The Maggody Militia Read online

  Jim Bob banged down the fork. “Don’t go calling me a coward. I ain’t afraid of anything—including you and your goddamn alien!”

  “Then prove it. Go down to where Roy found the tracks and see for yourself.”

  “I’ll point out the place,” volunteered Roy.

  Jim Bob shook a cigar out of the package and slowly pulled off the cellophane, then stuck it in the corner of his mouth and grinned at Larry Joe. “I thought we came here to drink whiskey and play poker. Let’s not waste time bickering over what you thought you saw. You want me to make some sandwiches before we start?”

  “We should have waited until dark,” Estelle grumbled as she and Ruby Bee strolled toward the rectory. Both of them were doing their level best to look nonchalant instead of bent on committing a crime. “What if somebody sees us?”

  “Since when is there something suspicious about paying a neighborly call?” said Ruby Bee. She stopped to smile and wave as Lottie Estes chugged by in her boxy little car. “See? Nobody’s paying us any mind. Besides, if we wait until it’s dark, we won’t be able to see anything unless we turn on the lights.”

  They arrived at the door without further debate. Ruby Bee, having appointed herself master criminal, knocked loudly and called, “Brother Verber? Are you in there?” She did this a couple more times, then dropped her purse on the mat and bent over to pick it up, adroitly collecting the key in the process. Estelle shielded her as she unlocked the door, eased it open, and replaced the key.

  “Yoohoo, Brother Verber,” she said. “It’s Ruby Bee and Estelle. Are you home?”

  Estelle shoved her inside. “We can’t stand here all afternoon. Sooner or later someone like Mrs. Jim Bob’ll drive by, and we’ll end up in the poky. You know how bad-tempered Arly can be about this sort of thing.”

  “Then stop yakking and start searching,” Ruby Bee said absently as she eyed the spic-and-span kitchenette and the perfectly aligned magazines on the coffee table. It was most likely Mrs. Jim Bob’s doing, she thought as she tried to decide where to find Brother Verber’s personal effects. “Come on, Estelle, it’s already four o’clock and I need to be back at the bar before five. Let’s try the bedroom.”

  Even though they were assuming no one else was in the trailer, they tiptoed down the short hallway, stopping to peer into the bathroom before arriving in the bedroom. It was as orderly as the living room and kitchenette, with no clothes or shoes scattered on the floor. Ruby Bee was a little surprised at the number of cologne and hair tonic bottles on the dresser, having always believed preachers disdained that sort of vanity. Maybe it had to do with him courting Kayleen, she thought with a tiny smirk.

  “You take the dresser drawers and I’ll take the closet,” she told Estelle. “Remember, we’re looking for photographs, letters—”

  “I know what we’re looking for,” said Estelle, who wasn’t overly fond of being bossed around. However, Ruby Bee had come to her aid when Uncle Tooly’s bequest had arrived, and she’d flatout refused to take money for the motel room. Not that the rate was much, Estelle reminded herself, or that the room wasn’t empty anyway.

  Ruby Bee opened the closet door. “It looks like a tornado came through here. Mrs. Jim Bob must have gathered up all the dirty clothes and just thrown ’em in here. There are some boxes on the shelf, but I can’t reach them. See if you can, Estelle.”

  Estelle was about to get hold of a promising shoe box when the door opened in the living room. “Someone’s here,” she whispered. “Now what do we do?”

  Ruby Bee felt her blood run cold. “Don’t panic,” she whispered back. “We can come up with a way to explain this to him.”

  “Brother Verber?” cooed Mrs. Jim Bob. “I just came by to see how you’re doing.”

  “Get in here,” Ruby Bee said, thoroughly panicked. She and Estelle jammed themselves into the closet and managed to pull the door closed just as they heard footsteps in the hallway. The air was stuffy and reeked of sweat and stale cologne. Shirts and coats hanging above them brushed their heads like ghostly caresses. The only light came from underneath the door.

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Jim Bob said in a thin, quivery voice. “How could you disappear like this without telling me? I am the guiding beacon of the congregation, as well as the president of the Missionary Society. Don’t I invite you over for supper every week?” She continued in that vein, her voice fading but still audible as she left the bedroom.

