“You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely.” Ogden Nash
Six years earlier:
The dark clouds rolled in from the southwest, expressing their anger with white-hot spears of lightning and baritone rumbles of thunder. The trees danced in the wind as if trying to escape their rooted captivity. Discarded pieces of litter darted quickly across the streets and parking lots, trying to find some place to hide from nature’s anger. To punish them, the clouds released large raindrops that fell at a sharp angle, soaking them and slowing their escape.
In the offices, those inside watch the rain taunt them, slamming angrily against the windows. Such was the fury the workers watched as they took unscheduled respites from their labors. They watch in amazement as the storm, with all of its elements, tried to rearrange the world.
∞
Kline noticed the sheriff’s office never lost its musty smell. It had to be the orange carpet. No one ever vacuumed this carpet. The fake beige paneling probably didn’t have a smell. It would have helped if it did. Real wood paneling would have smelled like wood, or polish. Pine would be nice.
The sheriff was a moderate bather, as far as Kline could tell. It wasn’t Vargas that smelled. But the smell of dirty feet must have been the billions of dust mites and bacteria that lived in the industrial, tight weave orange floor covering that had been put down in one foot squares.
∞
This was the situation he hated most, sitting in a chair across from a superior, getting smaller and smaller with each passing moment, with each condemnation. He was a kid again, and not a good one. Smaller and smaller he became. If this continued, his feet would not be touching the floor, simply dangling from the chair.
∞
And with that, Kline picked up his cap from the sheriff’s desk and stepped out of his office. Out of the frying pan and into the burning judgmental eyes of his peers. As he walked through the meeting room, all eyes were fixed on him like laser dots on the chest of a surrounded perp.
There was nothing said. No comfort flowing back from the deputies. Nothing to do but muster all the dignity he could and walk through the room and out the door. Kline knew that was the only good decision he had made in a while.
∞
El Paso was a lifetime away from Washington D. C. and much hotter in the summer. One tiny cloud had lost the rest of its pack and wandered alone over the city. Many found themselves lost in El Paso like the little cloud. For some reason, runaways find themselves here and suddenly all options seem to run out.
And then there are those who are sent here in the same way the boy who put the tack in the teacher’s chair is sent to the principal’s office.
∞
“Sounds familiar,” McRae answered, changing lanes quickly, which caused Morgan to look behind them just in time to see a driver in a white pickup wave less than all five fingers. She hates to drive. Why does she get into the driver’s seat? Morgan thought.
∞
Morgan took a chair opposite Kline and tossed his portfolio on the table. That had worked with many suspects. It gave the impression you knew everything and you carried the proof in your little bag.
Kline was shorter than he was. Most people were shorter than Morgan. But Morgan wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with this guy. He looked strong. The way you want your MP’s if you needed protection. You better be careful if someone this dangerous was sitting on the other side of the table in an interrogation.
∞
Morgan rolled his eyes, spun and went back into the conference room, McRae closely on his heels. She took the chair opposite of Kline this time and fished out a note pad and pen from her briefcase.
“Now, tell me everything you did this morning, from the first bathroom trip forward,” she said.
∞
There was a tap on the door. Morgan, who was now leaning against the wall near the door, opened it to a short, round man with a bald head, standing outside the conference room.
“You’re with the FBI, right?” he asked in a squeaky voice while nodding his head like a bobble-head doll.
∞
“I see you found the suspect,” he said. “I know he did it. He is a rascal. I don’t know what the sheriff saw in him but I think the sheriff was the only guy who liked him. What are you going to do with him?”
Morgan let out a deep sigh. “Mayor, everyone’s a suspect at this point, even you.”
Mayor Capper’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. A strange sound, like a high pitched grunt, came out of his mouth as if he couldn’t remember how to make words.
∞
Worry, worry, worry. That’s what many people would say about Mayor Pug Capper. He worried about everything. He worried about nothing. Now he was worried about something. And he had something to be worried about.
