by Jay Lake
“So...” said Mr. Bellamy. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. This thing you can’t discuss is in my barn, which Floyd has kept me out of for days. There are Nazis and Army officers looking for it, looking for you, and probably looking for Floyd. And you tried to kill one of them with Doc Milliken’s Cadillac. Did I miss anything?”
“My dad is missing,” I said miserably. Maybe this gang had the contacts to find him. “And I’ve been associated with an awful lot of property damage lately.”
“Son,” observed Mr. Neville. “You are in big trouble.”
“Hey, Floyd’s the one who stole it!”
Floyd smiled again, the full force of his charm like a glare. Everything was a joke to my buddy. “But you’re the one they know about.”
I toyed with the computational rocket’s radio handset in the pocket of my borrowed robe. Mr. Bellamy and Mr. Neville were in the kitchen, talking in whispers. Floyd hadn’t said anything since they left. He just sat there and smiled at me, like everything was going his way and in just a minute he’d get up and make the winning pass.
After a while I began to see he was nervous underneath the bluff and bluster. But Floyd had never been one to show weak in front of his old man.
I wondered what I should do next. Obviously, Floyd’s plan was to sit tight and let the bad guys come to us. The problem with that plan was that I was unclear on exactly who the bad guys were. The computational rocket was nervous, or at least what passed for nervous in a machine. As for me, at this point, I suspected everyone from Mrs. Sigurdsen the librarian to Sheriff Hauptmann, not to mention Mr. Bellamy and his ‘gang.’ The only person I was sure of was Floyd, and one of the things I was most sure of about him was that he was unreliable at his best.
“Hey, fellas!” It was Random Garrett, yelling from upstairs. “There’s a police car driving on to the property.”
Mr. Bellamy and Mr. Neville ran in from the kitchen. Mr. Bellamy had his pump-action shotgun, while Mr. Neville had drawn his pistol, an enormous hog leg.
“Who is it?” called Mr. Bellamy.
“Looks like Augusta police.”
Augusta police wouldn’t have any business out here. Closest town was Haverhill, and they relied on the Butler County Sheriff’s Department. On the other hand, I was a lot more worried about Sheriff Hauptmann than I was about any of the Augusta cops.
Mr. Bellamy set his shotgun on the table, but not out of sight. That was interesting, too. “It’s all right,” he told Mr. Neville. “That’d be Ollie Wannamaker, or maybe Chief Davis. Put the pistol away, Marvin, nobody’s going to draw down on you.”
“What if it was a Sheriff’s car?” I asked.
“Then we’d be concerned. Hauptmann is no friend of yours, Vereen.”
Well, he had that right. I walked into the cluttered living room and looked out the front window. At least I felt better on my feet. It was almost dark now. I wondered how, or if, I was going to get to work tomorrow. I could always call in sick, if the Bellamys had a telephone.
Which they didn’t.
I watched the black-and-white Augusta police car park next to the old Ford with the blown-out window, courtesy of my little adventure today. The cruiser was a 1941 Chevrolet Deluxe that had been stretched through the war years like everything else.
Ollie Wannamaker got out slowly and looked up at the roof of Mr. Bellamy’s house, somewhere above my head. I guessed he was looking at Mr. Garrett.
“I don’t got no weapons!” Ollie yelled, holding out both hands to show they were empty. He didn’t have his holster on.
Mr. Bellamy walked past me, out on to the porch. “Why don’t you come in and have some coffee, Ollie?”
Ollie walked slowly up to the porch and climbed the stairs. He followed Mr. Bellamy back into the house, then stopped to look me over. “I kind of thought you’d be here, Vernon.” Ollie seemed sad.
We walked into the dining room. The shotgun was still on the table, Mr. Neville sitting near it with his mouth set in a narrow line. Mr. Bellamy picked up the weapon and laid it in his lap as he sat down.
I didn’t understand the power here. Ollie didn’t have any jurisdiction out of town, but a cop was a cop. Mr. Bellamy was threatening him in a way that Ollie didn’t have to notice, officially speaking — something it never would have occurred to me to do. Mr. Bellamy waved Ollie and me to sit down before turning to his son. “Why don’t you go get us some coffee, Floyd?”
