They didn’t want to stand there and argue, so they moved on and I followed, a little warily. I believed most men and women in uniform were good people. But by no means were all of them. People automatically saw cops as beacons of wisdom and honor, which wasn’t always true. They can be just as bad as anyone else. The jury was still out on these two. Other than a little disparagement, I hadn’t done anything to merit their dislike, as far as I knew. Maybe they were just naturally surly. At least there were witnesses now, in case they wanted to rumble.
We sat down. Just like the night before.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Sawyer, right?” Rock said.
He obviously already knew the answer to that. Strawn must
have told them, because French hadn’t asked my name when he arrested me.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Why are you here?” Rock asked, just like the night before. I looked from Rock to French and then back again. “You know why I’m here.”
Rock clicked his tongue. “No, besides the snow-in and the accident.”
Collision, I mentally corrected.
He continued. “Why are you in Cluff at all? We’re not a tourist town, not in winter anyway. We’re not on the road to anywhere.”
I kept my hands on the table and leaned back. “I heard it was a nice town, and thanks for the big welcome.”
“We’re just saying we don’t like you,” Rock said.
“Good to know,” I said.
“So you need to get lost,” Rock said, jabbing his finger in my direction. I wanted to tell them then and there that as soon as I could, I would be gone forever. I’d never call, never write, never even look back. But I didn’t want them to have that satisfaction. I don’t like being told what to do.
“I will leave when I am good and ready. Speaking of which, you guys find my car yet?”
Rock glared. “No.”
“Well, you find my car, you find the guy, you’ll be heroes, and I’ll be gone.”
They mulled over the idea. Heroes. Me gone. Doing their actual jobs instead of playing patty cake or whatever it was they did all day.
Then they chose a different route.
Rock reached to his belt and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Or we could just detain you until this mystery man shows up.”
I narrowed my eyes and pulled my hands down to my lap.
Rock kept talking. “We’ve had problems in this town with strange drifters in the past, and you’re a suspicious dude.”
To be fair, I was. All I had was the clothes on my back and what was in my pockets. I had no fixed address, no cellphone, and no references I could easily reach.
Not good.
The thought of jail did not appeal to me. All my life I had done and gone as I pleased. Even with the strict missionary schedule, I had been free to walk around and sleep on rooftops on particularly hot jungle nights and see a whole new set of constellations.
Being in a cinderblock box would bring me as close to being afraid as I could imagine, claustrophobia at its finest.
So I was a little desperate.
French leaned around to see the rest of the room. Everyone was done with the news and had returned to their breakfast.
Mary came by with a mug of hot chocolate for me without even having been asked. She already knew me so well, after barely having spoken with me. She asked French and Rock if they wanted anything. They said no. Someone called for a refill of coffee. Rock and French watched Mary walk away and then turned back to me.
Rock continued. “So, Sawyer, we can do this the easy way or the fun way. My vote is the fun way, but it’s up to you.”
I was afraid of nothing. But I could end up charged with murder. This was a small town, and I didn’t foresee any kind of a fair trial. Maybe some excessive force from Rock. I had gotten off very easy the first time around, and the circumstances surrounding the dead guy were too strange to let a loose end like me off. Maybe the FBI would demand a scapegoat. The Cluff PD would have to cede to the bureau.
I didn’t know how much I could rely on Strawn a second time. Actually I knew exactly how much I could rely on Strawn, or anyone else for that matter—not at all. I could only count on myself.
Fine by me.
Rock grinned and looked expectantly at me. “Well? What’s it going to be? Easy way or fun way?”
How about both, moron? Fun and easy. For me.
I tried to look complacent and deflated, nonthreatening. I raised my hands slowly, like I was surrendering. Then, before my hands came all the way up, I knocked over my hot cocoa. They yelped in surprise, leaning away from the oncoming tidal wave of molten chocolate. French looked severely dismayed, like he might melt on contact. Rock looked like he was worried about staining his uniform.
Then I broke George Washington’s fourteenth rule: “Jog not the table on which another reads or writes.”
