A Taste of Blood and Ashes

by Jaden Terrell

  “You think some, maybe?”

  “I think some, probably.” I pushed the folder across the table. “You did good work today.”

  She looked up, smiling. “You, me, make good team. You do good work today too.”

  My cell phone chirped, announcing an incoming text. I looked at it and said, “Billy says they’re over at the TASA booth trying to put things back together. Want to go give them a hand?”

  “Sure. Maybe stop for donut.” She turned off the computer and pushed herself off the bench. “Those donut very good. Have one yesterday while you go get ice. Maybe have one now. You want try one? I go get us some, meet you at booth.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  She held out her hand like a child asking for her allowance.

  “Seriously? I thought you were offering to buy.”

  “You rich American, I poor Vietnam relative. Also you boss man, write off on taxes.”

  I sighed and pulled a twenty out of my pocket. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  While Khanh went for the donuts, I took a couple of extrastrength Tylenols and walked to the booth. The sky was darkening, and the lights came up. The crowd milled, stocking up on festival food before the Big Lick classes began.

  At the booth, Carlin and Billy were separating torn pamphlets from salvageable ones, while Zane sat at the counter painstakingly burnishing promotional buttons and dropping them into a box. He fumbled a button back onto the counter, picked it up with his thumb and four fingers like a carnival claw.

  Gerardo stood in the middle of the wreckage looking like he didn’t know whether to grab a broom or an AK-47. He bent to pick up one of the T-shirts and folded it awkwardly with his bandaged hands, watching the rest of us from the corner of his eye.

  “You look like the wrong side of midnight,” Carlin said to me. She tossed a handful of torn flyers into a plastic garbage can. “Billy told me about the accident. Is Khanh all right?”

  “She’s a little banged up, but she’s okay. The truck, however, is done for.”

  Carlin made the sign of the cross, last rites for the Silverado. Rest in peace, old buddy. “I’m sorry about the truck, but I’m glad Khanh came through it in one piece.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Billy said.

  Khanh shuffled through the crowd, her bandaged arm hugging a plastic milk crate. Inside were a bag with a dozen donuts in it and a cardboard carrier with six cups of coffee. She made a show of offering me the change, which I made a show of telling her to keep. There wasn’t much anyway.

  “Gracias, sweet lady,” said Gerardo, with a rare smile. Khanh blushed and took a sip of coffee.

  The donuts were homemade, heavy with grease, grainy with sugar, and more delicious than they had any right to be. The coffee was bitter and burnt, but maybe I’d just gotten used to the taste of Khanh’s sweet Vietnamese blend.

  “We need to talk about last night,” I said. “The attack on Zane. This isn’t going to go away until we make it go away.”

  “I know,” Carlin said. She pitched another handful of flyers, then went to the counter and took Zane’s hand in hers. “I’ve been racking my brain ever since it happened, but I just can’t figure it out. I get why someone might target me. I’ve made a lot of enemies. But why would anybody want to hurt Zane?”

  Billy said, “Who knows why people do what they do? Maybe someone felt threatened. Maybe someone thinks they’ll get a mention in the will.”

  Carlin snorted. “If they know us well enough to think that, they know they won’t get anything but debt.”

  Billy picked up a torn pamphlet and ripped it to confetti, watching the pieces flutter into the can. “Maybe someone thought they were doing him a favor.”

  “Some favor,” she said.

  “We can’t rule it out,” I said. “But considering everything else that’s happened, I don’t think that’s it. I think they’re neutralizing a threat.”

  Carlin ran her fingers over the veins in the back of Zane’s clawed hand. “He’s no threat to anybody.”

  Zane looked down, pulled his hand away. No man wants to be considered ‘not a threat.’

  “There’s more ’n one way to be a threat,” Billy said.

  She started to speak, closed her mouth again. You didn’t have to be psychic to know what she’d almost said.

  Billy said, “You blackmailing somebody, son? Got information that could put somebody behind bars?”

  Zane shook his head. “NOTHING. I KNOW NOTHING.”

  “He knows soring,” Carlin said. “Who does, who doesn’t. But why try to kill Zane? Everybody in the industry knows all that.”

