The Coyote's Cry

by Jackie Merritt

  Abruptly Bram got to his feet. On his way out of the station he announced to everyone present, “Get me on the radio if you need me. There’s something I have to do.”

  The usual parade of Coltons came and went all morning. They were not a happy or boisterous group. Some of them left the house weeping quietly, and Jenna empathized so strongly with their sorrow over Gran’s condition that she shed a few tears herself.

  But it was Willow who worried Jenna. Something besides her grandmother’s bad health was bothering the young woman, Jenna sensed, and she wished Willow would talk to her about it.

  When she took her leave, Jenna hugged her. “If you ever need someone to lean on, Willow, you know where to find me.”

  “I know, Jenna, and I’ve always valued your friendship. But some things…well, some things just can’t be discussed with even the best of friends.”

  Those few words from her friend, an admission of sorts, made Jenna positive that Willow was feeling the weight of a problem she couldn’t bring herself to share.

  After Willow had gone, Jenna compared their situations. Chances were that Willow’s “problem” was a man. Jenna’s certainly was, and she couldn’t talk about it to anyone, either. Willow was right. There were some secrets a woman couldn’t reveal to anyone.

  Bram parked in his great-granddad’s driveway next to George WhiteBear’s old pickup truck. As usual, George’s three friendly mutts wriggled all over the place and put their wet noses against the legs of Bram’s pants.

  “Hey, knock it off,” he told them, but in a fond way.

  George stepped out onto his porch and Bram began walking toward him. “How are you, Granddad?” he called.

  “I am well. How is my daughter?”

  “Not so well, I’m afraid.”

  “Come in.”

  George sat in his favorite chair and Bram took another. “Soon you will be delivering bad news,” George said in that somber way he had of speaking about serious matters.

  “How soon?” Bram asked quietly as a stab of deep sorrow shot through his chest.

  “Soon,” George repeated.

  Bram took a breath. “Granddad, there’s something I have to ask you about.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Have you ever known any person with the last name of Colton besides the man Gran married?”

  “I never even knew him. He died shortly after their marriage. He was a white man, you know. Maybe he had weak blood. I felt bad for Gloria.”

  “Are you saying you never saw him at all?”

  “I think that’s what I said. Should I say it in different words?”

  “No, I understood you. It just surprised me. So you’ve never met anyone named Colton?”

  “I think you do need to hear some different words.”

  Bram held up his hand. “No…not necessary. I heard what you said just fine. It just seems so peculiar that Gran never brought her husband home to meet you.”

  “He died. How could she bring him?”

  “Well, he didn’t die two minutes after the ceremony, did he? Granddad, they were married long enough for Gran to conceive Dad and Uncle Thomas. Exactly how long were they married before he died? Do you know that?”

  “You sound as though you might be thinking he did a little teepee creeping before the ceremony.”

  Bram almost laughed, but managed to stifle the impulse. “That’s pretty immaterial at this late date, but I’m still amazed that Gran didn’t bring him home to meet you. So how long was she away before returning home, pregnant and widowed?”

  George became thoughtful for a few moments, then said, “Two, three months is a pretty good guess.”

  “I see. Then she was just barely pregnant…and newly widowed. Must have been hard on her.”

  “You play, you pay,” George announced solemnly.

  Bram nearly choked. “That’s definitely not a Comanche saying, Granddad.”

  “I’ve learned a few things from my white brothers over the years.”

  Bram got to his feet. “I’m sure you have. I have to go, Granddad. See you later.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Bram drove back to town, even more perplexed over the Rand Colton problem than he’d been during the drive to George’s place. It was hard to believe that another bunch of Coltons—ostensibly residing in Washington, D.C.—suddenly gave a whit about a family of Coltons living in Oklahoma. There was something strange going on, and Rand probably knew what it was.

  Bram would use that Oklahoma City phone number Rand had left him and ask a few questions. After all, he thought, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  But the second Bram walked into the station he was told, “Wagner and Hobart picked up Tobler. We put him in a holding cell until you got back.”

  Bram’s outlook on life in general brightened considerably. “Did he say anything?”

  “Yeah, he’s really got a mouth on him. Called us every name in the book and some I think he must have invented. He had a good-size stash on him, Bram, enough grass to make his charge a felony instead of a misdemeanor, if you decide to arrest him.”

  “Bring him to the small interrogation room. We’ll let him sweat in there for about thirty minutes while I run and grab something to eat. I haven’t had a bite yet today.”

  Four hours later Bram was still trying to get Tobler, the little creep, to talk. He had to wear the guy down, and if that meant repeating the same questions over and over until they gagged even him, Bram would do it.

  “Tell me about the grass.” “Tell me about the gun.” “Where is it now?” “Did you pawn it, sell it, hide it or give it to someone else?”

  Tobler’s repeated responses were, “I’m thirsty.” “I have to go to the john.” “You’re full of crap.” “You’re wasting your breath.” “I need a smoke.”

  That last one always gladdened Bram’s heart, because to that complaint he could respond, and he did, with great pleasure, “This particular lockup happens to be a no-smoking facility. If I put you in a cell for three days or three months or three years, you still couldn’t smoke.”

