by Tim Bryant
I had a flashlight and my .38, and I gave Ruthie the old .32 caliber pistol I kept in the glove box for backup. I was mostly concerned about wild animals, but there were sure to be a large number of guys hanging around, mostly due to the time of year. The professional bums all came south for winter, trying to stay out of bad weather. That was in addition to guys like the Whitakers and Moody Harbaugh and Joe Dolly, who called Ninth Street home and rarely if ever strayed. We found Verbal Whitaker in an old abandoned car off to the side of the tracks. He was playing dice and drinking something from a rusty can. I was afraid to ask what it was, and he didn't offer a taste.
"Any of you boys seen Werner Athey down here lately?" I said.
I had to explain that I wasn't the law. I wasn't looking to bring Werner to justice; I was looking to bring him anywhere.
"I would like a chance to talk with him, if I could," Ruthie Nell said.
Always looking for the story. Maybe it was at that point though that I understood, it wasn't an ego thing. It would have been with me, but not with Ruthie. She had a genuine yearning to understand. To find the order behind the chaos. No wonder she had grown tired of me.
"You see him, " I said, "just tell him to lay low. Better yet, hit the rails, leave town for a while."
I was working against Ruthie. I wasn't trying to. I did it without trying.
Part of me wanted to jump the Texas Pacific engine and drive Ruthie Nell and me far enough away that I could relocate some kind of peace of mind that I'd lost along the way. I could feel it buried down deep, and I could bring it up almost at will, but it brought up other things with it. It made me angry. Dissatisfied. I could no more make her be the way I wanted her to be than I could myself.
"Moody heard the fiddler down under the trestle," one of the men said. Moody pointed out the direction to me, as if I didn't already know. I wanted to go there. I looked into the darkness, but I didn't see Werner Athey. I saw that goddamn boar hog, and I wanted to kill it. Right there, in that moment, it seemed like the most important thing I could do. Kill it and cook it up on the bank of Mary's Creek.
"You okay, Dutch?"
James Alto calls it my El Mocho the Maimed look. My inner Indian warrior. Any Indian worth his salt would have taken a hunting rifle, if not a bow and quiver full of arrows, instead of a pistol and one small box of shells, but maybe that's where the maimed part comes in. I led the charge into Mary's Creek that night without looking back at my troops, and when I did think to look back, I was surprised to see eight or ten behind me, including Ruthie Nell. Whether they were with me for true support or just out of morbid curiosity, I can't say.
Why I thought the goddamn pig would be waiting for me, I can't say either. It seemed so much like he would have to be there that when I came to the trestle and found in standing alone, it was almost like being startled from a dream. I stopped momentarily before continuing up the creek bank, moving down to where I was only a literal foot away from the water. With the tree cover, I could plainly make out only the sand that snaked alongside the creek. The creek itself was black and unmoving, responding only when I kicked at it.
"Where are you going, Dutch?"
Dear Ruthie Nell. Never happy enough to follow and watch. Always needing a quote.
"I kept dreaming," I said. "I was inside the house. In the kitchen, looking out the window into the dark. There were these eyes. At first I thought it was Werner. Then I thought it was Claude Griner. Then, as they got closer, I knew exactly who it was."
From back among the troops, I heard someone that sounded like Moody Harbaugh.
"It was...well...damn sure wasn't...me."
"Loud as y'all are, you just gonna chase away that fiddler ghost even if he is out here," Verbal Whitaker said.
We had just come to a sharp bend in the creek where it turned back toward town. It also meant we were getting close to the area that backed up to the Athey place.
"Ghost," I said.
"He weren't no damn...," said Moody. "No damn ghost. No, no more than I. Me or you."
"Seem like some kind of ghost to me," said Verbal. "I can't even believe I'm back off down here."
"We're hunting for a wild black pig," I said.
