The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “I don't know. He runs a clean department, has high aspirations. It doesn't fit, even though Hogue's been acting strange from the beginning. Maybe I just don't want to believe a cop is involved in something like this . . . a cop shooting another cop.”

  “He was quick to believe it when it was you.”

  “It still doesn't fit.”

  “All right—some things are starting to make sense,” Spider said. “But that doesn't explain the St. Christopher's medal with Esperanza Cordova's name etched on the back. Or the house burning down. Or the bones at the pond. Just thinking about that weirds me out.”

  “Me, too. There's a lot I can't explain. I might have an idea about the bones, though.”

  “What? You know how they got there?”

  Jordan exhaled. “I think I might. If we can find José, I'll know for sure, and then I'm . . .”

  “. . . Right back where you started from. Knocking on Buddy Mozel's door.”

  “He bought the land. Closed it off. That has to be why. He knows what's there. I'm sure of it.”

  “So, maybe you're off base about Ed.”

  “What would Buddy's motive be for shooting Holister, for shooting me? Why would he send the letter, the medal—which at this point looks like it has absolutely nothing to do with anything.”

  “Like I said, it got Big Joe to fuckin' come home,” Spider said.

  “That it did. Are you sure he was in Florida when he called?”

  “I don't know. How can I be sure of that? I didn't hear the ocean in the background or anything like that—but I wasn't listening for it, either. What're you saying?”

  “Maybe Big Joe's the shooter.”

  Spider didn't say anything. He stared at Jordan as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't. His eyes glazed and he looked away quickly, out the window toward the SunRipe plant.

  “It's something to think about,” Jordan said, grabbing a cigarette out of a pack on the dash. He knew he'd crossed a line, implicating their father . . . he was just thinking out loud, trying to make sense of everything. “Let's go. I want to make sure Dylan is all right—make sure he's nowhere near Ginny and Ed until we know what the hell is going on.”

  “I swear to God, you're gonna get us fucking killed.”

  “You want to go back and sit by the phone?”

  “Nope. I don't wanna be there when Hogue shows up with his search warrant.”

  “I didn't think so.”

  The trip to the police station took five minutes. Main Street was nearly vacant. There was very little traffic. A pickup truck full of Mexicans passed by as they stopped in front of the station. It headed out of town, toward the camps. The late afternoon sky was blistered white and it was a little early for the workers to come out of the fields, but Jordan didn't think too much of it. The drought had changed a lot of things—they could have been going back for a break, more water, anything at this point. He had no idea what the shift schedule was at the moment.

  Johnny Ray's cruiser was nowhere to be seen and all of the vehicles at the fire station were gone as well. Jordan sighed a breath of relief, glad there were no cruisers in the parking lot. Only Louella's Buick sat in its normal spot. Spider eased the van next to it.

  “I'll be right back,” Jordan said as he grabbed the door handle.

  “Hey, wait,” Spider said as Jordan opened the door. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Right now?”

  “I shoulda told you sooner. A lot sooner.”

  Jordan looked at Spider curiously, uncertain of the cracking tone in his voice. There were tears in his eyes. “What?”

  “I know what happened to Tito Cordova,” Spider said, staring straight at Jordan.

  “What do you mean you know what happened?”

  Spider took a deep breath. “I was there. I saw everything, goddamn it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  August 22, 2004, 5:41 P. M.

  Dukaine was eerily silent for early evening. Jordan tried not to notice, but all of his senses were on hyper-alert. The window of the van was rolled down, the air-conditioner blowing lukewarm air. He could hear pigeons cooing, smell and taste the rank odor of tomatoes being processed into ketchup, and feel each drop of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. He would have been cooler, more comfortable in his police uniform. Oddly, he felt like he was acting like a cop—but he didn't feel like one. He felt desperate. Hunted. On the run . . . winded and in pain, like he'd just been hit upside the head with a two-by-four.

  He could not remember the last time he'd seen Spider cry. Tears streamed down his brother's face, and Jordan could do nothing but stare.

