Before leaving Ranger Kenton and Mount Rainier, the agent warned her to have no further communication with Matthew Duncan. If he somehow were to contact her again, she was to say nothing of the agent’s visit nor give him any indication that someone might be on his trail.
Emboldened by his luck, rather than heading north back to Seattle, Agent Westmore drove east from Mount Rainier toward Yakima. It had been a most fruitful morning, and it was a rarity for him to have struck gold so quickly and easily. Matthew Duncan, the agent decided, may have been crafty at escaping from prison, but he’d been foolish to return so openly to his last place of employment. His even bigger blunder was in telling Trish Kenton exactly where he was headed. No matter what sort of friend she was to Matthew Duncan, the agent thought it remarkable that the escapee would not have guessed that a good detective could easily get that information from her.
Filled with pride and self-satisfaction, Agent Westmore drove down the winding canyons away from the park with Takhoma, Mount Rainier, the Snowy Mountain occasionally flashing majestically into his rear-view mirrors. Lost in his excitement and pride, he was in the completely wrong state of mind to take note of a curious phenomenon occurring near him along the highway. A gray and tan bird, with a yellow chest highlighted by a pronounced black V-shape, preceded him down the serpentine canyon, flying easily ahead of him from treetop to treetop. If he could have somehow understood the meaning of the song it occasionally sang, he would have realized his pride over this particular day’s investigative work was greatly misplaced.
Eleven
On Main Street
Approximately twenty-five feet south of the corner of Second Street and Main Street in Cottonwood, Colorado, right in front of Rhonda’s Bridal & Floral, Rebecca D’Arcy and Matthew Duncan finished their prolonged hug. Rebecca was staring into the eyes of the man she thought had been taken from her life forever and hoping this wasn’t another dream from which she was about to awaken. Matthew was staring into the eyes of the woman he’d thought about continuously for three years. At that moment, their silent communion was broken by the sound of footsteps nearby. It was Marlene Anders, administrative assistant for the Cottonwood Sheriff’s Department.
“Rebecca,” Marlene said, “my car has totally died! All the cars and trucks are dead! What on earth do you think is going on?”
“I have no idea,” said Rebecca, looking over toward Matthew. “Matthew and I were just talking about how quiet it was while we were listening to the meadowlarks.”
“Meadowlarks?” said Marlene. “Uh…that’s real nice and all, but I just want to know why my…” Her voice then trailed off as she looked back at Matthew. “Wait a second. Matthew? Are you Matt Duncan?”
Matthew smiled kindly at her and nodded his head. “I am. Hello, Marlene.”
“I thought you looked familiar!” exclaimed Marlene as she stepped closer and gave Matthew a warm hug. “My, how you’ve grown up! I barely recognized you. How long has it been?”
“Just a little more than twelve years,” said Matthew.
“And when did you get back?”
“Just a little while ago, in fact.”
“Well, you picked a fine time for it,” replied Marlene, looking back toward her stalled car along with all the other stalled vehicles scattered up and down Main Street.
“I suppose it was a fine time for it,” said Matthew. “The perfect time, actually. I’m moving back to Cottonwood.” He looked at Rebecca as he said this, and she responded with a smile and quizzical stare.
“That’s so wonderful!” said Marlene. “But what do you plan on doing for work? Good jobs are pretty scarce around here…but from the looks of things,” she added as she glanced back toward the street, “we could use some good mechanics.”
“I don’t think they need mechanics. Those cars aren’t broken,” said Matthew plainly.
“They’re not?” asked Marlene.
“Nope. They’d function exactly as they were designed to, under the right conditions.”
Marlene and Rebecca both stared at Matthew.
“Really?” Marlene finally said. “That’s kind of an odd thing to say. What do you mean by that—the ‘right conditions?’”
“There’s nothing wrong with them—it’s the conditions that have changed, that’s all.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Marlene. “You mean a weather front or something is moving in? You think that’s caused all these cars to stall? I never heard of such a thing before!”
