Dorris Bridge

By Clive Riddle

Not every rural legend is just a legend....

You’ve heard of urban legends? Come take a trip to the 1970’s in Dorris Bridge, and discover a host of rural legends encircling this isolated small high desert Northeastern California town.

A series of tragic hit-and-runs and a thirty-year-old cold case disappearance plague a police chief caught in small town politics, while his son winds his way through his senior year of high school, dedicated to pranks, partying and pursuing the new girl in town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982516447

Clive Riddle

Clive Riddle is a life-long Californian, married and father of three, living in Northern California. At age 26 Riddle became CEO of a regional HMO. After a decade, he went on to found MCOL (www.mcol.com), a leading health care business information company. Riddle has authored a variety of health care reference books and business articles. He is a noted speaker at national events regarding key health care business issues. The Z Tailgate is his third novel, preceded by The Burning Z which was released in 2013, and Dorris Bridge in 2010.

Book preview

September 1975

Tuesday, September 1st

12:01 AM Demon Ridge

The two young men from Dorris Bridge ran over the already-dead rattlesnake that was plastered into the asphalt of Highway 395, as they ventured towards the turnoff that would take them to the entrance of Demon Ridge. Great Basin Rattlesnakes periodically gathered warmth on Highway 395 and met such as fate.

The 1975 Paiute County Chamber of Commerce brochure boasts Dorris Bridge is situated close to the half-way point on Highway 395’s 1,490-mile journey from the Canadian to the Mexican border, winding through the eastern side of Washington, Oregon and California plus a small stretch of Nevada. Actually, Highway 395 was cut back to 1,305 miles in length in 1969 with the extension of Interstate 15 in the Mojave Desert. But such updated information often did not find its way into documents emanating from Dorris Bridge for some time.

The two young men, hours from beginning their senior year at Paiute High School, wound their way up the road to the cliffs of Demon Ridge, surrounded by sagebrush, juniper trees and lava rock. They reached the top, armed with a six pack of Coors beer still situated in a small brown paper bag with the receipt from their buyers’ purchase. They slammed the doors to their 1954 Chevy Pickup and selected rocks to recline on, less than ten feet from the precipice. They gazed at the panorama of stars above, and diminishing lights of Dorris Bridge below. They could have just as easily been taking in the lights of Lone Pine, California; Burns, Oregon; or any other number of high mountain desert small towns that dotted Highway 395 with great similarity.

Dorris Bridge, the seat of Paiute County, California, harbored 2,000 or so residents nestled in the small valley overshadowed by the Demon Ridge plateau to the west. Outlying areas were occupied by small cattle, sheep and alfalfa operations. The town had not changed much in size since before the turn of the century. Stucco and brick storefronts lined Main Street (Highway 395) - the buildings erected mostly in the 1940’s with faded advertisements and names of past establishments painted into their sides. Street lights and uneven sidewalks lined Main Street, unlike most of the remainder of town. Homes throughout Dorris Bridge represented every decade of the century, with a number in various states of disrepair. One hill rose out of the southwest corner of town, adorned by an abandoned old mansion. The Dorris River snaked its way around the town’s periphery with the two bridges crossing it both situated north of the city limits. The original bridge after which the town was named had long ago met its demise.

As the two young men yanked the pull tabs from their second beers, they took in the quiet of the night. No sounds escaped from the town below, or the Demon Ridge Indian reservation due north of them on the plateau. Without benefit of a cooler, their beers grew progressively warmer.

So their last hours of summer vacation slipped away on the cliffs of Demon Ridge. Time passed and their conversation drifted, as conversations do. At some point, they came to the realization the keys to their vehicle were not residing in either of their pockets. One of them arose to see if the keys were still in the ignition, or somewhere else nearby.

The rustling of juniper branches accompanied by the crackling of dry twigs on the ground, broke the stillness of the midnight hour. Kyle Burgess, perched on the rock, stared into the tall blackish-purple shadows that enveloped the noise. He pulled the metal tab off his last Coors, then dropped it into the empty can at his side and took a long loud slurp of his lukewarm beer. Kyle detected the unmistakable thump of someone falling to the ground. He squinted, but could not pull into focus his best friend before him in the fuzzy darkness.

A flashlight would be just the thing right now. One without dead batteries, Rick Pearl admonished Kyle as he returned empty-handed from Kyle’s 1954 Chevy Pickup, the taste of dust lingering in his mouth. I couldn’t find any sign of your keys, you dipstick. Rick sat himself down again, cross-legged next to Kyle.

Kyle sighed, offering Rick a share of their one remaining beer. Kyle chuckled softly. My dad’s gonna kill me, for being out this late. And then he’ll kill you for being with me.

