Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (6 page)

I turned. The big, blonde football jock stood behind us. Mr. Spiked Hair and Chin Fuzz, who'd pointed the bow at me, had come along for the ride.

"Damn you, Bobby Sewell," Sandy said. "You and Donny Boy leave me alone, okay? Stop bothering me."

"Sure, Sandy." The big one grinned. Said: "I'm gonna bother this here big shot, instead."

"Yeah," said Donny. "Big shot." He giggled.

They had left their weapons behind, but there were two of them, both younger than me. Bobby Sewell might give me some real problems if he got in close. Donny Boy looked lean and slippery, and his eyes were slits. He was amped up, really soaring. This was a bad situation.

"Let it go, boys," I said.

"I would," Bobby said, "but seeing as how you're talking to my girlfriend, and seeing that Donny Boy has taken an active dislike to you . . ."

I slid my legs around, outside the bench. My lower stomach went cold with adrenaline. I rose to my feet and Donny Boy got more excited; like a big, angry dog. He started saying
oh boy, oh boy
under his breath. Sandy tried to get between us, but Bobby swept her aside.

"Damn you, Bobby. He's just an old friend who used to live here."

Bobby: "Come on. Let's take a walk."

"I don't want any trouble," I said.

"Buddy, you've got you some."

I would take Sewell first, because Donny Boy was a real nightmare. I thought
you'd best break his nose to blind him, maybe punch him hard in the throat
without even recognizing the voice of my stepfather, Danny Bell.
Stay calm and
just take them one at a time
. I didn't want to fight;
I don't want to, Daddy Danny
. I breathed in and out a couple of times, slow and easy. I smiled, nodded pleasantly, my eyes locked on Bobby's. The eyes always tell you what's coming.

"You sure we can't talk this over?"

"Not a prayer." His eyes were roaming over me and seemed to settle on my midsection. He would try to work my body first.

"Okay, then." I let my knees go loose.

Suddenly, way off behind Bobby, I saw Sheriff Bass spot the problem. He started to jog our way. There was a way out, so I took it. I eased back on the throttle and tried to stall. It was difficult, but I made myself shrug and appear to relax. "Wait one, Bobby. Your girl and I, we were just making conversation."

"He's not my boyfriend any more," Sandy sounded like a different person now, more like the girl I'd first heard call in on the show. "He's my
ex
-fucking-boyfriend."

Bobby squinted at me, eyes cool and taking measure. "Actually, we're still negotiating on that."

"We are not."

"Goodbye, Sandy," I said, evenly. "It was good seeing you again. Please do whatever you have to do to take care of yourself."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Bobby Sewell snarled. He edged closer, his hands up and balled into fists.

Donny Boy said, "Watch out, Bobby."

Sheriff Bass arrived, broad thumbs hooked in his Sam Browne belt to emphasize that 9mm Glock. "Y'all having a good time?"

"Absolutely," I said. "Time of my life, Sheriff."

"I can see that from the big, country grin on your face," Bass said pleasantly. "Nothing like two- to-one odds to focus a man's mind."

Donny Boy. "Why are you busting our balls?"

"Shut up, Donny," Sewell sighed. "He's the man."

"That's right," Bass said, "I am the man. Now run along." He stared at Sandy Palmer for a long count, and his eyes visibly softened. "Honey, maybe you ought to go over there, give your Daddy a hand. He's getting back into the car. Let's move it."

They scattered. I sagged; shivering from the effects of adrenaline and some long-buried memories. I felt both guilty and relieved. I didn't want any trouble. Dry Wells was already making me remember — and
feel —
far too much. I watched Sandy trot back towards the copse of trees. She turned, waved, and disappeared.

"You going to be okay?" Bass asked kindly, as if in honor of our secret. "You look like you're about to cry."

"And here I thought I was so scary looking," I said, blandly. "I'll be fine."

"Good," Bass said. "Loner told me you're done here. You remember our agreement?"

"Yeah. What body?"

"Have a nice trip, Callahan. I'd suggest you commence leaving."

"Goodbye, Sheriff."

