Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  “Me? Sure. I’m fine.”

  Crockett smiled. “Why don’t you take a nap while I’m gone?”

  “A nap? I’ve only been out of bed for a hour.”

  “If you spent the night on that couch, you didn’t get much rest. You’re under a lot of stress right now. That eats up energy and makes you run on empty, while it fools you into thinking you’ve got plenty of gas. You don’t. Believe me you don’t.”

  Carson turned her back on him to put things in the sink. “I’m fine,” she said. “You just go ahead and do whatever it is that you have to do. I’ve got to call the store this morning and…”

  “Wrong,” Crockett said. “No calls to the store, at least not from this phone. They may have your line tapped. If you need to call, when I get back we’ll drive out of the area and you can use a pay phone. If my phone rings, don’t answer. If I need to get in touch with you, I’ll call and let it ring twice. Then I’ll disconnect and call right back. Then, and only then, will you pick up that phone. Clear?”

  Carson faced him. Her eyes flashed. “Abundantly,” she said.

  “Sorry. I know I’m being bossy. I get that way at times like these. Don’t take it personally. We just have to be very careful. I’m not trying to push you around. I am trying to avoid trouble. Please pay attention and do as I ask. It’s in everybody’s best interest.”

  Carson’s posture softened. She plucked at her shirttail and smoothed a pleat in the front of her baggy shorts. “Okay. I’ll just hang around.”

  “Good. Close the drapes, don’t answer the phone, don’t answer the door, and don’t go outside. If you watch TV, keep the volume low. When my truck is gone, nobody is here.”

  “What if somebody comes sneaking around?”

  “Not very likely,” Crockett said. “But in case they do, I’ll put Dundee outside. She’ll let you know. If you think somebody might actually be trying to break in, get back to the bedroom, call my cell number from the phone on the nightstand, and leave the connection open. If you lift up on the mattress platform at the foot of the bed, you’ll find storage space underneath. It’s empty. Crawl in there and let the platform back down. I’ll be on the way home in a big hurry. Stay under the bed until I get you out.”

  Carson leaned back against the counter and looked at the floor. “God. This is so bizarre.”

  “Yeah,” Crockett said, “it is. We’ll get through it, Champ. You and me. Together. We will get through it.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Why are you doing this?”

  Crockett smiled. “The best answer I ever heard to that question came from Ruby LaCost,” he said. “Because somebody else already killed all the dragons.”

  Chief Dale Smoot was sitting at a table with a couple of Hartrick’s illustrious city fathers when Crockett walked into Wagers Cafe. He took a seat at a back booth. Satin showed up thirty seconds later with a cup of coffee.

  “Ah, the lovely Lady Satin,” Crockett said. “Fine morrow to thee, good gentle. Doest thee fair well this day?”

  “Prince Charming,” Satin said. “How the hell are ya?”

  “Kinda numb.”

  “Overworked by that fair damsel you got stashed in your castle, no doubt.”

  “Thou doest misjudge me, m’lady.”

  “Maybe. None of my business anyway. You gonna tell me what this is all about?”

  “When you come out tomorrow. I do really wanna thank you for saying you’d help, though.”

  “What are friends for?”

  Crockett grinned. “I have a list,” he said.

  Satin bumped him with a hip. “Keep it to yourself. I got enough bullshit in my life as it is. That boat has sailed anyway.”

  “Ah, but it was a fine vessel,” Crockett said.

  “I’ve been on worse. You want breakfast?”

  “No thanks. I already ate.”

  “Really? You fix her some of your special scrambled eggs?”

  “You know, you were right when you said it was none of your business.”

  Satin laughed and rubbed his shoulder. “I gotta admit, you give good eggs, Crockett,” she said, and headed off to another table, coffee pot in hand.

  Crockett caught the chief’s attention and raised an eyebrow. Smoot nodded and, at the next break in conversation, left the city fathers and carried his coffee to Crockett’s booth. He sat, took a sip, and watched Crockett light a Sherman.

  “Morning,” the big man said.

  “Hey, Dale. Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Let’s go for a drive. I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” Smoot said, downing the last of his coffee. “Luther called in sick today. I’m on city patrol. You can ride along. Exciting, huh?”

  “I’m trying not to pant.”

  “If there’s a bank robbery or we get in a high speed chase, just don’t lose control of your bladder and embarrass me.”

  “I make no promises,” Crockett said. He left a buck beside his untouched coffee and followed the big man out the door.

  Thirty minutes later they were sitting in one of the two city squad cars at the end of Main Street near the railroad tracks. Crockett had told the chief most of what was going on. Smoot rubbed his chin and looked out the windshield.

  “This could be a helluva deal,” he said.

  “Could be”.

  “Or a helluva mess.”

  “Could be.”

  “The FBI or the Marshals show up, you reckon they’ll contact me?”

  “I don’t know,” Crockett said. “If there’s as much shit in the wind here as there appears that there might be, they probably won’t even want you to know that they’ve been around.”

  “What about bad guys?”

  “You mean other than the Feebs?”

  Smoot smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Other than them.”

