“Crossbow?”
“Yep,” Hazelton confirmed. “With a scope it's basically a rifle that shoots arrows. Somebody could have sat for hours with it cocked and ready to go. From the looks of it they got a hell of a show for their efforts. Only problem is, crossbows are not rifles. No messy paperwork to buy one. If it was bought with cash, no records at all. Looks like we're back to square one. I don't suppose you have any idea which of your local good ol' boys favors a crossbow, do you?”
Dale shook his head and bent down to study the fletching on the bolt protruding from Butch's hand. It made him sick but it was still better than looking at his face. The feathery vanes were a dull black. They were unlike the bright orange of Tassler's gear, which could easily be spotted from a distance in case of a missed shot. Whoever selected these was not concerned about finding them after they were fired. He shrugged his shoulders and put on his best hell if I know look.
“Tell you what,” Hazelton said. He sighed and rubbed the side of his head through his gloves. “I know these are your people. You want what's best for them, but holding anything back from me is not going to help anyone.” Dale opened his mouth but met the palm once again. “Find me something, Deputy Scheck.” This time it was just plain old deputy, nothing venomous about it. “Soon, before I run out of patience.”
Chapter 23
Kori stood with his back pressed against the back of the chute and slapped the stubborn cow in the ass. His hand stung despite the thick leather chore gloves as he continued to coax the animal forward, sending plumes of dust in the air with each blow. There was nothing between him and the thousand pound cow except for a shit crusted two by six, held precariously in place through slots on either side of the chute. The other end of the chute led into a stock trailer that apparently presented no appeal for a mother cow being separated from her calf.
“Twist her tail a little, she'll go,” Todd suggested from outside the chute. He held a firm grip on the board that separated Kori from the unruly cow, keeping well out of the animal's line of vision. Moving cattle was dangerous work and the last thing he wanted was to spook her. Todd had assisted in the yearly weaning of the calves before. He was by no means farmer material, but he knew enough of the more important do's and don'ts.
“Seriously? Does that work?” Kori strained to peer over the high boards and nearly slipped. He carefully readjusted his footing on the side of the chute and focused his attention to the cow’s tail. He seized it with both hands and gave it a gentle twist. The tail flexed in his hands and rose up, but the cow did not budge. He was about to increase the torque when a stream of loose crap erupted from underneath it, covering both the backside of the cow and his arms.
Kori gagged and yelled at the top of his lungs. He divided his verbal assault equally between the cow and Todd, who unsuccessfully tried to hold back his laughter. The tail was now greased in its own slippery mess, but he twisted with one hand and punched the cow in the back with the other. He closed his eyes to avoid the splatter. Finally the animal lurched forward and stepped into the trailer.
Todd let loose of the board and hurried to close the gates on the front end of the chute. The sounds of heavy clanging metal startled the cow and she shifted around inside the confines of the trailer. The rig shifted under her weight until she settled down.
“Told you she'd go,” he said, chuckling as he climbed the first two boards of the chute to look in on Kori. The look of disgust on his friend's face only made it that much harder not to laugh.
“You are a complete idiot,” Kori snapped. “You knew that was going to happen.” He climbed out of the chute and ripped his gloves off as he headed for the water hydrant. His vocabulary expanded as he stalked off.
“Careful there,” Todd warned, jokingly. “I'm the one holding the board. Remember? Talk like that is what got your brother's knee all busted up in there. I'm just saying'.”
Kori stopped scrubbing his hands and looked up. A coldness washed over him that had nothing to do with the water running down the length of his bare arms. He pushed down on the handle and let the hose fall to his feet, ignoring the weak residual trickle that soaked his boot as the water drained out. He glanced at the stock trailer as it rocked from the force of the bellowing cow, mourning the loss of her calf. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn't know, did you?” Todd shifted uncomfortably as Kori approached him.
“Didn't know what?” Kori asked, trying to make Todd look him in the eyes. He wiped the water from his arms with the front of his shirt. Todd had retrieved his jacket from a nail on the fence and offered it to him. Kori ignored the gesture and pressed the subject further. “Tell me, Todd.”
“Hey. I thought you already knew, man. I think it's best if you ask your brother.”
“No, go on and tell it.” Brenden appeared from the side door of the barn, where he and Jens had been busy corralling the next cow in line to be moved out to pasture, away from their offspring. He put his arm around Todd, who was at a rare loss for words. Brenden mussed the top of Todd's long hair as if to tell him it was okay. He gently nudged him in the arm and said, “You started the story, might as well finish it. He deserves that much.”
Todd reluctantly told the true story of Brenden's knee and how it was injured, just months before Faye Woodson shocked the entire family by pulling up stakes and moving out. An injury that nagged him for years, even though he would never admit it. The one that cost him his full ride to Iowa and pretty much his entire future outside of Cedar Ridge.
By the time Todd finished, Kori came to learn that no wrestling practice mishap ruined his brother's knee. Instead it was the result of an accident that culminated from a long standing rift between Brenden and his stepfather. Clayton, who had heard one too many pointed comments muttered under the breath of his hired hand during the daily chores. Clayton, who carelessly forgot to lock the front door one afternoon when Brenden showed up early for work, wondering why his mother's car was parked in his boss's driveway.
