CHAPTER 5

Inside the jail house across from Moira's, Rodolfo Gonzalez made sure to stick to the exact letter of every regulation he knew by scrutinizing the image on the monitor connected to the small camera above the door to Main Street. When he had verified that the person waiting outside was in fact Sheriff Jalinski and that she was under no duress from armed individuals who were planning to use her as a bargaining chip to access the holding cells, he pressed the button to unlock the door.

Mandy stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Before she could even open her mouth to inform her senior deputy that they would soon get a delivery from Chicky Kingz, Rodolfo jumped up from the swivel-chair, grabbed his Mountie hat and stormed out of the jail house to get to the bathroom next door before an unwanted chain reaction would occur.

Chuckling, Mandy went over to the desk to observe the monitor. There was little point in watching an empty section of the sidewalk, so she clicked one of the control buttons to switch over to viewing the activity in the cells instead.

She crossed her arms over her chest as she studied the black-and-white images of their two prisoners. Where Joe-Bob Millard had made himself comfortable by taking off his shoes and his jacket and had gone for yet another nap on the bunk bed in Holding Cell One, their John Doe was in the middle of a raving freak-out that saw him being close to bouncing off the floor, walls and sparse furniture of Holding Cell Two - had he been able to jump just a little higher, he would have bounced off the ceiling as well.

Ten minutes went by before Rodolfo returned to the locked door wiping his fingers dry on a paper tissue. 'Senior Deputy Gonzalez reporting for duty, Sheriff,' he said into the microphone underneath the door camera.

Mandy followed the rules to the letter and studied the image to see if Rodolfo was alone; it was obvious he was so the door was soon opened once more. "Deputy, the next time you need an urgent bathroom break, don't hesitate to call me or one of your fellow deputies. Your sense of duty is admirable, but there's no need to risk life, limb or the state of your uniform pants when we're not in a crisis," she said with her tongue only slightly pressed into her cheek.

"Yes, Ma'am… I'll remember that," Rodolfo said with an embarrassed smile. "It was the triple-chili burrito I had earlier today. Would you believe, the spices were stronger than I usually prefer. It set off a volcanic-"

"Ah, thank you, Deputy Gonzalez. I get the picture," Mandy said and offered her senior deputy a rare wink. The lighter moment only lasted for a few seconds as she pointed at the monitor. "How long has our John Doe been like that?"

Rodolfo hobbled back to the desk to stand next to the sheriff. "He's been on-and-off for most of his time in there. He can be perfectly calm and then, bam, he freaks out. He often shouts or lets out noises that are almost animal in nature."

"It looks to me like he might be tripping on something. But so many hours later?  It must have been a potent drug," Mandy said as she studied the monitor.

Rodolfo shrugged. "I can't say, Sheriff. I don't have enough experience with those things to know for sure."

"Mmmm."

The senior deputy's Mountie hat was soon put on a hook on the wall. As he returned to the desk to observe the images on the monitor, he slicked back his black hair to make it sit just right. "Most of what he says is pure garbage but he does have clearer moments where he repeats a phrase of some kind. I can't quite make it out. It doesn't seem like a name, though. Oh, and he peed on the walls again about half an hour ago."

"If he gets any worse or if he hurts himself, we'll have to call for a doctor."

A dark chuckle went past Rodolfo's lips before he pulled out the swivel-chair so he could return to his regular evening pastime: a small magazine filled with various sudoku and logic puzzles. "That long-haired fella in there doesn't need a doc but a vet… perhaps I oughtta put Byron Gibbs on speed dial," he mumbled as he sat down.

Mandy turned to shoot her senior deputy a pointed look. "Deputy Gonzalez, you know as well as I do that we have very detailed contingency procedures we must follow in case of medical emergencies among the prisoners."

"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo said while a blush tainted his cheeks. An awkward silence spread between them before he decided a change of subject was in order: "Have we heard back from headquarters about his identity?"

"Not yet."

"Figures."

Grunting, Rodolfo picked up one of his pencils and put it to the page containing the logic puzzle he had been working on when the villainous burrito had decided to pay him a second visit.

To match the senior deputy's earlier words, their John Doe suddenly calmed down, shuffled over to the bunk bed and made himself comfortable. "And there he goes off the boil again," he said and pointed the tip of the pencil at the black-and-white monitor.

"Very well," Mandy said and glanced up at the clock on the wall - it read nine PM sharp. Their late-late-supper couldn't be far off, so she strode back to the reinforced door to be present in the office when the oft-confused delivery boy arrived. "Miss Donohue has donated our dinner tonight. One of us will be by with a Chicky Kingz mystery box and some French fries as soon as it's been delivered."

"Ooooh!  Thank you, Ma'am!  And thank you, Wynne!" Rodolfo said with a grin.

"Also, we'll release Mr. Millard at ten thirty at the latest. He's slept enough for today. If I'm tied up at the time, I'll send Deputy Reilly. In either case, I want Mr. Millard to be escorted up to Derrike Iverson's bar, not Moira's. Is that clear?"

"Loud and clear, Sheriff. Will do," Rodolfo said and rose from his swivel-chair to salute his superior. Once he was alone, he made a beeline for the old coffee machine to pour himself a mugful of rocket fuel - every law enforcement officer in the world understood the importance of taking full advantage of the lulls in the daily grind. If they didn't eat or drink when they had a chance to, the activities of the world's criminal elements would make sure they'd never get around to it.

-*-*-*-

While all that had been going on inside the jail house, Wynne continued to assemble stacks of the beverages she imagined they would need for the grand feast. At present, she had half her upper body inside Moira's refrigerators to reach the last six-pack of Pineapple-Papaya Perfection that insisted on playing hard to get - the Triple-P was made by the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Company and marketed under their brand name Sunny Dreamz that also made the legendary Super Summer Sweet Apple Twist, the South Pacific Tropical Fruits Squash and the apricot-flavored Go-Faster-Longer energy drink.

Goldie suddenly let out a barrage of concerned yapping and began to hustle around in a tight circle.

"Aw-shoot… now whut?" Wynne said while she tried to balance the six-pack of sodas on top of the Double Zeros she already had in her free hand. When Goldie continued her frantic yapping and circling, Wynne put down all the cans on the pool table and crouched down next to her Golden Retriever. "Whassup, girl?  Ya sense som'tin?"

Woof!

"Artie Rains?"

Wooo-ooof…

"Thank the bearded gah in da skah fer that… okeh, then… monstahs?"

Wooo-ooof…

"Creepeh crawlies?"

Wooo-ooof…

"It bettah not be them there disgustin' zohm-bees?"

Wooo-ooof…

"Okeh… big-ass go-go-garillah crittahs?"

Goldie let out a Woof-woof-woof-woof-woof! that meant 'None of the above!  Look across the street… do you understand me?  Across the street!'  She shot an exasperated look at Blackie when she couldn't get the right reaction out of her owner, but the German Shepherd could only shrug.

"Huh, y'all bettah not be comin' down with some kind o' dawggie-flu or som'tin, there, Goldie," Wynne said and pulled her beloved pet in for a little fur-rubbing. As she did so, she happened to cast a glance out of the glass door. "Whaddindahell?  Holeh shittt, that ain't gonn' work!" she said and got up in a hurry.

The noise that came from Goldie wasn't a yap for a change but one of her rare barks - its meaning was easy enough to decipher: 'What do you think I've been trying to tell you the whole time?!'

The object that had Goldie and Wynne all worked up was the spotty teenager who worked as the Chicky Kingz' delivery service within the Goldsboro city limits.

The lanky seventeen-year-old had shuffled past the entrance to the sheriff's office and was busy yanking at the handle of the reinforced door to the jail house. When nothing happened, he gave it a kick or two to see if he could get the sticking door to release. The numerous mystery boxes and wrapped packs of French fries had been put on a flat-topped serving trolley that he had pushed all the way down Main Street from the parlor.

"Awwwww-hell, that foo'!  Lawwwwwwwr-die, them de-per-ties gonn' arrest his bee-hind fer sure!" Wynne said and hustled across Main Street at a speed she reserved for the rarest of occasions - Blackie followed her owner barking her head off to warn the teenager he was about to get in severe trouble with the law.

The gangly, spotty Richard 'Ritchie' Lee spun around and let out a high-pitched squeal at the sight of the ferocious hell-hound flying straight at him. The denim-clad Last Original Cowpoke who followed hot on the heels of the black fury didn't seem any friendlier.

Like all who worked for the Chicky Kingz delivery service, Ritchie Lee wore a white paper hat that never failed to look ridiculous - it was supposed to be a one-size-fits-all, but it did a poor job of covering his red mullet. To stick to the theme, he wore a white winter jacket and a pair of white basketball boots. His blue-jeans offered a contrast in colors, but their modern, severely drooping cut didn't exactly make him an endearing sight.

Blackie arrived first and came to a paw-screeching halt on the sidewalk. She jumped into an aggressive stance where her ears lay flat to her head, her eyes shot black hellfire and her entire set of teeth were bared and ready for a little chompin' action. She let out a furious thunderstorm of guttural barks that were loud enough to wake the dead - or even Reverend Raymond Light's undead hordes if any of them happened to be near Main Street at that moment in time.

"Will ya stop kickin' dat dere dang-blasted doah, ya dumb piece o' dillweed!" Wynne roared once she had caught up with Blackie. "That there be the jail house!  Dontcha be doin' that kinda crap!  'Speshualleh not when y'all be haulin' mah fried chickens, dag-nabbit!"

Having turned paler than a clean sheet, Ritchie Lee could only let out an incoherent "Uhhhhhh!  Oh… ohhhhh!  Oh-buhhhhhh…" as he shied as far back from the barking hell-hound and the irate, denim-clad woman as he could go.

Right on cue, Mandy, Beatrice and Barry all stormed out of the sheriff's office with their weapons drawn.

"Yuh!  Yuh!  I done tole ya!  Didden I tell ya?" Wynne cried and pointed at the sheriff and the deputies. "Now look wotcha done!  Lawwwwwr-die, y'all be in gigantoh trubbel now, son!"

Already pale, Ritchie Lee's face turned shock-white around his numerous zits which evened out into an odd, and rather unhealthy-looking, shade of reddish-pale-gray. The growth spurt he had recently been through had left his limbs too long which had upset his center of gravity; it meant that when he took yet another hasty step backward to get away from the black dog and the approaching law enforcement officers, he bumped into the trolley that oh-so-nearly tipped over. One of the mystery boxes was knocked across the entire width of the trolley and ended up dangling over the precipice.

"Mah food!" Wynne cried and jumped forward to grab the box before it was too late. "Awwwww-hell, gimme dem dere mystereh boxes befo' y'all gonn' ruin ev'rehthin'!  Holeh shittt, good help ain't easeh ta come bah these he' days!"

It only took Mandy a second to read the situation once she and the others got there. Smiling at her partner's remarkable skill of getting involved in the weirdest of situations, she ordered her deputies to stand down and return to the sheriff's office.

Ritchie Lee still hadn't regained the ability to talk beyond inarticulate squeaks, so Wynne did the talking for both of them: "Y'all bettah count yer blessin's an' all. Lawrdie, y'all wus this close-" - she held up a thumb and an index finger that only had a tiny amount of space between them - "ta be sent up da rivah ta that there state penneh-ten-shu-areh. Yuh?  Ah be perdy dog-gone sure yer mommah woudda been upset bah that. Catch mah drift?"

Blackie seemed to find it all rather funny - after the loud barks had done the job they were designed for, she let out a few noises that almost sounded like she was snickering at the delivery boy.

"Are… are… are… you gonna t- tell Mister McConnell?" Ritchie Lee squeaked while he wrung his hands in worry.

"Naw. I ain't one o' them folks who find joy in othah folks' misfortune. I reckon he might still heah 'bout it, but it sure ain't gonn' be from mah mouth. Nosirree. Come on, them chickies ain't growin' hottah, know what I mean?" Wynne said and pointed up the street. "Aw-yuh… I sure hope y'all ain't expectin' no tip or nuttin', 'cos, dang, son!  An' use the right doah this tih-me!"

"Uh-huh…" Ritchie Lee said, nodding hard before he grabbed hold of the serving trolley. His knocking knees and wobbling legs made it difficult for him to take the first step, but he got going after Wynne gave him a little push on the back.

-*-*-*-

A far more pleasant aroma than usual filled the crew room at the back of the sheriff's office: instead of the brutal stench of Barry's home-rolled cigarettes, warm, spicy scents created by delicious pieces of crispy-fried chicken coated in Tex-Mex sauces formed the order of the day.

The gray wisps of steam that continued to roll off the meat as Mandy opened the five mystery boxes and the wrapped packs of French fries proved the Styrofoam had managed to keep everything hot despite Ritchie Lee's detour. After teasing her deputies with the delightful aroma, she had moved into the crew room and had jammed the door shut to have time to distribute everything before the hungry horde would attack.

The round table - that had often been used for Artie Rains' notorious all-night poker games in the bad, old days - was soon set with a stack of paper plates, a tall pile of napkins, the mystery boxes, enough French fries for everyone twice over, several plastic cups containing sweet chili sauce and other types of seasoning and dressings, and last but not least, a large bucket of coleslaw that came with a plastic spoon sticky-taped onto the lid.

After analyzing the contents of each of the mystery boxes, she swapped one or two items between them before she took a plate, one of the packs of fries, one of the cups of seasoning sauce and a stack of napkins. A fair-sized glob of coleslaw was shoveled into a clean coffee mug before everything was put into a plastic bag for Rodolfo who remained at his post guarding the holding cells.

---

Beatrice Reilly sat at the watch desk leafing through the dog-eared copy of the Sally Swackhamer adventure Blood, Babes & Bazookas. The title had caught her eye though she refused to touch literature that exploited or degraded women - the lurid cover had confirmed her worst fears, but the actual content was far better than she had expected. The name of the author wasn't listed on the cover, but she had a sneaking suspicion that a woman was behind it.

"Yeeee-hawwwwwww!  Lookie he' what li'l, ol' Mizzeh Donnah-hew brought y'all!" Wynne yelled as she, Blackie and Goldie barged into the office like a colorful hurricane carrying two full cardboard crates of sodas and beers.

A split second later, Sally Swackhamer was headed for the linoleum floor as Beatrice scrambled upright at the speed of light. Moving on instinct alone, she drew her service pistol and aimed it at the denim-clad intruder in the regulatory two-handed grip.

"Hoooooooooooooooleh shittt almighteh!" Wynne croaked as she came to a dead stop. The cardboard crates were in the way so she couldn't put her hands in the air even she had wanted to - all she could do was to stare at the black handgun with wide, unblinking eyes.

Down on the floor, Goldie whimpered and Blackie let out a guttural growl that meant 'Go ahead, Deputy… give me an excuse for a little chomping!'

"I… I really must apologize for my behavior, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said as she holstered her firearm and sat down once more. To hide her acute embarrassment, she picked up the pulp detective novel and put it in the desk drawer before she tried to restore order to the watch desk - that it hadn't been disturbed since the last time she made a little housecleaning was beside the point.

Wynne gulped several times before she stumbled over to the sheriff's desk where she put the two cardboard crates onto the flat part. She had to push Mandy's in/out-trays and a desk-organizer containing typical office supplies like paper clips and elastic bands aside for the beverages to fit, but it was easily done.

Once her hands were free, she pushed her cowboy hat back and wiped her brow on her sleeve. "Bea, y'all need-a be a li'l less jumpeh, yuh?  Merceh Sakes, y'all gonn' give somebodda the realleh bad shits one day if ya always is that eagah fer a li'l ac-shun whenevah somebodda comes thru the doah…"

"I know, Miss Donohue. I'm working on it," Beatrice mumbled as she reached into the desk drawer to get the dog-eared Sally Swackhamer book - she was soon back at the page where she had been interrupted.

Blackie continued to growl, but the fierce German Shepherd understood that someone who read about the legendary Sally couldn't be all bad - Goldie just whimpered a little more and hid behind her companion's black fur.

Wynne was about to add another quip to the conversation when her nostrils picked up the delightful aroma that permeated the office. "Whah, Ah do bah-lieve Ah smell me some fried chicken… haw, can't wait!"

Right on cue, Barry Simms and Mandy met at the far end of the office: Barry came out of the restroom after washing off the worst ash and other types of smoking residue, and Mandy held the bag she had prepared for Rodolfo. "Deputy Simms," she said as she thrust the bag into his hands, "take this next door to Senior Deputy Gonzalez. Thank you."

Barry stared wide-eyed at the closed door to the crew room before he turned to face his superior. "But… but… what if there isn't anything left by the time I get back?"

"I meant now, Deputy," Mandy said and put her hand on his shoulder to guide him along. "It's fifteen paces down the street. I believe you can walk fifteen paces, can't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am…"

"Good. Get to it."

It was clear by the hang-dog look on Barry's face that he fully expected to find all the boxes cleared out down to the last chicken bone by the time he returned after the strenuous, thirty-pace journey. "Yes, Ma'am," he mumbled as he shuffled off with Rodolfo's part of the grand feast.

Wynne held the glass door open for the deputy - she even took off her hat and held it to her chest to show her respect for the chicken-carrying member of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. Just to tease Barry a little, she cried: "Ah got dibs on them spiceh wings!" just as she closed the door.

Blackie and Goldie zipped ahead of the humans in the office to snuggle down on a blanket in the corner of the crew room. Two bowls of water and a plate with a pair of drumsticks greeted them, and their happy woofing proved they were more than content with their serving.

While Wynne grabbed the crates containing the beverages and moved on to get the last details sorted, Mandy turned to Beatrice at the watch desk. "Deputy Reilly, if we leave the inner door open, we can hear the telephone if it rings. I think you should join us."

Beatrice eyed the ancient Bakelite telephone that had only seen sporadic action since the frantic activity of the early hours of the shift. "Thank you, Sheriff, but I feel I better act according to the regulations-"

"We've already gone beyond the regulations, Deputy, but all right. Don't forget, rule number one is 'always listen to your Sheriff,' " Mandy said with a rare gleam in her eye.

Beatrice licked her lips a couple of times before she nodded and got up from the swivel-chair at the watch desk. "Yes, Ma'am," she said as she made a beeline for the crew room at the back.

