 
### Run Billy Boy Run

### Book Four: Billy Boy

By Neil Ackerman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2013

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Adult Reading Material

Author's Note

_Run Billy Boy Run_ is divided into four books:

Book One: _A Job for a Specialist._

Book Two: _Flying High._

Book Three: _The Confluence of Disorder._

Book Four: _Billy Boy._

Book Four details the life of fugitive William (Billy) Boy Burk and his high profile run from the law including the original crime which began Billy's run from justice, his eventual arrest, subsequent escape, and the holdup of Honest Melvin's Jewelry and Pawn. Also, twenty years into the future a riddle is solved when a son opens his deceased father's safe deposit box, a riddle which began in the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River.

CHAPTER 1: THE EARLY YEARS

The traffic outside of 900 North Tucker on the edge of St. Louis' downtown had slowed due to construction. Crews preparing a nearby building for demolition had temporarily eliminated a lane of the busy street, and cabbies honked at cars whose drivers gawked at the goings on. Noises drifting up from Tucker entered Mark Ruston's third floor window, but he did not notice. With brow furrowed, chair scooted forward, and fingertips on keyboard, he asked himself, _Where to start?_ The intern for the _Post Dispatch_ began typing, then stopped. Next, he picked up his note pad and, leafing through it, reflected on some of the entries:

Walter Worthington (Fredericktown Chamber of Commerce): "Rightly or wrongly Burk has put this town on the map—three news crews were here last week alone! AND, this is between you and me, it's rumored that the _Today Show_ might be in town next week. Do the weather right here on Courthouse Square! You listen to me boy; you can't buy publicity like that. This is the real stuff."

Mark recalled how Worthington reminded him of a carnival pitchman, and how the cigar-smoker in the ill-fitting suit saw Billy Boy Burk as Fredericktown's newest industry poised to bring in much needed currency.

Mildred Stilton (Neighbor two farms over): "I always knew he'd end up behind bars. We never let our son Percy play with him!"

Ruston thought of a line from the old TV show, _Kids in the Hall_ , "Well, Mildred, did you turn him gay yet?" And he wondered how things had worked out for Percy Stilton.

Thomas Duckworth (Fredericktown High School, former math teacher turned assistant principal): "Billy was a smart kid and talkative. I liked him. But he always seemed to be pointed in the wrong direction.

"He didn't have the best family, you know.

"Some people have a couple of wires crossed, and Billy was one of those. To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure if he'd become a convict or become a preacher. Fifty-fifty, he could have fallen on either side of the fence. I just wish I could have nudged him in the right direction."

Duckworth did seem truly sorry, then again the man was an administrator, and Ruston's experience with administrators taught him that they were capable of changing colors at the drop of a hat.

Reverend Cordell Bumpus (New Life Missionary Baptist Church): "The DEVIL had a-holt a' that BOY from the MINUTE he was borned! Ain't NO DOUBT about it!"

With an edge to his voice Bumpus had spoken to Mark Ruston like the minister stood behind a pulpit facing a congregation of unrepentant sinners, and he had seemed ready to personally carryout Billy Boy Burk's death sentence if it came to that, or at least oversee it. Ruston could envision the man turning the situation to his advantage. In the future he could use the threat of execution to keep Fredericktown's youth on the straight and narrow. The young reporter was sure that the story of Billy Boy, in the hands of Cordell Bumpus, would become a lesson not soon forgotten.

Jimmy (Three-J) Joe Justice (Burk's best friend growing up): "Billy Boy, he was okay! Always knew what to say. Girls loved him. His dad was, well, normal, 'til he got drunk, which was just too damned often. Drove his mom crazy actually—the beatings. She wasn't right in the head. Finally, she ran off. Left her boy behind. And an aunt moved into the house at the farm; took care of Billy from then on.

"We were a wild pair, him and me. I'm ashamed to say it, but Lordy, we were a handful!"

The newspaper's intern could not help but notice the Christian cross Billy's high school friend wore around his neck, and Ruston supposed that Three-J got that "nudge in the right direction" that had somehow skipped over his former best friend.

Judith Duffie (Niece of Burk's alleged victim): "That sum-bitch is gonna spend the rest of his life in jail for what he done to Uncle Cyrus!"

Mark felt he made the woman's day when, later, he mentioned that Missouri was a death penalty state.

Deputy Roy Pope (Madison County Sheriff's Office, Retired, Discovered body of Cyrus Duffie after receiving anonymous tip): "Mischievous, but basically all right. Just made a bad choice—a real bad choice."

The retired deputy seemed reluctant to say much, and when he did, "Rusty" Ruston got the impression that Pope liked the man, even though, surely, Billy Boy Burk had been one of Deputy Pope's "better customers" in the late seventies and early eighties. Ruston wondered what it was about Burk that could cause a cop to like an accused killer.

Rupert Willow (Rural neighbor): "Billy was THE BEST coon hunter in Madison County and GOOD with dogs! You should have seen Tiger, Spike, and Ginger! They was some hounds he had."

The Willow fellow had a pen full of dogs himself, and Rusty remembered them erupting in a storm of barking and bawling when he had stepped on the Willow's front porch. For a terrible moment Ruston had wished he had conducted the interview by telephone.

* * *

Mark "Rusty" Ruston had been on the job one week when he'd been asked by his editor to call around and build a "bio" on Billy Boy Burk, the Missouri fugitive who'd been hiding in Arizona and who was now giving the authorities out west a run for their money. May was almost over, and Burk had been on the loose since March.

The latest wire service article stated that a man reputed to be Burk had shot holes in rafts in the Grand Canyon, wounded a minister in the process, and then had virtually disappeared. Ruston had been keeping up on the wire service articles; it was probably the sixth time that Burk had "disappeared" since his escape.

Billy Boy's lucky streak was bound to end, and Ruston's editor's idea was to run a feature on Burk, the elusive convict, once the man was caught and brought back to Missouri to stand trial for a murder and robbery that had taken place over twenty years before. Along with his interviews, Ruston's notebook contained the following:

William (Billy) Boy Burk.

Born May 7, 1964. Madison Medical Center, Fredericktown, Missouri.

Father: Rudy Wayne Burk.

Mother: Mary Catherine (Boy) Burk.

Attended school in Fredericktown. Did not graduate. Dropped out at age 17.

Home Life: Bleak!

Father's police record: Convicted of armed robbery, 1967. Served four years. Violated parole, 1972. Returned to prison. Released 1973. Convicted for receiving stolen property, 1976. Sentenced to three years. Released, 1978. Domestic disturbance calls, 1971, 1972, 1974, 1976 and 1979. No charges pressed. Deceased, 1995.

Mother: Treated for nervous disorder. Moved to St. Louis 1979. Today—whereabouts unknown.

W. B. Burk becomes ward of Julia D. Burk, an aunt, 1979.

Juvenile record: Sealed.

Religion: Protestant (Attended New Life Missionary Baptist Church sporadically).

Organized sports: Boxing—Golden Gloves runner-up, 1980.

Interests: Outdoors—hunting, fishing, camping, coon dogs. Drama Club—starred in school play.

Traits: Outgoing, popular, talkative, loud, and into trouble.

Crime: (Some information provided by anonymous caller the day after the murder) Burk allegedly broke into farmhouse owned by Cyrus Duffie, August 28, 1982. In struggle with Duffie, Duffie was shot and killed with handgun registered in Duffie's name. Forensics and autopsy reports reveal one shot was fired pointblank. Slug penetrated the heart. Gunpowder residue found on deceased's right hand. Fingerprints found on the Smith and Wesson belong to both Burk and Duffie. Gun discharged once.

* * *

Ruston had made two trips to Fredericktown in preparing to write Billy Boy's biography. The bio, when pieced together, would include a picture of a fifteen-year old Burk scanned from a high school yearbook, and another picture of Billy taken twenty-five years later—his mug shot snapped after his arrest in Winslow, Arizona for peace disturbance. The same picture had been circulating on a wanted poster (Ruston bought a copy on the Internet for eighteen dollars), and finally there was a shot of the Burk homestead, which consisted of a rundown house, vacant for thirteen years. The house partially hid two shabby outbuildings. The structures, a barn and a tool shed, leaned so precariously that they gave the impression that they were purposely peering around the side of Burk's boyhood home spying on the road out front. A weedy pasture lapped up to the road and surrounded the buildings. The weed patch bristled with twelve-foot high hawthorns. The intern for the St. Louis paper took the picture himself. It was a rainy weekend, and he had time to spare.

From the road Rusty looked at the empty house—a ghost of itself. He asked himself: _How many generations of people had called it home?_ He thought, also, of the holidays that the old house had hosted.

After taking the picture, and despite the sign that warned in faded orange letters, "TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED" Rusty Ruston left the road and stepped through the tall weeds, stopping now and then to pull stick-tights from his trousers.

The intern walked around the weathered remains of Billy Boy's boyhood home. Paint had peeled from the small house's wood siding; the windows were broken out. Inside he could see empty rooms. Between the tool shed and the barn, he discovered what appeared to have been a dog pen and next to the pen, all but lost in the tall weeds, Ruston found three small, wooden crosses standing upright. He knelt in front of the nearest cross, pulled back the wet grass, and looked closely at the letters carved deep with a knife, "GINGER."

Pet graves. Ruston thought to himself, Three of them where Billy Boy Burk had buried the three things that meant the most to him. It was almost as if he had come face-to-face with the fugitive himself, and Mark Ruston felt a chill like a spirit blowing through his soul. He stood quickly to leave but felt faint after rising. Waiting until the sensation passed, he looked around the grounds feeling as if someone or something was watching.

The young trees filling in the pasture and surrounding the house, the buildings crumbling where they stood—he could see the future. In time all would be lost. All vestiges of Billy Boy Burk, his mom, his dad, all testaments to their being would vanish as they had for countless others, and as they would someday for him.

The Burk property butted up against the Mark Twain National Forest, and from what Ruston had gathered, its timber-covered hills was where Billy, along with Tiger, Spike, and Ginger, had spent his formative years. As the young intern prepared to drive away, he heard the far off bawling of hunting dogs deep inside the forest—a haunting sound, and Mark Ruston climbed into his car and hit the accelerator hoping to leave his desolate feelings behind.

CHAPTER 2: THE DEATH OF CYRUS DUFFIE

At one time Cyrus Duffie raised pigs, but he was not very lucky when it came to pigs, and he got out of the business after loosing money seven out of eight years. He tried his hand with sheep, but before long realized that he hated sheep, and that sheep did not seem to care much for Cyrus Duffie either. Turkeys were a complete disaster, and the plans for a catfish farm never got off the ground.

Cyrus' break came in 1968 when he read an ad in _Fur and Forest_ magazine from an outfit selling deer urine. "Two squirts" were all that were required to lure a rutting buck to within range of a deer stand.

"Deer piss, imagine that!" Duffie said aloud as he sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee while surrounded by his dogs. Absently dropping scraps of bacon, none of which traveled far before disappearing into a hungry mouth, he read the advertisement three more times. Patches of dirty, late-January snow lay about the yard, and the temperature hovered just below freezing.

One year later, several eight-foot high pens had sprouted on his farm, and he owned six does and two bucks along with one milk cow, seven dogs, zero sheep, and an assortment of chickens, which he never bothered to count.

By 1974 his herd had grown to thirty-seven does and four lucky bucks. The deer piss business was good to Cyrus Duffie and kept him busy from mid-October to mid-December when the females were in and out of estrus. The urine collected from the ovulating does, was transferred into two-ounce bottles bearing labels, which boasted, "HORNY-DOE the BIG BUCK MAGNET." Amongst those who judge such things Cyrus' product was considered premium, and during hunting season cars were sometimes lined up for a quarter of a mile and on a road that was lucky to see one car per hour any other time of the year.

Success did little to change the man. His 1958 Chevrolet half ton continued to serve him well, and to everyone who met Duffie in town on Saturdays, it was abundantly clear that his bib overalls predated the Chevy. Since he spent little on himself, and since he had no wife, no kids, and no girlfriend to dispose of his money for him, people in Madison County naturally began to assume that Cyrus Duffie had amassed a fortune.

No one in Fredericktown had ever seen Duffie in either one of the two local banks, and, therefore, it followed that Cyrus Duffie was hording his riches somewhere in his house on Horny-Doe Acres, the name he called his small farm. That was the rumor that Billy Boy Burk had been hearing in hushed tones for almost his entire life.

* * *

On the twenty-eighth of August 1982, eighteen-year-old Billy Boy and his best friend Three-J Justice parked Burk's car a third of a mile up the road from the Duffie deer farm. They watched Cyrus Duffie get in his pickup and head toward Fredericktown.

A week earlier Billy had hatched a plan and let his friend in on the deal. "Yeh ever notice how old man Duffie's always in town on Saturday afternoon? . . . 'Cept in deer season."

Three-J thought for a minute, "Yeh, I guess so. . ," he agreed but wasn't absolutely certain that he knew Duffie's Saturday whereabouts.

"Well, it's like this," Burk leaned forward and in a low voice began to inform his friend. "In about fifteen minutes he'll drive right past this spot. Park as close to the front door of Marshall's Tavern as possible. He'll stay in there for two hours, usually. After that, he goes to the Piggly Wiggly, buys his groceries. Then, bam, he drives straight home. Gone about three and a half hours total."

"Bam, huh?" answered Three-J sounding skeptical and a little afraid of where Burk was going.

"Bam!" Billy Boy echoed then looked at his watch. "Okay, check this out. Duffie will drive past where we're sittin' in fourteen minutes."

Twelve minutes had gone by when Cyrus Duffie's '58 Chevy truck turned the corner and passed Three-J and his someday famous (or infamous) friend as they sat alone on a park bench on Fredericktown's Courthouse Square. Next Duffie parallel parked three spaces down from Marshall's front door.

Burk and Justice did not wait around two hours to see if the rest would come to pass. They cruised over to Farmington, and bought smokes and a six-pack. Billy's fake ID never failed. On the way back into Fredericktown they downed a beer each, and Billy Boy told Three-J about his plan. But Jimmy Joe Justice was not completely sold; down deep, he wasn't much of a criminal.

Ninety minutes after leaving the square they parked their butts on the same bench they had left earlier and were drinking beer from paper cups, sipping it through straws like it was Coca-Cola. They glanced toward Marshall's from time-to-time to check on Duffie's pickup.

Thirty minutes later Cyrus Duffie sealed his fate by walking out of Marshall's Tavern right on schedule and then driving to the Piggly Wiggly.

* * *

On Saturday the twenty-eighth Burk and Justice watched as Duffie's Chevy turned toward town followed by a cloud of dust. The truck grew smaller and eventually disappeared altogether. Nervously they glanced at one another, young Burk and the Justice boy. Starting his engine Billy Boy pulled slowly onto the road and headed down to the deer farm. He stopped in front of the driveway. They both looked and saw no other cars around. Billy's confidence was either growing or he just wanted to put up a strong front to counter his partner's reluctance, for he boldly drove his car right up to Duffie's front porch and parked in plain sight. Immediately the dogs out back started barking; the two would-be robbers braced themselves waiting in the car for the hounds to come tearing around the side of the house.

They didn't, and Burk declared, "Penned Up!" Like he knew all along, and he laughed concealing the fear that lay not far below his skin.

Burk stepped up to the door, sneaked looks in both directions, and turned the knob. Not locked.

"Okay, we're leaving in two hours. No matter what!" Billy Boy reminded Three-J of the plan. "You go upstairs; I'll look around down here. And if you see an attic, be sure 'n check it out!"

Once inside Three-J disappeared up the narrow steps, and Burk began in the kitchen at the back of the house.

Searching the refrigerator Billy found nothing. Ten minutes went by. He had no luck under the sink and was standing on the counter inspecting the space above the cabinets when he heard someone walking on the porch out front.

_The dogs aren't barking!_ was the first thought to race through Billy's mind. _It must be Duffie!_ was the second.

Burk jumped to the kitchen floor and reached for the back doorknob just as he heard the door in front of the house being yanked open. He intended to run out the rear of the building but discovered to his horror that Duffie's seven dogs were kept on the enclosed back porch. He would have had to run through a gauntlet of gnashing teeth and then hope that the porch door was not locked. Billy Burk retreated, closed the door, and, upon turning, found that he was looking down the barrel of the largest, rustiest revolver he'd ever seen. The gun shook violently in the nervous hands of Cyrus Duffie.

* * *

On Sunday evening the next day Deputy Roy Pope was enjoying a rare weekend off. Sitting in his living room, he watched a Cardinal game and was drinking a beer. Four empties had accumulated on the floor.

The Cards were on the west coast playing a double header with San Diego. Willie McGee was at the plate; there were two on and two out in the top of the sixth. St. Louis nursed a slim lead, having dropped the first game nine to four. The phone rang, and the deputy almost did not answer. On the fourth ring he reluctantly crossed the room, and keeping an eye on the TV screen, he spoke in a voice that did not mask his displeasure, "YEAH?"

The person on the other end did not speak.

Pope tried again, "HELLO!"

This time a voice, interrupted by deep sobs, faltered, "Mr. Pope, . . . it's . . . it's me, Billy Boy . . ."

The deputy forgot completely about the game, "Billy Boy? What is it, son?" Pope's voice had abruptly changed to one of care and concern.

"I . . . I killed a man."

Pope did not know what to say.

"Ye. . . yesterday."

"Where?" Roy Pope asked incredulously, his tone that of a parent desperately trying to understand.

"Duffie's . . . Duffie's deer farm. He . . . he caught me breakin' in. . . . He was gonna shoot me. . . . We fought for the gun. . . . And . . . and. . ." But Billy did not finish.

"Billy, son, . . . where are you? I'll come get you."

"No, . . . I . . . I just think it best . . . if I . . . if I disappear."

"But . . . but it sounds like self-defense ta me. You can stand trial. Burglary . . . manslaughter. . . . I don't know."

That's right, Billy Burk thought on the other end of the line. Pope doesn't know. But Billy was certain that he knew. Because of his dad and owing in no small measure to his own reputation, a Fredericktown jury would not likely side with a Burk.

About this time an operator interrupted saying, "Your three minutes are up. Deposit four more quarters, please."

Pope could hear the quarters being accepted by the payphone.

With the transaction completed, Billy continued, "I've made up my mind. I called to say . . . to say goodbye. . . . Also, I was alone. . . . It was just me. . . Would yeh send somebody out to Duffie's? His dogs are probably outta food."

"Billy Boy," Pope wanted to reason with the boy, but Burk had already hung up.

Roy Pope next drove to his brother's house and, pulling him away from the television, reminded him how several times he had gotten the man out of trouble, and that now it was time for payback. Pope gave his brother an opportunity to square things, and his brother agreed.

Ten minutes later Deputy Pope, standing in his own living room, got a second call from a payphone; only his brother had placed this call from a telephone booth across the street from the Fredericktown Post Office. While on the line, his brother asked, "How much longer before I hang up?"

"Just two more minutes and don't forget to wipe your fingerprints off the receiver," the deputy added, and looking at his watch, he noted the time: _6:17_.

After that Roy and his brother never talked about the strange phone call.

* * *

The night of the killing, Billy Boy drove Three-J back to the Justice house in Fredericktown. Billy Boy was upset, sure, but Three-J trembled like he was convulsing. Burk promised his buddy that, if caught, he would not implicate Three-J. But Billy Boy did not plan on being caught, and in his mind he was already thinking up aliases. Billy Boy Burk was about to vanish.

When asked where he intended to go, Billy hesitated and said, "I'm . . . I'm not really sure. Maybe head south. Yeah, south. Say _adios_ to winters forever."

In truth the young killer did not know where he would head other than the fact that he had just eliminated "south." Billy Boy Burk liked Three-J and all, but at the same time did not trust him—didn't trust anyone for that matter. Billy Boy suspected that if Three-J were pressured, well . . . Burk knew who would end up on death row.

As he drove toward Fredericktown for what he supposed would be the last time in his life to drop off his best friend whom he, likewise, figured he would never see or talk to again, Billy Boy began to reconstruct the events that occurred in Duffie's kitchen.

Cyrus Duffie had Billy Boy dead to rights. Duffie shaking, mad as hell, pointed that old pistol in Billy's face.

Billy Burk put his hands up and tried to let some of the air out of the situation by smiling, and he said with a grin, "All rright, you caught me. I confess. Call the cops; I'll go to jail."

"Boy, you ain't a goin' ta no jail. YOU is about ta go ta HELL!" still shaking but beginning to break into a hideous grin, tobacco juice dribbling down his chin, Cyrus Duffie continued, "You is Rudy Burk's boy, ain't yeh?"

Billy thought: _Uh oh! What did my old man do to this guy?_ And he watched Duffie cock the rusty Smith and Wesson.

_HE INTENDS TO MURDER ME IN COLD BLOOD!_ The thought ripped through Burk's brain as fast as the bullet that was about to do the same.

Young Billy stood frozen waiting for death. The deer farmer squeezed the trigger, but the gun did not fire. Alarm registered on Duffie's face, and he pulled the trigger a second time but with the same result. Suddenly Billy Boy sprang to life. He seized the old man's hands in a fight for the revolver; they went to the floor, rolling and grappling. Unexpectedly the gun fired, and the struggle ended. Duffie's body went limp.

Billy Boy Burk jumped to his feet as Three-J Justice, white as a sheet, appeared in the doorway. "WHAT HAPPENED?"

But Billy did not speak. The dogs on the porch were going crazy. The kitchen floor was uneven, and Burk watched as blood flowed from the deer farmer and pooled in a low spot under the table. Cyrus Duffie's breaths came heavy and gurgled wet. Bloody bubbles formed on his lips with each gasp. Then his breathing stopped. Three-J stood transfixed and watched the last of the red bubbles pop.

When Burk realized that the gun was still in his hand, he dropped it like it was red-hot. Stepping back while releasing the gun, the antique Smith and Wesson slid across the floor and ended in the blood pool. The two robbers staggered from the kitchen and sat on the rug in the living room. Billy Boy felt faint and lay on the carpet. Three-J's eyes were the size of silver dollars.

* * *

When the two arrived at Three-J's house, the Justice boy told Billy that he had found seventy dollars and a checkbook in a drawer upstairs. Three-J gave his friend all the money.

"What'cha do with the checkbook?" Billy asked.

"Left it there." And he hesitated to tell Billy Boy what he'd learned, "The bank . . . Duffie's bank . . . He didn't do his banking in town. He went to Farmington . . ."

". . . And that's why everybody in town thinks he's got his money hid!" Billy did not remember to use the past tense in referring to the man whom he had just killed. In no time the realization had fully penetrated: he had bought into a rumor that probably had no foundation—he'd sold his future and had gotten nothing in exchange.

Later Billy Boy Burk drove home. He put some clothes in a laundry bag and stole some cash from his aunt's purse. On his way out the door for the last time, he turned and gave one final look, memorizing the details that had been a part of his life. Closing the door quietly, he crept around to the back of the house to say goodbye to Tiger, Spike, and Ginger buried under the half-dead apple tree next to the tool shed.

* * *

Roy Pope was a large, awkward man. He talked slowly and in a monotone so that some who met him for the first time thought that the deputy might be mildly retarded. But he wasn't. He was, however, kind-hearted, and if someone had problems, he was there to listen, and he would do what he could to help.

Roy had had only one love in his life, but she ran off with Rudy Burk and married him the first year out of high school. Before long she gave birth to a son, and the couple named him William. Pope never stopped loving Mary Catherine Boy, and when he got a job with the Madison County Sheriff's Department, he would drive past Rudy and Mary's place from time-to-time just to steal a glimpse at the life that he thought should have been his.

