by Bill Crider
“How did Neil feel about being there?” Rhodes asked.
“Didn’t bother him a bit. He said he liked ghosts because they weren’t like people. They were just spirits, he said. They couldn’t shoot you or run a knife in you, he said, but look what happened to him.”
“It wasn’t a ghost that killed him,” Rhodes said. “It was somebody with a gun.”
Or maybe it was a yurei with a gun. That is, if a yurei could or would use a gun. What would Moore’s ghost have to worry about, anyway? He’d been buried properly, as far as Rhodes knew. Of course, the skeleton hadn’t. If there was a ghost in the Moore house, it was more likely to be the ghost of whoever the skeleton had belonged to. Not that Rhodes believed even for a second that there was a ghost.
Then Rhodes remembered the bullet hole in the windshield of the Foshees’ truck, and he started putting a little theory together. He thought he’d try it out on Louie, who didn’t seem inclined to ask for a lawyer at the moment.
“You didn’t go in with Neil because you didn’t like the place,” Rhodes said. “Neil wasn’t worried. He was just going to talk to some college kid, so he didn’t need to have you with him. That about right?”
“That goddamn Earl. He told you that.”
Earl had implied some of it, but Rhodes wasn’t going to tell Louie that. He said, “I think I know what happened next, too, and Earl couldn’t have told it to me.”
“If you’re so smart, lay it out there,” Louie said.
“You were waiting in the pickup. You were a little nervous because you felt somebody or something was watching you. How am I doing so far?”
“Anybody could’ve figured that out. Sure, I was nervous. I just didn’t like that place. It seemed like it was okay when we first went there. Kind of peaceful, you know? An old place where nobody’d been for a long time. After we’d been there a time or two, though, it got different. It made me nervous, like you said. It was just a bad feeling, like something in there had been asleep and then it had woke up and started to watch us.”
The pastureland on both sides of the road slipped by. The grass was greener than it had been, thanks to the recent rain, but it could’ve used more water. Rhodes thought it might have rained a bit more down this way than at the Moore house. Someone had put new fencing up for the pastures along both sides of the road. It must have been expensive, but it looked good.
“I don’t know what was watching you,” Rhodes said, “but I know that ghosts don’t use guns. Somebody shot Neil and then came out to shoot you. I saw the bullet hole in the windshield of your pickup.”
“Damn near had a bullet hole in me, too,” Louie said. “That thing came through the windshield and buzzed right by my ear like a wasp. Went right on through the back window, too. Scared me more than a ghost.”
Louie had been more than bothered, and Rhodes knew it. A nervous man, someone shooting at him from a haunted house? There was just one natural reaction.
“You got out of there,” Rhodes said. “Fast.”
Rhodes looked at Louie in the rearview mirror. Louie was staring out the window. There wasn’t much to look at other than the pastures and the new fences, but Rhodes had a feeling Louie wasn’t seeing them anyway.
“Can’t blame you,” Rhodes said. “You knew it wasn’t Neil shooting at you, so he had to be dead. You’d be dead, too, if that bullet hadn’t missed you.”
“You don’t know about Neil and us,” Louie said, turning to stare straight ahead. “If it wasn’t for him, me and Earl’d probably have jobs somewhere, maybe not good ones, but jobs. It was Neil told us we could make easy money cooking meth. He said it was dangerous, but it’d be worth it. He was right about it being dangerous, but it was you and your deputy that like to killed us, not the meth. If you’re careful, you won’t get hurt, he said, and we was always careful. We never used, neither. That was another thing Neil told us. He said that meth was bad stuff, and that if he caught us using, he’d shoot us. Me and Earl believed him, and we stayed off it. The money came in, just like he said it would, and it was good money. Here I am, though, handcuffed in a cop car, and Earl’s in the hospital, been run over by hogs.”
Louie stopped and looked out the window again. Rhodes was tempted to say something like Crime does not pay or You can’t blame somebody else for all your troubles, but he knew Louie wouldn’t appreciate it.
