“He wants you to what?” Mazy’s eyebrows were up and she was gaping at Crockett in the cab of the H2 on the way back to the marina.
“Yeah. Says I’m constable, I should handle it.”
“And he didn’t tell the sheriff anything?”
“Says he didn’t.”
“He’s addlepated.”
Crockett grinned. “He’s what?”
“Addlepated. Off his rocker. Brain damage. Those folks that found him sitting in the grass by the road said he wasn’t making much sense. That’s why they called the ambulance. The hospital phoned the sheriff. Zeb can’t expect you to get in the middle of this, if there is any middle in the first place. Old trucks break. Hell, new trucks break. We don’t know if there’s even any, uh…foul play!”
“Foul play?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Dastardly doings.”
“Yes.”
“Dark deeds, deliberate deceptions, things like that?”
“Quit it, will ya? Let me be upset. I love that old man.”
“He loves you too. Tried to make me promise not to tell you about all this. Didn’t work.”
“Now what?”
“Now you take him whatever he needs while Stitch and I go to the truck and check it out.”
“What if somebody did mess with it?”
Crocket smiled. “Then I’ll have to do something. I’m the Watkins City Constable you know.”
*****
His reality was radically different from ours. His was a world of minutia, of leaf litter and dappled bellies, of towering stones and dank mold, of dark crevices and scuttling suspicion. His was not an existence of thought, decision and action. He lived in a reactive mode, a life absent of fear or regret, guilt or sorrow. He had never been happy, never been sad. He did not love, he did not hate. His mission was to survive. He did not associate with others of his kind, for others of his kind were competition for food and space. He spent his days and nights alone, hunting, feeding, being.
When the autumn compulsion came, he did not question. His modus operandi changed completely, and yet he gave it no thought or acknowledgement. He simply did what he was compelled to do. He stopped eating. He left his lifetime surroundings. He began his trek. Anything that had come before did not matter. He was overwhelmed with the need to mate and nothing else made any difference. Feeling for vibration, questing for pheromones, he roamed, looking for females. While his quarry might live for another ten years or more, his life was over. All that was left was the search, the satisfaction, and death.
He crossed through blades of grass and onto a stretch of gravel before easing out onto the dark expanse that stretched before him, far exceeding his tiny horizon, outstripping his limited vision. He stopped, questing a bit at the strangeness of the new terrain. An immense shadow flitted past him, cast by an entity a million times his mass. He crouched at the passing and might have been blown away by the rush of following wind had he not. Undeterred, he began to run, a zigzagging scampering rush across the black surface beneath him, and made it nearly halfway across before a new vibration reached his feet. It had a regular cadence and he searched for it, seeing a shape approaching. He reared and threatened with his fangs and front legs, but was suddenly surrounded by white, flipped over on his back, and more white closed off his confused view of the blue above. He turned himself back onto his feet, but was completely encompassed by an endless, featureless field, the color of new snow. He might as well have been inside a ping-pong ball.
He felt his environment shift and swing, twist and jerk, and the light about him darkened a bit. He did not rage, he did not question, he did not panic. Instead, he did the only thing he could do. He crouched, folded his eight legs under himself, and waited with patience independent of realization or the awareness of self.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Crockett and Stitch sat on the dock outside the bait shop and watched Mazy’s car disappear up the drive. A thin overcast tempered the late morning sun. The distant thrum of an outboard motor added to the peace and quiet. Maggie lay between their chairs, asleep and twitching a bit, wrapped up in an old-dog dream. A dragonfly circled them and Stitch grinned.
“Mother Nature’s helo,” he said.
“What?”
“That dragonfly, man. I got millions of dollars of machinery and computers, rotor and collective, years of training and experience, and that little fucker could fly rings around me on the best day I ever had. A brain no bigger than a pinhead and a body no bigger than a fuckin’ Q-tip. In and out of a postage stamp ell-zee in a heartbeat. Jesus. Can that little shit bring it or what?”
Crockett shook his head. “You got bug envy?”
