Their brief moment of indecision was all he needed.
Rocky pulled his bike into the other end, not blocking the alley, but enough to keep an eye out. Crow waited fifteen minutes before deciding that something was wrong. He backed up and drove slowly toward the street. When he stopped at the intersection, the officer standing beside the car was talking with two sleepy Demon Rattlers in jeans and bare feet.
The officer pointed to the sidewalk, obviously ordering the two to stand in one particular spot. He reached in and pulled the microphone through the window.
One of the bikers noticed the car idling at the residential intersection. He shaded his eyes, but Crow was confident that the man had no way of seeing inside.
Crow accelerated through the intersection and made a quick loop to watch the street from a different direction. Five minutes later, the police cruiser left and headed back to the highway. Rocky rode past, giving Crow a little wave that said they’d have to come up with another plan.
Irritated, Crow followed the cruiser and tapped his horn at a stop sign. The policeman glanced up into his rearview mirror and waited. Crow put the car into park and walked up even with the officer’s car door.
“Can I ask you a question?”
The policeman hung his elbow out the window. “Sure.”
“Listen man, I know you got a call from someone to check out that house for a runaway girl.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s my friend’s girl. He’s the one who called you, right?”
“I don’t know the specifics of the report. I was told to check out the house and see if there were any underage runaways.”
“Well?”
The man didn’t like being questioned by anyone, especially a long-haired hippie with a once-fancy shirt that might have been dragged out of a ditch. The officer shifted into park and opened the door, forcing Crow to step back. He adjusted the gun belt at his waist, a practiced habit that usually made people take note of his authority. “What’s your name?”
Crow spread his hands, realizing the conversation wasn’t going where he wanted. “Dude, I’m asking a question here for my friend. He’s been trying to find his little girl, a fourteen-year-old named Pepper. See? That’s odd enough for someone to actually be named Pepper. I’m for real here.”
“I asked your name. Show me some ID.”
“I don’t have any.”
The officer jerked a thumb toward the car. “Driver’s license? Registration? Draft card?”
Crow spread his hands.
“Get over here against my fender.”
“Aw, man.” Instead of following orders, Crow moved toward the Bel Air. “Dude, look.”
At the end of his patience, the officer slipped his baton free and let it swing beside his leg. “I’m not telling you again.”
With a rumble, a cluster of Harleys came around the corner. The officer ignored them, but from the corner of his eyes, Crow saw more than one familiar face from the bar. There was Griz, who resembled a raccoon under the bandana bandage still tied over his nose. He built a smile as they passed.
“Against the car. Now!”
Crow held up both hands. “Please listen to me.”
The officer advanced, the baton held ready. He’d been on the streets for years, and wasn’t falling for one of the oldest tricks in the books.
The line of bikes filed past, a procession designed to show no fear. Women rode behind, some holding onto the men’s belts, others riding casually, hands on their thighs. The bikers shouted and laughed.
“Good morning, officer!”
“Need any help, officer?”
“Watch him. He’s a bad man.”
Arms around a red-bearded Rattler, a woman’s mouth opened in shock.
“Crow!”
His head snapped around as the officer swung. Instinctively trying to block the blow, Crow caught the baton on his forearm which immediately went numb. He groaned and slipped inside the swing, ducking and coming up under the officer’s chin with his head. It wasn’t a solid hit, and the man twisted back, raising a knee and trying for Crow’s groin.
He twisted, blocked the knee with his thigh and dropped his shoulder. He punched the officer in the stomach. It felt like hitting a sack of cement. The man swung with his left fist, catching Crow in the side of the head. His eyes jolted in their sockets and he staggered, seeing stars. Crow kicked sideways, catching the officer’s knee. It gave with a sickening crack and he went to the ground. Still in the fight, the policeman fumbled for the revolver in its holster. Crow kicked him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. Gasping, the man tried to make his paralyzed lungs work while Crow unsnapped the strap over his pistol. He dropped the cylinder, ejected the bullets, and flung them into the street.
He raised up, breathing hard and expecting to see the bikers. Instead, he saw a number of cars that had slowed on the highway.
Crow waved the pistol at the gawkers and they quickly accelerated. He threw the revolver hard, landing it on the flat roof of a nearby house. He reached into the police car, ripped the mike cord free from the radio, then pulled the keys from the ignition.
“Stay down! Bury your face in that concrete!”
The man rolled slowly onto his stomach. Crow jumped behind the wheel of James’ car and pulled around the officer’s still form. He sped away, following the tiny speck that was the last bike in the gang.
He had to keep up with them, or he’d lose the girl he’d been trailing for weeks.
Chapter Seventy-five
Cody was sure of one thing. Marty would eventually come back to his mama’s house. The best thing for him to do was to put more pressure on her.
The skies were heavy and gray, but the rain had stopped for the time being. He drove into the boggy yard and sat there with the engine idling, thinking.
