Welcome Back to Pie Town Page 12

  He was about to tell Malene that he understood what she had done and forgave her when his cell phone notified him of a text. He dropped her hand and reached down to his belt and removed the phone to read it.

  “Damn” was all he said.

  “What is it?” Malene asked.

  “Frank Twinhorse has been arrested.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Father George promised Frank that he would let Roger know about the arrest and that he would go to Albuquerque to visit him as soon as the authorities granted him permission. He tried to go with Frank when the FBI agents came for him at the garage, but they had not permitted the priest to get involved.

  The two men in the dark sedan that he had seen driving past the garage earlier in the afternoon drove by again, this time stopping and coming in, flashing badges and ordering instructions to both George and Frank. It was after five o’clock, and Roger was at least relieved that Trina, who had to pick up Alexandria, had already departed. The two friends were talking when the FBI arrived. George had gotten some snacks from the vending machine, Frank made a pot of coffee, and they were discussing Raymond and the fight at the Silver Spur when the agents walked in and arrested Frank. George had yelled and screamed about there being no charges to lodge against his friend, but it had all fallen on deaf ears. They made some claim about national security, another claim about drugs and illegal activity, and insisted that Frank knew more than he was saying. George could do nothing to stop them.

  George texted Roger as soon as the agents arrived at the garage, as soon as he knew who they were and what they were doing. After the arrest, unsure of what to do or where to go next, he simply drove back to the rectory. He did not call Trina. He did not go to Roger’s house. He did not call or visit anyone else. He was trying to figure out everything that had happened and everything that was still taking place.

  It turned out that Frank had not known about the robbery, but he was sure that Raymond had not been involved. He explained to Trina and George that after a day of searching and a night of camping, he had found his son the next morning, and that the two had been together, talking, until he left. He then asked them not to tell anyone where he had been, as he planned to say he was visiting Ramah. Trina and George agreed.

  “Never,” George remembered Frank had said, “never did Raymond mention any problems in Datil. He said that after he left Trina’s he went to the bar, that he drank too much and drove his bike when he probably shouldn’t have, but that he stopped out near Old Horse Springs, south of town, and spent the night in the desert. He even said he threw his gun away.” It was clear to Frank that his son had been upset about what he had done to Trina, but he never spoke to his father of anything else that had occurred later that night.

  Frank was certain, George recalled the conversation, that his son had not stolen from anyone. He was sure that Raymond would have told him if he had. Frank relayed to George that all Raymond remembered about what occurred the night the power went out in Catron County was what had happened to Trina. There was no conversation about any bar fight or any confrontation with Gilbert. All that Raymond told Frank about that night was that he had the fight with Trina, drove away on his dirt bike to Datil for a couple of drinks, and then left there, heading south on Highway 12, and camped for the night in the desert.

  Frank had not told Trina or George where Raymond was hiding. He had not mentioned any specific locations except for the one where Raymond had camped that first night, off Highway 12 near Apache Creek, about forty miles south of Pie Town. Based on that little bit of information, George thought the boy must still be near there. It was, however, a big area, and George wasn’t sure that he would ever have a chance of finding Raymond if he went searching for him.

  When Trina had asked if Raymond was coming home—when he was coming home—Frank confessed that he did not know for sure. He had explained that he left Raymond after he asked his father for just a week to get his head on straight, to be alone, to think about things, and then, Frank thought, he would probably come home, face Trina, and go to the VA Hospital for help.

  The FBI agents had walked into the garage and questioned Frank before George could find out any details of where Raymond was when Frank left him. They had then arrested Frank for failing to give them information about Raymond’s whereabouts. Both Frank and George had claimed the arrest was bogus. They both said the charges of obstruction of justice and aiding and abetting a fugitive would never stand. And yet, there seemed nothing they could do. The agents had handcuffed Frank and taken him away, and now, as he stood in the rectory, pacing back and forth, worried about Frank, worried about Raymond, George had no idea how he could help.

  “Roger will work this out,” he told himself. He assumed that the sheriff would have access to Frank, could talk to him and figure out the best way to handle things. He hoped that Roger would find Raymond before the FBI did so that he could talk to the boy and prepare him for the charges that had been filed against him, as well as the questioning the FBI intended to carry out about drugs and Raymond’s involvement. He hoped that Raymond would be treated for the PTSD and not as a common criminal. Trying to convince himself there was nothing for him to do but pray, George paced and prayed until he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  He was surprised when he opened it, expecting to find Malene or Trina or even Roger; instead, he discovered Francine Mueller standing on the porch.

  “Hello, Father,” she said.

  George glanced around her. Hers was the only car in the church parking lot, and she seemed to be alone.

  “Francine,” he called out, the surprise showing in his voice. “Please, come in.” And he moved aside while the woman walked in past him.

  “I’m sorry,” she immediately said. “I know it’s late and I should have called.”

  George smiled. “It’s fine. Please,” he motioned her into the living area, “have a seat.”

  Francine nervously walked over to the sofa and stood there, waiting for the priest to join her. She seemed very uncomfortable, and George had no idea why he was receiving this visitor.

