Growth (4 page)

Then the missiles struck and Bob Jr., along with his thoughts, and the boat, vaporized into nothing but heat and ash.

When the dispatcher called with a simple 10-21, Chief Sandy Chisel was standing on the front porch of the Einhorn farmhouse, arms crossed to keep her hand away from her pistol, listening to a load of bullshit.

Sandy clicked her radio and simply said, “Copy,” then looked back down at Kurt Einhorn as he leaned back in the rocking chair.

“Don't know how many times I hafta explain things to you people,” he said. “My wife, she's clumsy. Happens all the time. Don't see why you gotta come out here, wastin' taxpayer money just cause the stupid bitch fell down the basement stairs.”

Kurt was known in the law enforcement business as a frequent flyer. Every few months, the neighbors across the highway called 911 when Kurt beat his wife so bad they could hear her screaming. Sandy's predecessor had warned her that arresting him and taking him to jail for the night wouldn't do any good. Just made things worse for Ingrid, the wife. The old chief had tried it a few times, hauling Kurt down to the police station in town, but inevitably, Ingrid would show up the next day, bruised and moving slowly and stiffly. She'd explain it was all a mistake, that she'd hit her face on the fridge door or dropped a hot pan on her foot. Calls and visits from spousal abuse counselors were ignored. Eventually, most people just figured if she didn't want out, then it was none of their business.

Nearly seven months into the job, this was Sandy's second visit as chief. She knew damn well the wife wouldn't say anything. Still, she went through the motions, taking her time as she walked Ingrid down the porch steps to the cruiser where they stood for a while under the summer night sky, listening to the occasional lonesome cricket. She explained in a low voice that Ingrid would never have to see him again, all she had to do was say the word. Ingrid, a thin wisp of a woman with short, frazzled hair, hugged herself and shrugged, looking everywhere but at Sandy.

After a while, Sandy gave up. It made her feel tense and irritable, like she'd been chewing on a ball of aluminum foil all day, but she knew damn well her words—her promises, attempts at shame, appeals for Ingrid's health—none of it made a bit of difference. Ingrid would suffer in silence until some night he'd hurt her bad enough to put her in the ground, or something would snap and she would up and leave. Then again, there was always that distant third possibility, and Sandy didn't think she'd be the only one not shedding any tears if Ingrid up and killed the son of a bitch.

Sandy led Ingrid back up to the porch. Kurt still sat in the rickety rocking chair and watched them with the sluggish, lidless eyes of a lizard. “Still waitin' for that beer,” he told his wife. Ingrid didn't say a word, but she moved fast. The screen door slapped its frame behind her.

Kurt and Sandy regarded each other silently for a few long seconds. Moths beat against the bare bulb above. He reminded Sandy of a fat Gila monster, perched on a rock under the noon sun.

“Go ahead.” When he smiled, his lips thinned and almost disappeared, revealing teeth the color of old tobacco. “Say something threatening. Tell me if she hurts herself again you'll make me sorry. Come on. Get me all nervous.”

Sandy managed a tight grin right back. She kept her tone flat. “Not much point, I suppose. Looks like you got it all worked out.”

“Do you well to remember that. Day I let some nigger-loving cooze tell me my business is the day I take a dirt nap.”

This time, a wild mirth lit up her eyes and Sandy gave Kurt a chilling, genuine smile. “That dirt nap can be arranged. Easier than you think. Do you well to remember
that
.” She headed back to the cruiser, hating the feeling that his eyes were following her ass and forced herself to walk slow, easy, unconcerned. Domestic disturbances were a cop's bread and butter, but she hadn't been on the job long enough to find that balance of shutting down her emotions but still caring enough to be an effective law enforcement officer.

She started the cruiser and pinned Kurt to the front of his farmhouse with the high beams. He stared back and didn't move. Sandy could see Ingrid watching from the kitchen window. The woman turned away from the window and left a blank rectangle of light.

Sandy followed the horseshoe driveway around past the dark barn and back up to the highway. The Einhorn farm was set back off the road, but sound carried in the corn. The closest neighbors, the Johnsons, had called 911. Meredith Johnson, mother of twelve or thirteen children, Sandy never could quite remember, was standing on her front porch, watching and waiting.

