“People are concerned about that new Negro Terminator fella.”
Carlos stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the creaky old voice, completely at a loss for words and more or less in shock, still holding the door handle, not really knowing how to react or respond.
“Folks think he’s be gonna replacing you, they do.”
He turned around quickly, about to give the old woman a piece of his mind, but she completely ignored his body language and kept staring at the letter she was typing painfully slow when she continued, “Don’t go off half-cocked, now, Sher’ff. You know ‘Negro’ ain’t no racist word, like nigger or kaffir.”
“But why use it?” he demanded.
“He’s black, ain’t he?”
“Well yes, but…”
“So that makes him a Negro, don’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it does. You could call him African-American, though.”
“That’s some PC bull hockey right there, Sher’ff. Man ain’t no African no more than I’m a Polack ‘cause my granddaddy came from Poland. We’re both Americans.”
“What does that make me, then? I really am from Mexico.” He gave her a flattering smile, curious how she would respond to that one. On the inside, Carlos was preparing to erupt. He was too upset to think, so he headed back into his office just to sit down and rest. He wouldn’t slam his door shut and let the old bag get the better of him.
“A CILM,” she said thoughtfully as he was about to sit down.
“Say what?”
“A Confused Irish-Latino Man.”
Carlos eyes widened at her cheeky remark, surprised she knew his mother was Irish. Normally, this was as many words as Ruth would use in a month, and for that he had been grateful. Perhaps he needed to look for the shut-the-hell-up switch on the little old lady.
He almost fell back into his own chair. He calmed down and grabbed after his coffee cup, and then came to the realization it wasn’t there anymore. Dammit. He knew, or thought he knew, that Ruth wasn’t a racist, but sometimes she did say the most awkward things. Carlos decided to let the conversation go; he never held any grudges anyway.
He got back on his feet and headed towards the coffee maker downstairs. Sometime in the near future he was going to get his own coffee maker in his own office. One of those Keurig thingies. They sell ‘em at Walmart over in Elkton, he thought as he left the upstairs office, heading downstairs to a much larger, more typical police office landscape.
He walked into the kitchen and looked sadly at the empty carafe; to his dismay, he had to make more coffee, and no one liked his coffee. Hell, he didn’t even like it much. Cutting way back on the amount of grounds he usually used, he waited patiently. When it finished, he poured a rich-tasting cup. Not bad this time!
He was just about to take a second sip when the alarm went off in the speakers, shattering the silence. From the speaker came the voice of Betty Cramer—the receptionist who took all calls during the day shift.
“Sheriff, 10-67 at Paul Harris camp! Urgent!”
Carlos put down the coffee cup on the kitchen counter, cold fingers running down his spine. Goddammit. A death report was always top priority. Probably another lumberjack accident, he thought, sighing. Sadly, it would be the third this year alone, and he was glad the lumbering season would soon be over. But the damn storm was back, and that could be a problem. Those logging roads were hellish in these conditions. Normally, he’d send someone else on something like this, but he was still frustrated from having to deal with Ruth. He decided some fresh air was better than anything here at the station.
He walked calmly into the open office space, and saw Diego typing on his computer, while Betty sat at her desk opposite the counter where visitors normally stood. She looked very concerned, and listened to the call intently.
“Who’s out there?” Diego asked.
“Lucy’s on her way back from finishing her night shift, and Bard has already gone home. I was just about to go on this one.”
Betty turned around in her seat and held her hand over the microphone attached to her head set. “He says it’s a murder. Paul says it’s a murder,” she said, shocked.
“So Mr. Harris thinks he’s a coroner now, does he?” Carlos muttered to himself out loud as he headed towards the entrance with Diego in tow.
Betty looked at the receiver, concerned, and hung up. “He sounded very shook up, Sheriff. He said that the body is hanging on something, and then the call was cut off.”
“Could be the storm. Try and reach him again while Diego and I get up there. Separate cars, Diego—and Betty, keep a lid on this one. Also, I want you to call in the next two deputies on your list. Something tells me we’re going to need them. Diego, no lights or sirens, comprende? If the man is dead, he’s dead.”
Just as he spoke the words, an ambulance flew by outside on the main road, with lights flashing and sirens wailing, followed by not one but two Highway Patrol cars.
In the first car he recognized a girl named D’Lancy, an Asian woman he wanted to hire; behind her was her boss, a true redneck who should never have been allowed to carry a badge: Ethan Jones, old and very experienced, as well as a good old-fashioned bigot and proud of it.
Betty informed him, “The paramedics are on their way, and so’s the Highway Patrol. Since the base camp is off one of the mountain roads, I thought…”
Carlos felt very tired all of a sudden, watching and hearing his plan of stealth going up in smoke. Great, before we even get to the place, the entire town will know about it. He said in a calm voice, “Okay, Betty, but please don’t send anyone else for now. The storm is back, and it’s only going to get worse.”
With those words, a large fire rescue truck thundered by, also with lights flashing and sirens wailing.
“Um… I didn’t call them,” Betty cringed.
