The Sheriff of Shelter Valley

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  The earth was completely still. Hotter than most October days, that Tuesday wasn’t providing even a bit of a breeze.

  Moving around to the front of his car, Greg leaned against the hood, one hand on either side of him, ready to grab his weapon if he had to. That and his bullet-proof vest were all he had to protect himself, but he was prepared to take whatever risk was necessary. This mattered too much not to do everything he could. “There’s no real reason you should want to,” Greg continued. “But the way I see it, you and I have something in common. I’m guessing we both feel a need to have justice done. To know that at least one crime has been avenged, the perpetrator behind bars where he belongs, not out walking the streets. Free. Laughing. Having a good time. Capable of hurting more innocent people.”

  No movement.

  “I’m not speaking as a cop here,” Greg said. If nothing else came of this, maybe it would be cathartic to just say these things to someone who’d been there. “My father, an economics professor at Montford, was beaten and left for dead not too far from here about ten years ago. He lived the rest of his life paralyzed until he died last year.” He stopped. Crossed his legs. Peered at that clump of brown scrub, willing it to move. “Last night I found some pretty substantial evidence at the base of this mountain. There’s a good chance you’re the only one who could help me out with it.”

  If that didn’t work, Greg was going to have to give up. At least for now. Between Beth and this old hermit, he was beginning to feel like he’d lost all his talent for interrogation.

  Or maybe he’d just forgotten how to talk to people outside of work and Bonnie’s house.

  “Okay, well, I’ll leave you alone, then,” Greg said, backing up to the driver’s door of his car.

  He pulled out a business card and tossed it in front of him. “If you know anything about the clearing on the south side of the mountain and you ever want to contact me about it, there’s my card.”

  Frustrated beyond trusting himself to be compassionate Greg knew it was time to go.

  “I told the other sheriff.”

  The voice was gravelly. Old and cracked. And not very loud.

  But it was loud enough for Greg to hear.

  Slowly, carefully, he turned back toward the bush. “Sheriff Foltz?”

  No answer.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Ten years ago. When the kids were banging their cars into the side of the mountain.”

  Greg had no idea if he was talking to a bent and gray, skinny old man, maybe with a long beard, or a sturdy muscled woodsman in the prime of his later years. He gave the brush an intent stare.

  “You told Sheriff Foltz there were kids ramming cars into the mountain.”

  “Ten years ago. I couldn’t stand to have them violating nature that way. They stopped right after.”

  There’d been no report….

  Greg was sweating. Yet his mind felt clear and sharp. “You keep an eye on the place since then?” he asked.

  “This mountain’s good to me, I’m good to it. I hike over there every now and then.”

  “Still?”

  “Yes. I spend a lot of nights on top of that mountain.”

  Which could explain why Culver hadn’t found the old man. Then, too, Francis was pretty adept at not being seen.

  “Have you noticed any activity in the clearing in the past few years?” Greg continued to address the clump of desert brush.

  “The kids came back with their loud parties this summer. And they’re running their cars into the side of the mountain again. I hiked all the way up the mountain to find some peace, and instead, heard that partying going on below. Went on all night long.”

  Considering the huge expanse of open ground around the shack, Greg found it a little odd that the old man regularly put himself through a rigorous mountain hike. He supposed most people thought they had to leave the life they had in order to find peace.

  That was something he’d like to discuss with Beth sometime. He’d bet she had a theory on it.

  “If you hear them again and have a way to get in touch with me, I’d sure appreciate a phone call,” Greg said. “And in the meantime, if you ever need anything, let me know.”

  “Groceries,” the old man said.

  Greg frowned at the tree. “You need groceries?” He didn’t know how mountain men provided for themselves, but he’d always assumed they hunted or grew whatever sustenance they needed.

  “The walk into town’s not bad, but I’m getting a little old for the walk back with all the groceries.”

  Hochie, the closest town, was a good fifteen miles away.

  “Once every two weeks enough?”

  “It’s more than I go myself.”

  “Then, I’ll be here tomorrow. And I’m going to bring the pre-paid phone with me.”

  He was eager to see what the old man looked like.

  BETH SPENT ALL TUESDAY AFTERNOON at the library, looking up death notices. And searching for articles on murder in a several-hundred-mile radius of Snowflake.

  She got about as much from the computer files, microfiche and Internet sites she visited as she did from her own memory. It felt like the whole world was in collusion against her.

  To celebrate that they hadn’t been murdered, she took Ryan out for ice cream. And ran into Katie and Greg at the ice-cream parlor. He was still in his uniform, while Beth was in her “toilet lady” clothes. Sweats, with her hair up in a ponytail.

  “Ryan!” Katie squealed. Ry walked over to his friend and stood there, watching her eat her ice-cream cone.

  Greg walked over to Beth, too, but he wasn’t as silent. “I tried to call you.”

  “I was at the library. My phone was on silent.” Her pre-paid cell phone. The only kind she could get without a social security number.

  He seemed a little curious, but mostly preoccupied.

  “How about we take the kids to the park and let them drip ice cream over everything there?” he suggested.

  She laughed and nodded, ordering quickly, and then the four of them strolled to the park adjacent to Shelter Valley’s town square.

