by Jean Erhardt
Knee-high in field flora and fauna, I meandered among the flitting butterflies. The grass was still tromped down in places and the old beer bottles were lying right where they were the night before.
What had Charlene dragged Officer Mike out here to see? And who the hell had followed us last night? I could rule out Officer Mike and Charlene. They were definitely in front of us. So who was tailing our tail?
And speaking of tails, suddenly I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that, once again, I was being watched. Furtively, I glanced around, but, as far as I could tell, it was just me, the flutterbys and a lot of fence posts. I stopped and listened carefully for any tell-tale sound, but all I could hear were the occasional gusts of wind in the trees along the fence row, a cawing crow and the rapid beating of my own tell-tale heart.
I couldn’t help but notice that my crawling skin crawled a little more when I replayed last night’s caller’s hideous message in my mind. It crawled about another ten feet when I considered again that there was a very good chance that whoever was the owner of that hellish voice probably also owned the car that had followed Amy and me only hours earlier.
But I needed to keep my mind on the task at hand and turned my attention back to the field. Had something been lost here? Had someone buried something or someone? I pawed and scratched and stomped around until I couldn’t paw, scratch or stomp another moment. A good half hour had passed and, once again, I’d found nothing, another frustrating and fruitless search.
Defeated and sweating like a Finn in the sauna, I headed for the fence row where I plopped down under a massive shade tree. Boy, was I a lousy detective. The crow that was loitering on the branch above me agreed. He taunted me with a barrage of nasty caws. I told him he should consider himself fortunate. If I had Ted’s .357, I’d shoot him. He just cackled back at me.
It was hard to believe that I hadn’t turned up anything except the same beer bottles I’d turned up the night before. About the only constructive thing I’d managed to do was shake off a bad case of the heebie jeebies. I mopped my brow with the tail of my T-shirt and tried to figure out my next move.
I was on the verge of embarking on some serious figuring when there was a loud whap whap whap. It took me a moment to realize that the racket was coming from overhead. It sounded like a two-ton butterfly was descending. The noise got louder. Startled, the crow above me gave a last cackle, flapped his oily black wings and took to the sky.
It wasn’t a two-ton butterfly, but I wasn’t that far off either. It was a helicopter. A sleek, black flying machine and it was circling the field. I watched as it slowly circled twice then hovered about dead center. I squinted into the sun but couldn’t make out any markings on the copter. I hunkered down low in the weeds, hoping they, whoever they were, hadn’t come looking for me. I was hoping that I’d seriously overestimated my popularity.
The copter swung its tail left then right, hanging tight to the air like a giant ebony dragonfly. It was one of those bubble models, but the bubble was so darkly tinted I couldn’t make out the pilot or passengers. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the copter abruptly made like a runaway helium balloon, sailing up over the treetops and then it was gone.
Chapter 33
When I was sure the copter was good and gone, I beat feet back to my car where I’d left it in the station parking lot. The Charger was gone, and, no doubt, so was Alonzo because Agee’s rusted pickup was parked in its place, the changing of the guard. I thought I’d stick my head in the station door before I split to get a cool blast of air for the road and catch my breath and to be civil, I’d say a quick hi-bye to cousin Agee.
Agee was a few years older and a few pounds heavier than Alonzo. As far as I could tell, other than that they could’ve been identical twins.
George Jones sang The Grand Tour. Agee was on the phone. He looked up when he saw me come in and he put his hand over the receiver.
“Hey, Kim,” Agee said, holding out the phone, “it’s for you.”
I was beginning to hate incoming calls. I cringed and took the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good,” Evelyn said. “I caught you.”
“Boy, I am glad it’s you,” I let out a sigh of relief. I don’t think I’d actually ever been relieved before to get a call from my mother, but this time I was. It sure beat hearing from Freddy Kruger again.
“What?”
“Never mind. What’s up?”
