by Soren Petrek
Jimmy was dumbstruck, not believing his eyes or ears. After a few uncertain moments, he started slowly swimming over to the side of the pond towards the biggest, blackest, craziest looking man he’d ever seen.
Nathan sat on the bank and the kid cautiously came out of the water. He noticed that even sitting down the man was taller than he was at twelve years old.
“So you’re the potato thief. What the hell for?” Nathan looked the kid over and, seeing the state of his clothes and his skinny frame, decided he wasn’t enemy number one.
“I took ‘em home for my mom, she thinks people are giving them to me.”
“You could ask, you know,” Nathan said in a calming matter of fact way. He liked the boy right away. There was pride inside that lanky kid.
The kid couldn’t take it anymore. “How tall are you mister?
“Tall enough that you should be smart enough to steal from somebody else. What’s your name anyway?”
“I’m Jimmy Dent, you a real African warrior?”
That did it! The kid could think!
“Masai,” Nathan said, striking his spear against his shield.
“What are you going to do to me?” Jimmy said directly, thinking he was going to get in trouble.
“Well, I was thinking you could work off some vegetables now and then. There’s always something to do around a farm and garden.”
“You have a deal.”
“Then let’s get you a real sack and some good potatoes and something to eat.”
Nathan led the kid through a high hawthorn hedge twisted together, making an imposing barrier. “That’s the Kraal, it keeps out the Lions.” Nathan liked his kraal and its gesture to his Masai tradition. He and his parents had constructed it. In Africa, it was designed to keep predators out and provide an extra layer of safety for the people and animals inside. Here, it was more about tradition and making a home.
Nathan noticed that the kid accepted the notion that there were lions in the woods in stride. Perhaps he thought Nathan had let a few of them go out there. The kid was still a kid; he hadn’t turned cynical or smart-assed yet. Maybe he wouldn’t; they didn’t always. Nathan thought of his buddy Sam. When they were young they were the model of manners on the outside, but sneaky and clever on the inside. You had to be that way with John Trunce around. You just didn’t want to disappoint him, and you sure as hell didn’t want to make him mad.
The two walked into a cavernous kitchen at the far end of which was a large steel door. Nathan said, “I know you like meat, all young warriors like meat.”
“I like everything.”
“OK! Then let’s eat big!”
Nathan opened the door and walked into a large walk-in cooler. Sides of beef were hanging and there was farm produce everywhere.
“How about steak?” Nathan said. The kid just nodded and smiled. Nathan loved to cook for people his way.
With one hand Nathan grabbed an entire side of beef and lifted it off the hook so that it dangled from the ceiling. He dropped it to his side and carried it out of the cooler like a suitcase. The kid backed out, eyes like dinner plates. Nathan carried the beef over to a huge metal table in the middle of the kitchen, took a butcher knife out of a drawer in the side and cut long strips of meat along the back and loin area with swift, sure strokes. He left a fair amount of fat on the strips. The idea of a diet or limiting your food intake wouldn’t even register to a Masai. Nathan cut what looked to the kid like enough for a family reunion and piled them on the table. He picked up the carcass, stuck it back into the cooler and pushed the slabs of steak onto a wooden board. By now the kid was following him around. Nathan went out back onto the deck where a good sized fire was burning in an opening in the deck. Nathan kicked the fire flat and threw some of the pieces of meat directly onto the coals, where they started to sizzle and sputter immediately. The kid and Nathan sat down and watched the meat cook. Nathan reached into the fire and turned the meat around now and then, pulling finished pieces out and handing them to the kid, who tossed them from hand to hand until he could hold them and then, just like Nathan, bite big juicy pieces out of the meat and chew them down. The kid ate like a champion and Nathan ate with a smacking joyful gusto. When all the meat was gone, Nathan led the kid over to a rain barrel where he dipped out a big pan of water that they washed their hands in.
“Time to garden, we’re gonna pick peas.” Nathan handed the kid a pail, took one for himself and advanced on the huge row of peas, trained up a long chicken wire fence. They worked their way along the row.