  “Who’s she talking to?” whispered Estelle.

  “Herself, I suppose.” Ruby Bee wiggled around, trying to avoid something sharp poking her in the fanny. “Lordy, it’s hard to breathe. It seems to me she might have laundered these clothes before putting them in here. What’s more, Brother Verber could use a stronger deodorant. Whatever he—”

  “I don’t understand,” wailed Mrs. Jim Bob from the living room. “What about all those times we knelt to pray in the Assembly Hall or on this very sofa? You said you could hear the Good Lord admiring us for our humility and trust. I thought I could trust you …”

  “Do you have any more bright ideas?” said Estelle.

  Ruby Bee crossed her fingers. “She’ll leave before too long, and then we can, too. How long can she sit in there and talk to herself?”

  The response came not from Estelle, but from the living room. “I am going to stay right here,” Mrs. Jim Bob vowed, “until you come back. It may take all night, but I will be here when you walk through the door—and you’d better have a good explanation for tormenting me like this. What’s more, after you’ve begged my forgiveness, you’re gonna get down on your knees and do some serious apologizing to the Lord.”

  Ruby Bee and Estelle did what they could to get comfortable on the closet floor.

  When I finally replaced the receiver, I’d learned several things about the FBI and the ATF. One was that their offices were open during the weekends, which was good to know if Swiss paratroopers came marching down the road. Another, however, was that they were boorish and uncooperative when it came to discussing their undercover agents. I’d explained the situation, blithely assuming they’d take a deep interest in the possible homicide of one of their own. I might as well have tried to convince them that Jimmy Hoffa was eating supper at Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill.

  I decided I’d better make sure he wasn’t, and perhaps have a piece of pie while I was at it. When I got there, I was startled to find a dozen or so guys standing around in the parking lot. “What’s wrong?” I asked as I got out of the car. “Is Ruby Bee holding a fire drill?”

  “It’s closed,” said a red-faced man in a denim jacket. “It’s nigh on to happy hour, but Ruby Bee ain’t nowhere to be found. Ollie and me was going to have us a beer.”

  I frowned at the “closed” sign on the door. “The bar was open earlier this afternoon. Do any of you know how long the sign’s been there?”

  A few of them admitted they didn’t, while the rest scuffled their feet and bobbled their heads like a flock of lethargic turkeys. I suggested they find another bar, then got back in my car and tried to think where Ruby Bee would have gone at such a crucial time. As far as I knew, Dylan Gilbert’s death had not been broadcast around town, so she couldn’t have appointed herself my deputy, as she and Estelle had done so often in the past, and gone charging off to crack the case.

  I remembered her dour remarks about the possibility of someone lurking in one of the units. Les wasn’t renowned for taking the initiative, but surely he would have informed me if a rapist had accosted her in the parking lot and carried her off on his shoulder.

  I went around back and found him sitting in his car. “Any more messages from LaBelle?” I asked him.

  “Nothing since the first one. Hey, could you take over for a few minutes? It’s been a long time since I answered a call of nature.”

  “Sure,” I said, “but let me ask you something. Did Ruby Bee come back here this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t see her, and Estelle hasn’t returned.” His ears
turned pink as he gave me a strained smile. “About that break?”

  “Go on, Les. When you get back, contact LaBelle and tell her we’re going to need someone here the rest of the night. I’m going to have to take more detailed statements from all these people, but I’ve got some other things to do first.”

  He babbled his thanks and peeled out of the parking lot, pelting me with gravel. I noticed that Ruby Bee’s car was parked in front of #1, but Estelle’s station wagon was gone, indicating that they were off together. Telling myself they were probably on an ostrich hunt, I sat down on the hood of my car and glumly watched a formation of geese fly by on their way to a more congenial climate. The best I could do was get back in my car and turn on the heater. Florida, it was not.

  I took out my pad and studied the various statements. Earl had said something that began to puzzle me as I tried to get everything straight in my admittedly muddled mind. Judy had said she left the campsite shortly after the troops had dispersed at 11:15 or so. Earl and Jeremiah had backtracked minutes later, then retreated to the pickup when they heard someone coming. Sterling had claimed to have taken refuge under an overhang; Barry, Reed, Jake, and Kayleen had embraced the exercise and gone creeping up the hill.

