All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By (28 page)

And someone had kept good records through the years in the doctor's private office he found Nancy Bradwin's file and pulled it.

Jackson couldn't resist taking an extra few minutes then and there to look through the file. He switched on a desk lamp with a green glass shade and put the file on the blotter, bending over it as he turned to the first page. But he couldn't concentrate; a faint, sourceless odor in the room distracted him.

He looked more closely at the desktop beneath the lamp. Dust, of course, thick enough to gray the darkly finished wood. But the corner of the desk had been scrubbed clean, as if someone had sat there to read.

The odor was identifiable, now that he was giving it some thought: apples.

Jackson found two apple cores in the wastebasket, and peelings. Fresh no more than three days ago. He got down on his hands and knees, discovered more apple parings and a couple of spat-out seeds on the carpet. In the desktop there was a thin gash, where Early Boy's knife had been stuck close to hand.

"What's keeping you?" Nhora asked from the doorway. Everett John Wilkes came up behind her, straining on his crutches, dragging the dead weight of his left leg.

To tell them of his suspicion that Early Boy Hodges had been making himself at home in the clinic while going through the medical files would have invited sharp questions from Wilkes. How could he be so certain it was Hodges, and how had he become acquainted with the outlaw's habits? Jackson had known Wilkes for only a short time, but he was already wary; it was obvious that the lawyer was not a fool despite his prodigious, compulsive drinking. He had the vision of an owl in the besotted darkness of his mind. Having paused outside the door, he was already twisting the cap off his silver flask of bourbon. Jackson had concluded that Wilkes didn't crave whiskey for its own sake; he drank it austerely, in measured swallows. Neither was the lawyer courting oblivion, like many other heavy drinkers. There seemed to be a massive fear behind his grip on the bottle. In the dark which he created for himself he found courage, and relief from demons.

"Coming," Jackson said with a smile, and turned off the desk lamp. He brought the file with him. Wilkes coughed to clear his throat, leaning to his right, on hi good leg, and recapped his flask. "What's that you got there?"

"Everything Dr. Talmadge knew about Nancy Bradwin's condition. I should study it before the autopsy."

Wilkes nodded. "Judge Romney'll have that court order ready, nine o'clock in the mornin'." His voice was thick with booze; it sounded to Jackson as if he'd said "coat odda."

"Is this where you're going to do it?" Nhora asked as they went down the hail to the front door.

"No, Flax and Dakin have better facilities for an autopsy. Because Flax is the county coroner, I'll just be assisting."

"And you're sure she won't be disfigured—I mean, autopsies are really brutal, aren't they?"

"You won't notice a thing," Jackson assured her.

Wilkes was adroit with his crutches, but in going through the door he hung a rubber tip on the sill and nearly took a hard fall. Jackson and the Negro chauffeur caught him in time.

Wilkes swore under his breath. He was sweating heavily, his pride suffering. "Goddam deadwood. I'd make out better with it cut off!" When they had him upright he shot a look of special pleading to Jackson. "Maybe there's somethin' you could do?"

"The leg is paralyzed?"

"Yeah. Woke up one morning about a year ago and it was numb all over, like I might've slept on it wrong. My two oldest boys had to cay-ruh me into the house, you'd think I was senile. Well, I hoped it would get better by and by, but it's just deader'n
hell
. Looks bad, too, like that time I had a broken arm when I was a kid, after they took the cast off."

"Have you seen a specialist?"

Wilkes snorted. "I've seen forty of 'em. What they
specialize
in is bad guesses, and big bills, and no help at all. About all they had to say was that some nerve is affected—"

"The sciatic nerve."

"That's the one; they said the nerve sheath just disappeared, like it was eat up overnight. How can a thing like that happen to a man without any kind of warning." There was fear in his look this time—tomorrow it could be the other leg.

"I don't have a good answer, either," Jackson said reluctantly.