As Beatrice entered the crew room, Wynne went the other way planning to wash her hands in the bathroom. A quick glance proved she and Mandy were alone in the outer office. Her direction was changed at once so she could stroll over to the woman who stood at her desk re-arranging her in/out-trays.

"Y'all got this he' Ah'm The Bozz thing down pat, Sheriff Mandeh!  Haw, iz so dang-blasted sexeh an' all!" Wynne said for her partner's ears only before she leaned down to add a little, but loving, kiss to the silky-soft cheek.

---

To underscore the relaxed nature of the special event, Mandy had found their old transistor radio that had been hiding in a cardboard box on top of one of the lockers. Muted Country played from the mono speaker which gave the tune an old-fashioned tinny sound - at present, the lead singer of The West Gainsboro Five twanged lyrically about the girl he had to leave behind when he moved to the big city to find a job only to discover how everybody treated him cruel and that he worked around the clock to make enough money to return home to the folks who were near and dear to him.

Wynne, Mandy and Beatrice sat at the round table with their beverages, fries and mystery boxes filled with chicken goodies all within easy reach. Barry Simms had only eaten with the others for a few minutes before the urge to smoke had become so all-consuming he couldn't quell it any longer. When his companions had objected in brief sentences loaded with words of the type the League Of Righteous Housewives had complained about for generations, he had left with his part of the food to sit at the watch desk.

Mandy and Beatrice both wore makeshift bibs wrapped around their necks and down their fronts - tea towels that had been pressed into performing double-duty - so they could avoid getting chicken fat or seasoning sauce on their uniforms. It looked just on the wrong side of ridiculous, but it had already worked wonders as witnessed by the large, greasy stain on Mandy's bib.

Wynne had fewer qualms about getting her rugged outfit stained so she had declined the bib offered her in a polite and respectful manner. Unlike the law enforcement personnel present at the supper table who used sets of plastic cutlery, she preferred to eat burgers, ribs and any kind of fried chicken using her fingers. To give the inevitable greasy residue plenty of room to invade her digits, she had pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt up to her elbows - her denim jacket had been put over the chair's backrest where it was joined by her battered, low-crowned cowboy hat.

"Yuh, so… there Ah wus," she said as she waved a drumstick around, "jus' walkin' inta that there saloon ta wet mah whissel. Well, it jus' so happened there wussen nobodda there behind the countah. I waited fer a moment befo' some fella came out… I done reckoned he wus the bar keep, but naw, he wussen. I asked where the bar keep wus so I could cure mah drah condi-shun, but that there wiseacre only done tole me the bar keep wussen there. I tole him, yuh, I be lookin' ta know where he at, not where he ain't. I done stole that from a mooh-vie I saw once… can't recall the title or nuttin', but it wus a funneh mooh-vie, yessir. One o' them ol' black-an'-white West-urhn things… hmmm…"

Mandy let out a chuckle before she returned to her coleslaw - she had already heard the story so she knew where it went, but she let it play out for the benefit of the rookie deputy Beatrice who was fully immersed in the story and Wynne's unique style of telling it. In the background, the transistor radio tried to fill the small void created when Wynne fell quiet, but the commercials that were broadcast couldn't hold anyone's interest.

Wynne scratched her greasy chin for a moment while she pondered the title of the movie. When it didn't come to her, she shrugged and moved on: "Nevah mind. Anyhows, he didden know where that there real bar keep be at so I done said, Howdy pardner, mah name is Wynne Donnah-hew, to whom am Ah speakin'?  An' he said his name wus Emmitt Bahrkah, but he went bah Bubbah. Y'all see where this be headin'?  So I said, Bahb-bah Bahr-kah, yuh?  An' that there fella done reckoned I wus makin' fuh-n o'him or som'tin!  But naw, I wussen 'cos that's jus' how I speak an' spoke, dang'it!"

"Ohhh!" Beatrice said before she stabbed her fork into the first chunk of white meat she had transferred onto her paper plate.

"Lawwwwr-die, ol' Bubbah didden see the humah tho' I did reckon it wus kinda funneh all in all. But anyhows, that there real bar keep fella finally done showed up. He tole me they wussen gonn' serh-ve me no beah or nuttin' 'cos o' some dumb-ass town rule or som'tin that said they coudden serh-ve no beah aftah three on Satahr-dys. I hadda ask whah, so, yuh, he done tole me it wus 'cos them young'uns in town wussen so fresh an' friendleh come Sundeh morn' fer sermon an' all if they been drinkin' all ni'te. Then I said, yuh, but I jus' be passin' through so I ain't gonn' be he' tomorra fer no sermon or nuttin' so how 'bout a beah or som'tin?  But naw, that there fella woudden sell me no beah so I kinda got a li'l pisseh with'im an' done tole him a few truths. Yuh…"

The drumstick reached the end of its temporary career as a baton when Wynne's teeth tore off a large chunk and proceeded to chew on it with great relish. Unlike the deputies who drank sodas - a Pineapple-Papaya Perfection for Beatrice and a Apricot Explosion for Mandy - Wynne had a stack of H.E. Fenwyck's finest in front of her, and she took a slurping swig of a Double Zero to wash down the drumstick's greasy skin and the Tex-Mex spices it had been coated in.

"Then what happened, Miss Donohue?" Beatrice said, balancing the juicy piece of white meat on her plastic fork.

"Lawrdie, that there bar keep an' ol' Bahb-bah done ganged up on me!  Yessirree, them folks done picked me up an' threw mah bee-hind out on that there street right next ta mah ol' truck!  An' y'all can take that literalleh!  They wussen holdin' nuttin' back when they wus throwin', lemme tell ya. Good shit almighteh, mah buh-tt-cheeks wus black an' blue fer a week aftahwards. That wussen no fuh-n 'cos I wus still a hundred-an'-eighteh miles from wheah I needed-a be. Or wanted ta go, anyhows."

Beatrice was so enthralled by the story she hardly had time to eat, but she did scoop up a small batch of French fries. "And where was that?" she said before the fries found their way into her mouth.

"Haw!  That wus right he', Bea!  I wus goin' ta good, ol' Goldsborah… I sure wus!  I didden know it at the tih-me, o' course. I didden ack-chew-leh know until I done reached that there citeh limits sign that said Goldsborah. I wus low on gas so I done said Hallelujah, this he' li'l ol' town is wheah I be stayin' the ni'te. I be guessin' it wus the dang-blasted longest ni'te in the history o' wimmenkind 'cos I still be he'!"

Beatrice let out a laugh before she took her can of soda. Mandy just smiled and reached over to pat her partner's hand. Her own mystery box only had a few random bits of chicken left in it, so she sneaked her hand into Wynne's and nabbed a piece of white meat.

The smile was mirrored on Wynne's face until it suddenly disappeared - it was replaced by a concerned look as her eyes began to dart around their seemingly quiet surroundings. The transistor radio added a little more spookiness by playing Ramón Navarro & The Tejas Amigos' interpretation of the Spiritual classic Upon These Lonesome Plains We Wander.

"Haw," Wynne said after a few seconds, "mebbe I shoudden be sayin' som'tin lack that out loud considerin' them ca-razeh things we been thru'. I realleh oughtta keep mah trap shut. But anyhows. That wus mah first tih-me he' in Goldsborah. Lawrdie, I done stayed at Missus Bizzeh-boddeh's boardin' house fer a while, an'… yuh… the rest is historeh as them wise folks say."

The sound of the old-fashioned Bakelite telephone on the watch desk ringing made everyone look at the open door. Barry could be heard taking the call, but the details of his conversation didn't travel far enough to be understood. When nothing further had happened after a minute and a half or so, Mandy wiped her lips on her napkin, pulled off her makeshift bib and pushed her chair back to investigate the nature of the call.

Barry came over to stand in the doorway to the crew room holding a handwritten note before the sheriff got too far - he still wore his ridiculous-looking tea-towel-bib that showed countless signs of having been intimate with coleslaw, soda, chicken grease, seasoning sauce and, above all, ash.

As the deputy sheriff drew a breath to relay the information he had just jotted down, his hard-working lungs objected and sent him into a coughing fit that not only exacerbated the injuries he had sustained in the wrestling match with Beatrice at the start of the day, but in the later back-thumping incident as well. Cross-eyed and blue in the face, he had to double over and slam his clenched fist against his bib-covered chest to get the clog of mucus to loosen up.

Blackie and Goldie stared at the unfortunate human with wide doggy-eyes - they exchanged a few yaps that meant they had better make room in their busy agendas for the human's funeral.

Beatrice let out a long sigh and rolled her own eyes. Wynne needed to put down her latest can of beer so it wouldn't slosh over the edge from the constant stream of snickers she produced. Mandy didn't see the humor. Getting up, she crossed her arms over her chest with a look of pure annoyance written all over her face. When Barry's coughing fit didn't die down, she let out a barked: "Deputy Simms!  Get a grip, man!"

"I'm try- try- I'm- I'm try- trying, Sh- Sh- Sherrrr-" Barry croaked when he had enough air in the brief lulls between the wheezing and the coughing - all he was able to do was to shake his head and hand the note to the sheriff.

Mandy read the note twice before she let out a grunt.

"Som'tin been goin' on, there, Sheriff?" Wynne said before she scooped up the final fries from her stash and stuffed them into her mouth in a single go.

"Yes, but it isn't urgent," Mandy said as she went back to her chair. Only then did she notice that Barry's coughing fit had receded enough for him to live on. "Deputy Simms, go next door and inform Senior Deputy Gonzalez. I'll be by in a short while to fill in the gaps."

"Yes, Ma'am," Barry croaked before he spun around on his heel and left the crew room - his splutters and random coughs could be heard all the way through the outer office until he went out onto the street.

Mandy turned to Beatrice to ask her to sit at the watch desk while Barry was away, but she didn't need to as the rookie deputy was already in the process of removing her makeshift bib and pushing her chair back.

Once they were alone in the crew room, Wynne peeked into Beatrice's mystery box to see if there were any goodies left. She soon discovered that the young deputy had eaten it all down to a pile of chicken bones. There were still a few scraps of meat left on them, so instead of throwing them out, Wynne got up and put the bony remains onto Blackie and Goldie's dinner plate - she was rewarded by happy yaps and even a little finger-licking.

A gospel group's acoustic rendition of an old hymn played over the transistor radio, but the mono loudspeaker made it sound so tinny that Mandy turned it off.

"This he' deal be gettin' kinda excitin'," Wynne said as she grabbed a new can of Double Zero, cracked it open and sat down once more. "Or mebbe it be gettin' kinda spookeh, I dunno… whassup with that note, there, Mandeh?"

"We may have ended up in the middle of something-"

"Lawrdie, not ag'in," Wynne mumbled - she took an extra-long swig to add a pre-emptive compensation for whatever bad news the sheriff was about to deliver.

Mandy chuckled and reached over to stroke Wynne's arm. "This one doesn't involve you, hon."

"Everehthin' seems ta involve me whethah I want it or not!"

"While that's generally true, this one doesn't," Mandy said with a smile. "It's from headquarters up in Barton City. The long-haired John Doe next door has been identified. He's used several aliases recently, but his real name's Westley Fischer… I think. Barry's handwriting is atrocious."

"Sure ain't no lie!"

Mandy studied Barry's squiggles a little more before she continued: "It seems that Mr. Fischer and a few of his known associates are wanted for questioning with regards to falsification of official documents, larceny and handling of stolen goods as well as suspected production and distribution of high-grade marihuana."

"Holeh shittt, ol' Wes iz a reg'lar choir boy, huh?  Yuh… I s'pose he does kinda look lack one o' them there pot-smokahs."

Mandy narrowed her eyes as she tried to decipher the squiggly lines that Barry claimed was his best and clearest handwriting - if he had to hurry, he jotted everything down in a home-made shorthand that was unreadable for anyone else. "I think it says he's wanted for questioning in MacLean County, Pacumseh County, Willis County and even my old stomping grounds Coleman County… and I can't read the rest. Mmmm… mmmm… something with… oh, the DEA down in Cavanaugh Creek wants to speak to him as well," she said as she held the note at several different angles to read the squiggles.

"Lawrdie, that there fella sure gets around, don't he?" Wynne said and took such a long swig from the Double Zero that the can ended up bone dry. Uttering a puzzled grunt, she stared into the small, dark hole to see if it could in fact be true - another puzzled grunt followed the first one when she realized it was as empty as it seemed. Since nobody else had been near the beer, she had to have chugged it down on her own. Shrugging, she put the empty can on the round table and reached for the next one.

"Speaking of Cavanaugh Creek… have you heard anything from Mr. Bradberry?" Mandy said as she folded up the note and put it in her breast pocket. She got up to signal the end of the festivities - the various Styrofoam and cardboard boxes were soon dumped into the trash while the empty cans were put in a bag for recycling.

"Naw. I ain't heard a peep since that there awesome news 'bout the Rev'rend givin' birth this he' aftahnoon," Wynne said and cracked open the final can of H.E. Fenwyck Double Zero. "Mebbe I worry too durn much, but I jus' can't shake the feelin' som'tin might jump up an' bite us all in the bee-hinds. I sure as stink-on-shoot hope it ain't gonn' happen, but ya know… if it wussen fer bad luck, them friendleh folks in this he' part o' the wohhhh-rld woudden be havin' no luck at all."

"Can't argue with that," Mandy said and put her hand on Wynne's shoulder to ask in a non-verbal manner if The Last Original Cowpoke would mind relocating to another part of the sheriff's office now the impromptu party was over.

Wynne let out a quiet burp and scratched herself here and there once she was on her feet. "Blackie!  Goldie!  Tih-me ta go, girls," she said and patted her thigh. Once she had their dogs' attention, she pointed at the open door and watched their perfect synchronicity as they left the crew room in tandem. "When ya reckon y'all be comin' hoah-me tanight, Sheriff Mandeh?" she said as she donned her denim jacket, grabbed her cowboy hat and picked up the bag of cans meant for recycling.

"My shift ends at eleven thirty," Mandy said and closed the door to the crew room behind them. Although Barry still hadn't returned from next door, his stinking cigarette smoke continued to linger in the air like a cloud of volcanic smog. She crinkled her nose as she strode over to her desk.

"Shoot, that late?  Then it's gonn' be past midnih-te befo' we can snuggle a li'l undah them covahs," Wynne said and plonked her cowboy onto her dark locks. "I ain't sure I can wait that long befo' I need mah beauteh sleep an' all. This he' day wus hella busy, lemme tell ya. First spendin' half the morn' sittin' on our dang-blasted roof 'cos the dang-blasted laddah fell down… then drivin' up he'… then all the scareh drama involvin' the Rev'rend… then racin' ta Cavva-naw Creek with mah pal Ernie… then racin' back ta the trailah an' then up he'… good shit almighteh, I musta done mo' taday than the entiah last week put tagethah. I done had one o' them there powah-naps when I got back an' all, but I still be beat 's what I be tryin' ta tell ya."

Mandy had time to sit down and pick up several pieces of paperwork while Wynne had completed her long-winded soliloquy. Smiling at her partner's lengthy message, she tapped a stack of papers into order so the next item on her agenda was ready when she had an opportunity to get to it. "You do look a little rough around the edges tonight, hon," she said with a smile to take the worst sting out of her words.

"Yuh, don't I know it…"

"I can't promise I can leave sooner."

"Naw, I know. Ain't complainin', jus' sayin'." Another wide yawn nearly cracked Wynne's face in half before she could do anything to hide it. "Beg' pardon, there, Sheriff…" she said as she smacked her lips. "Anyhows. I'mma-gonn' be ovah at Moira's with these he' cans an' all… mebbe give that there Slow Lane a hand closin' up if he needs one. Mebbe say nighteh-night ta the pool table an' mebbe one o' them there Dubbel-Zerahs. Then me an' them dawggies be headin' hoah-me. Okeh?"

"Okay. Drive safely, hon," Mandy said and winked at her partner.

"Ah sure will, Sheriff Mandeh!  Bah-bah!  An' bah-bah ta ya, there, De-per-ty Quick Draw Bea!" Wynne said as she passed by the watch desk where Beatrice had made herself comfortable with Sally Swackhamer and Blood, Babes & Bazookas - the deputy sheriff in question looked up and offered The Last Original Cowpoke an embarrassed grin.

-*-*-*-

The hands of time soon reached ten-thirty PM. The retired pro-wrestler Joe-Bob Millard seemed to have learned his lesson as he gave Mandy and Rodolfo no trouble upon his release from Holding Cell One. The obese gentleman even tried to utter a mumbled apology to Rodolfo for smacking him over the head in the fracas during the arrest earlier in the day, but he was so out of practice when it came to apologizing for anything that it never amounted to much.

After the necessary paperwork had been written and signed by Joe-Bob and Mandy, she escorted him back to his natural habitat: Derrike Iverson's seedy dive a short distance up Main Street. She had to walk at a snail's pace in order for the barrel-shaped fellow to keep up with her, but even so, the 400-pound Manbeast Of Yucky Flats huffed and puffed like a steam locomotive with a tear in the boiler.

His bright-red 1976 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible was still parked in the spot outside Iverson's Bar where he had left it at the start of the day, but even after spending so many hours in the holding cell, it would be a while before he was sober enough to drive home. Chances were great he would spend the entire evening and most of the night adding to his level of inebriation, so Mandy kept the car keys locked inside the gun cabinet until further notice.

Mandy furrowed her brow at the sight of the countless trucks parked in front of the notorious dive. Through her daily foot patrols of Goldsboro's two streets, she knew just about all of the vehicles owned by the locals, but she failed to recognize any of those parked outside Derrike's establishment.

A closer study of the unfamiliar vehicles and their license plates yielded little, but the amount of desert dust on the flanks of some of them offered hints that they had driven far to get to Goldsboro. They all carried American flags and stickers that said J6B, but neither the abbreviation nor its logo rang any bells for Mandy.

Joe-Bob had needed a break from the strenuous process of putting one foot ahead of the other so Mandy had walked ahead to check out the trucks. Looking back at the former wrestler, she let out a sigh at his pace that was no better than that of a snail going uphill in molasses. "Are you all right, Mr. Millard?" she said as she went back to the large man to give him a hand.

"Sure, li'l lady. My head's swimmin' and I'm a little outta breath, but that's nothin' new. I'll get there," Joe-Bob said in the brief moments where he didn't huff or puff.

