Mad Dog and Englishman: A Mad Dog & Englishman Mystery #1 (Mad Dog & Englishman Series) (9 page)

The stranger reached into his pocket, pulled out a photocopy, and unfolded it. “Have you seen this girl?” it asked above a surprisingly good reproduction of a school photo. There was a reward mentioned, along with a series of addresses and phone numbers to contact with information. He passed it to the man by the window, a wise choice since Bertha might have hurled her rag in his face and gone for a steak knife if he’d reached in her direction.

“Why, this looks like…” the farmer said, then paused a moment, “…a right pretty young lady,” he finished. “See you’ve got some numbers to contact on here. You mind if I keep this, let my family have a look?”

“No problem,” the stranger said. “But about that ranch?”

The farmer considered a moment before deciding. “Get back on the highway and head east,” he said. “Twenty-six miles. There’s dirt roads every mile, one way or the other or both. There’s a sign on that one directing you south toward Sourdough. It’s easy to find, the turn’s just a mile past a little old abandoned cemetery. After you leave the highway, Sourdough’s another eight and a quarter miles. First driveway after you cross the bridge over Sweetwater Creek. Big sign over the drive. Can’t miss it.”

The dark man nodded. He dropped a fifty on the counter. “I’ve got this man’s bill,” he said, “and whatever change is left from that and the tea, just keep it.” Before anyone could protest he was through the door and walking back into the sunlight.

As soon as he was out of view the farmer held up the picture of the girl. “Will you look at this,” he demanded of Bertha and the others. “Where’d this fellow get a picture of Heather English?”

“You sure that’s Heather?” Bertha asked. “Sure looks like her but the hair’s different.” Indeed, the girl in the picture was wearing her hair down over her shoulders, longer than Heather English had ever grown hers. This girl was a couple of years younger than Heather would be now and none of them were quite sure Heather hadn’t looked exactly like that two years ago. They were sure, however, that the sheriff should know about it.

Bertha rang the Sheriff’s Office and got a busy signal. Mrs. Kraus was back from the restroom and deluged with calls.

***

“Four AM,” Doc said. “Give or take a day. Actually, I’m pretty confident he died within two hours of that. The weapon may have been a razor blade, maybe an antique one, or something with a finely honed cutting edge. Even with all the wounds that were inflicted, there’s no indication the blade was getting dull. I’d say the victim probably lived a good five minutes after the cutting started. Cause of death is going to go on the autopsy as heart failure, after that heart ran out of anything to pump, but there’s a chance one of those cuts across his throat was deep enough to cause bleeding directly into the trachea and he may have actually drowned on his own blood. On the bright side, if there is one, Simms was unconscious for the worst of it and the mutilations were all post-mortem.” Doc cleared his throat.

“I’ll have a written report for the sheriff by the time he gets back to town. You tell him to call me as soon as he checks in. There’s a couple of things he and I need to discuss that you’d probably rather not know about, Mrs. Kraus.”

Mrs. Kraus’ imagination was equal to the hint. She scribbled her personal shorthand version on a note pad. “Soon as I hear from him I’ll tell him to call,” she rasped.

“And, Mrs. Kraus.”

“Doc?”

“You aren’t smoking again are you?”

“No sir,” she said, honestly from her point of view. She was down to half a pack a day now and, as far as she was concerned, that wasn’t smoking.

“Then your voice ought to be improving some. Come see me next Thursday. I smell tobacco on you and I’ll stop renewing your birth control pills.” Doc cackled into the phone before he hung up. Mrs. Kraus, who was delighting in the hot flashes and mood swings of menopause, failed to appreciate his sense of humor.

She put the phone back in its cradle and it rang again immediately, causing her to jump a little before she grabbed it.

“This is Wynn,” the instrument told her.

“Where the hell you at? The sheriff’s gonna have your badge and maybe your privates if you don’t get yourself back in here and start helping on this investigation.”

“Calm down, Mrs. Kraus. I got me a suspect here. Found him right in front of the Reverend’s house and chased him half way across the county. I need you to send me some transport so I can bring him in.”

“Transport? You’re the one’s got the patrol car.”

