Pale Aftermath

By Doug McCall

Harris County Sheriff's Department detective Pete Scallion is wrestling with the decision of whether or not to return to his job of solving cold case homicides, while mired in the grief of the recent loss of his wife, Marti. Retirement looks like a better alternative, since he has lost the only person who has sustained him through his career. The realization that his work solving nearly forgotten murders is the only life he has left finally wins out, and he reluctantly returns to the department.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988531345

Book preview

work.

ONE

Central Texas

Dust. Dust everywhere. There was no way to escape it. No matter how hard you tried to avoid it, or prayed for it to disappear. And the man pulling his extended cab, Ford F-150 pickup off the farm-to-market road wasn’t one to pray much anyway.

Nearly six months of hardly any rain worth measuring had cast a dry pall of desperation over most of the southern half of Texas. There had been droughts like this before, but you tend to forget between the events how helpless one can feel when facing it again over an interminable period of time; it showed no signs of ending. He was luckier than most; lucky to have a job of the sort that meant he wasn’t totally beholding to income from ranching or farming, which was becoming non-existent for most in the region. It was easy to accept that the problems of others weren’t his.

Banking off the county road onto his dirt and gravel driveway stirred up a new cloud of dust, trailing his truck down the descending path. Most of the vegetation edging the drive, other than the hardy cedars, scrub brush and cactus, had by now shown signs of dying, leaving a stark drive back to his modest ranch-style brick home standing amidst likewise burned-out, brown crispy shrubs some hundred yards in. The house occupied a small portion of slightly more than four acres of land, just over eight miles from the nearest town where his day-job existed. His closest neighbor was a half-mile away, which was fine with him. A reclusive existence meant nothing to him one way or the other.

There was a small barn behind the house, a thirty-by-thirty wood fence not far behind it, with more than half the boards beginning to rot. A wire-strung fence enclosure stood another fifty yards back where his few remaining head of quarter horses hung out.

Bouncing along the jarring ride caused by the rutted entrance, he continued to fight a nagging feeling of strange discord . . . strange in the sense he couldn’t explain it. Neither premonitions, omens, nor psychic occurrences were factors in his outlook on life. If he couldn’t see it or touch it, or if it didn’t have some reason to it, he simply wouldn’t accept it as real. But he couldn’t shake the feeling in his stomach, or maybe in his bones, that something was out of whack. He did his best to ignore the un-settling internal chord as the truck braked to a stop in its usual spot on one end of the house.

Stepping from the vehicle into the ninety-five degree late afternoon heat, which made the dry conditions even more intolerable, he scanned the area for signs . . . at least what he could see from where he stood. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; nothing visible was cause for concern. The only thing of any remote consequence was the fact the horses were visible standing at a far corner of the pen. They usually hung their necks across the top of the fence nearest the barn when he arrived home, hoping to be fed fresh hay, which was becoming scarce with the lack of moisture. Chalking it up to their having spotted something farther back, or maybe a rattler up front, he approached the side door of the house, the door leading to the dingy, soap-scented laundry room, then the kitchen. While closing the door behind him, a sudden warm breeze ushered in a spray of dust.

Crap, he muttered. Grabbing a straw broom from a recess between the washing machine and dryer, he swept the new deposit into a corner next to earlier leavings, the whole mess to be dealt with more permanently later.

Replacing the broom, he continued into the kitchen, then a few steps farther to the connected dining room. Emptying his pockets, he placed the contents on top of what his ex-wife had identified as a sideboard when she was still around. Now, since she was no longer within earshot, it was simply a surface to unload his stuff onto. The tools of his trade were also laid atop the scratched wooden piece of furniture.

After a quick visit to the hall bathroom to relieve himself of the day’s half-dozen cups of coffee, he stopped in the hallway to give the thermostat a nudge down to a more comfortable temperature range. It was mid-August, and the current time period of between five and six p. m. was the most stifling time of day in his part of the world. It was necessary to set the temperature north of seventy-five when leaving in the morning, or see his electric bill skyrocket even higher. Then it was back to the kitchen, and a reach-in to the refrigerator to grab a can of Coors beer; the real stuff, in the salmon-colored can, not the silver can he saw as only fit for wimps who worried pointlessly over their weight. Did no good anyway.

