Hunting Witches (12 page)

“Meat loaf, mashed taters, brown gravy, cornbread muffin, green beans,” said Lucas. “It ain’t bad. Needs pepper.”

“It usually does,” Large Richard said.

“Damn right,” said Crandall, as he poured another creamer into his coffee.

“Sounds good,” Graham said. “I’ve been doing paperwork all day. Need some food.”

Delores came back around behind the counter. “What’ll you have, Sheriff?”

“Special. Sweet tea.”

“You eatin’ here?” she asked. “Or you need it to go?”

“Reckon I’ll eat here, Delores,” he said. She glared at him. “If that’s okay with you, that is.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “I’ll allow it,” she said. She walked to the side to get Graham’s tea and turn in his order.

Graham winced as she left. “Goddamn, she’s in a mood tonight!”

“Damn right,” said Crandall.

“She’ll be all right in a few weeks,” Large Richard said, “once she gets some candy cane in her.”

“Heh. Candy cane.” Lucas snorted.

“You’re a dirty old man, Richard,” Graham said.

“You know it, son,” Large Richard said, grinning.

“What the hell fun are
clean
old men?” Lucas asked.

“Damn right,” Crandall said.

Delores set Graham’s iced tea down in front of him. “Delores, honey, you’re looking good tonight,” Graham said.

She looked at him, level in the eye, and growled. Graham scooted back in his stool a smidge and lowered his eyes. He heard her walk away by the swooshing of her apron.

The three old men laughed. “That’s some respect for the law right there, Sheriff!” Lucas hooted.

“Damn right,” Crandall said.

“That one’s scary,” Graham said.

“Well, I doubt highly she voted for you,” Large Richard said with a chuckle.

Graham scooted back up and put his elbows on the counter. “Mind if I pick your brain for a second, Richard?”

“Shoot,” Large Richard said. He lived up to his name. Large Richard stood about six foot five, and Graham estimated he weighed about three-hundred and twenty pounds. He must have cut an imposing figure when he was younger; Graham thought he had some vague childhood memories of seeing him swaggering down the sidewalk, but he wasn’t positive. Even now, with age encroaching, Large Richard wasn’t a man to mess with. The slanted wrinkles around his brown eyes and his meathammer fists would be enough to make any young punk think twice about picking a fight.

“Had a new couple move into town as of late,” Graham said.

“Heard about that,” Large Richard nodded. “Out in the Blasted Lands.”

“Right,” Graham said. “Somebody heaved a brick through their front window last night.”

“Heard about that, too. Tommy Clark came in for lunch. He said he’d been on a job out there. He said they were nice folks.”

Graham nodded. “They are that. Nice people.”

“You want to know who broke the window.” Large Richard cracked his knuckles.

“Thought you might have an inkling,” Graham said.

“I got nothing, Sheriff. Haven’t heard hide nor hair about it.”

“What do the numbers thirteen, twenty-six and twenty-seven mean to you?”

“Sounds like you’re halfway to filling out a lottery ticket.”

“So that doesn’t ring a bell, either.”

Large Richard shook his head. “Sorry, Sheriff. Not a thing.”

Graham sighed.

Large Richard looked to his left. “Boys, y’all heard anything about who might have busted that window out in the old subdivision last night?”

“That new couple got their window broke out,” Lucas said. “That’s all I heard. I don’t know what newcomers expect. There’s always a hazing.”

“That explains why we don’t get many newcomers,” Graham said.

“Damn right,” Crandall said.

“It’s probably just kids, Sheriff,” Lucas said. “I wouldn’t pay it no mind.”

“There were numbers on the brick,” Graham said. “Like a message.”

“Code of some kind?” Lucas asked.

“Could be a Bible verse,” Large Richard said.

“That was my first thought,” Graham replied.

“Sudoku,” Crandall said. “That goddamn math game. Got a nephew plays that all the time. Smart kid. Game drives me nuts. I’d rather play checkers.”

“You hate checkers,” Large Richard said.

“Damn right,” Crandall said.

Delores crept up silently and dropped Graham’s plate down in front of him. Some of the gravy slopped over the side of the plate. He looked up at her sheepishly. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded and walked away.

The food sure looked good. The potatoes were real, and there were still small chunks left after an intentionally inefficient mashing. The meat loaf smelled heavily of garlic and Worcestershire sauce. Graham unwrapped his flatware, put the napkin on his lap, took his fork and dug in.

“How is it?” asked Large Richard.

“Needs pepper,” Graham said.

“Damn right,” Crandall said, and all four of the men laughed.

***

Graham hung out at The Meal Worm for a good hour and a half. He didn’t have to eat that piece of chocolate cream pie, but he did. The coffee would probably keep him up later than was good for him, but it was strong and dark, and Graham felt an insane need to keep up with Crandall. He had no idea where the man put all that coffee. He decided Crandall had a hollow leg.

He bade a good night to the men at the counter and went back to the cruiser. Night was coming on, and he had his parking lights on as he drove.

“Station, this is Sheriff Strahan,” he said into his handset. “Any messages for me? Over.”

“Strahan, this is Station,” Tamara answered. “If there had been I would have texted you. Over.”

“Right, right,” Graham said. “Well, that being the case, I’m gonna call it a night. Call me if you need me. Over.”

“Roger that, Sheriff. Say hey to Shelley for me. Over and out.”

How did she know I was going to the Nine Back?
he wondered. Never mind. He knew how she knew. Love is predictable.

Love?
When did that happen?

He shook the thought away and drove home.

