“The same ones?”
“I had a new one last night,” Weber said. “I was walking down the sidewalk and I felt someone touch my shoulder. I turned around and it was Steve Rafferty. He had this look on his face, kind of a smirk, and he asked me how long it was going to be before I ate the gun.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing. I woke up.”
“And?” Molly asked.
“And what?”
“Let's not beat around the bush, Jimmy. Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”
“No, I'm not,” Weber assured her. “That's one thing I can promise you. I may be screwed up six ways to Sunday, but I am not suicidal.”
“That's good to know,” Molly said. “That would really piss me off, you know.”
“Don't worry,” Weber told her. “I'm depressed. I can't sleep. I'm still having nightmares. But I'm not going to check out on you.”
“That's good to know,” Molly told him. “It’s a small town, and having my patients off themselves isn't good for my reputation. Besides, I need the business.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Weber told her. “Here I thought you cared about me, and it's just your damn practice.”
They both chuckled comfortably and then Molly asked, “Really Jimmy. How are you?”
“Well, I’m seeing a shrink. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me you have a problem, and that you are doing something positive about it.”
“There are those who might say I’m nuts.”
“There were those who said Columbus was going to sail off the edge of the world, too.”
“I know a bunch of Indians who wish he would have,” Weber said.
Molly smiled, then told him, “I don’t think you’re a man who gives a rat’s ass what other people think of him anyway, Jimmy.”
Weber ran his hands through his dark hair and then massaged the back of his neck. He was silent for a moment, then asked, “When does it go away, Molly?”
“It never goes away, Jimmy. You know that. We can’t erase the past, but we we can give you the tools to better cope with the experiences you’ve gone through.”
“Yeah, about those tools. I’m not sure they’re working all that well.”
Molly slid into the rocking chair she favored when meeting with her patients and said, “Well, let’s see, are you drinking?”
“A beer now and then. No booze. I know I can’t handle the hard stuff. I limit myself to two beers, no more.”
“Have you been drunk?”
“No.”
“And Robyn’s back?”
“Yeah. She graduated from the academy and is now a full-fledged deputy.”
“And how’s your relationship with her, Jimmy?”
“It’s complicated. We’re both cautiously optimistic, I’d say.”
“Are you sleeping together?”
“No, not since the night before she left for the academy.”
“So let’s recap. Your sister murdered two people and was responsible for the murder of a third; you broke the case and she’s sitting in prison. The day she pled guilty to avoid a trial and the death penalty, you went on a binge that lasted what… a month? Six weeks? But you’re clean and sober now, except for an occasional beer.
“You had a fling with a woman you care deeply for; you screwed it up with your drinking, and you’ve since owned that and now the two of you seem to be working on rebuilding your relationship.
“Three months ago you shot a young man to death. That shooting was ruled justifiable. You’re suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome and dealing with a lot of guilt. But you’re not drinking? You’re not suicidal?”
“No. I’m coping the best I can.”
“Well, Jimmy,” Molly said. “You’re not drinking. You’re not suicidal. You’re moving forward with your relationship with Robyn. I don’t know, I’m just a humble psychologist with a PhD from a major university, but it seems to me like those tools just might be working after all!”
“I hate it when you’re right. Did I ever tell you that, Molly?”
She laughed and settled back into her chair and picked up a shawl she was knitting. The needles clicked as she rocked and studied the man sitting across from her. At 5’10” and 170 pounds, Jim Weber was a good looking man, though handsome might be a stretch in describing him. His nose had been broken twice and was slightly off center, and a lifetime of working out of doors had left tiny crow’s feet around his eyes. But even though he was dealing with a good deal of stress and tragedy in his life, the man’s natural good humor showed through in his brown eyes.
“Have you been back inside the house yet?”
Weber shook his head. “I’m not ready for that yet. Is that bad?”
“There’s no timetable, Jimmy. There is no good or bad. There is just what’s right or wrong for you, when you’re ready for it.”
