“Did it happen like you say?” he asked.
“Yes. My father found them like that and killed them.”
“And you buried them.”
“Yes.”
“All three, right? Just like that.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t think any girl could bury her parents and uncle by herself like that, and simply go on living here. What’s the truth, Janie? One of those graves is empty, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Her face froze at his words.
“Your father didn’t kill himself, did he? His grave is empty, isn’t it?”
“I have a shovel if you want to dig,” she told him. “I keep it back in the cave.”
“Why? To dig them up, or to bury more?”
She didn’t answer. She had disappeared back into the cave, and when she reappeared she held a rusty, long-handled shovel in one hand. “Here, dig if you want to!”
“I don’t want to,” he said. “I’ve got to be getting back.” Somewhere overhead he caught the sound of a passing jet, and for a moment he was back in the world of reality. Then the sound gradually faded, leaving him facing this strange girl with the shovel she held outstretched to him.
“Dig,” she said again.
He took the rusty shovel from her and plunged it into the wet earth of her father’s grave. “If I lived here, I’d know. Wouldn’t I, Janie?”
“Yes.”
“I’d know what everyone in Random Corners knows—that your father killed them and then buried them back here, with an extra, empty grave for himself.”
Her frightened eyes darted from his face, back toward the woods through which they’d come. He followed her gaze and saw a sudden shaft of sunlight catch the rain-drenched leaves; that, and something more—a man, walking toward them, with a woodsman’s ax hanging loosely from his right hand.
“No,” Janie whispered, the word catching in her throat.
“I’d know that your father was still right here in Random Corners, Janie. I’d know that, even though his name was Henry, everybody called him Harry when they shopped at his little store and gas station.”
The tired man with the lantern jaw stepped into the clearing and paused, facing them with his ax. “How much does he know, Janie?”
“Everything,” she sobbed. “He knows your grave is empty, and he knows you never went away.”
“Hello, Mr. Mason,” Hampton said quietly, feeling the smooth wood of the shovel’s handle against his sweating palms. “You warned me she was mixed up, but I wouldn’t listen, would I?”
“My wife and brother were evil,” he said quietly. “Removing them was God’s justice, not mine. It was a kindness, really, and everyone in town knew it. That’s why nobody ever told the police. I made an extra grave for myself, and moved down to the store, and nobody ever told.” He shifted the ax and started to raise it. “Until now.”
“Don’t kill him, Daddy!” the girl screamed. “He won’t tell anyone!”
But the ax kept coming, until it was level with Henry Mason’s head. “He’ll tell the whole country on the TV. That’s what he came here for in the first place.”
Hampton saw the ax coming at him, and he dodged to one side as the blade caught the padded shoulder of his jacket. Then, in a motion he’d practiced on the golf course a thousand times, he brought the long-handled shovel around in a wide arc before Henry Mason could swing his ax again. He was aiming at the weapon, or the man, or both—and the edge of the shovel caught Mason along the left temple with a dull, clanging sound.
It hardly seemed that the blow was enough to kill a man, but perhaps Henry Mason had lived too long already.
“We’ll have to call the police,” Hampton told the girl.
She looked up from the ground, where she held her father’s head in her arms. “What good will that do? We’ll bury him in his grave, and no one will ever know.”
“We can’t do that, Janie!”
“We can. We will. You were just a stranger passing through. Why should you suffer for this?”
Why, indeed? Suddenly he was anxious to be back with his family, back to the relative normalcy of New York, where at least madness came in more familiar varieties. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Don’t think about it. We’ll do it.”
He stood staring down at the body of the man he had killed. Then, after a time, he shifted his gaze to the waiting gravestone. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he knew, too, that it was the only way out for him. No one had come to Mason’s first funeral, and no one would miss him now. The people of Random Corners never asked questions.
He bent and picked up the shovel.
The Scorpion Girl
TOKAY MET HER FOR the first time in one of those little roadside diners along Route 60 near the Arizona-New Mexico border. She must have been in her early twenties, though there was something about her boyish figure and innocent face that made her appear much younger. She was traveling with her teen-age brother, a somber youth who walked with a limp.
Her name was Liz Golden, she said, and her brother’s name was Randy. They were driving to Hopworth for a scorpion fight. Tokay had been only mildly interested until she opened the cigar box on the counter between them and he saw the four-inch-long bluish-green scorpion nestled in some loose sand and pebbles.
“My God!” he gasped. “That thing could kill you!”
She smiled at his ignorance. “Not really, though the sting is very painful. The Mexican Centruroides has been known to cause deaths, but this is a Hadrurus hirsutus. It’s called a Giant Hairy Hadrurus for obvious reasons.”
“And what did you say you were going to do with it?”
“In Hopworth they’re having an illegal scorpion fight tomorrow night. Scorpions only sting in self-defense, and of course the poison has no effect on members of the same species, but they can sometimes be goaded into doing battle with their pincers.”
“That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard,” Tokay said. “Actually I’ll be quite near to Hopworth tomorrow. I should come over and see it.”
“Bet on our scorpion,” Randy urged. “He never loses.”
