Leather Maiden (19 page)

28

I opened the car door and was getting out, but before I could, Jimmy was over by the car.

“While you were out screwing around,” he said, “I been sitting here waiting on you. Do you know how late it is?”

“You sound like Mom.”

“Have you seen the news?”

“Unless you're upset they're not going to be filling potholes on Lufkin Street anytime soon, I'm going to surmise you're here about the murdered kid and the kidnapping.”

“Smartass.”

“I left you a message, you know.”

“You didn't say about what.”

I shouldered past him and unlocked the door, and we went inside. I went straight to the refrigerator, got out a bottled coffee for both of us. I wanted whiskey straight, a beer chaser to tamp it down, but I knew better. Besides, I didn't have a drink in the house. I had purposely tried to make sure it wasn't handy.

I brought the coffee over and gave it to him. Jimmy twisted off the top. “Whoever got to those kids, what if they told them about us?”

“We don't know they did,” I said.

“Got to figure, whoever did that to him, they didn't borrow Tabitha to take to the prom. They're asking her some questions. They could be coming for us right now.”

“Chief of police thinks she killed Ernie and is on the lam.”

“The chief is an idiot,” Jimmy said.

“That's what he said…Isn't Trixie going to miss you this time of morning?”

“I have learned to be quite the liar.”

“I don't doubt that.”

“This thing, with Ernie and Tabitha. It's got me chilled to the bone, baby brother.”

“You were wishing them dead before,” I said, and sat down in my most comfortable chair, twisted the top off my cold coffee and drank.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I was wishing them dead. And I thought about doing it myself. But I didn't. They got hit by a truck, something like that, I don't know I'd feel real bad. They'd be out of the way. This is different. It's not that they're dead, it's that them being dead could somehow connect to us if they talked.”

“For a minute there I thought you'd got Jesus, but no, you're still the asshole I thought you were.”

“I know. I'm a shit. It's all about me.”

“Agreed,” I said. “As for what they might have talked about to whoever did this, my guess is there wasn't a lot of talking. Least not with Ernie. I visited with the chief of police today, and I went over there and had a look for myself tonight.”

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “You went in the murder house?”

I nodded. “I snuck in when it got dark. I don't know exactly why, but I did. I looked around, and what happened there was pretty damn brutal. I think Ernie was taken by surprise, in his sleep.”

“And the cops think Tabitha did it?” Jimmy said.

“Chief likes her for it, but even he thinks he's got crummy detecting skills. Right now, a case this big, he's probably wishing he had a job jacking off sailors. Here's an oddity among many. In the house, on the wall, in blood, were crude paintings of birds. Or maybe it was supposed to be one bird, different views, rising up toward the ceiling, each one slightly off center of the other.”

“Birds in blood?”

“Someone took time to stand on the bed, in the blood, near the hacked-up body, and draw those birds on the wall. It had to be important to them.”

“Birds don't make any sense,” Jimmy said.

“You got me there, but I'm sure that's what it was.”

“You think it was a taunt of some kind?”

“I think whoever did it has some kind of agenda we can't begin to figure. And there were more than birds. There were words too, and they mentioned birds. The words were written in blood.”

“What kind of words?”

I told him.

“You think it was one person?” Jimmy asked.

“No.”

“How many do you think?”

“My guess is at least two. There were bloody prints and some drag marks. I think whoever did it had a stun gun of some kind. One person stunned the girl while the other hacked the boy. They dragged the girl out the front door. That's what the prints indicate anyway. Carried her out the front door and put her in a van parked in the drive and drove off.”

“Surely someone saw the van.”

“Next-door neighbor. Said it was a dark color and they didn't think anything about it when they saw it. I don't think the neighbor got the year or model, and I'm sure he didn't get a license plate.”

“They were just lucky.”

“I think playing poker online isn't near enough for these folks. They know exactly what they're doing, and they're not afraid to do it. They gamble big. They've maybe been doing this awhile, or something like it, and they're getting bolder.”

Jimmy took in a deep breath of air. “Trixie has been wanting to try out that lake house we bought with Mom and Dad. And she's off for the summer. I'm finishing up the first summer session tomorrow. I just decided. Supposed to go two days beyond that, but I'm going to end the class early. Give everyone an A on the final, and then I can go.”

“I want you to get Mom and Dad to go with you. They'll go easy. Dad has already mentioned it to me. Just don't tell them why.”

“Of course not,” Jimmy said. “Do you take me for an idiot…Don't answer that.”

“Just take them,” I said.

“I will,” Jimmy said, “but I advise you to saddle up the old pony and go with us until this shit storm blows over.”

“I'll join you in a few days,” I said.

