Stone Butterfly (9 page)

Sheriff Ned Popper stared at the homely, sunburned face.

It stared back at him.

When he winked, it winked.

He dipped the brush in an antique shaving mug, swiped on a generous helping of creamy suds, went right to work with the genuine George Wostenholm ivory-handle straight razor that had belonged to his maternal grandfather. With a delicacy developed by long practice and demanded by the craggy landscape of his face, he scraped off a day's growth of whiskers, taking care not to encroach on the handsome handlebar mustache, which was his chief vanity. After completing this solemn morning ritual, the Utah lawman grinned at the image in the mirror, which was obliged to return the favor. “For a man of your years,” he said, “you don't look all that bad.”

When the telephone rang, the widower was frying bacon and eggs in a skillet, taking care not to overcook the yolks. Annoyed at having his breakfast disturbed, he frowned at the caller ID.
What do the state police want this time?
“This is Popper, Tonapah Flats Top Copper.”

This produced the expected chuckle from Sergeant Jefferson Davis Martinez. “Hey, Ned—we got us some trouble.”

“What flavor, J-D?”

“Big pileup. Over on the interstate, close to the Texaco truck stop. We got one man rolling, ETA ten minutes. Next closest officer is an hour away, and she's on a call to rescue some poor bastard who's getting beat up by his wife. If you could lend us somebody to help direct traffic—”

“Say no more, señor. I'll send my on-duty deputy.”

“Thanks, Ned.”

Popper turned to check the black iron skillet. The eggs were brown and crispy around the edges.
And them yolks look hard as the knobs on a brass bedstead.
The superstitious man hoped this wasn't a sign that he was in for a bad day. He turned off the propane flame, dialed his office. Waited through six rings.
Why don't Bertha answer the phone? I don't know why I bother to have a dispatcher anyway.
He pressed and released the cradle switch, dialed Deputy Packard's cell phone.

Tate Packard's Coffee Break

After parking his unit in front of Dinty's Grille, Deputy Sheriff Tate Packard had taken a seat in a booth that provided a panoramic view of Big Lizard Ridge. The lawman showed more interest in the scenery than in his immediate surroundings. In Packard's opinion, Dinty's was a dump, Dinty would have to get lots smarter to qualify as a moron, the coffee was awful, the food was worse. On top of all this, it annoyed him that some temperamental artist with a knife had—for reasons unfathomable to ordinary mortals—slashed the booth's vinyl seat cover into shreds.

The alleged sub-moron was swiping wet circles on the counter. “Hey, Tate. What're you doin' over there? You don't drop in all that often, but when you do, you always sit at the counter.”

“Habits tend to dull a man's life.” The deputy kept his gaze on the great outdoors, which didn't look all that great through Dinty's filthy window. “From time to time, I feel the need to look at things from a different perspective.”

Dinty chuckled.
That boy don't have enough work to keep a bone-lazy man occupied. Day in, day out, nothing to do but drive back and forth or sit around somewhere nursing a cup of java. I bet he's waiting for one of his good-looking girlfriends to show up, then he'll sneak off with her to some quiet spot.
The hard-working, girlfriend-deprived proprietor of Dinty's Grill sighed.
I should be so lucky.

The cell phone in Tate Packard's jacket pocket chirped, he snatched it. “I'm here.”

Sheriff Popper's voice boomed in his ear. “No you're not, Tate. You're on your way out to the junction with the interstate, then six miles west. There's been a multiple-vehicle accident near the Texaco truck stop, and the state cops need our help.”

“Uh—”

“What is it—you waiting for one of your twisty-hips to show up, so you can get all cozy with her—whilst the county is paying you to do police work?”

Packard flushed pink. “Oh, no, sir. It's nothing like that. It's just—”

“Look, Tate—it's been about thirty years since I was young and frisky, but I still remember how it was. Here's what you do—on your way to the wreck, give your sweetie a call. Tell her today you have to earn your pay. Then make a date for sometime when you're off-duty.”

The blush darkened to beet-red. “Uh, it's just that this is Bearcat's day off. If I go help the state cops, that'll leave us with nobody here in town to—”

“Don't worry about it, I'm coming in directly. Now get moving.”

Deputy Packard heard an ambulance siren wail in the distance. “Okay, boss. I'm on my way.” Seconds later, the door of Dinty's Grill slammed behind him. Cranking up his unit, he switched on the emergency lights and siren, kicked up a hatful of gravel, roared down the highway toward the interstate. Before he was out of town, Packard used his cell phone to dial the memorized number. No response. He waited ten rings before pressing the
OFF
button.
Dammit all.

