Читать книгу Longleaf - Roger Reid - Страница 11

The Covington County deputy sheriff met us out in front of the motel. His name was Shirley Pickens. That’s right, his name was Shirley. In fourteen years I’ve never met a man named Shirley. My dad says in forty-two years he’s never met a man named Shirley. Here he was, though: Deputy Shirley Pickens. He had the uniform, he had the badge, he had the gun, and he had the name. Shirley. Didn’t look like a Shirley. He was at least six feet four inches tall, at least two hundred and thirty pounds. And this was no baby fat. This was like two hundred and thirty pounds of “I’m going to knock you on your backside if you call me Shirley.”

And yet his name was Shirley. He introduced himself that way, “Shirley Pickens.”

“So you saw this ‘event’ from an airplane widow?” Deputy Shirley Pickens was asking me, “an airplane doing about three hundred miles an hour at about five thousand feet. Do you know how high five thousand feet is?”

I didn’t answer. I was still stuck on his name. Shirley.

My dad jumped in to help me out, “Five thousand feet would be point nine five miles or one thousand five hundred twenty four meters or one point five two four kilometers—give or take.”

“Well, Professor,” said Deputy Shirley Pickens, “you’re pretty quick with numbers.”

When he called my dad “Professor,” I thought he was being a smart aleck; my dad said, “How did you know I was a professor?”

“One point five two four kilometers?” said Deputy Shirley Pickens. “You’re either a professor or a know-it-all, and you strike me as a nice enough guy. What about this fellow?” He looked right at me when he said, “this fellow.”

“He’s all right,” said my dad, “but I think he’s a bit intimidated by the badge and the gun and a man named Shirley.”

“It does sort of take ’em off guard,” said Deputy Shirley Pickens. “Sometimes they’re laughin’ so hard I can get the handcuffs on ’em before they realize what’s happenin’.”

He looked right at me when he said “handcuffs.”

I know my face was red. It had to be. I gulped, “I didn’t see it for long,” I said, “I just know I saw what I saw. Three guys . . . three people pushing a vehicle of some kind into a small lake. I guess it was small—everything looks small from five thousand feet. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Son,” said Deputy Pickens, “you did the right thing. I wish more citizens would come forward—courageously—as you have today.”

“Courageously.” He looked right at me when he said, “courageously.”

Deputy Pickens went on to say, “Look, I know pretty near every lake, small or otherwise, in this county and half the other counties around here. I’ll check it out.”

My mom said, “We’ll be at the Open Pond campgrounds in the national forest all week. You’ll let us know what you find out, won’t you?”

This was Mom’s way of saying, “Let’s get out of here and set up camp.”

Deputy Pickens agreed to keep us informed, and we headed to the camp site. I figured that was the end of it as far as I was concerned. I figured wrong.