Chapter 10
Ten
anomalous (adj.): inconsistent with what is usual, normal, or expected
Never once did it occur to me to wonder what the Charity Falls sheriff’s substation looks like on the inside.
The station occupies a small space in the town’s only strip mall, which is to say, three charmless units adjacent to the grocery store.
There’s Master Yun’s tae kwon do studio, a used furniture store, and this, the end unit with a gold sheriff’s emblem on the window glass that exactly matches the one on Lieutenant Hayes’s business card.
A bell tone chimes when I enter. Unlike the stark white business card, the walls inside are more of a warm vanilla shade.
Still, there’s a tragic lack of greenery, which probably explains why I’m drawn to a large image on the right wall bursting with the vibrant hues of nature.
At the moment, I wouldn’t at all mind stepping into the photo and meandering that high mountain trail with its explosion of alpine wildflowers.
Except that I’ve yet to hike any of the peaks our area is famous for. But that’s okay. It’s enough just to be alive in the midst of this highly sought-after “recreational paradise here on the sunny side of the Cascade Mountains.”
At least this is what I tell myself.
Is no one here? With each tentative step, my right ballet flat squeaks.
Exhibit A of a guilty conscience. Evidently there’s still moisture trapped somewhere under the insole, thanks to yesterday’s ridiculous attempt to avoid a confrontation with the very man I’m here to interview.
An unoccupied metal desk floats in the middle of the space, and three doors line the back wall, presumably leading to offices.
Before I can worry over my next move, a head pops out of the far-left door.
Sans helmet, the lieutenant’s chestnut waves lean a bit to the unruly side.
He approaches, today wearing long pants, which somehow makes my job feel easier.
It’s him, though. And yet, thankfully, there’s no police artist’s sketch tacked to the wall of the as yet unidentified delirious woman who came preciously close to inflicting bodily harm on the town’s highest-ranking lawman. No reason to believe he could pick me out of a lineup.
Although, now that I think of it, it’s a bit surprising that my own powers of observation exceed his, considering his profession demands he notice details. Huh. Well. Anyway. Time to cue the Rocky theme song.
“I’m Lucy Montgomery, from the Messenger,” I say.
“Yes, of course.” He offers a handshake. “I remember you.”
My heart picks up speed. “Oh, you—”
He flashes a high-watt smile. “We can’t have errorists winning, now can we? Good to know you’re on the job, Lucy.”
Good grief, how could a guy with such a disarming face ever play good cop, bad cop?
“Come on back,” he says.
I’m following on his heels when he stops, darting confused looks around the room.
“It’s my shoe,” I say, nearly rear-ending him.
“Ah.” Smiling, he gestures to a blue-plastic chair inside the office and rounds the desk to his side. “Seriously, though, it sounds like we’re on the same team.”
“How so?”
“I’m kind of a grammar nerd myself.”
Maybe this guy never needs to play good cop, bad cop. He simply makes his suspect so comfortable they drop their guard and confess. In fact, I’m almost tempted to mention . . .
“I mean,” he continues, “not to your level, I’m sure.”
Interesting. A wee bit of verbal backtracking. A slight pinking of the tips of his ears. Shyness? Humility?
“Anyway, enough about me,” he says, sweeping a lock of hair off his forehead.
“Actually, Lieutenant Hayes—Wyatt—this interview is all about you.”
He laughs.
Ha! Look at me go!
“Where should we start?” he asks.
I gesture to the frame on the bookcase behind him.
“Is that your dog?” Seems as good a place to begin as any.
Except . . . oh no. A sinking sensation grips my gut, and I push my glasses farther up my nose.
As overdue as I am for a new prescription, I can only pray I’ve correctly identified the hairy subject pictured with him as being of the canine persuasion. What if it’s his wife?
Would a wife let him go too long between haircuts or step out the door with his uniform collar curling up like that? I would never.
Cool it, Montgomery.
Lieutenant Hayes sweeps the photo with a loving glance as he hands it to me. “Ah. This is Moby. Total goof.” Dog, thank goodness.
“What a sweet face,” I say. The animal’s bright brown eyes are half hidden behind dark curls. Shaggy, not unlike his human. “Must be some kind of a thing-a-doodle.”
