by George Wier
“The Governor,” I said.
“What about him?” Hank asked.
I suppose I was somewhat animated, but it came out in a rush anyway. “You don’t understand. We told Carswell’s wife that...we led her to believe that the Governor sent me to investigate the attempted murder of her husband.”
“No we didn’t. Or at least I didn’t.”
“Well, I may have. Anyway, since the media doesn’t know, then how the hell would the Governor know. She’s probably already called that jerkwad Simon to complain that he’s got a leak in the Sheriff’s Office. He’ll think about our little encounter at the restaurant—which he’s probably already done—and if he hasn’t already, then he’s probably on his way to round up Miss Bee.”
“Now Bill,” he said. “Calm down. I’m sure she’s just fine.”
“You don’t know that. We have to go find her.”
“You’re over-reacting. She’s fine, I tell you.”
And then I heard something. A whisper, maybe.
“Okay,” Hank said. He opened the door, and Miss Bee stood there. She was wearing an evening gown.
It hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Hank’s right about you,” she said.
I suppose my mouth was open.
“You’re a snapping turtle, Bill Travis.” And then she smiled.
“Goodnight, Bill,” Hank said, and closed the door.
*****
I was sitting in the hotel dining room the following morning when Hank and Miss Bee came down together. She went and got herself a rather large plate of food while Hank poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn and they sat down across from me.
“You should see your face,” Hank said.
“I’ve always wanted to try the breakfast here,” Miss Bee said. “Everything looks wonderful.”
“Good morning, Miss Bee,” I said.
She smiled at me. I noticed a hint of redness in her cheeks.
As they ate and as I enjoyed my second cup of coffee, I decided it was time to talk.
“Excuse me, Miss Bee,” I said, “but in light of my mistake last night—I mean the one where we went and talked to the Senator’s wife at the hospital, not the one where I banged on Hank’s door—do you think that Sheriff Simon might come looking for you? Would you have any reason to be afraid of him?”
She paused before putting half of a half-cooked sausage patty in her mouth. “Well, I’ve never had him mad at me before. Never gave him a reason to hunt me up.”
Hank put his hand on her left arm. “If you have any concern at all, I’d say today would be a good day to stay away from the office.”
“Oh,” she said. “I have to open the bail bonds office. There’s no one else. My boss is in Arkansas right now on business. It’s me or it’s nothing.”
“Well, maybe I could spend part of the day with you,” he said. “Just to make sure you stay safe.”
“I’m safe. I can’t be in this business and not be armed.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re...packing?”
She reached for her purse, opened it and laid a black canister of mace on the table beside her plate, then reached back inside and brought out a Baretta 9 millimeter and set it down.”
“Is it loaded?” I asked.
“Is it loaded?” she said. “Of what possible use is an unloaded gun?”
“She does have a point,” Hank said.
“I suppose so,” I admitted.
Bee put the gun and the mace back in her purse, took a sip of her coffee, and announced that she needed to go ‘freshen up a bit,’ which was code for a bathroom break.
As she departed the room and one or two other guests streamed in, Hank said, “I’m dying for you to ask me.”
“Oh. About you two? About what you did last night?”
He nodded.
“I wouldn’t dream of asking.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Do it.”
I laughed. “Okay, Romeo. What did you two do last night? And please, don’t try to embarrass me. I’m beyond anything you might try to say.”
“It was my birthday, if you’ll recall. Last night, while you were making phone calls out in the parking lot of the restaurant, she gave me her business card and told me to call her once I got to my hotel room. She said she would have a birthday present for me.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well. She did have one for me. She came right over to the hotel and had just slipped into her nightgown when you came along, making enough racket to wake up dead people down in Houston. Anyway, after she left, I got my present. It was the sweetest, nicest thing anybody has ever done for me.”
“Yeah.”
He put both of his elbows on the table and peered across at me with those piercing hazel eyes, pausing for emphasis. “She read me poetry, Bill. She read Tennyson, Keats, Gibran, and Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She even read a bit of Walt Whitman, from the Leaves of Grass.”
“Uh huh.” I said.
“She read to me until two in the morning.”
I nodded.
“And I’m too much of a gentleman to say what happened after that.”
“Of course you are.”
“I like her, Bill.”
“What’s not to like?”
“I’m am old, cold man,” he said. “I’ve spent my life doing exactly what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I never had any ties. No one to hold me down. But there’s something to having poetry whispered to you late at night that I cannot for the life of me fathom. It sends my mind to far away places, and then brings me back again, and while I’m there, I can see and feel and smell just like anything. And then there’s the warmth of another human being. I could come to like it.”
“Well,” I said. “if you’re okay with the age difference—and, I guess, more importantly if she’s okay with it—there’s nothing to stop you.”
“That’s what I’m pondering on,” he said, and then lapsed into silence. And knowing Hank, he’d be pondering on it for the next few weeks.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After Bee returned to the table, I asked her whether she had the direct number for the jail, and whether she knew all of the other booking officers there. She answered in the affirmative to both questions, and at my behest, put in a call from the breakfast table to check up on the incarcerated third of the Trinity Trio. While she put in the call, I wondered absently whether I would be meeting the final third at some point, the wife of Sheriff Paul Simon.
