The Prairie Chicken Kill

by Bill Crider

  "I noticed," I told her.

  "Thought you might've." She laid the check on the table and went away.

  Red pushed his plate forward. "She thinks she knows ever'thing that goes on in this town."

  "Does she?"

  "Just about. Owns this place, been here a long time."

  "Is she the one who named it?"

  "Yeah, Linda Toole. The Toole Shed. Cute, huh?"

  "If you like that sort of thing." I ate the last bite of my eggs and said, "Now what about that Prairie Chicken?"

  "Let's get outta here," he said. "I'll tell you all about it on the way to Lance's place."

  "All right," I said, and we slid out of the booth.

  We were almost to the cash register when three men came through the front door. They didn't all come through at the same time; two of them so big that they could barely get through it alone.

  The first one through looked like a poster boy for steroids. He looked so hard that a sharp knife wouldn't penetrate any farther than his epidermis, and his face might have been hacked out of a block of wood. He was dressed in camo fatigues and wearing a camo cap. A ponytail not more than two inches long stuck out of the hole in back of the cap. Maybe he was a Steven Seagal fan.

  The man in the middle was just average size, and he was wearing a pair of baggy jeans, boots, and a Western shirt that was too tight on his pudgy body. His eyes were small and too close together, and he needed a shave.

  The third man, while not as big as the first, looked meaner. His mouth was a thin slash and looked as if it had never smiled. He was wearing camos, and I thought that Bud's Surplus must do a booming business. He was one of the few men in The Toole Shed besides me without a cap. His hair was cut so close to his head that it was no longer than the stubble on the second man's chin.

  The first man brushed by me, leaning in and jarring me slightly with his shoulder, a glancing blow that might have been an accident. I felt his upper arm as it brushed me; it was hard as a bois d'arc block.

  I looked at the man, and he smiled, showing me yellow teeth the size of fingernails.

  I was fishing in the Gulf one day a year or so ago. There was no chop on the water, just a gentle swell, and I had waded out beyond the second sand bar. I was far down the Island, away from the crowds. I hadn't caught any fish, but I was enjoying the day, the blue sky, the wheeling gulls, the breeze off the water.

  And then I moved. Not much, just enough to change my position, and the sand beside my right foot boiled up through the green water and a wide, dark shadow slid off the floor of the Gulf.

  A chill surged through me like an electric shock. I had missed stepping on the stingray by inches, and the thought of its paralyzing barb stabbing into my calf was enough almost to immobilize me.

  I felt the same way now. There was something about the big man's manner and smile that affected me very much like the proximity of the stingray. There was the same dark threat in them, the same disinterested menace.

  He didn't say he was sorry for bumping me, and I didn't ask him for an apology.

  Red Lindeman ignored all three men and paid his check as if nothing had happened. I watched the men sit at a table and pick up the menus. I watched Linda Toole as she went over to wait on the table. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, and I didn't think she would call any of them "honey."

  I paid the cashier and went through the door into the warm sunshine of the parking lot.

  "Who were those guys?" I asked Lindeman, who was waiting for me outside the door.

  "The one that bumped you was Gar Thornton, and the one in the back was Bert Ware. They're the bodyguards for the one in the middle. Ralph Evans."

  "You know them?"

  "Oh, yeah," he said. "I know 'em all right."

  Eight

  Lindeman might have known the men, but they were something else he didn't want to talk about right then.

  "We'll get to 'em sooner or later," he said. "Where's your car?"

  I pointed at the Chevy. "Right over there."

  "You can leave it there and ride with me. Won't anybody bother it."

  He led me to a battered Dodge Ram. "Four-wheel drive," he said. "Sometimes you need that around here after a big rain."

  I climbed in on the passenger side. "Where are we going?"

  "Out to Garrison's place. That's where the dead bird is."

  "You've still got it?"

