by Alex Grecian
NEED ASSISTANCE. HOW SOON
CAN YOU GET UP HERE?
He put the phone in his left coat pocket to balance the weight of the Eclipse, then found a trail back through the punishing grass. He walked up to the parking lot with Bear at his heels, stopped at the edge of the grass, and watched an ambulance pull into the lot, followed by a squad car skidding over the gravel. The car doors opened and Sheriff Goodman stepped out. On the other side, the deputy, Christian, jumped out and ran around the front of the car to the driver’s side, stood next to the sheriff, and leveled his shotgun at Travis.
Goodman touched the brim of his hat, wiped his chin, and grinned. “We meet again.” He unsnapped his holster and drew his gun.
Before Travis could open his mouth, a hundred and forty pounds of muscle and teeth and claws silently launched past him and plowed into the sheriff. Goodman fell backward against the car and his deputy fired the shotgun, missing everything but giving Bear a split second to change direction and knock Christian to the ground.
“Bear,” Travis shouted. “Bear, haltu!”
The dog grabbed the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth and shook it from side to side, then dropped it as the sheriff rose to his knees, bringing his pistol up. Bear pushed him back down with one massive paw as Christian rolled over and grabbed for the abandoned shotgun.
“Bear, haltu!”
Bear did stop then, standing on the sheriff’s chest, looking up at his master. Goodman stopped, too, and the deputy. Everything was perfectly still for one long moment.
“Bear,” Travis said, “kaŝu.”
The mastiff snorted, turned around and, obeying the command to hide, disappeared once more into the tall grass.
2
A silver Ford Escort with a red streak down its side idled against the curb across from Ruth Elder’s house. Its passenger-side door was emblazoned with the words SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT, and the warning CALL 911 was stenciled above the gas cap. As Skottie pulled up in front of Ruth’s mailbox, a deputy stepped out of his car and crossed the street toward her, his hand resting easy on the butt of his gun.
Skottie’s phone vibrated and she looked down at it. The screen flashed a text message: NEED ASSISTANCE. HOW SOON CAN YOU GET UP HERE?
Skottie rolled her window down as the deputy reached her.
“Keep on driving, amigo,” he said. He was young and good-looking, with a wide forehead, friendly eyes, and skin the color of Emmaline’s antique mahogany china cabinet.
Skottie flashed her ID and the deputy leaned forward to read it, his lips moving a little, then straightened up and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He took a step back so that Skottie could open her door and get out of the car, but he kept his eyes on Ruth Elder’s house. Skottie glanced over at the house and saw a curtain move behind the big window that overlooked the front yard.
“What’s going on?”
The deputy gave her a nervous glance and bit his lower lip. “I’d appreciate you moving along, Trooper. I’m trying to keep this street clear.”
“Planning a parade?”
He shrugged. “Sure. You should watch out for the little old guys on tricycles.”
She put her ID away and stuck out her hand. “I’m Skottie. What’s your name?”
The deputy gave her hand a skeptical look before shaking it. “Ekwensi Griffith,” he said. “Most people call me Quincy. Look, we got a complaint from the man of this house here that somebody’s been hassling his wife.”
“Ruth Elder’s husband called you?”
“I guess. He’s up in New York somewhere.”
“Yeah, the man of this house.” She pointed so he wouldn’t misunderstand. “This house right here? He’s long dead, Quincy. So who called you?”
“I dunno. Some guy. He calls the sheriff last night and tells him to run some other guy off. And the sheriff was ready to do it, too, but then he got a call out to the lake this morning. I guess I just don’t know enough.” He looked at Skottie and pursed his lips. “But maybe you know something.”
Skottie shook her head. She was putting two and two together, but it didn’t quite add up. Ruth Elder’s husband was dead, but Rachel Bloom was temporarily living in the house and her husband must be around somewhere. Maybe he was in New York. Had Ruth’s son-in-law decided he didn’t want anyone prying into her life anymore? Rachel Bloom hadn’t seemed agitated when they left her. She had cooperated with Travis, had answered his questions willingly. Change of heart?
