Month: February 2021

Mary Sweigart’s car sat in front of the apartment building. I parked ahead of her car, and Stan parked his pickup ahead of me. I got out but didn’t see Mrs. Sweigart anywhere and assumed she was inside.

Stan made his way around the truck to let Sammy out. A minute later, the two joined me.

I pointed to the building. “Well, this is the place.”

Stan smiled, but it seemed forced. The past few days had been rough on him, or so I figured.

Mrs. Sweigart came out of the apartment building and walked toward us. “Hello,” she said in a chipper voice, as though trying to make a sale. She didn’t really understand that Stan was already as sold on the place as he was going to get.

We walked toward her to save her the trip. As her eyes dropped down to Sammy, a brief flash of worry crossed her face. In only a moment, her smile returned and she extended her hand to Stan. “You must be Mr. Loffland, my new tenant.”

The old farmer shook her hand as politely as he could. “Yes, ma’am, if it’s not any trouble.” He tried to smile harder, and it showed.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” she said. “Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.” She paused while thinking about something. Turning back, she asked, “The apartment is on the second floor; is that alright?”

Stan seemed confused by the question before realizing what she meant. Was the old man able to get up and down the stairs? “Oh, that will be fine. I shouldn’t have any trouble.”

As we passed into the common area, Edna, the tenant I met on my previous visit, popped out of her door. “Is this the new fella?”

Mrs. Sweigart stopped and seemed flustered.

Fortunately, Mr. Loffland handled things. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Stan Loffland, but you can call me Stan if you like. And this here is Sammy.”

Edna smiled politely. “It’s very nice to meet both of you. I’m Edna Mallory. I live here.”

Stan tried smiling. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Mallory. Edna is a pretty name. My late missus was named Edna.”

Edna leaned toward Mrs. Sweigart and made an exaggerated whisper, “Hear that, Mary? He’s available.”

“Edna!” Mrs. Sweigart put her hand over her mouth and stared at Edna with wide eyes.

Stan’s eyes went a bit wide too, but he made a point of looking directly at the walls, ceiling, or any other place. The effort must have turned his cheeks bright red.

Edna turned toward Stan to finish. “Mary has had the hardest time since her Harold passed. I keep telling her she needs to find someone else.”

Stan’s facial redness flared further and his back went rigid.

That’s when Edna redirected her focus to me. “It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Hunt. I talked to the doctor like you said and they agreed that it was probably a mouse and I was going to be okay.”

I nodded my acknowledgement. “That’s good to hear, Edna.”

The eighty-something-year-old grinned as wide her face allowed. Then, rolling back into her apartment, she said, “You folks have a nice day, now.” The door closed and she was gone.

My elderly companions stood frozen to the spot. You used to read tales of witches who could say magic words and leave people paralyzed. I wondered if I just witnessed an example of that power. If so, I needed to learn it.

“So,” I said in an attempt to break the spell, “shall we go up to the apartment?”

They both sputtered a little and mumbled agreement. Mrs. Sweigart led the way.

The apartment consisted of a main room, a small kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Windows in the main room faced the street and the bedroom windows showed the fields out back. The kitchen came with a refrigerator and an electric stove. Beyond that, the place was bare except for carpet.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any furnished apartments,” Mrs. Sweigart said.

Stan nodded a little while looking around. “Oh, this will be fine. I can get some things to hold me over. I’m not sure how long I’ll need the place. Once I can get hold of my kids, I’ll be able to make better plans.”

Mrs. Sweigart held out the keys. “Here you go. I have to find where I put the rental contracts, but I’ll drop those off when I can. Timmy seems like a nice guy and he vouches for you, and the deputy seemed to think you were okay, so I’ll trust you.”

“I appreciate that,” said Stan as he took the keys. “I won’t be any trouble. And if there’s anything around her you need fixed or something, I’d be happy to take a look at it.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” She almost turned to leave but hesitated. “The deputy, he said that some drug people burned your house down. Do you think they may come here looking for you?”

Stan’s eyebrows rose and he looked into space in an attempt to find an answer. I don’t think he had given that any thought.

I decided to intervene. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sweigart. Those guys like out of the way places, like old farms, to set up their drug labs. Now that they think they’ve run him off, they don’t have any reason to bother Stan or Sammy. That part should be all over now.”

In truth, I was talking out my backside. It sounded reasonable, but I didn’t know anything about it. The jerks were prone to irrational behavior, like shooting at an old man and burning his house down. They may not be happy that he survived and they may be worried that he could be a witness if they ever went to trial. There was nothing we could do about that at the moment, but my babble seemed to relax everybody in the room. Hey, I could fake being relaxed.

With that settled, Mrs. Sweigart said her goodbyes and was on her way, leaving just the old man, his dog, and myself in the apartment.

“I have some extra furniture,” I said. “When my parents passed away, I sold the house and put everything in storage. You’re welcome to it.”

“We had a china hutch in the dining room.” Stan’s words were strained and he stared at the floor. “They said it came over from Germany when everyone immigrated. It had been in the family at least that long, and nobody can remember how long the family had it back in Baden.”

He slumped a little more and I could tell something emotional was going on. I wasn’t good with my own emotions, let alone other people’s, so I wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

He rubbed his nose with a curled forefinger. “I grew up in that house just like my dad did. His mother grew up there. We been in that house a long time.”

