A Reckoning in the Back Country

by Terry Shames

  “I honestly don’t know the details. All I heard is that Dr. Elgin said anybody could have made the mistake Dr. Wilkins made. But a jury awarded a large sum in damages, and apparently after that he lost most of his patients.”

  “Did he lose his license?”

  “I can’t tell you anything more than what I’ve already said. I’m sorry, I need to get back to my patients. Call the Medical Licensing Board. They’ll have the details.”

  There was no reason for Margaret Wilkins to tell me about her husband’s lawsuit and that he was no longer practicing, but it’s curious that she kept it to herself when asking me to find him.

  CHAPTER 4

  In the late afternoon, I call Ellen to find out what she wants to do tonight. She and I have been seeing each other for the past year. Our relationship is still more friendly than romantic. When I met her she was coming out of an abusive marriage. She had divorced her husband and moved to Jarrett Creek to open an art gallery and art workshop.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t want to do anything.” She’s got a snippy side that comes out when things don’t go her way.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sounded awfully busy when I asked if you could go to lunch.”

  “I was, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you tonight.”

  This week she has been moodier than I’ve seen her in a while. Her feelings are hurt because neither of her kids is coming to her house for Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, they are spending the holiday with their dad “so he won’t be lonesome.” Although they say they have forgiven her for walking out on the marriage, they gravitate more to him than to her. She excuses them, saying that since he kept their house and still lives there, they want to go back home for the holiday. But it bothers her.

  The kids are both grown, and you’d think they are old enough to understand that she left because she couldn’t put up with being bullied any longer. Having had a few run-ins with her husband, Seth, I know he has a quick temper. He holds a grudge because of the divorce.

  I suggested a mini-vacation for the two of us to get her mind off her disappointment—going to Houston to see some art, going to the coast, or maybe driving over to New Orleans—but I couldn’t persuade her. It’s just as well, since we’re so short-handed at work, and now this business with Lewis Wilkins has come up.

  When she doesn’t reply, I say, “We’ve got a missing person.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Why don’t I pick you up and we’ll go for something to eat and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Let’s stay in. I want to watch Blue Bloods.”

  “Good. I’ll run by Ranchero and pick up some food. We can figure out what we’re going to do for Thanksgiving.”

  She protests that she doesn’t mind cooking tonight, but I stand firm. Ellen’s a good cook, but she’s a vegetarian, and I don’t really feel like I’ve eaten anything if I don’t get some meat.

  Before I leave headquarters, I put in a call to Dooley to find out if he’s back from his reconnaissance of the lake. There’s no answer at the marina, so I leave a message for him to call me as soon as he gets in. Then I call Margaret Wilkins. I figure if she had heard from her husband, she would have phoned me, but you never know. She answers after the first ring.

  “Any news?” she says.

  “No, I’ve been working on it. The highway patrol hasn’t reported finding a vehicle like his. Have you tried him at your home in San Antonio?”

  “He’s not there.” Her voice raises no possibility that she’s wrong.

  “I’ll come back out in the morning and we’ll talk again,” I say. “Meanwhile, you have my number.” I didn’t tell her that Dooley is exploring the lake for signs of Lewis. She doesn’t need to spend the evening imagining her husband drowned or dead from a snake bite.

  After I pick up some enchiladas—cheese for Ellen and beef for me—some guacamole and chips, and a couple of pieces of flan, I stop by my house to change clothes. I’ve just finished buttoning my shirt when I hear my neighbor, Loretta, calling out.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

  “I always have time for you.” I hold the door open for her.

  I try to be extra nice to Loretta these days because she has been standoffish since I started spending time with Ellen. Or maybe I’m reading something into it. Ellen thinks that since Loretta started taking art classes, she has plunged into her “creative life” and doesn’t have as much time for gossiping with me.

  She refuses my offer of something to drink, and we sit down in the living room, since it’s too nippy to sit on the porch. “I wanted to ask you if you’ve found out anything about Dr. Wilkins,” she says.

  “Not yet. I’m working on it. It’s strange. Have you heard anything more?” It’s valuable to have a conduit to town gossip, and I couldn’t do any better than Loretta. She loves to be in the know, but she’s a kind person and doesn’t gossip just to be mean.

  “No, I wondered if I should get some ladies or the preacher to go out there and check in on her or offer to keep her company. Since I’m leaving in the morning, I want to take care of it now.”

  “I wouldn’t jump into anything. She’s got a next-door neighbor who said she’d look out for her.”

  “What next door neighbor?”

  I describe Glo Hastings. “You’d like her. She’s friendly.”

  “You know we don’t get a chance to meet those lake people.” She cocks her head. “Where do you suppose Lewis Wilkins is?”

  “Loretta, you know by now that I don’t do a lot of supposing until I gather information. He could have taken a notion to go off by himself for some reason, or he could be stuck somewhere in his SUV.” I throw up my hands. “Abducted by little green men in a spaceship.”

  She flicks a hand in my direction. “Don’t be silly. You have to take it seriously. You ought to at least talk to Dooley, since he and Lewis are friends. Suppose he’s hurt somewhere?”

