by Bill Crider
Chapter Eighteen
Rhodes didn’t shoot to kill. He just wanted to slow Rapper down or throw him off course.
The bullet pinged off the motorcycle’s gas tank and sliced through the leg of Rapper’s pants. It didn’t do a thing to slow the biker down, and it didn’t cause him to alter his course by a millimeter. Rhodes barely had time to jump to one side and avoid being flattened.
Rapper stuck out his leg as he sped past and kicked hard at Rhodes. He hit the sheriff’s gun hand with the steel toe of his black leather boot, and Rhodes’ pistol went spinning away.
Rhodes didn’t have a chance to go after it. He had to dive to his left to avoid Nellie, who was thundering along in his pal’s wake.
Rhodes landed on his stomach and rolled across the dead grass. He felt his new glasses break.
Oh, well, he thought. At least no one had kept any cattle on the Pearson place for the last few years.
He didn’t have time to be grateful for long, however, because Rapper and Nellie were coming back after him.
Rhodes experienced a strong feeling of deja vu, remembering the last time he and Rapper had tangled and Rapper had lost part of his fingers.
Rapper might have been remembering the same thing. Rhodes could see that he was smiling, maybe because this time Rhodes didn’t have a hoe handle.
Rhodes didn’t have his pistol, either, and he couldn’t see where it had gone.
There was only one thing to do in that case, and Rhodes did it. He turned and ran for the barn, wishing that he was still the will-’o-the-wisp.
He wasn’t, but the two bikes roaring along at his back gave the incentive he needed to run as fast as he was capable of, which wasn’t very fast. At least he had a head start, even if it wasn’t much of one. As he labored ungracefully across the grass, he imagined he could feel the treads of Rapper’s front tire running up his back.
Rapper was yelling something at either Rhodes or Nellie, but Rhodes couldn’t make out what it was because his blood was pounding too loudly in his ears. He couldn’t even hear the roar of the motorcycles behind him, and he didn’t dare look back to see how close they were. He kept his eyes focused on the barn door.
It was only about ten yards away, and Rhodes covered those yards in what seemed like one giant step, throwing himself toward the open door as if he were straining for the end zone in the championship game.
He flew through the opening and hit the wooden floor just as Rapper swooshed by, skidding into an odorous bedroll that belonged to either Rapper or Nellie. There had been hay stored in the barn at one time, and though that had been long ago and virtually nothing remained of it, Rhodes could smell it in the dust that rose from the floor. Even the smell of the bedroll couldn’t mask it.
Rhodes sat up, looking around the storage room for anything that could be used as a weapon. Rapper and Nellie hadn’t left him much that he could see, and he was about to search through their gear when he saw something hanging from a nail on one of the bare studs. It was a hay hook.
The hook was attached to a short wooden handle and looked like it belonged at the end of a pirate’s hand. Rhodes walked over and took it down, fitting his own hand around the smoothly worn handle. Rhodes hand was throbbing, and a bruise was forming on his wrist where Rapper had kicked him, but he could grip the handle easily. The hook wouldn’t be good for anything other than close-in work, but it was better than nothing. It was too bad there wasn’t a pitchfork.
Rhodes heard someone yelling outside. It was Nellie, who said, “I’ve got his pistol, Rapper.”
That wasn’t exactly good news, and neither was Rapper’s reply.
“Well, use it then.”
Rhodes didn’t really expect Nellie to start shooting. Both he and Rapper would have known that if they killed a law officer, even Texas wouldn’t be big enough to hide in.
Apparently they didn’t care. Maybe it was the excitement of the moment, or maybe they were just crazy. Or maybe they were the ones who had killed Brady Meredith and thought that another murder wouldn’t really make much difference.
Rhodes heard the sharp report of the pistol, and a bullet spanged through the sheet metal wall about three feet to his right.
The bullet went right on out through the other wall, and Rhodes hit the floor.
Nellie fired three more times in rapid succession, but none of the bullets came anywhere near Rhodes, who could see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight that slanted in through the bullet holes. The dust made him sneeze. He had always been allergic to hay.
