The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  And it was, of course, the spirit of Elvis that led Johnny Ray into the realm of law enforcement. He studied Kenpo karate with a passion, took up target shooting with handguns, volunteered as a reserve deputy for the sheriff's department, and took criminal justice classes at the university extension in Morland. So when he applied to become a deputy, Holister could not deny his qualifications, and had no choice but to hire him fifteen years earlier. It was still a decision Holister was prone to complain about.

  Johnny Ray shined his flashlight on Spider's face as he approached the driver's-side door.

  Jordan was just about to jump out of the van and run toward the fire when the light swept over the console.

  “Damn, it, Spider,” Jordan said, motioning to the joint in the ashtray.

  “Shit, I spaced it.”

  The light grew so bright Jordan could barely see. He snatched the joint, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it whole.

  “I thought that might be you, Spider,” Johnny Ray said as he stepped up to the window. He shined the flashlight on Jordan's face. “There you are, Mac, Sheriff Hogue's been lookin' all over for you. He thought you took off from the hospital. Just about to put a call out on you, last I heard. I think you're in deep shit, Mac.”

  Jordan had gotten over being called Mac a long time ago, but there was something about how Johnny Ray said it that always pissed him off. Maybe it was the deep bass note he let dangle, that extended Elvis reverberation he added on the end of every sentence. Or maybe it was the countless times he'd asked Johnny Ray to just call him Jordan instead of Mac, all adding up to one giant wedge of dislike for the sloppy imitator.

  Jordan reached over and grabbed Spider's bottle of water and chased the joint with a huge gulp. He shot Spider a disgusted glance. “Tell me that's not Holister's house on fire,” Jordan said to Johnny Ray.

  “It's not,” Johnny Ray answered. “It's your house.”

  The air left Jordan's lungs. He could hardly breathe. He was stunned. Before he could reach for the door Spider was already unlocking the wheelchair.

  “Go,” Spider said. “Just go, I'm right fuckin' behind you.”

  “You're gonna have to move your van, Spider,” Johnny Ray said, shining his light into the back of van, rising up on his tiptoes to get a look behind Spider's head.

  “Shut up, Johnny Ray,” Spider said. He spun the wheelchair around, preparing to release the lift. “You can move it yourself, or are you too much of a dumbass to figure out the controls?”

  The last thing Jordan heard before he broke into a full-out run was Johnny Ray yelling at Spider, “Hey man, you can't talk to me like that, I'm The King—I mean, I'm a cop, damn it!”

  Running two blocks was usually not a problem for Jordan. Even though he smoked, he ran three miles every other day. He had decided long ago not to become a turtle like Holister. But the day's events had left him completely depleted. He struggled for every breath, and pain shot through his arm every time his feet hit the pavement. His eye ached as the Demerol began to wear off, but the pain didn't seem to belong to him. His body was only reacting out of need. The fire pulled him closer, forced him to run toward it, much like a junebug banging against a streetlight, unaware of the consequences of its actions.

  He ran through the intersection at Harrison and Lincoln, ignoring the sheriff's deputy who was demanding that he stop, and zigzagged up onto the sidewalk.

  Each house on Harrison Avenue was structurally identical and looked almost like his. Most were built just after World War II and faced the street with porches the width of the house. Some of the houses had been remodeled with enclosed porches and aluminum siding, but Jordan had chose to keep his house just as Kitty had left it: a swing on the open front porch, wood slat siding painted white, and original single-pane windows. There was no carpet inside, just forty-year-old rugs covering paths between the furniture that had been in the house long before Jordan had been born, leaving the original hardwood floors exposed. The rooms were small, three bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room, but it was more than enough for him. Just as the simple house had been enough for George and Kitty Coltraine to raise their only daughter in.

  From a block away he could see flames jumping out of the roof. The smell of smoke burned his nostrils, and he ran faster, trying not to pay any attention to the stories each house held for him as he passed by them. Tears began to run down his face and the pain from the gunshot wound traveled from his arm to his chest.

  The fire mocked his rage, dancing uncontrollably against the starless night sky, and Jordan could feel the heat grow more intense the closer he got. There was noise all around him; engines rumbling from the stationary fire trucks, wood crackling and popping, people yelling, and overhead, two helicopters circling, shining bright white lights on the house.

  He wanted it all to stop. His feet felt like cement, and his heart was beating against his chest with such tremendous force he thought it was going to explode. There was no way he could have believed how the day would turn out. Yesterday, his life was normal, on an even keel. He went to work on third shift, slept through the hottest part of the day, played on a softball league three nights a week, and didn't care to look too much into the future. He was satisfied. His love life, if you could call it that, was pretty much nonexistent since his divorce was final six months ago, except for the wink and a wave from Charlie Overdorf's sister, Lainie.

  Then out of the blue, Ginny had called him. And all hell broke loose from there. Jordan knew there could be no relation to her call with everything that had happened, but it sure seemed like that mistake had set off a series of events that went from one nightmare to the next.

  Two houses before his, just on the other side of Holister's house, a crowd had gathered behind a barrier of yellow tape.

