"Thanks." I set the phone down. It was all up to me now. I considered my choices. I was a blur of motion the millisecond the decision was made. I closed up the computer and packed it away in its black padded case. I circled the room, tossing clothes and books and yellow note pads into the worn, plaid suitcase.
Outside, I tossed my baggage into the hatchback and slammed it shut. I walked briskly over to the motel office and knocked, without really expecting an answer; then knocked again. Jerry's red scooter was still missing. A cold feeling swam into the pit of my stomach. Maybe it's already too late.
"Glad I caught you," someone said. I whirled, my hands coming up.
"Whoa, bubba!" Loner cried. "Easy there."
"Christ, you scared me."
"Sorry about that."
"What are you up to, Loner?"
"Gonna be quite a fireworks show tonight. I'll be watching from the station because we're on the air live. But hey, you look like you're already on your way out of town."
"You're right."
"Then I better do it," McDowell mumbled.
"Do what?"
Loner seemed pale and tired. His eyes were red. His hands were trembling. He cracked his knuckles, scooted his left boot through the dirt awkwardly, and cleared his throat. He looked twelve years old. "I don't know how to say this."
"Just say it."
"I'm an asshole, Mick. I've been thinking about what you said about me not caring about anyone. First it pissed me off but then it really started to bother me."
I just wanted to get this over with. I shrugged, smiled gently. "If it bothered you, maybe that proves me wrong."
"Hear me out," Loner said. "This isn't easy. I've done a lot of stupid and selfish things. Never gave them much thought. To me, that's the way the world is. You take what you can get. But somebody is dead, and here I am acting like nothing happened. I don't like seeing that in myself."
"Two somebodys are dead. Will appears to have hung himself yesterday."
"Oh, shit. Damn." Loner sagged as if he were about to lose his balance. "What the hell is going on?"
"Lots of people seem to be wondering that very thing."
Loner sighed. "That does it."
"What?"
"I'm gonna finish up tonight with the Memorial Day program, and the live broadcast of those fireworks out to Starr Valley, and then I'm outa here."
"You? But you own the radio station."
"Got an offer last week. I just decided right here and now that I'm taking it."
"What about your friend Manuel?"
"Fuck him. I've waited long enough."
"I'm surprised," I said. "You seem to like it here."
"I have a serious need to raise some cash, Mick. It seems my partner ain't coming, so I'm on my own, and I've got some king-sized gambling debts to settle. There are other jobs and other places. I always did like Tahoe too, you know." Loner couldn't look me in the eye. "I'm actually glad you're going, old buddy. There are a lot of weird things going down around here. I don't want you to get mixed up in them."
"What things?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.
"Better you don't know," McDowell said. "Let's just say there's a lot of money involved. Sorry I dragged you up here and got you mixed up in all this."
I shook my head, ruefully. "Not half as sorry as I am."
McDowell grinned. "I believe you."
"I'm tempted to ask you to explain what you just dangled out there. But the truth is I got it in my head to get the hell out of here. And I'm gonna stick to the plan."
"Believe me, I understand."
I looked around, hands on hips, and tried my best to seem annoyed rather than worried. "Loner, you got any idea what happened to little Jerry? Have you seen him this morning?"
McDowell shook his head. "I'm looking for him, too. I just dropped by to say goodbye to you and pay your room charges. Seems like the least I can do."
We shook hands. McDowell punched me on the shoulder. It hurt. "Good luck over to L.A. I like you, even if you did make me admit I'm an asshole." We smiled, nodded at one another. Finally we hugged.
"Thanks for the job, Loner. Stay out of trouble."
Loner nodded. "That's what I'm going to do," he said, turning away. "And it's smart of you to do the same." He threw back over one shoulder: "Gotta go, the show will be starting early today. Don't you worry about Jerry or the motel bill. I'll handle all that."
"Thanks."
"De nada." Loner stopped. He looked at me for a long moment, seemed about to say something. Finally he shrugged. "Adios, amigo," he said. He walked away.
