The Deadly Rounds

Chapter One

Sometimes, just to rile the Greenbush County licensing clerk, some jokester would apply for a dog license and say it was for her. Other times folks clearly not legally entitled to marriage in the state would apply. Mostly, though, such folk were out-of-towners. Locals in the sparsely populated high desert county knew not to burn the bridge that was Debbie Crow.

She may have been google-eyed and somewhat wide in her dimensions, her face set with a permanent look of sourness in the soul, thanks to her tiny mouth and tight jaw, but she had the respect of anyone who lived in Gin Basin, the Greenbush County seat, and that of many beyond. She was fair, efficient, and, above all, just about impervious to being riled. Had she known what was about to hit her on that clear, hot summer day, she probably would have looked no more surprised than if a customer dared to argue with the fee schedule or tried to pay by check with no i.d.

Those who saw the two men in town beforehand described them as ordinary looking, which for most places in Greenbush County meant they were jeans-clad white men around six feet tall, drove a pick-up and wore their hair very short and topped by Stetsons. They left no impression on the merchants in town, meaning they were only as polite as necessary and left tips no larger or smaller than expected. They paid in cash, nothing larger than a twenty-dollar bill, no bill especially crisp. They drove around the speed limit as they cruised through town and sauntered easily when they walked. The only person who might have caught their names, seen their licenses, possessed a scrap of paper that had any information about them was Debbie Crow. She was also the only person killed when the blast hit and the same blast made confetti of all the paper records at hand.

The explosion tore away the office of the registrar and the office of the county’s executive commissioner, including his secretary’s workstation, collapsing one corner of the building down on itself. The only useful thing the handful of witnesses-before-the-fact remembered was seeing two strangers stroll away and disappear around a corner headed for the alley. That detail had not been remarkable enough beforehand to stop onlookers from turning away. After the blast, it emerged crystal clear out of a jumble of other images.

A few beats passed in the blinding, white-hot sun of the high desert at noon and the stillness of the main street baking in the heat as the two strangers retreated. Then came the sound that drew every eye in every storefront around to join the few who’d had that one last look at the familiar scene. All that was left to see for the latecomers was a plume of dust and smoke hanging in the air before the hole in the front of the Greenbush County courthouse, shimmying above a mighty stack of rubble.

Over at the Cactus Café, county executive commissioner Thomas Crane let the burger fall out of his hand as he scrambled out of his seat and dashed to the door. To those who knew him, i.e. everyone in sight, the speed he put on was as alarming as the explosion. No one had witnessed Crane in such purposeful haste since his days on the high school rodeo team roping calves. Most thought he had lost the ability some 30 or 40 pounds and half a head of hair ago.

The local newspaper primly edited the exclamation he loosed as he burst through the door and made it their headline. The paper’s version went Holy Saints Be Blessed!! Apparently (according to the papers too) someone else exclaimed, Fantastical! Other remarks (allegedly) were unintelligible, consisting mostly of shrieks and sobs and howls.

Although there was no direct connection, Crane thought of his daughter LeeBeth, mentally sorting out where she would be right now. Was it her day to run the papers or bottled drinks down to the merchants or was she hauling the recycling back on up to the warehouse where they processed that too? Either way, it didn’t matter, he concluded with a relieved sigh. She wasn’t there and probably neither were much of the county staff, thankfully, as most, even the court, took noon for lunch as he did and some were out in the field. As he did many times a day, he reflected, She’s all I really have in this world.

As Crane came to rest at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the dust and paper settle, someone nearby spat on the curb and snarled, Damn commies.

Another person answered, Commies? Where have you been, Grandpa?

Whoever. Some foreign assholes.

Crane tore his eyes away from the cratered building and stared at the two commentators. He hadn’t thought of what people might be responsible, other than how pissed he was at Monty Jackson for selling the county board on that new natural gas set-up in the basement, replacing their trusty but worn old boiler. His anger at Monty shriveled away and the void let cold fear seep into its place bringing with it all the other possibilities.

The second speaker, a dishwasher from the café, chuckled and said, C’mon now, Pops. What terrorist in their right mind would blow up a courthouse in the middle of nowhere? Where’s the statement in that?

The first speaker, a grizzled old fellow, his eyes obscured behind clunky, wraparound sunglasses, grunted Maybe it was just practice.

It’s the end times! someone wailed. Rapture’s coming!

Another cried, They're going to bomb every 15 minutes until they get what they want! A few folks ran off in response but most stayed rooted to the spot.

A siren shrieked down the street in the direction of the public safety building, snapping Crane back into the moment. He squared his shoulders and ground his teeth, turning back towards the rubble. He clenched his fists and blinked his eyes. He knew it was his duty to do…something. Something decisive. Just what, wasn’t clear.

The dishwasher at the cafe grumbled, With that new fire station out in boonies, it takes forever now for them to answer a call. The boonies meant the edge of a not especially large town, rather than the decrepit old fire house in the block behind the café. There were those who still bristled at the idea of moving the firehouse away and had predicted the demise of the downtown.

