Common Powers

by Lynn Lorenz

  Beside Jack, the stranger stared out of the window at the scenery.

  Not one word of apology for Jack’s bite.

  Jack snatched up the mic again. “I’m bringing someone in.”

  “What’s your ETA?”

  “Ten minutes.” He hung up the mic.

  Jack cleared his throat. “So, what are you doing in Spring Lake?”

  “Spring Lake? Why, I thought I was in Hooterville,” the guy drawled.

  The comment set Jack’s teeth on edge. He hated being thought of as a hick cop. “Look, I don’t care if you’re from fucking New York City, Spring Lake is not…”

  “Relax, Sheriff.” Beauregard grinned at him. “Besides, I thought all you country boys were easygoing and laid-back.”

  “Normally, with decent folks, that’s the truth,” Jack shot back.

  Beauregard stiffened. “And I’m indecent. Why? Because I’m gay?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “There are laws against discrimination, you know,” Beauregard snapped.

  “I know, it’s my duty to uphold—”

  “Because if you treat me any less than you would any other run-of-the-mill straight criminal, I’ll get a lawyer, and you and Hooterville will never hear the end of it.” His voice rose and quivered with emotion.

  Jack restrained himself from pulling his gun again by clutching the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His head regained the lead as it passed his ankle in the quarter-mile stretch of the pain derby.

  Why did this kind of shit always happen to him? Why couldn’t one of the other men have caught this, like his new officer, Brian Russell? He was gay and living in Spring Lake with his life partner, rancher Rush Weston.

  “Oh, I promise to treat you the same as any of our regular criminals.” Jack fought to keep his voice civil.

  “Well, I should hope so.” Beauregard gave him a curt nod and turned away.

  Does the guy have to have the last word?

  “Don’t worry,” Jack added.

  “I won’t.”

  Yep. The last word.

  * * * *

  Jack gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead as he drove down Main Street to the station. He prayed no one would be in the parking lot when he pulled in and he could slip the dog and Beauregard in unnoticed. The fewer questions, the better.

  He pulled through the gates, drove to the spot marked Chief of Police and parked.

  “Hey, does the chief know you’re parking in his spot?” Beauregard asked.

  “I told you, I’m the chief,” Jack replied, barely keeping his temper in check. Throwing the guy in a jail cell and forgetting about him for a few days was looking better and better. Maybe he could get his hands on a cattle prod.

  Except for the personal cars of the officers on duty, the dispatcher and Jack’s secretary, the place appeared empty. Before anyone else showed up, he got out and opened the back door.

  The dog sat on the seat, panting. The plastic seat was covered in dozens of shiny droplets of dog drool. Someone was going to have to clean that up and Jack had a sinking feeling who that would be.

  Beauregard got out, came around to Jack, leaned down and peered in. “Winston? Are you all right?”

  Woof.

  With a loud sigh, he reached in, took the leash and led the dog out of the car.

  “He’s going to need some water. He’s very upset.” Beauregard gazed down at his pet and frowned. The dog sat on the blacktop and grinned up at Jack.

  “He doesn’t look upset to me.” Jack glared back at the dog.

  “Well, he is. You don’t know Winston as well as I do.”

  “And I hope I never do.” Jack shut the door. “Let’s go, Roy Rogers.” Dale Evans was more like it.

  “Roy Rogers? What do you mean by that?” Beauregard’s eyebrows rose.

  Jack motioned to the man’s clothing and thickened up his Texas twang. “Why, you look like you’re fixin’ to go to one of them there Yankee fancy-dress parties, pretending to be a cowboy ’n’ such.”

  Beauregard’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll have you know this shirt is the height of Dallas western fashion.”

  “Dallas, huh? Figures.” Jack led the way to the station’s back door. He pulled it open and waited as the dog and his owner entered.

  “What’s wrong with Dallas?” The guy actually sounded a little worried.

