Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (7 page)

“She’s an adult, there’s no indication of trouble, and she hasn’t even been gone a full day. There’s not much the police can do. Besides, there’s nothing that says she has to be in Sand Creek. She might have gone into Llano or even Austin.”

“Except she doesn’t have a car. How would she get there?”

He shrugged. “I’m guessing she has a few friends in town who’d either let her stay or who’d loan her a car. It wouldn’t be that hard. She’ll show up in a day or two when she’s ready.”

The line moved forward, and we finally reached the booth.

“You want a fried Twinkie, right?” I asked him hopefully.

He pulled out his wallet. “No, I don’t. But I will buy you one if you promise not to throw up in my car. Sausage on a stick and a fried Twinkie,” he told the kid behind the counter, who obligingly passed him the items wrapped in greasy white paper.

“This is why I like you so much,” I said as Colin paid. “Hold my sausage for a minute, okay?”

The Twinkie was everything I could have hoped for. My first bite sent a puff of powdered sugar into the air, and I closed my eyes in ecstasy.

Colin started laughing, and brushed sugar from my nose. “You look so happy.”

“It’s even better than I thought it would be. Why are all the good things so bad for you?” I asked. I thought about stuffing the rest of it in my mouth, but instead reluctantly offered it to him.

He shook his head. “Um, no thanks. I would hate to deprive you.”

“You can have a bite of the sausage,” I offered magnanimously.

“Gee, thanks.”

We strolled through the motley assortment of booths, which were selling an odd mix of food, beer, and local crafts. In one, an elderly couple displayed an assortment of crocheted baby blankets and hand-carved wooden toys. In another, a wizened little man, fingers stained brown by years of leatherwork, proudly held up a hand-tooled belt to a portly customer. Even at a distance I could tell the belt in question would never go around that ample waist, but maybe it would end up under the Christmas tree. I tossed the greasy paper from my snacks into a rusting oil drum that served as a trash can and wiped the sugar from my fingers, then noticed Colin scanning the crowd with a wistful expression.

“What’s up?” I asked. “You look almost … I don’t know.” I looked at him again. “Sad.”

He turned to me and gave a patently fake smile. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really. I was just thinking how happy and peaceful everything looks. This reminds me so much of my hometown, the way it was when I was a kid. You’d never know anything was wrong or ever would be wrong.”

“And is something wrong?”

“When you’re a cop, there’s always something wrong. There’s rumors one of the Mexican drug cartels is working this area. Maybe drugs, almost certainly money laundering.”

I looked around incredulously. “You’re kidding me, right? Here in Sand Creek? This town is practically Mayberry. It’s so small you’d miss it if you blinked.”

“It’s not that small. It does have both a Walmart and a Dairy Queen after all,” he added with a grin, then seeing my expression went on more seriously: “More importantly, it has a racetrack and a sheriff’s department stretched too thin. There’s some serious money in this county.”

I looked at the denim-clad crowd milling past us. “It’s well hidden then.”

He laughed. “Look, never mind. Forget I said anything. We’re here to have a good time.”

He extended his hand like a peace offering, and I took it. I wasn’t sure he was wrong about Sand Creek, but I still wished he hadn’t said anything. When you spend long summer weeks in a place when you’re a kid, it takes on magical properties, and I liked my illusions untarnished.

We walked around to the rodeo stands, where a group of cowboys had just backed a stock trailer full of sheep to the gates. Half a dozen children wearing crash helmets and ranging in age from about five to seven stood in a straggling line to one side of the gate as the announcer began his patter.

“What are they doing?” I asked, puzzled.

“Mutton bustin’,” said Colin with a grin. “They put a kid on a sheep and let it run until the kid falls off.”

“Seriously? They put those little kids on sheep? You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope, not kidding. And if you haven’t seen it before, you have to watch. It’s pretty funny.”

“Do I sense more nostalgia?” I looked from the eager kids to the less-than-eager sheep, then back to Colin. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re a former mutton buster?” I added with sudden delight.

