“I got something I want you to know about.”
“What’s that?”
“Had an interesting conversation today.”
“Yeah?”
“Talked to your boss—”
“Ex-boss,” Clay cut in.
“Right. Special Agent in Charge Jean McGovern.” Clay waited for the old man to get to the point. “Has a lotta good things to say about you, son. She mentioned, very much off the record, she’s been working closely with Internal Affairs on some issues out of her field office—Baltimore.” He took a long, slow swig. “Said she had concerns that a certain field agent had gone rogue, working for personal gain rather than for the agency.”
“Okay,” said Clay with a sense of foreboding. She means me. He looked over the yard and waited for the sheriff to go on.
After a big inhale, Steve met his eye and said, “Guy who left the scene the other night? Special Agent Tyler Patrick Olson, ATF?” Clay’s throat closed up. He waited. “Boat blew up. Late last night. Fishing off the coast of Virginia. Early prognosis, entirely off the record, is suicide. Your boss was reticent with the details, as you can imagine.” He looked at Clay. “What’s your take on that?”
Something drummed in Clay’s ears, so hard, he could barely hear himself ask, “Anyone else on that boat?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Any word on his wife and kids?”
“My understanding is that his family is safe.”
A breath in, a big swig of beer, and Clay nodded, pushed back the questions, no matter how hard they burned. Tyler did this to himself. Homicide or suicide, whatever it was, he’d made the choice. That didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
“McGovern claims you been having some issues. Psychological, she said.”
“Also off the record?” Clay asked with a wry twist to his mouth.
The sheriff answered with a chuckle. “Yeah. Said you’d been shot. Shrink wants you on meds for PTSD and—”
“Not doing the meds, sir. Don’t care who—”
“Slow down, kid. I’m not going to force you to do anything. It’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?” Clay asked before adding a belated, “Sir?”
Steve sipped at his beer. He was almost dainty in contrast to Clay’s slugs. “I thought you might want to stick around.” He slid a sly look at Clay. “’Course I’m not too keen on an ATF agent walking around in my community with untreated PTSD. Hanging around good citizens like the doc here and not taking care of yourself.”
After a brief moment of irritation, Clay looked at the garden and the sky and the beer in his hand, and he let it go. “Think I’ll figure it out,” he said through tight lips.
“Not trying to tell you what to do, but I’ve seen people come back from places and—”
“I’m good,” Clay said. It was probably true.
“You sure ’bout that?” The man turned to Clay, sharp eyes focused right at him. “Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself. Or anybody else.” He leaned away, reached into a pocket, and came out with a folded up piece of paper. “We’re a small town, but we got us some top-notch shrinks and—hold your tongue and let me finish, son.” Clay’s mouth snapped shut. “You feel things getting out of hand, don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t wait until you’re so far gone you can’t go back. Give one of these people a call; take care of yourself. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll be staying here with the doc, which means you’ve got more than your ass to worry about now. And all I’m doing is making sure everybody comes out good. You feel me?”
The paper, white against Steve’s dark skin, shook slightly in the few beats it took for Clay to give in and take it. Without a word, face so red he wished he could hide it, he pocketed the list, unsure whether to be pissed or grateful for the man sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the man spoke again. “Anyone tell you I was the first black sheriff they ever had in Blackwood?”
“No, sir.”
“First one in this part of the state. Been a while, of course. Now they got lady sheriffs and everything,” the man finished with a grin.
“Well, that’s real—”
