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Authors: Kerry Reichs
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beam left my face and shone on the tent.
“That a ’tiel in there?” My assailant’s question surprised me. “My ex-wife had one a them. Damn thing never shut up, and Lulabell had a mouth like a sailor. Terrible to be enjoyin’ a bite a meat after a long day’s work with a foulmouthed fowl in the back hollering, ‘Legs up and open wide, Toots!’ the whole time.”
I squinted, trying to make out my extraordinary visitor while his beam was directed toward Oliver. I could only distinguish impressive height and breadth and something glinting at eye level before the light returned to me. I winced and turned my head.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The light went out. “Guess you musta been sleepin’.”
I faced him again, but he was backlit by the headlights of what I guessed was a sizeable dual-wheel SUV truck, and all I could ascertain was his considerable bulk.
“Care to share your name, missy?” he asked, not unkindly.
I shifted in my sock feet, hair a curtain around my face. Should I tell him my name?
“Tell you what. Seein’ as you mebbe warn’t expectin’ me, I’ll go first. My name’s Lawrence Oscar Fenter Ashburn Perry. From a long line of pioneer ladies who married a lot of folks but didn’t want to give up the name they had before. I’m the sheriff here in Unknown. People mostly call me Bruce.” The light clicked on again, this time shining at a bronze star on the chest of his brown uniform. The beam then angled up, revealing a face that wasn’t scary even with the gruesome flashlight-under-the-chin effect. He had a thick dark mustache, round cheeks and deep eyes surrounded by appealing crinkles. He looked like an amiable Bavarian barber.
The light clicked off. “An’ you?”
“Maeve,” I said. “Maeve Connelly.” It registered that I might be saved. This man could take me to civilization.
“Wall, Maeve Con’ley, what’re you doin’ camping in the middle of my town square?” were his astonishing next words. My jaw must have dropped wide open, because Lawrence Oscar Fenter Ashburn Perry chuckled. I looked around, and sure enough I could make out faint building outlines in the truck headlights.
“Is it…” I hesitated. “Is it a…ghost town?”
His chuckle turned into a guffaw. “That’d make my job easier. No, Unknown’s a full-on thrivin’ little town with enough colorful characters for a serial TV show.”
“How many people?” I asked. From what I could tell it mustbe like Dellview, North Carolina, the smallest town in North America, population ten. Except here they inhabited shacks set way, way far back from the road.
“’Bout eight hundred or so, give or take. Depends on the season. If we have a bad winter, population jumps ’bout nine months later.” Another chuckle.
“But I didn’t even know it was there,” I protested. “There are no lights.”
“Wall now, you’re right there. You picked quite a night to visit. Ronnie Two Shoes was being a doofus as usual when trimmin’ his old cottonwood, and one of the branches snapped the power lines clean through. It’s a miracle he didn’t fry his-self up like a chicken nugget. Right at dinnertime too, so good folks couldn’t cook up a bite to eat for Sunday dinner or watch America’s Funniest Home Videos . Watch tonight turn out to be the night Henrietta Mankiller finally gets a video on that damn show. Ronnie’ll be run out of town. Very least, he’ll be eatin’ shit at the Guess Who’s Coming to Diner for a while, I can tell ya. Pardon my language.”
Timing was clearly not my thing. “I thought I was in the middle of the woods.”
“A hundred more feet and you’d be bunking in the community center,” he said. “That your Plymouth Road Runner ’bout ten, twelve miles back?”
I nodded.
“You walk all that way?” I nodded again. “With a bird?” Another nod.
“Wall, it’s cold as charity out here,” Bruce pronounced. He had that right. “I can’t let ya stay in the square, I’m
“That a ’tiel in there?” My assailant’s question surprised me. “My ex-wife had one a them. Damn thing never shut up, and Lulabell had a mouth like a sailor. Terrible to be enjoyin’ a bite a meat after a long day’s work with a foulmouthed fowl in the back hollering, ‘Legs up and open wide, Toots!’ the whole time.”
I squinted, trying to make out my extraordinary visitor while his beam was directed toward Oliver. I could only distinguish impressive height and breadth and something glinting at eye level before the light returned to me. I winced and turned my head.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The light went out. “Guess you musta been sleepin’.”
I faced him again, but he was backlit by the headlights of what I guessed was a sizeable dual-wheel SUV truck, and all I could ascertain was his considerable bulk.
“Care to share your name, missy?” he asked, not unkindly.
I shifted in my sock feet, hair a curtain around my face. Should I tell him my name?
“Tell you what. Seein’ as you mebbe warn’t expectin’ me, I’ll go first. My name’s Lawrence Oscar Fenter Ashburn Perry. From a long line of pioneer ladies who married a lot of folks but didn’t want to give up the name they had before. I’m the sheriff here in Unknown. People mostly call me Bruce.” The light clicked on again, this time shining at a bronze star on the chest of his brown uniform. The beam then angled up, revealing a face that wasn’t scary even with the gruesome flashlight-under-the-chin effect. He had a thick dark mustache, round cheeks and deep eyes surrounded by appealing crinkles. He looked like an amiable Bavarian barber.
The light clicked off. “An’ you?”
“Maeve,” I said. “Maeve Connelly.” It registered that I might be saved. This man could take me to civilization.
“Wall, Maeve Con’ley, what’re you doin’ camping in the middle of my town square?” were his astonishing next words. My jaw must have dropped wide open, because Lawrence Oscar Fenter Ashburn Perry chuckled. I looked around, and sure enough I could make out faint building outlines in the truck headlights.
“Is it…” I hesitated. “Is it a…ghost town?”
His chuckle turned into a guffaw. “That’d make my job easier. No, Unknown’s a full-on thrivin’ little town with enough colorful characters for a serial TV show.”
“How many people?” I asked. From what I could tell it mustbe like Dellview, North Carolina, the smallest town in North America, population ten. Except here they inhabited shacks set way, way far back from the road.
“’Bout eight hundred or so, give or take. Depends on the season. If we have a bad winter, population jumps ’bout nine months later.” Another chuckle.
“But I didn’t even know it was there,” I protested. “There are no lights.”
“Wall now, you’re right there. You picked quite a night to visit. Ronnie Two Shoes was being a doofus as usual when trimmin’ his old cottonwood, and one of the branches snapped the power lines clean through. It’s a miracle he didn’t fry his-self up like a chicken nugget. Right at dinnertime too, so good folks couldn’t cook up a bite to eat for Sunday dinner or watch America’s Funniest Home Videos . Watch tonight turn out to be the night Henrietta Mankiller finally gets a video on that damn show. Ronnie’ll be run out of town. Very least, he’ll be eatin’ shit at the Guess Who’s Coming to Diner for a while, I can tell ya. Pardon my language.”
Timing was clearly not my thing. “I thought I was in the middle of the woods.”
“A hundred more feet and you’d be bunking in the community center,” he said. “That your Plymouth Road Runner ’bout ten, twelve miles back?”
I nodded.
“You walk all that way?” I nodded again. “With a bird?” Another nod.
“Wall, it’s cold as charity out here,” Bruce pronounced. He had that right. “I can’t let ya stay in the square, I’m
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