by Bill Crider
Table of Contents
Title Page
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ALSO BY BILL CRIDER
Copyright Page
For Jeff Meyerson,
who won’t have to ask where I get my ideas
1
IF HE STOOD OUT IN HIS BACKYARD JUST AFTER SUNUP, SHERIFF DAN Rhodes could almost make himself believe that the whole day would be as cool and pleasant as that brief moment in the early morning.
But he knew better. The sky was turning blue, and there were a few feathery clouds that looked as if someone had colored them with a pink crayon, but the clouds would be gone before long. The air was so dry that there was no dew on the grass, and by noon the sun would have boiled the sky to blazing incandescence.
It was the second of July. There hadn’t been any rain to speak of in Blacklin County in nearly two months, and before that, hardly any rain for nearly three years. In fact, the last good rain Rhodes could remember had been during the writers’ workshop out at the old college in Obert, and that had been quite a while ago.
The ground beneath the scorched brown grass in Rhodes’s yard had two-inch cracks in it, and all around the town of Clearview, the stock tanks were drying up. There was no grass for the cattle to graze on, nothing but needle grass and weeds. Even most of the johnsongrass in the bar ditches had dried to a crackly brown. The ranchers were despairing of having any hay for the winter.
There was one good thing that had come from the weather, however, at least as far as Rhodes was concerned. He hadn’t had to mow his yard in weeks. The town hadn’t yet put restrictions on water use, but he didn’t think it would be right to water his yard when the situation was becoming critical. Besides, he hated mowing.
Speedo, Rhodes’s outside dog, tried to keep up appearances by pretending to be interested in the ball that Rhodes threw for him to fetch, but Rhodes could tell that the dog’s heart wasn’t really in it. He wasn’t moving half as fast as he did on cool fall days, and instead of hanging on to the ball and making Rhodes wrest it from between his teeth, he dropped it at Rhodes’s feet and wandered off, as if already looking for a nice shady spot to spend the day.
Rhodes knew the spot Speedo was thinking about. It was under a pecan tree, where the dog had worn the thin covering of grass away and gotten to the cool dirt beneath. The leaves on the tree looked shriveled, and if it gave up any pecans in the fall, they would be few and small because of the lack of water.
Yancey, Rhodes’s inside dog, who had been released for the moment to romp around the yard, didn’t show much enthusiasm either. Yancey was a Pomeranian, and he spent most of his time in the house either yapping, yipping, or sleeping. When he came into the yard, he yapped constantly and chased Speedo from one corner to the other, looking a lot like a bouncing Q-Tip as he harassed the much larger dog. Today, he looked more like a slowly rolling dust bunny. He was still yapping, but Speedo was ignoring him, and Yancey didn’t really seem to care.
“I have some good news for you, fellas,” Rhodes said to the dogs. “No fireworks for the Fourth this year.”
He didn’t know how Yancey felt about fireworks, but Speedo didn’t like the explosions. He usually spent the evening in his Styrofoam igloo. But this year he didn’t have to worry. The danger of fire was too great, and the annual fireworks show at the Clearview City Park had been canceled.
In the past, Rhodes had been much more fond of explosions than Speedo. He still liked them but recent events had changed his point of view. He’d nearly been blown up twice, and the experiences had tended to sour him on explosions. Nevertheless, he was more or less expected to show up at the big Fourth of July celebration, though he could have seen the fireworks, if there had been any, almost as well from his house as he could in the park. But he always attended, and he’d be there again this year.
Even without the fireworks, there would be other festivities, like the barbecue cook-off and the historical pageant, though the heat would be brutal. People assumed that the county sheriff would be there, and Rhodes would have to put in an appearance. He thought he’d rather curl up under the pecan tree with Speedo, though he did like barbecue with spicy sauce, even in the summer.
Rhodes heard the screen door slam behind him and turned to see his wife, Ivy, standing on the little back porch. She had short gray hair and a trim figure that Rhodes admired a great deal.
Apparently Yancey admired it too, or admired something about her. He perked up, bounced over, and started yipping around her ankles. Like Speedo, Ivy ignored him.
“Hot enough for you?” she asked Rhodes.
Rhodes gave her a thoughtful look.
“If I had my pistol, I’d shoot you for saying that,” he told her.
“I thought it was pretty clever.”
“So does everybody else in the county. Do you know how many times a day I hear that line?”
“Two?” Ivy said. “Three?”
“Three hundred is more like it. There should be a law against it.”
“Well,” Ivy said, “there’s one good thing—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—it’s a dry heat,” Ivy finished.
“I’m going for the pistol now. No jury in the world would convict me.”
“You can’t shoot me,” Ivy said. “I can say anything I want to. This is America. Freedom of speech and all that. The freedom doesn’t extend to shooting people, though. Besides, wife-shooting wouldn’t look good on your record when you have to run again, even if you weren’t convicted.”
“I think the voters would understand.”
“The voters are the ones who’re asking if it’s hot enough for you,” Ivy said.
