Loner sighed. "He came at me about Sandy, Mick and tried to give me a ration of shit about her dying. I didn't mean to strangle the prick. That crystal can make you crazy, once you've been up for a couple of days. Anyhow, then I had to improvise. The thing is, Will woke up just as I kicked that stool out from under him. He got to die twice, and I got to watch."
"I don't know if anybody deserves to die like that."
"Oh, he did," Loner said. "But like I said, somehow everything got a little out of control."
"Well, now with Bobby and all the Palmers dead, you'll walk away with at least two million in drug money, enough to settle your debts."
"And then some."
"Only one thing bothers me. What is it, now, Loner? Four dead people in three days? With me, it'll make five. That's quite a mess to explain. You're smarter than this, man. What the hell happened to you?"
Loner was wearing gloves. He'd thought it out pretty well. He shifted his weight so that he'd have perfect aim with the crossbow. I realized the story would be that Bobby and I had killed each other when Loner was already out of town. Why the radio station? Well, after all, I'd worked there. I had talked on the telephone with Sandy Palmer from there, only a couple of days before. It wasn't bad, actually.
"Damn it, Mick," Loner said. He looked genuinely sad. "I really don't want to hurt you. I wish you could have minded your own business. Why didn't you just leave town when I said?"
Talking fast, heart in my throat: "Because of Sandy Palmer, Loner. You know how it was. She was special."
"Oh Jesus," Loner howled. "You too? God damn it, boy. Not you too."
I lied desperately: "You got mad at her for being pregnant. You went way crazy. Sandy told me all about it."
"Huh?"
"You didn't want the baby, right?"
Loner laughed. "Nice try, Callahan. A little shrink stuff, even at the end. I didn't give a shit about her having a baby."
I believed him. But then what the hell had set Loner off? My mind whirled in circles, seeking an answer.
"She was about to tell you my secrets, friend. I was warning her to keep her mouth shut. I slapped her around a little bit and she fell backwards. She hit her head on a rock in the water, and I thought shit, well that tears it. Figured I'd better make tracks, so I took off."
"Was she dead?"
"Then? She was still breathing. But I didn't want anybody to see me there."
I grunted. My chest filled with rage, but I kept my features empty. "Did you ever wonder whose baby it was, Loner? Yours, or maybe her brother's? Maybe that's what got you so angry at Will. That he was screwing his sister? No, I know. Maybe it was that the baby was really Lowell Palmer's? Could he still get it up?"
Loner was growing red-faced. "That baby-raping bastard?" he snarled. "He probably could. You know, Mick, the old tree-jumper really got scared. He thought that there would be cops crawling all over Dry Wells soon, because you were poking around wondering how Sandy died. He told me he wanted to shut things down. And he wouldn't pay me any of the money he owed me. I couldn't have that, man."
"I suppose not," I said. "Did you watch him die too?"
"Oh, you know it. And I'll watch you right soon, now."
I was seconds away from death. I played my last card. "Wait one second. I know something important, Loner. Something you don't know."
"Go to hell, Mick," McDowell said pleasantly. "I'll meet you there soon enough." And he started to pull the trigger on the crossbow.
"Wait," I said, my voice cracking. "We're on the air live."
Loner snorted. "Sure."
"Just so you understand what's up. All of this has been live."
He seemed shaken. "Bullshit."
"No, we are live, Loner," I said. "You shot Bobby Sewell in public, and told at least a few hundred people you've been dealing drugs to pay down gambling debts to the mob. They heard that you killed Sandy Palmer by accident and Will Palmer and Lowell Palmer on purpose, and now you're about to kill me. But there's no point, now. It's over."
"I taped it all first," Loner said. "I taped the whole damned show."
"Hear anything? I let the commercial play out and took us live, Loner. Bobby cut some of the telephone wires, but believe me, I can flat guarantee you somebody within earshot of this radio station has called the cops. Killing me won't change anything."
Providence arrived, as if rehearsed to intervene: the stair down below squeaked under someone's weight.
"Loner? Mr. McDowell?"
