The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “Why?”

  “I don't know—Ed was manic, probably stoned. Maybe he's just on a tear because I slept with Ginny, but right now it feels like more. If a meth line's running through Dukaine, Ed's probably in the middle of it. Maybe Hogue is getting close to home?”

  Spider shook his head no. “Ed's not going to be in the same room with the Mexicans. And I guarantee you that's where that crap is coming from. He's small time, always has been, you know that. This meth thing is bigger than you think. You fucked his wife in his bed—that's enough to send anybody off the deep end. It did you.”

  “You're right,” Jordan said, ignoring the reference to Monica. “Johnny Ray said the INS and the DEA were coming here. Hogue's been working with them, tracing the distribution. If he makes the case and brings down the supply, he's a shoe-in for mayor.”

  “Or any other office he might want.”

  “He is a greedy bastard,” Jordan said. “Who knows what his plans are—but I think the shooting, the discovery of the bones is a distraction. He needs to solve it quickly so he can get on to bigger and better things.”

  “And you're the scapegoat?”

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Maybe,” Spider said. “Look, I didn't want to get too involved, but I'm going to make a call—see if I can find out if Hogue and Ed Kirsch have anything to do with each other these days. Maybe you're right. Maybe Ed's in deeper than I think.”

  Jordan drew a sigh of relief. “Who are you going to call?”

  “I'd rather not say,” Spider said.

  Jordan knew Spider wasn't going to name his pot supplier, and he wasn't going to push it. At least, not at the moment. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. And, I'd say I'm sorry for not telling you Big Joe was coming home, but I'm not. Regardless of what you believe, he does give a shit about you. You're his son.”

  “This doesn't have anything to do with that,” Jordan said, stubbing out the cigarette.

  “I don't know, man, maybe it does. The old man isn't getting any younger. Maybe it's time to lay down the swords.”

  “Really? Is that what you think? That this is a chance for a happy fucking family reunion?”

  “I don't know what to think,” Spider said. “What you gonna do now?”

  They stared at each other, silence thick between them, a brick wall built by Big Joe that was too tall to climb, and fortified with razor wire to keep them away from each other. Jordan was still angry, still leery of Spider. “What else aren't you telling me?” he asked.

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “I don't need protecting, Spider. We've hardly talked about any of this. I think you're holding back . . . you know more about this town than I do, see a side of it I don't.”

  Angel walked out of the kitchen carrying a plate heaped with French fries and a BLT buried underneath. She sat the plate down in front of Jordan. “I thought I heard you two arguing. What the hell happened to you?” she asked Jordan without missing a beat.

  “I keep hearing this echo,” he said.

  “Every time I see you, you're bleeding,” Angel said.

  “He's a magnet for nut cases,” Spider said.

  “That's why I enjoy hanging out with you,” Jordan shot back.

  Spider smiled and slid him another beer.

  “You need new bandages,” Angel said. “I think I have some in the back. You want me to get them?”

  “Sure,” Jordan answered.

  “Who did this to you?” Angel asked as she walked away.

  “Ed Kirsch.”

  “Figures,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Neither Jordan nor Spider said anything for a minute. Jordan hadn't realized how hungry he was. The aroma of the food made his stomach growl. Nobody made BLTs like Angel.

  Spider watched Jordan eat half the sandwich before he said anything. “I have no clue what's going on, Jordan. I've seen everything sitting here. The worst possible things human beings can do; cheat, lie, steal, and betray each other. But I've never seen anybody lure somebody out in the open and start taking shots at them. I've never seen anybody mad enough that they'd burn down somebody's house. Beat the shit out of each other, yes. But not crazy, not the madness that this thing has turned into.”

  Jordan wiped mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth and took another swig of beer. “What about Tito?”

  “Why are you so insistent that this goes back to that?”

  “The medallion and note for one. The bones for two. And maybe how Holister was acting, some things he said. It all started with the bones. Nobody is willing to talk about that, not even you.”

  “Nobody wants to remember,” Spider said.

