The Siege by Rick Hautala Page B

conversation with Larry’s Aunt Roberta, Dale hadn’t slept very well. He figured Mrs. Appleby saw through his lie when he told her he had “slept like a baby.” He hoped she wasn’t offended when he refused her offer of breakfast but said, instead, that he wanted to take a few hours to look around town. Angie was sleeping soundly, finally, when he tiptoed downstairs.
    Even on a Sunday, when most families were either sleeping late or getting ready for church, Kellerman’s was busy. Farmers, truckers on a long haul, and a couple of mechanics sat around at the worn mint green linoleum counter or in the padded booths by the window. Two waitresses in light pink uniforms, one white-haired and elderly, the other well on her way to looking old before her time, dashed back and forth between counter and booths and the ordering window. Dale learned there was a bar downstairs, making Kellerman’s practically the only local entertainment short of a drive into Houlton. He imagined seeing these same faces in the bar on a Saturday night.
    For the money, though, Herbie slung some mean hash browns and sunny-side-up eggs. Dale knew the cook’s name because every other sentence he heard was a sharply barked, “Herbie, I need this! Herbie, where’s my order?” from one or the other waitress. He wondered if Herbie was Kellerman, but from the way the waitresses yelled at him, he doubted it.
    Dale finished scooping up the last bit of yolk with his crust of toast when he looked up and saw a policeman walk in from the back door. The cop was middle-aged, maybe mid-forties, Dale guessed, and beneath his well-pressed uniform, he looked a bit worn out. Although sturdily built, his gut looked flabby and hung out over the edge of his belt. His service revolver looked heavy and mean riding on his right hip.
    “‘Mornin’, Cloe! Hi ’yah, Ruth,” he said, nodding at each woman as he hoisted himself up at the counter near the cash register.
    Herbie glanced up. When he saw the policeman, he touched the rim of his grease-stained chef’s hat in a weak salute and immediately reached for two eggs and broke them open onto the griddle.
    Before the policeman said anything else, Cloe, the older waitress, slid a cup of coffee down the counter to him. “How goes the battle?” he asked, looking down as he stirred two packets of sugar and a squirt of milk into his coffee.
    Cloe snorted as she turned away. “Nothing a year’s vacation in the Bahamas wouldn’t fix,” she said.
    It was times like this that Dale yearned for a cigarette, but he pushed aside the dented green ashtray—color coordinated with the countertop—and contented himself with his refill of coffee. Sitting back in the booth, he took a moment to size up the policeman.
    One of the first things that crossed his mind was to ask this policeman if he knew anything about Larry’s death. Dale figured he must, in a small town like Dyer. If there was anything to Roberta’s claim that Larry’s mother hadn’t even been allowed to see her son’s body the policeman would know. He also realized, in a town like this, that such questions, would be considered prying by an outsider. Maybe, though, if he explained that he was Larry’s boss at the D.O.T., it would be seen as nothing more than concern for Larry’s survivors.
    Good questions , Dale decided as he swallowed the last bit of coffee and put his cup down.
    “Get ’cha anything else?” Cloe asked, coming up on Dale from behind.
    Startled, Dale looked up at her and shook his head. “Ahh, I guess not,” he said. “The bill, I suppose, if you have to.”
    It was a stale joke, and Cloe surely had heard it a thousand times before because her face remained passive as she took the order pad from her stained apron pocket and hurriedly totaled it up.
    “You can pay at the register,” she said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to Dale. “Have a nice day,” she added, sounding so automatic, Dale was sure she couldn’t repeat it if he