Once Mandy and the human beer barrel reached the battered wooden door to the dive, she let out a groan and a muted curse. A note had been sticky-taped to the door informing the public that the bar was closed all evening for a private event: the inaugural meeting of The J6 Brigade - a chapter of The League Of Patriotic Citizens.

Mandy couldn't be bothered to ask Joe-Bob if he knew what the J6 Brigade was, or whether or not he was a member of the League. To cut a long story short so she could get back to the real world, she opened the door and helped the large gentleman inside.

He had to crab sideways to get his bulk through the door, but they were soon inside and shuffled across the sawdust that was always spread over the untreated floorboards to soak up the urine, blood and vomit that seemed to end up there on an all-too regular basis.

The semi-darkness hid most of the mismatched furniture and the inch-thick layers of nicotine on the brown walls, but it could do nothing against the stink: as usual, Derrike's place reeked of cheap perfume, low-grade corn liquor, cigarette smoke, stale beer, old sweat and fresh urine from the open urinals that were located just beyond a cinderblock wall at the back part of the bar room.

The wooden counter at the center of the establishment still looked the same it always had as did the round poker tables off to the right, but the section to the left of the entrance no longer held the video poker machines and the old-fashioned One-Armed Bandit slot machine that had been there earlier - the slot machine had been destroyed in a brawl and the electronic video poker had lost its lure when Moira had added her own machines that were of a far higher quality.

A torn Stars & Stripes flag rescued from a battlefield in Vietnam had been put in the bar's most prominent location - it was still stained by the dried blood of the last man to carry it. Freedom Is Worth Dying For was inscribed underneath the flag in tall, blood-red letters. The important piece of cloth was protected by a sheet of shatterproof Lexan that could withstand a direct hit from a full-sized glass of beer thrown at it at full speed.

Autographed photos of Dwight D. Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, both George Bushes and Donald Trump were lined up below Old Glory. Even the current President was there, but his face had been pinned to a dartboard and used for target practice.

Derrike Iverson stood behind the counter dunking a beer tumbler in a bowl of hot water. Though the fifty-six-year-old had lost a good portion of his hair, he had lost none of his presence: still stocky and heavy-set, the former light-heavyweight prizefighter matched his misshapen ears, nose, eyebrows and cheekbones with a fierce scowl that dared anyone to joke about his looks.

He wore a dark-gray T-shirt under a checkered flannel shirt; the sleeves of the latter had been rolled up to his elbows while he dunked-and-wiped the row of tumblers and shot glasses lined up ahead of him.

The dive was well-attended by the kind of patrons who looked like they were never far away from drawing their long-barrel .38s or Colt Peacemaker replicas to settle old, new or imagined scores. The moment the men noticed the uniform-wearing woman showing up in their sanctuary, they fell so quiet that it was possible to hear the water babbling in the open urinals out back.

It was all old hat for Mandy so the glares sent her way just bounced off her. She was struck by genuine surprise when she noticed the rather feminine Holly Lorenzen sitting at the bar sipping some kind of lime-green cocktail while being chatted-up by a hopeful barfly. After the initial moment of astonishment, Mandy remembered Holly mentioning that she preferred the rowdier, more macho-oriented clientele at Derrike Iverson's dive to the 'sissy boys' found at Moira's because she loved being at the center of attention of so-called real men.

The hairdresser let out an insulted huff at the sight of the sheriff; she turned her back to Mandy in an ostentatious fashion to show that she continued to be of the opinion that women had no business being in positions of authority.

Several square tables had been pushed together at the center of the bar room to create the spot where the members of the League Of Patriotic Citizens would convene. At the head of the tables sat none other than Artie Rains whose watery eyes and ruddy complexion proved he had already had plenty of Old Number Seven.

The other members of the League were all large men sporting impressive facial hair, mullets and beer guts. Camouflaged hunting jackets, army boots, flannel shirts and trucker caps featuring various political slogans seemed to be the established dress code among the members of which there were nine in total - the only exception to the rule was the town drunk, Robert Neilson, whose shabby clothes and worn-down looks proved he was in the middle of another of his tragic week-long benders.

Neilson didn't sit at the table with the big boys but stood next to Artie Rains like he was groveling for a handout. After the former sheriff had put a shiny coin into the palm of the trembling hand, Neilson stumbled up to the bar at once where he put the coin on the counter and got a small glass of cherry brandy in return.

The boozed-up Patriotic Citizens continued to give Mandy the cold shoulder, but the moment they recognized Joe-Bob Millard returning to his circle of true friends, the obese gentleman was helped over to one of the available chairs and given a beer tumbler and a full pitcher.

Much to the vocal delight of his fellow Patriots, Joe-Bob stayed true to form by pushing the tumbler aside and chugging down the beer directly from the pitcher - that some of it ended up all over his well-worn suit didn't seem to register.

Once the initial joy had subsided, the members of the League felt it necessary to stare daggers at the woman in their midst. Artie kept quiet for a change, but the wicked gleam in his red eyes proved that he was itching to get something nasty going.

His silence didn't last long: "Well, lookie here, boys… the short legs of the law has come to pay us a visit. How nice to see you here, sheriff. You ready to join the Patriotic Citizens?"

"No."

"Then I suggest you take a hike."

The other members of the League Of Patriotic Citizens all turned to face Mandy who remained where she was. Tension grew exponentially until it reached the point where a mere grunt in a wrong key could set off an uncontrollable chain reaction.

Adrenaline blasted through Mandy's system while her heart played a frantic drumbeat in her chest. She knew a dangerous stalemate when she saw one. If she stayed, things would get out of hand. If she left, she would admit defeat which would undermine her authority over the men the next time she met them at a traffic control or even on the sidewalk. She clenched her jaw and made eye-contact with each bearded fellow in turn to let them know they shouldn't think she would be a pushover. Artie Rains was beyond all logic and reach so she didn't even bother with him.

"Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen," she said and turned around. She expected to be heckled all the way to the door, but the silence that followed in her wake was perhaps even more chilling. It was only when she closed the battered door to Main Street that she heard a few of them shout juvenile vulgarities at her - she noted with some satisfaction that their beery voices weren't as cocksure as they could have been.

Artie Rains was never one to let such an opportunity slip past him, so he capped off Mandy's visit to the dive with his favorite exit line for her: 'Watch out, fellas!  Woman with a gun!' It earned him scattered applause and much laughter of the coarse kind.

The grim expression etched onto Mandy's face could have scared off John Dillinger or even Bonnie and Clyde. She remained in front of Derrike Iverson's smelly dive for a short minute before she strode back to the sheriff's office intending to get some strong coffee.

Having almost reached the office, she spotted the front of Wynne's black Silverado poking out from the mouth of the alley behind Moira's Bar & Grill. A quick glance at the white digits on her telephone proved it was far beyond the time where Wynne had said she wanted to drive home. Letting out a puzzled grunt, she crossed over Main Street to look into the unexpected development.

---

Five minutes earlier inside Moira's.

No less than eight H.E. Fenwyck Double Zeros and a single Pale Lager had been stacked up like a House Of Cans on one of the tables. A snoring Wynne was hidden behind the impressive edifice made of colorful aluminum, but it only lasted until she happened to belch in her sleep which sent the entire thing rattling and clanging onto the floor.

ZZZZzzzz- "Wha- whe- whut?!  Them crittahs!  Them crittahs be he'!  Head fer them hills!  Haw… whaddahell… durn, I done fell asleep," Wynne mumbled before she rubbed her tired eyes.

Some of the other patrons laughed at her and waved their own cans of beer in the air to commiserate with the unfortunate can-stacker. Wynne waved back before she began to scoop up all the empty Double Zeros and the single Pale Lager. With eight of the nine cans back on the table, she glanced at her telephone to see what the time said - a grunt escaped her when she realized it was already ten-thirty-nine PM and that she had slept for more than half an hour though the Bar & Grill's regular din hadn't been any quieter than usual.

Blackie and Goldie rested underneath the table, but their backs, paws and tails had been spared getting hit by the light-weight aluminum. The dogs exchanged a few yaps and small barks that explained the situation and their owner's odd behavior.

After Wynne had picked up the last errant can that had rolled several feet away, she pushed her chair back so she had room to kneel down and reach under the table. Her dogs were given a series of loving rubs before she let out a deep sigh. "Lawrdie, girls, I can't stop thinkin' 'bout Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne. Yuh, I ain't fergettin' she alreddeh done gave birth an' all so ev'rehthin' oughtta be fih-ne an' dandeh, but… I can't help but think that it ain't all fih-ne an' dandeh aftah all. Know what I mean?"

Woof! - Yap!

"Yuh. When a pregnant gal starts bleedin', som'tin ain't right. I know ol' Ernie done tole me ev'rehthin' wus undah control, but them doctahs sure don't always know what they be doin'. Yuh?  Lawrdie, I know fer dang sure it ain't so 'cos I been treated ta some real stinkeh shit in mah tih-me by them folks, lemme tell ya. I got som'tin gnawin' at mah gut from the insides out, an' it sure ain't them wondahful fried chickies I jus' ate."

Yap-yap-yap?

"Y'all hit that there nail on da head, there, Goldie… it's worreh. Hell, it ain't jus' worreh… it's feah. I be shittin' bricks he' that ol' Ernie gonn' call an' tell me the darlin' Rev'rend done had a relapse or whutevah. Som'tin jus' ain't right, I can feel that in mah boh-nes. Or mebbe I oughtta say, som'tin wussen right. Lawrdie, I sure do hope it's the lattah."

Woof! - Yap!

"Yuh, I knew y'all wus gonn' lissen ta mah concerns. Yessir," Wynne said and treated Blackie and Goldie to an extra-loving round of rubs and little ear-scratches. "Haw. Mebbe I jus' be dog-gone sad ol' Ernie gonn' be movin' out or whutevah they end up decidin' on. Okeh, we mighta get Bea ta come out ta the pah-rk in Ernie's ol' trailah, but… but… I mean, she's a nih-ce kid an' all, but it sure woudden be the same. Shit. I need a beah. Y'all want a beah or som'tin?"

Woof-wooooof-woof!

"I s'pose y'all got a point there, Blackie. Okeh, hold them beahs. But I need one som'tin fierce, lemme tell ya… an' mebbe some pork rinds or som'tin. Yuh," Wynne said and got up to get a round of salty snacks.

The moment she stood up straight, her bladder told her she needed to make a little detour first or risk sitting on soaked jeans for the rest of the evening. "Lawwwwwwwr-die… gotta… gotta… gotta… go… ain't… ain't… ain't… gonn'… make… it," she croaked as she inched over to the door to the public restrooms that was only ten feet away.

---

Two seconds after the restroom door had closed after Wynne's hasty entry, the door to Main Street opened to reveal Mandy who still wore a puzzled expression. It only took her half a heartbeat to spot Blackie, Goldie and the stack of cans on the table - she let out a chuckle as the first pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place. Walking over to the table, she crouched down and gave their dogs yet another fur-rubbing.

Blackie responded by letting out a small bark and pointing her muzzle at the door to the restroom.

"I should have known," Mandy said as she got up. Almost by instinct, she let her professional eye slide over the other people present in the bar and grill. Less than a quarter of the tables were occupied due to the lateness of the evening, so the task was less stressful than it would have been at a peak hour:

Wyatt Elliott, the owner of the hardware store, wore one of his fancy, white Western suits that made him look like a caricature of an old-fashioned cattle baron; he sipped from a tall glass that looked to contain a light draft beer. Wyatt shared a table with Mary-Lou Skinner, the chairwoman of the Goldsboro Town Council, who had a glass of bourbon on the rocks in front of her.

Roscoe Finch and Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. stood at the pool table arguing about something irrelevant. A closer look proved they were both trying to impress an attractive lady in her early twenties who sat close to the table. She seemed to be eyeing them both which could only lead to disaster further down the line.

A cloud of foul-smelling cheroot-smoke rose from the table where Barry Simms' aunt sat. The elderly, blue-haired Mildred Herzberg played a round of dominos with herself while picking her teeth with some kind of instrument that didn't look like a regular toothpick.

The underqualified and overworked A.J. 'Slow' Lane toiled away at the cooking stoves tending to the evening's last cheeseburger. While preparing the last bucket of fries and flipping the beef patty with a greasy spatula, he was heckled by the last remaining barflies who sat on the row of stools at the counter - one of whom was Clifford Tobin's grandson Kenny whose Dodge's cracked exhaust still sent shockwaves up and down Main Street whenever he drove past.

Still a minor, Kenny Tobin seemed to be drinking a regular Coke from a tumbler, but Mandy made a mental note of sniffing the contents before she left. She knew that Moira MacKay or A.J. Lane would never serve alcohol to a minor, but flasks holding potent spirits could easily be hidden in pockets.

The wool-lined denim jacket Kenny wore was almost identical to one of Wynne's jackets, so Mandy knew how large the pockets could be. Just as she had begun to move up to the counter to give the young man The Talk and inspect the soda, the missing Last Original Cowpoke came out of the public restrooms.

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die!  That there ladeh ovah yondah be lookin' jus' lack mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandeh!  Whah, it sure is!" Wynne hollered as she swung her cowboy hat high in the air.

Chuckling, Mandy changed direction and moved back to the table with all the empty cans. "Hello again, hon. How come you didn't drive home after all?"

" 'Cos I wanted ta wait fer ya anyhows is how come. But I guess I'mma-gonn' hafta wave the consulta-shun flag aftah all-"

"You'll wave the what?"

"Mah numbah's on the boah-rd, darlin'!  They given me da black flag!" Wynne said with a grin. When it became obvious Mandy had no idea whatsoever what she meant, she continued: "Haw, I bettah be headin' fer hoah-me is whut I be tryin' ta tell ya. I wus moah tih-ed than I reckoned I wus 'cos I kinda fell asleep all ovah that there table," Wynne said and let out an embarrassed chuckle that made Goldie peek out from underneath the table and nod her doggy head.

"Oh… I see. In any case, I'm glad I caught you. I really needed to see a smiling face… and get something cold and sugary to drink," Mandy said as she took off her Mountie hat and hung it on the chair's backrest.

"Yuh?  It jus' so happens we got both he' at Moira's. C'mon, have a siddown. Whassamaddah?"

"Artie Rains," Mandy said as she sat down. She tried to catch 'Slow' Lane's attention by waving at him, but she realized it was a lost cause when all he gave her in return was a look of raw panic at having to do even more.

"Ugh. That nasteh, ol' sombitch," Wynne said and pulled an ugly grimace. "I done hadda run-in with'im taday as well, yes Ma'am. Up at Holleh's salon of all places. Can y'all bah-lieve dat shit?"

"Mmmm. He and a group of his like-minded cronies are over at Iverson's chugging down beers. They call themselves the League Of Patriotic Citizens. Did you see all the trucks parked up there?"

"Yuh, I sure did, ack-chew-ly…"

"They all carried stickers that said J6B. Derrike had even put a note on the door that mentioned that as well. The J6 Brigade. Have you ever heard of that?"

"Naw. But if that there nasteh-ass Artie Rains is involved, y'all can bet yer bottom dollah ain't nuttin' good gonn' come outta it," Wynne said while she checked all the cans to see if she had really had emptied them all or if she could squeeze a single drop of beer from one of them.

Mandy let out a dark grunt and retrieved her telephone. "I have a bad feeling about it. I better check at once so we won't have any surprises later on."

"Haw!  That there be good thinkin', yes Ma'am!"

A couple of taps, swipes and scrolls later, Mandy let out a long, slow sigh as she found a newspaper article describing the nationwide protest movement known as the J6 Brigade. "Dammit, that's just what we don't need in Goldsboro. Listen to this… the J6 Brigade was established in rural Pennsylvania by a self-appointed Colonel of the People's Militia, Bartholomew Stuart. His intentions were to support and celebrate the people involved in the Washington D.C. insurgence on January Sixth… hence the name."

Wynne shook her head. "Aw, Merceh Sakes… figgers. An' ta think Rains wus da seniah law enfohr-'sment off'cer he' in MacLean Counteh fer Gawd-knows how maneh years an' all. Lawrdie, that's dog-gone pitiful. I bet them fellas wus ugleh as sin ta a man. Yuh?"

Mandy tried to signal 'Slow' Lane again so she could get him to crush some ice cubes for her soda, but gave up for good when she noticed that he had to throw the charred beef patty into the trash can after losing track of time pouring a draft beer for one of the barflies.

Grunting, she turned back to Wynne. "That's the part that concerns me, Wynne. They weren't cartoon villains. They were just regular men who were willing to listen to Artie's view of the world. Nearly all were new in town. Robert Neilson was the only familiar face there… well, he and Holly Lorenzen-"

"Lawrdie!  Whaddindahell wus Holleh doin' there?!  Nevah mind, I ain't sure I wanna know!  Hell, Goldsborah's seen enuff crap ovah the years alreddeh. We sure as stink-on-shoot don't need-a bunch o' them there anti-ev'rehthin'-an'-ev'rehbodda-rabble-rousahs ta stir up trubbel. No way, no how, no Ma'am!"

"No," Mandy said and let out a sigh. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop for a moment before she gave it a gentle thump with a clenched fist instead. "I can't spend the rest of my shift waiting for Mr. Lane. I'll just take a can from the refrigerator instead. Do you need anyth-"

"Ah sure woudden say no ta a Dubbel-Zerah, darlin'!"

"I knew you'd say that," Mandy said with a grin as she got up from the chair.

Just as she returned from the refrigerators with a can of Power Supply XTra Caffeine energy drink for herself and another Double Zero for Wynne, the entire row of barflies up at the counter erupted in a loud cheer. Poor A.J. 'Slow' Lane was pulled through the proverbial meat grinder all over again when the frankfurter he had on the stove as a replacement for the ruined beef patty sizzled so hard it flew straight off the flat surface and onto the floor.

"Holeh shittt, that there Slow Lane be hazzah-duss ta ou'ah health!" Wynne said and let out a braying laugh that made Blackie and Goldie let out puzzled barks from somewhere underneath the table. "If he wussen such a friendleh fella, his bee-hind woulda been fiah'ed ages ago. Naw, Sheriff Mandeh, we bettah be geddindahell outta he' befo' he starts throwin' som'tin around ta get even with them there hecklahs… lack them meatballs o' his… Lawrdie, they be hardah than them cue balls!"