Now I could see a tear running down his cheek.

“I raised my own two kids there,” he continued. “All the things they made in school were in that house. The pictures. Those pictures are all I had left of my Edna. All of that is gone now.”

He stood, like a solid piece of stone slowly shaking apart in an earthquake. He was a tough guy who led a tough life, but now his world was coming apart and could never be put back again. Be barely made any sounds, but tears streamed over his cracked skin before dripping to the floor.

Sammy moved closer and leaned heavily against Stan’s legs.

We stood like that for nearly ten minutes.

Stan grabbed a handkerchief from his back pocket and used it to remove the signs of sadness, cleared his throat a little, and straightened his posture. Back in control of his emotions, he reached down to pet Sammy and reassure the dog that everything was going to be okay.

Then he turned to me, obviously a little embarrassed, but ready to move forward.

“I appreciate your help. I’ll take you up on the furniture, but maybe tomorrow. I got everything I need to sleep tonight and don’t really need anything else.”

I thought about asking about his emotional state, but decided the most polite thing was to pretend the previous ten minutes never happened. Instead, I would focus on the future. “I’m happy to help any way I can. You just let me know on the furniture. Who knows, we may get hold of your kids, David and Lori wasn’t it, and you won’t be here long enough to worry about furniture.”

With that, I made my own goodbyes and made my way back to my van.

On the drive home, I wondered about Mrs. Sweigart’s worry. Would the drug thugs go after Stan? It was the same worry I had about Johnny Franks. There can’t be that much crime in Abish county; could Johnny be connected to those drug guys?

A sudden exhaustion flooded my body as I got home. I had held up the weight of Stan’s emotions for too long and needed to set them aside. It was too early for bed, so I went to my desk and collapsed into the chair.

After sitting a moment, my eyes rolled over to the desk drawer: the drawer that held the amulet Sammy hated so much.

I pulled the drawer open and gathered up the amulet and its frame. What was it about the amulet that stirred the old dog to action? It was time for some research.

The call came at about mid-morning. Hargrave asked if I could bring Sammy and meet the sergeant and Stan at Stan’s farm. Twenty minutes later, the dog and I pulled up in front of the barn.

Only about a quarter of the house still stood. What had been the back corner of the old four-square rose up, charred, with burnt rubble around its base. Much of the ruins had collapsed into the basement. The gray of the smoked outer walls was just a little darker than that of the clouds.

A couple of trucks from the sheriff’s department sat in the drive. Stan stood with some deputies near his own truck, having a conversation with them. I recognized one of the deputies as the one behind the reception desk on the day I first met Stan. The old farmer looked like he did the other day, except for the bandage on his right hand.

I slid out of the driver’s seat; cold air flooded past the collar of my coat and down my back, giving me a chill. Crossing to the passenger side of the van, I let Sammy out. The poor old fellow half climbed and half fell to the muddy ground. Once out, he sniffed. The scents gave him energy.

Before I knew what he was doing, Sammy ran in the direction of Stan. The liveliness of the dog surprised me.

Stan saw him and, growing his own wings, rushed over to meet his old friend.

Everyone stopped to watch the man and his dog reunited, with Sammy leaping up and Stan kneeling down. I wouldn’t have guessed that either was capable of that.

Hargrave approached me, his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming out,” he said.

“Glad to do it.” I nodded toward Stan and Sammy. “What’s the status?”

“We reached Mary Sweigart. She wasn’t sure about having a dog in the building, but finally decided it would be okay. We’ll be headed that way when we leave. Stan will take his own truck. It looks like the bad guys got to it and stole anything not locked down.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know who these bad guys were, but I really wanted something unpleasant to happen to them, and I usually didn’t think that way.

“One more thing,” he continued. “Would you mind going along? It might be nice if you could make the introductions since it was your idea.”

“Sure,” I said, “I would be happy to.” Something in the back of my mind thought it was odd for law enforcement to be getting a strange civilian involved with stuff, but I wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter. I liked Stan and Sammy, and would probably like Mrs. Sweigart if I got to know her. Was it odd that I didn’t have any friends of my own? Not worth thinking about.

By this time, Stan, with Sammy alongside, came up to me to shake my hand. “I can’t thank you enough, Timmy.”

I shook his hand, trying to be mindful of the bandages.

“You took in Sammy, and the deputy here says you’re the one who suggested me a place to stay. All that for some old man you only just met. That’s a real saint there,” He kept shaking my hand.

“I’m glad I could help,” I said, trying to wind down the shake and extract my hand. “I’ve been in a bad spot myself before and it was others who helped, so I kind of understand.”

He stood there grinning.

I started to feel really uncomfortable, so I decided to change the subject. “Have you had a chance to call your insurance company yet?”

“No,” he said, “I’ll have to give them a call Monday. I should be a little more settled by then. I don’t see no point in rebuilding unless my son or daughter want to. The fields are still rented out and the buildings are past using for anything. Farming has just changed too much.”

I could see his point. With industrial agriculture over the past decades, the old family farms had slowly died out. It was like with the corn cribs. When combines became a thing, there was no need to store corn still on the cob. The kernels could dry in the big metal bins and the old cribs could collapse to form nests for meth rats.

