by Ken Oder
“I didn’t invite you in, Cole!”
He took off his hat and jacket and hung them on a rack by the door. He gestured toward a sitting area in front of a window looking out at the front yard. “Have a seat, ma’am.”
“I said I don’t—”
“I said take a seat.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears and her chin quivered. She bowed her head for a few moments and then gave Cole a cross look. “I made a pot of coffee a while back. I expect I’ll need a cup if you won’t leave me be.”
“Suit yourself, ma’am, but I’m not leaving here till we talk.”
She shook her head disgustedly and walked across the room. She passed through a swinging door to her kitchen.
The woman is eighty-five, Cole told himself. Age takes its toll on a person’s good humor, as he had learned all too well since he turned sixty and everything went to hell.
He looked around the room. An upright piano stood against the opposite wall, an arrangement of family pictures hanging above it. He walked over to them.
On the top row, Milton Tilden posed under a soft light in a World War I army uniform. He was a tall skinny young man then, with sandy hair, a big nose, and a toothy grin. Another photograph showed a young Bessie in a wedding gown and Milton in a tuxedo standing in front of a church. Another showed Bessie in front of Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home, bundled up in a skunk-fur coat, a fad back in the twenties when Cole was a boy. He vaguely recalled that she wore something like it the morning of the murder.
Pictures of the Tildens’ daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandbabies filled out the middle and bottom rows. The one exception to the family theme hung in the lower right-hand corner: a photograph of a young Leland Mundy standing in front of his screen porch wearing blue coveralls, squinting into the sun, smiling. Betty Lou was not in the picture.
Bessie backed through the swinging door carrying a tray with a coffee pot and cups. She walked unsteadily across the room.
“Let me take that for you, ma’am.” Cole set the tray on the coffee table and helped her sit down on the sofa. He sat in a rocking chair.
She poured coffee with a trembling hand. The light coming through the window tinted her silver hair blue and unearthed liver spots and gullied creases under her coating of makeup.
She handed Cole a cup, and he took a sip. He set it down and withdrew a pencil and notebook from his shirt pocket. “What time did you wake up the night of the murder, ma’am?”
Bessie pinched her lips together. “I talked to that young man, Dooley. I have nothing more to say.”
“Yes, ma’am, but Chase tells me you were rattled and wouldn’t say much. The murder had to have come as a shock to you. Now that some time has passed, you’ll remember more about what happened. Let’s start with the gunshot. You told Chase you were awake when you heard it. What time did you wake up?”
Bessie didn’t respond.
“I’m not leaving here till you answer my questions, ma’am.”
She made a sour face. “Four in the morning.”
“What woke you so early?”
“Milton’s prostate gave him fits before he died. He got up several times a night to answer the call a nature. Always woke me up, clunking around in the bathroom like a big ole bear. Waking up at night turned into a habit I can’t break. Four o’clock was when he made his last run. That awful night, I woke up at four, like always, and couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“I see, ma’am. You told Chase you heard gunfire about four forty-five.”
“That was the time on my bedside table clock when I heard the shot.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went to my bedroom window and looked out at the road in front of Leland’s house, where it sounded like the shot came from. I couldn’t see anything except the car’s headlights shining through the fir trees.”
Cole paused. “You didn’t mention a car to Chase, ma’am.”
“What?”
“You didn’t tell Chase about seeing a car.”
She put her hand to her brow. “My word. I could have sworn I told him.”
Bessie’s sighting of a car intrigued Cole. Chase had found the tire track of a big car or light duty pickup on the shoulder of the road about twenty feet below the gate, but couldn’t discern a tread pattern. The forensics team estimated it could have been left there any time during the week prior to the murder, so Cole had thought it wasn’t related to the killing. Bessie seeing headlights that night changed his opinion.
“Where was this car?”
“In front of Leland’s house near the gate.”
“What did it look like?”
“The fir trees blocked my view. All I saw was its headlights.”
“Did you see it drive off?”
“Oh,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I’d forgotten, but you’re right. After the gunfire, it went up the hill.”
“Then you must have gotten a look at it.”
She put her hand to her lips and looked at the floor. “It was big. A dark color. Blue or black.”
Cole thought of Reba’s black Impala with its racing stripes. “Did you notice any details about it, any unusual markings or paint patterns?”
“Nothing like that, but one of its taillights was burned out.” She shook her head. “No. Wait. That might have been the car I followed home the other night.” She shook her head feebly. “I don’t know.”
“Was the sound of the engine quiet or loud?”
“Normal, I guess. I don’t remember.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“I couldn’t see inside the car.”
Cole puffed out his cheeks. If she’d told Chase about the car the day of the murder, she might have remembered more.
Bessie seemed to sense Cole’s frustration. “In all the turmoil, I must have forgotten to tell that young man about the car.” She touched the rim of her hairdo self-consciously. “When you get old as I am, you forget things. You can’t even trust what you think you remember. When my sister, Clara, was my age, she saw a man in her bedroom every night knocking down the walls with a ball-peen hammer. Of course, it was all in her mind. My nephew had to put her in a home. She didn’t know who she was those last few months.” Bessie stared into space, looking fearful.