Mandy nodded before she took a long swig of her Power Supply energy drink. "Sounds like a plan. Before we go, I need to pay Mr. Tobin a visit, though."

"Ol' man Clifford be he'?" Wynne said and craned her neck for the old, toothless fellow she had come to know after delivering fried chicken to the closed gas station on the State Route.

"No, Kenny Tobin. Clifford's grandson. The old fellow's fallen ill."

"Aw-shoot… realleh?  Durn. Yuh, okeh. While y'all go an' do dat, I jus' gotta…"  Wynne let out a comical whistle while she pointed at the public restrooms.

"Again?  Didn't you just-"

"Eight Dubble-Zerahs an' a Pale Lagah, darlin'. Nih-ne beahs… an' eight miles between he' an' hoah-me. Yuh?"

"Say no more. Meet you outside in a few minutes," Mandy said with a grin before she took a long swig of the Power Supply. The can was put on the table while she donned her Mountie hat; once the important part of her uniform was in place, she let her game face fall over her and strode up to the counter to have a quiet word with young Mister Tobin about a couple of things - the state of affairs regarding what he drank was the first item on the agenda.

Back at the table, Goldie and Blackie exchanged a quick doggy-look before they let out a string of yaps and barks that meant 'I can't believe it… they've forgotten about us!' - 'Oh, they'll be back.' - 'You think?' - 'I'm positive.' - 'Good, 'cos I'm hungry. And the tall one always puts those yummy treats in my eating bowl. I don't want her to leave me!' - 'You could always hunt jackrabbits… they're yummy too.' - 'That's disgusting!  I'll do nothing of the kind, thankyouverymuch!' - 'Suit yourself. I'll bet you'll change your tune by the time hunger makes you gnaw on our sleeping basket.'

A sudden, whistled command blew all Goldie's fears away. Poking her head out from underneath the table, she let out a happy yap when she saw her tall owner pat her thigh and point at the door. A split second later, the Golden Retriever stormed ahead to get out to the black truck so she could make her favorite spot down in the footwell all her own.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

The new day shone its golden rays of light through the blinds and onto Wynne who sprawled all over the queen-sized bed in her trailer's sleeping section. Flat on her stomach, she had put a pillow over her head in her sleep; her long tresses had been entangled in the pillow case to such an extent it looked as if they were trying to pull it off her. One arm was pinned down underneath her while the other had ended up dangling over the edge of the mattress. Her bare feet and long legs stuck out in the other direction, and all in all, everything looked rather messy.

An eyelid was cracked open before long. As the somewhat reddish blue eye behind it had absorbed its immediate surroundings, Wynne threw the suffocating pillow onto the floor and rolled over onto her back. The fact she was alone and that Mandy's uniform and boots weren't where they always were made her let out a puzzled grunt and sit up on the mattress.

The water wasn't running in the shower, nor could she hear or smell breakfast cooking on their small stove in the kitchenette - furthermore, there was no evidence of Mandy having taken Blackie and Goldie out for an early morning run-around as everything seemed quiet outside.

Grunting again, she began to look for her telephone. It wasn't on the bedside table where she always put it, so she swung her bare legs over the side of the bed with the intention of looking for the elusive gizmo.

The first thing that happened was that her eyelids slipped shut once more. That alone took a couple of minutes to rectify, but the next little issue popped up at once when she accidentally pushed her bathing sandals further and further away while trying to get her feet into them.

Simply reaching for the sandals didn't work as her arms were too short; moving out her long legs to pull the fleeing footwear back didn't work either, and all she got out of it was stubbing her big toe when it bumped hard against one of the legs of the bedside table. And then her eyelids slipped shut once more.

A minute's worth of snoozing later, she came to and stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the sleeping section for the second time in five minutes. Sighing, she got to her feet and reached up under her oversized T-shirt to scratch herself here, there and everywhere. As she looked down to rein in her rebellious bathing sandals, she spotted the telephone that had fallen down into the narrow crevice between the table and the queen-sized bed.

Yet another early-morning grunt escaped her when she saw she had missed no less than three messages over the course of the night and the early hours of the day. At ten past seven, it was high time to make breakfast, so she got up and staggered into the corridor where Blackie and Goldie were fast asleep in their shared doggy-basket.

Mother Nature soon called and forced all thoughts of breakfast to step aside while the more urgent business was taken care of.

---

A quick inspection of the living area - and opening the blinds to peek at the lawn between the trailers - proved that Mandy was nowhere to be found. Since her uniform was missing as well, chances were she had been called back to work without Wynne noticing a thing.

After donning a white, full-length terrycloth bathrobe to cover her sleeping T-shirt and her bare legs, Wynne shuffled into the living area and sat down in her comfortable EzyChair. Most days, she would turn on the TV and watch the morning show on one of the local stations, but the telephone was more important for a change. "Okeh… lessee what them mess-itches wus all 'bout, then," she mumbled as she put a finger onto the touch screen to unlock it.

Though she'd had the telephone for a while, she still needed Mandy's guidance to help her find the proper path through the menu system. The countless bells and whistles were relentless in their never-ending quest to confuse her, so it took a lot longer than it should have to figure out where to tap, swipe and scroll in order to access the messages. When she found them, all that was listed were telephone numbers that didn't ring any bells in her drowsy state.

Out in the narrow corridor between the trailer's sleeping area and the kitchenette, Goldie stirred and began to whimper and shift around in her doggy-basket. The sound and the motion woke Blackie up as well who took the opportunity to snuggle up to the warm body next to her.

Wynne put the telephone away so she could concentrate on the needs of her beloved dogs. The German Shepherd and the Golden Retriever soon enjoyed full bowls of water and tall piles of dry feed that rendered them unable to do anything but chow down for the foreseeable future.

Chuckling at the sight of such frantic eating at such an early hour of the day, Wynne turned up the telephone's volume to maximum and pressed the Play Message bar on the display while she found the various items needed for her own breakfast - oatmeal.

'Hello, Wynne,' Mandy's voice said in the first of the three messages. Not only did the voice sound dead-tired, there was a rumbling noise in the background like she sat in a car while calling.

Goldie looked up from her breakfast to let out a happy yap as a response to hearing her other owner's voice. When she was unable to see the compact, athletic human anywhere, she turned to Blackie for assistance but the German Shepherd was too busy eating to help. Shrugging, Goldie returned to her own food.

"Howdy, Sheriff!  I wus wonderin' where y'all wus!" Wynne said and let out a snicker while she poured the oats into the saucepan she was going to use - the appropriate amounts of water and cooking salt were soon added as well.

'It's almost half past midnight. I'm really sorry, hon, but I won't be able to come home tonight.'

Wynne stopped was she was doing to stare at the telephone. "Holeh shittt… mah sweet, li'l Mandeh gotta be so dang-blasted tiah'ed!"  After a few moments, she ignited the gas stove and put the saucepan on the ring.

'Deputy Simms and I are on our way north on the State Route. Joe-Bob Millard has been reported missing-'

"He whut?!"

'-by a neighbor. They had called each other earlier in the evening to arrange an all-night drinking event once Mr. Millard returned home from his meeting with Artie Rains at Derrike Iverson's. He failed to do so.'

"Lawwwwwwr-die…"

'I spoke to Mr. Iverson who saw Mr. Millard drive off at twenty to midnight. Get this, Wynne… Derrike Iverson had a spare set of keys for Mr. Millard's Cadillac. Had I known that, I'd have confiscated the damned vehicle!'

Wynne let out a frustrated sigh while she stirred the oatmeal and added four medium-sized chunks of butter to give it a rich, creamy taste - she furrowed her brow thinking about how much Mandy hated being dealt the fool's hand in such a fashion.

When the first message ended without warning, Wynne grunted and shuffled over to the telephone to access the next message.

'Sorry about that. Deputy Simms had a coughing fit that forced me to grab the wheel,' Mandy soon said. In the background, Barry's coughing continued. 'Mr. Millard lives in a small settlement of trailers called Old Boys' Haven about nine miles north of Goldsboro. We've called in backup from HQ up in Barton City. They're driving toward us as we speak. I'll call you with an update a little later on. Love you. Bye.'

"Bah-bah, Sheriff!  Love ya lack ca-razy!" Wynne said and made a few kissy-sounds at the telephone although the messages were already several hours old. "Lawrdie… that there Joe-Bob fella is a real piece o' work sometimes, but… shoot… I sure hope the ol' Manbeast don't got sick or nuttin'. I mean, the big fella gotta be weighin' 'bout half a Silveradah or som'tin… yuh… aw-hell, he be fat!  Ain't no two ways 'bout it… he be fattah than a fat thing. Ain't dat right, girls?"

Wynne looked down at Goldie and Blackie to see if they didn't have anything at all to add to the conversation that had proven to be quite one-sided, but the dogs were still too busy eating to have time for anything else.

Once the oatmeal was ready, Wynne poured the steaming-hot, creamy contents into a bowl before she readied a tray, a spoon, a bowl of sugar and finally grabbed a carton of milk from the refrigerator - the whole thing was carried into the living area at a fair clip. The couch beckoned and she was soon chowing down at the same speed her dogs had been eating at earlier. The moment she had a free hand, she pressed the bar on the display to listen to the final message.

'Hi, hon… it's me again. It ten to five,' Mandy said at the other end of the connection - and this time, her voice sounded so strained and fatigued that Wynne stopped eating to pull a grimace at the horrible sound.

'This is one of those good news, bad news situations. We found Mr. Millard just after twenty past three. He was still in his Cadillac… gravely ill but hanging on. For now.'

"Aw, fer Chrissakes…" Wynne mumbled around a spoonful of oatmeal.

'He had only made it five miles out of Goldsboro… we drove straight past him earlier tonight but his car was too far off the road to be seen in the darkness. A paramedic helicopter sent from Barton City eventually found the vehicle. It had veered off the road, driven across a seventy-yard stretch of the desert floor and finally struck a rock formation.'

"Dang!  Poah Joe-Bob-"

'I doubt Mr. Millard was conscious when it happened. The doctor in the paramedic unit said that he had either suffered a stroke or a severe heart attack.'

A spoonful of oatmeal was on its way up to Wynne's mouth but stopped halfway there. The unwanted news made the substantial breakfast meal seem less attractive, so the spoon was soon lowered back into the bowl. "Awwwwww-hell… that there Manbeast be finished no mattah if he done lives or not. Goldsborah's rotten luck strikes ag'in, fer crap's sake!"

'I just wanted to let you know, Wynne. Talk to you tomorrow… well, make that later today. Love you. Bye!'

Wynne picked up the telephone to stare at the white digits: they read 7:49 a.m. The need to see her partner in person was overwhelming, but the lateness of the last call and the fact that Mandy had yet to return to the trailer park offered a few clues that she had wheeled out the spare bunk bed to try to get some sleep in the crew room of the sheriff's office.

Already plotting the course of action she needed to take, Wynne returned to her oatmeal. Another grimace contorted her face when she discovered the dish had turned cold while she had listened to Mandy's last message. Chances were it would be the only solid nourishment she'd have for several hours, so she poured a little more milk and sugar on the pale-gray dish and continued eating it.

---

Ten past eight, she stepped out of the small bathroom drying the last few damp strands of hair with a large bath towel. She had left her telephone hooked up to its charger on the kitchen table while she had showered and washed her hair, so she went over to it to check if any messages had arrived. None had, so she proceeded into the sleeping area to trade the large, fluffy towel with a few blasts of deodorant - Desert Rose by EverFresh - and jump into her clothes.

Blackie and Goldie shot each other puzzled looks down in their doggy-basket; that their owner was so active at such an early hour of the day was more than a little bizarre. Not five minutes later, both dogs jumped up and let out plenty of happy yaps and barks as The Last Original Cowpoke appeared in the kitchenette.

Decked out in full denim glory and wearing her best pair of cowboy boots, Wynne stood tall and proud: she had her sheepskin gloves in the right-hand pocket of her wool-lined jacket and her red bandanna in the rear pocket of her faded jeans - half of the red cloth hung over the edge as required by the age-old Cowpoke Law. Under the jacket, she wore a limited-edition sweatshirt celebrating the 1998 Daytona 500 victory of the GM Goodwrench #3 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. Her battered and bruised low-crowned hat formed the finishing touch by sitting low and sexy over her eyes.

"This he' oughtta do it, yessirree," she said and winked at her beloved pets. "Now lemme get mah phoah-ne an' them there keys fer mah Silveradah an' we be off fer Goldsborah in a flash. An' y'all know what I'mma-gonn' do once we get dere?  I'mma-gonn lock mahself inta Moira's an' get the real fih-ne coffee goin', yessir. Mah sweet, li'l Mandeh gonn' need plentah o' pamperin' taday, an' I be jus' da woman ta do it!"

Blackie and Goldie briefly exchanged a look before they let out even more happy yaps and barks.

"Haw?  Y'all be askin' if there be room fer y'all in mah truck?  Whah, I woudden have it any othah way, darlin's!  Les'go," Wynne said and opened the inner door using the proper door handle - the screen door was simply pushed open with the tip of her boot.

---

Like most mornings, Brenda Travers had come out to the central lawn between the trailers so she could get a little exercise in before she would be tied up with her work as an IT consultant. Her yoga mat in place, the ultra-fit lady - who wore gray, loose-fitting capris and a pink sports top - was already engaged in a bone-bending position known as the Dancing Tigress when she spotted her neighbor and the dogs coming out of their trailer. "Good morning, Wynne!  Slept well?" she said in a voice that was muted by the fact her head was lower than most of the rest of her body.

The dogs carried on over to the black truck, but Wynne made a detour to talk to her friendly neighbor. Once she got there, she needed to bend over and crane her neck to look her in the eye. "Howdy, Brendah!  Yuh, I kinda slept okeh, but all alone. Wouldya bah-lieve mah sweet, li'l Mandeh wus bizzeh all ni'te 'cos ol' Joe-Bob Millard had goh-ne missin'!"

"Joe-Bob… that's the very obese gentleman, right?  The former wrestler?"

"Yuh. He be' in a heap o' trubbel now… Mandeh done tole me the docs had tole her ol' Joe-Bob suffah'ed a stroke or a heart attack or som'tin… he done wrecked that there nih-ce Caddeh o' his jus' north o' Goldsborah."

"Oh, that's terrible… I guess it's no surprise considering how large he was," Brenda said before she changed positions to assume The Turtle Shell.

"Naw. Guess it ain't… too bad 'bout the Caddeh, tho'. That wus a genu-ihne piece o' Americana, that. He done drove me home las'year from that there mud-bog racin' an' tractah pullin' thing out at Thundah Park. Yuh. Ol' Joe-Bob wus a handful at tih-mes, but he sure don't de-suh-rve ta end up lack that. Imagine spendin' the entiah ni'te all alone in that there desuhrt ain't knowin' if y'all gonn' croak befo' ya done take yer next breath. Lawrdie."

"Gawd… just the thought…"

"Yuh. Haw, sorreh 'bout that there downah stuff. I didden mean ta ruin' yer mornin' or nuttin'. Yer Foh-rd ain't he'… Vaughn done drove ta work without'cha?"

"He did, yes. I've taken the day off," Brenda said while her body was tied into a knot to fit into The Turtle Shell. "I'll start a new project on Monday so I thought I'd clear my mind with an extended weekend."

"That there be good thinkin,' Brendah. Yes, Ma'am," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "Anyhows, I'mma-gonn' race north ta Goldsborah now ta offah a li'l moral suppahrt. An' make some o' that goooood coffee so them de-per-ties don't get no heartbuh-rn at this he' ca-razy tih-me o' the day."

"Oh, that's a wonderful gesture. I'm sure they'll appreciate it, Wynne."

"I sure be hopin' they will. Okeh, see ya latah, Brendah," Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat. "Jus' gotta say one thing, tho'… howindahell y'all can do that there thing there without fallin' ovah, I ain't nevah gonn' figger out…"

"Oh, this is nothing!  Watch this!" Brenda said before she jumped into an even more outrageous position known as the Bicycling Octopus.

"Holeh shittt… yuh, I bettah be goin', 'cos… dang… this he' be gettin' jus' a li'l too much lack what them nih-ce folks be showin' on that there cable teevee aftah midnight an' all… yuh… bah-bah, Brendah!" Wynne said and forced herself to look past her neighbor's dips, swells and limber limbs.

-*-*-*-

It wasn't out of the ordinary that Wynne had to be told something twice for it to stick, but she took pride in the fact that she had never made the same mistake three times - at least not to her knowledge. Therefore, she and her dogs hunched over while they inched closer to the windows of the sheriff's office on Main Street eight miles north of the trailer park.

The main objective of Wynne's curious and unusual approach was to see if the quick-drawing Beatrice Reilly was around, or if it was safe to enter without risking an ugly bullet hole in the priceless sweatshirt after startling the jumpy deputy.

Perhaps she should have counted herself lucky not to have been mistaken for a crook with her cowboy hat, her bandanna, her denim outfit, her black hellhound and their suspicious behavior in front of the sheriff's office, but she had little space in her thoughts for anything but to scout for the Legendary Gal Of The Wild Frontier, 'Quick Draw' Bea.

When she realized nobody sat at the watch desk, at the small desk further back or even at the desk belonging to the sheriff, she let out a muted whoop of triumph and stood up straight. She opened the glass door and allowed the dogs inside before she tip-toed through the entrance.

Not three seconds later, the peace was shattered as an entire bunch of things happened at the exact same time: one, Beatrice popped up out of nowhere holding a soaked pile of tissues after having spent the past few minutes on her hands and knees on the cracked linoleum mopping up after an accident involving a mug of coffee; two, Wynne gasped and jerked a foot in the air; three, Blackie let out a thunderous bark; four, Goldie whimpered, spun around and thumped muzzle-first into Wynne's legs before she sprinted out of the sheriff's office; five, Beatrice gasped even louder, let go of the soaked tissues and reached for her sidearm with the speed of a hunting ferret.

"Whoah!  Whoah-whoah-whoah an' anothah whoah!" Wynne squeaked as she thrust her hands in the air at the sight of the black handgun that - like the person wielding it - appeared out of nowhere. "Wynne Donnah-hew he', de-per-ty!  Wynne!  Y'all remembah Wynne Donnah-hew, dontcha?  That be me!  Dang'it, y'all be theee jumpiest de-per-ty Ah evah done clapped eyes on!  Holeh shittt, Bea!"

