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CHAPTER 11

The great difference in mobility between the Sheriff of Goldsboro and the Last Original Cowpoke soon became apparent and undeniable. The first stage of their Walk & Talk had gone well - picking up a bored Blackie from the jail house - but the next one proved troublesome for all involved.

Wynne needed to slow down to a crawl after a few steps, wincing for each additional time she put the hardwood cane and her left safety boot on the sidewalk. Mandy, though doing her best to lean on her partner to support her, could hardly walk that slow and soon grew frustrated with their lack of progress.

Blackie had long since given up waiting for her owners. Running off on her own, the black German Shepherd took the opportunity to explore the sidewalk and the many strange smells she found there.

"Awwwww-crap," Wynne said in a croak. "This ain't gonn' work, darlin'. I be reddy fer tha dang-blasted scrap heap all ovah ag'in. Dag-nabbit, an' jus' when mah rotten knee wus doin' bettah, too… but ain't no stinkin' way I coudden help y'all las'night. Or tha Grant-Mastah now, yuh?  Naw, I sure coudden. I jus' don't get whaaah that dang-blasted knee seems wohhhh-rse now than it did befo' that there surgery. Mebbe them doctahs didden get all them bone fragments out aftah all, haw?"

"I can't say, hon. Perhaps you should call Doctor Thornton on Monday and tell him what you feel now," Mandy said, reaching over to place a supportive kiss on Wynne's cheek.

"Yuh. I prolly oughttah do jus' that."

Looking back, Mandy spotted the black Silverado parked in front of the sheriff's office. "We really need to talk, so… can you make it back to your truck?"

"I reckon. How far is it?"

"Oh, about thirty yards."

"Haw, eeezy-peeezy. Like running fihh-ve hundred miles at Dovah or Bristol or somewhe'ah. O' course, they don't offen do that no mo'!  Only at them big ol' races," Wynne said, breaking out in a brief laugh that got stuck in her throat the moment she put her left boot on the sidewalk. "Awww-shoot… I'mma-gonn' need-a take two o' them there dang pills tamorrah. 'S gonna make me all grumpy-like 'cos then there ain't gonn' be no beers in mah future!"

---

Reaching the black Chevrolet, Wynne clambered up behind the wheel by way of a lot of rear-end pushing by a strong Sheriff. "Phew… hoah-me at last, haw?  At least I ain't drivin' no stick so I don't got no clutch pedal or nuttin'… but I ain't gonn' be able ta operate that there parkin' brake without a li'l fumblin' 'round. Aw, that be fer latah."

Blackie throned in the middle of the back seat. She let out a Woof-woof-woof? when it didn't seem they were going anywhere. Puzzled, she looked at each of her owners in turn before she shrugged and made herself comfortable on the seat.

"We wouldn't want to disappoint Blackie," Mandy said with a smile after she had climbed into the passenger seat. "Let's drive over to the impound yard. We can talk there."

"Yes, Ma'am, Sheriff, Ma'am," Wynne said, starting the engine. After checking the mirrors, she activated the turning signal and made a fast U-turn across the deserted Main Street. The truck rumbled north for a short distance before she turned left to go into the alley at Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports.

The narrow alley made the truck's typical exhaust note seen even louder than usual prompting a wide grin to spread over Wynne's face. "Haw, when this he' shit be all ovah, I'mma-gonn' drive mah TransAm through this he' alley with them open pipes blastin' away. Lawrdie, that gonn' sound so sweet. It alreddy done sent me one o' them there text mess-itches beggin' an' pleadin' ta come an' rescue it from boredom, yuh?"

Mandy briefly narrowed her eyes before she leaned over to pat Wynne's thigh. "It's a car, hon. It can't send any text messages."

"Aw?  Well, somebodda did. Mebbe it wus ol' Fat-buhhh-tt, then?" Wynne said with her tongue stuck in her cheek.

The Sheriff's Department's impound yard was soon reached. Nothing much had changed there since the time when Wynne and Mandy had battled the dimension-warping red lightning bolts that had caused so much grief around town.

During one of the Town Council meetings Mandy had been required to attend, she had been shown a binder so full of complaints lodged by the residents of Goldsboro about the yard's visual appearance that it couldn't close properly. It seemed the most common words used in the complaints were 'butt-ugly' and 'a terrible eyesore.'

A wire mesh fence close to twenty feet tall had been built around the yard's perimeter to stop juvenile delinquents, older hellraisers or simply drunken rowdies from stealing spare parts, wheels or entire body panels straight off the impounded vehicles. Before the perimeter fence had been built, theft had been a huge problem as had graffiti and people using the coarse gravel as a public restroom, but that had all come to an abrupt end making the fence one of the best decisions that had been made - even if the Goldsboro Town Council had moaned about the cost.

A tall lamp post had been erected in each of the four corners of the yard to keep everything bright during the dark hours, but they were obviously all turned off.

"Just stop here, hon," Mandy said, pointing at a spot directly in front of the main gate. Three heavy-duty padlocks protected the gate, but since they weren't going in, there was no need to find the correct keys among the bundle she carried in a pouch on her utility belt.

The only vehicle present in the impound yard hadn't even been impounded: it was the Dodge Durango that had broken down while on patrol the previous week. Though repairing the cracked driveshaft wouldn't be a problem for the expert mechanics at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop, the owner of the garage, Otto Kulick the Third, had refused to carry out the work until the Sheriff's Department had paid off their existing debt that had been maxed out following an engine rebuild in one of the other Durangos. The Town Council had stood firm on not expanding the budget, and that had been that.

Wynne turned off the engine before inching around on the seat to get a better look at Mandy. "Awright, he' we be. I be dyin' ta hear that there ideah ya'll done tole us ya had."

After letting out a deep sigh, Mandy followed the cue and scooted closer to Wynne. "In the old days, the sheriff would have readied his scattergun and his Peacemaker and gone into the saloon to confront the desperados. Right?"

"Yuh… I reckon…"

"Well… call me crazy, but that's pretty much what I think I need to do."

Wynne's eyes grew wide for a moment - then they narrowed down into slits. "Ya whut?!  Y'all need-a 'splain that in a-cuppel-a mo' details, darlin', 'cos mah noggin be extra-slow on tha uptake taday… y'all gonn' confront Bobby Johnston at Derrike's?!  Or whutevah-tha-hell that a-hole's name be."

Mandy said nothing at first, but she eventually sighed and broke out in a nod. "Clayton Mitchell."

"Yuh… Mitchell."

"Well… yes. Of course, this isn't the Wild West. I'm not going in guns-a-blazing. My intentions are to talk to Rains, not Mitchell. To confront-"

"Holy shittt… y'all reckon that gonn' work, darlin'?" Wynne said, immediately reaching over to caress Mandy's cheek. "He done hates yer guts!  Since forevah an' evah, too!"

"I know that, Wynne. But I want to confront him with what we know about Mitchell's past. Rains is a nasty SOB, but not stupid. After his own downfall, he knows all about the power of social media. He knows how merciless an opponent it can be… an intangible one that doesn't get intimidated by his presence like all those poor individuals he's bullied in the past. Right?"

"Yuh… yuh, I sure do see yer point, but mah gut be tellin' me it ain't so good a no-shun…"

"My plan is to tell him that if he and the shadowy men pulling their strings don't withdraw Clayton Mitchell from the election, details of Mitchell's past will be leaked bit by bit so it'll run for a couple of weeks. It won't be our finest hour, but I have a feeling that Rains… well…"

"Would undahstand 'cos y'all would be speakin' his lang-witch."

Mandy drew a deep breath that she let out slowly. She eventually nodded. "Yes."

"Haw… yuh… okeh. Lawrdie."

The news had time to settle before Mandy reached over to claw Wynne's thigh. "How we became aware of Johnston's a.k.a. Mitchell's previous identity is a textbook example of how the world turns these days. We asked Brenda to film everything on the first day of campaigning. She did, including the speeches over on Second Street at the hardware store. She kept filming even during the rioting and got a clear view of the man we knew as Bobby Johnston speaking to Rains."

"Yuh…"

"Later, she uploaded parts of the recording to a website. A woman in a support group for assault victims down in Cavanaugh Creek saw those clips and shared them with one of the volunteers whom she mistakenly thought was from Goldsboro-"

"Lawrdie, I be gettin' a li'l con-few-sed now, darlin'…"

"I'm almost done," Mandy said, reaching up to give Wynne's hand a squeeze. "Out of sheer coincidence, the volunteer, Merrill Jaeger from the District Attorney's Office in Wilmer County, happened to be the very person the man we knew as Bobby Johnston had been convicted of threatening. She knew him as Clayton Mitchell. And the circle was complete."

"Holy shittt…"

"Merrill Jaeger contacted Councilwoman Skinner who contacted me… and there you have it. Knee-deep in yet another mess. No offense intended."

"Haw, none taken, darlin'!  Yuh, we sure be knee-deep in da shits. Ag'in. How many times is this now?  I done lost count… hell, I don't even wanna know!"

Before Mandy could answer, her telephone rang. In the back seat, Blackie had time to let out an excited Woof! at the prospects of finally getting to gnaw on some bad people, but her enthusiasm was short-lived when Mandy said: "It's Councilwoman Skinner. I better speak to her."

"Yuh."

