Dead Soldiers (21 page)

He’d pretty much memorized the entire contents of the mystery section by the time Mason emerged, but he hadn’t found anything that he especially wanted to read. Just as he started for the door, he spotted an old Charles
Willeford
novel in the “collectibles“ rack by the counter. It was a Beacon Book called
The High Priest of California
, and there was a “bonus“ novel called
Wild Wives
in the same volume. It was priced at five dollars, which Burns thought was reasonable enough, so he bought it.

Unfortunately the delay had caused him to miss Mason. Her big pink Caddy was pulling away from the curb by the time he got outside. He jogged to his Camry, got in, and followed her.

B
urns had no idea where Mary Mason was going, but he thought she must be headed home. She went past the college, turned right and started toward one of Pecan City’s residential sections. But after a few blocks she turned left, turned left again at the next corner, and drove back toward town.

Burns followed at what he felt was a discreet distance. As usual, there wasn’t much traffic on the streets, and he had no trouble keeping the pink Cadillac in sight. Following a car like that, he wouldn’t have had any trouble if they’d been in Houston at the afternoon rush hour.

Mason went back through town, and when she came to the intersection where there had once been a traffic circle, she turned right on the highway leading out of town.

Maybe she was making her getaway. Burns was determined to follow her, no matter what. He had a feeling that he was making progress at last.

Boss Napier had obviously been right about Bruce. The man had something to hide, all right, and Mason was the key to it. Burns would confront her and find out everything, or so he told himself. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to confront her. Maybe she would lead him straight to the evidence that he was looking for.

What she led him to was the Pecan City Park. It was several acres of land on the bank of a wide creek. Mason turned in, and Burns followed.

The park was shaded by tall pecan trees. There were picnic tables scattered here and there, swings for the kids, and a jogging trail that wound through the trees and along the bank of the creek. Burns had heard that the high school students liked to come out to the park at night and drive to the more secluded areas toward the back of the acreage, where they would do whatever it was that kids that age did these days. Burns didn’t think he wanted to know.

On the other hand, maybe he should give it some thought, as Mary Mason didn’t stop at any of the tables, and she didn’t appear to be there to get her exercise on the jogging trail. She was driving straight, or as straight as she could on the winding gravel road, to the back of the park.

Burns stopped his car. He couldn’t go any farther without making it painfully obvious to Mason that she was being followed, so he pulled off by the road beside one of the picnic tables and stopped to wait for her to return.

He opened the book he had bought, but he’d read only the opening sentence before it dawned on him that Mason might be meeting someone in the secluded area in the rear of the park. If that was the case, then Burns wanted to know about it.

He put his book on the seat and got out of the car. He couldn’t drive back there, he thought, because Mason and whoever she was meeting would hear him coming. So he would sneak up on them on foot. Burns sidled through the trees, trying to conceal himself behind them as he made his way through the park.

It was cool under the trees, and Burns could hear the creek flowing nearby. There was no one else in the park, except for Mason, and she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Burns felt a little like Natty
Bumppo
, the
Leatherstocking
, slinking through the primeval forest in a James
Fenimore
Cooper novel.

After a couple of minutes of slinking, Burns could see the telltale pink of Mason’s Cadillac, a sight the likes of which Natty
Bumppo
had certainly never seen. The car was parked between two bushes near the point where the parked ended at a tall chain-link fence. There was no way Mason could have gotten over the fence, so Burns knew that she was nearby. He just didn’t know where.

He stood behind the thick trunk of a pecan tree and tried to see some sign that Mason had met another person. He didn’t see anyone or hear anyone. He didn’t see another car. He didn’t even see Mason.

Well, she had to be there somewhere. Burns took a step forward and stepped on a rotten twig. As soon as he heard it crack under his foot, he thought of Natty
Bumppo
again, more specifically of Mark Twain’s comment that the
Leatherstocking
Series should have been called the Broken Twig Series. Burns knew that he had announced his presence as carelessly as any of the inept characters in Cooper’s books. Now all he could do was wait until a hostile Mingo came to take his scalp, such as it was.

But no one came for his scalp, not even Mary Mason, so Burns took another step or two in the direction of her car. He could see now that there was no one inside it, so Mason was meeting someone, somewhere. All he had to do was find them.

He stood behind another tree and listened for a voice. He still could hear nothing other than the sound of the creek, some birds, and a squirrel that was chattering not far away.

Using his suddenly acquired skill in the craft of the forest, Burns deduced that the squirrel was no doubt angry because it had been disturbed by someone who didn’t belong in the park. So he started off in the direction of the chattering.

He hadn’t gone far when he found Mary Mason. Or, to be more accurate, she found him.

Burns heard a movement behind him and turned just in time to see Mason’s well-aimed handbag heading for his face at a high rate of speed. He wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way, but he did manage to turn a little to the left, which was a good thing. Judging from the weight of the handbag when it hit the side of his head, he was pretty sure it would have broken his nose had it hit him there.

He staggered to the side, ran into a pecan tree, bounced off, and barely managed to duck under the handbag as it swiped at his head again. He wondered how Mason could handle it so easily. She wasn’t a large woman, and he was pretty sure there was a bowling ball concealed inside the purse.

“It’s only me,“ Burns said, which he knew was awfully lame, but he couldn’t think of anything else.

“I know it’s you, you slimy bastard,“ Mason said, swinging the purse at him again.

