It had been only early morning when the attack occurred; the fog had deceivingly enhanced the twilight. The sun was just beginning to rise between karsts of scrap metal when the racing-striped station wagon made a quick stop by the junkyard. Nate jumped out of the car and climbed the shivery stairs of the watchtower, three steps at a time, and banged the door on top.
Andy, staying at the wheel with the engine running, saw him a minute later returning downstairs, with Captain Al hurrying behind—the latter only wearing what seemed like a bathrobe, and hopefully underpants beneath, and striding barefooted through the aluminum-littered grounds.
“See, here he comes,” she reported to Kerri. “Captain’s in charge now, like he used to be.”
Kerri had not uttered a single sound since they’d propped her on the front seat. Tim just didn’t know what to do to earn her attention.
Andy watched the rearview mirror as Nate opened the trunk, where they had dumped the skull-torn corpse of the wheezer after wrapping it in a tarpaulin. When he slammed the trunk closed, Captain Al was transfigured, his hangover banished from existence.
“Police station,” he ordered, going for the door to get in the backseat.
“We never got the cops involved so soon before,” Nate said.
“You never blew anyone’s head off before.”
—
Rumors abounded on the life of Blyton Hills’ deputy sheriff, Sam Copperseed, before he joined the Pennaquick County Police in 1964. He was known to be a Walla Walla Indian, raised in a traditional community in northeastern Oregon, and his first uniform had been the black-and-green one of the forest rangers, until the realization that human carelessness was the biggest threat to the environment compelled him to switch to an outfit that allowed him to arrest idiots. This motivation behind his enrollment determined the type of policeman he’d become. As assistant to Deputy Sheriff Wilson, and in contrast with the latter’s warm, cordial, first-name-basis approach to law enforcement, Copperseed cultivated the persona of the cooler, stricter cop whose zeal for law abidance could not be placated by an appeal to old friendship or the memory of a shared childhood. It was even historically plausible that Wilson and he had consciously assigned themselves these roles, and Copperseed was fine with his, certain that never being the public’s favorite was no hindrance to becoming its finest. Copperseed had been, in fact, one of the reasons the Blyton Summer Detective Club, back in its heyday, always hesitated to bring their cases to the attention of the police, for fear that the friendly Deputy Wilson would be out on patrol and they would have to share their childish suspicions with then officer Copperseed, whom they never managed to impress.
But this time Andy was confident in their success. The minute she and Captain Al and Tim climbed up the steps of the humble police station, crossed the empty reception room, barged into the new deputy’s office, and unrolled the tarpaulin wrap on the floor, exposing the decapitated nightmare within, she knew she had hit a new milestone in her career of jaw-dropping walk-ins.
Copperseed, albeit on guard, stayed behind his desk through the whole performance, only leaning over to decipher the abomination on the floor once unveiled, a hand sheltering his nose from the insulting smell. Andy could read in his grimace how hard it was to, first, make heads or tails of the whole mess and guess where the head in particular would have been, and then, at a later stage, to reconcile oneself with the notion of such a monstrosity ever existing on God’s green earth.
Once he looked up at the fully dressed woman and the half-naked man and the blue-gray Weimaraner, however, he seemed to have sketched out a considerably accurate picture of the situation.
He sat back on his chair and proclaimed: “See? This is why I never drink tap water.”
Andy smiled: she was able to identify with his tough-guy underreaction.
Copperseed picked up his phone and dialed. “Morning. Deputy Sheriff Copperseed, Blyton Hills. I’ve got a four-one-nine-Charlie. We will need a forensics team and possibly a consulting biologist.”
Andy jumped in: “Hey, I have a biologist right out—”
Al just needed to touch her arm.
“Yes,” Copperseed continued on the phone. “Yes, from State. Possibly. Thank you.”
He hung up and faced the captain.
“Al. Good to see you.”
“Deputy,” Al replied, smoothing his bathrobe.
Copperseed addressed Andy. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
It took her two minutes and forty-seven seconds to retell the events. She never faltered once. She was good at reporting to authorities; the fact that this time she was sure to be innocent of any charge just made it easier. As did the fact that Copperseed was starting to look like the kind of cop she would have chosen to handle this situation. Copperseed had always struck her as a sort of sulky patrolman who couldn’t find his place in always-friendly Blyton Hills. But in thirteen years, Blyton Hills had degenerated into a town that needed less of a Carl Winslow police type and more of a Dirty Harry. And 1990 Deputy Copperseed’s weathered skin and dry smirk could more than pass for Clint Eastwood grit.
After he finished up his notes, Copperseed asked, “Are you still staying at Mrs. Shannon’s house?”
That caught Andy by surprise. She hadn’t even thought that the deputy would have recognized her after thirteen years, linked her with Kerri, or remembered Aunt Margo’s married name.
“Yes.”
“How is Mrs. Shannon?”
“Fine,” Andy answered. “I’ll send her your best.”
Copperseed nodded, then returned his attention to the blatant profanity on the floor.
“Will you please help me carry this to the freezer?”
—
About ten minutes later, Andy and Captain Al stepped out onto the porch of the redbrick police building. Rain ran down the dirty sign with the county coat of arms.
“What are you kids gonna do now?” Al asked.
“We’ll go home,” Andy said, and sighed. The idea that she would have to try to sleep again at some point in her life stressed her out.
She glanced over at Al. White chest hair rippled under his bathrobe.
“Do you need a lift?”
“No, I’m gonna go back in, talk to Copperseed. I’m sure he’ll give me a ride later.”
Andy gazed at the Chevy Vega parked down the stairs. It did not look at all like a sports car, she was realizing now.
“I think I broke Kerri,” she said.
“Go fix her,” Al commanded, unfazed. “We’ve got enough broken parts.”
—
Kerri did not utter a word on the ride home. Nor did she seem to notice anything around her, although they drove by several corners of Blyton Hills whose transformation deserved commentary. Andy was so focused on her, she almost hit two pedestrians in a five-minute trip.
As she stopped at the last light before Kerri’s street, she turned to her and spoke the first words since the police station.
“Kerri. I just want you to tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” Kerri obeyed, lost in the dashboard. Her fingers idly rubbed Tim’s head. Nate sat behind, gnawing at his nails.
When they pulled over in front of Aunt Margo’s house, they had to help Kerri out of the car. The keys jingled in her hand.
“Let me,” Andy said.
She noticed Kerri pressing harder on her biceps as she unlocked the front door.