Chapter 5 #2
“When I came home from work, it was here,” Bill points to the empty spot.
“We heard a ruckus about a half-hour later. I had taken off my shoes and had my slippers on. By the time I had thrown my shoes on and turned on the porch light, no one was out here. I turned around, telling Dori it was nothing. She insisted I go out and look. That’s when I noticed the missing reindeer. ”
“Do you have any photos of the reindeer before it went missing?” Alex asks.
“I think Dori does. She always takes a photo of the two of us in front of the house after we finish decorating each year.”
Bill asks us to wait. He returns with Dori. She airdrops the photo to Alex. We wrap up the call and head off in the patrol car.
“What are you thinking?” I ask her.
“Second reindeer missing,” she says, her face scrunching in thought. “Maybe it’s a pattern. Or it could be coincidence. Why would someone be stealing reindeer? Won’t everyone see them when they’re put on another lawn?”
“Now you’re thinking like a local.” I smile across the cab to her.
“I guess we’ll keep our eyes out when we pass displays in yards around town. Other than that, time will tell.”
“Good plan,” I tell her. I can’t make out her features in the dark of the car, but I’d swear she’s blushing at my praise.
The next hour we circle through neighborhoods and downtown, and then circle again. I’ve never been more acutely aware of the humdrum nature of most of my days. Alex’s presence is like a spotlight, making me see everything differently.
We fill our time with conversation. She tells me about life in New York.
I’ve never been. As the night goes on, I find myself longing to travel for the first time in my life.
There’s a whole world outside Bordeaux and I’ve only ventured as far as Columbus and Cincinnati.
I entertain Alex with stories of locals—not exactly gossip, more like our shared lore.
These are the stories you’d know if you grew up here, like how Rob practically blew up the football field in high school.
When I bring up the goatmageddon of Lexi’s wedding, Alex says, “I was there.”
“You were?”
“Yes. I flew in just for the wedding.”
“I didn’t notice you.” How can that be? For one thing, Alex is a fresh face. She would have stood out. But it’s more than the novelty of her presence. She’s beautiful—and when she smiles, I don’t know a man in town who wouldn’t look twice.
“I didn’t notice you either,” she says, as if to absolve me.
We make our next loop through downtown, rolling at a pace far below the speed limit. As we’re passing the nativity in front of First Lutheran, a flash of movement catches my eye.
“Did you see that?” Alex asks.
“Yes.”
I slow to a stop in front of the church just as a teen darts out from the bushes hurling a snowball at one of the shepherds.
I hit the siren in so it makes a short chirp and turn on my high beams.
Alex steps out of the cruiser.
“Hey!” she shouts. The teen freezes and another boy darts out from the bushes, arm midair, caught before he lobs the next snowball at a wise man.
A third boy exits the bushes, his arms voluntarily raised in surrender.
“What’s going on here?” I ask the boys.
“We’re uh … just throwing snowballs.”
One of the downfalls of life around here is the lack of options for teens.
The ones on the ranches stay plenty busy working on their family’s properties.
They’re up hours before school, feeding livestock or doing other farm chores.
After school they do their homework and more work on the property.
They tend to fall asleep long before they can get into any trouble.
It’s the kids in town who tend to get restless in their high school years.
And then they come up with things like pelting the nativity with snowballs.
“You boys haven’t happened to see a few plastic reindeer?” Alex asks.
Good thinking.
“No, ma’am.” Braxton Taylor answers for all three of them.
“You boys want a night at the station?” I ask.
“No, sir,” Jaxon Smith answers, nervously glancing at his friends. He’s dropped his arms.
“You’re guilty of criminal mischief and desecration. Not to mention the potential vandalism if something is damaged.”
“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Pax Wilson says.
All three of them were born that year that parents were into names with Xs in them.
“Come see me tomorrow after school,” I tell them. “I’ll have some community service lined up.”
Pax looks down at his shoes.
Jaxon says, “We’ll be there.” He glances at his two friends and nods.
“I get it,” I tell the boys. “I grew up here too. Sometimes you just get an itch.”
They all nod in unison.
“Just make better choices when that happens.” I look Jaxon in the eyes. “You don’t want to mess up that football scholarship of yours.”
“No sir, Jesse.” He glances at Alex, clears his throat quickly and corrects himself. “Mr. Heinz … er … Officer Heinz.”
I smother a grin. “Okay. I’d say it’s close enough to curfew, you three need to hop in your truck and head home.”