Matthew smiled. “No, not exactly the weather, Marlene.” He glanced at Rebecca and then back to Marlene. “Let’s just call it ‘conditions.’ That’s close enough, I think.”
Marlene squinted at Matthew. She paused a moment and said, “Conditions or not, how do we get them to run again?”
“I suspect you won’t,” replied Matthew.
“Won’t!” exclaimed Marlene. “Are they permanently damaged?”
Matthew looked at Rebecca and then back toward Marlene. “I don’t want to upset you Marlene—so let me assure you once more that there is nothing wrong with your car. It just won’t be working around here.”
Marlene seemed not to know how to respond, and as Rebecca watched her, she wasn’t sure she could do any better. Matthew’s curious words and nonchalant certainty were puzzling to her as well.
Finally, Marlene blurted out, “Well, you seem so certain of what you’re saying—so what’s the cause then? It sounds like you know what’s happened. Explain it to me. What has caused this?!”
“Things never have a single cause,” said Matthew. “We always want to look at the second to the last domino in the chain that falls and knocks down the last one and claim it was the cause. But the second to the last domino is not the cause, but only the final agent in a series of causes. Everything in that chain caused the last to fall, just as everything caused the traffic to stall.”
Marlene shook her head. “That’s interesting…but I’m just not sure I really follow you, Matthew. I don’t know about dominoes—all I want is to get my car running again. That’s it.”
“Understandable,” said Matthew, “very understandable. I’m sure that will be on the top of everybody’s mind here for at least a little while.”
“So you think this is going to last a while?” asked Rebecca, looking closely at Matthew. Marlene was also eager for his reply.
At that moment, the meadowlark’s song could once more be clearly heard.
“Well, I’m not totally proficient in meadowlark language,” said Matthew, “but from what I can tell, he’s thrilled and is enjoying the newly found silence here in Cottonwood. If the conditions stay right, yes, I think this could last a good long while. It’s pleasing to the little meadowlark.”
Both ladies stared at him and then at each other.
Matthew looked at Marlene. “Well,” he said to her, “it’s nice to see you again. I’ve been on the road for a very long time and really need to go and get myself cleaned up. I need a good bath.” He then turned to Rebecca. “I hope we can get together later, Rebecca, and continue our conversation.”
Rebecca only nodded and smiled—disappointed he was leaving so suddenly, but at a loss for words.
Matthew returned her smile and walked away, heading toward the corner of Second and Main Street. Rebecca and Marlene watched him without saying a word and trying to be inconspicuous. He turned right and headed across Main Street, following Second Street toward the east, until he disappeared from sight behind Masterson’s Drugstore.
When Matthew was out of sight, Marlene turned to Rebecca and said, “What in the world was he talking about, Rebecca? Dominoes and meadowlarks?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Rebecca, glancing over to the empty sidewalk where she’d last seen Matthew walking. “He confused me as well.”
Marlene looked at Rebecca. “Actually, you do look a bit pale, honey. You might want to get in out of the sun.”
“Maybe I’d better,” said Rebecca, smiling
.
“And I need to figure out what to do about my car,” added Marlene as she headed back toward it.
In a half daze, Rebecca left Marlene and headed back toward Irma’s Quilt & Sew. As she walked down Main Street, she passed stalled-out cars, trucks, motorcycles, and vans. Some of the motorists were talking excitedly amongst themselves. She recognized many of them as locals, and others were strangers just passing through Cottonwood.
Back at Irma’s, she found her mother still inside with the other ladies. From the way they stopped talking and stared at her as she walked in, she was pretty sure she knew what the topic of their conversation had been.
“Well? Was it him?” asked Diane D’Arcy as she and the other ladies paused their work to wait for the answer.
“Yes,” said Rebecca. “It was.”
Diane stared at Rebecca, waiting for more. “And so?”