“For the first three months I went out of my way to avoid even driving by the place. I’d feel sick every time I got within a mile of it. I’m past that, and after we talked last week, I finally pulled into the driveway and just sat there. I couldn’t get out and walk around, but that’s a start. Right?”
“It’s a good start. Like I said, there is no schedule.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Weber said. “It’s just a house. An empty house. Why am I afraid of being there?”
“Maybe the empty house symbolizes the emptiness you feel in your life with all that has happened?” Molly suggested. “You and Debbie grew up in that house and she and Mike lived there until she convinced Phil Johnson to kill Mike and help her rob the armored car. So maybe it’s become the symbol of all that you’ve lost?”
Weber didn’t say anything, so she asked, “Have you been out to the Rafferty place?”
“Yeah, a couple of times.”
“And?”
“And nothing. It’s just a place. A deserted farm.”
“No flashbacks of you shooting Steve Rafferty while you were there? No ghosts calling your name?”
“No. Nothing. Just an abandoned farm.”
“That’s good,” Molly told him. “At least we’ve established that you’re not afraid of all empty houses. You just have an issue with one empty house in particular.”
“Damn, that PhD really comes in handy, doesn’t it Molly?”
She smiled, then asked, “So what’s your game plan for this week, Jimmy?”
“I don’t know,” Weber said, shrugging his shoulders. “Do I always have to have a game plan? Can’t I just roll with the flow and take it as it comes?”
“You tell me, Jimmy. Can you just go with the flow and take it as it comes? If you can, why are you here?”
“I hate it when you’re right,” Weber repeated.
“Well, get used to it my friend,” Molly said, setting her knitting aside. “So what’s your plan?”
“I think I should go back to the house. See if I can do that without breaking into a sweat. Who knows? Maybe I can even get up on the porch one of these days.”
“That would be a good thing,” Molly said, standing up. “I’d like to see that, Jimmy.”
He stood up too, then reached behind his right hip and adjusted the semi-automatic pistol that rode in a Don Hume inside-the-pants holster under his shirt.
“How’s the new gun working out for you, Jimmy?”
“It’s a good weapon. I like it.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“In pieces at the bottom of Big Lake.”
“So you really did it?”
“Yeah. Is that crazy?”
“Is it crazy to cut up a perfectly good, very expensive pistol and drop it into a lake? Well, I know some of your gun nut pals would say yes. But is it crazy to destroy something that haunts you and dispose of it as you seek closure? As your shrink, my question would be, did it help?”
“I know the gun was only a tool,” Weber said. “The gun didn’t kill Steve Rafferty, I killed him. And I know
I had no choice, I had to do it. But every time I looked at it, I wanted to throw up. I don’t know, out of sight, out of mind?”
“Let me ask you this. If, heaven forbid, you had to pull out that pistol you have in your belt and use it against another human being today, could you, Jimmy?”
Weber looked up at the ceiling for a long time, and when he lowered his eyes to Molly’s face, he said, “I’ve asked myself that a thousand times. To be honest with you, I have no idea. And as a cop, that worries me.”
Molly patted his arm, then said, “As a citizen and as your friend, it worries me too, Jimmy.”
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t happen,” Weber told her, just as his cell phone started ringing with the special tone he had set up for emergency calls from his office. He pulled it out and pressed the Send button, then said, “It’s Jimmy.”
“Sheriff, I know it’s your day off, but we really need you out on Rawhide Trail,” said Kate Copley, his newest dispatcher, “Harley Willits just caved Arnold Foster’s head in with a shovel, and now he’s barricaded himself inside his house with a shotgun!”
Chapter 2
The powerful Corvette motor that Weber had installed in the restored pickup ate up the 25 miles between Molly’s office in Springerville and the little mountain town of Big Lake. The truck’s stiff suspension handled the curves with ease as he climbed in elevation from 7,000 feet to over 9,000 feet in elevation. A time or two the sheriff came upon slow moving vehicles, and when he did, he activated the flashing red and blue lights he had installed inside the truck’s grill and turned on the siren as he passed. One driver, behind the wheel of a small Winnebago motorhome, stared open-mouthed as the antique truck roared past him with its siren screaming.
