Into the silence I said, “I brought a bottle.”
He thought about it and asked, “Bourbon?”
“That’s it.”
“Smart to remember. Reckon you can find glasses and the water tap inside. Or I can do it.”
“No. No. I’ll make out.”
I heard him say as I made for the kitchen, “Can’t stomach Scotch. Musty straw stack.”
The kitchen was pretty tidy, considering. I found glasses and the water faucet, poured drinks and returned.
“I’ll bet they never caught you,” I said, not as a question. Ask an old westerner a direct question and you shut him up. We drank.
“Oh, heel flies. Twice they buzzed after me, and me not to blame much either time. With a good horse I outfooted ’em.”
He sat, probably thinking about those times, and I brought him up by saying, “This heel fly, me, I’m after the man who killed the girl at Overthrust.”
“Seems I heard something about that. Chippie, wasn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
He took more whiskey into his mouth and savored the flavor. “Making any headway?”
“Not much.” I sipped. “Sometimes I think it was a young man, sometimes an older one.”
“No tally there.”
“Nope.”
He emptied his glass, and I refilled it, thinking a couple of drinks would get him to say more. It did.
“Two kinds to think on,” he said. “Young pups and old dogs.”
“Takes in all men.”
I might not have spoken. He went on, “Young pups don’t have training. Old dogs want to bust out of it. Take a young pup and give him a couple of beers, and he’s hell on wheels, or thinks so. Busts things up and calls it fun. The worst ones got rape in their pants and maybe murder in their fool hands. Not too many of them, but still too many.”
I said, “I savvy the pups better than the old dogs.”
He took a sip, saying, “I can’t stand this stuff like I used to.” Then he went on, “Comes a time in a man’s life, say fifty or so, when he feels the sand slippin’ out from under him, so he tries to turn and get a fresh foothold. It riles him when he can’t make it. It riles him when a woman ain’t willin’, the old fool.”
Having spoken, he lifted his glass.
The silence was broken by a car full of young people who raced by, radio at full blast, voices screaming.
The old man followed them with his eyes and his ears, and with silence restored said, “Pussy and pecker, that’s all they think about.”
“Always been that way.”
“No, sir. That’s where you’re wrong.” The liquor had given him greater voice. “Sure, those things entered in, but they weren’t the whole ticket.”
“No?”
“We had a whole world to roam in, a whole world to think in. Why, my uncle rode horseback from his ranch to the Falls to hear William Jennings Bryan, him that thought to be president. That’s fifty miles or more, and not a gate to open the whole way.” Mr. Ralston chucked a phlegmy chuckle. “Charles Russell now, the painter you know, he wouldn’t go. He called Bryan a windjammer like he would other politicians. Had a great sense of humor. Once he said he’d like to meet the son of a bitch that called dried apples fruit.” He chuckled again. “Not many own to it, but I say Russell was a better man than he was a painter, which ain’t casting off on his pictures.”
I wanted him back on track and said, “A whole world to roam in.”
“I traveled many a mile by horse,” he said, the older days in his voice. “Yep, a whole world. A whole world to dream in.”
“So?”
“Some of them come true, just some of them. That didn’t matter. What mattered was dreamin’.”
I left him, dreaming what dreams he still might have, leaving the remains of the bottle.
I had nothing to do the next morning and felt like doing just that, what with a low ache in my head. So I got out of bed late, had breakfast with Mother and wandered downtown. I went into the Bar Star, had a small beer and small talk with Bob Studebaker, who wanted to know how my case was going.
“Nowhere,” I told him.
From there I stepped to the bank to transfer my small out-of-town balance. Mike Day was as effusive as ever. “I want you to see something, Jase,” he said and led me to a room in the back. Young Roland Day sat there, looking gnomish with his dark glasses and phones plugged in his ears. Beside him were a record player in operation and a tape machine. I supposed he was taping records.
