‘He took unfired bullets instead.’
‘The son of a bitch,’ Ridl said. ‘He controlled everything, didn’t he?’
‘He had his thumbs on it alclass="underline" the crime scene photograph, the leads the other deputies chased, the bullets, everything.’
‘Still-’ Ridl coughed again. ‘That doesn’t explain cutting off her head.’
‘Yes, it does. Imagine Wiley’s when Betty Jo was brought in. The bullet was embedded deeply in her skull. Doc Farmont must have announced it would take quite some time to get at it with a probe. There was no time; Clamp was on fire – he needed that bullet because he knew Sheriff Milner was on to him, inventing that false rumor about a man fighting with a girl to send a team of searchers down to the cabin. Milner might arrive at Wiley’s at any time and seize control of the room, telling Farmont to take all the time he needed to extract that bullet. That bullet was everything; that bullet was doom, because it could so easily be linked to him. So he did what he needed to do to get the bullet. He threw everyone out of the room and hacked off Betty Jo’s head.’
‘Why risk all that? Why not simply ditch the gun and throw it in the river?’
‘Clamp lives on a small horse farm. The bullet inside Betty Jo didn’t need to be matched to a gun, just to another bullet from the same source. Like any cop with open land, he stayed proficient with his.38 by firing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bullets from that same gun into his fence or one of his trees. Each one of those bullets could be tied to one taken from Pribilski or Betty Jo.’
‘So he cut off her head? Jesus.’
‘Such was his power and impunity. He took the head and left, leaving Doc, Bud Wiley, maybe Luther Wiley and perhaps even Horace Wiggins to scramble to cover everything up. With Betty Jo’s sister on her way to identify the body, they had to think fast. Most likely, it was Doc who had the inspiration. He had a skull from his med school days, or perhaps one of those skeletons physicians used to keep in their offices. It would have to do. They kept a sheet over Betty Jo, but if Bella insisted on seeing her, they could point to the skull and say the flesh had to be removed to extract the bullet. With the flesh off, no one could say whose skull it was.’
‘And no else ever questioned a thing, since Clamp Reems himself was heading up the investigation,’ Ridl said.
‘The bullets went into the river, with her head and the gun, in a weighted sack.’
‘Then how are you going to prove any of this?’ Ridl asked.
‘I can’t, but tomorrow is the Fourth of July. I’m supposed to present a Chamber of Commerce Humanitarian Award to Clamp Reems in a public ceremony at the courthouse.’
‘And that will require a speech?’ Ridl asked, understanding.
‘I intend to say that even without the head, bullets, or testimony from others, there’s enough circumstantial evidence now to warrant a thorough investigation by the state police.’
‘Will that get justice?’ Ridl asked, after a time.
Mac couldn’t give him the words he wanted to hear.
‘He killed Laurel,’ Ridl said.
‘Be well, my friend,’ was all Mac could think to say.
But of course, Mac doubted that Jonah Ridl would ever be well again.
‘Happy days are here again,’ Jen Jessup said when Mac came back downstairs. Alone at the empty bar, she waved a hand at the almost empty dining room beyond.
Their bartender had phoned in earlier, telling Maggie he’d found a job that offered some potential. Maggie told Mac she hadn’t asked what their ex-bartender meant.
‘Maybe everyone’s inside, resting up for the Fourth,’ Mac said, taking the stool next to her.
‘Or it’s the rain,’ Jen said, eying Mac’s still damp clothes. ‘Word’s out the bank is going to seize everything you own.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘In part.’
‘Luther Wiley’s on the board of the bank.’
‘You’re not outraged?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘Tired enough to resign as mayor?’
He shrugged.
‘Tired enough to quit on Betty Jo?’
‘All I can do now is goad others.’
‘I just came from the Excelsior. Randall White is still checked in, but they haven’t seen him in two days.’
‘You checked his cottage?’
‘He’s not there either.’
‘Leave a message at the hotel. He might call, if only to lie.’
‘I did better than that. I bribed the desk clerk to let me into his room. His clothes, his shaving stuff, his cologne – God, his oily cologne – and his blood pressure medicine are all there.’ She shivered. ‘I’m thinking we’ll never see Mr White again.’
‘That leaves who?’
‘Doc Farmont, wherever he might be, Luther Wiley… and Clamp Reems.’
‘I saw Clamp Reems today,’ he said.
‘He was here?’
‘Down by the river, watching the soil erode.’
‘Did he say anything interesting?’
‘He said he’s investigating the death of Horace Wiggins.’
‘Did you say anything interesting?’
‘I told him I’d see him tomorrow.’
She studied his face. ‘You’re going to go through with it – be up on the dais to introduce the guest of honor, Clamp Reems?’
‘It’s the most important thing I’ll ever do.’
SEVENTY-THREE
He left the office lights on – he’d be back up to struggle with bills – and went downstairs to make sure the doors had been locked.
It had been another disastrous night financially. It could have been the rain that kept the diners and the drinkers away. It could have been that tomorrow was the Fourth of July, a day of picnics and barbecues. He doubted it was either, but rather that folks were simply tired of being reminded of the drama he’d brought to Grand Point. He was tired of it, too.
He looked out through the new glass on the back door. The rain had stopped. The sky had cleared, the stars were bright.
He stepped outside. The cool, damp air felt good – liberating. He stepped out of the shadow of the building and crossed Big Pine Road. The overpass offered the highest, best view of his spot in Grand Point. It might be the last look he’d have. Luther Wiley’s bank could seize the Bird’s Nest at any time now.
He walked up to the top of the overpass. To the south, a lone pair of brake lights beat erratically on Poor Farm Road, arrhythmic red signals being tapped out by the foot of an impatient young man parked with a girl. He wondered if Pauly Pribilski had sent out such unknowing, taunting red flashes on that long-ago June night, and whether they’d further enraged the man who was coming up on foot.
Jen’s article had reported there’d been much talk about what got tough, tall, ex-Marine Pauly Pribilski out of his car. Most assumed it had been the prodding of a gun. Mac wondered now whether it had been the glint of a badge instead, just as it might have been a badge that kept Betty Jo Dean from trying to run. A man with a badge could compel anyone to get out of a car, just as a man with a badge could likely find a girl, no matter where she ran.
It was all so very circumstantial, and felt so very right.
Something moving beneath a street lamp in the west caught his eye. He knew the spot. It was where the Devil’s Backbone dead-ended into Big Pine Road, the place where Betty Jo Dean had been found. A car, running without headlights, was pulling off onto the shoulder.
That late at night it could have been lovers looking for better privacy than Poor Farm Road. It could have been someone on a long night’s journey, looking for a few moments’ rest. All sorts of things could explain why a person would pull over there.
An interior light flashed and went dark. The driver had gotten out. Another light flashed for an instant, farther back. The driver had opened the trunk.
There didn’t need to be anything ominous in what he was seeing. He stopped anyway, and waited.