by Shannon Hill
The kid who’d gotten shot at by Chipmunk Tyler half-shuffled forward. “I’ll try.”
“Go for his ankles,” I advised as Eddie came stumbling past. His face had a horrible, high red color to it.
The Emergicare minivan pulled up with a screech of brakes. Eddie turned toward the noise, mouth open in a silent scream, and we tackled him. Two of us could hold him still long enough for Dr. Hartley to administer a shot. A few moments later, Eddie started to calm.
“Versed,” said Dr. Hartley, and with a wave of the hand, had six guys helping load Eddie into the minivan. “I’ll take him down to Gilfoyle. But I don’t understand it. Eddie’s never gone more than six hours without a drink since he was in high school.”
Later, after I had gathered up some clean clothes—well, cleaner clothes—for Eddie from his apartment, I had a thought. I checked the trash. One bottle, and it was empty, so it would’ve been this morning’s breakfast. I sniffed the bottle. It still had half an ounce or so in it. I poured it into a paper cup and took a sip.
It was vaguely tequila-flavored, but it wasn’t tequila.
“Oh no,” I said to Boris. No mystery now why Eddie had the DTs. If Eddie hadn’t destroyed his taste buds along with everything else, he’d have noticed his tequila tasted like diluted iced tea. A parting gift from Leeza, that was my bet.
And people wonder why I’m not big on romance.
***^***
After I dropped off Eddie’s clothes, I decided to see what Bill Lloyd might have to say, as long as I was in his end of the county. I wondered if he was all Bee May said. I also wondered if he was why Aida Weed had looked at her mother a certain way, and if he was why Vicky Weed had not liked my talking to her daughter.
I knocked briskly on the front door. Unremarkable, like the house, the carport, the sedan, the shrubbery.
Bill Lloyd opened the door. Against my will, my breath caught a little. Bill Lloyd was better looking than dang near any man I’d ever met, and he knew it. Probably couldn’t help knowing it, unless he shaved without using a mirror. Though I amended Bee May’s assessment. I didn’t see much Tom Cruise in his looks, except for his hair color.
He let me into his house with a broad white smile, and only blinked once when Boris followed by right. He had me take a seat in the living room, walled in books and maps, and brought out bottled iced tea. I declined it in favor of water. When he offered Boris some low-fat milk, I declined that too.
“How can I help you, Sheriff?” he asked politely.
With someone else, I’d have gone right into it. But this guy was self-confident enough I’d have to play some games. “You heard what happened to Mrs. Weed’s home, I suppose.”
“Of course, it’s all anyone’s been talking about, at least, it’s all the neighbors talk about.”
I played dumb. It always works with guys like him. “Not your wife?” I asked, as if I hadn’t already seen the utter lack of female occupancy.
“Divorced,” he said with a sad, toothpaste ad of a smile. “I decided ‘try, try again’ wasn’t really a good idea when it came to marriage. I’m not sure how I can help you with Mrs. Weed’s problems.”
“Standard procedure,” I said, while Boris sniffed around his shoes, then curled up next to me and settled in for a good long glare. “I have to ask her co-workers if they’ve noticed anything unusual.”
He caught me out, or thought he had. “I haven’t heard you were asking anyone.”
I smiled back at him, glad I wasn’t lying when I said, “We started with the English teachers and now we’re working our way through the other departments. I understand the history teachers have their desks right near the language teachers.”
He leaned back a tad. “I see. Well, I don’t really know the English teachers very well.”
Boris’s tail twitched twice. I stroked his back. Good kitty. “Any little thing might help.”
“I thought—that is, the way people talk, the federal agents are investigating the bombings.”
“They are.”
He shifted. “Then why…”
“The more hands, the faster the job goes.”
We locked eyes. He was counting on looks and charm. After Steve, I’m pretty near immune to that.
He didn’t crack. He bent. “I’ve talked to her. You know. About students. Or at staff meetings. It’s not a big school.”
“Do you get along?”
He hesitated. “Mostly.”
Boris’s tail shivered.
“You’ve ever heard her complain of something, someone? Anyone who’d troubled her?”
