by Brian Hodge
"You don't understand," Watson said. Sweat streamed down both sides of his face. Even though it wracked every muscle and nerve in his body, he heaved himself up into a sitting position again. "I have to get home before dark."
"Oh, yeah? And why's that? You don't turn into a pumpkin or something after sunset, do you?"
"No, I have to—" but he cut himself short. Tricked by his physical torment, he had almost told Holden about the untcigahunk. "I have to get home," he concluded feebly.
"Yeah, well, why don't you just rest easy for another—" He turned around when the station door opened and nodded a greeting to Bill Howard as he walked up to the desk.
"Hang in there another hour or so, Chief, 'n we'll see what my boss has to say about all that," Holden said. With one last sneer, he turned and left Watson where he was.
"Afternoon," Bill Howard said, nodding a greeting to Holden.
"Howdy, Mr. Howard. What can I do for you today?'
Bill glanced left and right to see if Chief Parkman was in. It wasn't exactly that he disliked Holden, but the man had an irritating way of acting like he knew a hell of a lot more than he really did. Bill wasn't sure if it was an act or if he truly was less than bright, but either way, he never seemed satisfied with any information Holden gave him.
"The chief'll be back in a bit," Holden said, glancing at his wristwatch. "He just stepped out for a quick bite."
Bill noted that it was a little after three o'clock. "Kind of late for lunch, isn't it?" Like many other people in town, Bill knew that Parkman had a "thing" going with Elaine Bradshaw. Actually, Lois Parkman was about the only person in town who didn't know about it.
Holden shrugged. "You wanna wait, or can I help you?"
Bill considered for a moment, and then cleared his throat. "Well, I just wanted him to fill me in on a client of mine."
"And who might that client of yours be?" Holden asked. He made his way over to the table by the window where a Pyrex pot of coffee sat on a hot plate. He picked up the coffee pot with one hand and a brown-stained cup that looked at least a month overdue for a washing with the other. He swirled the coffee in the pot, then filled the cup with what looked like cold, muddy water.
"Care for a mug-up?" he asked after taking a slurping sip.
Bill shook his head. "Thanks just the same."
Holden held the cup in both hands and went over to sit down at the front desk, signaling with a nod of his head for Bill to sit down in the chair beside the desk.
"So," Holden said, leaning back and scratching behind his ear with his free hand.
"Sidney Wood, Junior," Bill said as he sat down, crossing his legs at the ankles.
Holden almost gagged, but Bill wasn't sure if it was because of the bad-tasting coffee or the mention of Woody's name.
"What in the hell are you doing for that sack of shit?"
Bill shrugged. A blur of motion beyond Holden's shoulder drew his attention, but it took him a moment to realize that someone was lying on the cot in the cell.
Holden caught Bill's glance and, craning his head around, looked briefly at Watson, then turned back to Bill. "That's ole Injun Watson in there. Got himself arrested for drunk and disorderly."
Bill grimaced as he nodded. The mention of Watson's name instantly brought back the memory of what had happened out at the house site over the weekend. He fought the impulse to go over and ask the man what the hell he had been talking about.
Holden drew Bill's attention back when he leaned forward and put his coffee cup on the edge of the desk.
"So, what d'you want to know about Woody?"
"His complete record, primarily," Bill said. "I know he hasn't been a model citizen, but—you know, if you could give me some idea of his previous arrests. He had a bit of trouble down in Portland last weekend."
"Oh, yeah. I heard about that," Holden said, picking his cup back up and taking a noisy sip. "Got picked up for—what was it?"
"He's been accused of beating up his girl friend."
"Yeah, that's it." Holden nodded as his gaze drifted out the window by the coffee table.
"I have a fairly good idea of what most people around town think of Woody," Bill said, "but I wanted to get the facts on any previous arrests."
"Well, now, I can't rightly say," Holden said, stroking his chin with a thumb and forefinger. "I know he's spent more 'n his share of overnights in the lockup here, but I don't really recall any, you know, formal arrests as such."