I didn't believe Werner Athey was guilty of murdering anybody, and I didn't believe he was a ghost. I did believe I had seen some kind of vision down there in the darkness, and I believed it had to do with me gutting that goddamn boar and feeding it to the troops for breakfast.
We went all the way to the Athey place, where I gave Ruthie Nell a tour of the shed, showed her where the bear trap had been, where I had dragged it away, and where I had sat and listened to Dewey Mitchell talk to his own darkness.
"I heard about that night," Ruthie said.
I told her I figured he was talking to Werner. That he thought maybe he was still hanging around the place. Turned out she knew better.
"Dewey told me that he saw you on the property, Dutch," she said. "I'm fairly sure he was talking to you."
Everything I wanted to say seemed defensive, so I kept my trap closed. It may have meant that he had known about the trap, too. If so, that whole deal with the arrest warrant was probably no more than a shakedown. A trick to see if I was onto something.
Half an hour later, one of the troops heard that boar hog squealing back up Mary's Creek, and we all lit out in its direction. Turned out to be a baby stuck in a ditch that fed into the creek. I didn't have any use for that baby, but we followed it right back to that big poppa. He was backed up in a ravine, so black you couldn't see anything but his eyes and tusks. He wasn't happy to see us, even if we did escort his kid back home.
By then, my troops had dwindled in size, victims of either sleep or the spooks. Ruthie was still there, looking better and better the more disheveled she got, and about four or five of the guys. I may or may not have been the only one left with a gun.
I doubt there were many boar hogs that size within several miles, but I could tell he was the one. There was something in his eyes. Like me, he had seen some things. I moved to within thirty yards. Close enough that he was uncomfortable and starting to think about charging. It was quiet enough that I could hear him breathing. Could have been me, but I'm not even sure I was breathing by that point. Didn't seem like there was anything there but that boar hog, me and the stars, and every different one of them was a reason to shoot. I pulled the .38 up, clicked off the safety and squeezed.
By the time he squealed and ran past me, blind as a cannonball, I unloaded six bullets in him. The first two or three were aimed right for his eyes, his circuit box was right behind them. He screamed headlong into a big oak tree with enough force to make the whole damn ground shudder beneath us, busted his brains out against its trunk and dropped to the ground.
"God. Goddamn," Moody Harbaugh said.
My ears rang for the rest of the morning. While we cut that beast up into sections, while we loaded them up and carried them out on our backs, while LeRoy from LeRoy's Pool Hall came out, sized up our kill, and proclaimed it big enough to feed the multitudes.
"You know anybody got the means to take care of something this size?" he said.
I thought for a few minutes.
"Call up John Fleck," I said.
Fleck had a joint over in Stop Six. He had a sign that said he didn't serve no food or no troublemakers, but he was known to throw a big barbecue from time to time. Later that night, he was serving up platefuls of one of the biggest troublemakers I'd come up against in a good while. Shoulder and roast. Racks of meat. Ribs. Bacon. Even the damn head. He brought in extra whiskey. He brought in Ransom & The Vankirks to play. A celebration was had.
I left before the food was all gone. After Ruthie Nell. It had been a long day, and I was in need of sleep. Whatever dreams might come, I wasn't afraid. I had stared down the worst. Now, all that was left were the ghosts. And maybe I didn't believe in myself totally, but I did believe just a little. I didn't believe in ghosts one bit.
34
&
nbsp; Sheriff King was still holding Griner, desperate to find something to charge him with. As farfetched as it seemed then, I was in the strange position of working for him. I simply couldn't find a scenario in which he showed up at the Athey house and shot the woman of the house and her two kids. I did stand in the kitchen, at the door the assailant undoubtedly used. I stood over the sink and scanned the yard. I looked into the living room. I saw everything that couldn't have happened. I was convinced.
All the same, I showed up at Roberts Guns & Ammo like I said I would, somewhat curious if they had found anything of interest. Bob the owner was busy loading a customer up with enough shells to either invade Cuba or go on a hunting trip to south Texas, whichever came up. Ballard was at the other end of the counter, explaining the difference between gun salesmen and gunsmiths to some young guy who looked as out of place as a hard-on at a funeral.
