by Bill Crider
“I’m talking about when he came to see you about the rent yesterday.”
“We wasn’t here yesterday,” Swan said, his eyes looking vaguely off somewhere beyond Rhodes’s head.
“So you didn’t see Dr. Martin yesterday at all? Not here or anywhere else?”
“That’s right. Not here or anywhere.” Swan was eager to agree. He leaned comfortably against the door frame now, relaxed.
“Well, that’s all I really wanted to know,” Rhodes said. “I may have to check back with you later, though.”
“Sure, you do that,” Swan said, grinning. He had big, square teeth.
“If the check doesn’t get to Dr. Martin, I mean.”
“Sure.”
Rhodes went back to his car, not satisfied at all with what he’d heard. Still, the fact that he thought Swan was a liar didn’t mean a thing. Not yet, anyway. He got in the car and drove away.
Chapter 4
On his way to Little Barnes’s place, Rhodes stopped at the Dillie Gas & Gro. to use the pay phone. Dillie’s was a little one-room wood-frame store of the kind that in Blacklin County could still compete with the more modern drive-ins. Dillie herself was behind the counter, as she always was. This time she was busily cutting out coupons from the advertising section of one of the Dallas Sunday papers.
Dillie looked up when Rhodes came through the door. “Hidy, Sheriff,” she said. She had one of the deepest women’s voices that Rhodes had ever heard. He was reminded of the kid actor “Foghorn” Winslow from thirty years before.
“Good morning,” Rhodes said. He glanced down at the counter. It looked as if Dillie had taken the coupon sections out of every paper in the little red metal rack in front of the store. “I just need to use your pay phone.”
“Sure, go ahead. Nobody in here but us.” She looked down at the coupons in front of her, then glanced back up quickly. “I, ah, I was just clippin’ these coupons out of the paper for my mother. She . . . she likes to use them when she shops for stuff they don’t carry here.”
Dillie was about forty years old, with very black hair that Rhodes suspected was kept that color with a little help from a dye bottle, but her skin was very white, as if she seldom went outside her little grocery. So her blush was even more evident than it might have been otherwise.
“I like to cut out a coupon every now and then, myself,” Rhodes told her, heading for the phone on the wall. He knew very well that Dillie was going to send in those coupons herself. He couldn’t imagine what possible use her mother could have for eight bottles of Gatorade. But if a crime was being committed, he didn’t figure it was in his jurisdiction.
The pay phone was hanging on the wall by the side door, by shelves loaded with dusty cans of tomato sauce and SpaghettiOs. The Clearview phone book was hanging by a dirty string tied to a nail driven into the wall. Rhodes looked up Martin’s number and dialed. It was just possible that the dentist had showed up at home, and Mrs. Martin should be up by now in any case. It was nearly eleven o’clock.
Mrs. Martin answered on the first ring, and no, Dr. Martin had not come home, and Sheriff Rhodes had best get busy and find him before Mrs. Martin exercised some of her considerable power in the county—she knew several of the commissioners personally, she said—to get someone in the Sheriff’s office who knew what was happening in the world.
The woman sounded truly distracted, and Rhodes didn’t hold what she said against her. In fact, he began to get a bit worried for the first time. It was looking as if Dr. Martin wasn’t out on a binge after all. Instead of celebrating Christmas, maybe he really was in trouble. Rhodes wished he’d questioned Phil Swan a little more carefully. Well, he could always do it again, and make sure Betsy Higgins got in on it, too.
When he hung up the phone, he looked out the glass in the side door. Dillie sold minnows, which swam in a concrete tank, its water stirred by a small motor-driven blade.
“How much are minnows these days, Dillie?” he asked, turning back to the counter.
“Dollar seventy-five a dozen for the really good ones,” she said. “Those big, frisky ones. You wouldn’t want the others.”
Rhodes hadn’t been fishing in a long time, and most of the time he just had a few minutes to cast with artificial lures. He thought about the current warm spell. Maybe the bass would be biting. One of the biggest fish he’d ever caught had been taken on an H & H spinner on Thanksgiving Day, and it wasn’t much after Thanksgiving now.