Soon Carlos and Diego were following the circus with their own vehicles, both with flashing lights and sirens, because by now some civilians in their person vehicles had decided to tag along. They had to zig-zag between a few cars and trucks while honking their horns. Carlos almost rear-ended Diego more than once. Suddenly, a Lincoln Town Car passed them on the wrong side.
“Great, that’s all we need—the stupid newspaper reporter,” Carlos muttered, watching the black Lincoln keep driving on the wrong side, trying to cut in line. He reached for the radio microphone. “Diego, see what you can do to get that crazy reporter off the road,” Carlos ordered through the police radio.
“Will do.”
He saw Diego speed up, turning onto the wrong side of the road, chasing the black Lincoln with lights flashing.
The rain intensified, and so did the storm. Dark clouds rolled like giant waves over the sky, and the wind showed no mercy. The tree tops swayed in unison, like a ghost army on the march. Branches, mud and dirt flew in the wind, mercilessly battering anyone and anything in their path. The rumble of thunder echoed in the sky as lighting exploded along the enormous mountain ridges.
The visibility was very poor, and Carlos slowed down, watching all the others vanishing into the rain. “Fools,” he muttered; and as he eased on his brakes, his car started to aquaplane and skid towards the left lane. He immediately put the car in neutral and carefully eased it back onto the right land, just as an eighteen-wheeler flashed past, loaded with timber and loudly honking its horn. He regretted having ordered Diego to go after the reporter at that moment. He just knew, with a certainty born of experience, that something bad was going to happen.
A call over the radio from Diego answered his paranoia, “Accident at Deadman’s Curve, acci…”
The radio went silent but for the static.
Wakey, wakey, Miss Cowgirl…you all right?” Slap, slap.
Christina’s eyes opened and went wide. He did hear me, that bastard. “Did you just slap my cheek?” she snarled.
“Had to wake you up, miss.”
Christina sat up in the mud, furious, and exclaimed, “You don’t hit a girl lik
e that to wake her up!”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
That said, he picked up his cowboy hat from the ground, stood up, and walked over to the house while brushing it off.
Christina just sat there in disbelief. What an ass, she thought, while getting up with what little dignity she could muster. Playing hard to get, is he? I’ll show him hard to get.
She trotted after him with her nose in the air, marching straight by him to turn off the outside alarm, then opened the door and turned off the inside alarm. There was a third alarm behind the second door inside the house, but she hadn’t bothered with that one; she had a limit when it came to paranoia. She kicked off her sneakers and walked into the great room, wet socks leaving a trail of footprints behind her. Robert didn’t bother to remove his wet boots; he just marched inside. Christina heard his boots echoing on the shiny wooden floor and stopped in her tracks, then turned facing him with her clenched fists on her waist, mouth set in a hard line, staring at him surprise and disbelief.
What she might have said he never learned, because at that instant they both heard sirens wailing on the main road as emergency vehicles of some kind approached. Robert hurried over to one of the windows and looked outside. The woods between them and the road were thick, but he saw the flashing lights of at least one Highway Patrol car. He ignored it and turned around, facing a furious girl.
“Frank should be here any moment,” he said.
“Imagine that.”
Robert wrinkled his forehead, looking at Christina and then at what she was looking at: his muddy footprints.
“Oops, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Head’s till spinning, you know. I’ll take care of it.”
His calm, confident voice calmed Christina. “Don’t worry about it,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll take care of it. It’s just stone, not like it’ll stain. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
They went into the kitchen, and Christina made a fresh pot, then filled two cups. She took one, leaving the other on the counter with the cream and sweetener. He smiled and went to grab it—and when he did, his shoulder brushed her chest accidentally. Christina enjoyed the moment, but stepped away from him, keeping safe on the opposite side of the kitchen island. “So what’s on today’s agenda?” she wanted to know.
“Frank wants to show you the lay of the land on the house’s plot, and wanted me to assist, I guess.”
“You mean hold his hand?”
Robert smirked at the remark. “Over a hundred acres is quite a bit of land, and I think he’s concerned you might wander off…and before you give me that look of yours, I meant no offense. Even the most experienced of us can get lost in this neck of the woods.”
“So, what’ll keep me safe?”
“Keep to the river, and once in a while turn around and survey your surrounding and look for recognizable markings, like a huge rock or unusual tree, or a distinctive dip in the land and so on. We’ll show you, and if you ever want to go river rafting, a friend of mine has a kayak and rafting service on the river behind you.” He nodded towards a back window, where both of them knew that the river lay far below. “They also take tourists on sightseeing tours and a few hunting tours. Or you can do some of this from the air, with Skull Creek Sightseeing & Rescue.”
“I think I saw their sign at the airport.”
“That’s them, all right.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you give any sightseeing tours?” Christina looked at him mischievously, then took the last sip from her cup, covering her face, while staring at him intently, as if she were looking for trouble. But he didn’t even seem to notice, to her frustration.
“No, I don’t do sightseeing,” he answered seriously. "I used to help my friend sometimes, but it's not really my cup of tea."
“So what is your cup of tea then?”