"This is Sheriff Jalinski. Hello, Mrs. Skinner," Mandy said, reaching into her shirt pocket to find her notepad and a ball point pen in case she had to jot something down.

'Hello. I'd like an update. Have you had time to think of a strategy yet?'

"I have. More to the point, I believe I've come up with a workable solution." As Mandy spoke, she looked at Wynne who bared her teeth in a worried grimace.

'Good. Miss Jaeger and I are enjoying a refreshment in my garden. I think you should come over so you can bring us up to speed.'

Scrunching up her face, Mandy checked the time on the telephone. The white digits didn't lie: it was long past their afternoon snack time which meant that A.J. Lane had been by with their regular pastry orders and his top-quality coffee. Since they didn't have a refrigerator in the office, the sweet bread would already have grown lukewarm and unpleasant. Even worse, the coffee would have turned stale and even more unpleasant. "All right, Mrs. Skinner. I'll be by in a few minutes' time," she said while grinding her teeth.

'Good. We're in the garden. Don't bother with the doorbell because we can't hear it. Just come around to the back.'

"Very well, Mrs. Skinner. I'll see you then. Goodbye."

"Lemme guess," Wynne said as she started the Silverado's engine. "We be goin' ovah ta Skinnah's?"

"Well, I am."

"Haw, me an' y'all both, darlin'!  An' Blackie, too!  Ain't dat right, girl?"

Woooof…

"Haw?"

Woof!

"Yuh, I know y'all ain't too fond o' Foo-Foo," Wynne said with a grin as she made another U-turn at the impound yard. "But mebbe, jus' mebbe, tha li'l crittah be in a bettah mood taday or som'tin?"

Woof…

"Aw, y'all shoudden pout. It done looks weird on a dawg!"

---

Three minutes later, Wynne hobbled around Mary-Lou Skinner's town house ably assisted by the hardwood cane and Mandy's steadying hand. Behind them, Blackie shuffled along with a hang-dog expression that proved she would rather be anywhere else.

Woof-woof-woof-wooooof…

"Naw, girl," Wynne said over her shoulder. "It be way too hawt fer y'all ta stay in tha truck, even with them windahs open an' all. Yuh?"

Woooof…

"Aw, it be fihhh-ne. Dontcha worry none. I bet Mary-Lou done got a treat fer y'all or som'tin."

Blackie was about to answer that the somewhat large Human only had treats meant for her own dog when her sensitive ears picked up the unmistakable sound of Foo-Foo yapping its tiny head off. A downcast Woof escaped her as they all turned the corner to enter the back garden.

Mary-Lou Skinner's Chihuahua Foo-Foo greeted the Human and doggy visitors with a frenetic barrage of high-pitched, high-strung yaps. The tiny dog jumped up and down, spun around in tight circles and tore around the garden at such speed that its minuscule legs grew into blurry lines in the air.

Blackie let out a long doggy-sigh before she looked up at her owners. A Woooof… escaped her that meant 'This isn't going to end well…'

Mary-Lou Skinner and Merrill Jaeger sat on a white bench that was in fact an old-fashioned porch swing. The chains connecting the bench to a permanent awning above it had been reinforced to compensate for the Councilwoman's weight, but it remained a charming setup that was held in a classic Western design.

A wrought-iron table with a glass top carried a pitcher of orange juice, two tall glasses and a small bowl of healthy snacks. A tall, wide parasol provided even more shade and an electric fan kept the air flowing.

The view of the desert beyond the garden was just as breathtaking as the one down south in the trailer park, but it was toward the west rather than the east. As a result, the rolling foothills of the Yarbrough mountain range could be seen in the middle distance through the shimmering heat rising from the desert.

Foo-Foo continued her frantic yapping as Wynne, Mandy and Blackie moved over to the cozy corner. "Howdy, Mary-Lou!  Nice ta see y'all. Lookin' fine as evah, yuh?" Wynne said, thrusting out her hand for the traditional greeting.

Councilwoman Skinner needed a little head-start to get up from the swing, but she had soon managed it. Putting out her hand, she said: "Hello, Miss Donohue. You're limping?"

"Yuh, mah dang-blasted knee iz misbehavin'. Howdy, Miss," Wynne said, continuing onto Merrill Jaeger. "Wynne Donnah-hew he'. Sheriff Mandy an' me be an item, yuh?  We be side bah side thru' thick an' thin. Okeh, right now, I be a-cuppel-a steps behind tha fas'movin' Sheriff there, but anyhows."

"Hello, Miss Donohue. I'm Merrill Jaeger. Here, you can have my seat," Merrill said, quickly getting up from the swing.

"Whah, I sure do 'preciate it. Yessirree, I be a li'l slow an' achin' taday," Wynne said as she sat down and stretched out her bad leg. "Aw, an' that black beauty there be ou'ah dawg Blackie. Kinda fits, haw?  She be one o' them there K-nine off'sahs."

Merrill briefly furrowed her brow as she tried to parse the inch-thick dialect. One word in particular caused her grief: "I'm… I'm sorry… off-sass?" she said in the hope that someone would translate it into English.

Mandy came to the rescue with a droll "Officers."

"Oh… I see."

Woof!

Grinning, Wynne leaned over to nudge Mary-Lou in the side with her elbow. "Dat means Howdy in Doggy!"

Blackie's bark and Wynne's comment were drowned out by Foo-Foo who seemed to enter an even higher state of Hyper. The little dog soon tore around the garden yapping as if its life depended on it. Now and then, it stopped to perform several 360-degree spins that looked dizzying even from afar. Foo-Foo would always recover in time to jump up and tear around once more.

Mary-Lou's calm behavior proved the high-strung complaining was the norm for Foo-Foo. Instead of shushing her dog, she took her glass of orange juice and used it to toast her companion and the visitors. "Sheriff, what kind of plan did you come up with?"

"I've decided to enter the dragon's lair," Mandy said, assuming a stance that any wartime commander would have been proud of: hands on her utility belt, her legs slightly apart to express her strength, and her boots firmly planted on the ground to show that this was her home turf and that everyone who dared to challenge that notion should think twice. "Or to be less flowery, go over to their campaign headquarters and speak to Arthur Rains. Yes, I said Rains. Not Mitchell."

"You really need to explain that decision, Sheriff," Merrill said in a sour tone. To mirror some of Mandy's stance she slammed her arms across her chest. "When we spoke hours ago, you shot down my plan of confronting Clayton Mitchell. Yet, here were are, mere hours later… and you plan to speak to the other fellow. What good could possibly come out of that?  Haven't we just wasted half a day?"

Mandy finally relaxed her stance though she kept her hands on her belt. "Miss Jaeger, had you gone over to Derrike Iverson's bar to confront Mitchell on your own, chances are that Rains and his cronies would have thrown you out two seconds after you'd stated the reason for your visit. If they were in a good mood, they might have settled for giving you a world class runaround. If they weren't, they wouldn't have been adverse to grabbing you by the scruff of your neck and the seat of your pants. Either way, you wouldn't have been able to get close to Clayton Mitchell."

"Hmm. All right, I concede that point," Merrill Jaeger said, moving her arms down. "But what makes you believe it would be any different for you?"

"Because I served under Rains for many years. He knows me better than anyone here apart from Miss Donohue. We even share a few points of view on certain topics though I'm not happy to admit it. He knows my temper. My sense of duty. My determination. He knows I'll stand my ground in any fight… and he knows I'll fight dirty if I have to."

Wynne snickered, but Mary-Lou let out a dark grunt and an indignant: "Sheriff Jalinski!  I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Mandy ignored the comment. "In short, Miss Jaeger… Councilwoman… Rains knows to listen when I speak. I'll tell him that if Mitchell withdraws, we'll conveniently forget the things we've learned. That'll still create problems later on, but we'll have more time to deal with it then. Conversely, if Mitchell insists on staying in the running, our information will come to the public's attention."

Mary-Lou shook her head. "That's blackmail, Sheriff. Worse, that's something Rains would do!"

"Precisely. Which is why he'll listen," Mandy said in a tone that proved she had just made her final statement. She looked at everyone present before she tipped her Mountie hat. "Good day, Councilwoman. Miss Jaeger. Wynne, do you need a hand getting up?"

"Naw, I got mah cane, darlin'," Wynne said, clambering to her feet. Down on the ground, Blackie jumped up and let out the first happy Woof! of the entire ordeal.

Merrill Jaeger rubbed her brow. Foo-Foo tore around the garden yapping her tiny vocal cords to shreds, and Mary-Lou continued to shake her head before she downed the rest of her glass of orange juice in a single gulp.

-*-*-*-

Out on Main Street, Mandy's strong hands helped Wynne up behind the wheel of the Silverado. Wynne promptly stuck nearly her entire pinkie into her auditory canal to give everything a thorough shakey-shakey-shakey to flush out the last of Foo-Foo's incessant yapping.

"Lawrdie," she said to Mandy who had stayed at the open door to make sure Wynne wasn't in any pain. "I sure be glad none o' ou'ah dawgs yap like dat. Okeh, Goldie can get a li'l excited at times, but good shittt almighty, that there bizarroh crittah Fooh-Fooh be som'tin else. Haw?"

A Woof! was heard at once from the back seat.

"Yuh, Blackie!"

"Are you sitting comfortably?" Mandy said, getting ready to close the driver's side door.

