by Farris, John
“And run out of gas down there by the drive-in theatre?” Nealy nodded. “That must have been what happened.”
“How long had you been dating Taryn before last night?”
“I never taken her out before. I’d see her now and then at the All-Niter, where she worked the counter. Sometimes I’d have me some breakfast there before the early shift.”
“She talk to you about any of her other boyfriends?”
“No, sir. I don’t have no idea who—” Nealy fell silent, thinking about something that intrigued him greatly.
“Whatever’s on your mind could be helpful to us, Nealy.”
“Well, I don’t know how important—”
“Go ahead, son.”
“There was this guy at the All-Niter, and he was coming on to her big-time. She told me his name was Hero, or else that was just a nickname, Taryn didn’t know his real name. He was just one of those itinerants, you know, with a beard he never trimmed, and his jeans was so shabby he must have got them out of a church barrel. Had a big blue knapsack with him. Taryn said he was in the All-Niter a lot.”
“Biker?”
“I don’t know if he owned a bike, I never seen him on one. There was just something about him I didn’t take a liking to.”
“Sheriff, I’m the one needs go to the bathroom,” Gaynell said, sniffing.
“Okay.”
Nealy said with a little laugh that came off mean, “Gaynell just can’t hold water when she’s nervous.”
Gaynell turned in front of him and began earnestly to kick his ankles and shins, swearing at him under' her breath. Stone got up and pulled Gaynell away from her husband, turning her toward the door.
“All right, now, Gaynell, I don’t want to have to put you in a holding cell until you cool off.”
Gaynell lifted her chin and, without another look at her husband, who was wincing and trying not to rub all the places where it hurt, she went outside.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you, Sheriff.”
“You ever stop to think, Nealy, that one of these days you’ll get hold of one who says she’s eighteen when she’s not? We’re talking twenty years in this state.”
“I heard that.” Nealy’s shoulders began to quake. He sobbed, “I’m not ever going to forget what she looked like, lying there in the drive-in. God, I’m so sorry!”
“Would you recognize him again? The one Taryn called Hero?”
“Yeah, I’d know him anywhere. I just hope you can find the bastard.”
Stone looked him over. Nealy already had it fixed in his mind that the bearded drifter had killed Taryn. Well, that wasn’t so bad. “If he’s around, we’ll find him,” Stone said. He sat again on the corner of the desk and took out his cherished corncob pipe, which he stuffed with a dark and evil-smelling tobacco from a leather pouch. He lit the tobacco with a kitchen match from another pocket of his fisherman’s vest. There was a little dirt under one of his thumbnails. He stared at it, then used the other end of the extinguished match to clean under the nail. This time when the phone rang, Stone answered and spoke softly.
“Believe we’re ready for a new statement,” he said. “Also there’s somebody we need to be looking for, Bob. Nealy’ll fix you up with a first-class description.”
• 6 •
Lime-Green Panties
Deep in meditation, Hieronymus Flynn was aware of the dog’s presence before he heard the Deputy Sheriff speak; but it was as if they were all underwater, he could make no sense of the words. Only the inflection of authority was clear.
“I said for you to get up now, and put your hands on top of your head!”
Hero began, with difficulty, to focus on the here and now. He was sitting crosslegged on a spongelike mat of pine needles and other woodland litter beneath tall, gently swaying trees. The sun was setting. There was a glint of light on the gold-toned badge and nameplate the deputy wore on his shirt, on the short chromed chain that held an eager German shepherd in check.
Hero smiled at the dog, which whined but sat back obediently. He had no such easy communication with the deputy, who faced him from ten feet away holding a walkie-talkie in his other hand.
“I want you to get up from there and do what I tell you, and I want you to be mighty quick about it!”
There was movement on the path behind the deputy, Don Maxwell according to his nameplate, and another uniformed man—older, shorter, pudgier, with impeccably styled gray hair—came into view. He wore lieutenant’s bars on his collar.
