《Whisper Bay》 Prologue - The Hitchhiker Prologue The Hitchhiker He turned up his collar though, in truth, it was not all that cold, well did he remember the winters of this place where he had grown to manhood and in his mind, he knew that this cool autumn day was nothing; but years spent in warmer climes had weakened him, and next to the constant dry heat of Iraq or even the humid torture of the mainland, this damp and misty island was a subarctic hell. He would acclimatize, he was sure, but it would take time and fresh out of the army without a job or even a house waiting for him? Time was all he had. He wondered then, not for the first time, what compulsion was bringing him back to this place, this old, worn-out island he had enlisted to escape from even more than to avenge the attacks on the World Trade Center. Funny how time made a mockery of the lies one tells themself. He had truly believed that he was willing to die to avenge people he had never met in a city he¡¯d never been to, but looking back, like much in his life, it had been an excuse, a justification for a motivation he was less willing to admit. If he was honest with himself the only reason he had ever enlisted was that he wanted to leave this town. The sound snuck up on him, twisted as it was by the foggy air so that it seemed to come from all around. It hooked into his mind pulling him from his dark thoughts, forcing him to focus on the world around him. It was a car, older but well maintained by the sound of it, and almost on autopilot, he stuck out his thumb. Peering through the fog, he saw the boxy silhouette of a van materializing. It was heading, he was glad to see in the right direction. Perhaps he thought I¡¯d even make it home before dark. Home, why was this desolate town home? He didn¡¯t have many friends; he had been a loner before the army. His father was dead, and his mother had sold the house and moved to Florida years earlier. So there wasn¡¯t a family waiting. Was it just that the bulk of his early memories concerned this mist-shrouded town on the far end of this forgotten island? He didn¡¯t know and didn¡¯t have time now to wonder. The van, a rolling anachronism, he saw as he looked at the well-maintained VW Kombi. Flower power paint job and all. It was slowing to a crawl, and he jogged back to meet it. The driver was a young man, maybe 25, perhaps a little younger, dressed in a clean, freshly pressed black suit with a priest¡¯s collar beneath a strong, handsome chin. He had a friendly and inviting face however, there was something indefinable about the young clergyman that put him on edge, perhaps it was the mirrored sunglasses that hid his eyes and turned the smile ever so slightly sinister. Or perhaps not, he didn¡¯t have much time to think as the man leaned across towards the open window. ¡°Where are you headed to, brother?¡± The padre¡¯s accent was odd, he thought he had heard every kind of accent during his time in the army, but this guy had him stumped. Western, he guessed by the flatness of it, but beyond that, he couldn¡¯t be quite sure. ¡°Whisper Bay,¡± He said, though the question didn¡¯t strictly need to be asked, walking down this road, Whisper Bay was just about the only place you could be going. The only other town is Whiterocks, the shabby handful of shacks and trailers located on the other side of the bay itself; and that had been almost abandoned when he left to go for a soldier; he doubted it was doing any better now. ¡°Well, hop in.¡± He did, throwing his bags onto the seat behind him and settling himself next to the young clergyman. ¡°The name¡¯s Summers,¡± the man said, that odd smile never leaving his face. As he offered his hand to shake. ¡°JD,¡± the handshake was strong but cold as the air around them. JD doubted that the old van had working heat and knew well how the damp air could drain you as if it were a mosquito that lusted after warmth instead of blood. Still, he noticed, and it added in some vague way to his sense of unease at the priest. ¡°Well, JD, you look exhausted, when¡¯s the last time you slept?¡± The man was friendly enough, and without hardly thinking, JD found himself telling that he had been on the road since getting his discharge papers two days earlier. Stealing moments of sleep on the Greyhound and again on the ferry ride across. How he had hitched a ride with a trucker driving a log truck back to Jerusalem from The Port, and then, unable to find a ride south, just started walking, how he wasn¡¯t even sure why he felt the need to return to this place but felt, in some odd way, called. ¡°And you, Padre? You ain¡¯t a local.¡± It was a question in spirit though a statement in form, and the priest was smart enough to realize. ¡°You know the old Methodist church out in Mudd Hill?