by Randy Rawls
His face told me I had scored, so I reached farther. “You wouldn’t believe what cops will do to solve a case. They scraped my cat’s claws for blood samples. Now, I don’t know much about that stuff, but the cop said he got a good scraping. He said my cat had drawn blood, and he was pretty sure they could run DNA on it.”
I hesitated, allowing what I’d said to sink in. “Yep, Joey. Looks like they’re building a pretty solid case against you. Especially, when they match the prints off the gas can you left in front of my house with the prints they took off the cans they found at the fire. I’d sure hate to be in your shoes.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists, his gaze boring into me. “I got nothing else to say. I done told you all I’m gonna tell you.”
I leaned back and rocked for a moment, giving him time to consider his situation. “I’d forgotten how nice it is out here in the country around Cisco.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Your folks got a nice place here. How many cattle do they run?”
“Cattle? What do you care about cows? You’re full of crap, Edwards. You got any more tall tales, or should I just kick your ass out of here?”
“Joey, you sure didn’t learn your manners from your mother. But since you ask, nothing you’ve said explains the prints at my house, the motel, the gas cans, or anything. Incidentally, when you attacked me in my room, you dropped something—something that led me straight to you.” I hesitated and looked around as if seeing the front yard for the first time. “That’s a good-looking pickup. Is it yours?” I pointed toward a black truck with a white racing stripe.
“Yeah, that’s all mine,” he said with pride. “What’s it to you?”
“Oh, nothing. Kinda looks like one I saw in my parking lot. Well, it wasn’t in the parking lot. It was leaving in a hurry after somebody took a shot at me. Do you have a gun, Joey?”
That did it. That was the final tweak that moved him. He sprang to his feet, and whipped a pistol from the back of his waistband.
“Damn you, Edwards. I’ve had enough of your crap.” His voice came out in a near whisper, but the venom dripping from his words left me with no doubt about his feelings. “If my mother wuzn’t in the house, I’d blow you away right here. Now, you sit there and don’t move. I’m gonna get out of here. If Mom asks, tell her I had to go to town for medicine for my cactus cuts. Don’t try to follow me. If you do, I’ll kill you, and laugh at your funeral.”
He backed off the porch toward his truck. As he opened the door, he turned back and said, “Remember, don’t try to follow me. I won’t miss you again like I did that night with Sonny. You ain’t got no place to hide now, and nobody to take your place.” He climbed in.
I sat for a moment wishing this was a dream. One thing was real, though—the last thing I wanted was bullets flying with Terri’s mother inside. As Joey spun out onto the road and around a curve, I moved, ran to my car and dived in. Luckily, I’d driven from Cisco with the top down.
I pondered for a split second. Nothing to do but go after him. It didn’t take long to catch up. Pickup trucks are good for a lot of things but road racing against convertibles isn’t one of them. I blasted through the curves, the front wheel drive pulling me around. Joey couldn’t take the curves as fast, or his truck would roll. I closed within ten yards and held my position. I saw his hand reach out the window and he snapped off a shot. It missed.
“Okay, hotshot. What are you going to do now?” I asked myself. No answer was forthcoming. Apparently, right brain was on vacation. I dropped to thirty to forty yards behind and stayed there. I figured at this distance, hitting me would be a one-in-a-million shot. Since I’d never won the lottery, seemed like good odds to me.
Have you ever noticed there are no policemen around when you want one? On the straightaways, we were reaching eighty to ninety miles an hour, but I heard no sirens from the highway patrol telling us to pull over. We raced around the countryside, finally wheeling into Cisco.
It surprised me when Joey turned into the parking lot of the old Mobley Hotel. I had dropped farther behind because I slowed when we reached the city limits. However, traffic was light, and I had no problem keeping him in sight. I pulled into the parking lot, and saw him kick open the door to the old hotel and run inside. I parked and approached the building, the Beretta in my right hand.
The sweat trickled down my forehead as I tried to see into the dark interior. During our race around the countryside, the sun had gone down and evening had begun. Clouds had rolled in with the sunset, blotting out the sky.
