Bone Deep (27 page)

He talked about how obvious the solution seemed at the time, speaking in a matter-of-fact way that introverts use to deflect attention they in fact enjoy. Then said, “Most people believe I did what I
did, put up all this fencing, because of how my father died. You know, some gesture to honor his memory. But that’s not true. I did it to protect what my grandfather and I found here. If I sign the mining lease, this little section will be exempted.” Leland grabbed a fistful of gravel and used his fingers as a sieve while his eyes avoided the pond.

I said, “I got the impression your father drowned in the quarry by the big sand dune.”

Leland didn’t look up. “You heard that from Owen. That’s what I want people to think,” then did look at me and used the envelope I was holding to change the subject. “What do you have there?”

I handed him the photos.

Twice he mumbled,
“My god,”
as he studied the wide-angle shots of the mastodon tusk.

“Does it look familiar?”

“My grandfather found this. I’m not sure where, but the ivory we found—digging here, I’m saying—those pieces didn’t compare to this one.” He turned the photo so I could see it and touched a finger to the tip of the tusk. “There’s a rectangular sliver missing, and the shape is exactly right. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

I wasn’t going to tell him about the petroglyph. Not yet, but I was curious. “There’s something unusual about that tusk. If the police recover it, they’re going to ask. Did your grandfather mention anything different about it?”

Leland had been squatting but stood. “Don’t play games. This is one of the things my father sold. How did you get these pictures?”

“Sold it or gave to an extortionist,” I said. I had my snorkeling gear and water flasks bagged and ready to go. “We’ll talk more when I’m done getting samples.”

“You’re not going in there—the sun’s almost down.”

I said, “I think you’ll want me to, Leland. The part I didn’t tell you earlier? I’ll tell you now if you let me dive that pond.”

•   •   •

WHAT I TOLD LELAND BEFORE WADING
into the water was, “You’ll get that tusk and part of your collection back if you help me, but think about this: Wouldn’t the things you and your grandfather found be better off in a museum?”

I had spent twenty minutes explaining, so it was after eight, too late for light to pierce water, but I stripped down to shorts and dive boots anyway. Leland believed I wanted samples, which was true, but I didn’t need to get wet for that. What I wanted was to see how Toby reacted to my second entry into the pond.

At least two divers had been here before me . . . possibly more, depending on how Leland’s father had drowned. The details could wait. I wanted to know if familiarity altered the elephant’s behavior. A big block of sugar might also work as a bribe. If I had noticed Toby’s fondness for sugarcane, someone else might have figured it out, too. It was a way of attacking my own theory, which kept getting uglier: Leland’s stepson, his new wife, and someone else—possibly Harris Sanford—were systematically stealing what the man was fighting hard to protect.

Challenging my own belief system is healthy. It occasionally confirms that I’m a misguided dumbass and as lazy-minded as the next guy—not that I or anyone else has to admit it.

The process is cleansing enough.

In this case, I
wanted
to prove myself wrong. Not just because I liked Leland, although I did like him in a distant, arm’s-length sort of way. I wanted my theory to collapse because, if I was right, an even uglier hypothetical slipped neatly into place: The rednecks
who long ago had used Toby for target practice were in fact upper-class brats who lacked a conscience.

The elephant hadn’t approached when I showed up with Owen on Sunday. On that same day, I had witnessed Harris Sanford shooting turtles because turtles were the only living creatures within range.

So I pushed ahead with my little experiment while Leland paced along the shore. Used a chunk of bamboo to bang the cattails as a warning, then used it as a probe to spook snakes lying on the bottom.

Toby watched my progress.

I was thigh-deep, getting my fins ready, when Leland’s cell rang and I heard him say, “Where are you? You sound upset.” Then he turned and shaded his eyes. “No, I don’t see any truck,” but then did a minute later, saying, “Yeah . . . okay, I see you now.”

Truck?
I followed his gaze to a red Dodge Ram that was greyhounding toward the gate, the passenger door opening before it stopped. It was Harris Sanford’s truck. I recognized it from the shooting incident, so stood and watched while Leland said into the phone, “Hold on a second,
I
make the decisions. You don’t own this place yet.”

