by George Wier
“I’ll top the tank,” Buster said. He followed my gaze when I stepped out of his cruiser and regarded the restaurant over the roof of the car.
“You hungry, Bill?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Besides, I left my cell phone in the plane and I need to make a call. Maybe they’ve got a pay phone.”
“They do,” he said. “But you can use my cell phone any time.”
“Would it say ‘Sheriff’ on the caller-I.D. on the other end?” I asked.
Buster smiled.
“It might,” he said.
“Give me about ten minutes, then,” I said and started toward the café.
“I’ll give you fifteen. And order me a roast beef sandwich and a cup of coffee. I’ll be there in a few. And don’t eat the chicken fried steak.”
I turned around and gave Buster a frown.
“And don’t try to pay for the meal. I’ve got it all covered.”
“Anything else?” I asked him.
“Yeah. I’m serious about that chicken-fried steak. They never change the grease,” he said.
CHAPTER FOUR
I ordered for us and then went in search of a pay phone. There are so few of them left in this age of instant communication.
I looked out one of the side windows of the restaurant as I plunked a line of quarters, one after the other, into an old pay phone which had been nailed to the wall just outside the restrooms. Outside the large floor-to-ceiling tinted window stood a couple of acres of open field, parched and brown. I had heard a few weeks back that a burn ban was in effect for most of the Texas Hill Country, and from my vantage-point I could see why. In Texas, particularly Central Texas, we have four seasons: Almost Summer, Summer, Still Summer, and Deer Season. Summer is half the year, with the remaining seasons divided evenly among the remaining six months. Just one match, I thought—
“Hello?” a lovely feminine voice spoke into my ear.
“Hi, honey?” I said. Julie had answered on the first ring.
“Uh oh,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“‘Honey’. It’s ‘honey’ when you’re in the thick of it.”
“No, that’s ‘baby’. ‘Honey’ is new,” I said.
“Oh. So where are you now? Lonesome Dove, Texas?”
“No. Trantor’s Crossing. Look, as you probably know, I won’t be home until late.”
“If at all tonight,” she finished for me, and of course, she was right.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Jessica has been bouncing her basketball all over the house, waiting for some one-on-one with her dad.”
“Tell her ‘I’m sorry’.”
Julie paused. I hate it when she does that. Her silences are often more palpable than any words.
“Okay, Bill,” her voice softened. “I love you.”
“Same here.”
“Don’t get yourself in any trouble,” she said. I knew she was going to say that. But, then again, she knew I knew. At least she hadn’t told me not to let myself get shot.
“Bye,” I said.
“Bye.”
Neither of us hung up. The silence stretched out.
“We’re still in love, aren’t we?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Sucks, don’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I wouldn’t change that for the world,” I said.
“Yeah. Bye, baby,” she said.
“Bye.”
This time she hung up. I listened to the silence for a moment, felt the wind blowing through my hair. I was fifty miles from home, I was hungry, tired, and I felt like a fifteen year old after his first date.
Finally, I hung up the phone.
Who says anybody ever grows up?
*****
“Talk to your wife?” Buster asked me when I came back to the table and found him wolfing down his sandwich.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. So is it alright for you to hang around a couple of days, until we can make some dust settle?”
“Sure, but I’m hoping for more like hours.”
Sheriff LeRoy chuckled. “That would be fine by me.”
We ate in silence. The way we went at the meal made it far too short, but at least I began to feel satiated.
When I offered to pick up the tab Buster shook his head. He waved to the waitress—not old after all, more like a bored high-school kid—who rolled her eyes and then nodded an okay to him. Buster planted his stetson on top of his head, pushed back his chair and said: “Come on, Bill. It’s no charge today.”
The privileges of being the Sheriff.
*****
We headed back in the general direction of the airport, back to where it began.
“Why is it you couldn’t stand Edgar Bristow? I asked. “Did he pee in your flower bed? Insult your wife? What?”
He let out a long, slow sigh. I glanced out at the world around us. Central Texas was in desperate need of few days of rain. The landscape was all amber and dead brown, but for the occasional evergreen, and the fierce, stark sun beamed down, relentless.
“Let me tell you, Bill, I didn’t want to be Sheriff of this county. I never wanted anything to do with law enforcement. To this day it’s not easy for me to bust somebody for having one drink too many, or for giving in to their addictions, or for moments of bad judgement. All crime is just plain stupid, as far as I’m concerned. It’s easier just to go along and follow the law and use your noodle, you know? Well, I was going to be an NPRC Champ. That’s the National—”
“Pro Rodeo Circuit,” I finished for him. “I’m familiar.”
