by DaveKearns
I pulled to the shoulder and parked the car. I got out and walked down the gentle shoulder and onto the salt flats. This crusty ground seemed hard as concrete, and I doubted that the car would have any problem driving on it. If the dump trucks could make it, I was pretty sure that the car would.
I kept the wheels of the Ford in the grooves left by the quarry truck and followed the trail north into the desert for several miles. I had my glacier glasses on and I could see a number of small piles ahead, isolated from the giant dunes at White Sands. The tire tracks headed straight for the small mounds, then turned abruptly after passing the mounds, making a loop and heading back toward the highway. I followed the loop around and pointed the car back at the highway. Then I climbed out to look at the piles. It looked like there were dozens of them, and their color was pale blue and green, not the white of the dunes. We were far enough from the White Sands tourist roads that nobody was likely to notice them.
I walked around and between the piles for a few minutes. I found a few things: cigarette butts, empty liquor bottles, ragged porno magazines, but nothing that proved that Ray or Marty or Bullard had been there, or that any crimes had been committed nearby.
I had given up hope of finding anything that would pass for evidence and I was heading back for the car when I saw a boot tip protruding from the base of one of the big piles closest to the car. I couldn't imagine why anyone would leave a boot out in the desert. Surely if they walked in on it they would need it to walk back out.
I walked over to the boot and prodded it with the toe of my jogging shoe. A small avalanche of gravel-sized copper ore slid off the side of the pile, exposing a leg in blue jeans attached to the boot. A chill ran through me like ice water in my veins. I glanced around for something to dig with but I couldn't see anything nearby that would work. I gripped the rigid boot and pulled hard, dragging the body free of the pile. The smell of excrement and rot was overpowering in the heat. The corpse's face was blue and pinched, with the lips pulled away from the teeth in a grimace of pain. One eyelid was half open, a lifeless eye behind the lid. The front of the shirt had a large black stain on it with copper ore dust clinging to it. Ray.
I felt my gorge rising in my chest, but I choked it back and steadied myself. Ray still had his watch on. I wondered if he still had his wallet.
"Only one way to find out," I said. I got on one knee beside the corpse and reached across Ray's chest to the belt loops in the far side of the body. I grabbed a loop and pulled hard, rolling him over. The smell was overpowering. Beetles and ants flowed across the blackened mess on Ray's back. I staggered back, stunned.
I stepped away from the pile and took deep breaths, trying to bring my nausea under control. I steeled myself and went back the body. Sure enough, a pronounced lump in his back pocket held a wallet. A long dark stain ran the length of the faded jeans.
I got a grip with two fingers on the wallet and pulled it from the jeans. The wallet was faded brown leather, worn at the edges. I hoped that there was something inside I could use to connect Ray with whoever had killed him, but it didn’t look that way. The wallet contained sixty-three dollars, a driver's license, a credit card, a laminated social security card, and a scrap of yellow paper with a phone number written on it in a large, loopy style. I went over to the car and copied the number down on the back of the receipt from the film store. Then I put everything back in the wallet and slid it into Ray's back pocket. I knew the police would be coming out to look at the body and I wanted to leave things the way that I found them.
I dug a well-worn chewing tobacco can from Ray's right back pocket. When I twisted it open I was surprised to find that the can contained a compressed wad of bills. I sat on the sand upwind from Ray and unfolded the bills one at a time. There were twenty-three hundred dollar bills. Something about that number triggered a thought in my mind, but I couldn't quite get at it. I let it go and I folded the money back into a wad before putting it back in the can. I paused in the heat with the flies buzzing around and a good month's pay in my hand. Then I put the tobacco can back in Ray's pocket and rolled him back over. A scorpion as long as a cigarette scuttled from Ray's pants leg and started for my foot. I stomped down on the thing, crushing it under my jogging shoe. Michelle had been right. There was death waiting for me in the desert.
I dragged Ray back alongside the base of the pile and then I stepped to one side and started a small avalanche of pea-sized copper ore by burying my foul-smelling hands into the ore and pulling towards the bottom. The fallout covered all of Ray except part of his leg, and I left him there.
I started the car and began following the tracks back to the highway. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a black lump on the salt flats off to the right. I slowed and tried to see what it was, but it was too far away for me to make it out. It occurred to me that it was about the right size to be one of those duffel bags I had seen in the pictures Brick took. A piece of fabric seemed to flap in the wind on the top of the sack.
For a moment I struggled with the decision over whether to drive over and look at it, or just to walk over. I decided not to risk a blown tire that would leave me stranded again, so I rolled the windows down, shut off the engine, and got out of the car. A breeze was coming up from White Sands, sending thin sheets of sand skittering over the surface over the salt flats.
I walked towards the bag, aware of the sound my feet made against the broken, crusty surface, crunching like footsteps in wet snow. As I came closer to the sack, I could see that it wasn’t a rucksack at all. It was a person, curled into a fetal position. I stopped short of the body and looked back over my shoulder to make sure the car was still there. It sat in stark contrast to the desert, with candy apple red paint and polished aluminum wheels. "Let the good times roll!" it seemed to say.
