Helen R. - While Others Sleep

“You have a big mouth,” she said, certain Yancy was the guiltier of the two.

“I was only telling Beth a little about Maida. Remember the time she was baby-sitting for her grand-son—oh, heck, it was three years ago—and she intentionally ran over that rattlesnake?”

Campbell didn’t believe his story for a second—she knew he’d told Beth about her latest lightning experience—but the snake story was an amusing one. Maida’s aim was way off and she’d only broken off the snake’s rattles. Her grandson had been so upset that Maida asked one of the security guards to take the creature to the vet to see if they could reattach them.

Shaking her head, Campbell headed toward the door.

“Hey—if you’re going back to Maple Trails, why aren’t you in uniform?” Yancy called after her.

She simply lifted a hand in farewell, not yet ready to explain.

Northwest of town

8:03 a.m.

Certain the ceiling would rot and collapse on him before he would sleep, Blade kicked free of the tangled sheet and blanket, and swung his legs to the floor. The room spun before him in a dusky blur thanks to the combination of fatigue and the bourbon he’d downed to block out what he’d seen last night. Beyond the closed drapes the birds outside sounded as if they were in serious competition for screen time in a Hitchock remake.

Food. Slowly, it registered that they must be impatient for their day’s ration of seeds, especially since the storm had returned winter to Texas. On the heels of that realization came a taste of February chill against his bare skin and he glanced around, wondering what new damage the storm had caused on the roof or a window. Nothing would surprise him, since he’d made no improvements and only the most mandatory repairs to this three-room shack since taking on the lease almost a year ago.

Blade had decided on this remote eyesore for a reason other than economics; it also ensured protection and relief from all but the most determined solicitors. The place was a far cry from his roots, but then that was what set black sheep apart from others. He owned few creature comforts—a king-size bed obtained at a furniture closeout sale, and a thirteen-inch TV found in a closet that he’d pounded and shaken until it gave him enough picture to check on the news and the weather. His existence made Thoreau appear like the Hugh Hefner of his day.

Before he turned into something from the Ice Age, Blade directed his weary self into the pea-green bathroom in search of a revitalizing hot shower.

Minutes later, in the fifties-style white-and-black-tiled kitchen, he put on water for coffee. Dressed in worn jeans and a black sweatshirt, he dragged on boots, preparing to feed his raucous wake-up service. But as he approached the door, he locked gazes with the four-legged squatter who’d arrived between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Blade suspected people who expected Santa to bring them a cute, cuddly puppy had dumped the beast in the country.

The brindled behemoth was neither cute nor cuddly, and when it growled, it sounded like gargling. Glaring at him out of one topaz eye, it peered through the window of the kitchen door, then launched itself into the air, leaping onto the picnic table, causing the dilapidated remains of rotting redwood to groan as it teetered.

Issuing his own throaty response, Blade back-tracked and hoisted the fifty-pound sack of dog food from the pantry. “Shit,” he muttered at its depleted weight. It was only Wednesday and it was already half empty. He’d bought the stuff over the weekend.

As he emerged from the house, the dog greeted him by throwing back his basketball-size head and making another of those drowning growls. Then he shook his head, shooting mucus from his flapping jowls like skeet at a firing range.

Blade tried to duck behind the bag. “You ugly piece of—knock it off!”

Once the assault was over, he slammed the bag on the patio and folded back the top until the crunchy pellets were exposed. “There. The Four Seasons Special of the Day. Knock yourself out.”

Circling to the back of the house, Blade opened the vinyl garbage can and picked up the other fifty-pound sack—almost as depleted—of birdseed and filled the two feeders at opposite sides of the unfenced yard. Returning to the kitchen, he gave the mutt a wide berth, but even with its head thrust inside the sack, the dog growled.

Once back in the kitchen, Blade removed the .9 mm stuck in the back of his jeans and set it on the counter. He hoped not to need the weapon out here—the animal seemed to be repaying his kindness by acting as a self-proclaimed security guard—but he wasn’t big on trust. It was misplaced trust and bad judgment that had landed him here in the first place.

His coffee ready, he turned on the TV and sipped the scalding liquid while waiting for the static and snow to clear. As he eyed the date on the calendar, Blade realized yesterday had been a childhood friend’s birthday.

“—We now join Troy Boreman at Longview High,” the no-nonsense news anchor began. “Troy, what’s the latest there? Have any of the students come forward to add new information on Stacie Holms?”

The reporter in the windbreaker shrunk deeper into his thin jacket. “Carmen, as you can imagine, students and staff remain in shock. These kids went home yesterday focused on their basketball team’s division play-off chances, and possible spring break excursions for the seniors. This morning those same seniors have been hit with the tragic reality that one of their own will not be graduating with them in May.

“From those I’ve spoken to so far,” the reporter continued, “eighteen-year-old Stacie Holms was a quiet girl who, while not part of the sports or academic scene, had a close circle of friends. We’re hoping to speak with them later.”

“Troy, are the police on the premises to ensure the students’ safety, since we don’t know why this terrible thing happened?”

“As you can see behind me, Carmen, police presence is strong—here for crowd control as much as for safety concerns. But as you know, the school already has a full-time member of the LPD based here, as does each of the middle schools—part of the department’s proactive methods of law enforcement.”

Nodding, Carmen murmured, “Good report, Troy. Keep in touch.”

Blade switched off the TV and leaned back against the counter to finish his coffee, and to think. Ordinarily, he didn’t pay much attention to the juvie stuff. Tough as this episode was, it didn’t compare to the number of lives snuffed out daily where he came from due to poverty, drugs, gang activity and plain old domestic violence. Kids here tended to die from sports accidents or from reckless or drunken driving. And yet he had been aware of Stacie Holms and her group for a while now; in fact, he’d seen them earlier last evening.

The teens were memorable, what the good old boys called “show ponies”—miles of hair and makeup as expertly applied as any runway model’s, their nubile bodies shown off to distraction by skin-tight jeans and T-shirts. The middle-class Four Musketeers were regulars at Point East, a pizza-and-pool joint off Highway 80 frequented by an older crowd. The girls’ bravado and serious approach to the game of pool made them seem older, allowing the manager to give them an occasional break. They were good for business, inducing male customers to linger, which meant the booze flowed and the cash register sang.

Blade had been increasingly aware of them as the group’s apparent leader, Ashley, started spending more time flirting with a piece of bad news on his list. Luckily, bartender-manager, Truitt Hurley chased the kids out by 11:00 p.m.—earlier if he caught them trying to steal or sneak the harder stuff. Last night they stayed on the restaurant side and left immediately after dinner. Blade figured they’d heard about the bad weather due in from Dallas and decided to play it smart and dash for home. Now he wondered.