by Philip Craig
“There are no secrets between a daughter and her mother.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Come out about noon. Mack will be home thereabouts. Might want some words with you.”
“About me and Billy Jo?” Good grief!
“No. Well, maybe. I had in mind this idea you have about meeting this Orwell fella. I think we might talk a bit before you go off to confront the lion.”
“See you at noon then.” I knew where the power was. If I didn’t show up, she wouldn’t give Orwell my message.
I found a window and looked at myself in the reflection. Martha’s Vineyard Surfcasters’ cap, thrift shop shorts, Teva sandals, and a shirt that said Al’s Package Store. No weirder than the threads a lot of tourists were wearing on the street, but not very native Durangoish. I’d been wearing almost the same clothes when Orwell had shot at me on the island, and if I showed up like this at the ranch, he might recognize me and either shoot or take off before I could get close to him.
I went into one of the stores with cowboy clothes in the window and bought myself a wide-brimmed straw hat with a wire around the brim so you could bend it into any shape you liked. I also got a Denver Broncos tee shirt. Then I drove back to the motel and spent some time punching and bending my new hat and rubbing it in the dirt to make it look old. I soaked the shirt in the sink, wrung it out and tied it in a knot, and put it in a sunny window. By the time I had changed into jeans and my old army boots and it was time to leave for the Skyes’ place, the hot, dry air had done its job. The tee shirt looked wrinkled and used. I put it on and drove back to the sheriffs office. I thought I looked quite local.
The first deputy was back. He and the second deputy were together. The first deputy looked at my get-up and shook his head. “Maybe we ought to throw you in jail before somebody else does. If we don’t have any laws against vagrants, I think we can make one up pretty fast. We just got some news that might interest you. Come in here.”
I followed him into a room and he handed me two sheets of paper.
“Faxed about an hour ago,” said the deputy.
One was a picture of a man in army uniform looking intently at the camera. His hair was trim and his gaze was level. There was a slight scar on his left cheek.
“Gordon Berkeley Orwell,” said the deputy. “Taken about three years ago, apparently. Now we know what he looks like, at least. I figure we’ll tell the guy to come to the ranch, then put a couple of men out there in the ranch house and wait for him to show up. Ask him a couple of questions and maybe get to the bottom of this.”
My first thought was that the deputies were horning in on my plan. My second was that it made sense for them to do it. My third was the first one all over again, and my fourth was the second again. I put my foot on my fifth, and told them what I’d planned to do myself.
The first deputy frowned. “Okay, but now you just stay out of it and leave things to us.”
The second piece of paper said that Captain Gordon Berkeley Orwell had a private gun collection and was said to favor a Beretta 125 nine-millimeter parabellum Italian machine gun with a blowback action offering a choice of burst or single shots out of a thirty-two-round magazine. With the butt folded, the Beretta was 16.46 inches long. Corporal Dominic Agganis of the Massachusetts State Police was of the opinion that the Beretta had been fired at one J.W. Jackson on Martha’s Vineyard.
“What do you think?” asked the deputy.
“The right size gun and the right caliber. Could be. Tell your men to be careful. This guy is a tough cookie and pretty slick.”
“We’re not too bad ourselves,” said the deputy.
“I’m going out to Mack Skye’s place,” I said. “When the guy phones in, we’ll tell him to go to the ranch. Then I’ll call you.”
“Call us at Vivian Skye’s ranch,” said the deputy, “because that’s where we’ll be. Jake and I will go out there right now, so we’ll be able to check the place out before Orwell shows up.”
“The front door of the house is unlocked,” I said, “and you can put your car in the barn sq it’ll be out of sight. I mean it about being careful.”
“Mr. Orwell is the one who needs to be careful,” said the deputy.
I drove, via a liquor store, out to the Florida Mesa. I wished I had a pickup. Then I’d look perfect.
Billy Jo raised both eyebrows.
“I want you to feel I’m just like the guys you grew up with,” I said.
“I’m not interested in the guys I grew up with. I’m interested in some other kinds of guys.” She gave a crooked smile. “You do look the part, I must admit.”