¡± He¡¯d played around there often enough as a kid, the blackened old stone building a lonesome testament to the forest fire that wiped out the town of Mudd Hill, if seven houses and a church could be called a town, and decimated Whiterocks back in the early seventies. ¡°I bought it a few months back, some¡­ friends have been helping me fix it up¡± ¡°Why?¡± JD asked, genuinely confused, ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯d be cheaper to just build new.¡± ¡°Oh, it would have been,¡± The man said enthusiastically. ¡°but that old stone Chapel is one of the oldest buildings on the island. I did my research, you see, and it¡¯s been there since before Whisper Bay or Whiterocks were anything more than a few fishermen living near each other for convenience.¡± He slammed his hand against the wheel to emphasize his point: ¡°Seventeen-Ninety-Nine; It should be on the state register of historic places, you know! But I guess they forgot about Erewhon County, all the way out here.¡± Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. JD wasn¡¯t sure what to say. Clearly, the young preacher was passionate about it, but to JD. A building was a building was a building, and no amount of age would make it any more or less interesting. ¡°So, JD.¡± The preacher turned fully in his seat to look at him and suppressed a strong desire to tell him to keep his eyes on the road. ¡°Where in town am I takin¡¯ you.¡± ¡°Holden¡¯s Boarding house if it¡¯s still there.¡± ¡°Oh, it is.¡± The preacher drummed his fingers on the wheel. ¡°Say, why don¡¯t you forget about that and spend the night at Mudd Hill? There¡¯s food on the stove and less bed bugs than Holden can boast¡± ¡°No thanks, I appreciate the offer, but¡­¡± ¡°But, I¡¯m a stranger you met on the road. A stranger who is also crazy enough to restore a burned-down church?¡± He said with a smile that seemed to knock years from his face. ¡°No, I just don¡¯t want to put you to any hassle.¡± The true answer was somewhere between those two, and JD was sure both men knew it. ¡°Hassle? What are neighbors for brother? And besides, I¡¯m sure my wife would love to meet you.¡± JD weighed his options; this priest was being very pushy, and something about him still made the young veteran uneasy; but what was the worst that could happen? He had a gun tucked into his waistband, and he was certainly bigger than the man. Besides, he¡¯d grown up in Whisper Bay and had a good idea of how awkward it must be for this guy. Not a local, and doing something out of the ordinary by restoring that old church. ¡°Alright,¡± He said, meeting his own eyes in the preacher¡¯s glasses. ¡°but how''s about you keep your eyes on the road?¡± They both laughed, the tension evaporating like the mist that was even now clearing around the car to show the town off to their right, where it hugged the coast. They drove on past it, then turned off the highway and onto a country road that itself followed the coastline around the top of the bay, past where Mudd Hill had been, and eventually to Whiterocks. The new red and white sign beside the road proclaimed that the old methodist ruin was now the New Life Church, Reverend Edward Summers presiding. It was certainly in better shape than JD had expected, even from the gravel parking lot, he could tell that the new roof was of good quality, and the black marks of the soot were all but gone from the stone face. The high old stone steeple was, however, unchanged from his memory, a sharp needle stretching skyward but ending in a blunted point where the old cross had been salvaged after the fire. Resting now in the town historical society back in Whisper Bay proper. Away across the property sat a doublewide and a small handful of campers. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± JD asked, nodding towards the ersatz trailer park ¡°The bigger one is mine, at least for now. And the campers belong to the friends who are helping me with the repairs.¡± He spoke absently as he pulled the car into a space before the chapel doors. Stepping out into the damp air, JD watched as the red sun slid down behind the treeline. ¡°Edith, we have a guest!¡± The preacher called out, and JD turned to see who he was speaking to. A woman, the wife he had mentioned, or so JD assumed, with dark red hair and very pale skin, was walking towards them and for an instant, he felt an irrational pang of jealousy for this handsome young clergyman with his beautiful wife. Because beautiful is what she was, not like a model or an actress with a shapely body that would attract and excite but an angel in a Renaissance painting She was one step short of perfect with just enough subtle imperfection to prove she was human. ¡°Bringing home strays again?¡± Edith, the preacher had called her, spoke. Her voice was clear and sweet, with a touch of an older, more aristocratic Southern accent. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was the wife of another man and a man who was doing him a kindness at that. ¡°You make me out to be so much worse than I am,¡± Summers said, pulling his wife into a hug as the light dimmed around them. ¡°It isn¡¯t too much worry, is it?