AMayhar - The Conjure

  The four ill-assorted people looked at each other, and slow smiles dawned on their faces. Maybe this time they could accomplish something beyond the limited confines of their small world, King thought as they set off toward the main road.

  CHAPTER XVIII. It'll Come Out in the Wash

  Washington Shipp sang in the shower, mostly, but he also sang while driving. He would have been singing on a stage somewhere, after his expensive musical education, if he hadn't discovered that his stage fright was intense and unrelenting enough to make an opera career too painful to contemplate.

  A switch to criminal justice in mid-college had prepared him to become Templeton, Texas's first black police chief, which was, at times, a very mixed blessing. As he hit the deep notes of “Scintille Diamant,” from the Tales of Hoffman, he was thinking about the fire he had seen last night.

  Burning homes was a time-honored tradition among big-wigs in East Texas who intended to control those they considered their lackeys. As far as Wash knew, Ransome Cole had never actuallybeen a lackey of the Old Guard, but he had cooperated several times when Wash wouldn't have. Evidently he had stepped on some toes recently, as his words to the fire chief had indicated..

  That almost had, by the process of elimination, to be involved with the drug case on the river. There were too many odd and unusual circumstances surrounding that situation, anyway. Nothing else that was going on should have aroused such anger in Big Nate, otherwise known as Nathaniel Farmer.

  There had been federal men, narcs and IRS both, nosing around the county, though not actively in the city limits and so officially out of Wash's jurisdiction and none of his business. Indeed, he had spoken to that Parker fellow in the court house, once, and the SOB had all but told Wash he didn't need any local yokels, particularly token black ones, messing in his case. In his eyes, Wash had seen something that told him Parker might be put off more than usual by his race.

  That was no problem. Washington Shipp had more than one string to his bow. He'd been raised down in the river bottoms, and only when a flood carried away his daddy's house and a lot of his farmland had they moved to Templeton and taken up yard work. He still had kinfolks down in the low country, and Auntie Libby was only the oldest of the bunch.

  It had been Arthur Winchell, rich and prominent and strangely unbigoted, who had discovered Wash's talent, when the boy sang while doing his yard work, and sent him to school. He had understood the stage fright—Arthur had a touch of that himself, it turned out.

  Once it was all added up, Wash could count on quiet information coming in from kin still living near the swamp or from Holroyd Square, the most influential, if not the wealthiest, part of Templeton. That was where Winchell still lived with his daughter and grandchildren.

  Wash intended to do some nosing around of his own, asking questions of those who usually knew what was happening out in the county. He might even make an unobtrusive “personal” trip to the river country and see young Wim Dooley.

  But the first thing he did on arriving at the Station was to check the State Fire Marshal's report on the fire the night before. If it was arson, then it was his business, right and proper. From what he had seen and what the fire chief said, it had been caused by a bomb.

  The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was already on hand, he found when he reached his office, in the person of Jack Skeeters. This was not his favorite person, though minimally more acceptable than Stephen Parker.

  Skeeters had been somewhat subdued since the Ruby Ridge fiasco and the Waco massacre that his agency had mishandled so badly. That was all to the good. A Skeeters subdued was much better than one filled with hot air and self importance.

  He nodded to the man as he went into his office. “Come on in, Jack,” he said over his shoulder. “I'll be with you just as soon as I look at the Incoming. Might be something I need to tend to."

  He knew it bothered Skeeters like crazy to have to wait on anybody, and he took great pleasure in going through his pile of overnight reports and sorting them into their proper categories. When he turned to Skeeters, the man was chewing ferociously on an unlit cigar. ThatNo Smoking policy did have its good points, he decided.

  "I expect you're here about the Cole fire last night,” Wash began. “It certainly looked like the work of a bomb, and Ranse saw the car dropping off the man who placed it. We've even got the license number..."

  "Stolen,” Skeeters interrupted.

  "Of course,” Wash agreed. “People who do such things tend to take care of details. But Ranse saw the man who threw the bomb, did you know that?"

  Skeeters looked interested and tucked the cigar away into his pocket. “Did he, now.” It wasn't a question. “He didn't mention that to me."

  Wash sighed. “Ransome Cole is the sheriff of this county,” he said. “He doesn't take kindly to being treated like a suspect, and if you used your normal tactics you put his back up right off the bat.

  "Jack, you're a horse's ass, and you can't seem to help showing it. I know you and make allowances, but not everybody does. Ranse has some horse blood, himself, though he isn't near as bad as some sheriffs we've had around here.

  "If you'd gone in and talked with him like a human being, it's surprising what you might have learned.” Wash leaned back in the deep chair that Chief Rawlinson had worn over thirty years into natural curves that fit a human body.

  Skeeters turned even redder than his natural hue. He was, Wash had always thought, the exact physical prototype of the East Texas redneck. Now even his ears were scarlet.

