The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette and watched the smoke spiral upward to the ceiling. A sinking feeling settled in Jordan's stomach as he ground out his cigarette. His thoughts focused on the night before, when smoke had touched the stars and the walls of Kitty's house crumbled into a pile of glowing embers and ash. In the blink of an eye, the only familiar place he had to hold onto was the tavern. The one place in his life he'd ever felt sure-footed, at home, or welcome.

  He could only hope that Holister had made it through the night. And then he thought of Ginny, and could find no comfort visualizing her perfectly tanned body, their moment together. Everything was all jumbled up in blood, gunfire, and flames.

  A loud noise from the apartment startled Jordan, and his body vibrated with an unconscious jump. He spun around on the stool, his hand gripped on the bar for balance. Spider had clanked his wheelchair against the bed frame, metal against metal, and it had sounded like a distant gunshot or a car hitting another car.

  Jordan took a deep breath and turned back to his coffee, uncomfortable with his reflexes, relaxing slightly once he realized the noise was just Spider getting dressed.

  He had given up trying to help Spider a long time ago. Getting dressed took Jordan a few thoughtless seconds, but took Spider twenty minutes on a good day. In the beginning, it had taken him a lot longer. But their father was not inclined to be soft or patient, even after the accident. Big Joe left Spider to his own devices as he learned to live without the use of his legs. Instead of getting dressed, Spider would lay in bed and scream, cuss, and yell. Big Joe yelled back, and then would close the door and go to work. And, if Jordan was there to help, to pull Spider up if he fell, or clean up the bed if he wet himself, he dared not to lift a hand in fear of Big Joe's angry reprisal that Spider learn to fend for himself.

  Spider rolled out of the apartment door, eyes clear, his hair wet and tied into its normal ponytail, wearing a clean white undershirt and jeans. He spun the wheelchair around without any obvious effort, locked the door, and then rolled up on the riser that had been built behind the bar.

  Everything had been modified to be within his reach. The cash register was stationed on a shelf under the bar, and a myriad of liquor bottles lined the wall under a large mirror. A television sat on top of the refrigerator next to the sink, and a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun was mounted under the bar over a three-by-three safe that had been sitting in the same spot since the tavern had been built. The riser put Spider at eye level with anyone who sat at the bar and gave him a view of every inch of the tavern and out the window, a spot he rarely left.

  “How'd you sleep?” Spider asked, filling a cup of coffee.

  Jordan shrugged his shoulders. “All right.”

  “Doesn't look like it. Looks like you've been on a bender, man. A bad one.”

  “You think it's funny?”

  Spider rolled over to the bar and sat the coffee cup opposite of Jordan's, not spilling a drop. “No, I'm just saying . . . oh, screw it. You ought to be drinkin' a beer instead of coffee.”

  “I usually wait until after noon,” Jordan smirked.

  “Not lately you haven't.”

  “Like you've got any right to have a problem with that.”

  “Chill out. Just fuckin' chill out, it's too damn early to argue.”

  “I feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck. A lotta people been telling me to chill out lately, to calm down. What do you expect?”

  “Yeah and the fuckin' grill imprint is still on your face—you look like a dog,” Spider said, taking a sip of coffee. “Jesus, this tastes like shit. I'm going to have to teach you how to make coffee if you're going to stay here.”

  “Who said I was staying here?” Jordan asked, unconsciously touching his black eye.

  “Where else you gonna go?”

  “I don't know.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Jordan tapped his cigarette pack, thought about lighting another one, and then decided not to. He felt tense, all knotted up. “I'm going to need some clothes,” he said.

  “Help yourself to my closet. I don't think my shoes will fit you, though. Not that I have a great need for extras. Hell, I've had these shoes for four years. Goddamn things will never wear out.”

  “I've got my boots.”

  Spider shook his head. “This is really fucked up. You don't have shit, do you? There can't be anything left of the house. One day everything's goin' along fine, you know, little bullshit things, but nothin' major, and then boom, the whole world gets turned upside down.”

  “Feels familiar, doesn't it?” Jordan said.

  “Not really.”

  Jordan stared at Spider, uncertain if he was being honest. Spider never talked about the accident, and rarely mentioned their mother. “It does to me.”

  “You really think José knows anything about the fire?” Spider asked, breaking eye contact with Jordan.

  “I don't know if any of this is connected to him or the past. It could be something else,” Jordan said, glancing out the window.

  “We're assuming that somebody set the house on fire just because of what Hogue said. I wouldn't put a whole lot of weight on that. But if it turns out there's meth there, shit's really gonna hit the fuckin' fan.”

  “I've got enemies,” Jordan muttered.

  Spider ignored Jordan, lost in a thought, following it like a bloodhound, which he was prone to do after a couple of hits off a joint. “That'd take some doing. Build a lab and then blow it up on purpose. Not that it'd be hard—those things can go up in flames if you fart wrong. But whoever did it would've had to have known where you were and that you wouldn't be back. If Holister was set up and so were you—I don't know, man, somebody's got a grudge against the police force in this town, that's all I can say. Enemies. You got enemies? Who hates you enough to go to that much trouble? Everybody pretty much likes you from what I can tell. You're not too much of an asshole, as far as cops go anyway.”

  “Ed Kirsch for one.”

  “Why the hell would Ed Kirsch burn down your house?” Spider asked.

  Jordan just stared at Spider, not saying anything.

  “You fuckin' slept with her, didn't you?” Spider finally said.

  “Yes.”

  “You're a goddamned dumbass.”

  “I know.”

  “Why the hell'd you go and do that?”

  “I don't know. I was lonely.”

  “The stupidest thing I ever fuckin' heard. ‘I was lonely.’ That's just bullshit, Jordan. Like Ginny is your only option. Lainie has an ‘Open for Business’ sign wrapped around her neck. Hell, it's flashin' in bright red fuckin' neon.”

  “Maybe that's the problem.”

  “When did you see Ginny?”

  “The other night. I was on shift and she called. I went over to see what she wanted.”

  “You knew what she wanted.”

  “I know it was a mistake, Spider. But I'm human, damn it. I haven't been with anybody since Monica and I split up. I couldn't help myself—I still love her, Spider. I always will.”

  “Seems to me it would've been easier to pull over some little blonde honey for speeding and get a blowjob in the backseat of the cruiser. Instead, you do to another man what Monica did to you. It wasn't six months ago you were sitting at this very bar, suckin' down beer and whining about being fucked over.”

  Jordan exhaled, felt his shoulder draw tight. Pain tingled in his fingers. “Monica and I had other problems, you know that.”

  Spider squinted, then ran his hand over the top of his head. “Doesn't fuckin' matter. You swore you'd never go near Ginny again, Jordan. That was supposed to be over a long time ago.”

  “I don't think it'll ever be over between us. At least not until we get our shot.”

  “She's different now, Jordan. Livin' with Ed's changed her.”

  “I can save her.”

  “You're a goddamn fool.”

  “I feel bad about sleeping with her, I really do, but this
is the first time it's happened in the nine years she's been married to Ed.”

  “You think you deserve an award or something?”

  “Funny.”

  “I'm serious. Ginny's a head-case these days, but Ed's flat-out nuts. That's why you wouldn't come clean about the letter with Hogue, isn't it?”

  “One of the reasons,” Jordan said.

  “If Ed found out you slept with Ginny, he just might've burned down the house. I kicked him out of here a few years ago for pulling a knife on a guy. He's crazy enough, that's for sure. But you know that. You know where he came from—his dad was just like him. Beat the shit out of all nine of those kids just for the fuckin' fun of it. I really wouldn't blame Ed for kickin' your ass now that I know this bullshit. Hell, I might hold you down for him, if I could.”

  “Ed couldn't have burned the house down—he was at the hospital with Ginny. He said he wanted to talk to me when this thing with Holister was all over with. I think he knows. Dylan saw me leave.”

