Littlefield nodded. He would likely find something wrong that would give him authority to shut down the event in the interest of public safety. The re-enactors would piss and moan, the local business owners would bang their empty tin cups, and somebody would write cranky letter to the editor, but the action would buy him enough time to figure out what was going on at the Hole. And, whether the fake soldiers ever knew it or not, Littlefield might just be protecting them from an accident or two.
“Okay, then, come out tomorrow.” Jeff Davis stood, shoulders erect, chin tilted up. “The permit?”
The sheriff scrawled his signature and slid the paper to Davis, who carried it out the door. His hearty “So long, Honey” to Sherry was the last sound besides the slamming of the front door.
He reread Cindy’s article. He was three paragraphs into it when the phone rang. Expecting Perry Hoyle’s report, Littlefield snatched up the phone.
“Sheriff, it’s Barclay.”
Chairman of the county commission, a property lawyer with a hand in practically every square inch of disturbed dirt in Pickett County, and boyhood best buddy of Bill Willard. Just what Littlefield needed. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard from the Chamber of Commerce that you’re trying to shut down the Living History event.”
“That’s a slight exaggeration.”
“Do you know how many hundreds of people the re-enactment brings to town, and how many thousands of dollars they spend? They fill up the hotels, eat in the restaurants, and buy souvenirs in the shops. Some of them even look around, like the look and feel of the place, and decide to buy a mountain getaway, and that helps the local economy all the way down the line.”
All the way into your pocket. “I can’t worry about profit margin. I’ve sworn to protect the public.”
“Don’t forget you hold elected office. The same people who put you in can take you back out.”
The next election was over a year away, and voters could drop old grudges and form new ones by then. “I like to think people put their trust in me because I always did what was best for the county,” Littlefield said.
“You don’t hear the talk,” Barclay said, his silver-tongued delivery as persuasive on the phone as in the courtroom. “Ever since what happened at the church in Whispering Pines, you’ve been damaged goods. I’ve been working behind the scenes to prop you up because I know you’re a good man. But don’t push your luck.”
First Willard and now Barclay. He resented being viewed as a puppet for Pickett County’s rich and powerful. “I only push when I get pushed,” he said.
In the ensuing silence, the scanner crackled and Littlefield missed the first few words. He moved the phone from his ear so he could hear Sherry speaking into the dispatch mike.
“10-32 at McAllister’s Bowling Alley,” Sherry said. “Suspicious person.”
“Got to go,” Littlefield said into the phone. “There’s a voter in trouble.”
“The chamber carries a lot of clout—”
Littlefield clicked Barclay cold and jogged through Sherry’s office, wincing as his knees creaked. “What’s the deal?” he said, not slowing.
“Some weird guy in rags, carrying a gun.”
Littlefield stopped at the door. “Weird guy?”
“That’s what Mac said, but you know how Mac is. He gets a little paranoid.”
As Littlefield headed for his cruiser, he hoped the weird guy didn’t arouse Mac’s suspicious streak. For one thing, Mac had a licensed handgun on the premises and had used it two years ago to ward off a robber. For another, Mac might actually put a hole in the guy, and then the whole town would be left to figure out why the victim not only walked away without a scratch, but left no blood on the floor.
He kicked on the strobe and siren, getting across Titusville in four minutes by ignoring red lights and forcing traffic to the shoulder. By the time he’d reached the bowling alley, Morton was already on the scene and rubberneckers were lined up outside, peering through the front doors.
Old Loretta Mains wobbled out of the neighboring drug store, pecking along the sidewalk with her cane, but when she saw the gathering and Littlefield’s cruiser, she straightened the hunch out of her spine and hustled to the action. A young man in a leather jacket obstructed Littlefield’s entry, noisily berating someone through a cell phone. Littlefield nudged past but the guy swung his elbow without looking.
“Hey, watch what you’re—” The guy’s mouth froze open when he saw he’d just committed what might pass for assault on an officer, and Littlefield counted three gold fillings in his molars.
