= Lie Beneath The Clay
  by Graham Powell

When you get to be a certain age, you date things by your ailments. 1997 will always be my Year of the Knee. By November, my arthritis had gotten so bad I could barely hobble around, but I didn't dare say anything; I was afraid they'd take me off patrol and stick me in the office. So I just smiled and limped along.

Donny Cleveland and I had walked through most of the Harrison County courthouse that day looking for Sheriff Lockhart before I thought to check my watch. One o'clock. Lunchtime. I muttered a curse and we went across the square to the Marshall Cafe.

Mike was in there, holding a Dallas paper with one hand and a chicken leg in the other.

"Deputy," he said. "What can I do for you?"

I touched the brim of my hat. "Sorry to bother you, but Donny's got something you need to see."

He lowered the paper and looked from me to Donny, who was pale and visibly shaking.

"Dang, John," he said. "Can't it wait?"

I glanced at his paper. He was reading the funnies. "I'm afraid not. It's important."

He sighed, but he was already reaching for his coat and his cowboy hat. "Let's get going."

We all climbed in my Bronco, Donny in the back seat and me and the sheriff up front. We didn't talk much. The sheriff just stared out the window and Donny had other things on his mind, and I'm not in the habit of talking to myself.

I turned onto a dirt road about ten miles south of town. Thick pine trees grew close on each side, brushing against the sides of the truck. After about half a mile we came to a gate and Donny climbed out. He fumbled with his keys for a minute, but finally got it open, and we went on through into a broad pasture.

Smack in the middle was a fenced-off rectangle containing the wellhead, a compressor, and a meter shed. A big sump pit was half full of dirty water. On the edge of the pit sat a backhoe, the power shovel resting on the ground like a curled finger. A sign read OATES-HASKELL #1 NO TRESPASSING. We drove over and got out.

Sheriff Mike looked at me. "Well, deputy, what's so important?"

I turned to Donny. "Show him," I said.

Donny was maybe twenty, tall but awful skinny. He'd be hell in a bar fight on a Friday evening, but out here under the cold sun he shivered. His voice cracked as he pointed into the sump. "Down there," he said. "I was digging out the sides, and I saw-"

We all saw it now. Down in the fresh cut in the side of the pit, a rotted arm poked out of the clay.

"My, my," said Mike under his breath. He climbed down and had a look at it. There wasn't much left to look at. "Been here a while," he said. "Years, even." He pulled some of the dirt from the edge of the hole and crumbled it in his fingers. "John, call the coroner. Get the crime scene crew, too. Have them dig out the rest of the body." He looked over at Donny, who was still shaking. "It's okay, Donny. You did the right thing. Now tell me what you were doing out here."

"Well, s-s-sir, they were going to open up the well, do some work on it. The p-pit had fallen in a little and they wanted it dug out again. I got here about eight; my boss had already dropped off the hoe. I'd been working about an hour when I saw...." He paled again.

"That's enough, son. Tell me, do you know whose well this is?"

Donny shook his head. "I'm n-not, I mean-"

"It's Jim Jenkins's well," I said. "Clem Haskell owns the land."

The sheriff thought about that, picked his teeth. "Let's go see Mister Haskell," he said. "Then we can figure out who this guy is."

"'This guy'"? I said. "You sure it's a man?"

He flipped the arm with his boot. A large gold Rolex gleamed through the clay. "Looks like a man to me," he said.

We left Donny with instructions not to touch anything and piled back into the Bronco. Haskell's house was a mile or so back down the road. On the way the sheriff leaned over and said, "Tell me what you know about Haskell."

I shrugged. "Me and him and your dad all got out of school the same year, '56. He went in the Navy for a stretch, and when he got out he took over his daddy's place. He's been working it ever since. Wife died in '84, daughter moved away a year later. Now it's just him."

Mike was still thinking about that when we turned off at Clem's front gate. He hopped out to get it himself, maybe in deference to my age and infirmity, but probably because he was in a hurry.

You could see Clem's place from there, a big low ranch-style house on top of a little hill, but the road made a sharp left and went by the barn before it curved around to the rear of the house, so it was ten minutes before we knocked on his door.

Clem looked rough. I knew he'd been in poor health, but now his shirt hung on him as loosely as if it were clipped to a clothesline. His chin wore three days worth of beard and the tendons in his neck stood out like guy wires. "John," he said, nodding at me. "Sheriff Lockhart. What can I do for y'all?"

The sheriff stepped forward and said, "Clem, we found something on your land that's, well, it's a little unpleasant. May we come inside?"

He stepped back and waved us in. "Y'all want some tea?"

You wouldn't think it to look at him, but Clem kept the house in tip-top shape. Something he picked up in the Navy, I suppose. The living room looked like the state room at a funeral parlor. He probably never even went in there.

