The Last Exit to Normal Read online

  I stopped working on the fence. “Miss Mae?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to have to get a job that pays more.”

  “Figured on that.”

  “If I still pay you for the truck, can I keep it?”

  She nodded. “That will do.” Then she trudged inside, leaving me to the fence.

  A few minutes later, Dad walked out the back door and across the lawn. I kept working. He stood there for a moment. “I thought you moved out.”

  “If that’s what you call it, fine.” I nailed a board. “I had a deal with Miss Mae.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I turned. “I guess that’s not your problem now, is it?” Then I bent to another board, tacking it up. Dad stood there for a long moment, then turned and walked away.

  I finished the fence by four, then walked down to Kim’s. Mrs. Johan answered the door. She smiled. “Hello, Ben. Kim has been trying to reach you.”

  “I’ve been busy. Is she here?”

  She shook her head. “She’s out at her aunt and uncle’s, helping can peaches.”

  I thanked her, then drove out to Kim’s uncle’s place. Dirk’s and Kim’s trucks were in front of the house, and Uncle Morgan, still in casts, sat on the front porch. He smiled. “Well, if it isn’t the feller who saved my hide. How goes it, son?”

  “Fine, thanks.” I looked at his casts. “How are you?”

  “On the mend. Doc says I’ll be eighty percent by next spring. That damned tractor had it out for me.”

  I looked around for Dirk, then thought about something. “Are you hiring?”

  He studied me. “Looking?”

  “Yessir. I’ll do anything.”

  He smiled. “Kim was a mite upset this morning. Said she called your place and it turns out you and your daddy had a falling-out?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Got room and board in the bunkhouse, three squares a day, and twelve hundred a month if you’d be interested.”

  “I don’t want this because I helped you.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Come winter, Dirk’s gotta head back to Wyoming and I’ll be hiring out anyway. He can teach you the farm until then, but if you see it as charity, I can respect that.”

  I thought about school starting in a bit, but feeding myself was more important at this point. “You were going to hire out anyway?”

  “Sure was. Hard to find good hands, and I’d be happy to pay for Dirk showing you the ropes.”

  “Then I’ll take it.”

  He nodded, rolling a cigarette. “Start tomorrow if you’ve a mind.”

  “I have to finish up a couple of things for Miss Mae tomorrow. How about day after tomorrow?”

  “Deal. We got the town potluck tomorrow at four anyway.” He smiled. “They’re gonna have to wheel me around in a damned wheelchair, but I ain’t missed it going on thirty years and I ain’t about to miss it now.”

  I’d forgotten about the potluck. “Okay.”

  He flipped his thumb to the barn. “Expect you came to see a girl. She’s in the barn.”

  Kim was hanging tack on a hook when I entered. I kissed her, and we sat on a bale of hay. She smelled like peaches. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Your uncle just hired me, and I think it’ll be good. About time I did something, anyway.”

  She squeezed my hand, smiling. “It’s hard work.”

  “I can do it.”

  “I know you can.” She looked down, studying the hay-strewn floor. Something small, probably a mouse, rustled between the hay bales. “What about your dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you should try and make things better.”

  I took my hand from hers. Shadows fell long in the barn, and its musty smell in the early evening soothed me. “Maybe the best thing I can do is make things better with myself first. Besides, he’s done with me. At least for now.”

  “What if it’s too late by then?”

  I looked at her. “I don’t know, Kim. Half the time I feel like a little kid around him and the other half I just want to hit him in the face. Nothing is ever right, you know?” I stood and paced up and down. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to be around him. There’s too much shit between us, and all the little things just seem to get bigger every time something happens.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? That he decided to have a family when he knew he shouldn’t have?”

  “No, I’m sorry you two can’t get past it.”

  I rubbed my temples, done thinking about it. My head pounded. “Are we still going to the potluck tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “We’re bringing a bunch of stuff. My mom’s teriyaki meatballs are awesome.”

  “Cool. I’ll pick you up?”

