An Unmarked Grave (23 page)

"Hey, I understand"

She continued. "According to Homer's book, Houston
moved out in August of 1988. That was the month before
Homer died. Heart attack. I've kept the books ever since"

"I know it's been a long time, Mrs. Talley, but if I sent you
a picture of him, do you think you might be able to identify
him?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. Eighty-eight. That's twenty
years ago"

"But could you try? If you have e-mail, I can send it to
you"

"I'll try, but I can't promise nothing."

She gave me her e-mail address. I thanked her and
hung up.

Now all I needed were pictures of Gus Perry and Buck
Ford circa 1980 or so.

glanced at my watch. Just after three. Picking up the
morning copy of The Reuben Journal, I noted it had been
established in 1959, which meant they had archives well
prior to the eighties. I grabbed the phone book and jotted
down the address for the Journal.

That's where I might find my twenty-year-old pictures.

I met Jack coming in with the beer and snacks as I was
leaving. "Back in a few minutes," I said, brushing past him.

"But-"

I ignored him.

After explaining to the receptionist at the Journal that
I was doing historical articles on Elysian Hills, I followed
her back to the paper's archives.

Fifteen minutes later, I had mid-1980s pictures of Perry,
Ford, and, for good measure, Jim Bob Houston, copied to a
portable USB drive.

Thirty minutes later, the three shots were whizzing through
cyberspace to [email protected].

And five minutes later, she replied that she did not recognize any of the men.

Stunned, I stared at her message.

I opened my cell and called her.

"I'm sorry," she replied, "but none of them looked familiar. I have a good memory for faces. Those three were just
too young"

A tiny thought ignited in the back of my head. "How old
was he? Any idea?"

She hesitated. "I'd guess in his late sixties"

Thanking her, I hung up.

"Bad news, huh?"

I glanced at Jack. "Not good"

He grimaced. "Sorry"

Puzzled, I tried to revise my theory. The only good thing
to come from her answer was that Jim Bob Houston had not
rented the apartment on Ridge Avenue in Evanston. That
meant the likelihood of the skeleton's being Houston's was
even a greater possibility.

Gazing into space, I considered various possibilities.

I was convinced Ford and Perry were involved.

Ford had lied about the pickup, and Perry had denied
knowing Justin.

And then, Harlan Barton swore he had seen two men
burying something in the spaceman's grave. Later, he dug up
the grave, saw whoever was inside, but did not report what
he had witnessed to the local law. Why?

To me the only logical explanation still was that the local
law was involved. I remembered the somber remark of Harlan Barton. "On the surface, Elysian Hills looks like a simple little community, but there is a dark side that not many ever see."

I had a chilling feeling that I was stumbling into the dark
side of Elysian Hills.

Ford and Perry, I reminded myself, could have hired
someone to play the part of Jim Bob Houston. Even as I
considered the idea, I realized its drawbacks outweighed
the advantages.

Who could they hire to play the role of Jim Bob Houston
two or three times a year? And wouldn't that individual be
mighty curious as to what was going on? They couldn't have
hired anyone locally, for he would have known Jim Bob.

The more I considered the situation, the more confused I
became.

As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I seem to live in
a permanent state of confusion. I've never had the capability to cut to the heart of the matter succinctly.

Usually I blunder ahead, making one mistake after another. Unlike Al Grogan, one of my co-workers at Blevins
Security, I always struggle to put together logical step-bystep deductions to arrive at a valid solution.

To compensate, I figure if I keep plodding ahead, sooner
or later, I'll find what I'm seeking. After all, a person can't
be wrong all the time. And all I needed was to be right that
one time.

Jack grunted. "Stuck?"

Keeping my gaze on the laptop, I nodded. "Big-time"

"Well," he drawled, "read back over everything. Maybe
something will ring a bell"

I arched an eyebrow in skepticism, but after a few moments, I shrugged. What the heck? It couldn't hurt.

An hour later, I leaned back and rubbed my burning eyes.
I pushed back from the computer and grabbed my tweed
jacket. "I'm going to get some fresh air. Maybe a cup of
coffee and pie"

Jack raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Don't get lost"

The cold air was bracing, its sharpness filling my lungs
and clearing my head. The glittering stars seemed even more
vibrant in the frigid night. Hands jammed in my pockets, I
paced the galleries around the building, pondering my situation.

Thinking I might buy a lottery ticket since I'd had no
luck on my scratch-off tickets, I ambled over to the Valero
truck stop where a dozen or so rigs idled while their drivers
put themselves around a hot meal.

