lit up with anger. Her face trembled with frustration. “You’re just the same!” she said in a low, tight voice.
“Huh?”
“You act like you’re different . . . You put on a big show . . . But you’re just like everybody else in this town.” She got up. “You’re full of shit, Flagg.” She started to take off.
That surprised him. What surprised him even more was his immediate reaction. He got up and grabbed her and gently but firmly pushed her back into the seat.
“Hey, wait a second. C’mon, take it easy.”
Suddenly she seemed to cave in, as though trying to hold back tears but not quite succeeding. Gradually they started leaking out, down her cheeks and onto the Formica table-top. Brian took the half of sandwich he hadn’t bitten into and offered it to her.
“Here,” he said, “eat something.”
She shook her head, refusing it.
“Go ahead,” he insisted. “You’ll feel better.”
She took the half sandwich and started nibbling at it. Brian watched her for a moment. “I’m amazed,” he said finally. “I never heard you say shit before. What was that like for you?”
She looked at him oddly, and then couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and Brian could see the nervous tension draining out of her face.
“So go ahead, I’m listening,” he said, softening his voice. “Tell me all about what happened. What you saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, but you’ve got to admit, if someone told you that that little bit of something on the Can Man’s hand devoured two guys almost six feet tall, then you’d have a hard time believing it, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I guess maybe I would at that.”
“So tell me what happened. Everything, from the moment I left that clinic. I want to know. I really do.”
She nodded. She looked him straight in the eye, and she told him.
14
A s soon as they’d let Brian Flagg go, Deputy Bill Briggs had been dispatched to return to the team of firemen and paramedics searching around the clinic grounds and the nearby woods for the body of Paul Tyler.
Forty-five minutes later he reported in.
“All we’ve found,” Briggs said through his walkie-talkie, “is lots of ground mist, trees, and a couple of dead rats. We’re coming up empty, Sheriff. And we’ve got our best searchlights sweeping the area. You want us to head into the foothills?”
Herb Geller sighed heavily, thought about it a moment, and decided against it. “Negative. I’d rather have you patrolling the streets. We’ll start again at first light when the state police get here.”
“Ten-four,” said Bill Briggs, signing off.
Herb hung the hand mike up and clicked the radio off. He rubbed his face wearily; the springs of the chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. A night to remember, this one, he thought. Or rather, a night to forget, quickly, soon as it got cleaned up. This shit had a weird quality he hadn’t seen here or back in the city. Something out of sync, out of whack. Sheriff Herb Geller didn’t like it, not one little bit. And he had the uneasy feeling that it was far from over.
Just then Sally Jeffers entered, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and an understanding smile on her face. “You look tired,” she said, putting down the coffee.
The smell of chicory, the warmth of steam, caressed his face as he picked up the cup and sipped. Ah. “Been a long night. Thanks.”
“Gonna be even longer,” she said.
“That’s the truth,” said Herb, after another sip of the coffee. He shook his head. “One deputy and six volunteers. I feel like that one-legged man in the ass-kicking contest.”
“You’re doing all you can, Herb. This isn’t your standard Friday-night drunk.”
Yeah, ain’t that right! he thought. And then another thought occurred to him. He unbuttoned the flap to his shirt pocket and dug out the check on which Fran had scribbled her message. He stared at it a moment, admiring how nice the handwriting was, even though Fran had done
“Huh?”
“You act like you’re different . . . You put on a big show . . . But you’re just like everybody else in this town.” She got up. “You’re full of shit, Flagg.” She started to take off.
That surprised him. What surprised him even more was his immediate reaction. He got up and grabbed her and gently but firmly pushed her back into the seat.
“Hey, wait a second. C’mon, take it easy.”
Suddenly she seemed to cave in, as though trying to hold back tears but not quite succeeding. Gradually they started leaking out, down her cheeks and onto the Formica table-top. Brian took the half of sandwich he hadn’t bitten into and offered it to her.
“Here,” he said, “eat something.”
She shook her head, refusing it.
“Go ahead,” he insisted. “You’ll feel better.”
She took the half sandwich and started nibbling at it. Brian watched her for a moment. “I’m amazed,” he said finally. “I never heard you say shit before. What was that like for you?”
She looked at him oddly, and then couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and Brian could see the nervous tension draining out of her face.
“So go ahead, I’m listening,” he said, softening his voice. “Tell me all about what happened. What you saw. I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, but you’ve got to admit, if someone told you that that little bit of something on the Can Man’s hand devoured two guys almost six feet tall, then you’d have a hard time believing it, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I guess maybe I would at that.”
“So tell me what happened. Everything, from the moment I left that clinic. I want to know. I really do.”
She nodded. She looked him straight in the eye, and she told him.
14
A s soon as they’d let Brian Flagg go, Deputy Bill Briggs had been dispatched to return to the team of firemen and paramedics searching around the clinic grounds and the nearby woods for the body of Paul Tyler.
Forty-five minutes later he reported in.
“All we’ve found,” Briggs said through his walkie-talkie, “is lots of ground mist, trees, and a couple of dead rats. We’re coming up empty, Sheriff. And we’ve got our best searchlights sweeping the area. You want us to head into the foothills?”
Herb Geller sighed heavily, thought about it a moment, and decided against it. “Negative. I’d rather have you patrolling the streets. We’ll start again at first light when the state police get here.”
“Ten-four,” said Bill Briggs, signing off.
Herb hung the hand mike up and clicked the radio off. He rubbed his face wearily; the springs of the chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. A night to remember, this one, he thought. Or rather, a night to forget, quickly, soon as it got cleaned up. This shit had a weird quality he hadn’t seen here or back in the city. Something out of sync, out of whack. Sheriff Herb Geller didn’t like it, not one little bit. And he had the uneasy feeling that it was far from over.
Just then Sally Jeffers entered, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and an understanding smile on her face. “You look tired,” she said, putting down the coffee.
The smell of chicory, the warmth of steam, caressed his face as he picked up the cup and sipped. Ah. “Been a long night. Thanks.”
“Gonna be even longer,” she said.
“That’s the truth,” said Herb, after another sip of the coffee. He shook his head. “One deputy and six volunteers. I feel like that one-legged man in the ass-kicking contest.”
“You’re doing all you can, Herb. This isn’t your standard Friday-night drunk.”
Yeah, ain’t that right! he thought. And then another thought occurred to him. He unbuttoned the flap to his shirt pocket and dug out the check on which Fran had scribbled her message. He stared at it a moment, admiring how nice the handwriting was, even though Fran had done
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