TRUCK CEMETERY

by Ruth Francisco

Ruth Francisco broke onto the mystery scene to glowing reviews. Of her mystery novel Good Morning, Darkness (2004), PW said: “Following her much-praised first novel, Confessions of a Deathmaiden (2003), Francisco delivers another outstanding stand-alone . . . one of the year’s best mysteries.” The author then took a different direction with her writing, producing the mainstream novel The Secret Memoirs of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Parked along Highway 19, two miles south of Mulletville, on a four-acre meadow on the edge of a pine forest, sit sixteen rusty trucks parked in a semicircle. Reddish brown, like the iron-rich soil where they were made. Not a speck of paint on any one of them. Most are old Ford trucks from 1936 to 1960, two are Dodges, one an REO Speed Wagon from 1939. The windshields are smashed, the windows gone, the seats—bare rusty springs with scraps of foam and vinyl—filled with leaves, sticks, and pine needles, nests for rodents and reptiles. Some have missing tires. On others the sheet metal, which has rusted completely through, is cracked and bent. Passion vines grow up around the axles and cabs, while saplings of slash pine and turkey oak push up through the floorboards. When rainwater overflows the nearby pond, alligators have been known to slither from under broken fenders into clumps of dry palmetto scrub.

Sixteen trucks arranged in a semicircle like Stonehenge.

The trucks once worked the Crocker farm, hauling men to tap turpentine pines and cut timber, later to work potato fields and hog pens. Old man Harvey Crocker never traded in his trucks, but ran them until they broke down, parking the wrecks on this lot to use for parts. When Crocker got too feeble to work the farm, his son moved the sixteen trucks into a semicircle.

There is something purposeful about their dereliction. A serenity. Both timeless and a searing reminder of the cruel relentlessness of time. Dinosaurs of rust, extinct yet fascinating.

One could easily imagine finding a dead body in one of the trucks, a human skeleton, or a baby abandoned on the passenger seat, swaddled in a blanket, crying.

None of these things was expected when a yellow school bus pulled off the rural highway and thirty students between the ages of eleven and thirteen clambered off with sketchpads, cameras, and brown paper lunchbags for a field trip led by their art teacher, Miss Summer Dayes, whose face beamed with enthusiasm—”Aren’t they beautiful!”—as she waltzed around the semicircle of rusty trucks, her fingers floating over the dilapidated hoods like a game show hostess.

“When you find something you want to draw, sit down with your pad and sketch it,” Miss Dayes instructed as the children spread out to explore. “You may want to take a photo to help you when you start your paintings back in class. I’ll be around to help.”

One eleven-year-old girl wandered to the last truck in the semicircle, a Dodge with a high cab and a truck bed of broken wooden slats. Large purple morning- glory flowers wound around the smashed windshield, and a green anole scurried over the brown hood. Careful to avoid an anthill, the girl pulled herself up to peek into the cab.

She did not scream.

She knew the man.

* * * *

Sheriff Bill Crocker was barreling down Sandy Point Road in his 2009 Escalade from Magnolia Spring Country Club, where he had played nine holes with Donald Mayes, president of the Walker County Chamber of Commerce. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, nearly missing his turn, his mind completely distracted by Mayes’s proposal.

“The last election was close and frankly, you probably won’t win again,” Mayes began over drinks after their game. “We need a representative who is well connected, who can get us more state funds. The whole county will back you. I’ll kick ass in the publicity department. What do you say?”

Bill gulped his drink and waved to the bartender for another round. He felt his heart pounding, his face hot with excitement. And ambivalence. He liked where he was, a big alligator in a small pond.

For thirty-two years Bill Crocker had been sheriff of Walker County, a vast underpopulated land of pine forests, cypress swamps, and seaweed-covered beaches. He knew Walker County back when its schools didn’t have toilets and a fourth of the population was illiterate, when there wasn’t a doctor or dentist in the entire county, when the roads were unpaved tracks of ribbed sand, when the only businesses were logging and shrimping, when your house was a rundown trailer or unpainted shack, and when restaurants sold you a choice between fried mullet or catfish, with a side of collard greens and hush puppies. Which they still did.

Sure it was flattering. But Bill wasn’t sure he trusted Donald Mayes, a retired advertising executive who had left Tampa under some financial scandal and ingratiated himself into local politics, joining local clubs and charities as if he had some burning passion for community service. He was too smooth for Bill’s tastes. He had made two land investments with the sheriff and had never cheated him. Still . . . he was an outsider. His teeth were perfect.

“Why don’t you announce your intention to run at the Worm Gruntin’ Festival,” suggested Mayes. This was an annual street fair in the tiny town of Tamucua which celebrated redneck culture with a competitive mullet toss, a worm- grunting contest, and a raw oyster eating contest. “I’m chairman of the festival this year. I can get you on the program.”

So many phone calls and handshakes, so much smiling. Did Bill really want that? And he would have to give up Summer—he couldn’t run for state office with a mistress.

The booze began to hit. Bill’s eyes were getting blurry, his lids heavy, the car feeling oddly motionless, although he knew he was moving forward, the dashboard lights mysteriously luminous. Just get me home, he thought.

He began to imagine making a speech at the Worm Gruntin’ Festival, and wondered if Debra Sue Dobson would be there.

