The Long Count

by JM Gulvin

  Quarrie was quiet for a moment as he considered whether to tell the old man about Mary-Beth’s murder. ‘The patients,’ he said. ‘You told me some of them were on work detail. Were there any in particular you remember?’

  Pablo took a few moments to think about that. ‘One or two I suppose.’

  ‘What about Ishmael Bowen?’

  Pablo looked at him again. ‘I never spoke to him,’ he said. ‘But I knew about him. A young man, he arrived three months before the fire, and from what Mary-Beth told me, he was the only patient in the whole hospital who had no criminal record.’

  ‘No criminal record? So what was he doing here?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ Pablo said. ‘That’s what his brother wanted to know when he showed up a few days ago. A soldier just back from Vietnam, he had no idea there had been a fire and I don’t think he knew this had been a secure establishment either.’

  Holding his eye, Quarrie nodded. ‘So what happened to Ishmael?’

  Pablo gestured. ‘According to Dr Beale he was one of the patients they couldn’t account for so I imagine he burned in the fire. I didn’t tell his brother that though. I just suggested he talk to Dr Beale.’

  Quarrie went back to his car. Pablo walked with him, one eye on the sky where a rash of plum-colored storm clouds were pushing up from the south.

  ‘So much rain,’ he muttered. ‘Always so much rain blowing in from the Gulf, and after all these years I still can’t get used to it. I’m from Sonora, desert country, and it never really rains down there.’

  ‘How long’ve you been in Texas?’ Quarrie asked as he opened the car door.

  ‘I’ve been here as long as I’ve been living in the United States. Before that I used to drive a truck carrying fluorspar from the mines in Coahuila to Oklahoma City.’ Lifting his hand he considered where his finger was missing. ‘That’s how I lost this, changing a wheel on that goddamn truck. Anyway, I got bored with going back and forth all the time – the only company I ever had were hitch-hikers and most of those were wetbacks.’ Finally I sold my rig and that’s when I came up here.’

  ‘And you never learned English at all?’

  At that the old man smiled. ‘Of course I did,’ he replied in perfect English. ‘It’s just that I don’t see many people and the ones I do see speak English, and sometimes I like to hear my own language spoken to me.’ He shook Quarrie’s hand. ‘Apart from the way you look perhaps, you could almost pass for Mexican.’

  Eighteen

  Quarrie was halfway along the county road when the storm hit. As if from nowhere the wind came howling through the trees bringing a swathe of brittle rain that seemed to shatter across the vehicle. Unfamiliar with the dashboard, he had to fumble for the wipers and a car passed coming the other way. It was the first he had come across and, checking his mirrors, he recognized the tail lights of an old Chevrolet.

  *

  Coming from the north he barely glanced at the Ford as he passed with rain tumbling in broken lines and the wipers switching back and forth. He drove with his eyes a little glazed and a fixed expression on his face. He drove deep into the forest, following the road to the gap in the trees and the causeway that led to the wall.

  Spatters of blood still mottled the front of his sleeveless jacket. The laces on his boots were loose; he had the pistol on the seat between his legs and the shotgun in the foot well on the passenger side. No radio playing, no sound but the engine and that was labored. He slowed as he left the dirt road.

  He did not drive through the gates. Instead he pulled up just ahead of them and sat with the engine idling. Sweat built on his palms and he worked them together before he headed up the drive. Making his way around back of the hospital he stopped the car and switched off the engine. Reaching for the shotgun he got out and walked back again with clouds unleashing their torrents. He walked with the gun gripped by the breech, keeping the tip of the barrel toward the ground so it would not take in water.

  Standing out front he stared at the old mansion where it seemed to cower almost under the sky, weakened pillars and broken windows with bars running top to bottom. Climbing the short flight of burned-out steps he went in through the gap where the doors used to be and considered the darkened foyer.