"Wasn't there something—I thought three or four years ago he was caught with a car that had been stolen from somewhere down in York County?"
Again, Holden shrugged, and Bill wondered if Holden really didn't know or if he was just bluffing for whatever reason. He tilted his head back and took a long swallow of coffee; then, smacking his lips, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
"If this is, you know, for a case or something," he said after a moment of silence, "I don't know if I should be telling you anything."
"I'm his lawyer," Bill said, as his anger rose. "I'm not fishing for things I can hang on him."
Holden shrugged again. Bill was beginning to wonder if this was a new nervous habit of his.
"I ain't sayin' you are. I just think, if you're gonna, you know, ask to get into the police records, maybe Chief Parkman ought to be here."
Bill tossed his hands up in the air and, for a moment, had a fleeting desire that he—like Woody—always solved his problems with a jackhammer fist because right now, he felt like popping Holden.
"All I want is a bit of information," Bill said. "Just tell me what you know about Woody."
"I already tole you that," Holden said. "He's a useless sack of shit. I think, personally, he ain't half as tough as he thinks he is. Not by a damn sight. Like most of the punks 'round here, he's got a lot of what the cat licks his ass with, if you know what I mean. That's about it."
"Has he always been this way?" Bill asked. "With a father like his, I can understand a little bit of rebellion, but what was he like growing up?"
Still again, Holden shrugged—the exact same motion. "As a kid? I dunno. I was new on the force, I guess, when he was maybe in junior high. I remember a couple of times we got calls from the principal and had to go over there to break up fights. Usually Woody was involved, one way or another."
"Anything serious?" Bill asked. He was convinced, even before coming over to the station, that Woody's patterns of behavior were pretty much set. Like a lot of kids who grow up in a small town like Thornton, there isn't much to do, and one of the few ways of getting attention is by out-toughing the other kids.
"He got himself into some pretty rough scrapes, yeah," Holden said. "You know how boys can be: 'Meet me out behind the school 'n I'll beat the shit outta yah.' That kind of stuff."
"How many arrests?" Bill said.
"Like I said—off hand, I don't remember," Holden said.
Bill tensed when he realized that Holden could just as easily be describing Marty as Woody. In fact, as Holden was speaking, he had been picturing his own son rather than Woody: the fights, the calls from school, the "wrong" kids hanging around the house. The pattern of misbehavior was identical.
Is that where Marty's heading? he wondered. In a couple of years, am I going to be having this exact same conversation about my own son?
"I can't rightly say," Holden said, shrugging again. "Wait'll the Chief gets here. He can fill you in. Christ, he's been on the force just about since Woody's old man was in high school."
A sound from the jail cell made both men look up. Bill had to choke back a surprised shout when he saw Watson. Even at a safe distance and with the bars between them, he didn't feel safe in the presence of the man.
While they had been talking, the old Indian had silently lurched to his feet and was now leaning on the bars of the cell. His face was lined and drawn into a scowl that looked more skull-like than living human. His oily black hair hung in tangled knots, and his knuckles stood out, the size and hardnes
s of marbles as he clung to the iron bars. But it was his eyes—dark, and glaring and menacing—that riveted Bill.
"Well, well, well," Holden said, chuckling as he rose and sauntered over to the cell. "Look—ee who decided to get his lazy ass up 'n about. What can I do for you, Hiawatha?"
Watson smacked his lips several times before speaking. The thick, mucousy sound wrenched Bill's stomach.
"Speak up. What's the matter? Redman no speakum English?"
Holden glanced at Bill and shot him an amused look. This, Bill thought, must be the aspect of police work Holden truly enjoyed—baiting those people unfortunate enough to come under his sway. He wondered why Holden had never felt inclined to go up against Woody. Maybe he had... and lost. That could explain his reluctance to talk about him. Then again, more than likely, Holden was probably just being a jerk.
Watson smacked his lips a few times more and then spoke. "I have to leave now," he said, his voice rattling like dry leaves.