  “All right,” he said as he sunk back into the passenger seat. “You need to tell me what the fuck is going on. All of it, right now.”

  “I wanted to. Yesterday. Ten years ago. But I couldn't. I was scared. Jesus, I been scared every day of my life since it happened,” Spider said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Damn it, I wish I had a fuckin' joint.”

  “That's the last thing you need right now.” Jordan looked over his shoulder as a semi rumbled through the stoplight on Main Street. It wasn't a SunRipe truck. “What're you scared of?”

  “What isn't there to be scared of? Going to jail. Losing the tavern. Fuck, I don't know. I figured I'd get shot long before you ever did. But nothing happened.”

  Jordan exhaled deeply. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it. All of his concerns about Dylan and Ginny still existed, but they'd have to wait. “You need to tell me everything.”

  Spider nodded. “You're gonna be mad.”

  “I don't give a rat's ass. Tell me what the fuck happened.”

  Sweat beaded on Spider's forehead. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I thought this was over. Day after day I sat in the tavern staring out the window, watching, listening, waiting to hear something. The memory was like white noise—always in the background. Life went on, if you want to call it that. . . . You thought everybody forgot about Tito, but I didn't.”

  Jordan stared at his brother impatiently. “Holister didn't.”

  “A lot of people didn't—haven't.” Spider took a swig of water, his eyes still moist, glazed, and red-eyed. “Nobody knew who Tito's father was, right?” he said. “Everybody always thought Buddy Mozel was his father. It made sense, since Esperanza worked for him. They may have even loved each other in an odd, secret way—I don't know, that would explain a lot of things. Buddy went off the deep end after Tito disappeared, after Esperanza—”

  “—I know all this,” Jordan said.

  “Kitty found out who Tito's father was. That's what started it.” He stopped tapping his fingers, turned his body so he was facing Jordan. “And it wasn't Buddy Mozel.”

  “If you're about to tell me that Big Joe was Tito's father . . .”

  “It'd probably be easier if that were true,” Spider said. “And it very well may be, for all I know. I didn't say I knew everything. I just said I was there.”

  “So, Kitty found out who Tito's father was, but you don't know?”

  Spider nodded. “She never told anybody as far as I know. Took it to her grave.”

  “How'd she find out?” Jordan asked. He took a long drag off his cigarette and exhaled. Why didn't Kitty tell anybody? Especially after Tito disappeared?

  “How'd Kitty find out anything?” Spider said. “She was thick with the Mexicans—you know that. She went to see Esperanza and Tito every month. I don't know when it started, probably from day one since she helped deliver him. Buddy was giving Kitty money to make sure Tito had everything he needed, stayed healthy.”

  “That doesn't add up,” Jordan said. “Why didn't Buddy just include the money in her check? Why feed the fire that he might be Tito's father, especially if you say he wasn't?”

  “Kitty said he wasn't. And Esperanza feared more than anything that Buddy would find out who Tito's father was, that Kitty would tell Buddy.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes.”
<
br />   Jordan took one last drag off the cigarette and flipped it out the window. “When?”

  “After the accident. We talked about a lot of things back then when nobody else was around. You lived with her, but you weren't her only fuckin' grandson.”

  Jordan ignored the comment, ignored the old divide between them. “She never said a word to me about any of this.”

  “You were too young.”

  “You were only sixteen—”

  “—When Tito disappeared, not when Kitty told me. Why does it matter?” Spider asked.

  “It doesn't.” But it did matter to Jordan. He couldn't believe Kitty had kept this information from him. He wasn't sure why he thought he had a right to know—but if she'd told Spider, she should have told him too. “I still don't understand. Why would Buddy Mozel give Esperanza money secretly through Kitty when he could have paid her in a million different ways? She was right there in his house. Why would he do it anyway, if he wasn't Tito's father? And how in the hell did Buddy convince Kitty to do this for him? She despised his treatment of the Mexicans.”

  “You're going to have to ask him.”