“Harve,” Maxwell complained to the newcomer, “he wants to give us a hard time. Been sitting there like he’s in some kind of trance.”
“Meditation,” Hero said, his voice a little thick. “I’ve been meditating.”
“You have a name?” the gray-haired Lieutenant asked him.
Hero pronounced it for him carefully, then said, “But most people find it easier to call me Hero.”
“That so? Not from anywheres around here, are you, son?”
“I am from Sheffield, England.”
“Um-hm. Stand up for us, please, Mr. Flynn. Just keep your hands in sight and place them on top of your head. If you make any kind of sudden move, Deputy Maxwell here will turn the dog loose.”
“It’s all right to let her loose,” Hero said with a smile. He got to his feet, raising his hands slowly, as he’d been told to do. “She wouldn’t harm me, in any event.”
“Don’t believe you want to take that chance, Mr. Flynn. This here’s a trained attack dog.”
“I practice kinship with all forms of life,” Hero told him. “What else do you do with your time? Which you seem to have plenty of to waste. Now, just turn around slow, hands on your head, I’m going to do a body search.”
“Is something wrong? I don’t believe I was disturbing anyone.”
Hero, his back to the deputies, closed his eyes momentarily while the Lieutenant’s stubby hands patted him down from his neckline to his ankles. He felt uneasy, not from being roughly touched, but because the position he found himself in—feet spread, elbows out, fingers laced on top of his head—was eerily familiar to him. In Bolivia the police had lined him up facing a wall, and beaten him senseless with rifle butts. But this wasn’t Bolivia, and he couldn’t be in any danger. No, it was her again. She’d been forced to stand like this, and then—dear God—
A shudder went through Hero, nearly staggering him. He saw it again, the oblong white space that mystified him, and Taryn’s flitting, ghostly form, running, naked, across—but he couldn’t identify where she was.
“What’s a matter?” the Lieutenant said with a trace of contempt. “You enjoy it when my hand gets close to your balls like that?”
“I am not a homosexual,” Hero said.
“You don’t seem to have any kind of identification. Mind telling us just who you are?”
“My passport is in my knapsack. Also my traveler’s checks—you will see that I am not an indigent—and my address book, with the names and telephone numbers of many friends and relatives who will vouch for me.”
“What’s that bracelet on your wrist? One of those medical ID’s?”
“Yes. I have ... a form of epilepsy.”
“I see. You just stay standing there, Mr. Flynn, while I have a look at that passport and the rest of your belongings.”
“I believe it is unlawful for you to search my knapsack without my permission.”
“May I have your permission, Mr. Flynn?”
“By all means. I have nothing to hide.”
Hero stood patiently. The dog growled, but not at him; a squirrel perhaps. There were mourning doves in the nearby trees, a buzz of boats on the sunset lake below, the shouts of children.
“Been in this country a little more than three weeks?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“How long have you been camping at Shoulderblade?”
“I believe I arrived on 27 July.” Hero heard the click of the blade on the horn-handled knife
he carried with him. “Have any other weapons in your possession?”
“I don’t consider the knife to be a weapon—only a tool.” The Lieutenant grunted skeptically. Hero’s bedroll was shaken out.
Hero said, “She is dead, isn’t she? But why on earth should you suspect me of doing harm to Taryn?”
Silence. He heard the Lieutenant walking up behind him. “You can turn around, son.”
Hero turned slowly and looked into the eyes of the gray-haired deputy.
“How well did you know Taryn Melwood?”
“I talked with her several times at the restaurant where she’s employed.”
“You been here in these woods all day?”
“I moved my camp this morning. I was closer to the public area before.”
“You don’t appear to have a radio. Maybe you overheard something about it while you were down there using the crapper.”
“The—? Please, would you tell me what’s happened?”
“Taryn Melwood was killed last night. A maniac got hold of her and cut her to ribbons.”
Hero’s eyes rolled back in his head, but this time he’d had sufficient warning and was able to block the seizure.