The tables in back were not bolted to the floor; they were free to move and combine for large parties or maybe to clear the floor for dancing or live music or whatever. So I put both hands on the edge and shoved hard. They had been in the process of standing up to avoid the spill, so the table hit them down low, forcing them back into their chairs. I kept pushing and pinned them with the table.
Then I ran, hitting tables and chairs aside and dodging the folks who were now upset by two things: the news about the impending bad weather and the strange young man making a big mess.
I would have to apologize to Mary and the other waitress.
The cops yelled, and I burst through the batwing doors into the kitchen. A curly haired, jolly-looking grill man stared up in surprise, holding on to his spatula like it was a life preserver. I vaulted boxes of foodstuffs and out the door into a fenced area with a dumpster and grease receptacle. I took a running jump and landed on the closed lid of the dumpster. Placing my palms on the top of the wooden fence, I lifted myself up and swung my legs around, pivoting on my hands. I landed and rolled in
the snow.
Straightening up, I waited, listening for just a second, to see if I would get lucky. I did.
Both Rock and French came barreling out through the kitchen door, shouting. Just one or neither of them would have been a problem.
If they had been smart, they would have gone straight back to their vehicle and chased me in heated, four-wheel-drive comfort. If they had been really smart, one would have gone back to the SUV, and one would have followed on foot.
But they were not really smart. Maybe they were just barely smarter than the average bear as well, but not a smidgen more. I ran around to the front of the Oak Table and hopped right into the driver’s seat of their SUV, easy as you please.
Bingo.
They had left it unlocked and idling. That way they wouldn’t have to have the keys jangling on their belts. And it was a safety concern. Police have to be able to get in and go in a hurry. If they hadn’t kept the heat on, they would have come out to an iced-up windshield, and then they’d have to scrape it. And who in their right mind would steal a police car anyway?
I figured while I was busy committing aggravated assault on a peace officer, I might as well add grand theft auto and felony evasion to the list.
It was clear Rock had driven. I had to rack the seat forward. Then I hit the gas, rolling out of the parking lot.
I buckled up for safety. It’s the law.
Without much thought I turned down random side streets, trying to put distance between me and the cops. I opted for an overall counterclockwise route. I remembered the general layout from the map.
The roads were still covered in snow, and worn tracks like wagon wheel ruts provided the only viable path. A couple of people who were out and about waved at me. I waved back. They must not have recognized me as a stranger through the tinted glass.
Rock and French had proved how smart they weren’t. Next I waited to see how scared they were. I hoped they would be too afraid to get on the radio and call for backup. They would never live it down. They might even lose their jobs.
I figured I could launch my own investigation and find the real bad guy. Maybe Strawn would forgive me for smacking his deputies around and stealing police property.
I realized, though, that I might have just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Or whatever the frozen variation was for the expression. Out of the pond and into the freezer? In my efforts to avoid possible jail time, I might have just guaranteed it.
But whatever.
I was free for the moment, and that was good enough.
For now.
When I was a kid, I never planned anything, never made lists, never even had a calendar. My dad used to say I was “flying by the seat of my pants.” To which I would invariably reply, “Yeah, but I’m flying.”
Things hadn’t changed much.
The first time I’d gotten suspended for fighting was in high school. It had been the result of a spur-of-the-moment, gut-feeling, knee-jerk reaction, like stealing the car had been.
I had been outside during lunch, not eating, just standing around talking. I had seen a big kid grab a new guy by the shirt front and dump chocolate milk on his head, and I didn’t think. Not one bit. I can barely remember moving, but I’d pushed the bully back to separate him from the new guy and knocked him down with a right hook.
I’d gotten kicked out for three days and had to forfeit a swim meet. I thought my father would be angry, but he wasn’t. We’d gotten takeout and watched action movies. It was probably one of the best times of my life.
I did not expect a similar happy outcome with my most recent rash decision.
But, then again, there is a saying that fortune favors the bold. It was a Latin proverb adopted by the United States Marine Corps. I might have added sometimes to the motto.
Rolling through a four-way stop, I checked my mirrors. No pursuit, for now.
Driving the big SUV was a lot different than driving the Buick. I liked it. Enough maybe to have taken it out of town if I could have. It’s not like I was very busy at the moment.
