by Dan Taylor
“He did?”
“Made a real mess.”
The binds are off now. I stand up, rub my wrists, glad this ordeal is over with.
The sheriff and I stand there awkwardly a moment.
Then he says, “We need to get the hell out of here. Jimmy’ll go crazy if he catches us in his barn.”
33.
THE SHERIFF OFFERS to buy me a beer during the drive back to my rental, which he says he rolled into the field before taking me, unconscious, to the farm.
I try to refuse, saying that I need to get back to Hollywood. It’s a half lie. I plan on going to the Motel 6 to speak to Annabelle. But the sheriff doesn’t take no for an answer. He has something to talk to me about.
We drive back to the bar on the corner of Hooper and West. We go inside, both wearing the same shirt. Both with barn floor dust on us, looking like we’ve taken a roll in the hay together. The sheriff doesn’t notice the funny looks we get from the patrons as we walk to a booth in the corner. He’s got too much on his mind.
That something he wanted to talk to me about? Exorcising his demons.
For some reason, the sheriff trusts me and is confiding in me. Maybe it’s because I’m from out of town, and there’s no one in town he feels he can talk to about this, not even his wife. Maybe it’s because he’s just knocked me unconscious and kidnapped me, and I agreed to keep that a secret. Or maybe it’s because we have the same taste in shirts—well, at least that’s what he thinks.
He tells me about catching his son with Julius, the Saturday before last. They were at this very bar, drinking cocktails together—cosmopolitans—while everyone else was getting drunk on beer, building up their Dutch courage to sing karaoke.
Sheriff was with some buddies of his, shooting the breeze. He noticed them standing at the bar, gazing into each other’s eyes as though they contained the whole of the galaxies’ constellations. Mortified, he made up some excuse to leave. He didn’t feel like karaoke that night. Maybe got some bug in his stomach.
Outside the bar, he phoned his son on his cell, told him he needed to speak to him outside. Alone, without that buddy of his .
What happened next was messy.
The sheriff confronted his son, asked him what he was doing staring into his buddy’s eyes like that.
His son’s response was classic: “He wanted me to check if there was some dirt in his eye.”
“For ten freakin’ minutes?”
“It was a big bit of dirt.”
The sheriff says he lost his mind, said, “Then it should have been easier to get, dumbass!”
Having never been spoken to before like that by his dad, the sheriff’s son starts blubbering. I resist telling the sheriff the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It doesn’t seem appropriate. The sheriff’s real serious.
Anyway, then the sheriff slaps his son, full-on man slap.
He’ll have to break it off with this guy, he said. No son of his would rather take a guy than a gal to the Saturday night line dancing.
“I won’t do it. I can’t. And you can’t make me!” the son said.
“The hell I can’t! I’m the sheriff, God damn it.”
“But I love Julius!”
“Julius?”
Hearing his son’s boyfriend’s name’s too much for the sheriff. Or it could be because he doesn’t approve of the name Julius—I’m a little hazy about that. He takes his son by the earlobe and pulls him into his car, starts driving him home.
He simmers during the first mile or so of the drive, as his boy sits and sulks. He starts asking him questions: “Has anyone in town seen you two together, kissin’ and stuff?” “How long have you two been at it?” And last and most relevant, “Why didn’t you two meet out of town, at a motel or somethin’?”
“We wanted to get caught, okay?” the son said.
“Well, you did real good. You’re caught. What now, buster?”
“Now I carry on as normal. I’m a grown man, Dad.”
“We’ll see about that.”
His son made a noise like phhefffwwwchchc, then said, “Your Fatherhood 101 stock sayings aren’t exactly making for a compelling argument against my having freewill, Dad.”
“Okay, I don’t know exactly what that meant, but it doesn’t change the fact that you can’t have a relationship with this guy.”
“Oh yeah? Give me one good reason why I can’t.”
“Because I said so, God damn it.”
