CLAN

by Harry Shannon

  You are grateful that you're wounded badly enough to be shipped home. On the boat, still heavily medicated, you try to tell the tale to a corpsman. He smiles, pats your head and gives you more morphine.

  You bury the entire memory; resolve to get on with your life.

  Hell, no one would ever believe you anyway.

  15

  Kelly and Case lounged around their room for a few hours and then took the bedspread, bought some beer from the small general store and went to join the picnic. Took their time walking over. When they finally arrived, the day was sinking into a cooler afternoon. Jake and his red-haired brothers were present, along with Doc, the lantern-jawed Hondo, Jennifer from the motel and a few other townsfolk neither of them recognized, including a giant body builder whose arms and legs were covered with tattoos of naked women.

  They had already agreed to divide once the party got going. Kelly was going to drift and listen to gossip, hoping to hear something that would confirm that Bobby and Selma had stayed in Salt Lick. Kelly seemed naturally more outgoing than Case anyway, so he left the socializing to her.

  They walked around and eventually flipped the rust-colored bedspread onto the grass. They sat under a tree near the mechanic and his freckled brothers. Within a matter of minutes, Kelly was flirting and chatting with the absurdly named Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. All four seemed entranced. Matt assisted Luke at the garage, repairing autos, trucks and tractors. Mark and John tended to the family farm.

  Kelly started telling show business stories. She dispensed cans of beer and immediately had folks eating out of the palm of her hand. Case excused himself, ostensibly to find a toilet and some more chips. Kelly kept the boys fascinated; flipping her hair back, moving her long pretty fingers to illustrate a point. She covered him beautifully.

  Case left the park and turned right, as if headed west toward the grocery, rather than back to his room. When he was satisfied no one was watching, he cut down the alley, around the empty store fronts and walked briskly back toward the Salt Lick Motel.

  As expected, the area was deserted. As Case trotted up the steps he heard someone beginning to play bluegrass banjo. The first few notes of Foggy Mountain Breakdown floated through the trees.

  Also as he'd expected, Jennifer Fowler had left the office unlocked. Still, Case had liked the kid instinctively. He didn't want to scare her. He walked in casually. "Hello?"

  After a long moment he walked around behind the counter and looked for the guest register. It was not on the correct shelf. Case wondered why Jennifer would feel the need to hide it. He searched through the other shelves; found stacks of receipts from previous years and a few old issues of Time magazine. Finally he just pulled out the center drawer of her desk. The green registration book was inside.

  Case flipped it open and read the Williams listing, then flipped back to discover his own. He unconsciously held his breath while he went back another page. He smiled and whispered "Gotcha." The name was a dead giveaway.

  Not very original: Lawton Roberts instead of Robert Lawford. The name given his wife was Selma.

  They had been assigned room number two, which lay right across the parking lot, on the shorter end of the L-shaped motel grounds. Case closed the book and put it back exactly the way he'd found it. He took the stack of receipts for cash and thumbed through them. There was a receipt made out to Bobby; cash for the room.

  Case replaced the receipts. He stretched his back, looked around. He couldn't recall where Jennifer Fowler kept the room keys. He opened some drawers. Nothing. Frustrated, Case peeked into the back room, where Jennifer seemed to sleep. The room keys were hanging from hooks on the wall. He took number two.

  Case slipped through the front door and looked both ways before walking down the steps. The music was still coming from the park, some other bluegrass tune he didn't recognize, and people were now jeering, clapping and whistling. Case supposed some of the townsfolk were dancing. The afternoon was cooling and the first insects of the evening were converging in clouds.

  He slipped the key into the door of number two and turned it. The sweetish odor of furniture polish assailed his nostrils. Unlike their room, this one had been freshly dusted. Case eased the door closed behind him and stood in the gloom, soaking up the atmosphere. He looked in vain for luggage, clothing or any sign of occupancy. Number two was clearly uninhabited, and had been so long enough to have gotten a thorough cleaning.

