The Language of Sand

sound of footsteps. Between the shadows of the trees ahead, she glimpsed movement. It was the figure of a man walking in the street.

Abigail accidentally stepped on a branch, and the man stopped.

Did he hear you? Can he see you? Don’t scream. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Seconds later, the figure strode onward while Abigail stood, holding her breath, less than twenty feet away. If the flashlight had been working, she would have been seen. Abigail was thankful the batteries had died on her.

Once the footsteps faded, she sprinted to her station wagon, locked the doors, and switched on her high beams. There was no sign of the man. Her whole body was quaking, more with adrenaline than fear.

“Where did he go?”

Since the man could effortlessly have slipped into the woods and been hidden from sight, he might still be in the vicinity, so Abigail took off for town and came to a skidding halt outside the sheriff’s station, which was in a corner of the square. The fluorescent lights were on inside the shingled one-story building, but the glass door was locked. A Post-it on the pane read, Back in five minutes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Every store in the square was closed except for the bar across the street, the Wailin’ Whale. A far cry from a haunt for Captain Ahab, the exterior looked more like a Wild West saloon. All that was missing were the swinging half doors.

Bars weren’t the sort of places Abigail frequented. The gloomy lighting, sticky tabletops, and cigarette smoke depressed her. However, there was a chance that was where Sheriff Larner would be. If not, maybe someone would know where he was. Abigail was willing to give it a shot.

While she ratcheted up her nerve, the front door to the Wailin’ Whale burst open. Hank Scokes lurched out, with Nat Rhone hard on his heels. Nat caught Hank by the shoulders before he could lose his balance.

“Let’s get you home,” Nat said in a gentle voice.

“I don’t want to,” Hank slurred. “You can’t make me.”

Going home meant having to endure the emptiness of his own house, the void left by his wife’s death. Abigail felt sorry for him. She also envied him. At least Hank had a home to go to. Sure, she had the caretaker’s cottage, but that wasn’t her real home.

“You’re tired, buddy. You’re ready for bed.”

The tenderness in Nat’s tone didn’t jibe with the image Abigail had of him brawling with Denny at the Kozy Kettle.

“I’m not tired. I swear I’m not,” Hank whined.

Nat helped him into the passenger seat of a gray truck, saying, “Upsy-daisy.”

Rounding to the driver’s side, Nat noticed Abigail across the street. Hank spied her too. Abigail stood motionless, ready to make a beeline for her car.

“You,” Hank said, brightening. “You know my boys. You seen ’em. In that picture. Remember? She knows my sons,” he told Nat excitedly. “Tell him what you said.”

After Hank had yelled at her at the bingo game, Abigail was afraid to utter a syllable.

“Tell him. You said they were handsome. She’s a nice lady,” Hank insisted. “Isn’t she a nice lady?”

Nat stared at her without blinking, a wordless warning not to speak of what she’d witnessed, then climbed into the truck’s cab and drove away.

“Wow. After that, I could actually use a drink. Guess I’m going to the right place.”

She shook her head and ventured into the Wailin’ Whale.

Honky-tonk music played while pool balls cracked. The blue glow from the jukebox gave the bar the aura of an aquarium. Abigail definitely felt as if she was on display. The patrons, most of them men, turned to look when she entered. Some went back to their conversations or their drinks. A large part of the crowd continued to stare.

Hold it together, she told herself.

“Is Sheriff Larner here?” she inquired at the bar. “He’s not at the station.”

“Doubt it,” the bartender replied. He was heavyset and sporting suspenders. Abigail thought he looked familiar.

“Are you the one who was calling the bingo game?”

“That’s me,” he answered, refilling a shot glass for the guy three seats over.

“You work here too?”

“A fella has to wear many hats in this town to get by.”

“Understood.” Abigail had been wearing a lot of hats since she’d arrived. None of them seemed to fit or be flattering.

“Caleb might’ve gone home for a bite to eat.”

“What about the deputy?”