The Deputy

by Victor Gischler

  One arm came through the bars of the cell and went around Amanda’s throat. Another arm grabbed her gun wrist, pointed the pistol at the ceiling. She struggled, but the thick arms held her tight against the bars. Amanda went purple, her slim hand pulling uselessly at Karl’s massive forearm.

  I turned, made ready to leap for my revolver on the floor.

  Even wounded, the chief was too quick.

  He was already coming up from the floor where he’d knelt to pull a small revolver from an ankle holster, probably the .32 I’d seen him cleaning once in awhile when things were slow around the station. Not a powerful gun, but plenty enough to make me pure dead.

  I watched as Amanda kicked and twitched and then went limp. Karl released her and she slid to the floor.

  “She dead?” Krueger asked.

  “No,” Karl told him. “I put a sleeper on her.” Karl limped in his cell, held himself up by the bars.

  “Can you walk?”

  “No way,” Karl said. “Bitch shot me. I’m stiff all up and down one side. Couldn’t take more that two steps.”

  “That’s a damn shame.”

  The .32 spat fire twice, and Karl’s eyes went wide as he fell back on his cot, bounced off and hit the cell floor.

  “Why in the hell did you do that?” I asked.

  “I need a pair of good legs, and Karl would have wanted his cut of the money.”

  “You could have given it to him.”

  “And I would have too if everything hadn’t got so messed up,” Krueger said. “But the situation has changed. I’m going to need every dime if I have to go on the run. I might try to get to Mexico. Hey, that’s probably some kind of irony or something. All this time I been bringing wet-backs north. Now I got to smuggle myself south.”

  He looked at the bodies on the floor and sighed. I sighed too. In such a short span of time the station had been torched and wrecked, bodies littering the floor. Surreal. One of Molly’s words.

  “Okay,” Krueger said. “Best get this show on the road.” He waved toward the back room with the revolver. “Let’s go.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I told you I need a good pair of legs.” He held up his bloody hand. “And two good arms. I need you to carry something to the car for me.”

  “And then you’ll shoot me? Fuck that.”

  “Okay, I won’t shoot you,” he said. “You help me, and I’ll lock you in the cell. That’ll give me a head start.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?”

  “I could shoot you now and end all the suspense, make do best I can with one arm.”

  I headed for the back room, and he fell in behind me.

  “Okay,” he said. “Go to the safe. I’ll tell you the numbers, and you work it.”

  He told me the numbers and I spun the dial.

  “Open it.”

  I opened it.

  I didn’t think I had enough energy left to be surprised by anything. I was wrong. The safe was packed top to bottom and front to back with tight bundles of cash. It was hard not to be impressed. I could slave all my life and probably never see so much cash.

  “In the last locker there’s a gym bag,” he told me. “Fill it up.”

  The bag was cheap, bright red and said Razorback Pride on the side with the Arkansas pig logo. I unzipped it and started loading the cash. None of the bills were new. Wrinkled. Various denominations, fives, tens, twenties. The variation made it hard to guess the total amount. A lot. I stuffed in the last bundle, zipped up the bag. The cash barely fit, the bag bulging.

  “Good,” Krueger said. “Now go back to the same locker and get that accordion file folder. Lots of names and embarrassing facts in there. I’ll probably burn most of it, but I need to go through it all first.”

  I went back into the locker, got the file folder.

  “Now grab it all up and let’s go back out to the alley. I’m parked back there.”

  I went out ahead of him, feeling like there was a big bullseye target on my back. I’d expected to see his cruiser, but it was his personal car, a big luxury Chrysler about a year old. The chief wasn’t a pickup truck kind of guy.

  “Stand over on the other side of the car.”

  I did.

  He dipped his hand down to his pocket, still holding the revolver, and hooked his keychain out with his little finger. It was awkward going, but he wasn’t about to drop the gun, and he couldn’t use the other hand.

  He pulled the keys out and flung them at me. They bounced off my chest and hit the ground. I set down the bag of money and the file folder, bent and picked up the keys.

  “Open the trunk,” Krueger said. “Load it up.”

  I opened the trunk, picked up the files and money. I felt like I was moving through mud, my arms and legs like cold stone. These were the last moments of my life. Lifting the cash, loading the files, closing the trunk. My last actions on earth. I felt I could hardly breath, like life would leave me all on its own before the chief could even pull the trigger. Part of my brain told me to jump him or run for it or anything. But I didn’t do it, couldn’t make myself do anything but obey.

  When the trunk thunked shut, it sounded like a cold metal coffin closing.

  “Okay, now back away,” Krueger said.

  We circled each other in the narrow alley, traded places, him standing next to his car, me backed up against the trashcan near the backdoor. We looked at each other a moment, the sky going a vague orange. The sun was gearing up for morning, light seeping into the world, the color slowly coming back. The chief looked death pale, his hair now completely matted with sweat. I didn’t think he’d last long on the run, unless he knew some doctor someplace that maybe owed him a favor.

  But it was hard to think beyond the alley and the .32 in the chief’s fist.

  “You’re not talking me back inside to lock me in the cell, are you, Chief?”

  He sighed. “No. I guess not.”

  “You’re going to shoot me now.”

  He nodded. “I like you, Toby. I think you could have grown up and been something. But this is just business. I need to get away as clean as I can, nobody left to answer questions.”

  I tried to think of some startling piece of logic to convince him to let me live, but I could only think of one word to say.

  “Please.”

  “I’m sorry,” Krueger said. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll make it a clean shot. You want to turn around? Maybe it’ll be easier if you don’t see it.”

  And right then it didn’t matter how many cowboy movies I’d seen or any cartoon notion I had about being a hero. Right in that moment, I didn’t want to see it coming. The image of a bullet coming straight for my nose sent a wave of nausea though me. I was a coward, and I didn’t care.

  “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 o
ne 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.