Falling For The Deputy

“Then you’d better head to the town meeting tonight. There’ll be enough topics there for several articles.”

Chloe cocked her head. Why hadn’t the deputy mentioned the town meeting? For his lack of disclosure alone, she wouldn’t miss it.

FROM WHERE HE STOOD IN the corner at the back of the hall, Mack noticed Atherton, dragging her battered backpack, squeeze through the entranceway.

How did she get wind of the meeting?

Unsuccessfully, she looked around for a seat, then began to mingle with the crowd that always formed at the back of the room. The folks who came to shoot the breeze as if there wasn’t an official meeting going on in the front. Mack took a count of those citizens nearest the reporter who might be counted gossips. Three notorious talkers. Damn.

Making space for latecomers, Myron Hapes stepped closer to Mack. “I hear,” the retired postal worker said, leaning in, “Frank Hudson’s getting up a petition to turn the county dry. What do you think his chances are?”

“Slim to none.” Mack let out a groan as he saw Atherton moving in his direction.

“I know you probably would rather liquor weren’t so readily available,” Mryon said, not bothering to lower his voice. “A dry county would make your job easier. Maybe would have made it less easy for you to turn to the stuff.”

Tearing his attention from the approaching reporter, Mack glowered at Myron.

“Sorry, Mack. I didn’t mean to dredge up ancient history.”

So why did people always do it? And now, especially, with the fourth estate on the prowl.

“I gotta talk to Frank,” Myron said hastily, then retreated into the crowd.

Only to be replaced by Atherton. “Nice of you to mention there was a meeting tonight,” she said, her words laced with accusation.

“It slipped my mind.” He pretended to concentrate on Deputy Darden, who was at the front of the room answering a question on speed bumps.

“I wanted to ask you—”

“Shh!”

“Don’t shush me! I’m not a child.”

“There’s a meeting going on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

She scanned the groups milling by the door, then rolled her eyes. “As if I didn’t know the real stuff gets done in these back-of-the-room cabals.”

He’d have to look that word up in the sheriff’s crossword dictionary.

He looked at his watch. Tanya was expecting him. “I’ll answer your questions tomorrow,” he said. “Right now I’m off duty.” He could only hope she understood he was entitled to a private life.

But the expression in her eyes was one of disbelief. “When you said you were married to the job—”

“Even married folks need an occasional break.” He inspected her upturned face, suspecting she might be someone else as dedicated to her job as he was. It was his bad luck she regarded him as her job. Without engaging in further chat, he made his way out of the room.

SO WHAT DID A WORKAHOLIC public servant do off duty?

Was that even pertinent to her article? Shouldn’t she stay here and soak in some of the town flavor? Suss out the issues? Meet the residents who were directly affected by the local law?

At the front of the room—in the official meeting—people were hotly debating methods for slowing traffic on the main drag. Yawn. The back of the room wasn’t much better. Talk of feed prices, boundary disputes, the sheriff’s wedding and some investment scheme making the rounds. Double yawn.

She gave him a couple of minutes’ head start, then slipped out of the room. At the entrance to the town hall, she observed him making his way across the parking lot to his cruiser. Not a private vehicle. And the deputy was off duty. Was that by the book? She’d have to check. Something else came to mind. She hadn’t caught all of Whittaker’s conversation when she’d come upon him in the meeting hall, but she thought she’d heard the man he’d been talking to mention something about Whittaker’s having turned to liquor. A joke, or serious? If it had been serious, what did it have to do with the execution of the man’s duties?

If he was on the up-and-up, he had nothing to hide from her investigation.

As she made her way to the Yugo, she felt a twinge of doubt. Was this investigative reporting…or was this creative nonfiction? Had she singled out Whittaker because he was the deputy in charge or because he was an enigma? That fact-finding challenge she so loved. A man the residents of Applegate relied on, respected and worried about. A man who softened—slightly—only when he was up a tree, rescuing a tomcat.

June Parker had warned her not to use Whittaker’s pain to sell papers. But the woman couldn’t have known the personal pain that drove Chloe to uncover the facts and dispel speculation.

As the deputy pulled out of the parking lot, she put her own car in gear. Firsthand observation led to facts. The facts, once they fell into a pattern, would constitute the truth. And the truth, however painful, was the foundation of life.

