Death at the Black Bull (2 page)

T
he sun rose from the earth in white heat. Virgil squinted in its light even though it was not yet seven. He stood on the porch, his second cup of coffee in his hand, contemplating his immediate future. A movement caught his eye. He saw the slight figure of a man emerge from one of the barns. He knew Cesar had started his day even earlier than he had. While he sipped his black coffee, he watched the man's quiet movements as he went in and out of the paired barns. At last he emerged, carrying a small basket. Virgil watched and waited.

“Doesn't look like a full basket.”

“Too hot . . .” Virgil stepped aside as the man walked past, then followed him into the kitchen, swallowing the remnants of his coffee. Cesar went directly to the refrigerator. After he placed five or six eggs in a bowl on a shelf inside, he closed the door, placed the basket on the counter, and poured the last of the coffee in a mug. Virgil watched as he took his first swallow.

“I'm probably gone all day. Don't bother checking the stock tanks. When I get home this evening, I'll do it. Jack could use the exercise. It'll be cooler then.”

Cesar didn't reply.

“Buddy Hinton's gone missing . . . I gotta look into it.”

Again Cesar said nothing.

“You want to tell me anything?” He looked at the man he had known all his life. The dark, weathered face showed little change; only in the black eyes was there a hint.

“Maybe, a girl . . . a picker at Hayward Ranch. There's a bunch there already getting things ready and helping with the cattle even though harvest is a long way off . . .”

“Okay . . . I'll check.” Virgil stood and walked toward the door. “See you tonight. Take it easy today, old man.”

“Old man,” Cesar said.

Virgil half smiled and stepped out onto the porch. He got into his car. Jack and three other horses galloped across the field that bordered the county road, heading for the barn as Virgil drove by. It was a scene he'd witnessed as long as he could remember, but it never failed to get his blood racing. He hit the horn, then swerved around a tractor pulling a hay wagon.

The ride into Hayward took less than fifteen minutes. Although it was the county seat, there wasn't a lot to recommend it. The population had hung in for the last decade at about ten thousand. The nonlegals didn't count in that figure, though everyone knew that without them there would be a lot less reason for the majority of the ten thousand to stay. It was the kind of town where a dog could take a nap in the middle of Main Street during the day with little fear of becoming a traffic casualty. Virgil drove around the back and parked in the dirt lot.

“Coffee's got a few more minutes, Virgil.” Rosie was not the kind to waste time on formality. She and Dave had been with Virgil ever since he became sheriff. Virgil looked at the clock hanging on the wall over her head. It was just eight thirty.

“Hope you're not looking for overtime, coming in this early.”

“As if,” Rosie said. “By the way, did Jimmy catch up with you last night?”

“Yes. He told me about Buddy. I'm going to look into it today if he hasn't shown up.”

“Well he hasn't. Viola called about ten minutes before you got in. She said they haven't seen him. He never came home. Charlie's been out looking. No trace of him or his pickup. Maybe you should go look for sign.”

“Look for sign?”

“Well, I always heard you people could track a duck across water.”

“Yeah . . . well that's only if you're FBI.”

“FBI?”

“Full-Blooded Indian,” he said. “Remember, I'm only a half-breed.”

“Does that mean you're only right half the time?”

“Hey, don't forget, you're talking to the guy who can lock you up and throw away the key.”

“Yeah. I know. Next, you'll be taking out the handcuffs. You into that bondage thing, Virgil?”

“Not with a married woman, especially one that's got a husband that can shoot like yours. By the way, to get professional for a minute . . . Where is Dave?”

“He slept over last night at the substation. Alex was going to meet him this morning and they were going to look into that report of cattle gone missing over near Redbud.”

“Cattle rustling. Guess the Old West is alive and well.”

“In this economy, it's probably just somebody trying to cut down on their meat bill.”

“You may be right, but we still can't ignore it. Tell Dave if it's like that to call me before he does anything. We don't want some poor guy going to jail for trying to put meat on the table for his kids. You can get me on the radio. I'm heading over to talk to Wade Travis to see if he can point me in the direction Buddy might have gone. Then I'll be going to Hayward Ranch.”

He gave a slight wave and started for the door.

“Virgil!” Rosie called.

He stopped with his hand on the knob.

“Be careful,” she said. “I got kind of a funny feeling about this.”

Virgil nodded then went out the door.

*   *   *

Wade Travis was a little rough around the edges, but he was good at what he did. He was the go-to guy for any kind of automotive repairs in Hayward. He had been trying to put together a NASCAR team, and they'd even had some local success, but the problem was his boys were long on wanting and short on reliable.