“Think I got him?” Nellie called out.
“Why don’t you go in and see?” Rapper suggested.
That was Rapper, Rhodes thought. Always considerate of his friends.
But Nellie wasn’t entirely stupid. “You go,” he said. “You’re closer than I am.”
Rhodes didn’t care which of them came, and he didn’t care if neither of them did. He was going to stay right where he was until Ruth arrived. He was sure that she’d be there soon.
He heard a motorcycle getting closer, and he rolled to the right of the door and stood up quietly. The sound of the bullets whanging through the metal walls was still ringing in his ears, but he thought he could hear mice chittering under the floor. They were probably more frightened than Rhodes was.
“Can you see him?” Nellie called.
“It’s dark in there,” Rapper said.
He was only a few feet from where Rhodes stood, and Rhodes tightened his grip on the hay hook. His wrist gave a little twinge, but he ignored it.
“Can you hear anything?” Nellie asked.
“Not with you yelling like that,” Rapper answered.
“Better get off your bike and check it out. See if he’s playin’ ’possum.”
“Why should I check it out? I didn’t leave anything in that barn that I have to have. If he’s dead, he’s dead; if he’s not, to hell with him. Let’s just ride on out of here and not come back.”
Apparently Rapper’s desire for revenge had played out. Either that or he had realized how stupid he and Nellie were being.
“Fine with me,” Nellie said. “I never did like the idea of coming back to this county in the first place.”
It might have been fine with Nellie for them to leave, but it wasn’t fine with Rhodes. He couldn’t let them go. They might be able to elude the law for a long time if they did. He peeped through one of the bullet holes to see where Rapper was located and saw the biker straddling his machine right in front of the doorway.
Rhodes gathered himself and whirled through the door, making a jump for Rapper. He saw Rapper’s eyes widen in surprise, and then he crashed into him, dragging him off the bike, and rolled away. Rapper got to his feet first and charged Rhodes, who had somehow managed to hang onto the hay hook without puncturing some tender part of his anatomy.
Rhodes rose to his knees and swung the hook just before Rapper reached him. The hook hit Rapper’s upper thigh with a sound that was solid and meaty and wet all at the same time, and Rhodes jerked backward.
Rapper’s leg slipped out from under him, and his foot barely missed Rhodes’ head. Rapper screamed and collapsed in a heap, writhing on the ground in front of Rhodes, his hands clutching at the hook sunk into his leg.
Nellie, with a show of disloyalty that didn’t surprise Rhodes in the least, turned his bike for the road and roared away.
He didn’t get far. Ruth Grady was just pulling into the yard, and she spun the steering wheel, positioning her car to block the gate.
Nellie veered off the path and tried to jump the sagging barbed wire fence, but the bike didn’t make it. The front wheel caught the top wire, which stretched a little but didn’t break. Nellie’s bike flipped over twice before it landed in the middle of the dirt road.
By the time the motorcycle hit the ground, Nellie was no longer on it. He landed six feet away, right beside J. D. Spence, who had followed Ruth on his riding mower.
Spence looked down into Nellie’s
face and said, “Who the hell are you?”
Nellie didn’t even open his eyes. He just groaned. It was the only answer he could give.
Both Rapper and Nellie wound up in the Clearview General Hospital. Nellie had a couple of broken ribs, and the hay hook had done something to one of the major muscles in Rapper’s thigh. The doctor wasn’t sure just what without doing a more complete examination, though he thought it was a serious tear, and he was afraid that Rapper would have a little trouble walking for a while. Maybe permanently.
“Reckon he’s gonna sue us for police brutality?” Hack wondered. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve got sued.”
“I don’t think he’ll bother,” Rhodes said. “But maybe this time he’s learned his lesson.”
Rhodes had gone by the jail after leaving his prisoners at the hospital. He needed to check on what other things might be going on in town. It appeared that nothing much was happening. Monday was usually a quiet day, and Ruth and Buddy had things under control.
