CENSUS_What Lurks Beneath

by Marshall Cobb

  With no suspects, no viable motives, accidental death was the most prac- tical, if not the most politically correct ruling. Yes, Reynolds may have been unstable towards the end as well, but a lot of the city people who bought land out in the country had more than just one loose screw. Why would anyone who had managed to put themselves in a position where they had absolutely no manual labor to perform think that operating chainsaws, shovels and tractors was the answer to any of their problems?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: One Year

  Later

  Deputy Evans drove down the road that led to what she still thinks of as the Reynolds place. Her full Whataburger bag was back in its old spot on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat, and she had lost most of the twenty pounds she had put on.

  She was off-duty, in her personal car, and would be hard-pressed to ex- plain why she was here. She wasn’t investigating anything, nor was she accomplishing anything other than scratching a self-inflicted itch in re- gard to a strange sense of duty she still felt regarding Reynolds and what she saw as the flawed investigation into his death.

  Her life, which had already been a solitary existence, had become even more so over the past few months. It wasn’t like she was going to run for Sheriff. The bubbas in the community and her fellow deputies would never go for that, even if she actually had the drive and ambition that would be needed. She was an aging, female loner in a workplace where a penis was a prerequisite. She stared out the windshield and contemplated where else she could go, and what she would do when she got there. No answers emerged on either front.

  The old Reynolds place, with its now weathered for sale sign parked just inside the fence, came into view on the right side of her car. She auto- matically slowed down and took in the empty fields, the equally empty barn and the darkened house.

  She blinked, slowed to a stop and stared again at the house. Was that a light? She shifted into park and reached over to open the glove compart- ment and retrieve her binoculars. She pushed the small field binoculars against her eyes and attempted to dial in a clear picture of the house. At this distance, and in this light, the binoculars were not terribly helpful. There did seem to be a flashlight or other source of light roaming through the house. The curtains—as always—were drawn against the light and the heat, but the gap between the top of the large picture window and the curtain seemed to reveal light from within.

  She pondered her next step for a moment, then put her car in reverse and backed up until she was even with the gate that blocked access to the caliche driveway. She pulled into the open, but now heavily weeded area in front of the gate, stepped out of the car and trained the binoculars on the house one more time.

  The house had reverted to its normally dark state. She scanned the larger area but saw nothing of interest. She sighed, tossed the binoculars back onto the passenger seat and tapped the roof of her car with her fingers.

  Her interest in checking this out might be more personal than profes- sional, but then again she had no actual connection with Reynolds when he was alive—and he had been dead for a year. With the investigation in mind, he had been more of a pain in the ass than anything else, but he did not deserve the death he had experienced. Even truly awful people did not deserve to go that way. She continued to stare at the house, and was startled by the motion sensor light on the front porch, which kicked on in the darkness and illuminated…nothing.

  She pressed her forehead against the roof of her car for a second, using the pressure to gather her thoughts. She should be home.

  Why was she parked in front of what was probably a vacant house?

  If there was something going on shouldn’t she call it in and let her colleagues on duty handle it?

  Her only answer was that she felt curious, but was not entirely sure what she was so curious about.

  She lifted her head and reached under her seat for her oversized flashlight and her service revolver—two items she took with her wherever she went. She secured the holster to her belt, clicked on the flashlight to ensure that it was working, then shut and locked the door.

  She cupped her hand over the end of the flashlight and between the light that leaked through her fingers and the ambient moonlight she was able to make out the sturdy gate and the same cut-proof-lock and chain that Reynolds had installed several years ago. She clambered up the gate and dropped down the other side, careful to avoid a large mound of fire ants positioned in the swath of grass lining the middle of the road. With a quick look back at her car, she walked on the rocky, right-hand side of the caliche road toward the dark house.

  It was early fall, which meant that it was still in the low 80s at this time of day, and per usual she began to lightly sweat from the exertion within the humid air. She wiped some sweat off her brow, and still cupping the front of the flashlight, played a small amount of light ahead of her. There was little to see besides the fire ant mounds that littered the area. She felt completely exposed as she walked along; the tallest thing between the house and the road.

  The motion sensor light on the porch did the opposite of what was ex- pected, and cut off as she approached. She stopped and took stock of what was happening around her, which at this point was nothing. Star- ing hard at the house, trying to note any movement in the windows, she fought back a slight case of nerves and compelled herself forward. She used her flashlight to look around the porch, then cupped it again and stood stock-still, listening. The pace of her sweating had picked up, and at this point it was likely more from nerves than the heat.

  There was still no sound or movement from the house. She turned and looked back at her car, which seemed quite a bit farther than a quarter- mile away.

  What am I doing?

  You saw light from inside the house. A house that should be empty. Sure, but I could always call it in. I’m not even on duty.

