Land of a Hundred Wonders

Surrounded

I don’t want the sheriff comin’ over to the ditch side of the truck. He’s sure to notice the upchucking Cooter’s had. “Slide under the truck. Take the pictures with ya, just in case LeRoy gets it in his mind to search me.” (Which he will.) “And for crissakes, hush up,” I warn Cooter as I move toward the front bumper. “You’re pantin’.”

Spinning halfway up Tanner Farm Road, the county car makes a turn back and glides to a stop not two feet from me. “Afternoon, Miss Gibby. Didn’t think that was you at first,” Sheriff Johnson says, using his most mannerly voice. (He doesn’t mean it. LeRoy’s been eating at the diner for years. I know how much he enjoys playing with his food ’fore he eats it.) “When’d ya start drivin’ again?”

“Well, let’s see… just today, yeah, today is when I tried drivin’ again. Wanted to go to St. Mary’s to see Grampa. Guess I could use a little more practice, huh.”

“Yeah, the hospital’s where I figured you’d head,” he says, prying a bit of lunch outta his teeth with a toothpick. “And Darlene Abernathy was kind enough to confirm your visit.”

(That varmint.)

I ask firm, making sure LeRoy knows Grampa WILL be coming back so he better watch his step, “Did Darlene also tell you about how Big Bill Brown, the richest man in Grant County, is flyin’ Miss Jessie and Grampa to Texas so he can have an operation on his heart to make it all better?”

The sheriff puts on a face of such stupid sorrowfulness and says, “That don’t sound too promisin’, does it now?”

(What a ball of grease. That’d suit him just fine, wouldn’t it? Grampa being dead AND having Miss Jessie all to himself?)

“Well, thanks a lot for stoppin’, but I best be goin’,” I say, backing up toward the trail that runs through the woods. Billy’s waiting on me right up at Miz Tanner’s. I got to get to him. He’ll know what to do ’cause all of a sudden, I feel real ascared and tiny. Even though I’m not letting on, LeRoy bringing up the operation like that has set the contents of my heart scattering every which way. What if he’s right? What if Grampa doesn’t recover?

“Hold on,” he says, heftin’ himself out the squad’s door. “Got a few questions for ya.”

“Isn’t that kind of a waste of your precious time, Sheriff? You know me. Dumb as anthracite coal,” I answer, suddenly feeling a whole lot more sure of myself. Because there he is. This girl’s best friend.

“My deputy tells me you paid a visit this afternoon down to the station.” LeRoy comes close enough that I can smell his sweat mixing in with his Vitalis. “Now it seems I’m missin’ a few things.”

His heart is set on framing Cooter for Mr. Buster’s murder, but if somebody gets ahold of those pictures of Mr. Buster dead on the beach and not on the dump-I know, and he knows, he won’t get that chance. What’s more, this beast’ll lose his star for attempting to perpetrate that nasty deed.

“Haven’t ya heard?” He’s got me jammed up against the truck’s grille. The gun I took outta his desk is pressing into my sacroiliac. “Your deputy fell into a chocolate vat when he was a baby,” I say, focusing my eyes back on the tree line. (Just like I told you he would, he tracked the sheriff down and now he’s drawing back into the lime green of the undergrowth, concealing himself just like Billy taught him. Won’t take him long to assess the situation.)

Jerking his head this way and that, the sheriff asks, “What ya lookin’ at?”

Keeper.

“I asked you a question.” The sheriff brings his eyes back to mine. Rain clouds are somersaulting across his mirrored glasses.

“Looks like another bad storm is comin’,” I say with a knowin’ smile.

“ ’Nuf of this foolishness. Where’s Cooter at?”

“Who?”

“You’re aware that what ya done, breakin’ that boy outta jail, is called aidin’ and abettin’ and is punishable by law, correct?”

Between getting chased after and pawed on and Grampa’s heart attack and remembering my love for Billy and well, just the whole kit ’n’ kaboodle, you’d think my NQR head would be feeling tromped on, wouldn’t ya? But watered like a desert flower after a drought of forty days is more what it feels like. Blooming with stimulating ideas.

“I know who’s got that map of Mr. Buster Malloy’s place you want so bad,” I say, hoping his greed will get the better of him.

“And who might that be?”

“Sneaky Tim Ray. I were you, I’d go get it from him right this minute and then ya could be rich and move away to someplace far, far away and…”

Circling his hands around my waist hard, he snarls, “Tell me where that boy’s run off to and give me them pictures of Buster you stole outta my desk. I’m done messin’ wit’ ya.” When I don’t do what he’s telling me to do, he kicks my legs apart. “Looks like I’m gonna hafta search ya.” He’ll find the.22. “On second thought.” He looks skyward, reaches back for his handcuffs. “With this storm about to break loose, be better we did this in a more private place.” (What he means is, he wants to take me off somewhere so he can whip it outta me without interruption.) “Why don’ you and me take ourselves a little ride, Miss Gib?”

Now, if you woulda sped past us out on the road a few minutes ago, you mighta said to yourself, “Why, lookee there, it’s LeRoy Johnson helping out that Not Quite Right gal who has gotten her truck into a ditch. What a nice thing for him to do. He’s for positive gettin’ my vote come election time.”

But oh, my dear, dear friend, that is the trouble with unmeticulous perceptions.

The limestone rock Cooter’s got ahold of should do the job neat. And from behind me, in the woods, above the calling cicadas and dancing black gum leaves, Billy’s new boots are creaking fast my way. Keeper, being so brave about the lightning, will have fetched him. I’ve wheedled my hand to the back of my pants. The gun is greased and ready.

We got this good ole boy surrounded. He just don’t know it yet.