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Hackberry walked within a few feet of the bodies. He cleared his throat. “That’s the pair.”
“It looks like they went out pretty hard. Ever seen that done to somebody?”
“Close to it. In Mexico.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“For purposes of information, obviously. Is this why you brought me out here? To ask unintelligent questions?”
“They didn’t tell you what they were after? Why they followed you to the cave?”
“No, they didn’t. The split in that fellow’s head? I put it there with a running iron. I poked the other one in the jewels. The iron was right warm when I did it. That’s the only mark I put on them.”
“That sure clears it all up. Out of nowhere, you bust one man in the head and burn the genitalia on another? Seems like ordinary, reasonable, everyday kind of behavior.”
“The one with the split head threw my pistol across the cave. I believed they were about to put the boots to me. I took it to them first.”
“What did they want?”
“Food, money, whatever they didn’t have to work for.”
“Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude not to look at people when you talk to them?”
“I had an indirect run-in with Arnold Beckman down in Mexico a couple of years back. I think he sicced these two on me.”
“Who is Arnold Beckman?”
“An arms dealer. He’s fixing to bring a lot of business to the state.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
“Nothing. There was a woman down in Mexico. She ran a brothel. She saved my life. Maybe he did her in.”
“Put your handkerchief over your nose. I want to show you something.”
“I’m going back home.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Willard squatted on his haunches, the back of his neck tan and leathery in the sunlight, wadding a bandana in his fist and pressing it to the lower half of his face. He pointed with a pencil. “Look at their wrists. The wire is almost to the bone. They were probably alive when they went into the water. They drowned an inch at a time. Whoever did this wasn’t satisfied with tormenting them from head to foot.”
“Spend a little time with Beckman. You’ll have a better sense of things.”
Willard stood up and stuffed the bandana in his back pocket. He turned to the wind, his face clearing. “You’re withholding information in a criminal investigation, Hack.”
“About what?”
“If Beckman is after revenge, why didn’t he have you killed? Why would he torture these two?”
Hackberry gazed at the horizon. “Looks like another storm is blowing up. See the dust climbing in the air? This time of year it turns purple against the sun. I love Texas.”
“You have something that belongs to him, don’t you?”
“The only thing any of us owns is six feet of dirt. You know who said that? Leo Tolstoy.”
“Where’s this Beckman live at?”
“I don’t know. The last time I saw him, he was staying at the Driskill in Austin. For some reason he had the impression I contaminated the punch bowl he and his lady friends were drinking from.”
Willard chewed on the corner of his lip and looked sideways at the clouds of rain on the horizon. “You’re a vexatious man.”