I hunched my shoulders and trudged over to take a closer look. The wind was coming from behind me, but the air had an acrid tang that made me swallow hard. A pie plate-sized black stain covered the back of the man's blue plaid shirt. It was unbuttoned, and the breeze flapped the shirt like a flag, making popping noises when a gust caught the cloth and snapped it tight.
I had to walk around the body to see the face. The man had a broad nut-brown face and a head of thick, black shoulder length hair. "God," I said. "Marty." I looked back toward the copper piles and wondered why Marty had been left here in the open. Then I spotted the trail of black stains on the salt flats and realized that Marty had crawled this far after being shot.
The hip flask was still in Marty's back pocket. I pried Marty's wallet from his jeans and found two hundred and nine dollars, a driver's license, and a receipt from a garage for four hundred dollars work on a transmission.
I stuffed the wallet back into Marty's jeans and began the walk back to my car. The wind had come up hard, blowing sand against my exposed skin, but I took my time anyway.
Chapter Thirty-One
I drove back to the highway slowly, letting the car ride across the salt flats in the grooves cut by the trucks. When I reached the embankment to the interstate I pulled up slowly and waited on the shoulder of the highway for a westbound semi truck to pass. Then I drove across the highway and headed back towards town.
I got back to the house around three in the afternoon. I went inside and hid the developed pictures and negatives between the mattress and box spring in the master bedroom. Then I went into the master bathroom and washed my face and hands to get rid of the smell before going out to the garage, stripping naked, and tossing my clothing into the washer. I got the load started and went back into the bedroom to take a hot shower.
I caught my hands shaking while I was in the shower, and I just stood there for a while with my forehead against the tile, letting the hot water wash over me.
I dressed and called the police station and asked to speak to Officer Burroughs. The watch officer told me that she was on patrol. I left my name and number and asked that Burroughs call me when her shift was over. There was no way that I was going t
o tell anybody involved in the investigation into Brick's death about Ray and Marty's bodies. I didn't want to give Bullard a chance to cover his tracks any more than he already had. I wanted to tell Sandy about the corpses, but no one else. I was pretty sure she would at least see to it that the police were able to locate the bodies. With Bullard involved, evidence seemed to disappear all by itself.
I sat on the sofa and listened to the washing machine working on my clothes out in the garage. I was confident that Ray and Marty had been involved with Brick's killing, and I was sure that Bullard was involved, too. But how could I prove it? Then I remembered the phone number I’d found in Ray’s wallet. I went back to the bedroom and got the package from the film store that I had copied the number onto. I sat on the bed and dialed. The phone rang three times before an answering machine picked up.
"You've reached Dwayne Bullard's house. Leave your name and number after the beep, and I'll get back to you."
Chapter Thirty-Two
I was sure Bullard was in it with Marty and Ray now. The phone number proved that Ray knew Bullard. Then it occurred to me that if the number was unlisted it made a stronger case, so I got the phone book off the kitchen countertop and went through the B's. I found Bullard's name and phone number in the book, and the number was the same one that I had copied off the scrap of paper in Ray's wallet. The connection between Ray and Bullard was something, but I doubted that it was enough to prove that Bullard was involved in anything. I didn't think I could count on ballistics evidence to do the job, either. I couldn't see Bullard using his service revolver to put Ray and Marty away.
I wanted a drink. I went through the kitchen cabinets looking for a bottle, but found nothing. Finally, I remembered the wine in the refrigerator from Michelle’s visit and poured myself a glass. I chugged it down like water.
The clothes washing machine buzzed, and I went out and moved my clothes to the dryer. I couldn't get the image of Ray out my mind. Whenever my right hand touched something, it felt as if I had touched Ray's stiff leg again. I sat on the sofa and drank a second glass of wine. A warm glow started in my stomach, and I gradually felt as if I were getting control of my nerves again. I held my hand up to see if it were trembling. It looked steady enough. I lay down on the sofa and was asleep in moments.
I awoke when one of the neighbors came home from work and slammed their car door. I got up and checked the kitchen clock. It was six-ten, and I was due at Michelle's house in just a few minutes. I didn't want to go but felt like I should anyway. I was emotionally wiped out from my trip out to the desert and I didn't want to tell Michelle about what I had found. I grabbed my flannel shirt and went out to the car. I drove through the neighborhood, distracted by my memories of handling Ray's and Marty's bodies that day. A couple of kids in plastic cars that looked like they were designed by cavemen were doing laps in a driveway as I went past.
When I came to the first stop sign, a patrol car pulled up behind me and turned on its light bar. For a second I thought maybe I had just missed Sandy at my house, but the face I saw in my rear view mirror behind the sunglasses was male. I pulled over to the curb after going on through the intersection, thinking that possibly the patrol car just wanted to get past me.
