by C. L. Bevill
“What about a Christmas tree lot?” Willodean suggested.
“Bubba,” the voice said again. Bubba looked over his shoulder and saw the red and blue flashing lights approaching from the end of the block. He started the Saturn Vue and drove down the street so Big Joe wouldn’t shoot him on the spot.
“Bubba!”
“What?” Bubba boomed when the car suddenly stalled. His large feet slipped off the clutch, and the car died with a sputtering cough of protest. He started the car again, and it made a screeching sound that was not dissimilar to the noise a man makes when he has just been hit squarely in the groin.
“Bubba, it’s Arlette again,” said the 9-1-1 operator tentatively. Obviously, she had been listening to the conversation.
Willodean said, “It’s the emergency operator? You know listening in on a private call is illegal.”
“It’s boring on a Tuesday night,” Arlette protested heartily. “And everyone just left.”
“Because they’re rushing over to arrest Bubba,” Willodean shouted. “And the sheriff is MISSING!”
“Well, Lord love a duck in a flood,” Arlette said pertly. “You said something about the sheriff being hung in a Christmas tree.”
Willodean started to say something else, and Bubba interrupted brusquely, “What about it, Arlette?”
“The Boomer family lives over to Stonewall Road, you know,” Arlette said reflectively. “They called in the other night and said folks have been messing around their property. Lights in the night, scaring the animals, and all. Said they saw someone in a light-colored van speeding off.”
Bubba was thinking furiously. The Boomers had a goat farm. Half the time the city was trying to shut them down because farm animals weren’t supposed to be allowed in the city of Pegramville. But the Boomers had had their property for nearly as long as the Snoddys, and there had been a grandfather clause about farm animals. Consequently and because of an ambiguous paragraph in the clause, they still had the goat farm, long after the original goats had gone to Billy Goat Gruff heaven. And since the Boomers had added another breed to their repertoire, the local kids often went out to the farm to tease the goats. Apparently the unique breed had a certain quality that never failed to entice insufferable young people. Fainting goats that were easily frightened and fell over with stiffened legs amused the hell out of indigenous teenagers. Poor little critters.
Nothing Christmasy about any of that. Don’t recall nothing about fainting goats in the Bible or any story about St. Nicholas.
“Stanley Boomer just about had a conniption fit because someone broke through a gate and then put the gates back up to look like they weren’t broken. He came along and tried to open them and they just fell over. Kind of like the goats do.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ wearing platform shoes,” Willodean muttered. “She’s worse than Mary Lou Treadwell.”
“I’m getting to the point,” Arlette protested. “Well, the Boomers have that doggoned tree near there. Mr. Boomer said the tire tracks went up to the tree.”
“What tree?” Willodean asked.
Bubba had already made the connection. He gunned the engine with a last look behind him at the rapidly flashing lights that were concentrated on the Headrick home. Police and emergency workers were swarming on the house. Bubba sighed with relief. He hadn’t liked leaving Darla Headrick all alone, but she wasn’t alone any longer.
The Saturn Vue didn’t have a lot of get up and go, so Bubba had to lean forward to get the car to go a little faster. The Boomer’s farm was on the opposite side of town. He was thankful that it was late enough that the streets were clear. People had settled in for the night or were keeping inside because of a chill December night. As he willfully chose to disobey the legally mandated speed limits, he could hear Arlette trying to explain to Willodean, but Willodean had run out of patience.
“What in the name of St. Peter are you talking about?” Willodean demanded.
“I’m trying to explain,” Arlette cut in.
“The Boomers have the fainting goats, right?” Willodean went on. “What does that have to do with the price of cheese in France?”
Arlette hesitated. “I don’t reckon goats have anything to do with the price of cheese in France,” she said sincerely. “Unless it’s goat cheese.”
Bubba glanced down at the phone for a second while he was trying to think of the fastest way to drive to the Boomer’s farm. When he looked up Lloyd Goshorn was in the crosswalk ahead of him; his eyes were as big as spotlights as he stared down the car headed directly and speedily for him. The tall, gangly man in his fifties had been telling loads of tall tales about the Snoddys while scoring free booze in the seedy bars that he frequented. The stories were getting so tall that Lloyd was going to need a towering ladder to tell it the next time.