Jimmy lifted his eyebrows. “A few days? I'm thinking maybe I don't even need to teach one last class. I'd rather get a reprimand from the division chair, or the dean, than end up cut up like fish bait, and I'm telling you, you ought to go with us. That place is pretty isolated.”

“I think it's best someone is on the ground here, paying attention. And I think I'm in a better position to do that than you.”

“You'll get no argument from me,” Jimmy said.

He stood up, said, “Look, there's phone service out there, isolated as it is. You need me, call. I can give you directions there.”

“I'll do that,” I said.

“You're crazy to stick around.”

“Probably.”

Jimmy gave me a hug. “Trixie calls, alibi me. Say you had me over to talk about Gabby or something. Sorry to bring it up. But, you know, I got to have some reason.”

“And why not pick one that makes me feel really shitty, right?”

“It's something she would believe.”

“Does everyone know how nuts I've been about Gabby?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Sometimes me and the grocer talk about it.”

“That's funny, Jimmy.”

“So, I got the alibi?”

“How and when did I ask you to come over?”

Jimmy took some time to consider, said, “You didn't ask. But today, talking to you, I was worried about you, got so worried I got out of bed and came over and we talked. Big brother trying to cheer you up, get you on the right course. Does that work?”

“Well enough.”

Jimmy went out and I listened to his motorcycle roar away.

         

I went outside and cleaned my gas and brake pedals of blood, went back inside and sat down at my computer and tried to find the words that had been written on the wall in blood. I typed them in and clicked the mouse. The words came up. There was a site for Jerzy Fitzgerald. He had come up before in connection with Caroline. He was a poet and an occasional writer of prose. Mostly Internet poetry, and a lot of it, but he had done a couple of self-published books. He had a strong cult following. Some took him seriously; others looked at him as a kind of Ed Wood figure, bad but totally unaware of it.
This Bird Has Flown
was one of the books he had published, and one of the poems inside was of the same name, and part of it was what I had seen written on blood on the wall of Ernie and Tabitha's apartment.

I had a feeling that this whole thing was part of some bigger picture, and to borrow from one of Jerzy Fitzgerald's poems a terse fragment: “All of life is framed in fear.”

29

At work the next day the office was abuzz, not only with the events of the day before, but with the way I had written my article on the murder and the kidnapping.

After plenty of compliments, reporters dropping by my desk, everyone but Timpson herself, Oswald came over. He stood by the edge of my desk with his hands in his pockets. He looked like he wanted to reach down my throat and turn me inside out.

“Nice article on the murder and kidnapping,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I might have taken a slightly different approach.”

“No doubt.”

“Is that a smart remark, Cason?”

“What?”

“A smart remark. Like, I would have taken a different tack, but it wouldn't have been any good.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you meant it.”

“What I meant is no doubt you would have gone after it differently. It is not a smart remark.”

“I do police reports here and the articles that come from them.”

“Not this time. You weren't here, and Timpson assigned me to it.”

“I had a cold. I would have come in for something like this.”

“Talk to Timpson.”

“You could have told her to call me.”

“I suppose I could have, but that never occurred to me, and that's not my job description. Call Oswald when a good article pops up and he's sick. Nope, not on the list.”

Oswald took his hands out of his pockets. “Watch it, buster.”

I said, “You have highly overestimated your ability to intimidate, my friend.”

He glared at me for a moment.

“Why don't you go sit down at your desk before I stand up and knock you down and we both lose our jobs,” I said.

“You couldn't roll me over if I was dead, Cason.”

“You don't want to get me stirred up, Oswald. I don't mean that to sound like a threat or like I'm trying to be a tough guy, but I kid you not, you fuck with me, and I will knock you out of your shoes.”

Oswald considered the possibilities, decided he didn't care for them much. “Look,” he said, “just call me next time.”

“I work here just like you. Timpson wants me to do different, and she's not asking me to set my balls on fire or put a broken Coke bottle up my ass, I'll do what she asks. Same as you will. I didn't owe you a call. I don't need to send you an e-mail or a note tied to a pigeon's leg. No fucking flowers or a teddy bear wearing an
I'M SORRY
T-shirt. Got me?”

“That's no way to be,” he said.

“Hey. Aren't you the one who said not to bend over here because I might find something in my ass?”

Oswald nodded. “I guess I did.”

He went back to his desk and took his frustration out on a couple of ballpoint pens that he shoved around, a little notepad too. He twisted a couple of paper clips. That was showing me.

Belinda came over. When she spoke it was softly. “He's pretty mad.”

“I seem to have that effect on people. I presume the rest of the office heard?”

“Hard not to. Both of you were speaking loudly. I was especially fond of the part about setting your balls on fire and shoving Coke bottles up your ass. Charming.”

“Sorry.”