Clayton began to despise everything about his mistress's eldest son, especially after Brenden saw the truth about them firsthand. Faye insisted that he keep a close watch on the boy by keeping him on the payroll. He was strong and very useful around the farm, but that just made Clayton despise him that much more. The fact that he kept their dirty secret to himself should have made him appreciative, but that only furthered his contempt. Soon Brenden would go to college, become something better than a chore hand and create distance from the rest of them. Clayton saw Brenden as a threat and men like Clayton only know one way of dealing with people that they feel threatened by. That was to destroy them.
Late one fall after one of the first practices of the season, they were transferring a load of cattle onto the trailer. Clayton had rented a patch of pasture just down the road and told Brenden he wanted to get them moved before dark that night. Brenden was inside the chute pushing the animals through while Clayton held the board in place and Todd, who had tagged along after practice, manned the gates. A particularly stubborn steer put up a fight as they hurried to get done. It was late October and soon it would be too dark to continue.
“Your brother made some smart ass comment to Clayton. I don't remember what it was exactly. About starting so late, I think,” Todd said. He looked to Brenden for verification only to realize that he and Kori had been left alone to finish the story. “Anyways. That's when the board came loose and the steer slammed Bren against the back of the gate.”
“Shit,” Kori whispered.
“Shit's right!” Todd exclaimed. “I've never heard anyone scream like that before. And Clayton just stood there with this goddamned grin on his face, watching him. I thought he was gonna try and stop me when I went in there to get him out. He didn't try, but he didn't help me either.”
“He just stood there?”
“With that stupid grin,” Todd reiterated. “I could have sworn he was laughing, too. I just couldn't tell for sure with Brenden screaming in my ear.”
He ran his hand over his hair, brushing his long bangs out of his face. “I know this is gonna sound bad, but I still think Clayton let go of that board on purpose.”
Kori said nothing for a few minutes. He let the idea of Clayton purposely hurting his brother sink in. As absurd as it sounded, it made total sense the more he thought about it. He had seen that hateful grin plastered on his stepfather's face many times before. It was always when he thought he had the upper hand or when he knew that he had caused great hurt to someone. The more he thought about it the angrier he became. There was only one thing that he did not understand.
“Why didn't he tell mom what really happened? Why lie about it?”
“I don't know,” Todd replied. “What do you think?”
“Maybe he didn't want to upset her. That Clayton would do something like that.”
They walked over to the chute as the next cow clamored out of the barn. She immediately began to fight against the narrow boards that constricted her. The cow attempted to back out the same way she had come in but the gate was already closed behind her. Already her orphaned calf cried desperately in the distance, but she was too caught up in her own state of panic and self-preservation to notice.
“Yeah, maybe,” Todd said. “Or maybe he was afraid that she wouldn't believe him.”
Chapter 24
Dale collapsed on the carpeted floor of his tiny living room seconds after walking in the door. His chest thumped so rapidly beneath his jacket that he wondered if he were having a heart attack. For a brief weak moment he welcomed the idea. It would have been the easiest plan of escape from the overwhelming stress that he was now under. A surefire way to wipe away the sights, the smells and the sounds of the depravity that he had been subjected to.
After melting into the plush rug for what seemed liked hours, he suddenly felt the need to throw up. His empty stomach had been threatening to betray him all day. Now he was in the comfort of his own home, where the embarrassment of losing complete control was no longer an issue. He steadied himself on weary legs and started down the hall toward the bathroom. His foot snagged something on the floor, breaking his stride just enough to make the short run to the toilet an impossibility. He dry-heaved over the sink as spots danced in his vision.
He held a cold washcloth against his face as he stepped back into the hallway. There he saw the thing that had nearly caused him to fall flat on his face with a mouthful of puke. It was the heavy canvas bag that he brought with him from Stu's. The strap was broken free of the hook, where his boot had pulled it half the length of the hall. He stared at the bag and sighed. Whatever possessed him to agree to take the damned thing anyway and what the hell was he supposed to do with it now?
He had not been home five minutes after Hazelton had dropped him off before his phone started ringing. Not his cell, but the house phone that he had almost forgotten he owned. He only had it because the local phone company would not provide him with internet service without it. Half expecting a telemarketer on the other end, Dale waited until the fourth ring and hit the send button without speaking.
“Dale, are you there?” He recognized the voice on the other end immediately, even before she continued. “Dale, if you're there pick up. I didn't hear a message so I don't know if this is working or not, but if you...”
“I'm here, Margaret,” he interrupted. Her voice sounded desperate and panicked.
“Oh, thank god you're there.” She definitely sounded out of sorts. “Dale, it's Stu. He hasn't acted right all day and I'm really beginning to worry about him. He hasn't come out of his workshop since he came home this morning and now he won't even let me in there to bring him his lunch.”
“Where did he go this morning, Margaret?” Dale asked, even though he thought he already knew the answer. “Did he tell you?”