I wiped the sweat from my right hand, then again gripped the Beretta. With my left, I pushed on the door Joey had kicked open. It swung inward all the way to the wall before reversing its path. All I saw was darkness.
I squatted and duck-walked through the door, cursing myself for the noise. When I was in the reception area, I leaned against the wall, then rose to my full height. I listened with every fiber of my body. Every nerve ending had turned into a listening device.
A noise, the scrape of a shoe. Where had it come from? I fought myself, trying to reconstruct it. Overhead. That’s it. It had come from above. The stairs were in front of me.
I climbed the steps, hoping there were no squeaks on the way up. I edged along the wall where the nails would have been driven to anchor the boards. The dark at the top wasn’t very inviting, but I had no choice other than to keep climbing. Joey had to be there somewhere. I struggled to remember everything about the layout I’d seen when Terri and I visited.
At the top of the stairs, there was a hallway to my right, and the Conrad Hilton display area in front of me with a large column in the center. The museum room was to the left. There were two other doors, locked when we were there. If they were still locked, and I hadn’t heard Joey force them, he could be in any of the other places. Worse yet, he could be standing at the top of the stairs waiting to send me to one of two places I had no desire to visit, a hospital or hell.
I stepped up onto another step, testing it before putting my full weight on it. No squeak. So far, so good. I peered into the darkness above me, trying to decide if there was anything there that could be Joey waiting for me. Nothing. I couldn’t see anything except black.
I heard something that made me pause with my foot in mid-air. Was it a footstep? If so, from what direction did it come? My perspective was not trustworthy but it sounded like it came from the right—the hallway. Joey could be standing there ready to shoot me, kick me, push me down the stairs or simply call me dirty names. I could handle the name calling, but the other options had no appeal.
Squeak. The noise again—maybe. It was so soft I could have imagined it. I leaned against the wall, guessing I was about three steps from the top. If Joey were waiting for me at the edge of the hallway, he’d have me cold when I stepped onto the landing. I leaned there, breathing shallow. What to do, what to do? This was not an arena where I was at my best. The dark carried hidden fears for me as a kid, and I was still a kid at heart.
Squeak. Yes. I heard it again. It was a real noise. It sounded like someone shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and again it sounded like it came from the top right of the stairs. I knew I had to make a decision and live or die with it. If I were right, I might gain an advantage over Joey. If I were wrong, I might be saying hello to my parents sooner than I expected. Then again, maybe not. I was sure they were in heaven.
Desperation forced me to come up with something, forced me to take a chance that would save me or send me on my way. Moving at the speed of a sloth, or slower, I lowered myself onto the stairs, stretching out over the steps, distributing my weight over several, while cutting my profile as low as I could. I considered the old ploy of throwing something into the area above me to make a noise. In the movies, the bad guy always fell for the distraction and gave himself away. But in my case, anything I could throw I would first have to get into my hand. Car keys—too much noise getting them out of my right front pants pocket. Coins—same problem. Anyt
hing I could think of to throw would end up drawing Joey’s attention to my position. Bad idea, even if it always worked for John Wayne.
I cocked my right leg and gradually, ever so gradually, pushed my way up the step on my belly. The Beretta bumped against the stair, and I froze, waiting for Joey to come sailing down. Nothing, no movement from above. I slipped the Beretta into its holster where it would stay quiet.
I went back to my slow crawl up the stairs. The carpet had a dirty, musty smell to it. I couldn’t separate them, but there were several different odors mixed together, none of them pleasant. I wondered what tourists had had on the bottoms of their shoes as they’d climbed this stairwell over the years. Then I realized I really didn’t want to know. The stairs seemed to be carpeted with a synthetic fabric. I figured if I scraped myself to the top this way, I’d build up enough static electricity to shock Joey into submission if I touched him.
Patience has not always been my strong suit. For example, I won’t stand in line waiting to get into a restaurant—there are too many good restaurants to wait for one. If I can’t find someone to take my money in a department store, I walk. No, I’m not normally patient. Tonight, I was the epitome of Saint Jude. I moved so slowly, there were moments when I wondered if I moved at all.
