The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “I need to get over to the house and see what's left,” Jordan said.

  “I'd put that off as long as I could if I were you.”

  “Well you're not me, you didn't . . .”

  “. . . Grow up there? Yeah, here we go. The same old pissin' contest.”

  The air suddenly grew stale. Jordan regretted what he'd said as soon as he saw Spider's face tighten. “I'm sorry,” he said, grabbing the bar to steady himself as he stood up. Every muscle was stiff and sore, but he refused to take painkillers. He walked to the refrigerator behind the bar, pulled out a beer, and downed it.

  “No big deal, man, I'm used to it.” Spider rolled to the end of the bar so he was a few feet from Jordan, face to face on the platform. “It's the truth. I'd be devastated if the tavern burnt down. I really would. But I can't imagine Kitty's house not bein' there and you not living in it. Just knowin' it existed gave me some comfort. A normal place that felt like home, even though I wasn't there a lot. I could still feel Mom there.”

  “Me, too,” Jordan said, wiping his mouth.

  “I need to go with you for my own reasons.”

  Jordan nodded, glad the air had cleared so quickly. Surprised Spider had mentioned their mother. There were moments when Spider was open, lucid. Maybe it was the morning joint. Or maybe seeing the house on fire had turned something on that had been turned off. Jordan wasn't sure he could put his finger on it, but something had changed between them. He was still numb, still reeling from the events of the last couple of days. Somehow he'd woke up in Spider's midst, and it was starting to feel like he had returned home after a long, tiring trip. “I need to run across the street. If you could have Angel fix me a BLT, I'll eat it when I get back.”

  “Will do.”

  “How are you going to get in to see Buddy?” Spider asked.

  Jordan started to walk away and then stopped. “Haven't figured that out yet. But I think we should go look for José. He might be our only way in, don't you think?”

  “If he'll talk to you.”

  “He will. If he'll let himself be found. Maybe I was seeing things last night—but José looked afraid. I've seen that look in his eyes once before.”

  “Unless he's the one that set fire to the house.”

  “You don't know him like I do. He hasn't forgotten everything Kitty did for him, for the migrants and his family.”

  Spider stared at him. “You don't know Mexicans like I do, either.”

  “That's an old argument, too, Spider. Things have changed. José might've been there to help us, not hurt us.”

  “If you think so.”

  “No, I hope so. He's not as bad of a man as you think he is.”

  “All right. It's a place to start. I agree with that. But I haven't seen Buddy Mozel in years, man.”

  “Nobody has.”

  Jordan had found a pair of jeans and a button-up white and green striped short-sleeved shirt in Spider's closet that fit him after he'd taken a shower. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the bar and put them in his shirt pocket. The .38 snubnose was stuffed in a holster in the small of his back. He wore the shirt untucked, and Spider's pants were just a little big for him, so the gun was reasonably concealed. The clothes made him feel physically out of sorts; he wanted his own jeans, his own gun. He wanted to put his uniform back on—it fit him like a glove, and he wore it eighty percent of the time. He did stick his badge in his wallet, though. A touchstone. A reminder to himself that he was still a cop, that everything wasn't lost, that a part of his own world still existed.

  He glanced out the window again. Ginny's car, a ten-year-old gray Ford Taurus, was at the stoplight. He froze. Watched her turn and park immediately in front of the police station entrance. She hurried out of the car around to the front passenger door, and ushered Dylan quickly inside.

  “What's up?” Spider asked.

  “Ginny. She just took Dylan into the station. Louella's been watching him while she stays at the hospital.”

  “Man, I wouldn't want that old fuckin' bat watching my kid.”

  “I don't think she's got much choice. Celeste is at the hospital, too. I imagine that's where she's heading.”

  “That's gotta be a good sign for Holister. You should call and check on him,” Spider said.

  “It won't do any good; they won't tell me shit.”

