The Homeplace: A Mystery (32 page)

Mercy was on edge. He could hear it in her voice. She would kill Chase. What else could she do?

He moved to the side. To have a clear shot past the door.

C’mon, Chase. Make a move. Force her.

Do something stupid.

His hip brushed the stove top. When his hand shot out to steady a teetering pan, his heel caught and he stumbled.

*   *   *

Somewhere behind Mercy, a pot clattered onto floor.

Mercy whirled toward the sound.

The door to the office swung wide open, flooding the room with light.

Over Mercy’s shoulder, Chase saw Kendall. The man’s eyes peeled wide and his mouth hung open. The seconds stretched into slow motion. The sheriff’s pistol dangled in the air a few inches from his outstretched hand as he tumbled forward.

Chase lunged. His shoulder smashed into Mercy’s back. He grabbed the rifle’s barrel with both hands and pushed it toward the ceiling just as the blast rocked the room. Splinters, chunks of plaster, and a cloud of dust cascaded from the ceiling.

Then Chase was on the floor with the rifle under him and its scope biting into his sternum. Breath wouldn’t come. The sound of the gunshot rang in his ears. He caught the edge of the counter with one hand and pulled himself onto his knees. Kendall crawled across the kitchen pawing at the shadows for his gun.

High-heeled shoes clattered across the floor.

The café’s front door slammed shut behind Mercy.

*   *   *

Spray from the semi truck splattered Birdie’s windshield. She swung her pickup into the left lane and pressed the accelerator to pass. Oncoming headlights filled the cab.

“Shit,” she screamed. She let off the gas and pulled back in behind the semi. The oncoming big rig rumbled by.

“Easy, Birdie.” Marty jammed both hands onto the dashboard. “We’re almost to town. Don’t kill us before we get there.”

Birdie tapped the brakes and let the truck and trailer in front pull away. She pried one hand from the steering wheel and wiped it across her forehead. “We’re gonna be too late.”

“You don’t know that,” Marty said.

“God, let you be right.”

She caught up to the semi as the road made the downhill curve into Brandon. Lights from the high school flashed by on her left. Town Pump was a blur. She knew she was driving too fast.

“Watch it, Birdie.”

Brake lights from the semi glowed red. The big truck veered into the oncoming lane and then jerked right. The pickup’s headlights danced along the side of the aluminum trailer. Brakes squealed. Her pickup went sidewise. The back end of the trailer swung toward them. Then it was broadside.

Jackknife.

“Watch out.” Marty’s arms shot to his face.

Birdie spun the steering wheel.

*   *   *

“Mercy,” Chase called as he stumbled through the front door.

She stood in the middle of the highway. Headlights glared off the icy roadway and shimmered from the folds of her green dress. Mercy turned and looked at him. In that second he saw the girl she’d been in high school, not the woman in the café. She mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

The eighteen-wheeler slid. Its horn blared.

Chase screamed her name.

*   *   *

Marty wrapped his arm around Chase’s shoulders and pulled him up from his knees. “There’s nothing anyone can do now.” And he turned Chase from the gore on the road.

At the front of Saylor’s Café, Kendall doubled over and emptied everything in his stomach onto the tops of his boots.

When Chase shut his eyes, he saw Mercy and the truck. Again, and again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It was still two hours until dawn when Marty followed his headlights into Brandon. The gas pumps at Town Pump were lit. Porch lights dotted the neighborhood near the high school.

Dirty snow filled the gouges in the roadside where the big truck had lost control. At the spot where Birdie’s pickup had taken out the telephone pole, a shiny new pole stood in the line of weathered brown ones.

All that was left of the yellow tape hung from shredded tufts tacked on the power poles and street signs in front of Saylor’s Café. At the makeshift memorial on the edge of the highway, a lone red rose lay atop a pile of dried flowers.

Chase left one each morning. He hadn’t missed a day.

Farm trucks and cars filled all but a few spaces in the parking lot at Saylor’s. Marty pulled in behind one of the fire trucks on the street and went into the café.