He gave me a sideways glance. “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how long I’d have to get teased about it.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said, thinking I would have to pursue this hitherto unknown aspect of his past. I knew he’d been raised in a small town in West Texas, but I’d never envisioned just what that meant. I tried to picture this six-foot-tall broad-shouldered man as a grubby sheep-riding boy and failed completely.

We climbed into the stands and took our seats on hard metal bleachers. One of the rodeo clowns wearing saggy overalls and high-top sneakers hopped on top of a barrel and began imitating the announcer’s gestures, while a cowboy slipped a lasso around one woolly neck, and began pulling a fat sheep to the center of the ring. The sheep balked, black legs stiff and resisting, reminding me very much of my earlier goat encounter. The cowboy pulled, the sheep dug in harder. Eventually, the clown hopped down and began pushing on her rear end, pretending that she was both immovable and flatulent to the delight of the crowd.

“What are they doing with that one?” I asked.

“They always put the lead sheep to the center so that the others will run toward her when they’re set loose.”

The lead sheep was finally in position, and two cowboys led a second sheep from the trailer. They held it still while a third man lifted a skinny seven-year-old wearing pink cowboy boots and matching helmet onto its back. The girl lay flat, clutching with arms and legs like a spindly spider clinging to an overinflated woolly beach ball. The whistle blew, the cowboys let loose, and the sheep bolted across the arena. Within seconds, the girl on top began listing to one side, but she hung on gamely until she slipped almost underneath the round belly. A blast of a horn marked eight seconds, and the girl released her death grip and fell, tumbling through the dirt like Wile E. Coyote falling from an Acme rocket.

We couldn’t help laughing. Kid followed kid with varying levels of success. Not very many made it to the eight-second mark, but each hit the dirt with spectacular panache. At the end, the winner was presented with a shiny gold trophy almost as tall as herself, and the disgruntled sheep were led away.

This was the signal for the crowd to reshuffle itself, and at least a third of the spectators rose. A rodeo audience is in constant motion. Before, during, and after events, people walk back and forth carrying drinks and snacks, stopping to talk with friends. Sometimes it seemed as though the fast-paced and often dangerous events taking place in the ring were merely coincidental.

“I need a break, and I’ll get us a couple of beers on the way back,” I said. “Save our seats?”

“Sure thing,” he agreed.

I stood in a long line to get our beers and spent the time looking up and down the row of booths for a sight of Kyla. I’d half expected to see her in the bleachers, although I was not really surprised that she hadn’t caught up with us. Eventually, I reached the front of the line, paid and walked off carrying two cans of Shiner Bock, and on impulse decided to go the long way around the stands to look for her. Away from the lights of the arena and the commotion around the animal pens, the darkness seemed darker, and the shouts from the crowd and the amplified voice of the rodeo announcer seemed louder. I passed a drunken couple returning from what I guessed was a rendezvous behind the porta-potties. They were staggering and giggling, holding on to each other to keep upright. Ah, young love, I thought, somewhat revolted. How desperate—or horny—would you have to be to make out behind toilets? Beyond them, I could see no one and suddenly walking the long way around didn’t seem very smart. I hesitated beside one of the supports, trying to tell myself that this was Sand Creek, Texas, and I was perfectly safe on the fairgrounds. Somehow, though, my feet didn’t want to walk any farther.

I had just decided to go back, when I saw a movement.

Twenty feet away, someone else stood in the darkness beneath the bleachers. The sudden flare of a lighter was followed by a puff of smoke rising into the air, a wisp that floated against the lights streaming through the benches and then was gone. Probably some kid sneaking a cigarette away from the eyes of his parents, I thought, relaxing a little. But at that moment, another figure appeared around the corner. This time, I could see the silhouette of a cowboy hat and see the vague outline of a pale shirt. The second figure joined the first in the shadows.

My teacher instincts kicked into high gear and without thinking, I slipped a little closer, just to the empty space beside the next set of supports. Now I was near enough to see the newcomer pass something to the first man and receive something else in return. I stiffened in indignation. Not a kid sneaking a smoke after all but a drug deal. In Sand Creek. Colin had been right, and I felt outraged. As I watched, the second man looked over his shoulder furtively, then hurried away, leaving the first man to slip back into the shadows like the slimy little snake he was. I decided I would go and find Colin, who was going to be very interested in drug deals going on literally under his … well, under his nose.