“Regular nut on this stuff,” Mike Day said, soft-voiced for once. “He’s right here when he’s not needed up front. Got lots of equipment, you can see. Got a good idea, too. Come the holidays or Easter or some other occasion, we’ll flood the building with sweet music. We’ll make it festive and appropriate, choosing our own tunes, not depending on canned stuff. How about it?”
I told him it seemed like a good idea.
Out of habit I went to the office and found Charleston frowning, not yet seated. His first words were, “How you feeling, Jase? No headaches?”
“Not to speak of.”
“That means you have. Why don’t you keep out of my sight, as directed?”
“I have to be somewhere. Anything new?”
He strode to his chair, slammed into it and blew out a breath. “Yes, damn and pisswillie. The dirty birds have flown.”
“You don’t mean—”
“But I do. My mistake. I asked for a low bond for Mefford and the woman. They didn’t have a slim dime between them. But it turned out he had a brother in the city who was doing all right. He sprang them.”
“Ease off. You couldn’t have known.”
“Dumb, just the same. They made tracks, I suppose for Chicken Coulee. Maybe afoot. Maybe the brother drove them. I don’t know. Anyhow, they’re out.”
“They’ll have to appear in court later.”
“And do what in the meantime?” He shrugged his shoulders. “At any rate I don’t think they’ll try to skedaddle, not with his brother as bondsman.”
“They wouldn’t get far in that old camper and those worn-out tires. One of them at least is flat.”
“So I noticed.”
I should have known he would.
“We’ll wait, Jase. They say murder will out, and this one will. We’ll watch and wait.”
9
The phone rang. I flipped on a night light and saw hazily it was sometime after midnight. I rolled out of bed, hoping Mother hadn’t wakened.
“Emergency, Jase,” the voice on the phone said. It was Blanche Burton speaking. It took me a second to recognize that. “Report to the office at once.” She hung up.
I hurried into my clothes. Mother was at the bedroom door, a housecoat over her nightie. “What, Jase?”
“Emergency. That’s all I know.”
Her “Please be careful” followed me out the door.
Blanche Burton at the board thumbed the way to the inner office. “They’re all in there except Halvor.”
“What’s up?”
“You’ll find out.”
Cole, Doolittle and Charleston were in the office, all standing. Amussen came in right after me.
Charleston, erect behind his desk, told us, “Here’s what I have. The Stuart girl is missing.”
Doolittle asked, “The singer?”
“The singer. Her father called me. That was less than half an hour ago.” He looked at his watch. “One o’clock now. He had telephoned all her friends. No help there. He walked the road twice, from school to home. He found nothing. I sent him back to the house.”
Amussen broke in, “She’s just a kid, and you know what kids are. Joy-riding or something.”
“Not this girl.”
“Wait,” I said. “She had voice practice tonight, or last night it is now?”
“Right. I meant to tell you. It was over at ten o’clock, after dark.” He went on, “She always ran home after practice. That was part of her fitnes
s program, to develop lung power. She always arrived on time. Quarter of a mile from school to home, the way unlighted.”
Charleston looked us over. “All right. We look for her this way. We’ll travel the sides of the road, about twenty yards apart. If we find nothing, we broaden the search. Understand?”
Amussen said, “Damn few for a search party.”
“I’ll call in others if need be. The town marshal. State police. It’s up to us right now. Any better ideas?”
“Who was at practice?” I asked.
“In good time, Jase. Don’t jump the gun. I have flashlights for all of you, and whistles. Two blasts if you find anything. Come on.”
We drove to the high school in two cars and deployed there, Charleston, Cole and Amussen taking the broader side of the road, Doolittle and I the other. I took a position outside his.
With a full moon overhead, we hardly had need of the flashlights, using them only for what the moon didn’t reveal—shadows behind clumps of grass, pockets of darkness in uneven land. I heard Doolittle muttering to himself. I heard the silence of night, broken by the far-off cry of a coyote. In such a singing, moon-flooded night, nothing much could be wrong, I told myself.