“If he ain’t learned his lesson this time, he never will,” Lawton said. “Lost some fingers the first time, gonna be walkin’ with a limp this time. Only way it could’ve been better is if there was a barb on that hook. They would’ve had a heck of a time gettin’ it out of him, messed up the muscle even worse than it did. If he ever comes back here, Lord knows what’ll happen to him. He’ll prob’ly get killed.”
“I doubt it,” Rhodes said. “People like Rapper never die. They just keep on causing trouble.”
“Do you think he’s the one killed Brady Meredith?” Hack asked.
“There’s no evidence pointing that way,” Rhodes said.
After the ambulance came to take Nellie and Rapper to town, Rhodes and Ruth had searched the barn. They had found no trace of the drugs that Bob Deedham was supposed to pay for, and Rhodes was sure that Rapper had sent them out of the county with the other two bikers.
A pistol had been stuck deep in one of the bedrolls, but it was a Glock 9mm, certainly not the weapon used to kill Meredith. Rhodes was just as glad he hadn’t found it when he was looking for something to use against Rapper and Nellie. He might have been tempted to shoot one or both of them, and their injuries might have been even worse than they were.
Unlike their last experience in Blacklin County, this time both Nellie and Rapper were guaranteed to spend some time in jail. Rhodes was still adding up the charges against them, but there would be enough to ensure that neither man would get away with serving his entire sentence in the hospital.
The bad news was that actual sentences didn’t have much to do with the time served. Because of the crowded prisons, inmates in Texas were currently serving about a month for each year of their sentence before being released. Unless Rapper and Nellie were guilty of one or both of the murders that Rhodes was trying to solve, they would be back in the saddles of their motorcycles in months rather than years. If they were the ones who had murdered Brady Meredith, they’d still get out in a much shorter time than they deserved.
Rhodes didn’t let things like that bother him, however. His job was to enforce the law to the best of his ability. What happened to the bad guys after they passed through his hands wasn’t up to him, and a few months of jail time were better than no jail time at all.
“Where you gonna be for the rest of the day?” Hack asked. “In case I get any more people makin’ irate calls about you ruinin’ the football season for ever’body, I might wanta sic ’em onto you.”
“You didn’t mention any irate calls,” Rhodes said.
“Well, that don’t mean there ain’t been any.”
“Folks think it’s all your fault,” Lawton said. “ ’Specially since the word’s got out about Hayes Ford. What they’re sayin’ is that —”
“Wait a minute,” Rhodes said, interrupting him. “What’s all my fault?”
“Gettin’ the team all in an uproar,” Lawton said. “See, folks think that —”
This time, Hack interrupted him. “I’m the one that’s been takin’ the calls. Seems like I oughta be the one to tell the sheriff about ’em.”
“Go ahead then,” Lawton said, crossing his arms on his chest. “I’m just the one that saved the whole team from gettin’ kicked out of the play-offs by drivin’ that ambulance on the field and stoppin’ the riot. But that’s all right. Never mind about me.”
“We won’t,” Hack said, not even looking at him. “Anyhow, the talk is that Hayes Ford gettin’ killed like that must have somethin’ to do with Brady Meredith. And if the team was upset before, they’re really gonna be worried now. If you’d done somethin’ about Brady before now, Hayes would still be alive, and then things would all be just fine.”
“So what’re you gonna do about it?” Lawton said when Hack paused for breath. He got a quick glare from Hack, but that was all.
“I guess I’ll go talk to Goober Vance,” Rhodes said. “Maybe he knows something. Maybe he’ll even confess.”
“Try to make him do it in time to get it in today’s paper,” Hack said. “Maybe Goober could write it up himself.”
“That’d be a first,” Lawton said. “Reporter admits he’s guilty of murder and writes up his confession for the paper. Might make a good Movie of the Week.”
“If he confesses, it might,” Hack said. “If he don’t, what’re we gonna do for an endin’?”
“Big fight in the pressroom,” Lawton said. “Sheriff knocks him around for a while and then it winds up with Goober fallin’ into the press run and gettin’ run through them big rollers where they print the paper up. He slides out on page one, flat as a flitter, and they have to scrape him up off the floor with a spatch’la.”
