by Victor Allen
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The police chief, Reese Coble, had a phone up to each ear as he sat behind his desk. It was just after first light and he didn’t need the call he got from the monitoring company telling him that Heebie was at large from his de facto padded cell. He was already on another line with him, watching him through the window as he tromped up the road in his navy blue, G1 flight jacket with the fur-lined collar, his cell phone in one ear, jawing frantically.
“It’s okay,” he told the officious, woman’s voice from the monitoring company on the phone in one of his ears. “I’ve got a bead on him. Thanks for calling.” He hung one phone up while keeping the other to his ear.
It was interesting to Reese in a sort of mind-bending way to watch Heebie as he drew closer, the silent movement of his jaws mimicking the squawking in his ears. He couldn’t quite hear Heebie’s actual words as he made his way to the glass doors of the town hall and stood just outside, still jabbering, but it was close enough to be a little jarring. The glass door seemed to present some sort of invisible barrier to Heebie and Reese crooked the middle and index fingers of his free hand and silently beckoned Heebie in.
The glass door swung outward and Heebie tramped in, agitated, hopping from one foot to another like a June bug on summer hot pavement. Well, he was always a little agitated, but this was a loftier tier for him. His clothes were, as usual, stained with dirt and his big hands showed the cuts and blisters from his day to day toils.
“And you gotta get out there now!” Heebie said into the phone as the words double-tracked in Reese’s ear. “That poor girl, left out there like a run over dog….”
From behind his desk, Reese silently motioned Heebie with a hand gesture to put his phone down. With as much surprise as he could rally, Heebie looked at the phone in his hand and sheepishly flipped it closed.
“Now,” Reese said, speaking directly to Heebie. “What do you mean ‘left out there like a run over dog’?”
“She’s out there right now,” Heebie said, near tears, “buried in the cold, cold ground, left out there like a run over dog….”
“Heebie, what the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“It ain’t right, that little girl. She needs a proper buryin’. My friends told me about it. It ain’t right to leave her out there in the cold, cold ground, left out there like a run over dog….”
“Yeah, Heebie. I got that. Who’s out there?”
“I don’t know. My friends didn’t tell me. Just that she’s out there, and she’s cold. You got to go get her…”
“What friends told you about this, Heebie?”
“My friends. At the cemetery. They told me.”
Jesus, Reese thought. It ain’t bad enough that Heebie beats up little kids, now he’s talkin’ to the buckskin dead. But Heebie was adamant and finally, Reese had to listen to the full story.
