The Ghost Town Trap
By
Mario V. Farina
Copyright 2016 Mario V. Farina
All Rights Reserved
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[email protected] The large police SUV glided to a stop at the Ghost Town Service Station's driveway. The driver, Officer Wilbert, stepped out and was met by the proprietor of the station. He returned to the vehicle and said, "He thinks it's the transmission. They'll need to hold the car a day or two to fix it. We're stuck with staying in Ghost Town for a while."
It was Sunday and very hot. The officers in the car had not noticed this because of the air conditioning. Officer Wilbert wiped the sweat from his brow. Clean-shaven, he was a tall man, clad impeccably in gray. He wore a western-style hat.
There were three males in the rear seat of the vehicle, Officers Johnson and Troller, one on each side of Xavier Beale who sat, glum faced, with arms and legs shackled. "What about him?," asked Officer Johnson pointing to their prisoner.
"The jail is across the street. Let's go there and find out," responded Officer Wilbert.
Officers Johnson and Troller were also wearing gray police vesture. Each sported a mustache and it was difficult to tell them apart in poor light. They had on visored headgear. The prisoner, Xavier Beale, also known as Butcher Beale, was about forty-five. He was unkempt in dirty blue slacks and white shirt.
The quartet walked across Main Street and entered the Ghost Town Jail. There were three unoccupied cells inside and a massive oak desk near the door. A heavy-set individual sat scribbling on some papers. He wore a faded blue suit that was too small for him. There was a gun belt fastened over his jacket with a revolver in the holster.
The man looked up as the visitors entered. "Well?" he questioned no one in particular.
"We need a place to park this here, Mr. Beale, while our car is being fixed," said Officer Wilbert. The loud air conditioner in the room all but drowned out his words. "We're taking him across the desert to Valencia and can't take a chance on the car breaking down. Can you accommodate him?" The large man rose noticing Beale. "Oh him! Yeah, I can do that." Immediately, without explanation, he pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it at the officers. "Unshackle that man," he commanded. "Lay your guns on the table and get in the cells." Surprised, the officers complied and the man locked the cell doors. Beale stood dumbfounded, puzzled over the sudden turn of events.
"I'm Mayor Adam Gordon," announced the heavy-set man. "And the Chief of Police. I'm the law here in Ghost Town." The man was huge, towering over, and outweighing, the others in the room by far. He turned his attention to the Xavier Beale. "As for you, I know who you are," he said. "I've read about your rampage in the paper but can't help admiring you a little for your resourcefulness. I think you're a killer but I also believe there's been a rush to justice. In this country everyone is innocent until proven guilty. I'm giving you a last few hours of freedom before these clowns take you to be dealt with across the desert."
"To me, you're simply Butcher Beale," he continued. There are a lot of people in this town who are on your side. You'll have a chance to enjoy their company. We'll feed you, entertain you, and house you in our luxurious quarters on the second floor of the Ghost Town Saloon. But don't think you'll have a chance to get away. We'll have 184 pairs of good citizen's eyes following your every move. Their owners will be hospitable to you, but they have guns and know how to use them. And even if you did try to cross the dessert with any of the jalopies the people drive in this here town, you'll end up frying in the heat. Compared to the desert just outside that door, Death Valley would feel like Nome, Alaska!"
There was one of every necessary business in town, a restaurant, beauty parlor, barber shop, even a newspaper. After having enjoyed a steak at the restaurant, Beale spent the night at the room atop the tavern. Early Monday, he decided to take a walk around town before breakfast. He believed what Mayor Gordon had said about trying to escape and had made up his mind simply to impress the inhabitants of the town and enjoy his new-found liberty as best he could. And, who knows, he thought, something might come up that would allow him to escape.
He entered the barber shop. The small, elderly barber hastened to him and oozed, "Mr. Beale, sir, you can't believe how we feel about you. You're the most creative of the classic lawbreakers by far. We have to go by what Mayor Gordon says, but, believe me, if we could let you escape, we would!"
"That's nice of you, mumbled Beale."
