The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (9 page)

Eddie turned back toward Hubbard, concerned he might have said the wrong thing. “I didn’t get a good look. It was dark. I might be wrong. It could have been another Arab kid.”

Hubbard held up his hand to reassure him. “It’s no big deal. I’m sure Abadi knew plenty of people. Um, were they doing anything, or just talking?”

“Nothing special. The Arab kid handed R.J. a big envelope and R.J. got into his big Lincoln and drove off. That’s all I saw. It was already getting dark, so I didn’t get a good look.”

Hubbard nodded and tried to smile reassuringly. He wondered if that big envelope contained photos like the one he saw at the student’s apartment. But why would R.J. have an interest in photos of empty fields?

The deputy pushed the ice away from whatever he buried at the bottom of the chest, Hubbard gazed up at the time-traveling girl smiling back at him from the “Swinging Sixties.” She was impressively built, with coiffed hair and long legs ending in red high heels..

Eddie grabbed two plastic cups and gently shook the ice water off a jar filled with clear liquid. Any male who grew up in the rural south would recognize the contents. It was as unnecessary to identify his prize as it was to expound on the significance of the Stars and Stripes at a tractor pull. Eddie had visited the Mexicans in the deer woods.

If there was any troublesome conflict between his official role and his leisure activities, it didn’t show. Perhaps he reflected the town’s ambivalence toward the illegal still. “Better to have a moonshine still than a meth lab,” everyone said with a certain amount of civic pride.

Eddie crossed back and sat on the lawn chair beside Hubbard and handed him a cup. “Cheers.” Eddie raised his cup.

Hubbard elevated his drink in return. Eddie took a sip. Hubbard glanced furtively into the cup. The plastic container seemed clean enough and Eddie was a very generous bartender. He brought it to his lips and carefully took a sip, ready to eject at the first taste of trouble. The white lightning was ice cold and free from the pungent taste of high octane alcohol. In fact, there was no bitterness at all. He swallowed. No burning as it went down. Hubbard felt a calmness spreading throughout his body that warmed and cooled simultaneously. The Mexicans in the Deer Woods were craftsmen.
Was there anything Mexicans can’t do?

“You see?” Eddie said, with the raw enthusiasm of a cult’s new member.

“I do see.” Hubbard took another sip. “So, do you go into the Deer Woods to get this?”

“Well, not in uniform I don’t. I don’t want to be shot.” Eddie chuckled at the thought.

“No. I wouldn’t think.”

The two men sat in silence. Their eyes returned to the only girl in the room. Hubbard now understood why Eddie let her remain on the wall. It was an excellent decision. She had a kind face and a joyful smile. Best of all, she seemed quite sane. He took another sip, a bigger one this time.

“You got to wonder where she is now.” Eddie was wistful.

Probably in a nursing home, Hubbard thought, but he didn’t want to break the reverie. “I don’t know. I hope she’s happy.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “She deserves to be happy.”

“Oh, she certainly does.” Hubbard sighed.

“Happy,” Eddie summarized in a whisper, his head bobbing in agreement.

This wasn’t Eddie’s first drink of the evening, nor his second.

“So, Eddie, I got to ask. What’re you doing here? Why aren’t you at home? You’ve got a wife and a baby.”

Eddie’s eyes began to fill with tears and his chin lowered to his chest. “I know I should be home. I screwed up. I messed up bad.”

“Well, what happened? Maybe I can help?”

“I’m in the shitter. I’m really in the shitter this time . . .”

Hubbard let the silence continue. It was Eddie’s story to tell.

“You know, Sophie? The girl who works at the Git It N Go?

“Oh . . . yeah,” Hubbard said. He had noticed a certain pouty quality about her.

“Well, um, one night, a few weeks ago, I stopped in there about one a.m. on a Saturday night—well, Sunday morning, really. And, uh, she asked for help moving some stuff back in the stock room. And, uh, we went back there, and so . . . and so nature took its course. “Oh, John Riley,” Eddie moaned, “nature took its course!” He repeated the final part as some sort of self-indictment.

