In a Dark Season

by Vicki Lane

  “She’s Spinner’s sister, you fool!” Blake spat out the words, all pretense of civility gone. Still propped up against the bookshelf, the older man continued. “The resemblance is striking. And she’s trying to locate him. Perhaps one of you can tell her where he is. After all, you were friends and comrades, all five of you.”

  The memory of the picture of the 5 Bad Boyz flashed into Elizabeth’s mind. Of course! That was why that fifth one looked so familiar.

  Amanda rose abruptly, dumping the ginger cat from her lap. “You were his friends?” She moved closer, looking from one to another of them. “He wrote to me from Ransom in December 1995—he said he was going to build a cabin. But there were no more letters. Please…where did he go?”

  Chapter 42

  The Accounts of Randall Revis

  Wednesday, December 27

  Phillip could hear the music as he opened the front door—the true mountain sound, with only a guitar to accompany the singing and then a fiddle sobbing wildly on the occasional break. There seemed to be two voices, male and female, handing the verses back and forth. The woman’s clear sweet voice was taking its turn, the poignant words throbbing with anxiety and the pain of love.

  I see a dust cloud and the stock drawing near;

  I see a tall figure; it must be my dear.

  My heart’s pounding faster; oh, will he be kind,

  When he finds that there’s two where he left one behind?

  And now the man was singing—a lonesome, haunting sound—the sound of a man who sees his doom ahead and goes willingly to it.

  Who is this dark woman in the midst of the road?

  She beckons me to her; oh what does this bode?

  Her eyes are deep pools and they’re drawing me nigh.

  She lays her hand on me and for her I would die.

  Luellen comes to me and I turn aside—

  “You’re back.” Elizabeth punched the button to halt the tape in the boom box. She wiped her hands on her apron and hugged him heartily.

  “Yep, Ben and I went in to the tractor place. He’s decided I have potential as a tractor monkey and wanted me to be familiar with the parts department and the guy who runs it—Ben says there’s a lot more use in the tractor but it’s at the age where little things keep breaking or wearing out.” He sat on the cushioned bench and began to unlace his boots. “Saw your car there at Blake’s. Was he able to tell Amanda anything about her brother?”

  “Nothing good.” Elizabeth ran through the highlights of the visit, ending with Amanda’s appeal to her brother’s old friends.

  “They all three seemed embarrassed by her question. They said they hadn’t really seen that much of Spinner in the last few months he was in Ransom. Kind of insinuating things about his being gay—one of them said Spinner had made a lot of different friends recently, and one of the others laughed and said, ‘Yeah, they were different, all right.’”

  “Did they have any idea where her brother’d got to?” He picked up the empty plastic tape box lying beside the boom box and read the penciled notation: Songs of Love and Murder by Josh and Sarah Goforth.

  “Not really. One of them kept making these snide comments about Spinner going somewhere ‘more appropriate to his lifestyle’—New York or San Francisco or ‘one of those places with lots of his kind.’”

  He listened as she described Blake’s rejection of RPI’s offer and the threat of a county taking, then asked, “Has the county ever done that before? Can they do it?”

  “I don’t really know.” Opening the oven door, Elizabeth pulled out a cast iron skillet of cornbread. She turned out the fragrant cake onto a bread board and began to fill bowls from the steaming pot of chili on the stovetop. “Sallie Kate seems to think it’s possible. And if the Holcombes want it to happen, I expect it will.”

  “Thomas Blake let me borrow a box of Nola’s papers. He said he’d been helping her with research for her novel and she’d given him a lot of her copies from original sources so he could piece together his family’s history. And he said some more stuff that pertained to the stand had just turned up. It was at the bottom of the box where the cat had her kittens—more historical records of some sort tucked under the old clothes.”

  They were settled before the fire with their after-dinner coffee, feet comfortably propped up on the big cedar chest in front of them. With a delighted cry, Elizabeth lifted out a page from the box on her lap.

  “Look at this one! It’s a copy of an old newspaper article about the same murder as that ballad I was just playing.”