A Change of Plans

As Marilee Attatochee turned in at the clinic, Ben Silver did not hear the shrill shriek of the ambulance siren. But he did see the boxy white vehicle—red lights flashing—tearing out of the Emergency Room Only parking lot, rolling down the two-lane toward the interstate. The deaf man cranked up the volume control on his hearing aid. “Wonder what that's all about?”

Marilee shrugged as she glanced at the rearview mirror, saw Deputy Sheriff Tate Packard's black-and-white zoom by at eighty-plus miles an hour. “Whatever it is, it ain't good.”

Inside the clinic, Marilee and Ben Silver found out what it was all about.

There had been a major accident out on the interstate. At least two dead, six seriously injured. All nurses, all physicians were on alert for ER duty. This included Dr. Stump, the physician Ben Silver had been scheduled to see, and his appointments for the day had been canceled. Shortly thereafter, Miss Attatochee and Mr. Silver were headed back toward his home. The old man grumbled all the way. Why didn't the clinic have more doctors? Why did those mostly out-of-state coconut-heads out on the interstate drive ninety-nine miles an hour? Why didn't the state police authorize their officers to arrest and shoot on the spot those mental defectives that drove so recklessly? And so on and so forth.

Marilee took it, but not happily.
I wish I had me one of them hearing aid thingamajigs like Ben's that I could shut off. Then I wouldn't have to listen to this dinky old man's silly prattle.
Across the road from Dinty's Grill, she turned left onto Ben Silver's private lane, followed it around behind Big Lizard Ridge. The driver muttered to herself. “I hope I can get through that mud hole at the spring without getting stuck.”

Silver cranked the hearing aid volume up all the way, leaned sideways toward the driver. “What'd you say?”

Marilee repeated her statement, much louder this time.

“You don't have to yell at me! Besides, there ain't nothing wrong with this road. What you need to do is get some tires with a heavy tread. And it wouldn't hurt none if you learned how to drive this bucket of bolts!”

Seven dollars and fifty cents an hour came in handy, but Marilee had absorbed what is commonly known as
just about enough.
She slowed the van to a crawl. “Mr. Silver, you don't pay me enough to take all this guff.”

“What's that?”

“You heard me.”

He chuckled. “What's bothering you, Miss Okeechobee—”

“The name is
Attatochee
!”

“That's no proper kind of name.” He frowned thoughtfully, also puckered his mouth. “Sounds more like a sneeze. I bet when your mother was naming you, she got too much snuff up her nose and—” He chuckled. “Well, you can see what I mean.”

Her brown hands went white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
If I had a gun, I'd shoot him.

Ben Silver was having entirely too much fun. “Now if you'll try not to interrupt for at least a microsecond, I'll frame my question again. What's the matter, Marilee Ker-choo—you hinting for a raise?” This being a purely rhetorical question, he did not wait for a response. “Okay, then. Times is hard, and even though you don't deserve it—a raise you get. Starting right now—no, don't let it ever be said I'm not a fair-minded man.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Starting when you picked me up about thirty-six minutes ago, I'm paying you—” He paused, pretended to reflect. “Seven dollars and
sixty
cents an hour.”

That was enough and change. Marilee braked the small van to a neck-popping halt, which activated the plastic facsimile of a female Hawaiian mounted on the instrument panel. Hula Girl waggled her hips.

“Hey—what'd you stop for?”

“You're offering me a ten-cent-an-hour raise?” This was also a rhetorical question, but Silver did not realize it. Which is a pity, because if he had, he might not have responded, and things might have turned out better.

“I certainly am. And you needn't bother to thank me for overpaying you.”

The Papago woman's eyes went stone-cold. “Get out.”

He arched one of the bushy white brows. “What'd you say?”

“Don't put on your deaf-man act for me, you old fake.”

He presented a derisive grin. “Oh, dear—have I ruffled your sensitive tail feathers?”

“Open the door and get out. Do it right now, before I kick you out with both feet!”

She really means it.
“But it's almost a half-mile to my house—”

“Hey, you're the big-mouth athlete who can walk my chubby legs off.”

Fuming from both ears, Ben Silver proceeded to follow orders. With the aid of his cane, he eased himself onto the earth. Before closing the door, he gave the driver a final glare. “You, madam—are henceforth fired.”