Rick grinned, guzzled half the Coors, wiped his mouth, and craned his neck towards the pickup. By the time we find your keys and get out of here, we’ll just be showing up for breakfast and he’ll think we’re just getting up. Rick’s voice was always seemingly filled with confidence, just as much as Kyle’s was filled with self-doubt.

Kyle could make out the lights of a vehicle below, working its way down Penlight Road towards town. The thought crossed his mind that it could be a patrol car that his father, the chief of police, sent looking for him. Yeah, I think we should… Kyle cut his reply as the two boys heard an odd low-pitched buzz launch abruptly in the distance.

Rick and Kyle rose, peering below the cliffs, searching fruitlessly for the source of the sound. A flash of bluish white light shot across the plateau. Kyle looked for the car he had seen, wondering if it had turned direction so that its headlights somehow had managed to project up to the Ridge. Or perhaps, Kyle thought, it could have been a patrol car, aiming the side spotlights up towards the two boys.

A second and final, much more intense light flashed, long enough for Rick to spot Kyle’s keys protruding out of a bare patch of dirt, less than ten feet to his right.

7:50 AM The Thompson Ranch

He had never felt the texture of human skull before. He found himself caressing it with the forefingers of his blistered right hand. Arnie floored his faded white ’61 Chevy Apache pickup truck in first gear, soaring out of the old riverbed, across the field of sagebrush and onto Penlight Road. A cloud of dust swirled behind him. He released his left hand from the steering wheel, to shift gears while he tightly clung to the skull with his right.

Arnie rounded the turn by the split rail fence where the road changed from dirt to asphalt, spit the last of his Copenhagen out the window, and shook his sandy-haired head. Over the car radio, the KMTN announcer recited the lunch menus for the first day of school. The confirmed bachelor and Thompson Ranch foreman crossed the Dorris River bridge and raced his pickup into town.

Chief Randall Burgess, Kyle’s father, had just unlocked the door to the Dorris Bridge police station. The secretary wasn’t due until 8:30; his lone officer on duty was already on patrol, so Randall had to open the office by himself. He set down his Oakland Raider key chain, toted his coffee in a white Styrofoam cup with his left hand, and opened the blinds to the window with his right. Randall was still agitated from his son’s arrival home two hours after curfew.

Randall called the County Sheriff’s office to let them know his station was open. Randall asked the deputy on the other end of the line if his guest was about ready for checkout. The Dorris Bridge police used the County jail for their incarcerations. Randall’s night patrol officer had locked up a thoroughly soused local Paiute Indian who had lodged many an evening in the facility.

Arnie grasped the upper edge of the still-ajar front door to the station, to bring himself to a stop. He panted, while Randall stared at him, open-mouthed. Arnie’s clothes and face were covered with dirt and grease, his shirt un-tucked, concealing his slightly protruding belly. The doorframe he held onto was now smudged. Before Randall could utter a syllable, Arnie blurted out in his husky voice that there had a murder. He thrust down the skull from his right hand onto the secretary’s desk, where it promptly rolled off and slowly dropped into the chair.

Arnie cried out while he dove to the chair, envisioning his brittle possession now shattered into tiny pieces, only to see it was still quite intact. He let out a sigh of relief, plucked it up, and set the skull more gingerly onto the center of the desk.

Randall sat his six-foot, one-hundred-ninety-pound frame in his secretary’s chair. He smiled slightly and folded his hands in front of him, so that they almost touched his somewhat oversize nose. Randall calmly asked Arnie where he found the skull.

Arnie explained that he had been re-directing the storm drainage from the road around the ranch entrance. He was testing a route and started to dig under some big rocks when he hit a pocket of air and discovered the skull. Arnie was certain someone must have buried a body under the rocks, and implored Randall to come out and mark off a crime scene.

Randall stared at the skull and smiled. I don’t know that I’m the man for the job, Randall imparted in his usual no-nonsense tone of voice.

Arnie frowned, started to speak, but was interrupted.

The deputy from the County Sheriff’s office pushed the front door open and stood halfway inside, propping himself against the door. The deputy informed Randall that the Grand Jury has to do its annual jail inspection later this morning, so the Sheriff was returning the Indian that Randall’s man had booked the night before. The Deputy guided the middle aged, alcoholic, slumping Paiute Native American to the waiting chair and promptly left.

Arnie smiled knowingly at Tornado Highsmith, who was slinking in the chair, combing his jet-black grimy hair with his fingers. Arnie turned back towards Randall. What did Tornado do now?

Randall chuckled and answered as if Tornado was not seated a few feet away. Well, it seems Tornado’s still in his finest attire from last evening, when we helped him up from the curb outside the Emperor Saloon, where he had been marking your boss’s Cadillac as his own territory, till he stumbled and fell in his own pool of piss. It appears that he’s upchucked once or twice on his nice plaid shirt since then.

