After the End: Survival (11 page)

"If you can fill a size two, you're in," Jay muttered.

"I'm sure you won't have any problem," Pete said. "Can I get you a refill?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Well, nice meeting you. I'm gonna circulate for a while."

"Nice meeting you."

He walked over to the table where most of the law enforcement personnel sat. Some things don't change, Pete decided. Law enforcement did not mix with other departments. On the other hand, cops and medical people had something in common dealing directly with the sick, injured and deranged. Pete knew that while he would never be fully accepted, he would be tolerated. He waved to Chief Westlake, seated at the head of the table. Rob waved back and continued conversing with those seated around him. Pete walked up to David Rodriguez, who was listening to a River Road deputy.

"So this dumb shit says to me, ‘I'm not drunk!’ and I say, ‘You're not? So tell me how many cars you see over there,’ and I'm pointing to my vehicle and it's the only one around. ‘One,’ he says. ‘Nope,’ I say, ‘There's three of 'em there.’ ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘Guess I am drunk.’ ‘Fraid I'm gonna have to take you in for tonight,’ I say. ‘Let's get in the car that's closest.’ And he follows me like a little lamb!"

Pete and David smile appreciatively, David shaking his head.

"Hey, Pete, have a seat." Glancing at Pete's waist. "Damn, I lost."

"Say what?"

"Yolanda bet me a dollar you'd be wearing a belt tonight. I said no way."

"I've only met her once."

"She reads people pretty good." He paused, "I took a nice hike with your buddy James Snyder today."

"Find anything?"

"Maybe." David took a swallow of beer.

"Hey, I'll see you boys later," said the River Road deputy, rising, noting the noisy arrival of a contingent of prostitutes from Mona's.

"Later," said David. "OK, so James has some dogs, right?"

"Yeah, I met them," said Pete, warily.

"Naw, not those two. He's got some others, bird dogs, keeps them caged up. Those dogs have some good sniffers. We took them out to where we found the girl and had them smell her clothes. Ol’ James says, ‘Find!’ and those hound dogs take off like they were on fire. Run along a bluff just south of the lake, heading east. They stop at Washington Street, you know where it dips down at that canyon?"

Pete nodded.

"Well it looks like our man had a couple of horses tied up there. We were able to follow the hoof prints east across Snyder's property. They ended at a real busy horse trail that runs north and south and we lost 'em."

Both men were silent for a moment.

"Get any fingerprints off the beer jar?"

"Yeah. Got some good one's. Doesn’t do us any good, though. They don't match anything we’ve got on file. Maybe we'll come up with some others later on."

"You're thinking he's going to do it again?"

"What's to stop him?"

"Hey, fellah, you owe me a dollar." It was Yolanda, holding her palm out to David.

"Can't I take it out in trade?"

"Works the other way around, big boy. Hello Pete, how are you?"

"Just fine, Yolanda. David had me put this belt on not three minutes ago.”

"Liar. David isn't smart enough to bring an extra belt. Pete you need to try some of those pork ribs over there. I had some and they just about melt in your mouth."

"Ain't as good as your ribs, baby," said David, loyally.

"Thank you, honey, but you still owe me a dollar. Pete, you want to join us?"

"Thanks, Yolanda, but I need to walk around here a little bit and visit some."

"OK. We'll see you later."

Pete started across the room to get another beer. Several couples were dancing.

"Hello, Pete, good to see you." Brenda Farley, the mayor's right hand woman. Smiling as she touched his shoulder.

The woman was drop dead gorgeous, knew it, but always acted like it didn't matter.

"Hi, Brenda. You look just beautiful." Pete couldn't help it. It was like somebody squeezed it out of him.

"Thank you. Pete, when you get a chance, could you stop and talk with the mayor for a moment? It's about the girl they found near Canyon."

Pete glanced over to the mayor's table. The mayor was seated at the head, staring impassively while listening to Bruce Holman, of Holman's Wholesome Foods. The grocer was standing at the mayor's side, speaking earnestly and gesturing with both hands.

"Looks like he's busy. I'll grab a beer and head over in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Pete." Touching his elbow and smiling as she walked away.

