Cripple Creek (13 page)

WE TOOK ISAIAH and the boy called Sammy to Cahoma County Hospital, then picked up the other two and put them away in the cells
for the night. Tomorrow they'd either be headed to Cahoma County detention themselves, or up to Memphis, depending on what
Judge Gray decided. Both of them stank of old beer and a kind of fear they'd never known before. One set of parents came in,
listened to what we told them, shook their heads, and left. The other, a single mother, asked what she needed to do. You could
tell by the way she said it that she'd been asking herself the same question for a long time.

From over by Jefferson, the boys said. Been drinking at the game and after, just having fun, you know? You remember what that
was like. Someone had told them about these weirdos playing Tarzan up in the hills and they decided to go check it out.

"Be a long time before they get their lives unbent again," J. T. said.

Maybe. Always amazing, though, how resilient human beings can be.

It was Moira who, as they all quit camp, grabbed the laptop and took it along. She sent an e-mail, "an IM" as J. T. explained
to me, to an old friend back in Boston, who then placed a "land-line" call to the office.

I was thinking about that later in the morning, about Moira and about people's resilience, when Eldon stopped by and asked
me if I felt like taking a walk. J. T. was home trying to get some sleep. June was off at lunch with Lonnie, their lunches
having gotten to be a regular weekly thing. I signed out on the board and grabbed the beeper. We headed crosstown, out past
the old Methodist church into what used to be the Meador family's rich pastureland and was now mostly scrub.

"You okay with this?" Eldon said after a while.

"Val and you, you mean."

"What we're doing, yeah."

"I think it's great."

"Most people think we're crazy."

"That's because you are."

"Well . . ."

We stopped to watch a woodpecker worrying away at a sapling the size of a broomstick.

"No way there's anything in there worth all that work," Eldon said. "We'll be back, you know."

"Sure you will. But it will never be the same."

"No. It won't."

He bent down and pulled a blade of grass, held it between his thumbs and blew across it. Making music even with that.

"Hard to pick up and go, harder than I thought. Never would have suspected it. All these years, all these places, this is
the only place that's ever felt like home."

"Like you say, you'll be back."

"What about those others—think they'll be back?"

"Memphis?"

He nodded.

"Not much doubt about it."

At wood's edge a young bird staggered about, flapping its wings.

"Trying them on for size," Eldon said. "Like he has this feeling, he's capable of something amazing, even if he doesn't know
what it is yet."

We started back towards town.

"Good you're okay with it, then."

"You and Val? Sure. The other . . ."

"That's the way of it. Violence is a lonesome thing, it gets inside you and sits in there calling out for more. But they had
no right bringing it here."

"You're asking a black man?"

"Good point."

As we walked back, he talked about his and Val's plans, such as they were. An old-time music festival up around Hot Springs,
this big campout that got thrown every year down in Texas, a solid string of bluegrass and folk festivals running from California
up to Seattle.

"That's where all the VW microbuses go to die," Eldon told me. "Regular elephant's graveyard of them, all along the coast.
VW buses, plaid shirts, and old guys with straggly gray ponytails everywhere you look."

We stopped outside the office. June waved from inside. Eldon looked in.

"She doing okay?"

I nodded.

"And Don Lee?"

"Not quite so good."

"Yeah." He started away, then turned. "All that stuff about giving something back? I always thought that was crap."

"Mostly it is."

"Yeah. Well . . . Mostly, everything is."

Lonnie had come back to the office with June. The two of them plus Don Lee were all sitting with coffee. Don Lee nodded.

Lonnie raised his cup in invitation.

"Who made it?" I asked.

June smiled.

Safe, then.

"Don't worry, Turner," Lonnie said. "Happens to all of us as we grow older, that getting cautious thing. Starts off with the
coffee, say, then before you know it you're wearing double shirts on a windy day and stuffing newspapers around your door."

"Maybe even have a silly little hat you wear to bed when you take your afternoon naps," June said, Lonnie giving his best
"Who, me?" look in response.

They'd heard about most of what had taken place out at the camp. The rest, I filled them in on.

"So why the hell'd they trash the place?" Lonnie asked.

"Who knows? But it's pretty much destroyed."

"We should get a bunch of people together," June said. "Go up there and help them rebuild."

We all looked at her. She was right. Sympathy had been gathering in the town for some time, since the day of the funeral for
the boy Nathan's dog had killed. The camp's destruction, along with June's urging, put that sympathy over the top. In ensuing
months, furniture, lumber, clothing, household goods, and a lot of time and effort would go up into those hills, all of us
the better for it.

Lonnie shook his head. "Just kids."

"Just kids."

"You must have thought . . ."

