Bad Bones (Claire Morgan)

by Linda Ladd

  “Okay, let’s take a little hike up this way. See if we can get a look-see at what we’re dealing with. And yes, I’m feeling a little insecure about walking blindly into this place. The heralded tales of woe concerning Fitch people are large and rampant and off-putting.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The snow was deep and untouched, and they left a wide and wallowing trail behind them, Bud in the lead, Claire right behind him. But the crisp winter air was as refreshing and bracing and cold as Hudson Bay ice fishing. So was the wind, which was picking up. Back at her cabin, Claire had never seen the lake so frigid and clogged with ice. The mother of all winters had indeed paid them a call this year.

  After ten minutes of slogging their way up a steep incline, Bud decided the trek was ridiculous and unnecessary. “Come on, Claire. This is pointless. Look up there, it goes on forever.”

  “I wonder how the Fitch family got their mitts on all this land. Good grief, nobody owns farms this big anymore.”

  “I’m freezing. I’m not dressed for fighting my way through deep snow drifts.”

  “Here, let me forge the trail for a while. You’re from Atlanta.”

  “Can you honestly say that you’re not cold? No, you cannot. Your face is red and your lips are chapped already. Let’s go back to the Bronco, warm up the heater, and then hold our interviews in some nice warm Fitch farmhouse.”

  “Aha. Pay dirt. At last. Just when I was losing you to the call of luxurious heat and warmth.”

  Scrabbling her way up to a sheer rock outcropping that jutted out at the top of the rise, she beheld her first panoramic view of the shallow snow-covered valley stretching out below them. It looked like Fitchville was indeed a tiny little self-proclaimed town. In fact, it looked like something old-timey settlers on their way to California might have built when they got tired of jouncing along the Oregon Trail in those springless covered wagons. She had the urge to look for those self-same covered wagons, but she nixed that when she saw some cars parked around. Mostly pickup trucks and four wheelers painted with brown and green camouflage. She sat down on the rocks and put the binoculars to her eyes. Close up, the place looked even more like a scene out of Unforgiven. There had to be a saloon down there with girls dressed like Madonna in her cone bra heyday.

  “See any dadgummed Fitches?” Bud said, and then he laughed at his own joke.

  Claire laughed, too. “This is so way freaky that I can barely believe it. Look at those log cabins. All of them have wood smoke coming out of the chimneys. What year is this again? 1850?”

  “Yeah, and I bet they’re warm as toast down there. We could be, too, Claire. Wouldn’t that be better’n wadin’ through snow up to your waist?”

  “Can it, already, Bud. I’m gonna buy you six pairs of thermal underwear, just to keep you quiet on days like today.”

  “I’ve got some of that stuff on, damn it. Two layers. Not helping, I’d know.”

  “You act like it never got cold in Georgia.”

  “Not this cold, thank God. Only Alaska’s this cold. Port Barrow, maybe.”

  “You shoulda brought along Bri. She gets you hot in no time flat.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Look, here comes somebody. Fast, too. Wow, they are barreling down that gravel road into Fitchville like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “The pickup? Looks like it’s got a bunch of guys in the back.”

  About that time, they heard the shots going off and saw the people on the little antiquated main street below scattering in every direction. The truck was heading straight into Fitchville, and still shooting up the place, like Frank and Jesse James at their worst.

  “Oh, my God, Claire, they’re shooting at those people.”

  Claire needed no further encouragement. She jumped up. They took off at a run and both made the return trip to their vehicle in record time, which amounted to slipping and sliding their way down through the deep walls of snow they’d made as they’d fought their way up. But at least it worked up a sweat and got them warm. They jumped into the SUV. Bud skidded out and did a truly impressive sliding turn on the tarmac, and they were on their way. Claire used the time to pull out her new Glock and check the magazine.

  When they got back to the gate, it had been rammed down and was lying flat on the ground, no doubt by the assailants in the camouflaged truck. Bud didn’t slow down and they both were jounced and thrown up against their seat belts as they roared over the metal gate. It took several minutes to reach the interior valley, even at Bud’s bone-jarring rate of speed. When they got into eyeshot of the village, the pickup truck was long gone but the little village was teeming with lots of terrified people. Fearful Fitches, no doubt. Not long after, a man ran out in front of their vehicle and held a shotgun trained on their windshield. That slowed Bud down in nothing flat. He stopped his vehicle on a dime and Claire held her badge up against the windshield. The other guy lowered his gun and looked contrite as they climbed out.

