Dark Places

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Cody followed. “What don’t you like about my El Camino?”

  “Because this is a car for law work, not that half-breed truck of yours,” Ned dropped into the cloth seat, “and I don’t have to put it on, one leg at a time.”

  They’d been watching a steady stream of cars and trucks arrive at the peeling farmhouse on the far side of the pasture. The drive was short and Leland’s yard was full when they turned off the red dirt road into the drive, telling Ned the country grapevine was working just fine.

  “Not a one of these people knows Melva that well.” Ned shook his head, threading through the haphazardly parked vehicles. “Half of ’em are folks who care maybe a little bit, the other half’s nosey.”

  The porch flexed under their feet and Cody stepped carefully. “Watch that rotten place.”

  “Hell, most of the planks on this porch wouldn’t make good firewood.” Ned ground a foot on a rotting board that crumbled to dust over the floor joist, leaving two nails exposed. “Somebody’ll have to come over and fix that for her now.”

  “She has a boy.”

  Ned snorted. “I know him, too. Like I said, somebody’ll need to do it for her.”

  Hats in hand, they entered the living room. Melva was sitting on the couch between two farm wives. Winnie Louise’s orangy-red hair was tied up in a scarf, as if she intended to get up at any moment and start cleaning house, and she probably would when the mood struck her. The other was Fannie, an interesting name for the Baptist preacher’s wife and Cale Westlake’s mama.

  The trio watched Ned the way a dog minds its master when a scolding is on the way. Their eyes filled when Ned stopped, though they had little use for Leland, and less for Melva.

  Never one to draw anything out, Ned shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s him, out in the pasture, Melva. Leland’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  She wiped her moist eyes. Running ragged nails through her dishwater blond hair, Melva gave the lawmen a crooked grin. She shook her head. A shrill, self-conscious giggle became a guffaw. “He sure did love stewed prunes.”

  Embarrassed by the odd statement, Winnie Louise rubbed Melva’s back in sympathy. “He’s in a good place.”

  Fannie patted Melva’s hand. “Better than this old world.”

  Melva giggled again and shrugged her thick shoulders. “I guess it’s up to me now to milk.”

  “Why, honey, you can sell that old cow.”

  Another giggle, and then tears rolled down her plump cheeks. “Marty’ll milk for me. I imagine he’ll hang around the house more now that Leland’s gone.”

  Those two were like oil and water, and Marty never much took to Leland after they married. Leland expected him to listen to him as a son would, but the youngster was turned in such a way that they never saw eye to eye.

  Melva wiped her tears. “What am I gonna do about Leland?”

  Ned cleared his throat. “We’ll take care of that right now. He’s on his way to Travers and Williams. They’ll fix him up and you can go up there this evenin’ or in the mornin’ and pick out his casket.”

  Melva giggled again and everyone in the house was embarrassed.

  Ned had all he could take. “Let’s go.”

  “Bye, Melva.” Cody touched her shoulder and followed. “Call if you need anything.” They clumped down the steps, passing another couple on their way in with a fresh-baked peach pie.

  Marty rested on the fender of Cody’s sheriff’s car, one heel propped on the front bumper and his hands cupped around a Zippo. He flicked it closed and exhaled a lungful of smoke toward the two lawmen.

  Ned wanted to simply walk past the glower, but it wasn’t polite not to say anything at all on such a day. “Sorry for your loss, son.”

  “I ain’t your son.” Marty hawked and spat. “Sorry is the best description for that man I can think of. He wasn’t enough for my mama. She deserved better.”

  Cody tried to stay out of it and let his gaze rest on Marty’s Dodge parked in the yard. He idly checked the truck’s fenders, in case Marty might have run into something, but they were undamaged and freshly waxed. He tried to think of something to say, but everything sounded trite and dusty in his mind.

  Ned slipped his hands in his pockets. “We’ll do our best to find out what happened.”

  “I don’t care one way or another. He never was much, no how.”

