“Likewise.”
Breaking up the mutual admiration–fest, Trapper said, “I tried talking her out of it. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Maybe she will from you. Tell her no, I’ll see her on her way, and go have one of Del Rancho’s chicken fried steak sandwiches. That might make it worth the trouble of having to drive up here.”
With annoyance, The Major shifted his attention away from Trapper and back to Kerra. “I don’t give interviews anymore.”
She held steady. “This would be an extraordinary interview.”
“They all say that.”
She smiled. “But in this case, it’s true.”
“How so?”
She bent down, extracted a printout of the photograph from her bag, then got up and carried it over to The Major. “It would be a reunion.”
“Reunion?” He took the photo from her but didn’t look at it. He was looking up at Kerra waiting for an explanation.
She leaned down and pointed to the girl in the picture. “Look closely at her face.”
Several minutes later Trapper left through the front door. Neither noticed his departure.
Trapper drove to the drive-in restaurant that had been there for as long as he could remember. It had withstood the invasion of fast-food chains and still offered curb service. He ate in the truck and listened to country on the radio.
The sandwich wasn’t famous for nothing. The battered, tenderized round steak was as big as a hubcap and extended beyond the edges of the bun. It was delicious, but every bite Trapper took went down with a lump of worry over what was happening back at The Major’s place, what kind of persuasion Kerra was applying, and how easily, or not, The Major would yield.
When he finished his meal, he drove toward the interstate to start his trip back to Fort Worth, but when he reached a crossroads, literally, he stopped and took out his phone. The number was in his contacts.
The call was answered by a female voice made husky by too many years of Marlboros. “Sheriff’s office.”
Trapper asked to speak to the head man himself but was told that Sheriff Addison had already left for the day. “Do you want his voice mail?”
“No thanks.”
Trapper clicked off and sat staring through the windshield at the rural landscape, now tinted with the lavender of dusk. A small herd of beef cattle dotted the pasture to his right. On his left, dead winter grass bent to the strong north wind.
Mentally he listed all the reasons why he should drive on and take the next entrance ramp onto eastbound I-20. He could be home in time to crack a beer just before the Mavs tipped off.
Ultimately, swearing at himself for being a damn fool, he took his foot off the brake and made a left turn onto a rural road.
A few minutes later he topped a hill, and the Addisons’ house came into view. There was a light on in every room, and the house was surrounded by parked cars and pickup trucks. Trapper immediately changed his mind about calling on The Major’s longtime best friend.
He was in the process of making a three-point turn when an adolescent girl broke away from a group of kids kicking around a soccer ball in the front yard. She jogged toward him, waving her skinny arms as she directed him to pull the SUV into the dry ditch. Trapper did as directed and lowered the driver’s window.
She landed against the door, breathless. “I’m supposed to tell latecomers to park along the road.”
She had crazy red hair, redder cheeks, and a mouthful of braces. Trapper fell in love. “Latecomers to what?”
“The Bible study. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
Trapper turned off the motor and climbed down. “What do you think?”
She looked him up and down, then grinned and said, “IDTS.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t think so.”
He laughed. “Smart guess.”
“You’re John Trapper, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know?”
“Everybody knows. You’re the black sheep.”
So, the townsfolk of Lodal talked among themselves about The Major’s wayward son. He wondered if they used coded language in front of the children. But the children now had a coded language all their own.
“I’m Tracy,” the girl said.
“Pleased to meet you, Tracy.”
“You have. When I was about six. It was Thanksgiving. You, The Major, and your mom were here visiting. I got my foot stuck in the commode. You worked it free.”
“That was you?”
“Yep,” she said with pride.
“I never knew why you put your foot in the commode.”
She raised her bony shoulders in a shrug. “I never knew why, either.”
Trapper couldn’t help but laugh again. “The sheriff at home?”
She glanced toward the house, then came back around and leaned in to speak low. “The front rooms are overflowing with deacons and church ladies learning about Job. But the sheriff’s in the kitchen drinking beer.”
It wasn’t beer, it was Jack Daniel’s. Glenn Addison was pouring a shot into a cup of black coffee when Trapper, who hadn’t bothered to knock, came through the mudroom into the kitchen.
Astonished to see him, Glenn nearly knocked over his chair as he stood up, rounded the table, and clasped Trapper in a bear hug. “Son of a bitch,” he said, thumping him on the back. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, not for a lesson on Job. Hank leading the Bible study?”
“Don’t you know it.” Glenn shook his head with bewilderment. “Where’d I go wrong?”
“Not a bad thing, having a preacher in the family.”
“No, it’s a good thing. Just wish it wasn’t my family.”
Trapper motioned toward the spiked cup of coffee. “I don’t think that’s going to fool anybody.”
“Like I give a flying you-know-what. This is my house, and I’m the law around here, so I’ll have me some sour mash, thank you. Pour yourself one.”
“No thanks. I’ve gotta drive back to Fort Worth.”
Glenn and The Major had been boyhood friends, had gone through twelve grades virtually inseparable, then had roomed together for four years at A & M. Out of college, The Major joined the army. Glenn returned to their hometown, ran for sheriff and won. He’d held the office ever since, usually running for reelection unopposed.
“The faithful have outdone the dessert buffet at Golden Corral,” he said, indicating the array of Tupperware containers on the countertop. “Help yourself. Those brownies are good. Linda made them.”
“How’s she?” Trapper asked of the sheriff’s wife.
“Goes to the gym now. Zumba classes. Tries to get me there.”
“No luck?”
“Wouldn’t be caught dead.” The older man eyed him up and down. “You could use a shave. And a haircut. Boot shine wouldn’t hurt. Have those blue jeans ever met an iron?”
“No, and they never will.”
“You got a girl yet?”
“Had one Saturday night.”
The sheriff frowned with disapproval. “You need a wife, kids.”
“Like I need leprosy.”
“The Major would like some grandkids.”
He tossed the statement out there like a gauntlet. Trapper let it lie for a beat or two, then said, “Not by me.”
“I think you’re wrong.”