“The man who called in, the one who filed the complaint, was his last name Bloom?”
“I have no idea.”
“What about the other guy,” Skottie said, “the one your boss was gonna chase off. Is his name Travis Roan?”
“I don’t know any names. Sheriff just said he was some kinda foreigner. A white guy. You working with him? That what you’re doing out here today?”
Skottie didn’t bother to answer him. She walked around the front of her car and stepped up onto Ruth’s immaculate brown lawn.
“Whoa,” Deputy Griffith said. “Hey, I can’t let you go up there.”
“I just need a minute, brother. Want to ask the lady a question.”
She turned and started up the walk, but Quincy rushed forward and put a hand on her arm. Skottie stopped and looked at him, and he must have seen something dangerous in her eyes because he immediately removed his hand and his neck turned a deeper shade of walnut.
“Listen,” he said, “I let you go up there and bother that lady … well, it’s my ass. Tell you what, you let me call this in and get the sheriff’s permission, okay? Then everything’ll be cool, right?”
The sun was peeking through a cloud, bathing the deputy in a halo of light. Skottie squinted at him, at the dirty collar of his uniform shirt, the razor bumps on his jaw, and the stubble on his shaved scalp. She wondered what time it had been when the sheriff had summoned poor Quincy, whether the kid had been able to grab a bite to eat before taking up his lonely post on Ruth Elder’s block.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s see what Goodman says.”
She walked with Quincy to the silver Escort. She could tell he was uncomfortable, that he didn’t want her listening in, but he left the car door open and sat sideways with his feet stuck out on the pavement. He thumbed the button on his handset and asked the dispatcher for Sheriff Goodman’s car.
Skottie heard the usual crackle of static and then a woman’s voice. “He’s back here already, Quincy.”
“That was quick.”
“You want him? He’s in his office.”
“Yeah, thanks, Phyllis.” While they waited for Goodman to pick up, Quincy squared his shoulders. He avoided looking at Skottie. She could see the tension rising in his shoulders as he prepared to talk to his employer, and he began to breathe faster. He jumped when a male voice blared through the speaker.
“That you, Quincy boy?”
“It’s me, Sheriff. Listen, I’m at that house you told me to watch, and there’s a woman here.”
“’Course there’s a woman there. Didn’t you pay attention when I told you—”
“I mean there’s another woman. A different one. This lady came to talk to the homeowner, and I don’t know if that’s okay or not.”
“Who’s that? You weren’t supposed to scare her friends and neighbors. You know what, why don’t you just come on in? The situation resolved itself at this end while you was out there jerkin’ off.”
“What?” Skottie reached for the handset, and Quincy reluctantly gave it to her. She stretched the cord across his chest and leaned forward. “Sheriff? This is Trooper Skottie Foster from the Hays office. What situation are you talking about? What was resolved?”
“Foster? What are you doin’ there?”
“I came to talk to Rachel Bloom about her mother. Your deputy did his job and stopped me before I even got out of my car.” She saw a flash of gratitude in Quincy’s eyes and she almost smiled at him. “What’s happening?”
�
�Don’t see how that’s any business of yours, Trooper. You’re way out of your league.”
“Sheriff, I sent you a message about a suspicious man who was on his way up here. Driving a rented Jeep.”
“Oh, that was you?” Goodman’s tone changed. There was an undertone of curiosity now, overlaying the arrogant entitlement. “And, what, you followin’ up on that?”
“I am. Did something happen with him?”
“You know what, why don’t you come on in with that young Quincy. Let’s have us a little talk.”
“Did—”
“Quincy, you still there, son? Give that nice lady a ride on in. You’re done out there anyway. Goodman out.”
Quincy hung up and squinted at Skottie. “Am I supposed to arrest you?”
