Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  “Matthew…Duncan,” he whispered.

  Near the side of the highway, from high up in a tree behind the memorial, two little eyes had been watching Akash. They had watched him arrive, watched him pace with his instruments, watched him stare at the memorial, and, finally, watched as he dropped his equipment to the pavement.

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet sang the meadowlark.

  Akash had not consciously heard the bird; however, somewhere deep in his mind, some part of him had heard it, and it only served to unconsciously add to his state of mind. His conscious mind was already elsewhere—his heart already beating faster. He returned to his car, started it, and did a U-turn on the highway, heading back south in the direction of Cottonwood.

  Eighty-Eight

  The Hounds

  Sheriff O’Neil drove his state-loaned electric car out to the northern roadblock of the Dead Zone, parked, and got out. The roadblock was currently guarded by one state patrol officer. The sheriff walked over to the officer, who had been eyeing him.

  “Morning,” said the sheriff.

  “Morning,” replied the officer as the two shook hands. “What brings you out here this morning?”

  “Hounds,” said the sheriff. “We’re bringing in hounds to track an escapee.”

  “Tom Burnham’s hounds?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “I saw that bulletin you put out,” continued the officer. “Sure haven’t seen any sign of your escapee out here. Pretty darn quiet—except for a few birds.”

  The sheriff nodded his head again and then looked as far as he could up the highway for any sign of an approaching car. The road was empty.

  “I’m a birder myself,” continued the officer. “Watch them all the time. Interesting animals, you know.”

  The sheriff continued to eye the highway toward the north. “That so?” he said automatically, not paying much attention.

  “Yep. Their songs are some of the most complex noises in all of nature, and I guess those who know about these things say that birds might even be somehow related to dinosaurs. That would make them far more ancient than people. They could have been on earth maybe ten or twenty times longer than us.”

  “That so,” replied the sheriff, uninterested. “I don’t care much for birds myself—except for ducks during hunting season.”

  The officer grimaced at the sheriff’s comment and was quiet for a minute.

  “So, how long you figure your Dead Zone is gonna last?” asked the officer, not able to resist taking full advantage of having another person at his roadblock. “I mean, I sure don’t mind all the overtime, but manning these roadblocks gets pretty damn boring. Any luck in figuring out what’s caused it?”

  The sheriff glanced at the officer and then looked back up the road. “No, I really haven’t paid much attention to where they are with that. I heard the state sent some scientist or something down who’s been tryin’ to figure the whole thing out—but hell, that’s been the least of my concerns. I’ve got missing people, a car theft, an escapee, and even a kidnapping to worry about.”

  “No kidding?” said the officer. “A regular crime wave…and here I thought Cottonwood was a peaceful little town. Is it all related to your Dead Zone?”

  The sheriff looked at him. “No, but I do suspect most of them are related to the man I’m looking for. I’m counting on those hounds’ noses to work their usual magic.”

  The officer laughed and nodded. “Give ‘em a good scent target, and they never let you down.”

  In the distance up the highway to the north, the sheriff spotted a car approaching. “And speaking of hounds, looks like they’re here.”

  Officer Burnham parked his patrol car on the shoulder of the road and opened the back door. Maxie and Chloe lumbered out of the car and came over to the sheriff and patrol officer. The hounds were anxiously sniffing the new scents in the air and on the ground. Officer Burnham approached, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, the hounds were loaded into the backseat of the sheriff’s electric car. The back windows were down, and Maxie claimed one while Chloe claimed the other. With hound-slobber flinging in the wind behind them, the four headed down the highway toward Cottonwood.

  “This car sure is quiet,” said Officer Burnham. “This is my first time in one of these.”

  “I can’t even tell if the damn thing is on,” replied the sheriff. “I personally like the sound of a big engine revving up when I accelerate down the road, but I suppose it beats walking.”

