Hero to the End (part 3)
Bill carried a fresh pitcher of lemonade out into the shade of his covered porch. It had been little more than a rough plank deck with a tin roof when he moved in. Now though, it was a proper porch with tongue and groove flooring, rails planed smooth and painted, and a proper screen to keep out the bugs. He liked to sit in the folding chair and watch. People watching was something of a hobby of his. Always was.
He sat the pitcher on the floral print TV tray next to a plate of fresh baked snickerdoodles. Not his cookie of choice, but the neighbor kid sure did like them; so Bill made a fresh batch every day, just before lunch. He had plenty of time these days.
Charlie’d be along any minute now in search of a cookie and a story or two from Bill’s life as a policeman with the Colorado State Police and later the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. Now and then, the kid asked about Bill’s time in the marines. On those rare occasions he stuck to the tamer stories about landing at Inchon, the cold weather, and General Puller on the march from the Frozen Chosen back to Inchon. Some stories, some memories, just weren’t fit for a twelve-year-old boy.
Bill stepped back inside to retrieve the little Igloo cooler full of ice and a couple of glasses. Maybe the boy would settle for sitting quietly and watching the afternoon go by. Probably not. Charlie, like most boys his age, was a ball of energy and questions. And the kid was fascinated with police and detective stories.
The shrieking whine of a slipping power-steering belt accompanied by the coughing sputter of a poorly maintained V8 motor passed by.
That fella really ought to put some love into that car.
Not that Jackson Fletcher was likely to put much love into anything that didn’t come in twelve-ounce cans with Coors printed on the side.
The grinding crunch of tires skidding to a stop on gravel was followed by the squawking shriek of rusted door hinges.
“Chuck,” Jackson yelled. “You get your ass in the house. I—"
“No.” A high pitched shriek echoed through the late morning. “Let me go—ow—hey… Andy. We have to—ow—go—stopit. We have to go back. Andy’s still in there.”
Bill pushed through the screen door onto the porch, cooler still in hand. Jackson’s ratty old Camero sat in the middle of the street both doors open, still running. The big bastard had Charlie by one arm, frog marching the kid toward Charlie’s trailer. Except Charlie was pretty limber and pretty scrappy for a twelve-year-old. Before Bill could travel the six or so steps to the porch’s screen door, Charlie landed a solid kick on Jackson’s kneecap and twisted free of the big man’s grasp.
“Son—of—a—bitch.” Jackson grunted. “Get back here you little bastard.”
Instead of sprinting up the steps to the safety of his trailer, Charlie turned and started running hell-for-leather toward the highway. Jackson followed, limping.
“Charlie,” Bill pushed the porch door open, “where’s the fire?”
“Mister Bill!” Charlie slid to a stop. “Andy— he fell through the floor.”
“What?” Bill was off the porch now walking toward the panting kid. “What floor?”
“The sawmill.” Charlie pointed. “Andy fell through the floor, into the water.”
That sounded like real trouble.
“Bullshit.” Jackson puffed to a stop next to Bill. “Chuck here is just tellin’ stories. So’s he won’t be in trouble with his momma when I drag his little ass back home and tell her where I found him.”
Bill looked from Jackson to Charlie and back. He could smell the beer on Jackson’s breath and the big man was sweating something fierce.
Not even noon and he’s drunk.
“I ain’t no liar.” Charlie stepped toward Jackson with his chest stuck out, fists clinched at his sides. “Andy can’t swim! We need to go. Now.”
“I’m inclined to believe the boy.” Bill stepped between Charlie and Jackson. “Why don’t you go and call nine-one-one, tell them to come to the old sawmill out on highway one-thirty-seven.”
“I don’t care a rat’s ass what you’re inclined to believe, old man.” Jackson made to step around Bill, reaching for Charlie.
“Son,” Bill kept between Jackson and the boy. “You need to go on home now. Before someone gets hurt.”
“Says who?” Jackson stopped grabbing for Charlie and stood to his full and not inconsiderable height.
“We don’t have time to measure dicks.” Bill turned to the boy. “Charlie, go get your momma, tell her to call nine-one-one, tell her what happened.”
“Don’t you turn your back on me.” A hand the size of a catcher’s mitt grabbed Bill’s shoulder.
“Have it your way.” Bill turned back to face Jackson and let the Igloo cooler, still full of ice, swing in a tight ark.
