“Okay. Hank always has me deliver the band a round of drinks, on him, before they go onstage. One night I went back to the dressing room, and the door was partway open. I stood outside with the tray and a couple whiskeys for Billy. I was about to holler for him when I heard her literally yelling at him for wearing the wrong shirt and jeans. She was like, ‘I laid out your clothes on the bed. You have an image, Billy, and this isn’t it. This is soft. You look sloppy and soft.’” Angela laughed, her eyes wide at the memory. “I kicked the door with my foot and walked on in so she knew I’d heard what she’d said. She’s such a witch.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“She didn’t care. She just glared until I left. Didn’t thank me for the drinks, either.”
“Do you think they both left town together, after Billy got his guitar?”
She looked surprised at the question. “I don’t know why they wouldn’t have. That’s why they stopped at the bar. Billy wanted his guitar before they left town.”
“Do you think Billy could have gone back home, and Brenda left without him?”
Angela exhaled heavily, as if she was irritated by the question. “He’s her meal ticket. She wouldn’t go to Austin without him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she treats him like he’s six. Tells him what to do. She’d be afraid he’d screw something up without her telling him every move to make.”
“If she treats him so bad, why does he stay?” Josie asked.
She laughed. “Everybody at the Hell-Bent wonders the exact same thing.”
“Do you have any idea who Billy’s closest friends are? Maybe the band members?”
“Without a doubt, Slim Jim, his drummer, is his best friend. They grew up together in Alpine.”
“Jim Saxon?”
She stubbed her cigarette out and stood. “Everybody knows Slim Jim. You want the dirt on Brenda Nix, go see Slim. He’ll give you an earful.”
* * *
Jim Saxon lived on the western edge of the county, just a mile north of the Rio Grande, in a house trailer sided with weathered gray boards and covered by an open shelter house that shielded the trailer from the brutal desert sun. The forecast for the day was 106 degrees down by the river, and she had no doubt it had been reached.
Most everyone in Artemis knew Slim Jim, either by reputation as a whiskey-belting, hard-living son of a bitch, or as a man thoroughly dedicated to improving life along the river. The trailer sat fifty feet back from a creek that fed into the Rio. Between his trailer and the creek was a garden that rivaled anything Josie had seen growing in the much milder Indiana summers of her youth. With a greenhouse off to the side of the garden that had been pieced together with cast-off windows, doors, and wood, much of it from the county dump, Jim made plants grow that others said couldn’t be grown in West Texas. The garden was a thing of beauty, and the bounty fed anyone needing the extra rations.
Josie parked her jeep in front of the trailer and knocked on the front door. When no one answered she walked around the garden and greenhouse. Finding no one home, she dialed Angela’s cell phone and asked if she had any idea where Jim might be.
Angela was quiet for a moment and then cursed. “I wasn’t thinking. I know where he is. The kids are getting ready for the state-fair competition. He’s at the high school. They have that maniac teaching high school kids how to play drums.”
* * *
Josie left Jim’s house and drove back toward town. On her way she called Otto for an update.
“Did Cowan find any identification?”
“No. The clothing on his backside where he was lying on the couch is somewhat intact, but there wasn’t a wallet or any ID on him.”
“Age of the body?”
“Cowan said he’s older than twenty-five, and younger than fifty, based on what he could tell by his teeth. Billy’s in his forties, so it doesn’t help us much.”
“How about height?”
“Cowan says five foot ten to six foot.”
“Billy’s at least six foot, don’t you think?” she asked.
“I know he’s taller than I am, and I’m five foot ten. Again, not much help. What about the timeline?”
“Angela confirmed what Hank said. She said they came in at five thirty and didn’t stay long. She also described Brenda as a ‘witch.’ Her word, not mine. Brenda tells Billy how it is, and he listens. No one can figure out why he puts up with it.”
“Unless he actually needs her.”
“For what?”
“Maybe he loves her. Maybe he likes someone telling him what to do. She’s his mother figure or some such Freudian thing. Maybe she has connections and he doesn’t.”
Josie acknowledged the point. “Love’s a strange thing.”
“What do you have for me?” he asked.
“It’s nearly four o’clock and still no return call from the Nixes,” she said. “Wouldn’t you think with a fire burning through town they’d keep their phones on and return calls?”
“I think we just keep working the time frame until we get a hit on the body. I’ll swing by the Morris ranch and see if the ranch hand can provide any more details on the timing for the fire. Meanwhile, Cowan ruled this a homicide and the body’s in transport.”
“Good. Can you start paperwork for the search warrant for the Nixes’ house? We need to make it official.”
“Will do.”
“I’m on my way to talk to Jim Saxon, Billy’s drummer. If the Nixes were headed to book performances, surely at least one of the band members would know something about their whereabouts. And Saxon is supposed to be his closest friend.”
Josie was approaching the lone stoplight in Artemis when her phone buzzed.
“I got another call. See you in the morning?”
“See you then.”
She hung up with Otto and immediately recognized the other number.
“This is Chief Gray.”
“Hi, this is Brenda Nix, returning your call.”