Glancing over the farm, it was easy to see that the buildings would be hard to salvage. Age, weather, and disrepair had pushed them past the point of no return. The house had been the last reason to be on this farmstead, and now junkies had done what time couldn’t.

What was that? Something looked wrong.

I moved away from Stan and the sergeant and a little closer to the feedlot Stan walked me through on my last visit.

Yes, that was definitely wrong.

“Sergeant? Have your people checked on that?” I pointed toward the old graveyard.

Hargrave moved next to me and tried to follow my pointing finger. “What do you see?”

“In the graveyard,” I said. “I see something black.”

“Black? What kind of something?” I noticed that he motioned for the other deputies to come over.

I strained to see better but couldn’t. “I don’t know what it is, but I have a bad feeling about what it may be.”

As a group, we made our way toward the burial ground. The deputies kept a lookout on our surroundings as we went, their hands near their guns the whole time. This was unnerving all of us. The quiet of rural Iowa didn’t help at all.

Even the light wind stopped, leaving no noise at all. The almost constant whisper of the moving air through weeds and fence wires disappeared, leaving a nothingness. Being November, even the birds were gone.

As we approached the graveyard, my worry proved valid. The black thing I had seen was a pile of rich, dark topsoil. The same material that provided life-giving sustenance through farming meant something else in this antiquated graveyard, something terribly wrong.

We stopped at the fence that marked the boundary between consecrated and banal ground. From there, we could see that one of the graves stood empty. The marker stone, still in its place denoted the start of the hole in the ground. Chunks of rotted wood protruded from the mounded earth on each side, letting us know that whoever had despoiled the grave had reached the coffin within.

We all stood perfectly still, not even breathing.

Thoughts rushed through my head. Who would do this? Why would they do this? Were there any signs of cult activity? Was the body still there? If not, where was it?

Hargrave tapped me on the arm to get my attention. “Any ideas?”

Okay, it was time to get serious. If nothing else, I was sure the sergeant hadn’t made up his mind about me and was perfectly willing to believe I was involved somehow. Being professional and helpful was my best bet.

“Just speculating,” I said, “but we have bad guys who make drugs and burn down farm houses. They may have dug up a grave just to look for gold. You know, jewelry, teeth, that sort of thing.”

Hargrave nodded his approval. “That would make sense. We will have to check it out.” He motioned to one of the deputies, the one I recognized from the desk. “John, take a look. Try not to step on any recognizable footprints or any other evidence. See if they got to the body.”

John pressed his lips together and swallowed while staring at the grave. I got the impression he was not happy about his new assignment. Taking a deep breath, he stepped closer to the fence and then over it.

Scanning the ground before him, he carefully made his way to the disturbed earth. Once noticed, there was an obvious path where the grass had been stomped down. The path led from the corner of the graveyard closest to the old corn crib right up to the violated grave.

Deputy John carefully approached the black soil, and leaned to get a better look into the hole.

Hargrave called out, “Did they get to the body?”

John righted himself and responded, “What body? I can see parts of the coffin, but there’s no sign of a body there.”

“Damn it,” Hargrave muttered. “Alright,” he called to John, “Come on back, but be careful.”

While John came back, the sergeant gathered the rest of us back together. “So here’s the plan,” he started. He pointed to me, “You and Stan go on back to town and get Stan settled in his new place. I’ll check in with you later.” Then he turned to the two deputies. “The two of you stand guard out here until I can get someone to relieve you. This is now a crime scene, but it’s a little beyond our usual area. I’ll put a call into DCI and the state archaeologist.”

Stan looked puzzled. “Archaeologist?”

“Yep,” said Hargrave, “when dealing with any human remains more than a hundred years old, the state archaeologist has to be involved. It’s good too. They may not know much about our crime scene techniques, but they know all about the old stuff. Their expertise will see things we wouldn’t.”

John and the other deputy didn’t seem happy with the situation. “Better go get the thermos,” said the one that wasn’t John, and John started a jog back toward the trucks.

Stan, Sammy, and I also headed back toward the vehicles. I thought I heard Hargrave tell the remaining deputy to stay on his toes because “these guys” were violent. I assumed he meant the bad guys and I agreed with his assessment. They had already shot at an old farmer and burned his house down around him.

A few minutes later, and I was headed back to Mrs. Sweigart’s apartment building, with Stan and Sammy’s pickup following behind. At least that wouldn’t be too dangerous.

Leaving the farm should have put me at ease, but it didn’t. I could deal with meth heads digging up a corpse to steal gold teeth or something. What bugged me was why they would take the entire body.

Maybe the remains were still there but the deputy couldn’t see them. More than a century of interment would rot most of a body. If the vandals crushed or scattered the rest, it would not look like a body. If the state archaeologist found the rest of the remains, it would make me very happy.

If the body really was gone, though…

I spent Thursday in uneventful research and planned the same for Friday. A lunchtime phone call disrupted those plans.

“Hello, Mr. Hunt,” said the now familiar voice of Sergeant Hargrave. “Would you be able to meet me at the hospital? I’m at room 314.”

“Sure, I’ll be right there.”

We only had one hospital in the county, so I knew which one he meant. What I didn’t know was why he wanted to meet me there. Was it Mrs. Sweigart? Was it one of the kids?

I grabbed my coat and headed out into another cloudy November afternoon.

