by J. M. Hayes
The Uzi tore another hole in the darkness.
“I’ve had enough,” Zeke said. “Even keeping our farm isn’t worth this. I’m going back in there and I’ll take her gun away. She’s my fault. And my family’s.”
“I don’t understand,” the sheriff said.
“I guess I’ll be going to jail for a long time,” Zeke said. “Her, too, though she won’t live that long. I’ll call you when I get her gun. Then you can come in and arrest us.”
“Wait,” the sheriff said. Zeke opened the back door and went inside again, in no more mood to obey the sheriff’s instructions than the average citizen he’d met today.
The sheriff climbed to his feet, not as easily as he might have this morning, and made it to the door in time to hear the boom of Mrs. Walker’s .357. Then a short burst from Zeke’s Uzi. Then silence. Except for the Kansas wind. After a lifetime, one apparently not over yet, the sheriff no longer noticed.
He opened the back door. “Zeke,” he called. No answer. “Mrs. Walker?” Still no answer. He retraced his path to her living room.
Zeke lay in a pool of blood, the exit wound in his back big enough to stick a fist in. Mrs. Walker still sat in her rocker. And it seemed the sheriff had been wrong about how frail she was. At least she’d managed to hold onto the .357 when she shot Zeke. Two hands, and now her steady grip had found another living target.
“No,” the sheriff shouted.
Lottie Walker paid no more attention than anyone else.
***
Cops everywhere. And I’m one, Heather told herself. The feeling wasn’t being reciprocated.
“You claimed you didn’t know where this guy was,” a Pima County detective said. “So why’d you ditch us to meet him here?”
Heather just told it the way it happened. Over and over. To one law enforcement agency, then another.
Brad and Niki had been led elsewhere. To undergo questioning, too, she guessed.
And then a familiar face appeared. He stepped in and brushed one of the more obnoxious county detectives aside. “Sergeant Parker, TPD,” she said. “We’re not only inside the city limits, detective, this is city property. My turf, so my turn. Back off and leave us some space.”
Parker led Heather into right field. “You all right?”
It was the first time anyone had asked. Heather’s arms and legs were sore from blocking blows. Her ankle throbbed and her head hurt from its awkward collision with the ground. She couldn’t wait to get hold of a toothbrush and mouthwash to rinse the taste of him away. But nothing was broken, and she was alive.
Being alive surprised her. Elated her. Left her nothing to complain about.
“I’m fine. But what about Cassie? What about the psycho? Did I kill him?”
“Cassie has broken ribs and a collapsed lung, I understand. Some other injuries. But she’s young. They think she’ll be fine.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Your psycho is dead. You broke his neck. And I understand they found a safety pin in his eye. Somebody drove the tip all the way into his brain.”
“Cassie attacked him with the safety pin. Probably saved my life. Then I stomped on his face, maybe drove it deeper.”
“I hope it hurt,” Parker said. “I hope he had time to suffer before he died.”
“Yeah,” Heather said. “It hurt. I heard him scream for his mother, or at her. It was confusing, and I think we were all screaming by then. The sirens came right after that. Officers flooded the field. EMTs, a few minutes later. How’d you get here so fast?”
“The fool thought it was safe to leave Senator Cole and his wife with Frank Crayne. Thought they were too involved to go to the police, and too frightened of what he might do to their children. Crayne sure tried to talk them out of it. But the senator let us know. Told us about the bombs and Hi Corbett. So here we are.”
“You. You’re here because of those bombs he strapped to them, right? I didn’t think of that.”
“Yeah. Simple devices. We’ve got them contained.”
“And Brad and Niki, they’re okay?”
“Physically, anyway. Pretty shaken, but who wouldn’t be?”
“I’d like to see them. Brad, especially. Any chance of that? Or am I going to end up answering questions for the next couple of weeks while they decide whether I was in league with the psycho or one of his victims?”
