Hail Storme

by W L Ripley

“No,” I said.

  “Do it,” she said.

  I looked at him as he raised the camera. “Don’t,” I said. I wasn’t kidding. I’d put up with this nonsense for too long not many years ago. Some guy with a camera in your face—in restaurants, while you were shopping—all because I could run a Z-out and catch a football. Kinda silly when you think about it.

  Something in my expression or my voice convinced him I was serious. Different in small towns. In the city you could hold a gun to their head and they’d still snap it. Cities made for social mutants with no sense of propriety. It was better here. “C’mon, mister,” he said. “It’s my job.” He started to raise the camera again. I reached out and gently put my hand on it. He stopped and looked at her.

  “Take the picture, Andy,” she said, her teeth clenched. “Either you’re a photographer or you’re not. Take the damn picture.”

  I felt sorry for the kid. Probably started out taking pictures of kittens and old farmhouses. “That’s right, Andy,” I said. “She’s not the one going to the hospital with a camera up her nose. What does she care?”

  “He’s bluffing,” she said.

  “Look at me, Andy. I look like I need to bluff?”

  Andy chewed his lower lip, and his eyes slipped off me and trailed to the girl, asking for a reprieve. She blew out a puff of air, probably pure nitro, in anger. The muscles in her throat tightened. “All right,” she said. “If you’ll answer a few questions, then we won’t take any pictures.”

  “No pictures,” I said. “No interview. No film at eleven. No kidding.”

  Her eyes were hot. “This is a mistake.”

  I shrugged. “Made ’em before.”

  “Human life has no value to you, does it, mister hot-shit jock?”

  I looked at her. She was serious. Human life? “What are you talking about?”

  Her expression softened. She’d read something in my face, something she hadn’t expected. “You really don’t know,” she said, “do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “You don’t know about Sheriff Kennedy. I assumed you knew that’s what I was talking about.”

  “What about him?”

  “They found him this morning,” she said. “They wouldn’t tell me what happened, but I know they found him in his car. Early this morning. Nobody had seen him since last night. He’s dead.”

  FIVE

  “Where did they find him?” I asked her.

  “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” she said.

  I didn’t have time for word games. I was uneasy. The sheriff was dead, and he didn’t look easy to kill. Yesterday he was alive, smoking his pipe. Pictures of his children on his desk. Yesterday I told him about a marijuana field. Now he was dead. Maybe a coincidence. But I don’t believe in them. A man was dead, a good man, perhaps because of something I’d told him. But that was the job, wasn’t it? Like walking point in the bush and seeing the muzzle flash at the same instant your legs went out from under you. Sheriff Kennedy knew it was dangerous. Part of the job, right? Sure it was.

  Then just walk away, Storme.

  But could I?

  When I was still playing in the NFL, the Eagles had a cornerback named Solomon “Slasher” Jones, a vicious D-back with a deserved reputation as a cheap-shot artist. He led the league in interceptions and sports page quotes. He loved to run with the ball, often giving up yardage to make another move, gain another second of attention. When he tackled you or broke up a pass, he would point at you. Talk at you. Constantly. It bothered some wide-outs. Messed them up. I ignored him.

  In one game, Murphy Chandler, our quarterback and my best friend, was flushed from the pocket on a broken play when one of the offensive linemen missed his blocking assignment. Murphy, anything but a classic scrambler, managed to get out-of-bounds. In fact he was five yards out-of-bounds on the Eagle sideline when Slasher stuck his helmet in Chandler’s silver number sixteen. Then Slasher stood over Murph, talking his trash and pointing down at him. There was some shoving around, some names called, some facemask grabbing by both teams.

  The Eagles were penalized fifteen yards for unsportsmanlike conduct and Jones was ejected. Didn’t do much for Murph, who spent several minutes on the ground trying to get his breath and several days recovering from bruised ribs. Nothing worse than the hit you think you’re safe from.

  I was on the other side of the field when it happened.

