The Long Count (16 page)

‘Morning, Captain,’ he said.

‘Morning, John Q. How did you know it was me?’

‘Well sir, you’re the only sumbitch in Texas would call a Ranger at home this time of day.’

‘Is that right?’ Van Hanigan said. ‘So if it’s that early, how come you’re up and about?’

‘Don’t sleep so well anymore, probably the same as you.’

‘That’s a fact,’ Van Hanigan said. ‘I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since before World War II.’

‘So what can I do for you?’ Quarrie swirled the dregs in the bottom of his cup.

‘The fingerprints you asked about from Marion County – had us a teletype from the NCIC.’

‘You telling me we got an ID?’

‘Not quite, they can’t give us his name right now but whoever it was, his dabs match those from the motel room in Fairview as well as the sawn-off barrel from that shotgun.’

‘Well, I kind of figured that,’ Quarrie said.

‘I ain’t done, John Q. There’s something else you need to know.’

Dr Beale drove his Fairlane west. A steady sixty-five miles an hour, he had one hand on the wheel and now and again he would glance in the rear-view mirror only not at the upcoming traffic but at the expression in his eyes where they were reflected. The tape recorder lay across the back seat, microphone clipped on the side, and his briefcase with the catches unfastened. On the dashboard was a letter addressed to him postmarked
Fannin County
.

He twiddled with the radio, picking up some country music he listened to that. After a while, though, he twisted the dial to where a newscaster was discussing a speech made to Congress by President Johnson. Letting that play out, Beale found himself hunting his gaze once more in the mirror before shifting station and catching some Buddy Holly. As he crossed the state line into Texas he switched the radio off.

Back at the hospital Nancy had watched him go. She had been in the records office on the top floor, checking over some papers when she saw Beale pace the length of the drive.

She went back to the women’s wing, passing through the common room and twin sets of doors. In the corridor all was still, but as she got closer to her desk she could hear Miss Annie’s voice lifting from inside her cell. She was crooning, singing a lullaby to her porcelain doll. As Nancy came alongside she glanced through the panel on the door and spotted a fresh batch of scribbled etchings on the only patch of wall space that had remained unblemished.

She paused with one hand pressed to the glass and the keys on a chain at her side. Miss Annie was sitting on her bed cradling the doll in her arms and singing more softly now, as if her baby had fallen asleep. She did not look up; if she sensed the presence outside in the corridor it was not apparent. Still Nancy stood there; sweat on the palms of her hands, she wiped them on the front of her uniform.

The movement sparking something perhaps, Miss Annie twisted around where she sat. For a moment they stared at each other; the same age roughly, though, skeletal as she was, Miss Annie looked much older. The dullness in her eyes, the darkness; Nancy could hardly bear to look at her yet she couldn’t peel her gaze away.

Fetching the canvas duffel bag from the closet in his room, Isaac laid it on the bed then dressed in the uniform he had recently cleaned and pressed. Downstairs in the kitchen he looked under the sink for the box containing boot polish and brushes and set about working the toes of his shoes. Only when he could almost see his face in them did he put the brushes aside.

Silent in his father’s study, he stood in the half-darkness where the smell of death seemed to permeate still. He stared at the cabinet housing the array of weapons and the blade of the German bayonet seemed burnished in the half-light that bled from the corridor.

Settling in his father’s chair, Isaac glanced at those tiny stains he had yet to scrape from the floor. Then he looked sideways, as if somebody was standing next to him. Bunching his eyes he made the shape of a pistol with his right hand and held it to his head. Index finger pressed against the soft spot of his temple he eased the finger back a couple of inches then worked his thumb like it was a hammer falling.

Hands in his lap he swivelled left and right. Like a child he
wheeled the chair all the way around. He considered the desktop and the papers his father had signed. With a shake of his head he spun the chair once more and faced the panels behind. On his feet he slid his hand down the left-hand side, heard the click, then the panel opened.

Beyond it was the darkness of the passage; the only sound that of his shoes on the concrete floor. He had no need of a light. Exactly thirty feet and he came to the storm shelter and there he did switch on the light. Various bulbs set into the ceiling showed him the camp beds, sleeping bags and the shelves stacked with food enough to survive any tornado, hurricane or nuclear attack.

