The Pineview Incident (2 page)

Chapter 2

Donna tossed frozen fish sticks onto the industrial sized trays with all the gentleness of a lumberjack. Of course, the school food was frozen so solidly nothing could harm the actual meat, if there was any.

The other lunch lady stood over the prep sink, deep in conversation on her phone, which meant Donna was free to take out her anger on the compressed fish parts.

Mark Lewis had been her nemesis since kindergarten, and that was forty years ago. She'd put up with him invading her life for thirty of those years.

It was like some kind of cosmic practical joke; the man she loved came in a package, two-for-one, with the man she couldn't stand to even look at.

Donna threw down the last two sticks with a huff. One of them bounced off and skittered across the floor until it hit the ankle of Trish, her fellow lunch lady.

Trish squealed and jumped back. “Rat!” She reached over for the broom and hit the frozen stick twice.

“Nope, fish,” said Donna.

Trish scowled at her and shoved the broom back into its place. “You need to watch those things, Donna. There's enough oil in 'em to coat the whole floor.” She pointed to a faint trail of slime that went from the point of impact all the way across the kitchen to her foot.

“Sorry. My mind's somewhere else.”

Trish bent down and picked up the still perfectly frozen fish stick. “You thinking about the Gilbertson's ranch, too?” She tossed the stick into the trashcan and looked expectantly at Donna.

“Um, no, not exactly.” Donna took out the old mop and began scrubbing at the floor. “What's up with the Gilbertson's place?”

“No one knows,” Trish whispered.

“If no one knows, how can you be talking about it?”

Trish looked incensed. “A bunch of vans and trucks went up there late last night. They did it at midnight, like they were sneaking or hiding something.”

“Again, how do you know this?” Donna went back to her trays of fish and shoved the last of them into the oven.

“Gary from the filling station said so. He said a whole caravan drove up and got gas. All of them had California plates, and one of the guys—who had hair down to his butt—got out and asked directions to their ranch.”

“That
is
strange,” admitted Donna.

The Gilbertson family was an odd bunch for sure. They lived on their isolated property in the foothills of the Bitterroot Mountain range, about a thousand feet above the rest of the community. Few people from town ever visited their farm and sheep ranch. Still, they were honest and friendly when they came into town.

“And the man wouldn't say why he needed to get to the ranch. He said it was a secret. The whole town is talking about it. It's all so mysterious.” Trish flailed her arms wildly to emphasize her point. Then again, Trish flailed her arms for everything.

“It may not mean much of anything. The Gilbertsons own a working ranch, and sometimes, working ranches get deliveries and need repairs.” Donna began laying out the trays of food. “So, what are people saying about it?”

“They say lot's of things. Some are saying there was an alien landing out there. Some are saying the Gilbertsons are part of a cult or one of those polygamy things. Then again, it could be they're planning some kind of attack, like terrorists or something.”

“
Terrorists?
” Donna put her hands on her hips. “Have you
seen
the Gilbertsons? They’re a bit on the chubby side for terrorists, don't you think? The women all wear aprons for God's sake. What kind of idiot thinks they could possibly be terrorists?”

Trish's arms fell to her side, and her face turned scarlet.

“Thought so,” Donna said with a snicker. “If you're going to spread rumors, do it right, Trish.”

Before Trish could answer, the bell rang, and all conversation ended as hungry children descended on them.

#

Donna headed for The Daily Grinds as soon as she got off work. She wanted to see for herself if the town was in a tizzy or not, and the coffee shop was the second best place to hear the latest gossip. Sunday morning at church was the best place for gossip, but that was five days away.

The moment she opened the door, Donna could tell something was up. People sat in small huddles, talking animatedly and gulping down coffee. No one ever gulps down coffee in a coffee shop unless they're upset.

She walked over to the counter and watched Hannah finish the latte she was working on.

“Give me a minute,” was all Hannah said when she saw Donna. She hustled back to the serving side of the counter and called out the order.

Donna couldn't help but smile. Hannah Grabel hadn't changed much since they first met in elementary school. Her bright red hair was grayer, and her hips wider, but Hannah still had more energy than a bunch of teens at a slumber party. It seemed perfectly natural for her to work around coffee beans all day.

“Are you here for a buzz or just a chat?” Hannah asked when she'd served up the last order.