"Of course we did."

"Anything further on that?"

"Nothing substantial, no. Eldon and I were just talking about it, wondering how long this has to go on."

"Once it starts . . ." Lonnie got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. "Some of these families have grudges reaching
back to the day the first caveman said 'Hey look at me, I can walk upright!' They don't know any other way."

"You have to cut the head off," Don Lee said, speaking for the first time. "You cut the head off, it dies."

I 'M GOING TO SKIP ahead here, past Monday and Tuesday, to the aftermath.

The call from Memphis came on a bright morning, Wednesday.

Unable to sleep, I'd been shuffling papers and creating unnecessary files since 3 a.m. I was looking out the window, watching
Bill from the Gulf station teaching his kid to ride a bike down the middle of Cherry Street, when the phone rang. A spider
had built a spectacular web in the corner of the window. The web and bright-colored joints of the spider's legs caught morning
sunlight like prisms.

"Sheriff's office."

"Turner?"

"You got him."

"Sam Hamill here."

"Always a pleasure."

"Sure it is."

"I assume you're not calling just to say hello."

"Not hardly." He held his hand over the receiver for a moment—to speak offstage, as it were. Then he was back.

"Thing is, something strange has just happened up this way."

"It usually does."

"I've got a body."

I waited.

"Two, actually. But only the one that matters. Man goes by the name of Jorge Aleche?"

"When?"

"Some time between noon and four yesterday, him and the bodyguard. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity. What is it exactly that I can do for you, Sam?"

"I don't suppose there's any chance you'd have been back in town, right?"

"None at all. Been a little busy down this way, too."

"So I heard." After a moment he added: "I spoke to Sheriff Bates. Sorry about the shooting. He said you got the one who did
it, though."

"The one who pulled the trigger, anyway."

"Possible."

"I tried calling the current sheriff, one J.T. Burke, and was told by . . . just a minute . . . Mabel? Do I have that right?"

"Mabel. Right."

"Told me the sheriff was off on official business and would return my call as soon as possible. Little before that, I tried
someone named Don Lee—"

"Acting sheriff."

"What I was told. So there's this Mabel person, secretary by the name of June, two or three sheriffs that I know of. You got
one hell of a staff for a town that size."

"We take turns. Monday's my day as crossing guard."

"Sure it is. Anyway, the wife said this Don Lee was under the weather—recently sustained some injuries, I understand?—and
was resting, and unless it was really important she didn't want to disturb him."

"Is there a message I can give Sheriff Burke for you, Sam?"

"What it comes down to is, since no one else seems to be available, here I am talking to you."

"Likewise."

"In an official capacity."

"Hold on then, let me get my badge and gun."

What sounded suspiciously like a snort came over the line.

"Never change, do you?"

"All the time."

"Given the possibility of a connection between the series of attacks youVe suffered and the shootings here—"

"Not much gets past you boys, does it?"

"—MPD believes it important to extend our investigation. I have instructions to request a full local investigation, and to
hand off responsibility for that investigation to your office. I'm doing so with this call."

"But suh, we don't know—"

"Shut up, Turner. Just be glad the FBI's not on its way down there."

He was right, of course.

"Turner . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for the way this went down. All of it."

"Thanks, Sam."

"We'll be expecting your reports, then. In due time. No particular hurry-up, we've got our hands full."

"Business as usual."

"God's truth. And Turner . . ."

"Yeah?"

"You do get up this way again, you should think about giving Tracy Caulding a call. For some twisted reason, the woman likes
you."

"I know you find it hard to believe, Sam, but people do."

"Go figure. . . . One hell of a world, ain't it?"

IT SURE AS HELL IS.

I didn't know exactly what it was that MPD expected us to investigate, but over the next several days I made gestures in that
direction. J. T. had taken time off to head back up to Seattle— "thing or two I need to take care of." She'd left right before
it happened, so I was pretty much running things.

I swung by Don Lee's that afternoon to see if he might be up to coming in to help. Patty Ann answered the door and told me
how sorry she was. She said Don Lee was sleeping. The yeasty, rich smell of baking came from inside.

"He doing okay?" I asked.

"Just fine."

"Heard he'd been feeling bad."

She looked at me a moment before saying, "It comes and goes. Kind of like Donald." She ducked her eyes, then added: "I can
get him up for you."

"No, no. He needs his rest. Have him call me?"

"I'll do that. Time for a piece of pie before you go? I was just about to take it out of the oven."

"Best be going, but thanks."

Her gaze held mine. Something was pushing from inside, something that wanted to be said (about what had happened? about Don?)
but never made it to the surface.