I reached out with my left hand to grip the step when I saw a soft glow in the darkness in front of me. I froze and the glow froze. I pulled my hand back and the glow came with me. I quit breathing and moving, concentrating. I feared Sam or Al might hear my heart pounding at the fire station five blocks up the street. I stared at it. My heart pounded at a marching rate of one hundred twenty beats per minute, or so it seemed, but the glow held constant. Using the wonderful patience I’d discovered, I reached toward the glow with my right hand. I used several minutes, or maybe it was several hours, to move my right to within a few inches of the glow. I still didn’t have a clue what it was. It didn’t move, just glowed at me. When I guessed I was within three or four inches, I grabbed with my right hand.
As I look back now, I assume Joey was not looking in my direction. If he had been, I’m sure he would have seen a red light flashing up the stairs—my red face in embarrassment must have radiated outward. I had grabbed my watch.
I sighed and vowed to pay more attention to my Timex in the future. Obviously, I didn’t know enough about it. After taking it off and shoving it into my jacket pocket, I went back to my stealthy crawl up the stairs. Finally, my left hand felt the landing. I pulled it back and crept up, ensuring my right shoulder stayed against the wall. When my head was close to the landing, I reached around the edge of the wall with my left hand.
I let my fingers do the walking as I inched them along the carpet. When I reached a point close to the wall, I was rewarded as my fingers brushed something. I froze, not knowing what it was. I explored with my fingertips and discovered what felt like a boot. I couldn’t be sure because I couldn’t touch it with enough pressure to get a good feel. Cloth, material of some kind was my next find.
It had to be Joey. He had to be standing there guarding the stairs, waiting for me to come blundering up. I had to assume he had little respect for my detective smarts. After all, I hadn’t passed many tests so far. I tensed, knowing I had one opportunity to gain the upper hand. Before I made my move though, I reached inside my jacket with my right hand and quietly withdrew the Beretta. For one of the few times since I started that case, it was where it should have been.
With the Beretta clenched in my right hand, I again moved my left until I touched what I hoped was Joey’s boot. I backed off a few inches and flexed my fingers. Then I lunged with my left hand, and grabbed. I got a handful of boot and jerked as hard as I could. A surprised cry sounded from above me, followed by a thud, a crack, and silence. I figured the thud was Joey’s butt hitting the floor, and the crack was the back of his head gaining the same level as his butt. I hoped the silence, the blessed silence, was his quick trip into unconsciousness.
TWENTY-THREE
I scrambled to my feet and fumbled along the wall until I found the light switch. When the lights came up, I saw Joey stretched out on the floor, moaning and rubbing the back of his head. Remembering the knot on my forehead and the black eye from my motel room, I felt no compassion. His gun had fallen away. I picked it up.
“Touché, Joey. Hurts like hell, doesn’t it? You can get up now, and we’ll talk.”
He looked at me through glazed eyes. “You sonafabitch, I never heard nothin’ a’tall. Whut are you, some kind of snake?”
I grinned. “Yeah, I slithered up those steps and got behind you. No challenge at all.”
“I can almost believe it.” His eyes moved to my Beretta which was pointed at a sweet spot in his midsection. He shifted his attention to his pistol that I held in my left hand. “Looks like you got the fire power. What do we do now?”
“We’re going to chat. I’ve got questions, you’ve got answers, and we’re going to share. Understand?”
“From where I sit, it don’t look like I got much choice.” He looked around for a moment then back at me, shrugged and said, “Ask your questions.”
“Why did you kill Sheila?”
He said, “’Fore I answer that, can’t we go in there and sit down?” He nodded toward the museum. “This ain’t the most comfortable position I’ve ever been in.”
Since I wasn’t comfortable either, I motioned him to his feet. He walked into the room housing the museum and sat in one of the old chairs. I hoped it would hold his weight, since it looked about a hundred years old. I leaned against one of the display cases after slipping his pistol into my jacket pocket.
