All the Old Lions (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book One)

by Carol Caverly

  Jim held me back. “He won’t go far.” There was a note of quiet sympathy in his voice as we watched the truck disappear. Then he looked down at me, his face grave. “Those were pretty rough accusations you were throwing around. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “Of course,” I said wearily, as we began to walk down the hill. “There’s so much you don’t know.” I began with the night of the break-in, when Potts hit me on the head, and went carefully over the rest in sequence.

  “By the way,” I said, interrupting my story, “Thanks so much for being the cavalry to the rescue. I was terrified.”

  He shrugged. “I was on my way home when I saw Holman’s truck parked on the road. I got out to see what the problem was about the time you let out that blood-curdling scream. So I ran up through the trees.”

  “I must say, I’m glad you did.” I went on with my story. “Potts must have come to see Minnie, but when he found her asleep he decided to hunt for the manuscript again, then I returned.” I told him about the dog, how I’d found him tied, careful to eliminate as much sentiment and melodrama as possible, so as not to damage my credibility. And I included all the details, as much for his benefit as mine—my difficulties getting the rag untied from around the dog’s neck, the slow-motion run up this very hill—so he’d have a clear conception of the amount of time I was away from the house.

  He listened seriously, with none of the signs of impatience that my explanations always seemed to rouse in Max. We reached the bottom of the hill. His truck was parked in front of mine.

  I ended the tale with the damning evidence of Minnie’s un-muddy shoes and socks. “When Potts returned to the house, Minnie must have caught him and either the fright of finding him hunting through her things, or something else he did, brought on the stroke. So he dumped her in the dugout, hoping she’d never be found.”

  “What about Holman?” he asked. “How does he fit in to all this?”

  “Max? Well, I think he’s convinced now that someone had to have carried Minnie to the dugout, but is still dubious as to why anyone would go to such extremes.”

  Jim kind of huffed an agreement to that. “Where is Max now?”

  “In town.” I added urgently, “You do see, don’t you, that it’s not so much who did it or why, but that Minnie remain safe? And I just don’t think that…that murderer, Potts, should be allowed to run loose.”

  “Minnie isn’t dead, so he can’t be a murderer.”

  “That’s a technicality, and I intend to see that he’s held responsible for the attempt. How do you know Potts won’t disappear?”

  Jim laughed and ruffled my hair. “You’re a real tiger.”

  “Someone needs to protect Minnie. The doctor doesn’t hold out much hope that she’ll ever speak again. She might never be able to defend herself.”

  “You’ve got a point. But you saw Potts, he hasn’t any juice left. The man hasn’t been out of the county in twenty years. He’ll go to town, or he’ll hole up at home, but believe me, I know that old bugger, he won’t go far.”

  I turned toward the truck, then stopped. “I haven’t a brain left,” I said with disgust. “I nearly forgot what I came for. I’ve got to run back to the house.”

  He motioned to his pickup. “Get in, I’ll drive you.”

  I did and we roared up the hill, plowing one more set of tracks. Jim waited in the truck while I went in. After a moment’s scare, I found the manuscript box under my dropped nightgown, a bit of sloppiness that had saved it from a quick discovery. Looking for something to carry it in, I retrieved a paper bag from the closet, dumped some anonymous purchases on the floor, and dropped in the manuscript, box and all.

  Jim waited at the bottom of the stairs. I smiled at him. “Did you see the dog? He was about the end of me, but I hope he wasn’t too badly scared. He’s been having a rather tough time of things.” I pulled the door closed behind us, and wondered if I should make some kind of provision for the silly critter. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Off somewhere, I suppose.” Jim grinned. “With you in my arms, I wasn’t about to pay much attention to the dog, now was I?”

  I whistled, but really wasn’t as interested in the dog as I was in getting back to town. “Let’s go. I must admit he’s not the smartest animal I’ve ever known. He’ll show up sooner or later.”

  We climbed back in the truck, but something nagged at me. Some elusive thought I couldn’t grab onto, stirred by something I’d just said or thought about. What was it?

  “What’s wrong?” Jim asked, making me jump.