  Spider shook his head. “Man, you're such a dumbass. Some days you make me glad I can't feel anything from the waist down.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate your confidence.” Jordan hesitated. “But I still think Ed might be into meth. I'm not saying he's not involved in setting the house on fire, but somehow it just doesn't fit.”

  “How'd you figure?”

  “There was a needle and an aluminum foil rock in the medicine cabinet. When I asked Ginny about it, she said Ed was diabetic.”

  “Diabetic, yeah, right. And I'm gonna walk day after tomorrow. Most people smoke meth, not shoot it, Jordan—the needle could be for anything. Ed's on the road a lot, though, so like I said last night, he might be stickin' his veins to make the long runs.”

  “That's what I thought. So I let it go. But the more I think about it, the more I think there might be something there. Ginny was complaining about never having any money, and Ed always being gone, but he's never where he's supposed to be. She thinks he's fucking around, and she's right, he is. But he might be transporting, too. You know anything about that?”

  “Why the fuck would I know whether Ed was running meth? Because I get high? That's bullshit, Jordan. You believe that brainwash shit that pot leads to harder drugs? That's like saying beer leads to hard liquor. You there yet? You need a shot of Johnny Walker to jump-start your fuckin' day?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly my point. I get high. I don't put ammonia and drain cleaner into my body. You ever seen those fuckers tweaking? They tear shit apart just to be doing something. Airconditioners, toasters, TVs, you name it. They stay awake for days—don't eat, don't shower, probably don't even shit. I'm not having anythin' to do with that crap. It's wicked, wicked stuff. One time out and your head's fried. I just toast a few brain cells every so often, and enjoy the fuckin' scenery.”

  Jordan stiffened. “Sorry I brought it up. I just thought you might've crossed paths with some people in the know.”

  “I run the other way.” Spider's face was hard with anger. He barely blinked. “Besides, Ed is too small time to be making runs. The Mexicans run the big labs, and you know as well as I do Ed Kirsch doesn't care too much for Mexicans.”

  “Unless he needs to score a bag.”

  “Like I said, he's small time. Always has been. We all break our codes every once in a while—especially when it comes to scoring a bag.”

  “Or answering a call from an old girlfriend,” Jordan said.

  “Nice try—but fucking someone else's wife is not the same thing.”

  After a second or two of long silence, Jordan said, “None of this makes sense. Holister was set up and then shot. The house burned down, maybe because a meth lab exploded—I was set up. There's a skeleton at Longer's Pond that is obviously a child. I've got Esperanza Cordova's St. Christopher's medal in my pants pocket. And I'm the number one suspect on the list.”

  “Don't forget the dumbass part,” Spider said.

  Jordan looked at him curiously.

  “You slept with Ginny.”

  “That has nothing to do with anything that's happened.”

  “I wouldn't count on it,” Spider said. “But I think you're right about one thing.”

  “What's that?”

  “José Rivero is up to something.”

  “Turn that up,” Jordan said, pointing to the TV.

  Spider glared at him and then hit the volume on the remote.

  A picture-perfect brunette reporter with wide green eyes was standing in the parking lot at Longer's Pond. She was interviewing Sheriff Hogue.

  “Can you tell us what happened here yesterday, Sheriff?” the reporter asked.

  Hogue stared into the camera. “Well, we're really not sure at this point. We're waiting on the return of a ballistics test.”

  “So you have a suspect in the shooting of Marshal Coggins?”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “We have a person of interest. It's a little early to say whether or not he's a suspect.”

  “Does the shooting have anything to do with the fire that occurred in Dukaine last night? Or was it another meth lab explosion?”

  “Again, it's too early to tell, ma'am. But rest assured, the department has every available man on this case. The citizens of Carlyle County are safe.”

  “So you're saying these aren't random acts, Sheriff Hogue?”

  “We don't think so, no.”

  “There have been reports of a skeleton being found here. How does that play into the investigation, Sheriff?”

