“Anyway, Maybelle went to be with the Lord that same year, but she said I could keep all this stuff, so I did. But it got me thinking, so I started looking around, writing a few letters, tracking people down, and guess what? It turns out Harold Bly had an aunt who wasn’t regarded as part of the family anymore.” He flipped to a section. “Clarice Stevens was Harold Bly’s mother’s half-sister, and it took me about two years to finally track her down in Oregon. When Harold’s mother disappeared, Clarice Stevens felt sure the Blys had everything to do with it, so she had nothing good to say about the Blys or the Hydes ever since. But look here: Abigail Homestead, Benjamin Hyde’s sister-in-law, and Abby Bly, Harold’s mother, both passed their diaries down to Clarice, and before Clarice died, she passed along copies to me.
“The rest of this stuff . . . this here’s from the West Fork Historical Society . . . Oh, and you remember Harold Bly talking about the town charter of 1882? Here’s a copy of that right here . . . This here’s from a book I found in the library . . . this Dennis Mason is an old army buddy of Sam Bly. He’s still alive and gave me a copy of what he wrote.” Levi chuckled. “I even got some good stuff from Harold’s old fourth grade teacher. She never liked him much either!”
Levi handed the binder to Steve, and Steve thumbed through it, impressed at the volume of research it represented. “With all this, you had to have made some enemies.”
“That’s why you’re looking at copies. The originals are in a safe-deposit box.” Levi sniffed a derisive laugh. “I’ve found that diaries and letters and documents, anything that might tell people the truth, tend to get stolen around here, so I’ve had to be careful. People don’t like to hear the truth, and they don’t like people who tell it.”
Steve’s tone was a little testy. “And I suppose you’re a teller of the truth, is that it?”
“You can be the judge of that. But go ahead, read the madam’s diary and some of the letters. Read the charter of 1882. It’ll give you a good idea where the dragon came from and what it’s all about.” Then he added, “And then you’ll have a better idea how to kill it.”
“From a hundred-year-old diary?”
“Read it, and we’ll talk about it.”
“What about Reverend Woods? Has he seen this?”
“Well, he’s seen it, but he hasn’t read it. I got him to read the town charter, but . . . eh, he doesn’t want to get into this stuff. We differ a lot in our theology.”
“Theology?” Did that have to come into everything Levi did?
“He believes we should keep the peace, but I like to shoot my mouth off. Just read it. Here, let me show you . . .” Levi marked the pages. If you read from here to . . . here . . . that’ll be enough of the diary. The lady’s name was Holly Ann Mayfield, and I think she told the truth. Maybe she’s the only one who ever did. The other diaries and letters and clippings’ll make a lot more sense once you read what she had to say.”
IT WAS past the end of Tracy’s shift when she finally grappled and shoved the kicking and cursing Phil Garrett through the door of the station in West Fork. By now she’d reached her limit with this scumbag, and it was difficult to be nice. Phil was a difficult prisoner to contain as it was, but now he was getting worse, and he smelled bad besides, like he hadn’t had a bath in years, like he had a dead rat in his pocket. The patrol car reeked of it, and the jail would probably reek of it. It was nauseating.
Since it was after-hours, the station was deserted. The on-duty deputy was out on his rounds, and all incoming calls had been forwarded to a central dispatcher. She’d have to process the prisoner herself. Great. Just great.
With one hand on his arm just to keep track of him, she reached over the counter for the keys to the cell block.
“I’ve got to see a doctor!” Phil whined. “I think you busted my ear loose again!”
“In the morning,” she answered, unlocking the big iron door.
“But—you—you can’t leave me here!” Tracy couldn’t believe it—the cocky little buzzard was actually scared. “You can’t leave me here alone!”
She pushed him through the door. “It’s just for one night. I’m going to get you processed, and then the Oak Springs cops can come and get you.”
He resisted. “No—listen, I can’t stay here!”
They moved somewhat haltingly down a narrow hall and around a corner to a row of three jail cells. She gave him another shove to keep him moving. “Phil, come on; we can’t afford a nice hotel, all right?”
“You just don’t get it.”
“I saved the best room in the house for you, right on the end. There’s a nice view of Sunset Avenue—”
That only made him more upset. “There’s a window?”
“Well, it has bars on it, but you can still see out.”
“Don’t put me in there! I—”
“You what?”
The man was pale and shaking with fear, but could say nothing more.
Just like Charlie, she thought. Just like Maggie.
The front door to the station burst open. Somebody was coming their way in a big hurry. Tracy quickly got the cell door open and pushed Phil inside, locking the door behind him. One handful of trouble was enough.
She’d only taken one step toward the front when Sheriff Lester Collins, in his street clothes and red as a beet, came storming around the corner into the cell block.
“Sheriff!” Phil cried. “Sheriff, you gotta get me out of this!”
This was going to be tough. Collins was furious. “What in blue blazes is going on here?”
She started to answer, “I’m—”
“What are you doing with this man?”
“He’s under arrest.”
