S.J. Langlois

The soprano’s voice built to a crescendo causing Deputy Sheriff Dusty Taylor to tap his hand against the steering wheel and nod his head with the feel of the music. He did not look like the typical opera devotee. His closely shaved hair and beard in an indistinguishable shade between blonde and brown flecked with gray framed a strong face. At thirty-eight years old, he looked good. In his official marked vehicle, he rode the short distance from his house to the county sheriff’s office. A cup of black coffee and an aria were all he needed to wake up in the morning. The coffee helped to make him conscious. The music made him agreeable.

He drove past rows of trees just beginning to lose their leaves and houses just beginning to stir. The lack of sun on the morning drive no longer bothered him. After just shy of twenty years with the department, there wasn’t much that bothered him. He’d seen all there was to see in a county of 4,998 people. The occasional drunk, the more than occasional domestic, and the common reckless drivers encompassed the bulk of the county’s crimes.

The beige brick building came into view with its collection of flag poles in front. He passed the parking spot designated for the employee of the month because he found it pretentious. If he ever reached the point where ten extra steps into the building would kill him, he shouldn’t be in law enforcement anymore and thus would not need a special parking spot. Instead, he parked next to the other marked vehicles and, locking it more out of habit than necessity, walked into the building.

Loud florescent lights greeted him. His eyes took a moment to adjust, but he continued to make his way over to his desk, the steps familiar. Their dispatcher/ secretary/ guardian angel Nancy Hightower smiled at him as he passed. Her red hair, a sharp contrast to her dark brows, perched on top her head in a style that reminded him of a bird’s nest, messy with a distinct purpose to it.

A look at the shift calendar hanging on the wall reminded him that today was his first day with a new trainee, fresh out of the Tennessee Law Enforcement Academy. He checked the board for any other announcements he may have missed. The trash folder of his inbox received departmental emails on a daily basis. A coworker’s kid selling girl scout cookies, a reminder for the Fall Fest at the werewolf pack to the west, and someone trying to find a roommate filled the rest of the bulletin board.

He turned to the door of the roll-call room. The sign attached to it warned that it stuck and that a work order had been submitted a few years prior. With a shove, Dusty opened the door and greeted the sheriff with a stiff nod. Milton Woodard with his heavily pomaded gray hair let out a booming laugh from his place behind the podium, deep in conversation with the only remaining officer on Dusty’s shift, Douglas McCray.

The only other person in the room sat ramrod straight at the first table near the front, staring straight ahead with his hands folded on the table in front of him.

“Ninety-nine,” Dusty murmured, approaching the young man in a pressed and starched uniform yet to see a speck of dirt.

“I’m guessing you’re my new trainee. Ren, right?” Dusty stuck out his hand.

The other man jumped to his feet before shaking the offered hand. “Ren Harada. It’s nice to meet you sir.”

Dusty joined him at the table and nodded at the younger man to sit back down. “I’m Dusty Taylor.” He shook his head toward the two men at the podium. “Have you met them yet?”

“Yes sir.”

Dusty ignored the sirs, hoping the kid would drop them on his own as he got more comfortable. He’d learned over the years that too much correction on the first day could scare people away.

“Good. Today should be an easy day. I’ll show you round the county, respond to any calls that come in, and help you get to know the locals.”

Ren nodded, and the sheriff brought the roll call to order. It was a good speech, welcoming Ren to the team, reiterating the department’s mission statement, even throwing in a few jokes that made the ramrod posture relax just a bit.

A curse outside the door made them jump. Nancy shoved her way into the room muttering about “that damn door” under her breath. When she looked up at them, Dusty saw that the color had drained from her cheeks.

“There’s been a murder.”

Dusty leaned back in his chair, watching the room descend into chaos. “Back to ninety-eight it is,” he said, before grabbing his rookie and heading for the door.

---

The textured ceiling created an urban constellation above the bed.