“That’s right,” the girl agreed. “Big ones like this have larger pincers, and they’re easier to handle besides. Their sting isn’t nearly as venomous as the smaller species.”
“Have you ever been stung?”
“Oh sure! I carry scorpion antivenin with me for emergencies.”
He was glad when she closed the lid of the cigar box. He finished his coffee and rose to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said. “My name’s Tokay. I’m a professor of archaeology.”
“Are you going to Hopworth to dig?” the boy asked.
“I hope the digging’s all been done,” he answered. “I’m just going to talk to an old friend of my father’s.”
It was nearly noon when he pulled away from the diner. He had several hours more driving before he reached his destination, and he wanted to get there before nightfall.
He saw the church steeple while he was still some distance away, and he pulled up by a cultivated field where a young Mexican was pulling weeds. “Is this the Mission of San Felipe?” he called out.
“It is,” the Mexican answered. His expression was curious, as if he wondered what had brought Tokay here.
“I have come to see Father Payne. Is he at the mission?”
The Mexican glanced toward the mission tower, where a high window caught and reflected the final glow of the setting sun. “Yes, he is always there. He never leaves.”
“Thank you.” Tokay drove on to the church down the road.
By the time he reached it a white-haired man in a black cassock was there to meet him. “Welcome, traveler. I am Father Payne of the Mission of San Felipe. Are you going far?”
“I have reached my destination,” Tokay said. He told the priest his name. “My father was an archaeologist who visited you many years ago.”
Father Payne bowed, showing a bald circle on the top of his head. “I admired your father. Is he in good health?”
“He died last year. But could we speak inside?”
“Visitors are always welcome. Come in!”
Tokay followed the black-robed man inside, silently marveling at the stonework of the mission. It was indeed as his father had described so many times. “I noticed the Mexican down the road. Is he in your employ?”
Father Payne shook his head. “Not really. He does some chores in return for his lodging, but I expect he’ll move on soon. But tell me of your father. I’ll remember him in my prayers.”
Tokay leaned back in his chair and accepted a small glass of wine the priest offered. “I learned many things about archaeology from my father,” he said. “Chief among them was the beauty of this church, and of the old church over the hill. He urged me to come back here after he died, to see it for myself.”
The old priest’s eyes twinkled. “And to take back the Spanish scrolls? That is what your father always wanted from me, and what I would never give him—the account of the early discovery of this land, handwritten by the Spanish explorer Coronado.”
“I won’t pretend I haven’t heard of them. They’ve been translated and reproduced in books.”
The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of the Mexican. Father Payne looked up. “What is it, Jugo?”
“The light,” the Mexican said. “I see the light by the old ruins again.”
Father Payne frowned. “Are you certain?”
“I see it!”
“All right. I will come.” He turned to Tokay. “Some trouble. An intruder, perhaps. You must excuse me.”
“Could I help?”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“A revolver in my car.”
“Bring it, then.”
Tokay followed them out of the church and paused at the car long enough to get the gun. Darkness had come quickly, as it often did in desert regions, and he could feel the drop in temperature.
“This way,” the priest said, guiding him with a flashlight that cast an eerie glow across the sand.
“Where are we going?”
“Over the hill to the ruined church. As your father must have told you, it crumbled in an earthquake long ago. The new one was built on firmer ground.”
They went the rest of the way in silence, until at last they stood before a ruined steeple partly buried in the sand. From somewhere within came a glimmer of light. As they entered through a crumbling doorway, Jugo cautioned, “Be careful of scorpions. They nest here.”
“Scorpions?” Tokay hesitated, remembering the girl in the diner.
“There’s no danger,” the priest assured him.
The light that had attracted them came from below. Tokay held his pistol tightly as they descended the old steps to the ruined church’s lower level. Suddenly a bearded man with long dark hair appeared. He dropped his flashlight and leaped back in alarm when he saw them. “Why are you here?” Father Payne demanded. “Who are you?”
The bearded man recovered his light. “You would be Father Payne,” he said.
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“Nat Quarn. I do some prospecting.”
“And why are you here? We’ve seen your light other times recently.”
“I’m searching for treasure,” he answered.
“There is no treasure here,” the priest responded angrily.
“This church collapsed …”
“Because of an earthquake!”
“Or because of a treasure room beneath it.”
“There is no treasure room! Get out of here or I’ll have the police on you!”
“I …”
“Get out of here!” the old priest repeated.
Quarn hesitated a moment. Then, deciding that further pleading was useless, he scurried away up the steps. “Whatever his purpose here, it is evil,” Father Payne said. “I have heard bad talk of him in the town.”
“In Hopworth? I think I’d like to look around there,” Tokay said. “Maybe find out more about this Quarn fellow.”
“In the morning. Stay the night with Jugo and me.”
Tokay agreed, wondering if perhaps it was really his pistol they wanted to remain.
The town of Hopworth was little more than a desert crossroads, with a few dozen low buildings stretched out in four directions under the haze of the morning sun. There might have been a few hundred residents of the town at best, though this day their numbers seemed to be swollen by a number of out-of-state cars.
