Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 02 (14 page)

She plopped a sandwich in her mouth, and through the chicken salad said, "It's getting cold, Kevin. I heard tell more than one time there was bears and wolves in these here woods. I'm supposed to be at work at nine o'clock. Call for help on the radio; tell them they got to come get us."

Gripped with ambivalence yet unwilling to disobey, Kevin fiddled with the knobs, but the radio remained silent. "It's broken, my angel. Lemme see if I can fix the jeep. There's a toolbox under the seat."

Dahlia worked her way through the remainder of the tuna sandwiches while Kevin crawled around under the jeep. She had just decided to tackle the pimento cheese when she heard a droning noise from somewhere up the ridge. She thought about telling Kevin, but chose not to interrupt him. She also thought about pimento cheese but ultimately chose chicken salad, and was on her third as the noise grew so loud it started to alarm her. "Kevin! Something's coming."

He wiggled out from under the front of the jeep and got to his feet. "You're right, my darling. I hear it, too. But what do you reckon it is?"

"I was thinking that it sounds like that crazy lunatic in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when he commenced to cutting off everybody's head. Now what do you aim to do?"

He came around to the passenger's side, a wrench held in his decidedly sweaty hand. "I ain't going to let some crazy lunatic attack you. If he so much as makes a move in any of your directions, I'll bash him on the head until he sees stars and begs for mercy." He could see she was impressed, although he had a few doubts himself. However, there wasn't anything to do but stand there, prepared to defend his woman from a chain-saw lunatic.

A light cut across the tops of the firs. The drone, now a heartchilling buzz that implied decapitation and worse, grew louder and louder. Kevin sucked in his gut and raised the wrench. The light bounced in the branches. Dahlia solemnly ate the last of the chicken salad, wondering if she'd ever see pepperoni pizza or cherry cobbler again. The buzzing became a million angry hornets. Kevin stepped forward. Dahlia let out a belch of sheer terror.

A motorcycle crashed through the underbrush. The driver, disguised by a bubble helmet, wore a black leather jacket and boots. Kevin stumbled backward, lost his balance, and sprawled across Dahlia's lap. The driver leaned over to cut off the engine. Dahlia goggled, just knowing in her heart this madman from hell was reaching for the chain saw. He came up emptyhanded. Taking off the helmet, he said, "Kevin Buchanon and Dahlia O'Neill? What in blazes are you two a-doin' up here?"

"Merle?" Dahlia said as she tried to remove Kevin's shoe from her rib cage. "Merle Hardcock? What are you a-doin' up here?"

"I was practicing my cross-country technique," Merle said. He smoothed down his wispy white hair and gave Dahlia a conspiratorial wink. "Got to get ready for the big one, you know."

Dahlia didn't know anything, including why Merle was winking at her like he had a gnat in his eye. "For goodness' sakes, Merle; you liked to give me a heart attack. Kevin and I came up here for a picnic, but we had a small variety of problem with the jeep."

"Like running into a tree?" Merle cackled. "You two can get on with your picnic, but it's getting dark. I got to hustle ass back to town and find Arly."

Kevin freed his head from under the steering wheel to peer across Dahlia's broad thighs. "Why do you have to find Arly? Is it police business?"

"You might say that." Merle let out another round of cackles. "It's a dead body, so I'd say it was likely to be police business."

"I am on assignment for the chief," Kevin said in his best official voice. He pulled himself up and ordered his Adam's apple to stop bobbling like a yo-yo. "You better tell me what you found, Merle Hardcock. You just tell me whose body you found and where you found it -- and for your sake, I'd like to hope you didn't tamper with the scene. I'll report to Arly."

"From your tree phone?" Merle put on the helmet, muffling the cackles. The motorcycle came to life with a thunderous roar, then edged past the jeep and plummeted down the trail.

"Well, holy shit," Kevin said in disgust.

Dahlia unwrapped a pimento cheese sandwich.

