by Mark Reps
“Doc, that shot you gave him made him a little goofy, so I gave him a little good morning cactus juice to straighten him up. I figured the sheriff would want to have a word or two with him. Fella’ says his name is Billy Joe Thomas. Operates his rig out of Yuma.”
“Thanks, George.”
“Billy Joe, my name is Sheriff Hanks. You already met Doc Yackley.”
“Sheriff Hanks, pleased to meet you. Doctor Yackley, whatever you gave me sure helped to calm down my jits.”
“I’m glad it helped,” smiled Doc. “It’s been a rough day for you.”
“You can say that again.”
A wave of pity came over Zeb. He knew that killing a man, even accidentally, was a shocking burden that would lessen with time but never go away.
“I need to go over a few things with you,” began the sheriff, “for my official report. You feel like talking?”
“I suppose. It’s gotta be done sooner or later.”
At the mention of the accident, the trucker increased his nervous swaying.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened,” said the sheriff.
“I wasn’t speeding. And I wasn’t over on my driving time. You can go right ahead and check my log. I swear I wasn’t even tired.”
“Uh-huh. Go ahead and tell me what happened,” said the sheriff.
“There’s not much to say really. It was so weird. It was almost like it happened in slow motion. At first I thought I was seeing things. You would have too. I mean it isn’t every day you see something like that.”
“What did you see?”
“I was heading west on three-six-six, doing about sixty three, sixty four miles per hour, not so fast that I didn’t have complete control of my rig. Anyway back up that way…”
The trucker weakly lifted a shaky arm and pointed down the road.
“…where the highway begins to rise up a coyote scampered across the road. I watched him skulk off into the desert. I remember thinking the little critter looked mighty scruffy. When I looked back up, right over there where the road peaks and then goes down into that little depression, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. At first I couldn’t believe I was seeing what I was seeing. It didn’t make any sense in my mind. Right there in the middle of the road was a man dressed all in black.”
The trucker became mute as he stared at the accident site.
“Pardon me, Sheriff, but I was seeing it all over again. The man was dressed all in black except for a white collar around his neck. I think it was a white collar. Time slowed down. It was crazy. He was sitting in a rocking chair, smack dab in the middle of the road. Can you believe it? How does something like that come to be?”
The trucker sipped from the coffee cup cradled gingerly in his unsteady hands. His head tipped forward after taking a drink. He began to weep softly.
“There was nothing I could do. There wasn’t time to swerve. I tried to turn out of the way, but it was too late.” The driver paused as tears welled in his eyes and his voice became a choked rasp. “I hit him with my right front bumper. He flipped right out of the chair and came flying through the air. His face smashed against my windshield. The whole thing seemed like it was happening to somebody else. It was like I was watching a movie.”
Grumpy Halvorson whispered under his breath. “Jesus.”
“Just take your time,” said the sheriff. “I know it’s difficult.”
“Thank you,” said the trembling man. “Like I said, the whole darn thing happened in slow motion. That’s how come I can remember it so good. When he came crashing in against my windshield, he just stopped there, pressed up against the window. I didn’t want to look because his face was all mangled and twisted. But I couldn’t help it. I had to look.”
The sheriff, Doc and Grumpy remained quiet as the man took a moment to regain his composure.
“His arm was crunched up under his chest. He was holding onto a book. I could even read the words on the cover. HOLY BIBLE. That’s right. He was holding a Bible in his hands. What with the Bible and the black clothes and his collar, I knew he was a priest. It’s got to be some kind of an omen.”
The trucker’s face carried the fearful, forlorn grimace of a condemned man.
“Take it easy there, Billy Joe. No one here is passing any kind of judgment on you.”
Sheriff Hanks’ reassurance seemed to ease the trucker’s angst.
“I’m a good man. I don’t go to church regularly. I used to be a good Catholic, but I gave it up to become a real Christian. I know I’m going right to hell for killing a priest. No two ways about it. Everybody knows you go straight to hell when you kill a priest. It’s one of God’s most basic laws.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” interrupted the doctor. “Try not to torture your mind with it.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m a condemned man.”
“Just try and take it easy,” said Doc.
“I can’t take it easy because it’s what happened next that really freaked me out and made me realize it was the work of the devil.”
“What was that?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“The priest kept a hold on that Bible like he couldn’t let go even in death. His face was up against the glass right there in front of my eyes for what seemed like an eternity. And the Good Book, there it was, still clenched in his grip. I think I hit a pot hole then or slammed on my air breaks or something and whammo, he goes flyin’ off the windshield…and then…”
Some unspoken thought caused the man to begin sobbing hysterically. Grumpy handed him some Kleenex.
“Take your time,” the sheriff counseled.
“…I got so scared that I put Old Betsy in the ditch.”
“Old Betsy?”
“My rig is my Betsy. I named her after my grandmother.”
“I think we ought to leave him be for a while.”
Sheriff Hanks knew by the tone of Doc’s voice that this suggestion fell under the category of doctor’s orders.
“Why don’t you get a room at the Trails West Motel? Call your family. Get some rest. My deputy will give you a ride over there.”
