Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1 (5 page)

9

Near Saulsbury’s southern town line we have a throwback general store, The Barn. A huge structure shaped like an old dairy barn. A long porch along the front, lined with Uncle Danny’s rocking chairs. The place sells a little of everything. Lumber and hardware. Guns and ammo. Clothing and footwear. In the front left corner of the building there’s a restaurant, aptly named The Feedlot. Byron Holt and his family run the place with very little outside help. The restaurant alone makes a killing off of campground guests.

The parking lot was packed when I pulled in. Saturday evening on a holiday weekend. I found a spot around the back. Parked and sat there. Trying to decide if I was hungry enough to deal with the crowd. My stomach wanted food, but the rest of me was recoiling from the horde. I knew everyone would be staring at me. Plenty of people would want to talk about what happened. All I wanted was some dinner and some peace and quiet.

I got out my phone and brought up the local news site. Searched around the old articles regarding Lucy Kurtz. There was nothing new, aside from a brief overview piece stating that authorities reported having no new suspects or leads.

“Great work,” I muttered.

Frank came up between the seats and whined softly. He knew exactly where we were. Even the parking lot smelled wonderful.

I said, “Everyone has pretty much forgotten Lucy.”

He licked his chops.

“Are they all inept? Or are they all just callous?”

There’s no evidence
.

Frank sighed heavily. Wondering why I was sitting there when I should be going in to get us some grub.

“Relax,” I told him. “We won’t starve.”

He groaned sadly and withdrew to his pile of blankets. His bed on wheels.

“Good talk,” I said.

But in all seriousness, it really is nice talking to a dog when you’re in a bad mood. They’re not like people. They don’t disagree or try to talk you out of anything. They’re just with you. For you. For better or worse. No other relationship on earth can be compared.

I considered calling Laney Holt and asking her to bring something outside for me. But I let that idea go. Figured that would be rude. Especially considering how busy the place was.

Finally I willed myself to go inside. I met Edmond and Martha Brown by the door on their way out. An old couple from town. Old school folks who remembered when the town had less than five hundred residents.

“Don’t bother,” Ed grumbled. “Every asshole and their brother is in there.”

“It’s very crowded,” Martha clarified.

I said, “Thanks for the warning.”

They went off to their car. I went inside in spite of their warning. I could barely get in the door. Eight or ten people were waiting in the entry space for tables to clear out. The place was loud and buzzing. The hum of dozens of voices yapping at once were bouncing off the beams of the high ceiling. Somewhere a baby was crying.

Across the large room I locked eyes with Laney Holt. She was by the counter, waiting for an order to come up. She was dressed in jeans and a tank top with her Feedlot apron over the top. She inherited a Native American skin tone and jet black hair from her mother’s side of the family. Her black hair was pulled back. Her expression was somewhere between bright and miserable. Meaning that I could tell she wasn’t enjoying the crowd, but she was handling it rather well. She made her way up the side of the dining area toward the doorway.

I said, “Hey there, foxy lady.”

She said, “Everyone’s talking about you. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I answered.

“Good,” she said.

People were looking at us. At me. I could feel it. But I was able to pretty much ignore it with Laney before me. In my eyes, she practically had a glowing aura around her.

“We’re obviously mobbed,” she said next. “I’m guessing you won’t be staying.”

I nodded. Affirmative.

“I don’t blame you. This is nuts.”

“What’s cooking?”

Her face brightened somewhat.

“I made you lasagna.”

I said, “God, you’re beautiful.”

She said, “Shut up.”

We started down the side of the dining room, skirting the tables as we headed toward the counter and kitchen area. I made it about halfway before some guy skidded his chair back. Stood up and effectively blocked my path. He was maybe in his forties. A woman and a boy were with him at the table. He held his hand out with a goofy smile on his face.

“Excuse me. But I just had to say something.”

I shook his hand for the hell of it. His expression changed when he felt my glove rather than my hand. But he kept on shaking it all the same.

“Damn fine work today,” he said, and I could see food in his mouth. “You were cool as a cucumber.”

“Thanks.”

The guy looked at Laney, said, “Whatever he wants, it’s on me. His money’s no good here.”

She nodded and fake smiled. There was no point explaining that I rarely paid for my food anyway.

The guy looked back at me, smiling and chewing. He had buttermilk biscuit crumbs in his mustache. We were still holding hands. My patience was ticking down.

I said, “That’s not necessary. But thanks.”

“No, no, I insist,” he said. “A hero shouldn’t have to buy his own dinner. Not in my opinion.”

I pulled back firmly enough to finally get him to release my hand. He rocked a little but held his ground.

“Really,” I said. “No big deal.”

“No big deal?” He looked from me to Laney. “You saved that boy’s life, as far as I can tell.”

“That’s debatable.”

Laney looked a little confused but said nothing. She’s accustomed to my dry remarks.

“Ah, humility,” the guy said. “I get it now. Dependability
and
humility. Very admirable. We need more guys like you around.”

“Yeah, listen, I gotta go,” I told him.

“I get it, man. Fighting crime must work up a hell of an appetite.”

I said, “Sure.”

He thanked me again and slapped my shoulder before retaking his chair.

I really don’t enjoy being touched by strange people. Touched or breathed all over. Having my personal space invaded by close-talkers. But I let it go and started following Laney again.

