The Mourning Tree

Nathan doubted he would ever look forward to another Halloween.

A bell rang as he walked through the front door, making him feel like he was entering a convenience store and not an office of law enforcement. A tall young man in the uniform of a sheriff's deputy leaned on the smooth surface of the long, narrow front desk, lazily flipping through a magazine. Even upside down, Nathan could tell it was some hunting periodical. The deputy raised his gaze to take in his unexpected guest, but very little interest showed in his face.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yeah, Deputy...Uh...Hammond. I'm Detective Nathan Yost with the Houston P.D., and I would like to speak to the sheriff."

"You got some I.D., Detective?"

Nathan fished his wallet out of his back pocket, holding it out for the deputy who plucked it from his hand and gave it a long perusal as if confident it must be fake.

"Long way from Houston..." he commented in a slow, southern drawl.

"Is the sheriff available?" asked Nathan.

"Aren't you in an all-fired hurry. I guess in the big city people hop to when a detective waves his badge, huh?"

Nathan's eyes narrowed, and he fought down the burst of temper that threatened to erupt out. It wouldn't do to get off on the wrong foot with these guys, it was their town after all, and he needed their cooperation.

"I'm just here to do a job, Deputy, and I could use your department's assistance. Now, about the sheriff?"

Deputy Hammond smiled contemptuously at the older man, not bothering to hand his I.D. back but dropping it onto the counter for Nathan to retrieve.

"Wait here."

The lanky deputy vanished through a doorway into the back of the station while Nathan returned his wallet to his back pocket. He perused the station house while he waited counting six desks as well as a communications array in the corner where a white-haired older woman sat ignoring him while she filed away at her long nails.

"Hot day outside," he commented, trying to make conversation.

"It's Central Texas, not the Arctic. Were you expecting snow?" she said sarcastically not looking up from her work, but pausing to blow on her nails.

"No...Ma'am. I was just making an observation."

"Aren't you sharp as a tack noticing it's hot in Texas. I bet you're a top catcher of criminals back in Houston."

"I do alright," said Nathan tightly.

The older woman looked up for the first time, revealing a face that in her youth would probably have drawn in more than a few of the local boys to buy her a drink.

"You're a long way from home, Detective."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"You up here trying to chase down one of the F.B.I.'s most wanted?"

"I'm working a case, yes, but nothing nearly so exciting."

"Chasing anyone I know?"

Nathan hesitated to answer and saw the woman's eyes widen. There was nothing small-town folks liked better than gossip about their neighbors.

"Who is it? You can tell me, Detective. I know how to keep a secret," she said.

"We both know that is a damn lie, Thelma Martin!" boomed a loud voice.

The man who had commented looked to Nathan like the epitome of the small-town sheriff. A broad-shouldered fellow around six-foot-tall with thinning brown hair, and a gut that threatened to drop over his gun belt at any moment. He lumbered up to take Nathan's hand in a bone-shaking grip.

"Detective Yost. I'm Bart Sandusky, current, and if the political winds blow right, future sheriff of these here parts."

The big man had a bit of a twinkle in his pale blue eyes and was just a beard short of being Santa Claus in Nathan's estimation.

"It's nice to meet you, Sheriff."

"I hope you didn't spill any information to Thelma here. She is a notorious gossip!"

"I am not!" snapped Thelma indignantly.

"Don't let Pastor Owen hear you were fibbing like that, Thelma. He'll kick you out of the choir sure as the Earth is flat."

Thelma went back to her nail polishing, apparently deciding that she had been criticized enough for one day.

"Detective. Why don't you come back to my office and we'll have us a little chat."

The sheriff waved Nathan back the way he had come and followed him through a doorway that led to a series of three rooms before dead-ending in the locked, barred door to the holding cells. They settled themselves into a rather homey looking office complete with fishing trophies on the bookcase, and a photo of the sheriff with a group of four other men holding a catfish big enough to lay across all of their outstretched arms.

"He was a monster that one. It took me an hour to get that nasty bastard up into the boat," explained the sheriff, noting Nathan's interest.

"I imagine that was a heck of a fight," admitted Nathan.

"So, Detective. What brings you out here?"

As he began to explain about the jewelry store heist back in Houston, the sheriff pulled a pipe from his desk drawer and stuffed it with tobacco, lighting it and letting a pungent cloud of smoke float upward toward the ceiling.