“Step aside,” the sheriff said, and the guy rubbed a hand over his moussed hair and made room. Littlefield entered the alley, the smell of lacquer, hot dog chili, beer, and floor wax combining into a heady mix punctuated by the sweat of the working class.
Littlefield was not much of a bowler, though he’d taken a few of his less-sophisticated dates to the lanes and spent one desultory season on “The Tin Stars,” the departmental team. However, he’d responded to more than one fracas at Mac’s, and it was a popular spot for drug activity, despite Mac’s cheery marketing of the sport as “Fun for the entire family.”
Three years ago, a Mexican had been knifed and seriously injured behind the alley. Fortunately, the man was a migrant worker with a temporary green card for the Christmas tree harvesting season, or Titusville would have embraced the attack as a sign of the Apocalypse.
About half the lanes were in use, so any disturbance had since settled. The sound system was playing “Flirting With Disaster” by Molly Hatchet, the Southern rock pounding the walls. Morton was interviewing Mac, but most of the bowlers found their half-empty pitchers of beer more compelling than police paperwork.
“He had a pistol,” Mac was telling Morton when Littlefield approached. Mac was waving his pointy finger around to punctuate the description. Mac’s son Dex slouched behind the counter, wearing a sullen smirk.
Morton shot Littlefield a glance before returning to his clipboard. “So you’ve never seen this fellow before?”
“No, I would have remembered him, because he stood out in a crowd. Skinny guy, scruffy sideburns and mustache, eyes black as coal.”
“And a gun?” Morton said.
“Sure,” Mac said, shifting his gaze between Morton and Littlefield. “Hey, you guys think I’m making this up?”
“Nobody’s saying that,” Littlefield said. “Given the situation with your son, though, it seems mighty coincidental.”
Dex took a swig of his Dr. Pepper and broadcast a liquid belch. “Give me a break, Johnny Law. What’s the matter, too busy trying to pin charges on kids to go solve a real crime?”
Littlefield fought the urge to reach over the counter and slap the soft drink out of the brat’s hand. He let his face go soft and blank. “Did you happen to witness the incident?” he said to Dex.
“Yeah, I seen him. Just like Dad said. Rough goon, looked like he wandered out of a Dumpster somewhere.”
“Okay. Morton, finish up the report and I’ll go have a look out back.”
“Watch out for the other one,” Dex said.
“Other one?”
“Guy dressed sort of like him. Same kind of raggedy-assed clothes. Except this one didn’t have no gun.”
“He was here, too?”
Dex waved his drink and grinned. “Nah, saw him the other night on the railroad tracks.”
“What time of night?”
“Can’t say, or you might try to nail me for a probation violation.”
Mac smiled, showing polished teeth. “That a boy. All that lawyer talk is finally getting through that thick skull of yours.”
Littlefield directed Morton to interview some of the bowlers, and then focused his gaze on Mac. The studied blankness fell away and was replaced by eyes that flinted sparks.
“Listen, Mr. McAllister. You can talk turkey baloney all day, and your son can sit here and learn to gobble. But I have the authority to s
hut down this place in the interest of public safety. Sure, you can hit the speed dial and get your attorney in under a minute, but by the time your challenge made it to a hearing, you’d be out a few weeks of income. Maybe even months, if I can sweet talk the D.A. better than your suit can.”
Mac’s upper lip curled. “I’m the victim here.”
“Without a crime, there’s no victim.” Littlefield didn’t exactly believe that, especially given all the innocent people who’d died on his watch. But he was talking property crime, not crimes against nature. And Pickett County seemed to be coughing up enough supernatural trespassers to keep the jail full until Rapture, if Littlefield ever found a way to bring them to justice.
Dex dropped his Dr. Pepper and the brown can rolled across the counter, spilling foam. The boy was staring at the far end of the alley, and Littlefield turned in the same direction.
“There he is,” Mac shouted.
Dex ducked behind the counter. Littlefield braced himself against the expected vision of the haggard man in gray. He saw nothing but the oversize business logo on the wall.
