by Kris Ashton
Sighing, he picked up the phone and dialed the number for the sheriff’s office.
God, how did this happen, Derek wondered as he stared up at the ceiling of his cell. A fly, his only cellmate (that could come and go as it pleased) sat dark and unmoving above him. I came to Bald Eagle to get away from all the bullshit oppression and somehow I wound up in jail, which never happened in all my years in Frisco.
The initial question came with an easy answer: he had been sleeping with the enemy.
When his call to Hank had come to a dead end, he had rung some of his friends back in San Francisco hoping one of them could bail him out. But they were all strapped for cash—more than a few had depleted their coffers getting to Bald Eagle for the reactor protest. That could almost be classed as irony, he supposed. He had the option to contact his parents, but he planned not to tell them until he found himself summonsed to court—and withholding information from his parents definitely qualified as irony.
At first he hadn’t minded his incarceration; it had given him time to think. But now the wealth of that same commodity tortured him as, over and over, he saw Jenna squat and squeeze that silver orb out of her and the runner of mucus it left behind, depending almost to the grass below. Fight it though he might, he could not help but imagine Sharna in that pose, giving blind-eyed birth to something that could not be born of flesh and blood…
While he had myriad reasons to be pissed off with Sheriff Grayson, he did not begrudge the cop for disbelieving his story. He had seen the incident pass with his own sober eyes and could scarcely credit it himself. It was the cop’s refusal to set his skepticism aside for Sharna’s sake that really angered him. Caged (perhaps unlawfully) like a brainless animal because Grayson couldn’t see past his prejudice. Derek longed to get free and find someone who would listen, who would believe. But unlike the cells you saw in prison movies, his did not have a loose bar or weak concrete or a somnolent guard with keys in broomstick’s reach.
Grayson’s phone rang and lifted Derek out of his dark reverie.
“You don’t say,” Grayson said. “Put him through, Martha.”
Derek went to the corner of his cell and put his ear through the bars to hear.
“Don’t hello Sheriff me, you son of a bitch! Thanks to you and your vow of secrecy I found my daughter shuffling along Main Street in a stupor and now she’s gone missing altogether…No, you’ll listen to what I have to say you miserable bastard! I blame you as much as I blame Brolin for this. I ought to arrest you for interfering in a police investigation…Oh, couldn’t I? You want to make a bet on that?…You’d better just hope Sharna turns up in one piece, Woods, or I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll cough up your shoes… It sure is a threat, and you can quote me… Oh, fine. Hang on.”
Derek heard the clink of keys being taken off a hook and the leathery clump of Grayson’s approaching footsteps. “Hank Woods wants to talk to you,” he said, turning the key in the lock. “You’ve got two minutes, no more.”
Grayson snapped one cuff on Derek’s wrist and one cuff on his own, then led him into his office and handed him the receiver.
“Hank!”
“Derek…I only just got your message. I was, uh, well I was kinda—”
“I’ve only got two minutes, Hank. God, where do I start? Something bad happened up on Peace Out after you left. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was a major trip. A meteorite fell in the back field and now they’re all…and Grayson doesn’t believe me, he thinks I’m responsible.” Derek locked eyes with the sheriff. “Uh, look, I can’t explain this over the phone. Can you come to the station?”
Hank let out a sigh and for an awful moment Derek thought he would refuse. “Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hang tight.”
“Thanks, man. Thanks.”
Grayson snatched the phone out of his hand. “If you come here…” he began, and then stopped and slammed the receiver back in its cradle. “Right, back you go,” he said, pulling on the cuffs hard enough to leave a red mark on Derek’s arm.
“This is bullshit, man. I think we both know you’re holding me illegally. As soon as I get Hank to hunt up a lawyer your ass is grass.”
“I wouldn’t talk about grass too loudly if I were you,” Grayson said, unsnapping the cuffs. “Now get back in there.”
