Chapter One

The Loaner

A shaving kit tucked under his left arm, the tall, slender figure used the back of his right hand to gently stroke each pale, smooth cheek, the stout scent of recently applied aftershave permeating the darkened hallway.

He paused an already casual stride upon approaching a certain office on the left, the door ajar and light plumes of smoke drifting out from its well-lit interior. A quick glance at the cheap Timex adorning his right wrist confirmed it was just after five PM, normally a safe reading if one were trying to avoid a certain superior. A ritual for at least the past six months, he’d arrived around four to get in a quick workout in the department’s upstairs gym before showering and shaving with time to spare for evening shift roll call. He was suddenly regretting the inexplicable decision to bypass the shortcut through the Property and Records offices and instead strolling past the admin section.

“That you, Patterson?” a familiar, gravelly voice inquired from the smoke-engulfed space, this as he’d attempted to stroll by at a noticeably brisker pace.

“Yes, sir.”

The response sounded as upbeat as he could manage but was layered in insincerity. A necessary evil, unfortunately. Part of the job. A job he soon hoped would be nothing more than a dim blip on his resume. The biggest, and perhaps lone, positive of working a full year of either the evening or graveyard shift—he’d switched from the latter to the former nearly a year ago—was avoiding regular facetime with those better avoided, said luck having just expired.

It wasn’t so much the high sheriff’s perpetual, jowly grin—showcasing oversized choppers stained yellow through decades of burnt coffee and cheap cigarettes—that the young deputy viewed with a gut-turning twist of disgust as the older man’s overall deportment. The disheveled uniform, usually dotted with either ancient food or tobacco stains, the spare-tire gut that threatened to pop the buttons from a comically stretched shirt, the triple-chin—usually unshaven—and haphazardly tied boots whose last shine was whatever year they’d been purchased and first worn. Thrice elected since his days as a jailer south of Birmingham, Sheriff Jim Bagby was a slob, but worse, he was a mean, spiteful fraud. An egotistical blowhard with a badge and gun and seemingly infinite power within the county.

“Hopin’ I’d see you before you had a chance to head out on patrol. Come on in for a sec, boy.”

Deputy William Patterson’s narrow shoulders instantly slumped. Being referred to in such a demeaning, disrespectful manner was no innocent, good ol’ boy hand pumping, despite the wide grin and cheerful tone from which it derived. Years of being on the receiving end made that even more obvious. Still, the younger man by at least three decades always managed to take it in his stride, as was his only option in terms of subtle retaliation. Kill ‘em with kindness wasn’t always an easy mantra to follow, but danged if it wasn’t usually the best.

“Sure enough, boss. What’s up?”

He stood before his superior’s wide oak desk with the shaving kit tucked against his left thigh, his right hand tucked behind his back at parade rest. Old habits die hard. The stink of filtered Kent’s instantly packing both nostrils, Bill suddenly wished he slapped on an extra layer of Old Spice.

“Forget what you heard in roll call. I’m gonna need you to step off regular patrol and head on down to some…familiar territory for the evenin’.”

The deputy’s right brow arched inquisitively even as his gut clenched.

“Where might that be, boss?” he asked calmly, while watching Bagby pull a crumpled pack of smokes from his left front pocket, the badge above its narrow opening hanging slightly askew.

“As you may or may not know, it’s a special night in your hometown, commencin’…” the older man paused, shooting a quick glance at the gold watch curled around his chubby right wrist, “…pretty much as we stand here jawin’.”

Matching his superior’s slightly tilted head, the older man pausing to ignite the tip of the cigarette pursed between sluglike lips, young Deputy Patterson’s pale forehead knotted with obvious befuddlement.

“May twenty-third?” Bagby continued before contorting his mouth to allow an initial spiral of smoke its freedom.

“Sorry, ugh, boss, I don’t, um,” the deputy stuttered, backing slightly to avoid the fresh, drifting onslaught. That’s it, Billy-boy. Do what comes naturally and play stupid. You’ve made acting dumb an art form. Currently my only viable defense.

The older man’s mask of fraudulent politeness temporarily faded.

“Think about it, boy. Late May. That is, June and its promise of the summer heat just over the rise.”

Patterson shrugged despite a burning curiosity and worse, stark fear, though thoroughly enjoying the pompous slob’s building frustration. Obvious answer aside, Bagby wasn’t having nearly as much fun with it as he’d hoped.

“Graduation night, son. Baymont High is set to release yet another alliance of youthful idiots on an unsuspecting public. Denton and St. James High as well.”

The deputy nodded knowingly, lipping a tight smile.

“Late May, right. So, you figure more trouble from the Baymont crowd than the Denton?”

“Less bodies but from what I hear, a few more rough edges. You know that whole canal debacle.

“You flipped a tassel atop those same grounds what, eight, nine years back?”