  “Well, that’s north Texas. We don’t hold with their ways here in south Texas.” Jack gave the guy his serious ‘I mean business’ face as he walked down the hall to his office.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Jack stopped, leaned in and lowered his voice. “Well, I’ll bet you didn’t know that down here in south Texas, a man could get his ass kicked for wearing a shirt with that much fringe on it.”

  Beauregard stared down at his shirt and ran a well-manicured nail across the breast pocket’s fringe. “Too much?”

  “Hell, yeah. But don’t worry, cowboy. Uh, you don’t have any more of those shirts, do you?” Jack raised an eyebrow at Beauregard and kept walking.

  “Nooo…” He sounded unsure, or afraid to admit he had more.

  “That’s good. Folks around here do hate fringe.” Jack shook his head as if it were a pity people took such a dislike to it.

  Beauregard’s eyes narrowed and he stopped. “Sure it’s just the fringe they hate?”

  Jack scanned Beauregard up and down.

  “I sure hope so.” And for some reason, he did.

  His secretary, Kristen, looked up as he entered the main office.

  “Dear Lord, Chief. What happened to you?” Kristen stood, her hand at her mouth, and stared at his leg.

  He leaned down. He’d left a small trail of blood on the linoleum floor. “Damn. I had a little”—he glared at Beauregard—“accident.”

  “Do I need to call the doctor?” She picked up the phone.

  “No, just get me the first-aid kit. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Right away, sir. I’ll clean this up too.” She put the phone down and vanished into the back hall where the lunchroom and bathroom were located.

  “You.” Jack pointed to Beauregard and crooked his finger. “Follow me.”

  “To the ends of the earth,” Beauregard cooed.

  Jack entered his office, tossed his hat on the desk and fell into his chair.

  What a hell of a day.

  Beauregard came in after him and shut the door. The dog sat by his feet and looked up at his owner as if awaiting orders.

  If the dog attacked again, this time Jack was going to shoot.

  “Now that you’ve got me alone, what are you going to do with me?” Beauregard asked. His voice was low and seductive, but the way his gaze darted around the room gave him away. Jack could almost smell the fear on him. Or maybe it was his cologne. Probably it was the dog.

  “I fill out some forms, you sign them and I lock up your dog.”

  “Lock him up? Here?”

  Jack stared at the younger man. After bringing the dog in, Jack realized they didn’t have a facility at the station to hold an animal. “I’ll have to call the vet and see if he’s got a cage free.”

  “A cage? Winston can’t go into a cage.” He shook his head and pulled tighter on the leash, tugging the dog closer to his leg.

  “And why not? He’s a dog.” Jack rubbed his eyes and the pounding lessened.

  “Because he’s claustrophobic.”

  Jack dropped his hand from his eyes and stared at Beauregard. “Claustrophobic?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The dog?”

  “Winston.”

  Jack grimaced. “Winston is claustrophobic.” Okay, now he’d heard everything.

  “Yes. He was traumatized in a tragic cage incident when he was a puppy and he’s never gotten over it. Have you, Winston?” he cooed.

  Woof.

  “Quit yanking my chain, Beauregard.”

  “I’m serious. If you put Winston in a cage
and anything happens to him after I warned you not to, I’m going to own Spring Lake.” Beauregard appeared dead serious and, from what Jack had seen, he had the money to back up his threat.

  Jack sat back and sighed. “You must really love that dog.”

  “He’s very important to me.” Beauregard gazed down at his dog and when he looked back at Jack, his brown eyes had turned dark and liquid. “Don’t put him in a cage. Please.”

  Jack ran his hands over his face. Why him? He was a good guy. Kept the peace, upheld the law, went to church on Sunday and was kind to old ladies and children.

  He picked up the phone, flipped through his Rolodex and found the vet’s number.

  “Can I speak to Dr. Martin? It’s Chief Whittaker.” Jack held on as music played in his ear.

  “Martin here.”

  “Doc? It’s Jack.”

  “How are you, Chief?”

  “Doing fine. Listen, I have a problem. Got a dog I need to have impounded, but his owner says he’s claustrophobic and can’t go into a cage. Is that possible?”

  “Well, sure, Jack. Some dogs can die due to the stress of being caged,” the doctor confirmed.

