Chapter Fifteen
SHERIFF EVANS AND his wife live in a big house on Sundown Lane, not far from the county attorney general. By the time Sam and Montgomery show up, there are cars parked up and down the street on both sides, and they have to walk a ways from Sam’s truck to the sheriff’s front door. The house is lit up with string lights, and the windows glow, the curtains drawn open. There’s snow on the lawn and the roof, but the street has been cleared. Inside, the house is bright and festive with decorations, the tree illuminated in the living room with shiny, wrapped gifts beneath it. Serving trays and pots of food cover the dining room table. An assortment of cookies and other pastries crowd the nearby buffet. Children and dogs scurry around, and the adults chatter away in their sweaters and velvet dresses and suit jackets.
“Roswell!” Sheriff Evans says when he sees Sam. “Good to see you.”
Sam shakes his hand while Montgomery hovers at Sam’s shoulder.
“Thanks for having me, sir,” says Sam.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” The sheriff shifts his gaze to Montgomery. “I remember you. It’s been a whole year, Mister—?”
“Clarke. Montgomery Clarke.”
“That’s right.” The sheriff shakes Montgomery’s hand. “How you been?”
“Fine. I hope you don’t mind me being here.”
“Of course not. Any friend of my deputy’s welcome here. Let me introduce you boys to my wife.”
The sheriff leads Sam and Montgomery to Mrs. Evans, a slim woman with coiffed blonde hair and a small teardrop diamond glinting around her neck. She has a glass of white wine in her hand, and she’s talking to a handful of women in the kitchen.
“Sherry,” the sheriff says when he reaches her. “This is Deputy Sam Roswell and Montgomery Clarke, the man who took down Troutman last year.”
“Oh, my God!” she says, putting her wine glass down and taking Sam’s hand in both of hers. “It is so good to finally meet you, Sam. I’ve been trying to get Wayne to bring you over since your leave ended in the spring. I’m so glad you came!”
“Pleased to meet you too, ma’am,” Sam replies with a polite smile. “Thank you for inviting me. You have a beautiful home.”
“Aren’t you sweet. And look at you, Mr. Clarke. A heartbreaker right out of a dime store romance novel, praise the Lord.” She beams at Montgomery with her hands balled on her hips. “Well, you boys get yourselves something to eat and drink, and go mingle. I’ll come find you for a real chat when I can. Don’t you leave before we talk.”
The men nod and catch the sheriff giving them an almost apologetic expression.
They wander off and find the alcohol first: a cooler full of beer and wine that’s got reindeer antlers and Rudolph’s red nose attached to the lid, glass bottles of eggnog with red ribbons tied around the necks in a bowl of ice, and spiked apple cider in a big pitcher.
They move on to the buffet of food and fill their plates with ham and potatoes, buttered bread, green beans, and cranberry sauce. They sit at the dining room table, where a few other men are talking over drinks and cleared plates.
Eventually, one of the guys says to Sam, “Hey, aren’t you a sheriff’s deputy? The one who got shot last year?”
Some cops would take any opportunity to brag about surviving a shooting, telling an exaggerated version of the story to anyone interested. They would milk civilian respect and admiration for everything it’s worth and encourage people to see them as brave, heroic public servants.
Sam is not the type. And Montgomery has never wanted any attention for stopping the armed robbery at the Dog Bowl Diner either.
But Sam talks to the three strangers about the Troutman shoot-out and his shoulder wound until they run out of questions and comments. Montgomery doesn’t say a word beside him, clearing his plate and emptying his two beer bottles in silence.
“You ever shoot anybody before that?”
“What was it like?”
“You got a scar?”
“What was the sumbitch packing?”
When Sam finally reaches the end of what he’s willing to say about his traumatic ordeal, Montgomery stands up and clasps Sam’s bad shoulder with a firm hand.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” he says to the other men. “We got a friend to see.”
Montgomery steers Sam into the backyard after they trash their disposable plates and utensils and pick up more alcohol from the bar. A handful of people huddle around the firepit, many of them standing and some seated in fold-up chairs. Most of them are wearing coats and scarves and hats. They notice Sam and Montgomery as the two men approach but don’t linger on them.
It’s a cold and clear night, the stars twinkling in a black sky and the moon nowhere to be seen. The kind of night Montgomery spent camping on the Texas plain with a herd of cattle and Bo Davis. He sits Sam down in the only free seat near the fire and proceeds to light himself a cigarette.
Montgomery catches Sam looking at him as he smokes and curls the corner of his lips into a half smile. He swaps his cigarette for his beer, taking a long drink. He glances away from Sam, toward the crowd in the shadows—
And there he is. Kyle Welch. Straight from his Mechanic of the Month photo.
Everything falls away from Montgomery, even Sam. It’s just him and Welch in the darkness of the world.
Welch meets Montgomery’s stare, and instead of looking away, he holds it. He doesn’t recognize Montgomery. He can’t. They’ve never seen each other before. But Welch looks back at him as if he knows the universe sent Montgomery to balance the scales.
