CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

When Crockett got back to the office, he found Satin sitting in the tiny waiting room. She got to her feet and hugged him. He held her, and they swayed there for a moment before she leaned away and looked at him.

“This is a lot harder when I know something is going on and it’s so close to me,” she said.

Crockett smiled at her. “Want a divorce?” he asked.

“Yes, but I’ll be over it by tomorrow morning.”

“It’s already tomorrow morning.”

“Then I’m over it now. You’re okay, huh?”

“Oh yeah. I was never in any real danger.”

“Not what I heard.”

“Who you gonna believe, me or your lyin’ ears?”

Satin embraced him again. “Never could trust my ears,” she said.

“Shelly drive you in?”

“Yeah. She’s giving a statement right now. I already gave one.”

Crockett sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “I gotta get to work on mine, and God knows what else. As soon as that’s over, I’m on leave for five days. There’ll be an inquest. On a big department, I’d be investigated by infernal repairs or somebody. I don’t know what happens in a little county like this. Maybe I’ll have to arm wrestle the mayor or something.”

Satin grinned. “I’ll be your corner, man,” she said.

“Cut me, Mick,” Crockett replied in his best Stallone, and they stood, enjoying each other, in spite of everything else.

“I’ll see if Shelly’ll give me a ride home,” Satin said. “She shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Okay. Tell her I appreciate it. I’ll see you when I get there. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Crockett. Through it all, I always have.”

 

*****

 

Crockett wrote out his statement. Proof read it, re-did it, read it, and did it all over before he was satisfied. Smoot questioned him, then Arky, then brought in fresh coffee from the diner and called Crockett into his office one more time. He leaned back in his desk chair and eyeballed Crockett over the rim of the paper cup.

“Sounds righteous to me,” Smoot said. “I got it all on my little recorder here in the desk. Don’t know what else you could have done.”

“Always more you can do, Dale. The kid just didn’t give me time.”

“You think is was suicide by cop?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Might have been. Maybe he was juiced on drugs or something. Can’t be too bright if you drive up in front of a nightclub and crank three off across a front seat and out a passenger side window. That’s not suicidal, that’s just stupid.”

“Well, it’s a quarter after seven and the birdies are chirpin’. Why don’t you…”

Smoot’s office door swung open and Mayor Underwood surged into the room.

“Sheriff Smoot,” he said, “I’d like to speak to Mister Crockett alone, please.”

Smoot stifled a smile and winked at Crockett. “Good morning, Mister Mayor,” he replied. “I was just on my way to the john. Your timing is impeccable. Please feel free to use my office as if it were your own.”

Underwood watched Smoot leave and turned to Crockett. “Well, you did it, didn’t you?”

“Did what?” Crockett asked.

“Killed someone.”

“Yes, I did,” Crockett replied. “Of course, that someone had just fired three times into a nightclub and had attempted to shoot me. Those are called mitigating circumstances, I believe.”

“Well, I’m certainly not surprised.”

“About what?” Crockett asked.

“About you shooting somebody to death.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry it took so long. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve been planning to shoot somebody for several weeks now. I was actually thinking about trying over at the grade school until this came up. It’s a much more target rich environment.”

“Flippancy is uncalled for and inappropriate. I don’t care for your attitude.”

“Funny,” Crockett said. “I think yours is right on target. Almost exactly what I expected. Is it too late for me to still get that hero citation you wanted to give me yesterday?”

“The one that I’m now sure you didn’t deserve?”

“I never thought I deserved it in the first place. It wasn’t for me anyway. It was for you, Mister Mayor. Now all you have to do is figure out how last night’s events can reflect favorably on you, some way to spin the fact that a kid is dead to your advantage, and you’re off and running again. By the way, all of this happened in the county. It’s really none of your business, now is it?””

“The fact remains that you shot a man to death last night,” Underwood shouted.

“Believe it or not,” Crockett replied, “it was not my intention to kill that boy. It was, however, my intention to stop him from killing or injuring anyone else, including me. To do that, with an armed and violent suspect, it became necessary to discharge a firearm. The accepted method is to render him unable to cause damage. That is exactly what I did. Unfortunately, it also caused his death. Fortunately, he did not kill anyone at the nightclub, Officer Bennett, me, or any of the people in the vehicles he sped by in excess of a hundred miles-per-hour. Now you go ahead and spend the next few days figuring out all of the stupid alternatives to my actions that you can, actions, incidentally, that I had to decide on in a fraction of a second. If you think, at that point, that you can do a better job than I, I’ll be more than happy to give you my badge. Hell, I’ll be more than happy to give you my gun. I’ll also send you a get-well card after you shoot yourself in the foot while practicing your quick draw in front of a mirror. Until such time, I would really appreciate it if you’d just leave me alone. You make me tired, Mister Mayor, and I am tired enough after the past few hours without your help. Until I determine that you’re behaving the way you are for anything more than selfish reasons, please do not speak to me about the events of last night. I killed a kid. That hurts. It is not in your best interest to annoy me right now. You’ve got about five seconds to leave, sir, or I absolutely guarantee you that I will assist in your egress. That is a promise.”

