Welcome Back to Pie Town

by Lynne Hinton

  Francine glanced over at Bernie. She knew he was bored to death being away from home this long. “Bernie, you don’t have to lie to me.”

  “No,” he responded, shaking his head, trying to sound convincing. “Really, it’s nice to be in Phoenix. So many things to see and do. It’s been a delightful trip.” He smiled. “I enjoyed the museum today and the movie yesterday. It’s been good to get away with you for a few days.” He winked at Francine. “And what about you?” he asked.

  She seemed confused. “What?”

  “Do you like it here or do you prefer the country?”

  “Oh, I could never live in a big city like Phoenix,” she responded. “You should know that by now. Don’t you hate this traffic and the smog?”

  Bernie nodded. “It is different than what we’re used to, that’s for sure. But I was just starting to think you might get used to having a shopping center within walking distance, all these fancy restaurants we’ve been to. I was thinking you might start liking the city life.”

  “I doubt that would happen,” she noted. “But I have enjoyed all the places we’ve eaten at since being here. There’s lots of choices, that’s for sure. We’ve had some great meals.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had anything to eat that’s better than your pecan pies, and I have to say, I miss Fred’s enchiladas.”

  Francine turned to him. “See, I was right, you are getting homesick.”

  “Just missing the good life.”

  Francine sighed. “I know you’ve got stuff you need to do,” she said.

  “No need for you to worry about that. It’ll all be there when we get back,” he responded. He made a turn into the shopping mall where the restaurant was.

  “I know,” she said. “And we should probably think about heading out. I just don’t want to go home too soon. I’m still worried that we’re in trouble.”

  There was a pause in the conversation as Bernie found a parking place. He eased into the space and turned off the engine.

  “I don’t really think we’re in any trouble, Francie.” He turned toward her. “I figure by now the whole thing’s been cleared up. Raymond didn’t steal any money. Frank hasn’t done anything wrong. We’re really just hiding out for no reason.”

  Francine nodded. “I felt like it was the right thing to leave when we did, but now I just feel guilty.”

  Bernie studied her. He waited for more of an explanation.

  “I guess I wonder if maybe we should have stayed, stood up for Raymond. Instead, I made this choice for us to sneak away in the dead of night like we’re some kind of cowards. That doesn’t seem like either one of us.” She dropped her face, shaking her head.

  “Well, first of all,” said Bernie, reaching over and squeezing Francine on the arm, “it wasn’t the dead of night. It was lunchtime. And second, it didn’t sound to me like the FBI was too interested in what folks said about Raymond. So I don’t feel bad about any of this,” he commented.

  “Yes, but it seems like we actually think he’s guilty too, since we ran out.” Francine reached into her purse for a tissue. “For us just to take off like that because he left his bike at your fence, it just seems like we think he’s done wrong.” She glanced at Bernie. She hesitated. “Do you think he’s done something wrong?”

  “Like what?” Bernie responded.

  Francine shrugged. “Stealing the money at the Silver Spur?”

  Bernie looked away. “No,” he answered.

  Francine was surprised by such a short response. “Do you think he’s capable of dealing drugs?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not dealing,” he answered.

  “What?” she asked. “You think Raymond could be involved in drugs?”

  Bernie shook his head. “I don’t know,” he repeated. He shrugged. “I hear all these stories about soldiers getting into stuff when they’re fighting overseas. And then they get home and have all these demons to face. I’m just saying, it makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?” Francine wanted to know. “That soldiers do drugs or that Raymond is addicted?”

  Bernie blew out a breath. He had not really wanted to talk about his thoughts on the matter. “He’s been acting strange. You have to agree with that, right?”

  Francine didn’t respond.

  “I mean, at first I didn’t want to believe he could be doing anything illegal, but since we’ve been away, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Maybe it is drugs that are making him act this way.” He reached up, turned the engine back on, rolled down the windows, and turned the engine off. It was late in the evening, and there was a nice breeze.

