Shirley M.
Gallegos, writing recently in The Sage newsletter of SouthWest Writers Club, quoted Heinrich Heine: “Where they have burned books,
they will end in burning human beings.” She was editorializing
about the recent case in Tucson, Arizona over banning texts for
Chicano Studies. That case wasn't about human immolation; it was
about culture immolation. It raised a national ruckus.
Ms. Gallegos went
on to discuss "...the free exchange of ideas that books
generate". Which made me reminisce, then got my nostrils
smoking.
Once upon a time I
was a newspaper journalist and newscaster. I'm proud of that; the
news I covered got a couple of harmful statutes eliminated and a
criminal doctor bounced from the A.M.A. I quit the field because of
two incidents: an advertiser who owned an apartment block objected to
my publishing the landlord-tenant law, and a bunch of other
advertisers objected to my stated preference for a tiny hamburger
stand in the boonies.
I got a warning
from the Managing Editor on behalf of the landlord.
I was hung in
effigy by the worthies who operated competing hamburger stands, and
the M.E. gave me another warning.
You ask, "How
do you relate 'fiction' [the major subject of this blogsite] to
Heine's statement about books in general?
I answer, "You
can get away with stuff in fiction."
The same population
that drove me from journalism supported, voted for and begged to
install a new mine that would have destroyed the last unpolluted
river in California and killed off the newly fledged salmon runs.
When I wrote a thriller about that mine, populated it with dozens of
corpses and a slathering beast of a villain, the same people gave me
rubber-chicken dinners and asked me to speak.
Enough said, except
to tell you the mine was never built.
Here's Chapter 13
of that novel, Dead on Dutcher's Mountain.
Thirteen
Hillary dialed
McCoy’s office from Rosalie’s kitschy office, got his machine,
and hung up. If he’d finished Gail’s autopsy, he could tell her
how she died and how long it took. If she wanted to know, that is;
fatigue was piling up and the story wouldn’t come. She dialed
again, this time to his home. The number hadn’t changed.
“McCoy.”
Nor had his
greeting. Her voice was too high. “Are you in the study?”
Time was taken for
a swallow; probably of coffee. “Breakfast room, having lunch.
Tuna sandwich, pickles, raw carrots. Alone.” She heard his smile.
What can I do for you? I was going to call you.”
“Nothing
difficult. I’m writing Gail’s obit.” McCoy made a noise.
“Don’t be crude, I can’t refuse. Did you finish the autopsy?
The results would help me.” No they wouldn’t; she wanted to cry
and her voice clogged up. “Sorry, Earl. Forget it. Tell me about
your day. Your night.” Silence. “Talk to me, Earl.”
“Come down off
that mountain, Hill. Get away from that mess.”
“I can’t.”
“You can too.
Brad can write that obituary, and Brian doesn’t need your skinny
shoulder to cry on.”
“Karen needs me.”margaretraymond.com/books
“Where is now, if
she needs you?”
Duty slid from
Hillary’s shoulders and puddled like slime on the floor. “Thanks,”
she said.
McCoy paused. “Do
you still like to fish?”
“I don’t
remember. I haven’t done any since I left.”
“Can I jog your
memory? Next weekend?”
“I’d love
that.”
“Good. What are
your plans today, Hill? When are you coming to town, if you won’t
this morning?”
“After the
dinner. Altstock is having a big feed for the board of supes. I
thought I’d get a couple of extra shots for the tabloid.”
“Is that big guy
still talking about your mutual fate?”
“Voerst? How did
you know?”
“Spies.”
“Rosalie?”
“Never mind. Is
he?”
“Yes. She loves
it.”
“Rosalie harbors
romantic delusions. Keep away from that creep.”
“What?”
“I mean it. He’s
bad stuff.”
“Earl McCoy,
that’s silly.”
“No it’s not,
Hill.” A new note was entering the sheriff’s tone, no longer
bantering. He said, “That man is sick. I don’t ever want to see
you alone with him.”
“That’s a
rather peremptory tone.”
“...Hillary
Webster,” McCoy breathed.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever
listened to advice? In your life?”
“Sure Earl. I
listen to advice.”