“Right. Mostly labradoodle. Believe it or not, he was a rescue. Bad situation. Found him wandering around a meth lab in Seattle, practically skeletal.”
“Aww. And yet he’s smiling.” The photo captures the two of them in side-by-side grins. “Is that where you’re from? Seattle?” I reach for my notebook and pen.
“Oh, he definitely smiles.” The lieutenant props the photo on a corner of his desk, then half-guzzles his can of sparkling water.
“Shoot, where are my manners?” He crosses the room toward a kitchenette.
“I should have brewed some coffee.” He opens the undercounter minifridge.
“Got some pop in here, though. Or would you like some of this fizzy water stuff—”
“I’m fine, really. I’m good.”
“Anyway, yeah,” he says, dropping into his chair, “so I was in Seattle for a good bit. But as to where I come from . . .” Here he smiles. “That’d be Salem.”
I stop writing, tilt my head. “As in, Salem, Oregon? That’s where I’m from too.”
For some reason, his eyes hold a mischievous twinkle. “You don’t remember me, do you? Not that you should. Judson Middle School? Much as it pains me to remember it, you annihilated me in the seventh-grade spelling bee.”
“I . . . really?”
“Head on a platter.”
“I mean, I do remember a Wyatt. But he was . . .” Don’t say small and super scrawny. “He wore glasses.”
A corner of Lieutenant Hayes’s mouth quirks. “In my line of work, contact lenses are a better choice.”
“No way. You’re him?” I’m having a hard time fusing the squeaky-voiced kid I remember with this, um, man. But okay, I can kind of see it. “Wow. And you figured this out right away?”
“Not quite. Not until Sam Peabody mentioned your name. It’s hard to forget someone named after a famous author, even with the addition of glasses.”
After a pause, I say, “I’m impressed. There aren’t a lot of men who could tell you who wrote Anne of Green Gables.”
“I have three sisters. And then, of course, Mrs. Tapiz brought you and your literary namesake to the whole class’s attention.”
I haven’t thought about my beloved English teacher in forever. “Mrs. Tapiz was the best!” Even if she did shine attention on me too often for my introverted heart. “Actually, though, I was named after my grandmother on my mom’s side. Lucia Maria. She was first-generation Italian.”
“Oh, man. I always secretly wished I’d been born into an Italian family. The food!”
“Right?” My eyes can’t help but go dreamy. “Nana was such a great cook. For my birthday she always made this decadent three-layer tiramisu cake.” At least, up until I skipped town, a thought that turns the memory of creamy mascarpone and chocolate bitter on my tongue.
If I have one serious regret—and let’s face it, I have several—it’s that when I erected a literal mountain range between me and Devin, I also put all those high-elevation miles between me and my grandmother.
“Anyway,” I say, “that’s how I became L. M. Montgomery—the obscure one.”
For a moment I stare blankly at my notebook, letting this small-world coincidence settle. “Huh. Judson Middle School,” I muse aloud with a slow shake of my head. “We must have gone to different high schools?”
“Oh, I . . .” The lieutenant drops his eyes. “No. We moved.” Something tells me there’s a story there. Possibly not a happy one. Too soon to say.
I lift my pen high. “We should probably get back to the interview.”
“Right.”
I do some fast note-taking as Lieutenant Hayes explains how he came to be in this kind of work. “My father was in law enforcement, and his father before him,” he says.
We cover his time as a reserve officer while finishing up his degree at U-Dub, the University of Washington, and his move from deputy to detective and eventually to lieutenant.
Meanwhile, genuine curiosity kicks in. “May I ask, what made your family leave Oregon?”
Lieutenant Hayes rubs the back of his neck. “That’s a little complicated. I’m not sure if—”
“It’s alright. We don’t need to go there.”
“Guess I’d rather talk about why I moved to Charity Falls.”
I smile. “Works for me.”
“Thank you. The opportunity came to move closer to family. My mom’s been living here in town for quite a few years—well, ever since my dad passed.
My oldest sister lives nearby, and when she started popping out grandkids, Mom followed.
So, for me, that was a definite draw. Also, the chance to live and work in a place like this is .
. .” He makes a sweeping gesture toward his window, where an opening between the evergreens offers a peekaboo view of Black Butte, its wide, sloping shoulders darkly treed.
It’s such a clear day that, squinting, even I can make out the timber lookout tower on the butte’s rounded peak.