  So whom had Earl and Jeremiah heard? And whom had Earl seen shortly before Sterling called for an ambulance?

  The clouds did not part to allow a ray of sunlight to enlighten me. I could come up with no reason for Brother Verber to be on the ridge, unless he’d heard rumors of naked devil worshipers and gone to check it out. But according to Mrs. Jim Bob, he’d disappeared by Thursday morning. Even his obsession with writhing female bodies would not have kept him in the woods for more than forty-eight hours.

  My three least favorite stooges, Jim Bob, Larry Joe, and Roy, were up there somewhere, but their version of deer hunting involved playing poker and staying drunk. Deer could graze beside the trailer in perfect safety. Raz was too wily to risk being spotted, and Diesel would hardly seek out camaraderie.

  I wrote myself a note to call Mrs. Twayblade at the county home and find out if she was missing any of her white-haired charges. She’d misplaced a couple of them in the past, but she’d tightened up security since then.

  Whoever it was had not approached the campsite from the gully. It was possible Earl and Jeremiah had heard Judy as she was leaving. I had no idea when they’d begun passing the bottle back and forth; they certainly could have been smashed enough to misinterpret the sounds. I drew a box around Jeremiah’s name to remind myself to ask him.

  Even if my theory was right, it did nothing to explain who’d cut across the back of the Assembly Hall lawn. It could have been an uninvolved person, such as a kid buying hooch from Raz or a ditzy birdwatcher.

  I’d gotten nowhere when Reed drove into the lot. I climbed out of my car and said, “Where’s Barry?”

  “He’s coming.” He took a backpack and a cooler out of the back of the truck, which was littered with tools, beer cans, greasy blankets, and unidentifiable auto parts. “Which room is mine?”

  I gestured at #6. “You and Barry can share that one, but you’ll have to get the key from Ruby Bee when she reopens the bar.”

  “When’s that gonna be?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me that you, Jake, and Barry were convinced Dylan was an undercover agent?”

  “We weren’t, that’s why. We decided to have a serious talk with him later this evening. I guess it’s a little late for that.” He, like Jake, sounded disappointed at the lost opportunity to engage in brutality.

  “But you suspected he was,” I prompted.

  “Barry and Jake said so, but they didn’t know him as well as I did. He sounded okay to me.”

  “He was staying at your apartment, wasn’t he?”

  “Till he found someplace he could afford. Look, lady, I don’t aim to stand here all night. Why don’t you trot your sweet ass into the bar and get the room key?”

  “Why don’t you hand over your apartment key so I can go through Dylan’s things? Then you can trot your sweet ass to someone else’s room until Ruby Bee gets back and has you sign the register.”

  “You got a search warrant?”

  I waited a beat, then said, “I can hold you as a material witness until I get one. As investigating officer, I have the right to examine the victim’s personal possessions in order to locate his next of kin, as well as any incriminatory items that may suggest a motive for his murder.” Or I thought I did, anyway.

  He dug a key out of his pocket and slapped it in my outstretched palm. “Don’t go grubbing through my stuff, or you’ll be real sorry. One of the amendments, I think the third, protects against illegal search and seizure.”

  “The fourth,” I said, then told him which was Sterling’s room. He was already inside when Les returned, his demeanor a good deal calmer. I told him what to tell Barry when he arrived, then drove out of the motel parking lot. The “closed” sign still hung on the bar’s door, to the consternation of two good ol’ boys who seemed to be struggling with the concept. I glanced at the PD’s three parking spaces, and then at the empty area in front of the soon-to-be pawnshop. Mrs. Jim Bob’s Cadillac was parked in front of the Assembly Hall, and lights were on in Brother Verber’s trailer. At least one stray was back in the fold, I told myself as I drove down County 102 to see if Estelle’s station wagon was there. It wasn’t, so I went on to Farberville to see what I could learn about Dylan Gilbert.

