Of course, the chief had not come in yet. What was worse, the chief had phoned to say that he didn't plan to come in at all.
He'd had some kind of trouble. "And what am I supposed to do?" Dunlap asked the policeman on duty.
"Well, maybe if you told me why you had to see him."
Dunlap slumped in a chair. He'd gone through this the day before, but there had been a different person then, a woman, and Dunlap studied the policeman, sighed, then passing through frustration told him very calmly what it was he needed.
"That's no problem."
Dunlap blinked. He didn't think he'd heard correctly. "What?"
"If you had told me who you were to start with. When the chief called in this morning, he explained you might be stopping by. Just hold on while I call him back."
And fifteen minutes later, Dunlap stood across from a row of dingy houses, staring at a barren field with stockpens up at one end and a bar, the Railhead, down at the other. He had carefully avoided mentioning his interest in the recent killing, concentrating only on the compound twenty-three years ago. As a consequence, when he had found out where the chief was sending him, he'd been astonished by his luck. The Railhead. He had heard that name on the two-way radio yesterday. This was where the mutilated body had been found. Dunlap looked at the two policemen who were standing in the middle of the field. They turned to study him when the cruiser that had brought him here pulled away. The sun was stark. A wind hurled bits of sharp, hot sand at him. He licked his gritty lips and started through the field.
The two policemen met him halfway. "Yes, sir, may we help you?" one of them asked.
And Dunlap thought that things might just be getting better as he told them. But the one named Rettig didn't want to talk.
FIVE
Oh, that's wonderful. Just god-damned great. I'm out here in the middle of this stupid field, and this guy Rettig doesn't want to talk. Well, what else did you think would happen? Dunlap asked himself. Just because it got a little easier a while ago, you figured everything would be simple now? Hell, you're the one who's simple. Wake up, do your job. Dunlap knew that Rettig wasn't just the man in charge of this investigation: Rettig had been with the state police back then. Dunlap had learned that from the man on duty at the station. He had learned as well that Rettig was the one who'd spent the most time with Wheeler. Twenty-three years ago. "Look, way back then. I don't see what the problem is."
But Rettig didn't want to talk.
Wheeler was the rancher who had lost his son. "All right, then, you don't even need to talk about it. Let's try this. I'll tell you what I know." And guess, and less than that, just make up on the spot, Dunlap decided, but at least this was a way to draw out Rettig, to get him talking. "You just tell me if I'm right or not. I'm going to do this story anyway. You'll want to make sure that the parts about you are correct."
Dunlap studied him, and Rettig wasn't certain, staring back. So as another gust of wind came up, the dust obscuring them, their faces specked with grit, Dunlap started prompting him, anxious to fill the silence and keep Rettig from having a chance to say no. "You drove out toward the commune, looking for the boy. You headed up the loggers' road. The sentries wouldn't let you through the gate. They made you go back to the town to get a search warrant. But in the meantime Wheeler had decided not to follow your advice. He went up on his own, despite what you had warned him."
"No, that isn't true." Rettig hesitated, then continued. "Wheeler didn't go up in the meantime. We had made him wait back at the station-not the one in town, but the state police barracks out on the highway-and he heard us call in that we had to go to town to get a search warrant. That's when he drove out. The man on duty at the station went to take a leak, and Wheeler left while he was gone."
"And Wheeler was upset enough, the man on duty called you to go back up to the compound," Dunlap said.
"That's right."
"So you couldn't have been very far behind. Wheeler didn't have to go home for the gun. He was a rancher, and he likely had it in the trunk or car or Jeep, whatever he was driving."
"A pickup truck."
Dunlap had an image now of all those pickup trucks that he had seen this morning, families come to town: the guns in racks behind the driver's seat.
"A rifle or a shotgun," Dunlap said. The last word made Rettig's eyes flicker. "Yes, a shotgun," Dunlap said, and now he understood why there'd been no details about the murder. "Wheeler was cursing, angry at the boy for running off, angry at the compound for the trick that it had pulled. More than that, he didn't understand those hippies. He was afraid, going up to find the boy and rescue him. He roared his truck right up that loggers' road and crashed straight through the gate. He drove until the road came to an end, then jumped out with his shotgun, running through the woods, the sentries racing after him. He almost made it to the clearing when they tackled him. There was a fight. He jumped back, shotgun ready, and he blew one bearded hippy's head apart."
Dunlap had to pause, to check for some reaction. He was guessing, based on what he'd read, but it made sense, except he didn't know exactly how the shooting had occurred, especially what part of the body. But it had to be the head. Head or groin-otherwise the paper would have been more specific. But a shotgunned head or groin was something that you didn't mention if you wanted to be delicate, and since as far as Dun-lap knew there was no sex involved in this, the head, its long hair and its shaggy beard, would have been what the rancher likely shot at. Hell, it was symbolic of the trouble. Dunlap kept waiting as the wind died.
In the silence, Rettig murmured, "His face looked like somebody had squashed a quart of strawberries on it. Just this mushy red stuff, no eyes, no mouth, nothing. Just this mushy red stuff." Rettig guided him toward the cruiser. "I've said more than I intended."
"Look, I understand. I'll make a deal. You call your chief, and he'll explain that it's all right. I told you at the start. I cleared this first with Parsons, then with him."
Rettig looked skeptical. "I have to go to his place. I'll be sure to ask him."
"Take me with you?"
Rettig frowned.
"I mean, I don't have any car. You can't just leave me." "I can leave you. If you cleared this as you say, I don't want any trouble, though." Rettig thought about it. "You get in. We'll drive you. But you'd better not be lying."
Dunlap smiled and hurried into the back. The other cop got in the front beside where Rettig drove, and both were taking off their hats, and Dunlap wished that they had rolled their windows down when they had parked the cruiser. The heat had built up in here so that his clothes stuck to him and to the seat. They drove up past the stockpens, Dunlap glancing at the cattle in there and then watching how the slums diminished as they turned left and headed toward a newer section of the town. They were going through an underpass, and quicker than he had expected, they were in the country. Dunlap had noticed in the phone book that the chief's address was R. R. something, but he hadn't really understood how far out that might be. They went past sun-baked grassland. No one spoke. On occasion, there were static-distorted voices on the two-way radio, but neither man picked up the microphone to answer.
Dunlap studied them. Rettig with his red, curly hair. The other man, much younger, blond, his hair cut short in imitation of the style back in the fifties, with the difference that out here the style was not an imitation, rather a continuation. They both looked like football players, big and tall and husky, and the man back at the station had been big and tall as well, and Dunlap was thinking that their size might be a part of what the chief had looked for when he hired them. If that were true, then Slaughter maybe had some big-time notions about how to handle trouble. He might not be just some hick, and Dunlap considered that, then tried to get Rettig talking again. 'You were close enough to hear the shot." Rettig stared at his rearview mirror. "Look, I warned you-"
But you answered me regardless, Dunlap thought. Oh, you were close enough, all right. Hell, you were nearly there to see it happen
. Once you heard the shot and saw that shattered gate, you sped up through it, stopping by the pickup truck and running farther up the trail to find the rancher with his shotgun aimed at several other hippies. Oh, yes, Dunlap could imagine what the scene had been like, the hippies looking down the barrel of the shotgun, terrified, not knowing what to do. If they ran, Wheeler would fire. If they stayed, he'd likely do the same, the rancher too far gone to maintain control, his eyes wide, his face stark, breathing hard and tensing his finger on the trigger. And the two of you, the last thing that you wanted was to shoot the guy. You didn't want him shooting someone else, though, either, even if that someone else was just another hippie, the first one spread out on the ground, his face like someone had squashed a quart of strawberries on it. And the others. Sure, there would have been other hippies from the compound who'd heard the shot and come running through the trees, and when they saw the body, they stumbled back or maybe just froze in shock, and soon the rancher became more nervous, seeing people all around him, hippies, his finger tight on the trigger as he squinted at the two cops who had their guns out, telling him to stop this, inching toward him.