  "May I remind you,” he said in a pernickety voice that riled Wash considerably, “that I represent the United States government. Youowe me the utmost cooperation and consideration. Nobody insulted the DEA people who were here,or the IRS agent."

  "Well, if I'd had the chance I'd have remedied that,” Wash told him. “But they considered me a token black man in a position too big for him. They ignored me entirely, which suited me just fine. Bunch of educated idiots, thinking that just because things are done one way in Washington, D.C., they have to be the same down here.

  "I have to give you credit, Jack; you know how people think around here, and you're the same arrogant bastard to everybody. There's something to be said for consistency."

  Skeeters might be rude, but he wasn't stupid. He looked faintly gratified as he leaned over the desk and asked, “What did Cole say about the bomber? We've got our people working on the bomb itself, right now, and before long we can tell what it was made of and maybe even who made it."

  Wash got out his personal notebook, which he had not yet transcribed into a formal report, and read off Cole's words, verbatim. “And that's it, but it seems like a good bit. They hadn't a clue that somebody was watching for them, so they didn't take the care they might have, otherwise. Those long arms—that's the sort of thing people would remember, don't you think?” he asked.

  A grin spread across Skeeters's ruddy face. “It is. My God, it is! Solly Campbell, by damn! We got a flyer about him last year, after that big fire in Kansas City. Somebody was sleeping in his car before an important early meeting, and he saw that bastard set the incendiary device in the elevator and send it up.

  "Fellow was sleepy and disoriented, but he had the good sense to crank his car and high-tail it out of there, or he might have been trapped when the fire rushed up and down the elevator shaft and set everything off. I-be-damned!

  "Who'd have thought we'd come up with a pro like Solly, way down here in the boonies? The organization that hired him owned the building and stood to collect a mint, if the insurance people hadn't balked. The fire people thought the thing was caused by an electrical problem in the elevator's wiring. Good thing the insurors called ATF in, or the crooks would have got away with forty-two million dollars."

  Wash was impressed. Whatever you said about Jack Skeeters, he had a memory like an elephant. As the ATF man left his office, Shipp wondered if he would ever be able to like him, but that was so unlikely that he shrugged it
off and got to work on his report.

  He had a fire to investigate, and whoever it was who had set it off, it was Wash's job to find the money-man who hired it done and, behind him, the power broker who had started this odd string of events with his shipment of drugs—drugs and what else? Aunt Libby had told him Wim mentioned something big that he never got details about, and that interested Wash a lot.

  Wash had known about many such shipments that had been seized, lost, or stolen, and the kingpins had never seemed to notice much. There was always more where that came from.

  What was it about this particular shipment that was so special it could trigger so many nasty events?

  He'd find out, Wash thought, no matter what it took. A good first step might be a visit to Auntie Libby, down in the low country. She knew everything, just about, and what she didn't know she probably could guess at pretty close. As she had set him on the track, she probably expected a visit along about now, anyway.

  After that—well, when he was a boy he'd met Lena McCarver. If she remembered him and was in the mood, he might learn something from her. The deep woods was full of information, if you just knew where to look for it.

  It was noon before Wash could finish the work waiting for him and get away from his office. He had a lot of unused vacation time, and he signed out for the rest of that day and all of the next. If he didn't use up some of that free time by the end of the year, he knew he'd lose it again, as he had been doing for years now.

  His wife Jewel fussed at him frequently for failing to take off and see new country, but he knew she understood his need to do a better job as police chief than anyone else. One day he'd feel he had caught up to Chief Rawlinson, who had given him his chance with the local Force, and then he might take time to go on a cruise or take Jewel to Europe.

  Thinking of Jewel, he stopped by the house. She'd likely enjoy riding out with him and seeing the kinfolk, even if they still considered her that “city girl” (born and raised in Templeton) Wash married.

  CHAPTER XIX. Young William

  School had started weeks before, but this was a Saturday. Wim was helping his Ma in the fall garden when a dusty car pulled up in the overgrown track leading from the dirt road to the Dooley house. His mother flinched, and he grew angry, remembering the way those government men had treated her when they came around asking questions.

  Worse yet was that Fielding man, who had tried to bully information out of her. Wim had carried the axe out into the side yard, where his mother was backed against the ash tree, pale and shaking, while Fielding yelled and shook her.

  Only when the axe blade bit into the tree beside his head, to be jerked out quickly and readied again, did Fielding spin around. Wim watched him size up his opposition and decide that confronting a country boy with an axe was not a wise thing to do. Wim had known he'd do that.

  Ready to do battle again, the boy turned to face the man who was moving toward them like a large, dark cloud. Then Wim sighed with relief. This had to be Miz Libby's nephew from Town.

  "Man wants to talk to me, Ma,” he said over his shoulder, as he moved toward the police chief.

  "Wim...” her voice was low, but her tone was a warning.

  "Don't worry, Ma. I won't talk to any of those bastards that came here before. Chief Shipp belongs to Miz Libby. He'll know what's right to do.” He could see doubt in her eyes, but she trusted him more than anyone, these days, and she let him go.