Brett’s eyes tracked the lion with only three legs leaping towards a very surprised looking deer. Considering that the deer did not have a body, it seemed to have suffered enough in Brett’s opinion.

Her alarm continued to blare from across the room. With a heavy sigh, Brett dragged herself from the bed and towards the dresser to change into her running clothes: a bright yellow long sleeve shirt with matching leggings and a multi-colored striped tank top with matching shorts. In this outfit, a car would have to be driven by a careless and/or homicidal maniac to hit her. Shoving her earbuds into her ears and her phone into her pocket, she bounded down the stairs, slipping on the third from last step that dipped in the middle.

Brett paused at the kitchen to turn on the coffee timer, put on her tennis shoes, and turned on the puntastic running playlist including every song she’d ever encountered with the word run/ran/running in the title or lyrics. Except for Several Species Of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict by Pink Floyd timed to play about halfway through her run, it made her feel like she was being hunted, a great motivator to run faster.

Not bothering to lock the door, in Mt. Clive there was no need. The smallest town in the county with a little more than 500 people, her house key collected dust in the macrame bowl her best friend Tess had made in her artsy phase.

The wet ground squelched under her feet. The asphalt shone with leftover rain and the morning dew. She’d take the wooded trail then. Bouncing on her feet, she took a deep breath and ran onto the path.

The roots and stones seemed to move around her. Her body reacted to the environment with the muscle memory gained through years of running the trail. It knew where a root stuck out a little to the left or where a large stone made the ground slick. Her head bobbed with the music; her lips mouthed along with the words. Leaves brushed against her limbs as she ran, her breath coming out in bursts.

Her foot caught on something in the middle of the path, and she fell, arms spinning as the ground sped up to meet her. Her hand shot out to catch herself and sank into something cold and wet. Brett gagged.

Rolling into a seated position, she lifted her hand to her face. Blinking as her eyes attempted to focus in the dark, her arm stung from the impact. Coated in a thick wet sludge, she wiped it on her pants, already stained with dirt on her knees. She pushed herself to her feet and looked down to see what had tripped her.

Her eyes focused on the mash of rotten plant material brewing inside a fallen trunk. A breathy laugh escaped Brett’s lips. She’d known for years that the tree would have to be removed but had put it off time and time again. A flash of white against the greens and browns of the ground caught her eye.

She moved closer. It looked like fabric, a white lace applique that she’d seen and admired at the boutique on Main St. Her eyes followed the lines of the fabric partially hidden against the leaves until she saw it. A toe with bright yellow nail polish. Her breath quickened, and she backed up, her eyes traveling up the fabric until she stared into empty eyes and screamed.

---

“She’s dead all right,” Dusty Taylor rose from where he crouched next to the body, his knees cracking with the effort.

Mary Blythe, eldest daughter of the local Baptist preacher, lay on the wet ground surrounded by wildflowers. On closer inspection, they appeared to have been plucked from nearby growths and set around her. Her hair struck him as odd. It lay loose, combed so it lay on her shoulders, but Dusty could not recall seeing the shy woman wear her hair in anything but a bun. If it weren’t for the faint stain of red beneath her folded hands and the unseeing blankness of her dark eyes, she appeared to be asleep.

Dusty looked over at his rookie, and realized, damn it, that he could not remember the kid’s name. He waved the rookie forward, noting the green pallor of his skin.

“A little closer,” Dusty prompted as the other man stopped a few feet away from him. He withdrew his battered old notepad and glanced back at the rookie, whose face became greener in closer proximity to the young woman’s body. Dusty’s eyes narrowed.

“You damn well better not be about to vomit on my crime scene.”

The other man’s lips tightened and shook his head.

“Go back to the car then. Use the radio and raise the sheriff. Let dispatch know that we’ll be here awhile.”

The rookie nodded and raced back up the path towards the car.