  He moved into the small living room area. He did not risk turning on a light. The drawers next to the loveseat were empty, except for a note pad, a pencil and a copy of the ubiquitous Gideon Bible. Case closed the drawers and went to the hall closet, opened it up to peer inside. The coat hangers were metal and fixed to the rod. There were seven and they were all empty. Case ran his hand along the shelf and checked his fingertips. Whoever had cleaned had done a remarkably thorough job. No dust; even back where closets like this were seldom used.

  He closed the door and stepped into the bedroom. There was a double bed, made up tightly enough to bounce a quarter on the spread. The two nightstands were empty, recently cleaned, and free of dust. Case dropped to his knees and then flat on the floor. He peered under the bed, ran his hands around in the shadow. His fingers brushed against something toward the middle of the bed; a place a cleaning person might miss by just not reaching far enough.

  Excited, he tried to grab the object with his other hand, but couldn't quite get there. Case got up and went around to the other side of the bed; fell flat and tried again. His hand clutched the end of what felt like a strap. He pulled. Whatever it was, it was light and made of some kind of fabric.

  He pulled out a large bra, entwined with a pair of black panties. Both were thickly coated with dust and had obviously been under there for weeks, if not months. Case grinned in the gloom. Someone desperate had tried to hide a bit of truly conclusive evidence from a surprise arrival.

  He threw the bra back where it was and got to his feet, dusting his hands. A careful search of the bureau's four drawers revealed, as expected, exactly nothing. Dispirited, Case moved into the bathroom. The door was closed. When he opened it the smell of cleaning solvent was almost overwhelming. The floor tiles had been scrubbed and the tub was gleaming.

  Case let his eyes roam over the bathroom, not trying to force anything; just waiting for his finely honed instincts to react. He stepped back into the doorway and crossed his arms. The first thing that struck him was that everything was too clean. He went to the wall, sniffed the enamel paint. It smelled quite fresh. In fact, the woodwork was still slightly sticky to the touch. Someone had scrubbed everything down and then repainted. Case knelt on the tiles, peered around behind the toilet. Every inch was spotless.

  An uneasy feeling rippled the hair on his neck and marched down his spine like a conga line of insects.

  Case leaned into the bathtub. He inspected the tiles along the bottom of the wall. There were some tiny areas in the off-white grout that seemed to have become stained. The painter had touched them up trying to disguise what looked like tiny spots of a pale rust color. Case found one area and scratched it with his fingernail. He wasn't sure, but he thought he recognized the musty stench. He felt reasonably certain a forensics team could turn up enough DNA evidence to start building a case. Foul play of some kind, sure—but on whom and by whom?

  Bobby, what the hell did you get yourself into this time?

  Case sat on the edge of the tub. He played out some scenarios. Bobby met Selma and they ran away together, but one of them shot off his or her mouth about the money. The bad guys came and killed them for it. Or maybe Selma killed Bobby in the bathroom and ran away, but then who cleaned up? Or Bobby killed Selma, cut her into pieces in the tub and buried her, then scrubbed down the room and left. The owners smelled something funky and repainted it.

  Or the mob guys got to Bobby and Selma, killed them and took their money back. Considering the professional cleanup that had been done here, that seemed the most likely option.
But nobody in town admitted to seeing any strangers lately. So had they been scared into silence?

  Someone tried the front door.

  Case moved rapidly into the living room and got behind the couch. He pulled his .38 and waited. He could see two shapes on the other side of the living room curtains. The doorknob jiggled a second time.

  Case listened, trying to separate the movement outside from the music wafting over through the trees. He settled in to wait.

  Meanwhile, Kelly McCammon watched the four brothers dancing wildly while their Poppa plucked the five-string Ode banjo. Poppa was a patriarch of the first order; enormous white beard and a loud belly laugh. There seemed to be only one female in the family, a quiet and withdrawn elderly woman who sat by herself on a rock and sipped a wine spritzer. She struck Kelly as the matriarch, assuming there was one. She neither sang nor danced although she seemed amused by the proceedings.

  The tattooed body builder, a large, raven-haired young man, tried his best to get Doc Cherry to kick up her heels, but she was having none of it. He scowled, did a passable imitation of a wrestler at a grudge match before he stalked away. Cherry didn't seem upset. She sat down near Kelly to watch and enjoy.

