Chapter 37
Confused, Sutton woke in the dark. The phone was ringing. Not his smart one, the old one, ringing from the kitchen. He’d peed his normal schedule through the night. Several trips. It flowed fast once he started, and barely dribbled at the end. He paid careful attention to dribbles, a good thing to track and report back to his doc. And it was good sleep in-between interruptions, something he always expressed to Doctor PeePee, over in La Grande. The last name Papanowski, but Sutton thought PeePee easier to pronounce, besides the doc the variety of prim and proper that would get all bent out of shape should he ever learn of Sutton’s foolery. Sutton didn’t need one long uninterrupted strip of sleep. Just needed that high quality when he was out like a light.
The phone wouldn’t stop. He’d never learned how to set it so it cut to the message after a handful of rings Definitely not the smart phone.
He rolled out of bed, the springs squeaking.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, hold your horses. Your britches.”
He always set his glasses on the dresser so he could just snatch ‘em on his way by, either for the bathroom or for ease of acquisition in the morning. His mother, bless her prognosticating soul, had told him young he’d end up a little moleman just like his papa. Vision so poor he’d need a pair of glasses to help him find his glasses.
Wearing an old thin nightshirt, he could feel his buns jiggling, the house cooled down from overnight, the living room windows and the window over the kitchen sink left ajar to let the air seep in. Sutton betting the call a wrong number or some inmate calling or some son of a b in India trying to convince him the IRS had his ass in a sling. The inconveniencing bastards could at least call his smart phone, let him roll over and stay in bed while he dealt with their bullshit.
Humming, finding the kitchen floor tiles nice and cool, Sutton picked up the phone. Stared at the caller ID. Local. Hell if he recognized the number. He put honey in his voice, same as answering a call at Pleshette’s.
“This is Sutton,” he answered.
“She’s here!”
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Peevie! It’s Peevie, damnit! Sutton! She’s here! The crazy woman. Millicent Timbers. She just set the MacAvoy place on fire.”
“Come again?”
“I see her. But she saw me. I called 911. They didn’t believe me I don’t think. Call ‘em, Sutton. Wait. Oh shit!”
Something shattered.
Peevie screamed.
Another sound of breakage.
Peevie grunted and gulped into the phone. The poor old bastard got around on a cane. Each time they’d spoken on the phone yesterday Sutton could imagine Peevie waggling his cane, making a point about this or that regarding Millicent Timbers.
Peevie lived southwest of Dale, up a crooked road off the Pendleton-John Day highway, the house poised on what Peevie had coined Rattlesnake Bluff. He remained mobile courtesy of an elderly Ford Focus, rusted over so much the whole car looked like it’d been used to swab out a chili bowl. Poor Peevie well on his way to needing someone to feed and bathe him. Sutton could only begin to imagine the clutter inside the tar paper shack, Peevie having existed more or less alone since halfway through the first Clinton presidency, his wife plucked off the face of the earth by the breast cancer.
“I’m going for my gun,” said Peevie. “I’ll shoot her if I have to.”
He must’ve moved the phone away from his mouth, maybe turned and aimed his face away. It sounded distant, Peevie shouting, “I got a gun! I’ll defend my home and my property! I saw you light up the MacAvoy’s, you she beast!”
“Peevie?” asked Sutton. “Peevie?”
“Oh no,” said Peevie. Back close to the phone. Intimate. Whispering now. “She’s on the porch. She sees me. Sutton. I-“
Click.
“Peevie? Peevie, you still there?”
Sutton hung up. Peevie. He needed Peevie’s number. He turned in a circle and another circle before fixing on finding his smart phone. There was a high pitch noise in the house. It was him. Good god. Like a leaking balloon from living room back to the bedroom. Trembling, he picked up the smart phone, trembling fingers dug up Peevie’s number. He called. No answer. Called again. Nothing doing. He went through it again. Same result.
