by George Wier
“Says you.”
“Are you trying to pick a fight in the Sheriff’s Office?”
“I’m just making sure...”
“What?” I asked.
“Nothin’. Here they come.”
Deputy M. Brand—or so read the small nameplate on the pocket flap of his shirt—looked to be about two-hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle poured into a uniform. By my lights he was young, perhaps thirty. His hair was close-cropped, as is the style among professional policemen these days, his face was taut like a galvanized coil spring, and his eyes were a somber brown.
“Help you fellahs?” he asked.
Before I could speak, Gwendolyn chimed in, “They’re here about the mayhem.”
The eyes of M. Brand narrowed, and he studied us with a practiced suspicion.
At that moment Jennifer came out the restroom door.
“And a missing persons case,” I said.
“That’s right,” Jennifer stated, and crowding between us propped her arms up on the counter. “We’re looking for Todd Landry, A-K-A Sam Somebody.” I felt an almost overpowering urge to hush her up, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. “He’s gone. He hasn’t called. Mr. Sterling found his phone on the side of the highway by tracking it through GPS. That led us to call the woman who was in Todd’s—or Sam’s—phone, and we tracked her to the bed and breakfast hotel here, only she was gone and left her phone. Mr. Sterling here ran across the street and talked to the businessman there and he said that she was in an electric car, so we went to the charging station and there was the wrecker man hauling the car away. We came here. We need to talk to her and find out about Todd.”
Deputy M. Brand then did something I wouldn’t have predicted in a million years. He bit down on his lip, and continued doing so for all of half a minute while his eyes bored into Jennifer’s through an inch of reinforced glass.
“Well,” he said finally, “if that don’t beat all. Tell you what, you folks better come on back and sit a spell. I’ll bring in the Sheriff to talk to ya after we’ve kicked it around a bit.” Deputy Brand pointed to a doorknob ten feet down the wall. “Gwendolyn’ll buzz you folks in.”
“Much obliged,” I said.
*****
“No, Mr. Sterling,” Deputy Matthew Brand stated—I had gleaned his first name from the stenciled nameplate on his desk, “she hasn’t been arrested or otherwise formally charged with anything. The Sheriff has her in a little room down the hall, and is asking her some questions. I think a lawyer is on the way over.”
“That would be a good thing,” Hank said, and Deputy Brand shot him a look.
“Maybe. We don’t much care for violence in this county. Like I said, the Sheriff will be done in a minute and doubtless will be in here for a minute.”
“Huh,” Jennifer said. “What’s mayhem?”
Jennifer and Hank each had a chair opposite Deputy Brand’s new steel desk. If it’d been me, I would have demanded good hardwood, and gotten it. Brand appeared to be the Chief Deputy. I had seen two or three pass by since I’d been standing there in the doorway of Deputy Brand’s office, leaning against the open door, one arm resting on the steel bookshelf beside me. Each had either dropped me a nod or cast an inquisitive eye into the room, but none had dared to speak.
“It means, darlin’,” I said, “somebody cut off somebody’s body part.”
“Ewww. Like a leg?”
“More like a finger, in this instance,” Deputy Brand answered for me, for which I was thankful.
“Whose finger?” Hank asked.
“While this is really me interviewing you folks, I’ll answer that one,” Deputy Brand said. He set his pen down on the pad in front of him, upon which he had written out most of what Jennifer had explained at the front window, more or less in timeline fashion. “We don’t know. We know it’s somebody’s finger. And before you ask, Miss Travis, I’ll leave it up to the Sheriff to tell you anything else she feels you should know. Is that all right?”
Jennifer nodded.
“Thanks for being a sport about it.”
Hank turned and looked back at me and I shrugged. He faced forward again and started rubbing his forehead.
“You have something to add, Mr. Sterling, or worse, to ask?”
“I’ll save it for the Sheriff,” Hank said.
“While on the surface that might seem wise, but if it’s something I can answer, you’d better ask me.”
“My only question would be, how was the finger discovered?”