Tornado grinned, glanced over at Randall’s secretary’s desk, stood up and slowly inched forward.

So you get to babysit Mr. Tornado? Arnie inquired, ignoring Tornado’s leisurely approach to them.

Randall sighed. He said it appeared so, until he got a hold of someone on the Tribal Council to take Tornado back to the reservation, or he gave up and did it himself.

Tornado reached the secretary’s desk and stretched his arm to touch the skull lying next to the phone. Arnie quickly stepped over, pulled the skull back, and admonished Tornado. This is evidence…

Randall interrupted. Would you slow down, Arnie? Let’s forget you said anything about a murder. I think it’s a bit more dated.

Arnie started to speak, but Tornado interrupted.

I need to use the toilet. I know where it is. When I come back, I will tell you all what I think about all this, Tornado announced in his soft, deliberate voice, with a cadence that placed pauses between each sentence. Tornado, standing at five-foot-four and skinny as a rail, shuffled across the room in his tattered dark plaid shirt, his odor finally catching up to Arnie. Arnie wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes. Tornado lingered in Arnie’s nostrils well after he headed down the hall.

I don’t get it, Arnie finally replied, stepped away and leaned against the filing cabinet by the front window. A pause filled the room for a moment. How old are you saying this skull is?

Randall elaborated that he didn’t know, and even experts had a hard time dating skeletal remains, but wagered the skull was not from this century. Randall speculated that Arnie found an old Indian grave and maybe an ancient burial ground. Randall added as luck would have it, some UC Davis kids were already starting a dig in Collins Valley.

Wait a minute. Arnie said sharply, pulling away from the filing cabinet and standing firmly on both feet. You’re not telling me you’re thinking of bringing in those flatlander college kids to start digging where I’m trying to do my work?

Arnie, we may have no choice, if this works out to be a burial ground. Randall responded, rubbing his crew cut dark brown hair. He informed Arnie that a burial site wouldn’t involve a dig. The college team could use forensics on what was exposed near the surface to best guess how old the skull was, if it was Native American, and if a burial site was involved.

Arnie shook his head. Damn it, Randall. You know I could have just kept my mouth shut.

Randall put his arm around Arnie’s shoulder. "It’s like that proverb. ’No great deed goes unpunished.’ Sorry Arnie, but think about it. A murder investigation would tie things up too. We’ll keep your little friend safe and turn him over to those UC Davis kids and the Paiute Tribal Council. And tell you what; I’ll call the Paiute Sentinel. I’ll bet they’ll want to put your picture in the paper. You and your little friend."

Arnie grunted.

Don’t worry, Arnie, I’ll instruct them to make sure they put captions under the picture, so everyone can tell which one is you and which one is his your new friend.

Arnie exclaimed an expletive and let loose a resigned laugh. He liked the Chief too much to be mad at him.

Randall finally took a few sips of his now cooling coffee and glanced towards the back of the office.

Arnie smiled. So, Chief, do you think Tornado is going to fall asleep on the toilet again?

8:20 AM Paiute High School Gymnasium

The 312 students of Paiute High were packed in the gym for their first day of school assembly. Principal Harris had introduced the faculty from the center of the gym floor. He stood six-foot-two, with thick, straight brown hair neatly parted to the right side, and was saddled with dark circles under his speckled forlorn brown eyes. He grasped the microphone while it still rested in its stand. Reading from the 3-inch by 5-inch note cards that he held with his left hand, he raised his voice. You are the most fortunate classes to ever grace the halls of Paiute High. For when this year is completed, you can say you were there, during our nation’s bicentennial year, furthering the education that your fathers and forefathers fought so hard for you to have the privilege to enjoy. Let’s hear it for the class of 1976 and the underclassmen of Paiute High!

Scattered applause and a few isolated whoops echoed through the gym. Principal Harris looked bemused, lowered his index cards and visually sifted through the small sea of students sitting before him in the wooden, roll-out bleachers. And now, without further adieu, here’s your student body president, Kyle Burgess!

Randall’s son Kyle had been standing to Principal Harris’ left, in the center of the gym. Kyle had very wavy brown hair, long sideburns, and dark brown eyes. He wore corduroy pants to school pretty much every day and was an awkward six-foot-two. He stepped forward to the microphone and gestured towards his principal. Let’s hear it for this Mr. Harris fellow!

The gym again sounded with scattered applause. Principal Harris thought how long this school year was going to seem. His wondered if his wife was still asleep in bed, nursing a hangover. He rubbed his pudgy cheeks and reached to adjust his pants around his hips, which were recently having a more difficult time holding in his waistline.