“Hell, yeah,” Stitch replied, licking the end of his finger and holding it out in front of him. The dragonfly hovered a moment and settled on the tip, testing the moisture, reflecting green and purple in the hazy sun before he flew out over the water and vanished. “Usta sit on the riverbank when I was a kid and let them dragonflies drink outa the corners of my eyes, man,” Stitch went on. “Those little dudes are what made me wanna fly.”
Crockett smiled. “You’re waxin’ kinda rhapsodic this morning.”
“I got a soul, ya know. I ain’t just another pretty face,” Stitch said. “Ask anybody.”
“Must be the new medication.”
“Speakin’ of medication, how long’s old Zeb gonna be in the hospital?”
“Probably come home tomorrow. Damn near had to tie him up to keep him there as it is. We need to check out his truck. He said the steering failed. Also said it was in perfect order. He went through the front end and put in a new steering box a few weeks ago.”
“Somebody fuck with it?”
Crockett shrugged. “It’s possible. He parks the damn thing clear down past the boat dealership. We wouldn’t see or hear anything from up by the inn. Maggie’s too old and slow to be of any help.”
Even in her sleep, the dog’s tail thumped at the mention of her name. Crockett let his hand fall and casually scratched her ears.
“Careful,” Stitch said, looking down the walkway. “Don’t wanna get caught bein’ unfaithful.”
Nudge ambled in their direction, passed them without notice, and went to sit on the railing above the carp pool. He looked down into the throng, slowly lashed his tail, and managed a quiet hiss. Stitch settled lower into his chair.
“Severe lack of motivation this mornin’,” he said.
Crockett didn’t answer. They were both staring dully at the lake when his phone went off.
“Mister Crockett?”
“Yes.”
“Mister Crockett, this is Christine McKenzie. I’m the one you saved at the lake?”
“Hello, Christine. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine I guess. I just wanted you to know that those people at the marina may be in for some trouble.”
Crockett levered himself into a fully upright position. “What kind of trouble?”
“I heard Johnny and Paul, that’s one of his guys who was at the lake, talking about doing something to a car that belongs to one of those people.”
“Could it have been a truck?”
“That’s it. It was. A truck. I just thought you should know. You treated me real nice. I owe you.”
Crockett lurched to his feet and hustled into the bait shop looking for a pen and paper. “Ah, Christine, would you give me some information about Johnny?”
“Sure. He’s an asshole. He doesn’t know it, but I’m takin’ off in another couple of weeks anyway. Going home to Wisconsin.”
“Good for you. Where does he live?”
“We’re in a house in the new development south of Blue Springs, Chanticleer Hills.” She paused for a short laugh. “They call it hills, but it’s as flat as a pancake. They have to make all the hills. The street is 4181 Sutherby Way. We’re the only house at the end of a cul-de-sac.”
“What hours does Johnny work?”
“He usually leav
es here about three in the afternoon and gets back around two in the morning. When he gets home, if the weather is good, he always goes for a swim in the pool behind the house before he comes to bed.”
“How does he get to the casino?”
“Dom, that’s his other guy, picks him and Paul up. Paul stays in the little guesthouse here, behind the garage. Dom goes home. I don’t know where he lives.”
“Is your subdivision crowded?”
“No. There are just a few houses so far. Back behind us they’re starting to build more. They’re making the hills now. Huge piles of dirt and stuff all over the place.”
“Just a couple more questions.”
“Sure.”
“Who’s Johnny’s boss?”
“That’s Mister Pescatelli. He’s kinda old and real nice. Has always been a gentleman to me.”
“He has an office at the casino?”
“Oh, sure. He’s usually there until around eight or nine at night. He leaves earlier than Johnny.”
“And you’re going to go home?”
“Uh-huh. In a week or two. Johnny’s not nice to me anymore. It’s not worth it. I’m a good person. He isn’t.”
“You are a good person, Christine, and you’ve done a good thing.”
“You’re going to take care of stuff for those people at the lake?”
“I’m going to do my best.”
