The Deputy (15 page)

“Okay, wait. L-let me …” I hated how my voice trembled. “Let me turn around.”

“Go on then.”

I turned around, and just like that my knees gave out. So light headed. Fear and fatigue and misery pulling me down. I caught myself on the metal trash can, stayed like that for a long moment.

“Wait,” I said. “Please. I don’t want it in the back. Let me stand up like a man. I can do that at least.”

“I understand. Get on your feet.”

I pushed myself up, slowly at first.

Then I spun quickly and fired the little green squirt gun.

The ammonia sprayed across his eyes. He yelled pain, fired the revolver, but I’d already ducked underneath and was flying at him for a tackle. It was like throwing myself into a tank, but we went over, me on top, and I had one hand around his gun wrist. With my other hand, I dug a thumb into the bloody bullet hole in the chief’s palm.

He screamed, and bucked me off, but he also let go of the revolver.

I grabbed it, stood, backed up three steps. He stood too, cradled his wounded hand. We stared at each other a second, panting.

“All right now,” I said, catching my breath. “Let’s get you inside and into a cell.”

Krueger shook his head. “Nope.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Jail’s not an option, boy. I won’t do it.” He came toward me.

“Hold it right there.”

“You’re going to have to make a decision.” He summoned a burst of speed and was on me, his good hand going to my throat.

I strained in his grasp, tried to pull his grip loose with my free hand. “Don’t make … me … shoot …” The hand clamped tighter, cutting off oxygen.

“Don’t …” I put the gun against his chest.

“You either got the guts for it or you don’t, boy. But this is how it ends, one way or another.”

Buzzing in my … ears.

My eyesight fuzzed and went dark, mouth opening and closing … trying

… to find.

Air.

Bang
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When my eyes popped open, I was flat on my back in the alley. I sat up. My throat felt like it was full of hot gravel. The chief lay near me, a hole in the center of his chest. I still clutched the little revolver. I stuck it in my pocket, pushed myself up. My legs felt weak. I was a little dizzy.

Had I been out ten seconds or ten minutes? It didn’t matter, I went back inside the station, tossed the .32 on the desk and knelt next to Amanda. She seemed to be breathing normally. Bruises already formed around her throat. I wondered if I’d need Doc Gordon, hoped maybe the phones had come back on by some miracle. I slapped her lightly on the face. It took some coaxing, but she came around.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m a little light headed but I’ll live. Where’s the chief?”

“In the alley.”

“Where are you going?”

I grabbed the shotgun and was already heading for the door. “I’ve got to do something.”

She shouted something after me, but I didn’t listen.

I was out to Main Street before she could stop me. I didn’t think I really needed the shotgun, but I couldn’t imagine going anywhere ever again unarmed. The sun was up. People were out.

Wayne Dobbs tried to stop me as I walked. “What the hell’s been going on, Toby? People says there’s been gunshots.”

“It’s over now. Under control.” I didn’t even slow down.

I met Roy and Howard coming the other way.

“Can I go home yet?”

“Thirty minutes, Roy.” I kept walking.

I got to Molly’s street, heard the rumble of a big engine, turned back to look.

An old school bus heading out of town. The Mexican illegals hung from the windows, the faces of men, women and children. I saw my smoking buddy. He waved as they went past. I returned the wave but didn’t pause.

When I got to Molly’s, I let myself in as quietly as I could.

The boy still slept on the couch, a little drool in the corner of his mouth. I wanted to cry he looked so beautiful.

I went into the bathroom, scooped sink water into my mouth, swallowed. It felt cool on my raw throat. There was a little mirror near the sink. Molly probably used it for makeup. I grabbed it and took it back into the living room.

I sat on the floor next to the couch, looked at the boy’s face, then at my own in the mirror. I tried to see any hint of me in him. The ears, the nose, the shape of his cheeks, the chin. The color of his hair had been dark when he was first born, but it had gotten lighter each year, with a little strawberry. I looked at myself in the mirror again. Bloodied, bruised and dirty.

“He’s been asleep the whole time.”

I looked up, saw Molly coming into the room. She’d put on jeans.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I think so. It’s all over.”

“I need to talk to you, Toby.”

I stood, set the mirror on the coffee table. “Okay.”

“I don’t—and please don’t be upset—but I don’t think we should see each other any more.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just, you know, this stuff with Roy, and the whole night’s been crazy, and I’ll be heading away for college soon.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad about it,” I said. “We both knew you’d be going away. Go to college. Get out of this town. Go be something.”

A smile tried to invent itself at the corners of her mouth but didn’t get very far. “Thanks, Toby.”

There would be part of me inside that would be raw and hollow for a while after she left, and I’d get lonely, long for her touch, need to feel her beneath me. But thinking about her leaving wasn’t as hard as I thought. It even seemed right, which was a good thing because it was going to happen anyway whether I thought it right or not.

But there was more too. I would miss her when she was gone, but it would be a relief too.

“Thank you for watching TJ. I didn’t have anyone else.”

“He was good. He slept.”

“Thanks.”

I bent and scooped up the boy. I held him against my chest with one arm, and he nuzzled his head under my chin, murmuring and drowsy. With the other hand I grabbed the shotgun.

“Roy will be back soon,” I told her. “But I think he knows to leave you alone. Just stay out of each other’s way until you go to college.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Goodbye, Molly.”

“Goodbye, Toby.”

And I thought maybe I should kiss her on the cheek or something, but I didn’t.