Owen, in a blue shirt, was getting out, a phone to his ear, and said something to which his stepfather responded, “This is stupid—come down here if you’re that mad.” Then walked away, talking, his voice too soft to hear.

The conversation went on for a while before Leland returned, tucking the phone away. He appeared nervous, a man caught in the middle, and tried to ease into an explanation, saying, “I told Owen about the safes being robbed. He’s as shocked as me. And he was
already upset after seeing you in the pond and . . . Well, Christ—how about we do this another day, Ford?”

I asked, “What’s his problem?” and glanced at the elephant—Toby, his trunk curled into a question mark, was rocking side to side, while Harris slammed the door and joined Owen at the gate.

“Like I explained,” Leland said, “we don’t let people dive on the property—even Owen and his friends. That’s always been a rule, so naturally he didn’t like it when he saw you. There are insurance issues, so he has a valid point—not that I’ll back down on this. But let’s wait until he cools off.”

“They just got here,” I said. “How did he know I was in the water?”

Leland thought about that. “Damn if I know,” he said finally. “Hang on.”

He waved Owen and Harris toward us, then dug for his phone when they didn’t respond. After that, I listened to a one-sided family argument. Muck tried to suction my shoes off, water cooler than the air. I kept my feet moving while my eyes moved from the elephant to the two men at the gate. A couple of minutes was enough to draw a conclusion: Owen was afraid of Toby, Toby was afraid of Harris or he was afraid of Owen—or both.

I slogged to shore and got dressed. By then the phone argument had escalated. Leland kept his distance, mostly listening but occasionally snapping off a few words. The exchange continued as the truck did a one-eighty and banged cross-country toward the trees, not south toward the front gate.

Strange . . . yet it offered me hope of speaking to Owen and his trigger-happy friend. I wanted to get a look inside the truck and see if there was a gun rack—and scuba tanks. Both men were
gamblers, and I was willing to bet they’d already recovered the rifle I’d thrown into the lake.

“He’s a sensitive kid,” Leland explained, walking me to my truck. “Like his mother. Mattie was sweet, but I had to be careful what I said. One thing I’m sure of, though, he had nothing to do with opening those safes. He wants me to get the police on it right away. That’s a good sign. Tells me Owen has nothing to hide, which means you’re wrong about him. The gambling, at least.”

I was tempted to respond,
Police are already on it
,
but didn’t because of a rumbling noise coming toward us. Leland heard it, too, and turned to see a motorcycle, driver helmeted, taking his time on the gravel lane that led to the entrance a quarter mile away. The bike slowed . . . stopped, then turned around, but not before the driver waved a jaunty hello or farewell, one big black glove mimicking a cowboy hat.

I said, “Shit—that’s him. Someone posted bail.”

Leland didn’t make the connection. “Owen must have left the main gate open,” he said, then added something I didn’t hear while he patted for his phone.

I opened my truck and slid my bag onto the seat. Told him, “Call the police. I want to make sure the guy leaves.”

Leland still didn’t understand. “It’s probably a sightseer or one of Owen’s friends. Let me give him a call.”

I stopped Leland by taking his arm. “Damn it. That’s the biker who threatened to burn your house down. Call the police.”

“But you said he was in jail.”

“Just do it,” I said, and got in my truck.

Mick had given me crazy Quirt’s cell number. Should I call him?

No . . . but I picked up my phone anyway and noticed a message from Tomlinson. It read, in part, “I know who’s responsible for Lillian’s death. Call me . . .”

I’d been right. Tomlinson had been tracking the mysterious power person on his own. I couldn’t call him now, but I did consider sending Quirt a text—something to taunt the man and glue him on private property before he got to the main gate.

Trespassing wasn’t much of a charge, but it was a start. Another possible bonus: If Owen and Harris reappeared, it might force a confrontation between them and the biker.

I know who’s paying you.
A text like that might do the trick, even though Tomlinson hadn’t divulged the name.
Afraid of me?
That was better. Poke the biker’s ego and all his craziness might come pouring out.