“You hunt and fish Jimmy?” Nathan asked dropping a handful of peas into his pail.
“A little, I mostly fish. I don’t have a gun.”
“You don’t need a gun, Jimmy. I never use one to hunt.”
“You throw that big spear at them?” Jimmy said clearly impressed.
“Sometimes I just throw a rock,” Nathan said.
“No way!”
“I’ll take you with me, you’ll see.”
The fierce Missouri sun was up and it beat down on the huge coal black giant and the brown as a berry boy as they filled up their pails happy to be in their element, outside.
“It’s time to move the operation, men.” Doc circled his two ‘men’ with his hands clasped behind his back, really getting into the role. “We’ll break camp, and then make a supply run for testing product!”
“Sir, yes sir!” both the old man and the sideshow kid yelled, one because he wanted to believe, the other because he was so sideways on meth and some other pills Doc had given him. Doc was pleased. Now he could send the old man into a bunch of stores in the area and buy up some cold medicine and other ephedrine products. Nobody would look twice at an old duffer getting cold supplies. All he needed was a cover plan that fit into the Russian conspiracy theory. And then, almost magically, it came to him.
“Trooper, it’s all about mind control isn’t it? Do you know how your government thinks those commie bastards are getting their mind control potions into Americans? over the counter medication. We’ve received orders to sample and test large numbers of these products from stores everywhere!”
“Now, where to start?” Doc looked at Virgil with a clear, ‘what do you think?’ sort of look.
“There are lots sir; it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Virgil said.
“We’re talking volume soldier. The Ruskies ain’t gonna wait forever. How?” he snapped.
Bucket was no help. He was mastering the drooling catatonic pose admirably. Little more than a violent jerk of his head now and then indicated that he was an animate object after all.
“When people get sick, what’s wrong with them?” Doc was trying not to suggest too much. He really wanted this to be Virgil’s contribution to the mission.
“Well, sometimes they get a headache,” Virgil haltingly suggested.
“What causes these headaches?” Doc was starting to feel like a game show host where the answers were incredibly easy and the host all but told them to the contestant.
“Bump on the head?” Virgil said with a little more conviction.
Doc had to bite his tongue. The clod, he thought. I’ll give him a bump on the head. This guy’s like a circus clown on ether.
“Yeeess….what else?”
“Maybe they run a temperature.”
“Ahah”…light at the end of the tunnel. “Hot or…?”
“Cold?” Virgil guessed.
“Brilliant! You’ve got it! Cold medicine.”
To his credit, Virgil shifted to the immediate acknowledgment that it was his idea. People are like damn sheep, Doc thought. And I’m the shepherd. The day was looking up.
Sam put his feet up on his office desk hoping for a slow day as his phone rang.
“Sheriff, this is Martha Ward.”
Sam punched the speaker function on his phone and answered, “What can I do for you today?” He knew Martha, and aside from the fact she had to whack Virgil on the head from time to time s
he was fine, and she saved Sam from having to whack Virgil on the head.
“It’s Virgil. He didn’t come home last night and I’m concerned.”
“Any frying pan activity, Martha?” This was Sam’s roundabout way of asking, “Did you clonk old nut butter on the head for a stupidity infraction?” Sam often thought the entire criminal code except perhaps for premeditated murder, could be summed up into three crimes: petty stupidity, plain stupidity, and gross-stupidity.
“Oh, of course not Sheriff.”
“Just checking, Martha.”
“Could you have the deputies keep an eye out? I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll look into it myself. I’m sure there’s a good explanation, Martha,” Sam said, thinking if there isn’t, Virgil better cook one up or stay away long enough so that she really does miss him. It didn’t sound like a crime wave but Virgil was a homebody and could be laying in a ditch somewhere. Sam walked to the front of the station and called out to Lisa. “Virgil Ward is AWOL. Tell Swanny and Meyer to keep a look out for him too, will you? It’s too soon for a missing person’s report or a Patience County manhunt,” Sam added.