“I shoulda stayed to help Neil,” Louie said after a while. “Or at least shot back, but I didn’t, and now me and Earl are in trouble again, all for nothing we did. Earl’s been run over by hogs, and I’ve been hiding in a broken-down dump that don’t have more’n half a roof.”
“Earl’s going to be okay,” Rhodes said. “He’s just a little banged up. You two won’t be in prison too long. You’re young enough to do something with yourselves when you get out if you can give up dealing.”
“You talk like it’s a cinch we’re going to the pen.”
“It is a cinch,” Rhodes said. “Count on it. Even at that, you’re better off than Neil. He’s dead.”
“That damn college kid killed him,” Louie said. “Except he wasn’t no college kid. He was working for the DEA. I tried to tell Neil, but he just laughed, said I didn’t know what I was talking about. He thought the kid was lying about some class thing he was going to do. He thought the kid just wanted to make a buy. I guess he was wrong about it, though. Otherwise, he’d still be alive.”
They were getting close to Clearview, so Rhodes eased up on the accelerator and slowed the car. He had a feeling Louie wouldn’t talk much once they got to the jail.
“You sure it was the college kid that shot at you?” he asked.
“Damn right. He was waiting for Neil in there. I don’t know what happened, but he must’ve given himself away. College kid, my ass. He was DEA from the git-go. You can’t ever trust anybody looks like that.”
“Looks like what?”
“Like a kid. Can’t trust anybody looks old, either.”
Life as a meth cooker had turned Louie into a cynic, if he hadn’t been one before.
“So you got out of there and went back to the house,” Rhodes said. “Talked to Earl. Got your stories straight.”
“We thought you’d show up,” Louie said, “you being like you are and all. We were gonna bluff it out, but I could tell you didn’t believe us.”
“It wasn’t what I’d call award-winning acting.”
“Yeah, I guess not. We weren’t in the drama club at school.”
Rhodes doubted that Louie and Earl had been in any clubs. He doubted that they’d even been in school for any longer than the state required them to be.
“So you ran.”
“Yeah. So we ran.”
“And we caught you. You should’ve just leveled with me to begin with.”
Louie leaned back in the seat and didn’t bother to say anything about leveling. That would’ve been the last thing to enter his mind where the law was concerned.
As they drove into Clearview, Rhodes thought that it at least looked a bit better than Thurston. He could see signs of life. The college building, Max Schwartz’s barbecue place, the strip center with its florist shop, the new motel. It was only going back into town and to the jail that the decay became obvious. Still, some of the downtown was coming back to life, and new businesses were restoring a few of the old buildings that were left and moving into them. The town wasn’t dead yet.
At the jail Rhodes got Louie booked, and Lawton took him off to get him installed in a cell.
“Sheriff told me I’d get something to eat,” Louie said.
“I’ll see what I can find,” Lawton said, and they went out into the cellblock.
Instead of asking Hack about things he needed to know, which could have led to all kinds of digressions, Rhodes asked Mika about the gun registrations.
“What I’m wondering about is .38s,” he said. “Wade Clement own one?”
“If he does,” Mika said, “it’s not registered in his name. Ace Gable o
wns one, though.”
Ace could’ve gone to the house as easily as Wade could have. If Wade’s story was true, Ace would’ve been the one waiting there when Neil arrived.
“Vicki Patton doesn’t own a gun, or at least not one that’s registered,” Mika went on. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have one or access to one.”
Like Ace Gable’s. He would’ve let her borrow it without asking too many questions, but Rhodes found it hard to believe she’d kill Neil. She’d broken it off with him, and there was no danger she’d ever go back. If Neil had forced the issue, she might’ve done something about it, but Rhodes liked to think she’d have come to him and let the law take care of it. He’d like to think that, and he almost did. Almost, but not quite. In fact, she’d probably have gone to Ace, which led right back to that .38.