  Rain ran on the walls, it was breaking through the gaps in the ceiling. Transferring the shotgun from one hand to the other he shifted the pistol where it was chafing his hip then crossed to the flight of rotten stairs. Keeping close to the wall where the footing was surest, he made his way to the second floor. There he paused with twin sets of fire doors separating the landing from the corridors on either side.

  Taking the doors on the right no rain dripped on him anymore. He could hear the sound of it above his head but the ceiling remained secure. A series of doors, or what was left of them, carried the length of the corridor. He counted: aloud he was counting and he came to the fifth door, only there was no door, just an aperture and the confines of the cell beyond. No glass in the window only vertical bars. Outside lightning toppled in ragged lines and he picked out walls covered in scribblings of stick children with large faces and over-large eyes. Stepping inside that tiny room he stood surrounded by those etchings in the middle of the floor. Trembling, he took in the walls, the floor and the cast-iron framework that was all that was left of the bed.

  Darkness complete, he was at the gate in the wall, conscious of how the trees gave way to a clearing and a hint of light on the other side. Faint and flickering, a few dancing threads that were offset by the weight and shadows of the trees. Moving away from the wall he walked the path in his jungle boots where the laces seemed to drag once more. He made his way beyond the last of the trees and he was in the clearing and could see the shape of the cabin where the lights were fluid against the window.

  Crossing to the weathered, wooden wall he stepped up to the first window where he made out a candle clustered with hanging wax; a single flame, it guttered and faded, glowed again then seemed to skitter as if it would die. Beyond the glass he could see where wood was crackling in the hearth, two chairs facing it and one of them was occupied.

  For a minute maybe he watched the old man sitting with his back to him. Then he moved from the window to the door. Fingers encasing the aged handle, the door stuck as he pushed and he had to shunt it with his shoulder to get it open. As he did so the old man swung round.

  For a silent moment they stared at each other. The old man parted his lips but did not speak. Eyes tight against the sagging skin of his face, he made no move to get up. He stared at the shotgun and finally cleared his throat.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘I’m a poor man. There’s nothing to steal.’

  Door closed to the rain, he crossed the room and stood before the fire with the gun at his side, staring at the crusted wood, the light of leaping flames. He did not say anything. He was no longer considering Pablo. It was as if the old man wasn’t there.

  ‘Warm yourself.’ Pablo was speaking slowly. ‘It’s a hell of a storm tonight, but we get them like that out here.’ He made as if to get up from the chair, but his visitor looked round and he settled again. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘I have nothing in the house – no money, I mean. No valuables. But I do have a little food. Are you hungry? Is that why you’re here?’

  For a few moments his stare remained fixed on the old man and then his gaze returned to the flames. He sat down. Wearily almost he slumped in the second chair.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Pablo asked quietly. ‘I’m old. I’ve been around a long time so no matter what you might think, you cannot frighten me. I’m from Sonora, the desert. When I was fourteen I rode with Pancho Villa. I’ve seen a lot since then and there’s nothing I’m scared of, not anymore.’

  Silence, it filled the room as something physical and for the briefest of moments his eyelids fluttered where he slumped in the chair. Still he held the shotgun, both hands on the barrel where his knuckles were pale as bone.

  ‘Were you a patient?’ Pab
lo suggested. ‘Were you a patient here before the fire?’

  He seemed to focus and stared into the flames once more.

  ‘Your face is familiar. I should remember you, but then I wasn’t a doctor, or an orderly even. I was only the caretaker and I didn’t know many of the patients by name.’

  He looked round and his gaze shifted from the old man’s face to his right hand where it gripped the arm of the chair. The little finger missing at the first knuckle, for a long time he seemed to stare.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Pablo followed his gaze. ‘Have I seen you somewhere before?’

  He was silent. His gaze shifted to the old man’s face once more.

  ‘My name is Pablo,’ the old man told him. ‘If you were a patient then you’ll know I was the caretaker. I still am the caretaker actually, although there isn’t much to take care of anymore.’