I walked out and didn’t know where I was going. My Nova was flipped and it was too far to walk back to my trailer. I headed for the stationhouse.

Coming down Main Street I saw the lights. Two State Police squad cars—no, three. They parked behind and alongside the Jordans’ pickup trucks, the blues and reds going crazy, the street filling with citizens who couldn’t help but take a look. It had all been too much for the little town, like some bloody carnival act. Everybody wanted a peek at the show.

There would be hard questions. Accusations and blame. But the boy was safe, and I was alive. I’d come though the long night.

I cradled the boy, put the shotgun on my shoulder and walked toward the lights.

My boy was safe. My son.

Mine.

And God help any man who said different.

ONE YEAR LATER

EPILOGUE

I walked into the stationhouse, passed Amanda at the front desk. Another long night shift almost over.

“I need to speak with you, Toby.”

“Sure. Can I get some coffee first?”

“No problem.”

I went into the back room, poured a fresh cup from the expensive new silver coffee maker. It had a timer on it, and I always set the thing to finish up about five minutes before I walked in, so the stuff would be fresh. I bought the coffee maker out of my first paycheck after they put me on full time. Good coffee too. Columbian.

I filled my mug, went back to the front desk and flopped into the chair opposite Amanda. “How was it out there tonight?” she asked, not looking up from her stack of paperwork.

“Caught some kids parking and told them to go home.”

“A regular crime wave. Anything else?”

“Slow,” I said.

“Good. Mrs. Carmichael called in a complaint again about dogs getting into her trash cans. Keep an eye out for strays, okay?”

“Right.” We got that complaint from somebody about twice a month. I supposed I’d do what I always did. Not a damn thing.

“How’s that Indian woman working out?”

“Alice. Good,” I said. “The boy likes her, and her schedule is pretty flexible. I pay her okay.”

“Sounds like it’s working out.”

“It is.”

Since that long bad night, Molly had gone off to college. In San Francisco, it turns out. I got exactly one letter from her, saying how great it was and that I should come visit. I didn’t answer that letter and didn’t get any more. From Doris I’d not heard one peep. Nothing. God help her if she suddenly felt maternal and came back for the boy. Just let her try.

The Jordan Brothers were all buried together on a Saturday, dowager Antonia looking regal in black. The funeral was crowded. The last bit of hurrah for the biggest thing that had happened to the town in decades. Not big in a good way, but it made an impact, and people wanted to be part of it in some way.

People are strange.

Antonia lived three more months and died in her sleep. Maybe she didn’t have anything left to live for.

I got a courtesy call that autumn from the warden of the prison where they kept Brett, the oldest Jordan brother. There’d been talk around the yard about how he was going to pay me back times ten when he got out of stir. I thanked the warden for the heads up. Just another little something to worry about in three to five years.

I never saw one of the illegal Mexicans again. They’d promised to get far away, and they’d kept that promise.

I sipped coffee and tried not to get lost in past history.

“Thought I’d tell you we’re putting on two new deputies in a week,” Amanda said.

One of my eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

“Took forever and a day to get all the paperwork through, and then it took even longer to find acceptable people willing to move out here to the middle of nowhere. This isn’t exactly America’s fastest growing metropolis. But we managed to find a couple decent candidates.”

“Well. That’s good then.” We’d been stretched pretty thin.

“I need to tell you something else. I’m quitting effective the end of the month.”

I stopped sipping coffee, put the mug on the desk. “What?”

“I got a job offer in Idaho,” Amanda said. “In one of the ski resort towns. I thought I’d work on my snowboarding.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’m recommending you for Chief of Police.”

I laughed. Hard.

The last year had not been all pleasant. There had been inquiries. The town bloodbath had made the papers in Stillwater and Tulsa. Various insurance companies did not like me. But I had uncovered smugglers and a corrupt police chief. I had been put onto the force full time, a situation which I took as a vote of confidence, although the fact there was nobody else immediately available to do the job was no small part of the decision. There were still a few pending questions (mostly from insurance adjusters) but it looked like there was light at the end of the tunnel.

But Chief of Police? I just couldn’t swallow it. I told Amanda as much.

“Think about it,” she said. “These new guys don’t know the town. Don’t know the people. The town council can appoint you Chief of Police. If you want to be Sheriff too, you’ll have to go get those votes yourself. But you grew up around here. You’ve earned some respect.”

Maybe. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to think the folks in this town would trust me to do a good job.

“Anyway, my recommendation doesn’t mean it’s a done deal. But just think about it. That coffee smells good.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks. I think I will.” She went into the back room.

I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes and sipped coffee. It tasted fine. I replayed the events of that night from a year ago, saw it in my head like a little movie. Me and The chief in that alley. His hand on my throat, the gun against his chest. I shivered just thinking about it. How close a thing it had been. I can almost remember pulling the trigger, or maybe I can only imagine it. I’d been a little fuzzy in the head.

But I’d killed him.

The chief was dead.

Long live the chief.

V
ICTOR
G
ISCHLER
is a world traveler, self-proclaimed chicken wing afficianado, Edgar and Anthony Award nominee, Pisces and masked do-badder. His work has been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, German and Japanese. He does not know karate, so feel free to push him down and take his wallet. He earned his Ph.D. in English at the University of Southern Mississippi where they fed him raw liver and beat him with rolled up newspapers. He lives in Baton Rouge with his wife and son.