Double Blind

by D P Lyle

  “No.”

  “You should,” Sam said. “He’s actually quite intelligent.”

  Wade eyed Sam. “Do you plan to talk with Billy again?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  Sam noticed that Wade kept flashing looks at Burt. “He and I are butting heads right now. He seems to like you. At least he took your advice about giving up the samples and prints. Maybe you can find out a few things.”

  Sam shrugged. “Would this chat be official?”

  Wade cut his eyes toward Burt, but quickly looked back at Sam. “More an unofficial pow-wow. Just two citizens shooting the breeze.” Wade leaned back and shoved the fingers of his right hand beneath his belt. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that might step on Billy’s rights. Anything some smart ass lawyer could use if we do make a case against him.”

  “Since I’m not part of the posse, so to speak,” Sam said, “I wouldn’t be restrained by the same rules as you.”

  Again, Wade glanced at Burt and Sam thought she caught a slight nod of Burt’s head from the corner of her eye. “Something like that. He might open up and talk to you. Maybe keep this whole thing from getting ugly.” Wade said.

  “Sure,” Sam said. “Who knows, maybe he’ll confess.”

  *

  Sam drove slowly on the way home, Alyss sitting next to her, Shelby in the back seat, head rocking with the rap beat that spilled from her headphones. Sam’s brain churned over her conversation with Burt and Wade again and again.

  “You OK?” Alyss asked.

  “Sure. Why’d you ask?”

  “You’re off somewhere.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Something doesn’t smell right.” Sam said.

  “Such as?” Alyss asked.

  Sam peeked at Shelby in the rear view mirror. Shelby appeared lost in her music. “I’ll tell you later.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Shelby?”

  Shelby pulled her headphones down around her neck and lowered the volume on her iPod. “Yeah?”

  “What exactly did you see up there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But, you don’t think it was a bear. Why?”

  “It like stood up. On its back legs. Like a man. A big hairy smelly man.”

  “Hairy? You didn’t say that before.”

  “I didn’t?” She cocked her head to one side. “I didn’t get a good look. It was pretty dark in the trees. But I think it was hairy.”

  “Hairy as in a beard?”

  “I had the feeling it was, you know, like hairy all over. If it was some dude, maybe he had a beard and was wearing dark clothes or something.”

  “Was he or it as big as Billy?”

  “At least.”

  *

  After they got home, Shelby went to her room, while Sam and Alyss had a cup of tea on the porch. Sam watched Alyss as she sipped her tea and gazed out across the valley. This was a conversation she didn’t want to have, but she really had no choice. Better just to jump right into it.

  “How do you feel about Burt?” Sam asked.

  Alyss smiled. “I like him. He’s easy going and fun to talk with. And, well, he’s handsome.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Alyss laughed. “You mean could it get serious? I don’t know. Maybe, in time. Right now, it’s just good not to think about all the crap I’ve been through with Dan.”

  Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Shelby, but I think Burt and Wade are trying to frame Billy.”

  “You’re not serious? Why would they?”

  Sam told Alyss of her conversation with Billy about his land and Burt’s tricks to steal it. And of her feeling that Burt was overly involved in the investigation. “Then, Wade wants me to buddy up to Billy. Try to get him to confess or whatever.”

  “So? That makes sense to me.”

  “The fact that he asked me to get friendly with Billy isn’t what bothers me. He seemed to wait for Burt’s permission before asking.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A look passed between them. One of those giving-getting permission looks.”

  “You think Burt might be pulling Wade’s strings?”

  “Maybe. And Billy said they had some kind of arrangement.”

  “You mean payoff?”

  Sam shrugged. “That’s Billy’s take on it.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first case of police corruption,” Alyss said.

  Sam finished her tea and placed the cup on the porch. “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Niki told me some interesting things about Burt.”

  “Oh?”

  “She doesn’t care much for Mr. Eagan, it seems. She feels he’s a bad influence on Hollis.”

  “The same Hollis that’s sleeping with a girl that could be his granddaughter?”

