Eyeshot

by Lynn Hightower

  Sizemore looked at her kindly. “Kind of a cross between a fish and an alligator. Little legs and sharp teeth.”

  “Ick.” Sonora tilted her head to one side. “What you think, Sheriff Sizemore. Is this Julia Winchell?”

  He looked away from the floor, and studied the outer wall, as if there were a window there. “I can’t say for sure, but with that hair and all, and her up and missing. I’d say so.”

  Sonora reached for the left foot, turning it to one side to expose the ankle. The skin was coated with moss and snagged leaves. She pushed them away, revealing a mask of blackened decomposition. She wondered if there was a dragon tattooed underneath.

  16

  Julia Winchell’s killer had run into bad luck when the plastic bag containing her severed head, hands, and feet had snagged on a trotline draped across the bottom of the Clinch River.

  Sonora looked across the water to a small park. She wished Heather was on one of the swing sets, instead of crammed in the back of the sheriff’s car with Clampett, air conditioner straining in the hot humid air. The sun was formidable, and beer consumption was high among the spectators of the softball game across the river. Sonora smelled charcoal and hot dogs, saw the large black grill, the thin drift of smoke. The softball players seemed out for blood, in spite of the afternoon heat. Likely a grudge match, Sonora decided.

  Sheriff Sizemore looked over at Sam. “Not to interfere, but your brakes were squealing on that Blazer. They feel mushy when you drive?”

  Sam smiled good-naturedly. “Felt fine to me.”

  Sizemore shrugged, pointed through the trees. “The ole boy who dredged up that garbage bag lives back there. Got a mobile home just behind those trees. Not far.”

  Sonora looked over her shoulder at the trim fields, green and fragrant against the water. “All this land his?”

  Sizemore shook his head. “Belongs to Cleaton Simms, been in his family for years. No, this ole boy used to do some handy work for Cleaton’s daddy—he still helps keep the tractors up and the machinery going. Name’s George Cheatham. Hell of a mechanic, but he’s old now, and slowing down, and his wife is in bed most the time with the diabetes. He looks after her.” Sizemore glanced up and down the river. “It’s a good spot, out here. George does a lot of fishing.”

  The mobile home was vintage fifties, aluminum painted sky blue so long ago the color was mostly memories and paint flakes. It was hidden behind the trees, all the windows cranked open with old-fashioned levers and sticks. The front door was propped open, screen door shut. The outside metal looked like it would be hot to the touch.

  There was no breeze. Sonora could not imagine the mobile home being anything but unbearably hot inside.

  A stack of old tractor tires was a presence on the left. One had been set down and filled with sand. A plastic sand pail and broken off shovel, both a faded yellow, sat to one side of the tire, and a child’s Tonka dump truck sat on top. An orange cat sat in the middle of the sandbox, blinked, turned his back, and began digging.

  Sizemore noticed Sonora’s look. “Their grandkids come sometimes. Cleat fills it up with sand for them every year.”

  The screen door creaked and the sheriff raised a hand. He looked at Sam and Sonora. “This is George Cheatham. This is the old boy that found her.”

  Cheatham wore khaki work pants, mud-stained around the bottoms, heavy work shoes, unlaced, tongues flopping, and a worn white T-shirt that hung loose on his thin neck and arms. His skin had the rough and red bronze veneer of years of work in the sun, and his hair was short and fine and steely gray. He walked slowly, like his back hurt, and dragged his feet. The toes of his shoes were scuffed and scarred, so dragging his feet along was more habit than reluctance to make their acquaintance.

  “George, these are the detectives from Cincinnati I told you about.”

  George nodded. His hand shook when he offered it to Sonora and he looked a little white around the lips. Sonora glanced over his shoulder. Saw a curtain move in a window of the mobile home. It was too bright out to see inside. Probably the wife, wondering if they were coming in.

  “I’m Specialist Blair, this is Specialist Delarosa.”

  Cheatham shifted his weight like his feet hurt. “Y’all like to come on in and sit down? Get out of the sun?”

  “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Cheatham. But what would really help is for you to tell us what happened and show us where you found the … the bag. Let us take a couple of pictures.” Sam held up a camera.

  Sonora put a fresh tape in her recorder. Sweat trickled down the small of her back. The heat was making her queasy.

  Cheatham nodded. His mouth worked in nervous little chewing motions. “My boat’s down this way, y’all want to see?”

  Sonora glanced over her shoulder—the sheriff’s car was out of sight behind the trees. She nodded at Sam. “Head on down. I want to check on Heather, then I’ll catch up.”

  “Want to bring her down?”

  Sonora glanced at Cheatham. He wouldn’t talk freely about dismembered body parts with a seven year old around. Neither would she.

  “Nope.” Sonora headed back through the trees.

  A man stood next to the sheriff’s patrol car, his back to her, arms resting on the open window. She could see the top of Heather’s head, and Clampett sitting in the driver’s side. The front dash was fogged with dog drool and snout marks.

  The man wore a faded pair of Wranglers, a white cotton T-shirt. Cute butt, which didn’t stop Sonora from wondering what he was doing chatting up her seven year old, and why Clampett didn’t bark.

  Her feet hit gravel and the man turned.

  “Girl, you look like you’re going to tear my head off. Don’t recognize me?”

  She didn’t right at first. His hair was longer than the last time she’d seen him, thick and brown, and his face was tan. He looked fresh-scrubbed and cool, sunglasses hung from the neck of the T-shirt. His cheeks were pink from a fresh shave, arms more muscular than she remembered, coated with coarse tan hair.

  “Smallwood.”

  He gave her a sideways look, fluttered his lashes provocatively. “You can call me Deputy, if you want.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out why my dog doesn’t bark at you.”

  “I have a way with animals. Usually sheep.”

  She was going to shake his hand, but he gave her a hug instead. She caught the faintest whiff of scent. He smelled good. She liked it when men smelled good. She wished she wasn’t so hot and sweaty.

  He nodded at Heather. “These rookies get younger every year.”

  “It’s take your daughter to work day.”

  “Mom’s going to take me to the morgue when I’m older,” Heather said.

  “Much older,” Sonora muttered.

  “And teach me to shoot.” Heather gave him a cheerful grin. “Mommy, I’m hot. Can Clampett and me get out of the car?” A film of sweat coated her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed.

  “Yeah, hop on out.”

  “What’s going on?” Smallwood asked.

  Heather was fumbling with the door handle, and he opened the door, gave her a hand out.

  Sonora stepped away from the car, voice low. “Got a find here that may match up to what you got in London.”

  “Head, hands, and feet,” Heather said. She looked at Sonora. “That lady in the office told me.”

  “Good of her to bring you up to date. What brings you out here, Smallwood?”

  He smiled. “This is Southern law enforcement. We all know what goes on in each other’s backyards. Plus, we did kind of find the leg on our watch, if it turns out to be a match.”

  “Did you know Julia Winchell?”

  He shook his head.

  “You want to walk down with me, talk to the guy who found her, take a look around?”

  Smallwood glanced at Heather. “What you going to do with little bit here?”

  “Take her along. It’s too hot to sit in the car.”

  Smallwood glanced acr
oss the water to the little park full of swing sets, Softball players, lush green grass, and noisy children.

  “Why don’t I take her over there till you get done with your business?”

  Sonora hesitated.

  Smallwood smiled patiently while she turned the pros and cons over in her mind.

  “You sure you don’t need to go down there with me?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen a trotline before.”

  “Not like this one, I bet. And how you getting over there to the park?” She glanced at the sheriff’s patrol car.

  “I’ve got my Jeep just over there. You didn’t think I walked down from London, did you, Sonora? Brought my dog too. We’ll take yours along, and they can keep each other company.”

  Sonora frowned. “Clampett’s kind of big. He can be a little aggressive.”

  Smallwood grinned. “I figure Tubby can handle the shock.”

  “Don’t let Clampett hurt him.”

  Smallwood laughed and Sonora gave him an uneasy look.

  “Heather, you want to go to the park with Deputy Smallwood, and swing on the swings?”

