Rube Watson finally located Tracey just after ten. He’d been up since dawn, ever since her frantic mother had sounded the alarm. He was half slept, irritable, desperate for a cup of coffee and now, totally out of his depth.
Mrs Barnes, like Marge Morrison, had been having trouble sleeping due to the heat and had also got up to get herself a glass of water. But unlike Lori’s mom, she HAD gone in to check on her daughter on her way back to bed. Only to find that the bird had flown.
Rube had gone round to the house, bleary eyed and unshaven and asked the usual questions. Had she been unhappy lately? Was she having trouble with her school work? With her boyfriend? Anything else bothering her that might have led her to run away from home? Mrs Barnes had admitted that she’d recently broken up with Perry Johnson, which Rube already knew. Backwater Ridge, you couldn’t keep anything secret for long. They’d checked her wardrobe but nothing seemed missing, so Rube assured Mrs Barnes that she couldn’t have gone very far.
Probably just looking for attention, was Rube’s candid opinion. But what with the Wayne thing and then Barney McGee, he could understand a mother’s hysteria. He’d tried to calm Mrs Barnes down, promised to get right onto it. And he had. Toured the town to see if there was any sign, noted Perry’s car wasn’t parked in its usual spot and had gone out to the swimming-hole to check whether he and Tracey had made it up and were celebrating in the usual manner.
But nothing.
As a last resort he’d driven up onto the Ridge, hooking up with the Interstate. Not much traffic at this time of the morning. Not much traffic at all, generally. But if she was trying to hitch out of town he might just be in time to stop her, bring her back, tail between her legs. When that drew a blank he decided to drive back via the scenic route, run a computer check, contact missing persons. All he could do.
And then he found her.
He looked down at the body.
The first thing he’d spotted was Perry’s car, parked just off the road among the scrub. He’d heaved a sigh of relief, prepared his ‘your mom’s worried to death about you,’ speech while deciding he’d go back to bed just as soon as he’d escorted the runaways home. Sam could hold the fort for the afternoon.
But when he’d gone over to it, he’d found the car was empty. Except for a parcel wrapped in sacking on the driving seat. No sign of anybody.
Until he’d walked around the other side.
Tracey was laid out in a cruciform shape, her wrists and ankles secured with rope. For some reason she was wearing a man’s tracksuit, miles too big for her, her slender frame lost among the grey knit folds. She’d been staked into the rocky ground with small wooden pegs. Her eyes were open, staring at the sun – or would have been if there’d been any eyes.
The sockets were empty. Like the jar of honey by her head.
She’d been scalped, a small triangle of red hair lifted from just above her forehead and hung, like a trophy on a branch nearby. Rube could only hope it had happened after she was dead. Because she was dead. As a doornail.
He prodded her head with his toe, then drew back with a snarl of disgust as the ants poured out of her ears and down her nose. Fat, bloated. He managed to stomp on a couple of dozen of them before the rest, hundreds upon hundreds of tiny red bodies, scuttled back into the holes that they’d emerged from, attracted by the smell of the honey warming in the rising sun.
Everything pointed to the half-breed. This was an Indian death, Rube knew that much. A punishment for traitors to the tribe. A warning to anybody else who might be thinking of selling their compadres down the river, to think again.
But if it was the Indian then why was Perry’s car here? He scanned the area for single tyre tracks. But the ground was so hard, the sand baked solid by the blazing sun, that even if a motor-bike had been here you wouldn’t have known. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. Whoever it was that had pegged Tracey out must have had a hammer to drive the stakes in. Or superhuman strength. Were both of them in it? Was it some kind of satanic pact? Just what in tarnation was going on? And why was it happening here? In Backwater Ridge?
They said bad news came in threes. Rube fervently hoped that after Wayne and Barney, this would be the last. What was he going to say to the Barnes’? The memory of Wayne’s parents, devastated by the news, still hung heavy on him. And the moment when they’d had to identify their son’s headless body, had been even worse. Rube shuddered. He’d give anything not to have to go back to Mrs Barnes and tell her that her worst fears had been realised.
Whatever, he was wasting time. He’d better bring both Miguel Coyote and Perry Johnston in. Sooner the better. Get them off the streets. ‘Course the breed could be long gone by now. Would be if he’d had anything to do with it. If he had any sense.