¡± he added, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his voice, ¡°No.¡± She shook her head, ¡°If we run out, I¡¯ll just make you drive into town for more.¡± ¡°Alright!¡± Summers said, clapping his hands together. ¡°Why don¡¯t you show our guest around the chapel while I finish up, it¡¯ll be maybe ten minutes. ¡°Sure,¡± The Reverend Summers said with an easy, at-home voice, and turning he gestured towards the red-painted doors of the small chapel. ¡°Come on, JD. Let me show you what I¡¯ve done with the place.¡± The interior of the sanctuary was lit by small lamps along the walls that cast a warm glow, and the air was filled with the sawdust and paint smells of new construction. Still, something wasn¡¯t right; there was another smell buried under them that JD couldn¡¯t identify. Not what it was, but he knew that it put his teeth on edge. As they walked down the aisle, the priest talked animatedly about the new stained glass windows. One showed the empty tomb, with ¡°Where is thy victory?¡± in a gothic script that reminded JD of old Newspapers below it. Another, the holy grail, tilted so the red sacramental wine could be seen, ornamental script beneath it reading ¡°This is my blood¡± That¡¯s it!, he thought, A knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He knew what he could smell under the paint and the dust. He had smelled it before, in Iraq, and at that moment he knew that he needed to leave, to run. To get out of this chapel and off this property as fast as he could. ¡°Come, stand over here,¡± Summers said, gesturing forward to a spot before the altar, his voice was suddenly different, hard and cold. With more of the odd buried accent plain now. It was the twanging rhythm of rural Appalachia, but not what you would hear today except in the deepest most remote of hollers. It was old, and in his ears subtly wrong, devoid as it was of any emotion. Without wanting to JD did, stepping forward on legs that were suddenly weak. He recognized the smell that had set him on edge, and his body screamed to run. He tried but couldn¡¯t; it was as if he had been lulled into a trance by the low lights, Summers¡¯ soothing voice, and that awful smell¡­ of blood. He knew in his gut that there were others in the room now, standing behind him though no shadows played against the wall. It took all his will, but he made his hand fumble for the gun tucked into his waistband, though he doubted it would do him any good. ¡°Drop it.¡± the gun hit the ground and echoed so loudly in the stone chapel that JD almost thought it had gone off. ¡°Turn around.¡± He did not want to, didn¡¯t want to be enslaved by whatever power was at work here, didn¡¯t want to see whatever this man was. For in some animal part at the back of his brain where nothing has changed since the earliest days of our evolution, a voice was now screaming that to look would be death. Even still, he turned as if following this man; this thing¡¯s orders were the most natural thing in the world. As if Reverend Summers was an officer, and he was back to being a fresh-faced recruit. There were twelve of them behind Summers. Thirteen in total, and the unlucky connotations of that number flashed through his mind. They weren¡¯t monsters, not twisted things of writhing flesh. Or demons horned and cloven-hoofed, they were far worse. As JD looked at them, he saw nothing more than thirteen ordinary people, pale-skinned, and standing perfectly still but the same as any others. Chapter 1 -Erehwon County & Interlude 1 The Foreign Girl Chapter 1 Erehwon County The social worker, Mrs Polauski, tried her hardest to be kind when we drove to the airport. She had made small talk and been chipper as she talked about what we had to do to get to my new home, but I hadn¡¯t said a word. It wasn¡¯t grief or not all grief, at any rate, I was honest enough with myself to admit that there was a certain amount of sullen childishness mixed in. It wasn¡¯t fair, and that made me more upset than I had a right to be. I had survived against the odds, and I was here and alive. Everything was still attached, working, and healthy. Still, I didn¡¯t want to be here, on this dirty old car ferry, with a middle-aged woman who had given up on trying to speak to me, staring out at the seas as we sailed for days toward the end of my road. Try as I might, I couldn¡¯t see this as anything more than a prison sentence, the rest of my life without parole. Or until I was old enough to live on my own in two years. Which felt about the same to me at that moment. As we got closer to that place, the sun seemed to grow fainter and fainter, as if we were moving steadily away from reality and into some terrible dream. A bit less than four hundred miles off the east coast of America, I had learned against my will sits the most isolated county in the United States. Erehwon, even the name