I thought about it as I drove, avoiding potholes, my truck’s shocks creaking on a tractor lane in need of grading. At the speed I was
going, I wouldn’t catch a motorcycle, that was for damn sure, so maybe sending a text was the best next move.

No need. I came around a bend and there was Quirt a hundred yards away, blocking the entrance, the main gate closed, which screened him from the road, Quirt astride his rumbling Harley. Not waiting on me necessarily, probably waiting on Owen and Harris, his arms crossed until he saw my truck. Then sat straighter—an
Oh boy!
surprise, which he signaled with another wave, his big black glove imitating a bareback rider.

I slowed and reached for my phone again, worried that Leland hadn’t called the police. Quirt saw me, figured out what I was doing, and gunned his motorcycle at my truck. My window was open; plywood covered the other. The Harley’s engine was so piercing, it caused me to drop the phone, downshift, and steer toward the pasture to give him room to pass.

Passing safely wasn’t what Quirt had in mind. The Harley reared when he kicked it into second, then hunkered itself on the gravel while he steered straight at me, his helmet a projectile that glistened in the late sun.

A game of chicken from some old movie,
Rebel Without a Cause
, came into my mind. But a motorcycle versus a pickup? No . . . this was a test or a game. Quirt was brain-damaged, not suicidal. But if he expected me to sit there and play along, he was wrong.

I gripped the wheel, turned toward him, and hit the accelerator—which damn near caused my truck to stall. My engine recovered when I double-clutched, and my tires kicked some gravel as I shifted into second. Thirty-five miles an hour . . . forty, almost fifty. I expected the Harley to veer right or left.

It kept coming. So maybe Quirt was suicidal—but I’m not. A
few car lengths before impact, I surprised him with what driving instructors call a boot turn. I jammed the emergency brake to the floor . . . skidded . . . and turned the wheel a quarter turn, which spun the bed of my truck into the Harley’s path.

Everything in the cab went flying, and I tensed, expecting eight hundred pounds of motorcycle to crash through the rear window. Instead, I felt a mild thump, and watched in the mirror as a helmeted rag doll tumbled past into the pasture. The Harley came next, its foot bar gouging a furrow as it tilted to earth.

When I jumped out, Quirt was already getting to his feet, so I checked my truck for damage as I circled around the back. The rear bumper had clipped the Harley’s front wheel—the wheel still spinning even though the bike had stalled while trying to auger itself into the ground. My fender was smudged with a tire-tread tattoo but otherwise fine.

“Goddamn, hoss! Where’d you learn that move?” Quirt shouted it from inside his helmet; tried to sound impressed but couldn’t disguise his rage. It was in the way he marched toward me, shoulders squared, but staying busy with something as he walked. He’d found a spare bionic hand, I realized, and it was hanging loose, the stump of his wrist showing, while he worked to reattach the thing.

He worked at it some more while yelling, “Wish to hell someone had that on a movie camera! That was James Bond material right there.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Naw . . . just a temporary glitch.” He stopped, adjusted a strap, and extended his left arm—
click-click
—a different attachment on this hand: snippers sharpened top and bottom like an axe. Not huge, but large enough that the man resembled a crab with a claw. “See?
Good as new.”
Click-click-click—
he demonstrated again. “But you better pray to God that bike’s not broke, I’ll hang your balls on my mirror.” He veered toward the Harley.

“We’ll let the police decide,” I said, and turned to search the cab for my phone.

“Now, hold on a minute! Let’s you and me discuss matters before we get our insurance companies to bickering.”

I ignored him until he said, “
Hey
—how about this: I’ll put a bullet in your belly if you take one more step.
Asshole.
I spent the night in jail ’cause of you and your goddamn dog.”

I turned. Quirt’s helmet pivoted from me to his bike to emphasize his advantage, Quirt only a few steps away from saddlebags he claimed held a .357 Magnum. Plus, the rifle scabbard he’d mentioned, the butt of a Winchester, protruding from fringe work. No way I could get to his bike or my truck before he got to his guns.

