Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  “The last time I saw Tovar—he was such an offensive little prick, that guy—it was a few days before he was arrested for assaulting our night watchmen. That was twenty-some years ago. I was still in college but already working for the company.” He cast a look toward the cattails. “My foreman found the guard lying down there, the back of his head smashed in. They couldn’t make the charges stick, which was bullshit.”

  “You seem pretty sure.” I was walking toward him, dive bag over my shoulder.

  “What would you think? A few nights before it happened, I caught Tovar trespassing, and he threatened to kick my butt. Then threw his damn shovel at me when I didn’t back down.”

  “Where was this?”

  “There.” He indicated the pond. “The shovel didn’t leave a mark, so I couldn’t prove it. And the guard never regained consciousness, so Tovar walked. But you know why I really think they let him off?”

  I asked, “Tovar was near the pond but not in the water when this happened?”

  “Yes, digging.” Irritated that I had interrupted. “It’s possible he got off because he was my father’s sometimes drinking buddy. People wouldn’t say it to my face, but that’s what I heard later. The Albright name carried a lot of weight back then . . . or maybe Tovar was blackmailing him. I’ve always suspected that, too. Along with the booze, my father supposedly had a lot of girlfriends. Tovar was a ruthless son of a bitch. He would have used something like that or even set him up. For ten years after my father died, I expected to get an envelope full of sick nudie pictures in the mail with an extortion note.”

  “Leland,” I said, “then it’s possible he did blackmail your father. Maybe your father had to pretend the collection was stolen to cover the truth—he used it to buy his way out.”

  Men don’t release long-held convictions easily. He grumbled something and then said, “You didn’t know my father.”

  “No, but I’m getting a pretty clear picture of Finn Tovar. You never saw him after that?”

  “A glimpse every few years, but I always went the other way. We had just that one run-in.”

  I placed the bag on the ground and opened it while he added, “What you said about Owen, that he might be repeating the same cycle . . . Well . . . that is possible. It really hit home.”

  Should I show him the mastodon photos or press for water samples first? The sun was almost down, and diving visibility was fading with it. That’s what I was deciding when a couple of details sparked, then fused. I said, “Wait a minute. Why wasn’t Tovar afraid of your elephants? You had several from the photos I saw.”

  The man was glad I asked. It allowed him to share his one small victory over the bone hunter. “Because after what happened to our night watchman, I figured out a way to stop that bastard. I had the elephants moved here. My father didn’t give a damn by then, and it solved the problem.”

  I said, “You’re a clever guy,” which produced a smile that was unexpectedly shy.

  He talked about how obvious the solution seemed at the time, speaking in a matter-of-fact way that introverts use to deflect attention they in fact enjoy. Then said, “Most people believe I did what I did, put up all this fencing, because of how my father died. You know, some gesture to honor his memory. But that’s not true. I did it to protect what my grandfather and I found here. If I sign the mining lease, this little section will be exempted.” Leland grabbed a fistful of gravel and used his fingers as a sieve while his eyes avoided the pond.

  I said, “I got the impression your father drowned in the quarry by the big sand dune.”

  Leland didn’t look up. “You heard that from Owen. That’s what I want people to think,” then did look at me and used the envelope I was holding to change the subject. “What do you have there?”

  I handed him the photos.

  Twice he mumbled, “My god,” as he studied the wide-angle shots of the mastodon tusk.

  “Does it look familiar?”

  “My grandfather found this. I’m not sure where, but the ivory we found—digging here, I’m saying—those pieces didn’t compare to this one.” He turned the photo so I could see it and touched a finger to the tip of the tusk. “There’s a rectangular sliver missing, and the shape is exactly right. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  I wasn’t going to tell him about the petroglyph. Not yet, but I was curious. “There’s something unusual about that tusk. If the police recover it, they’re going to ask. Did your grandfather mention anything different about it?”

  Leland had been squatting but stood. “Don’t play games. This is one of the things my father sold. How did you get these pictures?”