He snorted and finished his own cup of coffee, playing with his hat on the counter. “Peace and quiet, I guess,” he said after a long moment.
No ring or the markings of one on his ring-finger, and to top it off, he had the most beautiful hands, with perfect cuticles. She placed her own left hand on the counter, hoping he would notice that she didn’t have any ring either. The things one had to do to get into a guy’s pants! This was ridiculous; she was a famous actress, with men (and women, for that matter) lining up to have their way with her—but this one, not so much. It then dawned on Christina that perhaps he didn’t know what she did for a living. Could she really be that self-centered, and expect everyone to know about her?
Her own thoughts betrayed her, and suddenly she blushed and quickly removed her hand. Jeez, what had happened to her? She needed a new rule to live by; no boys. Well, not for a while at least… Then again, it had already been a while. She sighed at her thoughts, and to her horror noticed that he was observing her with his deep blue eyes; and yes, they were perfect too. Defensively, she said, “You don’t say much about yourself, do you?”
Robert just smiled back.
“When it comes to your work, then you talk; but you never say anything about yourself. Why?”
Robert just kept looking at her, and now his expression was neutral. She gave him a suspicious look. “What type of wood is the fence made of?” she demanded suddenly.
“For most part it’s oak, and then there’s…”
“Aha, gotcha! It does speak only about its profession, now doesn’t it?”
Silence.
“Unbelievable. It’s a programmed robot,” she cried, pushing away from the counter and walking away.
“Well now, Ms. Cowgirl…”
She stopped in her tracks, then turned to face him; and to her surprise, he stood just behind her, very close. She found herself facing a blue denim shirt, which caught her off guard. With his boots on, he was unfairly tall.
“So, how much did you hear and for how long did you pretend to be out?”
“Honestly?”
“We can do honest for now.”
“The moment your fingers touched my face.”
“But why? Why didn’t you…?”
“It felt nice.”
“And you heard me?” She moved closer.
“Some of it.”
“You heard all of it, didn’t you?”
By now she was on her tiptoes, about to close her eyes. It was the perfect moment, that moment that’s actually better than the kiss; the moment just before.
Then a terrible screaming sound made Christina’s eyes open wide. Again the sound came, and it was clear it came from his breast pocket; it was the sound of a donkey braying. Immediately he turned 180 degrees and fished for his cell phone. He sounded very curt and serious when he answered. Christina looked at his perfect back and ass—but when she heard the word accident, she immediately got serious. Robert put on his hat, turned around, and marched towards the door.
“Wait what’s going on?”
“Accident.”
“Frank! Oh no, is he okay? WAIT!”
She intercepted him, stepping into the doorway and blocking his way out. “Hold on, now, what’s going on?”
“Gotta go. People need me.”
“Well, I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“YES!” She stamped her right foot.
“I said NO.”
He found himself facing two burning furnaces, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Christina gave the bonehead The Stare, the one imbedded in every woman’s chromosomes—the one that, to this day, remains a horrifying mystery to all men.
He looked her over and shook his head. “You can’t go like that anyway.”
She moved swiftly, like a snake, one step closer to him. Again, there was less than an inch between them, and she could feel his breath on her face. It smelled like mint. She gave him a wide smile and winked to get him off guard, and it worked. She forced her hand into the right pocket of his jeans—she
had seen him put his truck keys there before—and though she felt something more than the keys, that had to wait. She pulled out the keys, dangling the keychain in his face and then snapping them away before he could get them back. She ducked away from his arm as he tried to stop her.
“Hey, wait, it’s serious! I really gotta go!”
“I’ll be right back. Time me—less than two minutes,” Christina shouted as she raced upstairs.
Before Robert could protest, she was gone; and in less than two minutes, he heard her running back down the stairs on her tiny bare feet. She was back, wearing old denim overalls with only one shoulder strap buttoned, with the same damp T-shirt underneath. “You’re going barefoot?” he demanded.
Heart pumping fast, Christina grabbed her sneakers and got down on the floor, forcing them back on her feet; but they were still damp and she had to do some struggling and stamping, with her tongue stuck out between her teeth and her long, messy hair covering her eyes. Robert was saying something, but she ignored him. When she was done, she jumped up and clapped her hands. “Ready!”
He looked at his watch. “You’re late.”
They hurried to his truck, and when they got inside he placed his right hand in front of her face. “Keys.”
“Sorry. Here they are.”
He drove very well, not too fast or sloppily but definitely in a hurry. By now, the rain was pouring down, and the wind was very powerful. The windshield wipers had to work overtime to clear the glass. The truck was old but clean, she noticed, something Christina liked. There were no trinkets hanging from the rear mirror, like that awful green tree some people used that stank something horrid. There was the typical gunrack in the back window, but no weapons. She put her long thick hair up in a loose knot back of her head while humming a tune. She decided to start a conversation to break the man’s shell. “So, what do you do for fun around here?”
Silence.
“Have you lived here long?”
Silence.
“When you work in the forest, do you have a dog with you?”
“No.”
“Don’t you like dogs?”
“I do.”
The Lumberjack Page 8