“Yeah. All I wanted to do was ride broncs and bulls and... Hell, you don’t need to know all that. What I’m getting at is that I never wanted to be sheriff. But the last sheriff was crooked. I got cornered at a barbecue stand here one Saturday morning by three longtime and trusted friends who demanded I run. I raised every objection I could: One—I didn’t want to run, to which they pointed out that in light of who the current sheriff was, it was my duty, two—I didn’t have the money for a campaign, but, of course, they had that covered, three—I was fine with Sheriff Sass because I left him alone and he left me alone, but their rebuttal was that no one else besides me had that opinion, and four—if I didn’t do it, they would hold me personally responsible for whatever the old bastard did do. So, I ran for office. That’s when Bristow turned up, threw Sheriff Sass about fifty thousand bucks, and made life hell for me for about six months.”
“But it didn’t stop there, did it?” I said.
He turned to me, taking his eyes off the road.
“‘Course not.”
“How did you win?” I asked him.
“About six weeks before the election, the old buzzard dropped in his tracks from a massive heart attack.”
“You got lucky,” I said.
“Yeah. Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.”
The miles ticked on by. I waited, knowing it would all come out. All I had to do was sit there, nod from time to time, stick in a word here and there, and the beans would spill. I also had it figured that Sheriff LeRoy was the kind of fellow who didn’t discuss his job and its myriad related problems with his young and wholesome wife. After all, he wanted to keep her. So it was probably as certain as taxes in April that he likely had no one to spill the beans to. Enter Bill Travis and his quiet ways.
“You probably want me to tell you about the fist fight,” Sheriff LeRoy said, but then we were turning into the airport.
“You and Bristow?” I asked.
“Yeah. I know everyone in the county felt sorry for him when Molly was killed.”
“Molly?” I asked.
“His daughter. Killed at age seventeen. It’s an open case. We never found the killer. Probably never will, Bill. And he hates me for it. After she died he got meaner and meaner. You’d have thought it would have broken him. Something like that would have broken me, for sure. After we find Edgar’s killer, I’m going after Moll
y’s. It’ll be easier without Edgar... uh... standing in the way.”
The Sheriff’s last statement hung in the air between us. I took in the looming airport and so saw them between the hangars as we rolled down the narrow drive: twin black Ford Crown Victorias, parked side-by-side.
“Shit. They’re already here,” Sheriff LeRoy said.
“I see that,” I said.
“Damned feds.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I recognized him instantly. The tall black man in the navy blue suit was Agent Felix Bruce. I had met him several years back about the same time I met Julie. Felix and his partner Ben Cranford had been assigned to shut down the operation of a North Texas illegal liquor baron named Archie Carpin. Carpin had very nearly succeeded in killing not only Julie, but me and a close associate, Hank Sterling. Agent Bruce and I didn’t exactly like each other, but oddly, it was this mutual dislike that gave us something in common, a basis for grudging respect.
We pulled up on the tarmac, stopped and got out into the sweltering sun.
“Bill Travis,” Agent Bruce said.
“Agent Felix Bruce,” I said. “Where’s Ben Cranford?”
“Retired. He lives in a little village in Colorado, the same house he was born in.”
“Hmph,” I grunted. “It’s probably more like a ski lodge.”
“You got that right,” Felix said.
“You two know each other, huh?” Sheriff LeRoy said.
“Unfortunately,” Agent Bruce said. “Hello, Sheriff LeRoy. Would you mind accompanying me and my associates to Austin? We would like to have a little talk.”
“I’m sure it’ll be more than talk, and I seriously doubt the ‘little’ part as well.”
Felix Bruce’s light brown face was stony, unemotional. He waited for an actual answer.
Buster LeRoy folded his arms across his chest.
The silence deepened between the two of them.
“Alright,” I said. “Cut it out, you two. Agent Bruce, is the Sheriff under arrest?”
“Not yet,” he said, his eyes remained locked with the Sheriff’s.
“Fine,” I said. “Sheriff, maybe talking this all out will help. Why don’t you go with them. I’ll keep the home fires burning for awhile.”
“Talking won’t do any good,” he said. “But I’ll go. I like things nice and peaceful. When they formally arrest me, I’ll make bail. It’s already arranged.”
“Good,” I said. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”
Both men visibly relaxed.
“I suppose,” Agent Bruce said, turning to me finally, “you’re looking for who you think is the real killer?”
“Possibly,” I said.
“Good luck, then,” he said and extended his hand.
I looked down at it. How odd. I’d never shaken his hand before. What the hell? I thought, took his large hand in mine and shook it.
Three other men in navy blue suits emerged from the aircraft hangar walked briskly toward us.
“I don’t need luck,” I said. “Don’t believe in it. But thanks.”
Felix Bruce nodded.
“Can I have a moment with Mr. Travis?” Sheriff LeRoy asked.
Felix Bruce shrugged, turned and moved away.
Sheriff LeRoy turned to me.
“Bill, go talk to Lydia Stevens,” Sheriff LeRoy said. I filed the name away in a little corner of my head that contained nothing else. “Don’t worry about me. I anticipated this and I’ll make bond.”
“Okay,” I said. “Lydia Stevens.”
“Yeah. Molly Bristow’s best friend. Who knows. Maybe she’ll talk to you.”
“Molly Bristow,” I said. “As in Bristow’s murdered daughter. You want me to look up her best friend?”