There was a split second that Bubba was truly tempted to run Lloyd down in the street for all the inadvertent mischief the older man had caused him. But conscience made his hands spin the steering wheel, and he deftly went around the man with perhaps a few inches to spare. A glimpse of Lloyd’s wild-eyed expression in the rearview mirror gave Bubba a moment of ill earned humor.
“Make sure you tell that part of it next time, Lloyd,” Bubba muttered.
Willodean was saying, “The price of cheese in France has nothing to do with those goats. Who the hell are they hiring these days?” The last question was not directed at Arlette.
“I don’t think the goats are hiring anyone, but if you mean the City of Pegramville, that’s different. My cousin Billy Bob got a job as a clerk,” Arlette said. “Billy Bob has an associate’s degree from the community college,” she added proudly. “First fella in the family to have a college education.”
“Billy Bob finished his degree?” Bubba asked. “That’s really great.”
“He’s got it framed on his wall,” Arlette said smugly.
“Beale Road,” Bubba said as he watched street names. “Cooper, Hardee, Lee.”
“Christmas tree,” Willodean said sourly, trying to get Arlette back on track. “Boomer farm. Goats?”
“Sounds like Bubba is almost there,” Arlette said. “Say, deputy, should we send a cruiser over there to help him?”
“No!” a voice yelled into the phone, and Bubba understood that Miz Demetrice was probably sticking her head close to Willodean’s in order to hear what was going on. “They’ll shoot him on sight.”
“But what if he needs help?” Willodean objected. “The guy could have a gun or something worse than a stupid knife.”
Bubba brightened. That sounded like Willodean cared about him. Sure she was hinting before. It sounded like she was hinting. He hoped that she had been hinting, but apparently he was as dense as a board. It didn’t sound like she was backing off now. If he hadn’t been speeding down a dark road, looking for an obscure entrance to a place he’d only been once or twice, he might have called her on it.
The gates, he thought, slamming on the brakes. The Vue slid to the right, and Bubba made a mental note to tell Roscoe Stinedurf that he needed some work done on the brakes because they weren’t even. That was if Roscoe didn’t kill Bubba for involving one of his personal vehicles in what might be perceived as a crime.
Bubba glanced behind him and put the car gear into reverse. The car made another unearthly noise. And not just the brakes, maybe the transmission, too. Oh, hell, I should just do the work for free for what I’m about to do.
He reversed the car to a point about fifty feet away from the gate and shifted back into first gear. Then he gunned it and spun the wheel until he was aimed at the gate. Bubba cringed the second before the car exploded through the gates. The gates bounced away and fell against the trees. Parts of plastic from the Saturn fell away in big chunks. And some bodywork, he added mentally.
One headlight remained. Headlight, too. Maybe some of the emergency lights and the turn signal one, also. Bubba sped down the dirt track peering into the darkness as he searched for obstacles in the road or the tree. The cell p
hone was making noises. Willodean was arguing with Miz Demetrice and Arlette was putting her two cents into the conversation.
There was a rushed silence.
“She’s gone,” Miz Demetrice said into the line a minute later.
Bubba said, “Who?”
“Willodean, dear,” his mother replied as if he was incompetent or stupid, or both. “I hear a car and, well, the treads on that cruiser won’t be the same ever again. Bubba, do be careful. Willodean could be correct, and well…you are a potential victim.”
“I’ll keep it to mind, Ma,” he gritted as he rounded a corner and went half off the road as a herd of goats froze up in shock and fell over directly in his path. Willodean was charging over in a sheriff’s department cruiser to save him from a murderer or from Big Joe? “Who wants a damn goat that falls over unconscious when something scares it?” he asked as he drove adroitly around them.
“They’re called a ‘tribe’ of goats, dear,” Miz Demetrice said.
Bubba said a bad word under his breath.
“I heard that,” his mother said. Then she was talking to someone else.