He walked by the beauty parlor next and was surprised to see the rush to the window by the women inside. They waved vigorously and he returned their greetings with one of his own. He wondered if he should return a little later to check whether any of the women was receptive to the idea of a little covert adventure.
The Ghost Town Diner was next on the street. Being hungry, Beale pushed open the heavy glass door and walked in. The first sounds he heard were cheers from every side. Someone started a cheer. Others took it up. The hostess, a pretty young blond, seized Butcher Beale's arm and escorted him to a booth. She sat on the seat opposite him and exclaimed, "I'm claiming you as my own!" She turned and shouted to the cook, "Don't bother with the menu, Nick. Make a batch of the works for Xavier and me!" Turning to a flustered Beale, she asked, "You don't mind it I call you by your first name, do you?" He shook his head, no.
Overwhelmed with the attention, Butcher decided to let the course of events take their own course. After Nick had delivered the food and the couple was eating, the blond said, "My name is Clara. Some of the people in town don't believe you did the Harland thing. They claim your reputation of being clever is unwarranted. But, I'm with you! I'm on your side. That group of five in Harland probably deserved what they got. But a lot of police in the country and a lot of newspapers put up a howl that you needed to be caught and brought to instant justice. I'm glad we've got a man like Mayor Gordon here who can defy convention and have you treated with the respect you deserve!"
"I ain't naturally a liar, Clara," responded Beale. "My lawyer told me I gotta play it cool. It makes me sore that some people have the feelings you say. But I can tell you one thing, that newspaper guy in Harland figured out pretty much how it was done. If people think it wasn't me, that's their problem. I ain't gonna say one way or the other."
Clara said, "Beautifully stated, Xavier. Say, I got a nice place not far from here. There's too much hustle and bustle here. Maybe later we can go there for a little dessert and you can explain a few things about how it was done. Without admitting anything, of course. Then, I'll give you a good bye gift you'll never forget!"
"No point wasting time," retorted Beale, greatly intrigued. I can see you understand me. I'll say this to you and only you. It took some smarts to figure out how to gather those people in the same place at the same time. They were all into Astrology. The newspaper guy had it right. There was a fake reading sent to the group. The rest was automatic."
"It was really you, then?" exclaimed Clara excitedly.
"Yeah, it was me! I'm telling you this because you're on the level. I feel I can trust you. I don't see you with a camera." He grinned. "And, you're not wearing a wire, are you? I plan to look for it myself after we leave here. Tell those yokels out there you know I did the whole thing but don't tell 'em I told you. They can think I'm brainy if they want to. It'll be the truth. I'm finished with the food. Wanna go to your place now?"
"Yeah, I do
, Xavier, but in a little while. I just got a sudden headache. Suppose I meet you back here in an hour, hon. Will that be OK?"
Disappointed, Beale agreed and began roaming the streets. He knew the next hour would take a year to elapse.
When Beale returned to the diner an hour later, there were dozens of men and women engaged in various tasks involving the loading of materials into trucks large and small. Some vehicles were already being driven away. The officers who had taken him to this town were chatting amicably with Adam Gordon in the street outside the jail. Beale did not see Clara. Officer Wilbert glimpsed Beale's arrival and approached him with gun in hand. Officers Johnson and Troller joined him and immediately cuffed Beale. "We'll be on our way in a minute," said Officer Wilbert.
Dumbfounded, Beale stammered, "What's going on?"
Officer Wilbert responded. "We're putting Ghost Town back to sleep, he said. All the people you see here are members of the police force. The town hasn't seen this much activity in over fifty years. Now that you've admitted to the Harland atrocity we're putting it back to like it was. And you're the star in a movie that will be watched by the jury at your trial. They'll be especially interested in your line, 'Yeah, it was me.' "
Stunned, Beale stammered. "This was all make-believe? Clara too?"
"Oh, you mean Officer Clara Wells. Yeah, she was part of the make believe. And by the way, she sent a message for you. She said to tell you that she's sorry but she still has that headache.