Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder (8 page)

That was exactly what Rhodes had expected him to ask, but that didn’t mean he had a good answer for it.

“I’m looking into several things,” he said, which he knew would be too vague to satisfy Allen.

And it was.  He said, “What things?”

“Well, Mrs. Wilkie tells me that there’s some chance Rapper’s back in town.  You might remember him.”

“I remember, all right.  Could he be mixed up in this?”

“It’s a possibility.  And there are several other people who may or may not be involved.  I don’t want to mention any names until I have more to go on.”

“I can understand that.  I don’t want to put any pressure on you.  But you know how important it is to get this cleared up, don’t you?  We can’t have it affecting the team.”

Rhodes could have told him that the team was already affected, but he didn’t.  Allen should be able to figure that out for himself.

“Winning district has brought this town together like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Allen went on.  “We can’t have this murder tearing down what’s been built.”

Rhodes supposed that it was only natural for everyone to want to keep things running along as always, but at the same time he thought people should realize that murder wasn’t something that you could just smooth over.  It was quite likely that his investigation was going to involve a lot of people who would rather not be involved and upset a lot of people that the commissioner would rather not upset.

“I’ll do what I can to get it solved fast,” Rhodes said, which was true.  It was what he always did.

“That’s good enough for me,” Allen said.

Rhodes didn’t believe him for a minute.  What he really meant was “That’s good enough for me just as long as the football team goes right on to the next game as if nothing has happened.”

But something had happened.  One of the coaches was dead, and Rhodes was going to have to talk to the players.  Even if he didn’t talk to them, they were naturally going to be affected.

There was no need for Rhodes to say any of that.  Allen wouldn’t like it, and it wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“I appreciate your support,” Rhodes said, and then he left.

R
hodes stopped by the jail to tell Hack to get on his computer and see whether anyone in the county had bought a .32 pistol recently.

“Say, within the last couple of weeks.  That might give us a place to start.”

“Ever’body in Clearview already has a gun,” Lawton pointed out.  “Don’t you watch TV?  This is Texas.”

Hack said, “Besides, people don’t all buy their guns at Wal-Mart.  They buy ’em at flea markets.  If I was goin’ to buy one, that’s where I’d get it.”

“I thought you liked using that computer of yours,” Rhodes said.  “And while you’re at it, since everybody already has a gun, you might as well check that out, too.  Check everyone who’s got a .32 pistol registered.”

“I’ll check it out.  I never said I wouldn’t.  You want me to send Ruth out there to the Gottschalk place to back you up?  You always get in trouble when you don’t get back-up.”

“You can send her if she’s not busy,” Rhodes said, but he didn’t really think he’d need her.  He didn’t even plan to get out of his car.  How much trouble could he get in?

M
rs. Wilkie lived in a little brick house in Milsby, a tiny community that had once been a town with its own school and post office and businesses.  There was hardly a trace of it left now, just a few homes and some vacant buildings.  The school was used as a community center when it was used at all.

Rhodes switched on his headlights as he drove by Mrs. Wilkie’s house in the rain.  It was only the middle of the afternoon, but the combination of the clouds and the rain made the day as dark as early evening.  Rhodes thought that if Rapper were really camping out down by the lake, he’d be pretty wet by now.

Rhodes didn’t like camping himself.  He preferred the comforts of a real bed and central heat and air to sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the weather provided by nature.  But if you were in Rapper’s line of work, you didn’t necessarily want to check into the nearest motel.

Rhodes turned off on an unpaved dirt road made slick by the rain.  He drove slowly and carefully; it wouldn’t do to slide off into the ditch that ran alongside the road.  If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get out by himself.

The turn into the Gottschalk property was marked by a cattle guard.  There was no gate, and the cattle guard ratcheted under the tires as Rhodes drove across it.

He didn’t relish the idea of driving down the rutted road that led to the lake.  It was dangerously muddy and the rain was still falling.  Even more embarrassing than sliding into the ditch would be getting stuck in the mud.  However, he’d said he’d check on things, and it was too late to back out now.  Besides, there was no place to turn around.  That would mean getting off the road, and getting off the road, such as it was, would be even worse than staying on it.