I stood there until the big man was gone. I contemplated my situation once last time, went over what I knew and what I now suspected. Several moments passed. I became aware of a distant, scratchy voice blaring from a loudspeaker and brass band music coming from the park. The Memorial Day show had begun. It was time to leave.
I willed myself to move, but my body remained still. I remembered the dream I'd had about Sandy Palmer and shivered, although the day was turning hot. I pondered everything and went over my options.
I didn't really have any.
Once the decision reaffirmed itself, I turned and got into that old green hatchback Mustang. I started the engine and drove rapidly away from Dry Wells.
Twenty-Two
Monday Morning, 10:15 AM . . . Memorial Day
I took the 93 cut south and drove on past the Palmer ranch, looping off towards the west without a sideways glance. I almost missed the back entrance because a thicket of tumbleweeds and a pile of old cement blocks obscured the start of the dirt road. I grabbed my cell phone and clipped it to my belt. I parked the hatchback on the far side of the dead brush. I swallowed deeply, opened the trunk, lifted the spare, and removed the body of the jack; hefted it, testing its weight as a weapon. It would have to do. I stayed low to the ground, hunched over, and moved as quickly and quietly as possible onto Lowell Palmer's property.
I could smell the sage and my own dank fear. Blistering sunshine pounded my shoulder blades. Horse flies buzzed and a horde of grasshoppers began to click and rattle. A solitary cow mooed from low and to the left; she was probably grazing down in the gully. I stopped from time to time, just to avoid being a constantly moving image on the barren desert floor. I scanned the horizon, then the windows of the houses to see if I'd been discovered. Saw nothing; caught my breath and moved on.
I came upon the three empty mobile homes near the back of the property. I would have to cross a long open stretch to reach them. Between the dented fenders of two of the old vehicles, I spotted three very large, chest-high steel containers. I braced myself.
I raced brokenly across the empty, dusty driveway and into the space between two of the mobile homes. The tall steel cylinders were marked TOXIC GAS and labeled as Hydrogen Chloride. With those contents, a simple valve failure or breakage could suddenly create an unguided missile. I set the jack down in the dirt, knelt by one of the containers and put my shoulder to it. It rolled easily; it had already been emptied. I eased up the metal wall and tried to peer in one of the windows. It was closed, shuttered, and locked. I tried another, then one a bit more weather-beaten, and peeked through a tiny crack. I saw containers of red phosphorous and others marked as holding iodine.
I sniffed the air, caught the faint whiff of heated chemical agents and knew this was a very dangerous place to be. I concentrated on what I had come here to do. I knelt and picked up the jack. I found its heft comforting.
When it felt safe, I sprinted across the second open space, slid under a broken wooden fence rail and into the back yard of the big house. I stayed in the shadows behind the vegetable garden, my nose burning with the odor of concentrated fertilizer. The two-story house seemed quiet. I slipped over to the far end of the garden and around behind the bunkhouse. I heard some chickens clucking. A nearby horse whinnied.
Jerry's red scooter lay half-hidden in the brush by the watering trough, only a few feet away from a tall
haystack.
Four large bales were covered with several paper targets, all of them well punctured. An old white Ford Fairlane was parked on the property, as was the battered red pickup truck I had seen the day before. I stayed in the gloom for a few moments, quieting my breathing, and then sprinted for the back porch of the two-story house. I vaulted the railing, the jack held aloft in my right hand, then rolled and came to a stop by some patio furniture. I was surprised by how little noise I had made. Waited, listened.
I heard nothing but my own hoarse breathing and a sprinkler hissing repeatedly from somewhere nearby, probably watering the parched lawn at the side of the building. I crawled across the splintered porch on my hands and knees, got to the back screen door and slipped it open. I winced at the whine of the creaking hinges.
I opted to enter the house standing up. I eased the door open, stepped in and gently closed it behind me. I slid down the wallpapered porch wall and stopped by a large laundry basin to get my bearings. Through a hall door I could see the living room, where I had first confronted Lowell Palmer. To the right, I saw the stairway with its elevator platform. I heard the ticking of the antique grandfather clock.
