Evil Spreads

sundown in zion
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The mystery deepens 

            Nelson returned to Little Rock at a slow pace, remaining deep in thought as vehicles roared past at speeds well past the stated limit. Traffic was particularly heavy as he navigated the corridor of anonymous shopping centers and fast foods. From more than one driver’s window, a hand making an obscene gesture shot from the window of a vehicle that had seized the opportunity of a break in the traffic to swing from behind Nelson’s truck and speed around him. He paid no attention. A manila envelope, at which he glanced periodically, lay on the seat beside him. Martin had produced it from his briefcase and given it to him before they parted. It contained, Martin had said, a listing of phone numbers to which Abbey had made using Martin’s cell phone. Nelson had work to do that afternoon.

            He began as soon as he reached home. Charlie’s car was gone and Nelson had the house to himself. He fixed a drink and spread the sheets in front of him on the kitchen table. Martin had color-coded the telephone numbers when he printed the lists, a nicety that made Nelson smile. Abbey had borrowed Martin’s phone on the morning of the day before her murder had occurred. She had returned it that night. Martin had coded calls he knew to be to and from other students in yellow, calls to family and other friends in blue, and unknown calls in red. There was little way of knowing what the red-coded numbers implied, but he noted the area codes and frequency. From a file he had place alongside the listings of number, he withdrew a business card from Sam Coulson at the Pro-Tex concealed carry school. Holding it in one hand, and scanning the numbers with a finger of the other, he found, as Sam had said, that Abbey had phoned him before her death. Then something caught his eye.

            Although the area codes of all numbers on the list were the same as those for Little Rock, Nelson could see that the first three-number prefix on Sam’s number appeared on several of the other numbers. He took a pen from his pocket and jotted a note on a page of listings, “Check the land-line prefix for the Connorville area.” He resumed his checking but stopped suddenly when his finger touched another number. He stared for a moment before making another note. He resumed checking the numbers and began shaking his head in negative response. When he finished, he pushed the pages aside and reached for his own cell phone. He punched a number and waited.

            “Please wait a moment, Deputy Nelson,” a stern female voice said from the phone. A country and western song immediately began expressing hopes that a recent sexual encounter didn’t produce a “road-trip result” played while he waited. Then Sheriff Love’s voice literally exploded into Nelson’s ear.

            “My star deputy,” the voice said, “What news do you bring? Shall I send a squad car to load the miscreants you have apprehended?”

            “Not quite yet,” Nelson said, “all I’ve done is eliminate a dead-end.”

            “And which would that be?”

            “Abbey Stubblefield was involved in a gang, but not one of bad intentions?”

            “Oh? There are gangs with good intentions?”

            “Our so-called ‘Christians’ certainly seem to think so.”

            “Indubitably ,” Sheriff Love said, “So hers was a religious one?”

            “Hardly,” Nelson said. “It’s a harmless but boisterous group of students at the school in Hot Springs whose sense of humor is located on a level so high above us that we wouldn’t even know which of their antics are supposed to be funny.” Nelson paused, then said slowly, “At any rate, they didn’t kill Abbey, but that’s where she got the nickname Poison.”

            “Spare me the details,” Sheriff Love said, “I’m a little busy and quite upset.”

            Nelson ignored him for the moment. “Just a quick question,” he said. “Do we have the capability of tracing cell phone number to their owners?”

            “Let’s just say that …” He paused, “You aren’t taping this call are you?” He paused again. “Let’s just say we have friends that can.”

            “Good,” Nelson said. “Now what has your berth all lumpy?”

            “Another body got dumped just over the city limits of Connorville.”

            “Oh shit,” Nelson said.

            “Oh shit is correct, my nautical friend. Only this one was still alive, barely. At least I assume he still is.”

            “Has he been identified?”

            “Oh,” Sheriff Love said. “Everyone knows who it is. They even found him on his own land.”

            “A Connorville man?”

            “Just barely,” Sheriff Love said. “His house is in Connorville, but his farm, which he now rents out and refuses to sell to developers for vast sums of money, is in the county.”

            A long pause followed. “Finally Sheriff Love, evidently fearing a disconnect, said, “Are you still there?”

            After a short pause Nelson said, “I’m here. What happened to him?”

            “He got beat up,” Sheriff Love said. “He got beat up real bad. One of the officers from Connorville who used to work for me called and told me about it.”

            There was another pause. “That would be Officer Patterson.”

            “Yes. He said it was about as bad a beating as he ever saw. They medevacked him to St. Vincent Hospital in Little Rock. I’m headed there as soon as we break off.” Then he said, “Are you okay. You sound like you just saw a whole company of Taliban.”

            There was a short silence again. Then Nelson’s voice eased soft and slow from the sheriff’s phone. “Are you at liberty to tell me the victim’s name?”

            “Hell,” Sheriff Love said,” You’re a deputy ain’t you.” He stopped. “Besides, the newspaper feller has already been here.”

            “And the victim was?”

            “A local man, known and loved by just about everybody except, I guess, whoever beat him up. Clifton Sikes was his name, but I’m sure that don’t mean anything to you.”

            The only sound that came from the phone was heavy breathing. Nelson broke the silence. “It happens that I do,” he said. “It happens that I do know him.”

            “Did you know him well?”

            “Well enough,” Nelson said, “that you might want to hope you find the person, or persons, that beat him before I do.”

            “Lord, mister,” the sheriff said. “Troubles follow you like hounds after a bitch in heat.” Sounds of a chair moving came through Nelson’s phone as the sheriff rose. Then he said, “Are you ever going to tell me who the hell you are?”