He first met Debra Sue—forty years ago?—when she was sixteen, newly married to Joe Dobson, a good-natured, not-too-bright son of a shrimper. Joe made his living collecting worms in the forest—worm grunting, it was called—which entailed rubbing a wooden stake in the ground with a narrow slab of iron, which for some reason drove the worms to the surface. They lived in a trailer Joe bought new for ten thousand dollars, a fortune for the young couple. When they missed a few payments, the bank foreclosed, and Deputy Sheriff Crocker—new on the job—was sent to boot them out. He couldn’t do it. Debra Sue, seven months pregnant, a skinny scraggly-haired girl with bad teeth, whose accent was so thick that at first Bill thought she was deaf, standing in cutoff jeans up to her ass, a man’s shirt tied up under her breasts, offered the only thing she had. He felt sorry for her. He went to talk to the vice-president of Walker County Bank, who happened to be his cousin, and got him to stop the fore-closure. For the next year or two, whenever Bill came across something he thought the young couple might need—canned goods, a dining-room set, a water pump—he dropped it off. It was just something he wanted to do.

Again he almost missed his turn, right on Azalea Park, a two-lane road that meandered through pine forest to the center of Mulletville. Crocker lived on the road, had driven it thousands of times, drunk, sober, late at night on moonless nights when it was pitch black, and early in the morning when deer, raccoons, or an occasional bobcat or boar darted across the road. The houses were set back from the road, many with boats parked in their driveways. There was no shoulder.

The speed limit was forty-five miles per hour. The sheriff seldom drove it that slowly. This time of night he would probably pass no more than two cars in the seven-minute drive to his house.

Good ole Debra Sue. He wondered where she was now.

A flash of white leapt out at him. At first he thought it was a snowy egret by the side of the road, startled, taking flight. Just before the horrible scraping, crashing noise, before impact, before the snap of his neck, before the thoughts—What the hell? Where’d that come from?—raced through his mind, he realized it was nothing but a white mailbox.

* * * *

“Are you sure this is the right house, honey? I don’t see any lights on. Did you write it down right? Let me see it again. Where’s the light?”

There they sat, Donna Brinkmeyer and her eleven-year-old daughter Sophie, in somebody’s driveway on Azalea Park Road, in a black SUV, both of them reaching for the overhead light as if it were some competition, Sophie snapping off her seatbelt, pushing off the seat with one hand, stretching her thin arm, her little fingers darting around the fixture, Donna jamming her thumb against the sharp rim.

“The switch must be here somewhere,” said Donna.

“Let me do it,” Sophie insisted.

“Nine eighty-nine or eight ninety-eight? It’s further down, I’m sure. Where’s that piece of paper?”

Donna reached behind the seat, feeling for her purse—”Can’t you find the light?”—her neck twisted uncomfortably, touching something sticky like an old roll of Lifesavers, then gritty sand under her fingernails.

Blam! A horrible squealing scraping sound! Plastic crunching! The car jolted forward and pivoted, the rear shoved left. Sophie screamed, falling into Donna’s lap, the steering wheel stabbing into her ribs. Donna’s head slammed into the window. The airbags did not open.

Donna looked around out the rear window. A huge SUV, the passenger-side door up against the rear window. Why did anyone need such a big car? The windows were tinted. The driver threw the SUV in reverse, then drove twenty feet. The car paused, then drove another twenty feet, paused, then continued down the street.

“They took off!” cried Sophie indignantly.

Donna swung around, relieved to see Sophie sitting up in her seat unharmed. “Are you okay, honey?”

“Are they crazy? They can’t do that!” Sophie twisted around in her seat, grabbing the headrest with her hands to see out the rear window.

Donna couldn’t believe it. There weren’t any cars anywhere. They were off the road. How could someone crash into them?

“Call the cops, Mom. They should be arrested.”

* * * *

Bill Crocker was shaking, that awful sound of scraping metal still in his ears. He stopped and looked in his rearview mirror. No cars around, no cars coming. No lights in the house, nobody running out of the house. Maybe nobody saw it.

Where did that car come from? Was someone in it? He should stop and check. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn’t stop. He’d been drinking. Shit. It wasn’t his fault. Who sits in a car in a driveway in the dark? What now?

Bill felt nauseated and sweaty, his arms rubbery, tingling as if he had d.t.’s, adrenaline pulsing through his body.

Get home. It was the only thing he could think of. Like a wounded, frightened animal, home to its den. He pressed the gas pedal, leaning forward, his eyes peering into the dark so wide they hurt. Get home! It was just down the road. Get home!

* * * *

“Turn on the light, honey. Where’s my phone?”

“In your purse, Mom. I hope you charged it up,” said Sophie, her voice trembling, yet still managing sarcasm. She reached up and snapped on the light, this time finding the switch easily.

Donna blinked, her eyes tearing. The light was so bright. Her forehead throbbed. She saw a patch of plastic or film on the window. It was her skin, about the size of a peach, from her forehead, she guessed, smeared across the glass.

“Wake up, Mother,” Sophie scolded. “Are you in shock? Give me the phone.” She snatched Donna’s purse from her, dug out the phone, and flipped it open. She dialed 911. When someone answered, she handed it back to her mother.

“What an asshole,” said Sophie. “They didn’t even stop to see if we were all right.” She peered out the window again as if looking for taillights, which were long gone. “That’s against the law.”

* * * *

Clutching his chest, Crocker stumbled through the front door—he thought maybe he was having a heart attack—a stabbing tightness across his chest that caved him over. He headed for the Windsor cabinet where he kept the hard liquor and almost poured himself a drink until he realized that the last thing he needed to do was raise his blood alcohol level. He poured himself a glass of water instead and drank it. Slowly the pain eased. He lowered himself into a mustard leather wingback chair. He leaned his head back and moaned.

How could he do something so stupid! He felt miserable, his head throbbing, clinging to the hope nobody saw, drowning with the injustice of it all. He indulged in self-pity for a moment, his hands over his eyes. Then panic jolted him awake.

He reached for the phone.

Roland Parker, a captain at the sheriff’s department, was watching television in his home when Crocker called and told him—as clearly as he could—what happened.

“Was anyone in the car?” Captain Parker asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I saw someone. I’m not sure.”

