by Joan Hess
“Did you give Carl the money?” I asked.
“Last night he called right before Jim Bob, demanding that I meet him at the car lot with the money. I went ahead and met him, but I had to tell him there wasn’t any way I could get hold of that kind of money on short notice. I told him I’d bring it to the Pot O’Gold this morning.”
“If that was shortly after eight o’clock, then Jaylee was still alive and at the Pot O’Gold herself. What did Carl intend to do—knock on the door and pretend to be a Latin American political refugee?”
“He’d done something to his ankle that had made him meaner than a polecat in the spring,” Ho said, shuddering as he remembered Carl’s more descriptive threats. “He was mad enough to kill her in the door without any how-dee-do or anything.”
“And that was at eight?” I repeated, wrinkling my forehead as I tried to place everybody—for the umpteenth time.
“Closer to ten. Once he was gone, I stopped in the men’s room for a few minutes to wash my hands, then drove straight on over to the Kwik-Screw to meet everybody. I was getting a little bit worried about the Drake fellow in my trunk—I didn’t want him to suffocate or anything.”
“Tell it to the judge.” I turned around to confer with the ranking officer in the investigation, who’d been suspiciously quiet all this time. Because he wasn’t there. I finally found him halfway around the edge of the clearing, staring at a shed held together with spit and prayers. “Why’d you run off?” I whispered crossly. “I got Ho to admit to all kinds of criminal activity.”
“You were too busy to hear the ruckus coming from in there,” he whispered back. “It may be the hostages, one of whom I seem to recall is your mother. Maybe we ought to let them out?”
I couldn’t find any fault in that, so I dropped to my knees (I love a little drama) and crawled over to the door of the shed. Plover was hissing like a teapot the whole time, but I was too intent to worry about Sergeant Slow Leak or his objections. I raised the board across the door, gave a push, and ducked in case someone was a mind to blow off any heads in the immediate future. Held my breath, too, so they couldn’t take a bead on me. I learned all that at the academy.
There was a lengthy, hushed conversation in the darkness. At last Paulie came to the door and peered out, his finger cocked to look like he had a gun. “Who’s there?” he croaked.
I told him. He shared the news with his inmates, and then we all crawled back through the corn until we were out of the light and far enough away for some hugging and kissing. Our ranks had swelled to eight now, close enough for a softball team if anybody had remembered to bring the ball. If you’re getting confused, at this point the team included myself, Plover, Larry Joe, Roy, Ho, Ruby Bee, Estelle, and Paulie. It made for a nice reunion.
On one side of me Paulie started explaining to me how he’d been bushwhacked. On the other Ruby Bee assured me in a steady hiss that she’d only been trying to help the investigation, that she’d had the key all the time so it wasn’t like it was a crime or anything. Ho wanted to know how Carl’s ankle was feeling. In the middle of the whispered babbles, Estelle pointed a bony finger at Ho and told him she had figgered it out and knew. I told Estelle we all knew by this time, but I appreciated her efforts to carry forward the torch of justice. I was about to ask Ruby Bee what the hell she’d been looking for at Jaylee’s mobile home when the ninth player stumbled onto the scene.
“Jim Bob, what are you doing here?” We all gasped like the a cappella choir at the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall.
His Honor couldn’t seem to think of an answer, so he settled for a mute shake of his head as he goggled at our intrepid band. His eyes rested on Ho briefly, then passed on to Larry Joe and Roy with a questioning frown. While Larry Joe did some squirming of his own, Roy told Jim Bob that the EPA man was still lost, but Carl Withers wasn’t, that he was in Robin’s cabin doing God-knows-what with her.
I tapped Jim Bob on the arm. “Kidnapping’s a felony, Mr. Mayor.” It didn’t gall me at all to use his title at the end of that sentence.
Jim Bob breathed some more, his face looking like it was made out of concrete. I guessed he wasn’t prepared to play ball yet, so I joined Plover a few feet away from the others and whispered, “What are you going to do about Carl? You want me to go back to the jeep and radio the sheriff?”
“I think you, your deputy, and I should be able to handle one man,” he said. “Do you trust any of those clowns to go back to the radio and let the sheriff know what the situation is?”