  “That’s what I thought. At first. But, seeing them together today, it’s more than that.”

  “Come on, Sam.”

  Sam held up a hand, palm out. “Just hear me out.” She told Alyss about her bedroom conversation with Niki.

  “And you believe her?”

  “I don’t know. But after today, I know Burt and Wade are up to something and Niki just might know what it is.”

  “You plan to talk to her again?”

  “Absolutely. In the meantime, I just want you to keep your eyes open. Be careful. Burt may not be what he seems.”

  “Is anybody? Remember, I was married to Dan.”

  “Dan’s just playing Peter Pan. Burt may be something else again.”

  *

  Burt stirred the fire and added another log. He poured two glasses of cognac, handed one to Hollis, and then eased into one of the chairs. Hollis sat on the sofa. Niki, Conner, and Kelly had already gone to bed and except for the occasional crackle and hiss from the fireplace the house was quiet.

  “What do you think Shelby saw up there?” Hollis asked.

  “A bear.”

  “You know Goddamn well it wasn’t any bear. And it wasn’t a bear that spooked that couple that was honeymooning at Alyss’. It was him.”

  “He’s dead.” Burt stared at the fire and sipped his cognac.

  “You don’t know that. You never found his body.”

  “Nobody could have survived that fall,” Burt said.

  “Nobody normal. But he wasn’t. You saw what he had become.”

  Burt sighed. “Yes. I saw.”

  “And if that was him, if he is alive, he could talk. Where would that leave us?”

  “Don’t worry. I have things under control.”

  “Shit.” Hollis stood and paced before the hearth.

  “Walt and Ted are coming down. They’ll track down whoever or whatever is up there.”

  Hollis drained his glass and refilled it. “I hope to hell you’re right. That son-of-a-bitch has already screwed up everything and if he talks, we’re dead.”

  “If he exists, he’ll never get the chance.”

  Hollis stopped pacing and turned toward Burt. “So, you admit that it could be him.”

  “Anything’s possible, but I think they all saw a bear. Or Billy. And if Walt and Ted just happen to run across Billy up there, our troubles...all our troubles...are over.”

  Hollis sighed and collapsed into one of the chairs. “And what about Sam? She seems to be on Billy’s side.”

  “Relax. She’s a visitor. She’ll be gone in another week or so.”

  Hollis turned and looked at him. “And in the meantime?”

  “If she becomes a problem, we’ll deal with that, too.”

  Hollis shook his head. “You’re amazing. How can you be so calm about all this?”

  “Not calm. Rational. I have all the bases covered.” He swirled the cognac in his glass and took a sip. “Besides, when the hair and DNA match Billy to the crime, Sam will become a true believer. An ally.”

  “They had better match.
”

  “They will.”

  Chapter 28

  Fatigue weighed heavily on Walt Packer. He had slept little the night before, drinking and bouncing around with Lois. He hadn’t seen her in three weeks, her husband being unable to work his usual night shift at the Wayside Motel due to a back injury. Lois made up for lost time. He finally extricated himself from her a little after two and made his way home only to find a message from Burt Eagan on his answering machine, telling him to round up Ted Smyth and be at Casa Grande by eight.

  Begging off never crossed his mind. Five hundred a day and two grand each if they bagged their prey, working for Burton Eagan was a perk he cherished. Four and half hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and a couple of stale donuts had pumped enough life into him so that he made it with time to spare.

  It was a gray morning and promised to become even grayer. Bruised clouds gathered to the north and spilled over the peaks into the valley. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Walt stood just inside the stable, next to Ted and out of the fine mist that muted the morning. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, denim jacket, and a sweat stained Stetson. He pulled a cigarette from the wrinkled Marlboro pack in his shirt pocket and tapped down the tobacco on the face of his watch. He flicked a match to life with his thumbnail and lit the cigarette with one long drag. Smoke trailed from his nostrils. “Gonna be a shit day,” he said.

  “Yep,” Ted agreed. He pinched a wad of tobacco from a zippered pouch and shoved it into his left cheek, wedging it into position with his tongue.