“Why in the hell didn’t you stop and check it out?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Now they’re gonna call and report a hit-and-run. What a mess. Where’s your car?”

“I put it in the garage.”

“Good. I’ll send a deputy over to take your statement. And someone for your car.”

“I can’t pass a sobriety test, Roland.”

Silence on the other end. Then Roland said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything.”

* * * *

Highway Patrol Officer Randy Rutkowski arrived at the crash site at 9:16 and started asking questions. The mother was obviously shaken, worried about what her husband would say, worried that her insurance wouldn’t cover a hit-and-run, worried that her ten-year-old son was still waiting to be picked up—she’d never get him home in time to do his homework, unless he was doing it while he waited at his friend’s house, which she doubted.

“The driver slowed down a couple of times—braked—so I thought he was going to turn around. But he never did. He just kept on going.”

She rambled on nervously, but failed to answer many of Officer Rutkowski’s questions. “Did you see how many people were in the car? Was there any damage to the other car? Did you catch the tag number? What was the make of the car? How about the color?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Silver, white. It was huge. It all happened so fast.”

“You said he drove toward Mulletville?”

“Yes, that’s right, Officer.”

“Probably some drunk,” Rutkowski muttered.

“Aren’t you going to put out an APB?” asked the little girl.

Officer Rutkowski laughed. “You must watch cop shows. Yes, I called it in.”

The girl kicked the front tire, her arms crossed, frowning, stepping in and out of the beam of the cop’s headlight, watching her shadow. “Can we go yet? I have a French test tomorrow I have to study for.”

“I’ll let you go as soon as I have all the information from your mother.”

“It’s the other guy’s fault. Why don’t you go after him?”

He laughed again and turned to the mother. “I was never that smart at her age. Were you?” He turned back to the girl. “It usually takes about twenty minutes. I have to type in the crash report on the car computer.”

Before he got to his car, he heard tires crunching behind him. It was a sheriff’s car. Two deputy sheriffs got out and walked up to him.

* * * *

“Why are there so many cops, Mom?” Sophie whispered. “It was just a fender bender. Why are they yelling at each other?”

The new arrivals appeared nervous, hurried, and self-important, as if they were classroom monitors trying to calm a tornado of spitballs before the principal walks in. “The new officers are sheriff’s deputies,” Donna explained to Sophie. “The other one is Florida Highway Patrol.”

“What’s the difference?”

“FHP is supposed to handle traffic accidents.”

“Then what are the other guys here for?”

They watched FHP Officer Rutkowski stomp back to his squad car and talk on his radio. He had one leg inside the car, the other on the ground. After a minute, he pulled his left leg into the car and slammed the door. He started the engine and backed up, pausing to lower the window. A balled-up traffic report flew out the window. The car sped away.

It didn’t make sense to Sophie. Why did the sheriff’s deputies act like it was their fault? Demanding her mother’s license and proof of insurance. Asking her if she’dbeen drinking. Asking her why she was parked where she was. What was she doing this time of night? Telling her she was wrong to have moved the car after the accident.

“We gave the same information to the other officer,” her mother said. “Why is the sheriff’s department involved?”

“Just answer our questions, ma’am. Okay? Now tell me, has anyone in the vehicle sustained injury?

Donna hesitated before answering, surprised. Why would the deputy sheriff say that instead of, “Is anyone hurt?”

It occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t admit she was fine. She had heard of people discovering they were hurt days after a crash, their eyes suddenly blurring, neck and back aching. Weird tingling. Numbness. Shooting pains. She knew that if she answered wrong, her husband would be angry—”Why don’t you think before you open your trap?”—would accuse her of being emotional, of trying too hard to please. “Use your head for once.”

It then occurred to her that maybe someone important had hit her. Someone with money.

“I feel pretty banged up,” she said softly.

And as if on cue, Sophie began to cry.

* * * *

The next morning Bill Crocker was cheerfully packing a small cooler with coldcuts and beer, the accident all but forgotten, hurrying to get out of the house before Meredith got up and started grilling him about all the men who descended on the house last night, when the phone rang. It was Roland Parker.

“A reporter called this morning—must’ve caught it on the scanner last night. The first thing he asked was if you’d had a urine drug test.”

Crocker slapped the refrigerator angrily—some asshole reporter trying to make a mountain out of a molehill. “Who was it?”

“Clive Johnston, Capitol City Observer. I told him the deputies didn’t think a urine test was necessary, and then he asked why not, since it’s department policy to require any sheriff department employee in a crash in a county vehicle with over five hundred dollars’ worth of damage to have a urine drug test.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that you are the sheriff, and that the policy doesn’t apply to you.”

“I can’t believe you said that. How did he find out about the damage estimate?”

“Hell if I know. He asked what you were cited for.”

Crocker caught his breath, sensing a fatal mistake, as if suddenly noticing the gate left open to a bull pen. “What was I cited for?”

“Nothing. Nobody wrote you a ticket. Did you want them to? He wanted to know why the sheriff’s deputies dismissed the FHP officer who was already at the scene.”

Crocker noticed he was sweating. “What did you say?”

“I told him it was none of his damn business.”

“You didn’t.”

“Of course not. I said that department policy provides an option for the sheriff’s office to investigate accidents involving department vehicles.”

“Can I put you on speaker for a second?” Crocker went to the sink and splashed his face with cold water.

Parker rambled on. “The reporter wanted to know why you took off. He wanted to know where you’d been before the accident.”

Crocker wiped his face with a paper towel, then tossed it into the trash. He missed and had to pick it up.

“How much did you have to drink?” asked Parker.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nobody at the bar will say anything. I’ll have the deputies write me up a ticket.”

“You can’t change the date and time. It’s all computerized.”

“Shit.”

Parker cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Summer wasn’t with you, was she?”