The scent of warm pancake syrup, frying bacon, and fresh coffee filled the dining room. Winter coats hung on chair backs and men in work clothes nursed steaming mugs. Nearly every table was full.

“Got yourself up before breakfast, huh, Marty?” Earl Collins motioned to an empty chair at a long table surrounded by volunteer firefighters. “C’mon and join us. We were wondering who the sheriff would send.” Earl slopped a flour tortilla through the green chili sauce on the half-empty plate in front of him. “We thought you’d draw the short straw for this one. Still in his doghouse?” He stuffed the tortilla in his mouth.

Marty turned the chair around and straddled the seat. He tipped his Stetson back and rested both elbows on the chair back. “He’s still got me runnin’ overnights on the back end of nowhere, but I wouldn’t miss this shindig for anything.”

The men around nodded their agreement in between forkfuls of eggs and pancakes. A waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Marty.

Earl came up for air. “We was just talkin’ how the ball team has won five straight, since”—he dabbed his lips with a napkin and stared at his plate—“you know, what happened.”

“Sure is good to see Chase on the bench with the team,” a man added from the end of the table. “That’s got to be a big thing for those boys.”

“Birdie, too,” Earl said. “You know, at the game last night, she looked almost like a woman in that dress.” Heads nodded. “Principal did a smart thing naming her head coach.” He pointed in the air with his next tortilla. “You know somethin’ else? I’ll bet all ya a hundred bucks she gets tossed out of a game before the season over. I like the way she cusses the refs.”

Marty smiled. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

“Speaking of Chase.” Another of the firemen spoke up. “I’m sure I saw his truck out at Pop Weber’s place.”

“You probably did,” Marty said. “Chase promised Pop he’d watch his farm. I think he had to, to get that old man to agree to stay in the nursing home.”

“I hear Chase is paying for that.”

Marty shook his head. “I can’t say for sure.”

“Somebody said Jimmy Riley’s father is buildin’ a fence for Chase.”

Marty shrugged his shoulders.

Earl studied Marty’s face. “My wife’s sister works at the old folks’ home where Mercy’s mother lives. She said she heard that Chase fronted Victor the money to make the down payment on the café.”

“Don’t’ know about that, either.” Marty hated lying to his friends. He finished his coffee and set the mug on the table. “It’s ’bout time to be headin’ that way. Chase’ll be waitin’.”

Men pushed away from the table and stood. Some wrestled into their heavy coats. Dollar bills were tucked under the edges of plates and saucers.

“Marty, can I ask you one other thing?” Earl put his white fire helmet on his head. “Cecil’s back over at Town Pump. I thought when that truck wrecked, they found drugs on him.”

“Didn’t have enough on him to press charges. Somebody screwed up.”

“Kendall?”

“I can’t say that for sure.”

The fireman set his white helmet on his head. “Kendall musta had his mind on his campaign for state representative.”

“Don’t know about that, either.”

“For a smart guy, you don’t know much. You know that, Marty?”

*   *   *

Chase turned off the flashlight.

Alone in the dark, he walked the last steps to the foot of the staircase in the old farmhouse. He shut his eyes to seal in the darkness.

Memories, like ghosts, crowded around him. His mother came to him first. Smells of her cooking teased his nose, and the hair on his arms prickled as she passed near him. In the next room, the mattress springs of her hospital bed groaned with her weight.

From faraway, his father called him to help with the chores. The voice turned to anger and then slurred as Jim Beam stole him away. Big Paul climbed the stairs behind him and met his lover in the bedroom he had shared with Chase’s mother.

Then suddenly Chase was all alone.

*   *   *

“You still sure you want to do this, Chase?” Marty stood next to Earl Collins and the other volunteer firemen. The first spikes of dawn nudged the horizon.

Chase nodded.

“And you got everything out of the house you want?” Earl asked.

“There wasn’t anything.”

“Okay, then?” Earl shot a glance at Marty.

“Tell him how you got it planned, Earl,” Marty said.

