care, but he made a heroic effort and kept the observation to himself.
Then the driver of the pickup, he of the bulging beer belly and breath that would fell a moose at fifty paces, added his opinion that he thought her driverâs license should be taken away because this was all her fault for rear-ending him. When Jackson then gave
him
citations for reckless driving and driving in the wrong lane, he was enraged. This accident wasnât
his
fault, he bellowed, and damned if he was going to get stuck with higher insurance premiums because a stupid hick sheriff didnât know an accident was always the fault of the one doing the rear-ending. Any fool could look at where his truck was hit and tell who was at fault here.
Jackson didnât bother explaining the difference between the truckâs hood being pointed in the right direction while the truck itself was going in reverse. He just wrote the tickets and in the accident report stated that both drivers were at fault, and seriously pondered whether or not he should lock these two up for the safety of the universe. Terminal stupidity wasnât on the books as a chargeable offense, but it should be, in his opinion.
But he restrained himself, and oversaw thetransportation of both furious drivers to the local hospital to be checked out, and the removal of the damaged vehicles. When he finally crawled back into his Jeep Cherokee it was pushing four oâclock, long past lunchtime. He was tired, hungry, and both angry and discouraged.
Generally he loved his work. It was a job where he could make a difference in peopleâs lives, in society. Granted, it was usually scut work; he dealt with the worst of society, while having to maneuver on tippy-toes through a tangle of laws and regulations. But when everything worked and a drug dealer got sent away for a few years, or a murderer was put away forever, or a burglary gang was rounded up and an old lady on Social Security got her 19-inch television back, that made it all worthwhile.
He was a good sheriff, though he hated the political side of it, hated having to campaign for office. He was just thirty-five, young for the office, but the county was so poor it couldnât afford someone who was both good and with a lot of experience, because those people went where the pay was better. The citizens had taken a chance with him two years ago and heâd been doing his best at a job he loved. Not many people had that chance.
During full moons, however, he doubted his own sanity. He had to be a fool or an idiot, or both, to want a job that put him on the front lines during the periods of rampant weirdness. Cops and emergency-room personnel could all testify to the craziness that went on during a full moon.
A nurse at the local hospital, after reading a report that the tales about full moons were just myths, that the accident rate didnât really go up, kept a record for a year. Not only did the number of accidents go up, but that was when they got the really strange ones, like the guy who had his buddy nail his hands together so his wife wouldnât ask him to help with the housework on his day off. It was obvious to them: a man couldnât very well work with his hands nailed together, now could he? The scariest thing about it was that both of them had been sober.
So one full moon a month was all Jackson felt any human should be called upon to endure. A blue moon, the second full moon in a single month, fell under the heading of cruel and unusual punishment.
And because it was a blue moon, he wasnât surprised, when he radioed in that he was finishedwith the accident and heading for a bite to eat, that the dispatcher said, âYou might want to hold off on the food, and check in on a secure line.â
Jackson stifled a groan. A couple of clues told him he really didnât want to know what this one was. For one thing, though the radio traffic was usually businesslike, for the benefit of the good
Then the driver of the pickup, he of the bulging beer belly and breath that would fell a moose at fifty paces, added his opinion that he thought her driverâs license should be taken away because this was all her fault for rear-ending him. When Jackson then gave
him
citations for reckless driving and driving in the wrong lane, he was enraged. This accident wasnât
his
fault, he bellowed, and damned if he was going to get stuck with higher insurance premiums because a stupid hick sheriff didnât know an accident was always the fault of the one doing the rear-ending. Any fool could look at where his truck was hit and tell who was at fault here.
Jackson didnât bother explaining the difference between the truckâs hood being pointed in the right direction while the truck itself was going in reverse. He just wrote the tickets and in the accident report stated that both drivers were at fault, and seriously pondered whether or not he should lock these two up for the safety of the universe. Terminal stupidity wasnât on the books as a chargeable offense, but it should be, in his opinion.
But he restrained himself, and oversaw thetransportation of both furious drivers to the local hospital to be checked out, and the removal of the damaged vehicles. When he finally crawled back into his Jeep Cherokee it was pushing four oâclock, long past lunchtime. He was tired, hungry, and both angry and discouraged.
Generally he loved his work. It was a job where he could make a difference in peopleâs lives, in society. Granted, it was usually scut work; he dealt with the worst of society, while having to maneuver on tippy-toes through a tangle of laws and regulations. But when everything worked and a drug dealer got sent away for a few years, or a murderer was put away forever, or a burglary gang was rounded up and an old lady on Social Security got her 19-inch television back, that made it all worthwhile.
He was a good sheriff, though he hated the political side of it, hated having to campaign for office. He was just thirty-five, young for the office, but the county was so poor it couldnât afford someone who was both good and with a lot of experience, because those people went where the pay was better. The citizens had taken a chance with him two years ago and heâd been doing his best at a job he loved. Not many people had that chance.
During full moons, however, he doubted his own sanity. He had to be a fool or an idiot, or both, to want a job that put him on the front lines during the periods of rampant weirdness. Cops and emergency-room personnel could all testify to the craziness that went on during a full moon.
A nurse at the local hospital, after reading a report that the tales about full moons were just myths, that the accident rate didnât really go up, kept a record for a year. Not only did the number of accidents go up, but that was when they got the really strange ones, like the guy who had his buddy nail his hands together so his wife wouldnât ask him to help with the housework on his day off. It was obvious to them: a man couldnât very well work with his hands nailed together, now could he? The scariest thing about it was that both of them had been sober.
So one full moon a month was all Jackson felt any human should be called upon to endure. A blue moon, the second full moon in a single month, fell under the heading of cruel and unusual punishment.
And because it was a blue moon, he wasnât surprised, when he radioed in that he was finishedwith the accident and heading for a bite to eat, that the dispatcher said, âYou might want to hold off on the food, and check in on a secure line.â
Jackson stifled a groan. A couple of clues told him he really didnât want to know what this one was. For one thing, though the radio traffic was usually businesslike, for the benefit of the good
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