Ripples

by DL Fowler

  He goes on. “And as I said, we’ll check out your complaint. We have procedures to make sure these things are handled properly.”

  “This is about a child’s welfare.”

  “I understand that. Now if you’ll just relax, I’ll write up a report and get a copy over to Child Protective Services.”

  “So you’re willing to take personal responsibility if something goes terribly wrong in the meantime?”

  Baker pulls back his broad shoulders. “My job is taking personal responsibility—24/7.”

  I lean forward and plant both hands on his desk. “Believe me. If that girl ends up hurt or—heaven forbid—dead, everyone’s going to pin the blame on you—from the grandma in line at the grocery store to the governor. In fact, the president’s going to hear about it during our next round of golf.” I lean back and fold my arms across my chest. “The first hole we chat about the wife and kids—his. I don’t have any left. On the second fairway we cover the economy. Things like abused kids and bureaucratic bungling get handled before we sink our putts on the third green.”

  Baker stands. His full 6’2” frame looms over the desk. “Listen. This isn’t Wall Street and it’s certainly not the Oval Office. You’re not going to get any special treatment by coming in here, throwing your weight around, and making threats. We handle every matter that comes to us with the same professionalism and diligence.”

  I sit up straight. “It’s not a threat unless she’s in danger. He was getting ready to use a belt on her.”

  He sits down and types something into his computer. “Did you see him hit her?”

  “No. When I saw him raise the belt, I smashed his window with my flashlight. Busted it trying to get his attention.”

  “Sounds like your neighbor should be the one filing a complaint.”

  “He’s abusing the girl, and I’m trying some help.”

  He makes another entry in the computer. “See any marks—bruises or the like?”

  “Didn’t get close enough.”

  He looks up from the computer screen. “Mr. Chandler, give me something to work with here.”

  “How about the fact the girl should be in school?”

  “That’s not imminent danger, but we’ll check it out. I have to tell you, though, I’ve never heard of this fellow or the girl, and I know who lives in my part of the county. The only girl up your way belongs to some single gal. Don’t have their exact address on file, but they show up in town now and then. There’s never been a need to check in on them.”

  I bang on his desk. “I hear sounds every night.”

  “Mr. Chandler, you need to calm down. What kind of sounds?”

  “Whimpering, moaning, like someone in pain.”

  “Could be coyotes or owls …”

  “That’s what I thought, but they sound human.”

  “Human?”

  “Yeah, maybe a kid crying.”

  “Every night?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You say he was going to take a belt to her. How can you be sure?”

  “He was holding it up about this high ….” I raise my fist up above ear level. “She was cowering.”

  He types again.

  “Deputy Baker, I’m sorry I came across like a jerk—but this girl has me worried. It’s not like I go around trying to save the world. My granddaughter was kidnapped a few years ago … we never got her back. I don’t want to see any kid go through what my Celine ….”

  Deputy Baker picks up the handset on his desk phone and punches the intercom button. “Grimes, what time am I supposed to be over up to Central to see the Sheriff?”

  He stares up at me as he waits for a reply.

  “Got it. I’m going to run a quick errand—a little out of the way, but I’ll have time if I head out now.”

  Baker hangs up, stands, and plucks his hat off the rack behind his desk. “Okay, Mr. Chandler. I’ll follow you up to your place. You can point the way from there. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t get too worked up. You still haven’t given me a whole lot to work with.”

  After turning off the highway, I pull the Jeep to the side of the gravel road and wave the sheriff’s cruiser straight ahead. Once Baker passes, I turn down my drive and spot Carl standing on the redwood deck, frowning.

  I step out of the Jeep. “What are you doing here?”

  “If the sheriff just blew past here, I’m a too late. Came to talk some sense into you about this thing with your neighbor.”

  “It’s not a thing with my neighbor. It’s a kid’s life….”

  “Got your voicemail. God, Jake. What’s gotten into you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Since when do you let stuff like this get under your skin? What is it with you and this girl?”

  “It would get to anyone … anyone who’s human.”

  “You? Human? For God’s sake …. Okay, you weren’t yourself right after Celine. Who wouldn’t come apart? But that wasn’t the real Jacob Chandler. The real Jacob Chandler only pretends to feel things. And then only to get the edge on somebody.”

  “Maybe I’ve stuffed my feelings down deep so nobody could use them against me.”

  “I thought your shrink called you a hardcore narcissist … incapable of real feelings. You just put on a show to exploit other people’s weak spots.”

  “Yeah, the same doctor that can’t get to the bottom of these holes in my memory? The best she can come up with was some psycho-babble about me suppressing guilt over Jesse’s suicide. Said for me to ‘heal,’ I have to accept responsibility for the emotional damage I inflict on others. She made it sound like I’m the head case.”

  “What damage did you do to Jesse that a thousand other CEOs haven’t done to their sons?”

  “Supposedly, I caused Jesse to have PTSD, and that’s why he killed his wife and himself. Hell. Jesse moped around half his damned life. Guess, I didn’t have to call him a wuss, though. After all, he was my son.”

  “He laid into you pretty good in his suicide note.”

