Death On The Pedernales (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 5)

by George Wier

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Burt was treated as if the wound had been to his chest. His blood pressure was very low, which of course is always the case when blood has been lost and the body has sustained trauma. His feet were also elevated in treatment for shock.

  “Who shot this man?” a doctor asked inside one of the curtained ER trauma rooms. He was young doctor and full of bluster the way only a doctor in his natural habitat can be.

  “That would be him,” I said, and gestured to Felix, who simply shrugged.

  “Why?” the doctor asked.

  “It's not pertinent to treating him,” Felix said. “I want him awake. He's got some questions to answer.”

  “Not in my ER!” The doctor said.

  “Oh yeah,” Felix said and flipped out his FBI identification. “Right here. Right now. You've got five minutes to stabilize him, get him awake and talking. If you don't I'm shutting down this whole damned place. And don't think I can't or won't do it!”

  The doctor's face registered it like the slap it was intended to be. Good, I thought. I had my own questions, loaded and ready to shoot.

  We stepped between the curtains and outside. The curtain whipped closed behind us.

  “You've been reading Dale Carnegie,” I said.

  “Every day, in every way,” Felix responded. I almost laughed, but then the purple spots surged up again like a breaking wave. I felt a hand on my rubbery bicep. Felix lead me across the floor. That action reminded me of learning how to swim at summer camp. For some reason my feet had become stilt-like things, a long way down there and clearly out of communication with the boss.

  And then, of course, the purple spots became little scarlet starbursts, and the emergency room became a slowly turning funnel cloud, with me at the center.

  *****

  Spider webs all around me and I was stuck fast to them. I thought maybe I was Frodo waiting for Shelob, that bristling black mother of all spiders. She was there, I knew, but she was ultra-violet, a hair the other side of invisible.

  I detected a presence beside me and managed to turn my head with about the same amount of effort it would take to move a few tons of dirt.

  It was me there.

  “Hey,” the other me said.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “There are different kinds of spiders,” the other me said.

  “Don't I know it.”

  “Shut up and listen,” I (the other I) said. “There's the kind that sets up on a bright summer morning, drinks the dew and catches flies.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And then there's the kind that hides in the dark and waits. Invisible.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “If you were going to catch a dark spider, what would you do?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You would set up your own web, sit in the dark...

  “And wait,” I finished for Other Me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The web shook. My teeth rattled in my head. “I think it's here, now,” Other Me said.

  The shaking increased.

  *****

  “Bill. Wake up.”

  I came to in a chair. Felix's hand pulled away from me as my eyes opened and the world came into focus.

  The young female orderly in the light-blue scrubs knelt in front of me, holding a cup of water. Blond. Pretty. Maybe she was nineteen.

  “I hope that's vodka,” I drawled. My mouth felt funny. “When was the last time you ate, sir?” the girl asked. I tried to think on it, but drew a blank.

  “Chili cheese dog and fries,” Felix said. He stood there, looking put out. Possibly he was embarrassed. “An hour or so ago.”

  “Maybe it was just the blood, then,” the girl said.

  “Bill,” Felix said, “I'm deducting fifteen minutes from your pay.”

  “Fine,” I said, and tossed off the water in one drink. I winked at the girl for effect and she smiled and let out a long, slow sigh of relief and stood.

  “Don't get up for a few minutes. Unless you want to spend the night here with tubes in your arms.”

  “Um. I think I like this chair. I think I'll sit here for a few minutes.”

  She winked at me, turned and trotted off.

  “You have a way with people, Bill,” Felix said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  And as I sat there in silence and waited, a figure approached slowly from fifty or so yards down the long hallway.

  “Spider,” I said after a minute or so.

  “Huh?”

  “Dark one. Uh. Nothing.”

  I waited as the tall figure approached. When he stopped in front of me I looked up at him slowly.

  “I've been waiting for you. Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

  “Vacationing,” I said. “But it's good to see you, Sheriff.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “You wanted to talk to me?” I asked.

  “What I want to do is kick your ass, Bill.” Sheriff LeRoy said. “And after that, I want to pin a medal to it.”

  I looked from Felix to Sheriff LeRoy and back again.

  “He can be somewhat infuriating,” Felix said, referring to me.

  “Why a medal?” I asked.

  “For saving Lydia’s life.” For a moment I felt stung. He had just thanked me for the saving the life of the woman who had tried to kill him.

  “Oh. That. Then why kick my ass?” I asked.

  “Because you had to save her in the first place. I’ve been getting reports, mainly from Reg Morrissey and Ladd Ross. Reg admitted to me what he was going to do. I don’t know why, but I’m glad he didn’t—”

  “Kill her. Did he tell you how it happened?” I asked.

  “Yes, he did. None of that matters just now. Did you find Burt?”

  “He’s over there,” I pointed to the curtains not twenty feet away.

  “What the hell is he doing behind a curtain in the ER?”