“Bud Upton called,” she said. “Looks like Larry White’s in town, and he wants to meet later this afternoon.” Evelyn took a long, dramatic breath. “Now Kimberly, you know I want to ride the pony and all, but do you suppose there’s any way you’d let me off the hook just this once and go to this meeting without me? You know I trust you completely. Alonzo’s gonna be so disappointed if I don’t go to King’s Island.”
At this point, leaving Evelyn out of things not only had its appeal, it was probably the right move. Things were getting a bit hairy, and there was every good reason to think that they might get hairier.
“I’ll handle this, Mom. Go with Alonzo. Have some fun.”
“You serious?”
“Of course.” Gee, I was swell.
“Well, I guess I raised you right then. Well, almost.”
I handed the phone back to Agee who’d been standing there staring at me like a dumbstruck woodchuck the whole time. “Everything okay?” he said, recradling the phone.
“Everything’s just super.”
“Wanna beer?”
I did want a beer, badly, but I wanted to drink it somewhere far away from WFOG and anyone related to me. “Thanks, Agee, maybe next time.”
Agee shrugged. “At least let me give you a hug before you go.”
All roads lead to Sparkie’s Lounge, or that’s the way it was beginning to seem. I took the same booth Amy and I had recently occupied and the waitress, also the same one, brought me a glass of water and a menu.
“You must like this place,” she said, taking out her pencil.
Like there were lots of other choices.
“I must.” I ordered my usual, a cheeseburger with the works and a Little King.
“Be right back with your beer,” she said.
“Terrific.” I was greatly anticipating the chilly Little King. This was the best news I’d had all day.
She picked up my menu and tucked her order pad into the back pocket of her jeans. For the backside of thirty, she had a pretty nice backside going for her. She wasn’t kidding. She was right back with my Little King. She poured it into a glass. I didn’t really want it in a glass, but it seemed like she was trying to be nice or at least efficient, so I just said thanks.
I enjoyed my beer and cheeseburger and tried to get my mind to take a coffee break. I was getting nowhere rehashing the questions. I certainly had them down pat. It was answers I needed, and soon.
Although it made me more than a hair uneasy, I was looking forward to meeting the man who called himself Larry White face to face. I only hoped that he didn’t bear a strong resemblance to Freddy Kruger.
I shoved my empty lunch plate aside and was contemplating having a piece of coconut cream pie for dessert when Mayor Scotty Mink came in with a giant of a guy who wore a dark suit, alligator boots and a black cowboy hat. He was probably the Wal-Mart store manager.
The waitress carried menus to a table by the window and while Black Bart seated, Scotty Mink took a short detour to my table.
“Why, hello, Ms. Claypoole,” he said, touching my shoulder. “What a nice surprise to see you. I thought you’d be long gone by now.” His hand lingered on my shoulder.
“I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up before I go.”
“Oh? Anything I can do to help?”
For starts, you could take your slimy paw off me. “I don’t think so, but it’s nice of you to offer.”
“Well, do enjoy the rest of your stay,” he said, turning to join his lunch date.
“Thanks, I will.”
Once I’d g
otten the mayor out of my hair, I went back to the dessert menu, but in a rare act of self-restraint, I passed on the pie, picked up my check, left a healthy tip and paid at the cash register. Then I hit the potty and the pay phone. I still hadn’t been able to totally shake my queasy, uneasy feeling, and I was getting a little worried because I hadn’t filled Amy in yet on the threatening phone call. I dropped a quarter in the pay phone, hoping I’d catch Amy before I headed to Bud Upton’s office for my meeting with Larry White.
I rang her home number and crossed my fingers, hoping that I wouldn’t have to talk to Dr. Prickwad again, but Amy picked up on the first ring.
“I’m glad you called,” she said. Amy didn’t sound too good. In fact, she sounded terrible.
I held my breath and asked the question I didn’t want to ask. “What’s wrong, Amy?”
She sniffed. “I told Doug that I wanted a divorce. It didn’t go so well.”
Her timing was incredible. “You did?”
“I guess seeing you again helped put things in perspective. It’s been coming for a long time.”
