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Treadwell, NY
“I picked up a couple more rattlers this morning,” said Ron, matter-of-factly. “Got them from Frankie Farrell over there on Davis Mountain Road.”
Farrell was an active member of the church who had made it known that he could supply all the snakes Ron and Winona could use. He hadn’t disappointed.
“Did you put them in the barn?” asked Winona.
“Not yet. They’re still in the rear compartment of the truck. I didn’t want to try bringing them into the barn while it was raining so hard. But, as soon as it stops, we’ll go out and get them. Okay?”
Winona nodded.
“Got some mice, too,” Ron added.
“Uh huh. That’s good, Ronnie.”
Winona turned her attention back to the book she’d been reading. Ron marveled at her composure.
Suddenly, the slamming of several car doors caught the couple’s attention.
“Now who the hell can that be?” asked Ron to no one in particular.
Winona got up off the couch, strolled over to the living-room window, and peered through a pair of white, lace curtains to see who the unexpected visitors might be.
“Shit!” she exclaimed. “It’s that damned police chief, and he’s got somebody from the sheriff’s department with him. I’ve got a lousy feeling about this, Ron.”
“Go in the bedroom and let me handle it.”
The sound of a sharp knock on the front door, followed by two more, rattled through the living room. Ron straightened his shirt collar and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead before opening the door.
* * * *
I pulled my vehicle to a stop right behind the deputy’s, which was blocking the driveway in front of the innocent looking farmhouse. As I exited the Jeep and approached the front porch, I could see Winona peeking out from behind the window curtains. Then, she disappeared.
The sheriff’s deputy preceded me onto the porch and knocked several times on the heavy wooden door. After a brief delay, the door opened and the preacher appeared in the opening.
“Ron Trentweiler?” said Deputy Koestner, standing erect in his black tunic, gray slacks, and western-style hat.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’ve got an arrest warrant for you and your wife, Winona Trentweiler, for the murder of William Stillwater. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
“But—”
“Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?” repeated the deputy in a flat monotone, as if Trentweiler had never opened his mouth.
Ron nodded his head.
“Put your hands behind your back, please,” I said, removing a pair of handcuffs from my belt.
Ron did as he was told, and I placed the cuffs on his wrists, ratcheting the steel bracelets tightly enough to elicit a slight yelp from the good pastor.
“Where’s Mrs. Trentweiler?” asked the deputy.
Just then, the sound of a slamming door split the air, catching us all by surprise.
“The back door!” I shouted. “She’s fleeing the scene!”
“Stay here with him,” ordered Koestner. “I’ll go get the woman.”
The deputy pulled his Glock 37, semi-automatic pistol from its holster and headed across the living-room floor into the kitchen toward the back door, his weapon held in front of him. At the same time, I heard a truck door slam, followed by the distinctive whirring sound of a starter motor turning over a big V-8 engine. Turning my head, I caught a glimpse of the red Ford careening down the driveway. The two patrol cars parked there only slowed Winona down for a second. When she realized the drive was blocked, she shifted into reverse, and then shot around the two vehicles, over the lawn and out onto the muddy dirt road, traveling as fast as conditions would allow.
Deputy Koestner came running around the side of the house, headed for his cruiser.
“I’ll call for backup!” he shouted, as he vaulted into the car and started the engine. He pulled forward, spun around hard, and gunned the engine, propelling the vehicle over the lawn, past my Jeep and down the road. Its rear end fishtailed wildly as the back wheels fought to gain purchase in the mud, which was growing thicker by the minute thanks to the torrential rain. I looked at Trentweiler. His face was as white as a ghost.
“Please,” he pleaded. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“Never mind that,” I said. “You’re coming with me!”
I pushed him out the door and onto the front porch, guiding him down the steps and over to my Jeep. I opened the rear passenger-side door and carefully pushed him onto the back seat, his hands handcuffed behind him.
“Don’t move,” I said, as I locked the door.
I silently thanked the mayor for the heavy wire cage that separated prisoners in the back from the front compartment, along with tamper-proof locks that could only be opened by the driver.
For a brief instant I thought of leaving the chase to Deputy Koestner and returning to Roscoe with the preacher. But, I decided that that could wait, and opted to join in the pursuit instead. I flipped on the roof-mounted light bar, hit the siren, and started off down the road, wiper blades slashing against the pouring rain and all four wheels pulling me over the muddy surface.
This was going to be fun.