Death Song

by Michael McGarrity

  Clayton glanced at his watch. Even under the best of circumstances it would be several hours before he could get home. There was no way he’d be there in time to look after the children while Grace attended the tribal council meeting. He called her on his cell phone, explained what had happened, reassured her that he was unhurt, and gave her the bad news.

  “Don’t worry,” Grace said. “I’ll find someone to look after the children.”

  “Call my mother,” Clayton said.

  “I’m sure she’ll be glad to help out. Are you certain you’re not hurt?”

  With his flashlight Clayton waved a slow-moving car around the deer carcass. “Not a scratch, but my unit is a mess and I’m gonna have to hitch a ride home.”

  “How did you manage to run into a deer?” Grace asked.

  “You’ve got it reversed,” Clayton replied. “The deer ran into me.”

  “Still, you killed Bambi’s father,” Grace whispered in mock seriousness.

  Clayton laughed. “Please don’t tell the children.”

  “Never,” Grace replied. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

  “Good luck with the tribal council.”

  “Thanks. Your dinner will be warming in the oven.”

  Clayton disconnected. He could see flashing emergency lights approaching from both directions. From the west, a volunteer fire department EMT unit slowed and stopped on the shoulder of the road, and two men hurried toward him. From the east, two S.O. units ground to a halt. Paul Hewitt and Tim Riley dismounted their vehicles and moved quickly in his direction.

  There were more flashing lights coming down the highway from Ruidoso, probably the state cop and the tow truck. Or a state game-and-fish officer. Or whoever, Clayton thought as he groaned inwardly. For the next several hours he would be on the receiving end of a police investigation, which was never a happy prospect, especially for a cop.

  Clayton apologized to the dead buck before Sheriff Hewitt and Tim Riley drew near. He was truly sorry the animal had died for no good reason.

  It was a hell of a way to start the weekend.

  After making sure with his own eyes that Clayton was unhurt, Paul Hewitt stayed at the scene with his sergeant until the state police officer’s investigation had been wrapped up, the dead buck had been removed from the roadway, all other emergency personnel had departed, and the tow truck operator had winched the disabled unit onto the flatbed and driven away.

  In the back of Hewitt’s vehicle, a 4×4 Explorer, Clayton had stowed all of his personal gear and the department-issued equipment he’d cleaned out of his unit. The two men sat in the Explorer and watched the blue flashing emergency lights of the tow truck fade down the highway into the night.

  “Have you had enough excitement for one day?” Paul Hewitt asked as he cranked the engine to his unit. “If that buck had come through your windshield, chances are good that I would be on my way to tell your wife that she had just become a widow.”

  “That scared the bejesus out of me,” Clayton replied.

  Hewitt laughed and put his unit in gear. “Me too, and I wasn’t even here. Let’s get you home.”

  “Yeah,” Clayton said. “Good idea.”

  On the drive, the two men fell silent. Weary from all the explaining he’d done at the crash scene, Clayton appreciated the quiet. Hewitt came to a stop in front of Clayton’s house—a house that the sheriff had helped to rebuild some years back after a killer with a vendetta had blown it up in an attempt to murder Clayton and his family. It sat on a wooded lot a good ways in from the highway that ran through the reservation, but not too far from the village of Mescalero.

  “The place is looking good,” Hewitt said, eyeing the single-story house with a pitched roof that now sported a covered porch he hadn’t seen before.

  “It’s coming along,” Clayton said as the porch lights came on.

  “I like the new porch,” Hewitt said.

  “It took a bunch of my days off to finish it,” Clayton replied.

  “Do you need a hand with your gear?” Hewitt asked.

  Clayton opened the passenger door. “No, I’ve got it.”

  Hewitt nodded.

  “Thanks for the ride, Sheriff,” Clayton said.

  Hewitt nodded again. “Not a problem.”

  Clayton gathered up his gear and carried it to the house. The front door opened and Grace stepped outside with Clayton’s mother, Isabel. Clayton put his gear down and embraced the two women. The children, Wendell and Hannah, both in their pajamas, scooted out the front door and joined the family hug.