  During the short drive, the sheriff gave the officer all the details on the crimes that had hit the town—from Old Blind Carl’s disappearance to Rebecca’s abduction. The sheriff made it clear that he suspected Matthew Duncan as the prime culprit behind most of the crimes.

  “So, how did Agent Westmore respond when he heard about his escapee’s latest escape?” asked Officer Burnham as they were passing the Home.

  “I haven’t told him,” replied the sheriff. “No need to get him all riled up.”

  The officer stared at the sheriff, and the sheriff quickly glanced at the officer and then back to the highway. “Until I hand Matthew Duncan over to him,” continued the sheriff, “he is my escapee. This is my turf, and I’ll handle it. Westmore intends to take my escapee back to Washington with him, but between you and me…I aim to see that he doesn’t get the chance. Duncan has likely killed two of my citizens, and I don’t want him going back to Washington State to do arts and crafts in some happy-ass prison.”

  “Still, it seems like it would be a professional courtesy to at least let Westmore know,” said the officer. “He seemed like a pretty straight shooter to me; though I did hear from the Montrose police who said they found him walking around town in the middle of the night in his shorts, T-shirt, and Glock—really completed his attire, I guess.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” replied the sheriff with a smirk. “A lot of people you meet from the Northwest are a little wacky. That’s why I want to handle this. Hell, maybe just living up there is what caused Duncan to go nuts. Who can say?”

  As they were passing Eddie’s house, the officer asked, “So what makes you so confident your escapee is still in the Cottonwood area? He could have gone cross-country—completely avoiding our roadblocks.”

  The sheriff looked over at him. “Oh, he’s here…I can feel it.” The sheriff then glanced in the backseat. “And Maxie and Chloe are gonna’ help me catch him.”

  The sheriff radioed ahead and told Sparky that the group was on its way. When they arrived at the office and were pulling up out front, there stood the deputy, along with Agent Westmore, waiting at the curb.

  “I sure as hell hope Sparky didn’t open his big mouth and tell Westmore anything,” said the sheriff under his breath but loud enough for Officer Burnham to hear, while at the same time eyeing and then smiling at the agent through the vehicle’s front window.

  Sheriff O’Neil said nothing as he exited the car and headed into the building. Officer Burnham got out, let the hounds out of the backseat, and walked over to Agent Westmore.

  “Small world,” said the officer, smiling and then shaking the agent’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Agent.”

  “And nice to see all of you again,” replied the agent, petting Chloe on top of her head, while Maxie was busy sniffing Sparky’s shoes.

  “And how was your night at the Slumberjack?” asked the officer, smiling before adding, “I heard rumors you were found walking around Montrose in the middle of the night, dressed smartly in your shorts and Glock. Bad night? Any problems with the room I should bring to my brother-in-law’s attention?”

  The agent smiled back. “You might want to tell him to stop putting money into all those stupid signs and invest in some new mattresses instead. It’d be better for business.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along. But what about the Tasty Burger? You certainly can’t find a reason to complain about their world famous burgers.”

  The agent shook his head. “I
didn’t try one that night, as I wasn’t much in the mood for eating—I decided to drink instead. But I tried them here in Cottonwood—and yes, they’re quite tasty.”

  At that moment, from up the street, something caught everyone’s attention, and both the hounds turned and walked over to Judge Reynolds who was walking with Yankee toward the group.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said the judge, while the three dogs circled each other, sniffing each other’s various body parts. “Looks like they’ve called out the big noses for this job.”

  While Yankee had a very respectable nose in her own right—a nose that could far out-smell any human’s—it was far less than the massive olfactory weapons of the hounds. The humans standing around them had no idea of the world the three dogs inhabited. Scent was their world—a landscape no human could ever see—built from the tiniest bits of matter. Yankee was proud of her nose, and it served her well to navigate and know the world of scent, but now, in the presence of two master noses, she could only almost bow in utmost respect before them, as if to say—now those are noses!