Underwood wasted no time in vacating the office, almost running into Dale Smoot. Smoot came in and sat down.

“I heard some of that,” he said. “I’ll get the rest later. I think I must have left my recorder on.”

 

*****

 

A little before eight, as Crockett and Smoot were preparing to leave again, the county coroner, Kenneth Jacobs, arrived. A tow-headed young man of about thirty, he had a quick smile and looked like he should be teaching high school biology.

“Good morning, Chief…uh, I mean Sheriff.”

“Hey, Doc. This is my deputy, David Crockett.”

Jacobs smiled and stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Deputy,” he said, “discounting the circumstances.”

“Call me Crockett,” Crockett said.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Dale said.

“I was working the four to midnight shift in the emergency room when they brought the girl in. I hung around to do a preliminary on the body of the Castor boy.”

“How’s the girl,” Crockett asked.

“She’s fine. Just a bullet burn, actually. Not even any stitches. Punched through a cowboy boot and grazed the calf of her leg.”

“Find anything on the kid?” Dale asked.

“Got blood samples on the way to the lab in Jeff City, and scrapings from both hands for gunshot residue. Twenty-three-year-old white male. Bobby Castor. His father came in for the formal I.D. Name’s Fred. The boy had the beginnings of Meth Mouth. Probably a user for a couple of years or more. Had a major wound just below the heart that exited out his back through the spine. Very large caliber. I also removed a round projectile that had punctured the upper lobe of his left lung, another that had punctured the lower lobe of his right lung, and another from the upper left quadrant of his pelvis. All three were about a third of an inch in diameter, I believe, although the one in the pelvis was slightly distorted. The hospital has those three waiting to be picked up. No idea where the big one is.”

“Fine,” Smoot said. “I’ll get somebody up there today.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Whoever did the shooting, how many rounds did he fire at the suspect?”

“Just one,” Crockett said.

“But there were four wounds.”

“Yes. But only one round. Twelve gauge slug and three double-ought buck pellets.”

“From the same shell?”

“From the same shell.”

“Are those rounds available over the counter?”

“Even on mail order,” Crockett said.

Jacobs shook his head. “What a world we live in, gentlemen,” he said. “I would not trade jobs with you.” He looked at Crockett. “I assume you shot him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That must be horrible for you. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that.”

“Well,” Jacobs continued, levering himself to his feet, “I am as short on sleep as I’m sure the two of you are. I’ll get the test results to you as soon as I can. My preliminary report is at the desk out front. Any questions or anything else I can do, just call. I’ll do the full autopsy in a day or two.”

After the door closed, Smoot spoke up. “Breakfast is on me for a change. Then I’ll drive you home.”

“Let’s walk to the diner,” Crockett said. “I’m starting to stiffen up.”

Smoot smiled. “Maybe I should call Satin and give her the good news.”

Crockett followed him out the door.

 

*****

 

They were finished eating and Crockett was on his second cup of coffee when their booth was approached by a small man. He looked to be about fifty-years-old, was wearing painter’s jeans, a dark brown t-shirt, and a battered Freightliner ball cap. He seemed a bit delicate, nearly fragile.

“’Scuse me,” he said. His voice was strained and thin. “My name’s Fred Castor. They told me down at the sheriff’s office I might fine a mister Crockett here. One a you him?”

Crockett slid out of the booth and stood up.

“I am, Mister Castor.”

“Yessir,” Castor replied. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute.”

“Of course you can, sir,” Crockett said, moving from the booth to a table. “Please sit. I’m so sorry things went the way they did. Would you care for some coffee?”

“Thank you, but I had some about an hour ago. I coudn’t keep it down.”

Crockett pulled a chair out for the man and took a seat. Gingerly, Castor joined him.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Officer Crockett. I’m not here to raise any kind of hell or nothing like that. They told me that my boy tried to shoot you. That right?”

“Yessir. He shot at me.”

“They also said he took some shots at his ex-wife at that new place up on Ninety-two.”

“That’s true, sir. Three of them. I was there at the time. I witnessed it.”

“Donna didn’t get hit or nothing, did she?”

“Donna his ex-wife?”

“Yessir.”

“No, Mister Castor. She’s fine. One girl in the club was grazed by a bullet that came through the door, but she’s fine, too. She didn’t even need any stitches.”

“Thank the Lord for that. Bobby’s momma died about ten years ago, and he never could get over it, I guess. It kinda knocked him sideways. I lost control of him, Mister Crockett. He an’ Donna got married when the two of ‘em was only about nineteen. They broke up two or three times, then she left him again about a year ago. They got a divorce six months back. Don’t seem like he could get over that, either. Couldn’t hold a job, got arrested for fighting and drunk driving in Kansas City. Hadn’t been out on the home place more than twice since he and Donna broke up. I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t a good enough dad for him. Maybe I didn’t do something for the boy that I should have. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing anybody can do, Mister Castor.”

“You got any kids, sir?”

“Yes, I do,” Crockett replied. “A daughter about Bobby’s age.”