Blackie uttered a guttural growl until she realized the person she was growling at was in fact one of the good gals. Puzzled, she looked up at her owner to seek an explanation to the odd situation.

"Will you stop doing that!" Beatrice said through clenched teeth. Rolling her eyes, she shoved the firearm back into the holster she carried on her hip. Her black-and-dark-gray uniform was far less pristine than usual - not only was it wrinkled in all sorts of places, the knot on her necktie had worked itself loose and sat crooked.

Wynne took off her hat so she had room to wipe her brow on her jacket sleeve. "Haw!  Ah ain't got nuttin' ta say ta that 'cept that Ah did dog-gone stop doin' it… but y'all didden!"

"Will you please keep your voice down?  The sheriff is sleeping in the crew room," Beatrice continued in an insistent semi-whisper.

"Yuh… yuh. Ah will. Ah be gladda hear it, ack-chew-leh," Wynne said at a far lower volume. "But anyhows, Ah peeked in an' y'all wussen he' an' noboddah else wus he' neithah. But then y'all came outta nowheah lack one o' them dog-gone Jack-in-da-boxes or someboddah an' scared da livin' shits outta me… sheesh!"

Crouching down, Wynne gave Blackie's fur a little rub. "Hey girl, go find Goldie, yuh?  She prolleh back at the truck or somewhere. Yuh?  Off ya go." Blackie soon let out an affirmative yap and took off in search for her golden-furred companion.

"It's not a good day, Miss Donohue. Let's call a truce," Beatrice said as she reached for their pack of ground coffee to try again.

Wynne moved over to the sheriff's desk and planted her left buttock on the corner in one of her favorite poses. "Yuh, I know, 'cos Sheriff Mandeh done tole me ovah the phoah-ne an' all. Poah Joe-Bob. Wus ya out there with 'em?"

"No, I had the watch. I coordinated the radio transmissions between the medic chopper and the sheriff."

"Okeh. Lissen, Bea, if y'all could hold off makin' that there coffee fer mebbe ten minutes or so, y'all can have the real good stuff from Moira's machine an' all. That there brown gunk y'all call coffee ovah he' ain't worth the watah y'all be 'bout ta pour inta it."

"I don't have access to-"

"Mebbe y'all don't, but I sure do," Wynne said and held up the bundle of keys needed to unlock not only the main entrance but the kitchen door to Moira's Bar & Grill. "An' I wus thinkin' I wus gonn' make some o' that there real fih-ne coffee an' toast some bread fer ya… mebbe some cheese an' cold cuts slapped on 'em… mebbe some strawberreh jam."

The loud growl that burst forth from Beatrice's stomach at the promise of food proved it had been a while since she had eaten anything substantial.

Wynne nodded in an exaggerated fashion. "Yuh. I reckon that there be a big, ol' ten-four, huh?  Considah it done, good buddeh. I'mma-gonn' swing bah in a li'l while with all them goodies an' mebbe a li'l mo' if som'tin catches mah eye. Okeh, I be seein' ya, de-per-ty!"

Getting up from the corner of the desk, she tipped her cowboy hat and strolled back to the door. She had just put her hand on the door handle when she turned back to Beatrice: "Jus' remembah I'mma-gonn' be back, ya heah?  Ain't no quick-drawin' at this he' tih-me o' the mornin', yuh?"

"I'll try, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said with a half-grin etched onto her face.

"Sure can't ask fer mo' than that, no Ma'am," Wynne said and stepped outside. She had only just made it onto the sidewalk when she spotted Rodolfo Gonzalez walking toward her. The senior deputy dragged his feet to such an extent that he almost moved like one of the zombies that had invaded Goldsboro on that fateful Halloween a few years back.

His complexion had turned from pale-brown to all-gray save for his bruised cheek that remained reddish. His hair was a mess, his uniform was even worse, his cheeks were covered in a lot more than a five o'clock shade and it was obvious his eyelids needed to be taped open or else they would remain closed.

"Holeh shittt!  Whaddindahell done happened to y'all, son?" Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow.

When all she got out of Rodolfo was a mumbled: "Plenty… but sleeping wasn't one of them," she let out a chuckle before she crossed over Main Street to fulfil her promise of a hearty breakfast for the hardworking deputies.

---

Thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds later, Wynne returned to the sheriff's office carrying a large tray laden with several layers of goodies. Blackie and Goldie bustled around her feet and let out the occasional bark and yap.

For a change, Beatrice Reilly didn't try to gun down the Dame In Denim when she approached the glass door - in fact, the quick-drawing deputy held it open for her and guided her over to the small desk at the back of the office.

"Lookie he' what I brought y'all," Wynne said as she put the heavy tray on the desk; she spoke in a quiet voice in case Mandy was still sleeping. "Toast, well doh-ne… raspberreh jam… strawberreh jam… even some o' that there fih-ne cut bitter orange jam… cream cheese spread… slices o' stinkeh cheese… a couple-a slices o' baloneh an' some o' them there realleh neat rolled roasts with prunes, yessir!  An' them there thermos' got that there coffee, o' course," she continued as she pointed at each of the items in turn.

Barry Simms showed up for work while Wynne spoke. Unlike his fellow deputies who all looked like death warmed over, Barry was in fine form and even wore a pristine uniform with the regulatory creases and a tight knot on his necktie. His hair was wet-combed and his cheeks were clean-shaven to show that he was ready for another fun day at the office. The first thing he did was to light up; the second was to say: "You didn't make any warm milk and flapjacks?"

Wynne, Rodolfo and Beatrice all stared at Barry like he had just insulted them on a personal level. Rodolfo reacted first by taking a piece of scrap paper, crumpling it up and throwing it at his cheeky colleague - unusual for the certified sharpshooter, he missed his target by a good four feet.

"What?  It was a perfectly legitimate question!" Barry said on his way over to the watch desk.

Wynne had to fan her nose to get the worst of the foul-smelling smoke out of her nostrils - it seemed extra-intrusive at such a time of the day. "Y'all want warm milk an' flapjacks, y'all can make 'em ya dang self, de-per-teh. Ah been bustin' mah hump… tryin'… ta…"

Her voice trailed off as a result of her throat trying to tie itself into a knot to escape the stench that had invaded the office. "Peeee-U!  Gawd-almighteh, Barreh!  Whaddindahell ya smokin', son?  Stinks worse than when Ah done shoveled shit fer a livin'… hell, dat dere tabaccah smells lack y'all took it from a dang-blasted dung heap!"

"What are you talking about?  I can't tell any difference," Barry said and took his home-rolled cigarette out of his mouth. After being studied for a second or two, it was back between his lips. "But I did open a new pack of tobacco this morning, that's right."

Once the reams of foul smoke reached Goldie and Blackie down on the cracked linoleum, they began to cough and whimper. Wynne pinched her nose hard and strode over to the glass door to let some morning air in - her dogs took full advantage of the open door by escaping post-haste.

"Gawd, how maneh o' them stinkeh-cigs did ya roll?"

"Oh, seventy or so. They need to last the entire day," Barry said as he took off his Mountie hat and put it on the nail on the wall behind the watch desk.

"Seventeh…" Wynne croaked; she stared wide-eyed at Beatrice and Rodolfo who were already plotting how to get rid of their colleague and where to dispose of his body.

"No, this is too cruel after the night we had," Rodolfo said as he shuffled over to the smaller desk. "Let's get some breakfast… coffee… sugar… plenty of sugar…" Once there, he grabbed a plate and one of the slices of toast coated in raspberry jam.

"Lemme help y'all with that, there, de-per-ties," Wynne said and managed the large thermos of coffee so they could avoid any accidents or spillages. "Yessir, this he' be the real good stuff. Not that y'all can smell it or nuttin', what with Barreh stinkin' up the place-"

An annoyed "Oh, ha!  Ha!  Ha!" was soon uttered from the watch desk.

Wynne just grinned. "Anyhows, lack I wus sayin'… this he' be the real good stuff. Come get some!  Oh, an' y'all don't need-a rush ovah he' 'cos we got plentah. Barreh, y'all bettah leave yer cig'rette way, way, way da hell ovah there befo' I'mma-gonn' suhr-ve ya any coffee. Ya hear?"

Once the dark-brown liquid had been poured into Rodolfo's mug, he shuffled over to the corner the furthest from Barry's stinking tobacco and put down the items on top of a metal filing cabinet; he was soon joined by Beatrice who had nabbed a toast with a few slices of baloney cold cuts.

While all that was going on, Mandy came out from the bathroom at the far end of the office. Like most of her deputies, her complexion had turned gray and unhealthy. Her face showed dark lines were none had been the day before, and her eyes were red and dull.

The shower had only brought some of her vital signs back into the green zone, but the hot water had at least made the muscles in her neck and upper back relax and return to a calmer state. She wore her spare uniform since the sheriff always needed to look her best in case of unannounced visits from the higher-ups; the one she had worn the day before had been stuffed into a plastic bag as it had grown rather funky from all the hectic activity she had put it through in the rescue operation.

Her experienced eye took in the scene at once and made her legs move over to the food and the coffee - her experienced nose told her that Barry had arrived as well. "Good morning, hon," she said for Wynne's ears only before she filled a mug with the good coffee and took a slice of toast.

"Mornin', darlin'. Lawrdie, y'all look plum worn out," Wynne said and dove down to place a decent kiss on Mandy's lips - the others in the office pretended not to have seen a thing. "I coudden bah-lieve wotcha done tole me 'bout J-B. Scareh. Real scareh. Man, I wondah if it wussen fer the bettah if the ol' fella didden make it or som'tin. I know that prolleh sounds ghoulish an' all, but them strokes sure don't leave much once they done had their teeth in ya. Back in Shallow Pond, one o' our nebbahs done suffah'ed a stroke… he lived but wus nevah a fella ag'in, know what'm sayin'?"

"Yeah," Mandy said before she took a big bite out of the slice of strawberry-jam toast. Once she had munched on it, she slurped the coffee without caring a bit how it sounded. "It took four people to drag him from the Cadillac. I think I pulled a muscle in my back."

"Lessee if we can't fix that tanight," Wynne said with a wink. "Howdahell wus he even able ta fit on a stretchah?"

"He hardly fit in the cargo hold of the medic helicopter…"

"Lawrdie. So, didya pull ol' Tuckah Garfield outta bed a dark o'clock ta get the Caddeh towed back he'?"

"No, we decided to leave it up against the rock formation," Mandy said and repeated the toast-coffee combination. "It didn't look too bad all things considered. The front bumper had been knocked off and part of the grille had been mashed in. The wheels were still attached."

"Hmmm…"

A brief smile spread over Mandy's tired face; it wasn't strong enough to battle the grayness and soon vanished without a trace. "I know that 'hmmmm,' hon. You're planning something."

"Weeeellll… I wus thinkin'… mebbe me an' Ernie- aw, shit. I mean, me an' Diegoh could drive out there an' mebbe haul it back or som'tin. Cletus Browne up at the Bang 'n Beatin' owes me a favah. That there Caddeh be a genu-ihne 'seventy-six convehr-table… that wus the last year they wus made. It got that there big motah an' I bah-lieve it be numbahs matchin' an' ev'rehthin'. Okeh, the rag-top don't work an' there wus othah trubbel as well from what I recall, but… yuh. With a li'l lovin', it sure would be an awesome weekend vee-hickel. Or mebbe fer the Fourth o' Joo-lai parade?"

Falling silent all of a sudden, Wynne assumed a thoughtful expression that saw her become lost to the world. It was only when she felt Mandy's eyes on her that she returned to the same dimension everyone else was in. They shared a smile and a wink before she poured herself a mug of coffee.

The ringing of the old Bakelite telephone on the watch desk interrupted the breakfast and made everyone present let out groans of frustration. Barry picked up the receiver at once. "Good morning, this is the MacLean County Sheriff's Office in Goldsboro. How may we help you?  All right. Just a moment, please," he said before he used his hand to cover the speaker-part of the old receiver. "Sheriff, I have Judge Etherington's secretary on the line. His Honor needs a word."

Mandy put down the mug and strode over to the watch desk. She had to fan her nose three times in rapid succession to remove the worst of the volcanic clouds of smoke that spewed out of Barry's cigarette. "Good morning, this is Sheriff Jalinski speaking," she said in her customary authoritarian voice.

Down the far end of the office, Wynne scratched her neck at the near-miraculous change in Barry's persona. She shuffled over to Rodolfo and leaned closer to the senior deputy so she wouldn't disturb the telephone conversation. "Whaddindahell's goin' on with ol' Barreh this he' morn'?  I mean, he be lookin' clean as a whissel while all y'all look lack ya been doin' the Mongolian Death March or som'tin. An' he didden even have a coughin' fit or nuttin' when he done spoke inta that there ol'-fa-shunned tellehphoah-ne!"

"He's always like that in the morning, Wynne," Rodolfo said around a bite of toast. "You're just not here to see it… at noon or so, he'll revert to the Barry everyone knows and adores."

When Beatrice added: "And it all goes downhill from there," Rodolfo broke out in a decisive nod.

"Yeah," the senior deputy continued, "and as for why dear Mister Simms looks so rested… well, he went home to sleep the second he and the sheriff returned here. Unlike the rest of us. I had to spend the entire night cooped up in the jail house monitoring that damned pothead. I'm telling you, Wynne, he freaked out three or four times each and every damned hour!  Bea here couldn't leave either since she had radio duty. I'll bet Barry had a great night between the silky sheets. The little so-and-so." Rodolfo concluded his little speech by sending Barry a dark glare.

"Haw… yuh, that would explain it. Sure would," Wynne said and looked at Barry's uniform that was still fresh and pristine unlike the wrinkled mess Rodolfo and Beatrice wore.

Rodolfo finished his toast and took a large swig of hot coffee. "But he needs to watch his mouth today. One wrong word out of him, and… and… something."

Beatrice let out an affirmative grunt that proved she would have her senior deputy's back in case it came down to a case of push vs. shove.

"Som'tin, huh?  Yuh, I bah-lieve dat!" Wynne said and gave the senior deputy a little nudge while she winked at Beatrice.

Mandy soon thanked the person at the other end of the line and put down the receiver. Striding into the center of the office so everyone could see and hear her, she put a hand in the air to signal she needed a word. "All right, listen up. That was Judge Etherington. His plan was to arrive here at eleven to process the charges brought forward by Miss MacKay against Mr. Millard. He had yet to hear of the latest developments in the case, so I filled him in. The result is that he will not show up today after all. However, the court proceedings will continue with Mr. Millard being in absentia unless Miss MacKay decides to drop the charges. That's where we stand on that."

"Lawrdie, sounds lack a buncha wasted tax dollahs ta me," Wynne said. "Lemme talk ta ol' Moira. I be perdy dog-gone sure she ain't interested in doin' nuttin' given them shitteh circumstances an' all."

A brief smile flashed over Mandy's face. "Thank you, Miss Donohue."

"Aw, yer welcome an' all, there, Sheriff Mandeh!" Wynne said with a grin. "I'mma-gonn' do that in an itteh-bitteh while 'cos Moira still be workin' on countin' stock an' she sure ain't gonn' be takin' kindleh ta bein' interrupted while doin' that… no, Ma'am!"

"Very well. Let's eat while we can. Who knows when further disasters find Goldsboro," Mandy said and strode back to her mug; halfway there, she changed her plans and went over to the tray with all the breakfast goodies to restock instead.

*
*
CHAPTER 7

Half an hour later, Wynne exited Moira's Bar & Grill holding the first can of H.E. Fenwyck Double Zero of the day. She needed to wait for Kenny Tobin to drive northbound on Main Street in his noisy Dodge truck before she could get back to the sheriff's office.

The time was spent cracking open the can, taking the first swig and saluting the driver: "Howdy, Kenny!  Dang, you loud, son!  Y'all bettah get that there exhaust fixed befo' them de-per-ties gonn' slap a fih-ne on ya!"

Kenny Tobin came to a stop in the middle of the street to greet the tall, denim-clad woman - the driver's side window was already rolled down so he could cruise along with his elbow perched on the windowsill to look cool. At seventeen, he had yet to grow any kind of facial hair, but his mullet, cowboy hat, bolo tie and white Western-shirt were already in place and looking fine. "Howdy, Miss Donohue," he said and tipped his hat. "Yeah, I know… the sheriff told me. I'm goin' up to Kulick's place now. It's only one pipe so far, but I don't know if I can afford it… so… I may have to park it."

"Izzat a fact?  Y'all can tell that new fella Mista Swenson that Wynne Donnah-hew gonn' swing bah fer a nih-ce, li'l tawk if he ain't quotin' ya a fair prih-ce on them things that need fixin'. Yuh?"

The look on Kenny's face proved he'd rather not get into a confrontation with the new grease-pit manager of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop, the aptly-named Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson. "Yeah, I'll… well… oh, I better get goin'. Talk to you later, Miss Donohue!"

"Keep on truckin', Kenny!" Wynne said and waved her hat at the driver as the noisy Dodge drove on to the auto repair shop at the northern end of Goldsboro.

Just as she reached the sidewalk outside the sheriff's office, someone else hollered a good morning to her which made her turn around. "Howdy, Mister Wilburr!  Juniah!" she cried back and tipped her cowboy hat at the two farmers who drove up the street in their John Deere tractor.

The green machine with the familiar yellow stripe along the cowling pulled a trailer heavily laden with hay bales. Senior sat at the tractor's controls while Junior was up on the trailer, leaning against one of the large bales wielding a pitchfork and an impressive shiner around his left eye.

Wynne chuckled as she thought back to the running argument she had seen Junior have with his friend Roscoe Finch over the attention of the young lady the night before - it appeared the running argument had turned into a punching one after she had left. "Yuh," she mumbled as she opened the door to the sheriff's office, "that wus bound ta happen, yessir."

The upper half of the atmosphere inside the sheriff's office was enshrouded in a grayish-white fog. In reality, Barry's horrendous home-rolled cigarettes made of waste tobacco were the culprits as they did their worst to add a level of stink to the place not often found outside of waste processing plants.

"Gawwwwwwd…" Wynne croaked as she immediately whipped off her hat to fan her nose. "Barreh, fer Chrissakes!  Wotcha reckon that there shit gonn' do ta yer lungs, man?!  Dontcha got any o' them there pieces o' nicoteeh-ne chewin' gum left?  Anythin' but this he' tor-chahr!"

