The Long Count

by JM Gulvin

  Together they went downstairs and Isaac switched on the lamp on his father’s desk. Standing in the doorway Quarrie watched him, conscious of the way the darkened panels on the walls seemed to make the room feel smaller than it actually was. Sitting in his father’s chair, Isaac opened a desk drawer and brought out a sheaf of old letters minus their envelopes and bound by a couple of rubber bands. Rolling the bands clear, he spread the letters on the desk.

  ‘All of what I wrote him,’ he said, picking up the topmost page. ‘Crow’s Foot valley, the Fishhook, no matter where I was, I never once got anything back.’ He indicated the pile. ‘So why keep them? If they don’t mean enough to him that he can’t write back why bother to hold on to the letters?’

  Quarrie had no answer.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Just like some stranger coming in the house and killing him doesn’t make any sense. I’m sorry, John Q. I figure I wasted your time. A man who never writes his son, maybe that’s the kind of man that kills himself.’ Gathering up the letters again he fixed them with the rubber bands before dumping the whole lot in the trash.

  Quarrie could see where tears pricked his eyes and he perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Isaac,’ he said, ‘I need to ask you something. You told me that after you left Trinity you went to Shreveport and spoke to Dr Beale?’

  Isaac nodded.

  ‘Because the caretaker told you that’s where your brother might be?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So how did you know to go to Trinity in the first place?’

  Isaac looked puzzled.

  ‘How did you know Ishmael was there if your father never wrote?’

  Isaac got up from the chair. ‘I spoke to him on the phone, called from Saigon just before they shipped me out. I never said I was on my way home. I wanted that to be a surprise. I asked him how Ish was and he told me he was in a different sanatorium. He never said why and he didn’t say what kind of a place it was, just told me he’d been transferred to the Piney Woods. It was no great shock. I said to you how Ish was always being sent to different institutions. It’s been that way for years, Started when Mom left, I guess.’

  ‘And that was when you were how old?’

  ‘Ten or eleven I suppose.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where she is?’

  ‘My mom? No, we haven’t heard from her since.’

  ‘So what’s her name? Tell me who she is and I’ll have the Feds try and track her down.’

  Isaac furrowed his brow. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  With a shrug of his shoulders Quarrie gestured. ‘You don’t think she’d want to know that her ex-husband was dead and might’ve been murdered?’

  ‘If she gave a shit, why take off in the first place? Why leave him with two kids to bring up on his own and why not ever contact me or Ish?’ Isaac was on his feet, his eyes dark. ‘If she gave a damn about any of us she wouldn’t have left when she did.’

  ‘Even so,’ Quarrie said. ‘She’s your mother and it’s never too late. Besides, she might be able to throw some light on what was wrong with Ishmael that your father had him sent to Trinity.’

  Isaac seemed to think about that. Then he ushered a mouthful of air from his cheeks.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re right: family is family and right now she’s all I got left. Her name’s Clara. Before she married Dad she would’ve been Clara Symonds.’

  Upstairs the phone was ringing and Isaac went to answer it. Quarrie retrieved the pile of letters he had dumped in the trash and leafed through them, trying to imagine how he would’ve felt in Korea if none of his letters had been answered. He wondered what it must be like watching all your friends get mail when there was never anything for you. With a shake of his head he re-wrapped the bands and put the letters back in the drawer.

  In the kitchen he found Isaac still on the phone. ‘OK,’ he was saying. ‘If that’s what the coroner believes …’ He looked round at Quarrie. ‘No, he still thinks the same as he did. He’s here right now as a matter of fact. Do you want to speak to him?’

  He held out the phone and Quarrie looked at him with an eyebrow stretched.

  ‘Deputy Collins from the sheriff’s department,’ Isaac explained. ‘The coroner has examined Dad’s body and he concurs with their lieutenant.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’ Quarrie lifted the receiver to his ear. ‘This is Sergeant Quarrie.’

