by Guy Adams
"You'll have to help me out a little on that one, hon," she replied, "we get a lot of customers in here, 'two men' don't give me much to go on."
Shepard glanced around, noticing the table Miles and Carruthers had so recently vacated. "One of them was English," he said, strolling over to the table and picking up one of the coffee cups with a napkin. It was warm to the touch. "Don't tidy up behind you?" he asked, gesturing to the cups and donut box.
"Just had to pop out back for a call of nature," she replied, "you takes your opportunity when you can. Giselle – she does a lot of night shifts – snuck out back one night to water the lettuce and came back to a raided till and a trail of donuts out the door. Half a minute with her drawers round her ankles cost the company a hundred and eighty bucks.
"Should slip the lock."
"That I usually do, 'cept I saw you pull in and if you can't trust a police officer then who can you trust? Sure I can't get you a coffee?"
"Quite sure," he pointed at the cluttered table. "Who was sat here?"
"Mother and son, him fair bustin' a gut to get over and watch those gators wrestle over at Gator World, her looking like she hadn't had a wink of good sleep from the minute he was born. I never had children, officer and I tell you, the kids I see in this job sure make me glad of the fact."
He nodded. "Got two myself, boy and a girl, five and six, it's a tricky age. He about the same?"
"Well yeah, I guess around there."
Shepard nodded again. "Kind of young for coffee," he said, picking up the other cup, "my two wouldn't touch the stuff, you'd think it was warmed up dog crap to look at their faces when they smell it roasting." He smiled at her. "I guess coffee's just something you grow in to, huh? Unlike Coke or Kool Aid, they can't get enough of that sweet stuff."
"I suppose it was unusual," she admitted, "but you don't ask in this job, you just give 'em what they want."
"I bet," Shepard replied, putting the two coffee cups into the donut box – using the napkin all the time, not wanting to touch anything with his bare hands.
"No need for that," the waitress said, stepping out from behind the counter, "happy to do it."
"I've got it," Shepard replied. He smiled at her but she knew that a free ride in the back of his cruiser would be the result of her trying to touch the empties. "So you haven't seen two guys in here lately?" he asked again.
"I had a couple of fellas in an hour or two ago I guess," she replied, glancing at the clock, "you lose track of time, truth be told."
"I imagine so. These two would have used the phone, that help jog your memory?"
"Can't say it does," she replied, stepping over to the payphone and – before he could stop her – picking up the receiver and tapping away at the buttons. "Sure there's some number or another that lets you redial," she said. "Oops," she added, cocking her ear away from the receiver, that's sure not it…"
Shepard sighed, this woman was infuriating and the dance was getting them nowhere. For all her loose talk she'd known that he'd want to check the phone for prints to match against the coffee cups. Probably known he'd hit redial too and see if Ted Loomis' secretary answered. She was playing with him, no doubt about that. Not that he could do anything about it, not without more evidence that she was lying, something she seemed quite determined to eradicate.
"Well," he said, taking out one of his cards, knowing it was a waste of time but willing to go through the motions. "If anything occurs to you then just give me a call." He put the card down on the counter. "I really need to talk to those guys."
"Can't see me being able to help," she replied picking up the card – it would be in the trash the minute he left and he knew it – "but I'll think on it just the same."
Shepard gathered the empties, carried them outside and then dumped them on the back seat of his cruiser. He'd get a hundred and one kinds of shit for running them through the print lab in Orlando – a waste of resources given that he had no real reason to link the cups to incidents up the road – but he'd do it anyway. He may not be paid to make sweeping judgements based on gut instinct, but he sure didn't mind spending a few taxpayer dollars on it, his instincts were good and he considered it money well-spent.
He picked up his car radio and called through to dispatch. "No sign of the two guys in Dunkin' Donuts, Cheryl," he said. "But do me a favour and have all patrols keep their eyes peeled will you? Two guys, one white one black, the white guy's English."
"Ten four, Cap'n Shepard," she replied, "I'll set a fire under 'em for you."
"You do that Cheryl," he replied, "they need perking up a tad."
She chuckled at that and he clipped the radio back in its bracket.
Now what?
8.
For a moment, Hughie wondered if the stranger had rolled over and died. He'd toppled back in his seat, eyes floating skywards.
"You having some kind of seizure?" Hughie asked. No reply. "You hear me?"
"Shoot her!" the man whispered. "Shoot the girl." Hughie felt himself grow cold, what the hell was this now? What girl? The waitress? He looked over but Amy was working one of the other tables, that big smile beaming bright enough to light up their entrees.
"Shoot her!" the man said again then snapped back to attention, smiling at Hughie. "Sorry," he said, "I had a long-distance call to make."
This meant nothing to Hughie, naturally, but he was in no mood to discuss it. He'd had more than enough mind-opening explanations from this man.