"I sure am, darlin'. Much obliged fer partakin' in Opera-shun Push-Buhh-tt!"

It didn't take Mandy long to stride around the front of the black truck and climb up onto the passenger seat. "What surprises me the most is that Mrs. Skinner doesn't even bat an eyelid at that crazy dog. Something's not right with it… even given the fact that a Chihuahua is a high-strung breed."

Woof!  Woof-woof-woof.

"Whazzat, Blackie?"

Woof!

"Okeh. Yuh, Fooh-Fooh bettah not get anywhere ol' Freddie. He may mistake it fer a rat or som'tin. Darlin', ain't that whut Rottweilah means in Dutch or German or whutevah?  Ratcatcher or som'tin?"

Mandy looked at Wynne's profile for a few moments before she broke out in a shrug. "I have no idea. Zero."

"Okeh. Aw, it don't mattah none, anyhows," Wynne said and made the umpteenth U-turn that day. Two seconds later, she had forgotten all about it.

"Please let Blackie and me off at the office, hon. I need an update from Mr. Simms."

"Sure thing, darlin'."

Even driving slowly, it only took them less than a minute to get back to the sheriff's office. Wynne selected Park and reached for the ignition key, but Mandy stopped her by putting her own hand on top of Wynne's. "No. I want you to either go over to Moira's or drive home."

"Ya want me ta do whut?  Didden y'all jus' say ta Mary-Lou we wus gonn'-"

"I said that I was. Not that we were. Hon, I don't want you and Blackie to go with me to Mr. Iverson's bar."

Wynne stared at Mandy in wide-eyed disbelief for several, long seconds. Humorously, Blackie did much the same from her spot on the back seat. "Haw!  An' whah'dahell not, if I may ask?  Darlin', I be yer tailgunnah!  Yer wingman!  We be wing-wimmenfolk… aw, whutevah. We go tagethah like hawt an' saw-ce. Like Rose and Mary. Like Tallah an' Degah-"

Mandy had already shook her head several times. She eventually cut Wynne off by reaching out to caress the Cowpoke's smooth cheek. "Because I worry that if you're there, Rains will do nothing but harp on you and make your life miserable. I won't be able to get through to him."

"I ain't likin' it. I ain't liking it one dang-blasted bit," Wynne said, smacking a hand onto the rim of the steering wheel. "Awright. But lissen he', darlin', I ain't gonn' go ovah ta Moira's an' I sure ain't gonn' drive hoah-me. Naw, I'mma-gonn' wait bah mah truck not thirty feet from that there doorway ta that stinkin' pig sty. Yuh?  An' if I hear any kind o' trubbel, I'mma-gonn' come in guns-a-blazin' like we done tawked 'bout. Okeh, I ain't ack-chew-ly got no guns, but y'all know whut I done mean. It be a figgah o' speech, yuh?  Anyhows, I be comin' in ta kick some buhh-tt. An' that be fih'nal an' all, darlin'. F-I-H-N-A-L. Fih'nal."

"That's good enough for me," Mandy said before she leaned across to place a kiss on Wynne's cheek. That wasn't particularly satisfying for either party, so a second attempt was made directly onto the Last Original Cowpoke's lips. It proved far more rewarding on a short-term as well as a long-term basis.

Not everyone was happy, however: in the back, Blackie let out a disappointed Woooofff before she got down onto her stomach and buried her doggy head in her paws. It didn't even help when the car door was opened moments later to give her room to jump down onto the sidewalk. Another downcast Woof escaped her before she and her owner moved back into the sheriff's office. At least someone had filled her water bowl and prepared a small stack of the chicken-flavored treats, but it was nothing compared to the thrill of barking at - and gnawing on - bad people.

---

Five short minutes later, Mandy exited the sheriff's office with Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez in tow. Rodolfo and Wynne soon exchanged waves and Howdys before he moved down the street to relieve Deputy Reilly in the jail house.

Mandy strode over to the passenger-side of the Silverado but didn't open the door. Instead, she waited for Wynne to activate the remote power window so she could put her elbows on the windowsill. "I want you to drive up there ahead of me, hon. I'll walk. I need to clear my thoughts so I'll know exactly what to say to Rains."

"Okeh, darlin'. I still ain't likin' it, but I'mma-gonn' respect yer deci-shun an' all. Jus' keep calm an' battle on, yuh?  I be parkin' somewhe'ah close bah. Dontcha ferget, when y'all need Tha Las' Oh-ree-gee-nal Cowpoah-k ta come in an' save tha day, jus' hollah. Yuh?  An' please watch yer bee-hind. Ya know how weird an' unpredictable them ca-razies is. Luv ya."

"Love you too, Wynne. I'll be careful," Mandy said before she took a step back so the matte-black Silverado could leave the curb. Soon, the truck rumbled up the street until it reached Derrike Iverson's notorious dive. There was already a long line of trucks parked at the curb, so Wynne needed to perform yet another U-turn to slot into a space on the opposite side of Main Street.

A steely mask fell over Mandy's face as she set off in her customary stride. She tried to go through a few scenarios in her mind as she closed the distance to the bar, but soon realized that Wynne had been right about the unpredictability of the situation. How Artie Rains would react was one thing, but it was quite another to predict how Bobby Johnston, a.k.a. Clayton Mitchell, would respond to the facts.

All of the trucks parked in front of the bar carried bumper stickers for the J6 Brigade and the Patriotic Coalition. Not entirely unexpected, the entire row consisted of American brands. Some were crew cabs and some were singles, but they were all trusty workhorses that had hay bales, milk cans, pole-drills, shovels and other types of regular farming equipment up on their beds. All had gun racks installed in the cab's rear window featuring hunting rifles and double-barreled shotguns.

Three men stood outside Iverson's bar drinking beers though the ban on public consumption of alcohol was still in place. In a staggering twist of irony, the bylaw had Artie Rains's signature on the dotted line. The men, who wore work boots, jeans, flannel shirts and ball caps advertising John Deere, Massey-Ferguson and International farm tractors, respectively, stared in disbelief at the sheriff's compact, athletic form as she strode toward them. They stared even more when she entered the establishment.

Mandy's eyes needed some time to get accustomed to the low level of light inside Derrike Iverson's notorious bar. Why he preferred it that way had been lost in the annals of time, but whispered rumors suggested that it was to save himself the trouble of wiping the tables and sweeping the floors. As to the latter, the floorboards were covered in sawdust that would soak up the inevitable spillages of blood, beer, spit, vomit and urine.

The smell was overwhelming. Stale beer, sweaty patrons, a whiff of old vomit and a nose-numbing stench that wafted into the bar from the open urinals out back. The typical laughter and crude comments from the patrons and barflies had all come to an end following the arrival of the law. The only exception to the rule was one of the town drunks, Robert Neilson, who continued telling a lewd joke involving the handle of a vacuum cleaner and a farm girl who really, really, really needed to get laid.

Derrike Iverson stood behind the bar counter pouring draft beer into a glass. He eyed the sheriff for a long while before he spat into a spittoon. The former prizefighter wasn't as fit as he had been. Always a large man, he had allowed himself to grow fat in recent times, and his double chins were almost as voluminous as those of his friend Artie Rains.

The only spot in the establishment that was lit up by stronger lamps was a round poker table to the right of the main entrance. The upper echelon of the Patriotic Coalition - Rains, J.D. Burdette and 'Bobby Johnston' - sat at the green table playing cards, smoking cigars and drinking beer. A half-full bottle of Old No.7 throned prominently in front of Rains as per the norm while the other men drank draft beer from large mugs.

"Well, if it ain't the short legs of the law. It's been a while since you were in here," Artie Rains said in his usual caustic fashion. His bloated features, three-day stubble, beady eyes, thinning hair and wobbling double chins hadn't changed all that much since the days where he had claimed the sheriff's desk as his own. He studied the current sheriff with a somewhat cautious look almost as if he couldn't figure out why she had shown up. "What's up, Manly?  Cruisin' for a bruisin' on a Saturday afternoon?  Or did you come to congratulate us on winning the election?"

"Did you somehow skip the actual voting part?" Mandy said as she approached the poker table.

Rains waved his hand in dismissal. "Ah. That's just a formality. We got it in the bag. Ain't that so, Johnston?"

'Bobby Johnston' broke out in a nasty grin. As always, the All-American Boy wore boots, dark-blue jeans, a brass belt buckle and a white shirt. "You better believe it. And you better believe it, too, Sheriff. Changes are a-comin'… or however that negro song went."

Mandy took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm herself down. It was time for the big showdown that would literally determine the fate of Goldsboro and so many of its residents for years to come. "They certainly are, Mr. Mitchell. That's your real name, isn't it?  Clayton Mitchell," she said in a steely, but calm, voice.

The All-American Boy narrowed his eyes down into slits. His cocky attitude and smug grin disappeared like the morning dew which left his face looking cold and sinister.

Next to him, Artie Rains let out a puzzled grunt. "Th'hell is Manly talkin' about, Johnston?" he said, shaking his fleshy head several times.

"She's just bluffing," Johnston / Mitchell said in a dark tone.

Now it was Mandy's turn to shake her head. "No. I've read the IAB report, Mitchell. Gangland shootings. Selling cocaine. Collecting protection money from sex workers. Threatening witnesses. Rains, that last part is how your golden boy earned himself the five-year stretch in the Wilmer County jail. I presume he informed you of that when you first met so there wouldn't be any secrets between you?"