"Hmmm...so you think Travis has come home to roost?"

"It's one theory. Honestly, we suspect that it's more likely he is headed south, but we have to check into every potential lead."

Nathan had to cover a cough from the smoke as he finished.

"Hope you don't mind. A good pipe helps me think," apologized the sheriff.

"It's fine," lied Nathan.

"Travis Coleman...That there is a sad story, for sure."

"How so?"

The sheriff puffed out a few more wisps of smoke before he began to explain, looking like a wise old dragon breathing out his tale of woe.

"Travis was a good boy. Home town hero in this neck of the woods. Led our Wranglers to a state championship some years back, about the greatest thing that ever happened to this town, Hell, maybe the only good thing. Life didn't start easy for him, though. I remember him as a kid. His dad was an ornery old cuss, Willard Coleman, used to beat his poor wife Imogene for so much as looking at him funny. I don't know if Travis ever caught any of that Hell, but it wouldn't have surprised me any if he did. Imogene took the boy and ran away a few times, but Willard would always coax her back somehow. She did eventually get wise and left him for good when Travis was about six. Thankfully for all concerned, Willard got drunk as a skunk one night and crashed his pickup right into a tree out on I-17, killed him deader than dog shit."

"Sounds like it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

"Too right! Anyway, Imogene eventually remarried to the owner of our local feed store, one Wes Talbot. A much better gentleman in every way."

"Things were looking up?"

"I would say so. Travis had a better life with Wes then he did with his own father. If it hadn't been for Greg, everything would have been coming up roses."

"Greg?" asked Nathan.

"Wes had a son from a previous marriage, a couple of years older than Travis, and I tell you an apple never fell further from the tree. Greg was always trouble. Nothing serious mind you, but always up to mischief, and Travis worshiped the ground he walked on. The two of them would sometimes get into messes together. Small-time stuff like five-finger discounts at the dime store, or when they were older joy-riding on one of old man Nealy's tractors. Eventually, Travis discovered football in junior high, and that settled him down some. He and Greg drifted apart after high school."

Nathan pulled his phone from his breast pocket and pulled up a picture of the jewelry store crime scene.

"Is this the man you're talking about?"

Sheriff Sandusky took the offered phone and squinted at the photo, slowly nodding his head.

"That's Greg, alright. He's looked better."

"Bullets will do that to a man," noted Nathan.

"So they were in on this thing together...I have to say I never imagined the two of them would ever get into anything so violent, Greg maybe, but not Travis."

"You have any idea why?"

The sheriff puffed on his pipe a few more times before he answered.

"After the state championship, Travis drew some interest from a few colleges. One of them offered him a full scholarship to play football for them, Texas State maybe I don't recall exactly, but I do remember what happened next. Poor kid blew out his knee at the first practice, and the program dropped him like a hot potato. His dream ended before it even started. He came back to Harwood shortly after and started working at the Horton dairy farm and doing the occasional odd job around town while living back with his mom and step-dad. Then about two years ago, Wes up and died from a heart attack. The store was in the red, and I think the pressure was getting to him. Anyway, it wasn't long after that I heard Imogene was sick with breast cancer and needed a lot of expensive treatments. Travis doted on that mother of his, and I'm guessing that may have led to this mess."

"You think he contacted Greg for help, and that might have led to this robbery attempt?"

"It could have gone down that way. I don't know for sure. Greg left town right after graduation, and no one heard much from him after, so he could have made his way to Houston."

"If Travis did run back here, where do you suppose he would go? His mothers?"

"That would be the obvious place, but he had a lot of friends and admirers. Hometown hero, remember? Then there is always Holly."

"Holly?"

"Holly Mansfield. She and Travis were sweethearts in high school. I think they rekindled things for a while after he came back, but it didn't work out between the two of them. Still, he loved her something fierce at one time, so I would say that's a possibility as well."

"I could use your help, Sheriff. You know the people around here, and they are more likely to talk to you than to some stranger from the big city."

"I should warn you. We may have a tough time getting anything out of folks around here. Travis Coleman was a legend in this town. For one brief, shining moment, he put us on the map, and people loved him for it."

"So you think just about anyone here would hide him?"

"I wouldn't put it past them, and I guarantee they would turn a blind eye if they saw him."

"It's still my job to try," said Nathan solemnly.

"I understand, Detective, merely trying to illuminate the ground in front of you."

