The Botanist (2 page)

The baby-faced cop pulled out a bunch of papers and sat down behind his desk with another long-suffering sigh.

“What’s the nature of the complaint?”

“Well, I’m not really sure it is a complaint.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just . . . something odd that happened. Strange behavior. I guess I’m not sure what it is.”

“What?”

Alex told herself to keep her temper. She noticed a road map of the local area on the wall and walked to it. “Is this entire map part of your . . . district?” She hoped that was the right word.

“What?”

Glancing at the scale measurement in the corner of the map, Alex did a mental calculation of how far she could have come in an hour and ran her finger up the straight line on the map that represented the highway until she came to approximately where she thought it had happened. “Is this part of your jurisdiction?”

He stood up and walked over to the map, looking at her with surprise for some reason. He was much taller standing directly next to her than she’d realized before.

“Yes, it is.” He looked more genuinely concerned than he had since she’d walked in. “Why? What happened to you there?”

“I got pulled over.”

Immediately his eyes took on a flat, annoyed quality. “You’re here to complain about getting pulled over?”

“No.” She fought to keep her voice calm. Why did this guy have to be such a jerk? “I’m not going to
complain
about it. The guy didn’t even give me a ticket.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because it was
weird.
He acted strangely, and I just thought I should run it by someone.”

Officer Oliver still looked annoyed, but he sat down in his chair again, going back to the papers.

“All right, tell me what happened.”

She started at the beginning and told him every detail she could remember, emphasizing the things she thought constituted odd behavior in a cop.

“When I handed him my concealed-weapons permit, he looked confused, almost like he didn’t know what it was, and then he handed it back to me. He said he didn’t need it.”

Officer Oliver frowned.

“Is there any reason a cop wouldn’t care that I had a weapon in the car?” she asked.

“No. That
is
strange . . . but he must have had a reason for it. Keep going. Then what happened?”

When she talked about the cop asking about her bracelet, Oliver’s frown returned, deeper this time.

“Did you notice this cop’s name?”

She thought for a moment. “No. Actually, now that you mention it, I didn’t see a name tag at all. But then with the spotlight on, half his body was completely in shadow. Maybe I just didn’t see it. I don’t know.”

He nodded, making notes on his papers.

“And then I told him I was meeting someone here.” She paused for emphasis and Oliver raised a questioning eyebrow. “It was a total lie. I wasn’t even planning on stopping here. But I felt like if he thought someone would miss me soon, I’d be in less danger.”

He frowned some more, but didn’t comment.

She finished the story, ending with the lights blinking out.

“Is that everything—all you remember?”

She leaned forward in her chair. “I don’t know if this is something you can write down in your report, but I felt something strange.”

“Felt
something strange?”

“Yes. I felt like I was in real danger. It was only a feeling, but it’s the real reason I came here to report this. He didn’t actually
do
anything wrong I can point to, but I felt like something very wrong was going on out there.”

He pressed his lips together. “Look, ma’am, I can write that in the report, if you want me to, but it’s less likely to be taken seriously if I do. We can’t investigate people’s gut feelings. As for this cop, he acted very unprofessionally, but that’s all. It’s exactly like you said: he didn’t actually
do
anything wrong. Maybe he really did like your bracelet. A cop who completely ignores a CCWP is an idiot, but it’s only his own safety he’s putting in jeopardy. So I’ll agree with you that he was being stupid, but chances are his department won’t write him up for that.”

When she didn’t answer, he sighed again. “Can you describe him to me? What did he look like?”

“I can’t tell you much. There’s no moon tonight—it’s just too dark out there.”

“What about his spotlight?”

“Yeah, but that threw him half into shadow and made the other half look washed out. I can tell you that he had dark hair—”

“Dark?”

“Yeah, either dark brown or black, and his hair was darker than his skin. I’m positive he wasn’t African-American, but he might have been Caucasian, or Latino, or something. I couldn’t see his eyes at all. Oh, but he had a mustache, and I think there was a scar coming out from under it. It was small but it went down over his chin. And he was tall—probably an inch or two taller than you.”

He was frowning at her now, and not writing anything down, she realized.

“I’m sorry,” she said, exasperated. “I
know
that’s a vague description, but it all happened so fast and he stayed behind me for most of the time and—”

“It’s not that. The scar and the mustache are good identifying marks, though the mustache could be shaved. I’m just thinking that there are no cops in our department that match that description. We’re a small town, and every cop in the precinct knows each other well. That isn’t anyone I know.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Then it wasn’t a real cop.”

Oliver immediately hedged. “Why are you so happy about that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offense. It’s just that if he wasn’t a real cop, then something really was going on. I’m not crazy.”