  Francine considered what Bernie was suggesting, but then shook her head. “I don’t think it’s drugs,” she finally responded. “I think it’s that post-traumatic stress disorder, just like we watched on television. These young people get sent over there and see all kinds of terrible things, have all kinds of terrible experiences. How can that not change you, make you turn into somebody else?”

  “I know you’re right,” Bernie responded. “Of course Raymond isn’t involved with drugs. I know him. I know he’s not an addict. I don’t know why I said that.”

  Francine studied Bernie. There was a long pause.

  “I know why,” she replied.

  Bernie turned to her, waiting.

  “You said what you did because none of us want to believe that our young people are traumatized by our wars. We don’t want to think that as the most advanced nation in the world we send healthy, bright, functional teenagers over there and that they come back broken, changed, lost. We want to think that our national pride, our flag-flying patriotism is enough to keep our children from breaking under the stresses of battle.” Francine shook her head.

  “We try to make ourselves believe that everything is just fine, so that when they come home and something is wrong, we’d rather believe that it’s drugs, or that they’re getting in with the wrong crowd, or that they’re just not strong enough. It’s easier to think any of those things than to face the fact that every time we decide as a country to go in and fight these wars it’s our young people we send to fight them who suffer the consequences.”

  Bernie didn’t respond.

  “We don’t want to know that war causes so much harm.” She sat up in her seat. “And my decision to make us run to Phoenix instead of standing up to the FBI agents and telling them what I think about Raymond, telling them that we would protect him proudly, just goes to show you that the real cowards are those of us who don’t want to deal with the truth.”

  “What truth?” Bernie asked, not following her.

  “The truth of the horrors of war, the truth of post-traumatic stress disorder, the truth of Raymond’s need for treatment and community and care.”

  “You’re sounding pretty fired up there, Francie.” He smiled.

  “You’re damn right I’m fired up, and I tell you what else I am.” She shook her head. “I’m ashamed of myself. I should have never put my tail between my legs and made you drive me over to Phoenix. I should have been willing to stay and support Raymond, to go to his accusers and defend him.” She paused.

  “We know that boy. We love that boy, and so does everybody else in Pie Town. Raymond Twinhorse is no thief, and he does not deal drugs. If he takes them, it’s because he’s hurting, and he needs his town to stand behind him and get him the help he needs, not hightail it to Phoenix at the first hint of trouble. And what about Trina?” She turned to Bernie.

  He waited.

  “What kind of friend am I being to her?” She shook her head and turned away. “She would never have taken off somewhere if you were in trouble. She would have stayed by my side. She would have been there for me.”

  Bernie reached out to her, grabbing her by the hand.

  “I am a terrible friend,” she added, the tears filling her eyes. “We have to leave here. We have to go home.”

  Bernie leaned over, wrapping Francine in his arms. He knew that a decision had bee
n made. “I’ll get the suitcase packed.” He reached to start the engine, but then paused. “Or do you want to eat first?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Well, since we’re here, we might as well have supper. They do have good sopapillas.”

  “Yes, they do,” he agreed. “And Francie, you are not a bad friend,” he noted. “You’ve just been absent a few days is all.” He grabbed her hand and held it. “Trina knows you care about her, and you can tell her again when we get there tonight.” He winked at her.

  She dropped her head with a nod. She was glad she had finally come to her senses. She was glad they were going home.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Roger had decided to make another visit to the Silver Spur and find out for himself what Gilbert had been feeding the FBI. When he walked into the bar, he was surprised to see one of the two agents who had been in Pie Town since the robbery sitting at a table near the door. He appeared to be glancing over notes.

  “Well, well, I guess the FBI has a more lenient policy about drinking on the job than the state of New Mexico and the local county offices,” Roger said, standing near him.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” the man responded. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” He stood up. “I’m Kevin Cochran.” He held out his hand. “Agent Williams’s partner.”

