English Lessons

by J. M. Hayes

  ***

  Sheriff English remembered his mother telling him how the Benteen County Veteran’s Memorial Park had been dedicated to future peace—that those who fought and died to preserve it should not have done so in vain. It was a square block, cut out of a prairie city that, aside from the creek winding along its west side, was not confined by natural boundaries nearer than the Rocky Mountains. City blocks here were of generous proportions, more than six hundred feet on a side. There was another forty feet of street between the courthouse and the park. And then the court building stood behind another eighty-odd feet of occasionally groomed lawn. So, as he and his running-itself posse came out from behind the buildings at Cherry and Adams, he estimated the nearest gun that began firing on them had to be about eight hundred feet away.

  Sheriff English didn’t know what kind of automatic weapons they were, but he remembered the effective range of the M16 he’d carried in Vietnam almost forty years ago was nine hundred feet.

  “Take cover!” he shouted.

  He followed his own advice, ducking back around the corner of a brick wall—part of what had been a dry cleaning establishment until sometime in the sixties. The effective range of his Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special with its four inch barrel was more like fifty feet. If he shot back from this distance, he might actually hit the courthouse someplace. But he wouldn’t hit the guys shooting at him. No way.

  His shotgun would do better. He had recovered it when Crabtree’s Uzi proved unsatisfactory as a cane. But even with its rifled slugs, he’d need more luck than skill to hit a concealed shooter at this range.

  The sheriff examined the situation from behind the wall of the former dry cleaner. Most of his “posse” had followed his suggestion. In fact, most of them had taken cover by turning around and running back east on Cherry. But several men returned fire. Some, at least, had dropped to prone positions in the shallow ditch at the edge of the park. But three stood in the middle of the street and snapped off shots as if they had just shouted “pull” and the danger to themselves equaled that from the average clay pigeon.

  One of them was the Korean War veteran, who should know better. His M1 Garand seemed to be placing a nice pattern in one of the courthouse’s second story windows. But, beside him, another man fired his twelve-gauge shotgun from the hip, racking his slide like some street-gang warrior. The only damage he did appeared to be substantial pruning of some nearby evergreens. Another guy with a .22 target rifle punched out a window in one of the supervisors’ offices. The window had been closed, though, indicating no one had been shooting from there.

  Just down the street to the south, a man wearing camouflage stood under one of the town’s few working street lights with his cell phone in his hand. What looked like an assault weapon hung from one shoulder. He punched in a number, paying no attention to the whistle of passing bullets or the whine of occasional ricochets.

  “You idiots, get down,” the sheriff shouted.

  The veteran trotted over and stood behind a tree at the edge of the park, though the girth of its trunk was only about half his size. “I can’t get up or down so good these days,” he called, resuming his marksmanship on open courthouse windows.

  The guy with the shotgun ran out of shells and came back around the corner to join the sheriff. The one with the target rifle turned and scowled, but then joined the men shooting from the ditch. The one on the cell phone kept punching buttons until his cell flew in the air, his body crumpled to the street, and the back of his head followed the bullet that had just torn through his cranium and splattered the brick wall behind him next to a window containing a sign—EAT MORE BEEF.

  “Jesus,” the sheriff muttered. “Wasn’t that Paul Graber?”

  “Yeah,” the guy with the shotgun said. “I noticed him down there on Jefferson. I wondered what he was doing out here. I heard he was on their side.”

  ***

  Heather’s meeting with the Pima County Sheriff didn’t start well. First, the sheriff didn’t want to see Mad Dog, and Mad Dog, who hadn’t really wanted to come to the substation except to explain why his niece shouldn’t be in trouble, did not quietly accept being kept out of the meeting. Even after the door closed on the office the sheriff was using, Heather heard Mad Dog demanding admittance. She hoped he wouldn’t get himself arrested. But she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be arrested, especially after Pima County Sheriff Johnny Behan demanded her weapon and badge the moment the door closed.

  She didn’t get a chance to respond to that. Captain Matus, who had refused to let her see the sheriff outside of his presence, told Behan he had no right to do that.

  “Heather English is a Sewa officer under my direct supervision. She answers to me, not you.”

  Behan took that about as well as Heather expected, considering what she’d heard about the man. His quick temper and imperial manner had only been rumors until now. Like the stories of political deals and whispered hints of corruption.

  Johnny Behan looked as slick as his campaign posters, except he smiled for those. He was short and compact and older than his shining even teeth and thick dark hair indicated. He was handsome, or he would have been if he hadn’t been shouting insults about her competence and hinting that she had to be involved. Fortunately, Captain Matus proved inflexible in his defense of her.

  “Well, damn it,” Behan said, “if I can’t relieve her from duty, I can by God arrest her.”

  Matus didn’t have an immediate answer for that. Behan could arrest Heather. She knew, because she was a licensed attorney and a member of the state bar of Arizona. Behan could arrest pretty much anyone he wanted. Whether he could keep her in jail for long, or might even open himself to litigation for wrongful arrest, was another matter.