In 1971 the deputy answered a call at the Burk residence. Rudy was drunk and abusing Mary Catherine. Roy Pope, the first on the scene, beat Rudy Burk half to death. Billy Boy was eight years old at the time. He hated his dad with a passion, and it was then that he realized that Deputy Pope could be useful.

More abuse occurred in 1972, 1974, 1976, and 1979. The beatings were all late at night. Roy Pope was always the first deputy to respond. Sometimes he would receive a phone call directly from the Burk household, sometimes from the dispatcher.

In 1976 Deputy Pope learned that Rudy possessed a stolen tractor and had it hidden in his barn. Pope told the judge that he had received an anonymous tip. A search warrant was issued, and the deputy personally made the arrest. Rudy Burk was sentenced to three years in prison.

While Rudy was behind bars, Pope would stop by to deliver groceries to Mary Catherine and the boy. He helped with chores and petted Billy Boy's three dogs. In 1979 right before Rudy's release from the Potosi Correctional Center, his mother made Billy promise never to tell his dad about the kind-hearted deputy, and Roy Pope told Billy to continue to call him whenever he was in trouble or whenever he needed to talk.

* * *

One week after the murder of Cyrus Duffie, Roy Pope stood next to the desk of Madison County Sheriff Will Jarrett.

Sheriff Jarrett was bent over a computer printout that he had spread on his desk. With one finger he pointed to a line on the paper then, out of frustration, retrieved an envelope from a nearby shelf and set it on the line he had pointed to. "Says here you received three phone calls that Sunday . . . no . . . make that two. The first . . . let's see . . . from Albuquerque, New Mexico at 5:37. Humm. And you got the second call from a phone booth here in town at . . . 6:15. Now which call was the Duffie tip?"

Without emotion and in the same slow monotone he always used, the deputy answered his boss' question, "The second one. I wrote the time down soon as I hung up. The New Mexico call was from my cousin. He's a truck driver, just called to let me know he picked up a load to deliver on the west coast instead of heading this way. We were planning to get together."

The sheriff seemed satisfied.

Expressionless, Pope continued to watch his boss inspect the phone logs. As Will Jarrett did so, Roy wondered who Billy Boy was trying to protect that day he phoned from Albuquerque. Pope recalled Billy's statement word-for-word, ". . . _I was alone . . . it was just me_." Roy Pope knew the boy, and the comment sounded rehearsed.

CHAPTER 3: TOM COLLIER AND WAYNE EARL WHISTLE

While Billy Boy hid out in Albuquerque, New Mexico, he went by the name of Tom Collier. Almost every day, he would stand at the entrance to a lumberyard and compete for jobs with Mexican migrants. Contractors would drive in and point, "You, . . . you, . . . and . . . you." Normally the "You's" would hop into the back of a pickup truck and be driven to a job site. Everything was cash only because Tom Collier had no Social Security number.

In July of 1983 Tom and a Mexican named Eduardo sat in the shade of a billboard waiting for someone in need of cheap labor to drive up and start pointing. Eduardo's English was passable, and they talked bullshit about which country, the USA or Mexico, had better whores. Since neither Tom nor Eduardo had enough money for whores, their assertions were not based on experience, but on conjecture only, though to have heard the two arguing, one would have thought otherwise.

When Tom Collier challenged Eduardo by saying, "Hey, Mexican whores must be fuckin' cheap if you've had so damn many of them!" Eduardo looked offended, and shook his finger in his friend's face saying, "Whaut you mean fucking sheep? Whores I know, dey no fucking sheep!"

"Listen you stupid shit! I SAID FUCKING CHEAP . . . CHEAP . . . NOT SHEEP! No wonder there are so many wars!" Tom Collier feigned exasperation.

Eduardo looked confused, "Many whores? No, I tink der are not so many whores."

Collier began to suspect that Eduardo was having fun at his expense. Still he had another go at international relations, "I SAID THAT SINCE YOU, EDUARDO, HAVE HAD SEX WITH SO MANY WHORES IN YOUR COUNTRY, MEXICO, THEN WHORES IN YOUR COUNTRY MUST BE VERY INEXPENSIVE."

This time Eduardo understood, and he seemed insulted that his gringo friend, in a roundabout way, had insinuated that he had little money, "You wait. Next week, I ghet papers. Ghet good job den. _Mucho dinero_! Plenty whores. You see."

"Papers? What papers?" Collier asked sitting up and suddenly turning serious.

"You know, So-she-OO Se-cur-EE-T. Tuff like dat."

It took two months for Tom Collier to save up the 200 bucks to secure bogus documents from a fat man named Cecil who spoke with a nasally voice and had a problem with excessive sweating.

Tom excitedly handed over his money and grabbed his new identity like a kid at Christmas. "WAYNE EARL WHISTLE!" Tom read the name on the Social Security card in disbelief and added, "WHAD'DA HELL KIND'A NAME IS WHISTLE?"

"My contact . . . he gives me what he's got. It's nothing to do with me. It's either Whistle or . . . let's see . . .," looking at a second card as if he had vision problems, Cecil then struggled to pronounce the other name that he had for sale, ". . . ah . . . Gob . . . hum . . . Gob-bot-tom. Yeah, Gobbottom. You want to be Elmer Gobbottom then?"

The fat man menacingly extended his hand, which contained the backup Social Security card, toward the newly anointed Whistle, threatening to turn Billy Boy Burk into an "Elmer Gobbottom."

"But Wayne Whistle?" this time Billy Boy literally whined. Later he was to discover that "Wayne Whistle" sounded like someone with an impediment attempting to tackle "train whistle," and that combining his new first two initials with his new surname, thereby producing an ego wilting "W. E. Whistle," was not much of an option either.

"You can exchange it for this one—no problem." The fat man continued to thrust "Elmer Gobbottom" aggressively in Billy Boy's direction. A sneer took up most of Cecil's wide face, and sweat spotted his faded, blue shirt producing huge, dark patches under his arms, on his back, and across his chest. Cecil's rounded torso, mercifully covered by the blue shirt, could easily have been confused with a misshapen world globe—a globe festooned with irregular, sweat-darkened continents surrounded by the light blue of the seven seas. Deep down Cecil was a barren planet, devoid of feelings, and preoccupied with scratching out a mean existence.

"Take it or leave it!" The Planet Cecil repeated three times, increasing the emphasis on "leave it" with each repetition. Billy Boy stopped moaning, and The Planet added his final thoughts on the matter, "There are no refunds! Besides you're bitching to someone with an 'unusual' name who happens to manage quite well, thank you. You'll get no sympathy from me."

Billy suspected that there was no "contact person"—that Cecil worked alone, and that names like "Wayne Whistle" and "Elmer Gobbottom" were Cecil's revenge upon the world for a childhood filled with torment.

"What if I someday run into the real Whistle?" Burk asked forlornly, beginning to accept his penalty of living the remainder of his life as "Wayne Earl."

"Don't think it's gonna be a problem." Cecil sounded sure of himself. "Wayne Earl Whistle died last year in Omaha, Nebraska."

"Oh," said Billy Boy, and looking down sadly at his new Social Security card, he turned and walked away.

With a brand-new identity the man who killed Cyrus Duffie moved to Winslow, Arizona, got a job working as a golf course groundskeeper, and lived in a trailer park until March 12, 2004. Mr. Whistle paid his taxes, volunteered at the Winslow Animal Shelter, and led a quiet life, avoiding the spotlight at all costs.

* * *

Gradually, after ten years in hiding, "Billy Boy Burk" began to fade from Wayne Whistle's mind. And after twenty, the man, formerly known as Burk, had changed as well. No longer loud and reckless, he tended to smile sadly rather than speak and had few friends. It was as if the personage of Billy Boy Burk had grown dormant, and emerging to take its place was a new person, a person with the mannerisms and the temperament of a Wayne, a Wayne Earl Whistle from Omaha, Nebraska—mild, understated, and utterly alone.

* * *

In February of 2004 a man named Silas Tonnage moved into the trailer court in Winslow—Wayne Whistle's trailer court. Wayne's new neighbor had two dogs, a rottweiler named Bull and a German shepherd mix that Mr. Tonnage had christened General. Bull, General, and Silas lived in a trailer at the far end of the complex across from Whistle's trailer and down by a creek, which was dry most of the year. The newcomer chained his dogs so that they could crawl under their trailer and snooze, which promised to be a welcome accommodation in the coming summer.

Once a day Silas would let his two pets run free. He would unhook them from their chains and yell after the dogs, "Dats it! Dats it! Go get'm! Get dos rabbits!" As Bull and General made bee-lines toward the creek bottom, Tonnage's encouragement appeared unnecessary and the words hung in the air like the clouds of dust that trailed behind his enthusiastic animals as they bolted toward the willows. Silas would only let Bull and General go when they were hungry to insure their prompt return once they had completed their exercise.

After watching his dogs disappear into the weeds and brush that grew along the creek, Silas would adjourn to his trailer and reemerge an hour later carrying two bowls of chow. The rottweiler and the shepherd-mix would be there to eagerly accept their dinner.

But Bull and General did not limit their entertainment to chasing rabbits. Sometimes the two dogs would corral a pet and leave it mangled or worse.

Wayne Whistle learned of this from another neighbor, an elderly woman, whom he thought at first was holding a white, limp rag, but which turned out to be the lifeless body of Pierre, her miniature toy poodle. The lady stood crying in front of Whistle, and Wayne Earl noticed that the old woman had a tattoo of the Eiffel Tower on her arm, except her tower was in an awful state, saggy and flaccid, not at all like the real thing.

Marching over to the trailer from under which two dogs peered apprehensively, Wayne Earl Whistle confronted Silas Tonnage. After scowling and saying nothing, his sullen neighbor abruptly slammed the door in Whistle's face, and worst of all, did nothing to curtail Bull and General's unsupervised romps.

The dogs barked at everyone, but strangely they never barked at the man from across the street. It was almost as if they sensed that the dark-haired gentleman with the beard and the sad smile was not to be provoked.

Wayne brought up the Silas Tonnage matter to the director of the Winslow Animal Shelter who in turn alerted the Winslow police. One day the following week Whistle felt some vindication when he looked out of his window and saw a squad car parked in front of Silas' trailer.

After fifteen minutes Wayne Earl watched the cop drive off, and as he looked over, he saw Silas glaring in his direction. Wayne stepped back from the window unsure if his angry neighbor saw him standing there.

The next morning Whistle discovered that someone had smeared dog shit on his windshield. A day later two of his tires were flat.

Friday evening of the following week Wayne Earl Whistle heard a commotion in the street in front of his trailer. Silas' dogs had pinned a golden retriever to the ground. The retriever's ear was ripped, and it bled profusely.

Grabbing a broom Wayne Earl rushed out of the door to breakup the melee. Silas sat on his front steps enjoying the spectacle. Whistle laid into Bull and General with the broom handle, and they quickly backed away. Flying off his steps Silas blind-sided Whistle knocking him to the ground yelling, "YOU SUM-BITCH! DON'T YEH HIT MAH DAWGS!"

Looking worried Bull and General retreated to a corner beneath their trailer. Wayne lay in the road. Something snapped in Wayne Earl Whistle, and Billy Boy Burk awoke inside of him. The man on the ground began to smile like a pirate fixing to plunder the Crown Jewels but in no hurry to do so.

Meanwhile, Silas, acting cocky, squared, assumed a boxer's stance, and dared Wayne Earl Whistle to stand, "COME ON, YEH WANT MORE? I'LL TEACH YEH TA MIND YEHR OWN BUSINESS!"

Billy Boy Burk leapt upon Silas Tonnage and commenced to whale him senseless. In the middle of which the old lady with the Eiffel Tower tattoo came running outside. Soon she was jumping up and down yelling, "DATS IT! YOU GET'M!" at the top of her lungs. Next she picked up the broom and started poking Silas in the leg, which Silas did not feel because Billy Boy Burk had fully emerged and was using his fists on Silas' face teaching his new neighbor the finer points of responsible dog ownership. The mild Wayne E. Whistle no longer existed.

The old lady became so elated that Silas was answering for the death of her beloved Pierre that the Eiffel Tower tattoo was temporarily restored to its former glory. To her the emergence of Billy Boy Burk from the chrysalis that had been the lowly W. E. Whistle was more wondrous than the emergence of the loveliest butterfly, an opinion not shared by Silas Tonnage.

Before Billy Boy could finish with Silas' education, a Winslow City Police car, its siren screeching, whipped around the corner and skidded to a stop.

The upshot was this. An ambulance hauled Silas to the hospital; the dogcatcher took Bull and General to the pound; the golden retriever got a ride to the veterinarian; and the man known to the people in town as Wayne Earl Whistle was taken to the Navajo County Jail in Holbrook forty miles east—the Winslow City Jail having been closed for renovations.

Nothing was done about the old lady who continued to poke Silas with a broom handle even while he was being loaded, unconscious, into the ambulance.

CHAPTER 4: THE NAVAJO COUNTY JAIL

Sheriff Hugh Taylor had run for office promising to "restore fairness and honesty" to the Navajo County Department of Justice and Law Enforcement. It was a long shot.

His popular opponent, and the incumbent at the time, Kevin Benson resented the insinuations that the Taylor campaign slogan implied.

"Restore fairness and honesty?" Benson huffed indignantly. "Can't restore what ain't been missin'!"

Owing to the Taylor family's less than glowing reputation and to his own hubris, Kevin Benson could foresee no way that he would lose to the likes of Hugh Taylor.

But a member of the Criminal Investigations Division of the Arizona Highway Patrol caught the incumbent sheriff on videotape extorting favors from a hooker two weeks prior to the election. Benson's constituents initially wrote the incident off as dirty politics until a local radio station received from an anonymous source a copy of the audio portion of the incriminating video.

The tape included Sheriff Benson's breathy voice feverishly encouraging, "OH COME ON DARLIN'! SUCK DAT THING!" The background was so heavy with the unmistakable sounds of slurping that one person said with a wink that it reminded him of a camel licking ice cream from a bucket.

Before long Benson's passionate instructions could be heard twenty times a day on three different Navajo County radio stations. Though the sheriff's libidinous exploits were the talk of the town, the notoriety did not help him in the voting booth. The escapade produced quite the opposite effect, and his opponent Hugh Taylor swept to victory by the largest margin in Navajo County history.

Two weeks after the election all pending charges against Kevin Benson were dropped without explanation. Three weeks after that, the ex-sheriff learned that the last name of both the hooker and the man behind the video camera was Taylor.

Hugh Taylor's term in office turned out to be more of an "infestation" rather than a "restoration." The "Fairness and Honesty" candidate viewed his new position as an employment bonanza—an opportunity to put the entire Taylor clan on the county's payroll. Benson's appointees were turned out to make way for an invasion of Taylors, some moving into town from as far away as Montana. Nepotism in the Navajo County Department of Justice and Law Enforcement was carried to new heights, and rumors circulated that the county's name would soon be changed to "Taylor."

The Taylor extended family contained both ends of the evolutionary spectrum and everything in between. There were Taylor judges, Taylor lawyers, and Taylor deputies. The man who cleaned the sheriff's office was a Taylor, as well as the person who serviced the vending machines, and the company that catered the inmate's meals at the jail was Taylor owned. Outside of the jail's backdoor Taylor dogs could be seen eating large hunks of meat, which had gone undelivered to the prisoners. It was the best of times if you were a Taylor, the worst if you were a Benson.

A position was found for everyone in the family with the exception of Woodrow Wilson Taylor, Jr., whom people referred to as "W. W. Two" ("W. W. One" being his old man who died in a tragic accident that was rumored to have started as a game of "fart lighting"). The family was spared embarrassment when the newspaper reported that W. W. One died in a fire of "undetermined origin."

Sadly, a son inherits half of his genes from his father. W. W. Two was neither motivated nor inspired to do much more than smoke cigarettes and watch reality shows on television. He especially liked the program called _Hillbilly Island_ where sixteen people with shotguns were stranded on a deserted Pacific atoll. Each was given an unlimited supply of ammo and three canned hams. After one month, the contestant with the most unopened canned hams received a check for one million dollars and a document granting full immunity from prosecution.

On Friday, March 12, 2004, Sheriff Hugh Taylor needed a temporary weekend nightshift guard for the Navajo County Jail and W. W. Two, despite serious objections from the more sober members of the Taylor clan, was pressed into service.

It was the same evening that Wayne Earl Whistle from Winslow was brought into jail for processing. After being fingerprinted and photographed, Wayne deposited his wallet, watch, and clothing in a basket. He was then deloused as a precaution and given clean socks, sandals, underwear, and a bright orange jumpsuit. As he was led away to a cell, Whistle overheard a jailor say that the "standard operating procedure" was to have all fingerprints checked against those in the federal registry, and the mild-mannered groundskeeper began desperately searching for a way to escape.

Meanwhile two of the Taylor's on duty were getting a kick out of saying, "Wayne Whistle from Winslow," and attempting an assortment of train noises.

Billy Boy thought: _At least they haven't discovered that "Wayne Earl Whistle" is an alias._ Running his fingers worriedly through his beard, the prisoner resigned himself to the truth: _in a short time they WILL find out_. Burk began repeating in his head: _Got to get outta here!_ And he pictured the alternative—Missouri's death row.

The cell door clanking shut behind him added to Burk's sense of urgency. He broke into a sweat and paced cat-like back and forth, looking furtively at his new surroundings. In a dark corner of his cell sat a man "American Indian style" with his legs folded beneath him. The expressionless man stared straight into space, not saying a word, and not acknowledging Billy's presence.

As Burk's eyes adjusted to the dim light, the silent man's features became clear. Billy was certain that the man was Navajo, straight off the reservation by his looks and demeanor and content to say nothing.

Burk plopped heavily onto a bunk. Hopelessness closed in around him, and he lay motionless unable to sleep. For two solid hours he matched the American Indian's silence, staring at the ceiling and saying not one word. Billy could hear doors being opened and being shut somewhere in the building; he listened to the ring of a telephone and to the hum of cars out on the highway.

Suddenly a door opened down the hallway. _Ah, a couple of cops are bringing somebody in_ , Burk concluded and he stood to get a better look.

"Tand away from da . . . da . . . ( _SNEEZE_ ) . . . da door!" ordered a grim-faced jailor who was obviously suffering from a head cold. The ailing man then rapped once on the bars with a baton.

Because of both the baton and the germ-laden sneeze, Billy Boy quickly stepped backward. The new inmate was to be added to their cell, and it looked to Burk that he would be about as much company as the Navajo in the corner. The new man had passed out, and the reason was evident from the smell of liquor that entered the cell along with his limp body, which the guards proceeded to drag in and deposit on the nearest bunk as carelessly as if it were a bag of feed.

"Okay Mr. Mathew Sherman, sleep it off. We'll talk about damages in the morning," the other guard said in a singsong voice that seemed more suited to the Broadway stage than to the Navajo County Jail.

The suffering jailor slammed the door shut harder than necessary, then said disgustedly, "You dingbad! He can'd . . . ( _SNIFF_ ) . . . hear you!" Checking first to insure that the cell door had indeed locked, the man next snorted, attempting to clear snot from his congested sinuses. In the process he had evidently dislodged a sizeable hunk, and after three big chews, and a swallow the gentleman looked quite satisfied.

His partner made a sour face and asked rhetorically in the same melodic voice he'd used earlier, "Has anyone ever told you that you are a hideous beast?"

* * *

W. W. Two reported for work an hour and a half after the drunk was booked, and a cousin greeted the rookie jailor with, "Ten thirty! Your first day on the job and only a half hour late; I'd say you're gettin' more responsible in your old age." After, speaking sarcastically W.W. Two's cousin gave a derisive laugh then walked away.

Though wounded by the comment, W. W. Two said not one word because he was still smarting from the news that the Navajo County Jail was a smoke-free building. Five minutes later he asked the Taylor who manned the front desk, "Whad'da hell am I subposed ta do?"

"Sit down and stay da hell outta da way," was the extent of Woodrow Wilson Taylor, Jr.'s orientation.

The shift change had been at ten P.M. An all-new set of Taylor's had come on duty, and most of them had already claimed the plum resting spots. A miserable W. W. Two searched around for a comfortable out-of-the-way corner in which to curl up.

But evidently he had not hidden himself well enough because at 11:45 he was rudely awakened and told to bring a prisoner up front, ". . . Mathew Sherman's wife has bailed him out, and he's free to go. But boy, she's one mean snake! Here, give him these and be sure we get back the jumpsuit. People keep stealin' them."

W. W., Jr. was handed keys, plus Sherman's basket of possessions, and was abruptly informed that the prisoner could be found in "Block One, Cell C."

Fumbling with the keys while desperately needing a smoke, W. W. Two seemed both surprised and pleased with himself when he was able to unlock Block One's door on only the third try. He staggered back to the cell area, still groggy from sleep, and searched for a sign that identified one of the twenty-by-fifteen foot compartments as the "C" cell. Squinting as he walked down the hall, he mumbled, "Let's see. That's A . . .umh, B . . .C, that's it."

A half-minute later Woodrow Wilson Taylor, Jr. succeeded in opening the cell door. He looked in at the three occupants of cell "C" and, mustering his courage, asked in voice that he hoped would sound tough, "Ah, which of you is Mathew Sherman?"

One of the men rolled over on his bunk, planted his feet on the floor, and said while yawning, "Yeah, me." The man next rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched.

"Your wife's here. . . . Posted bail. You're free to go, though I don't think I would if I was you. They tell me she looks mad as hell." W. W. Two laughed uncomfortably at his attempt at humor.

The prisoner, while rising to his feet, flashed a smile that reminded the rookie jailor of a pirate and said as he passed out of the cell, "Yeah, that woman can be a real bitch." Two occupants remained behind in cell "C," a man who lay snoring on the bunk closest to the door, and a Native American who said nothing, but saw all and whose eyes were suddenly twinkling with delight.

* * *

Billy Boy Burk put on the clothes that belonged to Mathew Sherman and was alarmed that they were too large for him and that the ill-fitting clothes would send up a red flag that would be detected by the blank-looking jailor who yawned constantly and who was in the process of breaking open a cigarette and stuffing the loose tobacco into his mouth.

Quickly cramming Sherman's wallet into his back pocket Billy Boy resisted the temptation of checking its contents. He picked up the set of keys and studied them carefully. There were two different car door openers on Mathew Sherman's key ring.

Burk was ready to go but the jailor, in the middle of probing for a booger in the depths of his left nostril, evidently, could not safely walk and excavate at the same time, so Billy Boy had to painfully endure as the man finished his business in what seemed like slow motion.

"Okay, now."

While being escorted to the front desk, the prisoner prepared to bolt in case the mistake was discovered. They passed two Taylors who lay snoring on benches. Preoccupied with brewing coffee, the man stationed at the desk brusquely had the prisoner sign a form. Burk wondered if Mathew spelled Sherman with "Sh" or with "Sch," but no one seemed to notice what he scrawled on the paper.

The murderer was given the yellow bottom copy, which he hastily stuffed in his pocket when told he could go.

"Be careful out there. I think she's pissed," the man at the front desk warned and then turned to check the coffee.

After a quick salute, one of Burk's habitual gestures, he marched toward the metal double doors—the longest fifteen feet Billy Boy had ever covered. Though he walked briskly forward, it seemed in his mind that the exit was moving while he remained stationary. The doors advanced, growing larger in his field of vision, but their progress was agonizingly slow. At last he reached out and pushed one of the doors aside.