  Jordan didn't move, barely breathed while he waited. Ginny always made him stop when he saw her. Even before the night in her bed. Knowing he couldn't have her only made him want her more. No matter the damage it did to anyone, or the damage that had already been done. Nobody knew him like Ginny, nobody had loved him like Ginny. Not Monica, not anyone. And Jordan doubted anyone ever would. Or that he could love anyone like he loved Ginny. One more reason why turning off Lainie's open sign didn't appeal to him. He couldn't make the same mistake again. He either needed to get Ginny out of his blood or rescue her from Ed. Neither seemed possible. Or the right thing to do.

  Ginny ran back out the door of the police station, her hair neatly fixed, dressed in a similar jogging suit she'd had on when he saw her in the waiting room of the hospital, only this one was red. She jumped in the car, turned around in the parking lot, and drove off. He shook his head as she passed by the tavern, heading out on Main Street toward the SunRipe plant.

  “What's the matter?” Spider said.

  The smell of frying bacon permeated the tavern, covered all of the other smells. Angel had turned on the radio, a country station out of Indianapolis was playing a Dixie Chicks ballad, and she was singing along.

  “Nothing,” Jordan said. But he didn't even convince himself. Morland, the hospital, was east. Ginny had headed in the opposite direction, in a hurry. “It's probably nothing.”

  He walked out the door and stopped at the curb. The heat and humidity had not changed from the day before, it was oppressive and unbearable. The sky was clear of clouds and there was no wind, no hint of rain, and a thin haze wavered in the distance. A carbon copy day, typical for August, typical for the drought that had settled over Dukaine and refused to leave.

  A small flock of pigeons roosted on the rusted dome of The Farmer's Bank and Trust building. It was not unusual to see a Cooper's hawk swoop in out of nowhere and grab a pigeon for lunch. Hawks were not an unusual sight around Dukaine. He mostly saw red-tails sitting on telephone poles or high in the trees overlooking the fields, waiting for an unknowing mouse to make a run for it. The Cooper's hawks fed on other birds, and the pigeons were all huddled together in a clump of cooing gray and iridescent greens and blues, always aware that they were targets, always on the alert, always looking to the sky for shadows.

  Jordan thought of the shooter. Appearing out of nowhere, relentlessly driving his prey into the corner, and then disappearing with a flurry of silent wing flaps, as if he had never existed at all. He understood how it felt to be a pigeon, and he didn't like it.

  All three police cruisers were parked next to the police station. Holister's, Johnny Ray's, and his. He wondered for a second who had driven his cruiser back from Longer's Pond, and realized just as quickly that it didn't matter. In his own mind, the cruiser belonged to him. He'd driven it home after every shift for the last nine years, parked it in the driveway, washed it, waxed it, and took care of it as if his name were on the title.

  But the cruiser didn't belong to him. It belonged to the town of Dukaine. His gun though, his 9mm, that was his, and he'd lost that, too. And if nothing else came back to him today, he was intent on getting the Glock back. The .38 stuffed in his back was a pain in the ass, uncomfortable as hell. He had no confidence in it, and he felt like a half-baked criminal trying to hide a gun to use for a convenience store holdup.

  He took a deep breath and walked inside the police station. Knowing Holister wasn't there, not knowing what to expect, made it seem like the first time he was entering the building. The ancient sour smell seemed even stronger, more disgusting than it had ever smelled before.

  Louella was si
tting at the dispatch desk, dressed in her normal uniform. The door to Holister's office was closed. Voices chattered on the radio, distorted and fuzzy. She looked at him as he entered the room, and a funny, almost surprised look fell across her face. As quick as it appeared, the look disappeared back into its hard shell.

  “I didn't expect to see you so early this morning,” Louella said, laying down a pencil. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine. A little sore.” Actually, it hurt just to breathe, but he wasn't telling her that. Louella had never asked Jordan how he was doing in the entire time he had known her. Her tone, though, was not of genuine concern, but expected concern, so it was easy to disregard. “Any word on how Holister is doing?”

  “He's holding his own. Ginny said it was a rough night for him. They didn't really expect him to make it to the morning, so there's hope.”

  “Good,” Jordan said, exhaling. “Where's Dylan?”

  “He's in your office.”

  “Did Ginny go back to the hospital?”

