by Pamela Cowan
“We’ll be ready for him,” McVay said.
Beale wore his most concerned expression. “I’m not sure you can ever be ready for someone that dangerous.”
“I’ve run into him before,” shared Deputy Leblanc, joining the conversation. “You know, out there in Muddy Creek. He’s got a bad reputation all right. Thinks he’s tough.”
Everyone, including Beale was giving LeBlanc their full attention and he loved it. Hell, Beale thought, if the kid were a dog he’d be wagging his tail.
“Willy Keene’s a badass,” Leblanc warned the two young officers. You need be careful.”
Beale nodded gravely, letting his concern for them show, while on the inside he was smirking. It was almost too easy. Ducks in a barrel. Everything was going as planned and he deserved to be pleased with himself. The only hard part was not letting it show.
After the meeting, Beale went to his office, closed the door and took out his burner phone. He bought one every couple of months, like clockwork, and though he knew it was probably paranoid, he did it anyway.
“Hey,” he said when Jelly answered. “I got the boys in blue wound up. You think you can track down that kid?”
Jelly frowned. “Not much to track. I know what he drives. I know where he lives. Know where his father lives. He’s going to show up at one of those places.”
“Not if he hears we’re looking for him. Kid like that will run.”
“Maybe. Would that be a bad thing?”
“Not necessarily, but the case would stay open, so not the best outcome for us.”
“Still, the kid didn’t do it. Seems wrong to set him up for this.”
“Look, kid’s got a juvenile record for assault. His type, well he’s bound to do something, if he hasn’t already, that will eventually get him locked up. Besides, I’m betting on him and a smart lawyer to come up with a defense. Maybe the kid had to protect himself from Dodge. Maybe he had to shoot Dodge to save his own life. There were enough guns in the place. Kid’s young and Dodge had a bad reputation. At best he’ll get manslaughter and we’ll recommend a light sentence. In fact, I’ll see to it.”
Beale had no intention of telling Jelly that the last thing he wanted was for the Keene kid to appear in court. He’d started to talk to Jelly about it on an earlier phone call and immediately felt the push back. Jelly might have been able to take care of Dodge, but something about setting up the kid bothered him. You just never knew about people. He’d have to think some more about Jelly running WIP. Jelly. What a dumbass name.
Promising to find the kid and let Beale know where he was, Jelly hung up. He’d been outside, raking leaves against the base of a row of roses they had planted along one side of the house. The extra insulation should keep them alive over the approaching winter. It worked last year. Two years, he mused, since he and Rose had rented the house. Two years in the same place. It was nothing short of a miracle.
From the time they’d run away from the foster home where they’d met, they’d taken work wherever they could find it. For a few years they’d followed the harvest, working on farms, Rose taking whatever classes she could find. When he realized the constant moving and lack of funds was killing her dream of using her degree to start a career, Jelly had accepted a job from Dodge. He promised Rose he’d find a real job as soon as he could. In the meanwhile he took whatever handyman work he could find and made deliveries for Dodge.
It was stability of a sort, but he’d never expected it to last. At first Jelly had even discouraged Rose from planting flowers or trying to grow a vegetable garden. He didn’t figure they’d be around long enough to see the flowers or harvest the food.
She’d smiled and ignored him, digging the soil, planting the seed. Ever hopeful of a place to call home, Rose always planned for the future. Expecting change and chaos, Jelly never did. Maybe that’s why they were so happy together. Their differences creating a sort of balance.
As if she’d been summoned by his thoughts, Rose appeared from the back of the house. In her hands she carried steaming cups.
“Hot cocoa.” she said.
“A little early for this isn’t it?”
“I think we’ll get snow soon,” she said, looking up at the cloudless blue sky.
“Does this prediction come from your Shawnee intuition?” he asked playfully.
“No, it comes from the weather guy on KTMT,” she said.