  She held up the paper and began to read with exaggerated dramatic emphasis, skipping down the columns of close-packed print. “An Account of the Recent Terrible Murders at Gudger’s Stand…the flight and capture of the desperate drover boy Lydy Goforth…the mute witness of the ensanguined snow… Now there’s a word for you; they don’t do journalism like that anymore….

  “…hapless young girl dragged to the riverside…bloodied night garment ripped from her frail body…footprints that told the sordid tale…matching the home-cobbled cowhide boots belonging to Lydy Goforth…peculiar pattern in the setting of the nails and a crescent-shaped indentation along the side of the left sole. High Sheriff Loyal Revis, fortuitously on the scene, was the first to note these telling details, and it was he who led the hardy band of trackers, some deputized on the spot, in pursuit of the young man who was at last captured, the blood of his victim still on his hands.”

  She finished with wide eyes and a melodramatic quaver, then grinned and handed the copy to Phillip. “Quite a story.”

  Phillip studied the page. “Simpler times. I bet Mackenzie wishes his cases could be solved that easy.” He handed the page back to her. “What else is in there?”

  Elizabeth began to remove the papers and clippings. “Odds and ends is what he said. Let’s see…more newspaper articles…a little privately printed genealogy of the Blakes and Wakefields…copy of another newspaper article about a bridge being built at Gudger’s Stand to replace the ferry…a bunch of little books tied up with a string…”

  She undid the knot and spread out the books—pocket-sized ledgers, their gray-green cloth covers stained and worn. Picking one at random, she opened it. The endpapers were covered with penciled jottings. On the first page were the initials “R.R.” and the date “1990–1993.”

  Elizabeth began to page through the book, trying to read the cryptic notations that accompanied various sums. “Look at this, Phillip. It must have belonged to that old man, Nola’s uncle.”

  What was it Nola had said? Not till his accounts are closed?

  Phillip glanced over her shoulder. “It looks like the private account book of a small-time loan shark.” He took the book. “See how the same sums occur every month—and if a month’s skipped, there’s added interest.”

  He flipped through the entries. “Very, very small-time, payments of five or ten dollars—the highest recurring payment is twenty-five from someone he calls ‘Trucker 2.’” Phillip handed the book back to Elizabeth. “The old guy ran an illegal drinking establishment—he probably picked up a little on the side lending money out till payday—something like that.”

  Elizabeth took up another book, the one marked “1994–1996.” The same small amounts, as Phillip had said, received from the unknown debtors: Four-Eyes, The Gimp, Trucker 2, Cat Man. She moved on—July, August, September. Some debts evidently were paid—Trucker 2 disappeared, as did The Gimp—and new nicknames appeared: Sandals, Beach Boy, Cave Girl.

  “Not exactly riveting reading.” She flipped rapidly through the pages. “I wonder if Cat Man is Thomas Blake?”

  Suddenly the pattern made by the repeated five-and ten-dollar notations shifted. “Phillip, the numbers get a lot higher, beginning in October of ’95. There’re new names and they’re paying one or two thousand apiece.”

  “So they are…” He frowned at the names. Holy Joe, Kildare—who were these people?

  “You know, Lizabeth, I’m thinking thi
s doesn’t look like loan-sharking.”

  She nodded. “But it does look like blackmail, doesn’t it?”

  The Drovers’ Road XV

  And Faithful Beyond

  The hammering of the day before had been replaced, as the morning hours wore on, with the increasing clamor of a gathering crowd. Lydy lay motionless on his narrow bunk, not even turning his head when the rattle of the chain announced the opening of the door.

  A rough voice proclaimed, Professor, here’s your broadsheet. Printer’s got three little boys hawkin copies to the crowd and they’re sellin like one thing.

  The Professor took the sheet that was thrust through the narrow crack. The hand withdrew, the door shut, and there was the familiar sound of the lock and the chink of the chain being replaced. Holding the hastily printed broadside to the light, the Professor pursed his lips as he scanned the inky lines, then offered the rough sheet to his companion.