McDowell's eyes flickered away towards the stairs. I flipped backwards and kicked the swivel chair towards him. The crossbow went off and the arrow sank into the padded ceiling. The .357 slipped from McDowell's fingers and dropped into the sickening goo that had been Bobby Sewell's face. Loner reached, recoiled involuntarily, and then reached down for it again, but by that time I had hit him from the side. He went back against the wall and clutched at me with his gloved hands, trying to push me off. He wanted to use his fists.
I kept my face pressed against that barrel chest and hammered his guts with everything I had. He held his stomach muscles tight and brought his arms down on my upper back, but I drove up and in with my legs and kept pounding. Finally he had to catch a breath, and it was then that a couple of punches to his diaphragm really hurt. He made a high, barking sound and tried to lower his hands to protect his ribcage. I kept my head in the way, hit him again and managed to crack one rib on the upper right side; I heard it snap like a thin piece of firewood.
Loner moaned, raised his hands and clawed for my eyes. I tried to turn away but lost my balance for a second. That broken rib should have stopped him, but it didn't. He got some kind of second wind and tried to knock me out.
His gloved fist came down on the side of my neck and everything went numb. My left knee gave. When I came down on all fours, my hand slipped into something wet and squishy with hard chunks in it. I figured it was Bobby Sewell's shattered skull and brain tissue, but didn't let myself look. I didn't want to know.
Loner leaned against the wall, clutching the shattered rib and wheezing for air. "Motherfucker," he said. He seemed amused. He spat on me, or at least I think he did, and then kicked me in the kidney. I anticipated the blow by a millisecond and started to roll away from him. The boot hurt anyway, caught me on the injured calf. The pain was blinding.
I rolled again, knowing I'd slowed him down some. My back struck the front of the wooden console. I looked back. McDowell leaned forward at an odd, simian angle trying to protect that cracked rib. He was in big trouble. But then again, so was I.
He started towards me, long arms dangling. I forced myself back to my feet. My kidney was throbbing, my breath was wheezing like a leaky bicycle tire and my head throbbed. I didn't figure the big man to have too many slick moves left, but kept my eyes on his belt buckle. The hips give a feint away. He stopped for some reason, maybe because I wasn't looking up. I saw his knees loosen a little, like he was preparing to charge, so I charged first.
I hit him low, like a linebacker tackles a running back, and drove him out into the stairwell. Loner clubbed me with his fist again, but I held on tight. I dug my fingers into McDowell's features, going for the nose and the eyes, hoping to blind him.
We tottered at the top of the stairs, equally matched and motionless, each straining against the other for any advantage. It went on for a long time, just deep grunting and sweat and muscular tension. Almost like arm wrestling. I had never cared about winning before, had never really known who was the stronger man, but now I knew. Loner McDowell was a powerful animal, and he was probably going to win.
"Mr. McDowell?" Jerry, at the foot of the stairs. "You okay up there?"
I think we were both startled, but Loner reacted to the voice more than I did. His muscles relaxed for a fraction of a second.
Take him out, boy, Danny Bell whispered. No mercy. I slipped my right hand away from Loner's eyes and viciously slammed the palm upwards into his nose. I meant to kill him, but the blow
wasn't solid enough to drive bone into brain. I did feel some cartilage give and heard a grunt of agony. I hissed with satisfaction and struck again, shattering the nose completely. McDowell cried out and then we both lost our balance. I went backwards into the wall, and while sliding down I kicked hard at McDowell's chest with all of my waning strength. I called out, quickly: "Jerry, get out of the way!"
Loner McDowell tumbled down the stairs; all rolling thumps and grunts. I heard the piercing crack of shattering glass and the sound of a great deal of water sloshing around.
Silence followed.
"Jerry?"
"Yeah. Yeah."
I half walked, half slid down the staircase, straining to keep upright. Jerry lay at the foot of the stairs, holding his bandaged waist. I knelt beside him. The wound was bleeding again, but he'd be okay.
"Where did he go?"
"Over me, then over there." Jerry pointed.
Loner McDowell had rolled down the stairs, slammed into Jerry's body at about knee level, and then sailed over the boy and into the larger tank. His big body lay face down, head surrounded by flopping tropical fish. He seemed unconscious. His legs weren't moving. I checked the wound in Jerry's side more carefully. I examined my own cuts and abrasions and tried to catch my breath. I hoped McDowell was out cold, for I had no fight left in me. After a few long moments I limped over and found him dying.
"Loner?"