“Okay, now you’re as comfortable as you’re going to get until the police finish booking you, so answer my question.”
“Hey, let’s make a deal. I kin put in a good word for you with Terri. Nobody needs to know but you and me.”
“Not a chance. Haven’t you heard? Terri’s engaged to the ex-husband of the woman you killed.”
“Shucks, Ace. That’s the second time you said that. What makes you think I did Sheila? Coulda been any number of guys. She loved’m and left’m with regularity. Hell, I bet most of the guys in Cisco and half of Eastland County wuz dropped by her.” The grin on Joey’s face made me want to smash him although I suspected there was truth in his words.
“It won’t work, Joey. Start talking.” I searched for an incentive. “If the story’s good enough, I might give you a head start before I call Sheriff Yardley—no promises though.”
“Shore you will,” Joey sneered. “All you cops give guys like me a break. Bullshit, as soon as you git your story, you’ll be lookin’ for a phone.” He stopped and appeared to think. After a moment, he continued. “Of course, we’ll have to go downstairs and break into the Chamber of Commerce. Those are the only phones in the building.”
He leaned back and the chair creaked. I could picture it splintering at any moment.
“Might be tough walking me downstairs. Anything could happen.” He had a silly grin on his face.
I walked to the corner of the room where a variety of antiques were stored. There was a rope there. I hoped it wasn’t an antique as I pulled it out and held it up. “Yeah, or I might tie you to that chair and leave you here while I go find a pay phone. I was a great Boy Scout. I learned my knots well. One time, I tied my brother to a tree and it took him three days to get free. Yep, earned my badge in knot tying.” It was my turn to smile as Joey’s grin was replaced by a frown. He didn’t know I didn’t have a brother.
“Yeah, you’re just the type to have been a Boy Scout. Prob’ly helped old ladies ’cross the street whether they wanted to go or not.” He laughed, but it was with less confidence than he showed earlier.
“Okay, look,” he said. “S’pose I tell you what you want ta know, answer ev’ry question you got. Will you give me a head start?”
“Can’t say, Joey-Boy. Haven’t heard the story yet. If it’s good, maybe we can work it out. But first, you start talk
ing, and answer my questions.”
He stared at me, and I could tell he was thinking hard. His eyes shifted all over the area, looking for something—probably a way out. He must not have found it because after a couple of minutes, he said, “All right, asshole, you win. Where do you want me to start?” All the bluster was gone from his words.
“Start with killing Sheila, then Sonny, searching my motel room, my house, throwing a brick at my front door, scaring my cats… Hey, shoot the works. Whoops, change that to tell it all.” The grin I felt on my face reminded me of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.
Joey stared at me, a look of resignation in his eyes. “Hope you’ve got a while. It’s a long story, and I got plenty of time. Sheila? Have you noticed how many people ain’t mourning her?” He cracked his knuckles. “Most of the people I know said she got what she deserved. Once the word gets out why I killed her, I’ll be a hero. Hey, maybe that writer that’s been hangin’ roun’ the Down Home will write a story about me. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?”
I leaned forward and pointed the Beretta at him. “Move on with the story. I can listen to your crap another night.” I gave him my most intimidating look.
“Ace, you ain’t got no sense of humor. Try to stay with me. I don’t want to tell this too many times, and I figger the sheriff’ll wanta hear it with a bunch of his lawyers around. I’m one of Sheila’s dropees. Yeah, me, little Joey-Boy, the ugly Hart. I ain’t pretty like Terri. I ain’t big like Bubba. I ain’t rich like Jake, and I ain’t even as smart as you, but I had her.”
Joey stopped and grinned. “I lusted after her from the time I wuz twelve and found out the difference between boys and girls. Whether she was coming or going, she was pure sex. She used to walk toward me with them boobs stuck out, and away from me shaking her hips. I couldn’t help but want her.” He stopped talking, a look of longing on his face. After a few seconds, he continued, “It wuz one night in the Down Home near closing time. You know what they say, ‘They always look better ’bout closing time.’ Well, I guess I’m proof of that.”