“And so I think I’m going to head for home now,” Rebecca replied as she picked up her quilting things and smiled at the group. She felt the silent looks darting between the hens, but she ignored them.
Diane also began picking up her things. “I guess I’m done for today as well,” she said, finally joining her daughter near the door.
Rebecca turned back toward the group before exiting. “Oh, by the way, ladies,” she said, “you may want to drop what you’re doing for a moment and take a look outside. Seems we’ve got a little issue with traffic here in Cottonwood. It’s probably far more interesting than other things you’ve discussed today.”
Outside on the street, after Diane’s initial puzzlement over the stalled traffic had subsided, Rebecca felt ready to talk to her mother.
“It was like some kind of dream,” Rebecca said as they walked slowly along. “I still don’t feel quite back in reality.”
“Tell me everything!” said Diane. “What did he say? Where has he been, why is he back, and why in God’s name hasn’t he ever contacted you?!”
Rebecca looked at her intently. “This has to stay between us,” she said finally. “I want to share it with you only.”
In all their years together, Diane had never let a confidence out when Rebecca made a point of asking for it to be kept private. Their bond of trust was strong, and Rebecca had come to rely on her mother as a sounding board. The need and respect were mutual. Some things were only between a mother and daughter, forever.
Rebecca told her mother almost everything—how they’d kissed and how her old feelings for Matthew were as strong as ever. She even told her mother about his time in the hospital and leaving his job as a ranger—but not about his time in prison. Diane had lots of questions she wanted to ask but held her tongue and let her daughter do most of the talking.
As she walked along and spoke of Matthew, Rebecca frequently looked down the street, expecting him to suddenly appear again. The only other detail she left out in talking with her mother was the very strong hint Matthew had made about marriage. It was a detail she was not yet ready to fully contemplate or accept—but even in that avoidance, as she and her mother walked together, she felt the trembling energy of her heart, full of a renewed fire and anticipation. The full realization grew in her that she wasn’t dreaming, that Matthew was home, and that conditions had truly and suddenly changed for her life. The strange stoppage of traffic in Cottonwood didn’t matter to her at that moment, for all she could think about was the next time she would see Matthew.
Twelve
Sheriff John O’Neil
If there was one person who could be said to hold the very pulse of Cottonwood in his hands, it was Sheriff John O’Neil. He had been sheriff for nearly two decades, and prior to that, his father and grandfather had held the position. The O’Neil family represented more than half a century of law enforcement in Cottonwood.
John O’Neil felt it was part of his job to know as much about what was going on in the town as possible. It wasn’t as though he went looking for juicy gossip, but he had learned over the years that potentially useful information could often be gleaned from the most unlikely sources. He learned that all information could potentially be useful, and so, few activities of public significance in Cottonwood ever escaped the ever- watchful eye of Sheriff John O’Neil.
There was actually very little that could be considered real crime in Cottonwood. In fact, Cottonwood’s crime rate was the lowest per capita in the entire state for towns of similar populations. John O’Neil would like to think he had some hand in creating that favorable statistic. That personal pride may have had some basis in fact, but in reality, Cottonwood was just a sleepy, little, slowly dying town where not much happened. In over a century of town history, there had only been two homicides, a handful of serious crimes such as rape and assault, and the usual spates of burglaries, domestic arguments, and public drunkenness. Many of these crimes were committed by drifters passing through the area. Though John O’Neil was a dedicated sheriff and deserved the admiration of the town, some small town like Cottonwood had to have the lowest crime rate in Colorado, and Cottonwood was as likely as any to be so fortunate.
Sheriff O’Neil was sitting in his office enjoying a large hamburger and shake when he heard Marlene Anders come back into the main office. He looked at his watch and noted that she was returning from lunch much earlier than usual. He knew her normal routine was to drive home for lunch, taking at least a full hour and often a little more. This time, she arrived back barely twenty minutes after she’d left.