Montgomery doesn’t feel himself move, doesn’t hear anything at all, not even the crackle of the flames beside him. Welch is fixed in his eye, he blinks, and the man is in his hands, face to fist. Underneath him, half fighting and half fleeing.
Someone is telling Montgomery to stop. Pulling at him.
A sharp pain in his side, a kick to the ribs. He blinks again.
The world comes back into focus.
Montgomery’s on the ground, and so is Welch. Bright-red blood oozes out of Welch’s nostrils, and he’s going to wake up with a nasty black eye tomorrow. He’s watching Montgomery with fear and confusion, but he’s not moving away yet. He’s dazed, like he got hit upside the head with a club and he’s trying to make sense of what happened to him.
Somebody’s hands are on Montgomery’s shoulders. He looks up and sees Sam above him.
“What the hell is going on out here?” the sheriff demands as he breaks through the circle of people who surround Montgomery, Welch, and Sam.
The sheriff’s wife comes up behind him and hovers at his shoulder.
Sam straightens up, hands leaving Montgomery. “Sir, this man is wanted on attempted rape charges.”
“Him?” the sheriff says, gesturing at Welch.
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff considers Welch for a second. “Well, arrest him and get him the hell out of here, then. Who’s on call tonight? Duran?”
Sam nods.
“Tell him he needs to come pick this guy up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Montgomery stands up next to Sam and rubs his hands down the front of his thighs. He feels a little apologetic because Mrs. Evans is standing there with a bewildered expression on her face.
Sam goes to Welch and pulls him up on his feet, then ushers him toward the house with his hand firmly gripping Welch’s bicep. Montgomery’s right behind them, ready to pounce on Welch again if the guy tries to run.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Montgomery says to Mrs. Evans as he passes her.
He and Sam take Welch to the front yard and wait with him for Deputy Duran. Sam reads Welch his rights, and Montgomery shows him the hilt of his gun nestled at his hip.
“What kind of dumb son of a bitch are you, showing up at the sheriff’s Christmas party?” Montgomery says to Welch.
“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Welch replies. “You’re not even a cop, are you? If you think I’m not going to press charges for you attacking me—”
“That’s right. I’m not a cop. So if I had you to myself, I’d finish what I started back there.”
“Montgomery,” Sam says. “Don’t give him anymore ammo.”
“You think anyone’s going to care that a pedophile got his ass kicked?” says Montgomery.
“I can’t control the DA’s office.”
“Who the hell are you calling a pedophile?” Welch says.
“You tried to a rape an underage girl, asshole,” says Montgomery.
“Stop,” Sam tells him, his tone almost gentle.
“Is this about Shannon?” asks Welch.
“Shut up, Welch.”
A pair of headlights appear at the end of the street, then one of the sheriff’s department’s marked Chevy Tahoes pulls up to the curb in front the men. Deputy Duran hops out of the vehicle, cuffs Welch, and puts him in the backseat.
“And here I was thinking I wouldn’t make it to the party this year,” Duran says to Sam once he shuts Welch in the car. He smirks.
“Sorry for dumping this on you,” Sam tells him. “I know you’d rather be home with the wife this time of night on a Saturday.”
“Hey, on-call means on-call, man. It’s no sweat. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Sam nods, and he and Montgomery watch Duran drive off to book Welch.
“You okay?” Sam asks.
The two men glance at each other, close enough to lean against each other if they wanted.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” Montgomery says, voice deeper and softer now.
“He didn’t get any hits in?”
“I’ll be fine,” Montgomery says, looking out at the neighborhood.
“That’s two fights in two weeks,” says Sam. “Let’s not make it three before the new year, huh?”
“Hey, I don’t go looking for trouble.”
They’re quiet together for a little while, standing in easy silence with each other.
“We’re not going back in there, are we?” asks Montgomery.
“Nah. I don’t think I can show my face to Mrs. Evans again without a gift in hand. Let’s get out of here.”
They walk down the street to Sam’s pickup truck, then pause for a minute and admire the decorated houses, the string lights lining their eaves and the wreaths on their front doors and the packed snow on their lawns. The cars parked along the street are dusted white, and the stars glimmer in a clear sky above them. The cold air smells of the fire burning in the sheriff’s backyard, even from four houses away.
*
IN THE MORNING, Sam drives Montgomery to Shannon’s house, then waits in the truck as Montgomery walks up to her front door and knocks.
She answers and steps outside with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, squinting in the sunlight.
“Just wanted to tell you in person that we got him,” Montgomery says. “Welch. The cops arrested him last night.”
She looks at him, absorbing the news.
“I wish I could tell you he’ll go to prison, but I don’t know,” he says. “What I can promise is if there’s trial, I’ll testify for you.”
“Thank you,” she says.
She steps in to hug him, which takes him by surprise.
He hugs her back.