  “I did talk to Dooley and he said he doesn’t know where Wilkins is. I have the highway patrol looking for his car, and Dooley was going out to explore some of the little coves off the main lake.”

  She looks at me sharply. “Did Margaret say where she thought he was? Did they have an argument?”

  “No, but that doesn’t rule it out.”

  She keeps her eyes on me, and I can almost hear the wheels turning.

  “Maybe he was kidnapped,” I say, laughing.

  Her eyes narrow. “Who would kidnap him?”

  “He’s a doctor. They’re well-off.”

  “Well-off, huh? That’s not the way I heard it. Connie said they’ve had some money problems. Dr. Wilkins had a lawsuit against him.”

  Why do I even bother searching for information on the Internet when I can just ask Loretta?

  “Do you know if they’re friendly with anyone else in town?”

  “She never mentioned if she is. Dooley is the only one I know of.”

  “Has Margaret Wilkins ever said anything that made you wonder if she and her husband get along all right?”

  Loretta considers her answer. She has her hands folded into her sleeves, the way she does when it’s cold.

  “Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.”

  “No, I’ll be going soon.” But she sits there.

  “All right, spit it out. Do they get along?”

  “Samuel, it’s not that I know anything for sure. But you know how you sometimes get a feeling that things aren’t quite right between two people?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t know how to say it, but I think Margaret Wilkins doesn’t like her husband very much. Matter of fact, when she mentions him, I sometimes think she has something against him.”

  “You think maybe he’s having an affair and she knows it?”

  “Maybe. If he was involved with anybody around here, I’d have heard about it, I think. So maybe in San Antonio. It’s under t
wo hours to get there. If he’s catting around, he could drive there and back in no time.”

  Later I tell the story to Ellen over enchiladas, trying to make it funny, but she isn’t so easily drawn out of her funk. In fact, she seems irritated that Loretta gossiped about his possible philandering. “I think everyone should keep their gossip to themselves until they know exactly what’s going on.” It’s an uncharacteristically curt remark. I’m almost relieved when her program comes on. We watch it in wary silence, and I’m home and in bed by ten o’clock.

  CHAPTER 5

  The night turned bitter cold, unusual for this time of year. By midday it could be in the seventies again, but I take extra time to make sure my cows have plenty of feed and that none are suffering from the cold.

  It’s nine o’clock by the time I get into work, and I feel guilty, thinking I should have called Margaret Wilkins earlier. I also wonder why I haven’t heard from Dooley Phillips. I put in a call to him before I call Margaret, and reach him at the marina.

  “Dooley, I thought you were going to call after you looked for Lewis.”

  “You know, Chief, I have to apologize. I should have called to tell you. I meant to go out, but something came up and I didn’t get to it. I’ll be on my way as soon as it warms up a little bit.”

  I’m surprised. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t go to the trouble of searching for his friend. “Why don’t I go out with you? I’m going to talk to Margaret again, and then I’ll stop by and we can get right on it.” That way, he can’t weasel out of it again.

  “I suppose that will be all right.” Once again, I hear that reluctance in his voice.

  I call Margaret and tell her I’ll be over in a while. But before I can get out the door, the phone rings.

  “This is Chief Craddock.”

  “Oh, hello. My name is John Hershel. I hate to bother you. I don’t want to be a nuisance. But I just had something happen that disturbed me, and I thought I ought to report it.” He speaks slowly and politely, and I picture a careful man.

  “Mr. Hershel, are you a resident of Jarrett Creek? I don’t recognize your name.”

  “Of course you don’t. My apologies. I have a vacation home on the far side of the lake. My wife and I come here every chance we get. We love the peace and quiet. My wife loves to watch the birds, and I do a little drawing in my spare time.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir. I caught somebody trying to make off with my dog.”

  I’ve been lounging back in my chair, enjoying his easy way of talking, but at those words I bolt up. “You caught them?”

  “I don’t mean I laid hands on them. I mean I caught them in the act and sent them on their way.”

  “Mr. Hershel, I’m going to come and talk to you.”

  “Please don’t bother. The dog is fine. I just thought it was worth a call.”

  “It’s no bother. Now if you’ll tell me how to find your place, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “All right, if you think it’s important.”

  I put the “Back in an Hour” sign with my phone number on the door and head right out.

  This is the fourth dognapping, or attempted dognapping, this month. The first three were successful. One man lost a valuable hound, and the other two beloved pets. It makes me uneasy. I’ve heard that medical labs will pay for dogs, and it turns my stomach to think that somebody would take a pet and turn them over for a few extra bucks. If that’s what happened, I want it stopped.

  The Hershel home is past the Wilkins place, almost at the end of the road. It’s one of the few two-story places with a nice porch and some big trees in front. The homes end where the land curves around into the water. It’s nice that the builder had sense enough to keep the wooded cove. A couple of small rowboats are tied up on a dock at the end. With the trees and the inlet, Hershel’s wife must have plenty of bird life to keep her occupied.

  John Hershel is a thin, balding man of fifty, with a solemn expression and a courtly manner. The dog in question, a big-chested beast that looks like a cross between a shepherd and maybe a Rottweiler, sticks close to him.