That was a tough question. While I pondered it, I heard a soft buzzing noise from the road behind us. It grew louder, until I caught the melody of a hymn and realized someone was humming. I shushed everybody and we all squatted down in the weeds, poking each other to be still and pay attention. I think the Girl Scouts play a similar game, although not in the middle of nowhere in the pitch black, cold night air with an armed convict nearby.
“I see a light,” came a melodious whisper from the dark. “Do you think it’s their coven house?”
“I don’t know,” said a second voice. Even though it was a whisper, it carried a load of disapproval. “Watch your step now; I don’t want to have to carry you back to the car.”
“Oh, my God,” Jim Bob moaned from somewhere.
I was upright and flexing my knees when Mrs. Jim Bob and Brother Verber came into view. The former moved in quick little steps, as if someone had inserted an iron rod in a most uncomfortable place. The latter was strolling along, pausing after every step or so to mop his forehead with a handkerchief. Nine plus two. Now we could have the national anthem and an opening prayer before the game. Just dandy.
Sighing, everybody else got up with varying degrees of agility (except Jim Bob, who seemed to be worried about a cramp in his leg) and greeted the newcomers. We ran through the explanations for them, although they seemed sort of confused by the time we finished.
“Where is my husband?” Mrs. Jim Bob demanded through a slit in her lips. The words spurted out between pauses.
“He’s around here someplace,” I said. Once again I pulled Plover aside for a tete-a-tete. I suggested we send Ruby Bee, Estelle, and Roy back to the jeep to use the radio, and all the other civilians a few hundred yards up the road in case of gunfire. He agreed, so I went back to the group and told everybody what to do.
Everybody obediently scattered, although it was too dark to be sure where they were going. I heard Mrs. Jim Bob pushing through the brush, muttering Jim Bob’s name like it was synonymous with Starley City’s most famous export. Brother Verber stepped back, but stopped and stared at the cabin as if he hoped he could see right through the walls.
Sergeant Plover and I took out our guns, made sure they were loaded and ready, and nodded at each other. It was pure cop-show stuff, terribly macho and professional.
Paulie moved beside me and dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Carl has my gun.”
“Well, I’m not about to loan you mine, Officer Buchanon.”
He shot a quick look at Plover. “He isn’t exactly going to recommend me for the state police academy, is he? This whole thing is about the most embarrassing moment of my life; I might as well turn in my badge and ask Ho for a job in the body shop.”
I told him it was not the time for career counseling. He continued to mutter under his breath while I consulted Plover about the battle plan, considering the fact we had only two armed officers unless Carl chanced to throw out the gun. In the middle of the discussion, the door of the cabin opened. A woman came out into the patch of hard dirt and stared straight at us.
“I be finished with them. You can have them now.”
A truckload of high-school boys squealed into the parking lot of the Kwik-Screw. After a round of punches and jibes, they got out of the truck and swaggered inside to find something to eat, since the Dairy Dee-Lishus was closed down for the night and
there was nobody at Ruby Bee’s.
There was nobody inside the store, either. The pimply group decided that was a stroke of luck such as they’d never had before, this open invitation to make theirselves right at home without anybody ringing up the cash register or squinting disapproval. One enterprising marauder found Jim Bob’s stash of beer behind the canned sodas, which did much to enliven the festive mood. Potato chip and pretzel bags were ripped open and plastic containers of onion dip set on the floor. The magazines with the brown wrappers were attacked with adolescent fervor, as were the little packages of condoms in the back of the drawer. Pretty soon the store was decorated with misshapen beige balloons, streamers of Charmin, and pictures of undressed women from the middle of the magazines.
One God-fearing Christian woman in search of a gallon of low-fat milk pulled up outside. She left seconds later, milkless and scandalized.
“What if Jim Bob catches us?” one of the boys asked. He was told to have a beer and a Twinkie, which he did. Jim Bob’s projected outrage was forgotten in a fine eruption of golden lava.
In the storeroom, Kevin looked up from his business. “Did you hear something?”
