After the End: Survival

by Stebbins, Dave

  "Shit. You’re getting sloppy, boy." Normally, he would have done the girl in a more secluded location and then gutted her and let the vultures and coyotes do what came naturally. She was so damn pretty, though, he just hadn't been able to wait. And wandering around in the dark with all those snakes. Uh-uh. He smiled at the memory. She had put up quite a little fight. Not that it mattered any. He used his hand to pick at a newly formed scab on his neck where she'd scratched him, and frowned, looking again at the distant figures near the small clearing below.

  "Peek-a-boo," he said in a sing-song falsetto. "I see you."

  CHAPTER 6

  "Yeesss!"

  Larry Maxwell raised his right hand above his head, high-fiving himself. Sheriff Westlake had just given him some good, hard news: the murder and rape of a young girl. Jeez, what a relief! It had been months since he'd had anything this solid. OK, so you get your occasional knifing or even a gun fight. Usually it was at one of the bars and usually no charges would be filed, the injured party preferring to seek a more personal means of recompense after a full recovery. Or maybe somebody would get kicked by a horse or get a snake bite or fall and break a leg. A house fire was good even without injuries. But just the same old shit, over and over. This was great. Young, innocent girl, beaten, raped and killed.

  "Yeesss!"

  OK, need to promo the thing for the noon news. During the news, stretch it out a little, hit the young and innocent aspect. Get more info from Doc Wilson this afternoon and really nail it for the six o'clock news.

  His mind quickly ran through the advertisers who'd likely buy extra spots to run near the evening news. This was going to really help his August profit and loss statement. The mayor would be happy.

  With that thought, a slight note of caution entered Larry's mind. Mayor Jerry Blakely owned the radio station, along with a number of other enterprises, including controlling interests in all the area bars, grocery stores, production and sales of all alcoholic beverages and marijuana, both brothels and gasoline sales. The mayor had things set up pretty well. The man saw a lot of profit but offered the area stability. He financed the sheriff department, a fire department, funded a rudimentary health care system and supported two judges, who arbitrated disputes and sent lawbreakers to jail. The man was rich, he was powerful, but he gave back to the community. The fact that the sheriff’s department also protected the mayor’s financial interests was accepted by almost everyone. The alternative was anarchy, and folks had a taste of that the first year after the Change. Nobody wanted it again.

  OK, Larry amended. We call the mayor first, then get the promo on the air and write the story.

  KAMR radio station, studio and transmitter occupied several offices on the ground floor of what had been the Ambassador Hotel. The ten story building was central to most of Amarillo, and with good access to Interstate 40. The front entrance faced south, toward the six lane highway. On the west side was the sheriff's office; on the east were the administrative offices of various government entities, all coordinated through the mayor's office.

  Larry walked across the sunken lobby area to the northeast part of the building to the station studios. He flashed an exaggerated grin to "Girl Friday," Valerie Coughlin, as he entered the station. She shook her head, frowning, pursing her lips in concentration, her attention riveted on the billing statement she was typing. Val was all business, all the time. She lived with a cowboy type who ran a small cattle operation just outside of town. His relationship with her had never been warm but the woman was efficient and they worked well together.

  Sitting down to his desk and picking up the phone to call the mayor, Larry looked through the large double pane window to the control room. Big Ed was rummaging through the CDs while snacking on cold fried potatoes. Terrific. Grease all over every damn thing in the room. Larry put up with it because Ed was a good announcer.

  "Mayor's office, Brenda, how may I help you?"

  "Well, you could start by saying yes to a candlelight dinner."

  "Sounds wonderful, Larry. Where will you be eating?"

  "All by my lonesome, apparently. Brenda, it's important I talk to the mayor."

  "I'll see if he's available, hold please."

  Tell you what I'd like to hold onto, honey, Larry thought, as he waited. I'd like to hold onto your incredible ass, run my hands over your creamy white thighs, lick the underside of your breasts while...

  "Hello, Larry, how are you?"

  Mayor Gary Blakely interrupted Larry's reverie, sounding friendly and brisk at the same time. Larry had learned not to waste time on small talk with the mayor.

