The Dead of Night

by Jean Rabe

  “This place should be quarantined. Nuked from effin’ orbit.” Sounded like JJ.

  “She’s in shock.” A stranger. “Definitely shock.”

  Were they talking about the Mailbox Mauler? Or were they talking about her?

  More cats hissed, the sounds blending and seeming like a nest of serpents that someone had stirred.

  The swirl of colors thickened and turned gray like clay. The air felt like clay, too, wet, and it was heavy, pressing down on her. Piper tried to get up, but she felt fuzzy. The air pushed her down with more force.

  A soft meow, something pleasant against her hand, maybe a fluffy cat rubbing against her? She couldn’t see the cat for the clay.

  She was on her knees, right? She needed to get up, walk this off. Or had she already gotten out of the house? The air smelled a little better. She could take it to the bottom of her lungs. Was this a dream?

  Oh, God, her arm burned like it was on fire.

  “Where am I?” Suddenly Piper didn’t hurt as much, the aches dull and pulsing, but no longer burdensome. She still felt fuzzy, imagining cats rubbing against her. Was she still in that awful house that should be nuked from orbit?

  “Rest.” Another strange voice, this one matronly. “Don’t try to get up.”

  Piper focused and discovered she was on an uncomfortable gurney, raised so she reclined, her head on an uncomfortable pillow that made a crinkly noise when she moved.

  “Where—”

  “You’re in the emergency room at St. Mary’s in Boonville, Punkin. It’s where the ambulance took you.” Paul Blackwell stood on one side of the bed; a nurse was on the other, checking an IV. Something clear dripped from it down a tube and into Piper’s good arm.

  Her left arm and shoulder were wholly bandaged and tied against her.

  “What’s this—”

  “It’s called a sling and swathe,” the nurse explained. Hers had been the matronly voice. “You have hairline fractures in your humerus and clavicle. The pellets hit your bones, but didn’t penetrate. You were lucky. Couldn’t put a cast on the shoulder, so they used a sling. It will keep your arm immobilized, give your shoulder support, help everything heal. You’re going to have to wear it for a week or two.” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “They used a local, Lidocaine, and you have a few stitches. Ortho’s looked at your x-rays, said you can leave after the antibiotics are done.” A nod to the IV drip. “Pharmacy has a couple of prescriptions. You’ll need to take it easy. Nothing strenuous. Don’t use the arm. The doctor will be back in just a little while to go over everything. But I’ve probably covered it all.” She walked to the door, her pant legs making a swishing sound. “Like I said, you’ll need to take it easy.”

  “But I can go,” Piper said.

  Her father nodded. “When the IV’s done, and after the doctor’s come back. They said I can get the prescriptions for you. What were you thinking, Punkin? You could have been—” He stopped. “Doc says you were unconscious when they brought you in, that you were in shock. They took eight pellets out of your arm, and two out of your shoulder. Cleaned you up.”

  “Thinking? I was thinking there was no way in hell I was gonna shoot that crazy old woman.” Piper turned her head to look out the window. It was still light. “What time is it?”

  “Half past five.”

  “Shit.”

  “Punkin—”

  “I had a meeting at four with a kid I was looking at for the dispatcher job, who I was gonna ask about hacking and—”

  “Sylvia rescheduled him for tomorrow. And I can talk to him if you’re going to stay home.” Oren had stepped into the room. “You should stay home, Sheriff Blackwell.”

  “She is staying home,” Paul said.

  Piper couldn’t. She had Mark the Shark at nine. The bones. The old case files. Gretchen to resolve. She needed to see if Diego had come up with anything on the Celica. Her routine was no longer dull, and she refused to miss any of the current goings on.

  “I’ll take it easy,” she compromised. “But I’m going in. Gretchen? The Mailbox Mauler. What happened?”

  Paul stepped back, mumbling about letting them talk business. But she noticed he didn’t leave. Nosey, she thought. But she couldn’t blame him.

