dotted with red-and-white cattle and no farm houses visible, Garreth checked up and down the highway for headlights that might be patrolling sheriff deputies. None showed so he vaulted the metal gate. Keeping the other night’s bull in mind, he approached a trio of animals with caution, though all were smaller than the Charolais. They lifted their heads and regarded him placidly. After a few moments, two returned to grazing. The third ambled toward him.
Garreth grinned. A volunteer. How convenient. “Hi there, fellow.”
Like the bull, the steer obediently lay down for him, and this time he hit the vein first try. After drinking a little to make sure he had a good stick, he sat back holding a finger over one puncture, letting the other continue bleeding, filling his bottle — pre-treated with anti-coagulant.
He watched with satisfaction. Okay, this worked. He had his blood supply secured.
Then one of the other steers snorted. Garreth tensed, ready to jump up and run…but the steer stared at something behind him. He looked around to see a pair of glowing eyes some twenty or so feet away.
The animal looked like a scrawny German Shepherd. A coyote?
The creature eyed him and the supine cow. Did coyotes attack cattle? Garreth waved an arm at it. “Get out of here. Scram!”
The coyote stayed put, eyes gleaming. Garreth stared back, holding the animal’s gaze while he capped the bottle, the puncture quit bleeding, and the steer had safely regained its feet. Only then did he turn away, and after giving the steer a pat of thanks, headed back for town.
With another jolt of alarm he found the coyote following about ten feet off to the side. Son of a bitch. Was there always going to be something threatening him out here? He turned to face the coyote, braced for an attack, but it came no closer…just resumed following when he finally continued on toward town. Garreth broke into a run and so did the coyote. It paced him like a shadow. Not a threat, he decided finally. The cock of its ears looked more like curiosity. Puzzled by Garreth’s not-quite-human scent? He relaxed.
The coyote stayed with him most of the way to town, until Garreth vaulted the fence onto the country road. Then it faded into the darkness of the prairie. Garreth jogged on into town alone.
After he crossed the bridge, a car came out of a road following the river and over the tracks to fall in behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he identified a light bar and stuck up a hand in greeting.
The engine revved. A tan Crown Vic with POLICE on the door shot past and swung across his path to a tire- screeching halt.
“In a hurry to go somewhere, friend?”
A question without a trace of friendliness in it. Damn! And he carried a bottle of blood. “I’m just jogging.” Garreth knelt unhurriedly, as though to check a shoe, and slid the bottle from under his jacket into brush growing along the railroad right of way.
“In the middle of the night? Sure. Stand up and come over here! Put your hands on the car and spread your feet!”
Arrogant sounding son of a bitch. Angrily, Garreth spread-eagled against the car.
Moving up behind Garreth, the cop began frisking him, a cloying sweetness of aftershave almost masking the blood scent. Garreth also noted biceps straining at the tan shirt, knife creases in dark brown trousers, and a gear belt with a mirror shine.
“You do this like someone with lots of experience at it, friend.”
Which was more than could be said for Barney Fife here…never asking whether he had anything sharp or dangerous in his pockets, no hand on Garreth’s back to keep him against the car or detect the tension of someone about to move. The clown ran hands down both sides of him at once, then leaned down to check his legs with both hands…a perfect target for a kick backward, or a knee in his face if Garreth spun around. Any scumbag back home would have him on the ground in seconds, despite the bulging biceps. The frisk missed half the places a weapon might be hidden, too.
“You don’t carry identification?” Asked as if it were a felony.
Garreth kept his voice polite. “It’s back in my room at the Driscoll, but the name is Garreth Mikaelian.”
“Oh…that kid from California.”
The officer stepped back and let him turn around. The name tag on Barney’s shirt read:
“Sorry about the frisk.” Not sounding at all apologetic. “But you got to understand we can’t be too careful with strangers. There’s a lot of drug traffic through the state.”
Garreth understood Duncan had probably been bored out of his skull and used the first opportunity to create some activity. He resented being used for it.
The car radio sputtered. Duncan climbed in and picked up the mike. “Big number Five here as always, doll. What do you need?” He had the car rolling away even before listening to the response.
Garreth let him pass the railroad station before retrieving the blood. That had been close. He would have to be more careful in the future. Though it gave him a hollow feeling thinking of fellow officers as “them” rather than “us” and made the next two months look miserable. All this could not be over soon enough.
3
Being able to sleep most of the day felt so good that being dragged awake a couple of hours before sunset by the alarm clock he took with him did not feel as annoying as it might have. Six o’clock seemed the reasonable time he would return if he were who he pretended to be. It almost took effort to wear a no-luck-today face back to the hotel.
Behind the desk, Violet sighed. “So that girl wasn’t your Mary?”
She had looked so hopeful as he came in, then crestfallen, that his conscience twitched for lying to her and prompted him to soften her disappointment. “I don’t know if they didn’t recognize her or it’s a case of ‘She dishonored this family so she’s dead to us.’”
Violet sniffed. “Yes, that’s the attitude some family patriarchs around here take. Don’t don’t let them put you off. Keep asking around.”
Garreth had to smile. “Thanks for the encouragement.” He glanced back toward the door. “There’s more traffic tonight than last night.”
She nodded. “It’s Thursday.”
“Thursday is special?”
“Oh, of course you wouldn’t know,” she said. “The stores stay open late, until ten.”
A whole different idea of late from San Francisco.
“A lot of families do their weekly shopping, farmers and when both parents work days.”
That made sense, and more than one night a week was probably not profitable with a population this size.
He strolled to the front window and stared out at the parked cars and pickups. Lots of pickups, many with stock racks. Parking spaces at the curb and along the tracks on both sides of the street had seemed overkill last night and the day he visited the high school. No longer.
“If you think there’s traffic now,” Violent said, “wait until tomorrow and Saturday night. The teenagers from town and the farms all come downtown and cruise Kansas…driving up one side and back down the other half the night.”
Kids really did that?
It might make tomorrow entertaining, a live
“Violet, where in town can I play pool?”
Despite having learned the game under the lash of Grandpa Mikaelian’s tongue and the occasional crack of a cue across his knuckles, he enjoyed pool. A few games with locals would introduce him and might make some acquaintances. If he were careful not to win too often or too decisively.
