Authors: Reavis Z. Wortham
Unraveled (10 page)
The Wraith bided his time waiting until he could step once again into the dark of night to do what needed to be done. He chuckled. The Clays were in for a rich surprise when his little deceased friend started to do his work.
***
The sun was still high above the treetops when John Washington steered his cruiser down the dirt road leading to Wes Clay's house. Tree branches met overhead and formed a shady tunnel that instantly cooled the juicy air.
Ned rode in the passenger seat, his elbow hanging out the open window. “Why didn't you call me out to the house fire last night?”
“It weren't nothing but a fire and it was late. I went out there, but it was pretty much gone by then. Horace Mayfield lived in a two-room shack not far from Camp Maxie, right on the tracks. I carried him to his sister's. He'll be fine. He's been burned out before, but we didn't know this one was set until this morning. I'da called you before if I'd found out that. Wouldn't have known it was arson if Horace hadn't come back this morning and found a gas can that wasn't his.”
“That's exactly how the Clays and Mayfields fought the last time, killing one another and burning their houses down around them.” Ned blew out his lips for a moment. “I swear, I don't know what it is about burnin' that they like so much. These folks are all stirred up, so watch what you say.”
“I don't intend to say much of nothing. How come we're out here?”
“Wes told me at Frank's house there'd be blood between them and the Mayfields. Looks like somebody made good on it. He's our first stop.”
A two-lane dirt track led off to the right. Woods crowded close. A jay called and the sound echoed through the trees. A house soon came into view, the yard full of cars. It was hard for Ned to tell which ones ran or just provided a place for mice to nest.
It was an unusually hilly area for Lamar County. A long rise led up past the house, while a slope behind it dropped off to a sharp, sun-dappled gully that climbed back up to a little ridge on the opposite side. The front porch overlooked a wooded slope to the west.
A pack of skinny mongrel dogs barked at the newcomers as Washington killed the engine. They waited until a dishwater-blond woman stepped onto the porch, wiping her hands on a dingy dishtowel. She tilted her head. “Help you?”
Ned spoke over the dogs. “Need to talk to Wes.”
“Hush up! Git!” The pack quit barking and gave the car some room. “Y'all get out. They're over by the well.” She waved an arm toward a well shack beside a leaning power pole and disappeared back inside.
Ned opened the door, eyeing the nearest Heinz 57 mix of whatever breeds happened to be in the yard in previous generations. A red-haired dog that looked to be part coyote lowered its head and came close. Ned held out a hand for a moment before scratching behind the animal's chewed up ears.
John gently closed his door and stood still so the dogs on his side could get a good sniff. A cluster of men beside the well a hundred yards away watched the lawmen head in their direction, threading their way along the winding, uphill path.
Ned stopped, hands in the pockets of his black slacks. “Men.”
The electric pump was disconnected and set atop the plywood housing. Shirtless, Wes stood on the well's plank curb, a rope in his hands. A rawhide tough Korean War veteran, he had only recently returned from working as a roughneck in the Midland oilfields and a short stint in their jail.
Wes nodded hello and returned to his business at hand. Four other Clays were scattered nearby, watching. It was obvious that Andy, Martin, Wilbur, and the youngest, Cecil, favored so close they could have been quadruplets. They shared a hooked beak that identified them as much as their last name. While they watched, Wes pulled up a galvanized three-foot well-bucket full of water and emptied it onto the muddy ground. The sweetish odor of decay rose as the water funneled away.
He dropped the bucket back into the well and waited for it to fill up. A spring of oily hair fell over his forehead. “Help you?”
Instead of getting right to business after such an abrupt welcome, Ned chose to engage them for a moment. “Something wrong with your well?”
“Rat drowned in it. Nothing smells like a rotten rat.”
Andy Clay spoke up. “I thought you said you suspicioned somebody put it in there.”
The look on Wes' face shut his cousin up in a hurry, but Ned picked up on it right quick.
“How long's it been?”
