Chapter 8
Paul Madsen The smell of burning rubber accompanied the sound of skidding tires as Sheriff Paul Madsen flung his patrol car into one of the empty parking stalls in front of Marshal Roman's real estate office. The day was cool and crisp, which went a short way to calm the heat of Paul's temper. He didn't bother pulling the keys out of the ignition after turning off the engine, letting them dangle from the steering column instead. The door chimed its incessant reminder about this, which he ignored. Stomping his way across to the entrance, he let hauled the door hard enough by the handle to make it rattle when it hit its full extension. "Damn thing," he mumbled. Marcie Rall, the round-and-friendly secretary, looked up, surprise folding her doughy face. "Sheriff Madsen! Wh-what…is there anything wrong?" "Clawson. He here?" "In the back. I'll go--" "I'll do it." He breezed past the secretary, past Roman's kid--Paul remembered seeing her talking to Dane for a bit after the funeral a four days back, which he'd taken as a sign that maybe he'd heard wrong about Dane and Gwendolyn being a thing…which he was clearly mistaken about. Paul's attention shifted from the Roman girl and to the office door which was swinging open just as he arrived. "…interference, if you know what I mean," Clawson was saying. "You done here, Clawson?" asked Paul, his tone sharp and commanding. Even before his academy days, before he knew that his true calling in life was law enforcement, Paul had had a strong presence. He hadn't become a sheriff because of it, but he'd beaten out the competition for the job because he knew how to use it. Authority, he'd learned, was a powerful tool, one that required a lot of finesse and care. Fortunately, most people wanted to be controlled, wanted to be ruled. He was as red-blooded American as a person could find--Utah's red-state tendencies were a touch too pinko for him--but he knew that freedom wasn't what people truly craved: They wanted a strongman to keep them safe. Protection over liberty. The mark of his tenure as sheriff, though, was acting in a way that didn't remind people of that truth. In this particular case, the brusque, no-time-for-nonsense version of a sheriff worked better than any other. True, his anger at Dane Amleth, Jr. made this an easier choice, but Paul was a professional; he could use the right kind of authority in whatever way the situation called for. "Uh, yeah," said Clawson, shooting a stray glance at Marshal, who--as always--looked mousy and afraid. "We're done." "I'll call you if there's any development," said Marshal. The realtor gave Paul a curt nod. "Sheriff." "Roman." The realtor nodded again, then turned into his office, closing the door behind him. "What's going on, Paul?" "We need to fish." Clawson hesitated a moment, then glanced down the hallway. The office building wasn't large; they could easily see that no one was nearby. Still, Clawson lowered his voice as he asked, "Is everything okay?" "Peachy. Let's go." "Okay." He reached into his pocket. "Oh, look, they're already at the Lodge. Okay, yeah, we should give the place a bit of a wide berth for now. You want to head to Huntington Reservoir?" "Fine. I've got gear in the back already." This was not new; Paul always had his fishing gear in the back of the SUV. It was one of the perks of living in this part of Utah, to say nothing of the benefits of the office. Noah didn't see much in the way of crime--pulling over people speeding through the town on their way north to Utah County or south down to Manti made up most of his law enforcement work, along with calming down domestic disputes as they cropped up--which left him with plenty of time on his hands. Sure, there was paperwork that he could catch up on at the office, but he wasn't in the mood to do that now. And who was going to make him? "Let's go, then," said Clawson, gesturing for him to take the lead. The Roman girl, Paul noticed, watched them with those empty expressions that Millennials all seemed to have. She probably wanted to 'eat the rich' or some other liberal crap. He wondered if that was a pumpkin spice latte that she held in her Styrofoam cup. Punk kid. He wished he could remember her name. It was something to do with music. He couldn't really remember. Sheriff Madsen made it a point to know as many people as he could, but it wasn't worth his effort to learn the kids' names--they grew up, grew ungrateful, and left their roots behind. Good riddance, then. The fewer people he had to worry about, the easier his job was. Paul and Clawson climbed into the SUV and started their way northward up State Road 85. They drove in silence for a good five minutes before Clawson said, "Care to tell me what's got you so pissy? You're like my ex." "What's that supposed to mean?" asked Paul in as calm a voice as he could muster. Considering how furious he was at Clawson's stepson, that was, in Paul's considered opinion, pretty impressive. "It means you're acting like you're menopausal," said Clawson. "Why are we going fishing?" "Because it's a nice day and I want to fish." "But you talked to Dane, didn't you? That was your plan. Talk to him first, before sending your daughter in. See if you could figure out why he treated her that way." "I think your kid is a damn psycho." Clawson looked out the passenger window, resting his teeth on his thumb. "Not really my kid, is he? Not yet, anyway." "Whatever you want to call it, the kid's loco. He said all sorts of…" Paul thought back to the conversation he'd had with Dane. It had been so…weird. That was