by Bill Crider
I didn't see Gar, but I knew he was there somewhere, maybe in back of the door.
Evans said, "Come on in, Mr. Smith. You, too, Miz Lindeman."
We walked into the room, and the door swung shut behind us. Sure enough, Gar stood there. He was grinning and showing those wonderful teeth, but there was nothing comical about him.
"I don't think we've been formally introduced," I told Evans.
Evans nodded. "That's the truth. But you know who we are, I'll bet. And we know who you are, don't we, boys."
"Yeah," Bert said. "We know who you are."
Gar didn't say a thing. He just stood there grinning at me. Maybe he couldn't talk.
"You're the fella who's gonna say we shot that bird," Bert went on. "The one who's gonna say we shot at you and Red from an airplane. That's who you are."
"Now hold on there, Bert," Evans said. "There's no need for us to rush to judgment about what Mr. Smith's going to say about us. Why don't you and Mrs. Lindeman have a seat, Mr. Smith, and we'll have a little talk about this and that."
There were three overstuffed armchairs in the room, all of them as old as the couch and covered with rips and dark stains. Anne sat in one, while I sat in another. Bert and Gar remained standing, never taking their eyes off me. Bert's hand was still in his jacket pocket. I was beginning to think he didn't trust me.
"Now then, about that Prairie Chicken," Evans said. "In the first place, I think it's a stupid waste of the public's tax dollars to save some endangered bird, and in the second place, I don't care if somebody killed it. There's thousands of kinds of birds out there. What good's one more kind? Do you think that bird was going to come up with a cure for cancer or invent some kind of super computer? No way. Last time I looked, 'bird brain' wasn't exactly a compliment."
I was beginning to think I was listening to a monologue that Evans had prepared for one of his shows, and I started to interrupt.
Evans didn't let me. "Now hold on. I'll just say my piece and then you can talk. As I was telling you, I don't care if someone killed that bird, but I didn't kill it, and neither did Bert or Gar. Did you, boys?"
"Hell, no," Bert said.
Gar didn't say a thing, but when I glanced in his direction he was shaking his head.
"So that settles that," Evans said. "You can say a lot of bad things about me, and come to think of it, people have said a lot of bad things about me, but you can't say I'm not a man of my word. If I say I didn't do something, you can take it for the truth, and the same goes for Bert and Gar.
"Now, then, about that airplane. We didn't do that, either. We heard about it, of course, just like everyone else in town heard about it, but that's all. Why, Gar there can't stand airplanes. He gets air sick. Isn't that right, Gar?"
Gar nodded, grinning.
"And Bert? Bert's got a fear of heights. He gets nervous when he climbs a step ladder. Tell him, Bert."
"That's right," Bert said. "I don't even like to stay in a two-story house."
"So that takes care of that," Evans said. "Anything else we can do for you?"
"I wouldn't dream of doubting your word," I said. "And I wouldn't doubt Bert and Gar, either. But let me ask you one thing, just out of curiosity."
"Sure," Evans said. "You go right ahead."
"What were you doing today around noon?"
"I thought you said you believed me."
"I did, but it always helps to have a little verification from another source."
Evans smiled. "I can see that. And I don't mind telling you, either. Just about that time, Bert and Gar and I were having us a hamburger at my house. Bert went to the Burger Barn, and picked them up."
So much for verification from another source.
"The girl at the Burger Barn will tell you Bert was there. Right, Bert?"
"Damn straight."
I was sure she would. But I wasn't at all sure that I'd believe her.
"Anything else?" Evans asked, looking satisfied.
"Is it true that Paul Lindeman is going to pull your show as soon as he gets the latest advertising figures together?"
"You son of a bitch," Bert said.
"Now, then, Bert," Evans said, using his smooth radio voice, "just hold on. There's no call for that kind of talk. There's a lady present."
