Lyle jerked his arm free of the clutching fingers. Thought for a moment. His eyes touched Martin’s unwavering gaze. Shifted to Audie. “This ain’t over,” he warned. “For neither one of you. Bear that in mind. Cain’t neither of you talk to me like I’s some drifter. It ain’t over.” He stalked away into the night, his back stiff with anger, Jim Watson keeping pace with him.
Lyle gunned his engine like some kid in a hot rod.
Audie said, “If he spins out, I’m gonna bust him hard.”
But Lyle drove away sedately, keeping well within the speed limit.
Not once had anyone from the fence turned around to see what was happening behind them.
Audie watched the taillights fade. When he spoke, his words were very soft. “I’ll have to hurt that man someday, Martin.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Martin contradicted.
“What do you mean?”
“I think I’ll have to kill him.”
EIGHT
Martin stepped out of church, his family with him. Linda headed for her brother’s car for the ride back to the house. A pickup truck was all right, but a station wagon was the absolute pits!
It had not been a particularly inspiring sermon, Martin felt. He had been forced to struggle to keep his attention from wandering. The minister had rambled, having some trouble keeping his train of thought.
Martin wondered if it had been his imagination, for everyone else had seemed completely enthralled by the services. On the ride home, he asked Alicia about it,
“I thought it was an excellent sermon,” his wife disagreed with him, as usual, of late. “I enjoyed it very much.”
Martin sighed and offered no other comment.
“I wonder why Gary and Janet didn’t make it this morning?”
“We checked back with Gary around midnight. He still had a lot of work to do with the bodies. I imagine he elected to sleep late.” He glanced out the window. “Alicia, does the town seem unusually quiet to you?”
“Not more than on any other Sunday.”
Naturally, Martin thought. We’re going to have this out shortly, he made up his mind. I’ve got to find out what’s bothering her. What’s been bothering her for a long time.
Again he glanced out the window. Something was out of whack. Something was just not right.
The kids were going to the cafe to have lunch; Martin watched as Mark cut off to head for the downtown area. Martin turned the other way and headed for Gary’s.
“Must we?” his wife asked.
“I just want to check on Gary, that’s all.”
“Are you two sleeping together lately?” she spat that at him.
Martin lost his temper. “Sleeping is about all you and I have been doing together for the last few months.”
She turned her face away and gazed out the window.
Martin cursed under his breath.
Susan answered the door on the first dong and waved them in. “Mom and dad are in the den. Where’s Mark and Linda?”
“Having lunch at the cafe.” Alicia managed a civil tone.
There were several drive-ins around town, and one chain-type fast food joint and an eatery at a local motel, but whenever anyone mentioned “the cafe,” they meant the cafe at the Holland Hotel.
“Hey, Mom!” the girl yelled. “Okay if me and Rich go to the cafe and eat lunch with Mark and Linda?”
“As long as you take your little brother.” Janet appeared out of the den.”
“Chill out!” Susan muttered. “Oh, okay,” she grinned. “Where is nerd?” She was referring to her eight-year-old brother, noisy and rambunctious Gary, Jr.
“I’ll get him.” Janet disappeared up the hallway.
Gary, Jr. came barreling up the hall and almost knocked Rich down in his haste to get outside. “Come straight back after lunch!” Gary called from the den.
“Right, dad!” Linda called over her shoulder as she was going out the door.
The silence was numbing.
“I love ’em all,” Janet said with a smile. “But . . .”
Alicia managed to return the smile. “I know the feeling.”
“I made a big pot of stew. The kids turned up their noses at it.” Janet waved Martin and Alicia into the den. “How does it sound to you two?”
When Alicia didn’t reply, Martin took it. “Delicious.”
“I think I’ll pass,” Alicia said. “I’ll take the car and go on home. Gary, will you run Martin back over to the house later?”
“Sure. We’ll probably link up with Audie Meadows later on this afternoon. Might be back late.”