Following at a discreet distance, she was mildly surprised when he didn’t pull into the sheriff’s office parking lot but continued through town. On the outskirts, where the streetlights ended, he turned left and crossed the railroad tracks. A full planter’s moon provided the only real light.

Chloe knew that in many small towns in the south, “the wrong side of the tracks” wasn’t merely an expression. Despite its new upscale subdivisions, Applegate still had a seamier side, and this was it. Not part of the groomed in-town neighborhoods, but not rural farmland, either. The road meandered between houses too close together and in need of repair.

The evening being mild for April, Chloe rolled her window down. Many of the residents clustered on front stoops—talking, drinking, smoking or listening to music. Although it was fairly late and a school night, kids were everywhere. Adolescent boys with attitude hung with men who eyed the women. The women eyed them right back. The aromas of barbecue and simmering salsa melded with a sweet scent Chloe knew couldn’t be legal. Didn’t Deputy Whittaker smell it? If so, he didn’t stop.

About a mile down the road, as the houses became less regularly spaced, the cruiser slowed, then came to a stop in front of one particular house, its weedy front yard strewn with plastic toys. The deputy got out of his patrol car and walked over to a woman leaning on the front porch railing. Her hair was big…her tank top small. And her jeans looked as if they’d been painted on. In the porch light she looked tired.

Chloe slowed the Yugo as she drove past.

Mack Whittaker pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, took out several bills and handed them to the woman. Stuffing the money in her top, she slid her arm around his back and drew him into the house.

Now what was Chloe to make of that firsthand observation?

CHAPTER FOUR

THE DAY WAS ALREADY HOT as hell. The terrain outside the military tent was dry, sand-choked and godforsaken. Several of the guys in his unit were engaged in a game of poker before heading out on patrol. Mack couldn’t understand the attraction to games of chance. Not here. When every breath you took was a gamble. But who was he to judge? Nate, looking up from his hand, had razzed him for opting for a shower—if you could call it that, what with the rationed water. What’s the point, Nate had asked, when you’re gritty again two seconds later? Maybe Mack persevered because, for a few moments, he could close his eyes and imagine himself back in Applegate.

The explosion rocked the encampment as he was peeling off his T-shirt. Bare-chested, he ran out of the shower area. Plumes of black smoke rose to embrace the relentless Iraqi sun. Rose from the spot where his tent had been. Where the guys had been playing poker minutes ago…

With a howl to wake the dead, Mack sat bolt upright. In the dark and drenched in sweat, he couldn’t tell what was real or what was dream until a door opened and Deputy McMillan stuck his head in. The shaft of light illuminated the wall of lockers, the cots—all empty except for the one Mack clung to, in the barracks room he’d called home for the past six months.

“Whittaker, you okay?”

Mack was shaking so hard he was afraid he might bite off his tongue if he tried to answer.

“The morning shift’s about to come in,” McMillan drawled, feigning nonchalance, Mack knew. “I’m makin’ coffee. Take a shower. You can get a hit of caffeine when you’re done.” The deputy disappeared, leaving the overhead light off, but the door ajar.

Mack put both feet on the floor. He hated that the other deputies tiptoed around him. Hated that they appeared to be waiting patiently for an explanation. Of his continued squatting in the barracks. Of his silence about his tour of duty. Of his night terrors.

His head now throbbing, he stripped and stepped into the shower. Let the harsh stream of cold water sluice over his body, numbing him. When he returned to his cot, a mug of fresh coffee sat on the nightstand. A small act of compassion that compounded his guilt.

He gulped the coffee as he dressed, then headed downstairs to the sheriff’s office. He’d pick up something to eat on the go because he didn’t want to hang around the kitchen for breakfast as the shifts changed and the deputies congregated with stories about family or nights carousing or days off fishing. He might be fit for duty, but he wasn’t up to faking the rest.

As he approached Kim Nash, engaged in animated conversation with…Damn, he’d forgotten all about the kid.

Dressed in penny loafers—he didn’t know they still made them—trousers made of some silky khaki material and a long-sleeved white shirt with a flowing scarf tied at her neck, Chloe Atherton didn’t look as if she belonged in the twenty-first century. She looked like an actress right out of the 1940s. One of those earnest ingenues trying hard to make it in a man’s world. The one who always cracked the hardboiled hero’s shell. God, he’d spent too many sleepless nights watching old black-and-white movies on the barracks TV.