“Be careful. Johnny can be awful mean. Thanks again for saving me and everything.”
“My pleasure.”
She hung up. Crockett closed his phone and noticed Stitch standing in the doorway.
“Got some intel, didn’t ya, dude?”
“Yeah. That was Johnny April’s girlfriend. She called to warn me that they were gonna do something to Zeb’s truck.”
“Better late than never, man. Now what?”
“I think I’m going take a drive to Kansas City and have a word with Johnny’s boss. Maybe we can get this shit stopped before it goes any farther.”
“And you want me to stay here and patrol the wire.”
“Yeah.”
“I ain’t no grunt, man, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Never doubted it,” Crockett said.
“Yeah, well just don’t get no idea about makin’ it permanent. Me an’ them dragonflies, man. We gotta slip the surly bonds, ya know?”
Mazy didn’t arrive back at the marina until nearly six, burdened with two bags of groceries, an overly cheerful disposition, and excess nervous energy. Crockett and Stitch hustled up the slope to meet her.
“Hi, Guys!” she said. “Zeb’s doing fine. Just thought I’d bring home a little dinner. How ‘bout salmon with lemon-dill sauce and capers, five cheese scalloped potatoes, asparagus in a soy-orange glaze with mushrooms, and a lime sorbet for dessert?”
Stitch looked at Crockett and then back to Mazy. “Huh?” he said.
Mazy held on to her grin.
“Ah,” Stitch went on, slowly backing up and flicking a quick glance at Crockett, “I gotta check back down at the, ah, like, bait shop, ya know? I’ll be back up in a few minutes or somethin’, okay?”
“Sure,” Crockett said.
“Great. You got it, dude,” Stitch went on, and hustled away.
Mazy, her grin still firmly in place, turned to Crockett. “You’ve got what?” she asked.
Crockett smiled as he took one of the bags from her. “You,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yep. You’re not doing well.”
Mazy’s left eyebrow lifted. “I’m not?”
“Nope. Go take a bath. A long, hot, girl bath. Use bubbles, light a candle or two, indulge yourself. Rage, cry, fall apart, reassemble, and be ready for dinner at eight-thirty. We’ll have butter-sautéed salmon chunks in angel hair pasta, with capers and a light lemon sauce, a glass or two of wine, and speak of cabbages and kings and things.”
They walked into the kitchen and deposited their burdens on the counter. Mazy looked at Crockett. The grin was still there.
“Go,” he said.
She turned away toward her bedroom.
Crockett walked back down to the dock, gave Maggie a pat, got a slow blink from Nudge, lit a Sherman and, with a sigh, dropped into a chair beside Stitch and accepted an offered Coke. They sat quietly. A killdeer called in the distance, the occasional fish popped the surface of the calming lake, about seventy-five yards out in the cove something large humped the water for ten or fifteen feet, and dusk began to smooth the edges of the day. Stitch stirred.
“Guess I’ll scrounge somethin’ to munch in the bus and go down and check over the helo until it’s too dark to see, man,” he said. “How’s she doin’?”
“Not well. I sent her off to the tub. I’ll fix her a light dinner in a little while.”
Stitch nodded, took the last hit off his Dr. Pepper, tossed the can, left-handed, into a trash barrel twenty feet distant and stood up.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “And they think we don’t understand.”
Crockett watched him walk away, Nudge sauntering along in his wake, and smiled.
Crockett dropped some cornstarch in the wok to thicken the sauce around the chunks of salmon, and stirred like a madman as he turned down the heat. The noodles drained in the colander, the wine breathed on the counter, and Mazy, wearing a t-shirt that came to below her knees, white athletic sox, damp hair, and a chagrined expression, walked into the room.
“’Ello, Luv,” Crockett said in his best cockney. “Done muckin’ about then? ’Ows yer mum?”
Mazy blinked at him. “Jesus,” she said.
“Now and then, but not today. Sit. Food comin’ up.”
Mazy slumped at the counter and looked at him as if she’d never seen him before. “What’s your first name,” she asked.