sounded unnatural to me. On this isolated rock where I was sentenced to go it rained more than almost anywhere else in the United States. An atmospheric anomaly, the internet had called it, some perfect storm of air currents and the water temperature had conspired to give this island, which should be warm, a climate comparable to the Pacific Northwest. And me? I was left with no choice but to pack up all my things, leave my friends, my school, my life, and move there. As if losing everything once in two weeks wasn¡¯t enough. Mrs Polauski had said that the change of scenery might be good for me, the psychologist they had made me see had said the same thing. Why couldn''t any of them realize I wanted to be left alone? Was it that hard to see that I didn¡¯t want to talk? Was my body language and expression that unreadable? I had sometimes wondered before if I was somehow wired wrong if other people heard anger when I used sarcasm or laughter when I wanted to cry. Maybe those fears were accurate? My dad had always warned me that; Forcing my mind away from that track, I stood from the bed and walked to the door. Mrs Polauski didn¡¯t object, but that wasn¡¯t any condemnation of her. She had been so seasick that finally, the ship¡¯s nurse had given her something that had knocked her out. It was starting to rain now out on the deck, or maybe it was just fog, the air was thick and grey, and I felt damp to my bones as soon as I opened the door but it was better than sitting in the room, that damned off-white room. With its stained paint and odd sounds. It put him in mind of a hospital, and I had seen far too many of those¡­ I walked to the edge of the railing and stared down into the rushing water of the sea, and for a moment, there was the thought that I could jump, and it would all be over but no, they would fish me out more than likely, and it wasn¡¯t a serious thought. Just one of those dark flashes that sometimes come when you look at traffic or a knife sitting on the counter. I¡¯d had them a little more often since¡­ Somehow it didn¡¯t worry me. I knew I wouldn¡¯t do anything too drastic, though I don¡¯t have any idea how I knew that. The fog swirled and moved as the wind pushed across the bow, giving me glimpses of the sun and the blue sky. Beneath them, I saw the shape of the island, a low blur on the horizon. As we got closer, and I could take in the entire island, I saw it was huge, roughly twenty-five miles by twenty across, according to what I had read. Mostly low hills rising from the coast to the imposing cone of a volcano, tall enough to be capped in snow. Most startling of all to me was just how green it was; I had visited Seattle once as a child this seemed somehow even greener. Almost like a jungle or an alien planet. ¡°What did I do to deserve this?¡± I asked aloud as I pulled my new jacket around me but God, or whatever it was I expected to respond, was silent. I physically shook myself then and took a deep breath of the salt air. I couldn¡¯t be happy; I wasn¡¯t sure if I even knew what that was anymore but I didn¡¯t have to spend my time in this circle of depression. Stepping back inside, I passed four pale kids a little older than me, maybe college-aged, who sat talking in low voices; and guessed from their dull, colorless skin that they were locals. I wandered the halls for a while, lost in thought before I returned to my room, where Mrs. Polauski was sitting up in bed with a worried look on her face. ¡°Benjamin, you really shouldn¡¯t wander off like that.¡± She said the admirable attempt she had made at politeness, even in the face of my sullen attitude, had devolved into snappishness once the seasickness hit. I struggled to blame her, that¡¯s the worst part about grief. You know you are being a jerk to people who just want to help, but you can¡¯t be bothered doing anything different. You tell yourself that you deserve some slack and that they¡¯ll forgive you, and you are probably right, but it eats at you all the same as you watch yourself become a different, worse person than you were. ¡°We¡¯re on a boat. What am I gonna do, swim away?¡± I made an effort to smile, to make it clear I was joking but the nervous look on her face told me I had failed. I really wanted to care, but it wasn¡¯t easy. I could tell she was about to try and say something profound or comforting, and I just couldn¡¯t stand any more of that. So I turned and walked back out of the room. The air was colder now, even in the few minutes I had been inside, I noticed as I stepped back onto the deck but the sky was clear, As time passed, I could see the whole bay laid out before me. The city of Port Erewhon seemed from this distance to mostly be a collection of small houses and trailers rising to a handful of taller buildings towards the west. On a low hill, I could make out the domed roof of a government building of some kind or another. The docks were the only part of the city