They scurry away like mice from an owl.
Alex looks at me.
“What?” I ask her.
“You can rattle off misdemeanors at an impressive rate.”
I chuckle. “Oh, you want to go there?”
“Maybe.” She’s laughing too. The light from the lampposts around the church property give an almost angelic glow to her features.
“What are you going to have them do?” Alex asks as we make our way back to the patrol car.
“I’ve got some thoughts.”
“Such as?” Her blue eyes flash with amusement and curiosity.
“Delivering cocoa to the library volunteers, shoveling snow for a few of our seniors … But the best will be the caroling downtown. I won’t let them explain why they’ve suddenly been struck with the holiday spirit. They’ll have to make some specific stops—like the salon. That should do it.”
“The salon,” she echoes.
“Nothing gets done or said in there without it spreading to everyone within five square miles.”
Alex laughs. “You’re almost diabolical, Officer Heinz.”
“Just making a point they’ll remember next time they get a wild hair that involves public or private property.”
We resume our tour of Bordeaux. It’s getting late. Only two hours until our shift ends. I don’t tell Alex, but I’m having more fun than I’ve had in years—on or off the job.
“What’s that?” Alex asks as we pass Cues and Brews—a familiar figure is napping on the sidewalk.
“Oh, that? That’s Cooter.” My voice has a tone of nonchalance. Years of escorting Cooter out of other people’s homes, off porches, and out of bars has me numb to the novelty of our town drunk.
He’s curled up next to a blow-up snowman that’s sitting on the sidewalk outside the row of shops.
“Should we wake him?” Alex asks. “I’m used to seeing people on sidewalks in New York. It feels … out of place here.”
“He’s the only one—for the most part,” I tell her, easing the cruiser to the curb.
Alex is out before I can open my door. She crouches beside Cooter, shaking his shoulder with the same patient rhythm a mom uses to wake a teenage son who overslept.
When she looks back over her shoulder at me, her smile—half amusement, half respect—hits something deep and half-forgotten in me, a place that just wants to be seen as more than a local joke.
“Cooter?” she says softly.
He rouses, squinting at her. “Who are you?”
“I’m Alex. You’re sleeping on the sidewalk. Do you want to go home?”
“Am I breaking the law?” he asks, eyeing her badge.
She looks up at me, obviously waiting for me to recite all the ordinances related to his choice of locations for a late-night nap.
Normally, I’d just tell Cooter to take himself home.
Occasionally, if he’s sauced, I drive him home, leaving it up to him to come back for his truck in the morning.
On the rare occasion, when he’s been belligerent or feisty, I’ve had to lock him up for the night.
But I can only count those episodes on one hand.
We try not to put him in jail. He’s mostly harmless.
“Cooter, you’d be looking at obstructing sidewalks, loitering or sleeping in a public place, and public intoxication,” I say, more for Alex’s sake than Cooter’s.
“I’m not that drunk,” he slurs. “And since when are you gonna throw the book at me, Jesse?”
“I’m not,” I tell him honestly. “Just telling you what you’d be up against if I were going to take you in. Let’s get you home.”
“Too bad reindeer can’t actually fly,” he mutters.
Alex shoots me a questioning look. I shrug.
Cooter stands and walks toward our cruiser.
He climbs into the back seat and we drive him to his house on the outskirts of town.
In the warmer months, the overgrown grass distinguishes his place from the others around him, but the snow has blanketed the unsightly yard in a pristine cover that makes his home seem more typical of any built in the early days of Bordeaux.
He climbs out of the back seat when I come to a stop. “G’nite, Jesse. And you, miss. Welcome to Bordeaux.”
Alex and I watch Cooter weave toward his door, fumble with his keys and let himself in the front door.
After another round through town, we head back to the station to file paperwork.
“What do you make of Cooter mentioning reindeer?” Alex asks.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “He’s always rambling about this or that.”
“It could be a clue,” she says.
“Cooter doesn’t have it in him to steal anything,” I assure her. “You saw him. He couldn’t walk a straight line. Besides, his home isn’t decorated. If he took the reindeer, he’d have put them out front.”
“Yeah. That makes sense,” she agrees.
We lock up the station and Alex climbs into her car.
I watch her taillights fade, then turn the other way toward home.
My car feels emptier than it should after only one evening together.
The heater hums, a carol plays low, the same houses and landmarks dot my usual route—but everything feels different knowing she’s just across town, calling it a night, maybe thinking about the day we just shared as much as I am.