  Walt looked up as Burt’s Range Rover approached and came to a stop near them. “Morning,” he said as Burt stepped from the vehicle.

  Ted nodded, saying nothing. He pressed the tips of his index and middle fingers against his lips and launched a thick stream of brown spittle out the door into the mist.

  Burt looked up at the sky. “Looks like a front’s moving in.”

  “Yeah,” Walt said. “Won’t last long.”

  “Carlos saddled horses for you,” Burt said. “I had him grab a couple of ponchos, too.”

  “So, we got a bear up there?” Walt said, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth.

  “A bear of some type.”

  “I see.” Walt glanced at Ted and then back to Burt, cocking his head to one side. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same one we hunted a couple of months back, would it?”

  “Possible. Or it could be that other bear that has caused us so much trouble.”

  Walt pursed his lips. “I’d guess we’d have the right to defend ourselves in either case.”

  Burt locked his gaze on Walt. “Of course, without a body your rights would never come into question.”

  Walt stared out at the drizzle. “Maybe he’s holed up for the day. With this weather.”

  “Perhaps,” Burt said.

  “I ‘spect we’ll see.” The ash fell from his cigarette and landed on his boot.

  Carlos appeared from the rear of the stable, leading their horses, two oiled canvas ponchos draped over one arm. Walt slid his rifle into the saddle’s scabbard, pulled on the poncho, and took the reins.

  After Ted slid his poncho over his head, he fired another wad of tobacco juice out the door, and then checked the saddle’s cinch. “Let’s get at it,” he said and mounted the horse.

  Walt swung into the saddle and looked down at Burt. “We’ll be back by sunset.” He flicked the cigarette butt into a rain puddle. “Maybe sooner.”

  Walt urged his horse forward, into the gentle rain. Ted followed. They crossed the open fields of Casa Grande, weaving through the 500 head of cattle, which, with the exception of a few turned heads, ignored their passage.

  Walt tilted his hat back and examined the sky. Thick black clouds capped the valley and fat raindrops began to fall, hammering a steady rhythm on the brim of his Stetson. He pushed his horse into a gallop, taking a direct path toward the cover of the forest.

  As he entered the trees, he yanked on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop. Ted sidled up next to him. Walt pointed ahead.

  “What the hell?” Ted said.

  Before them lay the carcass of a calf. Its throat had been ripped open and several chunks of flesh gouged from its shoulder, flanks, and rump. Predators had gnawed away skin and flesh. Two crows balanced on an exposed rib, cawing a loud protest at the intrusion, and eyed the two men with cocked heads. As Ted and Walt dismounted and approached, they took to the nearby trees where their scolding continued.

  Walt knelt beside the mutilated animal. “This wasn’t no bear.” He stood, surveyed the area, and then turned his attention back to the dead calf. “This is fairly fresh. Two days. Three at the outside.”

  “Burt ain’t going to be none too happy about this,” Ted offered.

  “I think the bear that did this is the two footed variety and carries a knife,” Walt said. He lit a cigarette, the end glowing hotly in the gloom as he took a deep pull.

  “It’s him, ain’t it?” Ted asked.

  Walt nodded. “That’d be a safe bet.”

  The wind whipped the treetops releasing deep moans and creaks from their trunks and shaking water loose from their dark green needles. Walt cupped his cigarette in his hand to keep it dry.

  Ted untied one flap of his saddlebag and retrieved a pint of Jack Daniel's. He took a swig and offered it to Walt. “Where you think he’s at?”

  Walt took a couple of pulls from the bottle and passed it back. “Bet he’s holed up in one of the mines. It’s not like he could stroll into town and get a room at the Begley.”

  “You figure we can find him?”

  “Eventually.”

  Ted took another swig and then stuffed the bottle back into his saddlebag. “You think he’s different? I mean, you saw him before. Maybe he’s even worse now.”

  “We ain’t paid to think. We’re paid to hunt. Burt wants whatever or whoever is up here and we’ll damn well give it him.”