“And you lie a
lot.” McCoy began to coax. “Listen, Hill. I have a
professional feeling--and I want to emphasize it’s
professional--that your Karl Voerst is bad stuff. I also have some
unverified information to that effect. Did you see the way he acted
last night by the cave? Please, if your own experience hasn’t
taught you, just take my word. As a friend. Keep away from him.”
“I’ll think
about it. Only...”
“Only? You don’t
have a date with him, do you?”
“No. ‘Only’
means I think it’s odd that all you men gang up on the first really
attractive foreigner who comes along.”
“All you men?
Who else is warning you?”
“Gun doesn’t
like him, and Brian doesn’t either. Bri called him ‘the
undead.’”
“Well, listen to
them.”
“All right, Earl,
I’m listening. But it won’t make up my mind.” She changed her
tone. “And I get to use your flies next weekend.”
“Any one you
like.”
She smirked and
hung up.
The story came
swiftly. She finished half an hour before Altstock was due for their
delayed interview. She nosed through the oak-clad filing cabinets
for coffee supplies and brewed a pot. Pouring, she looked up at the
creak of the screen door.
“Hi, Gun.”
He was grim, tense.
“Hillary. Working?”
“I’m between
jobs. Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.
Seen Gordon?”
“No. He’s due
in about twenty minutes, though. What’s this about another dead
body?”
“One of his men
found it near the stakeout.”
“Is there a
connection to the marijuana?”
“Yes.”
She sipped,
watching and curious about his tension. He wore it the way an animal
wears hunger, alert and given to only studied movement. He turned to
go but paused by a window. Karl passed; his head was down, his
strides were long. Gunderson watched. Hillary’s mug stayed where
it was. Gunderson exhaled.
“I’ve got to
see Gordon,” he said. “Will you let him know I want to see him?
I’ll be gone for the afternoon, but I want to see him before the
banquet.”
“Sure, Gun.”
“It’s
important.” He remembered something and his manner changed.
“Hillary, has Voerst acted interested in you? Personally? Silly
question; of course he has.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do it,
Hillary. Whatever you do, don’t trust him alone.”
She set down the
mug. “I--what exactly do you mean?”
“That. Don’t
trust him, don’t date him.” He opened the door. “Gotta go.”
“God damn it!
Just a minute!” She pounced at the screen door, barring it with one
outstretched arm. Aware of her melodramatic pose, she was so angry
at the man that she held it anyway. “Every male in this county is
in on some conspiracy to treat me like a witless kid about Karl
Voerst! I want to know why! What exactly does that mean, ‘don’t
trust him’?”
A grin finally
bloomed in Gunderson’s wide beard. “What other males?”
“Answer my
question! I’m fed up with being patronized! I want a friend, not
a keeper!”
The grin widened.
“Right now it look like you need one. And a cage.” Hillary
stayed. “I didn’t mean to patronize you, Hillary. I’m worried
for you.” He hesitated. More slowly he said, “I’ve asked
other agencies about him.”
She relinquished
the doorway. “Police?”
“Yes.”
Suspiciously, “What
do they say?”
“That’s the
trouble; they don’t have anything about his recent past. There’s
a gap.” He paused for emphasis. “For almost seven years.”
She crossed her
arms over her chest. “Well, maybe there’s nothing to report.
Maybe he’s just been living. What’s your point?”
“Living where?
No social security records, no tax returns, not even a driver’s
license until just last year.”
“Oh.” She
thought. “Have you received all the reports you requested?”
“No,” he
admitted.
“Then maybe there
was a glitch somewhere. It happens. Once when I opened a new bank
account, their computer claimed I didn’t exist. Same story; no
records on me anywhere. They wouldn’t have accepted my business,
except for the size of my deposit.”
Gunderson sucked a
tooth, watching her. “Maybe.”
“That’s
probably it. You’ll get those missing reports and learn that
everything’s fine. Double-check the social security number you
sent them. It’s just a glitch.”
“Yeah.”
“And for the
record, Karl Voerst is innocent until proved guilty. He’s been
great to me and Karen.”
Gunderson seemed to
relent. “Well, if you get into trouble up here, I’ll be around.
I promise.” He checked his move to the door. “And keep what
I’ve just told you under your hat, hear?”
“Sure.”
He left, and
Altstock was due. Hillary braced herself for the interview.
