Here Comes the Night (13 page)

Buck had lost all sense of how long they’d been driving.
They had kept him in the hood and made him scoot down in the seat low enough so
his head could not be seen. He heard city sounds fade away after what he
guessed was fifteen minutes, and then they were gliding down a highway.

“You can take it off now,” Twigs said.

As Meatface pulled the rasty material away from his face,
Buck took in a big breath of fresh air. He looked around immediately to gauge
where they might be and recognized a familiar old railroad bridge that was
about 15 miles west of Oklahoma City on Highway 152. It hadn’t been used for
years, but the highway had built its bridge parallel to it, so he at least had
his bearings. It would take forever for him to get back to the city on foot.

Twigs looked at him with mock pity. “Man, you look like
shit. Be sure and get some triple antibiotic ointment for that finger now. That
stuff really does promote healing.”

Beside him, Meatface turned toward him and did an imitation
of Marlon Brando’s
Godfather
voice. “Fix up my boy for me…”

“Fuck you,” Buck slurred.

Meatface continued in the same raspy voice. “Do this so his
mother can kiss him goodbye.” Then he slipped into giggles.

Jorge glanced at them through the rear view mirror. “Let us
just kill him for you and be done with it.”

Twigs smiled and patted Jorge’s thigh. “Oh, that’s so
romantic. But the boss was very specific.”

Meatface segued into Schwarzenegger. “He’ll be back.”

Twigs ignored Meatface as she continued. “The boss knows a
pathetic gambling hump like this is always good for more money down the line.”
She pointed to the shoulder. “Pull over here.”

The SUV stopped. They were going to toss him to the side of
the road like some poor stray dog. But maybe not kill him.

Twigs nodded to Jorge. “Keep it running.” She turned around
and reached one of her long arms to pat Buck’s knee. She nodded to Meatface,
who cut the nylon flex bracelet binding Buck’s hands.

“This is goodbye, Mr. Dearmore. Now listen carefully, very
carefully, to these parting words.”

When Buck didn’t respond, she continued, irritation in her
voice. “This is the part where you show me you’re listening.”

Buck nodded.

“You ever tell anyone about our little party, even your
family, even your simpleton cousin in Bumfuck—my boys here will disappear you.
You understand? They will never find all your body parts.”

Meatface jumped in, pantomiming a chainsaw and mimicking the
sounds of a motor. “
Scarface,
rrrum. Rrrrum.” Then he exploded into
laughter as he reached over, opened Buck’s door and pushed him out of the SUV.

Buck broke his fall with his hands as he hit the gravel,
causing a hot flash of pain up his right hand, where the bloody bandage around
his missing pinkie was unraveling. He lay there for several moments, listening
to the fading sound of the SUV’s motor as it drove away.

When he opened his eyes, the brightness was blinding. He
closed them again, then slowly opened them a bit at a time to acclimate himself
to the climbing sun.

He rolled over to his side, holding himself with his arms.
The tension that had tightened every part of him for the past sixteen hours
gave way to trembling.

A grassy field unfolded in front of his swollen eyes. It was
the most brilliant green he’d ever seen. Then the earthy sweet smell of alfalfa
swept through his aching senses.

It drifted him back to his childhood, when as a spindly, too
tall 7-year-old, he would lie on his back, hiding in one of the hayfields near
his house. The distant hum of combines would play in the background, the warm
breeze tickling his sun-lightened hair. It took nothing from him, demanded
nothing of him. Instead it reached out to caress him, luring him into its soft
amber glow.

That comfort had never felt farther away than now. Salty
tears rolled down his face as he burrowed against the ground and let the
brick-red earth wrap its cool tentacles around him.

Angie sat in her BMW at Stars and Stripes Park, at a point
on Lake Hefner which overlooked the water. She couldn’t think of anywhere else
to go after completing the funeral arrangements. The sound of water lapping on
shore, the glide of sailboats on the lake, often calmed her when she felt lost.
But now she just stared blankly at the lake.