I stopped to help Sally Miller, whose car had stalled outside town, and pulled in at Lonnie's just behind Himself. He wore
the usual khakis, which he must buy by the dozen, and a blue shirt. He had a sport coat tossed over one shoulder, his book
bag over the other. The bag, he'd liberated from June years ago when she graduated high school, and now he took it everywhere.
God knows what all's in there.

"Been on a jaunt, have we?"

"Little business I had to take care of, couldn't put it off any longer. How're you holding up?"

"I'm all right."

"Figuring I'd grab some late lunch and head down to the office, see what I could do to help."

Shirley opened the door as we stepped onto the porch. She gave me a hug, then hugged Lonnie. Inside she had a plate of sandwiches
already made, fresh coffee in one of those pots that look like small urns.

"Call ahead and place an order?" I said.

He shrugged. Shirley smiled, said she was praying for us, and excused herself.

As he ate and I drank coffee, I told him about the call from Memphis.

"Full local investigation my ass," Lonnie said when I finished. Picking a divot of celery from between his teeth, he asked,
"Those kids on the mountain doing okay?"

"Isaiah's back with them, cast and all. With everyone pitching in like they have, it's beginning to look good up there."

He got up, unplugged the pot and brought it over, poured more coffee for both of us.

"Is there anything you need, Turner? Anything I can do?"

"Just time . . ."

"Time, right. Worst enemy, best friend, all rolled into one. If there is anything—"

"I will, Lonnie."

"Like to think I don't need to say that."

"You don't."

"Good."

"This business of yours that came up . . ."

"Nothing much to it. Some old loose ends. It's done." He snagged another half sandwich, crusts cut off. This one was pimento
cheese, which Shirley ground in an old hand-cranked processor heavy as an anvil. "We were worried about you, all alone up
there at the cabin. Time like this, a man needs—"

"I was where I needed to be, Lonnie. Doing what I needed to do."

"Right. Who else would know, huh?"

"I'm fine."

Out in the living room, the TV was on and our current president, one of a cadre of archconservatives who had seized this country
to wring its neck in the name of liberty, a man with a to-do list to whom everything was crystal clear, was speaking about
"recent troubles in the old world." Yet again I marveled at how we always manage to persuade ourselves that our actions are
justified, righteous, for the good.

"Thing is, you have to admire what those kids are doing up there," Lonnie said, "foolish as it is. They have an idea, a star
to guide by, and they're willing to put everything they are behind it. How many of us can say that?"

J. T. got back to town not long after. I saw her pickup coming down the street, met her out front of the office. She looked
exhausted—exhausted and wired—as she hauled a gym bag out of the cab and held it high to show this was the whole of it. Travel
always does that, she said, stomps her flat, jacks her up. I filled her in on the call from Memphis. She listened carefully,
shook her head and said nothing.

"So how'd it go?"

"Okay. How are you?"

"I've been worse. Get things taken care of?"

"Did my best, anyway."

"They still trying to get you back?"

"No. No, that's over. That's over, the flight's over, the drive's over—and I'm starved."

"Come on home with me, then. I'll cook."

She hesitated. "I don't think I want to be at the cabin just now, Dad."

"Fair enough, we'll go out. What are you up for?"

"Anything—as long as it's not the diner. No, I take that back.

Meat. Serious meat."

And since Eldon was playing at the steakhouse an hour and spare change away, what better choice?

So we chose, and drove, only to find Eldon MIA. Said he had to be out of town a day or two, our waitress told us, her expression
and inflection suggesting that she'd give damn near anything to be the same.

We'd made the drive with windows down, on deserted roads, through tide pools of moonlight and the smell of tomorrow's rain.
It was at times like this, sitting together at the kitchen table or in a car, suspended for moments from causality and process,
that the natural barriers between J. T. and myself receded. Not that they went down, just that they ceased for those suspended
moments to matter.

"I've been thinking about my brother, about Don, a lot," she said. "Thinking how so many people I know have these lives that
seem impossible to them. People who do really stupid things over and over. Stupid things, violent things—either to themselves
or to others."

"Pain as the fulcrum, loss as the lever, to keep their worlds aloft. After a while that can get to be all they feel, all that
reassures them they're alive."

"Exactly. You worked with them, Dad. You must understand."

Despite Eldon's absence, we made the most of it, and of three or four pounds of steak between us, then drove back. It was
not hard to imagine ghosts just off the road among the trees, riders out of a hundred Sleepy Hollows, fading echoes of great
notions, fond hopes, and longed-for lives.

That night I heard, or dreamt I heard, a scratching at the screen on the window by my bed. I went out on the porch, but nothing
was there. Only the old chair held together by twine, the stains on the floorboards.

Nothing.