  Roger took his hand. “Sheriff Roger Benavidez,” he responded. “But I guess you knew that.”

  “Please,” the agent said, “have a seat. Join me.” He smiled and pulled out the chair next to him. “I figured you’d be in Pie Town,” he said.

  “This is still in Catron County,” Roger noted. “And there is still an open investigation, as far as I’ve heard.” He sat down. He turned to the bar. Gilbert was talking on the phone.

  “Yes, yes, that’s true,” Agent Cochran agreed. “It’s nice when law enforcement agencies can unite and work together on some things, isn’t it?”

  Roger eyed the young man. “Whatever you say, Agent.” He glanced around. “Where’s your partner?” he asked.

  “Somewhere at the other end of your county,” he replied. “I think he’s taking reports from some of the townsfolk.”

  “And what kind of reports would he be interested in from Catron County?” Roger wanted to know.

  The agent shrugged. “Drug dealing, Raymond Twinhorse’s associates, just the usual kinds of questions for folks who know the fugitive.”

  “Raymond Twinhorse isn’t a fugitive,” Roger responded. “I want to speak to the young man with regards to a small-time robbery that happened at a place he sometimes frequents. I hardly think that makes him a fugitive.” He pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. “Unless you got some other case you’re investigating that you’d like to clue me in on.” He studied the agent. He still had not been brought up to speed on what exactly the FBI was doing in Catron County and why they were interested in Raymond. All he knew was what everybody in the county was saying, and he knew most of that wasn’t based on any facts.

  “We just think there’s more going on in your little southwest corner of the state than the Very Large Array antennas and serving fresh desserts.”

  Roger smiled. “We have a nice festival in the fall. That’s pretty exciting. And there’s good rock-climbing over at Mogollon.”

  Agent Cochran nodded. “I’ll keep those things in mind, but that’s not really what we’re talking about, Sheriff.”

  “Then, please tell me, what are we talking about?” Roger asked.

  “Drugs,” the agent answered. “Meth, cocaine, heroin, the usuals. We got information that there’s a nice little connection here to Mexico. Used to be up in Chimayo, and now it’s moved down south.”

  Roger shook his head. “Then you need to check out the source of your information. Because if there was an operation, it was small-time and it was located at the ranch at Old Horse Springs that I reported almost a month ago and it’s now shut down. There’s nothing else around here. If there was, I’d have heard about it.”

  “Without trying to sound disrespectful, Sheriff, maybe your ear isn’t as close to the ground as you think.” Agent Cochran turned to the bar and held up his coffee cup to Gilbert, signaling for a refill. “You want something?” he asked Roger.

  Before he could answer, Gilbert walked over with the coffeepot and an extra cup, which he set down in front of the sheriff. “I hope ya’ll ain’t planning to stay all day. You sort of cramp my style here, if you know what I’m saying.” He poured a cup for Roger. “Folks don’t like to drink when the law is hanging around.”

  “Gilbert, I don’t know how to assist you. First you make me come over here so that you can report a robbery, claimed I couldn’t get here fast enough. Then you apparently called the feds for reasons I’ve yet to understand. And now you complain because we’re sitting in your establishment, trying to solve the case. I’m having a hard time knowing how to help you.” Roger reached for the cup and took a sip.

  “I want you to catch that little son of a bitch that robbed me, and I’m pretty sure you can’t do it sitting in here drinking my coffee.” Gilbert turned and walked away.

  “Look,” Roger said, getting back to his conversation with the FBI agent, “I don’t know what you heard about Alamo. I can tell you that there are no drugs there. And I have known Frank and Raymond Twinhorse all my life. They aren’t involved in any drug operation.” He put down his cup.

  “What I think is that your partner screwed up by busting into Alamo and not finding anything, and he’s desperate to have something in Catron County to make up for his stupid mistake. I suspect there’s some supervisor somewhere demanding reasonable cause for that search, and Williams is doing everything he can to try and find one. And I’m telling you, there’s nothing here.”

