Behind the Bonehouse (35 page)

The deck was four feet wider than the houseboat, so that two-foot widths of deck extended out from the long sides all the way back to the stern. The bow deck was maybe eight feet deep. And there were broken and missing boards up and down the decks. And it was then that Alan had to face the problem he'd been trying to overlook since he'd talked to Butch's wife.

How can you climb up on a boat deck without making the boat dip in the water? The fact that the bow was up on the beach made the bow more stable, but would it be stable enough that the boat wouldn't shift? And could he climb up there without Butch seeing him through one of the right-hand windows? What was the layout inside the cabin? And where were Jo and Ross?

All he could do was crawl toward that corner, and hope that one of the cracks in the siding was large enough to see through.

He slithered as much as he crawled, and made it over to the corner, keeping his head below the deck.

He lay still and listened, and he could hear Butch and Jo, faintly and indistinctly, so at least he knew she was still alive and hadn't been gagged.

And finally, when there was nothing else to do, he raised his eyes above the top of the deck and inched his way slightly to the right, so he could see through a split in the siding into the houseboat's cabin.

He could just see the bottoms of four chair legs, and a boot that belonged to Butch on the far side of the boat, back toward the stern from where he crouched.

He could hear better too, nearer to the side wall, and it sounded to him as though Jo was closer to the bow than Butch, but on the far side too.

Then he heard Butch shove his chair across the floor as though he'd pushed it farther toward the stern. There was a small section of siding missing, a foot or so higher and toward the stern, and Alan held his breath, and slowly, silently, raised his head farther above the deck, a foot or more toward the stern. He could see Jo from the waist down, sitting, facing the stern, on the left side of a rickety table, Ross in her lap, diaper bag on the table, .38 revolver on its side, the barrel aimed straight at Ross next to a bottle of bourbon that was less than a quarter full.

She was talking to Butch, soft and soothing, as though she was trying to sound sympathetic, and Butch sat crumpled against the back of his chair off to Alan's right, his hands hidden in his lap, both of them on the far side of the cabin between him and the windows in that far wall. Jo moved Ross so he was standing on her thighs, her hands circling his middle. But then Butch talked at her, louder and nastier, slurring his words some, and slapping the table, saying, “When I want
your
opinion I'll be lettin' ya know!”

Ross started whimpering, and Butch told her to shut him up.

Alan dropped flat on the cold slimy beach, and backed away from the boat, then picked his way up the sloping woods to Spencer, the mud slick, in the bottom ground, making him slither and slide.

Alan hunkered beside Spence, and whispered close to his ear. “Butch is facing the bow, opposite these windows, behind a built-in table. Jo and Ross are facing the stern, on the bow side of that table. Butch's drunk close to a fifth of bourbon, and he's got a .38 on the table pointed right at them. The front window in the right-hand wall's got a ping pong ball sized hole missing. So if you'll get over there, I'll create a distraction with the branch to get Butch focused there, and get myself to the door to sight in on him fast. You shove the—”

“Colt through the window on the right.”

“Yeah. That make sense to you?”

“There's a risk.”

“That he'll shoot Jo first before we get him in our sights.”

“Yep.” Spencer nodded, and waited for Alan's reaction.

“Any other suggestions?”

“Nope. Being drunk'll slow him down.”

“That's what I'm hoping.”

“It's your wife and son. It's gotta be your call. And it's gotta be quiet. No waves. No splashes.”

Alan hesitated, before he said, “Me getting to the door with my handgun on him, it's all about speed. And not rocking the boat.”

“Old man like you?” Spencer smiled.

And Alan nodded. Then started down the hill.

Spencer was in place, crouching in the shallows below the front right-hand window. Alan crouched down to the right of the door, by the corner of the deck, and threw the branch into the river on the left side of the houseboat—at the same time he stepped up on the deck, and fixed his handgun on Butch's face through the broken glass.

Butch snatched up his own gun, yelling something incoherent, and grabbed Ross away from Jo, then stood there weaving on the stern side of the table, drunk and drugged and over the edge, shouting “
I'll
kill her and the kid if you don't drop the gun!!”