Barry let out a sour huff at Wynne's words - the negative comment had been the nineteenth one he had received since he had shown up for work.

"If I wus y'all… an' I ain't, but if I wus… I'd be on the horn callin' them folks y'all bought that there tabaccah from, Barreh… som'tin gotta be wrong with it!  Tabaccah don't stink lack that…"

"I keep telling you there's nothing wrong with it," Barry said and lit a new cigarette with the dying embers of the old one just to mock the world and the nay-sayers inhabiting it.

"Yuh. Whutevah ya say, Barreh. Aw, where da hell is ev'rehboddah?" Wynne continued as she hurried through the office to deliver the message she had been given from Moira MacKay. When she reached the closed door to the crew room, she put her ear to it to listen for what might be going on on the other side. Goldie's yaps were unmistakable, so she barged inside and slammed the door shut behind her in an almighty hurry - only then did she stop to think about the possibility of Beatrice 'Quick Draw' Reilly being in there as well.

A rapid glance around the crew room proved that Beatrice wasn't there - meaning she had to be in the bathroom or out on foot patrol. Wynne let out a sigh and stepped over to Mandy and Rodolfo who were consulting a map that had been spread over the round table.

Blackie and Goldie jumped up from their makeshift doggy-cave on a warm blanket to give their owner an enthusiastic greeting. Wynne crouched down at once to return the favor with a good, ol' fur-rubbing.

"Did you talk to Miss MacKay, Wynne?" Mandy said.

"I sure did, but y'all ain't gonn' enjoy what done came outta it," Wynne said and shuffled over to the table. She cast a brief glance at the map that seemed to show parts of MacLean County - it couldn't hold her interest so she carried onto the nearest chair instead. "Moira feels real bad an' all, but them there in-shoo-rance folks demand that she maintains them charges against Joe-Bob. If she don't, they ain't gonn' pay fer nuttin' that wus wrecked. Not the pitchers or even that there video pokah machine… an' that thing costs an arm an' a leg, lemme tell ya. I done seen the contract o' sale fer it, an' holeh shit, it be expensive!"

"Dammit," Mandy said and thumped her fist against the tabletop.

"Yuh. She be plentah pissed 'bout it, but… them in-shoo-rance folks, ya know. They sure ain't normal in their melons, nosirree."

Rodolfo let out a dark grunt. "No kidding. I still get the shivers when I think back to the endless debating that went on for frickin' months when my Dad's car was stolen. That was twenty years ago, and I'll bet they haven't improved since then."

"Naw. They gotten wohr-se. Lawrdie, the mess that done happened when mah ol' Chev hadda be assessed aftah it done lost its tranneh… that wus so shitteh nuttin' could compare," Wynne said and leaned back on the chair. A thought began to rattle around in her brain box regarding Moira's predicament, but before she could do anything about it, her telephone rang deep down her jacket pocket.

Her hand flew into her pocket at once in case it was Ernie trying to get in touch with her. When the caller-ID said Brenda Tr., she furrowed her brow and accepted the call. "Howdy there, Brendah!  Y'all got the one an' onleh- ya whut?!  When?  Whaddinda-wohhhh-rld… awrighteh, y'all gonn'- whoa, whoa, whoa, hold 'em hosses, Brendah!  Ah'mma-gonn' put the sheriff on the horn fer y'all. He' she be- naw, y'all need-a hang on!  He' she be now."

Blackie and Goldie seemed to sense the urgency in their owner's voice because they jumped to their feet once more. Blackie already had her tail wiggling and waggling in eager anticipation of a little action - Goldie just whimpered and leaned against her far braver companion's black fur.

By now, Mandy's face resembled a very large question mark, but she accepted the smartphone that was thrust into her waiting hands. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Go ahead, Mrs. Travers."

As Brenda relayed a breathless tale at the other end of the connection, Mandy pulled a ball point pen out of her breast pocket but had nowhere to jot down the information she was given. She scrunched up her face in annoyance until she spotted a napkin - her face grew even darker when the tip of the pen tore the napkin's top layer in half before she had finished writing the first word. "All right… when was this?  Were they aggressive?  I see."

Relief came when Rodolfo whipped out his own notepad, flipped it open and put it on the table in front of Mandy. She offered him a nod and a smile before she went to work writing down everything she had been told so far.

While Mandy spoke to Brenda Travers, Wynne got up from the chair and went over to Rodolfo whose raised eyebrows suggested he was itching to be part of the conversation. "That wus mah nebbah Brendah callin'. Y'all met her at that there batche-lohr parhteh fer Ernie, 'membah?"

"I wasn't at the bachelor party, Wynne."

"Wotcha talkin' 'bout… sure ya wus!  Y'all wus sittin' at that there big, ol' table with all them folks-"

"No."

Wynne blinked several times; her hat was soon pushed back from her brow. "Ya wussen?  I coulda sworn ya wus…"

"I had the watch."

"Naw…"

"Yes. That was the same night Sheriff Jalinski won the election."

Wynne scratched her chin as she tried to think back to the glorious bachelor party the previous summer - when she discovered the details were lost in the murky mists of time and beer, she shrugged and moved on: "Yuh, okeh, but that don't mattah nuttin' now, anyhows. Get this, Brendah jus' tole me she an' Diegoh Benitez… that there nih-ce fella be our othah nebbah, yuh?"

"I know Diego, Wynne," Rodolfo said with a grin.

"Haw?  Shoot, I be gettin' mi'teh con-few-sed an' all… but okeh… anyhows, she done tole me she an' Diegoh done chased away a couple-a no-good, nasteh-lookin' bums or hippies or some such who wus loiterin' near them trailahs… 'spe-shu-alleh mah trailah!  Now, if y'all be askin' me, that wus shtoo-pid o' them bums or hippies or whutevah 'cos that there nih-ce Missus Travahs knows that there John Jetson, yessir!  An' lemme tell you som'tin else-"

"Jiu-jitsu?"

"Uh… John Jetson, yuh… lack I done said…"

Puzzled by the odd turn their conversation had taken, Rodolfo inched away from Wynne in case the confusion was contagious. Instead of risking anything, he moved over to the round table where Mandy was still listening to Brenda Travers' description of the men she and Diego had encountered.

"All right," Mandy said into the smartphone. "Mrs. Travers, did you happen to notice where- you're sure they went north towards town?  All right. Thank you. Stay alert in case they return. Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Travers. Goodbye." Mandy soon closed the connection; it was high time for action, so she strode over to the door to the office and yanked it open - Rodolfo followed hot on the sheriff's heels.

Wynne remained where she was for the time being. She scratched her neck a couple of times but soon gave up trying to figure out why Rodolfo had acted so strange all of a sudden. Shrugging, she crouched down next to Blackie and Goldie who responded with their usual barking and yapping.

It was obvious the fearless black German Shepherd was eager for a little hunting, and just as obvious that the scaredy-cat Golden Retriever would much rather be snuggled-up in her doggy-basket back home.

"Yuh, girls," Wynne said as she treated her beloved pets to a good rubbing, "I sure ain't no ex-puhrt on them po-leese mattahs, but I bet it ain't gonn' be long befo'-"

'Wynne?  Please come out here!' Mandy said from the outer office.

"Yuh. Didden I tell ya?  Didden I tell ya som'tin wus gonn' happen?  Yuh… I did. Dag-nabbit," Wynne said and got to her feet. Sighing, she and the dogs soon left the relative safety - and clean air - of the crew room.

The impenetrable fog of war created by Barry's cigarettes continued to swirl around like someone had set off a smoke bomb, but there was no time to complain about it given the latest development. Wynne noticed at once that Beatrice Reilly had returned, and that all four law enforcement officers of the Goldsboro chapter of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department were huddled around the obsolete map on the wall pointing here, there and everywhere - Rodolfo and Beatrice fanned their noses while Barry kept smoking.

Mandy stepped away from the map and put her hands on her hips. When she caught glimpse of Wynne and the dogs, she went over to her with the smartphone. "Why do these strange things always happen close to where we are, Wynne?  I hope you can tell me that."

"Naw. Sorreh, there, Sheriff Mandeh. I still be tryin' ta figger it out mahself. I ain't got no dang-blasted clue!" Wynne said and put the telephone in her jacket pocket.

Mandy strode back to the wall and pulled her uniform jacket off its coat hanger. Once it had been zipped all the way up, she took her Mountie hat off its regular nail and placed it on her head in accordance with the strict dress code.

All suited up for the eternal battle against the opposition to law and order, she continued over to the gun cabinet and unlocked it. A Mossberg pump-action shotgun was soon taken from the rack and put over her arm in the regulatory position for carrying heavy firearms.

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die!" Wynne cried which made Blackie let out a few thunderous barks as the prospects of imminent action just went through the roof - Goldie whimpered just as loudly as Blackie had barked. A moment later, she lay down flat on the cracked linoleum to pretend she wasn't even there.

"All right," Mandy said as she took a box of twelve-gauge shells and put them onto her desk. "We need to be on the same page, so everybody listen up. Ten minutes ago down at the trailer park, Mrs. Travers and Mr. Benitez spotted three young males that acted suspiciously. The young men were described as in their twenties, Caucasian with long hair, long beards and wearing filthy clothes. Mrs. Travers referred to them as stoner-types."

While the sheriff spoke, Beatrice jotted down every piece of information on her almost brand-new notepad. She looked up now and then so she wouldn't miss a signal to leave, but mostly kept her eyes on the text.

"When confronted," Mandy continued, "two of them ran away but the third began mouthing off in an aggressive fashion until Mr. Benitez threatened him with physical violence. They were last seen driving north on the State Route in a rust-brown GMC van. Mrs. Travers was unable to get the license plate, but the vehicle was smoking heavily and appeared to be in very poor condition."

The tip of Beatrice's pencil came close to glowing from the speed of her writing; when the sheriff fell quiet, she looked up but continued to hold the pencil ready in case further details would be revealed.

"It stands to reason," Mandy continued, "that the three gentlemen are associates of Mr. Fischer who continues to occupy Holding Cell Two next door. As you all know, Miss Donohue and I live at the trailer park. It remains to be seen whether the gentlemen were scouting out the area for a potential confrontation later on, or if it was simply a random act of attempted burglary."

Mandy paused to appraise the rookie deputy who had yet to take part in any type of police business beyond the daily grind. That Beatrice was in far better shape than the chain-smoking Barry was out of the question, but her lack of experience in the field could be a stumbling block in what had the potential to escalate out of control. The fact remained, however, that if she was never allowed to participate in operations, she would never learn.

Having made up her mind, Mandy nodded before she continued: "Deputy Reilly, suit up. Once you're ready, you and Senior Deputy Gonzalez will share Unit Two."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Beatrice said while she jumped to Attention and saluted the sheriff - a moment later, she spun around and stormed into the crew room to don her rugged all-terrain boots and the rest of her adverse-condition outfit that would come in handy in case the chase for the three suspects would turn into a proper desert-bound manhunt.

Mandy smiled at the rookie deputy's eagerness; she turned to Wynne to finish giving orders: "There's a one-hundred-foot telephone extension cord in a plastic bag in the crew room. Your immediate task is to rig up the watch telephone so it can be installed next door. Deputy Simms will continue to man the telephone, only he'll do it in the jail house. We can't leave Mr. Fischer unguarded for any length of time."

"Yes, Ma'am!  Y'all bettah stand back 'cos Wynne Donnah-hew be on the case!" Wynne said and zipped into the crew room with Blackie hot on her owner's heels - Goldie followed at a far more sedate pace, shaking her golden head and yapping under her breath like she said, 'Oh-shoot, here we go again…'

---

Five minutes later inside the jail house adjacent to the sheriff's office, Wynne put the near-ancient Bakelite telephone on the desk after having rolled out and attached the extension cord. To test it, she took the receiver off the hook and listened for the old-fashioned dial tone. "A-yup, this he' ol' phoah-ne be reddeh ta use once mo', Barreh. Have fuh-n," she said and flashed Barry Simms a big thumbs-up on her way out of the reinforced door.

Rodolfo Gonzalez checked his service sidearm before he holstered it and made sure the little button held it secure. Zipping his uniform jacket, he turned to his smoking colleague who didn't seem too displeased with the fact he had been cast aside for such an important operation.

"Hey Barry," Rodolfo said and flashed the type of toothy grin that usually came before a sly insult, "if you wanna score some cheap political points with the brass, how about offering Mr. Fischer one of your home-rolled cigarettes?  He'll be sworn off all kinds of smoking, I guarantee it. The Chief of Police can use it to show how hard we try to-"

"Haw, haw, haw, Mister!  Verrry funny!" Barry said and promptly threw a cookie crumb at his colleague - it didn't even make it past the edge of the desk.

"Yes, I thought it was, now you mention it."

'Senior Deputy Gonzalez!' Mandy said in a strong voice from somewhere out on the sidewalk.

The time for jokes had been and gone, so Rodolfo hurried out to the waiting vehicles. He jumped onto the passenger seat of Unit Two, the Dodge Durango SUV driven by Beatrice Reilly, and flicked the switch on the dashboard that activated the emergency lights. Once he had buckled up, he reached for the CB radio's microphone: "Unit One, Unit One… this is Unit Two. We're ready to roll, over."

---

Inside the first of the two Durangos, Mandy keyed the mic as she craned her neck to glance into the side mirror at the SUV behind her: "Very well, Unit Two. Let's go. Out," she said before he put the microphone on its little hook. It was official police business so she had assumed the wheel, but Wynne sat next to her with a wide grin on her face.

Blackie and Goldie would usually sit on the back seat, but if Operation Hippie Round-Up was a success, the dogs would need to spend the return trip in the cages for the K9 officers that were integrated in the back of the Durango - thus, they were back there already to get accustomed to the narrow confines. Goldie seemed to find it all rather cozy, but Blackie was miffed as she much preferred to sit up front, or better still, with her head out of the window so the headwind would tear through her black fur and remind her of chasing after fiends and foes.

The moment Mandy drove the Durango away from the curb, Wynne rolled down her window and stuck out her head: "Yeeeeee-hawwwwww!  Looks lack we got usselves a li'l, ol' convoy, yessirree!" she cried at the top of her lungs much to Mandy's amusement.

-*-*-*-

The two-vehicle convoy raced south on the State Route at ninety miles per hour - at that speed, the monochrome scenery surrounding the blacktop went by in a pale-brown blur. The vast array of multi-colored emergency lights on the flanks and atop the two Durangos from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department made them appear like fast-moving Christmas trees as they raced headlong into the operation.

Although the sun had been in the sky for several hours, it was still on the first part of its eternal journey to its zenith high above. The desert floor had yet to reach its regular day-time temperature so a chilly wind swept in from the wide open spaces that spread out on either side of the State Route from Maynard Canyon in the east to the medium-sized communities of Brandford Ridge and North Greenville in the west.

The police vehicles could have gone faster had they so desired, but Mandy judged that it was more important to have time and space to come to a full stop in case they intercepted the old GMC van they were looking for; on a similar note, they were running without using their sirens as the only people who would hear them were those they were there to catch - or least question.

Wynne kept her eyes peeled on the stretches of the desert closest to the road while Mandy kept hers on the two-lane blacktop itself. A slight haze seemed to rise from the desert floor which made Wynne's task of eyeballing the vast stretch of land more difficult.

A thought came to her, so she reached down to activate the strong LED searchlights that were installed on a rack on the roof. Using a joystick integrated in the center console, she was able to rotate the lights so they pointed at the ground a short distance ahead and to the side of the Durango.

She broke out in a grin that lasted all of nought-point-five of a second - then it disappeared when she discovered her idea wasn't all that sound after all. "Naw, ain't gonn' work neithah… dang'it," she mumbled when all the strong lights accomplished was to make the slight haze turn into a solid wall of gray.

Just as she reached down to turn them off again, the glare of the LEDs was reflected in a sheet of glass where there shouldn't be any - a good eighty yards into the desert from the edge of the road. The reflection lit up like a bright flash and offered an undeniable hint they had found something worth investigating.

"Oil slick!" Mandy said, pointing out of the windshield at a tell-tale splash of black in the middle of the opposite lane.

At the exact same time, Wynne cried: "Wa-hey!  I be seein' som'tin that ain't saposed ta be there, Sheriff!  A reflec-shun!  Bright as hell, too!"

"I see it. Good job, Wynne."

"D'awww-shucks… wus nuttin'… but thank ye none the less."

Mandy reached for the CB microphone even while she tapped the brake pedal three times in rapid succession to let Beatrice Reilly know something was about to happen. "Unit Two, Unit Two… visual contact off to your right at three hundred yards and closing. Eighty yards or so into the desert. Veer off here and proceed off-road. We'll go past the target and come back toward you in a pincer movement."

'Ten-Roger, Sheriff. Veering off,' Rodolfo said before the second of the two Durangos slowed down to a mere fifteen miles per hour. It soon left the blacktop and headed for the uneven desert floor.

Even after the SUV behind them had moved away, Mandy kept her foot on the accelerator. As they drove past the black puddle, Wynne craned her neck to look at it in greater detail. "Yuh, that sure be an oil slick, awright. I done seen me 'nuff o' those in mah lifetih-me ta know what them li'l crittahs look lack."

"Hang on, Wynne, it's about to get bumpy," Mandy said as she turned off the State Route a hundred yards or so south of the oil slick. The desert's countless pebbles soon played a disharmonic symphony against the metalwork of the Durango's wheelwells and undercarriage.

"Yes, Ma'am!  Ah be grabbin' mah ass an' holdin' on!  Dontcha worreh 'bout me, Ma'am!" Wynne said and wrapped her fingers around the panic grip above the door. With her free hand, she tried to keep the searchlights focused on whatever it was they had found, but it was tough going. "Yuh!  Ah still got it… Ah still got it… Ah got- shit. Ah don't still got it…"

The speed they were going at turned even the tiniest ripple in the desert floor into a ski jump - the four occupants of the Durango were soon rattling around like ice cubes in a drinks shaker.

All of a sudden, Mandy slammed on the brakes which made Wynne slide forward in the seat while holding onto her beloved cowboy hat with both hands and uttering a "Lawwwwwwwr-die…"

The desert dust settled to show that the Durango had come to a four-wheel-sliding halt at the precipice of a six-foot deep ravine. Undaunted, Mandy selected reverse and slammed her boot onto the throttle pedal to back away from the big drop.