Crockett winced. “Oh, hell,” he said. “Here we go. David.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Crockett dumped the angel hair onto two plates and spooned on the salmon and sauce, waiting for the inevitable.
“David is a perfectly good name,” Mazy said.
He carried the plates to the table, grabbed the wine and two glasses from the cabinet, and tried to stifle a grin that he could barely control.
“I had an uncle named David,” Mazy said. “I think it’s a nice name.”
“Call me Crockett,” he replied.
Mazy looked at him curiously and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “You didn’t have to fix dinner, you know.”
“Sure I did,” Crockett smiled. “You were locked in the bathroom.”
“Thanks for that. I really needed some time.”
“History is not repeating itself, Mazy. You’re not gonna lose Zeb, too. You’re not gonna be left alone.” He put her plate in front to her, and turned to the broiler for some sourdough that he’d converted to garlic bread. Crockett didn’t speak again until he’d wrapped the bread in a towel and taken his seat across from her. He poured the wine and lifted his glass. “To Zebulon,” he said.
Mazy met his toast and sipped her wine. “Why are you doing this,” she asked.
“Because I’m hungry and you wouldn’t come outa your bathroom.”
“You know what I mean. Why?”
“Why not? I’m the city constable. All part of the job, m’am.”
“C’mon,” she said around a mouthful of salmon and pasta.
“Okay. It’s simple. Only two more selfless rescues and I get my cape. Pretty big deal among those of us in superhero training school.”
Mazy took a bite of garlic bread. Her eyes crinkled. “This is really good. God, I’m hungry. Thank you.”
“Welcome,” Crocket smiled. “Glad to help. I love to cook.”
“So, what’s going to happen now?”
“Oh, I’m probably gonna take a drink of wine and then have some more pasta.”
“Stop that.”
“Read any good books lately?”
“C’mon, Crockett.”
“What’s on
TV tonight? Be nice to watch a movie while we finish the booze.”
“Dammit! Don’t keep me in the dark!”
Crockett stared into the near distance for a couple of seconds, then flinched. “Sorry,” he said. “I drifted there for a moment. Just thinking about you in the dark. Is it hot in here, or is it me?”
“You shit. You’re not gonna get serious about this, are you?”
“No,” Crockett said, “and neither are you. Not tonight. Tomorrow we’ll talk about everything, I promise. But not now. Zeb’s in good hands, everything’s fine, nothing lurks in the gloom.”
A smile teased her lips. “Nothing?” Mazy asked.
Crockett felt his ears get warm. “Almost nothing.”
Mazy grinned. “God, you’re cute,” she said. “Pass the bread.”
They ate, jawed about nothing until nearly eleven, and adjourned for the evening. Crockett had been in bed for about twenty minutes when Mazy walked in. He raised up on one elbow and squinted at her in the light from the living room.
“Hey, Davey,” she said, “read any good books lately?”
Ruby was a wreck. After her disastrous confrontation with Clete on the morning after the night before, she’d spent a great deal of time soul searching. Five clients hadn’t made the job any easier. She’d gone from being angry with him for attempting to control her, to being angry with herself for attempting to control everything. She analyzed, paralyzed, realized, and finally succumbed to the desperate and unusual position of putting thinking away and attempting to just feel. She had seen nothing of Clete. A long day of recrimination and understanding wore her out and bed came early, if not effectively. Tired of tossing and turning and unable to sleep, Ruby arose a little after five the next morning, took a long shower, resisted the urge to overdress and, with latent domesticity niggling at the base of her brain and a lump in her throat, added only a small amount of makeup and proceeded to the kitchen.
She thawed an eight ounce sugar-cured ham steak from the freezer, shredded a large potato, diced a small red pepper and a smaller white onion, dug out a tubular carton of what were advertised to be buttermilk biscuits, made coffee with a pinch of chicory, and settled down enough to sit on a stool as she contemplated the folly of attempting to make gravy, should the ham cooperate. Gravy had never been a LaCost strong point.
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