People seated along the long counter were turning around to face us. I looked over to my left. The majority of the room was staring at me. I slowed to a stop. Felt like the room was closing in on me. Laney made it to the counter before she realized that I’d stopped again. She looked at me with a questioning expression. I started walking again. Built up some speed and brushed right by her. Went through the kitchen. Past the grill and some storage shelves, where Karla, Laney’s mom, was hard at work on something.

“Evan!” she said. “We heard the most amazing story about you.”

“Evening, Karla,” I said as I moved on past her to the heavy back door. Gave it a shove and it popped open wide. Stepped outside and took a long breath. The door thumped shut behind me. Aside from the kitchen’s exhaust fan, it was much quieter outside.

Laney popped out a few seconds behind me. Before the door closed again I could just hear Karla saying something. Laney was answering on her way out.

“I don’t know, Mom. He’s just being Evan, I guess.”

I turned around to face her.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“Seriously?”

“That man was just trying to be nice.”

“Sure, he’s nice. But he was talking with his mouth full. And he stepped between me and you. And between me and lasagna.”

“Okay, you’re being extra weird,” she said. “What exactly happened?”

“Nothing heroic. Frank knocked one guy down. Then I beat the hell out of the other one after Dad scared him shitless with a shotgun.”

“You should be in a great mood,” she said. “You stopped a tragedy
and
got into a fight. Isn’t that a great day to you?”

“The fight was sort of fun,” I admitted. “But the rest was a joke. That kid they were trying to take … I didn’t do him any favors. His mother is a drama queen POS. If anything I just made his life worse.”

“Maybe she was just upset. You know, a little stressed under the circumstances.”

“Maybe. But you weren’t there.”

“Okay, maybe she’s an evil witch.”

“Probably one of Miss Havisham’s disciples.”

“That’s all beside the point, Evan. You did your best to help under the circumstances. You did what most people wouldn’t dare to do.”

“Call me Batman from now on.”

“You stopped a kidnapping. To all these people you
do
look a little like Batman.”

I laughed. It really was absurd. I was like an entertainer for all these vacationers. My parents provide the land. I provide the action sequences.

“What’s the real problem?” Laney asked. She looked at me hard for a few seconds before guessing it. “Are you thinking about the little girl again?”

“Lucy Kurtz.”

“Evan, whatever that was, it wasn’t your fault. You’re not a guard on a military base. It’s a family campground.”

“That just makes it all the worse. And she is in fact still missing.”

We were quiet a moment. Laney looked tired. Tired from the hectic restaurant. Probably more tired of dealing with me. She just wanted to get the day over with. Get home and tend to her horses. Have a shower and crash.

“I’ll get going,” I said. “You’re swamped here.”

“How are your wolf books doing?” she asked.

I write fantasy stories about a family of seemingly average people who transform into wolves. They exist in secret, of course. As with real wolves, they always have someone out to harm them, so the pack is always on guard. I love wolves. Always have, for some reason. I wish I could be one. Evidently plenty of people share my sentiment. On good months I sell thousands of copies on America’s most popular retail website. My numbers might be a joke to Stephen King. But they’re not bad for someone like me.

“Evan,” Laney said. “I asked about your books. Are you back writing?”

“Not much lately,” I answered.

“You should try something different. Instead of making yourself miserable over Lucy, maybe you could put your energy into a different story. Anything, just to work out your frustrations.”

I said nothing.

“It’s just that you’re in a much better mood when your stories are going well. Almost like a different guy.”

I laughed quietly.

“I’m sorry but it’s true,” she said.

“So you think I should focus on fiction while a real kid gets brushed under the rug?”

“I think you should take better care of yourself.”

“Same end. Nothing changes.”

“You don’t have to give up hope.”

“Hope? Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Why is everyone so willing to let this kid go?”

Laney sighed. Looked away. I guess it wasn’t a fair question.

After a pause I said, “Sorry. It’s not your fault.”

She nodded, asked, “Have you talked to Danny?”

“He’s stumped and doesn’t want to admit it. Wants me to become a cop or else mind my business.”

Laney said nothing. But she was clearly thinking about something. I could see it on her face.

“You think I should?”

“Become a cop? No. It wouldn’t work. You’re way too independent.”

“We agree on something at least.”

“Now and then.”

I said, “Guess I should let you go. I’ll take my food and get out of your hair.”

“I am busy,” she admitted.

I lit a cigarette while Laney went inside to pack up my food. When she came back out a few minutes later I ditched the butt. My lasagna was in a hot tin bowl. There was soft white bread in a paper sleeve. There was a raw pound of steak wrapped in foil for Frank.

“Need some money for the steak?” I asked.

Laney’s parents will rarely take money from me or my parents. On account of all the business they get from campers. Our families have known one another for decades. But sometimes they have a hard time seeing how Frank fits into the equation.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.

I took the bag and hugged her with my other arm. She said that I smelled like smoke. I got in the van. Started it and put the window down. Laney was just standing there. Looking tired and concerned.

“I’m off tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe I’ll stop by. See how you’re doing.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “You know how Frank gets upset when you don’t visit.”

Laney smiled. “I’m sure he tosses and turns all night.”

She waved and disappeared through the kitchen door. I went off to find a quiet place to eat.