  “Why?”

  “Me, personally? I had legs. I had a whole different life ahead of me then. I was going to go to college and get the hell out of this town. I would've given anything to be a high school coach. But things didn't work out that way, did they? Two months after that kid disappeared I end up in a wheelchair and I've been sitting here ever since. What makes you think I want to reflect on that?”

  “I'm sorry,” Jordan said.

  “Fucking don't be. My life's okay. I get through the day just fine. Now. But everybody's got their baggage, and most people don't like to pull it out of their back pocket in broad daylight and take a close look at it. Why in the hell do you think people drink? To have a good time?”

  “There's more at stake here,” Jordan said, finishing his sandwich, dragging a couple fries through ketchup. “Tito vanished. And it seems like nobody noticed, nobody cared. And now, twenty years later, everybody's walking around with amnesia. It's as if he never existed.”

  “Tito and Esperanza were fuckin' Mexicans, Jordan. Haven't you been paying attention? They come and go. Nobody cares. Nobody wants them here. But they're here, and there's nothin' anybody can do about it except live with it. It's the way it is. The way it's always been. We weren't even allowed to talk to the Mexican kids, for Christ's sake. Who knows what happened to Tito, or why? It wasn't any of our business. I'm sure José knows. And Buddy Mozel, too. Try and get into that fortress with your questions.”

  “It's my business now,” Jordan said.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  The plate was empty. Jordan was tempted to have another beer, but he needed to keep his head as clear as possible. “I'm going to find Hogue. I want my gun back. And then I'm going to find José Rivero and get some goddamn answers about Tito and Esperanza.”

  “And you just think he'll tell you everything you want to know?”

  “Yes.” Jordan lit a cigarette and looked across the street at the police station. He wanted to talk to Ginny, too. But he wasn't telling Spider that. “I need to get to the hospital. See how Holister's doing. And if I still don't have any answers, I'm going to get Tito Cordova's file out of Holister's office. Johnny Ray can't find it, but I know where it's at.”

  “How you gonna get it? You know Louella won't let you snoop around while she's there.”

  “I'll wait until she's gone for lunch.”

  “Oh, great. Now you want me to help you break into the police station?”

  Jordan nodded.

  “In broad daylight? This heat has made you fuckin' loony. You smoking meth, too?”

  “I'll only go after the file as a last resort.”

  “You're going to get us both thrown in jail before this is all over,” Spider said.

  “Maybe they'll put us in the same cell.”

  “I hope not—I'll end up going crazy for sure.”

  Jordan laughed.

  Spider hoisted the shotgun up onto the counter.

  “What's that for?” Jordan asked.

  “Just in case you attract any more bullets, I want to be ready. It's not like my kickboxing skills are gonna do me any good.”

  Angel walked out of the kitchen carrying a handful of bandages, and sat them on the stool next to Jordan. “Take your shirt off.”

  Jord
an hesitated then did as he was told.

  “Give me a wet towel,” Angel ordered Spider and then turned her attention back to Jordan. “If you let anything happen to Spider, you won't have to worry about Ed Kirsch or anybody else coming after you. I'll kill you myself,” she said, sponging the dried blood off his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 19

  August 22, 2004, 10:46 A.M.

  A dead pig was lying square in the middle of the road. It wasn't just any pig; it was one of Lem Jacobson's prize Hampshires.

  Lem kept a small herd of pigs on a farm he owned on Huckle Road, five miles from his big house, far enough out in the country so the rancid smell would only annoy the closest neighbors. Those consisted of a few trailers on one-acre lots, and old man Longer's house a mile away. The Hampshire was all black with the exception of a wide white band around its broad shoulders. The pig had died in the center of the road, forcing anyone driving by to go off the pavement to get around it. Flies swarmed around a cup-size pool of blood that had gathered under its neck.

  “What are you doing?” Jordan asked Spider.

  “I'm going to the pond.”

  “I think we should stop.”