“Okay, I was going to save that one for the Sheriff. Okay, here’s what happened. About thirty minutes ago I was walking from the Courthouse back here and I saw this electric car at the charging station. This woman was there and she was fiddling with the plug or something, trying to get it to work. Well, I decided to see if I could help her out. I went over to her and got the thing plugged in properly. She was obviously from out of town, and she was nervous as a worm in chicken pen. I took a walk around her car, complementing her on buying an electric car. Then I noticed a bit of blood on the back seat. There was what looked like a piece of raw meat or something, wrapped in a rag. I asked her about it and her face went white as a sheet. I opened the door and picked it up and a finger fell out.”
“Which finger?” I asked.
“Ring finger, looks like. At least it still had a ring on it.”
“Have you gleaned anything from the band?”
“Maybe.”
At that moment a woman entered. She wore a Corinth County Sheriff’s uniform, she wasn’t a day over forty-five, and if I wasn’t already married I might have been interested in her. She looked downright pretty, tough as iron rails, and she took in everyone and everything in Deputy Matthew Brand’s office in an instant.
“Sheriff, this is Jennifer Travis, Bill Travis, and Henry Sterling.”
“Morgan Freeman’s out in the car. I’ll need to check on him soon.”
The Sheriff nodded slowly. “I’ll have to take your word for that one.”
“Pet ferret,” I said.
“Ahh. You have information on the mayhem?”
“Not so much, apparently,” Deputy Brand stated. “They came here from Austin looking for a fellow who is missing. The girl’s piano teacher. And this is somehow tied to the lady down the hall with the electric car and the dismembered finger.”
“Hmm,” the Sheriff said. When she stepped fully into the office, Hank and Jennifer stood up. “Why don’t you folks come down the hall. I want you to meet this lady.”
CHAPTER FIVE
For me it’s funny how you can meet someone and instantly form an opinion about the person. Whether it’s ultimately right or wrong, I believe this gut reaction is a combination of many factors: how they carry themselves; the particular social tone—or lack thereof—that’s painted on their face at the moment of the encounter; and possibly how they’re dressed. Above all, there’s an invisible, almost intangible quality that, for want of an accurate, detailed description, yet exists. Perhaps it’s the aura they exude, the quality of the space around them that’s indicative of any number of things. When someone’s space is chaotic and disordered—or, for want of a better word, downright dirty—we tend to sense it and note it, and if not on a wholly analytical level, then at least on an instinctual one. All by way of saying that I took an instant dislike to the woman in Corinth County Sheriff’s Department Interview Room.
The Sheriff—who introduced herself as Delores Clayton as we walked down the hall—paused outside the door before entering.
“Her name is Lorraine. Lorraine Sands. I can hardly get her to put two words together. Mostly it’s been nods, if that.”
Sheriff Clayton opened the door. The woman sitting in the chair at the table opposite from us appeared to be a nervous wreck. She exuded a cone of anxiety outward from her face that set my teeth on edge.
“Ms. Sands, this is...” Sheriff Clayton began, but her voice trailed off.
“Bill Travis,” I said. “
This is Hank Sterling, and this is my daughter, Jennifer. You talked to us on the phone earlier today.”
Lorraine Sands bit down on her lower lip and her eyes focused on the tabletop. She was a slim, middle-aged woman with blonde hair, a hint of a tan, and faint crinkles starting to come in at the edges of her eyes; the first onset of that ancient disease known as aging. She had green eyes. At one time, some years ago, she was assuredly a knockout. Those days were gone now.
Sheriff Clayton and I exchanged looks. She tilted her head toward Jennifer, and I got the message.
I nudged Jennifer. She turned to look up at me and I gestured with a nod toward Lorraine Sands. Jennifer understood. She stepped forward and sat down in the chair opposite Lorraine Sands.
I stepped back out in the hallway and pulled Hank with me. The Sheriff watched us and became intrigued.
“Hank,” I said. “Go out to the car and fetch Morgan Freeman. You can turn the car off and bring in the keys with you. Be sure and lock it.”
Hank raised an eyebrow.
