Dead Soldiers

by Crider, Bill

  Chapter Eleven

  After his talk with Dean Partridge, Burns drove home to change for softball practice. He put on a pair of faded jeans, a T-shirt that had a picture of a sickly green alligator on it, and some worn Brooks running shoes that were the closest thing he had to a pair of spikes.

  When he arrived at the field, batting practice had already begun. Mal Tomlin was lobbing the ball over the plate, and as Burns walked onto the field, Dorinda Edgely connected and sent the ball nearly to the wire fence in left-center field. Everyone applauded, and Dorinda responded by smacking the next pitch even farther. The ball cleared the fence by a good five feet.

  “Hey, Burns,“ Tomlin called from the mound. “It’s about time you got here.“

  Tomlin had more or less organized the team and was its unofficial coach. Unofficial or not, he took his duties seriously.

  “I had some school business to finish up,“ Burns said.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Well, it’s your turn in the box. Let’s see what you’ve got today.“

  Burns figured that he had about as much as he had any day, which was considerably less than Dorinda Edgely. Earl Fox, who was catching, handed him a thin black bat with a taped handle, and Burns took a few practice swings. Then he stepped into the batter’s box.

  Hitting was not his specialty, but then neither was fielding. He didn’t really have a specialty, unless you counted bench-warming. He found himself hoping that the forecast for Saturday included a one hundred percent chance of rain. Or perhaps a small tornado, one that touched down only in one spot. Say, the softball field.

  As Burns tried to dig in at the plate, he looked over the field. There were no infielders, since batting practice was supposed to be easy. Every ball was supposed to go into the outfield, though that wasn’t always the case when Burns was hitting.

  Don Elliott was on the dry brown grass in right field. Elliott, who was barely over five feet tall, taught speech and drama. He was a fair fielder, and while he wasn’t especially good with the bat, he figured to get a lot of walks.

  Abner Swan, from the Bible Department, was in left. He usually dressed like a TV evangelist and was probably the only man in Pecan City who still owned a powder blue suit, white belt, and a pair of white shoes. He not only owned them; he wore them about once a week. Today, however, he was wearing a pair of faded overalls, and Burns, who was barely old enough to remember Al Capp, suddenly wondered if Abner had been named for a comic strip character.

  Coach Thomas, who had led HGC’s football team to its usual number of victories (none) the previous fall, was in center. He was in his forties, but he could still cover the territory. Not that he’d have to worry about that with Burns at the bat.

  “You ready, Burns?“ Tomlin asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,“ Burns said, and Tomlin lobbed in the first pitch.

  The ball went into a slow, lazy arch. Burns was convinced that the trick of hitting it was simple: swing at precisely the right moment of the ball’s downward trajectory.

  Unfortunately, he could never quite time the moment correctly, and the result was usually a weak pop-up or a slow-rolling grounder that dribbled out to the pitcher.

  This time, by some amazing stroke of luck, Burns timed his swing perfectly and lofted the ball high into center field. He knew even without looking that he’d hit it farther than anything he’d ever hit before, so it came as quite a disappointment to him when Coach Thomas caught it easily, ten feet in front of the fence.

  But Earl was impressed. “That was a good swing, Carl. You must’ve been practicing on the sly.“

  “Nope,“ Burns said. “I just got lucky.“

  And he proceeded to prove the truth of that statement by swatting the next five pitches feebly on the ground.

  Then it was time for infield drill, something that Burns dreaded even more than the batting practice. Coach Thomas stood at the plate and hit a series of ground balls to the infielders, barking out directions just before he swung the bat.

  “Get two,“ he yelled, knocking a sharp ground ball toward Mal Tomlin, who was playing shortstop. Tomlin was a natural. He scooped up the ball in his glove as easily as if he practiced it very day and tossed it underhand to Burns.

  When things went as planned, Burns could sometimes turn the double play, and this was one of those times. He caught the ball just as his foot touched second base, turned, and threw to first in one smooth motion.

