Chapter 5 - The Red Cruiser
The blue light from the sheriff’s cruiser didn’t sweep across the room with the sharp, angry urgency you see in the movies; it just rolled in slow, rhythmic pulses—blue, dark, blue, dark—painting the polished oak of the empty casket in sickly neon streaks.
The door from the vestibule swung open with a heavy brass clatter.
It wasn't Sheriff Miller. It was Deputy Tom Gable—a kid who had played left tackle for my high school varsity team twelve years ago and still looked like he was wearing his older brother’s hand-me-down uniform. He stopped dead just inside the threshold, his hand hovering instinctively over the black leather holster at his hip as he took in the tableau: the lawyer scrambling to pick up his scattered manila folders, Vanessa sobbing into the red carpet by the second row, Harold Pike staring at his shoes like a condemned man on the gallows, and my father standing in the center aisle with an unlit Camel between his teeth.
“What in the name of—” Tom started, his mouth hanging half open as he looked from Dad to the brass nameplate on the cherry box. “Artie? Arthur Cole? We just got a call from the dispatcher that there was a disturbance over an estate dispute and—and dispatch said you were—”
“Dead as a salt-mackerel, Tom,” Dad said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and pointing it at the deputy like a compass needle. “Or at least that’s what Harold here tried to tell the county clerk over a cup of decaf this morning.”
Tom blinked twice, his hand dropping away from his holster as his brain tried to bridge the gap between the official death report sitting on his dashboard and the stubborn, leather-faced old man standing three feet away smelling of tobacco and woodsmoke.
“Mr. Pike?” Tom turned his head slowly toward the corner by the water cooler. “Harold, did you... did you sign a release for a man who’s standing right here?”
Harold didn’t answer. He just reached out a trembling hand, gripped the edge of the plastic water cooler station for support, and slid slowly down until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the Dixie cups, his chin resting against his chest.
“It’s a long story, son,” Dad said, walking past the deputy and pushing open the heavy glass-paneled front door that led out to the courthouse square. “And you’re going to need a lot more coffee before I start at the beginning.”
I followed him out, my boots crunching on the wet gravel as the morning mist turned into a cold, stinging drizzle. Behind us, Vanessa’s voice rose in one final, frantic shriek—not crying for her father, not mourning the dead, but screaming at the lawyer as he tried to back out the side door without his briefcase.
“Don’t you leave me here!” she yelled, her fingernails clawing at the hem of his coat as he brushed past her. “You signed it! You filed it! If he’s not dead, then the deed is void, and the bank is going to come after us for fraud!”
We didn’t look back.
Dad walked down the limestone steps, his rubber-soled slippers making a soft, sucking sound in the wet mud by the curb where his old Dodge Ram was still parked illegally in a three-minute loading zone with its hazard lights blinking.
He didn't get into the driver’s seat. He stopped by the passenger side, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a heavy brass key ring with seven different keys dangling from a frayed leather fob.
“Get in, Nat,” he said, unlocking the door and pulling it open with a metallic groan.
“Where are we going, Dad?” I asked, standing by the running board with the cold wind blowing off the river and stinging my cheeks. “The sheriff’s going to want statements. Henderson’s going to try to pin the whole forgery on Harold. And Vanessa—”
“Vanessa’s going to learn the difference between an inheritance and a larceny,” Dad said, his voice hard as a granite milestone. He climbed up into the cab, pulled the door shut until the latch clicked with authority, and rolled down the window two inches so he could spit his unlit cigarette out into the gutter.
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Then he pointed across the square toward the old brick rail depot where the morning freight train was just beginning to couple its cars with a series of loud, metallic clangs that shook the wet slate roofs of the town.
“Get in,” he repeated, tapping the steering wheel with one thick finger. “We got one more stop to make before we go home. And if we don't get there before noon, your Uncle Harold’s brother is going to sell our lumber rights to the wrong sawmill.”