As I passed in front of a rumbling Freightliner, a voice
from the darkness between two of the giant rigs stopped me.
"Hey, mister."

I looked around as a slight figure in threadbare clothes
looked up at me.

"You spare a couple bucks?"

His battered fedora was pulled down over his eyes. A
couple of weeks' worth of whiskers covered his sepulcherthin face, and the stench of unwashed body emanated from
him even in the frigid air.

I peered into the shadows covering his face. There was
something familiar about him. "Sure. What's your name?"

He held out a bony hand. "John"

I caught my breath and whispered. "Boudreaux? John
Roney Boudreaux?"

He froze and stared up at me. "Who are you? I ain't done
nothing." He started to back away.

"Don't you recognize me, John? It's me. Tony. Tony
Boudreaux. I'm your son"

He just stared at me. The fear faded from his eyes. He
nodded. "I remember. Yeah, yeah, I remember good, boy"

The few times I'd run into my old man in the last few
years, he'd never stayed around long. He was like the feufollet, the Cajun fairy darting through the swamps, here
one moment, gone the next. Last I saw him was in Austin,
where he pilfered a statue of the goddess Diana from Danny
O'Banion and hocked it.

"How have you been?"

Relaxing, he cackled. "Still staying ahead of them, boy.
Like they say, maintaining my character by staying one step
ahead of the law"

I looked around, then spotted the restaurant. "You gotta
be hungry. How about something to eat?"

Fortunately, the restaurant was not crowded. We found a
table in a corner away from most of the other customers. He
was my father in name only, having deserted us when I was
a child. Consequently, when I did meet him, I never could
bring myself to call him Father.

He ordered two hamburgers and a beer. I ordered one
hamburger and a coffee.

As he sat hunched over the table, stuffing food into his
mouth, I simply watched. What do you say when your father
rides the rails and bums quarters on street corners for Thunderbird wine or Listerine mouthwash?

More than once I'd asked him to stay with me, told him I
would help him start over, but invariably he'd vanish, and
usually with whatever items of mine he could pawn.

"I have a room here at the motel. You want to spend the
night? Be nice and warm"

He looked up at me from under the battered brim of his
fedora, his eyes wary like those of a mouse waiting for the
cat to pounce. He shrugged. "I don't care"

"Good. It's settled, then"

I took another bite of hamburger and a swallow of coffee
and signaled our waitress for the bill.

Suddenly the loudspeaker called my name, asking me to
see the clerk at the cash register for a phone call. I fished a
twenty from my wallet and handed it to my old man. "Give
this to the waitress. I'll be right back"

It was Jack on the phone. "I hoped I'd catch you down
there. How about bringing me a couple hamburgers?"

I rolled my eyes. Where did he put it all? "Okay." I replaced the receiver and headed back to my table.

I hesitated at the dining room door. My old man had disappeared. I glanced at the restroom as I slid into my chair.
The unpaid check lay on the table. The remainder of my
hamburger had also disappeared.

Moments later, the waitress returned. "Cash or credit, sir?"
she asked sweetly.

I frowned. "What about the man who was here?"

"Oh, he left" She pointed to the side door. "He said you'd
take care of the bill"

I stared up at her in disbelief, and then I started laughing.
My old man had gotten me again. "All right," I said. "But put
two more hamburgers on there, will you please? I'll take
them with me"

A few minutes later, I stepped out into the frigid air. I looked up and down the interstate, wondering which way
John Roney Boudreaux had fled this time and where he
would spend such a cold night.

A strange sense of disappointment came over me. At first
I couldn't figure out why, but as I stared into the darkness, I
knew the answer. In my own way, I loved the old man, but
I sure would have liked to kick his scrawny rear. Even if I
did, I knew I'd never be able to convince him of what he was
missing. "Take care, old man," I muttered.

efore returning to my room, I circled the parking lot,
searching for a white Honda. There were none.

I turned the case over in my mind while I showered.
Dora Talley had not recognized any of the three pictures I
sent her. She claimed the man posing as Jim Bob Houston
was older, in his sixties. That was twenty years or so ago,
which would put him in his eighties or even early nineties
now, I told myself.

The only person around that age still alive in Elysian Hills
was Marvin Lewis. Impossible. It was probably another elderly member of the community who had long since passed
on. Still, I needed to check both theories out. I shook my
head and climbed into bed, but sleep refused to come. Marvin Lewis was too much on my mind.