Agent Westmore knelt down and studied the muddy prints more closely. He noticed that they seemed to lead right from the glass in toward the manikin, but did not lead into the store.
“Has this glass been replaced recently?” the agent asked.
“Maybe twenty years ago,” said Rhonda. “Why?”
The agent shook his head. “Just looking for an explanation—those are very curious prints.”
“Whose do you think they are?”
“Pardon me?” asked the agent.
“Are you looking for Rebecca, Matthew, or maybe even Old Blind Carl? I can tell you that none of them are here—that’s for sure.”
At first, the agent didn’t know exactly how to respond. How could she know so much? Then he remembered the truth of small towns. Finally, he answered, “Ms. Douglas, I don’t know who this Rebecca is, and I’m certainly not looking for the missing blind man, but I realize news travels fast in this town—I am looking for Matthew Duncan.”
“The Rebecca I’m referring to is Rebecca D’Arcy,” said Rhonda. “Sweetest little thing you could hope to meet. I just heard this morning that she’s missing, too. I’ve known both of them all their lives—except, of course, Matthew has been gone a long time and only came back last week from wherever he was. It sure is a shame he’s done whatever it was he did to mess up his life like this.”
The agent was soaking up every bit of Rhonda’s gossip; it was far more than he’d gotten from the sheriff. He glanced back toward the window at the two men and two dogs still lingering outside.
“You know,” said the agent, “I don’t really think you want those drooling hounds in your store, so do you mind if I look around? You have a backroom?”
“Be my guest,” said Rhonda, sweeping her hand out in front of her.
The agent walked toward the back of the store where a door led to a backroom. He opened it cautiously and found a very small storage area, no bigger than a shed, piled high with boxes and a vacuum cleaner. He closed the door and walked back to where Rhonda was standing and watching him closely.
“You probably thought I had some big storage room or something,” said Rhonda, smiling. “I make all the dresses myself and don’t have a big inventory. I make just enough each month to pay the lease here and supplement my social security with a few extra pennies.”
The agent nodded and then looked back toward the front of the store and noticed that the hounds and two men were no longer visible through the window.
“Well, thanks, Ms. Douglas,” he said quickly as he moved toward the exit. “Looks like the group is moving on.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his business card. “If you see anything suspicious, please call me on my cell phone.”
Rhonda stared at the card for a moment. “What about the sheriff? Shouldn’t I call him?” she asked as the agent was almost to the door.
“No need to bother him. Matthew Duncan’s my case. Thank you.” The agent stepped outside and looked up and down the street. There were a few people walking much further down the street to his right, but no sign of the hounds, Officer Burnham, or Sparky. As he stood there deciding which way to go, he looked down and noticed distinct shoeprints on the sidewalk—made from older dried mud, mixed with the fresh pawprints of the hounds. The shoeprints led directly from the muddy edge of the hole to the window of the store and then stopped. He neared the window and looked at the muddy shoeprints he’d seen on the other side of the glass when he was in the store. It was as though the person had walked directly into the display without the glass being there—yet it was. He stood confused for a moment and then suddenly realized he was getting further behind the group—wherever the hounds had headed.
Once more looking down at the fresh muddy tracks of the hounds, they appeared to have headed north, toward the intersection of Second and Main Street. He followed the tracks to the intersection, stopped, and looked first right and then left. More than two blocks away, he then spotted the group moving rapidly toward the west—the hounds’ noses low to the ground and Officer Burnham and Sparky hurrying behind.
He had to run to catch up. As he was running, out of the corner of his eye to his right, he caught sight of a silent white electric car passing him on the street and also heading west. Sheriff O’Neil sat behind the wheel, and as he passed by, looking through the glass of the window, he gave the agent a nasty sneering smile.