There were only four floors in the newer part of the hospital; two in the old wing. Of course, the old wing was once the new part. The original had just been a doctor’s house in the late 1800s. The current iteration was about the fourth or fifth. Like most rural Iowa counties, we were lucky to have this.

The visitor parking lot never held many cars in its relatively small space. Puddles gathered in the potholes. I parked, walked around the low spots, and went through the main entrance. The automatic doors swished open. Heated air rushed down and past me, carrying the scent of disinfectant and flowers. Natural defenses closed my airway for a moment.

Making it through, I continued to the reception desk. “Hi, I need to find room 314.”

The woman behind the desk, probably into her fifties, looked up at me, lost her smile, and looked to her left.

I looked to the same place and saw a deputy.

I hadn’t seen this one before. In his thirties, probably, and a little portly, but I had no doubts about his abilities. As he approached, he placed his hand on top of the holster of his side arm.

Wanting to deescalate the situation, I introduced myself. “I’m Timmy Hunt. Sergeant Hargrave asked me to come down.”

The deputy stopped, but reared back just enough to look down on me in a threatening way. “Do you have any I. D. on you, sir?”

“Sure, it’s in my wallet.” In a slow and deliberate fashion, I retrieved my wallet from my right front pants pocket. Digging out my drivers’ license, I presented it to the deputy.

He looked it over thoroughly, both front and back, and handed it back to me. “Follow me,” he ordered. Then he turned and marched back the direction from which he came.

We walked to the elevators; he pushed the “up” button. We stood awkwardly, waiting for the elevator. At least he had removed his hand from his weapon.

After a tense elevator ride to the third floor, he guided me down the hallway and around a corner where we found the sergeant.

Hargrave nodded to my escort and said, “Thanks, Mark. Go back to the front to see if anybody else shows up.” With Mark heading back, Hargrave motioned me closer.

He leaned in to speak softly. “A couple of days ago, you reported a possible meth lab on the farm of Stanley Loffland. We investigated and you were right. Last night, they apparently came back.”

All the strength drained out of me before my conscious mind could even piece together what he was saying. They came back and they hurt Stan and that’s why we were at the hospital. Stan was on the other side of that door.

The sergeant must have guessed what I was going through; he put his hand on my upper arm to steady me. Good thing he did. I felt like I would fall over. The sudden firmness of his grip also snapped me back to the moment at hand. This was not the time to make this about me; I needed to be strong for Stan. The same Stan I didn’t really know and only met once the other day. I was too much of a softee.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.

Hargrave sort of smiled, at least half of his mouth did. “Sure, he’s going to be fine. He had a little smoke inhalation and minor burns on his arm. The docs say he’ll be able to leave tomorrow.”

That was enough of a relief to take me to the next level, the questioning level. “What happened? Do you know who did it?”

“All we know is this,” he answered. “Last night, about nine o’clock, Mr. Loffland called nine-one-one saying someone was trying to break in. On the call, there was the sound of a couple of gunshots, and then the call ended. When the deputies arrived, the house was engulfed in flames.

“Mr. Loffland said he could see three of them in the yard and that one of them fired a pistol toward him, hitting the house. Loffland fired his shotgun in their direction and they scattered. The next he saw of them, they were throwing cans of something at his front porch. Before he knew it, the house was on fire.”

All I could do was lower my head and shake it from side to side. Some morons decided to shoot at an old man and burn his house down for no good reason. Honestly, I never understood how that gets into people’s brains.

Sure, I knew about social classes, group identities, and addictions. My own father did all kinds of things because of his alcohol problem. What about these guys, though? Were they on meth? Did they do this just to feel powerful, like they weren’t small in a big world? I just didn’t get it.

None of that mattered at the moment. Stan was the issue. “How can I help,” I asked the sergeant.

Hargrave’s smile was friendly while also suggesting that I just walked into his trap. “I’m glad you asked,” he said. “Mr. Loffland said you got on really well with his dog when you visited. He is concerned, and I agree with his concern, that leaving the dog at the farm would be a bad idea. Since we are still trying to reach Mr. Loffland’s family, he suggested that you might be able to take care of the dog until Mr. Loffland is released from the hospital tomorrow.” He finished by tilting his head slightly and raising his eyebrows in an ‘are you going to do it?’ expression.

My mind raced through all the things back at my place that may pose a threat to a dog. Most everything sat behind locks, so that wouldn’t be any trouble. There was some space outside for activities needing to be done outside. Sammy seemed to be an old, low energy dog. The only problem would be if I needed to run off on an investigation.

It was only for one night. What’s the worst that could happen?

I felt like I jinxed myself by asking that.

“Sure,” I answered, “I’ll be happy to look after Sammy. Where can I find him?”

“He’s being kept at the sheriff’s office. It didn’t seem safe to leave the old boy out at the farm.”

That was settled then. “Great, I’ll swing by and get him when I leave here. Though I probably need to swing by the store and get dog food or something. What about Stan. You said he can leave tomorrow. It’s probably a bad idea to go back to the farm. Where’s he planning to go?”

The sergeant nodded. “You’re right about the farm. There’s not enough of the house to live in. We’re hoping to reach his son and daughter to see if they have a place for him.”