"Oh, yeah. Sure thing," Holden said. "You feel like leaving? Let's just get the old key out and swing this son of a bitchin' door open, okay?"
Watson glared at the policeman, and Bill started to wonder how he would feel if that gaze had been directed at him. It had been, actually, that day at the house site. A voice in the back of Bill's mind whispered: Who really owns the land?
"I have to leave," Watson repeated.
Holden shook his head sadly from side to side and looked over at Bill again with a bemused what the hell do you do with a guy like this? expression.
"I have to leave now," Watson repeated. The lines on his face deepened, and his hands were trembling. His knuckles were as white as bone. "I have to. They're coming back soon."
"Huh?" Holden said, laughing.
"You can laugh now," Watson snarled, "but they're coming!"
"And who might they be? The pink elephants? Maybe in your case it's pink buffalos?" His laughter got louder.
Watson shook his head from side to side. His hair was so oily and matted it barely moved. The intensity of his eyes burned right through Holden and landed squarely on a spot centered on Bill's forehead.
"I can't tell you," Watson said softly. By the tremor in his voice, Bill could tell he was making a supreme effort to sound rational. "Maybe he can." Watson indicated Bill with a flicking nod of the head.
Confused, Holden looked over at Bill, his eyebrows rounded up almost to his hairline. He looked like a scared ten-year-old.
"You have any idea what the hell he's talking about?" Holden asked.
Bill knew he didn't have control of his voice, so he just shook his head no.
"Oh, he knows," Watson said. His eyes narrowed to mere slits. Hard, cold light seemed to lance out from beneath his lids. "He knows who's coming. Those who own the land."
A sudden wash of chills raced up Bill's back as he stared at the crazy old man.
—Do you know who owns the land?—
Bill remembered Watson's fetid breath washing over his face with sickening warmth that day.
—Do you know who really owns the land?—
"I have to get back to my house," Watson said with even deeper intensity, "because I want to be ready when they come."
"What in the name of Sweet Jesus are you talking about?" Holden said. His nervousness seemed to have passed, and now his voice was laced with irritation.
"Ask him," Watson said softly. "He knows. His wife certainly knows."
Bill suddenly realized that he was shaking his head from side to side. Watson's looks, his words, his whole manner sent blades of irrational fear through him. This man was dangerously crazy, but what the hell was he talking about?
What could Lori know?
Bill wanted to ask him, but at the same time, he sensed that knowing might very well be his undoing. Instead, he did all he could to ignore Watson.
He was just a crazy old coot whose mind has been fried by too much whiskey and sterno. Leave it at that.
But he couldn't let it go.
What is he talking about?
What could Lori have known?
Both Watson and Holden were staring at Bill when the station door swung open, and Parkman walked in, whistling an off-key tune.
"Howdy boys," he said, nodding a general greeting to both Bill and Holden. "Well, I see our guest has finally come to. How's he feeling?"
Holden rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes still dancing back and forth between Bill and Watson. He was genuinely confused as to what was going on.
"Crazier 'n a shithouse rat, that's how," he said.
Parkman sauntered over to the desk and picked up a ring of keys from the top drawer. Tossing it lightly from hand to hand, he walked over to the cell and slid a key into the slot. Watson released his tight-fisted grip on the bars and stood back to watch as, with Parkman turned the key, the tumblers fell into place, and the door clicked open.
"I guess you're sobered up enough to go home," Parkman said. "You're lucky Putnam isn't pressing charges, and I guess we can let the 'hunting out of season' charge drop, too. As long as you aren't caught in the woods with a rifle again, not until November, anyway. Even then, you can't hunt after dark."
Watson stared at the opened cell door as if he didn't quite believe it was open. He looked like he wanted to bolt out of there, but he was hanging back, almost afraid to leave now that he could.
Maybe he doesn't want to leave because "they're" coming, Bill thought. Another wave of chills swept through him.