  “Sheriff deputies! Canton County! What just happened here?” she cried out, not in the mood for idle pleasantries.

  The man was nonresponsive. He was dressed in jeans and a rather fluorescent pumpkin-orange parka, no hat. He had a buzz cut and wore a dark cropped beard that followed his jaw but no mustache. “Nothing,” he said, and straight-faced, at that.

  “Like hell. We just saw you fired upon by a truck full of armed men.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.”

  Claire looked at Bud. He was frowning. Massively. “What? You always carry a shotgun and point it at visitors. Just sayin’ hello, or what?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I always do.”

  “Well, hell,” said Bud. “Then you’re under arrest for threatening a police officer.”

  “I didn’t threaten anybody. What’s your business here? This is private land.”

  Bud took a step toward him, apparently his hands much too cold to be patient and understanding. Claire spoke again before he could warm them up by slugging the guy in the stomach. “Look, we’re here on official business. Who’s in charge of this—place?”

  “We got a mayor at Fitchville. I guess you mean him.”

  “Hope he didn’t get shot a while ago by those nonexistent assailants in the nonexistent truck.”

  “We take care of our own. How’d you get through that gate without bein’ escorted in?”

  “The phantom truck paved the way for us. The gate was lying on the ground so we took that as an open invitation.” That came from Claire, slightly annoyed with the guy herself. “Okay, you listen to me. Take us right now to your leader. Or I’m calling dispatch and getting a dozen patrol cars out here to shut this place down.” It did occur to her that she sounded like an alien new to earth and wanting to talk to the president, which wasn’t such an alien idea, as she looked at the Fitch person standing in front of her. Suddenly, she began to believe the tales of Fitches marrying Fitches and begetting little stupider Fitches.

  “You have a nerve,” Fitch said.

  “You just don’t know,” Claire said.

  “And you are getting on my nerves,” Bud said.

  Claire smiled a little at that, but the guy turned and headed off at a dead run down the gravel road and back into the fold as if he could lose them if he hurried real fast. What the hell? So they got into the car and followed him at a snail’s pace, but at least it was warm and out of the wind. Clouds had come in now, covering up the sun, and painting everything a nice pearly gray, as if they lived on the hilly slopes of Seattle. They looked around the little private township, disbelieving anything so quaint could exist in the twenty-first century.

  “You ever see that movie The Village, Claire? Made by that M. Night somebody, you know, the one who did The Sixth Sense?”

  “Nope.”

  “We’ve crashed that set.”

  “Right, Bud.”

  “Looks like a helluva way to live. Glad I wasn’t born here.”

  “Do
you think this is a cult, or something? Look at that woman over there. Under that long coat? I can see a long gingham skirt. And that’s a damn sunbonnet on her head, for God’s sake. In January? And she’s wearing a shawl like the Amish wear over the coat.”

  Bud scoffed. “These guys aren’t Amish. Amish people wear black and white. Our friendly guide’s got on jeans and wearing neon orange. And what the hell? Everybody’s going on about their business like a bunch of hillbilly yahoos didn’t just ride through and shoot up the place.”

  “Maybe it’s their idea of fun. You know how cool it is to ride around in the back of pickups raising hell, don’t you? Maybe it’s the way folks hereabouts blow off steam. Nobody looks any worse for the wear. Stable and general store, business as usual.”

  “This is even worse than I thought it would be. How do we get ourselves into this kinda stuff? Doesn’t anybody just shoot the windows out of their neighbor’s garage or just break and enter, anymore? Why’s it always have to be bizarre in our jurisdiction?”

  “Wish I knew, yep, sure wish I knew, Buddy boy.”