He noticed her long hair was braided. One thick braid that hung down to her waist. He wanted to reach out and give it a tug. She couldn't punch him while holding two cups of cocoa. The intention must have shown in his eyes. She shook her head. “No you don’t. Your hands are gross.”
His hands were pretty grimy from yard work. That was true. He looked at them, looked at the braid again.
“I’m warning you,” she said. Then she held out one of the cups of cocoa, slowly tilted it.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be good.”
“You promise?”
“Yes. Damn woman.” He took the cup she offered. Caught the scent of rich hot chocolate.
“Who was that?” she asked, pointing her chin at the phone he still held.
He tucked it in his back pocket. “Beale.”
“I don’t like him.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t like Dodge either.”
“I know that too.”
“We should leave here.”
“No.”
“Why? You were ready to go before. After Beale asked you—”
“Asked me to kill someone? You know I couldn't do that but after he called to congratulate me for a job well done. What was I supposed to do? It was like, I don’t know, like a miracle or a lucky break. It meant I didn’t actually have to kill Dodge and we could stay. Look,” he said, indicating the row of thorny bushes. “I just tucked your roses in for the winter.”
“We can dig them up. Take them with us.”
“Ground’s too hard.”
“Harder than your head?”
Jelly sighed.
“That woman who came around yesterday looking into that fire. I’m worried,” admitted Rose.
“I told you. I didn’t kill Dodge. I just let Beale think I did.”
“I know, and I believe you, but that woman. I told her a stupid lie. I told her you were out of town for a month. It won’t take her long to figure out that’s not true. She’ll wonder why I made it up. What was I trying to hide? I should have said nothing or told her to go away.”
“It will be fine,” he reassured her. Putting one arm around her waist, he gently pulled her against his side. “I’ll stick it out one more year. I wanted to make a ton of money and give you everything in the world. But ever since Beale asked me to kill Dodge, the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized what a fool I was to work for him. We’ll put away every penny we can and then we’ll go. Just one more year, I promise. I don’t want to start somewhere new with nothing. Not ever again. You deserve better.”
“Oh please,” she said, putting her free arm around him. “I barely deserve you.”
“I never thought you’d admit it. You really are crazy about me.”
“No, I’m just plain crazy.”
“That works for me,” he told her. “You know, as long as we stay together we’ll be fine. You believe me?” he asked, giving her a squeeze.
“I believe you,” she said. But she was thinking of that investigator, the way her eyes had looked into hers, the way she’d watched everything. A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cooling weather.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thursday, September 13
After leaving the scene of Dodge’s murder, Willy had run home long enough to throw some gear together, then set up camp at the old fire lookout. The lookout, which once sat on stilts, had fallen over, leaving a decaying pile of timber behind. For years Willy’s father had used it as a deer blind and primitive shelter, fashioning a small but usable area under the edge of what was lef
t of the roof. It provided some protection from the weather and there was even a fire pit in one corner with a vent hole so you wouldn’t choke to death while trying to stay warm.
Maybe being there reminded him too much of his father. Got Willy to thinking about him and wondering what advice he’d have for his only son. Or maybe it was just that he got bored. In any case, after a few days he packed up his camping gear and drove to his childhood home. Now he sat on his dad’s front porch, in one of two rocking chairs. His dad sat slowly rocking in the other.
For the first time Willy noticed the age spots on the back of his father’s hands. How had he not noticed before? Maybe because they just hadn’t seen that much of each other in the past couple of years. Not since he’d moved out.
Willy had saved up and bought a piece of land with an old cabin on it, basically a shed kit but someone had insulated it and added a fireplace. The property it sat on was only a quarter acre, small by local standards. However, the development the lot was part of had gone bankrupt, so the cabin sat in the woods, surrounded by nothing but dozens of empty unsold lots.
Alone in the middle of nearly a hundred acres, there was no one to complain about the hodgepodge of sheds and fluttering white canopies where Willy housed his trade goods. Those goods included appliances of all kinds, motorcycle and car parts, small boats, bicycles, tools and whatever he thought someone, somewhere, sometime, might want.
