“Sheriff Jeb Sutton,” the older man said in response to Hank’s greeting, his hand clutching Hank’s. “Well, I guess now that you’re here, it’s just Jeb.”
When Hank McCarthy had walked into the HavenPort sheriff’s office he’d found the former sheriff sitting in a chair behind his desk even though it was early enough to still be dark outside.
Jeb had the height and build of a former WWF wrestler who had let himself go about a decade ago. He was overweight, sported a bushy walrus mustache and had a grey comb-over that barely covered his baldness. His face and neck were unshaven by several days and when he spoke he revealed a mouth full of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. This was a man who stopped caring about his job, his life, and personal hygiene a long time ago.
Jeb’s office reflected a different cop, however. A well-maintained flag stood in one corner and on the wall was a photo of Jeb as a young Marine sporting an impressive collection of awards. There were also dozens of certifications and commendations in glossy black and white frames. Another frame featured a newspaper clipping with Jeb’s photo, describing how he had saved several children who had fallen into the creek after the ice cracked beneath their feet. Comparing the numerous awards with the wreck of the man before him, Hank found himself wondering, What the hell happened to this guy?
“You were a cop, right? Down in Wyoming or sumthin’?” Jeb asked, interrupting Hank’s thoughts.
“Uh, Deputy Sheriff,” Hank answered.
“Why’d you leave? I mean, I hear Wyoming’s nice enough.”
A glaring blank sheet of paper formed in Hank’s head whenever he thought about his last day in Wyoming. He remembered heading out of town with his family but everything after that, right up to their arrival to HavenPort, was one big blank. Hank had decided not to reveal his lack of memory to his wife, Sarah. In some ways, she was as tough as any Pioneer woman back in the day. But Sarah’s tenacity depended on him being the proverbial rock in the storm. Besides, whenever he reached for some other bit of information, the memories were there. He perfectly remembered his childhood and growing up on his Uncle’s ranch in Wyoming. Same with his eight year stint in the military. His mind swam back to the scene before him and he finally answered, “Wife and I just needed a change of scenery I guess.”
Jeb nodded then asked, “You and your family get settled in okay?”
Settled in? That was a big joke. The last five days had been more like a test of survival for he and his family. On the first night the furnace went out and they all had to curl up by an old space heater for warmth. They’d also had to keep all the faucets in the house running to prevent the pipes from freezing. After spending the majority of the second day putting in the new furnace, he discovered a patch of shingles had blown off the roof. Hank knew if he didn’t tack down some new ones before winter there’d be some serious structural damage. This was all on top of the movers delivering what seemed like the five thousand boxes Sarah had packed from their old home.
Despite all these hardships, Hank turned away from Jeb’s photo and simply answered, “Yeah, we’re just fine. Thanks for asking.”
Sheriff Sutton seemed to reflect on this for a moment. It was a small town and most likely the friendly, overly talkative clerk at the hardware store had probably shared the McCarthy’s household difficulties with everyone. Instead of mentioning this, old Jeb just nodded his head again and reached into his desk. He slowly removed a gold badge and a heavy revolver in a civilian carry holster from one of the drawers and shoved it towards him.
“So I reckon these are yours now.”
Hank inspected the firearm. It was a .44 Taurus. He preferred auto pistols but he certainly didn’t mind the stopping power of the forty-four. It’s one thing to kill a suspect running at you with a knife, as any gun will kill a man eventually, but what’s more important is stopping that threat dead in his tracks. Furthermore, the heavy-duty pistol was a lot better protection from a bear. The only con was you had to keep in mind the over penetration factor and be mindful of not hitting innocents in the next room.
Hank expertly hit the ejector with his thumb and a fully loaded cylinder swung out of the frame. The bullets had dust on them. He dipped his pinky in the action and when he pulled it out again his finger was covered in grime.
Jeb must have seen Hank’s dirty pinky and disapproving frown because he said with a hint of embarrassment, “Yeah, you might want to clean that.”
Hank expertly flipped the cylinder closed, holstered the pistol and clipped both it and the badge to his belt. When he lifted his gaze he noticed a stairwell at the back of the office. A homemade sign over the doorframe read, “Captain’s Nest”. Hank recalled there was a little apartment over the sheriff’s office as part of the incentive package.
Jeb saw him staring at the stairs. “Oh yeah. I uh, didn’t expect you to arrive for another week but don’t worry, I can be packed up and out of your way by the end of the day.”
“You gotta place to stay yet?” Hank asked.
Jeb’s face turned sour but the old sheriff put on a brave one and answered, “I got friends with comfortable couches.”
“Take your time. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the sheriff until next week. Sarah and I only came in early to beat the first snowfall … and get the house in order.”
Where’d that come from? Hank felt as though the thought had been typed into his brain. Maybe that’s how memory comes back when you’ve lost it. Jeb didn’t seem to hear him. His attention was lost in an old photograph of himself displayed on the wall. It showed a younger version of him in front of the station. “Hard to believe I been sheriff of this here town for close to thirty years.” The older man’s eyes then lifted and seemed to size Hank up in a glance, “Wasn’t much older than you when I came to HavenPort just after my stint in the corps.”
“You gonna be all right?” Hank asked with genuine concern. Maybe at one time the old boy was a pretty good cop.
“Heck, son. Don’t worry about me.” Jeb faltered, then slid open a drawer and pulled out a fireman’s helmet with the word “Chief” on it. He slapped the helmet on his head and answered with a big Texas grin, “Hell, I’m still the Fire Chief.”
Just then a radio the size of a brick on Jeb’s desk crackled. A cheerful woman’s voice with a thick Minnesota accent emanated from the tiny speaker. “Sheriff, we got a call from Doc Clemens. He says the Wahlman boys were playing in the Rakewell building when some homeless guy threatened them with a knife.”
Jeb frowned. “Ophelia, those boys know better than to play in the Rakewell building.”
“That’s what I told ‘em, there hon. But the doc says the boys think the homeless guy was trying to burn the place down.”
Sheriff Jeb rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and then clicked the microphone again. “All right, tell Doc Clemens I’ll check it out straight away.” After switching the microphone off he asked Hank, “You mind tagging along?”
When Hank nodded he added, “Probably Nuthin’ to worry about. Most likely it’s some rail bum trying to stay warm.”
“Happen a lot?”
“Yeah, but usually not so early in the year.” Jeb grabbed his parka from a rack in the corner and strapped on a worn leather gun belt that had seen better days. He then reached across his desk, snatched up the radio, and keyed the microphone one last time. “Ophelia, let the doc know that me and the new sheriff are en route.”
Ophelia came back, “Want me to drive the Wahlman boys down there to meet you on site?”
“Naw, if we find the guy, I’d rather the boys I.D. him at the station. Last thing I want is to be searching that damn labyrinth in the dark with those two knuckleheads running about.”
“Roger, Sheriff.” Ophelia came back. There was a slight pause, “I mean, er, Jeb.”
Jeb fastened his radio to his belt and headed for the door. “C’mon son, you might as well meet the local color now rather than later.”
Before following Jeb out the door Hank double-checked to see both badge and firearm were clipped firmly to his belt. He was unaccustomed to carrying an untested weapon but this would likely turn out to be nothing more than a simple loitering call. At least the cylinder was fully loaded. Only a dead man carries a weapon without bullets. That voice again. Who taught him that? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.