  I had suggested the play that got Murphy hurt. Wasn’t my fault the tackle missed his blocking assignment, but I had called the play. And Murphy Chandler was my partner.

  In a postgame interview, Slasher said, “If Chandler don’t wanna get hit he can get his Texas ass out of the NFL. Football is for men.” Chandler laughed at the comment, rubbed his sore ribs. I remembered that comment. Remembered I suggested the play.

  Later in the season the Eagles came to Texas. Chandler threw a deep route to Jackson Carlyle, our other wide-out. Slasher picked it off and began his dance—bobbing, weaving, high-stepping—a superb athlete.

  I started running, hard as I could. Dodged a blocker, fought by another one. I had gained full speed when I drove my shoulder into Slasher’s solar plexus. It was a full-out, Brahma bull goring. I heard him grunt as the wind exploded from his lungs. His feet went straight up and I drove him to the ground. The ball popped loose and was recovered by Murphy Chandler. Who says there isn’t a God? I stood over Slasher, watching him writhe on the ground. Enjoyed it.

  I didn’t point at him. “Clean hit,” I said. “In the open field. Not out-of-bounds. Straight up and in your face, clown. You don’t want to get hit, then get out of the NFL. Football is for men.” Then I walked away, the crowd noise swelling in my helmet.

  “Damn, hoss,” said Murphy Chandler, in his West Texas drawl. “You hit ol’ Slash so hard you near separated him from his personality.”

  I liked Sheriff Kennedy. Though I’d just met him. He was a straight shooter, tough and honest. He was dead, and that wasn’t right. It wasn’t my side of the field, but I had suggested the play.

  “What is your connection to this incident?” asked the girl reporter as I opened the door to the Bronco. I stepped up and sat down. “Do you think the sheriff’s death is connected to the marijuana field?” I shut the door. She ran around to the other side and opened the passenger door and got in. Sat in the passenger seat. “You may as well tell me what I want to know.”

  “Get out or I’ll throw you out,” I said, without emotion. I’d do it.

  She sat there, her chin up, hands on her nice hips. “Try it,” she said.

  I opened my door, got out, walked around the truck, opened the passenger door. “What’s it going to be?” I asked.

  “You’d really do it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You big bully.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But a bully who’ll toss your narrow tail in the street.”

  She got out. I got back into the Bronco. She snatched the camera from Andy. I averted my face as she raised it. I heard her yell an obscenity as I drove away. Wyatt Storme, media darling.

  The parking area around the Paradise County sheriff’s office looked like Christmas Eve at Wal-Mart—highway patrol units, local police cars, a couple of plain-brown-wrapper state cars, along with a KCMO news truck and a K.C. Star vehicle, were there. I wasn’t in the mood for an afternoon of badges and official questions, but I wanted to tell somebody what I knew. I parked a block away and walked to the station. Inside, the building swarmed with cops of all kinds and colors. The sheriff’s office door was closed and sealed with yellow tape.

  Nobody paid attention to me. I could’ve done pretty much as I pleased. At least, that’s what I thought until I turned around and a state trooper with a square jaw and a military-clean uniform stepped in front of me. He was six feet tall and looked like a highway patrol recruiting poster.

  “I’m Trooper Browne,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  “Gee whiz,” I
said, in my best rube-from-the-sticks accent. “I just dropped by to see my old buddy Bill Kennedy, and boy-howdy, this looks like the policeman’s ball. Where is Bill, anyway?”

  He searched my face momentarily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid the sheriff is…” His eyes swept me, up and down. “Unfortunately, Sheriff Kennedy is dead.”

  Another trooper stepped into the foyer and said, “Hey, Sam, we need you in here.”

  “In a minute,” Browne answered. He looked back at me.

  I put a hand to the side of my face. “Bill’s dead? I can’t believe it. How’d it happen? Car wreck?”

  “What was your relationship to Sheriff Kennedy?” Oh-oh, I thought. He sounded like a cop with questions instead of one consoling a crash victim’s old friend. His eyes never left my face. Not a good guy to fool around with, perhaps. But what the heck.