  I laughed. “Just one of those thoughts that keep slipping away. If I don’t worry about it maybe it will come back, but it seemed important. Something to do with the dog,” I mused. “Ah, well, it probably doesn’t matter.”

  “Look,” he said, as we headed toward Max’s truck. “You’ve done enough running around the country alone. Why don’t you come with me? I picked up some antibiotic in town to treat the calves, and it needs to be refrigerated. We’ll call the sheriff from my place and he’ll send someone after Potts. You can check on Minnie, too, if you want. Then I’ll bring you back here and follow you to town. Okay?”

  He turned towards his place before I actually agreed, but it would take less time to go along with him than to argue.

  “What in hell was Holman thinking about, letting you come out here by yourself, anyway?”

  “He didn’t know.” But my mind was chasing after that elusive thought that hovered on the edge of acknowledgment, only to dart out of reach again. I knew I should stop chasing it.

  I felt Jim’s eyes on me, but when I turned to offer him a reassuring smile, his glance was back on the road. He looked rather strung out, biting his cheek, his forehead creased in a frown. I was glad he wasn’t taking this as casually as he wanted me to believe.

  “Thought of anything yet?” he asked.

  “No, whatever it is won’t come through. What will they do to him, Jim?”

  “Who?”

  “Potts. Will they arrest him on the strength of what I say?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows?” We turned into Enright’s drive, and went around behind the house toward a beautiful old stone and board barn about half a mile from the house. To one side of the barn was a large complex of corrals, boxed and gated into compartments as complicated as a maze. Within them I could see the slow movement of cattle. The calves, most likely. The other out-buildings were painted and had none of the look of imminent disintegration that dominated Minnie’s place. Beyond the barn were the familiar humpy rolls of chalky hills and barren meadows. Off to the left a scraggly clump of trees showed severe signs of char, some old disaster that must have been frighteningly close to the buildings. However, green dominated the whole area now, and lent a general air of tough prosperity. I could easily picture Helby as its creator.

  We skidded to a stop in front of the barn. “Where’s your dad?” I asked as Jim stepped from the truck. My idle question jerked him around as if he’d been struck. My heart jumped, and I caught my breath. What’s going on here?

  “What?” Jim’s face was hard and strained.

  “Where’s Helby?” I repeated. No, I thought, please don’t let Helby be mixed up in this. Not that wonderful old man.

  “In town.” Jim’s usually friendly eyes turned watchful, searched my face. “He wanted to see Minnie again.”

  “Oh.” But my brain was as busy as a computer, searching and sorting facts into nice little piles. As far as I could see it was still Potts all the way. Could Helby be working with Potts? They were both implicated in the long-ago hanging. Or did Jim have reason to suspect his father was deeply involved?

  At least by now Max had seen the sheriff, and the hospital watch was on. Minnie should be safe. I wondered if I should try to ease Jim’s suspicions about his dad, or just leave well enough alone. In case they weren’t merely suspicions.

  Jim relaxed, seemingly finding something benevolent in my face. “Come on,” he said, a
nd gently handed me out of the truck.

  The barn was cool and dim, welcome after the sun’s searing brightness. The great sliding door at the far end was also open and I could see a cluster of milling calves. From a far stall came the sound of a horse chomping and snuffling his hay.

  The first stall had been turned into storage space, with shelves and a small, ancient refrigerator against the wall. An old chest of drawers sat along one side, taking up most of the space. Miscellaneous tools, liniment bottles, rags and an opened tin of Bailey’s Bag Balm covered the top of the scarred chest. Jim handed me the sack of medicine and motioned me into the stall, then he pulled open one of the heavy drawers, blocking the entrance.

  “My doctor kit,” he said.

  The drawer was filled with more bottles, syringes, boxes of cotton, and villainous looking pills large enough for an elephant. I put the bag of vaccine in the refrigerator. Harsh, medicinal smells mingled with the strong warm barn odors. My stomach clenched.

  “What’s wrong with the calves?” I asked to relieve the leaden silence. I felt nauseous.

  “Pinkeye.”