Dahlia gave him a look that was blanker than usual, since she was on the distracted side. “No, Kevin, I didn’t hear nothing. You jest keep on doing what you was doing—you’re getting right good at it, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you kindly,” he murmured modestly.
15
What we found in Robin Buchanon’s cabin is, to this day, almost painful to dwell on. Carl Withers was in fair shape; his leg had been wrapped in rags soaked with kerosene and chicken fat, and his eyes were glazed like wax paper from the efforts of Robin’s latest vintage. His belly was bloated with what we later learned was chitterlings and turnip greens, none of it cooked under the most sanitary conditions. The state board of health might have been unhappy about the skillet, which looked as if it was cleaned once a year, whether it needed it or not, and the inch of rancid lard, which apparently wasn’t ever changed. Carl’s face was a real peculiar shade of green, sort of mossy or split pea, depending on which moment you glanced at it. His cheeks went in and out like a bullfrog’s throat.
The kidnapped bureaucrat was not a pretty sight, either. For some reason Robin had found it necessary to tie him to the bed in a spread-eagle arrangement that must have hurt like hell. The Spanish Inquisitioners could have learned a lot from her techniques; Drake was about as docile as anything I’d ever seen and way beyond protests. His birthday suit was in dire shape, crisscrossed with red welts and areas where the blood had seeped up in tiny brown bubbles. His eyes didn’t see anything, and he seemed unaware of the spit dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. His prick was bright red and about as lively as a plastic worm.
“I had to wash him,” Robin said proudly. “He got hisself in a tangle with a skunk, so we all took him out to the yard and washed him in the tub. It took us a long time and a lot of lye soap to scrub him down. We even used the wire brush to clean him good, though he still stinks and probably will for a long time. Carl just needed doctoring and a good meal in his belly.”
I gaped at her, then at the feral, filthy children hovering in the shadowy corners of the cabin. They might have used lye soap on Drake, but I figured they hadn’t tried it themselves in a blue moon. I almost asked when the anniversary of their annual baths might be, but decided I didn’t want to hear the answer. Swallowing back an acidy taste in my mouth, I told Officer Buchanon to escort Mr. Withers to the edge of the clearing and wait. Carl didn’t argue.
Plover finally got control of his jaw, which was about belly-button level. “Why is he tied up like that?”
Robin gave him the pained but patient look mothers use on their children when asked why the sky is blue or what God’s first name is. “I always do that,” she explained. From their lair the children (six or seven—I wasn’t sure because I kept seeing more wherever I looked) nodded savagely.
“Do you think he knows we’re here?” I asked, moving forward. The smell almost stopped me, but I squared my jaw and bent down to touch the man’s shoulder. “Mr. Drake? Can you hear
I’d have gotten more reaction from Raz’s bitch—post Mercedes.
“Do you want I should make him talk?” she offered. “It’ll only take me a minute or two for one of my bastards to fetch a fresh switch off’n the willow tree.”
“No, thank you,” I said hastily, “I saw a flicker of response. Maybe if we untie him he’ll realize what’s happening.”
Robin scratched her head as she considered my timid suggestion. “I guess it’d be all right. He ain’t no good to me anymores. He’s limper than a sow’s ear and not even my runtiest girl can get any life out of him.” She gave me a woman-to-woman smile. “These fellows from the city can’t service as well as my old coon dog when he’s a mind to come after me. I don’t know how they make so many babies in those big cities, do you?”
That, too, struck me as rhetorical. Plover had untied Drake by now and helped him stagger to his feet. After a wary look at Robin, the Nameless Wonder grabbed the victim under the arms and dragged him toward the door, muttering a polite farewell but not lingering for any responses. I couldn’t think of anything to say myself, so I waved goodbye and followed the two across the yard to the road.
Paulie had Carl handcuffed, although the convict didn’t look as though he were capable of any violence. Breathing through my mouth, I took one side of Drake and we slowly made our way up the road. Nobody looked back, not even when Robin hollered a friendly caution to watch out for skunks in the dark. We met Mrs. Jim Bob and Brother Verber, gathered them up, and subsequently met Larry Joe, Roy, Estelle, and Ho where the cars were parked.
