Arrowmoon (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 8)

by George Wier

  “Shit,” Lief said.

  “Yeah. Pisser, ain’t it.”

  “How long ago did this start?”

  “About ten minutes. I was gonna call you, boss, but I saw a Sheriff’s patrol car pass by and stop. That’s when I knew.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “That he was over there.” Luke pointed towards where the highway dead-ended into the county road and the woods beyond. The woods we had been in not more than an hour previous.

  “Also,” Luke began. “I thought I heard shots. That was awhile back. I thought it was poachers.”

  “You might call ‘em that,” I said.

  “Okay,” Luke said. “Boss? You in trouble?”

  “Naw,” Lief said. “But somebody is going to be.”

  “How’s that?” Luke asked.

  “Because nobody messes with my truck and gets away with it. I’ve got my Willie Nelson collection in there.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought it was Johnny Cash.”

  “Him too.”

  *****

  Luke had an extra firearm, so we borrowed it from him. A .12 gauge pump shotgun. I felt a little safer during the walk back to Lief’s Range Rover and the ride back to the construction shack. Also, I had Julie’s voice in my head, and Jennifer’s.

  You’re not sticking your neck out, are you?

  Mommy says daddy is doing silly things.

  Maybe daddy was. Also, daddy was wishing that all the bad people really were asleep. But, if wishes were horses ―

  In the barn I had felt a safe with my hands. A steel safe.

  There are two kinds of things you keep in a safe. The first, and most obvious, is things of value; jewelry, money, bearer-bonds, stock certificates, deeds and contracts. That sort of thing. The second is secrets. Something that someone wants to keep hidden.

  A safe in a barn.

  It had to have been there for a good long time.

  Jockovitch had been looking for someone named Hennessey, but didn’t know him when he was right in front of him.

  How long have you been living in these woods, give or take? The answer: About twenty-four years.

  Some things you bury and leave buried.

  “What things?” I said to myself. Lief had overheard me.

  “What was that?” He pulled off at the construction shack and turned the motor off.

  “Oh,” I said. “Nothing.”

  “Like hell,” he said.

  “Lief, you got that court order, or is it still in the truck?”

  “It’s in the truck.”

  “Any other copies?”

  “No.”

  “Damn the luck,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Oh. I think it’s time to wake up the judge who signed it.”

  “We can do that?” he asked.

  “Sure. Only we don’t know which judge signed it.”

  “Of course we do. I may not know legal language like you, Bill, but you’re forgetting something.”

  “What’s that,” I asked.

  “My photographic memory.”

  “That explains it,” I said.

  “Explains what?”

  “I forgot you have a photographic memory. Because I sure as hell don’t have one.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Suddenly I had a lot on my mind. The contents of a steel safe, the whereabouts and safety of one old squatter, the suborning of lawmen, of highways and payments, and one sniper, identity unknown.

  Also, I was exhausted and at the same time exhilarated.

  It was 2:00 a.m. I couldn’t recollect how much sleep I’d had the night previous. I had vague impressions of waking up and whispering with Julie late in the night and of checking on Jennifer, Michelle, and Jessica. The one that required watching was Jessica, our teenager, but she was snoring softly when I looked in on her. More than once during my late night hauntings of our home I had found her bed empty and Julie’s car gone. I was worse, though, at that age. It all comes back around to you, one way or the other.

  All of the previous day and night seemed like a lifetime ago.

  And what was I doing?

  I was riding shotgun with Lief Prescott in his ex-wife’s Range Rover. Lief turned into the parking lot of the mortuary across the side street from the Family Diner Café.

  We had just gotten through driving down the lane on the other side of the railroad tracks to make sure our friendly, neighborhood sniper wasn’t set up for business. The coast was clear.

  I was awake, and all of the bad people were probably sleeping.

  The Mercedes was there, all by itself.

  I got out, gave it a cursory once-over, then unlocked it and climbed in.

  She started up fine and I followed Lief through the maze of small town streets to the Judge’s house. Lief had told me that he’d once picked up a town map and had spent five minutes looking it over at a lunch counter. He’d left the map there because it was no longer of any use to him. It was thereafter indelibly etched somewhere in his head. That’s an interesting ability. I count myself lucky to remember my wife’s birthday. I guess that’s why I pay Penny, my secretary. Each day seems too much like every other day to me.

  The phone book in Lief’s office had given us an address for the name that matched Lief’s recall, and of course, there was no other Rogan Sinclair in town. Not in Hearne, Texas.

  From my own memory ― I do have one, but of late it seems as though I am better at remembering what happened when I was eleven as opposed to what happened yesterday ― I recalled that Hearne was not the county seat of Robertson County. The courthouse and the sheriff’s office were in the even smaller berg of Franklin, fifteen miles to the east. But Hearne is larger and is situated at the junction of two major transportation arteries: Highway 6 and Highway 79. Consequently, most of the people lived in Hearne, as did the district judge who had signed the temporary restraining order.

