The Long Count (15 page)

When morning came she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling where a little gray spider had woven a web so fine it was all but invisible save where it caught in strands of sunlight. She lay with her arms at her sides and the blankets up to her chin, her hair no longer in a plait but splayed across the pillow. From the front door she could hear the sound of the bell ringing. She could hear the weight of boots on the wooden step and then the bell again followed by the sound of somebody knocking.

She did not move. She did not get up. Next to her on the nightstand were the photos she had dug out last night. She lay with her head to the side staring at those photos until the knocking ceased. She lay until the sound of footfall left the step. She lay until the sound came a second time, only at the back of the house where he knocked all over again. As if he did not believe the house was empty, he knocked again and again.

Sitting up finally, she threw off the bedclothes and crossed to the hall. No nightdress, no robe, she hovered for a moment and she could see his shadow, the shape of his hat through the frosted glass. He knocked again and she was reaching for a robe when she saw him walk away. Throwing the robe around her shoulders she made for the door then paused and crossed to the living-room window. She saw him walk to his car. She went to the front door but again she hesitated. She heard an engine fire and she fumbled with the dead bolt and safety chain. She had the door open finally and was out on the stoop in the cool of the morning but he was already driving away.

Inside the house she rested with her back to the door and the flat
of her hands at the base of her spine. Eyes closed, she rocked back and forth. In the kitchen she switched on the coffee pot and squatted on a stool. Reaching for the telephone her hand shook a little as she dialled.

A woman’s voice answered. ‘Bellevue Sanatorium, can I help you?’

‘I need to speak to Dr Beale.’

‘I’ll see if he’s available. Who’s calling please?’

‘Clara – I mean Carla. Carla Simpson. Tell him it’s very important.’

‘All right,’ the operator said. ‘I’ll see if I can connect you.’ The line clicked then seemed to die for a moment before Beale’s voice sounded.

‘Carla, what is it? Has something happened?’

‘I had to speak to you. That policeman was just here – the one I told you about, the Texas Ranger.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘No, I didn’t. He showed up just now and I was still in bed and I didn’t answer the door. I don’t know why I did that. I should’ve spoken to him but yesterday you told me you were dealing with it and—’

‘I
am
dealing with it,’ Beale cut in. ‘You did the right thing. There’s no need for you to talk to anyone. There’s no need for you to be involved. If you get involved now it will all come out, everything that happened; everything that went on back then.’ He broke off for a moment then he said, ‘You don’t need that. You don’t want that. It’ll do nobody any good. Now, listen to me. It’s as I said: there is nothing to worry about. Nobody is going ask you any questions. Just go on with your life, OK?’

Hanging up the phone, Beale peered across the desk to where Nancy was looking on with her shoulders hunched and her arms folded across her chest.

‘Nothing to worry about? Are you kidding me?’

Beale held her gaze. ‘Nancy, what I said to her applies to you too.
There’s no need to speak to anyone and there is no need for panic. I can handle this and I will.’

‘So you’ll go to the police? You’ll tell them what happened at Trinity, how this all got out of hand?’

‘Didn’t you hear me just now?’ Beale said. ‘The last thing we need is the police.’ He let go a shortened breath. ‘He won’t let them take him. They’ll kill him, Nancy, and he doesn’t deserve that. We don’t deserve it. Now, I said I’ll deal with this and I will.’

‘Are you sure? Are you sure you can? Are you sure it’s not too late?’ She stepped a few paces closer to the desk. ‘If you want my opinion I think you’ve let your ego get in the way. I think …’

She broke off as color flushed through Beale’s cheeks. On his feet he paced around the desk.

‘I don’t want your opinion,’ he said. ‘I don’t need your opinion, and as for my ego – this is about science not ego. When all’s said and done the only thing I did was have him brought to Trinity.’

‘That may be, but he didn’t belong there, did he? He’d committed no crime and he did not belong in a place like that. I swear to God, if I had my time again I would never have agreed.’

‘
You
would never have agreed?’ Beale’s tone was suddenly derisory. ‘It wasn’t up to you. You’re not in charge. I could’ve used any of the nurses I wanted.’

‘But you didn’t.’ Nancy fixed her gaze on his. ‘You used me because I knew her better than anyone else and you asked Charlie because he could handle both of them if it came to it. Shock treatment – well it shocked all right, only not in the way you thought.’ The fear in her eyes was tangible. ‘Doctor, no matter what you told her just now, you need to go to the police. Mary-Beth is dead and so is Ike. We both know why and we both know how this ends.’