  The Airport Arms was cleverly situated across from the airport. In the unpaved parking lot were a Harley-Davidson, a battered white car with Missouri plates, another with no plates, and an overflowing Dumpster. It was likely to be the most disreputable apartment building in Farberville, if not Stump County.

  Reed’s apartment was on the second floor, with a view of the runway across the highway. The staircase creaked and shifted as I went up it, and the railing was too splintery to touch. I let myself inside the apartment. My stomach lurched as the odor of beer and decaying food hit me, but I turned on a light and ordered myself to pick my way through pizza boxes, catalogs, unopened bills, and several crusty car batteries. It was definitely not Playboy magazine’s prototype of a bachelor pad.

  The bedroom floor was covered with mildewed towels, discarded underwear and jeans, and plates coated with blue and gray fuzz. I tried to open a window, but it was either nailed closed or impossibly warped. I saw a duffel bag in one corner beside a limp, dingy pillow and a blanket. Assuming this was Dylan’s allotted area, I knelt down and dumped out the contents of the bag. I wasn’t anticipating anything more illuminating than socks and boxers, so I was surprised when I found a small spiral-bound notebook.

  My elation faded as I flipped through it, finding one blank page after another. I was about to toss it in the bag when I came upon a notation that read: “Ingram MAC 10, #78264.” After pondering this for a moment, I checked to see if there was anything else in the notebook, and then set it aside.

  I made sure the duffel bag was empty, then sat back and once again read the cryptic notation. I was still in what Ruby Bee would condemn as an undignified posture when I heard the front door open.

  I hate it when that happens.

  Chapter 12

  Before I could scramble to my feet, a man appeared in the doorway. Technically, I’d have to say he loomed, since he was husky enough to fill the space, but he wasn’t snarling or even frowning. He wore a navy blue suit, a white dress shirt, a serious tie, and shiny black shoes. I continued my inventory: dark eyes, mahogany complexion, straight nose, slightly weak chin, and when he smiled, white teeth with a boyish gap in the front. I doubted he was one of Reed’s neighbors.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I began stuffing socks and shirts back into the duffel bag. “Packing,” I said. “How about you?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by.”

  “Give me a break, buddy. Nobody stops by the Airport Arms Apartments unless
his arm is twisted so tightly behind his back that he can pat himself on the top of his head.” I stopped, my hand in midair, and stared up at him. “You’re the process server, aren’t you? Reed Rondly’s not here, but I can tell you where he is if you’d like to slap him with a summons. It may not make his day, but it’ll certainly make mine.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “In Maggody, a little town about twenty miles east of here. Reed’s at the Flamingo Motel. Watch for a sign with a mottled pink bird on the verge of blinking its last.” I put the rest of Dylan’s clothes in the duffel bag, then stood up and brushed cracker crumbs off my knees. “Good luck catching up with him.”

  He pointed at the notebook on the floor. “You missed something.”

  “So I did.” I scooped up the notebook and tucked it in my pocket. “I didn’t see you when I got here. Were you watching the apartment?”

  He nodded. “Before I took my present job, I worked in a private investigator’s office, mostly doing surveillance work.”

  I picked up the duffel bag. “I guess I’m ready to go. If you decide to drop by the motel and surprise Reed, be prepared to duck. He’s a racist pig with the temperament to match.”

  The man stepped back to allow me to go past him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He followed me into the living room. I’d planned to do a quick search of the kitchen and bathroom, but I couldn’t come up with a credible explanation. We continued out to the balcony, and he waited while I locked the door. As we walked down the staircase, I said, “Are you heading for Maggody?”

  “Not just yet,” he said, “but you’ll most likely see me again, Chief Hanks.”

  “How do you know my name?” I said, almost dropping the duffel bag.

  “You’re wearing a badge.” On that note, he went around the corner of the apartment building.

  I stood by the car for a moment, wondering if I’d just interacted with a spy from a John LeCarré novel. He’d told me virtually nothing except that he’d once worked for a private investigator. My badge identified me as the chief of police, but I’d refused from day one of the “unsuitable job” to wear a name tag. If he’d gotten his information from something in my car, he would have addressed me as “Chief Taco Bell.”