Crane strode across the street. He arrived at the foot of the heap at just the same time as Pilar Ruiz, his assistant. Wherever she had been, she’d come running and was out of breath, her face slicked with sweat and flushed with the effort. Somehow, she’d made her dash in heels and a pencil skirt. She always said you could really move in those things if you were used to them and here was the proof. She still had a pen lodged in the depths of her chignon, showing how late she’d been for her lunch date. Most likely, she’d been with Monty. Crane filed a mental note to discuss Monty’s vision for the county heating and cooling system with her but not now, not while her mouth hung open and her eyes looked so wet.

Anyone?…Was there….? Pilar gasped.

I’ll see what I can see.

The siren blared in Crane’s ears as he picked his way over the remains of the courthouse’s foremost section. The brakes of the newish rescue unit squeaked mightily as the vehicle halted. The larger tank engine behind it only emitted a groan from its hydraulics as it settled behind the rescue unit. Someone barked, Keep back, ma’am!

No one seemed nearly as concerned with the portly middle-aged man in a bolo tie and tight slacks teetering on the narrow toes of his desert boots as he negotiated the smashed up bricks. Crane imagined the gallant rescue workers converging on Pilar in their concern. For once, he wished Monty were around, if only to give the zealous heroes a shove and tell them to leave his girlfriend alone and do their real work. He forged ahead, stopping only when he spotted the arm.

Debbie’s pudgy elbow and ink-stained fingers were easy to recognize, even without the rosary-style wristlet in pink quartz. There was no blood and no sign of whether the clerk was still attached to her arm. It rested in a depression in the debris atop a bed of crushed building material. Its stillness and the sheen of dust that clung to it made it look unreal, as if Debbie Crow were no more than some kid’s lost baby doll.

Chapter Two

LeeBeth Crane's phone trilled its jarring note, barely audible above the growl of the forklift as she muscled a pallet of pop cans into the truck that would bear them out to the various far-flung outposts of Greenbush County and deposit them in forlorn vending machines and at shabby trading posts to be snapped up by passing tourists. The only person who ever called was her Dad and the calls were just innocuous for the most part. Sometimes he wanted to know if she had any plans for some upcoming night (which would turn into an invitation to watch the high school get creamed in basketball again) or would do a favor. The death of LeeBeth's mother seemed to have resulted in Tom Crane losing all his home maintenance skills, leaving him to press his only child for help with the most mundane matters. Of course, she knew that the summonses she received from her father had less to do with keeping the household going than plugging his endless wellspring of loneliness.

The phone stopped screeching and then started up again, a sign that her Dad thought the topic serious and urgent. LeeBeth groaned and parked the lift. She stripped off the hardhat that corralled her dark wavy mane of hair and let the ponytail into which she had bunched it this morning fall out into the nape of her neck. She stuffed her heavy work gloves into the helmet and set it aside. The phone stopped again but she knew its silence was temporary. It whined again, vibrating in her hand, as she peered at the call list. As she'd suspected, the calls had all come from her Dad.

Ten minutes, Pete, the foreman barked, waving his fat arm at her. Someone had taken to calling her by the name on her first day and it had stuck. They'd taken it from the previous occupant of her position, a spaced-out vet who had died at the wheel one day, having lost his train of thought just long enough to lose track of the edge of the loading ramp. The idea was to remind her of the cost of diverted attention but also to make her male co-workers feel more at ease with the brawny, brooding woman they'd hired. She sensed fear in their manners, uncertainty about how to proceed with a woman who didn't cleave to the time-honored ways of the county and settle down as a rancher's wife or teacher and also happened to be the somewhat college-educated county commissioner's daughter. They read all sorts of rebukes into her choices and yet found her friendly enough in that distant sort of way that people had at work. She was a puzzle as LeeBeth but a good egg as Pete.

Hello? LeeBeth grunted.

Dad, baby. Sorry to bother you at work.

Not really, LeeBeth thought. What's up this time?

Did you hear the commotion?

Just a bunch of sirens. Something burn down?

More like 'up.' The whole front of the courthouse is gone.

How?

It was an explosion, baby. Maybe a bomb.

I heard a bit of a boom but thought it was just one of the jets from the base breaking the sound barrier again.

Wish it were so.

There was a tremble in Tom Crane's voice that rang true, unlike the quaver he put on when the washer broke down or a snap tore out in his shirt. This was real uncertainty, true uneasiness.

LeeBeth could hear her co-workers loosing exclamations around the break corner, the grubby little spot where the water dispenser stood beside a handful of rickety vinyl chairs interspersed with low metal tables adorned with ancient magazines about firearms and cattle. Like the commentary at the diner, the words were of the sort the local paper would never publish outright but for which someone would surely devise a clever stand-in. Tom Crane's news, it seemed, had made its way into the distributor's warehouse somehow.

Who...? she started to asked and then Never mind. I don't suppose you know that. Anyone hurt?

