Shard

by John Richmond

  Amy muttered in her sleep and rolled over. Will looked over at her inviting silhouette and wondered what she was doing here. Last he remembered she had been talking about going back to her trailer. Wanted to get an early start on the day, something to do with mineral analysis. He guessed they both drifted off talking about it. His eyes followed the delicate tracery of ink along her shoulder blades. He sighed and rubbed his face.

  Will swung his legs out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and padded into the kitchen. He wasn’t getting back to sleep now. Didn’t really want to come to think of it. Consciousness was a closed closet door and sleep was on the other side, but there were strange, muffled groans coming from in there. What the hell had he been dreaming about? He switched on the fluorescent light over the sink and squinted at the yellow-white light, his pupils going from night-cat huge to pinpoints. He didn’t suppose the details of the dream mattered. His mind had plenty of tensions to roll over and mold into big scary beasts. It’s not like he didn’t know what was coming: a fight with the devil.

  His naked arms and shoulders broke out in goosebumps and the memory of that little boy they’d found with the dead migrant workers came to him—Avespa. “Yeah, avespa,” he whispered, “Jesus.” Maybe that’s what had been back there in his mind’s closet, ranks of dead Latinos, or maybe it was just an image of George Rhodes accidentally blowing his own foot off with the gigantic automatic rifle Will had given him. He wasn’t about to go back on that decision, but it sure as hell wasn’t a clean one. Training the town drunk how to blow the wings off a fly with a machine gun was one of those lesser of two evils kind of things.

  Will went through the atuo-dance of making coffee as his mind walked his troubles. He filled the carafe with water and looked out the window over the sink. The sky was only just thinking about throwing some light over the hills, and his motorcycle sat dormant in the driveway. No skin-walking giant spiders resembling his father sitting on it this morning. Well that was good at least. Will turned off the tap and sighed.

  He could leave. There it was. He could throw a change of clothes into the saddlebags and get the fuck out of dodge. He could putter his little half-breed ass over to Lexington and get a job as a security guard or even go to the Police Academy. Better still, he could find a job in a library. Hell, why not get out of Kentucky altogether? Maybe move north, get away from the poverty and ignorance that seemed the South’s Civil War legacy. He could go as far as Boston, maybe, find a woman who was interested in him as something more than a sex toy.

  He turned and filled the back of the coffee maker; the sound of the water was loud and hollow in the still kitchen. He slipped the carafe back into place and thought of the rest of the people it his town. Will tried to remember the last time he saw someone other than George at the “shooting range”. He scowled as the coffee maker growled out steam and French Roast, the noise a perfect sound track for the look on his face. Jesus, when was the last time he’d seen anyone? Sure there were only a handful of folks left, but he usually passed the time of day with at least one or two people everyday as he made his rounds. When was the last time he’d been to Tooley’s Grocery? He could at least count on losing a good half an hour to old Meg Tooley every time he went in there. She was opening up later and later these days—God, she had to be like what, eighty, eighty-five? —but at least she would have a handle on how many of them were left.

  Will’s mind played back over the scene at the little village of cabins and doublewides in the woods. The Owenes and the Beckets were gone. Cyrus had gone missing, but his truck was still parked outside of Missus Najarian’s house. According to Erica’s story, they were all dead and Will was inclined to believe her, missing bodies or not. Who did that leave? There was himself and George, of course. Erica and Amy, but they were newcomers. There was that little weirdo, Tommy Ray Dalton and his parents, the Jeans. Loraine and Kiddo. And then the other kids: Maddy and Patty Wilkerson and their mother and father, Silvia, who everyone called Silver, Bob. There was chubby Howard Sams and his folks, Rich and Georgia. That brought it up to how many, seventeen? That only felt about half right.

  Will poured himself a cup of coffee and took a long inhale of steam. He imagined the caffeine molecules riding the vapors into his brain and lodging themselves between his synapses. He had a thought: he’d run a census. See just how many people were left in Shard. Jesus, he was the damn town Constable. He should know that already. What had George said the last time he was in his weekend retreat at the jail, that there were only around thirty people left? They’d been leaving in dribs and drabs ever since The Fire, but in the past six months or so the exodus seemed to have accelerated. Will whispered, “It’s like they knew it was coming.”