“Look, ma’am. There’s no one that far out that could have pulled something like this off. The only things that live out there are cow tippers and sage brush. No one that could have gotten a hold of a uniform and fake badge, much less a squad car.”

Her temper flared. Snatching up her purse she got to her feet. He looked up in surprise.

“Look,
officer,
I came in to report this because I felt like something strange was happening, but I’m finished now. I’m just passing through this town. I’ve done enough to clear my conscience. Do whatever you want with the report. You don’t have to file it. Tear it up when I’m gone, if you like, but it’s on you now if something sinister is going on out there.”

“Look, ma’am—”

“And I swear if you ‘look ma’am’ me one more time, I going to file a complaint against
you!
Good night.”

With that, she stalked away, past the desk where Rose still sat, and out into the night.

Cody
Oliver watched her go in complete confusion. The story she’d told was strange—he’d give her that—but could it really be true? He had been sure she was going to want to talk to the sheriff in the morning, create a whole stink, demand something be done, yada yada yada.

But now she was just leaving? That alone lent her a lot of credibility. Feeling guilty for being curt with her, he got up and followed her into the parking lot.

“Ma’am—”
What was her name?
“Ms. Thompson, wait.”

She was already pulling out of the parking lot. She didn’t stop or even slow down, but whether because she didn’t notice him or simply didn’t care, he couldn’t be sure. He watched her headlights shrink into the darkness, and then Rose was standing beside him, coat and purse draped over her arm.

“Smooth.”

He rolled his eyes. “I suppose you heard all that?”

“I did. Creepy story.”

“Yeah, but who could possibly be doing something like that clear out there? We’re talking the middle of nowhere, Rose. Sagebrushville.”

“The Pushkins.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“It’s a bit before your time, kid, but a few years ago, the oldest three boys somehow got a hold of some firefighter equipment. They had a suit, mask, even a used up oh-two tank. They started going around to businesses in town, saying a fire alarm had gone off. They were stopping work in the middle of the day, scaring the daylights out of people, causing all kinds of chaos. Their daddy got the sheriff to agree not to press charges if they did community service. I’m just sayin’, if anyone is out there, impersonating cops and trying to scare travelers, my money’d be on them.”

“Impersonating a cop is a felony, Rose.”

“I know that. Could be you’ll never prove who it was one way or the other. Of course, if you drove out there, talked to some of the locals, maybe casually mention that you’re looking for cop impersonators, and said impersonators will do some jail time, it might scare some sense into them. Solve your whole problem.”

“Is that what you think I should do?”

“I think you should talk to the sheriff in the morning, let him decide.”

Cody nodded, then realized Rose was throwing him side-long glances. “What?”

“She was kinda cute.”

He chuckled softly, then shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah, she was kinda chunky.”

A soft crack again the back of his head jerked it forward.

“Ow.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “What was that for?”

“She was
not
chunky, young man. I weigh twice what she did.”

“Well . . . I . . . uh . . . really? You two looked exactly the same to me.”

She peered up into his face, scrutinizing it for signs of a lie. Then, satisfied, she looked straight ahead again, even lifting her chin a little. She gave one quick nod.

“Nice save. See you tomorrow.”

He watched her get in her car and pull out of the lot, waving as she did. Then, chuckling to himself and shaking his head, he went back into the station.

Chapter 2

Four Years Later

Colleen Hinkle let the letter drop into her lap and leaned her head back against the wooden rocking chair her husband had carved with his own hands. She was near the end of her life, it seemed.

The sun was sinking down behind the horizon, and her chair made a rhythmic thud against the wooden slats of the wrap-around porch. Colleen glanced down at the white braid that lay over her shoulder. She’d lived in this house on the outskirts of Mt. Dessicate for the better part of forty years. The rural, desert-like atmosphere of Southern Utah suited her well after so many years. Her will said the house would pass to her eldest son upon her death. That was fitting. He already lived in it with her, along with his sweet but headstrong wife and their two children.

Colleen had buried three husbands in her time. She’d married at eighteen to please her parents, but her first husband, Bob, had been unpleasant at best and downright abusive at worst. When he died in a mining accident, she was afraid she’d go to hell for being relieved he was gone.

Three years later she’d married again. His name was Connor, and he’d been the love of her life. Their relationship had passion, romance, friendship, respect, and children. They’d been together more than twenty years. Then Connor had gotten sick. Tests at the university hospital up north had revealed leukemia as the culprit. By the time they knew anything was wrong, it had already spread so thoroughly through his body; the doctors said nothing was to be done. They gave him six months to live; he died one hundred and seventy-two days later. It had been the greatest grief of her life.

