by Bill Crider
“I went by the courthouse and the bank today,” Rhodes said. “You and Andy bought some land out there around the store and your house a couple of years ago, right before you had your stroke. Nearly five hundred acres. I guess you were thinking that fella was going to get the college restored a lot sooner than it looks like he will.”
“Ha,” West said. “Rate he’s goin’, it won’t be done in another fifty years.”
“It would have brought some business by the store if he’d gotten on with it, I guess.”
“That’s what we were thinkin’. Liven things up out that way, increase the value of the land. We were lookin’ to make a little money.”
“It doesn’t look like a very good investment now, though,” Rhodes said. “The restoration’s going pretty slow, and Andy’s missed a lot of payments on that land. Nearly all of them.”
“We put up the store and the house as collateral,” West said. “He’s gonna lose ’em both. If I was there, it’d be different. I could always stir up the business.”
Rhodes didn’t know whether that was wishful thinking or the truth, but it didn’t matter either way. “He’s planning to marry Brenda Bobbit for her money, isn’t he?”
West didn’t respond. He just lay there, his head twisted to the side.
“But he was afraid that Bobbit might be a little crazy. He was pretty senile, for sure. Maybe he wouldn’t let Brenda use the money the way she wanted to, wouldn’t let her give it to her husband.”
“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at,” West said.
“Andy didn’t know Brenda had her father’s power of attorney. She already had control of the money, but he didn’t know that. So he thought he ought to get rid of Mr. Bobbit just to make sure he wouldn’t cause any trouble.”
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” West said.
“I think I do,” Rhodes said. “Andy came out here, probably sat right where I’m sitting. You say you were taking a nap that day. Maybe you were. Maybe you didn’t know that your son got up and went into Bobbit’s room, tied him to the bed, and slipped that bag over his head. Maybe you did know.”
“He…he didn’t do that,” West said.
“I think he did,” Rhodes said. “I think that Maurice Kennedy saw him coming out of the room, too. I don’t quite know what happened then, but I think Andy saw Kennedy and Kennedy knew it. When he found out that Bobbit was dead, he got out of here, either because he thought he’d be blamed or because he was afraid of Andy.”
“You’re just…guessing,” West said. “You don’t know any of that.”
He was right, at least partly. Rhodes wasn’t sure about everything. It was possible that Kennedy hadn’t seen West coming out of the room. Kennedy might just have found the body, figured that he would be blamed, and run away. But Rhodes was sure Andy West would have tried to get rid of Kennedy sooner or later, to shift suspicion away from himself. And that was why Kennedy had to get West first.
“I think Kennedy went out to Andy’s house Sunday night,” Rhodes went on. “He’d been hiding out, and he was tired of it, so he was going to get rid of Andy. He got rid of Louis Horn, and he thought he could handle your son. He fired two shots at him, but he missed. Andy went after him.”
Kennedy was on foot, but maybe he got away. I think he managed to get part of the way back to town, but Andy caught up with him and killed him. Hit him in the head and put him in a dumpster. That was a good move. It was only an accident that we found Kennedy’s body.”
West lay quietly in the bed. Rhodes waited for him to say something, but the old man was apparently not going to speak.
“Did you know any of this? “Rhodes said after a few minutes had passed.
“I don’t even know it now,” West said. “You don’t, either. You can’t prove a thing except that we owe a little money.”
“A lot of money,” Rhodes said. “The bank is going to foreclose this month.”
“Don’t matter. You can’t make me say anything about my son. I don’t know a thing. You better go on out of here, Sheriff. I feel like I need a nap.” West closed his eyes.
Rhodes sat in the chair for a few more minutes, then got up. He had hoped that Mr. West would tell him something, because the old man was right. Rhodes had no proof of what he was saying. He was sure he was right, however, on most of the points. He did know that the bag could have come from West’s store, but he couldn’t prove that it had. He wasn’t especially hopeful about the partial prints.
