CHAPTER 20

Bucky spun the wheel and roared west out of town. Smacked the dashboard with his palm. How could he have been so stupid? Willow saw him and thought, There’s a sucker. I’ll just wiggle my ass and wrap that hick around my little finger. Lots of luck getting on the council now.

Bitch!

He sped through Enid, then swung south onto Eighty-One. In open prairie now, he leaned on the accelerator, and his roadster’s speedometer nipped eighty. The police said the crash occurred just north of Kingfisher. He gunned it past Hennessey and through a wide valley with streams of light through fluffy clouds, and grazing cattle. Fence posts flicked past in a blur.

Five miles farther, the road jogged. Coming out of it, he slammed on the brakes. Ahead, the road veered sharply left in front of a cliff. A tow truck backed up against its edge. The door said Kingfisher Towing. Willow and Bart stood peering down.

Bucky’s car dipped forward on its springs in a screeching stop, and he jumped out. The tow truck’s winch growled, and a cable strained to pull the Chrysler up from the ditch. Bucky stood beside the two people he hated most in the world. A miracle the car stayed upright. Must’ve spun a one-eighty. The front grille had weeds jutting out like cat whiskers.

“I thought we were goners,” Willow said in a flat voice.

Bucky glared at her. The car eased over the crest. More weeds and dirt filled the underside. Once on flat land, the tow truck driver lowered the car’s front end to the ground.

Bucky surveyed the damage. Thick shrubs had scraped the driver’s side and may have kept the car from rolling over. The front quarter panel appeared dented. Difficult to tell for sure since red dirt caked both the convertible’s inside and out. A hard hand smacked his back. “Sorry ’bout that, pal. Rotten luck.”

Bucky whirled around to Bart. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Asshole!” He pointed at Willow. “And you. You’ve ruined my life.” Bucky wanted his voice flat, intimidating, but it jumped an octave or three.

“What was that?” Bart put his hand behind his ear, like a deaf guy. “What am I?”

Sweat trickled down Bucky’s left temple. He let it go.

Bart dropped his hand. “Wasn’t her fault.”

“Right. It was the road’s fault. Or the car’s.”

Bart sniffed the air. “I believe I’m smelling sarcasm. I was driving, so don’t go accusing my wife of ruining your life.”

“You can’t drive. You’ve only got one eye.”

“Had to try it out myself, pal. Nothin’ around but fuckin’ cows. They should’ve had signs and shit. Curve came at me like a horseshoe.”

“I yelled to slow down, you jerk.” Willow spat either blood or red dirt. “You almost got us killed, and you ruined Bucky’s life.”

Bucky couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or really did feel bad.

“And look at this.” She shook her head, and red powder flew from her hair like blackboard eraser dust.

“Another thing, numb-nuts,” Bart said, his voice showing a restrained, under-the-surface aggression. “You need to learn to speak with respect around a lady. And since I happened to forget my driver’s license, Willow was driving. That’s what we told the cops. Got that?”

Bucky looked around. “What cops?”

“I gave a statement and they pissed off. Can’t believe you reported the car stolen.”

Bucky’s anger swelled again. “They should’ve arrested you.”

Bart grinned. “A well-respected man like me?”

The driver of the tow truck waddled up, holding a clipboard. His mesh shirt gave his chest hairs enough room to curl through. He asked, no one in particular, “You gonna try to start it? ’Cuz if it don’t run, you’ll need it towed.”

Bart glared at Bucky. “Key’s in the car, dip-shit.”

Bucky yanked the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.

Bart yelled, “The panel’s jammed against it. Climb over.”

The inside smelled of sagebrush. Bucky gunned the engine--Varooooom! He pulled the car up a few feet to be sure the wheels were clear of debris. He twirled the key off.

“Guessin’ you won’t need me no more,” the tow truck driver drawled. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.” No one reached for a wallet. “Cash.”

Bucky waited and listened to the driver wheezing.

Bart turned to him. “You gonna sit there with your dick in your ear or pay the man?”

