The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “You speak English,” the doctor said, obviously surprised. He was a tall and slender man with thick hair the color of snow. His brown eyes softened as he stood staring at the boy. “Why would I think not to ask such a thing?”

  “Where am I?”

  “Casa de Elisabeth, El Refugio. An orphanage.”

  “In Mexico?”

  “Of course, in Mexico, where else would you be?”

  The boy took a deep breath and eased himself off the table. His legs were weak, but could hold his weight. He stood, gaining his balance by anchoring himself on the bed.

  “Tener cuidado.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “I'm sorry. Be careful. Tener cuidado. Be careful.”

  The boy nodded and walked slowly to the window and peered out. He saw four girls and five boys kicking a ball. A town, all white buildings with red roofs, stood a mile in the distance. Beyond the town was a lake, bluer than anything he'd ever seen, with mountains behind it that reached into the sky, poking at the clouds. “But I am not an orphan,” the boy said.

  “Sí,” the doctor nodded. “Yes, I'm afraid you are.”

  The boy didn't believe the old man. He pretended he did not hear what he just said. “The town, what is its name? Where am I?” His stomach growled with hunger.

  “Patzcuaro.”

  “My mother's name means hope.”

  The doctor eyed the boy curiously. “Do you know your name?”

  “Yes,” the boy nodded. “My name is Tito. Is this a bad dream?”

  “I should get the sisters. They will be happy you are awake, Tito.”

  “Patzcuaro. What does it mean?” the boy insisted, watching the children play.

  The doctor hesitated and then answered, “The place where darkness begins.”

  CHAPTER 10

  August 22, 2004, 12:43 A.M.

  Spider shifted the van into gear and accelerated with the hand-control on the steering wheel. His wheelchair creaked as they exited the parking lot. The van had a hole in the muffler and the engine rumbled, leaving a trail of blue smoke in its wake. The air-conditioner was on high, but it was only blowing slightly cool air on Jordan's face, so he rolled down the window. The floor of the van was littered with empty water bottles, fast-food bags, and old newspapers. The ashtray was open and a half a joint sat on the corner, just within Spider's reach, and the familiar sweet smell of recently extinguished pot permeated the van.

  “Bring any cigarettes?” Jordan asked. He ignored the joint, knew it would be there next to the ever-present plastic bottle of water. Spider's pot use put him in an uncomfortable spot, and he'd decided a long time ago to ignore his brother's habit as much as he could. The conclusion was simple: Spider wasn't going to quit smoking pot and Jordan wasn't going to arrest him for being a casual user. Maybe that didn't make him a good cop, the kind where duty to the law never ends. Jordan knew cops like that, hard-liners who stood behind a polished badge but struggled with their own private demons: alcohol, sex, drugs, or money. They would surely condemn him for turning his head when it came to Spider's drug use, and that was fine, but Spider was the only family he had left, even though their relationship was often tenuous and distant. He didn't see how he was any different than the cop who had an affair or drank away their problems on or off duty—and there were his own demons to consider, too.

  Spider motioned to the console. A pack of Marlboros sat next to the ashtray, lying on a pile of cassette tapes that had been there ever since Jordan could remember. Howlin' Wolf, B.B. King, and Eric Clapton were the staples of Spider's musical diet. Jordan preferred more traditional country, George Jones, Johnny Cash, and some bluegrass, like Del McCoury and the Stanley Brothers.

  Jordan grabbed the pack and flipped out a cigarette.

  “How'd you get the black eye?” Spider asked.

  “Sam Peterson punched me.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit,” Jordan said.

  “So he finally got his chance to clock you. Man, I bet that made him happy.”

  Jordan shrugged. “I attacked him, he really didn't have much of a choice.”

  “You attacked him?” Spider chuckled. “You guys used to fight like dogs when you were kids. At least you beat his ass then. I guess revenge really is sweet.”

  “He was a pest.”

  “So were you.”

  “It wasn't revenge. I was a little freaked out.”

  “Why?

  “I don't want to talk about it right now.”

  Spider nodded and drove silently for about a half mile then said, “This is bullshit, you know.” They turned a corner and his wheelchair shifted in its brace. The wheelchair had long ago become part of Spider's body. The front seat of the van had been removed and there was a lift on the side to allow him entry and exit, which he'd learned to navigate seamlessly.