Plenty of sawing at the wheel ensued as she maneuvered the SUV onto a path that would take them around the upper edge of the ravine. The alternative route was littered with flat rocks of varying size that hampered their progress, and Wynne soon needed to hold onto the panic grip with both hands. "Holeh shittt!  This he' amusement rih-de ain't- uff!  Parti-cuu-lar-leh amusin'- gah!  Merceh Sakes!  If ya know what- uff!  What Ah mean, there, Sher- Gawd!  Sheriff Mandeh!" she croaked as she was constantly thrown left, right, up, down, backward and forward by the progress over the rocky terrain.

"I know!  But it beats… spending the next… twelve hours digging… the Durango free from… the bottom of… the ravine!" Mandy said in a similar jolting croak.

The Durango's shock absorbers were put through a torturous workout as the many rocks, ruts, dips and small rises had to yield to the coarse all-terrain tires of the four-wheel-drive vehicle.

"Haw!  Ya ain't… kiddin'!  This- ufff!  He' dog-gone deal is… way past bumpeh!  An' somebodda- gah!  Somebodda else need-a grab mah ass- ufff!  'Cos Ah be fresh outta hands!  Gah!  Lawrdie!" Wynne croaked as she continued to be jerked up and down in her seat as the vehicle rode the rough patch like a bucking bronco. "Good shit almighteh… I wondah how them… dawggies out back make… it through this he' rollahcoastah… rih-de… 'cos, dang, this he' be- hippies!  Watch out fer them hippies!"

Three wild-haired, long-bearded gentlemen wearing denim clothes not too dissimilar to Wynne's favorite outfit suddenly appeared from the swirling clouds of reddish dust that had been kicked up by their own van and the approaching Durango.

Caught off-guard by the unexpected appearance of the police vehicle, they scattered in three different directions at once - one almost ran in front of Mandy who only avoided running him over by spinning the steering wheel in the opposite direction at the very last moment.

"Whadda'buncha ca-razeh sombitches!" Wynne howled as she tried to keep her cowboy hat on her head. "Whaddindahell them folks even be doin' he'?! Goldsborah sure as stink-on-shoot don't need this kinda sh- hooooooooah, watch out, de-per-ty!"

A small gap in the vast clouds of desert dust revealed Beatrice and Rodolfo's Durango less than fifteen feet in front of Wynne and Mandy; although they were on course for a head-on collision, the skills of both drivers avoided disaster by turning away from the other and resuming the chase of the three escaping men. "Lawwwwwwr-die…" Wynne croaked as she pulled her cowboy hat down to cover her eyes.

"I'm the sheriff, remember?" Mandy said as she stepped hard on the gas to get back to where she had last seen the three men.

"Yuh… wotcha gettin' at, darlin'?"

The Durango fell into a deep rut and immediately climbed the next rise beyond it - the hard impacts made the vehicle's suspension creak and groan. "You called me deputy!" Mandy said upon landing on the flat part beyond what had to have been the junior cousin of Maynard Canyon on the opposite side of the State Route.

"Ah sure be apologizin', Sheriff Mandeh!  Haw, it wus the feah talkin'!  Any mo' o' this an' Ah'mma-gonn' leave a brown streak in mah shorts!  An' Ah onleh put on some clean ones this mornin', dag-nabbit!"

"There they are!" Mandy cried as the clouds of dust dissipated long enough for her to see the three men they were chasing - they were running close to each other heading further into the desert. "Dammit, we're all alone here. Can you see Unit Two anywhere?"

"Naw!" Wynne said after she had craned her neck to check out their surroundings. "Ya want me ta raise 'em on the horn?" she said and reached for the CB microphone.

Before Mandy could answer, the Durango leaped off an unseen precipice and crashed into a quarry at the foot of a four-foot deep valley. The steering wheel was nearly jerked from her hands, but she managed to hang on through sheer luck.

The mirror on the passenger-side door was less fortunate and went flying into the desert, and up on the roof, the metal bar for the LED searchlights broke its mountings on the left-hand side - at least it stayed put.

Their momentum made them continue back up the next rise and onto firmer shores once more after another hard landing that sent reddish dust flying out of every crevice.

Wynne's precious hat didn't hang onto anything and flew off down into the footwell. The CB microphone was torn from her hand and ended up bopping her across the nose and brow. The impacts led to an entirely predictable cry of: "Owch!  Soooooombitch!  Whaddindahell that there dang-blasted thing done hit me ovah the dang-blasted head for?  Holy shittt, Ah ain't done nuttin' ta de-suhr-ve this he' kinda crap!  Ah been a good girl all day an' Ah made that there good coffee an' them slices o' toast an'-"

"We can't risk breaking down… we need our secret weapon," Mandy said and came to a rock-flying stop in the middle of the desert. Before Wynne could even rub the sore spot on her brow, the sheriff had vacated the vehicle and sprinted around to the back.

Two seconds later, a black hellhound blasted out of the rear of the Durango and assumed the responsibility of chasing down the three men. As Blackie tore into the desert, she let out a barrage of thunderous, guttural barks that made it sound she had morphed into Cerberus, the legendary three-headed guardian of the Ancient Greek Underworld.

"Haw, I bet ol' Blackie gonn' love that, yessirree…" Wynne said in a muted voice as she pressed a pair of fingers against the bridge of her nose. She soon spotted Mandy who - equipped with one of the Mossberg pump-action shotguns - followed the black hound into the unknown on foot. Although the sheriff kept a good pace across the rocky terrain, she was already lagging far behind the racing Blackie.

Now that someone else was in charge, Wynne picked up her hat and plonked it onto her dark locks. When she noticed the long-forgotten microphone, she took it and pressed the transmit button. "Unit One, Unit One, this he' be the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew talkin'. Wheah y'all at, ovah?"

Only static could be heard from the speakers after her first attempt, so Wynne fiddled a little with the knobs and dials before she tried again. "Unit One, Unit- aw hell, they ain't unit one!  We be unit one!  Awwww, Wynne, ya dumb… sheesh almighteh. Unit Two, Unit Two. What's yer twentah, ovah?"

'Unit One, this is Rodolfo. Wynne, we're stuck in a ditch the size of Lucifer's buttcrack over here!  We need a hand getting out… or better yet, a tow rope.'

"I got a copeh on ya, there, Rodolfo. Hang on, pardner," Wynne said and opened the Durango's door. Instead of climbing down, she stood up on the doorsill so she could gain a foot beyond her regular height. Although the reddish clouds of desert dust had settled enough for her to look in every direction, she was unable to see anything anywhere. "Y'all got them lights turned off or som'tin?  Ah ain't seein' nuttin' ovah he'. Uh, ovah."

'Every light we have is still on, but I think the ditch is too deep for any of 'em to clear the upper edge.'

Grunting, Wynne climbed down from the doorsill and sat on the front seat once more. "Dang. Anyhows, mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandeh an' mah dawggie Blackie be chasin' aftah them hippies so we ain't gonn' be able ta come ovah ta ya right away, but… yuh, it prolleh ain't gonn' be long now. Y'all hurt or som'tin?  Ovah."

'We're both A-okay, but Bea's a little, ah, concerned about wrecking the vehicle on her first real assignment, over.'

Wynne let out a dark chuckle as she thought back to the many wrecked police vehicles she and Mandy had been responsible for over the years. It had started on the very first night they had met when future sheriff G.W. Tenney's Durango had been blown to smithereens by the hunter UFO chasing them. They had lost another Durango during the goblin infestation, and yet another had been crushed by the Desert Dweller, the nickname given to the fifty-foot creature living somewhere in the barren wasteland. "Haw, Bea, y'all didden do nuttin' the sheriff or me didden alreddeh do a buncha tih-mes. Ain't nuttin' ta worreh 'bout, ya hear?  Ovah."

'Thanks, Miss Donohue,' Beatrice Reilly said via the speaker in the CB radio. 'We'll sit tight for the time being. Out.'

Grinning, Wynne put the microphone back on its little hook. "That's a big, ol' ten-foah, good buddeh. Aw, I bet ol' Goldeh be plentah mad 'bout all this he' rockin' an' rollin'… I bettah get back there an' give 'er a li'l rubbin'," she said and climbed down from the tall vehicle.

She paused for a moment to listen to Blackie's characteristic barking that seemed to come from a mile away. It didn't sound like the chase was over quite yet, so she shuffled around to the back doors to check up on her Golden Retriever while the bravest members of their family were out in the desert chasing bandits.

---

A short five minutes went by before Mandy and Blackie herded the three escaped suspects back to the waiting Durango. Goldie had been playing around in the desert sand, but the scaredy-dog jumped back up into the rear of the police vehicle at the sight of the three wild-haired, long-bearded gentlemen.

Wynne sat on the edge of the Durango's rear hold playing a stock car racing game on her telephone when the golden whirlwind nearly knocked her over. Her hat was already on its way south but she managed to grab hold of it before it could go too far. "Lawrdie, girl… whassamaddah?  Y'all seen a jackrabbit or som'tin- Snakes Alive, will ya clap yer eyes on them fellas!" she said as she spotted the dust-covered, slovenly trio who shuffled out of the desert under strict supervision by the black German Shepherd and the shotgun-carrying sheriff. "Whah, if it ain't the famous rasslin' trio The Haireh Brothahs!" she said and slapped her thigh.

Chuckling at her own joke, she got to her feet and waved at Mandy. Blackie responded by letting out a guttural bark that startled all three prisoners. When they came close enough, Wynne's chuckles faded and was soon replaced by a "Peeee-U… ain'tcha fellas nevah heard o' soap or nuttin'?  Det-uhr-gent?  Good shit almighteh, y'all stink lack ya been rollin' in cow flop!"

The three wild-haired, long-bearded men who wore boots, flared jeans, filthy T-shirts and denim jackets that all carried various anti-establishment buttons and slogans didn't seem to find the comments appropriate at all. One coughed up and spat on the ground while the second turned around and flipped Wynne the middle finger though his hands were held together by plastic restraints.

The final gentleman, whose hands were tied behind his back with Mandy's proper metal handcuffs, uttered a growled: "Shut your feckin' mouth, redneck!"

Wynne stuck her hands into her rear pockets and assumed a steely yet neutral expression. She had been called far worse over the years, but her preferred way of dealing with the type of individuals who used such language wouldn't work in the present situation.

To support her owner in the face of such a blatant insult, Blackie let out a thunderous bark and snapped at the mouthy one's flared pantleg - the man howled and shied back from the rabid hound.

Mandy soon gave the mouthy prisoner a shove in the back with the stock of the Mossberg that sent him and the two others closer to the police vehicle. "You have already been read your rights, Mister. Keep talking if you feel like it, but it will be used against you later," she said in a stern voice before she opened the door to the Durango's back seat.

The three hand-cuffed men climbed up into the back under strict scrutiny by Blackie. Once the last one was safe on the bench seat, Mandy shut the door and activated the special locking mechanism that only worked on the doors at the back - like in all police vehicles, every interior lever had been removed to prevent the prisoners from using them even if they weren't handcuffed.

"Howdy, there, Sheriff!  Good work. An' that goes dubbel fer y'all down dere, de-per-ty Blackeh!" Wynne said with a grin. "Y'all know what tih-me it is?  Naw?  It's tih-me fer a Fenwyck!  Fenwyck, the tih-me is right!  The tih-me is right now!" she continued in a cheery voice, quoting the old H.E. Fenwyck commercial much to Blackie's woof'ed amusement.

From one moment to the next, Wynne fell quiet as she patted her pockets. "But Ah ain't got no Fenwycks, gosh-darn'it… we hadda leave so durn fast Ah didden ha' tih-me ta stock up or nuttin'!  Ah ain't even got an em'ty can with me…"

Blackie let out a prolonged Woof in sympathy. Goldie did one better by jumping down from the rear of the Durango and rubbing her golden fur against her owner's denim-clad leg. "Yuh… much obliged, mah wondahful dawggies!  Aw, it woudden ha' done much good, anyhows… with all that there jerkin' an' jumpin' we went thru', that there can o' beah woulda exploded all ovah the dang-blasted place da second I touched that there metal flap an' all. I done trah'd that back when them there creepeh red ligtnin' bolts done wrecked havoc with everehthin' an' everehbodda… it sure wussen funneh gettin' da beah outta mah ears an' ev'rehwhere… naw, it sure wussen."

"I can imagine," Mandy said with a grin as she clicked the Mossberg in place on the gun rack in the rear of the SUV.

"Yuh…" Wynne suddenly jerked upright and pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Haw!  Whah, I plum fergot… Sheriff Mandeh… I done heard from ol' Rodolfo. Seems him an' Bea got stuck in a ditch somewhere. They prolleh gonn' need a tow cable or som'tin ta get out."

"Dammit," Mandy mumbled and smacked her fist into her palm. "We don't have time for that now. We need to get these gentlemen to Goldsboro… but if we leave the deputies here, I only have Barry Simms with me for the rest of the day!"

"Now, that ain't gonn' work, nosirree!  Mistah Sixty-Cigs don't got da stamina ta deal with this he' kinda fellas. That sure ain't no lie… we bettah call ol' Tuckah Garfield. He an' that there big-ass tow-truck o' his gonn' pull that Durangah outta any ditch in a mattah o' moments. Lawrdie, he gonn' be one helluva rotten egg fer needin' ta drive inta the desuhrt… he ain't the world's friendliest fella at the best o' tih-mes, so… yuh."

Mandy nodded at the undeniable truth of that statement - then her face lit up in a smile. "I have an idea!"

"I sure hope y'all gonn' clue me in, 'cos I ain't got nuttin' up he' right now but fer needin' a beah," Wynne said and tapped the side of her head with a knuckle.

"We could get a lot accomplished if we called Mrs. Travers and asked her and Mr. Benitez to come here," Mandy said and reached for her telephone at once - the number for B. Travers was soon found in the registry. "Not only could they take a look at the prisoners and perhaps identify them, they could give my deputies a ride back to Goldsboro," she continued as she pressed the proper spot on the display to commence the call.

"Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die, that kinda brainwork iz exactleh whah y'all bein' the Sheriff an' I be the sih-dekick!" Wynne said and waved her cowboy hat high in the air.

---

Fifteen minutes later, the spirited Brenda Travers nodded hard as she looked at the faces of the three men on the back seat of the Durango. "Yep, yep… and yep. The one in the middle is the one who threatened Diego and me," she said before she backed out of the vehicle - she needed to pinch her nostrils which left her voice curiously muted.

Mandy ushered the lady to the side and gestured their other neighbor to come closer. "Very well, Mrs. Travers. Mr. Benitez, will you please look at these gentlemen and tell me if-"

"Don't have to look too hard, Sheriff," Diego said after peeking at the prisoners. "It's them, all right. I'd recognize their stink anywhere. Nasty putas."

The fellow in the middle of the row spat on the floor and let out a snarled: "Feck off!  You better watch your fat ass from now on, Pedro!"

Diego scrunched up his face for a split second before he jumped forward and stuck his head in through the door - Mandy grabbed hold of his jacket at once, but he held onto the doorframe so he could deliver a message: "You watch your mouth, you little shit!  You want a piece of me?  I'll give you a piece of me!  It's gonna be my fist in your ugly mug!"

"Mr. Benitez… Mr. Benitez, that isn't helping," Mandy said as she tried to pull her neighbor back. "Thank you very much, Sir. We'll take it from here… Sir… Mr. Benitez… thank you."

"You're welcome, Sheriff," Diego growled as he finally stepped back from the Durango. He adjusted his baseball cap several times with angry gestures before he stomped off to talk to Wynne and Brenda.

Wynne welcomed him with a friendly thump on the shoulder. "Way ta go, Bruisah!  I reckon we all got a li'l too close ta them there stinkeh fellas, yuh?  I had the mis-ple-shure as well befo' y'all got he'. Now… uh… didya… kinda… 'member ta…"

"I remembered," Diego said with a grin - teasing his neighbor, he moved a hand oh-so-slowly into his jacket pocket and eventually produced a can of H.E. Fenwyck 1910 Special Brew.

"Much obliged, pardner!  I owe ya big tih-me!" Wynne said and reached for the can at once. It was cracked open in world record time and gulped down like she hadn't had a beer for hours - which in fact she hadn't.

Alerted by the ruckus, Brenda jogged over to join her two neighbors after saying hello to Blackie and Goldie. "What's up?  Wynne, have you been in touch with Ernie since that scary business with his wife?"

"Naw, Brendah, I ain't," Wynne said and belched into her hand so she wouldn't come across as a complete hayseed. "I wanna call 'im, but I also don't wanna call 'im… ya know?  Lawrdie, I sure do hope ev'rehthin's awright with the darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne an' all. I ain't nevah seen ol' Ernie so… so… hell, terrified. Yuh… he wus terrified."

Diego let out a dark grunt. "I guess it means there'll be another vacancy at our trailer park?"

"Prolleh. He gonn' be stayin' with his Rev'rend fer the tih-me bein'."

"Damn. I'll miss Ernie."

"We all will," Brenda added.

"Ain't that the truth," Wynne said before she drained the can of beer and let out another concealed belch. "Ol' Ernie's always up fer a li'l fuh-n an' games. Whodahell am I gonn' watch Nascahr with now?  An' chug down them beahs with?  Not ta men-shun I ain't gonn' sample his great hawt sawces no mo'… he done made a new one yestuhrdeh. He tole me he wus gonn' call it Wynne's Babeh Sawce 'cos it wussen fiah-reh or nuttin' but jus' right. I wus ack-chew-leh kinda proud tho' I made fuh-n offit at the tih-me. Mebbe we ain't even gonn' get a chance a-usin' it fer real or nuttin'…"

An somber silence spread between the three neighbors. It was clear by the way the corners of Wynne's mouth went south that she would miss Ernest Bradberry the most of all. "But… okeh," she said after a short pause, "I sure be glad nuttin' done happened ta the darlin' Rev'rend when she done gave birth an' all. That woudda killed Ernie fer sure."

Smiling wistfully, Brenda hooked her arm inside Wynne's and gave it a little squeeze. "You've known him for quite a while, haven't you?"

