Irrational Numbers Page 8

  Bonnie whistled. She didn’t know much about shooting, but a thousand yards, ten football fields—she wasn’t sure she could see an elephant at that distance. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “It’s what I did for two years … in ‘Nam.”

  CHAPTER 8

  BONNIE SAT ACROSS FROM LLOYD AT GERTRUDE’S DINER and studied her friend while he sipped his beer. He’d barely touched his lunch.

  “You okay, boss?”

  Lloyd’s eyes registered he’d been someplace far removed and was returning to the land of the living. He nodded.

  “I will be.” He gave her a weak smile and chuckled—a laugh two light-years away from okay. “Funny how some things’ll just set you off. I hadn’t seen an M24 since back in the day … Caught me by surprise. That’s all.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Lloyd took so long in answering, Bonnie considered letting him off the hook and retracting the question.

  “Not much to tell,” he said. “All of us did what needed doing. I’m no different from anybody else who served. I’ve had my share of sleepless nights, but none in years.”

  What went unsaid was that tonight stood a good chance of being another. Bonnie told herself she wasn’t to blame for bringing more pain into her friend’s life, but that sure wasn’t how it felt.

  Lloyd reached across the table and squeezed her wrist. “F’gidd about it.” He used his best Sopranos voice. “We got bigger fish to fry.”

  Bonnie cocked her head and smiled. “Fish?”

  He returned her smile, and this time there appeared an increment more genuine humor in the grin. “Rattlesnake fish. Tastes like chicken. You catch his reference to Furby’s death.”

  Bonnie instantly knew what Lloyd was talking about. “You mean that whole three shots in the chest business?”

  Lloyd’s face lost all of its melancholy. “What do you think, Bon? What’s the likelihood the good deputy would share that tidbit of knowledge with the father of another murdered boy?”

  “I’ll go you one better. How likely is it Byron even had the opportunity to speak with Rattlesnake since the murder? Hell, we’re talking Furby was rolling barrels across an arena just”—she checked her Mickey Mouse watch—“sixteen hours ago. Byron’s had a bit on his plate at that time, not to mention making time for sleep.”

  Bonnie reached for her hummus sandwich and Lloyd for his burger. For a companionable and thoughtful time they chewed in silence. She was reminded of a quote from Kahlil Gibran’s Prophet.

  Your friend is your needs answered. Seek not your friend with hours to kill but rather with hours to live.

  Bonnie was struck with how, even in a religious piece written a lifetime ago, the word kill reared its less than beautiful head. Before she could ruminate further, another thought drove Kahlil Gibran off center stage. “Did you get the feeling Rattlesnake chose to mention the three shots deliberately?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Okay. This is going to sound far-fetched, but the whole time we were dancing around with the man, I got the impression Rattlesnake was baiting us, dropping morsels of information. Even when he was lying, I got the distinct feeling he wanted us to know he was lying.”

  Lloyd squinted at her. “Why would he do that?”

  Bonnie shrugged, not quite sure where any of her reasoning was leading. “Beats me. But at one point I thought Alf might even wink.”

  “Bon, Rattlesnake is falling apart. Couldn’t what you saw be just a more bit evidence he’s coming unhinged?”

  Before Bonnie could add more wood to her argument, her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her fanny pack. “Pinkwater.”

  “You wanted to talk with me, Missus P?” Byron’s voice sounded weary and more than a little annoyed.

  For the next few minutes Bonnie told of her first visit to Rattlesnake’s and his noise suppression demonstration to the paintballers. She followed up immediately with her theory about the relative silence of the shots that killed Furby. Byron made the appropriate noises at the appropriate junctures, not interrupting until she finished.

  “I’d wondered about that myself, even so far as asking ballistics if the recovered bullets showed any evidence of passing through a suppressor.”

  “Really?” Bonnie cringed, thinking the one-word question carried within it an implied insult to Byron’s intelligence.

  “Yes, really. Occasionally, we cops do have honest-to-goodness ideas of our own.”

  Bonnie decided the damage was done and pressed on. “So what did you find?”

