A Taste of Blood and Ashes

by Jaden Terrell

  “I want to do it,” she said.

  “If the person you’re talking to seems the least bit suspicious, abort the mission and get out of there.”

  “Abort, get out. Got it,” she said.

  “And text me every hour. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you ran into trouble and come get you.”

  “Every hour. Got it,” she said, and reached for the keys.

  I held them up above my head, too high for her to reach. “And wear your seat belt. No seat belt, no driving.”

  “Text every hour, abort if trouble, wear seat belt. Got it.”

  25.

  I’d planned to tell the Underwoods about my deal with Trehorne, but between Zane’s hospitalization and Maggie’s death, that plan had been derailed. While I waited to hear from Billy that Zane had been released, I sent a text to my son—happy face, kiss, thumbs up, Love, Daddy—and then used my 4G LTE connection to spend an hour on the Internet, trying to piece together Eli’s thirteen cases.

  Tommy Cole and Sylvia Whitehead had died before the Internet explosion, but thanks to the push to put public records online, it took less than five minutes to find both their obituaries. I wrote down the names under “survived by,” then tracked down a few archived news articles that didn’t add anything to what Eli had said.

  Daniel Bitmore should have been easy. He’d died in a time where news is digitally enshrined, where great-grandmothers Tweet about quilting and log on to Facebook to share kitten videos. But Bitmore had been a hunter, an outdoorsman, not one to tie himself to his computer. His Facebook page, rarely updated, had a photo of a buck he’d shot, a meme about beer someone had shared on his wall, and a few pictures of his children. The page languished, a single post on the anniversary of his death from Mace Ewing, the man who had shot him: I miss you, Buddy.

  The rest of the deaths stretched from the late seventies into the twenty-first century, all plausible accidents or suicides, but all, as near as I could tell, vague enough in detail to raise questions in the mind of someone who was looking to ask them.

  Eli had been right to focus on Whitehead, Cole, and Bitmore. If they could be confirmed, it would give weight to the rest. And while some were, no doubt, exactly what they seemed, there was a chance there was more beneath the surface.

  When I thought I’d found all I could online, I put in a call to Frank Campanella. Before I’d joined the private sector, Frank and I had partnered on Nashville’s Murder Squad. He was all but a father to me, and a few years from retirement, but the old fire was still in him. At least it had been until his wife, Patrice, was diagnosed with cancer. Now it blazed and receded by turns, depending on her most recent prognosis.

  “Hey, Mac,” he said, before I could identify myself. “Angling for another cruise?” He chuckled at his own joke.

  When I’d last seen him a few weeks ago, we’d spent an afternoon on his fishing boat, trolling for trout and sampling craft beers. We’d made a pact not to discuss police work or politics and failed to keep it, then come home sunburned and a little buzzed, bearing dinner from McDonald’s.

  “Not this time,” I said. “How’s Patrice?”

  “Hanging in there. She had chemo yesterday, and the day after that is always rough. She’s sleeping now.”

  “Give her my love, will you?”

  “She sends you hers,” he said. “When can I tell her you’ll be coming by?”

  “Next week sometime. Right now I’m at a horse show in a little place called Hidden Hollow.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business. I’m working a case.”

  “Thus the call,” he said.

  “Thus the call.”

  He was silent for a beat. Then, “Am I going to be sorry I heard from you?”

  “I don’t think so. Not on account of anything I’m about to say.”

  “Hang on.” I heard him shift the phone, heard the rustle of paper and his footsteps on the hardwood. A drawer opened and closed, and I guessed he was finding a pen. “Okay. What do you need?”

  I ran him through it, from the arson to Eli’s conspiracy theory to Maggie James’s murder. When I’d finished, he said, “And you think the same person who started your barn fire committed these murders?”

  “I think it’s possible. Several of the major players are in their late fifties, early sixties. That would put them in their late teens, early twenties, when Sylvia Whitehead and Tom Cole died.”

