Part 51 (1/2)
”Glory, glory hallelujah!” sang Elvis.
”YOU AREN'T GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!” said Gildy. ”Everybody thought Mrs. Macon had a stroke, right? This morning she got out of bed and came down for breakfast all by herself. They drugged her! The last thing she remembers is the first shot they gave her.” Then she added with a note of dread, ”And let me tell you, she's hopping mad!”
”The Macon estate owns half the property in this little square mile,” I observed. ”If the corporation's legit and Cantwell's the main stockholder, he could control most of the town.”
”Not from jail, he won't,” said Nancy. ”Did you know about the Harmons in Missoula?”
We all looked at her blankly. ”Speak on,” I said.
”I've sat on this information long enough. Remember Nevin Sorrel?”
”He was killed,” said Morgan.
”He was working for me, in a way.” said Nancy. ”After Cantwell wowed Mrs. Macon and took his job, he came to me wanting to give me some inside stuff on him. I didn't listen at first. I thought it was just gossip and mud-slinging, but once I met Cantwell face to face, I thought better of it. It turns out Nevin Sorrel and the real Brandon Nichols used to be ranch hands together on the Harmon ranch rear Missoula. That's how Nevin knew that our Brandon Nichols wasn't really Brandon Nichols.”
”Whoa,” I said. ”You mean, we're talking about another Brandon Nichols, as in, a real one?”
”A real one,” Nancy replied. ”Buck and Cindy Harmon are good friends with Mrs. Macon. They knew Cephus, of course, and they did business with each other. Nevin came from the Harmons to work for the Macons, and then, so did Cantwell, posing as Brandon Nichols, with a good reference from the Harmons.”
”How in the world did he do that?” Morgan wondered.
Nancy opened her valise and pulled out a photograph, a snapshot of some ranch hands leaning on a fence. ”The Harmons sent this to me. Check out the two guys in the middle.” We all leaned in to study the picture. Nevin Sorrel was easy to pick out. Next to him was a young man with long, black hair and dark skin, apparently of Hispanic or Native American descent. ”Meet the real Brandon Nichols.”
”Kyle,” I said, ”remember Hattie in Missoula? She said Herb Johnson used to ride horses on a ranch around there.”
”Herb Johnson?” Nancy asked.
”Justin Cantwell,” I explained, ”before he became Brandon Nichols.”
”Oh great.” Nancy shook her head in dismay. ”Another name.” She continued, ”Anyway, piecing it together from what Nevin told me, Justin Cantwell-alias Herb Johnson-visited the ranch a few times to ride horses, and met the real Brandon Nichols. They even joked about how they could be mistaken for each other.”
We looked at the photograph again. It was possible.
”If Cantwell wanted to call himself Brandon Nichols and get a Was.h.i.+ngton State driver's license, it's conceivable he could have done it. So Cantwell came to Antioch, posed as Brandon Nichols, introduced himself to the widow, and he had a job. Mrs. Macon called the Harmons for a reference and they gave her a glowing report of what a great worker Brandon was-and the description was the same: dark-skinned, long black hair, medium build.” Nancy smiled whimsically. ”The Harmons were a little amazed to learn their former ranch hand was such a spiritual man and miracle worker. They'd never seen him do anything of the kind.”
”No cameras,” Kyle mused. ”Cantwell never allowed cameras on the ranch.”
”The Harmons had never met Cantwell and the widow had never met Nichols. It was a perfect switch.” Nancy shrugged. ”But I sneaked a camera onto the ranch and got a shot of Cantwell, just as you did. I sent it to the Harmons and they confirmed: Cantwell isn't Nichols. No way.”
”Which raises a dark question,” I said. ”What happened to the real Brandon Nichols?”
”Brandon Nichols was unknown, with no family, and had no address other than the Harmon ranch where he worked. He was transient, and moved from place to place, job to job. If someone wanted to slip into his shoes and carry on his life in his place . . .”
”And use his driver's license and social security number,” added Morgan.
”You're saying Cantwell killed Brandon Nichols?”
Nancy returned my gaze. ”From what you've told us about Cantwell, he may have done more than that.”
28.
BRETT HENCHLE stood on the front steps of Our Lady of the Fields, notepad in hand, trying to find out what made so many people go so wild. The way Arnold Kowalski was carrying on, you'd think the mob had murdered his mother.
”It's all my fault . . .” Arnold wept, sitting on the steps with his face in his hands.
Father Vendetti sat beside him, his arm around his faithful old maintenance man. ”Arnold, no, not with this bunch. They were different, they were . . .” Words failed him.
”Can you name any of them?” Brett asked, notepad ready. He'd managed to nab five people carrying various pieces of what used to be Our Lady's crucifix, but the rest of the mob and the rest of the pieces were quickly scattering.
Al Vendetti only shook his head. ”We want no vengeance here. What's done is done.”
Brett wasn't ready to accept that. ”Father, they destroyed church property. They made a mess of your sanctuary.”
”And they chopped up the Savior!” Arnold lamented. ”What will we do without him?”
”Arnold.” Al patted his shoulder with his free hand. ”They were the same as you: They thought they could take a little bit of Jesus with them.”
”Well, he's gone now!”
”No, Arnold. We can always buy another one.”
The handheld radio clipped to Brett's belt squawked: ”Car One, Car One, Brett, you there?”
Brett tweaked the talk b.u.t.ton and spoke into the mike clipped to his shoulder. ”Yeah, go ahead.”
”Mrs. Fisk called. There's some unknown character lurking around the Sundowner Motel. Might be a peeping Tom.”
Brett winced. ”Brother. What more do we need?” Then it hit him. ”The hitchhiker!” He hit the talk b.u.t.ton. ”Rod, let's get over there. It might be our man from the other night!”
Rod came back, ”I'm trying to break up a fight right now.”
Brett was already heading for his car. ”Rod, I want this guy!”
”Okay, I'm rolling!”
JIM BAYLOR burst through his front door. ”Dee?” No answer. ”Dee?” The other car was in the driveway. She had to be here. He ran into the kitchen. Her purse was on the table. She was home, all right. ”Dee?”
”I'm in the bedroom,” she finally replied. Her voice sounded low and strange.
He hurried down the hall. ”You okay? Mark Peterson says he saw you ripping through town-”
She was sitting on the end of the bed with his .357 Magnum revolver in her hand.
He froze in the doorway. He tried to smile. ”Hey, Dee. What's, what's up?”
”Ichabod,” she said, her eyes cold and brooding. ”My life is Ichabod, our house is Ichabod, and it's all your fault!”