the only way to classify it. Of course, over the course of Paul's career, he'd had his fair share of weirdos. Noah was hardly a hotbed of crime. There hadn't been a murder there since before the millennium switched over (and he thanked the god he didn't believe in for that mercy), and despite a rash of robberies and burglaries in the early Obama days, the place was pretty damn safe. Still, that didn't mean that nothing bizarre happened. The sole bar in town could get rowdy, especially on the weekends. Once, he'd been forced to take down an exhibitionist who'd decided to streak the crowd during the high school's Homecoming game. That had been an unpleasant job. Dane's conversation, though, was different. It had felt so unpredictable and, to be honest, Paul had felt the power dynamic shift away from him to the young Amleth so rapidly that it had left him a touch confused. Not that Paul would tell Clawson that. Instead, he told him about the knocked over vase, the book, and the weird answers to Clawson's questions. "I was about ready to redecorate his throat with his teeth, Claw, I gotta be honest." "Yeah," said Clawson, his gaze distant. Paul had known Clawson long before the latter had headed north for school and business and life. Since Clawson's return a few years back, he and the rancher had gained a good friendship and special understanding of each other's unique situations. That expression, however, Paul had only seen a handful of times before. "So, what are we gonna do?" Clawson shifted in his seat so that he could look at the sheriff more fully. "Do?" "Yeah," said Paul in the kind of voice he used when he was talking to someone clearly stupider than he. Not bothering to click the blinker on, he swung right and headed eastward toward the canyon that would eventually take them to the reservoir. "He broke my girl's heart. Then he mouthed off to me." Clawson pinched the bridge of his nose, as if battling a headache. "That's why I called in those two." "Those two?" "Yeah. I can't remember their names. Ryan and Joe or something like that. They used to be Dane's friends. They've been--" He paused, diving a hand into his down-vest pocket and pulling out his cell phone. "Speak of the devil." "That them?" Clawson nodded as he swiped the answer slider on the screen. "Hello? Yup. Uh-huh. Okay, but…No, I don't remember Ricky…he went where? You didn't follow him? Well, why the hell am I paying you if you're not going to do the damn job?" Paul only listened with half an ear. Parcels of a conversation like this didn't really interest him, and he was still irritated to think that Clawson's great plan was to sic a couple of old friends. How was that supposed to help? Clawson gave a couple of ayups and uh-huhs, then tapped the phone off. "Pissants." "What's up?" "I thought that maybe we could get some eyes on Dane. He's been acting suspicious--not just from what happened with your daughter, but in general, I mean." "Anything in particular?" Clawson made a disgusted sound. "You know, I mean…yeah his dad's in the ground. They were pretty close, for the most part. But he gives me these looks." Clawson shivered, as if the memories of the expression were enough to chill him. "And I just get this vibe that he's up to something." He shook his head. "I'm too new in the house--I've lived there for a couple of years, you know, but it's different now." Paul snorted. "I still can't believe you popped the question at your brother's funeral." Clawson made that same disgusted sound, which made Paul's nerves jangle. "It put pressure on Jenny to say yes. That's what matters." "Weird play, Claw." "Maybe. We'll see how it pans out." "Did these friends get any information? Figure anything out?" Clawson shook his head, which Paul tracked from the corner of his eye. "Sounds like he gave them some grief, too, then drove off. They don't know where." "So?" drawled Paul. "You think we should just leave it alone?" "Hell no. The kid's doing something. I think we can figure it out. But…" He hesitated, and Paul sensed that he was coming to some conclusion. "I think we'll have to use your daughter after all." "I was afraid you'd say that." "Yeah." Clawson looked out the window for a long minute, the autumnal scenery blurring by in gray-and-brown streaks. "I was hoping to avoid it. Nothing doing." "'Salright, she's a strong girl." He snorted. "For a girl, I mean." "I hear ya." "We'll send her over later tonight. That work?" "Yeah," said Clawson, his voice as distant as his gaze had been earlier. "Yeah, I think so. We'll keep Jenny out of the Lodge when we do, though. We don't need a woman's interference, if you know what I mean." Paul grunted. He did. Women tended to meddle, in his experience. Still, he missed his wife. She'd been a great woman--pretty, quick to do his bidding, great in the sack. It didn't hurt as much anymore, however, now that so many years had passed. He shook his head as if trying to cast off the gloom of such thoughts. He still wanted to punch Dane's mouth through the back of his head, but hearing that Clawson was also struggling with the kid made Paul feel better, somehow. Well, if nothing else, here was a chance to get things moving again. If Gwendolyn couldn't get to the bottom of his behavior--confront him with his sin, as it were--then there was always that impromptu tooth-extraction option. And, to be honest, he wouldn't mind toeing that line of excessive force. He'd like to see the little punk make a case for that. For the first time that day, Paul felt something approaching a smile creep across his face. |