The Wilding Probate: A Bucky McCrae Adventure

by D. J. Butler

  He’d been shot in the back. It hadn’t been self-defense. He’d been murdered. He’d been murdered in my Dad’s office…my office. Why? I drew a gigantic blank. He’d been murdered, and my fingerprints were all over the murder weapon, which was a gun I had access to, and my footprints were in his blood.

  And he’d been killed by a cop. Maybe by two cops.

  Holy crap, I looked guilty.

  “Bucky!”

  The voice was Evil’s, and he was calling from the bowling alley. At least they hadn’t killed him, but whatever relief I felt from that realization was overshadowed by the thought that I couldn’t let Evil see me like this.

  I opened the door and slipped out the back.

  “Bucky? I mean…Becky?” I heard him call again.

  I ran. Up the flagstone walk, as fast as I could go, and I was almost to the corner of the building before it occurred to me I should be keeping an eye out for the cops, but if they weren’t gone they stayed hidden. I pressed myself against the edge of the building, in shadow, as a pair of headlights cruised by.

  I was still holding the gun, and I stared at it in shock. It was evidence, but I didn’t know if it was evidence that might prove I was innocent, or if it would only be used against me. I almost threw the pistol into the woods before a smarter, calmer part of my brain pointed out that that was the worst of all worlds—the gun would be found, and once the police took fingerprints off it, it would be obvious I was the one who had tried to hide it.

  “Becky!”

  Evil was still inside the office, and didn’t know where I was. I ran.

  Across the parking lot, into the truck. Chucked the Beretta into the glove compartment with the .38. Started the engine and rumbled onto the highway, with no idea what in the world I was going to do.

  I drove the opposite direction from home, by instinct. I’m not sure I can explain why, except to say that if I was in trouble—and it sure felt like I was—then I didn’t want to bring the trouble down on Dad, too.

  But that meant I was driving into downtown Howard. I was shaking so bad that I drifted into the wrong lane more than once, so it was a good thing it was late at night, and people were mostly in bed.

  Though there would be cops out all night. Howard County deputy sheriffs, the only law enforcement that Howard has, unless you counted the Fish and Game folks. And one of those deputy sheriffs had just shot and killed a man in Dad’s office.

  And, it occurred to me only as I was stopped at a light in the middle of Howard, I was driving the world’s worst getaway car. Not very fast, not particularly good at off-roading, and completely unmistakable.

  I’ll admit I felt like crying, but only for a second. Then something inside me slapped something else inside me in the face and said, Cowgirl up, sister. Freaking out will only get you shot.

  I needed to start making better decisions.

  I watched the red light and took deep breaths. I needed protection. In a movie, I’d maybe run to the feds if I thought the state police were criminals, but there weren’t any feds in Howard County. I wasn’t sure, but I thought the FBI’s nearest Field Office might be Salt Lake City or Seattle. An APB would surely go out with a description of my truck, and I’d never make it. I could hitchhike, but I still didn’t like my chances, and I didn’t think I’d feel safe thumbing a ride from some trucker.

  Dad…I tried, but I didn’t see how Dad could help me.

  I had to turn myself in, but not to just anyone.

  When the light turned green I had made up my mind. I drove a few more blocks and then turned into the parking lot of the SuperMart. It had closed at midnight, so I knew the lights would be off and no one inside. I parked behind the building, sliding the truck in between a dumpster and the wall so no casual passerby on the street could see it.

  I needed to take the Beretta. It was evidence, and bringing it with me would be a sign of my good faith. Also, maybe I hadn’t totally wiped out the fingerprints of the shooter. I dug around under the seat, found a bandanna that wasn’t too greasy, and wrapped the Beretta inside it. I also took the .38.

  So there I was, in the middle of the night, walking around Howard with a gun in each hand. For once, I wished I had a purse; even my school bag would have been convenient. I had to hope no one would stop and ask me what was under my poncho.