“Thank you,” muttered the trucker, holding his head in his hands.
“I’ll stop by later after you’ve had some time to rest. If you think of anything else, tell me then or give me a call.”
Sheriff Hanks handed the man his business card.
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Sheriff. It was an accident, honest.”
“Tell him, Zeb. So his mind can rest,” said Doc Yackley.
“Tell me what?” asked the bewildered trucker.
“If what you’re telling me is the truth, and at this time I don’t have any reason to believe you aren’t, his death wasn’t your fault.”
“What? Of course it was my fault. I killed him.”
Sheriff Hanks placed his hand on the confused trucker’s shoulder.
“I’m fairly certain we’re going to rule Father McNamara’s death a suicide.”
“A priest can’t commit suicide,” said the trucker. “It’s a mortal sin.”
“I’m afraid this one did,” said the sheriff.
“Does the priest have any family nearby?”
“A lot of friends, a good lot of parishioners, but not any relatives that I know of,” said the sheriff.
On the road back to town, a quarter mile or so from the death scene, early rays of sunshine glinted off something just to the side of the road. It took Sheriff Hanks about five seconds to recognize the abandoned station wagon that belonged to the dead priest. He examined it briefly and called for a tow truck to haul it to Zip’s garage where it could be looked over more closely.
Chapter Four
“Good afternoon, Jake.”
“Helen, you’re looking as lovely as always. You still hitchin’ your pony to the same old wagon?”
Helen Nazelrod, secretary extraordinaire to Sheriff Hanks, blushed needlessly at her old boss, former sheriff Jake Dablo’s kiddi
ng compliment.
“Of course I am, Jake, you know that,” she said. “Thirty one years and still going strong.”
“Well if things ever change, be sure and let me know.”
“You’ll be the first to know, I assure you,” said Helen. “Other than your usual nonsense what brings you around the sheriff’s office? You’re not looking for your old job back, are you?”
“No, nothing like that,” laughed Jake. “I’ve got my hands full working with the county these days. Between the planning commission and shaking dice over at the Town Talk, I hardly have any time left over for myself.”
“Well, I’m sure we could always find a position for you around here if you’re ever looking for real work.”
“Thanks, Helen. I’ll keep it in mind. Is the sheriff in?”
“He’s pretending to do some paperwork that I already did for him,” said Helen. “Go right in. I doubt you’ll interrupt his concentration.”
Helen and Jake exchanged winks as the former lawman strolled into the familiar surroundings of what had been his office a decade earlier.
“Top of the morning, Jake.”
“Zeb, you look a little boxed in behind that desk. Buried in paperwork, eh?”
“Up to my eye teeth in it. Have a seat. I can use the break.”
Zeb pointed to a timeworn chair directly across from his desk.
“You know I always liked this old thing, but I don’t think I ever had an opportunity to sit in it back when I was sheriff.”
Jake patted the soft leather of the oversized chair as he made himself comfortable.
“Shouldn’t you be out fishing or something on a fine day like this?” asked Zeb.
“People go fishing to escape,” said Jake. “I don’t have much I need to get away from these days.”
“So what brings you around then? Is this a social visit or is something on your mind?”
“That’s a good way of putting it. I guess you could say that something is sort of on my mind. It’s something I think you ought to know about. It’s probably nothing, but, then again, it might be something.”
“Spit it out, Jake. I’m all ears.” Jake smiled at the self-deprecation. Zeb did have ears that stuck out a bit more than most.
“Like I said, maybe it’s something and maybe it’s not. It’s just one of those things I have a funny feeling about. Nothing I can pinpoint exactly.”
“It’s not like you to beat around the bush, Jake. What’s this got to do with?”
“The county planning commission,” replied Jake.
“How do you like being a bureaucrat, anyway?”
“The job isn’t so bad. It keeps me up on what’s happening in the area, but it does seem to be taking a lot more of my time than I thought it might.”
“That right there is a reason to go fishing.”
Jake’s failure to laugh at his little joke told Zeb something serious was on his former mentor’s mind. Zeb put his paperwork down, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
“So what’s up? State rules and regs getting to you? Or is old man Farrell driving you nuts?” asked Zeb.
“Farrell has his ways. He’s a bit on the secretive side. He operates a bit differently than most other folks do.”
“A bit underhanded from what I hear,” said Zeb. “Even maybe what you might call shifty?”
“Crafty might be a better word for it,” said Jake.
The men exchanged knowing smiles through poker faces.
“So what’s up?” asked the sheriff.
“The planning commission has a meeting tonight.”
“Nothing unusual about that, is there?”
“Normally I would say, no, there isn’t. But this is a different situation.”
“How so?”
“Our scheduled meeting is on the first Thursday of every month.”
“Just like clockwork,” said Zeb. “Like the good public servants you are.”
Around Graham County people made no bones about their belief that the job of the planning commissioner was little more than a rubber stamp for the county, or worse, for businesses that profited at the expense of the citizens or the environment. The negative attitude mostly had to do with real estate developers who had nothing but a quick buck on their mind. Locals had more than once seen scam artists buy up huge chunks of worthless desert land and resell it in parcels to unsuspecting dupes right under the noses of the commission. Jake had volunteered for the commission knowing it would be an uphill battle to make it a dignified organization.