  “Inconclusive. All three slugs were altered when they banged through Furby and out the back side of the stall. Besides, from what I know, the newer suppressors don’t leave a mark on the slug. Was there anything else?”

  Bonnie debated with herself about sharing her second visit to Rattlesnake’s, knowing full well Byron would read her the riot act for conducting her own inquiries into an ongoing murder investigation.

  To hell with it. She told him everything, ending with a question about whether he’d let slip to Rattlesnake the exact number of shots in Dwight Furby’s chest.

  True to her suspicions, Byron did indeed lay into her. There were the mandatory warnings about danger, then the recriminations about fouling up the investigation, and for good measure, Byron tossed in a threat of not answering any more of her calls.

  Bonnie knew if she didn’t salve this open wound, she would be hard-pressed to glean any more information from her former student. “I hear you loud and clear, youngster. No more sticking my nose in where it’s not needed. Sound advice, I fully intend to take to heart. Consider me a changed woman.” She even crossed her heart though Byron obviously wouldn’t see it.

  “Missus P, you’ve got to be the world’s worst liar.”

  “Now that’s hardly fair. I doubt if you’ve listened to a very significant fraction of the world’s truly terrible liars. I’ll bet I don’t even qualify in the top two hundred.”

  Bonnie held her breath, hoping this morsel of humor would grease the grooves.

  Byron sighed long and heavy. “In answer to your question, I did not tell Mister Alf Rattlesnake Quinn any details of the death of Furby.”

  She pumped a fist into the air. “So?”

  “So nothing. I didn’t hear him say he knew the number of shots. A certain math teacher, who will go unnamed, beat me to the punch. Anything I report would be hearsay.”

  “Lloyd heard it, too.” Even as she said it, she regretted the tone of her voice—like a four-year-old telling her mom, “She started it.”

  Byron growled into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you’ve roped poor Principal Whittaker into this.”

  Bonnie couldn’t see how telling Byron her principal was a willing participant would help matters. While she searched for a more acceptable argument Byron broke in.

  “Look, Missus P, I do know something that might put your mind at ease.”

  Byron sounded so condescending, Bonnie felt like telling him to take his news and put it in a safe and personal spot. Her curiosity won out. “What?”

  “Witnesses place Rattlesnake all night long in the main livestock pens. He was judging hogs for the Four-H folks. No way could he have killed Dwight Furby.”

  Now why, on God’s green earth, would you think that would ease my mind?

  The Saved by the Blood Pentecostal Tabernacle sat at the edge of El Paso County’s largest sod farm, affording it one of the most unique set of views in all of East Plains. A panorama connoisseur looking north would be treated to a brilliant green that rivaled any well-manicured golf course or football field. Lush acres of irrigated sod gleamed kelly green in the afternoon sun.

  Conversely, south and east, the usual subdued reds and yellow-greens of sand, scrub grass, and yucca spread out as far as the eye could see. West, rising high on the horizon stood the front range of the Rockies and its regal queen, Pikes Peak. This time of year the normal crown of snow was gone, but even wearing a skullcap
of reddish-brown the mountain seemed to smile down on its empire.

  One would think, hanging out day after day in the midst of all this grandeur, Pastor Harold T. Dobbs would have a more expansive attitude toward the world in general and his fellow man in particular. Not so much as Bonnie could tell. Sitting behind a pricey-looking oak desk, the man positively scowled when she and Lloyd entered the pastor’s office.

  You invited me, you turkey.

  Jason, with his back to the room, stood at a window. From the set of his shoulders and the fists balled at his side, the young master Dobbs was upset about something.

  Dissension in the ranks?

  Harold pointed to a pair of cushioned folding chairs facing the desk. He nodded to Lloyd.

  “You look a little tight around the jowls,” Lloyd leaned in and whispered to Bonnie.

  “That’s an improvement over how I feel.” Bonnie took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and sat. She’d be damned if she was going to allow this sphincter muscle in cowboy boots to push her around.

  Bad enough Harold spewed his hateful monologues every Wednesday night and twice on Sunday. If it was at all within her power, she’d assure Leo was lowered into the ground with dignity and grace.