What the sheriff said next nearly brought a tear to his eye—“The real bad kind.” He took a deep breath, a stealthy one, like he was readying himself for a big bluff at a poker game, and said, “Well, it’s either him or me.”
“That’s easy. I choose him.”
The sheriff screeched the car to a halt, and turned to his son, “You mean that?”
“As sure as shit on the end of a teenager’s stick.”
Okay, I put that part in, but the son was really sure.
Over the next ten minutes or so, their argument went on. Eventually, the sheriff came to the realization that he cared too much about his son to give two hoots whether he was gay or not, and that he’d do anything to have him in his life. And the son came to understand the sheriff’s concern about what having a gay son in Hickston might do to his reputation. So they came to an agreement: the son wouldn’t flaunt his homosexuality in Hickston, keeping it a secret, of sorts, and the sheriff would be cool about all this. But with one caveat. “You don’t love any of those guys as much as you love your ol’ dad.”
They both laughed, and then both started crying, and exactly at the same time, they both leaned in and hugged each other, until the sheriff’s elbow pressed the car horn, making them both jump. In turn making them laugh again. And there was probably a little bit of more crying, knowing these two crybabies, but the sheriff didn’t mention that.
The sheriff drove his son back to the bar to pick up Julius, he even paid for their motel room for the evening. The next morning, his son phoned him and told him Julius had broken up with him. Was on his way back to Hollywood. Said that he didn’t feel right about all this, maybe even suspected he wasn’t gay.
It’s the end of the sheriff’s story, and after taking a sip of whisky, he looks me dead in the eye, says, “And I promised myself, if this Julius fellow ever came back to my home of good livin’, I’d shoot the son of a bitch, for breakin’ my son’s heart. Right in the balls that my son loved so much. That’s why I told you that story, so you could pass on that message.”
“Huh, I thought it was maybe because we have the same taste in shirts.”
He looks at me funnily.
I say, “Never mind. And I’ll pass on that message for you.”
“Good, ‘cause I mean it.”
I tip my imaginary hat to the sheriff and get up to leave, but the sheriff says, “Not so fast. What was all that commotion about rape?”
34.
I TRY TO DOWNPLAY it. “Rape? Oh, that was just a big misunderstanding.”
He frowns, says, “You thought someone had been raped, and my revelation that my son’s gay—what?—made you realize that it was a misunderstanding?”
“Well, I got there before that, but yeah.”
“Now hold on a second.” The sheriff stares into space, thinking a second. “This rape happen in my town?”
“I don’t think there was a rape. That’s why I said it was a misunderstanding.”
I don’t think the sheriff’s the sharpest cookie in the tool chest. As he says, “This town, here?” and presses his forefinger into the table.
“In the hypothetical rape that was a misunderstanding, yeah.”
The sheriff leans back on his stool, starts swirling his whisky in its glass. “Well I’ll be God damned…”
I try to leave again, before the sheriff realizes something I’d rather him not realize.
But he stops me again, says, “Wait a minute. That situation with old Bill. Him comin’ over here, saying that his wife had seen some girl, hig
h as a kite, talking of being messed with, was that coincidentally about the same misunderstanding?”
Phew. He jumped to the wrong conclusion. Hickston’s law upholding’s in fine hands.
“It might’ve been. I couldn’t really say. I’ll be off now. Gotta beat that Saturday afternoon traffic.”
“You take a seat, son. You’re not leaving without telling me everything you know.”
I sigh and sit down. He looks back at the barman, indicates for him to bring me another beer. And I sigh again.
“So what’s the crack, son?” the sheriff says.
“Just an allegation of rape. I’d rather not go into the details. It wouldn’t be prudent.”
He thinks a second. “This Annabelle English you mentioned at the barn. Was that the girl?”
“Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t?”
“Cut the double speak, son. This is now a police investigation.”
“It’s her. But it doesn’t matter. She’s lying. I don’t know why, but she is.”