“Long enough to smell when we went to drink the water.”
“It's still in there, then.”
“Yep, I'm trying to catch it in this bucket.”
Though Ned had a rock-hard disposition, his weak stomach turned on him when it came to certain things. It rolled at the thought of drinking water from that nasty well. He choked down a gag and used the velum in the back of his nose to close off his sinuses so he couldn't smell the odor of decay any longer.
The weathered boards beneath Wes' shoes were soaked and dark, and a stream of water ran between the men toward a nearby ditch full of bottles and trash. Ned glanced down at the muddy rivulet to take his mind off what was happening and noticed a small mat of short charcoal hairs caught against the leaves and yard trash from bucket after bucket of water.
His stomach heaved again, but he met Wes' gaze and swallowed it down. “Got a few questions.”
“Go ahead on, if you have to.”
“It's about Frank.” The Clays around Ned shifted like reeds pushed by the wind at the name. “You want to talk about this somewhere else, just the two of us?”
The bucket rattled back down the well. “Nope. I ain't got nothin' to hide.”
“Fine, then. There was a colored man killed the other night at that big carnival across from Camp Maxie after Frank and Maggie died.”
“I heard.”
“Were you there?”
“Nope.”
“Where were you?”
“Across the river.”
“In one of them honky-tonks?”
“Yep.”
“Which one?”
“The Dew Drop.”
“Will anybody over there vouch for you?”
“Half a dozen.”
“I'm gonna go check.”
Wes tugged on the rope to see if the bucket was full. “I don't give a shit what you do. You said you wanted to talk to me about Frank. What does that have to do with him?”
Ned studied the warped boards around the well and wondered how they were supporting Wes' weight. They looked to be completely rotten. He switched topics. “Was Frank much of a drinker?”
Wes stopped and glared. “He weren't a teetotaler.”
“Was he a hard drinker?”
“What difference does that make? As far as his wife knows, he didn't take a drop, and it better stay that way.”
Ned shrugged. “Frank was a good family man. He loved his wife and kids, and he was gonna make something of hisself. I figured someday he'd be governor. From what I hear, Maggie was working hard too. I don't believe she wanted to spend her whole life in an unpainted shack in the bottoms.”
“Frank had ideas, all right. But they didn't work out and I don't give a shit what
Maggie
wanted, neither. What'n hell you doing here? I don't s'pect you spend a lot of time on other car wrecks.”
“I'm here 'cause your brother come by and demanded that I do something. I swear, you Clays need to get together on this. Either you want me to investigate the wreck and everything that might be associated with it, or not.”
“Us Clays take care of each other, just like you Parkers⦔ Wes paused and broke off eye contact as he raised still another bucket of rancid water. He dumped it out. Besides Andy, the other cousins still hadn't said a word, as if Wes had told them to remain silent.
The metal bucket rattled back to the bottom. They waited for it to refill.
Ned drew them back into the conversation. “Where were you the night Frank died?”
“I's across the river.”
“Drunk?”
Wes smirked. “As Cooter Brown. In Cody's joint. And I believe I still got a headache over it.” His kinfolk chuckled.
The words cut Ned as deep as a razor. He felt the heat rise in his face, but didn't take the bait. “Horace Mayfield's house burned last night.”
“Say it did?”
“Somebody set it.”
“How you to know that?”
“'cause I know somebody poured coal oil on the outside kitchen wall and lit it. Funny thing is, some of the oil got spilled when he set the can on the woodpile to light the fire. It was some of that new coal oil they have out now that has coloring that'll start to stain your fingernails after a couple of days if you get it on you.”
Ned grinned and rolled his eyes. “They're putting color into everything now. I saw a gas station in Dallas here while back that advertise pink air to go in your tires. I never heard of such a thing.”
Wes held out both hands without blinking an eye. He flipped them over. “So that's why you're here. See? Nothin'. You need to get off my back and let me alone, unless you have better evidence than that. You ain't lookin' into Frank's death. You don't need to be over here suspecting me or any of us over a house fire or killing a nigâ¦.” His eyes skipped over John. “Uh, a colored feller.” He pulled on the rope hand over hand.