  That would go over well. No one would say anything about the fact that you’re spending your free time driving by the house where you refused to accept that a goofy city-boy had died accidentally.

  There were already rumors that you were sweet on him. You’re standing ten feet from the front door—are you a police officer, or what?

  She let that be the last word, and willed her feet to move. She walked past the left side of the house as part of an initial sweep, again cupping the flashlight to minimize the light. Her footsteps crunched on leaves and twigs. She winced as she went, painfully aware of the fact that between the flashlight and the noise she was making, the element of surprise was not on her side.

  Maybe it’s just some kids using the empty house to party.

  If so, they’ll likely have at least some fear of law enforcement. On the other hand, there are plenty of impromptu meth labs springing up in the area, and these bad actors are far more likely to shoot first, rather than run. She was relieved on that front, to see no trace of repeated foot traffic or wheel ruts, nor were there any piles of cigarette butts outside any of the doors as she’d seen at some of the meth labs they had shut down (cooks who wish to stay alive go outside to do their smoking).

  She arrived back at the right side of the front porch and was bemused to see that her arrival made no difference to the motion detector and

  its floodlight—which remained dark. She trained her light on the front door, which appeared to be intact. She shut off her flashlight and stood stock still on the porch, giving her eyes a chance to adjust to the dark, while looking to see if any light came from within the house. Yes, now that her eyes had adjusted there did seem to be a very faint amount of light coming from within the house. The light, if that’s what it was, was static, unmoving.

  She continued to watch the house, sweat dripping down her back to lodge uncomfortably in her panties.

  You can’t stand here forever.

  She clicked her flashlight back on and focused on the door handle, a lever, not a knob, seemed to be at its normal, horizontal position. The deadbolt located above the handle also appeared normal, though it would in
most scenarios. The only way to see if something was amiss was to actually try the handle.

  She was not on duty. She didn’t have a warrant. She should probably turn around and march back to her car. There was nothing here that merited her involvement. False alarm. She should do all of this, but she didn’t. Instead she fished a small wad of Kleenex from her right front pocket and, with her left hand training the flashlight on the handle, pushed the Kleenex wad down on the far end of the levered handle.

  She pushed with the expectation that her effort would be met with re- sistance. The handle would not move, and she would eventually turn around and leave. It was not like she was going to break into the house to see if anyone had broken in. Instead, the handle smoothly tracked downward and the door fell open.

  Her wad of Kleenex dropped to the ground. Her left hand involuntarily dropped her flashlight and went to her mouth in a wasted attempt to stifle a scream. Scream she did as she stared at Dave Reynolds, smiling

  oddly at her from his position on the couch. A couple of lit candles sat on the coffee table in front of him.

  She screamed out all her available air, her mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to catch up with what her brain was having so much trouble processing. Dave smiled more broadly, and the flash of teeth made her lose what little control she had left. She was dimly aware of the fact that her bladder had let go, as warmth washed across her upper legs.

  Still unable to speak, she unsteadily bent down and reached for her flash- light, never allowing her eyes to leave Dave, who continued to smile. Her hand accidentally struck the back end of the flashlight and the blinding beam was now pointed sideways. She forced herself to look down and grab it again, frantic. The cone of light from the flashlight showed that Dave had not moved. She methodically passed the flashlight to her left hand so her right could access the gun holstered on her hip.

  His smile seemed off. She unclipped and unholstered her gun with her right hand, and realized that his grin seemed strange because it featured dark spaces where teeth were missing. She knew it was Dave Reynolds because of his eyes, but in addition to the missing teeth he was now thin to the point of emaciation. He was slouched comfortably against the couch, his skinny arms sticking out of a well-used T-shirt, resting on the tops of the cushions beside him. There were swaths of what she hoped was just dirt—moving dirt? —across each of his jean-clad knees. His bare right foot was casually parked on the coffee table in front of him.

  She took it all in, trying to get her mind to slow down as it digested the scene in front of her. The warmth created by her urine now felt cold as it reached the back of her legs. She cupped her revolver with two hands to steady herself, her flashlight wedged between her sweaty left palm and the butt of her gun.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Dave’s friendly voice was now affected by a slight lisp with some of the “s’s” coming out as a “th’s.” The lisp was attributable to the teeth he was missing. Deputy Evans did not move, and instead continued to stare him down.

  She gripped her gun tighter, almost to the point of squeezing the trigger, then relented. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Dave smiled even more broadly in what would have previously been char- acterized as a toothy grin. “Profanity even? It’s ironic that now you’re the one with the gun, making me nervous.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Yes, well, sorry about that. Sometimes things don’t quite work out the way you plan.”

  She twitched the end of her revolver at him. “Get up.” “I’m good, thanks.”