“Maybe I’ll take a look at them,” he said. “I don’t have my minnow bucket with me right now.”
“You just go ahead, Sheriff,” Dillie said.
As Rhodes walked by the counter he saw that it had been cleared of coupons. “Thanks, Dillie,” he said.
Outside he turned left and went around to the minnow tank. It was in an unheated wooden enclosure, and a lot of the minnows must have died of the cold lately. Dillie had cleaned most of them out, but two still floated belly up on the surface of the churning water. Rhodes scooped them out with his hand and tossed them outside. He took the dip net from the side of the tank, put it into the water, and brought out several of the shiners. They flipped and tossed, trying to get back in the water. Their backs were dark black and their sides shiny silver. Rhodes regretted that he never had time for fishing anymore. Maybe one day soon . . .
He turned the net over and tipped the minnows back into the water.
Little Barnes, whose real name was Harold, lived on the land he rented. The house was on top of a little rise about a quarter mile from the road. Rhodes had seen it but had never been inside.
He wouldn’t have to go inside today, either, because Barnes was working close by the fence, digging postholes with a gasoline-powered auger.
Instead of a gate in the fence there was a cattle guard Rhodes turned off the road and drove across the pipes that made up the cattle guard, his tires making a b-r-r-a-a-p-ping sound. Then he turned left and drove over to where Barnes was working.
Rhodes drove over to an old well house, which wasn’t exactly a house but more of a roof over the round brick well. Someone had laid a square of concrete around the well, and the roof covered this also. Twenty or thirty yards away was a collapsing barn covered entirely in rusting sheet metal, most of which was barely clinging to the wooden frame, and some of which was lying on the ground. Looking toward the road, Rhodes could see at least one piece of it caught in the fence.
Growing beside the well house was a huge oak tree, or three of them growing out of one gigantic trunk. Rhodes stopped the car under the tree and got out.
Barnes shut off the auger and watched Rhodes walk toward him. He was called “Little” Barnes only to distinguish him from his father. He must have weighed in the vicinity of three hundred pounds, most of it fat. He had on a pair of Big Mac overalls that looked as if they could have served duty as a Cub Scout pup tent, and a red and black flannel shirt that could be used as a tarp for a baseball diamond. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, exposing Little’s round arms, as big as many men’s waists. Looking at him, Rhodes didn’t feel so bad about not having begun his exercise program.
Barnes was not a clean person, as Rhodes well knew from the times both Little and Big had been guests of the county. Digging postholes was not clean work, but Barnes looked as if he hadn’t bathed since 1982, or maybe as if he had been rolling in the soft, mucky earth under the remnants of the barn roof. His thin, lank black hair hung all around his face, partially hiding his small, piggy black eyes.
Rhodes stopped about ten feet from the man, but he could still smell him. “Pretty hot work, huh, Little?” he said.
Barnes grunted. “Not as bad as it used to be,” he said.
He was right. Rhodes had dug a few postholes with the old-fashioned two-handled diggers himself years ago. Plunge the blades into the ground, squeeze the handles together, bring out the earth, and repeat the process until the hole was finished. You had to have strong hands, strong arms, and a strong back. Now you just had to have
the weight to hold on to the auger, and Barnes had that. If the ground was soft, the job was easy.
“What’re you fixing to build?” Rhodes asked.
“Corral,” Barnes said. He pronounced it “corell” with the accent on the last syllable.
Rhodes looked over to the barn. The corner posts were stacked in under the overhang, and Barnes’s pickup was there too. Bags of cement mix were also stacked inside it.
“You going to set the posts in concrete?”
“Sure enough,” Barnes said. He brushed some of the hair out of his eyes with a grimy hand. “You come out here to watch me?”
“No, I came out here to talk to you.”
“Talk, then. I got work to do.”
Barnes had never stayed in jail more than a night, but he clearly didn’t have any affection to waste on Rhodes. “I want to ask you about Dr. Martin,” Rhodes said.