Tokay stopped in the first tavern he came to, and the bartender asked, “You here for the scorpion fights?”
“Not really, but I heard about them. That what’s attracting the crowd?”
“Sure thing! Some people’ll bet on anything!”
“I’m staying out at the church with Father Payne.”
The bartender grunted. “He still got that Mexican with him?”
“Jugo? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s been in trouble with the sheriff. A little too fast with his knife when he’s been drinking. But Father Payne manages him.”
“He seemed harmless enough to me,” Tokay said.
“Don’t turn your back on him.”
Tokay finished his drink. “Know where I might find a prospector named Nat Quarn?”
“Haven’t seen him around today yet. But if he’s in town he’ll be at the scorpion fights tonight.”
Tokay spent the rest of the day back at the church, studying the scrolls of Coronado. Then in the evening he went to the scorpion fights.
The men in the little barn were mainly from out of the state, some from as far away as Las Vegas. They talked and laughed in loud voices, and drank from a barrel of beer furnished by the nearby tavern. In the center of the floor was a large table, and on it was a ring some three feet in diameter surrounded by a low wall. It was there the scorpions would do battle.
As Tokay watched and sipped his beer, the girl from the diner entered with her cigar box. “How’s the scorpion?” he asked her.
“Oh—hello! I was hoping I’d see you again.” She opened the lid so he could see the hairy curved tail. “Want to bet on him?”
“What wagers are usually made?”
“Mostly ten or twenty dollars, though later in the evening someone might go for a hundred.”
“I could maybe risk a buck.”
She threw back her head and laughed, and Tokay was suddenly struck by her youthful beauty. “Well, that’s better than nothing.”
He glanced around the barn. “Where’s your brother?”
“Out wandering around somewhere. He comes with me but he doesn’t like to see the fights.”
The man whose scorpion would oppose hers in the first fight was Hakor, owner of the barn and one of the town’s wealthiest men. He seemed almost like a scorpion himself, curved slightly with age and ready to sting. When he unboxed his champion a murmur of approval ran through the spectators and new bets were made.
“It’s only half as large as yours,” Tokay said.
“Hakor is smart. That’s a Mexican species whose venom could paralyze my Hadrurus.”
Hakor accepted a few more bets, then nodded to Liz Golden. She took up a position on one side of the table and unboxed her scorpion. At once more bills changed hands and there were shouted wagers among the crowd. Liz poked at her scorpion with a small stick, goading it into battle, and gradually as Tokay watched the two scorpions moved closer together.
There was a roar of delight from the spectators as they clashed, but almost at once attention was diverted to the door. Someone new had entered, and Tokay recognized the bartender from the tavern.
“What is it, Sammy?” Liz asked as he approached her.
“Your brother—someone has stabbed him. He’s dead.”
A low moan escaped from her throat, and Tokay grabbed her as she swayed and nearly fell. Then she pushed by him and hurried a
fter Sammy.
Later, when Tokay found the girl, he held out the cigar box to her. “Your scorpion won,” he said quietly. “I collected the money for you.”
She nodded her thanks without speaking and accepted the scorpion box and the money. Tokay said, “I’m sorry about your brother. Who could have killed him? Was he robbed?”
“He never had more than a few dollars on him, and none of it was taken. I don’t know. I don’t know who would do such a thing.”
“Where was he killed?”
“In an alley near where the car was parked. Sammy heard a noise and found him dying there.”
“Should you call your family?”
She shook her head, brushing away a tear. “I’m all the family Randy had. Our folks were killed in a car crash. That’s where he got the limp.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
It was Hakor who appeared then, bent with age but moving faster than he had in the barn. “The sheriff’s looking for you, Liz. The knife that killed your brother had a name carved into the handle.”
“A name?”
“Jugo. The Mexican who lives out at the church. It was his knife.”
“You think he did it?” Tokay asked.
“Seems so. The sheriff’s planning to arrest him, anyway.”
Tokay tried to remember if Jugo had carried a knife the previous evening, but he could not. Either way, he knew he was needed back at the Mission of San Felipe. Father Payne had asked for his protection, and now he needed it.
When Father Payne heard of the killing and the knife he shook his head sadly. “Jugo has been here all evening. They’re using the killing as an excuse to arrest him.”
“But why?”
Father Payne closed his eyes, as if better to focus on something in the reaches of his mind. “It is a long story, Tokay, and one better left for another day.”
“I think I should hear it now,” he said.
“Very well, then. When the old church collapsed, generations ago, some of the townspeople were killed. That man Quarn was right—there was no earthquake. The priest who had built the mission, and who died himself in its collapse, had indeed put a treasure room for Spanish gold beneath its foundations. The church collapsed, and the people—rightly or wrongly—blamed the priest. The new mission was built, and I came to minister to them, but the old suspicion and hatred remained—passed down three generations. When I allowed an outsider like Jugo to live here for a time, that old hatred flared again. He was a sinister stranger, and I was another of the old priests bringing disaster to the town.”
The Night People Page 18