Yanking the pop-top, he held the ice-cold metal to his forehead for a second, then took the first swig, drawing down nearly half the can. Leaning against the kitchen sink, he propped his weight up with one hand while chugging the beer down with the other. It was a good time of day to peer through the window over the sink, watching the sun starting to spread shadows as it gradually set behind the parched tree line at the rear of his property. Finishing-off the beer in a few gulps, he crimped the empty can with a hard squeeze, and was about to retrieve his second, when something suddenly caught his eye . . . something he hadn’t seen earlier. A tailgate; the butt end of a pickup, parked between the rear of the barn and the pen, not visible from where he had parked. Not enough was showing to strike a familiar chord, but the feeling he had felt minutes ago came rushing back.

By the end of the milli-second it took for his brain to put spotting the truck together with his unease of a few minutes earlier, the true cause of his internal discomfort made itself known.

Tough day, boss?

Turning to face the voice, a voice he knew well, but one definitely unexpected, he didn’t try to cover up his shock.

Granger? What the hell . . ?

Sorry, boss. Didn’t mean to sneak up like that. I been in the living room, waitin’.

The other man sought to maintain composure, his mind filled with equal parts anger and suspicion. Waitin’? Waitin’ for what?

Well, for you. The intruder shifted his feet nervously, clutching his thumbs inside his jeans pockets. The front door was unlocked, so let myself in.

Hell, you know I never lock my doors. Not way out here. The home owner swung his head toward the window, then back at the man. And why’d you hide your truck out there?

The man referred to as Granger, which was his last name, chuckled, trying to put a lighter touch on the surprise visit. Knew if you saw it you’d most likely keep on going.

Ordinarily a statement such as that might be hard to decipher, but its meaning was known instantly by the other man. As was the purpose of the trespass. There could be only one reason for the surprise appearance. But he had to play along, just in case he was reading it wrong.

Not sure what you mean, Alan, he said, now using the idiot’s first name, hoping to keep things on the friendly side.

More shuffling. Well, I figured you’d know what I was coming for, and wouldn’t want to talk about it.

The man folded his arms across his belly, trying for a casual look, then chose to move things along. Oh. And what would that be?

I think you know what it is. Money. Things’ve gotten worse by the day. Granger was now sweating profusely, lips forced into a snarl. This damn drought’s killing me. My herd’s dying from both hunger and thirst. can’t afford what hay there is, and my tank is all but dried up.

Yeah, I know it’s rough, Alan. Everybody’s in the same boat. We’ve talked about this before. Several times, in fact.

The snarl grew wider, eyes narrowing. But not for you, boss, Granger answered. The two men had known each other for most of their lives, but he had only started using the boss term lately, as their relationship had shifted into something different. It was surely meant to be a derogatory term. You got a job to help you get by. Some of us don’t. The last words were snapped off, dripping with bitterness.

Ain’t there something you can find somewhere? There’s gotta be jobs out there. You just gotta look. They had talked about this too.

You know damn well I been lookin’. Anger was rising in his words. I’d have to sell what little I got left and move somewhere else.

The man knew there was truth in what Granger was saying, but he had nothing else to offer his old, lately bothersome acquaintance. He remained silent; evidently too silent for his unwelcome guest.

I need five thousand, boss, just to get by. The man nervously spat the words out. No bank’s gonna loan me anything now. You’re the only hope I got.

The amount, and the bluntness of the request, shocked the other man. As much as he’d like to help his pitiful neighbor, there was no way he would ever consider loaning any amount, let alone five thousand, to someone he knew was a hopeless risk; someone who, by his own words, was in no position to repay.

He sized up Alan Granger, sweating and shifting anxiously across the room. Granger, standing a few inches shorter than himself, looked even more rumpled than usual; his thinning hair un-combed, several days of beard growth, dirty, baggy jeans, dirt-stained golf shirt, long, en-even sideburns, almost mutton-chop length. The slovenly appearance was a life-long thing with the under-achiever. They had never been close, only friends due to living in proximity. Although they had played on the same high school football team, Granger had rarely seen the field. His reputation was that of a classic fuck-up, giving rise to the opinion of many he could screw up a steel ball with a rubber handle. Harmless, but hardly likeable.

Alan, there’s no way in hell I can loan you that much, and I’m not sure I would if I had it.

Granger’s face contorted from a sneer into apparent anger. He narrowed his eyes. I think you’d better reconsider things.

The unhappy host stiffened his posture, standing erect with hands on his hips. The tone of the confrontation was now laced with malice.

And why is that?

Now a knowing smile crept across Granger’s face. Because I know a couple of things. Things other people around here don’t. I’m the only one who could figure them out.