  Blinking slowly he looked down where his boots dripped water on the floor. Pablo was still watching him, a hint of spittle sticking to his lower lip.

  ‘What brought you here? You’re sitting by my fire with a gun in your hand so I imagine you mean me harm.’

  ‘Mean you harm?’ He seemed to think about that. ‘Why would I mean you harm?’

  Pablo worked his shoulders. He gestured. He folded his hands in his lap. ‘I don’t know. But you’re in my house with a gun and …’ He tried to smile, ironically almost he laughed, but his tone was one of unease. ‘So I have to ask if you mean me harm, or did you just want to get out of the rain?’

  He sat back. Working the heel of a hand across his face he pushed at locks of soaking hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if I mean you harm or not. I guess that all depends.’ He looked askance at him then. ‘You’re the caretaker. You cleared the yard of leaves.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why’re you still here?’

  Pablo offered half a smile. ‘I ask myself that question all the time. I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I never left when everyone else did. This cabin wasn’t touched by the fire.’

  ‘The wall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wall, it’s too high; the fire couldn’t get past it. The wall acted as a fire break.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it did.’

  ‘Kerosene,’ he went on more softly. ‘They kept barrels of kerosene in the store.’ The light in his eyes seemed to die. ‘The room, that room on the second floor …’

  ‘What room?’ Pablo said. ‘Whose room? Are you looking for someone? If you tell me, perhaps I can help.’

  ‘Help?’ He stared at the old man again. ‘Why would you want to help? Mr Briers,’ he added, ‘the orderly with those hound dogs they used to keep in the kennels by the wall. He was there that night, so was Nurse Nancy.’ He nodded then, as if to affirm it to himself. ‘They were both there and I figure one of them can tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’ Pablo asked him. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  Shifting round in the chair he stared. ‘You were the caretaker. You must’ve seen them. What happened to them after the fire?’

  *

  Quarrie was almost back to the highway when the radio crackled with static. It had been doing that ever since he left Pablo and it was clear somebody was trying to get hold of him, but every time he picked up there was nothing but interference. The density of the trees began to lessen though, finally; and with the cloud cover not so complete he tried to get through.

  ‘Ranger Sergeant Quarrie calling Panola County dispatch. Do you copy?’

  A fresh belt of rain littered the windshield and yet more static issued from the speaker.

  ‘This is Ranger Sergeant Quarrie. I got a lot of interference going on here. Anybody out there? Come back.’

  ‘Chevy …’ He heard the word then more static before the voice sounded briefly again. ‘’56 Chevy … said … you …’

  For a few seconds Quarrie gripped the handset staring at the windshield where the wipers were flicking back and forth. He could feel how his mouth was dry and his heart a little high in his chest. For a split second he was back in the trees when the storm first hit and that car went rattling by.

  Quickly now he swung the Ford around and headed back the way he had come. Driving as fast as he dared with falling water threatening to wash out the road he returned to the woods and the wind was buffeting the car. He passed no other vehicle and he came to the sign for Trinity and fishtailed along the causeway before bursting through the iron gates.

  The grounds were just as he had left them, only they were rain-soaked and empty; darkness coating the landscape, there was no sign of any car. He did not stop. He carried half the length of the drive then swung across the grass only coming to a halt at the gate in the wall. Car door open, he had his hat pressed down to his eyes as he cut through the clearing in the cover of the trees.

  Pablo’s cabin, he could see a hint of light, the flickering of candles; tiny points that just about pierced the gloom. The door was wide open and it should not be like that, not with all this rain. A fire burning in the hearth, from the open door he saw Pablo with his back to him sitting in his chair.

  ‘Pablo, it’s Quarrie,’ he called. ‘What’re you doing with the door wide open? Is everything OK?’

  The old man did not stir.

  He called again only in Spanish this time. ‘¿Estas bien, Pablo? ¿Estas bien?’

