Champagne for Buzzards (21 page)

At the top of the stairs Tully swung back and raised his hand to stop me. “You and Marley get out of here,” he ordered. “Head for Jacaranda and tell the cops in Jac what went down here.”

“It's too late for that,” I said. “We're staying.” Tully said “Listen to me…” but I was blocking the stairs. Sheriff Hozen pushed me aside and then Boomer, coming behind him, elbowed me in the side and jammed me against the rickety railing.

“Hey,” Tully yelled. He grabbed me and kept me from pitching over the rail to the concrete below. Neither the sheriff nor Boomer looked back to see if I fell.

“Are you all right?” Tully didn't wait for my answer but started after Boomer, saying, “I'll throw the little shit out of the mow.”

I grabbed the back of his shirt and held him back. “Let's just get through this and get them out of here.”

That's when Marley started singing. The men in the loft stopped stomping about, and fell silent, more shocked than if gunfire had broken out. Don't ask me why Marley started singing — she just started singing some Spanish lullaby. Maybe it was to comfort the guy hiding in the straw or it could be she'd finally lost it. Standing at the top of the stairs she started singing in a pure sweet voice, her hands folded in front of her, and her face looking to heaven.

Sheriff Hozen wasn't impressed. “Get on with it,” he yelled. The men turned away from Marley and started shifting bales. Some men climbed to the top of the mow and tried to shift bales there while others were doing the same below. The air was filled with dust and bits of chaff.

It was chaos and unbearably hot. Someone opened the doors at each end of the mow to give us some relief but even with them open it was well over a hundred in the hayloft.

And there were way too many people in the loft for the searchers to be efficient. An open aisle, not more than four feet wide, ran down the center of the mow between the bales. In the roof was an open trap door and below it was a larger trap door, closed now, for throwing down bales into the center aisle between the stalls.

The center aisle of the loft soon filled with bales. We climbed up on them to keep from being swamped. Some searchers where throwing bales out the open door to the mow. Tully protested but it didn't stop.

The pitchfork was passed up from the bottom of the stairs and a man started stabbing in and around bales, waiting after each thrust to see if there were any cries of pain.

Marley sat down on a bale of hay, hands folded in her lap, feet flat on the floor and sang, looking up to the heavens like some saint waiting to be sacrificed. I wanted to scream at her to shut up.

Uncle Ziggy went over and sat down beside her. “There, there, honey, don't you carry on so, these fools will be gone soon enough and it'll be all over, no one's goin' to hurt you long as old Ziggy is here, no harm goin' to come to you, we just goin' ta sit here and let these fools get on with their dirty business, you going to be fine, but I don't know what this country is comin' to when goons can just walk onto a man's property and scare the daylights out of the womenfolk, that isn't what we fought for.” Ziggy's babble and Marley's continued singing formed a chorus as men stooped and lifted, shifting bales from one place to another and then back again. They were getting in each other's way. On the stairs the searchers who couldn't fit into the loft, watched or climbed on down to wait for it to be over.

A line of sweat slipped down my spine and hysteria bubbled up in my throat. Between Ziggy's monologue and Marley's singing, and the hundred-degree temperature in the loft, I was about to lose it.

And the singing and the heat was getting to the men. The violent energy that had shot them into the barn was dissipating. Men were mumbling and giving up, heading for the stairs to wait as the watchers on the stairs drifted back down out of the heat.

Tully whispered to me, “Go.” There was panic in his voice. He shoved me towards the stairs. “Hey, Sheriff,” Tully hollered.

The sheriff turned to look at Tully and everyone else stopped to listen. “You don't need these women here do you, Sheriff?”

“Nope, get them out of here.”

“Come on, Marley,” Tully said. “You and Sherri go to the house; it's too hot up here for you.” But Marley sang on, her eyes firmly locked on heaven.

Tully bent over, his hands on his knees and gently coaxed, “C'mon, Marley.” But Marley wasn't going anywhere. Tully looked around at me and asked, “She all right?” “Damned if I know,” I replied

“Take Sherri to the house, Marley.” It was a nice try on Tully's part, this subtle change in tactics, but Marley wasn't moving. She had found her Baptist duty and she was doing it. Hallelujah, sister. Me, I was ready to run, all finished with being brave and defiant. I edged to the top of the stairs.

That's when a shout went up.

A gun went off. There was cursing and an incredible crash as a body rolled from the top of the mow to the bottom.

