by George Wier
“‘F’ is for fiber, of course. The one is actually ‘point zero one’. One hundredth of an inch.”
“Okay. Thanks, Doc,” I said.
“Where did you find this stuff?” she asked.
I thought about it for a moment. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Try me.”
“Well... What if I told you that there exist two different rooms in two different buildings within five miles of each other, and each room was perfectly dust free, painted a deep, dark, purple hue—so dark they’re almost black—and about a thousand of these threads were dangling from the ceiling of each?”
Her eyes widened.
“Mr. Travis, are you trying to scare me?”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to stay sane while I’m poking into some insane goings on.”
“Okay,” she said. “So you’re married. Would you take me to lunch anyway? I have to know more.”
I chuckled.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“What I hate about being an M.E. in a small town is that a number of the subjects turn out to be people I knew.”
We sat at a corner booth in an old-fashioned drug store complete with soda fountain, hamburger grill and deep fryer—the kind that is rapidly fading from the earth. Dr. Armstrong had finished her meal, and I was staring down at the rapidly congealing gravy from my small steak. The gravy hadn’t tasted nearly as good as it had looked when it was still warm. Sometimes it’s the simplest things that people can’t seem to get right.
“People you know,” I said. “Like Edgar Bristow?”
“Right.”
“What did you think of the man you knew?”
“Most people couldn’t stand him. You had to get to know him. Of course he treated men like animals and women like rare and precious orchids.”
“Probably it was the war,” I said.
“Oh. Yeah,” she nodded in agreement. “I hadn’t thought of that. The enemy is composed of men. Maybe after awhile all men become the enemy. Are you a psychologist, Bill?”
“Please,” I said, “if you’re going to insult me, you can pay for lunch.”
She laughed. “Right. Tell me about these two purple rooms.”
I sighed and told her the story thus far, with emphasis on the room in Edgar Bristow’s rent house and then the same thing in Molly’s room in the Bristow ranch pool-house.
“That gives me the willies,” she said and shuddered.
“Makes me think of spiders,” I said.
“Me too. I can’t stand spiders. But I think that’s a girl thing.”
“Some spiders are beneficial. If all spiders disappeared from the earth, the ecologists say it would become a vast desert. I believe them. There are more varieties of arachnid around than there are types of thread.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s brings up something.”
“What?” I asked, sipping the last of my too-weak iced tea.
“I’ll bet they used truck-loads of spool-o during the war.”
She had my immediate attention.
“Which war?”
“All of them from about World War II up through Viet Nam. It’s like I can picture Colonel Potter telling Nurse Hoolihan to pass him the spool-o. That was Korea. But I’d definitely say they used this stuff in Viet Nam. That place was a meat-grinder.”
“Thank you.” I stood up quickly.
“So that’s lunch?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“I said something, didn’t I?”
“Yep. Thanks, Doc. I’m definitely picking up the tab.”
I felt her gaze following me as I went to counter, paid the tab with cash and left abruptly with little more than a wave.
*****
I walked back to the square and then hung a right and went two blocks south to the fire station where Burt both worked and lived while he was on duty. I went into the station through the open garage door, past the yellow ambulance wagon—probably the same one I had ridden into town with Burt driving and giving me the Bristow legend in his monotonous voice—through a door and into the cool air-conditioning there.
“Help you?” the EMT asked. I recognized her as one of the ones who had transported Buster from the Courthouse to the hospital.
“Is Burt in?” I asked.
“Upstairs,” she jerked her thumb toward the steep, carpeted steps behind her.
“Thank you,” I said.
The upstairs had four bunks, a pool table, dart board, and a living room layout complete with recliners and an old television.
Burt was lining up for a fancy bank-shot at the pool table. The cue ball was at the edge of a corner pocket, almost in the hole, and he was lined up to shoot the other rail in such a way that the cue ball would walk down to the extreme end of the table and nudge the nine-ball into its pocket. Tough shot.
“Burt,” I said.
He looked up at me, frowned, then went ahead and took the shot, missing by a hair-breadth. Or possibly a thread.
“You missed,” I said.
“Yeah. It can happen. You up for a game?”
“Sure,” I said. I walked to the wall and pulled a cue-stick from the rack. I sighted along it then laid it on the table and rolled it.
“This one,” I said. “My weapon has been chosen, Sir Burt.”
“Fine,” he said. “Let the tournament commence.”
*****
We played 9-ball. I waited until Burt had a halfway decent but not-so-easy combination shot on the nine before I laid it on him.
“You’re definitely too young for Korea, or even Viet Nam,” I said. “You know anyone around here or among the courthouse crowd who served overseas?”
Burt missed the shot completely.
“Buster LeRoy was in Viet Nam,” he said at the exact moment I was on the downswing for a very tricky shot on the five-ball.
The five went in the pocket and I followed the cue ball around the table where it lined up with the six for a very direct and simple shot.
“Besides him,” I said. “Nice table.”