A different kind of nauseous feeling began forming a knot in the other man’s stomach. "What the hell you talkin’ about? What things do you think you know?"

Oh, I know ‘em for sure. One thing is, you might be forgettin’ my mother was a nurse, worked in all parts of the hospital over in San Marcos. One of ‘em was the maternity wing. A pause for effect, letting things sink in. You know, people laid up in a hospital, going through maybe painful times, with a squirt of pain killers in ‘em, tell all kinds of things. Might be called dirty little secrets. Maybe, even big secrets.

The small kitchen-dining room enclosure was quiet for a few seconds, filled only by heavy breathing of the men facing off. The homeowner felt his mouth hanging open, then closed it, starting to grind his teeth.

Momma kept one secret she was told, for a long time. Told it to me just before she died early this year. So now I know it. The other thing I know is kind of a guess, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.

Another measured pause. The man, boss, felt the cramped space growing smaller, his blood pressure rising dangerously.

About seven years ago, maybe a little more, you left town for a few days. Didn’t think too much about it ‘til I read what happened over near Houston during the time you was gone. That’s when I put things together. I know everybody around here thinks I’m stupid, and I sure ain’t no genius. But I got this here figured out.

More silence. It appeared Granger decided he’d said all he needed to, and the other man wasn’t sure what his next words should be. He turned to look back through the window, pressing his hands flat on the counter with as much force as he could muster. The shock was settling in that the helpless ass-hole was blackmailing him, and in his line of work he knew these things never ended. If he paid to keep Alan quiet, which was what was being implied, he would come back for more, and then more. After all this time, all these years, it was hard to believe that now—

The money, boss. I need it now.

He looked down at the counter, quickly evaluating his options, which weren’t good. Although he knew with some certainty Granger had no way of proving his statements, especially with his credibility problems, and his mother gone, he might still raise enough stink to be a concern. With all of his bogus choices in his past, the guy was in the middle of doing the wrongest thing he had ever done. But his threat had to be met.

Okay, he said, turning to face the problem. But I can’t go the whole five thousand. I can make it for say, thirty-five hundred, which is all I got in my checking account.

I was hopin’ for cash.

I’m sure you were, but nobody keeps that much on hand. Take it or leave it.

Granger let a narrow smile of victory sneak out. All right.

I’ll get my checkbook.

Granger shifted his feet nervously while the other man disappeared down the hallway, then re-appeared with his check ledger. Taking a seat at the dining room table, he started to write out the check while it was still in the book. Then, not wanting to leave an imprint beneath it, he tore the check out and filled it in on the veneered surface of the table. He handed the check over to Granger, and watched as his blackmailer looked closely at it, running his beady eyes over every number.

That’ll have to do, Alan.

Okay, boss. Granger then gave a crooked smile. Sorry I had to do it this way, but I wasn’t kiddin’ about being desperate.

The other man nodded slowly, as if understanding. Sure. No hard feelings. He stood, then matter-of-factly said, Say, I got a new generator I picked up today in the bed of my truck. Mind helpin’ me offload it to the back of the house? Least you can do.

Granger hesitated for a second, obviously wanting to make a quick exit, then nodded. Okay. He folded the check and put it in one of his jean’s pockets.

The homeowner led the way to the door leading from the laundry room outside, then opened the door to let the other man out first. As he did so, he reached behind the door for an item, which he quickly concealed behind his back.

Granger arrived at the truck first, putting his hands on the side of the bed, leaning in to look for the generator. He started to turn toward the man following.

Hey. There ain’t no—

Before he could finish, a baseball bat struck a skull-cracking blow to the left side of his head. Rocking back on his heels, he tried to stand still, a stunned look on his face. Another blow landed, this one on the opposite side of the cranium. To the other man’s disbelief and horror, Granger began staggering across the yard, moving away from the truck. It brought back the memory of a stray dog he had seen once, struck by a passing vehicle, running around for a while, before falling dead. Rushing to catch up with the reeling victim, he kicked his legs out from under him. Standing over him, he was ready to finish what he’d started, when the whirring grind of tires could be heard approaching his driveway on the county road’s surface above. Panicking, he knelt down, holding Granger’s twisting body down with a knee. Bleeding profusely, the injured man was making sickening groaning sounds, still squirming, grinding himself into the dust. Remaining still, the attacker was relieved to hear the vehicle continue on past his entrance, the sound of the tires on asphalt mercifully growing distant.