“Mine was a great loss to the stage.”
“Come on around back. Mom and Dad are already into the iced tea.” She nodded. “If you add a shot of whiskey to that, you’ll have a seven-course meal.”
I lifted the six-pack of Coors. “I’ll be glad to share.”
We walked around the house. The wind was gentle in the trees and the lawn was thick and green. It was cool in the shade. Mack and Wilma Skye were at the table covered with food. Mack got up and put out his large hand, which I took.
“Hey, you must have really made an impression on my little girl. Went to town this morning and got herself some new diggers for the big date.”
Billy Jo blushed. “I did not! I needed them anyway.”
Diggers? What were diggers? “What are diggers?” I asked.
Billy Jo gritted her teeth. “Underwear, if you must know. But I didn’t get them for our date! Daddy, how could you say such a thing!?”
“Well, sweetheart, I . . .”
Wilma clicked her tongue. “Never mind, Mackenzie. Your jokes aren’t always as funny as you think they are. Sit down, J.W. You too, Billy Jo. You know better than to take your daddy seriously when he’s only trying to be funny. Try some of those muffins, J.W. And there’s some roast beef there, or some ham if you’d rather have that. That cheese is good, too. Don’t just sit there, Billy Jo, put some food on your plate. You’re getting too skinny. It’s not healthy.”
“I’m just fine. And I’m not skinny.”
“What do you think, J.W.?” asked her father. “Is she about to blow away, or not?”
“She looks fine to me.” I reached for the roast beef.
“Thank you,” said Billy Jo. “Now that that’s settled. I think I will have something to eat.” She started stacking her plate. A twenty-one-year-old woman can eat a lot, I discovered.
After a while, Mack popped one of my beers and took a long slug. “Well, son, what’s this about you going over to Vivian’s to meet with this fella who says he’s you? Doesn’t sound too smart to me.”
“As it turns out,” I said, “I don’t have to go through with the master plan. The Law is going to attend to it.” I told them about my talk with the deputies.
Wilma and Mack looked at each other. Billy Jo looked at me. “I’m glad,” she said, and reached her hand toward mine.
Just then I heard the ringing of the phone in the house. Billy Jo’s hand stopped. We all looked toward the sound. Wilma rose and waved the rest of us down. “I talked to him before, I’ll talk to him now.” She looked down at me. “I’ll tell him to go to the ranch. That someone will meet him there in an hour . . . Who? . . .”
“Your nephew,” I said.
“My nephew.” She nodded. The phone rang. She trotted toward the house.
“The world’s getting mighty strange,” said Mack. With one hand, he squeezed his beer can flat. I opened another can.
Wilma went into the house and the phone stopped ringing. After a while she came out again.
“Done,” she said. “I gave him the message, then called the deputies at the house, but nobody answered. They must be outside. I’ll try again in a few minutes.”
“How’d he seem?” I asked.
“Soft voice. Cheerful.”
“I guess now we wait.”
“Well, I’m going to wait up in the north quarter section,” said Mack.
“Still got half a field to plow. I’ll see you all later. Wilma, you stick close to the house. Billy Jo, you might show J.W. around a bit.”
He went off.
“Finish your beer,” said Billy Jo, easing back in her chair. “Nothing’s going to happen for an hour.”
Once you got out of the shade, it was a thirsty day. I took the remains of my six-pack with me and we finished it while Billy Jo led me down to the corrals and through the barn and outbuildings. It was a well-maintained place. There were horses in a pasture behind the barn and there was a pond beyond them and a grove of piñon and cedar trees beyond that.
“All sagebrush once,” said Billy Jo, sweeping her hand across a panorama of green fields. “My grandfather ran cattle here, but now we mostly farm and only keep enough beef for our own table.”
We circled back to the house.
“Pit stop,” said Billy Jo.
“You can’t buy beer,” I said, quoting the ancient wisdom. “You can only rent it.”
Wilma was coming out of the house as we went in. She was carrying a basket, wearing cotton gloves, and headed for the garden.