“I don’t think so,” Skottie said. “I think we’re friends now.”
Quincy jerked his head at the passenger seat. “Well then, hop in, amigo. I can bring you back to your car after you see the sheriff.”
Skottie ran back to her civilian vehicle, a 2014 Subaru Legacy, and grabbed her purse. She picked up a manila file folder from the passenger seat that held the transcription of Ruth Elder’s journal, then changed her mind and left it there. She locked the doors and crossed the street again. She glanced back at Ruth Elder’s house as she got in Deputy Griffith’s squad car, but the curtains were pulled tight across the windows.
Quincy started the car and they rolled away from the curb. “I think you and Sheriff Goodman are gonna get along great,” he said.
Skottie detected a note of sarcasm in his voice.
3
Muffled voices squawked over the car’s radio. A conversation or a song, Travis couldn’t be sure which. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t make himself wake up. He turned off the radio, but the voices grew louder for a few seconds before cutting out completely. He thought he had heard a few half words, a staticky phrase in some other language, and maybe a melody in the background, but he couldn’t place the tune. Fog had settled over the Flint Hills, and Travis could only see as far ahead as his headlights. He slowed to twenty miles an hour and glanced over at his traveling companion, who was having trouble staying awake.
Bear looked up at him, his tongue lolling. His left ear was flipped inside out, but he didn’t seem to mind. He laid his head back down and dozed off.
The two of them floated along quietly, the highway scrolling slowly by under their vehicle, jagged rock walls looming up on either side. Occasionally Travis saw naked men jumping from rock to rock or running along with them, matching the speed of the car from high above. The dim headlights of other vehicles crept past them on the other side of the median, and Travis thought he saw some sort of large creature on the shoulder, big as a house, chasing them. He sped up and it fell back, swallowed up in the fog.
Travis didn’t hear the hoofbeats until Bear perked up and shook his black mane. The dog waited for Travis to roll down the passenger-side window and then stuck his head out. The sound was unmistakable but alien, echoing off the hills and the asphalt and seeming to come from all around them. Travis took his foot off the accelerator as a pale horse materialized in front of them, charging straight at their car. Travis reacted instantly, braking and swerving. The horse swept past, clipping the side mirror as it went, and disappeared.
“Was that real?”
The dog pulled his head back into the Jeep and blinked at Travis. He had the sudden feeling Bear could talk, had always been able to talk.
Travis turned on his hazards and pulled a U-turn, bounced over into the grass median and back up on the shoulder, heading the wrong direction. Bear put his heavy paws on the dashboard and watched the road ahead.
A minute later a silver car zoomed past them, its blue headlights blinding Travis. He caught a glimpse of a dented fender and a long red streak down the side of the car that obscured the phone number beneath a cartoon badge and the number 911. He took his foot off the gas and let the Jeep cruise forward, already dreading what he knew he would find.
The horse lay at the edge of the road, a colorless shape on the dark grass. Travis pulled over and got out. Bear jumped down behind him and followed.
When it saw Travis coming, the horse tried to get up. It scrabbled at the ground and craned its neck. But its legs failed and it grew tired. There was a gash open along its side, and Travis could see the bone in one of its front legs. He turned and went back to the car, but couldn’t find his gun. He thought he ought to have a sugar cube or an apple. Anything. But he didn’t. He looked back and saw that the horse was talking to Bear now, telling him something, and Bear was responding, but Travis was too far away to hear them.
Bear saw Travis watching and came to him and pressed against his legs. Travis bent and put a hand on the top of Bear’s head, felt the warmth and the faint pulse beneath the fur. Then he sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around Bear’s massive neck.
After a long moment, he stood again and looked back at the horse, but it was gone.
“It got a taste of freedom,” he said. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
The dog walked away from him and trotted off into the spongy gray nothingness. Travis looked around for their car and suddenly couldn’t remember where he had left it. He sat down in the middle of the road and closed his eyes, prepared to wait for Bear to return, for the horse to reappear, for some sort of insight.