"Mr. Curridge, I'll be right with you," Bob said.
I listened to enough of Ballard's monologue to discern that gunsmiths were the way to go, and that both he and our good friend Bobert fit firmly into that category, which put them a notch above the other gun stores in the area. I wandered over to the Winchester rifles and looked for the model closest to the one my father had given me. The one Momma tried to get me to take when I left. The one that was still back in the house in Weatherford, rusting away from neglect.
"Dutch, I think we found something for you," Ballard said.
Bob pulled a couple of receipts from under the cash register and waved them in the air.
"I don't know if this will help you, but I've got the only two sales on that gun that we've made. We did just get a new one in, in case you're interested. I can make you a real good deal."
As much as I liked the looks of the gun, I wasn't about to trade in my Colt.
"Let me see those receipts."
He put them down on the counter, turned where I could see them.
"The first one sold to a cattle rancher from Buffalo Gap. Name says Harrell Wilks. Second one was bought by Claude Albert Griner the second. He's a local."
I held the receipt up close and read it for myself.
"You mean they made two of him?"
Ballard was just about ready to crack the case.
"I wouldn't put anything past those bastards from out west. They come into town with more money than sense and cause trouble up and down the highway. Everybody talks so bad about Jacksboro. Devil's highway. All them damn devils have Abilene driver's licenses. Either that or Dallas."
I did look over that Colt Trooper and made a deal with myself that, if and when my .38 ever played out, I would be back for it. It was a pretty gun. Maybe too pretty for a man like me, and certainly too pretty for Claude Griner. I was pretty much done with my business there, but I did have more other thing on my mind.
"Ballard, I know you said Werner Athey was seen up around here, in a few of the clubs, after the murders. You happen to know if he spent much time up here before all that?"
Living there, playing music there, sometimes even with Werner, if he didn't know, I wasn't sure who would.
"Werner played blackjack at the Skyliner, Dutch. He was one of those unlucky bastards that was always waiting for his luck to change."
I could identify.
"You can run out of time waiting for that," I said.
The receipt at Roberts Guns & Ammo was an important piece of the puzzle. As much as Ballard wanted me to go after Harrell Wilks of Buffalo Gap, I knew the connection between Griner and the gun found on the premises—a new gun at that—was awfully damning. Probably enough for Sheriff King to go to the Grand Jury. I had other visions in mind though. Visions that were pulling me back to the scene of the crime one more time.
It was still morning when I arrived at the house, which meant I was there at approximately the same time the murders had taken place. Walking into the kitchen, there was no sign that anything so disturbing had ever transpired, so I was seeing things pretty much as Albertine Athey had. But had Griner come by as he did on so many mornings, and, if he did, what happened? Was Werner there, and did an argument escalate into violence? None of it added up, because none of it would have resulted in the murder of those two girls. Those two hadn't been innocent victims caught in the crossfire. The gun had been carefully aimed.
I saw the younger girl, spread out on the floor, halfway between her sister and her momma. No bigger than my own sister Lizbeth had been when she died. I think that's when I knew. That's when I saw it. Her big sister shot and dying on the sofa, and the little girl coming after her momma. Desperate to stop what was happening. Had Griner been standing there with her momma? Had he killed the girls and then turned the gun on the mother? Maybe the Atheys were indeed moving out, and he was stopping them. Maybe he had been parking his car in front of the house every morning for a good reason.
Maybe Werner never knew. Maybe he had returned from work and walked in on something. Some questions only brought up more questions, but, if I could see through Werner Athey's eyes, if he had walked in on the same scene that I had walked in on, I could only imagine what the reaction would have been.
And so that's what I did. I walked into the kitchen three different times, imagining that I was Werner Athey coming home to my family. Each time, I was surprised by what awaited me. Each time, I crossed something off my list. Griner couldn't have been there. If he had, there would have been signs. A scuffle. Defensive injuries. Griner's dead body.
