by Bill Crider
Rhodes took a firm grip on the cane and started around the end of the deadfall to his right, at the point where the huge elm had split and fallen. The cover there seemed to Rhodes a little less dense.
Just as he rounded the deadfall, he heard a noise. It was in front of him, not to the side, and he looked up. Thirty feet away, walking between two pecan trees, were several Poland China hogs. Or what had been Poland China hogs at one time. They were still black, and they still had the characteristic drooping ears of the tame breed, but they were clearly no longer the hefty meat hogs once bred on nearby farms.
These were feral pigs, the generations of breeding fallen away. They were thin and mean. Their backbones stuck up sharply. Razorbacks. Rhodes could see the tusks growing high on each side of their snouts. The largest of the animals had one tusk that was broken in two.
Rhodes heard them snuffle and grunt. They had not seen him yet, and he hoped that they never would. It was one thing to face another man with a gun. It was something else entirely to face feral pigs. He was about to turn and make a quiet retreat behind the deadfall when something struck him hard in the back. He suddenly found himself sliding forward on the ground, his mind wrapped in a red haze of pain.
He heard Johnny Sherman’s voice. “You shouldn’t have come, Sheriff.”
“H-had to,” Rhodes managed to get out. His hand felt for the cane. He heard Johnny walk toward him, and he wondered if he had just one more fast move left in him. Probably not.
Then Johnny noticed the hogs. Rhodes didn’t want to lift his head, but he could hear them pawing the earth and rooting in the soil and grunting. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“Godamighty,” Johnny said.
While Johnny was momentarily distracted, Rhodes swung the cane at the deputy’s shins, connecting solidly.
There was a sharp crack of cane against bone, and Johnny Sherman yelled out in pain. At the same time, he accidentally fired a round from the pistol he had been holding in his right hand. He stumbled toward the razorbacks, yelling and hopping from one foot to another.
The hogs were puzzled by his behavior and frightened by all the noise and confusion. A few of the more timid ones fled back into the trees, but two of the old boars looked up with a savage light in their tiny eyes. Their sharp hooves pawed at the soft ground.
Rhodes was trying to stand and having no luck at all. He got to his knees, however, in time to see Johnny turn toward him. Rhodes made a turning, clumsy twist toward his deputy, sticking out the cane’s hooked end and managing to grab an ankle. He pulled, and Johnny tumbled down. He dropped the pistol, and both men reached for it.
Rhodes tasted dirt as his face was mashed into the forest floor. Sherman was on top of him, one hand on his head, the other reaching for the pistol.
Rhodes tried to raise himself and throw the deputy off, but he was hurting in places he didn’t even know he had. Johnny squirmed over the top, getting his knee on Rhodes’s neck. Rhodes managed to turn out from under him, but Johnny had the pistol again.
Johnny straightened and turned. That was when the hogs charged. Rhodes could barely see, his eyes being clogged with dirt and twigs, but he heard the sound as one of the hogs crashed into Johnny’s back. All the air went out of the deputy in a loud sigh. The razorback didn’t even slow down. It ran right up over Johnny’s back, and its hooves churned the earth in front of Rhodes’s face. Rhodes didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
Johnny was thrashing around. Rhodes could hear his heels striking ground. He could also hear the enraged grunts of the other boar as it dug its snout and tusks into Johnny’s side. Johnny’s voice came out in a continuous low moan.
Rhodes picked up his head and tried to look for the pistol. The other boar had returned, and the two were savaging Johnny as if he were a stuffed doll. His arms and legs swung wildly, but whether he was moving them or whether they were simply flopping, Rhodes could not tell. He saw the pistol and inched toward it.
He reached the gun and got his fingers around it. The hogs were grunting and slobbering; they showed no inclination to desert their prey.
There were four shots left in the pistol. That wasn’t much against two wild hogs. Rhodes used the cane to push himself into a sitting position. He was hurting everywhere from the first beating and from the latest kick, and his hands were not exactly steady. He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly.