The stern woman waiting in the foyer turned with a start. Then disappointment clouded her face when she realized that the man striding in her direction was not her Mathew.

Billy Boy avoided looking at the lady as he moved closer, gripping the car keys in his hand.

Mrs. Sherman did a double take as Billy Boy charged past—his eyes averted.

He heard her exclaim as he burst through the front door feeling the cold night air bathe his face, "WHY IS THAT MAN WEARING MY HUSBAND'S CLOTHES?" The word "clothes" faded fast as the door closed in the middle of her question.

Burk started pointing the key ring in random directions and pushing buttons on both openers at once until he heard a "chirp" to his right. He turned and sprinted to a car with its dome light on, got in, and drove away a free man. He would never again tell anyone that his name was Wayne Whistle.

CHAPTER 5: DAY ONE, March 13, 2004

The Sherman's drove a Mustang. Billy Boy glanced at the dashboard clock. The time read 12:07 A.M.—"day one" of Burk's marathon run from the law. As of yet he had no plans, just impulses.

First it occurred to him to get on the Interstate and head west at top speed toward Winslow—to his trailer, pack some stuff . . . then what? But, while still in town, instinct told him to ease off on the accelerator; he signaled to make a turn and pulled into an alley.

Killing the engine, Burk sat in the dark and scrunched low in the seat, still breathing heavily from the excitement of his narrow escape.

_What luck!_ he thought and at the same time congratulated himself for his stroke of genius. The jailor had asked for Mathew Sherman, and Billy Boy, without hesitating, stepped forward. _I should be in Hollywood!_ Burk gushed effusively feeling the kid inside of him again—an alien sensation after twenty joyless years

The Ford Mustang's engine hadn't cooled down when Burk heard sirens. He turned and, peering out the back glass, spied two squad cars speeding west on the main drag, heading no doubt toward I 40. They quickly zipped past the entrance to his alley, leaving no chance to spot the Sherman's stolen car.

_Don't let'm flush you_ , Billy counseled himself to stay put. From experience he knew that a rabbit could hide so well in the weeds that a hunter without a dog could walk within inches and not be aware of its presence. But most of the time the rabbit's nerves would get the best of him. The animal would bolt—a fatal mistake at close range. _When you're being hunted, either run early or, if concealed well, don't run at all_ , Burk concluded feeling smug.

Billy Boy Burk began to put together a strategy. He needed a disguise—his own brand of camouflage. In twenty-four hours his mug shot would be in the paper. Also, the cops, at least some of them, had guessed that he would try to leave the area as quickly as possible and on the fastest highway. If he had followed his initial impulse, he would have been spotted. By his calculation, the best way to avoid capture started by deciding what was obvious and then doing just the opposite.

While he waited in the dark alley, he reached over and pushed the glove compartment button. Crammed with papers, it popped opened like a jack-in-the-box. Half the contents amounted to garbage: candy wrappers, crumpled receipts, empty cigarette packs. At the very bottom he found what he guessed to be twenty dollars worth of change, a small flashlight, two screwdrivers, and an adjustable wrench, which he put to use right away. Parked not far in front of the Mustang was another car similar to the Sherman's except older. Billy got out and rapidly switched license plates.

Returning to the Mustang, Burk opened the trunk and found a winter coat, a pair of gloves, tire chains, and a stocking cap. The temperature hovered in the thirties. He snatched up the clothing. _Old Mathew sprang for the best_ , Billy said to himself appreciatively after feeling the coat's heavy lining. _Just wish that he was smaller_. The coat swallowed him like a sleeping bag with arms.

Crawling into the cramped rear seat, Billy curled up and tried to rest. Too stoked to actually sleep, he decided that lying down would have to do—sleep, if it came, would be an unexpected bonus. He closed his eyes, but every far-off bump and knock pushed sleep away from him, and he began to feel like a rabbit ready to jump and run.

Sometime later, but uncertain how much later, he heard footsteps—unmistakable sounds made by hard-soled shoes, maybe western-style boots, and each step produced a distinct tap on the concrete of the alley, as clear as the rapping of a judge's gavel. People, maybe two people, were coming closer. The sounds stopped when they drew even with the Mustang. Cowering in the back seat "The Rabbit" detected muffled voices; he could hear the door handle jiggle. Dark forms but no faces. _Are they cops? Do they have guns? Are they aiming them at me?_

Seized by fear Billy felt a weight on his chest. He desperately tried to sit up, tried to protect himself, tried to bolt and run, but to his horror, his body would not respond. _Help yourself!_ The fugitive exhorted in his mind. Only after a herculean effort, did he open his eyes and at the same time give a frantic shout, which was more of a whimper like the mortal sound made by a rabbit when hit by pellets from a shotgun.

As Billy wrenched himself into an upright position, he peered hard into the darkness. _Where? Where have they gone?_ It took a moment for Billy Boy's brain to grasp the fact that no one was there. Billy Boy Burk had fallen asleep and the dark forms had existed only in his mind.

He lay down and began to recall yesterday's events then remembered the wallet in his back pocket—Mathew Sherman's wallet. A thorough inspection yielded $367, sixty-seven from the main compartment and three 100's tucked behind a prescription card.

Sherman also carried a Visa and a Master Card, which Billy initially treated as good news, but realized that a charge would mark his location. Burk next studied the man's driver's license. The Shermans lived in the southern part of Navajo County. He and Mathew were two years apart, were the same height, but the wallet's owner had sixty-two pounds on him, which reminded Burk of the baggy clothing he was wearing.

Also, when the picture was taken, Sherman had a shaved head and sported a black mustache. Billy Boy Burk stared at his first bit of camouflage: _Shave my head and chin, keep my mustache, . . . new clothes, . ._ . and in his mind he began to make a shopping list.

Five hours later Burk walked out of a discount store carrying two plastic sacks. He had to wait for the Salvation Army to open and was glad that he'd been patient. Slacks, shirt, sport coat, belt, and dark socks set him back less than thirty-five dollars. He went into the place wanting to buy coveralls, but it occurred to him that the police would be looking for a man dressed the way Wayne Whistle would dress—a groundskeeper, wearing work clothes. They would not be on the lookout for a man who appeared to be coming from church—more camouflage.

Next, he bought a roadmap and a morning newspaper and drove to the city park. The paper contained nothing about his escape, and he was not surprised. But the fact that there was no mention of the jailbreak on the local radio news, struck Billy Boy as curious.

_Are they keeping it a secret?_ He hoped that they were that stupid. _They would if they didn't want voters to learn what had actually happened._

He'd purchased a hair clipper at the discount store and gave himself a buzz cut and trimmed his beard as short as possible. Unfolded on his lap, the newspaper caught his hair in bunches as he ran the clipper across the top of his head and over his face. Three-inch-high piles of dark hair covered articles about the war in Iraq, the sluggish economy's anemic job growth, and a great-grandmother in Show Low who had celebrated her hundredth birthday. Billy Boy then shaved his chin as best he could, using a disposable razor and cold water from a plastic bottle. After the chin, Burk decided not to tackle his head just then—the crew cut would have to do.

When he finished, he laughed at the face looking back at him in the mirror, and he wished for a full-length mirror so he could take in the whole package. Billy Boy was on a roll.

CHAPTER 6: ON THE RUN

Lucien Ortiz, the golf pro at the Lone Pine Country Club where until Friday Billy Burk had worked, owned a vacation home on the Mogollon Rim outside of a place called Heber. He had overheard Ortiz speak of it many times. Golf season was just heating up in Winslow, and the club's only on-staff professional would probably not take time off until mid-October.

Saturday afternoon Burk drove southwest out of Holbrook on state route 377 careful not to break the speed limit. In forty-five minutes the road gained 2,000 feet and the spare, open landscape, which allowed one to see for miles, changed abruptly into stands of stately Ponderosa pine. Snow blanketed the forest, and signs cautioned drivers to be alert for elk. He spotted a house and noticed water dripping from its gutters as the late afternoon sun melted snow on its west-facing roof.

In a small café next to Heber's only gas station Billy Boy half expected people to stare, but no one did. He ordered coffee and asked if they were still serving lunch.

"Lunch, dinner, it's all the same here. We just have sandwiches, oh, and pizza. We serve a full breakfast in the morning if you're back this way. Open seven days a week," the waitress added while futilely blowing at a strand of hair that dangled in front of her eyes. "You want cream and sugar?"

"No, but if I could borrow a phone book, I'd appreciate it," Burk said politely and looked at the menu.

The lady, whose hair seemed to go in every direction except where it was supposed to, nodded and hurried off to the kitchen. Five minutes later she brought coffee and an inch-and-a-half thick regional directory.

_Ortiz . . . Let's see, that's O. R. T._ . . . Billy could not picture what letter came next, so he ran his finger down the ORT's. _Ortega . . . ah, Ortiz. Dennis, Fabian, Jack, Janice, Lucien. That's it. 4627 Kern Lake Road. 847-4921. I'll call first. Make sure no one's home._

After paying his bill, Burk dialed the number using a payphone in the parking lot. No answer. Next he pocketed his coins, which he'd retrieved from the phone, then walked to the gas station next door. There he told the attendant that he was renting a cabin on Kern Lake Road but needed directions.

The man behind the counter drew a detailed map and wished Billy Boy luck, then added how life on the Rim was so peaceful and that he hoped Billy enjoyed his stay. Billy Boy Burk, the murderer from Missouri who had escaped from the Navajo County Jail less than twenty-four hours before, thanked the man and wondered as he climbed back into the Mustang, with the meticulously drawn map in hand, if his sport coat and beige slacks had anything to do with his reception.

Using the clerk's map, Burk easily found Kern Lake Road and drove one mile up the narrow, secluded track before he came to 4627. Lucien Ortiz had one neighbor, but like Lucien's cabin, no one was home there either. In both cases the snow remained untouched from the edge of the road right up to the garage doors. Half the neighbor's driveway was taken up by a snow-covered recreational vehicle that, if hollowed out, could have hosted the Phoenix Suns.

Lucien had locked every door and window, and Burk set about searching for the Ortiz's hidden key. _Everybody hides a key_. Billy Boy was certain that one existed. Thirty minutes later and about to give up and gain entry by throwing a brick through a window, he moved a paint can in a utility shed, and there it was.

The door opened without a hitch—no alarm, no dog, and no sign that anyone had recently visited.

Burk had concocted the story, which he'd used earlier, about being a renter. It went over well, and he was prepared to stick with the same line in case anyone should ask what he was doing. In fact Billy Boy spent a lot of his time that evening in Ortiz's cabin preparing deceptions and disguises.

He and Lucian were close to the same size, and from his "host's" closet, Billy was able to assemble wardrobes to convincingly pass as businessman, hiker, and golfer. To round out his choice of disguises he added two Hawaiian shirts, sandals, sunglasses, a camera, a white ball cap that read "Grand Canyon," and two pair of Bermuda shorts, one tan and the other plaid.

Food was not a problem. The Ortizes had stocked enough canned goods to last a month. He selected a tent from the three he found in a closet and carefully picked out a sleeping bag along with a mattress pad and pillow and dumped the treasure in the middle of the Ortiz's living room floor. Soon the pile, which included a small caliber handgun, a box of shells, and a book on Irish setters, threatened to outgrow the Sherman's Ford Mustang, and he began to consider whether he should acquire a larger vehicle.

* * *

At six P.M. Billy Boy took a break and switched on the Ortiz's wide-screened TV. The first story on the evening news dealt with a fatal wreck near Strawberry. After that, the television station originating in Payson reported on the armed robbery of the Forest Lakes Gas-O-Mart, then a fire in a trailer . . . , single car accident . . . , shoplifters strike . . . , precipitation eased drought . . . , adopt this dog (a yellow lab), and next a commercial for men who need pills to become erect, followed by a promo for a reality show and a plug for the Channel Twelve sports caster Flint Hardcastle. After the endorsements, rain Sunday for the northern half of Arizona with snow in the mountains above 6,000 feet. Billy Boy Burk sat glued to the set waiting to hear "his" news, but nothing—no jail escape in northeastern Arizona—no murderer on the loose because of jailor bungling, or rather, because of the criminal's quick thinking and flawless delivery of his lines—no review of his stellar performance, which Billy Boy somehow wanted to share with the rest of the world but was not getting much cooperation from local media.

An hour later he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and said aloud, "BRILLIANT!" A safety razor and shave cream lay next to the sink. It seemed to Billy that his hairless head took on a sheen, and he found it hard to contain his excitement. _My own mom wouldn't recognize me!_

* * *

In the morning Burk realized that there was no milk for cereal and no eggs in the Ortiz's refrigerator. He recalled the waitress the day before saying that they served breakfast everyday; the restaurant was four miles away, tops. A glance out the window showed that snow had arrived. An inch of the new stuff lay on top of what was already there. More was falling, but the thought of eggs, bacon, and hot coffee got the best of him, and he decided to take the Mustang into Heber. _What's a little snow?_

Before he left, Billy paused at the foot of the pile of loot that spread across the living room and spilled into the kitchen. And, while staring at the heap, he decided to transfer all of it then-and-there to the Mustang in case someone recognized him while at the restaurant necessitating a quick exit.

When the gear and provisions were taken care of, and as he took out the key to lock the Ortiz's front door, the irony did not escape him that he was locking the door of the house that he had just burglarized. Billy Boy Burk checked to make sure the door was secured, put Ortiz's spare key in his pocket, and decided that he had retained a few of Wayne Whistle's quirks.

The snow continued to come down, dry, powdery flakes which infrequent gusts blew horizontally. When turning onto the main road, Burk came up behind a snowplow, and he followed it into Heber. There were four cars in the parking lot. Billy Boy hustled in and took a seat at a table well away from the door. This time a waitress with manageable hair took his order. On the television he could hear, but not see, a church service being broadcast. Only then did he realize what day it was—Sunday the fourteenth of March, "day two."

_Nothing's better on a snowy morning than coffee and warm food_ , Billy Boy Burk thought. He was enjoying breakfast when the worship service on the TV ended and a commentator announced "Robbery suspects arrested and a car stolen in Shumway. Stay tuned. We'll have the whole story and more, in two minutes!"

Burk thought, _Shumway, something happened in Shumway recently. What was it?_ But as he chewed his bacon and sipped his coffee, he could not recall what had occurred, and Billy Boy decided that, after the commercials, he would listen and maybe then his memory would be jogged.

Just as Burk began feeling more comfortable than a person in his situation had a right to, he heard the door open behind him. The waitress greeted the newcomers, "Jake, Bob, get yeh boys some coffee?"

"You bet'cha!"

Burk glanced over his shoulder as two Arizona State Troopers took adjoining seats at the counter.

"What's the forecast?" the waitress asked making conversation.

"Snow and more snow."

Burk became conscious that he'd jerked his head around too quickly. He told himself to relax, act natural, and he did. The waitress refilled his coffee, and gave him a smile. Billy smiled back while trying to recall his rabbit allegory.

The television commentator had just finished the lead story about the arrest of two suspects in the Gas-O-Mart holdup and started in on the car theft in Shumway, ". . . Mathew and Mattie Sherman got a surprise yesterday morning when they looked out of their window and saw Saturday's snow, but they were more surprised by what they didn't see, their 2003 Ford had been stolen sometime during the night. The Sherman's reported going to bed at ten o'clock Friday, heard nothing during the night, and their dark green Mustang was gone at 7:00 A.M. Police think that the thieves struck sometime before 5:00 A.M., which is when snow started falling Saturday morning in Shumway. They could find no tracks in the fresh snow."

Burk had a mouthful of egg when he recognized the name Mathew Sherman and placed the town of Shumway. He choked, took a swallow of water, and recovered. Something hadn't happened in Shumway, the town was part of the address Mathew Sherman listed on his driver's license.

Their car was stolen in Holbrook, and Mathew and Mattie damn well knew by whom—by him, Billy Burk.

_Why? Why did they lie?_ They didn't go to bed at ten on Friday. Mathew lay passed out in Cell "C" not five feet away from him at ten, and, more than likely, Mrs. Sherman had been called and was on her way to the Navajo County Jail to bond out her dead-drunk husband. It was a cover-up. It had to be! But he wasn't sure what he was complaining about; at least a cover-up would keep his face out of the newspapers and off the television—his old face anyway.

Burk calmly finished his breakfast, declined a fourth coffee refill, and asked for the check. Three minutes later he stood at the register waiting to pay his tab. One of the cops glanced in his direction. Burk nodded, aware that the man he had just acknowledged had, ten minutes before, walked past a 2003 dark green Ford Mustang parked out front. _Maybe he saw that the license plate didn't match the Sherman's tag numbers?_

Billy Boy handed the lady a ten and in his quiet Wayne Whistle voice told her to keep the change.

In the parking lot Burk brushed snow off his windshield, started the stolen car, and eased out of the lot and onto the highway leading to Kern Lake Road. When he got to 4627, he discovered that there was a car in the driveway, Lucien Ortiz's car, and he just kept driving. Later, recalling the forecast he had heard the night before for Northern Arizona—rain and snow—he put two and two together. Bad weather meant no golf at the Lone Pine Country Club.

CHAPTER 7: DAYS TWO AND THREE

As Billy Boy drove past 4627 Kern Lake Road, he was of two minds: one, elated that he had not been in the house when Ortiz arrived, and two, at loose ends for he had grown rather attached to Lucien's comfortable digs—the place beat his trailer in Winslow all to hell.

Just two minutes before discovering the owner's car in the driveway he had been looking forward to a relaxing afternoon—light a fire in the fireplace, kick back in the recliner, and watch the snow falling in the woods while draining Lucien's store of Coronas.

Now his plans had to change.

Burk headed west. The highway led him off the Mogollon Plateau back down to 5,000 feet. Along the way the snow gradually turned to rain. He checked into a cheap motel in Payson, paid thirty-five dollars cash, and signed the register "Tom Collier."

Clouds scudded low across a colorless sky as he gathered a few items from the Mustang. Everywhere he looked, he saw only shades of gray. To Billy Boy the world appeared to be as pallid as his own spirits. He needed a dream, a new life—something to shoot for.

Half of the groundskeepers at Lone Pine had been Mexican and few spoke English. After twenty years Burk was able to communicate with them, not well, but he could get his point across. And as he sat in his drab thirty-five-dollar motel room, he began to daydream of palm trees and of bright, white sand beaches while the four most beautiful words in the Spanish language formed on his lips, " _Otra cerveza, por favor_."

No U.S. laborers were clamoring to sneak south of the border in search of high-paying Mexican jobs because those jobs did not exist. Life in Mexico would require _dinero_ upfront. Expatriate Anglos had the cash to start with. Money would be a problem, but to the determined, not an insurmountable problem. He had to think.

While living in Winslow, Billy Boy had worked at the country club. He knew the people; he knew the people's bank accounts—who owned what and how much. If he was to strike it rich, rich enough to spend the rest of his days in Mexico, then he thought it natural that he should "pan for gold" in pockets where he knew that that gold could be found—Winslow pockets. He would stay in Northern Arizona until he discovered his "Mother Lode," then head south and cross the border. Picturing a secluded stretch of warm sand Billy Boy could see in his mind's eye the shadows of palm fronds playing across a hammock, feel an ocean breeze, see next to the hammock a cooler that overflowed with _cerveza_ , and he asked himself, _What would be best, kidnapping or armed robbery?_

That evening, still "day two," he watched the news and scratched his head when there was no mention of his escape and no mention of "Billy Boy Burk," just an interview with the car theft victim Mathew Sherman. Burk recognized the unmistakable signs of a hangover on the nervous face that filled half the television screen— _strange for somebody who "goes to bed at ten."_

When the news was over, Billy counted the remaining cash in Mathew Sherman's wallet—$232. As soon as the weather cleared, he would head back north to the National Forest. There he could camp for free. The drawbacks included higher elevations, colder temperatures, and snow on the ground. But Burk had picked wisely from Lucien Ortiz's camping gear. He had selected a warm sleeping bag and a stout tent, along with a cook stove, utensils, and two boxes of canned goods.

Monday, "day three," dawned clear and cold. During the night the rain had moved out of the area and into northwestern New Mexico. Turning on Channel Twelve, Burk learned that Santa Fe, in the mountains far to the east, had been pelted with a foot of new snow with another six inches on the way.

Around the block was a diner. The fugitive bought a morning paper and took a seat at a corner table. It struck him as strange to see normal people going about their everyday routines, while he, an escaped murderer, hid amongst them—a rabbit in the weeds.

After finishing his meal, Burk put down the _Payson Gazette_. He was beginning to wonder what a criminal had to do to make the news; there was nothing about him. _Had Bonnie and Clyde hired a publicist?_

He returned to the motel after paying for breakfast. The television was still on—he'd hit the mute button earlier when he went to the restaurant. Now he recognized the soundless commercial that played as he entered the room, an attempt to sell men's cologne.

The commercial started with an aerial shot of a herd of stampeding buffalo. Burk watched as the camera zoomed to a table set for two toward which the shaggy beasts were headed. Seated calmly at the table were a gorgeous blonde and her lover. Eyes locked, the blonde cast a dewy stare while her swarthy admirer reciprocated. The stampeding herd somehow managed to kick up no dust as it magically parted and flowed smoothly around the table and the passionate occupants who remained transfixed on one another completely oblivious to the tons of thundering flesh, which a normal person might find hard to ignore.

Billy Boy paused to watch the end of the commercial as the camera panned to a nearby hilltop where a gigantic male buffalo could be seen ardently humping an obliging female. Finally the words "BUFF FOR REAL MEN" flew in formation across the screen. If the sound had been on, Burk would have heard the tagline: "Now available at a Bargain City Discount Superstore near you."

But Billy Boy Burk was not interested in Buff for Men, real or otherwise. He was more in the market for a quick shower, and he brushed past the TV like a buffalo around a dinner table set in the middle of a prairie.

Ten minutes later as he toweled himself dry he glanced through the open bathroom door at the television, still muted. There he saw HIS face on the screen (his old face—with straggly, black hair and beard to match).

He rushed naked to the set, grabbed the remote, and poked at it several times before successfully connecting with the mute button, but caught only, ". . . to apprehend this man. Wanted in Missouri for murder, he'd been living in Winslow and was identified from fingerprints. Burk is considered armed and dangerous."

His mug shot surprised Billy. Before it was taken, he had been arrested for beating Silas Tonnage, and the experience had left him wired. Burk hardly recognized his picture—the wild smile, his eyes burning with furious intensity—Wayne Whistle did not look like that, like a pirate about to pillage and plunder, but he recalled that Billy Boy looked that way, and it was good to have him back.

Next on the screen Burk saw a woman being led away in handcuffs. _Was that Mathew Sherman's wife?_ Billy asked himself. He had only seen the lady once, and he was trying to avoid her eyes at the time.

_Sure enough!_ Charged with "filing a false police report." According to Holbrook City Policeman Darius Washington, "Mattie Sherman 'folded like a wet paper towel' when questioned about her stolen car and the escape of Wilbur Boy Burk."

_Wilbur?_ Billy was not sure if he heard the man right.

Washington, identified as a former Navajo County Deputy under ex-sheriff Benson, was further quoted as saying, "Any crime occurring inside these city limits makes it our jurisdiction and our business! And, furthermore, it is the sworn duty of a Holbrook City Policeman to pursue and arrest those guilty and see to it that those individuals answer for their offenses."

He looked to ex-sheriff Benson standing next to him for confirmation and evidently got a nod before continuing, "Mrs. Sherman conspired with present Sheriff Hugh Taylor to cover-up the escape of a man wanted for murder, a Mr. Wilbur Burk, . . ."