  “Forty years,” he said. “The guys who worked those cases are—”

  “I know. Dead or retired. And I get it if you don’t have the time to run them down.”

  “I have time, Cowboy. I’ll make time. But no promises. A lot of water’s run under that bridge.”

  “I know. I just want to get your take on the guys who looked into Cole’s case. See if their hands were tied or if you get the sense they’re covering something. I’ve got Khanh working on the records here, but Tom Cole’s are in your neck of the woods.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Get back to you later.”

  “Save my seat on the boat.”

  I hung up and found a text from Khanh. Short and sweet, it just said, IN. OK.

  I took this to mean she’d gained access to the public records archive and no one had tried to kill her. A good sign. Relieved, I put away the laptop and went to the arena. A sign taped to the front doors invited everyone to a memorial service for Maggie at dawn on Sunday. No mention of how she’d died or that someone might have killed her, just a candid photo of a smiling Maggie someone had probably taken on a cell phone.

  Inside, the crowd was thin, whether because of the time of day or because of the murder, I wasn’t sure. The former, I guessed. News traveled fast among the in-group, but it would take some time before the details reached the general public. I wandered to the concession stand for an order of nachos and a Pepsi and was waiting for my food when a text from Billy came through. All okay. On our way there. Have beer waiting.

  I went back and bought us each a bottle, then watched Doc do inspections until the next text came from Khanh: Still OK. Doc was quick and competent, sparing a few moments to stroke each horse gently when he started and again between each step of the inspection. It didn’t seem to be for show.

  He was using a portable thermal imaging machine, which looked like a camera but was connected to a TV/VCR setup that showed a color image of the thermal pattern created by the horse’s circulatory system. Abnormally hot or cold spots could both be indicators of soring.

  If the image showed a problem, another machine allowed him to test for the presence of caustic agents, like kerosene, or numbing agents, like lidocaine, which were used to mask pain long enough for the horse to get through inspection.

  There were many facets to the art of pain.

  He passed three horses, disqualified one. Mace Ewing, eyes blacked and nose splinted, brought his little red mare through, followed by Trudy Valentine with Sultan. As they chatted in line, Trudy touched a hand to the bun at the back of her head, gave the net that covered it a gentle tug. Grooming. He was a young thug and she a woman who dropped ergo into casual conversation, but she was definitely interested.

  I watched them flirt for a few minutes, then tossed my empty containers and went back to the TASA booth, where the last of the deputies was removing the crime scene tape. It was early to release the area, but then, it was a very small crime scene. Beyond the tarp and the TASA promotional materials, there hadn’t been much to it.

  Sue stood off to one side, one arm crossed tight around her chest, the other hand holding a cigarette.

  She sniffled, took a long drag from the cigarette, and wiped her eyes.

  “You hanging in there?” I said.

  She bobbed her head, a quick nod. “I just can’t believe she’s gone. She was the kindest person I ever knew. Never met a stranger. Why would someone do this?”

  “Some people are scum,” I said. “I know that’s not much comfort.”

  “Not very PC,�
�� she said, with a sad laugh. “We’re supposed to feel sorry for the poor little killer, who probably had a bad home life, or who had a great life except for some traumatic experience, or who has a wire loose somewhere in his head. Oh, excuse me, they’d have some high-falutin’ way of saying that.”

  I forced a smile. “An aberration in the primordial ooze of his psychopathic brain.”

  She sucked in a lungful of smoke, held it, then slowly blew it out. “Maggie could talk the ear off a deaf man,” she said. “I don’t know how many times I rolled my eyes at her, told her she didn’t have to tell us every thought she had. You didn’t have to give that girl a penny for her thoughts. She’d give you every one she had for free.”

  “She did know how to carry on a conversation.”

  She said, “I’d give anything to take those eye rolls back.”

  “I didn’t know her well,” I said, “but she didn’t seem the type to take offense.”

  “No,” she said. “She was a kind soul. A truly bright spirit. And so damn chipper you’d just about want to strangle her sometimes. But I sure am gonna miss her chatter.”