  “Die, huh?” Jack glanced at Beauregard, who was hanging on to every word.

  “They go into shock, or panic and have heart attacks.”

  “What do you suggest? The dog bit someone and he has to be kept until we can confirm he’s had all his shots.”

  “What is his behavior like now?”

  Jack shrugged. “Well, he’s just sitting there.”

  “Any more attacks since the first one?”

  “No.”

  “Does he look vicious?”

  Jack leaned over the desk and stared at the dog. It had lain down and was licking its paws clean, no doubt of Jack’s blood. “No.”

  “Well, perhaps there were special circumstances that led to the attack. Was he provoked?”

  Jack didn’t want to explain the incident. Not to the vet. Not to anyone, for that matter. “No, he wasn’t. Just walked up and bit the guy.”

  “Well, he doesn’t sound dangerous. Just find someone to keep him while you investigate.”

  “I don’t suppose you could—”

  “No can do. Sorry.” The vet chuckled.

  “Right. Thanks, Doc.” Jack hung up and settled back in his chair.

  “See? I told you,” Beauregard gloated.

  Jack sighed. “Okay. No cage.”

  “Can’t you release him into my care?”

  “No. You’re just passing through town. I need him here where I can get to him if I need him.” Like if we have to kill him, cut off his head and then test for rabies. Jesus, more than anything, Jack didn’t want it to go that far. Those shots were killers. He rubbed his hand over his belly just thinking about them.

  “I’m not passing through. I’m here for a visit.” Beauregard’s face lit up.

  “A visit? With who?”

  “My grandmother. Mrs. Olivia Rawlings.”

  “Olivia Rawlings?” Jack sat up. Far as he knew, Miss Olivia didn’t have any family.

  Beauregard smiled. “That’s right, Sheriff.”

  “It’s Chief of Police Jack Whittaker. I work for the city. The sheriff works for the county, and it’s an elected—”

  Beauregard cut him off. “Well, can he stay with her?”

  Jack was trapped. “Okay. I’ll fill out these forms and you call Olivia and set it up. Do you need a phone?” He stood, walked to the file cabinet, fished for the proper forms and pulled them out.

  “No, I have my cell.” Edward slumped into one of the two chairs that sat in front of Jack’s desk and made the call. This was the absolute worst pickle he’d ever been in. Worse because it wasn’t just him, it was Winston.

  He had no idea what had come over Winston. Sure, the chief—in an older, distinguished kind of way—looked good enough to bite, but still.

  He ran a shaking hand through his hair and searched his list for his grandmother’s number, then hit Send.

  “Hello?” A strong female voice came over the line. He didn’t recognize it except at some instinctual level deep inside. He hadn’t spoken to her since he was sixteen.

  “Meemaw? It’s Edward.” He glanced at the rugged cop on the other side of the desk. Jack was so not his type. He was older, for one thing. Edward never dated older men. For another, he was not a bad boy. Far from it. And he certainly wasn’t gay.

  So why had he been flirting with the cop?

  “Edward? Edward who?” She sounded suspicious.

  “Your grandson, Meemaw. Edward. Your daughter Lillian’s son.” Edward bent over his legs, crossed at the knee, and stared at Winston. The dog was handling this like a trooper—stretched out on his back, four paws in the air, asleep.

  “Edward!” Her voice sounded warm and welcoming. It hit Edward’s heart and filled a spot he’d never known was empty. “It’s been ages, child.”

  “I know.” Edward sighed.

  “Where are you?”

  “That’s just the thing. I’m here in Spring Lake.” Edward gave a little laugh, fully aware that Whittaker’s blue eyes were on him. It made him uncomfortable, as if he were being measured and found lacking. It was the same look his father had given him so many times.

  “You are! Well, come on over right now.”

  “I can’t. I’m at the sher—the police station. Winston’s gotten into some trouble.”

  “Winston? Do I know him?”

  “No, Meemaw. Winston is my dog. He bit someone and he’s being impounded.”