  “She’s been arrested on charges of littering.” He laughed when her eyes widened. “Just kidding, but we could. I met with DA Scales an hour ago. We got her on assault with a deadly weapon inflicting serious bodily injury, assaulting an officer—those are thirty to fifty-year felonies, but she doesn’t have that much time left on her ticket. There’s damage to property, resisting arrest, hoarding, and seven or eight more charges.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the next. “Nothing will stick in the end, you understand, no judge around here will send an eighty-some-year-old woman to jail for decades. Dementia, they’ll say, mental illness. But it’ll hang over her as a threat, force her to get help, maybe force her to be institutionalized. She’s nuts, that’s obvious. DA Scales says it’s tough to prove Guilty By Reason of Insanity, because it’s pretty clear that while Gretchen is missing all the fries out of her Happy Meal she knows right from wrong. But the intent is to get her off the street and get her some help, put her in a safe place that’ll treat her.”

  “Any kids? Grandkids?”

  “Sylvia came up with a daughter and a grandson in Paducah. We called them, and they’ll be here Saturday.”

  “The cats?”

  He laughed again. “I took cats from a crime scene back in January, remember? I’m up to three now. Wife won’t let me take anymore. The kittens were cute, though, almost caved on a white fluff ball. And there was a shitload of ‘em, kittens. Four shelters are removing them—still removing them, going to get them vetted. Last I heard on the radio, they were up to one hundred and thirty-five cats and kittens, and two ferrets. Found quite a few dead cats, too.” He backed up and stood in the doorframe. “Just thought I’d stop by and check on you. Really, you should stay home a day or two.” Another step back. “But I figure I’ll see you tomorrow morning anyway. If you’ve got more of that Dark Italian, I’ll brew some and we’ll talk about the bones.”

  “That sounds delicious,” she said.

  Then Oren was gone and the doctor came in, giving her a once over and noting the drip was done.

  “Let’s get you home, Punkin.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Fifteen minutes since the last time you asked.”

  “I’ll make it back in time for Nang. I invited him over for pizza.”

  He scowled. “They said take it easy.”

  “I’ll let Nang do the cooking.”

  22

  Twenty-Two

  “I sell these in my quick mart.” Nang stared at the pizza he’d taken out of Piper’s freezer. It looked like he was scrutinizing the ingredients.

  Piper laughed. She stopped. Laughing hurt. A glance at the clock—seven. She was due for a pain pill, but she’d wait and get some pizza on her stomach. She’d had nothing to eat since the donuts and coffee at breakfast. “Where do you think I bought it? When I stopped to get gas last week.”

  “This pizza might give you gas.”

  “Not funny.”

  “I have never baked one of these.”

  “You were born here, Nang, and you’ve never baked a frozen pizza? I find that impossible to—”

  He grinned. “Not one of these. I usually make my own pizza or bake a DiGiorno Supreme. I carried DiGiorno once, but they didn’t sell. My customers wanted cheaper pizzas. I ended up eventually buying all of them. I had stocked so many that I had pizza for months. Always been curious what one of these tasted like.”

  He ripped the cellophane off and slid it onto the rack, then stepped to the refrigerator and opened it. “You don’t have juice. You should have juice. It would be good for you, healthy. You have a bottle of soda and energy drinks.”

  I could use an energy drink right now.

  “In the freezer,” Piper answered. “I hav
e juice in the freezer. Grape, orange. Do orange.”

  He continued looking in the refrigerator. “You don’t have much in here. I’m going grocery shopping for you tomorrow.”

  “I can shop for myself, Nang. I can—”

  “Your dad said you’re supposed to take it easy. Shopping would be difficult with one arm.”

  “Nang, I’m—”

  “Not going to argue with me.” He closed the refrigerator and opened the freezer, plucking out a frozen can of orange juice and eyeing the rest of the stock. “Not much in here, either. These little dinners you have—”

  “Are convenient. Easy to microwave. I like them. And, look, there’s vegetables in them.”

  “Frozen.”

