The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (27 page)

Hubbard had to act. He would charge Foxcroft; at least he’d die trying . . .

The long blare of a truck horn from outside startled both men. After a moment of hesitation, they turned in the direction of the noise. When Hubbard turned back, Foxcroft had lowered the gun.

“John Riley! Where are you, kid?” It was R.J. There was another blast from the horn.

“Stay quiet. Don’t answer.” Foxcroft said, in an unnecessary whisper.

Hubbard’s mind raced, trying to consider options. If he called out, Foxcroft would kill him. Then he would kill R.J. when his uncle ran into the workshop, drawn by the sound of the gunshot. If he stayed silent, R.J. still wouldn’t leave since he saw Hubbard’s truck on the driveway. After a while, he would begin searching for him. Eventually, he’d make his way to the workshop and Foxcroft would kill both of them at his leisure. There was one chance that might allow one of them to survive.

He called out, not knowing how many words he could get out before the old man pulled the trigger. “Foxcroft has a gun. Get out of . . .”

Momentarily surprised, Foxcroft hesitated then brought the gun up. His face was flushed and he was breathing even more rapidly than Hubbard. Pulling the trigger the second time around was proving to be hard for him to do.

Hubbard decided that he had little to lose. Foxcroft was visibly cracking under the strain of contemplating a second murder, Hubbard turned up the pressure. He turned and walked slowly for the door, his muscles braced for the shotgun pellets that he expected to tear through him at any moment.

“Stop.” Foxcroft breath was now coming in spurts. “I said stop.”

“No.” Hubbard couldn’t come up with anything else. He was at the door and he opened it. R.J.’s truck was on the driveway, right behind his. He heard Foxcroft’s footsteps racing up behind him and then he felt the gun stock slamming into the back of his head.

“I told you to stop.”

Hubbard’s head snapped forward from the blow and he staggered a few steps. He reached up to rub his head. He weighed the odds that he could wheel around and grab the gun barrel before the old man pulled the trigger—nil, or close to it.

Standing by the truck door, R.J.’s eyes opened wide when he saw the barrel pointed at his nephew.

Hubbard tried to wave him away. “Get out of here, R.J. Take care of Emily. Tell Maria . . .” What? That he was a fool? “I don’t know what I want you to say to her.”

R.J. opened the truck door, but instead of leaving, he drew out his own shotgun that he stashed behind the seat. “Dill, I’m not going anywhere.”

Foxcroft knocked the gun barrel against Hubbard’s head. “Start moving or die.”

The knowledge that Foxcroft wanted him to move forward made Hubbard want to remain in place, he hesitated.

“I’ll kill you where you stand, then take care of your uncle,” Foxcroft said.

With a deep sigh, Hubbard began walking again. “Get out of here, R.J. He going to try and kill us both. How did you know I was here?”

“Maria called me,” R.J. said. “You’re lucky I know Spanish a lot better than you.”

“Please, get out now,” Hubbard said.

R.J. leveled his rifle in their direction. “Dill, that sawed off thing works great at close range. But you’ve got to know that it’s pretty lame at a distance. I can hit you with both barrels of my gun from here. And I want you to know, after I kill you I’m going to take my hunting knife and—”

Foxcroft pushed against the center of Hubbard’s back with his gun. “Keep moving.”

“No.”

“I said move.” Foxcroft raised the shotgun to the back of Hubbard’s neck.

Sweat began to roll down Hubbard’s back. This is as good as it would get. At least he would die knowing that he Foxcroft would get his. R.J. would kill Foxcroft when Hubbard fell. It was cold comfort. He felt his heart thump wildly in his chest. “No. This is it, Foxcroft. It’s all over. Pull the trigger and get it over with.”

Hubbard watched R.J.’s eyes open wide and his face grimace in horror. “No!” he called out, reaching forward as if he was close enough to stop what was about to happen.

Hubbard attempted to spin around, but the explosion from the gun knocked him senseless. He felt the heat of the blast and then the world became silent as he fell forward. He grabbed his bloody head and felt his skull come apart in his hands as he hit the ground. He pressed his hands against his head in a futile effort to keep the brain matter inside. His eyes closed and he felt the cool grass on his face. The buzzing in his ears made everything seem so quiet and peaceful.
Take care of Emily. Please.