Everett John Wilkes brooded over this admission as they went down the walk to his Cadillac. The chauffeur hopped ahead to open the back door for him. But instead of getting in, Wilkes swung around on his crutches, stopping Nhora and Jackson as they were walking back to Nhora's car.

"Well, what do you think about it?" he demanded of Jackson. "Could you make do with what we got to offer here?"

"Excuse me?"

"Don't be deceived by the looks of the town, it's small but it's decent rich. Dasharoons ain't the only plantation in the county. We do need a doctor here, in the worst way. What do you say, Mora?"

"It's a wonderful idea, but Dr. Holley hasn't been here long enough to make a decision about—"

"I know it; I
know
: I'm merely askin' him to keep us in mind, if he thinks the Red Cross could spare him for the duration."

"I'm immensely flattered, Mr. Wilkes."

"Evvy. Chrissake."

"Evvy. It's a fine clinic. But you've taken me by surprise."

"We'll have a few drinks soon—talk it over. Y'all take care." He lowered himself into the back seat of the Cadillac, reaching for the flask in his coat pocket as soon as he was settled. The chauffeur closed the door.

"He drinks a lot, but he's only as drunk as he wants to be," Nhora said. They watched the Cadillac drive away, then turzted to her own car, a modest Chevrolet coupé. "I don't believe he likes you very much."

"He was patronizing when I married Boss, and shocked when Champ put me in charge of Dasharoons. I suppose he thinks I have—grand designs. I don't. I love Dasharoons, but it belongs to Champ. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Nhora opened the Chevy door and went blank for a vital second. Jackson saw the reflected gleam of a streetlight on the point of the sword that was aimed at her head and reached around her to slam the door shut. Nhora backed slowly away, mouth working, staring at the car. She backed all the way across the street and into deep shadow. Jackson heard her groan.

He opened the door again. There was a gardenia stench, cheap perfume, which he hadn't noticed before. It smelled inside the car as if a bottle had been uncorked and drained on the floorboards. The sword, or saber, had a straight blade about three feet long. It had been wedged hilt-first through the steering wheel. Jackson tested the edge of the saber with the back of his hand; it was sharp enough to shave with. He went around to the other side of the car, got in and worked the saber free. Nothing fancy about it; a duelist's weapon. A single gold star, wired to the hilt, dangled in the palm of his hand. He placed the saber in the trunk of the coupé and went to

Nhora.

She looked bloodless when he drew her out into the light; her skin was predictably cold as her body continued to adjust to the shock she'd received.

"What is he trying to
do
to me?" she cried.

"Clipper's?"

"Yes!"

"How could Early Boy get his hands on it?"

"The saber originally belonged to Boss, it was one of his cherished possessions. He gave it to Clipper for graduation. It should have been buried with Clipper, but Champ said no. The saber was in the attic at Dasharoons with all of Clipper's things. I don't know why we didn't just throw it away. Clipper was nothing but a vile, demented little monster,
and he killed my husband with that sword
!"

Jackson looked back at the Chevrolet, trying to fathom what Early Boy had in mind when he placed the saber there. No matter how hasty Nhora was about getting into her car it was unlikely she would have been hurt. Still, this seemed to be more than a scary prank; might there be some meaning in it, according to Early Boy's deranged logic?

"There was a gold star wired to the hilt; does that have any significance?"

Nhora shook her head in anguish. "I don't know, I can't think. Could we get out of here?"

Jackson drove. The odor of perfume was still strong in the car, even with the windows wide open. Nhora had a cigarette and said nothing other than to give directions until they reached the boundary of Dasharoons. Then she was able to relax, and to breathe without gulping air.

"What frightens me most is the way he gets around, and no one ever sees him."

"Early Boy has spent years living like a shadow. And he has a flair for the dramatic, as you know."

She turned her head to look at Jackson. "Do you think he wants to kill me?" she said, her voice even but a flare of panic in the eyes, like an animal with one foot in the grip of a trap.