“It’s not mobile just now. Had some brake problems. Can’t you send somebody out here? I’m at David Meisenheimer’s and I need somebody to give me and my prisoner a ride back.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Kraus agreed. “I’ll just lock up the office and drive right out in my Toyota. When the sheriff calls in for autopsy details and to direct the investigation of his deputies, well, I’ll let you explain why nobody’s here.”

“Uh, maybe I can get one of the Meisenheimers to give us a lift,” Wynn offered.

“I’d do that,” Mrs. Kraus replied. “I’d do that right quick if I was you. Oh, and Deputy Wynn…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get lost on the way.”

She put the phone down and reached for the radio to try to raise the sheriff again but the phone continued to demand her attention. It was Mrs. Curtis, with Mrs. Lake on the extension, complaining that the line had been busy and wondering what the latest news was. The ladies agreed that the County ought to spring for the cost of an extra line, or at least call waiting, especially to the Sheriff’s Office. Mrs. Kraus told them how busy she was and reminded them that it wasn’t right to tie up that line during the county’s first ever homicide investigation. She complained that it seemed unlikely she’d get a chance for a belated lunch break. The ladies took the hint. They’d rush right over with a pitcher of lemonade, a sandwich and a fresh piece of pie. It was a gesture of kindness and civic responsibility, only slightly inspired by the chance to listen in on things as they developed and lend Mrs. Kraus a sympathetic ear should she feel inclined to vent her frustrations along with details about the murder.

The phone rang yet again as Mrs. Kraus was putting it back in its cradle. She thought she might as well stop bothering, just hit the disconnect button and then answer whoever was bound to be next.

“Benteen County Sheriff’s Office,” she wheezed, wishing for one of those cigarettes Doc had warned her about.

The phone was silent for a moment, conveying only the sound of heavy breathing and she almost decided the county’s mysterious and occasional obscene caller was back on duty before Mad Dog spoke.

“Mrs. Kraus,” he said. “I’ve got another one.”

Mrs. Kraus had the sinking feeling she knew exactly what he meant.

***

Sweetwater Creek was visible from miles away thanks to the muddy trickle that snaked its lazy way across the prairie looking about as sweet as the coffee dregs it resembled. Irrigation agriculture had dropped the water table and bared the top soil to erosion, turning the flow of clear, sweet, spring water for which the creek was named, into something more like an open sewer. In any case, it wasn’t the water that was noticeable, it was the luxurious vegetation that scrambled skyward from its moist banks. You couldn’t see the stream itself, not until you were right on it, and these days, after a dry spell, sometimes not even then. But the line of proud cottonwoods it inspired proclaimed the presence of water and the absence of cultivation for a good six to eight miles.

Sourdough Ranch wasn’t visible for nearly as far as the cottonwoods that flanked the creek running through its heart, but, occupying a full section of pasture, much of which had never been tilled, it stood out from the neighboring farms like some neatly geometric oasis in a desert of ripening wheat. There just wasn’t much pasture in Benteen County anymore, and what there was raised mutton or beef, not Arabians, Morgans, and Saddlebreds.

The sheriff slowed and let his truck rumble across the ancient wooden bridge. He’d never noticed quite how rickety it seemed until viewed from the interior of a vehicle on which he still owed fifty-nine monthly payments.

There were lots of majestic shade trees around the house and outbuildings, beginning just after you passed under the arching sign that proclaimed Sourdough Ranch as the home of equine nobility, a list of names that would seem to require you to bow or curtsey if you were lucky enough to be introduced. Thick clumps of lilac and forsythia lined the drive and broke the wind as well as the monotony of a yard that grew almost nothing but shade trees and grass. Half a dozen flapper-style sprinklers ticked their way in great circles, advancing like aquatic second hands trailing a rainbowed mist of moments already past, encouraging grass whose hint of blue seemed more appropriate to lush Kentucky instead of semi-arid Kansas.