“That sumbitch,” Barnes said. He spit a yellowish gob in the dirt he had augered up by his feet. Apparently he didn’t have any affection to waste on his landlord, either.
“You and he have problems?” Rhodes asked.
“Like I told him, he comes out here botherin’ me again, they’re gonna have to take us both to the hospital.”
“Both?”
“Yeah. They’re gonna have to take my foot outa his ass.” Barnes spit again.
“You tell him that yesterday?”
Barnes leaned on the auger and looked casually around. “Who says I seen him yesterday?”
“His wife,” Rhodes said.
“She with him when I seen him?”
“No, she just told me that he was going to drop by for a visit.”
Barnes laughed. It was an ugly sound that rattled through the phlegm in his throat. “Visit? That sumbitch don’t visit. He comes around all high and mighty and tells you what you’re gonna do. That’s what he does.”
“So what did he tell you you were going to do?” Rhodes asked.
“Pay up,” Barnes said. “Like I wouldn’t of paid up. Damn. Look around here. I’ve fixed up the fence, I’ve started in on buildin’ me a corral, and he thinks I won’t pay up.”
“So will you?”
“Damn right, I will. Soon as I get a little cash, I’ll pay. And he knows it. He just wants an excuse to run me off. I’ll improve the property, then he’ll get rid of me and go up two or three times on the rent to the next sucker that comes along. Well, that won’t work with me. ‘Course, when he saw that I was fixin’ to build this corral, he didn’t say too much about no rent bein’ due. He’ll be real glad to get it built, no cost to him. Soon as it’s built, though, then he’ll be bitchin’ for his money again.”
“So you did see him yesterday,” Rhodes said.
“Maybe,” Barnes said. “Maybe not.”
Rhodes looked across to the other side of the road. “You lease that land over there, too?”
“Few acres,” Barnes said. “Why?”
Rhodes had his eye on a small stock tank, its water lying still and flat as dark metal. There was a wooden dock built out into the tank about twenty feet. “Just wondering if there were any fish in that tank.”
“Sure enough,” Barnes said. “Bass and cats. I built that dock myself. Another free improvement. You like to fish?”
“Yes,” Rhodes said. “Don’t get much chance, though.”
“Well, come ahead,” Barnes said in a surprisingly generous way. Then he added, “The Doc stocked the tank. Says they’re his fish. But he wouldn’t mind you fishing there, probably.”
“I might take him up on it, when I find him,” Rhodes said.
“Don’t wait on him,” Barnes said. “I lease this land. I got a right to say who fishes and who don’t.” He paused. “What you mean, ‘when you find him’?”
“He seems not to have come home yesterday,” Rhodes said.
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Barnes said. “Now that you mention it, I don’t believe I’ve seen him in a week or two.”
Rhodes looked at the huge man. In the fat face the mouth was set in a hard line.
Rhodes turned back to his car. “You drink the water from that well?” He walked up under the well house roof and saw that there was a heavy circular iron cover, hinged in the middle, on top of the well.
“Naw,” Barnes said. “Too many minerals in it. You drink that water, you’d be stickin’ to magnets. We used a little of it to water the garden one year.”
Rhodes could see the garden spot off to the side of the well house. Barnes hadn’t tried for a winter garden this year.
“If Dr. Martin doesn’t turn up, I’ll probably be seeing you again in a day or so,” Rhodes said as he got into his car.
Barnes didn’t answer; instead he fired up his auger.
Rhodes drove back over the cattle guard and headed back to Clearview. He wanted to have a longer talk with Mrs. Martin, find out the names of any friends who might know something about her husband, begin to question her about any little irregularities in his life of late. Then he’d go back to the jail and put out a bulletin on the Suburban. The vanity plate ought to make it easy to spot if it turned up anywhere in the state.
He was almost back in town when Hack got him on the radio to tell him that the Suburban had been found parked behind the old Milsby school.
Milsby had been a town once, but it wasn’t anymore. The school was used for community functions, and Rhodes had fond memories of it because it had been at a candidates’ forum there that he had met Ivy Daniel. She had been running for Justice of the Peace, and even though she hadn’t won they had become better and better acquainted in the days that followed.
