Going to the Bad

by Nora McFarland

All at once the digging stopped. Some muffled, smoothing sounds were followed by footsteps. “Hey, kid?” Frank called.

  I froze in place as Frank crossed in front of me.

  “Hey, kid?” he repeated louder.

  The farmhouse’s front door opened and Brandon said, “I’m here.”

  “All done.” I heard Frank opening the hatch at the rear of the SUV and the shovel falling inside with a thud. “I’ve got the first half of your money. You want to count it inside where you can see better?”

  Brandon’s voice sounded unsure. “I don’t . . . Do I need to count it?”

  “You don’t need to, but you should.” Frank moved toward the house. “You should always count money.”

  “Careful not to trip,” Brandon said. “There are steps up to the porch.”

  I reached out and continued forward. My hand touched metal. I followed Frank’s black SUV to the rear. The hatch was open.

  I heard footsteps on the porch’s old wood planks. “Here it is. Mr. Warner says you get the second half when you produce the diamond brooch.”

  “I’d give it to you now,” Brandon said, “but it’s not here at the farmhouse and I can’t go get it until I finish this work I’m doing.”

  The two men went in the house, but the door stayed open.

  I stood and looked into the rear of the SUV. Black plastic sheeting covered the cargo area. I slowly lifted an end.

  Frank hadn’t been burying a body, he’d been digging one up.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Christmas Day, 8:43 a.m.

  Pieces of rotted black cloth covered the decayed figure, which had become little more than bones. Without a degree in forensic science I couldn’t say how long it had been underground, but it would have to have been decades.

  I looked up and out the windshield. Through the fog I saw that the rope of the swing had been severed and the tire tossed to the side.

  Someone had been buried here for all these years with the brooches. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. If this person had been killed, it was still prosecutable today.

  Did Bud know about the body’s and jewelry’s being here? Is that why he was so upset when he saw the gold brooch in the pawnshop—because it meant someone had found the body too? And what about Rod?

  I climbed inside, careful not to disturb the gruesome cargo, and looked into the backseat. It was empty except for the shovel and a few folded blankets.

  “I’ll be back later today to exchange the rest of the money for the diamond brooch.” Frank had exited the house and crossed the porch.

  I made a split-second decision and climbed into the backseat. I grabbed a blanket from the seat and covered myself on the floor of the car.

  “Thank you,” Brandon said. “But make sure you call my cell before coming over.”

  “I have no desire to overlap with your other business.” Frank slammed the rear hatch shut, then got in and backed the SUV up.

  Frank drove slowly because of the fog, but after a time the feel of the road changed. The ride abruptly smoothed out and I guessed we’d switched from dirt road to asphalt. Frank didn’t stop this time to speak with Sally at the mobile homes.

  I expected him to drive down the public road to the freeway, but after only a few minutes he slowed and turned left. We were driving into the refinery. The car stopped at what had to be the gate. I heard a window roll down.

  “Sir, just let me call ahead to Mr. Warner.” This was a young voice, probably a guard at the entrance. “He specifically said he was expecting you in twenty minutes.”

  “I don’t want to wait here. Just call and warn him I’m coming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I heard smooth-running and well-maintained machinery doing what it was designed to do—unlike the gate at KJAY, which creaked and groaned as it opened.

  Frank started the car moving again. We drove for a long time. Even with the fog forcing Frank to go slowly, we covered quite a distance. I was surprised. I knew the property stretched for miles and miles—all the way up to the mansion on the bluffs—but I didn’t think Warner or his people would use the oil field as a cut-through.

  I used the time to think about who might have been buried at the farmhouse. If the body and jewelry had been buried together, then the John/Jane Doe had probably died around the time of the theft. In this entire sorry tale, I’d only heard of one disappearance: Mrs. Paik’s first husband. Bud’s army buddy and fellow smoke jumper had returned from Alaska only to abandon his wife. Maybe he hadn’t done it voluntarily.

