The sheriff spun around, startled and off balance. The surprise caused his hand to instinctually reach toward his gun in the holster on his right hip. He never touched the gun, but he came close. The meadowlark flew off.
“Holy God almighty,” the sheriff said. “You sure know how to sneak up on a fella!”
Matthew just smiled. He was holding a basket of laundry. He was also totally naked, though, for the moment, the basket of laundry prevented the sheriff from fully realizing this fact.
“I’ve often been told I come up on people when they least expect it,” said Matthew. “I guess I just have a habit of doing that. Sorry about that. But I did notice you were enjoying the meadowlark’s song. He was probably saying something important to you, but I only caught the end of it, so I can’t be sure.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t think birds talk, they only sing—and it doesn’t mean anything. You are Matthew Duncan, right?” asked the sheriff.
“In the flesh, so to speak,” said Matthew, moving over to the clothesline and setting the basket down, revealing to the sheriff for the first time, that he was a man of his word.
“Uh,” began the sheriff, glancing away from Matthew’s nakedness, “do you make a habit of that? I understand that you were over in Little Bear River yesterday doing much the same thing.”
“Hanging up laundry?” said Matthew, as he began pinning a flowered sheet on the line.
“No, Mr. Duncan,” said the sheriff pointedly, “not hanging up laundry—hanging out your manhood.”
“Is that why you are here?” asked Matthew, not looking at the sheriff but focusing on making sure the laundry was hung neatly and perfectly.
“Not exactly, no. It does bother me that you feel it’s okay to come back to town and reveal yourself to people like that, yes, but I have some other more important questions I’d like to ask you.”
Matthew said nothing for a moment and then turned to the sheriff and said, “I’ll answer whatever questions you’d like about anything I can, but I have just one thing to say to you first.”
“What might that be?” asked the sheriff.
Matthew looked the sheriff in the eyes. “You know, John, I’ve been gone from Cottonwood for over twelve years, and this is the first time that we’ve talked in at least that long. Your son and I used to play on the same baseball team, remember? John O’Neil…it’s good to see you again.”
Matthew stepped forward and reached out for a handshake from the sheriff. The sheriff slowly raised his hand and shook.
“Now,” Matthew continued, looking down at his naked body, “as you can see, I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide, so what would you like to ask me?”
“Could I first ask you a favor?” said the sheriff. “How about putting on some shorts or something.”
Matthew reached down and pulled a damp pair of boxer shorts from the laundry basket and slipped them on. He then continued to hang up the rest of the laundry.
“First of all, is Ms. D’Arcy around? In the house maybe?” asked the sheriff, looking toward the backdoor.
“No, she isn’t. She’s gone to work.”
“Work? How’d she get out there? On bike?”
“She was picked up by Eddie Flynn. He drove one of their golf carts out here to pick her up.”
“Interesting,” said the sheriff. “And so why didn’t you answer the door before? I rang and knocked several times.”
“I didn’t hear you,” said Matthew, turning around to hang up laundry and once again not looking at the sheriff but at the pillowcase he was hanging. “I was down in the basement doing laundry.”
The sheriff looked over at the backdoor and then back to Matthew. “I guess that’s possible,” he said.
Matthew stopped and met the sheriff’s eyes once more. “You think I might be lying to you? I promise you, John, at no point will I ever lie to you. The only question will be—are you ready to accept whatever truth I have to tell you?”
“Good then,” said the sheriff, holding the stare that Matthew had begun. “The truth is exactly what I want, so I’ll get right to the reason I’m here then. I understand you had Old Blind Carl’s cane yesterday, until you gave it to Chelsea Reese. Would you mind telling me exactly how you came into possession of his cane?”
Matthew continued to stare at the sheriff, studying him. “I’m not sure you’re ready for the truth just yet, but in time, we’ll see. As far as the cane goes—Carl gave it to me. We were down at McCann Park, right by the river, and he handed it to me and said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. That’s exactly how I came into possession of it—it was a gift from him to me.”
