Scents and Sensibility (16 page)

“Just call if you need anything,” Bernie said.

“That's very nice, Bernie. I'm sure I can manage. The hospice people come three times a day.”

“Good to hear,” said Bernie. He took a step toward the door. I did, too. “Meanwhile, I'll be looking for Billy.”

“Why?”

“Aren't you worried about him?”

Mrs. Parsons's eyes filled with tears. “It's just a stupid plant,” she said.

Bernie nodded. I was pretty sure this nod meant it was not just a stupid plant. Not that the plant was smart or anything like that. But before I could nail it down completely, Bernie said, “Daniel asked me to.”

“To find Billy?”

“To clear up the saguaro matter in general,” Bernie said. “But that's going to mean finding Billy. I hope it won't cause trouble between the two of you.”

Mrs. Parsons's eyes cleared. “It might,” she said. “But nothing we can't handle.”

Bernie opened the door to the hall, paused again. “Do you remember the names of any of those wrong people Billy fell in with?”

Mrs. Parsons's eyes had closed. She said nothing. Iggy whimpered in his sleep.

S
hould I feel bad?” Bernie said, when we were outside the Parsonses' house.

Not for any reason I could see. Bernie should feel tip-top, now and forever.

“To let Edna go on thinking it's a cactus case, is what I mean. When it's actually murder.”

Murder? This was interesting. I concentrated my very hardest.

“Suppose,” Bernie went on, “that Billy dug up the cactus himself. And then Ellie Newburg tracked him down. Stealing a saguaro would be a clear parole violation, meaning he'd be on his way back to prison and facing new charges. Did Billy snap? Does he have it in him to kill? Don't forget that the weak can kill, too, Chet.”

I made another mental note! Something or other about the weak, was it? I was in brand-new territory.

“And if Billy doesn't have it in him, those 'roided-up twins sure as hell do,” Bernie said. “We know that for a fact.”

The twins? I could practically still taste the blood of Twin One. I was in the picture, but totally.

Bernie went quiet for a moment or two, and then his face darkened. “Is it also a fact that Brick Mickles knows about the twins? And that he knew Billy's whereabouts? See where this leads?”

I waited to find out.

“Mickles is working the case and he didn't bring Billy in, Chet. Why not?”

I searched my mind for answers, but it was my bad luck that at that same moment it was failing to hang on to the question. Does that ever happen to you?

“Here's a crazy thought—maybe Mickles knows Billy isn't the killer,” Bernie said. “But if that's the case, then . . .” He gave his head a quick little shake, maybe to change things up inside. I do the same thing. “One thing for sure, we need to learn a lot more about Billy Parsons.” He turned toward the Porsche, parked in our driveway. “Maybe time to pay a visit to Northern State Correctional. How does that sound?”

•  •  •

It sounded better than anything I'd ever heard. Hadn't been to Northern State Correctional in way too long. I missed my pals up there, too many to mention. To get to Northern State Correctional you drive out of the Valley and head for the middle of nowhere, nowhere being lovely open country with nothing human in sight until you come to a gate in the road. We stopped. A guard stepped out of the guardhouse, came over.

“Hey, it's Chet!” She turned to the guardhouse. “Chet's here. And Bernie.”

“Hi,” Bernie said.

“Looks like he's grown,” the guard said.

“We're both still the same size,” Bernie said, which I didn't get, and perhaps the guard didn't either, because she showed no reaction. Meanwhile, another guard came hurrying over from the guardhouse, a nice surprise in his hand, the kind of surprise I'd actually been counting on.

“Chet still partial to Slim Jims?” he said.

Bernie grunted. His mood wasn't tip-top all of a sudden. Was he tired from the drive? Poor Bernie, I thought, and then got busy with the Slim Jim. The answer to the Slim Jim question is that I'm as partial as they come.

“Sure appreciates his food,” said one of the guards.

“A real pleasure to watch him eat,” said the other. “No . . . what's the expression?”

“Food issues,” said the first one.

