Folks in small towns like Fort Stockton think evil dwells in the big cities.  “The bigger the city, and the further north you go, the closer to the Devil’s Den you’re going to find yourself,” Brother Bob tells his flock at Second Baptist.  He may be right about the direction of the compass, but the size of the population is irrelevant as regards evil.

Some people kill in self defense.  Others kill because there is no other option.  There is a small percentage who kill only for the thrill they receive from following through on the most heinous act that can be inflicted on another human being.  On Valentine’s Day, 1977, four men stormed into the home of Betty Jane Spencer looking for nothing other than to satisfy their own lust for blood.  Roger Drollinger led the other three men into Betty Jane’s home in rural Parker county, Indiana. What followed was what became known as ‘The Hollandsbury Massacre’.

The day the murders took place started with Dollinger, 24, shooting and killing a German Shepherd in front of his three younger accomplices, just to show them how easy it was to kill.  David Smith, 17; Michael Wright, 21; and Daniel Stonebraker. 20, did not require much convincing.  Weak and twisted individuals never do.

The four first cut the phone lines, making sure no calls for help could be made.  They waited for Kieth Spencer, Betty Jane’s husband, to leave for work.  When he did, they saw their opportunity.  Storming in, the four startled Betty Jane and then tied up her son and three stepsons.  The four hostages were lined up, face down on the floor of the living room.  Then, they pumped eleven shotgun rounds into their heads.

The blast entered Betty Jane Spencer’s arm and shoulder.  Eighty pellets remained there until her death, nearly forty years later.  The shot blew off the wig she was wearing.  That probably saved her life, as the attackers mistakenly thought they had blown part of her head off and assumed she was dead.  She was the only one that wasn’t.  Her son and three stepsons didn’t survive the carnage.

“There was some click, clicking noises behind us and suddenly there was a shot fired from behind Greg,” she later recounted.  “I looked around at the boys and I said, ‘Is anybody alive?’  And nobody answered.”  Next, she heard what she thought was a waterfall.  “I realized it was blood rushing from our boys.”  Gregory Brooks, 22; Raymond Spencer, 17; Reeve Spencer, 16; and Ralph Spencer, 14 were all dead on the living room floor.

Eileen called Mason’s secretary when she was fifty miles outside of Fort Stockton.  “She sounds like she’s calling from her car!” the secretary said as she clamped her hand over the speaker portion of the handset.  “Can you believe that? She’s fifty miles out.”

“Tell her I’ll meet her at the Cattle Baron Hotel,” Mason said.  “We can get her checked in and have a drink in the bar.”  He felt no need to go into any of the other details, though as she repeated the information into the phone she was already imagining exactly just what some of those might be.  

Mason’s secretary, Sophie, was only a few years younger than Mason and had been warned repeatedly that he was quite the ladies’ man.  “Word around town is that he gets more butt than a toilet seat,” her best friend had told her when she discovered Sophie had applied for the job.  “You need to be damn careful you don’t end up being just another notch on his bedpost.”  Much to her chagrin, Sophie had not yet been able to count herself among that lucky number.  Not that she hadn’t idnicated she was game. She was a good Christian southern girl, so she didn’t go overboard, but she thought her signals on the subject were clear.  Mason had never been anything other than a complete gentleman around her and it was beginning to make Sophie doubt herself, her boss, or both.

Mason was waiting inside the lobby of the Cattle Baron when Eileen pulled into the parking lot in a new Inca Red Metallic Mercedes-Benz 450SL.  He chuckled to himself when he saw it.  ‘Still driving Germans,’ he thought to himself.  The top was down and her hair was held down only by a scarf tied around her head and knotted at her neck.  He thought he recognized the scarf and his heart fluttered slightly.  She pulled under the porte-cochère of the hotel and slowly stepped out of the convertible.  He watched her exit the car, taking in how she’d changed since he last saw her, as well as how she hadn’t.

It was obvious Eileen spent time in the California sun.  A lot of time.  But she was still young enough that the effects of that hadn’t taken a toll on her skin.  She had a glow.  She may have had work done, Mason noted.  She was almost too perfect.  Her lovely bosom had somehow become more intoxicating in ways that almost went beyond what could take place in nature.  Her legs seemed longer, though he knew that was impossible.  It was probably an illusion created by the stiletto heels.  Mason thought to himself that it was impossible this woman could have ever lived in Fort Stockton.

He went out the front door and greeted her at the driver’s door of the Benz.  She hugged him and then gave him a kiss that involved her tongue testing the gag reflex at the back of his throat.  He wasn’t sure if that was for his benefit, or for Myra’s behind the front desk, but they both enjoyed it.  Handing him the keys to the convertible, Eileen said, “Park the car out front.  Where it will be obvious it’s here.  Put the top up and lock it.  My bags are in the trunk.  Bring the large one in while I check in.  Put the small one in the trunk of your car.  We’ll take your car out to your place after dinner.  I’m sure we’ll be more comfortable there.”

As Mason parked Eileen’s expensive German droptop, he felt like he was nineteen again and being given explicit instructions by an experienced older woman who knew just how to command him.  He hated how much he loved it.

At the registration desk, Myra tried her best to act nonchalantly about the celebrity standing in front of her, but her tongue wrapped around her eyeteeth and she could no longer see what she was saying and made a fool of herself.  Finally, “Do you want me to fetch the bellboy?” came out.