The sun was arcing into the sky, and seagulls, hoping for
day-old bread, hovered over the shore. Their cries finally caught her
attention, and she looked around inside her car, wondering if she had anything
to feed them. Her eye caught on a package of pecans she’d bought from somebody
selling outside the supermarket for some kind of non-profit. Angie grabbed it
and got out.

The air felt fresh against her face. The ripe smell of water
and dead fish hit her nostrils as she walked closer to water’s edge. The gulls,
sensing her presence, swarmed around her. Before she could even open the
package, they began to squawk with unabashed greed. When she finally tossed a
handful of pecans into the air, the birds dive-bombed, scrapping over each
priceless piece. She threw more nuts straight up into the air and smiled at the
noisy, hungry dance of wings.

When she’d been sad as a small child once, her grandmother
had said, “Angelina, when you feel blue, you know what you do?”

Little Angie had shaken her head. “No, Gram, what?”

“You feed the ducks.”

“How come?”

“Just do it, baby girl. You’ll figure out why.”

Angie often felt the gulf between that little girl and what
she had become, but her grandmother’s admonition had never left her.
When
you feel blue, go feed the ducks.

And sure enough, there the ducks came, waddling her way,
angling for their share. Nearby, a little boy ran toward them, his mother
walking behind him and watching with a smile. He giggled as he tossed them
pieces of bread.

At the end of the pecans, Angie stared at the gulls as they
flew
en masse
to a fishing boat just offshore. Behind it, a regatta had
begun at the other side of the lake. Life was going on all around her, even
though hers felt as if it was grinding to a halt.

Angie jumped at the sound of her cell phone ringing.

The screen announced an unknown number but in her area code.
Hesitantly, she answered.

“Angie?” The voice on the other end was raspy, exhausted,
but she knew who it was.

She sucked in her breath. “Is that you?”

“I’m in trouble.” His voice sounded hollow.

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m hurt,” he said. It sounded like he was sniffling.

“Just tell me where you are,” Angie said, safety thrown
aside. He gave her the location of an old rest area on 152 west.

“That’ll take me less than a half hour.” He didn’t respond.
“Just hang on. I’m on my way.”

She jumped in the BMW and started the engine. A gaggle of
geese were heading toward the car. She took a last glance out over the water,
and an odd thought jumped into her mind.
You’ll never see this lake again.

It was so out of the blue that she smiled and shook it off.
She rushed away to pick up Buck.

Buck sat slumped on the hard bench with his head lying on
the cement picnic table, too bone tired to sit up, but too scared to drift off.
It had taken forever to trudge from the edge of the alfalfa field into this
roadside rest area.

Amazingly, he still had his keys and wallet intact, thanks
to Twigs.

Jorge had lifted it and was slipping it in his pocket when
she glowered at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“He got no use for it,” Jorge had shot back.

“Put it back. You want to get caught with it?” She had
shaken her head in disgust. “Unbelievable.”

Even though Jorge had slipped out the bills before
complying, Buck had the wallet’s contents and even found enough change in his
pocket for the public land line by the vending machines.

A glimpse of himself in the glass window of a candy machine
had frightened him, however. He had no idea how bad he looked. Anybody seeing
him would run away in horror.

One eye was swollen and difficult to see out of. His face
was covered with dried blood from the beatings he’d taken. He had cuts on his
face and a split lip.

That was why, even though it was extremely reckless, he had
called Angie on her cell phone. He didn’t dare stay out here and risk exposure.
A couple of truckers had already given him the once over.

“You see that guy?” one of them had said.

“Yeah, pitiful,” the other had answered.

God only knew if one of them had already called in to report
an injured man at a rest stop, or, given his filthy, bloodied clothes, a
derelict.

He had steeled himself but hearing Angie’s voice still made
him break down. He had been mortified to choke up so he could barely talk. But
she had sounded so relieved, even grateful, to hear from him.

And
she was on her way
. It was the first moment of
hope or warmth he’d felt since Meatface had jumped him from the back of the
Mustang.

Buck had lost his watch somewhere along the way—probably on
Meatface’s or Jorge’s wrist—and had no concept of time. When he sensed about
twenty minutes might have passed, he raised his head to check out the cars on
the highway.