I sat on the sofa and Clem sat on a straight-backed chair opposite. Sheriff Mike wandered around, looking at all the pictures on the walls. The 1955 Marshall High football team was there, with me and Clem and Mike Sr. smiling at the camera. There were pictures of Clem arm in arm with a good-looking woman. Mostly, though, they showed a young girl, from the time she was a baby right up through high school. Mike touched a finger to one, a girl in a cap and gown. "This your daughter?" he asked.

"Yep," said Clem, nodding. "That's my Mary, Mary Malvern now. That's her when she graduated high school back in '83. These days she lives up in Gaithersburg, Maryland." He grinned suddenly. "Maryland. Mary-land. Heh heh."

Sheriff Mike smiled. "Grandkids?" he said.

"Two, a boy and a girl."

The sheriff finally sat down, sprawling all over an old wingbacked chair. "Mister Haskell, do you know anything about that well just south of here? Oates-Haskell number one?"

Clem shook his head. "Naw," he said. "They drilled that thing about twelve or fifteen years ago. Never produced like they thought, just brought in enough to make it worth keeping. I still get the checks every month."

"How long were they on the location?"

"'Bout three months, all together. They did some construction first, leveled it off and dug the tank. Yeah, it was about three months all together."

"Do you remember anything strange about it?"

Clem pulled a face. "Hell," he said. "That well was trouble from day one. First we almost lost the pipe down the hole, then the generator caught fire. The operators went bust and one of the partners took a swing at the foreman. He left that day and never came back. It's a miracle we got it completed at all."

Sheriff Mike nodded. "Do you remember who it was started the fight?"

"Jim Jenkins. Heard he had a little trouble at home. Guess he couldn't leave it there."

"How long have you owned that land?" said the sheriff.

"Shoot, I got that just before Mary was born. Musta been '65 or '66." Clem chuckled. "Can't go wrong with land. Only thing in the world that won't break or run away. Anything else I can help y'all with?"

"If we think of anything, we'll let you know." The sheriff stood up and held out his hand; the interview was over. They shook and we climbed back in the truck and left.

"Let's go see Jenkins," said Mike. "Does he have an office?"

"No," I said. "But I know where to find him."

The Blue Hole sat on the side of the highway about ten miles from Marshall. It had been a long, low house -- six rooms off a central hallway -- until Dee Bidwell bought it twenty years ago. Dee used to cook at a greasy spoon downtown, and when he bought his house he turned the living room into a little diner, just a lunch counter and a couple of booths. When he died his wife sold the place and moved to San Antonio to live with their daughter, and the diner turned into a bar.

From the look of it, it hadn't been cleaned since. The sun was still shining brightly outside, but little of that made it through the thick curtains that covered the windows. Neon beer signs lit the interior. Only two thirty, and already a group of drinkers was clustered at the bar. One of them was Jim Jenkins.

Jim had owned a drilling company back in the late '70s. He was never the sharpest tool in the shed, and when the oil bust came along, his company went under. Now he lived on royalty checks and spent his days at the Blue Hole.

Today he was dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeved flannel shirt, buttoned up to the collar and down to the cuffs. I pointed him out and the sheriff strolled over to the bar. "Mister Jenkins," he said. "I'm Mike Lockhart. Mind if I talk to you for a minute?"

Jenkins hunched over his beer. "Sorry," he said. "Maybe later."

"It'll just take a minute," said Mike, smiling his campaign-poster smile. "We can talk in the parking lot." He gently laid a hand on Jim's shoulder.

Jim blew out a big sigh and stood up. "Don't touch my beer," he said to the bartender. "I'll be right back."

We stood around in an awkward circle out in the lot. Jenkins didn't have a jacket, so he kept his hands crammed in his pockets. He looked jumpy; I prayed he didn't have a weapon. "I got nothin' to say," he said.

"Look, Jimmy-" said the sheriff.

"I said I got nothin' to say! You want to take me to jail, go ahead. It wouldn't be the first time."

Lockhart didn't say anything, just reached under his coat and pulled out his wallet. "Twenty bucks. From my own pocket. You talk for five minutes."

Jimmy looked at it, then over at me. "What do you want?" he said.

"Do you recall the Oates-Haskell number one?" asked the sheriff.

Jimmy turned and spat on the gravel of the lot. "I don't guess I could forget that well," he said. "We'd been bleeding red ink for months, way over budget on everything we did. We needed a big hit, a gusher, but that damn well...." He shook his head. "It sucked up most of our cash. My partner saw the way things were headed and took off with what was left. My wife went along for the ride."

"What about the fight, Jimmy? We heard you had a go at the foreman."

