The Sixteenth Man

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The Sixteenth Man Page 8

by Thomas B. Sawyer


  Bite your tongue, Charlie – that’d be lousy for business. Okay, I’ll settle for the miserable prick taking a horn in his nuts. No, forget that, too. Till after I get my pictures.

  Down in the dusty arena, the badly shaken rider managed to drag himself beneath a barrier about a hair before the angry bull impaled one of its heavy timber posts, uprooting it, hurling it twenty feet.

  The grizzled type downed a belt of whatever he had in his brown-paper bag, offered Charlie a snort.

  “No thanks.”

  Withdrawing the bottle, Old Grizzled nodded judgmentally, as if Charlie had just revealed some terribly significant character-flaw.

  Charlie added, “Maybe later. This still the first round?”

  “Yup.” He sneered in the direction of Charlie’s camera. “You some kinda reporter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t go takin’ no pitchers of me.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Charlie sighed. Texas. Like another Country.

  The bull was led away, and Lonnie Stahl exited the arena on one foot and a helper’s shoulder.

  The P.A. announcer resumed his commentary: “Okey-dokey – in chute number three, on his very first ride since catchin’ a mess of head stitches and a broken jaw up in Laramie, give an Amarillo welcome to Otis Pelts of San Antone.” The crowd complied. “Otis is on board No-neck Number Two. Who incidentally hasn’t been topped but twice in a hunnert an’ fourteen tries.”

  Charlie looked to his right – and quickly ducked, putting Old Grizzled’s misshapen hat between him and Marjorie Brodax. To Charlie’s surprise she happened to be sitting a couple of rows in front, about a dozen seats over. Looking pretty tasty, too, he had to admit. Better than he remembered.

  Probably Joe Bob’s beef injections...

  The applause drew Charlie’s attention back to the arena. Otis Pelts’ bowlegs were wrapped like a vise around No-neck’s huge tan-and-gray shoulders as the crazed bull spun and darted, doing his damnedest to shake the cowboy loose and have him for dinner. The crowd loved it, their cheers drowning out the buzzer, but Otis must have had his eye on the electric display. It hit the big “8” and he was on the ground, running like hell, hands clasped over his head in a victory sign.

  “Topped him, ladies and gentlemen! A – what’ve we got...?” The electric sign indicated Otis’s score. “...A ninety-one! Otis Pelts, ladies and gen...” The P.A. voice got lost in crowd-noise. “...be one tough cowboy to beat – and if anyone can pull it off today we got him in chute five, direct from toppin’ four outa six in the Elko e-liminations. Let’s hear it for J.B. Millgrim from Del Rio, riding one mean mother, Number C-44.”

  Yes.

  Joe Bob was in Charlie’s viewfinder, carefully weaving the tail of the flat braided rope in and out between the fingers of his gloved right hand. Charlie stole a look at Marjorie. She was biting her lower lip.

  Joe Bob gave a little nod, the chute man tightened the sheepskin lined flank strap, and the chute opened. Number C-44 was a straight-line jumper and kicker. Charlie had to admit that – idiotic as it was – Joe Bob was pretty good, hanging on gamely, expertly, while the animal ran through its full repertoire: vicious side-bucks, followed by a dart to the right, then left, then with an evil snort, rearing on his hind legs. The curve of the crowd’s rising roar got steeper as the seconds, tenths and hundredths jittered past on the large electric display. Five seconds. Six. Charlie looked over at Marjorie. She was covering her face with her hands.

  He got back to Joe Bob in time to see the cowboy violently propelled toward the ground. Head-first. The crowd moaned. Charlie smiled, loving the moment.

  “Seven-point-eight-six seconds, folks. Now that there’s a real nice show, J.B. – but about a month short of a cigar.”

  Marjorie, with her hand over her mouth, was out of her seat and running for the exit. On the arena floor, presumably incensed over having nearly been dominated, C-44 reared over the prostrate, motionless rider – and fired his huge front hooves in the direction of Joe Bob’s head. Somehow, a millisecond before they struck, the cowboy managed to roll clear. A trio of clown-suited bullfighters distracted the angry animal while a fourth helped Joe Bob scramble crablike to the sidelines.