Falling into a dangerous silence, Artie Rains put down his cards and took a shot of bourbon with measured gestures. Then he thrust out his hand faster than anyone would think possible. Instead of slamming a fist onto the poker table or any other type of modest reaction, he grabbed the man he knew as Bobby Johnston around the neck. The younger man was yanked toward the former sheriff with such force that one of the beer mugs tipped over and sent a golden tide toward the dollar bills used in the pot.

J.D. Burdette hurriedly rescued the money so it wouldn't drown, but Artie Rains had no time for petty cash. "You did time?  How the fuck did we miss that?" he said in such a menacing tone that it made even Derrike Iverson stop to stare. "We checked you out!  I asked you myself about your past and you didn't say shit about no jail time!"

Mandy chimed in with a calm: "He changed his name once he got out. I guess he made up a story to go with it."

It was clear by the confused look in Artie Rains's beady eyes that he had a hard time wading through the information thrown at him. Instead of easing off, he gripped the younger man even harder around the neck. "Last chance, friend. Come clean now and I might forget about it."

"I didn't lie about all of it!  I told you I was a cop in Cavanaugh Creek. That's true, all right?  I was in the drugs task force. And I changed my name, so fuckin' what?  Jesus, getcha hand off me," Mitchell said, squirming in his seat from the pressure on his neck.

"And the jail time?  Spill the fuckin' beans!"

"All right, all right!" the younger man said in a strained voice. "I did five years for intimidating and threatening some bitch working for the District Attorney's Office. They were getting too close-"

"And the other shit Manly said?  The coke, the whore scores, shooting at Cans?"

Mandy narrowed her eyes as she recognized the racial slur from her days pounding the mean streets of San Cristobal: 'Cans' was an umbrella term for the ethnic groups most often found to be involved in street gangs in any of the major cities: Mexicans, Puerto Ricans and Dominicans.

"Yes!" Mitchell croaked. "Yes, for fuck's sake!  Getcha hand off my neck, you fat sonovabitch!"

Artie Rains did in fact release his murderous grip around the younger man's neck. After downing a hefty swig of bourbon straight out of the bottle, he clenched his fist and punched Clayton Mitchell in the face with such force that it knocked Mitchell clean off his chair and onto the floor.

Mandy remained passive save for looking at the patrons and barflies who were present. None of them moved as much as a finger to come to Clayton Mitchell's assistance.

Down on the filthy floor, Mitchell crabbed around on his hands and knees until he got had composed himself enough to clamber to his feet. Blood seeped from his nose and both lips staining his white shirt beyond salvation. He spat out some that landed on the sawdust with a splattt. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!  I know your reputation, Rains!  You've done plenty of shit!"

"But I was never tried and convicted of anything until that fat-ass bitch Skinner busted me for ribbing a Chink!" Rains roared, slamming his fist onto the table which sent the other mug of beer over the edge and onto the floor. "It's the lie, you fuckhead!  Lies don't fly no more. How long do you think it'll take those fuckin' Internet nerds to discover your real background?  Ten fuckin' minutes!"

"Who gives a fuck about that when I'm the sheriff?!"

"Because it'll create headlines, for fuck's sake!  Headlines that will not go away, ever. Just the other day, I came across the fuckin' video clip that got me busted!  And that was, what, four-five years ago now?  The organization ain't gonna accept being lied to. So… you're done, friend. Get the fuck out. Now. Before I kick you out."

By now, Mandy's head was spinning at the implications. She tried to remain as neutral and passive outwardly as possible, but the aggression in the bar grew so fast and to such great heights that it became obvious something was about to happen. She let out a calm and controlled "Gentlemen, I would suggest you backed down before this gets out of hand," that nobody paid any attention to.

Clayton Mitchell glared at Mandy, Rains and J.D. Burdette in turn. Burdette needed to look down, but Rains gave as good as he got, and Mandy focused so hard on her rival candidate that her eyes almost turned into ray guns.

Then the former golden boy jumped into action. Not against Mandy, but a fists-first attack on Artie Rains that blindsided the large man. Yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs, Mitchell managed to get several punches in before Rains got to his feet and started swinging back.

J.D. Burdette stormed around the poker table to help his regional commander by opening a second flank in what could end up being a violent, bloody free-for-all, but he was forced to jump back when Mitchell roared out loud and drew a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. Light shining from the nearby lamps soon glinted off the lethal blade as it was thrust ahead and swung through the air in patterns that were as wild as they were unpredictable.

"Drop that knife before you kill someone!" Mandy roared, but Mitchell's blood boiled far too strongly to adhere to such a demand. Moving into a defensive stance, she put her hand on the hilt of her sidearm but didn't yet draw it.

More unintelligible yelling was exchanged between all three men. When the blade suddenly cut through Rains's shirt but missed the skin through a sheer miracle, Mandy drew her T-handle nightstick and went to work.

Her first impact sent the blade flying into a corner where it clattered to the floor. Pulling back, she twirled the stick and rammed the short end into Johnston's crotch. When he doubled over - wide-eyed and white as a sheet - she twirled the stick again and let the long end play the feared Billy Club Fandango on his back. The last impact was enough to send him to his hands and knees. Though he shook his head a couple of times to get the bumblebees out, it was clear the fight had gone out of him.

Mandy took a long step back before she slid the nightstick into its holster and put her hand back on the hilt of her sidearm. She eyed the other men present but nobody seemed interested in challenging her use of force. In fact, Artie Rains even chuckled though his nose and left eyebrow were bleeding.

"Nice to see you didn't forget everything I taught you, Manly," he said before he studied the jagged tear in his ruined shirt. "JD, get that piece of trash out of here. I don't care what hole you dump him in as long as it's somewhere remote. Use the back door."

Nodding, J.D. Burdette waved over some of the other patrons to help carry the semi-conscious Clayton Mitchell out of the bar.

Once Mandy had secured the hunting knife from the floor so nobody would get any bright ideas, she went back to the poker table where Artie Rains tried to get the beer swept off the green felt. "Mr. Rains," she said in her most official tone, "do you want to press charges against Mr. Mitchell for assaulting you?"

Artie chuckled again, though this was closer to his regular, caustic tones. "I don't know what the hell you think you saw, Manly. Assaulting me?  Hell, this was just a disagreement between poker players. Happens all the damn time in here."

"And it won't create any headlines," Mandy said, putting her hands on her hips.

"You've been paying attention. I'm impressed."

"So now what?"

Artie Rains flipped up a chair that had been knocked over in the melee. As he sat down, he wiped the blood off his face before he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and took a long swig - he didn't even wince as the strong spirits touched his sore spots. "I guess the Skinner woman will need to call off the election. Congratulations, Manly. But make no mistake, we ain't gonna keep quiet during your next term either."

"I didn't expect you to. Good day, Mr. Rains," Mandy said before she spun around on her bootheel and strode over to the notorious dive's front door. She needed to move past the three beer drinkers who had come inside alerted by the sound of the struggle, but she was soon back on the sidewalk where the dim lighting and the foul stenches couldn't reach her.

The first thing she did was to close her eyes and take a deep breath to cleanse her lungs and her mind. She held the breath for a few moments before she released it in a sigh of relief. There was still plenty of nastiness to come, she knew that better than anyone, but the first and potentially biggest hurdle had been cleared without much bloodshed.

Wynne's black Chevrolet was parked across the street. The driver's side window had been rolled down revealing that she had tuned the infotainment system to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack broadcasting out of Lansingburg. 'Smokestack' Parker's My Gal Daisy And Me And My Truck played from the Silverado's many speakers, but the volume was turned down the moment she noticed the sheriff striding toward her.

"Whah, howdy, darlin'!  Lawrdie, am I gladda see y'all safe. How did- holy shittt, whe'dahell did that there big-ass knihhh-fe y'all got there come from?  Rains had that?"

"No, this belonged to the All-American Hero," Mandy said and let out a bitter chuckle. "Rains persuaded my opponent to pull out of the election. It'll probably still go ahead as planned, but I'll run unopposed just like Rains did all those-"

"Whut?!  Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die!" Wynne cried, clamping down on her cowboy hat so it wouldn't fly off. "Golly Gee almighty, that be theeeee dog-gone best news I evah done heard!  Holy Guacamohhhh-le, darlin', this be in-sayne, lemme tell ya!  Aw… an' it also means that all tha dang-blasted hard work yestuhr'dy wus a waste o' time… does ol' Mary-Lou Skinnah know?"

"Not yet. I'll call her in a moment. We have other pressing business to attend to first. Have you seen Clayton Mitchell's white Jeep drive by here within the past few minutes?"

"Naw… should I?"

"Not necessarily. I presume J.D. Burdette drives a truck. Would you happen to know what color it is?"

Wynne just stared at the sheriff. "Okeh, this needs ta go a li'l slowah, yuh?  Mah brain be rattlin' 'round up in my noggin right now… J.D. Burdette?  He be drivin' a GMC Dually. I reckon it be maroon or some such. Dark-red or mebbe dark-brown. But whaddahell he got ta do with anythin'?"

"He took Mitchell with him."

"Lawrdie!  Johnston or Mitchell or whutevah-he-be-called be dead or som'tin?  Burdette or Rains done knocked him flat?"