  Spider looked at him oddly, shook his head, and then brought the van to a stop along the side of the road. “Why?” he asked, shifting into park.

  “I don't know,” Jordan said. “It's a little weird, don't you think?”

  “I think everything is weird right now.” Spider reached for a roach in the ashtray.

  “You think that's a good idea?” Jordan asked. “The pond is swarming with cops. We really don't need to give Hogue one more reason to haul us in.”

  “You're probably right,” Spider said, popping the unlit roach into his mouth and swallowing it. He chased the roach with a swig of water. “That's all I had with me anyway.”

  “Good.”

  The van was idling, the air-conditioner blowing warm tepid air. Exhaust fumes immediately saturated the interior. Jordan pushed the door open and eased out. He was sore, even after taking some more aspirin and cleaning up. The new bandages were tight on his shoulder. He'd snagged a clean white T-shirt from Spider's closet, and the .38 was snug in the holster against his back. It was too hot to hide the gun.

  Anxiety heightened his pain. Confronting Hogue felt like he was walking into a hornet's nest. Everything felt constricted, even his lungs. It was time to lay his cards down with the sheriff. But the pig made him uncomfortable. Pigs didn't just die in the middle of the road, and it didn't look like it had been hit by a car, either.

  Soybean fields sat on both sides of Huckle Road, stiff and unwavering in the breeze. Longer's Pond was two miles southwest. Spider had taken the back way out of Dukaine, assured by Jordan that the main entry would be sealed off tighter than a drum. He wanted to avoid the chaos as much as possible, stay as far away from the TV cameras and reporters, in case Hogue made an issue out of their arrival. The last thing he wanted was his face plastered across the TV, being hauled away in handcuffs.

  The fields were dry. Acres of soybeans were turning bright yellow at the base, the leaves withered and brittle from the drought. Lem's farm was half a mile up the road. A small white house sat just off the road, and was usually vacant, except during migrant season, and then it was full of Mexicans. Jordan had answered more than one call at the house to break up a fight, been there with INS agents as they checked green cards. Most of the migrants would be working today, out in the fields salvaging as many tomatoes as possible. A big red barn, in need of a coat of paint, rounded out the lot, surrounded by pens that were normally muddy and full of pigs. The mud was gone. The pigs were still there, snorting and squealing, their smell hanging in the air in an invisible cloud of methane gas.

  Jordan swallowed to get his breath. Even on the coldest day, you could smell the farm from a mile away. The heat only made it worse.

  A line of trees followed the river on the north side of the fields, and another line of trees divided the field to Jordan's left, creating a windbreak for a huge tract of tomatoes. Dukaine seemed like it was a million miles away.

  He stood at the front of the van, staring at the pig, looking for skid marks, looking for any explanation he could find about the pig's demise. He reached around and pulled the holster a little closer to his side, closer to his reach.

  Cicadas droned in the trees. He wanted to yell at the insects, tell them to shut up so he could hear clearly, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. He'd just be a crazy man standing in the middle of the road, looking at a dead pig, screaming into the air, into the nothingness.

  There were no visible paths through the soybean field that butted up to the farm. Jordan saw nothing that lead him to believe that the pig had escaped from one of the pens. If anything, the pig had edged its way along the road . . . but then what? The pig just fell over and died in the middle of the road? Could pigs die of heat stroke?

  The answer came quickly as Jordan neared the pig. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose to ward off the smell and the flies.

  The two-hundred-pound Hampshire had been shot in the head. A perfect circle the size of a pencil eraser, probably from a .22, sat between the pig's cloudy eyes. Blood had trailed through the coarse black hair and pooled underneath the throat. The smell of blood, of death, of the methane gas mixed with the hot, humid air, penetrated the shirt over his nose and made Jordan gag.

  He started to back up once he realized the pig had been shot. There was nothing to protect him. He was completely exposed, standing in the middle of the road. Suddenly, it was very much like standing at the pond with Holister, only the chills up his spine and the hair standing up on the back of his neck warned him of what might come next. He expected to hear the echo of a gunshot at any second.