  It didn’t take Greg long to fill Beth in on the events of his day. The progress of the case. She’d been wondering about him, hoping she’d hear from him.

  “So what happened when you met with Burt at three?”

  Sitting on a bench beside her, but far enough away that they weren’t touching, Greg shrugged. He was watching Katie and Ryan, who were attempting to sit on a miniature merry-go-round while they ate. The thing kept moving and the result was a combination of comedy and frustration. Depending, he supposed, on whether you were observer or participant.

  “We drove out. He’d never seen the place before, and he saw that as a failure. Took it personally. He felt he’d let me down. Foltz told him nothing about the Francis complaint ten years ago.”

  Never having met Burt, Beth had no grounds on which to judge, but something didn’t quite add up. The best cop in the entire county and he’d failed in so many areas. The clearing. The hermit. Evidence from the past.

  “Are you sure Burt’s telling the truth?”

  Greg’s look of surprise was answer enough. “I don’t doubt it for a second. I trust the man with my life every single day I go to work. And he trusts me with his. Burt’s a good cop. And that’s all he is. He’s married to the job. Ten years older than me with no wife, no kids. Just those horses.”

  “So what now? Do you talk to Foltz?”

  “Burt’s going to.”

  “This case is important to you. Maybe you should do that.”

  “Technically, it’s Burt’s case. And he’s kicking himself enough as it is. I don’t want my top deputy losing confidence in himself.”

  He knew better than she. He knew Burt. And at the moment she was viewing the whole world with suspicion.

  “That old hermit said something today that struck me, and I wondered what you’d think about it,” Greg said a couple of seconds later. The kid
s had finished their ice cream and, with sticky hands and faces, were crawling around in their jeans and sweatshirts on the merry-go-round.

  “What did he say?” She wished he were sitting closer.

  “You know how people always say grass is greener on the other side?”

  “Yeah.” She grinned at him. “But they obviously haven’t seen the grass in Shelter Valley.”

  “Cultured,” Greg said. He gave her a grin and quickly sobered. “Francis lives out there in the middle of God’s country, with nothing but nature for company, and puts himself through miles of rigorous climbing to find peace.”

  “And you’re thinking that peace is as elusive as the greener grass?”

  “I’m wondering.”

  Peace was something Beth thought about a lot. “I guess for some it is that way. I prefer to think that if we try hard enough, we can quit thinking we have to run away from our lives and instead, find contentment in the little things that bring us pleasure or serenity.”

  Sounded kind of lofty when she put it into words. But the idea had kept her sane and functioning for more than seven months.

  “Is that what you’re doing?” he asked, giving her a sideways glance. “Trying not to run away anymore?”

  “I’m trying to find peace in the little things,” Beth said. The running wasn’t something she could help.

  She couldn’t expect him to understand that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “GRADY’S WORKING OUT VERY WELL.” James Silverman was sitting with Peter Sterling in the state-of-the-art kitchen of the doctor’s three-hundred-thousand dollar condo.

  “We’re very blessed to have found him,” Sterling said, sipping his early-morning herbal tea with care. James had made it too hot, but Peter didn’t complain.

  “He’s on fire for the cause.” Silverman smiled. “Almost reminds me of myself when I first met you.”

  Sterling eyed him carefully over the top of his cup. “You aren’t still on fire?”

  “More so than ever.” There was no hesitation in James’s reply. Or his heart. “It’s just good to know there are others to help with the work. Gives me hope for the difference we’ll be able to make someday.”

  The doctor nodded, smiled, but the smile wasn’t as enthusiastic as it might have been. As it once had been. Lately, the doctor had been looking more tired than usual. His face more lined.

  Something had to be done about the Beth situation. Now. Too much time had passed. It was taking its toll. They couldn’t do this work without Dr. Sterling. He was a prophet—their prophet. His energy must be preserved at all cost.

  “Still no news?” Peter asked, his brows creased, his eyes sad.

  James bit back his own pain. His own feelings of betrayal, of loss, were nothing compared to the damage that had been done to Sterling Silver. “None,” he said, not at all surprised that Peter had been thinking along the same lines.

  And every day, the danger grew.

  “I’m afraid I’m starting to obsess,” Peter said, his head low as he shook it slowly. “I’m losing my positive outlook. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.”

  Neither of them knew if someone might come to the door someday and try to shut them down. Someone from the police or the government. Someone who didn’t understand.

  “We’re on the cusp of doing great work. We have so many dedicated people ready and willing to spread the good news. People like Grady, relying on us for a better life. Willing to make that happen. Not just for themselves, but for the rest of the world.”

  James’s heart swelled with a sense of certainty that their work was right and good. True. That certainty drove him every second of every day.

  “I don’t understand why we didn’t sense the negative forces,” Peter said.

  James sipped his tea, not even having to hold back a grimace anymore. He detested the taste, but after years of the morning ritual, he’d grown so used to it that he was no longer fazed.

  “We’re still men.” James finally spoke aloud the conclusion he’d had to accept. “Which means we can be blinded by lustful desires.”

  “Sex twice a week probably fed that.”