“You bastard!” the agent yelled as he kept running. He was now wheezing. His age, too much fast food over too many years, and the Colorado altitude were all now conspiring together against him. As he struggled to catch up, his only solace came from the fact that he knew something none of them did—someone had stepped directly through a plate glass window, and the window had remained intact! It was the only explanation, though it remained as impossible for him to comprehend as the world that Maxie and Chloe inhabited, where humanly imperceptible molecules were as large to them as billboards on a scented highway.
Eighty-Nine
Sharing of Tea
The tea had been ready for several minutes as Takara sat alone at the kitchen table, waiting for Amida to join her. For nearly thirty years, they had enjoyed their tea together at this time of day—and rarely had Amida missed it. The tradition had started on their honeymoon, where they had promised each other that no matter how busy or crazy their lives became—no matter the demands of children or the farm—they would reserve a time each day for the “sharing of tea.” Their teatime usually lasted only twenty minutes at most, but the duration was not important—it was a sacred time for just the two of them. The very few times over the years when either Amida or Takara had missed tea were usually because of illness. Even in those times, the healthy one would prepare the tea anyway and sit by the bedside of the other, gently holding the cup of tea up to the sick one’s lips and doing far more for healing in that simple act of nurturing than a thousand doctors.
Takara was sure that Amida had not been ill earlier in the morning. He’d left the farm just after sunrise, heading out in one of the small electric trucks for a delivery of products to their distributors. Several hours later, about the time Amida was due back from the delivery, Takara was in the kitchen, beginning to prepare the tea, when she heard the front door open and close. Normally, Amida would have come into the kitchen to let her know he was back, but this time she only heard his footsteps climbing the stairs to the second level of their home. She began to prepare the tea anyway, assuming he perhaps needed to attend to personal business after the long ride in the small truck. Now, many minutes had passed, and the tea was getting cold. Something felt wrong to Takara.
She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The door was closed—this was most unusual. Takara stood for a moment near the door, uncertain what to do. Before she could decide, she heard a very faint sound coming from the other side of the door, and so she inched closer. She was not intentionally trying to eavesdrop, but the sound was also most unusual. With her ear almost touching the door, she realized with sudden shock what the sound was—it was Amida, sobbing.
Takara’s chest tightened, and she reached for the doorknob, but then changed her mind and knocked lightly instead. “Amida,” she said in a gentle but urgent voice, “are you all right?”
The sobbing stopped, but there was no response.
After a moment, she asked, “May I come in?”
A few moments of silence passed before Amida answered. “Yes,” came a very faint voice from the other side of the door.
Takara turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open. What she saw next caused her to rush to her husband’s side, for Amida was sitting on the end of their bed, head down, arms limp at his side, his pants and shirt covered in blood.
“Amida,” she gasped. “What has happened to you?!” She sat on the bed next to him, putting an arm around him and tipping her head down to try to look into his lowered face.
Amida raised his head, wiped a tear from his eye, and looked at his wife. �
��Nothing has happened to me,” he said weakly, “but to someone we both love.”
An hour later, after helping her husband get cleaned up, Takara fixed a fresh hot batch of tea, but rather than sharing it in the kitchen, she suggested they drink it outside in the garden. The two sat in silence, watching the bees hover and dart from flower to flower. The time for words between Takara and Amida on this day had passed. All important meanings—especially those most untouchable by words alone—had been made clear. Amida’s burden was now Takara’s as well. All creatures in the garden played their role perfectly in the sacred day—the bees with their eternally vital dance, the helpful yet respectful friend, and the loving wife who listened without judgment and unselfishly shared her husband’s sorrow. And so, another “sharing of tea” was complete.
Ninety
A Friend to the Rescue
Maxie and Chloe were moving fast. The scent trail they followed was as illuminated to them with scent molecules as any major metropolitan thoroughfare was with streetlights—only the humans who followed behind them saw nothing but pavement. Even more thrilling to the hounds was the fact that the closer they got to their target, the more concentrated the lingering scent molecules became. Their path was becoming more clearly defined with each slobbery step they took. This was what they were bred for—they were in scent heaven.