  “Could be,” Billy said. “The question is, do they—whoever did this—do they know that?”

  “No,” I said, and looked at Zane. “The question is, what do you know that you don’t know you know?”

  Zane blinked.

  Gerardo said, “How can he tell you, if he doesn’t know he knows?”

  I looked at Zane. “You saw Junior and Eli standing in the sun, and you remembered something.”

  Zane gave a slow nod. “BUT IT WASN’T ANYTHING IMPORTANT.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But maybe someone was afraid it might lead to something that was.”

  Zane cocked his head, then looked at Carlin and typed, “I WANT TO GO TO JAKE’S AND HAVE A BEER WITH MY FRIEND.”

  She shook her head. “Honey, you know he isn’t here. Owen left after your accident.”

  “I WANT TO HAVE A BEER WITH MY FRIEND JARED.”

  She started to protest. There were a thousand reasons to say no. It had been a long day, he was tired, the alcohol could interact badly with his seizure meds. But Zane clenched his teeth and pressed repeat on the DynaVox until the robot voice wore her down.

  She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Were you always so hardheaded?”

  “YES.”

  That brought a smile. “I remember now. Fine. We’ll take the van. It has the wheelchair lift.”

  “NO,” Zane typed. “JUST ME AND MY FRIEND JARED.”

  Hurt flashed in her eyes. Then she sighed. “I get it. Guy talk. At least take Gerardo with you.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “No offense, but you’re hurt.”

  “So is Gerardo.”

  “We hardly know you.”

  Billy shifted his weight. “You know he saved your husband’s life, right?”

  “Yes, but I’d—”

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  “Enough.” She flipped the power button off. He glared at her and pushed it back on. His finger hovered over the repeat button.

  She put her hand over his. “No, don’t. I concede.”

  Billy said, “I’ll look out for Khanh while you’re gone.”

  “Not need babysitter,” Khanh said, but she smiled. “Maybe could use bodyguard.”

  Gerardo sighed. “Fine. Let them go. But, hombre, if you let anything happen to him . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill me. I’ve heard that from better men than you.”

  “I doubt it,” he said with a grin, and went to pull the van around.

  30.

  It felt late, but it was only eight thirty. By the time we got to Jake’s place, the bar was hopping. A bartender who probably doubled as a bouncer flexed his biceps as he tapped draft beer into a frosted mug. There was a steer’s head over the bar and a live band playing up front, just a guy on guitar and another on bass and a girl on the drums. She had shaggy dark hair and pale skin, dramatic eyes, and lipstick the color of swamp moss. She could play the hell out of the drums.

  The hostess looked fresh out of high school, a pale, freckled girl with red hair tied back with a red and white bandana. She wore tight jeans and a checkered shirt knotted at the midriff. Her gaze lingered on Zane’s chair for half a beat too long, but she recovered, flashed him a dutiful smile, and said, “Two for the bar?”

  I looked at Zane. “Do you remember where you sat before?”


  He swept the room with his gaze. Landed on a booth in the back corner near the dartboard and the pool tables. A couple sat there on the same side of the table sharing a plate of deep-fried onion straws.

  “THAT ONE.”

  I looked at the girl. “You heard the man.”

  “It’s occupied.”

  I pulled out forty bucks and said, “Ask them to move to another table.”

  “Really?” She grinned, snatched the two twenties, and tucked them into her bra. “What’s in it for them?”

  “I was going to say forty bucks, but I didn’t take the middle man into account.”

  “Business 101. You have to account for the middle man.”

  I peeled off another twenty. “One for you, two for them. There are two of them, and they’re being inconvenienced.”

  “I’m being inconvenienced too,” she said, but then she must have decided there might be a chance for greater rewards later. She sashayed over to the table and talked to the couple for a few minutes. They got up and moved, giggling, to another booth.

  “Do you need the chair?” I asked.

  He shook his head and pulled up his shirt to show me the supportive abdominal binder beneath. “I CAN SIT UP. MOSTLY.”

  I got Zane and his DynaVox onto the far bench and myself onto the other, facing him across the table. The wheelchair sat at the end like a guest of honor.

  “What’s your poison?” I asked him.

  “SAM ADAMS.”

  “And what’s mine?”