  The crowd’s cheering stopped abruptly when one of the bullfighters tried a little too hard for a laugh and took a horn in his groin. Suddenly, blood seemed to be everywhere.

  Charlie flinched, rose to leave. Old Grizzled looked up at him with unveiled contempt; plainly anyone who considered himself too good to drink whatever was in the green bottle wasn’t man enough to even watch roughstock riding. “Ain’t got the stomach fer it, right?”

  Charlie threw him a brief look, hurried toward the tunnel beneath the grandstand.

  It was almost fifteen minutes before the pair emerged from the First Aid room. Charlie craned, peering over and around passing horse-trailers and pedestrians. Joe Bob was wearing a neck-brace, limping on a bandaged ankle, leaning on a distraught Marjorie, who carried one of his boots. They crossed the parking lot and found the red truck. Marjorie helped Joe Bob into the passenger seat. As she climbed in behind the wheel and cranked it up, Charlie grinned, knowing he could relax. He was having it both ways. The shitheel was in pain – that was very good – and because of it, even though Joe Bob was eliminated from the bull-riding competition, no way he was going to be up for traveling. Not tonight.

  No – tonight’s gonna be mine. Tonight I get my fuck-pictures. And tomorrow I’m headed for Reno, and that lovely 15 grand.

  Charlie spat out the cold, bitter coffee, dumped the rest of it, tossed the paper cup, rubbed his hands together. He should have brought along warmer clothes, but he doubted that anything would’ve kept out the chill of the north wind blowing out of the flat land across the top of the semi.

  Only a few lights were still lit in the Panhandle Inn. A police cruiser approached along East Third Avenue, moving slowly, the cop flashing his spotlight in various directions, Charlie ducked as the beam swept the side of the big Pacific Intermountain Express truck. The patrol car moved on past.

  Marjorie and Joe Bob’s room was on the second floor of the sprawling two-story structure, and it was on the end. A large, wide window looked out on an oak tree, barren for the winter. Twenty yards beyond the tree was a truck stop at which a number of 18-wheelers were parked for the night. Charlie was atop the trailer nearest to the motel. Obviously the couple assumed nobody could see them; the blinds were in the flat position, and the curtains were open. Or – they were exhibitionists. Either way, Charlie was delighted. He raised the Pentax again. The long lens diffused the tree branches. All the lights were on, the glow of the TV provided varying secondary illumination. Marjorie was in sharp focus as she came into view carrying a glass and a bottle of beer, dressed in a short yellow baby-doll nightgown.

  Nice, Marjie. That oughta get him started.

  Charlie panned with her as she crossed to Joe Bob. He was propped up on the bed, ankle bandaged, watching TV. He wore a tee-shirt, boxer shorts, the neck brace, and a dour expression. A cheap framed print of a badly rendered senorita with a jug on her head was on the wall behind him. The cowboy glanced disdainfully at the glass and bottle she offered, mouthed something which Charlie lip-read as “Didn’t I tell you I don’t want none?” or its equivalent. Marjorie poured some beer for herself, went around to the other side of the bed, hopped onto it alongside him. She drank. He watched TV, ignoring her even after she placed her hand on his thigh. And began to stroke it slowly, gently.

  Okay, good, good. And about time.

  He envied Joe Bob on several counts. The guy was inside where it was warm, Marjorie was still a dish, and the scene was making him horny. Charlie forced his attention back to where it belonged. He rechecked his shutter speed, aperture setting. Then he aimed the camera, placed Marjorie’s hand in the bulls-eye, fine-tuned the focus, and lightly rested his forefinger on the button. Marjorie’s hand moved toward Joe Bob’s crotch. Charlie tracked with it, snap
ped a couple of shots.

  Nice.

  The cowboy continued to stare at the TV. Marjorie hunkered herself down so her face was even with his shorts. She looked up at him. Still no reaction. Still looking off at the TV. So she opened the bow at the top of her nightgown, allowing one of her nipples to show.

  That’s it. Now the other one. C’mon, Marjie, go for it – the works. And please forgodsake before I freeze my balls off.

  She made her move. But as Charlie snapped a few more pictures, Joe Bob belted her angrily across the side of her head, his lips moving emphatically. Marjorie recoiled, angrily shouted something back at him. He pulled the covers around him, clicked off the TV, shut off the lamp. She grabbed a pillow, yanked a blanket from the foot of the bed and flounced out of Charlie’s sight. Probably to a sofa or armchair. The rest of the lights went out.