“Oh no, he isn’t!”
“Oh yes, he is. Now if you’ll excuse me—” She slipped around him, heading for the front office.
Collins was stomping right at her heels. “On what charges?”
“He’s a suspect in the attack on Evelyn Benson.”
Collins was still behind her, but she could just about hear him rolling his eyes. “Deputy, that is ridiculous!”
“She described her attacker as a wiry little round-headed coward with one ear sewed on. Now you know who that is, and I know who that is, and we both know what the law says and what our job is, so I’m throwing him in the can!”
They got to the front office. Tracy slammed the cell-block door shut and locked it.
“But you can’t be sure!” Collins protested. “Deputy, you’re talking about an attack that happened miles away! How do you know Phil was there and not out in the valley?”
She hurried around the counter and sat at a desk. “Sheriff, if I may say so, you’re not being objective.”
“What do you mean I’m not being objective?”
“You know what I mean. You’re the sheriff around here. Given the same evidence and complaint you would have done the same— if you weren’t so afraid of Harold Bly.”
He couldn’t answer. Instead, he slammed the counter and headed for the cell block. “I’m releasing him.”
“No, you’re not.”
He got to the iron door. It was locked. He looked at the key rack behind the counter. “All right, where are the keys?”
She was jamming an arrest report form into a typewriter. “I have the keys on my person.”
“Then hand them over, Deputy! That’s an order!”
She started banging on the typewriter. “By law the prisoner can be held for seventy-two hours pending formal charges.”
“Hand over those keys!”
She turned on him and used a tone of voice that more than matched his own. “You know the law, Sheriff Collins! Are you ordering me to violate my duty?”
He fell silent, fuming, hissing air through his nose, and drumming the counter. He was looking bad, and he knew it.
“The prisoner hasn’t had a phone call yet. If you want to provide that for him . . .”
Collins went for that. “So let’s have the
keys.”
Tracy grabbed the station’s cordless phone and handed it over the counter. “He can use this. I’m not letting him out of there.”
Collins took the phone grudgingly. “So how about the key to the door here?”
She peeled it off the key ring and handed it to him.
He snatched it out of her hand and rattled the lock open.
UH-UH, no, not here, not tonight!” “
Sara, the little old lady who ran the White Tail RV Park, was running alongside Steve’s camper, waving at him, shouting.
He stopped and rolled the window down. “What’s the matter?”
She was puffing a bit and shaking her head. “No! You’re not staying here tonight! We’re full up!”
Steve could see his slot. There was a motor home on one side and a camper on the other, but his space was still empty. “Sara, I paid for that space tonight. Is there a problem?”
“No problem. We’re full, that’s all.”
“But my space is empty. It’s mine. I paid for it.”
“It’s full. Somebody else is going to take it.”
He stopped. He knew what was happening here, and there’d be no fixing it.
Sara was pointing toward the highway, and her tone was emphatic. “I want you to get out of here, and right now!”
He sighed. No use fighting it. “What about my ten dollars for the space?”
She dug her wallet from her jeans hip pocket and poked a ten-dollar bill in his face. “There. Now leave!”
He took his money and left.
HAROLD BLY was relaxing in his home when the phone rang. He was expecting the call. “Hello?”
“Harold—Harold, this is Phil.”
He took on the tone of a concerned father again. “Yes, Phil. How are you?”
“I’m scared, man, real scared. They’ve got me locked up in a cell. I can’t get out of here!”
“Mm-hm.”
“Well . . . aren’t you going to do something?”
“Well, Phil—” Bly sounded surprised at such a question. “What do you expect me to do? You attacked someone, you almost killed them. You deserve to be in jail.”
“But—but you said—”
“I don’t remember telling you to kill anyone.”
“Harold, you’ve gotta get me out of here! I might—I can’t run anywhere, I can’t—I can’t hide! I can’t get away.”
Bly’s voice was cool and even. “You blew it, Phil. Whatever you were trying to do, you botched it. Now you’re in jail, and you’ll just have to take whatever comes. I can’t help you.”
“But—”
“Good-bye, Phil.”
Bly hung up with a satisfied smile. He would wait a few minutes, and then he would call Sheriff Collins. He’d have to sound angry, but that was never difficult for him.
COLLINS HAD just returned from the cell block, Phil’s screams and cursings echoing behind him, when the cordless phone warbled in his hand.
“I’m sure it’s for you,” Tracy said, finishing up her arrest report.
Collins clicked the switch over to TALK and said, “Clark County Sheriff.”
“Lester, it’s Harold Bly.”
Collins stole a quick look in Tracy’s direction. She was watching and seemed to know who was on the other end. He ducked into his office and closed the door.
“What is it?” he asked, not too patiently.
“We’ve got a real problem developing,” said Bly. “Have you talked to your deputy tonight?”
“Yes. She’s here right now. She has Phil Garrett in custody.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“Looking into it.”