  "Just fine, Mayor. I'm calling to find out how you want me to handle this situation with the girl who was killed near Canyon." Larry assumed the sheriff had already talked to the mayor.

  "Pull out all the stops, Larry. To apprehend this animal we need full cooperation from the entire community. I've instructed Sheriff Westlake to give you a free hand in obtaining anything you need from his office. Should any information come your way from the public I want to pass that on to the sheriff. This is what the station is for, Larry. Utilize the power of the media. Pull the community together!"

  Use the Force, Luke! Use the Force!

  "Mayor, you got it. I'll do everything I can from this end."

  "I'm depending on you Larry."

  "This is KAMR, Amarillo. It's twelve noon, and time for a look at the news, brought to you by McNally's Hardware, now at two locations, Western Plaza, and Coulter and 45th. And now, the news.

  "Canyon residents were shocked yesterday at the discovery of the nude body of a young girl. She had been beaten and killed. The body was found about three miles northeast of Canyon, along Palo Duro Lake. According to Sheriff Rob Westlake, the murder victim has not been identified." Larry pressed the start button of a cassette player to play back part of the conversation he'd recorded with the sheriff that morning.

  "She's about thirteen, slender, five foot four,” intoned the Sheriff. “Long black hair, no visible scars but she'd obviously been severely beaten and stabbed. This department has sent a medical examiner to Canyon to determine the cause of death. Larry, I want the public to know we will leave no stone unturned in the search for this girl's killer. We pledge an all out effort to find the person responsible and we ask for the public's help. Contact our office if you have any information about this crime."

  Larry stopped the tape recorder, and continued reading.

  "Mayor Gary Blakely has expressed shock and outrage at the crime, and has pledged the full resources of his office to apprehend and punish those responsible."

  "KAMR will continue to keep our listeners informed with more on the murder of this young girl as that information becomes available."

  "In other news, a Fritch rancher was seriously injured yesterday when thrown off his horse. I'll have that story, and more news, right after this, from McNally's Hardware."

  CHAPTER 7

  Pete drove back to the sheriff's office that afternoon to give the sheriff everything he'd found out about the dead girl. Death was probably due to strangulation, and she'd been raped and beaten. Her nose and jaw had been broken, and she had at least three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. She had numerous bruises. A long, vertical cut had been made along the abdomen. She'd probably fought her attacker; dried blood under several fingernails indicated somebody might have visible scrape marks.

  Pete parked his car, got out and stretched. His sweat soaked shirt stuck to his back and he spent a few seconds to tuck it into his equally damp pants. He walked into the S.O.

  "Hey, Patty. Can I talk to the sherriff?"

  "I’m sure you can. Let me check real quick." She walked the few feet to Rob Westlake's office, murmured a few words inside the doorway, and turned back to face Pete.

  "He can see you now," she said, smiling.

  Pete returned the smile, nodded, and walked past her into the office.

  "Well, Pete, what did you find?" Rob asked, without preamble.r />
  Pete quickly went over all he'd learned from examining the body, his interview with the boys and visiting the campsite.

  "I guess first off we need to figure out who she is." Pete knew he was stating the obvious but felt he was treading on unfamiliar ground. He was able to grow into the role of physician and was comfortable with it, but he was not a police detective and was damn sure not going to act like one. Tiptoe through the tulips.

  The sheriff smiled, recognizing Pete's dilemma.

  "Pete, the only way you're going to hurt my feelings is if you don't tell me what you think. I value your opinion, so spit it out. Shall we start again?"

  Pete nodded, relieved, his voice becoming more direct.

  "Rob, we need to identify the girl and find out where she was from. Maybe it was someone she knew. Maybe someone else saw her hanging out with the murderer. We can begin by passing out copies of the drawing. The crucifix might help. It makes me think she took her religion seriously."

  "Sounds good, Pete. What have you got going on the next few days?"

  "Morning clinic. That's about it."

  "All right. I'll make copies of the drawing for each of the five area precincts. The mayor's big on getting this thing solved so I'll give copies to Brenda to distribute to all the bars and food outlets. I'd like you to visit the Snyders' out at Palo Duro Club. They aren't but three quarter mile from where the girl was found. They might have seen or heard something."