Virgil pulled into the station. He got out and filled up his tank, all the while looking for Wade. A teenager in the office pointed him in the right direction. Around back he saw a car up on ramps with a couple of legs protruding from underneath the front end.

“Wade, you got a minute?”

Wade, on a dolly, rolled out from under the car. “Well, if it ain't the law. How did you know it was me under there?”

“I'm a good detective. Besides, the rattler that got you a couple years back left two pretty nice identifying marks on that left leg. It'll help them figure out who you are if they ever find you tangled up in one of those cars after you hit the wall doing a hundred forty.”

“A hundred forty? Hell, that's only second gear. So I guess I owe this visit to Buddy.”

Virgil nodded.

“Don't know what I can tell you, Sheriff. We got to drinking a little tequila, lost track of time. Buddy went outside . . . maybe to howl at the moon or to work up the courage to swallow the worm. But he never did come back.”

“And you didn't look for him?”

“To tell the honest-to-God truth, the shape I was in I'd a probably gone missing myself if I was to go lookin' for Buddy. Besides, he ain't exactly a juvenile.”

“Let's try another tack. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

Wade squinted in the sun then ran his hand over his three-day beard. “Maybe he decided to take a little trip down to Juárez and find himself a girlfriend from a foreign country.”

“That's a long way to go. I understand there's some nice-looking pecan pickers over at Hayward Ranch.”

“Yes, Sheriff. Heard the same thing. Gotta be kind of careful there. Some of those boys with them are pretty quick with a knife. Least that's what I've heard. Sorry I can't give you more, Sheriff. But like I told you and Charlie Hinton, if I hear something, I'll give you a call.”

Virgil sat in the car, completely unsatisfied. As he reached toward the ignition key the red light on the radio lit up.

“What's up, Rosita?”

“Rosita . . . Haven't heard that for a while. Sounds like maybe you're doing some heavy thinking.”

“Kind of goes with the job. What have you got?”

“Alex called in. He and Dave found two cows or what was left of them. Looks like somebody needed meat for the table like you said. They're wondering what to do next.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Alex says he thinks they're from the Grafton Ranch, based on where they found them. The brands were cut out.”

“Give me a minute, Rosie.” Virgil took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. He knew the Grafton Ranch bordered the reservations. He also knew there wasn't a lot of love lost between the two neighbors. He picked up the speaker. “Rosie, tell the boys to hold off for now. I'll get back to them.”

“Virgil, Alex said the two steers were not exactly prime. Must have been some poor people outside of Redbud.”

“I know, Rosie.” There was a long pause. “Okay, tell Dave to indicate in his report that these kills might be a red wolf predator. The feds can reimburse the loss to the Grafton Ranch and we can keep the peace. I know they're trying to reintroduce those wolves, so the feds might not balk at reimbursing. Then tell him and Alex when they are on patrol to keep a lookout for Buddy's pickup.

“Got it. Ten-four.”

*   *   *

By the time he got to Hayward Ranch, it was a little after two. It had been a long time since he'd been here. None of his most recent visits had been memorable. He doubted that this one would be any different. As he turned off the road heading to the main house, he had a familiar apprehension. He knew there was no use trying to chalk it up to the refried beans. He'd only be lying to himself. Row after row of pecan trees lined the drive. Their perfect symmetry contrasted with the mixed feelings he had whenever he came to this place. For a fleeting second, he saw an image of himself running through the rows, a young girl in hot pursuit, a smile on his face. Quick as it came, the reverie passed. Like a flashback of someone else's life . . .

But no, he knew it was his and he would never forget it.

A
t the center of Hayward Ranch, a house they called Crow's Nest stood on a knoll, looking down on a half-breed sheriff. As he drove up to it, he wondered who was more misplaced.

There wasn't another house in the county or probably the state like it. A huge Queen Anne–style Victorian, capped by a widow's walk, it should have been perched on some craggy rock face on a lonely New England coast. Instead, it looked down on a sea of pecan trees. The history behind its coming to be in this place was of course something that he, Virgil Dalton, sheriff of Hayward, had heard long ago from a girl named Rusty.

A newly widowed man named Hayward from those far New England shores, a man who had amassed a fortune in the triangle trade, had taken his two sons, Caleb and Micah, out onto the ocean for the first time. A storm hit. Waves pounded the sides of the ship. Snapped like matchsticks, the mainmast and then the mizzen both crashed to the deck. The ship was driven into the rocks.