  “Yeah. A few weeks before it happened, I came down on him pretty hard over his production. Told him I was tired of my top producers moaning about nepotism.”

  “You told him to take his client list elsewhere and get a taste of the real world.”

  “He made me mad, said losing Celine was all my fault.”

  “But how does this memory thing have anything to do with Jesse—that was, what four, five years ago? You were getting things under control—until this girl thing.”

  I grip the deck rail. “Damn it, Carl. I’m not going to stand by and watch another girl go through what Celine ….”

  “This girl isn’t Celine. And whoever she is, she’s none of your business.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like something’s caged up inside me, bouncing around, wanting to break out and run amok.”

  “Get a hold of yourself, Jake. You’ve taken your eye off the ball. You need to get back on track.”

  “I care about this girl.” I stare out across the lake. “How—how do people do it, Carl?”

  “Do what?”

  “Deal with feelings.”

  The blood drains from Carl’s face. He must be as freaked out by me talking about feelings as I am. I brush past him into the kitchen. “I’ll pour some coffee—settle those jangled nerves of yours.”

  “Mine are fine, but you need something to numb yours.”

  I grin. “Locked the stuff up. Your advice, remember?”

  Bryce

  Car tires crunch outside. Jump to my feet. Hurry to the window and look out. Hell, the damn bastard actually went and called the law on me. I scan the room again just to be sure nothing’s out for anybody to see. Once I’m sure everything’s put away out of sight, I step out on the stoop to greet him. Best if I let him think visitors get my attention. People
don’t come around—ever.

  “Hello,” he says. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Baker. I’m just stopping by because we got a call from your neighbor.”

  “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Do you have any form of ID?”

  “Sorry, sir. Don’t drive. Don’t hardly go out. Never had a need to identify myself.”

  He’s smiling. That’s a good sign.

  “Name’s Bryce, though.”

  “Bryce, your neighbor said something about a girl. He claims you threatened to hit her with a leather strap.”

  “Haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about, sir. No one here but me. Don’t really like being around folks, especially women and kids. Try to keep to myself.”

  “Do you mind if I come in and take a look around?”

  “Sure, if you think you need to. Ain’t got nothing to hide.”

  He nods. “Thanks. This should just take a minute.”

  The cop steps past me and stops a few feet inside. I stop behind him.

  “Just live here by yourself, you say?”

  “That’s right, sir. Don’t need company.”

  He glances back at me as he points to the bedroom. “Mind if I take a peek over there?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He walks across and peeks into the bedroom, turns and studies the ladder. “What’s up there?”

  “Just an empty loft. Not much use for it. I’m no hoarder.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. May I, anyway?”

  “Of course.”

  He goes up the ladder, looks around, and comes back down.

  Before he asks, I say, “Wanna see what’s around back?”

  “No thanks, I’ve seen all I need. Sorry to bother you.”

  The deputy heads outside, starts to open his car door and turns back. “Ever seen a girl hanging around?”

  “No, sir. But I don’t get out much.”

  “Ever had any kind of run-in with your neighbor?”

  “Just the one time when he came over and tried to get me to sell my property. Told him no, but he got pretty insistent. When I held my ground he got downright angry. Made some threats.”

  “What kind of threats?”

  “Said he’d make life miserable ’til I changed my mind.”

  “Did he ever follow through on his threats?”

  “I try not to let stuff bother me. He almost ran me over once when I was walking down the road here. Drove over to my place a time or two—knocked on the door. Blasted his horn. Banged on the window over there with his flashlight—broke it, trying to get me to come out and talk. Didn’t want to have nothing to do with him. Just sat at my table and had myself a beer.”

  “If anything like that happens again, come down to the station and file a complaint.”

  “Should I be worried about this guy?”

  “He seems to like throwing his weight around. Bullying people he thinks don’t have the backbone to stand up to him. I just don’t want him to get the idea he can move into these parts and shove good folks around.”

  He waves as he gets into the police cruiser. “Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Jacob

  When I bring out our coffee, Carl starts to say something, but he’s distracted by the sheriff’s cruiser turning down the drive. I strain to see if the girl’s riding in the back seat. She isn’t.

  “He’s back so soon? Was hardly gone long enough to step out of his cruiser and say hello to the creep.”

  The deputy is grim-faced as he walks up the steps to the deck, shaking his head.

  “What’s the story?” I ask.

  “Was just about to ask you the same.”

  Carl extends his hand. “Carl Samuels. Jake’s friend and business associate.”

  The deputy shakes Carl’s hand. “Deputy Sheriff Baker.”

  Baker looks back at me. “There’s no girl living there. Just an old buzzard named Bryce.”

  “Just how hard did you search the place?”

  “There’s not that much to search. And he was cooperative, which is more than I can say about you.”

  “Great. He’s probably hidden her away somewhere.”

  “He tells me you’ve been harassing him, trying to get him to move out.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even own the place. It belongs to the trust I bought my place from. Everything beyond the lake belongs to the trust. He’s probably a squatter. If I wanted him gone, I’d just contact the trustee.”

