A Taste of Blood and Ashes

by Jaden Terrell

  I spent the rest of the day doing the thing PIs do most. While Khanh worked on the computer and Billy caught some shut-eye, I canvassed the showground, talking to everybody I could find who might have seen either Zane’s attacker or Maggie’s killer. I started at the TASA booth and circled outward, then did the same with the Underwood trailer. Two sets of concentric circles, neither of which turned up much. No one had seen Maggie the morning of her death. No one had seen the man in black running from Zane’s trailer. Apparently, folks took “see no evil” literally around here.

  There were some common themes—sympathy for Maggie, who seemed generally well-liked despite her alignment with the dark side, and a mix of guilt and anger toward Zane, who had betrayed his own but had, perhaps, paid his debt to the community in blood and suffering. Beneath it all was an undercurrent of resentment and anxiety. Fear was a palpable presence, and it had little to do with the killer in their midst and much to do with the dissolution of the industry that was their livelihood.

  Three quarters of the way into the circle, an old man in faded jeans and a wife-beater T-shirt sat in front of a Sundowner gooseneck, rubbing leather oil into a western saddle that looked like it had been around since the Pony Express. His eyes were blue and watery, his chin and cheeks stubbled with white. His shirt was stained gray at the armpits, where a few wiry white hairs sprang free, and a blurred tattoo blued the skin of his upper arm: a mermaid, from the shape of her, wrinkled and out of focus, like a reflection in murky water.

  “I’m—” I started.

  “I know who you are.” He gave the saddle a fierce rub.

  “I’m just trying to piece things together,” I said, then decided to shake things up a bit. “Figure out who might have murdered Maggie James and Owen Bodeen.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Owen Bodeen? Murdered? Since when?”

  “Probably the night he disappeared.”

  I filled him in, and he shook his head and said, “Maggie James and Owen Bodeen. Now there’s a pair you wouldn’t think to put in the same sentence.” He tipped more oil onto a rag and rubbed it over the saddle horn until the tang of the oil filled the air and the leather gleamed.

  “Why not?”

  “Nothing in common. He ain’t never been anything but a hard-drinking, hard-living stable hand. She’s . . . she was . . . a nice, church-going lady. Not rich, but she didn’t have to live on beans and rice.”

  “So you don’t think they could have a common enemy?”

  “Miss Maggie never had an enemy in her life.”

  “She was in with the anti-Big Lick group. That must have chipped some people off.”

  “No sir. Not anybody that knew her. She had a way about her. Even when she was yakkin’ her damn fool head off about some stupid pie-in-the-sky cause, you knew she wasn’t puttin’ you down.” He sighed and rubbed his rheumy eyes. “I reckon she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What about barn fires?” I said. “Braydon County has a lot more than the average, even when you take into account that this is horse country.”

  The old man swung his head in protest. “Oh, no. I might be dumber ’n a box of bricks, but I know better than to take on the Trehornes.”

  “Who said anything about Trehornes? I’m talking about barn fires.”

  “Then you’re talking about Trehornes.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with his wrist, smoothed back his damp hair with his palm, and dried his hand on his shirt. “But if you say I said so, I’ll say you’re a lying sack of skunk shit.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “How would they find out? No offense, but you don’t seem the type to run with the Trehornes.”

  “Meaning I don’t shit dollar bills? Naw, you’re right. I used to do some work for ’em, though, back in the day. Saved up, bought my own barn. Small stuff, enough to get by. But I know my place, and I know better than to step on anybody’s toes.”

  “You think they’d hurt you?”

  He seemed to consider this. “I don’t know. You hear rumors. Who can say how true they are?” He gave the saddle skirt a vigorous rub. “With them, it could go either way.”

  “About these fires . . .”

  He said, “Why should I talk to you? You ain’t a friend to us.”

  “People are dying.”

  “All the more reason to keep my trap shut. I’ve said all I’m gonna say about barn fires.”

  “Fine.” I rocked back on my heels. “Maybe you could talk about Mace Ewing instead.”

  “Not much to say about Mace. He’s been hangin’ on Junior’s coattails since they was knee high to a tater bug.”

  “So if Junior told him to put a pillow over Zane’s face . . .”

  “Well, Mace seems to have a mind of his own, so I don’t rightly know. On the other hand, when a Trehorne says jump, best just ask how high and when can I come down.” He shifted the saddle on his lap, poured more oil onto his cloth. “Junior ain’t as hot-headed as his daddy used to be, got too much of his mama in him for that, but that don’t mean he don’t know how to take care of business.”

  “Can you think of anyone he might confide in? Someone who might talk to me about the fires?”

  He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “There’s a woman he used to go with. Jane Barstow. Seemed pretty serious for a time, but they ain’t been seein’ each other for a while.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  He draped the rag over the top of the oil bottle, then eased the saddle off his knees. It landed on its side, then slowly toppled upside down onto the grass at his feet, a thin line of dirt adhering to the oil on the tip of the saddle horn.

  He blinked at it for a moment, then sighed and pushed out of his chair. “She’s in the book. I think I might have one inside.”

