Clayton clicked the phone down in the cradle and looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Not even close to quitting time, or Miller time for that matter. Man, he missed Miller time. By five-fifteen every day like clockwork, he would be warming a seat at Lucky’s and warming his throat with happy-hour bourbon. Clayton’s mouth started watering right after Finnegan mentioned that jar of peach in his desk. He stood up and filled a Dixie cup with cold water from a plastic cooler by the door. He watched the big bubble break on the surface of the water in the jug and laughed a little when he thought about how alcoholics remember only the good times. It was true he’d enjoyed himself at Lucky’s back when he was a five-o’clock regular, but the rest of the scenario wasn’t much to be proud of. He’d get home around nine to nine-thirty on a slow night, to a cold supper on the table, covered in plastic wrap, and a colder Kate on the sofa, covered in a blanket. They’d go a couple rounds of the who-can-say-the-most-hateful-shit game, then she’d take the bed and he’d take the couch in the den—sometimes the floor. They would spend the next morning circling each other in silence, her waiting around for him to apologize and him taking his sweet time figuring out that he had to. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his drinking made him as mean as a copperhead, but he never hit her or threatened to leave, as if those were flags to be rallied around, and so he always just assumed that the next drink would have a different outcome. He never understood how the buzz that made him happy at the bar turned to piss and vinegar at home, but it did. It always did. The movies always have the drunk turn it around after some kind of traumatic event. That’s not always the way it happens in real life. Clayton’s drinking wasn’t a wildfire turning his life into a blazing inferno, it was a fine layer of rust slowly decaying and dissolving his marriage. She never told him to stop. She didn’t have to. He knew Kate would leave before she rusted completely through. Some things are worth fighting for, so he set it down and never looked back. Well, not as often anyway.
Clayton filled the Dixie cup again and gulped it down and tossed the paper cup into a small wicker wastebasket. He walked out into the reception area, where Cricket was sitting at her desk with Darby Ellis, Waymore Valley’s second, and only part-time, deputy. They were chatting with hushed voices. Their conversation stopped completely when Clayton entered the room, like high school kids straightening up for the teacher. Cricket had her elbows on her desk and her fingers interlaced, cradling her chin. She looked upset, as if she had been crying. Darby sat on the edge of her desk with his cowboy hat balanced on his knee. Cricket sat up straight and awkwardly shuffled papers around on her desk. Darby stood up and held his hat to his chest. “Good afternoon, Sheriff,” he said.
“Darby,” Clayton said, and stood in front of Cricket’s desk. He gently lifted her chin until her eyes, red and puffy, met his. “Are you okay?” he said.
“I’m fine, Sheriff.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, sir. I’m fine, really.”
Clayton looked at Darby, who shrugged. He either didn’t know or wasn’t telling, and that was fine by Clayton. He wasn’t in the mood for office drama. “Where’s Choctaw?”
“That’s a good question,” Cricket said almost too sharply, as if Clayton had hit a nerve. “He hasn’t been here all morning.”
“Did you try his cell phone?”
“I did. I left several messages. Should I try him again?”
“Nah. Just tell him to call me when he gets in.”
“Yessir.”
“Um, Sheriff,” Darby said, cutting in between Clayton and the front door, still holding his hat at his chest, fingering the rim. “An officer from Cobb County come and picked up our prisoner early this morning.”
“I know that, Darby. I was here.”
“Right. Um. I’m just saying that I don’t have anything going on right now, if you need me to help you with anything. Um, since Deputy Frasier ain’t here and all.”
Darby Ellis was a good kid. Clayton had taken him on as a volunteer right outta high school just because he admired the kid’s enthusiasm for the job. He created a part-time position last year because he figured if Darby was going to spend every waking hour at the station, he might as well be getting paid a little something for it. He aced the deputy exam and shot pretty good at the range, but he wasn’t quite what Clayton liked to think of as quick-thinking. Of course, Choctaw wasn’t that far ahead of him. Clayton chewed at his bottom lip and scratched his beard.
“All right, then, Darby. C’mon.”
Darby smiled a big farm-boy smile. “Where we headed, boss?”
“To see my brother.”
Darby lost the spring in his step and stopped cold.
Clayton pulled the Colt Python from his holster, spun the cylinder to ensure it was full, and with a flick of his wrist locked it back in place. “So, are you coming?”
Darby double-checked his hip for his own service weapon, relieved to see he had it, and put on his hat. “Yessir.”
2.