by Matt Rogers
Chapter 10
Smith and Wesson were heading out of town because they’d run into a brick wall. Actually the only lead they had was of a Bob Simpson who’d run into a closet wall but from there the case ran cold. They were doing what all investigators did when searching for a missing person by chasing down the suspect’s movements and whereabouts before he or she went missing. The logic behind it was sound. A missing person, by definition, could not be found by those looking for the individual. Therefore those looking had no clue where the individual might have headed because if they did they would’ve already found who they were looking for. Anticipation and guesswork were for psychics and con-men while investigators relied on information. The past was full of information. Bob Simpson, the man found bound and dead in Mr. Johnson’s closet had a shaky past and his last claim of employment was also of the vague variety. They’d run his name, social security number, driver’s license and all physical references of him into their various databases and came up with the name of the last company he professed to work for; Industrial Products. They’d called the company and were informed they’d never employed nor heard of the man until a detective from the Dallas Homicide Division called to inquire about him. Smith was a tad intrigued and asked if the detective left his name, the helpful person on the other end of the line asked him to hold, a pause ensued whereby Smith was afforded the opportunity to listen to some of the most boring music ever composed, the person returned to their phone and replied “Yes, a Detective Nat Hallowed was the policeman who called.”
“Smith?” asked Wesson.
“Yes?”
“Who do you think that Nat guy is?”
The question was troubling for various reasons. The man acted like a servant of the LeTorque but held the power of law enforcement. Neither Smith nor Wesson could reconcile the two. Why would someone who had the power to classify legal files be working as a man-servant to a bunch of southern aristocrats who’d probably held his ancestors in chains? Furthermore, why would he, the lead investigator on the case go outside his jurisdiction and bring in a detective agency to perform a function his own brethren in the department were more than qualified to handle?
“I think he might be a mole” Smith replied.
He’d been pondering the situation for a while and could only come up with one reason for the two conflicting employments; he was working on the behalf of the LeTorque in the employ of the Dallas Police. He must’ve been doing it for some time to have risen to the rank of detective for unless they had some pretty powerful stuff on him no detective would so recklessly put their career on the line by altering an investigation.
“Okay, but why hire us?” Wesson asked.
“Possibly because he’s involved somehow in this Bob Simpson’s death and he doesn’t want others on the force learning about it. Think it over. If you were a dirty cop and were investigating one of your own crimes what would you do?”
“I’d cover it up” Wesson replied.
“Uh-huh, but what if the cover-up involved removing a witness to the crime?”
“Then I’d remove the witness.”
“Yep, but what if you couldn’t find him?”
The answer, of course, was to bring in outside investigators to find the individual and then dispose of accordingly. The only problem with their line of reasoning was what they’d been hashing out for the past two hours as they drove to the last known residence of Bob Simpson.
“We’re not getting anywhere with this. If they hired us to find him for the purpose of killing him they’re stringing their own throats. No one accumulates that much money and then does something so stupid as to hire the top detective agency to find their man and then kill the person. We’d have them locked up before the hour was out.”
Wesson and Smith had been bouncing ideas off each other the entire ride. They’d done it before and found the exercise sometimes proved useful. An idea, any idea, could get their minds working in a new direction and at that point they were in desperate need of new inspiration for what they were facing was unpleasant as broccoli; the loss of infinite funds due to company ethics.
“All right, this is the place. Pull into that gas station and let’s see if we can get directions” Wesson said and Smith complied.
The town was one of many which dot the Great Lone Star State and its name was Mabank.
“Hi, can I help you?” the elderly man at the counter asked Smith as he approached.
“I hope so. We’re looking for the State Correctional Facility.”
Bob Simpson had, until his name popped up on a website promoting Industrial Products, been incarcerated in prison for first degree arson. It appeared he had set a fire and someone died. They’d attempted to get more information but were denied access and Nat was not answering his phone so they’d driven to the facility to get the information first-hand.
“You can’t miss it. Just stay on the highway for about two more miles and look for the sign. It’ll be on the right.”
“Thanks” Smith replied.
“No problem, can I help you with anything else?”
“No, I think…” Smith began but stopped for right then Wesson walked up with four hot-dogs in one hand, a cardboard tray of nachos in the other and a large drink held in the crook of his elbow.
“I’ll take these. Smith, did you want anything?”
Smith shook his head no, pulled out his wallet and paid to keep Wesson happy and cholesterol-filled for their journey to jail.