The two boys clung to each other, watching as one after another man disappeared from topside into the sea. The father, a captain no longer, held on to the two as long as he could, until he, too, was torn away. Micah and Caleb Hayward, locked together as Siamese twins, awaited their fate. A wave snatched them with the beam their father had tied them to. It bore them from wave to wave until at last they felt the ground beneath their feet.

They left that place to never again return, to never again feel the sea spray on their faces. In coming to this dry place, so many miles away, they built their future and this house, so named Crow's Nest, to always remind them of why they came and what they left. In the years since, the Hayward Ranch had grown far beyond its original boundaries. Pecans, cattle, even an entire trucking operation outside of Redbud on the opposite end of the county, where most of the business end of the ranch was managed, gave witness to the descendants of the original Micah and Caleb.

*   *   *

“Hello, Sheriff.” The voice came from a chair on the porch as Virgil climbed the stairs.

“Hello, Micah.” The names had managed to survive the passage of time long after their original owners.

“What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I got a call that you wanted to see me.”

“That wasn't me. It was probably Mother but I have no idea what it was about. She doesn't always confide in me.”

Virgil didn't miss the sarcasm in his voice. Despite his history with Audrey, he had a certain affection and empathy for Micah. Micah had never been able to escape his mother's control. Maybe if his older brother, Caleb, had survived Vietnam, things would have been different. After Caleb's death, he never had a chance. His life had been determined.

Or maybe if Rusty . . . The image that popped into Virgil's head cut as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. He gripped the railing hard.

“I'll see if Mother's ready to see you. Come on up and have a seat.” Micah disappeared inside the massive front door.

Virgil stepped up onto the porch but did not sit. He looked out over the acres of trees and the collection of barns and outbuildings which housed the machinery that helped to sustain the family fortune. Beyond the barns he saw the farm roads which branched off the driveway and divided the orchard into equal parts. They wound for close to a mile before crossing the top of a distant hill. Virgil knew that one of them led to a collection of bunkhouses which housed the migrant population that was used to harvest the abundant crop. The population grew this time of year, but there was always a nucleus of farmhands.

“Virgil, she's ready to see you.”

He turned at the sound of the voice, then followed Micah into the house.

“In the study.” Micah pointed to the opened door at the end of the hall just to the left of the central stairs that led up to the second floor. “I don't think my presence is desired so I'll leave you. By the way, Virgil, it was good seeing you.” He turned away then stopped. “I wish . . .” He hesitated. “I wish things had been different.”

The two looked at each other. Virgil gave a slight nod, then Micah turned away and walked through the door on the other side of the stairs. Virgil took a breath then walked into the study.

He hadn't been in the room for many years, but he realized that it was virtually unchanged from the room of his memory. There was little about Audrey Hayward's office that suggested family, but then it was only in Rusty's room that he had ever felt at ease. He stopped himself before the thought led him down another path he didn't want to go down.

“Have a seat.” Audrey Hayward's voice was without emotion. No greeting accompanied it.

“I'll stand,” Virgil said.

“Suit yourself.”

For the first time, their eyes met. She sat back in the chair, her back to the window, a short stack of papers on the desk in front of her. She pushed them to the side, than took off her glasses and laid them on top.

“Yes, I guess you will.” Her hair was whiter than he remembered, with just a hint of the russet color that she had passed on to her only daughter. There was little of the softness in her face that Rusty always had. Virgil wondered if there had ever been softness in those eyes.

“You never did take direction.”

He bridled at the comment but showed nothing.

“I understand that there are people who would like to see you as district attorney. Politically correct, I assume, you being indigenous and educated. A law degree, too . . .” She paused as if waiting for a denial. “Anyhow, Micah is thinking about the state senate.”

“Does he know this yet?”

He saw the tightness come into her face.

“Anyhow . . . this idea for you. I don't think it's a good one. It seems to me . . .”

Virgil raised his hand. “I am not your son. Whatever I decide to do or not to do will be my decision.”

She didn't respond.

“If that is all, I'll be on my way.”

She finally stood up, her hands resting on her desk. “I should have known there would be no reasoning with you. I curse the day you ever set foot in this house.”

“So do I, but for a much different reason.”

When Virgil stepped off the porch a few moments later, the heat rose in layers, making a shimmering impressionist watercolor of the landscape. There were no sharp lines, everything softened and blurred. High overhead in the cloudless sky a hawk circled, looking for its next meal. A couple of men came out of the nearest barn. Micah was with them. They stood for a minute talking. By the time Virgil had gotten to his car, Micah had stepped away and was walking back up to the house.

