by Jim Brown
“It’s not your germs I’m afraid of catching. It’s your ethics.”
“Don’t worry; it’ll never happen.” Clyde stole a french fry, then added in a hush, “I don’t have any ethics.”
Dean laughed out loud.
Even Nathan chortled. “I may be the mayor, but I refuse to think of myself as a politician. I care about this place. I want to make a difference.”
Clyde waved off a waitress approaching with a menu, then helped himself to Dean’s untouched glass of water. “I want to make a difference, serve a cause, fight the good fight. All that happy horseshit but I can’t do it from home. You have to get in there and mix it up with the other fat cats in Washington. Then and only then can you accomplish something.”
They talked, about politics, the economy, Clyde’s eighteen-month-old daughter. And through it all Clyde and Nathan jabbed at each other like an old married couple. Dean allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Pleased as always that his old friend, and now congressman, Clyde Watkins felt comfortable enough to be candid and clear with them.
Whenever Clyde was in town, the old gang tried to get together. The fire kept Sheriff John Evans away, and his cousin Mason had long since moved to Portland. But even with just the three of them, it was an enjoyable visit. No matter how brief.
The congressman checked his watch, then looked at Dean. “So, what’s it going to be? Can I tell our friends at NxTech that it’s a go? You’ll work for them?” Then to Nathan, “I think they want to break ground within the month.”
“Great,” Nathan said.
Dean was silent.
“What?” Clyde asked. “You’re not still having doubts, are you?”
“I - I don’t know. NxTech makes me uneasy.”
“If this is about their environmental record, we’ve already discussed that. You can do more good inside the company than out,” Nathan said.
“No. It’s not just that. It’s, well, I’ve been looking into the company. And, well, they have one division that deals with nothing but weapons research.”
Nathan looked at Clyde. The congressman smiled. “So? You won’t be in that division.”
“Yeah, but it’s the same company. They share information.”
Clyde shook his head; his smile remained steady. “Come on, Dean. Your research is on what? The dualities of quantum Silly String, or something like that.”
“‘The Multifunctionality of Quantum Physics and Superstring Mechanics.’” Dean said.
“So does it have anything to do with weapons?”
“No, but – ”
“Do you see any weapons-related application?”
“No.”
Clyde held up his hand. The smile widened. “So what’s the problem?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I’m off. Got to get to Salem.”
“Big fund-raiser?” Nathan chided. “Smoky backroom dealings with the timber boys.”
“Nah, strictly K.A.S.”
Dean arched a brow. “K.A.S.?”
“Kiss Ass and Smile.”
Clyde Watkins left as he came, working the room – smiling, laughing, shaking hands, slapping backs. Forever the politician.
Nathan went to get a fresh cup of coffee.
Dean Truman looked out the window. The band of gray clouds continued to grow on the horizon. A terse wind teased the almost bare trees on the courthouse lawn. A sheet of newspaper capered across the grass like a flightless bird, past a light pole, past a fire hydrant, colliding with the leg of man sitting on the courthouse bench.
Dean frowned.
The stranger sat as if he were sleeping, hands folded, head down. He wore a burnted-brown cowboy hat pulled low across his forehead, the floppy brim masking his face. He was dressed for inclement weather even though the forecast called for clear skies and sunshine. The long, army-green raincoat was dirty and frayed.
The wind picked up; the edges of his coat flapped like molded wings of a long-dead raven.
As Dean watched, the stranger raised his head, revealing long brown hair, a beard, and a mustache.
Dean didn’t recognize him. The man ignored the newspaper flapping at his leg. Instead he stared straight ahead, looking at –
At me?
The distance was too far to be sure, but to Dean it felt as if the stranger was looking at him. No, watching him. Dean flinched, looking away as if caught ogling a friend’s wife. He stared at the table top. But the stranger stayed on his mind. He seemed so . . . so out of place.
Dean looked back out the window.
The stranger was gone.
Dean checked the panoramic view of the city. The man in the coat was nowhere to be seen.
The stranger couldn’t have left that quickly. Could he?
United States Congressman Clyde Watkins vigorously dried his hair with a rough hotel room towel and marveled at his own sexual prowess. He had lied to his wife, lied to his staff, and had lied to two of his oldest friends, although technically he had done a lot of ass-kissing and smiling.
“Bang-shang-a-lang,” he said to his reflection in the hotel mirror.
To Clyde’s way of thinking, his prevarication was his friends’ fault. If they could only understand the need, his overwhelming got-to-get-me-some-of-that need, then he would have been truthful.
Excuse me, friends, he would say, I have to go shag the monkey.
But he couldn’t tell the truth, not to a couple of prudes like Nathan and Dean. About politics, yes; about sex, never.
He knew what they would say. What about your wife, what about your daughter? What about them? Clyde loved them very much. His sexual urges were insatiable, a fact that Dean would no doubt contribute to some deep-seated insecurity, so he dealt with those needs discreetly, lying to his family and friends to protect them.