  Francine had made it very clear when the priest first arrived that she was Protestant. And even though she, like everyone else in the community, had helped build the new Holy Family Church, Francine had only attended church sporadically. She went to weddings and funerals, the high church days, Christmas and Easter, but she mostly stayed away on Sundays.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, quite aware of his guest’s discomfort. He motioned for her to sit down.

  Francine nodded and sat on the sofa. She clutched her purse in her lap and moved up in her seat. “No,” she replied. “I’m not all right.”

  George sat down on the coffee table across from her, appearing very concerned. “What is it?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “Is it Bernie?” Unlike Francine, Bernie was a devout Catholic. He came to church almost every week.

  She shook her head. “Bernie’s fine,” she answered. “Well, no, he’s not fine either. We’re both torn up about this, and I just didn’t know what else to do. So he’s gone to Silver City to buy some farm equipment, something he does when he’s stressed or needs to think, and I decided I wanted to talk to you.”

  George waited. He considered offering her a cup of tea, but he could see she was eager to talk, even if it seemed to be taking her a long time to begin.

  “We know where Raymond Twinhorse is,” she blurted out. Then she shook her head. “Well, not exactly we don’t. We saw him walking out by Bernie’s ranch a few days ago, the day after the storm, the morning really.” She swallowed hard. “I stayed the night with Bernie.” She paused and waited for a reaction from the priest.

  There was none.

  “And we were up fixing breakfast at about dawn, and we saw him walking. Bernie went out and found his motorcycle and brought it to the house because it was out of gas and he thought he’d save Raymond the trouble of having to push it. W
e put it in the barn because we weren’t sure how long he was going to be gone and Bernie thought it would be safer there. We thought he was hunting or maybe just getting out in nature. And then, later, Bernie told Frank about finding his bike, and he could tell Frank was real upset about something. He said that as soon as he mentioned the bike, Frank was all in a hurry for Bernie to leave so he could lock up the garage. And then Frank was gone for two days, and then we heard about the robbery, and then the FBI was searching for Raymond because of drugs, and then Frank. . . .” She finally stopped and took a breath. “We didn’t know what to do.” She faced George.

  George pulled away from Francine. He had just heard a lot of information from her, and he was trying to process it all. Based on what Frank had told him, he thought Raymond was still south of town, but now Francine was saying she had seen the young man north of Pie Town, up around Bernie’s ranch, which was nowhere near Apache Creek.

  Francine started to get up. “I’m sorry, this was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. You don’t know anything about this, and I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No, no.” George reached out and took her by the arm. “No, this is fine. It’s fine that you’ve talked to me.”

  She sat down again, appearing somewhat relieved. She reached in her purse and took out a tissue. She blotted it beneath her eyes. “We didn’t put the bike in the barn to hide it from anybody,” she said, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself. “We just put it there for safekeeping. We didn’t know Raymond was in trouble.”

  After using the tissue to wipe her top lip, she slipped it into the sleeve of her blouse, then folded her hands in her lap.

  George tried to think of the right response but didn’t come up with anything, so he just waited for his guest to keep talking. She didn’t disappoint him.

  “I thought we should go right away and tell Roger about seeing Raymond and having his bike, but Bernie didn’t think it was any of our business. He told me not to tell.” She blew out a long breath. “Now I’m just afraid we waited too long. Now I’m worried we’ll be in trouble for hindering the prosecution or whatever it is we can be arrested for.” She pulled out the tissue and blotted her face again. She looked at the priest in desperation. She paused. “There’s nothing you can say?”

  George cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I think. . . .” He hesitated. “I guess you should tell somebody what you saw, but I don’t know. . . .” He was at a loss for words.

  Francine leaned back in her seat. She suddenly seemed a bit less anxious than when she had arrived, even if the priest had not offered any helpful response to her admission. She had at least gotten the story off of her chest.

  “He’s obviously somewhere up on Techado or maybe all the way to Veteado Mountain by now.” She thought about the area north of Bernie’s ranch. “Although I suppose he could have gone east over the plains and is out there on the Malpais.” She shook her head, thinking of the places near Pie Town. She had considered everywhere the boy could have gone in a few days. “And if he got a ride or walked all the way out 117 to the Narrows, well, they’ll never find him out there.” She paused.

  George was thinking of all the places Francine was naming. He had taken the back road from Pie Town to Grants with Oris Whitsett the previous summer. The old man wanted to show the priest the lava beds, formed from a volcanic eruption from Mount Taylor years and years ago. He had explained how the beds were full of fissures and ravines and how lots of hikers and wanderers had fallen to their deaths climbing in the area.

  “El Malpais has to be thirty or forty miles north of Bernie’s place. Raymond couldn’t have gotten that far, could he?” George wasn’t sure why he was asking.

  Francine thought about the question. “Well, no, but if Frank found him, he could have driven him out there, or they could have hiked over to Fence Lake.” She shook her head again. “There are miles of trails between here and Interstate 40. He could be anywhere out there,” she surmised.

  George thought. “I don’t know what to tell you, Francine.” He studied his visitor. “You’re going to have to make up your own mind about whether to tell the authorities or not. You and Bernie have to make up your minds together.” He paused, thinking of how best to counsel this community member. He was trying to think of the right thing to say.