With icy sternness, I told everyone to drive back to town and to stay together the entire way. I was going to suggest we reconvene at the PD, but it occurred to me there wasn’t any way to cram all the bodies in there, so I ordered them to drive directly to Ruby Bee’s and wait for us. Since Ho’s car wasn’t going anywhere without the aid of a chain saw and a tow truck, I told him to ride with Mrs. Jim Bob and the reverend, who was mopier than a wet cat, for some reason.
“What the hell?” Ho gasped in the middle of my directives. “One of you latecomers must have had a right good time with a goddamn pogo stick on the top of this quality used car. Chief, I want to report vandalism and destruction of property, and I want to know what you aim to do about it.” He stuck his head through the car window, then jerked it back so fast he hit the top of the frame. “And theft! I had a bag of money right there on the seat. Which one of you polecats took it?”
“Where is Jim Bob?” Mrs. Jim Bob demanded, still spitting words as if they were watermelon seeds.
I told Ho to can it and counted noses while Plover dumped Drake in the backseat of the jeep. We were indeed one player short. Everybody yelled for Jim Bob, but we didn’t hear anything but owls and echoes. Mrs. Jim Bob burst into tears and flung herself on Brother Verber’s chest to caterwaul, but that didn’t get Jim Bob out of hiding either. I finally told Roy to drive Jim Bob’s four-wheel back to Maggody. I would never admit I hoped Jim Bob would end up in Robin’s bed—or stable or whatever; that would have been mean-spirited at best.
Smiling to myself, I told the wagon train to head ’em up and move on out. I picked up a wadded chunk of paper and put it in my pocket. I hate litter. Then we started the complicated task of turning cars around and creeping up the road.
Plover and I did not speak all the way back to the pavement, both of us kind of lost in our thoughts. Larry Joe shoved Drake off his shoulder every now and then, bitching whenever the wind shifted. At one point I called Paulie on the radio to see if it worked, which it did. Ruby Bee grabbed the microphone and started babbling about Jaylee’s mobile home, but I switched her off.
Once we arrived at Ruby Bee’s, Plover called the dispatcher while I directed traffic inside and ar
ranged everybody at adjoining booths. Drake got one to himself for aromatic reasons. Ruby Bee offered to make coffee, and Estelle went along to help with the cups and saucers. They had the decency to look downright abashed.
The coffee did a lot to ease the memories of the scene in Robin’s cabin. After some encouragement, both Carl and Robert Drake were coerced into a semblance of life and persuaded to drink a little coffee. Carl was way too plastered to know what he was doing, and I thought it would take twelve hours in the drunk tank to salvage him. But I wasn’t about to let the sheriff have him until I’d gotten some answers.
Drake numbly poured the scalding coffee down his throat, oblivious to whatever pain he was inflicting on himself. At last he seemed to regain consciousness, although he jumped whenever anyone put down a cup or coughed. Likely to do it for a long time coming, too.
“I—I was kidnapped,” he said in a hoarse voice. “These men—and another one—they did it. I—I was locked up—in lots of different places—I can’t remember exactly—but I—”
“Let me see if I can help you,” I interrupted, smiling at him. “You arrived in Maggody Friday afternoon and stopped at the Kwik-Screw for gas and a bite to eat. By a stroke of extremely bad luck, you stumbled into an impromptu meeting of the town council; they were discussing how they could delay the construction contract from being signed until a certain politician could be contacted. That right?”
Drake groaned as he caught a whiff of himself. “That’s what they told me right after somebody stuck a rifle in my stomach. I told them it wouldn’t do any good at all, but the assholes wouldn’t believe me. I never did get my burrito.” He looked at his swollen fingers as if they had been glued on when he wasn’t paying attention.
“You were taken to the Flamingo Motel,” I continued, “where you were stashed in Number Three—with the proprietor’s full knowledge and cooperation. A young woman was encouraged to keep you entertained until the vital call could be made to Senator Fiff, and you didn’t raise any objections. I’m afraid, Mr. Drake, that the kidnapping charge is thinner than discount store paint, but you’re welcome to file charges with the state police, the FBI, and the sheriff’s department. I’d be delighted to assist you with the paperwork.”