  Jordan felt like he was staring through glasses smeared with Vaseline, nothing was clear, and no one looked at all familiar. He eased his pace and stumbled to a stop behind the crowd on a small piece of grass and steadied himself on a cement lawn ornament, a gnome with green paint flaking off its face. Spittle ran out the corner of his mouth and he wiped his face with the tail of his shirt, paying little attention to the blood on his shirt.

  Unconsciously, he sank to his knees. Ashes rained down from the sky, pelting the back of his neck like a swarm of bees had risen in the darkness and decided to attack for no apparent reason. He screamed using the last ounce of energy he had, and then fell face forward onto the grass.

  The crowd slowly turned their attention to him. He heard alarmed voices. After a long moment of trying to catch his breath, someone touched him on the wrist.

  He blinked to clear his vision and looked up to see Sheriff Hogue towering over him.

  “There you are, McManus. You all right?” Hogue asked, leaning down, staring into his face. “Or do I need to call you an ambulance so you can take another swing at Sam Peterson?”

  Jordan took a deep breath, and with every ounce of strength he had, forced himself back up onto his knees using the gnome for leverage. “I'm all right,” he said, ignoring the reference to Sam. “Where's Spider?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother.”

  “Haven't seen him. Can you stand up?”

  “You think you could give me a minute?”

  “Why sure, I got all the time in the world. I might even go roast me a couple of wieners while you gather yourself together.”

  “What the fuck is your problem, Hogue? That's my house you're talking about.”

  Hogue stood up. “You're a smartass, McManus. You always have been. Your mouth's going to get you into trouble one of these days, if it already hasn't. Must have been the way you were raised.”

  Jordan bolted off the ground, his fist clenched as he steadied himself inches from Hogue.

  “Jordan,” Spider shouted from behind him. “Stop. You're just going to give him what he wants.”

  He heard Spider's command and his head immediately cleared. Hogue was standing sq
uarely in front of him, his right hand inches from the 9mm he wore on his side, looking like a rock-solid wall, firmly planted, waiting for Jordan's next move.

  “Look's like the sheriff here is trying to provoke you, Jordan. Now why would that be, Sheriff? You think my brother belongs in jail for some reason? And you haven't got shit on him? Sounds familiar.”

  Hogue stepped back a foot. The crowd had circled around them. The heat from the fire was intense, and the smoke was leaving a coating of ash on everyone's skin. But no one moved.

  Three volunteer firemen ran hoses to the back of the house, while another one sprayed down Holister's house, trying to keep it as wet as possible so the fire wouldn't spread. There were flames coming from every window of Jordan's house. No matter how much water was put on the house, it was certain to be a total loss.

  “How you doin', Spider? I haven't seen you for a while.”

  “George,” Spider said.

  Jordan stepped back and anchored himself against Spider's wheelchair.

  “Pardon me?” Hogue said.

  “George is my name. Only my friends call me Spider.”

  “I see,” Hogue said. “Well you're right about one thing, George. I haven't got shit on your brother. Yet.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Jordan asked.

  “The firemen said there was a heavy smell of toxic gas when they arrived. Looks like this fire might've been a meth lab gone bad. I got the hazardous material fellas on their way. They'll know with one good sniff.”

  “And now you're accusing me of setting fire to my own house? Of being a meth cooker?” Jordan yelled.

  “Jordan, calm down,” Spider said.

  “You fucking calm down! I get accused of shooting Holister and now I'm a drug dealer? How in the hell can I calm down? Someone set my house on fire. Our house. Kitty's house. Everything I own is in that house, goddamn it!”

  “He's looking in all the wrong places, and you know it,” Spider said with an even tone in his voice, not taking his eyes off Hogue. “So, let him make a fool out of himself. Seems to me that's the one thing he's good at.”

  “You better watch yourself, George,” Sheriff Hogue said.

  “I will,” Spider said. “Come on, Jordan, let's go.”

  “I'm not going anywhere. The house is on fire, if you haven't noticed.”

  “I noticed, and there's nothing you can do about it. You're comin' home with me. Now let's go.”

  “That's the smartest thing I've ever heard come from your brother's mouth, McManus. You better listen to him,” Hogue said. “At least I know where you'll be. We're gonna need to have a talk once we get things sorted out. That looks like it'll be a while, though.”

  A portion of the roof that surrounded the fireplace caved in, sending sparks straight into the air, a swarm of lightning bugs released into the black sky in a sudden burst.

  “I'm not leaving, Spider,” Jordan said, ignoring the sheriff.

  “Yes, you are. Now come on.” Spider spun his wheelchair and started to roll away.

  “I'll be talking to you real soon, too, George. Real soon.”

  Spider pulled his hand off the wheels and hit the brake. The chair came to a sudden stop. “You threatening a cripple, Sheriff? I don't figure that looks too good for a man with high aspirations,” he said as loud as he could without yelling.

  Hogue's face turned red as he looked over his shoulder at the crowd that had gathered behind him.

  Spider smiled. “Come on, Jordan. It's time to leave.”

  Jordan took a deep breath, stared at the house for a moment, watched the flames dance out of the front door, and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Everything's gone,” Jordan said.

  “Not everything,” Spider answered as he began to roll the wheelchair down the sidewalk.

