Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

  Ollie said, “You’ve told us enough for the sheriff to get a search warrant.”

  “I agree. Ollie’s learned something from hanging around with me.”

  Jill said, “The sheriff? You mean Gustave Fribeau, the guy with the skinny mustache who chews on those nasty black cigars?”

  Rosswell said, “The same.”

  Jill hung her head as if to indicate she was astounded by Rosswell’s blindness. “Judge, do you know who’s in that delivery room helping Karyn? Or, I should say, who’s making sure that Karyn doesn’t do anything odd, like helping the woman escape?”

  Rosswell made his face as blank as possible. “How would I know something like that?”

  She said, “Because rumor has it that you’ve talked to her recently.”

  Ollie said, “Her who?”

  A pounding coming from the outside caused Jill to aim her gun at the front door. “You two,” she whispered, “get in the closet. If you hear gunshots, stay in there, unless you want your brains smeared all over the walls.”

  Chapter 30

  Sunday Morning, continued

  In the closet, Rosswell whispered, “You can’t trust anyone. Has a single person told us the truth about anything?”

  “No and shut up.” Ollie pressed his ear against the door of the closet. Rosswell did the same.

  Rosswell didn’t recognize the voices that he’d heard shouting and screaming. Then there had been a couple of gunshots. Or maybe cars backfiring. A thump or two, maybe signifying that a body had hit the floor. Next the sound of a couple of cars or trucks starting and leaving. It was several minutes after Rosswell heard the front door slam that he voiced his observation about trust, only to be shushed by his research assistant.

  No sounds reached Rosswell’s ear after several more minutes of listening. “They’re gone.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I didn’t recognize any voices.”

  His pistol at the ready, Rosswell tried to open the door. Locked. The foot with the broken toe was useless. The foot that had been trapped in the spittoon hurt, but not as much as the other one. A few kicks proved useless.

  Ollie said, “Let me do that.”

  “No. I can do this.” Rosswell kicked the door several more times with the spittoon foot. He should’ve let Ollie do the kicking. It didn’t seem the pain would ever subside. On the next kick, the feeble lock gave way. Rosswell stepped into the hallway, which, after a thorough inspection, proved empty. “No one in the hallway.” He eased open the front door, slipping out, leading with his gun. No reaction. With the rising of the sun came an increasing wind. “The sun’s coming up.”

  Ollie hovered close behind Rosswell. “It does that every morning.”

  “Up to this point.”

  Standing on the porch of Jill’s house, Rosswell swept his gaze across the yard and the highway beyond. “I don’t see any bodies littering the place.” Without thinking, he jumped to the ground. The pain dropped him to his knees. With a resolute moan, he stood. Ollie merely watched, shaking his head. Now both of Rosswell’s feet hurt worse than they had before. He hobbled to the driveway. “I don’t see any cars, either. Where did everybody go?”

  The wind’s intensity grew. Leaves and bits of litter swirled on the ground, then blew upward, circling, forming dust devils full of grit and debris.

  Rosswell coughed and sneezed. “I don’t trust Jill. It seems mighty convenient that someone showed up at her front door after she rescued both of us.”

  “I’d say it was more of a capture than a rescue.” Ollie shined his flashlight around in the yard, the dawn light not yet being much help. “There are two, maybe three, different sets of tire tracks.” He knelt on the ground, swiping his finger through a red puddle of something, then sniffing it. “Someone’s vehicle is leaking transmission fluid.”

  “They won’t be going far.”

  Ollie stood and followed the dripping trail out to the highway. “They went south, toward town. Or maybe to Nathaniel’s.”

  Rosswell perched on the shoulder of the highway. “Let’s take a brief intermission.”

  “Let’s all go to the lobby to get ourselves a treat,” Ollie said, mimicking the tune from the advertisement that movie theaters and drive-ins played in the olden days.

  “Why aren’t we dead?”

  Ollie didn’t hesitate. “Because we are still alive.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Death cuts down your options.”

  Rosswell ground his teeth. “Pay attention. Why aren’t we dead?”

  “Is this catechism class? Or a philosophy roundtable?”

