Blood Land by R. S. Guthrie Page B

biggest fan.”
    “What reason is that?” she said.
    “Come on, Wendy. I’m closer to his age than yours.”
    “Pruett has his problems,” Wendy said. “But he looks out for my happiness.”
    “He pulled me over when I first got into town. Did you know that?”
     

    J.W. Hanson had been leaving the Wooden Boot after one draft beer and a few questions directed at the bartender and a couple of the regulars. Halfway to his hotel, blue and red lights appeared in his rear view mirror. He pulled over and a man who looked like a walking oak tree got out of the patrol car, donned a proper western hat, and walked toward the professor’s Toyota Prius.
    “License, registration, proof of insurance, sir,” the big man said, leaning down, and a bit into the window.
    “No problem, officer,” Hanson said, handing over the documents.
    “I work for the Sheriff’s department, Mr. Hanson,” Pruett said, looking at the license and other papers. “Not an officer of anything I know of.”
    “Sorry about that,” Hanson said.
    “Your insurance card has lapsed, Mr. Hanson. Last week.”
    “Guess I forgot to put the new card in my wallet. You can call my agent—I’m still covered, I assure you.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” Pruett said. He directed the beam of his flashlight into Hanson’s eyes. “Wind River’s a nice place, Professor. It stays that way because the rules get followed.”
    He handed the license and laminated card back. “Big trial coming up. Hope for Ty McIntyre’s sake you don’t let his insurance lapse.”
    “Message received, Sheriff.”
    “No message, Professor. Just get your new card.”
     

    “You should have told me,” Wendy said. “Pulling you over is a load of bullshit.”
    “Easy, lady. Nothing happened. He was just pissing across the bow of my boat.”
    “It still doesn’t mean he won’t tell the truth,” she said.
    “The evidence suggests your uncle Ty killed your mother—the man’s wife. I’m not expecting any flattering testimony from a witness like that. I’d be a fool.”

 
     
     
    “Tonight it’s a bottom,
    tomorrow, what then?
    Anything that brings a happy glow
    Once I loved somebody,
    I wish I could again
    How far down can I go?”
     
    Lefty Frizzell,
    How Far Down Can I Go

Chapter 5
     
     
     
    BOOZE HAD him by the balls. Pruett knew it. His conscience told him to ignore the negative; that circumstances allowed him to make significant concessions. But there wasn’t much denying the reality that the bitch was back. Pruett only too gladly let her right through the front door, though the one thing he’d forgotten was that her grip rivaled any vise he ever owned.
    Reaching rock bottom requires a devastating personal journey, no matter the person; bottom being as far down as a man or woman can go. Alcohol does not smooth the stones, illuminate the path, or sooth the senses—at least not for long. Rather, it catalyzes the horrors, accelerates the downward journey—like pulling the trapdoor on the gallows. One is enticed into believing alcohol dulls the nerves when it ultimately only intensifies the pain.
    Pruett gave up drinking years before—twelve years, two months, and a handful of days. Back then the reason was simple; clearer than anything had been for a long, long time: he stopped because his wife asked him to stop.
    Should he have stopped before?
    Did his health ultimately depend upon his stopping?
    Was his career, his family—his honor at stake?
    Yes to all.
    But being aware and being capable were two different things. One of the many challenges of the addict is the paralyzing terror resiliency faces when eclipsed by the towering shadow of NEED .
    Pruett felt it every morning when he climbed stiffly out of bed; that clawing desire for the next drink. He heard it from around every bend, flying on the very wind: the whispery promise of release.
    Whenever he was drinking, the bottle held full sway over Pruett; a flagon of demons that manipulated his thoughts,