All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(18)

“That girl had a gun,” Becca said. “What’s going on? What does Karkkanew want from you? How do you even know him?”

Deputy Fred Fort, with his beady eyes lost in their deep folds, lumbered towards us. “Get,” Fred said. “Out.

I slung a leg over the side of the Dumpster, dragged myself out, and landed easily. When Becca saw what I held, her breath caught, and I shook my head to silence her. Her eyes were stuck to what I had salvaged from the bottom of the Dumpster.

Casually, so slowly that it felt like it took me an hour, I shook out the rumpled denim jacket, River’s denim jacket, and pulled it on. It was stained from the garbage, and the smell of old cigarette smoke and stale beer came off it so strong that I could almost see stink lines, like they do in cartoons, but it fit me perfectly.

“Car.” Deputy Fort said.

I shrugged and stepped towards the patrol car. Becca clung to me, to the jacket, really, and I had to tug free. Not until I glanced down did I realize what she had noticed, and I tried to keep the shock from my face.

Blood stained the bottom of the denim jacket.





Slumped behind the wheel, Deputy Fred Fort kept his attention fixed on the road as he drove across town. I wasn’t in handcuffs, which was a nice surprise, but I was sitting in the back, behind the reinforced grille, while Vehpese drifted by us in chunks: the crumbling downtown, the river, the mustard-colored brick of First Congregationalist, and then the sheriff’s office. As we pulled into the parking lot, I glanced out the rear window. Becca’s brown Ford, which had been following the patrol car, slowed, rolled towards the curb, and then jerked back into traffic, cutting off a car. A horn blared, and then Becca was gone. I was on my own.

After parking the car, Deputy Fred slowly opened the door. He did everything slowly: he rolled back on forth on the seat, generating momentum, slowly; he rocked to his feet slowly; he tugged at the brown trousers sagging down his wide rear end slowly. You could have put Deputy Fred Fort in front of a burning orphanage and he would have picked his teeth and cleared his throat and by the time he got moving, he’d need a shovel to dig through the ashes.

When he opened the rear door, he grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. I was taller, but not by much, and the deputy had the advantage of weight. About, I considered, a metric ton of advantage. Twisting my arm painfully, he hauled me towards the office. For a moment, I resisted. I yanked, trying to break his grip. He already had me in a bad position, though, and a moment later he twisted my arm again, making me cry out.

“Let go of me.”

Deputy Fort’s face was full of crannies, these little seams where all the squishy parts came together, and the crannies tightened like they were run on little strings. He twisted my arm again, and I swallowed another cry. The little strings tightened the seams on his face even more. It was, I realized, a smile. Or as close to one as this man came.

“Go on,” he said.

I hadn’t realized, until then, that I had my hand in a fist.

All those crannies deepened on Fort’s face, making his face a network of nasty pleasure. His eyes had disappeared into deep folds.

“Go on.” He tightened his grip again.

This time, I did make a noise. Just a small one, deep in my throat, but Fort heard it. His reaction was just as small, a shift in his weight, and I had this ridiculous image of a ballerina, of his whole body tensed for this one, tiny movement.

Mustering what little willpower I had left, I shook out my fist. Whatever he wanted, I wasn’t going to give it to him.

Deputy Fort, for his part, settled back—slowly, everything slowly. With a noise like a spinning ratchet, he cleared his throat and spit on my tennis shoes.

“Pussy piece of shit,” he said, pronouncing each word like he’d come up with it himself. A long moment passed, and then he shoved me towards the office, letting go of my arm. His puffy face crinkled again. “Faggot.”

Without a backward look, I hurried toward the office. I didn’t know what was waiting for me inside, but it was better than being outside with Deputy Fred Fort. One more minute and I’d take a swing, and after that, Fort could do whatever he wanted to me. I wasn’t smart, but I was smart enough to avoid that. After a moment, Fort followed me. Slowly.

There wasn’t really a waiting area to the sheriff’s office, just a square of linoleum with two faded plastic chairs, an end table covered with magazines—Sports Illustrated July 1997 lay on top—and a lamp with a crumpled shade. After that, the room shifted to a row of desks, a door with opaque glass and the lettering: Sheriff, and a second, unmarked door. The air smelled like a kerosene heater and old shoe. Aside from me, there was only one other man in the room, and he glanced up.

His name was Jim, which I knew because I’d heard the other deputies call him that, and he was thin. Like a lot of thin, scrubby men, it was hard to tell his age: he had some silver in his scruff and in his wiry hair, but his face was smooth. His face was empty of everything except what looked like, to my eyes, about six generations of inbreeding. When he saw me, he slithered out of his seat.

“Yeah?” Jim said.

I dropped into the chair.

“What do you want?” Jim said.

Before I could answer, Deputy Fort entered. Huffing, pink-cheeked, he passed Deputy Jim with nothing more than, “Watch him.” Fort rapped once on the door marked Sheriff and entered without waiting.