  "Snyders’? Don't they have the marijuana contract with the mayor?"

  "Yep. The only legal pot grown in the area. A lot of the illegal stuff comes from there, too, in my opinion. Other than the agreement they've got with the mayor to supply the local outlets with nature's finest they want nothing to do with government of any kind. They hate the po-lice and discourage visitors. I guess you know they're unique in another way."

  "Yeah. One of the only families around that survived the Change pretty much intact. A real lucky bunch."

  "A lot of folks resent them for it. It's like winning the lottery and losing all your friends because now you're suddenly real wealthy. I think you'd have better luck trying to talk with the Snyders' than I would."

  "I'll give it a shot. Rob, this morning you said you felt like this girl may not be the only one."

  The sheriff sighed before he spoke.

  "Pete, you know how it is, families are broke up, people all starting from scratch. Relationships are," he paused, "in a state of flux. Kids'll move to a household, stay for a while, move someplace else. We've got some houses that are just kids and teenagers. Someone'll say to you, ‘You know, I haven't seen so-and-so for a while.’ But usually nobody gets too concerned, figuring they just moved somewhere else, or even drifted out of the area. But I'll bet in the last year or so I've heard of at least a half dozen girls that have just up and disappeared. It's sort of a trend we've noticed."

  "A trend?"

  "Goddammit, Pete, I can't be everywhere doing everything for every goddamn person in the world! I do what I fucking can but I'm just one person! I do what I fucking can, do you understand?" Westlake's face was red and his breathing took on the sound of a steam locomotive.

  "I understand, Rob. Things are just flat different anymore. I guess I'm like everyone else. I need to be reminded once in while. Anyway, didn't you want me to be a pain in the ass?"

  Westlake grimaced in an attempt to smile, and Pete changed the subject.

  "So. Mr. Westlake. Will I see you at the mayor's gala dinner tomorrow?"

  The sheriff was smiling now, back in the groove.

  "I'll be there. Kayla's been driving me crazy on the whole dinner thing, ‘Do I look better in this dress or the blue one?’ I keep telling her she looks best wearing nothing at all. You going stag?"

  "Yep."

  "There's a lot to be said for the bachelor life."

  "I guess." Pete stood up. "I'm heading for Snyders'. Wish me luck."

  "Try not to get your ass blowed off."

  "I'll make it a priority."

  Pete headed east on the access road three blocks and then turned south on Washington Street. In three miles he was out of the city. He drove a sedate twenty miles an hour, slowing to avoid chunks of broken pavement and as a courtesy to those on horseback and bicycles. The Snyder place was six miles south of town, downstream from the same creek the girl's body was found.

  Pete had been to Snyder's once before, about a year before. It began with a cryptic note left on his door. "Come out to Snyder's. Palo Duro Club. Soon as you are able. Not an emergency." The message was neatly printed in large block letters. He was met at the door of the large single story brick house by the family patriarch, James Snyder. He held a shotgun, with the barrel pointed toward the porch floor.

  "I'm Pete Wilson. I got a note to come out here."

  Snyder stared for a long twenty seconds before speaking.

  "James Snyder. My daughter's four months pregnant. She needs an abortion."

  "I can't do it."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Both. She's too far along. Before the Change it might have been possible. You try it now it'll likely kill your daughter."

  For a second, he thought Snyder was going to say something like, "I'll take that chance." But he said nothing at all, just closed the door, leaving Pete alone on the porch. As he walked back to his SUV the hairs on his neck bristled. Walking with your back to a loaded shotgun does that to you.

  Pretty strange bunch, Pete mused as he continued driving. The late afternoon sun combined with a south wind to make the car feel like a convection oven. He extended his left arm out the window, moving his hand in the breeze like an airplane aileron.

  "Doc Wilson, sheriff's office." The radio had a tinny sound.

  "Go ahead, Patty."

  "Larry Maxwell is here, wanting to know when you'll be back. He wants to visit with you."

  Tell him he can kiss my ass.