  The pig had been put there on purpose. Probably dumped from a truck.

  Just like the skeleton had been placed at the pond? Put there to lure Holister to it so he could be shot? Is the pig bait? he wondered.

  He stopped backing up halfway to the van. His eyes darted in every direction, looking for movement, looking for anything out of place. There was something else about the pig, something he'd noticed, but didn't really see until now. He looked over his shoulder. Spider had a curious look on his face, obviously wondering what the hell was going on.

  Jordan drew the .38 and did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree sweep. There was nothing to be seen for miles. No cars. Nobody out in the yard at the farmhouse. The only sounds he heard were pigs and insects. Mosquitoes buzzing his ear. Flies anxious for a pork buffet. Muffled squeals. He hurried back to the pig, every sense on high alert, his fear of getting shot again drawing sweat out of his pores like a fountain. Something was written on the back of the pig's neck, across the broad white band, in blood:

  2 Dead Pigs

  The writing looked familiar, like the writing on the letter. Chicken scratch. He took another deep breath and stepped back. There was no way to really tell if the writing was from the same hand. Maybe he wanted to see it that way. Maybe it just made sense that the person who wrote the letter wrote this message on the pig. And maybe—that same person was sitting in the woods, hiding, zeroing in on him with a high-powered rifle . . .

  Jordan ran back to the van as quickly as he could, the .38 tight in his grip, ready to fire. He was looking for anything that moved so he could dive to the ground if he had to. Spider pushed the door open and he jumped in. “Get the fuck out of here, now!” Jordan yelled.

  “What the hell's going on?”

  Jordan reached over to the hand-controls on the steering wheel and threw the van into gear. “Let's go. Let's go!” he shouted.

  The van lurched forward. Spider grabbed the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator lever harder, a look of absolute fear crossing his face. The tires caught, kicking gravel in the air. Spider swerved to miss the pig, jarring Jordan to the left and then back to the right, the .38 waving wildly in his hand.

  “Put that thing away, you're making me nervous,” Spider sa
id.

  Jordan steadied the gun and watched the pig disappear in the rearview mirror. They passed the farmhouse, the van pushing sixty miles an hour. The driveway was vacant. Two empty livestock trailers sat in front of the barn. A mangy long-haired dog appeared out of nowhere and gave chase, giving up quickly as they flew past the property line. A cloud of dust drifted across the road in their wake. Lem's farm and the pigs were gone, far enough behind them to breathe a little easier.

  “The van might look like shit, but the motor is ripe, man. This baby can fly if she has to.” Spider smiled and grabbed the water bottle. “Charlie's a genius when it comes to souping up engines. He'll do anything to get away from those brat kids of his.” He pressed the lever even farther, pushing the van up to seventy. “What the fuck are we runnin' from?” he asked calmly, the fear fading the farther they got from the pig.

  Jordan put the .38 on the console and grabbed the water bottle from Spider. He was shaking. “The pig was shot in the head. Somebody dumped it there.”

  “That's not cool,” Spider said. “Somebody could have a wreck. But . . .?”

  “Whoever did it left a message. ‘Two dead pigs.’ ” Jordan took a long drink of water.

  Spider looked dismayed, his eyes danced back and forth between the road and Jordan. “What the hell's that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “I think it's a message from the shooter.”

  “For you? Nobody knew we were coming this way.”

  “For anybody who found it. What's the likelihood a cop's going to come down this road right now? Pretty high, don't you think?”

  “OK, then why not put it somewhere easier to find? Instead of taking that chance?”

  Jordan pointed through the windshield at a helicopter hovering in the distance, over the pond. “It wouldn't be too easy dumping a pig without raising a little suspicion, would it? Who knows? Who really knows?”

  “The shooter,” Spider said.

  “And the fucker's still out there, just like I thought. Hogue's on me like a fly on shit, but the shooter's free to go about his business. Damn it, this shit pisses me off.”

  “Two dead pigs?”