It took a moment for Hubbard’s brain to process “nature taking its course” in the
Git It N Go
stock room.

Eddie’s lifted his head, shamed, coming uncomfortably close to a full crying jag. Hubbard was immediately uncomfortable, but patted Eddie on the shoulder as a stop gap. “Well Eddie, how old are you? Nineteen? Twenty? Sometimes hormones . . .” Hubbard stopped. Was he going to tell Eddie about the birds and bees? Besides, the story didn’t explain why Eddie was living in an abandoned shack.

“But that weren’t enough for me. I kept coming back. And somehow, Mona must’ve heard something from somebody. She came to the store after midnight and my patrol car was parked outside. The store doors were locked and she couldn’t see anyone inside, so she knew it were true. She got on my police radio and told the world about the low-life, cheating bastards the Hayslip Police Force hired. I think she was mostly talking about me.”

“Most likely,” Hubbard agreed.

“The state police heard someone talking trash on our police radio and they made a federal case out of it. But the sheriff and I are telling them that it didn’t come from us. I don’t think they believe it. You won’t tell, will you?”

“No, of course I won’t.”

“Mona threw me out of the trailer on my mom and dad’s farm. My parents agreed I needed to learn my lesson and told me to leave. So, I’m out of my home sweet home and staying here . . . Anyway, that’s how I saw that rug. My headlights lit it up when I was turning around.”

“Why here? Why not stay with a friend or at the Hayslip Motor Court?”

“I don’t want anyone to hear about this. The deacons at my church would kick me out of the congregation if they knew. It’s too small a town to be staying at someone’s house. People would want to know why I wasn’t at home. I tried to stay at the Motor Court, but too many folks from town are out there at night. You know Mike Fortinbras? He lives in a room out there. And I almost bumped straight into Mrs. Andrews one night at the ice machine. And you know that—”

“Wait. What? Mrs. Andrews? Why would people from town want to spend the night at . . . Ah, I see. Okay. I’m with you.”

“I love Mona, John Riley. I really love my family.”

“I know you do. She’ll come around. Just stay away from the Git It N Go.”

“I don’t go anywhere near it.”

Hubbard took another drink. “You didn’t happen to see anyone with Trish, did you?”

“Who?”

“Um . . . uh. Mrs. Andrews.” Hubbard looked at an almost empty cup. “Jesus. What’s in this?”

“It’s good, isn’t it? It helps me forget my par-tic-u-lar situation.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Um, but was Mrs. Andrews with anyone when you saw her?”

“No. She was just getting a bucket of ice, didn’t see anyone else.”

Hubbard nodded, took a drink and stood. “Well, it’s time for me to get home . . . uh, go home. But now, tell me one thing, Eddie. And shoot it to me straight.”

“Okay.”

“Those things you were saying, when you had a gun on me—”

“I’m sorry about that, I didn’t—”

“That’s okay. But I have to know something. You said I’d been walking on that road for too long. You wanted to know if I’d bleed. Nobody walks on that road and we all bleed. Except for . . . Have you seen a ghost out here? Is that what you thought I was? A ghost?”

“Spooks? Heck, no. That’s just people’s imaginations running off with them. There’s no such thing as ghosts. I’m not ignorant, you know.” Eddie tried to laugh and failed. His chuckle turned into a hacking cough.

“I saw one out here, a long time ago.”

“You did?” Eddie paused, swallowing hard. He gave a sidelong glance out the front window opening as if he was afraid of being overheard. His voice fell to a whisper. “He walks the road at night.”

“I know.”

Hubbard’s simple confirmation seemed to alarm Eddie even more. He jumped up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box and rushed to the doorway and stood next to him. He grabbed Hubbard’s arm, his voice filled with urgency. “What did you see?”

Hubbard had never told this story to anyone, but strong moonshine was loosening his lips.