Crocker was taken aback. He had never told Parker about any of his “lady friends.” He’d almost forgotten that Summer had joined them at the bar, listening as Mayes pressed him on the campaign, flattering him, making him feel important, all the while her Cheshire Cat smile mocking him, getting him hot, and making it worse by running her finger over his ear there in the parking lot—”You want to find a boat?”—then acting all concerned—”Are you okay to drive?”—when he said he had to get home. Thank God they had separated there. He understood how it would have made things worse. Much worse. “No,” Crocker said. “I was alone.”

“Well, at least there’s that.”

Crocker’s wife, Meredith, wandered into the kitchen, her hair in curlers, tugging a lavender housecoat over her breasts. Like his grandmother in the ‘fifties. Crocker cringed. What was wrong with her? Since she’d gone through menopause, she’d become nervous and flighty, reading her Bible at all hours, quoting scripture, scurrying around the edges of the house like a mouse. Better she know as little as possible.

“Did something happen, honey?” Meredith asked.

“I’m on the phone,” he snapped, turning away. He couldn’t bear to look at her.

She shuffled over to the coffee maker, back into his line of vision, where she poured coffee into a Hannah Montana mug she had bought for their granddaughter. Why couldn’t she use a normal mug? She picked up a pencil by the telephone, turned to the entertainment page without looking at the headlines, and settled down at the kitchen table to do the Sudoku.

Crocker left the room continuing his conversation. “I’ll call Palmer Tharpe,” he said into the phone. “He owes me.”

A half-hour later, Sophie Brinkmeyer charged down the back stairs into the kitchen, sneakers in one hand, hockey stick in the other. Her mother said she didn’t have to go to school because of the crash, but she felt excited, as if she had burst through some kind of cocoon, no longer a child, ready to take flight.

She dumped her things on the table and went to the cabinet by the microwave for a box of cereal. She’d have to eat it dry in the car—Cindy’s mom was picking her up in two minutes. She plopped down in the chair to lace up her shoes when she heard angry voices coming from the living room.

“Did you have your back end sticking into the street?” Her father sounded like he was about to blow a gasket.

“No, of course not, Tom.”

“Then how could he crash into you?”

“I don’t know. We were just sitting there.”

“You let them leave without giving you a name? Are you stupid?”

“They said they’d call today and arrange to fix everything. I asked for a name, but they wouldn’t tell me.”

Sophie hated it when her mother’s voice got whiny. She quickly wrote a note telling her that she had field hockey practice—in case she’d forgotten—and asked her to pick her up at five. She grabbed her gym bag, stuffed two apples in a side pocket, picked up her stick, tucked the cereal box under her arm, and opened the back door. The last thing she heard her father say—in an angry, rising voice—was, “I’d like to know what son-of-a-bitch thinks he can hit you and just drive away.” She closed the door on the rest.

“Tom,” Donna pleaded, “it’s my car, I’ll take care of it.”

“What if our insurance rates go up? Someone’s got to pay for that. I want to know who did this! I want him fired.”

“Tom, please.”

He brushed past her and picked up the phone. He called his friend Roger, who had a lift in his barn where he changed oil and fixed cars. Tom asked if he knew where the sheriff’s department got their fleet worked on. “Up in Capitol City at Star Chevrolet, last I heard,” said Roger. “I know a guy there. What’s this about?” Tom told Roger the story. “I need to know if any of the sheriff’s cars came in last night.”

Within ten minutes, Roger called back. “The sheriff’s Escalade was there on the lot this morning, the front passenger door all scraped up, a dented front fender and broken mirror. About three thousand dollars’ worth of damage.”

“You get the license number?”

“The plates were off, but he gave me the VIN.” Tom thanked Roger and hung up.

“What are you going to do?” Donna asked worriedly. “It’s just the fender. And the taillight. They said they’d pay for it.”

“It looks like the sheriff hit you, honey. The sheriff hit you and took off.” Tom calmly picked up his mug of coffee, sat down in front of the television set, and turned it on. “We’re gonna call a lawyer. That’s what we’re gonna to do.”

* * * *

“I wish I could do something about the reporters, Bill. Life would be a whole lot simpler around here.”

State Attorney General Palmer Tharpe looked up as the boat lift gently lowered his twenty-seven-foot Pro-Line powerboat into the warm Gulf water. He had been looking forward to an entire day of grouper fishing with no distractions. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t out on the water yet and his cell phone still worked.

“I suppose we’ve got to charge you with something,” he chuckled. “If more reporters call, just say the state attorney general has opened an investigation. No comment. I gotta go. Don’t worry about. I’ll handle it.”

“What about the drinking?”

“No breathalyzer test, no urine test, no proof. Don’t worry about it.”

Sheriff Crocker was not reassured.

* * * *

The news spread like a virus.

FHP Officer Randy Rutkowski, who had left the scene in a huff, and who, like many FHP Officers, nursed an intense dislike for the sheriff’s department, told his wife Patti, who then called her brother, Alfred Lowrey, a retired airline pilot, who, because his property taxes were three times that of a lot next-door owned by Sheriff Crocker, hated the man, and spent the night e-mailing his friends, many of whom had campaigned for Sam Sweeney, Crocker’s rival for sheriff, and had long e-mail lists, one of which, compiled by the Coast Guard Auxiliary for hurricane emergencies, included nearly everyone within ten miles of the Gulf.

By the time most residents of Walker County had their morning coffee and turned on their computers, they knew that Sheriff Crocker had crashed into a young mother and daughter on Azalea Park Road, and had taken off.

By six o’clock that evening, there was a petition for Sheriff Crocker’s resignation on PeoplesPetition.com. Before midnight, three hundred people had signed it.

* * * *

Summer Dayes heard about it the next morning. She was stretching in front of the television, waiting for the local weather forecast, her head over her knees, when she recognized his voice.