Debbie Crow. She was the only staff in that part of the building. Not taking a lunch break finally showed itself to be a bad idea but not in the way I imagined. Poor gal.

Anyone talked to the family yet?

Crane cursed and then apologized. Police'll do it eventually, I suppose.

You know and I know the sheriff and his boys will drag their heels about until the media break the news first. They won't do right by the Crows.

It's not my job, LeeBeth. I have no say over the sheriff's office.

You mean you never exert your authority over the sheriff's office.

Crane cursed again. LeeBeth demanded, What was that for?

Sorry, again. I'm just upset that you're not letting me off the hook here. This has been a tough enough thing to deal with without your accusing me of not being sensitive enough to Debbie's family. And don't get started on me about it's all because she's Native. The Crows are pricklier than a herd of porcupines. They keep the whole county at arm's length on purpose. You can try them if you like, if it bothers you so much.

You're sure she's dead?

No question.

Then I'll do it and you can tell the sheriff I did. Later, Dad.

LeeBeth ambled over to the corner and found her fellow packers and drivers muttering and talking over each other, griping about all the illegal immigrants they let in and the idiots in Washington pussy-footing around with the damn..(whichever villains the speaker favored: Arabs, Russians, drug cartels, socialists, etc.).

We're not talking about you, José, someone assured one of the packers.

José snorted and replied, in his impeccable English with its vaguely Boston air, Naturally, as you happen to be discoursing on the topic of illegal immigration, which does not apply to my case.

LeeBeth hailed the foreman and said, I need to take a couple hours. I've got a very important errand to run for the county.

Your dad okay? the foreman asked.

Shaken up but otherwise whole. Some of his staff though... She shook her head and others mimicked her. José crossed himself.

I've got some bad news to bear, LeeBeth continued. Anyone want to join me?

The way the others avoided her gaze stood for no.

I would be happy to help, José said. But you know how the people around here get when a brown face shows up in front of them.

In this case, you'd be right at home.

Then, I will be obliged to offer my other excuse. I have work to do and the boss expects me to do it.

As do we all, the foreman cut in. He raised his voice and added, Back to it ya'll. Pete...I wish you luck. You know there'll be stuff to do when you get back and I'm afraid you can't charge overtime for it.

Understood.

LeeBeth went to the ladies' room, a smelly makeshift box carved out of the men's room as an afterthought. There she pulled off her coverall and stowed it in an old beat up locker along with her hardhat, goggles, and gloves. There was never any need to lock up, as no one wanted some girl's swag in this place. She noted to herself, as always, that the safety gear they all wore while packing the trucks seemed like overkill but then she'd heard stories, not just the chatter about the original Pete and his fatal one-way trip off the ramp. Things came loose sometimes. The cord that bound the newspapers they handled could smart and even leave welts and cuts. Pulp and dust were everywhere in the air and could blind you at just the wrong moment. The cans had a nasty habit of exploding sometimes. But she'd never seen anything like that happen.

As they emerged from under the coverall, LeeBeth's khaki shorts and hot pink tank top were a mass of wrinkles. The top had stains in the armpits. She dabbed at herself with a little soapy water, freshening her armpits and face, and then checked the effect in the mirror. Did she look like the right person to deliver a death notice? Was she serious enough? At the very least, she definitely looked forlorn.

The Crow family, she recalled, lived on a rural lot out past a junkyard, not on any of the local reservations. There was an old grandmother or mother, probably always home, and a younger brother or some such relation with Down's syndrome or similar. Beyond that, she wasn't certain who lived there or what the place was like, other than the rumors of no one being welcome. Were there vicious dogs? Shot guns? She'd have to take her chances if she wanted to follow through. She closed her eyes and grabbed onto the slender thread of hope that her goodwill and righteousness would be protection enough.

Chapter Three

What’d we lose here? The speaker cleared a mass of tobacco chaw before asking. Pilar wrinkled her nose and commented, Yuck. She added a Sir onto her comment when the old fellow turned his sunken-in blue eyes at her and squinted in an annoyed glare that crumpled in his wrinkled old face and even caused his salt and pepper brush-cut to migrate a notch forward. Sheriff Patrick Wild was not used to disapproving commentary from underlings and civilians (same thing in his book).

Tom Crane distracted the sheriff with a gesture, flipping his hand out across the crumpled dregs of roughly a fifth or so of what had been the county courthouse. A hunk of the two stories. From the bottom, we lost archives, a supply room, the door to the safe, and then going up, half the lobby, an exhibit case full of historical junk, Ms. Crow’s cage and file room, a unisex bathroom, my office, and Miss Ruiz’s office. I guess the conference room the court uses on the bottom floor is pretty useless right now too. Of course, we lost Ms. Crow herself. No other staff were around in that part of the building but the one security guard, who was checking up on the prisoners waiting for sentencing. He was not at his post it seems. Any prisoners lost?

"Regrettably, no. We’ve just got a couple low-life types back in there, a cattle rustler and his accomplice, some wise guy who tried to knock over a bank, a girl who chose to drive drunk. They got the scare of their lives but they’re