"JESUS, BUDDY! AT LEAST GET MY NAME RIGHT!" Burk exclaimed excitedly.

". . . and that is why we are pressing for the arrest of Sheriff Taylor as we speak! Mrs. Mattie Sherman claims the Sheriff personally dropped drunk-driving charges against her husband (file footage of a hung over Mathew Sherman from the day before) in exchange for her silence in the Burk matter. Let this be a lesson; no person in Navajo County is above the law!"

Next, the Channel Twelve News Now Action Report's anchor's face appeared on the screen, "Of course police officer Washington is referring to the escape of WILLIAM Boy Burk due to jailor blunders. . ."

Billy emitted a low grumble.

The commentator continued, ". . . Burk stole the Sherman's 2003 Ford Mustang (a picture of a similar car appeared on the television with a side note, 'Photo Courtesy of Boggler Ford, 2700 N. Main. Get On Board—Drive a Ford'), while it was parked outside of the Navajo County Jail, AND not from their Shumway residence as Mrs. Sherman originally reported. A story that we at Clear Channel Twelve's News Now Action Report broke within the hour.

"All thanks to this man (a picture of a Native American dressed in a dark suit and wearing a bright red tie materialized on the screen), L. A. private investigator Harrison Red Feather Smith, hired by former sheriff Kevin Benson to investigate county jail irregularities including, I quote, 'Missed inmate meals and general malaise and confusion.'"

Burk looked closely at the screen and exclaimed in a loud voice, "THAT'S THE SON-OF-A-BITCH THAT WAS IN THE CELL WITH ME!"

Absorbed by the Clear Channel Twelve News Now Action Report William (Billy) Boy Burk did not notice the motel housekeeper listening to salsa on her MP3—until, that is, the lady turned around and screamed at the naked man standing ten feet away having an animated conversation with a television set.

CHAPTER 8: DAYS THREE, FOUR, AND FIVE, March 15, 16, and 17

Burk was in a hurry when he left Payson. Spooked by what had happened—the News Now Action Report and the housekeeper who screamed while retreating backwards out of the doorway and into the motel's parking lot. He had thrown on his clothes then scooped up his things.

Billy took off out of Payson heading north through small towns: Pine, Strawberry, Long Valley, and Happy Jack. At first he saw just occasional patches of snow, then, as the road climbed, the snow eventually blanketed everything. Along the way he passed a sign, "Coconino National Forest," and he started looking for a Forest Service road that would lead him away from the highway.

Later he searched for the set of tire chains that lay buried in the trunk. After thirty minutes, with the chains secured, Billy drove the Mustang deep into the woods. The absence of tracks in front of him lessened the possibility of a chance encounter.

Given the circumstances, Burk preferred to camp in the wild as opposed to a regular campground. The forest was secluded; there were no fees to pay, and no rangers to confront.

Billy Boy Burk, the Missouri fugitive, stayed warm and dry the remainder of "day three," but was disappointed to discover that he had no fuel for the camp stove and was forced to eat a supper consisting of cold soup straight from the can, and for this he showed little enthusiasm. It meant also that he would have to scratch "hot coffee" off his morning menu.

Despite the abysmal, coffee-less start, Tuesday flew by, thanks to Lucien Ortiz's book on Irish setters, which Billy read twice. However, after the sun set bringing "day four" to a close, the batteries of his flashlight wore out and Burk soon grew restless. Late that evening a warm front passed through Northern Arizona bringing a shift in the wind. The accompanying southerly breeze caused the mercury to climb and the snow to melt. In fact, prior to midnight of Tuesday, March 16, slushy water started dripping from trees as the snow, which clung to limbs overhead, began losing its grip. Heavy droplets pelting his tent made loud "whacks" that second night in the forest. The "whacking" continued and picked up cadence with each passing hour. By five A.M. it sounded like the drum line of a marching band was beating an insane rhythm on his tent's rain fly. He slept fitfully. On the morning of "day five" as he put away the wet tent, he caught himself fondly reminiscing over the cheap motel in Payson.

Later, Burk retraced his tracks, driving the Mustang through the same snowy ruts he'd produced forty hours earlier. But the ruts had turned to slush and were interrupted by puddles. Stopping long enough to undo the chains and return them to the trunk, he entered the highway and pointed the Mustang north toward Flagstaff.

As the fugitive drove, he thought about the private investigator with whom he'd shared a cell in the Navajo County Jail. Not one word had passed between them, yet Billy felt an attachment to the character. This man from Los Angeles had confirmed for Burk the value of a good disguise—how it can make one blend in until the person becomes invisible, becomes a nonessential part of the background and is ignored. Harrison Red Feather Smith had fooled him, and Billy Burk laughed out loud as he negotiated the winding road that led into Flagstaff.

On the south edge of the city he began to spot businesses, a furniture store, an upholstery shop, a self-storage facility, and an auto repair garage. It was seven A.M. Nothing was open. He pulled into "Cal's Transmission Service" and parked as far from the highway as possible.

Directly in front of where Burk came to a stop rested a Chevy with California plates. The car was dirty and appeared to have occupied the spot for quite some time. Billy reached into his glove box for the wrench and the screwdrivers and then went to work removing the plates from the Chevy and transferring them to the Mustang. He folded his old plates in a newspaper and tossed the bundle in a dumpster. Ten minutes after pulling into "Cal's," Burk was back on the highway feeling relieved.

Next Billy had a plan to make himself even safer. Three miles down the road he stopped at a gas station. He parked, left the motor running, and took out Mathew Sherman's Visa card.

Burk followed the instructions as they appeared on the pump's LCD screen. He pushed the "Credit Outside" button, swiped the Visa through the reader, and waited while the screen displayed "Authorizing."

The next message appeared, "Select Grade," and Burk poked again, moving fast as if a stopwatch had started. It took forever for the gas nozzle to "click off." He ignored the receipt and drove away quickly.

_The credit cards have not been cancelled_ , he observed and recognized it as an obvious attempt by the cops to pin down his whereabouts. Billy did not stay in Flagstaff long, but turned onto Interstate 40 heading west. Ten miles out of town he pulled into a rest stop, removed Sherman's two credit cards from the stolen wallet, and placed the Visa card on the ground next to the curb. He did the same with the Master Card but three parking spaces over.

Burk then drove back onto the interstate, took the exit at mile marker 178, and reversed his direction by immediately getting back on 40. This time he headed due east and squinted as the morning sun hit him in the eyes.

* * *

The Arizona Highway Patrol's Criminal Investigations Division, which had taken over the Hugh Taylor matter from the Holbrook City Police Department and who were also in charge of the search for William (Billy) Boy Burk, got no "hits" on the Master Card belonging to Mathew and Mattie Sherman, but the Visa card was used in three transactions on Wednesday, March 17: a gas station in Flagstaff at 7:15 A.M. and two charges in Williams, Arizona, thirty miles west of Flagstaff—at 10:45 A.M. an eighty-nine dollar liquor purchase at Jerry's Brew and Cue, and at 11:37, a $383 payment came through from a hardware store for a snow blower. The latter acquisition confused the state police because no one in the Criminal Investigations Division could offer an explanation as to why an escaped murderer on the run would concern himself with snow removal unless he planned on heading into the mountains.

Surveillance footage from both William's establishments revealed that the same man made the two purchases, and that the perpetrator was obviously aware of the cameras because he kept the bill of his cap pulled low over his face. All were in agreement that the person could have been Burk—white guy, same size, same shape—and the police issued a communiqué to be on the lookout for someone wearing a black ball cap, coveralls, and a red flannel jacket.

Patrols in Williams were doubled.

Around noon of "day five" Billy Burk was still on I 40 heading east. Driving through Holbrook at the time, he had no plans to stop. However, he did have to urinate something awful, and the road sign, which loomed to his right, listed several gas stations at the next exit. Deciding that he could not wait, Billy Burk pulled off the highway and into a BP station.

Leaving the restroom feeling much better, he took a second to browse through the BP's mini-mart. A shelf full of novelty hats drew his attention. They were billed caps but had fake hair dangling down their sides. One sported a ten inch braided ponytail.

While looking at the hats, the fugitive had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was staring at him, and Burk gave a sideways glance. A woman ten feet away intently studied his face. Burk nodded; the lady jerked her head back and pretended to ignore him.

_Does she recognize me?_ Burk thought immediately as he selected a green hat, which had five inches of blonde hair protruding from its perimeter. Next, he picked out a pair of dark sunglasses and strolled to the cash register attempting to conceal the fact that he was scared stiff. While waiting in line, he looked around but did not see the woman who'd been watching him.

As he walked out the entrance, with his purchases in a sack, Billy picked up his pace and glanced at the newspapers in the dispensers that lined the front of the station. He scanned the headlines: fatalities in Iraq, two dead in a Flagstaff house fire. Nothing featuring him in the first two dispensers, but the third newspaper stopped Billy Boy in his tracks.

Fumbling in his pockets the unnerved fugitive retrieved two quarters and almost dropped them as he hurriedly fed the coins into the slot. The paper he pulled from the box contained a police sketch of himself, but not the Wayne Whistle face—his "new" face in accurate detail stared back at him from the front page of the _Holbrook Intelligencer._

Burk quickly got into the Mustang, but this time headed into town turning often and making sure that no one followed. From Holbrook he took rural roads angling north eventually connecting with route 77 and then drove thirty miles to a wide spot in the road named Indian Wells on the south edge of the Navajo Nation.

As he drove north Billy nervously dug in the plastic sack beside him and withdrew the novelty hat with the fringe of blonde hair from the bag and slapped it on his head, then clumsily tucked its price tag out of sight.

Next, from the same bag, he produced the sunglasses and donned them as well. Despite the new getup, Billy resisted looking in the mirror to study his face fearing that the reflection would appear too weird for his sensibilities, and Billy Burk's sensibilities were anything but delicate; still, he was afraid to look.

Once on the other side of Indian Wells, Billy pulled over and busied himself with a few tasks. First he searched through the glove compartment until he came across the battery-powered hair clipper. In less than five minutes his mustache was history. Next he opened the Holbrook paper and looked at the headline. The police sketch of the new "Billy Burk" was so exact that it made him shudder.

Billy Boy Burk was surprised to read so many good things about himself in the featured article. Most of the quotes were from people with whom he had worked at the country club. Fortunately Lucien Ortiz was still in Heber inventorying the contents of his burglarized residence and had not been interviewed. Homer Watkins, the nice old man who headed the Winslow Animal Shelter, contributed especially glowing comments, ". . . kind hearted . . . loved animals . . . polite . . . soft spoken . . . can not believe that such a caring individual could commit murder, and I remain unconvinced that he had . . . a grievous miscarriage of justice . . ."

The old lady with the Eiffel Tower tattoo described Billy (or Wayne) as an "avenging angel" and "gallant champion" and added, ". . . whoever he killed in his days of youthful excess must have had it coming!"

"WOW!" was all that Billy could say.

The second half of the article started out by updating the public on the police's efforts to recapture the "desperate criminal." Billy resented the abrupt change in tenor. Two and a half inches of newsprint separated "gallant champion" from "desperate criminal."

Burk learned from the article that the accurate drawing of him with the buzz cut, the mustache, and without the beard was sketched with the assistance of service station clerk and amateur artist, Norman Olson of Heber, who stated that the suspect had asked him directions to a rental home on Kern Lake Road on Saturday—a home that Olson later discovered had been broken into. He put two and two together and then called the police. Inside Ortiz's Heber residence the cops found numerous fingerprints left by William B. Burk, also known as Wayne E. Whistle.

Ortiz supplied the cops with a list of missing items. Camping gear topped the list, and had prompted officials to announce that they were on the lookout for Burk in campgrounds in the four-state area. A shocked Billy Burk realized that it was dumb luck that he had not already been captured.

Among the items stolen from the cabin outside of Heber was a small-caliber handgun, which, "Confirmed to police that Burk is armed and poses a definite threat to the public," and which Billy interpreted to mean that the cops would shoot him dead if he so much as farted in their direction.

Also, a couple in Holbrook reported that their license plates had been switched. Police looking into the matter discovered that the plates that were left behind were registered to Mathew and Mattie Sherman. The conclusion drawn was that Burk was driving a late model, green Mustang with Arizona tag number LZ 3791—plates which he knew resided in a dumpster on Flagstaff's south side.

Billy Burk read the article twice, and he began to rethink his plan to stay in Northern Arizona, remembering his dictum ". . . either run early, or if well concealed, don't run at all."

It was then that Billy chose to inspect himself in the visor's mirror. He saw a tired man, nearly forty, wearing dark glasses and a green ball cap from which protruded a ridiculous row of blond hair, and he concluded that he was not "well concealed" and that the getup he had on did in no way qualify him as a "nonessential part of the background thereby rendering him invisible."

No sir, and he asked himself: _Could I be any more visible if I was stripped naked and painted red?_

He looked at the map and traced the quickest route out of Arizona. Seventy-five miles separated him from Gallup, New Mexico, and he started the Mustang and headed toward the eastern boundary of the Navajo Nation.

Five hours later Billy Burk was driving slowly through his old haunt—Albuquerque's south side. It had, indeed, been time for Billy to run early.

CHAPTER 9: DAYS SIX, SEVEN, AND EIGHT, March 18, 19, and 20, 2004

Billy Burk spent that night in his car. He'd parked next to a church west of the airport and was awakened in the morning by planes taking off and landing. He drove to a McDonald's and ordered a large coffee and two Egg McMuffins then added, "No, make that three McMuffiins!"

The last two decades had left Winslow practically untouched, or at least the changes when they had come, had crept along slowly so as not to be noticed. The same could not be said of Albuquerque. What had been open field and empty tract was now paved over with shopping malls, office buildings, and apartments—especially apartments—miles of them. He drove past the lumberyard where he, at one time, had waited for jobs. But the lumberyard was gone, replaced by a supermarket the size of three football fields. Change had engulfed Albuquerque, the old having been swept aside before the relentless advance of excavator and cement truck.

He purchased three different newspapers and began catching up while eating his first meal in twenty-four hours. Two of the three newspapers carried both of his pictures: the mug shot of Wayne Whistle and the artist's sketch rendered a few days later. The pictures amazed him all over again for a couple of reasons, not the least of which was because the two depictions looked so unalike, like two altogether different people. He switched his stare from Billy "A" to Billy "B" and vowed to work on version "C" when time permitted.

As he looked at the three newspapers spread in front of him, he began thinking: _I'm 250 miles from Holbrook, and they got me on the front page!_ After initially being ignored, now Billy was receiving more notoriety than he wanted.

Billy Boy read a piece in the _Albuquerque Sun_ detailing his escape from the Navaho County Jail and concluded that only he could have written it. The article described, accurately, every detail of Burk's escape, and made him out to be some kind of modern-day Houdini.

_How could this guy know?_ —a question which Billy pondered more than once, and he finally decided that Smith, the L. A. detective, must have granted an interview and asked that his name be withheld.

* * *

Early on the morning of the same day, March 18, Billy's "day six," James "Three-J" Justice was commuting the thirty-one miles from his home in Fredericktown, Missouri, to his job as an officer in the Potosi Correctional Center.

At 7:00 A.M. Three-J's favorite country music station broke away for a morning update. It was the first time he had heard anyone speak Burk's name in seven years—Billy Boy Burk had been arrested and then managed to get away!

_Escaped—sounds like Billy_ , Justice thought as he left U.S. 67 and entered a new stretch of highway skirting the south edge of the town of Park Hills.

It was true. Three-J had not heard the name in a long time, but he had thought about it often. A lot hung in the balance. The nightmare he constantly suppressed was that Burk would someday be caught, and that he would confess everything in detail. The events of that day in August twenty-two years ago would never go away.

Jimmy Joe was forty. He had responsibilities—two teenage daughters to raise by himself—their mother having split twelve years before when Veronica was three and Bonnie two. Except for "that" one time in his life and minor mischief while in high school, he had walked the "straight and narrow." Had even turned to Christ and now served as church deacon. In 2001 he ran for the grade school board—wasn't elected, but just the same, he had made an effort. In the meantime Justice had been active in other civic affairs, contributed annually to the United Fund, and each Christmas played Santa at the church's Christmas party. _Picture this_ , he said to himself, _Santa Claus arrested for accessory to murder._ Three-J could only shake his head.

His current life was penance and had been since the mid eighties.

Far in the past, just after Billy Burk had left town, Justice's parents had noticed an improvement in their only child's behavior. Therefore, all of their son's previous troubles fell squarely on the shoulders of "that Burk boy," and they frequently reminded Three-J that this was so. But right up until they died, two weeks apart, his mother and father harbored a great fear to which neither gave voice. The Justices had known that their child had been with his best friend that summer afternoon in '82 when Burk skipped town and was later named as the chief suspect in Mr. Duffie's homicide.

It was 7:10 A.M., Billy Boy's "day six," the radio news was over, and Three-J Justice worried about his future.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later back in Albuquerque all was the same. Billy's likeness got equal billing with the war in Iraq and major league baseball's spring training. "Day seven" and all three editions displayed his picture prominently.

Something strange, but not objectionable, began to occur on that Friday the nineteenth of March. The articles began to report "Billy Burk sightings"—two in Winslow and another an hour later in Williams. Billy checked the times and places and smiled. He had been in Albuquerque when all three had occurred. Burk did not realize it then, but before long, "spotting erroneous Billy's" would become more common than seeing U.F.O.'s outside of Roswell—some form of group hysteria that psychologists no doubt had a name for. And another thing that Burk could not have foreseen, Boggler Ford in Payson and Ford dealers throughout the southwest began to report a pickup in the demand for dark-green Mustangs.

By 11:30 A.M. of "day seven" Billy had finished reading his customary allotment of newspapers and was stuffing the wad in a dumpster. The sun shown brightly and Albuquerque had heated quickly due to a strong south wind, which delivered unseasonable warmth to the "Duke" city.

Later, he changed into "tourist Billy:" shorts, tennis shoes, Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, "Grand Canyon" ball cap, and camera, which dangled from around his neck. Part of him longed to stay around for the show, and part of him wanted to "get the hell out of Dodge!" He spent the largest part of "day seven" debating his alternatives.

Searching his mind for possible allies, he asked himself the same question several times: _Who would have the most to loose if I am caught?_ The answer was obvious: Three-J, his friend from Fredericktown. Jimmy Joe Justice had been an unwitting accomplice—but fully accountable just the same.

_But what about Three-J?_ Billy did not know if the guy was alive. As the sun neared the horizon, Burk found himself half-heartedly calling information; he spoke "Fredericktown, Missouri," when prompted, and next clearly announced, "James Justice."

When the mechanical voice came back with a number, Billy scribbled it on a piece of paper, which he folded and put in his pocket. Burk spent the next hour deciding what to do.

* * *

"Yel'oh." It was 10:00 on Friday night when Three-J answered the phone. He had half expected the call for the past two decades, but especially in the last day and a half. The _Post Dispatch's_ wire service article about Billy Burk lay open on the coffee table, and he must have read it six times since supper.

"You know who this is?" the man on the phone asked slowly and calmly.

Three-J answered, "Yeah, I guess I do." The voice from the past opened doors in his mind, and memories came flooding back.

"Need a place to stay. Can you hook me up?"

Three-J paused, ". . . Sure . . . uh, yes I can. You comin' by tonight?"

"I'm a thousand miles away, but I can be there tomorrow 'bout this time or before."

"Don't come to Fredericktown. You remember where Lake Killarney is?"

"Yup," Burk answered still not convinced he was actually going to take Jimmy Joe up on anything the man offered. He wanted to hear his voice, detect what lay beneath, and decide later.

"I got a place there, a shack really. Inherited it from Dad. It's private. The thing is, my girls, they never use it—just me. Why don't we meet there? I'll call in sick tomorrow, fix it up some."

Billy stayed on the line—wrote down directions and Justice's cell phone number. He hoped the man could be trusted; relying on someone he had not seen for longer than he cared to remember would be taking one hell of a risk—a throw of the dice.

* * *

When Jimmy Joe Justice hung up the phone, he stared at the wall, his mind working overtime. He started to pick up the telephone directory, then put it back, began to reach for it again. Changed his mind again.

A look of utter despair distorted his face. The images of Veronica and Bonnie materialized before him, and he folded his hands and prayed for guidance.

* * *

_Hey, what if Three-J's the Madison County Sheriff?_ Billy Burk thought in the middle of the night when he was somewhere in eastern New Mexico. I could be walking straight into jail.

Would he regret not asking Three-J what he did for a living? _Sheriff Justice, . . who, besides Cyrus Duffie, wouldn't have voted to elect a sheriff with a last name like that?_

While in Texas, he stopped, still dressed in his tourist duds, and pretended to take pictures of "the world's tallest Christian cross." The camera that he carried contained no film. He stopped mainly to stretch his legs and to buy a coke from a vending machine and wished it were one of those "high octane" sodas.

Lots of things entered his mind as he drove across Oklahoma and almost the entire width of Missouri—crazy things and not so crazy things. But mostly he thought about life, and how circumstances had changed in his own life since the last time he had covered these same miles only heading in the opposite direction. And yet, like his previous journey across the middle third of America, he was starting over—back to square one. William (Billy) Boy Burk wondered if it would always be so.

_Why had Cyrus Duffie tried to kill me?_ He could ask the question a thousand times, and Billy would never have the answer.

While forty miles from Fredericktown, Billy pulled over to fill the tank, grab a bag of chips, and call Three-J's cell phone.

Three-J Justice seemed nervous to Billy, but to Billy Burk, his old friend always had been jumpy, and the man had the annoying tendency to laugh too easily in order to mask his condition. Billy supposed that this time Three-J had reason to be nervous because Justice was about to put his ass on the line.

As he hung up the phone Billy looked at his watch, seven P.M., "day eight." He had slept two hours out of the last twenty-four.

* * *

Burk had started the phone conversation with a lie. He could be at Lake Killarney in one hour, but he told his friend two hours because he wanted to get there early and wait to see if anyone "unexpected" showed up. No one did.

Later, as Three-J extended his right hand in a gesture of welcome, Billy Boy looked the man in the eye. He could see only Three-J's dad, twenty pounds heavier, gray in his hair, and detectable lines and creases around his eyes, but as soon as the man spoke, Billy's friend materialized, and it was as if they no longer looked at each other over a gulf spanning twenty-two years.

CHAPTER 10: DAYS EIGHT THROUGH FORTY-SIX, March 20 – April 27, 2004

Standing on a hillside a half-mile from Lake Killarney, Billy and Three-J shook hands. Each studied the other marveling at the effects of time upon the human body. Everyone knows that they are growing older, but nothing drives home the point like seeing the face of a friend after a long separation.

Initially, it seemed to Billy, that Three-J had changed in the past two decades every bit as much as the city of Albuquerque, and in both cases, Billy Burk found it hard to label the differences he observed as anything like improvement. Burk supposed it was the same for Justice, and each lost track of threads of their conversation as their minds became preoccupied by their separate discoveries.

Despite the apprehension he'd felt, Three-J was happy to see his high school friend, and to tell him about his daughters, and how Duffie's niece and nephew had taken over Horney Doe Acres and had stepped-up the operation. They were selling deer piss by the quart and charging prices like it was Dom Perignon.

In no time at all Billy settled into the shack near Lake Killarney. The cabin rested at the end of a lane and was only a little bigger than one of Lucien Ortiz's bedrooms. It had a bathroom with a shower and one great room that served three functions—sleeping, lounging, and cooking. In one corner was a combination radio-tape player, and next to it the only book in the house—a Bible. On the whole, the place was adequate and, more importantly, very private.