  “Did luck befriend us? Think about it.” Rosswell tapped the side of his head. “Nathaniel could’ve killed us a couple of times. He may even be waiting in the woods over there with a high-powered rifle ready to nail our empty heads when it gets light enough.”

  “He kidnapped Tina and he’s wanting a huge ransom from you.”

  “I could pay a small ransom but not a huge one. You know I don’t have that kind of money. You’ve seen my bank account.”

  “Judge Carew, are you accusing me of hacking your bank to look at your assets?”

  “That’s an argument for another day. Now, let me think.”

  Rosswell discerned patches of the river through the trees on the other side of the highway, the whitecaps on the water growing larger and more frequent. Big white birds—some kind of gull—chased a barge, gorging on the fish churned up in its wake. The angry squawking birds mirrored his mood. Jill, patently unaware of the need to water her lawn, had let her parched yard morph into a dry plot of decay. Even the tree leaves, rustling in a barely perceptible breeze, displayed their stress by curling and turning yellow. Millions of gallons of water flowed daily past a land dying of thirst.

  “You smell that?” Rosswell smelled smoke. “Some damned farmer got the bright idea to burn his fields today. People are so stupid sometimes.”

  Ollie licked a finger and stuck it in the air. “Wind’s not too bad. Blowing from the south.”

  “Why don’t they plow under the leftovers from last year’s crop instead of burning a field? It would do more to help the soil.”

  “Farmer Rosswell, let’s get the hell out of here and head back to town.”

  “Amen.”

  When they topped a rise, Rosswell beheld the blaze, its color a sickening white near the ground where the fire burned hottest. The flames above the white area turned yellow, then, the higher the flames raged, orange and red. Above the red, where combustion no longer occurred, the unburned fuel produced smoke.

  Rosswell sniffed the air. “The smoke’s getting thick.”

  “Hope you can see to drive.”

  “Hope I can find the truck.”

  The smoke increased to the density of a heavy fog. Rosswell and Ollie hoofed it north toward where Rosswell hoped the truck was parked. Disorientation set in. He was lost in the smoke.

  The fire beast increased in strength from every bit of grass and brush it devoured, then grew ever hotter. The heated air drew in more and more of the surrounding cooler air, creating a draft. The updraft ballooned, sucking air in, mushrooming the fire. The sound reminded Rosswell of the growl of a tornado at the height of its fury.

  A deer, her tail raised in alarm, vaulted from a ditch, surprising Rosswell and Ollie when they weaved by her. She squealed a cry of distress, sounding a lot like Ollie. Three fawns also jumped up from the ditch and hovered around the doe. The fawns bumped the doe, as if urging her on, signaling her to move out of the path of the fire. The four deer locked a stare on Ollie and Rosswell, then galloped toward the men.

  “Man the battle stations!” Ollie swiveled his head around in all directions, no doubt looking for the best way to escape. “We’re being run over by deer!”

  Rosswell drew his gun with the thought of firing into the air to scare the deer away from them, or, if necessary, shooting them in the head to stop their progress. But it was too late. The animal
s buffeted the men, knocking them to the ground. All four of the deer ran onto the highway. They stopped, befuddled by a smoke that rivaled the thickest fog ever seen in the river bottoms.

  Rosswell, on his belly in a prone shooter’s position, aimed at the deer. “I’m killing them before they hurt somebody.”

  “Yep. The smoke is screwing up their sense of smell. They’re dangerous.”

  Rosswell lost his chance at a clear shot when the critters instantly bolted into a smoke bank. “Fracking deer.”

  A wind gust cleared the smoke from the highway. A car traveling south slammed on its brakes, skidding sideways in the highway, away from the deer.

  The doe snorted and she and the three fawns wheeled around, galloping on again toward Rosswell and Ollie, still lying on the ground.

  Rosswell aimed at the deer again. He couldn’t shoot. The deer were helpless animals caught in the smoke the same as he and Ollie. “The smoke’s screwing up my aim. Head for lower ground. Momma’s back with her kiddies and she doesn’t look happy.” Why should the deer pay with their lives when they hadn’t started the fire?