  Smoke hung so low to the ground it looked like they were walking through fog. There was a crowd of people all around them, but they parted, allowing them to exit without saying much of anything. A few of the neighbors—Corney Lefay, the local barber; his wife, Edith; and Wally Peterson, Sam's seventy-year-old father who had worked as a foreman at the SunRipe plant for forty years—stood back as he passed. Edith reached out and touched Jordan's arm as he passed. He smiled as best he could, and stayed close to Spider.

  Other faces were less than recognizable. Jordan hadn't seen any sign of Ginny or Celeste and figured they were still at the hospital, unaware of what was going on at home. He knew it wouldn't stay that way long, since it looked like there was going to be some water and heat damage to Holister's house. But that was surely a secondary concern at this point, all things considered.

  Just as they were about to cross Lincoln Street, Jordan stopped.

  “Spider,” he said, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair, bringing it to a stop.

  “What? Ouch,” he said, raising his right hand to his mouth. “Damn, it, I hate it when people do that. You ever have your fuckin' fingers pinched?” Spider said, sucking on his index finger.

  “By the tree, across the street,” Jordan said.

  José Rivero stood in the shadow of the streetlight, next to a big elm that had buckled the sidewalk with its roots. Even in the shadows, Jordan could see José's shock of thick white hair against his dark, leathery skin. José was a little over five-and-a-half-feet tall, and always wore blue jeans, a denim shirt, a white Stetson straw cowboy hat, and angled-toed boots, black shit-kickers, permanently covered with dust. It was very unusual to see José by himself, off Mozel land, or out of his brand new red GMC pickup truck. Jordan moved from behind Spider's wheelchair to cross the street.

  “What the fuck you doing now?” Spider asked.

  He turned back to Spider and tapped his pocket. “If anybody knows what happened to Tito, it might be José. I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner.”

  “Might be because you feel the same way about Buddy Mozel as I do.”

  “Not entirely,” Jordan said. Spider still blamed Buddy for the accident. Jordan still blamed their father. It was a quiet argument that neither of them would give up on.

  “You think José set fire to the house?”

  “I don't know, but don't you think it's strange for him to be here?”

  When Jordan turned his attention back to the tree, preparing to cross the street, José was gone, nowhere to be seen. He'd vanished in the smoke and flashing lights, like he had never been there at all.

  CHAPTER 12

  August 22, 2004, 6:09 A.M.

  As far as Jordan was concerned, there was no place lonelier than Big Joe's tavern at six o'clock in the morning.

  The morning sun was already rising high in the cloudless sky, and bright, intense light invaded the tavern through the front window. Dust particles sparkled in the air, looking like an endless army of fireflies flittering about against the dark mahogany paneling that covered the walls. Memories of the fire were still close to the skin. The lighting beyond the reach of the sun was otherwise dull, soft from the blinking multicolored lights on the shuffleboard table's scoreboard and the dusty sconces that lined the walls. Ten tables and six green vinyl booths surrounded the shuffleboard table, tops clean and the chairs perfectly situated. Emptiness echoed throughout the tavern in the drip of the faucet and the hum of the ice machine. The smell of beer held in the drains, yeasty and too sour to be flushed away, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and bleach from the previous night's cleanup. The tavern always reminded Jordan of his father, which was one of the reasons he stayed away from it as much as possible.

  Jordan sat at the end of the bar, fifteen feet of carved cherry wood topped with black river-bottom slate, fronted with ten worn stools. Sleep had come without effort as soon as he had settled onto the couch in Spider's apartment that pulled out into a bed. It took him a minute to get his bearings when he woke, sore from head to toe and slightly disoriented. But he knew his way to the coffeemaker. Almost an hour earlier, he'd eased out of the apartment in his boxers and a T-shirt, trying his best not t
o wake Spider. He sat stiffly, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and staring out the window at the Town Hall and police station across the street.

  The tavern had a small kitchen of its own, situated between the apartment and the bar. It was crammed with two refrigerators, a freezer, a three-compartment stainless steel sink, a deep fryer, a metal plate grill, and a pantry. The menu was minimal, normal Indiana bar food: deep-fried mushrooms, onion rings, tenderloin sandwiches as big as a plate, and half-pound cheeseburgers. Lunch started at noon and the grill stayed open until nine o'clock in the evening, Monday through Saturday. The tavern was closed on Sunday. Spider avoided the kitchen as much as possible; navigation was difficult at the very least. Angel Lamont, Lem Jacobson's twenty-three-year-old stepdaughter, worked the grill and waited tables. The café was usually twice as busy as the tavern for lunch and dinner, and that suited Spider.

  Traffic in Dukaine was usually minimal this time of morning through the middle of the week. The field workers, trying to beat the worst of the heat, had already passed through town an hour and a half before, packed shoulder to shoulder in the back of four pickup trucks and an old school bus painted white and embossed with the SunRipe logo. Two sheriff's department cruisers, followed by a TV news van, had zipped through the stoplight within seconds of each other as Jordan sipped his coffee, and the realization didn't take long to settle in that the traffic on Main Street would be anything but minimal on this day.