In one of the sheds he’d rigged grow lights and sown a small crop of marijuana, which helped with the bottom line. Willy figured he was never going to be rich in money anyway, but he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and he got by.
Willy’s dad’s house wasn’t as isolated. He had neighbors, but you couldn’t see them. Forty acres of sparse trees, mostly junipers, hid them from view. All forty acres were fenced with barbed wire. The top strand razor wire. To get in you had to know the code to the stock gate. When you got out of your car to use the code the first thing you noticed was a pair of cannon, one on each side of the driveway. Most people thought they were relics, not much more than statuary, but Willy knew they fired off just fine.
Once you got through the gate you didn’t have to get out again because it automatically closed behind you. A fact both helpful and a little alarming.
The short driveway opened into a wide parking area with a one-story house painted sage green with crisp white trim to the right, and a three bay garage painted to match on the left. A huge US flag hung from a pole between the two buildings. In front of the garage sat a freshly washed, dark blue Dodge Ram pickup and two fishing boats. Willy’s dad was big on tidiness, fishing, and America.
“You shoot him?” Was the first thing he asked when Willy got out of his truck and walked up to the house.
Willy hadn’t seen him at first. The wide covered porch had a wall around it that just allowed a seated man to see over it. Like most of the elements of The Banker’s property, it was that way by design. A survivalist, who anticipated the need to protect him and his from the upcoming apocalypse, Willy’s father was prepared.
Did you shoot him? The question made him think of that terrible day, that awful moment.
He remembered how he stared for what seemed like a long time. It was as if his brain refused to register what his eyes were seeing. Then the scene roared into his consciousness. Every detail burning into his memory.
Dodge’s body lay sprawled on the floor, arms flung wide, one leg pinning the edge of a tablecloth to the floor. Next to one booted foot lay a handgun, two more were on the table with rifles and gun cleaning supplies.
Willy had wrinkled his nose. The odor of shit and gun oil and the sheared copper smell of too much blood had hit him and his stomach had flipped.
The smell reminded him of the slaughter house where his dad yearly delivered the steer he’d raised for meat. Willy had only gone along with his father once. He hadn’t been back there since. Once was more than enough.
As he’d stood there trying not to be sick, a rustling sound had reached him. Was there someone else in the house? He’d wanted to turn and run but the thought of someone shooting him in the back as he ran away kept him frozen in place.
There it was again.
The sound broke the spell and he crept, as quietly as he could, toward the back of the house, toward the sound. Just down the short hall off the living room a door stood half open. He nudged it open wider and could see that it was a bedroom. A window was open, the curtains billowing in and out. As they moved they slid across an arrangement of flowers. Long dead, their stems and buds dry, they crackled when the curtains touched them. Realizing that was the sound he’d heard, he sighed with relief. Just to be sure he checked out the rest of the house. Two more bedrooms that looked dusty and unused, a bathroom with damp towels and a moldy smell. He was alone.
As he moved back through the living room and into the dining room he noted that the blood was drying. The spatter, and the edge of the wide pool under Dodge’s head, were already turning brown.
He stood over the body for a moment, taking in the wide shoulders and the rodeo belt buckle. Though he’d never wanted anyone dead before, he couldn’t say he was sad that Dodge was gone.
Stepping outside, he checked the area. He saw no one. Heard only the creak of the trees moving slightly when the wind gusted, and the sound of crows somewhere in the distance. A new thought struck him and he turned back to the house. Had he left any sign of his presence?
Pushing the sleeve of his jacket down, he wrapped his hand inside the fabric, then used it to wipe his fingerprints from the door and the handle.
Adrenaline was draining from his body. The buzz from the whiskey was fading. He climbed into his truck, started it up, and got out of there. He was happy to leave the house of death in the rearview.
As he drove, he realized he wasn’t quite as sober as he’d thought. He had to squint to see clearly. Better be careful. Not a good time or place to get pulled over. Cops tended to frown on drinking and driving. If they picked him up and later found Dodge’s body nearby he’d be in trouble.