With momentum on his side, Bill snapped several pounds of ice and hard plastic up into Jackson’s crotch. While the big man hunched—frozen in the eternal paralyzing moment of surprise and agony that comes from being smashed in the balls—Bill dropped the cooler and gave the groaning man’s already bruised knee a solid stomp. Jackson, for his part, collapsed to the dirt and gravel street trying to clutch both groin and knee.
Bill turned from the downed man to look at Charlie. The boy still stood there looking from Bill to Jackson then back at Bill mouth agape, like a trout on the creek bank.
“Go on, Charlie,” Bill said. “Go get your momma. I’ll see to Andy,”
Charlie nodded before tearing down the gravel street toward his trailer. Bill looked to where Jackson lay in the dirt. That damned aching pinch down his left arm was back, again. Doc said he should avoid getting worked up.
Well, to hell with that.
“Hurts like hell, don’t it?” Bill squatted to assess his handiwork. “You probably ought to get home and put some ice on that.” Bill sat the cooler on the ground next to the groaning man before limping toward the driver’s door of the idling Camero.
Assault, battery, and now grand theft auto. Who knew I’d turn to a life of crime in my seventies?
***
“Mom, Momma!” Charlie burst through the front door of the trailer, ran through the small living room and down the short hall to hammer on his momma’s bedroom door.
“Charlie?” She sounded like he’d woken her up.
“Momma,” he opened the door, “Mister Bill says you should call nine-one-one.”
“What?” She sat up in the darkened room scrubbing at her face with both hands like she could rub away the sleepiness.
“Mister Bill said—“
“I heard that part,” she said. “Why?”
“Andy, he fell through the floor—at the sawmill—he fell into the water. And I—“
“What were you doing in there?”
“Mom!” He dragged the word out. “This is an emergency.”
“Right.” She swung both legs over the edge of the bed and stood.
Charlie turned and ran back down the hall and through the living room. He was halfway out the front door before her voice stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
***
Jackson’s car sat close to the front of the old sawmill; the engine running, driver side door open. The big sheet of plywood covering the main door sagged now, held up more by gravity than nails. Charlie shoved the door of momma’s pickup open and leaped to the weed choked gravel of the parking lot before momma could shut off the motor.
“Andy…Mister Bill?” Charlie shouted running for the sagging mill house.
“Charlie,” Momma called after him, “wait.”
She might as well have told the sun to halt its progress across the sky. Charlie was up the wobbly steps and across the splintered boards of the covered deck before she could grab the first-aid-bag and follow.
“Andy!” Charlie grabbed the faded plywood and pulled hard; splinters be damned.
“Charlie?” Andy sounded like he was crying.
“Andy?” Charlie’s heart leaped in his chest. Mister Bill got here in time after all. “Where’s Mister Bill?” he shoved the plywood sheeting aside and ran into the sun dappled dust and gloom.
“He—he’s—ri—right here,” Andy said between choking sobs.
Charlie found them not far from where Andy fell through the floor. Mister Bill sat slumped against the wall. The old man’s head hung forward like he was taking a nap or maybe trying to examine something in his lap. Andy sat next to him, arms wrapped around both knees, sobbing.
“Mister Bill,” Charlie ran to the old man’s side and gave him a shake. Mister Bill didn’t move, and he felt too cool under Charlie’s hand. “Momma called nine-one-one Mister….Bill.”
Scalding tears blurred Charlie’s vision and slid down his cheeks. He knew why Mister Bill wasn’t moving, why the old man was cold and still.
“Momma?”
***
Momma said it was a beautiful service. Whatever that meant. Maybe it was all the flowers around Mister Bill’s casket. Or maybe it was the big crowd of people that filled Spruce Bend Baptist Church to overflowing. Charlie didn’t know.
What he did know, for a certainty, was that Mister Bill would still be alive—still sitting on that front porch watching sunsets, eating snickerdoodles, and telling stories—if Charlie hadn’t insisted on finding some kind of proof to shut Jackson up.
Now, here they sat on the couch with the curvy wooden feet and soft cushions listening to some old man talk about Mister Bill’s estate. There was an old trunk, a footlocker, sitting on Mister Bill’s coffee table. Which Charlie knew Mister Bill wouldn’t have let happen.