Rhodes admitted that she might have a point.
“I know I do. Do you think there’ll be any fires today?”
Rhodes hoped not. There had already been too many, mostly little ones, grass fires that were easily put out, but he was worried that sooner or later there might be a real conflagration. Maybe on the Fourth of July.
“It’s too bad we don’t have a law against fireworks,” he said.
“I thought we did.”
“Clearview does. The city can pass ordinances like that. The county government can’t. So once you’re out of the city limits, you can sell fireworks, you can set them off, you can do pretty much what you want to. Grat Bilson’s been trying to get something done about it in the county for years, but he hasn’t had any luck.”
Yancey continued to yip and yap and dance around Ivy’s ankles. She pushed him aside with her foot, but he didn’t mind. He moved right back in.
“I thought you liked fireworks,” Ivy said to Rhodes.
“I do,” Rhodes said. “But I think they should be handled by a licensed pyro. Otherwise, they’re dangerous, especially in weather like this. One Roman candle ball that gets into a bunch of dry johnsongrass, and a whole pasture can go up.”
“I didn’t think there was enough grass to burn.”
“Sure there is. On places where there aren’t any cattle, there’s grass. And sometimes a hous
e. Not to mention a little woods. It can be pretty bad.”
“Why doesn’t the state do something?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t really know. But there’s a lot of money to be made off fireworks.”
“You don’t think the legislators are being bribed, do you?”
“No. They probably get some big campaign contributions, though. Anyway, there are plenty of other things that can cause fires. I was just thinking about fireworks because it’s so close to the Fourth.”
Ivy reached down and picked up Yancey. He wriggled with pleasure, but he didn’t stop his yipping.
“Maybe we could tie your little dog here to a bottle rocket and send him to the moon,” Ivy said.
“My dog? I thought he was our dog.”
“You’re the one who brought him home.”
That was true. Rhodes had found both Speedo and Yancey in the course of his investigations, and he hadn’t wanted to leave them without someone to take care of them. So he’d brought them home.
“But you love him,” Rhodes said. “Anyway, cruelty to animals is worse than shooting people. Especially who ask if it’s hot enough for me.”
Ivy set Yancey down. Instead of assaulting her ankles, he went to the door and yapped.
“I think he’s had enough of the great outdoors,” Rhodes said. “I don’t blame him.”
Ivy opened the door, and Yancey ran inside, his little claws clicking on the hardwood floor. Rhodes went to check on Speedo’s water bowl. It was about half full, but Rhodes dumped the water out and refilled the bowl.
“Do you think the historical societies will get along this year?” Ivy asked when Rhodes had finished with the water bowl.
Blacklin County had two historical societies, the Clearview Historical Association and the Sons and Daughters of Texas. While it seemed to Rhodes that they both had similar goals, the members of one group never seemed able to agree with the members of the other on how to reach them. Not so long ago, the presidents of both associations had been murdered, and there had been a lot of talk about the two groups consolidating. But it hadn’t happened.
“You never can tell what they’ll do,” Rhodes said. “Now that Grat Bilson’s taken over as president of the Sons and Daughters and Vernell Lindsey’s president of the Association, things are more unstable than they ever were.”
Both Vernell and Bilson had had dealings with Rhodes in the past. Bilson was a combative man who had a contentious relationship with his wife, Yvonne. Vernell was Clearview’s celebrity, the author of several romance novels published under the name Ashley Leigh.
“The fireworks were always the biggest problem,” Ivy said. “Maybe everything will go off perfectly this year.”
“We’ll see,” Rhodes said, not believing it for a minute.
2
THE DAY WENT DOWNHILL FROM THAT POINT ON. BY THE TIME Rhodes arrived at the jail, the temperature was already hitting ninety. He was glad to get into the air-conditioned office.
“Hot enough for you?” Hack Jensen, the dispatcher, asked when Rhodes came through the door, barely beating Lawton, the jailer, to the question.
Rhodes thought about shooting both of them, but, as Ivy had mentioned, it wouldn’t look good on his record. A sheriff shouldn’t go around shooting county employees. People might take it amiss.
“It could be worse,” Lawton said with a sly look. “At least it’s a dry heat.”
“I’m going to lock both of you up if I hear you say that stuff again,” Rhodes told them.
“Lock us up, and we’ll just become a party to the lawsuit,” Hack said.
“Lawsuit? Which lawsuit?”
“The one the prisoners’ll be filin’,” Hack said. “They claim it’s too hot in the cell block, which is cruel and unusual. They’ve been complainin’ for the last week.”
“To me,” Lawton said. “Not to him.”
It seemed to Rhodes that Lawton and Hack were in constant competition, each one trying to one-up the other. They were both long past the usual retirement age, but they were also so good at their jobs that no one had suggested they quit, least of all Rhodes, who was willing to put up with a lot from someone who knew his job.