"I don't care about any lady," Bert said. "I'm gonna whip this son of a -- "
Evans raised a hand. "Don't say it again, Bert. And you move back where you were, Gar."
Gar was standing right beside me, and I didn't even know how he'd gotten there. I hadn't heard a sound or seen a movement. A chill trickled down my backbone as he backed away.
Evans waited a beat and said, "You can see that the boys don't take kindly to someone who insults me."
"I can see, all right. But that doesn't answer the question."
"I'll answer it, then," Bert said. "Lindeman isn't gonna pull the show. He knows what would happen if he tried."
"No threats, Bert," Evans said. "You know better than that."
Bert didn't look as if he cared.
"And what about Lance Garrison?" I said. "I hear he wouldn't mind getting you off the air."
"That's a damn lie," Bert said. "Garrison loves Ralph's show."
"I've been assured that I have Mr. Garrison's full support," Evans said. "I think I can say with about a hundred percent certainty that he's not going to let the station drop my show. I don't think I have to worry about that."
"The old vote of confidence," I said. "Every losing football coach gets it, just before he's canned."
Evans didn't look scared. He just looked bored. "You're wearing out your welcome, Mr. Smith. Why don't you show him out, Gar."
Gar was suddenly beside me again, and this time his hand was on my left elbow, not crushing it, but lifting me straight up out of the chair as if I weighed no more than a dust bunny.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Lindeman," Evans said as Anne stood up. "Give my regards to your husband."
"I'll do that," Anne said. "But I'm not so sure he'll return the thought."
Gar spun me around and propelled me toward the door. I didn't fight against it. I was afraid he might do something that I'd regret.
He opened the door with one hand and gave me a light shove in the back with the palm of the other. I didn't quite sail across the hall into the opposite wall, but it took an effort to avoid it.
I heard the door close and turned around. Anne was standing there.
"Friendly bunch of folks you have here in Picketville," I said.
"Don't we, though. Did you learn anything from them?"
"Not much, except that they don't have an alibi for this afternoon. They might have eaten hamburgers for lunch, but that doesn't mean they weren't up in that plane."
"So what's the next step?"
"How are those hamburgers at the Burger Barn?"
"Not quite as hot as the jalapeno burger at The Toole Shed."
"Good. I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Want to join me for dinner?"
She thought about it, but not for long. "Why not? It's been years since we had a date. But only if you spring for French fries, too."
"You've got a deal," I said.
The burger was OK, but nothing special. What made things special was the fact that Anne was sitting in the booth across from me, eating French fries with her fingers and drinking Coke through a straw just as she'd done when we were kids.
I was so carried away that I even told a couple of corny jokes, and they made her laugh, or at least she pretended that they did.
When we left the Burger Barn she said, "What are you going to do now?"
It was a nice evening, the full moon breaking through the clouds now and then and just the hint of a breeze. I wanted to go somewhere outside and sit and talk to her, but I didn't know where to go.
"It's such a nice night," Anne said. "There's a roadside park not far from the Inn. You passed it on the way to Lance's ranch this morning. Why don't we go there and tal
k for a little while?"
Either she still knew me very well or she was feeling the same thing I was, the tug of memory and desire.
"What about Paul?" I said.
"All he thinks about is his job. He won't even miss me. Let's go."
I didn't argue.
The roadside park wasn't a big one. There were two concrete tables with concrete benches and a litter barrel shaded by spreading oak trees that had no doubt been planted by the Highway Department sixty or seventy years previously.
We sat on one of the benches and talked for over an hour -- about the good times we'd had in Galveston so many years before, and about the things that had happened since.
Anne went first. As it turned out, she hadn't traveled much more of the world than I had, but she said that life in Picketville wasn't all bad, and she didn't beg me to take her away with me.
"I get away from Picketville now and then," she said. "I go to Houston, and I visit Galveston. There's plenty to keep me busy. And Paul's a good man, maybe better than I deserve. I worry about him."
"Why?" I asked.