  She shook her head. “I’m going with my mom to help set things up. Meet me?”

  “Four?”

  “Sure.” She looked at me. “You could stay in the bunkhouse tonight, you know.”

  “Naw. I’m fine. Besides, I’m not starting work until Saturday.”

  “Where are you staying, then?”

  I smiled. “Your bed?”

  “Ha-ha. Be serious.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I kissed her, and I realized right then that something was happening between us. I was falling in love with Kimberly Johan. The kind of love that said I wanted to be with her more than anybody else. “You should get back in and help your aunt.”

  “Ben . . .”

  I smiled. “I’m fine. You forget that I’m a city kid. I spent half my life on the streets.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  I ate dinner at the Cascade a couple of hours later, and as I drove by Dad’s restaurant afterward, I saw the minivan in front of it. Edward and Dad, especially Dad, had been putting in long hours. I slowed as I passed, trying to catch a peek through the blocked windows, then pulled up to the sheriff’s office down the street.

  I hopped out of the truck and walked in, and the place looked almost exactly like the jail on The Dukes of Hazzard. Three cells; a couple of desks, one with a mini-TV on it; a locked cabinet full of rifles and shotguns; calendars on the wall; a clock; and a coffeepot. Oh, yeah—and the sheriff sitting at one of the desks, filling out paperwork.

  He looked up. “Hello, Ben.”

  I set my bag down. “Hi.”

  He stood, walking to the first cell. “Not exactly a Holiday Inn, but it should do.”

  “No problem. Thanks for the offer.”

  He put his jacket on, grabbing his keys. “Coffee is in the cabinet below the pot. Help yourself if you’ve a mind.”

  I looked at him. “Why are you doing this?”

  He put his cowboy hat on, smiling. “When I was thirteen years old, way back when, my older brother took me on a road trip across the United States. He was around your age, had a ’37 Buick, and the damn thing broke down every five hundred miles to the mark. Anyway, one time we were stuck in some Podunk Alabama town, freezing our asses off in the middle of the night. Nowhere to stay, nowhere to go. Sheriff comes up and checks us out, right? Hell, we thought he was going to arrest us for loitering. Instead, he did the same for us as I’m doing for you.” He opened the door. “Suppose it’s a tradition with me.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  He nodded, tipping his hat to me and smiling. “Might want to get that suspended license taken care of before you get in more trouble than you can afford.” He looked at me for a moment, seeing the dread in my eyes, then chuckled. “We might bend a few of the laws we have around here for the sake of practicality, but I can’t ignore everything.” Then he was gone.

  I took my boots off and tucked my socks into them, lying down and wondering how a cop could be so not cop-like. I always thought my dad would have been a perfect cop. He lived by the book, followed the rules, and was totally uptight, just like every cop who’d chased me, cuffed me, or treated me like dirt, but the sheriff wasn’t that wa
y. He knew about my license, he was letting me stay here, and for a moment—just a brief instant—I thought that it might be cool to be the sheriff in Rough Butte.

  Quickly banishing the sinful thought of Ben Campbell, lawman, from my mind, I padded to the desk to see if the little television got reception. As I did, my eye caught the cabinet next to it. Files. I went to the front door and checked that it was locked, then went back.

  Back in his halcyon days of criminality, Ben Campbell had learned one thing well, and that was picking locks. After a couple of minutes with two paper clips and a wiggle-waggle or two, I pulled the cabinet door open. Bingo.

  I slid over the files until my fingers came across the H section. Hellerman, Hempton, Hill, Hinks. Hinks, Norman J. I pulled the file out, whistling as I opened it. Norman had a record. Quite a record for a man of the cloth. I read it and learned that it had started when he was twelve years old and went on up. I counted: he’d been arrested eight times. Defacement of public property, shoplifting, malicious mischief, public intoxication, two counts of assault on different occasions, and three counts of domestic battery. I thought of Mrs. Lindy, then backtracked to the assault charges.