“Sheriff Crocker! Is it true that you crashed into a woman and her daughter inside a parked car last night and left without stopping?” A young female reporter shoved a microphone in his face as he was walked into the station.

Crocker looked stunned, trapped. “I need to get to work. I cannot comment at this time.”

The reporter pressed on. “How many drinks did you have at Magnolia Spring Country Club?”

“I assure you, that wasn’t a factor. It’s a curvy road. It was a split-second situation. I don’t think anyone could’ve avoided it.”

“Why did you leave? Were you afraid of a DUI? You had your Escalade taken to get repaired late at night. Was that part of a cover-up?”

Crocker swiveled, looking for an escape, then crossed his arms and glared at the reporter. “Look. I was wrong to leave the scene. I screwed up, you know. I apologize to the citizens of Walker County, but this hasn’t affected their safety one bit. We have one of the safest counties in the state and nothing is going to change that. The citizens deserve better, so I’m going to do better. I’m a human being. I’m not perfect.”

“Why weren’t you charged with anything? Why weren’t you given a sobriety test?”

“I am paying for the damage to the woman’s car and will work for a week without pay. That should save the county about two thousand dollars.”

Captain Roland Parker managed to pull Crocker inside the sheriff’s department, while saying to the reporter, “The sheriff has asked the state attorney general to open an investigation. I’m sure all of your questions will be answered.”

Summer stood up, dizzy for a moment, swaying. She turned off the television and stumbled out the screen door for her morning jog. She headed down to Sandy Point Beach. The jarring of her body felt oddly disconnected to the pounding of her feet.

How could he do such a thing? His cavalier excuse that he “screwed up” was so—she searched for the right word—offensive.

She left the road and jogged over the sand dunes, through the oat grass and dollar weed to the wide white beach. Three miles of sand and not a soul around. Usually this was where she would lengthen her stride and pick up her pace, but she slowed to a stop, mesmerized by the shimmering waves.

A great blue heron waded in the shallow water fishing for pinfish. It eyed her but did not move. A dolphin, slicing past, puffed for air.

So this is it, she thought. It’s over. Even if Bill managed to keep her name out of it.

She expelled a breath, relieved.

Summer was not quite sure why she had gotten involved with Sheriff Bill Crocker in the first place. He was a man used to being in control, who enjoyed control; she valued her freedom above all else. He had assets of several million dollars, mostly from land deals he had made to developers, yet the idea of him as a powerful man seemed laughable to her—he was a redneck sheriff.

They had almost nothing in common.

They met at an exhibit of her photography at the Capitol City Airport, a group of her wildlife photos, and a series featuring the rusty trucks on Route 19. He came up and told her that the trucks were from his great uncle’s farm, that he had learned to drive in one of them. He bought five of the photos, took her card, and began calling her every day with an idea of something for her to photograph—an old boat, a derelict house on stilts, a nest of hatching sea-turtle eggs. He’d be glad to show her. Finally she agreed, even though it was obvious what he was really after.

He was charming and told wonderful stories. He had wonderful salt-and-pepper hair, short and thick, hair that made you want to run barefoot through it. They had lots of laughs.

Yet she hated the rigid way he viewed the world, his insistence on “Christian family values” when she knew he had always cheated on his wife and only went to church before elections. And even though she was the current cause of his infidelity, she couldn’t stand his wanton disregard for his wife, as if she were a servant rather than his spouse.

She liked to tease him, never cruelly, but to show he had no power over her. It was titillating, an aphrodisiac—like taunting an alligator with a broomstick.

Summer waded out into the tepid Gulf water, tea-colored from tannins washed into the bay from the last thunderstorm. Her feet sank into the silky sand, the waves lapped gently on her calves.

It had been wrong from the beginning. She had to end it.

But how?

He was a vengeful man. He might get her fired from her job teaching art in the local schools. There were a half-dozen ways he could make her life difficult. She supposed she would have to move.

Summer waded out forty feet before finding water deep enough to swim. It felt thick and heavy on her skin.

How she longed for the sparkling, crashing waves of the Pacific, cold, exhilarating, pounding down on top of her, tossing her, twisting her. She longed for the endless beaches of San Diego, and the jagged cliffs of Big Sur. She longed to return to California.

It was time for a change.

* * * *

Zeke Fullerton, personal injury lawyer, stopped by the Brinkmeyers’ at 7:30 p.m. after Tom and Donna got home from work. As soon as he heard that the sheriff was involved, he offered to waive the initial consultation fee.

“Are you having headaches, Mrs. Brinkmeyer? Neck aches? Back pain? Vision problems? Are you anxious? Trouble sleeping? Have you had to hire household help? Are you going to take time off from work? Is Sophie having trouble concentrating at school? Any discipline problems?”

So many questions! Donna felt confused and angry. Why did this happen to her? She didn’t deserve it. Everything this lawyer said felt like someone poking her with a knitting needle. She didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to do this. She sat on the sofa and put her head in her hands.

Then she felt it. A stab at the base of her neck. And sharp tingling down her spine.

“Answer him, Donna,” Tom said, biting his lips, his eyes snakelike and shiny, the way he looked when he checked his Saturday-night lottery ticket.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Yes, she was emotional and anxious. Yes, she was afraid to get into the car, afraid to pull out in traffic, especially in Mulletville, where the rednecks in their trucks never stopped before darting out in front of you. So many bills, so many errands to cram into one day, everyone wanting something from her—Mom, could you pick me up at . . . Mom, could you get me . . . Darling, remember I asked you—sure she was having trouble sleeping. She had always had back trouble, but now it was worse.

“I think we have a good case,” said the lawyer.

“How much do you think we could get?” asked Tom, which made Donna blush and look away.

The lawyer smiled and wrote a number on a slip of paper.