  “Sold it or gave to an extortionist,” I said. I had my snorkeling gear and water flasks bagged and ready to go. “We’ll talk more when I’m done getting samples.”

  “You’re not going in there—the sun’s almost down.”

  I said, “I think you’ll want me to, Leland. The part I didn’t tell you earlier? I’ll tell you now if you let me dive that pond.”

  • • •

  WHAT I TOLD LELAND BEFORE WADING into the water was, “You’ll get that tusk and part of your collection back if you help me, but think about this: Wouldn’t the things you and your grandfather found be better off in a museum?”

  I had spent twenty minutes explaining, so it was after eight, too late for light to pierce water, but I stripped down to shorts and dive boots anyway. Leland believed I wanted samples, which was true, but I didn’t need to get wet for that. What I wanted was to see how Toby reacted to my second entry into the pond.

  At least two divers had been here before me . . . possibly more, depending on how Leland’s father had drowned. The details could wait. I wanted to know if familiarity altered the elephant’s behavior. A big block of sugar might also work as a bribe. If I had noticed Toby’s fondness for sugarcane, someone else might have figured it out, too. It was a way of attacking my own theory, which kept getting uglier: Leland’s stepson, his new wife, and someone else—possibly Harris Sanford—were systematically stealing what the man was fighting hard to protect.

  Challenging my own belief system is healthy. It occasionally confirms that I’m a misguided dumbass and as lazy-minded as the next guy—not that I or anyone else has to admit it.

  The process is cleansing enough.

  In this case, I wanted to prove myself wrong. Not just because I liked Leland, although I did like him in a distant, arm’s-length sort of way. I wanted my theory to collapse because, if I was right, an even uglier hypothetical slipped neatly into place: The rednecks who long ago had used Toby for target practice were in fact upper-class brats who lacked a conscience.

  The elephant hadn’t approached when I showed up with Owen on Sunday. On that same day, I had witnessed Harris Sanford shooting turtles because turtles were the only living creatures within range.

  So I pushed ahead with my little experiment while Leland paced along the shore. Used a chunk of bamboo to bang the cattails as a warning, then used it as a probe to spook snakes lying on the bottom.

  Toby watched my progress.

  I was thigh-deep, getting my fins ready, when Leland’s cell rang and I heard him say, “Where are you? You sound upset.” Then he turned and shaded his eyes. “No, I don’t see any truck,” but then did a minute later, saying, “Yeah . . . okay, I see you now.”

  Truck? I followed his gaze to a red Dodge Ram that was greyhounding toward the gate, the passenger door opening before it stopped. It was Harris Sanford’s truck. I recognized it from the shooting incident, so stood and watched while Leland said into the phone, “Hold on a second, I make the decisions. You don’t own this place yet.”

  Owen, in a blue shirt, was getting out, a phone to his ear, and said something to which his stepfather responded, “This is stupid—come down here if you’re that mad.” Then walked away, talking, his voice too soft to hear.
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  The conversation went on for a while before Leland returned, tucking the phone away. He appeared nervous, a man caught in the middle, and tried to ease into an explanation, saying, “I told Owen about the safes being robbed. He’s as shocked as me. And he was already upset after seeing you in the pond and . . . Well, Christ—how about we do this another day, Ford?”

  I asked, “What’s his problem?” and glanced at the elephant—Toby, his trunk curled into a question mark, was rocking side to side, while Harris slammed the door and joined Owen at the gate.

  “Like I explained,” Leland said, “we don’t let people dive on the property—even Owen and his friends. That’s always been a rule, so naturally he didn’t like it when he saw you. There are insurance issues, so he has a valid point—not that I’ll back down on this. But let’s wait until he cools off.”

  “They just got here,” I said. “How did he know I was in the water?”

  Leland thought about that. “Damn if I know,” he said finally. “Hang on.”

  He waved Owen and Harris toward us, then dug for his phone when they didn’t respond. After that, I listened to a one-sided family argument. Muck tried to suction my shoes off, water cooler than the air. I kept my feet moving while my eyes moved from the elephant to the two men at the gate. A couple of minutes was enough to draw a conclusion: Owen was afraid of Toby, Toby was afraid of Harris or he was afraid of Owen—or both.