Kyle grabbed the mike stand and pulled it right up to his lips. This is going to be the best year of our lives! The gym now roared. Kyle’s face tightened, his own slight hangover revisiting him, a combination of Coors, not enough sleep, and his father’s rant when he finally made it home past one in the morning. His thoughts wandered to the flash of light up on Demon Ridge that he and Rick had no answers for. Kyle drew in a deep breath and tried to focus. I know this. Every one of us will think back to this point in time, even when we’re as old as Mr. Harris. And we will be proud to have been a Paiute Warrior! The gym roared again. Kyle concluded, So, I officially call this school year to order. Go Paiute!

The gym erupted in chants of Paiute. Kyle sauntered over from the center of the gym to the empty first row of bleacher seats and sat down. His head throbbed as he looked for his best friend Rick in the seats behind him.

When the assembly finally ended, Kyle rose to join Rick and the gang coming down from the highest row. Kyle stopped suddenly two rows up, when he spotted a new girl, descending the steps. She was an absolute fox. Her mid-length brown hair only curved very slightly at the bottom. She stood slightly taller than the ladies on each side of her. Kyle gawked. She didn’t have large breasts, but her top blouse button was undone. Kyle continued to stare at her face, her big loop earrings and her chest. The girls filed past him, leaping off the last step, without acknowledging his presence.

The assembly schedule bell rang just as Rick whacked Kyle on the back of his head with the back of his hand. Make you hear bells, did I? Rick cracked as he jumped off the last bleacher steps. Their group headed out the gym’s west double doors, Kyle’s headache following him closely, not wanting to get left behind.

9:28 AM Mr. Kennedy’s American Government Class

Mr. Kennedy was Kyle’s favorite teacher as well as his wrestling and track coach. Mr. Kennedy stood just five-foot- five, kept his light brown hair neatly trimmed, but was stocky with a thick neck. He sported a thick, reddish brown moustache and thick glasses. Five minutes into class, he had already written Kyle a hall pass to bring him back a cup of coffee from the teacher’s lounge.

Kyle shut the door to Mr. Kennedy’s room. He swung the white coffee mug with a picture of the cartoon character Ziggy wildly with his right hand while he strode down the hall. Kyle glanced down past the Social Hall, through the double glass doors leading outside.

Kyle spotted a patrol car cruising down the street. Rick was of the opinion it was a patrol car spotlight that illuminated the Ridge in the middle of the night. Kyle wasn’t so sure. His father gave no hint that his night patrol had spotted them, when he lit into Kyle upon his son’s arrival home. The patrol car also wouldn’t explain the buzzing noise they heard.

Kyle strolled past the open door of an American History class, filled with juniors. He exclaimed in a slow deep voice, His-tor-eee so that the entire class could hear. He carelessly swung the Ziggy coffee cup even higher and lost his grip. Ziggy flew several feet forward and landed just before the steps that descend down to the Social Hall. Ziggy now suffered a fractured skull. Kyle quickly contemplated trading Ziggy for a spare coffee mug left in the teacher’s lounge and wondered if Mr. Kennedy would notice.

Kyle looked up from where he was kneeling with his broken Ziggy, to witness the new girl trotting up the steps from the Social Hall carrying a folder full of papers. Hi, she said with a lyrical voice, pausing for just a moment with a wide smile and then resumed her journey towards the office.

She seemed to simply float up the steps, not surrendering to the laws of gravity. Kyle froze for a second and gasped out his response after she was already passing the history class, probably out of earshot. Hey, was all he could manage.

Friday, September 4th

8:50 AM Dorris Bridge Police Station

Chief Randall sighed as he sipped his lukewarm coffee. He scratched his crew cut, rubbed his chin, and returned to his forms that had nothing to do with his job title. Randall’s chair creaked as he rocked back and forth. His secretary’s clattering typewriter filled the room with rhythm and sound. Behind her desk, the clock radio leaked the KMTN announcer into the room, reminding his listening audience about Saturday night Bingo at the Elks Lodge.

This September marked Randall’s tenth year as the Dorris Bridge Chief of Police. When he interviewed in 1966, in the upstairs office of the Mayor’s appliance store, it was clear the Mayor was looking more for a City Manager than a Chief of Police. Randall remembered the Mayor laughing, swiveling in his big chair and explained that people weren’t ready for a paid City Manager. They expected the city department heads to report to the Mayor as they always had. But people were ready to start paying for a police department that was separate from the County Sheriff’s office. The Mayor was going to capitalize on the situation and hire a Chief of Police that could be his de facto City Manager without the title. The department heads would keep reporting to the Mayor on paper, but he expected the Chief of Police to handle the paperwork and oversee the day-to-day details involved in running the city.