Through a buzzing that didn’t sound like angels at all, he heard R.J.’s muffled voice. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

It was a stupid question to ask someone whose head had been blown to pieces.
Am I hurt?
Hubbard wanted to snap off an angry response, but he wondered why he was able to think at all. He pushed off the ground to his knees and took his hand away to look at the bloody flesh and bone that had been his skull. He then looked behind him. Foxcroft was on the ground, the short barrels of the shotgun pointed toward his head. He still clasped the shotgun in his hands like it was a bouquet of flowers. Hubbard’s eyes traveled up to where his head once resided. Gone. He suddenly realized he wasn’t holding a piece of his skull. Revolted by the sight of the fleshy stump, he flung the goo off his hand and stood quickly. He then bent over and became sick.

R.J. and Hubbard were seated at the picnic table behind Foxcroft’s house, waiting for the police to make it to them. R.J. looked at Hubbard, whose eyes were downcast, a towel wrapped around his neck. The operation was next week.
There’s never a perfect time.

He reached into his coat pocket. They were able to salvage only three photos from the roll. But they were enough. He hesitated. Maybe it was time to only show John Riley two of the photos. He put the third back in his pocket.

“You know, it turns out there was film in Frank’s camera.”

Hubbard looked up briefly. “Yeah. I heard. Probably all ruined.”

“Not all.”

He saw Hubbard straighten in his seat. John Riley’s eyes focus on the two photos he held in his hand. R.J. reached across the table to hand them to him. Emotion colored the younger man’s face.

“One picture of you and Frank, another of you and Alice, I guess you were at a ballgame.”

Hubbard nodded. “I remember this game. The last one I ever pitched.”

There was a moment of silence. R.J. tried to read John Riley’s thoughts as he stared intently at the two photos. Finally, R.J rose. “I’ve got to get something from my truck.”

He walked around the corner of the large house, turning to make sure he was out of John Riley’s sightline. He opened the passenger side door and collapsed in the seat, tears forming in his eyes. The last photo, the one he withheld, was of R.J. and young John Riley, his arm around the boy’s shoulder, both of them smiling before the final game of his childhood.

Stop it. You don’t cry.
He recovered quickly, using the back of his hand to clear his eyes. He opened the glove compartment, shoved the photo inside and closed the door.

It’s better this way.
R.J. heard the first faint sound of a siren approaching quickly from the east.

This moment had such finality; it was hard to ignore the realization that he would never tell John Riley the darkest of secrets.

Why John Riley Hubbard looked so much like his him.
I’ve got more money that I can spend, but Frank got everything I ever wanted.

R.J. stood and tried to gather his composure. He got out of the truck.

It’s spring, a season for new beginnings .There was always reason for hope.

At the horizon, the sun was setting behind the tree line.

30

P
OST
M
ORTEM

M
UCH HAD CHANGED DURING
the scorching summer months. Eddie’s wife announced she was expecting another child. Eddie had to give up his job in law enforcement for job at the paper mill. Trish Andrews left Hayslip without telling anyone she was leaving. Some say she ran off with a college student. Others were not so sure of that and wondered why she disappeared.

Hubbard had married Maria and was now living in R.J.’s former home, trying to run an empire. One thing that hadn’t changed was the nightmares of a murder he still didn’t understand.

In August the heat and humidity of an Arkansas evening is harsh, but when teamed with blood-crazed mosquitoes, the night becomes cruel. Anyone who leaves the comfort of air conditioning after midnight in August, to go outdoors and needlessly endure the oppressive conditions, could be classified as a fool, a drunk, or a criminal seeking the cover of darkness. At just past two a.m., Hubbard met the criteria for two of those three categories.

Satisfied he was alone on the dark highway; he slowed the truck and switched off his headlights to help cloak his turn onto the unmarked dirt lane. On this clear night, a half-moon and stars provided just enough light to navigate his truck down the road. After he passed through a track of evergreens and crossed the meadow, he glanced into his rear view mirror for a final check of the highway, somewhat obscured by pines. The roadway was deserted behind him; no flash of headlights to indicate anyone was traveling at this late hour to spoil his comfortable sense of isolation.

Although the consequences of being spotted tonight were significant, the risk he was taking only managed a slight tug at his nerves. It would all end tonight.

Continuing on the winding country road, he stopped the truck before he came to the first dilapidated shack of Shanty Town and shut off his engine. He got out and walked back to the tailgate. He scanned the length of the road until it made its first turn, searching for movement that might indicate he wasn’t alone tonight. He tried to ignore the chorus of cicadas, katydids, and crickets, straining to hear anything coming from a more threatening, manmade source. He barely noticed the mosquitoes swarming around him like an angry mob, held at bay by a thick layer of repellant generously applied before he left the house. Turning back toward the highway, he thought he could hear the faint rumble of an eighteen-wheeler on the paved road, heading toward Texarkana. A clean escape from here would be a matter of timing and luck.