  "Tell him I won't be back in town until late and that I've given the sheriff all the information I've got up to this point."

  There was silence for a moment.

  "He says he'll catch you tomorrow. S.O. clear."

  "Clear.” Sometimes Larry Maxwell seemed a little too enthusiastic reporting news involving trauma or someone else's bad luck.

  The dirt road that led to the Snyder place was about a quarter mile long. At the entrance was a padlocked bar gate with a ‘No Trespassing’ sign prominently posted. An eight strand barbed wire fence extended from both sides of the gate. Pete parked to the side of the dirt road, and honked the vehicle's horn a couple of times to let the Snyders know they had a visitor. He bent under the bar gate, carefully negotiating a steel cattle guard at his feet. He'd walked about two hundred feet when a pair of huge Rottweilers came bounding up the road towards him, barking furiously.

  Figuring he was dead meat anyway, Pete dropped down on his haunches and started clapping his hands, all the while saying in what he hoped was a happy voice, "C'mon boy, c'mon! Here boy, com'ere! Yeah, that's a good boy!"

  Both dogs looked a little confused but continued barking. Their snapping jaws were just a foot away from his crotch. Pete's hand clapping was subdued now, his hands moving less than an inch apart, appearing more an effort to protect his genitalia. "Good boy, good boy," he repeated, like some bizarre mantra.

  "You dogs, get over here!" The voice came from a metal outbuilding near the house. A boy around seventeen stood holding a wrench. "Now!" he added harshly. The animals backed away a few feet but continued barking as Pete stood and began walking. Other dogs were barking from a pen beside a barn. The door to the house opened, and Pete recognized the figure of James Snyder standing on the porch. Neither the man nor the boy made any further effort to stop the frantic barking of the dogs.

  "Thought those two were gonna eat me alive," Pete ventured, as he approached the house.

  The man was silent. James Snyder was lean, and about six feet tall. His brown face had deep creases around his eyes and mouth. His foreh
ead was a stark white, and the red crease above his brow indicated he'd just taken off his hat.

  I've never been good at bullshit conversation, Pete thought. No use trying to screw around now.

  "Mr. Snyder. Pete Wilson. We met about a year ago. I need to visit with you for a few minutes. Can I come up on the porch." The last was said as a statement.

  "You may." Snyder gestured toward some metal chairs on the end of the large wooden deck. The two dogs disappeared under the structure, and the boy went back into the barn. Both men sat down.

  "Two nights ago, a young girl was beaten, raped, and killed about three quarter mile west of here, near Palo Duro Lake. I'm wondering if you heard or saw anything unusual that night."

  Snyder squinted slightly before answering.

  "You're a medico. Why isn't law enforcement asking me?"

  "I understand there's no love lost between you and sheriff's department."

  The older man grunted. "The sheriff's department is a joke. They only exist to serve that bastard Blakely."

  "Then why do you sell him your pot?"

  "That wasn't part of your script," Snyder answered with a faint smile. "You here to ask about a killing or talk philosophy?"

  "Just curious. It seems a little odd to be trading with someone you apparently don't care for."

  "I despise the man." He turned his head toward the screened doorway. "Mother," he said loudly, "bring some water."

  The smell of fried food was tantalizing. A thin woman, her face flush and perspiring emerged from the house carrying two glasses of water. Pete murmured his thanks.

  "My wife, Virginia," said Snyder.

  "I'm Pete Wilson. My pleasure."

  She smiled, and extended her hand. "Hello, Pete. You gentlemen will have to excuse me." She walked back into the house. She had a facial tic and her eyebrows jerked upwards several times as she spoke.

  "In the ‘60s, I was what you'd call a hippie. Peace, Love, Dope," he said, making a "V" sign with two fingers on his right hand. "I grew up around here, but just had to move to San Francisco to be a part of the grand experiment. Lived in a big old house with a bunch of other people, had a beard and let my hair grow down about half-way to my ass. But all those people coming and going, not doing a thing except drugs and screwing. I got kind of disgusted with the whole scene. So I moved out to a commune in Colorado. Drop City, we called it. Near Trinidad. You ever heard of it?"