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As he neared the car, the big deputy he’d seen the night before last climbed out. “Got a minute?” the big man asked as Buck neared.
“Sure. Want to come inside or talk out here?”
“Inside. A little privacy is a good thing.”
“That seems to be a major concern around here.” Buck pulled out his key and threw the door open, flipping on the lights. He was careful to step inside, keeping his hands in the open, then stand away from any possible weapon and wait.
The deputy looked around, taking in the duffel, the freshly made bed, the absence of any other personal belongings.
Then he regarded Buck from head to foot, as if measuring him. Buck returned the look. Some things were second nature. The deputy might have a few pounds on him, and an inch or two in height, but at thirty-four he had at least a couple of decades on the deputy. He noted, though, that the man hadn’t felt the need to unsnap the holster on the nine-millimeter pistol hanging from his utility belt. For the moment, this was a friendly visit.
The big man stuck out his head. “Micah Parish.”
Buck shook it. “Buck Devlin.”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Help yourself.” Since there was only one chair, Parish took it and Buck settled on the edge of the bed.
“We’re a friendly town, Mr. Devlin,” Parish said.
“I get that feeling.”
“Not many folks around. We kinda keep an eye on each other.”
Buck figured he knew where this was leading, but he didn’t try to head it off. Let the man have his say.
“Someone said you seemed to be having a bit of a disagreement with Haley Martin outside the funeral home.”
“It probably looked that way.”
Micah’s eyebrow lifted. “So what way was it?”
“I was trying to explain something to her.”
“Is that what she would tell me?”
“I honestly don’t know what she would tell you at this point. I’m fairly certain she thinks I’m a nut or a liar right now.”
One corner of Micah’s mouth hitched up, but it wasn’t with humor. “Would she be right?”
“By her lights.”
Micah’s mouth tightened into a straight line. “Quit fencing with me unless you want to be escorted out of town in the next hour.”
Buck hesitated. It went against the grain to let anybody in on his investigations before he was ready, but he decided to let the cat out and see where it went.
“Wallet,” he said, so Micah wouldn’t think he was reaching for a weapon, then dug into his pocket. He drew out both his IDs and turned them over.
Micah scanned them. “So you’re a truck driver and disabled vet. Neither one is necessarily a recommendation.”
“No. But maybe Army Third Military Police Group, Tenth Battalion will help.”
Micah’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes searching Buck’s face. “Tenth Battalion. Criminal investigation division. I know what you guys do. The only question is what you’re doing here. This card says you’re medically retired.”
“I am. My boss asked me to look into something for him. My misfortune to be the only former MP he has working for him.”
Micah tapped the two laminated cards against his knee. “Mind if I keep these for a few hours? I want to run a background.”
“Help yourself.”
Micah slipped the IDs into his breast pocket. “Tell me what you think is going on in my town and just how Haley fits in. That girl’s had enough trouble in her life. You bringing her more?”
“Actually, I’m suffering from a white-knight complex. I’m hoping to keep her from getting into more trouble.”
“That’s not helpful, Mr. Devlin. Is there some reason you don’t want to talk to me?”
“How about that I don’t know who is involved?”
Micah stiffened at that. “Maybe you should come to the office with me. I think our sheriff might want to talk to you, too.”
Buck rose to his feet. “Let’s go. I’d like to meet your sheriff. Then maybe you two can tell me enough about yourselves that I know I can trust you.”
Micah’s frown deepened. “You’ll ride in the cage,” he said flatly.
“Fine by me. I’d rather look like a criminal than your cohort right now.”
Micah wasn’t exactly gentle as he put Buck in the back of his vehicle. Which was fine by Buck.
If anybody was paying attention, and they might be since his hanging out here was apparently suspicious enough to garner legal attention, they’d think he was in trouble.
Right then, that’s just how he wanted it.
Miles away, in a living room that looked ancient in every way, Mr. and Mrs. Liston sat in their usual chairs, hands linked, still wearing their best clothes. Mrs. Liston was crying quietly, but her husband looked almost empty.
Across from them sat their eldest son, Jim. He had arrived only a few hours ago from Los Angeles. Until just a few months ago, he’d pretty much disappeared from their lives, much as Ray had, and they couldn’t understand it. But at least he was coming home again. For the past half year or so they’d seen him every few weeks. In a way they were grateful to him, because he’d helped Ray find that trucking job.
But now Ray was dead.
“I’m so sorry,” he said yet again. He sat there looking fine in his expensive clothes, and the corners of his mouth drooped.
“We’re all sorry, son,” Mrs. Liston finally said. “You know your brother was a good boy.”
“I know. We kept in touch, obviously. But you say the cops are asking about drugs?”
Both the elder Listons nodded.
“It was just a terrible accident,” Jim said soothingly. “Ray hadn’t been driving that long. I’m sure that’s what they’ll find out.”
Mr. Liston spoke. “He didn’t do no drugs. I know that much. And that Martin girl said the same thing.”
“What Martin girl?”
