CENSUS_What Lurks Beneath

by Marshall Cobb

  The door slammed, hard enough that the glass within it rattled. Dave feverishly looked around, semi-delirious from stress and exhaustion. He dropped to all fours and looked at the door threshold, trying to see if there was a space large enough for a snake to slither through.

  “Daddy? Why did you slam the door on me?”

  Dave grabbed the door handle with his right hand to keep it closed, rose to his feet and kicked at his other boot, which sat in front of the door mat. Nothing emerged. He stared at the empty boot for a moment, ignoring Adam’s repeated yelling and keeping the door shut despite his son’s best efforts.

  He took one last look all around and above him. Nothing. He let the door fall open and jumped inside, immediately shutting the door behind him. He grabbed Adam with both arms and, bending down, squeezed him closely.

  “Daddy, you’re really sweaty!” Adam’s muffled protest only brought tears to the corners of Dave’s eyes. Quickly the small tears turned into deep, uncontrollable sobs of relief.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong with you?”

  He squeezed his son even more tightly to him.

  I wish I knew.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Deputy House Call

  The following week Deputy Evans adjusted the position of her utility belt as she shut the door of her cruiser, which she had parked next to Dave’s truck in front of the small farm house. With one eye on the closed front door of the house, to track any appearance of the overly friendly dog, she walked around the front of her cruiser and opened the passenger side door to grab a manila folder, as well as the large, knotted kitchen trash bag that held Dave’s defunct laptop.

  By the time she shut the passenger door, he had opened the front door and awaited her in faded jeans, a T-shirt and crocs. As she walked toward him she thought his attire made him look younger, but as she got close she saw that his face had aged considerably since the last time she’d seen him. She didn’t remember him having much in the way of gray hair, but his temples and sides of his head were now more gray than brown. He absently rubbed at his right temple as he held up his left hand to greet her.

  “No dog today?”

  “He’s back in Houston. I need to change and then head to San Antonio for a meeting. I’ll spend the night there and then have another meeting further west before I head back.”

  She lightly stomped her feet and wiped them on the door mat, but left her black boots on as she followed him into his house. He shut the door behind her and she noted that this time the house was tidy. She caught him looking askance at her boots and realized that he had several pairs of shoes sitting inside his front door, including the crocs he’d just shed. Apparently he preferred that guests remove their shoes, but since she was doing him a favor, she didn’t feel inclined to oblige. She also had an uncomfortable feeling that taking off her boots would imply an intimacy between them that didn’t exist.

  He held out his hand for the plastic bag. “Is that the remains?”

  She nodded and handed the bag to him, which he took and put on the nearby kitchen table.

  “Thank you again for bringing it over.” He nodded toward the half-full coffee pot. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee in return?”

  She nodded again and he gestured to the chair at the end of the table. She sat down and put the manila folder on the table directly in front of her while he busied himself pouring the coffee.

  “Cream and sugar?” “Black is fine, thanks.”

  He made a slight face as he stopped reaching for the sugar. “I should tell you that it’s pretty lousy coffee. A little sugar goes a long way.”

  “I don’t need it, thanks.”

  There was no need for her to go into her ongoing struggles with her weight, and she deliberately made her face a blank slate. She was still a little puzzled with herself as to why she’d agreed to come out with his laptop. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, but he was married and the answer to exactly none of her problems involved carousing with a married constituent—or any relationship for that matter.

  Her personal life had never been kind to her, and she was here out of a sense of pity more than anything else. Out of curiosity, and an excess of free-time, she’d done a little digging within the Department’s database on the current and prior residents in the immediate area. Even though she’d grown up not far from here, she hadn’t realized just how sad this seemingly peaceful little bit of land really was.

  Beyond the mass murder involving the McAlester kid, who’d recently been executed, the properties within a couple of miles of what was now the Reynolds place had experienced a disproportionate share of assault and robbery. Some of this was explained by the long-time residents in the area, and the children that didn’t fall far from the miscreant trees, but there were also a large number of properties owned by out-of-towners that turned over at a furious pace. Like the restaurant in town that was perpetually under new ownership; no one could make a go of it.

  A fair amount of this turnover was attributable to death by natural causes, such as the wife of the prior owner of the Reynolds place, and the hus- band of the couple that had owned the land just before them—but these deaths mostly involved people in their fifties or very early sixties. There was no evidence of foul play, but even with the fatty diets and sedentary lifestyles involved, it seemed to require three standard deviations to pull all of these results back into the bell curve.

  She’d found that she’d added in additional patrol passes down the county road that fronted the Reynolds place over the past few weeks. She wasn’t sure why, and Reynolds himself—easily tracked by the presence of his truck—was rarely present. She had a strange feeling that something was going to happen, and she needed to be there when it did.

  Dave found the look on her face vaguely disturbing as he put the mug of coffee in front of her, and another at his spot at the table. The doomed laptop encased in the plastic bag sat in the space between them. “The report form is in the folder?”