“Sheriff,” she said loudly as she came into the front office, “you’d better come out here!”
Carrying his shake and hamburger with him, he stepped into the main office. “What’s going on?” he asked, the words muffled by the chewing of meat and hamburger bun.
Turning from the sheriff and heading toward the front door, Marlene said, “All the traffic has died!”
Marlene rushed outside, and the sheriff followed behind. He looked up and down Main Street and then took a bite of hamburger and kept chewing while staring for a few moments at the stalled traffic. A few dozen vehicles were simply parked in the middle of the street where they had stalled out. Some had their hoods up, and a few people were bent over looking down inside their engine compartments.
“Weird,” he finally said to Marlene after he finished chewing and used the nail on his forefinger to pick out a small piece of gristle from between his front teeth. “When did all this happen?”
“I’d say about ten or fifteen minutes ago,” she replied. “My car is right over there,” she added, pointing down the street toward Second Street.
The sheriff took a sip of his shake and walked down the stairs from the front door of the office to a patrol car parked on the street. He unlocked it and got in. He turned the key and was greeted with absolute silence. He turned the key a second and a third time, with the same results. He took a sip of his shake and then got out and walked back up the stairs to where Marlene was still standing.
“Damn weird,” said the sheriff.
“What do you think has happened?” she asked.
“Dunno. I’m no mechanic. For something like this to happen to all these cars…well, it’s just damn weird.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Marlene.
“Dunno yet,” replied the sheriff, followed by a slurp of shake.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I didn’t get my lunch,” Marlene said.
“Well, go ahead if you’re hungry,” said the sheriff. “Shakes are good today at Tasty Burger. Nice and thick,” he added, taking a long final sip of his shake until making a sucking sound on the bottom of the cup.
“Thanks, I think maybe I’ll just walk down to Ernie’s,” she said as she started down the stairs. When Marlene got to the last stair, she turned and looked up at the sheriff. “Oh, by the way,” she said, “you’ll never believe who’s back in town—Matt Duncan. I saw him when I was walking back here. You remember him, right?”
“Sure, I remember him,” said the sheriff. “Played ball with my son—one
hell of a great arm. Always used to go flyin’ down this street on his bike, and I’d have to yell at him to slow down. What’s he doin’ back in town?”
“Don’t know,” said Marlene. “He was just talking with Rebecca D’Arcy. I think he said he was going to move back here or something like that. He’s grown up into a fine-looking man, but a little odd, too, I think.”
Anytime he heard that something was “odd” or “strange” or “unusual,” Sheriff O’Neil’s ears perked up. Like any good lawman, he had special radar for when those kinds of words were used. They often meant nothing, but they could also mean trouble.
“What do you mean by odd?” asked the sheriff.
“Oh, I don’t know. He was just sort of talking funny. We were talking about the cars and trucks stalling out, and he started saying odd stuff about the conditions being just right and then something about dominoes. Maybe it was just me, but I thought he sounded a little touched, if you know what I mean.”
The sheriff had taken the lid off his shake and was looking down into the empty cup just to make sure there wasn’t any stuck to the side. He pulled out the straw and licked the end. “Well, thanks for that information,” he said to Marlene. “You go get yourself some lunch now.”
Sheriff O’Neil prided himself on what he called his “cop sense.” His wife had actually coined the phrase. She would say things like, “What does your ‘cop sense’ tell you?” or “Just use your ‘cop sense’ to solve it,” whenever he was mulling over a problem or trying to solve what little crime Cottonwood had. Right now, as he stood looking at the stalled-out cars, trucks, and motorcycles on his town’s major street, his cop sense was beginning to tell him that there was a storm brewing just on the horizon for Cottonwood. He couldn’t quite define the outline of that storm just yet, but he knew that along with his new concern about the “odd” cessation of traffic now in front of him, he also needed to keep an eye out for the apparently “odd” Matthew Duncan.
Touching Cottonwood Page 9