  His legs had been damaged beyond repair in the accident, crushed by the car they hit when Spider was thrown from the backseat. It had taken a while, but Spider applied his athletic prowess to his life after the accident, from the waist up, to allow as normal and mobile a life as possible.

  Spider lived alone in an apartment behind Big Joe's Tavern, which he'd managed for their father since the day he turned twenty-one. That was the day Big Joe up and left Dukaine for Florida. Jordan had not seen or spoken to his father since. The years after the accident were difficult for all of them, as Spider adjusted to life without legs under Big Joe's roof, and Jordan adjusted to life without the familiarity of his family, of his mother's love, under Kitty's roof.

  Jordan was seventeen when his father left town, at the height of his rebellion, at the height of his rage, and Big Joe was the target, the source of his anger. He was glad to see his father go, but oddly, it was like suffering another death once he figured out Big Joe was gone for good.

  Spider was dressed in blue jeans and a white tank top, exposing two tattoos on his right arm. One was a skull with fiery red eyes and a gaping smile, and the other, a little larger than the skull, was a simple black spider dangling from a web. His thick black hair was tied in a ponytail and reached halfway down his back. Two small gold hoop earrings dangled from his right ear and his face was covered with an ever-present two-day beard.

  “What's bullshit?” Jordan asked.

  “That you didn't call me.”

  “I called,” Jordan said.

  “Yeah, when you needed a ride home,” Spider said. He grabbed the water off the console and took a swig. He drove the normal route back to Dukaine, a well-worn path past the alternator factory and out to Highway 42 for the fifteen-minute ride home.

  Jordan tapped the cigarette on the palm of his hand. “There was a lot going on.”

  “You know how I found out?” Spider said.

  “Somebody came into the bar and told you, just like you find out everything.”

  “No, the fuckin' old man called me.”

  Jordan reached for the cigarette lighter next to the radio, but there was only an empty hole. He let Spider's words settle in his mind. The old man called. It was like getting smacked upside the head, which was probably the intention. So he tried to ignore it like he always did when Spider brought their father into a conversation. But that was like ignoring an itchy rash that wouldn't go away.

  “Where's the lighter?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Shit,” Jordan muttered, sticking the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  “You shoulda called me,” Spider said. “This is a big fuckin' deal. There's cops all over town. It's weird. Helicopters flying over like a fuckin' war movie. Then the phone rings and I hear you got shot. Real nice, fuckhead, real fuckin' nice.” He dug into his pocket and tossed Jordan a disposable lighter.

  “I wasn't hurt bad, so it didn't make sense for you to come and sit around and wait for me.” He lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled out the window.

  “You got shot, asshole. I talked to Charlie. He told me you were all right, so I said �
�Fuck it, I'll just wait if that's the way it's going to be.’ ” Spider stopped at a red stoplight. The engine clicked, low on oil, and the smell of exhaust grew stronger.

  “The bullet grazed me. I got some stitches. Besides, I know you don't like the hospital any more than I do.”

  “Sometimes you really piss me off, making decisions for other people, you know that? I sit wherever I go, or haven't you noticed? So, I was sitting at the bar wondering what the hell was going on. You just shoulda called. I woulda come to the hospital.”

  Jordan stared out the window, watching the streetlights go by. “He still in Florida?”

  “ 'Course he's still in Florida. It'd take an act of God to get him to come back to Indiana,” Spider said.

  “How'd he find out?”

  “How the hell would I fuckin' know? He's still got his connections here.”

  “Obviously,” Jordan said.

  Spider shot Jordan a sideways glance, shook his head, and reached for the joint on the console, but retreated when he saw Jordan's face tighten. “If I could stand up, you'd have two black eyes right now. I oughta make you walk home.”

  “Like I never heard that before,” Jordan said and then exhaled deeply. He drew on the cigarette, and wished the bottle of water on the console was a beer. “Somebody lured Holister to the pond, sent him a letter in the mail with a St. Christopher's medal.”

  “That's kinda weird, isn't it?”