  “Good morning, Judge,” said Sparky as the officer and agent also smiled at the judge and nodded.

  Maxie, Chloe, and Yankee continued their circling and tail-wagging greeting of sniffs. “They certainly aren’t modest,” commented the judge as the four men watched, “and I for one can’t see what’s so darn interesting about those parts of a dog’s body, proving for our dogs, at least, that it’s sometimes the things you don’t see that are the most interesting.”

  Agent Westmore smiled at the remark but said nothing. A moment later, the sheriff came out of the building, carrying the pillowcase retrieved from Matthew’s cot the night before. He first acknowledged the judge and then took the pillowcase from its plastic bag and handed it to Officer Burnham. “Let them work their magic,” said the sheriff.

  Before the officer had a chance to offer the pillowcase up to the hounds’ noses, the judge looked at the sheriff. “I take it that’s from Rebecca’s house?”

  All eyes went from the judge to the sheriff. The sheriff glanced at each man, ending on the judge. “Well, no, we’re looking for a dangerous escapee this morning. We think if we find him, we’ll find her.”

  The judge paused and stared at the sheriff, slowly shaking his head. “John, you know I’m not one to interfere in your business, but you don’t know they’re together. Shouldn’t you go after the missing person first?”

  The sheriff glared at the judge. “Thank you for the suggestion, Your Honor, but you’re right—you don’t know my job. All the facts I have tell me this is the proper course of action. Now, if you don’t mind, every second is valuable right now….” The sheriff then looked at Officer Burnham. “Give ‘em the scent target, Tom.”

  “We could split the team up, John,” the officer said, glancing over at the judge.

  “What do you mean?” asked the sheriff.

  “Well, we could put Maxie on one trail and Chloe on the other. We would just need a scent target from the missing woman.”

  The sheriff’s face began turning red. “Absolutely, not,” he said. “You know even better than I that this pair works best as a team. Thanks for the suggestion, but let’s get started.”

  The officer called Maxie and Chloe over to him, but before he could hold the pillowcase out to them, Agent Westmore asked, “Pardon me, but what woman is missing?”

  “That’s not really your concern, Agent,” snapped the sheriff. “It’s got nothing to do directly with the escapee.” The sheriff then looked back at Officer Burnham.

  “But you said if we find Duncan, we can find her,” said the agent. “What’s going on here, Sheriff? I really must insist you brief me on everything. It could have a huge impact on—”

  “You have no jurisdiction to insist on anything here in Colorado, Agent,” interrupted the sheriff, now glaring. “I call the shots in this town. We’ll get your prisoner back for you. Just focus on that.” The sheriff then looked at the waiting hounds and Officer Burnham. “Give it to ‘em, Tom.”

  The officer knelt down and connected a heavy leash to each hound’s collar. He then held the pillowcase up to their eager noses. “Target,” he said firmly as a one-word command to the dogs. The two immediately buried their noses in and around the pillowcase, sniffing for several seconds. “Track,” he then commanded as he handed the pillowcase back to Sheriff O’Neil who placed it back into the plastic bag.

  The dogs each walked in a seemingly random but generally circular path for a moment and then, almost simultaneously, started pulling at their leashes, wanting to go north on Main Street. Yankee watched them closely with jealousy and amazement for their talent and perhaps, more than anything, a kind of canine respect for the deeper insight they held into the reality she shared with them. The judge also watched the hounds tugging northward on their leashes before he turned and glared at the sheriff for a moment. He then continued walking Yankee in the opposite direction from where the hounds wanted to go.

  “The hunt is on,” said Officer Burnham to the other three men. He began walking northward with the hounds. He glanced back at the others, adding, “Hope you guys are in good shape, ‘cause we’re all gonna get a good workout today.”

  “Sparky,” said the sheriff, catching him before he had a chance to follow the officer. “Here’s what I want you to do. You follow along with the dogs on foot. I’m gonna stay back in the car, following behind. If you somehow come upon our escapee before I can get there, just radio me and wait. Don’t move in without me, got it?”

