by JM Gulvin
Quarrie ordered some bacon and fried eggs. Adding cream and sugar to his coffee he took a long swallow.
Nicole served another customer and then she returned with the steaming coffee pot.
‘Nicole,’ he said, ‘my name’s Quarrie. I’m a Texas Ranger.’
‘The cruiser,’ she said. ‘You want to know about the Winfield city police car?’
Returning her smile, he nodded. ‘Yes mam, as a matter of fact I do. Was it you that called it in?’
‘Yes it was; yesterday morning, early. There was a Winfield city cop came in and I thought it odd because this is a long way out for those guys.’ Setting the pot back on the warmer she rested her elbows on the counter. ‘It’s not often we see cops from Winfield in here and I didn’t recognize this guy.’
‘Did you talk to him at all?’
Nicole shook her head. ‘No sir, I didn’t. I mean other than to say good morning and ask him what he wanted.’
‘Do you remember what that was?’
‘What he ordered? I don’t know; I’d have to think about it. Maybe some scrambled eggs.’
He smiled again. He nodded. ‘You got a good memory. Tell me, do you recall what he looked like?’
Pursing her lips she looked a little speculative. ‘He wasn’t a real cop, was he?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Do you remember him at all, Nicole?’
She took a moment to think about that. ‘I don’t know, a little maybe, I guess. He was about thirty I’d say. No, actually, I think he was younger. It’s hard to tell when a man’s in uniform. He was younger than you though, if that’s any help.’
‘I’m thirty-six years old,’ Quarrie told her. ‘How much younger than me do you think he was?’
‘Mid-twenties then maybe. He was clean-shaven and I think he had blue eyes. Yeah, blue eyes. They were about the same color as yours.’
‘OK, Nicole, thank you. That’s helpful. Was there anything else you noticed? How did he act? Was there anything that stuck out at all? Anything that caught your attention?’
Nicole shook her head. ‘No sir, nothing odd. He was just like any other customer. He ordered and ate. Then he left.’
‘Were you busy around then? I guess if it was breakfast time you probably were?’
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘right around the time he was in we were a little slow.’
‘The other customers, do you remember any of them?’
‘Sure, I notice most of our customers. I like people – in this job you have to. There was an older couple I’d never seen before. Then there was Willy and Ellis from the breakers’ yard and a handful of regulars I guess. One guy on his own who comes in from time to time: he’s not from around here. I think he’s some kind of salesman.’
Taking another sip of coffee Quarrie set the cup down. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Nicole, that’s useful. The cop though, when he left out: could you tell which way he was headed?’
‘No sir, I didn’t see. But I remember he left right after that salesman.’
Quarrie ate his breakfast and when he went back outside he considered the floor of the parking lot. The ground hard-baked and covered in dust, it was littered with an assortment of different tire tracks. The rain hadn’t made it this far yet and the coating of dust lay like powder. Leaving his car for a moment, he walked to where the parking lot met the highway and studied the marks at the lip of the asphalt. It took a while to pick it out but finally he spotted a partial tread that had been crossed over by a number of others.
Climbing behind the wheel once more, he reached for his sunglasses and Mary-Clare smiled at him where she sat on the fence at the cabin he still owned in the shadow of the Grand Tetons. Set at the end of a narrow dugway, they’d found it purely by chance when they moved north not long after they were first married.
He let the engine idle for a second or so before selecting a gear and cutting out onto the highway. He drove at a steady forty-five; one hand on the wheel, he was taking in every ranch and airline road, every single sign that was posted. Spotting one for Henry’s Bathtub his eyes narrowed a fraction. A swimming hole about a mile down the highway, that young cop had mentioned it when he told Quarrie how to get to the diner. He said the bathtub had been named after the old guy who first opened the place, how he always had so much grease on him from flipping hamburgers the only time he ever got really clean was when he went for a dip. Somebody named the swimming hole after him and eventually the county put a sign up.