  “Who knows? If they show up out at my place, things could get dicey.”

  “Christ. You got, uh, everything you need?”

  “I’m okay. If it starts looking bad, I may have to call in some help.”

  “Help, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “What kinda help?”

  “Anything from air cover to long distance recon, suppression to extraction.”

  Smoot drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment before he turned in his seat. “Just who the hell are you, Crockett?”

  “Well, if push comes to shove, I’ll be able to show you valid identification under the name of Daniel Beckett, as well as my legitimate verification, in that same name, as an agent of the United States Department of Justice.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Badge and commission.”

  “So you’ve got two identities.”

  “If I need to have, yes.”

  “Which one is real?”

  “Whichever one I need at the time.”

  Smoot rubbed his chin. “How do you work something like that?”

  “I have low friends in high places.”

  “So if nothing happens, you’re Crockett. If the feces hit the fan, you’re this other guy.”

  “That’s pretty much the way it is, yeah.”

  “From what you’ve told me, it seems like you’re doing the right thing, whoever you are.”

  “Trying to,” Crockett said.

  “Think there’ll be any danger to Satin?”

  “I doubt it, or I wouldn’t have brought her in. Anybody looking for the woman in question probably won’t figure I’d stash her in a small town where I hang out anyway. Too obvious. If this thing stretches out into weeks or more, I’ll get her out of town. Hell, I’ll get her out of state. As far as here goes, if the subject and Satin both do what I tell them, everything should be fine.”

  “They’re women, Crockett,” the chief said, shaking his head. “What do you think the odds are on them doing what they’re told?”

  Crockett grinned. “First time for everything,” he said.

  Crockett�
��s visit to the bank was nearly joyful. That venerable institution was tickled pink to have his money to play with. So much so, that they even promised to pay him a fraction of its earnings for that very privilege. After he received hearty handshakes, two ballpoint pens, and a calendar, Crockett headed back home. He left Dundee outside and entered the bus as quietly as he could, in case Carson was sleeping. She was not in the living area, and the bedroom door was mostly closed.

  The air conditioning provided breathy ambience, a steady and nearly comforting constant of white noise that suppressed smaller random sounds. He poured himself a cup of coffee, shut off the alarm on the microcave, and warmed the brew. When it was ready, Crockett added cream, repaired to his recliner, lit a Sherman, and aimed his mind at what might, or might not, happen during the next few days. He was so engaged when Carson exited the bedroom. Her face was red and slightly distorted, her eyes swollen and puffy, and if she’d been wearing mascara, it would have been dripping off her chin. When she saw him, she gave a start.

  “Oh! Crockett. I didn’t know you were back.”

  Her voice was thick and raspy, with that nasal quality that comes from a stopped up nose.

  “Hey, Carson. Not doing so well?”

  She collapsed while remaining on her feet. Her knees bent, her body folded inward in an effort of self-preservation, and the tears started again, flowing freely down her face, partially shielded by tangles of long hair sweeping forward as she bowed her head. Instantly Crockett was on his feet. He put his arms around her and Carson burrowed into him, her arms folded across her chest, her forehead against the hollow of his throat. Crockett said nothing, but held her there for an alarming amount of time, until the spasms slowed and finally stopped. She eased away from him then to grab some tissues from a box on the counter, blew her nose in a very unladylike fashion, and returned to her former position, protecting herself from him as he protected her from everything else.

  After a few moments, Crockett adjusted his position to beside her, slowly walked her back to the bedroom, and eased her down onto the bed. Carson had still not looked at him or uttered a single word. As he released her to go, she clutched at his right hand and would not give it up. Instead, she lay on her right side, her knees drawn up, and pulled his hand to her, covering it with both of hers and drawing it to her upper chest, further enfolding it with her chin. Crockett did the only thing he could do. He lay down on his left side facing her. That gesture started her silent crying again, and Crockett let it happen. Gradually, the clutching of his hand became holding, the crying slowed to labored breathing, and she fell asleep. Crockett stayed where he was, afraid to break the cycle, and watched her ragged slumber. Over time she settled. Her breathing became slow and regular, the tension in her body eased, and she began to truly rest. But she would not release his hand. He remained there, Carson curled against him, letting her have what she needed.

  “If you don’t get up, you won’t sleep tonight.”

  Those words brought Crockett out of slumber and he looked toward the bedroom door. Carson, dressed in white cotton pants that ended just below the knee and a pale blue shirt tied about her waist, smiled at him. She was wearing light makeup and her hair was brushed back on both sides into a tawny mane that framed her face. In that light, at that moment, she looked a little like Murphy Brown.

  Crockett was confused. “What?”

  “It’s almost five o’clock.”

  “Five o’clock?”

  Crockett rubbed his eyes and tried to sit up. Not much luck with that.

  Carson disappeared. He struggled to a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was staring bleakly at his foot when she returned with a fresh cup of hot coffee, put it on the end table beside his right elbow, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “C’mon, Crockett,” she said. “I’m getting ready to fire up the Jenn-Air. Decide if you want salmon, burgers, or chicken tonight.” She rubbed his back briefly and went away. Crockett looked toward the doorway.