  The first one blew me away: COMPLAINANT: EDWARD INGERSON. I read further. Edward had been fourteen then, Norman sixteen. Two other boys had been involved, and my stomach lurched as I read the notes. He’d been chased into a barn, taunted, and beaten with fence boards by the three older boys. The sheriff at that time, a man named Logan Vern, noted that the apparent reason had to do with the victim’s sexual orientation. Third-degree assault charges had been filed, only to be dismissed by the judge, who cited “boyhood rambunctiousness” as the cause.

  Reading the notes left in the Norman Hinks file from each of three sheriffs over the years, their handwriting different but still scrawled, I noticed none of them had kind words for the man. You reap what you sow, you ass-hole, I thought.

  After reading his file, I put it back and stopped, eyeing the next three files. Then the fourth: INGERSON, EDWARD. My eyes widened. Our Edward has a criminal record? I gently lifted the file from the cabinet, still queasy from imagining a fourteen-year-old Edward, terrified in that barn.

  I opened the file, and was relieved. One charge. The year he moved to Spokane. Possession of an illegal substance. Marijuana. I smiled. Good old Ed and I had something in common, and I didn’t blame him at all. I’d have been baked out of my head all the time if I’d lived here as a gay kid.

  I put the file back, smiling at the thought of Edward lighting up a fatty in the fields, and hit the J section. There, two inches deep, was Ron Jamison’s file. I smiled. “Know thine enemy,” somebody had once said. I flipped it open.

  As I read the sheriff’s scrawl on Ron’s file, I realized it was nothing I hadn’t heard. Suspicion of vandalism. Shoplifting. Defacing public property. Arson charges brought by the sheriff, then dropped by the district attorney for lack of evidence. Information on the Montana Highway Patrol arson investigation, complete with the fire marshal’s conclusion, was tucked inside. Then I turned to the last page. Two papers stapled together and marked “Confidential” confronted me.

  It was a psychological analysis done by a doctor employed by the Montana Highway Patrol. I whistled as I scanned through the mumbo jumbo. Passive-aggressive nature, leanings toward obsessive behavior. Subject lacks empathy for others. Egocentric. Sociopathic tendencies, with a conclusion by the doctor that symptoms would deepen as the subject reached maturity. Shit. Ron Jamison was one fucked-up cowboy.

  CHAPTER 26

  I woke to the sound of keys in the door, and as I opened my eyes, Sheriff Wilkins walked in, carrying a mug of coffee and a sack lunch. He nodded, setting the mug down and stuffing his lunch in the small fridge near the coffeepot. “Sleep well?”

  I stretched, wiping the gunk from my eyes. “Yeah. Better than freezing in my truck.”

  He laughed. “Hungry?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I’ll spring for breakfast at the Cascade if you’ve a mind.”

  I laced my boots. I was hungry. “I’ve got money.”

  He smiled. “Sure. Come on, then.”

  At five in the morning, the Cascade was just opening its eyes and only a few old-timers sat at a table near the front windows. Sheriff Wilkins nodded as we walked in, saying hello to each as he made his way to the counter and took a seat on a stool. I sat next to him. Milton came from the storage room, wiping his hands with a towel. “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “Morning.”

  Milton nodded to me. “Looks like I got a regular here.”

  Sheriff Wilkins smiled. “Can’t let these ruffians run free, Milt. Terror of the town.”

  Milton laughed, looking at me. “I hear Morgan Johan has a new hand out at his place.”

  I nodded. “I start tomorrow.”

  “He’s a good man. You done well with helpin’ him out of that mess with the tractor.”

  I didn’t have anything to say about that, so I nodded, then read the menu. Milton turned to the grill. “Regular for you, Sheriff?”

  “Sure.”

  Milton grabbed two eggs, cracking them over the grill. “And you, boy?”

  “I’ll have the French toast, thanks.”

  As Milton cooked, he and the sheriff talked—small things about the town, the potluck later in the afternoon, the teenagers partying out at the Pond. I listened until Milton slid two plates in front of us and started another order; then we dug in. Sheriff Wilkins dumped catsup on his eggs. “The Johan place, huh?”

