“What the hell were you doing over there, Sam?”
“Talking to the old man.” Kenzie started the car. He looked both ways from reflex, although there were no other cars in sight. He drove out onto the highway, rear wheels spraying dust.
“What old man?” Laura asked.
“The old black guy on the porch,” Kenzie said. “I should write him up for Reader’s Digest as a most unforgettable character. He might have been putting me on the whole time. He was a real eccentric.”
Laura closed her eyes again. “I didn’t see anybody. Was he inside the ruins, or something?”
“He was on the fucking porch, Laura. In the rocking chair. He gave me something kind of interesting.” Kenzie groped through his pants pocket, took out the rattle and shook it. This time it sounded like miniature, cartoon castanets.
“Is this a Native American thing?”
“It’s some kind of a kid’s toy.”
“It’s nice,” Laura said. ‘Do we have far to go?” She didn’t seem intrigued, so Kenzie put the antique rattle in the ash tray. Laura stretched and moaned in a way that stirred his loins. Kenzie patted her leg and squeezed.
“Not too far,” he said. “You go back to sleep.” Then, under his breath: “I guess I’m almost home.”
12.
“Sam?”
Kenzie, startled, banged his head on the upper drawer of the filing cabinet. His vision darkened and then filled with bright dots. He dropped the rag and cleaner and rubbed his skull.
“Jesus,” he said.
The overweight man in the doorway nodded. He spat tobacco juice out into the street. “Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Christ. I was just looking to meet the new lawman.”
Kenzie looked, shook his head. “Doc Preston? Is that you?”
“Last time I looked, it was.”
Kenzie forgot his pain and laughed heartily. “It’s good to see you again. Come on in and have a cup of coffee.” He got to his feet, eyeballed the visitor. Doc was now past seventy years old, with silver hair and a huge paunch that sagged out over the belt of his jeans, but his eyes were as merry as ever. He wore a blue work shirt with a cowboy tie and brown, scuffed boots with two-inch heels.
“Townsfolk will be stopping by,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the first.”
“Good to see you again, Doc.”
“I’m surprised you remember me, kid. What’s it been, thirty-odd years?”
Kenzie laughed. “At least, Doc. I’d imagine things have changed around here.”
“Lot of folks died off,” Doc said, sadly. “You likely won’t remember anyone but me at this point.”
“What about the grocer, old Calhoun?”
“Heart attack back in ’94.”
Kenzie sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was always good to me when I was a kid. But you stuck it out, and you’re still the local medico?”
“I’m still the guy you come and see for small stitches, aspirin or a broke bone. Anything more serious and we ship your ass down to Elko.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Doc leaned against the wall. “I take it you already went over things with Jack Harris?”
Kenzie sat down at his new, and still unfamiliar desk. “Sure did.”
“He’s gone then?”
Kenzie nodded. “He seemed in a big hurry to go fishing.”
Doc chuckled. “That sumbitch probably had a couple of poles in the squad car first time he gave you the keys.”
Kenzie smiled back. “Actually, you’re right. He did.”
“Well that’s bound to be the best thing about living around here again, Kenzie. Nothing much ever happens.”
“That,” Kenzie replied, “sounds just fine to me.”
A knock. Doc stepped further to the side. Another man, much taller, entered the office. He was graying, yet muscular; slender and bony in a way that reminded Kenzie of a praying mantis. He spoke with a very faint trace of a German accent.
“I am Klaus Wachner, Sheriff Kenzie. I have read so much about you in newspapers. It is very good to make your acquaintance.”
“Mr. Wachner,” Kenzie nodded. “I think you’re the man who first wrote to offer me the job, correct?”
“Yes,” Wachner replied. The “s” was only a bit too sibilant. “Your resume was most impressive, and when I saw you are from our little town, I could not help but favor your candidacy.”
“Thank you.”
“Bitte. I researched your work on the last case most carefully. You might say I became a fan of yours.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Kenzie was wondering why Wachner seemed familiar. Maybe it was because he looked a bit like an old guy who played the Nazi in all the black and white war movies.