“He barely hit me!” Donna protested.

The lawyer took Donna’s hand. His fingers were long, his palm dry, almost as if dusted with baby powder. “I know you may feel we’re taking advantage of the situation, but look at it this way. If criminal law fails to find justice, civil law has to step in. Like in the O.J. Simpson case.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?” Donna looked at Tom, aghast, but there scratching at the back of her brain was a shopping list that got longer and longer the more she thought about it.

“Maybe more,” the lawyer said. “The sheriff should be held to a higher standard.”

“How long will it take”—Donna lifted her face, daring, for the first time, to look the lawyer in the eyes—”before we get the money?”

* * * *

Bill Crocker bolted up in bed, heart pounding, covered in sweat. He was there again, at the accident, trying to take it back, trying to change the outcome, the scene playing over and over in his head, relentlessly, like some godawful TV commercial. How could he have been so stupid? He wanted to turn off his brain, but he couldn’t. It was agonizing.

He looked at the clock—2:30 a.m. Meredith snored softly on her side, turned away from him. He felt completely nauseated.

He rolled out of bed, shuffled to his office, and turned on his computer. It was like picking a scab—he had to see what they were saying about him now: “Just because he’s sheriff, he thinks the laws don’t apply to him?” “What a jerk!” “Time for this good ole boy to resign.” “Arrogant SOB!” “Anybody else in Walker County would’ve gotten arrested on a DUI and a hit-and-run!” “Drunken trash!” “He rigged the election. Now he’s committing crimes!” “Scumbag!” “HE HIT A CAR WITH A CHILD IN IT AND LEFT!!!!” “Either fire him or change the law so next time I get drunk and do a hit-and-run I can go home first and sober up, then have one of my friends investigate the accident for me.” “Time to go, Crocker! It’s time for change.”

Over a thousand people had now signed the online petition demanding his resignation.

Why, why, why didn’t he stop and talk to the woman. Pay her there? He always carried at least five hundred on him.

He tried to conjure the very moment when he turned the steering wheel, for he must’ve done that, driving down the straight black asphalt, sixty miles an hour, his eyelids feeling thick and heavy, pressing down on the gas pedal, anxious to get home, then seeing the white egret by the road, a sick bird, a wounded bird, leaning forward, squinting, and a hand, not his hand, but a wicked, gleeful force pushing the steering wheel right toward the bird, to kill the wretched bird.

Why had he been afraid? Why flee? He recalled the jolting panic as if he had seen a gigantic boulder rolling toward him, threatening to crush him—he had to move, had to get out of the way.

Bill realized that he had not been afraid of the FHP slapping him with a DUI, or of losing his office, or confronting a furious driver, or paying thousands of dollars. It was a much greater fear that had made him run.

He feared his luck was running out.

* * * *

Crocker jerked awake at the sound of screaming, simultaneously realizing that he must’ve fallen asleep at his computer, that it was morning, and that the screaming was his wife, Meredith, downstairs. He jumped up, grabbed a loaded shotgun, and charged down the hall.

The front door was half open. He saw her lavender housecoat, legs akimbo, her hands slapping away an invisible force. He ran up, shoved her out of the way, and swung wide the door.

She did not stop screaming.

* * * *

An hour later, Clive Johnston kissed his sleeping wife and infant daughter, called his editor at the Capitol City Observer, who was already at his desk, and told him he was headed south into Walker County.

It felt a bit like entering enemy territory.

He first drove past the scene of the accident, a part of Azalea Park Drive that was without curves or hills. The mailbox still leaned and had a scrape down the side.

He then interviewed Donna Brinkmeyer, who complained tearfully that “Sheriff Crocker apologized on television to everyone but me. He lives on my street, but he didn’t even bother to call.” Her husband, Tom Brinkmeyer, who held his wife’s hand during the interview, claimed that his wife was a “physical and emotional wreck.” They would not discuss their personal-injury lawsuit against the sheriff.

Around lunchtime, Johnston walked into Magnolia Spring Country Club. The bartender, a pre-med student from the local university, new at the job, who didn’t even know who Sheriff Crocker was, called up the tab on the computer. On the night of the accident, Sheriff Crocker ordered six Crown Royals and one white wine. Several people who had been at the bar that night, including Crocker’s friend Donald Mayes, defended him, saying that “the sheriff was buying rounds for everyone,” and that “the drinks are notoriously stingy.” Two people mentioned a blonde in her thirties who had sat with Crocker and Mayes, but no one knew her name.

At the sheriff station he attempted to interview the sheriff’s deputies who had arrived at the crash. Both were on “sick leave.”

Johnston called his editor with his findings.

“How much did you say the bar tab was?” his editor asked.

“Twenty-two ninety-eight.”

“For seven drinks? I need to move to Walker County.”

“The bartender said he got an owner-employee discount.”

“You mean Crocker is one of the bar owners?”

“I don’t know. Let me do some checking.”

Clive Johnston spent the rest of the day in the Mulletville Records Office. Not only was Sheriff Crocker part owner of Magnolia Spring Country Club, his wife was listed as the owner of the Magnolia Spring Club Bar, a separate LLC. Johnston called his editor again.

“I did some checking on this side,” his editor said. “Looks like our sheriff is in violation of Florida statute 561.25, which prohibits any sheriff from being employed, directly or indirectly, by any business that sells alcohol, or from owning stock or interest in such a business. If he’s guilty, the sheriff would automatically be removed from office.”

And all of this was printed on the front page of the Capitol City Observer.

* * * *

“They want change? I am change!”