  Ollie scurried into the ditch, Rosswell behind him. Both men hunkered down, folding their arms over their heads. The noise of the fire ramped up to the sound of a train hulking down the tracks at full speed. Rosswell began coughing as the smoke and flames sucked up the available oxygen around them.

  Ollie said, “Have the critters gone?”

  Rosswell’s vision blurred as the hot mist closed in around them. “Let’s get out of here right now. Head for the highway.” Through the smoke, though, he spotted flames. Lots of fire. On every side.

  A crash resounded from the highway. Rosswell knew what had happened. Some fool decided to drive through the smoke even though visibility was zero. That fool had hit the car that had earlier swerved to miss the deer. Another crash resounded. Another fool.

  There’s no end to fools.

  “Get out of that car,” Rosswell heard one voice say. The noise of the fire couldn’t match the screams of road rage. Another voice said, “Can’t you drive, you idiot!” A third voice said, “There’s gasoline leaking and it’s all over the road. Get the hell away.”

  The fireball that erupted didn’t light up the sky because the smoke was too thick. But it did manage to make a flash bright enough for Rosswell to see the highway.

  “Now, Ollie. Quick. Make for the truck.”

  “Where’s the truck?”

  “North of us.”

  “Damn.” Ollie circled twice in the smoke. “I forgot my Boy Scout compass.”

  Chapter 31

  Sunday Morning, continued

  Rosswell shouted, “Can you see the highway?” He pressed both hands around his face until he realized that shading his eyes from the flames surrounding them wouldn’t help him spot the road.

  Ollie gawked. “No.” Rosswell doubted if Ollie could see any better than he could.

  “If we stumble onto it and some other fool comes tearing down the highway, we’re dead.”

  Ollie grabbed his chest and coughed. “We’re dead if we stay here.”

  Smoke wafted up Rosswell’s nose—his love of the nostalgic scent of burning leaves in the fall had fluttered away—and he gauged the strength of the fire around them. “I estimate we have five minutes before we’re crispy critters.” He could hardly breathe. When a gust of hot air rushed around them, fanning the flames, singeing his hair and evaporating the sweat from his brow, he said, “Maybe less. Let’s run that way.”

  Rosswell was certain that Ollie couldn’t see where his finger pointed, but the faithful research assistant stayed within a foot of him as they ran for what Rosswell hoped was the highway.

  Ollie could get killed if I’m wrong. Or, worse, I could get hurt.

  Through the smoke ahead of them, Rosswell spied cars burning. Burning cars in front of them meant they were headed for the highway.

  I don’t see any bodies. Maybe the drivers and passengers made it to safety before the explosion. Or the explosion ripped everyone to shreds.

  Ollie tripped over a thick poison ivy vine and slammed into Rosswell, knocking them both to the ground.

  Ollie rolled to his back. “I don’t think I can make it.”

  “Don’t crap out on me now or I’ll kill your ass.” Rosswell tried breathing shallow breaths. If he continued sucking in smoke, he estimated that soon he’d be at the pack-a-day level with a twenty-year head start.

  Through the thickening smoke, Rosswell spotted a round opening slightly downhill from him. “Ollie,” he screamed. Ollie’s eyes lacked depth, shiny as old glass in a deserted house. Ollie didn’t respond, even after Rosswell yelled at him again. Rosswell smacked Ollie across the face. When Ollie’s eyes seemed to focus, Rosswell said, “Follow me.”

  “That’s what I was doing before and look where it got me.” Ollie gasped and choked between every word.

  Rosswell slipped his arms under Ollie. “Move, damn it. I’m trying to turn you over.” Ollie wriggled enough, allowing Rosswell to flip him onto his stomach. “Start crawling. It’s only a couple of feet.” Rosswell slithered like a snake on an oily slide down the embankment into a culvert running under the highway. On his way down, the rocks along the embankment cut into his face and arms. Scuttling around to where he could see out the end of the pipe where he’d entered, he couldn’t find Ollie. Scrambling out of the culvert, then digging his shoes in the dry ground for purchase, he gained the top of the embankment, grabbed the neck of Ollie’s shirt and dragged him down to what he hoped was safety.