“We are glad you have settled here again. I came by only to wish you well.”
“Thank you,” Kenzie said. “And thank you for the use of the house.” He noticed that Wachner seldom made eye contact. “You’re a rancher?”
“I have a ranch,” Wachner said. “And in truth, I must immediately be going there at once. I’m certain we will be speaking again soon. Enjoy the house. Welcome home to Twin Forks.”
“Thanks.”
Days passed; one by one the locals came to say hello. And although Doc was right, he knew almost no one from the old days, Kenzie felt his years in the city fall away like an extra skin. He loved the low-key, taciturn sense of humor and the casual acceptance of conversational silences. He felt at home for the first time in many years. When one of his old partners sent him a copy of the Sunday Los Angeles Times, half in jest, Kenzie never bothered to open it.
He never did bother to visit his family’s old property in the flats.
The small house Wachner provided was comfortable, and because it was free Kenzie and Laura immediately began to save money. He had expected her to have some difficulty adjusting to such a disparate lifestyle, but Laura surprised him. Almost from the beginning Laura withdrew into herself, read more; tended the garden and cleaned house without complaint. He supposed it made her happy to see him so happy. At least he hoped as much.
13.
A dump called Margie’s Diner re-opened shortly thereafter. It featured fried eggs dripping with butter, monstrous flapjacks, coffee strong enough to steam the chrome off a fender, and a large-breasted blonde waitress named Daisy. It also had the distinct advantage of being the only restaurant in Twin Forks. The first time Kenzie strolled through the door, Daisy, her dark blue eyes hooded with curiosity and lust, looked him over for a moment before approaching the counter. She put a little extra swing into her hips, leaned forward, mashed her breasts against his raised menu and grinned.
“Oh, my,” she said, “there’s a new sheriff in town.”
Kenzie was vaguely aware of someone giggling in the kitchen; probably old Margie, the owner. He was amazed to find himself blushing. He studied the menu, but saw nothing. Made a show of putting it down.
“Coffee and a doughnut,” he said. “And my name is Sam. Sam Kenzie.”
Daisy moved her head to one side like a bird admiring a newly discovered worm. She chuckled throatily. “How nice for you.”
Kenzie argued with himself and lost. Soon he was there when the diner closed down, just to walk Daisy safely to her truck. On the third night, she turned and grabbed his penis through his uniform pants. Kenzie took her dog-style, over the hood of her truck, and found the risk of imminent discovery intoxicating. That one furtive experience led to brisk, emotionless sex in his squad car, four or five nights a week.
Daisy was as basic and simple as a breed cow, and for a time Kenzie was satiated. But as the weeks passed, he noticed that the small-town gossip had begun. Some of the more conservative folks had started to whisper about his behavior. Kenzie worried something might get back to Laura, and his constant erection began to deflate. Worse, he found himself haunted by Dr. Greenburg’s observations about his ambivalence towards women, the guilt over his dead sister Jenny and his
indifference to the possibility of causing Laura such devastating pain.
Kenzie was soon trying to break things off, although he was not sure how to do it gracefully.
Eventually, Daisy made it easy on him by deciding to leave for Elko and a better life as a cocktail waitress in a casino. Kenzie did his very best to seem disappointed. Once she’d left town, he discovered a growing determination to remain faithful. He’d finally had it with sneaking around. The realization brought him a new kind of peace.
He found himself dividing his days into two four or five-hour shifts; he would drive through the town and surrounding countryside in the morning, just to make sure everyone got to work okay, and to let himself be seen. Around lunchtime he would return home to eat with Laura and take a short siesta; rarely, they would use the opportunity to make love. One day, as they sat on the porch enjoying the shade and a glass of iced tea, the telephone rang. Kenzie started to get up.
“I’ve got it,” Laura said cheerfully. “You just rest.”
Kenzie felt a strange déjà vu pass through his consciousness; for a moment he was woefully preoccupied with the fantasy that someone had decided to tell on him. The thought made his stomach roll. And when Laura returned to the porch, her face was red with what might have been irritation, or embarrassment.