Approaching Big Lake from the east, Weber stayed on the main highway instead of taking the business loop through town. He turned left onto Quail Run Road, a narrow secondary road that took him past a couple of small campgrounds and a scattering of summer homes where people from Tucson and Phoenix came to escape the blistering desert heat.
A mile later he came to a small neighborhood of older homes and turned right onto Rawhide Trail. The road was blocked by a white police car with the Big Lake Sheriff’s gold decals on the doors. Weber left his truck on the side of the road and walked over to the large, unkempt deputy standing next to the car eating a candy bar.
“What’s happening, Archer?”
Chewing with his mouth open, Archer Wingate said, “Not much, Jimmy. Chad told me to park here and not let anybody past.”
Weber took a step backward to be out of range of the bits of chocolate and caramel Archer expelled as he talked, and asked, “Have there been any shot’s fired?”
“Not here, Jimmy. I haven’t touched my gun.”
“I didn’t mean here, Archer. Have there been any shots fired up the street?”
“Oh, yeah. A couple, I guess.”
Long experience with his dense deputy had taught Weber that getting irritated with Archer was a waste of time and energy, so he stepped past him and started toward the cluster of emergency vehicles a block up the street.
“Ahh…., Jimmy?”
Weber stopped and turned back to Archer, who was just putting the last of the candy bar into his mouth. “What, Archer?”
“Ahhh… I don’t think you’re supposed to go up there. Chad told me not to let anybody past me.”
“I don’t think he meant me, Archer. I think he meant any civilians.”
“I don’t know,” Archer said, as he swallowed the last of his candy bar. “Chad was pretty specific. He said anybody.”
“You do know that I’m the sheriff, right, Archer? That I’m your boss and Chad’s boss too.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I think it will be okay.”
“Maybe I should call Chad first? Just to be sure, okay? That’s official business, right? ’Cause remember last month, when I got in trouble for using the radio to ask Judy if there was any toilet paper in the bathroom, ’cause we was out? You told me that the radios was for official business only, and I said toilet paper for the office was for official use, and then you told me it wasn’t, and to never use the radio again unless it was for real official business, and then….”
Archer was still trying to figure out what was and what wasn’t official business when Weber left him and walked up the block to where Deputies Chad Summers and Dolan Reed stood behind Chad’s Crown Victoria.
Chad nodded and said, “Sorry to drag you out here on your day off, Jimmy. But we can’t get that stubborn old coot to talk to us or come out.”
“Bring me up to date,” Weber said.
“Apparently Harley and Arnold got into a fight over Arnold’s dog crapping on Harley’s lawn. I don’t know all the details, but it ended up with Harley hitting Arnold upside the head with a shovel. Then he went inside his house and won’t come out. When we got here, he stuck his shotgun out the window and popped a couple of rounds off into the air and told us to stay away.”
“Anybody hit?” Weber asked.
“Naaa... it was just birdshot and he wasn’t aiming at us. He wasn’t trying to hurt anybody, he was just making a statement.”
“What about Arnold? Where’s he?”
Chad nodded his head up the block toward an ambulance that sat with its back doors open. “It looked a lot worse than it was. Harley cut his ear when he hit him and you know they bleed like hell. When his wife saw him, she thought he was dead. When she called 911 she sure made it sound that way. But he walked up to the ambulance under his own power.”
“Is there anybody in the house with Harley?”
“Sylvia’s in there, I could hear them arguing. But that’s nothing new, I’ve seen them fuss and fight in church.”
“Okay, let me go check on Arnold. Who else do we have here?”
“Tommy’s around back and Wyatt Earp is running around here somewhere in his cammies with his rifle.”