  Jennifer Fowler joked with the big kid for a time, teasing him about the naked girls tattooed to his tanned flesh. She probably did it just to quiet him down. As for the party itself, Jennifer did join in after a fashion; she did not sing but allowed herself to be dragged into the dancing circle and acquitted herself quite nicely. When she smiled, her face seemed young and innocent, despite the purple hair and body piercings that adorned her teenaged flesh. Sunset arrived. Darkness was flowing across the grass and faces were soon consumed by shadows.

  A full moon hung in the sky, grinning like a skull.

  The gaunt man called Hondo started "eefin'." Although Kelly had heard of the hand-slapping, noise-making form of country percussion she'd never seen anyone as proficient. Poppa segued into a high-speed version of Darlin' Cory that brought the house down. The boys collapsed into a heap.

  "Some picnic! This is it?"

  Kelly looked up. Mr. Williams and his lady friend, the rude couple who had just checked into the motel, were standing in a nearby clutch of trees. The woman was sneering at Jennifer Fowler, shaking her head. Mr. Williams—if that was his name—held a large bottle of red wine in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other. The woman stared at young Jennifer Fowler then looked up at him. "Darling, can't we find a nice, romantic spot further away from the trailer trash?"

  Kelly couldn't believe the woman's rudeness. She started to object, but Doc Cherry took her arm and patted it. In a low voice, Cherry said, "Let them go, sweet pea, they're just fools with money."

  The boy called Matt pointed up the trail, past the park and into the trees. "You want to go up there maybe a quarter mile," he said cheerfully, "there's a nice spot called Lookout Point. If you hurry you can get there before it's too dark."

  "Why?"

  "Because you can see the sunset from there and it is right pretty."

  Mr. Williams nodded imperiously. "Thank you. Have fun."

  Under her breath, Kelly said, "What a dickhead."

  Back in room number two, Joe Case was crouched behind the couch, the .38 pointed up at the ceiling. Someone rattled the doorknob for a third time. He heard a female giggle. "Forget about it, we can do it in the woods."

  "We always do it in the woods," the boy said. "I want us to have a bed."

  "Baby, what's that noise?"

  "Oh, damn!"

  What happened? Then Case heard the distant sound of motorcycles approaching. That gang from the highway, maybe cruising by the picnic.

  "It's them. Let's go." The girl sounded frightened.

  The boy slammed his palm against the door in frustration. Within seconds, the two disappeared. The buzzing sound became a throaty roar as the bikers rolled into the courtyard. There was none of the usual gunning of engines or macho display; in fact the gang seemed remarkably subdued. Case waited until the sounds seemed to have settled a bit. He moved further into the living room.

  Nothing changed. The motorcycles hovered around outside.

  Curious, Case tiptoed over to the curtain and risked a peek. The big muscled one, Hombre, was seated on his bike, staring off at the party in the park. He had bared his yellowing teeth in a cynical grin. The dark girl, Mary Jane, was seated behind him, stroking his thigh. On the other Harley sat the wild-eyed one the gang called Lobo. He was smoking a home-rolled cigarette or a large joint.

  Several more of the gang rode further back, hanging behind by a number of yards. Some of them yipped and howled as if spotting a woman at the picnic. Hombre and Mary Jane exchanged words. He gunned the engine, spun in a cloud of dust and rode further up into the mountains. Lobo and the gang followed him, single file, all staring straight ahead.

  Silence returned.

  After a few moments, Case eased across the living room and opened the door a crack. The parking lot seemed quiet. He slipped out the front door and locked it behind him, jiggled the knob to be sure.

  Case moved away from the front steps, across the porch and jumped over the railing. He emerged as if he'd walked down the alley; crossed to the motel office whistling and entered. In a flash he returned the key to its hook and exited. A job well done. Most importantly, Case felt reasonably confident that he hadn't been seen. He walked to the edge of the clearing, near the small stream that fronted the picnic grounds, and looked up at the Full Buck Moon.

