The blue and white Caprice turned off the county road then, after an hour of bouncing along the pot-holed dirt track, crawled to a stop in front of an old large wooden house with a wrap-around porch. If it had been painted at one time, there was no sign of it now; the horizontal wooden slats were a dead grey-brown, pockmarked with sporadic dirty white patches. The porch railing boasted the occasional post; one column was completely missing. A torn screendoor hung crookedly by one hinge.
The roof was only partially shingled; the red brick chimney stuck out at a strange angle. A couch, two half-stuffed armchairs and several metal kitchen chairs were scattered around the veranda, a number of them covered with dirty blankets and sheets. Mud covered children's toys littered the dirt lawn, as did unrecognizable pieces of clothing and household items like bowls and cutlery.
There were several derelict outbuildings nearby, the same drab colour as the house, most without doors. Three rusted out pick-up trucks had almost disappeared into the tall grass. A late model powder blue Lincoln Continental sat on four cinder blocks, the front window cracked and concaved.
At the sound of the Caprice, the screen door was pushed open all the way by a large man with a dark beard who stared menacingly at the car then turned his head back towards the house. He was soon joined by several other men of a similar age, build and overall look.
Carruthers shifted the police cruiser into Park and turned off the engine. From the corner of his eye he could see Steve staring through the windshield. Resisting the urge to reach across with an encouraging pat on the arm and leaving the keys in the ignition, he opened the door and got out.
By then there were about a dozen silent men on the porch and he could feel each and every eye boring into him. With a quick, professional nod to the man he recognized as J.D. Rutter, he crossed quickly around the back of the car, reaching the passenger side just as Steve opened the door.
Carruthers opened the back door and removed the wooden crutches. As Steve pulled himself out, hopping on his right leg, Carruthers handed the crutches over and Steve got himself set. "Let me do the talking right now," the Kearney cop said under his breath and he saw the quick nod from the city detective.
As Steve took a couple of steps away from the car, Carruthers slammed the door then turned towards the house. With a big friendly smile, he approached the porch steps. "Mr. Rutter," he directed his attention to the man up front, "I'm Deputy Carruthers from the Kearney Police Department, and this is Inspector Steve Keller from the San Francisco Police Department."
Steve had made his way up behind the small town cop and, as he was introduced, nodded with a subdued smile. The reason for this visit was still foremost in his mind, and he hoped that the requisite show of restrained respect would help his cause.
No one moved, then the man that Steve assumed was J.D. Rutter looked in his direction and inclined his head slightly. His dark eyes sliding smoothly back towards Carruthers, he said in a sonorous voice, "We agreed to meet with the inspector and the inspector only."
Carruthers swallowed heavily and there was a slight hesitation before he nodded. "Of course, Mr. Rutter, I understand. I'll wait in the car." He turned back towards the Caprice in Steve's direction so that their eyes met, and in the brief interaction the San Francisco cop could read the apology in deputy's eyes.
Rutter watched as Carruthers got back behind the wheel before he shifted his dark eyes to the stranger. Steve's stare hadn't left Rutter's face. "Boys," Rutter said without moving, and two tall younger men who had been standing near the door crossed the porch quickly and down the steps. Before he could react, the crutches were taken from under Steve's arms, and he was lifted slightly and carefully by his upper arms and carried up the stairs.
On the porch, his crutches were handed back and the two men disappeared into the house. Getting the crutches back under his arms and regaining his slightly ruffled composure, Steve nodded at Rutter, who grunted and re-entered the house. Steve followed, nodding to another young man who held the door open for him.
As slovenly and ill kept as the outside was, the inside of the large wooden house was the exact opposite. Though cluttered, it was clean and neat, the walls painted a lively red, the sun streaming through the large windows brightening and warming the spacious living room. Two large spotless couches lined one wall, three heavily upholstered armchairs facing them around an impressive wooden coffee table.
The walls were lined with photos and framed posters, and three stuffed stag heads, with majestic racks, looked out over the room. The aroma of baked apples and strong coffee hung in the air, in sharp contrast to what Steve could only assume was the acrid smell of moonshine that had assaulted him when he opened the car door.
He had followed J.D. to the centre of the room where the older man turned and politely gestured towards a large armchair. Steve glanced from Rutter to the chair and back, nodded and sat awkwardly. As he bent to place the crutches on the floor beside the chair, they were taken out of his hands and he looked up to see a boy of about twelve holding them. With a shy smile, the boy nodded vigorously and Steve smiled and sat back. The boy crossed the room and leaned the crutches against the wall near the door.
The family patriarch stood over his visitor, his expression unreadable. Finally he said, "We know why you're here, Mister Keller. I believe you want to talk to my son Robert."
Stunned by the impeccable diction of the imposing man before him, all his rash assumptions having vanished in an instant, Steve swallowed involuntarily before stammering, "Ah, yes, sir."
J.D. took a step back and was replaced by a man who Steve would have recognized without an introduction. Robert E. Lee Rutter was a slightly taller, older and heavier version of his son, and the resemblance briefly took the young cop's breath away; Donald Lee's father looked like a man completely devastated.