Billy stayed five and a half weeks, leaving on the twenty-seventh of April. The familiar smells of rural Missouri, the early morning bird song, and the far away bawling of dogs in the woods triggered a mild euphoria. There were times when he felt that he could have remained there for the rest of his life, if he had had a choice. But Billy Boy knew that he had no choice. Everyday that he stayed as Three-J's guest placed his host in greater jeopardy. Someone was bound to ask questions or maybe the police would trace him back to the state of his birth and to his friend who resided there. The last thing that Billy wanted was to make trouble for Three-J Justice, a solid citizen, a man of faith, and the father of two girls. Therefore, he never cancelled his dream of someday stealing into Mexico after what Burk hoped would be a brief but lucrative stopover in Winslow, Arizona.

Every other day Three-J would show up at the cabin with six beers and a cardboard box filled with groceries, newspapers, and a library book—usually about dogs. However, trips to the Fredericktown Library were problematic because the heavily perfumed chief librarian, Mrs. O'Leary, would corner him and ask teasingly, "Who is this book for? . . . Why the sudden curiosity about dogs?" Or she would make suggestive comments while flashing big cow eyes in his direction; her false lashes reminded Three-J of two black-winged butterflies in the midst of a mating dance. And as her lashes fanned the air into a heady breeze, she would breathily whisper, "Sure glad you've taken an interest in . . . ah . . . (licking her lips) . . . literature."

People in town were divided on whether their head librarian increased circulation or diminished it.

The lusty Mrs. O'Leary had been married four times, was currently between husbands, and spent much of her day trolling for number five. The assertive librarian had incorrectly interpreted Mr. Justice's many appearances of late as a sign that he was interested in becoming her fifth.

One week to the day after Billy's arrival, and as Three-J prepared to exit the library with an edition entitled _The Body Language of Dogs_ — _Avoiding the Aggressive Canine,_ Mrs. O'Leary sprang from the stacks while simultaneously arranging her lips readying them for action. Without saying a word, she handed him a cassette recording. In shock Justice turned to face her. Her puckered lips reminded him of two red beanbags resting one on top of the other. Three-J found himself momentarily frozen. The librarian's lips were unnervingly close to his own lips with the distance closing quickly—still, he could not budge. The scent of lavender hung in the air requiring him to suppress a sneeze.

Overcoming his paralysis at the last possible moment, Three-J dodged, and the horrendous pair of crimson beanbags only grazed him leaving two red skid marks across his left cheek. Staggering from the building while unconsciously gripping the cassette in one hand and the book on aggressive canines in the other, Jimmy Joe Justice took off in his truck running one stop sign and barely avoiding a late-model Cadillac, then turned left when he should have turned right. Finally arriving in his driveway, he looked at the tape foisted upon him by the predatory O'Leary, and the shaken Three-Jay read the title: _Love Poems of the Irish_ narrated by Sean O'Toole. The tape did not carry the customary declaration, "Property of the Madison County Library."

With a shudder he quickly shoved it aside. The cassette bounced once, slid off the truck's seat, and plopped into the box of newspapers and groceries, which lay on the floorboard on the passenger side of the cab—the box that was destined for the cabin the following day.

* * *

Along with his small cabin, Three-J had inherited forty acres of timber. The month of April proved to be unusually warm, which brought the mushrooms out early and in profusion. Burk soon discovered where they grew, and he and Three-J drank beer and ate fried morels each time Justice came to visit.

* * *

On "day twenty-two" of Burk's run from Arizona authorities Three-J, as requested, included a bottle of hair dye in the "goodie" box. On the following morning Billy became an official redhead, part of his version "C" disguise.

On "day twenty-four" an essential part of version "C" came together when Three-J purchased rosary beads at a yard sale. "Day twenty-six," April seventh, the costume was completed with the addition of a priest's collar and two black clergy shirts, one short-sleeved and one long.

Billy already had a pair of Ortiz's dark slacks with matching belt, socks, and shoes. Though the shoes showed considerable wear and tear, they did have an interesting patina that added authenticity to his outfit.

During the five and a half weeks that Burk spent in Missouri he gained fifteen pounds and that, added to the red hair, which he had trained to part in the middle, produced the effect that Billy had been striving for—version "C" was ready to unveil.

The next time Three-J came to call, red-haired Billy stepped off the small porch to meet his friend. Dressed as a priest, Burk held a Bible from which dangled the string of rosary beads. Next he proceeded to astonish Justice by quoting in an Irish brogue:

I wahlk de straight and nahrrow pahth

Ahnd take pity on de fallen spahrrow.

Me heart hahs spilled its blood for yee,

Cleaved through by cupid's ahrrow.

"What the hell?" was Three-J's response.

"It's me. 'Father Flanagan-Burk.' I've been practicing three hours a day."

"What?"

"The tape . . . the cassette tape you put in the box."

"What tape?"

With this Billy disappeared into the shack and came out thirty seconds later. Grasped in his hand was _Love Poems of the Irish_ which he held for Three-J to see.

"Oh . . . oh that! I wondered where that got to," Three-J's face registered both recognition and embarrassment. He unenthusiastically explained to "Father Flanagan-Burk" about the licentious Mrs. O'Leary, how he discarded her "present," and how it must have accidentally found its way into the box.

Burk said he had puzzled over the "gift" when he first listened to the poems. Shortly after playing the tape for the first time, Billy had hit upon the Irish accent idea. Justice had to admit that the Father Flanagan version was nothing like the character who rolled into town in the month of March, and buoyed with confidence after hearing Three-J's favorable review, Billy Boy Burk began spouting verse after verse of hokey Irish poetry.

To an amazed James Justice, the man strutting in front of him sounded as if he had stepped straight off the boat. "Burk me lahd, yee could'ah made it in Hollywood, don't'cha know!"

* * *

Billy often thought about Winslow, usually late at night. _Of all the rich people, who should it be?_ he asked himself the question more than once and finally settled on a jeweler/pawn broker named Melvin Zimmerman.

Zimmerman belonged to the country club, but the man did not play golf. Instead, he could be found hanging around the bar attempting to avoid his wife who labeled all forms of recreation as "Satan's Trappings." Therefore, she never once ventured onto the grounds of the Lone Pine Country Club. Having never met the woman, Billy did not know that Martha's abstention was a blessing of the highest order. He'd overheard someone say once that Melvin's wife was a descendant of the Mongol conqueror Tamerlane; however, Burk, not much of a student of history, was not 100 percent sure what the comment implied and only remembered because the Winslow Animal Shelter had taken in a Mastiff with the same name.

* * *

Melvin Zimmerman impressed Billy Burk as being the perfect victim— meek, mild, and unassertive. The jeweler-pawn broker had the appearance and stamina of a man who had spent much of his life lounging in a root cellar. Skinny and malnourished Melvin's skin had the pallor of an onion slice made even paler by shocks of thick, jet-black hair that grew virtually everywhere. Had he not frequently trimmed what grew from his ears, a colorblind person would have been inclined to mistake him for a chia pet two weeks after Christmas.

Mr. Zimmerman was made to order.

* * *

With his absence Billy thought that things in Northern Arizona would cool off—that the cops would conclude that he had left the area, and the excitement he'd triggered would die down. But Billy Boy was wrong. Despite residing in Missouri, "Burk sightings" increased in Arizona, and Billy was amused to read in the St. Louis paper that twice "he" had been spotted by police but was able to escape each time—and on the second occasion he'd even baffled a special unit of government bloodhounds.

On the fourth of April he read that a woman in Sedona claimed that Billy Burk (version "B"—mustache and buzz cut) had rescued her cat from a tree. While having no great love for cats, he did understand people's need for them. Still, Burk was no fool and realized that a panicky feline stuck in a high place could inflict as much damage as chainsaw and just as quickly.

Two days later Billy read that a stranded motorist told police that Burk had changed his tire and, when finished, refused money for his trouble. This time it was Billy Boy "A"—long, dark hair and beard.

A report appeared on April nineteenth that someone stole a limousine, which had been hired to pick up four young people and chauffeur them to a high school prom. Apparently the thief read the work order lying on the front seat—drove to the addresses listed on the paper and picked up the two young men and their dates; the limo thief, after receiving special instructions and a twenty dollar tip from the mother of one of the girls, then dropped the kids off at the dance, but was nowhere to be found when the event was over. The boys dressed in tuxes and ties and the girls wearing ill-fitting formals identified the driver as Billy Burk "B" (mustache—short hair).

There were numerous other sightings—Burk "A" paid cash for a gross of rubbers at a pharmacy in Camp Verde . . . bought gas for a dark green Mustang in Tusayan . . . had his hair styled in Winslow leaving a generous tip on his way out the door.

A man fitting Burk's "B" description was seen with a svelte blonde coming out of the Red Dog Saloon in Flagstaff after signing autographs for several of its star-struck patrons (none of whom called the police). The following day version "A" helped volunteer firefighters knock down a small brush fire on the northwest side of Payson.

But what Billy read in the _St. Louis Post Dispatch_ was only a fraction of the story. Apparently someone passing himself off as Burk had set up a clandestine web site from which he fielded questions and gave irreverent answers—some said it was an imposter; others swore that it was the real Billy Boy.

Early in Billy's run from the law many of the articles and most of the people interviewed began to express admiration for the elusive bandit. So far no one had gotten hurt, unless law enforcement's battered egos were taken into account. Burk's ability to befuddle the police made him a folk hero and a champion to anyone who had ever received a traffic ticket.

All in Arizona knew that Billy's mess had started with a killing many years before, but somehow the false rumor that the man he had "done in" had worked for the Bureau of Land Management became accepted as fact. While shooting a BLM official is decidedly not a "good" thing per se, pretty much everyone in Arizona believed at the time that there existed a surplus in the Bureau and that the "herd" could benefit from a thinning. Chamber of Commerce officials in Flagstaff were fond of joking that twenty-one years of living in Winslow ought to be adequate punishment for killing a B.L.M. employee, and if anything, Billy was owed compensation.

People in Winslow, on the other hand, wrote off as sour grapes what they were saying elsewhere. Proud of Billy Boy Burk the Winslow Board of Tourism felt they were sitting on a goldmine. In fact plans were in the works to celebrate "Billy Days" the following July, the height of the summer tourist season. On the drawing board was a five-kilometer race where the runners would be trailed by a truckload of Keystone Cops. A carnival company promised to rename one of their amusements "Billy Boy's Wild Ride," and it was suggested that a look-a-like contest might be included whereas the contestants would compete for prizes in two categories, Billy "A" and Billy "B."

To top it off there were rumors that none-other than homegrown Monty Tornado was about to introduce a ballad saluting Burk's dash for freedom. And in preliminary talks with Tornado's manager, the nationally famous country entertainer was penciled in to be the headliner for the gala "Billy Days" stage show. Everything seemed to be falling into place for Winslow, Arizona.

* * *

At four in the morning on the twenty-seventh of April, "day forty-six," red-haired Billy Burk, dressed in his "tourist" disguise, threw a duffle packed with toiletries, clothing, and Lucien Ortiz's gun into the Mustang's backseat. He drove down the lane, turned onto the highway, and began to head west. For the second time in his life he closed the door on the "Show Me" state, conscious that he would probably never return.

CHAPTER 11: MELVIN AND MARTHA ZIMMERMAN

Billy Burk drove to Albuquerque and parked the Mustang a half-mile from the bus station. He left the keys in the ignition with the driver side window rolled down. Reaching in and grabbing his duffel, Billy mumbled goodbye to the car he had been driving since March 13. He turned and started walking.

Fifteen minutes later the red-haired tourist with the "Grand Canyon" hat paid cash for a bus ticket to Winslow. Earlier it had occurred to Burk that the easiest way to dispose of the Mustang was to have someone steal it, and he parked the car in a neighborhood where that outcome was virtually assured.

He hoped that whoever swiped "the best car he had ever driven" would chop it and sell the parts, but he did enjoy picturing two joy-riding teens being surrounded by Albuquerque cops and then having the barrels of twenty guns trained on their asses.

* * *

On April twenty-ninth at 3:20 P.M., wearing sunglasses and carrying the duffel bag, "tourist Billy" got off a Greyhound bus in Winslow and walked to 915 Frontier Parkway. The sign above the door read, "Honest Melvin's Jewelry and Pawn."

Opening the door triggered a buzzer. No one was up front, but Burk could hear the shuffle of feet on a wooden floor. The sound became progressively louder as the person, yet unseen, came closer.

"Can I help you?"

Billy recognized the solicitous, high-pitched voice and hoped that Zimmerman would not, in turn, recognize his. The former groundskeeper smiled and spoke slowly while bending over to inspect a tray of jewelry, "I'm looking for a ring . . . for my wife . . . a diamond . . . size six."

"You are in luck. Yes you are. I have the best selection of diamond rings. You'd have to drive as far as Phoenix to find more variety. And quality, . . . these, my friend, are simply the finest." Melvin reached for a tray in a display case but suddenly stopped. It was as if the storeowner needed air and required a few seconds to catch his breath.

_Is he having some sort of heart problem?_ Billy thought, _Or maybe Zimmerman knows who I am._

Reaching into his duffel, Billy Boy put his hand on his gun, but did not withdraw it. He watched Zimmerman closely. The man did not appear to recognize him. Something else was the problem. _But what?_

Billy took a quick look around the store and liked what he saw—namely that, except for he and the proprietor, "Honest Melvin's Jewelry and Pawn" was empty and that robbing the place was going to be a piece of cake. Then from the back of the shop there issued a strange, unsettling noise. Not sure whether the source was human, Burk stood still and was in the midst of guessing what could have caused the sound when the bellow occurred again.

_It is human!_ Billy concluded with a shudder.

Throughout history similar sounds had summoned men into battle, had ordered prisoners to their deaths, and had threatened to blow down the house of the _Three Little Pigs_.

The jeweler put his sales pitch on hold, and then let out a deep sigh.

From the same direction that Melvin's shuffling had issued two minutes before came the stomping of boots. Zimmerman stole a glance behind him and offered meekly, "Excuse me."

Honest Melvin turned and disappeared behind the door.

* * *

Even as a little girl, Martha Zimmerman had been big-boned. People meeting Martha, the adult Martha, for the first time found it hard to imagine that she had ever been a child. However, imagining the woman wearing body armor, while charging across the Asian steppe on an overloaded pony, was not difficult to picture.

Had Martha been born in a different century and on another part of the globe, no doubt preference testing would have pointed her in the direction of "Conquest and Pillage." But in the first decade of the new millennium, as this was not a suitable occupation, Martha did not seem to fit in, did not inspire armies, and found that the audience for her special appeal tended to be small, hypercritical, and unappreciative. And as the Zimmerman's owned neither dog nor cat, Martha took her frustrations out solely on Honest Melvin. In short, Melvin Zimmerman's life was unadulterated hell.

Mrs. Zimmerman held very definite opinions on every subject and, furthermore, had a very high regard for her own rather firm judgments and inflexible dogmata, much higher, in fact, than her regard for the views of her undersized husband who, unlike her, had not been "born again." Despite his wife's constant preaching, Melvin clung tenaciously to religious indifference.

* * *

On the other side of the door Billy Burk could hear Mrs. Zimmerman chipping away at her husband's dignity.

"Melvin, I told you this morning to take the food that was on the counter and dump it on the compost pile. Now didn't I? Didn't I? You look at me when I'm talking to you. And did you do it? Did you do it? NO, you did NOT do it. NO! NO! NO! NO! Now there are ants ALL OVER THE KITCHEN! What have you got to say for yourself? What? Honestly!"

_So that's what "Tamerlane" sounds like_. Burk concluded that being referred to as Tamerlane was not an endearment, and that Melvin Zimmerman would never be burdened with having to complete his own sentences as long as Martha was within fifty yards. Billy did not care for the raspy voice coming from behind the door, a voice accustomed to delivering sharp rebukes to her husband from whom Burk detected pathetic attempts to apologize.

Billy Burk, feeling revulsion, walked to the front door, flicked on the "CLOSED" sign, turned the lock until he heard the click of metal, and dug for his gun in the duffle bag. Martha was not through with her diatribe when Billy yanked opened the door behind which the Zimmermans stood. The murderer, intent on robbing the place, overheard something about germs and ants before Martha noticed Burk's silhouette in the doorway.

"CUSTOMERS UP FRONT ONLY!" she commanded and accompanied her order with a threatening snarl followed by a low hiss.

Burk held the gun higher wishing that Lucien Ortiz had owned something more intimidating. Remembering that when he stole the small, chrome plated revolver, his first impression was that the pistol had a feminine, designer look.

"I'm not a customer!" he said trying to match the menace in Martha's voice but falling far short.

Melvin's mouth hung open and his eyebrows formed into two high arches. If possible, it appeared to Billy that the man had turned even whiter than he had been a minute before.

Billy's first glimpse of Mrs. Zimmerman confirmed that Martha was a mountain of a woman—more along the lines of a Kilimanjaro or even possibly, an Everest. Burk began to seriously doubt that he had enough firepower to stop her if she chose to turn and charge, a possibility, he could see, that the woman was mulling over.

But Burk checked her move by grabbing Melvin who, thankfully, stood nearest to him. He held the sissy pistol to Melvin's head, discovering only then that the man used entirely too much hair oil. Billy was not pleased to learn that they still manufactured the stuff, having assumed long ago that the product had been put to better use such as lubricating small engines.

"THIS IS A STICK-UP! I WANT EVERY DIAMOND AND ALL THE CASH YA GOT!"

Martha's coarse breathing and occasional snorts made Burk feel he was sharing a corral with a bull, and he kept a wary eye on Melvin's husky bride. The woman finally collected herself enough to speak and proclaimed authoritatively, "The Good Book states, sir, that there is a place in hell for rapists, murderers, and thieves!"

"Rape, not a chance! Murder, however, definitely on the table," and making a sour face, he pressed the barrel of his pistol so hard against poor Melvin's temple that the jeweler emitted a yelp.

"Sir, it is my conviction that ill-gotten gains mean ruin and not redemption. You should seek your fortune in the Lord!"

"LADY, SHUT YOUR MOUTH! AND MELVIN, WHAT SAY WE FILL MY DUFFLE WITH YOUR 'FINE' SELECTION OF DIAMONDS!"

Martha bristled and Melvin might have said, "Okay." It was hard to tell. But, because the small man began to edge his way toward the display case in the front of the building, Billy assumed he'd answered affirmatively.

After having the oily proprietor transfer three-dozen rings into the gray duffel bag, Tourist Billy next ordered Melvin to open the register but was disappointed with the small amount of cash on hand.

Honest Melvin offered apologetically, "Made a bank deposit at noon."

The word bank caused Billy to think, and he blurted out, "You got a debit card Melvin?"

Zimmerman, looking bleak, nodded affirmatively.

"Let's take a little ride. Your car in the back?"

Once again, Melvin nodded yes.

By then Martha's grunts and noises had settled to a tolerable level though she continued to handout unsolicited advice, "There's only one way to get to see the Lord. Follow the path of righteousness, and then you'll get to see Him in His Kingdom."

Billy tried to ignore the woman as he herded them out the back door toward the Zimmerman's 2003 Lincoln Continental.

"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.'" After getting the words out of her mouth, Martha balked at climbing into the big car.

Burk overcame her resistance by prodding her with the pistol and at the same time reciting his abbreviated version of the Twenty-third Psalm, "'I fear no evil, 'cause I'm the meanest BASTARD in Winslow.' So, lady, get in the goddamn car right now!"

Billy directed Melvin to drive and had the Mountain ride shotgun while he climbed in the backseat in order to keep an eye on them both.

"Whatever you do, no funny stuff! You got that Melvin?" Burk gave the driver a poke in the back of the head with the gun barrel.

Zimmerman might have nodded but he couldn't tell. Martha, however, was not through dispensing platitudes, "The Bible says, 'When the day of reckoning is at hand, those who have seen the Glory and the Light shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.'"

"Oh yeah, where does it say that?"

"Never you mind where, mister. It does and that's that!"

Burk was clearly agitated and began pointing his gun more at Mrs. Zimmerman though the robber knew full well that, if fired, the tiny pistol would produce little impact—not unlike attempting to stop a charging rhinoceros by reading passages from the works of Mahatma Gandhi.

"The day of atonement is nigh!"

As Burk waved the effeminate pistol in the direction of the front passenger seat, Melvin finally mustered up enough courage to speak, "Martha will you shut up? In case he's a lousy shot and hits me instead of you!"

"Well," she said in an attempt to deflect her husband's criticism, "it doesn't seem like much of a gun to me!"

Melvin countered, "There, you've done it! Do you even realize what you're doing? You are finding fault with the man's technique WHILE he's robbing us—oh, brilliant! Just fucking brilliant!" Zimmerman hit a high note while giving voice to his incredulity.

"I'm just saying in a real holdup, he would have a bigger pistol!"

"This IS a real holdup! His pistol IS big enough! Thank you!"

Billy nodded in agreement, but no one in the front seat paid the least bit of attention to him.

"Melvin, if the man had any idea what he was doing, he wouldn't be carrying a twenty-two. It's hardy more dangerous than a pellet gun!" The Mountain got in the last dig, which Burk felt certain was the normal state of affairs in the Zimmerman household.

They pulled up to the cash machine, and Burk told the two in front to shut up then instructed Melvin to withdraw $2,000 cash.

"Ca . . . can't," Melvin reluctantly informed Billy. "It's . . . it's bank policy; most you can take out is $400."

The machine dealt out the disappointingly small amount of money, and Burk had Melvin return the Lincoln Continental to 915 Frontier Parkway.

While on the ride back, Billy rifled through the jeweler's wallet and came up with an additional $216. Two hundred of which he found tucked away behind a secret flap. Martha, upon learning of her husband's stash, hissed and denounced him by quoting scripture, "'Architects of wickedness will find no comfort in the hereafter.' Revelations."

One compartment of Melvin's billfold contained a dozen business cards. Several were his own:

Honest Melvin's Jewelry and Pawn

915 Frontier Parkway

Winslow, AZ 86047

Melvin Zimmerman, Proprietor

Compassionate, Discrete, Honest

Billy thought to himself that Melvin Zimmerman used the word "honest" too many times for him to be trusted, and Burk wondered if anything was hidden behind the door marked "discrete." The other business cards included two from insurance agents, one from an accountant, another from a wholesale jeweler, a computer consultant was represented, and one that stopped Burk dead in his tracks—a vault company—"Ironclad Safes, in business since 2001!"

Martha turned around, caught Billy's eye as he studied the card, and said, "'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?' Certainly not you, sir! Psalms."

Burk went back to reading the business card.

This time they parked in front of the pawnshop, and Melvin unlocked the entrance. As the door closed behind them, Billy secured the lock, and Mrs. Zimmerman proclaimed, "'Darkness cannot drive out evil, only the brightness of true faith.' Corinthians."

"By the way Melvin, do you have any duct tape?" Billy asked matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, in the bottom drawer below the cash register."

Burk retrieved the tape; Melvin led them to a closet midway in the back where Billy bound the woman's hands and feet. Just as he was about to tape her mouth closed, Martha declared defiantly, "'When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.' Ecclesiastes."

Burk felt some measure of contentment when he secured an eight-inch strip of duct tape across Mrs. Zimmerman's mouth, saying as he did so, "Ha, that's not from the Bible! That's Jimi Hendrix!"