One question came up, and I knew only one person could answer it. Not only could he, I was pretty damn sure he would. He had nothing to gain by lying. And I knew exactly where to find him.
35
Sheriff King was leading his usual parade through the halls of the Sheriff's Department, on his way to the jail units. He seemed happy enough to see me, if only because I was someone he wasn't having to pay to listen to him.
"You know Tom Dyess at the dead house, Dutch?"
I was happy enough that he got my name right.
"Ted Dyess," I said. "Yeah."
"Ted, Fred, whatever he said. He says he's fairly certain this bag of bones they hauled out of Athey's back forty was dead within hours—maybe minutes—of whatever happened in the goddamn house. Fact that I can absolutely no-shadow-of-a-doubt pinpoint your friend Claude Griner at the scene on that very morning means I'm a shake of a lamb's tail from telling Jerry Paul to send this thing to the Jury."
King always had the strength of his convictions, even if it sometimes led him to convict the wrong man.
"I could lose that son of a bitch without losing a wink of sleep," I said, "but I do want to ask him one question. If he answers it your way, you can have at him. If he answers the way I suspect he will, you're probably gonna need to let him walk."
King didn't like that one iota.
"Dutch, I've already asked him every damn question in the book. I don't think he's told one damn lie. Trouble is, I don't think he's told me the truth, the whole truth, either."
As we talked, we were walking, and I couldn't help noticing we were making a beeline for the units. County was made up of two separate blocks of cells. The units were upfront, were usually halfway empty except for weekend nights with a full moon or some big event that attracted an extra side of insanity. The other half was filled with a combination of drunks, fighters, people who would sleep off whatever was eating at them and then be released the next morning not even remembering what had happened to put them there. And people like Claude, waiting around to either get released on lack of evidence or else, if they were unlucky, get transferred to the blocks at the back. Not exactly like going to prison, it was at least a more extended vacation away from home. The farm league for the prison system.
Claude Griner looked smaller through the bars of his cell. Smaller and older. His eyes dark enough that you'd have thought somebody clobbered him. He seemed happy to see me until he saw that it was me.
"Mr. Griner."
"I want to see my lawyer."
It wasn't what I wanted to hear. I was afraid he would clam up and say nothing until we brought somebody in, and then the lawyer would tell him to clam up all over again.
"I'm here to get you out," I said. "I just need to ask you a question."
The sheriff didn't like that part too much.
"I didn't do anything," Griner said.
He was trying his best to look defiant. The bars between us weren't helping.
"Did you shoot Albertine Athey and her two girls?"
"No. I swear to God."
I knew a lot of liars. I knew Griner was fully capable of bullshitting me if he felt like it. I didn't see any indication that he was.
"Did you kill her husband, Werner Athey?"
"No. No, I did not. I never even saw him."
Sheriff King had his arms crossed, and he was looking annoyed. I wasn't sure if it was directed at me or Griner. I knew he'd been over these questions before, so I assumed it was me.
"Did you have reason, sometime in the final days of Mrs. Athey's life, to loan her the Colt Trooper .357 that you purchased at Roberts Guns and Ammo on Roberts Cutoff?"
He didn't answer that one as quickly. I doubt he knew that the .357 had been traced to him and the gun store, but he had to have known that it could be. You could see him considering. If he said yes, it would take the murder weapon out of his hand.
The man broke. Tough old Claude Griner sobbing like a baby. King felt bad enough to push a handkerchief through the bars. He was gasping and hiccoughing and blowing his nose, but not so much that you couldn't understand what he said.
"I gave it to her."
I knew one thing right then and there. The man was crazy about Albertine Athey like I was about Ruthie. He couldn't hide it any more than he could hide the nose on his face. I couldn't help putting myself in his shoes, even if part of me wanted to punch him silly.