McDowell had broken his neck. He was paralyzed. The fish were still flopping beside him, but the light went out of his widened eyes as I leaned down to say his name. He had drowned slowly, his face under only a few inches of water, just like Sandy Palmer.
I don't remember much right after that. Somehow Jerry and I got ourselves together. We limped to the doorway like a couple of concentration camp survivors.
Outside in the night, it was cooler. We plopped down on the steps. After a time, a pair of two-toned vehicles arrived. There were three state troopers in one car; Glen Bass was alone in the other. The red and blue twirling lights made the wooden porch flicker like a strobe. I sat next to Jerry, one arm around my friend; weary legs extended. The troopers grilled us for few moments and then went inside to view the bodies. Bass stood rigid, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He seemed embarrassed. He studied the dirt.
"Callahan, I owe you an apology," Bass said. "You see, the truth is that Sandy confided in me about there being a drug lab somewhere around Dry Wells. I thought that if she knew about that body you saw Friday night she'd get scared and shut up, so I tried to keep it a secret. I trusted you'd back me up."
"I did."
"I know, but then Sandy had also told me that someone big in drugs was coming to town," Bass said. "I knew your history, and wondered if it was you. She must have meant that friend of Loner's, this Manuel guy who got hit. Sorry, but for a little while there, I really thought you might be on the wrong side of all this."
"I understand, Sheriff. Hell, I showed up and people started dying. To be honest, I didn't trust you either."
"Mick?"
I looked up. Annie parked her car and ran across the dusty street, crying. She hugged me. "I heard it all on the radio," she said. "Are you hurt bad, or anything?"
I shrugged. "I'll live."
Annie kissed me, feverishly. "Thank God," she said. I did not kiss her back. She looked hurt.
"Sheriff Bass?"
The sheriff cleared his throat. "Yeah, kid?"
"You might want to put some cuffs on this girl."
Annie laughed, nervously. "What did you say?"
"I said he should put the cuffs on you."
Annie got to her feet. Bass was by her side in a flash. He gripped her bare arms just above the elbows and held on tight. "What the fuck are you talking about," Annie said. Her voice went thin and shrill. She struggled against the sheriff's grip, but he held her fast.
"A murder," I said.
"What murder?" Bass said. "I don't get it."
"Sheriff, you probably heard everything that went out live over the air or you wouldn't be here," I said. "Loner flat admitted to a couple of murders, but all he said about Sandy Palmer was that he beat her up and ran away."
"Oh, come on," Annie muttered. She struggled for a moment and then went limp. She looked scared.
Bass was catching on. "Go on. I'm listening."
"So Doc told us Saturday that he thought there was water in her lungs, that Sandy probably drowned. He said that somebody probably held her head under water, just to make sure."
"Well it wasn't me, for Christ's sake!" Annie shrieked. "That's ridiculous. I told you, I wasn't even there."
I got to my feet. I looked down at her, and my voice went cold. "So you told me. But when I first saw you in the diner on Saturday, the knees of your jeans and your blouse were soaking wet."
"So? I was cleaning up."
"But your mop was out on the porch, and it was bone dry. I think you got wet kneeling in the stream over Sandy Palmer's body, holding her head underwater. And last night you said something about Sandy wearing a dress with sunflowers. That told me you had been in the park that day, but you were lying to me."
"Pretty thin," Bass said. He loosened his grip.
"Wait," I said. "And then last night Annie asked me if I had accused Bobby Sewell of drowning Sandy. Sheriff, you and Doc and I were the only three people who knew drowning was probably the actual cause of death, not the beating. Doc said he wanted to wait for the coroner to be sure, so I never told anyone about that theory. Did you?"
"Nope," Bass said. "I sure didn't."
"It was you, Annie," I said, slowly and evenly. "Talking to McDowell confirmed it. You saw Loner and Sandy arguing. Saw him punch her and watched her fall. You waited for him to leave, and then you held her head under water to make sure she would never compete with you again."
Annie spat in my face. "I told you those two Palmers were worthless. I hated them both. She was a slut, Callahan. I saw her shaking her ass for you. She was still teasing every man in the park, and her carrying her own fucking brother's child."
I wiped my cheek. "So you knew about the baby, about Sandy and Will. That must have really hurt."
