No Odes to Widows

Chapter One Headlights burst through the dark and drizzle like a blast out of hell. A small car swept past Katherine on a curve, narrowly missing her rear fender as it careened toward an oncoming vehicle. “Idiot!” she screamed, wrenching her SUV off the slick highway and skidding to a stop on the muddy easement. Her companion slid from the passenger seat with a thud to the floorboard. All grew quiet again...the road dark ahead and behind. The little spaniel climbed back upon the seat and into Katherine’s lap behind the wheel. She hugged it close, smoothing trembling ears. “That was close; too close.” *** Sam Bassinger drove fast and west out of the Marathon Basin on the same route he’d taken earlier that morning. He kept one hand on the steering wheel, lifted a cell phone from his shirt pocket and punched a name displayed on its panel. “Hey, I’m headin’ to Alpine to make contact for those deliveries. Where you gonna’ be?” “I’m goin’ to Alpine. Havin’ breakfast at Yummy Chow,” a deep voice responded. “See you there.” Sam snapped the phone shut. He viewed his image in the rear view mirror adjusting his perfectly creased western hat and smoothing a neat dark moustache and goatee, smiling and winking at his own reflection. “Hey, good lookin’.” Staring down the long straight highway he saw cars clustered less than a mile ahead. They were being herded a few at a time from both directions into a single lane by uniformed men. A dozen law enforcement cars were parked alongside the right side of the highway with officers scurrying around yellow plastic ribbon marked CRIME SCENE. He slowed near a deputy sheriff standing in the westbound lane motioning vehicles left. “What the hell?” Sam squeezed his eyes into focus out the window, leaning across the bulk of a big boxer puppy asleep on the seat. “Now whadda-you-think’s goin’ on?” The puppy raised his head and stretched his tongue, licking Sam’s face. “Not now, Rasputin!” Sam rubbed his wet jaw on a coat sleeve and craned his neck again at the yellow chalk outline of a human figure on the roadside. “Mother of God!” he rasped, panic rising under his breath. “I hope they’re not stopping every car! Gotta’ get my story straight!” Glancing back at his pickup bed he saw no trace of recent cargo and he released a huff of air in relief. He rummaged his shirt pocket unsuccessfully for cigarettes, keeping one hand on the wheel to navigate toward the single traffic line moving west. Reaching for the cigarettes again, he pulled one from the pack, dropping it in his lap, scrambling to retrieve. His hand shook as he punched the lighter into the dashboard. When it popped red and glowing he lighted the cigarette with a deep draw, opened the truck window a few inches and checked his image in the side mirror. He watched himself spew smoke from the side of his mouth into the icy cold morning. A final deputy waved him through the end of the bottleneck and Sam held his course past the Y at Antelope Flats releasing his breath in a blast. The mountains began to ease back from the roadway into sloping grasslands drenched with rain. Across the grassy savannahs to the north the purple point of Miter Peak rose from the Davis Mountains range. Sam drove straight ahead toward the Twin Sisters skirted in clouds, peaks poking high above Alpine. Ten minutes later he was in town passing Sul Ross State University on his right. The red brick Ivy-League buildings from the late 1800s looked surreal on the side of a prickly-pear-studded mountain — as if they’d been lifted from an East Coast campus and plopped like props on a stage. He slowed near the highway fork and a blinking red light signaling the start of one-way traffic west. A familiar face smiled from the sidewalk and waved from the center of a red cape and lavender scarf flapping in the wind. Sam gritted his teeth. “Professor Kemp!” That woman always turned up at those environmental hearings in one of her outlandish costumes leading the charge to protect every last blade of grass and obscure creature ever known in Texas. He forced a grin and tooted his horn wondering how she’d react if she knew he was on the other side of that political fence. Chuckled out loud, he imagined himself outrunning a fat lady with a limp, thrashing her cane about. Sam drove toward a small mom-and-pop café wedged in the midst of little hodgepodge shops lining the north side of Holland Avenue. He scanned the opposite side of the street that bordered a potholed parking lot of a rundown train depot. The rumble of a freight train beat clickity-clack, clickity-clack through downtown and he nearly bolted through the windshield when its whistle screamed. The puppy whined and laid his head across Sam’s lap. “How do you think these folks deal with fifteen trains running through town every day, Pute? It must scramble the eggs in their cartons.” He scratched the boxer’s ears. “You’re mighty good company, pal. Always listening; never talking back.” Rasputin’s eyes glistened as he bounced up and pressed his considerable bulk into Sam’s ribs. The puppy yawned with a loud whine and sprawled across the bright Mexican blanket, laying his head in a slant of early October sunlight. Sam spotted a parking space in front of the dry goods store and flipped the cigarette butt out the window. He aimed the truck into the space, cut the engine, and cracked the passenger window an inch. “O.K. buddy. I’ll bring home the bacon! You, stay put.” Rasputin knew the word bacon. He sat up twitching his tail and lolling his tongue with quickened pants. Sam stretched long legs onto the sidewalk tucking a crisp shirttail into starch-creased jeans. He didn’t lock the doors. Crime, like parking, wasn’t a problem in a town of 8,500 residents — counting every last student in the red brick buildings at Sul Ross State University. At least crime wasn’t a problem for him. Bells clanged as Sam pushed through the front door of Yummy Chow and headed toward the cash register. “Mornin’. I’ll take black coffee, eggs over easy, extra bacon and some of Billie’s toasted bread.” “You got it!” The café owner smiled and adjusted a Red Sox baseball cap over a graying ponytail. He turned to the big metal coffee urn, poured steaming dark brew to the brim of a white mug and swung it onto the counter. “They say we could get snow.” Sam looked swiftly around the room and back with a stiff shrug. “Yeah.” Thumbing through bills from his jeans pocket he peeled a few and laid the money on the counter. His nerves still jangled from the close encounter on the highway his hand wobbled as he picked up the heavy mug of coffee, slopping liquid over the side. He grunted and crossed the crowded room looking around. His eyes rested on a neatly groomed couple sitting near the café’s front windows. Sauntering that way, he paused and tipped his hat. A flash of dislike crossed the woman’s face and Sam averted his eyes, taking a seat at an empty table behind her back. Barrett Compton leaned around his wife looking at Sam with a puzzled expression. Sam mouthed the word, “Later.” Amid low murmuring voices in the dining area a telephone rang. A slender college-age waitress shifted a stack of dirty dishes nosily from her arms to a nearby plastic bin and grabbed the phone from the wall behind the cash register. “Yummy Chow Café! Can I hep’ ya?” Sam stared at her firm round rump and leaned back smiling as an older waitress slid a steaming breakfast in front of him. “Thanks.”