CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Whiskey and Bull made their way to Woodville, Mississippi. They drove north to Baton Rouge, then took Highway 61 up through St. Francisville and into Mississippi. Woodville was literally a one-light town, passersby waving as they made their way to the Hollis stables.

“Up there,” said Bull. “That’s quite a home. I’d say it’s bigger than the big house.”

“I think you’re right. Seems like a mighty big house for a man who was kicked out of the Army,” frowned Whiskey.

They pulled their truck down the long dirt driveway and parked beside the barns. Stepping out, several men looked their way but said nothing, continuing with their duties. Bull and Whiskey just shrugged, making their way to the house. As they stepped up on the porch, a man opened the door and walked outside. His jeans were starched with a sharp, crisp pleat down the leg. He wore a glimmering gold buckle with diamonds around a big ‘N.’

“Can I help you, boys? I don’t like salesmen, so if you’re selling something. Move on.”

“Sir, we’d like to speak with you about the previous owner of the farm,” said Whiskey.

“My daddy was the previous owner,” said the man, proudly puffing his chest out. “Before that, my granddaddy.”

“And before that was Buck Stuart,” said Bull flatly. The man stared at him, then opened the front door, whispering to someone inside.

“Let’s have a seat out here,” he said. “Nice day and all. We can speak out here just as easily as inside.”

Bull and Whiskey took a seat, noticing that Hollis took his seat a few chairs away from them as if to make sure there was distance between them. A few moments later, an elderly man, leaning on a cane, appeared on the porch.

“Gentlemen, this is my father, Hollis Norton, Jr.”

“Sir,” nodded Bull and Whiskey.

“My son said you were here to talk about the original owner, Mr. Stuart. He’s been gone a long time. Went to sell some horses near New Orleans and never returned. Left his poor wife here alone. Desperate woman had to file for bankruptcy.”

Both men stared at the father and son. They definitely seemed to know a lot of details of this story.

“I believe Mr. Norton, Sr. worked for Mr. Stuart. We’ve learned through reliable sources that there was plenty of money to keep this farm running. I find it odd that Sr. didn’t find a way to help Ms. Stuart. I believe her name was Vera.”

“It was,” said the old man with a suspicious glare. “She couldn’t manage things by herself, although my daddy tried. Vera just sort of gave up and ended up filing for bankruptcy. Lived in a small apartment not far from here until her death.”

“And yet somehow, your father, a deserter, having failed at multiple jobs, came up with ten thousand dollars for a downpayment. How do you explain that, sir?” Bull let out an inaudible breath, wishing Whiskey hadn’t pushed that button quite so quickly.

“I think you’re done here,” said the old man, standing and leaning on his cane. “I won’t have you disparaging my father’s good name.”

“I’d think you’d want to know the truth,” said Whiskey. “Mr. Stuart left his property in good hands, or so he thought. He traveled to New Orleans to sell the horses, and someone murdered him.”

“That’s a powerful accusation,” said the younger man.

“Not an accusation,” said Bull. “His remains were found. He was murdered.”

Bull heard someone open the front door, watching as a woman dressed in white backed out with a man in a wheelchair.

“Hettie!”

“He wanted to come out, sir. You know how he gets,” said the nurse. She turned the wheelchair, rolling towards the two men. The weathered, tiny frame of the old man in the wheelchair looked up through dark glasses, staring at them. He held up a hand, stopping the woman.

“I killed him,” he said.

“Daddy! My father isn’t right in the head,” said Norton, Jr.

“I’m as right as rain,” he croaked. “I killed him. I had nothin’. Nothin’. I asked him for a loan of five thousand to buy my own place, and he refused. Told me I hadn’t proven myself yet. Hell, I’d been workin’ here a long time. I’d proved myself. Just ‘cause I liked to have a little fun didn’t mean I wasn’t trustworthy.”

“Apparently, you weren’t,” said Bull. The man’s grandson started to come at Bull, and he turned, squaring himself against the man. “Please. Keep coming. I’ll enjoy this.”

Smart enough to stop, he stepped behind his grandfather and waited.

“Y’all stop actin’ stupid. Sit down. Sit.” The men all took their seats again, shaking their heads. “Stuart was the first man to give me a chance. That’s true, but he didn’t like my lifestyle. I was good with the horses. Better than good, and I knew which ones would be winners and which wouldn’t.

“Before he left for New Orleans, I asked him to take me with him. He refused, sayin’ I’d get into trouble. So, I followed him. Stayed far enough behind him and waited while he camped out. He was offered thousands for those horses. Thousands. Do you know what a man could do with that money in the 1950s?”