  “Are you arresting me, sir?” Heather said into the brief silence.

  “I’d say that’s mighty likely,” Behan snarled.

  “Well,” Heather said, “decide. I’m here willingly, as requested, to make a complete and formal report of my experiences today. But if you’re arresting me, sheriff, then you need to know I’ll assert my right to remain silent.”

  Everyone knew about their Miranda rights these days. But the Supreme Court had recently limited them. Suspects now had to inform an arresting officer that they intended to exercise their right to remain silent. No assumption of that right remained following the court’s decision. A suspect who refused to speak at all could have anything they eventually said, even much later, used against them.

  Not that Heather expected formal charges to be brought against her. She was just being bullied. And she thought her best defense against that was the one she’d just used. Behan might actually suspect she was implicated, since she’d been in the middle of so much of what had happened today. But when she explained her actions, the worst that could be made of them involved her competence as a law enforcement officer. For that, she was answerable to the Sewa Tribe and Captain Matus, not Pima County. Behan, she thought, wanted to know what she knew, even if it turned out that he already knew most of it.

  “Little girl,” Behan said, “do you have any idea how long I can make you disappear into the system?”

  “Yes, sir.” She did, because of her law degree, her studies, and because her father had occasionally used similar threats when he thought it was the only way to find out what he needed. “I believe I do. And, since I’m an attorney as well as a cop, I have a pretty good idea of what damages a jury might grant me for wrongful imprisonment. You might want to check with the Pima county attorney if you’d like an opinion on that figure, or with the county manager about how it could affect your budget.”

  Behan’s glare should have burned her eyes out and caused the flesh to melt from her face. “I will remember this, Officer English. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to arrest me?”

  “You want
it in writing?”

  “Yes,” Heather said. “I think I do. Captain Matus can witness it. Then, with his permission, I’ll give you my full report.”

  Matus let one corner of his mouth turn up in the tiniest of smiles.

  Behan stepped to the door and shouted down the hall. “Bring me some letterhead stationery,” he said. “And get someone in here to record a statement.”

  Heather heard a voice in the lobby. “You’ve got a wolf?”

  “She’s like a witch’s familiar,” her uncle said, “only completely different.”

  ***

  Sheriff English peered around the corner of the brick wall to check on his little posse. There weren’t many out there anymore. And, to his surprise, that was not because they’d all died. Instead, little by little, they’d run out of ammunition. At which point, continuing to lie in a shallow snow-filled ditch had become less attractive. Especially when that ditch was being raked with automatic weapons fire, plowing fresh rows that revealed the black earth beneath the snow. The same sod in which their coffins might soon rest. Once they ran out of ammunition and no longer had the fun of shooting at people to occupy their minds, the concept that someone was shooting back, trying to kill them, seemed to finally come clear.

  “Out of ammo” or “gotta get more bullets” became the mantra of the men who’d retreated past the sheriff’s spot into the neighborhood and fled into the darkness. So far, none of them had come back.

  The sheriff had noticed faces appear at windows in the houses lining the north side of the park when the shooting started. Then blinds were drawn or curtains pulled. He didn’t think that would keep the bullets out, but it was Christmas and not everyone wanted to interrupt their holiday.

  To the sheriff’s amazement, Paul Graber appeared to be the only casualty. The sheriff had wondered if he should run down the street to be sure Graber had truly left for that unexplored country. But the back of Graber’s head was missing. Even from the corner behind the dry cleaners, it was clear the man must be dead.

  Conrad was one of the few who paused at the corner when he abandoned the ditch. “Don’t waste your life going for Graber,” he said. “It’s the old man who needs your help. His M1 is out of shells and he says his bad knee has seized up on him. Says it’s time we should get him some fresh clips and evacuate him from that ditch. I’ll handle the clips if you’ll manage the evacuation.”

  “Sure,” the sheriff said, thinking Conrad meant it as a joke, except Conrad immediately sprinted east toward his place and the vet’s.

  The sheriff peered around the corner again. Only the Korean vet remained, as far as he could see. It had gotten dark while the two sides exchanged fire, but all the other spots he remembered being filled by posse members were now vacant. No guns fired from his side of the park. Not much came from the other side. A moment after he pulled his head back, two short bursts ripped through an evergreen across the corner from the dry cleaner’s. And then it was suddenly quiet.

  “You need help?” the sheriff called to the vet.

  “Not really. Think I got at least one of the guys downstairs. I’d just as soon wait on some fresh clips if you don’t mind.”

  With his own bad leg and the vet’s problem knee, the sheriff didn’t think he could get the man out of harm’s way without giving the bad guys a couple of hours of target practice. But he couldn’t just leave the man there, either.

  “Hello the courthouse,” English shouted.

  There was no immediate answer. No fresh rounds got sent his way, either. The sheriff decided that was a good sign.

  He stepped out from behind the brick wall and called again. Not far out, in case he needed to dive for cover. He tried to look official, but not threatening. His pistol was holstered and he still had his shotgun, though he rested the butt on the street like the cane he should have brought instead.