Amy appeared with their meals. When Hughie looked at his steak he felt his throat tighten. No way am I going to be able to eat that, he thought, not one mouthful. His partner had no such compunction, hacking into it with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't eaten for days. Hughie watched the stranger's knife cut its serrated way into his meal. The meat parted with a quiet tear, gushing pink juice onto his plate. Immediately, the body of Ted Loomis sprung to mind. Hughie turned away, washing down the urge to gag with a mouthful of beer.
"Eat," the stranger said, forking a glistening rectangle of beef into his deceptively prim mouth. The meat juice glistened on his lips and Hughie pictured the man's perfect little teeth chewing their way into his steak, tearing it into thin strands.
"I can't," he replied.
"You can and you will," the stranger said, "don't make me sit down beside you and feed you like a child. Because I will, forcing forkful after forkful into you." He took a swig of his own beer and waved at Amy to bring two more. "And I won't be gentle," he continued, "I'll poke and stab with that fork until the steak becomes mixed up with the pulped remains of your tongue." He smiled at Hughie, as if telling him good news. "I'll make you eat your own fucking mouth."
"You're becoming more human," Hughie said, "you notice that?"
The stranger stared at him and that anger returned, those coruscating irises.
"Okay, okay." Hughie sighed and picked up his cutlery, forking a pair of crisp fries and forcing them past lips that fought him every inch of the way.
"The meat, Hughie," the stranger said, "I want to see you eat that meat, want you to suck the fat right off the bone."
Hughie tried. He cut a small slice and raised it to his mouth. His eyes glanced down and he gave a yelp as he saw it writhe on his fork as if still alive. The steak on his plate slapped around like a beached fish.
"Bit too overdone for my taste," the stranger replied, "so I gave it a little bit of life back. I think it might be in pain." He cut a piece of his own steak – which thrashed as he stabbed it with his fork, knocking some fries onto the table. "Now eat," he repeated, "or I'll give it lips so that it screams when you cut it."
Hughie dashed for the restroom, the urge to throw up now too strong to fight.
The stranger chuckled as he dashed past him. "It'll still be here when you get back," he said, cutting another slice.
As Hughie ran, the stranger's voice followed him, talking inside his head just as clearly as if he were still sat facing him across the table. "It's not going anywhere,"
that voice said, "and neither are you. Remember that Hughie. I forgave you for your little betrayal but this is your penance. Every cooling mouthful of fat, grease and blood. Every squirt of marrow, every string of sinew. You will lick your plate clean before we leave or I will kill you and every other ant in this place."
Hughie dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, the door smacking back against the wall of the cubicle and rebounding against his twitching legs as he emptied his stomach.
"I'll start with that lovely little waitress of ours," the voice continued. "I'll dip that pretty pink hair of hers into the wet crevice of her own slit stomach. I'll pull out each glistening organ and fry them for you Hughie while she draws her last breath. Your plate will fill with fresh offal for every moment you don't eat your meal. You will eat until the end of fucking time if you have to. I'll turn this state into an abattoir just for you."
Hughie rested his hot face against the cool porcelain of the toilet rim. How had he brought this monster to his door? What had he done to deserve this thing in his life?
"You were born, Hughie," the stranger replied, "and you'll curse your momma's diseased snatch by the time I've finished with you. You'll wish that dirty cunt had never parted her thighs."
Hughie began to cry, rubbing at his face and considered beating his head against the toilet bowl until it cracked open and let this demon out. Death seemed a sensible alternative to his current situation.
"If you die, Hughie," the voice said, "you won't be the last, I promise you that, I'll send every single one of your species after you. You're cattle to me, Hughie, that's all. Now come on out here and eat your meal."
Hughie pulled himself upright and went over to the sink. He splashed cold water over his face and stared at himself in the mirror.
You're a dead man walking, Hughie, he told his reflection.
"Amy's coming with our beers, Hughie," the stranger said. "If you don't want me to smash the bottle and dig into her face with the broken end then you'll get here before her."
Hughie ran out of the restroom, nearly colliding with their waitress as she aimed for their table with a tray of beers and a fresh pair of glasses.
"Sorry," he said, shuffling past her and sliding into his side of the table.
"Eat Hughie," the stranger said, still in his head. "Eat like her life depends on it."
Hughie tore a chunk of steak from the bone and rammed into his mouth, chewing vaguely before swallowing it and cutting another portion.
"Hungry guy, huh?" said Amy as she placed their beers on the table, just about managing to cover her disgust at Hughie's apparent gluttony.
Hughie watched the stranger flick his steak knife between his fingers, pointing the tip towards the waitress' belly. The blade swept forward and back, marking out a route across the girl's stomach where it would open the skin and muscle and let her grey guts tumble to the floor. He picked the steak up with his hands and began cramming as much of it as he could into his mouth. The meat slapped around his chin and cheeks like the enthusiastic tongue of a dog that was pleased to see him. He bit and tore at it, never taking his eyes off the knife in the stranger's hand.