For a final time, he reviewed the rotting hulks of Shanty Town, little more than profiles in the dark. He remembered Mrs. Welch’s words, “Somebody should burn Shanty Town to the ground. It’s nothing but a breeding ground for snakes, rats, and disease.” Her words gave him a weal rationalization for tonight.

He could never explain to anyone his reasoning. For his new life to begin, the nightmares and Shanty Town must end. It was as simple and as unknowable as that.

He pulled two five-gallon gasoline containers from the back of his truck and walked to the first abandoned shanty, setting one can on the road. He crossed the road to a second shack facing the first and deposited the other fuel canister. Returning to where he started, he put on gloves and opened the nozzle on the can. He carefully poured a track of fuel down the length of the right side of the road, dousing the gasoline in a wet circle at the end of the row to serve as the launching pad for his fire. He tossed the can into undergrowth destined to burn and repeated the process on the left side of the lane.

Upon completion, he reached into his pocket. Leaving nothing to chance, he had brought three lighters. He hesitated. He knew he should leave now. Combined with the summer drought, there was a good possibility the accelerant would make the undergrowth catch fire on its own, “naturally.” But he couldn’t depend on chance. For this to work, he had to do this himself.

Despite his research on the topic, his plan was quite simple. There would be no timers or fuses for this fire. He didn’t want to take the chance that someone would be hurt by his actions. He would ignite one side of the road, followed by the other. His mission begun, he would stroll down the lane in the company of two growing trails of fire, stopping only to help the fire continue its journey—if needed. If everything went according to plan, he’d be in his truck, rejoining the highway by a different road, and on his way home before the blaze was large enough to be seen from the highway or town. Perhaps his plan was too simple. According to Wikipedia, nothing was more common than an arsonist being caught in his own fire, a victim of his own crime.

Any question that reflected doubt was soon discarded.
Why was he treating this so casually?
There was a myriad of possible unintended consequences. A fire no one could control, for instance. Shanty Town was surrounded by irrigated acreage that would contain the blaze, he reasoned. There was little chance of the fire spreading. Another rationalization, he knew, and he had dozens more. They were cheap.

Hubbard had an uneasy feeling of being watched, observed from the darkness. A sudden chill ran down his back. His right hand rubbed his neck, pressing down hairs that wanted to stand. He took a calming breath, but it was no help. He felt the presence of someone behind him, and slowly turned toward a neighboring shanty. He wasn’t alone. His heart froze as he spotted a tall man, arms folded, leaning casually against the frame of the front door of a nearby shack. How much had he seen? Did he recognize Hubbard? His observer didn’t drop his casual pose, seemingly unfazed to find an arsonist in Shanty Town. Hubbard opened his mouth, searching for words that could explain his actions. In the next moment, Hubbard’s mouth closed and his heart began again, albeit shakily, when he realized it was only a gray shadow taking the outline of a man, a ghost on any other night.

He had to get this done before his nerves were fried.

“Anyone here?” he called. “I’m about to strike a match and set this whole place on fire.”

There was no response.

“Hay alguien aqui?” His Spanish was improving rapidly, thanks to Maria. For any Frenchman, lost in the bushes, he added, “Est-ce que qualqu’un ici?”

He bent down and struck his lighter. He placed it next to a branch that he had heavily soaked to serve as a wick. A warm glow appeared on the branch above his lighter, approximating candle light. He withdrew his hand and the fire began to flow down the branch like a yellow river. A small drop of firewater jumped its banks, falling onto a lower branch, transforming into a golden bud. More fire spilled to the ground, spreading into a self-lighted pond. Several lower branches glimmered in the foliage, channeling fire down the dirt road. Hubbard watched as the flickering trail lengthened, jumping from branch to branch, racing through the parched brush in mutating trails of light.

Satisfied this half of the job was well-started, he crossed the road to begin again. He found his fuel-doused spot next to a squat pine tree, no longer an evergreen, now taking the color of coffee and cream. Its lifeless remains still served, however, as a tent pole for a web of kudzu vines, spinning away in all directions. He leaned forward, holding the lighter against a branch. The plastic grew warm in his hand, but the fire didn’t catch. He pulled away some clinging vines and searched for better tinder lower to the ground. He bent down where the fumes still lingered. A single flick of his thumb and flames shot toward him like a cannon ball. Hubbard fell backward toward the road, covering his face, dropping his lighter. Almost in response, the wildfire acted like a winning boxer celebrating his knockout punch, raising arms of fire toward the sky, victorious, parading away from Hubbard in showy display, dividing and sub-dividing as it bolted down the lane.