Derek complied. Grayson slammed the cell door shut and twisted the key in the lock.
“No luck finding Sharna, then?” Derek asked in a small voice.
“What the hell do you care?” Grayson said, rounding on him. “Just keep your goddamned trap shut.”
“Whatever you think about me, I care,” Derek said.
Grayson stared at him through the bars. Derek stared back, refusing to drop his eyes.
“Asshole,” Grayson muttered, before walking into his office.
Ten minutes later, Derek heard tires crackle on the driveway. Grayson must have heard it too, because he left his office and walked out to join Martha in the station’s main area. Their voices carried through to Derek’s cell but at first he couldn’t make out the words.
“…in the past few days has nothing to do with me, Sheriff. I’m here because Derek is a friend who seems to have got himself in a bit of trouble.”
“I’ll be in here listening,” Grayson said. “Be sure of that.”
Hank entered the cell room and stood in front of him. “Jesus, Derek, you look like shit.”
“I was going to say the same thing about you, man.”
“Yeah,” Hank said, running a hand down his coarse cheek, “it’s been a rough couple of days.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So what were you trying to tell me on the phone? Why are you in here?”
“You’re not going to believe me when I tell you. He sure doesn’t,” Derek said, directing his eyes at Grayson’s office, “and I can’t altogether blame him.”
“You can only try.”
So Derek drew a deep breath and told the story in as much detail as he could. Initially he watched Hank’s expressions, trying to gauge his credulity, but it became distracting and he gave it up. He was halfway through Grayson’s visit to the commune when the co-subject of the story joined them.
“You left out your admitted possession of drugs and your verbal abuse of a police officer, Brolin,” he said.
“It sounds to me like you have more to worry about, Sheriff,” Hank said. “Excessive use of force and wrongful arrest for openers.”
“He confessed to me that he had a stash of illegal substances on his property.”
“He can say whatever he wants when it’s neither an official investigation nor an official interview. You had no grounds on which to arrest him and—”
“This sounds like aiding and abetting, to me,” Grayson said. “You want to join him there in the cell?”
“That in itself would be illegal,” Hank retorted. Some of the color had come back into his face and his eyes seemed brighter. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that cell is only designed to hold one prisoner.”
“That’s as may be, but I’m well within my rights to put you under arrest if I believe you had something to do with the disappearance of my daughter. And listening to you talk, I really am beginning to wonder.”
“Sheriff, I can understand that you’re distressed about your daughter’s disappearance, but becoming a vigilante is not—”
“A vigilante?” Derek almost expected the cop’s eyeballs to burst with pure, spluttering rage. “Goddammit, I’ve been called a few things in time, but never that.”
“Well, from what Derek tells me, the shoe fits.”
“Oh, he’s said plenty so far this morning, but he also left out plenty of interesting parts. Like how he gave my daughter drugs and she was so far out of her mind that she propositioned her own father. What do you think of that, Woods?”
Hank looked at Derek. “Is that true?”
Derek shrugged a shoulder. “He says that’s what happened. But it had nothing to do
with drugs. We had been clean for like two days, I swear to you.”
“Then what…oh, the eggs.”
“You’re not really buying that egg nonsense, are you?” Grayson said to Hank.
“I’m not discounting anything just yet.”
“He’s using it as a story to cover his ass. My guess is they had some sort of drug orgy up there on the Hill and they got a bad batch of something or other and things went to hell in a hurry.”
“That’s patent bullshit!” Derek said.
“Is it? Then why aren’t your hippie friends here? Why has Sharna gone missing?”
Martha appeared at the cell room door. “Sheriff, there’s something—”
“Not now, Martha!” Grayson snapped. “I’ll make you both a deal. You tell me where Sharna is—”
“Bert!” Martha barked in a headmistress voice. “This is important.”
“What is it?”
Martha was holding hands with a girl. Derek guessed the girl’s age at about seven or eight, but the tears wetting her cheeks and the fearful, lost look in her eyes regressed her to a five-year-old.