* * *
Billy Nix walked into the Baker’s Dozen, a popular biker bar in Austin that was best known for the amount of whiskey consumed every Friday and Saturday night, and the hard-core country bands that fired up the raucous crowds. Billy had played there once after another act had canceled last minute. Billy thought the crowd had loved the band and he had expected a call back, but it had been six months since they’d played, and not a word.
He stopped inside the door to let his eyes adjust from the bright late-afternoon sun. Billy took some time to scan the room. He was tall with wide shoulders and a narrow waist: in his boots and Stetson he gave the impression he could knock a guy out with a one-fisted punch, but on the inside he was mush. He took a long breath and exhaled, counting to ten, trying to still his nerves, trying to feel like he belonged there, not as a bar patron, but as a musician, as a headliner. He realized he’d been standing by the door too long and forced himself to take the first step. He repeated the phrase he’d been repeating for the past five years. The phrase Brenda had taught him. “Fake it.”
Billy walked up to the bar and a young woman wearing a white halter top and miniskirt turned from the cash register and flashed him a smile. “What’ll it be, handsome?” Her teeth glowed as white as her top against taut skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.
“Give me a double Glenfiddich, neat.”
“You got it.”
She reached up high on the shelf behind her, high enough to pull the halter top up her back and allow Billy a look at the tattooed butterfly wings that spread across the small of her back, just above her miniskirt.
She poured the Scotch and slid the tumbler to him, then walked down the bar to another customer. Billy sipped and turned to look around the bar. When they’d played at the Baker’s Dozen, he’d arrived in Austin with his band at 6:00. They’d eaten a quick sandwich in the car, then set up and walked on stage at 8:00. He’d not had time to scout out the place and get a feel for the custom
ers, something he and Brenda usually did together.
It was a nice setup. A square bar was located about twenty feet inside the door, but centered so that people could get drinks from all sides. Traffic flowed easily from all sides of the room. Beyond the bar was a large open dance floor with twenty tables flanking either side, and a space directly in front of the stage with another ten tables for the customers that liked it loud. Those were the hardcore fans Billy had played to. Brenda had told him, “That’s where your fan base is made.”
It was late afternoon, with only a handful of people sitting at the bar, but he could imagine by eight o’clock, even on a weeknight, the bar would be packed. Whiskey bottles were packed against both side walls, stacked in rows all the way up to the ceiling—empties that now served as wall art. He liked the look.
The waitress came back. “Seems like I’d know a face like yours if you’d been in here before,” she said, flashing that bleached white smile.
Billy averted his eyes and grinned. Nothing better than a big rough guy brought to his knees by a pretty young girl. Brenda had taught him that too.
“I played here a few months ago. Billy and the Outlaws.”
“And I just bet you’re Billy.”
“That I am.”
“You coming back?”
“I hope so. Thought I’d check in with the manager, see if he had some openings this summer.”
“You a local?” she asked, leaning forward now, her chest propped up on the bar.
“I’m from Artemis.” He saw the blank look on her face. “West Texas. About seven hours from Austin.”
“Ohhh. You came a long way.” She smiled and winked, turning from him, then saying over her shoulder, “Let me see what I can do for you.”
A few minutes later the woman came back. “Marla’s in the office. She said to go on back.” The bartender turned and pointed to the end of the bar.
Billy put a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar. “Thanks, darlin’. I appreciate your help.”
“You come back and sing me a love song? We’ll call it even.”
* * *
Billy took another deep breath, counted to three, and entered the open door. He expected bar furniture and drinking paraphernalia that matched the bar decor, but the space looked more like an office at a car dealership: brightly lit, messy metal desk, a few posters on the walls held up with thumbtacks and some chipped metal filing cabinets. There was one chair in the corner with a case of Bud Light perched on the seat and the desk chair was filled by a woman who he figured had to be Marla.
Marla was short and heavy; she looked uncomfortable sitting behind the desk, her arms reaching up to the keyboard on the desk. She scowled at Billy and said nothing as he entered the room.
Billy leaned across the desk and offered her a hand. She gave him a dry, small hand to shake and then wiped it down her pants, apparently wiping away his sweat, or maybe his germs. He tried not to allow his misery to show on his face. He had not wanted to come. Brenda had insisted. He was no good at small talk, no good at begging for work. Brenda was the manager, as far as he was concerned, and she was the one capable of landing work. Not him.
“Billy Nix, ma’am. I appreciate you seeing me.”
“Okay. I’ve seen you. Is that it?” She stared at him without a trace of humor.
“Actually, I was hoping to follow up on a performance my band gave a few months back.”
She raised her arm and pointed up and behind her head. Hanging on the wall was a small metal sign that read DON’T CALL US. WE’LL CALL YOU. IF WE WANT TO.
Billy’s face reddened and he smiled and nodded, trying to engage the woman on some level. “Sorry about that. I thought maybe there was a manager that took care of bookings. Maybe someone I could talk to about playing some dates this summer or fall.”
The woman slumped her shoulders and her expression softened. She looked more tired than angry. “Look, Billy. I remember you. You guys were fine. You did a good job. But I got fifty other bands that are fine and do a good job. And each one wants special consideration. It wears me out. Okay?”