Burns dodged behind the pecan tree he’d bounced against, and the purse cannoned into the trunk. Burns was surprised that pecans didn’t rain down all around him, but then it wasn’t the season for pecans.

“You thought I didn’t see you spying on me at the bank,“ Mason said. “But I did.“

She made a feint to the right and Burns dodged to the left, looking at her from around the trunk. He didn’t feel like
Leatherstocking
now. He felt more like Elmer
Fudd
facing a berserk Daffy Duck in some bizarre Warner Brothers cartoon.

“I wasn’t spying on you,“ he said.

Mason leapt to the left, and Burns jumped back to the right. When he peered out from behind the tree again, Mason said, “You were spying. Neal told me all about it.“

“What is it with you and Neal?“ Burns said, and then he realized that he had just asked a very stupid question. Any woman in Pecan City, except possibly
Bunni
, could have told him the answer to that one.

“It’s none of your business,“ Mason said, which didn’t answer the question but which pretty much confirmed what Burns was already thinking. She hadn’t been seeing Bruce about anything related to banking, that was for sure.

“Look,“ Burns said, “I feel like a fool. I’m going to come out from behind this tree, and I want you to promise not to hit me.“

Mason looked almost disheveled. A few strands of hair had escaped the hive and were dangling in her face, and her make-up was streaked. He doubted that many people had seen her in that condition.

“I’m not promising you anything,“ she said, but she backed up a step.

Burns came from behind the tree, his arms spread, his hands open with the palms outward. It was, he thought, the way Natty
Bumppo
would have demonstrated to an irate Mingo that he meant no harm.

“I just want to tell you,“ he said, “that I know your personal life is your own business and that I don’t mean to pry into it. It’s just a coincidence that I saw you at the bank today.“

Mason snorted. It wasn’t a polite, ladylike little snort like heroines in romance novels gave when told something they didn’t believe. It was a loud snort of derision.

“And I suppose that you followed me here to the park by coincidence, too,“ she said.

“Well, no, I have to admit that I did it on purpose.“

“You’re darned right you did, you little sneak. I have a good mind to report you to Gwen Partridge.“

Burns relaxed a little. At least she hadn’t threatened to report him to Boss Napier.

“Why don’t you go ahead and call her,“ he said. “That is, if you didn’t break your cell phone when you bashed me in the head with your purse.“

“I wish I’d bashed you harder, you little sneak.“

Burns didn’t think it would to any good to tell her he wasn’t a sneak. Mainly because he was one, more or less. The fact that he was a sneak in the service of a good cause, or thought he was, didn’t really excuse him, he supposed.

“You bashed me hard enough,“ he said.

“No I didn’t. You’re still walking and talking.“

Burns was a little surprised at the intensity of feelings. He wouldn’t blame her for being a little upset with him, but she was more than a little upset. She was a
lot
upset. So naturally he wondered why.

“Is there some reason why you think you have to keep your relationship with Neal Bruce a secret?“ he asked.

“See? I knew you were spying on me, you little sneak.“

“Minus ten for repetition and lack of originality.“

“You—what?“

“Once an English teacher, always an English teacher. That’s three times now you’ve called me a
little sneak
. You’ll have to come up with something better than that.“

Mason grinned. “All right. How about this: You scum-sucking pig.“

“I’m afraid I’d have to fail you. Plagiarism is unforgivable, even if you’re only plagiarizing Marlon Brando.“

“It expresses what I want to say, though.“

“I’m sure it does, but it’s not getting us anywhere. Why don’t we go to a table, sit down, and talk this over like rational people.“

Mason started to say something, but she didn’t. She just stood there looking at him, her purse dangling from her right hand.

“Did you ever think about playing softball?“ Burns asked her. “You might be pretty good at it.“

“What does softball have to do with anything?“

“The college softball team lost its right fielder yesterday. We need a replacement.“

“Well it won’t be me. Come on. We’ll go have that talk.“

She started for her Cadillac. Burns didn’t want to ride with her. He’d already been grappled in an elevator. He didn’t want to be grappled in a Caddy. He said, “I’ll meet you at my car.“

M
ason was sitting at the picnic table near
Burns’s
Camry when he got there. Her pink car was parked so that he couldn’t get his own out on the road again without considerable maneuvering.

“I wasn’t going to try to escape,“ he said.

“I’m the one who was being followed,“ Mason told him. Her hair was back in place, and she had even done something about her make-up. “So I thought I’d leave myself in the best position to get away. What did you want to talk about?“

Burns sat across from her and rested his arms on the concrete table.

“Neal Bruce,“ he said.

I
t didn’t take long for Burns to get the story. Neal Bruce had been married and divorced twice, but he still believed that he had a reputation to guard. After all, Mary Mason explained, he lived in a conservative Texas town and worked in a conservative occupation.

Burns wondered if Boss Napier would have told her that
conservative Texas town
was a redundancy. Probably not, though with Napier you never could tell.

At any rate, Mason told Burns that although she and Bruce were in love and planned to be married, Bruce thought that they should keep their relationship secret until they were ready to make some sort of public announcement.

It didn’t make much sense to Burns. Mason and Bruce were both unmarried adults, and they could do whatever they pleased. He didn’t see why there would be any objections, and he told Mason as much.

“That shows how much you know. People in this town don’t have much to talk about, so when they get hold of something, they make the most of it. Neal and I don’t want to be the topic of their discussions.“

It was all Burns could do not to say that such considerations had apparently never bothered her before, but somehow he managed to control himself.