Agent Westmore was now far behind the main group and panting heavily. Officer Burnham’s warning about getting a good workout rang through his mind and burned in his legs and lungs. Sheriff O’Neil remained in his car, driving between the agent and the lead group. Several times the agent had to stop to catch his breath, and each time it seemed the sheriff and the lead group got further out in front of him. They had all now left Cottonwood, heading west on a county road.
Once more out of breath, the agent stopped running and bent over, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen. His heart was thumping hard in his chest. He looked up the road and saw the sheriff’s car—now just a tiny white dot in the distance. The hounds, Sparky, and Officer Burnham were nowhere in sight.
“You bastard, O’Neil,” said the agent as loudly as he could, panting heavily and glancing up at the rapidly vanishing white electric car.
He stood on the shoulder of the road, bent over and breathing hard for more than a minute. When he was finally able to move again, he didn’t run, but now only walked in the general direction the group was heading, knowing he’d never be able to catch them.
He walked for several minutes, cursing both himself and the sheriff. He amused himself by indulging in daydreams. When I get back to Washington, I’m joining a gym! When I catch up to the sheriff, I’ll punch him right in the face! If I get close enough to his car, I’ll shoot his tires out! He knew they were all lies, but they occupied his time while he walked alone in the brilliant sunshine and silent countryside.
The honking of a horn shook the agent back to reality. He stopped and looked to his right and saw Akash driving his own electric car. The engineer slowed down as he pulled into the left lane and stopped near the agent.
The window was down, and Akash had a grin on his face. “Looks like you could use a ride,” he said.
“No, I’m just out for a little walk,” replied the agent. “You know…to keep in shape.”
Akash smirked. “Very admirable. Sorry to have bothered you. Please, come and look me up at the hotel later. I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you.” Akash started to slowly accelerate and pull away.
“No, wait!” yelled the agent. “Of course, I want a damn ride!”
Akash stopped, and the agent stepped around the back of the car and climbed into the front passenger seat.
“So, if you’re not exercising, where are you headed?” asked Akash.
The agent pointed forward. “You’re going in exactly the right direction…if you’ve got the time.”
“Actually, I really was looking for you,” said Akash. “I do have some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Great,” replied the agent, glancing down the empty road ahead, “but could you drive a little faster?”
“Is there some big hurry?”
“Yeah, probably.”
Akash pushed on the accelerator, and the car picked up speed. The agent knew the sheriff had not been driving as fast and figured he and Akash had a good chance of catching up with the rest of the group—assuming they hadn’t left the main road. Every half mile or so, a gravel or dirt road jutted off the paved road they were on.
“So, are we trying to get somewhere in particular, or are we following someone?” Akash asked.
“Very deductive,” replied the agent. “We’re following someone.”
Akash was silent for a few moments before finally looking over at the agent, whose eyes were locked on the road ahead. “Mind if I know who it is we’re following?”
The agent didn’t answer right away but suddenly raised his left hand and pointed ahead. “See that white car up ahead?”
Akash turned and looked down the road. The car hadn’t been there before, but in the few seconds Akash had been looking at the agent, they had rounded a slight hill, and the sheriff’s car suddenly appeared on the road ahead.
“Who’s that?” asked Akash.
“It’s Cottonwood Sheriff John O’Neil,” replied the agent calmly. “He’s a bastard, and I want you to catch up with him—and then pass him.”
Akash let out a big laugh. “You want me to pass the sheriff?!”
“Yep,” nodded the agent. “I am a law enforcement officer too, and you’re now assisting me with official Washington State Bureau of Investigation business. Don’t worry…the worst he’ll do is shoot your tires out as you pass.”
Akash glanced nervously at the agent who turned to him and smiled. “I’m kidding, Akash. He wouldn’t shoot at us…he’ll probably just try to run us off the road when we pass.”