Sandy sighed. She didn't doubt the Johnsons could hear the yelling from their front lawn. Their house was right across the highway from the Einhorns. The Johnsons were fundamentalist Christians and homeschooled all of their children, avoiding the pressures and temptations of public school and making sure their family knew the facts regarding topics such as evolution and global warming.

Meredith wore long dresses, a permanent frown, and kept her long brown hair pinned up in a severe bun that probably wouldn't come loose in a hurricane. She knew damn well Kurt wasn't in the backseat, and no doubt tomorrow she would be telling the rest of the sewing circle in the basement of their church all about how Sandy was such a disappointment as the town's police chief. Why, she couldn't even lock up an obvious sinner like Kurt Einhorn. Liz, the dispatcher, always referred to Meredith as “Sister Better-Than-You.”

Sandy pulled up to the mouth of the driveway, working at putting it all out of her head. Nothing she could do about the armchair police in town. And it wasn't like that was a shock; she understood the scrutiny before she'd even publicly announced she'd run for the position. And in many ways, Meredith was easier to take than other folks. At least Meredith let you know exactly what she thought; the others were happy to smile in Sandy's face and tell her what a great job she was doing while calling her Chief Bitch when she was out of the room.

Albert came out onto the porch, holding his hand. Albert was a nice enough guy, but had the cognitive abilities of a bag of hammers. Sandy was close enough to hear Meredith yell at one of the kids inside, “Bring me a bandage. And some rubbing alcohol.” Then, to her husband, “Quit your whining.”

Sandy called out, “Everything okay?”

“Possum bit me!” Albert said.

“Shush,” Meredith said. To Sandy, she called back, “He's fine. We certainly don't need help from the likes of someone like you.” Meredith ushered her husband inside and shut the door.

Sandy wanted to remind them about the risks of rabies, but knew her effort would be wasted. So she pulled onto Highway 17 and rolled down the window for a deep breath of summer air. It was late enough that the heat had finally worn off, and a slight breeze tickled the corn that surrounded both farmhouses. She pulled up and stopped at the four-way stop at the intersection of Highway 17 and Road G and used her cell to call the office. A 10-21 code meant that the dispatcher had information that wasn't ready for the open frequency on the radio. Too many people got their kicks listening to the police scanner.

Liz answered it on the first ring, which didn't surprise Sandy. Parker's Mill wasn't exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. “Got a call from the Whistle Stop. Greg says Purcell Fitzgimmon's boys are awfully tuned up, causing a ruckus. Says he's heard your name mentioned a few times. Sounded like they were looking for a face-to-face. Thought you might like to hear about it first, before everybody else.”

“Thanks, Liz.”

“Thing is, it's all three. Guess the middle one is on leave or something. You want me to call Hendricks? He's still up north on 67, keeping an eye out for the drunks.”

“Let Hendricks keep an eye on the drunks. Just finished at the Einhorns'. Heading over to the Whistle now.”

Hendricks was a good cop, a guy who was good at talking folks out of heated moments. He went out of his way to avoid trouble when he was off-duty if at all possible, but had a knack for calming other folks down when he was on the clock. He had the patience to put up with hideous abuse from a drunk, then go and pick up the same guy on a Sunday morning for church service. Hendricks didn't care a whole lot which church he ended up at. They all told pretty much the same story anyway, he reasoned.

And despite lacking any discernible skill whatsoever, he was the kind of cop who truly believed riding a unicycle in the Fourth of July parade would help gain him a little more respect from the residents. At least he had eventually listened to her when Sandy had talked him out of juggling bowling pins, but he wasn't somebody she'd want backing her when she said howdy to hard cases like the Fitzgimmon brothers.

Sandy knew something like this would happen. Somebody was bound to test her. Somebody exactly like those boys. They had been raised not only to question every authority on earth except for their father, but to defy that authority as well, and thanks to Charlie's arrest, their grudge against Sandy and the rest of the Parker's Mill police department had gotten personal.