  ‘Hello, sir, this is Deputy Collins speaking. I was the one come down there when you found Mr Bowen’s body.’

  ‘I remember you, Deputy. I told you he’d been shot and you were to secure the scene.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. And I did that but my lieutenant said how he shot himself. The coroner agrees with him, sir: he told me just now that the fact blood had gathered at the base of his throat was on account of the way he was set in the chair. He told me that bodies can move, sir; on their own I mean, especially if they’re in a sitting position. He’s done the autopsy now and he’s sure that’s how it happened. The only prints on the gun were Mr Bowen’s and in the coroner’s opinion – in the opinion of the sheriff’s department – he used that gun himself.’

  ‘What about the powder burns?’

  ‘He dismissed those, sir, on account of the fact Mr Bowen had been a soldier and wouldn’t have needed to be holding the gun against his head because of all his training. He said the fact that there were those powder burns wasn’t proof of anything.’

  ‘OK, Deputy,’ Quarrie said. ‘If that’s what he said that’s what he said and it ain’t the first time I’ve disagreed with the coroner.’ With a shake of his head he handed the phone back to Isaac.

  Late that afternoon Pious landed the Piper Cherokee in Mr Palmer’s field where Quarrie was leaning on the top rail of the fence with Isaac standing next to him. The Ford he had borrowed was parked in Palmer’s yard and Quarrie had been on the phone to Marion County for someone to come and collect it.

  ‘Isaac,’ he said, ‘regardless of whether the coroner’s right or wrong you need to get a-hold of Dr Beale.’ Loosely he gripped him by the shoulder. ‘Don’t let him stall you. Remember you’re next of kin now and nobody can keep anything from you. He has to tell you everything there is to know about your brother and he can’t soft-soap or bullshit either.’

  ‘All right.’ Isaac looked grateful. ‘And thank you. I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if you hadn’t come around when you did.’

  ‘Well, I have to tell you, if the coroner’s writing your dad’s death down as suicide there ain’t a whole lot more I can do. Let me know what happens with your brother though, OK? Let me know when you’ve spoken to Beale.’

  They flew back to the ranch, Pious glancing across the cockpit as Quarrie sat in the co-pilot’s seat working his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Thank God for Mrs Feeley and this plane. I’m tired, bud. Could do with a hot shower, my own bed and a couple of days hanging out with my son.’ He looked sideways then at Pious. ‘How is he anyway?’

  ‘He’s just fine. Working hard on that project his teacher wants written up.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Quarrie smiled. ‘Well I’ll be. James never was much of a one for his lessons; guess this thing’s really gotten hold of him.’

  ‘Sure has,’ Pious glanced at him again. ‘Listen, I had to tell him about them bones. I know how I said I’d leave that up to you, but Sheriff Dayton had a couple of his boys come out to the ranch and I took them to that bend in the river. I guess they drug what was left of that poor kid out of the wreck, and when we got back James was home from school. According to the newspapers me and him been looking at, there weren’t many children on that train so it’s possible we might come up with a name.’

  They flew low across the state with the sun in their eyes, Quarrie sitting in silence, thinking about Fannin County and the coroner and how Tom Dakin, the medical examiner from Wichita Falls, would not have discounted the powder burns.

  ‘So, are
you making any progress with what-alls going on?’ Pious asked as the ranch lands came into view. ‘Marion County I’m talking about, that sumbitch you been trying to tree.’

  Quarrie drew a stiff breath. ‘Got close to him, Pious, down in Panola County.’ He told him about the old Mexican and what had happened during the rainstorm.

  ‘Old Mex and a black girl, huh?’ Pious shook his head. ‘Wrong place at the wrong time, always the way it goes.’

  Quarrie nodded. ‘ME going to take a look at those bones, is he? That what the sheriff said?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll call by before I drive back.’

  ‘So, you’re going over there again then, are you?’

  ‘Have to, bud. More’s the pity. I’d kindly like to spend some time at home right now but I got this sleazeball to scoop up and there’s a woman in Tulsa, Oklahoma, who I need to talk to, only she doesn’t want to talk to me.’