The Sheriff looked at his watch. Sam should be in by now. He moved back to the police car and put in a call, telling his Deputy to order up an ambulance and pick up both boys on suspicion.
“Run a check on the breed,” he said. “See if he’s got a record. Anything. No matter how small. A parking ticket. Anything. Just so’s I can hold him. And send out a tow-truck for the car. We’ll need to get somebody up from the city to dust for prints.”
“You coming in now Sheriff?” Sam, checked his gun for bullets. He would have preferred a bit of back up in case the biker got stroppy. But he was out of luck.
“Not yet, Sam,” his boss said. “I better wait around til the blood wagon arrives.”
Re-hooking the receiver, the Sheriff made his way back to the roadster. There was a note under the windscreen wiper. Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, he reached forward and picked it out, unfolding it gingerly.
“Dear Lori,” it read. “You know you have something that I want. I desperately need to talk to you. It’s vitally important. I must see you as soon as possible.” It was signed – Miguel Coyote.
Rube scratched his head, re-reading the note before folding it and putting it in his top pocket. What in the name of jumpin’ Jehosephat did it mean, he thought, stripping off the gloves?
Wait a minute. Didn’t the biker say something about a Dreamcatcher? About Lori having it? About it supposedly having magic properties? Rube snorted. Horsepockey ‘course. But if THEY believed it? So maybe it WAS a black magic thing? If it was, then it looked like Lori Morrison might well be up to her ears in it as well. Better bring her in while he was at it.
Suddenly something else caught his eye. Something hanging on the other side of the dusty windshield. A circle of some sort with a cat-gut centre, decorated with feathers and beads. Lord Almighty. This was probably the Dreamcatcher in question. Rube moved round the side of the car to get a better look. And saw the parcel lying on the front seat.
He’d forgotten all about it.
He leaned over the sill and undid the loosely wrapped sacking.
And Wayne Maxwell’s head fell out.
Rube reared back with a yell.
But not fast enough.
The rattler was faster.
It leapt from between the seats where it had been coiled, basking in the sun, the rattle on its tail making a fierce primitive sound as it sunk its fangs into the Sheriff’s cheek.
Rube felt a jolt as the poison hit his blood stream. Then he tore the snake from him and hurled it onto the ground, drawing his gun, firing three or four times.
Uselessly as it happens. The rattler had already writhed away.
The Sheriff staggered to the police car, feeling death clouding his brain, slowing his pulse. Dragging himself into the driving seat, he started the engine and took off. No time to wait for the blood wagon now. But if he could meet it half way? They might have something? An antidote. If it had been in his arm, he might have been able to suck out some of the poison. But he couldn’t get at his own cheek. Had the rattler thought of that? Did a snake have that much cunning?
Rube tried to stay awake as he drove, feeling the serum deadening his senses as it headed for his heart, that heart a dull throb in his temples, getting duller all the time. He strained his dimming eyes for a sight of the ambulance. To no avail.
When, at some point, he realised that he wasn’t going to make it, he was more surprised that upset. He’d always thought he’d live to a ripe old age, retire, appreciated by all, with a gold watch and a nice pension. It was why he’d decided to take the job, not go into the army like the rest of the eldest sons in his family had done since time immemorial. His Dad had been killed in ‘Nam. He’d wanted to avoid a similar fate. Nothing ever happened in Backwater Ridge. Safe as houses. Or used to be.
As he fought with the last of his strength to keep the car on the road, sweat pouring down his face, the snake-bite a virulent slash, reddening in the sun, Rube thought it was ironical that despite all his precautions, he was going to die, right here, in his own back yard. Unmarried. Unsung. He’d always had a hankering after Marge Mason. But Ted Morrison had got there first. Too late now. Too late all round. Rube had no brothers or sisters. There were no male heirs to carry on the family name. He was the last of his line, his mom dead these five years. He wondered vaguely whether she’d be waiting for him in Heaven? Or if not, what Hell was going to be like?
Probably no hotter than New Mexico.
At least he wasn’t going to have to face the Barnes’. That odious duty would be up to Sam now.
A sudden cold draft came out of nowhere and he glanced in his rear view mirror.
Someone was sitting in the back seat. A young guy in his early twenties, blonde hair slicked back, dark glasses. He must be hallucinating.
The hallucination smiled slyly and raised his right hand in a salute.
Then Rube Watson went down into the warm red darkness as the police car rolled over into the ditch.