“She says her name is Jessica,” Martha said. “Apparently she can’t find her mommy.”
Bert went over to Jessica and crouched down so he was face-to-face with her. “Now don’t you worry,” Grayson said. It was hard to believe the soft, comforting voice was emerging from the same intolerant, beast-like body. “We’ll find your mommy. What’s her name?”
“Tina,” the girl sniffed.
“Tina who?”
“Tina Radford.”
Grayson nodded. “I know her. She works in the market, doesn’t she?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where did you see her last?”
“We were at home.”
Derek could tell from Grayson’s body language that he had not predicted this response. “And so you walked all the way here from your house?”
“Mommy always said if I was in trouble, I should talk to a policeman.”
“You’re mommy’s a very smart lady. Now, you go with Martha here and she’ll give you a nice cool drink and then we’ll go and track down your mom. How does that sound?”
“Mmm.” Jessica sniffed.
“Okay.”
Martha led Jessica back out to the dispatch room. When they were gone, Grayson closed the cell room door.
“I have to go and take care of this now. You two can talk all you want, but I’m not opening this cell door an inch until Sharna is safe and sound inside my house. That clear?”
“As crystal,” Hank said. “But you should know I plan on getting a lawyer here for Derek before the day is out, and any violations of his rights are going to appear in the Monday edition of the Truth.”
“You get your goddamned lawyer. If he says I have to let that long-haired animal out of his cage, I will. But not one second before.”
Grayson flung open the cell room door and clomped out. For a moment Derek and Hank regarded one another but did not speak.
“I give you my word it’s all true, man,” Derek said.
“Okay,” Hank replied, “but whatever the case, I’m pretty sure you’re being held here illegally. There’s an attorney, Waldo Cook, whose office is just down the road from the Truth. He’s helped us with legal stuff on the paper once or twice. I’m not sure if he’ll be willing to take your case—a bit close to home and all that—but if he won’t I’ll ring someone in Denver or Boulder. Don’t freak, I’ll have you out of here before Monday, one way or another.”
“Thanks, man,” Derek said, reaching through the bars to shake Hank’s hand. “But I think Grayson is going to be the least of our worries pretty soon. I don’t know what’s happening, exactly, but I think you should be out there warning people. Can you run a story or an ad in your paper?”
Hank looked reticent. “What would I run?”
“Just what I told you.”
“My editor would never go for it. If I tried to get it past him, he’d probably sack me. And anyway, the townsfolk would never believe it. They’d think it was like that Orson Welles broadcast of War of the Worlds.”
Derek scratched the back of his neck, thinking, and suddenly looked up. “You could run a ‘dangerous hippies’ story.”
“A what?”
“You know, the same thing every other conservative paper in the country likes to run, except you could be specific. Watch out for the evil Hill Hippies, they’re prowling the town giving YOUR kids drugs, that sort of thing.”
“I guess I could get that past Larry,” Hank said, although he looked reluctant. “At any rate, we don’t go to press until Tuesday—and I guarantee you’ll be outta here before that.”
“I just hope it’s not too late.”
“Hang tough, my friend. I’ll be back with the cavalry as soon as I can.”
Derek stood at the bars until Hank was out of sight, then he sat on his bunk with his back up against the wall.
Be all right, Sharna, he prayed, even though he had been an atheist for nearly ten years. Please God, let Sharna be all right.
God had nothing to say.
At any other time of the week Red would not expect drinkers until around two in the afternoon, and even then it tended to be holidaymakers or the town’s four or five bona fide alcoholics. Saturday, however, was a different story. Men gorged the place from midday onward, and by one o’clock rowdiness had usually overtaken the Eagle Eye and its staff increased from one (Red himself) to four—two guys and a girl, all 21.