***

Graham lived in an upstairs apartment downtown, in a building some would label “historic,” close to the Station. He had only what he needed, and didn’t cotton much to extraneous possessions. There wasn’t even any art on the walls; there were diplomas and commendations, hung and framed, but no pictures of anything or anyone. He did splurge on the TV, though. It was huge, and his surround system was monstrous. After all, his brother owned a video store. Free rentals were a perk.

Someday, he would have to invite Shelly back here. They had only been dating four months, even though she had shown interest far before that. No one had been in his apartment, ever, except him. If anyone had asked Graham if he had been lonely, he would have looked at them, quizzically, and come up with a glib answer. Since Shelly, though, he would have had a surer, direct answer.

He shaved in the sink, applied some deodorant that didn’t smell like posies, and put on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. He should have put his shirt on before he put his deodorant on. The shirt, of course, scuffed his pits. With a wet cloth, he managed to get some white powder streaks on the hem of the shirt. How do you wash off something designed to resist moisture? Good thing it was dark in the bar.

He drove there in his personal vehicle. It wasn’t always a good thing to see a police car in the parking lot of a bar, on a weeknight, when there wasn’t a fight going on. The last thing Graham needed was tongues wagging about how the Sheriff’s a drunk and blah blah blah. Small town politics were based on small town rumors.

Terry was on front desk duty at the Highlander Resort. Graham went in through the lobby. He wasn’t trying to keep his visit a secret. After all, it seemed like everyone knew he was dating the bartender. Still though, the more attention he could keep on Sheriff Strahan as opposed to Personal Graham, the better.

“Hey, Sheriff!” Terry called. “Is there a problem?”

“Nope,” Graham said. “Just came in to unwind after work.”

“I’m sure it helps that your lady friend is working tonight,” Terry cooed.

Graham smirked and headed towards the bar. “Doesn’t hurt,” he called over his shoulder.

As usual, the Nine Back was stylishly dark. Televisions showed sporting events with the sound muted and Shelly had the local station, WREK, playing full tilt boogie behind the bar. The station had no real format, and one never knew what they would play next. At that moment, it was “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” by the Buzzcocks.

He sidled up to the bar and sat on one of the wide, black padded stools. Shelly was waiting on some patrons sitting at tables. The place was dark for a reason, and Graham felt sure there was more no-tell at this hotel than he wanted to know.

When she came back behind the bar, she slapped a cocktail napkin down in front of him. It was an autopilot move. “What can I get you?” she said, without looking at him.

“How about a cold beer for a workin’ man?” Graham asked.

She looked up and grinned, her eyes suddenly the brightest thing in the room. “Hi, you!” she said. “You know I love it when you get all Stone Cold on me.”

“Hell, yeah,” Graham said.

“The usual?” she asked, mug already in hand.

Graham nodded. “You know what I like.”

“I do, I do!” she said, and she drew Graham a pint of the darkest beer on tap.

“Salt?” Graham asked, and Shelly produced a shaker from under the bar. Graham put some on his napkin to keep the mug from sticking together. She put his beer down on the salted square and turned around to fix drinks for her patrons.

“How’s it going tonight?” Graham asked.

Shelly made a noncommittal sound. “Not bad, not great. It’s a Wednesday. Not much going on. Just a few people pretending to work late, nudge nudge, wink wink.”

“Say no more,” Graham said, acknowledging this private information with a nod.

“Speaking of,” she said, motioning her head towards the main section of the bar, “I got drinks to make.”

“Take your time,” Graham said. “I got nowhere to be.”

“Mixologist” was a stupid word, in Graham’s opinion, but watching Shelly Powell make drinks was nothing short of magic to a beer drinker like Graham. She used both hands, icing and mixing in perfect proportions. Margarita glasses were perfectly rimmed with salt. There was just the right sized dollop of grenadine in the Tequila Sunrise. When she was finished, Graham wished he would have timed her. He was sure she pulled that order off in less than ninety seconds. Shelly had them on the cork tray and out to her customers just seconds after that.

“I do love watching you work,” Graham said when she returned.

“Is it my work you love watching, or is it something else?” she asked. There it was again. Graham blushed. Shelly saw the red flush rising up into his ears and giggled.

“You’re so easy,” she said. Graham could do nothing but nod.

Shelly ran a credit card through the terminal to start a tab for her newest table. “So what’s on your mind, Sheriff?” she asked.

That was a loaded question, for sure, but Graham wasn’t about to head down that conversational road.

“I was wondering what time you got off work tonight,” he said.

“Actually,” she said, “in about an hour. Gina’s coming in to close it up. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” Graham said. “Thought maybe we could go get a drink.”

Shelly cocked an eyebrow. “You’re asking a bartender if she wants to go to a bar? Come on. You’re going to have to be a little more imaginative than that.”

“All right, then,” he said. “How does dinner sound? Italian. We’ll drive out to Bell Plains. Go somewhere nice. Or at least decent, seeing as how I’m dressed. I’m not much for fancy.”

Shelly grinned. “Sounds good. Want another beer while you’re waiting?”

“I’ll not say no,” Graham said. She poured him another one, expertly, with zero foam, and went out to the floor to check on her tables.

That was smooth,
Graham thought.
You’ve been dating four months and you still stammer when you ask her out to dinner? What the fuck is wrong with you?

But he was afraid he already knew the answer to that question, and his nose bristled with the remembered scents of blood and cordite. He sipped his beer and hummed along with the radio to clear his mind. The song was “Up Against the Wall, You Redneck Mothers” by Jerry Jeff Walker, and it cheered Graham right up.

Before he realized it, Gina was there to relieve Shelly. He heard them talking shop behind the counter.

“Slow night, girl,” Shelly said. “Hope it picks up for you.”

“I don’t,” Gina replied. “I am PMS’ing hard. I’ll probably end up spending my tips on Screwdrivers.”