“Oh, of course,” Alicia’s tone was very ugly as she looked at her husband. “Be sure and strap on your six-gun before you leave, partner!”
She turned around and walked out of the house.
“What was that all about?” Gary asked.
Martin shrugged. “Things have been a little strained between us lately. But I don’t know why.”
Gary looked at his wife. She shrugged and walked out of the den, heading for the kitchen.
“Something tells me she knows.”
“Let it drop,” Martin urged him. “No point in both of us getting the cold treatment. Whatever it is, it’s coming to a head between us. We’ll hash it out. I’m hoping it’s nothing serious.”
“Probably isn’t. Let’s eat. I’m hungry.”
* * *
The cowboy was riding fence line, a lonely and boring but necessary job, when he suddenly reined up, not believing his ears.
What was that sound? He sat his saddle and listened very intently. It sounded like an old car or truck trying to crank up, but it was very faint. Just could hear it.
As a matter of fact, he thought, pushing his hat back on his head and grinning, it sounded like it was coming from under the ground, sort of a deep and hollow grinding like an old starter would make.
He chuckled at that. What a dumb thought. How stupid could you get?
But, he listened, there it was again. Now where was it coming from? He stood up in the stirrups, looking around him. Nothing or nobody in sight. Sure wasn’t any truck for miles around.
And just how did he know it was a truck?
He scratched his head. Well ... he just did. It was a truck. He’d bet on that. And an old one, at that.
The cowboy riding the horse with the Bar-S brand dismounted and ground-reined his horse. He stood for a moment. The grinding sounds of the old starter had stopped. Only the low sighing of the wind spoke to him in its invisible but audible way.
Even the wind sounded different.
“Now, just settle down,” he muttered.
Then he heard the starter again.
Crazy! he thought. I’m going slap-dad nuts! The old starter grinding drifted to him. He walked around in a huge circle, gradually narrowing the circle, until the noise became the loudest. At that point, he got down on his hands and knees and pressed an ear to the ground.
Sweat beaded his forehead. Fear-sweat. There was no doubt about it. He was not imagining things. That was definitely the sounds of a starter.
And something else, too. All mixed up with that sound: someone calling out, followed by laughter. And he wasn’t nuts either; that was really laughter and real words. But he couldn’t make out the words. Something about coming home, or something like that.
Then it all stopped. The grinding of the starter, the laughter, the words. Just quit. Leaving nothing but the never-ceasing and lonely winds.
The cowboy looked down at his work-hardened hands. They were trembling. He got to his boots and looked around him. There was nothing out there. And it wasn’t possible for a truck to be under the ground!
Well ... maybe a truck could be under the earth, but there sure couldn’t be anybody in it trying to start the thing!
The cowboy, a young man from Wyoming named Don Talbolt, pulled his hat low over his eyes and stood for a moment, pondering on this development. These were grasslands, leased from the government
, and there wasn’t even any roads running through this part of it. Nearest dirt road of any sort was a good ten, twelve miles away to the west.
So what was going on?
He expelled pent-up breath. Well, whatever it was, it could just wait. Don walked back to his horse thinking what a good story it would make around a cookfire some night. A ghost truck. He’d have some fun with that. He climbed back into the saddle and pointed the dun’s head toward the line shack. It was a good five miles back to the shack and he was hungry.
By the time he reached the cabin he was sharing with a cantankerous old puncher named Red, Don was so hungry he could have eaten a polecat.
Then he smelled something.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t Red cookin’ up a stew. This smelled terrible. Matter of fact, it just reared up and killed his appetite.
And the horses in the corral were all bunched up and scared, all wall-eyed with their ears laid back.
Don rode in closer and took a better look. Jesus Christ! All the windows had been knocked out of the cabin, and the front door was hanging open, hanging there by one hinge. And what in God’s name was that thing hanging out of a front window.
Looked like a—
Oh, no!