Celeste lay in her bed, surrounded by plump feather pillows in lacy cases. A satin cover was pulled to her chin, but she was awake and staring at the ceiling. Mason eyed her from the doorway, then came a few feet into the room. "Would you like a glass of sherry or a cup of tea, Sis? You're looking a bit pale."

"Can you do nothing but play waiter? Do you realize that you spend a great deal of time in doorways asking me if I should like something to eat or drink? Do you aspire to be a waiter in a ritzy New York restaurant?"

"I don't mean to offend you," he said soothingly. "I just feel responsible for you at times. Besides, you're always occupied with important things like giving readings and -- "

"Shut up, Mason."

He hung his head, trying to look properly chastised while he decided how to escape her room. "I was just trying to help," he mumbled.

"Yes, you will help. Tomorrow morning, as the sun first rises, you must go to this Arly Hanks and bring her back here. Although she is skeptical, she will listen to what I have to say to her. The miasma of violence grows like a cancer in this putrid village. She is the chief of police, and she must do something before it is too late."

"Now, Celeste, we don't want to get involved with the police, not after what happened back in Vegas. You were six inches from jail, and damn lucky the judge's wife turned out to be one of your clients."

"I will not discuss that incident, Mason. You and I both know that I took money from the child's mother only because she insisted. I provided the information. I had no knowledge of the location until I saw it in a trance." Celeste gave him a cold look. "Do you understand what you are to do, my little brother? Knock on this woman's door before dawn and bring her to me."

"I don't even know her. I can't go banging on her door at dawn, demanding that she come with me. That's crazy, Celeste. She's liable to pull out a gun and shoot me in the stomach."

"I want her here," Madam Celeste said, her eyes narrowed to slits. "One of my clients came this morning to tell me how some local woman has disappeared. It seems this policewoman is too proud to ask for my help, but I shall give it to her despite her petty jealousy. And I must see her immediately. Death is very near. We cannot waste one minute."

"Does this have something to do with the face you saw?"

"Mason, I have known asparagus stalks more perceptive than you. Will you do what I tell you to do -- or will you return to Hickory Ridge, Mississippi, to sell used cars?"

Mason's hand curled into a fist, but he prudently kept it behind his back. "This is crazy," he persisted. "She's not going to go wandering off with a total stranger, especially at that hour of the morning. Nobody in her right mind would."

Madam Celeste closed her eyes and put her fingers on her temples. "I am having a vision, Mason. It is of ... of a '77 Chevy with less than ninety thousand miles. It has had only one owner. The interior is immaculate. The price is painted on the windshield, and it is an excellent deal."

"All right, all right. That's not real funny, you know. I will go over to this policewoman's house and ring the bell. After I explain why I'm there, she can decide for herself if she's willing to come back here with me. But I'm not going to drag her out the door and into my car. That's called kidnapping or assault or something, and I'm not having anything to do with it."

"I shall be in the solarium when you return with her. Now, I must rest because it will be most difficult for me in the morning. Stop fidgeting and leave me alone."

Mason went downstairs and into the kitchen, wishing he had stayed in the army long enough to learn something more useful than how to hurl grenades at gooks. He'd been offered further electronics training if he reenlisted, but he was too eager to get as far away from the army as he could. So now he was qualified to sell used cars, dig ditches, twiddle his thumbs, or do as Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard, a.k.a. Madam Celeste, ordered.

He looked out the window at the chicken house across the pasture. The roof had caved in on one end, and the sides were boarded up with scrap lumber, old signs, and sheet metal. There hadn't been a chicken there for twenty years, but it still reeked so badly of manure that he could smell it on sultry days when the wind came up the valley. He was about as useful as an old chicken house, he thought as he took a can of soda pop from the refrigerator and went to the living room. He fiddled with the TV controls until he picked up a sumo wrestling match from Tokyo. The lack of action lulled him to sleep before the soda was half gone.

