Peckerwood (10 page)

The engine sound woke Irm up.

Shit. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Wanted to wait in the house, but wasn’t sure how she’d handle the dog, so she’d opted so stake out the place from her own vehicle. It had started to rain, and after a couple of hours, the soft, insistent thudding had put her under.

Now, she saw the pickup pull out of the drive and watched the tail lights recede from view. Fuck it, she didn’t want to wait here any longer. Irm took the Glock from the dashboard and slipped it under her thigh as she started the engine.

She turned the wiper blades on, but kept the headlights off, and caught her reflection in the rearview. The bruise in the corner of her eye looked much darker in the green glow of the dashboard.

I’m a Fujiyama Mama and I’m just about to blow my top.

Irm cranked up the Wanda Jackson song, winked at her reflection and sang along with the Queen of Rockabilly.

And when I start erupting nobody gonna make me stop.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MONDALE

Bob Musil sat across the booth from him and shook his head. “First I’ve heard of it.” Mondale looked closely at his deputy, but couldn’t find any reason to doubt him.

“This has got to be contained. I need to know any time Chowder’s name or my own, for that matter, comes up.” The State’s Attorney’s office hadn’t had any more official contact with the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Department that Mondale knew of. He thought the young lawyer might be shaking the branches, just hoping for something to fall, so Jimmy’d held his breath and not brought anyone into the loop about the investigation. He didn’t want to send ripples through the system that might make him look nervous.

Musil was his obvious first contact and was claiming ignorance as far as the ASA’s interest in the sheriff’s office went. Bob had spent twenty years with the force in Castle Rock, Colorado before relocating to Spruce. His wife’s bronchitis was cited as the primary reason for their move. The high altitude trapped the pollution from Denver and the mountains created a basin for the smog to settle in. It was hell on her respiratory system and they’d traded the dry, dirty climate for the muggy, but clean air of the Ozark region.

Mondale’d run virtually unopposed for his office three terms in a row, though he was aware of Bob Musil’s attractiveness to some community elements as a candidate. He knew because Bob told him flat out. Came by his office and told Jimmy to his face that he’d been approached by some business leaders about the prospect of running for sheriff, but he’d turned them down. His goal in Missouri was to be the best number two Jimmy ever had. At first Mondale’d been unsure how to take the directness of his deputy, but over time had come to trust Musil with the most sensitive aspects of his job and office and the deputy had not proved unworthy of any trust or task Jimmy had yet given him.

“If you want my opinion, I’d say he’s messing with you. He’s an opportunist looking for a big score. Probably doing the same thing with a half dozen other weak leads. Hunches. Just playing the odds.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Yeah. Occurred to me too.” He took another sip of coffee. It had turned cold and was unpleasant. “But still. Got my attention. Keep a sharp lookout.”

Musil nodded. “Will do.”

“’Course that goes for Irma Thompson and Tate Dill or anybody else related to Chowder or Darlin’s.”

“Sure thing. If you want me to, I’ll talk to my contacts in Jeff City, see what they’ve heard about Jordan.”

Mondale shook his head. “No, not yet anyhow. If he’s just making splashes, he’ll be looking for ripples coming back his way. I don’t want to give him any reason to keep looking our direction.”

“Alright.”

Etta Sanderson stopped at their table and refilled the coffee. “Sheriff, you look fresh,” she said and smiled at him.

Bob’s head tilted slightly as he reevaluated his boss. “She’s right, Jimmy. You look good. Been exercising?”

Mondale winked at Etta. “Pleasure seeing you is all, Etta.”

“Bull. But you go ahead and say so. Tell anybody you like, Jimmy Mondale. Maybe folks will start talking.”

“They might at that,” he agreed as she cleared their plates and walked them back to the kitchen.

Musil arched his eyebrows at him. “Anything I oughtta know?”

Mondale’s radio crackled and he reached for it, ignoring his deputy’s look. “Yeah, Wanda, go ahead.” He said.

“Sheriff,” came the voice on the other end, “There’s an accident out on Buisness 71. Fatalities.”

“Shit,” he said under his breath. Then into the radio, “Who’s on it?”