  But I had chosen my parking spot carefully. Behind the SuperMart was a dirt lane that led between little wood bungalows, the original classic Howard-style home, down to the river. I kept a careful eye on the houses, and other than a couple of blue television glows, there was no sign of life. I stayed pressed up against one wall to keep out of the light of the rising moon and crept down to the river.

  At this point the river was a park, mostly undeveloped except for a broad dirt jogging path and a few benches. A mile farther along was a picnic area with tables and swings for the kids, but I turned in the other direction, heading for Wood Duck Island.

  Wood Duck Island was where Sheriff Sutherland lived. I couldn’t be sure it was safe to go to him, it was a gamble. If there was a plot involving the sheriff department, he might be in on it. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t him I’d seen in the office doorway, and I thought he liked Dad. They were shooting buddies, for the same reason Dad tried to be golfing buddies or fishing buddies with all the businessmen in the county—professional connections generated legal work.

  My phone buzzed. I awkwardly held both pistols in one hand and checked my messages.

  Evil: Where are you? I’m worried.

  I had to tuck a pistol under my arm to work the phone with one thumb; I didn’t want to stop moving. I’m fine. I’ll explain later.

  There was no immediate answer and I trudged on, stepping over the branches and trying to keep quiet. Rustling sounds in the woods around me made me slightly nervous, though I knew they had to be made by squirrels. Evil: Say something only you and me would know.

  I considered. I hate The Last of the Mohicans.

  Lol, okay. Be careful. This place is crawling with cops. I think I’m a suspect.

  Did you catch the guy?

  Nope. Never saw his face, either. Where are you?

  Obviously, I couldn’t answer that question, because one of the deputies might take Evil’s phone. I also wanted to type in Am I a suspect?, but I didn’t. It wouldn’t help Evil, and it wouldn’t help me, either. Instead, I put my phone back in my pocket.

  And heard a loud CRACK behind me.

  I whipped around so fast I dropped the Beretta. I kept hold of the revolver, and managed to get it out from under my poncho and pointed in the right direction.

  I didn’t see anyone. That didn’t mean much, because the path wound in and out of the trees, and someone could have been standing on the path thirty feet from me and still hidden from view. Or the sound could have been made by a deer.

  I crouched to pick up the Beretta, still in the bandanna, trying not to take my eyes off the woods. I half-wished I had told Evil where I was; at least then, if I was killed, someone would know where to find my body. Or if I disappeared, they’d know where to start looking.

  “I have a gun,” I said. “So if your idea of a funny joke is to jump out and yell boo at me, I suggest you pick someone else for your entertainment.”

  Silence, except for the gurgling of the river.

  I backed up, watching the trail, until I had taken a curve or two and was starting to feel confident that the sound must have been made by an animal. Then I turned and walked on to Wood Duck Island. I walked faster, and I kept the gun out and ready.

  Wood Duck Island isn’t an island. It’s a fancy neighborhood on the river, gated at the front, and lived in by some of Howard County’s most prominent residents. I knew which house was his because I’d been over once or twice, with Dad. The sheriff liked to sit inside his home with the windows open and shoot squirrels in his backyard with a .22. He found it even more amusing with company.

  I stepped over a muddy little stream and pushed through a stand
of aspens to move into that backyard now. I hid the revolver under my poncho again. Getting mistaken for a burglar and shot was not my plan.

  Lights were on upstairs in the Sutherlands’ house, and in the kitchen. I crossed the narrow strip of grass and just as I reached the steps up to the back porch, a light snapped on. It was strong and white, and shone right down on the steps.

  Oops. Motion sensor-activated. That was fine, though; I wasn’t trying to hide from the sheriff, and the trees were thick enough to screen me from his neighbors. I tucked one pistol under my arm again, walked up to the back door past the pool and the barbecue, raised my hand to knock—and almost jumped out of my skin.

  Someone stood inside the door watching me. The person was in shadow, so it took me a moment to recognize her as Carol Sutherland, the sheriff’s wife. She was tall and graceful, and she was wearing a black robe with flowers embroidered into the shoulders. Just as I realized who she was, she flicked a switch to turn on more porch lights, and I was totally illuminated. It might as well have been day. I looked over my shoulder; if someone had been following me in the woods, he could see me clearly now.