Hell, if they asked around and found out he’d talked to Bonnie and discovered what she told him. Shit, that would be really bad. They would figure he had every reason to shoot Dodge. What did they call it? Oh yeah, motive. He had motive. Sending him to jail for murder would be the easiest thing they did that year.
“So,” his father repeated, breaking into Willy’s thoughts, “Did you do it? Kill Dodge.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t try to play me for a fool. Cops came in and talked to everyone in Muddy Creek they could find. Buddy at the grill called, said they were looking for you. Someone seen you driving around there that morning. You drive your truck up to Dodge’s? Damn stupid thing to do in the best of times. Damn stupid. Even for you.”
“Thanks, Pop. Kinder words . . .”
“Were never spoken. Yeah, I know. That didn’t come out the way I meant it to. You want a beer?” He reached for the green and white Coleman cooler between the two rockers. The old metal cooler had served as both cooler and table on the front porch for as long as Willy could remember. It’s top was covered with dark rings from beer cans and coffee cups. It’s sides were scratched and had more than a few dents, some from Willy ramming his Tonka Trucks into it.
Nostalgia. Sometimes it settled over him at the funniest times. All it took this time was the sight of that old cooler. Sometimes it was a song on the radio, or the scent of lilacs, that always made him think of the mother he’d never known. His favorite picture of her, she was standing in front of a row of lilacs, a basket of the cut flowers in her arm. She had her chin down, her eyes looking straight at the camera, the most contented smile on her lips. It was as if the photographer had caught her just after she’d taken a deep breath of her favorite scent, then looked up. He had captured a moment of joy.
He wished he’d been able to know her. His father, if he’d ever had the capacity for joy, had lost it somewhere along t
he way. Just as he was slowly losing his military bearing. Once tall and athletic, he’d begun to let himself go and now, at sixty, he slouched and plodded. He liked to pat the roll of fat around his stomach, bragging that he’d grown it himself. His face looked puffy and he was sweating, even though it wasn’t warm and he hadn’t done more than reach for a beer. Maybe that was what aging did to everyone. Or maybe it was what happened when people didn’t have anyone to make them care.
“Well, did you shoot him?” he asked yet again.
Willy shook his head, “I did drive up there,” he admitted, but no, I didn’t shoot him.”
“Well that’s good, I guess. Assuming you’re not lying, but what kind of business would you have with Dodge?” He left the sentence hanging there. Didn’t add anything about Willy using drugs, which was what Willy had expected his father to accuse him of next.
Willy looked him in the eye, “I was up there taking some firewood to Leena, Gordon’s wife. She’s living in Jansen’s Mill.”
Willy’s father scrubbed his fingers through his short gray hair. “Damn. Sorry to hear that. Not surprised of course. My brother always was as worthless as ice cubes in Alaska. Nope. Not surprised. So, you took it upon yourself to step in I take it?”
“I did,” Willy agreed. “Had some firewood, figured they might want to trade for it. Leena’s kid, Bonnie, is old enough to work. Thought she could clean the truck or the cabin or something.”
“Least you were smart enough to figure out her mother wasn’t going to do anything for you. Last I heard she was doing drugs and sleeping around.”
“You heard that and didn’t check to see how her kid was doing?” Willy asked. “She’s your niece.” He waited, hoping to hear an answer that would make him less ashamed of his crazy old man.
“Don’t go staring at me like that. She isn’t my kid and she sure as shit isn’t my responsibility.”
“You taught me family is what matters. That we gotta look out for each other,” Willy said, daring to correct him.
“Family ain’t necessarily blood. My brother, his slut of a wife, and whatever sad creature they spawned isn’t mine or yours to worry about. Let’s get that clear right now. My family is a handful of my friends that I can trust, and you. You’re family and we gotta focus on getting you out of here before this killing blows up in your face. They catch you they’ll cage you for the rest of your life.”
