David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

“Are you really, truly into this movie or do you just like saying the name Oscar Homolka?”

“Both,” he confessed. “Why is it that I can’t lie to you?”

“Because you know I’ll shoot you if you do.”

“Right, right. I knew there was a good reason.”

They took the narrow sandy path back toward his snug little antique cottage. As they neared the house, Quirt, Mitch’s lean outdoor hunter, darted across the garden and collided headfirst with Mitch’s shin. Just the cat’s way of telling Mitch he was hungry. Mitch let him inside and Quirt headed straight for the kibble bowl. Clemmie, who rarely ventured out, was taking a power nap in her easy chair.

The little house had exposed chestnut posts and beams, a stone fireplace and oak plank floors. It was basically just one big room-with windows that looked out at the water in three different directions. There was a kitchen and a bathroom. A sleeping loft that was up a steep, narrow staircase. He’d furnished the place with whatever he could find. The moth-eaten loveseat and easy chairs had been in his neighbor’s barn. The coffee table was an ancient rowboat with an old storm window over it. His desk a mahogany door that he’d dragged home from the dump and set atop sawhorses. Mitch’s sky blue Fender Stratocaster and monster stack of amps took up one corner of the living room. Books and DVDs were piled pretty much everywhere else.

He put some old Sam and Dave on the stereo and asked Des what she felt like having for dinner.

“Don’t bother making anything for me. I’m really not hungry.”

“Well, that’s just tough. You’re going to eat. I don’t like the way you’re losing weight again. You have almost no boobage.”

“Mitch, I never have any boobage.”

“And just take a look at your booty, will you?”

“Why, what’s wrong with my booty?”

“Not a thing-I just like looking at it,” he said, grinning at her. “Hey, I know, I could run over to McGee’s and get two chili cheeseburgers and a couple of orders of spiral fries. Also something for you.”

She shook her head at him. “Doughboy, you haven’t stuffed your pie hole this way in ages.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean you have powdered donut residue all over your T-shirt. And that grease around your fingernails has Utz potato chips written all over it.”

“That’ll teach me to fall for a trained investigator.”

“What is this?” she demanded. “Are you getting antsy about me meeting your folks?”

“Not at all. They’ll adore you. How could they not?”

“I just hope my father won’t be a total drag.”

“Don’t even worry about it. My dad can get anyone to lighten up. He’s amazing that way.” Mitch went in the kitchen and started poking around. “I have a loaf of day-old ciabbata and some stinky Hooligan cheese. What would you say to a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich with slices of my late-season tomatoes? There’s also a half-bottle of that amusing Cote-du-Rhone. Deal?”

“Deal,” she agreed. “For our starter course grab the wine and two glasses and I’ll meet you up in the sleeping loft. We can do some scientific research on whether we recognize each other in the dark. If you have any trouble I’ll be the one who’s naked under the covers.”

“Be right there,” he said eagerly, fetching two glasses from the cupboard.

For the record, Mitch had no trouble recognizing her in the dark.

Later on, his growling stomach insisted on being fed. Des was dozing contentedly next to him. It was the most relaxed she’d been since the Deacon moved in. Mitch slipped out of bed quietly and tiptoed down to the kitchen, where he heated up his Lodge cast iron skillet and laid some thick slices of bacon in it to cook.

When his phone rang he grabbed it on the first ring, hoping it didn’t wake her.

“Oh, Mitch, thank God you’re there!” It was Lila Joshua, the more fluttery of the two sisters. “I have been trying to call you for nearly thirty minutes but an automated recording kept telling me they could not complete my call as dialed. An operator finally got through for me.”

“Did you remember to use the area code, Lila?” The phone company now required Dorseteers to dial the 860 area code even for local calls. It wasn’t an easy habit to get into, especially for older, wiftier residents.

“I-I may have forgotten,” she confessed. “It so happens I’m just a bit-”

“Here, give that to me…” Now he heard a more assertive voice on the other end of the line. “Is that you, Mitch?”

“What can I do for you, Luanne?”

“It’s Winston. He’s taken off again. I turned my back for one second and he was out the door and gone. I tried to go after him but you would not believe how fast he can scoot. And it’s terribly dark out.”

Now Mitch heard Des’s cell phone ring up in the sleeping loft. She answered it right away.

“Luanne, do you have any idea where Winston was heading?” he asked.

“That’s the part that has us a bit alarmed. Just before he darted out of the door he, well, he said he really wanted to go ‘bite some colored ass.’”

“Uh-oh…”

When her cell rang she snatched it off the nightstand and said, “This is Resident Trooper Mitry.” It was nearly ten-thirty, according to her watch.

“Young lady, you need to get over here right now,” a familiar male voice thundered at her.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bond?”

“He has an out-of-control dance party or rave or whatever they call it going on over there. Hundreds of them are swarming the neighborhood…” Them. “They’re screaming like banshees and-and playing their thug music so loud it’s shaking my whole house. I demand that you do something.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Des had just swung her size twelve-and-half AA bare feet to the floor when her cell rang again. This time it was the 911 dispatcher. A call had just come in from Mr. Rondell Grantham requesting an ambulance to treat the victim of an “incident” at the Grantham residence. Little brother hadn’t asked for state police assistance but it was automatic for Des to be called. She hurried down the stairs for her uniform and discovered Mitch throwing on a T-shirt and shorts. “You going somewhere, boyfriend?”

“Winston has wandered off again. The Joshua sisters are afraid he may have headed over to Tyrone Grantham’s.” He watched her jump into her uniform. “And you?”

“They’re having a party. And there’s been an incident of some kind.”

Mitch frowned at her. “Des, you don’t suppose?…”

“I don’t suppose anything yet.” She was fully dressed in less than two minutes. Her West Point training. “But you’ll never get in the gate on your own. I’m flooring it there. Can you keep up with me?”

“You betcha. Mind you, if I had a brand new Silverado with the 360-horsepower Vortec-”

“Mitch, you don’t need a new a truck.”

“Be right behind you, Master Sergeant.”

She went outside to her cruiser, jumped in and pushed it across the rickety causeway. Mitch stayed right behind her on the dirt road that twisted through the Nature Preserve, but once she made it onto the smooth pavement of Old Shore Road and floored it, he fell back a bit, his vintage sepia-toned headlights growing weaker in her rearview mirror. When she turned onto Turkey Neck and ran into the hot mess there, he caught up with her again.

Dozens and dozens of parked cars were crowded onto shoulders of the narrow road. Des spotted plenty of New York license plates, not to mention New Jersey and Rhode Island. Partiers were coming and going on foot right down the middle of the street. Boisterous groups of young guys, joshing and laughing. Couples walking hand in hand. All of them black. Them. She had to hit her siren to get through, Mitch snug on her tail. The media mob, when she managed to get near the Grantham place, seemed even bigger than before. The bright lights of the news cameras lit up the driveway out front like a red carpet movie premiere. People were lined up at the gate trying to get in. Big, impassive Trooper Olsen was turning them away.