There was a gravel turnout about fifty yards ahead of the sign for the turn-off to Henry’s Bathtub. Instinctively Quarrie brought the Riviera to a stop and got out. This was just a hunch but that waitress had said the bogus cop had left the diner straight after a guy she thought might be a travelling salesman. Right now Quarrie was wondering just how far the perp thought he’d be able to get driving a Winfield City prowl car. Standing on the edge of the highway he hunted down a cigarette and smoke drifted as he studied the surface of the turnout. No scenic overlook, nowhere for a picnic, this was the kind of spot where people would stop only if they had to adjust something on their vehicle. It was where a trooper might pull someone over.
Stepping closer to where the asphalt gave out he considered the packed gravel, the layer of dust and mess of tire tracks that fouled it. There were quite a few tracks here as there had been at the diner, and it took him a moment to locate it. But there it was: the same tread he had seen at the diner.
Back in the car he rolled down to the turning and eased up just ahead of the cattle guard. From where he sat he could see the same tire tracks marking the dirt beyond the metal grille. He still wore his pistols on his hips and, instinctively, he worked the hammer clips loose. Then he put the Riviera back in gear and rolled across the guard, following the trail for a hundred yards as it snaked towards a shallow rise. At the top of the rise he halted. Nothing but the flat, gray waters of the swimming hole, fifty yards down the slope to a stubby little bank of mud and rocks where the water was lapping gently. A little breeze in the air, as he got out of the car he could feel it cool on his face where it coasted off the water.
He followed the tire tracks all the way down the hill to the bank where they disappeared. He stood there with his hat in his hand, scrutinizing every inch of dirt where the tires dug deeper with the weight of the car and that told him it had been stationary. He could see the wall of the track where a little dirt had lifted then collapsed again and that indicated the car had moved some after it came to a halt. No reversing marks though: the trail ended there at the water.
As well as the tire tracks he located two sets of footprints, flat-soled shoes on them both, that had to be the perp wearing Officer Michaels’ uniform and whoever it was he had with him. Moving a few paces into the brush, he picked up another set of prints that led back up the trail to the rise. No flat sole now, he recognized not only the pattern of the jungle boot, but also the nick in the heel.
For a moment he stared at the water then went back to his car. Unhooking the radio handset he rested an elbow on the roof.
‘Zero Six calling Marion County sheriff.’
It took a moment before a disembodied voice crackled back. ‘Copy that, Zero Six.’
‘I’m at Henry’s Bathtub, the old swimming hole on Route 49. Need you to put a call in to the police department in Winfield. Tell Chief Billings I think I might’ve found his cruiser.’
Eight
From his third-floor office Dr Beale could see the checkered barrier at the main gates where a young man in military uniform climbed into the back of the hospital Jeep. Below the window some of the male patients not confined to their cells were tending the lawns and flower beds under the watchful eye of an orderly.
From where he stood Beale was party to both sides of the ten-foot wall that separated the men from the women and he cast his eye across the grounds then looked back at the Jeep once more. At his desk he picked up a fountain pen and scribbled a couple of notes on a fold-over yellow pad, then screwed the t
op back on the pen and considered the telephone as if he was waiting for it to ring. After a moment he got to his feet and went back to the window. This time he concentrated on the far side of the wall where some of the female patients were gathered.
On his desk the phone rang and for a moment Beale seemed to study the little red light where it flashed at the base.
‘Yes, Alice?’ he said as he picked up. ‘What is it?’
‘Dr Beale, there’s a man downstairs to see you. He’s says his name is Isaac Bowen.’
The doctor seemed to hesitate. ‘All right,’ he said carefully. ‘Have one of the orderlies bring him up.’
He waited now, standing behind the desk with a little perspiration marking his brow and his eyes wrinkled at the corners. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and orderly Briers came in wearing a short, white housecoat and green T-shirt: a big man, he was balding and heavyset with tufts of gray hair lifting from the neck of his T-shirt.
‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘Isaac Bowen is here to see you.’ He stepped to one side and the young man in uniform came in. Still the orderly hovered, but Beale was intent on his visitor. Blue-gray eyes, his hair slicked back from his forehead, the dress uniform he was wearing looked a little care worn but it was neatly pressed and there was shine to the toes of his shoes. For a moment Beale studied him and the young man looked back with neither of them saying anything, then Beale indicated for Briers to close the door.
When he was gone the young man approached the desk. ‘Thank you for seeing me, sir,’ he said. ‘My name is Isaac Bowen and I’m looking for my brother. I think he might be a patient here.’
Beale indicated an empty chair across the desk. ‘Take a seat, Mr Bowen. You look as if you’ve come a long way.’
‘I have, sir. From Vietnam.’ Wearily Isaac sat down. ‘My final tour. That’s three now and I guess they figure I’m done.’ Spreading a palm he gestured. ‘Did Ishmael tell you about me? My brother, sir, Ishmael Bowen. He doesn’t know I’m back yet. I wanted to surprise him before I go home to my dad.’
‘I see,’ Beale said.
‘Dad doesn’t know how I’m done over there yet. I was going to surprise him but only after I visited with Ish. The fact is our ship docked in San Francisco and the army flew me to Houston. I spoke to my dad on the phone he told me Ish had been moved to a place called Trinity. I never got to see him the last time – he was still in the hospital in Houston – and I didn’t know about this other one, not till I spoke to Dad.’ His eyes were pinched, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I had no idea there’d been a fire. I went down there and found the hospital in the woods like Dad said, but it was deserted, all burned up. I spoke to the caretaker, an old Mexican guy who told me the whole place went up and everyone had to be evacuated.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s pretty much how it was.’ Beale looked a little tentative. ‘It was six weeks ago now. The fire took hold very quickly though nobody seems to know what set it off.’
‘What happened to the patients?’ Isaac asked. ‘The caretaker said they were moved to other hospitals. He told me some of them came here and I ought to talk to you. He said that if Ish wasn’t here you’d be able to tell me where they sent him.’ He looked up, a hopeful expression on his face. ‘Is he here, sir? I’d really like to see him.’
Beale seemed to think about that. Picking up his pen he made another note then replaced the pen on the desk. ‘Your last tour, you say? You’re home for good now then, are you?’
Isaac nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Home for good, though if truth be told I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.’ He let a little air escape his cheeks. ‘I guess it’s always like that for someone who knows they’re going home. They tell you ahead of time and it’s all you can think about and yet you’re still out on patrol.’ Hunching a little forward in the seat he gestured. ‘Everybody tells it the same. As the time gets close you just get more and more nervous. It’s on your mind, how if you step in the wrong place or duck the wrong way …’ He broke off for a second then he said, ‘That last fire-fight … Just after they said I was coming home we were on the march – six hundred of us on the road about sixty miles north of Saigon. I kept telling myself it would be all right, how my number wasn’t up and I was going to stay lucky. But then we came to this clearing and there they were there, waiting where we couldn’t see them. Hidden in the sawgrass, they let go with everything they had, and all I could think about was avoiding bullets, leave alone firing back.’
‘Sawgrass?’ the doctor said.
Isaac nodded. ‘Thick as a wheat field, reaches right to your waist.’ Again he looked at the floor. ‘I was walking the point, the tree line just ahead, and we could see nothing for all that grass. I guess they let go with heavy machine guns, ripped into us like you wouldn’t believe. Thirty-one dead and a hundred and twenty-three wounded. We killed a hundred and seventy Vietcong, dug in real deep and waiting for back-up, and finally they sent in air support. Anyway,’ he said, looking up, ‘that’s all done with now, thank God. Ishmael, sir, my brother: I really need to see him.’