I remembered Stan saying that his kids lived out of state and that he hadn’t heard from them in a while. Even if they could give him a place, it may take a few days to get things together. An idea popped into my head.

“Sergeant, if it’s going to be a while before his kids can get him settled, I might have a solution. You know that apartment building out on Field Street? The one where you arrested those kids the other day? I think two of the apartments are empty and you also arrested the handyman who helped out around there. Mary Sweigart owns the building and says she’s had trouble getting any tennents. She might be willing to let Stan stay there, especially if he can look at some of the little things that need fixed.”

Hargrave seemed to ponder that for a moment before deciding that it was an option to keep available. I gave him Mrs. Sweigart’s phone number.

I was about to leave when something else popped into my head. “One more thing, Sergeant. I saw on the news that Johnny Franks was suspected in some burglaries in addition to breaking into Mrs. Sweigart’s apartment building.”

He held up his hand, palm forward, to stop me. “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

“I get that,” I said, “but I have a sort of peripheral concern. He will probably figure out that I’m the one who called you guys. Do you think I’m in any real danger? Should I be taking extra precautions?”

He looked into space for a moment while mentally modeling the scenarios where great harm befell my person and what I could do to make sure I died pleasantly. When he came back, he said, “That’s a possibility. I wouldn’t worry too much, but if you notice him in your area more than you think is normal or if he shows up, give us a call.”

“Thanks, I will.” And with that, I left.

I thought about where to get dog food. The grocery store near downtown was small but had plenty. It started life as a one room place with a wooden facade, probably predating the Iowa Grocery Industry Association. Over the decades, it kept pace right up to the supermarket trend. There, it stopped, so much of it still looked like it was from the early 1970s. I wasn’t sure I wanted to navigate a whole store just for one day’s worth of dog food. That also left out the new chain superstore on the edge of town.

I finally settled on the convenience store. Ignoring the tempting scent of coffee and donuts, I found the dog food. Fortunately, there wasn’t much to pick from, so I just grabbed a couple of cans and was on my way.

At the sheriff’s station, I identified myself and explained what I was there for. Sammy sat on the floor behind the reception desk. The deputy got him up and out through the security door.

“Hey there, Sammy,” I said, trying to be upbeat. Some T. V. show or other said that dogs would follow the emotional lead of those around them.

He perked up a little upon hearing his name. With what energy he could muster, he plodded over to me and sniffed my leg. That must have gotten his attention because he made the effort to lift his head to look at me.

I knelt down to scratch behind his ears. In addition to the scent of large dog, there was the hint of smoke. “Good news, Sammy,” I said, “You get to stay with me tonight.”

His tired expression suggested he had no idea what I was saying but that he didn’t have the energy to pursue it further.

I signed some papers to denote that I took custody of Sammy. Then the poor old fellow and I headed out to the van.

Up until then, I hadn’t given any thought to where Sammy would ride. The back had plenty of room, but it also had plenty of tools and other pointy things.

In the end, Sammy let me know. Once he figured out that we were travelling in the van, he walked to the passenger side front door and stood patiently. I guessed that Stan probably let Sammy ride in the cab of his pickup and Sammy had just learned to expect this. It was okay by me.

I opened the passenger door and helped Sammy in. He sat on the floorboard with his forepaws on the seat. Once comfortable on the floor, he settled his head on the seat and prepared for the ride. Making sure his tail and legs were safe, I closed the door and went around to the other side to find my seat.

The trip home was uneventful. I had to open the passenger door when we got there, but Sammy got himself out. He also figured out what the lawn was for, so that solved one issue. Then we went in.

I wasn’t sure how Sammy would react to all the weird things in my place. He ignored most things as he sniffed around. Then he changed.

The growl surprised me.

He stood, braced as he had down on the farm, and bared his teeth at an amulet hanging on display on the wall.

The amulet was just a trinket, made of some kind of coral and gold. A chain held it up inside a small shadow box. I never thought much about it.

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” I asked.

Sammy barked twice, and resumed growling.

I wasn’t sure what the dog saw, but it seemed to be just that amulet. I took the shadow box off the wall. It was small enough, I could hide it in a desk drawer.

Sammy’s wild eyes followed the movement of the shadow box from the wall to its new hiding place. As soon as the drawer closed, Sammy calmed down.

The poor dog walked across the room toward the couch. He sniffed the rug in front of the couch before spinning a few times and settling down. Within minutes, he was asleep.

I sat at my desk and, very slowly, slid the desk drawer open. I could see the amulet very clearly. Why would it upset the dog? A friend gave it to me a few years earlier, but I couldn’t think of all the details. It would require research.

I got up promptly at six o’clock just like always. Not having a real job, it would have been easy to fall into the slovenly, lazy pattern most people assumed I had. I knew that was a bad path to take, so I treated my hobby like a real job and tried to maintain professional hours.

Anyway, a few shakes of the head and some blinking of the eyes, and any memory of a gray face with black, hollow eyes faded away to wherever dreams go in the morning.

After calisthenics, breakfast, and a shower, I was ready to go. It was my practice to document every investigation in great detail. Where I went and when, as well as who I interacted with. I even kept track of the mileage driving to and from. Again, had to run it like a real job.

By the time I had them filed and cross referenced in my database, making the formal reports took all morning. It was good to have computer skills. That left me with lunch, posting the reports on the website, and it occurred to me that I should warn Rick that I had sent someone his way.