Finally, Buck spotted her silver BMW. He squinted and could
just make her out behind the wheel. She turned and looked toward the rest area.

Only moments away now. It was going to be okay. He put his
head back down on the table and waited.

For the first time, he wondered about his Mustang. Meatface
had probably just left it in the alley. It had still been running though. At
least Buck couldn’t remember turning it off. The cops had probably seen it and
sent a tow truck. That was fine. It would serve to show where he had been
mugged and robbed.

He would be able to relax as soon as he could get in Angie’s
car. Together, they could attend to the loose ends and find their way out of
this.

Buck could hear the car motor’s hum as it pulled into the
area. He pushed himself up from the rest stop tabletop, willing his stiff knees
to make it a few more steps.

Hoping his appearance wouldn’t scare her too much, he
managed to stand and finally look up at the slowing car.

It wasn’t the BMW.

Instead, a dark sedan pulled up right next to him. It began
to flash red and blue lights.

The driver’s door opened and a Highway Patrolman emerged.
The officer pulled on his cap as he exited the vehicle.

Buck froze as the officer approached him.

Just behind the unmarked, Angie’s BMW rolled into the rest
area. It slowed at the cruiser’s flashing lights.

When the BMW crawled past the patrol car, Angie turned and
looked right at him. Their eyes met and locked for a helpless moment.

Then the BMW pulled back onto the highway.

Buck lowered his eyes so the officer wouldn’t notice he was
staring at somebody behind him.

The patrolman seemed friendly enough, but walked cautiously
toward him, as though approaching an uncertain element.

“Everything alright here, sir?”

Angie slammed her fists on the steering wheel as she merged
back into the highway traffic. Her heart was pounding with the close call, not
to mention her shock at Buck’s appearance. Someone had beaten the hell out of
him.

Rather than having the events of the night cleared up,
things had gotten more confused than ever.

Her cell phone chirped. Its ring startled her so that she
yanked the steering wheel, causing the BMW to zigzag out of the lane. In a
panic, she corrected the car’s course and pulled off the road and stopped. She
looked down at the readout on the phone’s screen. It was an unknown number.

Angie debated whether to answer, then finally did. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Wesner? James Edgars, Homicide,” the voice on the
other end said.

Angie dropped her head, annoyed now that she had picked up.
She struggled to sound normal. “Yes, I remember. Any news about my husband?”

“We need to talk with you about that,” Edgars said, sounding
noncommital, neutral.

“Sure, fine,” Angie answered.

“If you could come downtown that would be very helpful.”

“When?”

“Now?”

As shook up as Angie was, she could see no benefit in
putting it off. She could pull herself together by the time she got there.
Maybe they could explain what was happening with Buck.

“I’m out in my car now. I’ll head that way,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am. We do appreciate that.”

Angie hung up and slumped over the steering wheel. The main
thing was not to panic. They had barely talked to her this morning inside the
bank. They probably were still needing bare bones information: money, legal
documents.

Angie hadn’t thought of smoking a cigarette in years, but
she would have killed for one right then. She took in a few deep breaths. She
leaned back against the headrest and blew out a long breath.

She watched the cars passing by her. With a start, she saw
the same unmarked cruiser speed past her. She thought she could make out Buck’s
head in the back seat.

A creeping sense of danger left her unhinged. A part of her
considered running right then. But Buck was up there being hauled in by a
patrolman. She couldn’t desert him now. If her love meant anything at all, she
had to stick with him. Squaring her shoulders, Angie started the engine and
pulled out into the stream of traffic.

Horse and Edgars sat waiting outside the new M.E.’s office,
hoping her preliminary report would steer them in a productive direction. When
she hurried in, Sarah, the Vietnamese rookie examiner, was breathing heavily
and removing a disposable pale blue dust mask from her mouth.

“Sorry I’m late, Gentlemen. Big day for delays.” The
detectives followed her as she motioned them in, but they didn’t sit. Sarah
turned back around from discarding her paper mask and was surprised to see them
still on their feet.

Grinning, she motioned them into chairs. “Please, sit down.
Honestly, I’m not used to such good manners.”