All the guns were making me nervous, and I wasn’t the one on the receiving end of their attention. I had to give Ollie credit for what he said next. “Don’t think you need to be armed here inside your own home, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Been a lot of shooting in Butler County lately, Officer Wannamaker.”
“I see,” said Ollie.
There was an uncomfortable silence. After a long minute, I spoke up. “What brings you out here?”
“I was thinking you might be here, Vernon. We need to talk.”
Once again, it was about me. I glanced around the table. None of the men with guns were going to let me talk to Ollie alone, I could see that.
“What’s up?” I asked, wishing that Ollie could whisper secretly in my ear just like the computational rocket did.
Chapter Ten
Floyd came in from the kitchen with a tray of coffee in mismatched cups from two different sets of china, plus an odd one. He’d forgotten the cream and sugar. Mrs. Bellamy would be fluttering if she were here right now.
Ollie took a sip, then stared around the table. He showed a little more backbone than I would have expected from the kid I knew back in high school, locking eyes with Mr. Neville and Mr. Bellamy in turn before returning his gaze to me. He ignored Floyd.
“The Army’s got Military Police all over Augusta right now. They flew in about an hour ago on a C-47 from Fort Leavenworth. Landed behind the fence at the refinery and set up a perimeter. There’s a Colonel Pinkhoffer putting Chief Davis on the hot seat, asking questions about who would have been driving a blue Cadillac convertible out east of town this afternoon. Everybody’s either hopping mad or scared spitless, and Bertha’s making a huge nuisance of herself down at City Hall trying to break this open for the papers. Not just ours. Chicago, Kansas City. It’s big news. Word is the Army’s raising the same kind of Cain in El Dorado, too.”
Mr. Bellamy glared like a stone toad. “Yeah?”
I didn’t say anything, just stared down at the tablecloth to avoid Ollie’s hard look. I don’t lie well, even when I have nothing to say. And this was not the dumpy, goofy kid I’d known in high school. Nobody was who they used to be any more, except maybe Floyd. Was that the war, or just growing up? I couldn’t tell.
“Well,” said Ollie to fill the silence. He scratched his head and looked unhappy. “Here’s the thing. Just a few minutes before Colonel Pinkhoffer showed up with a couple of squads of M.P.s, one of Reverend Miller’s farmhands came by the station. The Reverend sent me a message asking if Vernon here was okay.”
“I guess I am,” I said. That was the biggest whopper I’d ever told. Adding up the last few days, with Pinkhoffer on top for garnish, I’d never been in this much trouble in my life. I’d never heard of this much trouble in my life. I felt a terrible sinking feeling, like going deep into quicksand with no rope.
“That’s not the way I heard it.” Ollie put his cup down, spread his hands on the tablecloth. Mrs. Bellamy’s second-best linen, I noticed, which already had gun oil and coffee stains on it. I wouldn’t want to be Floyd or Mr. Bellamy when she got home. “Reverend Miller didn’t say much in his note, but Junius, the farm hand, was happy to share a little bit of gossip. He says Reverend Miller found you out here near the Bellamy place sitting on the front of Doc Milliken’s blue Cadillac convertible. The Reverend was concerned that you looked really scared, and you’d maybe been roughed up some.”
He glanced at Mr. Bellamy and Mr. Neville for a moment before continuing. “The car looked worse, Junius said. That’s why Reverend Mi
ller wondered what happened to you, and if there was anything he could do to help. His note said he left you with Alonzo and Floyd Bellamy, so I came out here.” Ollie drummed his fingers on the table, obviously considering if he wanted to tell me anything else. “I haven’t talked to Chief Davis about nothing yet, Vernon.”
“You might say I’ve had a bad time of it,” I said, smiling weakly.
Ollie looked even more unhappy. “That’s all you have to say to me? That ain’t good enough, Vernon.” He shook his head, ticking off on his fingers as he continued to talk. “A blue Cadillac convertible was used in an attack on an Army CID officer somewhere out this side of town. The officer’s orderly fired his weapon at the car. Reverend Miller says the windshield of Doc Milliken’s car looked shot out. And Doc Milliken says he doesn’t know where his car is — that you took it without permission.”