So Rhodes kept on.  The trick to driving in the mud was to keep going, slowly but steadily.  If you stopped, you couldn’t get any traction, and you were likely to dig yourself a hole that you couldn’t get out of. 

At the top of a little hill, Rhodes looked out over the lake, which of course wasn’t really a lake at all but simply a large stock tank.

Because there hadn’t been much rain for several months, the lake was not as large as it sometimes was.  There was a large muddy margin between the bank and the water, which was being dimpled by the rain and riffled by the wind.

Down at the bottom of the hill near the lake, Rhodes saw the tents, two cheap one-man jobs probably bought at a discount store.  The motorcycles were beside the tents with canvas covers thrown over them.

 Sure enough, Rhodes thought.  Rapper was back in town.

Chapter Seven

R
hodes started down the hill.  He was sorry that Mrs. Wilkie had been right about the motorcycles, since the presence of Rapper was going to complicate things considerably.

Or maybe not.  Maybe he could tie the whole thing up in a neat package right now:  Rapper killed Brady Meredith in an argument about the payment for steroids.

Somehow he didn’t think it would be that easy, however.

When he got to the bottom of the hill, he looked around for a place to park.  There was a wide, flat grassy area near the tank dam about thirty yards from the tents.  He didn’t want to walk that far in the rain, but he didn’t suppose he had much choice in the matter.  Anyway, the rain seemed to be slowing down a bit.

Rhodes drove onto the grass, parked, and got out.  The rain was no longer falling hard; it was more like a heavy mist in the air now, but it clung to his hair and soaked into his shirt and pants.  The grass was so wet that cold water was squishing in his shoes by the time he’d walked halfway over to the tents.  He told himself that if he ever bought himself a Western hat, he’d get some boots, too.  Waterproof boots.

By the time Rhodes got near the tents, Rapper was already standing in front of one of them looking at him.

Rhodes had never liked Rapper, because there had been nothing about him to like.  He’d proved himself to be a congenital liar and a bully.  He was short and pudgy, with his thinning hair greased straight back in a widow’s peak.  He was wearing dirty jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder seams, and even in the dim light under the lowering clouds Rhodes could see the Los Muertos gang tattoo on his arm.  He looked a little like Eddie Munster, grown old and gone to seed.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Rapper said.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever be seeing you again, Rapper.  You must like it in Blacklin County.”

Rapper held up a hand that was missing the ends of a couple of fingers, thanks to his last encounter with Rhodes.

“Not much,” he said.  “You know, I think if you’d cared about me, you’d have looked for the rest of my fingers.  Maybe I could’ve had them reattached.  They can do stuff like that now, even in backwoods town like yours.  These stumps hurt like hell when it rains like this.”

Rhodes wasn’t sympathetic.  “Then you should stay out of the rain.  In fact, maybe you should just stay out of the county.  Why don’t you pack your tent and move on before it gets completely dark.  That way we won’t have a problem.”

Rapper turned to the tent next to his own.  “You hear that, Nellie?  The sheriff thinks we oughta move on.  What do you think?”

Nellie came out of the tent.  He was pretty much as Rhodes remembered him, thinner and more fit-looking than Rapper, with wavy graying hair slicked back on the sides.

“You tryin’ to tell us what to do, Sheriff?” he asked.  “Seems like you’d have figured out by now that Rapper and I don’t take very well to bein’ told things.  Ain’t that right, Rapper?”

Rapper took a step toward Nellie and thumped him in the chest.  “I’ll speak for myself, Nellie.  When I ask you what you think, don’t you ever try to speak for me.”

“Sorry, Rapper,” Nellie said, cringing a little.  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And it won’t happen again,” Rapper said.

“And it won’t happen again.”  Nellie backed up a step.  “I promise.”

“I guess I can’t blame you for what you said, Sheriff,” Rapper said, turning back to Rhodes.  “I guess it’s just natural for you to get a little uppity with me, when even the help doesn’t seem to know its place.”

“I’m not getting uppity,” Rhodes said.  “I’m telling you to move on out of here.”

“I heard you, but we’re not moving anywhere.  We like it here.”