Jo was fighting her chair, trying to stand up, screaming, “Butch,
please!
Put Ross
down!
”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

“
Let me have Ross!
” Jo was begging, her arms stretched as far as they could go, trying to touch Ross's hand.

“Screw you! I got
NOTHIN'
to lose!” He'd backed up toward the stern, his left arm wrapped around Ross's middle, holding him under his arms so he and Ross still faced Jo.

In that silence, while Ross turned purple, before he started a wild piercing animal wail, Jo said, as quietly as she could, “Butch, please. Alan's staying where he is. Let me take care of Ross. You wouldn't want someone to hurt your girls!”

Butch didn't move. He stood there gripping his revolver, Ross screaming in his other arm, as he stared straight at Alan.

That's when Alan said, “Look over to your left.”

“You think I'd fall for that!” But Butch did look. He couldn't stop himself from turning his head just enough to see Spencer, six feet away, with the barrel of his 1911 stuck through the hole in the window.

“
I'm takin' y'all with me
! I got
nothin
' left to live for!”

“Your girls don't deserve a murderer for a dad!” Jo was pleading, her hands reaching out to him.

“SHUTUP!” Butch was weaving from left to right, Ross still in his left arm, legs dangling against Butch's hip.

And then Ross fell—hitting the floor hard, face down in filthy water.

Jo screamed, yanking her chair toward him, while Butch leaned forward, shoving the gun closer to Jo's face as a .45 slug from Spencer's pistol slammed through Butch's right arm, driving that arm up and out, so a .38 round hit the ceiling as the Colt flew out of his hand.

Alan charged through the door and grabbed Ross—who was choking and gasping, blood splattering from his lips, his whole body contorted, and rushed him to Jo—one split second before he grabbed Butch by the shirt and smashed him in the face.

Alan stood over him with his fists clenched, watching as he flailed on the floor, crying and cradling his arm.

A
lan didn't say a word to Butch after he'd put a tourniquet on his arm, and tied both arms loosely behind his back with the rope he'd used on Jo. He just pulled Butch out of his chair and shoved him out the door.

It was dark then in the woods and the weeds, by the time they got to the stairs, and the rain had petered out to nothing but what dripped on them from the trees. But it was slippery, and hard going, and they all stumbled and missed their footing on the steepest part of that hill.

Alan and Spencer had to hold Butch to keep him from falling. He was boneless and limp, and they had trouble getting him up the broken stairs in the rock face close to the road. And then they had a half mile or more to walk to Alan's car, where it also took both of them to get him in the backseat. Spencer climbed in beside him, and gave him instructions Jo couldn't hear.

She changed into dry shoes, and added a sweater and a cotton jacket, and dressed Ross in the clothes Alan had brought for him too. His lips had stopped bleeding, finally, though a huge bruised lump had popped out on his forehead, as well as his left elbow. She found herself holding Ross tightly enough to half-choke him, once she'd gotten into the passenger seat with a blanket wrapped around them both. She made herself loosen her grip and hum something soothing for a minute with her mouth against his cheek.

When Alan started driving (after having cleaned himself up as much as he could with one of the towels he'd brought), the only sound in the car came from Butch. It wasn't any kind of normal crying, but he kept sniffing and swallowing in a strange sort of rhythm, and when Jo looked at him, he seemed to be shaking, slumped against the seat.

Alan started talking to her in a low, very quiet voice, trying to make sure she was doing alright, the same way he had in the houseboat. Then he pulled her over to him and whispered a question she hadn't expected.

“How much do you want Butch punished?”

She thought about that, as Ross half-dozed on her lap, and the headlights lit up the dripping trees and the sharp gray wall of rock on the north side of the river that climbed up on their left. She finally whispered, “I want him in jail for a long time. I'd like him to get some help sometime.
If
he's ever willing to be helped. But I want him kept from doing this again. To us or anyone else. You think Ross could have a concussion? And that falling in that water's going to make him really sick?”