"Yuh. Years an' years. He done moved in 'bout ten months or so aftah I did. Yuh. Ou'ah trailah park wus nevah the same aftah that."

Diego chuckled at the thought of Ernie's legendary selection of hot sauces. "Well, I do know one thing… he's the only white hombre I met who understands chilis!  No, really!" he said before he shuffled back to Brenda's Ford SUV to get some warmth back in his bones.

Wynne and Brenda smiled at the revelation before they were interrupted by Mandy who walked over to them in her customary stride - she put her telephone away as she did so. "I've called Mr. Garfield and asked him to tow the Durango to town at some point tomorrow. He had already yelled at me for half a minute for ruining his day when he realized what I had said. After such an enthusiastic response, I decided against informing him about Mr. Millard's Cadillac up north."

"Yuh… that be ol' Tuckah, awright. Y'know, I been livin' in Goldsborah fer a decade or moah, but I ain't nevah seen him smile or nuttin'… not once," Wynne said thoughtfully.

"Wynne," Mandy said which made The Last Original Cowpoke snap back to the present, "there's been a small change of plans… would you mind driving home with Mrs. Travers and Mr. Benitez?"

"I woudden mind in the least, darlin'… 'cept that we ain't gonn' be drivin' hoah-me. Mah truck's in Goldsborah, 'member?  I'mma-gonn' take the dawgs as well-"

"Only Goldie. I'll need Blackie to keep these gentlemen under control."

"Haw, that there be good thinkin', yes Ma'am!" Wynne said and waved her cowboy hat high in the air. Once it was back on her dark locks, she turned to her neighbor: "Haw, Brendah, mebbe I oughtta ask if y'all mind havin' Goldie in the back o' that there Foh-rd o' yers befo' we be makin' plans?"

"I love Goldie," Brenda said with a grin.

"Now if that ain't awesome, I ain't got no clue whut is!  But Sheriff, wotcha gonn' do 'bout them lost de-per-ties o' yers?  They gonn' turn inta de-per-ty flavahr'ed popsicles if they hafta spend the rest o' the day an' then the night out heah…"

Mandy patted the pocket that held her telephone. "I've been in touch with them. I'll turn on the light bar and the searchlights and drive slowly across the desert until we're within visual range of each other. Once they spot me, they'll walk toward my position."

"Lawrdie, I ain't even gonn' say how clevah that is… 'cept that there be plenteh clevah, yessirree!  Well, Brendah… wouldya mind drivin' me up ta Goldsborah?"

Brenda shook her head. "Not in the least, Wynne."

"That be awesome, friend!  Ta show mah 'precia-shun, I'mma-gonn' treat y'all an Diegoh ta a li'l lunch up at Moira's. Yuh?  Looks like y'all got yaself a couple-a passengahs!"

Grinning, Brendah reached over to bump her shoulder against Wynne's denim-clad example. "Mount up, girl!  We're ridin' to town!"

"Yeeeee-haaaaaaaw!  Can't wait ta chow down a li'l… darn, all this he' actionin' sure make me hungreh. Yessir. Need som'tin ta wet mah whissel too, now I think offit. Lawrdie, whutta day this been… an' it ain't even noon yet!  Bah-bah fer now, Sheriff Mandeh. Don't let them stinkeh bandits do nuttin', ya heah?"

"They won't dare when Blackie is with me," Mandy said with a grin.

Wynne grinned back and turned to shoot a very pointed look at Brenda to ask her to take a little desert hike without actually saying so. When their neighbor caught the gist of the idea, she let out a string of chuckles all the way back to her luxury SUV. Wynne and Mandy soon met for a nice have a safe return and see you later after all the hubbub has died down-kiss.

*
*
CHAPTER 8

The morning of Saturday, February 19th.

Wynne sat at the coffee table in her trailer flicking through an entire array of TV channels that offered nothing but infomercials, depressing headlines from around the world and Televangelists who hosted so-called Hours Of Inspiration And Reflection. Turning off the TV with a snort, she grabbed a magazine that also failed to hold her interest.

A sigh borne of frustration escaped her as she sipped her morning coffee, took the final bite of a well-buttered bun - that had been given an extra-thick layer of strawberry jam - and practiced her thousand-mile-stare at nothing at all. For the second night running, she had slept alone after Mandy had been so tied up at work that even a brief visit home had been impossible.

The need to hear Mandy's voice grew so strong that Wynne reached for the telephone. Her fingers fumbled with all the advanced taps and swipes for a short while until she landed at the elusive sub-sub-menu that listed the audio messages. After tapping the one she had already listened to twice, she put the telephone to her ear.

'Hi, Wynne,' Mandy said in a voice that sounded so fatigued it made Wynne break out in an ugly grimace, 'I'm sorry, but I won't be able to come home at all tonight. We've just been through the night from hell. Remember I told you yesterday that the prisoners were remarkably restrained?  It didn't last. We initially had the mouthy one, a Mr. John Nolan, sharing Holding Cell Two with one of his associates while Mr. Fischer shared Cell One with the final member of their group. I'll continue in the next message.'

Wynne moved down the telephone and tapped on the next item on the list. As soon as Mandy spoke once more, she put the telephone back to her ear: 'At some point after midnight, Mr. Nolan and Mr. Fischer discovered they could communicate with each other through the ventilation ducts if they shouted. Before Senior Deputy Gonzalez could get them to keep quiet, they had agreed to ravage their cells. The bunk beds were kicked to pieces, they destroyed the toilet bowls and, worst of all, the security cameras and the light fixtures in the ceiling were smashed by hurling chunks of the bed at them.'

"Them rotten sombitches. Buncha brainless morons… stinkin' a-holes," Wynne growled as she listened to Mandy letting out a long sigh in the recording.

'With the cameras gone, the rules and regulations stipulate quite clearly that we need to have a physical presence in the holding cells to ensure the safety of the prisoners. We have no riot gear to speak of, so we needed to go in guns drawn. Mr. Fischer and the others didn't react well to that development. We needed to separate the instigator, Mr. Nolan, from the others with no option but to lock him up in one of the stalls in the office's restroom. Long story short-'

When the second message stopped abruptly, Wynne tapped on the third and final recording to hear the rest of the sordid tale.

'Sorry, Wynne, I lost track of time. Mr. Nolan proceeded to vandalize the stall to such an extent that he tore the water pipe he was handcuffed to clean off the wall. The situation continued to escalate and Senior Deputy Gonzalez and I had no choice but to pacify him with our billy clubs. Crude and ugly, but the alternative would have been to open fire at him and that will not happen on my watch. We called Barton City requesting urgent backup. They arrived at a quarter past one with a paddy wagon and three cruisers. Right now, we're waiting for Facility Services to come from Jarrod City so we can get the holding cells repaired. Like I said, this was the night from hell. I have no idea when I can come home. Love you, Wynne… bye.'

"Luv ya too, Sheriff Mandeh," Wynne growled. She grabbed her mug of morning coffee and poured down the rest of the hot contents in a single gulp in the hope it would quell the awful taste she had in her mouth from listening to the audio messages.

Splashes of color moving around outside caught her eye. Getting up, she tied a knot on the belt of her bathrobe and shuffled over to the window overlooking the central lawn between the trailers. Brenda and Vaughn Travers went back and forth between their own trailer and their luxury SUV carrying all kinds of camping equipment - among them a tent for two, an outdoor grill, a couple of foldable lawn chairs and several cooler boxes that seemed heavy.

Brenda soon noticed they were being watched; she waved at her neighbor before she blew her a kiss just for fun. The camping theme was reflected in the clothing worn by both Travers': sturdy cargo pants and double-layered flannel shirts. A pair of insulated jackets were soon put on the back seat of their SUV followed by two shoeboxes that were large enough to hold proper hiking boots.

Wynne waved back but refrained from blowing the spirited woman a kiss - with Brenda's husband present, it would only lead to awkward questions that were best avoided. She had to chuckle at Vaughn's appearance. Even dressed in rugged outdoor fatigues, the fellow with the stylish hair, neatly-groomed beard and a pair of fashionable spectacles still managed to come across like a high-school intern at a children's library on his way to a costume party.

Once the Travers had driven off for their weekend adventure, the black cloud returned to hover above Wynne's head. She let out a deep, long sigh that proved exactly how she felt about sleeping alone for two nights in a row.

"Aw, hell… I sure can't stay he' all day. I got im-pahr-tant things ta do," she mumbled as she turned away from the window and went into the small bathroom to grab a shower.

---

Half an hour later, the beige 1988 Ford F150 Single-Cab Shortbed owned by Diego Benitez rumbled north on the State Route. Diego had the wheel while Wynne sat next to him with a sour look on her face. Not even the opened can of Fenwyck Double-Zero she held in her hand could ease the gloom.

Unlike Ernie's customized F350 Super Duty, Diego's Ford was a simple workhorse. The fact was reflected in the level of comfort present: no air-conditioning, no power steering, no tinted windows, no fancy upholstery, no carpets on the floor, no advanced infotainment system, no chrome wheels and no custom paint - it came as no surprise to anyone when Goldie went off to play with Renee Tooley after taking a single look at the state of the ride.

A gun rack had been installed on the cab's rear window. One of Diego's older rifles and a double-barreled Remington twelve-gauge shotgun had been attached to the hooks. Behind the cab, an aluminum storage box had been fastened to the bed with eight bolts to keep it in place no matter how hard the truck would rock and roll over the uneven desert; the rectangular box contained a few tools like shovels and pickaxes as well as half a dozen US Army field MREs - ready-to-eat meals - for whenever the passionate hunter went on one of his multi-day trips deep into the desert.

The main reasons for choosing the old F150 were the electrical winch on the front bumper and the trailer coupling that had been welded onto the rear frame below the tailgate. Diego had stored enough chains - and even a proper six-foot tow bar - on the bed to move an eighteen-wheeler if needed. Depending on what they would find at their destination, the heavy-duty tools might come in handy.

Wynne and Diego both wore clothes fit for work: Wynne had donned her safety boots and a pair of jeans that could withstand every kind of substance she could throw at them; the knees and parts of the seat were reinforced by patches of leather that made them almost indestructible. Further up, she wore a pair of sweatshirts that were so washed out it was impossible to read the slogans that had once graced them. She had also brought a denim jacket in a simpler design than her usual flashy outfit, but it remained folded-up across her lap. As the final item, she had taken the sturdiest work gloves she had.

Diego wore his regular hunting outfit that he had bought in its entirety from a US-Army surplus store: marching boots, sturdy pants, a three-quarter length battle jacket and finally a floppy sun hat that had been put on the bench seat next to him - all items were held in the same shade of sandy so he could blend in perfectly with the background. The only clothing item that broke the monochrome display was his white trucker cap celebrating the Nevada ThunderRollers, the undefeated roller-derby champions who operated out of Jarrod City.

His mustache and sideburns weren't quite as shaggy as Ernie Bradberry's, but they weren't far off. The main difference between the two men's hair was that Diego's hair was thick and slicked-back while Ernie's was thinning and held in a mullet.

"Hey, Wynne… I'm sorry for being so dense, but you need to run it by me again… what is it you want us to do, exactly?" he said to his passenger. When Wynne didn't react, he reached over to nudge her shoulder.

"Whassat, friend?" Wynne said, looking like she had just returned from orbiting Venus. When she noticed she held onto an opened can of beer, she took a long swig to get her mind back on track.

Diego let out a chuckle. "I said, what is it you have on your mind with this trip?"

"Aw… well," Wynne said and shuffled around on the uncomfortable seat; a broken spring poked her in the rear-end no matter where she tried to sit, "I wus thinkin' o' checkin' out if we could mebbe salvage ol' Joe-Bob's Caddeh. Yuh. Mandeh done tole me it wussen too badleh wrecked or nuttin'. Mebbe we can get it fixed. I be perdy sure ol' J-B would 'preciate it, even if he woudden say so. O' course, he might not be able ta… ya know. Undahstand it."

"Yeah… seems to me we've had an awful lot of medical dramas recently," Diego said and broke out in a slow nod. "Ernie's wife and now Joe-Bob… and remember when Frank Tooley burned his arm the other week up at Derrike's place?  Damn, that looked nasty."

"Sure did, but ol' Frankie wus drunk off his ass at the tih-me. That wussen nobodda's fault but his own. I dunno whaddindahell he wus thinkin' tryin' ta set fiah ta a buncha napkins, anyhows… I mean… that ain't normal."

"I suppose that's true."

"Yuh," Wynne said and took a long swig from the can of Double Zero. After wiping her lips, she continued: "Estelle sure didden need no furthah shit, lemme tell ya. That there ladeh be workin' so hard she ain't gonn' make it anothah ten years if she don't slow down some. I be fixin' ta cook som'tin up fer her, but she be so dang proud she ain't easeh ta tawk ta sometimes. Ya know?"

"O-yeah."

A set of flashing, bright-orange warning lights driving along the State Route a short distance ahead grabbed their attention and made Diego slow down. Once they got closer to the source, they were able to see that it was one of the Ford Louisville wrecker trucks operating out of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop.

The police Durango that had been abandoned at the bottom of the ditch had been pulled up onto a rollback. The rust-brown GMC van operated by the three suspected pot-suppliers had been attached to the back of the Ford truck through a tow-bar and a set of heavy-duty metal chains.

"Whah, that be ol' Tuckah Garfield. Honk ya horn, will ya Diegoh?" Wynne said as the F150 pulled out to pass the slow-moving Louisville. Diego duly complied with the request, but it mattered little as Tucker gave the passing truck and the two people in it a cold shoulder - the dark scowl on his face proved that his customary foul mood had reached an all-time low.

Chuckling at the tow-truck driver's predictable behavior, Wynne drained her Double Zero and dropped the empty can down into the footwell where it landed on the unprotected floor with a metallic Clonk!  "Gotta love Tuckah… he ain't nuttin' but consistent. Evah done seen 'im smih-le, Diegoh?"

"Not sure I have, no… wasn't he married once?  Maybe he smiled on his wedding day. Or night."

"I got no clue. None whatsoevah. Tuckah Garfield married?  Lawwwwwr-die," Wynne mumbled before she scratched her cheek and let out a belch - it didn't matter a bit to her what Tucker had been up to earlier, so she pushed it from her mind and promptly forgot all about him.

---

Moving past the Goldsboro city limits sign and driving onto Main Street, Diego made sure the F150 stayed under the thirty miles per hour speed limit so they could avoid any awkward situations with the deputies given the identity of his passenger.

Wynne craned her neck to look at the jail house and the sheriff's office as they drove past. She briefly considered paying them a visit, but a pair of large utility vans from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department Facility Services were still parked next to the remaining Durangos so she didn't want to disturb - she did catch a fleeting glimpse of Mandy beyond the reinforced door to the jail house. The sheriff seemed to be co-ordinating the repairs which left a wide grin on Wynne's face.

Another can of Double Zero was soon cracked open and swigged. Only then did she notice that Diego had spoken to her. She responded in time-honored fashion with an eloquent: "Huh?  Y'all be talkin' ta me?"

Diego grinned as they continued to trickle north on Main Street. "No, I was trying to get in touch with the mayor of Pasadena!"

"Uh… okeh… well, good luck with that, Diegoh," Wynne said and furrowed her brow. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the large billboards at the Goldsboro Movie Theater advertised a ten-movie cavalcade of Western classics the following weekend - not just the typical John Wayne and Randolph Scott features, but several Roy Rogers and Buster Crabbe matinee B-Westerns that had been painstakingly restored to their original glory. Grinning, she marked the dates in her internal calendar at once.

"Why, thank you, Wynne!" Diego said and let out a laugh. "No, seriously… how far north did Joe-Bob's Cadillac end up?  I need to leave at noon or so 'cos I've been invited over to my sister for afternoon coffee and then supper."

"Aw, it wussen too far north or nuttin'. 'Bout fih-ve miles or so. I bah-lieve… yuh, 'bout fih-ve miles," Wynne said as they arrived at the northern city limits sign.

"That's not too bad. Shouldn't be a problem, time-wise," Diego said before he stepped on the gas which made the tired, old workhorse rattle a little louder as it picked up speed.

-*-*-*-

Back in the sheriff's office in Goldsboro, Mandy Jalinski entered the trashed restroom to inspect the initial repairs. After a grumpy plumber had been called to the office at dark o'clock to turn off the water and fix the pipe that had been ripped off the wall, the workers from Facility Services had been by to replace all the stall doors and the light fixtures, two of the toilet seats and even a few of the wall tiles that John Nolan had felt it necessary to destroy in his blind rage.

The metal washbasin under the mirror had escaped damage as such, but the same couldn't be said for the mirror itself. It had proven to have non-standard measurements so the spare the workers had brought with them had been too large for the existing hooks it was supposed to be attached to. Thus, the old mirror remained as it was after Nolan had thrown a metal door handle at it - the myriad of triangular shards resembled a giant cobweb that spread out from the center to all four corners.

Sighing, Mandy put her hands on her hips and stared at the R-rated version of herself in the cracked mirror. The person who stared back at her appeared to be wearing a cheap Halloween mask that featured pasty skin, a fright-wig, bloodshot eyes and ghoulish, dark-gray lines that zig-zagged all over.

While the workers from Facility Services took a coffee break in the outer office, Mandy opened the hot faucet in the hope of getting enough water out to run a washcloth over her flushed neck and forehead - such a makeshift cleaning session would be all she had time for before the next fifteen-hour shift would commence.

The legendary Goldsboro luck struck again as nothing came out of the faucet save for hideous farting noises and infrequent splashes of a rust-brown liquid - an impressive final splash made her step back from the sink in a hurry so her uniform could avoid being soaked. Another sigh escaped her as she added 'call the plumber again' to her already lengthy agenda.

Though brushing her teeth had been next on her agenda, the sight of the rust-brown slush in the washbasin brought a quick and disgusting end to those plans. The tough night she and the other deputies had been through meant that thinking happened far slower than normal, but enough neurons fell into sync to make her remember seeing a few bottles of uncarbonated spring water somewhere in the dark recesses of the crew room.

The gruesome taste in her mouth from drinking far too much strong coffee to keep going forced her into action - she couldn't care less if the Pope, the President of the United States or even the ghost of Elvis Presley would show up and demand her full and undivided attention. Sighing, she strode out of the restroom to search for the bottled water.

Continued

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