That woman can touch your elbow better than anyone else I know, he thought. Walking over to the bar, he got another drink and then went over to the buffet and began loading his plate. Ribs, potato salad, corn on the cob, coleslaw, cheese and thick slices of bread. He passed up the carrots, cauliflower and broccoli, figuring he'd save room for the apple pie later on. The mayor was sitting alone, surveying the room behind half closed eyes. Looking like a hawk, perched on the top of a telephone pole, motionless, but aware of everything.

Pete walked over toward Mayor Jerry Blakely. Most everyone had a strong opinion of the man. Be it fear, envy, greed or distaste, people's demeanor changed in his presence; most became nervously chatty. Pete didn't give a shit. Having lost everything he loved, he'd lost his fear of everything, of failure and of death. Dealing with a powerful man was small potatoes.

"Sit down, Pete. Eat before it gets cold." The mayor gestured to the chair on his left. Sitting, Pete commenced to dig in. It was several minutes before he wiped his mouth on a napkin and took a swallow of beer.

"Excellent ribs," Pete commented.

"They are good, aren't they? Clay Hendricks is quite a hunter. Claims to be able to call feral hogs to within thirty feet. He assures me his animals are free of trichinosis."

Pete looked down at the remains of pork on his plate.

"That's good news," he said. "I see they've been well cooked, besides."

"Yes," said the mayor, with a slight smile. "Helps eliminate the need for trust, doesn't it? Pete, tell me what you've been able to find out about the murdered girl."

"OK. But I'm curious about something. I spoke to Sheriff Westlake this afternoon. Given his resources, wouldn't he have a more complete report?"

Blakely nodded, his eyes never leaving the whirl of people in the crowded ballroom.

"The ultimate insult to any civilization is the perception your children are not safe. Whether it's environmental, sociological, or," he turned his head and looked directly at Pete, "that your children are starving, sick from disease, or are in physical danger.

"Someone is killing our children. A community cannot tolerate this and remain viable. I have plans for this area. To achieve these goals I need the support of the people. If the community feels vulnerable, I will not have their support.

"Now you understand better why apprehending those responsible is so important.”

"As to why I want information directly from you and not second hand.

"Rob Westlake and I go back several years together. He is very good at what he does, given the limitations imposed by circumstances. He is very much a law and order man. He wants to do things by the book.

"I am also a believer in law and order. But I am a bit more," he paused, searching for the right word, "pragmatic, in how that end might be achieved.

"I want the bastard who did this. I don't need to know about his deprived childhood, his learning disabilities, or hearing theories of how bed wetting affects the decision making process.

"I want him dead. If you'd like, think of him as a malignancy. To save the patient the cancer must be removed.

"Many think of me as cold, emotionless, and ruthlessly efficient. I am all those things. So are you, Pete. Underneath your polite exterior is a block of ice. I need that cold objectivity to help eliminate this threat. Not everyone has what you've got. I need it to help the community. In addition, Sheriff Westlake tells me you are observant and tenacious. Now please tell me what you've discovered today."

Pete took another sip of beer and then quickly recounted the events of the past three days. The mayor listened in silence until Pete was finished speaking.

"You'll need to question the dead girl's friend. Kim? She'll be here tonight, if she's not here already. I'll leave word with Mona to insure cooperation. Keep me posted. I appreciate your time."

Pete understood this to be a dismissal and he stood, carrying his plate and glass to the table shared by Dr. Flood. Leaving his food there, he walked to the bar, tipping back a shot of raw whiskey before returning to his table. He felt like he's swallowed a hot coal. That old familiar feeling, he thought.

"Why is it," Jay Flood was asking, "this shit-kicker music is starting to sound good?" A fair rendition of "All My Ex's Live in Texas" had brought a few more dancers to the floor.

"Have you checked the bottoms of your shoes lately?" Pete asked.

"Hah. Need some rock 'n roll." Jay staggered to his feet, walking unsteadily to the bandstand. Pete turned to Jay's spouse.

"So, Paula. What's the chance of my earning a bachelor's degree in the near future?"

"Well, we might be looking at that down the road, Pete, but right now we’re concentrating on the three Rs." Paula went on for several minutes, describing the goals and obstacles confronting the school board. As she talked, Pete's mind returned to the mayor's words. The inference that he was lacking emotionally bothered him. Well, if it bothers you, then there may be some truth to it. But you'd need emotion for it to bother you. Therefore, if...