  Finally Frank slowed the car even more and then stopped. He cut the engine and got out.

  “You’re twenty minutes early,” a man yelled. “I wasn’t ready for you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Frank used the submissive tone reserved for male members of the Warner family. “The digging went much faster than I thought.”

  “Do you know how I had to scramble after the gate called and said you were on your way?” It was Warner’s son. I hadn’t recognized Junior at first because his angry voice was so much sharper. “I almost didn’t get the security cameras off-line in time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to linger at the gate where someone might have seen into the back of my SUV.”

  “If you’d concealed your cargo properly, then that wouldn’t have been a problem.” I heard footsteps and then the rear hatch opening. “You idiot, it’s barely covered.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought I’d done a better job. It must have gotten jostled on the ride over.”

  “Don’t make excuses.” Junior began walking away. “And don’t stand there. Let’s look at the well so we can get this over with.”

  “This one should suit our needs, sir.” Frank’s voice began to recede. “The crew was pulled off because of an emergency H2S release. Whatever we drop down the casing will land two thousand feet down and eventually be covered in fracking fluid.”

  I withdrew the iPhone from my jacket pocket, but saw no bars. I opened the camera app and slowly sat up. We were parked next to a huge pipe running slightly off the ground. The fog blocked everything else, but judging from the sound, we were close to several working oil wells.

  I leaned over the backseat with the phone. I removed the tarp and took several still photos. When that had been documented, I removed what I could of the rotting fabric to expose the actual body. It looked to my untrained eye as if the skull had been smashed in. I panned down and stopped. That’s when I saw it. The bottom right leg was bent back in a deformed arc. This hadn’t happened postmortem.

  The realization hit me the way most of mine do: fast, hard, and later than it should have. Carter King had polio as a child and walked with a limp. He’d also been dead for over fifty years.

  But how was it even possible? Carter King had sent letters to his sister. He’d engaged in a multitude of shady and illegal schemes. He’d gotten arrested in 1984 and been seen later in Bakersfield by Bouncer’s mother.

  He could have sold sunscreen to a crocodile with that smile.

  That was the perfect description of Bud. Could the man Kelvin Hoyt had pursued for the Bakersfield PD and the man who’d been Laurie Bogdanich’s lover been my uncle?

  Everyone had lied. Mida, Warner, and Bud had all conspired together. How many times did Bud leave Bakersfield to work a shady scheme using Carter King’s name? All to maintain the myth that Carter was alive, when in reality he was dead and buried a few yards from the house he’d grown up in.

  I heard voices and returned to my hiding place.

  I didn’t catch the entire conversation, but clearly Junior was still berating Frank. “. . . satisfactory, but there’s more to your job than simple discretion. For what you’re getting paid, I expect greater attention to detail.”

  “Yes, sir.” I heard the plastic sheeting jostle. “Ready, sir?”

  “Yes.” Junior managed to make even that simple affirmation sound like an insult. “Try not to be clumsy, if that’s even possible for you.
”

  I heard the plastic crinkle as it and the body were lifted and removed from the cargo area. Their awkward, shuffly footsteps receded around the SUV. I crept out of the back and stepped down into the dirt. I opened the phone’s video-camera app and stalked them in the fog. I wanted video of Frank and Junior with the body, but with limited memory I had to be careful when I began recording.

  They passed a small pumpjack sucking black gold from the gritty earth. My father, who’d worked for most of his adult life in Kern County’s oil fields, called these “thirsty birds” after the toy with the bobbing head. This pumpjack was slightly larger than an SUV. Its constant rhythm of ticking, thumps, and spinning belts was filled out by the faint noise of other pumps somewhere in the fog.

  The dark outlines of machinery emerged in the white haze. I caught up with Frank and Junior as they navigated around the massive equipment to where a new well had been drilled.

  “Keep your end level.” Junior was actually the one holding his end askew, but either egotism or delusion prevented him from realizing it. “Do you know what happens if you drop it here?”

