In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 1

by

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Copyright © 2022 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2022 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: HobbsEndBooks@yahoo.com

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“Good morning, Sandy Chain Peninsula, and it’s Thursday once again—Thursday the 25th of November, in case you were wondering—one day closer to Friday; and this is your Morning Catch of news, weather, and interviews—not to mention great music—with me, Mollie Vaughan. Now, as we all know, yesterday was a real Debbie-downer: gray, chill, and damp. The good news is that today is looking better—with a high of 72 and winds south at 5 to 10 mph, with a low around 55. And, while the sun may give way to rain this afternoon—with a 20 percent chance of precipitation—winds are expected to remain calm, at around 9 mph. All of which is my way of saying that what I hope to do today through the magic of radio is to lift your hearts, your moods, and your limbs—is that asking too much at 6:01 am? I guess we’ll find out as we anticipate our main event: an exclusive, in-studio interview with Deputy Bennet Firth—19-year veteran of the Sandy Chain Police Department and winner of the 2017 Mayor’s Choice Award—that you’re not going to want to miss. It's all coming up at the bottom of the hour; but first, the news ...”

I looked at Bennet and he looked back, coolly, nonchalantly. “What? It’s not like it’s a big deal, you know. I mean—Jesus. You’d think the town has never called on me before.”

I glanced at his badge, which had been buffed to a spirited shine, and his pressed Khakis; at his glossy black belt and shoes. “Oh, I just thought you might be anxious, that’s all. I reckon I should have known.”

I returned my attention to the clipboard, which I’d braced against the wheel. “I’m sure Mollie will ensure everything goes to spec. I mean, she runs a tight ship, Mollie. A tight, fine—”

“Look, I don’t want to hear about her tight, fine ship, all right?” He glanced at the roses on the dash—a subtle accusation. “I just want to get through this. And—and to assure Sandy Chain we’re on duty. Both of us. Still.”

By which he meant to say: Because some of us have remained focused—know what I mean, ‘Chief?’ On the needs of the community, on good, old-fashioned police-work. On our duty, if you don’t mind; and on service, not grieving endlessly, endlessly—or worse, acting like teenagers. Not dwelling on personal matters.

I finished scribbling in my log. “We’re here,” I agreed—and tossed the clipboard onto the dash. “Still. Now let’s get some coffee ... and you to the station.”

And then I started the patrol truck and put it in gear—but paused, distracted, looking at the still-dark horizon, looking beyond the breakers. “There’s no raincloud out there,” I said. “Nothing but clear sky.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Bennet. “Oh, I know, everyone says July, or August, maybe September, but in my experience, it’s November. November’s the season—the season of killing bolts. You just mark my words.”

And I did—mark his words, that is. Marked them and filed them away: under hyperbole. Under ‘how to speak with grandiloquence.’ Under s**t My Deputy Says.

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