said.
“That’d be all you’re doing up here?” Kate Ramsey asked. “You wouldn’t be up here doing a bit of business?”
Biker Two shook his head. “Listen, we just wanted to get some air, do some riding on our bikes. That’s all. We’re not looking for trouble.”
Kate’s partner said, “We don’t need your kind up here.”
“Our kind?” Biker One said. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Kate said, “we don’t need greasy, drug-dealing dickheads like you two fucking up our town.”
The first biker moved an inch toward Kate, but the other one held up his hand. “Then I guess we should be on our way.”
“We don’t have to take this shit,” the first one said.
Kate’s partner moved forward, taking the nightstick from his belt. “Oh, I think you do.” He walked around to the front of the second biker’s bike, swinging the stick casually. “What’s a headlight like that run?”
“Come on, man, we’ll go,” Biker Two said. “We’re on our way.”
“And you won’t be back,” Kate said.
“Fine,” the first one said. “Who the fuck would want to come back here anyway? Everything they say about this hick town is true.”
Kate Ramsey and her partner stood there and watched as the two got on their bikes, started them up with a roar, then navigated their way around the Griffon police cruiser. Once they were on the road, one of them stuck his hand into the air and offered up a one-finger salute.
Ramsey and her partner watched until their taillights were reduced to the size of pinheads, then got back into their car and drove away.
* * *
I was going to hunt up the Skilling house, but decided that before I did that, it made more sense to find, and talk to, Claire’s father, Bertram Sanders.
I found his address through my smartphone. Sanders lived on Lakeland Drive. I knew Lakeland, but never understood why it was called that. The street neither overlooked nor led directly to any body of water. I was hoping that when I knocked on the door, it wouldn’t be the mayor who answered, but Claire herself. After all, if she’d returned home since the cops had been to see me, there wasn’t anyone who would have felt obliged to let me know.
It was a lower-income, postwar neighborhood. That’d be the Second World War, not the one in Korea, or Vietnam, or the Gulf, or Iraq, or Afghanistan. We’d had so many of them, it was hard to keep track. It was a simple two-story house with clapboard siding, painted brown, and while the place looked narrow from the front, it went back a long way. The house was better maintained than many others on the street, several of which still sported rusted television aerials that probably hadn’t picked up a signal in years. Behind the house, at the end of the long, single-lane drive, stood a separate one-stall garage.
I parked on the street, went up to the door, and knocked. It was past eight and the streetlamps were on, but I didn’t see lights on in the Sanders house. I shielded my eyes and peered through the rectangular window set vertically in the wooden door. No signs of life.
It seemed fruitless, but I decided to walk around and try knocking on the back door, which, once I got there, I could see entered the kitchen. Again I put my eyes to the window and saw that the only light inside appeared to come from a digital display on a toaster. No one came when I knocked.
“You looking for the mayor?”
I turned and saw an elderly woman standing beneath a porch light of the house next door. She had a view of me over the fence.
“That’s right,” I said slowly. “I was hoping I’d catch Bert at home.”
“It’s Thursday night,” said the woman, like I should know the significance of that.
“What’s Thursday night?”
“The night the town council meets. You must not be from around here.”
All the years I’d lived in Griffon, and tonight I felt like a stranger. Everyone pointing out how little I knew.
“It slipped my
“That’d be all you’re doing up here?” Kate Ramsey asked. “You wouldn’t be up here doing a bit of business?”
Biker Two shook his head. “Listen, we just wanted to get some air, do some riding on our bikes. That’s all. We’re not looking for trouble.”
Kate’s partner said, “We don’t need your kind up here.”
“Our kind?” Biker One said. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Kate said, “we don’t need greasy, drug-dealing dickheads like you two fucking up our town.”
The first biker moved an inch toward Kate, but the other one held up his hand. “Then I guess we should be on our way.”
“We don’t have to take this shit,” the first one said.
Kate’s partner moved forward, taking the nightstick from his belt. “Oh, I think you do.” He walked around to the front of the second biker’s bike, swinging the stick casually. “What’s a headlight like that run?”
“Come on, man, we’ll go,” Biker Two said. “We’re on our way.”
“And you won’t be back,” Kate said.
“Fine,” the first one said. “Who the fuck would want to come back here anyway? Everything they say about this hick town is true.”
Kate Ramsey and her partner stood there and watched as the two got on their bikes, started them up with a roar, then navigated their way around the Griffon police cruiser. Once they were on the road, one of them stuck his hand into the air and offered up a one-finger salute.
Ramsey and her partner watched until their taillights were reduced to the size of pinheads, then got back into their car and drove away.
* * *
I was going to hunt up the Skilling house, but decided that before I did that, it made more sense to find, and talk to, Claire’s father, Bertram Sanders.
I found his address through my smartphone. Sanders lived on Lakeland Drive. I knew Lakeland, but never understood why it was called that. The street neither overlooked nor led directly to any body of water. I was hoping that when I knocked on the door, it wouldn’t be the mayor who answered, but Claire herself. After all, if she’d returned home since the cops had been to see me, there wasn’t anyone who would have felt obliged to let me know.
It was a lower-income, postwar neighborhood. That’d be the Second World War, not the one in Korea, or Vietnam, or the Gulf, or Iraq, or Afghanistan. We’d had so many of them, it was hard to keep track. It was a simple two-story house with clapboard siding, painted brown, and while the place looked narrow from the front, it went back a long way. The house was better maintained than many others on the street, several of which still sported rusted television aerials that probably hadn’t picked up a signal in years. Behind the house, at the end of the long, single-lane drive, stood a separate one-stall garage.
I parked on the street, went up to the door, and knocked. It was past eight and the streetlamps were on, but I didn’t see lights on in the Sanders house. I shielded my eyes and peered through the rectangular window set vertically in the wooden door. No signs of life.
It seemed fruitless, but I decided to walk around and try knocking on the back door, which, once I got there, I could see entered the kitchen. Again I put my eyes to the window and saw that the only light inside appeared to come from a digital display on a toaster. No one came when I knocked.
“You looking for the mayor?”
I turned and saw an elderly woman standing beneath a porch light of the house next door. She had a view of me over the fence.
“That’s right,” I said slowly. “I was hoping I’d catch Bert at home.”
“It’s Thursday night,” said the woman, like I should know the significance of that.
“What’s Thursday night?”
“The night the town council meets. You must not be from around here.”
All the years I’d lived in Griffon, and tonight I felt like a stranger. Everyone pointing out how little I knew.
“It slipped my
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