“Thanks. You have to watch the valley on the south end, though.”
“Hmph,” I grunted. “Know anyone else like that?”
“You mean someone who was in Viet Nam who also killed Edgar Bristow? I don’t know who that could be?”
I slapped the cue hard with reverse english and the six slammed the back of the southern pocket beneath Burt’s drooping chin while the cue rolled two rails and a few yards of green felt before coming to rest half an inch from the seven.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “You know everyone around here. You know all the stories, all the gossip. And you’re bored out of your ever-livin’ skull. I think you’re intensely knowledgeable, and if you don’t know you’re at least curious as hell.”
He saw I was about to tickle the seven and nudge it into the nine and win the game. The instant before I could make my stroke, his cue-stick was there covering the nine and the pocket.
“Goddammit, Bill. Alright. I’ll help you. Why don’t you just ask, for crying out loud?”
“And spoil the fun of getting to needle you? Not on your life.”
He lifted his cue and I finished the shot.
“Since you didn’t ask it flat out,” Burt said. “I think I know who killed him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“First of all,” Burt said, “you have to look at the facts.”
We sat in the upstairs living room area of the ambulance station. Outside the clouds were steely gray, hopefully bearing much-needed rain.
“The facts,” I said.
“Right. One,” Burt held up a finger. I noticed the white patch on his ring finger. He had been married once upon a time. Surprise abounds. “The fingerprints on the tire iron match Buster LeRoy. We knew that was going to happen. He was cleared by the FBI. He really, really didn’t kill Mr. Bristow. Motive? Possibly. Opportunity? I don’t k
now. Culpability? Not on your life.”
“Okay.”
“Two,” up popped a second finger, and for just a moment he could have been about to recite the Cub Scout Oath, “Whoever did it had access to Buster LeRoy’s life, either his house or his car.”
“Reg,” I said.
“Reg.”
“How long has Reg lived in Trantor’s Crossing?” I asked casually.
“Long enough ago to have killed Molly Bristow.”
“Remember when he said ‘dismissed’?” I asked.
“Yeah. At first I thought it was police academy talk. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Is Reg former military?” I asked. “A lot of policemen are.”
“He used to be a weekend warrior. National Guard.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t you call him up and ask to talk to him in person. While you’re doing that, I’ll go take a look at his house.”
“I got a better idea.” Burt yawned widely and stretched his arms. “Why don’t I call him up, set up a meeting time in his office, then both of us go to his house.” And then he grinned like the ghoul I had pegged him for from the beginning.
*****
I called my wife from the EMS station phone. Everyone was getting along fine. Julie had taken Jessica shopping for school clothes. Her first day of her sophomore year was Monday. My American Express was going to take a beating. I desperately needed to get back to my office and get some files rolling so that I could make some more dough. Julie wanted to know if I was somehow involved with Sheriff LeRoy’s shooting, which was all over the news. I told her I was a long way away at the time. She didn’t buy it, and asked me how far. I admitted to about twenty feet. She wasn’t amused. I promised her I would come back in one piece. We exchanged I love yous and I made my solemn vow to be home for the weekend.
“What are you looking at?” I asked Burt when I hung up. “You used to be married.”
“Maybe that’s why I no longer am,” he said.
I waited while Burt made the call to Reg, listened as he set Reg up, then followed him downstairs to the ambulance and the garage.
“You know,” he said. “I didn’t mind so much driving that police cruiser.”
“Same here.”
“We’re going to stick out like sore thumbs in this yellow ambulance.”
“Yeah, but it’s what we’ve got,” I said. “Unless you have a different ride.”
“Nope,” he said. “My motorcyle is in the shop. And you don’t look like a bike guy to me.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Well... Not any longer. I was young once, though.”
“The yellow wagon it is, then.”
“Right.”
*****
On the way to Reg’s place I recognized the street we were on.
“Slow down, Burt,” I said. “Stop here for a moment.”
I sat looking for a moment at Lydia Stevens’ house. Her little red Fiero was still sitting there in the driveway, but somebody had done a number on it. All the tires were flat and the windows were bashed in. The driveway was littered with green safety glass.
“Damn,” I said.
“She asked for it,” Burt said.
I had to resist the urge to reach over and drive my fist through his face.
The word “bitch” was there along the side of the car in white spray paint. On the back it read “whore”.
“Could have been anybody,” Burt said. “Maybe even Samantha.”
“That’s who I first thought of,” I admitted. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Both the front and side doors of the house were locked. I turned my attention on the car. I reached through the busted window on the passenger side, unlocked and opened the door. After a few minutes I found a key at the bottom of the glove box. I went back and tried the side door and it turned easily.
“Hey,” Burt called to me from his open window across the yard. “That’s breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break anything. Simple curiosity,” I called back to him.
He shrugged and I turned and stepped inside.
*****
“Well hello,” I said to the white cat who greeted we with a wailing meow. “I didn’t see you here yesterday.”