  “I bought them at your quick mart. And I don’t eat here all that often because—”

  “You are so busy.” He shut the door and put the frozen concentrate can of orange juice in the sink and ran hot water on it, then found a carafe on the counter to mix it in. “Tomorrow I will shop for you and make a big batch of Canh Chua.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hot and sour soup, my own recipe. Pineapple, mushrooms, tomatoes, basil, bean sprouts, okra. I’ll make a big batch so your father has some, too. And a pot of Banh Nuoc—noodle soup. You will have plenty of soup, and soup is good for mending. It keeps well.”

  “Thanks, Nang. I really appreciate it, but—”

  He turned and stared at her. “Please don’t argue. I like to cook, and I like you. Let me do these things. We’ll both feel better for it.”

  “Okay.” Piper watched him turn back to the sink and fix the orange juice.

  She liked him, too, maybe too much. He was smart, kind, industrious, good looking. She enjoyed his company and his cooking, looked forward to their get-togethers, thought about him in quiet times at work, and wondered if this would go farther than casual dating. But she also thought about the life she’d left behind. She truly loved the military; it fit her better than being sheriff of Spencer County. If her dad hadn’t gotten so ill with the Non-Hodgkin’s she’d still be with the 101st, would have never come back to take care of him and then indulge his suggestion she run for sheriff. A hot-runner, she’d be advancing in rank and responsibility in the Army.

  But she had the top rank and responsibilities in the sheriff’s department. And as the weeks passed, she liked the job more and more—despite being shot by a crazy octogenarian during what should have been her lunch hour. Piper realized she could have been killed today. But there’d been plenty of lunch hours in Iraq where that could have happened, too.

  A part of her was not happy that she was liking all of this.

  This small county and its residents and being so near to her father—even though she was planning to move a little farther away. She needed more distance.

  Whatever she had with Nang, liking him maybe too much. Probably too much. If she let her emotions get thicker they’d weigh her down like an anchor, cement her to this small county.

  Working with Oren Rosenberg, who should have won, who’d wanted it more than she had, who would have been better in the lead role. She couldn’t say she liked him, but she enjoyed working with him, respected him, and relished the competition in trying to solve a case first, like the boy’s bones. There’d been a competition involved with the serial killer, too, back in January, her winning—but not by much.

  Being in charge of something, having the power to hire and fire, even though she felt bad about the Drew thing.

  Facing two very different cases, a child’s bones and the theft of an old man’s life earnings. Both of them sad and interesting and dominating her dreams.

  “Your father says I don’t cook enough beef dishes,” Nang said. He’d been saying something else, but she’d lost it in her musings. “I like chicken dishes, the way the ingredients go together, and so I serve a lot more chicken in my quick mart. The profit margin is better, too. But I will make some Com Bo Nuong tomorrow. And before you ask what it is, Com Bo Nuong is basically grilled beef, better than what the country club in town serves. Beef, I slice it thin, scallions, carrots that I usually shred, mushrooms, bok choy—which is Chinese, not Vietnamese, but I like to use it—and crushed peanuts. That adds texture, makes it interesting. I will make a great deal of it tomorrow so I can serve it at the store, bring some here. I’ll use nuoc mam sauce.”

  “Don’t you use nuoc mam sauce on that roast chicken you make?”

  “Com Ga Quay Dzon roast chicken. You shine, Piper. Yes, I do.”

  “I think that’s my favorite, that Dzon chicken.”

  “Then I will make some of that, too. All day I’ll be busy for you.”

  She blushed. “I don’t need—”

  “Of course you do. We’ll both feel better for it,” he repeated.

  They ate the pizza on the couch, which is where Nang said pizza is properly eaten, and he pronounced it passable, that he’d continue to offer it in his store. Piper pronounced it delicious, and she ate more than half of it, could have eaten the whole thing she was so hungry.

  “Your dad wants you to stay out of your office for a few days.”

  Piper shook her head and finished the last of the pizza, washed it down with a glass of orange juice. “I can’t. And I can drive with one hand. I’ve got these cases. I’ve got to meet the old man in the park in the morning.”

  “You have so much to do. I know. Your dad should know that, too.”

