by Jay Nichols
* * *
Price barked terse, agitated commands that were meant to sound like questions into the radio, then waited impatiently for a response. Even though, technically, he was no longer sheriff, he figured they’d have to respond eventually—and not out of habit either, but rather because he possessed a certain authoritative air that couldn’t be denied.
"Price?" came a quizzical reply from the dashboard receiver.
Ah, finally somebody who remembers their p’s and q’s.
Then the same voice: "What the hell are you doing on police band? Get off. We’ve got a situation here."
You disrespectful little puke!! If I find out who you are, I swear to God—
Price stopped at the corner of Deer and Johnson, listened to the sirens, then pressed the button on the transmitter, held it to his lips, and said, "Don’t you think I know that, son? Nobody’s filled me in on the details. What’s your twenty? Over."
A crackle of static, then a different, less agitated voice: "Go away, Price. We know what you did, and we don’t need your help. We’ve got this one covered. Over."
Up yours, you ungrateful little—
"Sheriff Price, do you copy? Over." This time a friendlier voice. Almost familiar.
"This is Price. Over."
"Switch to channel four. You’re cluttering up the airways. Over."
A flush coursed through Price’s body. He had forgotten that his was the master radio, the one that overpowered all other frequencies. It was an option the designer had added for emergency purposes only. When Price engaged the override function and spoke into the mouthpiece, his words cut off communication on all channels, making him the sole speaker. The only way the deputies and other local law officials could restore uninterrupted communication with each other was by pressing the white buttons on their squawk boxes, which punched them directly through to Price’s truck, and telling the disgraced sheriff to turn off the damn override.
No wonder they’re pissed.
He made the appropriate adjustments and waited for the friendly to make contact again.
Finally, a burst of white noise and: "Price, do you read me? Over."
"Read you loud and clear. What in heckfire is going on out there? Sounds like the Second Coming. Was that an explosion I just heard? Over."
"Yes, sir. Over on Peach Street. About five minutes ago. From what we’ve been able to gather, it was a ruptured gas line. Over."
"Any injuries? Over."
"None reported yet, sir, but part of the woods is on fire. The yard went up like tinder—that’s what they’re saying. We’re on our way over now. Over."
Price hooked a right onto Johnson and gunned the truck to fifty. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were crammed with barefoot, pajama-clad looky-loos who, after hearing the explosion, had decided to walk toward the blast rather than run away from it. After all, the noise had been really loud. Nighttime go BOOM!
Price pressed the button. "Son, why do you sound so familiar? Do I know you? Over."
A pause.
Then: "Um—yes, sir. We met before. In your office. About two weeks ago. My name’s Ernie Richardson. My partner is Ronny Owens. We…uh…we were the ones who had to break some bad news to you. Over."
Price’s heart heaved as he recalled that horrible day when he had lost his job (temporarily, he reminded himself, temporarily) and learned that his dog had been squashed and smeared across an empty stretch of backwoods highway. "Yeah. I remember you." He waited a second, then added, "Do they know yet what sparked the fire? Any foul play involved?"
No reply.
The sky above Price’s window was tinged pink—the rosy blush of a new day. Checking his watch, he realized the heavens were lying to him. Dawn wasn’t due for another four and a half hours. He floored the pedal and made the engine moan.
"Well, are you there or not?!"
Richardson: "You didn’t say over, sir. Over."
"Goddammit, son! I ain’t got time for this! Now answer my question. Did somebody set off that ‘splosion, or was it a goddamn act of God? OVER!"
"Yes, sir, it was—No! What I mean is some witnesses are saying they heard firecrackers before the blast. Others are saying they saw a red Jeep speeding away from the explosion. Nobody got a good look at the driver or the license plate, seeing how he was going so fast and all—JESUS CHRIST, look at that!!! I’m sorry, sir. I was talking to Ronny. This whole damn street is on fire. The houses, trees, grass. Everything! And—shit! Oh man, this is bad…this is so fucking bad. The entire woods is…is burning. It looked bad from five blocks over, but up close…"
Richardson broke off.
"Listen, son, are you there? Do you read me? Over."
"Yes sir," came the shaky reply. "I hear you. Over."
Price weighed his options and, like everyone else in the world, chose the one he thought would offer him the greatest personal reward. After making his decision, he pressed the button and said, "Good. Now listen. This is what I want you to do: I want you to turn around and go the other direction—"
"What?"
"Shut up and listen. I’m going to say this once, because right now they need me up there a hell of a lot more than they need you two yokels. I want you to turn around and go the opposite direction. Go to Pritchard Street. Do you know where that is?"
"Yeah. It’s about two, three miles from here, but—"
"Shhhhhh," Price said before the kid could interrupt again. "I want you to head over to nine oh eight Pritchard Street and arrest the asshole who started the gigantic mess we’re now knee-deep in. His name is Hector Graham. He’s around six-two, dark hair, weighs about as much as an elephant. I want you to find his fat, sorry ass and bring it to me. If he resists—and he probably will—try knocking a few teeth out of his head. He usually complies after you rough him up a bit. Over."
"Sir, do you really think—"
"Just do it!" Price shouted, smiling at the forcefulness of his voice. "I’ll be helping with the fire. Over and out."
The one thing Caldwell Price knew for certain in life was that if you acted like you were in charge, people automatically assumed you were in charge. There were sheep in the world and there were wolves. He just happened to be one of the latter. And it was with this knowledge of himself that Price found the resolve to drive toward the out-of-control inferno instead of away from it.
Those mewling cops and deputy sheriffs needed a leader right now, and Price craved the glory and accolades that would be awaiting him once he calmly and heroically led the sheep away from the raging calamity and into safety’s bosom.
He knew how to do that. He was the man for the job. And he could almost taste the spicy tang of redemption on the tip of his long, lupine tongue.