Charlie couldn’t take it. Sitting on his couch, surrounded by his things. Listening to the man in the fancy suit with the neatly combed silver hair droning on and on about executor this and inheritor that.
“Momma?” Charlie tapped his mom on her knee.
“Yes?” She looked away from the man in the suit to Charlie and smiled.
“Can I go sit on the porch?” He felt the scalding tears threatening to escape, again. “Please?”
“Sure,” she said. “Mister Rockwell’s coming by to help with the packing up. You can entertain him while we finish up. Maybe he’ll have Oscar with him.”
“Thanks.” Charlie stood and hugged Momma tight before walking to the door. It wasn’t very far from Mister Bill’s couch to the front door of the trailer, but Charlie had to fight the urge to run all the same.
Outside, the sun was on its way to setting painting the bits of cloud and sky with a fiery brush. Charlie walked past the blue and white of Mister Bill’s old lawn chair and sat where he’d always sat around this time of day.
He couldn’t bring himself to sit in Mister Bill’s chair, not today, maybe not ever. Charlie still half expected the old man to step out onto the screened-porch with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of lemonade; he desperately wanted the old man to step through that door, cookies or no, and tell him this was all just a big misunderstanding, an unfunny practical joke.
Instead, a faded green dodge pickup with big fenders rattled and clanked to a stop next to Mister Bill’s car. Charlie could just see the faded orange of a Broncos ball cap over the square nose and long hood. Mister Rockwell was here, and he’d brought Oscar along.
Charlie stood and stepped to the porch railing; waiting while Mister Rockwell and Oscar got out of the old pickup.
“Evening, Charlie.” Mister Rockwell swapped the stub of a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. The old man had a voice like river rock falling on an iron plate; deep, sharp and rumbly.
“Hey,” Oscar said walking around the front of the truck.
“Momma said I should entertain you while she finishes up with the man in the fancy suit.”
“How you doin’, son?” Mister Rockwell climbed the three steps to the porch and pulled open the screen door.
“Not so good,” Charlie said. “I…I…” He trailed off; scalding tears broke loose and ran freely down his face.
“It ain’t easy losing folk.” Mister Rockwell moved to stand next to Charlie and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“It—it’s my fault,” Charlie sobbed. “He’s dead ‘cause of me.”
“Horseshit, boy,” the old man said. “He’s dead because his heart gave out.”
“But it gave out saving Andy.” Charlie squeezed the porch rail so hard his knuckles turned white. “Andy wouldn’t have needed saving if I didn’t talk him into going into the old sawmill.”
“Well, that may be true,” Mister Rockwell said. “But Bill, he had a bad ticker, it’s part of why he retired from the State Police when he did.”
“But—"
“But nothing,” Mister Rockwell said. “His heart coulda gave out while he was mowing the lawn or painting the porch or any other of a hundred things. How about you help Oscar get those boxes unloaded while I go on in and say hello.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie nodded and wiped away the tears. It wouldn’t do for Oscar to see them.
***
They sat in companionable silence. Charlie in his usual seat, Oscar in one of the spare folding-chairs Mister Bill kept on hand, for when there was more than just him and Charlie. Neither of the boys wanted to sit in the old man’s seat. It didn’t feel right. Charlie didn’t feel much like talking and Oscar never said much. Usually, Charlie had enough to say for the both of them.
Not today.
“Feels like he’ll walk through the door with some cookies and drinks, don’t it?” Charlie asked, breaking the silence.
“He won’t.”
“Yeah.” Charlie fought back more tears and nodded. “I know.”
“Charlie?” It was the silver-haired old man in the fancy suit.
“Yes, sir?”
“Can you come on in for a minute, Bill wanted you to have something.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie stood. “Can Oscar come?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Charlie stood and followed the old man in the fancy suit through the door. Momma still sat on the couch, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Mister Rockwell stood next to the coffee table and the old footlocker resting on top of it. He locked eyes with Charlie and gave the boy a grin.
The old man in the fancy suit reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a small tan envelope. The kind held shut with little metal prongs.
“Bill wanted you to have this.” He sat the envelope on top of the footlocker.
Charlie picked it up. There was something in it. Something kind of heavy. He bent the two prongs, opened the flap and looked inside. It was a key, small and tarnished to a dark brown. He dumped it out into one hand.
“A key?”
“It’s for the footlocker,” Mister Rockwell said.
