Less Than Human (24 page)

She looked at his picture on the dresser. He was showing Amy how to shoot pool and he had just made a shot that was impossible. He was smiling that easy smile of his. Dark hair. White teeth. He was a good-looking son of a bitch. He had been good in bed, too. God, she remembered their long nights of lovemaking. His lean, hard body next to hers. Her mouth still went dry whenever she thought about him.

Amy said all the cigarettes that Louise smoked were really just a substitute for sex. Sublimation, Amy called it. A twenty-dollar word for fooling yourself was more like it. Louise couldn't argue with her daughter's diagnosis. Hmmmm. A smile, half-bitter, half-wry, touched her face when she looked at the overflowing ashtray. "Shit, kiddo, if cigarettes are sex, your old mama is turning into a nymphomaniac."

Louise took one last drag, pulling the smoke deep into her lungs, before grinding out her half-finished cigarette in the ashtray. Damn, this was hard for her, but she had promised Amy she would cut back. This was about as close as she could get to keeping her promise. Lately she had begun coughing and it seemed to take longer for the coughing to stop. She wondered if she was getting cancer.

The moon poured light through her bedroom window and she stared at it, drifting back to sleep, dreaming that Amy had fallen off her pony.

The phone rang. In her half-awake state it sounded like a child crying.

Louise picked up the phone on the third ring. "Amy, don't cry. It's just a scratch—"

"Louise, it's me. I'm sorry to call so late." The voice was faint, filled with sadness. It scared her. Nine years ago she had received a late-night call from her mother telling her that her father was dead. Her mother had sounded the way John sounded now.

For a long beat, she listened to the static on the line. "John, what's wrong?"

"There's been some trouble. It's Leon. He's—"

Louise felt something cold run through her. She knew what John was going to say and she didn't think she could bear to hear it. "He's dead, isn't he? Leon's dead," she heard herself say. The words seemed to come from someone else.

"Yeah, I found him about half an hour ago. God, Louise, they hurt him before they killed him. They cut him up and then broke all his bones so they could stick him in the freezer. He was holding ajar of pig's feet in his lap. There was a hand in it. I think it belonged to Dorinda."

"Why?" was all she could say.

"A cue stick." More static on the line, and this time, when the voice came back, it was as brittle as old onionskin paper. "The cue stick that I stole. I got Leon killed, maybe Dorinda, too. Over nothing."

"Why would anybody kill Leon and Dorinda over a cue stick?"

"I don't know, I think these guys do this stuff for kicks. They were looking for me. I guess they thought Leon could tell them where."

"Can you go to the police?"

"I called them, but I didn't say who I was. They wouldn't believe me no way. My word doesn't carry much weight since Tucson. Anyway, I don't think I could prove these guys had anything to do with it. I get the feeling they're pretty good at covering their tracks." John hesitated and Louise knew he was working up his courage to say something else. She knew it was bad.

"There's something more, isn't there?" Louise said. "You always save the worst news for last. Well, you're going to have to say it, John, you're not going to be able to send it on a cute card this time."

"There was a message stuffed in Leon's mouth. It said to bring the cue stick to Crowder Flats. That means these guys might know about you and Amy." A deep breath. "And that means they might use you to get at me."

Louise felt as if someone had stepped on her chest. She couldn't breathe. "Do you think they're here yet?"

"There's a good chance they are. Leon was damn near frozen when I got to him and that means he'd been in the freezer a long time."

"What do these men look like?"

"One's young, wears a crucifix in his ear, looks like a biker. The other is old, looks like Randolph Scott gone to seed, wears a scruffy leather jacket. They might be driving Leon's red Caddy."

"Anything else?" Louise asked.

"Is Amy there?"

"No, she went out."

"Can you call her?"

"Maybe. I don't know. She doesn't always tell me where she goes."

"Try and find her, Louise. For God's sake, try. These bastards will do anything."

"I won't let anything happen to her."

A pause on the other end. "I'm sorry, Louise, I know you won't. I'll be there as quick as I can."

Louise waited for him to hang up.

"Louise, I… I never meant for anything bad to happen."