  “What?” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chin Music

  “Sorry I fell apart on you,” Carson said.

  Crockett put a small scrap of salmon in a plastic bag for Nudge and stashed it in the fridge. “You didn’t,” he said, rinsing the dishes. “You reached emotional overload and the safety valve released. Been there a time or two myself. It’s that, or explode. You wisely chose the lesser of two evils.”

  “I know I feel better. Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “No,” Crockett said. “Thank you. I groped you while you were in the coma. Love them cheap thrills.”

  Carson laughed. “Here I am, baring my soul, and you crack jokes.”

  Crockett reached into an overhead cabinet and took out a new bottle of Glenfiddich and two short glasses. He joined Carson at the dinette table and poured two fingers for her, one for himself.

  “Single malt Scotch,” he said. “Drink.”

  “No ice?” Carson asked.

  “No ice, no water, no bullshit. Drink.”

  Carson tossed back her Scotch and made a face. Crockett poured another two fingers.

  She peered at him suspiciously. “Are you trying to lower my resistance, sir?”

  Crockett smiled. “Nope. Just your standards. The guys all get better lookin’ at closin’ time.”

  Carson raised an eyebrow, swirled the amber liquid, tilted her glass, and let the smoky libation slide down her throat.

  Crockett nodded his approval, went to the fridge, and returned with a partial tray of ice cubes. He filled both their glasses to the brim with ice and added scotch to the midline. “Now you can sip,” he said.

  Carson held the glass in front of her and rattled the ice. “What’s all this about?” she asked.

  “If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way to a woman’s mouth is through her liver. Crying is well, but it’s only a start. I want you to talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yep.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Anything?” Carson asked, taking a deep sip of her drink.

  “Anything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because something will come up that will be pertinent to your current situation.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Completely,” Crockett said.

  “What should I talk about?”

  “Tell me about the pony you had when you were a kid.”

  “Didn’t have a pony. Wanted one. A Palomino with a black saddle. Didn’t get it. Santa sucks.”

  Crockett nodded. “Then how ‘bout the time you had chicken pox and couldn’t go on your fourth grade field trip?”

  “Never had the chicken pox,” Carson said, and took another slug. “Had the measles.”

  Crockett sipped his whisky. “Really?”

  “Yeah, but not the bad ones. Just had to stay in my room for a while. Mom kept it pretty dark. Wanted me to rest. Booooring.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thas okay. It’s over now. A thing of the past.” Carson took another heavy sip and stared at her glass for a moment. “Speaking of the past,” she said, “see this scar on my chin?”

  “I do,” Crockett said. “Only the gods are perfect.”

  “Well, I was eight or nine and…what?”

  “Nothing. Go ahead.”

  Carson blinked at him owlishly and took a deep breath. “Okay. I was seven or eight an’ Ronnie Young had this slingshot that his brother made for him out of a piece of their cherry tree. That tree had some really good cherries. Used to get juice all over me, pickin’ the cherries outa that tree.”

  “What about the slingshot?”

  “Oh. He cut this fork thing out of the cherry tree that had some stripes, uh, strips of inner tube tied to it, and he was shooting stuff with rocks. Ronnie just lived a couple of doors down on my street in Kalamazoo.”

  “I see.”

  “So, Ronnie
had this slingshot his brother made for him and I wanted to shoot it, and he wouldn’t let me. Did you ever have a slingshot, Crockett?”

  “Yep.”

  “So did Ronnie. His brother made it for him. But he wouldn’t let me shoot it. So I begged an’ followed him around all afternoon, and I finally told him…this is a little embarrassing, I think.”

  Crockett grinned. “It is?”

  Carson took another sip. “Yeah.”

  “You’re among friends.”

  “I know that. So…I told Ronnie that I’d let him see my panties if he let me shoot his slingshot.”

  “No!”

  Carson nodded rather violently. “Yes! An’ he said okay. So after I showed him my panties, he put a rock in that little thing that holds the rocks and I held the slingshot way out an’ pulled on that thing with the rock in it as hard as I could an’ the slingshot came loose from my hand an’ hit me in the chin.”

  “Ouch!”

  “A lot. An’ there was blood all over my chin an’ all over my dress an’ I ran home. Ronnie got to see my panties, but I never did get to shoot his slingshot.”

  “Just wasn’t in the cards, girlfriend.”

  “I guess not,” Carson said, and took another sip.

  They sat quietly for a moment before Crockett broke the silence.

  “So, was that the first time a relationship with a man brought you pain?” he asked.

  Carson stared at the tabletop. “I’m scared, Crockett,” she said.

  “I know you are. You have every right to be.”

  “I mean, I’ve been a little scared for a long time. In one way or another, I’ve been a little scared ever since I was a Junior Miss. But now I’m a lot scared. When you left me here all by myself I just freaked out or something. I feel a lot better when you’re around.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  Carson smiled. “You’re kind of a wiseass, huh?”

  “It’s my curse,” Crockett said. “We all got ‘em.”

  “Okay, wiseass,” Carson said. “What’s mine?”

  “Your curse?”