Olsen, after fixing the flat tire, then had the dubious pleasure of driving the captain home, but not before he found a full-size garbage bag to cover the passenger seat. He’d had drunks wretch in his car, but that didn’t smell nearly as bad as the captain did now.
Inside the interview room, Mr. White sat across the desk from Lieutenant Barker. “Officer Stacey’s in a lot of trouble, you know?” White said.
“He’s only trying to antagonize the captain.”
“Well he’s doing a fine job, I’d say.” White fought to maintain a straight face at the thought of Bingham, a full load in his pants, sashaying around the office, trying to act dignified. “What else can you tell me?”
“He shot Stacey’s computer with a shotgun this afternoon. Said it was an accident.”
“Have you tried to figure out what was on it yet?”
“No, he wouldn’t consider it. I think he might have missed the hard drive, though.”
“Any idea of how we can reach Officer Stacey?”
“I don’t have a clue. He thinks I stabbed him in the back. I don’t know how Bingham knew where he was.”
White’s knuckles softly rapped the side of the desk. “I spoke to his father just before you called. Apparently he spent last night there. We’ve got to find him and bring him in.”
Barker shook his head. “Even if I could reach him, I doubt he’d come. He doesn’t know who to trust anymore.”
White brusquely leaned forward and put his face up to Barker’s, as if he were about to reveal some profound secret. His countenance darkened noticeably. “I’m going to take Bingham off active duty pending an investigation. You’re the acting captain. You put Olsen on administrative duty until we investigate his actions. I’ll assign five county deputies to your city; we’ll get to the bottom of this. The county investigator will also be assigned to your projects until we hang that slippery Briggs. If Bingham is dirty, you need to get me the evidence to prove it.” He stood to leave, then added, “By the way, I can keep Bingham out at most three or four days.”
Barker nodded. “Stacey gave me enough to get a good start. I just hope the captain didn’t cover all his tracks.”
“Lieutenant Barker, if you ever tamper with evidence again and I find out about it,” he groused, referring to the writing Barker had scraped off the captain’s office window, “I’ll personally see you convicted for it.”
“Yes, sir,” he said apologetically.
The two men left the room. Bingham was just returning from getting cleaned up. White approached him with the news. “Captain, I’m relieving you of active duty. I’m worried about your safety. It would appear that your Officer Stacey has a vendetta against you. You can’t seem to stop him, and your force is practically immobilized because of him.”
Bingham turned defiant. “You don’t have the authority for such an action. I was hired by the city, and I intend to fulfill my responsibilities.”
“You’d better get your information in order, captain,” the prosecutor said in return. “My office can override your jurisdiction any time I feel it’s necessary.”
Several of the county deputies White had called in were waiting in the office. Taking exception to Bingham’s tirade, they sidled up closer to White in a semi-protective posture. Bingham still wasn’t ready to give up his position of authority. He’d taken Stacey’s attack personally. Every other item on his agenda would go on hold until that punk was dead. No one had ever caused him such embarrassment, fear, humiliation. He drew closer in an attempt to use his stature and raw demeanor to intimidate the soft-bellied attorney. “I’ll leave when you’ve got a court order,” he scoffed, advancing on White. Two of the sheriffs moved between them.
In a well-practiced move, White lowered his chin and stuck his nose no more than an inch from Bingham’s. “Captain, you can take a few days off with pay and enjoy your time at home, or you can spend a few days without pay in the county lock-up. It’s up to you. But as of now, Barker’s the acting captain. Now, I’ll take your badge and keys.” He held out his hand.
Bingham knew he couldn’t win such a power play, but neither could he do-in Stacey from inside a jail cell. He relinquished his badge and office keys, then stomped out the door. The tires of his Lexus screeched on the pavement as he drove away. “How does a smalltown police captain afford a fancy car like that?” White asked.
Stacey found it hard to breathe. Just walking seemed like more work than his daily three-mile run. He picked his way through the newly-planted corn fields, heading directly west, crossed the interstate and into the next field. The pain was almost unbearable; climbing fences, nearly impossible. What once was only a leap and a bound had become a painful, deliberate process.
Finally he took a pill from the bottle Dianne had given him and brought the orange juice out from the pocket of the coat. The capsule seemed to lodge in his throat and stick before he chugged down a swallow of the warm liquid.
Standing at the edge of a willow thicket, he glanced at his watch– two thirty-five. He found a secluded spot and did his best to make himself comfortable. He soon fell asleep. The pills were well on the way to keeping the pain at bay. Sig curled up at his side and sniffed at the air, which carried the fragrant blend of pizza, cow and deer dung, and everything else the great outdoors has to offer.