“Oh, you’ll tell your story to every law enforcement agency in the state. Feds, too. But it turns out Frank Crayne was in this up to his elbows. And Senator Cole took money to respond to events properly. Both their careers are over. At least Cole spoke up to save his kids. Crayne, I hear, folded as soon as they promised not to seek the death penalty for him.”
“Crayne? Pima County Board Chairman Frank Crayne?”
“Bingo. And Crayne is saying your psycho was hired to ramp up anti-immigrant sentiments by bringing Mexico’s drug war over the border. That he went along because the resulting outrage would close the border for sure.”
Did that make sense? “I asked the bastard what this was about,” Heather said. He told me it was all make-believe. Something to distract the public. He said Boursin is behind this. That this was all a fraud to keep drugs and illegals flowing while Boursin and his billionaire friends get richer and more powerful.”
“You’re kidding? Todd Boursin?”
“Do you think he can be linked…?”
“I don’t know,” Parker said. “Crayne’s talking about phone calls from important people in both parties hinting at what should happen here. Followed by sacks of cash that appeared on his office desk. I don’t think Crayne knows anything about Boursin, but if the killer implicated him, we’ll try.”
Heather remembered what the psycho told her about plumbers and bag men. “It’s what he said, but I don’t know if it’s true. Right now I don’t care. I’m just glad it’s over.”
“Me, too, kid,” Parker said. “And I’m glad this drug war was artificial. We’ll shut it down before things get too far out of hand. Thanks to you.”
“Me? I just reacted.”
“Yeah, but you kept the bad guy here. You forced him to put himself at risk. And you stopped him. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”
“Me and a little girl. With some advice from a wonder wolf.”
“Say,” Parker said, “that reminds me. Is Mad Dog…?”
She didn’t get any farther. Captain Matus advanced across the field assuming firm command. “She answers no more questions. Officer English needs medical attention and she needs rest. Anybody who wants to question her comes through me.”
***
The courthouse was almost empty when the sheriff got back. A pair of Kansas Highway Patrol troopers got out of their Crown Vic to see who he was when he pulled into the drive. They tensed up when they saw his shotgun, but then he showed them his star.
“I’m Sheriff English,” he told them. “Anyone still inside?”
“Your office manager and the county coroner. Everybody else has been transported. Jails or hospitals.”
“You boys can take the two in my back seat to a jail for me, if you would. Let’s say conspiracy to commit murder for now. I’ll get with the county attorney tomorrow and take care of the formalities. Oh, and there’s an Uzi in my trunk. I’d appreciate it if you’d take it as evidence, too.”
“Our orders are to stay here until this little rebellion is over,” the taller one said.
The sheriff nodded. “It is over. I’ll sign a document to that effect if that’s what you need.”
“That’ll work,” the little one said. “We’ll take this pair off your hands. Park your car and I’ll meet you in your office for that document after we settle these two in our cruiser.”
The sheriff chose a spot the wind had kept free of snow so
Mrs. Kraus would have good traction when she left. He didn’t want to cart the shotgun around anymore, but he really needed support to get up the steps to the back door and down the hallway to his office.
Doc and Mrs. Kraus met him half way down the hall. Doc took the shotgun and offered to prop up the sheriff with a shoulder. Mrs. Kraus offered the same, though she was too short for more than moral support.
“This patrolman tells us you got the last of them,” Doc said. The sheriff had moved so slowly that the officer was already waiting for the document he’d been promised.
“Yeah, sort of.” The sheriff sank into the chair behind his desk, found a piece of Benteen County stationery, and signed over his prisoners and the gun and a release of responsibility.
“Thanks,” the patrolman said. “You all better get yourselves home now. It’s hardly any warmer in here than outside. Go salvage what you can of your Christmases.”
Mrs. Kraus agreed. “Yeah, this place hardly even cuts the wind anymore.”
The sheriff smiled and nodded. “Merry Christmas” he said as the patrolman crossed the foyer and exited into the snow and darkness.
“So, what happened?” Mrs Kraus asked. “Were those two really the last of our problem?”
