Starks' Reality

by Sarah Storme

  He strolled through the house, his boots thudding on wooden floors and echoing off plaster walls. One bedroom held a double bed, a dresser, and a small desk. The other one—empty—he’d use as a workout room. At the bathroom doorway, he leaned in, pleasantly surprised by the size, and hoped like hell the ancient fixtures worked.

  With the tour complete, he returned to his car. He’d managed to get everything he needed into two suitcases and four boxes, except the weight bench, which he’d tucked into the trunk in pieces.

  Home, sweet home.

  He glanced over at Coop’s and noted an increase in the number of vehicles in the parking lot. It seemed to be the only place around that served alcohol. He hoped Red had been right about them serving decent food, too, because he hadn’t made it to the store before it closed. Gas station jerky didn’t sound appealing.

  ~~**~~**~~

  Heather popped the tops on three Lone Stars and carried them to a table. “Anything else?”

  The men shook their heads as they worked on bowls of gumbo with enthusiasm.

  She moved to the next table where the Taylors had just taken seats. Mrs. Taylor’s blue hair and heavy makeup always reminded Heather of a clown, but the older couple—Friday night regulars—were nice enough.

  “We’d like two bowls of gumbo and a half dozen oysters each,” Mr. Taylor said.

  “Drinks?”

  “My wife wants a Coke,” he said. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.”

  Heather hurried to the kitchen and leaned inside. “I need two half-dozens and two bowls.”

  Skeet nodded as he slipped on a reinforced rubber glove and grabbed an oyster from a tub.

  At the bar, Heather poured drinks. Although early, the place was already jumping. Dolores Davies had picked a rotten night to have a cold, and Coop couldn’t be counted on to pitch in. Not after three or four in the afternoon. She and Skeet would just have to cover it, as they had many times before.

  When the front door opened, she glanced up, surprised to find the new chief of police walking in. He checked out the room as he crossed it.

  She took her time delivering drinks, and stopped at other tables before returning to the bar where she rinsed dirty glasses in the sink. The new chief would quickly learn that he’d get no special treatment from her because of his badge.

  He waited patiently, or at least quietly.

  “What will it be?” she finally asked.

  Chief Starks, wearing jeans and an unbuttoned white cotton shirt over a gray T-shirt, flashed a killer smile. It caught her completely off guard. Heather dropped her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in the act of folding a bar towel.

  “I was hoping for dinner,” he said. “What is it that smells so good?”

  “Skeet’s gumbo.”

  “I’ll take some.”

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  She glanced up again and met his gaze, embarrassed by the wave of heat that washed through her. The man was better looking than she’d realized, and he studied her intently. She filled a glass with ice and water, placed it in front of him, and then rushed to the kitchen, trying to ignore the bizarre flutter in her stomach.

  “Another bowl,” she said, sliding trays of oysters from the counter. By the time she’d delivered the trays and returned, Skeet had three bowls of gumbo waiting. She carried out the Taylors’ gumbo, and then took the third bowl to Starks.

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  She washed glasses and watched the man discreetly as he tasted his meal.

  His eyes widened and he looked up. “This is fantastic.”

  Heather tended to her other customers as the chief enjoyed his first and second bowls. She thought he might leave right away, but he ordered coffee and settled back as if he planned to stay for a while. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  “What have you got against cops?” he asked as she opened Lone Stars.

  She shrugged. “It’s the kind of guys your profession attracts, around here at least.”

  “What kind is that?”

  Heather checked the room before returning her attention to Starks. “The kind who think they can do whatever they want, whenever they want. The kind who think they can harass anyone and get away with it.”

  He frowned at her. “It sounds to me like you’ve been dealing with the wrong cops.”

  “Yeah? I’ve been dealing with the cops in Port Boyer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He sighed aloud. “I hope I can change your opinion.”

  Filled with rage at the memory of run-ins with the former chief, she met his gaze evenly this time, but the honesty that radiated from it dissolved her anger.

