the uniform? Maybe it was a combination of both.
Back in his county-owned Blazer, he sat looking up and down Highway 86, watching passing vehicles made shimmering and ghostlike by the waves of heat rising off the blacktop. This quiet Saturday afternoon there didn't seem to be much happening in his patrol area, which covered Highway 86 west from Ryan Field to the boundary of the Tohono O'othham Reservation, and along Highway 286 from Three Points south to Sasabe on the U.S./Mexican border.
It was boom time once again in the Valley of the Sun. Tucson and surrounding areas in Pima County were experiencing a renewed population growth, but this part of the county-the part included in Brian's patrol area- wasn't yet overly affected. Sometimes he would be called out to an incident on Sandario Road that led north toward Marana. There he could drive for miles without seeing another human or meeting another vehicle. The same held true for Coleman Road at the base of the Baboquivaris. And the back and forth chatter on the radio seldom had much to do with the area assigned to Deputy Brian Fellows. Those long straight stretches of highway leading to and from the reservation yielded more drunk drivers than other parts of the county. They also had more than a fair share of auto accidents. Those mostly happened at night on weekends.
Brian had been a deputy four full years. Other officers who had come through the academy after him were already starting to move up while Brian was still stuck in what was-in terms of departmental advancement-the equivalent of Outer Mongolia. But Brian was resigned to the fact that it could have been much worse. If Bill Forsythe had wanted to, he could have figured out a way to get rid of Brian Fellows altogether. In fact, considering Brian's close connection to Brandon Walker, it was a little surprising that the ax hadn't fallen in the wake of Brandon's departure.
Still, Brian didn't dwell on the unfairness of it all. He was too busy being grateful. After all, he was doing what he had always wanted to do-being a cop and following in Brandon Walker's footsteps. As for the rest? Nothing much mattered. Brian was single and living at home. Taking care of his disabled mother in his off-hours pretty much kept him out of the dating game, so the low pay scale for young deputies didn't bother him all that much, either.
There were times when Brian was struck by the irony of his position. He was persona non grata with the current administration of the Pima County Sheriff's Department because of his relationship to the previous sheriff, who was, after all, no blood relation but the father of Brian's half-brothers.
Tommy and Quentin had been four and five years older than Brian, and they had been the banes of the younger child's existence. But if it hadn't been for them, Brian never would have met their father, a man who-more than any other-became Brian's father as well.
None of the other boys-Davy Ladd included-had ever seemed to pay that much attention to anything Brandon Walker said or did. In fact, they all seemed to be at odds with him much of the time. Not Brian. For him, the former Pima County sheriff, even in defeat, had always been larger than life-the closest thing to a superhero that ever crossed the path of that little fatherless boy.
'How's it going, Mr. Walker?' Brian Fellows had asked several months earlier, when he had stopped by the house in Gates Pass on his way back from patrol.
Brandon, working outdoors in his shirtsleeves, had looked up to see Brian Fellows, a young man he had known from early childhood on, step out of a Pima County patrol car.
'Okay,' Brandon said gruffly, reaching down to pull out another log of mesquite. 'How about you?'
'Pretty good,' Brian replied, although the answer didn't sound particularly convincing.
'How's your mother?'
Brian's mother, Janie Walker Fellows Hitchcock Noonan, had been Brandon Walker's first wife. Years earlier, when Brian was a sophomore at Tucson High, his mother had been in what should have been a fatality car wreck. She had been paralyzed from the waist down. Janie's boyfriend du jour-a lush who had actually been at the wheel of the car and who had walked away from the accident without a scratch-had skipped town immediately.
In subsequent years, most of the responsibility for his mother's care had fallen on Brian's narrow but capable young shoulders. Some people rise above physical tragedy. Janie Noonan wasn't one of those. She was a difficult patient. For months she had railed at Brian, telling him that if he didn't have guts enough to use a gun to put her out of her misery, the least he could do was bring her one so she could do the job herself.