  37.

  Jane Barstow lived in a rundown, one-story brick house with a dog pen in the side yard. A Redbone Coonhound lay on its side, panting in the heat. It lifted its head and barked once as I pulled into the driveway, then watched, tail thumping up dust, as I parked beside an aging Pinto and got out of Billy’s van, borrowed for the occasion.

  It was late afternoon, but the heat and humidity still hung in the air like a damp sheet. I took a detour to the pen, saw a handful of kibble covered with flies and half a bowl of water inside. The dog wagged its tail and came over to the fence to lick my fingers. She looked healthy enough, and as I headed toward the house, she circled twice and lay back down.

  The woman who answered my knock was in her mid-to-late twenties, heavyset, in tight white shorts and an oversized T-shirt with a grumpy-looking cat on the front. She peered through the screen door with a quizzical smile, then looked past me at Billy’s van, with its custom paint job.

  “Good Lord,” she said. “What is that?”

  “It’s Van Gogh,” I said. “Starry Night.”

  “It’s pretty,” she admitted. “But why?”

  “I borrowed it from a buddy who runs a shelter for veterans,” I said. “It’s supposed to remind them to hold on to their dreams. Or something like that.”

  “That what you’re sellin’?” She gave me a mischievous smile. “Dreams?”

  “Not selling anything. I’m hoping you might talk to me about Junior. You guys used to see each other, right?”

  Her eyes hardened, but there was hurt in her voice. “If by see each other, you mean he’d stop by for fun and games but didn’t think I was good enough to meet Mama and Papa, then yeah, we used to see each other. What’s it to you?”

  “I was told if he was going to confide in anybody, it was probably you. I don’t suppose you’d let me come in, have a talk?”

  She sighed. “Mister, you’re about as cute as a bug’s ear, and if I let you in here, I just might not let you out.”

  “I think I can handle myself,” I said, and grinned.

  “I hope so. Otherwise, what would be the point?” She unlatched the screen door but didn’t open it. “You got some ID?”

  I showed her
my PI license, and she stepped aside to let me in. The house was cluttered but clean, half-finished afghans and crossword puzzles squirreled around the living room, a pile of laundry half-folded on the couch.

  She scooped up the laundry and dumped it in a recliner across from the TV. “You can set on the couch. You want something to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  She plopped onto the couch beside me and said, “Is Junior in trouble?”

  “I won’t sugarcoat it for you. He’s been implicated in some barn fires.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at her knees.

  “Did he ever talk to you about that?”

  “We talked about a lot of things. I mean, we got along really well, and I don’t mean just things you do without your clothes on.”

  “But that wasn’t enough for him?” I turned my body toward hers, just enough to seem more sympathetic.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it would have been if his family wasn’t so stuck up. He said they’d never let him settle for someone like me.” She looked at her hands. Picked at a nail. “He actually said settle.”

  “I’m guessing diplomacy is not his strong suit.”

  “Not that I ever saw.” She gave a small, sad laugh. “You know, I used to wish I’d grown up rich. Now I thank God we didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.”

  “They say money is the root of all evil.”

  “Love of money,” she corrected me. “But I guess it’s easier to love it when you have some. Otherwise, you’re just coveting, which is a whole other sin.”

  The logic made me smile. “So between his money and his family . . .”

  “We were doomed.” She gave a self-conscious laugh, acknowledging the melodrama. “Oh, we had some good times. Went to the fair. Cooked dinner together. Spent a couple weekends in the mountains. Course he told his folks it was a camping trip with the guys.”

  “He’s thirty years old. You’d think he would have gotten past that.”

  “You don’t know the Trehornes. They have a family slogan. It’s, ‘We take care of our own.’ ”

  “I’ve heard that a few times.”

  “It’s all they think about. Them against everybody else. Who’s doing better than them? Who’s a threat to their business? Who’s good enough to hang out with them, and who’s some little peasant girl who ought to be out selling matches on the street?”

  “They’re protective.”

  “Very. And they taught Junior from the time he was a little boy that Trehornes, they . . .” She cast about for the word. “When they see a threat, they . . . neutralize it. It bothered him sometimes, the things he had to do, but he had to do them, like his father had, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, all the way back to God knows when.”

  “And what were the things?”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and looked away.

  I said, “Are you afraid of him? Of what he might do if you told?”

  “No, no. He wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

  I thought of Maggie but didn’t say anything.

  She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “He trusted me. He’s an asshole sometimes, but I really don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “Jane,” I said softly, “people are getting hurt.”

  “And you think he’s . . .?

  “Either he’s doing it, or he’s in the crosshairs. One or the other. This is your chance to help him.”

  After a moment, she said, “The fires.” She crossed her arms and sank deeper into the cushions. I waited. She squirmed. Finally, she took another long breath and said, “The fires are a last resort. If someone’s trying to drive them out of business or is so successful they’re a threat, his father tries to negotiate. Like buy in or something. If that doesn’t work, they try to drive them out of business. There’s a whole long process of . . . they call it psychological warfare. But if none of that works, Junior has to burn something. Not a house or anything, nothing people would be in. Maybe a shed, if there’s something really valuable in it. But mostly barns.”