  “I clean it up, sir.”

  Had Frank just mouthed off? I started recording.

  “What did you just say?”

  “The literal truth, sir. I will clean up the mess because that is what I have always done for your father.” Frank didn’t raise his voice. He spoke with affability and even friendliness, but I knew from experience to be wary.

  Junior didn’t. “Your posturing doesn’t impress me. We both know you’re a glorified guard dog.”

  I was dangerously close to them, but had to be for the phone to pick up their audio. I stayed low and close to the machinery, hoping they wouldn’t notice me in the fog.

  “It’s not posturing, sir.” Frank stopped and they both set the body down on the ground near the well opening. “Over the years Mr. Warner has trusted me with quite a few delicate tasks.”

  Joy flooded my soul. He’d named Warner on video! But it was about to get even better.

  Junior gestured to the plastic sheeting. “Like getting rid of bodies?”

  “This is the first one, sir. And you asked me to do it, not him.”

  That’s when the phone ran out of memory. As the app closed, the screen flashed. The light must have reflected off the water particles in the air because it was as if a camera flash had gone off.

  Frank saw me.

  Junior quickly turned. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Lilly Hawkins.” Frank stayed still. “I think she was recording us.”

  “What?” Junior paused, and when he next spoke, it was in a very different tone of voice. “Lilly, aren’t we friends? Why would you trespass and make illegal recordings?”

  I didn’t say anything. I was checking in vain for a cell signal.

  “I would have thought ten million dollars would buy a little more loyalty from you.” When I still didn’t reply, Junior took a step forward and extended his hand. “Bring the camera here or else you don’t get the money.”

  “It’s not a camera, it’s a cell phone,” I said. “And it’s too late. I already e-mailed the video to the station.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Junior turned to Frank. “Make her get it back. We’re both implicated.”

  The desperation in Junior’s voice erased all his previous criticisms and carping. He was counting on Frank to make the problem go away, just as his father had for so many years.

  “Don’t worry, sir.” Frank returned to his deferential tone. “She didn’t e-mail anything. There’s no reception here.”

  I turned and ran.

  Frank called after me, “Good luck getting out the electric fence.”

  He was right. There was nowhere to go, but I ran anyway. I figured best-case scenario if they caught me, I’d lose the video. Worst-case scenario? Considering that I had Leland Phillip Warner II on video disposing of a body and talking about his father’s involvement . . . Let’s just say I didn’t want to end up down that well with Carter King.

  I ran the opposite direction from Frank’s SUV. I glanced behind me to see if I was being followed. When I turned back, a wall jumped out of the fog. I hit the side of the storage tank and fell. I heard footsteps coming and jumped up. I hurried around the side of the massive structure, but the footsteps continued.

  “Lilly, you’re behaving very badly.” It was Junior. Had Frank stayed to finish with the body or was he circling around from the other side? “Give me that video or, so help me, I will not be responsible for what happens to you.”

  I cut away toward a light on an electric pole, but stopped short at a set of aboveground pipes. I had no choice but to turn and follow them. The pumping and wheezing got louder. Soon I’d reached a working pumpjack and the noise eclipsed all other sound.

  I stopped to try to guess my location. Frank had driven a long time. Despite the fog, I would have expected to see something of the refinery if it was nearby. That meant we’d come over the hill, which was bad since the refinery was probably my only chance at finding another human being out here.

  No cell reception, an electric fence that ran for miles, and no people to appeal to for help. I had a crazy thought and wondered what Bud would do.

  Without warning, hands grabbed me. The deafening noise of the pumpjack masked the intimate sounds of our struggle. Instinct told me I was in serious trouble. These hands weren’t strong and sure of themselves like Bouncer’s. They gripped me in desperation. They scratched, pulled hair, and ripped.

  I got a good hit in with my elbow and tried to stumble away into the fog. He followed and tackled me. I managed to roll over onto my back, but wasn’t fast enough to get up.

