Love Story: In The Web of Life by Ken Renshaw (snow like ashes TXT) 📕

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After leaving the motel on the drive to court,I had an idea. Why not introduce some false signals into the gossipgrapevine? I stopped by the hardware store. Inside, I could tellthe middle-aged lady behind the cash register knew who I was, andwas watching me carefully as though I might be shoplifting. Ipicked up two $4.95 plastic gold panning pans, one red and onegreen, and two plastic vials. I paid for them with cash andwondered what the grapevine would report.

As I walked up the granite steps of thecourthouse, I stopped, turned around and looked out into the squareand thought to myself, 'this place has a different feel than thecourthouses I have been in. Wait, that's a psychic observation.There is a solemnity about this place instead of the usual hustleand bustle.'

I entered the courtroom, sat down in the thirdrow and waited for the session to begin. The clerk called the courtto order and announced the judge.

Judge Cartright appeared, a short, balding,slightly obese man in his sixties. His jowly face remedied me ofjowly cartoon bears. When he spoke, I knew he was no Yogi bear: hewas firm and his presence emanated control. Ours was the third caseon the docket, after a DUI and disturbing the peace case. The judgecalled my case and I went forward, filed my papers and made thenecessary motions. After the defense had done the same, the judgerecessed the court and asked us to join him in chambers.

I introduced myself to the defense counsel,Dean Buttress, a slight man with a baldpate, hair combed over thetop from the side. His face was puffy and had an alcoholic look. Hewas slightly stooped in a rumpled suit. He had a Hitler-stylemustache that wiggled in a funny way when he talked.

In chambers, the judge was very abrupt. "Idon't want you big city lawyers to turn this trial into a circus. Iwould prefer you not give interviews to media before or during thetrial. Our economy depends of vacationing families, and we don'twant this to be seen as a place where we lose children. We alsodon't want to attract New Age weirdoes. People around here maketheir living in the summers and will be inconvenienced by juryduty. So, I am fast tracking this case to get it over by thetourist season. I am scheduling the trial for one month fromtoday."

I had the distinct impression that JudgeCartright was, indeed, a "hanging judge."

"Any objections.?"

We both said, "No."

"Then, I'll see you both in a month. I don'twant to see any pretrial publicity. I can take care of the ButteNews. Thank you, gentlemen." The judge rose and we both hurried outof the chambers.

I turned to exchange pleasantries with Mr.Buttress. He tuned his back and walked away.

I drove to Bob's Cafe for a cup of coffeebefore the trip up the hill to Steve Manteo's. Agnes greeted mewith a big smile, as though I was a local now.

"Coffee?"

"Yes," I said as I sat down on the same stool."I didn't get sent to jail."

"I put in a good word for you," Agnesreplied.

Then, a cowboy–hat-wearing man in a rustypickup drove up. As he came in he said, "Agnes, I just came acrossthe creek bridge and guess what I saw. Downstream, on the motelside, where there is that fallen tree, Otis Wilson and Bud Johnsonare panning for gold. That claim belonged to old man Williams' andhe gave up on it years ago."

The next morning I drove toward Steve Manteo'splace, passing Courthouse Square, going beyond the old church, andadmiring the few scattered homes that gave way to forest. I brieflystopped by the Sodastroms' house to tell them of the trialschedule.

About fifteen miles out of town on the windingmountain road, I came to the Rawhide Cafe, the place where theSheriff's search and rescue operation had set up headquarters whenthey searched for Lucy. It looked like an old fashioned roadsidediner with a counter and a row of booths along one side. Next to itwas a two-pump gas station and a small office that had signs in thewindow that said 'Fishing Gear' and, in neon, 'Beer andWine.'

A few miles beyond the Rawhide Cafe my GPSnavigator directed me onto an unmarked, dirt road, which led up themountain for a mile or so, and then onto another unmarked dirt roadthat led me to Steve's, where the navigator announced, 'You havearrived.'

Steve's house was a log cabin, the kind madefrom brown-stained factory logs, perched on a hillside, withspacious deck on the front, a high peaked roof, with a satellitedish mounted on the peak.

Steve appeared at the deck rail and said, "Comeon up."

I walked up the two flights of stairs and waswarmly greeted by Steve, a six-foot-two bear of a man who lookedlike an NFL lineman, with a well–tanned face, sparkling blue eyes,and black hair in need of cutting. He introduced me to Georgia, abeautiful Latina –looking woman, with shiny long straight hair,large eyes and mouth, and thick eyebrows. She came out onto thedeck with a tray of iced tea.

"Beautiful view," I said, taking a glass oftea. "You can see forever!"

"Physically, it is about fifteen miles to thatridge. Psychically, as you know, I can see a lotfarther."

The three of us sat down at a picnic table onthe deck and talked about Rocky Butte, the people there, and theaesthetic virtues of living away from civilization. I told himabout my mobile home in the desert.

Georgia commented as she looked at me, orrather looked through me, "I pick up something about adark-complexioned lady with reddish hair and piercing light–blueeyes," She paused, "and an exuberant attitude toward lifeassociated with this desert place."

"Georgia, don't scare the man," exclaimedSteve.

"No, I am getting to be quite at home with ESPand people who have it!" I smiled at Georgia. "Her name is Tina,and she spends time with me. She seems to be kind of psychic.Sometimes, she can tell me what I am visualizing." I felt somepleasant thoughts about Tina.

I paused and then added, "Before this case, Inever thought much about ESP. I do know I can read juries prettywell