  To control his temper, Ned changed the subject. “You might want to replace some of them boards up there on the porch.”

  “I’ll get around to it.”

  “Your mama’s liable to fall through and get hurt.”

  As if that hadn’t occurred to him, Marty straightened to better see the boards. “I’ll get to it soon as I can.”

  “All right, then.” There wasn’t any point in standing in the wet, talking to a post.

  Another couple arrived, the woman carrying a covered dish. After a somber exchange of howdys, the lawmen got in the car.

  As soon as Ned slammed his door and was sure no one could hear him, he took off his hat and rubbed his head. “That woman’s as crazy as a shithouse rat, and so is that no’count boy of hers.”

  Cody started the car and grinned. The wipers caught the water beaded on the windshield and flicked it away. Only then did Marty push off the fender, but he didn’t turn around. Ignoring him, Cody saw an abandoned truck rusting to dust in a thick mat of coastal Bermuda grass. Beyond the fence, a weathered barn sat a hundred yards from the house with Leland’s pickup parked inside.

  “Hang on a minute.”

  Marty leaned against a porch post and watched Cody go through the gate and head for the barn, soaking the legs of his pants in the tall grass.

  “You’re supposed to have a search warrant for that, Sheriff.”

  “Not searching. Lookin’.” Cody stepped inside and emerged minutes later and returned to the car. He gave a little wave that Marty acknowledged by thumping a butt in their direction. Cody shifted into gear, backed into the road, and headed toward town.

  “The truck?”

  “Nary a dent.”

  Chapter Ten

  I was sitting alone at the top of the bleachers in our WPA gym, eating my sandwich and reading, when Cale Westlake and his friends saw me. They were going past the double doors on the Home side to find a place to smoke, and I doubt they’d have noticed me at all, except I took that exact moment to turn the page.

  Cale came in to initiate the tired old ceremony that millions of boys have seen in their lifetimes. “Hey. Looky here, boys, what we have. It’s little Mouse, all alone and huddled up.”

  He was pretty much right about the little part. I was still the smallest kid in my grade. “Why don’t you mosey on off and leave me alone?”

  “I don’t think I want to. This is my gym too.” He shifted from one foot to the other beside the wall separating the bleachers and the hard maple basketball court laid in the 1930s.

  The Toadies, Frankie, Harlan, and Rex climbed up the two steps from the floor, scattered at the half-landing, and sifted upward through the bleachers. They settled around me like birds on tree branches. I put my sandwich down on the wax paper because I knew lunch was over. I should have been afraid, but I’d already seen them all run from a monkey and screaming like girls. I realized I wasn’t as scared as I was before.

  Frankie reached for my library book about a wisecracking private eye.

  “Whatcha’ reading, professor? A monkey primer?” He snickered at his own weak wit.

  I yanked it out of reach. “Nothing you’d be interested in. There ain’t no pictures, and all the words have more than three letters.” I felt pretty good about that one. The book’s character could have said that.

  Cale stayed where he was, glaring upward. “Think you’re pretty tough now, Mouse?”

  I remembered how they ran away at the Ordway house. “Tough
er’n you. I know about you and Pepper that night I got caught.”

  Something came over Cale’s face. “What do you know? What’d she tell you?”

  “You don’t get to know what we talk about.” Snapping the cover closed, I stood to leave and the others rose around me.

  On the gym floor several rows below, Cale stepped into the bleachers’ entrance, blocking the opening. “He scared us.”

  “I wasn’t scared.” It was an outright lie. That monkey terrified me.

  “You didn’t see him.”

  The conversation was confusing. “What are you taking about?”

  Cale set his jaw. “John T.”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “We saw him. Me and Pepper.”

  “No he wasn’t. And what if he was?” I started downward. “I’m gonna go.”

  “I’m not finished with you yet, Mouse.”