He nodded.
She pointed again to the sign behind her head. Billy left the bar wishing he could retrieve the twenty he’d wasted in the tip jar.
* * *
Josie listened to Brenda’s story about traveling to Austin with Billy, and why the couple hadn’t returned the phone calls. Josie didn’t believe a word of it.
“So, you’re saying a wildfire is devouring our town, putting your home and all your possessions in danger, and you and Billy both turned your phones off because you needed to focus on your work?”
There was a pause on the line. “Well, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think I owe you or anyone else an explanation for when I turn my cell phone off or on.”
“Your house was burned in the fire, Ms. Nix. We’ve been trying to notify you.”
“I didn’t think the fire was coming our way. I thought it was moving east.” Brenda stumbled over her words, either shocked or playing the part. It was impossible to tell over the phone. “How bad is it?”
“It’s too soon to tell. We’re gathering information, talking to people. Is your husband there with you in Austin?”
“Of course he’s with me. Where else would he be?”
Josie sighed. It was a relief to hear he was alive. “How soon can you be here?”
“Was the house destroyed?” Brenda’s voice had grown louder.
“We don’t have all that information yet. Too many homes were affected.” Josie heard a door slam in the background and Brenda cover the phone to talk to someone for a moment.
“You want me to come home, but can’t tell me if I have a home to come home to?” Her voice was quieter now, but angry.
Josie ignored the sarcasm. “You’ll run into a roadblock outside of town. The area is too dangerous to allow residents back into their homes until we’ve had a chance to make sure they’re safe. Let the deputy know you have a meeting with me, and he’ll escort you to the police station. I’ll give you as much information as I can there.”
“This is outrageous! You tell me my house has been burned but won’t give me any details. What a terrible thing to do to someone!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s make it one o’clock at the police department. That should give you time to drive from Austin.”
Josie hung up and called Otto with the news that both the Nixes had been located and would be in town the next afternoon. Josie decided to talk with Slim Jim, hoping to piece together a clearer picture of the couple before meeting them the next day.
NINE
The Arroyo County Junior/Senior High School was located on the outskirts of Artemis. Dry level desert spread for miles on either side of the school complex, which also housed the elementary school. A paved road provided access to the flat-roofed elementary school, and then wound around a dusty patch of land that served as a soccer field, and ended in the parking lot of the newer junior/senior high school. Some students spent close to four hours per day on a school bus. An education in this part of the country was something a kid worked for, and Josie respected the people who made the decision to locate their families in a place that traded the luxury of “things” for the luxury of peace and space. If she ever had kids of her own, which was beginning to feel more remote by the day, they would attend this school.
Driving with the windows down, she heard booming bass drums and the rapid-fire rhythm of snare drums a mile away from the school complex. With no vegetation to hinder the sound, the drums carried along the hot night air and reverberated against the school buildings along the access road.
The marching band stretched in ragged rows across the parking lot, instruments up but silent, the band director yelling, “One, two, three, four,” through his megaphone as the kids moved like an amoeba down the hot pavement.
She parked her jeep alongside the parking lot and got out. With the evacuation o
rder she was surprised to see a practice taking place, but for the kids in the county that were left, she figured the practice was a safe place to forget about the drama going on all around them.
Josie heard the drums but couldn’t see them. She followed the sound to the other side of the high school building, where she found four kids standing with the drums strapped over their backs, and another kid playing the bass drum. They were standing in the shade of the building but sweat dripped down their faces as they pounded their mallets in rhythm. Slim Jim stood in front of them, eyes closed, beating a drumstick against the side of the building. He was yelling a rhythm as they played. “Rata tata rat tat. Rata tata tata rata tat tat.” The kids noticed her round the corner, zeroed in on her police uniform, and lost their concentration, breaking the rhythm. Jim’s eyes flew open.
He looked first at the kids, and then behind him to find the source of the interruption. He recognized Josie and tried to reel in his anger, waving his hands in the air for the kids to stop playing. Their expressions were guarded, assessing their instructor’s possible trouble.
He faced the kids. “All right. Ten-minute water break. Be back here, instruments ready. Exactly ten minutes. Not eleven! Ten!” He watched them lift their drums up and over their sweaty heads and set them on the ground, already chatting, ecstatic at the few minutes of freedom, their instructor and his troubles forgotten. Josie smiled. Ten minutes was a lifetime at sixteen.
“Sorry to interrupt, Jim. I just need a few minutes.”
“What’d I do?”
Jim was tall and skinny, wearing long mesh basketball shorts and a tattered T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
“Why so paranoid?” she asked, smiling at his resignation.
“Look. They told me, I clean up the language or I’m out. On my ass.” He said the last word quietly between clenched teeth. “You know what that’s like for a guy like me? If I didn’t like these knucklehead kids so much I’d tell the principal to ram a drumstick up her ying yang, and I’d go back to the bar where I belong.”
“I’m not here to cause you grief.”
“Ohhhh! Really?” He opened his mouth and eyes wide, his expression incredulous. “Don’t they teach you in cop school that all you have to do is show up somewhere and you cause a guy grief?”
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