There was always the chance that when West had caught up with Kennedy and killed him, the body had been put in West’s old Ford, however, if that had happened, there might be some evidence remaining to prove an association between West and Kennedy. Fibers, blood, something.
It would certainly have been easier if Mr. West had told Rhodes that his son had killed Bobbit. Now there was nothing to do except confront Andy and see if he would be any more helpful.
It was getting late when Rhodes drove out to the Obert Road. The weather had not gotten any warmer, though the wind had stopped blowing a couple of days before. There was a thorough chill in the air, and Rhodes was sure the temperature would drop down below freezing again that night.
He turned on the lights of the county car before he got to West’s store, and they reflected off the body of an old gray Pontiac as he pulled into the drive. It was almost a surprise to see that West actually had a customer. There was another car parked by the side of the building as well. Business was booming.
Rhodes stopped the car and got out. It was nearly dark, and he felt the cold invade his clothing immediately. The fluorescent light from inside the store came through the windows and made rectangles on the ground.
Rhodes went inside, announced by the cow bell on the door. West was handing a plastic bag to a man and a woman whom Rhodes vaguely recognized. He knew they must live in the area. They were bundled up in heavy coats. Rhodes looked around for whoever was in the second car, but he didn’t see anyone.
“Thank you now,” West said to his customers with a hearty false cheerfulness. “Y’all comeback.”
The man mumbled something, and he and the woman turned to go. There wasn’t much in the sack. Rhodes thought they had probably stopped in because they had forgotten to buy something essential, like bologna or Dr Pepper, in town. He spoke to them as they brushed past him, and then they were out the door like ghosts, not even jangling the bell.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” West said when they were gone.
Rhodes heard car doors slam outside, heard the old Pontiac labor into life, valves clattering.
“Sounds like they could use a tune-up,” West said.
“Maybe so,” Rhodes said. “I want to talk to you about something else, though. About Lloyd Bobbit and Maurice Kennedy.”
“What about ’em?” West said. “I thought all that was settled.”
“So did everybody else. That was before I found out Kennedy didn’t die in the trash truck.”
“So what? He’s dead anyway.”
“Yes,” Rhodes agreed. “And I think you killed him. Bobbit, too.”
West smiled. “You been smokin’ some of that dope evidence down at the jail, Sheriff?”
“I should have known when you said that Miss Bobbit hadn’t told you about the power of attorney,” Rhodes said. “Why should that have made a difference to you? Now I know. You need the money. Right now. Either that, or you lose everything.”
“So what?” West said again. “That doesn’t mean a thing as far as those old men are concerned.”
“I think it does. I think you were marrying Miss Bobbit for her money. I think you were upset when you found out she had the power of attorney and that it ended with her father’s death. You’d killed two men for no reason; in fact, you’d made things worse for yourself.”
Someone stepped out of the shadows at the rear of the store. There was a doorway back there that led to a little added-on room where West stored a small supply of
feed and grain.
“Did you do that?” Miss Bobbit said, coming out into the light from where she had been listening. “Did you kill my father?”
“Hell, no. Why would I do that?” West said. He turned and started toward her.
“Are you marrying me for my money?” she said. Her voice had taken on a tinge of emotion that Rhodes had never heard in it before. She wasn’t quite the cold fish that she had seemed. It just took more than murder to affect her; it took something like the realization that she was being used by someone like West.
She was standing behind the refrigerated meat cooler when West got to her. “Don’t listen to him,” West said. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“You were awfully upset about that power of attorney,” she said. “After the sheriff left, you yelled at me.”
“I’m sorry about that,” West said. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know I’m not very attractive,” she said. “I know that. But I’ve got a good name. You’re not going to take that away from me.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” West said, looking over his shoulder at Rhodes. “He’s just trying to cause trouble. You know he’s wrong.”
“I don’t think so,” Miss Bobbit said. West looked back at her. “I think he’s right. You were mean to me about the power of attorney. And you did get me to say I’d make the payment to the bank for you.”
