$200 and a Cadillac

V



The cops almost missed him.

When they came, they nearly drove right by, which would have been fine with Hank. The Suburban was already past the wrecked Subaru when its brake lights flared up, bathing the dark roadway in a soft red glow. Hank watched the Suburban slow to a stop and couldn’t tell if they’d noticed his car as they went by or if it was the trail of fresh black skid marks that caused them to stop.

Whatever it was, they were stopped in the center of the road with their high beams glaring off into nothing. After a few seconds, the Suburban did a three-point turn. Its headlights swept wide across the desert, coming to rest on Hank, the totaled car, and the pile of smashed gear he’d gathered up.

They didn’t flip on the red and blues—Hank figured he didn’t look dangerous—they just pulled up on the side of the road and left the high beams on him. Hank squinted into the light and watched a shadowy figure get out of each side of the vehicle and come toward him.

“You alright?”

Hank couldn’t tell which one was talking. He stood and took a couple steps toward them and said, “Oh, I think I’m just fine.” He pointed his thumb back over his shoulder and smiled. “The car’s seen better days though.”

“I can see that.” It was the one on the right who was talking. The one who’d been driving. As they got closer, Hank could see that he was older and wore a star on his left breast pocket. It struck Hank as an odd bit of the old west, and he wondered briefly if these guys were really cops at all. Then Hank noticed that the young deputy had a flashlight out and was shining it on him, a useless effort in the flood of the high beams. That gave it away. They were real cops alright, sticking to procedure—if it’s nighttime, you use a flashlight, regardless—only a real cop, and a young one at that, would do something so pointless.

The sheriff looked to be around fifty—fit and tan—he stood far enough away to be out of Hank’s reach, but close enough to seem friendly. His posture was relaxed, but his right hand rested on his hip, just above his gun, the holster of which he’d unsnapped before he got out of the Suburban. Hank thought it was a pretty good act, and it told him the sheriff was an old pro. But the young guy just looked nervous. The beam of his silly flashlight wavered a little and gave him away. He was the kind of skittish young cop who would jump at the wrong thing, with the wrong guy, and turn a simple situation into something ugly, maybe even get himself killed someday.

Hank knew he needed to talk to the sheriff before the eager beaver found the leg in the car on his own. He said, “Man, I sure am glad you guys came along. I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do.”

“You lose a tire?” the sheriff asked.

“No, no, the car was fine. I was coming down the road about sundown and this damned coyote just ran right out in front of me. I hit it and it came through the windshield and, well, you can see how it turned out. I gotta tell you though, it’s the damnedest thing. The coyote, uh …” Hank gave it a pause. “Well, you should just see for yourself. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to disturb it. It seemed like a crime scene or something.” Hank shrugged and shook his head, giving them his best well-I’ll-be-a-f*cked-monkey grin.

The sheriff said, “Billy, go have a look in the car.” The deputy darted off behind Hank and the sheriff asked, “What are you doing out here anyway?”

Hank barely had time to say “I’m a surveyor” before Billy started hollering in the background.

“Ah, goddamn! Chief! Chief! Jesus Christ, you gotta see this.”

The sheriff held his eyes on Hank for a long second, watching him, looking for signs of nervousness and not finding any. He saw Hank’s hiking boots, his rumpled slacks, and the thin mesh vest with all the pockets and zippers hanging loose over a T-shirt with a mountain printed on the pocket. The sheriff supposed the guy looked enough like a surveyor. But the way Billy was carrying on in the background, there was definitely something wrong.

“Well let’s go have us a look.” The sheriff motioned for Hank to go first. When they got to the car, Billy hung back, keeping an eye on Hank. The sheriff took the flashlight from the deputy and leaned in through the driver’s side window. “Jesus H,” he muttered, and tried without success to open the car door.

“Goddamn, Chief,” Billy said from behind them. “What do you think?”

The sheriff turned to face Hank, disregarding his deputy’s question, and looked him over one more time. Then, without explanation, the sheriff handed the flashlight back to the deputy and walked off into the darkness, out into the road, following the trail of skid marks, switching on his own flashlight as he went. The night seemed to swallow him, so that all Hank could see was the crisp circle of light bouncing in the darkness as the sheriff traced the tracks of the accident. Some forty yards behind the suburban, the flashlight stopped and settled on a single spot.

The sheriff crouched down in the road at a place where the skid marks had already started. There was a spatter of dried black liquid between the two tire tracks. He turned around slowly, bringing the flashlight in a wide circle back toward the Suburban and the stranger and the wrecked car. He paused again. Fifteen feet further he could see the sparkle of bits of broken glass. He stood and walked to them. There were only a few, but they were the small, oddly geometrical pieces left behind when safety glass shatters from a high impact. Something had been hit in the road and gone through the windshield of a car. The skid marks told the rest of the story. The evidence would be too hard to fake, and why would someone fake it anyway? So the real questions were: whose leg was in the car, and where did the coyote find it?

When the sheriff returned, his expression seemed different, less suspicious and more perplexed. Hank watched him go around and inspect the front of the car. As he leaned over, the sheriff asked casually, “Surveyor, eh?”

It caught Hank off guard. No one had spoken for several minutes. “Uh, that’s right.”

“What are you doing out here?” The sheriff stood and came back around to look in the driver’s window again.

“Out here to do some mapping of the Egg Rock Basin.”

“Oil company?”

“Excuse me?”

The sheriff pulled his head out of the window and looked back over his shoulder at Hank. “You work for an oil company?”

“Oh, no sir, I’m out here on a project for the University of Tennessee. Taking measurements for the geology department.” Hank smiled and looked over at the pile of broken equipment. “I was only planning on a few days, but it looks like my plans have changed.”

The sheriff smiled. “You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee.”

“Grew up in Brooklyn. But I work in Knoxville now.” Hank nodded as he said it and hoped like hell the sheriff didn’t have family there.

“That’s gotta be quite a change.”

“Oh, it is. But houses are cheaper and the traffic’s better. Quality of life, you know how it is.”

“Sure. Lots of folks leave the big city for the quiet life. Happens every day.” The sheriff stood and wiped his hands together, as if trying to get dust off of them, then put his hands on his hips and smiled. “Well, there ain’t much we can do tonight. Everyone’s gone home or gotten drunk by now.” The sheriff turned to the deputy, who’d been standing in one spot for five solid minutes. “Billy, get yourself some gloves and a plastic bag and fish that leg outta there. Goddamned scavengers will have it gone by morning.”

Billy hesitated a second, as if debating whether the sheriff was serious, and then ran off toward the Suburban. The sheriff stuck out his hand. “Sheriff Mickey O’Reilly.”

“Hank Norton.” Hank stuck out his hand, telling himself the sheriff didn’t look Irish. They shook and the sheriff looked over at the pile of gear.

“Well, looks like you need a ride into town.” Mickey raised his eyebrows and smiled, “We got us a real nice new motel.”