Charlie unlocked the heavy padlock, released the latches, and lifted the lid. Inside was a jumble of things. A shoe box full of little envelopes and letters, an old photo album, a plaque with a badge stuck to it, and a folder with the Colorado State Patrol emblem on it; stuffed to near bursting with articles and pictures from several newspapers.
He opened the folder. The top clipping, worn and faded at the edges, had a picture of a younger Mister Bill sitting up in a hospital bed, shaking hands with a pudgy man in a suit.
TRIPLE SIX SLASHER BROUGHT TO JUSTICE, TROOPER
WILLIAM S. SHERIDAN AWARDED COLORADO’S HIGHEST
DECORATION FOR VALOR
“Momma, look!” Charlie held up the clipping.
“He was the real McCoy.” The old man in the fancy suit nodded and smiled. “A man to ride the river with.”
“He wanted me to have all this?” Charlie looked up from the footlocker. “Why?”
“Bill thought quite a lot of you,” Mister Rockwell said. “You and your momma.”
“Oh Charlie!” Momma pulled him into a hard hug.
Charlie was pretty sure she was crying again. He hugged her back and let the scalding tears come. It felt like there was a giant hole in his middle, a hole that would swallow him up if he let go of her even for a second.
“I think I’ll be on my way,” the old man in the fancy suit said. “I’ll need to get these papers filed, get your accounts in order Miss Ward. In a couple weeks we can begin the search for a house.”
“A house?” Charlie disentangled himself from Momma, wiped his eyes, and looked into her tear-streaked face.
“We…we’re—” she lifted a hand to cover her mouth as though that would help her get the words out around her sadness.
“Yes.” The old man in the fancy suit put a long-fingered hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “William left his entire estate to your mother and you, Charlie.”
“Estate?” Charlie asked.
He had a hard time reconciling that word with Mister Bill’s small single-wide trailer. It was a nice trailer, well kept; calling it an estate seemed wrong in the same way that calling Spruce Bend a big city was wrong.
“Old Bill was a wealthy man,” Mister Rockwell said. “He was a widower. And after catching the Slasher… well, after he recovered from catching the Slasher, some folks I know got him to write a book about it. Damned thing was a best seller.”
“Why live here, like this?” Charlie waived an arm in a gesture that encompassed the small trailer.
“That’s probably a story best left for another time,” Mister Rockwell said. “How about you and me and Oscar get busy boxing up Bill’s things, let Elton here go file his papers and give your momma a chance to get her mind wrapped around everything.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie wiped away the drying tears and snuffled a bit. It didn’t matter anymore whether Oscar saw or not.
***
“Patty!”
Charlie looked up from the old footlocker. It was the last thing left in his room. Everything else was already loaded in the bed of Mister Rockwell’s old Dodge, the horse trailer hitched to it, and momma’s old truck.
“You and that little bastard come out here. Right now.”
Jackson.
Charlie looked at the footlocker again.
He don’t get to live in my head rent free. Not anymore.
Maybe not, but Jackson sounded like he’d been drinking, and Charlie was not going to let Momma deal with that man by herself. He gave the footlocker a nod and stepped into the short hall that led to the now empty living room.
“Jackson,” Momma said in her stern voice. “You are drunk, and I think you ought to go on home.”
“Not ‘til I get what I’m owed.”
Charlie headed for the front door. He could see momma standing near the open tailgate of her pickup, the last of the living-room boxes in her hands. Jackson leaned on the hood of Mister Rockwell’s Dodge, a pair of crutches next to him.
Charlie felt the butterflies in his stomach he always felt when he was about to do something scary. “We don’t owe—”
A heavy hand fell on Charlie’s shoulder. “How about I have a word or two with Jackass there?” Mister Rockwell’s voice was low and hard. Still a rocks on iron sheeting rumble, only now it reminded Charlie of a rockfall he and momma saw on the way to Pagosa Springs last summer.
Charlie followed Mister Rockwell down the front steps, down the cracked and jumbled sidewalk, and through the rusty chain-link gate.
“Miss Patty,” Mister Rockwell nodded at Momma and headed straight for the front of the old Dodge.
“—bastard nearly crippled me, stole my car, left me lying in the street!”
“Which wouldn’t have happened if you’d have had the common decency to help Charlie instead of deciding to show him who’s boss,” Mister Rockwell said walking around the end of his pickup to face Jackson. “The Meads boy would’a drowned if it’d been left up to you.”