The barman comes over with the beer and sets it down on the table.
When the barman’s out of earshot, the sheriff says, “How do you know she’s lying?”
“Some of the things she said didn’t make any sense. There were holes in her story.”
“Like what?”
“Well, she said she’d been to see you, for one. Just this morning. I believe you that you don’t know anything about it.”
“Went to see me, this morning?”
I take a sip of beer. “That’s what she said.”
“Well that ain’t possible.” The sheriff pauses. “I wasn’t at the office first thing this morning. I go fishing Saturday mornings, till just before noon.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, that she hadn’t been to speak to you about it.”
Remember that bow I told you about? That would tie both cases into one? Old Hancock’s still not lucky enough to get that. But what I do get is as close to that scenario as I’ll ever get.
After taking a sip of whisky, the sheriff says, “Deputy Hoverbrooke was manning my desk this morning. I can speak to him about it if you’d like? See if this woman was in to see him.”
Bingo!
Earlier in the day, I said that rape is the one crime in America where, regardless of circumstance or context, a disproportionate percentage of the population automatically assumes the accuser’s lying. And, that rape allegations have roughly the same proportion of false accusations as any other accusation of crime. I found one small detail, well, a few, and ran with them, coming to the conclusion that Annabelle has been lying this whole time.
Stupid Old Hancock.
Poker-faced, I take a second to think about how to respond to the sheriff. I think back to what the sheriff said about if Julius ever came back to his home of good livin’. Despite him being a lawman, he’d shoot him in the balls, the balls his son had loved so much. If there’s one type of love that gets people’s principles all twisted, it’s that of the love between parent and child. In this case, most likely father and son. And Hickston, like any small town, seems to me like a place where they protect their own, regardless of principles or code of police ethics. If I were to go the route I was adamant about taking when I agreed to investigate the covering up of Annabelle’s rape—that I’d do everything by the book—would it be an uphill battle? Would the sheriff take Annabelle’s complaint seriously, with the accused being his deputy’s son or relative? And with no physical evidence to back up her claim?
And if I played that hand instead of folding, I’d be going all in. There wouldn’t be an opportunity to do this the way Annabelle suggested.
Old Hancock’s had enough of being stupid for one day.
I look the sheriff dead in the eyes, say, “I don’t think that’s necessary. There are other holes in the story.”
“Like what?”
“Timeline doesn’t fit. Few other things.”
“Well, if you’re satisfied that this is just another case of some girl making accusations she shouldn’t be making in the first place, then I’m satisfied.”
“I’m satisfied more than ever.” I get up to leave, and this time the sheriff doesn’t stop me. He can go back to just worrying about drunks on a Friday night, pill-dispensing chiropractors who are behind on their mortgage payments, and what the townsfolk will think when they find out the sheriff’s son is a homosexual.
35.
THERE ARE STILL a couple holes in Annabelle’s story, though one of them has just reduced to the size of a pinhole. So, as I drive to the Motel 6 she’s staying at, I decide to make a call. I phone the sheriff’s office, knowing full well the sheriff’s probably still sitting at the bar. Sure enough, a different man answers. “Sherifff’s office. How may I help?”
“Hi, this is Tad Beautington. I’d like to report a crime…and who am I speaking to, the sheriff?”
Silence a second.
“What type of crime are we talking about, Mr. Beautington?”
“It’s a sexual assault.”
“This is the sheriff speaking. Would you be able to come right over to report it?”
“The sheriff?”
“Yep. And would you?”
“I’ll come right over. Let me just confirm the address with you. 1890 Lexington and Main?”
“Nope, that’s not the right address, sir.” He pauses. “It is the Hickston County sheriff’s department you were trying to reach?”
“Hickston County? Oh gawd, I was trying to reach Doughton County. Me and my swollen fingers. You should try making a phone call with scleroderma. Sorry to bother you, Sheriff.”