Then an explosion slapped against his right ear, followed by the tang of gunpowder and the shrieks and shouts of bowlers, who scattered like pins in a dead-on strike. Littlefield clapped a hand over his ear before the next shot rang out, then whirled and chopped Mac’s wrist against the counter, causing the revolver to clatter to the floor.
“Damn it, Mac,” Littlefield said. “Have you gone nuts?”
Mac’s face was purple with surprise and rage. “He was aiming right at me!”
“I didn’t see a gun,” Littlefield said. “And I didn’t see the suspect, either.”
Dex’s head poked over the counter, just enough for him to glance around. “Yo, man, are you blind?”
Morton tried to calm what little crowd was left, though most of the bowlers had already fled through the front exit. “Shots fired,” Morton shouted into his handheld radio. “Request backup.”
“You see the suspect?” Littlefield asked Morton.
Morton shook his head. “Lucky nobody got hit.”
“Guess we’ll be shutting you down for a while after all,” Littlefield said to Mac, who rubbed his swollen hand.
“Yeah, but the personal injury lawsuit will make back my money and then some.”
Dex grinned, and Littlefield wanted to shove a fist down the kid’s throat in hopes of teaching him some respect before he grew up into a big-league criminal.
He couldn’t risk losing his temper. If Littlefield was suspended, Pickett County would be short one more officer, and there were already too many leaks in the dike and not enough fingers. Just when he thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, Cindy Baumhower walked through the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“The old man’s been hitting the sauce pretty hard lately,” Bobby said.
“Hey, at least he’s not hitting you,” Vernon Ray replied.
“Not much, anyways.”
They were in the woods on the hill above the trailer park, in a falling-down garden shed that had once been part of the Eggers farm. Virginia creeper and honeysuckle vines snaked though the gaps in the chestnut planks, and the rusted tin roofing was pocked with enough holes to let the evening sunlight waft through the dusty confines. Muddy spats of dirt dauber nests clung to the rafters and cobwebs sagged under their own tired weight.
The shed had become an occasional hangout when both boys wanted to dodge their parents. Sometimes Dex joined them, cracking jokes about Bobby and Vernon Ray “playing house.” They kept stacks of comic books and magazines on the shelf where a bunch of glass jars stood in rows, their lids tight with grime and puffing from the pressure of their contaminated contents.
Vernon Ray sat on a wooden crate, flipping through a Wolverine comic. Bobby had started with Green Lantern, but he wasn’t really in the mood for superhero fare. He tossed the book back on the shelf and thumbed through the stack of glossy magazines he’d filched from his dad’s secret collection.
Bobby opened a Penthouse and turned to the centerfold. Photos of naked women made his heart beat faster, and he’d often played with himself while looking at what Jerrell called “stroke books.” But these women scared him—they were painfully inflated, their breasts looked like they could explode any moment, and their faces were vacant and bored.
He often wondered if the naughtiness of the voyeurism turned him on more than the women did, with their unblemished skin and their finely trimmed patches of pubic hair. He’d glimpsed Karen’s panties once as her skirt had lifted in a sudden autumn wind, and when his self-inflicted passion was peaking, he often closed his eyes to the magazine and let the image of her pink lace come to mind.
Once he’d whispered her name as he’d ejaculated, and it made him feel embarrassed and sick, as if he’d taken something from her without her permission.
“Hey, check this out,” Bobby said, showing Vernon Ray the blond with the oversize rack. “Those nipples are as big as silver dollars.”
Vernon Ray glanced up from his comic and grunted. “You seen one, you seen them all.”
“No, V-Ray, these are like the Taj Mahal of titties.”
“Whatever.” Vernon Ray slapped at a fly.
“I’ll bet she could make you howl at the moon and quack backwards like a headless duck,” Bobby said.
Vernon Ray stood and slapped his comic to the ground. Bobby stood frozen, stunned by the sacrilege. Both boys were serious collectors who kept their books in mint condition, not just because of future appreciation in value but out of respect for the creators, the stories, the art, and the colorful magic of the medium.
“Why are you pulling that crap?” Vernon Ray said. “It’s not like Dex is around for you to impress.”