"Hell, I was drunk," said Jimmy. "He made some crack about my wife and I gave him a bloody nose. The roughnecks broke it up before it got too serious. Probably a good thing, too. The shape I was in, he would've kicked my ass all over that rig."

"Did he ever threaten you?" said Mike. "Call you up or come by?"

"I never saw him again. Now what's this all about?"

The sheriff stepped in closer, right in Jimmy's face. "We dug a dead body out of the pit there this morning. What's been going on out there, Jimmy?"

"I don't know nothin' about that," said Jimmy, throwing up his hands. "I sold that well to Gus Doerr. You ask him about it. If that's all, I've got a beer waiting."

"You ever hear from your partner, Jimmy?" I said. "You ever hear from your wife?"

He scowled at me. "I got the divorce papers," he said. "Signed them and sent them off to some lawyer in Dallas."

"You've got a pretty good motive for murder, Jimmy," I said. "And you knew the perfect spot to hide the body."

Jimmy looked at me and back at the sheriff. "No cop ever did me any good," he said. "My partner stole everything I had and you could never find him. If he ever comes back here, that's when I'll kill him. Until then, you can go to hell. Leave me alone."

Mike reached out and jammed the twenty in Jimmy's shirt pocket. "You want to get drunk, Jimmy? Get stinking." The he turned his back and marched off to the truck.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," said Gus Doerr. "I wish I could help you."

We were standing in Doerr's office, and old convenience store not too far off the courthouse square in Marshall. The place had been fitted out with wood paneling and deep shag carpet but still felt cheap. The same could be said for Gus himself. His light blue suit fit a bit too snugly, as if he'd grown a bit since he got it. The tie knotted tightly around his neck only made his double chin more evident.

Gus liked to call himself a wildcatter. He did his own geology, lined up the mineral rights, sold the deal, then contracted out for drilling and operations. Strictly small potatoes.

The sheriff pushed his hat back and scratched his head. "What sort of work were you doing on the Oates-Haskell?"

"I did some new geology in that area and I thought we could open up another zone a few hundred feet above the bottom. That should give it a few more good years before we have to plug it."

"Why that well? And why now?"

Doerr shot a thumb at a map hanging by his desk. "I've already done two others just like this. It's not a big deal."

"All right. But why not just drop a new well down there?"

Gus's good-natured grin widened into a smirk. "You don't have to sell any new investors," he said. "You just bill it out to the current owners. If it comes in, they're happy, and if not, well, it's not my money, is it?"

"No, I guess not. You bought the well from Jim Jenkins, right?"

"Yes," said Doerr. "He was in a rough spot and had to sell out cheap. I was happy to take it off his hands."

"So I understand," said the sheriff. "Did you ever hear about him starting a fight with the foreman?" Doerr nodded. "What happened to him? I heard he dropped out of sight."

"Dropped out of sight?" Doerr laughed. "Shoot, he just went home. Back in those days there was so much drilling going on you had to get a crew wherever you could. The foreman lived down just below San Antonio. I haven't seen him since then, but I can't say I'm surprised. Wait, I've got a picture of him here somewhere."

He dug in his desk for a few minutes and produced an old five by seven photograph. It had been taken out at the well; the derrick was clearly visible in the background. Jim Jenkins, Clem Haskell, and a few other men stood around, squinting at the camera. "That's the foreman," said Doerr. "Second from the left, in the hardhat."

Mike stepped forward, but instead of taking the photo he picked up a picture from Doerr's desk. Two pudgy kids in their Sunday best, their faces bunched up in smiles. "Yours?" he said.

Doerr smiled. "My grandkids," he said. "That picture's about six months old. They're a lot bigger now."

We shot the bull for a few minutes longer, but I could tell the sheriff was ready to go. As we were leaving Doerr said, "Good luck," and stuck out his hand. Sheriff Mike hesitated, then shook it

As we walked out of the office he rubbed his hands together vigorously. It could have been the cold, but I suspected otherwise. "Where to?" I asked.

"Back out to the well," he said.

We were on state road 1794 when the sheriff got a call on his cell phone from the crime scene crew. He listened for a long time and didn't say much. When he hung up he happened to glance behind us. "Pickup coming up fast," he said casually. "Jenkins?"

I glanced in the rearview mirror. The truck looked to be new, although it was tough to tell under the coat of dirt and mud. Jenkins was behind the wheel, and judging from the way he was weaving, he'd put away the twenty dollars worth of booze and then some.

We were going up a small hill, so he didn't dare try to pass. Instead he swung onto the shoulder and pulled alongside. His face was beet red and scowling as he shouted at us, the wind carrying off his obscenities. Then he stuck out a hand and shot us the bird.

Sheriff Mike turned to me, laughing. "Can you believe this? Doesn't he know we're- Jesus, look out!"