The noise echoed in my head. Everyone swung to face the shooter. Boomer Breslau held a handgun in his left hand. A hole in the tin roof sent a shaft of light down to the floor. At his feet lay one of the deputies.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Sheriff Hozen. The deputy groaned and rolled over. “He isn't dead,” I said stupidly.

The deputy, red-faced and sweating like he'd climbed into a shower with his clothes on, got to his feet, swearing non-stop at Boomer.

“Boomer, you crazy bastard, what have you done?” the sheriff yelled. “What in hell happened?”

“Gun just went off,” Boomer said. “Not used to having it in my left hand.”

The deputy pointed at Boomer. “The bale I was on rolled over. This idiot panicked and damned near shot me.”

“Never did,” protested Boomer, “wasn't even pointed at you.” Boomer reached out with his damaged right hand and shoved the deputy. His grimace of pain said this was a mistake. The deputy shoved back. Boomer was driven backwards onto the hay bales.

The sheriff, yelling at the top of his lungs, got between them. “You two get your sorry asses downstairs and out of my sight.”

I stepped back behind Tully as Boomer slouched by. Sheriff Hozen took off his hat and wiped his forehead and the sweat band of the hat. “All right then, what have we got left to search here?”

“Think we've done it all, Sheriff,” a beefy guy said. Sheriff Hozen didn't look happy. He looked from one end of the loft to the other and then his eyes fell on Marley. She'd stopped singing when the gun discharged, which told me she hadn't completely gone on a no-return visit to Gagaland. “Mike, you and Joe get her off that bale. She likes it so well it must be protecting something.”

Marley started singing again. Deputy Mike Quinn and the beefy guy lifted Marley off the bale and redeposited her on the opposite side of the aisle. Marley kept singing but I heard the deputy whisper, “I'm real sorry about this, miss.”

The officers tossed the bales aside where she'd been sitting. There was nowhere to put them. The aisle was already filled with bales. They threw more on top, forcing me and some of the searchers to the stairs. Uneasy at being separated from Tully, I scanned the bottom of the stairs for any sign of Boomer.

Finally Sheriff Hozen swore and said, “All right let's get started on the house.”

That's when Marley snapped out of her singing trance. She jumped to her feet and said, “Oh no, you don't.” She bolted for the stairs like a madwoman, pushing and burrowing though the people on the stairs and yelling for them to move it.

Did she think Ramiro was hiding in the attic of the house? Was that why they hadn't found him? Did she know something I didn't? I took off down the stairs in her wake.

Outside, Boomer lounged against his pickup. He shot to his feet when he saw me. I ran faster.

At the door to the kitchen Marley nearly locked me out. “Take off your shoes and lock the door behind you,” she said and then she ran through the house to the front door. I did as I was told on both counts and followed her to the front hall.

“What's happening? Why are you trying to keep them out? If we couldn't keep them out of the barn, how do you think you're going to keep them out of the house?”

“I'm not trying to keep them out,” she said. “Don't be stupid. They just aren't going through my clean house with their boots on. No one gets in this house unless he takes off his shoes.”

Through the latched screen door she informed the sheriff of her terms for entry. Beside her, Dog growled low in his throat, threatening.

“Open this damn door or I'll pull it off the hinges,” the sheriff yelled. Dog started barking in earnest while the sheriff's men sat on the railing to pull off their boots. A madwoman protecting polished floors was something they all understood and after dropping their boots onto the porch, they entered the house with their hats in their hands. I held Dog by the collar as they shuffled shamefacedly past Marley saying, “Sorry, ma'am.”

“And I don't want your dirty pawprints over everything.”

“No, ma'am,” replied the men respectfully.

Wet and miserable, they shuffled into the hall. My mother, Ruth Ann, the demented Southern belle from the trailer park, would be sympathizing with them and asking if they wanted a cold drink…course, she'd have asked the devil himself to sit down and get comfortable if he was a guest in her house. I'd long ago figured out that wanting to be kind was what led to all her troubles and her bad choices in men. She'd let more than one sorry-assed loser move in because she felt sorry for him. Marley was made of sterner stuff. “Just see that you put everything back the way you found it,” she ordered. “Yes, ma'am,” was the soft reply.

The sheriff scowled at her and said, “You, Mike, take half the men and start upstairs.” Deputy Quinn tapped men on the shoulder and pointed upstairs. The men silently climbed the stairs as Mike Quinn followed. They'd lost their taste for the job.