By now Janie was fairly well resigned to her fate. She appreciated the fact that Brian had stayed on, patiently caring for her when most young men, under similar circumstances, would have moved out. That didn't mean she treated him any better, though. Janie had grown into a helpless tyrant. In the absence of her other two sons, Brian became her sole target, but he was used to that. It seemed to him that his mother had simply taken up the role formerly filled by his older brothers, Quentin and Tommy.
'Nobody likes a Goody Two-shoes,' Quentin had told him on more than one occasion. 'They think you're nothing but a stupid little wimp.'
The difference between Brian Fellows and his best friend, Davy Ladd, was that Davy would usually rise to Quentin's challenge and fight back, regardless of the bloody-nosed consequences. Brian was a survivor who kept his mouth shut and let the taunts wash over him.
By now, though, at age twenty-six, he was tired of being a 'good boy.' He was beginning to see that there wasn't much percentage in it, although he didn't really know how to be anything else other than what he was.
'Mom's about the same,' he said, answering Brandon Walker's question in a matter-of-fact manner that didn't brook sympathy.
Looking at this handsome young man in his deputy sheriff's uniform, Brandon couldn't help remembering a much younger version of the same young man, a little lost boy who had stood forlornly on the front porch of his ex-wife's home each time Brandon had come by to pick up his own two sons, Quentin and Tommy.
Brandon no longer remembered where they had been going that day-maybe to a movie, maybe to the Pima County Fair, or maybe even to a baseball game. What he hadn't forgotten was the solemn, sad-eyed look on Brian's face that had changed instantly to sheer joy the moment Brandon asked him if he wanted to come along.
'You're not taking him, are you?' Quentin had demanded, his voice quivering in outrage.
Brandon's older son had a surly streak. Of all the kids, he had always been the sullen one-the spoiled brat with the chip on his shoulder. Janie had seen to that.
'Why shouldn't I?' Brandon asked.
'Because he's a pest,' Quentin spat back. 'And a baby, too. He'll probably wet his pants or have to go to the bathroom a million times.'
Brian had wavered on the porch for a moment, as if afraid that Quentin's argument would carry the day. When Brandon didn't change his mind, the boy had raced into the house to ask Janie for permission to go along. Moments later, he had come charging back outside.
'She said it's all right. I can go!' Brian had crowed triumphantly, racing for the car.
'I get to ride shotgun!' Quentin had snarled, but Brian hadn't cared about that. The backseat was fine with him. At that point he would probably have been grateful to sit in the trunk.
'You'll take turns,' Brandon had told Quent, trying to instill in him a sense of sharing and fair play. And that was how it worked from then on-the boys had taken turns. But Brandon Walker's lessons in enforced sharing had been lost on Quentin. Rather than teaching him how to be a better person, Brandon Walker's kindness to Quentin's half-brother fostered an ugly case of burning resentment that spanned the whole of Brian Fellows's childhood.
'How about a cup of coffee or glass of iced tea?' Brandon had asked finally, emerging from a tangled skein of memory. Brian's face had brightened into almost the same look Brandon remembered from that day on the porch.
'Sure, Mr. Walker,' he responded. 'Coffee would be great.'
In all those intervening years, while the other three boys had gone through their various stages of smart- mouthed rebellion, Brian had never called Brandon anything but a respectful 'Mr. Walker.'
Shaking his head, Brandon led the way into the house. One of his main regrets at losing the election had been missing the chance to watch this promising young man mature into the outstanding police officer he would someday be. That was something else Quentin had cost him-the opportunity of seeing 'little' Brian Fellows grow into Brian Fellows, the man.
'People at the department are asking about you,' the young deputy said, as he settled onto a chair at the kitchen table.
'You don't say,' Brandon replied gruffly. 'Well, go ahead and tell them I'm fine. On second thought, don't tell them anything at all. If you're smart and want to get anywhere in Bill Forsythe's department, you won't even
