by C.L. Bevill
Chapter Seventeen
Bubba Has an Epiphany and Goes to Jail…Again
Saturday once more
Bubba was aware that the conversation in the Pegram Café died out again as he stared at that last thing that had niggled him so. It petered slowly off as if the customers gradually realized that something else was happening. He didn’t know it, but they had watched Sheriff John Headrick pull up to the café in his county car, get out, and walk slowly around Bubba’s truck. They saw him pet Precious as she stuck her head out the open window. She slobbered as he scratched her under her jowls. They also saw Sheriff John reach in the back of the Chevy truck and pull out a hunting rifle.
Sheriff John held the rifle for a long time, sniffed the barrel end, and then looked inside the café with serious, searching eyes. The occupants of the café hushed as if with a magic wand. Sheriff John carefully put the rifle in his car and entered the restaurant. As he stood in the door, his eyes immediately sought out Bubba sitting at the counter. The Sheriff moved forward quietly and stopped just behind Bubba.
“Hey, Bubba,” said Sheriff John.
Bubba took a drink of coffee. It dawned on him that no one was moving around him. Everyone was standing shock-still. Lurlene was watching from the swinging kitchen doors with large brown eyes and a little ‘O’ of surprise. Noey Wheatfall stared at Bubba with a most intent expression through the slot where he slowly slid the food out for Lurlene to pick up.
There didn’t seem to be a lot of choice in it for Bubba. He looked over his shoulder at Sheriff John. “Hey, Sheriff.” The sudden noise made several people jump.
Sheriff John didn’t have a friendly look on his face. No, he was angry, by the way Bubba judged it. He looked all done in. “Let’s take a walk outside, Bubba,” said the older man. It wasn’t a request.
Bubba gazed at his half-finished plate of food. The eggs were done just the way he liked them with the Tabasco flavoring them nicely. “You mind if I finish this?” He pointed with a fork. He himself wasn’t in an ingratiating mood.
Sheriff John’s eyes didn’t move from Bubba. “Go ahead, Bubba. You might as well.”
With that Bubba finished his breakfast. He poured a bunch of ketchup on the hash browns and scooped them up with his fork. He piled down the eggs. He ate every bit of the sausage and the bacon. When he was done, he finished his coffee, and pulled out his wallet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Sheriff jerk just a bit, so he slowed down to show him that it was merely his wallet.
Bubba left ten and five dollar-bills for Lurlene because he thought tipping should always be good for good service and there hadn’t been anything wrong with the service. And in all of that time, no one even moved, not even to eat their rapidly cooling meals, or drink their lukewarm coffees. They watched Sheriff John watching Bubba as if they expected an old time Western shoot out.
Bubba slid the wallet in his back pocket of his jeans. He said to Sheriff John, “You want to put those handcuffs on me, Sheriff John?”
“I do believe so,” that man answered. He fished them out and put them on Bubba’s wrists as the other man presented them to him. Sheriff John repeated his Miranda rights to Bubba, in much the same manner as he had on at least on two other occasions in the past two weeks.
“Good breakfast,” Bubba called to Noey Wheatfall.
Noey said uncertainly, “Uh-thanks, Bubba.”
“See you later, Miss Lurlene,” Bubba called to the waitress.
Lurlene waved at them albeit a little weakly.
Foot Johnson and Lloyd Goshorn were sitting at the table next to the door. Both men turned to look at Bubba as Sheriff John guided him out the door. Four eyes were as big as the white plates Noey used in the restaurant.
“Boo!” cried Bubba, leaning toward Foot Johnson. He had a strong recollection of the Foot being an out and out bully when Bubba had been in elementary school. As a matter of fact, Foot had often had his foot in some poor younger child’s butt, which was the reason he was thusly called. Foot jumped about a foot, too.
Bubba smiled. So did Lloyd Goshorn, and behind them, Judge Posey chuckled loudly. Foot Johnson merely turned a bright shade of red and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
Sheriff John said, “Knock that off, Bubba.”
Once they were outside, Bubba said, “Listen, my dog is in my truck.”