Usually careful to keep their conversations to the bare minimum, Patterson couldn’t help but briefly wax poetic.

“Ten. Seems like a lifetime, considering what’s came between then and now.”

“Uh-huh. So, here’s the plan…” Bagby mumbled sourly, no longer even remotely interested in his subordinate’s potential follow-up to such an open-ended remark, “…gonna need you to head on down to our southern neighbor’s home turf and provide some much-needed adult supervision. Seems as though the Denton County boys have a stomach-flu thing going around and are asking for our assistance.”

The deputy felt the gradual tightening of his belly mutate ten-fold, his palms instantly birthing a slick coating.

“Is that…something we normally do? I mean, how about Graham County SO or Clay County?”

Bagby jutted his jaw, his squinty, reptilian stare barely visible through a thick veil of rising smoke.

“Just so happens Sheriff Chambers reached out for the extra hands and asked me specifically. I owe him and the Denton boys big time from the flood a few years back. Thing is, I know my…predecessor wasn’t big on lending a helping hand and as such, Crawford County isn’t exactly a favorite at the Capital or with the ABI office. I hope to gradually change that, starting tonight.”

The conversation briefly lagged, as Patterson strained and struggled to drudge up a rebuttal that didn’t sound like the weak-kneed excuse it truly was.

“Why the hesitation, Bill?”

“Sir?”

Chubby cheeks lifted, narrow eyes twinkled.

“It’s just that, well, that expression hints at a barely refrained discontent.”

Clearing his throat to avoid an involuntary voice-cracking, Patterson nonetheless averted his eyes briefly towards the thinly carpeted floor. While instinct begged he stomp his feet, grit his teeth and growl adamant disapproval, he instead allowed for a deep inhale and exhale before responding with eyes again locked firmly with his superior’s.

“No, sir, no problems,” he shrugged, “Glad to help.”

Bagby appeared to tense up before straightening his bulk within the soft but worn leather folds of the aged recliner.

“Good to hear it, Bill. So, you visit the old stomping grounds very often?”

For whatever reason, the younger man spoke the truth, despite knowing it would most likely birth additional jabs.

“Can’t say that I’ve made a habit of it. Haven’t trekked that way since, well, before ‘Nam. Fall of seventy-one or thereabouts.”

The older man’s eyes briefly bugged in what appeared to be sincere surprise.

“That a fact? Mind if I ask why?”

“No big mystery,” came the reply, this time not nearly as honest, “Spent the first nineteen years of my life there. That was plenty. There were also some family matters I was happy to put in the rearview mirror.”

“Got’cha. But dang, son, it’s only twenty or twenty-five miles. Seems just by accident ya might seek to pass through every now or then.”

A more dramatic shrug with eye contact firmly intact.

“Well, alright then. Hop on over there and meet up with Jay on the plan. Check in with Brenda every now and again on the squawk-box.”

Brenda Watson was the station’s night dispatcher. Thirty or more years on the job, her very presence was as fixed, steady, and reliable as the Alabama heat and humidity soon to bear down.

“Will do, boss,” Patterson nodded stiffly and began to turn.

“One thing, Bill,” his superior added in parting, “This ain’t about reminiscing, swappin’ school tales over a cold one or attending pep-rallies, ya hear? You see trouble, deal with it as you’re paid to do.”

Half-turned, Patterson forced a grin and accompanying snicker, despite a strong urge to plant a boot-tip dead center at the leering bumpkin’s prominent breadbasket.

“You’ve got my word, boss,” he said, flashing the textbook Boy-Scout salute, “I’ll politely decline any such invites.”

Turning on a heel—a textbook about-face—he heard Bagby’s open scoff. In the half-dozen or so such face-to-face conversations with the county’s top dog law enforcement officer since his hiring four years earlier, the aura of resentment aimed Patterson’s way had never abated and obviously held no apparent expiration date. Bagby had a rep of favoring those who licked his boots, a trait Patterson had always found repugnant. Simply doing one’s job and doing it well did not suffice in being invited to dine at the high sheriff’s trough. Not that acquiring such a hollow stature had ever tempted or enticed the former Army infantryman, war vet and purple heart recipient. The fact was, he’d purposely gone out of his way to avoid becoming just another of the sheriff’s good old boy badges, the majority of which seemed to require permission to take a leak.

“Pep-rallies and cold beer,” the scowling deputy mumbled to himself, having departed the Crawford County Sheriff’s Office’s two-story brick headquarters for his assigned blue and gray Plymouth Fury.

“What a putz.”

Still, as he departed the pot-hole ravaged parking lot for a mostly docile main street, to the sound of Donna Summer’s smooth, silky voice crooning of ‘Hot Stuff’, Deputy William Patterson felt a swarming of fresh butterflies’ flutter at his midsection with a fury he hadn’t felt since facing live fire in some faraway east Asia rice field.