Pedestals of Ash (11 page)

A couple more bites
of egg and bread finished off breakfast
,
and he moved the dirty dishes to the sink. He decided to wait and wash them later. After he finished getting dressed, Pete unlocked the heavy metal door that separated his apartment from the bar. The sun would be up in a few minutes
,
and the early
,
gray light was already making Main Street visible out the front windows of the bar.

As
Pete set about readying
for another day of business, he thought about how apologetic the mayor and commiss
ioner had been when the feds finally
dropped the charges. A rival officer had joined forces with one of the city’s most powerful drug lords and proceeded to set up a very sophisticated frame job inv
olving bank accounts, digitally
altered photographs
,
and fake email addresses. It had taken months to sort it out. The mayor had immediately ordered Pete returned to active duty with full pay and benefits, but it wasn’t enough. Those who had turned their back
s
on him were now embarrassed, and Pete couldn’t bring himself to trust them anymore. A police captain doesn’t function in a vacuum. He needs his officers, staff, advisors, and even street snitches working with him to be effective. Pet
e’s network was destroyed by
false accusations and could never be rebuilt. Besides, he didn’t have the motivation or the heart to work with those people anymore. His lawyer approached the mayor and made his wishes absolutely clear; the city needed
to cough up an early retirement and
modest compensation
,
after which
Pete would disappear. The mayor agreed.

Pete had always wa
nted to see the great American W
est. He had spent all of his life in
Philly, never venturing further than
the Appalachian Mountains. He took part of his compensation and purchased a modest, late model sedan and packed it with a few personal items. With the tank filled and a stack of AAA roadmaps resting in the passenger seat, the f
ormer police captain began
driving a
nd only looked back now and again
.

It had taken a little over a year to burn off his wanderlust.
One by one, he successfully crossed of
f
a
ll of the household name national parks
from his list
. He toured California via the Pacific Coast Highway and spent considerable time in the northwest. He was walking out of a New Mexico truck
stop after filling his tank and empting his bladder when something caught his eye. There, just inside the door, was a wire stand full of glossy, tri-fold tourist brochures. He was heading to Texas
,
and while he had seen hundreds of these advertising displays over the last year, this was the first one containing information about destin
ations in the Lone Star State.
He browsed the dozens of choices and picked one touting Big Bend Natio
nal Park and a small town he
never heard of called M
eraton. He casually flipped to the inside of the fold out,
proudly featuring pictures of t
he Manor’s gardens
. Their striking beauty and seeming tranquility
made up his mind
. A
fter a quick cell phone call to verify reservations, Pete started driving toward his future.

He had fallen in love with the dusty
,
little town immediately. The sheer beauty of the Manor was only part of the lure. The fact that he was becoming a little road weary
,
no doubt played a role as well. But what really sucked Pete in was the apparent lack of concern about his past. No one asked where he was from or commented on his out-of-state license plates. Everyone was polite and friendly – a
lways offering suggesti
ons about finding the best place to eat
. No one ever even asked him where he was from or what he was doing
in Meraton
.

He was sitting in the Manor’s gardens one evening when a long forgotten conversatio
n with his grandfather suddenly popped into his head
. A retired foot cop, Pete’s granddad lived in
a
modest south Philly bungalow surrounded by black and white pictures of policemen
sporting
their handlebar mustaches and nigh
tsticks. Pete had just noticed his first facial hair
,
when
the old man had broached th
e
topic of Pete’s future. A
child of the ‘60s –
Pete was immersed in
a time when challenging authority was as common as free love and communes. A slightly
rebellious
adolescent, he
remarked that
he wasn’t sure he
wanted to follow in the family
tradition of becoming a policema
n. Not one fo
r long soliloquies, the old man
pondered
the
teen’s
response before observ
ing, “There are only two things where we Irish excel
– being a cop or running a bar.
Make
up your mind soon
, young man
.”

Meraton was the kind of town where you could throw a rock from end to end. And as he sat in the
restaurant
that night, Pete admitted he was tired of driving. This isolated part of Texas seemed just perfect
for him, and the town
didn’t even have a bar. A month later, he signed the papers at the Big West Title Company’s office in Alpha. The real estate agent handed Pete the keys to the small, unoccupied building on Main Street and a new business was born.

Despite cigarettes no longer being manufactured or sold, the
faint smell of stale
tobacco smoke
hung in the air. Pete went to the oversized
windows looking out onto Main and began
to crank them open
,
hoping
for
a slight breeze
.
The sun had climbed completely over the horizon, and it promised
to be another cloudless day. He was almost finished opening the window when two gunshots rang out. “
Shit
,” he thought, “
what now?”