Bingham slouched in the privacy of a phone booth, the receiver to his ear. “Looks like I might need some help....I know. But I’m not leaving until I take care of some personal business. I don’t care!” he snapped, before erupting into a barrage of obscenities. “This time he’s messed with the wrong man! I need every resource we have to find him. I’ll take care of the rest.” He slammed the receiver down and elbowed his way out of the booth.
Melvin hung up, made his digital log and once again picked up the phone. “He’s in trouble. He’s demanding help. Send me some extra people....I know it’s not in the budget, but send them—unless you want this thing to blow up in our faces.”
Don arose early to catch the seven-fifteen bus. The old man didn’t stir when, one last time, he kissed him goodbye. Already he’d lingered on two days longer than the doctors had thought possible. They hadn’t given him food for several days. It only seemed to make it to his abdomen, from where they had to pump it back out.
Riding the bus through the day, he decided, was a boring way to travel. To take his mind off the monotony of the trip, he sat back to ponder the words of his father. They all came back to him, but none of it made sense. Something about Christ....
He’d have to make the trip back to Boise soon. His father had requested a natural burial, which meant that his body needed to be entombed within 24 hours after death. Don had never heard of such a thing. According to Pauline, the law dictates that if embalming is not performed, the burial has to occur within a one-day period. At least that was how she explained it.
Don gazed out over the desolate highway south of town. He was feeling a strange, inner peace about the impending loss, though he didn’t understand why. Maybe what his father had told him had spoken peace to his subconscious. Or maybe he was finally coming to grips with the inevitable. Either way, having seen his father in such a deteriorated state now made him wish for the sweet peace death would bring.
Sig’s persistent barking—not to mention his dogged attempts to back down a big brown bull that was seeking shelter from the flies— finally roused Stacey from his drug-induced sleep. He was so stiff he wasn’t sure he could sit up to find his pills. Food was the last thing on his mind. His head was spinning. Slowly and painfully he removed the coat and vest from his upper body. He took another pill from the container, then read the label: Codeine. They contained codeine! He was allergic to the painkiller. As a kid, it’d made him sick for days. With even the smallest dose he would be bedridden and willing to die rather than endure the overwhelming nausea it caused.
Sig continued to chase and bark, running circles around the angry bull, too slow and fat to even get close. Stacey, looking on, could only see a blur of objects going round and round. He laid back down and looked up. Even the trees were spinning in circles. He closed his eyes; it was no use. Endeavoring to sit up again, he crab-walked back a few feet to lean against a tree. What he would give to be in his mother’s home under her vigilant care! This was going to be a very long day.
Barker was operating on three hours’ sleep. His new force was ready to accept their assignments. He sent one deputy to a computer specialist with the annihilated computer tower. Another drove to Levan to obtain information from the motel clerk. And still another was ordered to bring in Howard and Mrs. Reid. With the charges filed against Stacey, old man Howard had been released. Barker guessed he and his wife wouldn’t be very helpful this late in the game.
Chief Anderson reported to the station to see if he could be of assistance, willing to help pick up the slack. Actually, the city council had been considering doing away with the chief’s title for years. The first city Chief of Police also held a seat on the city council, and the tradition had been maintained ever since. Over the years, the council position lost any authority in police affairs, but reported the activities and quality of work done by the force. Anderson was a likeable man. His persuasive skills were above those of any of the other members of the town council. Hence, Barker put him on the phones.
News reports exaggerated the shooting. The wounded rampaging officer was loose in the valley, they claimed. But Barker wasn’t too concerned about catching him. He knew he would be turning himself in before the first of the week. Mr. White, however, in order to maintain public trust, had assigned one of the newly-recruited deputies to try to locate him.
A young man boarded the bus in Burley, Idaho. He wandered down the isle and chose the empty seat next to Don—who wasn’t exactly in the mood to chat. “Hi, I’m Eric Roberts,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Don Rodriguez.”
“Don Rodriguez, habla Español?” The young man spoke with a very good accent. Don shook his head. “Where are you from, Don?” he persisted.
“I’m from America, okay?” he stated tersely. He’d been asked the same question at least a hundred times. Whenever anyone found out he didn’t speak the language they assumed by his appearance and surname he should speak, they wondered where he was from.
The fellow, a tad chagrined, remained pleasant. “That’s not what I meant. I wondered where in America are you from?”
“Sorry, I get the same dumb question all the time.”
“I understand.”
Don sighed. “Born and raised in American Fork, Utah. How about you?”
“Burley, Idaho. At least I lived there my first 19 years. Then I lived in Argentina for two years. Now I’m attending BYU.” Don was well aware for what purpose this 21-year-old kid had gone to Argentina. He’d been a Mormon missionary. And it just so happened that Don didn’t feel much like a religious discussion at the moment, and knew that if he got the young man started, he’d be trying to baptize him before they got to Provo.
