The Caretaker of Lorne Field

by Dave Zeltserman

  “Okay, Jack,” Wolcott said, “you can leave the canvas sack where it is. Let’s go.”

  The last thing Durkin wanted to do was give Wolcott any satisfaction, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying how an Aukowie chewed off Lester’s thumb and if his boy couldn’t remember what had happened it was because of his being in shock.

  “Is that so?” Wolcott said. “One of these weeds bit it off, huh? It’s funny, to me they only look like weeds. Maybe godawful ugly ones, but still just weeds. How about you, Mark? These weeds look like they could bite off someone’s thumb?”

  Griestein shook his head.

  “How about you, Bob?” Wolcott asked. “You think they could do something like that?”

  “Dan, let’s just do our job and get out of here.”

  “One minute. I just want to see how hungry these man-eating weeds really are.” Wolcott walked over to a clump of two-inch Aukowies and lowered his hand towards them. Durkin closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch what was going to happen. After several seconds of squeezing his eyes shut tight, he was surprised when he didn’t hear any screaming.

  “Come on, Jack,” Wolcott said, “take a look for yourself and tell me why my fingers aren’t being bitten off.”

  Jack Durkin opened his eyes. Wolcott’s fingers were right in the middle of the Aukowies. He could see their little faces as they smirked at him, and he understood.

  They knew.

  How?

  Somehow they knew they could hurt him if they resisted their natural urges. That they could beat him this way. But he could see the strain building on them. He could see them weakening.

  “Just keep your fingers where they are,” Durkin said.

  Wolcott stood up, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. “Come on, Jack, let’s get you to the station.”

  Griestein nudged Durkin, and he followed behind Wolcott while the two police officers stayed on either side of him.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Durkin told Wolcott. “Without me weeding they’re going to be four to five inches by nighttime.”

  “I’m doing my job, Jack. That’s all I’m doing.”

  When they got onto the path leading back to the cabin, Durkin asked if they could stop by his house so he could tell Lydia what was happening.

  “Sorry, Jack, I need to take you to the station. After you’re processed, you can make a phone call.”

  Bob Smith glared at Wolcott, then over Wolcott’s protestations, handed Durkin his cell phone. “Go ahead, Jack,” he said, “give Lydia a call.”

  Durkin stared at the phone as if he were being asked to perform an emergency appendectomy. Trying to keep his voice low so Wolcott couldn’t hear him, he admitted that he didn’t know how to use it. Even if he did, he doubted whether he’d even be able to push the buttons on it with his fingers being as thick and swollen as they were. Bob Smith asked for his home number and dialed it for him. When Lydia picked up, Durkin told her he was being arrested and for her to bring his contract to Hank Thompson and tell him what was happening. “I know you know where it’s hidden, so don’t try arguing otherwise. And I don’t want that other lawyer involved.”

  Durkin handed the cell phone back to Bob Smith and thanked him for his help. Bob Smith looked like he badly wanted to ask him a question, but he restrained himself.

  Even though Lydia had been expecting that very call from her husband all morning, it was still a shock after she got off the phone with him. She sat at the table and chain-smoked through half a pack of cigarettes before she felt like she could move. Then she brought the phone to the kitchen table and tried to make up her mind about what to do.

  Her right hand, the one she had injured hitting the table, had swollen to twice its normal size and was a purplish-bluish color around the base of her palm. It hurt too much for her to hold the receiver in it, so she had to rest the receiver on the table while she dialed with her left hand and then picked it up also with her left hand. When she told the receptionist who she was, she was put on hold for five minutes before Paul Minter answered. His voice sounded odd as he told her it was over.

  “What?”

  “It’s over, Mrs. Durkin.”

  “What do you mean it’s over?”

  He sighed. “Just what I said. The town council doesn’t want anything to do with this anymore. I spoke with all of them and it’s over.”

  Her head was spinning as she tried to get a handle on what he was telling her. Not that it surprised her. Not that it wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. Ever since the lawyer told her they could make millions she knew Jack would ruin it for them.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, although she knew it made perfect sense, but she still couldn’t help herself asking why it was happening.

  He sighed again. “Because your son, Lester, is telling the authorities that your husband grabbed him, wrestled him to the ground and cut off his thumb. I understand that the police are going to be arresting him soon. It’s probably better if you hire another lawyer to represent him.”

  He hung up then.

  She sat clutching the phone for another few minutes before heading upstairs to the bedroom to pack her clothes away in a small tattered cloth suitcase that she had last used nineteen years earlier when Jack took her on a trip to Miami. When she was done she called her friend, Helen Vernon. After that, she smoked a couple of more cigarettes, carried her suitcase out to Jack’s Chevy Nova and, with some effort, swung it into the trunk. She stood frozen for a long moment. When she looked back at the house, she daydreamed about lighting a match to it. In her mind’s eye she could see it going up in flames. But she didn’t light any matches. Instead, she got in the car and drove away.

  Hank Thompson showed up at the police station while Jack Durkin was being fingerprinted. He was a tall, lean man in his early seventies with a thick bushy head of hair the color of cigar ash and an imposing air of authority about him. He waited until Durkin wiped the ink from his fingers, then offered his hand.