Always glad to be helpful. I was really hoping that my name hadn’t come up in their conversation. I already had one peeved husband on my hands. I didn’t need Dickhead and Dr. Prickwad fighting over my head on a platter, but I wanted to be sensitive.
“I’m sorry, Amy.” Actually, I wasn’t sorry at all. With the possible exception of his fat checkbook, Dr. Doug Smith had no redeeming qualities that I could decipher. As far as I could see, Amy or just about anybody else was probably better off without him. I even felt sorry for his patients, but I knew it would take Amy some time to let her good fortune sink in. It was a bit too premature to uncork the champagne.
“I’m so glad I finally did it,” she said. “Now that I’ve stopped crying, I actually feel like celebrating.” Maybe it wouldn’t take as long as I’d originally thought.
“God,” Amy said, nearly a moan, “what did I ever see in him?
An excellent question, but hey, who was I to judge? I’d walked down a few stupid roads myself in the relationship department when there wasn’t even a sign of a fat checkbook. In fact, it was more than just possible that I was skipping hand-in-hand with Nancy Merit down another rutted, blue highway at that very moment.
“So...” Amy said, trying to take on a cheerier note, “you called?”
This was a really crummy time to lay it on her but, for her own good, Amy had to know.
“I got a very ugly threatening phone call. Actually we got a phone call.”
“Oh, shit. From who?”
“Freddy Kruger.”
“Who?”
Apparently, Amy wasn’t a big fan of teen slasher movies. “Someone followed us last night.”
I went on to fill her in completely. I brought her right up to date, including my second fruitless search of the field behind WFOG and the creepy copter.
“A black helicopter?”
“Go figure.”
“This just gets weirder all the time.” I heard her light a cigarette. “And it’s really starting to piss me off. My poor brother’s locked up for something he didn’t do, and there’s some serious bullshit going on in Fogerty and nobody but us gives a crap. And, I married a prick.”
She was pissed off. “Listen, Amy, I’ve gotta run if I’m going to work in a shower before my meeting with Bud and Larry White.” I did want to look fresh for the boys. “Feel like getting together this evening?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
When I hung up, the pay phone spit my quarter back to me. I mistakenly took this for a sign that my luck was improving. I pocketed the quarter and pushed open the hefty wooden door to the parking lot. I wasn’t ten steps out of Sparkie’s door when I heard a rustling sound coming from the bushes behind me. Before I could turn around or open my mouth to say “Christ on toast,” something cold and heavy and hard thumped me good in the back of head. I saw the blue afternoon horizon fill up with dancing black polka dots and felt my knees go. That was all she wrote.
Chapter 34
When I came to, I thought for a moment that Saint Peter had been replaced by Officer Mike at the pearly gates. This was unsettling all the way around.
“Hey,” Officer Mike said, leaning over me, “You okay?” It sounded like he was talking to me through the Alaska pipeline.
I blinked. Everything, including Officer Mike, was a jot off-kilter and fuzzy as a pair of rearview mirror dice. “I don’t know, am I?”
I felt the back of my head, and it was sticky with blood.
“Just leave it be,” a woman said. I felt female hands applying a compress to the back of my head. It was the waitress. From my supine angle, she had two heads, and they were doing a scarf dance.
Then my brain did some backtracking. It was all coming back to me. I remembered leaving Sparkie’s Lounge and getting clonked severely on the head. I was happy to be alive, but it was not particularly reassuring to find Officer Friendly standing there over me. Unhappily, it was obvious that he could easily have been the clonker.
“D’you see anybody?” Officer Mike asked.
“Nope.” I sat up slowly and waited for the scenery to stop riding the merry-go-round.
Officer Mike eyed me closely. “You didn’t see anything?”
“Nada. Just heard the bushes make way for whoever did this.” I pointed to my wound. It wasn’t you, was it, fuckhead?
“They really nailed you, honey,” the waitress said.
“Probably kids,” he said. “Looks like they got your purse.”