  He gave me an appraising look, then said, “CORONA.”

  “My luck,” I said, but I put in the order. While we waited, I said, “You wanted to talk to me. About Owen Bodeen?”

  He nodded. “REMEMBERED WE CAME HERE THAT NIGHT.”

  “The night of the accident.”

  “HE SAID SOMETHING IMPORTANT.”

  I waited. When he didn’t add anything else, I said, “What was it?”

  “I DON’T KNOW. THOUGHT MAYBE HERE—” He stopped, gave his shoulders a little hunch.

  “You thought maybe if you came here, you’d remember something. Worth a try.”

  He hung his head. “NOT WORKING I DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING. USELESS.”

  “Don’t think about it so hard. Let’s just talk.”

  He looked unhappy, but he nodded.

  “Tell me about Owen. He worked for your family?”

  It took him a long time to type. Patience, I reminded myself, and wondered how long it had been since he’d had a real conversation with anyone but Carlin and maybe Gerardo.

  I waited, and finally, the machine said, “MY DAD’S AGE. I LIKED TO HELP HIM WHEN I WAS A KID. HE ALWAYS HAD TIME FOR ME.”

  I nodded. My father had died when I was four. I understood that yearning for a man to look up to. But Zane’s had been alive when he was growing up. A troubled relationship long before his parents had disowned him. “Your family sored their horses?”

  “CALLED IT FIXING THEM. I THOUGHT THAT WAS THE RIGHT WAY TO TRAIN A HORSE.”

  “Then you met Carlin.”

  “SHE WAS SO BEAUTIFUL.” He smiled at the memory. “I’D TAKE HER PLACES. MOVIES. RESTAURANTS. WOODS. REALIZED I DIDN’T WANT TO TAKE HER TO THE FARM. I DIDN’T WANT HER TO SEE WHAT WE WERE DOING AND THAT’S HOW I KNEW IT WAS WRONG. BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT HER TO KNOW.”

  “She and your family didn’t get along.”

  “SHE WAS EVERYTHING THEY HATED.”

  “And Owen?”

  “HE WAS DISAPPOINTED BUT HE UNDERSTOOD. I THINK HE GOT WHERE THE SORING BOTHERED HIM AFTER A WHILE.”

  “But he didn’t quit.”

  “WHERE WAS HE GOING TO GO, A MAN HIS AGE AND WITH A DISABILITY?”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of disability?”

  “HURT HIS BACK IN A FALL FROM A BULL. HE DID THE RODEO CIRCUIT WHEN HE WAS YOUNG. HE WAS A CHAMPION.”

  “You say he spent time with you. What did you do?”

  “WHEN I WAS A KID? TALKED, FISHED, WHITTLED, RODE HORSES. HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO TRAIN A HORSE.”

  “How to sore a horse.”

  “AND MORE. IT’S COMPLICATED. HE LOVED THEM.”

  “And he hurt them.”

  “YES, BOTH. HE DIDN’T LIKE HURTING THEM. PEOPLE DO WHAT THEY KNOW HOW TO DO.”

  “And when you came here that night, you sat over there, where you are, and he sat over here, where I am.”

  He nodded.

  “You drank Sam Adams, and he had a Corona. Did you eat?”

  “NACHOS. THE WORKS.”

  “What was the band playing?”

  He thought a minute. “ ‘FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES.’ ”

  I got up and put in an order for nachos and a request with the band. Came back and slid into my seat. “Anything else?”

  “PRETTY GIRL ON THE MECHANICAL BULL.” He grinned as if appreciating the memory.

  “I can’t help with that one. Who else was here?”

  “EVERYBODY. JUNIOR. HE SAT THERE.”

  He nodded toward the next table. Close enough to hear something, maybe. Or maybe not.

  “Was he by himself?”

  He thought about it. Shook his head.

  “Who was with him?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head again. “DON’T REMEMBER.”

  I led him through the conversation with Owen Bodeen, getting the broad outlines and circling back to fill in the gaps he’d forgotten. There were a lot of them.

  I said, “Why do you think he left?”

  He spread his hands and looked down at his broken body. “THIS.”