Hubbard stumbled to his feet, jerked off his gloves and carefully touched his face. Satisfied that he was okay, he tossed the gloves into the building fire, and appreciated his dumb luck.

He noticed his shadow stretching out on the road in front of him before he felt the heat increasing behind him. He turned, gaping at a wall of flames, chest-high, lining the length of the road behind him. The unexpected blaze was tossing red-hot embers across the narrow lane in a lazy arc, like a one-sided game of catch. Much too quickly, Shanty Town was becoming as bright as mid-day as twin conflagrations filled the air with smoke and ash.

Surprised by the rapid progression of fires on both sides of the road, he belatedly realized his escape route to his truck was now bordered by dual infernos.

“Shit!”

The air around him became noticeably thinner as fire consumed all the oxygen it could find.

Nothing was more common than an arsonist caught by his own fire . . .

He backed to the center of the narrow lane and considered his chances in a desperate charge forward. He had to get to his truck now to escape the scene of his crime; returning to his vehicle in a circuitous route through the surrounding fields would take too long. His vehicle was a smoking gun. Unless he got out quickly, his truck would be discovered by first responders or a model citizen turning off the highway to investigate the flickering light in the sky. His truck was one piece of evidence, but his clothes and body, reeking of gasoline and soot, were just as damning.

He dashed forward, but despite urgency and adrenaline, he began to slow unexpectedly as the fire stole oxygen from his lungs and his legs turned thick and heavy as tree trunks. He was fifty yards from his truck when he stumbled and fell on the road, breathless. His chest tightened as he grew confused and disoriented.
Was he was going toward the fire or away from it?

Nothing is more common . . . something about fire.

He rolled over and lay on his back. In the night sky, there had to be air uncommitted to the flames. He pleaded with the stars to share.

There was movement on the road. Hubbard lifted his head, straining to see through ripples of heated air and smoke rolling skyward. Incomprehensively, a figure was approaching him—a man in work clothes. His features were unrecognizable at this distance, distorted by wavy heat curling the air.
A hallucination,
he dimly thought. Hubbard fell back and buried his face in the road to escape the high temperature.

Man or mirage, he strode to Hubbard’s side with purpose, crouched down and put one arm underneath him and pulled him to his feet. For an insubstantial ghost, he was remarkably strong.

Hubbard’s arm was draped over the man’s shoulders and they began to move. He took a few stumbling steps until his legs gave up and the toes of his boots dragged along the road like anchors. He wanted to lift his chin off his chest to see whoever, whatever was holding him, but it was all he could do to remain conscious. Although his eyes were swollen from the heat, but he forced them to open into narrow slits.

He tried to be heard above the roar of fire.

Let me go. Get out. Save yourself.

He could only see blue-jeaned legs and boots, entering his field of vision and retreating as his limp head bobbed up and down with each step, like a screen door flapping in the wind. He realized he recognized those boots: A worn tan leather, scuffed and deeply creased from years of use, a splash of barn paint on the right boot. Wolverines with brown and yellow stripped laces, tied off at the second hook, never at the top, double-knot.

His last remnants of consciousness came and went as still images:

His truck. Far away and out of reach.

Black.

Boots striding forward, impervious to heat.

Black.

The family truck from a long time ago. A bullet hole in the windshield . . . The goddamn bullet hole.

Black.

The heat of the fire faded. He felt himself being lowered to the ground and propped up in a seated position against a solid object. He tried to raise his head but failed. He sensed the man leaning over him to kiss the top of his head as if he was a sleeping child.

Hubbard awoke with a start. He was alone, his back against the front bumper of his truck. Coughing harshly, he saw Shanty Town recast as the burning of Atlanta. The dry vegetation burned bright yellow, surrounding the neighborhood of shacks as clouds of billowing amber. The wooden skin of the crude homes had burned away, revealing the supporting skeleton of red oak two-by-fours, now wrapped in bone-white flames. The wood framing gave way in the shack before him, cracking loudly as the weight of its heavy tin roof became too much to bear. The metal roof, covered in rust and traces of red paint, fell down as one piece, burying the broken remains of the shack in the ground. The first shack was followed by others in quick succession as they all collapsed in asymmetrical sequence, giving up their ghosts in a whoosh of air that sent glowing embers, dark smoke, and the shadows of Shanty Town soaring up into the clear night sky.

Hubbard looked up. Above the tree line there was a strong wind, unfelt at ground level. It caught the ascending debris of soot and spark, twisting it together to craft a braid of gold and black. It pulled the entwined mix skyward in a long train, as if the dark cloud was departing this world, soaring upward, toward the moon, the stars and whatever heavens that lay beyond.