“No need.  I’ll take the lady’s bag up to her room,” Mason had joined Eileen at the desk.  He put his hand on Eileen’s waist and guided her to the elevator.  As soon as the doors had closed, Eileen pinned him up against the oak paneled back wall of the elevator car in an impassioned kiss that put the earlier one under the porte-cochère to shame.  They fumbled for the key in the hall outside her room, but finally got the door open.  Mason threw her bag on the bed while she went into the bathroom.  When she came out fully dressed with her make-up freshened moments later, Mason was down to his boxer shorts, his starched Levi’s leaning up against the bed.  Eileen glanced down and noticed his jeans weren’t the only thing that was starched.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as though she had no clue as to his intentions.

“I thought we’d . . .” Mason stammered.

“Don’t be silly.  You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”  Eileen loved toying with him.  One of the things she’d missed most about their years apart.  “See if you can stuff that back in your pants without hurting yourself.”

Myra was surprised to see them exit the elevator in the lobby so soon.  ‘Perhaps Mason’s reputation had been overstated,’ she thought to herself.  ‘Hell, my Jimmy at home takes longer than that.’  Mason just nodded as they passed by the desk on their way to the bar.  Inside, Mason seated Eileen at the small table at the end of a bank of windows, turning the chair so her back faced the rest of the room.  He didn’t know how easy it would be for people to recognize her, but wanted to make it as difficult as possible.  She took in the horns and heads mounted on the oak paneled walls, as well as the old typewriter on the ornamental table in the corner.  Was that a picture of Hemingway on the wall?  Perhaps Fort Stockton had changed.

When Mason returned with the drinks from the bar, before he could set them down Eileen said, “Oh, wait.”  She reached into her purse and pulled out a square of gently folded linen and set it on the table as a coaster for her drink.  Mason had to look twice to see it was the underwear she’d removed when she was in the bathroom upstairs.    Like Myra, Mason tried to remain cool and act as though everything was ‘business as usual’.  He achieved no more success in his endeavor that Myra had.

He sat on the leather coach across from Eileen and shifted in his seat attempting to find some level of comfort with the added tightness in his jeans.  Eileen smiled as he squirmed.

“The kid who failed at swimming lessons in your pool,” Mason said.  “What happened there?”

The smile disappeared from Eileen’s face for a moment, then came back.  “That was unfortunate.  Apparently, based on what the police could find out, he’d been watching the place for a while.  Kind of a stalker situation.  I don’t recall ever seeing him there, but they were able to piece together a history of unhealthy attraction.”  Mason was following along, fully understanding the situation as it was being explained.

“Anyway,” Eileen went on, “he got bolder over time and jumped the fence.  Broke a window to get into the house once he realized I wasn’t home.  Helped himself.  Eventually found the liquor cabinet and over indulged.  They could see where he got sick at some point, but that didn’t slow him down any.  He eventually made his way to the pool and, in his very relaxed state, fell asleep and eventually slipped under the surface.”  She sipped her drink and adjusted the coaster before setting it back down.  “I didn’t even find out about it until a couple days later.”

“You were in St. Jo, Missouri at the time, right?” Mason asked.

Eileen seemed genuinely surprised at the level of Mason’s knowledge.  Then she smiled again.  Mason noted her smile. It was either an indication that she’d just figured out how much he knew, or she was thinking about what she was going to do later that evening.  In this case, it was probably both.  “I was indeed,” she said.  “On my way to somewhere else.  But that’s enough about me for now.  I want to catch up on you.”

“I’m an open book,” Mason said.  Then he chuckled.  “Just not one you wrote.”  

“Don’t be so sure,” Eileen chuckled back.  “Why haven’t you married yet?  I thought by now you would have figured out a way to work yourself back into the heart of that high school romance you told me about years ago.  Maybe fathered a brood of young Fort Stocktonites”

“Not meant to be.  I accepted it and moved on.”  Mason took a pretty good sized sip from his glass and felt it burn its way down his throat.  The topic alone always made his chest burn, anyway.  “I’ve had a few relationships.  None seemed to ever head the direction of being permanent.  Whiskey says I’m just not the marrying type.”

“Ah, Whiskey.”  Elaine seemed tickled to remember someone she hadn’t thought of for a long time.  “How is he?”

“Still the same,” Mason said.  “He isn’t married either.  He’s less the marrying type than I am.”

The two of them sat in the bar for over two hours, enjoying the drinks, the ability to get caught up, and the look on the waitress’s face when she picked up Eileen’s drink and noticed the ‘coaster’ underneath.  The barmaid was quick to report back to Myra, who had never even imagined such a thing.  After the third drink, Eileen leaned in and motioned Mason to do the same.

“It’s time to get the car.  Is there a side entrance?” she asked.  

Mason pointed to the other end of the bar.  “Through that door, down the hall towards the bathrooms, then make a hard right.  I’ll be in the car.  A dark Continental Mark VI.  On Austin Avenue.”  Eileen excused herself to make a stop at the ladies’ room on the way out.  Mason was just outside the side door to the Cattle Baron when Eileen stepped out into the cool night air.  

The moon was full and cast an eerie glow on the leather seats through the open moonroof above.  Mason exited the driver’s door, went around to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door for Eileen to get in.  She looked around, impressed.  “What is this thing?  

“A Continental Mark.  Givenchy Edition.” Mason said, almost embarrassed.

“Redford had one of these.  I remember it being longer,” Eileen noted.

“This is a 1981 model.  They downsized the full line last year.  Energy crises and all,” Mason explained.

No sooner had the words left his lips than the two center armrests were flipped into the upright position and Eileen was right next to him on the pleated leather seat rather than on the far passenger side.  Her hand made its way to his lap.  “I’m keeping my fingers crossed nothing else has been downsized.”