"How'd you manage to take it from him?"
"What?"
"The shotgun. How did you take it?"
Dunlap hoped that the question would appeal to Rettig's pride, but the cop just stared down the highway.
"Some dumb hippie tried to grab him," Rettig said abruptly. "Wheeler turned, and I jumped close to get the shotgun. I had it pointed toward the ground when it went off. It blew up bits of dirt and pine needles. But I had him, and he couldn't work the pump to slide another shell in."
My, my, my, and sure, you didn't have much trouble telling me how well you did, Dunlap thought. He knew that soon he'd have it all, especially what happened to the rancher's son.
"Hey, tell me what you saw up there."
But Rettig didn't answer.
"I mean-"
"Look, I said we'll clear it with the chief first," Rettig told him, and their little game was finished. Dunlap didn't even try again. He sat back, his clothing sweaty against the seat, and watched the country they were passing, flatland mostly, clumps of brush out in the fields. They turned left through an open, listing, wooden gate. Then they were on a weedgrown wagon road, and he heard gunshots, many of them, louder as they sped along the dusty road. Dunlap leaned ahead.
"Trouble?"
But they didn't answer. They sped down a hill, dry red earth on either side, and there were buildings in a hollow: first a modest house, four rooms maybe, with a porch in front, painted white; and then a barn, about the same size as the house, and painted white as well; some kind of shed, and it was white. And all three were beside a fenced-in pasture where two horses shied from what disturbed them in the gully.
SIX
Slaughter watched them shooting by the gully. Then he turned to face the medical examiner. "It was a cat, all right. I shot its fucking head off."
The medical examiner narrowed his eyes. 'You're sure?"
"You think I never saw a cat before? The god-damned thing attacked me. Some big torn. I mean a big torn, fifteen pounds at least. And if I hadn't shot it, I'd have had my face scratched off."
The medical examiner scowled. It didn't make sense. Not only the attack, but Slaughter's fierce reaction. And then he understood. Sure, Slaughter must have been terrified. Lying in that hollow, thinking he would end up next like Clifford. He likely hadn't felt that kind of fear since he had worked back in Detroit. He wasn't used to it, and he was angry now because he'd lost control. The medical examiner had never thought of Slaughter's being capable of fear. The thought was oddly new and made the medical examiner feel sympathetic, liking him even more.
Over by the gully, the men continued shooting.
"What about that scratch? You'd better let me have a look at it," the medical examiner said.
But Slaughter only waved the offered hand away. "I fixed it up myself." The scratch was long and deep across his cheek, thickly scabbed and ugly. "Old Doc Markle made me keep a decent first-aid kit out here. Just in case. From when I tried to raise those horses. First I washed it. Then I disinfected it."
"I was thinking about stitches."
"No, it isn't bad enough for that. I should have gone to see you, but all I wanted was to get home."
Slaughter turned toward the sound of the cruiser angling down the red-clay road between the hillocks. Rettig and the new man were in the front. But as Slaughter watched them drawing closer, a dust cloud rising, he could see as well another person, this one in the back, a man in a gray, wrinkled suit, his face-it was obvious even through the dusty windshield-as gray and wrinkled as the suit.
But when the cruiser stopped and they got out, the man hitched up what seemed to be a tape recorder and a camera, and his body wasn't stooped or wasted, and if Slaughter's judgment was correct, his age was forty, forty-five. A face like that, though. Slaughter knew there wasn't any question. This guy was a boozer. Dry and brittle hair, gray like the rest of him.
Slaughter stepped from the porch. "There's some beer inside," he told the medical examiner. "See you later."
"Wait a minute. I have questions."
"Later." Slaughter walked toward the gray-faced man who had the tape recorder and the camera.
Rettig and the new man didn't even bother looking toward the sound of the shots in the gully, but the gray-faced man was staring in that direction.