The ride did indeed take only two miles before they came across the sign signaling the entrance to the correctional facility but it was not without incident. The highway they were traveling on was one which connected the small towns which made up most of Texas and as such the road’s speed tolerance changed according to population. Whenever they encountered a town with a reasonable residency rate the speed limit would drop. The town they were in lowered theirs to thirty so Smith was motoring along at the clip of boredom when he saw trouble. It was hard to miss. Twenty-five pounds of sandy-brown fur with four legs and a detest of motorize carriages entering its turf. Smith saw the family friend out the corner of his eye, calculated the angle of attack and reached a conclusion; the mutt was going to run in front of his tire. Wesson, busy juggling processed intestinal meat and a questionable cheesy-chip product was unaware of the attacking terrier.
“Hey, Smith, keep it slow until…” he began.
Smith couldn’t keep it slow for his car was threatened by a vicious hound intent on doing serious bodily harm to the underside of his coach. Smith knew it to be true for he’d once come across a similar situation and it did not end well. He’d spent forty dollars having fur and fang removed from bumper and muffler where the suicidal wanna-be wolf had met his fate on the underside of metallic horsepower.
“Hold on!” Smith yelled.
“Huh?” Wesson replied.
Modern vehicles employed amazing power and Smith was intent on using it to avoid costly pet-parts removal. He slammed on the accelerator, the car leaped forward and the canine kamikaze was beat. Smith could see it all in his rear view mirror. The look of disgust on the dogs face as another strange creature with one of its masters inside its belly making a successful escape through his territory. Smith was pleased, the dog was peeved and Wesson was wearing his lunch.
“What the…?” Wesson said as he sat in shock wondering what happened and when his next meal would arrive.
“Sorry, buddy, but that dog had a bead on us and I didn’t want…” Smith began before seeing the sign of impending doom.
The blue and red flashing lights in his rear view mirror appeared so suddenly he thought maybe he’d driven over the squad car accidently in his haste to escape.
He pulled over and was reaching for his wallet to pull out his license when he glanced in his side-view mirror. What he saw caused him to blink in disbelief. The squad car was rocking up and down, side to side as the person exiting the vehicle extricated himself. He glanced at the sticke
r which read ‘Caution, Objects Are Closer Than They Appear’ and laughed because what he was seeing could not exist. The man’s shoulders took up the entire width of the viewing glass and his head was already out of the picture. As the officer approached more and more of him moved out of frame until finally, as he reached the driver’s side window the only thing viewable was the knee-cap portion of one pant-leg.
Wesson, for his part, was paying the officer no mind. He was scavenging the floorboard in an attempt to save as many hot dogs and nachos as possible. He believed in the five second rule. If something touched the floor for under five seconds it was to be considered uncontaminated and edible. He also believed in the ten, fifteen and twenty second rule if the food in question was of particular tastiness. He heard the officer speak as he found a salvageable chip.
“License and registration, please.”
Wesson again paid the man no heed for it wasn’t his problem. He was the passenger and thus had a different job at the time. He was the edible reclamation manager. He’d eyed a hot dog which had landed on its side and was debating whether to remove the half of bun touching the floor-mat when again he heard the officer speak.
“Sir! License and registration, please.”
He figured Smith was locating the proof for operating residential motorized pet-killers and decided indeed it was okay to eat a hot dog after removing the contaminated side-bread portion when again he heard “Sir!” and turned to help Smith out by yelling “Smith!” but never said a word because what he saw shocked him into silence. Actually, it’s what he didn’t see which did the trick. He was looking across Smith’s body out the driver’s side window and could not see a face… or neck, shoulders, chest, belly or groin. He saw thighs. He saw the portion of the officer’s pants where his thighs were. The rest of the man was out of view and it was then he looked at Smith who was craning his neck upwards to get a look at the behemoth at the door.
“Sir! If I have to ask you one more time…”
Smith finally regained his senses.
“Oh, sorry, Officer, here you go” he said as he handed the man his license and turned to root through his glove boxes for his registration but stopped for when he twisted in his seat he found himself face to face with Wesson who was leaning over and looking up with the same incredulous expression Smith had only moments before.
“Is that…?” Wesson whispered.
“Yes” Smith hushly replied.
Both men felt for certain they were in the presence of the missing link, the Abominable Snowman, the species between man and gorilla. Except they were in a small town in southern Texas which hadn’t seen frozen water outside a refrigeration unit since Mother Nature decided she’d made a mistake on the size of creatures inhabiting her bluish-green marble floating in vastless space.