“She did?” Bee spoke into the phone. “When?”
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but I knew something significant had occurred. Miss Bee covered the base of the phone as if to cut the booking officer off from hearing her—which I doubted was effective—and whispered to us, “It was early this morning.”
“What was this morning?” I asked.
She uncupped the phone and asked, “Do you know who?”
Whoever was on the other end gave her the answer and she said, “No!” in disbelief.
“Who did what early this morning?” Hank asked.
She cupped the phone again, and said, “Will you two hush up? I’m finding out.”
I looked at Hank and his eyes met mine—a silent communication and a confirmation, as if to say, “Women.”
After half a minute, Bee clicked her phone off.
“Well?” Hank asked.
At that moment, my phone buzzed in my shirt pocket. I lifted it out and answered it. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but from one of the Dallas area codes.
“Travis,” I said.
“Travis, this is Ranger Gray Holland. Captain Rodgers tasked me with interviewing Tanya Holdridge at the Atchison County Jail.”
“Right,” I said.
“Well, she bonded out this morning. I have no idea where she’s gone.”
“Gray, call me Bill. I’m going to find out where she is, call you back and have you meet me there. Something strange is going o
n in this town, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
“That’s what Captain Rodgers said,” he replied.
“Do you have an extra pistol?” I asked. “And maybe a gun belt or two? I have a friend with me, and I may need to deputize him.” I looked at Hank and watched as he bit his lip. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had the sneaking suspicion that whatever I had in mind would not be his first choice.
“I have a Smith & Wesson .44 in my trunk. And a spare belt. Is there the potential for gunplay?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not. There’s a restaurant downtown called Ronson’s Steakhouse. Would you care to meet me there in about fifteen minutes?”
“I know who you are. You’re that friend of Walt Cannon. The one always helping him out.”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t know about that. He’s saved my bacon a time or two, so it’s hard to know who’s helped whom more.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a friend or two like that myself. I’ll see you at the steak place, Bill.”
“I’m driving a navy blue Mercedes, not an official vehicle. Just so you know.”
“Thanks.”
I hung up and looked at Hank. “We need to go.” I turned to Bee. “Do you think you can track down Ms. Holdridge?”
“I probably can. I’ll need to get to the office, though.”
“Do so,” I said. “It looks as though I may be making a withdrawal from your safe, hopefully some time today, but at least not until we’re ready to get back on the road to Austin.”
She nodded, then turned to Hank, “Optimistic, isn’t he?”
Hank nodded, as if to say, “You don’t know the half of it.”
“In the meantime,” I said, “who was it who bailed Ms. Holdridge out of jail? You never said.”
“Oh. It was Sheriff Simon’s wife.”
“Well crap,”Hank said. “I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”
“It could be a little of both,” I said. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”
*****
I informed the girl at the hotel front desk that there was a chance I would be staying another night and asked if she could reserve my room. She could and did. Hank and Miss Bee met me in the parking lot a few minutes later, and the two of them parted company with a hug and kiss. When he got in the car next to me, I called him an old hound dog. He reddened around the gills and nodded, curtly.
And we were off.
*****
Gray Holland was waiting for us at Ronson’s. The OPEN sign was turned on and the breakfast crowd was filtered out onto the parking lot, mingling with a few later arrivals, just coming in.
I pulled up next to Ranger Holland’s state vehicle, a late model Ford Crowne Victoria, solid black but for the circle-in-the-star in silver on the front door. I’d never seen one before. The red and blue headache rack that should have been mounted on top appeared to be built into the front and rear windows. And then I noticed he had a prisoner in the back seat, and it was someone I recognized.
I gestured. “Trouble?”
At that moment, Hank came around from the passenger side, took one look at the prisoner and a broad grin spread across his face.
“Him?” Ranger Holland said, and chuckled. “No trouble at all.”
It was Abner, the Sheriff’s nephew.
“He was speeding, wasn’t he?” Hank asked.
“Ranger Holland,” I said, “this is my friend I was telling you about. Hank Sterling.”
Holland held out his hand and shook Hank’s. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sterling. Yeah, he was doing about eighty in a thirty-five. I noticed that the locals weren’t enforcing it, so I decided to pull him over. That’s when he made his first mistake.”
“He ran from you?” I asked.
“He did.”
“Where’s his car?” Hank asked.
“It’s about three miles west of town. He rolled it over about twenty times in a cow pasture, after tearing up about two hundred feet of barbed wire. He’s lucky to be alive. Also, he’d been drinking and he had a lit marijuana cigarette still going and burning a hole in the roof of his Mustang when I fished him out.”
“It’s the Sheriff’s nephew,” I said. “That’s why the non-enforcement.” I tapped on the glass a few inches away from Abner’s face. “Hiya, Abner.”