  Here, my poor boy, is the account based on your trial. The version of the unhappy events that you swore to in court. The printer has labored all the night to have this ready for your…for your perusal.

  The young man glanced at it briefly, then returned his gaze to the featureless winter sky beyond the barred window. I ain’t no hand to read. I’d take hit kindly was you to say it over for me.

  The Professor cleared his throat. Of course, if it will afford you some modicum of satisfaction. The title is, as you wished—The Most Lamentable Story of Lydy Goforth, Composed by Himself on the Eve of his Hanging for the Grewsome Murders of the Standkeeper Lucius Gudger and his Fair Daughter Luellen—Anno Domini 1860.

  When Lydy made no response, the Professor took an oratorical stance, holding the rough sheet at arm’s length, and half singing, half intoning, began to recite the hastily composed verses.

  “Come all ye good people and hear my sad tale;

  My time it draws nigh and my soul it doth quail.

  I’d have you take warning, take warning of me

  If murder you’ve done, then you must pay the fee.”

  An abrupt gesture from Lydy silenced him. I believe I don’t want to hear it atter all. If you wrote hit as I told you, hit’ll do. Long as I know that you have the true story wrote down somewheres else.

  There was a sudden roar from the crowd outside and once again a rattle and clank and the door swung wide. Three armed men stood there, and beyond them a shifting crowd, all craning to see the prisoner emerge.

  Lydy, you got to come on now.

  The burliest of the three stepped forward but Lydy waved him back. Swinging his feet to the floor, he stood, his hands clenched at his sides. Professor, I thank ye kindly for your company and charge you to keep to our bargain.

  The Professor laid a hand over his heart. Faithful till death. Choking on the word, he brushed his eyes with the back of his other hand. And faithful beyond.

  And faithful beyond, replied Lydy, opening his hand to let the smooth stone fall to the floor.

  Chapter 43

  The Biter Bit

  Wednesday, December 27, and Thursday, December 28

  So if Revis was blackmailing these people—what are the names? Kildare, Pretty Boy, Holy Joe, The Fairy Queen, and Little Big Man—in October and November and December—”

  “The Fairy Queen didn’t pay in December,” Elizabeth put in. “And the payments from the others each went up by five hundred dollars.”

  Phillip ran his hand over his head, then pointed a warning finger at her. “Don’t say it. Is there an entry for January?”

  She flipped ahead. “Revis’s accounts for ’96. Only January is filled in and it looks like The Fairy Queen is off the books—there’re just the four names. But the rate they’re paying is up—two thousand dollars each for two of them, and three thousand each for the other two.”

  “And by February, Revis was dead. The classic mistake of a blackmailer—ask for too much and the victim—or victims—can turn desperate.”

  Elizabeth looked back to the page for October 1995 and ran her finger down the names. “It started here—and this is when Mackenzie’s anonymous letter-writer says she was gang-raped and when Bam-Bam dropped out of sight. Could be a coincidence but somehow I doubt it. The payments increase in December—was Revis just greedy? Or did something else happen?”

  Phillip’s quiet answer was like a knell. “December’s also the last time anyone heard from Amanda’s brother. You realize, don’t you, Lizabeth, whose bones those probably were in the silo?”

  She nodded silently and pointed to the December entry. “The Fairy Queen,” she whispered. “Spinner.”

  “That leaves four possibilities for Revis’s murderer—”

  “The Bad Boyz.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Cletus said that they were bad boys who put him in the bus with the naked girl.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you—bad boys?”

  Elizabeth moved her finger to another entry. “Now there’re only three—Holy Joe’s gone too—the so-called suicide.”

  The night-duty aide was moving quietly around the room, tidying the other bed, where she had dozed, and collecting the romance novel and puzzle books that had kept her company through her shift. Nola watched through barely opened eyes and made her plan.

  This one’ll leave a little early, as usual, and Michelle will get here a little late, as usual, and there’ll be time.