The job had to be completed. He considered returning to the house to retrieve his firearm, but the sound of gunfire might carry too far. Continuing in his kneeling position, he readied himself for as many blows as it would take. He didn’t like doing this; it wasn’t like the time before. There was white-hot hate involved then. He didn’t hate Alan Granger, only saw him as a nuisance that had to eliminated.

Minutes later, when he was certain there was no pulse, he sat in the blood-splattered dust for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts. Sweat was pouring from his arms and face; shirt sticking to his torso. He had to decide what to do with the body. Looking around the yard, he spotted it quickly. A flat, three-inch-deep, four-foot square board, covering up an abandoned water well. The well had been de-activated when he had tied on to county utilities a decade or so back. Getting to his feet, he was surprised how exhausted killing Granger had left him; his legs shaking from fatigue. Making his way to the well cover, roughly thirty feet behind the house, he began sliding the board off to the side. It took more effort than he had predicted, due to its bulk and his spent condition.

He then returned to the motionless body, reaching into the man’s pocket and extracting the check. He knew there wasn’t enough in his account to cover the check, but he also knew it would’ve never been presented for payment. Grabbing the man’s ankles, wanting to avoid the bloody mess around the head, he drug the body to the uncovered opening. Lowering the body head-first into the darkness, he was about to let go, when he again spotted Granger’s truck. He would have to move it. Where the hell were the keys! At the last second, before losing his grasp of the corpse, he pulled it back up. Dead weight hanging made it an even bigger challenge. Rifling through pockets, he found the keys in the one opposite where the check had been. Tossing them aside, he again lowered the body into the hole, sliding it over the six-inch collar, then listening as it hit bottom with a muted thud. Looking back at the baseball bat, lying in the dirt where he’d bashed the life out of Granger, he saw it was covered with blood, trapped in the splintered slivers. Returning to retrieve it, he tossed it in the hole on top of Granger’s body.

Replacing the cover, he took a minute to examine the scene. He would have to mix the blood in with the dust, maybe cover it with something, then rake over the trail left from dragging the body. But what to do with the truck? He had an idea, but it would have to wait until rains finally returned; they had to sooner or later. Until then, he would park it in his barn, out of sight. He rarely had visitors who would inquire about it, so he felt it would be safe. He did so, then cleaned up the mess he and Granger had made as best he could.

When he was done, he returned to the house, now in muted darkness, tore up the check and flushed it down the toilet. He grabbed another Coors from the refrigerator, then sat at the kitchen table for a while. Tamping a cigarette from its pack, he grabbed a book of matches on the table and lit up. He didn’t smoke much anymore, but it seemed a good time. He sat there for a full fifteen minutes, reviewing things in his mind, hoping he hadn’t overlooked anything. He was pretty sure he hadn’t. But then, he had no way of knowing his mistake had been made years earlier.

TWO

Seabrook, Texas

Low-lying bands of moisture-soaked clouds hung over the otherwise pleasant city park. Rain had finally come to south Texas, and had chosen to hang around for almost two weeks solid. The gulf-stream that had stayed south of the state for so long had shifted north, bringing with it moisture from the Gulf of Mexico, providing a drenching from Waco on down. The pitted asphalt walking trail that meandered in a more-or-less oval shape held puddles here and there, making it necessary for the speed walker to jump over or step around the slop, interrupting his thirteenminute- per-mile pace.

The rain left behind, plus the duck shit . . . more correctly . . . goose shit, made Ansel Colfax’s morning walk an obstacle course. The birds were nasty, belying their graceful appearance. He had enjoyed them as a child, watching the honkers’ arrivals and departures near his boyhood home on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, and even some as a young man. Now, they were only a nuisance, leaving splotches of stench along the path. When he’d first noticed them a few years ago, arching their graceful necks and flapping their wings in the pond forming a center-piece of the park, he thought the area just south of Houston might simply be a stopping-off point during their winter migration to warmer climes. It didn’t take long to figure out southeast Texas was plenty warm, so they stayed put. Their only redeeming trait, and it was an infrequent occurrence, was an occasional launch from a running position, soaring in perfect V-formation into the skies in a cacophony of honking. His aeronautical background allowed him to view those coordinated take-offs as exhilarating.

Completing a leap over a particularly large puddle, Colfax glanced across the width of the park, verifying the man he’d seen taking a seat minutes earlier was still there, as he had been at least a couple of times the past few weeks. The man was a puzzle that Colfax felt he had to solve. He didn’t like the looks of the guy: unshaven; sloppy appearance; t-shirt, tail out; baseball cap pulled low, almost covering his eyes; slouched position. There were many sorts of danger the callowlooking man could represent, and in the mammoth area in and around greater Houston, the list was lengthy: child molester; stalker; maybe even a terrorist. The park was popular with soccer moms walking alone or in small groups, as well as younger moms taking infants for a morning stroll, so he could be a threat.