“You can't fire me, you silly old billy goat.” Marilee looked down her nose at the forlorn figure. “I have already resigned—forthwith!” She did not know precisely what
forthwith
meant, but she had heard a lawyer say it on TV and it sounded damned good.

Ben Silver slammed the door as hard as he could, which was sufficient to rattle Marilee's teeth and set Hula Girl a-twitching again. As he commenced to stomp along the lane, he heard her backing the van toward the highway.
Soft-headed woman, I hope she backs it right into a ditch. And what's got her girdle all twisted anyway—this is a perfectly serviceable dirt road.
Mr. Silver was not looking where he was stomping, and this is why he was startled when he stepped into a pothole, stumbled, almost fell on his face.
I'll bet she dug that there just to spite me.

At the Scene of the Accident

Deputy Tate Packard took a break from directing traffic, gratefully accepted a Styrofoam cup of coffee from a kindly passerby. After a few sips of the steaming liquid, he pressed the
REDIAL
button on his cell phone.
Answer this time.
After two rings, he was relieved to hear the familiar voice say hello.

“Hi, where're you at?” He listened. “Good. I called you earlier, but I didn't get an answer.” He nodded at the explanation. “Yeah, I guess your cell phone wouldn't work there. Uh, look, I'm sorry about this—but the reason I called was Sheriff Popper sent me to a bad accident. I'm out on the interstate, about a mile from the Five-Spot Texaco Truck Stop.” He listened to the sharp retort. “Yeah, I know you expected me to be at Dinty's but I can't very well be in two places at the same time. When I got here, there was people strewn out all over the asphalt, some of 'em bleeding to death.” As he listened to a long list of worries and complaints, the deputy shook his head.
Some people just don't know when to shut up.

Ben Silver trudged on, but more watchful now about where he put his feet. The elderly man anticipated being inside his cozy home, slumped into the soft comfort of his favorite chair. This welcome vision refreshed his spirits, calmed his temper.
Soon as I rest my bones for a few minutes and get back my wind, I'll call Marilee on the phone. I'll tell that fat little firecracker she never had a chance to quit—that I'd already made up my mind to fire her before she showed up this morning. Then, I'll tell her if she apologizes, I might consider taking her back into occasional employment. Not because I need her, but just so she'll have a chance to make up for being so rude.
He grinned.
Boy, that'll light her fuse!

On a telephone pole, a brazen raven cocked its sly head, croaked at him. Mockingly, it seemed.

Silver muttered a deprecatory remark about the feathered creature's parentage, then—weary of this world's insults—he turned his hearing aid off.

The Girl

Attempting to make herself as small as possible, Sarah Frank was squatting on the closet floor with Mr. Zig-Zag clutched in her lap. As she listened to one side of a heated telephone conversation, the musty smell of Ben Silver's overcoat and sweaters and shoes intensified her fear. While the girl prayed that her cat wouldn't make a
meow,
a circular set of questions kept rotating through her mind.
How will I get out? What if he looks in here and finds me? What'll I do then?
As if in response to this silent query, Sarah's right hand found something in the corner of her darkened cell. It was round, hard, made of wood. A baseball bat.

Suspicious

Ben Silver took a long, thoughtful look at his parlor. Something was not quite right. A drawer in a file cabinet was open by about a quarter-inch. In the bookcase, three volumes of his Wodehouse collection were leaning against
The Hobbit.
Mr. Silver's hardcovers did not
lean.
The finicky man was particularly fussy about his books, which were always lined up, standing straight as a row of Air Force cadets. His sharp gaze darted about, taking in minor details all over the room. There were other small but indisputable indications that while he was away, someone had been in his home. Someone who was looking for something. He had no doubt about what they were looking for. Or who had sent them to steal it.
Raymond wouldn't have the nerve to set foot inside my house, even if he knew I wasn't here—that spineless worm would send some hired thug to do the dirty work.
The old man heard a small creaking sound, felt a sudden chill. What if the burglar who had searched his home was still inside? His imagination filled in the blanks. Perhaps he was over there behind the heavy curtain, or crouched on the floor behind the couch. Or in the corner closet.
The rascal might even be watching me.
Faced with the need to formulate an effective plan, his intellect rose to the occasion.
I can't let on that I've noticed anything amiss. I'll just sit down at my desk, casually pick up the phone and call the sheriff's office. But I'll have to figure out some way to tell Bertha that I'm in trouble without letting the burglar know that I'm talking to the police.