With clenched teeth, Bucky yanked out his billfold and peered in. “I only have twelve dollars.”

“All cash,” the driver said.

Nobody spoke. Only a meadowlark from a fence post. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Willow snapped. She rummaged through her purse and came up with three dollars. “Here!” She flicked her arm out to the driver and waved the bills.

The trio climbed into the 300, and Bucky switched on the engine. He didn’t trust those crazies to drive the car back to Defiance.

***

“Kindra,” Bucky said, over the phone. “I’m at work and need a lift to my car out near Kingfisher.”

“Kingfisher? I--I guess.”

“Thanks. I’ll be out front.” He trudged to the curb and gazed absently across the highway. The sun hung just over the horizon; the sky the color of flamingo feathers. Swifts, catching insects from the air, cut sharp curls above the buffalo grass that rippled in the meadow, as if waving goodbye. He felt ashamed letting Alsop down after so few days on the job.

Kindra pulled up. “Head toward Kingfisher,” he said and climbed in.

“First we need to make a stop,” she said.

Bucky slouched with his head against the backrest and told Kindra about Willow and Bart. “When I first met him, I thought, what a wuss. Boy, was I wrong. On the ride back to the dealership, the guy talks like we’re poker pals. Said he’d offer to pay for repairs, but that’s what insurance companies are for. He’s the friendliest guy in the world until you piss him off. Then you hope he doesn’t kill you. Might as well say it, I’ll probably lose not only my job, but my future in this town.”

“Oh, Bucky.”

“I screwed up.”

She tugged his sleeve. “Anybody could’ve made that mistake. Mr. Alsop is lucky to have you as a salesman. Why, I’ll bet he’s never in his whole life had someone sell a car on his very first day. And look at all those you sold to Chief Parker. What, four?”

He allowed a tiny smile. “Five. No, actually six. He ordered another one.”

She grinned. “See.”

“Cal might not fire me right away. He wants me to photograph the celebration tomorrow.” He stared out his window at a ragged row of eucalyptus trees stutter past like propped up coffins against a graying sky.

Kindra turned off the highway into Potter Park and pulled in across from the library under a canopy of trees. A stiff breeze in the willows sounded like an enormous silk dress. “Why are we stopping here?” Bucky asked.

She turned off the engine and scooted around to face him. “Listen. I was pumping gas for this Army guy and noticed a jacket hanging in his back seat with big mound-shaped buttons like the one we found in the grave. Except his buttons had an eagle, not a number seven like ours. I remembered Jolene saying numbers meant something.”

“Yeah, like a troop number.”

“The guy said if our button was army, the number could mean Seventh Medical Battalion, Seventh Military Police Company...and other stuff I forgot.”

“Cal told me Kansas was in the army and had a foot injured in Korea.”

“That’s it!” she said, suddenly excited. “Let’s go inside and check.”

Bucky reached for his door. Finally, something to feel good about. “I think you’re on to something.”

They went into the brightly lit library. Nouveau colonial brick, picture windows, and beech-wood shelves. The two hurried past a large portrait of former President Calvin Coolidge and stopped at the card catalogue. They searched through encyclopedias and several books listed under Korea U.S. military. In one thick book titled Korea: Companies and Divisions, they scanned pages with headings like 7^th Ordnance Company, 7^th QM Company, 7^th Ranger Infantry Company, Airborne.

Finally, Bucky spotted the Seventh Motor Transport. “That’s it! Alsop said Kansas was in the motor pool.”

“See. The button does belong to Kansas, and he lost it burying the baby.” Kindra’s eyes grew wild, like Willow’s when she fired up the 300, and she slapped the book closed and jumped up. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky sensed an idea growing in her head that he wouldn’t like. “And go where?”

“To see Kansas. Force him to make Marybeth give me the ring, or we’ll tell about him burying the baby.”

“Tell who?”

“The police.”

“Forget that. At least for now.” Chief Parker had a double murder to solve and didn’t need more distractions.