“Hi, Rick, it’s me, Timmy Hunt,” I said into the phone.

“Hey Timmy, what can I do for you today?” He was always offering to do things for people, which was his polite way of asking for business. He was a nice guy and did the best he could for his clients, but he needed to make his own money too.

I decided to keep it short. “Hey, Rick, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I gave your number to a woman named Mary Sweigart yesterday. It seems that she doesn’t know how to handle money since her husband passed away. Now she has a house and an apartment building to take care of and isn’t doing a great job at either. Sounds like she could benefit from your services.” Okay, maybe not that short.

Rick chuckled. “You always run into all the sad stories. At least it’s good for business. I’ll look for her call. How are you doing?”

One of the things about Rick being a nice guy was that he genuinely cared about people, especially his clients. He handled my money really well and I doubted that I would ever be broke, but he worried that my zombie sideline was maybe not psychologically healthy and that I might be better off with a more traditional business or career. It was probably odd that my financial advisor was one of the few people in my life who worried about me.

“I’m doing okay,” I said. “Expenses are down and the merchandise sales on the website are more than enough to keep the site running.”

“Well that’s good,” he said. I heard the concern and slight disappointment in his tone. “Have you thought of any ways to expand your zombie-themed empire for a better revenue stream?”

“No,” I chuckled, “not yet. If I think of something, I will definitely let you know.”

We said our goodbyes and I went on with the rest of my day.

In most cases, I rewrote the reports for posting on my website. Visitors to the site liked to read what I had been up to, or that’s what the web traffic reports said. For each report, I left out the real names and addresses of the persons involved. I also tended to leave the results more vague and the language more sensational. The most popular of the so-called cases read like they could still be signs of a zombie presence. Telling the readers blatantly that the zombie turned out to be a drunk guy wasn’t going to attract them to the site or sell them any of the merchandise that paid for the site.

It was a little after two o’clock when the phone rang.

“Hello, Mr. Hunt,” said the familiar voice. “This is Sergeant Hargrave of the Abish County Sheriff’s Department. I’ve got a few questions. Can I get you to come down to the sheriff’s station?”

The call caught me off guard, but my be-nice-to-cops defense mechanism kicked in. “Sure,” I said, “when would you like me there?

“As soon as you can get here would be good.” The words were very polite, but the tone carried a bit of command.

“I’m on my way then,” I said. “It should be about fifteen minutes.”

With that, I was on my way back to the sheriff’s office. Second time in two days, what were the odds of that?

Then a thought struck me, I hope Stan and Sammy were okay. A quick flash of the two of them lying on the ground and full of bullet holes popped in my head. A shudder ran up my spine.

I shook my head. No, that wasn’t it. There had to be something else. It seemed more likely to involve Johnny Franks. I called in the dunk guy report and gave my name. If they talked to him, he would have said he already talked to me. Why didn’t I mention that when I made my call? What was I trying to hide?

The whole drive to the office had worries, fears, and wild scenarios running wild through my brain. It was a relief to get there.

The big window had a different deputy at the desk this time. I explained that Sergeant Hargrave had called me. The deputy shared some muffled yelling in the direction of the sergeant’s office and then told me to come through.

As I passed the heavy door, Hargrave stepped out of his office to greet me. “Thank you for coming down, Mr. Hunt. I’m hoping you may be able to help clear some things up for me. Come on back.” He motioned the direction of a hallway that led further into the station and then started walking.

I followed him down. He seemed friendly enough, but I wasn’t sure why he couldn’t ask questions in his office like last time. It set my heart rate up a little.

We walked past a small waiting area, basically an alcove in the wall, with several chairs, then down the hallway lined with doors to various offices.

Despite the general upkeep, it was obvious the front part of the building was old. The plaster walls had been patched repeatedly and carried who knew how many layers of paint. The yellow varnish on the wood trim and baseboards cracked and crazed. It looked like someone replaced the light fixtures, probably back in the eighties. Even though the main scent in the air was coffee, there was a faint hint of ancient cigarette left from the days when that was allowed.

The plaster gave way to drywall and newer lights, to be followed by cinder block walls awash with white paint. He led me through a metal door in this section. The room was dark, but I could see a wood table and a couple of wood chairs. It looked like an interrogation room from a cop show on T.V.

He closed the door behind us and then crossed to the wide wall on the side of the room. I hadn’t noticed at first, but there was a window with a shade pulled down over it. Hargrave opened the shade to show another room on the other side, this one lighted.

“Are these yours?” he asked.

The other room looked the same as this one, complete with table and chairs, but those chairs were occupied. At least three of them were. What did they call themselves? Revenant Rangers? I rolled my eyes and let out a heavy breath. “No,” I answered, “but I kind of know who they are.”

Hargrave let the shade close again and then he sat in one of the chairs. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Without thinking, I sat down across the table from him and started my tale. “I was called out to look into some noises in a basement. While I was there, these boys recognized my van and stopped to ask if they could help.”

“Why would they recognize your van?” he asked.

That disrupted the flow of my story, but I recovered quickly. “They said they were big fans of my website and recognized the logo. They want to be zombie hunters.”