  “At least now I know what questions to ask.” The world outside the van had completely vanished from Jordan's view. He had a nagging headache, pain throbbed through his shoulder. The nightmare he'd woke up in after leaving Ginny's bed continued rolling forward. Everything he thought was true for so long was getting turned upside down on its head. Spider had secrets he'd kept hidden for half his life—and even though that wasn't a big surprise, Jordan was numbed by the knowledge that Spider had known all along what had happened to Tito Cordova. Even more unsettling was how involved Kitty was in all of this. God, he wished she were still alive. “What's all this got to do with what you did?” he asked.

  “I didn't do anything, goddamn it. I was there. I saw it!” Spider yelled and then recoiled against the door.

  “You didn't tell anybody. That's doing something.”

  “I'm tellin' you now.”

  Jordan shook his head. OK, but it's a little late, don't you think? He didn't say it out loud, but he wanted to.

  Spider turned again in the driver's seat, stared out the window at the volunteer fire department. A light breeze kicked up some dust in the parking lot, swirled it in a funnel, and vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. He turned the key off and the van's engine chugged and choked with an extended rattle before it went silent. “I was sixteen,” he said. “What the hell did I know? I sure didn't think life would turn out like this.” He smacked his legs, twisted his lips into a frown. Tears brimmed his eyes.

  Ginny had told Jordan the same thing. It was as if living in a small town was an incurable disease, an illness slow to show its symptoms. And when it did, it was too late to treat it. You just died a slow miserable death, one day at a time. Staying in Dukaine had infected them all—even him. Sitting there, staring at Spider, looking into his eyes, Jordan felt empty, lonelier than he'd felt in a long, long time. Nobody's life had turned out like they thought it would.

  The wound in his shoulder throbbed harder, and the loneliness turned to anger, but Jordan restrained it. I got shot because of you, he wanted to scream. Holister is dead because of you. But he said nothing. He just continued to stare and waited for the truth to seep out of Spider's mouth.

  “Tell me what happened,” Jordan said.

  “All right. Better now than later, I suppose.” Spider sniffled, wiped his eyes and nose.

  Jordan remained frozen. Waiting. It unsettled him to see Spider like this.

  “It was a normal day,” Spider began. “I was lookin' for a bag of pot. Charlie was doing something else after school—working on a car, something, I don't remember now. We were in the tenth grade, and Charlie was always working on that damn Electra his grandfather gave him. Anyhow, I was walking home, and Ed Kirsch passed by. I waved him down.”

  Jordan bit his lip, pressed down hard enough so he wouldn't say what he was thinking. You motherfucker. How could you not tell me?

  Spider took a deep breath. “Ed's a year older than me, was in the grade ahead of me, and I never liked getting pot from him—you know that. The Mexicans were gone, so pot was a little hard to come by. But Ed always had something when I was desperate, even if it was just homegrown, or a dime bag that was always a little short, which in those days didn't matter too much. Hell, a damn dime bag would last a week or two. . . . Sure isn't that way now.”

  “You should have warned me about Ed,” Jordan finally said, glaring at Spider.

  “I told you to stay away from him, from Ginny.”

  “You don't get it.”

  “Yes, I do. More than you think. Do you wanna hear this or not?”

  “Go on.”

  “Ed said he'd have to go to the house to get me a bag, but he had something to do first. Did I want to ride along? Sure I did. Didn't fuckin' want to go home. Mom and Big Joe were at war. He should have left Dukaine then instead of waiting until he did.”

  Jordan nodded.

  “So, I got in the car and Ed and I smoked a doobie, kind of a try before you buy, you know? No, you wouldn't. Never mind. Anyway, we drove out in the country, the opposite way of Ed's house. I didn't know where he was going. Fuck, I didn't care. Ed started ranting about the Mexicans. It was November and they were gone. I thought it was a little odd, but people around here carry that hate year-round, so I didn't pay much attention. Ed was just blowin' off, like usual. We slowed down about a half-mile from the Cordova place, and Ed stopped. He turned to me and said, ‘You tell anybody about this and I'll have to kill you.’ He was serious, and it scared the holy fuckin' shit out of me. I should have got out of the car right then, should have never gotten into it to begin with, but by then it was too late. I was so stoned I could barely move. I had cottonmouth, couldn't say a word.

