James Smith - Hybrid

What a polished speaker he was. Until the day came that his John Deere tractor rolled over him. Why he wasn’t crushed to death still no one could explain. Not only did he break his pelvis, collar bone, a femur, three ribs, and become paralyzed from the waist down, it did worse. Regaining consciousness three days later, he spoke with a stutter, the beginning of the end of his career.

With one eye on the Loudermilks, Molly pretended to help the Judge in selecting winter wool shirts. Then she moseyed around the corner and sidestepped down their aisle as if searching for something. The oldest of the women moved in her direction. When she was close enough, Molly turned and smartly arranged a gentle bump. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see—”

“No problem, ma’am, I’m sure.”

“My goodness,” Molly blurted. “Aren’t you the one who did the fine drapes for Sally Pritchard last winter?”

“Well, yes. My sisters and I, that is.”

“I’d love to talk with you sometime about doing up a pair for my living room picture window.”

The woman caught Mr. Loudermilk glowering from a nearby aisle.

Molly tried to steal her attention. “I hope the colt that Dr. Harmon delivered for you is doing okay?”

The woman started to speak when the old man called out. “Miss Katherine?”

She lowered her head and moved away from Molly without answering.

Well, thank you very much. Next time I’ll bend over and—

“What are you up to?” the Judge asked, as he wheeled up behind her.

She shrugged, put on an air of innocence, and followed him back to the men’s shirt rack where he showed her three selections he was pondering. She vetoed each in turn.

On a nearby shelf, Sam Phillips adjusted stock, a ritual the store owner spent the better part of each day practicing. He greeted the Judge with a broad smile. Hard to miss, Sam hovered midway between six and seven feet. His shirtsleeves climbed high on his biceps for the likely purpose of either flaunting them or revealing tattoos of the Holy Cross on one arm and a faded likeness of Jesus on the other. “Been a while, Judge,” he said.

“Just came in to browse for s-s-some hiking boots,” he replied with a wink.

Sam smiled and returned to work, never looking at Molly. She once went before the Colter Town Council and complained about business owners fixing prices in the summers to take advantage of tourists—of course, punishing the locals in the process. It had been three years and he hadn’t spoken to her since.

Three damn years. At least he hadn’t spoken to her directly, only through the Judge. After loading up on household staples and checking out, Molly and the Judge returned to the truck. She opened the passenger door and helped him struggle into the cab, then collapsed his wheelchair and carried it to the rear of the truck, heaving it upon the tailgate. Before she climbed into the driver’s seat, she grabbed a folded note between the wiper blade and windshield:

I did not mean to be rude, my dear. Please call me at your earliest convenience: 555-7035.

You can bet your sweet ass I’ll call, Molly thought.

BantzMontgomery pounded for the third time on the front door of Jack Corey’s home. One good thing about working at Yellowstone headquarters was the commute between home and office. The Park Service provided a modest house within walking distance of the offices for each of the senior park rangers and key staff. All were built from the same locally quarried stone as the office complex.

Already 8:15, Corey was supposed to meet him an hour earlier at the office. Montgomery suspected a problem and had an inkling of it. He stopped knocking and took off to find the maintenance super for the Park homes. It was rarely better than a fifty-fifty chance to locate the guy, but this time Montgomery lucked out. The super, a thin-framed former cowboy had grown up in Casper and was a jack-of-all-trades. He complained about his long arthritic fingers while he jostled the master key around in Corey’s front door lock, then gently twisted the knob and cracked open the door.

“Thanks, Karl,” Montgomery said. “I’ll check on him.”

“I can’t keep doing this, Bantz. If the Big Wigs knew I was—”

“I’m sure Chief Corey just has a virus this time. He was coming down with something Friday.”

“It’s a damn shame about his wife and all. A man needs someone to take care of him. Don’t know what I’d do without Lenora.”

Montgomery shoved on the door. “Be sure and give her my regards, Karl.” Inside, he called out Corey’s name in a low voice at first, then louder as he walked through the living room.

No answer.

A newspaper spread out in sections on the seat of a stuffed easy chair and on the carpeted floor beside it. Three crushed Budweiser cans lay on the table next to the chair.

Corey’s wife Anne had called Montgomery from her apartment in West Yellowstone late the night before. That wasn’t unusual, she’d called him a dozen times since the breakup. She wanted others to understand that none of it was her fault. She had grown to hate Jack Corey’s twelve-hour days. He was more than a workaholic—he didn’t have a single interest outside of work. “Not a single damn thing, Bantz!” she’d yelled over the phone. Nothing other than the Park interested him. He didn’t know how to live or love anymore. Montgomery never told his boss about the calls. He gradually came to understand Corey’s mood swings, but didn’t totally sympathize with his plight.

The bedroom door was ajar. Corey lay sprawled out on the bed on top of the covers, snoring and smelling of hard liquor. When Montgomery picked up a glass tumbler from the bedside table and sniffed, his hunch was confirmed. He grabbed Corey’s shoulder and shoved, but he might as well have been a sack of flour. Calling out his name, he shook him harder and the bed began to rock. He placed his mouth down to Corey’s ear and shouted again. “Jack!”

Corey jerked up from the pillow as if someone had yanked him by the hair. “What the hell,” he groaned.

“I’ve been waiting for you at headquarters. You’re late. Remember our job this morning?”

After sitting up on the edge of his bed, Corey squeezed the sides of his head.

“The superintendent wants you to report to him by noon, Jack. He wants to know what we find out about the poacher.”

Corey rolled back onto the bed and over onto his stomach. “I don’t give a shit what Gilmer wants or when he wants it. I’m resigning.”

Montgomery walked into the bathroom and picked a damp towel off the tiled floor.

Corey called after him. “Did you hear me?”

Montgomery turned on the cold-water spigot and soaked the towel.

“I said I was resigning. Answer me, dammit!”

Montgomery returned to the bedroom and tossed the wet mass at his boss’ head. “Come on, Jack, get up. We’ve got this scum nailed. We can’t let him get away from us again.”

Corey rose up slowly while wiping his face on the towel. With Montgomery supporting him on one side, he staggered into the bathroom. Montgomery reached in and turned on the shower.

“You’ve done your job, asshole,” Corey muttered. “Now get out of here.”

“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen and make a pot of coffee. We’ve got to move on this, Jack. It’s already—”

Montgomery ducked in time to miss the shampoo bottle flying at his head.

Montgomery sat in silence as his boss sped down the highway toward the town of Red Lodge.

“Tell me the name of this guy again,” Corey demanded.

“Dietz. Nathan Dietz.”

“Sounds like a kraut.”