He took careful aim at the right eye of one of the hogs that was nearly facing him and pulled the trigger. The hog stiffened, and there was a high-pitched squeal. The hog took one or two stiff-legged steps and then keeled over, blood pumping from the eye socket.
The other boar looked up. It was the one with the broken tusk. It studied Rhodes as if wondering where in the hell he had come from. Then it charged.
Rhodes fired the pistol. The bullet struck the razorback’s sharply ridged backbone with about as much effect as if it had hit a nearby tree. The hog didn’t even slow down. The bullet appeared to have bothered it about as much as a mosquito. It lowered its head and came on.
Rhodes had not time for another shot. He twisted to the side to avoid the charge, yelling at the pain in his chest.
The boar didn’t hit Rhodes head on, but it caught him a glancing blow on the hip. Rhodes yelled again, not even aware that he was doing it. He was tossed two feet to the side. He managed to sit up again and gripped the pistol with both hands.
The hog came to a stop, tearing up the dirt. For one horrible instant, Rhodes was reminded of a Bugs Bunny cartoon in which Bugs had been a bullfighter. The hog looked exactly like that bull, and Rhodes almost expected to see steam fly out of its ears. Rhodes would never laugh at that cartoon again.
The hog turned, lowered his head, and came back. Rhodes had two shots left, but he didn’t have time to think about it. He looked at the hog’s right eye and pulled the trigger twice. The hog struck Rhodes in the chest like a runaway steam engine. Rhodes dropped the pistol and went away from all the pain.
Chapter 17
Rhodes came out of it with a jerk. It was probably the pain that brought him to himself again. At first, he wasn’t quite sure where he was or what was happening. He couldn’t move his legs.
He lay still for a minute, eyes closed, trying to orient himself. Gradually the sounds of the Big Woods filtered through to his brain. He heard birds whistle and the scratching of insects. He heard Johnny Sherman moaning softly.
He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down at his legs. The dead boar lay across his thighs. He struggled to a sitting position and shoved at the hog. It must have weighed three hundred pounds. It had a rank smell.
The shoving increased the pain, but he managed to move the hog off his legs. Then he had to lie back again.
He didn’t know how long he lay there. He didn’t know whether he passed out again or not. Nothing had changed when he opened his eyes again, except that Johnny was no longer moaning.
Rhodes rolled over and somehow got to his knees. He crawled over to where Johnny lay. The other dead razorback lay beside him.
Johnny was covered with blood, only a little of it belonging to the hog. They had ripped him up pretty badly, but he was still breathing. His breath was ragged and shallow, but it was there.
Rhodes twisted himself into a sitting position. Even that hurt him. He felt light-headed and dizzy. “Johnny,” he said. His voice was husky and raw. “Johnny, you there?”
The deputy’s eyelids flickered. “I’m . . . here,” he said. It was barely a whisper. “Don’t think I’ll be . . . going anywhere real soon, you know?”
“I’ll get you out of here, Johnny,” Rhodes said, knowing that it was a lie. He’d be lucky to get himself out.
Johnny tried to laugh and wound up coughing. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you, Sheriff. I think . . . my back’s broken. Among other things.” He coughed again and there was blood on his lips. “Wanted to tell you though. You . . . were right about some things. Wish . . . you could’ve believe
d me about it all. Didn’t want to have to hit you. Thought . . . thought it might be easy to lose you in here. Should’ve known better, I guess.” He stopped and breathed a deep, ragged breath.
“It all pointed to you, Johnny,” Rhodes said. “I just wish I’d seen it sooner.”
“Wasn’t me,” Johnny said.
“Too late for that,” Rhodes said. “Too late.”
Johnny was insistent. “Wasn’t . . . me!”
Rhodes shook his head. Even that little movement hurt. “We went through all this, and it wasn’t you? Give me a break, Johnny.”
Johnny tried to laugh again, then broke it off. “I’ve got plenty . . . breaks I’d like to give you,” he said. “‘Let me tell you something, though. I went by Jeanne’s house . . . like you said. Saw the others there. Bill Tomkins, he . . . even drove his car. So one night I stopped.”