  “A dog. Your dog bit someone. Who? Do I know them?” She sounded quite excited.

  Edward mumbled into the phone, “The chief of police.”

  There was a long silence on the end of the phone.

  Laughter burst across the line. Edward had to hold the phone away from his ear. Whittaker looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. Edward reached down and scratched Winston’s belly to avoid the cop’s intense gaze.

  “Oh my Lord, Edward. You haven’t changed a bit. Still the same imp that found a million ways to get into trouble.”

  “That’s me.” Edward sighed. “Can I bring Winston to your house? He can’t go in a cage—he’s claustrophobic.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, child. I’m allergic to cats and dogs. My throat closes right up. But you’re welcome to stay with me, of course.”

  Edward slumped in his seat. Winston was out of luck. Now what would he do?

  “Thank you, Meemaw. I’m here to see you anyway.”

  “Well, get that dog thing settled and come on by. I’ll get the guest room ready for you.”

  “Yes, Meemaw. See you soon.” Edward closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He stared at Winston for a long time.

  The solution came to him in a heartbeat.

  Edward straightened. “She can’t take Winston. She’s allergic to dogs.” He stared into Whittaker’s deep blue eyes and their gazes locked for what seemed a very long time. Edward had to remember to breathe. When he did, he took a deep breath then let it out. There was only one way out of this.

  “Will you take Winston, Chief Whittaker?”

  Chapter Three

  “Are you out of your mind?” Jack bellowed. He slammed his hands flat on the desk and everything bounced. “That animal bit me!”

  “I know. But I don’t know anyone else.” Edward leaned forward, hands on the desk.

  “You don’t know me! Tie him to the fence outside. Lock him in a car—he seems to be happy there.” Jack waved his hand at the window.

  “I can’t leave him outside. He’s not an outside dog. And I’m not tying him like some animal to the fence.” Edward glared at Jack as if even suggesting such a thing was barbaric.

  “He is an animal. All dogs are outside dogs.”

  “Not Winston.”

  “Have you looked at him lately? Looks like a dog to me.” Jack glared at the subject in question. He’d curled up next to Jack’s desk as if he’
d slept there his whole life.

  “Winston is more than a dog to me.” Edward bit his lip again. “Didn’t you ever have a dog?”

  Jack froze. Aw shit, Beauregard had to go there. Had to fight dirty.

  “Well?”

  “Yeah. I had a dog. When I was a kid.” Jack frowned.

  “Then you must understand how I feel about him.” Edward lowered his voice. “Please. He’s my…best friend.”

  Jack looked from the man to the dog. Yeah. He knew about dogs. When he was a kid, Rascal, a beagle, had been his best friend, his only friend. And when, at sixteen, Jack had run away from what could only loosely be called home, he’d taken nothing but a duffel bag and that dog.

  Jack ran his hand through his hair.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “Thank you!” Edward smiled, and his face lit up. In that moment, Jack saw the man’s youth, hope and genuine thanks. It transformed him and made him seem not handsome, but beautiful. Younger than the mid-thirties he was.

  Jack held out his hand to stop Beauregard from coming around the desk to hug him. “But this is just until the confirmation of his shots comes through and the judge releases him.”

  “I understand.” The relief on Beauregard’s handsome face was evident.

  Jack sat down and rubbed his palms against his eyes. They felt as if they were pushing out of his head.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Beauregard’s soft voice and Georgia drawl stopped Jack.

  “Just a headache.”

  “I can help you with that, you know.”

  Jack glanced up. “I have some pain relievers.” He opened his drawer, pulled out a bottle and shook it as if the medicine would ward off Beauregard.

  “That just masks the problem. I can heal you.”

  “Heal me? Like some faith healer?” Jack sat back and cocked his head at the younger man. Can this day get any stranger?

  “Maybe ‘heal’ was the wrong word. But I can take the pain away.”

  “How?” Jack narrowed his eyes at him.

  “Massage. I’m trained in massage therapy.”

  That would mean Beauregard would have to touch him. “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “It won’t hurt and it won’t take but a minute.”