  “I don't know why he took me with him. I suppose he thought he and I were just alike. Everybody in town knew how Big Joe felt about the Mexicans—Ed's father was in the tavern all the time. And he was right—I didn't like the Mexicans any more than the next guy. But I never had anything against that kid. I barely knew he existed. What the hell did I care back then who his father was, or that he was a half-breed? Buddy Mozel was barely on my radar. He was just the jerk with the black Lincoln who owned the plant and half the town. All I cared about was getting stoned and getting laid, which hadn't happened yet, by the way.”

  “Not much has changed,” Jordan said.

  “Yeah it has. Everything has changed. I still wish I could get laid—and getting stoned isn't what it used to be. Anyway, I think Ed took some satisfaction that I was with him because of Kitty—he mentioned her. Asked me how I felt about her tending to the migrants. I said I didn't fucking care what she did. Parents, grandparents, it didn't matter, I didn't like anybody that had any kind of authority. Kitty was great for a meal, but what she did beyond that didn't matter to me, I had to deal with her every once in a while, but I didn't have to like what she did anymore than I had to like Big Joe and what he did. Everything was all fucked up back then. Our world was fallin' apart, not that it was ever great to begin with, and the only time I wasn't mad was when I was stoned.”

  Spider took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and tightened his ponytail. He stared off into space, searching for details. “Ed pulled up in the driveway. The kid was standin' on the porch. When Ed got out of the car, Tito started runnin'. It was like watchin' a rabid dog chasing down a rabbit. By then I was really freaked out—I just sat there and watched, I couldn't breathe. Ed caught him, started punchin' him and dragged him back to the car, opened the trunk, and tossed him in, hard. The kid kept screamin', beatin' on the lid to get out. Ed got in the car—looked at me and started laughin'. Tito had scratched his face and a thin line of blood ran down his cheek. But Ed couldn't take the noise. He got out again, opened the trunk, and beat the kid until he was quiet. I could see through the rearview mirror and the crack of the trunk lid. He really hurt that kid. I do
n't know if he killed him then or not. But he could have—he really went at it. He could have done it right then and there.”

  Tears streamed down Spider's face again, and he began to cough.

  Jordan tensed up. Without the engine running, the interior was getting hotter by the minute. Every once in a while, a breeze would flitter through the open windows. He could taste the dust from the parking lot. His skin itched with sweat, but he sat motionless, totally restraining himself from saying anything, from moving. He had to hear this, had to separate the fact that Spider was his brother, that a crime had been committed and he was hearing the details—but it was getting harder and harder not to play cop with Spider.

  “We went to Ed's house, got a bag of pot, which was a huge, generous dime bag, and then he drove me to the spot where he picked me up and dropped me off.”

  “What happened to Tito?”

  “He was in the trunk the whole time. I never heard a peep out of him, no movement, nothing. I figured he was dead. When those bones were found at the pond, I figured it was him, just like you did. I was relieved. It was finally over with,” Spider said. His face glistened with sweat and tears, but his eyes seemed clear now. His breathing returned to normal. He looked truly relieved, lightened. “When Ed came after you, I figured all I needed to do was sit back and watch—make sure you knew to be wary of him. The cops would do their job, figure out sooner or later that Ed dumped the kid at the pond.”

  “But it's not Tito's bones. And you don't know what Ed did with him after you left the car?” Jordan said.

  “No, I don't.”

  “I still don't understand why you never told me, told Holister.”

  “I told you, I was scared. Even more so after the accident. How would I defend myself against Ed?”

  “Why'd Ed take Tito? I don't understand—it doesn't seem to me he was doing it for kicks. He was heading there, right?”

  “Yes,” Spider said, turning away. “I didn't ask why. All I know is what had happened that day, and what happened in the next week or two. And then the accident happened, and that changed everything for a long, long time. Nobody talked about Tito to me—and I sure the hell wasn't going to bring it up.”