“Hey! Hey, sit down, Mr. Flynn, take it easy. You on some kind of medication for this epilepsy you got?”
“No,” Hero said, but he accepted the invitation to get off his feet. The shepherd pulled Deputy Maxwell a couple of feet closer to Hero. “Medication interferes with my efforts to effect a healing through holistic and cosmic means. It could only delay or abort my progress. I’ve become sensitized to the onset of seizures, and quite often I am able to—”
“I don’t feel like you’re making perfect sense, Mr. Flynn. I’d like for you to explain how you knew Taryn Melwood is dead.”
“I intuited the fact of her death during an Occurrence last night, and then again very early this morning.”
“Explain what you mean by—”
“In everyday terms, I frequently have clairvoyant and clairaudient experiences.”
“Oh, well, that flat does it. Mr. Flynn, you’re going to have to come along with us.”
“What do you mean? Are you arresting me?”
“No, sir. We just want to ask you some questions in town. But first I need to have a look at that campsite you occupied before you moved up here on the hill. Think you can remember where it was?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll show you.”
“Bring your backpack and your bedroll with you.”
Hero gathered up his things and led them, in the lingering dusk, down the hill toward the lake and the public area. The caravan park was full. Men were pitching horseshoes to one side of the children’s playground.
“Do any fishing while you were here, Mr. Flynn?”
“No, I don’t kill creatures for sport. Nor do I eat their flesh.”
“Must have been tough on you, finding something to whet your appetite at the All-Niter.”
“Not at all. I ordered bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches, and had them hold the bacon. Here we are.”
The deputies looked around. They saw nothing to indicate that anyone had camped there recently: the area was immaculate.
“Didn’t you ever build yourself a fire?”
“Fires aren’t allowed away from the public area. But I seldom have need of a fire, no matter where I am.”
“Donnie, turn Sugarpie loose here a minute.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the shepherd was off the leash, she came up to Hero, sniffed at his desert boots and frayed jean cuffs. Hero regarded her with a relaxed smile. When Maxwell snapped his fingers the dog wheeled and began coursing through the area, pausing only to pee next to a stump. Maxwell snapped his fingers again. Sugarpie began doubling back, suddenly broke off, and stopped to sniff the needle-covered ground by a mossy boulder.
She barked, then began digging with both front paws at the base of the boulder.
The Lieutenant glanced at Hero, who was paying no attention to the shepherd. His gaze was fixed on the shining surface of the lake, as a powerboat towed a pair of skiers in the direction of the dam.
“Let’s heave that rock out of the way,” the Lieutenant said. “Mr. Flynn, you just stand quiet there. Move without my permission and I’ll have to put Sugarpie on you, and I guarantee you won’t find her as friendly as she’s acted toward you so far.”
“I can probably budge it myself, Harve,” Maxwell said, inspecting the boulder. “Looks like it’s been moved already. There’s pine needles stuck to one side here.” The deputy squatted, keeping his back straight, and slowly turned the boulder over. He whistled, and Hero returned his gaze from the distant shoreline of the lake. There was a lump in his throat, a tingling in his hands.
“Harve, come have yourself a look at this!”
Maxwell rose and took his revolver from the holster, stood facing Hero while the Lieutenant walked over to the boulder and snapped on his flashlight. He studied what had been concealed beneath the boulder.
“What are you looking at?” Hero asked them.
The Lieutenant reached for a stick and lifted a pair of heavily soiled, lime-green panties from the ground.
“I reckon you never have seen these before?” he said to Hero.
Hero shook his head.
“Or that knife that’s lying there all gobbed up with her blood?” The Lieutenant’s face was reddening from outrage. “Mr. Flynn, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Taryn Melwood.” Hero heard the click of the hammer on the other deputy’s revolver as he cocked it. “Donnie, will you kindly read this son of a bitch his rights after you cuff him?”
“Hands behind your back,” Maxwell said, circling Hero carefully.
