Canis Major

by Jay Nichols

  * * *

  "Well, what have we got here? Looks like we found our friend."

  Ernie eased the squad car up to the rear bumper of the Wrangler, put it in park, and opened the door.

  Before he could step out, Ronny caught him by the belt and said, "You crazy? You’ll get burnt." Then he was yanked loose and cut off by the slam of the car door. From the safety of the passenger’s seat, Ronny eyed the forest fire to his left and the onyx effluvium that sublimed off of it, casting a raven pall over the gray road.

  Ronny watched his partner merge with the smoky torrent. Ernie was out of sight for a mere thirty seconds, but they were the longest thirty seconds of the rotund officer’s life.

  "It’s too close," he said to himself about the fire. "He’s crazy."

  Then Richardson emerged from the blackness, running. He opened the door and jumped inside.

  Panting, Ernie said, "Jeep’s empty and there’s a big, damn tree blocking the road. Looks like he tried to go it on foot."

  "Good," Ronny said. "That means he’s dead. Smoke inhalation or something. Now can we please get the hell outta here? That fire—it’s a little too close for comfort, if you know what I mean."

  "Blegggch," was Ernie’s response, scraping his tongue with two of his fingers. "That smoke tastes horrible."

  Ronny grabbed Ernie’s hand and put it on the gearshift. "Can we go now?! I don’t feel like dying tonight."

  "Yeah," Richardson replied, shifting into reverse and backing away from the impeded road, "we’re going."

  They drove back the way they had come. This time the giant bonfire was to their right and Ronny suffered the brunt of the heat. He fiddled with the air conditioner, but the warm air that leaked from the vents did nothing to quell the scorching inferno.

  "Hurry up," Ronny whined. "This is awful."

  Ernie ignored him.

  When they had more or less returned to town, Richardson stopped the squad car in the middle of an intersection and turned to Ronny. "You’ve been living here longer than I have."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So is there another way to Pritchard Street?"

  A wave of terror swept over Ronny’s face. "Oh, no," he said, "We’re not going there. You’re taking me home. My wife’s probably—"

  "Screw your wife! There another way or not?"

  Ronny looked away. He tried to lie. "No."

  Ernie palmed Ronny’s doughy shoulder and shoved him against the window. "Liar! There is a way. Tell me or I’m reporting you when we get back."

  Ernie let go, and Ronny straightened the cuff of his uniform. "Look around you," Ronny said, motioning with his hands. "There ain’t going to be anymore ‘back’ once this fire dies down. Whole town’s burning up, and you’re worried about some kid. I’ve got kids of my own to worry about."

  "I don’t care!" Ernie shouted. "You heard Price. The person responsible for this is over there on Pritchard Street, and we’ve gotta arrest him."

  "Price ain’t even sheriff anymore!"

  "He’s better than what we’ve got now. Wilkins is a moron, and you know it. He’s not fit to run a snow cone stand. So let me ask you again: What’s the back way to Pritchard Street?"

  Slumping in his seat, Ronny murmured, "Take Magnolia—you know that one?"

  Ernie nodded.

  "Keep going till it dead ends. Then take a left onto Cuthbert Road—it’s an old dirt logging road. That’ll lead ya to Farmland Road—it’s dirt, too, but it feeds into Pritchard Street.

  Ernie looked at him blankly, waiting for him to go on.

  "What?" Ronny asked.

  "Do you really want me to take you home?"

  Ronny raised a hand to his brow, swiped it down his face. "Let’s just get this over with."

  "Your kids? Wife?"

  "They’ll be fine."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah." But Ronald Owens wasn’t sure at all.

  "Okay, then."

  Ernie punched the car across the invisible pavement. They rode in silence down the surprisingly empty street. When they reached a three-way intersection, Ernie turned left.

  Sitting up, Ronny said, "You were supposed to go straight."

  "I know. I’m taking you home."

  "What?"

  "I said I’m taking you home."

  "But—"

  "But nothing. You’re right. Price ain’t sheriff anymore. You’ve got no business risking your life, and the lives of your wife and kids, following one of his whacko orders. God knows that sonuvabitch was crazy enough when he was sheriff. Now that he’s been fired—"

  The instant Ernie turned onto Ronny’s street, he had to swerve around a cluster of pedestrians who, for some reason, had collectively decided that the street was a much safer place to loaf around in than the sidewalk. The forest fire was only a smear of ochre above the rooftops, and, apparently, the coming danger was only a whisper in the minds of the residents of Harding Street.

  Ronny said, "Why are you doing it then?"

  "You mean going to arrest that kid?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don’t know. Maybe it’s because my gut’s telling me that he really did cause that explosion. Or maybe it’s because I need to see for myself if he weighs as much as an elephant."

  Ronny chuckled politely. "You’re crazy, Richardson. Always making jokes at the wrong time."

  Ernie smirked. Everything about the smirk was wrong. It just was.

  "You’re not the first person to call me crazy, you know."

  Ernie crept to a stop in front of Ronny’s house, where his partner’s wife and two toddler daughters stood waiting on the porch, all three in pajamas but only one really awake.

  Ronny stepped out of the car, then leaned over and said through the open door, "Don’t go to that kid’s house, Ern. Turn around and head for 65. Traffic’ll be a bitch if you wait."

  Under the cruiser’s dome light, Ernie shook his head in the negative. "Can’t do that. I’m going to Pritchard Street, remember? I’ve got to see something."

  Ronny shook his head slowly, the same way Ernie had but for different reasons, and slammed the door. He had done all he could.

  While Ronny jiggle-jogged up the stone path, Ernie flipped on the siren, brought the car around, and aimed it for Magnolia Drive, which led to Cuthbert Road, which connected to Farmland Road, which bled into Pritchard Street. And from there, he had to find nine oh eight. That was Hector’s house, assuming the fat fuck was still alive.