“With most of the county armed and ready to go to war over whether they get to keep their guns, I’m not sure. But we should be good for tonight.”
Mrs. Kraus appeared doubtful. “What about Lottie Walker?”
The sheriff sighed. “She was behind this whole thing. Some dementia-addled plan to kill me off so she could keep her driver’s license and continue to live at home.”
“She didn’t come to me for a physical,” Doc said, “but I’ve thought her mental faculties were failing for years.”
“She and one last militiaman waited for me at her place. She told Zeke Evans to kill me, then finish cleaning up by killing the two of you and those officers who just left. Zeke got me out from under her gun. Saved my life at the cost of his own.”
“You mean there’s another body I’m responsible for?” Doc asked.
“Two,” the sheriff said. “Once she shot Zeke, she had nobody left to take care of you guys.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Kraus said, getting it.
“Right. She ate a .357 magnum. In conjunction with Zeke, it made one hell of a mess of her living room.”
Doc picked up his bag. “Just what I needed. More Christmas presents to open.”
The sheriff held up a hand. “No need, Doc.”
Doc Jones and Mrs. Kraus raised matching eyebrows.
“Mrs. Walker told me she was sending me to hell. When she shot herself, it knocked her chair over. Into the fireplace. Her hair caught. So did her shawl. And glowing embers flew all over that room. Old carpet and upholstery caught quick.”
“I didn’t hear any sirens, Englishman,” Mrs. Kraus said. “Didn’t you call the volunteer…?”
“Chief of the volunteer fire department was Zeke Evans.”
“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Kraus said. “I can’t think of a single fireman who didn’t get shot or arrested today.”
“Me, either,” the sheriff said. “Her house isn’t close to any others. No trees or brush in her yard. And the wind’s blowing straight into empty lots behind. So I warned the neighbors, turned off the gas and electric at the meters in the alley, and let it burn.”
“I’ll be damned,” Doc said, walking over to the window. “Come look,” he said, “even through all this snow.”
They did. The fire blazed like a bright new star, rising in the east.
***
Heather crossed the Hi Corbett parking lot with Captain Matus. Brad stood beside a Pima County Sheriff’s unit. Niki sat in the back seat, talking intently to a female officer.
Heather couldn’t help herself. She ran to Brad. Threw her arms around him and held on tight.
“Oh, Brad. We’re alive. We’re all of us alive and….” It only took a moment to realize Brad wasn’t hugging her back. She stepped away, looked in his eyes. “Are you all right? Did something happen to Niki?”
“Are you kidding?” Brad’s voice was husky with anger. “Niki and I just watched you kill a man. A man who came into our home and strapped bombs on us. And you’re asking me if we’re all right?”
Heather couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But I never thought….”
“You knew he was out there and you didn’t warn me. I don’t know who you are, Heather. I never dreamed you’d put me at risk like this. You’ve ruined my father’s career. And mine.”
“But I saved…?” She stopped. What was the point? This wasn’t the man she’d been falling in love with. And she, obviously, wasn’t the woman he wanted.
“Stay away from me, Heather English. Stay away from my family. I hope I never see you again.”
***
Sheriff English’s Christmas was ending, and none too soon. Mrs. Kraus had driven him home. Doc had followed her, and the three of them checked to be sure there was no threat the fire at Mrs. Walker’s would spread. The place had collapsed and neighbors with garden hoses sprayed the last of the embers.
“I should help them,” the sheriff said, but when he tried to walk down the street his bad leg finally gave out. Doc helped English into his house and gave him a cortisone shot. Mrs. Kraus fixed the sheriff a hot toddy using bourbon he hadn’t known was there, and heated a frozen turkey dinner in the microwave.
“I brought this whiskey over for Judy near the end,” Mrs. Kraus said. “Thought it might help with the pain, but she couldn’t keep it down.”
Doc found the sheriff’s old walker and set it beside his recliner. Mrs. Kraus got him a quilt. Then the sheriff waved them out the door.