“Exactly,” the second one said. “No food issues. We've lost the simple—”

“Excuse me,” Bernie said. “Can we get through?”

The guards turned to him, both of them blinking in a where'd-he-come-from sort of way. “Uh, sure, Bernie,” one said. “Here on business?”

Bernie opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, a complicated move you didn't see often from him. It meant he'd had something all set to say—maybe a real zinger, with fistfighting coming next—and changed his mind. “Yeah,” he said. “Business. Name Billy Parsons mean anything to you?”

“Billy Parsons? Rings a bell.”

“Wasn't he the one—”

“—running the meth lab out of his cell? You're thinking of Bob Carson. Billy Parsons was that little dude—”

“—finishing up his sentence over at the farm?”

“Yeah, but—”

“The farm?” Bernie said. “That the minimum security annex?”

“Even less than minimum.”

“But the guy you're looking for—”

“—got released a few weeks ago.”

“That's all right,” Bernie said. “I'd like to talk to people who knew him.”

“Need permission from the boss up there.”

“Who's that?”

“Assistant Warden Stackhouse—new guy.”

“Transferred up from Central.”

“Want us to call?”

“That'd be nice,” Bernie said.

The guards went into the guardhouse. One talked on the phone. The other yawned. Pretty soon the yawner came back with visitor passes to wear around our necks, one for Bernie and one for me. “Stackhouse says if he knew you were coming, he'd have turned down the job.”

The gate swung open. We drove on through, rounded a curve, and there in a wide field was a wonderful sight: a whole big gang of dudes in orange jumpsuits, breaking rocks in the hot sun! As we got closer I saw that they weren't actually breaking rocks—leaning on shovels and rakes was more like it. Also it wasn't particularly hot. But the sun was out, no doubt about that. I wouldn't trade this job for anything.

•  •  •

Assistant Warden Stackhouse turned out to be one of those short, thick guys, maybe the thickest I'd seen, not the popping-muscle type, more like he was all one big muscle. Also he was pretty much neckless. He and Bernie pounded each other on the back, Bernie wincing a bit.

“And this must be Chet,” Stackhouse said. “Heard a lot about him. C'mon over here, pal.” He squatted down like a baseball catcher. I like when people do that. Plus he had nation within smells all over him. He gave me a nice pat, ran his hands along my sides. “A real specimen, huh? I've got a Malinois bitch at home just going on three. Ever thought of putting him out to stud?”

Whatever that was, it sounded interesting, but Bernie said, “We're taking a little break from that at the moment.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing. What can you tell me about Billy Parsons?”

“Billy Parsons?” Stackhouse shrugged, his shoulders like two hillsides going up and down. “Had him for six months, normal pre-parole step-down from Max. Quiet, no trouble, kept his nose clean.”

Good to hear. Some humans—more than you might think—have problems with that. Why is it so hard, their noses generally being on the smallish side?

“I'd like to see his paperwork,” Bernie said.

“Sure thing,” said Stackhouse, turning to his computer. “He screwed up already?”

“Looks that way,” Bernie said.

“The record is eight minutes,” Stackhouse said.

“Someone hijacked a car right outside the gate?”

“A bus, actually, but close enough.” A printer whirred in one corner of Stackhouse's office. Did I forget to mention we were in his office, inside the main building at the farm, which looked like the kind of low office complex you might see in any business park? No high walls, no guard towers, no barbed wire, and really nothing interesting to describe, except for the distant view of Max through the window—distant but still huge, and all about those things I just mentioned: walls, towers, wire.

Stackhouse went over to the printer, brought back some sheets of paper. Bernie looked through them, his eyes going back and forth, back and forth, like they were vacuuming up stuff real fast, if that makes any sense.

“Nothing here about the original crime?” he said.

Stackhouse leaned over Bernie's shoulder and pointed. “Kidnapping in the first degree—says right there.”

“But no police report,” Bernie said. “No trial transcript.”

“They don't send those up,” Stackhouse told him. “I can get the police report.”

“Thanks.”