“Haley Martin. Works at the truck stop. She saw Ray just before…she said he was fine. Just fine. She don’t believe it was no drugs, either.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Jim said firmly. “I’m positive. Ray wouldn’t do that.”
“No,” Mr. Liston agreed. “No. Not my boy.”
Mrs. Liston wiped away her tears. “I’m gonna go get in my nightclothes. Then I’ll make us all some Ovaltine.” It had always been her soothing solution to everything. No one disagreed with her. Her husband went with her to change clothes.
Jim sat where he was, then as soon as he heard them reach their bedroom, he stepped outside and pulled out his cell phone. The signal was almost nonexistent, but he got through. The call was brief; he said very little.
But he did mention Haley Martin.
The sheriff’s office was located in a storefront on a corner across the street from the courthouse square, a bit of eastern charm transplanted to the West. Inside, the dispatcher’s desk was surrounded by other desks apparently for use by deputies. Each desk boasted a relatively new computer, all of which looked out of place on desks that were at least thirty years old, maybe older. Wooden floors creaked with every step.
A young deputy sat at the dispatcher’s desk, sipping coffee and looking bored behind a console that would have done a big-city operation proud.
Micah pointed Buck to a chair next to one of the desks. “Wait there.” Then he crossed to the dispatcher.
“Get Gage in here. I need him. Then run these IDs.” He pulled out Buck’s IDs and tossed them on the dispatcher’s desk. “I want everything you can find, and then you’re going to forget all of this unless I say otherwise.”
Evidently, Buck thought with mild amusement, gossip could be a problem in this office, too.
“Who made the coffee?” Micah asked.
“I did,” answered the young deputy, whose name tag said he was Rankin. “It’s not lethal.”
Micah glanced at Buck. “Coffee?”
“Black, please.” Evidently they hadn’t gotten past being courteous, always a good sign.
Micah brought two mugs over to the desk, handing one to Buck. “Getting decent coffee around here is a trial. Our day dispatcher, Velma, turns it into battery acid. Nobody has the heart to tell her to stop making it.”
“I’m used to stuff you can stand a spoon in.”
“Then you might like Velma’s brew.”
Silence fell. A call had been put out, but then the radio grew quiet. The only sound was Rankin tapping busily away, looking into Buck’s background.
“Do you really need a night shift around here?” Buck asked eventually. Not that he was opposed to silence, but a little friendly conversation seemed in order. He wanted these guys to cooperate, if possible, but at the very least not to get into his way. Unless they turned out to be part of the problem.
“We have roadhouses,” Micah said, as if that explained it all. It probably did. “You must have broken up a few drunken brawls in your day.”
“Plenty.”
“Cowboys coming in off the range are pretty much like soldiers on a pass. These days, cowboys aren’t often on the range.”
“Times are bad everywhere.”
Micah nodded. “Not getting any better, either. Too many folks trying to drown their sorrows.”
The sheriff arrived in about fifteen minutes. A man who appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties, with a burn-scarred face and visible limp, entered the office wearing a light jacket, jeans and his badge clipped to his belt.
He paused, looked at Buck. “What’s up?”
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out,” Micah said. “Got a complaint from someone that this guy seemed to be bothering Haley Martin. According to him he wasn’t bothering her.”
“Have you talked to Haley?”
“Not until I figure out what’s going on here. Rankin’s pulling his background right now.”
“And you needed me for?”
“Well, I thought you and me together in a quiet office might get a little further. I get the feeling there’s something we need to know.”
There were a couple of ways to take that, but Buck decided to take it favorably until he had reason to think otherwise.
That was when Rankin looked up. “Holy cow,” he said.
“What?” the sheriff asked.
“This guy’s for real. I mean, really real.”
“Would you like to explain that?”
“You want the list of medals or the job description?”
The sheriff took a printout from Rankin and led the way to an office in the back. Buck followed with his coffee, waiting to see how this played out. Every muscle in his body was coiled and ready. He’d seen corruption in local law enforcement before, and trust wasn’t his strong suit.
For now, though, everything seemed on the up-and-up. The sheriff’s office was small. The nameplate on his desk, identifying him as Gage Dalton, Sheriff, looked as if it had taken more than one tumble to the floor. A computer filled one corner of the desk and a stack of papers the other.
Gage sat behind it, and Micah and Buck took up the two chairs facing it, while Gage scanned the printout. A moment later he handed Buck’s IDs back to him.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re former CID. Plenty of commendations. Plenty of blanks, too.”
Buck said nothing.
“Being former DEA myself, I know about those blanks. They don’t worry me much. So maybe you’d like to explain to Micah and me why someone would think you’re harassing Haley Martin and what you’re doing hanging around in my town.”
Buck hesitated a moment longer, glancing toward Micah.
“SF,” Micah said, referring to Special Forces. “Retired.”
“I wanted to scope things out a bit more before I came to you,” Buck said frankly. “I don’t know much about what’s going on right now, but something is, and I wanted to have some feel for who might be involved before I go shooting off my mouth.”
“It looks like the time for that is past,” Gage said bluntly. “You’re the stranger here, and you just got some unwanted attention. We can make your life easy or hard. Your choice.”