"Oh, hey," Amy said, "I don't think we can allow that, sorry…" she squirmed in discomfort, "think of the other diners."
"I'm sorry, Amy," the stranger said, turning his knife back towards his plate, "my friend's lost some of his table manners. Stop that Hughie!"
Hughie dropped the steak back to the plate, feeling the air conditioning cool the grease on his face. He stared at Amy and the waitress was, again, reminded of her friend's broken father, those eyes just waiting to brim with tears.
"No problem," she said, determined not to see the guy weep in front of her, that would be even worse than the eating. "Sometimes we could all just about eat a horse."
She put the beers down and dashed away from the table.
"Good job, Hughie," the stranger said, returning to his own meal. "I think you've had enough." He ran his thumb through the bloody grease on the plate, making a thin, squeaking sound. "Unless you fancy dessert of course?"
9.
Officer Pete Calhoun shoved his radio back in place. Keep a lookout for a pair of guys, one black one white? Jesus… talk about vague. "The white guy's English," Cheryl had said, as if that made it all alright, as if he would be checking the accent of every white guy he met. "Hey mister, you seen that Mary Poppins lately?" Yeah sure…
He pulled into the forecourt of the diner and got out of his cruiser. Crossing his fingers that Cheryl kept her mouth shut for the next five minutes. Hell, if she caught him out of the cruiser he'd just say he was checking out a little ebony and ivory he'd seen walking by.
He pushed open the door of the steakhouse and caught his daughter's eye. Jesus, he thought, what in hell has she done to her hair? Not now, he told himself, the last thing he wanted to do was start off with an argument.
"Hey dad," she said, looking around to make sure none of her diners wanted something. They didn't. Trust them to manage by themselves just when she could do with the cover. "How's things?"
Pete Calhoun shrugged, which was about as far as he could go without telling an outright lie. Well you see honey, things ain't so good, what with all the drinking and self-pity… tell you the truth I fall asleep jerking off over an old picture of your mom most nights. How is she by the way? She never returns my calls, not since the court order. A shrug was safer. "You?" he asked.
"Not bad," she replied. And Pete knew she was bullshitting him just the same as he was her.
"What's with the hair, honey?" he asked, immediately kicking himself for bringing it up.
Amy, tugged at her pink bangs and gave a shrug of her own. "Like it."
Pete nodded, of course she did. "Whatever."
"Whatever," she sighed. This conversation was going as well as ever. "Look, Dad, I can't just drop everything you know, I have customers to serve."
"Sure," he agreed, glad of the get out, "sorry, I just…" miss you he had been going to say.
"I know, dad, me too." She looked around the restaurant, when would one of these bastards stick their hand up or catch her eye or something?
"I'm busy too," Pete admitted, "some kind of clusterfuck over on 192… Cap'n's got us all on the lookout for a pair of suspects." He nearly left it at that. Had he lived through what was to come he would wish he had. "White guy and a black guy," he told his daughter, "white guy's English."
Amy hadn't been paying close attention, still waiting for someone to drag her away from her car crash of a father. But she caught that last.
"White and black?" she asked.
"Yup, I know, needle in a goddamn haystack, huh?"
Amy glanced toward table thirteen where that weird black guy was mopping at his face with his napkin.
10.
Miles and Carruthers had begun to walk back towards the highway. They might not have been bristling with ideas as to how to proceed but sitting in the dust wasn't going to get them anywhere either.
"All we have is the building site and Chester," said Miles. "We know the former's important because otherwise the prisoner would hardly be hanging around there. It seems likely that Chester – or Alan, whatever – started his amble down the the road from there too."
"We don't know that," argued Carruthers. "For that matter we don't know Chester will even get dumped there any more, I don't see the prisoner as someone who would overly concern himself with keeping the passage of time on track."
Miles shrugged. "True, but unless we have anything else to go on..."
"Why abandon the fragile few things we have to play with?"
"Precisely."
They had reached the Interstate now and both looked cautiously back towards the Dunkin' Donuts. There was no sign of the police cruiser, in fact the road was pretty much empty.
"All clear," said Miles.
They crossed over and continued walking away from the building site. It was hot, the sort of mid-day heat that pounds on yo
u.
"I wonder how Tom is?" Miles said.
"Cooler than me." Carruthers replied.
That was the limit of their conversation, speaking took it out of a man when the weather was this unreasonable.
After a while, a gift store crept up on their side of the road, a sign promising cool soda and the "best value TShirts in the State!".
"Want a T-shirt?" Miles asked.
"Do I get to drink a cup of tea while I'm wearing it?"
"No."
"Then I have little interest."
"I could do with a cool drink though, a pair of sunglasses would be good too."