Bass strolled back across the grass, lean frame and long shadow shimmering in the heat. The immediate surroundings, so recently claustrophobic, seemed to expand again. I found myself back in a peaceful park on a bright green Saturday morning.

There had been something uncomfortably familiar about the conversation with Sandy Palmer. Talking with her had made me feel the pain of old, unhealed wounds.
I'm sorry sweetie
, I thought.
I'm fresh out of hero. Maybe I don't even remember how to let myself give a damn.
I glanced towards the stage. Loner had vanished; so had the Palmer clan. The lame band was now limping through the national anthem. The two vets with the flag had worn their full-dress blues for the rehearsal; their chests were covered with multi-colored medals.

I turned back towards the motel. I suddenly felt pressured to go; pushed from behind as if by an arctic wind. I crossed the creek bed in one hop, walked down the railway tracks and across the parking lot, moving fast.

Saturday Afternoon, 12:25 PM

The low-end car-rental company in Elko had given me a Ford Mustang hatchback; metallic green, out-of-date and cranky about it. The heap looked like it belonged to some housewife high on mescaline. I tossed my suitcase and the laptop computer into the back and slammed it shut. I juggled for the keys and opened the side door, then heard a crunching sound, footsteps, and something rolling down the driveway.

"Got room for me?" Jerry, scarred scalp reddened by effort, pushing his red motor scooter along the gravel. "I could just tie my wheels up on the top."

"Where the hell are
you
going?"

"Someplace else," Jerry said.

"This seems pretty sudden."

Jerry looked over his shoulder. "It is," he said. He sounded upset. "Truth is, I'd really rather stick around."

"Then what's up?"

"That nice little lady you saw me with this morning?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, she came over to listen to some music last night. We had a couple of beers and one thing led to another. We fell asleep. She didn't leave until this morning. I didn't plan on anything like that happening, you know?"

"I believe you," I lied. "So?"

"So she hangs out with a Cro-Magnon named Bobby Sewell and some other unfriendly locals."

"I just made their acquaintance."

"They seem to think that she's their property. Now, I really like her a lot, but I found out that Bobby plans on knocking the taste right out of my mouth."

"Hence the urgency."

"Yo, I'm overdue for a vacation from this dump anyway." False bravado, forced smile. "Nothing interesting ever happens around here."

"What about that space-age junkyard you have in the back room?"

"I locked it up. I decide to move permanently, I'll rent me a truck and come back." Jerry looked back like a man pursued by a posse. "When I can see her again."

"I get it."

"Come on, Mick," he said nervously. "I'm kind of in a hurry."

He was a likeable kid. "Hop in," I said. "I can take you as far as Elko, but then I have to turn the car in and catch a puddle jumper."

"Not inviting me to come along to Hollywood?"

"You serious, kid? Well, if I get lucky, I guess I could poke around a bit. Maybe find you a gig."

"Never mind. I'll settle for a couple of weeks in Elko, so I can come back for the girl. Besides, I got a couple of friends there who are already earning a living."

I laughed. "You're relentless, you know that?"

"It's probably in my genes."

"Genes, or jeans?"

We strapped the red scooter onto the top of the Ford, secured it with bicycle cords and twine. My smile was too thin by half, and I found myself making dumb little whistling noises and drumming my fingers on the dusty roof.

"What up, dude?" Jerry asked. "You in a hurry, too?"

"Maybe. Let's move."

I spun the car around in the gravel and headed back down Main. Impulsively, I overshot to Station Street for one last look at the park. I was only half-aware of my motive. When I turned at the parking lot, I stared across the old railroad tracks at the cool, green grass. I couldn't help myself. I looked for her.

Two seconds later, I hit the brakes. Jerry grabbed the dash to steady himself. I stared at the park. Something was wrong. The picnic tables seemed empty: food baskets, soft drinks, and miniature flags, but no people. Distant voices were muttering, like a mob in a grainy old film. I heard a high pitched scream from far away and felt my heart twist and sink. I knew I should drive on, told myself to leave, but that vital moment passed. I sighed and put the car into park.

"Let's check this out."