  The Judge’s house was dark. It was a large house, situated on a manicured expanse of lawn with odd modern art statuary dotting it here and there. At night it looked creepy. I was interested to see how it would appear in the daylight. I never got the chance.

  We parked, got out and stood for a moment regarding the house.

  “He’s not going to like being waked up,” Lief said.

  “Have you had any sleep, Lief?” I asked.

  He sighed.

  “Right,” I said. “Neither have I.”

  “I didn’t think you were supposed to talk to the judge about a case outside of court.”

  “Yeah. It’s called ex-parte. You’re right. We’re not supposed to. Also, county sheriffs are not supposed to be working for Boston lawyers. They’re not supposed to shoot at people unless they’re committing a felony. You ready?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  *****

  The doorbell didn’t work.

  I hammered on the solid front door repeatedly.

  After five minutes a light came on somewhere deep inside the house.

  I felt the vibration of bare footsteps.

  The front door opened just as the porch light came on over our heads.

  “What is it? Do you know what time it is?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I said. “This is urgent. We need to speak to the Judge.”

  “Oh my God. Who’s died?”

  “Nobody, ma’am,” Lief said. “But somebody may if we can’t talk to the Judge.”

  “Won’t you come in?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Lief and I followed the house-coat clad lady. She had mousy brown hair with streaks of gray in it, cropped high up on her neck. Even in semi-slumber and a housecoat she was eleg
ant, and walked with a regal bearing. We followed her through the foyer and into the living room where she paused briefly to turn on a lamp.

  “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you kindly,” I said. “But no.”

  “We’ll be fine, ma’am,” Lief said.

  She smiled with only the slightest sense of strain.

  “Would you give me a moment?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

  “Oh, posh on that.” She turned and left the room.

  I looked at Lief, expecting to see rolling eyes. He just looked dead ahead and blinked slowly. He was tired and running out of gas quickly.

  We heard distorted voices from down a long hallway.

  After five minutes Judge Rogan Sinclair came into the room.

  *****

  “What the hell is this all about?”

  “It started with the restraining order against my associate here,” I said, and gestured toward Lief.

  “Jiminy Crickets, I can’t talk to you about it. Not outside of court.”

  “I know, sir,” I said. “Ex parte and all that.”

  “You a lawyer?” he asked me.

  “No sir,” I said. “My name is Bill Travis. I’m from Austin.”

  “Can’t your highway wait for ―” he looked at his wrist, and realizing there was no watch there, said: “thirteen more days, I think it is?”

  “It’s not about that,” I said. “Lief will wait if he has to. It’s about a sniper taking a shot at us at the Family Diner Café. It’s also about a lawyer named Jockovitch, shots fired in the dark at innocents, and a steel safe in an old barn that weighs a ton.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I took a moment and gauged the aging fellow wearing the purple robe and burgundy slippers sitting across from us on a leather armchair. I would have guessed him to be about sixty-five years or so in age. He had intent and hard blue eyes and his hair was thinned down to the point where he didn’t bother trying to hide his bald spot. His hair was combed back neatly on his pink scalp.

  I had a gut feeling about Judge Sinclair, and when I looked over at Lief, he nodded, giving me the go-ahead.

  I began the story, with Lief interjecting every now and then for clarification. I even included Ty Hennessey and the vandalism of Lief’s pickup, as well as the sinking of the jeep. It was time to create as much good will as I was able, and making a clean breast of everything to someone who might not be on the take was, I felt, a positive step forward.

  Judge Sinclair’s interest piqued when I described the barn and the safe, and he was sitting forward on the edge of his seat as I described the wreck I’d left of the helicopter.

  “What about the pilot?” he interrupted.

  He had me there.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “There was no one in the helicopter that I could see. And I only hit the tail section. I don’t think anyone got hurt, but I didn’t think about that.”

  “Sounds like you haven’t done very much thinking at all,” he said, chuckling. “Continue.”

  I continued, all the way to the point where we walked up and banged on his front door.

  “Whew,” he whistled. “Hell of a story.”

  “Yes sir,” Lief said. “And it’s true.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He leaned back in his chair, making the old leather crinkle noisily. “You boys are the kind of fellows who would walk behind the horse parade without bothering to look down to see what you were stepping in.”

  “Yessir,” Lief said.

  “Alright,” Judge Sinclair said. “I probably would have done a few things the same. A few, mind you. I wouldn’t have gone on that property, though. But you can’t take that back.”

  “Tell us about the Sheriff, Judge,” I said. “What kind of fellow is he?”

  He thought for a moment, looking away. When he looked back I could tell that what we were about to hear was not for public consumption.

  “Sheriff Noonday is not a man to cross,” he began. “I’ve known him all his life. He used to cut my lawn when he was a kid. I paid him two dollars back then and it took him half a day. One summer we parted ways and I had to start mowing it myself.”