He had been seeing the young, enthusiastic, and incredibly flexible staff worker on and off for more than year now. Usually their trysts were reserved for Washington, D.C. But she had been in town visiting family, and well, the temptation was too great. So were the odds of getting caught. Don’t pee in the pool, his father used to say. In other words, don’t dally with the dolly in your own hometown.
But sometimes he just couldn’t say no.
Clyde lowered the towel. His hair stuck out in a hundred different directions. Still, there was a twinkle in his eyes, a curl to his lips. “You are one fine-looking piece of manhood,” he told himself.
His reflection smiled back.
Sure, it had been dangerous, foolish even, but that had only added to the excitement. “Kept me pumping,” he said, winking to himself.
The hotel room door opened, squeaking like a yawning mouse. In the bathroom, Clyde paused. She’s back.
His athletic partner had returned for thirds. Miffed but titillated, Clyde yelled out, “Now, honey, we talked about this. I’ve got to hit the road.” He stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his shoulders, pushing his hair back with his right hand and reflexively sucking in his gut. “Besides, baby, that last time left me as sore as a –”
Disbelief cleaved his words. His mind stumbled. His mouth was dry, face slack, his eyes widened in terror. His heart, his breath, his soul went into lockdown.
The other man grinned.
Then United States Congressman Clyde Watkins got really scared.
6
Piper Blackmoore put two bags of groceries on the floorboard and one on the passenger seat, then slammed the door. The black Ford Ranger shot out of the Shop-Lo parking lot and onto Davis Street like a thoroughbred out of the starting gate. Piper turned onto Asher Drive. The groceries rocked. She frowned, then begrudgingly eased off the accelerator, taking the next corner with a slow turn rather than her usual tire-squealing jerk.
She worked her way through the back streets, heading steadily north, sketching a jagged course on her
journey home. She knew dozens of ways to go home, but was always exploring new avenues. When you were born and raised in Black Valley, Oregon, you took your fun where you could find it.
She liked to go fast. In college she had dated a guy who was into motorcycles. And although the relationship never went anywhere, she had enjoyed the arousing sensation of shooting down the highway on a brightly colored, two-wheeled bullet. The relationship ended when she realized she was more attracted to the bike than the rider.
This latest route had come to her over breakfast, and although it took a temporary jaunt to the northeast, she hoped the absence of traffic lights would compensate for the more indirect course. She turned onto Maple Drive, then took a quick left onto Percy and was abruptly brought to a halt by a dreaded orange and black, diamond shape sign advising CONSTRUCTION AHEAD.
“Damn,” she cursed. Percy Street was being expanded into four lanes, a process that left it all but impassable. She examined her options, then pulled into the rear parking lot of the Daybreak Hotel. The building faced Emerald Street. If she could wiggle through the car-clustered back lot and around to the front, she could slip back onto a main road and skirt around the inconvenient construction zone.
Again she was thwarted, this time by a large semi bearing the hotel logo that was being unloaded by three men in blue-and-gray jump-suits. “Damn, damn, double-damn.”
So much for hurrying.
She sat for a moment trying to calm herself, alittle startled by her disproportionate anger. Why was she so frustrated? On edge? It was just a game. There was no real hurry to get home. Nothing waiting but memories and ghosts. She rubbed her arms. She felt as if someone were scratching on a blackboard, clawing at the surface with dry, chipped nails.
She shuddered.
Goose bumps rippled her arms. She felt . . .?
Like someone was walking on her grave.
The Ford Ranger droned impatiently. Piper Blackmoore shook her hands, flexing her fingers. Why did she feel so . . . “What?”
The sun caught the windshield of a parked car; a burst of reflected light flashed in her face, causing her to squint. She held a hand up to shield her eyes. The rear of the Daybreak Hotel was industrial beige and brown with set-back service doors, and a triple row of windows, twelve long.
The window.
Something caught her eye. Face shielded from the splintered sunlight, she could clearly see into the window of a hotel room, just in front of her and one floor up. Two men appeared to be . . .
My God.
As she watched, one man dropped to his knees, arms flailing; the other stood over him, hands around the fallen man’s neck.
Choking him.
Nathan Perkins looked out the window of the Downtown Daily Diner and chewed on the last of his fries. Dean Truman tracked his gaze. “As much as I love the idea of NxTech coming in here, Nathan said, “I still wish they had decided to put the darn thing somewhere other than Hawkins Hill. That place gives me the willies.”
“Superstitious bunk,” Dean snapped. “Completely unsubstantiated poppycock.”
Nathan sipped his coffee. The warmth of the brew formed a fog of condensation on his glasses. He didn’t seem to notice. “Always the scientist. Even after . . .”
The statement went unfinished.
The subject taboo.
“Well, gift horses and all that. I suppose I should just be grateful that we have such an outstanding citizen as yourself. Even if we don’t understand that scientific voodoo you do, everybody respects you.”
“Well, not everybody,” Dean said. He sipped his coffee, then told Nathan about the brick through the window.
Alarm spread across his old friend’s face. “You’ve got to tell John.”
“The school reported it.”
“This is serious, Dean. It could have taken your head off.”