“It was your idea, remember?”

“Well, it was a bad one. Besides, your grandfather will find out. Remember?”

Kindra glared at him and stomped off. He followed her into the car. She slammed it into gear and spun the wheels before turning on the lights. Her tiny mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Kindra, we’ll think of something else. Kansas would blow a fuse. Also, if you recall, he did say he’d shoot me if I set foot on his property again.”

She kept her gaze straight out the windshield.

“Goddamnit, Kindra, you know what he’s like.”

“Don’t shout.” That was very funny, because he wasn’t even shouting. She went on, “Why did we go to the library and investigate if you’re going to chicken out?” She hauled the wheel over, and they swung into the next lane.

Bucky turned his head this way and that, checking traffic.

“You said you’d help get my mother’s ring back. Go ahead, quit. I’ll do it myself.”

A muscle or something in the middle of Bucky’s body grabbed hold. Quit? He had never quit anything in his life. Even his insides knew. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Kindra’s face beamed like that of a girl stepping onto a carnival ride. She whipped a sudden U-turn, then cut across traffic and made a left through a red light. Someone honked and she honked back.

“It’ll be interesting,” Bucky said, now starting to feel revved, “to see if Marybeth sticks to her hitchhiking story in front of Kansas.”

Kindra glanced at him, eyes sparkling. “This’ll be fun.”

“You don’t have to face me when you talk.” Bucky’s eyes had locked onto traffic, watching for the moment he might have to seize the wheel.

They took the route down Valley Spring Lane, then continued three miles before turning onto a dirt road that led to Kansas’s house. Kindra rolled the car down the drive and stopped in a clearing not far from the abandoned baby grave. Kansas’s car was gone and the house dark.

“Dang!” Kindra whined. “No one’s home.”

Bucky got out of the car, and a screech owl called in the blackness. It sat perched in a tree above, silhouetted against a crescent moon. Bucky hopped up the steps to the door and tried the knob. Locked. He slid around back to search for a way in. They’d find the ring themselves. He checked two windows; the third gave to his pressure.

“Kindra,” he called in a loud whisper. “Come here.”

She crept around the corner, shoulders hunched as if one false step would trip a landmine. “What are you doing?”

“Get over here and I’ll boost you up.”

She looked around. “Isn’t this called breaking and entering?”

“It’s called getting your mother’s ring. If we find it, we won’t need to talk to Kansas. And while we’re here, let’s check for a Swiss Army knife with brake fluid on it. That’ll prove he’s the murderer.”

Bucky helped her up and followed her inside. He found a light switch and flipped it on. No point worrying about being caught by Kansas. He’d see their car anyway.

This must be Marybeth’s bedroom. It was small, and, except for an arrangement of orange poppies in a vase on the chiffonier, the place looked ransacked: clothes strewn about, drawers open, unmade bed, corners crammed with magazines.

Kindra searched through drawers, while Bucky slipped into the living room. Nothing fancy. A coatrack and a pair of snow boots by the door, a wooden couch covered with bearskin, two oak chairs, and a coffee table with a history book on it. It showed an Indian in a feathered headdress on a horse. A mounted buck’s head above the mantel, along with a rifle that may have belonged to Davy Crockett. A narrow wooden stairway led up to what looked like a loft. The place seemed more cabin than house.

Bucky opened a closet door to search for a coat with buttons matching the one in his pocket. Two rifles leaned upright in a corner by a carpet sweeper. A rod held coats, but none with brass buttons. On the floor sat rubber boots and a toolbox. His heart skipped. He bent down, opened it, and checked for a Swiss Army knife. Darn!

On his way to Kansas’s room, he found Kindra sitting on Marybeth’s bed reading a small spiral notebook. “Psst, aren’t you supposed to be looking for something?”

She waved him away and turned a page.