  The horse’s steady chomping beat against my ears and the heat seemed to enfold me in cloying layers. “I need some air,” I said, and motioned for him to let me by. Instead he opened the drawer further, and rummaged in the contents.

  His voice sounded bodiless in the weighted atmosphere. “You remembered, didn’t you,” he said, not looking at me, still hunting something in the drawer. “Back there in the pickup, when you asked about dad. You had remembered; I could tell by your face.”

  His unmistakable menace froze me to the side of the stall, my fingers scrabbling at the rough splintery wood. My brain seemed numb, unable to decipher his meaning.

  My words, when they came, were sluggish. “What?…Remembered what?”

  He turned to me then, the words ripped from his mouth with a viciousness that twisted his face into a grotesque mask. “Don’t play innocent with me,” he yelled. “You know damned well what I’m talking about. I knew this morning when I saw you wipe your shoe that it was just a matter of time before you recognized that piece of rag.”

  “The rag,” I said, stunned. Yes, that was the thought I’d been trying to connect with. The dog, and that awful rag he’d been tied with, that I’d sunk my teeth into, gray and sodden, but distinctively spotted with red squares. And the piece torn from it, that I’d found in Jim’s house.

  “Yeah, the rag,” he spat out, then began to mutter almost to himself. “You and that damned dog. The only thing to connect me. I knew you’d remember. ‘Helby,’ you said,” he raised his voice in biting mockery. “‘Where’s Helby?’ you said. You were going to run to him, weren’t you? As if he would save you.” He grabbed a bottle out of the drawer and slammed it on top of the dresser. “You almost caught me when you came dashing into Minnie’s, but I heard your car coming. You thought she was asleep on the couch, didn’t you?” He smiled, almost as if he wanted me to share the joke. “I hid in the parlor, and left when you went upstairs. The dog was in the barn and so was the rag. I knew the perfect way to get little Miss Softie out of the house.” He grinned and reached out a hand as if to caress my face. I recoiled and he laughed.

  “What did you do to Minnie?”

  “Nothing. Believe me, Thea, I didn’t want any of this to happen. But she wouldn’t listen to reason. She lied to me.”

  He paused and looked off into space. When he spoke again it was to himself, to something he replayed in his mind. “I didn’t mean it to happen. I didn’t want…I hardly touched her and she just collapsed.” He stared at the floor, shoulders slumped. I held my breath. Minutes seemed to pass.

  Maybe I moved. Something broke the spell.

  He jerked upright. “Minnie. I thought she’d fainted, then right away I knew it was a heart attack or something. It was you coming back so quickly that shook me. Otherwise I would have revived her, or taken her to the hospital. Instead I dropped her on the sofa with the magazine, and hid in the parlor until you went upstairs. I didn’t mean for it to happen that way. I got pushed into all of this.”

  I almost believed him. “Where was your car, Jim? Why did you hide your car?”

  “I didn’t hide it. It was a last minute decision to stop in. I’d gone past her drive, so I took an old back road, and parked there.”

  “Right. And you just happened to beat the dog within an inch of his life to get me out of the house so you could dump Minnie in the dugout. You wanted her to die.”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “Then you would have been better off to let me find her. No one would have known you had been around. It won’t wash, Jim,” I said wearily.

  He pulled a large wad of dirty cotton from the drawer. When he lifted the cotton, I saw a picture lying in the bottom of the drawer. I leaned forward in surprise and stared at it. It was the studio portrait that showed Minnie standing on her sister Lil’s lap. One corner of the gray cardboard frame was bent and nearly broken off. It was the picture missing from Helby’s cigar box collection, or another just like it.

  “You? You broke into Minnie’s house? Hit me over the head? Why?”

  He gave me a strange look and I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He said, “I thought I’d seen all of dad’s pictures.” He picked the picture up with a contemptuous look. “When I saw this, I knew why the bitch had come to Hijax. You know too, don’t you? You’re going to tell the world, make us a laughing stock, ruin my career, and all for a no-good whore.”

  He tucked the picture inside his shirt, tore off a piece of cotton and grabbed the brown bottle. With a sweep of his arm he spilled everything else back into the drawer and slammed it shut. I braced myself against the rough slats of the stall and watched for my chance.