“You said it. Like clockwork, always like clockwork,” said Jake. “That’s why this seems odd to me. Tonight’s the fourth Tuesday of the month. John Farrell called me last night to tell me about it.”
“I guess he’s got the right to call a meeting if he wants to. After all, he is the chairman.”
“Yes, he is, and that’s all well and good. But when he called, he specifically asked me not to mention the meeting to anyone.”
“Has he ever asked you to keep mum before?”
“Never.”
“Did he say why he wanted to meet tonight?”
“No, he didn’t, and the whole damn thing smells rotten. As you know, the county planning commission meetings are open to everyone. Our charter says the general public has to be notified of all meetings, unless it’s an emergency.”
“There’s your answer. It’s an emergency meeting.”
“I asked him about that. It’s not.”
“Hmm. Did you ask him why he didn’t want you telling anyone?”
“As a matter of fact I did.”
“What did he say?”
“He was as vague as a politician during election season. He claimed the meeting had to do with something that was going to be real good for the county. He said if the commission wasted any time the so called ‘good thing’ might not happen.”
“Did he tell you what this ‘good thing’ was?”
“He wouldn’t say. He just kept taking the subject somewhere else whenever I brought it up.”
“What are you telling me all this for, Jake? What do you want me to do? It isn’t like he’s committed some sort of crime. Everyone knows he’s a sneaky little varmint. I’m certain if anybody asks about the meeting, Farrell will just say it was an emergency. You know as well as I do he knows the ropes and exactly what he can get away with.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Zeb.”
“Then what do you figure I can do?”
“I don’t figure you can do anything, other than attend the meeting to witness the groundwork for whatever the hell is going to go down.”
“You can get anybody to do that. Why do you need me?” asked Zeb.
“I smell a rat. Call it an ex-lawman’s uneasy hunch. I suspect somebody is trying to pull a fast one. I need you because I’ll need somebody with a whole lot of respect in the county to back me, in case I’m right.”
“You need me to cover your ass at a county commission meeting? When I was your deputy, you wouldn’t call for back up unless…come to think of it you never called for backup,” laughed Zeb. “Jake, you aren’t as tough as you used to be.”
“Zeb, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If somebody is up to some sort of shenanigans, I want a second set of eyes and ears backing me up. I need a respected member of the community to bear witness.”
“Jake, you wouldn’t be here asking me to cover your ass unless you suspected a whole lot more than you’re letting on. Let’s have it.”
“You were a good deputy under me, Zeb. And I’m beginning to believe you’re an even better sheriff.”
Ex-sheriff Jake Dablo looked beyond Sheriff Hanks toward the partially opened office door. Outside the door, Helen Nazelrod, as usual, was all ears. Zeb got up and closed the door. Helen cleared her throat and harumphed loudly.
“Some things never change, do they?”
“Go on now, Jake, let me have it. What do you really
think is going on?” asked Zeb.
“Eskadi Black Robes stopped by the other day to talk. It was sort of off the record, sort of in his official capacity as tribal chairman. This was shortly after your deputy, Kate Steele, delivered a foreclosure notice to Beulah Trees last week out on the San Carlos Reservation.”
“Sure, I remember.”
“Beulah’s nearly a century old. Since she can’t see so good even with her glasses, she had one of her great-grandchildren give her a ride over to the tribal council building to have someone read it to her and explain what it all meant.
“I’ve heard she’s a feisty old gal,” said Zeb.
“You can say that again,” said Jake. “She marched right into Eskadi’s office, laid the notice down on his desk and told him she wanted to know what it meant. I heard she plopped down in a chair and told him she wasn’t moving until he explained it to her in a way she could understand.”
“Eskadi’s been doing a decent job as tribal chairman. He keeps an eye on those that can’t look after themselves. He’s a touch on the radical side, but with all those educational programs he is starting out on the San Carlos, I can put his politics aside for the most part. He’s a good man all right. I believe I can trust him.”
“Anyway, he read the foreclosure notice over once. Then he read it out loud from start to finish for Beulah. According to Eskadi, all the legal mumbo-jumbo nearly put old Beulah to sleep.”
The thought of Eskadi reading the elderly Beulah Trees to sleep brought a smile to the sheriff’s face.
“When he was done, he explained to Beulah it all appeared legal enough. He told her maybe the tribe could try and get a tax abatement for her being that she had never gotten a proper tax assessment, according to her recollection anyway. But old Mrs. Trees wouldn’t have any part of it. She told Eskadi no one had any right to own a piece of the Sacred Mountain, including her.”
“So what’s any of this got to do with the price of peanuts in Poland, or for that matter John Farrell calling a special planning commission meeting you want me to witness?”
“Just hang on for a minute. Let me finish my story and you’ll find out. Once Eskadi made a copy of the foreclosure notice, he gave Beulah a ride back home. On the road back to her house they got to talking about the old ways, traditional ways. You know how Eskadi is interested in that sort of thing.”