"We did everything you told us," Rettig said as Slaughter reached them. "Nothing."
"I expected." Slaughter held his hand out. "Mr. Dunlap." And that earned the look that Slaughter had anticipated. Dun-lap was impressed. Slaughter always made a point of keeping track of names. He'd learned that in the city, understanding that a name could mean the difference between trust and panic. "People tell me you've been looking for me."
Dunlap gripped his hand. 'You're a hard man to find."
"Not so hard. You're here, after all." Slaughter smiled, and Dunlap turned once more toward the gunshots in the gully.
"Look, if you don't mind my asking."
"Anything. That's what you're here for," Slaughter said.
"That shooting."
"Target practice. It's a pattern we got into. Saturdays, I have the men I work with out to drink some beer and eat some chili. At the start, though, before they drink the beer, they go back behind the barn and do some target practice. Some towns don't require that, but I insist my men shoot two times a month at least. The shift on duty today will come out next week, and we alternate like that. You care to see?"
As they walked toward the barn, Rettig joined them. "He's been asking about Quiller and the compound."
"I know it," Slaughter said. "Parsons phoned about that. Quiller was before my time. That's why I sent our guest to you."
"He said that he had cleared it, but-"
"You did exactly what you should have. I tried calling on the radio, but evidently you weren't near the cruiser. There's no problem. In your place, I'd have been suspicious, too."
They passed the clean white barn, the gunshots louder, echoing, and then they came around the back, the dirt here hard and brittle, and five men were in jeans and rolled-up shirt sleeves, spread out by the gully, shooting revolvers at tin cans below a ridge across the ditch. The ditch was maybe twenty feet across, the cans another five feet farther on, and three men were reloading, glancing at where Slaughter came with Dunlap and then Rettig past the barn to reach them.
One man said, "That beer had better be as cold as you pretend it is."
"I lied," Slaughter said. "It's even colder."
They laughed.
"Looks like we could use some new targets." Slaughter pointed. All the cans across there had more holes than metal, barely held together by the seams that joined them.
"Well, we figure once we blast them till there's nothing left, we can say we earned the beer."
"A hundred rounds per man. No less than that." Slaughter gestured toward Dunl
ap. "This man's from New York. He's a reporter, and he's doing research on that commune in the hills. I want you to cooperate. I don't know all that happened back then, but I don't see much use hiding it."
They studied Dunlap and nodded.
"How come you're not out here shooting?" one man asked Slaughter.
"I put in my time before you came."
"Oh, sure you did." They looked amused.
Slaughter glanced at Dunlap, then at them, shrugged, and drew his revolver.
Dunlap stepped back automatically. He stared at the gun as Slaughter approached his men and concentrated on the cans on the other side of the gully. He braced himself, his body sideways, his feet apart, and aimed, then squeezed the trigger. A can flipped, the shot loud, the recoil spreading smoothly through Slaughter's body, and he cocked again and fired, cocked and fired, six times altogether, the shots echoing on top of one another as the can went through its clattering dance and, with the last hit, fell apart. Slaughter had worked his hand as quickly as the eye could follow. His men were laughing, clapping, as he shrugged, then pressed a button that allowed him to swing out the handgun's cylinder. He pocketed the used cartridges and reloaded.
"I see you've got some rounds to shoot yet," Slaughter pointed toward the half-full boxes by their feet. "That beer is getting colder." He winked, then walked toward the barn. "And pick up all your empty cartridges this time."
"Yeah, yeah," they told him, looked toward the riddled cans, and started firing again as Slaughter led Dunlap and Rettig back to the house.
"That's impressive shooting." Dunlap said.
"Nothing that a little practice doesn't help," Slaughter said. "I wasn't kidding. I did my stint before they got here. Sometimes I shoot with them. Mostly I just sit up on that porch and welcome people. There's a western gentlemen inside me trying to get out." He noticed that Dunlap smiled then. That was good. The message from the mayor had been emphatic. Give this man a good impression. "You must find this country different, coming from the East and all."
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