Bly’s tone was chilling but controlled. “Collins, don’t even try to bluff me. I’ve got a whole town that’s ready to string you and your deputy up, and if they don’t get you, we know who will. I can’t stop that now.”
“Harold—”
“Excuses won’t buy you time, Lester! If I were you I’d be thinking of ways to make everyone a little happier with your performance. I’d be working on that right now.”
Collins was over a barrel. “But what can I do? She’s within the law!”
“The law!” Bly only snickered at that argument. “We’re not talking about the law, Lester. We’re talking about control. You’ve lost it, and you need to get it back.”
“I can’t—”
“You will. If you value your life.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We’ll talk more about this tonight. But here’s what you do first . . .”
WHEN COLLINS emerged from his office, he looked very tired. “All right,” he said. “We’ll let everything stand for now.”
“What did Bly say?”
“For your information, that was Bob Suski with the Oak Springs police,” Collins said. “He was wondering if I had any updates on the Evelyn Benson case. I was happy to tell him we have the suspect in custody.”
You’re lying, Tracy thought, but she said, “Well, good enough. They can come get him in the morning, and we’ll be finished with the whole thing, no sweat.”
“Except for one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I want a positive ID before we go any further with this. I want you to give Evelyn Benson a call and get her down here to positively identify him.”
“Why? She can do that in Oak Springs when the cops take him there.”
Collins was ready to admit, “Politics, okay? I’ve got some very angry people I’d like to make a little happier, and it would help if they knew I did my best to give Phil every chance. Now, can you do that for me?”
Well, she thought, at least he’s offering me a compromise instead of firing me. “All right. I’ll give Evelyn a call and see if she can come in tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, the sooner the better. I want this thing off our hands as soon as we can get rid of it.”
“Oh, I agree.” But, she thought, Phil owes me some answers first.
STEVE HEADED down the Hyde River Road away from the town of Hyde River, hoping that the growing hostility might diminish a bit with distance. At least it was worth a try to camp somewhere away from the trouble. When he found a wide turnoff with a few other campers parked there for the night, he pulled off and joined them.
He didn’t take the time to level the camper; it was level enough. He just wanted to peruse Levi’s materials, get out of his dirty clothes, and get some sleep.
He sat in the dinette, clicked on the battery-operated light, and opened up the binder to the pages Levi had selected.
Okay, Holly Ann Mayfield, who in the world were you, and what do you have to say?
We are pioneers in a new land and ours is a new day, a new future. With gold and glory in our grasp, we will not turn back, for ours is a growing, living town.
With candor and a fascination for detail, Miss Mayfield had used words to paint strong, vivid images of an earlier time. As he deciphered the fading, fluid handwriting, he could imagine the scenes like an old, flickering movie in sepia tones. He could see the Hyde River of that day—Old Town when it was new, booming and growing on the banks of the river as hundreds of gold seekers arrived on flatbottomed steamers to work the mines or stake their own claims. He could imagine the overgrown and desolate streets of Old Town busy and bustling, all ice and snow in the winter, deep mud in the spring, and powdery dust in the hot summer.
He could see the mining crews, mustached, bearded, posing stern-faced and rigid for an old photograph, standing against a line of ore cars with shovels and picks in their burly hands. He could see the women too, always in short supply, wearing the finest dresses and enormous hats, all that gold could buy. He could hear the sound of hammers and saws over the constant rumbling of wagon wheels and foot traffic as new buildings went up— Carlson’s Livery, the Gold Nugget Saloon, the Masonic Lodge, and the Ames Hotel—
He could imagine the wild nights in the saloons, the raucous parties thrown by the Hyde Mini
ng Company in Hyde Hall, the constant flow of customers through the portals of Holly Ann Mayfield’s establishment on Cottonwood Lane, a short walk down the riverfront, just one of many quaint residences.
I will have two more ladies joining us next week. They hail from San Francisco and are a proper sort, accustomed to fine company and the discerning tastes of the elite. So we are growing with the town, and I’ve wondered if our good fortune might never end.
Miss Mayfield did feel optimistic about her enterprise and recorded some examples of recent receipts. All was going well until . . .
Enter the villain.
I have always striven to be a person of good will and neighborliness, as have those with whom I associate, but I must admit that any good will remaining to me is quickly exhausted in the presence of that man. He is altogether harsh and condemning, and finds no greater joy than to consign all persons save himself to the fires of hell. My ladies are afraid of him, I find him disgusting, and I fear Ben’s hatred of the man has reached murderous proportions.
To hear Holly Ann Mayfield tell it, the Rev. Charles DuBois, a black-garbed, wizened little preacher of unknown origins, had only one mission in life: to clean up and convert the town of Hyde River, whether it wanted to be converted or not.
His leaflets are everywhere, tacked to every post, every building, with or without permission, advertising the evils of Hyde River and the meetings he is conducting in Hyde Hall to turn souls away from their deadly course. Three of my ladies have attended recently, and I daresay their performance has dropped, as has the number of their clientele. The discord in the house is growing with the number of DuBois’s converts.