Back in November when she was only Deputy Chisel, Sandy had arrested Charlie Fitzgimmon for drunk driving and property destruction after he'd knocked over half of the stop signs in the county and was hauling them around in the back of his truck. This was the night before he was to report for basic training in either the Army or the Marines. She'd heard both versions.

Sandy had come upon his truck on the median, engine dead. Charlie was slumped over the wheel, snoring violently. She knocked on the roof.

Charlie blinked at her and eventually worked out that she was wearing a badge. He opened the door and got out all apologetic. “Thank you so much, Officer. I'm on my way, see, to an appointment with the government.” He tried his damndest to walk a straight line over to her and instead stumbled and fell. He wound up on his back, shoulders and arms in the gutter, legs on the sidewalk, pissing on himself.

She hauled him in and didn't let him make a phone call until seven the next morning, making him almost late for his deployment. He'd never forgiven her.

 

 

A pair of headlights popped into view, way down the gentle curve to the west, moving fast. Sandy hesitated before pulling out. She squinted out of her window as the headlights grew brighter and brighter, eating up the darkness. The night was quiet enough that she could hear the diesel engine, straining and howling as the driver put the gas pedal on the floor and kept it there.

The truck blasted through the intersection as if the four stop signs never existed. The backwash rocked Sandy's cruiser. If the driver had seen her, he didn't react beyond pushing his vehicle as fast as possible. She automatically reached for the lights and siren, but stopped just short of clicking them on.

She recognized the truck. It was Bob Morton's. Latest model, all the bells and whistles. He was about the only one in the county that could afford a new truck, each and every year. He either owned or leased every damn cornfield in the county, and Sandy couldn't see any immediate reason why he would be driving so fast.

She knew she should go after him. The man deserved a ticket. He probably deserved a lot more than that. On the other hand, the Fitzgimmon boys were no doubt getting drunker and rowdier. Liz's tone suggested that things weren't out of hand yet, but serious trouble wasn't far off.

Behind her, Morton's taillights grew faint. At least he was heading east, where the roads dead-ended in yet more of his cornfields, so at least it wasn't likely he would hit anyone else.

Ahead, she knew the Fitzgimmons were waiting for her at the Whistle Stop. And the more time she gave them, the meaner they'd get. They'd been waiting seven months for something to happen.

She promised herself she'd have a talk with Bob the next day and headed to the Whistle Stop.

 

 

A year ago, if you asked people in Parker's Mill who they'd vote for in the upcoming Police Chief election, Sandy's name wouldn't even have been on the ballot. They knew her name, certainly. Knew her mostly as that teen mom who fucked up her life. She was no more than an example that mothers would use to remind their daughters of the inevitable consequences of fooling around with boys.

For a while, Sandy was inclined to agree with them. Once Kevin had been born, she started applying for jobs and discovered how very few qualifications she actually possessed. Getting her G.E.D. was the first step. Then she saw an ad for earning her Basic Officer certification. The pay was worse than stripping, but the health insurance was better. She applied and was accepted. This news was met with less-than-enthusiastic applause within Manchester County. She graduated with honors, which made everything worse.

Amazingly enough, the earth did not crack, open up, and swallow Parker's Mill whole when the second woman in the history of the town joined the police force. She proved to be more than capable of arresting drunk drivers, nailing out-of-state cars for speeding, and giving talks on first aid to Boy Scout Troop 2957. The scout leaders wanted to put their scouts through a real threat, so they'd designed an elaborate scenario around the detonation of a nuclear suitcase bomb. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints sponsored the whole thing, and even provided Vietnam-era gas masks for the scouts as well.

They staged a real-life disaster scenario procedural drill; at least, that's what they called it. Hendricks put out blinking sawhorses to close off Third Street between Main Street and Franklin, but by that point, there were so many people crowding along the Main Street crosswalk taking pictures, it was clearly impassable.

The leaders parked a few cars at random between the new Walgreens and Vincent Smith's Butcher Shop and left the vehicle doors open. Everybody involved agreed that was a chilling touch. Somebody blew fog from dry ice down the street. Volunteers from the Springfield Drama Institute draped themselves across the street and Boy Scout leaders went around with red-colored Karo syrup and thawing chitterlings.