“Thanks for moving ahead so quick,” Edgars said with a warm
smile. He was a sucker for porcelain skin and sculptured jawbones.

“Coffee?” Sarah asked, pouring herself a cup from a side
area. The detectives nodded, and she poured two more.

Once they were set up, Horse leaned forward. “So, what’ve we
got?”

Sarah shuffled through some folders on her desk, opened one
and placed it beside her autopsy report. “Crime Scene did a rush as well.
Wesner must be some mover and shaker to rate this kind of attention.”

“He’s an old time patriarch,” Horse explained. “Cattlemen’s
Bank has done plenty over the years to promote Stockyards City. There’s plenty
of buildings and parks with the name Wesner displayed in big letters.”

“We’re due downstairs in just a minute,” Edgars prodded.
“Victim’s wife is on her way in.”

“Sure.” Sarah opened the C.S.U. folder. “This is the prelim
lab report. Traces of latex in both the bank offices, but so far no
fingerprints that are out of place. TOD was between 4:00 and 8:00 Friday
afternoon.”

“Suicide?” Horse asked.

She raised her eyebrows and grinned. “Not unless he missed
his own head at point blank range.”

Off their curious looks, she went on. “There’s residue on
his hand alright, but
two
bullets were shot from his gun. One entered
his brain through the temple. The second found embedded in the ceiling. I see
three possible scenarios. He could have fired a shot into the ceiling first
before shooting himself. Maybe he needed a practice shot, check the recoil, I
don’t really know.”

“Maybe if he hadn’t fired the gun before,” Horse reflected.
“But it was his gun. Surely he knew what it felt like to pull the trigger.”

“One would think,” Sarah agreed. “Second possibility. He
missed or lost his nerve with the first shot and the bullet landed in the ceiling—highly
unlikely, in my none too humble opinion.”

“Or he was murdered,” Edgars jumped in. “And the ceiling
shot was to provide the residue on Wesner’s hand.”

“Sounds pretty clumsy,” Horse offered.

“Not so much.” Sarah said, shaking her head. “Not every
investigation would have found the cartridge in the ceiling. If it looks like
suicide, how many people will go over every square inch? Or climb up on ladders
and scour the room?”

Edgars grinned at her. “You did.”

“Yeah, but I’m the new girl looking to make good.” She
turned back to the reports. “Wesner’s tox screen is clean. Nothing in his
system but beta blockers and blood pressure meds.”

“What about the Mustang? Where are we with that?”

“It’s definitely horse hair and blood in the grill. We
expedited the fingerprints and expect results any moment,” Sarah said, closing
the folders. “They’ll call you as soon as something comes in.”

The detectives rose from their seats. “Thanks,” Horse said.

“We’ll have our cells on wherever we are,” Edgars said. As
if on cue, his cell phone buzzed. “Edgars,” he said and listened a moment.
“We’re on our way. Thanks, Sarah. We got to go.”

When they were outside the M.E.’s door, Horse asked, “The
wife get here?”

“No,” Edgars answered, “it’s your hero. Get this. Picked up
by the Highway Patrol. He was sitting at a rest stop on 152 just outside of
town.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Injured, apparently. Getting treated right now.”

Twenty minutes later, they glanced through the two-way
mirror into the interview room where they’d parked Buck Dearmore.

Horse frowned. “Holy crap, he’s a mess.”

Edgars was equally stunned. Both the detectives had been
operating under the assumption that their suspect had perpetrated horrific harm
on somebody else. But one look at his swollen eye and stitches at various
places on his face indicated he must have badly injured himself when he crashed
his Mustang into Candy Myers’ horse.

Edgars wondered how he managed to drive away and get
physically back to town. He looked like a boxer who had taken a ten-round beating.

When they entered the room Buck raised his head slowly. “Mr.
Dearmore, I’m James Edgars and this is Harry Douglas.”

“Just call me Horse.”

“We’re homicide detectives,” Edgars finished.

Horse jumped in. “I thought I might meet you someday, but I
never dreamed it’d be in an interview room.”

Dearmore just looked up dully at them.

