A Killing Secret

by Robert E. Dunn

  “He hit Chuck.”

  Calvin nodded. “He jumped up and grabbed Chuck by the shirtfront with both hands. Lawson lifted him up and tossed him into the glassware behind the bar. Clare said it all might have stopped there but Chuck didn’t stay down.”

  “Of course not.” I admired my former boss and, at the same time, felt a sense of inevitability about his choices. “What did he say to Lawson?”

  “He said, ‘Boy, your mama was a two-dollar punch and even she’s ashamed of what you became.’”

  “Chuck can curse a person better than anyone I know.”

  “That’s when Lawson ran at him. He punched right across the bar and hit the old man in the heart.”

  “Where’s Billy?”

  “He’s gone to fetch Miz Combs.”

  “Marion.” I felt a deep sadness saying her name. Marion was a social worker for the county and an old friend of Chuck’s. She helped him get over the loss of his wife a few years back. Recently, they had been helping each other to a new life. “I hadn’t even thought of her.”

  The instant I said it I realized how true the statement was. There were many people I hadn’t thought about. Clare said he didn’t tell Lawson that it had been him and Uncle Orson who had burned down the mill. But they weren’t why he was there. I had taunted him. He thought I had done everything. Lawson’s revenge was striking out at the things and people in my life.

  As sure as I knew anything, at that moment I knew that E. Lawson was going after Orson next.

  “Are you okay?” Calvin asked.

  I didn’t try to answer. I didn’t do anything to slow my run back to the truck.

  The Ozarks is not a region of flat lands and straight roads. There is no easy, direct path from the hospital in Branson to Rockaway Beach where Orson’s dock floated in the waters of Lake Taneycomo. The twisting roads, always a slow go, were made more dangerous by the impacted snow and the day’s new sleet covering. I wished I was in my own truck. It had emergency lights. It was also built in this century. Orson’s truck was strong and raised. It had more power but less control. Control was exactly what I needed at that moment.

  Because of the truck I moved slower than I wanted to. It would have been easy to deny the restrictions of weather. But the moment was too important to give in to emotion any further than I already had. The slower pace forced me to think. I realized that I should have sent deputies with lights and sirens ahead of me. It wasn’t too late.

  Keeping my eyes on the road, I fumbled in my pocket to pull out my phone. I glanced once to orient my fingers and punched the emergency call icon.

  I gave my ID and requested support and an ambulance at the dock. As soon as I spit out the words I broke the connection and dropped the phone on the seat. I didn’t want to talk or explain.

  To hell with it, I thought. Then I hit the gas hard. At the back of the truck the tires lost grip. The bed swayed to the side. I steered into it and kept going. The road dried out and the tires grabbed. I sped in the face of long odds. I could fail to get there or I could get there too late. Either way I would never forgive myself. Better to die trying.

  The last sweeping bend into Rockaway Beach almost threw me. The truck slid. It was caught by the guardrail. I took the bounce and followed the bank down on the inside edge of the curve. I was dumped into the main road. It was dark even for a tourist town in the dead of winter. On the left side was the black gulf of the lake.

  I looked ahead, expecting to see the string of clear white incandescent bulbs Uncle Orson kept burning all night, every night. They were dead, but something sparked.

  I thought for a moment that it was moonlight reflected in the dark water. There was no moon, only thick clouds as black as grave dirt. Flames were shining on the water and breaking into a million reflections. Sunset colors shot through the waves, making a warning beacon that pointed right at the tail end of Orson’s dock.

  I twisted the steering wheel. The truck lost traction and I slid sideways across the left lane and into the parking lot that serviced the dock. I almost hit my own truck, which was parked close to the dock’s long gangway.

  Once out of the truck and running, I heard the clear sound of a rising boat engine. It was loud for only a moment. Distance quickly diminished it. At the same time, the calm waters let the sound skate to the far shore and back. The engine noise faded in intensity but not in clarity. I never saw the boat but its wake left a shimmering trail of reflected fire.

  I slammed the bait shop door open. There were no lights on inside. Caught in the light of the fire was a horror-movie scene of gore and chaos. In the middle, the white case of a live bait well was streaked with an arc of blood that pointed like a neon sign to Orson. He was slumped over and soaking wet. His face was not his own. It was brutally pulped and swollen. He had been beaten and pushed under the water of the bait well.

  I didn’t approach. I couldn’t move. My heart felt like a stone in my chest. My lungs were paralyzed and filled with dead air. I had no strength to even exhale.

  Uncle Orson opened an eye.

  I breathed.

  He forced a drooping smile.

  And I finally moved.

  Orson lifted his right hand. It was still holding on to his weapon. It was an entrenching tool, a short, folding shovel. The E-tool had sat behind the counter since he came back from Vietnam. It must have been the only thing he could get his hands on.

  I tried to take it from his hand, but he pulled away and used the tool to point out the window. The fire was growing.

  It wasn’t the dock burning. At least not yet. The flames were coming from the houseboat tied to the dock. It was my home away from home. Someone knew that.