He took a second to savor the scowl on Martha's face, then turned the closet light out and closed the door with her inside. Suddenly the world seemed, indeed, to be at peace, and Melvin did not appear to be at all upset with this latest development.

"We got business to discuss," Burk said and took from his pocket the card from Ironclad Safes, which he then handed to Zimmerman.

Melvin reacted as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He averted his eyes and shiftily looked to the left and right.

"So, where is it Honest Melvin? And if you say it's at your house, that's where we're headed next."

Melvin mumbled unintelligibly.

"What?"

"Over there," the jeweler pointed to a file cabinet in the corner.

"Where?"

"It's behind the cabinet. The cabinet's got rollers. Just push it aside."

Billy did, and behind the metal cabinet was a built-in safe.

"Any alarm?"

Melvin shook his head no and slowly crossed the room to begin turning the tumblers.

Shortly, Billy Boy Burk hollered, "Jackpot!"

Among the items inside the Ironclad Model 2088 were a stack of hundreds, fifty-five faceted, unmounted diamonds averaging at least a carat a piece and one bottle of pricey whiskey. Most of the other stuff in the small vault did not amount to much—largely paperwork and an autographed baseball, which Burk thought to be curious. And half kidding, he asked, "What's the matter? Doesn't your wife approve of baseball?"

Melvin, staring at the floor, uttered only, "Work of the Devil."

"That it is, Melvin my boy. That it is," Billy said in a happy voice.

After adding the cash and the diamonds to his duffle, Billy thought for a second and said, "Here's to retirement," he then took a swig of whiskey. Burk handed the bottle to Melvin and added, "This'll help."

Melvin, sitting on the floor by the open safe, absently nodded and reached an arm toward the liquor. Before taking a drink, Zimmerman toasted, "Here's to the Great Plains Insurance Company of Pueblo, Colorado." The pale man with the delicate constitution and an apparent fondness for expensive alcohol took a long, hard pull from the upturned bottle.

"You're taking this pretty well Melvin, what's your secret?"

The small man shrugged and let the comment pass then gave the bottle back to Burk who took a second hit of whiskey. Ten minutes was spent passing the booze back and forth in silence before Billy asked, "What is it with you and Martha? She got electrodes attached to your balls?"

"Martha's just Martha," Melvin said forlornly and took the bottle when Billy offered it. After a deep swallow, he asked, "You ever been married?"

"No, it's one joy that I've missed."

"You wouldn't consider killing her would you?" Melvin spoke softly while staring straight at the floor then drained what was left in the bottle.

Burk laughed, "What? With this thing?" He held the petite gun like it was a dog turd and added, "I'm afraid your wife's right. This couldn't do much damage. Besides, I'm not into killing."

"Yes you are. You're Billy Boy Burk. I remember you from the country club. I thought you looked familiar when you came through the door. Took me a while to put two and two together. Hell man, you're a damned celebrity—almost as big as Monty Tornado! They got your picture up everywhere!"

Billy was stunned. He had hoped the red hair and the extra weight were enough to make him unrecognizable. "Look I might have killed somebody once, but it was self-defense." Abruptly getting to his feet, Billy motioned for Melvin to do likewise, "Come on. I gotta hit the road."

"I'd appreciate it if you locked me in a different closet than . . . er . . . her."

"No problem. Lead the way."

"The other closet is next to the back door. The duct tape's on the counter."

Burk snatched up the roll of tape and held out his hand saying, "Car keys."

Zimmerman dug in his pocket and produced a key ring. "It's the gold key with the plastic thing," he reverted to mumbling as he pointed out which went with the Lincoln.

Billy turned to the luckless storeowner and confessed apologetically, "Melvin, I agree with you. The woman should be put out of 'your' misery but not by me. What'da hell's wrong with divorce?"

Zimmerman said nothing.

Before shutting Melvin in the rear closet, Burk gave him a parting jab, "Do you really need to use so damn much hair oil?" He had noticed when applying the duck tape to the man's wrists that the oil seemed to be everywhere.

"I have . . . I have dry skin," Melvin muttered feebly before the tape went over his mouth.

Burk then headed to the bathroom to change his clothes.

Five minutes later Billy Burk, with the duffle bag slung over his shoulder, made for the front door and was about to leave when he heard a siren approaching in the distance. He crouched out of sight assuming that the policeman was responding to a call somewhere in the neighborhood. But the Winslow City Police car came to a sliding stop in front of Honest Melvin's Jewelry and Pawn.

Billy did not wait to see what the cop would do next. He sprinted through the shop and shouted toward Zimmerman's closet as he passed, "MELVIN, I DON'T THINK I LIKE YOU ANYMORE!" He burst through the back door and ran down the alley.

Burk did not hear Melvin offer quietly, "Sorry."

CHAPTER 12: HAROLD ECKSTEIN'S FORTUITOUS BLUNDER

If nothing else, Melvin Zimmerman was practical. Before Billy Burk had a chance to tape the jeweler's hands behind his back, the man had performed a few simple calculations. As a result of the arithmetic, and while Burk was not watching, he ran his wrists across his oily hair, guaranteeing that the tape would not stick—a precaution to cover the possibility that the Great Plains Insurance Company of Pueblo, Colorado, would not pay promptly and in full. It would be easier to retrieve the stolen cash and diamonds from the body of a dead thief than to collect from an insurance company's attorney in a court of law.

That is why it was no trick for Melvin to quickly slip the duct tape off his wrists and to reach in his pocket for his cell phone, which he rarely used and seldom turned on. He hated cell phones, and as he punched in 911, it occurred to him that this was the first time that the thing had come in handy.

He reported that a holdup was in progress at 915 Frontier Parkway and stayed on the line as the operator had instructed, then Mr. Zimmerman groped in the dark until he found the whiskey bottle that he'd hidden there two weeks before.

* * *

When Honest Melvin saw through Burk's disguise, Billy knew then that he would have to step up the deception. After locking Melvin in the closet, he took the time to fish the priest outfit from his duffel bag and dress as "Father Flanagan-Burk."

As the counterfeit priest ran south down the alley distancing himself from Honest Melvin's Jewelry and Pawn, he clutched the gray duffel tightly at his side. Burk began to "think" in an Irish dialect to be ready in case he was spoken to and felt that he had to respond.

At the end of the alley he slowed to a brisk walk and then peeked around the corner. He spied a gas station a half block to his right. A Chevy Suburban with a travel trailer attached was parked next to the outer service island. As he neared the trailer, Billy could see no one in sight. The owner was either inside the trailer or in the station paying for gas. Burk gambled.

The trailer door was not locked. Father Flanagan-Burk slipped quickly inside. Standing dead still he listened for moment. Hearing nothing, he sneaked a look through a curtain to see if anyone on the outside had witnessed his move. Nothing he observed led him to believe that anyone was the wiser. Billy poked his head in the rear bedroom. Pleased to find that it too was empty, he set about searching for a hiding place. Underneath the double bed was a built-in storage unit. He could open its door, squeeze in under the bed, and hide in a prone position behind some folded blankets.

He heard footsteps and two people talking, and the bogus priest prepared to duck into the storage space. The Suburban's doors opened then closed, and Billy could no longer hear the voices, but he did hear sirens—lots of them. One minute later the car and its trailer, with the stowaway aboard, were moving at a snail's pace down Winslow's main street.

Burk crept to a window. He looked out at the familiar Winslow businesses and realized that the trailer was headed west. That is when he saw his first wanted poster. Billy recalled Melvin saying that his picture was everywhere, and now Burk saw for himself—version "A," bearded with black hair and crazy smile. His likeness peered out from shop window, telephone pole, and park bench. Billy Boy was not sure if the picture did him justice, but he was certain that it bore little resemblance to Father Flanagan-Burk.

The trailer moved slowly. Billy guessed the driver was either lost or was too old to safely be at the wheel. A string of impatient motorists trailed behind. Billy estimated the caravan to number thirty cars, and they had traveled only one mile from the service station. If the vehicle went that speed on the Interstate, the cops would surely pull the driver over. Three minutes later the Suburban with Burk in tow crawled onto I-40 heading toward Flagstaff, and the parade of furious motorists began to blow past, some honking horns, some rolling down their windows and shaking their fists, while a passenger in another pressed naked butt cheeks against a window, and Billy Boy caught himself thinking that he had mixed emotions about living in a country where speech is free but is not always pretty.

Feeling fortunate to be leaving town undetected, Burk was curious to know where the driver was headed, and he stayed by the window with his eyes riveted on the landscape that Billy knew so well. On the west edge of Winslow he could see the Lone Pine Country Club, and he recognized Hugo Vasquez and some new guy dredging the seventh green's water hazard.

_Two months ago that might have been me_ , Billy Burk reflected sadly. Suddenly he wished he had another drink. He looked in the kitchen but found no alcohol. A drawer held a number of high fiber supplements plus what Burk guessed to be a two-year supply of Beano. The refrigerator contained bottled water, prune juice, and eight vials of medication. Half were prescriptions written for a Harold Eckstein, the others for an Eileen Eckstein. Not recognizing any of the pills by name, he decided that it was no time to experiment and pictured the headline: "Unidentified Priest Breaks into Trailer, Dies of Drug Overdose."

The camper could not have been traveling faster than forty-five and proved to be a traffic hazard. Several times he heard cars coming up from behind then simultaneously hitting brakes and horn. One infuriated driver rolled down her window and shouted at the Suburban as she sped past.

As Burk sat next to the window watching Northern Arizona inch past at a clip reminiscent of the days of the horse and wagon, he began to ponder Melvin Zimmerman's request to kill Martha. Oh, he could understand where it came from. That was no trick. The ironic thing was, while back in Missouri, Billy had considered kidnapping Melvin Zimmerman's wife—the very woman Honest Melvin wanted dead—but he had scrapped the idea in favor of the robbery, considering it quicker and less messy.

Zimmerman's whiskey had begun to make Billy drowsy, and he decided to retire to the storage area under the bed and take a nap. The darkness of the compartment along with the moving trailer's steady hum conspired to cause Burk to fall into a deep slumber. He dozed far longer than he had planned.

When he awoke, the trailer was no longer moving, and Billy, his head clouded by sleepy confusion, could not figure out whether it was day or night, nor what surrounded him for that matter. The enclosure did remind him, however, of a coffin, and the killer-turned-jewel thief asked himself if he had died or was he, perhaps, dreaming. He could be sure of neither.

That is when he began to hear muffled voices outside the trailer, and he strained to listen but had little success. While lying in his "coffin," he did catch one word: "Burk." The fugitive was certain someone had spoken his name.

Billy became dead still as he realized where he was, and how he came to be there. He reached to one side and felt the blankets he had wadded and pushed next to the compartment's door in case someone opened it. On the other side he touched the duffle bag containing the money and diamonds that would bankroll a new life in Mexico.

Suddenly he could tell that someone was inside the trailer. The vibrations of their footfalls transmitted throughout the camper. Whoever had entered was in a hurry, opening doors, and quickly slamming them shut. Next, the bedroom light was switched on. He could hear the "click." The voices were abruptly much more audible.

An older woman spoke in a high, unsteady voice, "We just have one bedroom. It's enough for us though. We're retired."

A man's voice, also old and feeble admonished, "Oh Eileen, he don't want a tour. He's searchin' for a convict, and a'course we're retired. Damn it woman, we're older than rock."

"What?" the woman asked. "Colder than Iraq? Harold, I don't think Iraq is cold, do you?"

Next, whoever was opening doors, opened the door to Burks's hiding place.

Billy Burk did not breathe. He felt his heart, which seemed to him to have suddenly grown in girth, and was pounding in his chest like a hammer.

"Harold," the old woman scolded. "Did you jam those covers in there like that? My lands, you are eighty-seven years old. When are you going to learn how to fold?"

"But I . . ."

Just then while cowering behind the "logjam" of blankets, Billy heard someone rip a humongous fart. Without further scrutiny his cabinet door was quickly closed, and that, in turn, was followed by an exclamation, "Harold Eckstein, please! Excuse yourself!"

Next Burk detected the scurry of feet beating a hasty retreat from the space that was the Eckstein's small bedroom on wheels.

If anything else was said, Billy did not hear. The door to the bedroom slammed shut, and Burk was left to himself. Soon the Suburban returned to the highway undoubtedly to block more traffic.

* * *

Though he never actually met the man or even saw his face, Billy Burk would hold the name "Harold Eckstein" in very high regard for the remainder of his days.

CHAPTER 13: FATHER FLANAGAN'S VACATION

Once the Suburban was back on the road, Burk crept out of the coffin-like enclosure and stole over to the window. It was night. Harold Eckstein's fart still fouled the room, and he thought to himself: _Wow, no wonder everyone cleared out so fast!_ Billy slid the glass open a crack and was struck by the fact that the air streaming in was frigid.

A glance outside and the stowaway could see the silhouettes of tall trees framed by stars and illuminated by the rising moon. Pine trees he believed. Recalling the last thing he remembered before falling asleep, the Suburban had been crawling west on the Interstate. He looked at his watch—four hours had elapsed. He had needed the sleep, and now he needed to know where he was headed. A forest like the one beyond the window existed in and around Flagstaff; that he knew for certain. Similar pines grew on the Mogollon Rim around Lucian Ortiz's cabin, but judging by his last locational fix, Burk could not place the Suburban anywhere near Heber.

Buildings started coming up on his right. Burk watched for clues then saw a sign announcing that the "Grand Canyon Airport" could be found by turning left at the next intersection. They were evidently north of Flagstaff, and Father Flanagan-Burk was not displeased with their destination. He had always wanted to visit the Grand Canyon and had just never seemed to find the time in the twenty plus years that he lived in Winslow.

The Ecksteins drove through the town of Tusayan and continued north. They paid a toll at the South Entrance Welcome Station. Evidently there was some confusion, because it took forever for Harold to conduct his business. But Billy Boy was loath to complain for Harold Eckstein was gold in his book. After leaving the toll booth, Billy figured it would be only a matter of minutes before the old couple would pull over for the night, and the stowaway closed the window then stood by the trailer's door, clutching his duffel bag tightly at his side. He was ready to vacate as soon as the Suburban came to a stop.

When that occurred, Father Flanagan moved quickly and quietly, carefully closing the door behind him and silently absorbing the initial shock of cold that the outside air provided; he then walked briskly to the rear and turned so his body was directly behind the camper. After that, he simply walked straight away from the back of Eckstein's rig while resisting the temptation to turn and look.

No one saw him.

A sign proclaimed that the Ecksteins had parked at the "Mather Point Overlook." Later the "Irish priest" poked around in his duffel and retrieved a light jacket. By then Burk was a hundred yards from the Suburban, and he looked over and saw two people inside shining a flashlight on a map. Next Billy strolled toward a railing and directed his gaze downward. The moon, waxing and three-quarters full, cast a surprising amount of light into the chasm that opened before him.

Stunned by the canyon's vastness and with his mouth agape, the fugitive inched forward until he touched the railing. Momentarily he forgot about the cold, forgot also about the trouble he was in, aware only that he stood at the brink of eternity looking back through time. There before him, God had left his testament, not through the voices of others and not with the written word but chiseled into stone.

"Holy Christ!" Billy said slowly, though there was no one there to hear him.

* * *

After spending ten minutes at the lip of the precipice, Father Flanagan-Burk could no longer ignore the cold. He spotted a directional arrow pointing to the Visitor Center, only to be disappointed minutes later when he discovered that the center had closed for the night. As he stood in front of the locked building Billy heard an engine idling, and the bogus priest looked around a corner. Not far away was a bus parked next to a sign that identified it as a free "Village Line" shuttle.

Father Flanagan boarded the bus and nodded toward the driver who said, "You're in luck my friend. This is the last bus of the day."

"Yeh woodn't know whare ah pareson cood find lodgin' wood jah now?"

"Oh, you're not from here?"

"Visitin' from te Emeral Isle," said Burk in a brogue that, to a trained ear, would have indicated that Billy's zealous confidence was misplaced. Fortunately, for the fugitive such ears in Northern Arizona are few and far between.

"Well, welcome to America. Oh, lodging . . . er . . . you don't have accommodation?" the driver asked, appearing a little uneasy. He next added, "I'm afraid the park is probably all booked up."

At the news Father Flanagan looked disappointed and wondered if the Irish had special expressions with which they confronted life's setbacks, aside of course from reverting to foul language (which would have put Ireland on the same footing as his home state of Missouri).

Right away he began to see that the verses sonorously rendered by Sean O'Toole had their limitations. After all there were not any practical lines that he could quote like:

Oh bitterness and disappointment great

When de lodge cannot accommodate.

"Say listen Father, I'm not scheduled to start this run for another ten minutes. Why don't I call around and do some checkin' for you?" The man behind the wheel of the Village Line shuttle had a reputation as being somewhat of an arranger and would go out of his way to help visitors in need.

Flanagan-Burk nodded enthusiastically and began wishing again that he had a drink.

The driver flipped open his cell phone and hit a preprogrammed number. After writing a few notes on a lunch sack, the Good Samaritan hung up and made a second call. This time the number he punched had not been stored in his phone.

Minutes later the bus driver turned to the Irish priest and said excitedly, "All right! Tell you what!" From the driver's expression, Billy understood that the man was about to announce something special: "I just got done talking to Reverend Winkle of the Interdenominational Christian Center right here in the park, and he said, . . now get this, . . are you ready?" Burk nodded and smiled in anticipation. "If you agree to stand in for him this Sunday, conduct his services and all, you can stay for free in 'Volunteer Housing.'"

"Well . . . ah . . . yes . . . yes! I'm . . . I'm . . . actually speechless," Father Flanagan Burk choked and swallowed like he had a mouthful of sawdust. But he was telling the truth; Billy Boy indeed was at a loss for words.

"Yeh know, as a Catholic . . . ah . . . er . . . priest, I didn't think you were allowed to participate in an interdenominational worship service. But Reverend Winkle, he says that's all been changed now—something about a Papal canon."

From Billy Burk's expression one might have supposed that the counterfeit Irishman was carsick, and in a voice that sounded less Irish and more like that of a certain jeweler/pawnbroker from Winslow, Billy mumbled, "Yes, thank God for that 'paper-cannon,'" even though he had no clue what a "paper-cannon" was or what one had to do with permitting the fraudulent Father Flanagan to preach to the interdenominational masses, a task for which Burk was ill-prepared.

The driver continued enthusiastically, "I knew you'd be happy, but don't be speechless on Sunday." The "arranger" followed his comment with heartfelt laughter while the imitation priest was convinced more than ever that he could use a good, stiff drink—anything alcoholic. At that point Father Flanagan-Burk felt neither particular nor proud and would have been tempted by a shot of Buff for Real Men—straight up and no chaser.

The bus ride to "Volunteer Housing" took forever. Above the door to Billy's housing unit a sign warned, "ABSOLUTELY NO ALCOHOL ON THE PREMISES!" Mexico appeared hopelessly far away and seemed to recede with each passing minute.

* * *

Reverend Royal Winkle had the curious quality of seeing only good and was fond of saying, "Good is God with an extra 'O.'" Winkle's powers of persuasion were so highly developed that most individuals he spoke to about "good-God" would come away thinking: _You know, he's right!_

A thousand people could witness a train wreck, and Royal Winkle would be the only person to discover a silver lining, which he would fashion into a Sunday message with a title like, "The Allegory of the Mangled Train." Such revelations would then be shared with his parishioners—people seeking affirmation of their faith, or needing solace in times of trouble, or who were just trying to meet eligible members of the opposite sex. Whatever reason, they would get the train-wreck story—no longer than fifteen minutes, no shorter than twelve, as God had intended.

Besides service in the name of the Lord, Reverend Winkle allowed himself only one other pleasure—NASCAR. Asked to catalog the three greatest calamities to have befallen the United States of America in its two plus centuries, Royal's list would have included slavery, the Civil War, and the death of Dale Earnhardt, Sr. the latter representing the only time in his life that the optimistic preacher was stymied in his search for a silver lining.

Winkle had been asked to play a special role in the opening ceremonies of an event scheduled for Sunday, May 2, at the Phoenix International Raceway, and, well, the reverend believed it would be a sin to miss out on such an opportunity. That is why the man was desperate to find a substitute for the upcoming Sunday services at the Interdenominational Christian Center and willingly agreed to a replacement over the telephone, sight unseen, as arranged by the helpful bus driver whom he knew only by reputation.

Father Flanagan-Burk arranged to meet with Pastor Winkle the following day, Friday, the thirtieth. The meeting had to be in the morning as Winkle planned to be packed and on the road by noon. The minister showed his stand-in the facilities, explained to the Irishman his duties, and was quite trusting, suggesting only that the Catholic cleric not deliver any of his remarks in Latin.

The red-haired Irishman assured Winkle that refraining from the use of Latin would be no problem and asked the man, who seemed to be in a hurry to leave, if there was anything unique about the American audience that he should know—any subjects to avoid, or any topics that would insure a positive reception.

Royal Winkle, sensing the priest's apprehension asked, "Are you newly ordained?"

"As new as they get," Father Flanagan readily confessed.

Winkle's advice to the rookie priest was to, "Stick with what you know. Something in your background that's either 'touching' or 'tragic,' and turn it into a lesson."

When Billy Burk shook hands with the departing preacher, he did not feel one bit better. He turned the words: "In your background," and "touching or tragic," over and over in his head. Just thinking about the task at hand at least released some of the pressure that had built up in his chest but did not result in an epiphany or even the slightest crumb of an idea.

That afternoon he went for a walk on the Rim Trail and brought with him a pencil and pad to jot down notes in case inspiration should strike him. But when the walk was over, and Billy sat alone in his dorm room, his piece of notepaper remained as blank as his mind.

* * *

Burk was not without church experience. At the age of sixteen and after his second arrest for breaking into vending machines at the same Sunoco station, the Madison County Public Defender recommended that Billy and his Aunt Julia attend church, and not just any church, but the New Life Missionary Baptist Church because both the judge, who was likely to preside over young Burk's hearing, and the county prosecutor were members of New Life. Besides, sitting inside on Sunday mornings translated into less time for Billy Boy to be out on the streets inventing new mischief.

In the end it seemed to Billy that going to the Lord's house had not done him much good because he wound up serving two months in juvenile detention. He had hoped for probation. Plus three and a half hours on Sunday mornings under New Life Missionary Baptist's roof caused Burk to miss valuable "sack" time. The only one who seemed to benefit from the experience was Reverend Cordell Bumpus who "erred" on the side of lechery and was constantly tomcatting after his Aunt Julia, even though the reverend was married and the father of four. Billy Boy Burk had read the Bible occasionally while staying at Three-J's cabin, and as a boy had paid attention to his Sunday school teacher, Miss Tomlinson, who smelled lightly of fresh flowers, was five years his senior, and to Billy, appeared ripe as a peach and ready to pick.

While sitting at a writing desk in the Grand Canyon's Volunteer Housing Unit, Billy Burk thought back to Reverend Bumpus' sermons. Burk recollected that without exception the minister would start by reading a bible verse and then enlarge upon it, give examples, interpretations, and end by roundly condemning everyone in the house for lusting in their hearts. But he had them that man strutting behind the pulpit, at times loud and severe, raining hellfire and, at other times gentle, barely whispering and now and then coaxing a tear. He held the congregation in the palm of his hand, a masterful performer. Billy reminisced: _Cordell Bumpus was The Man!_

Sunday morning dawned, chilly but sunny, "day fifty-one" of Burk's run from the law. The bogus priest walked to the Interdenominational Christian Church and arrived an hour early. He had selected a passage from the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew and had a rough outline of what he wanted to say but that was all.