  He started the engine and the whole truck shook. "Put it in the deep freeze. That gover'ment fella tried to take it, but I wouldn't let him. He was about as useless as the tits on a boar hog. Tried to tell me that the shootin' was just an accident when I know better. I was glad to see his tail lights turn the corner."

  "He's left town?"

  Lindeman pulled the truck out onto the street without bothering to check the traffic. That was all right, I guess, since there wasn't any traffic.

  "'Left town' is right," he said. "What he said was that he'd 'wrapped up the investigation.' Said some hunter shot that bird by accident and that's all there was to it."

  "But you know better."

  "Damn sure do. What would a hunter be huntin' right about now?"

  I didn't know the answer to that one, and said so.

  "Well, at least you admit your ignorance, which is more than that gover'ment fella would do. The answer is, nothin'. There ain't no birds in season right now."

  The Dodge rattled through town and headed in the direction of the Picketville Inn. In a few seconds we passed the Inn and kept right on going.

  "People don't always stick to the season," I said.

  "'Course not. But season or no season, you'd damn sure better not be huntin' birds on Garrison's place. Those birds are all protected by the government. Anyway, say you shot a bird by accident, what'd you do with it?"

  I thought about that for a few seconds. "Get rid of it. Or maybe take it home and eat it if it was good for eating."

  "Damn right. You wouldn't leave it on a fella's doorstep, now would you?"

  "No. Is that what happened with the Prairie Chicken?"

  "Sure enough is. I went out one mornin', and there it was, layin' right there on the step."

  "How did the government agent explain that?"

  "Said it was put there by somebody who felt guilty 'bout what he'd done. He was big on that idea, said it explained things just fine." Lindeman screwed his face up and said in a prissy voice, "'A man who felt guilty would want to let people know about his crime. That way he might achieve some measure of pardon.'"

  I laughed. "But you don't believe that."

  "Believe it, hell. I don't even know what it means."

  I thought he might be joshing me just a little. He liked to play the small-town bumpkin, but he wasn't stupid by any means.

  "What makes you so popular around here?" I asked him.

  He frowned and hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "That damn Linda."

  "It wasn't anything that Linda said. Nobody in her place was interested in me at all until I sat down with you. Then they did everything they could to pretend that they weren't trying to figure out who I was."

  "Yeah, it was pretty obvious, I guess. Lots of those fellas used to be good buddies of mine, but they won't hardly speak to me now. I guess you might've noticed I was the only one in there who was sittin' by himself. Not countin' you, I mean. You'd think I had some kinda disease."

  "Do you?"

  His frown changed to a crooked grin. "Not that I know of. It's all because of that damn bird."

  "Why don't you tell me about it, then?"

  "Said I would, didn't I?"

  I leaned back in the seat as if I were waiting and didn't say anything.

  "Here's our turn," Lindeman said, pulling off the pavement onto a dirt road. "You know anything at all about birds? Any kind of birds?"

  "Not much. I know they sing and build nests and eat worms."

  He looked disgusted and waved a hand at the window. "What about coastal prairies?"


  "Even less than about birds."

  "You may be worse than that gover'ment fella after all."

  I was afraid he might be right.

  "When we get up to the house," he said, "I'm gonna try to get you educated."

  I could hardly wait.

  The house was a low-roofed ranch-style sitting in a grove of tall shade trees, pecans and oaks. There weren't many other trees around, though I knew that not far away there were dense forests of natural growth.

  Lindeman parked under one of the trees and got out. "Let's sit over there," he said, pointing to a couple of lawn chairs under a pecan tree.

  We walked over and sat down. Lindeman pointed at the field of grass in front of us.

  "What the gover'ment did here first was clear out some of the brush that'd grown up over the years, 'specially that Macartney Rose."

  "You can stop right there and start my education," I said.

  "Macartney Rose is a bush that was brought over here and planted for some damn fool reason or other, prob'ly because somebody thought it had pretty white flowers on it. And I guess the flowers are pretty if you like that sort of thing. Never did, myself. Or maybe the cattlemen wanted the rose thickets for windbreaks. Anyway, they grew like weeds and took over."