  She opened the door, one hand down at her side, and looked at me with piercing eyes over a pair of thin reading glasses. “You’re Jim McCrae’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  She knew me from my occasional visits, but she’d also seen me at school—Carol Sutherland was an EMT for the county, and a couple of times a year she’d come into Howard High to teach an assembly or a health class about CPR or the Heimlich maneuver.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, looking as respectful and not-weird as I possibly could, given that I was standing on her back porch wearing a poncho in the dead of night. The pistol in my hand and the one tucked against my ribs both felt heavy. “Rebecca. Is Sheriff Sutherland here?”

  She looked over my shoulder at the woods. “You must need help. Come on inside.” She stepped back to make room for me.

  I hesitated. “There’s something I need to show you first,” I said. “I just want you to know what I’m holding, and I don’t want to surprise you.”

  “Tell you what.” She raised her hand and I saw that she was holding a taser. “If you do surprise me, I’ll try really hard not to surprise you back.”

  I moved slow, easing both guns out from under the poncho.

  Carol Sutherland laughed. “Honey, if guns were enough to put me off my breakfast, I’d be living in a different state and married to a different man.” She put the taser away in the pocket of her robe and led me into the kitchen. It was lovely, with high-end appliances, a stone floor, and deep counters. The whole home was about ten times as much house as Dad and I lived in, both for size and for being fancy.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “This one I need to give to the sheriff. It might be evidence.” She took the Beretta, holding it carefully in the bandanna, and put it in a drawer. “This one…” I didn’t know quite what to say.

  “You’ve had a rough night,” Carol suggested. “You brought this one along just in case. Is someone following you?”

  “I’m not sure.” I shot a glance out the back windows. The whole ground floor wall of the Sutherlands’ home seemed to be glass, and I felt very visible. “Could you maybe shut some drapes or something?”

  “If I shut the drapes, we won’t be able to see anyone who’s out there. I’ve got a better idea.” She hit several switches on the kitchen wall; the kitchen itself went dark, and the back yard lit up like a football stadium on game night. “There,” she said. “Now you and I are invisible, and the creep following you has nowhere to hide.”

  “Thanks. Will your neighbors complain about the lights?”

  “Let them.” Carol Sutherland wasn’t done. She whistled once, sharply, and two big German Shepherds padded into the room. She opened the back door, let them out, and then locked it behind them as they rushed into the woods, barking joyously. Finally, she reached into a broom closet and came out with a pump-action shotgun.

  “Much better,” she said. “Now let’s sit down and chat, and see what the dogs turn up.”

  We sat.

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  She shrugged off my gratitude. “If one of my daughters ran up to Jim McCrae’s house in the middle of the night because she was being chased, I’d be downright disappointed if Jim didn’t get out his shotgun and sit a little watch.”

  “I guess the sheriff’s not here?” I tried to sound casual about it, though I wasn’t sure why. It had been a very un-casual evening.

  “He got called out. He’ll be back.”

  I nodded. “I think that might have to do with me. What he got called out for.”

  “Shall I send him a message?” Carol Sutherland was astonishingly calm, given that I’d shown up on her doorstep armed.

  “Please don’t. I…I can’t really explain, but if I can wait here for him, I would appreciate it.”

  Her voice softened. “Does your father know what’s happening?”

  “I’ll tell him,” I promised. “I just need to talk to Sheriff Sutherland first.”

  “Coffee while we wait?”

  I shook my head. Yawned. The inside of the Sutherlands’ house was toasty, especially after the chill of the jogging path and the river. Their couch was deep and comfortable, and my poncho felt more and more like a blanket every second. But I was wide awake, still charged full of adrenaline and trembling. I wasn’t worried that I’d fall asleep, I was worried that if I had to shoot I wouldn’t be able to shoot straight. And that Sheriff Sutherland wouldn’t believe me and I might get blamed for the murder. And if I didn’t get blamed, the people who really did commit the murder might come after me because I was a witness. And Evil might get in trouble, and all because of me.