“Are you answering the sheriff’s department’s lines, Ma? That might put a kibosh on your whole sneaking up to the department thing. After all, burglars don’t answer the phone. At least none of the ones I’ve ever encountered did.” Bubba came across another small group of goats that promptly went stiff legged at the scary vehicle speeding up to them. Then they fell over like little white and brown dominoes. “A tribe of goats,” he corrected himself and deftly avoided them as well.
“What about this tree?” Miz Demetrice demanded. “I don’t recall a Christmas tree at the Boomer’s farm.”
“Not a Christmas tree exactly,” Bubba growled.
“It’s an oak tree,” Arlette said.
“Aren’t you supposed to be answering emergency calls, Arlette?” Bubba said.
“I am,” Arlette answered sassily. “I’m multitasking. I can play Angry Birds at the same time, too. I’m almost done with Ham ‘Em High.”
“What?”
“It’s a game on my Android,” Arlette said conceitedly. “I have a smart phone.”
“What about the tree?” Miz Demetrice attempted.
“It’s an oak tree, Ma,” Bubba said. “The schools take the kids there on field trips.”
“I get that it’s a tree,” his mother said patiently. “But what does it have to do with a murderer who has a fixation about Christmas?”
Bubba came around a corner where the dirt track narrowed considerably. By the amount of brush here, there hadn’t been a lot of traffic. It made his stomach clench in fear. If someone hadn’t been through here lately, then it was quite possible that the murderer wasn’t using the tree to hang Sheriff John from. The road suddenly came into a clearing. Once there had been a farmhouse here. The residents had been settlers from Germany, the same people that the Boomers had purchased the land from a century before. All that was left was a chimney made from river rocks. About a hundred yards away from the lonely chimney was the tall oak tree. He could see it only dimly.
Bubba slammed on the brakes before he went into a stream that meandered around the meadow. Then he got out and peered into the gloom. The car’s single headlight was pointed at the tree, and he couldn’t see anything through the shadows.
“It’s a really, really old tree,” Arlette answered. “They had some college fellas come down from Dallas, and they said that it was one of the oldest oaks in the country. Around two thousand years old. But they done argued about that a lot.”
Bubba leapt from the car and slammed the door behind him. He took three steps and heard his mother say, “Still having a problem with the significance, Arlette.”
Freezing for a moment, Bubba heard something else. In the woods beyond the great oak tree there was a sudden noise. A vehicle started harshly, and someone was leaving in a tremendous rush. The abrupt noise of the departing vehicle allowed both fear and hope to bloom in Bubba’s chest. He took off at a charge, jumping over the stream without hesitation. He didn’t know how fast he could run a hundred yards, but he was doing his best to break his personal best.
The fear that stabbed at him was that Sheriff John was still in the vehicle that was speeding away. Additionally there was fear that the murderer had had time to hang the sheriff from the tree before Bubba had come upon the scene. And there was hope as well. There might still be time.
“As old as Christ,” Arlette explained, and Bubba could only barely hear the words as he dug deep within himself. “They call it the Christ tree, Miz Demetrice. I know you’ve heard of it before. You know I resent your implication that I’m stupid. The Pegramville Formicas are as good as any other folk about here.”
“The Christ Tree,” Miz Demetrice said understandingly. “I reckon it could be that. Makes as much sense as anything else.”
Bubba pumped his arms for extra power. He could see something moving against the tree. It was something hanging from the oversized branches that plowed out at right angles of the tree. And it was moving.
“Bubba,” his mother said nervously. “You’re making very strange noises. Are you all right?”
“Call an ambulance!” Bubba shouted. “Sheriff John is still alive!”
There was a choice to be made. Bubba could see the thick rope tied off on another branch. Someone had used a crude pulley system to haul Sheriff John’s bulk up by the neck. Bubba could try to get the sheriff down by untying the rope.
But even in the dimness of a starlit night, Bubba could see that Sheriff John was struggling to stay alive. He was slowly strangling to death. His hands hadn’t been tied, and he had wedged some fingers in between the rope and his neck. His other hand was trying to pull himself up by a higher section of the rope; however, Sheriff John was long past doing one-armed pull-ups.
