James Burke - Feast Day of Fools

He and Pam Tibbs interviewed Danny Boy before he went into surgery, then tried unsuccessfully to find the ambulance attendant. Hackberry and Pam and their deputies and the surgeons and the other hospital personnel all did their jobs throughout the power outage, not thinking, just doing, never taking the time to wonder if any of it mattered or not. You did your job and you let the score take care of itself. How many times a day did Hackberry offer that same tired workhorse counsel to himself? Was that how one ended his days? Probably, he thought. No, there was no “probably” about it. If you thought about mortality in any other fashion, you’d go insane or put a gun in your mouth.

After the power came back on, he and Pam drove two blocks to a cafe on the courthouse square and had coffee and a piece of pie. Through the window, Hackberry could see the trees on the courthouse lawn and the mist blowing across the lawn and the streetlights shining on a bronze statue of a World War I doughboy, his ’03 Springfield gripped in one hand, his other hand raised above his head as though he were rallying his comrades.

“You look tired,” Pam said.

“You mean I look old.”

“No, I don’t mean that at all.”

“I’m fine. I’ve never been better.”

“Pray that liars aren’t kept a long time in purgatory.”

“Pam, you should have been a low-overhead dentist, someone who does fillings and extractions without the extra cost of Novocain.”

She gazed out the window at the rain and at the drops of water beaded on the glass. Her eyelashes were reddish brown against the glow of the streetlamp; a wet strand of hair curved against her cheek. He couldn’t tell if she was thinking about the two of them or all the events of the past few days. She seemed to read his thoughts. “Why does a mass killer make himself vulnerable to arrest by buying stolen medicine from a junkie in order to take care of a stranger?” she said.

“That’s what every one of them does.”

“Every one of who does what?” she said.

“All sociopaths. They do good deeds as a tribute to their own power and to convince others they’re like the rest of us.”

“You don’t think Collins has any feelings about Noie Barnum?”

“I think the only genuine emotion he’s capable of is self-pity.”

“I don’t like to see you bitter.”

He placed his fork on the side of his plate and poured cream from a small pitcher on top of his half-eaten wedge of blueberry pie. He picked up his fork and then hesitated and set it down again. “By the seventh-inning stretch, this is what you learn. Evil people are different from the rest of us. Redneck cops, Klansmen, predators who rape and murder children, ChiCom prison guards, and messianic head cases like Jack Collins, all of them want us to think they’re complex or they’re patriots or they’re ideologues. But the simple truth is, they do what they do because it makes them feel good.”

“Would you have put that broken pool cue down that bartender’s throat?”

“The bartender thought so. That’s all that counts.”

“Don’t stop being who you are because of these guys. You’ve always said it yourself: Don’t give them that kind of power.”

Hackberry stared out the window at the electricity trembling on the tree above the bronze figure of the doughboy. The statue’s head was turned slightly to one side, the mouth open, as though the doughboy were yelling an encouraging word over his shoulder to those following him across no-man’s-land. Did they know what awaited them? Did they know the Maxim machine guns that would turn them into chaff were the creation of a British inventor?

Hackberry wondered who had erected the monument. He wanted to call them idiots or flag-wavers or members of the unteachable herd. But words such as those were as inaccurate as they were jaundiced and hateful, he thought. In our impotence to rescind all the decisions that led to war, we erected monuments to assuage the wandering spirits whose lives had been stolen, and to somehow compensate the family members whose loss they would carry to the grave. Who were the greater victims? Those who gave their lives or those who made the war?

He said none of these things and instead watched a man in a wilted hat park his car in front of the cafe and come inside.

“Ethan Riser is here,” Hackberry said. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about him. He found out recently he has terminal cancer. No matter what he says tonight, he gets a free pass.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t think he wants other people to know. He’s one of those guys who never shows his hole card, even when the game is over.”

She pinched her eyes with her thumb and index finger, then widened them, the lines in her face flattening. “I’m not to be trusted?” she said.

“Don’t do that.”

“You treat me like I’m some kind of burden you have to put up with, someone you have to instruct regarding decent behavior.”

“Come on, Pam, stop it.”

“You have no sense at all of the pain your words cause, particularly to someone who cares about you. Goddammit, Hack.”

He let out his breath and tried to keep his face empty when he waved at Ethan Riser.

“Just go fuck yourself,” she said.

“Did I walk in on anything?” Ethan said, not looking directly at either one of them, his smile awkward.

“How you doin’?” Hackberry said.

“Pretty good. Can I join you?”

“Yes, sir,” Hackberry said.

“You sure?”

“Sit down, Ethan,” Hackberry said, moving over, not looking at Pam.

“Lorca is out of surgery,” Riser said. “It’s nice to see you, Chief Deputy.”

“You, too,” Pam replied.

“Lorca told me about the ambulance attendant and the possibility of Jack Collins and Noie Barnum being in the Glass Mountains. I have the feeling you might be headed up there, Sheriff.”

“I can’t say I’ve given it any thought,” Hackberry replied.

“I have trouble believing that,” Riser said. “This time out, you and Chief Deputy Tibbs need to stay in your own bailiwick. I can’t order you to do that, but I can ask you.”

“Whatever we decide to do, we’ll coordinate with the Bureau,” Hackberry said.

“Ever hear how Pretty Boy Floyd died?”

“Shot down while running from some federal agents on a farm in Ohio?”

“Something like that. Except there’s an unofficial account to the effect that he didn’t die right away. He was wounded and lying on his back when the agents got to him. One agent asked him if he was Pretty Boy Floyd. Floyd answered, ‘I’m Charles Arthur Floyd.’ Then somebody gave the order to finish him off, and that’s what they did.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Hackberry said.

“It makes for a good story, that’s all.”

“It’s not your style.”

“Probably not,” Riser said. “I’d sure like some of that pie.”

“Ethan, did you hear me? That’s not your style.”

“I’m all talk. You know that. Miss, could I have a piece of that blueberry pie with some ice cream on it and a cup of coffee?”

“It’s on us,” Pam said.

“I appreciate it.”

“Listen to Hack, Agent Riser.”

“Of course.”

The waitress brought the pie and ice cream and coffee, and Pam and Hackberry watched Ethan Riser eat. They also watched the way his eyes crinkled and the way his gaze seemed to probe the darkness outside the window, and each sensed in the other the embarrassment they felt while they watched a brave man try to mask the fact that he was under a death sentence.

“This area has never been quite real to me,” Riser said. “It’s a place where nothing is what it seems. A piece of moonscape where improbable people live and lunatics can hide in plain sight.”