He picked two songs from the hymnal, _Will the Circle be Unbroken_ , and _Onward Christian Soldiers_ , but without a piano he wondered if singing was wise. Ultimately, Father Flanagan-Burk decided he would deploy the music only if he needed to fill up the time—fifty minutes.

At ten to the hour no one had arrived, and Burk was beginning to hope that he had dodged a bullet, but then a family of five showed up and took seats in the very back. Burk looked at the clock on the wall and wondered if sweat had started to show through his black clergy shirt. He caught himself wishing that he had worn the short sleeve instead of the long, and for the first time the priest's collar began to actively tighten as if it were some form of constricting apparel designed to sabotage the Interdenominational Christian Center's worship service. At four minutes 'til, a young couple materialized out of nowhere and sat in front of the family of five.

But the worst was yet to come. Father Flanagan stood to welcome those assembled. He had planned to introduce himself and give a little "bio," which of course would have been pure fiction, and just as he was about to open his mouth, five large cops entered and took seats in the same row as the young couple.

Billy closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was pleased to discover that he was not being arrested and that those in attendance, likewise, had closed their eyes thinking that the visiting priest was leading them in a silent prayer. Burk hoped none of those present were Catholic for he was painfully aware that he knew little about the religion, and at the same time he began to wonder how best to get his small flock to reopen their eyes when the solution struck him.

"AMEN," Father Flanagan spoke the word convincingly and with a hint of Ireland while trying to mimic the manner of Reverend Cordell Bumpus. He felt like a juggler struggling to keep several objects in the air at once.

A rolling, half-hearted, "Amen," came back in the phony Father's direction.

The parishioners clustered in the back two pews. A gulf of twenty-five feet separated Billy from the congregation, and Billy Burk was okay with that. It would give him a head start if one of the cops recognized him and he had to sprint for the door.

Father Flanagan explained to those assembled that he was new to this country, that this was his first service in America, and that he liked to be informal. Since the group before him was small, he asked that each stand and introduce themselves. The family-of-five were camping, hailed from Milwaukee, were home-schooling their children, and hadn't missed a church service in over six years. Everyone in the room smiled like the family-of-five had just handed out twenty-dollar bills, and Burk began to think that he might be able to pull off his charade.

The couple who had arrived second happened to be employed at the Bright Angel Lodge. Last year they met, fell in love, and were married four weeks ago to the day, and in "this very chapel." You would have thought that the newlyweds were doling out hundreds as Burk and the others enthusiastically applauded the blushing pair.

The cops belonged to a group that called themselves the Arizona Law Enforcement Christian Coalition, and they were in the area on temporary assignment assisting in the hunt for the fugitive William Boy Burk.

Father Flanagan nodded but looked confused, and so they explained to the visitor from Ireland about "Murderering Billy," and gave brief accounts of what he had done. Flanagan paused then in his Irish lilt quoted:

. . . for in it luve ne'er came of age

and time has kept it in a cage

and turned it to a murd'rous rage!

One of the officers, feeling both a little bewildered and a little impressed, asked, "Is that from the Bible?"

Father Flanagan warmly shook his head indicating that it was not a quote from Holy Scripture and thoughtfully said to the man, "It's part of a poem. You see, we Irish require verse as much as plants require water." (He did not divulge that he had stolen that line from Sean O'Toole in the introduction to _Love Poems of the Irish_.)

"Can you recite the whole poem Father?" the newlyweds asked in concert.

Father Flanagan smiled and acted slightly embarrassed, but it was just an act and soon everyone in the room was calling for a performance. The bogus priest struck a dramatic pose, and in a voice every bit as sonorous and as Irish as that of Sean O'Toole himself, gave the following rendition:

Smahll duve kept in an iron cage,

Stahnding mute upon your stage.

You ahre like words written on a page

From which they ne'er can disengage.

Smahll duve kept in a iron cage,

From ye my heart can take a page,

For in it luve ne'er came of age,

And time has kept it in a cage,

And turned it to a murd'rous rage.

And like a duve in an iron cage,

My heart can ne'er luve

Nor can eet fly.

Oh life, a hopeless miscarriage.

The audience was rapt, mouths hung open, the new bride dabbed an eye, and Billy Burk began to see why Cordell Bumpus liked his job.

Other poems were performed. And Father Flanagan, just as dramatically, read from Matthew, Chapter 25. Though the words from his mouth did not sound quite as Irish, and the parishioners, those at least who noticed, wrote it off to his training for the priesthood:

34 Then shall the king say unto

them on his right hand, Come, ye

blessed of my Father, inherit the

Kingdom prepared for you from the

foundation of the world:

35 For I was hungry, and ye

gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye

gave me drink: I was a stranger, and

ye took me in:

36 Naked, and ye clothed me: I was

sick, and ye visited me: I was in

prison, and ye came unto me.

The Father did not preach but lead a discussion. They spoke of service and forgiveness and of the everyday kindnesses that people extend whether driving in traffic or seeing someone in need. Once the parishioners got to know one another, the fifty minutes went by in a flash. The message everyone came away with boiled down to this: All on earth are family—a family that requires patience, understanding, and empathy. If one is lost, or is destitute, or has gone astray, God calls upon the family to assist and to comfort. In short it was an uplifting experience for everyone present, not the least of which for the subject of the "largest manhunt in Arizona history" as the members of the Arizona Law Enforcement Christian Coalition had earlier described the dangerous William Boy Burk.

In fact the experience was so uplifting that, after the service and while standing in front of the chapel, the newlyweds flagged down a friend and asked the person to snap a picture using the couple's camera. Then they convinced everyone in the group to gather with Father Flanagan in the middle and he flanked on both sides by policemen. The newlyweds stood at one end, and the family from Milwaukee lined up on the other. The picture was taken, and the people dispersed. Later the bride remarked to her new husband how the photo reminded her of Leonardo da Vinci's painting of _The Last Supper._

* * *

As the red-haired Father Flanagan posed and smiled broadly, he could not help but feel that someday the photo would be featured prominently on the front page of newspapers across the nation. He hoped that when that day arrived, that he would be drinking _cervesas_ on a beach somewhere in southern Mexico.

CHAPTER 14: FLANAGAN, PRINGLE, AND BACK TO BURK

From members of the Arizona Law Enforcement Christian Coalition Father Flanagan learned that the police had barricaded both entrances to the park; all cars coming and going were being searched for the escapee, and that Burk was considered not just a criminal but a challenge, and that he was definitely "going down."

Hearing what law enforcement had to say, Father Flanagan-Burk renewed his dreams of Mexico where he imagined, rightly or wrongly, that he would not be constantly looking over his shoulder. His new personage as an Irish priest was working like a charm, but he knew that nothing good could last forever, and so he leisurely began to consider how best to "escape" from the park and work his way south. Since the upcoming Friday, May seventh, was his fortieth birthday, Burk thought the seventh would be the perfect day to steal across the border and begin a fresh life in his adopted country.

Every morning a tourist train arrived from Williams, and returned the same day around 3:00 in the afternoon. On Monday Flanagan-Burk stood in the shadows as the passengers disembarked. No one was there searching for the fugitive. That afternoon Billy secretly watched as the passengers boarded for the trip back, and again no cop was in sight.

Dressed as Father Flanagan carrying his rosary and Bible, Burk hiked on the South Rim's trails trying to condition himself for his trek into Mexico, which he figured would involve a lot of walking. Sunday after services he put in five miles, and each day that followed, Billy increased the distance. Also, he practiced his Spanish, which he had picked up over the years while working side-by-side with Mexican migrants. Burk made lists of what he would need: water, trail mix, and a decent pair of shoes—the ones he had stolen from Lucien Ortiz's cabin were almost worn through and probably had not been very substantial even when new.

The physical conditioning was coming along great, and Burk was set to purchase a one-way ticket to Williams on Wednesday, except Wednesday the fifth was cold and wet and Thursday's forecast promised a major improvement. The escaped prisoner-turned-minister correspondingly put off his departure in favor of better weather.

Father Flanagan-Burk had several things he needed to do on that Thursday before boarding the train at the Grand Canyon Village depot. He packed his duffel and said goodbye to his tiny room in Volunteer Housing. Next, he decided to splurge and eat a late breakfast in the Bright Angel Lodge. After that he would do his shopping—take the shuttle to Market Plaza, buy provisions and hiking shoes at Babbitt's General Store, then back to the depot to purchase a ticket, and finally take a casual stroll to burn up some time and to break in the new shoes. At 3:30 P.M. he would be on his way to Williams—his first step toward Mexico having been taken.

The priest, closing in on middle age and beginning to develop a slouch, sat alone in the Bright Angel Lodge's dining room. The breakfast rush was over, and two-thirds of the tables were empty. He spoke Spanish to the young, foreign woman who waited on him, but she did not understand the language, and he wondered where the lady was from. Thinking it appropriate considering where he intended to be in a couple of days, Billy ordered _Huevos Rancheros_.

Father Flanagan-Burk had finished his second cup of coffee when he became vaguely aware that someone was crowding him from behind. But before he could look to see who it was, an open newspaper landed on his table, knocking his water glass to the floor along with his knife and fork, and causing everyone in the restaurant to stare.

Burk started to turn his head but stopped when he felt cold steel poke the back of his neck and heard an excited voice exclaim, "Take a look at dat picture, BOY! Does he look familiar ta yeh? I think I got em. I think you're EM. Damn, I'm gonna be famous as Wyatt Earp!"

Billy glanced quickly at the paper in front of him, which had already started soaking up water spilled from the glass. An artist's rendering of the latest Billy Burk, version "C," stared back at him.

_It was that damn Melvin Zimmerman!_ Burk thought, and he began quoting, "Small Dove Kept in an Iron Cage," loudly and in his best Irish. Hearing the accent, the person with the gun was suddenly not so sure he had the right man, and the good Father slowly stood and began to turn,

. . . for in it luve ne'er came of age,

and time has kept it in a cage,

and turned it to a murd'rous rage!

"Rage" was the last word of "Small Dove Kept in an Iron Cage" that registered with the man holding the gun.

With a heavy coffee mug gripped firmly in his right hand, Father Flanagan-Burk took a roundhouse swing. It connected sending the man flying onto an adjacent table. The instant that mug struck "mug," the gun discharged and Billy felt the bullet hit his right foot, but oddly, he felt no pain. The cop slid from the tabletop upon which he had landed and lay motionless on the floor. Burk quickly reached over and picked up the gun then in one motion unlatched the policeman's ammunition belt and yanked it free. Billy spun around holding both the pistol and the belt in one hand and with the other picked up his duffle. He then headed for the exit. All eyes were trained on him as he crossed the room saying to the woman who had been his waitress, and whom he passed as he made a beeline for the door, "Sorry, . . . didn't leave a tip,"—she, not surprisingly, was too stunned to respond.

Burk walked quickly down the hallway past the gift shop and into the lodge's great lobby, fireplace at one end, doors at the other. Through the ornate, wooden entrance he charged then ran down the steps gun in hand, leaving a trail of startled spectators in his wake. The first vehicle he came to was a bus, motor running, in the midst of dispatching Japanese tourists—its driver still sitting in his seat. Billy climbed aboard, pointed the big gun at the man behind the wheel, and in a voice as mean as he could muster said "DRIVE!"

"Yes sir!" The man's eyes widened. He snapped to attention, quickly closed the door, and the bus moved out of the parking lot and onto the loop drive, crossing the railroad tracks, passing first the Maswik Lodge, then more tracks, next the Backcountry Office, and after that the mule barn. Finally after finishing the loop, the bus lumbered east on the main road paralleling the canyon's southern perimeter.

Three tourists had remained aboard when Burk hijacked the bus, and they took the opportunity to blaze away with their Nikons. One asked, "Rue Dirty Airy?"

Billy shook his head yes.

The American bus driver cast a sideways glance but made no attempt to correct.

As the camera clicking increased in tempo, Billy heard a barrage of Japanese words from which he was able to pick out nothing.

Burk looked down at his feet. The policeman's bullet had grazed the outside of Lucien Ortiz's right shoe but evidently did not break the skin. He could see his sock through the bullet hole.

Coming up on the left was the Mather Point Overlook, and Billy Burk signaled for the driver to pull in and stop. Nearby stood a Park Ranger talking to a tourist. Finishing his conversation, the ranger turned, and began walking slowly toward a pickup truck. Billy saw that the man was about his size, did not carry a gun, and had an expression, which suggested that he was oppressively bored.

Burk instructed the driver to turn off the engine and to hand him the keys. He then motioned for two of the tourists to join him at the front of the bus.

Still dressed in his priest's garb, Billy looked hard at the driver, pointed the policeman's gun threateningly in the man's direction, and gave him two final instructions, "Open the door and keep your mouth shut!"

The door sprang open with a swoosh. Exiting the bus, the Japanese sightseers obligingly moved in front of their kidnapper. Flanagan-Burk, assuming the humble expression of the devout and divinely inspired, steered the two tourists around the side of the Park Service truck and, with gun still hidden, confronted the ranger who looked at the three as if they represented just one more pile of dog shit that needed cleaning up.

* * *

When Burk stuck the gun in the park ranger's face, both their expressions changed. Far from appearing pious, Billy gruffly ordered the shocked ranger to get behind the wheel and drive. Father Flanagan waved goodbye to his former hostages, and he thought he might have heard, "Sro rong Dirty Airy," but he was not sure because he had gotten into the truck and was busy training his pistol on his new "friend" who no longer looked bored.

"Head east and turn on your radio. Put it on the channel that carries the police chatter."

The man nervously obliged. When he tried to speak, nothing came out, and Burk decided that it was his lucky day. Piled on the seat between them was a loaded backpack and a map, and Burk began to hatch a plan. "Where were you headed with all this crap?" he asked.

The mute ranger pointed to a piece of paper, which Billy picked up and started to read:

TO: Special Agent Fred Pringle

FROM: Superintendent Roger Thurman

SUBJECT: Backcountry Patrol, May 6-10, 2004

DATE: Tuesday, May 4, 2004

Your orders are to on May 6 proceed on foot down the New Hance Trail and camp at its termination adjacent to the Colorado River. You are . . .

Billy Burk read the entire memo. He knew that he could not drive out of the park with the police blocking the entrances, not with his new picture circulating. But what was keeping him from exiting on foot? The ranger's map would point the way. Surely he could cross the river and hike north out the other side. During his short stay on the South Rim, he had overheard people say that the North Rim had opened for the season and that people were hiking from one rim to the other. He would take the ranger's clothes and gear, tie him to a tree, hide the truck, then wearing the new disguise, he'd follow the trail highlighted on the map.

Burk had the man, who was scared stiff and cooperating fully, turn onto East Rim Drive. A sign pointed to a place called Yaki Point. They passed it and continued east. A minute later the report of the bus hijacking came across the radio. Shortly after that came a garbled alert about another hijacking at Mather Point, and Billy decided it was time to ditch the tongue-tied ranger.

He had the ranger turn down a little-used track, which amounted to two eroded ruts, and proceeded a half mile until they could no longer be seen from the main road.

"Leave the keys in the ignition and get out!" Burk ordered while stepping from the pickup.

"Da . . . da . . . don't kill me Mister Burk!" were the first words out of the ranger's mouth.

Billy made a face and said, "Shut up!' Then asked, "You got rope?"

The ranger pointed to the pack, and sure enough, Billy Burk found a coil and a knife. He selected a sturdy tree and had the man remove his clothing down to his underwear. After tying the terrified ranger to the tree, Burk tried on the man's hat and was shocked to discover that the hat swallowed his head like a bucket placed over a grapefruit. Frowning, he tossed the hat aside. Next Billy tried the shoes, one of which was patched with duct tape. While the ranger had the head of a giant, his feet were miniature, and Burk, loosing his temper, threw the tiny shoes deep into the brush. The pants and shirt, however, fit just fine. Burk looked at the breast pocket and read the nametag out loud, "Fred Pringle." Before leaving, Billy stuck a sock in the man's mouth and saluted him goodbye saying, "Fred Pringle, meet the new Fred Pringle."

As he drove back to the road, the renegade priest (recently turned Park Ranger) estimated that he would have a six or seven-hour head start because he guessed it would take the ranger that long to free himself—but it was, after all, just a guess. He could not be absolutely certain. Before continuing east on East Rim Drive, Billy Burk glanced at Pringle's map, but he felt in a hurry and did not spend much time. The real ranger Pringle had marked on the map the start of the trail that he'd been assigned to patrol. Billy Burk said, "I'll try it," and guessed that a curving ten-mile drive lay ahead of him.

A quarter of an hour later "Ranger Billy" discovered that nothing marked the New Hance Trailhead; there was not even a parking lot, and he wondered: _Why the hell was Pringle assigned to patrol a trail that nobody's likely to find?_ —all the better for a fugitive from justice who at that moment preferred not to run into anyone anyway.

Suddenly the radio came to life reporting a police chase: a gray BMW was heading Burk's way, but he had not learned what the person in the German car had done, just that the chase was all-out.

The "new" Fred Pringle drove the luckless ranger's truck off the road and hid it in the trees, then rifled through the backpack sorting out the useful from the useless. He discarded Pringle's nudie magazines, transferred his stolen cash and diamonds to the pack, and then decided to leave behind Lucien Ortiz's effeminate pistol. The backpack was crammed full, and he found a place for the policeman's big gun and spare bullets in an outside pack pocket. Burk had more water than he could carry so he drank the excess there on the spot.

From where he stood concealed by thicket and trees, "Fred Pringle" Burk watched as a late model green pickup raced past. Two minutes later the gray BMW that the radio had warned about roared by with an Arizona Highway Patrol car hot on its tail, siren wailing.

The phony ranger thought to himself: _Jesus, not a good place to come for a relaxing getaway,_ but then he decided that anything that drew attention away from him and contributed to the general chaos and confusion could only help his cause.

It took Billy fifteen minutes to hike from the abandoned truck to the New Hance Trailhead and another five to reach the point where the trail descended into the canyon. The temperature was cool and the air thin. The main thing he regretted was that he had not gotten a chance to buy new shoes.

* * *

Fred Pringle-Burk was struck by the difficulty of the trail especially compared to the flat, paved Rim Trail that he had practiced on, and the fifty-pound pack added to his misery. But Burk was born tough, had lived tough, and had twenty plus years of work in the outdoors. If anyone could cope with the rigors of the New Hance Trail, it was Billy Boy Burk.

After only one hour into the journey, Lucien's old shoes were beginning to tell on the fugitive from justice. Sore spots signaled the onset of blisters, and nagged by his imagination, he hurried unnecessarily. Burk kept thinking that the real Pringle had escaped from his tree and had alerted the authorities. _But even if he has_ , the fugitive's rational side assured, _I said nothing that would point to where I am right now_.

As he picked his way down the trail, Burk was pleased with the remoteness of the backcountry, and the farther he got below the rim, the safer he felt. It dawned on him that he would not be spending his birthday crossing into Mexico as originally planned, but would instead be camping in the Grand Canyon, and he was okay with the prospect.

After passing his second hour in the canyon, Billy rounded a bend and met up with two hikers, an older man of about sixty and his adult son—a good-looking guy wearing sturdy shoes that looked to be the correct size. The two men were in the middle of a rest break and, like Billy, were on their way to the river.

Burk dropped his pack and introduced himself, "Fred Pringle, nice to meet'cha."

* * *

The older person Sam seemed reserved at first. The son, too, acted standoffish, but before long the ranger had gained their trust, and he told them stories and jokes designed to drop their guard. The "new" Pringle had to be careful not to tip his hand. He didn't know much about the canyon, and it was evident that those he'd met knew quite a lot.

Soon the break was over, and they shared the trail, staying together all the way to the river. Burk had "pulled it over" on the two as effectively as he had on the Arizona Law Enforcement Christian Coalition. But it was not difficult this time because he genuinely enjoyed their company, Hunter's in particular since the aspiring actor talked about Hollywood and the movies in which he had been hired as an extra. Mostly the "new" Pringle's contributions to the conversation revolved around dogs, plus from time-to-time he would spout a Gaelic love poem and impress his hiking partners with his command of Irish dialect which he could turn on and off at will.

Though he did not let on, by the time he stood on the bank of the river Pringle-Burk's feet were killing him. He could not take his shoes off fast enough to begin soaking his many blisters. But the water's frigid temperature delivered a jolt, and he recalled a conversation he had two days before. A Spanish gentleman told him that the river seldom gets warmer than forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.

* * *

They camped by the river the night of May the sixth, and Burk came to suspect that the old man was compulsive. Obsessed with clean drinking water, Sam talked incessantly about water-born parasites. Billy Burk had drunk water straight from Missouri streams while growing up and never once had he gotten sick.

That evening Pringle-Burk took time to thoroughly study his map and discovered to his chagrin that he would have to walk thirty-three miles west before encountering a bridge where he could cross the river and from there pick his way to the North Rim. A more direct route would be to travel by boat. On foot a hiker had to trudge back into side canyons, and then out again, adding futile distance to the journey.

No matter what the escapee chose to do, he would have to steal someone's shoes, and Hunter's looked good to him. When that was done, getting out of the canyon as soon as possible would be a must because once the police were onto him, they could zip to practically any spot in the canyon by helicopter. Burk was interested in saving time and effort, and he could do both by hijacking a raft.

In his head Billy Burk lined up what had to be done the next day, his birthday: take someone's shoes, steal a raft from a passing float crew, disable their communication equipment, and make sure that no one could follow him down river. He hated to alert people of his presence, but that could not be avoided. Upon finishing the float portion of his birthday journey, he decided that it would be wise to abandon the stolen raft in such a manner that people might conclude that the vessel had flipped, and that he had not survived, and thereby create an element of doubt.

* * *

On May seventh most of what he'd planned had come to pass. The "new" Fred Pringle put the rafting company called Grand Canyon Zen Adventures temporarily out of business. Burk's day of infamy produced consequences—both planned and unplanned. The people he stopped were rich and contributed significantly to his retirement "account."

Burk's May seventh "transactions" produced two glitches from the outset. The first involved having to shoot one of the rafting company's customers—a minister with an unhealthy degree of self-assurance. _It's a wonder_ , Billy thought later, _that the guy isn't shot on a daily basis._

The other problem came when Burk lost control of the stolen raft when negotiating his first set of rapids two miles downstream from where the hijacking had occurred. He hit the rough water, panicked, and landed in the river as a consequence. Fortunately Billy Burk had foreseen the possibility and had lashed both himself and his backpack to his raft and had donned a life preserver for good measure. But the mishap caused the fugitive to lose the big gun he had retrieved from the cop in the Bright Angel Lodge restaurant. On top of the two setbacks, his experience in the icy water had unnerved him—had stolen his confidence. And since he faced another ten river miles, he wished that he had kidnapped one of the oarsmen from the Zen crew. Burk had actually considered this, but had figured wrongly that handling a raft could not be all that difficult.

* * *

Those stranded on the Colorado River's shore by Billy's acts of larceny witnessed the accused killer row out of sight never to be seen again. His raft eventually made it to the bridge where an army of cops awaited, but Burk was not in the raft.

The man who rowed to shore just beyond the pedestrian bridge at Bright Angel Creek, while in the crosshairs of nearly thirty guns, was quick to identify himself as Samuel Winthrop Hobson of Washington, Illinois.