The sheriff rose from his desk, plucking a hat from the rack by the door and motioning Nathan to follow.

"Gary! Mind the store. Detective Yost and I need to take a ride."

The lanky deputy from before was back at his spot behind the counter, and he frowned as the pair of men walked by him.

"We just got a call from the high school. Someone broke into the bus barn again, probably kids wanting to spray paint dirty pictures on the buses," said the deputy.

Sheriff Sandusky rolled his eyes, "It's that time of year. O.K., Gary, go ahead and take the call. Thelma, radio Clarence to cut his lunch short and hall his ass back here! I don't want the desk unmanned for too long."

"Right, Chief," snapped Thelma picking up her headset.

The deputy brushed past Nathan jostling him a bit as he went passed.

"Sorry," he said, sounding anything but given his tone.

"Sure..." replied Nathan deciding not to give him the satisfaction of showing his temper.

The Talbot place lay well outside of town, and Nathan watched the empty fields roll by as the sheriff's car, which smelled of brisket barbecue and old tobacco, ate up the miles.

"You from Houston originally, Detective?"

"Yes, and you can call me Nathan if you like."

"So, you're a big city boy, born and raised then, Nathan?"

"I suppose. I do have relatives, some cousins that lived out near Nacogdoches that I visit on occasion, but for the most part, I've always stayed around Houston."

The sheriff nodded, wiping some sweat from his brow.

"Hot for October, ain't it? Me, I tried that big city living for a while. The wife and I lived for a few years up in Fort Worth, but I tell you I wouldn't go back for all the money in the world. All that traffic and noise, beats me how a man can think with all that going on."

Nathan laughed, "I hear you. I guess some folks just like the convenience of being close to things."

"If by close you mean having your neighbors live right on top of you then I say, 'No, Thanks!'"

"You may be right..." admitted Nathan, thinking especially about the traffic.

The sheriff veered off the main highway onto a bumpy dirt road that wound back through a small forest of trees before emerging in front of a two-story house with a long front porch. The home had seen better days with the paint peeling and chipping from outside. The steps creaked as Nathan, and Sheriff Sandusky climbed toward the heavy oak front door making Nathan worry briefly about plunging right through the old wood. A loud banging on the door by one of the sheriff's meaty fists brought a thin, almost emaciated looking woman out onto the porch. Her hair was thinning and in bad need of a hairbrush, and she squinted up at the two men like a pissed off bear pulled too early from its winter slumber.

"Well! What the Hell do you want, Bart? You pulled me up right when "Wheel of Fortune" was coming on."

"Sorry to bother you, Imogene. This is Detective Yost from Houston."

"I didn't think he was a new deputy. He doesn't look dumb enough for you to hire."

"Now, Imogene we've talked about this, Gary did not mean to run over your dog, but he was in the middle of the road!"

"Says that lying sack of shit you call a deputy!"

"We've apologized officially, and I did offer to get you another dog."

"I don't want another dog. I want Buford back!"

"Buford is scattered across three miles of I-10, Imogene, ain't nothing bringing that dog back short of an act of God."

"Excuse me, folks!" cut in Nathan, trying to break up what appeared to be a long-running feud.

The sheriff cleared his throat, embarrassed, and quickly decided to change the subject while he could.

"Imogene. The detective and I came out here to talk to you about your boy, Travis."

"What about Travis?"

"When was the last time you saw him?" asked Nathan.

The older woman turned her dark eyes on the detective, and he saw more than a little sorrow in that gaze.

"I haven't seen Travis in almost two years. What do you want with him anyway?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you this, but your son was involved in a robbery in Houston, and we are trying to bring him in."

"Bullshit! My boy would never do anything like that!"

"It's true, Imogene, he and Greg were both were there. Greg...Well, I hate to tell you this, but he was killed in an exchange of gunfire with one of the store owners."

"Greg's dead? That don't surprise me none. That boy was always a bad seed, but not Travis, he was a good boy."

"I'm sure that's true, but we need to talk with him just the same, and it's in his best interest if you let us know if he has tried to contact you," said the sheriff.

"I told you I haven't heard anything from Travis, and he ain't here."

"Would you mind if we looked around?" asked Nathan.

"Would you mind if I kicked your ass?"

"That's enough, Imogene!" snapped the sheriff as he stepped between the pissed off old woman and Nathan.