“Now why would a blind man give you his cane?” asked the sheriff.
“I think that’s a question you would be better off asking him directly to get the full answer. I can really only guess. A gift from the heart is life’s biggest mystery.”
Matthew turned and began to carefully hang up a pink pair of Rebecca’s bikini underwear. The sheriff took notice.
“Well,” began the sheriff, “now that’s the real problem that I have here, isn’t it? You see, Old Blind Carl is missing, so I can hardly ask him anything, right now.” The sheriff watched Matthew closely as he said this. Matthew paused for just a moment and then reached down and began hanging up one of Rebecca’s bras.
“By missing,” Matthew said, “you mean that you can’t find him, right?”
“What else would it mean?” snapped the sheriff.
“Well, a person could be intentionally hiding or have intentionally gone away somewhere, in which case, he or she is not really missing, but only those who are looking for that person think of them as missing. It’s just a matter of perspective, right? Missing people may not be missing to themselves, though I would imagine that many do get lost.”
“I don’t care about any of your philosophical bullshit,” fumed the sheriff. “You know what I mean, Mr. Duncan.”
“Mr. Duncan?” said Matthew. “You watched me grow up, John, and now it’s come to Mr. Duncan?”
“This is official police business, and I’d like to keep it professional. Until such time as this whole business is cleared up, it’ll be Mr. Duncan. Now, tell me straight out—do you know the whereabouts of Old Blind Carl?”
“How precise do you expect me to be?”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked the sheriff.
“I told you that I would never lie to you, and you’ve just asked me if I know the whereabouts of Old Blind Carl. If you mean within a few feet, I would say no, but if you mean in general, I would say…maybe.”
“In general, then—do you know where he is?”
“I think so, yes,” replied Matthew.
“And where might that be?” asked the sheriff.
“In general, I think Carl has gone to see all the things that he couldn’t see while he was blind—probably starting with the most important ones first.”
“While he was blind? What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting that Old Blind Carl is no longer blind?”
“I am not only suggesting it, John,” said Matthew, stopping with the laundry once more and looking intensely right into John O’Neil’s eyes, “I’m insisting on it. I’m insisting that Old Blind Carl is now just Carl and has full use of his eyes to see the world in all its magnificence. He has been an honest, honorable, and faithful man his whole life—he deserved to see. You should have seen the joy on his face and the tears of joy rolling down his cheeks when he touched the world for the first time with his eyes.” Matthew then turned and continued hanging the laundry.
The sheriff remained silent for a moment, then let out a distinct but calm, “Bullshit. Pure and simple bullshit…Mr. Duncan.”
His smile gone and his eyes intense, Matthew stopped and turned to the sheriff once more. “As I suspected, John, you aren’t ready for the truth. Your heart’s not ready. It would have done your heart such good to see Carl’s joy yesterday. Witnessing such joy can melt away the frost
on the most stubborn of hearts. Perhaps one day….”
Sheriff O’Neil tried to hold his gaze at Matthew but couldn’t. He looked down at the ground for just a second and then back toward Matthew.
“I don’t know what sort of game you are playing,” the sheriff began, “but whatever it is, I’m going to end it. I think the real reason you don’t know exactly where Old Blind Carl is, is that rivers tend to move things. You see, I think you probably bashed the old man’s head in with his own cane and then dumped his body in the river. We’re going to be searching along the river later today. If we find him—and God forbid he’s dead—I’ll have all the evidence I need to arrest you on suspicion of murder. It appears you were the last one to see him alive, and you also had his cane. That’s a pretty strong connection—in my book.”
“Maybe you’re reading the wrong book,” replied Matthew after a pause, “or maybe you simply have no faith in connections you can’t see.” He continued to hold his intense gaze on the sheriff, but John O’Neil’s eyes darted back and forth between Matthew and the ground.