  It was Junior, not Frank. I saw him now as he loomed over me and grabbed the front of my shirt. Behind him the thirsty bird bobbed up and down as Junior raised his hand in a wide arc. I tried to kick, but he straddled me. The back of his hand came down with all the power in his shoulder. I heard the internal sounds of flesh tearing as his ring cut a line across my face.

  Tears flowed involuntarily from my eyes. Junior dropped my collar and my head lolled back into the dirt. He began searching my overstuffed jacket pockets, pulling out mic cables, antacids, and random batteries. The phone was in the back pocket of my jeans, but he didn’t know that.

  Through my blurred vision I saw him toss the van keys into the dirt. Despite the pain, I raised a hand to my face. I had no idea how much of the liquid there was blood and how much tears, but I managed to wipe my eyes clear.

  My hand darted to the keys. Before Junior even realized what was happening, my fist sailed at him. The metal tip of the news-van key penetrated his designer leather jacket and stabbed his abs.

  Junior’s scream rose above the din of the pumpjack. He clutched his stomach and fell off me into the dirt.

  I ran.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Christmas Day, 9:25 a.m.

  The oil field was a maze. There were no paved roads to follow. I’d find what seemed to be a path only to run into a giant storage tank or a working oil well. Aboveground pipes connected everything and turned in unexpected directions at unexpected times. Some of these conduits reached as tall as me and others I could easily leap over.

  I had one thought: keep following the downward slope of the land. It would lead me to the river, then the bluffs, and finally—if I could climb in the fog—to Warner’s mansion, where there was cell reception. An observer might have called this running to trouble, but anything was better than turning around and facing Junior again. Also, if I could e-mail the video back to KJAY, there’d be no reason to hurt me.

  After what felt like forever, but was probably twenty minutes, the electric poles ended and an increase in vegetation began. Judging by the lack of machinery noise, the pumpjacks had ended too. When I reached an actual tree, I knew I was close to the river.

  I remembered looking down from Warner’s mansion and seeing a bridge just below. The Kern River is largely diverted
for the irrigation of crops, but at times it flows with treacherous volume. I had no desire to wade across when I was already hurt and exhausted. I followed the river and found the bridge a few minutes later.

  I tried one last time for a cell signal before attempting to cross. As I held the phone in the air, I recognized Warner’s mansion above. The fog was clearing, but enough remained to blur the structure’s edges, as though the house had a bad aura.

  I lowered the phone. No cell signal. I had no choice but to go across and climb.

  The old wooden planks jostled as I put my weight on them, but were far more secure than the railing. That construction of decaying wood looked as if it would collapse if I even touched it. I wondered if the bridge dated back to when all this had been orange groves. Maybe Erabelle had crossed it as a girl when she herself had climbed the bluffs to look out at her father’s land.

  A pair of headlights erupted in the fog ahead of me. I heard a car door open. “Okay, Lilly.” It was Frank’s voice. “You’ve made a good effort, but fun’s over. Give us the camera.”

  “Are you tired, old man?” I had no reason to think Frank was touchy about being in the twilight of middle age, but when everything is said and done, who isn’t? “Because I can do this all day.”

  He slammed the car door and his form emerged from the fog. “I want that video. I’d prefer things stayed polite, but if I have to hurt you, I will.”

  I held up the phone. “Come and get it.”

  He marched forward with brisk steps, as I hoped he would. Once on the bridge, he slowed—wary of the loose planks and suspicious of my not running from him.

  He stopped two yards from me and pointed down at a gaping hole. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see?” He cautiously stepped to the side and around the missing planks. “If that’s your idea of a trap, then you’ll never get that boyfriend of yours to marry you.”

  I charged at him with both palms out. He crashed into the decayed-wood railing and tumbled over the side. Half a second later I heard a splash followed by obscenities.

  I ran forward toward the car. Just as I hit dirt, the passenger’s-side door opened. I sprinted for the bluff. I glanced over my shoulder and got a glimpse of Junior charging.