabbed the guy, I let him go. The revving got less loud.

  “Try Mama’s,” he said. He was panting and his face was stone white under his beard. Cutting off the blood supply to somebody’s brain is quick work.

  “What’s Mama’s?”

  “An Italian joint,” he said. “Snake eats there every day. Damn near lives there.”

  I must’ve given him a funny look.

  “Snake,” Tiny said. “That’s what his friends call him.”

  “I ain’t his friend. Where is it?”

  He told me. I walked out into the street through traffic to my truck without looking back. A couple more cars honked at me.

  “May wanna watch yourself, Tex,” Tiny semi-shouted loud enough for me to hear. “Joint’s full of cops.” He tried to laugh, then he put a dirty hand to his throat and started to gag. I flipped a U turn and headed back the way I’d come.

  Mama’s was an old house a few blocks west. It sat right on the sidewalk edge like it was left over from an older time. I saw a little parking lot behind. I figured that would be too cramped for a quick getaway in a pickup, so I left my truck at the curb under a No Parking sign. Before I went inside, I gave the lot a quick walk-through. I saw two sedans side by side. One was definitely unmarked law enforcement with radio, laptop, shotgun, the works. I saw a couple of motorcycles up against the back wall. One of those looked semi-familiar. I looked at the plate and remembered to check my phone for the picture I took of the chopper in Buddy Hornberg’s equipment shed. The plate was a match.

  Inside looked like any old frame house except for all the heads that turned when I walked in. Somebody must’ve noticed me leave my truck under the No Parking sign then disappear around back for a couple minutes, because when I stopped to scan the place the chatter quieted for a second. The rooms were small and crammed with tables. The place was getting busy with lunch trade, and I could see a couple of obvious plainclothes cops at the tables in what had been the front room. One of them, a heavy red-headed guy in a Hawaiian shirt, checked me out, then went back to eating. I stood there a minute studying the place, checking exits and wondering where the ball bats and shotguns might be stashed. There was a kitchen in a back room and a bar along one wall by the entrance with a big goofy-looking guy in a ponytail tending it. I put down a ten. The guy asked what my pleasure was, and I pointed past him to a bottle on the back bar. He held up the Jack Daniel’s and I nodded, holding my thumb and forefinger about two inches apart. He poured me a shot with water back and I tossed them down. He set my change on the bar. I could see the one cop watching me from across the front room. The Hawaiian shirt probably hid a pistol. He was just starting to get up when I heard VanOwen’s voice loud in the back room. I left my change and headed in tha
t direction. I was looking in the doorway at VanOwen by the time that cop got halfway to the bar. He took a seat on a barstool fifteen feet behind me.

  VanOwen was sitting at a table against the rear wall with a couple of guys. And with Audie. He had parked her close on his left, wrapped in her ratty sleeping bag. She started to say something when she saw me, but he shut her up with a look. A druggy-looking loser, dressed more like the fake dad who got shot back in the canyon than the bikers I’d seen at The Nogales, sat across from VanOwen. The guy turned in his chair to check me out. The third guy at the table was a surprise. It was another big hat—a dirty palm-leaf—and the guy looked as out of place as I felt. He was sunburned and wore a wildrag tight under his chin and stared at me like I’d just kicked his dog. He never so much as blinked.

  VanOwen watched me, too, fiddling with his steel walking stick. I noticed this was the one with the brass skull for a nob, not the rattlesnake head I’d seen the day I roped him—the one I figured he’d beat the woman to death with. He must’ve stashed or scrapped that one.

  “Hey there, rifleman,” he said. “Where’s your rifle?” He turned to the guy with the wildrag and laughed, then turned back to me. “You know, I was right about you last night. I was right that I’d be seeing you again. I just didn’t think it’d be so quick.”

  I let him talk.

  “I figure you’re here to deliver something that’s mine or to tell me where I can find it.” He smiled pretty nasty-like. “So which is it, dude? Door number one or door number two?”

  I caught Audie’s eye.

  VanOwen’s laugh sounded pretty faked. His eyes moved just so. “Tiny?” he said.

  I could hear and smell the fat biker as he shuffled in from the street and sidled up close to me. He must’ve just rolled in from The Nogales to warn the boss. This time I grabbed his throat with my right hand and pinned him to the doorjamb with my thumb deep in the artery. Fifteen minutes before, he was pretty slow from the rough night he’d had. Now he was even slower. I glanced at him just a second and could see the red of broken blood vessels spreading across the flesh of his neck from the first squeezing he got.