And Ansel Colfax was the type who liked to solve puzzles, brazen enough to approach them head-on. He had a well-earned reputation shared by his former co-workers as a smart-ass, in-your-face Yankee, although, as he explained to them, Virginia was not really a northern state. He never bothered to stress that point, since he was actually quite proud of his attitude of not backing away from any challenge. It had served him well while working at the nearby Johnson Space Center before retirement, and he saw no reason to change in his so-called Golden Years.

He resumed his rapid pace, chugging along in his grey sneakers, white sockettes peeking up from the shoe tops, tan cargo shorts, Texas Aggie t-shirt his grandson had sent him from the university to the northwest, a sweat band just above his ears. His wife, Bea, insisted he resembled an aged Richard Simmons, wearing the band instead of a cap, but he didn’t like caps, and at seventy-one, he could wear what he damnwell pleased.

Concentrating on the threatening stranger again, he noticed he hadn’t moved, appearing to be staring hard at the ground. He was Seated On One of the several benches spread throughout the park, roughly ten feet off the trail. Ansel was now about three-quarters of a mile from the man, roughly ten minutes walk-time. He decided if the guy was still there when he reached his position, he would confront him . . . say something. He wasn’t quite sure what, but something. There might be a little danger involved, but most likely not. Besides, his suspicions wouldn’t rest until he found out what the troubling man was up to.

It actually took slightly more than ten minutes, since he slowed some while planning his approach. He walked a yard or two past the bench occupant, then came to a stop, looking back.

Lousy weather, huh?

The man reacted slowly, bending his head without raising it.

Yeah, guess it is. The tone muted, level, but not threatening.

Colfax tried to look at the man’s eyes, but the bill of the cap hung too low. Mother Nature sure has a way of compensating for herself. Looks like we’re in for a rainy early fall.

The man only nodded in reply. His body language indicated to Colfax he was in some sort of stress, possibly hurting in some way. And since the stranger hadn’t jumped up and lunged at him, screaming obscenities, he pressed on in his persistent, meddling Yankee style.

Are you okay, sir?

The man now leaned back, setting his back against the supporting slats. With a clear view of the face, Colfax could see bleary, bloodshot eyes, maybe due to a lack of sleep. But they were friendly eyes.

I’ve been better. Should be okay in time. He propped an arm on the top slat of the bench, stretching his legs out, crossing his walking shoes one over the other.

Is it something you care to talk about? Colfax said, squinting.

The man was silent for such a prolonged moment, Ansel thought he wasn’t going to respond. He considered resuming his walk.

I’m not sure talking about it will be any help.

Well, you never know. My wife says I’m a pretty good listener, and believe me, she gives me plenty of chances.

That brought a bare hint of a smile, creating crinkled lines in the unshaven face. The man seated pushed the cap back on his head, then slid to the end of the bench.

Have a seat, if you’d like.

Colfax did so, taking a seat at the far end, still on his guard, leaning away. Not sure if the man wanted things on a first-name basis or not, he gave his anyway. Name’s Ansel, by the way. Finally getting a close look, some semblance of recognition struck him; he had seen this guy somewhere.

Pete, was the reply. Neither man extended a hand.

Nice to meet you, Pete.

There was silence for another few beats. The nosy retiree didn’t want to push things too hard, letting the man, Pete, set the agenda.

The thing is, Ansel, Pete’s shoulders visibly sagged, then he said haltingly, I lost my wife recently, and I’m having a hard time coping.

THREE

Ansel Colfax turned away to stare down at the dirt and grass surrounding the bench. He was experiencing a rare occurrence of being unable to speak, searching for a worthwhile response to a statement such as that. He was questioning his decision to impose himself onto the man’s grief.

I’m very sorry to hear that, Pete. Do you mind if I ask . . ?

He didn’t have to complete the most obvious of questions.

Cancer. Pete removed his arm from the bench back, then again leaned forward with his arms on his knees. Breast cancer.

Colfax was really sorry he had abandoned his walk now. His wife’s face flashed before him, thinking how losing her in such a way would affect him. But he also suddenly realized where he had seen this man. It was in this very park, walking with a short, attractive, olive-toned woman. What a terrible thing her illness and death must’ve