He woke up then and reached out for Bear, but the dog wasn’t there. He sat and stared at the polished metal toilet in the corner, the bare walls without windows, the locked door, and the wooden chair that was missing part of one leg. Travis felt a sharp pain and he touched his face, probing carefully with his fingertips. A dried nugget of dark blood fell into his lap and he winced. He wondered if anyone knew where he was, and he remembered how the sheriff had promised he would disappear if he chose to remain in Kansas.
4
The Burden County sheriff’s station was in a modified double-wide trailer, all mint-green siding and white trim. Except for the sign out front, it looked exactly like one of the starter homes that lined the other side of the street. Deputy Ekwensi Griffith pulled into the parking lot beside the building and they got out. They had stopped at a KFC on the way back, and Quincy balanced two buckets of chicken and a big bag of sides. He kicked his car door shut and the bag swung around, banging into his leg.
Skottie stood for a long moment looking around, her boots scuffling in the dirt. There was a pen behind the lot where three German shepherds paced around in circles, growling and throwing themselves against the wire walls of their enclosure. Skottie waved at them and held the station’s front door for Quincy, then followed him inside, where she could still hear the dogs barking. A woman who might have been Phyllis the dispatcher sat behind a long counter in the middle of the front room.
Quincy motioned for Skottie to wait there and he crossed to a door behind the counter. He went through, and Skottie caught a glimpse of a dim hallway before the door closed again. The woman smiled at Skottie and nodded at a row of plastic chairs, then returned to flipping through a fashion magazine.
Skottie sat and waited. The decor reminded her of a chiropractor’s waiting room more than a police station. There was a plastic tree in the corner behind the front door and a cheaply framed Norman Rockwell print on the wall next to the tree. She perused the collection of magazines on the end table and picked up a copy of Family Handyman, passing on Deer & Deer Hunting. She read an article explaining how to build a tree house in twelve easy steps and had just settled into a review of this model year’s riding mowers when the inner door opened again and Sheriff Goodman sidled into the room. Skottie stood and took a step forward, but the sheriff didn’t make a move to shake her hand. The skin around his left eye was purple and splotchy, and his jaw was noticeably swollen. He frowned.
“I know you,” he said. “Seen you before.”
“We met once a few weeks ago,” Skottie said. She tossed the Family Handyman on the table. “That wasn�
��t my favorite day.”
Goodman squinted at her, then laughed, three sharp barks, as if he had read what laughter was supposed to sound like.
“What’d I do?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Did I hit on you? ’Cause I get a little flirty sometimes.”
“You made damn sure I knew what my place was and who was boss around here.”
He studied her for a minute. “Well, if I didn’t get flirty, maybe I still got a chance.”
“Not likely,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“Nothing to worry about,” he said.
“Hunting accident?”
“Something like that.” He nodded at her. “Okay, let’s you and me have a talk.”
“Yes,” Skottie said. “Let’s.” She smiled at the woman, who might as well have been holding her magazine upside down for all the attention she was paying it. She didn’t smile back.
Skottie followed Goodman around the counter and through the door, past a kitchenette that smelled like fried chicken and a unisex bathroom with the door standing open. She glanced in and saw a plunger sitting on the toilet seat. Down a brief hallway, they came to three doors, two of them open. One of the rooms was empty and contained a low cot, a chair, and a metal airplane toilet installed in the corner. She guessed that the closed door next to it hid a similar room. Deputy Griffith emerged from it, closed the door again behind him before Skottie could see inside, and brushed past them.
A young guy with a brown shirt and a sandy brown buzz cut was waiting for them behind a desk in the third room. He had his feet up and was picking chicken out of his teeth with the corner of a folded five-dollar bill. A paper plate piled with bones sat on the desk in front of him, and he used his free hand to pat his stomach.
“Shoulda saved you some,” he said. “I know how you people like chicken.”