Sutton called 911. Told the operator all he could and hung up and sprung into action. Shed the nightshirt and slipped into a clean shirt and undies and then pulled on yesterday’s pants and suspenders. Sliding on socks and sneakers he kept an ear out for the landline, but it didn’t ring. He wasted a valuable 5 seconds pondering whether or not to bring the smart phone charger. Jesus God, in 5 seconds time Millicent Timbers could likely wrench one of Peevie’s old arms clean out of the socket. And eat it.
He was on top of things enough he popped out the brick from the kitchen sink window and shut and locked the window. He turned around in circles trying to make sure he didn’t need to do anything else before leaving the house. Coffee, cereal, it’d have to wait. What about work? What about it. This was bigger than any loyalty he owed Norm Pleshette. This was about public safety. Right before heading out the door he snagged his hat off its hook.
The truck turned over on his first crank of the engine. Backing out, he knew the best thing to do, expedite the process, drive like an Indy 500 racer down to that blockade at the Zippy Mart. Tell the cop all about Peevie in short sharp reportage. A quick, quality burst, just like his night pees. Youngsters like Gunderson or Lueck would believe him although he wondered just how quick Dougie would be back to action after yesterdays thumping.
Those 15 miles between Little Creek and Dale would zip right on by. Sutton imagined showing up, helping catch Millicent Timbers, maybe even be the one to wrestle her to the ground, knock her out, like some action hero.
Motoring past Auntie’s and Don’s Automotive, Sutton noted the light on in the repair shop window. He could one hand a phone call courtesy the touchscreen. The car wobbled northward in the lane a little and Sutton giggled, imagining crashing his car more or less where the SUV and the Honda had collided. Old woman King would wring his neck if he popped through her fence and flattened those petunias.
Not a surprise that Don didn’t answer at the repair shop. Henderschott ran that particular kingdom anymore. Sutton gave him the down low, the MacAvoy’s place exploded, and now poor Peevie’s plight. Sutton hung up on Henderschott, not wanting to prolong the conversation just get it across that he – Sutton Welter – was driving into the jaws of who knew what? Bonus being - his default setting - Henderschott blathered more than your wine soaked aunt at a wedding reception. Come noon, hell, come 8 a.m., Sutton’s selflessness would be known to every man, woman, and child. A goose to that potential mayoral run. Besides, Sutton couldn’t keep Henderschott on the line, he was driving right up on the blockade.
North, the big blades on the wind towers perambulated on the last vestiges of the night’s air. The deputy – Sutton squinted, couldn’t quite slap a name to the face – stood on the driver side of his unit, talking into a CB or on a mobile phone. In the blue tinted pre-dawn light, the kid’s eyes looked planted in big black circles. A sleepless night for everyone.
Sutton pulled up to the stop sign and looked at the boy. From the look on the kid’s face, Sutton could guess, Peevie’s 911 call plus Sutton’s 911 call were having an effect. Sutton waived, made a motion, asking should he sit and wait for the kid to come over and give him the ‘go’ sign or what?
The Deputy waived him through. Not even seeing him really. Sutton signaled and turned south, towards Dale.
Not even 5:10 a.m.
By this time an hour from now he might have Millicent Timbers down for the count.
Soon enough, Sutton was rolling on his seat, rolling the steering wheel around the tight curves running parallel to Snake Creek. He saw the flashing lights in his rearview
mirror. He wasn’t sure if he should slow or go faster, get to one of those few and far between straight stretches so the cops could slip on past. They surprised him. Scared the shit out of him. Just shot right on past on a curve. One-potato, two-potato, three-potato, all the law enforcement you could want. They could’ve crunched front bumpers with a logging truck or some old timer heading out for some fishing.
Sutton watched the taillights, the sheriff’s department cars vanishing from view, caught his breath, and slapped his foot down on the gas pedal. It was like he watched himself do it. But the out of body Sutton approved. Peevie needed him. Absolutely. In a situation like this, you didn’t just take the bull by the horns, you took that mothereffer by the balls, too.
The Lipless Gods Page 39