  Tobler always sneered. “You can’t hold me for three years. I ain’t stupid, you know.”

  “Now there’s where you’re wrong. You just might be the most stupid dirtbag on the face of the earth. I could arrest you right now for the grass, but I’ve been hoping you’d wise up and help yourself by telling me about the gun. That makes you stupid, Tobler or Toby or whatever in hell your real name is.”

  “It’s Toby Tobler.”

  “Your mama named you Toby when your last name was Tobler? Was she stupid, too?”

  “Don’t you dare call my mama stupid!”

  “Tell me about the gun. Where is it now? Where’d you get the grass? Is it possible you traded the gun for the grass?” Bram sat back and stared across the small table at Toby Tobler. “Maybe you’ve been doing some dealing of your own.”

  “I ain’t no dealer!”

  It went on and on until Bram’s back and head ached, at which point he left the room and let Lester take over. At ten that night Tobler cracked.

  “All right!” he yelled. “I’ll tell you everything. Just leave me the hell alone!”

  Bram turned on a tape recorder. “So, talk.”

  Later, in his office, he listened to Tobler’s recorded story. It was one for the books.

  “I was at the old depot, trying to find a place to sleep. A couple of other guys were already on the floor, wrapped in blankets, so I was trying to be quiet. I heard a commotion outside and went to see what was going on. I hunkered down behind a pile of old bricks and I spied two guys. One of them was a little guy and the other was tall and stringy.”

  Bram heard his own voice on the recorder. “Did you or do you now know either or both of the men?”

  “Just one of ’em. The stringbean. He’s a…a dealer. Damn you, you’re making me dig my own grave here.”

  “What’s his name and where does he hang?”

  “I don�
�t know his real name. Everyone calls him Joker, ’cause he’s always saying something dumb that he thinks is funny. I don’t know where he hangs. He’s just always around when you need something. That’s what the little guy was doing with him that night, bargaining for drugs. Said he needed them powerful bad.”

  John Doe had been trying to buy drugs? Bram didn’t like that picture at all.

  Tobler’s narration continued. “The little guy took out a wad of bills and I got nervous for him. Joker ain’t a guy you should be flashing money in front of, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, Joker acted all sympathetic and handed the little guy something. I figured he’d sold him some coke or meth, but then, just like that, he grabbed the guy’s money and the little package he’d given him and took off running. I saw the guy go down on his knees and the next thing I knew he pulled out a gun and shot himself.

  “I watched for a long time and then when it hit me that no one else had heard the pop of that little gun, I snuck out and ran over and picked it up. I checked the guy for a wallet or jewelry, but he didn’t have anything in his pockets, not one thing. Then I heard a car and I took off. About then the guys sleeping in the old depot came running out, but I’m sure none of them saw me. I was long gone by the time they found the dead guy.”

  “So, where’s the gun?”

  “I traded it to Joker for the grass, just like you said.”

  “And when, exactly, did you do this?”

  “A couple of nights ago. In the alley behind the Bucket o’ Suds Saloon.”

  “Have you met Joker in that alley before?”

  “A couple of times, but I don’t think he sleeps there.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t think he sleeps in any alley.”

  “Because he makes big money dealing drugs?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  The recording went on for another thirty minutes, but Bram already knew what was on it by heart, and he was so worn out that he barely had the strength to switch it off. He actually had to force himself to stand up from his chair and walk out the door to the patrol car he’d been driving.

  But exhausted or not, there was still a glow of satisfaction in his system that wouldn’t be denied. He had accomplished a few things today at least; he had a witness to John Doe’s suicide and he also had a lead on Joker, a scourge on Black Arrow and a threat to every decent citizen.

  The day had turned out to be productive, after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before dawn the next morning Bram loaded the three courthouse books into the trunk of his prowl car. He planned to make some telephone calls later on to figure out who—or what institution—should have them. Maybe the old records should be in a museum, maybe they were worthless. But someone in charge of such things should be told they had survived the fire. He would take care of it today.

  Jenna heard him leaving and experienced such a rush of emotional pain that she lay huddled under her blankets in abject misery long after the sound of his car had faded to nothing in the predawn darkness. Among the convoluted jumble of her thoughts one was totally clear: she never wanted to fall in love again. It hurt too much.

  It started sprinkling before Bram got to Black Arrow, not a deluge but enough rain on the windshield that he had to turn on the wipers. He hoped it wasn’t going to be a gray, gloomy day, because in spite of last night’s success with Tobler, Bram felt down and dejected this morning. He didn’t have to seek a reason for his low mood, not when even a few sprinkles of rain on the windshield seemed overwhelmingly sad.

  But everything seemed sad and dreary this morning, he thought, even his job. Why in heaven’s name had he ever wanted to be Comanche County’s sheriff? He could have made a decent enough living from his horses.

  Bram sighed. He’d needed something else, and for a while working hard as sheriff had done him a world of good. He’d been able to live and breathe without thinking of Jenna Elliot every minute of every hour. Now nothing, not even landing a small fish like Tobler, and the prospect of reeling in a bigger one, like Joker, could crowd the zillion images of Jenna from his brain. Right now she was in bed, all warm and silky-skinned, and if he had a million bucks he would happily throw it down a well if he could turn this car around, crawl in bed next to her and tell her that he had loved her for years.