She was trembling, a shudder in her shoulders, her hands knotted. ‘Anyway, there’s something else, something you need to know. It’s why I came up here. Charlie Briers didn’t show up for work this morning.’

Beale stared at her and his gaze was as troubled as hers now. Nancy glanced above his head at the clock on the wall.

‘His shift started at seven and it’s almost nine thirty. He’s never late and he’s never had a day off sick.’

Beale was open-mouthed. ‘Have you called his house?’

‘Of course I have. I did that as soon as I knew he wasn’t here. I got no answer on the phone so I thought he might be on his way, but when I checked his car was still in the parking lot and it was there when I left last night.’

Quarrie made his way back to the highway. Twice now he had called at Carla Simpson’s house and twice nobody came to the door. She might not have been home last night, but a car was in the drive this morning and he was positive she had heard him knock. Why she didn’t answer he had no idea, but he figured he’d have headquarters ask somebody in the Tulsa police department to call as soon as he got to a phone.

He drove south once more and stopped at the Bowen house where Isaac answered the door in a bathrobe, his hair still wet from the shower. Showing Quarrie into the kitchen he went to get dressed. A few minutes later he came back with his Army uniform on a coat hanger. Draping it over a ladder-backed chair he dug out the ironing board and plugged in the steam iron.

‘I like to keep stuff neat,’ he explained. ‘Probably I get that from my dad – he was a stickler for neatness. I guess I told you already. Used to drive Mom crazy, like there was never anything for her to do, how he insisted on doing the dishes and pressing his own clothes. You know what I mean?’

Taking a cigarette from his pocket Quarrie rolled it across his palm. ‘But you’re discharged now, right?’ He nodded to where the iron was heating up. ‘You’re no longer in the service.’

‘That’s right. I’m no longer in the service and I guess I don’t need to be doing this anymore, but I’ve been in so long it’s a habit already, and you never know when I might need the uniform again.’

Quarrie nodded. ‘So what’re you going to do then? For work I mean, now that you’re a civilian? Have you got something figured out?’

Isaac shrugged. ‘I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve got more important things to worry about, like whether my dad killed himself or if someone came to the house. I have to find out whether my brother died in that fire.’

‘Do you think he did?’

‘I really don’t know.’ With a sigh then Isaac set the iron on its heel. ‘I found some papers, some stuff my Dad signed. I need you to take a look.’ Opening a drawer in the worktop he brought out a couple of sheets of paper. ‘From the hospital, I found it in his desk last night when I was down in the study.’

Two parts of a medical discharge form from a sanatorium in Houston dated January 1967, Quarrie read them carefully.

‘That’s Dad’s signature right there.’ Isaac indicated the scribble at the bottom of the second page.

Quarrie looked up at him. ‘Isaac, this form signs Ishmael out of Houston into Dr Beale’s care.’

‘Right,’ Isaac said. ‘And I don’t get that. I mean, like you said, Trinity was an asylum for criminals and Ish never hurt a fly.’

Again Quarrie studied the papers. ‘You need to make some phone calls. Houston first, this sanatorium right here.’ He tapped the page. ‘See if you can’t get some answers. They won’t talk to me on account of I’m a cop and unless I can prove that your brother is a danger to the public or himself, they’ll just quote patient confidentiality. Right now I can’t even tell them if he’s alive.’ He looked squarely at Isaac then. ‘They have to talk to you, though. They might not do that on the phone. They might insist you be there in person. But you’re next of kin now your dad is gone and that means you’re responsible.’

‘Responsible.’ Isaac had his brows knit. ‘Responsible for what?’

‘For your brother, at least technically anyhow: that paper says he was committed to the hospital in Houston and it was your dad that had him certified. That meant Ishmael was unstable enough to not be responsible for his actions or wellbeing.
Isaac, if he is still alive then you’re responsible now.’

Isaac called the sanatorium in Houston but there were no physicians available and the receptionist told him he would have to come down in person. Hanging up, he dialled the number for Bellevue but they told him only Dr Beale could give him the answers he wanted and he was away. Putting the phone down again, Isaac went outside to get some air and a few minutes later Quarrie followed. Overhead the sun was high and Isaac stood with his back to the house and his arms across his chest, gazing into the woodland that grew up ahead of the lake.

‘I called you that day because I wanted to know who it was that shot my father.’ He gestured towards the garage. ‘I showed you that passageway because that’s how I figured they got in.’