“I didn’t have a purse.” I hadn’t carried a purse since high school. I checked all of my pockets feeling pretty confident I’d find everything intact. “Nothing missing.”
Officer Mike seemed to consider this for moment, then he shrugged. “The ambulance is tied up on a bad wreck out on the highway. I’ll run you over to the county hospital.”
When pigs fly. “I think I’ll be ok.”
“You should see a doctor,” Officer Mike said, hands on his hips.
When someone says doctor to me, it is amazing how fast I feel better, especially when that someone is possibly a homicidal maniac. If Officer Mike thought for a micro second I was going to get into a car with him, he was dreaming in Disney colors.
“What time is it?” I asked. I didn’t wear a watch either.
Officer Mike checked his manly, fake-gold wristwatch. “Just past three.”
So much for my shower and freshening up. “I gotta go.” I pushed myself to my feet. I was shaky all right, but I felt okay. Besides I was late for a very important meeting.
“You need to fill out a report,” he said.
“It’ll have to wait.”
Officer Mike took my arm. His beady, dark eyes fixed on mine. “You sure you’re ok?”
Without too much ceremony, I took my arm back. “I’m sure, but thanks for your concern.”
I hopped in the Toyota and started it up. I glanced over my shoulder as I backed up. I could almost see straight.
“Don’t forget about the report,” Officer Mike called out as I wheeled out of Sparkie’s lot. The waitress waved good-bye to me with the bloody towel.
I spared no horses on the way over to Bud Upton’s office. Under normal circumstances, it was about a ten-minute drive from Sparkie’s Lounge. I made it in under five.
I pulled into the lot behind the Fogerty Professional Building and took a spot marked reserved. I took it to mean reserved for me.
The professional building was a tidy, two-story brick building on Main Street situated directly across from the county jail. Scenic. From Bud’s office window, I could probably wave to Rick Rod Delozier in his cell.
My head throbbed and I felt like I could easily toss my lunch at any point as I hoofed it up the steps to the second floor and made my way down the hall to Bud’s office. Bud’s door was the last one on the left. His secretary was just hanging up the phone when I blew in.
“I’m here,” I said, out of
breath. I tried to brush some hair over the crusted bloody spot on the back of my head. I had no idea how bad the wound looked.
Bud’s secretary had a strange look on her face. “Are you okay?”
Apparently, I had no idea how bad I looked. “I’m fine.”
I could tell that she didn’t believe me. That was okay. I didn’t believe me either. She picked up the phone again. “I’ll let Mr. Upton know you’re here.”
“Thanks.” I fought the reoccurring urge to spew on my shoes and all over Bud Upton’s baby-blue carpet. I tried to deep breathe without calling too much more attention to myself. This was not an easy thing to do.
She hung up. “You can go right in.” I thanked her again and headed down the short hallway to Bud’s office. I gave a quick knock and opened the door.
“Great,” Bud said, “you’re here.” Bud stood to greet me. “Kim, I’d like you to meet Larry White.”
To quote the famous American, Gomer Pyle, surprise, surprise, surprise. The mystery man, Larry White, was none other than the cowboy I’d seen having lunch at Sparkie’s with the mayor.
“Kim Claypoole,” I said, shaking his mammoth, outstretched hand. It felt like a weathered catcher’s mitt. “I’m here on my mother’s behalf. Nice to meet you,” whoever you are.
I don’t think he recognized me from Sparkie’s. If he did, he was a fine actor. “Likewise,” he said in a booming, lower-octave voice. He sounded like the bass singer for the Oak Ridge Boys. He didn’t look as friendly as the Oak Ridge Boys, however.
“Shall we?” Bud motioned for us to take seats on the other side of his desk. Larry White pulled up the cushy office chair to my right, and I took the seat nearest the door so I could keep the back of my battered head out of plain view. It was also closer to the bathroom.
Bud folded his hands professionally. “Kim, would you like a glass of water or something? You look...overheated.”