From this distance it appears to be fashioned out of toothpicks.
Fun fact—according to my son, the beloved landmark is an extinct stratovolcano. A cinder cone. Also, a popular hike rewarded by 360-degree views of our sumptuous slice of creation.
So I hear, anyway. But maybe someday . . .
“Well, it’s not a bad place to settle,” Lieutenant Hayes finishes.
“‘A recreational paradise.’” It’s a struggle not to say this dryly due to the knot of resentment forming in my belly. There must be something the matter with me, forever cloistered indoors while people come from all over to enjoy the glories of this place.
“Well said!”
I force a smile. “Wait till you see it in October.” Already autumn magic is in the air. I click my pen a few times. “So, anyway, you moved your family here?” I’m poised to take down all the particulars. What does his wife do? Kids in the local schools? Their ages?
“It’s just Moby and me.”
Note taken.
“But it’s small potatoes, right?” I say. “I mean, compared to where you’ve been—the size of the force, the kinds of cases?” Not that Charity Falls doesn’t have its share of real problems. We lampoon a select few in the “Sheriff’s Calls” column just to keep things light.
“Yes. But you see, Lucy . . . may I call you Lucy?” Here, he laces his fingers and leans closer. His amber eyes are somehow both kind and piercing. Like the guy in that movie. The one—gah, I’m terrible at movie star stuff. Can’t think of it.
Pen to paper. He’s talking.
“. . . that I’ve got a more specific calling,” he’s saying.
“I’m talking about me, personally. A calling that goes beyond my job description.
See, I can never right all the wrongs out there.
So the size of the town doesn’t matter.” He gazes out the window, selecting his next words thoughtfully.
“What I can do is support a few deputies so that together we can keep doing the good work. So there isn’t collateral damage in our lives, if you know what I mean. ”
I look up from my notebook.
“Yeah, I can tell you do,” he says. “The work matters, of course. But what matters to me is that we stay healthy, that we don’t succumb to the forces that would render us powerless.”
“‘The forces’? Mind expanding on that?”
He sighs. “In a word, hopelessness. In our line of work, we see a lot. Frankly, we see too much. You know, Lucy, I’m actually not sure all of this should go in the article.”
I’m entertaining the same thoughts. “Understood. In fact, you should know I’m really just a front desk girl and proofreader.
A far cry from hard-nosed investigative journalism.
Which is the way I like it, to be honest. Unless of course you’ve got firewood or a used snowblower you’d like to sell.
In that case, I’m your girl.” I’m your girl?
Sheesh. “I mean, I sense there’s more to the story”—the lieutenant lets out a breath that’s part laugh—“but that doesn’t mean it needs to be told. Not in the paper, anyway.”
“Thank you. I trust you. I’d prefer to be an open book, but here’s the thing.
I need to reserve that for my new squad.
They need to know there’s someone they can talk to, someone they can trust to be real with them.
A place of safety. For men and women in law enforcement, or any first responder services, that’s not easy to find.
It’ll take a while for me to establish that kind of culture here. ”
Well. This interview sure took an unexpected turn somewhere back there. Cue Lady Gaga. We’re far from the shallows now.
The lieutenant narrows his gaze. “‘It’s easier to say, “My tooth is aching” than to say, “My heart is broken,”’ you know?”
“So true. Is that—”
“C. S. Lewis.”
This guy is shattering my stereotypes at breakneck speed.
Wyatt continues. “‘The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden.’ That’s Lewis also. And that’s where most first-responders live every single day. Trying to ignore the burden. Denying it. Until . . .”
For the briefest moment, Lieutenant Hayes’s mind appears to travel somewhere else. Miles away. He shakes his head as if dislodging a thought. “Anyway, where were we? Guess I got us off track.”
“Plants,” I say.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your office. I’m just thinking, with your commitment to making others feel safe, you might consider adding houseplants.”
“Think so? Huh. Can’t say I ever thought about it.” Wyatt jots a note on his own pad. “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”
After a moment I say, “Let’s talk about the bikes.”
“Good idea,” he says, relief evident in his smile. He takes a sip of water. “You know, Lucy, you say you’re not a journalist. But it seems to me this is your métier.”
Oh man. What had I been thinking, closing my dictionary app?