  “Lotta people will,” I said.

  “I hated those damn boots,” she said, and burst into tears.

  26.

  There was little comfort I could give her. I’d liked Maggie, but I hadn’t known her well. Vows of vengeance, or even justice, would neither bring her back nor give her spirit peace. I was convinced that, however dark her end, Maggie James had gone well into whatever afterlife there was. All the same, a vision of her cheerful ghost chattering into her killer’s ear until he wanted to tear out his own eardrums made me smile.

  There were still a few classes before Carlin was supposed to show. I hoped she’d make it, figured if yesterday’s judging was any indication, it didn’t much matter. Since I had time, I took the long way around, through the preparation area, and found Trudy and Doc chatting near the inspection corner, where two other judges were checking out horses. Doc had a Styrofoam soda cup in one hand and a barbecue sandwich in the other. Trudy, dressed in black slacks and a black blazer nipped in at the waist, held the reins of a chestnut mare with a flaxen mane.

  Across the room, Eli watched them with a hard, flat gaze, then headed in their direction like a homing missile. They looked up when they saw him coming, closing up like flower petals at sunset.

  I changed course and wandered over to join the party.

  Eli acknowledged my arrival with a nod. Then with an affable grin, he said, “Hey, Doc. Killed anybody lately?”

  Doc’s fingers tightened on his soda cup. “For Christ’s sake, Barrington.”

  Eli said, “It’s a legitimate question.”

  “It’s a slanderous question.”

  “Depends on how you answer it.”

  Trudy said, “No, it doesn’t. It’s like, Have you stopped beating your wife yet?’ There’s no good answer.”

  Eli shrugged. “Maybe there shouldn’t be. How about it, Doc? For the record.”

  “For the record?” Doc stalked to a nearby trash bin and tossed his soda and what was left of his sandwich into it, sending up a buzz of flies and sweat bees. “Go screw yourself.”

  Eli’s easy smile belied the hardness in his eyes. “You’d have been better served with ‘No Comment.’”

  Trudy shooed at him as if he were one of the flies. “Move along, little boy. The adults are talking.”

  “You mean plotting.” Eli smirked.

  “That’s right,” Doc said. “We’re part of a vast conspiracy. It started on the grassy knoll, and who knows where it might end?”

  He tipped an invisible hat to Trudy and looked pointedly at his watch. “I have work to do. Y’all have a nice chat.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Eli said. “I learned some interesting things from Mace down at Jake’s Place yesterday. You can tell Junior his junkyard dog has turned.”

  “Tell him yourself,” Doc said over his shoulder. “I’m not your carrier pigeon.”

  As Doc stalked back to the inspection area and stepped over the barrier tape, Eli flexed his fists. “I hate that smug bastard.”

  I said, “I thought you media guys were supposed to be objective.”

  “The writing is supposed to be objective. We can be however we like. Besides sometimes a little agitation is a good thing. Like stirring up the embers of a dying fire.” With a mocking smile toward Trudy, he touched the brim of his Stetson. “Ma’am.”

  “Don’t ma’am me,” she said. “You know damn well Mace hasn’t turned on Junior.”

  “Just messing with the good doctor,” he said. “No harm, no foul.” He touched his hat again and sauntered toward the exit.

  “Idiot,” she muttered to his retreating back. She looked back at me. “I take it he’s been filling your head with ideas.”

  “Ideas are a bad thing?”

  Her lips twitched, a quirk of annoyance. “Spend enough time listening to crackpots, you’re just going to confuse yourself.”

  “Is he a crackpot?”

  “So cracked, there’s almost no pot left.”

  “So if he said your friend Mace Ewing is a murderer—”

  “You leave Mace out of this.” She drew up to her full height, tipped back her head to look me in the eye. “Just because he beat you up—”

  “He didn’t beat me up.”

  “Mace is no more a murderer than I am.”

  I gave her a moment to think about that, then said, “Which could just as well mean that you are as that he’s not.”