Steve started to get up when Robert approached but the grieving father waved him back down. "No, please, sit, please," he said softly. One of the many other young men in room pushed another armchair closer and Robert sat, facing Steve, barely a foot away. The group around them parted slightly and a frail, middle-aged woman, her haunted eyes standing out starkly against her pale skin and unkempt light-red hair, appeared. She sat on the arm of Robert's chair and he reached out to take one of her hands.
The woman smiled at Steve kindly. "You were with my Donny Lee when he was killed?" she asked hesitantly in a thin, reedy voice. Her stricken eyes bored into him.
Steve nodded. "Yes, ma'am, I was."
"Did he, um, did he…?" she tried to get out but her voice was trembling too much and her husband tightened his grip on her hand.
"Did he suffer?" Robert asked softly, and she nodded.
"Um, ah, no, ma'am, no, he was, ah, he was killed instantly," Steve said as firmly and confidently as he could, surprised that this was their first question. But then he realized that they had most likely been wondering about that since the moment they'd learned that their youngest son was dead. If, in some small way, he could help them get through this horrendous ordeal, he would do whatever he could. Except lie.
Ruth-Anne closed her eyes. "Thank the Lord," she breathed and her husband squeezed her hand again, glancing up at her lovingly. Then he leaned forward again.
"Inspector –"
"Please call me Steve, Mr. Rutter," he interrupted gently, with a smile, and was gratified to see the older man briefly smile back.
"Steve," he said with a grateful nod, "Sheriff Noble told us that it was the Scobies that killed our boy." His voice wavered and he cleared his throat. "And we know that's got nothin' to do with you." He took a deep unsteady breath. "What I'd like to know…" He glanced at his wife. "What we'd like to know is, well, just everythin' that happened that night. We just need to know… if that's okay with you?" His voice was so soft that Steve could barely hear him.
"Of course," Steve nodded, "of course." He glanced at Ruth-Anne, hoping he could help assuage their guilt, knowing he was going to break their hearts. He cleared his throat. "Well, ah, my partner and I were on our way to Louisville to take your son back to San Francisco."
Over the next few minutes, he very carefully told them about what had happened on the road, about their empty gas tank and the Kearney officers being called back to town on a ruse, about the confrontation on the highway where the Scobies had opened fire on their car, then downplaying his own role in keeping the Galaxie under control when the tire blew.
The entire room was listening, rapt. Steve wasn't sure how many people were actually in the house; truth be told, he didn't have the nerve to look. But nobody was making a sound. A baby had started to cry earlier, but the sound had swiftly disappeared as he heard a faraway door close.
With a heartening smile, he told them about how Donny Lee had skillfully led them through the woods. He paused and glanced down briefly, and when he looked back up, his eyes were shining. "I, ah, I hadn't realized it, but my partner had been shot when we were ambushed on the road. Mike hadn't said anything, but somehow Donny Lee knew and he told me." He cleared his throat. "We, ah, we made the decision to leave Mike behind because he couldn't keep up. Mike's main concern was your son; he wanted me to get Donny Lee to safety, if I could."
Steve stopped; he was still having a hard time dealing with that decision. He was leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his hands clasped and, as he struggled, Ruth-Anne bent towards him and put a warm hand over his, smiling when his eyes met hers.
"Donny Lee found Mike a place to hide," Steve smiled warmly at the grief-stricken parents, "and he even made a pillow for him out of leaves. Your son had a good heart."
Ruth-Anne sat back, grabbing her husbands hands and for the first time a sob cut through the silence. Everyone waited as she pulled herself together, then she asked quietly, "Your partner… is he going to be all right?"
Steve smiled, grateful for the concern. "Yes, ma'am. He will be. He was shot through the right shoulder," his left hand moved vaguely towards his own. "It broke his collarbone and, as a matter of fact, he's being operated on right now to put it back together." He snapped his left wrist over and glanced at his watch, clearing his throat self-consciously. He felt the warm hand on his own again and looked up into Ruth-Anne's soft eyes.
"He'll be okay," she whispered with a gentle smile, and he nodded thankfully.
"What were they shooting?" Robert asked flatly, staring at Steve unblinkingly.
The city cop knew this question would be coming, if not from Donny Lee's father, then from someone else. He met the dark eyes evenly, hesitating only a fraction before answering quietly, "Seven six two by fifty-one."
Steve watched as Robert inhaled sharply and sat back, his eyes widening. He could hear other breaths being caught around the room and a low murmur wash towards them, quickly silenced by an unseen gesture from the patriarch.
Ruth-Anne, who was staring at her husband and startled by his violent reaction, asked quietly, "Robert, what does that mean?'
He turned to her slowly and licked his dry lips before he spoke. "It's a military sniper bullet, Ruthy. Almost three inches long." He paused and took a deep breath. "The Scobies have military rifles now, don't they?" he asked as his gaze returned to the San Francisco detective.
Steve nodded reluctantly. He knew what this meant; he knew that the Rutters would now be forced to acquire similar firepower, if they had any hope of maintaining their standing in the county. He closed his eyes in frustration at the pointless inevitability.
Once more he felt the warm hand on his and opened his eyes to find Ruth-Anne leaning towards him again. With her eyes sadly bright, she smiled encouragingly. "Please, Steven, please tell us what happened to our son."