“Right.” Sheriff LeRoy said and tossed me his cruiser keys.
“And tell my wife what’s going on, then you’re free to use my car until I’m...” his voice trailed off. He had been going to say ‘free,’ but had second thoughts on it.
“Back home,” I finished for him.
“Yeah,” Buster said. He glanced at Agent Bruce. “Austin, huh? I bet you’ve got an office in the Federal Building there.”
“A borrowed office. My real office is my car,” Felix said.
“Okay. Fine,” Buster said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Felix opened the rear door of his Crown Victoria and the Sheriff got inside. Felix closed the door without slamming it.
“You want to tell me something?” he asked me.
“Yeah. Buster LeRoy didn’t kill anybody,” I said. “And you know he wants me to find out who did, which is why I’m along for this ride. So my question is, are you going to stand in my way?”
“Who says I need to?” Felix asked. He then sighed and dropped the hard-edged facade he normally kept rigidly in place. “Bill, I’ve got a job to do, and it looks like you’ve now got yours. I suppose I mean it when I say ‘good luck’.”
Felix offered me his hand, a peace offering of sorts, and I took it and shook.
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Bruce,” I said. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Me too, Mr. Travis. I can’t say I’m glad to see you. When I do see you, there’s usually hell to pay.”
“Same here,” I said.
He turned away from me, got into his car and drove off. Sheriff LeRoy smiled and shrugged as they moved past me.
“Well,” I said to myself as the warm wind blew, “it’s just you and me, kid.”
*****
I stood there in the emptiness of the airport, not another soul in evidence. I turned and regarded Denise’s Cessna, which was where we’d left it in what seemed like ages before, but had been a mere few hours. It seemed to me that technically there was a log entry due for that last flight.
In the exchange between Felix, Buster, and myself, there had been no mention of arrest, nary a word about other suspects or of murder weapons, nor any reference as to why the Federal Government was interested in a small town murder.
The hangar door was closed and a long streamer of yellow crime-scene tape covered both it and the smaller office door. I could easily go in there... hell, I wanted desperately to go in there, but I suspected there would be little to see. The place had been thoroughly photographed and probably swabbed clean. And besides that, I reasoned with myself, it was likely locked, and apart from breaking the sanctity of the yellow tape, such actions could be classified as breaking and entering, an infraction for which I was not quite ready to pay the piper, deputized public servant or not.
I sighed to myself and fiddled with the keys to Buster LeRoy’s cruiser, which was parked on the tarmac not twenty feet away. I regarded the car.
“Well,” I said to myself. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggshells.”
CHAPTER SIX
It was the oddest feeling driving away from the airport at the wheel of Sheriff LeRoy’s county cruiser. I glanced at my visage briefly in the rearview mirror, noticing the grill behind me which separated the front driver’s section from the rear where arrested and handcuffed ruffians were caged for transport. In the mirror I saw the face of a Bill Travis who could have been, the fleeting glimpse of an alternate time-line Bill who had pursued a career as a law enforcement officer.
While I had gone to the University of Houston to pursue a master’s degree and come out to amass what I had then dreamed of as millions for myself, my undergraduate career had been at Sam Houston State University, in Huntsville, Texas, a sleepy town of some forty-thousand souls when the semester was going strong and which dropped down to between fifteen and twenty-thousand during breaks. There I’d spent four years learning the ins and outs of the Texas criminal justice system, including the Texas prison system and law enforcement. I was destined to be a cop. I’d even spent my summers between my last few years in college interning with a small town Sheriff’s department much like the one at Trantor’s Crossing.
The problem came along for me bet
ween my junior and senior year. I’d been in a couple of high-speed chases that would have made Bo and Luke Duke of Hazzard County want to hang up their keys for good, I’d been in on a couple of not very small drug busts and at ground zero of a few domestic squabbles which had gone from bad to worse—you know, the usual. But the first time I had to put handcuffs on another human being—that was the turning point. It made me sick. I spent two days running a high fever, puking my guts out and hoping I might die, dreading that I might not. By the time I could sip water again and nibble on a cracker, I’d figured it out: I couldn’t bust people. I didn’t know why. Something deep inside me rebelled against it. I didn’t have to test it to make sure, I knew I’d be sick all over again. If after graduation I were to become a full-time policeman, then a detective and on up the ladder, it would be with that extreme disability. I would be like a paramedic who couldn’t stomach the sight of blood. And it would have ultimately killed me.
That other, alternate Bill, the one in the rearview mirror of Buster LeRoy’s cruiser, was a lonely, haggard and unhappy man. The world he moved in was a world where regular people couldn’t be trusted and everyone encountered had an ulterior motive. Knowing that, despite the unease beginning to gnaw at the center of me and the tiredness from a long day starting to seep its way into my limbs, I felt comforted with the knowledge I had taken the correct pathways in life. Well, most of the correct pathways.
I headed back to town, through it, and out in the direction of Sheriff LeRoy’s house north of town.