“No one asked you, old man.” Jackson jabbed a sausage sized finger into Mister Rockwell’s chest.
Charlie had a bad feeling about Jackson doing that. Mister Rockwell might be old, but he was as tall as Jackson and his forearms looked like old tree roots.
“No, I don’t suppose anyone did.” Mister Rockwell nodded. “If they had, I’d tell ‘em that a good man died cause your soggy ass was more interested in pushing around a kid than doing the right thing. I’d tell ‘em Bill was worth a hundred of you.”
“I said,” the drunk man stood to his full height and puffed up his chest. “No. One. Asked. You.” Jackson punctuated each word with another finger jab into Mister Rockwell’s chest.
“Hey Charlie,” Mister Rockwell said, still staring at Jackson. “What did Bill have to say about Jackson here.”
Charlie thought for a minute, trying to recall Mister Bill’s words. “He said Jackson’s a weak man and weak men want to feel strong so they say and do stuff to people they don’t think can fight back.”
“That’s about the long and short of it.” Mister Rockwell nodded. “Like right now. He don’t figure I’ll do much of anything cause I’m old. He don’t figure your Momma’ll do much ‘cause she’s been so polite and kind, he don’t figure you can do much ‘cause you’re a—”
“I’m right here, Old Man, talk to me,” Jackson said jabbing Mister Rockwell again with his finger and swaying a bit. Charlie wasn’t sure if it was the knee, all locked up in a cage-looking metal brace or if it was the beer.
“Problem is, I ain’t a kid, and I ain’t polite, and I ain’t as gentle as Bill.” With that, Mister Rockwell grabbed Jackson’s outstretched hand and gave it a twist; forcing the big man to fall to the ground. From the look on Jackson’s face, it must have hurt.
“Ed…” Momma started.
Mister Rockwell held on to Jackson’s hand and knelt in the gravel next to him. “I’m going to let you up and you are going to go away. If I ever hear tell of you bothering Miss Ward or Charlie, I’ll pay you a visit that you won’t limp away from. Understand?”
Jackson nodded.
“I’m an old man and a little hard of hearing. How about you say the words loud enough we can all hear them?”
“Ye—yeah,” Jackson nodded vigorously. “I understand.”
***
The new house was, in a word, spectacular. Charlie couldn’t believe how much room there was. Mister Rockwell called it a nice little place. Elton, the man in the fancy suit, said it was a good starter home.
It was more room than Charlie’d ever had in his whole life. The dining room was separate from the kitchen and the kitchen had a dishwasher and a refrigerator with an ice maker in the door! Best of all, his room had enough wall space, he could hang up most of the things that were in Mister Bill’s old footlocker.
He hung the plaque with the badge right next to the framed article from the Denver Post. The one with the picture of Mister Bill shaking hands with the pudgy man.
“Charlie,” Momma called from downstairs. The house had a downstairs!
“Yeah,” he yelled. He had to yell for Momma to hear him if he was in his room and she was in the living room. In the trailer he could practically whisper, and she’d hear him.
“Andy’s on his way up.”
Footsteps thumped on the carpeted stairs. Charlie grinned. It’d been a couple months since Andy fell through the old sawmill floor and Charlie’d only been able to visit once, just after the funeral. And then, only to apologize to Andy and Mister Meads. Today was the first day since everything happened that he was off punishment.
“Hey Charlie,” Andy said from the open door.
“Hi.” Charlie backed away from the wall and admired his handiwork.
Black and white pictures of a young Mister Bill in an oldtimey uniform, more black and white photos of him in a round helmet with a rifle slung over one shoulder standing on a beach.
There were other things as well. A silver star, two bronze stars, and a purple heart all in a frame next to a folded American flag. Several more framed articles from the Denver Post about various investigations and cases the old man worked on.
Central to it all was a more recent article from the Durango Herald with a full color photo of the old sawmill. With a caption that read: HERO TO THE END
Well hello there friends. Looks like things worked out in the end. Except for Jackson Fletcher, that is. If y’all happened to read Desperate Ground then you might recognize Oscar and Grandpa Rockwell. Younger perhaps but them all the same. If you liked this story and want more of The Spruce Bend Chronicles let me know in the comments. Also share my substack with your friends or your enemies or both. I ain’t picky.