  “Yeah. Dirk is heading back to Wyoming in a while.”

  “You think about school?”

  I shrugged. “I need money.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. You know, though, they got a deal around here for kids need to work their places. Sort of like a homeschool-type thing. Give you a curriculum that you do at night. Good for a diploma, if you’re after one.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He sipped his coffee. “You do that.” We ate in silence for a while as customers straggled in. Everybody knew everybody, and I liked that. A few even said hello to me, referring to me as “the kid who helped Morgan.” Sheriff Wilkins soaked up the last of his eggs with a slice of toast. “Had me a little talk with the young man we spoke of the other day,” he said. “I asked him how you two were getting along, and he told me you’d hashed things out and things were smooth sailing.”

  I grunted, remembering the scene at the Pond.

  “Seems you told him you slashed the tires and left those cats. To get back at Mr. Hinks.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think I said you did.”

  Silence.

  Sheriff Wilkins slid his plate forward, done with his meal. “He’s a sly one.”

  I thought about the file. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

  “See, the funny thing is that whoever did it, they left the knife in the last tire.”

  “Huh.”

  “He let me know that in the course of his conversation with you, you said it was the one you had in your tool belt. Left as a reminder to Mr. Hinks that he shouldn’t cross you anymore.”

  My stomach sunk.

  He put some money on the counter, then stood. “You keep that tool belt in Miss Mae’s shed?”

  “Yes. On a hook.”

  He sighed. “I’d bet anybody could go into that shed and take it if they had a mind to.”

  “Maybe.”

  He nodded. “I’m runnin’ on a bit of faith, here, Ben. Don’t prove me wrong.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Steer clear of that boy, you hear?”

  Too late, I thought, hoping I’d scared Ron enough at the Pond so that he would let it drop. I started doubting it, though, and I wondered how far he’d go. “Sure.”

  Then the sheriff was gone, saying goodbye to Milton and heading out the door.

  When I walked out to the sidewalk, a stage was being set up in the park
in anticipation of the potluck later. I’d heard several guys in the Cascade talking about a couple of country bands that would be playing that night, and they said there would be an auction to benefit Morgan’s place before the bands took the stage.

  I hopped in my truck and drove home. I had to finish up a few odds and ends with the fence, then weatherproof it with stain. I’d seen the minivan at the restaurant and was relieved Dad and Edward weren’t at the house. My mind was on Ron Jamison, and my mood was dark because of it. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing, and wondered if I’d made a mistake in how I’d handled the situation.

  I thought about the Tibbses’ barn. If Ron was the one who’d set it on fire, he had purposely burned the animals to death. To me, that didn’t mean regular retribution or vengeance. It meant psycho. Ron Jamison knew no bounds, and the file I’d read had told me just that. I was in trouble.

  As I brought the stain from the shed to the fence, I glanced at my tool belt. The knife was gone. No great surprise there. Ron had come in and taken it. He had it out for me, just like he’d had it out for Nathan Tibbs.

  Then it clicked.

  I set the stain down and walked inside. Miss Mae was nowhere to be found, and I heard the water running upstairs as I reached for the phone and dialed. “Hello, Kim?”

  “Hi, Ben.”

  “Busy?”

  “Cooking with Mom. Everything all right?”

  “Yeah.” I explained that I’d spent the night at the sheriff’s office, and she laughed. I cleared my throat. “Remember when you were telling me about that guy Nathan Tibbs?”

  Her tone changed. “Yes.”

  “Well, I was wondering . . .” I paused. “Did you date Nathan?”

  “No.”

  I sighed in relief. “Cool.”

  “He had a big crush on me, but we didn’t go out.”

  My relief disappeared. “When?”

  “Freshman year. Why?”

  I reeled, my mind scattered. Ron had Nathan in his sights two years ago. Their freshman year. “Greg mentioned it. No biggie.”

  She laughed. “Scoping out the competition again? I swear, Ben . . .”