“We cleaned out as much brush and dried weeds as we could yesterday. I stationed a truck with hoses and a team of men on each side of the house. Sent three more out to watch the barn and corrals. Not much wind this early. That’s good.” Earl looked over his shoulder and raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the headlights behind him. “Old places like this tend to go up fast. When it’s fully involved, we’ll push the walls in and let her burn. Mostly, we’ll just be sure it doesn’t get away from us.” He whistled through his teeth. “This is gonna be somethin’. Anybody bring marshmallows?”

“I did.” Birdie walked up from around one of the fire trucks and stood by Marty. She held a plastic bag from Town Pump. “Brought graham crackers and Hershey’s, too. Ya need that stuff for a bonfire, don’t ya?” She jerked a thumb toward the road. “The whole damn town came.”

Pickups and cars lined the gravel road. A school bus pulled up, and high school kids in letter jackets and winter coats piled out.

Birdie hitched up her pants and grinned. “Hope they brought their own. I ain’t sharin’.”

Marty tucked his hands in his coat pockets. “That’s their way of tellin’ you that they’re glad you’re here, Chase.”

Chase smiled for the first time. “Let’s give them something to watch, Earl.”

Two of the firemen jostled up the front steps with five-gallon jerry cans in each hand. From the lights on the men’s helmets Chase saw them slosh the liquid onto the floors and walls of the farmhouse. When they came out the door, one raised a hand and looked at Earl.

“Let’s do it,” the Brandon volunteer fire chief called. “This is gonna be fun.”

The fireman flicked a lighter and lit a bundle of newspapers and tossed the fiery torch into the house. Flames crawled across the floor. Window curtains curled in the blaze. Fire climbed the steps one at a time. Dancing yellow light spilled from the windows. Old shingles caught, and fire rose fifty feet high against the night sky. People along the road hooted their approval. Birdie munched a marshmallow and refused to share.

As waves of heat touched their faces, Marty nudged Chase. “Give any more thought to where you’ll build the new house?”

“I just decided.” He turned to his friends. “I’ll build the new one right here.” Over the sounds of dawn he said, “I’d almost forgotten, it’s my homeplace.”

Chase turned his back to the fire. A ribbon of red showed far out to the east. The sky sizzled as the warmth of the sun touched what was left of the cool darkness. Night tore away along the horizon, and day took its place.

And Chase Ford heard each sound.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When this author determined to put one of the stories that occupied his mind on paper, he assumed that writing would be a lonely, solitary endeavor. He was wrong.

The Homeplace
would not have come to be without the help of so very many. First, the Southwest Critique Group. Mary Ann, Leisa, ZJ, Mindy, Val, Ed, Laurence, Michael, Sue, Nikki, Janet, and Lizzy who endured and encouraged. Thank you so much. Next, Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers hosts one of the best writers’ conferences in the nation. Mark, Shannon, Susie, Angie, Pam, and so many others. You guys are the best. Barbara and Theresa from Crested Butte Writers. There wasn’t a better place to learn the craft.

To my agent, Gina Panettieri with Talcott Notch Literary, who took a chance on this writer and always reminded him that writers write. To Peter Joseph and his assistant, Melanie Fried, from St. Martin’s Press, who guided this project through the world of publishing. To Anne Hillerman and Jean Schaumberg for establishing a contest to honor a great author and providing an opportunity for new ones. Please know that each of you has my most sincere appreciation.

To my wife, Nancy, who reminds me each moment of how much she loves me. Thank you.

Finally, here’s a bit of the story that readers should know.

In the summer of 1909, my great-grandfather, Starling Harry Gray, came to the prairies of eastern Colorado to stake claim on a homestead. After searching, he decided to purchase a 160-acre tree claim. The following spring, Starling brought his wife, Essie, and their two children to Colorado.

They built a two-story house on the property he had purchased, four miles south of the town of Kit Carson. In an era of dugouts, soddies and lean-tos, others in the county called their home the Tall House. The house had one door and four windows. The main floor was divided into a kitchen and bedroom and the sleeping area upstairs was a single room. The Tall House swayed in the prairie winds and, though long abandoned, still stands.

Starling deeded the land to his youngest son, giving the property the unique quality of being owned by only two persons.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR