Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Nothing to thank me for,” Clay said. “You have another reason for being here?”

  “Another note. Tucked into the paws of her favorite teddy bear.”

  “He’d been in my bedroom again!” Kelsie said. This time there was anger in her voice, not fear.

  James unbuttoned his vest pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Silently, he handed it across the table to Clay. It took Clay a few minutes to decipher the handwriting.

  The trap of steel was a sign for you. Now you know anytime I can take anyone from you. If you don’t keep our sacrid secret, I will rilly hert him. Maybe your father next if you are not careful. It is time for you to prove you love me. Tonight, when all are asleep, go to your bedroom window. At two a.m., because I am an eagle of the night. Open your curtins. Put on a show for me. You know I will be watching. My love will be reaching acros the darkness to you. If it is a good show, then I know you will also be sending love to me. If it is a bad show or if you don’t go to your window for me, I will be forced to leave another feather. Only this time someone will dy. Remember, I am the only one for you. Your Watcher.

  “Well,” Clay said, “at least he’s still convinced Kelsie’s kept this to herself.”

  “But for how long?” James asked. “I’m talking to you instead of Fowler because this is less apt to get out, but eventually, it will.”

  Clay remembered his coffee and took his first sip. It was lukewarm. “The answer is obvious, isn’t it?” Clay said after further reflection.

  “Trap him,” James said. “That’s the third reason I’m here. To ask you for help, We know where he’ll be tonight. And when. You and I are going to trap him like the animal he is.”

  1:10 p.m.

  Russ Fowler hung up the telephone and returned to staring at fingerprint cards scattered across his desk when Two Car squeezed through the office doorway.

  “Yeah?” Fowler said, not looking up. By going back to the remaining beer cans he’d ignored after first finding a match to the murder prints, he’d found a total of twelve sets of prints on the beer cans. There had been seven men at the campfire. The eighth set was probably a grocery store clerk. One set, of course, was the clear and definite match to the fingerprints on the corkscrew. But how much backtracking could he do with casual questions?

  As much as the coincidence bothered him, Fowler wondered how much further he should push it at this point. He could make one trip out to the ranch, but after that...

  He’d learned that Lawson was one of the people who’d brought beer that night. Could the killer have been one of the ranch hands? It would be hard to casually get all their fingerprints – maybe even impossible. It was driving him nuts, and to add to his aggravation, he had to deal with the media, some crazed Indians called the Native Sons, and with Two Car’s unappealing body odor, which filled the entire office. Maybe Fowler should clip out an Ann Landers column on the subject and stick it in Two Car’s message box.

  “Yeah?” Fowler repeated, his tone surly. When there was no answer, he finally looked up.

  Two Car was extending a piece of paper, ripped from a message pad.

  “Yeah? Can’t you just read it to me?”

  “Just came in. While you were on the line.”

  Yeah, Fowler thought. On the line with yet another problem: the judge, anxious that no national media would be hitting the valley and needing to be baby-sat about it.

  “Read it,” Fowler almost snarled. It seemed like years since he’d been in a good mood.

  “Tonight. Saint Andrews Church. Midnight. Like the power-line trouble. Expect a fire.”

  “What!”

  “Some weirdo probably,” Two Car said, scratching his belly.

  Fowler pushed back from his desk and stood quickly. He marched around the side of his desk and grabbed the paper from Two Car’s hand. Tonight. Saint Andrews Church. Midnight. Like the power-line trouble. Expect a fire. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Some guy called, told me to have a pen and paper ready and to write down every word he gave me. Said you’d find it important.”

  “Who?” Fowler said. “Who called?”

  “Chief, he said it was an anonymous tip. That was all. Then he told me to have a pen and paper ready and to –”

  “Anything strange about his voice? Young? Old? Accent?”

  “Just told me to –”

  “Enough,” Fowler said. Two Car didn’t know about the cassette and the message from the Native Sons. Fowler had learned early that Two Car passed everything on to his wife, who was a hairdresser, which was more effective and less costly than an ad in the newspaper.

  “Anything else, Chief?”

  “Aside from not calling me chief?” Fowler looked at Two Car’s uniform. The huge man was sweating giant half moons beneath his armpits. “Yeah,” Fowler said. “There is something else.”

  Forget the Ann Landers approach, Fowler thought. He dug into his front pocket for a couple of dollar bills. He held them in front of Two Car’s wobbling chin until the big man took the money.

  “Buy some deodorant,” Fowler said.

  He only felt half-sorry for the puppy-dog hurt that crossed Two Car’s face.

  4:12 p.m.

  Outside the old lady’s bedroom window, a full moon hung white and clear. The boy knew, because he’d been watching it from the moment she clicked off her bedside lamp and curled beside him, holding him against her stomach, with him staring away from her in silent misery, his head barely above the covers. For a while, in the darkness, she had kept whispering the name he hated in his ear, telling him she loved her Little Bobby, uncaring that his entire body was rigid.

  Eventually he was able to tell from the even rise and fall of her chest against his back that she had settled into sleep. He had tried to shift a few times; but even asleep she sensed his movement and clutched tighter. So he had given up and tried to remain motionless, watching the moon and waiting for night to fade so that morning would return.

  She clung to him with her withered arms. The boy could not remember being more miserable.

  Later, when the moon had moved beyond the square frame of her bed-room window, a new thought occurred to the boy.

  His father had taken Mommy away, hadn’t he? She didn’t want to go. She’d said that. 1t was his father who had done all this. Because of his father, the boy was forced to stay behind and sleep at night with the old lady who followed him around the house all day crooning the name he hated.

  A sleepless hour later, the boy’s body was still rigid, and he was still thinking angry thoughts about his father.

  “I wish Daddy was dead,” he whispered.

  The thought scared the boy. It was wrong to wish someone would die. He told himself never to say that again. When dawn arrived, he was still staring out the window, trying not to say it.

  When the Watcher returned again, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other, it appeared Nick had not moved from his position against the far wall. He was still on the floor on his side, facing the small entrance.

  “Roll over, Nick.” Funny, wasn’t it, ordering him like a dog.

  “Man, the least you could do is untie my hands. I gotta go real bad.”

  “Roll over on your stomach, Nick.” He wanted to determine from the doorway that Nick’s wrists were still bound. “You’re alive at my whim, and you probably understand I’m not big into predictability.”

  Nick obeyed.

  The Watcher stood above Nick and turned the flashlight beam downward to make a visual inspection of Nick’s wrists. They were dirty but not frayed. Nick hadn’t found anything to rub the rope against.

  “That’s a good boy,” the Watcher said. He used his foot to turn Nick on his side again.

  “I gotta go,” Nick said. “Come on.”

  “I’m not stopping you.” The Watcher decided that inflicting small indignities was almost as enjoyable as torturing the man with knife cuts. Probably it was the sense of control. Later, he’d have to ponder the reason for
this unexpected pleasure.

  “Nice seeing you,” the Watcher said, stepping toward the entrance.

  “Water then,” Nick said, unable to hide his begging tones. “I’m dying for a drink of water.”

  The Watcher laughed. “Key word there, wouldn’t you say, Nick Buffalo? Dying?”

  Nick’s head slumped onto the dirt floor.

  The Watcher pushed the door open and stepped out. Daylight poured in.

  “You should know there’s been a change of plans, Nick,” the Watcher said. “You haven’t shown up at the sheriff’s office to answer questions about the night Doris Samson died. The rumor is you split because you’re the one who did it.”

  The Watcher noticed that Nick was too tired to spit defiance any longer. That was another small pleasure, seeing the man slowly weaken.

  “That works out great for me, Nick. This get-together was something I had planned just for payback. But I think I can do more with it now.”

  The Watcher glowed inside. Draining Nick of power had given him more strength.