  Deputy Evans came back out of the depths and gathered herself. Yes, the manila folder she’d brought had a blank crime scene report form that Reynolds had requested. “You’ve decided to file a report regarding the deer after all?”

  Dave rubbed his temple absently and stared again at the plastic bag that contained the now-defunct laptop. “I don’t know…maybe.”

  Deputy Evans stared at him a bit harder, trying to figure out what had happened since the last time she’d seen him. She followed his gaze to the nearby plastic bag with the power cord lying on top and then back to the manila folder in front of her. She opened the folder, which was labeled “Reynolds” in handwritten ink on the tab sticking out from the side, and pulled out a blank form, which she then set atop the folder.

  Dave reached across the table to grab the bag with the laptop, which he hefted for a minute and then set aside to his right to remove it from the spot between them. His gaze lingered on it again and she felt compelled to fill the void in the conversation—a void she normally employed to elicit information during interviews with witnesses.

  She volunteered, “My IT guy says the drive is gone, but you’re obviously welcome to take it to someone who can try and resurrect it.”

  Dave smiled weakly, nodding. “Ants?”

  “Yes, apparently quite a few of them.” She noted that in addition to the gray hair now lining his temples and the sides of his head he now had significant batches of wrinkles around his eyes as well as at the sides of his mouth.

  Dave pursed his lips and then took a deep tug at the coffee in front of him. “It’s always something with this place, and it’s never the same thing twice.”

  She noticed that he once again rubbed absently on the right side of his head. “Why exactly did you buy this place to begin with? You’re not from here are you?”

  Dave laughed and some of the tension ebbed. “No, not even close. I’m originally from Manhattan but my family moved quite a bit.”

  “Manhattan, Kansas or Manhattan, Manhattan?”

  He smil
ed again and presented a side of himself that she hadn’t seen in their prior, charged interactions. “No, not the Kansas one—the Big Apple. I also spent short stints of my childhood in Seattle, Los Angeles, Detroit and Atlanta.”

  “Why did your family move so often?”

  Dave stared into his coffee mug and almost smiled again. “My father was something of an entrepreneur.” He drained the last of his coffee. “He was great at starting new businesses, but not so good at keeping them going.”

  “What kind of businesses?”

  Dave rolled his eyes. “You name it and he tried it. Restaurants, hotels, publishing houses, specialty machine shops… They all ended badly, and we had to move to put some distance between ourselves and the angry investors he’d duped into funding the project.”

  Dave pushed back from the table and made his way back to the nearly empty coffee pot. He raised the pot in her direction to ask if she wanted more and she smiled and shook her head. He then poured the rest of the coffee into his cup and put the empty pot in the sink.

  He came back to the table and resumed his spot just in time for a follow- up question. “Where are your folks now?”

  His smile faded. “Dead. Small plane crash many years ago.”

  She winced and immediately fumbled for the polite response. “I’m so sorry.”

  He waved her off but his look grew distant. “It’s fine. That’s ancient his- tory.” He drank a little more coffee and then his smirk returned. “Any- one ever tell you, you ask a lot of questions? What are you, a cop or something?”

  She blushed, involuntarily, as she realized that she had dominated the exchange, which was normal, but with overly personal questions—which was not her typical, no-nonsense approach. She also took stock of her location and the time she was spending chit-chatting with a constituent that may or may not have anything useful to offer. Her training kicked back in, and she thought of the troubled history she’d uncovered regard- ing this property and the area in general.

  “Let me ask just once more—why did you buy this place?”

  He put his cup back down on the table and stared at her. It was a simple enough question but the answer, which was something he’d been asking himself quite a bit as of late, was elusive.

  “I guess I wanted an escape.” He noted that she too felt this answer to be incomplete, so he added, “An escape from my regular life where I could work outside as opposed to being stuck in an office under fluorescent lights all day.”

  She nodded. She’d heard a variation of this desire from other city- dwellers who had come to the country, and wondered if any of them knew that most people in the country would gladly trade their fresh air and countless hours of back-breaking, often low-paying labor, for a cushy job in the city. The grass was definitely greener.

  As she thought of a constructive reply he changed things up. “And you, where are you from?”

  What was happening? She was now going to share personal details? She silently hoped for an urgent call on her radio as she adjusted the volume to ensure she’d hear it.

  “Come on now, it’s only fair. I answered all of your questions.”

  She took another turn at her coffee and then decided that she’d make yet another exception in his case—while noting that she needed to ask herself why, when she’d have the time, and the privacy, to gather her thoughts.

  “My family home is about five miles southeast of where we sit. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  He noted that she’d been careful to note that it was her “family” home, not where she currently resided. He thought about pushing on that front, then checked the impulse. That was absolutely none of his business, but he was entering that same, curious state of infatuation that had briefly gripped him when he ran into her at the gas station.

  Come on Reynolds, she’s not here as your date.

  “Farmers?”