  “Clampett’s coming with me?”

  Sonora nodded.

  Smallwood put his sunglasses on. “Everything’s under control, Mama. You go ahead and do the nasty down-there, and I’ll take the dogs and the kid to the park.”

  Sonora hugged Heather, told her again to be good, and headed back the way she had come. She turned back once, as she hit the tree line, and looked over her shoulder. Heather was skipping along beside Smallwood, asking him about Tubby, Clampett at her heels, tail wagging.

  Sonora frowned. She was very cautious about allowing men into her children’s lives. She barely knew this man and she’d broken relationship rules already. Not that she was planning to have a relationship.

  She brushed the hair out of her eyes and headed back through the trees to the water that had hidden Julia Winchell for the last couple of weeks.

  17

  When Sonora came through the trees to the muddy edge of the river she heard the hum of insects, and the low, easy laugh of men just beginning to feel comfortable with one another. Sizemore and Cheatham had known each other for years, and Sam could always be counted on to work that good ole boy magic that is the special province of Southern men.

  They were sitting on an old yellow rowboat that had been turned over to expose flaking paint and a hull that had been scraped raw.

  Sam was eyeing a white plastic bucket with a John Deere symbol on the side, flies thick at the edges. “How long’d you keep it in there?” He got up and peered inside. Grimaced.

  “Keep what in there?” Sonora asked.

  George Cheatham looked up. “The, um—”

  “The plastic bag,” Sheriff Sizemore said, at the same time Sam said, “Make a guess, girl.”

  Sonora looked inside the bucket, which held about three inches of dirty brown river water, two tiny silver fish with meaty white bellies, and something that seemed to have the teeth and tail of a fish, and the hands and feet of a ’gator. Dead flies skimmed the top of the water.

  “What is that?” Sonora asked, pointing to the ’gator thing.

  “Water dog,” George said.

  “Gar,” Sizemore told her.

  Sam looked at Sonora. “You really never saw one before? They bark when they’re onshore.”

  “They do not,” Sonora said, frowning at him, but Sizemore was nodding his head. “Was it, that gar thing, was it in the bag with the … was it in the bag?”

  Cheatham nodded. “Smell of blood attracted it, then it tore on in there. I kilt it with a baseball bat I keep in the bottom of the boat.”

  Sonora looked at the boat, mud banked against the edges where it had dripped water. She looked back in the bucket. A sliver of brown plastic floated next to the gar, whose damaged head swelled and bloated in the heat. More flies arrived, circling the top of the bucket. Sonora felt the sun on her head, the sweat running down her back. Her shoes were caked with mud.

  They could take that gar back, and analyze the stomach contents.

  Sam clicked his recorder on. “Mr. Cheatham was just getting started on his story.”

  Sonora settled next to Sam on the overturned boat. Cheatham turned another five gallon bucket—this one said PAPA JOHN’S MILD GOLDEN PEPPERONCINI on the side—and sat on the edge. He scratched his chin.

  “I run the trotline out last night around dusk.”

  Sonora looked at Sam and he whispered in her ear. “Fishing line. Baited all the way across, goes across the river, sits on the bottom, maybe, and snags fish.” He looked up at Cheatham. “What’d you bait it with, Mr. Cheatham?”

  “Cookie dough and night crawlers.”

  Sam looked interested. Nodded his head.

  “Went down real early this morning, ’bout six-thirty when the sun come up, and brought up the line. Found this bag hanging off the middle. So I pull it up and dump it on the bottom of the boat there.” He rubbed rough palms together, making raspy noises, like cricket legs at dusk. His left shoulder twitched at regular intervals.

  “Never seen nuthin’ like it before and never hope to again. That water dog up and crawls across my foot and I bash it good with my bat there.” He nodded toward the stained aluminum bat. “And I head on home, shaking like nobody’s business, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Did you check the rest of the line?” Sonora asked.

  Cheatham nodded. The shoulder twitched.

  “Anything on any of the other hooks?”

  Cheatham shook his head. “Nuthin’ of a unusual nature. Turtles. Got a good-sized wide mouth bass. Good eating for tonight, anyhow.”