Ned watched him raise the bucket. “I didn't say it was you. I come to tell all y'all that this little war that I believe's sparked up between you and the Mayfields again is gonna stop, or I'll throw every one of you in jail and let you fight it out in a cell.”
“You won't do no such of a thing, because there ain't no war between us. That ended years ago.” The bucket reached the top and Wes whooped. “I got the rat!”
The cousins came to life and crowded toward the well. Wes carefully lifted the long metal bucket over the curb boards to expose the blanched blue-white body of the largest rat Ned had ever seen. The hairless carcass hung over the lip and immediately filled the air with a reek of decomposition.
Wes dumped the bucket and the rat splashed out to flow in the stream toward the ditch. He climbed off. “Wilbur, put that pump back on and draw as much water you can without running the well dry. Keep at it 'til it don't stink no more.”
Without another word Wes hopped off the curb and stalked toward the house. He shouldered past John, bumping him hard. The mountain of a deputy didn't move, or even acknowledge the challenge from the wiry man.
Ned watched him walk away. “Let's go, John.”
The big deputy followed, but kept an eye on the youngest cousin, Cecil, who put both hands deep in the pockets of his overalls after the mention of the coal oil and kept them there.
Another job completed, The Wraith lay on his filthy bed and studied the photo of his ex-wife. It was the only thing he had left, other than the hate he tended like a bank of coals for her and the man she left him for. His girlfriend came to bed, glanced at the photo in his hand, and rolled over to get some sleep before the baby woke up.
***
Judge O.C. Rains stopped rocking in his wooden desk chair. “He did what?”
“He killed a damn rooster with the handle.”
“The axe handle you had in the car for evidence?”
“That's the one.”
“Well hell. That's not gonna help anything.”
“I know it. I turned it in to the evidence room. I didn't say anything about the chicken, though.”
O.C. grunted. “I hope you picked the feathers off of it.”
“There weren't none. Besides, Merle Mayfield was beat to death and the handle was wet when John found it. We both know that's what the killer used.”
“But legally we can't use it in court.”
“We sure use that word a lot around here lately.”
“Killer? I know it.” The flat statement hung in the room like a dark cloud. “I got something else to tell you, too.”
O.C. peered over the tops of his glasses. “I'm a-waitin'.”
Ned reached into the inside pocket of his dress jacket and pulled out a white envelope containing the Cross pen he found in the grass. He handed it across to O.C. “You might not want to touch it.”
Frowning, Judge Rains opened the flap and slid the silver pen onto his desk.
“So?”
“It's Cody's.”
“Where'd you find it?”
“Right beside Merle's body not twenty minutes after he was beat to death.”
The judge sighed deep. “Was Cody there?”
“Nope. We handled it and he never came by.”
“There could be a lot of folks with the same initials.”
“Yep.”
“What do you think this means?”
“Well, I think it means there was a pen with those initials there.”
They studied the instrument as if it were about to move of its own accord. O.C. pursed his lips. “Anyone else know about this?”
“John.”
“Okay, maybe he went by earlier that day and lost it when he got in or out of the car.”
“I asked if he'd been out there. He hadn't.”
“This puts a wrinkle in things.”
“It could.”
“I reckon you're gonna have it dusted for fingerprints.”
“Can't. I thought it was mine when it fell out of my shirt pocket. I held it for a minute or two before I put it back and saw mine was still there.” He paused, thinking. “I believe I'll just leave it right there for a while. Folks will ask questions if we start that mess.”
“Well, you know as well as I doâ¦.”
“I know, but that pen being in the wrong place at the wrong time won't look good.”
O.C. laced his fingers across his stomach. “Do I need to say it?”
“Nope. I'll deal with it when the time comes.”
“I hope you don't have to.”
Instead of answering, Ned sighed, set his hat, and left.