“I don’t think they print papers up like that anymore,” Hack said. “Not with them big rollers.”
“What do you know about how they print up newspapers?” Lawton asked.
“I know as much as you do, that’s how much.”
“Who says?”
“I say. What is it makes you think you know anything about it anyway?”
When Rhodes slipped out the door, they were still arguing about it.
Chapter Nineteen
Goober wasn’t at the newspaper offices. He was “on assignment.”
“That’s what he always tells us to say,” the secretary told Rhodes. “What it means is that he’s gone to eat at the Dairy Queen. This is Bean Day. Goober never misses Bean Day.”
For reasons that Rhodes had yet to determine, since beans seemed to have very little to do with soft ice cream, the manager of the Clearview Dairy Queen had declared that every Monday would be Bean Day.
The manager, Gene Jackson, went in early, before sun-up, and started a huge pot of pinto beans cooking on the stove. When the cook came in, she made cornbread instead of hamburgers, and most everyone who ate lunch at the Dairy Queen that day had the special: all the pinto beans and cornbread you could eat for a dollar and a half.
Rhodes had to admit that it was a good deal. It was cheap, it was filling, and it was low in fat, especially if you could resist getting a Heath Bar Blizzard afterward.
Considering how many lunches he’d missed lately, Rhodes thought it would be a good idea to have some beans and then talk to Vance at the Dairy Queen if they could find a booth with a little privacy.
Rhodes should have known better. Bean Day was something of a phenomenon, fast on its way to becoming a cherished local tradition. The parking lot was jammed, and there was hardly a vacant seat in the place.
Goober Vance was sitting in a booth back near the restrooms. Ron Tandy and Clyde Ballinger were with him. Rhodes helped himself to a bowl of beans and got a slice of cornbread. There were two kinds, regular and jalapeno. Rhodes took a piece of the jalapeno and went toward the rear booth.
Several people stopped him to say hello and to ask what progress he was making on his investigations. None of them seemed irate, for which Rhodes was grateful.
He gave all of them the same answer to their question: “We�
�re doing what we can.”
And they all told him practically the same thing: “I sure hope you can get it taken care of before it affects the team too much.”
When Rhodes arrived at the back booth, Ron Tandy moved over to make room for him.
“I didn’t know you were a bean man,” Tandy said.
“Only on Mondays,” Rhodes said, sitting down.
“Want some black pepper?” Ballinger asked, offering Rhodes a couple of white paper packets. “Gene never uses enough black pepper.”
Rhodes waved the packets aside. He didn’t need black pepper; he had the jalapeno cornbread.
“What about this Hayes Ford deal?” Vance said. “Do you have anything you can say on the record for me?”
“You probably know more than I do,” Rhodes told him, wondering if Vance would see a double meaning in the statement.
If he did, he didn’t show it. “I don’t know a thing other than what I was able to get out of your dispatcher when I called. I thought I might hear something about a big loser in some card game, but there’s no word out on the streets about what happened.”
Rhodes took a spoonful of beans to keep from smiling. Talking about the “word on the streets” in Clearview was just short of ludicrous. Vance seemed constitutionally unable to avoid a cliché when he had a chance to use one.
“I’ve heard a few things,” Tandy said. “I’ve heard that Ford’s murder has something to do with Brady’s. If that’s true, it’s going to have a bad effect on the team.”
There it was again. The message was clear, just as it had been in the phone calls that Hack had gotten, just as it had been from practically everyone Rhodes had talked to. No one really seemed to care about Ford, any more than they seemed to care about Brady Meredith. What they cared about was the effect on the team.
“I’d say it would have a worse effect on the people who bet money with Ford,” Rhodes said, looking straight at Tandy. “Especially if they thought they had something to lose if Ford’s records were ever made public.”
Tandy swallowed hard and spooned up some beans. Ballinger stirred his spoon around in his bowl. Goober Vance perked up. He had been looking a little gloomy, but now he was looking positively cheerful.