After a moment of thought, Akash said, “I’m finally getting your sense of humor, Agent.”
Both men then eyed the rapidly closing gap between the two cars. The agent didn’t see the need to share with his driver the fact that it wasn’t all just his sense of humor. Sheriff O’Neil had already screwed him more than once, and it wasn’t beyond possibility he’d actually try to prevent them from passing.
“So, why were you looking for me?” asked the agent, trying to relieve the shared tension of the moment. “What did you need to ask me?”
“It’s about that person you were talking about earlier—Matthew Duncan,” Akash said, but then he paused. The sheriff’s car was now only a few hundred feet ahead. “Are you sure the sheriff is not going to get angry about this?”
“Oh, I never said he wouldn’t get angry,” replied the agent. “I said he probably wouldn’t shoot at us. It’s hard to shoot and drive at the same time—despite what you might see in the movies.”
“You didn’t say probably wouldn’t,” said Akash. “You said he wouldn’t. There’s a big difference.”
“Time to pass,” replied the agent, ignoring Akash’s statement and watching the gap now close to less than a hundred feet.
Akash drew in a deep breath, signaled, and eased out into the left lane.
“It’s gonna take ten minutes to pass at this rate,” said the agent. “Give this puppy some gas!”
Akash pressed down all the way on the accelerator, and the car bolted forward. “Not gas,” said Akash as they were almost even with the sheriff. “Electrons! This is an electric car, remember? We are pumping a higher amount of electrical energy through the motor. So you should be saying, give it some electrons!”
The agent had barely heard anything Akash had said, as he was too busy watching the sheriff as they passed. They seemed to have completely surprised the sheriff, who apparently was too busy watching the hounds ahead of him to have been checking his rear-view mirrors. At the last second, just as the agent could see the sheriff turning his head toward their car, the agent locked his head directly forward, purposely avoiding a
ny direct eye contact. Instead, he raised his right hand in a fake scratching motion to his head—prominently using his middle finger to do so. He didn’t know if the sheriff had seen the gesture or not; nonetheless, it was one of the best itches the agent had scratched in quite some time.
Akash eased back into the right lane once he was well clear of the sheriff. Now directly ahead on the right shoulder of the road were Maxie and Chloe, followed closely by Sparky and Officer Burnham.
“What do I do now?” asked Akash.
“Just keep us between them and the sheriff. Now, what was it you were asking me back there about Matthew Duncan?”
“I just wanted to ask you a few questions about him,” said Akash.
The agent stared at Akash. They had now slowed down and were keeping pace at fifty feet behind the hounds. The sheriff had moved uncomfortably close to their rear bumper, and Akash glanced nervously back and forth from the hounds to the sheriff in his rear-view mirror.
“You didn’t seem too interested in my escapee before,” said the agent. “Why the change?”
“I guess I’ve just reconsidered a few things,” replied Akash as he continued his volley between watching the hounds and the sheriff. “And I’m actually not sure if I’m interested in him or not—I just have some questions about—” Akash paused. “Shit!” he yelled, as at that moment the sheriff had made a move to pass them on the left—but he didn’t seem to be just passing, but edging closer to them in an attempt to force them off the right shoulder of the road.
The agent looked to his left. “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” he screamed.
“There’s not enough room—he’s going to hit us! Should I slow down?” yelled Akash.
Before the agent could answer or even think of one, Maxie and Chloe provided their own answer. Just as the sheriff was accelerating, to either pass them or run them off the road, Maxie and Chloe detected a change in the direction of the scent trail. They suddenly veered right—off the pavement and up a gravel road, leading to a farmhouse. Akash’s decision became automatic, since the sheriff had been forcing him to the right anyway. He made a quick turn to the right and followed the hounds up the gravel road. Back on the paved road, the sheriff’s position in the left lane, combined with his acceleration, forced him to miss the turn. He screeched to a stop several hundred feet past the gravel road.
Touching Cottonwood Page 73