Welcome Back to Pie Town Page 8

  “I’m sorry I had to call you out of work.” It was Father George apologizing this time. “I just didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Not a problem,” Malene responded. She glanced over at Trina. “I’ll stop by your house tomorrow and check your burns, make sure there’s no infection, but I think you should still go over to the clinic in Socorro and get proper care.”

  Trina nodded. “I will. And you won’t say anything to Roger?” she asked.

  Malene didn’t respond at first. She turned to Frank and George, who were waiting for her answer as well. “I don’t usually keep secrets from my husband,” she replied. She sighed. “But if he doesn’t ask specific questions about what I did with my day today, then I have no reason to give him any information about what happened here or what happened at his house last night.”

  “Creative situational management,” Trina said, winking at George.

  Malene smiled. She hesitated. “It’s not my story to tell, Trina. But I do think you may need to tell it to the authorities. For Raymond’s sake,” she added.

  Trina nodded, keeping her head down.

  “And I’m going too,” Frank said. “If it’s okay to borrow your truck?” he asked Trina. He didn’t have his own transportation since Father George had driven him over to the rectory.

  She looked up at him. “Of course, you can borrow the truck, especially since it sounds like Father George will take me to pick up Alexandria this evening.”

  “I’ll take you home,” Father George responded.

  Frank nodded.

  Trina pulled the keys from her pocket and held them out to Frank.

  He walked over to take them, and she reached for his hand. “Just tell him to come home,” she said, understanding that he was going out to search for Raymond. “Just tell him I’m okay and that I want him to come home.”

  Frank nodded. He squeezed her fingers tightly.

  After they said their good-byes, Father George walked Frank and Malene out the front door, smiling nervously as they got into their vehicles and drove away.

  SEVENTEEN

  Roger thought it was odd when Malene’s supervisor explained that she had gotten an emergency call from the priest and had been gone for most of the morning. He had called her at work to see if she wanted him to bring her lunch. He drove into town after seeing Gilbert and then after stopping over in Alamo to check on things there. He wondered if he should stop by the church or head over to Carebridge to see if she had returned. He wondered what kind of emergency the priest was involved in and whether or not he should have been called as well.

  He knew Father George and Malene were close. She was the good Catholic in the family. She always had been. Even though her mother was Zuni and “Pueblo Catholic,” which he considered to be a religion all its own, and Oris, her father, was agnostic and never too fond of institutions, their daughter had become very involved in her faith, and very involved in Holy Family Church.

  Roger believed in God, didn’t mind attending worship services with his family, prayed over meals, and still lit candles and talked to his grandson as if he were now a saint, but he wasn’t religious, not like his wife.

  Malene counted on God, sought guidance from God, prayed for favors from God. Roger counted on himself, sought guidance from experience and science, and did not believe in asking for favors from anyone. He figured God had created the world and everybody in it and that the act of creation, truly a generous and unselfish thing to do, was the only display of God’s miracles he needed. God created and then God let it be. It was the only way Roger could explain evil and suffering and the way God usually didn’t rise to the occasion and do anything about it.

  No matter how many times he and Malene talked about it or how many books Father George suggested, God and the mess in this world were two things Roger could not reconcile. So, while others were praying for sick family members or world peace to descend once and for all, Roger thanked God for the warmth of the morning sun and the cool in the evening. He thanked God for surprising spring rains and desert flowers. If he wasn’t simply having a conversation with his grandson Alex, who had been dead a year, his prayers were only litanies of thanksgiving because he figured it was better just to focus on what he could accept from God, a beautiful and miraculously created world, rather than on what he knew God did not control. He could think of God as creator, but that was as far as his theology took him. He figured that organizing and managing and running the world had been left to what or who had been created. God, Roger suspected, was out making other worlds somewhere else and maybe having better luck with the other creations.

  Pulling into Pie Town, he decided not to go to the nursing home to see if Malene had returned to work, and he decided not to go to Holy Family Church either. He didn’t want to bust into whatever Father George had pulled his wife into and figured it was probably some young woman who needed the wisdom or care of a mother. Father George, as he had done in the past, had probably just called the most faithful woman in the church to assist.

  Roger drove past the diner. Noticing Danny’s squad car in the lot, he wondered if he had already finished with his counseling appointment. He knew his deputy had clocked out after leaving the Silver Spur, having worked more than a couple of hours’ overtime. He remembered that Danny was meeting Christine for a session with Father George and considered stopping in to ask him if he had seen Malene at the church, but then he chose to keep driving past. He didn’t want to appear to be checking up on his employee or his wife.

  He turned toward his house, the one he was renting to Trina and Raymond. He decided it was time to locate Raymond and find out what really happened at the Silver Spur the previous night. He pulled into the driveway and wondered if the young man would be forthright and tell the truth, and then he worried that the truth might mean Raymond would be spending time behind bars.

  “I hope Frank can afford a good lawyer,” Roger said out loud as he stopped the car and put it in park. “Maybe they can even use the PTSD as a line of defense.” He knew a good attorney would look into getting that diagnosis for a recently discharged and wounded soldier. Maybe with that diagnosis there wouldn’t even be a sentence, he thought.

