Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

“You think you can hide behind your connections,” I said, keeping my words slow, my tone reasonable and light. Still, I was involuntarily swaying back and forth like in the moments before I’d charged the school.

“But your time is coming. I’m calling you out, if you have the courage to face me.” Rage built as I spoke, that same old dangerous, addictive electric heat wanting to course through me as I threw down the gauntlet here. My face was cramped with the effort of staying squeezed down into clarity. “I’m coming to get you, I swear. I swear it on the life of Officer Kendra Tubbs. I swear it on the lives of every one of your victims.

“I’m going to be the last face you ever see,” I promised.

I nodded at them to indicate my sign off. “Thanks,” I said, turning to go.

“Wait,” she said, dancing around to block my path. “I have about a million questions to ask you. Who were you just speaking to, what killings are you talking about? What’s this about connections? You’re saying you weren’t just wrongfully imprisoned, you were framed? Why aren’t you working with the police? Are you alleging some kind of cover-up? Just what is it you’re planning to do?”

“The questions will have to wait. I think you can see I’m busy here.”

She snorted. “Sure. You’re giving someone a poke to see which way the cockroaches scuttle in response. You’re flushing out a ghost, that’s basic media strategy.”

I looked at her in new appraisal. This news lady was no dummy.

A scowl crossed her porcelain face. “You want to use me to send a message? That’s fine, that’s the way this game is played. But you owe me tit for tat: I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

I grimaced – she had a point whether I liked it or not. “I give you my word that when the time comes – when it’s all over – you’ll be getting the exclusive.”

She twirled out my way, hugging herself delightedly. “We’ll be a cinch for an Emmy,” she told the cameraman.

“Hell yeah,” he replied.

It was a nice afternoon for a stretch of the legs. I headed back toward the Gardens, which was only about fifteen minutes on foot; Stagger Bay was a walking town at heart.

People on the street looked at me and pointed, many with smiles on their faces. A little boy riding his trike in a driveway waved at me. A car filled with teenagers stopped in the middle of the street; they called out my name and pumped their fists.

I waved and nodded and smiled back idiotically at people like I was running for office. For them? As an act? Hell, even I didn’t know.

But I also noticed a few drapes twitching aside in windows without anyone showing their face; a couple people hurriedly leaving their yard work to go inside their houses as I approached. Not all the people of Stagger Bay were that thrilled with me. The honeymoon was over, probably before it ever began.

How many people knew about the Driver and approved? How many figured Reese was a good cop, serving the ‘real’ community? How many of Stagger Bay’s Citizens felt I should still be behind bars, innocent or not?

Despite the waves and the greetings and the apparent approval I was receiving from so many, I was still in enemy territory and every smile hid sinister intent. Or was it fear the smiles hid even here in the nice neighborhoods?

Victims or predators, people just going through the motions to get along or people willing to stand up – who was which and which was who? I had no idea where any of these people stood.

I cogitated nonstop as I walked, scraping together what few pieces of data had been handed to me so far, trying to follow the thread of clues into the center of the maze Stagger Bay called a heart. I was handicapped by knowing absolutely nothing about police procedure, other than what had been inflicted on me personally in my own life. Still, the Canon provided a template – I had all the tools I needed to take a stab at things.

Mr. Tubbs? Grieving father or not, he was involved in the goings on up to his neck. As a hillbilly Godfather, he had to be part of the backroom deals. All folded up like a deadly Chinese treasure box, his cracker barrel good ole boy routine masked some deep waters. He’d as much as admitted he’d framed me but that didn’t prove he had anything to do with Reese murdering Karl, or the Driver’s hideous shenanigans.

Elaine? I didn’t trust her any farther than I could throw her, even though I figured I could make that tiny lawyer arc through the air quite a ways before she bounced a few times. Still, her getting me freed, her dropping Karl’s name, and her being important to Sam bought her a little something no matter how predatory her motives. Even if she was dirty as any other lawyer, that didn’t automatically mean she was in bed with the enemy – and if she was gaming, I didn’t care if she gutted them as long as she didn’t get in my way.

Hoffman? I had no idea how much I should beware of him, how much I could trust him if at all, or how to make best use of him if he proved a good game piece to work. Rick was a labor-intensive guy to work with for sure.

Big Moe and the 18th Street Crips were trying to use me as an expendable human cruise missile, which was understandable and probably their most honest motive. Them and the rest of the Gardens folk weren’t necessarily my enemies, but they certainly weren’t automatically my friends either. Still, we were on the same page enough whether they knew it or not, that we might be able to work together without tripping each other up too much.

And Sam… I had no certainty what his intentions were here, but it didn’t seem there would be any fairy tale endings between him and me. He was as insolent, obnoxious, and manipulative as any other teenager; and besotted with Elaine to boot. Which way would he flop if Elaine’s games and my agenda suddenly conflicted? I had no reason to think it’d be in my favor.

The hilarious thing? The only person involved I liked thinking about was Reese. He was my avowed enemy but at least I knew exactly where I stood with him, no games or tap dancing. Maybe he reminded me of a rabid junkyard dog who’d forgotten where he’d buried his bone, but he’d also had the decency to show his true colors. And of course, we both had Kendra in common.

It was getting dark as I walked, and Stagger Bay was the kind of town where they rolled up the sidewalks at sunset – except for the bars and hot-sheet motels of course. I was swinging around the back corner of the Arcade by the rolling steel doors where the trucks unloaded. The handful of stores was closed, and the parking lot was empty.

The street lights popped on overhead, illuminating the Cougar idling thirty feet ahead of me, facing away with headlights on. The engine’s chugging sounded like the hoarse pants of a huge beast hyperventilating in exhaustion. The radio played some kind of oldies tune, 50s cruising music.

Right here right now, I knew this was the Driver. The Cougar was his car, and he’d been trailing me the whole time I’d been back with me too stupid to pick up on it.

I was shocked at his boldness. I hadn’t thought he would actually seek me out. My anger notwithstanding, I’d only hoped my little speech for that red-headed newscaster would stir enough of a reaction from all the guilty consciences to point which direction I should search. But then again, given what I’d seen so far in Stagger Bay, his arrogance seemed perfectly justified.

I put my amazement away and my mouth tightened into its war grin as I realized just how happy I was to see him.

Those red glowering taillights stared at me as if sentient. My depth perception was gone, and the taillight’s glow made it impossible for me to view the Cougar’s interior clearly through the rear windshield. All I could see was the Driver’s dark silhouette as he sat behind the wheel, wide and powerful looking.