Crocker stomped back and forth in his living room, glaring at Marshall Getty, across the room. “Forty years ago there was no law enforcement. No court system. Every law in the book was broken—from moonshiners to domestic violence, to drug dealing and dumping and hunting and fishing violations. As long as you didn’t rob their house or murder their wife, nobody cared what you did. I brought law to Walker County. I built a prison. I busted the ring of methamphetamine manufacturers. I brought in ecotourism. I brought in the solar-power plant. There’s not one family in Walker County—not one—I haven’t helped out. I’ve given my life to these people. Why do they hate me?”

“You’ve been a good sheriff,” Getty mumbled, placatingly. “I suggest we try to settle this out of court.”

“She’s lying! I barely tapped her. It’s bullshit!”

“The jury pool is mostly people who work in Capitol City, mostly Democrats. You will not win in court. Zeke Fullerton knows that. That’s why he’s asking for two hundred thousand.”

“What a snake.”

“I want to offer him fifty. I think he’ll recommend to the family they take it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll offer more.”

“This is crazy! There’s nothing wrong with that woman.”

“That woman? A jury will feel they have to send a message—that no one is above the law.”

“It’s all about the election. You know that, don’t you? The Capitol City Observer, all those people on the Internet—they all supported Sam Sweeney. They’re exploiting this to try to get me out.”

“You won by forty votes. You can see how there might be some resentment there.”

“I won, goddamnit! Fair and square.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not my fault if I have enthusiastic supporters.”

“They intimidated people, they stole Sweeney’s campaign signs, they threatened to boycott businesses that displayed Sweeney posters, your deputies gave tickets to people with Sweeney bumper stickers, a bag of ballots went missing for twenty-four hours, and in the last half-hour of voting ten cars filled with your supporters came to vote. They were drunk.”

“I’m supposed to stop people from campaigning for me?”

“Look, I’m not fighting you. I’m your lawyer. I’m on your side. I’m just saying that there might be a reason some people might question the election.”

“They set me up. They’ll do anything to throw me out.”

“Now you’re being paranoid.”

“Paranoid! Someone dumps a dead boar on my doorstep for my wife to find and I’m being paranoid? Screw you!”

“Bill, stop!”

“I won’t stop. I made this place, and now those retired Jewish transplants are trying to take it away from me.”

“You’re being irrational. A lot of locals voted for Sam Sweeney, Bill.”

“Screw you!”

* * * *

The next day, Palmer Tharpe’s office charged Crocker with leaving the scene of a crash, a second-degree misdemeanor punishable by up to sixty days in jail and a $500 fine, and cited him for careless driving, a $146 fine. Arraignment was set for Thursday.

That morning there was a lot of excitement outside the courthouse. Dozens of spectators arrived, pouring out of battered trucks, hopping off motorcycles, dressed in jeans and boots. Even one or two RVs pulled up. The local television station arrived with a van and cameraman.

Bill and his lawyer arrived in Getty’s Mercedes, slowly pushing through the crowd. A middle-aged woman in jeans was handing out green T-shirts that read “Crocker is my Sheriff!” left over from the election campaign. She wore her gray hair in a ponytail and ordered people to put away their beer cans and pick up signs, some of which were misspelled—”I Love My Sherrif!” “Transplants go home!” “Crocker Won, Sorry Loosers Suck!”

Bill smiled. It was Debra Sue Dobson, looking good. Now that’s loyalty. He waved, but she didn’t glance up. He walked up the courthouse steps to sporadic but enthusiastic cheering. It made Bill feel better.

“It’ll look more impressive on TV,” Getty said. “I had my assistant make some calls. She did the best she could. Lots of these folk don’t have e-mail.”

“Oh,” said Bill, disappointed.

Getty led him to a small room on the first floor. He had no intention of seeing the inside of the courtroom upstairs.

Judge Warren, who was in a particularly good mood and started the pretrial conference bragging about the twenty-six-inch redfish he’d caught that weekend, accepted a plea deal. For the charge of leaving the scene of a crash, Crocker was sentenced to three months of administrative probation, during which time he had to abstain from alcohol. He had to write a public letter of apology to the crash victims, pay $350 in court costs, pay to have both vehicles fixed, and pay a $146 ticket for the careless-driving citation. The judge withheld adjudication of guilt, which meant that “technically” Sheriff Crocker was not convicted of the offense.

The verdict appeased no one.

* * * *

The reporters were relentless. Each day something new was published in the Capital City Observer about Sheriff Crocker’s “imperial rule” over Walker County. Then a posse of ball-busting auditors and monitors descended on him. The State Tax Assessor was questioning the low tax assessment on dozens of his properties. The Florida Legal Ethics Board was questioning his dismissal of sheriff’s deputies who campaigned for Sam Sweeney in the previous election. The Board of County Commissioners called for an audit of the sheriff’s department. Then Walker County Bank filed a lawsuit seeking foreclosure on Magnolia Spring Country Club for failure to make mortgage payments and to pay taxes. His own cousin, bank vice-president Gary Curtis, signed for the plaintiff.

Everyone was turning against him. Even Meredith suggested he retire. There had to be a way out. If only he could explain himself.

He called Clive Johnston and said he would give him an exclusive. Marshall Getty put a stop to that. “You need to stay out of the limelight, Bill. Take a vacation. Just cool it. It’ll die down.”

But he didn’t want to cool it. He waited until Sunday afternoon. Then made the call.

“I’m ready,” he said. He hadn’t talked to Donald Mayes since the accident. “How do we start?”

“What are you talking about?” Mayes seemed preoccupied.

“I’m ready to run for state representative.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “You have another three and a half years as sheriff, Bill. A lot can happen in that time.”

“But the election for state rep is next year.”

Another pause. He could almost hear Mayes thinking. “Look, Bill, I’ve got to be frank with you. You’ve lost a lot of support. I’m not sure you could win.”

“Sure I can. The people here love me. We’re family. They’ll come around.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure they will.”

Again silence. “I’ve talked to Sam Sweeney. We’ve started a fund-raising plan.”