  They stopped when the guy sprinting like a gazelle through the snow skidded to a slushy stop in front of a large white house on the main road. He came up to Claire’s window, panting, and huffing clouds of labored breaths into the frosty air. “Get out, and I’ll see if he’ll see you. He’s a busy man.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” she replied, but she got out and waited while he climbed the steps and went inside a front door with a large stained-glass window with angels floating on clouds and playing harps. It was extremely quiet, except for a whole bunch of dogs barking somewhere off in the distance, out somewhere behind the house, maybe. Sounded like a huge kennel full, in fact. She hoped the frenzied canines were in secured pens and wouldn’t be sicced on them with a tear-to-itty-bitty-pieces command. Tag that as just more lovely gifts off the Fitchville Unwelcome Wagon.

  Bud made his way through the slush and around the car. “Well, now I know how Clint Eastwood felt in that movie when he stopped being a gunslinger and started farming.”

  “What’s with you and the movie trivia lately? You know I don’t watch movies.” Claire pointed down the street. “Look, there is a general store. That’s what the sign says. Fitchville general store. And over there. My God, there’s a saloon, too. Maybe this is a movie set. Maybe Clint or a John Wayne impersonator will show up any minute now and draw on us.”

  Actually, the street was fairly empty now. The snow was coming down steadily. Bud stamped his feet and clapped his gloved hands together.

  “Good grief, Bud, I’m gonna buy you a hand warmer.”

  “Well, hurry up and do it. Maybe the general store over there’s got some.”

  “Mr. Fitch will see you now.”

  Mr. Neat Beard/Shotgun Happy was back and motioning them into the inner sanctum. Claire climbed the steps, unable to imagine what awaited her inside. What awaited her inside, however, was just a plain entry hall with lots of Amish style, uncomfortable-looking furniture sitting around, but it was warm, gloriously so, at least seventy-five-degree warm.

  “This way, please.”

  The guy was really polite all of a sudden. Butler extraordinaire, in fact. They tried to wipe the snow off their boots on the homemade rag rug just inside the threshold, and then they tramped after him down the austere hallway. He opened a door and stood back, courteously pointing his shotgun at the floor instead of Claire’s head. Claire entered first because Bud was always a gentleman and then found herself in a large bare room with dozens of people sitting around the perimeter in a circle of folding chairs positioned with their backs against the walls. A big guy with lots of bushy white hair sat in the chair of honor, aka The Oracle of Fitchville, she supposed. He motioned them toward him. Claire took off her sock hat and gloves and unzipped her coat on the way over. She still had her weapon in her hand, and there it was going to stay. Just until she decided how many standard deviations these folks had gone down the normal scale of IQ scores.

  “Hello there, officers. Welcome to Fitchville,” said the mighty white patriarch. In fact, he was almost as white as Blythe Parker, as were quite a few others lurking in the shadows. Shoulda called the place “Albinoville” she guessed. But alas, that would be politically incorrect, and very much so.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And who might you be?”

  “Harold Fitch, at your service. I see you’ve already met my cousin’s son, Bad Fitch.”

  Okay, now their trip inside the newest episode of Supernatural, which happened to be the one and only TV program that Claire always put in the DVR, was truly complete. She turned to the guy with the shotgun. “Your name is Bad? For real? Bad?”

  “That’s right. Badadiah. I earned it, too.”

  Claire wondered if he earned it from kicking dogs or eating raw hamburger meat or shooting people through windshields with sawed-off shotguns. Harold was the one who picked the right answer. “He’s the best sheriff we ever did see in this town. He can put somebody down, break a bone in twain with just one punch.”

  “Gee, I’m impressed. Remind me not to fight with him without firing my weapon into him first.”

  Albino Harry threw back his hoary head and laughed all the way down into his gut. Claire wondered if that hurt his lungs. She had certainly never laughed that hard, and she had seen some pretty funny things, too.

  “He just can hit really hard with his fists. Nobody wants to take him on. Used to fight some but not many have bested him.”

  “Well, bully for him. Now, how about you telling me who that was that attacked your little burg about ten minutes ago? I’d like to arrest them pronto, if you don’t mind.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Claire and Bud exchanged one big-time and tired-of-this-Fitch-crap skeptical look. Bud said, “You know the ones we’re talkin’ about, don’t you? You know, the ones making all those loud gun bangs and roaring right past this house in a speeding pickup truck.”

