Quentin said, unable to keep the pique out of his voice. He’d had enough of the roly-poly accountant and his pushy big-city ways. Quentin practiced controlling himself. Have to get along with the city people , he reminded himself. It was something he’d promised Marie. He counted to ten as he listened to the over-dressed businessman. More and more of them were coming up to the Sierras, and Marie had been afraid they could, one day, organize and vote him out of office.
“He won’t stop with that shooting. I called ATF and told them he has automatic weapons. I’m sure of it. Probably machine guns. He’s some kind of gun nut. People don’t appreciate the sound of gunfire when we’re serving dinner at the Inn. That’s not what they come up here for. We have a glass-enclosed massage area—cost a fortune—faces that nut’s place. We’re trying to run a business here,” Cooley said. The accountant looked up the road toward Phelps’s cabin. “Besides, we’re afraid of him. He’s crazy and no doubt violent.”
Quentin finished buttoning up his jean jacket. His anger had passed as quickly as it had come. He held the package up against his chest. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Mr. Cooley. That’s going to make for trouble. People around here like to take care of their own problems. I told you I would talk to Chuck about his gun range. He’s reasonable. I can work this out, if you just give me a chance. The gun range is legal. I’ve told you. But maybe we could get him to use it just in the morning or something?”
“Sheriff, I like you. You have tried. I know you have, but Jesus Christ, the man’s a nut. They said they’d come out here and investigate. Sorry. But I think you local people are a little slow. I know he’s a local and all. I’m just trying to get along here.” Cooley nodded, put the Range Rover in gear and drove off. He turned around in Chuck Phelps’s driveway and raced down the road toward town.
You aren’t trying very hard , Quentin thought. All the rich city people that were moving in were the same, they all said they wanted to fit in, until it came time to fit in. Then it was always their way or the highway.
Quentin stood on top of a fallen pine tree and surveyed the road into the Phelps’s ranch. He saw no footprints or fresh snowmobile tracks. He looked down at the cabin, a good hundred yards down the snow-bound road. No smoke from the chimney. The cabin was small, hand-built by Chuck. He’d started it the summer he got back from the Marine Corps. His parents had lived in the original ranch house until they died a few years ago.
The sheriff looked to his left. He saw the original Phelps place two hundred yards to his right. A fancy Los Angeles plastic surgeon had bought it as a summer place. The original turn-of the-century two-story ranch house had been completely remodeled. It had a home theater and an indoor swimming pool, people said, a third story had been added, too. The doctor was rumored to have spent five million dollars on the renovations. A chimney was throwing off smoke from a small caretaker’s cabin in back of the doctor’s place.
Quentin climbed off the tree and onto the other side of the barricade. His cowboy boots pushed through the deep snow. He knew from experience it was going to be a trudge to the cabin as Chuck purposefully kept the road un-plowed. He started out lifting his knees high, his jeans getting wet in the fresh snow. The wind picked up, blowing from the east.
He remembered the Phelps family in the ‘70s when Chuck’s father was still alive. Crusty old Phelps used to call him “Kid.” Chuck Phelps’s old man wore jeans and cowboy boots his whole life and could count the times he’d been further than Sacramento. Quentin remembered, too, the picnics in the meadow with several generations of both families, huge plates of food, yellow jackets, and the smell of wild flowers blooming in June. After their parents died Chuck’s sister had sold
“He won’t stop with that shooting. I called ATF and told them he has automatic weapons. I’m sure of it. Probably machine guns. He’s some kind of gun nut. People don’t appreciate the sound of gunfire when we’re serving dinner at the Inn. That’s not what they come up here for. We have a glass-enclosed massage area—cost a fortune—faces that nut’s place. We’re trying to run a business here,” Cooley said. The accountant looked up the road toward Phelps’s cabin. “Besides, we’re afraid of him. He’s crazy and no doubt violent.”
Quentin finished buttoning up his jean jacket. His anger had passed as quickly as it had come. He held the package up against his chest. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Mr. Cooley. That’s going to make for trouble. People around here like to take care of their own problems. I told you I would talk to Chuck about his gun range. He’s reasonable. I can work this out, if you just give me a chance. The gun range is legal. I’ve told you. But maybe we could get him to use it just in the morning or something?”
“Sheriff, I like you. You have tried. I know you have, but Jesus Christ, the man’s a nut. They said they’d come out here and investigate. Sorry. But I think you local people are a little slow. I know he’s a local and all. I’m just trying to get along here.” Cooley nodded, put the Range Rover in gear and drove off. He turned around in Chuck Phelps’s driveway and raced down the road toward town.
You aren’t trying very hard , Quentin thought. All the rich city people that were moving in were the same, they all said they wanted to fit in, until it came time to fit in. Then it was always their way or the highway.
Quentin stood on top of a fallen pine tree and surveyed the road into the Phelps’s ranch. He saw no footprints or fresh snowmobile tracks. He looked down at the cabin, a good hundred yards down the snow-bound road. No smoke from the chimney. The cabin was small, hand-built by Chuck. He’d started it the summer he got back from the Marine Corps. His parents had lived in the original ranch house until they died a few years ago.
The sheriff looked to his left. He saw the original Phelps place two hundred yards to his right. A fancy Los Angeles plastic surgeon had bought it as a summer place. The original turn-of the-century two-story ranch house had been completely remodeled. It had a home theater and an indoor swimming pool, people said, a third story had been added, too. The doctor was rumored to have spent five million dollars on the renovations. A chimney was throwing off smoke from a small caretaker’s cabin in back of the doctor’s place.
Quentin climbed off the tree and onto the other side of the barricade. His cowboy boots pushed through the deep snow. He knew from experience it was going to be a trudge to the cabin as Chuck purposefully kept the road un-plowed. He started out lifting his knees high, his jeans getting wet in the fresh snow. The wind picked up, blowing from the east.
He remembered the Phelps family in the ‘70s when Chuck’s father was still alive. Crusty old Phelps used to call him “Kid.” Chuck Phelps’s old man wore jeans and cowboy boots his whole life and could count the times he’d been further than Sacramento. Quentin remembered, too, the picnics in the meadow with several generations of both families, huge plates of food, yellow jackets, and the smell of wild flowers blooming in June. After their parents died Chuck’s sister had sold
Similar Books