“Sweeney’s a Democrat!”

“Nobody cares about parties anymore, Bill. They vote for the man. And he’s a good man.”

“And I’m not?”

“You’re damaged goods.”

* * * *

Bill found Summer in her garden, dressed in jeans and a man’s sleeveless undershirt, pruning her fig tree. He loved how tan and strong she was. He loved her long blond braid, how it swung back and forth as her muscled arms squeezed the clippers.

He took her by the hand and made her sit down on the stone bench beside the roses. “Belize,” he said, watching her blue eyes brighten as he made his proposal. “I’ll raise horses, you can do your photography. I’ll sell everything. I’ll have my pension, plus Social Security. Down there we’ll be rich. You can sell this place or not—whatever you want. But come with me. I beg you.”

Summer looked at him, his face flushed, eyes watery, shining with passion, his smile—tentative, anguished—almost a grimace, the pores on his nose oozing oils. He looked like a man on the edge of losing control.

“There’s everything you like down there,” he continued. “Wildlife, beautiful beaches and jungle, great food. Will you come with me?”

Summer felt a chill of excitement. Escape. Change. Two things she longed for. To a country she often dreamed of. She imagined for a moment living with him, two expatriates, thrown together in an intensely coupled way. Living every day with him. Watching him get old. Taking care of him.

Suddenly she found him oppressive; her nostrils pinched from the smell of onions and shrimp on him. His hands were clammy, and under his armpits, dark crescent moons of sweat. He was pathetic, repulsive. Even his perfect helmet of gray hair was mussed and greasy.

“I’m sorry, Bill,” she said. “I can’t.”

He took her hand, desperate, pulling her to him. “It’ll be wonderful. Sun all year long. Complete freedom to do whatever we want.”

“No,” she said, pushing away. “I don’t want to.”

“You have to,” he said. He grabbed her hands and kissed her palms, his hands sliding up her forearms, clutching hard, diving in for a kiss, mashing his lips on hers, cutting her with his teeth. “I don’t have to,” she yelled. She staggered back, her weight thrown against a potting table made from a door on sawhorses. The table crashed to the ground, tools flying, clay pots smashing everywhere. Still he came, seizing her hands, pushing her down on top of the door, clinging to her like a drowning man, probing under her shirt, ripping the buttons, grinding his pelvis into her, then yanking down her zipper and pulling her pants off her hips. “Get off me! You disgust me!” she cried, flailing against him.

He placed his hands around her neck, his thumbs on her windpipe, his face inches from hers, red as if his skin had been stripped off, his bloody facial muscles exposed. He pressed down with his thumbs until she gurgled, her hands slapping his hands, feet kicking.

Suddenly he stopped, as if seeing something in her face that surprised him—her disgust, her contemptuous lips, her taunting eyes, daring him to kill her.

He stood up, dazed, his erection fading. He watched her cough and roll to her side, her hands fluttering around her bruised neck.

He turned and lurched out of the yard.

* * * *

You don’t expect it to end like this, sitting in a 1946 Dodge truck, rusty springs digging into your back. You never think that your last view of life will be through the jagged edges of a broken windshield, your last smell that of dust, rat shit, and jasmine. You don’t expect it to happen when you are sixty-two.

He sat with a Colt .45 in his hand, listening. A truck sped away behind a wall of slash pines. A twig snapped as a rattlesnake glided under a dry palmetto. A crenellated woodpecker jackhammered a dead oak.

Turkey vultures circled above.

It was hot. The air pressed in on him, pushing down on his chest. He could hardly breathe. This must be how it feels to be in a traffic accident, he thought, sheet metal bent like crinkled tinfoil around your body, pressing your internal organs together, cutting off air and blood. Nothing real pressed in on him—no airbag or dashboard or dented roof—only this thick, wet, crushing heaviness.

He looked at the gun in his hand, its handsome, black-matte finish. He had never fired it on the job. He had always hoped he’d never have to use it, his insurance policy, carrying it just in case, always in his car even when he was off duty. Even to church.

Was there really no other way?

He thought of Debra Sue Dobson—It all started with her, didn’t it?—kneeling deep in the forest picking up worms while her husband rubs a stick in the ground like a caveman starting a fire, her fingers sifting through pine needles as streaks of sunlight shine between the slash pines. Some guy from California made a video about them, and now Debra Sue and her husband were all over the Internet like that frumpy English woman who could sing like a lark. They had become folk heroes, interviewed by People magazineand Good Morning America. An apparel manufacturer was designing a jeans line named after them, and they were in negotiations with a brewery to put their picture on a new label called Worm Gruntin’ Beer.

The worm grunters were going to be rich. He’d heard that they had bid on the twenty-nine-thousand-dollar tax lien on Magnolia Spring Country Club. So now he owed them money.

Debra Sue Dobson, sixteen, offering to sleep with him, her cutoff jeans partly unzipped to accommodate her bulging belly.

He began to laugh. Until tears fell down his face. Then he stopped.

The air was still. Cicadas wheezed in the grasses around him.

The gun was warm now—from the sun coming in through the cracked windshield, and from his sweaty palm. He put the barrel in his mouth. He pulled the trigger.

He didn’t hear the shot, but felt warmth pour over his body, like the tepid gulf water in July during scalloping season, opening day, he, his brother Danny, and Dad, motoring to the grass flats around Grey Mare Rock with dozens of other boats, families in snorkel gear frolicking in the three-foot water, chasing after the scallops, which dart away, snapping their shells in annoyance, propelling themselves through the grasses like in a Disney cartoon, and on the boat, Danny squealing as he jumps in the water, Dad chugging a beer, and he burst out of the water with a furious spitting scallop in each hand, laughing, victorious.

Copyright © 2010 Ruth Francisco