We'd topped the hill. On the other side the shoulder disappeared as the road crossed a narrow bridge. I slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel hard to the left. The tires screamed as the Bronco got sideways and started to skid.

Jenkins saw the bridge a half second after we did. He tried to gun it and cut in front, but the back end of his truck clipped the guardrail and kicked him back out into the road. As he slid out in front of us I had a glimpse of his face, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Then we smashed into him just behind the driver side door. His pickup sailed through the guardrail into the ditch and slammed headlong into a tree.

Mike was out of the Bronco almost before we'd stopped. He sprinted over to Jenkins's pickup and looked inside, then straightened and walked slowly back to where I was following as best I could. "He dead?" I asked.

The sheriff shook his head. "Airbag," he said. "He's out cold."

It was well after dark by the time we got that mess cleaned up. When they'd finished hauling the pickup out of the ditch I turned and headed back to the Bronco.

Sheriff Mike was sitting in the passenger seat with the door open, cell phone in his hand and a funny look on his face. When he saw me coming he hopped out and took a look at the damage. "Will this thing go?" he asked.

The bumper was flattened on right side and the headlight was out, but the engine compartment was intact and the wheels looked okay. "I think it will," I said.

He nodded. "Let's hit the road."

When we pulled in to the gate at Haskell's property, Mike touched my sleeve. "Shut off the truck," he said. He grabbed the big flashlight from under the seat and we got out.

The moon was up and we had no trouble picking our way along. The air was very cold. My knees were holding up pretty well, considering everything they'd been through. We'd had a long day.

It took us ten minutes to reach the well site. The grassy field looked like still water under the moonlight. As we started across I heard a sound, sort of a thump followed by some scraping. I looked over at Sheriff Mike, but he either ignored it or hadn't heard. We crossed to the pasture and quietly let ourselves in.

The sound of digging was unmistakable by now. The sheriff put a hand out and stopped me, then crouched down and duck-walked over to the edge of the pit. He squatted there for a minute before he clicked on the flashlight.

"She's not there, Clem," he said. "She's not there. We dug her out this afternoon right after we dug out the man."

Clem Haskell stood knee-deep in sump water holding a shovel. His chest heaved under a fleece-lined blue jean jacket.

"Want to talk about it?" said the sheriff.

"I knew he was no good," said Clem. He jammed the shovel into the bank and left it there he said. "I knew as soon as I saw him. I tried to tell Mary but she didn't want to hear. She was in her sophomore year over at Southern Methodist. When she came home for Thanksgiving she brought her new boyfriend with her." He spat. "George Malvern. Came drivin' up in his BMW, flashing his gold watch. Kept talking 'bout how things were so much better back in Houston. I wanted to tell him to go back to Houston, but I didn't on account of Mary. She was well and truly in love.

"George's parents had died in some kind of car wreck a few years before, and he didn't have to worry about money. I guess he decided to make a career out of college, 'cause he must have been at least twenty-five. A good place to meet girls, I guess.

"On that particular day I'd been out mending fence and got to the house for lunch at about noon. I opened the back door and there was Mary laying in the hall, bleeding from her mouth and between her legs. I knew right away what happened. He'd got her pregnant, and when she told that bastard about it he beat her. She looked up at me, standing there like a fool, and said, 'I'm sorry, daddy.' Then she died.

"I figured it would take him a while to get to the gate, so I grabbed a rifle and ran around front. Sure enough, he'd just pulled up. I waited 'til he got out of his car and drilled him through the lungs. He didn't flop around for more than a couple of minutes.

"I drove down there in my truck and took a look at the body. That's when I got scared. I suppose I shouldn't have, with Mary lying dead up at the house, but I didn't want to go to jail. That's when I thought of the well. I loaded up his body and Mary's and took 'em over to the location, buried 'em under the clay. His car I drove down to Mexico and sold for a hundred dollars and a case of tequila." He wiped his face. "That's it, I reckon. How'd you find out?"

"Pictures. You had plenty of 'em right up until the time your daughter got out of high school. After that, nothing, and no pictures of your grandkids. So I called the chief up in Gaithersburg. There's no Mary Malvern there." The sheriff stood up. "Clem Haskell," he said. "You are under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right...."

"Mike," I said.

He glared at me for a long minute, then turned abruptly and started back to the truck. I walked over to the pit and reached out a hand.

"Come on, Clem," I said in an old man's voice. "Let's go."

GRAHAM POWELL is a professional Computer Guy and a mystery fan since reading the Hardy Boys at age 8. His short story "Still Water" was published in The Thrilling Detective (http//www.thrillingdetective.com) last year. In his free time he runs the hardboiled web site Bleeker Books (http//www.bleekerbooks.com). He lives in Shreveport, Louisiana, with his wife and two children. He can be contacted at mail@bleekerbooks.com.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Graham Powell

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