  “He does. He probably wishes he was the one working the cases.” She couldn’t hold the smile in. “You know, it’s awful, the things I’m investigating. Bones of a boy murdered a long time ago, an old man being swindled by a savvy computer hacker—these are awful things. It’s awful that someone has stolen almost everything from him, a war veteran, a charitable guy who’d been giving bits of money to a lot of local organizations. Doesn’t matter that he’s ninety-four I think, that he doesn’t have much time left. Doesn’t matter that he’s had a great life and really didn’t need the money that was stolen. It’s not right. It’s unconscionable and evil and—”

  “And yet—”

  “Yeah, and yet it’s a little exciting, too. In a way. Not for him. For Mark it’s wholly rotten. But for me, it’s something I need to fix, something I need to—”

  “Keep you busy. You are a very good sheriff, Piper Blackwell.”

  She held out her glass for more orange juice. “I have pills on the counter, would you—”

  He was quick to bring both.

  “And the bones. They’re opposite ends of life, you know. That little boy had nine years on the earth, Mark ten times that amount. Wrong was done to each of them, and I can’t help the boy. Dead, dead, dead, dead. Nothing can help the boy. But I can help Mark, he’s still breathing. I can get his money back. Try to get his money back. Settle his mind and get him some peace. I want justice for both of them.”

  “A very good sheriff. You are passionate.” Nang turned to tidying up Piper’s kitchen. “Your dad must be very proud of you.”

  “I think he wouldn’t mind if I went back to Fort Campbell after my term. He misses being sheriff.”

  “I would miss you,” Nang said, “if you went back to Fort Campbell.”

  Piper yawned, feeling a wash of fatigue spread through her. The pill couldn’t be working that quickly. Maybe the entirety of the day was crashing down.

  “I need to check on Gretchen, the crazy cat lady, the Mailbox Mauler. The Celica. I need to check on that, too, find it. That old car might be the key to helping Mark. I should be doing that now. Diego might have found something on the registration. Oren might have something on the bones. And—”

  “Tomorrow,” Nang suggested. “It’s not that many hours away.”

  Less than a dozen hours until when she would be at her desk.

  Piper finished the second glass of orange juice and stood. She was a little off balance and didn’t move for a few moments. She padded to the window and looked out, seeing her loaner Hyundai in the driveway
. Someone had brought it from Gretchen’s. Her dad was in the front lawn walking Wrinkles. He started down the sidewalk. They never walked far. The elderly pug didn’t have a lot of stamina, but he sure liked to hike his leg on any vertical surface. A shadowy-colored car was parked on the street across from her dad’s house. It edged away and turned on its lights.

  Was it the Celica?

  She hadn’t gotten a good enough look. Paranoid, I am. Not every car is a decade-old Celica.

  “I really should go back to the office.” Piper said it to herself, not Nang.

  “Tomorrow,” he repeated.

  Nang carefully put her to bed. “I’ll be on your couch if you need anything.”

  She started to protest his staying, but a dream of a thousand cats overtook her and pushed away the boy’s bones and Mark the Shark, and like a huge, toothy thresher it swallowed her.

  23

  Twenty-Three

  Friday, May 4th

  “Neal? My grandfather’s youngest brother? Yeah, Neal Robert Huffman, my great uncle. Well, he would’ve been my great uncle. Sixty-five years dead now. Neal Robert would’ve been, oh, seventy-four if he hadn’t drowned that day.”

  “Too young to die, nine years old.” Oren felt like he should say something.

  “My grandfather only lived to be forty, so I never met him either. Brain tumor.”

  Oren spotted two city cops come in and slide into a nearby booth.

  “Forty’s too young to die, too, but he got a lot more years than poor Neal Robert did. My grandfather, Julian Joseph Huffman was—” The young man tipped his head back, lips working as if he figured a math problem. “Sixteen then, yeah. Sixteen when Neal Robert died. Seven years older. My grandfather was the oldest kid in the family. I’m a little bit into the genealogy stuff. Not by choice. My wife really likes that shit. She’s doing a whole family tree thing.”