  Shitshitshitshit.

  NINE

  Present Time

  Tuesday

  “Did she say---?” Packard was interrupted by a none-too-subtle nudge from the heavyset nurse, an earth-mother-type. He reluctantly moved aside so she could monitor Scott Herren’s IV-flow. “...Did she say what kind of noise?”

  Scott moved his bandaged head slightly. And winced. “A voice. She said it was a voice.” He was struggling to reconstruct what had happened after Meg Brady awakened him in the motor-home.

  “One. Singular.”

  “Yeah...No...I – I don’t remember. I don’t think she...”

  The nurse tossed an angry look at Packard. Intentional, or just her natural abrasiveness, it reminded him he was pressing, that the sedated, still-in-shock Scott wasn’t up to his angst-driven questioning.

  “Sorry, Scotty. I’ll come back later.”

  “No, it’s okay... Anyway – I never heard it. Or the light. I never saw the light – the one she said – down by the youknow shaft...? I just got my shoes on and went down there, and... But it was quiet. Like – like if there was anyone, he – was – he---”

  This time the nurse left no room for interpretation. “Enough.” She jerked her thumb toward the door.

  Packard indicated he would leave in a few seconds.

  “...So I start back up the trail. And that’s the last thing I...remember.”

  The attending physician had shown Packard the x-rays of Scott’s skull-fracture. The blow appeared to have been from a blunt object, delivered with considerable force, so his assailant was most likely male, strong and, judging from the angle of the bone-crack, tall. He added that Scott was lucky; had the impact not been downward and somewhat glancing, but rather more direct as from a shorter person, it might have killed him. The doctor assured Packard that Scott would be discharged as soon as they were confident that the hairline crack at the back of his head, and the accompanying hematoma, weren’t causing pressure on his brain.

  “Jesus, she was – such a neat person...” Scott choked.

  Packard took the young man’s hand, squeezed gently. His own forehead was tight, aching.

  With V.J., Fran and Jeff, Packard had descended the trail from Armadillo Ridge searching for some sign of the assailant or assailants – a heelmark, candy-wrapper, anything. They examined the area where Scott was found, and further down, around the entrance to the rock shaft, but there appeared to be no clear indications. Between Jeff, Scott, Meg and the Sheriff’s people, so many feet had trodden there since Packard discovered the bones that the few semi-distinct prints were of no help. He lowered himself into the chamber, but was unable to determine whether or not strangers had been down there. More to the point – why would they have ventured inside?

  At Packard’s and Fran’s urging, V.J. Toland finally conceded the possibility that it might have been a person or persons who knew Meg Brady and bore her a fatal grudge. The Deputy contacted the police in Borrego Junction, requesting that they check out the whereabouts the previous night of her recently-ex-boyfriend, undergraduate Gary Maxwell, whose temper, Jeff confirmed, had a minimal fuse. When Packard departed for the hospital, V.J. was awaiting the report, though without much expectation, still convinced his first construct was correct, that it was the work of a vagrant, probably one with a drug habit, and certainly with a large, sharp knife. Which explained to V.J.’s satisfaction why, though the site had been tossed so thoroughly, the perpetrator didn’t take any of the expensive equipment; junkies being mainly interested in garden-variety small appliances, TVs, VCRs, cameras and such that can easily be converted to cash for their next fix. He dismissed Packard’s reminder that the theory didn’t square with the three cellular phones which were in plain sight in the motor-home.

  “These guys, professor – they don’t always behave with a lotta logic.

  Packard was further annoyed by V.J.’s glib explanation for the ripped-out, missing log-pages which he attributed to the perpetrator’s rage over finding nothing of value, adding that the loose pages had probably blown away on the early-morning wind that swept the high country.

  Compounding Packard’s impatience with V.J. was his own deepening sense that he should not have left Meg and the others on their own out there. That he had done so several times during the past weeks without any negative results seemed irrelevant. And then, beyond the who and why there was the pervasive, ugly senselessness of it – of the abrupt, grossly premature end to such a lovely, vibrant life.