Tracing fingers across the labels he studied the assortment of cans: Campbell’s soup, meatballs, haricot beans in tomato sauce, peaches and plums, apricots in syrup, sliced apple, and can after can of condensed milk. The lowest shelf formed part of the wall. Moulded in concrete like a prison bunk, the space underneath was deep enough for someone to lie down comfortably, a final vestige of safety if the rest of the shelter failed.

Water coolers like they had in offices, there were at least a dozen of them. Sleeping bags from Army/Navy stores all neatly rolled. On the wall next to the door that led to the garage was a metal box that housed first aid. For a moment Isaac stood there with his head slightly to one side as if lost in some distant memory. Then he crossed to the wall, opened the box by popping the catch on the top, and the lid fell forward to form a tray that sat at ninety degrees. The body of the box remained in the vertical, the contents neatly packed on plastic shelves, and metal clips where bandages were rolled, along with bottles of antiseptic. There was everything anyone could ever need, including syringes and antibiotics, hydrocodone tablets, as well as needles, dressings and suture thread. He ran his eye across a pack of steri-strips and next to that a polythene bag containing a flat, metal key about an inch in length.

Switching off the light he walked the passage back to his father’s
study. The wood panelling closed, he tossed the key in the air and caught it, his gaze drifting to the desk and the discharge papers from Houston. Sitting down in the chair once more, he laid the key on top of the papers and went through each of the drawers. He found nothing: no box, no pouch or satchel that might fit the key. Standing tall once more, he tossed the key in the air and caught it again then placed it on the shelf next to his father’s photo.

Outside, he opened the garage doors. The ignition keys to both the pickup and the Pontiac were on their hooks and he started both engines and checked each gauge for gas. The Pontiac was half full so he backed that out and left the motor running, then he backed the pickup out too. Shutting off the engine he hung the keys back on the hook and closed the garage doors. He stood there looking at the pickup and then the house as if making sure it appeared somebody was home.

He trundled the length of the drive and, hitting dirt, he headed south. When he got to the county road he made for the junction that would take him to Paris. Close to the turn he spotted an Oldsmobile station wagon with wood panels on the doors that someone had left by the side of the road. Four miles later he was in Paris. As he came to the H-E-B grocery store he pulled off the road and into the parking lot where he locked the car and crossed to the men’s room.

Walking the aisle in his jeans and jungle boots, he selected a bag of potato chips and a hunk of Monterrey Jack cheese. At the checkout he hunted his pockets for some money then grabbed a Hershey bar and an ice-cold bottle of Coke. Stepping out to the parking lot, he jerked the cap off the bottle using the opener fixed to the wall by a chain. He drank. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a vehicle parked close to the perimeter wall, a midnight-blue Pontiac sedan;
he stared hard as sweat seemed to scatter his brow.

From the store it was a short walk to the gas station where he asked the girl at the counter if he could borrow a jerry jug. As he was pumping a young man in mechanic’s coveralls came out of the workshop working his hands with a rag.

‘So you ran out then, did you?’ he said. ‘How far away is it you left your vehicle?’

He looked sideways briefly then returned his attention to the clock-face dial on the pump. ‘Little piece up the road there. Had to hike me all the way back.’

Hands in his pockets the mechanic tossed him a smile. ‘I guess you swung right through town without thinking you was needing gas. Easily done, things on your mind like that. Been caught that way myself.’

The needle on the pump clicked back to the top of the dial and he shut it off. Shaking the last few drops from the nozzle he returned it to its housing and fished in his pocket for a dollar. The mechanic took the money, went into the office and came out with a quarter and pennies.

‘So if it’s the county road you need, I guess that’s a couple of miles.’

He looked at him. He looked once more at the can of gas. ‘I’ll bring it right back, soon as I get to the vehicle.’

‘I tell you what,’ the mechanic said. ‘How about I whistle you up there and fetch that jerry jug back myself? Ain’t as if we’re run off our feet right now, and Josie can hold the fort.’

The mechanic drove a wrecking truck with a heavyweight winch on the back. Across the bench seat he sat against the window with the Model 10 Colt hidden under the skirts of his sleeveless jacket.

‘You a veteran then?’ The mechanic indicated the jungle boots.

He shook his head.

‘The draft and all – failed your physical, did you? I know how that feels.’ The mechanic indicated the pedals on the floor.
‘Flat-foot apparently, though I never knowed it till the doc from the Army told me.’

A few minutes later they came up on the Oldsmobile where the mechanic eased off the gas. ‘That her?’ he said, nodding through the windshield.