“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone out there by the gate, ma’am?”
“It was too dark. There was no moon that night.”
“What did you do after the car drove away?”
“I called your office.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I couldn’t go to sleep, so I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table until the sun came up. When I heard more shots, I went over there and found Betty Lou in the yard and saw you on the porch.”
Bessie was a textbook case of an unreliable witness. Cole was reasonably certain she’d seen a car at the gate, but much less confident it was dark-colored with a broken taillight. Given her faulty memory, he thought he’d probably gotten all he could expect to learn from her. He asked a general question to close the interview. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the murder, ma’am?”
“I can tell you Leland didn’t kill her,” she said vehemently. Her eyes filled with tears. “He was like a son to me, took care of my house, mowed the grass, cleaned the gutters. He watched after me and wouldn’t take a penny for it. He was a good and decent man. And he loved Betty Lou. Don’t ask me why. God knows she didn’t deserve it.” Bessie’s face hardened. “She was nothing but a brazen tramp!”
Cole was surprised by the animosity in Bessie’s voice. “Why do you say that, ma’am?”
“She cheated on Leland for years!”
“How do you know that?”
Bessie stared down at her coffee and ran her finger around the lip of the cup, seemingly reluctant to answer the question. Then she took a deep breath, went to the piano bench, lifted its lid, returned to the sofa, and thrust an envelope at Cole.
He
took a kerchief from his pocket and grasped it. It was smudged, soiled, and yellowed with age. Its sealed flap had been ripped open. He spilled its contents on the coffee table. A color photograph fell out faceup. Betty Lou Mundy sat on the edge of a bed stripped of its covers except for a sheet. She looked to be in her twenties. She was naked, her hands cupping her breasts and thrusting them toward the photographer, her knees pressed together. Her face was flushed and she was smiling.
“Where did you get this?”
“I stole it from Betty Lou.”
“You stole it? When?”
“A long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Fifteen years ago or more.”
“How did it come about that you stole it?”
“I went over to their house one morning to give them an angel food cake. Leland was at work. Betty Lou made coffee and we sat at the kitchen table and talked. The telephone rang and she went in the living room to answer it. One of those trashy magazines was sitting on the table, True Detective or something like that. I flipped through it and out plopped that envelope. I thought it was strange it didn’t have an address or a stamp. I knew it was none of my business, but I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. I looked inside and found that picture and a note.”
“Where’s the note?”
“I lost it long ago. I don’t know where it went.”
“What did it say?”
“The man who wrote it said he hoped he and Betty Lou could get together again the next time Leland was away from home.” Bessie hesitated. “Had some dirty talk I won’t ever repeat to a living soul.”
“Was it signed?”
“Papa Bear.”
“You have any idea who Papa Bear was?”
“None.”
“How did you end up with the envelope?”
“While Betty Lou was on the phone, I decided to leave because I didn’t want to socialize with a woman like her. I put the magazine back on the table the way I found it, and I took the envelope with me because I didn’t want Leland to find the photograph. It would have broken his heart.”
“Why did you keep it for all these years?”
“I kept it so I wouldn’t forget who Betty Lou really was. She came over here all the time, sat in the kitchen with me and sweet-talked me and acted like she cared about me, but that picture showed me the real Betty Lou, a liar and a cheater.” She took a sip of coffee. “For Leland’s sake I hoped she’d straighten up, but she never did.” She wiped her lips with a napkin. “You should be looking for one of the men she slept with. With all her filthy carrying-on, it’s a wonder someone didn’t kill her years ago.”
“Do you know the names of any of the men she took up with?”
“No.”
He looked at the photograph and thought about Papa Bear. A man from fifteen years ago almost certainly had nothing to do with the murder, and even if he did, Cole probably couldn’t trace the old photograph back to him. Without much hope that it would ever lead to anything, he slipped the photograph into the envelope and put it in an evidence pouch.
“I may have more questions later, but that’s all for now, ma’am.” He stood. “Thank you for your help.”
She retrieved his hat and jacket. He thanked her again and went outside, and she shut the door behind him.
Chapter Eight
The Attack
Cole grasped Bessie’s porch railing and descended the steps. His back had gotten worse. At the foot of the steps, he leaned over and propped his hands on his knees. His doctor said leaning over opened gaps between his spine’s lumbar joints, easing the pain of spinal stenosis by relieving pressure on nerves in his lower back. The doctor was right. The pain went away, but as soon as he straightened up, it returned. He cursed under his breath and limped across the yard toward his patrol car.
Cole stopped just outside a row of hedges bordering the road, gripped Bessie’s rusty mailbox, and leaned over as far as he could. He lifted his head and looked at the box. Flaking white paint with black letters, “M. Tilden.” Below that, “358 W.H. Rd.” Pockmarks from a load of bird shot. Rust clotted in the little pits.
His back felt better. He straightened up and it hurt again. Holding on to the mailbox, he leaned over again. He looked over the top of Bessie’s hedgerow at Bobcat Mountain rising up behind her house. A light breeze moved through the fir trees halfway up the slope.