  As if on cue, a coyote howled. The forlorn sound came from somewhere in the low foothills. It made Case feel strangely vulnerable. He tucked the pistol into the waist of his jeans, beneath his jacket, and went back to the picnic grounds.

  Some of the revelers, reluctant to leave, had hung lanterns from the trees and a few poles. A couple of 'bug burners' were lit as well. Case saw Kelly talking to Jake and his brothers. He strolled over to see Cherry, who sat cross-legged in the grass, nursing a half pint of Jim Beam. There was an open plastic bottle of Pepsi next to it. She alternated from one to the other.

  "Nice night."

  He sat next to her. Without looking at him, Cherry nodded agreeably. "Why, sure, you go right on ahead and park here. Hell, in fact I'd be pleased if you'd join me."

  "Right neighborly of you."

  "You know how we country folks are, right officer?"

  "Detective. And the truth is I used to be one."

  "Used to?"

  "As in I'm not one any more. So you can relax."

  Cherry suddenly had the haunted eyes of a whipped puppy. Her shoulders slumped forward. She rested her plump chin in her hands.

  "Am I that obvious, Case?"

  "Yeah," he said. "You are."

  Cherry flipped through a mental scrapbook and several moments passed. "Her name was Chloe," she said. "We were lovers from time to time. She was flat-out incredibly beautiful, but crazy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You know the type I mean?"

  Case swallowed some soda. "I probably do. Every man has those kinds of scars."

  Cherry nodded. "And Chloe swung both ways, you know? I didn't like it, but there wasn't much I could do about it." She chuckled. "One time she got this sailor boy so crazy he was trying to track me down to kick my ass. Stuff like that happened all the time with Chloe."

  Case said nothing. Sometimes you just wait them out. Finally Cherry looked directly at him. "This can stay off the record, you being retired and all?"

  "Unless you murdered somebody, or hurt a kid."

  She nodded. "Makes sense. But whether or not it's murder… That depends on how you look at it, I guess."

  "What happened, Cherry?"

  "She got knocked up."

  "And?"

  Cherry sucked on the soda bottle. "She waited until she was pretty far along before she told anybody. And then she up and asked me to help her get rid of it. I said no. She freaked out and begged me."

  "Why didn't she just go to a c
linic?" And then it hit him. Case felt the air go out of his stomach. "Damn. She was underage."

  "Seventeen."

  A longer pause. "And something went wrong?"

  Cherry shrugged. "It ended up being nothing super serious, but to be responsible I had to take her to the emergency room. I couldn't take the chance it might get worse. I was not going to play around with her life."

  It was getting dark. A football sailed over their heads. One of the brothers, maybe John, caught it and sprawled flat in the grass, exhausted. The kid got back to his feet, grinned at them and tossed the football over to the body builder with the tattoos of naked girls. Cherry waited until they had both trotted out of earshot before she continued.

  "The bottom line is that it all came out. The parents freaked out, the boy who fathered the kid freaked out, and most importantly the Medical Board freaked."

  "You lost your license."

  Cherry looked down at the grass. "I came out here to the middle of nowhere because I can help people out and still practice. Sometimes they pay me in vegetables, for Pete's sake, but at least I'm still a physician. Can you understand that?"

  "Yeah," he said, finally. "I can."

  "So now you could get me in deep trouble with one phone call."

  "I suppose that's true."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Drink some soda. Hang around on the grass."

  "Thank you, Case."

  "Don't thank me yet," he said. "I'll probably get around to asking you for a favor in a day or so."

  Cherry was a shrewd woman. "I kind of figured that was coming."

  "Why?"

  "Because you still haven't told me the real reason you're up here."

  The football went by again. They fell silent.

  16

  The moon became brighter, and so large that it seemed to freeze-dry the desert floor. The air temperature dropped rapidly, and within a matter of minutes those who remained began slipping into sweaters, sweatshirts and jackets as they packed to go home. Case sat with Cherry for several minutes. They shared a warm soft drink, but neither one spoke again. Finally Cherry got to her feet and stretched.