What Randall hadn’t surmised that day, not until he had already moved his family up from Sacramento, was that the police department was being created because the Sheriff had a drinking problem and wasn’t fully competent with any aspect of his job except staying elected. Or that the Sheriff’s brother, Burl Thompson, was the Chairman of the County Board of Supervisors. Or that the Mayor and Supervisor Burl Thompson just plain didn’t like each other and never had. Every day, Randall danced between helping the Sheriff navigate his job, doing the Mayor’s bidding, and staying out of a surly Burl Thompson’s way.

This week Randall was especially motivated to avoid Burl Thompson, who was steaming over the UC Davis survey. The work had just started at the edge of his property, due to the skull found by his ranch foreman Arnie Purnell. Burl knew Randall instigated the UC Davis team coming in at the behest of the Paiute Tribal Council. Burl had County Counsel try to put a stop to it, but the UC Davis counsel outmaneuvered them. Randall heard the sound of cars passing as the front door opened. Burl stood in the middle of the doorway, scowling. Randall greeted him, forcing a smile.

Burl Thompson was quite a presence. While he wasn’t tall- he was five-foot-nine or so- he was an intimidating figure. He weighed 230 pounds, had a huge neck, massive shoulders and arms, silver hair, leathery skin and a leathery voice. Hello yourself, Burgess. I see you’re pushing papers, as usual.

Randall asked how he could be of assistance.

What you can do is keep your nose in these papers and out of County business. Do you lay awake at nights, trying to think of new ways to piss me off?

The clatter of typing stopped momentarily as Randall’s secretary reacted to Burl’s raised voice. She resumed typing, put out her cigarette and started listening intently. Randall forced another partial smile and started to talk.

Burl interrupted, Oh never mind. Don’t get me started, or I’ll inspire you to some new paper-pushing boondoggle that I won’t be able to do anything about. Look, I’m just here because no one seems to be able to tell me how long those flatlanders are going to invade my property. Seems as you got me in this mess, the least you can do is find that out.

Randall replied that he’d be happy to check that out.

Oh, I bet you would, Randall. Just let my brother know when you find out. For some God-knows reason, he actually enjoys talking to you, Burl drawled as he turned his back to Randall. He let go of the front door he’d been holding open, stepped back onto the Main Street sidewalk and walked towards his cream-white ’74 Cadillac DeVille.

Have a nice day, Burl, Randall muttered to the now closed door. He re-focused his attention on the forms in front of him. Randall again scratched his crew cut and starting checking boxes with his pencil. He got to item 5B when the front door swung open again.

And another thing, Burgess. I just saw that crazy Injun Tornado walking down the street and it reminds me, I want you to tell him he is not allowed on my property. Burl commanded sternly in the doorway, propping the door open with his shoulder.

Randall started to respond, but Burl interrupted.

That nutty Indian’s been poking around all the ropes and stakes on my property when those flatlander college kids aren’t around. He’s gonna end up hurting himself and then they’ll find his skull, and be studying who knows what for a month more. You tell him to stay off my land. Okay? Burl didn’t wait for an answer. He again stepped back onto the sidewalk.

Randall’s secretary stopped typing just long enough to let out a soft giggle, making sure it was just noticeable enough for Randall to hear. Randall smiled, shook his head, and returned to item 5B. He finished the checkboxes and started filling in city department names and phone numbers in the table for item 7. The steady rhythm of the typewriter fell silent as his secretary started looking for a new supply of correction tape. The front door swung open once more.

Randall looked up and studied Tornado, who closed the door behind him and sat down in Randall’s side chair. Tornado appeared sober, was dressed in somewhat clean clothes, and didn’t stink of Thunderbird or even B.O. Randall contrasted this to the mental image of the Tornado he had encountered last Sunday night, when he rounded the corner to find his officer pulling a babbling, incoherent Tornado out of the gutter, half underneath Burl’s Cadillac, soaked with the stench of urine and speckled with chunks of vomit.

Tornado leaned forward and placed his trembling hand on Randall’s wrist for a second. Chief, bad things may happen soon. I don’t want to you to listen with only one ear, just because it’s crazy Tornado talking to you.

Randall replied that he would listen with both ears. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together so they touched his chin. Randall’s secretary rolled her eyes and typed more slowly so she could catch what Tornado was saying. She furtively turned the volume down on the clock radio.

Chief, this skeleton at the bottom of the Ridge by Burl Thompson’s place… I have been thinking about it night and day. I camped up on the Ridge the past two nights. I watched the people do their work. Then I looked through what they roped off last night.

Yeah, Tornado, about that… Randall started in, meaning to tell Tornado of Burl Thompson’s instructions, but Tornado interrupted, focused on his own words.

Tornado proceeded to inform Randall that he had stayed up all night and just before sunrise, he had a vision.

A vision. ., Randall repeated skeptically.