  She looked away, realizing she hoped he’d change her opinion, too.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  Heather scribbled out a ticket and placed it on the bar in front of him. Starks stood, extracted bills from his wallet, and left enough on top of the ticket to cover the food and a generous tip. “Thank you.”

  He turned and headed to the door. Until then, she hadn’t noticed the bulge on his left side where his cotton shirt covered a holstered gun.

  One thing for sure, Starks seemed to be different than the standard Port Boyer cop.

  ~~**~~**~~

  Jake strolled along the edge of the road to his house, enjoying the cool night air—much nicer than Dallas would be at that moment. The stench of dead fish and seaweed blowing in from the Gulf might take some getting used to, though.

  He was pleasantly full. He hadn't had good gumbo in years, and the stuff he’d just consumed surpassed anything he could remember. It might command a few more dinners at Coop’s in the near future.

  A tan Ford pulled out of the parking lot and rolled past. The occupants, an elderly man and woman, stared at Jake before the car picked up speed, kicking up a cloud of dust where it turned off the paved road. The two had been dinner customers at Coop’s. He’d watched the driver consume at least two drinks. Fortunately, it didn’t look like they had far to go.

  As the Ford disappeared, it left behind peaceful silence.

  He’d made it through the first full day. And he’d managed to put off seeing Tucker. Talking on the phone to his former partner wasn’t as tough as seeing him in person would be.

  He wouldn’t be able to delay the visit much longer, no matter how much he wanted to.

  Dog trotted out as Jake crossed the yard.

  “If you plan to stick around, you get a bath before the weekend’s out.”

  The canine whined as it wagged and led the way to the door. Jake scratched the mutt’s head, and then fished the house key out of his pocket. Inside, he locked the wooden door behind him.

  People probably didn’t lock their doors in Port Boyer, but a lifetime in Dallas and sixteen years on the force had left him with some habits he had no intention of kicking.

  He stopped in the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap, downed it and filled it again. He carried the glass to the dark living room and eased into a green vinyl armchair. Springs squeaked in protest, but nothing stuck into him. He crossed his feet on the coffee table, leaned back, and watched headlights dance across the marsh grass as cars pulled in and out of Coop’s parking lot.

  Heather Cooper. There was a woman with strong opinions and the sexiest mouth he’d seen in ages. If he had even the slightest interest in getting involved with anyone, she could be the one. When she’d first looked up at him, he’d felt an instant attraction. Not a polite, boy-next-door kind, but something more base, something on an animal level that tightened his gut. He’d pictured her looking up from under him, her golden eyes smoky with lust.

  Jake shook his head. Where the hell had that come from?

  To make matters worse, she was an innocent. Something had happened with the Port Boyer police force, but she didn’t feel the hatred she professed. It didn't burn in her soul. She hadn’t been tainted by life, at least not yet. She wasn’t one of the people
he’d dealt with daily for so many years—the hookers and users and dealers and crazy drunks.

  For a long time, he’d forgotten that there were others, people who didn’t know how screwed up the world really was. In one brief instant, when they’d placed the tiniest little body he’d ever seen in his hands, that fact had hit him with the force of a cannonball. He’d studied his daughter’s face, watched her little mouth open and close and her miniature fists wave in the air, and his eyes had filled with the first tears he’d shed in a dozen years. At that moment, the world had been cleansed for him, all the sins washed away by one six-pound newborn.

  Too bad it had all been too late.

  Christ.

  He seemed to have lost his tight rein on the past when he left Dallas. Emotions and memories attacked from dark corners when he least expected them. Maybe the anticipation of seeing Tucker again was making him nuts.

  Whatever it was, it annoyed the hell out of him. He suddenly craved a good, stiff drink.

  Jake drained the water glass, placed it on the floor, and dropped his head to the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of the Gulf, barely audible over the old Frigidaire’s hum.