He picked up his coffee and slurped at it, collecting his thoughts. “That’s theft, Vernon. Felonious assault. Probably half a dozen other charges I can’t think of right now. But somebody will. Look, I’m not saying it was you and I’m not saying it wasn’t, but there’s only one blue Cadillac convertible in Augusta.”
The walls were closing in on me, but I had to try. That Ollie had come out here, on his own apparently, to speak to me unofficially, meant I had a chance of persuading him.
“Ollie...” How to make him believe me? The truth had become so complicated that I didn’t understand it myself any more. “Doc Milliken gave the car to me, told me to keep it for the weekend, right after you and Deputy Truefield left his house last night. I needed it because you had impounded my Hudson for evidence.”
Ollie shook his head. “Sheriff Hauptmann took your Hudson right before dark. He had me sign it over to him, said he was going to return it to you.”
Before dark? That was before he showed up at Doc Milliken’s house. How could Hauptmann have even known about the Hudson being impounded unless he was involved in the attack on Dad? Ollie might have called him before coming after me, but I doubted it.
Not if he thought Dad’s life was in danger. Which it had been.
The evidence was hardly airtight, but I was beginning to have a pretty good idea why Dad disappeared on the way to Wichita. I’d bet good money that Truefield never even left town with Dad. Either Dad was dead, or they’d hidden him somewhere in Butler County under Hauptmann’s jurisdiction. Butler County was the biggest county in Kansas, so that covered a lot of ground.
“Vernon,” Ollie said. “Are you going to say anything in your defense? Please give me something I can use. Something I can check out on my own and show to Chief Davis.”
Mr. Bellamy shook his head at me, but I thought I could trust Ollie. He seemed so square, so willing to help. And I’d known him for years — not as long as the Bellamys, but Ollie was a lot more on the level than they were right now. Mr. Neville’s angry glare told me all I needed to know about how level the Bellamys were. Or maybe had ever been.
“I ran over Captain Markowicz in Doc Milliken’s Cadillac. I thought he was—” I stopped as Mr. Neville coughed, while Mr. Bellamy tried to glare me into silence. What did Ollie know about the Nazis?
“Thought he was what?” asked Ollie gently.
It was hard to figure out what I could say, especially in front of Mr. Bellamy and Mr. Neville. I’d already admitted to assaulting a military officer. “I thought he was trying to kill me,” I said.
It sounded weak, even to my ears. Ollie obviously didn’t buy it. “Vernon, there’s something strange going on.”
That was a masterful understatement.
Ollie went on. “Running over a crippled guy with a car — that just doesn’t sound like you.”
“Crippled? There was nothing wrong with him until I hit him with the Cadillac.”
“Vernon, Captain Markowicz has a broken arm. I mean, he had it before he met you.”
That broken arm again. “I think there might be two Captain Markowiczes around. The one I ran over didn’t have a broken arm — no sling, no cast, and he was waving his hands like crazy when he bounced off the hood.” Good Lord, I sounded like a thug. “Sheriff Hauptmann said the guy with the broken arm isn’t the real Captain Markowicz.”
Of course, Hauptmann also said the real Captain Markowicz was dead in Kansas City. Either Hauptmann was lying, which I was perfectly willing to believe at this point, or the red-haired man I mowed down with the Cadillac had experienced a miraculous recovery from his broken arm. A third alternative was that he was a second impostor.
But he had been worried about a search warrant. That sounded like a real cop to me.
Ollie frowned. “The Markowicz I talked to was wearing a sling...and I thought he had a cast. What did the fellow you ran over look like?”
“That’s enough boys,” interrupted Mr. Bellamy. “I think its time for Ollie to be leaving. Vernon’s tired, and there’s a lot to think about. Floyd, please show Ollie to the door.”
Ollie stood up without saying anything more. He stared at me for a moment. I felt ashamed, never realizing how much I’d valued Ollie’s good opinion of me. And I didn’t know why Mr. Bellamy had cut us off, beyond an obvious distrust of cops on the part of an old moonshiner. He’d brought the gang in, so there was more than met the eye here, too. As I mused, Floyd took Ollie’s arm and walked him out through the living room.