  “You’re turning into a damn whiner,” he said in disgust. “You can’t have her! Get over it!”

  But he knew that he wasn’t going to get over Jenna, not ever. The rain fell harder and he turned up the wipers a notch. Like it or not, they were in for a gray, drizzly morning.

  At the sheriff’s station Bram wrapped the blanket more tightly around the three heavy books, then made a run for the front door of the building. Ignoring the teasing conjectures being tossed around about what the boss might be smuggling in under that blanket, he plopped the big books down on a table in his office.

  Sergeant Lester Moore, apparently the day’s duty officer, leaned against the frame of the door and watched while Bram removed the damp blanket and draped it over a chair to dry out.

  “What’ve you got there?” Lester asked.

  “Books from the courthouse, saved from the fire by a heavy metal cabinet. Maybe you know the person I should talk to about them. The insurance adjuster thought they might have historical value. They’re about a hundred years old.”

  “Then they probably are valuable. But it’s all local stuff in them, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then I think we should keep them right here in Comanche County. I’d call Maddy Hempler over at the Western Oklahoma Museum, if I were you. You know Maddy, don’t you?”

  “I think we’ve met.”

  “Well, I can tell you that she’d have your hide if you gave those books to a state museum instead of to her. To WOM, I mean, though she definitely feels protective of the place. No one who worked there before her did as good a job as she does. Heck, today the museum is three times the size it was when Maddy took over a few years back.”

  “Sounds good enough for me. I’ll call around what? Ten?”

  “The museum should be open by then.”

  Bram sat at his desk. “Has the APB gone out on Joker?”

  “Hours ago, before I got here this morning.”

  “To the state police, too?”

  “Yes. It was faxed to every law enforcement agency in Oklahoma. How long are you going to hold Tobler?”

  “For as long as the law allows. I’m going to talk to the prosecutor this morning.” Bram began doodling on a yellow pad. “I need advice on our John Doe, too.”

  “I know.” One of the deputies called Lester’s name, and he said, “Talk to you later,” and left Bram’s doorway.

  Bram dropped the pen, leaned back against his chair and stared at the ceiling. Despite a saturation campaign in the media, no one who knew John Doe had come forward. Either the poor guy had been completely alone in the world or he had lived somewhere else and no one around here knew him. Which meant he would have a lonely, solitary burial.

  That struck Bram as just too sad, and he reached for the phone. He couldn’t wait for the county prosecutor to get to his office, so he called the man’s home.

  Aubrey Kennecott didn’t like being called at his home, which he let Bram know, but then he settled down and listened.

  “Two things, Aubrey.” Bram recited the particulars of Toby Tobler sitting in jail and possibly being an important witness when they caught up with Joker. “I could arrest him for possession,” Bram said, “but right now he’s a willing witness to Joker’s drug trade and I’d just as soon keep him that way.”

  “And how long before you nail Joker?”

  “Within days,” Bram said in all confidence. “There’s no reason to think that he might be aware we have Tobler, so I’m pretty certain it will be business as usual for him. We’ve got to get him off the streets, Aubrey. He’s a fairly big dealer and a nightmare.”

&n
bsp; “You’ve known about him for a while?”

  “Bits and pieces, nothing concrete. Tobler put it all together for us last night.”

  “Okay. You can hold Tobler for his own safety. Write it up as witness protection for the time being. Is that it? Can I go and finish shaving now?”

  “Not quite yet. We have to do something with our John Doe. I’d like to give him a decent send-off, but I need your release to do anything with him.”

  “You’re completely convinced it was a suicide?”

  Bram hesitated. He hated even the word suicide, but how could he argue with scientific fact?

  “Everything points in that direction, Aubrey. The medical examiner is positive and wrote it in his report, and then with Tobler’s explanation of the incident…well, it all fits, and explains probably what took place.”

  “Okay. I’ll phone the morgue and release the body. The county budget is very low for transient burials, you know.”

  “Yes, Aubrey, I do know,” he said, figuring he’d cover any additional cost out of his own pocket. “I would appreciate your calling the coroner right away so I can move forward on this.”

  “The man could still be in bed!”

  “Then wake him up. Thanks, Aubrey.” Bram put down the phone and checked his watch. It was still before seven, but the director of Hanson’s Funeral Home must be used to calls at all hours of the day and night.

  At least that was what Bram told himself while dialing Darren Hanson’s home phone number.

  It took Bram almost thirty minutes to convince Darren to hold a funeral on such short notice, but Bram was adamant about burying John Doe today.

  Bram’s final call—for the time being—was to Will. “There’s a funeral at three this afternoon. You don’t know the deceased, nor do I. It’s that poor little guy who offed himself at the old depot, Will. I pretty much know the story behind the story now, and even if he was a junkie I can’t stand thinking of him being stuck in a hole without a few kind words and at least a couple of mourners. Anyhow, I’d like you to attend the service with me. Can you do it?”

  Will didn’t hesitate a second. “Of course I can. I’ll meet you at the cemetery at three.”