The magazine felt as heavy as soggy newsprint in Bobby’s hand. “It’s just a titty rag.”
“What’s next? Tell me not to get my panties in a twist?”
“V-Ray, I—”
Before Bobby could utter some lame comeback, tears welled in Vernon Ray’s eyes and a sob broke from somewhere within his rib cage. All Bobby could do was look at the Wolverine on the packed dirt floor, one corner of its cover crinkled. Since it was a relatively recent issue, a damaged copy was worthless. He’d have to dig through the back issues at Planet Zero to buy a replacement and keep intact his sequential run, which dated to the year he was born.
He was grasping for something, anything, to avoid noticing that his best friend was crying. Guys had a rule: you could squeeze off a drop or two once in a while, if something really bad happened, like your dog got run over or your grandma died.
But you would wipe it away fast and everyone would pretend it never happened. The problem here was that Vernon Ray had launched into waterworks for no good reason.
If Vernon Ray couldn’t clean it up on his own, Bobby had an obligation under the Unwritten Guy Code to change the subject. “Look, I know this Jangling Hole business has got us all a little shook up.”
Vernon Ray moved his hands from his face, and to make matters worse, he looked directly at Bobby with dewy, bloodshot Bambi eyes. “The dead are the lucky ones,” he said, sniffing.
Bobby let the magazine fall closed, though the flap of the centerfold still dangled, Miss September’s bare legs framed against crushed black velvet. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.
The air in the shed had grown thicker, as if the ancient chicken manure and sawdust had coalesced into composted spirits and risen from the floor to haunt his lungs. Vernon Ray’s eyes were gray, the color of a warship on a roiling sea.
Funny, you know a guy for years and can’t remember the color of his eyes. But damned if they ain’t a lot like mine.
“Why do you shove that crap in my face?” Vernon Ray said. Bobby was relieved to note the sobs had subsided enough for his friend to complete a sentence.
“What crap?”
“Titties. Naked women. Macho crap.”
“That’s just what gu
ys do. I mean, art is art and meat is meat, right?”
“I thought you’d be different, Bobby. I know you’re different. Dex, he’s a gorilla in training, he’ll be getting girls pregnant in a couple of years and laughing while he drives them to the abortion clinic. Dorkus Dan and your football buddies, they have to put on a show. You know, the warrior thing. But you have feelings. That’s why you stick by me when everybody else is snickering and lisping behind my back.”
“Dude, you’re my pal, and pals stick—”
“Drop the Owen Wilson stoner clown act. You know what I mean.”
Bobby turned and set the magazine on the stack, taking more care than usual, pushing the pile around until all the corners were aligned. Little black dots of mouse turds covered the shelf and he wondered if rodents would chew Miss September’s golden flesh to line their nests.
“I know your dad is a little distant,” Bobby said to the wall. “We’re alike that way. We don’t know what real affection is, and it’s kind of scary to think about. Me, at least I’ve got a brother, even if he’s a lot older.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Whatever Vernon Ray was talking about, Bobby didn’t want to know. He’d rather hum some Coldplay or gossip about quarterback Eli Manning’s hot new girlfriend. Hell, he’d rather talk about the war on terror, which was so removed from his daily life that it might as well be taking place in the Andromeda Galaxy with the Silver Surfer kicking suicide-bomber ass.
“I better be getting home,” Bobby said, still afraid to turn and meet those red-rimmed, doe-like eyes with their thick curling lashes.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to miss out on all the joyful warmth and love of the Eldreth home,” Vernon Ray said with a sneer in his voice.
Bobby started for the rotted, gaping door, but his friend moved faster and blocked his way. They were several feet apart, and Vernon Ray’s breath rushed in and out, the liquidity gone. Bobby looked at him.
Mistake.
Vernon Ray’s head tilted forward, eyes flaring, eyebrows lifting, as if he were staring deep inside Bobby to a place hidden from everyone, a hollow cave Bobby had glimpsed in the mirror once in a while but so fleetingly that he could shrug it off as an illusion.
Littlefield: Two Supernatural Thrillers Page 50