“Getting back to the Clements,” Mika said, “the mayor owns a Glock nine, like the one his nephew brought in. The nephew was telling the truth about that one. It’s his, and he has a CHL.”
Rhodes had been hoping that the mayor or Wade owned a .38. It would have made things easier, at least if Louie was right about Wade.
“Thanks,” Rhodes told Mika. “That helps to narrow it down.”
“That’s not all,” Mika said.
“The sheriff, he’s kind of a sexist,” Hack said, looking happy to work his way into the conversation.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Mika said.
“It ain’t that he means to be,” Hack said. “It’s just that when he was raised, things were different, and he has a trouble adjustin’ to the times we live in now.”
Lawton came in as Hack was talking about adjusting to the times, and he joined right in, too.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” he said to Hack. “Back when you were raised, cars still had cranks on ’em.”
“Now you know that ain’t so,” Hack said. “They might’ve had runnin’ boards, but they sure didn’t have cranks. The only old crank I’ve ever seen is you.”
“I had a sweet little ’40 Chevy with runnin’ boards,” Lawton said, ignoring the insult. “It was old when I got it, but it still ran like a sewin’ machine.”
“Had an engine ’bout as powerful as a sewin’ machine motor, too, I’ll bet,” Hack said. “You prob’ly bought it new off the showroom floor, you being as old as you are.”
Rhodes often wondered how topics of conversations with Hack and Lawton could get so far off the track, going in such a short time from .38s to sewing machine motors. They had a gift for it.
“Let’s get back to how I’m a sexist,” Rhodes said. “And how it has anything to do with what we’re supposed to be talking about.”
“Tell him, Mika,” Hack said.
Mika smiled at Hack. “I think what you must mean is that the sheriff didn’t let me finish my report on the Clements.”
“I apologize,” Rhodes said. “I thought I had. Please go on.”
“See what I mean?” Hack said. “He thought he’d let you finish, but you hadn’t mentioned somebody he’d plumb forgot. Sexist, like I said.”
Rhodes finally caught on. “Mrs. Clement. She has a .38.”
“A Colt Detective Special,” Mika said.
Rhodes nodded. A little snubnose. Not much good for distance work, but not a bad weapon for personal defense.
“That whole family’s licensed to carry,” Hack said. “Can’t blame ’em. They live in one of the best houses in town, drive a big, fine car. Miz Clement has jewelry, too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they kept a good bit of cash in the house in case of emergency.”
“Like the zombie apocalypse,” Lawton said. “Gotta be ready for that.”
First ghosts, now zombies. It was time for Rhodes to go before it got to werewolves and vampires. He thanked Mika for the information and got out of there.
* * *
Once upon a time, long before Rhodes was born, Clearview had been a thriving town, a genuine boomtown, in fact, thanks to the discovery of oil. Most of the oil was long gone now, pumped out and refined and burned in cars long ago. There was some talk that a lot of oil was still under the ground and that modern techniques of drilling could extract it, but so far nothing had come of the talk.
The homes in the part of town where the Clements lived had been built during that boom era, and some of them had been well cared for ever since, including the Clements’ big two-story house. The lawn was trimmed so neatly that it looked like someone had gone over it with scissors to be sure that no individual blade stuck up even a millimeter higher than another one. It was like a picture in a fancy magazine, or on the Internet, since magazines were part of the past, like Clearview’s glory days. Rhodes didn’t envy the Clements, but he did wish his lawn looked a little better. He wondered what their water bill must be and how much they paid their lawn-care service. He decided that he couldn’t afford it unless the commissioners voted him a nice raise, which didn’t seem too likely at the moment.
Fran Clement came to the door when Rhodes rang the bell. She was short, almost a foot shorter than Rhodes, with dark, smooth hair. It had been fluffier the last time Rhodes had seen her, and he thought it had been a little lighter color, too. He might have been misremembering, however.
“Well, well,” she said. “If it’s not the sheriff. Have you come to accuse me of another murder?”