“Highway Patrol is on the scene, but I thought you’d want to know about it.”

“Thanks, Wanda. I’m on my way.” Bob Musil was already standing and paying the bill. Jimmy tipped his imaginary hat to Etta as he headed out the door.

The bend in the road was nasty. There were fatalities on that stretch more often than any other in Spruce if not Hamilton County. Last night’s rain would’ve created dangerous conditions to compound the already treacherous curves. It wouldn’t have taken much to send some poor soul off the road.

As Mondale pulled up to the scene, he nodded at the Highway Patrolman. He racked his brain for the kid’s name and settled on Gil, but wasn’t sure if it was his first or last name. Getting out of his car and shutting the door with both hands, he decided either would do fine. “Gil.”

“Sheriff.”

“What’ve we got?”

Gil led him over the tell tale tire marks going round the bend in the road and right off to the lip of the hill where the tow truck was backed up and dangling its cable down to a pickup truck that was twisted around a large Bull Pine.

Mondale whistled low when he saw the wreckage. “Who found it?”

Gil answered without looking away from the bent truck. “Fisherman. Climbed down, but they were already dead.”

“They?”

“Girl and a dog.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Gil looked at Mondale. “Missouri tags, but long expired. Used to be registered to a Terrence Hickerson in Hamilton County.”

Mondale looked back at the truck. “Really?”

“Yeah. Know him?”

“Know who he is, yeah. Woman though, huh?”

“Yeah, young. Blonde. Know her?”

Mondale shook his head. “Huh-uh.” Below, the driver searched for a place to secure his tow cable and Mondale clapped Officer Gil on the shoulder. “Lemme know if they find any I.D. on her. I’m headed over to Hickerson’s place.”

“Alright. Hey, Sheriff?” Mondale turned. “It’s probably nothing, but,” Gil lowered his voice and stepped toward Mondale who followed suit and inclined his head for privacy.

“What?”

“Assistant State’s Attorney, name of Jordan has been requesting information about Spruce and Hamilton County. Asking about bike traffic and stuff.” Mondale went cold. “I only mention it ’cause he asked about you too. Seemed interested in you for some reason. Thought you’d want to know.”

Mondale held out his hand and Gil took it. They shook firmly and Mondale said, “Thanks. Not sure what that’s all about, but I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Sheriff. I’ll let you know when we identify the driver.”

Mondale got into his car. “Do that.”

TERRY

Cal had driven them back to his Aunt Jeannette’s house where Terry’d gone straight to his liquor supply and damn near emptied it. Cal watched his friend and business partner finish off three near empty bottles of whiskey before taking any himself. He’d driven home watching his rearview the whole way for anybody who might be following them. Branson was more than an hour’s drive through the winding roads and Terry had waited twenty minutes before pounding on the glass for him to pull over and let him into the cab. It had begun to rain and the muggy clime was only intensified by it. Cal blasted the air conditioner to keep from smothering in the heavy air outside.

Cal had looked at Terry expectantly and got the message, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to say word one until he was spoken to. Terry stared sullenly out the window at nothing in particular. There was a cut and a bruise forming on his forehead and the knuckles on both his hands were beginning to swell, making it difficult to hold the camera tight, but he clutched it to his chest like a baby he’d birthed.

Terry had eventually passed out on the floor still holding Cal’s camera in one hand and an empty bottle in the other. When he woke up he was alone in the front room of Jeanette’s place. According to Cal the old bat hardly ever came out of her bedroom except to trip on the rug on the way to the kitchen once in a while. There were large wet spots on his shirt and pants that gave off sharp, acrid odors and didn’t mix too well. He stumbled into the kitchen and vomited proper. He managed to empty himself mostly into the sink and turned on the faucet to rinse it down. Then he bent over and put his head beneath the water flow. He rubbed his face vigorously and turned his mouth up to drink.

After he’d drunk his fill and spit most of the puke flavor out of his mouth, he unzipped and peed in Jeanette’s sink. He was shaking off when Cal came in from the other room.

“Shit Terry, c’mon. You know where the can is.”