  It was the act of a coward, leaving so abruptly, not even stopping at the hospital to say good-bye. But then, so was soring horses out of fear of unemployment. I felt a sudden dislike for the man.

  “DAMN.” Zane slapped the DynaVox. “HE SAID HE SAID HE SAID HE SAID.”

  “You’re close. Just give it a minute.”

  The door banged open, and the sheriff swaggered in. He scanned the room, then sauntered over to our booth. He nodded to me, then said to Zane, “Haven’t seen you out and about for a while.”

  “HAVEN’T BEEN OUT IN A WHILE.”

  “Heck of a few days you and your little lady are having. Just wondered if, now that you’re remembering things, you’ve come up with anything that might shed light on the investigation.”

  Zane’s face was all innocence. “THERE’S AN INVESTIGATION?”

  Hap flushed. “Of course there’s a damn investigation. You know what we think so far?”

  “NO. ENLIGHTEN ME.”

  “The way we see it, Carlin isn’t likely to have put the remains in the stables. We don’t have a cause of death yet, but keeping bones as trophies isn’t the sort of thing women usually do.”

  “Makes sense so far,” I said. “But why are you thinking trophies?”

  “What other reason to keep human remains in your own barn long enough for them to skeletonize?”

  “Trophy-taking implies serial killer. But there’s only one body that we know of.”

  “That we know of,” he said. He turned back to Zane. “With Carlin out of it, that leaves us with you and Mr. Gonzales. Can’t tell when the victim died because of the fire, so we can’t rule you out. You might have killed the vic before your accident and not been able to get back there to dispose of the bones. Or you might have kept them on purpose, reliving your kill.”

  “RIDICULOUS.”

  “Is it?” He cocked his head, looked at Zane. “Grant you, I’ve known you a long time, and I wouldn’t think you were the type. But what do we really know about your Mr. Gonzales? All we know is there were human bones in a barn he had access to.”

  “That’s the theory you’re pursuing?” I said. “That either Zane or Gerardo is a serial killer?”

  “More likely a budding one. Could be there’s just been the one so far, and either Zane got hurt before he could kill again, or Gonzales is in a cooling-off period.” As theories went, it was unsupported but not completely unreasonable
. He said to Zane, “For what it’s worth, my money’s on Gonzales. Though that doesn’t explain why somebody else tried to kill you last night. Anything you remember that could shed some light on that would be appreciated.”

  “I DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING,” Zane said.

  “Your memory’s coming back. You must remember something.”

  “NO, NOTHING.”

  Hap looked Zane over slowly, like there was a bad taste in his mouth, and said, “If that’s the way you want to play it.”

  “THAT’S THE WAY I WANT TO PLAY IT.”

  “Then don’t bitch to me when the guy gets away with it.”

  We watched him walk away.

  “Nice guy,” I said.

  “SOMETIMES YES,” Zane typed. “SOMETIMES NO.”

  And then, the way a song you’ve been trying to remember will pop into your head when you finally stop thinking about it, it came to him.

  “I REMEMBER.”

  He turned off the sound on the DynaVox and tapped something into it. It took him a long time, and when he was finished, he sat back and watched me turn the screen so I could read it. I stared at the letters he’d typed as if I could look past the words and absorb the story behind them.

  Things were preying on his mind, Owen had said. He’d just been diagnosed with cancer, a bad one, pancreatic. Things hadn’t gotten as bad as they would, but he knew his clock was ticking, and he hoped to leave this life a better man than he had been. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, soring among them. But the thing that bothered him the most was not something he’d done, but something he had failed to do. He’d failed to save a man’s life, then kept his silence.

  For forty years, he’d kept that secret, but now, with the Grim Reaper tapping at his shoulder, he needed to come clean. Forty years ago, he said, he’d seen Dalt Underwood, Samuel Trehorne, and Doc Willoughby kill Thomas Cole, erase the tape in his recorder, and leave a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  “Well,” I said. “Now we know what someone thought was important enough to kill for.”

  31.

  We left our beers half-finished and went back to the van. I sent Zane up on the lift and strapped him in, my ribs protesting as I secured his chair with fasteners on the floor and the wall. He seemed subdued, but it was hard to say whether that was because of the memory he’d recovered or the stresses of the past few days.