"I know you didn't, John, you never do." Louise pressed down the receiver. She walked over to the closet, pulled out the twelve-gauge scattergun and laid it on the bed beside her. Then she picked up the phone and began making a call.

Out in the corral, Mister Bojangles nickered.

Louise stiffened at the sound, but quiet resumed. "Guess I'm not the only one having bad dreams tonight," she said. She waited for Stuart Johnson, Crowder Flats's part-time sheriff, to pick up on the other end.

Chapter 15

Crowder Flats.

Sunday morning.

L
ouise Warrick was scared.

Even though it was a beautiful, sunshine-filled morning. Trouble was coming to Crowder Flats. The only question left—when would it arrive? It would come with John, she decided. It always did. Louise wondered if he was here yet. A covered wagon rumbled by, almost brushing Louise. The Frontier Days parade was under way.

The town had gone all out this year. Red, white, and blue pennants were strung from every building, flapping in the breeze. Everyone was dressed in Old West clothes, smiling and waving, but Louise barely noticed. She kept scanning the crowd of tourists, looking in the sea of shifting unfamiliar faces, trying to spot the two men who had killed Leon Wilson.

The spectacle of the parade seemed subdued to Louise, like watching TV with the volume turned down too low. She heard a phone ring and looked around. Winced as she realized the sound was only in her head. It wouldn't stop ringing; it kept tugging at her like a child begging for attention.

There was only one way to stop it: pick up the receiver. But if she did that, then she would have to hear the bad news again. That Leon Wilson was dead.

Louise had loved the large black man. Out of all of John's friends, he had been her favorite. He always made her laugh no matter how down she felt.

Leon Wilson, pool hall owner and gourmet cook, teller of bad jokes. Big booming laugh. Scary looking but the gentlest man Louise had ever known.

Moments in time rushing past.

He cried at sad movies. Liked cornflakes. Drank his coffee with three spoons of sugar.

Loved his wife and daughter.

Memories drifting toward Louise like snowflakes against a window, sticking for an instant, leaving behind bits and pieces of themselves that melted away all too soon.

Gone before their beauty could really be appreciated. Louise, John, and Darlene, sitting at the dining room table at Leon's house. Fifth anniversary, Leon cooking. Fine china, candles in silver holders, roses, white linen tablecloth. Pig's feet for an appetizer. Leon sweeping out of kitchen, refusing to say what the main course was. Very mysterious. Everyone digging in. Compliments to the chef.

At the end of the meal, announcing they had consumed squid.

Mad dashes to the bathroom.

Later that night. Sitting at McDonald's. A Formica table decorated with fine china, candles in silver holders, roses, a white linen tablecloth, eating Big Macs and laughing like crazy people while the other customers stared at them.

There had been sad moments, too.

The time Leon told the story about how his face had been cut.

The night he had called and asked if she knew where Darlene had gone.

Part of the past. Gone. All gone now.

Leon's murder seemed incomprehensible to her.

At odd moments the image of Leon's broken body in a freezer kept peeking around the corner of her mind. It was a fleeting sight. Gone in an instant. Each time his specter appeared, he would hold out ajar of pig's feet to her. Then the bloody face would smile from the depths of the freezer, inviting her to reach inside.

The contents of the jar swirled unseen behind the frosty glass. Round and round.

Something inside was trying to get out, she could hear it scratching.

Against her will, Louise saw herself putting her hand into the jar, but Leon and his grisly offering kept disappearing before she could touch whatever was inside. Louise knew she was only prolonging the inevitable and that filled her with a sense of futility. Each time she thought about Leon and Dorinda, the contents of the jar became more real.

Soon she was going to face what was inside. She didn't know if she was up to the job.

Facing things wasn't exactly one of her strengths.

Shading her eyes, Louise gazed toward the mountains in the far distance. The sun was burning off the mist at their summit, drawing it upward in long finger-shaped spirals. The sight reminded her of a hand reaching out, a tired spirit trying to pull itself out of the clouds toward Heaven. But God wasn't in a helpful mood today. He brushed the fingers away before they could grasp hold.