What’s been bothering me about all this?
Top dreams of talking horses.
He said something about grass.
He shuddered, thinking about the deep cuts on Leland’s body from being thrown through the barbed wire fence. They were no closer to figuring out who’d run over him that night on the highway than they were at the outset.
Cody sent men as far away as Dallas, Bonham, and Clarksville to talk with body shop owners. Officers even went to wrecking yards and parts houses, asking if anyone had recently purchased replacement bumpers, headlights, or fenders, then they cross-checked with those customers when they could.
Nothing.
The possibility existed that the driver simply kept going, too drunk or scared to stop. Maybe it was a tourist, or simply someone passing through Center Springs that one and only time, never to return. No matter what, Leland sure didn’t deserve to die that way.
He studied the dilapidated truck in Melva’s yard, thinking he should offer her a couple of hundred dollars for the old wreck. A used pickup like that would be perfect for a young boy like Top, growing up in the country. All it most likely needed was an engine overhaul and new brakes.
Since it wasn’t raining at the moment, he climbed out of the car and walked over to the old mare cropping grass. She stuck her head over the top strand of wire and he absently rubbed her ears and soft muzzle.
“You the horse Top’s dreaming about?”
She jerked back and nodded.
He laughed. “I don’t believe it.”
“Sheriff?”
Cody was startled to see Melva on the porch. He hadn’t noticed that she’d come out. “Morning, Melva.”
“Somebody ought to shoot that old mare. She don’t do nothing but stand around and eat.”
“She’s old. I imagine she’s worked pretty hard most of her life and now she’s enjoying retirement.”
“Useless things don’t need to take up space.”
“Well.” Cody track
ed around the truck, absently checking the condition of the tires that looked pretty good despite their age. “How about this useless thing? Would you think about selling it?”
“No.”
“I’ll pay you a fair…”
“I said no. You need something else?”
He stopped in the yard, not far from the porch. “Have you seen Marty since I was here last?”
“No.”
She didn’t giggle, which concerned him.
“Melva, tell me the truth. Has he been by here?”
She rubbed her hands. “I been here by myself all this time.”
“Well, you know, I’d like to believe that.” His gaze drifted to a big yellow cat on the porch. Slinking against the wall, it reached the open door and darted inside. Cody’s eyes found a pasteboard suitcase sitting a piece back in the living room. “You going somewhere?”
She hesitated. “Why?”
The hair on the back of Cody’s neck tickled. Melva wasn’t usually prone to one or two word sentences, and she still hadn’t giggled. He rested his right hand on the butt of the Colt 1911 on his hip. “I believe I see a suitcase sitting there.”
“I’m going to…to Waco, to see my daughter.”
“The one you haven’t spoke to in a while? Y’all make up?”
“That’s my business.”
“It sure is. Not meanin’ to pry, but I’d like to come in and poke around if I can.”
Standing ramrod stiff, she tilted her head to the side with an odd, jerky twist. “Do you have a warrant?”
“Sure do.” Cody started toward the car and thought better of turning his back on the house. He squared himself toward Melva.
There was a long pause. “Show it to me, then.”
Cody decided right then and there he was going to stand where his feet were planted until the sun came back out, if he had to. “Come on down here. It’s in the car and the way you’re acting, I don’t want you up there right now. You can wait in the backseat ’til I’m through.”
“You don’t have no call to arrest me.”
“You’re right about that. You’re not under arrest. I want you here so I don’t have to holler at you to talk. Now, quit being stubborn so we can get this over with and you can go on to Waco. How’re you getting there, anyway?”
Her mouth gaped like a fish out of water and Cody knew in that second that Marty Smallwood was inside. His truck wasn’t there, and there were no tracks in the mud, but he was sure of it all the same.
The yellow cat shot back outside and streaked off the porch. One part of his subconscious saw it flash across the wet grass and dart under the pickup, while another took a snapshot of the event.
A shape appeared at the door with astonishing speed.
Cody registered the pistol in Marty’s right hand.
Snapshot.
A bright muzzle flash.
The shot seemed to surprise Marty, too.
Snapshot.
Melva, giggling, raised both hands to her face.
Marty took a step out the door and intentionally angled to get his mother between them.
Cody felt his knees bend. He was moving into a shooting stance as he drew the Colt automatic from its leather holster.
Snapshot.
A drop of rain struck his hat and another, his shoulder.
Marty fired again, his arm straight out as he moved, but the shot went wild. His mother moved to her right without visibly walking. Marty planted his foot and angled behind her.
One step.
Two.
The Colt rose and he found Marty in the sights.
Snapshot.
Marty was fuzzy, as he should have been, when Cody concentrated on the pistol’s sights.