“Most men didn’t kill for that kind of money,” said Whiskey. The old man took off his dark glasses, staring with cloudy eyes at the younger man.

“He smelled my cigarette. He turned to see who was there, and I panicked. Hit him on the head with a rock. I just couldn’t seem to stop. I got scared and dragged him back to his tent. I knew he was meetin’ with the men about the horses, so I took them, told ‘em I was his agent. I sold them horses and put the money in my pocket.”

“What happened to Stuart?” asked Bull.

“I wrapped him in that tent, put him in the horse trailer, and drove him south. I thought I’d dump him in the Gulf, but there were too many fishin’ boats. So, I stopped near some swamp and just dumped him. Drove off as if nothin’ had ever happened.

“When I got back, I told Ms. Stuart I’d been visitin’ friends. She never even asked me how the truck and trailer got back. She got worried about Stuart and called the sheriff. He didn’t do much of anythin’ when I told him he had a lady down in New Orleans.” Bull and Whiskey squirmed in their seats.

“I hid all that money in a mattress. She didn’t know much about the finances and was foolish enough to ask for my help. I made sure the bills were paid. For a while, anyway. Then I realized she never looked at the money. I started takin’ a bit here and there. Just five or ten dollars at first, then a hundred or more.”

“You let that woman grieve, thinking her husband had left her, that he’d run off. You allowed her to go bankrupt while you were robbing her blind,” growled Whiskey.

“I did. And now I can die without the weight of that.”

“Well, that’s just peachy for you, you rotten bastard!” growled Bull. Whiskey tried to pull his friend’s arm, but he stood going straight toward the old man. “You robbed that woman blind, left her in grief, relegated to a shabby apartment above a garage. You’re going to rot in hell.”

“That may be, but they had no children. No one. My children will have all of this because you can’t prove nothin’. Even if you could, statute of limitations has run out. I know my law.”

“There’s a special place in hell for you, Mr. Norton,” said Whiskey. “But don’t worry, your son and grandson will join you.”

“They had nothin’ to do with this. Didn’t know anything about it,” he growled.

“No, but they know now, and I’m going to bet they do nothing about it. No regret, no payback to a charity, no admission to the public of what kind of man you really are. They’ll continue to live on this farm, raising horses, hoping to sell them to the highest bidders for the biggest dollar amount possible.”

“That’s business,” said Hollis III.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” said Bull. “We’re businessmen as well. With a helluva lot more connections than you could possibly imagine. I’m going to let my friends in the horsemanship world know about your dirty little secrets. I’m going to venture to say your business will slow down soon.”

“They won’t believe you! We have an impeccable reputation!”

“Oh, not so much,” smirked Whiskey. “See, while we were here, we were recording everything. As we recorded, our good friends back home sent them to every owner, every stable, every track in the nation. By tomorrow, you won’t be able to race dung beetles in the sands of Iraq.” The three men suddenly were shifting side to side, worried. Panicked.

“Where was Vera buried?” asked Bull. The old man stared at the two men, shaking his head. He thought they’d be safe. He thought his secret wouldn’t matter any longer. By opening his mouth, he’d ruined them all.

“In the county cemetery. She’s in a pauper’s grave.”

“You couldn’t even bury the woman properly after taking her entire life from her,” growled Bull. His fist opened and closed, the father and son standing in front of the older man. “Don’t worry. If I were going to kill him, he’d be dead already. You’re done. All of you.”

Whiskey and Bull pulled onto the property just as the evening meal was finishing. Stepping out of the truck, Nine, Trak, Gaspar, and Ghost walked toward him, Buck Stuart behind them.

“Did you find them? Did you find the truth?” he asked.

“We did, sir.”

Bull and Whiskey explained everything to the man, telling him what Norris had done. Opening the back gate of the truck, they pulled back a tarp, revealing the small box containing the cremated remains of Vera.

“We think you should be able to go home now,” said Whiskey. “We spoke to Mama Irene, and she’s going to have a grave for you and Vera here. You’ll be together.”

“I can go home?” he said with a trembling lip.

“You can,” said Matthew, walking toward them. “Come with me, Buck. We’re going to get you and Vera together again.”

Matthew lifted the box, carrying it securely beneath his arm. As he walked toward the family cemetery, Buck turned to the men with a smile.

“You’re the finest men I’ve ever known. I just wish I’d known you sooner.”

Three hours later, the men watched one of the most touching reunions they’d ever seen. Buck was wrapped in his wife’s arms, her fussing at him for not getting home sooner. They laughed, cried, then slowly disappeared. Gone for good.