“What was that all about?” I asked, turning to Mr. Bellamy.
“Don’t you worry,” he said. “This’ll all get squared away. You need some rest.” He was still holding his shotgun. I took his point.
It was obvious I wasn’t going to get any answers out of Mr. Bellamy. Whoever he’d become, or more to the point, gone back to being, was someone I didn’t like. That made me sad. At the same time, I wondered how he had kept this side of himself hidden from me all these years.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll get cleaned up and go back to sleep.” It was time for another trip to the outhouse, before full dark. Armed men on the roof or not, I figured I could lay in bed and try to figure a way to find Dad and get us both out of this whole mess.
I went into the kitchen and grabbed a candle, because I don’t like to do my business in the dark. I lit it off a safety match and headed for the back door. That was when it struck me that the pig’s blood had been cleaned this morning without any help from me. That was one chore Floyd hadn’t managed to pawn off. I smiled at the thought of Floyd actually doing work. It was so unlike him.
The sheer ordinariness of it all made me feel a little better about the Bellamys, even in the face of all of today’s weirdness.
* * *
Outside it was twilight. The crickets stirred in the fields, and one of the heifers was lowing. Before I went into the outhouse, I turned to look at the farmhouse again. The man on the roof was in silhouette. It looked like he was watching me, but in the near-darkness I wasn’t sure which way he was pointing. I didn’t wave. Neither did he.
Inside the outhouse, my candle guttered in the draft from the cracks in the door and the walls. This place was hellish in the winter, I knew from bitter experience. I’d actually chapped my butt cheeks staying out here one weekend back in primary school.
In the flickering candlelight, the seat looked dirty. I didn’t want to think about which old man had come down here with his colitis or whatever it was. “The Bellamy Gang strikes again,” I muttered as I tore off another page of Sears and wiped down the edge of the board. As I dropped the page through the hole, I noticed something big and pale in the pool beneath.
Pork fat, I told myself, strips taken from the hog. But who threw pork fat in the cesspool? You could make cracklings, feed it to the chickens or the pigs, render it down for soap. I was jumpy every way there was from Sunday, nothing going the way it should. I wasn’t about to hang my bottom over a hole with something mysterious in it.
Breathing through my wide-open mouth, I got down on my knees and stuck the candle through the wooden seat, pressing my face up the rim. My fore
arms crushed my ear, and the stench of cesspool literally made me flinch. The smell was everything I had come to know and love about a Kansas outhouse, and worse.
I peered down at the pool. The candle wavered as I tried not to let the flame get too close to my face, casting wide shadows on the clay walls of the pit and across the turgid dampness below. It was hard to see, but there was definitely something tall and pale rising out of the brown liquid. Whatever it was, it was big. The entire hog?
One arm on the seat, I leaned a lot further in and extended the candle down to the liquid surface. They needed a new pit soon, especially if the whole gang was going to be around for a while. I really didn’t want to do this, but I had to know what was down there in the Bellamys’ cesspool. Candle between my thumb and forefinger, I leaned close.
It was Mrs. Bellamy, her arms tied to the board above her, her mouth gagged with a length of muslin, her eyes bright with fear.
My stomach heaved, the wrenching almost pulling me in with her. Coffee and bile sprayed on my candle, while my nose filled with the stuff as I was puking upside down. I dropped the candle as I writhed around, then pulled myself up.
I had to get her out of there. Was this why Floyd had been bluff and nervous? His own mother? Or had that gang of crazy old men done this?
Why?
I leaned back in. “I’m going to help you, Mrs. Bellamy,” I whispered.
Mrs. Bellamy. My eyes flooded as I thought about her rolling out biscuits, chasing me with a willow broom when I’d stolen a tart. We weren’t all that close — my friendship had always been with Floyd — but she took care of me, especially after Mom had died the fall I turned fifteen.
I tied the bathrobe around my face, for a mask, and went to work pulling the seat bench up. It was nailed down, but not very well. Of course, someone had lifted it recently to stick her inside. When I pulled the board up, it stuck, not wanting to come all the way free.