Swallowing hard, Don dismounted. He opened the flap to his saddlebags and took out a pistol, checking to see if it was fully loaded. One empty, under the hammer. He dug down into the saddlebags and fished out a .44 magnum round and filled the empty.
His own horse was getting skittish as hell, wanting to get gone from the smell of death that lingered all around. And Don knew that’s what the smell represented. He led the horse to the hitchrail and tied the reins securely.
Then he jerked back the hammer on the single-action. 44 mag.
He walked up to the window where the object—he knew what it was—was hanging out. Don swallowed hard, again, and forced himself to look.
It was a leg. Or a part of a leg, with the boot still attached. The worn and faded denim was all torn and soaked with blood.
Don touched the boot with shaky fingers. He jumped back, almost falling, as the leg fell out of the broken window to land with a squishy thud on the ground. Don forced his eyes to look at the severed object. No, not severed. That was not a clean cut. The leg looked like it had been torn apart, ripped right out of the knee socket.
And it was Red’s leg. No doubt about that. Don recognized the boot. But what could have done something like this? Nothing but a bear or some big ape would have the enormous strength to rip a man apart. There were no grizzlies around here, and for sure, there weren’t any big apes.
Don walked slowly over to the broken door. Steeling his nerves, he forced himself to look inside the cabin.
He promptly puked up what was left of his breakfast.
There was blood everywhere. Dripping from the walls and the ceiling and off the battered old table. One of Red’s arms was on one side of the room, the other arm, ripped out of the socket, was on the cook stove, clear across the big room.
Don couldn’t immediately spot Red’s other leg.
What to do?
He sure didn’t want to step inside. Whoever—or whatever, he thought—might still be waiting there.
But he had to look.
“All right, you, come out of there with your hands up!” Don shouted.
Nothing.
He felt like a fool.
He took off his hat and dropped it on the ground beside the door, so as not to present too big a target (he’d seen them do that in cowboy movies), then slowly poked his head farther inside. He got the dry heaves as his eyes found Red’s torso, headless, propped up against the far wall. The legless, headless, armless trunk was covered with blood.
Don could not help himself as his numbed and horrified eyes settled on Red’s head. It was sitting on the window ledge on the south side of the cabin. The eyes were wide and staring, still terrified in death, the mouth open in a silent scream.
Don screamed. His howl of fright spooked his own horse and caused a minor stampede in the corral. Don ran to the hitchrail just as his horse reared up, breaking one rein and trying to run. Don grabbed the horse’s neck and talked to him, rubbing him and stroking the animal’s neck, quietly soothing him, calming him. It stood, trembling in fear, not liking the blood-smell rolling in invisible waves from the cabin.
“I don’t like it either,” Don said, as he led the animal to the tack shed. There, he replaced the broken rein. He squatted down and had him a smoke, trying to calm his own badly jangled nerves. He quickly smoked the cigarette down to a butt and crushed it out under his boot, then he stood up, walked to a horse trough, and bathed his face and neck in the cool water. Back at his horse, he loosened the cinch and let the horse blow and drink, then he tightened it down, smiling as the horse puffed up, as usual. He waited until the animal blew and then tightened the cinch down right.
His hat was over there by the broken door, but he wasn’t gonna go back there and get it. He swung into the saddle and lit out for the nearest phone, which was a good eight or ten miles off, over there at that farmer’s house just off the county road.
The young cowboy could not recall ever being so rattled in all his life.
* * *
“When I called dad this morning, I asked him about that book he’d mentioned last night. No help. He couldn’t remember who wrote it or what the title was. Martin, it may have been a book of fiction and dad just got confused.” The strange stirring within Gary had ceased. For a time.
“Gary, what are we facing out there at the fairgrounds?” Martin asked. “I’ve had a dozen changes of heart over the past twelve hours. I’ve flip-flopped my opinions so many times I feel like a mental yo-yo.”
“Do you believe that’s the original Nabo out there at the fairgrounds, Martin?”