“This is a mistake,” Hero said, his voice calm though his heart was hammering. “I could not have killed Taryn Melwood, or anyone else for that matter. I am not capable of violence.”
“Maybe you had some help,” the Lieutenant suggested.
“I had nothing to do with her murder! Someone, obviously, wants it to look as if I did! Given time, I should be able to discover who that person is.”
“Is that a fact?” The Lieutenant walked back to Hero as the cuffs went on. He stared belligerently at their suspect. Youthful, despite the gray in his beard, his sun-parched face. “You are some piece of work, Mr. Flynn. I don’t believe I’ve ever run across any such as you before.”
“No,” Hero said. “I’m quite sure you have not.”
• 7 •
Sheriff John Stone, Please Leave Me Alone
They booked Hero at the Sheriff’s station, a one-story brick building on West Fourth Street, opposite the County Courthouse, at 8:45 P.M. He was made to shower and given a starchy prison coverall to wear—white cotton, a size too small for his six-foot, three-and-a-half-inch frame. He was placed in a holding cell, one of six, in the basement of the building. Hero was by himself; other cells were occupied by a couple of crackers sleeping off prolonged drunks.
He asked for and received his pocket-sized ephemeris, and a thin paperback book on the Sabian symbols.
At ten minutes after ten jail deputies came for him and he was escorted, handcuffed, to the office of Sheriff John Stone. There were two other deputies, in plain clothes from the department’s homicide division, in the room with the Sheriff. Their names were Boodleaux and Tucker. Boodleaux had a sandy complexion and a cliffhanger of a nose over a thick mustache. Tucker was portly, liver-spotted, and balding.
There was another German shepherd in the office, lying on a rag rug. Tucker called him “Beauregard” and fed him french fries from a McDonald’s carton. Beauregard looked old and infirm, too old for active duty. He glanced at Hero without curiosity, lost interest in the french fries, and put his gray muzzle down between his front paws to doze.
Stone said, “Mr. Flynn, this is a formal interrogation pertaining to the murder of Taryn Melwood, eighteen years of age, resident of the Walking Ford Trailer Park, Carver County, Georgi
a. Before we begin, I would like to be sure that you’re aware of your rights in this investigation. Were those rights read to you by the arresting officers?”
“Yes, they were.”
“And you understand that you have the right to remain silent prior to obtaining legal counsel?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to make a statement at this time?”
“I have been apprehended for and falsely accused of a crime I did not commit. I fully intend to cooperate with you in finding the true murderer.”
“Is the identity of this person or persons known to you?”
“Not yet, I regret to say.”
“How do you intend to cooperate with us?” Boodleaux asked him.
Hero tried to make himself comfortable in the metal folding chair they’d given him, but the crotch of his jumper was tight and there wasn’t much he could do with his manacled wrists except keep his hands in his lap.
“It would be most helpful if I could be released from jail immediately. Then, if I had something of Taryn’s—an article of clothing, a piece of jewelry perhaps, something she was wearing just before she was killed—I might then be able to visualize a likeness of the one who killed her.”
Stone idly scratched the top of his leonine head, staring perplexedly at Hero.
“There’s no way you’ll be released from jail before the arraignment next week. Once you’ve been formally charged, I frankly don’t see any possibility of bail. You’re a long way from England, Mr. Flynn. Without friends or relations in Carver County. No visible means of support.”
“I had four hundred dollars in traveler’s checks when I was arrested.”
“You still have them, in safekeeping. What I mean is, you’re thirty-three years old according to your passport. You’re not a student and you don’t currently hold a job. Bail bondsmen wouldn’t touch you, in the unlikely event the arraignment judge sets bail for your crime, which is one of the most vicious I have beheld in all my years in this office.”
“I see. Then, if I may have something that belonged to Taryn—not to keep, just to hold in my hands for a few moments—I believe her soul has not yet left the earthly sphere, and she’s tried to contact me—”