‘That’s her. I’m obliged to you for the ride.’

Stopping behind the car the mechanic got down and fetched the jerry jug from the bed of the truck and removed the top. Dispensing the gasoline, he gave the jug a waggle to make sure it was empty and then re-fixed the fuel cap on the car. ‘You best fire her up just in case.’

As he fished the car keys from his pocket the skirt of his jacket popped up to reveal the grips of the pistol. The mechanic spotted it and the color drained from his face. For a moment they just looked at one another, then he got behind the wheel of the Olds.

‘I don’t want any trouble,’ the mechanic said softly. ‘Whatever business you got going on it ain’t anything to do with me.’

He was no longer looking the mechanic’s way. He was staring the length of the quiet road.

‘Like I said just now, I’m obliged.’ Closing the door he started the engine, slipped the transmission and pulled away with dust rising from the rear tires. In the mirror he could see the pale young man with the jerry jug scuttling back to his rig.

He drove the county road as far as the T junction and waited there. Nothing coming either way, he pulled out to the middle of the road and sat behind the wheel with the engine idling and scrutinized the landscape both north and south. Swivelling round in the driver’s seat he rested the flat of his arm and checked the way he had come. Nothing there either, he turned for the house in the woods.

He drove slowly, eyes on the road ahead as the sun dipped behind clouds that seemed to be gathering off to the east. Signposts for the lake and fishing ahead, as well as the camp ground, he got to
the point where the road forked and there he stopped. Leaving the engine idling he got out of the car and opened the tailgate where the boards were still stained with Briers’s blood. Hidden under the raincoat he had the sawn-off shotgun with silver tape pasted over the grips. Back down the road a little way he could hear the sound of another car approaching and he got back into the Olds. Instead of making the turn for the house, he drove deeper into the woods.

Pulling into a glade he sat with the shotgun across his knees and his gaze fixed on the door mirror. No car appeared. He remained where he was, staring into the mirror, but nothing came up the dirt road and he hunched around in the seat. Opening the door he listened but could hear no sound now and gathered his brows in a frown. Starting the engine he closed the door, turned the Olds around and rolled back the way he had come.

He did not see any car and he stopped at the turning that led to the house. There he waited, the Oldsmobile squatting with the wind brushing the trees and the windows rolled down both on the driver and passenger’s side. He fished the pistol from his waistband and laid it on the seat next to the shotgun. Making the turn he crawled along, keeping his eyes on the road until he came to where the driveway peeled off and the mailbox was fixed on its post.

His eyes were cold, brows still knit and again he stopped the car. For a full sixty seconds he stared at the driveway and the mailbox then he guided the Olds a little further up the road. On the right-hand side the trees thinned out enough to form a turnout where a car could spin all the way around. Pulling in there he switched off the engine then reached across the passenger seat and rolled the window up.

He approached the house through the trees. Cutting north from the dirt road he picked his way carefully, following foot trails and watching for snakes. He found no snakes and as he got closer the woodland grew less dense and the day a little brighter and he could see the edge of the lawn.

He came out of the trees in the lee of the garage. Head cocked, he listened to the sound of someone walking the pea gravel on the other side. He had the pistol in his waistband, the stain-spattered sleeveless Levi undone and the shotgun gripped by the breech. Moving soundlessly he peered around the corner and picked out a Ford and a man in a business suit who was knocking on the front door. The man waited, knocked again and waited but nobody came. A quiver in his muscles, he saw who it was and shrank back. Dr Beale. He listened intently as he crossed the driveway and stopped. He listened as the car door was opened then he heard it close and waited for the engine to start. But it did not start and he peered around the corner once more.

On the far side of the car Beale was facing him but not looking his way. He had a sheet of paper in his hand and he seemed to be reading what was written as if it were some instruction. Turning around he studied the facade of the house before striding across to the garage.

Again he stepped back; saliva in his mouth, he sent his tongue across his lips like a snake. On the other side of the garage the footsteps were suddenly silent and it was fifteen seconds before he heard them again. Releasing a trapped breath, he raised the shotgun so he held it broadside across his chest. He waited for Beale to appear around the corner but instead the garage doors were opened and he heard the doctor go inside. Eyes closed, he leaned with his back to the wall, the sun casting shadows across his face though sweat still cloaked his brow. From inside the garage he heard the grating sound of the trapdoor as it was raised and the clatter as it fell again.