  “So,” the Watcher continued, “now you write a note of apology to the world. And trust me, you will. If you don’t, every person in your family will die. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Just a drink of water.”

  “No, Nick. No water for you. Anyway, I’m telling you all this so you won’t get nervous when you hear the chainsaw outside. My plans have changed, but not to the point where I’ve decided your end will be quick. Messy, I hope, but not quick. I won’t cut you with a chain saw.”

  With that, the Watcher turned and stepped outside, letting the darkness inside settle upon Nick again.

  A few minutes later, the roar of a chain saw echoed through the small valley, spraying sawdust into the grass at the back of the cabin.

  11:45 p.m.

  Johnny Samson stood hidden in the shadows of an industrial trash bin in the alley behind an all-night convenience store. The smell of sour milk and rotting cabbage nauseated him. He was tempted to pour some gasoline onto his sleeve from the can at his feet then hold the sleeve to his nostrils to mask the smell of the trash bin.

  Bad thought, he told himself. He would escape the rotting smell as soon as he walked away, but once he poured gasoline on his sleeve it would follow him everywhere. Besides, Johnny figured, since he only had to wait until the church clock chimed at midnight, he had less than ten minutes of suffering the trash bin anyway.

  Sonny had told them the plan would work because it was simple, with Harold coming at the church from one direction, Sonny from another, and Johnny from the third, using this dark alley to reach the back side of the church.

  Sonny had told them it would be too suspicious if anyone saw the three of them together, especially at this time of night in this WASP neighborhood, especially since they were carrying cans of gasoline.

  The plan was genius in its simplicity, Sonny had said again and again. By starting the fire from three sides, the historic old wooden church would be engulfed almost instantly.

  Over at Harold’s trailer in the early afternoon, when they were discussing it, Johnny had asked about Nick. Two nights in a row, and Nick wasn’t around to do his share, Johnny had said. Sonny had nearly punched Johnny for asking, but then Sonny was in a bad mood anyway. He’d been listening all day to radio and television news, and not once had the Native Sons been blamed for the power outage that had put the entire valley down for hours. That, of course, was the reason for the spur-of-the-moment decision to burn the church. If a bulldozed power line didn’t get the message out through the media, Sonny vowed, burning Kalispell’s most beloved church certainly would.

  Harold, splayed across his couch, happy with the beer Sonny supplied him, had agreed to the plan easily. Johnny had hidden his doubts.

  Sonny had left Johnny to baby-sit Harold for the rest of the afternoon and evening and returned around eleven that night with gasoline and more beer. The truck ride into town had taken half an hour, with Sonny again behind Harold’s steering wheel. Sonny and Johnny had dropped Harold off at a park opposite the church. Right after, Sonny had driven down the alley and left Johnny at the trash bin, where he’d been waiting since with the gasoline can at his feet, one hundred yards down the alley from the church he was supposed to set on fire.

  The sound of slamming car doors reached him from the front of the convenience store, followed by loud male laughter. White kids, probably his own age, Johnny thought. White kids, in a white world, happy with their activities, sure of their actions, confident of their places in the world.

  And what was he? An orphaned Flathead Indian, alone in their world.

  At that moment, Johnny felt disconnected. There seemed nothing real to him about the cold metal of the trash bin against his back, nothing real about the dark, deserted alley. Wasn’t his own world the sharp white points of stars against a deep black sky, the sway of pine treetops in the wind, and the creaking of his grandpa’s rocker on the front porch of the two-room cabin?

  An incredible wave of homesickness washed over him, a yearning to be at peace from emotions, thoughts, and wishes he only vaguely felt and understood. He wanted to be tough, standing strong alone, needing nobody. Yet instead of feeling strong about being alone, he felt lonely and afraid.

  At that moment, it finally occurred to him to wonder exactly what he was doing, standing and waiting to pour gasoline on a church and light it with a match.