“Go ahead, Mr. Sterling,” the Sheriff said. “We need every bit of help we can get.”
*****
Jennifer had little luck with the woman as well, at first, but that luck quickly changed when Hank brought in Morgan Freeman. Hank came in and tapped Jennifer on her shoulder. She turned her head and M.F. darted from his hands onto her shoulder. He ran down her arm, across the tabletop, up Lorraine Sands’s arm, and nuzzled against her neck.
“Don’t hurt him,” Jennifer said. “That’s Morgan Freeman. He’s like my best friend in the whole world.”
“I-I...I won’t hurt him. I promise,” the woman said. She stroked his fur with one hand and the creature licked the tip of her nose.
“I think he likes you,” Jennifer said. “Of course, he’s just a babe in the woods. He likes everybody.”
“He wouldn’t like me if he knew me,” Lorraine said.
And then the tears came. After the tears, little pieces of the story rolled out, one by one.
*****
Lorraine Sands had no idea where Todd Landry—whom she knew as Sam Landry—had gotten off to. He was supposed to rendezvous with her in Elysium ten days before, and she had spent the greatest portion of that time anxious to hear from him. The two were related. They were distant cousins who had not seen each other in years.
It apparently all came down to a bitter battle over the control of an estate.
“But what estate?” I asked. “Who died?”
“My grandmother. Oh, don't worry, nobody could stand her. I mean, she was nice to me and everything, but that's because when I knew her I was too young for her to target, and later she was already too old to mend fences, that's if she'd known how. No, she was a bitter, sour old woman, according to everyone that knew her. I hadn't seen her since I was a kid when she passed away.”
“When was that?”
“A month ago.”
“This is all over a family estate?” Sheriff Clayton said. “It would be nice to know whose finger that was in your back seat.”
“I think maybe it was Sam's. But I hope it wasn't. It would be a shame, because he was a musical prodigy. If it was Sam's, then maybe it was a signal—someone telling me that I was next.”
“I don't know,” Hank said. “People will do the craziest things when money is involved. Right, Bill?”
I nodded. “Right. Ms. Sands, do you have any idea whatsoever where Sam might be?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“How about where the people are who are after Sam...and you?”
“Well,” she blew her nose quickly into a tissue handed her by Sheriff Clayton, “they might be in San Sebastian.”
“Why the hell might they be there?” Hank asked.
“Because that's where the estate is.”
*****
“I don't know about letting her go, Mr. Travis,” Sheriff Clayton said.
We were out in the hallway, just the two of us. Both Hank and Jennifer remained inside. Jennifer—and Morgan Freeman—were keeping the sad woman entertained.
“I know. But I'm not sure that she's committed any crime—”
“That we—”
“Yes, that we know of. But still, you could hold her, and you have every right to until something surfaces either clearing her or condemning her. But that could be a long time if she isn't let free to roam. My friend Hank and I, and definitely Jennifer, want to find this Sam, and make sure he's all right. In order to do that, we need her.”
The Sheriff nodded slowly. “Okay. I'll have the finger on ice until we find out who it belongs to. The minute you find out anything, you'll let me know, right?”
“Most definitely,” I said.
“I'm tempted to send one of my deputies with you, or go myself, but there are jurisdictional lines and I don't know anyone in San Sebastian County to ask a favor of or to call in any favors. Are you or Mr. Sterling packing heat?”
“I'm not. Hank might be, but I haven't seen evidence of it. He does have a license, and he is a bonded security agent, so it's legal for him to have one. But I've got my daughter along. No, I don't think we need any guns. Not for this. Besides, Hank prefers blowing things up to blowing them away.”
“Blowing things up?”
“He was a munitions expert in Vietnam. The guy can take down a building in nothing flat.”
“You do this sort of thing often, Mr. Travis?”
“Not really. I mean, sometimes people need a little help, is all.”
“And you're the kind of guy who helps them.”
“Look, Sheriff. This time the client is my daughter. I can't say no to her.”
She chuckled and peered back inside the room to see Morgan Freeman dart around the back of Jennifer's neck and hang from her hair. “No, I don't suppose I'd be able to tell her no, either.”