  He needed to not think about the past. Or Heather Cooper.

  ~~**~~**~~

  As the last customers staggered out, Heather locked the door behind them. Skeet poked his head through the doorway from the kitchen, looked around, and ducked back inside.

  They’d had a good night—served up every one of the oysters and emptied a vat of gumbo. She’d also sold several fried fish dinners and a roast beef sandwich.

  Heather walked the length of the bar inspecting bottles. Jack Black and J&B were empty, Kahlua was nearly gone, both red and white house wines were low. She headed for the storage room, anxious to get the bar stocked so she could get off her aching feet.

  Turning left on the dark wooden porch that ran the length of the building, Heather let the screen door slam behind her, took two steps, and tripped.

  She stumbled forward but caught herself before she landed on her hands and knees. “What the—?”

  Spinning around, she glared at the unexpected obstacle, finally recognizing it as her father lying motionless in a heap. Her heart jumped into her throat as she knelt. “Coop?”

  She pulled him onto his back and he groaned. A bottle rolled across the porch and fell off, clinking on the ground.

  “Jeez, Coop.”

  He groaned again as she helped him sit up. His breath nearly knocked her over.

  She couldn't move him by herself, and she certainly couldn’t leave him where he was. After propping him against the wall and waiting to be sure he wouldn’t topple, Heather returned to the kitchen.

  Skeet glanced over his shoulder as she leaned in.

  “I need some help,” she said. “Coop’s plowed.”

  Skeet washed his hands, removed the rubber apron, and followed her out to the porch. With almost no effort, he eased Coop over his shoulder fireman style and walked the path to the house.

  Leading the way and kicking hazards out of the way, Heather switched on lights until they got to Coop’s bedroom. Skeet deposited her father gently on the narrow bed, and then straightened his legs and arms.

  Heather pulled off Coop’s sandals and put them on the floor beside a pile of dirty clothes, noting the garbage and empty beer bottles scattered around the room. He’d trashed it since she’d cleaned a week earlier.

  “He’s got demons,” Skeet said with startling kindness, looking first at Coop and then at her, his eyes widening as if embarrassed by his own words.

  Heather studied her father’s face, weathered by the coastal sun and wind, the deep lines smoothed into pale streaks in his current state of unconsciousness. Why did he do this to himself?

  A particular evening popped into her head. She’d been in second grade. Betty Ann, the coolest girl in town, had invited her over after school. With Betty Ann waiting outside on a bike, she’d dashed into the house and found Coop sitting on the sofa. He’d tried to wipe away the tears when he saw her, but she’d realized right away he’d been crying. Even then she knew not to ask why. After sending Betty Ann off alone, she’d made them both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and stretched out beside Coop on the sofa. She’d watched TV with her head on his chest while he slept. Listening to him snore, she’d wept because she didn’t know how to keep him from being sad.

  After all these years, she still didn’t know.

  Heather followed Skeet from the house and back to the bar. “Thank you for the help,” she said at the door.

  He glanced back as he stepped inside. “It’s nothin’.”

  She gazed out at the dark emptiness of the Gulf. Maybe her father really did fight demons. He’d spent two years of his life in Vietnam, and he never spoke of it in front of her. She’d always wanted to ask him about the war. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to do that, either.

  Rubbing the back of her neck, she glanced to her right and noticed a light at the old Miller place. There hadn’t been anyone there in the five years since Mrs. Miller had died. Was Starks living in the old house? She hadn’t heard a car pull up before he arrived for dinner, so he must have come from somewhere close.

  What was it about the man that she found so intriguing? He was sure of himself, but not in the swaggering, braggart way that Red was, or old Chief Boudreaux had been. Starks knew he could handle whatever was thrown at him, just as he’d handled the Johnson boys.