  I slogged to shore and got dressed. By then the phone argument had escalated. Leland kept his distance, mostly listening but occasionally snapping off a few words. The exchange continued as the truck did a one-eighty and banged cross-country toward the trees, not south toward the front gate.

  Strange . . . yet it offered me hope of speaking to Owen and his trigger-happy friend. I wanted to get a look inside the truck and see if there was a gun rack—and scuba tanks. Both men were gamblers, and I was willing to bet they’d already recovered the rifle I’d thrown into the lake.

  “He’s a sensitive kid,” Leland explained, walking me to my truck. “Like his mother. Mattie was sweet, but I had to be careful what I said. One thing I’m sure of, though, he had nothing to do with opening those safes. He wants me to get the police on it right away. That’s a good sign. Tells me Owen has nothing to hide, which means you’re wrong about him. The gambling, at least.”

  I was tempted to respond, Police are already on it, but didn’t because of a rumbling noise coming toward us. Leland heard it, too, and turned to see a motorcycle, driver helmeted, taking his time on the gravel lane that led to the entrance a quarter mile away. The bike slowed . . . stopped, then turned around, but not before the driver waved a jaunty hello or farewell, one big black glove mimicking a cowboy hat.

  I said, “Shit—that’s him. Someone posted bail.”

  Leland didn’t make the connection. “Owen must have left the main gate open,” he said, then added something I didn’t hear while he patted for his phone.

  I opened my truck and slid my bag onto the seat. Told him, “Call the police. I want to make sure the guy leaves.”

  Leland still didn’t understand. “It’s probably a sightseer or one of Owen’s friends. Let me give him a call.”

  I stopped Leland by taking his arm. “Damn it. That’s the biker who threatened to burn your house down. Call the police.”

  “But you said he was in jail.”

  “Just do it,” I said, and got in my truck.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mick had given me crazy Quirt’s cell number. Should I call him?

  No . . . but I picked up my phone anyway and noticed a message from Tomlinson. It read, in part, “I know who’s responsible for Lillian’s death. Call me . . .”

  I’d been right. Tomlinson had been tracking the mysterious power person on his own. I couldn’t call him now, but I did consider sending Quirt a text—something to taunt the man and glue him on private property before he got to the main gate.

  Trespassing wasn’t much of a charge, but it was a start. Another possible bonus: If Owen and Harris reappeared, it might force a confrontation between them and the biker.

  I know who’s paying you. A text like that might do the trick, even though Tomlinson hadn’t divulged the name. Afraid of me? That was better. Poke the biker’s ego and all his craziness might come pouring out.

  I thought about it as I drove, avoiding potholes, my truck’s shocks creaking on a tractor lane in need of grading. At the speed I was going, I wouldn’t catch a motorcycle, that was for damn sure, so maybe sending a text was the best next move.

  No need. I came around a bend and there was Quirt a hundred yards away, blocking the entrance, the main gate closed, which screened him from the road, Quirt astride his rumbling Harley. Not waiting on me necessarily, probably waiting on Owen and Harris, his arms crossed until he saw my truck. Then sat straighter—an Oh boy! surprise, which he signaled with another wave, his big black glove imitating a bareback rider.

  I slowed and reached for my phone again, worried that Leland hadn’t called the police. Quirt saw me, figured out what I was doing, and gunned his motorcycle at my truck. My window was open; plywood covered the other. The Harley’s engine was so piercing, it caused me to drop the phone, downshift, and steer toward the pasture to give him room to pass.

  Passing safely wasn’t what Quirt had in mind. The Harley reared when he kicked it into second, then hunkered itself on the gravel while he steered straight at me, his helmet a projectile that glistened in the late sun.

  A game of chicken from some old movie, Rebel Without a Cause, came into my mind. But a motorcycle versus a pickup? No . . . this was a test or a game. Quirt was brain-damaged, not suicidal. But if he expected me to sit there and play along, he was wrong.