“I don’t have anymore time for your bullshit,” the sheriff said. “I’m putting you on official notice not to leave town right now. Not that it would be possible under our current circumstances, but just in case you decide to leave, be aware that because of the traffic emergency we’re having, the state patrol has set up roadblocks on the north and south highway out of town. They’re there to keep people out, but I’ll make sure they keep an eye out for you, and if I even suspect you’re trying to leave, I’ll throw you in jail immediately.” The sheriff paused and then added, “So are you staying here with Ms. D’Arcy, and is this where I can expect to find you if we need to talk again?”
Matthew hesitated for a moment. “Yes, John, this is exactly where you’ll find me.”
“Good,” said the sheriff. “Stick around Cottonwood, Mr. Duncan. Keep your clothes on, and you’d better pray to God that we don’t find Old Blind Carl dead.”
“Carl, I’m sure, is fine. I have more important things to pray for, Sheriff,” said Matthew plainly.
The sheriff shook his head and then turned and started out of the backyard.
“John,” Matthew said to him, causing the sheriff to stop walking but not turn around. “You will eventually find that I’m not a liar. Circumstances will show you that, but it will be up to you to discover the right connections and find your faith in things you can’t see.”
The sheriff then continued to walk away, leaving the backyard.
Matthew reached down into the basket and pulled out one last item to hang up. It was Rebecca’s sleeveless cotton T-shirt that read Gardening is Life on the front. He brushed his hand slowly across the shirt and its colorful flower design.
“Amen to that, my wonderful wife,” he said softly as he started to hang the wet shirt on the clothesline. “Amen to that.”
In the front yard of Rebecca’s house, Sheriff O’Neil found Sparky sitting on the grass in the shade underneath a large cottonwood tree. Sparky stood up as soon as he saw the sheriff.
“Nice to see you don’t take your job sittin’ down,” said the sheriff.
“It’s all been pretty quiet out here,” said Sparky looking up, “except for the bird that’s been chattering away up in this tree, but it’s kind of a peaceful little song.”
The sheriff paused for a moment, giving Sparky the look before saying, “I don’t give a shit about the damn birds, Deputy Sparks. We’ve got a whole lot of work ahead of us today. I met Mr. Duncan in the backyard and am now completely convinced we’re on the right trail. He was talking nonsense and was full of lies. I want to get a team together as quickly as possible to search more thoroughly down by the river. In the meantime, I’m going to need you to do some research to find out what Mr. Duncan has been up to since he left Cottonwood. I can’t believe someone could be as loony as he is and not have some kind of criminal history on him. He’s certainly not the same Matthew Duncan that left our town twelve years ago.”
The two men rode back toward the office, and Sheriff O’Neil smiled politely at the few citizens who noticed them, trying to maintain an air of dignity and authority while wobbling along on his too-small bike. Sparky, on the other hand, simply smiled naturally, trying to maintain no airs at all, and was enjoying the chance to ride a bike—something he’d not done for years.
Thirty-Eight
The Miracle Fridge
Gwendolyn Mercer, her group from CDEM, and the few members of the Cottonwood group that had joined them for lunch at Ernie’s Diner were all but finished with their lunch when there came a loud sound from near the front counter.
Clang…clang…clang…clang!
Someone was ringing a big cowbell.
The noise certainly got everyone’s attention, as the entire group stopped their chatter and turned to look. The waitress ringing the bell then simply stopped ringing it and set it back on the counter and went back to her customers.
“What the hell was that all about?” William Dressler asked Brenda Quintana, who was seated next to him.
“I have no idea,” shrugged Brenda, while looking back toward the counter.
“It’s not some sort of local tradition here?”
Brenda shook her head. “I eat here a few times a month, sometimes more, and I’ve never heard a cowbell rung at Ernie’s.”
Brenda then looked for their waiter and caught his attention with her eyes. He came over to their table. The waiter was Robbie Kelleher, an eighteen-year-old chestnut-haired boy who looked all of fifteen.