∞
Morgan trotted to the TV van and pointed the driver where he could park. After the white van with satellite dishes affixed to the top rolled to a stop, a bubbly female reporter with puffy blonde hair tumbled out of the passenger door and wiggled herself to where Morgan waited.
∞
Twenty-five miles southeast of town, a crow flew down to dine on his new find in the darkness of a cooling night. Then another flew in, sometimes sharing, sometimes competing. Soon more crows were involved in a choreography that included grabbing a bite, dodging other crows, chasing each other away and flying back for another bite of flesh. And then came the buzzards to bring in peace and order, as far as they were concerned.
∞
Kline looked away again and exhaled a shaky breath. Sheriff Vargas was dead. His friend and mentor. He was alive and would soon be sheriff, not because he was good, or ready, but because he messed up again. If life was ever going to be fair, it wasn’t starting now.
∞
Suddenly a teaspoon amount of dirt kicked up in front of Kline’s foot, followed immediately by a sharp crack of a rifle from the north. He knew a bullet traveled faster than sound so a gunshot sound would be heard after the slug hit. He turned and dove for McRae, knocking her to the ground and holding her there.
“We’re under fire,” he shouted.
∞
Kestler slowly opened the back door and entered the kitchen, failing to identify himself. He saw blood on the counter by the sink beneath the window and some on the floor, but there was no body. He led with his service pistol, eased down the main hallway and began opening the master bedroom door, looking in. Suddenly someone quickly stepped out from behind the bedroom door in front of him. Kestler was looking down the barrel of a Nagant seven shot Russian revolver. He almost fired his pistol in surprise.
∞
Dr. Patrick Smythe operated his thriving large and small animal veterinarian practice from his ranch home due south of Sanderson. In all honesty he would tell you he worked on far too many humans for a vet. He had delivered babies for many of his neighbors and had stabilized many emergency cases before they were transported to Fort Stockton. Hey, it worked, usually.
Six years earlier:
The dark clouds rolled in from the southwest, expressing their anger with white-hot spears of lightning and baritone rumbles of thunder. The trees danced in the wind as if trying to escape their rooted captivity. Discarded pieces of litter darted quickly across the streets and parking lots, trying to find some place to hide from nature’s anger. To punish them, the clouds released large raindrops that fell at a sharp angle, soaking them and slowing their escape.
In the offices, those inside watch the rain taunt them, slamming angrily against the windows. Such was the fury the workers watched as they took unscheduled respites from their labors. They watch in amazement as the storm, with all of its elements, tried to rearrange the world.
∞
Kline noticed the sheriff’s office never lost its musty smell. It had to be the orange carpet. No one ever vacuumed this carpet. The fake beige paneling probably didn’t have a smell. It would have helped if it did. Real wood paneling would have smelled like wood, or polish. Pine would be nice.
The sheriff was a moderate bather, as far as Kline could tell. It wasn’t Vargas that smelled. But the smell of dirty feet must have been the billions of dust mites and bacteria that lived in the industrial, tight weave orange floor covering that had been put down in one foot squares.
∞
This was the situation he hated most, sitting in a chair across from a superior, getting smaller and smaller with each passing moment, with each condemnation. He was a kid again, and not a good one. Smaller and smaller he became. If this continued, his feet would not be touching the floor, simply dangling from the chair.
∞
And with that, Kline picked up his cap from the sheriff’s desk and stepped out of his office. Out of the frying pan and into the burning judgmental eyes of his peers. As he walked through the meeting room, all eyes were fixed on him like laser dots on the chest of a surrounded perp.
There was nothing said. No comfort flowing back from the deputies. Nothing to do but muster all the dignity he could and walk through the room and out the door. Kline knew that was the only good decision he had made in a while.