Jerry was gone, passenger door standing open. I don't know how I knew, but somehow I
knew
. I understood in a flash what I had only sensed moments earlier; why I'd been in a rush to leave town. I rested my head on the wheel for a moment, then undid the seat belt and got out of the car like a man facing a firing squad.

Up north, about a half a block, a raggedy-assed wooden fence made a lazy V at one end of the park. The people were all gathered at that spot, milling around, some taking pictures with disposable cameras. Crowds change mood on a dime. The situation had gone from a boring rehearsal to true event. At first I didn't see anyone I knew except for Glen Bass. Then I saw a garish, tri-colored shirt and white hat: Doc Langdon. Jerry was already at the edge of the group when I arrived, peering down at the creek bed with the rest of them. I stayed back a ways.

"Some drinking going on here?" Bass asked. Doc Langdon shrugged and wrinkled his nose.

"They'll find out with an autopsy," Doc said. "What a goddamned shame."

She was on her back in the shallow water; pretty dress pattern mixing well with the assorted twigs and flower petals. Her arms were floating gently with the current; striking blue eyes wide open and staring up at the sun. There was a wide pink swirl near the back of her head; so delicately placed it might have been a Zen painting.

Someone had done real violence to her face.

The left eye was spider-webbed with blood veins, bruised into blackness. Her pretty lower lip was split and smeared with blood. Flies were arriving. Sandy Palmer seemed surprised and excruciatingly young. She didn't look sexy anymore.

A plump woman I didn't know began to cry. "Oh, the poor thing . . ."

I felt my eyes sting with rage and grief. Something deep inside burst into flame and then blackened. I turned away, unnoticed by the others, and strode rapidly back towards the rental car. I started the engine.

Jerry slid into the car, panting. He was pale. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm leaving town."

Jerry touched the wheel. "Not now! Goddamn it, man, did you see that? Did you see that poor girl lying there?"

"I saw her."

"What's the matter with you? You got ice in your veins or something? That girl was
dead
." He grabbed my arm.

I took my foot off the gas. "Jerry, you'd best back the fuck down." My voice was low and hoarse. Jerry tried to make his body smaller against the car door. His hat tipped up, revealing angry scar tissue. His large sunglasses slipped off and fell into his lap. He was terrified.

I turned the engine off. "Sorry."

"We can't just leave," Jerry said. "Sandy called you on the air last night, remember? You called her Ophra, or something."

Another long, slow breath. "Ophelia. I called her Ophelia."

"She had a problem she didn't want to talk about over the radio. It was something bad about her boyfriend. Mick, somebody murdered her for that."

"She's dead, Jerry. Who knows why?" I tried not to remember the man in the alley, naked with his hands tied behind his back. I pictured him anyway.

Jerry clenched his fists. He fingered his scalp, came to a conclusion. "We could do the kind of thing you used to do. I can help you out. Let's investigate."

"Jerry, don't be ridiculous."

"I liked that girl, Mick. She was a nice person."

"The answer is no," I said, a bit too forcefully. "Now, drop it. The law should handle things like this."

"What law? Dry Wells has one burned-out cop. Give me a
good
reason we shouldn't poke around."

"Okay, how about I'm pretty fucking rusty. You ought to know. You're the one who had to track my ass down and drag me out of hiding."

"You used to go at people for a living, man. It'll come back."

"Forget it, Jerry. Why the hell are
you
so hot to do this?"

"Dude," Jerry pleaded, ignoring the question. "Please help me out."

I weakened a bit, allowed myself to consider his idea. It seemed dumb. We'd be in way over our heads. Maybe if I hadn't seen that first body, trussed up like a turkey . . . but I had. And right now Dry Wells was looking like a very dangerous town. "No, Jerry. Let Bass and the Palmer family handle things."

"It might be therapeutic, dude. And it would be just like the old days, when you were at the top of your game."

"The old days? Back then I was too drunk to be cautious."

"Help me," Jerry said. "I even know
who
killed her. There's not a doubt in my mind."

"Oh?"

"It was that prick Bobby Sewell," Jerry said, triumphantly.