  “All right, guys. I give, if that’s what you want. I’m outnumbered, so you’re the winners.” I stepped over the narrow bleacher in front of me, and down. As my foot landed, I was nose to nose with Rex. My foot slipped and the downhill momentum caused me to bump into him. Rex tripped and went a-flying backwards to land in a heap at Cale’s feet.

  Seeing it as an act of war, Frankie swung a punch toward my stomach. I instinctively moved the book to waist level. His fist hit it with a solid thunk, knocking me off balance again. He hissed, shaking his hand like it was broke.

  Harlan swung too, but I was off balance and he completely missed. Barely staying on my feet, I bounced down the bleachers to the bottom like a ping pong ball. Catching myself with my free hand, I straightened my legs and jumped over the low wall to land inches from Cale. He was so startled, he stepped back into Principal Stevens, nearly knocking him down.

  Not realizing it was an adult behind him, Cale jerked his elbow back, catching the principal hard in the ribs. He swung around and delivered a roundhouse blow that Principal Stevens caught with one hand.

  Cale’s action was so shocking the rest of us froze like statues.

  The principal held Cale’s fist. “Lunch is over, boys, and no roughhousing in the gym. Y’all are supposed to be outside anyway.” Still keeping a tight hold on Cale’s fist, the principal checked the Montique on his wrist. He was awful proud of that watch, and spent a considerable part of the day shooting his cuff to check the time. “Better yet. Class is about to take up. Everyone out.”

  Making like a patty, I hit the road and heard Principal Stevens. “Mr. Westlake, it’ll be me and you and my paddle after school today.”

  When I peeked over my shoulder, Cale was getting a good butt-whipping while his friends tucked their tails and ran once again.

  A minute later, Pepper walked into class at the same time as me. “Why are you so out of breath?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  She shot me a glare. “I don’t have one.”

  “Cale Westlake. He thinks you’re his girl.”

  “Well, I ain’t. You still haven’t said why you’re breathing hard.”

  “I forgot my atomizer.” That’s what we called my “rescue” inhaler for asthmatics. I didn’t go anywhere without the constant reminder of my frail lungs. Instead of a book satchel, I carried an army surplus backpack to hide the puffer. “Can you find some other boyfriend?”

  She absently fingered her part, a habit that started about the time she started wearing hippie clothes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I saw an opening I couldn’t identify, but gave it a push because I was mad about her hanging out with him and ignoring me. “What y’all saw.”

  She gaped. “How do you know about that?”

  “Cale told me.”

  “He promised he wouldn’t ever say anything.”

  “Well, he lied. You better give me your version to prove he’s lying about that, too.”

  “I don’t know what he told you, but we were walking down the road and a car passed us with John T. in the backseat. Marty Smallwood’s truck was following them into the lake. They were up to something, but we don’t know what. Cale wanted to run off, but I wanted to wait, so we hid behind some vines and an hour later Marty drove out with John T. They drove real slow, looking for something, and we think it was us. What did Cale tell you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “He said John T.’s name and thought I knew something.” I grinned. “Now I do.” I glanced at the door, both to make sure Cale wasn’t coming in, and to be sure Miss Rosalie wasn’t ready to start class. “You oughta tell Grandpa or Uncle Cody what you saw.”

  Pepper rolled her eyes.

  The fight was catching up with me as the adrenaline wore off and I felt like crying. I couldn’t lean on anyone but my cousin for support and it worried me that I was losing my best friend. She was more fun than any boy I knew, always up for anything, no matter how dangerous or dull, with a mouth on her that got her jaws slapped. Grandpa Ned called her a pistol.

  “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t want it to catch up with you.”

  Her face softened. “I know. I’m sorry you got a whippin’.”

  The class was filling up, and I wanted to get off that subject. “Anyway, stay away from him.”

  “I will.”

  But I knew she wouldn’t.

  Chapter Eleven

  A low pressure system stalled over San Angelo made it seem as if rain was their new way of life. Ned met Cody in the sheriff’s office parking lot and they drove through a light drizzle to both of Chisum’s body shops to see if anyone had come in with damage to a hood or fender. No one reported repairs consistent with the hit and run, but they promised to give Cody a call if they ran across anything.