“Robbie,” said Brenda. “What’s the bell all about? Something new you’re starting here?”
“Oh, that’s Nate’s idea,” replied Robbie, glancing over at the counter where the bell was resting. “He’s the late-night shift cook. I guess he decided last night we should all ring that stupid thing for the miracle fridge.”
“The miracle fridge?” asked William.
Robbie looked at William. “Yeah, somebody with nothing better to do has decided it would be a cute trick to restock some items when no one is looking. If we’re out of milk, we just go back to the miracle fridge, and it magically appears. I guess it started yesterday with milk, and now it’s eggs, butter…a whole bunch of things. Every time something miraculously appears in the fridge, one of the cooks tells one of us up front here, and we’re supposed to ring that stupid cowbell.”
“That’s interesting,” said Brenda.
William looked at her. “At least people are finding a way to have fun with this crisis,” he said.
“I guess in times like this, people will resort to all sorts of things to keep stress down and find amusement,” said Brenda.
“Whatever,” said Robbie. “I’m really getting pretty tired of it. It’s been rung about six or seven times since I came on shift. If they keep it up, I think I may just do a reverse miracle of my own and make that stupid bell disappear.”
“Thanks, Robbie,” Brenda said and then added, “just don’t get caught stealing that bell.” She winked at him, and he smiled and walked away.
“Nice kid,” said William, after Robbie was out of range to hear.
“I’ve watched him grow up,” said Brenda. “He’s my son’s best friend. The two of them are sure trouble together. They’re both good kids, but you’ve just gotta keep your eye on them all the time. They are both practical jokesters. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he’s got something to do with the miracle fridge—or at least knows who’s doing it.”
About that time, at the other end of the long table that had been pushed together with a series of smaller tables to seat the large group, Gwendolyn Mercer stood up and cleared her throat.
“I hope you all had a good lunch,” she began. “I know mine was delicious, and I want you to know that I’ve taken care of the bill and the tip, so those of you from Cottonwood, you can thank the State of Colorado for your meal today. I would also like you all to know that over lunch I spoke with Akash Mudali in Denver
. I know some of you probably know him, or certainly know of his reputation. His skill and credentials are impeccable, and he has a perfect track record in solving technical issues. He’s agreed to help conduct an investigation to get at the cause of your transportation crisis here. He should be arriving sometime on Monday.
“Now, I’ve decided for this afternoon that I’d like to go out and tour the Colorado Western State Home for the Developmentally Disabled— to check up on them and see how they’re weathering the crisis. I’d like us all to meet out in front of the diner in about five minutes. Those of you from Cottonwood who’d like to join us, I’m sure we have a few spaces in our vehicles, and so some of you are more than welcome to tag along. So, if everyone will please take care of any personal business, and we’ll meet out front in five minutes.”
The group slowly broke up, and William and Brenda walked together as they headed toward the door. As they approached the front door, a short and stout man who was bald on top, with a doughnut of black hair peppered with gray, entered through the front door. He was carrying a video camera attached to a tripod. It was Ernie Martinelli, the owner of the diner. Brenda, of course, knew him very well, as they had grown up together and graduated from Cottonwood High School the same year. Ernie seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, but Brenda couldn’t resist stopping him.
“Ernie,” she said, touching him lightly on the sleeve, “what’s the camera for? Going to do some more of your famous restaurant training videos?”
In addition to running the restaurant, Ernie had produced a series of restaurant training videos to show his staff how to prepare certain dishes, clean up, and other mundane topics. Turnover had been so high at the restaurant that Ernie thought training videos would save him time. They weren’t very good, and Ernie made a far better cook and restaurant owner than video producer, but the staff enjoyed taking them home and showing them to family and friends—most of the time to great rounds of laughter.
“Nope, not today,” said Ernie. “I hope something much more interesting than that.”
Touching Cottonwood Page 31