Lisa waived her response, without looking up from the accounts ledger she was working on.
Sam walked out the front door and hopped into the squad just in time to see an out of state plate blow through the thirty mile per hour zone at better than sixty. Sam fired up the squad, heads turned, birds flew, animals took cover, and he was off. Sam followed the car until he could get a look at the guy inside: suit, tie, sunglasses, sneer, and he was driving a BMW. That alone was enough of an infraction for Sam. The idiot didn’t even see him in his rear view mirror. Sam reached into his glove box, took out a pair of mirrored sunglasses and put them on. He pulled right up behind the dude and finally got a look back. Sam then pulled up alongside, never looking at the guy or turning on his lights. The driver looked straight ahead with both hands on the wheel, like a good old law abiding Joe. Sam pulled in front of the guy and started the old slow down maneuver. Just when they got down to thirty, Sam sped up and roared down the highway. Finally slowing to subsonic, Sam pulled over, screeched to a halt, and ran over to a smashed dead crow laying in the road. He kicked it into a plastic shopping bag and jumped back into the squad just as the other driver sped past. “The dumb ass,” Sam said out loud as he fired up in pursuit. This time Sam pulled up on the right hand side of the preppy beamer man, made the universal “roll down your window” signal, and slowed them down so that the guy could hear him. Sam started to make some loud cawing noises and shouted, “Speeders in this county gotta adopt a crow!” He simultaneously flung the maggoty mess onto the guy’s lap and slammed on his brakes. To his credit, business boy speeder kept it on the road with just a few sickening swerves as he crossed the county line.
Sam howled with laughter, knowing that in Patience all police complaints were directed to old Judge Holcomb, a dear friend of Sam and his dad. The judge just gave any complainers the statement, “no crime in Patience,” and then the old hard-of-hearing, “Who? Who?” Who?” response to every question as if he was deaf. He liked to call it the ‘owl’ solution to alleged police misconduct. Sam thought that maybe the crow was a little much, and could have caused an accident, but if the guy had hit a kid in town, it wouldn’t have been nearly enough. No ticket writing, and no way that guy would drive through Patience again.
After having been in Patience again for a few years after his big escape to the outside world, Sam had established his own informal contacts within the gossip community who he endearingly referred to as ‘wildfire’. Finding out who was up to what and getting the subtle word out onto the street was as easy as one-stop-shopping. Sam’s favorite contact was Jenny Turner, a local day care provider who, in addition to her talent for juggling toddlers, maintained what amounted to a central gossip clearing station. Someone was always dropping off or picking up and lingering to update or be updated. Sam eased the squad into traffic and headed over to Jenny’s to see what she knew.
Sam really liked Jenny Turner, and shared a few misdeeds with her when they were growing up together all those years ago in town. She’d married a local boy, Steve Turner, who owned Shortie’s Road House, on the edge of town, which had the best burger and coffee, and was where the locals got their money’s worth when they ordered a mixed drink.
Sam pulled into the driveway and opened the gate that ran all the way around the property. He stepped through the gate and around several toys on his way up the sidewalk. Sam stepped into the doorway of the clean little building and was greeted by a commotion of squeals as several small children went scurrying across the floor, obviously in pursuit of something.
“Howdy, Sam. Be with you in a second, we’ve got a hamster escape,” Jenny said from her position looking under an old brown sofa.
Sam carefully stepped over another low gate and into the play area, amused at the chaos, and scanned the floor. A little blond haired boy with a trickle of snot running down his nose looked up at him and pointed over into the corner, where a little golden hamster was chewing on the corner of a cardboard box.
“Dah,” the child said, expecting Sam’s immediate response.
As Sam looked at the kid he also caught a whiff of the kid’s latest achievement in addition to hamster tracking. He remembered this kid as one of Jenny’s handfuls. She must be feeding the kid spoonfuls of lead paint, he thought in a silly way. No way was he going to air that commentary; he just didn’t know where crazy crap like that came from when it popped into his head. Since Sam’s usual response to rodent issues was gunfire, he gestured to Jenny who swooped in and spirited the hamster back to his cage restoring order.