  “I’m sure it did. As important a purpose as it serves, it appears to have led me into dangerous territory.”

  Peter glanced up. “So what’s the answer?” he asked. “No more women for the two of us?”

  James had been giving the idea much consideration. “I can’t speak for you, but that’s probably my answer.”

  Peter nodded, his eyes weary. “For me, too.” He sighed. “I’m trying to hold on, but I don’t know how much longer I’ve got.”

  Alarm raced through James. “Don’t say that, Peter,” he said. “We’ll take care of this.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Of course not—you’re a doctor. Tracking criminals isn’t your job. Your job is here. Full-time. But I’m still a prosecuting attorney. I have the means.”

  “And you’ve been using them.”

  “I’ve been using aboveboard means.” James set down his cup, leaned toward his mentor. “And now I’ll use ones that are more…creative and equally accessible.”

  “Illegal activities often bring about negative energies,” Peter warned, his eyes serious.

  “I’ve weighed the consequences and know in my heart that this is the right thing to do. Which in itself brings positive energies.”

  Silently Peter watched him. “So this will be done soon?” he asked, sounding like a needy child.

  That need, the fact that Peter placed it in him, sealed James’s decision. “It will be done.”

  “Will there be violence involved?”

  “If the need arises, I will not hesitate to give that decree.”

  “You’re a good man, James Silverman,” Peter said, his face relaxing. “And you’re doing the right thing.”

  “We both are,” James said, smiling. Reaching over, he grasped Peter’s shoulder. “We both are, Peter.”

  They were as angels, Peter and he, doing a work far greater than most mortals ever attempted.

  Everything else paled in comparison.

  Including the cost.

  WHILE BURT FOLLOWED UP with Foltz on Wednesday morning, Greg delivered groceries and a pre-paid cell phone—with clearly written instructions—to a deserted shack. If Joe was around he wasn’t showing himself. Debating whether or not to try again later, Greg left the packages by the door. He didn’t want to push the hermit.

  Back at the office, he dealt with a staff issue, approved some budgets and signed off a completed community service order being served by Thelma Hopkins for attempting to lure a man from the Valley Diner to her apartment for a one-hundred-dollar hour of entertainment. By mid-morning, with all immediate business out of the way, he called Burt’s office, only to find that the deputy was still out.

  Greg was a little surprised at the relief washing over him as he hung up the phone. Had he really had doubts that his deputy would give the matter as much attention as Greg knew it deserved?

  “Unit 1 to dispatch,” Greg said, forty-five minutes later as he drove through downtown Shelter Valley.

  “Dispatch, go ahead.”

  “I’m going to be off radio.” He raised his voice enough for it to travel clearly. “If I’m needed, use my cell.”

  “Roger, Unit 1.”

  Greg turned off Main Street toward the mountain, thankful once again for everything Shelter Valley had to offer—small-town life, yet cultural and educational opportunities, too. Enough to keep enough of its young people from moving on. Made his job a hell of a lot easier sometimes—like now.

  True, not everyone Greg had gone to high school with was still in town. Few of the teenaged party gang had hung around. Shelter Valley’s small-town restrictions—as they’d seen them—had been responsible for the parties to begin with.

  But Len Wagner was there. He’d played football at Montford and then for the Phoenix Cardinals—maintaining a decent five-year
career in spite of the losing team. And then, when a big offer came that would take him to the East Coast, he’d surprised the world by retiring to marry a Shelter Valley High School teacher, three years older than himself, settling down and starting a family. Len had kids at the elementary school and at Little Spirits, as well. He also had interests in several lucrative business ventures and was one of Shelter Valley’s most generous contributors. In his spare time he traveled all over the world fulfilling various philanthropic duties for the many boards he sat on.

  Len Wagner was a changed man from the rebellious, daredevil teenager Greg had known.

  On this Wednesday morning, he was at home in Shelter Valley with a sick first-grader.

  “Kaylee’s had a sore throat for over a week,” Len told Greg, inviting him in for a cup of coffee. The Wagners’ home was just down the mountain, a quarter of a mile from Will and Becca Parsons’ place. Greg had never been to either home, but had heard from his sister that he’d be receiving an invitation to a holiday party at the Parsons. If he did, he was hoping to talk Beth into going with him.

  Wagner’s kitchen was as big as all three bedrooms in Greg’s house combined. And the ex-football player seemed quite at home in the kitchen as he ground coffee beans and turned on the espresso machine—in spite of the huge hands that dwarfed the little measuring utensils he was using.

  “You cook, too, Len?” Greg asked with a grin. Who would’ve thought, twenty years before, that the most hard-ass, irresponsible partier of them all would turn out to be a Mr. Mom.

  It had been rumored during their junior and senior years that Len spent more time out at Rabbit Rock than he did at home. Greg was hoping the rumors were true.

  “I can cook if I have to,” Len said. “But Peggy loves to do it and I don’t. Match made in heaven.” He smiled with complete contentment.

  Because of that smile, Greg had to ask, “You really mean that, don’t you.”

  “Yep.” His once-rebellious acquaintance didn’t even pretend to be manly in that tough-guy way he used to affect. These days he wasn’t ashamed to let the world know about his softer side.