  I woke up to the booming sound of Sheriff Sutherland’s voice in the darkness.

  “Carol tells me you have something to do with the evening’s mayhem, Bucky, so which is it? Are you the killer or the burglar?”

  I sat bolt upright. The gun wasn’t in my hand, but a few feet away from me on the couch. That was a good thing; in my sudden surprise, I might have shot the sheriff. And not in a cool Reggae way. Instead, I wiped a dribble of sleep-slobber off my cheek and made noises that sounded like animal snorts.

  “Take your time,” Sheriff Sutherland said.

  It was still night, and the backyard lights were on. In the indirect white glow, I could see the sheriff’s face. Doug Sutherland was a redhead going gray, with bristly hair like a brush and a broad face that could go from scowling to open laughter in split nothing flat. He perched now on the edge of one of his couches, leaning forward and nursing a paper cup of coffee. One of his big Stetson hats sat on the cushion next to him.

  “Ugh,” I said, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. “Sorry, I’ve had a bad night. Who got burgled?”

  Sheriff Sutherland frowned. “Huh.” He set down the coffee. “See, I’d have figured you for the burglar, not the shooter.”

  “I guess Carol didn’t tell you yet about the gun.”

  “Nope. She likes to surprise me. What gun?”

  I hesitated. “Are you alone?”

  “Carol’s upstairs. No one else in the house. You going to confess?”

  “I’m not going to confess,” I said. “I’m innocent.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. So I won’t arrest you, then. Tell me about the gun.”

  “It’s Dad’s Beretta. Someone used it to shoot a man tonight. Not me. But I was there. I…I picked up the gun. Sort of accidentally. Sort of to defend myself. And then I realized I was holding a murder weapon, and I panicked. So I ran. When I could think straight, I came here.” I meant my explanation to be complete and calm, but it came out in fits and starts and as I heard it myself I realized it posed more questions than it answered.

  The sheriff nodded. “Glad you did. Why not come to my office? Sneaking up through someone’s backyard is a good way to get shot in this neighborhood.”

  I remembered the silhouetted
head, the deputy’s uniform. “Sheriff, I saw the shooter. He was one of your deputies.”

  The sheriff’s expression, which had been slowly relaxing, snapped into a hard slab. “That’s a serious accusation.”

  A wave of doubt slammed into me so hard it took my breath. I had felt comfortable coming here because Dad knew the Sutherlands, and also because I had been pretty sure that the silhouetted head I’d seen in Dad’s office door hadn’t belonged to the sheriff. Suddenly, I was much less confident. I looked about in the darkness, groping for my next move. “I’m…not sure. He was wearing the uniform.”

  “You’re worried I’m dirty,” Sheriff Sutherland said.

  “What?” I turned my head back around and focused on him. I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a joke or not.

  “You’re looking at the furniture and you’re thinking, how does this shmuck get such a nice house working for the county? On a sheriff’s salary, by rights he ought to be out there with the sagebillies making his own whisky in a can and heating microwave burritos on a hot plate.”

  “No,” I said, but the image of Sheriff Sutherland hunkered over a hot plate almost made me laugh. “Besides, I think the sagebillies go in more for the crystal meth.”

  “You know this is my second career, right?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I used to be an investment banker. You probably know what that is, you’re a smart kid.”

  “You did deals.” I didn’t really know what an investment banker was, but I knew they made a lot of money and didn’t live in Howard County. And I vaguely knew that they did big, fancy deals. Mergers and acquisitions, initial public offerings, and that sort of thing. I didn’t know any details because it wasn’t the sort of business that anyone would ever bring to the Law Offices of James F. McCrae.

  “Made a lot of money,” he said. “But my job satisfaction was low, so I quit and moved to Howard.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I felt myself relax a little bit as he talked.