  Baker folds his arms across his chest. “Or, maybe he has their permission ….”

  Carl looks down.

  “So tell me about this late night visit to your neighbor. Why’d you go over there in the first place?”

  “My bladder woke me up—on the way to the john I spotted the girl crouched next to my Jeep. She’s probably the one who’s been breaking in, stealing stuff.”

  “Someone’s been breaking in?”

  “Ever since I moved in. Actually, before that—while my place was going up.”

  “You ever report this?”

  I look away. “No. It was nothing to get worked up about.”

  “But now you’re saying it is a big deal. That you went traipsing through the woods to your neighbor’s place in the middle of the night. Smashed his window with a flashlight. He says you threatened him.”

  “I didn’t threaten him. I told him I wasn’t going to stand for him abusing that girl.”

  “Mr. Chandler, as I’ve said, there’s no sign of any girl. And your story has some holes in it. At least your neighbor’s version makes sense.”

  I step toward the deputy. “A girl’s life could be at stake.”

  Carl cuts between us and clutches my arm. “Deputy, my friend here has been through hell the past few years. Let’s just step back and see if I can’t get him some help. In the meantime, I’ll keep him in tow.”

  “See that you do. And for the record Mr. Chandler, it wouldn’t matter if you played golf with God. You’re not moving into my county, throwing your weight around. Next time you haul me up here without solid evidence of a crime, I’ll stick you with felony filing a false police report. For the last time, there’s no girl.”

  Carl hands the deputy his business card. “Good day, deputy. Maybe if you give me a call, I can help clear up some things.” As the sheriff heads back to his car, Carl nudges me toward the French doors to kitchen.

  I stop in the doorway and spin around, meeting Carl eye-to-eye. “Me, harassing that bastard? That’s a crock. If this sheriff doesn’t do his job, I’m gonna ….”

  “Just get a hold of yourself before you ….”

  “What? Do something stupid?”

  RJ

  Mercedes’ hideout is a couple miles from Uncle Eric’s ranch, tucked back in the trees at the bottom of the ridge. The hut overlooks a clearing about half the size of a soccer field. Beyond the clearing it’s chaparral and another large meadow. Of course, Mercedes hates the word “hideout.” She calls it home. Been on her own for more than two years. The old bastard she escaped from has probably given her up for dead.

  I slide off the stallion and unsaddle him at the usual spot in the woods, a quarter-mile from her place, half-way up the ridge. I slap his hindquarter to send him on—that’s her heads up I’m coming. When she sees him, the plan is she’ll sneak up near the top of the ridge and perch in a cluster of live oak to watch and see if anybody’s following me. After she caws like a crow I drop down and go inside where I sit and wait.

  Inside, the place smells like rotting wood. I pick up a book from a box in the corner. Today, it’s by some dude named Stephen King. Already been through all the hunting magazines and issues of Guns and Ammo. No idea where she gets this stuff.

  It’s taking a long time for her to come down off the ridge. The wait gives me butterflies. I put down the book and start fiddling with the pocket knife Uncle Eric gave me. Even taught me how to keep it sharp.
Tote it around in my back pocket. It has a bunch of cool gadgets —one’s a church key. He says a guy should always carry a church key —never know when you’ll come across a bottle of beer that’s screaming to be opened—or a can of beans. I know Uncle Eric isn’t the greatest role model, but if you never knew your old man, and your mom pretty much abandoned you …. Maybe that’s why my face burns when I lie to him about this place. Told him an old coot lives here. Mercedes swore me to secrecy.

  Finally she sees fit to join me, and the gutted rabbit she’s carrying by the ears explains what kept her—dinner. She drops the critter in a bucket she uses for cleaning up, and hangs the crossbow and quiver on a nail in a wall stud. No wall board or insulation—just plywood siding outside, nailed to studs. The place gets bitter cold in winter, but she finds ways to manage.

  She offers me something to eat—most of her stuff, she scavenges from a fancy cabin a few miles away.

  I put away the knife and pick up the King book.

  She sits cross-legged next to me on the plywood floor—it’s rotting through in a few places. With her dark curls hanging down over one eye, she’s kinda sexy. Sometimes I wish I could let myself ….

  “Missed you,” she says, glancing at me sideways.

  “He’s had me doing chores, round the clock. No time off for good behavior. Anyway, I need your help.”

  She snatches the book out of my hand. Her eyes turn almost black. “Yeah, and I could use some help around here fixing the place up.”

  “Things seem fine to me. What are you talking about?”

  “Like, there’s a leak in the roof.” Mercedes points overhead with the book.

  Dust floats in a streak of light coming through a crack. “Okay, okay. I’ll fix it. But since when are you so helpless?”

  She hugs the book. “Since you’ve been so scarce.” She lays her hand on my knee. Her fingers are slender, but strong.

  I pull away. Not gonna let her go there. Seen enough of how my old lady treats guys. Use ’em ’n lose ’em—that’s her motto.

  “So what kind of help do you need?”

  “A woman showed up at the ranch house last night with a girl about our age.”

  “I don’t give boy-girl advice.” She turns away.