“No apology necessary.”

I turned around and looked at the other reporters. Most of them had their heads down, pretending they were on a hot deadline. One, a fellow I had actually spoken to only once, and whose name I couldn't remember, gave me a thumbs-up. I don't know if it was because he was on my side or thought Oswald was an asshole. I'd settle for either.

“I got two things,” Belinda said. “First, the good news. I want to see you after work if possible. I have bought some very scanty panties and wanted to see if you are a real red-blooded male who will be overcome with passion when you see me in them.”

“That one you can count on. You can just wear your socks, and you'll get the same results.”

“You like socks?”

“Actually, you could show up naked or wrapped in wool or wearing a beanie propeller and you would get my attention. But, hey, I'm not dismissing new panties. I'm all up for that, as we say when we're having witty sexual repartee.”

“Not that witty.”

“What's number two? Usually that means a bowel movement, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that's not what you mean.”

“That's the bad news. Timpson wants you in her office.”

“And me all out of dog treats.”

         

“That was nice work you did, especially since it looks to me you wrote it without a whole lot of information,” Timpson said. “Still, you found the good stuff.”

I was seated in the office chair, as before, and Timpson was in the chair behind her desk. She shifted it so that she was facing me head-on.

“I want you to stay on this assignment. You've started it, and your article was better than the colored boy's would have been.”

“Oswald,” I said. “His name is Oswald. And unless he's changed either his first or last name to Colored, I believe the term is black or African American. I don't think he's a boy either. Maybe you could have him drop his pants and we could see if his testicles have descended. That's one way of telling. I am, however, sure he's old enough to go on ahead and start picking cotton.”

Timpson watched me through watery eyes. “I ought to kick your ass out.”

I hadn't meant to say that, but it had just popped out. I didn't even like Oswald.

Timpson gave me a grin that almost caused her to lose her false teeth. It wasn't a grin that said I like you, it was one that said, Okay, asshole, I'll let that one pass. “All right then, you take the African American man's place because his articles suck. How's that? And, if he wants to come in here and drop his drawers and show me his balls, I'm on board. Now, be honest. His articles. Think about it.”

I sighed. “His articles do suck hind dry tit, and he seems to have graduated from the Winnie the Pooh School of Journalism. But I don't want to be a police reporter. I like being a columnist. I'm not saying it isn't fun, but I'm a columnist, and I don't want to take Oswald's job.”

“Yeah, well, you will be for a while. Follow up this murder-kidnapping thing. Does that work for you, Mr. Pulitzer Prize nominee?”

“It does.”

“Do what you need to do then. Get whatever help you need to get it done. Oswald if you have to. Talk to who you need to talk to. Go where you need to go. Write all the articles that pertain to this murder and kidnapping that you can. If nothing more is there, we'll move on. But, if you can find out about the couple, their lives, research it. Later, you can do a column on the murders. Something like this happens, like that missing girl, shit, boy—It's okay if I call you a boy, I suppose? Not that I want you to drop your pants.”

“You said you'd let Oswald, so that doesn't seem fair.”

“I've heard the colored are better hung.” She scrunched up her mouth, and when she did, the bones in her face appeared to shift dramatically, like knobs and sticks under parchment. “If we're all out of being cute, let's get back to business. Bleed this crime for as many articles as you can. It's going to sell a lot of papers.”

“Because of the murders, not the article.”

“The way you wrote it helped.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Twice, already,” she said. “One was slightly veiled, this one is direct, and two times, that's my quota. Or maybe it was three compliments. I can't remember a goddamn thing anymore. Anyway, I'm short on any more shit from you. Push it, and I'll write the goddamn columns and the articles myself and you can go home and pull your johnson while you read through the paper's help-wanted section.”

“I hear you,” I said.

“I'm thinking of another thing, of putting you on an article about those preachers and the shit that's going on between them. We've run a lot of stuff, but there's a big shindig coming up with the colored preacher doing a talk at the university, and there's all manner of bullshit coming down about a protest. I might want you to write that too. This thing has been going on for months, but with Judence's big talk and rally coming up, I think we can get a really good story out of it. If anything goes down there, protests, what-have-you, we can play it until it runs out of air, then we'll kick it around some more, see if it squeaks.”

“I really think you should consider Oswald for that one. He'd do better than me in the black community, and that's who he'll need information from, the community.”

“Even if his writing sucks hind dry tit?”

“Even if,” I said.

“You may have a point. People like to talk to their own kind.”

“That's one way of seeing it,” I said. “Maybe not the way I would have chosen to express it, but—”

“Like I give a damn,” Timpson said.

I waited a moment. Nothing else was forthcoming. I stood up to go.

I went to the door, and she said, “Send the colored boy in, will you?”