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

I was used to the skeptics, but it was still uncomfortable. I decided to get to the good part. “At that moment, they were making my client uncomfortable, so I asked them to go wait by their car until I was finished. They did that. I finished up and then I had a talk with them.”

“And what did you tell them?”

I inhaled deeply to have enough air to give a long, uninterrupted description. “When they said they wanted to hunt zombies, I told them that it was too dangerous and that they should limit themselves to reading about it. I also told them that I had gone to college and, exaggerating a little, said that I was highly trained. With that settled, I gave them a couple of harmless souvenirs from stuff in the back of the van and they left.”

He just sat, looking at me.

My mind went back to something I read about the easiest way to get someone to keep talking was to just look at them expectantly until they became really uncomfortable and would talk just to break the tension. It was working because that tension was really building. The only problem was that I didn’t have anything else to say.

He shifted the tilt of his head to the other side. It was subtle, but there. “Is that the last you saw of them until just now?”

“Yeah,” I started, then, “no, wait. On my way home, I stopped at the convenience store to get something to drink. When I pulled out to leave, I’m pretty sure I saw their car go down the street headed west.”

“Headed in the direction of Field Street?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said. Then I froze. I didn’t want him to see that I froze, but I definitely froze. Mrs. Sweigart’s apartment building was on Field Street.

I think Hargrave was about to say something, but a knock on the door interrupted. The deputy from yesterday’s front desk popped his head in. He looked at me for a moment and then turned to the sergeant. “Got something for you,” he said. Then he looked back at me.

Hargrave tapped the table firmly with the index and middle fingers of his right hand. “Sit tight,” he instructed, “I’ll be right back.” He rose from the chair and exited with the deputy.

It was time to sit and try to remain calm. That wasn’t happening as well as I wanted. The kids had gone back to Mrs. Sweigart’s place and got themselves into trouble on a zombie hunt. In police custody, they talked about me and now me, the weirdo, was going to be in hot water for contributing to the delinquency of a minor or something.

Breathe in; breathe out. I needed to calm down.

Unless the boys lied about something I couldn’t disprove, my story would hold up fine. At most, I would get a stern talking to by Sergeant Hargrave. Then, if I was around when the kid’s parents showed up, they would glare at me and tell me to stay away from their children. The boys would be told to stop going to ‘that site’ and maybe get grounded. It would all be unpleasant, but that’s all the further it should go, probably.

Hargrave came back in, shut the door, and sat down. This time he had his notebook and some papers. He shifted a little to get comfortable, not a good sign, and prepared his pen for note taking. “Tell me about this client you were visiting,” he said.

I assumed that he would get everything out of me eventually, so my best bet was to be as upfront as possible. “Mary Sweigart owns the little apartment building over on Field Street. She had been having trouble with noises in the basement and asked me to take a look. I didn’t find anything other than signs of some mice. The real problem was the outside cellar door. Someone had broken the lock a couple of times.”

Hargrave stopped writing and looked up at me. The expression suggested that broken locks should have figured more heavily in the story. Lesson learned.

“So, I talked with her and one of her tenants, a woman named, hold on.” I fished my own notebook out of my pocket. “Her name was Edna, but I didn’t get her last name. She had a small bite on her leg that looked like it might be a mouse bite. I strongly suggested that she seek medical attention.”

Hargrave made a couple of slight nods as he finished writing in his notebook. “Tell me more about these locks.”

I made a show of looking at my notes more thoroughly, hoping that he would trust me more for some reason. “I only saw parts of one of the locks. It was on the ground near the cellar doors. I didn’t touch it or anything. It was a padlock and it looked like the round part where you put the key was sticking out the bottom in a weird way. I figured that was how it was broken, but I don’t know much about locks.”

He made a few more scribbles before his next question. “Did you charge Mary Sweigart for your services?”

There was still the worry about a scam. It was reasonable; I had seen my share of scams. “No, I didn’t charge her anything. I did give her the name of a financial advisor. She said she’s struggled with money since her husband passed away, so I figured she could use the help.”

I could hear movement in the other room. As people moved out into the hallway, I heard what I assumed to be a mother expressing her displeasure at having to come to collect her teen son at the police station. It suddenly felt much more comfortable to be in the small, dark room being interrogated by Sergeant Hargrave.

While we waited for the hallway show to migrate toward the front of the building, Hargrave looked through some of the papers he brought in with him. “It says here you made a nine-one-one call last night.” His expression suggested that I should tell him about it.

Again, spilling everything seemed the best course of action. “Just before I left Mrs. Sweigart’s apartment building, I saw someone walking toward the back. It didn’t look like any of the tenants, as far as I knew, so I went to see what was going on.”

He kept writing.

“When I got to the back,” I continued,”I found Johnny Franks. He does maintenance at the apartment building as a favor to Mrs. Sweigart. At that time, though, he was very drunk. He confessed that he was the one who broke the locks and was going into the basement. He said he did it to get away from his mother who lives with him.”

Hargrave interrupted, “Why did he break the locks instead of just using the key?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he left the key at home and didn’t want to face his mother just to go get it. He said he replaced the locks, so it was okay.” I paused a moment for some reason; it just seemed like a good place to do it. I figured it gave the sergeant enough time to finish writing.