"You heard what Bert Ware said. He and Gar are violent men. Both of them have been arrested more than once for brawling, but Evans always makes their bond."
"Do you think they killed the Prairie Chicken?"
"I don't think it would bother either one of them to kill a Prairie Chicken. Or a human being for that matter."
I didn't think so either, but I didn't want to talk about Bert and Gar. Anne asked why I'd gone back to Galveston, and I told her a little about Jan. Not much. I wasn't sure that I knew the whole story, and I didn't want to blacken anyone's memory without being certain.
She moved a little closer to me and said, "That's terrible. I know you must feel really sad about it."
She brushed my shoulder with her own, and I felt seventeen again. I thought for maybe a tenth of a second about slipping my arm around her the way I had in the Broadway theater on our first date, but then she smiled, stood up, and said it was time for her to go.
She took me back to the Picketville Inn, where I took a very cold shower, read a couple of chapters from Tobacco Road, and went to bed.
I slept without dreaming until 4:39 a. m. I know the exact time because there was a digital clock radio on the nightstand. Its glowing red numbers were the first thing I saw when Sheriff Peavy and his deputy came through the door and dragged me out of bed.
They told me that Paul Lindeman was dead, and that they were pretty sure who'd killed him.
Me.
Sixteen
Deputy Denbow stood in front of the door with his arms crossed over his chest. If anything, his eyes were redder than they'd been that afternoon.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed in my Jockey shorts and T-shirt trying to get my sleep-muddled mind in gear, while Sheriff Peavy hulked over me as if he hoped I'd make some kind of move that would allow him to club me in the head with the short-barreled .38 Special that his jacket had been pulled back to reveal.
If I'd been a desperate criminal, I might have made a grab for it and tried to shoot him. Since I wasn't desperate, at least not yet, I was careful not to make any move at all.
"What makes you think I killed Paul Lindeman?" I asked.
The inside of my mouth tasted worse than it had that afternoon, like the Chinese Nationalist Army had marched through it wearing unwashed sweat socks, but I didn't think it would be a good idea to ask if I could get a drink. And I was sure that Peavy wouldn't let me get one even if I did ask.
"Because you were out with his wife tonight," Denbow said from the door. "That what makes us think you killed him. We know all about it."
"We just ate a hamburger and talked," I said. "That's all."
Denbow shook his head as if he was sadly disappointed in me. "That's not what we hear."
"Who did you talk to?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea. Thank you, Ralph Evans.
Denbow walked over to the bed and stood beside Peavy. "That's none of your business."
He poked me in the chest with a stiffened index finger. I was already bruised from the binoculars, but I didn't flinch. Well, I didn't flinch much.
"And don't ask any more questions," he said. "That's our job."
"Where was he killed?" I asked, just to show him he couldn't scare me.
"You should know," Peavy said. "Since you did it. Why don't you tell us?"
"Because I don't know. I'm trying to find out."
"You know, all right," Denbow said. He grabbed a handful of my T-shirt and yanked me off the bed and onto my knees. "You made the phone call."
I jerked backward, pulling the shirt from his hand. I pushed away from him and stood up.
"Don't do that," I said, and he swung his right fist at my head.
I ducked aside and started to sink a good hard right about three inches into his stomach, but I was stopped by Peavy's .38 against my temple.
"Why don't you just sit back on the bed and cool off," he said.
The cold barrel of the .38 had a soothing effect on my temper, and I sat down.
"Keep your deputy away from me," I said. I was breathing a little heavily, but I said it calmly.
Peavy didn't even bother to glance at Denbow, who was standing a few feet away looking as if he'd like to do a little work on my face with his baton.
Peavy said, "Paul Lindeman was shot about two hours ago outside the radio station. His wife told us that someone had called him and told him there was an emergency there. He didn't tell her what it was. He just said he'd be back in about an hour. When he didn't come back in two hours, she called the station. There was no answer, and that's when she called us. We went over to the station and found Lindeman lying by his car. Somebody used a twelve-gauge shotgun on him. There wasn't much left of his head."