  “Sam Browne?” I said. “Great name for a trooper.”

  “I’ve heard all the jokes. By the way, I’ve known Sheriff Kennedy for several years. Been fishing with him a few times. He never went by William or Bill. Everybody called him T.W., for Thomas William. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? How long have you known Kennedy?”

  “Counting today? Oh, I’d say about thirty-two hours, give or take a few minutes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Wyatt Storme. With an e on the end, like Browne. Maybe we’re related.”

  “Let’s see some ID, Mr. Storme.” Official.

  I showed him my Colorado driver’s license. He pulled a pad from a pocket and wrote something on it. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Storme?”

  “A little of this. Little of that.”

  He didn’t like the answer. Can’t say I blame him. Few did. “Mr. Storme,” he said, politely. “I don’t have time to be jerked around by some off-the-street wiseass. What is your interest in this investigation?”

  “I thought the place needed some comedy relief.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Either answer the questions straight, or I can place you under arrest for interfering with a felony investigation.”

  “He was murdered, then.”

  The look on his face was almost worth being arrested, if it came to that. He knew he’d been had. For a moment I thought he was going to cuff me, that is, unless he Maced me or just popped me in the mouth. Instead, he smiled, then nodded his head.

  “That’s pretty good, Storme. Now, once more without the folksy accent. What’s your interest?”

  “It’s possible I gave Kennedy information that may have caused his death.” He looked back over his shoulder and then back at me.

  “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

  I started to tell him about the marijuana field, about the little rocks in my pocket. Started to tell him several things, when Deputy Les Baxter spotted me. He took three strides and pointed a sausagelike finger at my nose. His face was red and agitated and his breath stank of Red Man and stale coffee.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here?” he said, spitting a little when he did. No breeding at all.

  “Don’t point your finger at me,” I said.

  “You’re not outta here in thirty seconds, I’ll throw your ass in the can.”

  “For what? You’re the one doing the overweight Barney Fife routine.” I screwed up my face. “And what have you been eating? You own a toothbrush?”

  “That’s it, mister big-shit football player.” Who told Baxter I’d played football? “One more smart crack from you and—” He started to poke me in the chest to punctuate his speech, but on the first poke I slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. Serious.

  He went ballistic. “You son of a bitch! You’re going to jail. When you get out they’ll be driving rocket cars.”

  The activity in the cop station ceased. Baxter pulled a sap from a leather holster. Trooper Browne stepped between us. “Take it easy, Deputy,” he said. “I was interviewing this man when you interrupted.”

  “I’m running this investigation,” Baxter said. The veins in his neck were swollen and white against the red flesh. His bad eye had filled with purple-black blood, and the other eye was bloodshot and his complexion sallow. Obviously hung over. “As acting sheriff I’ll decide who’s interviewed and who’s locked up in my county. We don’t need you state boys to direct us.”

  I took a step back. Didn’t want in the middle of this. Baxter was fifty pounds heavier than Browne, but I wouldn’t bet he could take the trooper. Browne was chiseled from quartz, hard-edged. But Baxter was too loutish to know better. He was used to using his bulk to intimidate. I didn’t think anyone intimidated Browne.

  “Look, Deputy,” Browne said evenly but firmly. “We’re here to assist one another. It’s not my intention to step on your authority, but if you don’t modulate your voice when you talk to me, I’ll jack your ass in front of everybody. You understand?”

  “You won’t always be wearing the Smokey the Bear hat.”

  “You’re right. I won’t. I’ll give you my address and duty schedule if you’d like to look me up so we can get this all hashed out.”

  I love it when cops fight over me. I was wondering if I should blush, when a big trooper with sergeant’s stripes intervened.

  “Browne!” he said. The name McKinley was embossed upon his pocket nametag. “You back off!”

  Browne took one step back without his eyes leaving Baxter. “Now what’s going on here?” asked Sergeant McKinley.

  “Your boy here’s interfering with my job,” Baxter said. Stupidity never takes a vacation.