  “Lie back down,” I said. “And give me this.” I pulled the E-tool from Orson’s hand and rushed out the back door. Heat was like a scalding wall. The boat was engulfed. Flame was reaching out and lapping at the wood of the dock. That wasn’t the biggest concern. Beyond the slip the houseboat occupied were the gas pumps and tanks of the boat filling station.

  I twisted the locking collar of the E-tool and angled the head ninety degrees. I used it like a hatchet to cut the mooring lines. There were gaff poles hanging on the wall of the bait shop. I grabbed one and used it to push the boat away from the dock. It took a lot to get the big boat moving, but once it started it got easier. When it was clear of the dock and I was sure it wouldn’t drift back, I ran to the pumps and broke the glass panel that protected the fire extinguisher. The houseboat was a lost cause, but I was able to hit the places where the dock had caught fire.

  Fire trucks were the first to arrive. They were followed quickly by an ambulance. I let the firemen take over killing the flames. There was nothing they could do about the boat but watch and make sure it didn’t float back and become a hazard. I tried to help the EMTs with Uncle Orson. They made it clear I was only in the way.

  Orson forced out a thick, phlegmy laugh and pointed to the big cooler in the corner. “Get everyone a soda,” he said.

  “No one wants a soda right now,” I said, and regretted how angry I sounded.

  Uncle Orson managed to laugh again.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, still sounding angry. “I’ll take care of this, Orson. I’ll get Lawson and make him pay.”

  “It wasn’t Lawson,” Orson said. His voice was a constricted croak.

  “What?”

  “Some young guy.”

  The EMT put an oxygen cup over Uncle Orson’s nose and mouth.

  I stepped away as they lifted him up on the backboard and lowered him onto a gurney. Levi Sharon was a friend of Billy’s. It was possible that he knew how much time I spent on the houseboat.

  I stayed where I was and watched my uncle be trundled out. They got him through the door and a deputy immediately came in. At first I didn’t recognize Bob because I never see her in a regular duty uniform.
r />   “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “I was the closest,” she answered. “All hands on deck these days.”

  “The deck has become a dangerous and unsteady place.”

  Bob looked at me with a curious expression. “What happened here?”

  “When was the last time you saw Tom Dugan?”

  All the curiosity dropped from her face to be replaced by a fuming sort of embarrassment. “Do you mean running into a colleague in the course of doing my job? Or do you mean—”

  “Never mind.” I stepped past her and pressed my face to the glass door. The EMTs were taking it easy down the gangway. I looked back at Bob and said, “I’m going to give you some bad advice.” Then I walked back and ducked behind the counter. Kneeling down, I opened a drawer filled with junk, old coins, wire, some medals and a name tag that read Gunnery Sgt. Williams. The drawer stuck but I knew the combination. I lifted the front and jiggled. It worked free and dropped onto the floor. “And I’m going to give you an even worse option.”

  I reached back as far as I could into the drawer cavity and felt around. When I stood again I was holding a pistol. It was a J.C. Higgins .22 with a four-inch barrel and nine-round cylinder. I knew without looking that there were eight .22 longs loaded and the hammer sat on the empty chamber. I lifted it up to show Bob. “The grips are taped. No prints. And there is not a number to be found. They have all been ground out and too deep for recovery. Even if it had numbers, this gun is cold as moonlight.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe it’s just a backup.” I held it out and waited. Bob took it by the handle then looked it over. “Maybe—if you feel you have no other choice—you use your service weapon. You do the job all the way. Don’t wound and don’t feel pity. And if he’s not armed you leave this behind.”

  “A drop piece?”

  “Some men like to make a show of challenging women. They use words that can sound innocent. They get too close and claim it is just an accident. To the outside observer, even to the woman, all the reasonable arguments create doubt. It is exactly what they want. They use your reasonableness and desire to avoid violence against you. Don’t let it happen to you.

  “Things aren’t that bad,” Bob said. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.

  “They never are—until.”

  “Until what?”

  “Until they are.” I grabbed up some keys from the counter and tossed them over too. “Make sure the firemen do their thing and lock things up after.” I ran out the door and down the bouncing gangplank.

  The ambulance had just buttoned up when I caught up. “Hang on!” I shouted at the EMT. “Open the door.”

  In the glare of the ambulance overheads Orson looked even worse. Both his eyes were swollen, his left worse than the right. A lot of the blood was coming from a ragged gash of scalp that was bunched and wadded with hair.

  The woman sitting beside Uncle Orson was hanging a saline bag. She didn’t look happy to see me. “We need to get him to the trauma center.”

  I ignored her. “Uncle Orson,” I said. This time my voice was gentle. I was grateful for that. “Orson,” I said, slightly louder.

  His right eye opened slightly. His mouth twitched.

  “I love you, Uncle Orson. You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

  I swear he laughed. Then he reached up and shifted the oxygen cup sideways. “When was the last time you said that to anyone?” He was trying to grin through split lips as he reseated the mask. Then he said something that sounded like, “You need practice.”