  As Packard emerged from the hospital, he encountered a bicycle-helmeted George Quinn, who quickly slipped some papers into his backpack, greeted him somewhat awkwardly, volunteering only that he was heading back to his office over at the Courthouse. Packard offered him a lift, grateful for what he assumed – correctly, it would turn out – Quinn did not say – that the papers were his report on Meg Brady’s autopsy, which he’d just completed.

  They stowed the bike in the rear of the Cherokee, rode in silence for several minutes, then Quinn spoke, looking straight ahead: “Y’know, you’ve got no right to claim ownership of all that guilt. Or any of it, for that matter.”

  Packard threw him a look, irked at himself for being that transparent, angry at Quinn for trespassing in his head without permission, for being right.

  Quinn continued to look straight ahead. “I’m a believer in people’s numbers bein’ up. And anyway, her folks aren’t blaming you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Spoke to ‘em. They’re having the body shipped home to Ohio tomorrow.”

  Packard loosened his grip on the wheel. Then tightened it again, dreading the answer to what he was about to ask, which meant re-imagining Meg’s last few moments. But he needed to know. “The examination – anything special turn up?”

  “No revelations, sorry to say. Death was fairly quick – at least by the time the blade cut into her right ventricle. You could make a case that it was somebody who knew how to use a knife.”

  Packard tensed, couldn’t bring himself to ask the next question.

  Quinn answered it. “There was no sign of sexual assault.”

  Packard exhaled. Then: “But – there were – bruises and such, right? From struggling with the killer.”

  “No. Just the cuts on her arms.” Quinn studied Packard’s face for a count, then: “V.J.’s theory...?”

  “Yeah. The smashed TV and VCR don’t square with that. I mean – suppose the guy came in, knifed her, and busted the place up as an afterthought.”

  “A – a fit of temper.”

  “Or – they were looking for something.”

  “Something – specific...?”

  Packard shrugged, uncertain. “Don’t ask me what.”

  “I won’t.” Then: “Occurred to me, too.”

  Packard pulled the Cherokee into a parking space across Center Street from the County Court House, shut off the engine, turned to Quinn. “Something to do with our anomalous skeleton?” The missing log pages. They kept nagging at him.

  Quinn nodded grimly. “Intriguing thought...”

  They headed for the Courthouse, Quinn wheeling his bicycle. He
allowed that thus far he hadn’t had any luck in terms of identification. Judging from the drill-marks in the subject’s teeth, the work could have been performed anytime during the twentieth century – maybe, as he’d said, even earlier, but the crudeness of the surfaces placed it prior to the use of ultra-high speed drills which had come into use several decades ago, and definitely before the more recent advent of laser dentistry. He locked his bike into the rack near the entry, added that a couple of ribs were cracked, probably not all that long before the individual died; the bones had barely begun to knit. Quinn’s estimate was perhaps a week, at most two.

  “A fall?”

  They entered the Courthouse lobby, paused near the Sheriff’s Department.

  “Maybe. As if he struck something hard. Or was struck by something.” Quinn informed Packard that County Ballistics believed the bullet he’d found lodged in the sixteenth man’s scapula was probably fired from an M1 or M2 carbine, weapons used during WWII and in the Korean War. “Which, given the size of the charge in those things and the depth it had penetrated the bone, they figure was fired from some distance – maybe a hundred yards. Oh - and from below.”

  “Below...?” Packard considered that one. “...And in the back. Someone – pursuing him?”

  “Could be. ‘Course another possibility is if he was prone when he was hit. Or, it could’ve been a war wound.”

  “From an American weapon?”

  Quinn grinned. “Guess you never read The Naked and the Dead.”

  “I read it. But they – I mean a military hospital – they would’ve removed the bullet, wouldn’t they?”

  Quinn granted the point, said he was 99 percent certain the wound wasn’t fatal. Moreover, closer examination of the skeleton yielded no sign it had absorbed other bullets – no nicked bones or cartilage. Because of that, and absent other evidence of violence, the Sheriff’s Department wasn’t prepared to expend any more time or effort on the matter, at least for the present. “Their hands’re full with the schoolyard thing...” A recent shooting at a Four Corners day-care center had left three children and a teacher dead, plus a half-dozen wounded.

 

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