that looked new or well-maintained. Three fingers of concrete pushing out into the water piled high with logs and some faded containers. Even this far out from the town, the air was tinged faintly with the smell of the evergreen. I breathed deeply of the pungent mix of that and the salt air and, for the first time since getting on this rusting old tub. I felt good, or better, at least. It was the sort of thing I had never smelled back home, and it seemed invigorating. When the boat was still a little ways off from the shore, it began to turn, helped along by tugboats it slowly swung around so that it was facing back away from the town. It took about half an hour for the ship to be maneuvered back against the dock. I watched for a while but grew bored before it was all done, so I walked back to the cabin. Where Mrs Polauski had already gotten everything packed and ready for me. I was grateful but didn¡¯t have the words show it. Looking down at the two small bags, it seemed that all my worldly possessions were kept in them. That wasn¡¯t quite the case there was some money in a bank back home that I would need to move to the island. I¡¯d also sent a few boxes ahead, though whether the US postal service would get them here before I arrived was anybody''s question, but from where I stood, it seemed that this was it. Two small suitcases, not a lot to start over on. It¡¯ll have to be enough I told myself. I was going to live with my uncle, but I didn¡¯t expect all that much from him, after all, I was a stranger. With him living thousands of miles away, and besides, I had never gotten the impression that he and my mother were all that close¡­ I rebuttoned the coat, grabbed the bags, and tried to give Mrs. Polauski a smile. Perhaps I even succeeded, as she didn¡¯t frown too much. I made my way to the door, but it was a little hard to navigate the narrow hallways with the suitcases. Passengers exited the same way that the cars did, via the ramp that lowered from the rear of the ship, and we had to wait as several cars rolled off. The last of them stood out for how odd a sight it was. A pristine Volkswagen Kombi hippy paint and all, I had heard online that Erewhon was described as a place where nothing ever changed but surely there weren¡¯t still communes of hippies dotted around. The thought was silly, and I brushed it away, confident that it was just someone¡¯s lovingly restored display piece. The dock wasn¡¯t really made for passengers. Instead, it was a cargo dock loaded high with piles of logs, the cars and passengers unloaded by driving or walking down a narrow road roped off beside them that I suspected was usually used for equipment of some kind. The passenger terminal was a new concrete building that stood out against the quaint last-century architecture of the main street beyond it but it was warm and dry, with a propane heater humming in the corner. ¡°There he is.¡± Mrs Polauski grabbed me by my shoulder and pointed to a taller man dressed in a police uniform standing by the doors, looking nervous. He had dark hair, somewhere between brown and black. A warming color, just the same as my mom¡¯s had been. Suddenly, it was hard to stand, and everything seemed to be getting very distant. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in one of the hard plastic seats there in that waiting room. Mrs Polauski was fussing about me and the man. My uncle was standing over me, looking concerned, I wiped my eyes and coughed to clear my throat before forcing myself to stand. Talk about making a bad first impression, I mentally chastised myself. This guy goes out of his way to give me a room; and I have some kind of breakdown in front of him. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± I said with a shaky voice, face going red as I realized half the people in the room were staring at me. The other half were doing something worse, visibly trying not to. I forced a probably lousy grin and tried to regain some small measure of face by saying. ¡°Some package you¡¯re picking up, huh?¡± He grabbed me then, and I went stiff as a board as he pulled me into a crushing hug, rocking me slightly. Or perhaps he was rocking himself? Slowly, I felt myself relax, returning the hug. Though with less passion than he was exuding, to be sure. It felt good, if strange. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Ben,¡± he said, pulling himself back. I was shocked to see tears in his eyes. He was crying; he was actually crying. I had always gotten the impression that Mom and him weren¡¯t close. They exchanged cards at Christmas, but the only time I could think of them speaking was when my grandfather died suddenly back in nineteen-ninety-eight, and Uncle Hank had made the call to break the news. I wondered then who had made the call about mom; there wasn¡¯t a lot of that side of the family left, and suddenly, I was crying again. It took a while to get everything worked out. Mrs Polauski had some paperwork Uncle Hank needed to sign, but eventually, everything was set, and we were able to start our drive toward Uncle Hank¡¯s home. Apparently, it was only about ten miles as the crow flies but the roads were narrow and only paved for the first third of the drive. That shocked me, and I said so, to which Uncle Hank joked that this island was stuck about fifteen years behind the rest of the country. Was there anywhere in the country where major roads hadn¡¯t been paved fifteen years ago? I wondered, but sensing that discretion was likely to be the better part of valor here didn¡¯t say. Uncle Hank¡¯s car was a large boxy pickup truck painted dark green with the words Whisper Bay Police painted on the side beneath a circular seal. Climbing in, it smelled of leather, oil, and a faint touch of old cigarettes. My stomach dropped at that, it would be just my luck to be stuck for the next few years in a house with a smoker. As we drove out of Port Erewhon on a bridge over the river, we came into another town, smaller but not by much. Mostly filled with industrial-type buildings and warehouses. The roads here were marked with masses of dirty tire tracks left by heavy vehicles. The number of logging trucks around provided the explanation; it wasn¡¯t long until we were through this suburb, which the sign just after the bridge proclaimed to be Midway Town. It was amazing how quickly human development gave way to nature as we left the town, the woods making a wall mere feet beyond the McDonalds. They were thick and dark, with the moss and leaves turning what little light made it through a funny greenish color. It was shocking in its utter alienness to everything I¡¯d known and not altogether pleasant, so dense was the surrounding tunnel of green that I felt a sense of claustrophobia push in on me. It was empty, and I was alone. Just then, Uncle Hank spoke, pulling my mind back from the darkness in the woods, ¡°Do you need to talk about it?¡± His eyes were fixed on the road, and a brittle edge was in his voice, but he sounded sincere. ¡°You seem more sad about this than I expected.¡± I said without thinking, ¡°I mean, it¡¯s just that I never knew you and Mom were close.¡± I floundered, trying to find a way to sound less rude and knowing that I was failing. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Uncle Hank laughed, ¡°I know what you mean.¡± He paused for a moment there, a faraway look on his face ¡°And no, I don¡¯t suppose we were all that close. Neither of us was ever what you¡¯d call good at staying in touch.¡± As he spoke, my eyes drifted back to the passing scenery. There was a sign that we rolled by that proclaimed we were entering the Rembrandt State Forest, though I couldn¡¯t tell any difference between it and the green wall that the state government hadn¡¯t seen fit to protect and name after a painter. ¡°No, your mom and I weren¡¯t ever all that close. It¡¯s hard to explain ever since I heard what happened. I just wish I had tried more to be.¡± ¡°So it¡¯s all just a performance!¡± I snapped, feeling angry all of a sudden and not even sure why. The conversation fell silent after that. I could tell that my words had hurt him, and after a few minutes, I tried to make it right but ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± was all I could force out We kept driving, not speaking to each other, but the air was less heavy than it had been a few seconds earlier. The woodland, so dense that you couldn¡¯t see more than a few feet off the road, disappeared with shocking suddenness, the dim green haze being replaced almost at once by the bright sun of afternoon. The town was laid out before us, then clinging to the rocks on the shore of a narrow inlet. Its old brick facades facing out onto the sea, as small but well-kept houses formed rows behind them as they straggled up the hillside. It was almost perfect enough to be a postcard or a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. In other words, it was exactly what I had feared it would be. Uncle Hank¡¯s house was a mid-century split level, which made it shockingly modern for the neighborhood, in the driveway sat an old green and white police car. Which I noticed almost at once had its official markings crudely painted over in large off-white splotches and random bolts and metal attachments stuck up from the roof where I could assume lights had once been attached. Opening my door, I was hit by the realization that the smell of the sea was even stronger here than it had been in Port Erewhon, without the smells of car exhaust and industry that even a town as small as Port Erewhon produced. It was nothing but salt and evergreen. So strong I was almost dizzy from it for a second. ¡°Ben,¡± Hank said, getting my attention. ¡°This car,¡± He gestured to the old police car. ¡°It¡¯s yours.