“Now, Mr. Dearmore, I’m going to read you your rights,”
Edgars said.

“My rights? Why?” Wet with perspiration, Dearmore sat up
straighter.

Edgars ignored his questions and Mirandized him. Then, “Do
you understand, sir?”

“I understand Miranda. But why do I need it?” Dearmore
asked.

“If you wish to waive your rights at this time, we can go
over that. You’ll need to sign this first, sir.” Edgars wondered if he would be
egotistical enough to waive.

Dearmore took the pen Edgars offered and started to sign,
then looked up at them. “I can ask for a lawyer later, right?”

Horse assured him. “At any time, Mr. Dearmore.”

The famous quarterback signed the form and pushed it back to
Edgars.

“Looks kind of hard to write with that pinkie gone,” Horse
observed. Dearmore didn’t say anything.

“Were you in a car wreck last night, Mr. Dearmore?” Edgars
began.

“Car wreck?” Dearmore looked genuinely clueless. “No.”

Edgars took crime scene photos of the wrecked Mustang out of
a brown manila envelope and passed one over to him.

“Oh my God, that’s my…What happened?”

Horse leaned in to him. “That’s what we want you to tell
us.”

As Dearmore sat stunned, Edgars passed him pictures with
closeups of the blood and horse hair in the grill. “What can you tell us about
all this, Buck? Is it alright to call you Buck?”

“Yeah. Nothing. I didn’t…somebody stole it.”

“The car? When would that have been?” Horse jumped in.

Buck, looking lost, wiped sweat beads off his upper lip.

Edgars pressed on. “That should be simple enough.”

“Yesterday afternoon? My time is a little fuzzy.”

“When did you last see it?” Horse asked.

“Yesterday, about five. When I got off work. I…I got mugged.
I’m still foggy on what’s happened. I woke up in that rest area not sure how I
got there.”

Horse shook his head. “That’s a good 16 hours later, Buck.”

“A long time not to remember,” Edgars said.

They pressed him, but after ten minutes could only get him
to admit that he’d left work, gotten mugged, and couldn’t remember anything
else.

Edgars moved back to his hand. “Shame about your finger
there. Guess he’s played his last high stakes poker game, huh?”

Horse leaned closer to look at it. “Yeah, somebody made sure
of that.”

“What?” Buck was shaking his head in confusion.

“A dealer sees that,” Edgars continued, “he knows he’s got a
deadbeat at the table.”

“That’s what they do to people don’t pay up, Buck,” Horse
finished.

Edgars decided to cut through the dumb act. “But you knew
that, didn’t you, sir? Are you a gambler?”

Dearmore looked from one to the other. “What’s this all
about?”

“Haven’t you seen the news, man? It’s about your car and the
young lady you hit,” Edgars said. “For starters.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about.” But Buck Dearmore
was sweating profusely at that point.

Horse pressed on. “Oh, come on, you must remember some of
it. Even looks like you cleaned out your office safe. And your boss’s.”

“Who, by the way, is dead,” Edgars added.

Dearmore’s color had turned ashen. He seemed to be reeling.

“Mr. Wesner? Dead?”

“Yep,” Edgars shot back. “But I bet you already knew that,
too. Right now we don’t know which crime to like you for.”

“I can’t believe Gordon’s dead,” Buck said.

“Were the two of you tight?”

“Tight? We worked together. Got along fine.”

“How well do you know his wife?” Horse asked.

“What does she have to do with it?”

Edgars sighed. “You do know her?”

“I’ve met her, sure. At bank parties, stuff like that.”

“She’s hot, huh?” Edgars baited him. “Or maybe you’ve got so
many groupies you didn’t notice.”

Buck didn’t stoop to the question. “Did Mrs. Wesner get
hurt, too, or something?”

Horse played good cop. “Ignore him. We’re just looking for
links. Do you know anybody who’d want to hurt Mr. Wesner?”

Buck lowered his eyes. “I’m not sure just what’s going on
here, but I think I want to call my lawyer now.”

Edgars sighed and stood. “I’ll bet you do. I hope you got a
lot of money, Mr. Dearmore. You’re gonna need a dream team.”