Pete rushed
behind the bar and retrieved the MP5 sub-machine gun he had bartered from Terri. He slammed a magazine into the short w
eapon, while heading
out
the front door
. There were already a few people up and about, and his first instinct was to check on Betty down at the Manor. He always worried about her being down there all alone. Betty was on the front steps of the hotel and looked more annoyed than scared. He noted she was holding
a shotgun at her
side. He hurried her way, half-
mounted the
first concrete step leading to the Manor’s front door and asked,
“Any idea where those shots came from?”

“Well, not exactly. I
was out here
beating the rugs when I heard a sound that seemed to come from that direction
.” She pointed toward the south
,
and Pete decided to walk t
hat way to see what was happening
.

It’s probably something innocent. Somebody probably found a coyote by the hen house this morning and was scaring it off,
he thought. Pete hadn’t walked two blocks when he was joined by two other men from the town. They were curious about the shooting as well and both were members of the town’s volunteer posse. The trio soon
met
a crowd of people standing around and gesturing toward a nearby home. The center of attention was old man Parker’s place.

Pete knew Mr. Parker as a customer at the bar. The old timer basically kept to himself, sharing the occasional story of his son and grandson who had both been star football players at Alpha State University. Mr. Benedict Jefferson Parker had lived in Meraton for as long as anyone could remember and was mainly known to be a reclusive, quiet man. Pete seemed to recall someone saying Parker was a retired railroad worker, but couldn’t be sure.

The
assembly
gathered in the middle of the street was a mix
ture of both
men
and
women
.
Several of the bystanders had apparently been rousted out of bed by the disturbance
,
as they were still dressed in
nightclothes
and pajamas.
One of the women turned to see
the town’s volunteer lawmen approaching. She took a step toward Pete and raised her voice. “That man is crazy
,
Pete. He’s gonna git somebody killed. He scared the shit out of my kids this morning. Somebody’s gotta do something about him.”

Another man turned and
added his frustration. “I let my
dogs out this morning like usual. That
old fool Parker shot at my animals,
and they weren’t even on his place. It’s a damn good thing his ass is
half-blind
,
and he missed. There’s an accounting for a man shooting another man’s dogs.”

Several members of the crowd nodded their agreement.
Another man stepped forward, “You know, l
ast week
I met him out here on the
street
. He was nice as could be. Two hours later, I caught him aiming that shotgun of his at my kids! I yelled
,
and he stopped. B
ut I’m sure as shit he was gonna shoot at my kids
,
Pete. We’ve got to do something about that freaked out old fool.”

Pete looked at the two men with him and then back at the crowd. “All right, all right
. I’ll go up and talk to him. Ya
’
all can go back to your business. I’m sure everyone has better things to do than stand out here in the street and wait to be shot at.”

Some of the townsfolk nodded and left, but quite a few stayed, waiting
to hear the outcome
. Pete took a deep breath and moved the sub-machine g
un to his back as he strode
toward the Parker residence.

Pete hesitated
at the
mailbox, taking mental note of his surroundings
. The single story home was in obvious disrepair.
The yard consisted of about one-
half acre of dirt, peppered with
weeds
,
surrounded by a waist high chain link fence. About the only noticeable green growth was along the fence line, where knee high nettles and dandelions flourished. The driveway had managed to sprout its share of unwelcome vegetation as well. Two dusty vehicles with flat tires sat in front of the garage door. Paint was peeling from several different spots on the house and garage. Two frayed rope ends hung from the single, large elm tree in the front yard, strong evidence that a swing had once hung on the sturdy limb.

There wasn’t any movement in or around the house as far as Pete could see. He decided to announce himself. “Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker! It’s Pete from the bar. Anybody home?”

His greeting must have been heard, because Pete could see movement inside of the house. A shadow appeared behind the screened front door
,
and Parker’s voice answered back. “Pete, damnit, I told ya I would pay my bar bill as soon as my social security check comes in the mail. You just wasted your time coming out here this morning. I’m tapped.”

Pete would have normally laughed at the response, but Parker didn’t have a bar tab, and there hadn’t been any mail in months.
Maybe Ben Parker had misunderstood or didn’t hear well
, he thought.

“Ben, I need to talk to you. I’m coming up.”

Pete hesitated for a mo
ment, waiting for the old man’s
protest, but none came. Pete kept his eyes on the front door and began walking up the sidewalk. When he reached the front stoop, he again waited for a moment. “Ben, where are ya? I need to talk to you.”

“Come on in Pe
te. It’s been a while since I had company. Now I know I have some chocolate chip cookies around here somewhere. They’re just the packaged kind, but they’ll hit the spot
,”
came the response from beyond the darkened doorway
.

Pete
climbed
the two
brick
steps and onto the porch. He really didn’t want to go inside, but also didn’t want to be rude. He glanced over his shoulder and saw several of the town’s residents still gathered a few blocks away.
If Parker sees them down there
gawking
,
it’s not going to help
,” he thought.

Pete brought his weapon around to the front
,
but kept the barrel pointed downward. He flicked off the safety and reached for the screen door.