"No. I did."

"Ya whut?!"

"With my nightstick, yeah."

"Haw!"

"But he was still alive when I last saw him. I want to keep him that way so he can inform Councilwoman Skinner that he's pulling out of the election. And to make sure of that, I need to get in touch with J.D. Burdette."

"Aw!  Well, darl-"

"Look, hon, it's a very long story that I'll tell you later. First of all, I'm going back to the office to look up Burdette's telephone number. I don't know what he has in mind-"

"Hold 'em hosses, darlin'!  I jus' done saw 'im drivin' that there GMC o' his not one minnit befo' y'all came ovah he'!"

"Dammit!  Where?" Mandy growled, spinning around to look up and down Main Street that was as deserted as ever save for the trucks parked in front of Derrike Iverson's bar and a few other spots along the street.

"Yuh, he done came from tha sto'ah an' drove ovah yondah in the alley next ta Derrike's- haw?  Darlin'?"

Wynne found herself speaking to an empty stretch of the street as Mandy had taken off toward the alley in question. "Mercy Sakes, this he' be turnin' inta one o' them there thrillah mooh-vies all of a sudden," she said, scratching her neck. "I mean, Goldsborah always been weird, but hot-dang, this be gettin' outta hand!  Aw, I bettah be tha backup jus' like in them cop shows on teevee."

The V8 soon roared which sent her and the black truck shooting away from the curb in a cloud of dust.

---

She came to a screeching halt in the alley fifteen feet or so back from J.D. Burdette's maroon GMC Dually. The tailgate was down, but nothing had yet been loaded onto the bed. Wynne's bad knee made her a great deal slower than usual, but the reduced speed helped her to get out of the truck with a minimum of pain.

The alley ran adjacent to Derrike's bar and was one of the maze of narrow, unnamed passageways that ran at the back of most of the stores on the east side of Main Street. One of the alleys led to the large lawn that was occasionally used for concerts or satellite parking at the town's parades while others led to garages or barn-like buildings that had fallen into varying states of disrepair.

The rear door to Derrike's dive stood open. Wynne could hear people talking somewhere inside, but she had very, very little interest in peeking in as the storage rooms at the back of the bar were right next to the open urinals.

She was spared experiencing such horrors when Mandy dragged a semi-responsive, bruised and bleeding Bobby Johnston, a.k.a. Clayton Mitchell, outside with the help of J.D. Burdette. Artie Rains's typically coarse laughter could be heard from beyond the open door, but Wynne had very, very little interest in meeting him, either, so she stayed well back.

"Okay," Mandy said as she and J.D. shuffled over to the GMC with Johnston / Mitchell between them, "let's get him up on the bed… there's no point in having him bleed all over your upholstery. And then we'll both drive down to the jail house so we can get Doctor Gibbs to come and take a look at him-"

Mandy stopped talking so abruptly that even J.D. shot her a puzzled look.

"Goddammit, both holding cells are occupied by those two knuckleheads!" she continued in a growl. "All right… one moron at a time. Let's get him down there. Then we can deal with the other fools. Congratulations, Mr. Burdette. Since you're helping the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, you can call yourself an Honorary Deputy."

The look on J.D.'s face proved it wasn't exactly what he had dreamt of. Wynne snickered out loud which made J.D. grimace even harder.

Working together, Mandy and J.D. Burdette were able to haul Clayton Mitchell up on the open bed without too much hassle. Dusting off his hands, J.D. gained an increasingly sour expression as he took in the presence of the people he had to work with. "Let's get this over with so I can get the hell away from you," he grumbled as he got behind the wheel of the GMC.

-*-*-*-

An hour later, Doctor Byron Gibbs leaned down toward the bunk bed in Holding Cell One to apply a small bandage on Clayton Mitchell's battered nose. The former challenger's face had been cleaned of blood, his split lips had been sutured and a bag of frozen peas had been put on his eyes to stem the worst of the swelling.

Mandy Jalinski watched it all with her legs slightly apart and her hands firmly on her hips. The grim expression upon her face made everyone but Wynne and Blackie give her a wide berth - even Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez kept well back.

Wynne and Blackie waited outside the holding cell so the doctor would have plenty of space for the small-scale interventions he needed to carry out. Blackie seemed annoyed to have missed all the fun, so she was in no mood to do anything but to lie down in her doggy-basket and sulk.

"Howdy, Rodolfoh," Wynne said as she moved over to the desk. She glanced at the monitor hooked up to the surveillance cameras. Since everyone present knew what went on in Cell One, it showed a crystal-clear image of the two goons who had been required to share Holding Cell Two. Befitting their status as hired muscle, they spent their time arm-wrestling.

"Hello, Wynne," Rodolfo said with a wide grin that made him look even more like a matinee film idol from the 1940s. "Tell me, is our sheriff a tough cookie or what?"

"Yuh, I reckon… but lemme tell y'all som'tin, friend. She may got a tuff shell, but she be theeee softest gal I evah done cuddled in mah arms."

Chuckling, Rodolfo swiveled back to the desk so he could get on with the latest round of paperwork. "Yeah, huh?  My Dolores needs to be in charge at all times. She's the most wicked when she's on top- uh… oh, you know what I mean."

"Yuh… yuh, ya sure don't hafta spell it out ta me or nuttin'," Wynne said, reaching over to give Rodolfo a little slap on the shoulder.

Activity by the door proved to be Mary-Lou Skinner and Bonnie Saunders. The cheesy grin disappeared from Rodolfo's face as he followed the standard procedures and switched the monitor over to the camera installed on the outside of the main entrance. He studied the street nearest the two visitors for a few seconds before he activated the automatic door opener - the safety procedure was designed to prevent any criminal elements from gaining access to the jail house.

"Aw. Them politi-shuns be comin' in… an' I be goin' out. See y'all in a li'l while, Rodolfoh," Wynne said before she and her cane hobbled over to the door to catch it before it closed behind Skinner and Saunders.

---

Another five minutes later, Mandy and Blackie stepped out of the jail house. Striding over to the familiar black truck that was parked some 15 yards further down Main Street, Mandy signalled Wynne to roll down the driver's-side window.

"Whazzup, darlin'?" Wynne said, switching off the infotainment system.

Blackie sat down on the sidewalk and looked up at her owners. Her pink tongue hung loose at first, but she soon broke out in a doggy-grin.

"You're looking at the old and new Sheriff of Goldsboro, hon." Mandy's face cracked wide open in a relieved, genuine smile that almost reached beyond her ears. Not hesitating for a second, she opened the door, climbed up onto the doorsill and planted such a wet 'un on Wynne's lips that The Last Original Cowpoke just about melted into a puddle on the seat.

Once their lips separated, their eyes remained locked in an eternal conversation between the Blue and the Hazel-green.

"Lawrdie," Wynne said in a kiss-induced croak, "I be so dag-nabbit happy fer y'all. Haw, this he' mess almost done twisted mah guts inta pretzels… yuh, it sure did. An' this be offi-shual now?  Yuh?"

"Yes, Councilwoman Skinner spoke to Mitchell. She even got him to sign a paper that clearly states he has withdrawn from the election. It's off," Mandy said as she traced the dips, planes and curves on Wynne's face with an index finger. "The news will be printed on a special public service announcement flyer that we're going to distribute around town tomorrow and the day after. Everything's back to normal now. Well… more or less."

"Mo' or less?  Now y'all be con-few-sin' me ag'in, darlin'…"

"We'll still have Rains and Burdette to deal with. Rains told me he and the J-Six people won't keep quiet. Maybe they'll continue with the Patriotic Coalition, but I have a feeling it was tied so closely to their golden boy that it'll have been tainted. Who knows, really."

"Yuh. I sure don't. An' where is he gonn' end up?  Johnston or Mitchell or whutevah."

Some of the sunniness left Mandy's voice as the topic changed to her former rival. She shook her head. "Can't say yet. I'll need to get in touch with the brass up at HQ before I can make any sort of decision. I can't do that on a Saturday much less tomorrow, so… yeah. Maybe the Wilmer County DA's Office wants to speak to him again. Or the IAB. He confirmed all of the things the IAB suspected him of, but he-"

"Lawrdie!  Dealin' drugs an' collectin' protec-shun money an' all that?"

"Yes, but he confessed to it under duress. I don't know if it would be submittable. I'm not familiar with the IAB's rules and regulations. That's for later, okay?  Right now, I just want to celebrate."

"Haw!" Wynne said, stealing a kiss from the brand new Sheriff of Goldsboro. "Y'all got a deal, darlin'!  If y'all an' ou'ah bayu-taful Blackie come ovah ta Moira's in fiddeen minnits or so… naw, les'make it twentah… I'mma-gonn' make us one helluva burgah feast!  Yessirree, it gonn' be one o' them there triple-deckahs an' fraaaahs an' ev'rythin'. An' a whooooole buncha Dubbel-Zerahs 'cos that there pill there I done took this mornin' 'z gone bah-bah bah now. Haw… I be such a poet!  Okeh?"

"How about some of Mr. Lane's excellent potato salad instead of the fries?" Mandy said with a grin.

"Yuh!  Yuh, ya betcha. Pah-tah-tah salad an' triple-deckahs fer all, darlin'!"