When they were gone, he sat for a few minutes, looking at the blank television screen. He didn’t want its companionship tonight. He tasted the turkey and decided to go with the hot toddy instead. He put his hand on To Kill a Mockingbird and thought about beginning it again. It was five minutes before midnight, but he wouldn’t fall asleep soon.
The phone rang and he picked it up. Answered automatically.
“Sheriff English.”
“Hi, Daddy.” It was Heather, calling from Tucson.
“Hi, kid. I’m glad you called. You have a good Christmas?”
“Amazing.” He heard weariness in her voice. “But I was on duty, remember?”
“Yeah,” English said. “It got so boring here that I went to the office. Spent my day working, too.”
“Christmas without family gets so lonely.”
He agreed. “You sound beat, baby. Are you sure everything’s all right?”
“Oh, yeah, couldn’t be better. I’m at Mad Dog’s. He and Pam have gone to bed. And we do have one piece of good news down here.”
“I could use some,” the sheriff said.
“Hailey presented us with a surprise today. A puppy. Cute little boy. And we met the sire, I think. A Mexican gray wolf.”
“I’ll bet Mad Dog wants to name the pup Jesus.”
She laughed. “You do know your brother.”
He laughed with her.
“If the little guy were mine,” she said, “I’d name him for the day I just had.”
“What, Humbug?”
“No, Milagro.”
The sheriff sensed Heather’s miracle had come with a price. And that this wasn’t the time to ask about it. “Milagro,” he said. “Perfect.”
And, finally, for one a brief moment, their Christmas actually was perfect.
Afterword and Acknowledgments
My greats are the children of my niece and nephews. The three oldest will turn twenty before this novel is in print. Time flies. Having failed to develop the kind of normal estate in which they might share, I bequeath them the wealth
I’ve discovered in the joy of writing. And a world filled with problems desperately in need of their immediate attention.
Nothing is eternal. Not even a Nissimon. Our Hailey moved on to the spirit world just before Christmas in 2008—after Server Down was written but before it was released. The first of my spirit animals who so surpassed the concept of pet, and on whom I based Mad Dog’s Hailey, died in 1964. She was a white German Shepherd named Sherry. A pair of eager young German Shepherds, Kacy and Allie, lie at my feet and encourage my imagination as I write this. In them, the mystical spirit of “Hailey” continues. When it’s my turn, I hope a crowd of Nissimona meets me. I believe in Dog.
The idea for the message left in front of the crèche in this novel comes from a story I heard during my anthropology days. It was published in Pissing in the Snow & Other Ozark Folktales, Vance Randolph, Avon Books, 1976. The original joke is very old. The author describes its origin as follows: “Told by Frank Hembree, Galena, Mo., April, 1945. He heard it in the late 1890s. J. L. Russell spun me the same yarn in 1950; he says it was told near Green Forest, Ark., about 1885.” Half a dozen other versions and sources of variations of the story are listed in a footnote. The next time you tell a joke, consider that you may, instead, be passing along a folktale.
Thanks to the usual suspects. Barbara, my wife, for putting up with the odd nature of life with an author. Elizabeth Gunn, Susan Cummins Miller, and J. Carson Black are dear friends and my critique group. They help make my novels so much better. Karl Schlesier continues to help me understand Mad Dog’s world view, and make sense of this one. As do Jess and Susan and Tony and Mike, and a host of others too numerous to name.
I owe much to Arizona government. Our state now ranks second in poverty and has forced its citizens to vote to tax themselves to maintain even woefully inadequate spending on education while our legislators were too busy to balance a budget. I owe them for deregulation of concealed-carry—anybody, now, anytime and nearly anywhere. We are so much safer, especially since packing in bars has become legal. Indeed, our legislature inspires me as they cut taxes on corporations and the wealthy and pay for it by shutting down Arizona’s tourism industry, closing state parks and highway rest stops and trying to institute a law that requires everyone to produce papers or go directly to jail. They have provided me with more material than I will ever have time to use.