“Rex, get the evidence kit.” Then he shouted into the station, “Gilbert, you find Doc Randolph and have him meet us at the Ranger’s Lodge as soon you can get him there.”
He ran around the side of his desk, through the station and into the street. The Ranger’s Lodge was a minute’s run from the sheriff’s office, and he poured on all of his steam in an attempt to cut that time in half.
~ ~ ~
Thirty years ago, Theodore Bixby, then mayor of Barnard, had visited his sister in Boston. At the invitation of her husband, Bixby had joined his brother-in-law at a men’s club near the harbor. There he found white-haired men in crisp suits lounging in wingback chairs, smoking cigars and pipes, while colored men brought them cocktails on silver trays. Bixby had so enjoyed his time in this establishment that he’d thought to bring the idea with him back to Barnard. Still a man of the West, Bixby had insisted the club speak to the rich culture of Texas, and as a result the lodge owed as much to an old Houston saloon as it did to an Edwardian parlor. A polished walnut bar ran across the back of the room. Three card tables occupied the polished oak flooring on the left of the door and to the right were a number of high-backed leather chairs, which formed a series of conversation areas, leading to a stone hearth against the far wall. Over the years, the membership had remained exclusive and the lodge was frequented mostly by the male heirs of those few men who’d chipped in to have the club built. Mort Grant was not one of those heirs, but his father had managed the Ranger’s Lodge for twenty-five years before a heart attack had taken him home to Jesus. His son, who’d apprenticed under his father for eighteen of those years, had assumed the mantle.
Now Mort Grant stood in front of the lodge in his white shirt and black vest. Tom spotted him the moment he took the corner.
He wanted to believe that Mort had made a mistake. He ran with all of his might, but it was an eagerness to refute what the barman had suggested, not confirm it, that drove him.
“This way,” Mort said, waving the sheriff to the open front door.
Tom hopped onto the sidewalk and took two steps under the eaves before stopping in his tracks. The room beyond the threshold was dark and Tom was momentarily shadow blind. He blinked and the shape hanging in the middle of the room began to develop and come into focus.
A pudgy young man hung by his neck from a slender rope affixed to one of the ceiling beams. Except for a single black sock, he was naked. The boy wore the same dazed and tense death expression Harold Ashton had worn. His plump tongue stuck from between his lips like a bruised slug. Worse still, Tom knew this boy; he had spoken to his men about him less than an hour ago.
“That’s David Williams,” he muttered. “Jesus, that’s Deke’s boy.”
“Yes sir,” Mort said at his shoulder. “We found him there when we were opening the lodge for the evening.”
Once his initial shock at seeing the hanged body receded to a thudding discomfort at his temples, Tom stepped into the lodge. He took a deep breath and then instantly regretted it. The coiled scents of shit and piss stung his nostrils, and though he felt some gratitude that the stench of rot was not similarly entwined with those of waste, it came as minor consolation. Tom took further solace in noting that David hadn’t been opened up the way Harold had, but again his sense of relief amounted to a drop of dye in a rushing river. He crossed to the body, which hung high, so that David’s privates were at the level of Tom’s face.
Rex arrived with the evidence kit and cursed up a storm upon seeing the dead boy’s body. He set the kit down and stomped in a circle like a thug who’d lost a bet. Mort Grant remained outside. There was no sign of the woman who’d been screaming so frantically in the background of his call.
“Fuck. Fuck,” Rex barked.
“That’s enough,” Tom
He ran around the side of his desk, through the station and into the street. The Ranger’s Lodge was a minute’s run from the sheriff’s office, and he poured on all of his steam in an attempt to cut that time in half.
~ ~ ~
Thirty years ago, Theodore Bixby, then mayor of Barnard, had visited his sister in Boston. At the invitation of her husband, Bixby had joined his brother-in-law at a men’s club near the harbor. There he found white-haired men in crisp suits lounging in wingback chairs, smoking cigars and pipes, while colored men brought them cocktails on silver trays. Bixby had so enjoyed his time in this establishment that he’d thought to bring the idea with him back to Barnard. Still a man of the West, Bixby had insisted the club speak to the rich culture of Texas, and as a result the lodge owed as much to an old Houston saloon as it did to an Edwardian parlor. A polished walnut bar ran across the back of the room. Three card tables occupied the polished oak flooring on the left of the door and to the right were a number of high-backed leather chairs, which formed a series of conversation areas, leading to a stone hearth against the far wall. Over the years, the membership had remained exclusive and the lodge was frequented mostly by the male heirs of those few men who’d chipped in to have the club built. Mort Grant was not one of those heirs, but his father had managed the Ranger’s Lodge for twenty-five years before a heart attack had taken him home to Jesus. His son, who’d apprenticed under his father for eighteen of those years, had assumed the mantle.
Now Mort Grant stood in front of the lodge in his white shirt and black vest. Tom spotted him the moment he took the corner.
He wanted to believe that Mort had made a mistake. He ran with all of his might, but it was an eagerness to refute what the barman had suggested, not confirm it, that drove him.
“This way,” Mort said, waving the sheriff to the open front door.
Tom hopped onto the sidewalk and took two steps under the eaves before stopping in his tracks. The room beyond the threshold was dark and Tom was momentarily shadow blind. He blinked and the shape hanging in the middle of the room began to develop and come into focus.
A pudgy young man hung by his neck from a slender rope affixed to one of the ceiling beams. Except for a single black sock, he was naked. The boy wore the same dazed and tense death expression Harold Ashton had worn. His plump tongue stuck from between his lips like a bruised slug. Worse still, Tom knew this boy; he had spoken to his men about him less than an hour ago.
“That’s David Williams,” he muttered. “Jesus, that’s Deke’s boy.”
“Yes sir,” Mort said at his shoulder. “We found him there when we were opening the lodge for the evening.”
Once his initial shock at seeing the hanged body receded to a thudding discomfort at his temples, Tom stepped into the lodge. He took a deep breath and then instantly regretted it. The coiled scents of shit and piss stung his nostrils, and though he felt some gratitude that the stench of rot was not similarly entwined with those of waste, it came as minor consolation. Tom took further solace in noting that David hadn’t been opened up the way Harold had, but again his sense of relief amounted to a drop of dye in a rushing river. He crossed to the body, which hung high, so that David’s privates were at the level of Tom’s face.
Rex arrived with the evidence kit and cursed up a storm upon seeing the dead boy’s body. He set the kit down and stomped in a circle like a thug who’d lost a bet. Mort Grant remained outside. There was no sign of the woman who’d been screaming so frantically in the background of his call.
“Fuck. Fuck,” Rex barked.
“That’s enough,” Tom
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