"Wait up a second," a female called, from perhaps thirty feet away. Another voice, male: "Hey fuck you. You just hustle your ass up."
"Go to hell, then. We'll wait here." The sound of male laughter, some hooting and hollering.
I heard a vehicle, its tires spinning for traction in the dusty road. When the sound of the engine had faded away, I let out the air in my lungs. For a brief moment, I considered running away. Goddamn it, you stand and fight them boy, Danny Bell said. Stomach-curdling shame followed and when that feeling passed, the white heat of anger took its place. Let's do this. I stepped into the living room, the hair on the back of my neck standing rigid.
The area was still polished, immaculate. I turned and checked out the doorways. I opted to slide low below the long glass picture window, then clutched the jack to my chest and rolled lightly to the foot of the stairs. I wiped my face. It suddenly hit me that somewhere along the way — possibly out in the garden — I'd lost the damned cell phone.
I had intended to corner Lowell Palmer and somehow negotiate a solution. Because of what I'd seen in the abandoned mobile homes, I now knew that the situation was more dangerous than I'd realized. I needed a new plan.
"Well hell, that isn't my fault," someone said. She sounded close, perhaps only a few feet away. Within seconds she would be passing the porch. "Why are you guys always blaming me?"
"Shut the fuck up," a male voice said. Maybe the one called Mex? "You're always whining."
My heart leapt into my throat. The screen door was opening. I looked around for somewhere to hide; decided to sneak to the second story. Moving on my toes, angry with myself for wearing boots, I stepped on the corners of the stairs and jogged rapidly upward.
The screen door slammed, and someone moved through the room below and out into the kitchen area. I heard rummaging. The male voice again: "Don't he keep any goddamned beer?"
Something dropped to the kitchen floor and splattered.
"Shit. Oh, here we go."
Clanking of glass, a twist top. "Ahh. That's better. It's hotter than a bitch out there, man. You want one?"
"No," the girl said. "We better get back to work. The Boss will be way pissed off if he catches you."
"He ain't gonna catch me," Mex said. "And I ain't afraid of him."
"Maybe you should be. I'm going back to work."
"Pussy," Mex said. But he followed her out the door. The screen banged closed again. I blew air like a horse ridden too hard. My palms were drenched with sweat, and I had to shift the jack to both hands in order to hold it. I moved to the top of the staircase and stood by the elevator seat, my eyes darting about. I went looking for Palmer.
The first room was a guest bedroom of some kind; it was furnished in a somewhat nondescript, Western way. It was dusty and hadn't been used in a very long time. I closed it up and slipped into the next room.
The hinges squeaked, and I jumped a bit. My flesh writhed as I sensed something bleak and soulless lay within. I turned sideways and pushed the door the rest of the way open.
It was Will Palmer's bedroom; there were photographs of him with several smiling young women. Will in high school, Will at college dances. In every photograph his cruel eyes seemed flat and empty. Some of his dark clothing was now scattered about, and there were pornographic magazines and videos by the bed. I saw stubbed-out marijuana cigarettes in an overflowing ashtray. An oddly eclectic collection of posters dotted the walls, a mixture of rock-and-roll and modern art. Several classic books lined a ceiling-high wooden shelf, and sloppily framed a multi-disc CD player littered with plastic cases. The room smelled musty and foul, as if somehow infected by the manner of his death.
I leaned the jack against the wall for a moment and wiped my palms on the legs of my jeans. As I passed by the window I peeked down into the driveway below. The red pickup truck was gone. The old white Ford was still parked in the shade of a weathered oak tree near the bunkhouse. Mex and the girl had returned to work, probably somewhere in the mobile home area. I was thirsty, so I stole a few sips of water from the tap in the dead boy's bathroom. I splashed some on my face and examined my sweat-matted black hair and slightly crooked nose in the mirror. I had never looked so boyish in my life. Hail the conquering hero.
I stepped back into the hallway. The ticking of the grandfather clock seemed louder than before. Something small, with tiny claws, scampered through the attic. I moved on.