Dusty turned to look at Brett Herrera, the young woman who had found the body. Unlike the rookie, her face did not have a hint of green. She chewed on her bottom lip and shifted from one foot to the other. Her long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and a thick headband kept the few strands that had fallen from their tie out of her face.

“It’s a little wet for a run,” he said.

It had rained the night before, and the ground still had an uncomfortable squelch in certain spots.

Brett shrugged, “I don’t mind it. Helps to wake me up before work.”

Dusty nodded, but he couldn’t say he understood. Some people enjoyed waking up with the dawn. He was not one of them.

“Did you touch anything?” he asked.

“No,” she said. Her tone flat. He understood what she had left unsaid. I’m not an idiot.

Some people in the county took her eccentric wardrobe and tendency to spout off random facts gleaned from her work at the library as a sign of idiocy. Those who lived in Mount Clive knew better.

“Did you see or hear anything suspicious the last few nights?” Dusty continued.

She shook her head. “I’m at work most of the day, and I’m a sound sleeper.”

Dusty noticed Brett fidgeting again, her feet bouncing on the damp ground. She stared at the body of the woman, a sadness in her eyes.

“We graduated together,” Brett said, her voice quiet “She loved romance novels, but I could only pull ones for her that passed for general fiction at first glance. Her dad’s real strict.”

Dusty nodded. The preacher was a nice man but firmly disavowed the Baptist cardinal sins of dancing, fornication, and profanity. Last Sunday the sermon had been about how dancing and profanity led to fornication, and Dusty had kept expecting Kevin Bacon to appear.

Brett looked at her watch. “I need to get going. Gotta open up the library.”

Dusty nodded and waved her off. “I’ll call or swing by if I have any more questions.”

She nodded and jogged back through the trees. He watched her for a moment before turning back to the scene. He looked down at the footprints he had made in the soft earth and looked back to the area around the body. Dusty’s eyes swept the area starting at the path, coming back to the body, and back up again. Three sets of footprints.

The sounds of snapping twigs and muttered conversation roused him from his thoughts. More deputies had arrived with the sheriff in tow. He scratched his stubbled chin and sighed.

Woodard took charge of the scene and sent the evening shift officers to search the area. He turned to Dusty.

“Cause of death appears to be multiple stab wounds to the torso, but we’ll know for sure after we send her out for an autopsy.”

McCray nodded and stepped farther up the path to call the coroner.

Dusty watched as his boss closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, it was back to business.

“This close to wolf-land is going to be a problem. People’ll talk. Let’s try to get ahead of that.” Woodard’s voice reflected all of his sixty years. “I’ll stay with her. Take Ren and help with the search.”

Dusty nodded and headed down the path, his rookie in tow.

His eyes swept the area. He’d headed towards Arouet, the werewolf pack to the east of Mt. Clive, sticking close to the path. The thick trees prevented him from seeing the other deputies, but he could hear them, booted feet that seemed to find every twig, leaf, or other noise-inducing thing to step on. Ren followed close behind. The younger man tried to follow Dusty’s steps to avoid the occasional rock or twig. He had seen the older man scowl whenever they heard the others.

“How does she run this path?” Ren sounded a little out of breath.

“Brett’s lived here her whole life,” Dusty waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, “runs either down the street to the river or in the woods on her land pretty much everyday.”

They continued down the path until they got to a curve. In front of them sat the creek, a thin runoff of the river that formed an easy border between Brett’s land and the pack’s. Dusty frowned as he looked around the path again. No footprints here either. No sign anyone, wolf or person had been in the area.

“Does everyone in town know?” Ren asked.

“Huh?” Dusty had forgotten about the other man.

“That she runs here every day.”

“Yeah,” Dusty replied. “There’s no secrets in a town like this.”

Besides murder, Dusty thought.

Ren made a noise, and Dusty turned. The two men looked at each other as both of their minds came to the same conclusion.

“I think I’m going to like working with you, kid.”