A tiny sheen of sweat began to show on his upper lip, though his house was nicely cool. “No, not exactly. I mean, the usual complaints. We all have them. Parents, administrators, paperwork.” His hands locked together on his lap. His knees were pressed tight against each other. Interesting.
I looked brightly around his living room, and nodded to a wall. “Antique map of the state, am I right?”
He relaxed. “Dates back to the 1830s. That’s my favorite period in American history, between the War of 1812 and the war with Mexico. No one looks at it much, yet it shaped most of the history to come, including the Civil War.”
Now I knew what in his speech had my interest. “You’re not a Virginian, Mr. Lloyd.”
“No. I was raised in Cincinnati.” He gave me a snide sidelong look, eyes glittering. “That’s in Ohio.”
Aunt Marge used to help me with my homework, which means she added to it by a factor of ten. “I didn’t think you were from the one in Arkansas.”
He blinked again. He stood. “Look, Sheriff, I know her but I don’t know her, if you get my drift.”
I took the hint, and my time. I wandered through his dining room, then down the hallway back to the living room, noticing that his dining room had one of those gadgets that supposedly sucks the cigarette smoke into it to prevent the smell from permeating the house. Smoke traps, I think they’re called.
“You’ve got a very interesting collection.”
His pride flashed right through his irritation. “Thank you.”
I stopped before a gun rack in, of all places, the kitchen. A bachelor kitchen, Aunt Marge would’ve called it, all stainless steel and dark wood and a lonely cookbook titled “Meals for One”.
“Brown Bess,” I said. “Short Land pattern, I think. The other one is Long Land, I assume.”
“You know your guns.”
I smiled demurely. I’ve seen Brown Besses on display at the Littlepage house. “They look in working condition.”
“The Long Land is, it’s not entirely authentic. It’s been partially rebuilt. I used to use it for re-enactments or events down at Williamsburg.”
I was more familiar with Civil War re-enactments. Like a lot of mountain counties, ours had been fairly divided in its loyalties, when it wasn’t outright against both sides. Then it decided at some point to be wholly Confederate, long after the Confederacy had lost. “Sounds interesting,” I lied.
“It was.”
I let him herd me and Boris to the front door. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
I gave him a smile almost as false as his. “You helped plenty. There’s just one thing I forgot to ask, your collection distracted me.”
He stood in his doorway, blocking any hope of re-entry. “Ask away.”
“Was it you or Vicky who broke it off?”
I’d expected a blink or a twitch. I got a flare of pure fury, enough to make me step back. Boris huffed, cuddling close against my ankles.
Question answered.
“Have a nice day,” I said and strolled to my car like I hadn’t a care in the world.
There’s a reason you shouldn’t play poker with a cop. Half of our job is pure bluff.
13.
After I’d confirmed that there weren’t any permits for a gathering of Freddie Tyler and his pals, I had two things stuck in my brain.
The first was how to approach Bill L
loyd a second time. Or if to do it at all, before I’d had a chance to talk to Vicky Weed. Not that I could talk to her right away. The Weeds had moved out of the Country Rose, and were staying in Lynchburg until their house could be re-built. I’d have to schedule an appointment. With a woman who, if Aunt Marge was right, was up to her eyeballs planning color schemes and matching fabrics on the insurance company’s dime. Not easy.
The second involved sitting in Bobbi’s bedroom while she breast-fed Ruby, and running various outfits past her for my first official we-admit-it’s-a-date date. I started with a dark gray skirt from a suit I never wore, and after that I was clueless. Or, as Bobbi put it, “You think cop blue is the only color there is. Try that silk top I got you for Christmas last year.”
I tried it. “Bad?”
Bobbi beamed like a proud mama. “Perfect. So where’s he taking you?”
“We’re meeting at the C&O.”
She whistled, soundlessly, because Ruby had dozed off. “Lord, this child can eat. That’s a nice place, Raj and I’ve been a couple times. Where after?”
“Movie, probably. Tell Raj thanks for looking in on Boris.”