“Can I just watch them be buzzed?” Donna pointed behind her at a table of men who all sat with their legs tapping furiously under the table.

“Nothing turns a man into a chatterbox faster than a double-shot cappuccino,” Hannah said.

“So, I heard a bunch of mysterious trucks headed up to the Gilbertson's land last night.” Hannah held up her hand before Donna could finish.

“It was three trucks, and I have no news to share. I was happily in bed when it happened. However, if you take a coffee cup and sit at a middle table, you'll get more information than you can manage. And a headache.”

Donna dropped a dollar onto the counter. “Decaf, please. I don't want to end up like them.” She glanced at the table of shaking men.

Donna perched herself at the tiny table near the center of the room and listened to the rapid conversations around her.

Trish was right, several people thought the vans, which had somehow grown to a dozen in number, belonged to a secret government organization investigating UFO's.

Several others decided the Gilbertsons were in trouble with the IRS or Homeland Security, though she couldn't for the life of her see the Gilbertsons as a danger. In her experience, well-fed farmers rarely became terrorists.

The worst of the conversations revolved around the fact the entire Gilbertson clan lived together on a remote bluff that barely supported their farm. The kids were even home schooled. Words like “cult” and “polygamist” shot back and forth in the small coffee shop like bullets.

Donna wondered how many would be hit by those bullets. The next time a member of the Gilbertson family drove down to town, they'd come straight into the line of fire.

After a while, the coffee cooled and grew bitter in her mouth. She returned to the counter to hand in the used cup and talk with her friend.

“Told you it was bad,” said Hannah with a knowing look around her shop.

“Three vans show up from California and all this happens?”

“Three vans and one long haired guy.” Hannah took the cup and placed it under the counter. “Don't forget the long haired guy. He's important.”

Donna snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Don't laugh, he really is. No good conspiracy theory is complete without the freaky guy.”

“Ah, the freaky guy is the polygamist alien's leader, right?”

Now Hannah laughed. “Or he's the high level government agent who's unknowingly become the human host to one of the alien intruders.”

Donna snapped her fingers. “I got it! The IRS has been taken over by polygamist aliens bent on destroying the human race through taxes, and the long-haired guy is the leader!”

“That's actually a plausible theory. Aliens in the IRS would explain a lot about the tax codes.”

“I know. Scary, isn't it?” Donna leaned against the counter and sighed. “This is kind of fun, we should slander our neighbors more often.”

“It's gonna be a let down when the folks around here finally figure out what those vans are here for.” Hannah looked around at the full coffee shop. “Conspiracies are good for business.”

“What do you think those vans really are?” Donna asked.

“My bet is exterminators.”

“I was thinking artificial insemination for the sheep.” Donna fought the urge to bleat again.

“Oh, sheep sex! Love that one.” Hannah leaned in. “This could turn out to be quite scandalous around these parts.”

Donna laughed and headed for the door. Then she turned around with a smile spread across her face. “As Chief Michaels said, don't knock it till you try it.”

Chapter 3

“So what's your theory?”

Mark glanced up and into a dozen curious eyes. There was no way he'd answer that, but there wasn't a good way out of it, either.

“My theory is the Gilbertsons are going to come to town for groceries and think the whole place has gone insane, which it has.”

“Spoil sport.”

“Old fart.”

Mark looked around, trying to figure out which one said it, but no one's face betrayed him. “It was three vans, dammit. It's not like an alien invasion.”

“Yeah, but you don't know that for sure.”

“There was a long haired dude. That's got to mean something. I'm betting the Gilbertsons are involved in some kind of cult.”

Mark went back to shaving the neck in the chair in front of him. None of the men in the shop, and there were a lot of them today, wanted to hear common sense. They wanted juicy, untrue details and half-cocked musings.

Though he'd never say so out loud, Mark knew good and well men were worse than women when it came to rumors. The difference was that women gossiped in public, while men waited until no females were around. Since there were some pretty strict rules about talking to each other in the men’s restroom, it was only here that men could act like women and get away with it.

Which meant Mark's shop was the Mecca of lies. Everything was blown out of proportion here, from fish stories to sexual adventures to mysterious vans.

“What if those vans are just normal people doing normal jobs? What happens if nothing's going on?” Mark pulled off the cape and turned to face the line of waiting men. “You're going to be really disappointed if the long haired guy is a plumber.”