  The following morning he was sitting on his back porch, watching the sun come up as he and his wife used to when they lived on the banks of the Snake. Smoking a cigarette and drinking hot, sweet coffee with cream, he heard the phone ring inside the house. James was still asleep, but for all he’d said to Pious about his own bed, Quarrie had tossed and turned all night. Twice he’d been up for a smoke and once for a shot of bourbon to see if that would knock him out. In the end he gave up and got dressed.

  The phone was still ringing, and at this time of day that could only mean one thing.

  ‘Morning, Captain,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, John Q. How did you know it was me?’

  ‘Well sir, you’re the only sumbitch in Texas would call a Ranger at home this time of day.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Van Hanigan said. ‘So if it’s that early, how come you’re up and about?’

  ‘Don’t sleep so well anymore, probably the same as you.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Van Hanigan said. ‘I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since before World War II.’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ Quarrie swirled the dregs in the bottom of his cup.

  ‘The fingerprints you asked about from Marion County – had us a teletype from the NCIC.’

  ‘You telling me we got an ID?’

  ‘Not quite, they can’t give us his name right now but whoever it was, his dabs match those from the motel room in Fairview as well as the sawn-off barrel from that shotgun.’

  ‘Well, I kind of figured that,’ Quarrie said.

  ‘I ain’t done, John Q. There’s something else you need to know.’

  Twenty-five

  Dr Beale drove his Fairlane west. A steady sixty-five miles an hour, he had one hand on the wheel and now and again he would glance in the rear-view mirror only not at the upcoming traffic but at the expression in his eyes where they were reflected. The tape recorder lay across the back seat, microphone clipped on the side, and his briefcase with the catches unfastened. On the dashboard was a letter addressed to him postmarked Fannin County.

  He twiddled with the radio, picking up some country music he listened to that. After a while, though, he twisted the dial to where a newscaster was discussing a speech made to Congress by President Johnson. Letting that play out, Beale found himself hunting his gaze once more in the mirror before shifting station and catching some Buddy Holly. As he crossed the state line into Texas he switched the radio off.

  *

  Back at the hospital Nancy had watched him go. She had been in the records office on the top floor, checking over some papers when she saw Beale pace the length of the drive.

  She went back to the women’s wing, passing through the common room and twin sets of doors. In the corridor all was still, but as she got closer to her desk she could hear Miss Annie’s voice lifting from inside her cell. She was crooning, singing a lullaby to her porcelain doll. As Nancy came alongside she glanced through the panel on the door and spotted a fresh batch of scribbled etchings on the only patch of wall space that had remained unblemished.

  She paused with one hand pressed to the glass and the keys on a chain at her side. Miss Annie was sitting on her bed cradling the doll in her arms and singing more softly now, as if her baby had fallen asleep. She did not look up; if she sensed the presence outside in the corridor it was not apparent. Still Nancy stood there; sweat on the palms of her hands, she wiped them on the front of her uniform.

  The movement sparking something perhaps, Miss Annie twisted around where she sat. For a moment they stared at each other; the same age roughly, though, skeletal as she was, Miss Annie looked much older. The dullness in her eyes, the darkness; Nancy could hardly bear to look at her yet she couldn’t peel her gaze away.

  *

  Fetching the canvas duffel bag from the closet in his room, Isaac laid it on the bed then dressed in the uniform he had recently cleaned and pressed. Downstairs in the kitchen he looked under the sink for the box containing boot polish and brushes and set about working the toes of his shoes. Only when he could almost see his face in them did he put the brushes aside.

  Silent in his father’s study, he stood in the half-darkness where the smell of death seemed to permeate still. He stared at the cabinet housing the array of weapons and the blade of the German bayonet seemed burnished in the half-light that bled from the corridor.