Hammet, David Allen, and I ended up at the drive-in movie, where we were treated to nonstop violence, bloodshed, an improbable storyline that included the removal of vital anatomical attachments of almost everyone in the cast, and enough fake blood to fill a swimming pool. Hammet adored it. He ended up in the front seat, crouched in a ball and yelling encouragement to the mass murderer. David Allen kept the popcorn coming.

In the middle of one of the more grisly scenes my beeper beeped. "Damn it," I said under my breath, remembering that I still hadn't called Mrs. Jim Bob. Approach avoidance at its zenith.

David Allen reached across Hammet. "Let me have that insidious cricket. I know the perfect place for it."

"You can't throw Jiminy out the window. He's official police equipment, I'm sorry to say."

He took the beeper, wrapped it in a handful of napkins, and stuffed the bundle in the glove compartment. "See? No violence to the little chap."

"I wish I could ignore it, but I've been ignoring it for too long. I need to find a telephone to get the message. I was about to do it earlier, but you two abducted me."

"You're going to miss a particularly fine decapitation."

"The sacrifices we have to make in the line of duty. Can I bring back anything from the concession stand?"

"I wants some more candy bars," Hammet said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "And another sody and a hot dog."

I went to the concession stand and asked where to find a pay telephone. I listened to concise directions, then made it halfway to the door before hearing that the phone was out of order. I inquired if I might use the office phone. I was informed that only the manager could permit it. I asked to speak to the manager. I learned the manager was home with a stomach virus. I showed my badge. I was told that only the manager could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party. I argued some more. I gave up when told that the manager with the stomach virus who was the only one who could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party also had the only key, so it wasn't going to do a damn bit of good to stand around and argue the point. Did I wish to purchase anything before the concession stand closed? Wishing I had a chain saw, I bought drinks, candy bars, and a hot dog, then went back to David Allen's wagon and watched the last dozen people get their heads cut off. It suited my mood perfectly.

Brother Verber, dressed in pajamas and a robe, stared at the simulated walnut paneling above the television set, unmindful of the chatter from the sitcom. He kept trying to convince himself that he wasn't being cowardly, but he was losing the argument. Poor Sister Barbara had come to him in her hour of need. He'd comforted her and offered spiritual guidance -- or at least he'd intended to do a bushel of comforting and guiding until he'd learned the name of the mother of the poor little orphan bastards. Just thinking the name made him a mite sweaty under his elastic waistband.

But, he told himself as he peeked at the television on the off chance that the blond girl in the miniskirt might cross her legs, Sister Barbara was a strong woman, with a solid Christian sense of duty and a pair of fine, muscular thighs from all that pious praying. She could handle those awful bastards, and instill in them a healthy fear of the Lord and a feverish desire to battle the wickedness of their souls. Why, she didn't need any help from him. She was a battleship armed with cannons of righteousness. She was a rock of piety. She was an army tank that could run right over Satan and squish him into the mud. It was arrogant of him to think she needed his help. Sinfully arrogant.

Brother Verber got on his knees to beg the Lord's forgiveness for his arrogance. He glanced a bit nervously at the telephone receiver dangling below the coffee table, then closed his eyes and settled his knees on the braided rug. It might well take hours of seclusion and prayer to regain his humility, he thought with a windy sigh. If the Lord chanced to be occupied with more important things (like striking down evolutionists and homosexuals and feminists), it might even take days.

It was nearly one o'clock before we got back to Maggody. Hammet, bloated from an incredible amount of junk food, was snoring in the backseat, while visions of blood-drenched sugarplums danced in his head.

"What do we do with him?" David Allen asked as we drove past the Emporium.

"I don't know. He's supposed to be staying with Mizzoner, but it's pretty late and supposedly she knows he's with me." I looked back at the little liar. "I guess I'll let him sleep on my sofa tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll go by there and find out what's happening, but I'm too tired to face it now."

David Allen slammed on the brakes as a blackclad figure on a motorcycle roared from out of a side street and vanished down the highway. "Officer, arrest that maniac!"