Time I got back to County C, I was sure Rye knew more about Ash an’ the missin’ missionary than he’d been givin’ hisself credit for, so I decided to go straight to the horse’s mouth an’, if necessary, stick my flashlight down his throat. Rye’s place is as far out in the sticks as Ash Jackson’s, only on the other side of West Wheeling, so it took me the better part of an hour to get there. I ignored both the NO TRESPASSING sign an’ the one that said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED.
Mrs. Willis, Rye’s ma, was hangin’ the wash out when I pulled up in the yard. I took my time gettin’ out of the car so—in case there was anythin’ lyin’ around I shouldn’t see—they’d have time to get it outta sight. The house was as old an’ the same style as Ash’s, but newly painted an’ freshly shingled. There was a round table an’ two Adirondack chairs on the porch.
When I finally come up to her, Mrs. Willis nodded an’ said, “Mornin’, Sheriff.” She kept clippin’ the clothes onto the line with spring pins. “This a social call?”
“Not exactly, Ma’am. I need to talk to Rye.”
“You gonna arrest him?”
“Not if he cooperates.”
She sighed an’ said, “I’ll get ’im.” She walked over to the porch an’ hefted a twenty-two that was leanin’ against the front doorjamb, an’ fired three shots into the ground. She put the gun back an’ said, “Might as well set an’ wait. Can I get you somethin’?”
I sat on one of the Adirondack chairs. “I’d be obliged for a drink of water.”
She nodded an’ went in the house. She come back with a tall, cold glass. The Willises have a well with the sweetest water in the state. If they ever lose the recipe for shine, they could make a fortune sellin’ their water to city folks an’ yuppies. I said, “Much obliged,” an’ drained the glass an’ give it back to her.
She set it on the table. “I got to get back to work. Rye’ll be along directly.”
He was. I saw his head poke out from behind one of the outbuildings, then disappear. Shortly afterward, he come out of the house with a brown an’ tan gallon jug an’ a glass. “What brings you out this way, Homer?” He poured his glass an’ my empty one half full from the jug, an’ picked up his glass. “Here’s to old friends an’ good likker.”
I picked up my glass an’ nodded, an’ we both had a swig. It was some of his best stuff an’ it burned down to my tailbone. Then I proposed another toast. “An’ friends who don’t hold out on friends.”
I thought he went a shade pale, but it could’a been the sun goin’ behind a cloud just then. He did look plenty uncomfortable. “Aw, Homer, you know I wouldn’t—” He slugged down the rest of his shine.
I sipped mine an’ let him squirm a little while the likker done its work. Better’n truth serum, Rye’s brew. He refilled his glass an’ topped mine off.
Finally I said, “I ain’t sayin’ what you tole me weren’t the truth, Rye, but it sure weren’t the whole truth.” I leaned towards him an’ lowered my voice. “I need to know what happened to that missionary fella.”
This time, I was sure he went whiter. He swallowed an’ said, “Ash’ll kill me.”
“You’re gonna have to decide if you’re more scared of Ash or me.”
“Well, Homer, worst I figger you’ll do to me is shut me down …”
I could see his point. Ash mightn’t be so forgivin’. So I hung a carrot in front of his nose. “How ’bout if I treat what you tell me as confidential? Ash wouldn’t have to know less’n we haul him into court on murder charges, an’ we won’t do that unless we’re sure we got ’im.” Then I showed him the stick. I said, real softly, “You know you want to be cooperative with the Law, Rye.” I didn’t have to mention his business’d suffer if he wasn’t.
Rye looked like his best horse just foundered. I let him think about it long as he needed.
Finally, he said, “Ash told me the missionary fella was turnin’ Angie Boone agin him, fillin’ her head with funny ideas. He said he was gonna run ’im outta the state.”
The way Rye looked at me when he stopped talkin’, I could tell he was figgerin’ whether or not I’d buy that that was all there was to it. I said, “Rye, you ain’t even close to a decent liar, so don’t waste my time tryin’. Just gimme the facts.”
He let out a big sigh, then got on with it. “He made me go with him to the mission that night, made me wait in his truck while he went in to persuade the missionary fella to get outta town. After a while, I see the guy’s car pull up next to the truck. Ash’s in the passenger seat, an’ the missionary fella’s drivin’. Ash tells me to follow ’em, an’ we proceed back to his place, where my truck’s parked.”
Rye stopped an’ said, “I gotta have another drink.”
“You gotta finish your story first.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s all there is.”
I waited.
“We get to Ash’s. He tells me I can go. So, I went. I never seen that missionary fella again, an’ I ain’t seen Ash recent, neither.”
“If Devon,” I said, usin’ the missin’ man’s name for the first time in our conversation, “was alive an’ well when you last seen him, Rye, how come you’re so damn jumpy?”
“I didn’t see nothin’, mind you. When we get to his place, Ash tells me what happens next is none of my business an’ to get lost. So I get in my truck an’ drive off.” There was more; I waited. Rye finally got to it. “Just about the time I get back to County C, I hear a shot. Just one.
“Sounded like Ash’s old Winchester.”