“No bother. You have a nice day now.”
I hang up.
The last hole?
When I thought about Annabelle’s story before I dropped her off at the motel, it didn’t make sense to me that she’d been to the sheriff’s office that morning, and in the afternoon, when I picked her up, she was totally out of it. How could she have gone to the sheriff’s office and had a coherent conversation with the sheriff, and then suddenly be suffering from the effects of whatever drugs Bradley Hoverbrooke had dosed her with?
I’m betting that if Tad Beautington had gone to see the sheriff, and uttered the name Bradley Hoverbrooke, Deputy Sheriff Hoverbrooke would’ve made a display of that hospitality Sheriff Constable’s so proud of. Tad Beautington would’ve been served a nice warm cup of joe, laced with a drug that would’ve made his Saturday afternoon go off with a bang. Suddenly Tad Beautington’s gone from being a respectable member of some community with non-systemic scleroderma to some pill-popping lunatic who “shouldn’t be making accusations in the first place.” Would it have been done with the same drug that Bradley used? Probably. Bought from some medical professional in or around town that’s late on his mortgage and child support payments? Maybe. And does that mean that he’s part of some rape ring? It’s not totally out of the question.
Should I stop thinking in this irritating question-answer format? Affirmative.
One thing’s for sure, Deputy Hoverbrooke’s covering up his son’s little pastime, and doing a pretty good job of it so far. Before one of his son’s victims ran into Old Hancock, at any rate.
I know what you’re thinking, what would’ve happened if “Tad” had mentioned someone else’s name? Oh, then Deputy Hoverbrooke misspoke. “Did I say sheriff earlier on the phone? I meant deputy sheriff.”
I arrive at the motel.
After I’ve parked, I head straight for the reception area, as I don’t know Annabelle’s room number.
“What do you want her room number for?” the receptionist asks upon hearing my request.
“She’s a friend of mine.”
“Then why don’t you give her a call, if she’s a friend of yours?”
“Is that you saying it’s not policy to give out room numbers to strangers?”
She thinks a second. “It is.”
“Then never mind.”
I flash
her a smile and then make my way out of the reception area and follow a sign to the pool. Luckily, Annabelle’s by the side of it, lying on a lounger, her T-shirt pulled up to the bottom of her breasts. She’s working on her tan.
She has her eyes closed, so doesn’t see me approach. I take the lounger next to her.
A couple seconds later, she notices me, says, “You know, if you take your shirt off, you’ll get a tan much quicker that way.”
“Giles Baker doesn’t seem the type for a tan.”
She sits up, glances at me. “Speaking of shirts, Giles Baker looks a little too old to still wear the ones his mom sends him in her care packages.” She thinks a second. “How old are you anyway? Like thirty-two?”
Megan asked me the same question when I met her the first time nine months ago. It stings a little hearing it again, when I think about going to see her when I’m back in Hollywood.
I say, “Close. Thirty-eight.” I pause. “What I don’t get, Annabelle, is how you got so far in so little time. When I picked you up, you were miles from Hickston.”
“I think I hitchhiked. I vaguely remember an RV full of drunk college boys and vomiting on one of them.”
“Nice.”
“So, how’d it go with the sheriff? He see through your bullshit straightaway?”
I lean forward, lowering my head, so she can see the bump there.
“Ouch. So what does the bump mean? That the sheriff’s part of some big conspiracy to cover up rapes in his nice little town?”
“No. The guy you went to see is Bradley’s dad. The deputy.”
“No way!”
“And did you happen to drink a cup of joe while you were there?”
“A green tea, why?”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I was going to say, ‘Because ol’ Deputy Hoverbrooke puts more than cream in his cups of joe.’”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know for sure. That’s why you were so fucked-up when I picked you up.”
I let it soak in.
Then Annabelle says, “I thought I recognized him from my high school days. I think I remember him flirting with my girlfriends.”