  Paul Hewitt honked the horn once and drove away, happy—considering the alternative—to have been able to deliver Sergeant Clayton Istee home safe to his family.

  Covering 4,859 square miles, Lincoln County was almost three thousand square miles larger than Santa Fe County, where Tim Riley had served as a deputy sheriff for six years. He was glad the population difference between the two counties was even more staggering. Home to about fifteen thousand permanent residents, Lincoln County had roughly one tenth the population of Santa Fe County and a much lower crime rate. Riley liked the idea of living and working in a place where folks were mostly law-abiding and the pace of life was a good deal slower.

  When Tim had broached the subject of applying for the Lincoln County S.O. job to his wife, Denise, he’d expected her to dig in her heels and say no. Born and bred in Santa Fe, she loved living close to her siblings and her nieces and nephews. But surprisingly, Denise had backed Tim’s decision all the way, asking only that they return to live in Santa Fe sometime in the not-too-distant future.

  Encouraged by Denise’s support, Tim immediately turned in his application and paperwork to the Lincoln County S.O. and interviewed with Sheriff Paul Hewitt and his chief deputy, Anthony Baca, as soon as he could. When the position was offered to him, Tim accepted on the spot and gave his two weeks’ notice. Now he was working the new job, pulling his first solo patrol, and staying in a one-room cabin in Capitan, while Denise remained at home in their double-wide trailer until Tim found a place for them to live that would accept the two horses they owned.

  The Santa Fe double-wide sat on twenty acres in Cañoncito, about ten miles outside of the city limits. Tim had paid cash for the land after a messy divorce from his first wife, who had walked away with half his air force retirement pension and almost everything else.

  What was left over from the settlement, Tim had used as a sizable down payment on the double-wide, which was now paid off. But he wasn’t about to sell the property. Land values had skyrocketed in Santa Fe County and would probably continue to rise, and Tim’s dream was to someday build an honest-to-goodness real house on the acreage, throw up a good barn, and start a wilderness outfitting business.

  Since coming to Lincoln County, Tim had used his free time trying to find a decent place to rent where he and Denise could keep their horses. Several of the locals warned him that finding such a place wouldn’t be easy. After looking at a couple of run-down trailers on barren, fenced acreage and a ramshackle cottage that came with a collapsed two-stall horse barn, Tim had begun to agree with them.

  He’d called Denise every night after work to give her an update on the job, which he liked, and his house hunting, which wasn’t going well, although he tried to stay positive about it. Prospects had remained dim until Sheriff Hewitt hooked him up with a rancher who was willing to exchange free rent for a part-time caretaker.

  Last night on the telephone with Denise, Tim had avoided saying anything about the offer until he met with the rancher and looked the place over. Early in the morning, he’d visited the ranch before starting work, met with the owner, and toured a really nice adobe cottage that was within shouting distance of a rambling, hacienda-style ranch house surrounded by a thicket of trees.

  The rancher, George Staley, a friend of Sheriff Hewitt’s, liked the prospect of having a sworn law enforcement officer living on the spread. Tim’s sole duties would consist of keeping an eye on the
ranch headquarters when Staley was away at his Texas ranch or looking after his other properties. All the cowboying and wrangling chores were the responsibility of a ranch manager and some hired hands.

  It was a perfect arrangement, and Tim couldn’t wait to tell Denise, but it wasn’t until long after Clayton Istee’s collision with the mule deer that he had a chance to call her. The first few times he tried, he got a busy signal and didn’t think anything of it. But as more time passed, he continued to get a busy signal and it began to bother him. Denise didn’t know he’d agreed to work a double and was expecting him to drive home to Santa Fe tonight. In fact, his arrival was overdue.

  Even if she was having one of her marathon chats with one of her sisters, she could at least interrupt the phone conversation and answer the call waiting. He wondered if there was some family emergency happening with one of her siblings.

  Although Tim’s first night on solo patrol as a Lincoln County deputy had been quiet so far, he stayed focused on the job. It wasn’t unheard of for supervisors to shadow and observe new officers on patrol. The sheriff, his chief deputy, or even Clayton Istee, for that matter, could be out there under the cover of darkness watching him, and Tim didn’t want to get caught making any dumb mistakes.