He fired, and at that same instant realized that Marty wasn’t there. He simply disappeared. Cody shifted his focus and saw Marty’s surprised expression as he dropped through the rotten porch, landing with a foot on either side of the joist. His momentum slapped him forward at the waist, slamming his chest and face against the boards. His nose instantly exploded.
Suddenly off balance, Melva stumbled down the steps. With the agility of a young girl, she caught her balance and took off. Cody grabbed her arm as she passed and slung her to the wet ground. Agility or not, the momentum was too much and she landed hard, rolling twice.
“Don’t you move!”
Keeping his Colt aimed at Marty, Cody opened the car door and took cover, expecting John T. to start firing at any minute. Seconds ticked by as he kept the Colt trained on the house. Melva lay on the ground moaning.
Straddling the joist, Marty heaved and retched. His body slid sideways and disappeared from view under the porch.
“Dammit!” Cody knelt, his Colt aimed at the shadowy figure lying still under the porch.
“My baby. You shot my baby.”
“Shut up, Melva.”
Marty didn’t seem to be making any attempt to move, so Cody took a chance and reached inside the open door for the microphone. “John.”
The big deputy came back immediately. “Go ahead, Cody.”
“Where are you?”
“Pulling on the highway from Rachel’s…my house.”
He was only five miles away.
“Get over here to Marty Smallwood’s place. We’ve done shot it out and he’s down, but I don’t know how bad. John T. could be here, too.”
“You hurt?”
“No.”
John’s siren wailed as he came back. “On the way. Hang on.”
“You might better hurry.”
Chapter Seventy-six
James trembled in rage. “I’m calling the cops.”
“You already did.” Ned was propped on the bed, feeling slightly better, but still feverish.
“To report our stolen car.”
“I imagine Crow wanted to do it by hisself.”
“I was going with him.”
“That’s why he went on.”
“You taking his side in this?”
“There ain’t no side. It’s common sense. He’ll be back with her in a little bit.”
Cale cleared his throat. “Mr. Parker?”
Both men answered. “What?”
“Uh, I’m sorry for butting in and all, but I’m pretty hungry. None of us has et anything in a long while, and we’re out of aspirin, and you need ’em.”
James wanted to give the boy a dressing down, but he paused. Even though Cale had been part of the launching mechanism for the entire disaster, he was still a kid and doing a good job caring for Ned with what little they had.
He dug the wallet out of his back pocket. “All right. Run down to that diner east of here and get us whatever they’ll let you take out.”
“Make sure to get some coffee.” Ned pushed himself higher in the bed. “I’d dearly love a cup of black coffee.”
Cale blinked at them through his raccoon mask of bruises. “Uh, I, uh, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
Neither of the Parkers spoke.
Cale took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for running off with Pepper and for getting’ y’all out here.” His voice broke. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, and I’ll do better, if y’all can give me a chance.”
Unsure of what to do or say, James gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder.
On the bed, Ned closed his eyes. “If you was mine, I’d give you a whipping, and if I felt better, I would anyway.” He opened them. “We’ll talk later, but if you straighten up and fly right from now on, we’ll be done with it. Now, go get me that coffee.”
Cale darted out of the door, hurrying toward Highway 66 and the diner. Neither of the adults worried that he’d run off by that time. He’d already learned his lesson.
James watched him through the window. “So you wan
t to wait some more.” It was a statement, not a question.
“What can we do? Even if we call the police to come out here, we still don’t have a car. Let’s give it a little while and see what happens.”
“All right, then. But I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
Chapter Seventy-seven
True to his word, Deputy John Washington arrived in minutes. He rolled out of the sedan and into the rain, dragging a shotgun with him. Melva still lay in the yard as if she were dead and Cody knelt behind the open passenger door, his Colt trained on the house.
John shouldered the pump shotgun and moved forward. “Where is he?”
“Under the porch.”
“You ran him up under the porch?”
“Naw, the dumbass fell through it. He’s laying there, hurt. I may have shot him. I don’t know, but what I do know is that he busted through and straddled one of them two-by-sixes when he did. He keeps gagging and puking, but I didn’t want to take no chances.”
“Did you shoot her?”
“Threw her down. It might have knocked her out, but I don’t know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“The light’s so bad I can’t hardly see him under there, and he may have a pistol pointed this way. I’ll go around to the long side where he can’t get a shot. Pour it on ’im with that scattergun if he starts shooting.”
John settled one butt cheek on the seat to get as much car between him and Marty as possible and laid the shotgun across the door frame. He saw a slight movement and drew a bead on Marty’s shapeless form. If he had to start unloading Number 4 buck under there, something was going to die.
After waiting so long for John, Cody was certain John T. wasn’t in the house or he’d have already tried shooting it out or running. Cody jogged around to the left side, putting as much of the rotten floor as he could between him and Marty. He might hear Cody coming, but he couldn’t see to shoot until he was right on top of him.
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