Wind had kicked up. It sprinkled initially, but soon rain began in earnest, big drops pelting the water as if someone were dropping stones. Conditions not being the best, one of the cops fired a shot. Ill-conceived, the act deflated Zack Cannon's last serviceable raft. When ordered to stand and step forward, Sam Hobson, arms extended straight in the air, frantically explained that he'd broken his leg and could neither stand nor walk. Hobson's story was that he had found the raft abandoned up stream in the vicinity of Horseshoe Mesa and assumed that the man who had stolen it had drowned. The police had no reason to doubt the gentleman's words, and that is what appeared in print two days later. All of Arizona buzzed with the news. It was as if Sam Hobson had jabbed a beehive with a stick.

Later that same evening, Hobson's son Hunter sat huddled, sheltered by a rock overhang upriver in the Cottonwood Creek drainage in the shadow Horseshoe Mesa. On one hand Hunter was happy to have learned that his dad was alive, and on the other, he was devastated that Winthrop Hobson's signet ring was gone, stolen by the man who had been the object of the "biggest manhunt in Arizona history." But looking at the woman who huddled near him took some of the sting out of his loss.

Lots of folks refused to believe what came out in the paper, that Burk's body was at the bottom of the river, and most of those same people held that he had escaped and was living in Europe passing himself off as royalty. But either way, dead or "Duke," there was no evidence to back either scenario.

One day after the news of Billy's possible demise, "The Last Supper picture" had appeared on the front pages of nearly every newspaper in the nation just as the fugitive had predicted. Featuring Billy Boy Burk disguised as a priest while standing in the middle and flanked by five members of Arizona law enforcement, the photo added to Burk's reputation of invincibility and prompted many to assert that a man that smart and that damned slippery could not just drown.

"No way! No how!" summed up the position of those in the Red Dog Saloon upon hearing the announcement of Billy's demise.

CHAPTER 15: TWENTY YEARS LATER

It was dark when the actor's plane touched down. Hunter Hobson signed autographs as he exited. Walking through the concourse, people stopped and watched him pass, and while waiting for his luggage, he posed for pictures with some fans.

Blank paper in hand, the rental car manager in the airport asked that a brief endearment to his daughter Tommie be included with an autograph. "That's spelled with an i-e," the man explained.

On the road Hunter called Jennifer in California where, because of the time difference, the sun had not yet set. He said he missed her. . . . she missed him too. . . . he asked about the kids. . . . his flight was fine. . . . in thirty minutes he'd be at the house. . . . tomorrow would be busy, meet with the lawyer, collect his father's ashes, arrange for an auctioneer, then if enough time, see the real estate agent, and finally, perhaps the job he regretted most, begin sorting through the fifty-year accumulation of possessions.

He was raised in the house on Sycamore Street where his mom and dad had lived almost their entire married lives. Now both were gone. The furniture was there, and so too were the memories. In fact it overflowed with memories, but life had vacated the home that as a child had been the center of his universe, and Hunter Hobson feared the gloom he would feel when he walked through the door alone.

It was after ten P.M. when he turned onto the familiar street lined with trees and elegant homes from a bygone era—houses built before either television or air conditioning. Each boasted a wide front porch, designed to invite conversation and to encourage neighbors and family to sit and visit on warm summer evenings while children played hide-and-seek or kick-the-can—children who had long since grown old themselves, and nearly all of whom had passed away and were buried in the town that had nurtured them.

June and warm—lightning bugs flickered in the dark. The street light on the corner cast a glow that, because of the trees, did not extend very far down the block. Pulling to a stop in the driveway, Hobson sat for a second looking at his boyhood home. Moments later he pushed open the front door and walked inside. As Hunter entered, he realized that a chapter in his life had come to an end—too many changes to absorb and too quickly. The home's emptiness followed him from room to room as he switched on lights, no voices there to greet him, no smells coming from the kitchen, just the hollow sound of solitary footsteps echoing off plaster walls.

Finding the air too stale, Hunter Hobson opened windows and soon the house filled with a late spring breeze and the din of crickets and katydids, lullabies of his youth.

Hunter checked the liquor cabinet, found a bottle of Jameson, poured a shot, and drank it straight up—no ice, no water—just like his dad had always done. As he stood in the house on Sycamore, embraced by night sounds coming through the open windows, and with the warm, whiskey glow spreading through his body, he could hear his dad saying, "I don't care about religion, one way or the other, but when it comes to whiskey, now I am a Catholic."

The middle-aged actor tipped his glass ready to down a second shot, and he whispered, "Here's to you Dad."

* * *

The funeral had been twelve days earlier. Hunter Hobson eulogized his father and ended by quoting Edger Lee Masters . . .

Good friends, let's to the fields—I have a fever

After a little walk, and by your pardon,

I think I'll sleep. There is no sweeter thing,

Nor fate more blessed than to sleep.

Here world, I pass you like an orange to a child.

I can do no more with you. Do what you will.

On that trip his wife and two girls had accompanied him.

* * *

Named executor of the estate and being an only child, everything had fallen to Hunter. Sam left detailed instructions, which included cremation and where to dispose of his remains. And he recalled the lawyer's curious expression when, just after his father's funeral, the man had asked if Hunter knew where Horseshoe Mesa was. Young Hobson smiled, nodded, and said, "Sure."

The attorney also handed him an article clipped from a newspaper, "It must have meant something to him. He had it in his hand when they discovered the . . . the body."

It had no date, but judging from the condition of the newsprint, the article was recent. Scrawled across the top by an unsteady hand was the notice, "For Hunter." The two words had been double underlined. The headline read, "Park Police Puzzle Over Find." Hobson glanced at the heading in bold type and put the article in his pocket, promising to read it later.

Next the attorney slipped him a second piece of paper, and said, "This . . . this is . . . a . . . a copy of your dad's suicide note."

Hobson swallowed hard and folded the paper, deciding to read his father's last words in private.

Later that evening, his wife and children having gone to bed, the dutiful son unfolded the piece of paper, which contained his father's last words and read the barely legible message, "I lived a good, full life and have few regrets." Signed, "Sam H."

The day nurse discovered his father's body and called an ambulance. Sam had crawled to the living room where the photos were kept in a drawer. Hunter had been told that there were three pictures propped in front of where Sam Hobson lay. One, a family portrait, father, son, and mother, taken when Hunter was eight, another of a twelve-year old Hunter alone holding a walleyed pike he had caught during a canoe trip in northern Minnesota, and the third was snapped presumably by his father while he stood on the Grand Canyon's south rim looking down on what Hunter recognized immediately to be Horseshoe Mesa, its two great prongs facing the river, as if Sam was pointing the way and reminding his son where he wanted his ashes to be scattered.

One reason Sam Hobson had taken an early retirement was that his parents died while in their sixties, and he assumed that he, despite his healthy life style, would do likewise. He had surprised himself by making it to seventy-nine—too young to die, perhaps, for someone having hiked up mountains and run marathons. Everyone who knew him had expected Sam to live to be one hundred.

Symptoms began presenting eighteen months prior to his suicide: stiffness, fatigue, and loss of both balance and motor control. He was diagnosed with A.L.S., Lou Gehrig's Disease—a death sentence pure and simple. The illness proceeded to rapidly steal Sam Hobson's independence, confining him to the house on Sycamore Street, eventually allowing him only to get from room to room by crawling. Evidently, he began to secretly set aside some of his medication in order to end his life—retaining at least some control over his destiny. Control and dignity, the spare man coveted both like a miser down to his last few coins.

Late one night, when no one was with him, and twenty years after rowing Billy Boy Burk's abandoned raft onto the beach at Bright Angel Creek in the Grand Canyon, Hobson lay dying while looking at three pictures that summoned the best parts of his life.

He had overdosed, washing the pills down with whiskey, and passed away as if falling into a deep sleep surrounded by the photos. But they were only paper and could not hold his hand and could not tell him, "Goodbye," as Hunter wished he had been able to do. In the minutes before his heart stopped beating Sam spoke to the pictures, unable to distinguish between real and imagined, and cried for the first time since his wife's passing.

* * *

Having read his father's brief suicide note, Hobson refolded the piece of paper and returned it to his pocket then retrieved the article with the two words written across the top in his dad's shaky hand: "For Hunter."

PARK POLICE PUZZLE OVER FIND

(Flagstaff) N. A. U. Professor Robert B. Bucket researching climate change in the Grand Canyon discovered a cache of diamonds in a remote area of the canyon's backcountry. Also discovered were three human bones. The small bones from the foot and wrist were judged to be modern. Forensic pathologist Dr. Otis Pelican estimated death to have occurred approximately 15 to 25 years ago.

According to a National Park Police spokesperson, 14 diamonds in all were recovered ranging from three-quarters to two carats each. "The diamonds are faceted and have been appraised at $75,000."

Dr. Bucket made his discovery while studying deposits in packrat dens in the Grand Canyon's Clear Creek Valley. Packrats are shy animals that build nests in protected areas. They construct a peculiar structure by mixing their body wastes, which dry to produce a smelly form of adobe. The animal often glues small objects into the deposits, called middens; the small objects normally consist of sticks and anything it takes a fancy to, in this case diamonds and human bones.

Police are puzzled by the find and at this point have no clue as to the diamonds' origin.

At the end of the article Sam Hobson, in the same squiggly hand, had added the initials, "B. B. B." next to the last sentence and drew an arrow to the word, "puzzled."

Apparently his dad suspected that the bones belonged to Billy Boy Burk. And Hunter mused aloud after finishing the article, "Could be, could be."

Everyone knew that the man who disappeared in the Grand Canyon after stealing Hunter's shoes and signet ring twenty years before was carrying diamonds from a holdup. It was no secret. The news had been reported in the paper.

But upon reflection, Hunter Hobson decided that his dad could hardly have been correct. Billy Burk most likely drowned in the river well upstream from Clear Creek. His dad had said so often enough. Perhaps Burk's backpack had been swept down river and washed ashore and was discovered by some luckless hiker who then himself ran into trouble.

The grieving son of Sam Hobson thought to himself as he stood and began steering his way toward bed: _Now, that would have been something if they'd found the ring, then I'll be on a plane to Flagstaff . . . get the damn thing back._

During the previous two decades, he had frequently thought about the stolen ring: _In the family for over 140 years—I had it just two days. Couldn't hang onto it! Didn't even put up a fight . . . just handed it over._ It was the one script he could not rewrite. Hunter had beaten himself up over the incident countless times despite assurances from Jennifer that he'd acted reasonably.

Sam always seemed uncomfortable when Hunter brought up the subject of the stolen ring, and Hunter took from his reaction, rightly or wrongly, that his dad did not entirely agree with Jennifer's assessment. Plus Sam never wanted to talk about Winthrop Hobson's signet ring, turning red and quickly maneuvering the conversation in other directions.

* * *

The radio alarm roused Hunter Hobson from a deep sleep. He'd forgotten he was in Illinois, then everything came back to him: thirteen days ago—the funeral and now a busy day of estate business. As he lay in bed, he began recalling his schedule: _lawyer, funeral home, auctioneer, real estate agent, then start sorting._ He would begin deciding what to ship to California and what to sell. But first meet with the lawyer at the bank, and in Attorney Black's presence, open his father's safe-deposit box to inventory its contents.

As he readied to leave the house, he called his lawyer's office and was told to meet in the bank's lobby. A short time later, they were shaking hands. Mr. Black once again offered his condolences, and as they walked back toward the vault, one of the younger tellers waved at Hobson, caught his attention, and said, "Loved you in _Emperor's Holiday_!"

Hunter nodded and at the same time smiled.

Each safe-deposit box had its own sign-in sheet on file. Hunter scribbled, "H. Hobson, Executor of the Estate of Sam Hobson," and handed the clerk the safe-deposit box key. It did not escape his notice that all the other entries were his father's, the last one over a year ago. Plus, Sam's son could see on the page filled with signatures the sudden change in his dad's handwriting. Three years ago bold, fluid strokes, but the last two signings had deteriorated into barely recognizable squiggles.

Taking Hunter's key, the clerk escorted them into the vault and retrieved the metal box, large enough to hold a pair of shoes and no more. Next they retired to a private room where they were joined by a bank official and her stenographer.

After perfunctory condolences, the bank official explained the reason for her presence, "Federal law requires a witness when an estate is in probate. Items of value must be documented for possible tax consequences . . ," the prepared speech was brief.

Lawyer Black opened the box and ceremoniously produced each item one at a time, first examining the article, then announcing for the benefit of those present what the item was. On each occasion the stenographer patiently waited for the lawyer's pronouncement, then in shorthand, furiously scribbled on her pad as if she were stabbing with a stiletto something that was quite small but very quick. She was much faster than the lawyer and spent a great deal of her time waiting, ready to take new jabs at her legal pad.

At first there were no surprises. Mr. Black called out, "Title to the house on Sycamore." Later he added, "Life insurance policy, ah . . . beneficiary, Hunter Hobson."

Next holding an envelope, the Hobson's family attorney read, "Confidential! To be opened only by my wife Catherine or by my son Hunter upon my death. Contents personal, of no financial value." The lawyer squinted and added, "Dated July, 2004," then began to hand the envelope to his client while commenting, "Two decades ago."

But the bank official, politely objected saying, "Federal statute requires that the contents be verified. Mr. Hobson, sir, would you mind opening the letter and showing us that the contents are, indeed, personal? We do not need to read it."

Hunter Hobson said, "No problem," and complied. When the papers passed the brief inspection, he returned the letter to its envelope, curious to learn what his father intended for he and his mother to know twenty years ago. Next the son slipped the correspondence into his brief case purchased specially for estate business.

After the letter, a progression of mundane items came out of the box, including car titles, birth certificates, a marriage license, one mortgage release, policies covering both the house and the car, a proof set of U. S. coins minted in 1964, and three small boxes that Hunter guessed contained rings.

The first box held both a ring and a note of explanation, which the lawyer strained to read. Finally he handed the tiny piece of paper to the young stenographer who proclaimed, "Mother Anderson's wedding ring," and she followed her proclamation with two stabs and a gouge at the pad of paper.

The second ring had no note but Hunter recognized it immediately as his mother's.

By the time Mr. Black was ready to open the third box, the stenographer's eyes were darting impatiently back and forth from lawyer to legal pad ready to thrust and parry, and Hunter Hobson was turning his mother's wedding ring over in his hand, attempting, without success, to read the inscription inside the band. He heard his lawyer announce matter-of-factly, "One gold signet ring engraved with '17th Illinois.'"

It took a second for lawyer Black's words to soak in. When they hit their mark, the way Hunter's head jerked, one would have thought that the stenographer had impaled him with her pencil, and everyone looked at the middle-aged actor in astonishment, trying to determine the cause of his sudden lurch.

Hunter reached for the signet ring, tried it on, and silently observed: _Too snug for the ring finger of my right hand; perfect fit for the ring finger of my left._

* * *

Suspecting that the contents of the "mystery" letter might shed light on the reason that Winthrop Hobson's signet ring was in his dad's safe-deposit box instead of resting at the bottom of the Colorado River, Hobson fidgeted and glanced at his watch for the duration of the meeting. He offered those in the room no explanation for his change in demeanor, caring only about the letter that was "burning a hole" in his new brief case.

When they concluded their business, Hunter hurried out of the room leaving the others to wonder what exactly had set him off. He darted through the lobby and through the front door. When the fresh air hit him, he headed straight for his rental car, plopped the brief case on the seat beside him, and nervously fumbled for the letter.

Opening it revealed four sheets of paper held together by a staple. _How'd he get the ring back? Obviously he lied to the cops, lied to everybody, about not seeing Burk! This explains Dad's uneasiness whenever I brought up the subject! God! He had it all the time. He let me think that it'd been lost!_ Hunter's mood went from curiosity to anger and back to curiosity. _What would cause Dad to keep a secret that he felt he could only reveal from the grave?_

Hunter cast the envelope aside and began to read.

July 12, 2004

Dear Catherine and Hunter,

If one or both of you are reading this letter, it means that my time has come. I cannot tell you how much you both have meant to me. But this letter is to explain the presence of Winthrop Hobson's signet ring, which I assume you have already found, or will shortly, in the bank box along with this letter.

Well, here goes. It boils down to this: I helped the murderer Billy Boy Burk escape. I know it doesn't sound like something that I would do, but I had my reasons, and I want to lay the facts before you then let you decide how my actions should be judged.

Remember when we were camping at Hance Rapids, Hunter and I, and B. B. B revealed who he really was by his actions (shooting that man, stealing your shoes and the ring, etc.), and I, when I found out, went a little nuts and chased after him and ended up in the hospital with a broken leg for my trouble, and how I told the police and you both that I had not seen Burk, and that I thought he must have drowned. Well that last part was not the truth.

When I started running, Burk in the stolen raft was quickly out of sight, and I continued to run along the trail paralleling the river, hoping that he might have problems when he hit the first set of rapids. Just downstream from where B. B. B started out the river enters the "inner gorge," and the Colorado becomes walled-in by steep cliffs. The trail was low and sandy at first but soon turned rocky, and it climbed abruptly about 500 feet. From that elevation, I could look down into the inner gorge, and I saw B. B. B. take on Sockdolager Rapids. He panicked, got himself into all sorts of trouble—which included getting tossed out of the raft. Then the current carried him in close to shore and out of my sight. I thought I'd pick my way down to the river from there, but found the going impossible, so I continued running on the trail hoping to eventually head him off as he drifted downstream. There the trail was flat, and I made good time—must have covered 2 or 3 miles contouring back into a side canyon. I kept looking for ways to get down to the river but found nothing that would work.

I continued running thinking that just a little farther, and I'd find a way down. It was heating up, I had no water, and it was beginning to dawn on me that I might be in over my head. The ring, it meant so much, so I just kept at it, went all the way to the far end of the branch canyon, which drew me farther from the river. Finally the trail crossed the drainage and began working its way back on the other side putting me just east of Horseshoe Mesa. At least now the trail was leading me back toward the river, but it kept me at the same elevation—high above the Colorado. When I got to the end of the Mesa's eastern prong, the trail turned west and entered the stretch between the two prongs. Here I left the trail and walked over to the cliff. From there I spotted B. B. B.'s empty raft pulled up on shore below me and on my side of the river. There was no sign of Burk. But best of all, at my feet, was a steep trail that dropped into the inner gorge and clearly led all the way to the water's edge.

That's about when it hit me—dizziness. I'd been running for close to an hour and a half and was hot and dehydrated. With no water I could not go back. The only water close enough to do me any good was river water. I knew it would make me sick, but (not to over-dramatize) the choice was between "sick" or "dead." I started picking my way down.

My limbs were shaking; I had trouble concentrating, and I became disoriented a time or two. I put my hand on a cactus and the pain actually helped keep me on track. I don't know how much time went by, but after awhile I forgot completely about B. B. B. and began thinking only about water and how water, lots of it, flowed below me. I was tempted to let go, imagining I would fall into the river and how good that would feel. I took a few wrong turns and ended up looking over sharp drop-offs that would have easily killed me.

Finally, there it was, 20 feet below me, green, flowing, cold-water. I got impatient and fell 15 feet; I bounced and rolled. That's when I broke my leg. Unfortunately there was no beach where I fell, and the river's current was thrust up against that shore. My rolling carried me right into the water, and the river swept me away.

My situation went from poor to hopeless. The water's cold temperature literally stunned me, and I knew that I could not last long, plus I was terrified by the power of the current, which had grabbed me then held me under. I was as good as dead, and soon lost consciousness.

I'm not sure how much time went by, but when I came to, I was lying in the bottom of B. B. B.'s raft. He told me he saw it all, me climbing down, saw me fall, watched me roll into the water. Said the way the current swept me away reminded him of an ant being flushed down a toilet. Poetic, don't you think?

He pushed off from shore hoping to pull me from the river. Luckily the current brought me to the surface just as Burk looked over the side, and he said he snagged me before I went back under.

The raft he had stolen carried food and beer. I ate and drank. We hit a quiet stretch of river. I told him I saw him go overboard upstream, and he asked me if I'd feel safer at the oars. We switched positions and that's when it was clear to me that my leg was broken and not just sprained.

He asked if I was crazy chasing after him. I answered that in fact I was, but that all I wanted was the ring back. He said that I had earned it and handed it over with no argument.

Well, there I was rowing this fugitive through the inner gorge and realizing I was lucky to be alive. We were both drinking beer and by the time he had polished off his fourth and I'd emptied my third, I asked him what were his plans. He told me that he intended to float to Bright Angel Creek, where the bridge is, and hike north from there.

The man had saved my life, and I felt grateful. I told him what I suspected (and what I said turned out to be true), that before he got that far, the cops would have learned that he'd stolen the raft and was headed downstream, and the logical place they would lay in wait was Bright Angel. I told him that there are a lot of rafting parties on the river, and it wouldn't have been long before one came to the assistance of the group that he had shot up.

So he asked me what I would do in his place, and I said get out upriver from Bright Angel—at Clear Creek. By heading inland there, if he was alert, he could catch the Clear Creek Trail that would lead him west where he would hookup with the North Kaibab Trail and exit the canyon by heading north on it.

He didn't think things over very long before he said he'd give it a try then swore me to secrecy. In another hour I beached the raft at the mouth of Clear Creek. I gave him the directions again, we shook hands, and, with me still at the oars, he pushed the raft back out into the current. We waved goodbye to each other, and that was the last I saw of Billy Boy Burk.

Since it's happened, I've worried that B. B. B. is going to get himself cornered and kill someone. I would have trouble living with that if it were to occur. But I've also concluded that if Burk was a cold-blooded killer, he'd have murdered me there at Clear Creek. That way he would have eliminated the possibility that I would break my promise to not tip off the police.

You can guess the rest of the story. My leg was hurting, and I had downed two more beers before the bridge came into view. The sky had clouded up, and it had begun to rain. I could see that there was a reception committee waiting onshore as I rowed onto the Bright Angel beach. I complied with everything the police told me to do, but still some idiot took a shot, which hit no more than 3 feet away. On that 7th day of May, I survived 3 incidents that could have cost me my life, and I lied to the cops to boot.

The reason I've chosen to keep silent was that I did not want either of you to be culpable. I broke the law. It's my burden to bear, not yours. Now that I am dead, I pass the ring to you, my son, and in order to do so, I must pass along the truth as well. Hunter, wear Winthrop's ring with honor and pride. I hope I have not disgraced it.

I Love You Both

Sam

Hunter put down the letter; his heart beat like he'd run a race. Sam Hobson's only child looked at the ring realizing that it was still on his left hand along with his wedding band.

After reading the letter, the first thing he did was stop in a jewelry store and have the ring resized to fit his right ring finger.

* * *

Later that night Hunter sat alone in the big house on Sycamore Street. He had only gotten half the things done that he'd set out to do. When he first sat down at the desk in the study, there were four shots of whiskey left in his father's bottle of Jameson, and he had gone through the first three.

Once again he read the newspaper article his dad had clipped and saved for him, then reread the letter written twenty years ago and kept secret all that time. _Billy Boy Burk had never made it out of the Clear Creek Valley alive._ It was a revelation to the actor, and he shook his head each time he considered it.

Earlier Hobson had found the family portrait his dad had looked at the night he'd died: father, son, and mother. It was oppressive knowing that he was the only one in the picture still living, and he said to himself: _Someday no one will be left that has any memory of them—descendants will look and see only strangers_. The thought filled him with sadness.

He held up the final shot of Jameson, saw how the lamplight shining through it turned to amber, and asked aloud, "How can the world bear the loss of so much happiness?"

Hobson finished the last of his father's whiskey. He wished then that he could be in California and in the warm glow of family and friends.

THE END

Click on the following link to see Neil Ackerman's book list:

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Neil+Ackerman>