“She doing all right, is she?”

“Now she is, yes.”

“But not always?”

“Nossir, not always.”

Tears filled the man’s eyes. “I don’t know what I could have done for him,” he said.

Crockett looked at him. “The man I see before me,” he said, “I believe is the type of man that did every damn thing he could, Mister Castor. You can save someone from everything except themselves. Neither you nor I can do anything about that.”

Castor wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry you had to do what you did, Mister Crockett,” he said, “for his sake and for yours. God be with you.”

Crockett watched the man walk away and exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Smoot spoke up from his seat in the booth.

“C’mon, Crockett,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

 

*****

 

Dundee met them in the drive, barking at the strange vehicle. Crockett said goodbye to Smoot and walked to the porch with her bouncing around his legs. He sat on a step for a moment roughing her up, appreciating her unconditional joy at having the pack together again. He went inside to see Satin extricating herself from a blanket on the couch.

“Timeisit?” she asked, lurching to her feet and moving into him, her arms around his waist and pressing her face into this shoulder.

“Twenty after morning.”

“You gotta be beat,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

“Tired. Not sleepy.”

“Coffee. Not too old. Wanna cup?”

“No thanks. My stomach’s a little sour.”

“I need some,” she went on, pulling away and limping into the kitchen. Except for her new boots, she was still completely dressed.

Crockett followed her and grabbed a couple of pieces of bread from a loaf on top of the fridge. “Where do you feed those fish?” he asked.

“Straight down from the deck in the little inlet where Dundee drinks. I took that canvas folding stool down there.”

“I’ll be back in a little while.”

When he walked out the door, Dundee intercepted him and followed him to the water, sniffing at the bread. Crockett sat on the stool, picked off a tiny piece, and tossed it in about a foot from shore. Dundee sat beside him, her stub of a tail vibrating, watching the bread in his hand. A delicate pop from the surface brought his attention back to the lake. The little crumb was gone. He tossed in another. In only seconds it disappeared in a ripple. He adjusted his position to better see through the glare on the water and several tiny wakes fled from the shoreline. He tossed in three or four pieces. In a moment one popped away, then the rest. He peered into the water. There they were. A half dozen or more bluegill, no more than an inch or two long. Smiling, he threw in several more pieces. By the time the first slice of bread was gone, there must have been two-dozen fish, flashing in the water and breaking the surface as they scrambled for a tiny bite.

He’d have to put a stump or a piece of brush down there to give them some cover. If he fed a little, he’d have bluegill hanging around that spot all the time. He picked off a dozen or more little nubs and tossed them in. The competition was fierce. When the ripples died down, he could see a herd of the little guys poised in the water, waiting for the next opportunity. Chuckling quietly, he realized that, in the middle of gunshots in the night, a dead kid on the road, a ridiculous mayor, and everything else that was wrong, Satin, as usual, was right. They had fish.

 

*****

 

It was over an hour before Crockett got back to the house. Satin was sitting at the kitchen counter eating some kind of salad.

“Thought you fell in,” she said.

“Isn’t there a pet store in the mall in Liberty?”

“Yeah. Petsmart or something.”

“They got fish, don’t they?”

“All kinds. You gonna stock guppies?”

“Think I’ll go over there and get some of those floating fish pellets. We got little bitty bluegill all over the place out there. If I give ‘em some cover and feed ‘em a little, they’ll hang around. They’ll grow faster, too.”

“Oh, hell,” Satin complained. “I started this didn’t I?”

Crockett grinned at her. “Your fault,” he said.

“I’ve created a monster. Aren’t you tired?”

“No. I feel pretty good, actually.”

“All right. Since you don’t have a truck right now, take the Jeep.”

“That’s okay. Think I’ll fire up the bike. Been a couple of months since I even started it. Wanna go for a ride?”

“I’ll stay here,” Satin said. “You’ll do better by yourself right now.”

 

*****

 

The Goldstar fired on about the thirty-seventh kick. Crockett feathered the throttle to keep the old twin running and leaned across the handlebars, covered in sweat and wheezing a bit. When he and the bike had settled into some sort of mutual composure, he backed it out of the garage, snicked it into first, eased out the clutch, and carefully navigated the gravel until he reached Poston Road. He turned left, grabbed a handful, and let it eat. A couple of eighty mile-per-hour curves settled him down and, by the time he returned home two hours later, he felt much better. Satin was taking a nap. He put on some old jeans and a chambray shirt with no cuff buttons, and went to work.

He dragged several eight to ten foot lengths of downed trees to the water’s edge and pushed them into the pond, crossing them over each other until he had a rude structure from the shallow bottom to around two feet above the surface. Brush came next, piled on top, creating a shaded area that would give fish a place to lurk out of the sunlight, and create shadows so he might see them more clearly. When he finally dragged himself back up the slope it was nearly seven o’clock. Sweaty and satisfied, he clumped into the kitchen. Satin was at the stove, frying burgers.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Starving.”

“Tired?”

“Beat to shit.”

“Sleepy?”

“Getting there.”

Satin smiled at him. “Welcome back,” she said.