'em all about how the Department of Parks and Wildlife is kickin' us out of the park where our little girl got lost.”
“You're free to do as you wish, Mr. Lyman,” said Eris. “But take your family and leave the park today.”
“Or what?” said Ronnie, his lower lip quivering with anger.
“Or I will arrest you and take your family to a shelter myself.”
Ronnie could see Eris meant it. Ronnie struck a pose and whined, “I thought you were on our side, man.”
Eris only looked at him.
Sheila swallowed and said, “We'd better start gettin' our stuff, Ronnie.”
Ronnie snorted. “You start gettin' our stuff. I'm goin' to make a call.” He looked at Eris and said, “That all right with you, Tonto?”
Eris's mouth twitched. He nodded and then turned and walked back to his truck. “I'll be back after lunch. Be gone by then.”
As he drove past them on his way out, Sheila Lyman's eyes lowered and refused to look at him, while Ronnie Lyman glared.
The glare made it easier to get over the feeling that what he was doing was wrong, even if it was his job. He drove far away from the reservoir that day to check out areas he had missed for a while. One stop was the farm pond where the fish had died. He talked with the owner about the alkalinity of the water, gave him some guidelines and other printed material and then left.
On Highway 99 he came across an elderly man who had struck a deer with his truck and banged his head hard on the steering wheel. Eris took the dizzy, befuddled, bone-thin old man to the nearest clinic and then returned to dress the doe and haul it to a meat locker, where he impulsively paid for the preparation of the deer, then gave the name and address of the old man and told them to call him when it was done. The deer hadn't meant to get hit and the old man hadn't meant to hit it, but at least he would eat well while nursing the stitches in his head.
It was long past noon when he made it back to the Lyman’s' campsite, where he was relieved to see the motor home and its occupants gone. His relief was short-lived, however, when he drove out to leave the reservoir again and saw the Lyman’s' motor home parked at the Haven, a tiny bait shop and convenience store just off the access road. Beside the motor home was a mobile unit from a local television station, and as he passed by, Eris could see a mournful Ronnie Lyman, eyes lowered to the ground, responding to questions from the reporter.
Eris thought about sticking around and watching Lyman's next move, but he decided it would make him look like too much of a hardass. If they were still here at the end of the day, Eris would make good on his threat to arrest Lyman. He was already a little disgusted at the way the man was capitalizing on the disappearance of his little girl. He showed not an ounce of pride while on television, complaining long and loud to all about a lost job, a lost home, no more unemployment benefits, and struggle, struggle, struggle, milking every second of air time for all it was worth.
Eris felt for a man who had lost his job and couldn't keep up the payments on his house, but there were other things to do besides living in parks and fishing the days away. Ronnie Lyman needed to get off his lazy ass and find a job or two. Three, if he had to, because idle hands and mind led to loss of self-respect and eventually to self-hatred, something Eris was familiar with in his life. He had watched his adoptive father go from a bright, contented, hard-working man to a sneering, vindictive, cantankerous old bastard. A man's work was his life, and when Jean Renard left his twenty-five-year military career behind and accepted a pension for a permanently disabled back, he gave up on living.
And started picking on Eris, who was only seven at the time and did not understand why the love and affection he had been shown up to that point appeared to have been rescinded by the stranger who now stayed home days instead of going off to work.
“You're free to do as you wish, Mr. Lyman,” said Eris. “But take your family and leave the park today.”
“Or what?” said Ronnie, his lower lip quivering with anger.
“Or I will arrest you and take your family to a shelter myself.”
Ronnie could see Eris meant it. Ronnie struck a pose and whined, “I thought you were on our side, man.”
Eris only looked at him.
Sheila swallowed and said, “We'd better start gettin' our stuff, Ronnie.”
Ronnie snorted. “You start gettin' our stuff. I'm goin' to make a call.” He looked at Eris and said, “That all right with you, Tonto?”
Eris's mouth twitched. He nodded and then turned and walked back to his truck. “I'll be back after lunch. Be gone by then.”
As he drove past them on his way out, Sheila Lyman's eyes lowered and refused to look at him, while Ronnie Lyman glared.
The glare made it easier to get over the feeling that what he was doing was wrong, even if it was his job. He drove far away from the reservoir that day to check out areas he had missed for a while. One stop was the farm pond where the fish had died. He talked with the owner about the alkalinity of the water, gave him some guidelines and other printed material and then left.
On Highway 99 he came across an elderly man who had struck a deer with his truck and banged his head hard on the steering wheel. Eris took the dizzy, befuddled, bone-thin old man to the nearest clinic and then returned to dress the doe and haul it to a meat locker, where he impulsively paid for the preparation of the deer, then gave the name and address of the old man and told them to call him when it was done. The deer hadn't meant to get hit and the old man hadn't meant to hit it, but at least he would eat well while nursing the stitches in his head.
It was long past noon when he made it back to the Lyman’s' campsite, where he was relieved to see the motor home and its occupants gone. His relief was short-lived, however, when he drove out to leave the reservoir again and saw the Lyman’s' motor home parked at the Haven, a tiny bait shop and convenience store just off the access road. Beside the motor home was a mobile unit from a local television station, and as he passed by, Eris could see a mournful Ronnie Lyman, eyes lowered to the ground, responding to questions from the reporter.
Eris thought about sticking around and watching Lyman's next move, but he decided it would make him look like too much of a hardass. If they were still here at the end of the day, Eris would make good on his threat to arrest Lyman. He was already a little disgusted at the way the man was capitalizing on the disappearance of his little girl. He showed not an ounce of pride while on television, complaining long and loud to all about a lost job, a lost home, no more unemployment benefits, and struggle, struggle, struggle, milking every second of air time for all it was worth.
Eris felt for a man who had lost his job and couldn't keep up the payments on his house, but there were other things to do besides living in parks and fishing the days away. Ronnie Lyman needed to get off his lazy ass and find a job or two. Three, if he had to, because idle hands and mind led to loss of self-respect and eventually to self-hatred, something Eris was familiar with in his life. He had watched his adoptive father go from a bright, contented, hard-working man to a sneering, vindictive, cantankerous old bastard. A man's work was his life, and when Jean Renard left his twenty-five-year military career behind and accepted a pension for a permanently disabled back, he gave up on living.
And started picking on Eris, who was only seven at the time and did not understand why the love and affection he had been shown up to that point appeared to have been rescinded by the stranger who now stayed home days instead of going off to work.
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