  “I’m so sorry about your son’s accident,” he said with the utmost sincerity.

  Durkin started to open his mouth to correct him, but closed it and nodded instead. “Lydia call you?” he asked. “I’m surprised she ain’t here yet.”

  Hank Thompson’s thick cigar-ash-colored eyebrows came together as he frowned and shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard from your lovely wife yet. Officer Bob Smith called me to let me know what happened, but I also heard through the grapevine.”

  “Hank, I need to get back to that field.”

  Hank Thompson was still holding Durkin’s hand, and he placed his free hand on top of Durkin’s and gave it a warm pat. An understanding and comforting smile formed over his lips. “I know you do, Jack,” he said. “And I’m going to get you back there as soon as I possibly can.” The attorney turned to Officer Mark Griestein who was processing Durkin and told him in a pleasant but firm voice that he’d like to have a few minutes alone with his client. Griestein scratched behind his ear, nodded, and led the way to a storage chamber that doubled as a conference room, although up to that point it had never been used that way.

  “I’ll be out here,” he told them. “Take your time.”

  As soon as the door closed Hank turned to Jack and, with his voice trembling with indignation, said, “This is outrageous what they’re doing to you.”

  “They violated my contract. They marched right onto Lorne Field and violated my contract.”

  “It’s not right, Jack, not after everything you and your family has done for this town. I knew your dad well. He was a good man. This is just not right. But—” and he waved a long thin finger for emphasis, “it’s going to be taken care of. I’ve already spoken to Judge Harris and he’s heading to the courthouse as we speak. When he gets there, he’s going to open a special session for your arraignment hearing. Those bastards were planning to keep you locked up in jail overnight so they could make a big show of the hearing tomorrow morning.”<
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  “I thought Judge Harris retired?”

  Hank showed a sly, secretive smile. “Not entirely. He put off the paperwork so he could be called in as a consultant if needed. And Jack, that is very good news for us.”

  Hank’s cell phone rang. He frowned as he held it at arm’s length so he could read the caller ID information, then he spoke quickly in it before hanging up.

  “Good news. Judge Harris is at the courthouse now,” he told Durkin. “We’ll get you over there in about fifteen minutes and then back to your field.”

  “I hope so,” Durkin muttered in a low guttural voice. “Two-inch Aukowies are hard enough to weed. Once they get to four to five inches . . .”

  “I understand, Jack. You don’t have to say any more.” Hank cleared his throat, his smile weakening a bit. “How are you going to explain to Judge Harris about what happened?”

  “I’ll tell him the truth.”

  “That it was an accident, right, Jack?” Hank placed a hand on Jack Durkin’s shoulder and stooped down several inches so he could meet Durkin’s eyes. “That’s what you’re going to tell him, right?”

  Durkin nodded slowly as if he had had weights attached to the back of his head.

  “That is the truth, isn’t it, Jack? That it was an accident?”

  “Yep. You could call it an accident.”

  “Good.” Hank nodded slowly as he assessed Durkin. “Any idea what your son has told the police?”

  “All I can think is he can’t remember what happened. He seemed to go into shock pretty fast.”

  “That must be it,” Hank agreed with more certainty. “Those bastards trying to make a case out of this.” He turned away and rapped his knuckles hard against the door. When Griestein opened it, Hank told him his client was expected in court for his arraignment hearing.

  “I thought it was tomorrow.”

  “No, sir. You can call over there if you’d like.”

  Griestein made a face over the prospect of having to do that. He led Durkin and his attorney to the front desk while he called the courthouse. He seemed surprised to find that Hank had his facts straight. “I didn’t think it was going to be until tomorrow,” he muttered to himself as he hung up the phone.

  Over at the courthouse they had to wait twenty minutes until a flustered county attorney, Jill Bracken, arrived with Dan Wolcott at her side. Bracken was in her early thirties, slender yet athletic, and would’ve been attractive except for all the sharp edges on her. She wore a steel-gray suit that matched the color of her eyes and had her shoulder-length blond hair rolled up into a tight bun. She started to sputter immediately to Judge Harris that this was highly unusual to schedule an arraignment hearing so quickly. “I haven’t had a chance to prepare yet,” she said as she fumbled with a pile of notes.

  Judge Harris held out a hand to stop her, an impatient frown showing on his round face. “Counsellor, if you’re going to have the defendant arrested, then you should be prepared to read the charges filed against him. Tell me that you are prepared.”

  Red blotches showed along Jill Bracken’s cheeks. “Yes, your honor. The defendant is charged with aggravated assault.”

  “And how is that?”

  “He used a knife to cut off his son’s thumb.”

  Judge Harris turned to Hank. “And your client’s side of the story?”

  “It was an accident, your honor.”

  “Is that what happened, Mr. Durkin?”

  Jack Durkin nodded.

  Judge Harris picked up a trial calendar and frowned at it. “Unless there are any objections the trial date will be set for November second. Mr. Thompson, you will guarantee that your client will appear in this court on that date?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “At this time I see no reason to impose bail. The defendant is free to go until then.”