“At least then I wouldn’t have to make a decision about NxTech.”
Nathan tapped the table with his knuckles. “I’m not kidding. If not you, someone could have been hurt.”
Dean sipped his coffee, holding the cup to his lips a moment longer, the rich aroma filling his nostrils. “Probably just kids. Or maybe protestors. You know, like they get down in Eugene.”
Nathan nodded. “A few short sighted people are always against the expansion.”
Dean pointed with the palm of his hand. “Exactly. Kids.”
“Violent kids,” Nathan added. “A bullet doesn’t have an age limit. Remember what happened in Springfield.”
Springfield, Oregon, May 21, 1998. Four dead, twenty-five injured. A fifteen-year-old boy charged with walking into the school cafeteria and gunning down his classmates.
“It wasn’t a bullet. It was a brick.”
“Still applies. Violence breeds violence.”
Dean was quiet.
The brick.
It had appeared from nowhere.
He scanned his mind for an explanation. Maybe his eyes were getting bad? He should have them examined. If he were nearsighted, that might explain why he hadn’t seen the originating point of the brick. Or perhaps it was launched from a natural blind spot, a position Dean couldn’t see?
Somebody’s watching us, Piper Blackmoore had said. Then a swish of - what? He had seen something. Cloth. A cape? Yeah, right. He was being stalked by Batman. Still, it was shortly after that that the brick was thrown.
And what about the velocity? Through the window, through the wall. No one could throw a brick that fast. Then what?
A massive hand landed on his shoulder and Dean jumped. He looked up into face Black Valley County Sheriff John Evans.
“Clyde gone?” John asked, taking a seat at their table. He was holding a fresh cup of coffee.
“Just missed him,” Dean said.
Nathan wasted no time. “John, glad you’re here. Tell him, Dean.”
“Is this about the thing at the school?” John asked. “You okay?” The sheriff turned his substantial gaze on Dean, his stoic face reflecting a subtle glint of worry. Since Judy’s death John had been increasingly protective of Dean, almost as close as brothers.
“I’m fine.”
John frowned. “Probably just kids.”
“See?” Dean cried triumphantly.
“Still, I’d best look into it. Can’t be too careful with our number one citizen.”
“See, right back at you,” Nathan crowed.
Someone laughed on the other side of the diner. Dean looked up and caught Mavis’s eye. She winked. He smiled and looked away shyly.
“Looks like rain,” John said.
Outside, the thin line of gray clouds had expanded, like oil on water, filling a quarter of the sky.
“Forecast says sunshine all weekend,” Nathan complained.
John shrugged. “Still looks like rain. Smells like it too.”
Ozone? That’s what Dean had thought of a moment ago and then forgotten. There had been a strong scent of ozone just before the brick smashed through the glass. Or was he imagining that?
“You riding your bicycle?” John asked.
“Saving the environment with every pump of the pedal.” The deepening gray clouds were clustering like conspirators near the top of Hawkins Hill.
John took a deep drink from his cup, then set it down on the table. “Come on. We’ll throw your bike in the back of my Jeep. I want to swing by the school and take a look at that brick.”
“There’s nothing to see. I’m telling you, you’re overreacting.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be too careful –”
“Than not careful enough,” Dean and Nathan said in unison.
An unusual smile, like a curl of wood from a whittler’s knife, creased John’s face. “Guess I’ve said that before.”
“About a billion times,” Nathan replied. “Make that
a billion and one.”
Ozone? Dean pondered.
The desk clerk was a husky man with a young boy’s face. He was talking on the phone when Piper ran into the lobby.
“He’s trying to kill him!” she shouted. “In the room. You’ve got to stop him.”
The clerk held up a portly finger then uh-huhed someone on the phone.
“He’s killing him!” Piper shouted.
“Excuse me, please.” The clerk put a hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Emboldened by fear and adrenaline, she reached across the desk, jerked the receiver from the clerk’s frankfurter fingers, and slammed it into the cradle.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“There’s a man being murdered in one of your hotel rooms.”
The clerk blinked as if a flashbulb had just gone off in his face. “Murdered? What do you mean, ‘murdered’?”
“As in no longer living, you idiot. For God’s sake, give me the pass key and dial nine-one-one.”
That got his attention. “Betty, call the sheriff,” he said to a woman pushing a cart of soiled linens. He pulled a key ring from a hook under the desk. “Which room?”
“Second floor. I’m not sure. I saw it from the parking lot.”
They took the stairs two at a time. The stairwell emptied into the middle of the hallway. Twelve rooms facing the rear parking lot, six on the right, six on the left.
“Which way?” the clerk asked.
“Left.”
Despite his girth he moved quickly, rushing down the hall, Piper at his heels. “Which room?”
Piper ran her hand through her hair. Her skin felt galvanized. The tips of her fingers cold. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I didn’t count. I just looked up and there they were. Start knocking on doors.”
The clerk went to the closest door and started pounding with the soft side of his fist. “Hotel manager. Open up!”
When there was no response, he used the key, disappeared, then re-emerged shaking his head. “It’s empty.”