“Our pleasure. You’ll pay us back baby-sitting in a few months.” She cuddled Ruby close, smiling mistily. “Let me put her down, I’ll do up your hair and make-up.”
I sank into the rocker. Thank God for best friends. I was a wreck enough as it was. If I tried to apply my own mascara, I’d likely blind myself.
***^***
I was early. I was always early. Aunt Marge drilled it into me that being at least ten minutes early is more courteous than being ten seconds late. But we were supposed to meet outside the restaurant at exactly five-thirty, and by six, I was getting very uneasy. At six, I called Punk but got no answer. I left a voice-mail. I went into the restaurant and sat at the bar, sipping a ginger ale and smiling as if I hadn’t a problem in the world.
At six-fifteen, the hostess told me we’d lost our reservation. I dutifully shrugged, called Punk, and left a voice-mail letting him know. At six-thirty, I went back to my car, and watched a thunderstorm roll through. I kept telling myself there was a good explanation.
At seven, I drove through the gray drizzle and stopped at the drive-thru window of a fast food restaurant for a lousy salad and some greasy fries. I pulled into a parking spot to eat, and at seven-fifteen, I called Aunt Marge. “How’s your date, dear?” she asked.
“I’m not on a date.”
I heard Aunt Marge tell Roger she’d be right back, and then the click of a door closing. “What is it, Lil?”
“Never showed, never called. I’m assuming he didn’t get into a car accident.”
“Should I send Roger by?”
I wanted to say no, and have a little pride. I said yes.
The skies had cleared, and people were bustling, walking, laughing, on their way to a fun Saturday night. I told myself the smart thing to do was get out of the car, walk in the same direction, and figure it out as I went. Instead, I drove past the restaurant. I looked up and down and all around for Punk’s car. No sign of it. I even cruised through two parking garages.
Yeah, I know. Beyond lame.
Aunt Marge called as I was sitting at a stop light. “Dear,” she began, and stopped.
I’d known since, oh, five-forty-five. “His car’s in the driveway, he’s inside watching TV, and I’m a damn fool.”
Poor Aunt Marge. She did try to cheer me up. “Only two out of three right, dear.”
“Oh? He’s reading a book?”
“I don’t know how to explain it, Lil. Roger was reluctant to knock on the door and ask him anything.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very upset on your behalf.”
More like Aunt Marge’s behalf, but I’d take any sympathy I could get. “Thanks. And tell Roger thanks. I’m heading back. I’ll see you at church in the morning.”
“Drive safely, dear.”
I drove safely. Boris greeted me at the door with a wailing meow to let me know he’d missed me, and curled around my ankles as I headed for the chocolate stash in the kitchen. I took the chocolate and Boris into the bedroom, carefully washed my face and brushed out my hair, and changed into my favorite old cotton pajamas. Then I curled up under the blankets, ate my chocolate, and reflected that I really shouldn’t have expected any different. If a man who’d proposed to me couldn’t bear to show up, why would a guy who wasn’t even officially my boyfriend?
***^***
Church is a great place to keep your finger on the pulse of the town, find out what people are talking about. That Sunday, the two big topics were me getting stood up—and I’d love to know how that got around—and the rally that Freddie Tyler and his friends were having out by the highway. Opinion was divided on the latter, mostly because it was felt that a political rally on a Sunday was tacky. Also, for the Baptists, downright inconsiderate, since they’d miss it from having to attend afternoon services.
I didn’t listen to opinions about my getting stood up.
I was half-listening to the sermon on something in Matthew when my phone vibrated. Aunt Marge put an elbow in me, gently, to remind me it’s not nice to keep my phone on in church, and I scuttled outside to answer. “Sheriff Eller.”
“It’s me,” said Agent Howard, rather frantically. “Look, we’ve got a shitstorm here, some dumbass just blew up himself and about half of Sayers.” Behind Howard, I heard sirens. “We got state police coming, fire, but they need more help.”
Sayers was the hometown of Alan Quinn, who’d bombed my front door. “What the hell happened?” I demanded, like a fool.