“Yes. I know it’s impossible, but yes, I do.”
Gary experienced a numbness around his heart. Looking at his lifelong friend, he knew that Martin was experiencing the same sensation.
“What are you guys talking about?” Janet asked.
“If this investigator from the state is the best in the world, honey,” her husband told her, “it still isn’t going to solve anything.”
“I don’t understand that.”
“There is nothing anyone can do,” Gary tried to put it all into words. But he knew he’d failed.
“Will somebody, anybody, please explain?” Janet pleaded with the men.
Martin finally took it. “What is the investigator going to do, Janet? If Gary and I are correct in our assumptions, it’s laughable to even consider bringing charges. How do you bring charges against a person, or a group of people, who, from all available evidence, have been dead for decades?”
Janet looked first at Martin, then at her husband. She shifted her gaze back to Martin and yelled, “But you just let your kids go off downtown to eat! Alone! And my kids are with them!”
“Janet ...” Martin spread his hands, “what do you want us to do. Nabo had Jeanne in his hands yesterday and didn’t harm her. He helped her. I’m not going to sit on my kids until I’m given a reason to do so.”
Janet sat down on a hassock and put her face into her hands.
* * *
The waitress had taken their orders, grudgingly, and stalked away, muttering obscenities under her breath. She slammed the ticket down on the counter and said, “Fix this for the little turds over there!”
The kids exchanged looks at that but said nothing. They looked around the room while they waited for their lunch.
Two ministers traded curses for a moment and then resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
“Hey, you lazy bitch!” the cook shouted from the kitchen. “Here’s the slop for the turds!”
More looks of amazement mingled with a bit of alarm were exchanged between Mark and Linda and Susan and Rich. Gary Jr. was enjoying it all immensely, grinning hugely.
The plates of food were tossed on the table. “And eat every lousy
bit of it!” the waitress snarled at them.
“Place is weird!” Linda summed up the feelings of them all, except for Gary, who had grabbed up a chicken leg and was gnawing on it, his attention on the food, no longer interested in the antics of those in the dining room.
Rich cut his eyes, an uneasy expression on his face. “What’s the matter with everybody?” He kept his voice low. “They’re acting like they’re half crazy, or drunk, or something.”
“It’s spooky,” Susan said.
“At least that,” Linda agreed. “I think we made a mistake coming here.”
“Pass the ketchup,” Gary said.
His sister looked at him. “On chicken!”
“You eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches,” the boy fired back. “So gimme the ketchup.”
Linda grimaced and handed the boy the ketchup bottle before the conversation could turn any worse.
“He has such a way with words,” Susan said.
Linda nodded her head and cut her eyes just in time to see Mr. Morris, who owned a clothing store, lean across the table and give a backhand slap to the face of Mrs. Morris. The blow knocked the woman out of her chair and sent her to the floor.
“I can’t believe this,” Mark said, his mouth hanging open.
Mrs. Morris crawled to her feet, profanity rolling in soiled waves from her mouth, her lip split and bleeding. She picked up her lunch plate, piled high with mashed potatoes and gravy, roast beef and green beans, and let her husband have it, right in the face. He toppled over backward and landed on the floor.
The kids stared.
“Kick him in the nuts, Sally!” a woman screamed. “That’ll get the bastard’s attention.”
The husband of the woman who suggested a kick to the parts reached across the table and busted her right in the mouth.
The woman climbed to her feet, snarling at her husband, her mouth bloody. She picked up a metal serving tray and clanged him right on top of his bald dome, bending the tray around his bean and sending the man to the floor, stunned and bleeding.
The cafe erupted in a wild melee as everybody joined in, cursing and shouting and screaming with the first person they could find, in most cases, their spouse. Mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans and chicken fried steaks and roast beef and liver and onions were flying throughout the place. Mark grabbed up Gary Jr. and slung him over his shoulder, and the young people hit the air, getting outside just as a chair came crashing through the glass of the front door.
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