  She could see the aide glance at her, so she maintained her gape-mouthed pose of deep sleep. The aide stepped over, leaned down, and gently pulled the sheet up a little higher. She stood and studied her client.

  Benevolently? I think so but dare not trust her. Nola began to snore slightly. Don’t overdo it. Just enough to convince her that I’ll be asleep and out of trouble for another hour or so.

  After another moment, she heard the diminishing squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. Cautiously she opened her eyes and saw with relief that her door was pulled almost shut.

  As quickly as she could manage with limbs stiff from disuse, Nola Barrett pulled herself out of bed and hobbled across the room in search of her glasses. In one hand she clutched four white tablets.

  “Good morning, Miss Nola! You want me to help you to the potty?…What a sleepyhead you are. I believe I’ll just turn on the TV to help you wake up a little so you can have some nice oatmeal when your breakfast comes.”

  She almost caught me. If only I could have had a few more seconds to stir it in thoroughly. Once again stretched out on the bed, Nola continued her imitation of sleep. She could hear Michelle’s heavy footsteps moving from the television to the plastic-covered reclining chair, and she could hear the chair’s sigh of protest as Michelle sat down.

  “Ooh, here’s some good juice just goin’ to waste again.”

  The television clicked on and a woman’s voice said, “More later on the blizzard lashing the Plains; we’re going now to Bret on the beach at Waikiki—tough assignment, Bret!”

  “Umph, reckon that juice woulda tasted better cold. It must of settled or something.”

  A sigh and Michelle sat back. There was the rattle of the cart delivering breakfast trays in the hall.

  “Just set it there. I’m lettin’ her get her beauty sleep.” Retreating footsteps and the sound of a lid being removed.

  “Oatmeal, toast and jelly, scrambled eggs…maybe I’ll just taste a corner of this toast…”

  The weather report droned on, segueing into something Nola recognized as Michelle’s favorite show—people yelled at one another and accused family members of heinous things while the audience cheered and booed like a crowd in the Roman Coliseum, watching the barbarians tear each other to pieces.

  Michelle, who usually accompanied this show with a running commentary, was silent. Nola waited a little longer, then opened her eyes. The young aide was limp in the reclining chair, a half-eaten piece of toast drooping from one hand.

  With a grim smile, Nola Barrett sat up and slipped on her glasses.

  It worked. Now if he can only manag
e to do as I directed. He has to get here before they come for the tray.

  Phillip dragged the navy watch cap from his jacket pocket and put it on, pulling it well down over his ears. “I’m going in and have a talk with Mac. These little account books will give him something to think about.” He tucked the parcel under his arm. “It all comes back to that old house and the things that went on there. I’m thinking Mac’s going to be very interested in the three Bad Boyz still standing.”

  “I bet he will.” Elizabeth reached for the chicken bucket and the scraps of last night’s meal. “After I do my chores, I’m going in to check on Nola. She told me not to come back till Friday but I just don’t feel easy about her. Of course, if she’s still going on with that phony act, there’s not much I can do. But maybe I can get that aide to leave us alone long enough for me to ask some questions.”

  Michelle slept on. Nola took a last look at the clock on the wall, removed her glasses, and lay down to wait. What are the chances he’ll do it? I should have asked Elizabeth. But how well do I know her? She might have balked…have felt it her duty to stand in my way. But where is he?

  The door was pushed open again and a familiar voice spoke. “As you desired, dear lady, punctual and sober. And I’ve brought the items you specified.”

  Chapter 44

  Star-2-3-0-0

  Thursday, December 28

  She specifically told me not to come back till Friday. Is she going to be angry if I just check on her? But what if she’s in danger from whoever was trying to keep her doped up?

  The interior monologue repeated its dreary loop as Elizabeth parked her car and picked her way across the icy parking lot to the entrance of the Layton Facility. She was aware of a subtext to that monologue, running concurrently but, as it were, on a slightly different frequency. This is a woman who tried to kill herself. Why do I believe she’s acting rationally?