Chief, I had a vision about the Lights.

The Lights? Randall asked, tilting his head sideways. Tornado, I’m not following. Randall said, his eyes drifting towards the forms on his desk. Randall’s secretary lost interest, lit up a new cigarette and resumed her typing at full speed.

Tornado leaned forward again, grabbed Randall’s wrist, and stared into his eyes for a moment. Chief, look at me. I know I drink too much. But this is serious. I think the Lights are going to return. And when they do, you are the one who needs to be ready for what happens next.

Tornado, you’re scaring me. Randall chuckled, but his smile erased as he saw Tornado’s sad and earnest expression.

Chief, I have never had a vision before. My grandfather had them. I am not blessed. I am just a drunk. But I am a different man today. I am going to camp on the Ridge and watch for the Lights.

Tornado, I’ll bite. What are the Lights? Actually, Randall had heard of the Lights but didn’t feel like dignifying the silly tale by acknowledging them.

Tornado recited the tale of the Lights. His grandfather saw them as a young man. The Demon Ridge Paiutes were doing the circle dance that the white folk were so upset about in town. He saw several stars come down from the sky that lit up the Ridge momentarily like the noon sun. Then darkness returned. They found a large fat white man, dead behind a large rock where they had been dancing. It took several Paiutes to carry the dead man back into town. The Sheriff accused one of the Paiutes of murdering the white man. The Sheriff put him in jail, where the white folks said he killed himself.

Randall politely asked what this had to do with right now.

Chief, in my vision I saw the Lights all around me. Somehow, I knew there was a connection between the Lights and this skeleton. The spirit of this man, this skeleton, is trying to tell us something more, but I can’t understand. Not yet. Tornado paused, trying to pull together the rest of his thoughts into words.

Randall asked Tornado if a vision wasn’t just a dream. He suggested not to get too worked up about a dream.

Chief, visions are more than dreams. Tornado paused. I wasn’t drunk. I know that’s what you’re thinking.

Randall decided to remain quiet.

Chief, I’m not getting through, am I? You’re thinking I am a crazy Indian.

Randall started to reply, but Tornado interrupted, standing up and stepping towards the door as he spoke

Go to the reservation. Ask about the Lights. Ask if Tornado knows what he’s talking about, Tornado said, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk, the door slamming shut behind him with a gush of fall wind.

Randall’s secretary cleared her throat. She advised Randall that he forgot to tell Tornado to stay off of Mr. Thompson’s property. She reached behind to turn the clock radio up slightly, as the KMTN announcer finished another series of advertisements.

9:49 AM Paiute High School

The end of second period bell rang five or so minutes before. Kyle leaned against his locker, near the Boy’s restroom exit foyer, engaged in conversation with his friends during the twelve-minute break between second and third periods.

Mr. Bostwick, the Vice-Principal rounded the corner from the main hallway. He surveyed Kyle’s group of friends that claimed this territory every morning break, strode through the middle of them, halting in front of Kyle.

Mr. Bostwick was balding, but still sported long sideburns that ended with his protruding jaw. He wasn’t overweight, but seemed to wear pants a size or two too small, making his belly stick out somewhat. He almost always wore a dark blue striped tie, a white shirt, and polyester pants to school. Mr. Bostwick also gave the impression throughout the school day that someone had done something somewhere to greatly upset him. Often that person was Kyle.

Kyle, you know this is not what I asked you boys to do, Mr. Bostwick scolded.

What? Kyle drawled out, amidst a sea of snickering.

Mr. Bostwick proceeded to reprimand the group for their juvenile behavior Kyle, I’ve got a freshman boy in my office with permanent marker on his forehead that won’t wash off, calling his father to pick him up and take him home. A new student. Just moved to town. Imagine what his dad thinks of Dorris Bridge now. What were you thinking?

Ted Kelso exclaimed behind Mr. Bostwick’s back, We delivered him to your office with Guilt written all over him. All Kyle’s friends burst out laughing.

Mr. Bostwick spun around again, angrily. The previous day he asked Kyle’s group to talk to whoever was smoking in the bathroom and tell them to take it outside. Bostwick pointedly asked them not to be physical or take matters into their own hands beyond that. Instead, as Ted Kelso explained, they removed the cigarette from the freshman boy’s mouth, held him down, and wrote ’Guilt’ on his forehead.

Mr. Bostwick planted his finger in Ted’s chest. You don’t get it. None of you seem to get it.

Kyle chimed in, Mr. Bostwick, you told us there was a pecking order. As seniors, it was our responsibility with underclassmen smoking to…

Mr. Bostwick interrupted. Pecking order? Did I say pecking order? Well if I did, you seemed to have forgotten your place in the pecking order, young man. The pecking order starts in our office over there, not your little office out here by the restroom. Do I make myself clear?