Another kiss was duly exchanged before Mandy stepped off the doorsill. "Can't wait. See you soon." After closing the Silverado's door, she saluted The Last Original Cowpoke who promptly made what had to be her 93rd U-turn of the day.

*
*
ENDGAME

Back home in the trailer park, two days later: Monday, September 2nd at ten to midnight.

A sense of calm had fallen over Goldsboro and the trailer park following the surprise cancellation of the election. Though some had been unhappy with the decision, most had welcomed it. No matter which side of the conflict people felt the most sympathy for, everyone could agree that it was high time to return to the grind that defined 99% of all days in the hamlet in the middle of absolute nowhere.

Thus Geoffrey Wilburr Senior and Junior hauled large loads of fresh hay from their fields to Morton Fredericksen's poultry farms north of town; Abraham Rosenthal and his staff at the movie theater showed the latest superhero movie; Gwen and Audrey Gilmore moved everything back out of their new bedroom to paint the walls in burnt orange to give it some life; Nancy Nguyen won first prize in an online contest for charcoal portraits; Barry Simms smoked 65 cigarettes and overcame 5-6 coughing fits a day as always; Kenny Tobin showed tourists their collection of small, large and gigantic King Spiders out at the Bug Bonanza; Wynne treated her TransAm to yet another SupaShine buff job; Trent Lowe and Nelson McConnell's evenings at the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor were pleasantly busy and free of any kind of harassment; and Mandy patrolled the streets of Goldsboro with a spring in her step and a jaunty whistle on her lips.

Down south in the trailer park, the lateness of the hour meant that the mobile home owned by the Tooleys was dark and quiet. Diego Benitez only had one light on in his living room. The Travers' had relocated to their bedroom for a little Monday entertainment of the adult kind, and Beatrice Reilly hadn't had time to rig up lights of any kind yet, so she had to settle with a battery-operated flashlight.

Wynne, Mandy, Goldie and Blackie all sat in front of their TV watching an old black-and-white Western that Wynne had selected. The humans shared the couch while the dogs shared their regular doggy-basket down on the floor. Three empty containers of Chicky Kingz's famous Mystery Boxes littered the coffee table next to half a crate's worth of empty beer and soda cans.

The actors in the old black-and-white Western were frozen right in the middle of a dialogue scene. It was the result of Wynne hitting the Pause button, but it wasn't much of a loss as the movie had been on the dull side compared to the first one they had watched that evening.

The reason for the movie being paused was that Mandy spoke into the telephone. She maintained a neutral expression as she listened to the news. "I see. Very well, Senior Deputy. Thank you for the update. We'll talk tomorrow. I wish you a calm rest of your shift."

Once the telephone was back on the coffee table, Mandy leaned back and wrapped an arm around Wynne's waist. They both wore comfy clothes: Mandy had hopped into a loose-fitting sweatsuit while Wynne wore a pair of cotton Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt she had cut the sleeves off to make it look cooler.

"Whazzup, Sheriff Mandy?"

"Remember that I told you yesterday that HQ up in Barton City advised us that we couldn't hold Clayton Mitchell against his will?  Especially not since Rains didn't want to press charges?"

"Yuh… 'cos Johnston-Mitchell alreddy done suhrved his time. Which is B.S. when he admitted to ha' done plentah o' othah shit. Didden 'xactly please that there Merrill Jaeger lady, neithah. She done left in a hurry!"

"When Mitchell left the holding cell yesterday morning, I asked the Senior Deputy to trail him. Well, he gave Rodolfo the slip up north in Maynard Bluff."

"Aw…"

"Today, we called in a few favors. Turns out that neither the State Troopers nor the Highway Patrol have sighted his Jeep anywhere in the northern part of MacLean County or the western stretch of Maynard County."

"Okeh… so… uh…" - Wynne scratched her neck - "so nobodda knows nuttin' 'bout where that sombitch might be at?  That ain't too reassurin', darlin'."

Mandy scooted even closer so she could get a firmer grip around Wynne's waist. "No, but if it's any consolation, it's me he wants. You're not on his list."

"That sure ain't no consola-shun!  Y'all be perdy spe-shul ta me, ya know!" Wynne said, reaching up to tousle Mandy's hair. "An' Johnston-Mitchell or whutevah, uh, an' me alreddy done had a li'l confronta-shun the othah day so I ain't too sure 'bout not bein' on his list. But nevah mind that sombitch now. We got ou'ah dawgs ta keep us safe, yuh?  Okeh, Blackie gonn' keep us safe… Goldie prolly gonn' set a new world fo'ah-by-paw speed rekkerd divin' undah that there bed. Get it?  Get it, haw?  Fo'ah-by-paw. Yuh?"

"You big, silly girl," Mandy said and broke out in a laugh.

They resumed watching the movie for another few minutes before Wynne hit the Stop button. "Aw, this jus' ain't fuhh-n… tawk, tawk, tawk, tawk, tawk. Bang. Tawk, tawk, tawk, tawk, tawk. Bang-bang. Ferget it." Once the media player had returned to the menu, she deleted the MP4 file and switched over to regular TV instead.

Zapping through a handful of channels proved that the midnight movies had already started on most of the stations broadcasting that sort of thing. Barry Simms would watch it - and he probably did up in his apartment up north in Goldsboro - but those movies were too low-budget, too amateurish or simply too bizarre for Wynne's tastes.

Another few minutes were wasted on a movie from the mid-1970s that the electronic program guide claimed to be an Exciting jungle-bound adventure! that turned out to be anything but. "Darlin'… I reckon them guys who done made that had been smokin' them palm tree leaves or som'tin, 'cos… Mercy Sakes, it be weird!"

"Let's just cuddle a little," Mandy said before she snatched the remote and mashed a finger onto the Off button.

Down on the floor, Blackie let out a Woof… that meant 'Darn, just when the going was getting good… I wanted to see if that big thing would gnaw on that bad Human.'

Goldie's only reply was a Yap-yap-yap that meant 'I thought it was scary. Let's just cuddle a little.'

The two days of rest had made Wynne's bad knee come back to near full strength, so she was able to scoot to her left to join Mandy in the corner of the couch without any problems. Once they were joined at the hip and as near to a state of domestic bliss as could possibly be achieved in the trailer park eight miles south of the Calamity Capital of The World, a precious calm fell over everything.

"Yuh, this be nihhh-ce," Wynne whispered while her nose brushed against Mandy's blond locks and her hand traveled across Mandy's stomach.

A few loving glances were exchanged. Then a few more. Then a whole heap more until the glances were accompanied by an unhurried kiss that started chaste and ended with just the right amount of tongue for that hour of the day.

"Hon, we need to talk about the future," Mandy eventually said in a whisper that matched the one Wynne had used earlier.

"Okeh… befo' or aftah we make luv?"

Mandy reached down to still Wynne's hand that had already found its way under the sweatshirt and onto the bare skin. "Before."

"Aw… sure," Wynne said, pulling back but remaining close. "Whazzup?"

"I turn fifty next month. Which means I'll be fifty-four by the end of the election period. I feel that's too old for the job requirements-"

"Fiddy-fo'ah ain't ol', darlin'… not bah a long shot or nuttin'. Y'all bein' so athletic an' all, yuh?"

"It's not old in real life, obviously, but you know how stressful the job can be. The seventeen-hour shifts are killing me even now. It takes me a full day to recover from those days, but I don't have a full day. I have seven hours to get home, try to fall asleep, get up, shower and then drive to work all over again."

"Yuh, I hear ya. But coudden ya mebbe… shoot, what's tha wohhh-rd I be lookin' fer… delegate?  Yuh, I reckon dat be it. Coudden y'all delegate yer duties or som'tin?  Rodolfoh an' ol' Quick Draw Bea be fine de-per-ties. An' they be far youngah."

"Of course I could. I could come in late and leave early. Sit behind my desk all day and vegetate like Sheriff Pershing. Grow old and stale. But I don't want to do that. I want to go out on top… and on my own terms, of course. No, this will be my last period as Sheriff of Goldsboro. I won't run again."

Nodding, Wynne leaned in to place a simple kiss on Mandy's lips. "An' I'mma-gonn' be there ta back y'all up a hundred percent, darlin'. But, yuh… y'all need ta think o' som'tin ta do with yer time. I know fer a fact y'all's head gonn' explode if ya gonn' sit hoah-me all day an' do nuttin'. I be fine with dat, but it sure ain't fer y'all."

"I know. I haven't planned that far ahead yet. I will in due time. Maybe I'll run against Bonnie Saunders for her spot on the Town Council?  I heard the perks are pretty good," Mandy said with a wink.

"Aw-Lawrdie, no… not a caree'ah in politics!  Pleeeease!  I can he'ah it now… I'mma-gonn' say 'darlin', ya wanna ha' some fuhhh-n tanight?'  An' y'all gonn' say, 'that ain't gonn' happen 'cos these he' bylaws done say no luv-makin' activity be permitted on weekdays 'cept fer da first wenns'dy o' da month!' "

"That's a fair point. I'll scratch that off my list," Mandy said, reaching out to pull Wynne even closer so their lips could do the talking for the next couple of minutes.

Down on the floor, Blackie's ears suddenly swiveled around. Lifting her head away from Goldie's soft fur, she extended her senses for a short while before she got up from the doggy-basket and moved over to the window. She got up on her hind legs and put her paws on the windowsill, but the curtains were drawn so she couldn't look out.