  Sonora watched for the shoulder twitch. “Then what happened?”

  “I come close to heaving the whole mess on back in the water, then I start to wondering where’s the rest of her? So I poke around a little where the line was, but didn’t find much. I didn’t look too hard, it was giving me a funny feeling, sitting out on that boat with … you know, in the bottom.”

  Sonora glanced out across the river. “Right about where were you, Mr. Cheatham?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. Pointed to the right, away from the ballpark. “Right down there just a piece—see where that tree’s laying sideways like? Had one end of the trot line tied around it, but I hid it on the other side. Didn’t want nobody messing with it.”

  Sam nodded.

  Sonora looked out over the water, picturing the old yellow boat bobbing in the ripples, the park quiet, sun just up, accordions of reflected light skimming the water’s surface. Fish jumping, making ripples. Cheatham emptied his last cigarette out of a crumpled pack of Camel Lights, struck a wooden match on his black-rimmed thumbnail. The acrid smell of burning tobacco drifted around their heads. Cheatham inhaled deeply, dragging a good way into his last cigarette like a man starved.

  Sam took pictures. Jack Cheatham sat on the upturned bucket, cigarette loose on the left side of his mouth, a hesitant smile on his face, like a man who’s been trained to smile for the camera, no matter what.

  18

  Sonora watched them from a distance—Heather going up and down in the big swing, Smallwood pushing her higher and higher.

  There was no parking this far back in the park, so Sam edged the Blazer off the road into the grass. He put the car in park, tapped the steering wheel. Looked at Sonora and grinned.

  “So that’s the famous Smallwood. He still calling you every couple of weeks?”

  Sonora nodded. Watched Clampett, on his feet, circling the swing set, growling at any child or adult who came within fifteen feet of Heather.

  He seemed to tolerate a smaller dog, who sat and watched Smallwood and panted in the heat. The dog was packed tight as a sausage casing, with short blue-gray fur and black ears. He watched the playground with a look of intelligence that was unnerving.

  “Where’d the little dog come from?” Sam asked.

  “Smallwood’s. Weird-looking mix.”

/>   Sam shook his head at her. “That’s a blue heeler. Cattle dog. I haven’t seen one since I was a kid.”

  “I’m glad Clampett didn’t hurt it.”

  Sam laughed. “You been worrying about the wrong dog, Sonora.”

  She shrugged and got out of the car. Heather was smiling, swinging higher and higher, hair blowing, and Sonora felt sad.

  It was the daddy thing. Zack was an absentee father when he was alive, and Sonora knew that if he had lived, their marriage would have ended around the time she had buried him. But Heather and Tim were missing out on the strong male influence thing.

  On the bright side, there had been insurance money.

  19

  Sonora let out a sigh when she saw the McDonald’s across the street from the Winchells’ small blue house.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “McDonald’s,” Sonora told him.

  “You hungry?”

  She looked pointedly at her daughter. Sam nodded, and pulled into the parking lot. Sonora turned around and looked at Heather.

  “Can Clampett have a cheeseburger?” she asked.

  They left Heather locked in the Blazer with the windows down, Clampett gulping a cheeseburger, Heather working on a chocolate sundae. The first chocolate smear was already drying on the passenger’s side headrest, and the windshield was fogging with Clampett’s warm breath. Sonora had left the radio playing, and shown Heather the house, catty-corner to the McDonald’s and across the street, which Heather was under no circumstances to cross.

  Sam and Sonora headed down the sloping asphalt parking lot toward Main Street, which was torn up and clogged with trucks, men in hard hats, a steam roller, and a huge lighted arrow mounted on a trailer that kept traffic herded into one slow-moving lane.

  Mounds of dirt were piled on the side of the road. Broken concrete and asphalt were liberally mixed in the reddish brown soil like raisins in a muffin.

  Sonora glanced down at her Reeboks. These were her oldest pair. Probably be easier to throw them away than clean them up. It was 6 P.M., but the sun was still high. It felt like the middle of the afternoon.