  Sparky nodded and ran off to catch up with the officer and hounds.

  Agent Westmore had been standing close by and had heard the entire exchange between the sheriff and Sparky. The agent faced a dilemma— he knew the front lines of the action would be where the hounds were, but on the other hand, if the sheriff was to get some other tip on the whereabouts of Matthew Duncan, he could easily take off in his car in some other direction, leaving the hounds and the other men behind. The agent had to make a decision. He decided it would be best to go wherever the sheriff went. He would then be guaranteed to always arrive at least no later than him.

  “I think I’ll ride with you,” said the agent.

  The sheriff paused for a moment and then smiled. “Not in the best of shape for this sort of thing, eh?” he said.

  “Probably not, but that’s not it at all,” replied the agent. “I just think it would be best if we stayed together on this one—we’ll make better decisions.” It was a stupid answer, and they both knew it.

  The sheriff smiled again. “I appreciate that, but I think it would be better to have you up front,” he said. “Ultimately, he’s your man, so why don’t you take the lead up there with the hounds.”

  “I get it,” replied the agent, “and you’re not going to tell me who the missing woman is either, are you?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think you need to know, when I think you need to know it. We both have our roles here, Agent. Now, before they get any farther ahead of you, I suggest you get a move on and catch up with the others. You’re at a much higher altitude, you know.”

  Agent Westmore only glared at the sheriff for a second longer before quickly turning and running to catch up with the group. Winded, he caught up to them a few blocks north on the other side of the street, where they were standing in front of Rhonda’s Bridal & Floral. The hounds were sniffing frantically near the window of the shop, at times even rubbing their wet noses right up against the glass.

  “You think he might be inside the shop somewhere?” Sparky was asking the officer when the agent joined them.

  The officer shrugged his shoulders. “He may not be there now, but it’s a sure thing he was in there.”

  The agent looked down at the hounds’ paws, muddied from sniffing around the pile of dirt next to the nearby hole, and then looked at Sparky. “I doubt he’s in there, but let me take a peak inside, just in case.”

  The agent moved to enter the
store, but before he could get more than two steps away, Sparky grabbed him by the sleeve. “Sheriff O’Neil wants to be here if we spot him,” said Sparky. “Those are his orders.”

  “Those are his orders,” said the agent. “I don’t’ work for the sheriff, and this is my prisoner going back to my state.” He pulled away from Sparky and walked inside.

  A bell rang as the agent stepped into the empty store. The agent turned and looked outside through the front window. Sparky was talking to the officer, and the two hounds were still sniffing along the window, just about inline with the groom manikin that stood in the storefront. The agent looked around the window display and glanced down at its floor. It was covered with a white cloth—but, oddly, there were muddy footprints on the cloth right next to the manikin.

  “Can I help you?” came a woman’s voice from behind him.

  The agent turned around and saw a small, elderly gray-haired woman standing in the middle of the small store.

  “Hello,” he said, walking toward her and reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m Agent Westmore from the Washington State Bureau of Investigation. We were just wondering if you’ve seen anything unusual around here this morning?”

  “I’m Rhonda Douglas,” said the woman. She then leaned forward and looked around the agent toward the two hounds sniffing her storefront window. “I haven’t seen anything unusual except for those two hounds leaving their nose prints on my window.”

  The agent turned and glanced at the hounds and then back to Rhonda. “Sorry about the mess, but they’re pretty eager when they get a scent trail. I couldn’t help but notice you were also a bit messy in setting up your display. I noticed some muddy footprints.”

  Rhonda moved over to the window and looked down. “Those aren’t mine—certainly!” she exclaimed, holding up her tiny foot. “Those look like a man’s shoe prints, and I sure don’t remember seeing them before. I’m the only one who’s ever in that window, so I don’t know how they could have gotten there.”