  All afternoon and evening, while Harold dozed off the effects of a six-pack lunch, Johnny had mindlessly stared at the black-and-white television in the corner of the tiny living room, keeping his thoughts away from the past, which included memories of his sister, and away from the future, which seemed empty and hopeless. Because he’d managed to keep his mind blank, he hadn’t much considered what the three of them planned to do at midnight.

  Now, however, midnight was only minutes away.

  Johnny realized he really didn’t want to light the match. The night before, Sonny had said nothing of his intentions to bulldoze a power line but had kept them involved by saying he wanted to do some harmless pranks at the construction site as a way of getting attention for the Native Sons. By the time Johnny understood exactly what Sonny meant to do, it had been too late.

  This was different. Burn a church?

  He asked himself what would happen if he simply walked away. Well, Sonny would be angry, no doubt about that. So what? Johnny asked himself. The threat of sticking his head in the post pounder had just been Sonny trying to look tough in front of Nick. Johnny did know that, just as he knew Sonny was vaguely afraid of Johnny and his silences.

  He’d lose their friendship. Harold, Sonny, and Nick wouldn’t let him in their group anymore. So what to that too, Johnny decided. What kind of friends tried to get you to burn a church with them? Johnny would be better off staying in the hills with his grandfather. At least he could be himself there and not find himself holding his nose against the smell of rotting cabbage and sour milk in a cause he didn’t care much for anyway.

  The bells of St. Andrew’s Church rang the stroke of midnight.

  Johnny lifted the gasoline can at his feet and heaved it into the trash bin.

  He stepped into the light at the edge of the parking lot and walked away from the convenience store. Three white kids, getting back into their car, paused to jeer at Johnny’s retreating back. He ignored them.

  Five minutes later, Johnny stopped and looked back in the direction of the church. No flames rose into the night; no firetrucks wailed to break the silence of the peaceful small town. Maybe Sonny and Harold had changed their minds, Johnny thought. It wouldn’t have surprised him. Until Sonny actually put the bulldozer into gear the night before, he’d figured Sonny to be more talk than action.

  Johnny shrugged. Either way, burned church or not, he was out of all this.

  He began to walk again, Even though he had hours to go to get to his grandfather’s cabin, and most of it hitchhiking along dark country roads, he alrea
dy felt better.

  Day 7

  1:07 a.m.

  The Watcher smiled from his vantage point at the front of the loft of the barn. He’d been sitting beside the open window up there for nearly an hour, so still on a bale of straw that five minutes earlier, a mouse had darted over his feet.

  He smiled because his gamble had paid off. After following Kelsie to the department store and seeing her with the FBI pig, it was an easy guess that she had told him about the note. The Watcher had wondered if she would disobey him again, so he had written another note telling her to go to her window. He had hoped she would take this note to the FBI man, and she had, bringing her father along.

  It hadn’t been much of a gamble though. If Clay Garner and James McNeill did not appear, the Watcher would get the show from Kelsie he wanted. If the two men did appear, all the rest of what he had planned could fall into place.

  Now, as he watched, Clay Garner and Kelsie’s father moved past the corrals toward the stand of trees on the hill’ above the ranch house. As the Watcher had anticipated, both men were carrying rifles. He could see their outlines silhouetted against the yard light.

  He smiled because they were early, and he had anticipated that, too. He had not, however, anticipated the man standing directly behind them and his two bloodhounds. Rut he continued smiling because this was a pleasant surprise.

  It could only be Caleb Latcher, a short, intense man with a beard so high only his eyes and forehead showed. Once they found a quarry’s trail – Caleb had a fondness for tracking bear – he and his celebrated bloodhounds rarely lost the scent. Fortunately, Caleb had a reputation for never letting them off the leash to run ahead. They were too valuable to risk losing to a bear’s claws or teeth. It was a safe assumption that Caleb would not let them off the leash tonight either, which meant there was no need to fear any physical danger as the Watcher allowed the dogs to follow.