"Planet Earth, calling Pete Wilson. Come in Pete, we're losing contact." Jay Flood had returned, and was talking, megaphone like, through a rolled up piece of paper.

Pete turned to Paula.

"Sorry. I got distracted."

She smiled her forgiveness. The music stopped, and then picked up again. It was a Car's tune, "You Might Think."

"Yeess!" Jay Flood practically yanked Paula out of her chair.

"Pete, you and Judy need to dance!" said Paula, over her shoulder.

Damn! She knows I don't dance. He turned to the new nurse, who was looking at him expectantly. Ah, what the hell.

"Uh, Judy, I don't really dance, but I was wondering if you might accompany me to the dance floor." Oh yeah, he thought. Mr. Smoothie.

"Why certainly," she said, standing. She was short, medium build.

Together they went to the center of the room and joined a growing crowd in front of the band. Judy smiled, and then began moving in time with the music, her movements fluid and natural. Pete sort of shuffled around for a few seconds, feeling himself slide into a sort of euphoria. Hey, this is good music. And his hands moved into position, as though he were playing a guitar. His fingers ran up and down the neck of his imaginary instrument, perfectly coordinated with the movements of the lead guitarist on the bandstand. His feet moved, his body swayed, but his energy remained focused on his . . . guitar. And when the song ended, he was on his knees, back arched, face pointing towards the ceiling.

"Damn, Pete. You're making those boys on the stage jealous."

It was Jay Flood, staring down at him and grinning.

"Some of us got it, some of us don't." Pete got to his feet. "Thanks for the dance, Judy." Taking her hand, walking her back to the table. He went to the bar, put down another shot, and sauntered over to Mona Simmons’ table. Mid-forties, large breasted, low cut dress. Mona didn't play the role of whore house madam; she lived it. As Pete came nearer, a mini-skirted young woman sitting at the table saw him.

"Dr. Pete!" she cried, swiveling on her chair and raising her bare foot towards him. "Look! My toe's all better!"

Pete turned to examine the proffered extremity. Let's see, he thought. The foot bone's connected to the . . . shin bone. The shin bone's connected to the . . . thigh bone. The thigh bone's connected to the . . .

He forced his eyes to stop their upward progression and returned his attention to the left big toe.

"Ah yes. Ingrown toe nail. Looks much improved. No inflammation. I believe you're cured."

"Oh thank you, doctor," she said, holding her clasped hands to her chest. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?" Fluttering her eyelids.

"Your continued good health is all I require." This brought several groans from the group of females. Their attire varied from tight jeans and tank tops to evening dresses and mini-skirts.

Altogether a pretty good looking bunch, he decided.

"Pete, sit down over here and don't let these girls bother you." Mona Simmons patted the empty chair to her side. Pete ambled over and sat down.

"I understand you wanted to talk to me," she said, turning toward him, her ample breasts resting against his upper arm, her hand resting against his thigh.

"Yeah, well, Mona, I do, but you're making it really hard for me to concentrate."

She laughed, tipping her head back and slapping her hand on the table. "OK Pete, I'll go easy on you this time. What can I do for you?" Moving back, she gave him about two inches of personal space.

"Guess you know I'm working with the Sheriff's department on the girl that was killed earlier this week."

Her smile faded, and she nodded.

"Her name was Susan Shupe. One of your girls was a friend of hers. Kim?"

Mona nodded. "Kim's working over tonight, she should be here soon."

"What's she like."

Mona shrugged. "She's just been with us a couple of months. Laid back, likes to smoke her dope, really no problem at all. She just goes with the flow. No complaints from the customers."

Mona had her arms crossed, resting on the table, breasts resting on the tops of her arms. As she talked, she casually scanned the room. If Jerry Blakely is a hawk, Pete decided, Mona is a coyote sitting on a hill. Scratching occasionally, relaxed, but always aware of her surroundings. Infinitely adaptable.

"Here she is," Mona said suddenly, nodding towards the entrance. Pete saw four young women enter, accompanied by a lean, muscular man wearing a black tank top. He spotted Mona and herded the women toward the table.