  I gripped the wheel, turned toward him, and hit the accelerator—which damn near caused my truck to stall. My engine recovered when I double-clutched, and my tires kicked some gravel as I shifted into second. Thirty-five miles an hour . . . forty, almost fifty. I expected the Harley to veer right or left.

  It kept coming. So maybe Quirt was suicidal—but I’m not. A few car lengths before impact, I surprised him with what driving instructors call a boot turn. I jammed the emergency brake to the floor . . . skidded . . . and turned the wheel a quarter turn, which spun the bed of my truck into the Harley’s path.

  Everything in the cab went flying, and I tensed, expecting eight hundred pounds of motorcycle to crash through the rear window. Instead, I felt a mild thump, and watched in the mirror as a helmeted rag doll tumbled past into the pasture. The Harley came next, its foot bar gouging a furrow as it tilted to earth.

  When I jumped out, Quirt was already getting to his feet, so I checked my truck for damage as I circled around the back. The rear bumper had clipped the Harley’s front wheel—the wheel still spinning even though the bike had stalled while trying to auger itself into the ground. My fender was smudged with a tire-tread tattoo but otherwise fine.

  “Goddamn, hoss! Where’d you learn that move?” Quirt shouted it from inside his helmet; tried to sound impressed but couldn’t disguise his rage. It was in the way he marched toward me, shoulders squared, but staying busy with something as he walked. He’d found a spare bionic hand, I realized, and it was hanging loose, the stump of his wrist showing, while he worked to reattach the thing.

  He worked at it some more while yelling, “Wish to hell someone had that on a movie camera! That was James Bond material right there.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Naw . . . just a temporary glitch.” He stopped, adjusted a strap, and extended his left arm—click-click—a different attachment on this hand: snippers sharpened top and bottom like an axe. Not huge, but large enough that the man resembled a crab with a claw. “See? Good as new.” Click-click-click—he demonstrated again. “But you better pray to God that bike’s not broke, I’ll hang your balls on my mirror.” He veered toward the
Harley.

  “We’ll let the police decide,” I said, and turned to search the cab for my phone.

  “Now, hold on a minute! Let’s you and me discuss matters before we get our insurance companies to bickering.”

  I ignored him until he said, “Hey—how about this: I’ll put a bullet in your belly if you take one more step. Asshole. I spent the night in jail ’cause of you and your goddamn dog.”

  I turned. Quirt’s helmet pivoted from me to his bike to emphasize his advantage, Quirt only a few steps away from saddlebags he claimed held a .357 Magnum. Plus, the rifle scabbard he’d mentioned, the butt of a Winchester, protruding from fringe work. No way I could get to his bike or my truck before he got to his guns.

  He was convinced of it. I was, too.

  Quirt said, “Unless you got another pistol in your butt crack, I’d advise you to take me seriously for a change. You want to guess what happened to the last man who went crying to the cops?” By habit, he reached to remove his helmet but flipped up his visor instead. The sun was behind me, below the trees. Enough filtered through to bronze the man’s crushed left check. It added a glaze to his eyes.

  What I wanted to ask was, Did you bury him on Boot Hill? but chose diplomacy, saying, “Maybe I’m overreacting. Let me help you lift that bike. It looks heavy.”

  He stared at me a moment, then knelt over the Harley, pulled the rifle, and shucked a round using only his good hand—did it with a flourish, something he’d practiced. The Rifleman, he’d said, and was right about the cocking lever, a hoop that allowed him to spin the weapon and shoot one-handed. Didn’t point it at me, but close enough, the rifle angled in my direction. “Overreacted, my ass. You pressed charges against me, slick. Now you’re gonna pay the price.” He motioned with the rifle. “Come around to this side of the truck.”

  The bed of the truck was between us. I wanted to defuse the situation but not leave myself defenseless. I walked to the tailgate, no farther, and said, “You’ve got a right to be mad. But your boss isn’t going to be happy if he has to forfeit his bail money. How much if the cops arrest you again?”