Yes sir, Kyle responded. You’re the head pecker. Rick shot a glance at Kyle in disbelief. Mr. Bostwick paused, and Kyle’s friends awaited the coming eruption.

The collective gasp evolved into more snickering as Mr. Bostwick tugged on Kyle’s shirt. He barked, Come with me young man. I’m going to let you explain this to that boy’s father. Kyle followed Mr. Bostwick into the office, around the corner from their hangout.

Sitting in the waiting chairs was the freshman boy they had accosted in the restroom five minutes earlier. Kyle didn’t know his name. Next to this lowly freshman staring blankly out the office windows into Main Street, was the object of his desire during the entire past week- the new girl, with whom he had been exchanging smiles and hellos throughout each day. Her name, Kyle found out by Tuesday, was Brenda. She had just moved to Dorris Bridge from the Redding area. Kyle sat down in the remaining chair next to her while she faced the other way, focused on the new freshman boy.

Brenda put her hand on the boy’s forearm and spoke intently. Ricky, who did this to you?

Ricky didn’t answer. Mr. Bostwick went behind the counter and then turned back around towards Kyle. Boys, you can step into my office. Both of you.

Ricky and Kyle stood up. Brenda turned, recognizing Kyle and looked puzzled as to what he had to do with all this. Brenda then rose, too. She left her brother hastily, returning to the hallway.

4:00 PM The Burgess Home, Corner of Second and East Street

The front door was fully open. The soft drone of a sprinkler running wound its way through the still-closed screen door while Kyle reclined on the family room sofa, trying half-heartedly to nap. He listened intently and detected no sound inside the house. He wondered what errand his mom was off attending to. The sunlight had crept across half the room, causing a reflection on the television so bright that Kyle thought for a moment that it was on. The cat, Felix, was snoozing and sprawled at his feet.

Out of boredom, Kyle shot up and walked out the front door. Felix, looking betrayed, popped up his head, stretched and then lay back down. Kyle stood on the front brick steps facing Second Street, surveying the quiet all around him. He gazed at all the white houses lined up on both sides of East Street, remembering how he delivered a Sacramento Bee to most of them every evening and Sunday morning from fifth grade until his freshman year. He reflected on how happy he was when the Bee switched to a Saturday morning paper, freeing up his Saturday nights.

Kyle could still recall each and every house that he delivered to. He often had dreams that he woke up on a Sunday morning to find the big bale of papers were left on his porch again. He would then resume his route after three years off, hoping that there had been no changes to the route since then.

Kyle peered at the Ridge to the North, the Saddleback Mountains to the East and then turned towards Mt. Lassen in the distant Southeast. The running sprinkler he had heard wasn’t even in his yard. It lay in Mrs. Williams’s front lawn next door. Kyle took a deep breath in through his nose. He swore he could actually smell the clear clean water misting from her sprinkler.

Mrs. Williams was ninety years old, yet had still given Kyle piano lessons when he was in the fourth grade until he quit them after eighth grade. As he looked towards Mount Lassen again, he remembered her story about when she was a young housewife and the ashes from Mt. Lassen covered her very same front yard like a blanket of light snowfall, a day or so after the volcano had erupted. Kyle reminisced about how she told a story in the middle of almost every piano lesson on those Monday afternoons.

His favorite tale that came to mind was when she was just four years old. She had snuck away from her parent’s ranch, the Ashton’s, with her brother to the Paiute reservation to watch the natives dance. The Indians were dressed up just like you would see now on T.V. They were chanting in their own language. Several other people from town hid and watched as well. Mrs. Williams said all of a sudden a flash of bright light shone on the dancers. It scared her and her brother so much they ran all the way home to her ranch almost a mile down the road. When they arrived home, covered with dirt from tripping and falling several times in the dark, her father had paddled them both but good. Kyle gazed at the Ridge, smiling, as he thought of four-year-old Florence Ashton, high-tailing it down a dirt road in the pitch dark in 1890.

Kyle turned his head and his thoughts, to the interior dirt driveway that led to the carriage house converted to a garage. Kyle’s father always drove his unmarked four-wheel drive 1974 GMC Suburban. The seldom-used family car, a blue 1973 Chevy Impala, sat there silently, meaning his mother, Clara, had walked, as usual, to her destination.

The sound of another car interrupted the silence, as Rick rounded the corner from East Street, pulled up and parked his dark blue Oldsmobile 442 on the wrong side of the street in the dirt in front of Kyle’s house, where a sidewalk should have been. Kyle heard the sound of Rick’s tires slowly rolling over the mixture of dirt and pea-sized gravel in front of their house. The noise somehow reminded him of his dad scooping coffee from his can of Sanka every morning while they both got ready, respectively, for work and school. Kyle shook his head. Rick, you’ve got to cool it with that. You know that drives my dad crazy when you park there, he called from his front steps.