“I hate that,” she said.
Kenzie tried to remain calm. “Hate what?”
Laura plopped back down into her wooden chair and grabbed her glass of tea. She took a deep swallow. Ice cubes rattled, and Kenzie had a subliminal flash of the child’s toy he’d been given on the Brimstone Turnpike. “Laura, what’s wrong?”
“Whoever it was hung up on me,” Laura said. “I just hate that.”
Kenzie nodded sympathetically. “Me too.”
Every night, before sunset, Kenzie got back in the squad car and made the rounds a second time. He would cruise the surrounding highways first, pulling off onto small dirt roads to approach a ranch house at random. It made him feel good to observe people through their kitchen windows as they shared an evening meal. When satisfied, Kenzie returned to Twin Forks. He parked on Main and walked the small row of businesses, checking the locks and satisfying himself that everyone had gone home.
The night he made his first arrest, Kenzie was already back at his vehicle and preparing to leave. The sound was almost inaudible; a sharp noise, like glass breaking. Kenzie whirled around, hand on his weapon. He took his flashlight and stepped lightly up onto the sidewalk. He listened again, and thought he heard footsteps coming from the grocery store. Kenzie slid down the wall towards the side window. He knew the liquor cabinet was towards the back of the store and might account for the sound of glass shattering. Probably just somebody stealing some booze.
Kenzie looked in the window. The burglar was short, wore a denim jacket and jeans; he was bent over, putting quart beer bottles into a large cardboard box. Kenzie approached the back door and saw that the lock had been pried open. He opened it and stepped in, using the flashlight to blind the thief.
“Hold it right there, Timmy.”
Timmy Black froze and swore under his breath. He was a bright kid, just a young teen. Kenzie did not know him intimately, but liked him well enough.
“You’re in some deep shit here, kid.”
Timmy made a soft crying sound, and Kenzie felt his heart soften. He went on with his speech anyway: “Breaking and entering, for one. Underage drinking for another. Maybe we can toss vandalism in there, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Timmy Black said. “I had to.”
Kenzie turned on the lights. Timmy Black covered his eyes for a second. He blinked, looked around, saw the mess he had made on the floor and groaned. “Shit.”
“Shit indeed,” Kenzie said. He holstered his weapon. “What did you mean when you said you had to?”
“Nothing,” Timmy said. He was a redhead with a freckled face and large, brown eyes. He put his hands up to be cuffed. “Go ahead and take me in.”
Kenzie frowned. “I just might do that,” he said. He looked around. “But as of now I’d estimate the total damage to be a ten dollar lock and a quart of panther piss beer. So lets you and me talk about this for a second. What did you mean when you said you had to do this, Timmy? And don’t bullshit me, or a will run you in.”
Timmy muttered something. Kenzie said: “What was that?”
“My stepfather told me to,” Timmy said. “Jesus, now he’s really going to beat the shit out of me.”
“Why, because you stole?”
“No, you moron! Because I got caught and told on him.” Various emotions flowed across Timmy’s bucolic features as he realized he’d just called the sheriff a moron. Kenzie fought back a smile.
“Maybe we need to go have a talk with him, then.”
The boy cringed. “Jesus, no, mister. Sheriff. He’ll kill me.”
Kenzie looked around the store and located a mop. He used his flashlight to point to it. “Go get that mop and clean up this mess, Timmy,” he said, firmly. “I’ll decide where it goes from there, not you.”
Pat Black’s run-down chicken ranch lay less than one mile south of Twin Forks proper. Kenzie drove there with no siren, but left the lights flashing. The closer he got to the ranch, the lower Timmy Black crouched. The squad car rolled up beside a dented old Chevy truck that sat parked near a small weather-beaten home. The boy was whimpering. When Kenzie parked he saw someone open and then close a curtain. He got out, ordered Timmy to do the same.