  The phone rang.

  Will’s shoulders jumped in his skin and he almost dropped his coffee. He grabbed the phone off the wall before it could ring again and wake Amy. He checked the clock on the microwave: 4:51am. This would be bad. “Two-Bears McFarlan,” he said.

  “Will, it’s Tom Ward.”

  Will forced calm, even took a sip of coffee. “Mornin’, Tommy.”

  “Sorry to call you so early. Didn’t get you out of bed, though, did I?”

  “Naw, I was already up making some coffee. Bad dream. What’s going on?”

  Sheriff Ward sighed long and heavy on the line. Will could imagine him sitting at his desk in a cone of light from the single desk lamp, running a hand through his sparse hair. “It’s that thing with the migrant workers.”

  Will remembered the hotel room filled with bodies. Fourteen men and teenage boys, eyes whited-out. That one big fella who’d reached all the way down his own throat. The boy, Avespa. Will brought the coffee cup up to his lips and realized that if he didn’t put it down, he was going to spill it all over himself. He set the mug down on the counter and steadied himself for it. “Okay, Tom. What’s happened?”

  “They’re gone, Will.”

  “I’m sorry, come again?”

  “Gone. Taken we think. I got a call from the Staties just a few minutes ago. Looks like someone stole ‘em out of the morgue.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Now how in heck would I know? All’s I know is apparently it was some kind of inside job, because there was no evidence of B an’ E. They’re questioning the staff now, but they got no leads.”

  Will’s throat clicked. “What do you think?”

  “I haven’t had time to really think about much of anything. We had a real bad morning ourselves.”

  Will could hear the sadness in his voice, the age. “What is it, Tom?”

  “Well, you know we were going to give over that little boy we found to social services, but they didn’t have a single opening with any of their foster families. You know they send the kids to the work farm over in Monroe if they can’t find a bed for them? Me and Marlene decided to foster the little guy until we could track down his people back down south.”

  A warm smile bent Will’s mouth. That was Tommy Ward through and through. “That was mighty good of you, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Will could imagine him waving his hand as if to brush off the compliment. “Poor little fella, his name’s Miguel by the way, had a bad turn earlier last night. Real bad. Woke up from a nightmare shouting this one Spanish word over and over.”

  “Avespa.”

  Quiet on the line a moment. “How’d you know?”

  “He was saying it when we found him, remember?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Any idea what it means?” Ward sounded like the other side of exhausted.

  “No,” Will lied. “My Spanish always sucked.”

  “Hmm. Anyway, Marlene took him to the kitchen to get him some warm milk or something and, uh, while she had her back turned…”

  “Jesus, Tommy, what?”

  “He grabbed a kitchen knife off the magnet strip by the counter and drew it across his own throat.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Oh, Will, there was so much fucking blood. I—I
slipped in it. Marlene was just screaming and screaming.”

  “Tom, I’m so sorry. Is Miguel...?”

  “No, thank the sweet lord Jesus and all the apostles. Cept’ Paul. He was just plain mean sometimes.”

  “You got him to the hospital in time, then?”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. They got the poor little guy all stitched up and then sedated him all to heck and back. He’s on the psyche ward with a couple of junkies and a few senile old folks. Keepin’ him under observation. Breaks my heart all over just thinking about it.” He was quiet a second, then, “I just can’t imagine what it would take to push a young boy like that to do something so…”

  But Will knew. They both did. Tommy Ward had been in the same room he had. How long had Miguel been sitting in there with those fourteen dead men? He’d seen whatever had killed them. Had the poor kid stared into their empty faces until his mind cracked and his hair went white?” Tom what can I do? Do you need me up there? Just say the word.” Even as it was out of his mouth, Will knew two things: One, Tom Ward wouldn’t ask him to come up. Two, he wouldn’t have gone anyway, couldn’t have. There was a fight at home that needed tending.

  “Naw, Two-Bears, you just stay put. You got your own town to take care of. I’m just letting you know because the Staties might want to talk with you a bit more. That and I guess I’d like you to keep your eyes open.”