  “Hey, Englishman,” a voice shouted. Good Lord, it was Doc. “Anybody over there need my services?”

  “There’s one beyond them,” the sheriff yelled. “Otherwise, in spite of all the lead that’s flown, we don’t even have any wounded I know of.”

  “Good thing, ’cause we got several wounded over here. Some serious enough I’m trying to persuade their commander to let me call for help.”

  “Who’s in charge? Let me speak to him.”

  Doc called back. “That would be Commandant Koestel, I suppose. He can’t hear you at the moment on account of a ringing in his ears. Can’t see too good, either. Double vision. Concussion, I’m guessing, though he’s not hurt bad enough for me to have had time to check him out yet.”

  “Then who do I talk to?” The sheriff was surprised to find he’d crossed the street and now stood at the edge of the ditch in which his last posse member lay, unable to get up or offer supporting fire. At least, the sheriff told himself, no one was shooting at them.

  After a moment, Doc called again. “The commandant wants to know if you’re ready to surrender. I told him, considering how many of his people are dead and wounded, his question indicates a more serious brain injury than I originally suspected.”

  “Tell him the only dead man over here is Paul Graber. One of his, and shot by his own men. Ask him if he’s ready to give up before this fiasco costs any more lives.”

  “No, the damn fool won’t surrender. He says they’ll fight to the death rather than betray their values.”

  “Well,” English called. “Tell him I can’t surrender, either. I can’t let a band of fools seize our courthouse. That would make me a traitor to my duties and my nation. Tell him I’m coming over there so we can continue this conversation man to man. Surely we can find some rational way to end this situation without further loss of life.”

  The sheriff was already well into the park, and deep into his Gary Cooper moment when another burst of fire echoed from the courthouse. He stood still for a moment, taking stock of all his body parts and waiting for one to complain of serious injury. But he’d heard shots, not bullets. No whistle as they passed, no thuds of impact as they tore into flesh or the park’s snowy surface.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m coming to talk,” the sheriff shouted.

  “Accident,” Doc called. “I think you’re safe to come on in.”

  The sheriff stepped around the remains of the old fountain and suddenly stood fully in the open. There were no more thick weeds or groves of evergreens to mask him from the courthouse windows. Several of those windows were open. More had been shot out. As he got closer, he could see that the brick façade bore many fresh scars. And that the yellow flag with its snake still flew from the flagpole in front of his office.

  The sheriff detoured from his direct approach to the building’s front doors. He went to the flagpole, untied the knot, and let the banner fall to the snow. Then, despite its bold motto, he made sure he stepped all over it before limping up the stairs to the entrance.

  His heart was beating very fast and he found it hard to catch his breath. He managed, though, and after banging on the doors with the butt of his shotgun, called out, “Open in the name of the law.”

  A very pale Mrs. Kraus pushed the door open for him. Her blouse was blood soaked, as was a cloth bound to her forehead.

  “Lordy, Englishman,” she said. “Have you gone and succumbed to a testosterone rush like these fruit loops in here? Come on in. You know these doors don’t lock.”

  ***

  Though Heather had done what she could to insure she got out of the sheriff’s substation, she was surprised when they actually released her. She had the sheriff’s signed promise, but she’d been afraid he’d slide around it and hold her in protective custody. The man who had murdered the governor-elect of Arizona had a personal beef with her. He would probably come after her again. Now, if he could. Or soon, if things were too difficult at the moment, because every law enforcement officer i
n the state was looking for him.

  Mad Dog had been given a ride home earlier. Once he was assured his niece wouldn’t be arrested, he’d been eager to get back to Hailey and her pup.

  As Matus started the Sewa patrol unit, he nodded across the parking lot. An unmarked sheriff’s unit pulled out onto the road. Several other unmarked units sat in the lot, occupied.

  “You know what Sheriff Behan is doing with me, right?” Heather said.

  Matus nodded. “Bait.”

  “I’m the tethered goat. They’re hoping he’ll try for me again and they can grab him. Take him down”

  “I don’t think Behan gives a damn if you go down, too.”

  Heather thought he was right. “How many people do you think he’s assigned to me?”

  “Enough to follow us, and follow us by leading, though they must be sure I’ll take you to your uncle’s place, or back to the reservation. I’m guessing four cars and eight detectives, all together. Maybe more.”

  “If the psycho comes, they might not be enough.”

  “That’s why I should stay with you myself,” Matus said, “or take you back to the Rez and keep you there until we’re sure this guy is gone.”

  Heather latched onto the “should” in that sentence. “But you’re not going to do that.”

  “Well, I can’t stay with you. We just lost two officers and I’ve got to break that news to their families. And I know you well enough to realize that taking you back probably won’t work. You won’t stay on the Rez because Mad Dog could still be at risk. So, I’m just going to drop you at Mad Dog’s and hope you and Hailey and a bunch of the sheriff’s people can keep things safe there.”

  Matus pulled out and headed toward Mad Dog’s. A pair of unmarked but obvious law enforcement vehicles followed them out of the lot. A third also entered the street, but turned the other way.