Continuing along no-name roads, I hit dead-ends at the eight and seven o’clock spokes before I made it to the six o’clock, which was just a continuation of Main Street. There were no traffic lights, just occasional stop signs.
I maneuvered back around the town, hoping to make at least one full circuit. I switched between the inner and outer rings to avoid the center. I figured as long as I had a set of wheels on loan, I would see what there was to see.
Which wasn’t much.
Cluff was just a regular town. It had everything it needed and nothing it didn’t. Trappers, the place the innkeeper had told me about, was in the middle of a wide patch of snow. Once upon a time, it might have been a parking lot. It looked like the mom-and-pop general store I had hoped to see last night. It would have been just a bit too brazen for my taste to stop to shop just then, so I passed the store and the gas station opposite it.
Further down the road I saw an auto repair shop. A large hand-painted sign said they repaired all models. Including Buick Skylarks, I hoped. Once I got my car back I would bring it in. The bay doors were closed against the cold, but I could see a couple of people inside.
I turned around, taking the outer ring, this time clockwise. At the end of the two o’clock spoke I saw a schoolyard. It seemed to be an all-inclusive campus, K–12, and was divided up between a big main building and scattered portables.
Recess was in session. A handful of kids, defiant to the cold, were playing on a wooden jungle gym.
I like kids. There is something so innately good about children; it’s no wonder Christ commands us to become like them. I wondered what the kids I had met in Peru would have thought if they could have seen snow. The youngest son of a family we had baptized had taken an hour to be persuaded to step into the font waters. He had cried and recoiled at every encouraging word or gesture from his family and from us. He’d said it was much too cold. Clearly he had never been to Cluff. Finally, he had worked up the courage.
Sometimes we would use electric water-heating pitchers people use to make tea and dump them into the font. But the pitchers were so small they never made a difference.
One time, in the jungle, there was a period of about two weeks when the temperature dropped from more than ninety degrees and sunny to fifty degrees and overcast. It reminded me a lot of the Pacific Northwest and was a bit of a relief. My Guatemalan companion had worn a knitted sweater the whole time. Usually all people wore there were thin, sleeveless shirts, shorts, and sandals or no shoes at all. They had not taken the change well.
I didn’t see much else. The initial high of escape was
wearing off.
I was running out of places to go, and I couldn’t hide forever. Not having a lot of options is about the same thing as having
too many.
Just keep driving.
That was all I could do. But for how much longer, I didn’t know. Pretty soon I would end up driving in circles. Or out of gas. The gauge was low. The houses became more sparse and the trees thicker. I was nearing the east edge of town. The three o’clock spoke. At the end of the spokes the roads just fizzled out into nothing. Just trees and snow.
Strawn would know by now and no doubt regretted his clemency. The radio was silent, so they must have been communicating by cell phone.
The only way I could see to vindicate myself was to break the case on my own. I backed up, drove forward, backed up again, and so on until I had turned around. I took the next side street I came to.
Topping a rise, I saw what looked like a sheep farm. But it was hard to tell just from off-white shapes on a more-white backdrop. I looked out across the white expanse.
People say Montana is “big sky country,” which was true, in that it was big. But it was not wide and open and free. Not at the moment. With the low cloud layer, it looked long and hard and bleak, like an ocean of concrete.
I had taken the four o’clock spoke all the way to the end when I stopped driving.
The snow was piled high, like a miniature avalanche had happened there. I wondered if that was how the highway looked and knew it would take a whole lot of snowplows or some extreme heat wave to get through it before spring. I was about to begin the long process of turning around again when I saw something. On the left side of the road, barely visible, was a flash of red. Bumping the gear shift into park, I flung the door open and spilled out.
I didn’t look both ways crossing the street—an inadvisable choice—but there was still no traffic. And I was sure I had just seen my Buick.
Sinking into the snow, I saw two things at once: The farm was definitely for sheep. There were a few gathering at an old split-rail fence. And it was definitely my Buick, mostly hidden beneath the low limbs of the trees and with a heavy coat of snow. It must have been there at least all morning and probably since last night.