“Where are you going?” the young man asked, trying to keep up the conversation.
“Home.”
“Back to American Fork?”
“No, I live in Mapleton now with my daughter.”
“How old’s your daughter?”
“Twelve.” What was this, 20 questions?
“Where are you coming from?” he continued.
“Boise.”
“Family?”
“My father...” Don’s voice cracked, “...lives there.”
“How is he?” the incessant questions continued.
Don wondered who this kid thought he was. He was about to tell him to mind his own business, when the words slipped out. “He’s dying....”
An entire hour passed by before Don realized he’d been doing all the talking. He’d told the young man about his father getting him his first job; how his dad had moved here from Argentina when he was a young man; and how, at the age of 18, he’d finally gotten to really know the man. He spoke of how strong his father had been, and of the crushing changes that had befallen him in his illness. The young man listened better than he talked. Before long, Don was petitioning his help in translating the wishes of his father. Don could hardly forget the foreign yet intimately tender words that were so earnestly whispered in his ear.
Christina plodded along with the group on their way to school. Kate was adamant, having made it crystal clear the trouble she’d be in if she didn’t “stay with the group.”
During first recess she pulled her friends aside to share with them the scary yet exhilarating thrill she’d felt inside Melvin’s house. It almost smacked of boasting. Initially, neither Ashley nor Amber accepted her tale as truth. But after showing them the apartment key and describing the computer system Melvin was using, they believed her story.
“I’ll bet there’s enough data in that room to send him to prison forever,” Amber was first to say. Then she had an idea: “We’ve got to get my brother Rick to come and help us.” The others agreed. But how could they contact him? He was out there somewhere, wanted by the police for killing another cop and stealing and dealing drugs– crimes the girls were sure he would never commit.
Amber’s eyes lit up as they talked. “Will you both promise not to tell anyone if I tell you a secret?” Both girls nodded. “I mean promise,” Amber continued. “Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?” Both girls went through the motions of crossing their hearts and raising their hands in the attitude of taking an oath.
Amber swallowed nervously. “I saw Rick just the other day, right after they accused him of doing all those terrible things. He slept in our room over the garage. No one else but me knew he was there. He told me that a pretty mean guy is out to hurt him; I think it’s his boss. I told him that I might have to get hold of him when I dig up something that might help. He didn’t think I’d be any help at all, but....”
Just then the bell rang, drowning out her words. “Anyway,” she concluded, “we need to figure out a way to send him a signal or something. We’ll talk at lunch....”
Things were still reeling out of control–both literally and figuratively—when Stacey awoke. One moment he’d shake and shiver until his teeth chattered, the next he’d be so hot he’d have to strip down to his shirt sleeves. Then the cycle would start all over again. The pain in his side was worse. The bruise, dark and swollen, now stretched all the way from his armpit to his waist, and from the middle of his back around to the center of his chest. Unable to breathe, he’d struggle to loosen the bandages, then try to tighten them when the pain got too intense.
Sig, bounding around the nearby fields, seemingly uncertain as to what to do with himself, would come and inspect him occasionally, but no commands fell from his master’s lips. On one of his visits Sig came away with a few bites of pizza, but, crazed by hunger, he soon began to wander farther and farther away, returning less often. Stacey didn’t even notice.
Amber sat at her desk, oblivious to the lesson the teacher was giving. She pondered the information about Melvin. “How could she contact Rick?” It would have to be something big enough that everyone knew about, yet insignificant enough that no one would get hurt. Her eyes absently gazed at her teacher—then at the wall behind her. “That’s it!” she suddenly realized. She raised her hand high in the air.
“Yes, Amber, do you know the answer?”Amber hadn’t even realized what the question was. “No, I need to go to the restroom,” she lied.
“Can’t you wait ’til lunch?”
“This won’t wait,” she said, standing up.
“Hurry back.”
Amber, a funny look on her face, scurried from the room. It was less than a minute before the fire alarm went off. Teachers immediately began organizing students and leading them out onto the playground. None of them were expecting a fire drill. The principal, Mr. Cook, didn’t go to the field with everyone else. He hurried from one fire-pull to the other to see which one had been tripped. Finding the broken glass near the restroom, he waited to see who might emerge. It took less than a minute before the bathroom door cracked open.
“Come out, young lady.” Amber hesitated, then slowly opened the door. “Amber Stacey, what can you tell me about the fire alarm?”
She dropped her head and issued a humble confession. “I did it.”
“You wait for me in my office.”