“Hack don’t know a thing about it,” Lawton went on. “He sits in here and watches his little TV and plays on that computer that belongs to the county, but I’m the one who has to deal with those prisoners every single day. I’m the one who has to get up close and personal with ’em. I’m the one—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hack said. “We know all about it. But I’m the one who has to take the phone calls and deal with Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public. Ms. J. Q., too. I’m the one who takes all the abuse from the taxpayers when the high sheriff don’t do things to satisfy ’em. I’m the one—”
“All right,” Rhodes said, holding up a hand. “I know how much the two of you have to suffer. I’ll hit the commissioners up for a raise at the next meeting.”
“No you won’t,” Hack said. “You’re just tellin’ us that to get us to shut up.”
“I’m telling you that because I want to hear about the lawsuit. Or have you forgotten about that?”
“Nobody’s forgot,” Hack said.
“Good. Now who’s going to tell me about it?”
“Let Hack tell you,” Lawton said. “Since he knows so much about it.”
“All I know is that the prisoners say they’re goin’ to file one.”
“And he only knows that ’cause I told him,” Lawton said. “It’s that Andy Tobin again, Sheriff.”
Tobin, who had a serious drinking problem, was a frequent resident of the Blacklin County Jail. He was generally a troublemaker when he was there, and he was the one who, during his last visit, had filed a grievance because he claimed that the jailhouse was haunted.
“Maybe you should sic the ghost on him again,” Hack suggested to Rhodes.
Rhodes said he thought that was a bad idea. It would just get the prisoners all worked up.
“They’re already worked up,” Lawton said. “Tobin’s looking in the law books, and it won’t be long before they file that suit. You can mark my words.”
“It won’t be the first time we’ve been sued,” Hack said. “We ain’t lost yet.”
“We’ll just see what happens,” Rhodes said. “Maybe it will rain soon and cool things off.”
“Nope,” Hack said. “That weather guy on Channel Eight says it won’t rain for the next five days at least, and maybe not for the five after that. There’s this big dome of high pressure sittin’ on top of us. That’s like a mountain of air, he says, and there’s nothing to move it. Best we can hope for is that a hurricane’ll form out in the Gulf and come onto shore down around Houston. That’d move it.”
“Wouldn’t be too good for those folks down on the coast, though, would it?” Lawton said.
“That’s their lookout,” Hack said.
“That’s just like you,” Lawton said. “Always thinkin’ of yourself.”
Hack started to stand up, and Rhodes thought he might have to separate them, but he was saved by the ringing of the telephone.
Hack answered, listened, and then said, “There’s a reporter wants to talk to you, Sheriff.”
There was only one reporter who would be calling, Rhodes thought, and that was Jennifer Loam, who had come to Clearview to work for the Herald the previous fall. It was her first job after graduating from college. She was young, intense, and hoping to make some kind of name for herself so she could move on to a bigger paper in a bigger town.
“I’ll take it at my desk,” Rhodes said.
He sat down, picked up his phone, and punched the button that let him pick up the call.
“This is Sheriff Rhodes,” he said.
“This is Jennifer Loam, of the Clearview Herald,” the reporter said, as if Rhodes didn’t know her and as if there might be another paper in town, which there wasn’t. There wasn’t another paper in the whole county.
But Rhodes didn’t see any need to poi
nt those things out. He said, “What can I do for you, Ms. Loam?”
“There’s something I have to discuss with you, Sheriff. Privately.”
Rhodes looked over his shoulder. Lawton and Hack were listening to every word, just as they always did.
“This is pretty private,” Rhodes said. “What do we have to discuss?”
“It isn’t something I want to talk about on the phone. Can we meet?”
“Come on over. I’ll be here for a while.”
“I meant meet privately. Somewhere that there won’t be anyone listening in.”
“Sounds pretty serious,” Rhodes said.
“It is.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
Jennifer made a small sound that might have been either disgust or frustration. She said, “I don’t suppose you’re aware that I’ve been working on an exposé on some of the county commissioners.”
Uh-oh, Rhodes thought. Suddenly the air-conditioning didn’t seem to be working so well.
“You’re right,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“I have a … source who’s come up with a lot of damaging information.”
The four commissioners, along with the county judge, were the governing body for Blacklin County. That’s the way it was all over the state, for that matter. It didn’t make any difference whether you lived in a county with millions of people or a county with hundreds. There were still four commissioners and a judge. They controlled the county budget and made decisions about libraries, law enforcement, and road construction, among other things.
“I can see why you don’t want to talk about it on the phone,” Rhodes said.
“Oh, that’s not the reason. I don’t mind talking about the commissioners on the phone.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“My informant has come up with some information about another county official.”
“And who would that be?”
“That would be you, Sheriff.”
“Oh,” Rhodes said. “Maybe we’d better meet privately.”
“I thought you might see it that way,” Jennifer said.
3
THEY MET IN RHODES’S OFFICE IN THE COUNTY COURTHOUSE, WHICH was located near the jail. Rhodes hardly ever went there, since he preferred working out of the jail, but he dropped in now and then when he needed some privacy or some time to think.