‘They didn’t.’ Quarrie assured him. ‘I’ve told you already. And you’ve said it yourself: nobody could get in there unless they knew how that panel worked. Whoever it was must’ve rung the bell and your dad opened the door. I figure they had a gun on him and he had no choice but to let them in.’

Isaac turned from the yard to face him. ‘So if they had a gun on him, why kill him with one of his?’

‘Guns can be traced, Isaac, bullets matched. The perp used his own weapon to get in the house but after that why not use one of your dad’s? Suicide,’ he said. ‘Any trail ends there and it worked already: the sheriff’s detectives went for it.’

Together they went downstairs and Isaac switched on the lamp on his father’s desk. Standing in the doorway Quarrie watched him, conscious of the way the darkened panels on the walls seemed to make the room feel smaller than it actually was. Sitting in his father’s chair, Isaac opened a desk drawer and brought out a sheaf of old letters minus their envelopes and bound by a couple of rubber bands. Rolling the bands clear, he spread the letters on the desk.

‘All of what I wrote him,’ he said, picking up the topmost page. ‘Crow’s Foot valley, the Fishhook, no matter where I was, I never
once got anything back.’ He indicated the pile. ‘So why keep them? If they don’t mean enough to him that he can’t write back why bother to hold on to the letters?’

Quarrie had no answer.

‘It doesn’t make any sense. Just like some stranger coming in the house and killing him doesn’t make any sense. I’m sorry, John Q. I figure I wasted your time. A man who never writes his son, maybe that’s the kind of man that kills himself.’ Gathering up the letters again he fixed them with the rubber bands before dumping the whole lot in the trash.

Quarrie could see where tears pricked his eyes and he perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Isaac,’ he said, ‘I need to ask you something. You told me that after you left Trinity you went to Shreveport and spoke to Dr Beale?’

Isaac nodded.

‘Because the caretaker told you that’s where your brother might be?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So how did you know to go to Trinity in the first place?’

Isaac looked puzzled.

‘How did you know Ishmael was there if your father never wrote?’

Isaac got up from the chair. ‘I spoke to him on the phone, called from Saigon just before they shipped me out. I never said I was on my way home. I wanted that to be a surprise. I asked him how Ish was and he told me he was in a different sanatorium. He never said why and he didn’t say what kind of a place it was, just told me he’d been transferred to the Piney Woods. It was no great shock. I said to you how Ish was always being sent to different institutions. It’s been that way for years, Started when Mom left, I guess.’

‘And that was when you were how old?’

‘Ten or eleven I suppose.’

‘And you’ve no idea where she is?’

‘My mom? No, we haven’t heard from her since.’

‘So what’s her name? Tell me who she is and I’ll have the Feds try and track her down.’

Isaac furrowed his brow. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

With a shrug of his shoulders Quarrie gestured. ‘You don’t think she’d want to know that her ex-husband was dead and might’ve been murdered?’

‘If she gave a shit, why take off in the first place? Why leave him with two kids to bring up on his own and why not ever contact me or Ish?’ Isaac was on his feet, his eyes dark. ‘If she gave a damn about any of us she wouldn’t have left when she did.’

‘Even so,’ Quarrie said. ‘She’s your mother and it’s never too late. Besides, she might be able to throw some light on what was wrong with Ishmael that your father had him sent to Trinity.’

Isaac seemed to think about that. Then he ushered a mouthful of air from his cheeks.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re right: family is family and right now she’s all I got left. Her name’s Clara. Before she married Dad she would’ve been Clara Symonds.’

Upstairs the phone was ringing and Isaac went to answer it. Quarrie retrieved the pile of letters he had dumped in the trash and leafed through them, trying to imagine how he would’ve felt in Korea if none of his letters had been answered. He wondered what it must be like watching all your friends get mail when there was never anything for you. With a shake of his head he re-wrapped the bands and put the letters back in the drawer.

In the kitchen he found Isaac still on the phone. ‘OK,’ he was saying. ‘If that’s what the coroner believes …’ He looked round at Quarrie. ‘No, he still thinks the same as he did. He’s here right now as a matter of fact. Do you want to speak to him?’

He held out the phone and Quarrie looked at him with an eyebrow stretched.

‘Deputy Collins from the sheriff’s department,’ Isaac explained.
‘The coroner has examined Dad’s body and he concurs with their lieutenant.’

‘You’re kidding me.’ Quarrie lifted the receiver to his ear. ‘This is Sergeant Quarrie.’

‘Hello, sir, this is Deputy Collins speaking. I was the one come down there when you found Mr Bowen’s body.’