Two whistle blasts broke the quiet. I ran toward the sound. False alarm. Amussen, finding an old and discarded overcoat, had whistled before he looked close. It was an ancient garment, blown there by the wind or cast off by who knew whom, and grass had sprouted through the holes in it.
In twenty minutes or so we arrived almost together at the Stuart premises. I glimpsed a lone, shadowed figure standing on the porch. Charleston called to it, “Nothing, Mr. Stuart. We’ll keep looking.” Seeing that lonely, hopeful, anxious man, I was glad I wasn’t a father.
We turned and started back, moving out farther from the road.
It was my luck to find her. I slipped going down a narrow, little gully in which a few willows sprouted. I threw down a hand to save a fall. The hand felt something. It felt cloth.
I turned on the flash. Half-hidden by the brush, there was a body. I made myself look closer. It was nightmare time, the once-pretty face, swollen and suffused, looking open-eyed and open-mouthed at me. I forced out a hand and found a wrist, though I knew there was no need. I pulled the skirt down over blood. Then I stepped up the bank and sat down.
All the blind evil of the world was concentrated there in the gully, all the random injustice. They were there and they bore me down. The bright promise snuffed out, the hopes, the dreams, the good, gay manner all for nothing, the spirit dead and the young body.
What was the use of vengeance against the all-evil? What was justice, loved by officers and the law, when such injustice existed? The tormented face swam in my mind.
Then I thought to blow the whistle.
Doolittle reached me first and asked where. He took a look and said, “Suffering Jesus!” He came back and put a hand on my shoulder. “Tough, Jase. Knocks a man out. Take it easy.”
The others arrived, Charleston in the lead. I sat where I was. He stepped down the bank, looked and returned. He was saying through his teeth, “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.” The words were fit, even for a man who disliked vulgarity.
His voice rose. “Stand back! Stand back, all of you. We’ll go over the ground in the morning.” He played his flashlight down and up. “Don’t see any drag marks.” Then, “Cole, any chance of pictures tonight?”
“No trouble.”
“Get your equipment here then. Doolittle, notify Doc Yak and Underwood. Amussen, you stay here until relieved.” He shook his head. “I have to tell Mr. Stuart. Rather be hanged.”
Perhaps because I was seated and silent, he seemed not to notice me until then. His flash shone in my face. “You stay with me, Jase. Things to do.”
“There’s nothing anybody can do.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I’m going home.”
His voice came out sharp. “Going home? Go, then.”
“Yes, sir.” I got up.
Before I left his tone softened. “See you in the morning, Jason. For now, just forget if you can.”
10
The lights were on in the house, and Mother was waiting for me when I got home. “An ungodly hour to be up and dressed,” I told her.
“Oh, Jase, I’m so glad you’re home and home safe.” She looked into my face, and her eyes widened. “Something’s wrong. Something dreadful.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me about it yet. You need food. You look so drawn. I’ll fix an omelette.” She was acting in character. Food for me first of all.
“I’m not hungry. Any whiskey in the house?”
She began cracking eggs. “I believe there’s some medical spirits in the far cabinet.”
That, I thought, was what I needed. Medicine and spirit. I found the bottle, poured three fingers and added water. Then I sat down.
“Some food will do you good.”
“Don’t hurry. Let the medicine take effect.” I took a long swallow from the glass, then another. Almost at once I felt the warmth of the alcohol, for whatever good it did me.
In short order she served the omelette with toast and put the coffee pot on. I pecked at the food. She waited for me to speak.
“I’m not cut out for this work,” I told her.
She regarded me with astonishment. “Whatever makes you say that?”
“I found a young girl violated and choked to death.”
“Someone you know?”
“Just in passing. It was the Stuart girl. Virginia Stuart.”
“God in heaven, Jase!”
“I doubt it.”