  Ted spit a stream of tobacco. He stared toward the calf’s mutilated carcass. “You think he ate them? Those missing parts?”

  “Probably.”

  “This is creepy, man,” Ted said. “I don’t like this shit.”

  Walt tugged his hat down. “Let’s get going.”

  They remounted and headed up the slope, winding through the trees, and drifted a couple of hundred yards apart to widen their area of search. For the next two hours they zigzagged up and down the mountain, working their way to the west, searching the ground for tracks.

  The rain slackened, the wind died, and the day began to warm as the storm moved to the east. Walt pulled the poncho over his head, shook the water off, and crammed it into one of the saddlebags.

  Though he hadn’t seen Ted for the past hour, he knew where he was. A few hundred yards below and slightly ahead. They had hunted together so often that they knew each other’s movements. He could occasionally hear the sound of Ted’s horse pushing through the brush or clapping over a rocky area.

  Entering a clearing in the forest, he reined his horse to a stop. After dampening his kerchief with water from his canteen, he wiped sweat from his face and then massaged his neck, attempting to relax the taut sinews.

  A squirrel scurried up a nearby tree, barking a warning, alerting others that an intruder was present. Walt fired up another Marlboro and gazed up at the bright blue sky, broken only by a few clouds that straggled behind the storm. The sun hung high overhead. Time for a bite of lunch, he thought.

  A rifle shot echoed through the trees followed by a heavy silence.

  He turned his horse toward the sound. “Ted,” he hollered. Cupping one hand around his mouth, he shouted again. “Ted.”

  Silence.

  He crushed the cigarette against his metal canteen, tossed the butt aside, and urged his horse forward. He snaked his way through the trees toward the gunshot until he rounded a large rocky outcropping. Before him, Ted lay face down on the ground, unmoving. He yanked his horse to a stop and jumped from the
saddle. He pulled his rifle and cranked a shell into the chamber, but caution prevented him from approaching his friend. Instead, he remained near his horse, shielded by the animal’s bulk. “Ted?”

  No response, no movement.

  He looked around. Ted’s horse was nowhere in sight and his rifle lay near his body.

  An odor wafted toward him. Thick, harsh, animalistic. Hunched behind his horse, he couldn’t determine from which direction the stench originated. Then, he heard a scrapping sound. Above him.

  Looking up, he saw something along the flat top of the rocky mass, scurrying away from him, into the trees, up the slope. It appeared to be a large man-like form. He sidestepped to his right, away from his horse, attempting to draw a bead. He couldn’t see the assailant, but he heard him, thrashing through the trees, heading higher.

  He pointed the rifle toward the sound and fired. The bullet snapped a tree branch fifty feet ahead of him. He levered the gun and fired again. The slug slapped through the foliage before thudding into a tree trunk.

  He listened, but now heard only the gentle rustle of the trees as the breeze pushed against their branches.

  He rushed to where Ted sprawled face down on the forest floor. Kneeling, he shook his friend, but got no response. He rolled Ted’s limp body over and recoiled. Acid rose in his throat. The killing blow had split Ted’s skull, revealing the underlying brain tissue, and had crushed left side of his face, exploding the adjacent eye from its socket.

  Jesus. He swallowed hard. A wave of nausea rose in his gut and a cold sweat slicked his skin.

  He picked up a thick tree limb that rested against one of Ted’s boots. Fragments of flesh and streaks of blood clung to a fractured segment of its coarse bark.

  He stood and backed away, attempting to control his grinding stomach. He lost the battle. Leaning against a nearby tree, he gagged and heaved, but expelled only hot, bitter bile.

  He wiped the dribble from his mouth and climbed back into the saddle. He looked down at Ted’s body. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll run this son-of-a-bitch down and blow him the fuck away.”

  He yanked the reins to the left and spurred the horse forward, toward the fleeing form. He charged through the trees, brushing aside branches with the sweep of one hand. The horse churned up the slope with powerful strides, its hooves digging into the dirt and gravel and pine needles, tossing them in its wake. The animal’s breath came in great sibilant whooshes.