  Dick Hayes was the first baseman. He wore glasses, but they didn’t seem to interfere with his ballplaying. He snatched the ball out of the air effortlessly, keeping his foot on the bag.

  Burns couldn’t explain why it made him feel good to turn a double play like that, any more than he could explain why it made him feel good to hit the ball solidly with the bat. Throwing and hitting a ball were things that kids did, and they should have been meaningless to an adult with a Ph.D. in English from a major university.

  But they weren’t meaningless at all, and that was one of the reasons that Burns wanted to do well. No matter what anyone might say, there was meaning in the game itself and in performing simple tasks well.

  And, of course, he was hoping to impress Elaine.

  He wasn’t going to impress anyone if he daydreamed, however, and when Thomas hit the next ball straight at him, Burns botched it badly. It bounced off the heel of his glove and skipped behind him into the outfield.

  “And the student team scores two runs on the second baseman’s error,“ Tomlin called out. “The crowd goes wild.“

  “It won’t happen again,“ Burns said.

  “God, I hope not,“ Tomlin said. “If it happens in the game we’re going to be humiliated.“

  Burn was tempted to say something like “It is only a game, after all.“ But he knew better than that. It was never only a game. There was always something else going on.

  That thought reminded him for some reason of his earlier conversation with Boss Napier. There had been more going on than just the words themselves, just as there was something more going on with Dean Partridge’s soldiers. There were games being played, and Burns wasn’t sure of the rules.

  “Pop up!“ Tomlin yelled. “Your ball, Burns!“

  Once again, Burns hadn’t been paying attention. He looked up, but he didn’t see the ball anywhere. All he saw was clear blue sky.

  To protect himself he put up his glove. Then he closed his eyes and hoped for the best. The ball fell from the sky and hit the edge of his glove, then rolled over toward first base.

  “We’re in real trouble,“ Tomlin said, shaking his head. “The student team is going to murder us.“

  Burns wished that Tomlin had chosen some word other than murder. He also wished that there had been more than ten faculty members willing to play on the team. Then someone else could play second base.

  But no one wanted the position. The only extra player was Walt Melling, Dawn’s husband, and he was the relief pitcher. He wouldn’t have been a very good second baseman, anyway, Burns thought. He was far too big and lacked the agility necessary to turn the double play.

  Of course Burns also lacked the agility, too, but he looked more like a second baseman than Melling did.

  “All right,“ Tomlin said. “That’s it for today. We’ll practice once more, on Friday. And then it’s the big game. I just hope we’re ready for it.“

  “We’re ready,“ Dorinda Edgely said. “We’ll win in a walk. Those kids won’t know what hit them.“

  “They might do better than you think,“ Dick Hayes said. “They have some real athletes on their team.“

  “Hey, so do we,“ Coach Thomas said. “There’s me. And there’s—“ He stopped and looked around at the team. “Well, there’s me. But we can still do it. It just takes heart. We’ve got plenty of that. Don’t we?“

  “Damn right,“ Tomlin said.

  “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight,“ Thomas said as if he believed it. “It’s the size of the fight in the dog.“

  �
��True,“ Tomlin said. “But I’d feel better about things if Burns could just hit the ball. Or catch it. Or stop a grounder with something besides his kneecap.“

  “He’ll do fine,“ Earl Fox said. “Won’t you, Carl.“

  “Sure,“ Burns lied. “I’ll do fine.“

  “OK, then,“ Tomlin said. “Anyone want to run a few laps, get the old wind back?“

  Nobody did. The practice broke up, and Burns drove home.

  Burns was hot, sweaty, and dirty. He took a shower and fixed supper, which consisted of leftover meatloaf, canned baked beans, and canned pineapple. It wasn’t much, Burns thought, but it was a step above Boss Napier’s Budget Gourmet. Well, okay, maybe only half a step.

  While he ate, Burns thought over what Dean Partridge had said about Mary Mason. It was clear that the dean actively disliked the woman, but Burns could never quite get the reason. All that Partridge would say was that “the woman is capable of anything.“

  “Then why did you invite her to the party?“ Burns had asked.