Beale’s expression was fixed. ‘I’m afraid you can’t. He’s not here. The fact is not all the patients at Trinity were accounted for, and I’m sorry, but one of those was Ishmael.’ He watched as Isaac’s features stiffened. ‘We’re missing seven patients in all right now and until we have the final report we won’t know how many bodies were actually recovered. It’s not an easy identification process because with the way that fire took hold, the intensity of the heat, there wasn’t much left.’ He was staring intently across the desk. ‘I’m sorry, but your father will know more. I imagine the investigators have been touch.’
He watched from the window as the Jeep took Isaac back to the gates. Brow a little sweaty, he plucked a key from the top drawer of his desk. On the far wall a picture of Sigmund Freud dominated the office. Taking it down Beale revealed an inset safe. Two shelves holding various reels of tape in cardboard boxes, they were labelled carefully and on top of them was an address book.
Back at his desk Beale flattened a page with the heel of his hand then picked up the phone. He hesitated a moment before dialling. Sitting back in the chair he waited for the phone to be answered. It rang and rang but nobody picked up and no answer machine cut in. Beale hung up, sought another page in the address book and dialled another number.
Once more he waited; three rings, four, five. Then the call was answered and he hunched a little closer to his desk.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘This is Dr Beale. I’m sorry to call you again so soon and I know you asked me not to. I thought you should know that he just showed up here at the hospital.’ Listening for a moment he nodded. ‘Bellevue in Shreveport, yes. He told me he’d been to Trinity and he’s on his way to his father’s house. Look, there’s no need to worry. I’m going to go up there myself.’ Again he listened and again he nodded. ‘Yes, she is. One of the ones we brought here. Look, I know I said I wouldn’t call, but I figured you ought to be aware. It will be fine though, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m telling you just in case.’
For a while after he’d put the phone down he sat with his hand on the receiver where it rested back in the cradle. He looked long and hard at the notes he had made, then collected the pad of paper and his pen and placed them in his briefcase. Replacing the address book back in the safe he locked it and re-hung the photo.
From the bottom drawer of a file cabinet he retrieved a twin-reel tape recorder together with a hand-held microphone. Locating another set of keys, he left the office and locked the door. He told his secretary that something had come up and he would be away for a few days and she should cancel his appointments. Then he rode the elevator down to the ground floor.
In the lobby he left the tape recorder behind the desk, then used his keys to open the first of the adjoining doors. Cast from metal, the window was laced with wire mesh. Closing that door he locked it again, then walked the short corridor to another door with a similar pane of r
einforced glass.
Now he was in the women’s wing and he passed beyond a set of double doors into a common room where some of the patients played checkers while others stared at the TV. Women of all ages: pale in the face, lank-haired; wearing robes and baggy pajamas. Beale made his way through the common room and unlocked the far door. Opening and closing two more locked doors, he was in a corridor with linoleum on the floor and heavy oak doors with unbreakable panels were staggered on either side. He walked almost as far as the nurse’s desk at the end before he paused outside a door on the right.
He could see the patient through the glass. Around fifty, she was bone-thin and bug-eyed, her hair weak and sparse with her waxen-colored scalp visible in places. A single bed, the walls covered in pencilled drawings of stick children. The woman was sitting on the bed cradling a baby in her arms, only the baby was a porcelain doll, and its hair was as thin as hers. On the other side of the room a narrow bureau was laid with a vinyl changing mat, next to it a Moses basket supported by wooden legs. Rocking back and forth, the woman suckled the doll at her breast.
Turning from the door Beale called to the nurse who was seated behind the desk at the end of the corridor.
‘Nancy,’ he said, ‘can you let me into Miss Annie’s room?’
A grim expression twisting her lips, the nurse got up from the desk and walked the corridor carrying a set of keys. Selecting one, she fit it in the lock but before she opened the door she paused.
‘Dr Beale,’ she said, ‘don’t you think I should fetch an orderly?’
He shook his head. ‘No, that’s all right. I’m not going to be very long.’
‘Even so. She’s not been herself just lately.’