"Hurt? Hell, yes! And you didn't even remember you'd ever fucked me, once you eyeballed that horny little bitch. Listen to me, Callahan. She got what she deserved."
"I think you'd better stop talking now," Bass said. "You have the right to remain silent."
He went on with the Miranda warning while Annie grew even more desperate. "But I didn't kill her," she said frantically. "I just made damned sure Loner did, that's all."
"Yeah," Jerry said. "You go and tell yourself that."
"She was going to die anyway!"
Bass cuffed her. Annie's eyes were wide and wild. I shook my head, sadly. "I hope they'll let you see a shrink. You have very severe Borderline Personality Disorder, Annie. Maybe a judge will cut you some slack for that, I don't know."
"Sheriff," Annie said desperately, "I didn't really kill her."
"Sorry, but it sounds like Murder One to me," Bass said.
"The hell you say!" Annie screamed. "You know when I said I killed your baby, Callahan? That was a lie. Shit, there never was any baby, and you know why? Because you're not man enough to make one!"
"That's enough." Bass yanked up on the cuffs. Annie moaned and the blood left her face. The sheriff led her away. I sat down next to Jerry again. He tugged his cap down over the burn scar and rolled his eyes.
"Damn, Mick," he said in a raspy voice. "Yet another satisfied woman?"
"I sure can pick them, can't I?"
"Fuck you, Callahan!" Annie Wynn shrieked. Her features were now contorted and ugly with rage. "You're just a has-been. You'll always be a has-been."
"Get in the car, ma'am," Bass said politely. "And you'd best calm down before you make things worse. You're in a heap of trouble already."
"Let me go, goddamn it!"
"Oh, lady, shut up." He shoved Annie into the back seat of the patrol car. She sta
rted crying. Bass slammed the door and locked it. I reached into my pants pocket for some wrinkled dollar bills and gave them to Jerry.
"Kid, I've changed my mind. I don't want the job."
Twenty-Six
It was a long night. I ended up being questioned four different times by the State Police. Bass had called them; he'd been listening to the show and immediately radioed for help when the trouble started. Racing back towards Dry Wells, he'd finally learned the identity of Manuel, the dead man we'd found in the alley, and also that the deaths of Sandy and Will were both murders. He learned that Lowell Palmer lay dead back at the ranch because I mentioned that fact on the air.
Still, Bass was in hot water for quite a while. The state people were not happy. When he asked me to keep quiet, he'd been trying to avoid alarming Sandy Palmer, who had just begun to open up to him about the existence of a drug ring. He wanted to break a big case all by himself. Things blew up in his face when Sandy died. And old Doc Langdon was just trying to help out a friend.
They found the kid called Mex. He was still alive, and was sentenced to prison for a very long time. He didn't get the needle because only Loner and Bobby Sewell seemed directly implicated in the homicides. One strange thing: Donny Boy and Frisco were not in the gully where I'd left them. How they got away remains a mystery, since they were both injured and on foot, but this is not a perfect world.
I came to believe that what finally sent Loner McDowell over the edge was a combination of amphetamine psychosis, the disappearance of his partner Manuel and the financial disaster that represented, plus exposure to the incest in the Palmer family. Of course, his huge ego needed a way to rationalize killing everyone and keeping the drug money anyway. He could handle Sandy having other lovers, perhaps even carrying a child, but not if it was by her own brother . . . or father. Loner did some hard time, remember. In prison the lowest form of life is the child molester, or "tree jumper." I think he convinced himself he had the right, even the obligation, to kill Lowell Palmer and his son . . . which then conveniently allowed him to take enough cash to get the mob off his back.
I gave Jerry substantial credit with the police. That seemed like the least I could do. My version had him fighting valiantly with Loner and then shoving him back into that fish tank, thus probably saving my life. He heard that story so often he came to believe it. "Hacker" Jerry became a legitimate celebrity in Nevada, something he'd always wanted. He enjoyed the attention he got from the local ladies, and took to showing off his wounds, both real and imaginary, after a beer or two. But he never stopped thinking about our little savior Mary, or wondering why she failed to contact us. She never did, though we were both all over the airwaves and she had Hal's 800 listing. Me, I just figured her for relapsing on drugs, perhaps an overdose. Sad thought, but it happens.
Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 21