  Rosswell cupped his hands and splashed water from the ditch onto Ollie’s face. “Where’s this coming from?” Ollie dipped his hand into the trickle of water running through the pipe. “We’re having a drought.”

  “From a spring? We’ll do a geological survey if we survive.” Rosswell ripped off his shirt, dunked it in the water, and covered his face. “Protect yourself.”

  When Ollie didn’t follow suit, Rosswell unbuttoned Ollie’s shirt, wet it, and covered his research assistant’s face. “That will save you.”

  “I’m being waterboarded!” Ollie choked, then coughed. “This water stinks.” Ollie’s words, dampened by the cloth over his head, sounded to Rosswell like a badly tuned radio broadcasting incomprehensible news. “Torture is a felony in this state. You’re using tainted water!”

  “Since when did you get so picky?” Rosswell’s voice was also muffled when he spoke. “I know a fire marshal who will be interested in our blackened corpses. In a couple of minutes, we’re going to get fried by hot air.”

  “No.” Ollie gagged. “We’ll be broiled, not fried. When you’re cooked by direct exposure to intense heat, that’s broiling.” Ollie tried and failed to sit up.

  Rosswell thought he should shoot Ollie, but he didn’t want to give his research assistant the pleasure of dying before he did.

  Rosswell said, “This water is coming from a sewage lagoon.” He lied, hoping to shock some sense into Ollie.

  Ollie gagged again. “I’m ready to die now.”

  “The oxygen is being sucked into the firestorm.” Rosswell wheezed. If his lungs survived this onslaught, he promised himself he’d never fear anything again. Except the loss of Tina. “We’ll suffocate before we fry. Or broil. Or baste.”

  Without a word or a sound, Ollie slumped to the bottom of the pipe.

  Rosswell said, “Goodbye, Ollie. This is it, my friend.”

  Ollie didn’t stir. Rosswell knew his research assistant was dead and it was his fault.

  “At least you went before me. I’m going to suffer a lot, but you’re now at peace.” Rosswell placed his right hand on Ollie’s heart. “Peaceful trip.”

  Rosswell heard a sound cut the air. It sounded like a building collapsing. Trees falling? Another car exploding? He was beyond caring.

  “Ollie.” Still no response. “Ollie, are you dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, you stay here. I’ll fetch the coro
ner to make it official.”

  Ollie struggled to a bent over position, vomited, and waddled from the pipe. Rosswell followed. Ollie managed to put his shirt back on, but it was inside out.

  “There’s a break in the fire.” Rosswell pointed to a place where the fire didn’t look quite so dangerous. “Through there. Run for the highway.”

  Behind them, the farm truck—or what was formerly the farm truck—cooled in the morning sun, its frame bent into the shape of a humpbacked whale.

  “Judge, you’re mighty hard on vehicles.”

  “Walk north, away from the fire.”

  “Yeah. Great idea.”

  “Ollie, stick your thumb out. We’re hitchhiking back to town.”

  “Then we’re going the wrong way. Sainte Gen is south and we’re going north.”

  “We’ll take the long way around. I’m not going back into the flames.”

  “Let’s hope Nathaniel doesn’t stop to pick us up.”

  Chapter 32

  Sunday Afternoon into Sunday Night

  After sleeping most of the day, Rosswell awoke, thinking he’d have time to hustle down to Mabel’s before supper.

  Mrs. Bolzoni didn’t look up from sweeping the front porch. “I make the special tonight for the supper.”

  Rosswell jerked to a halt before he reached the steps, forming a question, knowing that the answer would be delicious. “What’s the special?” The delightful smells of the supper wafted from the kitchen onto the porch. “Tell me. I need to know.” Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he’d begun salivating.

  Alessandra stepped around her mother. “Roasted bone marrow on crostini, sea salt sprinkled over it, mixed green salad with Italian herb vinaigrette, New York strip steak, sides of grilled Portobello mushrooms and baked new potatoes, all accompanied by a nice cabernet sauvignon—sweet tea for you and me—and Ricotta cheesecake for dessert.”

  Rosswell mulled over falling to the ground and weeping. Instead, he swallowed a few times to lower the saliva content of his mouth. “I have urgent business that I must attend to in town.”