  While cruising through some of the small settlements along the Hondo Valley, patrolling two rural neighborhoods where recent burglaries had occurred, Tim continued to try calling home, each time getting a busy signal. Back on the main highway north of Carrizozo, he stopped on the shoulder of the road and clocked vehicles on his radar just to get a feel for the traffic flow. None of the big-rig truckers on the two-lane highway that ran from El Paso up to the Interstate paid any attention to the speed limit. But as soon as they spotted Tim’s unit, brake lights flashed and the trucks slowed. A voice crackled over the police radio.

  “What’s your twenty?” Chief Craig Bolt of the Capitan Police Department asked.

  “Highway 54 just north of Carrizozo,” Tim answered.

  “Are you ready for a cup of coffee?” Bolt asked.

  “Affirmative,” Tim replied. He’d met the chief earlier in the week and liked the man’s straightforward style.

  “The pot’s on. Come on over to my office.”

  “Ten-four. ETA twenty minutes.”

  He put the unit in gear, headed toward Capitan, and cruised into the village where a prominent billboard on the west end of town proclaimed, “JESUS IS LORD OVER CAPITAN.”

  Earlier in the week, as they’d driven through the village, Clayton Istee had asked Tim what he thought about the message on the billboard.

  “It’s a bit too much for my taste,” Tim said, caught off guard by the question.

  “You’ve got that right,” Clayton replied with a laugh. “The way I see it, gods come and go depending on what tribe rules the land, not who lives in the heavens.”

  “That’s very philosophical,” Tim said.

  “You think so?” Clayton asked, shooting Tim a sharp look.

  “Why not?” Tim said with a shrug. “Organized religion isn’t a big deal to me.”

  Clayton nodded in agreement and grinned. “Hallelujah, brother.”

  Tim pulled to a stop at the Capitan Police Department, which shared space with other village agencies in a prefabricated metal building fronting Smokey Bear Boulevard, the main drag through town. Chief Craig Bolt’s white Ford 4×4 with Smokey Bear’s image on the door was parked next to the blue entrance, which also bore the bear’s likeness.

  Over fifty years ago, after a devastating forest fire in the nearby mountains, a young bear cub had been found alive clinging to the trunk of a burned tree. As Smokey Bear, the cub had gone on to become the most famous icon for forest fire prevention in the world. Because Capitan was the place where the legend had been born, Smokey Bear’s name and image was now an indelible part of the town’s identity. Capitan sported a Smokey Bear Historical Park, a Smokey Bear Museum, various businesses that bore Smokey’s name, and the town hosted an annual Smokey Bear Festival and Smokey Bear rodeo.

  Smokey’s presence permeated the village, right down to the two life-size carved wooden bears, one black, one brown, that guarded the entrance to the town hall. Although Smokey did draw a fair number of travelers to the village, most stopped for a quick look on their way to somewhere else, and thus Capitan remained a quiet, pleasant, thriving ranching community and not an international tourist destination.

  Tim stepped through the door and greeted the chief, who poured him a mug of hot coffee, held it out, and motioned to an empty chair.

  About fifty years of age, Bolt was a stocky man five-eight in height with a broad upper body, gray hair cut short, and huge hands that hung down from chunky arms. He had the look of a former weightlifter who’d thickened up a bit but hadn’t gone to seed. According to Clayton, Bolt had put in his twenty with the Las Cruces P.D. before retiring as a lieutenant and taking over the Capitan department.

  “Thanks,” Tim said, as he took the mug and settled into a squeaky chair behind a gray, government-surplus metal desk.

  Bolt nodded as he raised his cup. “When you work late nights, the only fresh coffee you’re gonna find in Capitan is right here in this office. If the lights are on, the pot is on. Come by for a cup anytime.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  The Capitan police headquarters consisted of one fairly large room where Tim and the chief sat and two small offices. It was just adequate for Bolt and the two sworn officers who manned the department with him.

  “Do you really have a lightning bolt tattooed on your arm?” Tim inquired.