“Shut up about the payment,” West said.
“When I told you that my father had been killed, you weren’t even surprised,” she said. “You were there that afternoon, too. Weren’t you?”
“What if I was? I didn’t kill him.” There was an undertone of whining in West’s tone now.
“I think you did,” Rhodes said, deciding it was time he got back in the conversation. “The bag on Mr. Bobbit’s head was identical to the one you just handed that man and woman. And there were fingerprints on it.” That wasn’t stretching the truth any more than he had stretched the definition of “planning” to Ivy and Hack. “I think we’ll find a good match with yours when we check them.”
“Goddamn it,” West said to Miss Bobbit. “This is all your fault.”
He put out his right hand and reached for something that Rhodes couldn’t see while grabbing Miss Bobbit’s wrist with his left. He pulled her to him quickly, bending her arm behind her back and turning her around. He stepped out from behind the cooler, shoving her in front of him. He had a meat cleaver in his right hand.
“There might even be some human blood on the blunt side of that cleaver,” Rhodes said. “Maurice Kennedy’s blood. It’s hard to remove it completely.”
“You’re pretty damn smart, aren’t you, Sheriff,” West said.
“Not very,” Rhodes said, reaching for his gun.
“Don’t do that.” West brandished the cleaver. “This thing’s plenty sharp. I can cut her head off before you know it.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Miss Bobbit said.
“The hell I wouldn’t.” He spoke in Miss Bobbit’s ear. “Let’s go get in that nice car of yours and take us a little ride.” West walked toward the door, keeping Miss Bobbit in front.
When they got near Rhodes, she made a quick movement, trying to break away, but West snapped her back to him, twisting her wrist sharply. She yelped at the pain in her arm.
“Just step back, Sheriff,” West said. “You let us by, you hear?”
Rhodes stepped back, keeping his eyes on West and Miss Bobbit. They went through the door, the cow bell clanging. Rhodes went after them.
He hadn’t gotten outside when West started yelling, so he didn’t know what Miss Bobbit had done to him. Whatever it was, it must have been painful. By the time Rhodes got out the door, Miss Bobbit was running toward the back of the store. West was in hot pursuit, holding the cleaver at shoulder level and yelling for her to stop.
Rhodes pulled his pistol and watched them run. If he had been the world’s best marksman, he might have risked a shot, but as it was he didn’t want to try. It was dark, the moon hidden in the clouds, and he was just as likely to hit Miss Bobbit as West.
He didn’t know where Miss Bobbit was headed. Probably she was just running, trying to get away from West. There wasn’t much in back of the store except an open field and Obert’s Hill behind her. West’s house was back there, too, but Miss Bobbit wasn’t headed for it. She was going for the hill.
Rhodes had sometimes thought that Obert’s Hill would have made an ideal location for the B Westerns of his childhood. He would not have been surprised, in those days, to see Randolph Scott or Allan “Rocky” Lane riding down the side of the hill, weaving in and out among the oak trees and the big rocks.
Just over the crest of the hill were the college buildings and what was left of the town. The buildings would have spoiled the illusion, but they couldn’t be seen from where Rhodes was now.
It appeared that Miss Bobbit was going to climb the hill if West didn’t catch her first. Rhodes holstered his pistol and started after them. He didn’t know what else to do.
He wasn’t good at running, even at the best of times. Not enough work on the exercise bike, he told himself, and too many bruises. His chest and back still hurt, and running wasn’t doing them any good. Every step seemed to jar his head, too.
It wasn’t like they were running on level ground, either. This was uncultivated land, with rocks, holes, fire ant mounds, sticks, dead grass, live weeds. Rhodes hoped he didn’t break an ankle.
Miss Bobbit was making good time. Rhodes was surprised that she was so fast. Maybe she would get away and he would catch up with West.
He hoped that he would still be able to breathe if he did.