“One night?” Rhodes said.
“Just . . . one. The night she died. Like you thought. I had in mind a little fun, like the old days. She was a wild one . . . then. But, no dice. Wasn’t like that now. She . . . slapped me. I hit her back. She . . . spit on me. Batted her around pretty good then. Think I broke her arm.”
“Yeah,” Rhodes said. “Her arm was broken. Neck, too. You do that to her face?”
“Maybe the face. Hit her a good one. Not the neck, though. I . . . left the house then. She was hurt. Mad . . . as hell. Called me all kinds of names. But not . . . dead. Not dead.”
“You did start the fight with Terry Wayne?” Rhodes asked.
“Yeah, I did that. Jeanne . . . cut me a little.”
“You think a jury will believe you didn’t kill her?”
“Sheriff, the way . . . I feel, there won’t be a jury. I just wanted you to know. I hit her. I didn’t . . . kill her.”
Rhodes looked around for his cane and spotted it not too far off. He got over to it and pushed himself up. “I’ll get you to a jury,” he said. “I can get to the road and get to town. I’ll send back for you.”
Johnny laughed and then coughed. “Too . . . late. Time you get to town, too late.”
“Don’t tell me that, dammit. I’ll get you out of here,” Rhodes said.
Johnny didn’t answer. Rhodes turned and started for the road.
He fell three times on the way out of the woods. The third time, he didn’t get up for a while. Finally, he did. It took him a long time to reach the edge of the trees.
He could see the road when he got outside the woods. His vision was fuzzy, but he thought he could see three vehicles in the road. There was another pickup parked behind Johnny’s.
He hobbled across the open pasture and saw his daughter lying in the weeds near the fence. He tried to run and fell again. This time he couldn’t get up. In a few minutes, he felt someone lifting him by his armpits. “Good god, Sheriff,” a man said. “You look like you’ve been in a tussle with a bear.”
“Kathy,” Rhodes said. “My daughter . . .”
“The girl’s fine,” the man told him. “I’ve got her in my truck. She’s breathing and everything. Just a little tired, I guess.”
“There’s a man in there,” Rhodes said, trying to point to the woods. Then everything went dark again.
The next time Rhodes woke up he was cold. He opened his eyes and saw a blob of orange, which gradually came into focus. It was Mrs. Wilkie’s hair. Then it went away. He heard Mrs. Wilkie’s voice, however. “Nurse, nurse! Come quickly! The sheriff is awake!” Then Mrs. Wilkie was back, and there was a nurse in a white uniform with her.
“It’s cold,” Rhodes said.
“He’s trying to say something,” Mrs. Wilkie said. “His lips are moving!”
“I can tell,” the nurse said.
“Cold,” Rhodes said again. “It’s cold in here.”
“Can you understand him?” Mrs. Wilkie asked. She sounded frantic. Rhodes went to sleep again.
He woke up again. It was dark this time, or at least as dark as they ever let it get in the Clearview General Hospital. There was a light on somewhere around a corner, probably in the bathroom. He was still cold. He had time to wonder why they always kept it so cold in hospitals, and why they always covered you with only a thin sheet, and why the gowns they gave you were so damned skimpy—they didn’t even have any backs in them.
There was a chair at the foot of the bed, and it looked as if there might be someone in it. He thought vaguely that it might be Mrs. Wilkie, though he hoped not. He drifted off.
The room was bright, and there was a doctor standing over him when his eyes opened. The doctor looked as if he might be eighteen years old. Rhodes had first realized that he was slipping over the line into middle age when all new doctors began looking about eighteen to him. He was used to it now. “Kathy?” he asked.
The doctor apparently had no difficulty in understanding him. “Your daughter? She’s fine, nothing but a superficial cut and a slight concussion. She’ll be in to see you in a little while, if you’re up to it.”
“I’m up to it,” Rhodes said.
“You probably are. For a man who came in here looking like he’d been run over by a Mack truck, you’re in pretty good shape. The average man on the street wouldn’t be too happy in your shoes, though.”