"No. If that's what he wanted, he's had opportunities. He seems to be testing, challenging you. It's like a brutal club initiation, ritualistic in design. That's all I can make of it."

"But why?" she said, hopelessly, almost inaudibly. "I haven't done anything to him."

"Champ is very ill now, and unstable. For all practical purposes you're the boss at Dasharoons, and Early Boy may resent that."

"No matter what he thinks, or any of them think, I've done the job my husband would have done. I'll go away, for God's sake! I'll pack my bags tonight if that's what he wants."

She was a woman who cried suddenly, and violently, and got over it within a minute or two. Afterward she didn't touch her face; she angled the window vent and her tears dried in a slipstream of warm air. Her hair waved and tangled becomingly. Jackson glanced at her more than he needed to during the final mile home.

"You asked about the gold star," Nhora said, as if she'd been thinking of the saber again. "It meant that Clipper was first in his class at Blue Ridge for four years. Only a few other cadets have won it. Clipper led an exemplary public life. No one knew about the rot underneath, until it was much too late."

"What do you mean?"

"Just as Beau was—
tried
to be—Boss's conscience, Clipper was the dark side of Boss. No bones about it, Boss was a hell-raiser in his time. He had a good, honest streak of lust and he indulged himself, colored and white. But he treated his women with respect and affection. Clipper's sexuality was twisted, he used young girls shamefully. He left a diary behind that described orgies and sick fantasies. Champ and I both read it. Clipper expressed such contempt, such loathing, for sex, for what is human and necessary in all of us."

"Was there a clue in the diary to his maniacal behavior?"

"He made frequent references to girls of fourteen and fifteen, his favorite ages. Their pain and fear and—virgin blood intensified his pleasure."

Jackson nodded. "And his first victim in the chapel was his own fiancée. Then he ran wild."

"Yes, with all the guests screaming and trying to get out, and the old chapel shaking to pieces; they had to pull it down afterward—"

"What caused the shaking?"

"The chapel bell. It hadn't been rung for years, wasn't safe, there were cracks in the belfry. But the bell was somehow set in motion during the ceremony. It pounded away, dead silent they tell me, but so powerful the roof started to fall in. Champ told me later that he thought Clipper was all right up to the moment that bell began to toll—"

"But he couldn't hear it."

"He could
feel
it, all the guests could, the chapel shuddered with each stroke. When the panic began, people were trampled and smothered and cut by flying glass. All I know of it is the aftermath, the victims lying everywhere on the hospital grounds. I was in a dream state all that afternoon Shock, I suppose. I felt—outside of myself, walking two paces behind someone I didn't know. I was afraid I was going to have a breakdown. Champ got me through the worst of it, and I'd lay down my life for him now."

There was a plantation pickup truck—orange, with a white block letter
D
on the door—parked in front of the house when they arrived. Tyrone was sitting with his booted feet on the running board, holding the crudely bandaged left hand with his right.

"Even', doctor," he said with a strained smile. "I was waitin' on you."

"Tyrone, what happened?" Nhora cried. Dark blood was showing on the bandanna in which he'd wrapped his injured hand.

"It's that donkey engine at the number two gin. I reached around in the dark where I shouldn't put my hand anyway, and the pry bar slipped just a little. I think the knucklebone on the little finger's gone, and she's all tore up for sure."

"Come in the house and I'll have a look," Jackson said.

One of the maids brought his medical bag to the kitchen while Jackson soaked the bandanna loose from Tyrone's lacerated hand. The little finger was broken in two places and he would lose the nail, but not the use of the finger. Jackson cleaned and dressed it and applied a splint. Tyrone drank coffee with the other hand, holding his handsome head high and ignoring both the treatment and the pain while he listened to Nhora tell of her latest scare from Early Boy Hodges. She concluded with Jackson's hypothesis that Early Boy and Beau were the same man.