“Those deputies must be hunkered down in the chicken coops or somewhere. Called them half a dozen times, but never got hold of them. Damnation, people should stick to their plans. Too late to call them again. I’m going to do some weeding.” She went past us and I looked after her. I didn’t like what I’d heard her say.
Billy Jo was first in line for the bathroom, and thus it was that when the phone rang I was the only one there to answer it. I did.
A gentle, ironic voice asked for Mrs. Skye.
“She’s outside. Can I take a message?”
“Who’s this?”
“Just a friend. Who’s this?” I thought I knew.
“Another friend. Yes, you can give her a message. Tell her that her nephew never showed up and the two guys that came instead didn’t know a thing about where John Skye is. Tell her I’m really disappointed with her.”
“Orwell, is that you?”
There was a silence. Then, “Who’s this?”
“J. W. Jackson. Don’t hang up. You’re after the wrong man. Call me at . . .”
The phone clicked in my ear.
Billy Jo came out of the bathroom and saw me with the phone in my hand. She also must have seen something in my face.
“What happened? What’s the matter?”
“I think there’s trouble at Vivian’s place. Do you have another gun in the house? I prefer a rifle or shotgun.”
She nodded.
“Get it, please. And some shells.”
She went away without a word and I phoned the Sheriffs Department and told them to get some people out to Vivian Skye’s ranch. As I hung up, Billy Jo came back with both a deer rifle and a shotgun. I took the shotgun and punched shells into the magazine. “I’m going to Vivian Skye’s house. Stay here by the phone.”
“No. I’m coming with you. I can shoot.”
A rifle had better range than the shotgun. “All right. Let’s go.” We went out and got into my car. I saw Wilma coming out of the garden as we drove out. She dropped her basket and started running toward us, but I didn’t stop.
— 20 —
There was a low ridge west of Vivian Skye’s place. A large irrigation ditch ran along it, and there were willows and cottonwood trees growing there. When I got there, I stopped the car and looked at the farmhouse and then at the corrals and outbuildings on the other side of the road. The gates on either end of the corrals were open. No one was in sight. Beside me, Billy Jo punched shells into the magazine of the 30-06 she held, muzzle down, between her legs.
“When we get there,” I said, “I’m going to stop the car on the road and leave the engine running. I want you to stay by the car with the rifle and cover me while I go into the house. If you see somebody laying for me, shoot him. If I get inside and you hear shooting, but don’t see me come out afterward, I want you to get away. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“And watch your back. Maybe Orwell isn’t in the house at all. He might be on the other side of the road in the outbuildings.”
“Yes.”
There were beads of sweat above her upper lip, and her eyes were bright.
I drove up to the gate to the driveway and stopped and looked at the house, then at the outbuildings. No movement. I felt as I’d felt when I’d gone out on patrol in Vietnam. Hollow, fatalistic, jumpy, frightened. I got out of the car, pumped a shell into the firing chamber of the shotgun, and ran toward the house, trying to see everywhere at once.
Nothing moved.
I slanted toward the front door, stood to one side of it, and pushed it open. I heard muffled sounds from somewhere inside. If I’d had a grenade. I could have tossed it in and then ducked in after the explosion; but I didn’t have a grenade. I listened some more, flattened against the wall of the house. I heard the sound again. A voice somewhere deep inside the house. I heard nothing in the room beyond the door. I took a deep breath and ducked through the door, shotgun level.
An empty room. Doorways leading out of it. I went silently to the first one. An empty kitchen with a door leading outside and another into a hall. I went to the hall. The muffled voice seemed louder.
It took me ten minutes to go through the ground floor and second floor of the house.
Nobody.
The only place left was the basement. I stood to one side and pushed open the door to the basement stairs. The muffled voice was suddenly silent. There was a light switch on the wall beside the stairs. I reached across with the barrel of the shotgun and flicked it on. Light flared up from below.
I waited, listening. I didn’t want to go down the stairs. I popped my head out and tried to see down there. No good. I went down the stairs fast, shotgun thrust in front of me, waiting for the bullets. I saw a wall and spun, putting my back to it, swinging the shotgun across the room as I looked for Orwell and his Beretta machine gun.