Bubba was thankful that the murderer hadn’t chosen a higher branch. Sheriff John’s limbs were dangling only a few feet above the ground. Tossing the phone, Bubba dove for the sheriff’s feet. He planted his body underneath the older man and held his feet as he lifted.
Immediately Sheriff John relaxed as the pressure came off and a hissing breath came in through an abused throat.
“I got you, old man,” Bubba gritted. “Help is on the way.”
“Yeah,” Sheriff John rasped gutturally. One of his hands limply patted Bubba’s head. “You’re still a rotten redneck, Bubba Snoddy.” Then he passed out.
“That’ll put me in my place,” Bubba snorted, and he steadied himself to put in for the long haul. He didn’t know how long it would be before help was coming, and he was going to have to hold Sheriff John up for the interim.
One of the goats meandered up to Bubba and looked at him expectantly. It said, “Maaaah,” as if it supposed he would answer.
Bubba couldn’t help himself. Miz Demetrice was screaming tinnily from the cell phone that lay long feet away. Arlette was screaming, too. There was a distant sound of sirens, but they didn’t seem to be coming particularly closer. He looked closely at the goat and said, “Boo!”
The goat whimpered, went as stiff as a board, and fell over at his feet.
~ ~ ~
Chapter Fourteen - Bubba Gets Incarcerated for the First Time in This Novel
Tuesday, December 27th - Wednesday, December 28th -
Big Joe threatened to pump so many holes in Bubba that he would be mistaken for a colander. But Bubba couldn’t really do anything about it, since he was panting heavily and keeping Sheriff John from strangling to death by supporting his body’s weight. The Chief of Police had whipped in from the road that the murderer had taken, proving to Bubba that he should have come out teasing the goats more than he actually had during high school. Then he would have known the faster road to take. Or at least he would have known there were several ways to come to the Christ Tree.
Then the chief had been trailed by two city cruisers and Willodean in a county car. All of them plowed over vegetation and knocked
over two smaller trees in an effort to get as close as they could to where Bubba was holding Sheriff John up. They were all, with the exception of Willodean, pointing guns at Bubba while their spotlights and headlights pinpointed his position. Bubba took a moment to appreciate that while he was, in fact, saving Sheriff John from certain death, it could instead appear to the average knuckleheaded law enforcement official that he was attempting to murder the sheriff.
The goat that Bubba had scared finally scrambled to its feet, looked at everyone and all the lights, went, “Maaaah,” again, and fell over once more in fright. Four little hooves stuck straight up in the air.
Bubba could hear Willodean telling, no yelling, at Big Joe that Bubba had saved Sheriff John, and if he shot him she would charge the chief with criminal assault. Big Joe even took a moment to cast Willodean an incredulous look. “Look at him, girl,” Big Joe snarled. “He done got caught in the act. It ain’t much more clear than this. Hell, if Rodney King were standing here, he’d be saying Bubba done did it.”
“I appreciate that Bubba appears to be guilty of something,” Willodean said in a more restrained voice, “but he only left the sheriff’s department a half-hour ago. And you can see the car is all the way across the meadow from the tree. There isn’t any drag marks coming from that direction. You can see how they come from the opposite direction. Don’t rush to judgment here.”
“The murderer drove off as soon as I showed up,” Bubba said, panting with exertion. Sheriff John wasn’t a lightweight.
“Of course that’s what Bubba would say,” Big Joe growled. He glanced at the ground, but it was difficult to see anything with the lightly bobbing spotlights and the shadows caused from their figures. He looked at the sideways car in the meadow. “Ain’t his car anyway. Everyone knows he’s got a truck. He’s holding the sheriff right there, Deputy Gray. I ain’t arguing with you. Bubba’s going to jail, and he’s going to pay for this.”
“Fine. He was driving Roscoe Stinedurf’s car so he could see what Miz Demetrice was up to, and that’s another long story. So send him to jail,” Willodean said agreeably. “Don’t shoot him. He’s not armed.” She hesitated. “You’re not armed, are you, Bubba?”