Sheriff John paused but didn’t seem impressed. “So what’s your point?”
“I cain’t just leave her there.” Bubba pointed awkwardly with his handcuffed wrists. “And you cain’t just leave her there.”
Sheriff John was silent for a bit. He would have asked if Miz Demetrice could come and get the damned dog, but he’d heard the news about her recent trip. Instead, Sheriff John shuffled his feet like a little kid. After a minute, he cursed, “All right, Goddammit. I’ll get the damned dog.”
A few minutes later Tee Gearheart said, “No dogs in the jail, Sheriff.”
“Don’t you start with me, Tee Gearheart,” warned Sheriff John, removing the cuffs from his prisoner. “Just process Bubba, dammit.”
“Hey, Bubba,” greeted Tee. “We ought to name a cell after you. The Bubba Snoddy Suite. How’d you like that?”
Bubba shrugged. “What I’d like is to get some sleep.”
“Heard about your fire,” said Tee. “Empty your pockets right here.”
Bubba emptied his pockets, and looked at the contents, wallet, soot, dental floss, wadded up dollar bill, more soot, and one green button. He removed his belt and placed it on the counter, as well. “Here you go.”
“You want to talk about that deer rifle in the back of your truck, Bubba?” Sheriff John asked, watching him with steely eyes.
“I don’t own a deer rifle,” answered Bubba. He was hoping that Miz Demetrice didn’t own a deer rifle. Of course, he hadn’t known about all those other guns she had around the house either. Bubba had used a deer rifle many times as a teenager with both of his grandfathers but had never taken to the sport. Fishing was more to his liking. No one got in arms over a man hauling in a batch of trout. He decided that maybe Miz Demetrice did own a deer rifle and that very quickly, Bubba was going to be in even more big trouble that he had been before.
“It’s been fired recently,” Sheriff John mentioned.
“Sign here,” said Tee. He pushed a form and a pen across to Bubba. Bubba signed it.
Tee came around the big desk and guided Bubba away from the Sheriff. Bubba said to Sheriff John, “Don’t suppose you believe me.”
“It was in the back of your truck,” Sheriff John called after them.
“It won’t have my fingerprints on it,” replied Bubba wearily. “You won’t find any record of me buying a rifle. And besides you know where I was when Neal Ledbetter was shot.”
Sheriff John knew very well. But what Bubba didn’t know, was that the bullet they had dug out of the Donut Shop’s wall was a thirty ought six caliber slug. And it had traveled through two other stores after passing through Neal’s skull. Fortunately for Sheriff John and unfortunately for Bubba, it wasn’t torn up a whole bunch, and Sheriff John knew that ballistics could easily match it to the weapon that fired it. Such as the Winchester hunting rifle in the back of Bubba’s truck. Then there was the fact that while Neal’s watch said a certain time, Doc Goodjoint could not narrow the time down to more than plus or minus a few hours of one PM. Bubba might have very well done it before he went into the Grand Jury, making him one of the most cold-blooded killers that Sheriff John had ever run into in his entire career. He walked out of the jail shaking his head sadly.
Bubba watched Sheriff John leave and waited for the exterior jail door to shut before he said to Tee, “Say, Tee. I sure hope your wife’s pregnancy is going all right. Poppiann’s a real fine woman, and you all will make fine parents.”
“Thank you,” Tee said, a note of wariness creeping into his voice, as if his ESBP was kicking in with a vengeance. (Extra Sensory Bubba Perception or knowing when anot
her damn shoe was about to drop) Bubba was one of those people Tee liked to have in the jail. For one reason, he didn’t make trouble. For another reason, if there had been trouble and Bubba was in the jail, too, Bubba would make sure the trouble ended. Bubba was a good old boy from a good old Pegramville family, but Tee figured that Bubba was about to become trouble. It would be the worst kind of trouble, too. Not the kind that Tee could pound down with a metal sap and a firm word, but the kind that he had always feared. The logical kind. Oh, yes, the moral kind. The kind if one didn’t do, then one would surely go straight to hell to roast marshmallows with all the other cursed souls.