“I don’t believe you have any place being upset with me, man. I believe you should get on your knees and kiss my ass for what I did for us last night.”

“So?”

“Gold.”

Cal clapped his hands. “Hot damn. Let’s get it printed.”

Terry held his hand up. “I’ll see to that.”

“No, c’mon, Terry. It’s my camera.”

“And it’s my dick, so shut the fuck up.” Cal’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Terry cut him off. “I said ‘shut the fuck up.’”

Cal drove them back to Terry’s place. Eventually they were heading out to Cuba where Cal had a contact he wanted to use to develop the pictures. Terry had no problem with that idea. The thought of a stranger handling the sensitive material didn’t sound too smart.

When they pulled up into his driveway, something struck Terry as odd, but he couldn’t put a finger to that particular mental itch just then. He opened the door and went toward his bedroom for a change of clothes, having leaked a variety of digestive fluids onto his current outfit during the course of the night. He stripped naked and hopped into the shower and jumped when the cold blast of water hit him. Warming it up took too long, so he took cold showers when he was in a hurry, which he was most of the times he decided he could stand to bathe.

Stepping out, he stood dripping onto the dirty shirt he’d left on the floor and reached for the clean one he’d brought with him to the bathroom to dry off with before slipping it over his head. Then he bent over the sink and squeezed water out of the handfuls of hair he could grab. Next he put on a different pair of jeans and the same socks he’d worn the night before.

He stopped at the fridge and poked through its contents: ketchup, Vess Grape soda, a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag (which he grabbed), and three cans of Stag (which he pocketed). As he was about to leave he remembered to scoop some dry dog food for Layla into her dish and called out to her that breakfast was ready. He was mildly surprised she hadn’t come to see him yet, but figured she was out in the woods somewhere gnawing on a root or a squirrel skull.

When he climbed back into Cal’s truck, feeling a thousand percent better, he tossed the driver a can of Stag and cracked one for himself. Cal wheeled them out of the drive and they were on the highway five minutes later. Twenty minutes after that, Terry looked at Cal and said, “Where the hell was my truck?”

CHOWDER

His cell phone was about to vibrate itself right off the dresser and all the loose change and his keys, resting atop, were buzzing along with it. Sounded like a bee-hive rolling down a gravel road. He turned over and grabbed it. Hettie was moaning beside him, “Fuck’s sake, Chowder, turn it off.” His fingers were clumsy with sleep and he couldn’t operate the tiny buttons. He squeezed it and jabbed at the controls randomly until it stopped humming. Holding it flat against his face he barked, “What?”

Tate Dill’s voice answered. “Sorry Chowder, I just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

Chowder sat up straight and Hettie pulled the covers he’d displaced back over her. “What’s going on?”

“You weren’t here when I came in this morning.”

“At the shop?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s Irm?”

“Not here.”

“Who’s with you?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Place was empty when I came in. Doors unlocked, lights on, but nobody home.”

“Fuck.”

“Just wanted –”

He hung up on Tate. He dialed his daughter’s number as he strode naked out of his bedroom into the front of the house. The patient chirping of the ring tone aggravated him as he split the blinds on the front window and peeked outside. Nobody there.

Irm’s voicemail picked up and Chowder growled, “Call me back. Now.” He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He reached in for a glass of black coffee brewed yesterday and left to cool overnight. He palmed two peeled hardboiled eggs and popped them into his mouth, washing them down with the coffee. Back in the bedroom, Hettie murmured inquisitively and he said, “If you see or hear from Irm, call me.”

He slid into his jeans without underwear, careful to tuck himself well into them before zipping up, and grabbed a long t-shirt. He bent forward to lace his boots over his swollen feet and grunted with the effort of reaching them while his hair hung gray and greasy in his eyes. With one hand he pushed it backward over the top of his head and instinctively made the motion to tie it into a tail, though it hadn’t been long enough to do so in a decade.

He slipped into his leather jacket and kicked open the front door tapping a Camel between his lips. Climbing into the cab of his truck, he paused to light it and crawled under the steering wheel with minimal effort. He started the engine, flipped the cell phone open again and dialed the shop.