Rhodes drove up behind the school and saw the big Chevrolet parked there by the old fire escape just as if it had been parked for a few minutes while the owner went inside.
Standing by the Suburban were a man and two boys. The man was young, probably under thirty, and he was wearing his Sunday suit, probably bought on sale at J.C. Penney. The suit was black and with it he was wearing a white shirt and a dark gray tie. The two boys were dressed in slacks and sport shirts. They looked to be about six and eight years old.
Rhodes parked and walked over to the man, who stuck out his hand. “Hidy, Sheriff. My name’s Clyde Cook, and these are my boys, Ed and Tim.”
Rhodes shook hands with Cook. He looked at the boys, who stuck out their hands as well. He shook with them. “Glad to meet you all,” he said. “You the ones called in about this Suburban?”
“That’s right,” Cook said. He had shaved so close earlier that morning for church that his cheeks still looked scraped. “I’m the one who called.”
“Why?” Rhodes said. He was merely curious, not suspicious.
“Well, sir, my boys was out here playing behind the school this morning early—we live right over there—” he pointed to his left, where Rhodes could see a small frame house among some trees “—and the boys like to come over here and climb on the fire escape. I tell ‘em not to do it, that old thing’s rusty and might fall right down and them on it, but it don’t do no good. Anyway, they was over here playing around and they saw this here Chevy. Ain’t nobody in this neighborhood got one like this, let me tell you, and sure not one that says ‘TEETH’ on the plates.”
“So you got worried about it?”
“Not right then, Sheriff. Sometimes folks like to pull up here on a Saturday night, and . . . well . . . you can see that where it’s parked is out of sight of the road and all. Gives some folks a little privacy, I guess you could say.”
Rhodes could see what he meant.
“So every now and then somebody will stall here and have to walk out. Or maybe not be fit to drive and have to walk. Not that I approve of that sort of thing, you know what I mean, but I don’t like to meddle, so I usually don’t say nothing.
“But this time the car was still here when the boys and me got back from church, so I thought maybe you ought to know, maybe haul it off or get it back to its owner. It stays here too
long, it might be tempting to somebody who needs some wheel covers, or more.”
“Did you look inside?” Rhodes asked.
“No, sir, not me. You kids?”
The two boys, who had been solemnly staring at Rhodes throughout the conversation, shook their heads from side to side.
Rhodes crossed the few feet between them to the Suburban. He tried the front door. It was unlocked. He peered inside. The keys were in the ignition. There was nothing else inside. Rhodes let out a breath. He was glad for the boys’ sake that Martin wasn’t there, dead or alive and passed out.
“And you didn’t see anything strange yesterday or last night?” Rhodes asked. “Nobody came to your house for help or to use the phone?”
“I didn’t see a thing,” Cook said. “And nobody came to the house while I was there.”
“You boys see anything?” Rhodes asked.
Once again they shook their heads, but said nothing.
“Anybody come by the house, talk to you or your mama about using the phone?” Cook asked.
They shook their heads again.
“Well, I’m going to leave this Suburban here for awhile,” Rhodes said. “I’d appreciate it if you kind of kept an eye on it, didn’t let anybody touch it. I have to ask some questions around the neighborhood, see if anybody saw anything. Then we’ll get it out of the way.”
“It’s not in the way,” Cook said. “We’ll keep an eye on it, right kids?”
They nodded their heads up and down.
“Nice boys,” Rhodes said.
“We try to teach ‘em right from wrong,” Cook said. “Give ‘em a little respect for the law.”
Rhodes thought of Barnes and Swan. “More than most have got,” he said. “More than most.”
Chapter 5
There were no other houses close by with a good view of the back of the school, so Rhodes went back to the jail. He wanted to get his deputy, Ruth Grady, to fingerprint the Suburban. Ruth had actually gotten an associate degree in law enforcement from a junior college and therefore was by far the best-qualified fingerprinter in the county.