  "Those things in the fields that we passed on the way here," I said. "They looked like big brush piles with white flowers all over them."

  "That's Macartney Rose, all right. Played hell with the bird habitat, is what it did, but nobody knew that for years. You let 'em go, they'll take over ever' acre you got."

  "But there aren't any here on Lance's property."

  "Like I said, they been cleared. That's part of what the gover'ment did. This place is pretty much like a natural prairie now, planted with mostly bluestem and gramma grass, stuff the Chickens like."

  I looked out over the grass that bent just a little in the slight breeze. There were also wildflowers beginning to show their color, bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes and others that I couldn't identify.

  "And the Prairie Chickens are out there somewhere?"

  "They're out there. We might get a look at some 'em later. Plenty of other birds, too. The others are a lot easier to spot."

  "You were going to show me the dead bird."

  "In a minute. We're waitin' for somebody."

  "Who?"

  "There they come now," Lindeman said, pointing toward the dirt road.

  I could see a big Ford coming in our direction. In less than a minute it pulled into the yard and parked beside Lindeman's Dodge. Anne got out on the passenger side.

  She was wearing jeans and a red shirt, with her hair in a ponytail. I remembered that she'd been wearing jeans and a shirt like that the night of our high-school graduation, and she'd put the robe on over them. But she'd been wearing her hair down. It had reached past her shoulders.

  I flashed forward to the present and waited for the little guy in my chest to get out his sledgehammer and slug me in the heart. He didn't, and I decided that I had matured overnight.

  Anne smiled at me, and I looked away from her at the driver of the car. He was short and compact and wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed differently from anyone I'd seen yet in Picketville: leather walking shoes, earth-tone canvas pants, a many-pocketed vest, and a wide-brimmed hat. A pair of black binoculars hung from a plastic strap around his neck. He looked as if he might have just stepped out of the Chickadee Nature Store.

  "Lance says you know Anne," Lindeman said. "That little geek is Martin York. He's a bird-watcher."

  That explained the get-up. "I think they like to be called birders," I said. Might as well practice my political correctness.

  "Don't see that it makes much difference," Lindeman said, not being a sensitive nineties guy like me.

  I didn't see any need to correct him, because by that time Anne and York had reached us.

  "Good morning, Tru, Dad," Anne said. "Tru, I'd like for you to meet Martin York. He's going to help you with this. Martin, this is Truman Smith, an old friend."

  I didn't recall having asked for any help, but York stuck out his hand, and I took it. He hadn't looked like the type to play macho games, so I wasn't prepared when he tried to crush my hand. I thought I caught a hint of a self-satisfied smile when I winced, but it vanished so quickly that I couldn't be sure.

  "Glad to meet you, Smith," he said.

  I retrieved my hand and didn't say a thing.

  "We saw your buddies at the cafe while ago," Lindeman told York.

  York turned from me and looked at him quizzically.

  "Evans and his butt-boys. 'Scuse me, Anne."

  Anne smiled at him. "I might have heard the term before."

  "I hope it wasn't Paul that said it."

  Anne laughed. "I don't remember."

  "Forget the crude phraseology," York said. "What about Evans and his toadies?"

  Obviously he was out to impress me with his vocabulary. Or maybe it was Anne that he wanted to impress.

  "They were in the cafe," Lindeman said. "They didn't say anything, just gave Smith a little bump and run. The usual intimidation stuff."

  "Those bastards."

  Then again, maybe he wasn't trying to impress anyone after all. He looked back at me. "Did he tell you they killed the bird?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Nobody ever tells me anything."

  "It's kinda complicated," Lindeman said. "Why don't we go inside, and I'll see if I can tell it straight through."

  That sounded like a good idea to me. I was getting tired of trying to figure out what was going on.

  Lindeman led us into the house. The windows were open and it was dark and airy inside; Lindeman was as judicious in his use of air-conditioning as I was.