  When Jason turned around, Bonnie gasped. He sported a swollen lip.

  Harold must have seen her concern and tried to wave away the distraction. “My son had a bit of a mishap this morning. He’ll be fine. Shall we get started?”

  Bonnie ignored Harold. “What happened, Jason?”

  The young man gave his father a look that spoke volumes.

  My God, the two had a fistfight.

  For a moment, the idea thrilled her, and she searched Harold’s face for similar battle scars. A red streak beneath one eye spoke to where Jason might have clocked the old man.

  And son shall rise up against father. Somehow knowing Jason gave back a little of what dear old dad tried to dish out didn’t assuage Bonnie’s indignation. Fathers flat-out shouldn’t have knock-down-drag-outs with their grown sons.

  Jason sighed and gave her an embarrassed half smile. “It’s nothing, Missus P. Dad’s right, we should get started.”

  Bonnie wanted nothing so much as to leap from her chair and smack Harold T. Dobbs in the chops. A long moment passed while she fought a losing battle with her Imp of the Perverse—the mischievous voice that urged her to recklessness and never failed to get her in trouble.

  “You, sir, are a horse’s ass.”

  Harold jumped to his feet. He sputtered, obviously trying to find a scathing yet imposing retort. In the end, he merely pointed to the door to the office. “Get out.”

  “Up yours, buster.” Bonnie, too, rose from her chair and leaned on the oak desk until her face was only inches from Harold’s. “I’m not going anywhere, until I’ve had my say. Or do you intend to punch me, too?”

  Harold Dobbs reddened. He turned to look at his son. “I told you this was a mistake. I have no intention of working with this woman.”

  Jason opened his mouth to speak, but Lloyd cut him off. “All right. Everybody just settle down.” He’d shifted into stern principal mode.

  Without conscious effort, Bonnie bit back the insult she was preparing for Harold. Even she wasn’t immune to Lloyd when he put tempered steel in his voice.

  He tugged at Bonnie’s sleeve. “Let’s start over. C’mon, Bon, have a seat.”

  Bonnie did as she was told, never taking her eyes from Harold’s.

  “You, too, Dad.” Jason put his hand on his father’s shoulder and guided him down into his chair. “This isn’t about you and Missus P. It’s about Leo and Mister Quinn.”

  “Tell that to her.” Harold pointed with his chin toward Bonnie.

  Eat feces and die, you slope-headed Neanderthal. “I can be civil if he can.”

  “Good.” Jason brought a hand to his swollen lip and stroked it as if it were paining him. “Like Mister Whittaker suggested, why don’t we start over? Now who wants to begin?”

  Harold sat up straighter and steepled his long fingers. “Very well, I have but one reasonable condition that I must insist on in order to include Missus Pinkwater in my service. If it can’t be met …” Harold spread wide his hands, letting her draw the obvious conclusion.

  Uh-oh. “Spill it, Pastor. What do you have in mind?”

  “I want a copy of your eulogy to see if I agree with the content and its adherence to the Scripture.”

  The horse’s patoot isn’t wasting time painting me into a corner.

  Bonnie had no intention of letting Harold make changes in her eulogy—even though she hadn’t written it yet—and moreover the good pastor knew it. She also knew perfectly well he’d do surgery on the piece until she couldn’t bring herself to say the words, thus effectively eliminating her.

  Screwed if I do and equally reamed if I don’t. For her part, she couldn’t sit idly by while Harold T. Dobbs bad-mouthed a fine young man. And maybe therein she had an out.

  Bonnie offered the pastor the smile she reserved for individuals she wanted to irradiate. “Certainly, Harold. And would you be so kind as to provide me with an editable copy of your sermon—just in the off chance I might find portions of it objectionable?”

  Harold slammed his fist down on the desk. “Of all the impertinent suggestions—God is my editor, Pinkwater. He alone will I allow to make changes in my sermons.”

  Bonnie waggled a finger at the pastor. “Nice speech, Harold. Pithy but unacceptable, and furthermore it leaves us kind of at an impasse. Don’t you think?”