Tonapah Flats Sheriff's Office

Dispatcher Bertha Katcher was, by nature, an edgy person and some days were worse than others. Today, for instance, Mildly Tense had progressed to Touch Me on the Back of My Neck and I'll Jump Out of My Skin. Every time the telephone rang Bertha lurched and yelped as if stung by a hornet. As the morning progressed, her stomach had begun to flutter. Several cups of black coffee did not help matters. Neither did the continuous snacks of Cheez Curls, apricot bon-bons, and Bubba's Super-Fine Bacon Rinds. The flutter was promoted to a growl.
Oh gracious, I hope I don't throw up all over my desk.
At a critical moment in the spotty history of this backwater Utah community, the dispatcher abandoned her duty station, made a beeline for the ladies' room. She had barely slammed the door behind her when the 911 line rang. After six rings, the emergency call was automatically transferred to the sheriff's cell phone.

The Lawman on His Way to Work

Nearing the edge of town, the sheriff of Tonapah Flats glanced at the caller ID.
It's Ben Silver's number.
“Hey—what's up, Ben?”

The voice on the other end was a cold, robotic monotone. “Uh—hello, Morgan. I thought I'd give you a ring and see why you was running late for our checker game and—”

“This is Ned Popper, Ben—you got the wrong number.”
Silly old goat must have Morgan and 911 programmed on buttons right next to each other.
“You need to hang up and dial again.”

“You're already on the way?” A pause. “Be here in a coupla minutes? Well, that's fine and dandy. I'll go put on a pot of coffee.”

Popper frowned at the highway slipping under his pickup at a mile a minute. “Ben, what'n hell's goin' on—is something wrong?”

“You bet. Soon as you get here, I'll tell you all about—”

The line went dead.

Over many years of experience on the job, the sheriff had learned not to leap to conclusions. He reasoned that there were several possibilities. Number One:
I got onto a crossed telephone line and heard Ben Silver's side of a conversation with Morgan, but Ben couldn't hear me. Then, the phone company got things sorted out and disconnected me.
Numbers Two through Four were variations on this blame-it-on-high-technology theme. Then there was Number Five:
Ben might've been trying to tell me he was in some kind of trouble, and then his line was cut.
Unlikely, but not impossible.
Well, I guess I'd best go check it out.

The Confrontation

Ben Silver stared dumbly at the dead instrument in his hand, then at the telephone line that had been yanked out of the receptacle on the wall. The connector had been damaged, and this deliberate act of vandalism outraged the thrifty homeowner. He glared at the presumed burglar in astonished disbelief. “What in the hell are
you
doing—”

The blow landed squarely on his forehead. The old man slumped in his chair, sat there tentatively as if he was trying to decide what to do. After a few weakening heartbeats, his body made the decision for him. In a macabre imitation of a life-sized rag doll, it slid out of the chair. But Mr. Silver was neither rag nor doll, and his life was rapidly slipping away.

Upon her Return from the Ladies' Room

Just as Bertha Katcher got back to her desk, the dispatcher received a radio call from the sheriff's pickup. “Unit Six, Bertha.”

“Where you at, Shurf Pokker?”

Wincing at the habitual assassination of his good name, Ned Popper replied: “City limits, south side of town. I believe I just got a transferred 911 that
you
should've responded to. Where's blazes were you?”

“Uh—I'm sorry, boss. I got me a upset tummy this mornin' and I was in the ladies. Who was the call from?”

“Mr. Silver.”

“
Ben
Silver?”

“You know of any other Silver in Tonapah County?” Sheriff Popper immediately regretted the tart response. “After Ben mumbled a few words that didn't make any sense, the line went dead.”

“Oh, no—”

“It's probably no big deal, Bertha. Maybe a tree limb fell and cut Ben's telephone line. Or maybe he dropped his phone and busted it.” Across the road from Dinty's Grill, Popper made a right turn onto the long, looping lane that dead-ended at Ben Silver's house. “I'm headed out behind Big Lizard Ridge to check on him.” He waited for a response. “Bertha, do you read me?”

“Uh…ten-four, Shurf.”

I don't know what I pay that woman for.

Having felt another urgent call of nature, the sheriff's department dispatcher sprinted off toward the ladies' room—and barely got there in time to puke into the toilet.

Dismissing the minimum-wage employee from his thoughts, Popper tossed the microphone aside. “Damn the pestilential potholes,” he muttered. “Damn the bald tires and wore-out suspension and the Geneva Convention—full speed ahead!” The captain of the four-wheel-drive craft stepped on the gas.