  “For what, a dozen or so gardeners and construction workers that don’t quite fit in or breathe?”

  Ward chuckled. “Something like that.”

  “Tom, did the M.E. get a chance to autopsy any of them?”

  “No.”

  They said the pleasantries and hung up. Will finished his coffee and put the mug in the sink with a dull clunk. Jesus, what the fuck would the Pompiliad want with a bunch of illegals? Will’s mind filled with the spread of dragon wings. At least he was on the side with the really heavy artillery.

  “You’re up early.”

  Will yanked a smile from somewhere and turned around. Amy was standing in a pair of baggy boxer shorts and nothing else. They were hers. She had drawn little skulls and crossbones and a few biohazard symbols on them with a sharpie. Will knew this because she’d done it last night at the dinner table when conversation had gotten dull. Her tattoos looked like strange, secret hieroglyphs in the low light. “You say it almost like an accusation.”

  “I am. It’s unnatural to get up before the sun.” She yawned. “Monkeys are diurnal.”

  “Want some coffee, Cheetah?”

  “God, yes, but weren’t we talking about monkeys? Cheetahs are cats. Don’t mess with a girl before her morning drugs.”

  “Cheetah? Tarzan’s chimpanzee?”

  He handed her a full coffee mug and she leaned back against the counter. Will did his damnedest not to stare at her boobs. It wasn’t easy, what with the star bursts framing her nipples. That and it was a little chilly in the kitchen this morning. She took a pull of the coffee. “Ah, that’s good,” she said. After another sip, “You know chimps aren’t monkeys, they’re apes.”

  “Right. I bet they get up early, though.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s still disgusting not to be sleeping at this hour.”

  “Thought all you scientist types liked to get up early. You know, get into the field and not waste a second of the day.”

  “I’m a geologist, babe. Rocks can fucking wait.” She focused on him. “Who was on the phone?”

  “What? Oh, county sheriff.”

  “Po-leece bidness at four-thirty in the morning? What about?”

  “Remember that thing I told you about? Those migrant workers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone stole their bodies out of morgue. They’re just gone.”

  “Really?” All the sleep left her eyes. “That’s freakin’ awesome.”

  “Think so?”

  “Well,” she looked at her coffee, “not really. I mean it’s terrible for their families and all that jazz, but that’s so Stephen Kingy. Who do you think did it?”

  Will almost blurted it right there, but held his tongue. Amy was leaving. There was a chance she could get out of Shard without having to play a part in any of what was coming. He wondered about Erica. Her work and whatever was going on between her and George might keep her here long enough to get caught up in it. “It’s not something I can talk about, Amy.”

  She walked up, pushed her hip up against his crotch. “Really, Constable?”

  He tweaked a nipple and she jumped back with a yelp. “Yow, your fingers’re cold!”

  “Amy? How long have I got you?”

  The smile fell off her face and her body language went from sleepy-sexy to all folded in on herself. Will wished he had a t-shirt to offer her. She turned around and put her mug down on the kitchen table. She put her palms on the wood and hung her head. “Will, this thing we’re doing is fun, right?”

  “Yes. Hell yes.”

  She pushed off from the table, the ink on her shoulders swelling and receding like waves. “Do we really have to have this conversation then?”

  Will walked up behind her, leaned over and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her against him. Her skin was warm against his naked chest and belly. “Don’t worry, tough guy,” he said. “I’m not getting all oogy on you. I just want to know how long I get to enjoy this, this…whatever-the-hell-this-is.”

  She leaned her head back against his shoulder and sighed. “Seriously? You’re really not getting all teenage girl on me?”

  “I’m cool. We’re both grown-ups. This is how grown-up monkeys play.”

  “Okay,” she said, twisting around in his embrace and pressing against him. “You have me for another three or four days. My work’s just about done. I’ll file my report in the next day or two. My supervisor at Blackstone will read it, make recommendations to his bosses and then they’ll send me somewhere else, or tell me to bring the lab back home.” With each sentence she popped a button on the fly of Will’s old Levis. Amy reached in and grabbed him. “Oh, you are an early riser.”