“How did your visit with Mother go?” he asked with a trace of a smile.

“Pretty much the way I reckoned it would.”

“Yes . . . well . . .”

Virgil accidentally brushed the car door with his hand. “Damn!”

“Careful. You get branded here, you're in for life just like me.”

“I'll try to remember that.” Virgil opened the car door, then took a step back from the rush of contained heat. “By the way, Mike . . .” It had been years since he had called him by the name. “Does Buddy Hinton work on the place here?”

“No. He's down in Redbud at the trucking operation. Works on the trucks and drives . . . long hauls. I don't get down there as often as I should. Why do you ask?”

“Well, he's gone missing. Or so it seems.”

“Did you check with Cal? He's pretty much running that part of the business these days. He's caught on real quick since he came home and I'm not just saying that 'cause he's my son. Even my mother says he and Virginia give her hope for the future.”

“I haven't checked with him yet, but thanks for the update.” Virgil tipped his hand to his Stetson then got into the car.

When he got onto the paved road, he called Rosie. “I'm heading down to Redbud. Then I'll stop at Hintons' on the way back.”

“Good idea, Virgil. Viola called again. She's pretty upset.”

“I'll be back around five. Jimmy's coming in around four, I believe. See you then if you're still there.”

The ride to Redbud took a little more than half an hour. It was due west of Hayward so he was driving into the sun. By the time he got to Redbud, he was working on a pretty good headache. Redbud was little more than a wide spot in the road and the boundary at the western edge of the county, nevertheless it was a good spot for Hayward Trucking since it was so close to the interchange at the interstate. Because of the operation, in the last ten years there had been a minor population boom. At the only light in town, a gas station had opened with a mini-mart, and across the street a fast-food restaurant. Lately, there had been talk that a large motel was going to be built.

Virgil made a right at the one light, crossed the railroad tracks, and headed down the gravel road that dead-ended at Hayward Trucking. He had been there only once before and was surprised at how much it had grown. He saw at least ten semis parked perpendicular to the chain-link that encompassed the facility. Another couple were backed up to the loading dock. A few of the men were eating ice cream and standing next to an ice cream truck. He parked outside the separate office, which sat alongside a huge warehouse.

There was a receptionist sitting at a desk just inside the front door. Virgil didn't recognize her, but he did recognize a couple of people on the other side of the glass partition separating her from the inner office. They were busy at their computers, entering data from stacks of invoices or bills of lading.

“Can I help you?” The girl looked to be in her early twenties and eager.

“Yes. I'd like to see Caleb Hayward if possible.”

“I'm sorry. He's not here right now and I doubt if he'll be back much before five. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“It's about one of your employees . . . Buddy Hinton.”

“Buddy Hinton,” she said. “I don't recognize that name. I've only been here a few weeks.”

“You might know him as Charles Hinton Jr., but that's okay. I think I see someone who can help me.”

Virgil stepped to the glass and knocked loudly. All the people inside immediately looked up. He gestured toward one of them. The man started walking quickly toward the door that led into the reception area. “This fella will be good enough,” he said to the girl at the desk.

“Hey, Virgil,” the man said as he came through the door.

“Step outside for a minute, Carlos.” Virgil retreated through the door he had just entered. Carlos followed.

“There a problem?”

“Not for you, Carlos. I need some info on Buddy Hinton. He still works here, right?”

“Well, I guess so. I'm not sure. Haven't seen him in a while. He usually does long hauls, but I heard there was some kind of dustup. I'm in the office usually, so the most I see Buddy is when we play ball together. Once the season's over, not so much. I'm married, a couple of kids. My lifestyle's a little different from Buddy's. If I run into him down at the Black Bull, we'll have a beer together, but that's about it.”

“Do you know who he had the dustup with?”

“Sorry, Sheriff. This is a pretty big place. Stuff happens.”

“Didn't realize this operation had grown so much.”

“Yeah, this place is always hopping. We ship all over.”

“But pecan harvest isn't for another couple of months.”

“We're pretty much year-round now. We have the two-week shutdown coming up, but even then there's a crew here taking care of what's left of last year's inventory before the new harvest. Things are a little slower but not much.”

“So you have no idea what the problem was.”

“Not really. I just heard he was upset about something. One of the guys said it had to do with a transit problem, but I don't know.”

“Okay, Carlos. Thanks. Say hello back home. By the way, if you hear anything that you think I might like to know, call.”