  “I shot him,” Felix said.

  “Oh. I guess that’s a good reason. Hurt him bad?”

  “Bad enough,” I said. “He won’t be driving an ambulance for a good six months.”

  “He give you a reason to shoot him?” Buster LeRoy asked Felix.

  “I was returning fire at the time, and didn’t think to talk it over with him. Besides, if I hadn’t, it would be Bill in there.”

  “Is he awake?” Buster asked.

  “He’d better be,” Felix said.

  *****

  “Burt,” Buster whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Someone wants to ask you some questions.”

  “Shit fire,” Burt said.

  “You’re up, Bill,” Buster said.

  “Hey, Burt,” I said.

  “Hey yourself.” Burt squirmed on the bed, then let out a low moan. The doctor stepped forward and started to raise his hand, but Felix put out an arm, both stopping and silencing him in the same instant.

  “Who is he?” I asked Burt. He knew who I meant.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Burt said. “He wouldn’t understand it if you did.”

  “No one’s going to hurt him,” I said, and then realized I had just made a promise. I exchanged hard looks with Felix and Buster, and looked back to see Burt had followed that emphasis.

  “I think you might not, Bill. I don’t trust... anybody else. The evidence—” Burt groaned, “shows otherwise.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But he doesn’t understand guns, does he, Burt?”

  “No.”

  “He understands blunt instruments, though.”

  “What? No!”

  At that moment I understood. The threads of it fell into place. I didn’t have the name or the face of the man who had painted the rooms deep violet and hung the black spool-o thread. But I knew who the killer was. I was looking at him.

  “You, Burt. You understand blunt instruments. You understand trauma. Pain. Suffering. A sudden, hard blow. The pain over before i
t’s begun. Then, blackness.”

  “What are you saying, Bill?” Buster asked.

  “Hush,” Felix said. “Go on, Bill.”

  “How can a healer kill?” I asked Burt.

  “I didn’t kill them... all. Just her.”

  “The first one,” I whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “You were, what, twelve years old?”

  “Yeah. Something like that. Nine, I think.”

  “And the second one?”

  “I thought I killed her as well. I... blacked out. When I came to, she was dead.”

  “But you didn’t kill her, did you, Burt?”

  “I—I—I don’t know.”

  “You know, Burt. You know who did it.”

  “Stop,” Burt said.

  “Tell us where he is,” I said. “We can’t let him go on doing it.”

  “You can’t stop him,” Burt said. “No one can.”

  “You tried to, didn’t you?” I asked. “You tried to stop him.”

  “Yes. I’ve been trying... all my life.”

  “He’s too strong, isn’t he, Burt? You couldn’t stop him with reason. You had to stop his mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “With hypnotism,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “A healer, Burt,” I said. “The oath says ‘First do no harm.’”

  “Stop, Bill,” Burt said. “Please.”

  “That’s enough,” Buster said. “I know who he is now.”

  I backed away slowly.

  “You knew all along, didn’t you, Buster?” I asked.

  “I think maybe so. There was never any proof. Never anything... tangible.”

  “Still,” I said. “You’ve let a killer run around free.”

  Sheriff Buster LeRoy’s hand descended on my shoulder.

  “Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “Don’t you do a damned thing. How dare you stand in judgment? You’re an outsider. You can’t understand.”

  “It’s because I’m an outsider that I do understand, Sheriff,” I said. “I understand far too well.”

  “Come on, Bill,” Felix said, lifted Buster LeRoy’s hand from my shoulder, took my arm and pulled me outside the curtains.

  *****

  Outside the hospital the clouds overhead were pregnant with rain. Thunder boomed in the distance and ozone hummed in my nostrils.

  “It’s going to really storm, I think,” Felix said.

  “It always does,” I said.

  “Do you mind translating all that just went on in there?” Felix asked.

  “I do mind,” I said, “but I’ll tell you anyway. Burt killed the eldest Bristow daughter. Or at least he thinks he did. Something traumatic happened to him in 1969. He’s the second eldest.”

  “Burt?”

  “Yeah. His last name is Sanderson. Run a check and find out who his mother is. You’ll also find out he was born out of wedlock.”

  “Illegitimate son—”

  “Of Edgar Bristow,” I finished.

  “Who is he covering for, then?”

  “The eldest, legitimate son,” I said.

  “The one we don’t know much about.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t have to check. I already knew he was a Bristow brat.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “A DNA sample from the fallout shelter confirmed it,” Felix said. “But then someone confirmed it.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “His mother.”

  “Who is his mother?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t.

  “Dr. Armstrong. Her maiden name was Sanderson.”

  “Now I know where she got the damned microscope,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “It’s tough being the only Medical Examiner in a small town,” I said.

  She turned from her chair, regarded me with surprise, and then smiled.

  “It’s tough when the clientele is someone you knew in life. But that’s nothing compared to raising an illegitimate child in a small Texas town.”