  She waited.

  “I suppose knowing where Raymond was a couple of days ago might be helpful in finding him,” said the priest, “but you could also take the stance that it was a few days ago and, just as you said, he could be anywhere now. Besides, now that Frank is arrested. . . .”

  “Arrested?” Francine interrupted the priest. “Wait. They arrested Frank?” she asked. The news was certainly distressing.

  George nodded. “This evening, about twenty minutes ago, in fact.”

  “Frank returned to Pie Town and got arrested?”

  George reached out, holding Francine’s arms. “I’m sure they’ll let him out soon. They don’t really have a reason to detain him.”

  “They think he knows where Raymond is,” she said, the nervousness having returned to her voice, her appearance. “And they could arrest me and Bernie if they find out we’re hiding his bike,” she added.

  She pulled her right hand away from Father George and held it up to her chest. Her breathing became shallow. “I could be a felon,” she said. “Bernie and I could be arrested by the FBI. This is not good, not good at all.”

  As George watched Francine spiraling downward, he realized that he had probably made things worse for her. He wanted to assure his visitor that it wasn’t likely that she and Bernie would be arrested for not reporting what they had seen, but he also knew that he wasn’t sure about anything involving Raymond and his apparent flight into the wilderness. He couldn’t tell what the FBI was doing. He certainly had never expected them to arrest Frank. He was at a complete loss for something else to say. “Maybe we can tell Roger what you saw,” he suggested.

  Francine thought about that. “But wouldn’t Roger have to report it to the FBI?”

  George wasn’t sure. He shrugged.

  “And I don’t want to put the sheriff in the middle of this,” she said. “He’s a good man, and I don’t want him to have to worry about us. Besides, he needs to focus on getting Frank out of jail, don’t you think?”

  George nodded. He guessed that Roger would do the right thing and make the report to the FBI, and he knew that the sheriff would not be happy to put Francine and Bernie in a position similar to Frank’s. He also knew that Frank needed Roger’s full attention at that moment. He remained silent; he couldn’t think of another idea.

  “I could just make an anonymous call,” Francine said.

  “They’d figure out who it was,” he replied.

  The two sat in silence, wondering about the situation, trying to think of the best plan to make, the best action to take.

  Finally, George thought of something. It was risky and perhaps not ethical, but it was something. He reached up and again took Francine by the hands. “Maybe you and Bernie should take a little trip somewhere,” he suggested.

  Francine quickly turned to the priest. His advice surprised her.

  “Nowhere far,” he continued, shaking his head.

  “Just get away for a couple of days?” she asked, sounding sheepish, but also as if she liked the idea.

  George shrugged.

  There was a pause.

  “I’m sorry,” the priest apologized. “I don’t mean to lead you down a slippery slope.”

  Francine shook her head, still considering the idea. “It doesn’t seem so slippery,” she replied.

  Father George waited.

  Francine cleared her throat. “My oldest friend lives in Phoenix,” she said. “Bernie likes Phoenix, and he likes my friend. We’ve visited her before, just a few weeks ago, in fact. It was a fine visit. We picked oranges.”

  She pulled her hands away, dropped the tissue in her lap, and t
ouched the sides of her hair. She sat up straight, grasping the handle of her purse. “You know, I think a little trip would do us both good.”

  “I’m sure in a few days, when you get back, things will be clearer for everyone.” George nodded, a slight approval.

  Francine smiled. The relief spread across her face.

  “Yes, Father, I think this is a good idea,” she agreed, taking a deep breath. She put the tissue in her purse and stood up from the sofa. George stood up as well, moving aside as Francine started walking to the door. Her voice had become calm. She suddenly seemed much more at ease.

  “It’s going to be a lovely moon tonight, wouldn’t you say?” she asked, opening the door and facing the night.

  George nodded.

  She exhaled a big breath of air. “Yes, I think taking a mini-vacation to Arizona sounds like a fabulous idea. I think Bernie will like it too,” and turning once more to George for a final good-bye, she reached out her hand and said, “I’m sure this will all blow over in a couple of days. I think this is for the best. Thank you, Father.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it and then let it go. He watched her as she walked out the door, down the porch steps, and out to her car, and kept watching as she drove away.

  Francine had been relieved of her burden by telling the priest about the possible whereabouts of Raymond. But in giving him a clearer idea of where Raymond was, as he thought about whether or not to go and find him, she had only added to Father George’s.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Agents Lewis Williams and Kevin Cochran had taken a seat in the back booth of the diner. They ordered their meals and listened to the conversation happening over at the counter. Agent Cochran was smiling. Williams didn’t see the humor in anything Oris Whitsett said, but the old man knew how to make Cochran laugh. “This is the same pie you had last week.” Oris had eaten his lunch and was ready for dessert. “What happened to your pie baker?”

  “Francine and Bernie went to Phoenix for a few days,” Bea answered. “This pie is fine, and it isn’t the same as last week. We had Pio-O-Neer Pecan Oak Pie last week, this is chocolate pecan. Francine made this one before she left.”