Rick slammed the 442’s door shut, pushed the gate open and bounded his stocky 5’10 frame up the steps. Come on, dipstick. You’re slipping. Bugs has been on five minutes and you’re standing outside. Kyle dutifully followed Rick inside and watched him turn the T.V. on and twist the dial to Channel 7. Rick plopped down on the sofa right where Kyle had been sitting. Felix popped up his head and lay back down again with indifference. Kyle sat down on the other side of Felix, who again looked up, quite annoyed. The television in the Burgess house was a 25 Phillips black and white console that Randall had proudly purchased new in 1960, when Kyle was two. Despite Kyle’s pleadings, he wasn’t about to trade it in for a color set when it still worked so well.

Kyle, however, had convinced his dad just months ago to get cable, so now they got eight channels instead of just the two they used to receive with their antenna. It took some convincing; as Randall’s standard response had been that the antenna brought Kyle two more channels than Randall had been able to watch at Kyle’s age.

Hey, Rick exclaimed. It’s the square dance. Sow Belly Trio. Bugs was fiddling and calling the square dance outdoors for two hillbillies who had just fallen into a stream during the dance. Kyle and Rick started singing along with Bugs, as the two hillbillies stopped dancing with their two pig partners in the pig pen and sashayed out of the mud. As Bugs, Rick and Kyle sang their instructions, the hillbillies womped each other with a fence post.

Clara Burgess came through the front door to find her son and Rick Pearl on the sofa with the cat, singing to Bugs Bunny. Rick tore his gaze away from the television Hey, Mrs. Burgess.

Rick, Clara said, slightly exasperated, glancing at the freckled-faced, sandy-haired, blue-eyed young man who spent as much time at her home as he did his own. You know it drives Kyle’s father crazy, when you park your car on the wrong side of the street, in front of our house.

Rick apologized, adding that they’d be leaving soon to go get ready for the game.

Clara returned to her usual, upbeat tone of voice. Well, what can I make you boys to eat this afternoon, since you’ll be at the football game during dinner time?

Kyle broke in. He informed his mother they could not eat right before the game.

Rick countered, speak for yourself, Mister ’I don’t eat before football games.’ What’s on the menu, Mrs. Burgess?

Well. I could make just about anything in a hurry. How about some sandwiches, boys? I could do baloney and cheese, or peanut butter jelly, or …

We don’t want any sandwiches, Kyle interrupted curtly, turning away from the television, since Bugs was cutting away to commercials.

Don’t listen to your son, Mrs. Burgess. We’d love whatever sandwiches you’re willing to bring us. And thank you for offering. Kyle threw a sofa pillow at Rick, causing Felix great distress.

Well, you’re welcome, Rick. Maybe I’ll make you both some PBJs. Clara said, walking backwards into her kitchen full of avocado green appliances.

Actually, you know, those baloney and cheese sound pretty good, with some mayonnaise and mustard and lettuce on white bread. If that’s okay, Rick requested impishly.

Kyle threw the remaining sofa pillow at Rick. Felix jumped to the floor and bolted to the front door. The front door seemed to open magically for Felix, who darted outside. Randall Burgess stepped in and smiled at his wife. Hi, Honey, I’m home early because I have to be on duty at the game. You ready to go out for a cup of coffee? He turned and faced Rick. What did I tell you about parking your car, Mister Pearl?

6:45 PM Paiute High Gym

Kyle finished rearranging his knee and thigh pads in his pants and tightened his hip pads. He sat down on the crowded bench in front of the lockers to pull up his pants over his hip pads and laced them up. The Eagles were emanating from the eight- track tape player in the corner locker. Kyle retreated from the team locker room into the deserted P.E. locker room. He sat on the floor, lacing up his cleats. He focused his thoughts on the game that would be starting in just an hour.

Kyle loved everything about a football game at night: the way sounds carried on the field, the bright glare of the lights on the turf enveloped by darkness, the feel of the cold mud and trampled sod on the palm of his hand. During the middle of the game, nine and ten-year-old boys would be engaged in their own contest with a rubber football on the northern end of the field, well past the goal posts.

Reviews for Dorris Bridge

[bookswithbite · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really tired to like this book but I could not. While the book was well written, the plot just did not grab me. I had a hard time staying focused while reading a book. It's hard to explain this book because it has so much going on. There are several points of views and lots of different stories that all come into one at the end. Since there was so much, I found myself going back and re-reading parts.The Urban legends were good. I like reading those, they had me intrigued.The characters were unique and I like how the father and son duo got to know each other better and work with each other. For me it was just too much going. I think this is my first to say that this book is not for me.