A few seconds went by before she moved back down onto all fours. On her way over to the doggy-basket, she stopped and cocked her head. Her ears swiveled several times until they suddenly picked up a faint, distant noise that shouldn't be there. Her initial suspicion confirmed, she spun toward the couch and let out a Woof! that fell between an easy-going indication of her mood and one of her legendary thunderous barks.

Over on the couch, Wynne and Mandy shot each other a quick glance. "Haw… ya reckon it might be… ya know, whutshisname?  Blackie don't react like that fer them jackrabbits who done take a wrong turn outtah that there desuhrt-"

Another, somewhat stronger, Woof-woof! from Blackie proved she had indeed sensed something outside.

"There's definitely something out there… or someone," Mandy said and got up from the couch at once. "All right. I'll jump into my uniform and do a perimeter sweep. Hon, I want you to kill the lights and take a peek through the windows. Do not go outside until I'm ready!"

"Yes, Ma'am, Sheriff, Ma'am!" Wynne said, clambering to her feet. Though her knee was in a much better mood compared to its grouchiest days, she still needed a moment to get everything lined up.

Down on the floor, Goldie buried her head in her paws and let out such a loud, insistent whimper that it drowned out any possible noises from the outside. The whimper caused Blackie to let out a long line of increasingly frustrated woofs at her golden-furred gal pal, but Goldie's runaway nervousness was too strong for her to listen to reason.

Wynne moved over to the upright lamp to flick the switch. The darkness that fell over the trailer's living area was complete and inky, and it took her eyes several long seconds to see enough for her to move over to the curtains without tripping over anything.

The sudden darkness, the mounting tension, Blackie's woofing and the scary prospects of the unknown all became too much for Goldie. The scaredy-dog bolted from the basket, tore through the living area - narrowly avoiding her owner's legs in the process - and raced through the kitchenette on her way to her number-one Safe Zone, i.e. the space under the bed.

"Holy shittt!  Goldie!  Dang'it, girl!" Wynne croaked, needing to come to a screeching halt when the golden missile flew straight past her. No more than two seconds later, a loud yelp and a 'Goldie!  I nearly tripped over you!' could be heard from the sleeping area.

Blackie just shook her head and let out a long doggy-sigh.

Finally able to complete her mission, Wynne moved over to the window and pulled the curtains apart. She was soon joined by Blackie who put her front paws up on the windowsill all over again. "Haw, y'all be seein' som'tin, Blackie?  I ain't seein' nuttin' nowhe'ah," she said, craning her neck in every direction to take in as much of the view of the central lawn as possible.

Diego still had a light on in his living room, but Beatrice's trailer had grown dark and quiet to mirror that of the Tooleys. Brenda and Vaughn's trailer had a dim night-light shining on their porch, and Wynne was even able to see the blinking LEDs on the alarm system that had been installed. Beyond those tiny points of light, everything was inky black.

Wynne reached for the window's handle to check out any potential sounds or smells that wouldn't be able to penetrate the pane, but a long grrrrrowl from Blackie made her change her mind. "Y'all be right, Blackie. Ain't no tellin' who or whut be sneakin' 'round out there. Haw, it might be that there big-ass cave dwellah crittah that done took a dump on Ernie's porch them years ago. 'Member that one?"

Woof…

"Yuh, I reckoned y'all would. O' course, it might be that there nasty sombitch Johnston or Mitchell or whutevah-tha-hell his name wus who done come back fer round two… hope it ain't. Can't bah-lieve I be sayin' this, but I would rathah fight some supahnatural crittah than that mean, double-tawkin' piece o'-"

Striding bootfalls behind her made Wynne pipe down and turn around. As Mandy had said she would, she had jumped into her full uniform save for her Mountie hat. The final touch was inserting the twelve-round magazine into the handle of her service sidearm. It slid into place with a cold, metallic Click that could potentially spell the end of the road for someone.

"Lawwwwr-die… darlin', y'all take care out there, ya hear?"

"I will. Blackie-"

Woof!  Woof-woof-woof-woof!

"I want you to stay here and protect Wynne. Stay!  Guard!"

Blackie continued her excited woofing for another two seconds until her owner's message filtered through to her. Stopping between a Woof and another just like it, she just stared at both of her owners before she let out a doggy-sigh and shuffled over to the basket.

Chuckling, Wynne hurried over to Mandy to provide a Good Luck kiss. "Like I done said, watch yer bee-hind out there, darlin'. Mmmua!"

"Thank you. It might be nothing. Of course, when has it ever been 'nothing' here?"

"Lawrdie, yuh…"

"If I'm not back in a couple of minutes… let's say four minutes… I want you to call Deputy Reilly and bring her up to speed. All right?"

"Y'all can count on me, darlin'!  Yessirree!  Spe-shul Agent Wynne Donnah-hew be on da case!" Wynne cried, smacking a hand against her forehead in a reasonable facsimile of a salute. "Fo'ah minnits. Y'all gotcha'self a deal, Sheriff Mandy!"

Mandy just nodded before she left the living area and went into the kitchenette. After unlocking the inner door, she drew her sidearm and held it in the regulatory grip. She paused at the screen door for a few seconds before she opened it with a boot and stepped onto the crooked back porch.

A slow sweep left-to-right provided no clues as to the cause of Blackie's alarm. Stepping off the porch, she moved along the side of the trailer to get to the corner. She stopped halfway there and went down on one knee to perform another sweep of her field of view.

There was a whiff of kerosene or some other kind of chemical in the air, but that wasn't too unusual at night as patrol flights returning to Bradley Air Force Base would occasionally dump excess fuel or drop their belly tanks before entering final approach. A glance at the dark sky didn't provide any clues beside the fact that the Milky Way had shown up for its regular nocturnal dance across the heavens. Positioning lights could be seen miles away toward Maynard Canyon, but they seemed to be traveling in the opposite direction.

Getting up, Mandy ran to the corner of the trailer. She peeked past it with the sidearm at the ready, but she was still unable to see or sense any immediate threat. Her heart thumped hard and fast in her chest which made it difficult to pick up odd or unusual noises. She ran along the trailer's end wall until she reached the corner at the central lawn.

Another slow left-to-right sweep was performed with the same result as before. The sheen of light in Diego's living room flashed in blues, whites and reds offering a hint that he had the TV on, but whether or not he watched anything or had fallen asleep in his armchair was another question. The lights had been turned off in the other trailers, but one came on over at Beatrice Reilly's place just as Mandy looked in that direction. The cone of light from Beatrice's flashlight moved around in an odd pattern as if she was trying to get the round thing to lie still while she jumped into her clothes.

The sudden light produced an unexpected result: a Clonk! and muted swearing reached Mandy's ears. It caused her to clench her jaw and perform multiple sweeps of the central lawn looking down the barrel of her sidearm. Despite her best efforts, the action offered no tangible proof of the intruder's identity or whereabouts.

She moved away from the trailer's end wall and ran onto the central lawn. Within the span of three seconds, two things happened that were of equal importance. First, Beatrice stepped out onto her porch dressed in an unusual combination of soft exercise boots, a pair of sweatpants and her uniform shirt. The fact that her shirt had been buttoned crooked would have been humorous at any other time, but not in their present situation.

The second thing that happened was a bassy, loud WOOF! that came from behind Diego's trailer. Another WOOF! followed in rapid succession. A male voice - that didn't belong to Diego - soon roared something unintelligible which led to another WOOF!

"Dammit!  That's Freddie!" Mandy cried before she took off at high speed to get over behind Diego's trailer. Beatrice followed close behind with her own sidearm at the ready.

Tearing around the corner, Mandy and Beatrice came to screeching, dust-flying halts at the sight of the fierce Rottweiler Freddie jumping in and out of the darkness as a black demon hell-bent on letting its strong jaw finish off its opponent.

Freddie's sole target was a man dressed in a dark outfit. The man's fair hair and square jaw revealed immediately that it was Clayton Mitchell. Just like in the fight at Derrike Iverson's bar, he wielded a long hunting knife that he swung wildly through the air to keep the attack dog back.

A five-gallon jerrycan containing gasoline had been thrown onto the ground when the surprise attack had commenced. Its closed lid continued to keep the highly flammable contents inside, but the can had received a big dent in the side from hitting a rock going down.

Mandy stepped forward with her sidearm trained directly on the man with the knife. Beatrice did the same on Mandy's right, but it was clear by the look of great concern that shone from her eyes that she was far more afraid of Freddie's unrestrained, feral behavior than the human opponent.

"Mitchell, this is Sheriff Jalinski!  Drop your weapon!  Hands on your head and hit the ground!" Mandy roared as she stepped even closer.

"Call off that fuckin' killer first, bitch!" Clayton Mitchell roared back, taking several wild swings at a charging Freddie. "Then I'll drop it!"

A light came on on the rear side of Diego's trailer indicating that he had finally heard the commotion.

Freddie let out several more bassy WOOFs! as he continued to duck in and out of the darkness while evading the knife. That nothing had happened so far had been a sheer miracle, but miracles had a short shelf-life in Goldsboro and environs. The next time Freddie moved forward, one of Mitchell's wild swings carved a long furrow along its black flank.

Time seemed to come to a complete standstill.