  The big man appeared to be considering a response when his phone rang. Jason picked it up. “Saved by the Blood Pentecostal Tabernacle.”

  The room went relatively silent as each of the other three went through the ritual of pretending not to listen.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Jason stroked his swollen lip. “Strange that you should suggest that. It addresses a problem at our end.”

  After another round of “Uh-huh “s and a few “I agree”s, Jason recradled the phone. He avoided his father’s gaze, choosing instead to meet eyes with Lloyd. “That was Alf Quinn.”

  Lloyd nodded. “What did Rattlesnake want?”

  When Jason hesitated, Harold said, “Out with it, boy!”

  Once again, Jason fists balled. “With pleasure, Father. Alf said that, after much consideration, he thinks I should lead the funeral service.”

  Harold bent his head ‘round to give his son a fatherly but condescending glance. “I hope you told him that was out of the question. You’ve never led a funeral.”

  Jason frowned. “Cut it out, Dad. You listened to every word I said, and you know that didn’t happen. And contrary to your opinion, I think I would do a fine job. After all, Leo was my friend, not yours.”

  Harold’s face went to stone, and he seemed to be swallowing and reswallowing something stuck deep in his sanctimonious craw. “This is a bad idea, son.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I disagree.”

  Harold rose from his desk. “I see your mind is made up. I withdraw from the service and leave it entirely in your hands.” The senior pastor’s eyes locked on Bonnie’s. “I half-suspect you had something to do with this.”

  The remark took Bonnie back to her conversation with Alf Quinn. Hadn’t she suggested to the man that Harold was ill-suited for this particular funeral?

  She returned Harold’s stare along with an icy smile. You might be more right than you think, you king-sized bucket of sheep dip.

  Her elation was short-lived as a sneaking suspicion elbowed out her desire to celebrate. For the second time that day, she felt as if she were being manipulated like a marionette. And once again, it felt as if Alf Rattlesnake Quinn held the strings.

  CHAPTER 9

  “BON, RATTLESNAKE PROBABLY JUST TOOK WHAT YOU had to say about Reverend Dobbs to heart. You’re a lot more persuasive than you think. I know from experience.” Lloyd squirreled around in Alice’s driver’s seat, his hand diving deep into h
is back pocket, until he retrieved a cylindrical Copenhagen can.

  “Eeew, Lloyd.” Bonnie blanched. “When did you take up chew? Don’t you dare get any of that nasty stuff on Alice’s immaculate seat cushions.”

  Lloyd gave her a dubious look. He pulled a wad of black fur from the seat and let it fall airily to the floor between them. “I can tell you’ve gone to great pains to keep this vintage automobile in pristine condition. I’ll do my best to make sure it stays unsullied.”

  “See that you do.”

  He placed a pinch of tobacco into his mouth, bulging out his lower lip. “As I was saying before I was interrupted, I think you’re reading too much into this whole funeral thing. Try this on for size. Sometime after we leave, Rattlesnake decides you were making sense about Harold being maybe the world’s worst fit for Leo’s funeral.”

  “This is the same Rattlesnake you thought would shoot us in the back with a snifer riple?”

  Lloyd chuckled. “If you mean sniper rifle, yes. The man had an unbalanced look in his bloodshot eyes, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t make the occasional rational decision. Crazy people change their minds just like us normal folk.”

  Ah, yes, us normal people.

  Bonnie had to admit she could find no holes in her friend’s reasoning. Still, she felt like she was being played. “Humor me. Forget for the moment that my dynamic personality and charisma wowed Rattlesnake and assume the man changed his mind for unsettling reasons of his own.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m working on that. Maybe he wanted Jason to do the funeral all along.”

  Lloyd took his eyes off the road long enough to favor her with a jaundiced stare. “Then why ask Harold in the first place?”

  Good question. “All right. All right. Here you go. He asks Harold and yours truly just to stir up trouble. Then when things come to a boil, he can suggest the substitution that will make everyone happy. He’s a hero, and we readily agree.”

  Lloyd frowned. “I don’t buy it for a couple of reasons. One is that I still can’t see why Alf couldn’t just ask the young pastor Dobbs from the get-go.”