Amber walked at a snail’s pace toward the principal’s office while he went to the playground to call the school back in. “Why would this young girl pull the alarm?” he thought. Christina and Ashley knew.
Growing adept at herding the cattle in the adjoining field and with no particular goal in mind, Sig had rounded up over a hundred head of cattle and was pushing them toward the interstate. Once in a while one would break free, and he’d chase after it and drive it back to the herd. The work was hard–but exhilarating. Sure, he’d seen the powerful animals on the farm in Fillmore, but he’d never been allowed to chase after them. And Stacey didn’t seem to mind. As a matter of fact, Sig was rewarded once with pizza when he returned to “report in.”
Soon the herd reached the corner of the field. Sig didn’t know enough to realize they were at a stopping point. Fences, after all, never were a barrier to him. And so he continued to press, bobbing and weaving, until the tightly packed animals were cornered against the fence. Each time an animal would try to escape, a nip on its heels would head it off, forcing it back into the corner. Before long, the animals on the outside were jostling against the others to keep away from the dog’s incessant pestering. Sig was growing more and more proficient at his abilities, but could not seem to move the group.
Finally the combined weight of the spooked herd started snapping the wooden fence posts. Stumbling over and tearing through the barbed wire, the cattle began to spill out onto the highway. On the move once more, the frantic herd headed off down the interstate, the corridor acting like a cattle chute for the stampeding animals. Autos swerved and honked, and the traffic soon came to a near standstill. Part of the herd split and went north, the other part went south. The commotion was more than Sig was expecting. Feeling confident that he’d successfully cleared the field, he pranced back, panting, to the grove where Stacey lay.
“False alarm at Brookside,” Chief Anderson announced as he picked up another call, this one sounding more urgent. Seems a herd of cattle was raising havoc on the highway. They’d apparently trampled the fence, one witness claiming that a lone German shepherd had terrorized the herd. At first the chief dismissed the possibility of it being the famous K-9. Stacey wouldn’t allow it—unless he was incapacitated or dead. Maybe the bullet did get through, or maybe it was just another trick to upset the captain. Chief Anderson would leave it be, for the time being. Finished answering calls, he slipped out of the station and down the hall to his own office, to make a call in private.
By the time they arrived in Utah, Don’s new friend had successfully helped him translate his father’s words. In addition to the warning his dad had given him about Christina, Don discovered that he’d promised to no longer fight—that he’d use his intellect instead of his fists to solve his conflicts. But there was more–his father had made him promise to “come to Christ” and “hear him.”
He tried to rationalize his way out. Making a promise to someone when you don’t even know what you’re saying isn’t much of a promise. He knew his father had returned to religion in his later years. But they’d avoided talking about such things, because Don took no interest in them.
“Sounds like good advice,” nodded his young friend. Don turned his eyes to the window, where green fields of winter wheat passed by. He was trying to justify the things his father had said in his delusional state. How could he know Christina was in danger?
Amber sat quietly across from Mr. Cook while they waited for her parents. She’d never been in any kind of trouble before. Why now? He’d used every child psychology technique he knew to get her to reveal her thoughts, her motives, or whatever had persuaded her to pull the alarm. She wouldn’t budge.
Her parents arrived, her mother still wearing the shoes she usually went walking in. Her father sported a pair of brown dress shoes. “Amber,” her mother was the first to speak, “what happened?”
She remained silent.She slowly raised her eyes to see the flustered look on her mother’s face. She could no longer contain the emotion. Tears began to flow. “I want to go home,” she said between the sobs.
Melvin methodically logged in the data and saved it to files before picking up his own phone. “We’ve got a lead on the cop. I need that help right away....Yeah, and see if you can get a tracking dog. He’s in a remote forested area. I think it will be dark before it’s safe to go in. I’ll keep you posted.” He hung up the phone.
Lying down didn’t stop everything from moving. Stacey felt no better than before. He’d be willing at this point to turn himself in, if he knew he’d be safe. He hadn’t even thought to turn on the radio and was unaware of the cattle drive taking place less than a mile away.
By and by, Sig returned to his side; he seemed tired and hot. Occasionally, Stacey would drift into a shallow sleep. He dreamed he called Barker on a secure channel and was picked up and taken to the bedroom of his teenage years. His mother was standing in the room, spooning red Jell-O into his mouth using a giant salad spoon, while Bingham held a knife to her neck and threatened that if Stacey didn’t eat it all, he’d slice his mother’s throat. Stacey jerked back awake.
The bus pulled up to the Provo station. Eric Roberts prepared to get off. He told Don it had been a pleasure talking with him and hoped he could find peace in the impending passing of his father. A minute later the bus moved on. Twenty minutes later Don was back in Mapleton.