∞
El Paso was a lifetime away from Washington D. C. and much hotter in the summer. One tiny cloud had lost the rest of its pack and wandered alone over the city. Many found themselves lost in El Paso like the little cloud. For some reason, runaways find themselves here and suddenly all options seem to run out.
And then there are those who are sent here in the same way the boy who put the tack in the teacher’s chair is sent to the principal’s office.
∞
“Sounds familiar,” McRae answered, changing lanes quickly, which caused Morgan to look behind them just in time to see a driver in a white pickup wave less than all five fingers. She hates to drive. Why does she get into the driver’s seat? Morgan thought.
∞
Morgan took a chair opposite Kline and tossed his portfolio on the table. That had worked with many suspects. It gave the impression you knew everything and you carried the proof in your little bag.
Kline was shorter than he was. Most people were shorter than Morgan. But Morgan wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with this guy. He looked strong. The way you want your MP’s if you needed protection. You better be careful if someone this dangerous was sitting on the other side of the table in an interrogation.
∞
Morgan rolled his eyes, spun and went back into the conference room, McRae closely on his heels. She took the chair opposite of Kline this time and fished out a note pad and pen from her briefcase.
“Now, tell me everything you did this morning, from the first bathroom trip forward,” she said.
∞
There was a tap on the door. Morgan, who was now leaning against the wall near the door, opened it to a short, round man with a bald head, standing outside the conference room.
“You’re with the FBI, right?” he asked in a squeaky voice while nodding his head like a bobble-head doll.
∞
“I see you found the suspect,” he said. “I know he did it. He is a rascal. I don’t know what the sheriff saw in him but I think the sheriff was the only guy who liked him. What are you going to do with him?”
Morgan let out a deep sigh. “Mayor, everyone’s a suspect at this point, even you.”
Mayor Capper’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. A strange sound, like a high pitched grunt, came out of his mouth as if he couldn’t remember how to make words.
∞
Worry, worry, worry. That’s what many people would say about Mayor Pug Capper. He worried about everything. He worried about nothing. Now he was worried about something. And he had something to be worried about.
∞
Morgan trotted to the TV van and pointed the driver where he could park. After the white van with satellite dishes affixed to the top rolled to a stop, a bubbly female reporter with puffy blonde hair tumbled out of the passenger door and wiggled herself to where Morgan waited.
∞
Twenty-five miles southeast of town, a crow flew down to dine on his new find in the darkness of a cooling night. Then another flew in, sometimes sharing, sometimes competing. Soon more crows were involved in a choreography that included grabbing a bite, dodging other crows, chasing each other away and flying back for another bite of flesh. And then came the buzzards to bring in peace and order, as far as they were concerned.
∞
Kline looked away again and exhaled a shaky breath. Sheriff Vargas was dead. His friend and mentor. He was alive and would soon be sheriff, not because he was good, or ready, but because he messed up again. If life was ever going to be fair, it wasn’t starting now.
∞
Suddenly a teaspoon amount of dirt kicked up in front of Kline’s foot, followed immediately by a sharp crack of a rifle from the north. He knew a bullet traveled faster than sound so a gunshot sound would be heard after the slug hit. He turned and dove for McRae, knocking her to the ground and holding her there.
“We’re under fire,” he shouted.
∞
Kestler slowly opened the back door and entered the kitchen, failing to identify himself. He saw blood on the counter by the sink beneath the window and some on the floor, but there was no body. He led with his service pistol, eased down the main hallway and began opening the master bedroom door, looking in. Suddenly someone quickly stepped out from behind the bedroom door in front of him. Kestler was looking down the barrel of a Nagant seven shot Russian revolver. He almost fired his pistol in surprise.
∞
Dr. Patrick Smythe operated his thriving large and small animal veterinarian practice from his ranch home due south of Sanderson. In all honesty he would tell you he worked on far too many humans for a vet. He had delivered babies for many of his neighbors and had stabilized many emergency cases before they were transported to Fort Stockton. Hey, it worked, usually.