“And if he isn't, we don't want to be unprepared,” said Cory, the taxidermist. Several men agreed.

“What do you to do be prepared for a long haired guy in a van? Hide your daughters?”

“Damn straight we will. And I'm making sure we have plenty of ammunition, too.”

“I think somebody found gold.”

“I still say aliens.”

The men in the shop all began talking at once, including Scott O'Brian who sat under Mark's skilled scissors.

“Scott, if you don't stop moving around, I swear you're going to get a Mohawk,” Mark warned.

“Do it,” goaded one of the men in the tiny waiting room. “It'd be a hell of an improvement over his damn mullet.”

Once again, the barber shop erupted in laughter.

“This isn't a mullet,” Scott yelled over the noise. “It's a classic men's long cut.”

“Whadda ya' call that cut, Mark?” asked Ed Harrington.

Mark stepped back and looked at the newly trimmed mullet. “Scott's Delusion.”

Once again, laughter roared around the room. Despite his best efforts, Mark cracked a smile at Scott's purple face. The man needed a swift kick to shove him out of the eighties.

“Seriously, I think it's a gold rush,” continued Ed Harrington when the sound died out. “I, for one, don't want to be left behind.”

“Maybe they’re doing one of them kitchen remodels,” suggested someone else.

“Maybe they’re doing a wildlife documentary,” suggested Mark.

“I overheard some of them in the men's room, and they are definitely working with sheep.” Everyone turned to look at Jimmy. The seventeen year old looked back at them through a mass of curly` bangs. “Well, I did.”

“Which men's room?” demanded Scott.

“The one at the gas station.”

“What did ya do, just stand there an’ listen?” Ed gave the boy a cross look.

“That's just wrong,” mumbled one of the men.

“There are rules against stuff like that,” added another.

“Leave the boy be.” Scott glared at the others. “I want to hear more of what he has to say.”

Jimmy sat up a little taller. “I was sitting in the stall doing my business, for your information,” he began. “While I was sitting there, two of the men walked in and did their business standing up. Anyway, they talked about needing to set up at the house before sunset so they could start with the women and the sheep early in the morning.”

“Did they mention sluices or panning?” asked Ed.

“Nope. They just needed to be set up so they could watch the women and the sheep in the morning. That's all they said before they left.” Jimmy's mouth smiled smugly under the bush of hair.

“Damn.” Ed groaned and leaned back in the chair.

“You already bought the panning equipment, didn't you?” Mark asked.

“How do you return stuff from E-Bay?” Ed asked. Once again, chuckles rippled through the room.

“It's one of them stupid cooking or quilting shows, mark my word.” Mark looked around the room.  He strode over to his till and pulled out a handful of bills. “I'll put money down on it.”

“I got fifty that says it ain't,” said Scott. He took out his wallet and yanked out his money. “It’s about time you lose, Lewis.”

Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

Mark had enough. “You're all on! I swear, you men are worse than the women of this town, and that's saying a lot. If you want to know what's going on, just go ask the Gilbertsons.” He glared at Ed and went back to clipping Scott's out of date hair.

The silence lasted less than a minute.

“My mom thinks the Gilbertsons are one of them polygamous families.” The entire shop went silent when Jimmy said it.

“Oh, Lord,” moaned Mark. He'd seen this before, and it never ended well. Rumors and jealousy could ruin a life quicker than a bullet sometimes. He looked in dismay at the six men who now sat around whispering to each other. “Bunch of little girls,” he growled under his breath.

“We are not.” Ed shot him a baleful glance and Mark went back to work.

Mark clipped and shaved while he listened to the unfounded rumors engorge as the men continued to talk. Not only were the Gilbertson’s polygamists, they were incestuous alien polygamists. Who were communists. Or supremacists, though how aliens would be white supremacists was beyond even Mark's ability to follow.

As he swept up the last of the day's profits, Mark caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked back at the tired looking man and then around at the shop. His life revolved around hair and bowling and trout season.

“You've got no one to blame but yourself,” he told his reflection. The reflection only frowned back. If he was the proud proprietor of the men's gossip group, well, that was the life he'd chosen long ago. “And you’re an old fool.”

He shut the door of his tiny shop and headed down the road to his tiny house.