The next room was Sandy Palmer's; I knew because of the gentle fragrance and the pastel colors. Infused with melancholy, her room seemed to belong to another dimension. I saw one photograph of her, laughing with her brother. In another Sandy, perhaps eleven years old, was riding bareback on a handsome Palomino.
I eased back out into the hallway, stole a quick glance backward and then stepped briskly to the threshold of the master bedroom. I shifted the jack to my left hand, tried the brass knob and got a small static shock. The door was unlocked. I slipped inside and looked around. The room was spotless, with little warmth or charm, and cold as frozen bones. The very air felt wicked.
The bathroom door was open, and I could see handicap bars by the toilet and the tub. Lowell Palmer lived here. There was an inner door, solid oak, and it too was closed. I kept my boots on the thick, ornate area rugs to muffle my steps and tiptoed over. The blood sang in my ears. Toughen me up, Danny. Here there be monsters. I opened the door and stepped inside.
The closed-up room was like a furnace. There was a massive four-poster oak bed with a canopy, pale yellow in color. The bedspread was pulled up high, despite the heat, and molded in the shape of a human body. I could see an old man's wizened arm and hand above the covers. A flesh-colored Ace bandage had come undone and trailed away towards the foot of the bed.
Lowell Palmer's wrinkled face was frozen in a silent scream; his eyes were wide and spider-webbed with blood. The large, clear plastic bag had been tied over his head, probably while he was still sleeping. He had awakened to find himself unable to breathe. His wrists had been tied to the bedposts by the bandages; his right arm was still bound there. He'd untied his left, but had apparently been too weak to free himself completely. The old man had died slowly, in agony, gasping for air.
He's all yours now, Danny. Make him pay what he owes. I set the jack down on the carpet and turned away from the body. I was swallowing air, trying not to vomit, when I heard a sound like distant thunder.
Someone large was coming up the stairs. Moving rapidly, two steps at a time. I looked around desperately, darted into the closet; sliding mirrored door, blackness, and the scent of mothballs. I stood frozen, face and palms soaking wet, and then realized with horror that I'd left the car jack lying near the head of the dead man's canopied bed. Before I could correct that mistake, someone else was in the hallway. I groped around in the darkness, but found nothing I could
use for a weapon.
Someone entered the bedroom. Silence. An explosion of air, followed by a male voice saying: "Oh boy, oh boy!" The one called Donny Boy. He called out at the top of his lungs: "Hey, this old motherfucker is dead, dude. He's stone cold dead."
Muffled response from downstairs. "I shit you not. Old man Palmer is way dead up here."
Donny Boy trotted out of the room and back down the stairs. I slipped out of the closet as soundlessly as possible, grabbed the jack and froze when I heard footsteps running across the floor and coming back up the staircase. I got back into the closet in time, jack in hand, and held my position in the darkness.
"Well I'll be damned," said the one called Mex. "He looks awful, don't he?"
"We better tell Bobby," Donny Boy said. "He's not going to like this."
Mex laughed. "Hell, he probably did it!"
Whispering? Maybe, I couldn't be sure. After a long and uncomfortable silence, I heard the footsteps walking away. I waited as long as I could, slid the mirrored door open and stepped back into the room. Lowell Palmer lay as before, his bulging eyes staring up through the plastic. I slipped over to the window and looked out. No one was in the yard. I thought about slithering down the latticework on the side of the house, rather than risk the stairs again. But I'd be hanging out in the open for a long while.
I considered using Palmer's phone to make a quiet call, but who, if anyone, could I trust? I held the jack in my left hand and walked over to the door. The silence screamed obscenities. I listened to some wasps as they square danced through the attic. I peered into the hallway, and then moved out of the room.
"Oh boy, oh boy!'
The ragged breathing and the whisper tipped me, but too late to avoid the blow. Donny Boy brought a raised fist around hard and caught me right on the side of the jaw. My knees buckled and my torso went limp. The jack slipped from my fingers. I heard circus music. My skull bounced off the wooden door. Then I was kneeling on the rug, trying to shake the punch. Donny Boy was dancing around like a delirious prizefighter. I groggily tried to locate the jack. His boot caught me in the midsection and I crumbled.
Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 17