"You want to look in my house; then you go get yourself a warrant, Bart Sandusky!"

"I will do that very thing, Imogene. In the meantime, I promise you that if I find out you've been hiding that boy!"

"You'll what? Throw me in jail? Cancer will kill me just as quick in there as it will out here! Do your worst, Fat Boy!"

"God Dammit!"

Nathan grabbed the sheriff by one arm dragging the larger man backward.

"It's fine, Sheriff. We'll be back, Ma'am. Sorry for disturbing you."

"Fuck you!" shouted the old lady slamming her door behind her.

The two men stood on the porch staring at the closed door.

"Well...that went well...She's a real pistol."

"Imogene didn't use to be quite so bitchy. I think the chemotherapy is screwing with her head."

"Can we get a warrant?"

"Judge Foster is on vacation right now, fishing in New Mexico. He has a fill-in, but I think he is up running trials in Hillsdale about seventy miles from here. If I can get a hold of him, he could fax us the warrant."

Nathan wasn't used to being away from the more advanced technology and speedy information transfer available in Houston. He could see where this could slow the investigation down, but there wasn't much that could be done about it.

"That's fine. What about this Holly Mansfield?"

"Holly lives out the opposite side of town in her parent's old place."

Nathan and Sheriff Sandusky reversed course and started to drive back toward town. Just as they were about to arrive, the sheriff's radio began to squawk.

"Hey, Chief! You got your ears on?"

"This is Sandusky," acknowledged the sheriff lifting the microphone to his lips.

"We got a jack-knifed big rig out on F.M. 22 blocking the roadway. I hear tell some folks are getting mighty pissed. Deputy Worthy is out there, but he could use some help."

"Right, O.K. Thelma, tell Pat I'm on my way."

"Sorry, duty calls," said the sheriff.

"Would you mind if I went out to the Mansfield place on my own?"

"You want to take on Holly by yourself, huh? I think you may find her more of a handful than Imogene," chuckled the sheriff.

"Seriously?"

"Nah...Holly's a pussycat..." replied the sheriff, but the twinkle in his pale blue eyes said something else entirely.

The two parted ways in town, and Nathan followed his GPS to the address the sheriff had given him, which turned out to be a farmhouse very much like the one occupied by Imogene Talbot, but in much better shape. The blue and white home had the all too typical wide front porch that went around half the house. He mounted the front steps, needing far less care than he had on the partly rotted ones at the Talbot home, to rap on the door. His first attempt went unheeded, and he was about to try a second time when the door snapped open so abruptly he was rendered momentarily speechless in surprise.

"I think you're supposed to say 'Hello' first," said the petite red-head who had opened the door.

"Um...Hello..." stuttered Nathan, his brain still trying to get in gear.

"Are you here about the trees? You were supposed to be here yesterday, but today works just as well, I suppose."

"Trees? I don't know about any trees, Ma'am. My name is Nathan Yost, and..."

"So you're not with the Methodist Church volunteer group? They said they would send someone to help me plant the trees."

"What!? No...Like I was saying, I'm Nathan..."

"Damned Methodist! You can never trust them to do anything! Well...fine. I'll just plant the fuckers myself!"

The screen door between him and his host flew open, so quickly Nathan was forced to scramble out of the way as the young woman burst past him headed for the garage that sat next to the house. By the time he caught up with her, she had raised the wide aluminum door revealing a pickup truck with its bed partly filled by potted saplings about five-foot-tall each.

"Do you know how to handle a shovel, Mister?"

"Yost...Nathan Yost, and...Yeah, but I'm not here about..."

"Good. I could probably do this by myself, but it would go a lot faster with your help. The shovel is over in the corner. I need to get Sam, and we can..."

"Hold it!" cried Nathan in exasperation.

The young woman stopped as if she had been slapped standing still and barely blinking as he looked down upon her. Now that he had her attention, he found himself at a loss as to what he had been about to say. In fairness to Nathan, he wasn't the first man to be struck dumb in the presence of Holly Mansfield. Her soft, brown eyes had just a hint of glimmering gold in them that caught the light of the sun streaming into the garage and made them shine with little flickers when she turned her head. The thick cascade of red, curly hair that surrounded her small, oval face, ran over her shoulders and down her back like a fiery mane and set off her flawless, fair skin making it appear that she had been dipped in fine porcelain and set on a pedestal for men to admire.