  His glittering eyes never left my face. His lips curled in a small smile, and he twisted the cap off the bottle. Fear identified the cloying fumes for me. How else would I have known chloroform?

  I jumped for the side of the stall, frantically climbing the slats. A futile effort. One sinewy arm reached out and grabbed me back in a hold that caught hair, shirt and arm in a painful twist. I cried out. He smashed me against the boards, holding me effectively with one arm.

  “Too bad, Thea.” His free hand manipulated the bottle and cotton to soak the pad. His voice droned on, but I hardly noticed. “Like I said, I knew it was just a matter of time, so I followed you out of town. I didn’t know that stupid fool, Potts, would play right into my hands. You and that damned dog. I should have killed him when I had the chance. I thought you’d guess when the dumb bitch ran yipping at the first sight of me, but you’re stupid, too.”

  The pressure increased on my throat, and his words drifted away on the sickening fumes. I remember a giddy moment of one-upmanship, thinking foolishly that the dog was male, a bastard, not a bitch. So who was stupid now…

  Fifteen

  I came to slowly. My stomach churned with nausea. My mouth was stuffed with something unspeakable, and bound with a rag that cut the corners of my mouth. Bile burned up my throat and brought a flash of panic. I swallowed, and swallowed again; tiny, nearly imperceptible movements, all I could manage around the awful stuffing. My eyes stung with the effort as I willed my stomach to accept the regurgitated matter. I refused, absolutely refused to die here, ignominiously suffocating in my own vomit. Not without a fight, I told myself, swallowing, swallowing. I lay still then, trying to relax and quiet the churning. Concentrating on the simple act of breathing, I pulled air through my nose in short rhythmical bursts. I would not think of my stomach, or of my mouth, and I wasn’t going to cry, heaven forbid, or my nose would stuff up and I couldn’t—no, I wasn’t going to think about that either. Just breathe. In and out.

  Finally a calmness took over and terror for a moment was beaten back. Max would be proud of me. The thought warmed me while I became aware of other aches and pains that shot through my body whenever I moved.

  I lay on my side. My arms wer
e behind my back, tied at the wrist, and my legs bound at the ankles. I twisted my feet and the bonds seemed to loosen a bit. Rolling on my stomach, I bent my legs, and wondered if I was agile enough to grab my feet, and if I could, would I be able to loosen the rope that way. There was only one way to find out I bowed backward, grabbed and felt my fingers slide off the heel of my sneakers. My shoulders screamed with agony at the effort, and I had to stop and control my breathing again. But I’d felt a give at the heel of my shoe. If I could kick my shoes off, maybe I could work my feet out of the rope.

  While I worked at rubbing my feet together, I tried to figure out where on earth I was. A dim patch of daylight showed through an uneven opening above me. Everything else was black even to my eyes, accustomed to darkness.

  We had been in the barn, Jim’s barn. Was I close by, or had he hauled me off somewhere? Jim! He was right. I’d been incredibly stupid, so willing to believe in his goodness, simply because he seemed to like me. Yet he was the one who had left Minnie to die, had beaten the dog…

  I ran my hands along the surface I was lying on. Ground, earth, hard packed, uneven, but unmistakably earth. Could it be some part of the barn? I couldn’t see walls, or anything else, for that matter. The floor felt damp, or was it just cool? The air had a musty fungal smell, not like the barn, more like the dugout.

  I stopped worrying at my shoe, and scrunched cautiously along the floor until my feet hit a barrier I put my tied hands to the wall and felt the cool, crumbly surface trickle through my fingers. More earth. A spark of hysteria raced through my body. A pit! I wasn’t in any kind of a building. I’d been thrown in some kind of a hole. Buried! I jerked my hands away from the rocky protuberance they clung to, reeling with visions of lizards, snakes, spiders, feeling them around me waiting to drop, crawl, creep. Feathery tendrils seem to brush across my face. A scream filled my skull, tearing at my blocked throat. I gagged and gagged, writhing in a desperate struggle for breath.