  “My father was a rancher until he got sick. My mother sold off most of our land piece by piece to pay his medical bills and the debt on the ranching operation—just before land prices boomed and oil rights began to make millionaires left and right.”

  It was now his turn to feel lousy. “I’m sorry.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing to be sorry about. Timing is everything—and poor timing seems to run in my family. At least my father passed away before he had to see it all go bad.”

  Dave had no idea what to say, or if he even should attempt to say some- thing. She had gone from shy to over-sharing in mere moments. He continued to watch her and respect the silence between them.

  She slowly spun the nearly empty coffee cup on the wooden table, think- ing back to her formative years as the only child, forced to help her father with all the labor required to run a small herd of cattle while maintain- ing fences, barns, tractors and the rest. She’d run away from that life as quickly as she could when she got married to a local boy who’d initially treated her like the lady she’d always wanted to be—funded by his fam- ily’s wealth—but soon revealed that his real intent was to have her cater to his every whim while he ran around town with his friends, and made conquests of similarly naive girls. He’d since remarried another, younger Stepford wife, while continuing to chase every piece of tail in the greater area. As this was a small town, there was plenty of equally small talk among the population, as her ex decided to explain to anyone that would listen that their break-up was due to the fact that she was a frigid bitch.

  She realized that she was angry. She was angry at her parents for her childhood. She was angry that her family land and potentially her future had been taken away by her father’s kidney disease. She was angry that she’d been forced to pursue a job with the Sheriff ’s department—which was a classic example of a good-ol’-boys club. And, lastly, she was angry that she was angry.

  She stood, holding the coffee mug in her hand. “So, Mr. Reynolds, will you be making a report today or not?”

  Dave was all too-aware of her sudden change in demeanor. He couldn’t figure out what he’d done—he hadn’t asked her anything that she hadn’t already asked him. Whatever the cause, now didn’t seem to be a great time to pursue a report that he still wasn’t even sure he wanted to file.

  He stood as well and held out his hand for the cup. “Why don’t we wait on that for now. Thanks for bringing the laptop, and please let me take that cup for you.”

  She nodded, and was just beginning to feel bad about how she’d re- acted—overreacted—when she did indeed get a call over her radio. She

  handed Dave the mostly empty cup with one hand, which she then used to scoop up the file and the blank form, while she squeezed her shoulder mic with the other and acknowledged the call.

  A few moments later Dave was left alone at his table, her cup in one hand and his defunct computer sheathed in plastic just a couple of feet away. He had no idea what had just happened, but took some solace in the fact that he didn’t have the time to ponder it further, as he already had too many emails waiting for him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Post Holes

  Dave looked up and glared at the still ridiculously strong October sun, silently cursing the summer that did not want to end. His head ached even more each time the post hole digger came in contact with the hard ground. He used his dirty, gloved hand to wipe at the pain above his ear and only succeeded in adding dirt to the sweat already accumulated there. For at least the tenth time in the past year he deeply regretted the fact that he’d failed to buy the auger attachment for the tractor, leaving him stuck with what amounted to hand-to-hand combat with the cement- like ground whenever a new post hole was needed.

  He resumed his grip on both handles of the digger and again slammed it down. His irritation at this entire process, which he’d soon be repeating with several more rotten posts along the front fence, was muted to a degree by the fact that the sound of rifle fire from Bill Jennings’ land across the way had at last stopped—for now. Dave wasn’t sure exactly what went on over there behind a solid
wall of brush and trees, but at times it sounded like a gun range had opened up. There was no law against the firing of a weapon, other than the fact that it had to happen during daylight hours. On certain days, and some entire weekends, it seemed like Bill Jennings was shooting from dawn to dusk.

  Dave kept at it, ignoring his headache and slowly added to the pile of gravel and rocks that he was pulling out of the ground. After another thirty minutes of painful labor he put down the post hole digger, picked

  up the large post and dropped it into the newly made hole. He grunted with satisfaction as he noted the height of the new post was right in line with the rest of the existing posts.

  His self-admiration was interrupted by an odd sense of being watched. He looked behind him and saw Bill Jennings standing nearby with his hands on his hips.

  Dave tried, unsuccessfully not to show surprise, but he did involuntar- ily jump a little, which made the normally scowling Bill smile. Dave’s mood went the opposite direction, as it normally did in these infrequent interactions.

  “Your gate was open so I thought I’d come over and catch up.”

  Dave picked the post hole digger back up and rested his hands-on top of the handles, leaning against them, sweating profusely, while Bill looked downright comfortable in his boots, jeans, long-sleeve shirt and, of course, straw hat. If Bill were able to read minds he’d know that Dave was wrestling with mentioning the fact that he’d chosen to come in uninvited versus simply walking a few feet down the public road that split their properties. Even if he was a mind reader Bill wouldn’t have cared a bit, and likely would have been delighted that he’d once again so easily gotten under his neighbor’s skin.