“Well hell,” Holland said, and pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. Holland was in his early thirties, a tall and lanky fellow with dark curly hair, brown eyes, and starched white shirt stuffed into brown slacks. He wore a bolo tie and had his silver star tacked onto his shirt pocket. It’s about the only official uniform a Ranger wears.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s your call whether to press it or to let him go. I’d say we should take him down to the Sheriff’s Office and let Sheriff Simon deal with him. Regardless, unless he’s got another hotrod sitting in a garage somewhere, I’d say his leadfooting days are ended, at least for awhile.”
“You may be right about that. Okay, while we’re here...” he moved around to the truck of the car and unlocked it and lifted the hatch. Several things jumped out at me at once. First was the fact that the trunk of his car was its own arsenal, and second was that he had enough emergency and disaster materiel to handle an earthquake. There were several rifles and shotguns, a couple of kevlar vests, boxes of ammunition, and several clear fishing tackle boxes filled with EMT equipment.
“Used to be a paramedic, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Still am. I keep all my certifications up to date as time allows.”
“Good,” Hank said. “If you shoot someone, you can patch them up again,” and for some reason, that called to mind a paramedic I once knew who did double duty as a deputy sheriff.
“Haven’t had to do that yet,” Holland said. “Okay, who wants the .44?”
“I do,” I said, and fished the Walther out of my pants pocket and handed it back to Hank.
Holland reached in and flipped open a gun case and brought out the shiniest gun I’d ever seen and handed it to me. “This is a loaner. Damn thing cost nearly a grand when I bought it at a gun show six months ago.”
“I’ll get it back to you in one piece,” I said. It weighed in at about seven pounds. Jessica had one like it and I had fired it on occasion. The things were heavy and could blow a hole in anything almost big enough to put your hand through.
“And here’s the gunbelt. It’ll hold the .44.”
“That would be for Bill too,” Hank said. “I don’t need one with this little cricket lighter.”
“I’ve seen one of those little cricket lighters kill the biggest and meanest hombres,” Holland said.
“Yeah,” Hank agreed. “You’re right about that, although I’ve never had to use it.”
“He goes in more for trace chains and dynamite,” I said.
“I’ve heard about you too, Mr. Sterling,” Holland said. “Speaking of which, do you want to deputize him, Bill, or should I?”
“You do it. I don’t always get the words right.”
“Okay, Mr. Sterling. Raise your right hand and repeat after me. I, Hank Sterling...”
Hank repeated it, and Holland went through the whole spiel with Hank saying it mostly right by the time they came to the end.
“That’s good enough,” Ranger Holland said. “This is temporary duty, but I’ll call it in to the Ranger Barracks in Dallas. Okay, what’s next?”
“We’ve got a reason to go back to the jail, thanks to Lil Abner, here,” I said. “In the meantime, I’ve got Miss Bee—she’s the bail bondsman across the street from the jail—attempting to locate Ms. Holdridge. I’d still like for you to interview her. Holdridge, that is. She’s kind of a loose cannon. She may or may not have shot and wounded the United States Senator from here—”
“Carswell?” Holland asked.
“That’s the one,” I said. “I saw him last night in the hospital. It looks as though he’s going to pull through. But I’ll tell you, this is one insular little tow
n. According to Ms. Holdridge, if she had meant to kill the senator, he’d be dead. The way she said it, it sounded as though it could have been self defense. However, the woman who bailed Holdridge out of jail early this morning—I don’t know exactly when that was—was the Sheriff’s wife. There’s more to the back story, but suffice it to say that there’s a history going on here, and we’re right in the middle of it.”
“I hate these kinds of things. Sometimes it’s hard to know from which direction the friendly fire is coming.”
“You got that right,” Hank said.
“Oh shoot. Almost forgot.” Holland dug two fingers into his shirt pocket and came up with a silver star and handed it to Hank. “Put that on. You’re on duty, Mr. Sterling, as of right now.”
Hank accepted the badge and nodded. It took him a moment, but he finally got it pinned to his khaki shirt.
“Welcome to the right side of the law,” I told Hank.
“If somebody had told me yesterday I’d be made a Texas Ranger, I would have told them they were crazy.”
Ranger Holland turned and closed the trunk of his car. “Okay, you fellahs follow me.”
“Gladly,” I said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
W e marched Abner through the front doors of the Atchison County Criminal Justice complex in handcuffs. He still looked a little shaken up, but his condition was consummate with someone who had survived a high speed rollover and had lived to tell the tale. His black Def Leppard teeshirt was ripped across his shoulder, but there was no way of knowing whether it was like that to begin with.
A Sheriff’s deputy held open the inner doors for us, and we marched him inside and set him down in an empty chair.
“I’ll fetch Sheriff Simon,” the deputy said.
“You do that,” Ranger Holland said.
It was about that time that Abner woke up and realized where he was. “What’s...happening?” he asked.
“You’re in the Atchison County Sheriff’s Office. You’re under arrest.”
He began whispering: “No. No. No. This ain’t right. I can’t be here. You’re got to get me out of here. Uncle Paul’s going to kill me.”