“Then it's settled?”
“It's settled.” She pushed the door open and I followed her back inside.
“Ms. Sands, it looks like you're free to go. I'm releasing you into the custody of Mr. Travis, Mr. Sterling, Jennifer Travis and Morgan Freeman. But if I find out you've lied to me once during this interview, I'll come get you no matter what county or state you happen to be in. And I'll bring you back.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Lorraine said. “I assure you, that won't be necessary.”
CHAPTER SIX
The big fight during the trip to San Sebastian was not over Morgan Freeman, but about the kind of music we would play, or rather that we would cease playing it.
A Mercedes—or at least the model I have—is a not a big vehicle, and consequently the personal space seems to shrink as the miles roll past. The presence of sound doesn't do much, either, for the dearth of extra space. It limits conversation, and thinking, in direct proportion to the volume. Hank Williams wailing about the million tears he's cried into his last few beers of late is decidedly not how I like to spend my time. Both Jennifer and Hank singing along with him was quickly too much. I turned off the tape player.
“Dad!” Jennifer's abject disappointment washed over me.
“Bill, what is it with you? We were singing.”
“I know. That was the whole problem in a nutshell.”
“But—”
“The first time was funny. The next three times were enough for anybody. Do you want me to have that song in my head for the next week?”
“Well, no,” Jennifer admitted.
“Then this is a good time to talk about what we're going to do next. Listen, if I get even the beginning of a hint that there's any danger, we're turning around and getting the hell out of Dodge.”
“What does that mean?” Jennifer asked. “Where is Dodge?”
“Dodge City,” Hank said. “You would have had to see Gunsmoke to understand.”
“What's Gunsmoke?”
“You see, Marshall Dillon—” Hank began, but I cut him off.
“Doesn't matter. All I'm saying is, we'll turn tail and run. Y
ou've never been shot at, kiddo, and I aim to keep it that way.”
“You've been shot at?”
“He's been shot at, Jennifer. He's been shot at, nearly blown up, run off the road, dangled from a blimp, almost drowned, and carried over the shoulder by a Sasquatch.”
“A Sasquatch?” Jennifer asked, her eyes wide.
“Hank, hush.” I glanced over again at Jennifer, and decided to lay it all out for her. “Honey, here's the deal. Sometimes a dad has to do things so that mom's and daughters can go on being all safe and innocent and go shopping for stuffed unicorns.”
“That's sexist and elitist and I won't hear of it,” she said.
“Where did you learn to say that?” I asked.
“Listening to you and mom.”
“She's got you there, Bill,” Hank rejoined.
“You stay out of this. Listen, it may be sexist—although I'm not sure how what I said could be remotely qualified as elitest—but I was raised a certain way, and I'm apparently the last of my kind. And I'm not going to change. My job is to protect you. So if this starts looking like anything more than a picnic in the park, we're jumping on the closest rocket sled headed south.”
“Fine,” she said. “And Morgan Freeman will protect me, won't you Morgan?” And then began the albeit unintelligible conversation with the ferret, peppered with what Jennifer referred to as 'kissy-faces.'
We followed Lorraine Sands's little electric car past the city limits of San Sebastian, Texas and into town. She pulled over after a series of red lights and into Storms, a local car-hop takeout fast food place.
Our meeting—which included the game plan—was held in the parking lot of Storms, over chili dogs, french fries, root beer floats and cherry limeades. The plan went thus: since Gus and Margaret (a pair of Lorraine's cousins) were supposedly living at the estate, and Fenner and Reece had been excommunicated from the clan a few years back and like as not wouldn't be around—and I had no faintest idea who Fenner and Reece were, and didn't really care to know, unless they knew the whereabouts of Jennifer's piano instructor—we were to go up to the house and do something unprecedented. First, we were to knock, and see if anyone was home, and second, if someone was home, we were to ask about the aforementioned piano instructor (by whatever name) and hopefully receive an answer. If our luck held, then Jennifer might be reunited with the one person on Earth who could guarantee her a degree of Recital success.