  “Because I had to,“ Partridge said. “She’s one of HGC’s biggest boosters, and she’s also a big contributor. She would have been insulted if I hadn’t asked her.“

  “Speaking of insulted,“ Burns said. “Why didn’t you invite any faculty?“

  “I’m sorry about that,“ Partridge told him. “I should have, but I just couldn’t accommodate the crowd. And, after all, our students see the faculty every day, and the faculty sees them. But the people of the community, even our local board members, don’t have any real connection with students. I was trying to establish one.“

  Burns accepted that explanation. Besides, his feelings hadn’t been hurt because he wasn’t invited. If he had been, he probably would have complained about having to go.

  So he got back to Ms. Mason. “Can you tell me some of the things you think she’s capable of?“

  “Anything. I’m sure she would have stolen my soldiers if she had the chance.“

  “Any connection between her and Matthew Hart?“

  “None that I know about, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were. Not that we’re talking about that, of course.“

  Not unless you want to, Burns thought. He asked a few more questions, but he still couldn’t get to the bottom of Partridge’s dislike for Mason. After a while he dropped the subject.

  “So what are you going to do next?“ Partridge asked.

  “Go to softball practice.“

  “Another joke. You must have your classes rolling in the aisles, Dr. Burns.“

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Besides, I’m not joking. I’m playing in the faculty-student game on Saturday.“

  “Well, well. I never thought of you as the athletic type.“

  “I have hidden depths.“

  Partridge gave him an appraising look. “You surely do. Now, tell me your plan for investigating the theft of my soldiers.“

  What Burns wanted to tell her was that he planned to go to practice, then go home and grade some papers. And after that, go to bed. He didn’t want to do anything about the soldiers, and he most certainly didn’t want to get involved in Boss Napier’s murder case.

  What he said was, “I suppose I could talk to some of the people on your list, maybe tell them that the soldiers are missing and ask if they saw anything unusual or suspicious.“

  “That might be a good way to start,“ Partridge said.

  But so far Burns hadn’t started. For one thing, he was sure that Napier, who had a copy of Partridge’s list, would be questioning some of the people on it, and Burns didn’t want to follow along behind him. Napier wouldn’t like it, and neither would the people he’d been talking to.

  Burns cleaned up the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and checked out the TV schedule. There was nothing on he wanted to see, which wasn’t unusual, so he began rereading Ross Thomas’s Yellow Dog Contract.

  Burns sometimes felt guilty that he found reading and rereading mysteries much more relaxing than reading the kind of material he dealt with every day. But while Hemingway and Faulkner might have been the perfect comfort reading for some people, they just didn’t work for Burns.

  He put the book down about ten-thirty and got ready for bed. He was almost asleep when the telephone rang. He picked it up and said, “Hello.“

  “Burns! Is that you, Burns?“

  “Yes, Mal. It’s me. Who were you expecting? Jeff Kent?“

  “This is no time for jokes, Burns,“ Tomlin said. “You gotta get over to my house quick! Some son-of-a-bitch just tried to kill me!“

  Chapter Twelve

  Burns threw on some clothes and drove over to Tomlin’s place as quickly as he could. When he arrived, every light in the house was on. He checked for police cars, but he didn’t see any. He parked at the curb and got out.

  Going up the sidewalk to the front door, Burns looked around the neighborhood. Everything was quiet except for a couple of crickets cricketing off in the grass, and all the other houses were dark. It was just after eleven o’clock. People in Pecan City went to bed early.

  Burns rang the doorbell, and after a few seconds the door opened a crack. An eyeball looked out at him.

  “That you, Burns?“

  “It’s me, Mal. What’s going on?“

  “I told you what’s going on. Somebody tried to kill me.“ Tomlin opened the door. “Come on in, quick.“

  Burns stepped lively, and Tomlin shut the door behind him. Then he threw the deadbolt and put on the chain. He was wearing a pair of shorts and an HGC T-shirt, and his hair was sticking out as if he’d run his hands through it several times and hadn’t smoothed it back down.