  I leaned forward.

  “He carelessly hit an old stump and ruined his lawnmower. It was an old stump he’d mowed around about a hundred times. I guess that day he had something else on his mind. He ruined the crankshaft. So, he wanted me to pay for his damages. I refused and told him he should watch what he’s doing. He turned beet red, stormed off in a huff and shouted curses at me all the way down the street. At the time I just let it go. Kids do things, you know.”

  “Yes sir,” I said. “That they do.”

  “That’s one incident. Not the first, and certainly not the last. One time he beat a man nearly to death for allegedly cheating him over a deal on a dog.”

  “A dog?” Lief asked.

  “That’s what I said. He used to raise Rottweilers. I don’t know the details, except that the fellow spent a month in the hospital in Bryan. After he came out he moved off to Port Arthur. Someone told him that Scotty Noonday was going to kill him. I probably would have moved too, if it had been me.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Just run-ins with some of the State people. Noonday wanted one of his hands at his ranch to be a deputy. The idiot kid couldn’t qualify under TCLEOSE. That’s―”

  “Texas Commission on Law Enforcement Officers Standards and Education,” I said. “I’m familiar. You have to be trained, pass a physical, a written test, and qualify with a firearm at the shooting range.”

  “Right,” Judge Sinclair said. “Sam Beard, his hired hand, couldn’t read or write. Noonday threatened some people in Austin.”

  “That’s not too bright,” Lief said.

  “It may not be bright,” Judge Sinclair said, “but that’s him all over again. He’d rather shoot his mouth off. If he can’t do that, he’ll just shoot.”

  “What about our sniper?” Lief asked. “Any ideas?”

  “Some, but just ideas.” The Judge leaned forward in his chair, pressed his aging hands down hard and stood.

  “Give me a few minutes to get dressed,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I’m going with you fellows. We’re going to have a look at that safe. Also, we’re going to rescue your Willie Nelson collection, Mr. Prescott. Then I’ll want to talk to that squatter.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Judge Sinclair laced up his hiking boots and then produced flashlights from his garage. He brought a portable Bearkat Scanner with him, one of the kind that plugs into a cigarette lighter, and once we were moving down the road he began to monkey with it.

  This time I drove and Lief rode shotgun. From the backseat there was a burst of radio voices and the Judge said: “Got ‘em.” He was tuned to the local sheriff’s department frequency. We heard intermittent radio traffic, all of it in code.

  “That’s the Sheriff’s voice. He’s at the courthouse now, so he’s not in our way.”

  “That’s good,” Lief said. “Anything yet on my truck?”

  “No. Nor the prisoner.” He was talking about Ty. I sure hoped the old-timer was alright. Also, I had a number of questions for him. Questions it was likely that only he had the answers for.

  Once we got to Highway 6, the Judge surprised both of us by telling us to turn the opposite way, north.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Lief said, “but the property is out southwest.”

  “I know that, but Tate Lancing lives north.”

  There was one of those pregnant pauses that have a way of dropping into a conversation when someone has raised a non sequitur.

  “Who is Tate Lancing?” I asked when Lief d
idn’t.

  “He’s a three-time criminal. Also he’s one of the best horsemen in this part of the state.”

  “Why do we need him?” I asked.

  “He’s a safe-cracker,” Judge Sinclair said. I looked in my rearview mirror and caught just the hint of a smile on the old man’s face, illuminated only by our headlights and the instrument panel.

  “Good enough,” I said.

  We turned north.

  *****

  The hours between three and four a.m. are long hours. Ask any long-haul truck-driver and they’ll tell you. Those hours are even longer when you haven’t had adequate sleep.

  Silly things, Jennifer was saying into my ear.

  “You okay?” Lief asked me.

  “Fine. Just a little tired.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re almost to the turn off,” Judge Sinclair said from the back seat. “Take the first street on the left when we get into town.”

  We passed a city limit sign that read ‘Calvert’, and I thought of Calvert whiskey.

  Calvert, Texas is little more than a rest stop on the road to Waco, a town of a few hundred souls. The last time I had passed through most of the shops in the downtown area were paint-peeled, boarded-up, and decidedly vacant. A few years back I’d heard from an old friend that there had been a sudden interest and resurgence in antiques and art there, and given the higher rents in other towns it was no wonder that those two already economically precipice-edged industries would flourish where space could be had dirt-cheap. It was too bad we weren’t there on a shopping binge. I wanted to take the time to pass through the downtown area, but we came to the turn-off first.

  I slowed and followed Judge Sinclair’s directions as he leaned forward between us.

  We pulled up in front of the house and stopped on the street.

  “I’ll be a minute, boys,” he said and climbed out.

  The house, little more than shack, was dark. There was an old, beat-up Chevrolet pickup in the driveway from about 1972. But there were no weeds underneath it. Probably it still ran.