  He took her on the kitchen table. They made a hell of a racket and her coffee mug spilled and shattered on the floor. Both of them shouted their orgasms as the sun threw light across the eastern sky. All the while, Will thought four more days. Just keep it away for four more days.

  Chapter 28

  Erica sipped her coffee at the kitchen table and thought about the gigantic diamond she had held in her hands just a day ago. Was she really going to break the law, risk everything? She rubbed her thumb and index finger together. She could still feel it, heft its weight in her imagination. And according to Amy there were more of them, maybe thousands more. Yes, no question. She’d throw the dice for this. But there was an even bigger gamble in her life now. She watched him turn around with a steaming pan of eggs over easy.

  “One or two,” George asked.

  “Two,” she said.

  He lifted an eyebrow and slid them onto her plate. “Big day today?”

  “Not really. Just woke up really hungry is all.”

  George served himself and sat down across from her. In the week since he had quit drinking, George had gained almost ten pounds. His hair had regained some thickness and his face had filled out. When he moved around the kitchen, Erica could see the muscles in his back under his shirt. It might have been twenty some years since he’d played high school football, but his body wanted to go right back to its old quarterback shape. His hands no longer shook when poured coffee or served them at table, and he no longer smelled like something was wrong with him on the cellular level.

  George caught her staring at him over the rim of her coffee mug and his cheeks burned. “What?”

  His blush was contagious. “What? Oh, I was just wondering how you’re, um, doing.”

  “Since I stopped? It’s okay, you can say it. I’m not going to be doing any of that twelve step stuff, but I know I’ve got to be honest about it.”

  �
�Really? I thought that was the only way to stay clean—the twelve steps.” About every three years or so Erica’s father had made an attempt at sobriety. He would tumble right off the wagon within a couple of months usually, but the meetings and steps had been the only thing that worked even for a little while. Once, he’d held on for thirty-four days. He came home stinking of whiskey and barged into her bedroom, braying about his thirty-four day chip. He’d sprawled his reeking weight across her bed crying; his sobs turned to snores about a minute later. Erica had been about thirteen.

  “They’re just tricks,” George said. “They work because most folks don’t have any emotional self-awareness. Hell, most sober people only go through life with a semblance of consciousness and drunks are worse. So you need tricks to keep them on the straight and narrow.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I don’t mean to sound all arrogant and everything. I just don’t think the magic would work because I know what’s going on backstage. In the end, it’s all about being honest and giving in.”

  “You going to do this all by yourself, then?”

  George’s face was hot and he wanted a drink. “That’s the only way to really do anything, isn’t it?” He took a breath. “Listen, it comes down to this: I’m a junkie for booze. I’m wired for it. I was wired for it on my first birthday and I’ll be wired for it on my last. I have absolutely no power over that fact except to never forget it and just give in. It’s when people talk themselves into forgetting that they fall off the wagon.”

  “That’s sounds like a lot of twelve step stuff.”

  He grinned and Erica’s heart slammed in her chest just once. “I know. See, I’ve got the truth behind the tricks. I don’t need the other stuff. Besides, where the hell am I going to find a meeting around here?” He picked up his fork and pointed at her plate with it. “Now, you eat your eggs, or I will. I’m sure you’ve got a big day of running people out of town.”

  He winked at her and tucked into his eggs. Erica felt this absurd warmth at watching him eat. He looked super real, like his outlines were sharper than anything else in the room. She’d never been in love before. Was this that? She sipped her coffee and thought about a trick of her own that often worked in legal proceedings. Sitting across the settlement table from an opponent, she found she could read the emotional state of another person through his or her body. Nose scratches and knuckle cracking told volumes where verbal communication obfuscated. It was no great discovery; people had been reading each other’s body language for ages, but instead of watching someone else for how he or she was feeling Erica had learned to watch herself. It was a good trick. She’d spent so much of her life controlling herself that she’d lost touch with her emotions. Sometimes the only way she knew to calm herself before a big day in court was to take a moment and invite her body to show her how she was feeling. If her fingertips were shaky, she needed a beta blocker. If her eyelids were heavy, she’d been billing too many hours and needed a stimulant.