  “No. It belonged to Tito Cordova's mother. There's a skeleton exposed in the pond. Somebody wanted Holister to find it, then they shot him. And me.”

  “That's fucked up. You think the skeleton is that kid?”

  “I don't know. The bones were all intact, they were small, child-like. How can anybody really know? But I think it might be. I just don't know why anybody would want to shoot Holister. He never gave up on that case. If anybody kept the memory of Tito Cordova alive, it was him. He didn't do anything but try to do his job.”

  “How'd you know he didn't have anything to do with it?”

  “I know Holister.”

  “Charlie said the shit was about to hit the fan.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “That's all.”

  “All right.” Jordan took his last drag of the cigarette and tossed it out the window. “I have the letter and the medal. Holister wanted me to hold onto it. I don't know why, but I'm glad he did now. You can't tell anybody about this.”

  The stoplight turned green and Spider eased the van south, toward home.

  “Isn't that evidence?” Spider asked.

  Jordan nodded. “Hogue took my gun,” he finally said.

  “Whaddya mean Hogue took your gun?”

  “He thinks I shot Holister.”

  “That's the stupidest thing I ever fuckin' heard. Why would you shoot Holister?” The question hung in the air for a second before Spider asked, “You didn't, did you?”

  “Jesus Christ, hell no. Why would you even say that?”

  “Ginny.”

  “There's more to that story,” Jordan said, with no intention of telling Spider anything further.

  “Always is. That's why I asked.”

  “There was no sign of the shooter when I left. It looked like it was just me and Holister at the pond. Ginny doesn't have anything to do with this.”

  “Well the note and that necklace thing ought to clear things up then. Why the hell didn't you just give it to Hogue?”

  “I will, once I get my gun back. You don't understand. It's like a man who calls in and says he just found his wife murdered in their bed. The husband's always the primary suspect until he can clear himself, comes up with an alibi, you know? Hogue got it in his head that I was the only one at the pond, that there was no sign of the shooter, and I didn't have an alibi. That makes me an instant suspect, and he scores right away. It's a win-win for him.”

  “Other than you're a fuckin' cop, too.”

  “Cops commit murder. That doesn't matter. If I would've given him this piece of evidence the first thing he'd do is try to tie it back to me, check it for prints, check my handwriting to see if it matches. And then he'd start digging up shit between me and Holister. You know what he's gonna find there—the confrontation about Ginny before she ran off with Ed. It won't matter how long ago that happened, he needs a suspect fast to keep this from turning into a nightmare, and I'm it. But while he's wasting time checking me out, the real shooter is still out there.”

  “I wouldn't fuck with Hogue, man. He's a dick. He's been tryin' to bust me for years. I think you better tell him about this stuff. Besides, he's Ed Kirsch's uncle for Christ-sake. Not that I think they get along, knowing Ed the way I do, so I'm sure there's no love lost there. But he is family.”

  “I know—that's one of the reasons why I didn't give Hogue the letter in the first place. At the very least, I think Ed's using meth . . . maybe for his long runs to stay awake, who knows? But my gut tells me he's in deeper than that, maybe transporting. There's been a lot more activity this summer than usual—it's usually pot the migrants bring up with them.”

  Spider shot Jordan a sideways glance, but didn't say anything.

  “I don't think Hogue knows what Ed's into, or that he's protecting him, he's got too much aspiration for that. But blood is thicker than water.”

  “How do you know Ed's using meth? Could just be speed,” Spider said.

  “Just a hunch,” Jordan said, uncomfortably. “The shooting has nothing to do with Ed or Ginny.” He sat up straight in the seat, caught Spider's eye in the passing light of a street lamp as they drove past the barber shop. “I want to catch the motherfucker who did this. Gun or no gun. Hogue's not going to stand in my way. If there was a sign of the shooter, or they caught him, I'd know by now. This was a set-up, and that makes things even more personal. We were both sitting ducks. It was no accident that Holister was there, and maybe me either. This wasn't a random shooting. Maybe they even waited for me to get there. It was thought-out. Planned. Premeditated. Maybe it has to do with Holister and me, but that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, at the moment. I didn't have anything to do with Tito Cordova when he was alive, or dead. Besides, Hogue knows an opportunity when he sees one. If those bones do belong to Tito Cordova, this thing goes back a long way. Hogue won't begin to know where to start asking questions. I do. For some reason, Holister made sure I wouldn't forget about all of this.”