  “I really can't comment on that. It's part of an ongoing investigation,” Hogue said.

  Jordan stood up from the bar. “Turn it off,” he said. “Just turn it off.”

  Spider grabbed the remote and clicked the television off. “Man, he really does think you shot Holister. How fucked up is that?”

  “He just told the whole world I'm a suspect,” Jordan said, heading for the door. “I gotta get across the street, see if I even have a job.”

  “Not like that.”

  Jordan stopped, realized he hadn't had a shower and only had on his boxers and T-shirt. He turned and headed for the apartment, frustrated. “I need the key. Do you have any aspirin?”

  Spider dug into his pocket, and tossed Jordan a set of keys. “Hold on,” he said, reaching under the bar. “You'll need this, too.” He slid a snubnose .38 down to the end of the bar.

  Jordan caught the keys, waited, and then stared at the gun as it came to a rest in front of him. He nodded, picked up the .38, and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem,” Spider said. “There's a bottle of aspirin under the sink.”

  “I might need to borrow the van, too,” Jordan said. “I want to go to the house after I go across the street.”

  Spider shook his head. “No way, man. Nobody drives my van but me.”

  “You gonna leave during the day?”

  “Angel can handle things. Besides, I got the feeling you might need a little help.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  “I thought you weren't going to get involved?”

  “No—I said I didn't like it when you pull me into your crap. I didn't say I was going to sit back and watch it happen and do nothing. I get fuckin' tired of sitting around. Besides, it was my house, too.” When Kitty died five years ago, she willed equal ownership to both of them—Spider chose to continue to live in the tavern. Moving would've complicated his life even more.

  “Yes, it was.”

  Jordan took a deep breath. He knew there was no use arguing with Spider, and he was silently glad his brother was coming along. “If we're going to leave, I want to lock up the note and the medal in the safe.”

  “Great, so Hogue can bust me for possessing evidence. I really don't like that idea.”

  “I told you, once the ballistics come back I'll give them to Hogue. Not until.”

  “All right. I guess I
better stash my stash, just in case Hogue comes snooping around,” Spider said, pulling a joint out of his shirt pocket.

  “That's probably a real good idea.”

  CHAPTER 13

  July 11, 1986, 7:15 P. M.

  José Rivero stood at the back door with blood on his hands. The first thing Jordan noticed was a little Mexican girl sitting in the passenger seat of José's pickup truck, in the alley between the fence and the grain elevator, her head hung low, tears in her eyes. José had obviously knocked over the bowl of milk for the black snake when he'd bounded onto Kitty's porch. The milk spread across the wood planks like a river breaking through a dam, draining slowly between the cracks. Jordan looked away from the truck to the milk, and then to José's leathery hands. A tiny drop of blood dripped off the end of José's finger and splashed softly into the milk. The splash was no louder than the buzz of a bee zipping past his ear, but Jordan heard it, saw snow instead of milk, his mother's head slumped onto the window, Spider's legs twisted and crushed, and a familiar fear in José's eyes.

  “Please, I must speak to the abuela,” José said, agitated. “The grandmother, I must speak to the grandmother,” he repeated when Jordan responded with only a blank stare.

  Kitty eased up behind Jordan, her apron untied, flour on her fingers. The smell of hot grease filled the air from the iron skillet on the stove. Two pork chops sat on the kitchen counter along with three peeled potatoes and a bowl of freshly snapped peas.

  “What is it, José?” Kitty asked, pulling Jordan to her side.

  “Nina Martinez, her baby is stuck inside her and won't come out,” José said. “She is very weak.”

  “You should take her to the hospital,” Kitty said, and then hesitated. “You're bleeding.”

  “No, no, it is from Nina. She bleeds badly. Please, señora, she is asking for you. The hospital is too far away. They will only make her wait. They do not care if she dies.”

  “I can't come running to the camps all the time, José. I have Jordan to care for now.”

  “I beg of you, señora. Nina is my sobrina, my niece. My brother will never forgive me if I let her die. Surely you understand?”