  Cochran sighed. He wasn’t going to argue with Roger. “Why don’t you tell me about the Twinhorse people. Who are these Navajo who live outside the reservation?”

  Roger shook his head. He could tell he wasn’t getting through to the young agent. “Not that this information matters, but Frank’s people are the Ramah Navajo. They’re the largest of the Navajo Indian groups living away from Window Rock. The reservation, north of here, is almost 150,000 acres and covers a lot of territory. The land was settled by the Mormons in the late 1800s, and this group of Navajo had intermarried with the Apache. Most of the Navajo and Apache were exiled to Fort Sumner in 1863 on what’s known as the “Long Walk.” When they were released or when some escaped, many of them settled in the area around Ramah, one of the places where some members of the group had made homes before. They’ve been there ever since.”

  “Why doesn’t Frank live over there?” Agent Cochran asked.

  “I don’t have the answer for that,” Roger responded. “He had a falling-out with his people.” He studied the agent. “But you should know that by now, shouldn’t you? How long do you plan to keep him locked up without having anything to charge him with?”

  Agent Cochran glanced away, and Roger could see he was suddenly ill at ease with the direction of the conversation.

  “What’s happened?” Roger asked.

  Agent Cochran turned again to face the sheriff. “Nothing’s happened,” he replied.

  Roger continued to watch the man. He waited for more of an explanation.

  “Okay, the truth is that I’m not happy about that detention either. As far as what I know, we should only be interested in the boy, the son. Williams is the one who seems to think that if we keep his father locked up and Raymond finds out, he’ll turn himself in.”

  Roger took another sip of coffee. “Well, that’s actually the only smart plan your partner has come up with. Raymond would never want his father in jail because of something he’s being accused of. If he knew Frank had been arrested and detained, he’d be here to clear his name and prove his innocence.”

  Agent Cochran placed both of his hands on the table, leaned in closer to the sheriff. “Why are you and your town so sure Raymond Twin
horse is innocent?” He pulled away. “That’s the one thing that has me so puzzled about you and your little village. How can you be so sure he’s not dealing drugs?”

  Roger smiled. He relaxed a bit. “You got children?” he asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “You ever watch a child grow up?”

  Cochran shrugged. “I’ve got a couple of nephews in Texas, but I’m not around them very much.”

  Roger nodded. “I have a daughter. She’s twenty-three, lives out of state.” He reached in his wallet and took out a picture to show the other man. “She’s our only one.”

  Cochran glanced at the photo and smiled. “Attractive girl,” he commented, unsure of why the sheriff was suddenly talking about his family.

  Roger looked down at the photograph. “Angel has had difficulties in the past. Been involved in some stuff she shouldn’t have. Ran with the wrong crowd. Got into drugs. I tried everything I could to straighten her out.” He shook his head, stuck the picture back into his wallet. “And it took me a long time, but I learned I can’t fix her. And let me just tell you, that’s the absolute worst thing for a father to have to know.”

  Cochran was listening carefully.

  Roger returned his wallet to his rear pocket.

  “Frank raised Raymond side by side with my girl. They’re like siblings, the two of them. When they were little, they stayed together night and day. They were inseparable.” He stopped, took a sip of coffee, and continued.

  “When she was a teenager and it became clear that she had a problem, lots of folks had plenty to say about her bad choices. People who had known her all her life just gave up on her, talked about her like she was trash, like she didn’t matter. And when everybody else turned on her, turned on us, neither Frank nor Raymond left her side. They never stopped trying to get her back. They kept right on asking her to do things with them, inviting her over for meals, to go hiking or horseback riding, go camping, four-wheeling.” He stopped, took a breath.

  “She was dead set on heading down her own path, though. Got pregnant young and just kept falling further and further into her addiction. Lots of other people wanted to keep their children away from her, started treating her and her parents like we had a disease or something. But not Frank Twinhorse, and not his son Raymond.”