Mandy let out a roaring "Goddammit!" but it was drowned out by the even stronger 'No!' that someone shouted behind her. Spinning around, she spotted Diego Benitez wielding his high-precision thirty-aught-six hunting rifle. The hunter wore an even more unusual ensemble of clothes in the shape of desert boots, a sleeveless undershirt and regular briefs that left his hairy legs for the world to see.

Freddie staggered backward while blood tainted his flank. Mitchell crowed over the success, but he shouldn't have. The next moment saw Freddie coiling himself up like a spring - then he rocketed forward, jumped through the air four feet off the ground and finally dug his canines into Mitchell's throat.

Being hit by 180 lbs. of muscle and bone sent Mitchell crashing onto his back. The impact forced the knife from his hand, but that was the least of his problems. Blood spewed everywhere as the fierce Rottweiler had no intention of letting up before a bowl of red-hot vengeance had been served.

Diego ran ahead though Mandy tried to hold him back. Roaring at the top of his lungs, he shouted so many Spanish obscenities at such a fast pace that it all became one word that reeked of acid, sulfur and eternal damnation. Each time he needed to come up for air, he filled the gap in his cussing by thumping Mitchell's legs, side and arms with the butt of the hunting rifle.

"Sheriff… Sheriff!  We have to stop it!" Beatrice said, grabbing hold of Mandy's shirt sleeve. "We can't just stand here and do nothing!  That killer dog's mauling him to death!"

Mandy looked at the scene for a few moments before she holstered her firearm. "Yes, it appears so," she said in a steely voice.

Beatrice stared wide-eyed at the coldness etched onto Mandy's face, but she had no time to respond before further activity happened behind them.

It proved to be Wynne, Blackie and a terrified Goldie who had only come out of her Safe Zone when she had heard her special friend Freddie's unbridled barking. The dogs ran ahead at once, but a semi-hobbling Wynne only made it to Mandy and Beatrice before she came to a halt.

Panting from the exertion of the hurried approach - she had forgotten all about the cane in the hubbub - Wynne needed to lean forward to catch her breath. "Lawwwwr-die… ain't dat… a-yup, it… sure is. Whah, that… sombitch finally got… whut he done… whaddahell, he done plowed a dang-blasted furrah in Freddie's sihh-de?  No wondah tha dawg be PO'ed. Aw… Diegoh sure got hairy legs, haw?  Yikes, I dunno whut be wohhh-rse ta look at…"

Up ahead, the combined woofing and yapping by Blackie and Goldie finally persuaded Freddie to back off his grisly retribution. Fresh blood dripped off the jaw and the flank of the large Rottweiler as he moved away from the sorry remains on the ground.

Shaking his head, Freddie staggered over to his dog house that was located halfway down the rear side of Diego's trailer Goldie stayed close to support her special friend though it meant she got blood on her golden fur.

With everything under control there, Blackie ran back to Diego to look at the bloody mess on the ground. A quick look proved there was no need to spend more time on it, so she returned to Goldie and Freddie.

Mandy and Beatrice joined Diego who remained at the body. Blood continued to flow from the severed artery on the neck, but that and the soggy chunks of flesh and cartilage that had been Clayton Mitchell's windpipe soon turned still. The glassy eyes that stared straight up at the dark sky without seeing anything sealed the deal.

Wynne bared her teeth in a grimace at the sight. "Haw, that sure ain't whut I wanted ta clap mah eyes on tanight… Lawrdie. That there be one dead fellah, awright."

Beatrice put her hands on her hips as she looked at the dead body on the ground. "Sheriff, this was an unnecessary death. We should have prevented it. Even if it had meant shooting that dog, we should-"

"I see it differently, Deputy Reilly," Mandy said in such a stern voice that it shut down the argument before it could even get going.

"Now what, Sheriff?" Diego asked.

"Now we'll need to call Doctor Gibbs-"

Diego stepped closer and raised an index finger at Mandy. "If you think you're gonna put Freddie down for killing that scumbag, you got another think comin'!  I won't allow it!  Look, that sonovabitch even brought a can of gasoline and I'll bet that wasn't for roasting marshmallows!"

"That's not my plan at all, Mr. Benitez. If anything, I'd like to give Freddie a medal," Mandy said in a calm voice. "But your dog was wounded. He needs urgent medical attention."

"Yeah, okay… sorry," Diego said, backing off at once. "I got bandages and some disinfectant powder inside. It's a medical kit I bought at the Marine Corps surplus store, but I think it'll work on dogs as well. I'll get it right away."

"Gasso-leeh-ne?  Whut ol' Diegoh be tawkin' 'bout?" Wynne mumbled as she looked at the ground close to where she stood. A "Lawwwwr-die!" escaped her as she got her first look of the dented jerrycan. She bent over to right it so it wouldn't leak into the soil, but Beatrice prevented her from doing so.

"It's evidence, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said. "Mitchell isn't wearing gloves so his fingerprints will be on it. We'll need them to prove his intent for coming here."

"Haw, he sure done got an intent, awright… I reckon he wus gonn' burn us at tha stake, yuh?  One trailah at a tihhh-me until he done found Sheriff Mandy, dontcha reckon?  But okeh, how 'bout I done used that there stick ovah yondah, then?  Gasso-leeh-ne sure ain't got no bizzness seepin' inta tha ground. Okeh?"

"That would work."

"Haw, ya betcha bellah-button it would," Wynne said as she took the aforementioned stick and used it to pull the dented can upright.

While that had been going on, Mandy had found her telephone to call the office up in Goldsboro. A brief conversation with Rodolfo Gonzalez was carried out before she closed the connection and put the telephone back into her pocket. "The Senior Deputy will get in touch with headquarters and the MacLean County Coroner's Office. Deputy Reilly, we need to make written statements as to our participation in the case. We'll also need a statement from Mr. Benitez seeing that it was his dog that was involved in the fatal incident."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said, briefly saluting the sheriff. When she did so, she happened to notice that her shirt had been buttoned crooked. Grunting, she turned away from the others to get it fixed.

"This entire deal is such a strange one," Mandy continued, "that I presume we'll be visited by some of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department brass. Not tonight, though. No chief works at night."

A few muted yaps and woofs were heard from the dog house. Freddie joined them with a WOOF! that could even be interpreted as being a little playful although it held a pained undertone. Goldie soon replied with another few yaps that were also a little on the light, playful side.

"I'm coming, Freddie!  I'm coming!" Diego said, already digging into his regular hunting backpack as he hurried along. To spare the female contingent any embarrassment, he had wrapped a long bathrobe around himself so the world at large didn't need to look at his hairy legs.

Wynne put her hands on her hips as she took in the weird, confusing scene. She studied the starry sky for a moment in the clear expectation of seeing either a hunter UFO or the tell-tale black hole that always hid one of the larger landing craft. "Goldsborah strikes back, haw?  Can we evah catch a break he'?  Lawwwwwwr-die. Aw, ain't nuttin' this he po'ah Cowpoah-k can do 'bout that now. Anybodda feel like chuggin' down a beer or som'tin?  I deffa-nete-ly need one. One o' them strong ones!"

Over by the dog house, Diego put his hand in the air and gave Wynne a little wave. "I could drink a nineteen-ten if you have one!"

In the meantime, Freddie had shuffled out of the dog house. The big boy moved down onto his right side to let his owner treat the wound on the left flank. His jaw and cheeks were still covered in Mitchell's drying blood, but that was just a minor irritation compared to the seven-inch-long wound that continued to ooze.

"Haw," Wynne said, "if I got one?  Diegoh!  When did I evah not got one!  Even when I coudden drink any 'cos o' them there Gawd-awful pain pills I hadda pop I done had plentah. Sure I got one. An' I be havin' a Midnight Velvet stout. Yuh. They be a li'l bittah an' a li'l sweet so I reckon that be what them clevah folks done call bittah-sweet, haw?  Be kinda fittin' fer all them crappy things that done happened ta us, ain't it?  Darlin', y'all wan'some?  Bea?"

Beatrice shook her head. "No thank you, Wynne. We can't smell of beer when the coroner gets here. Sheriff, please excuse me while I get fully dressed."

"You're excused, Deputy," Mandy said in a stern tone. Her steely disposition melted as she moved over to Wynne to wrap an arm around the taller woman's waist. A moment later, a kiss was duly transferred from her lips to Wynne's. "Tell you what… once the coroner has left, I'd like a night cap of some kind. Not a stout, but perhaps a nineteen-ten?"

"Haw, that sure be a deal, darlin'!  Yes, Ma'am!"

Falling quiet, they turned to look at the grisly sight of a dead body in the middle of their little paradise. The lethal hunting knife and the dented jerrycan containing gasoline proved that Clayton Mitchell's intentions had been just as devious as his plan to keep his dark past a secret from everyone.

Wynne opened her mouth to add a little quip, but Diego beat her to it: "Hey, Wynne!  Are you a Cowpoke or a Slowpoke?  Where's that damn beer you promised me?"

"Aw, fer cryin' out loud!  Keep them shorts on, pardnah!  This gotta be the oh-fis-shual crap on Wynne Donnah-hew week… dang'it!  Yuh, yuh, Diegoh, I be goin', goin', goah-ne."

After stealing yet another kiss from under the nose of the Sheriff of Goldsboro, Wynne turned around and hobbled back to her refrigerators and the endless supply of H.E. Fenwyck beers she kept there…

*
*
THE END.

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