  He did not move, and she pondered her next step. She could not grab her cell phone without putting down either her flashlight or her gun, and she was not interested in either of those options. She could wedge the flashlight between her arm and her body, or try to kneel down and leave it trained on Reynolds. The reality is that fear had gripped her so tightly that the only possible avenue at this point was the status quo. Lisps were supposed to sound effeminate. Reynolds didn’t sound effeminate and, if anything, he broadcast an inner strength and confidence she had never seen him from him. How is it that he was so calm?

  “I could just shoot you now and then call it in.”

  His still dark, still bushy eyebrows rose in mock fear, then subsided. “But then you would never know what happened. You’d like to know what happened, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  She remained unmoved, unmoving.

  “You’ll be famous. You’ll get promoted. Then again if you shoot me you might have to deal with some pesky evidence I’ve planted here and there that might give people the wrong impression. Might make them think we were in cahoots.” For the first time he moved—leaning forward to wrap his arms around his knees, where the stains seemed to part for his hands. “Lovers even.”

  He smiled again at the thought, and her stomach roiled once more. Yes, there had been some sort of odd affinity between them. That was before. Now? She didn’t know what had happened to him, but he was pro- foundly changed. Her finger tightened on the trigger. She noted that his eyes followed her trigger finger, but if she thought he would express doubt or fear, she would come away disappointed.

  “Deputy dressed in civilian clothes—trespassing—shoots an unarmed man on his own couch? That’s going to be a tough sell, but I suppose if you’re hiding something it is best to remove any witnesses.”

  “How can I kill someone who’s already dead?”

  Dave leaned back again and resumed his casual positioning of his arms atop the nearby cushions. “Oh, that…”

  “I was…confused at first, worried that something here was out to get me.” He wiggled his hands to mock his prior worries, then set them back down atop his jean-clad legs, and rubbed his open palms against the fabric as if to remove sweat, or dirt. Once again the stains on his knees seemed to part to avoid contact. “For a while I thought it all boiled down to stress. I was overworked, unhappy and,” he stopped talking to work his tongue over something that troubled him in one of the places where a tooth had been, “on the verge of losing it.”

  Deputy Evans nodded, buying a bit of time as she backed up a step and risked using her gun hand to attempt to turn on the overhead light. The

  switch toggled with no reaction other than another smile from Dave. She moved the beam of her flashlight up and saw that the bulbs had been removed from the light fixture mounted on the underside of the ceiling fan. She fought back a mix of disappointment and rage, and trained the gun and the flashlight on him once again.

  “Enough. Kneel down and put your hands up!”

  Dave leaned in, took a deep breath and blew out the candles on the table, leaving only the bright cone of light from her flashlight she kept trained on him.

  “You don’t think you’re here by accident, do you? How many times have you driven past this place in just the past month?”

  She did not answer. He had refused her commands, called her bluff. She decided not to say anything until she could think through the situation.

  “Ah, the silent treatment. I get it. Buy some time. Think it through. Smart.”

  He leaned back again. “Let’s try something else. I’ll ask you some ques- tions and you can nod yes or shake your head no. It’ll help us pass the time. Agreed?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Full

  Disclosure

  She kept her gun trained on him, but otherwise had nothing to say.

  “You’re going to have to at least nod or something. In the interest of moving this along, I’ll go ahead and ask the first question.” He absently rubbed the spot on his head that used to trouble him so much and then smiled again as if he had stumbled across a pleasant memory. “It’s an easy one. Ready? Do you know how many days the average ant lives?”

  The weight of the gun and the flashlight on her extended arms began to weigh on her. Did Reynolds actually think that she was going to sit around and play twenty questions? She shook her head dismissively.

  He c
huckled. “It’s actually a trick question.” He got to his feet, smiling and waving off her concerns with his right hand. “I’m walking away from you, relax. I’m just going to show you something about ants. I’ll even sit down. He held his left arm out to the side and immediately thousands of ants began swarming out of the power outlet on the wall, spilling over themselves as they made a large pile on the floor next to Dave. This pile was joined by what she’d incorrectly thought were stains on his knees, but were actually small groups of ants. The newly combined pile roiled into a ball of sorts on the floor in front of him.

  “Now take these guys. These are workers. They live three or four months, give or take.” He stuck his hand into the pile and came away with a fist

  covered with pulsating ants, which quickly moved along his arm before they spread over the rest of his body. She detected no change at all in his demeanor.

  He held his arm out in front of his face, still illuminated by the flash- light, and wriggled his fingers. “The first tricky part of the question is that different types of ants have different life-spans. The second, more interesting trick to it is that the queen, the boss of the whole operation, can live for years. She’s the driving force behind the whole colony and every ant in the colony will gladly die for her—though ants don’t have emotions.”

  “Besides demonstrating that you’ve spent a lot of time researching ants on the internet and now do parlor tricks, what does anything of this have to do with anything?”

  “Second question—do you believe there’s intelligent life out there in the universe?”

  “Aliens?”