Now Stackhouse's eyes were doing the back-and-forth thing, just about as fast as Bernie's but not in the same rhythm. I felt a little pukey, hard to say why.

“But here's something, top of the page,” Stackhouse said. “See this guy, also sent up, same case, same sentence?”

“Travis Baca.”

“He's still here.”

“Here at the farm?”

“His release day is tomorrow, in fact. Want to talk to him?”

•  •  •

“I'm Bernie Little and this is Chet,” Bernie said. “We live next door to Billy Parsons's parents.”

“Yeah?” said Travis Baca, a wiry guy with sunken cheeks. He sat on a bench watching dudes shooting hoops on an outdoor basketball court, a paperback book on his lap. “I never knew my old man and my ma died two years ago.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Bernie said. “Billy's parents are worried about him. I'd like to ease their minds.”

Travis Baca gave Bernie a quick look; then his gaze shifted to me. Some humans shower less often than others. Travis was in that first group. He was also the jittery type, one foot tapping away nonstop. “Your dog dangerous?”

“Only when threatened,” Bernie said.

Travis sat back a little farther on the bench. One of the basketball players—skinny, with real long arms—shot us a look as he ran down the court.

“What you reading?” Bernie said.

Travis held up the book.

“The biography of Pablo Escobar?”

“That's all I read—biographies of successful men. Pick up a few tips.”

“Word is you're getting out tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“Any plans?”

“Kind of sick of hearing that question.”

Bernie nodded. “What did you do before this?” he said.

“Before what?”

“The kidnapping.”

“I didn't do no kidnapping.”

“No?”

“I fell in with bad people. That's not the same as kidnapping.”

“Word is Billy says the exact same thing about you.”

With no warning, Travis's hands tensed up into claws, claws that shifted slightly toward Bernie and then put on the brakes. And just in time: I was that close to being airborne. His voice got loud and harsh. “He says that, he's a fucking liar.” The long-armed basketball player pulled down a rebound, passed off, and gave us another look, more careful this time.

“You're saying Billy Parsons led you astray?” Bernie said.

“Goddamn right,” said Travis, calmer and quieter, although his foot tapping speed ramped up.

“Tell me the whole story.”

“What story?”

“About the kidnapping.”

“I don't know,” Travis said. “Like . . .”

“Like a Pablo Escobar drug deal,” Bernie said, pointing to Travis's book with his chin. “Beginning, middle, end.”

“Beginning first?”

“Yeah,” said Bernie. “Whose idea was it? Who was the victim? That kind of thing.”

Travis's voice rose again. He had a way of taking you by surprise that I was starting not to like. “There was no victim!”

The long-armed player stepped to the far sidelines, tapped the shoulder of another guy who took his place, then just stood there watching us.

“No victim?” Bernie said.

Travis's eyes shifted. He looked down. “Just, ah, sayin' we were all victims. Like in the end.”

“Who got kidnapped?” Bernie said.

“This girl,” said Travis, gaze still on the ground.

“What was her name?”

“Uh, I never got the name.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want. I didn't know nothin' about nothin'. I was just the driver, end of story.”

“You were the driver?”

“What I just said.”

“So Billy was the brains?”

“What sense would that make?” Travis looked up. “He's a moron.”

“Then who was the brains?”

Travis stared at Bernie, his eyes narrowing. Then he turned away. “No one. That's clear from how it ended.”

“Which was?”

“With me and Billy doing fifteen years, what the hell do you think?”

“Did anyone else do time?”

“Anyone else, like who?”

“Like the brains behind the kidnapping, Travis. You were the driver and Billy was the moron. Was anyone else arrested? Was anyone else charged?”

“Know something?” Travis said. “You sound like a cop.” He stared at Bernie again, this time held the look. “I don't trust cops. Cops stab you in the back. That's what happened to me fifteen years ago—stabbed in the goddamn back.”

“By who?” Bernie said.

“Told you—a cop,” Travis said. “Are you even listening? The cop who collared me and Billy.”

“Remember his name?”