Kansas’s room was totally different than Marybeth’s. Bed made tight with military corners, and nothing out of place. Bucky opened a drawer. Socks rolled tight, underwear folded. Probably learned this stuff in the Army. In the closet, shirts and trousers hung on hangers evenly spaced about two finger widths apart. In the corner hung a dark blue coat. He pulled back the lapel and his heart hammered. The buttons!

“EEEEEE!” screamed Kindra.

Bucky ran into the hallway and nearly crashed into Kansas and Marybeth. They must’ve entered through the front door. Kansas had a rifle trained on Kindra. Marybeth stretched on her tiptoes, looking over his shoulder. “What are you doin’ in my room?” she yelled.

“Shut up, Marybeth,” Kansas barked. He swung his rifle on Bucky. “You, into the living room.” He leveled the rifle back at Kindra. “You, too. Marybeth, get in there and close the door.”

Kansas herded the intruders into the living room. “How’d you two get in here?”

“Through my window,” Marybeth shouted through her door. “And thanks for leaving it open and freezing me to death.”

“Look,” Kindra said to Kansas, sounding surprisingly composed, considering she had a shotgun pointed at her. “I just want my mother’s ring back. I lent it to Marybeth, but she says she doesn’t have it. I don’t believe her.”

Marybeth opened her door and shouted, “I told you a thousand times I lost it. And I don’t appreciate you snooping through my stuff.” The door slammed, and something crashed to the floor. Possibly the vase of orange poppies. Marybeth let out a wail.

Kansas, his eyes hard, hissed, “You think you can break into my house and--”

“Where’s the baby?” Kindra burst.

Kansas’s fuzzy eyebrows shot up. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Bucky whipped out the button from his pocket and thrust it in Kansas’s face. “Do you deny this is yours?”

Kansas lowered his rifle and snatched the button. “Where’d you get this?”

“Right where you lost it,” Kindra said, pointing out the window. “In that poor baby’s grave.”

Kansas turned to Bucky, his mouth twisted. “Harman’s behind this, admit it! Got you to break into my house and swipe a button off a coat I haven’t worn in years. That son of a bitch is tryin’ to frame me for Will’s murder. Baby’s grave, my ass.” Kansas pocketed the button and leaned in close to Bucky. His nose had tiny red veins, and he smelled rabbity. “I oughta blow your stupid brains out for bustin’ into my house.” He backed up a step and raised his shotgun to give Bucky a good look down both barrels. An all too familiar view. Bucky froze. “You come here again, there won’t be parts of you big enough to bury.”

Bucky’s heart felt like it wanted to bang its way through his chest and out the door.

Kansas waved his rifle. “Both of you. Get!”

They hotfooted to the car, and Kindra drove toward Kingfisher to retrieve Bucky’s roadster while he struggled to keep his legs from shaking. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t ask me to go over there again. That maniac is obviously capable of murder.”

“Think he killed Will and Miss Iris?”

“I sure as hell do now. Let’s face it, he wanted Will’s job and knows how to cut brake lines.” Bucky’s pulse finally crept south of the two hundred range. “Do you believe what he said about Harman?”

“Surrre, our deputy chief’s out to frame him.”

Damn! The Button. He’d screwed up by giving it to Kansas. It happened so quickly he didn’t think. He gave up proof of...of probably something. Kindra stared at the road ahead, plucking her lower lip with her thumb and finger. Bucky asked, “Do you think Kansas was pretending he didn’t know about the baby?”

“Hard to tell. Maybe.”

“What about the ring? Did you check all of Marybeth’s drawers?”

“She probably doesn’t have it.”

“What was that notebook you were reading?”

“Her diary. She wrote in code, but I know Pig Latin.”

“What’d it say?”

“Nothing much.”

He turned to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just girl stuff. That’s all.”

He tugged her sleeve. “Come on, tell me.”

She yanked her arm free. “Stop being so annoying.”

“You’re the annoying one.” Screw it. He turned and peered out his window. He had other things to mull over. Such as returning to Louisiana to face his daddy and Uncle Rupert like a worthless mongrel, if Alsop didn’t have insurance for the damaged car. Or maybe, even if he did.