  Louella looked at Jordan and shrugged her shoulders. “I guess. She didn't say.”

  “Who's in Holister's office?”

  “Johnny Ray.” He'd stopped at the front of her desk. Louella rolled back in her chair, staring at him with pursed lips.

  “What's he doing in there?”

  Louella drew in a deep breath. “The Town Board had an emergency meeting last night. Johnny Ray's the acting marshal now.”

  Jordan shook his head in disbelief. Power by attrition. The idea of it pretty much suited Johnny Ray's character. Something always told Jordan that Johnny Ray was a vulture, and the impression he had was not entirely because Johnny Ray tried to make extra spending money impersonating a dead man. Whenever there was food around, Johnny Ray took as much as he wanted, without concern for anyone else. And he always talked about getting his mother's house when she died, even though she was one of the healthiest seventy-year-olds Jordan had ever met.

  He hadn't even thought about who would replace Holister. Holister was irreplaceable. But it made sense that the Town Board would appoint Johnny Ray acting marshal. He could see Johnny Ray standing up, the last fat kid in line, wanting desperately to be on the Wyatt Feed baseball team. Pick me! Pick me! And the Town Board had no choice, because he was the only cop left to pick. At least for the moment. “He wants to see you,” Louella added.

  “Good for him. I'm not on duty,” Jordan said. He stared at the closed door to Holister's office, and then turned away from Louella and walked into his own office.

  Dylan Kirsch was sitting on the floor playing with three small die-cast metal cars. The little boy looked up as Jordan stopped at the doorway, and then returned to his imaginary world, banging one car into another, over and over again, doing his best to add sound effects.

  “How you doing, Dylan?” Jordan asked softly.

  “My cars crashed.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I'm not supposed to go anywhere.”

  “Well,” Jordan said, squatting down, ignoring the pain as he did. “That's probably a good idea. It's no fun here, though, is it?”

  “It smells funny.”

  Jordan smiled. “It does.” He hesitated. “Can I ask you a question, Dylan?”

  Dylan shrugged his shoulders, twirled a little police car in his right hand, and made the sound of a siren.

  “Did you tell your daddy you saw me the other night?”

  Dylan shook his head. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The little boy shook his head again. “Yes,” he said as his voice cracked.

  Jordan drew in a deep breath. “All right, then.” He stood up. “I gotta go.”

  “Are you going to see my grandpa? He's hurt.”

  “Not right now. He'll be all right, though. Your grandpa's pretty strong.” Jordan felt a pang of guilt ricochet in his stomach. He'd been lied to as his mother lay dying in the car. “She's going to be fine,” Holister had said to him as they put him in the ambulance next to Spider. He saw the irony in his statement as soon as he said it, but that didn't make the lie any easier.

  “Do you promise?” Dylan asked.

  “No, I can't promise you that. I wish I could. But I'll tell him you said hello when I see him. Is that all right?”

  Dylan nodded, forced a smile, and then returned to playing with his cars.

  Jordan turned to leave the office and came face to face with Johnny Ray.

  CHAPTER 15

  August 22, 2004, 8:09 A. M.

  A half-eaten peanut butter and banana sandwich sat on the desk. Two more uneaten sandwiches wrapped in wax paper sat on a stack of papers next to a Diet Coke. Johnny Ray had already tacked up a picture of Elvis in his karate uniform on the bulletin board. Not much else had changed in Holister's office. Jordan wondered how long it would be before the black velvet portrait of The King in full Vegas regalia that was in Johnny Ray's office would be moved and hung behind Holister's desk. Holister would just go fucking ballistic if he walked in and found Johnny Ray at home in his office.

  Johnny Ray ambled behind the desk and sat down heavily. “Have a seat, Mac,” he said.

  “I'll stand.”

  A half-smile crossed Johnny Ray's face. His trademark smirk. The promotion had obviously motivated the normally lethargic Johnny Ray. His uniform was neatly pressed, his silver badge polished, and his Elvis hair and pork chop sideburns were freshly trimmed and dyed coal black for the new gig.

  “Sheriff Hogue will be glad you came in,” Johnny Ray said.

  “Why's that?”

  “He, uh, wants me to detain you.”

  “Detain me?” Jordan hesitated. “Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer, Johnny Ray?”

  Johnny Ray reached for the Diet Coke and took a swig. “I don't think that's necessary. The sheriff just wants to talk to you, Mac.”

  “You mean interrogate me.” If Johnny Ray called him Mac one more time he was going to reach across the desk and slap him upside the head.

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Where's Hogue?” Jordan asked. He steadied himself by leaning forward on the chair that faced the desk. Anger rose steadily up the back of his neck. His muscles tensed, and the aspirin he'd taken earlier was already wearing off.

  “I don't know where he's at.”

  “Well, have Louella find out.”

  “Calm down, Jordan.”

  “Look, you idiot, I didn't do anything. I didn't shoot Holister, and I sure as hell didn't have a meth lab in my house. Would I be standing here if I did? Or are you just as much of a fucking lunatic as Hogue is?”

  “No need for name calling, Mac.” Johnny Ray leaned back in his chair. To his credit, Johnny Ray seemed unruffled, at ease. That in itself was disconcerting to Jordan. Johnny Ray was usually pretty quick to fly off the handle. He'd drop into his Elvis persona and puff out his chest in two seconds if he felt threatened. But at the moment, he was more like a cat who'd eaten the family parrot, feathers sticking out of his mouth, denying he'd done anything wrong. “You really need to sit down,” Johnny Ray said, his voice low, an octave deeper, the trill restrained.

  Jordan ignored the command again.

  “All right, have it your way. I need your badge.”

  The words hung in the air. Not that Jordan hadn't expected to hear them; he was just shocked that he was actually hearing them. He looked away from Johnny Ray's stare and had an almost uncontrollable urge to pick up the peanut butter and banana sandwich and shove it into Johnny Ray's fat face. “You're not serious.”

  “Serious as a heart attack. You're suspended until further notice.”

  “Fuck.”

  Johnny Ray crossed his arms. “There's nothing I can do about it, Mac. It was the Town Board's decision. And I don't think they'll change their minds. At least until this mess is all cleaned up.”

  “I'm not giving you my badge.”r />
  “I didn't figure you would, but you're still suspended.”

  “There's a shooter out there, Johnny Ray. A smart, conniving shooter who hid in the weeds and shot Holister. I was there. I got shot, goddamn it. Explain that. Did I fucking shoot myself? Whoever it is is up to something. I don't think they're done yet. I think they burned down my house. You need me, damn it!”

  “You don't look like you're in much shape to help out,” Johnny Ray said, taking another sip of Diet Coke. “Why do you think, uh, this person, this shooter, isn't done yet? What do you think they're up to? You know something we don't?”

  “Damn it, I don't know anything. If you're any kind of cop at all, think about it. Making me a suspect doesn't add up.”

  “The ballistics test will clear you then. And you have nothing to worry about, right? So you should just go along with the program. Cooperate. Talk to Hogue. It can't do no harm if you haven't done anything wrong.”

  “Did they find a lab in the house? Is that what this is about?”

  “I don't know. Hogue wouldn't say. All he told me was the fire was obviously intentionally set.”

  “Big surprise. It was arson, at the very least. So, I purposefully set fire to my house? How in the fuck could I have done that when I was in the hospital in Morland?”

  “Hogue's checking on that.”

  “Do you really think I'm capable of shooting Holister and setting fire to my grandmother's house, Johnny Ray? Jesus, even you know me better than that.”

  “I don't know what you're capable of, Jordan.”

  Jordan started to walk out the door but he stopped. “What about the bones? What about the skeleton, Johnny Ray? Don't you think it's a little odd that Holister called me out to the pond after finding the bones, and the shooter waited until we were both there to start firing? Why didn't they just shoot Holister when he showed up? If the bones really belong to Tito Cordova, like Holister thought, then maybe you ought to reopen that case instead of going along with Hogue, trying to pin this shit on me. What about the goddamn bones, Johnny Ray?”