Smith finally opened the glove-box to retrieve the registration when another strange quirk of fate occurred and a gun fell out. Wesson had placed his weapon in the compartment for simple convenience and because it was uncomfortable to wear during nutritional intake. He’d taken the opportunity to conceal his handgun in the easiest to retrieve place, the compartment directly in front of him. It hadn’t been done to prevent others from eying his baby cannon, it’d been to improve waistband comfort while preparing for hot dog and nacho digestion. The gargantuan noticed.
Neither detective was exactly sure what transpired next. Smith swore he never saw the man move and Wesson felt certain he’d seen no activity but in either case the end result was the two of them face-down on the pavement outside the vehicle, handcuffed and confused before either could say a word.
“Officer?” Wesson asked the shadow looming over him.
“Yes?” it replied.
“I have a permit for that weapon in my wallet.”
He felt something strange. His belt was gripped, pulled tight and he was lifted from the ground as though he were a child. He felt his wallet removed and was placed back on Earth with the greatest of ease.
He could not believe what he was obviously witnessing. The man, the largest being he’d ever encountered had lifted him, a man two-hundred twenty-three pounds before nacho inhalation off the ground by the belt in order to remove a wallet. He hadn’t squatted down and felt for the leather man-purse, he’d lifted up what others would’ve found impossible. Wesson was not a rocket scientist, he had no training in brain surgery but he was pretty astute and fairly certain lifting an object of his proportion was not exactly easy.
“Officer?” Wesson asked.
“Yes?” he heard in reply.
“Did you find the permit? Can you please take these cuffs off?”
He waited for an answer but heard nothing. It was as if the man had disappeared. He heard the everyday aspects of life on the planet with the birds chirping, leaves falling and trees swaying but nothing else. He thought maybe he was dreaming. Maybe nothing happening was really real. Maybe it was all an illusion of his mind. Maybe he’d wake up and his hot dogs would still be there, waiting to be eaten when he heard another enter his reality.
“Wesson?”
“Smith?” he questioned back.
“Of course it’s Smith, who else would it be?”
He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t absolute on anything anymore. Before he’d arisen that morning he’d never met the most beautiful aristocrat in the world, never encountered a butler with authoritative power and never been pulled over by a giant of beanstalk legend.
He was going to reply when he glanced to his left and saw, fifty-feet away, the black soles of the officer’s shoes who stood at his patrol car apparently verifying if the weapon permit was valid. What happened next caused Wesson to question his sanity. He saw the vague figure turn, saw the squad car’s door shut and saw the officer take a step in his direction but where his foot landed was the problem. The man had been a good fifty feet away so his foot should’ve landed around forty-nine or forty-eight feet away but it didn’t, it stood directly in front of his face. He’d crossed fifty-feet in one step.
“Detective Wesson?”
“Yes?” he replied nervously because he’d sworn the man had not only crossed the distance in one step but had also done it in a time span which seemed to defy nature. He could see, maybe, if the guy was some sort of secret triple-jump expert where a person could be in one place and land somewhere else but the time interval didn’t add up. The man had been there, taken a step and landed in front of him. There was nothing in between. No interval for flight, no pause for motion, no nothing. His foot raised, moved and landed fifty feet away.
“You’re permit is valid, sorry for the inconvenience.”
Wesson was going to say something snide for it was in his nature to do so but didn’t. He was lifted to his feet, un-cuffed and turned around to face the hulking beast. As he stood there considering whether he’d had a seizure he saw Smith lifted from the asphalt and reality became clear for Smith had seen the same thing. It was written on his face in the form of shocked amazement. Smith was staring at the man in the same way Wesson was.
“Okay, I’m going to let the two of you go with a warning this time” the man said and both detectives merely nodded for neither one trusted their speech.
“Have a good day” he added and again the two could only nod their heads in affirmation.
“Get in your car and leave” the man finalized and the top detectives in the top investigative firm in one of the leading cities in the world scampered like rodents to do his bidding.
“What the heck was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did he cross half a basketball court in one step?’
“I believe he did.”
The two were jabbering in child-like astonishment as they turned right at the sign indicating the State Correctional Unit. They pulled up to the guard shack and the door opened.
“You have to be joking!”
“There is no way this is happening!”
The guard exiting was as large as the cop they’d just met.