At the time, she’d figured forty-five was old. Now, looking back thirty years later, she realized that she’d still been young. She and Connor had had four children together. When he died, three were teenagers, the third only barely, and the youngest was ten.

It was another five years before she married Edgar. Edgar was sweet and soft-spoken. He didn’t have Connor’s fire, nor Bob’s temper. Their marriage had been one of convenience. She was a widow, he a widower, both with teenagers to raise and not enough money to do it with.

Despite the necessity of their arrangement, Colleen came to have such a deep respect and trust for Edgar that she couldn’t help but love him. He was good to her and loved her children. The two of them became the best of friends; the perfect companions for each other during their twilight years. Eventually, they’d even spoken at length about their earlier partners. Edgar had felt about his wife much the same way Colleen had felt about Connor. Their empathy with one another allowed them to talk about the previous relationships, look back with affectionate nostalgia, and chase away the loneliness together. They playfully agreed that whoever died first would find the other’s previous spouse in the next world and keep them company until they could all reunite.

Then, three years ago, Edgar had succumbed to liver disease. Apparently he’d done a lot of drinking in his younger years. He’d told her often that he’d been a mean drunk and done a lot of things he wasn’t proud of. Colleen simply couldn’t picture it. He’d been so sweet and . . . sober when she’d known him. But perhaps it was the booze itself that had changed him.

She’d been nearly seventy years old, then, and had no desire to marry again. When Edgar died, she simply hoped that she could find joy in life, and that God wouldn’t make her wait too much longer to reunite with the men she’d loved. Today, that prayer had been answered.

She’d begun getting headaches several months ago, but had ignored them for a long time. When her oldest son, named Connor after his father, realized she was in pain, he insisted on her seeing the doctor. Their country doctor could tell her very little, but he seemed worried when she described her symptoms. He recommended she go up north to the fancy university hospital and get an MRI.

Colleen put it off as long as possible, but last month she’d finally gone. They’d discovered a mass in her brain during the first round. She’d gone back two weeks ago for a biopsy, and the letter resting casually on her knees included the results of that test. It wasn’t good. Of course, this news hadn’t been delivered by letter, not at first. The doctor had called her several days ago, begging her to come north for treatment. She’d refused. When she stopped answering his calls, he sent the letter to beg her again.

He claimed if she got treatment, she might have a chance to shrink the tumor before it metastasized the way Connor’s leukemia had. The problem was that there were no guarantees. Colleen was seventy-two years old and had no desire to go through horrible radiation treatments. She’d lived in this small town most of her life. She was surrounded by her children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren. She would rather spend her days with them, and let the cancer take her, as it had taken the darling of her life all those years ago. She would set her affairs in order and be with her family as much as she could. Then she would go gladly and with no regrets.

She cork-screwed her mouth into a grimace, as though she’d eaten a sour grape.

No, that wasn’t true. There was one regret—one thing she wished she could go back and fix. It happened just after Connor died, nearly thirty years ago. She’d been more distraught—in a darker place—than she’d been during any other part of her life. Though she’d been sure that what she’d seen that afternoon was important, she hadn’t had the strength or know-how to push through her grief and act on it.

Even now, she was sure it had been important. But it was twenty years ago. Who would know or care
now
what she saw then?

The sun disappeared behind the mountains and darkness seeped over like sky like spilled ink. The wind carried squeals of laughter to her from up the road. They came from four houses away. The Caraways were in their forties, but they hadn’t married until their thirties, so they still had young kids at home. And a trampoline in their backyard.

Colleen smiled, but the sound of the children made her sad. She would have to call her kids together and tell them the news. There would be tears and anger at her decision. She was sure they, especially her stubborn youngest daughter, would try to force her to get treatment, but she’d hold her ground.

A shooting star streaked across the sky and Colleen knew she ought to make a wish, but for what? She’d led a good, long life. She’d been blessed. There was nothing she wanted. All her prayers had been answered.

After a moment, she settled on the regret. With the star’s last twinkling, she asked God for the chance to put right what she’d kept silent all those years. She had no idea how it could be put right, or if it even mattered anymore, but it was the only thing in her life left undone.

Colleen got to her feet, letting the doctor’s letter fall to the ground. The wind picked it up the next minute and carried it off the porch and into the grass. Colleen let it go. She didn’t need it anymore. The east wind would carry it away and God would see it. Perhaps it would end up just a soggy piece of paper in a ditch somewhere, but Colleen fancied that perhaps another would find it, and it would inspire a story or a positive life change.

Colleen chuckled to herself. She was a silly old woman, letting flights of fancy take her mind, but how else was she to fall asleep at night?

Still smiling, she went into the house. The wind followed and wrapped itself around her as she slept.