Sun-Dogs

Chapter 3

IN THE SEASON OF KILLING BOLTS (2022)

“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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I had to hand it to her, I thought, even as we entered Carmichael’s and Cecilia rushed to turn down the radio; she (Mollie) knew how to sound objective even when reporting on things I knew pissed her off: “... America’s allies are calling to congratulate President-elect Jon Brady even as President Tucker refuses to concede the election; among them President Emmanuel Macron of France and Prime Minister Boris Johnson of the United Kingdom. Tucker meanwhile has not publicly conceded and continues to make claims of election rigging and voter fraud ...”

“Cecilia; I don’t know how you even hear them bells with such an infernal racket going on.” I motioned for her to remain seated even as we made our way toward the coffee urns. “Nah, nah. You just sit right down there and give little Archie a chance to breathe, you hear?”

She blushed and dropped a hand to her bump, which was more of a basketball. “Little Archie—” And she tittered. “Not X Æ A-Xii—like Steve Dannon and Sharona?”

“The rich can afford to be weird,” said Bennet. He took a Styrofoam cup and began to fill it. “Like that Hugo Eagleton—the guy who wrote The Sleeping City, or whatever. Named his kid ‘Rocket.’ I mean, can you imagine? A kid named ‘Rocket?’” He snickered through his nose. “Going to have to teach that kid how to fight; that’s all I have to say.”

I filled my own cup and went to the counter, took out my debit card. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. It’s got—how do you say it? Gravitas.” I looked at Cecilia. “I’ve got these, darling. Can’t have Bennet paying for his own coffee, not today; he’s the man of the moment!”

Bennet just shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. Little PR for the Department.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “People see things like the race riots in Seattle and, well, they get scared—that’s all. Just need to know there’s a firm hand at the wheel.”

Cecilia nodded slowly, tentatively. “So are you ... going to be on television? Or on the radio?”

“Oh, radio; radio. KEXM, right next door. You’ll—you’ll be able to hear the whole thing.” He hitched up his Khakis briskly. “Yeah, just something a lawman has to do ... I mean, now and again. Touch base with his public. Let ‘em know he’s on the beat.” He laughed a little. “After all, we work for you, right? I mean, it sure isn’t the reverse. I can tell you that.”