“Shoes?”
“Not speaking literally, of course.” The doctor ran his hands over Rhodes’s ribs, which Rhodes realized for the first time were heavily taped. “‘That hurt?”
“No,” Rhodes said.
“It will, later. Five ribs cracked, one of them pretty badly. But you’ll live. Various other contusions, abrasions, and lacerations, too, but nothing serious.”
“How long have I been here?” Rhodes asked.
“About thirty-six hours,” the doctor said. “I’m Doctor Williams. I’m going on my rounds now, but just push the button if you need the nurse. Or I’m sure that one of your female admirers would be glad to get you anything you need.” He turned briskly and left the room. The wide, heavy door sighed shut behind him.
Rhodes lay there, wondering about his female admirers.
He didn’t have to wonder long. Kathy came in and stood looking at him. The hair was shaved back from her forehead, and there was a clean white bandage taped to her head. “I didn’t realize that police work was so exciting,” she said.
“Only sometimes,” Rhodes said. “How do you make this bed work?”
Kathy helped him with the controls and got him into a sitting position. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it might be.
“How’s Johnny?” he asked after he got himself arranged.
Kathy looked at him, then away. She couldn’t seem to find her voice. Finally, she just shook her head. Rhodes could see tears in her eyes.
“I was afraid of that,” he said. “They have any trouble finding him?”
“I . . . I think so,” she said. “It took them a while, and one man wandered off and got lost. Then they had to look for him.” She paused. “Johnny was dead when they got there. He’d been dead a long time.”
“I expect there’s been a lot of talk around town.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Kathy said. “I guess if Mrs. Wilkie were to get naked and walk down Main Street, it might make as big a sensation. “
Rhodes almost smiled. “What did Dr. Williams mean about my ‘female admirers’?”
A trace of a smile crept across Kathy’s face. “You do have quite a covey of fans,” she said. “Ivy Daniels has been here four or five times, and so has Mrs. Wilkie. Ivy has been just fine, but Mrs. Wilkie has been driving everyone absolutely crazy. First, she thought you were going to die. That was bad enough. Then she caught on about why Ivy was here, and that was worse. Frankly, I don’t know what they see in you.”
“Me either,” Rhodes said.
“People are really curious about what happened,” Kathy said.
“You tell me.”
“I really don’t know. Johnny came by the house and said he had to d
rive out to see you in the country. He asked if I wanted to go. Things hadn’t been too good between us lately, and I thought he just wanted to make up. Then you were behind us in his old pickup, and he started yelling about how you were out to railroad him for something he didn’t do and how he wasn’t going to take it. He was really mad. I’d never seen him like that. When he was forcing me across that field, he was practically foaming at the mouth. I think he really wanted to shoot you. And when I tried to stop him, he hit me.” Her hand went to the bandage on her head.
“I’m not sure that he really wanted to shoot me,” Rhodes said, “but I’m glad you stopped him just the same. His temper was his problem, all right. He admitted to me that he beat up Jeanne Clinton.”
“You mean he killed her?” Kathy’s look was incredulous.
“I thought so, yes.”
“Oh,” Kathy said. It was a small sound in the room, but she didn’t add to it.
“I’m sorry, Kathy,” Rhodes said. “I’m sorry he had to die like that.”
“It’s just . . . I don’t know,” Kathy said. “He was strange, and he certainly hurt me, but I just can’t believe he’d kill Jeanne. Or anyone.”
“He only said he beat her up. Maybe he didn’t kill her. He certainly didn’t have any reason to lie. Those hogs had worked him over. He knew he wasn’t going to get out of there.”
Kathy shuddered. “He wasn’t the only one the hogs worked over.”
“Yeah. Well, I had a gun.”
“A thirty-eight! Nobody believes that yet! It’s a wonder you’re here at all! I’d think you’d have more sense than to go chasing a man into Big Woods with nothing more than a puny pistol!” Kathy looked ready to cry, so Rhodes decided not to tell her that he hadn’t even had the pistol at first. Maybe later.