The parade, led by covered wagons, moved past the Cates Motel and Coffee Shop. Old Charlie, in his white apron and the new white chefs hat he had broken out for the occasion, sat a plate in front of a tourist and waved at some kids on the street. His eyebrows still hadn't grown back after that little accident at the barbecue grill. Dressed all in white, his pale hairless head and pudgy stomach made him a dead ringer for the Pillsbury Doughboy. He pressed his stomach and laughed.

The kids thought Charlie was funny and waved back.

Boyce, Nash, and Kevin rode past in the stagecoach, followed by Manny, Ernesto, and Jesus on horseback. They all looked game, though a little tired, and Louise suspected they had been out late last night. She was exhausted herself. Amy had come home a little after three and they had spent the night talking about John's phone call. And the two drifters at Jake's.

At the moment Amy was with Jesse, and for once, Louise was glad of that.

Boyce yelled at Louise, "You seen Bobby today?"

"No," Louise yelled back. She started to say something else to them but one of the horses pulling their wagon raised its tail and deposited a steaming load in the street.

Waves of laughter rose from the sidelines. The crowd began chanting in unison, "Pooper scooper, Pooper scooper."

"Looks like they're playing your song," Nash said to Boyce, handing him the shovel and broom. "Try not to step in anything this time, will you?"

Boyce swept up the mess to thunderous applause while an elderly Japanese couple pointed a camcorder at him. He stopped to take a bow and had to run to catch up to the stagecoach.

"Oh, man"—Kevin indicated the contents of the shovel—"that's almost as green as your face after that last shot of tequila."

"No, I'd say it's closer to Bobby's after that hustler from Texas walked out with all his money. I wonder where that shithead is hiding?" Boyce sounded worried. "You think he's okay?"

Kevin pulled back on the reins, bringing the stagecoach to a halt. "Yeah, he's fine. He's just pissed we got on his case about Jesse. He'll be here for the rodeo."

"I don't know, man. Something's going on. Where the hell is Chester? I saw his car at the house last night."

"Ain't nobody seen Martin, neither," Nash added. "God, I hope the three of them ain't out getting tanked up somewhere. I don't think I can deal with that."

Up ahead, by Pierce's Merchandise, a couple of wild burros had walked out into the middle of the street, temporarily halting the procession.

Louise trotted over and chased them on across.

"Nice ass," an anonymous voice called out.

Some of the spectators cheered, a few booed. "Write 'em a ticket," someone else yelled.

The mayor, on horseback, stopped in front of her. "Any luck finding my radials, Louise?"

"Not yet, Your Honor." Perspiration caused Louise's police uniform to stick to her and she kept plucking at it, trying to keep the heavy material away from her skin. The ten pounds that she had gained in the last year weren't helping matters any. She felt as if everyone were watching her, that they saw she wasn't a real cop.

Once a year Stuart Johnson deputized her and made her help out with the parade. The whole thing was like dress-up when she was a little girl: "Look at me, Mommy, I'm a police woman." Even the pistol on her hip didn't seem real. She hefted the holster, smoothing down the mark where the Sam Browne belt had been let out a notch.

Something sailed out of the crowd. Landed in the middle of the street.

Louise watched the object hit, bounce once, and lie still. Smoke poured out, and she darted forward. She heard a hissing come from the smoke. Too late, she recognized the sound.

A string of firecrackers.

The first one went off, a tiny pop. A second followed. Popcorn was the word that ran through Louise's mind. Sounded just like popcorn. She knew what was going to happen. She turned, headed for the mayor's horse.

A third firecracker went off. Faster this time.

The mayor's horse rolled his eyes, showing white.

Then the rest of the firecrackers went off, whipping their tail of sparks back and forth like a stepped-on scorpion.

The mayor's horse squealed, reared, almost unseating its rider. But Louise was there. She grabbed the reins and held on until everything was under control.

The mayor glared at the crowd, searching for the culprit. Smiling, bland faces stared back. One, freckled and topped with a mop of red hair, was smiling a little more than the rest. The face belonged to Elliot Cates.

"Thanks, Louise, that was quick thinking," the mayor said. "For a woman." His dignity looked a little worse for wear.

"No problem, Your Honor. Cooking dinner, fighting off PMS, stopping a runaway horse, it's all part of a woman's job." She massaged her shoulder. Her arm felt as though it had been jerked out of the socket.