“I’m more scared of him than I am of Harley,” Dolan Reed said.
Wyatt Earp was one of two new deputies added to the Big Lake Sheriff’s Office, thanks to government grant money. The other new deputy was Robyn Fuchette, who had worked as a dispatcher for two years and was Weber’s on again, off again lover. The new man’s name was actually Wyatt Trask, but his gung ho attitude and eagerness to prove how macho he was had quickly earned him the nickname of the legendary Old West lawman.
Wyatt had come highly recommended from police chief in the small town down in southern Arizona where he had last worked. But Weber had a growing suspicion that the reference was based more upon an eagerness to find a problem child a new home rather than true merit. Weber had rushed to fill the open deputy slot while his head was still reeling from the shooting of Steve Rafferty. He had a bad feeling that he was going to regret hiring Wyatt.
***
Rusty Heinz looked up from his patient and nodded at the sheriff as Weber climbed into the back of the ambulance.
“How’s he doing?”
Before the paramedic could answer, Arnold Foster pulled the thick gauze pad he was holding to the side of his face away and shouted, “How am I doing? You take a look and tell me how I’m doing, Sheriff. That crazy old bastard almost killed me!”
Weber agreed that it looked bad, but was pretty sure his injuries weren’t nearly as life threatening as Arnold thought they were. One side of his face was covered in blood, which still oozed from his torn ear, but otherwise the man looked okay.
“Vitals are okay,” Rusty told Weber. “He’ll need a couple of stitches and I imagine Doc Johnson will want an x-ray of his head just to be sure there’s no concussion or anything. But that’s it.”
“So what started all of this?” Weber asked.
“What started it? What started it? I’ll tell you what started it! That lunatic dumped a pile of dog shit on my brand new truck, that’s what started it! And then he attacked me with a shovel! He needs to be locked up before he kills somebody.”
�
�Somebody said he was mad about your dog crapping in his front yard. What’s that all about?” Weber asked.
“Hey, dogs do what dogs do,” Arnold said. “Christ! Like I told that idiot, it’s biodegradable!”
“Okay, now did you hit Harley first or threaten him in any way before he hit you?”
“No! All I did was ask him what the hell he was doing vandalizing my truck and he just went wild!”
“Aren’t you guys kinfolk?” Weber asked.
“I’m not related to that idiot in any way,” Arnold declared. “And I wouldn’t want to be!”
“I thought your wife and his were sisters.”
“That doesn’t make us related. Not blood, anyway.”
“Okay, you wait here,” Weber said as he climbed back out of the ambulance. Rusty went with Weber and said, “He wants me to transport him, but I thought I’d better wait and see if anybody else needs help.”
“Harley’s a mean old cuss,” Weber said, “but I don’t think he’ll actually hurt anybody. But you’d better stick around, just in case. Who knows, Archer might choke on a marshmallow or something.”
***
As Weber walked back toward his waiting deputies, he was startled when a camouflaged figure rose up from the bushes at the side of the road and saluted.
“I’ve got a clear shot at the target,” said Wyatt Earp. “Just give me the green light, boss.”
“Damn, Wyatt! Don’t do that! I thought you were one of these magical trees come to life from the Wizard of Oz. You about gave me a heart attack.”
“Just taking care of business, Sheriff. Like I said, I’m ready any time you give me the green light.”
Weber looked at the deputy, his face and hands covered with camo paint, and he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before something bad happened. He made himself a mental note to deal with Wyatt as soon as possible.
“Nobody’s giving anybody a green light. And nobody’s getting shot out here today. Have you got that, Wyatt? All we’ve got here is a cranky old fart involved in an ongoing family squabble that just got a little out of hand. I’ll get him calmed down and we’ll all go home in one piece, okay?”
“Well just in case, I’ve got a clear field of fire and I’m ready,” the deputy said, patting the scoped AR-15 rifle he held at port arms.
9 More Killer Thrillers Page 158