  "It's kinda hard to know where to start," Lindeman said when we were inside and seated on chairs and a couch that were at least as old as the furniture in the Picketville Inn.

  "Try starting at the beginning," I said. "That's usually the best place."

  Lindeman shook his head. "Hard to say just exactly where that is."

  "Start with Evans then," I said.

  I was getting interested in Evans. What kind of man needed bodyguards in a place like Picketville?

  "I can tell you about Evans," Anne said. I must have looked surprised because she added, "I know him because of the radio station. Sometimes I think all of this started at the radio station."

  "Then that's the place to begin," I said.

  Anne nodded. "It was Lance who wanted to put Evans on the air. Paul was against it from the first."

  "As well he should have been," York said. He'd taken off his hat and binoculars, and I'd learned that he was bald except for a fringe of hair around the sides of his head. "Evans is a lunatic."

  "I don't think so," I said. "I heard him last night. He's shrewd, he knows his audience, and he's done his homework. He may have some pretty weird ideas, but he's not a lunatic."

  York's mouth twisted sourly. "Are you one of those gun nuts?"

  "I own a gun."

  "I might have known."

  "I don't have it on me, though," I said.

  "Boys, boys," Anne said. "We're getting off the subject."

  She was right, and I was a little nettled that I'd let York get under my skin so easily. I'd taken an instant dislike to him, and I didn't know why. Unless it was the fact that he'd been in the car alone with Anne. Could it be that I was jealous? Maybe the maturity I'd achieved over night was already slipping away.

  "Paul fought against putting Evans on the air," Anne said, trying to get back on the subject. "He didn't like what Evans had to say, and he didn't think there was any audience for a show like Evans wanted to do."

  "But there was," I said.

  "There certainly was, and Lance was sure of it all along. He doesn't agree with Evans' philosophy, but he does believe in freedom of speech. And of course he believes in making money. KLWG has a pretty powerful transmitter for such a small town, and it doesn't
cut its power at night. People can pick up Evans' show all over the area, and that includes most of Houston. They love Ralph Evans in Houston. Lance gets a lot of advertising money from there."

  "If everybody loves Evans, why does he need bodyguards?" I asked.

  "Evans has had death threats." Anne looked at York. "Or so he tells everyone. Of course there's always the possibility that he's just saying that to create an image."

  "I certainly never threatened him," York said.

  It was true that he didn't look like the type to threaten anyone, but then he didn't look like the type who'd try to crush your hand when he shook it, either.

  "That ain't exactly the truth," Lindeman said. "You told me you were goin' to kill the son-of-a-bitch. 'Scuse me, Anne."

  "I just said that in the heat of the moment," York said. "After I found out about the dead bird. I didn't mean anything by it, and besides, Evans had his bodyguards a long time before that."

  York looked even less likely to kill someone than he did to make threats. But sometimes the unlikeliest suspects were the ones you had to pay the most attention to.

  But we were rambling again, so I said, "We're getting 'way off the track here. If nobody's going to tell this story straight, maybe I could just get some answers to a few questions."

  Everyone looked at me, and Lindeman said, "You go ahead, then."

  Great. I had their attention, and now all I had to do was figure out which questions to ask. It's never easy.

  Nine

  I decided to begin with something I'd been wondering about.

  "Where did Lance find Ralph Evans?" I asked Anne. "He doesn't sound like a trained broadcaster."

  "He's not," Anne said. "He was doing a show on some little twenty-five hundred watt station in East Texas. Lance heard him while he was on a fishing trip and thought Evans was a diamond in the rough."

  "So he brought him here to us," York said. "To fill the air waves with culture and enlightenment. And we all lived happily ever after."

  I was beginning to like York less and less. "You think he killed the Prairie Chicken. Why?"

  York looked at Lindeman and then at Anne, rolling his eyes as if I were an escapee from a home for the mentally disadvantaged.