  Settling in his father’s chair, Isaac glanced at those tiny stains he had yet to scrape from the floor. Then he looked sideways, as if somebody was standing next to him. Bunching his eyes he made the shape of a pistol with his right hand and held it to his head. Index finger pressed against the soft spot of his temple he eased the finger back a couple of inches then worked his thumb like it was a hammer falling.

  Hands in his lap he swivelled left and right. Like a child he wheeled the chair all the way around. He considered the desktop and the papers his father had signed. With a shake of his head he spun the chair once more and faced the panels behind. On his feet he slid his hand down the left-hand side, heard the click, then the panel opened.

  Beyond it was the darkness of the passage; the only sound that of his shoes on the concrete floor. He had no need of a light. Exactly thirty feet and he came to the storm shelter and there he did switch on the light. Various bulbs set into the ceiling showed him the camp beds, sleeping bags and the shelves stacked with food enough to survive any tornado, hurricane or nuclear attack.

  Tracing fingers across the labels he studied the assortment of cans: Campbell’s soup, meatballs, haricot beans in tomato sauce, peaches and plums, apricots in syrup, sliced apple, and can after can of condensed milk. The lowest shelf formed part of the wall. Moulded in concrete like a prison bunk, the space underneath was deep enough for someone to lie down comfortably, a final vestige of safety if the rest of the shelter failed.

  Water coolers like they had in offices, there were at least a dozen of them. Sleeping bags from Army/Navy stores all neatly rolled. On the wall next to the door that led to the garage was a metal box that housed first aid. For a moment Isaac stood there with his head slightly to one side as if lost in some distant memory. Then he crossed to the wall, opened the box by popping the catch on the top, and the lid fell forward to form a tray that sat at ninety degrees. The body of the box remained in the vertical, the contents neatly packed on plastic shelves, and metal clips where bandages were rolled, along with bottles of antiseptic. There was everything anyone could ever need, including syringes and antibiotics, hydrocodone tablets, as well as needles, dressings and suture thread. He ran his eye across a pack of steri-strips and next to that a polythene bag containing a flat, metal key about an inch in length.

  Switching off the light he walked the passage back to his father’s study. The wood panelling closed, he tossed the key in the air and caught it, his gaze drifting to the desk and the discharge papers from Houston. Sitting down in the chair once more, he laid the key on top of the papers and went through each of the drawers. He found nothing: no box, no pouch or satchel that might fit the ke
y. Standing tall once more, he tossed the key in the air and caught it again then placed it on the shelf next to his father’s photo.

  Outside, he opened the garage doors. The ignition keys to both the pickup and the Pontiac were on their hooks and he started both engines and checked each gauge for gas. The Pontiac was half full so he backed that out and left the motor running, then he backed the pickup out too. Shutting off the engine he hung the keys back on the hook and closed the garage doors. He stood there looking at the pickup and then the house as if making sure it appeared somebody was home.

  He trundled the length of the drive and, hitting dirt, he headed south. When he got to the county road he made for the junction that would take him to Paris. Close to the turn he spotted an Oldsmobile station wagon with wood panels on the doors that someone had left by the side of the road. Four miles later he was in Paris. As he came to the H-E-B grocery store he pulled off the road and into the parking lot where he locked the car and crossed to the men’s room.

  *

  Walking the aisle in his jeans and jungle boots, he selected a bag of potato chips and a hunk of Monterrey Jack cheese. At the checkout he hunted his pockets for some money then grabbed a Hershey bar and an ice-cold bottle of Coke. Stepping out to the parking lot, he jerked the cap off the bottle using the opener fixed to the wall by a chain. He drank. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a vehicle parked close to the perimeter wall, a midnight-blue Pontiac sedan; he stared hard as sweat seemed to scatter his brow.

  From the store it was a short walk to the gas station where he asked the girl at the counter if he could borrow a jerry jug. As he was pumping a young man in mechanic’s coveralls came out of the workshop working his hands with a rag.

  ‘So you ran out then, did you?’ he said. ‘How far away is it you left your vehicle?’