  He also seemed to be aware of everything around him. She’d watched the way he registered movement behind him even as he spoke to her, as if he were a wild animal disguised as a man. She wondered what kind of animal he could be. Maybe a tiger. One of those white tigers with blue eyes, attractive but dangerous. Or was he more like a cobra that would try to hypnotize her into complacency before striking?

  Heather started once again for the storage room. She wanted to be done with the evening so she could go home and climb into a warm shower. She couldn’t wait to wash away the residue of cigarette smoke and stale beer.

  ~~**~~**~~

  A lone screaming siren destroyed Saturday morning’s peace.

  Jake sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and rubbed his face. The siren’s volume grew steadily as it approached.

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time the ambulance passed in front of his house, Jake was running to his car, his thirty-eight, phone, and keys in hand. He caught up to the emergency vehicle shortly after it turned off the paved road less than a quarter mile from his driveway.

  Patrolman Kenny Rhodes, a young man as skinny as Red Daily was big, stood beside the squad car in front of a pale pink house illuminated by halogen lights. Jake recognized the elderly woman hovering near the door as the patron of Coop’s who had driven past him on his walk home. She wore badly applied red lipstick, a crooked wig, and a huge pink bathrobe. “Hurry,” she yelled at the ambulance driver. “Hurry!”

  EMTs jumped out of the vehicle and ran into the house.

  Jake clipped his weapon to his belt as he approached Kenny. “What’s up?”

  The young patrolman pushed his glasses up on his nose with his index finger and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Taylor called me at two-fifteen this morning complaining that her husband was sick and couldn’t get out of bed. I proceeded over here and arrived at two twenty-eight. I ascertained that Mr. Taylor was gravely ill, and called Callaway County Medical. They arrived at, uh,” he glanced at his watch, angling it toward the light, “two fifty-two.”

  Jake raked his fingers through his hair. “What’s wrong with him? Heart attack?”

  “I’m not sure, but he, uh, soiled himself.”

  One of the EMTs ran out, opened the back of the ambulance, and motioned for help as he pulled out a gurney. Jake trotted over with Kenny behind him.

  “You stay with the wife,” Jake said over his shoulder. “I’ll help with this.”

  Kenny didn’t protest.

&nb
sp; The smell hit just inside the door, so Jake switched to mouth breathing. He and the medic maneuvered the cart through an overly-furnished living room, down a narrow hallway, and into a bedroom with two single beds. Mr. Taylor had definitely soiled himself, and also thrown up all over the place.

  The older attendant, leaning over the unconscious man, straightened as they arrived with the gurney.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Starks, police chief.”

  The attendant nodded. “Keep the cart steady, we’ll put him on it.”

  Jake did as instructed and the two EMTs lifted the elderly man from the filthy bed. Then they snaked their way back through the house as quickly as possible.

  “He isn’t the only one who’s sick,” Mrs. Taylor said. “I’ve been in the bathroom since ten-thirty.”

  Jake took the woman’s arm and led her toward the ambulance. “You should ride in with him and get checked out.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll ride in. I’ve been sick all night. We were poisoned, you know. Someone is trying to kill us. My husband was an important government official, that’s why.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said, “I’ll check into it.”

  As soon as she settled into the back of the ambulance, Mrs. Taylor began explaining to the younger attendant the details of the communist underground on the Texas coast.

  Jake closed the doors and slapped the back of the vehicle twice. The ambulance pulled away, siren wailing again.

  Kenny had relaxed a bit in all the excitement, but quickly straightened as Jake approached.

  “You don’t have to stand at attention.”

  The young man's face reddened. “I should follow them to the hospital.”

  Jake wondered how Kenny managed to look so neatly pressed at three in the morning. “I’ll go to the hospital. You go home and get some rest. If anything else comes up, you can reach me on my cell.”

  Kenny nodded as if acknowledging orders for a secret mission, and hurried to his car. As soon as he was gone, Jake slid behind the wheel of the Trans Am and headed home. At least he could put on clean clothes and shave.