Chapter 18
Miss Bobbit had a good lead, but she didn’t have good luck. She fell down.
It wasn’t really her fault, Rhodes saw something spring up practically out of the ground in front of her and barrel across the field like a bowling ball gone berserk.
Rhodes thought it was probably an armadillo. They were sort of round and low to the ground, and despite their very short, stubby legs they could travel a lot faster than a man. Or a bowling ball.
It scared Miss Bobbit, jumping up out of the dark like that, not that Rhodes blamed her. It would have scared him, too, if it had popped up right in front of him while West was chasing him through the night with a cleaver, looking like a character from a teen-age splatter movie. West was already wearing the white store apron with a few splashes of blood on it. All he needed was a hockey mask. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so serious.
Miss Bobbit let out a little scream, tried to reverse her field, got her foot caught somehow, and fell forward into a stand of dead milkweeds.
Rhodes had a clear shot at West now, but he had run nearly fifty yards. Squeezing off a shot after he’d run that far, he would be about as likely to hit West as he would be to hit a nail head. He kept running.
West reached Miss Bobbit. He bent down and dragged her to her feet. Miss Bobbit was twisting, spitting, kicking, and trying to bite.
West drew back the cleaver to hit her just as Rhodes crashed into them.
They all three went down in a pile. Rhodes didn’t know how the others felt, but he was pretty sure they weren’t hurting as much as he was.
He tried to get his hands on West’s arm, the one with the cleaver, but West wasn’t cooperating. He rolled over and swung at Rhodes’s head.
Rhodes moved aside, but the edge caught him a glancing blow over his right eye, laying back the skin. Rhodes had dragged the back of his head across the rough ground, and he felt the wound back there opening up, too.
Miss Bobbit landed on West’s back, clawing at his eyes, before he could swing again. He tried to shake her off, but he was on the ground and couldn’t get any leverage.
Rhodes got to his knees and got his pistol out, but by then West had managed to get part-way up. Miss Bobbit was still writhing on his back, and he heaved her over his shoul
der at Rhodes.
She crashed into Rhodes, and they fell heavily. Rhodes lost his grip on the pistol.
Not again, he thought.
West was standing now. He pulled Miss Bobbit off Rhodes and threw her aside. He wasn’t interested in her anymore. He wanted Rhodes.
Rhodes saw the cleaver coming out of the dark and twisted his head. The cleaver thudded into the ground. West jerked it out and got ready to try again, but Rhodes kicked him in the knee.
Rhodes didn’t quite hit it straight on, so the knee didn’t break, but it made a satisfactory cracking noise. West stumbled back and Rhodes got to his feet. He knew the pistol was there somewhere, but he didn’t see it. He felt blood dripping down past one eye. More stitches. If he lived to go on his honeymoon, he was going to look like he’d been assembled by Dr. Frankenstein.
He saw West staggering around and went after him. Miss Bobbit was going after him, too, but West didn’t panic. He clipped her on the chin, and she went down. Then he singled out Rhodes again, and this time he tried something different.
He threw the cleaver.
It hit Rhodes squarely in the middle of his chest.
If the sharp edge had struck him there, it would have split him open like a ripe cantaloupe, but it was the blunt end, the end opposite the handle, that hit him.
Not that it didn’t hurt. It hurt like hell, and Rhodes let out a yell. West was strong, and Rhodes was already severely bruised. This time there were going to be cracked ribs for sure.
Rhodes stumbled backward and sat down hard, right on a fire ant mound.
The ants swarmed out, instantly maddened to a stinging frenzy, as was the way with fire ants. They clung to Rhodes’s pants and shirt, but that wasn’t so bad. It was the ones on his hands that hurt.
He brushed them off as fast as he could. West was coming for him, hobbling on his injured knee.
Miss Bobbit was back up again. She was tougher than she looked. She got in between Rhodes and West and grabbed West’s arms. She slowed him down, but she didn’t stop him. He knocked her aside and kept on coming.