“The little singer killed! What will the Stuarts do? How can they stand it? They were so proud of her. Who, Jase? Who was the monster?”
“No idea.” I rose and poured another drink, lighter this time.
“You have to find him.”
“Why?”
“You know why. For justice. So he won’t do it again.”
“Let somebody else find him.”
She took a deep breath, and her words came out in a gush. “For the first time in my life I’m glad your father isn’t alive to hear you.”
“You didn’t see her.”
She sat down at the table and gazed at me, her eyes earnest and pleading. “Jason, dear son, you’re so beaten, but you won’t give up. You’ve spent a good many years with Sheriff Charleston, a good many in school, believing in a career as an officer. I never wanted you to go into law enforcement. That was selfish. I was afraid for you. But you insisted, and I accepted. You wanted to make the world a safe place to live in. I’m sure you still do. You won’t let yourself down.”
I put my hand over hers, feeling the rough grain of a hand that had worked too long and too hard. “I’ve seen dead people before, a good many, but never one like this.”
“Of course it turned your stomach.”
“Turned my mind is more like it.”
“For the time being. That’s all.”
“I don’t know, Mother. I’m going to bed.”
She rose as I did, put her arms around me and patted my shoulder, saying, “There. There.” With twenty-odd years knocked off, she would have been singing about Winken, Blinken, and Nod.
If I slept at all that night, it was a tortured sleep. The ravaged face, the torn body, were there before me, under the smiling moon. She was there before and after, the pretty, polite schoolgirl and the later horror. I got out of bed at dawn. The bright banners of the sun shone in the east, and the cheerful sun itself was just edging up. I yanked the blind down. Not sleeping, I made myself lie still.
I lagged to the office in the morning, feeling half dead and out of the world. Cole was on the board, yawning. “Never a dull moment,” he said.
“Morning, Jase,” Charleston said from his desk. “Mr. Stuart is due any minute. He insisted on coming, saying his wife couldn’t stand any questions. Doolittle and Amussen are finding out who attended the pract
ice session last night. Some will come in willingly. We’ll visit those who can’t conveniently appear. If any refuse we’ll see about subpoenas.”
For lack of something better, I said, “Wheels in motion.”
“What about Mefford?”
“In good time, Jase. In good time. He’s back at the camper. Old Mr. Gates called in to tell me so.”
“Gates?”
“You remember. The man with the missing calves. He lives pretty close to Mefford.”
“Yes. I’m scheduling interviews for tomorrow, thinking the funeral will probably be the next day. We’re too pushed for sessions today, too pushed and, more than that, too dull, too devilish drowsy for good thinking. In addition, there’s a county commissioners’ meeting this afternoon. It’s important I show up. Anyhow, glad you’re here. You’ll take notes, of course.”
“If you want me to.”
Mr. Stuart came in then. He was a small, erect man, dressed in a tweed three-piece suit. He wore a trim Van Dyke and put me in mind of an old-world judge. At Charleston’s invitation he sat down stiffly.
“A miserable business, I know, Mr. Stuart,” Charleston told him. “I can’t regret it as much as you, but I do regret it.”
Stuart didn’t answer. The knuckles of his hands turned white from his grip on the chair arms. There was violence in him, I thought, and a rage that burned under stern control. And, with them, in his eyes was a sorrow that it hurt to see.
“I’ll try to make things short,” Charleston said. “Just a few details I need to know. Your daughter’s name was Virginia Stuart?”
“Aye.”
“I know you’ve identified her.”
“Aye.” The beard moved to the tightening of his jaw muscles. “What was left.”
“Her age?”
“Just sixteen.”
“She was accustomed to running home after practice?”
“Every time.” I caught the Scottish burr in his speech. He put a handkerchief to his lips. “We never had reason to chide her.”
“That’s what I’ve gathered. Is there anything, any reason to suspect anybody?”
“There must be reasons, but I know of none.”
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