However, as I was turning back, Carl Cress and his massive belly hove into view like an Exxon tanker on a rolling sea. I hesitated, then stepped behind the pillar again, partly because I didn’t want to talk to Carl and partly because I thought the drug dealer might take fright and set up elsewhere. I wanted to see where he would go before I tattled on him for all I was worth.

To my surprise, Carl walked purposely toward the dealer and made a demanding gesture. After a brief hesitation, the dealer reluctantly stepped forward into the light, and I gave a gasp. I couldn’t see his face clearly but I recognized the skinny shoulders and the slouch. Eddy Cranny, wife beater and drug dealer. That son of a …

I wasn’t the only one who was furious at Eddy. Carl pounced on him like a dog owner who’d caught his least favorite mutt killing a chicken. I wished I could hear what they were saying but the crowd and the announcer were sufficient to drown out even a shouting match. Deciding to inch a little closer, I moved from one pillar to the next until I was close enough to see the light reflecting off Carl’s belt buckle. Which wasn’t as close as it sounds since, on a clear night, that buckle was large enough to be visible from space. Still, I was close enough to know that Carl and Eddy were having a major argument. Eddy crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head, refusing something or other. Carl puffed up like an angry rooster and threw his arms wide, then waved one long finger in front of Eddy’s nose. Eddy shook his head stubbornly, and without warning Carl punched him in the face.

Eddy’s head snapped back, and he went over backward, falling heavily onto the turf, both hands clutching his nose. Even from my hiding place, I could see blood running between his fingers. Carl reached after him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. He slapped Eddy twice, the second time hard enough to knock the smaller man off his feet again. Eddy moved his arms protectively over his head while Carl shook him like a terrier shaking a rat.

All this happened in a matter of seconds, leaving me frozen and unable to process what I was seeing. In the next instant, I found myself running forward, a beer can clutched in each hand, and not at all sure what I thought I was going to do. There was no way I was big enough or stupid enough to try to break up a fight, but on the other hand I could hardly let Carl beat Eddy to a pulp, whether he deserved it or not.

“Hey! Stop!” I shouted, always eloquent under pressure.

Between the roar of the crowd and the amplified patter from the announcers, my voice was hardly audible. Nevertheless, Carl froze in mid-slap, head whipping from side to side looking for but not seeing where my voice had come from. As I drew closer, he spotted me and visibly relaxed. He also did not let go of Eddy, who was more or less hanging limply between his giant meaty hands. It was not exactly flattering.

“This is none of your business,” he informed me. “It’s between me and Eddy. Now git!”

I held my ground. “It’s between you, Eddy, and Eddy’s attorney if Eddy decides to press assault charges. I’d be called as a witness, and as far as I can tell, not only did you hit him first, Eddy hasn’t even defended himself. I think you’re looking at jail time, Carl.”

I didn’t know if this was true or not, but I was pretty sure Carl’s already florid face was turning the color of Rudolph’s nose. He released Eddy’s shirtfront, but kept an iron grip on Eddy’s shoulder, sausage-size fingers digging into the meager muscle. Eddy winced under the pressure, eyes darting from Carl to me as though not sure who posed the biggest threat, an attitude that puzzled me. I’d broken up fights between testosterone poisoned boys at school before and had encountered something similar. Usually the smaller boy was worried that the bully would wreak vengeance on him later for any official punishment, a fear that outweighed the pain of whatever abuse he was getting at the moment. Seeing the same thing in supposedly grown men was disturbing and kind of pathetic. And a little scary. I’m tall, which I use to great advantage when dealing with the undesirable element at school, but Carl Cress topped me by at least six inches and probably a hundred pounds. There was no way I was going to be able to intimidate him.

Nevertheless, I lifted my eyebrow and used my best teacher voice, the voice that had once quelled a dozen cheerleaders in a full-out Justin Bieber frenzy. “Let him go, Carl, or I’ll call the police.”

I saw his lips curl into a cruel sneer and remembered too late that he was pals with Sheriff Bob. So I added, “And I’ll scream.”