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Authors: R. S. Belcher
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the edge of the black lake of blood.
“Old Max means it,” Mutt said. “He’s part of the Bevalier machine. Rich as he is ornery. He’s going to give Harry Pratt a hard time next year in the mayoral election. You may not be at this job very long.”
The Scholar said nothing. He leaned closer to look at the dead woman’s sliced face, wrapped in blood and shadow.
“Molly James,” the Scholar said. “They call her Sweet Molly, or called her, to be more precise. She was an employee here for the past year, I believe.”
Mutt looked hard at the Scholar. “This means less to you than a spit, doesn’t it?”
“Deputy, I’m paid to look after Mr. Bick’s business interests here,” the Scholar said. “Miss James was a commodity and, as such, her loss is regrettable. But I sincerely doubt you will go home and shed any tears for a dead whore, as you so elegantly put it.”
Mutt didn’t reply. There was a commotion from the alley entrance as Jim and Clay Turlough stepped through the blankets. The sky was lightening to a slate blue. Somewhere a nightjar was singing.
“Well, I want to know who the ‘commodity’ was dating tonight,” Mutt said. “I’m sure a meticulous fella like you has all kinds of records and such.”
“I’ll discuss it with Mr. Bick,” the Scholar said.
“You do that,” Mutt said. “Then have that information over to the sheriff’s office by noon today, y’hear?”
“Well, I’m here,” Clay said, walking up on the two men.
Clay Turlough always had a weird smell about him, Mutt thought. Chemicals, and something sour, something spoiled and not right. Mutt was amazed that horses loved Clay as much as they did, given his scent. He owned the only livery in Golgotha and was also the town’s resident taxidermist. Clay was skinny, almost cadaverous, dressed in a stained work shirt, suspenders holding up baggy canvas work pants. Tufts of white hair orbited, like sparse clouds, around his liver-spotted pate. His hands and half his vulture-like face were pitted and streaked with scars from a fire he had survived last year. Clay made no attempt to hide his disfigurement; in fact, most times Mutt thought Clay wasn’t even aware of it.
“Mind telling me why you needed me out here, Mutt,” Clay said. “My experiments are at a very crucial…”
Clay trailed off as he regarded the girl’s body and what had been done to it.
“You want me to … untangle her and take her home,” Clay said.
“Yes,” Mutt said. “Clay, you think you can help us figure out what sumbitch did this to her?”
Turlough scratched his head and walked closer to the tangle of guts that stretched out of the victim. He no longer heard Mutt; he was deep in his own mind, now. Seeing the scene in multiple dimensions, formulating, equating.
He touched one of the taut tubes of intestine with his forefinger and traced it back, walking to the wall of the alley fence where it was nailed. It vibrated slightly as he did and gore spattered off into the pool of blood. He examined the nail. Jim looked at Mutt and then back to Clay.
“He’s no carpenter, doesn’t know his way around a hammer,” Clay said. “Wrong kind of nails to use for this wood. He used old A cuts, when B cuts would have been better. He also has half-moon divots in the wood where he missed the nail several times and hit the wood.”
“You said ‘he,’” Jim said.
“Mmhhm,” Clay said, only half listening to Jim. “Men’s shoes, not boots like you and Mutt tromped all over the scene, but a gentleman’s shoe. Size eight and a half, I’d wager. This was a man’s work. A man with a great deal of hatred for the female of the species and very little fear of capture or consequence. He has nothing but contempt for the law, fellas.”
“Wish we had a photographer to catch all this stuff,” Mutt said. “Might be things here that could help us find the sick bastard. I’d like Jon to give it a once-over too.”
Clay seemed to snap out of
“Old Max means it,” Mutt said. “He’s part of the Bevalier machine. Rich as he is ornery. He’s going to give Harry Pratt a hard time next year in the mayoral election. You may not be at this job very long.”
The Scholar said nothing. He leaned closer to look at the dead woman’s sliced face, wrapped in blood and shadow.
“Molly James,” the Scholar said. “They call her Sweet Molly, or called her, to be more precise. She was an employee here for the past year, I believe.”
Mutt looked hard at the Scholar. “This means less to you than a spit, doesn’t it?”
“Deputy, I’m paid to look after Mr. Bick’s business interests here,” the Scholar said. “Miss James was a commodity and, as such, her loss is regrettable. But I sincerely doubt you will go home and shed any tears for a dead whore, as you so elegantly put it.”
Mutt didn’t reply. There was a commotion from the alley entrance as Jim and Clay Turlough stepped through the blankets. The sky was lightening to a slate blue. Somewhere a nightjar was singing.
“Well, I want to know who the ‘commodity’ was dating tonight,” Mutt said. “I’m sure a meticulous fella like you has all kinds of records and such.”
“I’ll discuss it with Mr. Bick,” the Scholar said.
“You do that,” Mutt said. “Then have that information over to the sheriff’s office by noon today, y’hear?”
“Well, I’m here,” Clay said, walking up on the two men.
Clay Turlough always had a weird smell about him, Mutt thought. Chemicals, and something sour, something spoiled and not right. Mutt was amazed that horses loved Clay as much as they did, given his scent. He owned the only livery in Golgotha and was also the town’s resident taxidermist. Clay was skinny, almost cadaverous, dressed in a stained work shirt, suspenders holding up baggy canvas work pants. Tufts of white hair orbited, like sparse clouds, around his liver-spotted pate. His hands and half his vulture-like face were pitted and streaked with scars from a fire he had survived last year. Clay made no attempt to hide his disfigurement; in fact, most times Mutt thought Clay wasn’t even aware of it.
“Mind telling me why you needed me out here, Mutt,” Clay said. “My experiments are at a very crucial…”
Clay trailed off as he regarded the girl’s body and what had been done to it.
“You want me to … untangle her and take her home,” Clay said.
“Yes,” Mutt said. “Clay, you think you can help us figure out what sumbitch did this to her?”
Turlough scratched his head and walked closer to the tangle of guts that stretched out of the victim. He no longer heard Mutt; he was deep in his own mind, now. Seeing the scene in multiple dimensions, formulating, equating.
He touched one of the taut tubes of intestine with his forefinger and traced it back, walking to the wall of the alley fence where it was nailed. It vibrated slightly as he did and gore spattered off into the pool of blood. He examined the nail. Jim looked at Mutt and then back to Clay.
“He’s no carpenter, doesn’t know his way around a hammer,” Clay said. “Wrong kind of nails to use for this wood. He used old A cuts, when B cuts would have been better. He also has half-moon divots in the wood where he missed the nail several times and hit the wood.”
“You said ‘he,’” Jim said.
“Mmhhm,” Clay said, only half listening to Jim. “Men’s shoes, not boots like you and Mutt tromped all over the scene, but a gentleman’s shoe. Size eight and a half, I’d wager. This was a man’s work. A man with a great deal of hatred for the female of the species and very little fear of capture or consequence. He has nothing but contempt for the law, fellas.”
“Wish we had a photographer to catch all this stuff,” Mutt said. “Might be things here that could help us find the sick bastard. I’d like Jon to give it a once-over too.”
Clay seemed to snap out of
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