  He knew he would be able to get rid of any charges having to do with the gun. That was easy. However, if Gilbert was right, and Roger didn’t know that for sure, if Raymond had stolen the money there was going to be a charge of burglary and breaking and entering. Jail time would probably be required even with a mental illness diagnosis. But maybe, he thought, the young veteran would just get some time on the sixth floor and then be sent home.

  The sixth floor was the behavioral health unit at the university hospital in Albuquerque where he usually transported mental patients, and that was usually what he and the other officers called a transport operation of that kind: “time on the sixth floor.”

  Roger sat behind the wheel, thinking about the best way to handle the interview. He glanced around and saw that both Trina’s truck and the little motorcycle Raymond rode were gone. He knew he was likely to see Trina at the garage at that time of the day, but he wasn’t sure where he would find Raymond, since he hadn’t gotten work yet. And he especially wasn’t sure where he’d find Raymond the day after he might have robbed a bar. Roger suddenly considered that locating Raymond Twinhorse might not be as simple or as easy as he had first thought.

  He was just about to exit the car when his cell phone rang. He sat down again to answer it. “Sheriff Benavidez.”

  “Sheriff, it’s Agent Williams.”

  Roger had to think who Agent Williams was. He suddenly recalled the unsuccessful drug bust from the previous day. He was the agent in charge. He was the one Roger never liked.

  “Yes, Agent Williams,” he responded, trying to mask any negative emotions. Only a day later, the memories of the Alamo bust were very fresh.

  “We understand you had a robbery last night,” the federal officer announced. He waited for a response.

  R
oger cleared his throat. “There was a small amount of money reported missing in Datil this morning,” he answered. “I haven’t yet ruled it as a burglary.” He didn’t want to give any information out to the bureau until he had full reports, and he especially did not want to give anything to Agent Williams.

  “Silver Spur.”

  Roger wondered how the identification of the crime scene had been disseminated so quickly. He wondered if Gilbert had reported it or if it was somebody from the county, his office, who had made a call. And he wondered why the FBI was suddenly interested in something as small as the robbery of a bar.

  “I’m calling just to let you know that we’ll be investigating this crime. It’s no longer a case just for Catron County. Without revealing too many details, let me just say that this involves the FBI and the DEA. We’d like you to pass on any evidence you collected this morning as well as any that you have discovered since leaving the scene.”

  Roger didn’t know what to say. He wondered how much the agent really knew. He wondered if the FBI agent had already spoken to Gilbert.

  “Sheriff, you still there?” the agent asked.

  “I am still here,” he answered. “As far as evidence goes, that was bagged and taken to the lab this morning. Deputy Danny White was the first responding officer. Prints were taken from the scene.”

  “Yes, we have all that,” the agent responded. He sounded smug. “We know there was a gun found.”

  “Which we don’t know is related to the alleged crime.” Roger could feel the tightness in his throat.

  “I imagine we’ll discover there is some tie-in. There usually is in these kinds of cases,” Agent Williams responded.

  “What kind of cases are we talking about?” Roger asked.

  “Drugs,” the agent replied.

  “I hardly see a missing two hundred dollars and a loudmouth bartender who likes to jump to conclusions as evidence that any drugs are involved.” He was angry. “I don’t think this is something you need to waste your time on.”

  “Yes, well, that will be for us to decide. We’ll gather that information ourselves.” The agent was brusque.

  There was a pause in the conversation, and Roger wondered if the agent had hung up. He heard a cough and knew he was still there.

  “Then I can’t think of what else you need from me,” Roger said.

  “Just to give us anything you find out and otherwise stay out of our way,” Agent Williams replied.

  Roger could feel his face flush. “I plan to finish up my investigation as I see fit,” he announced. “As I complete my investigation, I am happy to work with the bureau any way I can.”

  The agent didn’t respond.

  “Pleasure speaking to you, officer.” Roger knew how the agents hated to be called “officer,” but he was mad. He clicked off his phone without hearing any more from Agent Williams.

  The sheriff knew that he really needed to speak to Raymond as soon as possible. He wanted to hear his story and find out what happened at the Silver Spur before the FBI found him. He was worried what it might do to the young man if FBI agents showed up and made an arrest. He worried that if Raymond was in a fragile state of some kind, getting picked up and questioned by strangers, accused of a crime by the FBI, could really set him off.

  Roger glanced around the driveway and the backyard. He returned his phone to the holder on his belt and got out of the car. He walked to the rear door of the house and knocked. He peeked inside and could see into the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a pot and a few dishes in the drain. Alexandria had left a couple of toys on the table. It was about what he expected. Trina was at work, Alexandria was at Frieda’s, and Raymond? Well, that was the big mystery, wasn’t it? he thought. He knocked again, but it seemed clear that no one was home. He felt for the keys in his pocket and considered using his house key to enter.

  He waited and then, thinking maybe an unlawful entry without a warrant was not the best way to go, turned and walked away. It would be inappropriate for him to go in, even if he was the landlord and legally had the right to enter his property. Roger walked around the house, looked up at the garage apartment in the back, and climbed back into his squad car. He thought again about Raymond, wondering what the FBI and Agent Williams knew about the previous night and whether they were already searching for his suspect.