  “Why doesn’t he take the horses out first?”

  She shot me a glance like I wasn’t quite bright. “Because then it would be obvious somebody set the fire.”

  “But everybody knows he set it. Psychological warfare only works if the other person knows they’re a target.”

  She shrugged. “Knowing isn’t proving.”

  I scowled. “It’s so Hap has plausible deniability. Does he know?”

  “He might suspect,” she said. “But I think he doesn’t want to know, and Junior’s good at setting fires that look like accidents. Even though everybody knows they’re not. He hates it, but it’s what he has to do to support the family.”

  I looked down at my hands, clenched into fists. “Why him? Why not his father?”

  “He’s too old to run away if something goes wrong. Besides it’s like passing a torch. When his dad was young, he was the fire starter, and now it’s Junior’s job.”

  A dull throb started in my temples. “Why didn’t you tell somebody?”

  “Who would I tell? The sheriff? Besides . . .” She blinked back tears. “I love the stupid son of a bitch.”

  38.

  Jim Lister was waiting for me when I got back to the trailer. He sat in my folding director’s chair, nursing a beer, while Khanh squatted in front of the fire pit, prodding the firewood with the poker. She didn’t look happy.

  When he saw me, he set the beer down on the ground beneath his chair and said, “Walk with me.”

  I bristled at the command, but held my peace. If he wanted to play alpha male, let him. I glanced at Khanh, who gave the largest log a vicious poke and watched the embers swirl.

  “I’ll be back,” I said.

  She nodded, something unreadable in her eyes. “Probably I be here.”

  Lister put one hand on each arm of the chair and pushed himself up. As we passed out of Khanh’s earshot, he said, “She doesn’t like me much.”

  “Were you there long enough to make her dislike you?”

  “She thinks I mean to threaten you. She’s very protective.”

  “My own little pit bull.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She stepped on a land mine when she was a child.”

  “Tragic.” His sincerity needed some work. Maybe that was what Khanh didn’t like about him. “I donate to that cause, you know. Gave $20,000 last year to a charity that removes land mines from third-world countries.”

  “Did you tell her that? Maybe it would make her dislike you less.”

  “Dislike me less? Not like me more?” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin. They were too white and too perfect to be real. An image flashed into my mind, his toothless mouth on Rhonda’s breast, and my stomach recoiled.

  “Depends,” I said. “Where did she get the idea you meant to threaten me?”

  “I may have said something to the effect that my wife seems to have a certain fascination with you. That seems innocent enough, don’t you think?”

  “Tone is everything,” I said. “Maybe she heard something in yours she didn’t like.”

  We passed from the campground and through the vendor booths. Sunset streaked the sky with rose and gold, and the arena lights came on with a hum. As we neared the barns, the splash of the fountains underscored the cheers from the arena and the soft jangle of Mexican music from someone’s radio.

  Lister’s barn was decorated in black velvet trimmed with gold thread and strands of pearls. In the center of his lobby was a glass-topped table, and on it was a gold chalice, and it too was filled with pearls.

  “You’re wondering if they’re fake,” he said. “They’re not.”

  “Was I wondering that?”

  “If you weren’t, then you suffer from a serious lack of imagination.” He chuckled, but it sounded forced. “I had you checked out. I know what you make. I know how much you owe. Your son had open heart surgery a few mon
ths ago.”

  Heat washed my cheeks. “My son’s not part of this.”

  “You mistake my meaning. It’s a simple statement of fact. You’re a self-employed, divorced father with medical bills to pay, a man with a defective child and a modest income.”

  My teeth ground together. “There’s nothing defective about Paul.”

  “An unfortunate choice of words. My apologies if I offended.”

  We walked around the corner and paused at the first stall, where a sorrel horse with a star on its forehead poked its head over the gate. Lister reached up to scratch its neck and said, “I’m merely pointing out that, youth and athleticism aside, you have little to offer a woman like Rhonda.”

  “She took me to the clinic and gave me a ride to find my sister. That’s a far cry from what you’re insinuating.”

  “Is it? She was seen leaving your campsite early this morning and the morning before.”

  “Seriously? You’ve been spying on her?”

  “Little birds.” He laughed. “But honestly, there’s no need to spy when the gossip mill is so very finely honed. You deny she was there?”

  “She was there. Nothing happened.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re incapable? What a shame.”

  “I’m plenty capable. But what kind of a jackass talks about his wife that way?”

  He spread his hands, palms up. “I’m being realistic. When you marry a whore, you have to expect her to act like one.”

  My fists clenched. I forced them open. There was no honor in punching an old man.

  He gave me an amused look. “I spoil my wife in a number of ways, Mr. McKean. Including the occasional shiny new boy toy. I’m just making sure you understand your place in the scheme of things. She wants what’s in my wallet more than she wants what’s between your legs.”

  “You cut a wide swath,” I said. “According to you, I’m a bounder, she’s a whore, and you’re an old john who has to buy sex with his own wife.”

  His eyes slitted. “That mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day.”