His back pain went away. He straightened up and it returned. It was maddening. He heaved a sigh and started to take a step toward his patrol car when the shriek of a blue jay on Bobcat pierced the silence. He stopped and looked up at the mountain. The jay shrieked again, drawing Cole’s eyes to a big white pine about a quarter of the way up the slope. A heavy wind moaned in the trees as it blew across the face of Bobcat. A sliver of brilliant blue broke through the green and a light flashed just below it, blinding Cole. When he raised his hand to shield his eyes, his back clenched. His leg gave way and he listed to his left, grabbing the mailbox to stay upright. At that moment, a shot rang out; air rushed by his right ear; and a thump and a whoosh sounded behind him.
He twisted around to see his front tire flattened, the car’s front end sagging down over the blown tire. Cole sank to his knees as the thunderous shot echoed through the hollow. BOOM, Boom, boom. A few seconds later, a second shot exploded, decapitating the mailbox and splitting the wooden post on which it was perched. The metal box hit the side of the patrol car as Cole raised his hand to fend off a covey of splinters.
He got down on his belly and army-crawled around the patrol car to its far side. He got up on his knees behind the front fender, drew his service revolver, and peeked over the car at the mountain. A third shot shattered the windshield and bits of plate glass stung his face just before he ducked down.
He crawled on all fours to the rear of the car, took off his hat, and peered over the back fender. The white pine where he’d seen the blinding light was about seventy-five yards away. He was a good shot with a handgun, but not that good, and the pine’s branches were thick, concealing the shooter. He could throw a scare into him, though. He braced his hands on the car and aimed at the base of the pine. He fired three shots in rapid succession.
The shooter returned fire. A bullet plowed a furrow in the asphalt ten feet down the road to Cole’s right. He ducked down and looked over at the bullet’s stripe in the road, way off the mark for a shooter with a scoped rifle.
He peeked over the car’s trunk and trained his gunsight on the big pine, waiting for another flash of light, a swatch of color, a glimpse of movement, anything that would betray the location of his assailant. Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Bessie’s front door opened. She half-crouched in the doorway, looking dazed and confused. “Cole?”
Afraid she might come out to the car, Cole stood and waved at her. “Get back inside! Get back!”
Light flashed under the pine and another shot exploded. A bullet broke a window on the passenger side and thumped into the front seat just as Cole crouched down.
Cole peeked over the rear fender at the house. The door was closed, and Bessie was nowhere in sight. He braced his hands on the trunk and fired two shots at the spot where he’d seen the flash of light. A branch of the pine broke off and fell, exposing a patch of tan clothing. Cole fired another shot and the swatch of tan melted into a thicket of green fir.
Cole pulled bullets from his belt loops and reloaded his gun while he watched the pine. He caught a glimpse of tan to the right of the tree and then it disappeared.
Cole trained his gun on that spot and watched for the man. A full minute passed. No flashes of light. No movement in the trees. No sound. Nothing.
He crawled to the car door, opened it, and radioed dispatch to report that he was under fire and needed backup. Thinking of Bessie, he requested an ambulance with orders for the driver to wait at the bend in the road below Leland Mundy’s property until Cole gave him the all-clear.
He crept back
to the rear of the car and watched the big pine. No sign of the shooter. He wanted to go after the bastard, but there was no cover between Bessie’s house and the foot of the mountain, and the shooter’s position pinned him down. He resigned himself to waiting for help.
Five minutes. Ten. Then he heard an engine fire up below him at the bend in the road. Tires squealed and the roar moved south toward Fox Run. The son of a bitch was running. Abandoning caution, Cole jig-jogged awkwardly down the road, hoping to get a look at the vehicle. He stopped at Leland’s driveway. He saw nothing and the engine had already faded away.
His back throbbed. He leaned over for a few moments, then straightened up, holstered his gun, and walked back to his car. He leaned against it and worked his hand under his back brace to rub his iliac crest.
A jay shrieked, drawing his attention back to the tall white pine. A blaze of blue burst from the tree and flew west into the red setting sun. The blue speck grew smaller and smaller until it melted into orange and maroon clouds.
Cole stared after it. If the jay hadn’t cried out, he wouldn’t have turned and stumbled, and that first shot would have split his skull like a ripe melon, but the perfect timing of the bird’s call meant nothing, he told himself. There were thousands of jays in the hollow. And yet . . .
A siren wailed. Cole turned toward the sound. Chase Dooley’s patrol truck sped around the bend in the road and climbed the hill toward Bessie’s house.
Chapter Nine
The Contract
On a hot fall afternoon six months before he tried to kill Sheriff Cole Grundy at Bessie Tilden’s house, Ray Middleditch turned off a state road outside Cheraw, South Carolina, onto a gravel road. A half mile into a pine forest, the gravel road petered out and a dirt road carried on from there to an abandoned brick manse sitting in a neglected field. Ray parked beside a falling-down outbuilding and walked toward the porch, sweeping the weeds ahead of him with a walking stick, watchful for snakes. He pushed his way through shrubs that had grown chest-high across a brick walkway, stopped at the foot of the porch steps, and looked up at the place. Its front door was missing and the windows on each side of it were busted out, dark holes that looked like gouged-out eyes on either side of a gaping mouth.