The two deputy sheriffs I had talked to were staring at me with white faces and wide eyes. Their hands were cuffed to water pipes. Their pistol holsters were empty. One had a bloody head.
“If he’s here, say so quick!” My voice sounded flat and small.
“No. No, he’s gone! We’re mighty glad to see you!” The deputy I’d first spoken to nodded toward a table across the room. “Our guns and the keys to the cuffs are over there.”
I got the keys and gave them to the deputies and went upstairs and outside. Billy Jo stood behind the car, looking at me over the sights of her 30-06. I walked out to her and told her about the deputies. “Now we’ll do the outbuildings,” I said. “Cover me again. You’re good at it.”
She looked over my shoulder. “Wait a minute. Here comes some help.”
The deputies came up. They looked happier than they had looked in the basement. I told them I was going to search the outbuildings.
The first deputy looked at Billy Jo. “You better stay out of this, miss.”
“Nobody’s taken her gun away from her,” I said. “You two ever in the service?” They both nodded. “Okay, let’s sweep these outbuildings. Billy Jo’ll cover our asses.”
With three men, the job was faster. In the barn we found the deputies’ truck parked right where they’d left it, but we didn’t find Orwell. We went back to the road.
I heard sirens to the west, and soon two Sheriffs Department cars and a State Police car topped the hill to the west and came toward us, lights flashing. The deputies looked embarrassed.
“I’ll listen in while you explain to everybody what happened,” I said, as Billy Jo and I unloaded our weapons and put them back into my car.
Soon we were surrounded by more policemen than had probably ever been in one spot on the Florida Mesa. One was the sheriff of La Plata County. He did not look pleased.
“The guy was here when we got here,” explained the first deputy. “We put the truck in the barn and went up to the house and he was waiting for us. Mu
st have been watching us all the time. Covered us when we came through the door. Jake tried for him and got his head broke. Took our guns and cuffed us to the pipes in the basement. Asked us why we were there. I told him we’d gotten an anonymous tip. He didn’t push it. Then he went upstairs and made a telephone call and came down again.”
“Asked us who’d given us the tip,” said Jake, as a colleague tended to his bloody head. “Ted said we didn’t know. Seemed to just be making talk to pass the time. Got nervous when the phone rang, but we never told him it must be for us. Scary bastard. Asked where John Skye was, but didn’t act like he really expected us to know. Finally he said somebody would be along by and by. Told us to be sure to keep working in the country where we’d be safe. Then he left. That’s all there is to tell. Guy’s dangerous.”
“More than can be said for you two,” growled the sheriff. “What’d this fella look like?”
Jake looked at his partner. “Average-sized guy. Levi’s, denim shirt, blue baseball cap, army boots. Hairy, hippie-looking guy. Brown hair, stringy, down to his shoulders almost. Big moustache, beard. Tanned, blue eyes, wire glasses. Favored one leg a little. That about it, Ted?”
“Left-handed,” said Ted. Jake nodded.
The sheriff grunted. “Sounds like a makeup artist. Grant, put that description out.”
Grant, who was young and clean-cut and staring at Billy Jo, jerked to attention and went to a radio.
The sheriff looked around. “You obviously didn’t see his car when you came in. How do you figure he got here and then got away?”
“If I was going to do it,” said Billy Jo, “I’d have parked my car in the woods behind the barn. He had the same idea. Look for yourself. The corral gates are still open and there are fresh car tracks under and on top of the ones the deputies’ truck made when they put it in the barn.”
All of the policemen looked at her, then all of them looked at the gates and tracks.
“Young lady,” said the sheriff, “if you ever want a job, come and see me. All right, a couple of you men follow those tracks down into the woods and see if you can find anything useful. I doubt if there’ll be much there. We got anything to make a cast of these tire prints? I didn’t think so. Well, trooper, let’s have a look at the house. Maybe this guy left his name and address and telephone number behind. We need a couple of clues like that to make up for my deputies’ police work.”