“We'll ask the doctor Earl calls in for Butch to examine Ross too.”

“I can't imagine how many germs he swallowed. That water was disgusting. And the gunshots! I never knew they could be that loud. My ears feel weird, and my head's still throbbing.”

Alan nodded but didn't say anything. And Jo leaned against him as he drove the deserted roads that led north to Versailles.

When they got to the light at Rose Hill and Main, Alan spoke to Butch for the first time since they'd left the houseboat. “We're taking you to the Sheriff in Versailles, and he'll get a doctor to look at your arm.”

Butch said something low and muffled that Jo couldn't understand, and Spencer told him to watch his mouth.

As soon as they walked into the jail, Jo began to feel queasy. Seeing the same dispatcher sitting there at the counter. Smelling the same smells rolling off the walls. Disinfectant, and stale cigars, and what might've been the bathroom over by the cells. It brought back the worry and fear and anger. And she had to walk outside again, and stand there by the corner of the courthouse, and talk to herself for a couple of minutes before she could step back in.

Earl wasn't there so they talked to Pete, the deputy on duty. He arranged for a doctor first, and then took Alan and Jo into Earl's small pea-green office while Spencer stayed on a bench with Butch (whose hands were still tied behind him) across from the guy at the counter.

After they told Pete what had happened, he phoned Earl—who said he was on his way, and told Pete to cuff Butch, apparently right that second, since Pete grabbed his cuffs off his belt and shot out the door.

Spencer wrote out a report for Pete and handed Butch's gun over—Alan's too, the one he'd fired, describing many more times than he wanted to why he'd taken the shot.

Alan and Jo explained what had happened to Earl, who listened hard and asked a string of questions, then nodded and watched them for a minute, leaning back in his desk chair with his hands clasped on top of his head. “We'll lock him up, and get the paperwork goin' right quick. I'll argue against bond, and I'm real sure the court'll go along. 'Course, if the doc says he needs surgery or somethin', we'll have to transport him to St. Joe's in Lexington quick as we can tonight.”

Alan and Jo didn't say anything.

And Earl sat up in his chair. “I reckon we can postpone your written reports gettin' done till tomorrow. Looks to me like you folks need to get yourselves on home.”

Jo said, “I'd like the doctor to examine Ross.”

“Sure. We can get him to do that. I'm sorry for all this. I truly am.”

“Thank you.” Alan reached across the desk and shook Earl's hand.

“Don't mean I won't have something to say later on 'bout ya not calling me in. Tonight ain't the time. How are you doin', Jo?”

“Okay. I think.” Jo shook his hand too, and followed him into the outer office, though as much as she tried to keep it from showing, she still felt rattled in that jail, being that close to Earl.

The bullet had passed through the muscles of Butch's upper arm without hitting bone, so the doctor didn't think he needed surgery. He dug out the cloth fragments, cleaned and bandaged the wounds, and gave him a shot of penicillin.

Earl told Butch he was one lucky son-of-a-gun that that's all that was wrong with him, as he stood there with his hands on his hips, staring down at Butch.

Butch hardly looked at him. He'd thrown up by then, and was shivering on the scarred wooden bench, his right arm in a sling, his left cuffed to the side of the bench, glaring at the bucket and mop the dispatcher'd used to clean up the floor. Spencer was standing six feet away leaning on the wall, wiping the mud off his clothes with a towel, looking at Butch in disgust.

Earl and Pete pulled Butch up by his good arm and guided him through the door to the cells, and he shuffled past Jo and Alan without looking in their direction.

Jo handed Ross to the doctor and explained what had happened, that the water was close to three inches deep, and the metal floor underneath was covered with slime and rust.

Alan used Earl's phone to call Frannie in Louisville and tell her what had happened, and she said she'd drive down to see Butch sometime the next morning. Then she thanked Alan, and burst into tears, before he handed Jo the phone so Frannie could ask Jo if she and Ross were really alright.

Jo was holding Ross, who was wailing again, after getting penicillin and tetanus in both sides of his bottom, and Jo told her he'd be okay, barring some nasty infection.