He was convinced of it. I was, too.

Quirt said, “Unless you got another pistol in your butt crack, I’d advise you to take me seriously for a change. You want to guess what happened to the last man who went crying to the cops?” By habit, he reached to remove his helmet but flipped up his visor instead. The sun was behind me, below the trees. Enough filtered through to bronze the man’s crushed left check. It added a glaze to his eyes.

What I wanted to ask was,
Did you bury him on Boot Hill?
but chose diplomacy, saying, “Maybe I’m overreacting. Let me help you lift that bike. It looks heavy.”

He stared at me a moment, then knelt over the Harley, pulled the rifle, and shucked a round using only his good hand—did it with a flourish, something he’d practiced.
The Rifleman
, he’d said, and was right about the cocking lever, a hoop that allowed him to spin
the weapon and shoot one-handed. Didn’t point it at me, but close enough, the rifle angled in my direction. “Overreacted, my ass. You pressed charges against me, slick. Now you’re gonna pay the price.” He motioned with the rifle. “Come around to this side of the truck.”

The bed of the truck was between us. I wanted to defuse the situation but not leave myself defenseless. I walked to the tailgate, no farther, and said, “You’ve got a right to be mad. But your boss isn’t going to be happy if he has to forfeit his bail money. How much if the cops arrest you again?”

Quirt cackled at that while his attention shifted from me to the motorcycle. Finally, he got the thing on its kickstand and looked it over. A bent fender; high chrome handlebars, off square, above a black teardrop gas tank with white script:
No mercy
.
I watched his bionic hand become a vise. He twisted the fender straight with no effort. Same with the handlebars. Brushed away grass and dirt clods, but not fussy. When done, he started to say, “Marion—that’s a damn sorry name for anyone who stands up to piss. Why’d your folks—” but then music in his pocket caused him to reach for his phone. “I might have to take this,” he said as if apologizing. “You mind?”

He steadied the bike, then checked caller ID. An awkward moment for Quirt—should he remove the helmet or put the phone on speaker? I was thinking,
If he turns his back, I’ll break his neck.

Quirt, a survivor, wedged the phone under his helmet instead. Told the caller, “I’m sort of in the middle of something, so don’t talk, just listen. You didn’t tell me to dress for company. Understand my meaning? So give me a few minutes—dumbass.”

The phone rang again as he put it away, the same music which I finally recognized: “Flight of the Valkyries.” What had thrown me was trying to match the tune with some cowboy classic—or country rap, which I wouldn’t have known anyway.

Quirt, phone in hand, confided to me, “Persistent prick, isn’t he?” and this time put it on speaker, saying into the phone, “Harris, you got the brains of a duck. Don’t you know how to take a hint? A fella here named Marion Ford is listening to every word, so go ahead, shoot your mouth off all you want. You remember Marion—the ol’ boy who took your rifle, then should’ve spanked your bitch ass.”

The crazy biker knew about the rifle incident, too.

Harris Sanford didn’t speak for several seconds. Then said, “I must have the wrong number.”

Quirt jumped on that. “Don’t you hang up on me, you prissy bastard. I got a question—no, two questions.
Harris?
Don’t pretend you can’t hear me.”

Another long silence before Harris said, “Christ, I called three times. We didn’t expect Ford and the old man to be here. Don’t you check messages?”

“Son, on the back of a Harley Shovelhead, especially the muffler system I got—” Quirt got that far, then realized what he’d just heard. “What old man? If you done screwed up again, I got no choice.”

Harris said, “Don’t threaten me. Jesus Christ, why are you talking to Ford? He’s the one who—”

“Threaten you?” Quirt cut in. “When I stick a gun up your ass, that’ll be your first clue. I asked a simple question: How many people did you invite to this monkey hump?” Then glanced at me as if we were buddies, two good ol’ boys bonded by this rich kid’s stupidity. Actually covered the phone to ask me, “Can you believe this shit?”

I replied, “Leland Albright, that’s who he’s talking about. He owns the property.”