¡± I was sure I had misheard him, there was no way. ¡°The department was selling off some of its old fleet, and I figured neither of us would be too crazy about me playing chauffeur for the next few years.¡± I was amazed, a car. This guy I didn¡¯t even know had bought me a car. ¡°Wow¡± was all I could say. As I looked at the thing, I smiled. It needed a new coat of paint, and I had no clue how it would run, but it was mine. My car, my very own car. Uncle Hank held out the keys to me, and when I reached for them, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug again. This time, I didn¡¯t try to fight it, I reciprocated even. ¡°Thanks, Uncle Hank,¡± I said, and again, there were tears threatening in my eyes. After a few more minutes, we went inside the house. It was odd, an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture, an old sofa the sort of thing you¡¯d see in a waiting room for a tax attorney faced on a TV at least twenty years out of date. A painting of ducks on a pond somewhere in the Midwest hung on the wall, and a comfortable-looking recliner was next to the sofa. Nothing matched, and it was all just shoved in haphazardly, but somehow it worked. Every room was like that until I came to my own. All the furniture was new: a bed made of dark wood, with light blue covers and soft carpet on the floor, and the walls were painted the exact shade of orange as sunset over the desert. How Uncle Hank had known it was my favorite color, I couldn¡¯t guess. I lay down on the bed, holding an old picture I had kept in my pocket. Finally, I was somewhere where I didn¡¯t have to care. I wasn¡¯t in public and could make as much of a scene as I wanted. I cried then, harder and longer than I had in years. I cried myself to sleep that night, and it felt shockingly good.
Interlude 1 The Foreign Girl Baxter Fudd had been Shariff of Erewhon County for almost as long as anybody could remember. It was his county, but on an unseasonably warm and dry day in October, all of that changed. The old hippie van drove off of the ferry and headed straight up Rembrandt Boulevard towards the center of local government. The imposing edifice of the old courthouse, larger than a county this size really needed, reached skyward, taller than most buildings on the island. Joining it around the small square was the county administration building, which housed the governments of both city and county. The city library and the sheriff¡¯s office A new bland brutalist building that had replaced the older office after it burned down in nineteen-seventy-nine, which locals still reckoned as recent. The van stopped in front of its concrete entrance, and three people with paper-white skin got out. Holding umbrellas they dashed into the office as if it were raining While a fourth stayed behind the wheel reading a paperback novel. They drew odd looks from the receptionist as they placed their dry umbrellas in the receptacle provided. The smallest of the three stepped forward to the desk and spoke softly in a mildly accented voice ¡°We have an appointment with the sheriff.¡± This further confused the receptionist, Pamala O¡¯Toole a thirty-year veteran of the office, well past retirement but kept around by virtue of her brute competence. As she knew for good and certain that ¡°There are no appointments on Shariff Baxter Fudd¡¯s schedule today.¡± Her voice was sandpaper from years of cigarettes and it had been known to frighten fully grown men, sheriff¡¯s deputies some of whom had been to war, into submission but this petite foreign girl didn¡¯t back down ¡°I¡¯m afraid there has been some terrible mistake, I called this morning, and spoke with you. Don¡¯t you remember?¡± The girl stared into her eyes, deeply and without the slightest sign of blinking. When suddenly Pamala did, yes of course she did. This woman had called early that very morning and made an appointment. Her face flushed with embarrassment and she shook her head as if trying to clear it of something. ¡°I am so sorry miss?¡± ¡°Lisette Ducharme,¡± She said with a smile, that seemed somehow to light up the room and at the same time suck all the warmth out of it. ¡°Of course¡±, she fumbled with the phone on her desk for a moment before calling into the Shariff¡¯s office. They spoke for half a minute and then the old secretary hung up. ¡°Shariff Fudd will see you now. Lisette and her two companions walked into the sheriff''s office and half an hour later they left taking their pointless umbrellas with them. Fudd seemed different for the rest of that day and when Pamala came in to say goodbye to him before clocking out, he told her he had to let her go. It destroyed her, but no amount of begging could make him change his mind. That night when the next shift came on duty he fired three good deputies on technicalities, ruining the careers of some good young men. By the next day, he had already replaced them, their replacements were a short foreign woman and three tough tough-looking men, all with paper-white skin.