Something twisted in my stomach. I'd liked Paul Lindeman, enough to be the least bit ashamed that I was attracted to his wife, and now he was dead. It wasn't my fault, but I still felt a little guilty.
"I never met Lindeman before yesterday," I said. "I knew his wife years ago, but we haven't seen each other since high school. We had a hamburger tonight at the Burger Barn and then talked for a while at a roadside park, but that's all there was to it -- talk. You can ask her."
Peavy looked over his shoulder at Denbow. Denbow shrugged.
Peavy turned back to me. "We did ask her. She tells the same story. But she would."
"This is ridiculous." I started to get up, but Peavy wiggled the .38 and I stayed seated. "You know I didn't kill anyone."
"Do you have a shotgun?" Denbow asked.
"Of course not. I don't have any gun at all."
"Then you won't mind if we search your truck."
"I wouldn't mind, but it's not here. It's out at the Garrison place. I'm driving Red Lindeman's truck."
I wondered if anyone had told Red about his son. I was glad it wasn't my job to do it.
"I saw Red's truck outside," Peavy said. "We'll just search that one."
"Not without me," I told him.
I wasn't going to let them plant a shotgun in the truck while I sat in the motel room. I pulled on my jeans and we went outside into the humid early-morning air. The blue glow of a mercury vapor lamp floated over us. I hadn't bothered to lock the truck, so I told Denbow to go ahead and look inside.
He opened the door and pulled back the seat. There was nothing there except what you might expect: a tow chain, a hammer, a set of cheap socket wrenches, a pair of work gloves, and some oily rags.
"No shotgun," Denbow said to Peavy, slamming the seat back into place. "But that doesn't mean he didn't do it."
"That Prairie Chicken of Garrison's was killed with a twelve gauge," I said. "I wasn't anywhere near here when that happened."
"That doesn't prove diddly," Denbow said. "There's no way to show that the same two guns were used, not with shotguns."
"It's something to think about, though," I said. "I'm surprised it hadn't occurred to you."
> "Oh, it occurred to us," Peavy said. "We may be country boys, Mr. Smith, but we're not stupid."
He didn't look stupid. In the ghostly light of the parking lot, he looked both tough and sly.
"If I were you, I'd look for someone with a grudge against Lindeman," I said. "Not some stranger in town."
"Wiseass," Denbow said, but he didn't really seem to mean it.
"We're going to let you go for now," Peavy said. "But I hope you were planning to stick around town for a few days."
"You couldn't pay me to leave," I said.
They weren't amused, but they'd had their fun with me and it was time for them to go. They both looked disappointed, as if they'd thought I'd confess and make their job easy for them. Or maybe they were just sorry that I hadn't given them a chance to shoot me.
I watched them get into their patrol car and leave. Denbow was driving, and he took off fast, spraying gravel from beneath the back wheels just to impress me. When they were out of sight, I went back inside to shave and finish dressing.
Anne lived in a red brick house with a neat yard and white wooden shutters on the windows. Red was with her in the living room when I arrived. There were a few friends there, too, and I was introduced to all of them, but I didn't try to remember their names.
And then there was Martin York, wearing a dark suit and a white shirt with a black tie. I thought he was showing far too much attention to Anne, taking every opportunity to hold her hand or to put his arm across her shoulders. He was trying to look bereaved, but I thought he just looked hopeful.
Anne was calm and dry-eyed, which I took as a bad sign. I didn't know much about grief, but I knew that it was best not to keep it all inside. I'd tried that, and it hadn't worked very well.
After I'd told her the things most people do in similar situations, about how sorry I was and how I'd do whatever I could to help, Red motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen. He wasn't wearing a suit; he didn't even have on a tie. I wondered why. Maybe because of his leg wound; he was still using the crutches.