  The smile faded.

  “Especially when you’re not sure whether or not he’s a murderer.”

  “I don’t think I like you anymore, Mr. Travis,” she said. “Please leave. Now.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started. Aren’t you curious as to how much I know? Curious enough, maybe, to go out to lunch to see how far the outsider has dug into the past?”

  She slid open the drawer beside her. She reached in and came up with a dull black pistol. It looked like a small .32.

  “There’s an FBI Agent right outside that door,” I said. “How’s it gonna look, the local M.E. arrested for attempted murder?”

  “What makes you think I’ll miss?” she asked.

  “What makes you think you can pull that trigger?” I asked. She started to swivel the gun toward me.

  “Hippocratic Oath,” I said. “First do no harm.”

  “You’re not my patient,” she said. “No one can harm my patients. They’re all dead.”

  “Yeah? Are some of them dead because of you? Not because of your actions, maybe, but because of your inactions?”

  I waited.

  She dropped the gun back in the drawer and slammed it shut.

  “That’s better,” I said.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  “Commission. Omission. Sometimes the lines blur. Especially in our own heads.”

  “Would you please go away?” she asked, quietly, and looked at the floor.

  “I will. Right after you tell me what happened in 1969.”

  *****

  April Fools Day. 1969.

  She let Burt off at the lumber yard after school. She had been a kid of sixteen herself when she gave birth to him, and now he was nine years old. A kid raising a kid.

  Burt spent time with the Bristows. He didn’t even know the old man who ran the place was his father.

  Later that night she was awakened from sleep by her son. He didn’t make a sound. He just looked at her. Somehow she sensed him watching her and woke with a start. The moment of fright passed quickly when she made out that the black silhouette was her only child, but when she turned on the lamp by her bed the screams began.

  He was covered in blood. When she got control of herself she looked him over from head to toe in a flurry of motion. No wounds. It wasn’t his blood.

  She kept asking him who's blood it was. He stood there as if struck dumb. She carried him to the bathroom and ran the tub. At one point she realized she was scalding him and turned the hot water off and the cold water on. He never complained once.

  The blood ran down the drain and disappeared as if it had never been there. She took his clothes and burned them in the trash barrel behind the house, the odor of burnt cotton and blood redolent in the night air.

  When she came back in he was naked and asleep in her bed.

  She didn’t sleep that night. She lay on the couch and watched the clock tick through to the dawn. She didn’t sleep until well after news of the murder came and went. And then, as the days and years drifted by and peace resumed, she wondered. And sometimes she woke from a recurring nightmare, the scream as thin as a whistling teakettle and her throat swollen against it. In the nightmare it was her own blood covering his body. And the Louisville slugger in his hand rose and fell, rose and fell.

  The days passed. No one questioned. No one suspected. No one knew.

  She married a man a year later. A kind man. From that union there was another child, a son. A baby she came to fear for.

  But all was quiet. The nightmares began to fade.

  Two years later her husband died of an aneurysm. Two weeks after the funeral she enrolled in medical school in Houston, the tuition, fees, and a years worth of rent paid for by Burt’s real father. He hadn’t batted an eye when she asked him. He simply got out his checkbook and wrote.

  While living in Houston not far from Buffalo Bayou in the Spring of 1975 during her third ye
ar, Burt went missing.

  For two weeks she was beside herself. Where had he gone? Was he dead? Or worse—was someone else dead?

  He came up onto the screen porch just before nightfall one evening, a handsome lad of fifteen, and greeted her as if he had never left. Afterwards, they never spoke of it.

  Word came later, however. Another Bristow daughter, dead. This time in Massachusetts.

  Time passed.

  Upon her graduation, she received a microscope, bound in ribbons. The note read simply: “Ed.”

  *****

  “You don’t know,” I said.

  “What don’t I know?” she said. Her tears were dry. She hadn’t moved from the chair.

  “You don’t know that he did it. You can’t. You weren’t there and he never spoke of it.”

  “A mother—”

  “A mother what?” I asked. “A mother knows? Let me tell you, if I thought my mother knew all the stunts I pulled when I was that age, I’d have some severe explaining to do. Mothers aren’t supposed to know. And if they do, they’re supposed to turn a blind eye.”

  She looked up at me.

  “I’ll tell you this once,” I said. “Your son has been through something pretty terrible. He bears the weight of it. I’m not sure, though, that he bears the actual blame. Maybe he does. If he does, then it would be better he was dead. If he isn’t guilty, he needs all the help he can get. I honestly believe he is shielding who did kill the Bristow children and Edgar Bristow himself.”

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “First you need to know that Burt has been shot.”

  Her eyes widened in shock.

  “He’s alright. He’s at the hospital. There’s a young doctor digging a bullet out of his pelvis. Burt’s going to need your support and your help. That’s for starters.”

  “I know how to be a mother,” she said, quietly.