"Get along there, Tonto." Holden snapped, waving his arm viciously at the door as if he was herding cattle. "Get your drunken red ass out of here before I—"
He caught himself when he saw Parkman's deep frown. "Cut him some slack, Roy, okay?" he said firmly.
"I—uhh, I'll get his things from the lockup," Holden added weakly.
Parkman nodded his agreement, then turned to Bill, who was still sitting beside the desk. "How's things, Bill?"
Bill nodded. "All right, I guess."
"Heard you was starting to build up on Kaulback again," Parkman said.
For a brief moment, the chief stared vacantly out the window as he remembered what he had seen up there in the cellar hole five years ago. He had been first on the scene after being notified that there was trouble, and even now, Parkman shuddered whenever he thought about what he had found in that cellar hole. After all this time, he felt as though he and Bill still shared something—a misery that bound them even though neither one of them ever spoke about it to the other. There was no joy in thinking about the horror that had brought them together, but their unspoken friendship had deepened and strengthened over the years.
"Yeah," Bill said. "All things considered, I figure it's time to get out of town." He laughed, but it sounded forced.
"So what can I do for you?" Parkman asked.
Bill could feel Watson's eyes boring into him as he stood by the cell door, waiting for Holden to return with his wallet and belt. He wanted to look up and make eye contact with him, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.
"I—uh, I just wanted to ask you a few questions," Bill said. He stood up stiffly, feeling the backs of his knees lock so they wouldn't collapse on him. He dropped his hands to the desktop for added support. "I wanted a little background on Sid Wood's boy."
Parkman nodded. "Anything you want, you ask. You know that."
"Just some background," Bill was going to say more, but Watson's dark, steady gaze silenced him.
Holden made a show of walking in from the back room with a bag containing Watson's personal effects. From the file cabinet, he took out a list of items and checked them off as he handed them back to Watson one by one. When he was done, he gave Watson a release form to sign just so, months later, he couldn't claim something hadn't been returned. When they were finished, Holden unlocked the cell and escorted Watson to the front door. When he opened it, sunlight burst through the doorway.
"Happy trails, Chief," Holden said, smiling as he stepped to one side and let
Watson pass.
Without a word, Watson went out the door, but Bill had the impression his first step outside was tentative, as if he had reconsidered and was thinking it might be safer in the jail cell after all.
Just as the heavy door swung shut, cutting off Bill's view of Watson, the Indian glanced back at him over his shoulder. In the glare of sunlight, his body was a huge, indistinct silhouette, and his eyes seemed to flash fire. Bill thought Watson's said something, maybe a final warning before he left, but then the door slammed shut, cutting him off.
"So, Bill," Parkman said, "did Roy give you what you needed, or d'you want to sit and chat a bit? You know, it's been months since you made poker night."
"Been busy," Bill said. He was still looking at the door that had just closed behind Watson, tossing over and over in his mind what he thought about the Indian. Watson was an unnerving person to be around, no doubt about it, but there was something more. It was almost as if…
An idea hit Bill so suddenly he wished he hadn't stood up yet. His legs felt weak. He thought it was almost as if somehow Watson felt a kinship with Bill, as if Bill was supposed to know and understand something.
But what?
"Who really owns the land?" Watson's words echoed in Bill's mind, and he had to shake his head to clear it when he realized Parkman was speaking to him.
"Bill?"
Feeling dazed, Bill looked at Parkman.
"Did you already get what you needed from Roy?" Parkman asked.
Bill nodded. "Uh, yeah. I did. Look, I—uh, I'd like to stick around and chat, but I've been so busy lately I haven't had time to think. Maybe I'll stop by later. Thanks for the help, though."
Parkman nodded as Bill started toward the door. "No problem. Any time. Just drop by. And why don't you see about making it over to Lenny's Thursday night for poker?"
"Maybe I will," Bill said. He hesitated at the door because he had the sudden fear that Watson was waiting just outside, ready to confront him again.
"Who really owns the land?"
Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open, and he stepped outside, relieved to see that Watson was nowhere in sight. As he walked down to his car, he smiled to himself at how foolish he was being.