August 8 proved no different, and before the sun had fallen very far down the sky Red had poured a hundred beers. Most patrons were Bald Eagle’s non-farming workers; a motley assortment of blue and white collar citizens ranging from mechanics to bank clerks to the editor of The Bald Truth.
Red served someone a Bud and then leaned over so Kimmy, his female staff member, could hear him above the din.
“This tap’s not pouring right,” he said. “I’m going downstairs to check the keg.”
Kimmy nodded, too busy to care much. Red had every intention of checking the keg, but before that, he had every intention of ducking out the back lane for a peaceful cigarette.
He lit up on the way and felt genuine relief as the back door shut out the noise. He liked the money that came with running a bar, and even the conversation could be tolerable at times, but he had never cared for the wall of noise when the place was full. You might as well turn the TV to an empty channel and listen to the rush of the static.
He leaned against the wall, propping himself up with one foot, and dragged back on his cigarette, exhaling with pleasure. Fuck the Surgeon General; he planned to smoke till the day he died and if he happened to die from smoking…well, you had to buy the farm somehow, right?
Half his cigarette had burned away when he heard the click of someone’s shoes. No one except the Eagle Eye staff and its suppliers had cause to use the lane—it led out to a tract of vacant, undeveloped land that did not even lend itself to scratch baseball games.
He looked up and saw Janet Underwood. His heart did a little flip. He’d had a boner for Janet since the seventh grade and the moment he’d discovered himself beneath the bedclothes Janet, more than any other girl, had been the object of his desire. He doubted he was alone in this—he thought, in fact, that most local boys of his age had done the same thing. Quite simply, she was the most desirable woman in Bald Eagle. And while some of his customers had offered cheery, lewd remarks about the hippies that had moved in up on the Hill, none of them were a pimple on Janet’s butt, in Red’s opinion. But she had always been a cold fish—she had turned down his invitations to go steady at school, and she had turned down his advances when they were both out of school. In this experience he was not alone, either. Most men who thought they had a chance had tried, and none had succeeded. No doubt a few lucky bastards had found out what lay at the top of those alluring legs, but Janet had discarded them soon after. She was no man’s woman, and Red supposed that aloofnes
s was no small part of her appeal.
She looked mighty fine in a pair of elevator shoes and a short skirt. Some women looked silly in that combination, but she had the legs to pull it off.
“Hiya, Janet,” he said, pitching his cigarette into the gutter. “What are you doing back here?”
She didn’t reply but just kept coming down the lane, her breasts jigging and jogging beneath her T-shirt, in time with her steps.
“Something I can get for you?” Red asked. Now and again Janet would come by the bar for a takeaway lunch. “I’m as busy as a one-armed man in a juggling contest right now but if you want a burger or something I’ll make sure the kitchen gives it priority.”
Janet threw her arms around his neck, a motion so unexpected that Red flinched away and knocked his head against the wall. She pushed her pelvis towards his own and pinned him there. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
Red waited for the scene to discorporate, for his rational mind to take over and pull this improbable dream apart. But it could find no such grip—this was hard reality, everything from the faint crow’s feet in the corners of Janet’s eyes to the alluring scent of her half-faded perfume to the warmth of the bricks against Red’s back. No dream, when it was exposed as such, came into harder focus this way.
“Janet… Jesus, what brought this—”
“Fuck me,” she said again, grinding the words between her teeth.
“Well we…we can’t here,” Red stammered, his thoughts tangling up like racehorses in a fall. He glanced down the alley towards Main Street, where people passed by in intermittent ones and twos. “We’ll get taken in for public indecency honey. I mean, I have an office back there, I guess we could…”
Janet dismounted him and pulled at the front of his shirt hard enough to strain the cotton threaded through the buttons.
“Okay, okay,” he said, moving with his shirt so it wouldn’t be ruined. An idiot grin spread over his face as he followed her through the doorway. He had read about stories like this in men’s magazines and dismissed them as virginal geek fantasies. But fiction had become fact—and it featured the object of his hottest lust.