All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(20)

At those words, the sheriff’s shoulders stiffened, and he straightened in his seat. “No, boy. I’m not deaf.”

“Then I said I’m fine. I shouldn’t have to say it three times. Now are you going to arrest me, or charge me, or whatever it is?”

Sheriff Hatcher didn’t answer right away. His eyes, still red and watery, showed a surprising amount of steel. “What happened to your arm?” I started to shake my head, but in a surprisingly firm tone, the sheriff continued, “You’re standing funny like you hurt it. What happened to your arm? And your eyes are red, your nose is puffy. You got cut and there’s blood on your shirt and God knows what else. You look like you got beat, son. That’s God’s truth.”

“I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

“All right. You’re fine.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“I told you,” the sheriff said, voice still hard, “I told you the day we met, no trouble. You think you’re tough. That’s all right. Plenty of tough guys. But tough or not, I don’t want any trouble from you. And believe it or not, I don’t want any trouble for you, either. So if you’ve got a problem, tell me straight out, and I’ll do what I can to help.”

It was the way he said it, the way he’d been saying all of it, quiet, like he meant it, as if anybody ever meant anything fucking like it in the real world. That tone, that sympathy, that made me see red, and then I was gone: angry, the stupid kind of angry, and not caring. “Yeah. Yeah, you know, I do have a problem.”

Sheriff Hatcher cocked an eyebrow.

“My problem is I live in a town where the sheriff and his shit-brain deputies are more worried about Dumpster-diving than about real crimes. More worried about Lawayne Karkkanew’s fucking garbage than someone who might be in danger.”

“You better make yourself clear, boy. Like a goddamn diamond.”

“There was a boy last night,” I said. “Came in on a bus. He was supposed to leave again, but he didn’t.”

The sheriff’s mouth twisted. “A . . . friend of yours?”

“No.”

“How’d you know he didn’t leave?”

“He was supposed to meet someone. He never showed up.”

“What’s his name?”

“River.”

“River what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anybody else see him?”

“He was in at Bighorn Burger last night.”

The sheriff slouched in his seat, and the handkerchief fluttered down from his fist and draped itself across his knee. “You’re telling me a boy whose name you don’t know came in on a bus and disappeared and he’s not your friend. Is that right?”

“His name is River. And don’t say it like that.”

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say friend like that. If you want to say something, just say it.”

For the first time since I’d met the sheriff, he looked angry. “Boy,” he said, rising to his feet. “If I want to say something, I will. And I think I’ve had just about enough of this. What do you want me to do about this boy whose name you don’t know, this boy who disappeared but who might just be sleeping one off at the Royal Red or at a buddy’s place or, for all you know, might goddamn well have gotten back on that bus and left town last night?”

“His name is River,” I said again. “And if you’d do your fucking job for once, maybe you’ll find him before something bad happens to him. Unlike Samantha. Unlike Makayla. Unlike—”

Sheriff Hatcher moved faster than I expected. Surging across the room, he caught me by the shirt and hauled me through the door. I had one last, dizzying glimpse of the bird—a hawk, diving at me—and then we crossed to the other door, the unmarked one, and Sheriff Hatcher just kept moving. Down a hallway with a bare cement floor, past the bathrooms, and we turned left and a row of three barred cells appeared. The sheriff shoved me into one and drove the door home. Then he spun and left me there.





I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it felt long. Long enough for me to calm down. Long enough for me, with a cool head, to realize that I had acted like a complete ass. I had ruined my chance at getting the sheriff’s help. And I had landed myself in a jail cell. All in all, I’d done just about what I always managed to do: screw everything up. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I banged my head against the bars, and their chime ran through my skull and down my neck.

A groan came from the next cell, and then another, longer groan, and then, “Holy shit.” The pitch on holy swung high to low and high again. Rubber soles squeaked against the concrete, and then a pair of dirty hands came into view between the bars. “My head.” It was a man’s voice, and it made the two words sound like a question, an outraged question, like he couldn’t believe someone had done this to him. Then the dirty hands flexed and tightened around the iron, a jittery series of movements, and the man in the next cell started to mutter: low at first, so low I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but getting louder and louder. It was a list of swears a mile long, all of them directed at Sheriff Hatcher and none of them making much sense. Most had to do with what, in my neighbor’s opinion, the good sheriff liked to do when he was all alone with those stuffed animals in his office.