‘I remember you, Deputy. I told you he’d been shot and you were to secure the scene.’

‘That’s right, sir. And I did that but my lieutenant said how he shot himself. The coroner agrees with him, sir: he told me just now that the fact blood had gathered at the base of his throat was on account of the way he was set in the chair. He told me that bodies can move, sir; on their own I mean, especially if they’re in a sitting position. He’s done the autopsy now and he’s sure that’s how it happened. The only prints on the gun were Mr Bowen’s and in the coroner’s opinion – in the opinion of the sheriff’s department – he used that gun himself.’

‘What about the powder burns?’

‘He dismissed those, sir, on account of the fact Mr Bowen had been a soldier and wouldn’t have needed to be holding the gun against his head because of all his training. He said the fact that there were those powder burns wasn’t proof of anything.’

‘OK, Deputy,’ Quarrie said. ‘If that’s what he said that’s what he said and it ain’t the first time I’ve disagreed with the coroner.’ With a shake of his head he handed the phone back to Isaac.

Late that afternoon Pious landed the Piper Cherokee in Mr Palmer’s field where Quarrie was leaning on the top rail of the fence with Isaac standing next to him. The Ford he had borrowed was parked in Palmer’s yard and Quarrie had been on the phone to Marion County for someone to come and collect it.

‘Isaac,’ he said, ‘regardless of whether the coroner’s right or wrong you need to get a-hold of Dr Beale.’ Loosely he gripped him by the shoulder. ‘Don’t let him stall you. Remember you’re next of
kin now and nobody can keep anything from you. He has to tell you everything there is to know about your brother and he can’t soft-soap or bullshit either.’

‘All right.’ Isaac looked grateful. ‘And thank you. I don’t know what I’d be doing right now if you hadn’t come around when you did.’

‘Well, I have to tell you, if the coroner’s writing your dad’s death down as suicide there ain’t a whole lot more I can do. Let me know what happens with your brother though, OK? Let me know when you’ve spoken to Beale.’

They flew back to the ranch, Pious glancing across the cockpit as Quarrie sat in the co-pilot’s seat working his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

‘Thank God for Mrs Feeley and this plane. I’m tired, bud. Could do with a hot shower, my own bed and a couple of days hanging out with my son.’ He looked sideways then at Pious. ‘How is he anyway?’

‘He’s just fine. Working hard on that project his teacher wants written up.’

‘Is he now?’ Quarrie smiled. ‘Well I’ll be. James never was much of a one for his lessons; guess this thing’s really gotten hold of him.’

‘Sure has,’ Pious glanced at him again. ‘Listen, I had to tell him about them bones. I know how I said I’d leave that up to you, but Sheriff Dayton had a couple of his boys come out to the ranch and I took them to that bend in the river. I guess they drug what was left of that poor kid out of the wreck, and when we got back James was home from school. According to the newspapers me and him been looking at, there weren’t many children on that train so it’s possible we might come up with a name.’

They flew low across the state with the sun in their eyes, Quarrie sitting in silence, thinking about Fannin County and the coroner and how Tom Dakin, the medical examiner from Wichita Falls, would not have discounted the powder burns.

‘So, are you making any progress with what-alls going on?’ Pious asked as the ranch lands came into view. ‘Marion County I’m talking about, that sumbitch you been trying to tree.’

Quarrie drew a stiff breath. ‘Got close to him, Pious, down in Panola County.’ He told him about the old Mexican and what had happened during the rainstorm.

‘Old Mex and a black girl, huh?’ Pious shook his head. ‘Wrong place at the wrong time, always the way it goes.’

Quarrie nodded. ‘ME going to take a look at those bones, is he? That what the sheriff said?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Well, maybe I’ll call by before I drive back.’

‘So, you’re going over there again then, are you?’

‘Have to, bud. More’s the pity. I’d kindly like to spend some time at home right now but I got this sleazeball to scoop up and there’s a woman in Tulsa, Oklahoma, who I need to talk to, only she doesn’t want to talk to me.’

The following morning he was sitting on his back porch, watching the sun come up as he and his wife used to when they lived on the banks of the Snake. Smoking a cigarette and drinking hot, sweet coffee with cream, he heard the phone ring inside the house. James was still asleep, but for all he’d said to Pious about his own bed, Quarrie had tossed and turned all night. Twice he’d been up for a smoke and once for a shot of bourbon to see if that would knock him out. In the end he gave up and got dressed.

The phone was still ringing, and at this time of day that could only mean one thing.