  EIGHTEEN

  Frank noticed the sheriff’s car as it headed down the highway into town. He had just come from Raymond and Trina’s house, having stopped by there to see if his son had returned home. He found it exactly as it was when he had gone by earlier to retrieve some clothes for Trina and a few things for the baby: nobody was home. He watched Roger as he drove past the diner, moving in the direction of the house he rented to the young couple. Frank didn’t think that the sheriff was going to see Raymond or Trina, but he was glad that he had cleaned up most of the mess in the kitchen.

  Frank had picked up the pot still lying on the floor, washed it and the other dishes in the sink, scrubbed the stove and counter, and mopped the floor. He wasn’t sure whether it was shame or duty that made him put the keys down on the table as soon as he walked in and start cleaning the scene of his son’s violence. He did it as quickly as possible, knowing Trina was waiting on him, knowing he had to stop by his trailer as well and pick up the herbs for the tea he knew she needed, but he did it. He didn’t want Trina or Raymond to return home and be given another reminder of the terrible thing that had taken place.

  Frank planned to go by the garage and pick up his truck, leaving Trina’s there. He was then going to start driving everywhere he knew Raymond liked to go. There was a pool hall in Magdalena, a bowling alley in Socorro, the bar in Datil; he planned to check every place his son frequented until he found him. Then he was going to bring him home, sit him down, and demand that he go into Albuquerque to the VA Hospital and get some help. His days of being the quiet, laid-back father were over. Raymond needed help, and Frank was determined that he was going to get it.

  The burns on Trina’s back and legs would heal, and whatever scars they left on her body would disappear over time. But what worried Frank was that she was now afraid of his son and might never recover from that. And worse was what Raymond would say or do when he saw what he had done, when he was face-to-face with the violence he would now understand he was capable of doing.

  Frank knew that his son was damaged by whatever had happened in Afghanistan, changed in some profound way. He knew that Raymond was deeply affected by the roadside bomb that blew up his company, his group of friends, but he also knew that in many ways Raymond was still the same boy he had always been. He was still sensitive and impressionable, and he was going to be horrified at what he had done to Trina.

  More than being concerned about Trina, Frank worried most about how Raymond was going to handle seeing the consequences of his outburst. He knew that it could very likely be the agent of change for his son, the event that would move things in some concrete direction. The problem was trying to figure out whether that change would be toward healing and wholeness or toward self-destruction and a complete downward spiral—whether he would go in the direction of life or the direction of death.

  Frank shook his head, knowing his son was in for the fight of his life, and drove around to the rear of the garage. He could see through the bay windows that a truck had parked on the other side, in the front, and that somebody was standing outside the office door, looking like they were trying to get in. He parked Trina’s truck at the rear door and got out. He unlocked the door and walked to the office, where he could see through the window that it was Bernie King standing there, knocking on the glass. He sighed, not wanting to deal with townspeople at that particular time, but knowing he had now been seen. He unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Frank. . . .” Bernie smiled. “Everything all right?” He glanced around. “I never knew you to close the garage on a weekday.” He walked in. “You okay?”

  Frank masked hi
s emotions. “Fine. I just have something I need to deal with today.” He hoped Bernie wasn’t stopping by for a social call.

  Bernie nodded, casually moving inside the office. “Trina off too?” he asked, glancing around the office and then behind Frank and inside the garage.

  “She’s not feeling well,” Frank replied, closing the door and moving next to the rancher.

  “Oh. I hope she’s not coming down with something.”

  Frank shrugged.

  Bernie paused. He cleared his throat to make his announcement. “Well, I just wanted you to know that I made a decision.” He stepped all the way in and took a seat in one of the chairs beside the desk where Frank wrote bills and talked on the phone.

  Frank slowly moved behind the desk. He didn’t sit down. He waited for Bernie to explain.

  “I’m going to sell you Mattie,” Bernie said proudly.

  Frank was confused. He didn’t know who Mattie was, but he certainly wasn’t intending to buy her.

  “Mattie,” Bernie repeated, appearing a bit disappointed that Frank didn’t understand the gist of his grand announcement. “The Cadillac?” He waited. “My father’s black 1962 Cadillac.”

  Frank finally understood. He recalled working on the old car in Bernie’s barn because Bernie had not wanted to drive it into town for some reason. It was in excellent condition, V-8 engine, plush interior, not a scratch on the body anywhere, the Cadillac signature flared fins. “I didn’t know she had a name,” he said.

  “Mattie,” Bernie said again. “And you wanted to buy her last summer,” he reminded Frank.

  Frank nodded. Now it was making sense to him. He had asked Bernie if he wanted to sell it when he drove over to give it a tune-up the previous year. By that time, Raymond had been deployed for several months and was writing his father and Trina that he didn’t want to stay in the service past his initial four-year commitment. Frank had thought the Cadillac would be a nice car for him when he returned home. It was an impulsive idea; he hadn’t even thought about it again, but apparently Bernie had remembered the conversation well.