  Harold looked nonplussed. Maybe he just had a ten-second memory span. Maybe he was a narcoleptic. The old man glanced around at his silent crowd of followers sitting with their backs to the walls. “Did anybody hear any truck go by here? Anyone?”

  At that point, anyone could hear a pin drop. Okay, they were of one mind. One mind that said: Follow my lead, my pretties. Act ignorant. Do not talk to those with shiny badges. Here, my flock of sheep, drink this Kool-aid and kill yourselves. Amen.

  “I guess you wouldn’t mind us searching all your buildings then? Just to make sure those nonexistent bullets didn’t hit some nonexistent body and make them bleed to nonexistent death.”

  “I sense your anger, miss.”

  Got a real genius by the coattails here, no doubt about it. “Mr. Fitch, we saw that truck. We saw the men in the back of that truck. We saw the bullets flying and people running. Both of us. With our own four, well-trained official eyes, and a very good pair of high-powered binoculars.”

  “Hmm. Well, I guess we couldn’t hear any of that inside here. This building is very well insulated. All our structures are. It gets cold out here in the winter months.”

  Bud said, “They better be insulated, with those shoot-’em-up guys on the loose out on Main Street.”

  “Do the men that you didn’t happen to see in that truck happen to be upstanding citizens of your little personal domain, by any chance, Mr. Fitch?”

  “Could be. We all carry guns. You know for hunting, and we’re careful to protect our womenfolk.”

  “‘Womenfolk’?” said Bud. “Did you really just say womenfolk?”

  “Yes, we value our wives and mothers and daughters.”

  Claire said, “Either you tell me the truth about who those men were, or we are taking you, and Mr. Bad over there, down to a real sheriff’s office for a real under oath discussion with our real sheriff.”

  Frowns, frowns, and more frowns. Furrowed frowns. Disbelieving frowns. Confused frowns, and lots of them. “Wel
l, now, deputy, it could’ve been some of those Parkers from just up the road. They like to mess with us now and again. We’ve learned to tolerate them. We’re peaceful folk out here.”

  “Mess with you with weapons blasting?”

  “They never hit anybody. They can’t shoot worth a plug nickel. They like to think they’re scaring us, but we just take their shenanigans in stride. They’re rather harmless and godless men.”

  “Anybody ever die taking it in stride, sir?”

  “Oh, no. It’s just the Parkers displaying their high spirits. They only do it when they’re drunk. We pretty much ignore them.”

  Claire was pretty tired by now of this ridiculous excuse of a conversation. “We’d like to talk to you, sir. In private, please.”

  “I have no secrets from the town elders.”

  Oh, for pity sakes, Claire thought. “It would be better without the town elders looking on. Trust me on that.”

  “We have no secrets here.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  Claire looked at Bud. He looked confounded; maybe even a little unsure if they really weren’t in a time travel movie, or Hell on Wheels, maybe, since this seemed to be quote-a-movie-a-day week. “All right, Mr. Fitch. Question number one: Are you acquainted with a woman by the name of Blythe Parker?”

  The quiet got quieter. Not a peep. Not a foot moving into a more comfortable position from those sitting around in those hard chairs, nothing. Finally, Harold said, “Blythe is my granddaughter. Why do you bring tidings of her?”

  Tidings? Jeez. Maybe she should take him in, just to show him off to the guys at the office. As a sort of bizarre throwback to the distant antebellum past. Black would have a field day analyzing this kook. Probably could even get a new bestseller out of it. “I’m afraid my tidings are not good tidings. Mrs. Parker was found dead at her home.”

  Okay, now the dead silence was broken with some heartfelt gasps and shuffling of high-button shoes. Maybe even a stifled cry, or two. “Was she ill?” her grandpa asked, not looking particularly troubled by the dire news.

  “No, but she had lots of broken bones and a slit throat.” Claire cast a sidelong, and yes, suspicious look at Bad Fitch, who now looked nonresponsive to all stimuli. Inbreeding might indeed have gained a foothold in this little community of theirs. “Her husband was found dead several days earlier at Ha Ha Tonka State Park.”