  “He’s friendly,” Hershel says. He looks down at the dog. “Maybe too friendly for his own good.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Satch. Named after the greatest trumpet player of all time.”

  Satch allows himself to be scratched behind the ears.

  Hershell invites me in and offers me coffee, which I appreciate at this time of the morning. We sit at a big family-style table in the kitchen, and the dog parks itself on the floor next to the table.

  “I really thank you for calling me about this,” I tell him. “I have reason to be concerned.”

  “Is that right?” He looks alarmed.

  “We’ve had some dogs stolen, and you’re the first eyewitness.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Satch really could have been stolen.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  He crosses his arms on the table and leans onto them. “My wife and I were going into town to buy groceries. After we’d driven a couple blocks, I remembered that I’d left the coffee pot on. I told her to let me off and I’d walk back and she could go to the store by herself. I walked back along the shoreline. It was cold, so I didn’t dawdle.” He clears his throat. “I had just walked in when I heard a commotion out back. We usually leave Satch outside when we’re gone. He was howling and squealing. I was afraid some kind of animal had gotten into his pen.”

  He gestures toward the back of the house. “You know, any kind of wild animal could be back there. I’ve seen a bobcat, and I heard that somebody saw a panther not that long ago. So I ran outside and there were two men, with a rope around Satch’s collar, hauling him toward their pickup.” His face is flushed. “I have to admit I lost my temper. I asked what the hell they thought they were doing with my dog.”

  “I’m not sure that was a smart move. If they were intent on getting the dog, they could have attacked you.”

  He looks embarrassed. “It didn’t hurt my chances that I grabbed my shotgun on the way out. They backed right off when they saw that.”

  “Did you ask them to explain themselves?”

  He chuckles. “I did, but, Chief Craddock, I’m in the insurance business, claims division. I’ve heard every excuse in the world for why somebody got up to something. They told me that somebody had told them there was a family out here who wanted to get rid of a dog, and that they could come pick it up. They claimed they got the wrong house.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Can you describe the men to me?”

  “Both of them young, in their twenties, I’d say. Neither of them tall. One was maybe five seven, five eight, the other a few inches taller.” He looks down at the dog and reaches over to scratch his head. “I sure am glad I came back.”

  “Were they white men?”

  “Yes, one of them with dark hair and the other had reddish hair. He was sturdier than the dark-haired one. Kind of seemed like the boss.”

  “Would you recognize them again?”

  “You’d think I would, but I don’t know. I was pretty flustered. I was mostly interested in getting old Satch here away from them.”

  “You didn’t get a license plate, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t think to do to that. But I remember the vehicle. It was a faded-out black pickup, and the paint was all scratched up like maybe they drive through the brush a lot. And at one time it had those flames painted on the side, but that was pretty much flaked off.”

  I get up. “I’m going to put out a notice to people to be sure and keep their dogs close for a time until I run down whoever’s doing this. Meanwhile, if you see any of your neighbors, be sure and tell them what happened so they’ll take it seriously.”

  “I sure will.” He gets up and the dog does, too. “Much as I have a fondness for this dog, it’s nothing compared to my wife. She’d be awful upset if anything happened to him.”

&n
bsp; “And you’ll be keeping him indoors?”

  He laughs. “Either that or my wife will see to it that I sleep out in the doghouse with him.”

  There are a couple of cars in Gloria Hastings’s driveway, next door to Margaret Wilkins’s place. I’d like to have a word with Gloria’s husband before I go to see Margaret. Yesterday, talking to him didn’t seem so urgent, but with still no news of Wilkins, I’m increasingly concerned.

  I rap on the door, but there’s so much racket inside the house that I doubt anybody can hear me. When there’s a lull, I knock again. The door is flung open by an unseen hand. Gloria is hurrying toward me. “Kids, settle down.” She claps her hands together and two children, a boy and a girl, careen from somewhere in the room and plop onto the sofa, making motorcycle noises.

  “Now stop that,” she says, looking back at them. “This man is a policeman. I’d hate to have to ask him to haul you off to jail. I don’t think they have pumpkin pie there.”

  They giggle but keep an eye on me.

  “Remember the wild bunch I told you about?” she says, turning back toward me.

  “So these are the culprits?” I say.

  “Two of them anyway. My daughter’s kids. That’s Marcie, she’s six, and the four-year-old is Chris. Say hello, kids.”

  The both say hello, darting glances at each other and suppressing giggles.

  “My son Luke’s boys are out in the woods. They pretend they’re hunting squirrels, but I don’t know what they’d do if they shot one. They’re older, but I wish they wouldn’t go out there. Snakes and goodness knows what all. They’re just like their daddy. I couldn’t keep him indoors. What am I doing? These two have taken my sense. Come on in and have some coffee.”

  “Your husband home?”

  “He’s in the back bedroom. I’ll get him.”

  As soon as she leaves the room, Marcie hops off the couch and stands in front of me. “Do you have a gun?”

  “I own a gun, but I don’t carry it. Not too many criminals around here. Have you run into any bad guys?”

  She shakes her head solemnly. Her brother slides off the sofa and eases over next to her, watching me as if he’s worried I’m going to grab him.