“Do—umm—do you know where he went?” I asked.
“Well, I ain’t exactly sure, mind, but,” he said, and paused. He looked up at me, and when I saw his eyes, I went cold. Something in them was amused. It was the same sort of look you might see just before a snake strikes. It was a look that said ‘I know something you don’t know’ so clearly you could almost hear it. “but I reckon ol’ Pete had hisself a woman on the side-like.” I didn’t say anything, and the Sheriff moved to look down at the papers that had spilled out of another of the boxes. “Reckon he went to go be with her. Runnin’ outta here with a hardon, dumb bastard left the door wide open.” At the last part, he grinned that same way, again; it never touched more than his lips.
“Oh,” I said. I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. I was starting to shake.
“Thing that interests me, though, is why you come a’callin’ when I asked you specifically not to.”
“I—umm—I don’t understand,” I said.
“Well, now,” he said, grinning and barking one, small, dray laugh, “I don’t know as I believe that. See,” he said, putting his hand, curled into a fist, on his hip again, “I told you that all a’ this business with the bones and all, had really stirred ol’ Pete up. Yessir, I said that plain as day,” he said, then his voice dropped even further from icy to deadly, “and I distinctly remember someone dressed a lot like me, and bearin’ a striking resemblance saying something like ‘stay away from Mrs. McPherson, too’. Now, I could be wrong; memory ain’t so good these days. May be I need to get one a’ them tests, find out if I got that A.D.D. or not, huh?” he said, and chuckled at himself. Again, though, his eyes never changed.
“I wanted to say goodbye to Pete,” I said.
“Oh, I see. Leavin’ to go back to ta’ the city, are ya’? Well, that’s mighty fine. Glad you could come visit us; thing is, Pete’s gone. Up and left. As you can see, this town’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket. Vagrants and homosexuals,” he said, pronouncing each syllable of both words. If we’d been outside, I had the distinct impression he’s have spit on the ground. “Pete ain’t been gone but a few hours, maybe, and already someone done been in here and had a go at his wife’s things.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Well, I’s on my way back to the station to get some fingerprintin’ stuff. May be I could give you a lift back to your folk’s place. That’s where your stayin’, ain’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah. I brought the car, though, I could—”
“Well, then, good. Save me a’ extra trip,” he said, turning toward the door but not moving. I knew that he didn’t mean any of this as cordial as it sounded. I walked toward the door. I felt his eyes on me, even though they weren’t as I passed. I heard his boots clomp on the linoleum. He was just behind me. The hairs on my neck started to hurt because they hadn’t gone down, yet.
As we stepped out the door, I happened to look over at his police cruiser. I stopped, and heard him stop, too. In the backseat, was Kevin. Even though his head was down, I could see he had a cut on his forehead.
“Some problem?” the Sheriff asked.
“Umm—no,” I said.
“Oh. That. Just cleanin’ up some. Somethin’ I shoulda’ done years ago. Vagrants and homosexuals, son. Whole god-damned world is full of ’em,” he said, and then spit. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and though he used no force, I knew it meant ‘keep walking’.
Kevin looked up at me: his lips were bloody, and there was a large cut on the side of his face. In his eyes I saw total fear. He was terrified. I knew why, too. Without anything said, I knew that the sheriff had not only found out we’d been together, but that he’d come here specifically to find me. He’d known where I’d be. I knew one other thing, too, just as surely: Pete McPherson hadn’t left Placerville.
Pete McPherson would never leave Placerville again.
THIRTY-THREE
“What are you going to do?” I asked. His force on my shoulder let me know that I couldn’t stop moving. Somehow, down inside me, I knew that as long as I kept moving, there was a chance. ‘A chance at what?’ I asked myself, but there was no answer.
“With him?” the Sheriff asked, and chuckled one single low laugh. “Well, I s’pose what I ought to do is run him out to the stop sign on Hitt road, and tell him to start walkin’. Thing is, I know exactly what he’d do; two, three weeks from now he’d set up shop in some other god-fearin’ town and begin to work his evil. Let me ask you somethin’, boy; did ol’ Albert ever teach you what to do if you got a snake in your backyard?”
He stopped pushing, so I didn’t move any further. I could see on Kevin’s face that he knew what we were talking about, though. He was trying to decide if he still had any fight left in him. He was thinking ‘if I just give up, this’ll be over quick’. “No, he didn’t say anything to me about it.”
He laughed to himself as if I’d just proven something, “Well, I guess there’s no accountin’. When you got a snake in your backyard, son, the thing you gotta’ do is to root him out. You gotta’ make sure he’s got nowhere left to hide. Then, what you gotta’ do is to kill him when he shows himself. When he pops his head up outta’ whatever god forsaken hole he’s found, you gotta’ get him right then. No waitin’. You catch my meaning?”
“You’re going to—umm—,” I started.
“Don’t you worry yourself about what I’m fixin’ to do with this here faggot, boy,” he said, and I felt the ice and steel in his voice. “Say, how is ol’ Albert, anyhow?” he said, and though the words were friendly, the tone never changed. He reached past me and opened the passenger side door. His hand went to my shoulder. I slowly sank into the seat. He closed the door, saying “Mind your fingers, boy.”
As soon as the door was shut, Kevin whined, “Mikey, you’ve gotta’ help me, please, oh god, he’s gonna’—”
“Shh,” I hissed, and kept saying, “Shh! Shut up! Gimme’ a second. I gotta’ think.” The closer the sheriff got to the driver’s side door, the more panicked I felt. The inside of the car smelled like stale tobacco and piss. On the radio, someone was twanging about Tulsa.
The door opened, and the sheriff sat down. He kept the door open for a second, and pulled a cigarette out from his shirt pocket. He pushed in the lighter on the dashboard. Holding the cigarette up toward me, he asked, “You mind?” I shook my head because I didn’t know what else to do. My stomach muscles were clenched so tight, I felt like I was doubled over.
The cigarette lighter popped, and I jumped. He smiled to himself and reached for it. With two small sucks on the end, he lit it, and put the lighter back into the dash. He leaned over and closed his door, starting the cruiser. He turned the radio up a bit, and I could tell that the singer was a female. She kept lamenting having to live on Tulsa Time, whatever that meant. The sheriff pulled the gear shift down into reverse, and looked into the rearview. I saw his eyes pull tight. I felt more than heard Kevin shrink, and my stomach flopped. I stifled a gag.
Death was in that look.
The Sheriff put the car in drive, and we moved forward. “So, when’s your flight leave?” he asked.
“Today,” I said.
“Fine, fine” he said, nodding to himself. “Tell ya’ what I’m gonna’ do—I’m gonna’ take you to the airport myself,” he said, and smiled large. I tried not to think of a shark. “Police escort, like. Won’t you feel mighty high on the hog.”