The Scene of the Crime

Sarah Frank was on her knees by the fallen man, the baseball bat clenched firmly in her hand. Mr. Zig-Zag circled Ben Silver's prone figure in fastidious, mincing steps, paused to sniff the fallen man's rasping breath, perceived the fetid odor of approaching death.

The girl stared at the blood on her hands. Dazed by the mind-numbing experience, she did not hear the approach of the sheriff's pickup.

The Utah Lawman-Lineman

Sheriff Popper had been eyeballing the telephone line that was strung along the road with the electric wires. There was no obvious sign of a break, but that didn't prove much.
It could be a bad connection in a junction box, or a wire that's come loose inside the old man's house.
As he approached Ben Silver's home, he saw nothing amiss. But feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he shifted into neutral, shut off the ignition, coasted the pickup to a rolling stop under a gaunt poplar. Unbuckling the strap on his canvas holster, he eased himself out of the F150 with the stealth of an old cougar, taking care to leave the cab door slightly ajar.

As he would tell Deputies Packard and Bearcat later: “Something told me ‘Don't knock on Ben's door.'”
Something
also told him not to step onto the porch, where a board might squeak under his boot. After a life of close calls, the lawman had learned to pay attention to
Something.
He crept up to a side window and peered in, realized he was looking into the parlor, directly over Ben Silver's desk. He didn't see the old man. Or anything that seemed out of the ordinary.

Until the girl rose up from behind the desk.

The sheriff was almost as startled as Sarah Frank when she saw the shadowy silhouette of a man at the window.

But not quite.

With a shriek, the girl instinctively flung the baseball bat at the glass.

Popper cursed and ducked. The curse came off quick enough, but not the duck. He saw the Louisville Slugger shatter the glass just sixty-two milliseconds before it connected with his forehead, clipped off his brand-new, county-issue flat-brimmed hat. He landed flat on his back. The hard-skulled man had taken worse hits, and was stunned for only a few seconds. When he managed to get onto a pair of wobbly legs, Popper's top priority was picking up his hat, checking the damage, returning the handsome lid to where it belonged. “Ouch!” The sheriff winced, rubbed at the place above his left eye where a lump would soon form. When the lawman took a second look through the broken window, he didn't expect to see her. As he would tell his deputies: “While I was laid out like a pole-axed mule, lookin' up at nothin' but wild blue yonder and a cloud shaped like a nineteen-forty-nine Studebaker—I heard the back door slam.”

Popper proceeded to brush a few fragments of glass off his shirt.
Crazy kid—what the hell was
that
all about?
He marched around to the back of the house to find out. The girl was already out of sight. He peered at the Gap, with all its shadows and sandstone boulders and stunted trees.
It was that Sarah-what's-her-name who's staying with Marilee and that Harper bum. When I see that silly girl, I'll sure give her a good talking-to. She could've killed me with that danged baseball bat!
He returned to the scene of the near-miss, started to pick up the wooden club, but some cop instinct made him hesitate. He squatted, had a close look at the bat. There were bloody fingerprints on the wood. He drew a deep breath, yelled through the window. “Ben—you okay?”

Silence was the eloquent response.

Sheriff Popper entered by the back door, crossed through the kitchen, into the parlor, found Ben Silver on the floor by the desk. The old man's nose had been bashed flat, there was blood all over his face, and it had pooled in his eyes. Ben's left boot was on the floor by his knee.
God in heaven—what's happened here?
He knelt for a closer look. The collar on Ben's white linen shirt had been ripped open, two buttons were missing. He found a light pulse under the jawbone.
Well, at least he's alive.
He yelled again. “Ben! Can you hear me?”

Astonishingly, the old man's right eye opened. The orb was looking past Ned Popper, at something the sheriff could not see. Not even if he had turned his head.

Encouraged by the anger blooming in Ben's eyeball, the sheriff grinned. “Hey, you hard-headed old bastard—I'm glad you're still with us.”
What's happened here is plain as the smashed nose on your face but I got to ask the question.
“Ben—who was it that lowered the boom on you?”

Silver's mouth opened, his lungs rattled. “Hit me…tried to fight but…it don't matter…it's gone…” He made a small gurgling sound, then: “Sarah…Sarah Frank—she's got it.”

The sheriff lost the grin. “Sarah's got
what
?”

Slowly, slowly, the anger wilted away. Ben Silver's mouth was silenced forever. His eye remained wide open, as if staring in infinite wonder at the
unseen.