  The old man did not move and he did not raise his head. Moving inside the cabin, Quarrie had a pistol drawn. Swinging left and right, he aimed at each corner of the room. Nobody there, but something on the floor caught his eye and he was aware of the way blood seemed to drag in his veins.

  A boot print just a couple of yards from the door, he had seen that pattern before. A nick in the heel, he had seen it in the turned earth under Mary-Beth Gavin’s window. He had seen it on the trail leading up from Henry’s Bathtub, and it was there on the caretaker’s floor.

  Nineteen

  The old man’s eyes were open and almost absently he seemed to stare. A single hole in the middle of his forehead, the skin puffed up and a line of blood running down the side of his nose. His hands were in his lap as if he had been resigned to whatever was to befall.

  Holstering his gun, Quarrie went back to the door and studied that print once more: the same boot, US Army-issue with a steel shank in the sole, and yet he hadn’t passed the car. There had been no sign of it out front of the hospital building and he had not seen it anywhere on the road. There were plenty of other dirt tracks back this way though, and it could be just about anywhere by now.

  Walking back to his car he lifted the radio transmitter from the dashboard and tried to call. He got no response however, the interference was too severe. Slipping behind the wheel he was about to close the door when lightning ignited the sky. Looking up, he saw a figure at a window on the second floor.

  He cut for the main entrance at a run. With every step he was waiting for a shot to ring out but it did not come. Another bolt of lightning and he looked again but the window was bare. For a second or so he hovered on the steps then moved inside the ruin where shadows rippled with running water and the staircase climbed one wall.

  He could feel adrenalin pumping as he made his way up the stairs. At the top he paused. Fire doors left and right, it was very dark up there and he could just about pick them out. Overhead thunder rolled and another streak of lightning hit. Pushing open the doors on his right he could see the length of the corridor. Slowly he paced, the sound of rain from above and the wind threatening to tear down what was left of the walls. He could feel the way his flesh had started to creep as if his skin had a life of its own. He came to the first room and it was empty. The next two were also empty. The fourth was empty, and when he got to the fifth he paused.

  He stood there, gun in hand, as another sheet of lightning washed across the building and his gaze fastened on the walls. Children, images of stick children, hundreds of them scribbled from ceiling to floor. There was nobody there. Nobody
at the window and he wondered if he had not been mistaken and it was only the drawings he saw. But then he heard the sound of an engine and he was at the bars of the broken window as a set of headlights sliced through the darkness below.

  He took the stairs three at a time. Spilling out of the empty doors he ran back to the gate in the wall. At his car he was behind the wheel, fumbling for the keys in his jacket pocket; he had them in the ignition and the engine roared into life. Foot flat on the accelerator he spun the car around in an arc with standing water lifting in a curtained plume.

  Moments later he was through the gates and giving chase. Back along the causeway to where it came to the wider road, the wind howling, wipers clicking back and forth, he was on that patch of dirt with the trees crowding him and the car skewing so badly he almost left the road. Spinning the wheel under his palm, he righted the car then fed power to the motor once more.

  He drove as fast as he could without running off the road but could pick up no hint of a car. The road was a switchback that carried the trees and there was no sign of any tail lights, not so much as a reddened glow.

  When finally he got to the asphalt he stopped. The nose of the Ford poking onto the highway, he looked both ways but there was no sign of any vehicle. He sat there trying to work out which way the Chevy might’ve gone. Making a right he drove half a mile to where lights flickered from an Esso station, gas at twenty-three cents a gallon with a cup of coffee to go.

  The middle-aged man at the cash desk told him the phone was out because of the storm and Quarrie went back to his car. He drove as far as Joaquin where the supper club was open and their phone was working OK. He called Austin and asked them to beef up the ‘all points’ they already had out on the car. He asked them to contact the Louisiana State Police because the border was just a few miles further east. After that he called the Panola County sheriff’s department and told them about the caretaker still in his chair.