9

E
VERYONE
H
AS A
S
TORY

H
UBBARD COULDN’T SEE ANYTHING
past the dim circle of light surrounding the shack. The formless night summoned old memories. Eddie left the cabin doorway and returned to his lawn chair in the main room.

Hubbard turned to face him. “I heard all the tall tales about ghosts, just like you. Everyone knows someone who claims he saw a dead relative or friend walking that dirt road. You can’t grow up here without those damn stories finding a place in your head.”

Hubbard took a drink from the cup. He noticed that Eddie had locked his hands on the aluminum arms of the chair, squeezing so hard his knuckles were white. “After my dad died, everything fell apart at home. My mom took to her bed . . . and she never really left. The doctor said it was clinical depression. But Mom always had a different reason, a different complaint. And my uncle R.J. didn’t come around again for a long while. I felt so . . . alone.”

“What happened to R.J.? That doesn’t sound like him.”

An animal scurried through the undergrowth about twenty yards from Hubbard, its quick footsteps breaking the deadly quiet. Startled, Hubbard turned to find the source of the noise. In the next moment, he smiled wryly, amused by his case of nerves. He turned back to Eddie. “That summer sucked. Two weeks after we buried my father, R.J.’s best friend, Tom Cole, died in some kind of fishing accident on the White River. I don’t think they ever figured out how it happened. He may have slipped on some wet moss and hit his head on a rock. That part of the river is treacherous as it narrows by the cliffs. Anyway, when R.J. did the eulogy, he started crying and couldn’t stop. I guess it was all too much for him—losing his brother and best friend, all in the space of two weeks.”

Eddie shifted in his seat. “God, I’m sorry, man.”

“Yeah . . . And it got worse. There were some stupid stories going around town about . . . my family. So, I kept to myself, away from my friends, afraid of what people might say to me, and what I’d do to them in return. About this time, uh, I started getting into fights here and there.”

Hubbard stopped. Why was he even telling Eddie this? He had bottled it up inside him for so long. It must be the moonshine.

“I was a stupid kid. I thought that if there were ghosts in Shanty Town, maybe my dad was here too. Perhaps there was some part of him still on this earth.” Hubbard pointed to the road. “I’d find my dad out there and he’d tell me who killed him—and I’d do the rest. I’d get justice done.”

Uncomfortable with how much he revealed, Hubbard looked longingly at the ice chest on the floor and the moonshine it contained. He held his empty cup aloft. “If this keeps up, one day Mexicans will be on the moon.”

“Illegally,” Eddie said. He rose with a nervous chuckle. After Eddie had poured Hubbard another drink he returned to the lawn chair. “But what happened? What did you see?”

Hubbard took a drink before he replied. “Eddie, if you ever tell anyone this—”

“I won’t say a word. I promise,” Eddie said. “Didn’t your mom ever wonder where you went at night? What did she think—?”

Hubbard’s reply was sharp. “No, she didn’t ask.” He softened his tone. “Maybe she didn’t know. Like I said, she was in bed. She was hurting. It wasn’t her fault . . . Nobody’s fault . . . Nobody . . . Understand?”

Eddie nodded earnestly. “So did you see your dad’s
actual ghost?”

Hubbard noticed that the blue plastic cup in Eddie’s hand was crumpling under the pressure of his grip. Hubbard stalled, taking a deep drink, afraid of Eddie’s reaction. But he decided to go on, to say his story aloud, and see if it sounded real.

“I was out here every night, eavesdropping on crickets and tree frogs and fighting off mosquitoes. I got about a thousand chigger bites that made me look like a goddamn pin cushion and I was just about to give up. All I wanted was for God to let me say goodbye to him. Throw the dog a bone, you know?”

Hubbard took a sip. It felt too good. It made him remember why he stopped drinking.