“Anyway,” I went on, “I had him promise that he would make a duplicate key and keep it someplace safe that was not at home so he could stop scaring Mrs. Sweigart and her renters. Then he begged me not to tell, and I assured him I wouldn’t, even though that seemed like a bad idea. I asked him if he was going to be okay, and he said he was going to sit and rest a bit and then go home.”

Hargrave finished the current lines and waited for the next part.

I decided to wrap it up quickly. “I left but then started worrying that if Johnny passed out there in the cold he would freeze by morning, so I made the nine-one-one call to have him checked on.”

That seemed to satisfy the sergeant on that matter at least. “It’s probably a good thing that you did. They found him passed out behind the building, so you probably saved his life.” He sat the papers down, flipped back a page in his notebook to review, and then returned to the current page. “Why do you think Mary Sweigart called you about the disturbance instead of calling law enforcement.”

I had hoped he would skip over that detail. “I have no idea, really. I’m not even sure how she would have found my website; she doesn’t seem the type. I have a guess or two, but they would just be guesses.”

“What would those guesses be?”

I really didn’t want to get Mrs. Sweigart into any trouble, but we seemed to be past that point. Maybe it would do some good. “My first guess was that the apartment building isn’t in a really good state of repair. Since she relies on the income from the building but doesn’t know how to bring it up to where it should be, she is probably afraid of being cited and having the building shut down. That’s my best guess.”

Hargrave looked up from his notebook. “So there isn’t a graveyard out back or any strange symbols anywhere?”

“Not that I am aware,” I said. “I really just think she needed somebody to come out and reassure her, but didn’t want anyone official.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

He gathered up his things and stood. “I appreciate you coming down, Mr. Hunt. I hope you will be able to avoid attracting anymore helpers and that you will continue to refer non-zombie activities to the authorities.” Though the words seemed just a tad jovial, there was still that warning just under the surface. That was a neat trick; I would have to look up how to do that.

He led me back to the front of the building. Two occupants sat in the waiting area. The first was a girl, probably in her mid-teens. She wore all black pants, shirt, coat, and makeup. We didn’t have many goths in the area, so she stood out.

The person sitting next to her was the older of the Revenant Rangers. He leaned in with the clumsy flirting skills of someone his age. When he saw me, he perked up and pointed. “That’s him! That’s Timmy Hunt, the zombie guy.”

The girl looked up at me. She tried hard to keep expressionless, but there was the slightest hint of curiosity. Just what I needed, more kids trying to join the troop.

I pointed to the boy. “Let’s see, you’re, uh, Jake, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he replied, way too overjoyed at being remembered. He pointed to the girl. “This is Sarah. Some pervert tried to get too fresh with her so she cut him and he ran off. We both have to wait until our parents get here before we can leave.”

I felt bad for the boy’s parents if this was what he was like all the time; he had way too much energy. I also thought that if their parents didn’t come in soon, it was likely that Sarah was going to cut him too.

Still, I should at least put on a good show for the deputies. I looked down at Jake with my best stern expression. “Didn’t I tell you fellows to stay out of trouble? That investigating zombies should be left to trained professionals? So now I find you here because you got yourselves in trouble.”

The boy’s expression changed as he deflated a bit. “Sorry,” he said, “We let our curiosity get loose and weren’t thinking right. I hope we didn’t mess up anything you were doing out there?”

I wasn’t good at being the bad guy, but I tried a little more. “You be sure to stay out of trouble from now on. And that goes for your friends too, so pass it along.”

“I will, I swear it.” He held up his hand in a swearing position.

I nodded acceptance. “Good,” I said and turned away.

Sergeant Hargrave let me out through the secure door. As I left, I heard Jake telling Sarah, “I got my own car.”

I drove home and finished the website version of my reports. By the time they were posted, it was nearly six o’clock. I turned on the T. V. news while heating a can of soup.

I liked to keep track of the events of the day, but I never paid too much attention. I couldn’t do anything about most of the things in the world. I mean, I still voted on election day and stuff like that, but most of the time they didn’t need me in the way.

This time, however, something caught my attention. It was just a name: Johnny Franks.

The anchor woman read on, “… suspected in a string of burglaries over the past several months. Police arrested Franks last night behind an apartment building on Field Street. The initial arrest was for public intoxication and resisting arrest. He was found near a broken lock that matched broken locks at other crime scenes. We’ll have more as this story develops.”

Oops. As I stirred my small pot of soup, I wondered about all that. Was it just a coincidence that Johnny broke locks the same was as the other thieves or was he the thief? If it was just a coincidence, I was going to feel really bad about calling the cops on him. On the other hand, maybe he was the thief. I didn’t really know him, so I wasn’t in a position to judge.

It occurred to me that Mrs. Sweigart no longer had a handyman, and she really needed one. That could go poorly for her.

I poured the soup from the pot into a bowl. Very little scent rose up because it was just a cheap, vegetable soup. I could afford better, but didn’t want to spend money unnecessarily. Still, it was important to keep to the routines of civilization to avoid becoming a complete slob.

Poor, poor Mrs. Sweigart.

Grabbing a spoon and carrying the bowl to the table, I sat down to eat.

And stopped.

Something occurred to me. Whether Johnny was a crook or not, he would probably figure out that I narced on him. He probably would not be happy about that. He was pretty big and looked rough.

I just sort of stared into space for a bit.

My soup got cold.