“The head honcho, huh? Where is he?”

“About three hundred yards up the road. You’ll see a black Escalade. Why not put the rifle away and we’ll get this straightened out.”

That ended our friendship. “Shut your damn mouth,” he said, then asked Harris, “Did you bring your uncle’s whatchamacallit?”

Silence, then Harris answered, “His lockbox, yeah. It’s in my truck. But we haven’t done the other thing yet because they were here when we showed up.”

Quirt didn’t like that. “Goddamn it, then get your froggy flippers on or whatever it is you use. I ain’t leaving here without at least five hundred K in ivory. Or cash money, which you don’t have being a worthless punk.”

“You’re taking advantage of something that’s not my fault,” Harris argued. “Why?”

Quirt said, “’Cause your eight seconds are up, cowboy,” then asked, “What about the elephant? You harvested them tusks yet?”

I don’t know why that surprised me. The biker had dropped enough hints.

Harris stammered, “No . . .
no idea
what you’re talking about—” which pushed Quirt over the edge, him saying, “You better be up to your elbows in Jumbo blood by the time I get there. And have a chain saw primed. I want that ivory.”

He slammed the phone against his thigh, the rifle slipping from under his arm before he caught it with his bionic hand. Got it under control, put the phone away, then said, “I’m startin’ to hate that song,” when “Flight of the Valkyries” summoned him again.

He didn’t answer this time. Gave me his full attention while he limped closer, feeling the spill he’d just taken. Stopped and considered the saddlebags, wondering if a .357 revolver was a better choice than a Winchester. Decided it was but kept track of me while he made the switch. Once he had the revolver out, he checked the cylinder before leaning the rifle against the Harley. Brain-damaged but still a careful man.

“This is the last place I expected to see you,” he said. His voice different, talking like a farmer, with his sideways mouth, but deep into something, his mind already made up. “You got your gun in there?” He meant my truck.

“Look for yourself,” I answered. “You don’t really expect Harris to kill an elephant with a .22 rifle, do you? He’s the one you need to worry about. The other day, he almost shot me in the head.”

Quirt said, “I heard that story. But I like the one where you left Deon out there to drown better.” He used his big-barreled pistol to designate a grassy patch. “I want you on the ground before I go through that truck. You sure a pistol ain’t in there?”

“I never claimed there wasn’t.”

“Don’t get sassy. If I find a weapon—listen to me, now—if I do, I’m going to call Deon and tell him to burn down your house. He’s on his way to Sanibel with high hopes for them Pelican cases. Oh—and five gallons of gas.”

I thought,
Warn Tomlinson
, but said, “He won’t find what you’re after.”

“Then he’ll start a nice fire and convince the hippie. Or set the hippie on fire—I don’t give a shit as long as I get what I came for.”

“There’s an easier way,” I told him. “I’ll take you there myself—but call off Deon.”

“What I want is not to have to repeat myself. On the ground, goddamn it!” He waved the pistol. “Toss your wallet toward me first. And I’ll need the PIN code for your debit card if you got one.”

Apparently, he was going to shoot me execution style. I took my time emptying my pockets while my brain discarded one hope after another. I hadn’t brought a gun, and there was nothing in my truck but a seine net, a pair of white rubber boots, and two scuba tanks, both secured in an aluminum rack. Throw a boot at Quirt and
charge him—that was suicide. Or sprint away, zigzagging, and hope he’d miss with the revolver before he remembered the rifle. Almost as stupid.

The air tanks provided the out I needed when Quirt, after going through my wallet, noticed them. “You’re a scuba diver?”

I said, “That’s why I’m here. My gear’s in the cab.”

“You any good?”

“Better than Harris. You can’t trust him if he’s going to dive that pond. How will you know what he sees and what he doesn’t?”

Quirt gave that some thought. “I might be willing to postpone this thing between you and me—but it’s gonna happen. I knew from day one.” Then flinched, as if an ant had bitten him, scratching at something under his helmet. “Shit . . . this brain bucket drives me nuts—never had to bother with one before.”

“Then take it off,” I said.