  When they were back in the car, Ned shook water off his hat onto the floorboard and plucked the microphone off the dash bracket. “John, you listening?”

  Thunder rumbled as Cody steered the sheriff’s car onto North Main. It was gloomy enough that the lights came on in the stores and reflected off the wet concrete and bricks. Most of the people without umbrellas stuck to the covered sidewalks for shelter and avoided the open town square and its Italian marble fountain. “You could use his call numbers, you know.”

  “Yep, and he’d answer the same.” Ned didn’t like call numbers. He preferred to use the radio the same way he talked.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Ned.” Deputy John Washington’s voice was deep and rich even through the cheap radio speaker. John was a mythical figure in Chisum, a giant of a man whose shoulders brushed most doorframes when he passed. He was the first official black deputy in the county, and though it wasn’t written anywhere, Big John’s assignment was to represent the law to the colored folks.

  Ned considered John a family member. They worked closely together through the years, and had a reputation that covered northeast Texas. Both men were fair, but didn’t take any nonsense from anyone, black, white, red, or green.

  “Me’n Cody are heading over to Malcom Jackson’s shop. You want to meet us there?”

  “Sure ’nough. Trouble?”

  “Naw. Checking body shops. You heard about the hit and run in Center Springs?”

  “I did. A’ite. See you there.”

  Cody turned south. “Where’s the shop?”

  “You ain’t been there?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  They passed Nathan Jewelers. “Hit West Washington and keep going.”

  Cody glanced at Ned, and then did a double take that would have been funny any other time. “You okay?”

  Ned wondered what Cody knew. He hadn’t been feeling great for the past couple of weeks, and his stomach tingled deep inside where he’d been shot months ago. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Your face is beet red. Your blood pressure must be up.”

  “I feel a li
ttle flushed is all.”

  “You’re more than flushed. You better run by Doc Heinz’s office.”

  “You’re bound and determined to get me into the doctor’s office these days, ain’t you?”

  “It’s not that, but you were supposed to go by a long time ago for him to check out that wound. I don’t know why you don’t do it.”

  Ned absently rubbed his belly where the bullet had caused considerable damage. “Because I’ve got better things to do than have him poke at me for a minute and then want ten dollars for looking at my tongue.”

  Pools of water spotted the broken streets. The houses changed from the Craftsman, Tudor, and Victorian styles to more modest bungalows and saltboxes. Fewer houses were painted, and those that were, boasted bright colors. They cruised down streets without curbs. In places, grass only grew in the ditches full of running water. Contrasting with other parts of town, the yards were mostly bare mud. Scattered among those who seemed to barely survive, other houses bloomed bright with late season flower and vegetable gardens.

  Despite the weather, the neighborhood corner mom and pop grocery was busy. Ned pointed. “Across the street there.”

  What was once an unpainted livery stable had been converted to a garage. Wide oak trees shaded two bare dirt lots packed hard and black from years of spilled grease, oil, and traffic. Over the double doors, a hand-painted sign reading “Mechanic” hung on gray boards warped and rotting. Despite its age, the substantial structure was a testament to craftsmen from the past.

  While a group of loafers watched through the open double doors, Cody pulled as far off the street as possible. It was Cody’s first time in the “colored” part of town as the sheriff, and the looks thrown his way told him he needed to drop by more often, to get to know those folks.

  “Howdy!” Cody waved toward the cluster of men sitting inside out of the rain. “Y’all doin’ all right today?”

  Ned stuck close to the side of the car, holding the fender for stability. “Howdy, men.”

  A couple of hands rose in return. Most simply watched. There was a tension in the air. The loafers appeared loose and comfortable under light from bare bulbs dangling from the grimy, open rafters overhead. But nearly everyone shifted in some way, far from their earlier relaxed positions.