Pat Black, red-eyed and pissed off, came blowing out of the front door on an evil wind. He was a big, balding man who currently wore a torn, black wife-beater Tee shirt and white boxer underwear that gave an unwelcome view of his balls. Kenzie was so shocked by the entrance he froze. Black went around him like a linebacker running back an interception and started slapping his stepson around. The boy dropped to his knees and covered his head with his forearms. He was obviously used to abuse.
“What did you do now, you little fucker? Huh? You in trouble?”
Kenzie came to his senses. He didn’t like the look of Black’s massive arms, so he went for the legs. He kicked sideways, aiming for the back of the knee. Black collapsed into the dirt. For a moment, he lay stunned, but then sprang to his feet. “The fuck you doing, Sheriff?”
Kenzie smiled warmly. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, Black.”
“I’m disciplining my boy, is that a crime now?”
“Child abuse is a crime,” Kenzie said.
Black snorted defiantly. “Bullshit. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Timmy, get the fuck into the house. Now!”
The boy looked at Kenzie, who nodded and jerked his head towards the front door. Timmy bolted like a racehorse out of the gate. The door slammed shut.
Kenzie and Black stood in the oppressive night before the illumination from the headlights, dry dust settling all around them. Black sneered. He was a man used to getting his way, a man with contempt for the law, a man who dominated others whenever he could get away with it.
Kenzie hit him. Hard. The blow sank deep into the flab and muscle of the taller man’s stomach. Black’s eyes ballooned and he made a pathetic, whining sound. He bent over, dropped to his knees, vomited into the dirt. Kenzie wrinkled his nose and stepped back from the steaming puddle.
“The fuck you do that for?”
“Get up,” Kenzie said mildly.
“Why?”
“Because I want to do it again.”
Terrified, Black crab-walked back until he was pressed against the squad car. “I know my rights,” he whimpered. “This is police brutality.”
Kenzie glanced at the house. The blinds were drawn. He pulled his 9mm and jammed it into Black’s face. The man’s eyes bulged and he started to pant, rapidly. Soon he would be hyperventilating.
“Lay off him,” Kenzie said.
“Huh?” Black’s eyes were now comically crossed as he stared down the barrel of the weapon. “Who?”
“If I see
one mark on that boy,” Kenzie said, “I’m coming back here.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll bust you hard, Black. And you know what? You’ll resist arrest. I’ll have no choice but to fucking blow your nuts clean off.”
“I get you. I understand.”
Kenzie holstered the weapon and backed away. “Get up.”
Black dragged himself up and leaned on the car.
Kenzie eyed the stars. “You know,” he said pleasantly, “I’m really glad we had this little talk, aren’t you?”
Black nodded feverishly. “Sure. Yeah.”
“Step away from the car, Black.”
The big man followed orders. He had a small piece of vomit on his underwear. Kenzie got into the patrol car, slammed the door and lowered the window. He started the engine and gunned it.
“Remember, Black,” he said. “You lay a finger on that kid and you’re toast.” Kenzie smiled brightly. “Oh, and thank you for your cooperation.”
14.
Summer.
The heat was oppressive. The seemingly endless sunshine boiled into steam on the glass and steel and slammed down into the black tar shingles like a huge, white fist. Kenzie took water and beef jerky everywhere he went. He eventually trained Laura to do the same. They slathered on the sunscreen lotion, joked about ordering SPF 2,000 and somehow endured. The anonymous telephone calls stopped, and somehow that only strengthened their marriage. June and July faded, as did August and most of September.
The scorching, mean season whimpered to a close. As the fall months crawled by, the ground began to crackle with frost and the winds whistling down through the low gullies blew colder. Kenzie eventually befriended the rest of the locals; farmer Hi Patterson, whose troubled teenaged son Jake was always raising hell, just like Timmy, but for no apparent reason; cattle rancher John Blake and his wife Katherine, two geriatrics he actually remembered from childhood; bitter widower Paul Wilson. The ineffective Mayor, who seldom came to town at all, was a likeable drunk named Del Howison. But people liked their privacy in Twin Forks, and generally kept their distance.
Behold the Child Page 6