  Her nostrils flared, and she went the kind of still that usually comes before an explosion. Then she drew in a slow breath and reined it in. “If you knew how close he and Dan were, you wouldn’t even think a thing like that.”

  “But I don’t know. So I gotta think, he’s an experienced hunter. How could he have let it happen?”

  She looked away, fiddled with the mare’s bridle. “It was an accident. Just the kind of stupid thing you couldn’t possibly plan for.”

  “You telling me that undercover video Dan made didn’t cause a rift between them?”

  “I’m telling you there’s no way Mace would have shot Dan on purpose.” She slid her hands down to the saddle, gave the girth a tug. “Did Mace feel angry and betrayed? Of course he did. We all did. But that’s a far cry from killing him.”

  “Why would you feel betrayed? If you don’t sore, why wouldn’t you be happy to expose the ones who do?”

  She glanced up, rolled her eyes. “Because we’re all tarred with the same brush. One of us goes down, nobody says there’s one bad apple. They want to crucify us all.”

  “So what should he have done?”

  “I don’t know. Kept his damn mouth shut. Talked to the board so we . . . so they . . . could deal with it in-house. You want change, you make it from the inside. You don’t throw out a net that’s going to catch all your friends in it, whether they’re guilty or not.”

  “You guys had a grievance. You, Mace, all of you.”

  “We had a grievance. That doesn’t mean we wanted him dead.” She gave an angry laugh. “At least, it doesn’t mean we made him dead.”

  “Two different things,” I agreed.

  She turned away and stroked the mare’s neck, her hand sliding beneath the corn silk mane. “You say that. But why do I feel like your heart’s not in it?”

  I got back inside just as Carlin’s first class was about to begin. Gerardo stood just outside the gate, talking distractedly with Eli, gaze flicking toward the preparation area. Relief flooded his face as Carlin rode up, slightly out of breath, and he turned to give the girth a final tug. As she rode into the ring and the steward closed the gate, Gerardo settled beside it, arms folded on the top rail, gaze riveted on the ring, the reporter forgotten.

  Eli’s cheeks pinked. He glanced around as if to see if anyone had witnessed his dismissal, then gathered himself when he saw me. “Got a few questions for you about last night.”

  I answere
d them while he scribbled in his pad. Then he excused himself and I went to stand beside Gerardo. Anxious energy rolled off him like steam.

  “How’s Zane?” I asked.

  He looked at me with tired eyes. “Resting. Your friend Billy is bringing him when he feels stronger.”

  I nodded. Between the seizure and last night’s attack, Zane must have felt like an old dishrag. “And Carlin? How’s she holding up?”

  His gaze swept the ring until he found her. “How do you think? Señor Zane is still a cripple. The stable is still burned, two horses are still dead, and still there is no insurance money.”

  “I’m recommending they pay.”

  He laughed without humor. “I thought you spent all your time punching gringos like Mace Ewing over things that will never change.”

  “They’ll never change if nobody does anything about them.”

  At the far end of the arena, Carlin emerged from a cluster of riders. Gerardo followed her with his gaze. “Señor Zane tried to do something about them, and look what happened to him.”

  I laid my forearms on the rail. “Are you talking about last night, or are you telling me his accident was no accident?”

  “I’m telling you bad things happen to people who put their noses into other people’s business. Accident or no accident, he put himself in harm’s way. Now here you are, doing the same.”

  “Samuel Trehorne told me not to get on the wrong side of this.”

  He gave his head a rueful shake, the concern in his voice taking the sting from his words. “Sign the insurance papers before you take him on. Señor Trehorne is a bad man, but he is not a stupid one. A smarter man than you would listen to what he has to say.”

  27.

  I took Billy his beer and popped the top off my own. We stepped outside to drink them while Zane dozed.

  “No action last night?” I said.

  “Deader ’n roadkill. I’m gonna start charging you double when the bad guys don’t show. I almost punched the Coke machine just so I could say I got to hit something.”