  “Yeah? And where you going to start asking questions?” Spider asked.

  “On Buddy Mozel's doorstep.”

  “Good fuckin' luck.”

  “Tell me about it—but you know as well as I do that Buddy was in the thick of things back then. Esperanza worked at the house, stayed here all year round instead of heading south like the rest of the Mexicans. And then there was rumor that he was Tito's real father. Nobody knew for sure. Holister always thought Buddy knew more than he was telling—and Holister's hands were tied to a certain point. If he pushed too hard Buddy would have had him fired, plain and simple. You know what happened from there.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Spider said. “The son of a bitch still thinks he can buy his way out of trouble.”

  “I really need to get the file Holister had on Tito's disappearance. Hopefully, Louella will let me get a look at it. Holister was never convinced that a stranger took Tito, just like I'm not convinced a stranger showed up at the pond and started shooting. Whoever's behind this knew the history, knew when they found the bones how Holister would react if he saw them. That in itself shrinks the pool of suspects, don't you think?”

  “Yeah, down to about three thousand people.” Spider gripped the steering wheel and shook his head. “I hate it when you get all twisted up inside your head, and then go on a mission. I always get dragged into the wake of your shit somehow. I don't know if I'm in the mood to play big brother and cover your ass while this town gets turned upside down. I'm tellin' you, it reminded me of something you'd see in LA, fuckin' helicopters hovering, sirens going off everywhere.
It was a little too weird for me. Hogue's gonna watch you like a hawk, and I don't want to be anywhere near that shit. If I get popped, you won't be able to help me.”

  “You said that more than once. I heard you. Just take me home,” Jordan said.

  “All right.” Spider hesitated for a moment. “You sure you don't want me to stop at the tavern? I can loan you my .38 or the sawed-off under the bar.”

  Jordan let a half-smile cock across his face. Spider always had had a funny way of saying he'd help. “No, I think I can get through one night without a gun on my nightstand,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure.”

  Spider turned the van onto Harrison Street. They both saw the flashing lights at the same time.

  “What the hell's going on?” Spider said.

  Smoke wafted across the street in front of the van. An orange glow erupted two blocks away and hot embers jumped into the night sky like fireflies fleeing a nest. A fleet of fire trucks had the road blocked, along with a county cruiser and a Dukaine police car. Johnny Ray Johnson was motioning at them emphatically to turn down Lincoln Street away from the scene, but Spider stopped the van in the middle of the road.

  “The house is on fire,” Jordan said. “Jesus fucking Christ, the house is on fire.”

  CHAPTER 11

  August 22, 2004, 1:23 A.M.

  On the weekends, Johnny Ray Johnson worked as an Elvis impersonator in the lounge at the Super Six Motel. The motel was ten miles south of Dukaine, next to the interstate on the only on-ramp and exit in Morland. The lounge itself was dingy; a scattering of mismatched chairs and fake wood tables angled around a small stage made out of two-by-fours, cheap plywood, and painted flat black. Jordan had seen Johnny Ray perform once on the makeshift stage, an unrecognizable rendition of “Can't Help Falling in Love,” and it was enough to know Johnny Ray's Elvis career wasn't going to take him to Las Vegas anytime soon.

  As the deputy walked toward the van, Jordan saw a hint of the ever-present Elvis swagger that Johnny Ray practiced relentlessly. Even though it was late at night, Johnny Ray had on a pair of chrome sunglasses, and his dyed black pork chop sideburns gleamed in the presence of the flashing strobe lights. Johnny Ray was the old Elvis—the unfamiliar Elvis who took his last breath on a toilet—stuffed uncomfortably inside a blue Dacron police uniform. But he wasn't always that way—Johnny Ray had seen the last Elvis concert at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis as a teenager, and from then on he'd been devoted to all things Presley. He turned his graduation gown from high school into a blue and maroon beaded cape, and progressed from the young King to the old one with enthusiasm, all the way down to his car of choice, a white Cadillac Coupe Deville.