  “The deputy was attempting to physically roust me when Trooper Browne interceded, sir,” I said helpfully. “Trooper Browne was conducting himself with professionalism and dignity when—”

  “You shut up,” said the sergeant. I did. I adopted a cooperative-citizen pose. Maybe they’d give me an honorary highway patrol badge. Maybe not, too.

  “What happened here, Sam?”

  “I was questioning Mr. Storme. He has information pertinent to this investigation. Baxter interrupted and began to insult Storme. Storme objected when Baxter poked him in the chest.”

  “Sonofabitch slapped my hand,” Baxter said. A stream of tobacco juice rolled like a tear from the corner of his mouth. He ignored it. Not only a colossal bore, he was also the king of slobs.

  McKinley looked at me with raised eyebrows. Probably wanted to slap Baxter’s hand himself. “Why are you here, Storme?”

  “I wanted to find out what happened to the sheriff.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  I nodded in Baxter’s direction. “Not in front of the children.”

  “His interest is he’s a smartass with a big nose,” said Baxter. “Wouldna poked him if he wasn’t a wiseass.”

  “You a wiseass, Storme?” McKinley asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

  “Well,” said McKinley, “you try it with me and I’ll do more than poke you in the chest. Savvy?” I nodded. “Now, what is it you have?”

  “He don’t know nothin’,” said Baxter, ever the poet.

  “He’s not alone in that respect,” McKinley said. “You know, Baxter, I heard you were a jackass, but had no idea how big a one you are. Now, I’m going to ask you not to interrupt again.” McKinley and Baxter looked at each other, then McKinley said, “Browne, take Storme out to your unit, interview him, then use your discretion whether to release him or not.”

  We exited. As we left I stuck my tongue out at Baxter. He looked like he might froth at the mouth at any moment.

  In the patrol car, Browne pulled a clipboard from the passenger-side visor. The transmission hump was a collage of radios and scanners. Intermittently, one or more of them would crackle and hiss with an electronic rasp, spitting numbers and call letters. I told him about the marijuana field and my visit to the sheriff’s office, leaving out the rifleman and the rocks for now. I related my encounter with the local media also.

  “Brown-ha
ired girl?” he asked. “Five five? Hundred and eighteen pounds? Attractive with a heart-shaped chin? Pushy?”

  “That’s her. How’d she know about me?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t talk to the press. Not permitted. McKinley is media officer. But Baxter talked to her anyway. Pissed Mac off. This isn’t the first problem we’ve had with Baxter. Baxter didn’t tell her Kennedy was murdered, and I doubt he told her about you.” He put the clipboard back on the visor. “Kennedy was close to firing him. McKinley will try to get Baxter off the case, if he can. But Baxter is a local and it will be a problem, so you’d better steer clear of him for now. He’s a nasty asshole. Roughs up people he arrests.”

  “What about the marijuana field?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing in the log. Kennedy went to check it but never reported it. Whether he was killed going to it or returning, we don’t know. However, you’re right. The information you gave him may have had something to do with his death.”

  “What if Baxter killed him so he could become sheriff?”

  He laughed. “You watch too much television. When a cop goes down it’s usually some lightweight little puke with a gun and a bellyful of whiskey or a head full of dope. Forget about Baxter. He’s a bad cop, not a killer.”

  I fished in my pocket and brought out one of the rocks. “Here. I found this. Guy that shot at me dropped it. Don’t know what it is.”

  He turned over the crystallike rock in his hand. “Something else, Storme. How did you take out the Doberman with a bow and arrow?”

  “Lucky.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “I’ll run a check on this.” He hefted the rock and put it in his shirt pocket. “And you stay away from this investigation.”

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  “Can’t do that. Only the major case squad has access. Best thing for you is to stay out and read the papers. Get you a buck. Go back to Colorado.”

  “Give me the rock candy, then,” I said. I held out my hand.

  He patted his pocket. “No way.”

  “There’s more,” I said. “But I’m rapidly developing selective amnesia.”

  “What do you mean, there’s more?”