“One evening, at the end of the summer, I was sitting on the rotting steps of one of these abandoned shacks. That night was like every other one—nothing happened. I got up to walk back home when the temperature began falling, getting cooler, like a storm was coming. I looked at the sky, but there weren’t any clouds, just stars. The tops of the trees began to sway, rocking back and forth like a cradle, but there wasn’t any wind. And then, everything got quiet—the crickets, everything. It was so silent, I thought I went deaf.” Hubbard’s hand reached up by his ear as he remembered. “I snapped my fingers to check my hearing. Then the hairs on my neck stood up like paint bristles . . . You know, sometimes you wait too long for something to happen, and when it does—
I just wasn’t ready
. . . I felt him behind me on the road . . . I took a deep breath and turned to face . . . him . . . it . . . whatever.”

Hubbard was surprised at how calm he sounded describing the event that still visited him in nightmares. Even now, he controlled his emotions with effort. Maybe it was good to talk about it. Confession was good for the soul they said. “And there he was—the shape of a man. But that’s all there was, all I could see was just his outline, a silhouette, and nothing else, no face, just darkness. Every time I thought I could see his eyes, in the next instant, they faded away. He was a man with nothing inside of him.”

“Jesus Christmas! What happened?” Eddie put his hand on his hair as if he feared it might stand on end.

“It kept coming toward me. He got so close I could touch him—a shimmering black form, but alive somehow. I got so cold, my teeth started chattering.”

Eddie’s eyes grew wider. He jumped out of his chair and high-stepped around the cabin. “Oh, God, I would’ve crapped in my pants. Did you have a weapon?”

Hubbard’s brow creased. “No, I didn’t have a gun. I was twelve.”

Eddie shrugged, shaking his head as if he didn’t see the problem with an armed twelve-year-old hunting a ghost during the dead of night.

Hubbard rubbed his face. He couldn’t tell him everything. How could he tell Eddie that he begged the dark figure on the road, an apparition that he knew had to be his father, to reveal who had shot him? Recount to Eddie his childish promise of vengeance? Justice, he then believed, was the only way to save his mother. With the killer known to everyone, she could leave the house without fear of what people might say. “I’ve got to find him. It’s the only way to save Mom!” he had cried out that night. The mute figure approached him without words, gliding forward to touch him on the shoulder. It was an unnaturally cold hand—a dead hand.

Hubbard turned to Eddie and revealed his darkest secret. “I was a kid . . . I ran. I ran before I learned the truth. Everything that followed from that day forward is on me.” He shook his head. “All the time I spent out here, a whole summer, every single night, the heat, the mosquitoes, all for nothing. I still think about it.”

Eddie threw his empty cup to the floor and the plastic container bounced once and then rolled in a tight circle before coming to rest. “But, you don’t know if it were your father. Hell, your father would have let you know it was him, gave you a sign or whatnot. He wouldn’t have scared the shit out of you. I would’ve run, too. Anyone would’ve.”

“Don’t you understand? I could’ve ended it. I could have saved my mother if I talked to him.”

“Like a conversation? I never heard of a spook wanting no conversation. Hellfire! Haunting us is bad enough. We gotta talk, too?” Eddie turned slightly, angling his body toward the road, raising his voice. “I got nothing to say to no ghost. I’m good.”

Hubbard attempted a smile. But after another moment, his head fell back in full laughter. Eddie smiled.

Hubbard’s laughter wound down and he finally stopped. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and patted Eddie on the back. “Thanks for listening.” He handed Eddie his cup. “Well, I got to go. It’s late.” Hubbard turned away and tried to find the top step, but stumbled and fell to the ground.

Eddie came to the edge of the porch and teetered for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” Hubbard got up, brushing himself off. “That ’shine is off the charts. I’m heading back to my truck.”

“Wait a minute.” Eddie went into the cabin and returned with Hubbard’s flashlight and handed it to him. He glanced down the dirt road. “Where’d you park?”

Hubbard oriented himself, and pointed in the general direction of the highway. “That way.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Eddie asked. “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving?”

“I know a way to get home that won’t put me on the road.”