“I don’t believe I ever accused you, Mrs. Clement,” Rhodes said.
“Please, Sheriff, call me Fran. I feel as if we’re old friends. You know all my intimate secrets.”
What Rhodes knew was that her husband had been guilty of a bit of hanky-panky that had gotten him involved in a murder investigation, one that had also involved Mrs. Clement. Or Fran.
“Come on in, Sheriff,” she said. “No use standing out in the hot sun.”
He went inside, and Fran closed the door behind him. He followed her down a hallway to the same room where they’d had their previous little talk about murder. The tile floor was shiny, and the grout was clean. The flat-screen TV was still bigger than anything Rhodes had seen outside the electronics department at Walmart, and the couch covered with buttery leather was still just as comfortable. Rhodes sat on one end of it and Fran sat on the other. He hoped she’d keep her distance. Their last conversation had been awkward enough before she started making passes at him. Or what he’d interpreted as passes. Maybe he’d been doing her an injustice.
“My husband still doesn’t understand me,” Fran said, inching a little way toward him on the couch.
Or maybe he hadn’t done her an injustice after all.
“I don’t suppose you care, though,” she said.
“It’s not any of my business,” Rhodes said.
“What is your business, then?”
“Guns,” Rhodes said. “Murder. Little things like that.”
Fran stood up and walked over to the big glass sliding door. She looked out at her back lawn, which was every bit as green and perfect as the front.
“I thought maybe you’d just come to visit,” she said, not turning around.
“I don’t have a lot of time for visiting,” Rhodes said. “I need to ask you about your revolver.”
Fran turned to look at him. “I have a CHL. I must admit that I didn’t do too well on the target shooting, but I passed. The noise made me nervous, and I didn’t care for the idea of shooting anything, even a target. I don’t think I could shoot a person. I’d be shaking too much. You don’t think I shot someone, do you?”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Rhodes said. “It’s your .38.”
“Cliff bought it for me. We thought it was a good idea for me to have something for protection in this big old house. I haven’t used it or even looked at it since the CHL class. I haven’t even thought about it, really. Why are you worried about it?”
“Neil Foshee was killed with a .38. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it.”
“Cliff and Wade told me he was killed, but they didn’t mention a .38. Wade has a Gl
ock, and he took it to the jail for you to test.” She paused. “I don’t see why you needed it if a .38 was involved.”
“I didn’t know it was a .38 that killed him at the time I asked for Wade’s gun,” Rhodes said, “and I wanted to be sure Wade was in the clear.”
Fran ran a hand over her hair. “Then I don’t understand why you’re here.”
Rhodes stood up. “I’m here because it’s not impossible that somebody used your .38 to kill Neil Foshee. I’d like to take a look at it, if you don’t mind.”
Rhodes hoped she didn’t ask for a warrant, because he didn’t have one and didn’t want to have to get one. He was sure he could get the judge to issue one, but that would take time, and Rhodes didn’t want to wait.
“It’s in the gun safe,” Fran said. “In the bedroom.”
“Why don’t we take a look.”
Fran hesitated, but not for long. “Why not? The bedroom’s upstairs.”
She walked past Rhodes and back to the hallway where the staircase was located. He followed her up to the second floor, and she led him into a large bedroom with a king-size bed, a walnut dresser, an armoire, and a large jewelry cabinet. She opened the closet, which impressed Rhodes with its organization and neatness. He wouldn’t want anybody to look in his closet.
“The gun safe’s on the shelf,” Fran said. “Now where’s that stool?”
She reached behind some blouses hanging from a low bar and pulled out a small stool. Standing on it, she punched the combination keys of the gun safe. Nothing happened.
“It’s been a while since I opened this thing,” she said.
Rhodes waited, and after another few seconds of thought, Fran keyed the combination into the safe. She opened it and reached inside.
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” Rhodes asked.
“My gun’s not here,” she said.