  Jill Bracken nodded as she arranged the stack of papers in front of her, but Wolcott whispered intently to her, then spoke out. “Judge, I was the arresting officer. I believe this man is a danger to the community and he should be committed for a seventy-two-hour psych evaluation.”

  Judge Harris stared hard at Wolcott, annoyance deepening his frown. He started to tap his fingers along his bench. “Sheriff Wolcott, I don’t believe I asked for your opinion—”

  “Judge, I have a sworn statement from his son, Lester, that Mr. Durkin tackled him to the ground and then held him down as he cut off his thumb.”

  Judge Harris blanched at hearing that. He shot Hank Thompson a questioning look before turning back to Wolcott.

  “Why would Mr. Durkin do that?”

  Wolcott laughed sourly. “Somehow he got it in his head that he could convince the town a weed bit his son’s thumb off.”

  “Are there other injuries consistent with the type of struggle that you described?”

  “The boy’s thumb was cut off!”

  “I understand that, but were there other injuries, such as scrapes or cuts, that would be consistent with the boy being tackled to the ground?”

  Wolcott consulted with Jill Bracken as the two of them searched through her notes.

  “I’m not prepared to answer that at this time,” he said.

  “Well, you should be. Any other reasons to call Mr. Durkin’s mental state into question?”

  “I’d have to think so. He believes the weeds at Lorne Field are some kind of monsters.”

  “That’s a lie,” Jack Durkin said. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”

  “You haven’t been telling me those are monsters out there?”

  “As far as I’m concerned I’m only honoring a contract with this town and pulling out weeds every day as my contract requires. Nothing more.”

  Judge Harris smiled at that. Hank gave Durkin a wink. Jill Bracken consulted furiously with her notes. Wolcott stared flabbergasted at Durkin.

  “Judge, this man told me just the other day that a weed bit off his son’s thumb. Also some boys snuck down to Lorne Field and pelted him with tomatoes. He wanted me to find them so they could be publicly executed!”

  Judge Harris tapped his fingers harder along the bench. “Is that true?”

  Durkin shook his head. “No, sir. I showed him where in my contract it calls for that, but all I wanted him to do was find those boys so they could help out with my weeding as punishment.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Judge Harris agreed.

  “Judge, he’s lying! That’s not how our conversation went!” Wolcott, his face flushed, stared open-mouthed at Durkin before turning back to face Judge Harris. “I learned this morning that Lester was one of the boys who pelted Mr. Durkin with tomatoes. I can’t help thinking that he found out and cut off Lester’s thumb as some sort of retaliation.”

  “How do you know Lester was one of them?” Durkin asked, his voice a low rumble.

  “Bert told me. Lester confirmed it,” Wolcott said without looking at him.

  Durkin’s head dropped a few inches, his eyes mostly lifeless. For that split second he could’ve been a man heading to the gallows. Hank Thompson clapped him on the shoulder for support and sent a glare towards Wolcott.

  “Mr. Durkin,” Judge Harris asked, his voice contrite, “did you know your son was involved?”

  Durkin shook his head. “I had no idea.”

  Wolcott made a noise as if something had caught in his sinuses. Judge Harris’s frown turned even more dour as he faced him. “Sheriff Wolcott, your accusations here have been scattered, at best. First Mr. Durkin committed this crime as part of a ruse, then as an act of revenge. Mr. Durkin has carried himself with the utmost decorum, while you, sir, have been the only one here who seems to be having difficulty controlling his emotions or thought processes. You’re one outburst away from seeing me do as you’re requesting and ordering a psychiatric evaluation, but not for Mr. Durkin. Do I make myself clear?”

  Wolcott nodded, a darkness muddling his face.

  Judge Harris watched him for a moment, then told Durkin that he wa
s free to go but to be prepared to be back in court November second for his trial. “Although lacking additional physical evidence, it seems hard to consider your son’s statement credible,” he added under his breath.

  Hank Thompson led Durkin towards the door, but before they reached it Wolcott caught up to them.

  “Hank, you know I’m only trying to do my job here.”

  “It sounded personal to me.”

  “Not at all. I honestly believe Mr. Durkin needs help, and I hope for his sake that you see that he gets it.”

  “I’ll take your concerns under advisement.” Hank turned his back on Wolcott and ushered Durkin out of the building.

  “Let’s get you back where you belong,” he said.

  Officer Bob Smith was waiting on the sidewalk, his hands stuck in his pockets and a forlorn look spread across his face. He walked slowly to Durkin and held out his hand.

  “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  Durkin nodded and took his hand.

  “I hated what I had to do today. More than anyone else in this town I know everything you gave up.”

  Durkin again felt like Smith wanted to ask him something, but the other man turned and walked away.

  Hank Thompson offered to drive Durkin down Hillside Drive so he could pick up the path from there to Lorne Field. “It should be a shorter walk to Lorne Field that way than taking you home.”

  Durkin agreed and got into Hank’s older model Cadillac sedan.

  “If you’d like we could get you a bite to eat first,” Hank suggested.