  "Chief Shipp?” Wim called, and the big man paused, waiting for the boy to reach him at the end of the garden row. He grinned, his strong white teeth shining in the September sunlight.

  "My auntie told me you need to talk to me,” Shipp said. He turned back toward the shade tree in the side yard, where a bench made of a plank set across two saw horses offered a place to sit. “I've got a cold Coke in the car. You want something to drink?"

  Wim nodded. It wasn't often he had the money for a bought soft drink. Mama's sassafrass and mint teas were just about his speed.

  Shipp moved to the car and leaned into the back, where a cooler provided two ice-sweated red cans. Wim popped the top of his, listening with satisfaction to thewhoosh and feeling the spatter of carbonated bubbles against his cheek. That first icy swallow was wonderful, and Shipp waited until he had savored it before asking the questions the boy expected.

  "Seems you know something that might be ... dangerous?” the big man asked at last. “Something you don't want anybody to know you know?"

  Wim nodded, feeling the tickle of the Coke at the back of his throat. “I get around, down the river, along the creeks, through most of the swamp,” he said. “There's things go on down there that nobody else knows, ‘less it's old Possum, and he never talks to nobody but me and a few others."

  "And you see and hear things when nobody knows you're around,” mused Shipp. “I used to do the same, when I was a boy growing up down here. Slipped along in the shallows seining minnows or lay in the cool fernbrakes hearing the birds and whatever else was about. Learned a lot. I bet you do, too."

  "Sure do.” Wim took another sip and sighed. “I know old Choa, you know. He and I, between us, know just about everything that goes on down here. You know that business the feds were looking into? I know where that box is."

  Shipp sat upright on the plank, staring into Wim's eyes. After a moment, he relaxed a bit and asked, “And where is that?"

  Wim stared across the road at a buzzard, circling high and cool above the forest. “The sinky hole.” He barely mouthed the words.

  He was rewarded by the sudden widening of Shipp's dark eyes. “The big one? God, boy, nothingever comes out of there! The feds would mess their britches if they knew. And Nate Farmer and his boys ... whoo-eee! They would just naturally go into cardiac arrest!"

  Then he leaned back sideways against the nearby tree and looked amused. “If they knew, they would. As it is, they'll never know."

  Wim giggled, which turned into a hiccup. “They'll know, all right. Possum saw me home, thinking I didn't know it. But I followed him back. Camped in the woods, and I was close by when he took a big fellow down toward the sinky-hole and showed him where the chest went in.

  "Then he let that bastard go. Showed him the way out, so to speak, leaving tracks, and broke twigs to mark the way. We already had that Fielding man out, trying to make Ma tell him something she don't know anything about.

  "You can bet, Mr. Shipp, that whoever wants that box the worst is going to come back to find it.” The possibilities this opened up made Wim swallow hard.

  He could see those possibilities spinning behind Shipp's eyes, as well. They sat still, looking at each other. Then Shipp grunted and rose, holding out his hand.

  "You've done a wise thing, Wim,” he said. “Now don't worry about it any more, and don't, whatever you do, go back into the lowlands for a while. Whatever goes on down there is likely to be very nasty and so dangerous I'd hate for you to get caught up in it."

  "Ma needs me,” the boy said, his voice very quiet. “The kids need me, too. I'll stay close, Mr. Shipp. I promise.” He spat between two fingers and crossed his heart.

  "But you get those critters, if you can. Or see they get GOT, if you see what I mean."

  "I do, indeed,” the policeman said. “And I'll see the right thing done, even if I haven't the authority to do it myself. There's others who can, and will.

  "You just mosey along your way, doing whatever you do naturally, and if anybody asks, you don't knowanything aboutanything ."

  Wim watched as dust curled after the departing car. That was a good man, he'd always heard. Now he believed it. When he went back to the garden to join his mother, he was whistling under his breath, and the sound made Ma look up and smile with relief.

  * * * *

  There had been a tale used by mothers and grandmothers to keep their children in line, down in the Brakes when Wash was little. “If you're not good, we'll call Miz Lena on you. She'llwitch you!” That had been enough to bring even the most rambu
nctious child into line.

  Now, as he turned out of the ruts marking the lane into the Dooley place, Wash considered deliberately bearding that little old lady in her den. It still scared him to think of it, and he wondered if it wouldn't help to take someone along who knew her and might have some influence with her.

  He remembered Auntie Libby telling him that Boze Blair had been carrying groceries and such out to the McCarver place for many years. If he could catch Boze at home, maybe the old fellow would go with him to visit the little witch. Not only would it make it easier to approach her, but Wash felt it might be a bit safer for him, too.

  He still had those childhood visions of a sharp-eyed old lady with dangerous abilities. His mother's description of Lena had stuck in his mind for over thirty years, he realized, and as he turned off on the oiltop leading to the Blair farm he found himself clenching his teeth.