“He hasn't told me anything. The only time he's spoken all day was to scream at me to leave him be. You know that's not like him, Dale. There has to be something terribly wrong and his blood sugar has been so irregular lately. He needs to eat.” Her voice cracked as she spoke, on the verge of breaking. Margaret Fisher was one of the sweetest women that he had ever met and it broke his heart to hear that degree of worry in her voice. If his suspicions were true, her problems were about to get one hell of a lot worse.
“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” Dale assured her and hung up the phone. He got there in fewer than fifteen.
Armed with the plate of food that Margaret insisted that he take with him, Dale cautiously tested the knob on the workshop door. It was not locked as she had previously told him, which was less than comforting as he called out Stu's name. He was glad that Margaret could not see him from the house as he drew his Glock. Retired or not, Stu was a lawman and Dale knew better than entering a cop's castle without expecting a fight. Even from an old man with a leg full of bone fragments.
The lights were not on and the early fall dusk offered little to help his eyes adjust to the interior of the building. Smells of freshly worked lumber filled his nostrils and brought with it the nostalgia of better times. He fumbled against the wall until his hands found the light switch. The shed lit up but revealed no signs of Stu. His heart sank as he scanned the room, stopping on a workbench along the far wall. A compound crossbow sat on the bench top, contrasting with the otherwise neatly arranged collection of tools.
To the right of the workbench was the door to Stu's office. A light flickered from the crack beneath it, an inconsistent dancing blue glow of a television set. Dale sat the plate of food down and gripped his weapon with both hands. Slowly, he approached the door and called Stu's name once again. He held his breath and prepared himself for the inevitable. He was about to push the door open with his foot when Stu answered back.
“It's not locked,” Stu called out. His speech was slurred and muffled.
“Stu, I'm coming in,” Dale answered back. He glanced to his left at the crossbow, the one that he was sure had ended his partner's life earlier that day. From there he could also see a dozen short black arrows scattered beside it. Bolts, Hazelton had called them. “Is that gonna be a problem?”
“Not as long as you're alone, son,” Stu mumbled. “Got no bone to pick with you.”
Against his better judgment, Dale holstered his gun and pushed the door open. He knew in his heart that Stu would never cause him any more harm than he would his own son, if he had one. Hearing the old man refer to him as such only solidified that belief. Stu may have possibly committed two murders in the past few days, but he was still like a father to him. Besides, if he really wanted to hurt him; Dale knew that he would not have answered him first.
The tiny room reeked of scotch and cigarettes. It surprised Dale because he had only seen Stu drink on a few rare occasions and never knew him to smoke. Like the shop, the lights in the office were all off. A television filled the center of Stu's desk, providing the only illumination. Stu slouched in his chair, his right hand alternating between a remote control and a nearly empty bottle of Johnny Walker. The flickering set created an aura like glow around his body, adding to Dale's increasing sense of disquietude. Half a dozen wires connected it to both a DVD player and a VCR. Hundreds of tapes and discs were stacked on every remaining available inch of the desk's surface. It was not until Dale entered the room that he fully comprehended the images playing on the screen.
“What the fuck?” Dale managed to choke out, staring at the television in disgusted horror. Over Stu's shoulder a scene from a pornographic movie played out at an accelerated speed. Even with the actors racing through the motions of coitus at a blurring pace, Dale could clearly see that they were extremely young. The scene ended and another set of equally underage actors flashed across the television screen.
“She's on there, Dale. I haven't found her yet,” he slurred, motioning to the stacks of media on the desk. “But I know if I keep looking...” He started to cry as the disc ended. He impatiently waited for the player to eject the disc, tossed it aside and inserted another.
“Gabby,” Stu replied, crying even harder as the name left his lips.
“Your daughter?”
“Those bastards took my little girl for this filth! Stole her from her mother and me for filth.” He looked to Dale with pleading eyes. “Help me find her, Dale. Please help me get her back.”
Dale averted his gaze from the obscene images and reached across Stu to turn off the television. The maddening display ceased, allowing his mind to stop reeling for a moment. He had tried to digest about as much insanity as a person could take in one day. First it was Tassler with the spooning deer and the yet to be identified bodily fluids splattered on its hide. Now Stu, shit-faced and crying with his video library of abysmal hedonism. Any respite was a welcomed blessing. That was when he noticed the gun in Stu's left hand.
It was a small snub-nose revolver, the kind many cops kept strapped to their ankles as a backup piece. It was impossible to tell whether or not Stu saw him notice the gun. The old man never took his eyes from the screen even after it went blank. The gun vibrated against the arm of the chair, creating a shadowy blur against the light shining in from the other room. Dale kept his eyes trained on the Stu's left hand as he carefully weighed his next words.
“Stu, whatever you have done. Whatever this is all about.” He picked up a cassette tape from the desk and waved it in front of Stu's face. Immediately he threw it back down as if it were toxic. “This will not bring Gabby back. I can call someone to help you through this. Someone that can make all of this right.”
Dimebag Bandits Page 15