I turned on the lights and walked through the house. In the bathroom I found a water bowl that was as dry as a bone and filled it. The cat made loud drinking sounds. Under the sink I found a bag of cat food and filled the plate beside the bowl until it spilled over onto the floor. You never know when you’ll have a chance to come back and repeat the performance. While the cat ate I wandered through the house, turning lights on as I went. I determined I’d leave them on when I locked the place up.
And when I opened the door to Lydia’s bedroom, I was greeted with not a small shock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I had smelled it the moment I entered the house, but hadn’t wanted to admit to myself it was true. Latex paint has a particular and peculiar odor to it. For some it has clean, fresh associations. For others it means a couple of days of headache and digestive problems while the body goes into overdrive in an attempt to shed itself of the toxins. That’s the extreme, allergic case, and I’ve known a few. But for me, until that exact moment, the smell of fresh paint had good associations.
It was almost dry but still very lightly damp. Its ultraviolet-bordering-on-black texture was cool under my touch.
“Lydia,” I breathed.
There had been no dust on the near-black floor in the room in Bristow’s rent house. The rest of the place had had plenty of dust, a layer of it evidencing the passage of time. Dust moves with the air, goes between cracks in the doors and windows, travels in when doors are opened, is stirred around by the passage of bodies. That room, the room in Edgar Bristow’s rent house—as had been the room in the Bristow poolhouse, as was the room past the doorway where I stood—had to have been freshly painted mere days before, or possibly weeks. Months? No. There would have been dust.
I’m familiar with paint. Like Buster LeRoy, I often find myself doing a job on my lonesome for which I could easily pay others. And I know how long it takes latex paint to dry. The rule of thumb is about two hours, max.
I felt a chill inside.
Today. It had been painted today. Last night there had been no odor of latex in the house. Lydia had gone with me to find the Bristow rent house and had been with me or close by until the moment she had shot Sheriff LeRoy. Whoever had painted the room had done it about the time Doc Armstrong and I were looking at a notebook liberated from a Dallas FBI laboratory.
I felt it then. The first real chill. From the evidence thus far, the dark room quite probably could mean that Lydia Stevens was in imminent danger. That is, unless someone did something about it.
When I felt the hand on my shoulder I nearly broke it out of reflex.
*****
“Whoa! Ow! Lighten up! Dammit that hurts.”
“It’s what you get, Burt!” I spat the words at him.
“What the hell is going on in here?” he asked, rubbing his wrist and wincing. “And what’s with that room?”
I hurriedly shut the door to the purple room.
“None of your damned business,” I told him.
“I just came to tell you something, that’s all,” there was a bit of whine to his voice I found a touch annoying.
“Well,” I said, not a bit sympathetic, “what?”
“Just that the Sheriff came through the operation okay. I got it over the radio from Charlotte down at the station. We know all the E.R. people, and Charlotte got a call and she decided I should know, seeing as how I’m a deputy now. Buster’s in the recovery room. He’s awake and asking for you.”
“Well hell,” I said. “I wish I had time to talk to him.”
“Why wouldn’t you have time?” Burt asked.
“Because,” I said, teetering on the fence regarding whether or not to t
ell Burt, but then fell off on one side of that old fence, “I think it’s very much a foregone conclusion that someone is going to try to kill Lydia Stevens.”
“You mean, apart from most of the town. You mean someone specifically,” he said, not as a question.
I nodded.
*****
“Why did you become a paramedic?” I asked Burt on the way back to the courthouse.
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time. I’m about burnt out on it, though. The usual burn-out time is two years. I’ve been doing this for six. It’s almost time to move to greener pastures. That is, of course, if there are any.”
“Boy,” I said. “Hope springs eternal.”
“You saw something back there. In that room. Something that leads you to believe that girl is in danger.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you mind telling me what it was?”
“I do mind.”
Burt lapsed into silence.
We pulled up in front of the courthouse and deputy Ladd Ross approached the ambulance and addressed Burt.
“I was to tell you that Reg couldn’t wait any longer, so whatever you have to tell him will have to wait until he gets back.”
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“Prisoner transfer. He's taking that Stevens woman to the Fredericksburg jail for safe-keeping.”
Burt turned to look at me.
“Dammit!” I said. “How long ago?”
“Less than five minutes. Is there a problem?”
“There’d better not be,” I said. “Let’s go, Burt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It all started with a plane ride, a gentle landing, and flashing lights near the end of the runway. And where was Denise, my friend and instructor? Heaven only knew. Why had Lydia Stevens shot her former lover, Buster LeRoy in front of God and everybody? Had she seen something when she was with me that made her conclude Sheriff LeRoy actually had murdered Molly Bristow? Had the blind—yours truly—been leading the factually blind? And if Lydia had concluded that, had she been correct in her assessment as to Buster’s guilt, or dead wrong? As always, there were too many more questions than answers, an arrangement to which I should have long ago grown accustomed.