Howard sounded panicked, in a calm and controlled way. “Half the damn town blew up is what happened! Interrogate me later, we need fire, rescue, every spare pair of hands, whatever you can send.”
“Casualties?”
“Dunno the count, but guess dozens.”
My personal problems vanished. I flipped shut my phone, walked back into the church, and in the middle of Reverend Moore’s discussion of Jesus’s question about whether John the Baptist got his authority from man or God, I said loudly, “We’ve got a mass casualty in Sayers. Dr. Hartley, Tom, they need fire, rescue and hands, everyone get going please.”
I then ran down the steps and into my car and drove to First Baptist, about three sort-of blocks up the road, and interrupted a song. Reverend Hines did not look amused, but he did hush the choir. “You have a problem, miss?”
“Hugh,” I said loudly, “mass casualty in Sayers. Get everyone and get going.”
Hugh Rush bolted out of a front pew. I ran home to change into a uniform and get my cruiser, then sped off to Sayers.
***^***
Sayers is a tiny town in the next county, maybe 190 people strong. One of those sleepy little farm villages that time and interstates have passed by. Normally, you’d drive past it without blinking, unless you stopped to ask directions back to the main road.
That day, it was hell. Red lights, blue lights, flashing white lights. Wails, hoots, honks of ambulances, cop cars, fire trucks. People huddling together in groups, mostly gathering around the single church. Rescue personnel running in every direction. By the time I got there, a rough headquarters had been set up in a small hayfield. From what I could see, triage was being run in the church parking lot. Beyond a small blue house, there was nothing but smoke, dust, flame.
I went to the church parking lot. I’ve got my first aid certification, and I’d be most useful helping there, I figured. A paramedic steered me toward a lot of people sitting in the grass beyond the church. The smoke was choking. I was coughing before I’d gone ten steps.
The church ladies had brought up the juice, water, and Kool-Aid meant for the church lunch, and I got busy making sure everyone had fluids to sip. Agent Newsome of all people joined me, and kept up a calm line of inane chatter to distract them while I examined scratches, bumps, bruises, and the relative size of pupils. I flagged a couple of cases for the ambulances, people who were
n’t steady on their feet and were disoriented, then a new wave of people stumbled over. Anyone who didn’t seem to need immediate attention I sent into the church to sit in the air conditioning.
It was a muggy day, with a sporadic breeze out of the west, keeping the smoke low, thick, and close. Our eyes were watering and burning, our throats sore. Newsome finally had to go in, but promised to start a list of everyone with injuries. I used a bottle of water to wash my eyes clear just in time for a big wave of dust and smoke to roll into me. A fireman gently pushed two people at me. Both were ambulatory, but the man’s left arm dangled by a few sinews, and the woman had multiple lacerations all over her body. I helped them into an ambulance. I’d maybe been there half an hour, and I already felt like I hadn’t seen clean daylight in years.
I kept sorting out the people who came. My eyes blurred. Smoke and dust stuck to my exposed skin. I felt grit on my eyelashes. My mouth tasted of grime. And still people came, one or two or three at a time, to find help or loved ones and neighbors, or to offer aid. A blanket, a towel, first aid kits. I sorted them out, in an obscene pantomime of directing traffic.
At some point, Agent Howard staggered up to the church. His jacket and tie were gone, his shirt smeared dark. He laid a teenaged boy down on the grass. The kid whimpered with pain, and I gave him some juice, then forced a paper cup of Kool-Aid into Howard’s hands. “You’ll fall over from the heat,” I croaked as EMTs ran over to check the kid. “What the hell happened?”
“Dunno for sure.” He drank, coughed, and spat up black phlegm. “We were en route with a plain sight warrant, half a mile out, boom. Looks like the Quinn brothers’ repair shop is gone.”
Along with all the window glass in town. Dumb luck the church had wooden shutters closed against the glaring summer sun, saving it.
“Blast damage is bad,” Howard told me, “big problem is stopping the fire.” He rubbed at his blood-red eyes. “House we were gonna search, belongs—belonged—to Alan Quinn’s brother. No sign of it. Next to his repair shop,” Howard clarified. “No idea what happened but…”