  Bolt chuckled. “Who told you to ask?”

  “Clayton Istee, Sheriff Hewitt, Chief Deputy Baca, and just about everybody else who mentions your name.”

  Bolt rolled up his sleeve and held out his forearm. “Well, there it is. I got it when I was in the army serving with the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division.”

  Tim recognized the unit patch insignia. “Impressive.”

  “I’m gonna use it as part of my election campaign when I run for county sheriff next year,” Bolt said. “My name, the lightning bolt. Get it?”

  Tim nodded. “The chief deputy isn’t going to run?” he asked. In New Mexico, sheriffs had to stand down after two consecutive four-year terms. Usually, the chief deputy would get elected and the two top cops would simply switch jobs for the next eight years. At least, that’s the way it had been up in Santa Fe County during the time Riley had worked there.

  “Anthony Baca is also retiring,” Bolt said, showing his gums in a toothy smile. “Both Paul and Anthony are going to support me. So the chances are, if you’re still with the S.O. by then, I’ll be your new boss.”

  “That gives me something to look forward to,” Tim said straight-faced.

  Bolt huffed in a joking way and raised his eyebrows. “Are you being sarcastic with me, Deputy Riley?”

  Tim laughed. “If I am, I better do it now before you get elected.”

  Bolt slapped his leg and smiled. “I like your style, Riley. So help me out here, I’m trying to come up with a catchy campaign slogan to go with my name. How does ‘Zap the criminals. Elect Craig Bolt Sheriff of Lincoln County’ sound to you?”

  “That’s good,” Tim said, faking some enthusiasm.

  “I don’t like it either,” Bolt said with a grimace. “It’s too heavy-handed.”

  Tim nodded in agreement. “How about using ‘Bolt the door on criminals in Lincoln County.’”

  Bolt’s eyes widened. He whistled and repeated the slogan. “I like that a lot better than what I came up with, a whole lot better. I think I’d like to run it by my campaign manager.”

  “Who’s that?” Tim asked.

  “My wife,” Bolt said with a laugh.

  “Speaking of wives, I’ve been trying to call my wife up in Santa Fe on my cell phone and haven’t been able to get through. Mind if I make a quick call to her on your office phone?”

  Bolt waved at the desk phone next to
Riley’s elbow. “Have at it. Do you need some privacy?”

  Tim shook his head, dialed the number, got a busy signal, and hung up. “No luck,” he said. He finished his coffee, got to his feet, and shrugged. “It can wait. I’ll see her tomorrow when I get back to Santa Fe. Thanks for the coffee, Chief.”

  “The pot is always on. Next time you stop by I’ll fill you in on some of the local Capitan characters you need to know about.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” Riley replied as he headed out the door.

  Bolt waited until he heard Riley drive away before dialing Paul Hewitt’s cell phone number. “Where are you?” he asked after Hewitt answered.

  “Sitting in my truck watching my new deputy drive out of town. So far, he’s doing okay. Goes where he says, does what he says, isn’t slacking off. Now that you’ve had a sit-down with him, what do you think?”

  “I think he’s a good one,” Bolt said. “Are we still on for breakfast in the morning?”

  “You bet,” Hewitt replied.

  “You going home now?”

  “You bet,” Hewitt said again.

  “Me too.” Bolt hung up, turned out the lights, locked the door, and went home.

  In a troubled frame of mind, Deputy Tim Riley resumed patrol. He decided that something was wrong in Santa Fe. Denise should be calling him by now, wanting to know why he was late getting home. A few miles outside of Carrizozo he pulled off to the side of the highway, called the dispatcher, gave her his Santa Fe home phone number, and asked her to contact the phone company and have them check the number. Within minutes, the dispatcher reported that the phone was off the hook at Tim’s Santa Fe residence.

  “Okay,” Riley said with a sense of relief, “that explains it. Thanks.”

  “Do you want me to ask the state police to send a uniform to check on her?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Negative,” Tim said. “Thanks anyway.” He dropped the microphone on the seat and dialed his sister-in-law’s number on his cell phone. When Helen answered, he explained the situation.