“What if you see that thing again?” Eddie pointed into the night. “Maybe it’s the hard corn, but I’ve seen something standing out there almost every night. It’s as if he’s waiting for someone. I’m taking no chances. As long as I’m stuck in Shanty Town, I’ll sleep wearing my holster.”

Hubbard shook his head dismissively. “The mind plays tricks on you, Eddie. There’s nothing out there but shadows. If something was out there once, it’s long gone now.”

As he started off, Hubbard was less concerned about spirits on the road than the spirits in a sloshed Eddie, armed with both a gun and a heightened fear of things that go
boo
in the night. Hubbard turned and saw Eddie still standing on the steps of the shack, hand on his holster, squinting in his direction, ready to spring into action if needed.

Hubbard considered how an inebriated Eddie might react if a deer unexpectedly bolted across the road. Would he draw his gun and fire into the night, killing Hubbard in the process? He remembered he was carrying the flashlight in his right hand, unlit. Would a surprising burst of unexpected light look like the specter of a ghost, and send Eddie over the edge? Hubbard almost could feel the bullets slamming into his back. His thumb traced a slow circle around the edge of the switch, round and round and round.

He made it to the first bend in the road and was no longer in the direct path of any well-intentioned bullet coming from the shack. Eddie was a good friend to be so willing to help him battle the phantoms of the afterlife if the need arose. But Hubbard had no expectations of needing his help tonight.

By the time Hubbard reached his truck, his head seemed clear, but he knew better than to risk the highway. At the back of the large pasture, there were two worn tire paths made by generations of tractors harvesting hay. They made a passable route at this time of year and again at the end of summer after the final harvest. His truck would take a beating in tall grass, but the drive home would be safe.

It took a little more than fifteen minutes to take this improvised route at a crawling speed. After following the tractor path, he connected with another unpaved road that led to his farm.

Entering his house, he saw it how Emily would see it: cold, empty and dark. Maybe he could spruce the place up a bit. His ex-wife had taken most of the things when she left. Now it was a bit too Spartan. Too many bare gray walls. Why did he think he could make a home for Emily? He wanted her to always see a smile when she walked in the door. Could he even provide her with that small gift?

Hubbard made it to his bedroom, and emptied his pockets onto the dresser. He pulled out the photo of the young women he found on the floor of Amir’s apartment making the “Charlie’s Angels” pose. He had forgotten about the party girls. He studied the image. The female trio smiled back, perhaps a little tipsy, as a squadron of frat boys gathered around them, waiting to pounce. But there was something else that tugged just beneath his consciousness, like a fish breaking the water’s surface for a second before submerging again, leaving only a ripple. In a different environment, without their costumes, vamp makeup, and neon plastic wigs, he knew those girls, all three of them. Where?

He dropped the photo on the dresser, crossed to the light switch and flicked it off. He kicked off his boots and fell across the bed fully clothed.
I’ll remember them tomorrow . . .

Asleep, the night vision returned. His dad’s truck, save for a single bullet hole through the windshield, was unmarked. Hubbard stood beside the vehicle, watching paramedics toss a sheet over his father’s body on a gurney. As it settled over him, Hubbard could see his mother walking away from the scene, weeping.

R.J. caught up to her and placed his arm around her shoulders in an effort to comfort his sister-in-law. Immediately, she pushed him away, her finger pointing at him accusingly, saying something he couldn’t hear. R.J. stood there, dumbstruck, and then he began to whisper to her, his face turning red with emotion.

Young John Riley Hubbard stared at the adults, astonished by the scene. He swung around to note the sheriff’s reaction. Conklin had lowered his clipboard and folded his arms around his chest, an attentive audience of one.

Panicking, Hubbard spun back to warn them, but his mother and uncle were gone from view.

Hubbard awoke with a start, surprised to find he was standing with his hands outstretched as if he was pushing against a wall. He lowered his arms and staggered to the hallway bathroom. He flipped on the light, and became violently ill.