Partial, Chapter One
I like having a man at my feet. Tough guys who grovel
are my favorite, though I'm not averse to a little toe kissing
when appropriate. I leave the toe kissing for those uneven
date nights when my sweetie, Sheriff Caleb Stone, is not on
duty and I'm not neck deep in summertime work as a crop
duster. None of which had anything to do with the man
presently draped across my feet. Dead drunk, I figured,
looking down at the patriotic red, white, and blue ribbons
binding his ponytail. I was too late for that heart-to-heart I'd
come for — he was already out cold.
Caleb warned Billy that his continued attentions would
be ill advised and considered harassment—his words, not
mine. Caleb's belief that a fellow Marine should always be
able to pull himself out of the fire didn't take into
consideration that Billy's alcohol-doctored post-traumatic
stress disorder was not conducive to any such persuasion.
His obsessive interest in me stopped for about a week.
Then, in the Save-Mart parking lot, I had to shove my way
through a crowd surrounding my car. I stood with the rest
of the slack-jawed gawkers ogling the fluttering white paper
snowflakes acting as a second skin to my vintage Cadillac.
With one hand I swiped up a handful, and with the other I
RP Dahlke
2
waved off the spectators. "Practical joke, folks, nothing
special."
I didn't have the heart to report this latest infraction to
Caleb. Billy Wayne, I knew, was shy, easily startled and
would panic if Caleb should feel compelled to make good
on his threat of a restraining order. Instead, I decided I
would confront him myself. Make him understand that his
attraction to me, though flattering, was never going to go
anywhere.
So that's how I came to be in the alley behind Mr.
Kim's Chinese restaurant on a late afternoon.
I held my breath against the smell of garbage and knelt
down to shake Billy Wayne's shoulder. He rolled away and
onto his back, murmuring softly.
I looked down at the blood on his nearly new white Tshirt. His dog tags seemed to be chained to the stain, and he
was clutching a pair blue handled scissors. The scissors
appeared to be sticking out of his chest.
In the gusty twilight, his paper snowflakes swirled into
the air and cartwheeled merrily down the dark alley. I
leaned in their direction, aiming for flight, for help, for
anything that would get me away from this horror. I
would've succeeded too, except for the tight grip he had on
my ankle. I squatted down next to him, gently pulling his
fingers off my ankle.
"Billy, please, let me get you some help."
He was trying to speak, his breath choppy gasps as he
struggled for air. "Too late," he said. "The more there is the
less you see."
A speck of light shifted into shadow, crept across the
dirty walls and disappeared. Someone was there?
I jerked to my feet to call them. "Help!" I croaked.
The sound echoed the length of the alley and back like a bad recording.
Whatever I thought I'd seen was gone.
I knelt again and touched his neck for a pulse. It was
there and then it wasn't.
With a strangled sob, I struggled to my feet and went
for the help he no longer needed
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