The others stood shuffling their feet and waiting for orders. They were embarrassed and uncomfortable rather than threatening. That could change in an instant. The lives and freedom of some of these men were at stake. They still could turn dangerous again without warning.

Holding Dog by the collar, I shoved Ziggy ahead of me down the hall. I opened the powder-room door and pushed Dog inside.

In the kitchen, I sat Uncle Ziggy down onto a kitchen chair, ran a damp cloth over his face to cool him, and then started hacking away at the plastic tie binding his wrist. I tried to hurry.

Any moment the sheriff was going to remember he had a prisoner and lock Ziggy in a cruiser. I didn't want that to happen.

“Go outside,” I told Ziggy when the band finally gave way. “Get in your truck and go for a drive until they leave.”

Sheriff Red Hozen was desperate. There was a frantic edge to the guy that was getting worse the longer this went on. Spinning out of control, he was becoming more intense, more frantic, and my concern now was to make sure that he didn't take Uncle Ziggy away.

It wouldn't be a calm, routine arrest. He'd take his frustration out on Ziggy, might even decide that Ziggy could tell him what he wanted to know and not mind how he got his information. Uncle Ziggy could have a terrible accident while in his custody.

On top of this, Uncle Ziggy would not behave well if he were arrested, wouldn't wait calmly until we got a lawyer. He would shout his indignation and disgust to the rooftops.

Uncle Ziggy rubbed the red welts on his wrists. “Nope, staying right here, they want me they can take me but I ain't going anywhere, not leavin' you and Tully, no way no how, never ran in my life and I'm too old to develop new habits.” He went on grumbling and rubbing his wrists on his way to the fridge. Taking out a beer, he said “Sons of bitches acting like they're above the law, it ain't right.” He handed me the beer and got one out for himself.

“The sheriff may forget about you if he doesn't see you.”

“I'm staying,” he said and shuffled off to watch the search with his beer in his hand.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. Where in hell was Ramiro? Why hadn't they found him? I sat there letting the cold liquid slide down my throat and waiting for the next piece of bad news.

My cell rang. It was Clay. I'd forgotten that Brian was up in Cedar Key with Clay. Brian was working out the refinancing deal with him. I hadn't thought of that when I'd called Brian. Brian had been waiting for Clay when he came out of a meeting and told him about the search of the barn. I tried to explain the situation to Clay. It did not go well. I hung up, promising to call him back and explain everything as soon as the sheriff left. I shut off my phone.

Marley stuck her head in the door. “That nice young officer, Mike Quinn, just asked me out. What do think?”

“Think you better get your shots against peckerwood before you say yes.”

“You've become truly negative when it comes to men.” She came the rest of the way through the door, letting it swing shut behind her, and reached for my beer.

I leaned close to Marley. “Why didn't they find him?” I whispered.

She shrugged. “Don't know.” She tilted the beer up and emptied it down her throat. “I don't think I mind peckerwood.”

“Let's get through this before you make any rash judgments.”

“Fine.” She set the empty back on the table. “Come help me watch these guys so they don't pocket anything.”

Her keen delight in possessions was even stronger than fear, or maybe now the searchers had left the barn she thought the worst was over, relaxing back into the comfort of things known, like keeping the floors clean.

But we weren't out of the woods yet, weren't even close to the edge of our woods. “After your imitation of a Christian martyr waiting for the lions they wouldn't dare touch anything.”

“One can only hope,” she said and went off to make sure. An ATV roared to life. I went to the screen door. Boomer peeled around the other vehicles and charged towards the house. Torn between running for help and wanting to know what he was up to, I braced myself on the door frame and waited for him. At the edge of the porch steps he stopped. He looked up at the screen door. “I'm coming for you, bitch,” he yelled.

He peeled away, heading for his pickup. Hardly slowing, he drove his ATV up onto the flatbed trailer he was towing. I watched as he jumped from the gate and lifted the ramp, struggling with the locking mechanism.

“What are you planning, Boomer?” Fear made me wrap my arms around myself and hug my anxiety to me.

Something moved on the roof of the barn, catching my eye. “Oh, God, no.”

Boomer was focused on the house, planning his revenge, and didn't see what I saw.

“Please,” I prayed. “Please don't let Boomer turn. Don't let him look up.”

Boomer stamped to the open door of his truck, climbed in and slammed the door behind him.