The cruiser followed me to the curb. I shut the engine off and sat there, trying to figure out what I had done wrong. After a full minute, the officer in the patrol car climbed out and walked to my car. I began to sweat when I realized that it was Bullard. He swaggered up to the car and stood beside my door.
"May I see your license?" he said.
I shifted forward in my seat and reached for my wallet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bullard pull his gun. I froze as Bullard jammed the barrel of his gun in my ear. The pain made my eyes water.
"Give me a reason," Bullard said.
"I'm just getting my wallet out."
"You better be," Bullard said. "You jerk my chain again and I'm putting your lights out. Now give me the license."
I pulled the wallet out slowly, took the laminated driver's license out of it, and handed it to him. Bullard took the barrel out of my ear.
"Get out of the car," he said.
I put my wallet back in my pocket and used my left hand to open the door slowly. I got out, closed the door gently, and stood with my back against the door of the car.
Bullard holstered his pistol and rested the palm of his hand on the butt of his nightstick. He had at least four inches of height on me and outweighed me by probably forty pounds, but I decided that if he pulled his gun on me again I was going to try to take it from him. I was pretty sure he had killed Brick, Ray, and Marty, and I wasn't going to be next on his list. Traffic went by as if nothing were amiss, slowing slightly to watch the show. A red Chevy Blazer went by with a kid who looked about ten watching me from the passenger seat. I wanted to scream.
"You were doing fifty in a twenty-five zone in the neighborhood and you just ran that stop sign," Bullard said.
I didn't say anything. He wanted a fight, and I wasn't going to give him one unless I had to.
"Not that I give a shit about your bad driving. You had a little talk with Sandy about me, didn't you?"
I didn't say anything.
"Didn't you?" Bullard screamed and slammed me in the solar plexus with the butt of his nightstick. I wasn't ready for it, and the wind went out of me with a rush. I crumpled to the asphalt. Bullard got a handful of my hair and pulled me to my feet.
A silver Cadillac went by with a Hispanic man in a white shirt at the wheel. Bullard grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pressed me up against the cruiser, getting in my face.
"A friend of the chief tells me you and Burroughs are trying to build a case against me. Isn't that right?"
I was still trying to get my breath. My wind was coming in gasps.
"Your breath reeks," Bullard said. "You been drinking wine, I bet."
I shook my head. "Yeah you have," Bullard said. "Since you're too drunk to stand up or take a breath test, I'm arresting you for DUI and public drunk too. Maybe a night in the tank will improve your perspective."
My diaphragm muscles were in spasm and I needed time to get my wind.
"Got nothing to say for yourself, huh? That's a nice change." Bullard spun me around and handcuffed me behind my back.
Bullard pulled the keys from my car's ignition and put them in his pants pocket. Then he opened the back door to the cruiser, grabbed me by my belt and my neck, and launched me into the back seat. God, he was strong. My forehead hit the door on the far side of the car, setting off a fireworks display in my head. I landed across the seat with one leg hanging out of the door. I heard Bullard yell "When I say move, I mean move!" Then he struck me across the leg with the nightstick, hard. The pain flared in my shin and I jerked the leg inside. He slammed the door closed, got in the front seat of the cruiser, and began talking on the radio. I heard him order a tow truck to come get my car, and then he turned in the seat to look at me.
"I told you to stay out of it, but you don't listen very good, do ya?"
I wondered if he was going to kill me like he had killed the others, or if he was trying to scare me off. I figured that if he was going to kill me I would already be dead. My leg throbbed below the knee like the bone was broken.
"Well, your friend Officer Burroughs is stirring up trouble for me with Internal Affairs now, and I have you to thank for that. I understand that your little girlfriend out at the quarry has put them onto Ray and Marty, too, but I think I’ve taken care of that. This is your final warning. Stay out of it. I do have a prize for you for being so persistent, though," Bullard said. "You've got a date with some new friends in the drunk tank tonight. They’ll probably love your scrawny ass!"
Chapter Thirty-Three
The tow truck drove past before pulling to the curb and backing up against the nose of my car. Bullard had a cigar lit, and he sat in the front seat with the air conditioning going until the truck hoisted the nose of the Ford off the pavement. Then he got
out of the cruiser and shut the door, leaving a haze of blue, foul-smelling air behind.
The tow truck driver wore dark green coveralls and a white baseball cap. Straight blonde hair poked out from under the cap in back. I watched the two of them talking. Then Bullard jerked a thumb at the patrol car and the tow truck operator laughed.
Bullard slapped the man on the back and came back to the cruiser. He climbed into the driver's seat, whistling.
"Ever spent the night in the tank, Del?" I didn't answer. "Well, you're in for a real treat. I can tell you that. You get to meet some of the local color." Bullard eased the car into traffic. I watched the streets slide by through the wire screen that kept back seat passengers from kicking the windows out. Then I knew what the people who rode back to Mexico in the immigration buses felt like.
When we reached the station, Bullard walked me inside and up a flight of stairs to the booking desk.
Bullard mashed my fingerprints on the card and patted me down for weapons. Then he put the cuffs back on tight.