  “Come on back to the kitchen,“ he said. “Joynell put some coffee on.“

  Burns followed Tomlin to the back of the house. Joynell was sitting at the Formica-topped table drinking coffee from an insulated plastic cup.

  “Hi, Carl,“ she said.

  She had on a bulky yellow terry cloth robe that covered her ample body like a tent. Her usually stiffly-sprayed blonde hair was mashed flat on one side.

  “Would you like some coffee?“ she asked.

  The coffee smelled good, but Burns wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, so he declined. Tomlin poured a cup for himself and sat at the table opposite his wife.

  “Sit down, Burns,“ he said. “I want to hear what you think about this.“

  Burns sat at the table. “I think you should call the police.“

  “That’s what I told him,“ Joynell said. “But he never listens to me.“

  “He should,“ Burns said, thinking about his earlier conversation with Boss Napier. “If someone tries to kill you, you call the police. You don’t call an English teacher.“

  “I don’t like the police,“ Tomlin said. “That Boss Napier has it in for me. Every time someone gets killed around here, he arrests me.“

  “That’s not true,“ Burns said. “You’ve never even been a suspect.“ He thought it over and realized that he was wrong. “Well, hardly ever.“

  “Once is enough,“ Tomlin said. “Besides, it’s you who solves all the cops’ cases for them.“

  Oh, boy, Burns thought. Boss Napier would really like to hear that.

  “We can call the police in a minute, I suppose,“ he said. “Now, tell me what happened.“

  “I told him not to go outside,“ Joynell said. “But he wouldn’t listen.“

  Burns was beginning to see a pattern in her remarks, but he knew there was a good reason for it. Mal wasn’t the type to listen to anybody.

  “Here’s the deal,“ Mal said. “I went outside to take Melinda for a walk, and that’s when it happened.“

  Melinda was the Tomlins’s dog. She was one of the largest basset hounds that Burns had ever seen, and her favorite pastime was eating. When Tomlin and Joynell left the house they had to jam a chair under the handle of the refrigerator door to brace it shut, or Melinda would help herself to whatever was inside.

  Melinda had
long ago discovered that the refrigerator was a good source of food (a particular favorite of hers was butter), and shortly after that she had figured out how to get the door open. Tomlin told Burns that he had come home one hot afternoon to find Melinda lounging on the floor, cool and comfortable in the flow of air from the open refrigerator door, with the remains of a chuck roast resting between her front paws and a nearly empty butter tub off to the side.

  “I can see that Melinda might need a little exercise,“ Burns said.

  “Right,“ Tomlin agreed. “So I take her out every night after the news on Channel 8. We always walk up the street a couple of blocks, then circle the old hospital and come back home.“

  The old hospital was a ruin that should have been razed long ago in Burns’s opinion. The mortar between the bricks was loose and crumbly, and the basement was full of water that half the third floor had already fallen into.

  “Melinda likes to visit the hospital,“ Tomlin went on. “We usually make a stop on the grounds for her to water the steps, and that’s where he took a shot at me.“

  “Someone tried to shoot you?“ Burns said.

  “That’s what I told you on the phone,“ Tomlin said.

  Technically speaking, Burns thought, Mal hadn’t said that anyone had tried to shoot him. He’d just said that someone tried to kill him. But it wasn’t a point worth arguing about.

  “Did you get a look at him?“

  “Hell, no. It was dark, and I was scared. Wouldn’t you be scared if someone took a shot at you?“

  “Yes, I would. Did you hear the shot?“

  “Sure. It was kind of a snapping sound. And it took a hunk out of the bricks in the wall.“

  “I told him to call the police,“ Joynell put in. “But he never listens.“

  “What could the cops do?“ Mal asked. “Whoever shot at me would’ve been long gone by the time they got there.“

  “He took just one shot?“ Burns asked.

  “Yeah. You know how there’s a doorway under those old stairs out in front of the hospital?“