“Gosh darn it,” Tee muttered under his breath, scraping his large feet over the cement floor like a little elementary school child caught in the midst of a dismal dilemma. There didn’t seem to be much else to do. Bubba wasn’t actually in the jail cell yet. So Tee let him go and said, “What? Bubba, what already?”
“You think I’m guilty?”
Mike Holmgreen looked interestedly out from between his set of bars. “I don’t think you’re guilty, Bubba,” he said.
“Thank you, Mike,” Bubba said sincerely. “Tee?”
“It don’t matter which way I think, Bubba,” Tee said earnestly. “I’m the jailor. My job is to keep those in the jail locked up, safe, well-fed, and ready to go when they need to go. It’s my duty. I swore an oath.”
“What oath?” Bubba asked curiously.
“ ‘The City of Pegramville Oath for Allegiance, Duty, and Honor.’ It’s in the City Charter,” Tee said. “You should read it sometime.”
“I have read it,” Bubba said right back. He had. It had been very boring. Even for him. And he still didn’t remember anything about a city oath. But whatever.
“You remember when you were in high school, Tee,” Bubba started slowly and carefully.
Tee’s face darkened. “I knew you were going to bring that up. I just knew it.”
“What?” Mike said. “What happened in high school?”
“Never you mind, Mike Holmgreen,” Tee all but snarled.
“One dark night at prom there was a mascot minding its own bidness. A mascot from a rival high school, mind you,” Bubba said innocently. “And someone kidnapped the mascot.”
“Bubba,” Tee said warningly.
Mike was a-goggle.
Bubba looked at Mike as if he were telling a story. “We were real young.” He considered. “About your age. Except we didn’t get caught.”
“I didn’t mean no harm to that goat,” Tee said stridently. “It charged me and had its teeth on my…” he stopped and looked at Mike’s saucer-like eyes. “On my…uh…oh, heckfire. You know a goat can bite like a mean sonuva…beach ball,” he finished lamely. Then he put in fiercely, “Do you know how lucky Poppiann and I are to be having a child after that?”
“Hey, that goat was fine after we took him to the vet,” Bubba said. Then he added meaningfully, “A Snoddy family friend who happened to also be a veterinarian and who could keep his mouth shut…”
Tee glowered at Bubba and then growled at Mike, “You tell anyone about this and you’ll be needing a vet, boy.”
Mike didn’t say anything.
“What do you want, Bubba?” Tee asked with calamitous reservation.
“Let me walk out. I’ll go figure this thing out. Then I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Bubba smiled his most winningest smile. “I swear on my Mama’s grave.”
Tee thought about it. “No, I don’t think so, and your mama ain’t dead yet.”
“Tee,” Bubba started.
“I’ll go with you,” Tee said firmly. That way Bubba couldn’t get into as much trouble. Hell, Tee knew Bubba wasn’t a killer. So did half the town. But someone was killing folks. “So will the kid. He ain’t got nothing better to do.”
Precious suddenly felt left out of the conversation and woofed as if in agreement.
“But we’re taking the minivan,” Tee added. “And we need to be back before six PM else we’re all in a heap o’ trouble.” He rubbed a hand over his perspiring forehead. “God, I have to call my wife.”
Ten minutes later Tee was driving a minivan with Bubba, Mike, and Precious as passengers. Bubba said, “We’re going to Bufford’s.”
“Bufford’s?” Tee repeated. “What the heck for?”
“I need to talk to Melvin Wetmore about a job.”
Bubba finally had figured out that coincidences did happen. Sometimes some lucky bastard hit all six numbers in the Lotto and walked off with tens of millions of bucks. Sometimes a fella got struck by lightning. Every once in a while that fella that got struck by lightning got struck again playing golf or some such silliness. But the literal odds were against it. So if Bubba happened to coincidently be by himself in Bufford’s Gas and Grocery on that inauspicious Thursday night, then he’d take off his boots, deep-fry them in peanut oil, and eat them. With ketchup.
~ ~ ~