It looked to be sound. Besides the sundry superficial scrapes from the crash, there was no other damage. The doors were locked, which had been very conscientious of the car thief. He must have been planning on coming back for it. Maybe. It was a distinctive car and therefore easily identified.
I hadn’t thought to see the Buick again so soon. It was pretty much a miracle. The thief must have been pretty disappointed when he’d hit the east end of town and seen it snowed in too. He must have turned around and found the nearest spot to stash it.
I wondered where he could be now. Not outside. Not in this weather. Maybe he was hiding in a barn. With the sheep. Wool and hay would keep him warm.
Reaching up and under the rear fender, I fished out the key hidden in a little black box with twin magnetic strips on the back. The older I get the more prepared I need to be, so I kept a spare.
She started fine, but the snow was deep and I could barely back her an inch before bogging down. Police cars usually have a lot of supplies in them—odds and ends for emergencies—so I turned off the Buick and checked the SUV. There was plenty of stuff in the back of Rock’s rig: all the usual things like first-aid, road flares, reflective vests, tow cables, emergency blankets, rock salt, snow chains, and jumper cables. And there was an axe. It was not the typical roadside assistance gear, but it was just right for the back of beyond in the Montana wilderness.
I took a look at the axe. It was a handsome item manufactured by the Hudson Bay Company, one of the longest-running operations in the western world. I’m a fan of westerns and cowboy movies, but I think the real iconic American frontiersmen were the mountain men. Solitary wanderers. Stoics, surviving in the simplest of ways and by the purest of means. They were exactly what I wanted to be.
The axe was slightly lighter and smaller than what one might find in Granddad’s woodshed. The blade was keen and more angular than rounded.
The head was flawless and shiny—not a scratch on it—so I figured the cops didn’t use it much and, therefore, it would not be missed.
I cut a few boughs off nearby trees, laying them beneath the wheels of my Buick and all the way to the road. They provided just enough traction, and soon I was right back where I had been yesterday: on the road, in my own car.
Except I was going back to town. I had no other choice. I put the axe on the floor behind the passenger seat, where I could reach it easily from where I sat. It might come in handy again. I breathed in and out. I’d left the cop car idling so it would
be warm when they finally found it, which couldn’t take too terribly long.
And it didn’t. Because at that moment a big crew cab pickup truck with Cluff PD decals and flashing lights trundled over the hill, turning lengthwise across the road, blocking me.
I had nowhere to go.
This vehicle was a lot more up-to-date than either Rock’s or French’s. There were more lights, there were bigger rails, and there was a brush guard on the front that looked like it would serve as a battering ram. I could see stainless side-boxes, probably full of whatever a rural first responder might need. The wheels looked like they could have handled any terrain. The frame was jacked up to accommodate the heavy-duty tires. It was probably complete with aftermarket suspension and supercharged. There were twin spotlights on either side of the windshield posts. All the bells and whistles.
A cop I hadn’t met before stepped out, gun in hand.
Not again.
This guy looked to be a shade older than Strawn. He was tall and lean, like a middleweight boxer, just slightly lighter than what I had competed at. His hair was platinum white and cropped brutally short.
He looked like he knew what he was doing—sure of himself. There was no twitching or shaking of the gun. The barrel was rock steady. I could have sworn he was going to shoot me. Then I recognized him from the hunting photograph on his desk, remembered the dead deer.
I put my hands up.
“Get out of the car,” he barked.
I did so. Slowly. But I stood by the door.
“I’m unarmed,” I said.
“I’ve got two APBs out, one for that red car and one for a police vehicle,” the guy said.
“Well, I couldn’t be driving both, now, could I?” I said.
“You being smart with me?” he asked, aiming a little more carefully.
“No, sir. Just pointing out things you might have to think about later.”
Snow started again, instantly falling full throttle, not the slow start that builds up over time.
And then another police truck came rolling down upon our standoff. Chief Strawn stepped out from the driver’s side. He was out of uniform, in a plain-blue denim button-up over a white T-shirt. Rock burst from the passenger side; he looked to have a pretty good grouch on.