“Hey Jenny, I see you’ve got a houseful today. This one needs a change,” Sam said waiving his hand in front of his face.
“His diapers are over there in that blue bag,” Jenny said not entirely kidding. They’d known each other a long time. “What’s up there lawman?” Jenny said.
“Virgil Ward’s missing”
“I heard he’s been gone from home going on his third day. It’s pissing Martha off.”
“Anybody see anything you know of?”
“Not yet,” Jenny said deftly rangling the little blond boy down to change his diaper. “It seems a little weird, Sam. The guy’s not bad in small doses. He’s generally a homebody. A girlfriend is out of the question, unless she’s as bad as he is.”
“Two people like that together would blow up before any real relationship could get going. I’m going to poke around a little.”
“From what I hear it’s more like a lot lately,” Jenny said with obvious glee. “I heard Jim Taylor’s ex-wife brought over a pie and a six pack Saturday afternoon. Nice looking woman, especially in them short shorts.”
“She was dropping an extra pie after the bake sale.”
“My ass, Sam Trunce. What kind of pie?”
“Cherry.”
They both laughed.
“I guess my life’s an open book now that my girlfriend’s gone.”
“You can’t burn a woman in effigy at a keg party and not expect some commentary.”
“Now that was the Masai’s doing. He’s always setting stuff on fire.”
“Oh sure it is, Constable. Blame Nathan,” Jenny said finishing up the diaper and keeping a close eye on the children playing among the scattered toys on the living room floor.
“You going to give me more of that shit now, or bring it in a wagon later?” Sam said.
“I’ve got boatloads over at the bar. Come see us and tell Nathan I need some corn!”
“You are a bad woman Jenny Turner.”
“I may be bad, but never boring,” she said as Sam moved towards the door.
“By the way, what’s the hamster’s name?” He asked over his shoulder on the way out.
“Dah.”
“Oh, of course,” he muttered.
Sam made a few more stops, found that nobody had seen Virgil, and Sam started to worry a li
ttle himself. Missing people in a small community upset the natural balance of things. It was highly unlikely that Virgil was out on a bender. Sam knew most of the juicers locally from his own liquor establishment recon, as he called it. Virgil wasn’t much of an outdoor guy and his car was gone. What the hell, nobody would grab him unless he saw something that he shouldn’t have. Time to start from the beginning and earn my keep, he thought, and steered in the direction of the old mill next to Ward’s. Sam turned up the road, stopped the squad next to the larger shed, and slid out of the car. He automatically pulled a side-by-side 12 gauge out of a holster attached to the back of his seat. He remembered all of the times he’d wished he could have carried a good old blunderbuss on some of those calls in Detroit. This one was a mean bastard and sounded like a cannon when it went off. Screw that keep-your-gunholstered bull, nobody to worry about hitting here except possibly a bad guy, a rabbit, or a squirrel, all which were perpetually in season in Sam’s book. Since he had narrowly escaped death when he’d been shot in Detroit he really didn’t feel the need to yell “freeze” anymore. You know, war is hell. If the bad guys see a cop car and shoot anyway, their intention is quite clear.
Sam walked over to the shed and pushed the door open with the barrel of his shotgun. He walked in and noticed a lingering chemical smell and a pile of lye and solvent bottles. He went out a side door and over to a burn barrel. The barrel had seen plenty of use and the majority of its contents looked like gummy ash, wet with the recent rain. He stirred the contents around with a stick and saw a couple of cold tablet boxes that had survived. As he continued to walk around the area he found a lump of melted plastic pill cards, what looked like hundreds of them. The men that had been there recently might as well have left a sign announcing the presence of their former lab.
“So a cook comes to Patience,” he muttered aloud. He must have overlooked the ‘bad god damn idea’ portion of the chamber of commerce literature. One lab usually meant more. It was time for a little scouting mission.