“Yeah,” Nellie said.  “We like it here.”

Rapper didn’t chastise him this time.  Apparently it was all right for him to back up the boss, just as long as he didn’t try to express the boss’ thoughts.

“While you’re here, then, we might as well have a little talk,” Rhodes said.

“What about?” Rapper asked.

“About where you were last night around midnight.”

“Why that’s pretty hard to remember,” Rapper said.  “Can you remember where we were, Nellie?”

“Not me.  I was too drunk.”

Rhodes looked at the two men.  In the mist and the dark, standing in front of their tents, they looked like a couple of Neanderthals.  All they needed was a couple of stone axes and a club.

Rapper stared back at Rhodes unconcernedly.  He reached under his jacket and brought out a red-and-white crushproof box of cigarettes.  Marlboros, Rhodes noticed as Rapper stuck one in the center of his tight little mouth and lit it with a green plastic lighter.

“It’s too bad that you can’t remember,” Rhodes said.  “I’ll have to take you in for questioning, then.”

“What’s the charge?” Rapper asked.

“Trespassing.”

“You must be getting forgetful in your old age, Sheriff,” Rapper said, smoke curling around his head.  “You know this land belongs to Nellie’s uncle, and Nellie’s uncle said it’d be just fine for us to stay here for as long as we wanted to.”

“Even considering what happened the last time you were here?” Rhodes asked.

“We talked to him real polite,” Rapper said.  “We told him we’d clean up after ourselves and that we wouldn’t piss in his lake.”

“So what’re you gonna do now, Sheriff?” Nellie asked.  “Go away and leave us alone?”

“No, I’m not going to do that.  I’m going to take you in.”

“You got no grounds,” Rapper said.

“Sure I have.  Suspicion of murder.”

“You must be crazy,” Rapper said.  He threw his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it.  “We didn’t kill anybody.  You take us in and we’ll be out in ten minutes.”

“Maybe,” Rhodes said.  “Maybe not.”

Rapper dragged a hand across his face to wipe away some of the water that had gathered there.  He was still smiling.

“You’re gonna need some help if you try that, Sheriff.”

“And I don’t see anybody else around here but you,” Nellie said.  “And us.  Not unless they’re hidin’ in that county car.  You got anybody in the trunk?”

Rhodes wondered where Ruth was.  She should have been there by now.  Then he remembered that he’d told Hack not to send her if she was busy.  Maybe she’d been working on something.

But that wouldn’t necessarily have mattered.  Hack would have sent her anyway.  He never listened to Rhodes.

If he’d sent her, though, where was she?  Rhodes was beginning to regret having come out to the lake on his own.  He was getting too old for this sort of thing.  He reached for his sidearm, and as soon as he did, Nellie lunged for him, dropping his head low and bellowing like a bull.

Rhodes might have gotten the pistol out had he not taken a step backward in his surprise at Nellie’s charge.  His foot slipped in the mud, and he was halfway to the ground when Nellie hit him chest high, driving him backward.

They hit the ground and skidded several feet in the muck.  Nellie had his arms wrapped around Rhodes and was butting him in the chin with the top of his head.  Rhodes gave up on trying to draw the pistol and concentrated on trying to break Nellie’s hold before Rapper got to them and did something Rhodes would regret.

Just as he thought that, Nellie did something that Rhodes regretted — he broke the reading glasses in Rhodes’ shirt pocket.  Rhodes felt rather than heard the crack of the plastic frames.

For some reason that made Rhodes really angry.  It was bad enough that he was rolling around in the mud with a cheap thug on top of him, but now his glasses were broken.

Not only that, he could hear the roar of a motorcycle being started.

He brought up a knee and slammed it hard into Nellie’s scrotum.  Nellie let out a high-pitched scream and let Rhodes go, rolling to the side and clutching himself while assuming the fetal position.

Rhodes drew his pistol, but it was too late to do anything with it unless he wanted to shoot Rapper in the back as he rode away.

He was so upset that he actually considered it for about half a second.  Then he put the pistol back in its holster and went over to where Nellie was squirming on the ground.

“Looks like your buddy ran out on you,” he said.