  Chapter 15

  There is no weight in this world that rests so heavy on the human spirit as the lifeless glare of hospital fluorescents at 3:00 a.m. Fatigue and harsh light burn away the pretenses of life. The realities, the fear—the terror for loved ones, guilt, and regret are always a late-night sepia stained with old coffee and futile tears.

  I sat awake and alone. The cops had gone home or back to work. Marion was in with Chuck. She sat by his bed crocheting in the light spilling from an open door. She carried the night’s weight much better than I.

  Clare had been in for a short time. I had asked him to see to the cleanup at Moonshines and to check on the dock. The truth was, the only person I wanted there with me was Billy. He was busy with a job that had gotten a whole lot harder in the last few days.

  Uncle Orson had lapsed into unconsciousness in the ambulance. They found a hematoma, a growing puddle of blood and fluid, putting pressure on his brain. The pressure had to be relieved surgically. The questions were, could they stop the bleeding and would the swelling go down?

  While I waited for news I used my phone to write an email. In it I detailed the events of the day and the information I had gathered. I finished it off by noting the connection of E. Lawson to the Fisher family.

  It is my belief that E. Lawson drove the truck that killed Matthew and Cheryl Sharon, the parents of Rose and Levi. Evidence also suggests Lawson was an unnamed conspirator in Levi Sharon’s juvenile conviction for illegal logging. The fact that he has an ongoing history with the poaching of valuable trees suggests a continued connection between the two. A deeper connection between E. Lawson and the Fisher family must be considered. Whether the connection is directly related to the murder of Rose or tangential is the necessary focus of that investigation.

  The fact that another party close to Rose Sharon, Deputy Tom Dugan, is suspected of stalking one of his coworkers makes him an obvious suspect. I suggest a deep search of Dugan’s history with the goal of finding any connections between him and Lawson.

  I sent the memo off to Billy, then put my feet up on a bench that was too short and too hard. I drifted off immediately.

  Waking was slow. Before my eyes opened I inventoried the offenses that sleep had brought to the surface. Every joint and muscle hurt. My feet, which had been propped up on the bench arm, were tingling but otherwise numb. My neck was cricked at a painful angle. Worst of all was the taste of old dog and rot in my mouth.

  I felt like I had been sleeping for years. It was about half an hour. When my eyes finally opened, Billy and the surgeon were standing over me. Billy was smiling; the doctor wasn’t. He simply looked exhausted.

  I tried to sit up and couldn’t. “How’s Orson?” I managed to ask.

  Billy offered his hand. I took it and let myself be pulled upright. With his other hand he pushed a steaming cup of coffee at me. It was the last thing I needed, but I took it.

  “Your uncle will get through this…” the doctor said.

  “I sense a but waiting around the corner,” I said.

  “All the buts are a matter of wait and see.” He took a deep breath. I couldn’t tell if it was part of his bedside manner, or if it was a man looking at tough realities in the small hours. “He took a hard blow to the head and the skull was fractured about here.” He pointed to his own head behind his left ear. “We won’t know for a while the actual extent of the damage to the brain. He might pull through just fine.”

  “That’s a weak-sounding ‘might,’” I said.

  “You’re right. Chances are that there will be some lingering effects. Physical therapy may be required. There is a good chance of damage to his hearing and eyesight. Those are lesser concerns when considered against the potential cognitive issues.”

  “What issues?”

  “Memory loss. Inability to recognize names or objects.”

  I looked him right in the eyes and didn’t have any words to say.

  The doctor nodded, as if I had said something obvious and sad. “Wait and see,” he said again. “There is no knowing until he is awake. Even then, what we see may be temporary. Patience will be your greatest ally in the next days.”

  “Patience has never been my strength.”

  He gave me another look. That one might have been pity. It m
ight also have been goodbye. He nodded again and turned, saying nothing further.

  Billy watched him go and said, “I hate doctors.”

  The statement hit me like a punch line. “What do you mean? You were an army medic. How can you hate doctors?”

  He gave a small shrug and said, “Medics are mechanics who are proud of what they do. Doctors are the same, but they always seem vaguely ashamed of the repair work.”

  “He’s just tired.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Billy flopped down on the bench and stretched his legs out. “Sit with me.”

  “I’ve had enough sitting,” I said, then I sat anyway. “I’ve had enough of a lot.”

  “I know that feeling.” He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and held it up. “I got your email.”

  “I didn’t expect you to read it tonight.”

  “Well, you’re not the only one who’s trying to get this job done.”

  “I know that—”

  “There is no connection between E. Lawson and Tom Dugan.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “Have you—”

  “I’ve looked.” Billy wilted. “I’ve looked hard. I’ve talked to people who know them both. I pulled records. When I say I’m sure enough—I’m sure enough. It doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. What it does mean is that it’s my fault.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I told you, Rose asked me to help Dugan out.”

  “So?”

  “I should have caught it. I should have known she was trying to get away from him. I missed the signs.”

  “What signs?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. There had to be something.”

  “Because no one could hide something from you?”