It was a big, sprawling house, late-fifties ranch-style red-brick with lots of space for his and hers offices, a trophy room, and rooms for all the little Starks that had somehow never come along. The drive circled the south side of the house, passing between it and the first of the stables and barns and outbuildings that surrounded the parking area. The garage door at the back of the house was open and Minnie Stark’s Red BMW roadster stared impudently out from its comfortable lair. It was the ideal option for an early middle-aged woman with enough money to have her pick of a new Lincoln four-wheel-drive or her husband’s no-nonsense Hummer whenever the weather wasn’t conducive to top-down excursions. Today was a bit warm for this Teutonic triumph of engineering, but dry enough to leave the Hummer in the slot on the other side of the empty place where the Lincoln usually roosted. The Lincoln, with its blend of rugged luxury and air-conditioned creature comforts, had apparently been the day’s choice for one or both Starks.

The sheriff parked near the wall surrounding the pool, less a barrier to prying eyes, with the nearest neighbors a couple of miles away, than to Kansas’ incessant wind. He climbed out gravel-eyed and about twice as tired as he’d thought he was. Judy’s car wasn’t there. Since the Stark’s sports-utility vehicle was missing too, that probably meant the Starks weren’t back yet, and that Judy had simply ignored him and driven off after he’d implored her to wait. He should have expected that, but he hadn’t. He sagged against the side of the pickup and wondered what to do next.

There was only one unfamiliar vehicle in the yard, a Volvo with styling that seemed far too dull for what it must have cost. The New Mexico plates indicated it might have brought a buyer or a rider. It was parked in front of one of the larger guest houses the Starks provided their paying guests, but there wasn’t any indication anyone was home there either. The air conditioning was off and the sheriff knew from experience that the place would become uncomfortable under a sun like this in less than an hour. He tried knocking anyway. He knocked on the doors of the other guest units as well, and the two old aluminum skin trailers used by hired hands, and he tried the main house too. All yielded the same absence of response.

The sheriff was pissed. Had he wasted an hour’s drive? Could he afford to wait until someone returned? He needed to be back in Buffalo Springs, but he needed to know why a call had been made from the Reverend’s house to Sourdough Ranch—an unlikely connection and doubly mysterious when it was the last call made, just before or after Simms was murdered.

The sheriff tried the radio. If one of his deputies had showed up, if there weren’t any further complications, if Doc Jones had any results for him…well, maybe he could wait here awhile, push one of the Stark’s lawn chairs into a shady spot and catnap long enough to clear his brain of its aching dullness, just long enough to help him survive the rest of this dreadful day.

The radio got him nothing. Occasionally he could get through from this far out of town, but not usually, and not today when he needed to desperately. Despite their unreliability in Benteen County, the sheriff wished he’d bitten the bullet and bought one of the cell phones he’d been asking the commissioners to supply for his department. After child support and on top of new truck payments, though, it had been easy to put off the expense.

There were phones in the house and trailers, but all the doors were locked and the sheriff wasn’t inclined to break and enter just so he wouldn’t have to drive a few miles and try some other farm house to borrow a phone. Besides, he suddenly remembered, there was another phone right here. He’d been at the ranch to watch Heather ride once. He’d been standing next to a phone that began to ring and no one else was around and he’d answered it and been offered a marvelous deal on aluminum siding. Where was that? One of the outbuildings, a stable…but which one?

He massaged both eyes with the heels of his hands and tried looking around again. House, garage, pool, guest houses, trailers, full size barn, an even bigger indoor-all-weather riding arena, and a pair of long, low buildings with a series of dutch doors, from the open half of which several pairs of equine eyes watched curiously. It was comforting to realize he, as Sheriff of Benteen County, brought such incredible skills of observation to the task at hand. And a memory like a steel sieve. He thought maybe it was the south stable. At least it was worth a try.

The main doors opened at both ends of the stable, flooding it with light and making it easy for the sheriff to spot the phone on the wall near where he recalled the tack room occupied a couple of converted stalls. He was almost to the phone when he heard the noises. A thud—something solid striking something unyielding. A second thud—this time accompanied by a splintering harmonic. Curious sounds, not those he expected, and, given what he’d found in the restroom of the Buffalo Springs Veteran’s Memorial Park that morning, something to be investigated.